Chapter 11
Fifi wore a nondescript olive gown starting at her graceful neck and flowing down the curves of her elfin figure to trim ankles fitted with dark chocolate leather boots.
His eyes rose the length of her, lingering a second too long on her curvaceous chest before he yanked his gaze to further take in her attire, annoyed with himself.
It kept slipping his mind this was Fifi, Egan’s little sister.
And calling Egan’s protectiveness over Fifi extreme was akin to describing a gargantuan monolith as a pebble.
Why was he not surprised Fifi’s ensemble seemed to blend in with the background?
She’d picked up a knack for dreary and drab colors. Why was that?
Slade leisurely strolled towards the trio, pulling the reins of a reluctant Destroyer.
As he approached, Fifi’s gaze shifted towards him.
The slopes of her shoulders perked up and she eyed him with surprise and an intensity that made his skin tighten.
Was she wondering what he was doing here?
The truth was, he wanted to see her for her birthday.
Perhaps selfishly, he longed for the familiarity of a bonny face from home.
Or perhaps it was simply her friendly company he longed for.
Someone he’d loved being with, when he was younger, when life was simpler, and he hadn’t yet been poisoned by Old Testament revenge and retribution.
One thing was certain—he needed a new memory for the thirty-first, besides it being Sylvia’s birthday.
“Slade?” she said, her countenance brightening.
“I’ve never attended a church fête before. I wanted to join you,” he said, in answer to her questioning tone.
Fifi made a cordial introduction to her companions, Reddington, an upstairs maid, and Montgomery, a valet, who worked at the manor.
Montgomery’s unpretentious gray eyes flickered over Slade with recognition. “I recall you helping the day Ludlow was shot.”
Slade exchanged a few words with Montgomery. He exhaled contentedly upon learning Ludlow was out of bed and recovering.
Reddington, a shy, pale lass, inquired about the horses, which she and Montgomery took their leave of Slade and Fifi to peruse.
After they left, Fifi turned to Slade. “May we take a look at the gentleman’s blades on display?”
His eyes widened with surprise at her question. Pistols, defensive skills, and now blades? “You wish to look at the knives?” he asked.
She snorted at his question. “I realize my tastes could be considered boorish, even masculine, trending towards improper, as are some of my other proclivities. But I’ve had an interest ever since Egan trained me in their proper use.”
Why would Egan train her on the use of gentleman’s blades? But then he recalled that as a young lass she had been keen to learn swordplay, to the utter dismay of her parents. Hell, the first time he’d met her she’d been nine and was reciting the knight’s oath when she’d fallen into the loch.
Slade grinned at her, tugging Destroyer along towards the merchant stalls. “I don’t think it boorish or masculine in the least, just surprising. But it does pique my interest on your other proclivities.”
Merchants called out, even clanked their displayed silver, tin, and lead goods together to grab their attention as they took a leisurely stroll along the stalls towards the knife and sword sellers.
“Reading, for example. My mother never missed a chance to remind me such an exhibition of independent spirit won’t do me any favors in securing a husband,” Fifi said.
“Are you in the market for a husband?” He wondered out aloud.
“A husband is the farthest thing from my mind,” she said.
“It takes great strength of character to be an independent spirit, going against the norm. Most people are too afraid to step out of the mold of a follower. As for reading, it’s rather commendable you want to improve your mind.”
She sent him a pointed smile, as if his answer pleased her. A becoming flush of the palest rose colored her cheeks, erasing the lightest of her pretty freckles.
“And you?” she asked.
“Me?”
“Yes. Any vices to share with an old friend?”
Slade considered her question before speaking. “I’ve been told I snore rather loudly. When we were stationed in Germany during the war, my comrades feared I would lead the enemy straight to our camp,” he said.
Her lips twitched. “What an unforgivable vice indeed. And did your snoring lead the enemy to your camp?”
He chuckled at her restrained merriment. “Well, no. We came upon their camp first and disarmed them before they could retaliate.”
She looked impressed, yet mirth still danced on her features. “You and your men triumphed despite your loud snores. Well done.”
Her face glowed with an adorable warmth, reminding him of when they were younger.
A gust of wind swept the area—it flipped Fifi’s bonnet right off her head.
His body tightened and heated, filling with an unexpected hunger as her enticing scent suffused with orange blossoms and bergamot teased his nostrils.
The wind tossed her hair like wild waves crashing on rocks.
And the sun glinted off each fiery red and copper-toned strand, like a cloak of fire hypnotically dancing around her shoulders.
Slade was so spellbound he didn’t move fast enough to pick up the bonnet as a gentleman would have.
“Oh no,” she gasped.
The prosaic action of her bending to retrieve the fallen bonnet drew Slade’s eyes to her enticingly curved backside. He scolded himself, dragging his gaze away and shaking himself out of his momentary stupor. This was Egan’s sister, he reminded himself again.
It was then that he took in the reason for her gasp. Destroyer’s front hoof had partially crushed the bonnet which she now held in her hand.
He grimaced at the ruined hat.
“Both Destroyer and I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Fitting name your horse has,” she murmured. Her eyes narrowed at his horse in disapproval.
Destroyer gave a loud snort, tossing his head right then left, as if objecting to the title of Destroyer of women’s bonnets.
Slade found himself considering her as they drifted through the crowd. Did her dreary tastes in attire extend to every aspect of her life?
“You spoke of your enjoyment of reading. What are your favorite books?”
She chewed on her bottom lip, seeming to regard his question.
“While I do enjoy poetry quite a bit, philosophy is my first love. Voltaire for example, but my favorite is David Hume.”
He scrutinized her, flummoxed. He’d expected her to mention a French romance novel or perhaps a chapbook, not Voltaire and David Hume.
Voltaire and David Hume weren’t dreary reads nor typical for lasses.
These were men of modern religious, political, and scientific ideas. Possibly even dangerous ideas.
“Why David Hume?” Her choice to read the works of a philosopher and presumed atheist was the bigger mystery, Slade decided.
Her eyes sparked at his question.
“Since he lives in Glasgow, I think he has a firmer grasp of the Scots’ plight than Voltaire.
I like his idea that without passions, one can avoid pain.
” She paused thoughtfully then continued.
“If I get too excited, or angry, or even happy over something I quell my energies, because I don’t want to do anything silly, or regrettable, which is often the case when one is impassioned. ”
The conviction in her voice speared him down the middle. His heart squeezed and his head buzzed with countless questions. She spoke of pain like it was a familiar friend. Or enemy. He couldn’t tell.
“But surely that’s no way to live? Only halfway in,” he said.
“Being calm and reflective is safe.”
“Safe from what?”
“Hurt.”
Slade stopped and stared at her. She stopped as well, looking up at him with furrowed brows and a vulnerability that cut his heart with an invisible knife.
“Are you speaking of Alex’s death, Fifi?” His tone was soft.
Her throat muscles worked, and pain contorted her lovely face before she looked away.
“I am. But not only Alex’s death, life in general.” He didn’t miss the way her voice cracked with emotion.
“But that’s only half a life, Fifi. Alex wouldn’t want that for you.”
Her jaw muscles worked, but she remained silent.
Slade’s mind fell on his own plight. On his need for revenge and retribution.
And on his familiarity with the two, like a second skin.
Was he capable of approaching the general’s culpability with logic, calm and reflection?
Without the passion of hatred? Without the pain of loss and the gut-wrenching guilt?
Peter had told him to move beyond his past. To forgive.
The idea caused spiders to crawl under his skin and cold shivers to run up his spine.
If he forgave, what would happen to his redemption?
Slade’s fingers curled around Destroyer’s reins. “I fear humans are incapable of such advancement in thinking. We are all animal urges and instincts at the core. Passion is far too intertwined in our blood to be separate.”
For the next few minutes, they slowly walked side by side, in companionable and reflective silence, Slade seeing Fifi in a way he never had before.
“What other Hume ideas resonate with you?” he asked.
She was meditative before speaking. “The idea that society should approach with suspicion government’s need to change long-established customs,” she said.
Was she referring to the English monarchy and government? If she was a sympathizer, then why the heck was she working for an English general’s wife?
She’d tricked him. She wasn’t drab and dreary at all. She’d grown into an enigma, among other things.
The right side of his mouth lifted. “Are you a rebel sympathizer, Fifi?”
His tone was filled with mirth. But as the words left his lips, Slade felt their gravity. Everything faded into the background except his heartbeats as he waited for her reply.
She was about to answer him when Montgomery and Reddington rejoined them at that very moment.