Chapter 17
After Peter left the lodge, Slade bolted the door and walked towards the sideboard. He filled a slender goblet with sherry, the chestnut brown liquid’s warm, fruity scent filling the air as he took it to her.
“Dutch courage,” he said.
She accepted it and readily took a sip.
“Was there something else you wanted to say about this compromising situation you found yourself in at the manor?” he prodded.
She worried her thumb against the curve of the glass, seeming to contemplate her next words, then levelled her gaze on his.
“Yes, but before I proceed, I wondered, where do your loyalties lie? That is to say, are you for English rule over Scotland? Are you in agreement with the signing of the Union?”
Slade eyed her, understanding her question, yet failing to see the connection.
In 1707, the Articles of Union led to the creation of Great Britain, uniting the Kingdom of Scotland and the Kingdom of England, which included Wales.
But many Scots, like his own father and brother, saw it as the subjugation of Scotland under the iron claw of England.
He disliked the English the same as his family but couldn’t tell anyone that his former position as colonel had been a cover.
Jacobites themselves were using the Union to rebel against George II, the German-born King of England.
The Whig party-dominated English Parliament and their army of redcoats.
Slade rubbed his chin as he considered her.
“People don’t fight for governments and crowns; they fight the English because a redcoat killed a loved one, or they fight the Jacobites because they don’t want a papist telling them what to do.
They align themselves with a side that gets them what they want. ”
“And which side are you aligned with?” she asked, in a deceptively low tone.
Fifi’s gaze focused on him with such intensity he had to quell a few warning bells going off in his head.
This wasn’t the little girl from his younger days questioning him; this was the woman who’d punched him at the shooting range.
The one who’d reacted to devastating effect when she’d been caught off guard.
When she’d perceived a threat. This was the woman who stirred something devilishly delicious and dark, deep inside him.
“I align myself with my friends, Fifi, like you and like Egan, and with my family. Nothing else matters. Certainly not governments or kings,” he said.
He saw the warmness and softening of her eyes before she smiled and added. “And Bolingbroke? Are you his friend?”
Should he tell her that if he could, he would punch a knife straight through the man’s venomous heart?
He gritted his teeth before inhaling and injecting a breeziness in his voice.
“My acquaintance with Henry Bolingbroke is at most transactional. He in no way has my allegiance, certainly not my friendship.”
Fifi eyed him. His answer pleased her. But her eyes continued to search his. It occurred to him that she saw more than he wanted her to.
Her gaze shifted down to the remaining liquid in the goblet as if looking for her next words there.
“Before I go any further, I must have your word you will never reveal the source of the information I am about to tell you. Upon your honor as a gentleman and as Egan’s foster brother.”
Suspicion snaked through Slade at her question. His previous assumptions of what had brought her here tonight had been all wrong.
“You have my solemn word,” he said unreservedly.
She tilted her head back and gulped the remaining contents of the glass, gave a slight cough, then eyed him.
“I have it on good authority that the English will now resort to murder, plunder and destruction to enforce the Abolition of Heritable Jurisdictions in the Highlands, in addition to continuing with raids to capture Jacobites. I must warn my friends, my family and my clan.”
Slade stared at her in disbelief as something detonated inside his chest. The questions were too many to voice.
He turned away from her and started to pace parallel to the long table, the dangerous energy pulsating through his veins too rampant for standing still.
This would strip the last vestiges of power from the Scots in favor of the English.
What would happen to his father and brother, and what of Garraidh?
He paused his stride and eyed her. “I am almost afraid to ask, but is this friend of yours, for whom you are in service at Bolingbroke’s manor, working for the Jacobites?”
Even as he asked the question, realization struck him like the setting-off of a cannon ball in his head.
She was caught up with the Movement. Sweet Saints!