Chapter 27
His look of ease provoked her as she successfully took her next two shots, sending the four then five balls into side pockets of the table.
“I imagine we’ll travel from Birmingham, head north through Manchester, and continue to Glasgow and all the places in betwixt, then pass through Fort William, Glenfinnan and finally Skye,” he said, contemplatively.
Phoebe was distracted at his mention of Glenfinnan as she walked to the other side of the table eying the six, giving Slade a wide berth as she passed him.
She’d have to do whatever she could to protect Glenfinnan but with Falcon’s warning missive already on its way, the villagers will be prepared she told herself.
Slade’s nearness was proving difficult for her concentration on the game and her consideration of Glenfinnan.
Phoebe bent at the waist, pulled back the cue stick and sent it straight into the white, which in turn clinked against the six.
Unfortunately, she didn’t pull back fast enough and both the white ball and the six rumbled down the side pocket of the table.
“Blast!” she muttered.
Slade made a tutting sound. “Looks like you fouled. And just as I was getting comfortable watching you play.”
Despite her cheeks, neck and ears growing impossibly hot at missing the simple shot and for the foul word slipping out of her mouth, she sent him a sweetly sardonic smile. “I yield the table to you.”
Slade rose from his reclining position, cue stick in his right hand, and winked at her, seeming to find her tone entertaining as he strode to the side pocket and retrieved the white and six balls.
As Slade leaned forward and positioned the two balls near a side pocket, Phoebe’s eyes fell on the way his tight gray breeches stretched across his backside.
When she caught her gaze lingering and admiring the raw masculinity of his anatomy, she gasped and looked away.
She’d never done that before with any man. Never wanted to.
With one swift thrust of his arms, Slade made the shot straight into the corner hole. His movements were confident, virile, almost brutal in execution. He didn’t hesitate. He shifted his body in a calculated motion for his next play.
Phoebe’s eyes widened, for the next shot was the seven, but it was partially obstructed by the eight ball.
And if Slade hit the eight while aiming for the seven, he would foul.
She stared in awe as he sent the white into the table’s border at a perfect angle with the seven, avoiding the eight, ultimately driving the white to rebound straight into the seven, sending it into a side pocket.
She had made similar shots herself in the past, but he’d done it with such perfect precision.
Was there a chance he could best her at this game? She huffed at the thought.
His eyes were cool, clear and calculating as he methodically contemplated the remaining balls on the table for his next shot. She imagined him on the battlefield with a musket in his hand with the same precise surety.
“What was it like during the war?” she asked, curious.
His eyes flickered in her direction. “Dark, cold and bloody,” he said.
“Did you kill many French soldiers?” she said.
He frowned. “As a Jacobite you no doubt consider the French as allies. We did not, at the Battle of Dettingen in western Germany. So yes, I killed quite a few. But if I hadn’t killed them, they would have killed me.” His tone held a hint of sarcasm.
He was not only calculating and methodical but deadly as well. She envisioned a stony look in his eyes on the battlefield before he pulled the trigger, the same one he now turned and regarded the eight ball with.
“I understand as a soldier in war you have to kill the enemy. And of course you must defend yourself. But what of the toll … the cost of taking a life?” she said, gazing at him.
With a gentle tap against the white ball, causing it to bump ever so slightly against the eight ball, Slade landed the shot then straightened and gazed at the surface of the table, seeming to consider her question. The lines between his brows deepened.
“In the beginning, it fractures your soul, one fragment at a time. But then you learn to cope, to become an automaton of sorts.”
Gooseflesh prickled her arms at his words because she heard the pain amidst its hardness. The Movement had trained her to kill, and she would have to if the mission required it. The thought left her grinding her teeth, before speaking.
“Did you kill the French infantryman who injured your ear lobe?” she asked, eying his ear. What was he like on the battlefield, merciful or merciless? She was desperately curious to find out.
Slade’s expression hardened. He seemed to travel far away in his head.
“He was young, green, came at me with fear and uncertainty in his eyes. I hesitated on the shot. He tripped and fell, losing his musket in the mud. I turned from him to a more immediate threat, a seasoned French officer charging towards me, rage and hate in his eyes. Then the bullet grazed my ear. I looked down. The felled soldier was pointing a flintlock pistol at me, smoke dissipating from its barrel. He must have had it hidden. I can still see the whites of his eyes and the tremor in his hands,” Slade said.
The rawness in his voice touched something deep inside her. Her eyes widened. “Did you kill him?” she whispered.
He exhaled in a drawn-out drone. “While I was cursing, blood gushing down my neck, shots were fired. When I looked back, he was dead, taken down by a fellow Scots Grey.”
His voice didn’t hold the edge of anger or spite, only acceptance, and it spoke volumes to Phoebe.
“You spared him even though he shot you,” she said, not surprised he was chivalrous even on the battlefield when faced with death.
His mouth twitched into a sardonic smile. “Don’t fill your head with romantic notions of me being heroic. I am anything but.”
“I would never dream of doing such a thing,” she said, feigning shock.
Slade chuckled and sauntered towards her, on his way to the other side of the table.
His movements were slow and deliberate, like a dark wolf on the prowl.
He eyed the nine as if it were prey. Then his eyes flickered to her, half-lidded with smoldering intensity making her skin sensitive and her muscles weak. Was the ball the prey, or was she?
She glanced at the green billiard table. Blast! Only one ball remained, the nine. She swallowed hard against the monstrous lump forming at the back of her throat. It was highly likely she would lose this game. Then, a kiss.