Chapter 35
EILEANACH CASTLE, ISLE OF SKYE, SEAT OF THE DUNBARS
Phoebe stood in the second-floor solar, the pale-yellow morning sun streaming through the towering oculus window behind her father, who sat at his impressive desk.
The familiar scent of old leather-bound books from the ceiling to floor bookcases, beeswax candles from the sideboard and wood polish from the gleaming mahogany furniture filled her nostrils.
They’d arrived the previous night, and while Peter was staying with Slade at Garraidh, Lucia, currently still asleep, had decided to spend time with her at Eileanach.
The sounds of barking from Odin and Loki, Egan’s frolicsome deerhounds, echoed from down below in the courtyard. They were no doubt expressing playful displeasure at the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves or the rolling wheels of a wagon.
When her eyes landed on the distant yellowing grass-covered ground and sparse skeletal trees through the window, flashbacks of Faye Ross’s malevolence hit her.
Ripples of self-scorn ran down her body.
It made her want to scrub her skin with soap and water until it was red, raw, and close to bleeding. But that had never helped.
Phoebe pushed the thoughts aside, swallowed the bile burning up her gullet and turned from the window.
Her eyes landed on the towering, gilt-framed painting of the freckle-faced redheaded boy with hazel eyes like hers and Egan’s, his nine-year-old features fixed in time forever.
The expression in his almost sympathetic eyes tightened her chest. Her father had brought the painting from the Great Hall and hung it here after Alex’s death, selfishly keeping it for himself.
It had been painted almost sixteen years ago, she recalled, because it was the week Alex had temporarily nicked Egan’s dagger to secretly show her.
She’d been eight and they’d both stared at the dagger in silent awe.
It had been a long gleaming blade, sharp enough to cut a single strand of hair on contact.
“I want one just like it as soon as I’m auld enough.” Alex had said.
But Alex would never be old enough, would he.
Tears pricked the back of Phoebe’s eyes.
Both she and Alex had been vying for their father’s attention, during that same year, hoping to woo it away from his favorite son Egan.
She turned away from the painting and blinked across the huge desk at her father.
Well, she had his attention now.
Padraid Dunbar, her father, was like an aged lion, one with graying hairs at the temples, but his bite was more ferocious now than when she was a wee bairn. For he’d been scarred and hardened by wars and the death of his second son.
Her father eyed her as she walked to stand in front of his desk, the papers he’d been reading in his hands forgotten when she’d entered the solar minutes ago. “The English have plans to enforce the Abolition of the Heritable Jurisdictions Act, Father,” she said.
He scrutinized her. “You learned this from a reliable source?”
“I did,” she said.
He frowned. “So, they are finally acting to take power away from us clan chiefs.” He then gave a heavy sigh and continued. “Clans will disperse. Chiefs will no longer have the legal authority to protect their people.”
Her brows pulled together in concern. “What are we going to do?”
Her father touched his temple, closed his eyes for a second before speaking.
“The Dunbars are well positioned with the English for future trades with the East India Trading Company. They, themselves, granted us a trading license. We will have to rely more on trade and expanding our cattle and sheep pastorialisation, and less on cottars.”
Her father leaned forward and steepled his hands on the desk, his gaze returning to her. “But Egan and I will deal with this. No need to worry your bonny head, m'eudail—my dear.”
She ground her teeth and refrained from pointing out it was she who’d brought the news, not Egan.
Just then the dogs’ barks turned louder and fiercer than before.
Curious, she walked back to the window and glanced down into the courtyard.
Three men were speaking to a Dunbar retainer.
She recognized the short, round one as Hamish Ross, who was about two decades older than Phoebe herself, and next to him was his rawboned younger brother Broden.
They were a neighboring clan to the Dunbars.
But then Phoebe’s eyes fell on the third man, with the pale Romanesque features in the redcoat’s uniform, which had caught the dogs’ attention.
Unlike Hamish and Broden, their cousin Faye had been raised in England and wore his red uniform with pride and arrogance.
Phoebe froze. Dizziness overtook her, and her muscles went cold and numb.
She palmed the window’s sill to steady herself.
Spies don’t fear. They fight, Falcon had said.