Chapter 42
Fair-haired Faye Ross, dressed in his garish English uniform, sat atop a massive snow-white stallion, stark against the backdrop of green pine trees, wind quaking their branches.
The crimson of his uniform fill her with burning hatred, laced with ice cold terror.
Her skin tingled with a familiar uncleanliness, making her stomach roil.
Phoebe’s fingers curled into fists. Ross’s empty blue eyes locked onto hers. A sneer stretched across his pale features. “Well, well, if it isn’t the little Dunbar brat. Fortuitous meeting you two days in a row after all this time.”
His polished English accent was sharp and cold, the same as her nightmares.
The first time he’d called her a brat for her insolence, she’d been attempting to flee him on the moors seven years ago. She’d disliked it then and downright hated it now.
He dismounted from his horse and approached her side of the wagon, standing a few feet from her.
All her energies were concentrated on not showing any weakness, despite the cold sweat forming on her back.
She hadn’t gotten a good look yesterday, but it hit her that his fair hair was thinner than seven years ago and his middle rounder, but his eyes were still soulless in their dead gaze.
The restless stomp of their horse’s hooves startled Phoebe. It also reminded her she wasn’t alone and Aila was with her. She wouldn’t allow anything to happen to Aila.
“Mistress, please, we don’t want trouble. Should I go around him?” Aila whispered, next to her.
“We’ll leave shortly,” Phoebe said. A part of Phoebe wanted to grab the reins and take off with Aila, but she wasn’t about to let this vermin get a whiff of her fear.
Phoebe leveled him with an unwavering stare. “Sir, I won’t greet you or ask after your health, because the truth is, I have no interest,” Phoebe said to Ross, her voice confident with an intonation of mockery.
His slow smile lacked any mirth whatsoever. “Disrespectful as ever. What are you doing here?” he said.
Phoebe’s stomach hardened. Did he guess she’d just come from Bayview Crest?
She swallowed against the rising bile in her throat. “How is my presence here any of your concern?”
A glint of malice and anger flashed across his face. “You are like your parents, thinking you are superior to the British,” he hissed.
Why would he believe her parents thought themselves superior?
Her parents weren’t like that at all. Hadn’t the Rosses just discussed the shared moor and sheep with her parents when they’d come to visit?
He must have seen how cordial and polite they were.
Except when they were forcing her to marry, that is.
Her terror increased tenfold when Ross’s hand went to rest on the holstered pistol at his hip. Her adrenaline spiked, readying her body for action, but the dagger tucked in her garter would be no match for his pistol
She had no doubt he would relish shooting her and Aila in broad daylight if he suspected she was a Jacobite spying on an English lieutenant general.
She would never forgive herself if any harm came to an innocent like Aila.
Phoebe’s head snapped towards approaching riders when distant clopping hooves sounded. When Phoebe made out the familiar figures coming towards them from the direction of the cattle market, her sigh of relief was audible.
Phoebe jumped down from their wagon and ran into the direct path of the two oncoming riders. She promised to chastise herself later for her reckless action as she called out for Slade and Peter.
They both reined in their horses mere feet away from trampling her and dismounted, eying her with surprise and confusion.
Phoebe ran towards Slade. In her peripheral vision she saw Peter, an amiable expression on his face, strolling towards Ross who had dismounted.
When Phoebe reached Slade, she took note of his blackened eye and swollen nose. Despite the emotions assailing her, guilt broke through to squeeze her chest.
“I am so sorry for what Egan did,” Phoebe said to Slade.
Slade’s features took on a bemused expression. “I cannot find fault with Egan championing his sister.”
Peter and Ross approached. Without conscious thought, Phoebe drew nearer to Slade away from Ross. Slade shot her a perplexed look before facing Peter and Faye Ross.
“Colonel, this is Lieutenant Faye Ross of the second division of Horse Grenadier Guards,” Peter said in an amiable tone, oblivious to any undercurrents of tension.
Slade’s nostrils flared and he scowled as he took in Faye Ross, then switched his gaze to Phoebe, then back to Faye Ross.
Peter cleared his throat rather loudly as if waiting for something.
Slade appeared reluctant as he extended a stiff hand in greeting, but Ross’s face twisted into hardness as he snapped to attention and saluted instead of shaking hands.
Ross’s proper display of a formal greeting for a lower-ranking lieutenant addressing a higher-ranking colonel seemed rather overdone.
From Slade’s expression, he seemed to think so as well. Nonetheless he rigidly returned the salute, his eyes sharpening on Ross. “At ease, Lieutenant. In actuality, I’ve sold my commission. I am a civilian now.”
Ross’s brows leveled and his lips curled in insolence. “You are a Scot?”
Slade’s scowl hardened. With the tightening of his jaws and the narrowing of his gaze he looked downright intimidating.
Was his reaction due more to Ross’s derisive tone or the question itself?
Phoebe swallowed hard when it occurred to her that Slade might have sensed something off between her and Ross.
Ross may have assumed a colonel of the British Army had to be English, until Slade spoke, betraying his Scottish brogue.
And the truth was, nothing in Slade’s attire suggested he was Scottish.
His form-fitting breeches, crisp white shirt, unbuttoned black great coat, and riding boots, would have looked typical for any well-to-do English gentleman in Birmingham.
Slade ignored the question as his unflinching gaze speared Ross. “How do you know Mistress Dunbar?”
Slade’s hard tone was edged with an unmistakable challenge. He was an arm’s length away from Ross and stood an ominous half a head taller. Phoebe couldn’t help but note how much leaner, darker and more dangerous Slade looked standing next to Ross, Slade’s facial injuries giving him a harsh visage.
Ross pulled himself up to full height. His answer came with reluctance and a hint of resentment. “The Dunbars are neighbors to the Rosses, my cousins.”
Slade scrutinized Ross for a brief moment before speaking again. “You’re from the Second Division? You’re in Owens’ group?”
Ross blinked. “Yes. I report to Colonel Wilfred Owens.”
The smile stretching across Slade’s lips was unequivocally predatorial. “Owens is a good friend of mine. I’ll be sure and mention our meeting, Lieutenant.”
Heat flashed across Ross’s cold eyes, but he gave a curt nod. “Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Colonel. But if you will excuse me, I must be getting along.”
Ross mounted his horse and rode off in the direction of Bayview Crest without a backward glance.
Phoebe let out a second audible breath of relief at seeing Ross’s back. Her body ached to fall apart, but she kept herself under fierce control.
Peter, who was standing next to them now and staring at Ross ride away, clicked his tongue. “What a strange man.”
Slade gave her a pointed look. “How do you know this man Ross?”
She swallowed back the sand that seemed to have gathered in her throat and made a dismissive flick of her wrist. “Like he said, we met years ago when he visited his cousins, who are neighbors of the Dunbars.”
Her dismissive gesture didn’t work on Slade, for he continued to consider her closely. “Did he upset you?”
Phoebe licked her dry lips. Dear Lord, she was sweating and weak with queasiness.
And she longed for the sanctity of her bedchamber where she could curl up alone and give in to the tremors threatening her entire body.
Her stomach roiled, and she suspected if she didn’t calm herself soon, she would cast up her accounts right there in the middle of the road.
She took a few deep, cleansing breaths then looked up.
Slade’s cool green eyes held considerable concern.
She blinked, for the sight of it squeezed the air from her lungs.
He’d taken on Ross as if the man was beneath him. He’d looked at the subject of her nightmares for the past seven years and treated him like he was an insignificant insect. Slade had instilled fear in Ross without raising a single finger.
The realization hit Phoebe like a blow to the midriff.
If she were to survive any length of time in the Highlands doing Jacobite work for Falcon, she could run into Ross at any time, she would need Slade.
She would need his protection. Phoebe made up her mind what she needed to do.
However, it did not make the queasiness subside.
Slade eyed her expectantly. “Fifi?”
She shook her head in an attempt to dislodge her ruminations. “No, he did not upset me. I was just considering the fact that I have to visit the mantua-maker in Portree to get a wedding gown.”
A squeal of delight sounded from behind Phoebe, and it hit her that Aila was still seated in the wagon a few feet behind her and was listening. Aila was well aware of Egan’s and her parents’ dictate she marry Slade.
Peter smiled. He was atop his horse now, pulling on the reins, for the beast was snorting with restlessness. “Are you two giving in to Egan Dunbar’s ultimatum then … you will be wed?”
Phoebe’s heart pounded like the setting off of cannon fire. She faced Slade, his eyes intense and so sharp, they could cut glass.
“Yes, Slade and I are getting married,” she said.