Chapter 47
What the devil just happened? Slade’s body clamored for release as he struggled for calm, staring shocked at his wife.
Lust gushed through his veins. He wanted her like he’d never wanted any other woman before.
But he held back with strength he didn’t know he had, fighting to understand.
With blood pounding in his head, it was difficult.
Her scream hadn’t been loud enough, or Egan would have already broken down the door.
As the boiling in his blood cooled, he saw it.
The fear, perhaps even terror, in her eyes.
He’d seen that look before, in the eyes of British prisoners of war at the Battle of Dettingen.
Men who’d been through severe mental and physical injury.
Men who were damaged. Broken. He’d also seen the scared desolate faces of women after he’d stopped soldiers from violating them in remote villages outside Aschaffenburg.
But Phoebe had never been to war, he told himself.
His mind refused to comprehend or accept that possibility.
His eyes desperately searched her pained features for answers.
“Fifi, I would never hurt you. Never do anything you didn’t want me to. Did I misunderstand?” he said.
She wrapped the belt of the dressing gown around her waist in a single violent motion.
But then she seemed to lose steam and stumbled over to a corner chair.
She sank down, looking small. She pulled her booted feet up into the chair, hugging her knees.
He ignored the fact that she still wore her boots.
Fifi started to rock back and forth, staring at the dark woolen rug on the floor.
The sight of her in anguish wrecked him.
His need to comfort her, to hold and gently soothe her in his arms was a painful, gut-wrenching ache. He yearned to touch her. But it warred with the echoes of her last words to him. Get off me. Slade actively restrained himself from going to her.
“Are you well? How can I help?” he asked.
She didn’t seem to hear him, her expression vacant.
He needed to understand before he could decide what to do next. He walked over to the sideboard and poured himself two shots of whisky in a tumbler. He tilted his head back and drank it all in a single swoop. The familiar burn of the liquid steadied him. Yet his hands shook.
He then filled the tumbler and walked it over to her. “Drink, it’ll settle you.”
She looked at him blankly. As if she’d been far away. As if five minutes ago she hadn’t been hot-blooded and desperate for him. As if he were an utter stranger. Worry, regret and pain speared his heart. He had to close his eyes for a second, to steady himself.
She eyed the glass he offered with suspicion. “I’ve never had whisky,” she said, a tremor in her voice.
With a jut of his wrist he gestured for her to take the glass. “It’s medicinal. Good for shock.”
Or whatever in hades was going on.
She took the glass and stared at its contents, as if deciding what to do. When she did take a sip, she coughed and held her chest with one hand.
Her eyes watered. “Oh my,” she breathed.
But her blank expression was gone.
He turned and strode to the ottoman where she’d laid his shirt. After donning it, Slade crossed over to where his kilt lay on the floor. He picked it up and pulled it on.
When he was more himself, he turned to her, spearing his hand through his thick, tangled hair.
“What just happened?” His tone was gentle.
She stared at him. A plethora of emotions danced across her face. Pain. Fear. Sadness. Misery. Then the blankness returned.
“I … I don’t know,” she whispered.
He didn’t believe her. She knew. Whatever it was that had made her act so unexpectedly. He wasn’t angry with her, nor did he blame her. He just wanted to understand. He’d never told anyone the crippling fear Sylvia’s death had ignited in him. The fear of failing another woman. What was Fifi’s fear?
His mind went back to where it had refused to go earlier.
Had someone hurt her? Blood red rage ignited in his gut.
His fists clenched and his heart rate shot up so fast, its pumping boomed in his ears.
If someone had, he would find the demon and take pleasure in patiently and methodically dismantling him limb from wretched limb.
Slade took several deep breaths before the red dissipated from his vision. He didn’t want to be anything but gentle with his new wife, but he also wanted answers.
“We can take it as slow as you need to in the marriage bed. There’s no rush. A week, a month. A few months,” he said.
His father could wait a little longer for male heirs.
Anxiousness etched its way into his bride’s expression, and she took another sip. “Your brother seemed eager for proof of our marriage’s consummation.”
He gave a derisive snort. “I’ll deal with Lachlan. Please don’t worry about him.” He rose and sauntered over to the nightstand, picked up his dagger and unsheathed the blade. He then nicked his palm, hissing at the sting. He returned the dagger to its sheath and waited for the blood.
She shot up from her chair, setting the glass down on the sideboard, and came to him, her brows pulled together in stark concern. “What are you doing?”
When a few drops of blood started to gather in his palm, he stepped over to the bed and smeared the blood on the counterpane. “There. We’ve consummated the marriage.”
He eyed her, a tug pulling at the corners of his mouth. Her cheeks reddened with embarrassment. “Oh,” she murmured.
She picked up his dagger, went to her night rail on the back of a chair, picked that up, cut a long thin strip from its hem, then walked the strip back over to him. Setting his dagger down, she eyed him.
“Your hand, please?” she said.
He gave her his nicked palm. She proceeded to wrap his hand with the strip of cloth. Her touch was gentle. Caring. Tender. After she was done, she looked up at him. Warmth softened her features, even though regret overshadowed her eyes. “You have my eternal gratitude, husband.”
Was he her husband if they hadn’t consummated the marriage?
Her blank expression returned. And his rage at the possibility that another man hurt her returned, stabbing his gut and twisting in his chest. He swallowed back the bile threatening to come up his gullet.
She picked up her glass, sank back down into the chair and hugged her knees with one hand, then took another sip of whisky. Slade returned to the divan, the question of how to find out what happened to Fifi bombarding his mind.
The blankness dissipated. It was erased after they’d sat in silence for a while, as she took little sips. Whisky tended to put a few layers of false strength between a person and the world. He recalled it only too well from right after Sylvia’s death.