Chapter 48
The flash of stark pain and gut-wrenching agony in her furrowed brows, tight lips and glassy eyes was fleeting but it sent a jagged knife straight to his heart, obliterating his insides. He would do anything to never see that expression on her lovely face again. Lie. Torture. Kill.
Slade shifted in his seat, wanting to change the topic. “We’ll have a few wedding guests to attend tomorrow.”
Fifi stared into the hearth. The fire was now mere glowing fragments of coal.
“Aunt Penelope from Edinburgh is always looking for any little thing to disapprove of. To criticize. She disapproved of me leaving her home to go stay with my friend Charlotte from Ayr and her family, even though they are well liked and respected in the community. Of course, I went to work for the Bolingbrokes instead,” Fifi said, her tone laced with irony.
Slade recalled the blue-eyed woman with the blonde hair done in a ridiculous fashion in the chapel during their wedding. He made a motion above his head. “Was she the one with the ostrich plumes who sat next to your mother at the banquet?” he asked.
Fifi nodded unsteadily. “The very one. Lucky for me she was visiting the Sutherlands in the Highlands and was able to attend our wedding on short notice.” Fifi scoffed, not sounding lucky in the least. She then continued.
“She’s the legitimate daughter of Sir Donald Lindsay, Baronet.
My mother is his illegitimate daughter. Aunt Penelope has never let me or my mother forget that fact. ”
“She sounds unpleasant,” he murmured.
Fifi made a motion toward him with her now empty glass. “Did you know my aunt is the mistress of the Earl of Stair?”
“Is she now. Well, well, Aunt Penelope does get around,” he said, feigning shock.
Her lips stretched into a genuine little smile. A smile was good, even though it was a little one. Slade’s stomach loosened.
The Earl of Stair, James Dalrymple, moved in the same circles as General Bolingbroke and the Duke of Cumberland, William Augustus, son of King George II.
It was a social circle a Jacobite spy could extract quite a bit of useful information from.
No doubt Phoebe’s mysterious spymaster, the one she was so willing to place her life in danger for, also traversed the same circle.
He frowned. “Was your aunt the one to introduce you to this mysterious Jacobite friend of yours?”
He purposefully didn’t use the term spymaster, for it would put Fifi on her guard.
Fifi flushed. Either from the whisky or his question, he wasn’t certain.
“Yes. We met at a soiree put together by my aunt in Edinburgh,” she said.
Slade decided he didn’t like Aunt Penelope.
He narrowed his gaze. “Why do you help this Jacobite friend?”
“Because I hate the redcoats,” she said, the hardness of her voice surprising him.
“Why?” he persisted.
She hesitated, as if considering before speaking. “They shoot defenseless farmers, rape their women, burn their homes, kill their children and livestock. Why don’t you hate them?”
She was holding something back.
“Hate is a strong word. I reserve it for people who have crossed me,” Slade said.
Like the demon who hurt you.
She didn’t seem to hear him. Fifi reached over to place the empty tumbler on the side table but missed. It fell and landed with a dull thud on the rug.
Slade went over to her. She looked up at him, pain returning to her beautiful eyes. His chest tightened as he picked up the glass and placed it on the side table then knelt in front of her chair, wanting desperately to touch her. She looked so small and a little lost; he didn’t know what to do.
“You shouldn’t let what happened here tonight upset you,” he whispered, as he gently tucked a wayward lock of fiery hair behind her left ear.
Her lips narrowed into an achingly forlorn look.
It gutted Slade. All his good intentions of not touching her fell to the wayside.
He gently scooped her up. She fit perfectly in his arms as if heaven had made her just for him.
She was his, and he would take care of her.
Her weight was warm and comforting against his body.
She made a weak protest but then seemed to let it go and settled against him instead.
He breathed in the inviting scent of her, letting it fill him completely.
He inhaled through the tightness in his chest and with care and reverence carried her towards the bed.
“I only intend on putting you to bed, nothing more,” he said softly.
“Are you rescuing me again? I was nine the first time you rescued me. Do you remember? I’d fallen into the loch after repeating the knight’s oath. You saved my life,” she said.
He’d never forgotten what impressive ideals she’d had as a wee lass. Ideals she still had. Ideals that made him want to be better, just for her.
“In the ancient Orient, they believed that if you save a life, you are responsible for that life for the rest of yours,” he said. And as he said it, the words amalgamated like unbreakable steel in his soul.
Her head rested against his shoulder and her arms slid around his neck. Her bosom pressed against his chest. Her voluptuous hips rested against his belly. His body responded to her softness, like a famished beast given a delectable morsel. But Slade steadied himself.
“You are heroic, husband. Despite your claim to the contrary,” she said.
“Only for you,” he whispered.
The tension in her seemed to ease by the time he reached the bed.
The ease seeped into him and relaxed his own body.
He helped her under the counterpane. Slade couldn’t say why, but he ended up lying on top of the counterpane next to her.
Perhaps it was to make it difficult for him to reach for her body, to keep her safe from him.
He wanted to distract her from the shadows he could sense swirling about in her. “Tell me your fondest memory,” he said.
She blinked at his question. Then her lips stretched into a somber smile.
“Alex running away from our cook, who brandished a rolling pin at him. He’d stolen a meat pie from the kitchen.
He’d stolen at least ten of them that same year before my father had a stern word with him.
But our cook never caught him, I don’t think she really wanted to.
He used to make her laugh too hard with his antics.
It sums up Alex, mischievous but loveable.
He made it impossible for you to stay angry at him for too long,” she said.
Her eyes twinkled with love, but her features darkened with the weight of loss. “What is your fondest memory?” she asked.
Slade swallowed back the emotion in his throat and shuffled through his memories before speaking.
“I don’t remember my mother very well. I was too young when she died of winter fever.
But I do have vague images in my head of a pale, fragile, flowery scented woman, her ethereal voice singing me to sleep with the Apple Pie rhyme.
The love, caring and warmth in her voice made me feel like nothing in this world could ever hurt me, like I was her entire world, and she would never let harm come to me,” he said.
Fifi’s eyes were half-lidded, but brilliant with unshed tears. “She must have been a wonderful mother.”
Slade pushed the emotions aside. He had to concentrate on cheering up Fifi, not rehashing the unfortunate sadness in his life. He made another attempt. “Who is your favorite person?” he asked.