Chapter 55
Slade and Fifi bid farewell to Margaret and Raghnall, left their horses in the chapel house’s stables, then grabbed their saddle bags and set out on the earthen path towards the wharf.
A decade ago, having an understanding and sympathetic ear to unburden his woes after Sylvia’s death had helped him to keep his sanity, to drop his habitual use of opium and overindulgence in whisky.
Yet Slade hadn’t revealed the whole truth of his intentions to the Edwards or to Fifi.
Raghnall would have told him to dig two graves before he sought revenge against Bolingbroke; one grave for Bolingbroke and one for himself.
And that soft glow of friendship in Fifi’s eyes all those years ago would have died, because in telling her he would have revealed to her the monstrous things of which he was capable.
But the only way for him to revenge Sylvia’s death and redeem himself was to knock Bolingbroke off his pedestal.
Then he would take immense pleasure in revealing to Bolingbroke exactly for whom he’d done it.
Slade now glanced in Fifi’s direction as they walked.
The alluring pink lines of her lips and the gentle curve of her delicate jaw were the only things visible under the black hood of her cloak.
Flashbacks of him bathing her lush body hit him.
Recalling the sounds of pleasure she’d made even now stiffened his nethers.
His perpetual stiffness over the past two weeks was slowly making him lose his mind.
When he wasn’t with his wife, his thoughts were of her.
When she was near, he couldn’t take his eyes off her, wanting so badly to make love to her.
When he dreamt, it was only of her. Her smell, taste and feel were consuming him and slowly driving him mad.
But they would go at her pace, even if it killed him.
When they reached the wharf and asked after Master Ames, a wee lad scraping barnacles off an upturned skiff pointed them in the direction of a stout, bearded man at the end of the pier.
Ames was an older man, barrel-chested and paunchy. His craggy features were every bit the weather-beaten fisherman. Slade inquired about passage to Beinn na Faoghla.
Master Ames raised his eyes, disbelief in his unshaven oval face as he pointed skywards. “Haven’t you noticed the black clouds?” Ames asked.
Clouds had indeed blanketed them in an unusually eerie darkness, yet it was still day. Sunset wouldn’t come for another three hours.
Before Slade could respond, Fifi spoke. “Please, sir, it’s a matter of great importance. You did come with high recommendations from Minister Edwards.”
Ames pulled himself up to his full height, his chest puffing out in what looked like self-importance. “The minister sent you to me? Well then, I suppose I can take you. But we must be quick about it. Where on the island are you heading?”
Fifi leaned in closer to Ames as if revealing a secret. “We’re going to Saint Mary’s. Do you know of it?”
Ames nodded. “Aye. It’s on the east side of the island. Lucky for you, because I hate going to the west side. The redcoats are garrisoned there, and they ask too many questions.”
Fifi’s shoulders visibly tensed at the mention of redcoats. “Yes, lucky indeed.”
They boarded Ames’ jolly boat, just as the rain started to drizzle.
The journey to Beinn na Faoghla took just shy of an hour. As they neared the wooden jetty stretching over part of the sandy shore and the water, the rain turned from a drizzle to a heavy downpour. Slade’s hair was soaked. Cold rivulets ran down the back of his neck, dampening his cravat.
Despite the gusty winds and thick fog, Slade managed to make out a pair of short birches not far from the shore on a mostly treeless isle, the wind violently tossing their branches.
The only sign of human habitation was an empty wooden canoe bumping up and down in shallow water tenuously tied to the jetty.
Slade reached into his pocket, took out a few coins, more than the price Ames had quoted, and handed them to Ames.
Slade then grabbed their saddle bags and helped Fifi from the small boat onto the wet sand of the shore.
He thanked the Lord she had a hood, for it seemed to be protecting her from a complete drenching.
Slade was starting to think it was not only ill-advised to come to the isle, but doubly so in a storm.
But Slade had done it for Fifi. He suspected if she had to go to the moon, he’d find a way to do that as well.
Slade stood next to Fifi a few feet in from the rolling waves and turned back to Ames.
“How far is the church?” He had to shout above the gusts of wind and pelting rain.
Ames remained standing next to his boat on the wet sand and pointed west. “Straight inland, about an hour’s walk.”
Slade eyed Ames, raising his brows in question. “Will you wait for us?”
Ames shook his head. “I can’t. I have to get back to my wife and bairns.”
Slade swore under his breath but cocked his head at the man. “When can you come back?”
Ames patted his pocket where he’d deposited the coins and smiled. “I’ll return a couple of hours after dawn. You can wait for me in Glenn’s cave.”
Slade looked around with uncertainty. “Where is Glenn’s cave?”
Ames pointed to their left, past the sandy shore, where weathered slabs of limestone stood atop a hill behind the twin birch trees.
The fisherman then pushed off his jolly boat, rowing back in the direction they’d come from.
The whipping wind was now causing water to crash violently against the jetty. Slade tasted the salt of the sea on his lips.
He turned to Fifi. “Can you run?”
Fifi’s rain drenched face was half covered by her hood, but she readily nodded. “Of course.”
They made a mad dash for the trees. Then Slade guided them around the thick trunks, where for the first time he noted a narrow, almost hidden vertical opening in the limestone. They slipped through and found themselves standing inside a cave.
It was wider than it was tall, the floor sandy and about twenty paces across and half that in height.
But because of the angled entrance the interior was mostly dry.
It smelled of musty earth, briny sea, and fresh rain.
He leaned back against the cold rock wall not far from the entrance to catch his breath after their exhilarating sprint.
A smile tugged at the sides of his mouth as a soft laugh escaped Fifi’s lips. She’d enjoyed their little charge through the rain as much as he had.
Her hood was swept back revealing lustrous hair which had come undone from its pins, its wet fiery tendrils clinging to the sides of her freckle-kissed face.
Fifi’s hazel eyes sparkled, and her skin glowed with moisture, even in the dimming light.
Her long, thick lashes seemed darker, a few clumped together with rain drops, one such drop hanging precariously off the tip of her nose.
Slade couldn’t resist the pull to close the distance between them and kiss her nose’s tip.
His mind fixated yet again on the previous night when she’d been wet and naked.
The stiffening beneath his breeches caused him to pull back.
She smiled intimately at him but also hugged herself.
His shoulder muscles tightened in concern. “Are you cold?”
The second she opened her mouth to speak, her teeth chattered. “A little.”
“A problem I shall soon solve.” He sent her a gallant and confident grin.
Slade deposited the saddle bags on the ground, unbuckled his weapons, and laid those down as well.
He noted with no little interest the blackened area from an old fire several feet from the mouth of the cave.
It was quite fortuitous that the previous occupants of the cave had left behind a pile of dry, broken branches.
Slade opened his saddle bag and pulled out the steel and flint.
After a couple of tries, he was able to generate enough sparks on the small pyramid of shavings he’d made with his knife to get a flame.
He carefully added branches one by one, so as not to smother the flame but feed it. Soon he had a healthy fire going.
He took off his coat and laid it on the ground to dry. He then eyed Fifi. She had unbuttoned her wet cloak and laid it out next to his, not far from the fire. Her expression softened.
The inner glow in her eyes as she gazed at him squeezed his heart. “Come warm yourself,” he said.
Slade’s mouth went dry. His gaze followed her movements as she came to sit next to him by the fire.
His fingers still carried the memory of her soft, lustrous intimate skin at their tips.
And his lips still recalled the sweet plumpness of her mouth.
His hands now craved exploring the dip of her waist, and the glorious swells of her hips and breasts hidden under the riding habit.
His breath audibly rushed in and out of his nostrils as his body temperature spiked.