Chapter 70
Phoebe was stunned at the genuine outpouring of warmth from Lachlan, Tara, and Chisolm at Slade’s return.
Little Sadie, Tara and Lachlan’s daughter, erupted in innocent giggles over Slade’s kisses to her ruddy cheeks after he picked her up and twirled her around to greet her.
Phoebe hadn’t missed the fact that when Chisolm hugged Slade, Slade leaned into his father’s embrace just a little more than necessary, affection tightening Slade’s handsome features.
It was the most beautiful and poignant moment she’d seen among the MacLeans.
And when Lachlan gave Slade a hearty slap back hug, it brought a happy tear to Phoebe’s eyes as her throat practically closed up with emotion.
The MacLean men were slowly bridging the coldness between them stemming from the death of Slade’s mother all those years ago.
Later, Phoebe was acutely aware of the heat from Slade’s gaze as they walked side by side up the stairs together to the fourth floor of the north wing, and their marriage bedchamber. Every time his eyes fell on her lips, she found herself moistening them with her tongue.
After he closed the door behind her, she turned around to face him, her heart squeezing with panic and her lungs bursting with words that had to be said.
“I will give up the Movement. I don’t want to lose you because of my work. I couldn’t bear it if you left.”
Her eyes frantically searched his handsome features for an answer before he spoke.
Slade’s brows crinkled in puzzlement.
“Why would I leave?” he whispered.
“You were gone so long, I thought perhaps you were displeased with me for working for the Movement, and then I thought perhaps …” Phoebe started to say.
“If I could have returned earlier, I would have.”
“You weren’t disappointed…angry?” she asked.
“Yes, at the dilemma we find ourselves in, but not at you. Never you.”
Relief washed over her, taking away an immense painful heaviness from her belly.
Phoebe let his familiar scent envelop her when he came to her and took her in a crushing embrace.
She never wanted to let him go. His arms were a protective cocoon, making her safer than she’d ever been before.
She would have happily stayed there forever but he slackened his hold, while he placed his forehead against hers, lightly brushing the tip of his nose against the tip of hers and gently tucking errant strands of her hair behind her ear.
“I love you, Phoebe. And the last thing I want you to do is give up your mission with the Movement. I know how important it is to you. It’s been important to you since I met you all those years ago.
The very first time I saw you, you were reciting the knight’s oath.
A remarkable thing for such a wee lass. It’s ingrained in you, a part of you, your need to fight oppression and control.
And as one who loves you, I have to let you do as you must. My only request is that you let me escort you for safety, and when I am unable to, you take three or more MacLean escorts with you,” he said.
Phoebe blinked, stunned into lightheadedness.
She was speechless, her muscles frozen for a second.
He understood her, like no one else ever had.
She recalled the escorts Falcon had sent for her that day at Hortons.
The MacLean escorts would have to be cleared by the Movement, but it would work, not only to lessen Slade’s worry but to increase her safety.
“How could I have been so lucky that you chose me for a wife. It’s a miracle. You are my miracle,” Phoebe said, her tone soft and disbelieving.
“And you are the most welcomed surprise of my entire life. My dearest little friend who grew up to be my dearest love. I will do anything to make you happy and keep you safe. I would kill every last redcoat, if you asked me to. But you are also my savior, Phoebe. A chance to make amends for my past sins. And I’ll thank all the saints for you each and every day for the rest of my life,” he said.
A strange sensation tightened Phoebe’s chest. Hot and cold swirled in her belly.
She pulled her forehead away from his and gently palmed his cheeks, focusing on the darkness in his eyes.
What she saw there not only took her breath away, it broke her heart.
It was the lovely ghost that had been haunting them for a decade.
“What sins? What is it, mo ghaol?” she whispered, her thumb running gentle strokes along his chiseled jawline.
He took both her hands, kissed each of them, then stepped away to remove his jacket, neckcloth, and waistcoat, as if they had turned heavy on his body, dropping them one after the other on a nearby chair while she waited with a thumping heart, holding her breath.
He raked a hand through his thick hair, leaving it in a delectably disheveled state, then he rubbed his temples before speaking.
“Sylvia’s … my former betrothed’s father was …
is a high-ranking English officer, and he demanded she not marry me ten years ago.
I’d never even met the man back then, but he’d already decided against me for a son-in-law because I am a Scotsman. ”
Disbelief rattled her insides as she stared at her husband. “I … I didn’t realize he objected,” she said.
“Vehement objections from her absentee father. She was born out of wedlock, you see. Her father demanded she not marry me, and I demanded she forsake her father and marry me regardless; to prove she loved me more,” he said. His voice was hard as stone.
Her stomach dropped, as coldness climbed up her spine. She knew what his next words would be when a flash of raw pain tightened his beautiful mouth.
“Sylvia didn’t want to lose the measly scraps of love her father threw at her whenever he deigned to visit the Highlands.
And she didn’t want to lose me, the man she loved.
Out of despair and desperation one night she drank a bottle of hemlock, because I had pressured her to decide—in my favor, of course, out of pure selfishness.
I might as well have handed her the hemlock myself. I killed her,” he said.
Phoebe’s mouth opened, but nothing came out for a full ten seconds.
The pieces of the puzzle that hadn’t fit, when she had learned that Bolingbroke was Sylvia’s father, now fitted perfectly into a terrible picture.
She now understood the hatred she’d always sensed in Slade, whenever he spoke Bolingbroke’s name.
She finally managed to find her voice. “I met Mistress Willoughby while you were away. She said Bolingbroke was Sylvia’s father, but she said nothing about his objections to the marriage,” Phoebe said, her tone light with incredulity.
But then Phoebe was at Slade’s side, slipping her hands around his waist, pulling him into her arms and resting her cheek against his chest. She ran her hands up and down his tall lean back in soothing strokes. His body melted into her embrace.
“I would never speak ill of the dead, mo ghaol, but if I were Sylvia, you would always be my choice. The only sin you committed was to expect your love to choose you and she didn’t, and that’s no sin at all, it’s just love.
Love is as perfect, or as imperfect … as we are.
It’s beautiful, freeing, full of light, hope, and sacrifice.
But it’s also dark, selfish and can bring you grief, disappointment, sadness and even bitterness.
But we still should hope for everything from and for those we love.
Love is hopeful, after all,” Phoebe whispered.
“I shouldn’t have pressured her,” he said, his voice low and defeated.