CHAPTER 12
CAMBERLEY MANOR, SUTTON COLDFIELD, ENGLAND
Two days later, as the midday sun bathed Camberley manor’s open stable doors in warm amber light, Phoebe waited. She’d just seen Lady Bolingbroke off to her afternoon tea with Mistress Capnell at which time her employer asked her to finish the correspondences and then pick up her sapphire necklace and earrings for the upcoming charity ball she and the general would be attending. But Phoebe didn’t start any of it because Slade was finishing up a musket demonstration with general Bolingbroke and would have to come by the stables to pick up his horse. Falcon’s voice resonated in her head.Private connections should not influence the mission.Phoebe chose to ignore it.
She didn’t have to wait long. Slade’s tall lean figure strode around the corner from the gardens, heading for the stables. Her vitals spiked at the sight of him. A cool breeze brushed the length of her, mixing with the heat forming along her spine. Slade carried a long canvas bag, looking like it contained muskets, propped on his broad right shoulder, his expression softening with warmth at the sight of her.
Silhouetted against the sun’s streaming overhead rays, he advanced towards her, his stride strong and sure. Her nerveshad been jangled since he’d arrived earlier; now they were positively in chaos as he neared. Because of her fear since the moors, men set her nerves on edge. But Slade set her nerves on edge for an entirely different reason.
Phoebe swallowed against the sudden dryness in her mouth and relaxed her features into a smile. “How did the musket demonstration go?” she said, her voice unusually high pitched and breathy.
She wasn’t fishing for information, she told herself, simply inquiring whether Slade had a successful meeting.
He frowned. “Not as well as I’d hoped, but not a complete loss either.”
Before she could prod for clarification, his gaze landed on the stables then returned to her. “Are you taking a horse out?” he asked.
She considered the correspondence awaiting completion on the desk in the library. “I do have to run an errand today for Lady Bolingbroke,” she said.
“I am at your disposal as an escort for errands.” He gave a wide smile, and made a spirited bow.
His overtly courteous gesture set off butterflies in her belly, untangled her nerves and warmed her from head to toe.
She decided now was as good a time as any to pick up Lady Bolingbroke’s necklace. “I’ll just be a moment to grab my coat, hat and gloves.”
Half an hour later, after deciding on one of the Bolingbrokes’ two-wheeled open-top conveyances, Phoebe and Slade set out for the jewelers. A whiff of the slightly sweet scent of silage from the countryside circulated in the air. She sat next to him as he held the reins in a casual, relaxed manner, guiding the chestnut gelding in a slow clip-clopping trot.
Her skin heated at having to sit so close to him on the small conveyance while his long uniform-clad leg brushed hers,the imprint of toned thigh muscles evident through his fitted breeches. The contact of his leg against the thick outer layer of her skirt sent jolts straight to her skin, blood, and bones. Phoebe debated internally whether to pull away from him and move closer to her end of the seat, but decided the gesture would draw too much attention. At least that is what she told herself. In the secret recesses of her body, she welcomed the warmth of contact despite his imposing shoulders.
The left wheel of the carriage jerked over bumpiness on the road, sending Phoebe sideways into Slade’s hard body. She gasped as her pulse spiked and her muscles tightened. Good God, his body was built like steel, his strength and size so much more evident on contact. She picked up the faintest hint of cloves and male spice as she scrambled to sit up straight once more.
Slade’s left hand reached out, and she instinctually shrank away, a tiny cry escaping her lips before realizing he was only trying to steady her. Mortification and shame contracted her insides and sent heat to her cheeks. Dear Lord, her body seemed incapable of not being jittery around him. He pulled on the reins, and the carriage jolted to a halt.
He turned to her with knitted brows. “Are you all right?”
She swallowed, the heat of embarrassment flooding her body. She’d overreacted. Again. And worse still, he’d taken note this time.
“I’m quite well, thank you.” Her voice was so squeaky it made her lower her head. Where was a hole in the ground when you needed one to disappear into?
When she looked up, he was considering her with a frown. “Do I make you nervous, Fifi? There is no cause to be. We are auld friends, are we not?”
A loud ringing sounded in Phoebe’s ears. Did friends make each other’s palms dampen, hearts race and bodies react to any least bit of nearness or contact?
“Of course we are friends,” she said, letting out a strained laugh.
He sent her a solemn and overtly disbelieving quirk of his brow.
“How did my adventurous and rambunctious little friend from Eileanach Castle grow up to be a nervous lady’s companion, working in the household of an English general, when she herself exhibits rebel tendencies?” he asked, his voice deep and probing.
Phoebe blinked and forced herself to meet his gaze. It was difficult to maintain steady eye contact, like gazing at the bright and blinding midday sun. She momentarily lost her words. He not only made her nervous, but she couldn’t decide what to do with her hands. And her feet, though unmoving, felt awkward on the footrest. His steady gaze intensified with inquiry. The air between them crackled. Was it tension? Heat? She struggled for an air of composure and for her voice. “I … I told you, I’m here in the service of a friend.”
“Yes, you did say.” He murmured.
From his tightening lips he clearly didn’t swallow what she was feeding him. Slade faced forward once again and snapped the reins. The gelding resumed its trot.
“If you ever require my assistance, besides being your occasional escort, all you have to do is ask,” he said.
Her heart warmed at his offer, despite the skepticism in his eyes.
