“Did you get those blisters from riding to Birmingham?” Peter asked, his face crumpled in more pain than was displayed on Fifi’s feminine features.
“It’s not as bad as it looks. I am very much looking forward to meeting your wife,” Fifi said, glancing towards Peter.
Slade didn’t miss the way she skirted Peter’s question.
Peter’s face relaxed. “I think you and my wife shall be great friends. My Lucia is talented, beautiful, and more than capable in every situation.”
Fifi smiled. “She sounds delightful, and handy. Do you reside in Birmingham?”
“Yes, we do. Not far from here in fact.”
Slade handed the bottle back to Peter then he took Fifi’s palms once more. As he inspected the now-cleaned cuts, he pushed down the anger and hatred starting to rise up. Bolingbroke was responsible for this. The raw cuts didn’t seem deep or long enough to warrant stitches. This knowledge abated some of the heat within him. He proceeded to bandage her palms with strips of linen.
“Fifi, what happened?” Slade asked, in a gentle tone.
She opened her mouth to speak but closed it without uttering a word. Then reopened it with a sharp inhale. “I was caught in a rather compromising situation. It demanded my immediate departure from the manor. I …” She paused, her eyes dropping to the floor.
Slade turned to his friend but before he could open his mouth Peter spoke. “I should be shoving off. It looks like you have a tight rein on the situation, Colonel. And I am sure Lucia can be of some assistance. I’ll bring her by later.”
Fifi’s gaze rose to meet Peter’s. “Thank you for your escort.”
Peter stepped around Slade and came towards Fifi. He patted her shoulder in a friendly fashion. “All will be well, Mistress Dunbar. You are in good hands with the colonel here.”
Slade bade Peter goodbye, recalling his friend’s words to Fifi earlier.You can trust the colonel with your life and honor. He is the most principled man I know.
But it wasn’t true that a woman could trust him with her life, was it? Sylvia had trusted him, and she was dead.
CHAPTER 17
After Peter left the lodge, Slade bolted the door and walked towards the sideboard. He filled a slender goblet with sherry, the chestnut brown liquid’s warm, fruity scent filling the air as he took it to her.
“Dutch courage,” he said.
She accepted it and readily took a sip.
“Was there something else you wanted to say about this compromising situation you found yourself in at the manor?” he prodded.
She worried her thumb against the curve of the glass, seeming to contemplate her next words, then levelled her gaze on his. “Yes, but before I proceed, I wondered, where do your loyalties lie? That is to say, are you for English rule over Scotland? Are you in agreement with the signing of the Union?”
Slade eyed her, understanding her question, yet failing to see the connection.
In 1707, the Articles of Union led to the creation of Great Britain, uniting the Kingdom of Scotland and the Kingdom of England, which included Wales. But many Scots, like his own father and brother, saw it as the subjugation of Scotland under the iron claw of England. He disliked the English the sameas his family but couldn’t tell anyone that his former position as colonel had been a cover. Jacobites themselves were using the Union to rebel against George II, the German-born King of England. The Whig party-dominated English Parliament and their army of redcoats.
Slade rubbed his chin as he considered her. “People don’t fight for governments and crowns; they fight the English because a redcoat killed a loved one, or they fight the Jacobites because they don’t want a papist telling them what to do. They align themselves with a side that gets them what they want.”
“And which side are you aligned with?” she asked, in a deceptively low tone. Fifi’s gaze focused on him with such intensity he had to quell a few warning bells going off in his head. This wasn’t the little girl from his younger days questioning him; this was the woman who’d punched him at the shooting range. The one who’d reacted to devastating effect when she’d been caught off guard. When she’d perceived a threat. This was the woman who stirred something devilishly delicious and dark, deep inside him.
“I align myself with my friends, Fifi, like you and like Egan, and with my family. Nothing else matters. Certainly not governments or kings,” he said.
He saw the warmness and softening of her eyes before she smiled and added. “And Bolingbroke? Are you his friend?”
Should he tell her that if he could, he would punch a knife straight through the man’s venomous heart? He gritted his teeth before inhaling and injecting a breeziness in his voice. “My acquaintance with Henry Bolingbroke is at most transactional. He in no way has my allegiance, certainly not my friendship.”
Fifi eyed him. His answer pleased her. But her eyes continued to search his. It occurred to him that she saw more than he wanted her to.
Her gaze shifted down to the remaining liquid in the goblet as if looking for her next words there.
“Before I go any further, I must have your word you will never reveal the source of the information I am about to tell you. Upon your honor as a gentleman and as Egan’s foster brother.”
