He sent her a devilish smirk. “One kiss.”
She persisted. “Nothing else?”
“Nothing else,” he drawled.
She straightened, defiance piercing her insides. “What if I say no?”
He shrugged. “Well, you’d leave me quite despondent. I must ask, however, if there is anything else you have with whichto bargain. Perhaps you can tell me all about this mysterious Jacobite friend of yours if I win?”
She shook her head in vehemence. “Out of the question. One kiss it is.”
He sent her a lazy smile. “We have an accord.”
If not more interesting, their bet certainly made the game more daring. But since she was practically an expert at billiards, she would best him. And she wouldn’t have to worry about kissing him, she told herself. She was mostly not worried about kissing him. Phoebe maneuvered the cue stick in line with the white ball and a corner hole, the one ball in the middle. She took aim and struck with sufficient strength. The white ball clanged into the one ball, sending the latter straight into the hole. The white remained on the table as she’d intended, spinning on its spot while the one rumbled into a side pocket. Triumph made Phoebe straighten and eye Slade, her chin victoriously high.
“You should make yourself comfortable where you are. I, unlike you, will not sacrifice victory for courtesy,” she said.
He grinned. His relaxed confidence irked her. “Incidentally, have you accomplished all you needed to before we leave for the Highlands?” he asked.
Phoebe considered her next shot, responding to his question. “I’ve accomplished all I wanted to and am in fact eager to leave.”
Slade leaned against the edge of the table. “Excellent. I’ll speak with Peter and Lucia and make the arrangements.”
Spotting her next shot, Phoebe leaned over at the waist and aimed with her stick. With a gentle tap against the white ball, causing it to bump ever so slightly against the two, she landed the shot then straightened, taking in Slade from beneath her lashes. He looked amused and not in the least bit worried that she would win.
CHAPTER 27
His look of ease provoked her as she successfully took her next two shots, sending the four then five balls into side pockets of the table.
“I imagine we’ll travel from Birmingham, head north through Manchester, and continue to Glasgow and all the places in betwixt, then pass through Fort William, Glenfinnan and finally Skye,” he said, contemplatively.
Phoebe was distracted at his mention of Glenfinnan as she walked to the other side of the table eying the six, giving Slade a wide berth as she passed him. She’d have to do whatever she could to protect Glenfinnan but with Falcon’s warning missive already on its way, the villagers will be prepared she told herself.
Slade’s nearness was proving difficult for her concentration on the game and her consideration of Glenfinnan. Phoebe bent at the waist, pulled back the cue stick and sent it straight into the white, which in turn clinked against the six. Unfortunately, she didn’t pull back fast enough and both the white ball and the six rumbled down the side pocket of the table.
“Blast!” she muttered.
Slade made a tutting sound. “Looks like you fouled. And just as I was getting comfortable watching you play.”
Despite her cheeks, neck and ears growing impossibly hot at missing the simple shot and for the foul word slipping out of her mouth, she sent him a sweetly sardonic smile. “I yield the table to you.”
Slade rose from his reclining position, cue stick in his right hand, and winked at her, seeming to find her tone entertaining as he strode to the side pocket and retrieved the white and six balls.
As Slade leaned forward and positioned the two balls near a side pocket, Phoebe’s eyes fell on the way his tight gray breeches stretched across his backside. When she caught her gaze lingering and admiring the raw masculinity of his anatomy, she gasped and looked away. She’d never done that before with any man. Never wanted to.
With one swift thrust of his arms, Slade made the shot straight into the corner hole. His movements were confident, virile, almost brutal in execution. He didn’t hesitate. He shifted his body in a calculated motion for his next play.
Phoebe’s eyes widened, for the next shot was the seven, but it was partially obstructed by the eight ball. And if Slade hit the eight while aiming for the seven, he would foul. She stared in awe as he sent the white into the table’s border at a perfect angle with the seven, avoiding the eight, ultimately driving the white to rebound straight into the seven, sending it into a side pocket. She had made similar shots herself in the past, but he’d done it with such perfect precision. Was there a chance he could best her at this game? She huffed at the thought.
His eyes were cool, clear and calculating as he methodically contemplated the remaining balls on the table for his next shot. She imagined him on the battlefield with a musket in his hand with the same precise surety.
“What was it like during the war?” she asked, curious.
His eyes flickered in her direction. “Dark, cold and bloody,” he said.
“Did you kill many French soldiers?” she said.
He frowned. “As a Jacobite you no doubt consider the French as allies. We did not, at the Battle of Dettingen in western Germany. So yes, I killed quite a few. But if I hadn’t killed them, they would have killed me.” His tone held a hint of sarcasm.
