He was not only calculating and methodical but deadly as well. She envisioned a stony look in his eyes on the battlefield before he pulled the trigger, the same one he now turned and regarded the eight ball with.
“I understand as a soldier in war you have to kill the enemy. And of course you must defend yourself. But what of the toll … the cost of taking a life?” she said, gazing at him.
With a gentle tap against the white ball, causing it to bump ever so slightly against the eight ball, Slade landed the shot then straightened and gazed at the surface of the table, seeming to consider her question. The lines between his brows deepened.
“In the beginning, it fractures your soul, one fragment at a time. But then you learn to cope, to become an automaton of sorts.”
Gooseflesh prickled her arms at his words because she heard the pain amidst its hardness. The Movement had trained her to kill, and she would have to if the mission required it. The thought left her grinding her teeth, before speaking.
“Did you kill the French infantryman who injured your ear lobe?” she asked, eying his ear. What was he like on the battlefield, merciful or merciless? She was desperately curious to find out.
Slade’s expression hardened. He seemed to travel far away in his head.
“He was young, green, came at me with fear and uncertainty in his eyes. I hesitated on the shot. He tripped and fell, losinghis musket in the mud. I turned from him to a more immediate threat, a seasoned French officer charging towards me, rage and hate in his eyes. Then the bullet grazed my ear. I looked down. The felled soldier was pointing a flintlock pistol at me, smoke dissipating from its barrel. He must have had it hidden. I can still see the whites of his eyes and the tremor in his hands,” Slade said.
The rawness in his voice touched something deep inside her. Her eyes widened. “Did you kill him?” she whispered.
He exhaled in a drawn-out drone. “While I was cursing, blood gushing down my neck, shots were fired. When I looked back, he was dead, taken down by a fellow Scots Grey.”
His voice didn’t hold the edge of anger or spite, only acceptance, and it spoke volumes to Phoebe.
“You spared him even though he shot you,” she said, not surprised he was chivalrous even on the battlefield when faced with death.
His mouth twitched into a sardonic smile. “Don’t fill your head with romantic notions of me being heroic. I am anything but.”
“I would never dream of doing such a thing,” she said, feigning shock.
Slade chuckled and sauntered towards her, on his way to the other side of the table. His movements were slow and deliberate, like a dark wolf on the prowl. He eyed the nine as if it were prey. Then his eyes flickered to her, half-lidded with smoldering intensity making her skin sensitive and her muscles weak. Was the ball the prey, or was she?
She glanced at the green billiard table.Blast!Only one ball remained, the nine. She swallowed hard against the monstrous lump forming at the back of her throat. It was highly likely she would lose this game. Then, a kiss.
CHAPTER 28
Panic returned, and a cough escaped Phoebe’s mouth as her chest tightened enough to pilfer her breath. She fought the urge to bolt from the room and instead swallowed and tried to keep her mind on the game. Not the kiss.
Slade stilled right behind her, she realized when his masculine scent, mingling with the freshwater loch and woodsy outdoors, drifted towards her. Her heart skipped a beat at his sudden nearness. But his whispered “Prepare yourself” in her ear quelled her panic and sent heat rippling down her spine. Warmth from his closeness caused a thrill to shoot through her body.
Her lashes lifted. “Prepare for what?”
Slade strode to the other side of the table, leaned forward and with a loud whack sent the white ball hurtling into the nine, sinking the latter into the corner hole, leaving the white ball on the table like a spinning top.
Phoebe’s jaws slackened.
An arrogant and confident smile stretched across his lips. “Prepare yourself for my kiss, of course.”
Her eyes narrowed at him. “You are far too bloody good at this,” she hissed.
“Why, Fifi, you’ve sworn twice today. Such colorful language for a lass who goes out of her way to appear colorless.” Slade chuckled.
Her muscles tensed with equal parts anticipation and panic. Were they going to kiss now?
He sauntered towards her in long graceful strides, like a great big lazy cat. Her heart pounded against her ribs as if she were cornered prey. When he reached out, Phoebe sucked in a breath. But his hands landed on the stick she held, instead of her. She blinked at him.
The corners of his mouth turned up in wicked amusement. “Should I put this back on the stand? Or would you like to play a second game?”
He was enjoying this. Rogue.
“I’ve had enough humiliation for one day,” she quipped.
