Heat radiated through his chest at Egan’s good fortune. He was happy for Egan, even though he himself had vowed never to get betrothed again after Sylvia’s death.
Images of Sylvia’s sweet, bright, unaffected smile flashed across his mind’s eyes. How keenly Sylvia had loved him, how enamored he’d been of her. She’d been one of the purest innocents he’d ever known. She would have been a lovely but safe wife. So unlike Phoebe, the most shocking disruption, disagreeable, and desirable surprise of his life. Sylvia took everything to the depths of her heart, the love and the hate. The hate her father had for Scots and the nameless, faceless, Scottish Highlander—as far as her father was concerned—who loved and wanted to marry his daughter wasn’t to be borne. That battle of love and hate was what had killed Sylvia, because she’d taken it to heart so deeply. It had killed her. No. No, he and Bolingbroke were responsible, for putting Sylvia through their storms of political hatreds. Slade inhaled in a deep breath, trying to loosen the tightness in his chest, and to calm the heat of anger and coldness of guilt at war inside his belly.
Slade now replaced his tankard on the table, his left brow cocked in question, and a mischievous smile stretching the side of his mouth. “Who is this charitable lass making an honest man out of you?” Slade said to Egan.
Before Egan could answer, Keith cut in with a lopsided grin, his mouth half full.
“A healer from Kilmuir. And the lass is rightbonny.”
Egan’s eyes narrowed at Keith. “Mind your gob,eejit,” he growled.
The full force of Egan’s expression would have made a lesser man shake in his ghillie brogues. But Keith simply averted his gaze, a rueful smile broadening his features. Slade had never seen jealousy displayed on his foster brother’s features before. This was a new side to the man.
Peter glanced in Slade’s direction with a hopeful expression. “If things don’t work out in the Highlands for you, I’d be delighted to have you back in Birmingham with me. You can take on an active role in co-managing the gunsmith now you’re a principal,” Peter said.
Egan perked up with interest, eying Slade. “You’ve invested in a gunsmithy?”
Slade nodded. “I have. It’s Peter’s family business. He’s here to drum up customers, in fact. Are you in the market for muskets crafted with the latest designs?”
“Absolutely,” Egan said, his shoulders rolling with interest.
Peter went into details on Hortons latest muskets to Egan. At the end of Peter’s descriptions, Egan invited Slade and Peter to come to Eileanach to give a demonstration.
A few minutes later Egan leaned back in his chair. The earlier question and puzzlement from when he’d first seen Slade and Fifi flickered anew in his eyes. Egan glanced from Slade to Fifi, but he directed the full force of his gaze to Fifi.
“You always send a missive home to the Highlands when you wish to return, and we provide Dunbar retainers for your escort. How is it you are using Slade as an escort, sister?”
Slade’s senses shifted, alerted by Egan’s question as Fifi blinked in surprise before answering. “As I mentioned, brother, I chanced upon Slade in Birmingham. He was returning to the Highlands, and I decided to return as well. Anyway, I got bored reminiscing over my school days with my auld friend from Ayr Academy and wanted a change of scenery,” Fifi said.
Slade’s belly clenched; he was sure Egan had no clue Fifi had been at the manor.
Well, in for a penny, Slade thought. “Fifi expressed an interest in returning to the Highlands when we unexpectedly encountered each other in Birmingham. I volunteered my services as her escort. There’s nothing else to it, Egan,” Slade said.
Slade eyed the muscle twitching in Egan’s left eye.
“I say, Master Dunbar, Lucia and I have been with the Colonel and Mistress Dunbar for the entire journey. Everything was done according to propriety,” Peter said, perhaps sensing an undercurrent.
That wasn’t entirely true, considering the first night he’d spent alone with Fifi at the lodge. But Slade was grateful for Peter’s words. If he were the romantic hero Fifi deserved, he would openly express his feelings for Fifi to Egan and properly seek permission to court her. But he wasn’t the heroic type. He was the type who had his former betrothed’s blood on his hands.
Throughout the entire exchange between Egan, Slade and Fifi, a cloud of confusion had started gathering on Lucia’s brows. Now she put down her sherry and eyed Fifi, her brows crinkling.
“But, Phoebe, I thought you left Birmingham because of what happened at the man?—”
That very instant, Peter jabbed his tankard of ale right into Lucia’s lap, in a movement appearing accidental.
“Oh no, my dress!” Lucia shrieked.
“My love, how clumsy of me—” Peter started to say.
Slade was grateful for Peter’s supposed accident. And he couldn’t blame Lucia for not detecting the undercurrents. Truth be told, he himself didn’t quite understand why Egan had so many questions and suspicions.
Out of courtesy, Slade stood as both Fifi and Peter shot up from their seats to assist Lucia who was frantically trying toshake the amber liquid from her pastel skirts. Egan and his men rose as well. Fifi’s cheeks were flushed with equal parts gratitude and distress, and poor Peter looked miserable at what he’d done.
“Let’s get you back to the room. I am sure Martha can help us remove the ale before the stain sets in,” Fifi said, ushering Lucia away from the table.
After Fifi and Lucia left, Peter sat back down with a plop. Everyone else took their seat. The men fell into a solemn conversation about the nearby village that had been burned to the ground by un-uniformed English. As it turned out, Keith and Duncan had conducted business with farmers living in the very same village.
Slade didn’t think it wise to mention Fifi had been at the village. Luckily, it appeared Peter was of a similar mind. Towards the end of the conversation, Egan eyed Slade. “Our camp is a short distance from here. I will return in the morning for Phoebe. I can escort her to Eileanach and save you a trip.”
