“No.” Slade said, not that he hadn’t fantasized about it at least a thousand times.
But Egan didn’t seem to hear as he fisted his right hand and bared his teeth like an angry dog.
Slade took a step back but raised his own fists in a defensive position this time.
“Egan. No,” Slade said, a steely warning in his own voice.
Just then a door slammed open further down the corridor. This coupled with Slade’s voice seem to break through Egan’s rage, because his right fist lost all its tension.
Peter came barreling down the hall barefoot, his shirt tails half tucked into his breeches. “Can we discuss whatever this is like civilized men?”
The red on Egan’s features lessened in intensity, but his scowl remained hard, cold and unyielding. He eyed Slade steadily for a few seconds before folding his huge arms, showcasing his bulging biceps even through the sleeves of his jacket. “Propriety dictates two options to you, MacLean. Marry my sister to save her from ruin or face me in a duel.”
Slade stared wide eyed, frozen and speechless, heaviness expanding in his belly.
“What!?” Peter bellowed in shock, as he came to stand next to Keith and Duncan. The latter two had thin-lipped disapproving expressions focused on Slade.
Slade’s head spun. Or perhaps it was the hall that was whirling around. The sensation of walking on quicksand hit him, and ice started to grow under his skin, spreading the length of his spine. He didn’t deserve happiness with Fifi, not after what he’d done to Sylvia. Would he repeat his past sins if he married Fifi? Fifi needed a husband with impressive ideals like herself, not one set on revenge like him. But then the image of Fifi with another man sent a hard punch straight to his gut, stiffening the hairs on his neck and causing his ribs to squeeze so tight he had to straighten to breathe.
What if he chose to duel? Ignoring the fact that it was illegal, and he or Egan might end up dead, it would shame Fifi in the eyes of her clan, because it would send the message she was reckless, fast and loose.
What if he tried to reason with Egan? He glanced at his foster brother, the man’s hard unbending jaw and nasty snarl getting more pronounced each second Slade remained silent.
Slade took a deep cleansing breath, causing his nose to smart like the very devil.
“I’ll marry Phoebe,” Slade said.
CHAPTER 35
EILEANACH CASTLE, ISLE OF SKYE, SEAT OF THE DUNBARS
Phoebe stood in the second-floor solar, the pale-yellow morning sun streaming through the towering oculus window behind her father, who sat at his impressive desk. The familiar scent of old leather-bound books from the ceiling to floor bookcases, beeswax candles from the sideboard and wood polish from the gleaming mahogany furniture filled her nostrils. They’d arrived the previous night, and while Peter was staying with Slade at Garraidh, Lucia, currently still asleep, had decided to spend time with her at Eileanach.
The sounds of barking from Odin and Loki, Egan’s frolicsome deerhounds, echoed from down below in the courtyard. They were no doubt expressing playful displeasure at the clip-clopping of horses’ hooves or the rolling wheels of a wagon.
When her eyes landed on the distant yellowing grass-covered ground and sparse skeletal trees through the window, flashbacks of Faye Ross’s malevolence hit her. Ripples of self-scorn ran down her body. It made her want to scrub her skin with soap and water until it was red, raw, and close to bleeding. But that had never helped.
Phoebe pushed the thoughts aside, swallowed the bile burning up her gullet and turned from the window. Her eyes landed on the towering, gilt-framed painting of the freckle-faced redheaded boy with hazel eyes like hers and Egan’s, his nine-year-old features fixed in time forever. The expression in his almost sympathetic eyes tightened her chest. Her father had brought the painting from the Great Hall and hung it here after Alex’s death, selfishly keeping it for himself. It had been painted almost sixteen years ago, she recalled, because it was the week Alex had temporarily nicked Egan’s dagger to secretly show her. She’d been eight and they’d both stared at the dagger in silent awe. It had been a long gleaming blade, sharp enough to cut a single strand of hair on contact.
“I want one just like it as soon as I’m auld enough.” Alex had said.
But Alex would never be old enough, would he. Tears pricked the back of Phoebe’s eyes. Both she and Alex had been vying for their father’s attention, during that same year, hoping to woo it away from his favorite son Egan. She turned away from the painting and blinked across the huge desk at her father.
Well, she had his attention now.
Padraid Dunbar, her father, was like an aged lion, one with graying hairs at the temples, but his bite was more ferocious now than when she was a wee bairn. For he’d been scarred and hardened by wars and the death of his second son.
Her father eyed her as she walked to stand in front of his desk, the papers he’d been reading in his hands forgotten when she’d entered the solar minutes ago. “The English have plans to enforce the Abolition of the Heritable Jurisdictions Act, Father,” she said.
He scrutinized her. “You learned this from a reliable source?”
“I did,” she said.
He frowned. “So, they are finally acting to take power away from us clan chiefs.” He then gave a heavy sigh and continued. “Clans will disperse. Chiefs will no longer have the legal authority to protect their people.”
Her brows pulled together in concern. “What are we going to do?”
Her father touched his temple, closed his eyes for a second before speaking. “The Dunbars are well positioned with the English for future trades with the East India Trading Company. They, themselves, granted us a trading license. We will have to rely more on trade and expanding our cattle and sheep pastorialisation, and less on cottars.”
