“Athair—Father, please. I don’t wish to marry. Try to understand,” she said, fisting her palms against her sides.
Her father’s features were soft but unbending. It was her mother who spoke next.“Custom dictates you must marry for us to avoid a scandal, my dear. And the other options for a husband for you are not worth mentioning. A special license is needed. Is it not, darling?” her mother said, looking askance at her father.
The panic was too loud in Phoebe’s ears to hear her mother’s words.
A raw cough escaped Phoebe’s throat. Her chest constricted as if it had the weight of a mountain on top; her lungs unable to draw breath. Panic. She was panicking. She coughed again, and then again, trying to pull in air. But none came.
Immediate concern lined her mother’s beautiful features, as she stepped around her father’s desk and came towards Phoebe. “My darling, are you unwell?”
Phoebe stood up, shaking her head. She backed away from her mother. She had to get out of this chamber. Black spots threatened her vision, but she willed them away, ran to the door, pushed it open and ran right into Hamish Ross.
CHAPTER 37
Hamish Ross reached out, gently steadying her with a hand on her shoulder. “Are ye ok, lass? Where are ye going in such a hurry?” His voice was lightly amused.
Phoebe looked up, swallowing down the bile erupting inside her belly. Coldness sank into her skin as she glanced past Hamish’s round shoulders to the flash of concern in Broden Ross’s bearded face, and then to the expressionless features of Faye Ross, next to Broden. She extricated herself from Hamish’s grip but stood there, her feet rooted to the ground, reliving the darkest day of her life.
Her skin had gone clammy, hot and cold swirling inside her body. Hamish and Broden seemed to dismiss her silence, turned, and walked into the solar greeting her father and mother in polite tones. But Faye Ross lingered behind his cousins, his twisted smile not reaching his dead eyes. She’d imagined this meeting happening countless times during the past seven years. She’d practiced a million things to say. But no words came, just heat and hatred simmering inside her belly amidst cold fear.
He might have guessed her fear, because his features leveled into what she could only describe as malevolent satisfaction. Aflash of anger flickered across his features before he turned and followed Hamish and Broden into the solar closing the door behind him. He’d been seething the day he’d attacked her, she recalled.
Phoebe ran until she found herself in her bedchamber on the fourth floor. Her fingers shook so much it took her four tries to slide the bolt fully into the hole and lock herself in. She wasn’t safe, was she? She would never be safe while Faye Ross was in the Highlands. She wanted to take a bath after just laying eyes on him for less than a minute. The familiar unclean feeling sank into every inch of her body like hundreds of slimy leeches sucking the light, blood and joy from her soul. But Phoebe took deep breaths and willed herself to calm.
After the moors, she’d rarely taken her boots off in her bedchamber because she’d known he would come when she least expected him to. And she had to be ready to run, when she least expected to. To run from predators. But now, now she’d armed herself to fight.
She reached for the newly replaced dagger tucked away in her garter. Just to feel the coldness of safety in her palms. Her fingers traced the dagger’s edge over and over, as she waited.
A few hours later, a knock sounded at the door. Phoebe’s heart lurched in her chest and her head snapped towards the door.
“Who is it?” Phoebe asked, sounding calmer than she felt.
“A missive just came for ye, Mistress.”
Phoebe recognized her maid Aila’s cheery voice. She walked to the door and unbolted it.
Aila, young and fresh-faced, sent Phoebe a wide smile as she stepped into the bedchamber, one of Phoebe’s freshly laundered gowns draped over her outstretched arms. A few years younger than Phoebe, she had been none too happy a little over two years ago when Phoebe had left her behind to help with service to theDunbar clan while she’d traveled to her Aunt Penelope’s, then to Birmingham.
Her maid walked to the bed, laid the gown out carefully, smoothing it, then reached into her skirt pocket and pulled out a sealed missive. Phoebe immediately recognized the wax seal of “F.” Her pulse quickened.
As Aila busied herself with putting the gown into the mahogany wardrobe, Phoebe broke the seal to find a blank note.Blast!
“Aila, can you run down to my father’s solar and see if the Rosses have left?” Phoebe asked.
The second Aila left, Phoebe pushed the door in, went to her nightstand and lit the candle she used for late night reading. Then, holding the blank note close to the flame, she gazed at the paper. Slowly, a single sentence showed itself. It took her a few minutes to work out the cipher.Dear Hawk, W.H. plans to invest in a number of Highland distilleries.Phoebe’s inside vibrated with intrigue. So, her next quarry, Bolingbroke’s second lieutenant general Walter Hawley, was in the market for Highland whisky. She worked on a plan, welcoming the opportunity not to dwell on her present woes.
Phoebe burned the note and threw the ashes in the huge unlit hearth of her bedchamber.
Minutes later Phoebe recognized Aila’s light knock on the door. Phoebe bid her to enter.
“They left the keep an hour ago,” Aila said, making her way to the wardrobe.
Phoebe let out an audible breath and smiled. “Does your father still work at Strathail Distillery, in Broadford? I hear their whisky is unmatched on Skye. I’d like to order a few casks.”
Her maid turned to face her, her expression brightening. “My papa does indeed, Mistress. He was recently made foreman. Should I ask him to pay you a visit?”
Falcon’s words played in her head.Pick the time and place for meetings whenever possible.
“I’d rather visit Strathail in person, perhaps tomorrow. Can you accompany me and facilitate an introduction?”
