He narrowed his gaze. “Why do you help this Jacobite friend?”
“Because I hate the redcoats,” she said, the hardness of her voice surprising him.
“Why?” he persisted.
She hesitated, as if considering before speaking. “They shoot defenseless farmers, rape their women, burn their homes, kill their children and livestock. Whydon’tyou hate them?”
She was holding something back.
“Hate is a strong word. I reserve it for people who have crossed me,” Slade said.
Like the demon who hurt you.
She didn’t seem to hear him. Fifi reached over to place the empty tumbler on the side table but missed. It fell and landed with a dull thud on the rug.
Slade went over to her. She looked up at him, pain returning to her beautiful eyes. His chest tightened as he picked up the glass and placed it on the side table then knelt in front of her chair, wanting desperately to touch her. She looked so small and a little lost; he didn’t know what to do.
“You shouldn’t let what happened here tonight upset you,” he whispered, as he gently tucked a wayward lock of fiery hair behind her left ear.
Her lips narrowed into an achingly forlorn look. It gutted Slade. All his good intentions of not touching her fell to the wayside. He gently scooped her up. She fit perfectly in his arms as if heaven had made her just for him. She was his, and he would take care of her. Her weight was warm and comforting against his body. She made a weak protest but then seemed to let it go and settled against him instead. He breathed in the inviting scent of her, letting it fill him completely. He inhaled through the tightness in his chest and with care and reverence carried her towards the bed.
“I only intend on putting you to bed, nothing more,” he said softly.
“Are you rescuing me again? I was nine the first time you rescued me. Do you remember? I’d fallen into the loch after repeating the knight’s oath. You saved my life,” she said.
He’d never forgotten what impressive ideals she’d had as a wee lass. Ideals she still had. Ideals that made him want to be better, just for her.
“In the ancient Orient, they believed that if you save a life, you are responsible for that life for the rest of yours,” he said. And as he said it, the words amalgamated like unbreakable steel in his soul.
Her head rested against his shoulder and her arms slid around his neck. Her bosom pressed against his chest. Her voluptuous hips rested against his belly. His body responded to her softness, like a famished beast given a delectable morsel. But Slade steadied himself.
“You are heroic, husband. Despite your claim to the contrary,” she said.
“Only for you,” he whispered.
The tension in her seemed to ease by the time he reached the bed. The ease seeped into him and relaxed his own body. He helped her under the counterpane. Slade couldn’t say why, but he ended up lying on top of the counterpane next to her. Perhaps it was to make it difficult for him to reach for her body, to keep her safe from him.
He wanted to distract her from the shadows he could sense swirling about in her. “Tell me your fondest memory,” he said.
She blinked at his question. Then her lips stretched into a somber smile. “Alex running away from our cook, who brandished a rolling pin at him. He’d stolen a meat pie from the kitchen. He’d stolen at least ten of them that same year before my father had a stern word with him. But our cook never caught him, I don’t think she really wanted to. He used to make her laugh too hard with his antics. It sums up Alex, mischievous butloveable. He made it impossible for you to stay angry at him for too long,” she said.
Her eyes twinkled with love, but her features darkened with the weight of loss. “What is your fondest memory?” she asked.
Slade swallowed back the emotion in his throat and shuffled through his memories before speaking. “I don’t remember my mother very well. I was too young when she died of winter fever. But I do have vague images in my head of a pale, fragile, flowery scented woman, her ethereal voice singing me to sleep with the Apple Pie rhyme. The love, caring and warmth in her voice made me feel like nothing in this world could ever hurt me, like I was her entire world, and she would never let harm come to me,” he said.
Fifi’s eyes were half-lidded, but brilliant with unshed tears. “She must have been a wonderful mother.”
Slade pushed the emotions aside. He had to concentrate on cheering up Fifi, not rehashing the unfortunate sadness in his life. He made another attempt. “Who is your favorite person?” he asked.
CHAPTER 49
Her eyes widened and she gave him a lopsided smile. For a breath it looked like she was about to say something, but then her brows pulled together and she was deep in thought for a few more seconds, before finally speaking.
“Lady Naveau, ah … a dear friend of mine from Edinburgh. We have a great deal in common, she and I. And she knows my darkest secrets but still thinks I am trustworthy, capable and can do whatever I put my mind to. She gave me strength to fight, when I wanted to do nothing but give up.”
Dark clouds formed in Fifi’s eyes, and she averted her gaze for a second. When she looked at him again the bright smile stretching her lips looked brittle as she continued. “But recently my favorite person has been Lucia. She is uncomplicated and unburdens me in an intangible way. But also, Breena. Even though I’ve only just met her, she strikes me as terribly intuitive and caring. Eileanach’s servants whisper that her impressive botanical knowledge makes her a witch, but its laughable to call a woman a witch just for her knowledge,” Fifi said.
Slade’s mind had snagged on her use of the termdark secrets. He desperately wanted to know more. But the coldpainful twisting in his gut told him he already knew. He was trying to banish some of the old pain from her eyes and poking at dark secrets didn’t seem apropos.
