“Of course,” she said quietly.
After bidding her good night, Slade headed for the door connecting their marriage bedchamber to the adjoining chamber. He couldn’t spend the night in the same room as her, not when his body ached for hers. Not when her work for the Movement could pit her against Ross or get her killed. He had to fight tooth and claw not to get dragged back into a black void. After Sylvia’s death, it had been one of self-hate, hopelessness and a bitter chill in his bones and soul. He had swum in the nothingness with whisky and opium. Only Peter and two wars had helped him to crawl out.
CHAPTER 53
Two weeks later, early in the morning, after the kitchen packed their saddlebags with food and other supplies, a fully armed Phoebe and Slade trotted atop horseback. They rode alongside each other north bound from Garraidh, parallel to the coastline of Skye. The briny scent of sea water filled the air, and seagulls’ wings fluttered above them before swooping down towards the rocky, tempestuous shoreline to their left.
For the past two weeks, Slade had brought her to a body melting release during every single one of her baths, his deft fingers unleashing multiple climaxes from her. Gently at first, but fierce and intense during the past few nights. She was conflicted she’d had to abandon control to experience pleasure. But willingly giving up control for pleasure wasn’t the same as suffering violent abuse when control is taken from you.
Slade’s kisses, while sweet, had been restrained. Why was he keeping such a tight hold on his emotions? She’d found her release every single time, he hadn’t. She’d been on edge, sensing Slade’s body was wound so tight it could snap at any second. She had to do something but was out of her depth.
A distant sound of thunder made Phoebe look up, taking in the sunless sky and rolling dove-gray clouds far beyond the Isle of Skye. With any luck, the cold northern winds would blow the clouds past them.
She’d been shocked at first that he’d insisted on coming with her. What if he learned that her Jacobite friend was really her spymaster. He already suspected she was a spy, based on their discussion at the lodge. A sliver of something sharp pierced her gut.
Phoebe’s eyes strayed to Slade. He sat strong and solid a few feet from her, his greatcoat billowing in the breeze from Destroyer’s momentum, her own mount keeping pace. Her husband’s magnificent visage was thrillingly disheveled, tense energy vibrating from each and every inch of his stiff and quiet frame.
Her heart squeezed with aching warmth for her childhood friend, now her husband. He’d been tender with her, considerate, patient, and gentle, albeit merciless in his pursuit of her pleasure. Like she was precious to him, not like he’d been forced to marry her. He’d made her want things she’d never wanted for the past seven years, like to touch and be touched.
After two hours of riding, her face was cold and her legs had started to cramp. And it occurred to her that Slade was leading them away from the wharf where they could charter a boat for Beinn na Faoghla and instead towards the Claigan fishing village.
A short while later they arrived at a manse. Its stone walls looked pristine from having been recently whitewashed. Puffs of gray smoke rose up from one of its chimneys.
The sheathed rapier and holstered pistol on Slade’s hip clicked against each other as he dismounted.
The cottage was charming, but she sent him a questioning look. “Do you know the local minister?”
“Yes, the minister and his wife are auld and dear acquaintances. More importantly they know every one of the villagers, those with boats and those who can be trusted,” he said, tying Destroyer’s reins to a post next to the gate.
Phoebe dismounted and followed suit with her own reins. They went through the gate and strode up to the front door. Slade knocked.
The door was opened by a homely older woman. Her wrinkled lips stretched into a warm wide smile. “M'eudail—my dear, boy, it’s good to see you.”
Her charcoal gray hair was held beneath a white linen coif, a few strands out of place. The front of her comfortable-looking black dress was covered in a white pinafore. Her open, even features and warm maternal countenance drew a sense of respect and friendship from Phoebe.
Slade took the small-statured woman in his arms and gave her a gentle hug. “Margaret, it’s been too long.”
He released her, and she palmed his cheeks in a maternal gesture. “Congratulations are in order, for you are now a married man,” the woman said to Slade, fondness making her voice melodious.
Slade smiled and leaned into the woman’s touch. His entire countenance softened. He welcomed this woman’s warmth and tenderness. Whoever she was, she was important. This was a side to her husband Phoebe hadn’t seen before.
CHAPTER 54
Slade’s lips thinned. “I was devastated to hear of Isaac’s death.”
Pain registered on the woman’s lined face. “The good Lord giveth, and He can taketh as well.” Her voice thickened with emotion.
Slade gave her another hug but held her for a few breaths longer this time. The lines of pain on her face eased.
He released the woman and beckoned with a gesture of his palm to Phoebe. “I’ve brought my bride to make your acquaintance. This is Phoebe.”
Margaret stepped forward with a welcoming smile. Phoebe was getting ready to extend her hand in greeting when the woman pulled her in for a warm hug instead, as if they were old friends.
“I’m happy to meet the woman Slade has chosen to be his wife.”
A whiff of lavender and clean linen tickled Phoebe’s nose as her arms encircled then released the woman. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, mistress.”
The other woman took her by the arm and gently nudged her inside. “Please call me Margaret,m'eudail.” Her tone was warm and soft.
