The cozy interior of the cottage, heated by a crackling fire in the hearth, removed the chill from Phoebe’s cheeks. Eggshell-white lace curtains were pulled open, letting in the early afternoon light, which reflected off modest oak furniture.
Margaret indicated the chairs near the fireplace. “Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
Phoebe removed her cloak, hung it on one of the wooden pegs by the door then took a seat in one of the well-worn but comfortable chairs. Margaret took the one across from her.
After Slade removed his coat and closed the door, he took the chair next to Phoebe. “Where’s Raghnall?” Slade asked Margaret.
Margaret gestured towards a window facing the back of the cottage. “He’s in the back feeding the chickens. We were so busy this morning with taking supplies to the orphanage then the service right after. We just returned. Isaac used to feed the chickens …” Margaret broke off, tight pain flashing across her features again.
Her expression tugged at Phoebe’s heart. Who was Isaac, and what was he to Slade and to Margaret? Phoebe quirked a brow, feeling helpless and looking sidelong at Slade.
He squeezed his eyes shut for a second, as if berating himself internally. “Forgive me for being so remiss, my dear. Isaac is … was Margaret and Raghnall’s only son. He was a friend and a great reader. Through him I learned ofRobinson Crusoe,Gulliver's Travelsand theOdyssey. He was killed months ago in a skirmish led by Bolingbroke’s men.”
The flash of sadness in Slade’s eyes brought a heaviness to her chest. But then his nostrils flared at the mention of Bolingbroke.
She’d sensed a dark, deep-rooted hate for Bolingbroke from Slade at the lodge. It was now there in his scowl.
She took his hand giving it a gentle squeeze. “I hadn’t realized you lost a friend, dearest, I’m so very sorry ….” Her words drifted off as she dragged her gaze away from the pull in Slade’s eyes to face Margaret. “I am so very sorry for your loss, Margaret.”
Margaret offered a tight-lipped smile yet looked resigned to her grief.
A few minutes later, a tall graying man entered from the back. He was dressed in dark clothing but had a pleasant, albeit tired countenance. His expression lit up, and a smile stretched his lips on seeing Slade. “M'eudail—my dear, boy.”
Slade stood up and went towards the man. They greeted each other like the closest of friends. The man’s presence was exceedingly paternal and comforting, the kind that could put you at ease enough to confess your sins. Did this man know of Slade’s past? Of Sylvia? Her husband introduced the man to Phoebe as Minister Raghnall Edwards, Margaret’s husband.
After introductions were made and condolences expressed, Slade returned to his seat, eying Raghnall. “Phoebe and I were sorry you couldn’t make the wedding, but it’s understandable under the circumstances,” Slade said, looking from Raghnall to Margaret then back to Raghnall.
Raghnall sat next to his wife to whom he smiled warmly before raising his eyes to Slade. “The truth is we would have attended, but we didn’t want to upset Chisolm and cause any unpleasantness on your wedding day,” Raghnall said.
Puzzlement at the minister’s comment caused a tightness in Phoebe’s throat. She glanced from Raghnall to Slade then back to Raghnall. “But why would your presence upset Slade’s father?” Phoebe asked the minister.
Raghnall studied his hands for a brief second before eying Phoebe. “It’s a long story, starting years ago. Elizabeth, Slade’s mother, used to attend Sunday service at my church before she died. She confided in me as her minister. Chisolm loved his wife deeply but also wanted her to confide in the minister used by the MacLeans instead. Both Margaret and I had known Elizabeth since she was young, she was accustomed to us. But it was a point of contention between Chisolm and Elizabeth.”
Phoebe shook her head in confusion. “But surely to confide in one’s minister and friend is natural,” Phoebe said.
Slade’s voice broke through Phoebe’s confusion. “My father loved my mother very much, in his own way. But he was possessive and controlling to the point of obsession. It was important to him that my mother fully embraced becoming a MacLean when they got married, which meant using the MacLeans’ minister. This was important to him because he wanted his clan to accept her as one of their own. He was unyielding with this and many other things. I was too young to realize what was happening of course, but I heard the stories growing up. My father’s regret for the way he behaved while my mother lived put him in a very dark place in the years after her death. It made Garraidh, during my childhood, a very cold place. Something that has only recently started to change,” Slade said, staring at the fire in the hearth as if revisiting the past in his thoughts.
Phoebe’s chest tightened as she eyed her husband. “Oh, how very sad for your father, and your dearest mother. Regret is a terrible thing, especially when the opportunity for remedy is lost forever.”
When they were younger, she’d often heard Egan say how difficult it was for Slade at Garraidh, which is why he was at Eileanach so often. Not only did he have to contend withlosing his mother at a young age, but with a father who was heartbroken and bitter.
Margaret shifted in her chair, her expression soft and maternal. “Chisolm was young when he got married. His idea of a marriage was to control everything his wife did. He loved her dearly, but I don’t think he understood until after her death, that to love someone is to give them the freedom to be happy,” Margaret said.
After a few more minutes of conversation, Slade inquired about a boat to Beinn na Faoghla.
Raghnall’s gaze turned questioning to Slade. “Beinn na Faoghla? Are you sure?”
The Minister gestured outdoors. The earlier dove-gray clouds had turned ominous and a few threatening shades darker. Instead of blowing the clouds further out to sea, it appeared the northern wind was in fact bringing the storm right to them.
CHAPTER 55
Slade and Fifi bid farewell to Margaret and Raghnall, left their horses in the chapel house’s stables, then grabbed their saddle bags and set out on the earthen path towards the wharf.
A decade ago, having an understanding and sympathetic ear to unburden his woes after Sylvia’s death had helped him to keep his sanity, to drop his habitual use of opium and overindulgence in whisky. Yet Slade hadn’t revealed the whole truth of his intentions to the Edwards or to Fifi. Raghnall would have told him to dig two graves before he sought revenge against Bolingbroke; one grave for Bolingbroke and one for himself. And that soft glow of friendship in Fifi’s eyes all those years ago would have died, because in telling her he would have revealed to her the monstrous things of which he was capable. But the only way for him to revenge Sylvia’s death and redeem himself was to knock Bolingbroke off his pedestal. Then he would take immense pleasure in revealing to Bolingbroke exactly for whom he’d done it.
Slade now glanced in Fifi’s direction as they walked. The alluring pink lines of her lips and the gentle curve of her delicate jaw were the only things visible under the black hoodof her cloak. Flashbacks of him bathing her lush body hit him. Recalling the sounds of pleasure she’d made even now stiffened his nethers. His perpetual stiffness over the past two weeks was slowly making him lose his mind. When he wasn’t with his wife, his thoughts were of her. When she was near, he couldn’t take his eyes off her, wanting so badly to make love to her. When he dreamt, it was only of her. Her smell, taste and feel were consuming him and slowly driving him mad. But they would go at her pace, even if it killed him.
When they reached the wharf and asked after Master Ames, a wee lad scraping barnacles off an upturned skiff pointed them in the direction of a stout, bearded man at the end of the pier.
