Slade heard the note of humility in Lachlan’s voice. Perhaps there was hope for Lachlan’s oversized pride after all.
It was quite possible that under all the crusty arrogance his brother wasn’t a total horse’s ass. Nonetheless, Slade decided against telling Lachlan he considered his musket aim to be far superior to his swordplay.
“I’ll grant you a re-match, in exchange for a favor,” Slade said.
“Of course. What do you need?” Lachlan asked.
“I need your approval to pull a few guards from Garraidh guard duty to escort Fifi, whenever she leaves the castle.”
Lachlan’s eyebrows arched. “You’re expecting trouble?”
Slade contemplated how best to answer without giving too much away. “Fifi has no love for the redcoats, and has garnered some unwanted attention,” Slade said, finally.
Surprise flashed across Lachlan’s face. Like their father, Lachlan was an ardent Scottish nationalist and was ready to assist in any resistance whatsoever against the redcoats. “You and your wife can count on me, brother. You will have your guards.”
“My thanks.” Slade shook his brother’s hand, grateful to have achieved his aim. He would prefer to protect Fifi himself, but when he couldn’t be with her, she would be guarded at all times, especially while Ross was in the Highlands.
After training, Slade took Destroyer from the stables and rode towards the local church and burial ground. He pulled thecollar of his greatcoat closer, feeling a chill in the air. Or was the chill coming from the coldness of his decade old memories? He needed to move beyond his past, in order to move forward.
CHAPTER 62
Four days later, as a long strip of bluish-orange dawn painted the edge of the eastern horizon, a fully armed Phoebe and Slade cantered side by side on horseback. The air was chilled crisp against her face as they headed in the direction of Hawley’s gray manor.
Concentrating on the mission was proving difficult for Phoebe because an aggregation of heated sensations swirled in her body and erotic images flashed in her head. She had nothing to compare it to. Perhaps the euphoria when she had first hit the dead center of the bullseye, multiplied a thousandfold.
Slade had eased her into lovemaking during their night on Beinn na Faoghla and each night since they had learned more and more about enjoying each other’s bodies. Like the fact that she took pleasure in his heated naked weight on top of her, or that he was insatiable when it came to putting his tongue and mouth all over her secret and intimate parts, waking her up several times during the nights to make love. He thrillingly redefined her entire sentient awareness.
If her mission had been foremost in her mind as it had in the past, she would have been disappointed that the Eagle still hadn’t contacted her, as Bullfinch said he would. Anticipationand apprehension should be bombarding her gut, considering the danger she and Slade were heading towards, not to mention the fact that her husband was about to find out exactly what it was that she did for what he called “her mysterious Jacobite friend.” But instead of disappointment, anticipation or apprehension, all she felt was a weightless giddiness when her eyes fell on Slade. Like diving into the loch for a swim, at that free falling moment midair just before hitting the water.
A few days ago, Phoebe had gotten a coded missive from Bullfinch that an illegal sale of flintlock muskets would be changing hands from Hawley to mercenaries today. He’d gotten this information from a reliable source, a servant that worked at Hawley’s manor who’d confirmed there were usually two to three guards at the manor. Luckily the man had ten bairns to feed and welcomed the extra coin in exchange for information. Bullfinch had written for her to keep an eye out for the servant, he’d be the one with the white handkercher.
An hour ago, just as she was getting ready to leave Garraidh’s stables on a black gelding, one of her newly appointed MacLean guards had alerted Slade. Slade had dismissed her guards and come with her instead.
“Tell me more about why we’re here,” Slade now said. Dawn’s dim light filtering through dark clouds emphasized the way his beautiful lips thinned. He must realize what they were about to do.
“We’re here to witness Hawley’s sale of stolen army weapons to mercenaries and take proof of his illegal dealings to my Jacobite friend, who has the means to expose his treachery where it will cause the most damage to his reputation,” she said.
Slade was facing forward as both their horses slowed to a walk alongside each other. His jawline hardened.
A flash of intense worry crinkled his brows, shifting to anguish as he glanced at her. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. I don’t think I could bear it,” he said.
A breath stealing emotion crowded her chest as her heart compressed painfully. The intensity of love that washed over her was so overpowering it stung the back of her eyes as she met his gaze. “I promise to take care. Please don’t worry. But we have to do this. Hawley must be stopped.” Her voice cracked with raw emotion, but it was also laced with steely determination.
When they were close enough, they tethered their horses to trees well off the road and crept the final hundred or so yards to Hawley’s manor. Then they settled quietly out of sight behind the thick trunk of an alder tree, an excellent vantage point from which to view the gray manor and barn where Phoebe had spotted the crates previously with Aila. Ten crates were visible, each the perfect size for holding Brown Bess muskets. They observed at length the two able-bodied plainly dressed guards patrolling the property’s perimeter.
It surprised her how well she and Slade had worked together so far, as they waited on the arrival of the musket buyers. There’d been no discussion about how far away they should leave their horses from the site, or the best location to hide and wait, or the fact that they had to mark the comings and goings of the manor while they watched from their hiding spot. Nor had they agreed to count the number of weapons the guards carried, or how best to surreptitiously approach the barn from their location. They just did it.
Two hours later, a military-looking wagon built to transport troops and weapons came down the lane with three occupants. The driver and one of the men at the back were what Phoebe would expect cutthroat Irish mercenaries to look like. But the third man was wide-eyed, much younger, and seemed out of place.
Phoebe pulled her vizard from the special pocket she’d sewn in her coat. As she donned it to conceal her facial features, her muscles went weak, and her mouth dropped open. Words failed her as Slade donned a similar mask.
She hadn’t much time to process Slade’s mask, because her gaze was yanked back to the occupants of the wagon entering the manor’s front yard and making their way to the barn and the two Hawley guards.
A moment later, Phoebe saw Hawley himself strutting out the front of the manor towards the barn with a surly smile.
“That’s Walter Hawley, lieutenant general of the British Army, second to Bolingbroke himself,” Phoebe whispered.
Slade took the man in, then faced her. She couldn’t tell his expression behind the mask. “You’ve clearly done reconnaissance here before.” He paused then continued, “It appears we are two against the six of them. I would think, for proof of Hawley’s illegal dealings, all that’s needed is the muskets and perhaps one or two of their men to give witness?”
