“What sins? What is it,mo ghaol?” she whispered, her thumb running gentle strokes along his chiseled jawline.
He took both her hands, kissed each of them, then stepped away to remove his jacket, neckcloth, and waistcoat, as if they had turned heavy on his body, dropping them one after the other on a nearby chair while she waited with a thumping heart, holding her breath.
He raked a hand through his thick hair, leaving it in a delectably disheveled state, then he rubbed his temples beforespeaking. “Sylvia’s … my former betrothed’s father was … is a high-ranking English officer, and he demanded she not marry me ten years ago. I’d never even met the man back then, but he’d already decided against me for a son-in-law because I am a Scotsman.”
Disbelief rattled her insides as she stared at her husband. “I … I didn’t realize he objected,” she said.
“Vehement objections from her absentee father. She was born out of wedlock, you see. Her father demanded she not marry me, and I demanded she forsake her father and marry me regardless; to prove she loved me more,” he said. His voice was hard as stone.
Her stomach dropped, as coldness climbed up her spine. She knew what his next words would be when a flash of raw pain tightened his beautiful mouth.
“Sylvia didn’t want to lose the measly scraps of love her father threw at her whenever he deigned to visit the Highlands. And she didn’t want to lose me, the man she loved. Out of despair and desperation one night she drank a bottle of hemlock, because I had pressured her to decide—in my favor, of course, out of pure selfishness. I might as well have handed her the hemlock myself. I killed her,” he said.
Phoebe’s mouth opened, but nothing came out for a full ten seconds. The pieces of the puzzle that hadn’t fit, when she had learned that Bolingbroke was Sylvia’s father, now fitted perfectly into a terrible picture. She now understood the hatred she’d always sensed in Slade, whenever he spoke Bolingbroke’s name.
She finally managed to find her voice. “I met Mistress Willoughby while you were away. She said Bolingbroke was Sylvia’s father, but she said nothing about his objections to the marriage,” Phoebe said, her tone light with incredulity.
But then Phoebe was at Slade’s side, slipping her hands around his waist, pulling him into her arms and resting hercheek against his chest. She ran her hands up and down his tall lean back in soothing strokes. His body melted into her embrace.
“I would never speak ill of the dead,mo ghaol, but if I were Sylvia, you would always be my choice. The only sin you committed was to expect your love to choose you and she didn’t, and that’s no sin at all, it’s just love. Love is as perfect, or as imperfect … as we are. It’s beautiful, freeing, full of light, hope, and sacrifice. But it’s also dark, selfish and can bring you grief, disappointment, sadness and even bitterness. But we still should hope for everything from and for those we love. Love is hopeful, after all,” Phoebe whispered.
“I shouldn’t have pressured her,” he said, his voice low and defeated.
CHAPTER 71
“You shouldn’t have had to,” Phoebe said.
“I have replayed it in my head so many times over the years. What I might have said differently, what I might have done differently. I should have been more patient with her, she was innocent, and she felt everything deeply. I should have been more understanding of the difficult position her father was putting her in. I should have been more supportive, and less forceful with having my own way. I regret that the most,” Slade said, pulling back a fraction, his brows creased, his expression haunted.
Phoebe’s heart went out to Slade for taking on such a monumental burden that wasn’t his. It was no one’s fault Sylvia took her life. Unfortunately, tragedies existed without it having to be anyone’s fault; they just, are. She recalled what Breena had said that Egan thought of Slade. Slade MacLean is an honorable and courageous man. He would never cause harm to the woman he loved. His sense of what is right and wrong is too nauseatingly overinflated.
Then Phoebe recalled a detail about the conversation she’d had with Mistress Willoughby.
Phoebe pulled Slade closer, looking up at him. “Mistress Willoughby said something else to me which I think you should know.”
“Oh?” he asked.
“She said that her Sylvia would be pleased you were married and had someone. She said that Sylvia would have wanted you to have a good life, a happy life,” Phoebe said.
Slade blinked at her, and she saw the moment his beautiful lips went slack as he considered her words, or rather, the words Mistress Willoughby had spoken.
“She said that?” Slade asked with raised brows, looking equal parts shocked and dazed.
Phoebe smiled. “She did, indeed.”
“Well …” Slade cut off, seeming at a loss for words.
“Despite what happened back then, I think you are taking on a burden that is not yours. It’s no one’s. It was just a terrible tragedy,mo ghaol.”
Phoebe pulled him closer still, desperately wanting more of him after being away from him for so long, resting her cheek on his chest, feeling his chin coming to rest lightly on her crown. They held each other for a few minutes as she let him consider her words. Slowly the tension seeped out of his body, and she felt the moment his body relaxed.
She had to make sure Sylvia wouldn’t haunt them for the rest of their lives. “Do you miss her? Do you miss Sylvia?”
“I am grateful for having known her, grateful for what she has taught me about myself. It has allowed me to be a better person, to be a better husband for you. But I wouldn’t say I miss her. Part of me will always remember her, and I hope with more fondness in the future and with less gut-wrenching guilt. But you, Phoebe, without you my life would be dark, desolate, and pitiable. It would kill me not to have you by my side. SayingI love you, seems so inadequate to convey the depth of my adoration, love, and my shear awe of you,” he said.
Phoebe’s heart swelled with so much warmth and love; she could barely speak. “Oh, my love …”
“You are my redemption. I believe it’s time for me to move beyond my past,” he whispered.
