Shane walked the deck, checking his men for injuries. Luckily, only one had been grazed and the pirate ship was now moving swiftly away. He suspected the corsair had already made a haul elsewhere and decided to make a try for the schooner, not really expecting his crew to be fully armed. A few rounds of fire had convinced the pirates tackling the schooner would be a wasted endeavor.
He muttered an oath as he looked at the foresail. Several musket balls had ripped the canvas and it flapped even as the crew hauled it down. The two jib sails seemed not to have been damaged, but loss of the foresail would slow them down.
“We will post a double watch,” he told the boatswain. “One in the basket and one on the bow. Four hours on, four hours off.” The last thing he needed was for the corsair to circle back and see any damage had been done.
“Aye, Captain.”
Shane walked toward the helmsman. “How far off course did we go?”
“We are about a knot farther north than usual,” the helmsman replied. “Do ye want me to turn her back?”
Shane shook his head. “Adjust course to ninety degrees. We will sail east a wee while before turning south. It will cost us a half-day’s sail, but I doona want to be following too closely behind the corsair.” He rubbed his neck where a muscle was beginning to tighten. The feeling something was amiss had not gone away.
He didn’t have long to wonder what the next mishap would be. His cook appeared back on deck, holding the gangly youth firmly by one arm. From the dark look on the man’s face and the gravy splattered over the boy’s shirt, Shane knew a hot meal would probably not be served. “What happened?”
The cook gave the boy a shove and he stumbled forward, eyes down. “I gave him a simple order to watch the stew and use the tongs to steady the kettle, but the lad didnae listen. The fool wanted to see what was happening on deck.”
Shane could sympathize with that. It probably had sounded like all hell was breaking loose from below decks. Still, that did not matter. Orders were orders. “Look at me,” he said.
Slowly, the lad lifted his face.
“I will nae tolerate a man on my ship who will nae obey orders. The sea doona allow us second chances. Had ye been on deck and disobeyed my man, ye could have cost someone a life. Do ye have any idea of what a danger ye could be?”
The youth recoiled, his brown eyes suspiciously bright. Shane decided to tone down the tongue-lashing the boy deserved since the last thing he needed was for the youth to start crying. His crew would be relentless in taunting the boy, and right now, Shane did not want to dress any man down. He needed the crew alert, watching for pirates, not nursing bruised egos.
“It is imperative that orders be followed on board ship,” Shane said once more. “Lives depend on it. Do ye understand?”
The youth nodded. “I am sorry.”
Shane blinked at the soft tone. How young was the boy? His voice hadn’t even changed yet. On closer look, he appeared not to have ever shaved either. His skin looked soft as a woman’s. What had the quartermaster been thinking to take him on?
As if reading his thoughts, the cook said, “The lad said he can cook, so maybe he can work a miracle with dinner.”
“What is wrong with dinner?” a nearby sheet-handler asked while another who had been tending a line looked up as well.
The boy’s eyes widened and Shane had another misgiving. “Is the stew completely ruined then?”
“Aye. Everything spilled when we came about,” the cook answered grimly. “Which would nae have happened if the fool had used the tongs like I told him.”
The two men beside them cursed, giving the lad black looks. “Nae dinner?” one of them said, loudly enough to attract the attention of the other men on deck. “I say the lad goes for a swim.”
The boy started to tremble. “Please. I can…I can…make something to eat. I swear. I—”
“No one is going overboard,” Shane said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Salt biscuits and jerky will have to do for today.” He ignored the grumbles he heard. Those were rations they ate when the seas were rough. “Get back to your tasks.”
The muttering stopped as the men returned to their stations, but the murderous glances they gave the lad warned Shane the incident was not over. The boy would probably be a pulpy mess of bumps and bruises the next morning. Shane sighed. “Get below and help Cook get the victuals fixed. Then report to my cabin.”
“Your…your cabin?” the youth asked, starting to shake once more.
Again, Shane wondered what such a timid lad had been doing on the docks this morning. Obviously, the boy had not been living on the streets. Probably had never even had his nose bloodied. The uneasy feeling returned. Was the lad a runaway from some well-to-do home? The last thing Shane needed was to be accused of abducting the boy when they got back.
The least he could do was return him to London with no physical damage. There was only one way to keep the boy safe. “My cabin,” Shane said. “You will be sleeping there tonight.”
Chapter Two
Abigail looked around Shane’s cabin with the curiosity of a cat who’d lost none of her nine lives. Yet. The hostile glances of the crew all afternoon and muttered remarks made the small quarters seem like a safe haven. And it was Shane’s.
The cabin was one of two nestled beneath what was called the poop deck on which the helmsman stood. She didn’t really want to linger too long on the connotation for why a stern deck was called that. Thankfully, there was a chamber pot in this cabin.
Perhaps it was best the incident with the stew had occurred. Abigail hadn’t really given any thought to how she would tend to her personal needs amongst a crew of men.
Walls of well-polished teak gleamed in the light from a gimbaled oil lamp swaying gently with the rocking motion of the hull. Below the lamp, a small table was nailed to the sidewall with a stool beside it. A chest of drawers took up another corner, topped with an inlaid metal basin, washing cloths and shaving items secured in a leather satchel swinging from a hook. A bunk attached to one wall had a wooden rim that Abigail supposed was to keep the occupant from falling out. She eyed the bed with its tartan spread and sat down on the edge gingerly. It certainly was narrow, hardly big enough for Shane. And it was the only bed…
The door opened and Abigail started as Shane’s large frame filled the doorway. The cabin suddenly seemed much smaller. She attempted to stand, none too gracefully since the wooden fiddled rim cut behind her knees, and managed to plop onto the stool.
Shane frowned slightly and then turned his back as he rummaged through a drawer. Tossing a clean shirt on the bed, he began to unbutton the one he was wearing.
“What are you doing?”
One black eyebrow rose. “I am going to wash the salt off my body.”
He stripped his shirt, and Abigail stopped breathing. Never, never, ever had she seen so magnificent a specimen of man and she’d poured through every art book she could find to look at such. Shane was powerfully built, but the way his wide shoulders sloped to the bulk of his muscled arms and his broad chest rippled down to well-defined hard ridges of his belly was pure, chiseled sculpture.
“Are ye all right, lad? Ye look a bit peaked.” He frowned. “Ye are nae going to be sick, are ye?”
Abigail suddenly remembered to breathe again. Good heavens. Shane thought she was a boy. And boys did not stare at men. Of course, well-bred women should not be staring at men either. She felt a sudden hysterical bubble of laughter sliding up her throat and shook her head quickly. “I will be fine. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would be good though.”
He gave her a quizzical look and picked up a tin pitcher she hadn’t noticed tucked in a wooden box on the floor. Actually, she was amazed her mind was working well enough to even register the pitcher. She had to get out before he took off his breeches too. “I think I will take a short walk.”
“Ye will stay here. The men were nae happy with their supper ruined and I doona care to be scooping ye out of the sea.�
�� Shane poured some water into the basin, picked up a bar of soap and began to lather himself.
Abigail’s breath caught again. Watching his muscles flex as he soaped himself was causing parts of her to tingle she didn’t know could tingle. She forced her eyes to focus on a picture of a medieval building on the wall to the right of him, even though her periphery vision was aware the water he’d sponged over himself silkily slid down every sinewy contour of him. Lord, it was suddenly warm in the enclosed space.
“What is that building?” she managed to ask.
“Rosslyn Chapel,” he answered, reaching for a towel. “My mother’s ancestors built it.”
“It is unusual,” Abigail said, her attention still tuned to his movements as he dried himself. Her hands actually itched to be doing it for him and she quickly clenched them in her lap.
Shane gave her a curious look. “Ye are interested in old buildings, lad?”
“I—” Remember, I am a boy. She lowered her voice and shrugged. “It does not look like a church.”
“It is different,” he answered, reached for his shirt and pulled it on. “If ye ever get to Edinburgh, it is worth seeing.” After lifting the basin out of its groove, he moved to the door. “I will bring ye some fresh water so ye can wash.”
Abigail watched the door close. Wash? In front of Shane? She could not take off her shirt like he had. He’d see her bound breasts. So far her disguise was working. Merciful heavens. What was she going to do?
She was still pondering her dilemma when Shane returned. She stared as he set the basin back in its spot and laid out a fresh towel. “Have at it, lad,” he said and turned back to the door. “I will be locking the door behind me since I have the first watch. Doona fash. Ye will be safe here. By morning, the crew will have gotten over their missed dinner.”
Abigail sighed with relief as the door shut and then washed quickly, just in case Shane returned for something. It wasn’t the crew she was worried about as she crawled into the surprising softness of the bunk.
What would happen when Shane returned from his watch?
Shane finished the first watch and went to the quartermaster’s cabin, adjacent to his. Donald would be taking the second watch, so Shane could use his bunk. He lay down on top of it, hoping to get some rest before returning to the deck, but he found sleep eluded him. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling.
Even though the day had been grueling, the crises had passed. The corsair had not turned back, and they were now on course to arrive in Calais in the morning. His crew would have shore leave for the day, which should remove any resentment they still held regarding the lad who’d ruined the stew. Still, the niggling feeling that something was amiss lingered.
Perhaps it was the lad. The more Shane observed him, the more he was convinced the youth was not a street urchin or ragamuffin. He was too pale to have spent much time outdoors and Shane seriously doubted the boy had ever been in a fisticuffs. Though his shirt was course muslin and his boots scuffed, the lad’s English held no hint of slang. In fact, the voice sounded cultivated, as if the boy were educated. His questions about the chapel picture verified Shane’s suspicion.
So what the hell had the boy been doing on the docks at dawn? And why did he want to work on a ship?
The only conclusion Shane could come up with was the one he’d had earlier. The lad was running away, perhaps from a boarding school he didn’t like. As soon as they returned to London, he’d turn the boy over to the authorities and offer to hire Bow Street runners to check out the boarding schools. The sooner he had the situation taken care of, the better for everyone.
Meanwhile, Shane needed to keep the boy safe. He certainly could not be allowed loose on the streets in the company of men who would be drunk before the noon meal, and Shane had a secret meeting with his Templar counterparts in regard to the French Restoration. He would have to ask Donald to take the lad with him while he made arrangements for the tin to be unloaded. The man would probably not be pleased, but he was a responsible person.
This was a trip Shane was ready to have over. The London docks would probably never look so good.
“Tell me how King Louis fares,” Shane said to his comrades, Remy Benoit and Alain Lyles, the next morning as they met in an abandoned warehouse.
“There are still squabbles and protests,” Remy answered. “The second Treaty of Paris did little to please the working class. They do not like having their taxes pay to house foreign soldiers.”
“Aye. Scotland was nae keen to accept English rule after Culloden either,” Shane replied. “But how does it go for us?” Although there was no reason to speak in secret code at this meeting, training had taught them all never to call themselves an order.
“Edward Stuart has secured the king’s favor, but our countrymen are another matter,” Alain answered. “The men elected into the Chambre Introuvable are influenced by the Roman church, which wants her lands—and coffers—back from the biens nationaux.”
“Even worse, the Chambre seeks to ban political demonstrations as well,” Remy added. “I suspect Pope Pius is behind that as well. If he succeeds, it will hinder our mission considerably.”
“And ’tis only a step to persecution of those nae favored,” Shane said grimly.
“Oui. Already, the Verdets strut like peacocks proud of killing their own countrymen who obeyed Napoleon. The implication is the corps will do the same to any not agreeing with the Chambre.”
“And Louis cannae stop them?”
“Our king walks a fine line.” Remy shrugged. “The Chambre ousted the moderates and the common people are not fond of the time Louis spent in English exile.”
“A time he probably used to assess the Regency situation and consider whether a bloodless coup is possible anytime soon.”
“That is true. The French are tired of war,” Alain answered.
“Which is a step in the direction we want to go,” Remy added. “Take heart, my friend, we will eventually accomplish what we seek to do.”
“We cannot give up hope,” Shane agreed as he stood to leave. “I will be bringing a shipment of kelp soon and we will talk again.”
The Frenchmen nodded. “Until then.”
Things were not going to be easy for the Brethren on either side of the Channel, Shane thought as he walked back to the docks, but that was the way of it. Bending people’s wills or forcing them to accept beliefs was against the mission as it had been since Godfrei de Bouillon founded the Priory in the eleventh century. Equally important was returning a rightful king to his throne.
As Shane spotted his ship bobbing gently on her lines, his thoughts turned to his crew. A few bottles of French cognac—and some tossed-up skirts—had probably softened their resentment of the lad. If the boy didn’t ruin their dinner tonight, maybe Shane could have his cabin back.
The deck was empty save for his quartermaster when he boarded. “Any trouble with unloading?” he asked.
Donald shook his head. “All went well. I have the bolts of material and champagne already on board for the passage home—if the crew doesna have too thick of heads in the morning.”
“They know the rules. No pay for any man who cannae keep a steady hand.” Shane looked around. “Is the lad in the galley getting supper started?”
“Nae. I sent him to your cabin. I thought it best to wait for Cook to return. The galley ’tis his domain.”
“Aye. Probably wise. I doona think the men will tolerate another cold meal, especially after a day of drink and swiving. I will have a word with the boy.”
As Shane climbed down the ladder to his cabin, he almost wished he could be as carefree as his crew. When was the last time he’d tumbled a lass? He’d stopped using doxies several years ago and he didn’t want to dally with proper lasses since he had no inclination to marry. Not that he was opposed to marriage—Ian and Jamie seemed happy—but he didn’t feel it would be right to leave a wife at home, having to cope with bairns by herself.
He knocked once on
the door and then opened it to step through.
And nearly fell backwards. A woman in a silk robe was sitting by his table, her back to him, combing long chestnut hair.
The brush clattered to the floor as the woman turned, startled, and he found himself looking into the soft brown eyes of Abigail Townsend.
Chapter Three
“What the—” Shane stopped himself from cursing. “How did ye get on board my ship?”
Abigail gave him a small smile. “I walked on, of course. Yesterday morning.”
“Ye walked on?” He’d barely finished the question when he realized the breeches and shirt the lad had been wearing lay on the floor beside her. He pointed. “Those are yours? Ye disguised yourself?”
She nodded and put her spectacles on. “I did not think you would allow me on board otherwise.”
“Ye are right about that.” Shane frowned. “What were ye thinking, lass? A ship is nae place for a woman.” He shuddered to think what might have happened last night if he’d let her sleep in the common area. “Do ye have any idea what my crew might have done to ye if they found out ye were a woman?”
Her face paled, but she raised her chin. “I was not planning to undress.”
“Nae planning—” Shane ran a hand through his hair. “The men were nae pleased ye’d ruined their dinner. For sure, they would have battered ye about. It would nae take long to realize ’twas a female they had in their midst. Ye’d have suffered more than just a few bruises.” Even as Shane said the words, he was amazed he hadn’t recognized the lad was a girl. Maybe it had been too long since he’d had a woman. Abigail was too pale, her skin too soft, her hands well-cared for. Even her voice…he’d been a fool to think it a lad’s that hadn’t changed. He frowned again. “Why did ye do it?”
Abigail hesitated. “For the adventure.”
“For the adventure?”
She shrugged. “I have always wanted to travel.”
“Ye have always wanted to travel?” Shane repeated, realizing he sounded like a parrot, and then started to pace in the small space of his cabin. “There are proper ways to travel, lass. Ye doona hop on board a working schooner with a crew of men and nae chaperone.”
Rogue of the Borders Page 2