Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Chaperones do not approve of adventure. Ladies are supposed be all excited about planning and attending parties. I am not,” Abigail answered. “Besides, I have used the disguise before when I wanted to watch the boat races on the Thames.”

  “Ye have gone around London dressed as a boy?” Shane wasn’t sure if he should find that amusing or horrifying. It almost sounded like something his pertinacious cousin Fiona would do. Though he’d never met an English lass with that kind of willfulness.

  “I always wanted to know what it would feel like to actually sail. I really enjoyed the passage, except for the problem with the stew.”

  Shane shook his head. “Ladies who wish to sail arrange for the Grand Tour aboard conventional ships.”

  “Oh, Papa would never allow me to go to Europe.”

  Shane stopped pacing in his tight circle and stared at her. Her father. The Earl of Sherrington. The man who had faced off with Ian in a duel over Sherrington’s scheming wife—and a man Ian completely respected for it.

  Suddenly, the problem of being accused of stowing a runaway lad shriveled into insignificance. Shane had a much, much bigger dilemma on his hands.

  Without another word, he turned and went out the door, locking it behind him.

  This trip hadn’t turned out as Abigail had planned. She stood by the rail watching the bustle of the wharfs on the Thames as the Border Lass skimmed past Cutty Sark toward the landing stage at Deptford. It was the first time she’d been allowed on deck since the ill-fated conversation in Shane’s cabin three days ago.

  Abigail had envisioned—once the initial shock, and even anger, were over—that she would join Shane on deck, learning how to sail. Certainly she would help in the galley. Evenings would be spent having dinner together, perhaps with a glass of sherry, discussing history and literature. Mari had told her Shane was interested in both.

  Instead, she had not seen Shane since he’d locked the door. The quartermaster had brought her meals, accompanied by a young sailor who took care of the chamber pot and brought fresh water for her to wash. Other than that, there had been no contact with any of the crew—or Shane. She had asked Donald MacFie if she could see Shane, but he’d shaken his head. When she’d asked to walk about on deck, he’d told her it wasn’t safe. Safe from whom? Surely the crew didn’t hold that much of a grudge over spilled stew. Was Shane that tremendously angry with her then? All she had wanted to do was give him a chance to get to know her without all those silly debutantes flittering around like annoying insects.

  She glanced toward the stern. Shane had taken the helm and was busy maneuvering the boat toward the dock. Not that it mattered what he was doing. He hadn’t even glanced at her when Donald escorted her on deck earlier.

  As the crew cast lines to the dock handlers, Abigail could see her father standing on the wharf, waiting. She didn’t have to be close enough to see his face. His posture—arms folded across his chest and feet apart—told her everything she needed to know. Shane’s silent treatment was preferable to the lecture she knew would be forthcoming. On the bright side, her father might forbid her from attending any functions as punishment.

  As soon as the lines were secured, Donald escorted her down the gangplank toward her father, who stood as though carved from stone, his eyes hard as granite as he watched Shane putting things to rights on deck. The earl waited until the quartermaster had taken his leave before he glanced down at his daughter.

  “Are you still a virgin?”

  Abigail gasped, her cheeks heating. “Of course, Papa. Why would you ask such a thing? Shane is an honorable gentleman.”

  Her father raised one grey brow. “Then why did he entice you onto his ship? What promises did he make that you would be so foolish as to go?”

  She felt her face drain of blood. Her father had concluded that Shane had abducted her. Was that what Shane thought her father would think too? No wonder he’d had nothing to do with her on the journey back. “He did not make any promises.”

  “I see.” The earl’s voice was steely. “He felt there would be no consequences for this exploitation of you?”

  Abigail widened her eyes. This was just getting worse and worse. “No, Papa. It was not like that. I…I wanted to go. I wanted…an adventure. Shane did not even know I was on board until we were well underway.”

  Her father glanced down at her dress. “How could he possibly miss a woman on board his ship?”

  She had packed two dresses in her duffel bag anticipating romantic dinners with Shane. “I wore…trousers.”

  “You what?”

  “Trousers,” she said, hating that her voice sounded shaky. “I tucked my hair under a hat. No one recognized me. I thought—”

  “You apparently did not think at all,” the earl replied as Shane approached them. “We will discuss these atrocities later, young lady.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Abigail kept her eyes down. She didn’t think she could face Shane’s wrath at the same time as her father’s.

  The earl turned to Shane, arms still folded across his chest. “I should call you out, Captian MacLeod.”

  “Aye, sir, ye should.”

  “No!” Abigail interrupted. “It is not his fault—”

  “Silence!” her father barked the command.

  Abigail dared a glance at Shane. He was regarding her with a solemn look. She had expected to see flashes of anger in his eyes—but he merely seemed resigned. He turned his attention back to the earl.

  “Perhaps a duel could be avoided, sir, if I offered for your daughter’s hand in marriage instead?”

  Her father paused. “It would be the right thing to do.”

  Had Abigail heard correctly? Shane wanted to marry her? Never in her wildest imaginings had she envisioned marriage. She had hoped Shane would like her once they got to know each other, but he wanted to marry her? Then reality hit her like a cold wave off the river. Shane had not said he wanted to marry her. He had said he would do it to avoid a duel.

  “Aye. I wish to do the honorable thing by the lass. ’Tis nae reason for a scandal.”

  This was even worse. He was going to do the honorable thing? Nothing about how Shane felt about her—if he felt anything except animosity for getting him into this position. She couldn’t marry someone who didn’t care for her—at least a little. Shane’s refusal to even speak to her on the passage back pretty much told her how he felt.

  “What if I do not want to marry Shane?” she asked.

  “You should have thought of that earlier,” her father said grimly.

  “Aye, lass. Ye should have. ’Tis out of your hands now.”

  “It is not—”

  “It is,” her father said. “I will arrange for a special license.” He turned to Abigail. “And there will be no more discussion. I will not have people compare you to your mother.”

  “But—”

  “No more. I will discuss the specifics of this contract with Captain MacLeod. Be thankful he is willing to rectify this disgraceful situation.”

  Abigail dared another glance at Shane, hoping she would find something that indicated willingness on his part, but his face was passive as a faro player’s.

  What had she done?

  Wesley Alton laid down the Times with a self-satisfied smirk and poured himself a cognac, even though it was still early in the day. He looked out the filthy window of his second-floor tenement, ignoring the stench of rotting garbage wafting up from the narrow street. The screams of a girl most likely being raped filtered through the regular noise. For a moment, he considered going down to find her and take a turn himself, but perhaps soon he could pay for a willing woman. He took another swig of brandy. His days posing as Walter Avery, pauper, might be over.

  It wasn’t often that Lady Luck smiled on Wesley these days. The brief notice in the paper announcing a special license had been procured by Captain Shane MacLeod to wed the Earl of Sherrington’s daughter was cause to celebrate. Wesley hated Sherrington almost as much as he did the Mac
Leods.

  The earl had accused him of murdering his sluttish wife, Delia. Delia had deserved to die. She’d presumed too much of Wesley just because she was his mistress. It was her fault he’d failed to claim Jillian Alton, his young widowed step-mother, as his wife. Wesley hated Ian MacLeod even more. Not only had the man married Jillian, but he’d foiled all Wesley’s plans to claim an English title. The insufferable Highlander had thwarted Wesley’s second plan as well.

  Wesley had failed—no, he corrected himself taking another slug of brandy, my bastard son Nicholas failed—to abduct Jillian’s sister, Mari, and ransom her for Newburn estate and title. Instead, he’d run off to safety in Ireland.

  Glancing at the Times again, Wesley realized he had another chance—and this time, his scheme would be strictly business.

  Shane MacLeod owned a shipping line out of Edinburgh. Wesley was sure the magistrates would be interested in knowing MacLeod kept a second set of books—profits that were never reported. He had false bills of lading as well—or he would as soon as Wesley had things in place.

  Wesley’s second bastard son, Richard, was a lot smarter than Nicholas. All he had to do was secure a position in the main office—not hard to do since his bitch mother had insisted on a thorough education. They’d siphon off enough funds for Wesley to leave England and live well elsewhere.

  One of the advantages to living in London’s slums was the availability of every type of criminal who walked the streets. Arrangements could be made for opium to be hidden aboard one of MacLeod’s ships. Not paying duty on the drug would ensure fighting a legal battle that would exhaust the entire clan’s funds and their reputation would be ruined forever.

  Wesley like the sound of that. He added a helping of laudanum to his next drink and sat back to enjoy the rosy haze of victory.

  Chapter Four

  Shane drained his second dram of whisky, well aware that Jamie watched him from across the library in the townhouse where he and Mari were staying. At least, they were alone. Jamie’s wife had taken Abigail shopping for what she called a trousseau. Shane suspected it would contain a lot of fluff that wasn’t practical in Scotland’s unpredictable weather.

  “Are ye sure ye want to do this?” Jamie asked as Shane poured a third drink. “Ye are nae one to bend the elbow much and ’tis barely past noon.”

  “I can hold my drink,” Shane replied.

  “’Tis nae what I meant and ye ken it.” Jamie took the bottle and set it back on the desk. “Do ye want to marry Abigail?”

  “I have nae choice. The girl is ruined.”

  “’Twas her own doing. She kenned verra well the consequences.” Jamie paused, eyes narrowing. “Do ye think she did it a purpose? To put the parson’s noose on ye?”

  Shane shook his head. “The thought went through my mind, but I doona think her devious. She left a note asking her father to put about she was in the country, visiting relations. Her thought was to have a grand adventure.”

  Jamie’s brow rose. “An adventure?”

  “Aye. In that, she reminds me of Fiona—determined to have her way, even if it means going off half-cocked without thinking things through.”

  “Mayhap ’tis the way of women. Mari has done the same.” Jamie pointed to his head. “Do ye see the start of grey hair?”

  Shane smiled slightly. “Yet ye are besotted with yer wife.”

  “Och, well.” The tips of Jamie’s ears turned pink. “There are advantages to being married.” Then he frowned. “It will nae be a happy marriage if ye doona care for the lass.”

  Shane looked at his empty glass and eyed the bottle on the desk. “Mayhap I will have one more—”

  “Nae. I ask again. Do ye want to go through with this marriage?”

  Shane considered putting Jamie on his arse. One good punch would do it. It would feel good to hit someone. Then again, Jamie had grown considerably bigger and stronger than when they’d brawled as lads. Leaving a room of broken furniture would not endear him to anyone. Shane sighed. “I told ye. I have nae choice. The girl is nigh to spinsterhood according to the barmy rules English society has. If I walk away, her father would have no choice but to call me out. Nae good would come of that. I can shoot a musket out of a pirate’s hand while both ships pitch. I hear the earl is an excellent shot as well. The lass would still be ruined.”

  “’Tis too bad the English doona believe in the old way of hand-fasting. Then ye could honorably release the lass in a year.” Jamie seemed to consider something. “Ye could give her the choice of turning ye down.”

  Shane laughed, only it sounded more like a bark. “’Tis a little late with the Banns posted in the kirk and papers.”

  “’Tis never too late for a woman to change her mind, cousin. Ye will learn that.” Jamie tilted his head. “Do ye care for the lass at all?”

  Did he care? He didn’t know. He didn’t know her. Abigail was direct and not given to airs, like most of London’s ton was. Shane had thought her intelligent that day in the library, but then the decision to board his boat was none too smart. Still, she had been stoic about the stew incident and not given to hysterics when locked in his cabin. He had to admit he did find tall, slim women attractive. They reminded him of his Viking ancestors—women who’d sailed the seas…but he was digressing, and Jamie wanted an answer. “She is interesting to talk to and well-read, I believe.”

  Jamie groaned and shook his head. “Only you would look at that as an asset.”

  Shane put his glass down and stood to leave. “It would nae hurt ye to read a book now and then,” he said as he moved to the door.

  “Oh, aye,” Jamie replied grinning. “Mayhap ye can find a book to tell ye how it is to share a bed each night with a warm lass.”

  Shane marched into the hall without answering. If Jamie said one more word, he would find himself on his arse. Shane had had his share of warm lasses, just not recently.

  Still, Jamie had given him food for thought.

  “Oh, this is so exciting,” Mari exclaimed as she chose a bonnet from the milliner’s new collection and put it on Abigail’s head. “This one is of the first stare.”

  Abigail removed it. “I will not be needing new bonnets, Mari. I am moving to Scotland.” Or at least she assumed she was since Shane had his office in Edinburgh. He had not discussed it with her. He had not discussed anything with her.

  “Phooey. Scots women must be concerned with fashion to some degree, especially those who live near the Borders.” Mari replaced the hat on Abigail’s head and selected several lengths of ribbon in gold and yellow. “These colors really go well with the glint of red in your hair.” Without waiting for a reply, Mari turned to Madam Huette, who owned the shop. “Would you not agree?”

  “Oh, yes. The rim of that bonnet is the latest rage in Paris. I could lace the ribbons through the band.”

  “Good. We will take it. And perhaps this one—” Mari picked up another design, “—as well.”

  “I do not—”

  “With green ribbons this time,” Mari added, ignoring Abigail.

  “Excellent.” Madam Huette took the bonnets and bustled away before Abigail could protest further. “I will have these sent round to the earl’s townhouse. Will there be anything else?”

  “Well…” Mari looked around. “We—”

  “We will just be going,” Abigail interrupted, taking her friend’s hand and tugging her to the door. “Thank you very much, Madam Huette.”

  Once on the sidewalk, Mari pouted. “I do not see why you do not wish to shop.”

  “I am just not that interested in fashion,” Abigail explained for what she felt was the thousandth time. “I am not young. I am not petite with curves in all the right places. Clothes hang on me.”

  “Only because you do not ask the seamstresses to alter your gowns for the right fit. The empire waist looks quite good on tall women. It makes you look regal.”

  Abigail rolled her eyes. “I have never fancied being queenly.”

  “No m
atter,” Mari answered as they walked toward another shop. “You still need dresses. Half of what you have is at least two years old.”

  “And in fine shape. Nothing is torn or worn.”

  “Shane is a businessman. You do not want his clients’ wives thinking you dress no better than a fishwife.”

  “Shane’s clients transact their business on the docks. Hardly the place for wives to stroll about.”

  Mari smiled and patted her arm. “I am sure Shane must do some entertaining.”

  Abigail hoped not. Once she’d swallowed her pride, she realized how lucky she was that Shane had offered to marry her, even if he wasn’t thrilled about the notion. She would do her best to be a good wife to him.

  The one truly bright highlight to her bungled adventure was moving away from London and the press of parties and social events. She just hoped Shane would forgive her for forcing a marriage. She planned on trying very hard not to be a burden to him. “I doubt it.”

  “Nonsense,” Mari said and opened the door to the newest modiste shop. Madam DuBois greeted them with enthusiasm since Mari frequented her establishment often.

  “Bienvenu,” she said. “How can I be of assistance to two such lovely mesdames? New ball gowns perhaps?”

  “A wedding gown,” Mari answered with a giggle. “Miss Townsend is getting married to Captain Shane MacLeod.”

  “But of course. I read the notice. I am honored you have chosen me to design the dress,” Madam Dubois said. “I think perhaps something in an ivory silk to set off the complexion along with a gossamer overlay of chiffon, non?”

  “Non. No. I mean, there really will not be time for an elaborate gown,” Abigail said. “We shall marry within the week since Captain MacLeod must be back to sea.”

  “So soon?” For a moment, Madam Dubois looked defeated and then she rallied. “I shall pull my seamstresses from other gowns. We will get it accomplished.”