Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Good,” Mari said before Abigail could protest again. “And Miss Townsend needs a complete trousseau as well, although those things can be sent to her new home once she has been fitted.”

  “Certainement. Morning gowns, day dresses, evening ensembles—how many of each, Madam MacLeod?”

  “I really only need two or three dresses of good woolen cloth,” Abigail said.

  “Wool?” Madam Dubois asked.

  “Scotland is cold.”

  “Of course, several of the dresses can be woolen,” Mari said with a wave of her hand. “But you will need finer things as well. And,” she added, “do not forget about the undergarments.”

  “Oui! I have the softest muslin and linen for petticoats and chemises. One moment.” Madam Dubois hurried to the counter and removed a package from beneath it that she carefully unwrapped. “And the very, very finest silk for the wedding-night negligee.” She winked and smiled. “The groom will be enchanted, non?”

  Mari giggled. “Oh, yes.”

  Abigail stared at the shimmering, translucent material and felt her cheeks warm. “You can see right through it.”

  Madam Dubois’s smile grew and Mari giggled again. “Yes.”

  “Shane will think I have lost my mind completely wearing such flimsy material.”

  “No. He will not,” Mari said. “You must trust me on this.”

  Abigail was beginning to wonder if Mari had lost her mind. “A night rail is supposed to be warm.”

  “Oh, stop being so practical, Abby.” Mari wiped at tears of laughter. “Shane will keep you plenty warm.”

  Her face felt like it was on fire. Mari couldn’t possibly know that Shane was not interested in a real marriage. Abigail would be mortified to dress like a hoyden in front of him. What would he think of her?

  She paused. What would Shane think if he actually saw her as an alluring female—well, maybe not alluring exactly, but at least a female instead of someone who dressed like a boy? Maybe Mari did have a point. Maybe, just maybe, Shane would find Abigail truly attractive. Was it not worth a try?

  “I will take it,” she said.

  The week went by at breathtaking speed. Although Abigail had been spared from attending soirees and balls due to her engagement, a good number of teas and dinners still needed to be attended. Mari, as sister to the Marchioness of Newburn and sister-by-marriage to the Earl of Cantford, was determined that none of the ton would slight Abigail for her hasty marriage. Almacks’ Matrons must have agreed since there seemed to be never-ending invitations waiting each morning.

  Shane did not attend the teas since that was a woman’s domain, but he did escort Abigail to the dinners and once to the theatre. Her father had accompanied them, not so much to act the chaperone, but to let society know that he did, indeed, approve the upcoming marriage.

  A chaperone was hardly needed. Shane acted the perfect gentleman at all times, even when they were alone for brief periods. Abigail had fully expected him to show his anger, or at least displeasure, over the coercion of their marriage, but he had remained politely distant. She’d tried to talk to him about the situation only to have him tell her what was done was done. She’d felt as guilty as Lady Macbeth when he said that.

  Still, today was their wedding day and tonight the marriage would be consummated. Abigail only hoped once they were truly joined, Shane would act differently. Mari had assured her lovemaking indeed drew her closer to Jamie and that he felt the same. Abigail desperately wanted to please Shane in that way, even if there would be pain. She would bear it. He would not find her lacking in willingness. She had, after all, studied all the nude figures in art books and read biology. Her body flashed with heat as she thought about which body parts went where and how the deed was done. Hopefully, the beautiful negligee waiting in Mari’s guest room would show Shane how interested she was in pleasing him.

  “You’ve been holding that brush and staring at yourself in the mirror for ages,” Mari interrupted her thoughts with a smile. “Here, let me do your hair or you are going to be late for your own wedding.”

  An hour later, Abigail alighted from her father’s coach in the small courtyard of Temple Church. It seemed an odd choice since St. Paul’s was nearby, but Shane had insisted on it. When he’d told her Templars had built the church in the twelfth century as a replica of the Holy Sepulchre, she’d been fascinated both with the design and age. When Shane had pointed out the pagan carving of a Green Man over the west entrance, depicting a pagan symbol on a Christian shirt, she’d been intrigued. All this time, she’d never known this treasure existed right in the heart of London.

  As her father escorted her through the round nave with its peculiar stone effigies on the floor and into the chancel, she could see Shane waiting ahead. He kept his eyes on her as she advanced although his face gave no expression as to what he was thinking. Jamie, standing at his side, gave her an encouraging smile. Standing tall, broad shoulders squared, Shane looked quite dashing in his full Scotch regalia. Abigail’s breath hitched as she glimpsed muscular calves exposed between hose and kilt. She chided herself for having such unseemly thoughts inside a church. Surely God would forgive her for having carnal thoughts about her future husband?

  They reached the altar. Shane extended his arm, but before her father gave him her hand, the two men exchanged looks and Abigail sensed there was some private message being filtered. Her father had always been protective of her. Was he perhaps warning Shane to take good care of his only daughter? Abigail felt tears well. Bless Papa. Bless Shane too…

  Mari nudged her, handkerchief in hand. Abigail sniffed and shook her head. Now was not the time to become a watering pot. She was marrying the man she had spent hours fantasizing about and in just a few short hours, he would truly be hers.

  Hers. Shane would be hers. Abigail hardly heard the minister’s homily, so lost in thoughts of how wonderful marriage would be. She dutifully repeated the vows that Shane had written—who knew someone so big and strong could be poetic?—and he slipped a slender gold band on her finger. They were married.

  The reception and dinner seemed to take forever, although Abigail couldn’t help but take a bit of smug satisfaction as the Season’s debutantes all offered congratulations, albeit perhaps none too enthusiastically. Most enjoyable were those of Violetta and Amelia, who had pursued both Ian and Jamie—and lost. On more than one occasion, they’d looked down their small, aristocratic noses at Abigail for being a bluestocking. She felt a moment of hubris. She was the lucky woman who was Shane MacLeod’s wife.

  And finally, finally, it was over. Shane’s rented coach was brought around and Mari whispered in Abigail’s ear, “Jamie and I are staying at my aunt’s boarding house tonight, so you will have the townhouse to yourselves.” She giggled. “Do not worry about being heard.”

  Abigail flushed and was thankful the lamps on the coach were dim. Shane helped her in and she heard him quietly conversing with the driver before he stepped inside and took the seat opposite her.

  “Did the day go well for you?” he asked.

  A wave of pleasure washed over her that he was concerned enough to ask. “Yes. The wedding was everything I ever wanted.” And it was, she realized. She’d never given much thought to dresses and pomp and circumstance, but it had been a very satisfying day. And the best was yet to come…”

  I am glad to hear that.” Shane replied. “Ye should have good memories of your special day.”

  Abigail furrowed her brows. It was his day too. Why was he being so politely formal? Well, no matter. She doubted he’d retain that formality once they were in their bedroom. At least, from what Mari had told her, men became quite uninhibited. “I am sure I will.”

  The driver pulled to a stop a short time later. Shane opened the door and offered his hand. Abigail placed hers in his and stepped down. And then dropped her jaw in shock.

  Chapter Five

  Once she’d recovered, puzzlement overcame her. They were on the quay in front of Shane’s sh
ip instead of the townhouse. “Why are we stopping here? Did you forget something?”

  “Nae, lass,” he said as he paid the driver and motioned him off. “We will be staying aboard since I plan to sail at first light.”

  “But—” Abigail thought of the beautiful negligee waiting on the bed at the townhouse. “Surely we can wait one more day to leave?”

  A muscle twitched in Shane’s jaw. “’Tis sorry I am, but I have a shipment of kelp to prepare. I’ve already lingered nigh three weeks in London.”

  She hadn’t thought about that. How often had she heard her father tell his man of business that time was money? Still. The bed at Mari’s place would have been comfortable—although Shane’s bunk would definitely be cozy. Butterflies took flight in her stomach. Maybe it would not be so bad to spend the night on board. Since she didn’t have the negligee, she would have to be naked…naked?

  “I do not have anything else to wear,” Abigail said somewhat frantically.

  Shane’s jaw set. “Your father had a trunk delivered earlier.”

  Her father knew about Shane’s plans? Why had no one told her? Something did not bode well. The butterflies plummeted with a decided thump.

  “Come, lass,” Shane said and led her up the gangplank. Donald welcomed them aboard, although no other crew seemed to be present. It would probably be wise not to make too much noise during their coupling, though.

  Shane helped her down the ladder to his cabin and opened the door, gesturing for her to precede him. Abigail sat down on the bed and gave him a smile. It was now or never. She might as well be bold. “Will you join me?”

  His eyes flashed fire briefly and then he tightened his jaw again. “I think not, lass.”

  The butterflies fluttered again, although her stomach lurched. “What…what do you mean?”

  He eyed her a moment and then sighed. “I will nae take ye.”

  Surely, she had not heard correctly. Abigail knew Shane didn’t love her. At least, not yet. Many marriages among the ton didn’t begin as love matches. A lot of them never did end that way either, but she’d never heard of any that weren’t consummated. Heirs and all that. Why wouldn’t Shane want to— Reality hit her as though the ship had just dropped into a deep trough. “You do not find me desirable.”

  “Nae. I mean, aye.” Shane ran a hand through his hair. “’Tis nae that. Never think that.”

  “Then…then what is it?” Her lower lip began to quiver and she bit it. She was not going to become a watering pot for the second time today.

  He sighed again. “I ne’er thought to marry. Being at sea, I have nae time for wife or bairns.”

  “But—”

  Shane held up a hand. “I had a talk with your father. We agreed it was best this marriage take place to spare ye the scandal of being ruined.”

  “I know that. So here we are. Why—”

  “I will nae truly ruin ye, lass, by taking ye to bed.”

  “But we are married.”

  “In name only.”

  Abigail nearly gaped at him. “What is that supposed to mean? We were married in a church.”

  Shane took a deep breath. “There is an old custom in Scotland called hand-fasting. It means a bride and groom agree to be married for a year and a day. Once that time is up, they can decide to go their separate ways with no blame.”

  “England has no such thing.”

  “True. It is no longer practiced in Scotland either.”

  She was beginning to wonder if one of them was going mad. “So why are you telling me this?”

  “Because England acknowledges annulment—particularly in cases where the marriage act has nae been completed.”

  “Has nae—not—been completed? What on earth are you talking about?”

  He paused. “What I mean is at the end of three months, I will grant ye an annulment on the grounds that we did nae suit. I will take the blame for whatever accusations ye may make, however heinous they may be. Ye will then have a clear name with no scandal behind it.”

  “What if I do not agree to this annulment?”

  Shane stood. “Your father and I agreed to it.”

  Abigail was stunned. “My father knew about this?”

  “Aye. It was—”

  “Get out!” She looked for something to throw at him, but everything within her reach was bolted down. “Get out! Now!”

  “Ye need time to think—”

  “Get out!”

  He gave her a look of sympathy that made her even angrier. How dare he and her father connive behind her back like this. “Get out.”

  Shane hesitated and then he nodded. Without another word, he closed the door behind him.

  Abigail buried her face in her hands. Too late, she remembered the wedding vows—vows Shane had written—had said nothing about ’til death do us part.

  Shane walked to the bow of the ship and leaned against the bowsprit rail. The dock was quiet save for the soft lapping of waves against hulls and slight straining of cleated boat lines. Soft yellow lights, like will o’ the wisps, shone from oil lamps as the boats bobbed against the tide. The sailors on shore leave wouldn’t return for several more hours. Normally, it was one of the times he enjoyed best when he was in port, but tonight, it felt like the devil himself stood watch beside him. If Shane didn’t have a crew to command at dawn, he would have gotten very, very drunk.

  He felt like the worst kind of blackguard for hurting Abigail. And he had hurt her. He’d seen it in her expressive, velvety-brown eyes. He almost wished she had thrown something at him. He deserved to be as bruised outwardly as she was inwardly.

  By the saints. Shane thought Abigail understood the situation. He had been clear—he thought—that he was protecting her honor with the marriage proposal. He had not accepted a dowry. When he’d talked to her father, Sherrington had assured him Abigail was a practical woman who would understand and accept the convenience of an annulment since she’d never expressed any desire to be married in the first place. He had agreed, thinking her father would inform her of the arrangement.

  What a fool Shane had been to think that—and he was a coward, to boot. He should have been the one to explain it to Abigail. Before the wedding.

  Even worse, she thought he did not find her attractive. He was not as adept as Ian or Jamie in dealing with women, but Shane had sensed how deeply wounded to the core Abigail had felt. It wasn’t just in her words. “You do not find me desirable.” It was the tone in which she’d said it. As though she’d had too many experiences with cads who found the gaggle of giggling gooses at the pointless parties and balls actually interesting.

  Truth be told, Shane did find Abigail desirable. He had been drawn to her that first day in the library when she’d suggested he might like Chaucer. Her voice had been soft and melodious, in contrast to her severe hairstyle and drab dress. He had wondered then what she would look like with her hair loose and wearing a suitable dress. He’d caught his breath and felt his loins stir when he’d seen Abigail in the blue gown with the chandeliers catching the red glints in the soft curls that framed her face.

  And that reaction was nothing compared to when she’d looked at him just a little while ago. “Will you join me?” she had asked, both trepidation and longing in the question. He’d hardened immediately, filled with the irrational desire to be her first lover. To show her how wonderful it could be between a man and a woman even if for a brief time.

  Shane shook his head to clear it. That kind of thinking was dangerous. He spent his life on the sea and he refused to let a woman fend for herself while he was away.

  And, he reminded himself, the only stipulation the earl had placed on him was that Shane return his daughter to him still a virgin.

  Shane was honor bound to uphold that oath. The best way to do it would be to remove temptation. He looked up at the night sky with its twinkling stars, pondering, and a solution came to him. Once they reached Edinburgh, he would take Abigail to Ian’s castle near Glenfinnan. Shane’s twin
sisters lived there as well as three female cousins. Abigail would have plenty of company, as well as protection. Three months would go by quickly, and Shane would be doing her a favor to stay out of sight.

  Wouldn’t he?

  “Am I to be confined to the cabin again?” Abigail asked the quartermaster as he brought her breakfast the next morning.

  “Nae. The captain said ye were to move about as ye please.”

  Well, at least that was good. Although she was still angry over the fact that no one—least of all her husband—had consulted her regarding this marriage scam, she had grown up with the ton. A great many marriages were arranged for girls without their consent. She had just never heard of one that was purposely going to be annulled though. The delicious scent of cinnamon assailed her nose and she sat down on the small stool and sniffed appreciatively at the porridge Donald had set on the small table. When she tasted it, she was delighted the cook had added butter—or perhaps saffron, it was so rich—to it as well. Porridge at home had always been bland.

  Home. She laid the spoon down, having suddenly lost her appetite. She no longer had a home. Contrary to what Shane said about her freedom, once she was released from her sham marriage, she would not return to London. She had never cared for the snobbish behavior of the ton and she certainly did not want to return to face the on-dits and speculation about why her marriage was annulled. Nor did she care to live under her father’s roof any longer. She didn’t know that she could ever forgive him.

  How could Papa have agreed to this charade? And why had he not told her, instead of allowing her to hope the marriage was real? Abigail felt her face heat. She had completely humiliated herself with Shane last night, acting like a hussy inviting him to join her on the bed, not knowing he never had any intention of making her his wife. Mortification overcame her as she thought of how pathetic she must have looked.

  Tears welled up again and Abigail brushed them away. Lord, she’d done enough crying in the past hours to make up for a lifetime. And she was not an attractive crier. Her face blotched, her nose turned red and her eyes swelled. She hoped the quartermaster hadn’t noticed. Perhaps it would be best to stay in the cabin at that—at least, until she had her tears under control.