Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  “Nae. They were Scots.”

  Who could have been hired. “Were ye at the office the day the Frenchman stopped by looking for work?”

  “Aye.” David gave him a puzzled look. “Why do ye ask?”

  “Just wondering. Did he say why he was in Scotland?”

  “He said he’d left France because the king’s men were hunting Napoleon’s supporters.”

  That made some sense. The White Terror, as the Verdet avengers of the Restoration called their movement, was one of the reasons Shane had met with Remy and Alain while he was in Calais. “Did he sound desperate for work?” Desperate enough to arrange to have David beaten?

  “Nae more than most. He said he’d left inquiries along the quay.”

  “Did Albert say what he thought about him?” Shane had always trusted the older man’s instincts.

  “Aye. He said it was too bad we dinna need another person since the Frenchman had worked at the port of Le Havre and had experience with accounts as well.”

  David’s mother entered the room, a worried look on her face. “The doctor told him nae to strain himself,” she said quietly, wringing her hands in her apron.

  “Of course.” Shane stood to leave and took some bank notes out of his pocket. “This should help cover expenses.”

  Her eyes lingered on the offer. “We should nae accept charity.”

  “’Tis nae charity,” Shane said and put the money in her hand. “Just something to help until David can return to work.”

  The woman’s eyes lit. “Thank ye kindly then.”

  As Shane took his leave, he decided to walk back to the townhouse rather than rent a hack. It gave him the opportunity to examine King’s Close, although he hardly expected to find any evidence of what had taken place. Something about the attack didn’t make sense. Cut-throats would have finished the job and left David dead. To rob a man of coin, especially when the odds were three to one, didn’t merit such a thorough beating and breaking of bones.

  Had David been in the wrong place or had he been specifically targeted? It was oddly coincidental that someone highly qualified came looking for work just two days before David’s attack. Albert had been impressed, though, and the Frenchman had supposedly made other applications well. That could be checked out. When Shane sailed to Calais with the kelp, he could ask Remy or Alain to send a man down to Le Havre and see what information could be ferreted out.

  Meanwhile, it was just one more reason Shane had to leave Abigail in Glenfinnan where she would be safe while he was gone. He pushed aside a twinge of guilt over how enthusiastic she had been on seeing his library and how eager she’d sounded in wanting to spend time there with him. Truthfully, he suspected her mind was as inquisitive for knowledge and history as his. It had been a long time since he’d had any philosophical discussions with anyone—but that path was dangerous, since he also felt a surprisingly strong physical attraction to the lass as well.

  Better that she be where she would not tempt him. Surely he was doing the right thing by leaving her with his cousins. Wasn’t he?

  Ian had a library full of books. She could read to her heart’s content. Somehow, Shane sensed Abigail would not be appeased.

  She would be fine in time though. He was doing the right thing, leaving her where she would be protected. And once he was gone, what could Abigail do about it?

  Chapter Seven

  “I could not have asked for a better introduction to Scotland,” Abigail exclaimed as they prepared to board the sailing vessel for the passage over Loch Linnhe, which would bring them close to Ian’s estate. They’d been accompanied by bodyguards—Abigail could not think of them as merely employees since they were all armed to the teeth with several sets of belts from which a variety of knives dangled. They even had muskets strapped to their thighs and huge swords slung across their backs, although she had not even seen a hint of danger on their trip. The guards were returning to Edinburgh, but burly sailors—also armed like pirates—were probably hired to protect them as well.

  She had been disappointed that she’d had to share a room with Kyla, the lady’s maid Janet had found to accompany her, instead of Shane, but the small coaching inns along the way had been full. She had hoped—since Shane had stayed on his ship the two days they were in Edinburgh to allow her the one cot in his townhouse—that the situation would be rectified on this trip. Abigail fully intended to fix the problem when they returned by completely furnishing Shane’s bedchamber, including the most comfortable bed she could find.

  Still, the trek across the central Highlands had allowed her to see the ancient castle at Stirling—she couldn’t decide which she liked better, Edinburgh or Stirling—as well as breathtaking mountains and the wonderment of Loch Ness.

  “’Twas a small miracle the weather held out,” Shane said.

  Kyla gave Shane a dour look. “’Tis risky this time of year. The passes could have been snowed in.”

  Shane gave the maid a steely glance that would have frozen any of his men. “I cannot imagine that much snow,” Abigail said quickly before Shane could rebuke the woman. Abigail had learned in the week it had taken to get here that Kyla was not one to keep her opinions to herself. Although Kyla had been raised and educated in a convent, any semblance to deference or docility had not taken hold. Only a few years older than Abigail, Kyla already had a matronly air about her—probably because she had been married twice and both husbands had been killed fighting Napoleon. Abigail found her impertinence rather amusing, although she was careful not to show it.

  “The pass through Glen Coe can be treacherous,” Kyla added, ignoring the warning look Shane was sending her way. She lifted her chin. “I was born just north of Ft. William so I should know.”

  Abigail knew that was one of the reasons Kyla had so readily agreed to accompany them. She wanted to revisit the place where she’d spent her first years, although neither of her parents were still alive. Abigail admired the spunky independence of the maid.

  “Tell me about the tragedy that happened at Glen Coe,” Abigail said to divert any further remarks that might be considered defiant. “I am afraid my knowledge of Scotland is more limited than it should be.”

  “’Twas a long time ago,” Shane muttered as he gestured to the men to raise sails.

  “Aye, 1692,” Kyla answered, “but that does nae make murder right.”

  So much for keeping the defiance at bay. Shane had set his mouth in a grim line, a sure sign he wanted to say something but thought better of it. Slowly, Abigail was beginning to read his expressions. “So how did that come about?”

  “’Tis complicated,” Shane said.

  “Nae so much,” Kyla replied. “The damn English—beg pardon, my lady—King William demanded all Highlanders swear loyalty to him and deny the Young Pretender.” She scowled. “The Stuart was the rightful heir to the throne.”

  Shane gave Kyla a steady look, as though he were studying a strange object under a microscope. It almost looked comical, but Abigail thought it better not to laugh. She turned back to Kyla. “Perhaps I do not need the whole history. Can you summarize?”

  “Aye. The laird of the Maclain MacDonalds arrived in Inverary too late to sign his oath of allegiance, As revenge, the damn English—beg pardon—ordered the Earl of Argyll’s army—Scots Campbells—to destroy the MacDonalds. Filthy traitors, the Campbells were—”

  “Enough,” Shane interrupted. “Argyll lands are Border lands. Sometimes the safety of the clan depended on siding with the English. Even the Bruce did that.”

  “Well, everyone kens ye MacLeods have no love of the MacDonalds,” Kyla persisted and looked at Abigail. “Ye will find the Scots have long memories.”

  Shane sighed. “’Twas a long time ago. True, it was nae right for the Campbells to murder their hosts. They broke the code of hospitality for certain. But this is 1816. We must put the past behind us if we are to have peace. And,” he said, glowering at Kyla, “I will remind ye that my wife is English.”

>   Kyla opened her mouth and then snapped it shut. Shane gave her one last look and then moved to take command of the boat, leaving Abigail to smile. Her husband had just defended her.

  She also had the strange feeling she was reliving history—or at least, finally was a part of it. Each day so far had been an adventure.

  Scotland was a land of wonderment.

  Once they’d crossed the loch, Shane arranged for a wagon and two sturdy ponies to take them the rest of the way. Surprisingly, no one except the driver went with them. “No more guards?” Abigail asked.

  “’Tis nae need. We are on MacLean lands now and will have safe passage.”

  A few minutes later, the ponies turned off the main road onto something that resembled a rutted deer path and started to climb. The terrain grew more rugged, the trail dangerously close to drop-offs into rocky ravines. Far below, Loch Shiel glistened. Abigail was beginning to have doubts of how safe this passage was. The wagon swayed as its wheels caught in tree roots and bumped against jutting stones, but Abigail was determined to quell her anxiety

  “’Tis nae much longer,” Shane said as if he’d read her mind. “Highland ponies are surefooted beasts.”

  She nodded and clutched the seat and then, as they rounded a bend, she completely forgot her fear.

  She’d thought what she’d seen so far was wonderful, but Abigail’s mouth dropped as Ian’s estate came into view. It was nothing short of a medieval castle.

  It certainly wasn’t as large as either Edinburgh or Stirling, but evidence it had been a fortress was obvious from the raised portcullis to the thick curtain wall, complete with merlons and embrasures. A wooden bridge spanned what was now a dry ditch but had probably been a moat.

  Abigail craned her neck as they passed through a second gate into an open courtyard—or more accurately, a bailey since she could see stables on one side. Several of Jillian’s prized Andalusian horses that she’d seen when she’d visited Newburn were in the nearby paddock. On the other end of the bailey, several smaller buildings lined the wall.

  The square keep itself was impressive. Built entirely of stone, it stood four stories high with towers on each corner. Merlons and embrasures along the roof’s walkway provided for a second line of defense.

  “These fortifications still look strong enough to defend against anything.”

  “Bonny Prince Charlie landed not far from here,” Kyla said. “The damn—beg pardon—the regent finally had enough sense to let the MacDonald build a monument in Glenfinnan to honor the last rebellion. I think—”

  Whatever Kyla was going to say was drowned out by a chorus of screams and shouts as a wave of bright and varied colors streamed out the big oak door, down the steps and across the courtyard toward the wagon.

  “Shane! Shane!”

  Two strawberry-headed girls about twelve skidded to a stop just short of hitting a wheel. Three women with hair varying from carrot to auburn to raven-black followed them. Five pairs of eyes focused on Abigail as their group fell silent.

  Shane hopped down and gathered the young girls under each arm. “Ye have grown in the wee time I was gone,” he said affectionately. “What has Bridget been feeding ye?”

  “’Tis true they eat like horses,” the older woman with the carrot-colored hair answered, “but ye have nae been gone that long…” She let her voice trail off in a question as she looked at Kyla and then back to Abigail.

  Abigail watched as Shane tried to deter the unspoken question. “Are your uncles about?”

  Momentarily, Bridget frowned. “Nae. Broc and Duncan have gone to Ireland on business. ’Tis been peaceful with them gone.” She turned her attention back to Abigail. “Who is your guest?”

  “Abigail Townsend. Whatever are you doing here?” Jillian walked down the steps carrying her baby daughter and stopped beside Bridget. “This is my sister’s good friend, daughter of the Earl of Sherrington.” Jillian smiled at Abigail. “So your father has finally given you permission to travel?”

  “You might say so,” Abigail answered cautiously, wondering just how Shane would explain what happened.

  “Let me introduce ye,” Shane said. “These are my cousins, Bridget, Shauna—” He nodded toward the russet-haired one and then gestured toward the beauty with the ebony hair. “And Fiona. These bairns—” He gave the girls whose shoulders were still pressed up against his sides a hug, “—are my sisters, Caitlin and Caylin.”

  “We are nae bairns,” the twins said in unison, their expressive green eyes accusing him of extreme insult. “We are near three-and-ten,” one of them added.

  “It is a pleasure to meet all of you,” Abigail said.

  Fiona looked up at her. “Ye live in London?”

  She had the most beautiful eyes Abigail had ever seen. They were pearl grey, much lighter than Shane’s, with just a hint of blue. How to answer her question though since Shane had not yet explained the situation? “Ah…my father has a townhouse there, yes.”

  “Oh. I want to hear all about it. When Mari visited here, she invited me to come to London. I would so love to—”

  “Yes, we all ken ye want to go to London,” Bridget said as Ian joined their group. “’Tis nae the time to be discussing it when our guests have nae stepped down.”

  “And I said I would think on it,” Ian added as he gave Shane a curious look.

  Shane appeared to ignore the look and turned to help Abigail down from the wagon. One of the groomsmen who’d come to get the horses hurried to offer his hand to Kyla who gave him a slanted glance and a furtive smile.

  “I will have a room prepared for you immediately,” Jillian said to Abigail. “I hope you are not in any hurry to return to England?”

  “Ah…no. Actually, I would very much like to stay in Scotland.”

  “Of course. I remember how much you detest the Season,” Jillian answered. “You are quite welcome to stay for as long as you wish.” She smiled warmly at Shane. “It was kind of you to escort her here.”

  “I am nae one to follow London’s Society rules,” Ian said, “but I am wondering why Sherrington would allow his only daughter to travel such a distance in Shane’s company with only her lady’s maid.” He cocked a black brow at his cousin. “Is there something ye wish to explain?”

  Shane looked decidedly uncomfortable and then he took a deep breath. “Aye. It seems I have acquired a wife on this passage. Abigail and I married a fortnight ago.”

  The twins squealed and Fiona’s mouth dropped open while Bridget and Shauna narrowed their eyes speculatively. Even Jillian looked stunned.

  And Ian burst out laughing.

  Shane really didn’t see what was so funny as they made their way across the courtyard and into the hallway with Ian still trying to control his mirth. From the looks Bridget and Shauna were giving him, they didn’t see the humor in the situation either.

  “I am so happy for both of you,” Jillian said once they were seated in the parlor and her maid, Darcy, had taken Kyla to the servants’ quarters. “Although I had no idea the two of you were courting. Mari never said a word.”

  “I dinna ken ye were looking for a wife either,” Ian added, still barely able to control his grin.

  Shane would have taken great pleasure in wiping the smirk off his cousin’s face. Ian knew well enough Shane had had no plans to marry. No doubt he wanted the entire story of how Abigail had succeeded in slipping the parson’s noose over Shane’s head. He glanced over to her. She was pale as an alabaster statue and equally as rigid, sitting stiffly on the edge of a straight-back chair, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. When her big brown eyes met his, he was reminded of a fawn he’d once found caught in a snare. The wee thing had nearly torn its leg off before he could free it.

  Luckily, the twins had been enticed into the kitchen by the smell of freshly baked scones, although Shane doubted that would keep them away for long. He had to come with some sort of plausible story without telling anyone Abigail had stowed away on his ship and he had not recog
nized she was a woman. He would never live that down.

  “We met last fall when I went to London to fetch Mari. We had quite an interesting conversation while I waited for Ian and Jamie to return.”

  “A conversation?” Bridget asked. “About what, pray tell?”

  “We…we discussed Chaucer,” Abigail said quickly. “I was most impressed by Shane’s intelligence.”

  “Aye, Shane is an intelligent one,” Ian replied, trying to restrain from another bout of laughter. “’Twas quite smart of him to keep ye a secret.”

  “Ye could have told us, cousin,” Shauna added, reproach in her voice.

  “Well, I—”

  “It would not be very sensible to propose marriage after just one visit,” Abigail interjected, her voice just a little too high-pitched. “We wanted to be sure we suited first so I decided—”

  “She decided quite rightly that we should spend a wee bit more time together,” Shane said before Abigail blurted out the embarrassing escapade.

  Ian raised a brow. “I thought ye went to France when Jillie and I returned home.”

  His cousin was trying to obtain information Shane did not wish to give. Of course, he didn’t want to discuss the other reason he went to France either. He’d already had to squelch the maid’s waxing on about Bonny Prince Charlie. If certain people found out a Stuart descendent still lived—and who supported him—charges of treason could be filed. Shane had no wish to place anyone in danger.

  Not that he entirely blamed Ian for needling him about bringing back a wife. Shane’s actions were clearly not in keeping with his usual, practical approach to events. From the looks on the women’s faces—curiosity from Fiona, confusion and puzzlement from Shauna and Jillian and suspicion from Bridget—they all wanted a better answer than he was giving.

  “I had a little over a fortnight when I returned,” he said. “It…it seemed enough time.”

  “Yes, quite enough time,” Abigail said, relaxing slightly in her chair. “I was quite sure that Shane was the man for me.”