Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  “This chapel cannot be that old. When was it built?”

  “The cornerstone was laid in 1320.”

  “Then it is a Christian chapel?”

  “Aye, but Scots—as the Celts before them—saw no reason to anger what forces of nature remained. Especially not when a poor harvest might mean starvation for a clan.” He held the door open for her. “Go on in.”

  It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Several short rows of wooden pews on either side formed an aisle leading up to an altar upon which stood a small silver crucifix as well as a brass dish containing incense and three half-burned candles. Christian trappings. A stained-glass window on the eastern wall behind the altar filtered shades of colored light, but what drew Abigail’s immediate attention was the tapestry that hung below the window. She moved around the altar to get a better look. Bloodied bodies lay on the ground while a man astride a huge horse held his sword up in victory. “Why do you have a battle scene hanging in a church?”

  “’Tis nae just a battle scene,” Shane said coming to stand behind her. “’Tis our ancestor, Leod, son of Olaf the Black who conquered these lands.” He leaned forward slightly and pointed. “The crimson and gold banner he holds in his other hand, ’tis our faerie flag.”

  Abigail was concentrating on the warm, male scent of him and she nearly didn’t hear what he said. “Faeires?”

  “Aye. ’Twas said long ago a faerie woman fell in love with a MacLeod. The King of the Faeries was angry she would defile herself with a mortal, but she was adamant the MacLeod would be her lover. The faerie king reluctantly allowed her one year in the mortal world. During that time she bore the MacLeod a son, but unable to raise her child, she left him the flag for protection. ’Tis said it can save our clan three times. ’Tis been used twice.”

  Abigail gave him a long look. Was her handsome, strong husband a bit daft in the head? Perhaps that was why he had not understood her attempt at seduction yesterday? “You. Believe. In. Faeries?” she asked slowly.

  He frowned slightly. “Aye, lass. Ye would be wise nae to mock them.”

  Shane moved even closer and Abigail became lightheaded herself, enveloped by the heady sensation of soap, leather and him. He was just a hair’s breadth away from touching her. Maybe if she leaned into him…

  “There,” he said, pointing to a small group of marigolds next to a tree at the side of the battle scene. “If ye look closely, ye may see her.”

  “Her?”

  “The faerie.”

  Abigail carefully kept her face impassive. It seemed her husband did have a small quirk in his ability to think logically. Mythical beings aside, could scattered thinking be the reason he was so hesitant to come to the marriage bed? Maybe he really didn’t know how to proceed. After all, he had not really answered her question about experience.

  She leaned forward to look at the painting. “I do not think I see her.”

  Shane leaned closer too. “Och, she only appears when she chooses. The flower petals become her hair, the stem and leaves form her body. ’Tis a true blessing when ye see her for it means she will protect ye.”

  “Of course she will,” Abigail said reassuringly.

  “And do ye see a green man’s face in the tree?”

  “I…actually, I do.” She breathed a sigh of relief. At least, the face she could see. As she gazed at it, one of the eyes slowly winked at her and she drew back, startled. Adjusting her spectacles, she peered again. Just a face etched into the tree. Nothing more. Heavens, how could she have thought the face had moved?

  She turned her gaze to the stained-glass window above. An equal-armed cross inside a square inside a circle. Around the lower half of the circle were the Latin words Rosarium Philosphorum. It translated literally to, “The Philosophy of the Rose”. “What an odd phrase for such a window.”

  “’Tis nae so odd if ye ken the symbolism.” Shane gave her an intent look. “The druids, as well as ancient philosophers, were aware of the importance of goddess worship in religion and incorporated astronomy into their teachings as well. Venus, symbol of women and wisdom, makes a complete transit of the skies every forty years following a path that resembles a five-pointed star or five-petal rose. Hence the phrase.”

  “Too bad more men do not recognize women’s wisdom these days,” Abigail said. “They seem to favor silly, giggling girls instead.”

  “Some men doona appreciate intelligence,” Shane replied.

  Abigail felt her cheeks warm. Was Shane giving her a compliment? But when she looked at him, he was studying the window. She followed his gaze. “So how does the cross, square and circle fit in?”

  “’Tis science—what the philosophers called sacred geometry,” Shane answered. “With the angles and curves of these three shapes, anything can be built.” He smiled and pointed at the phrase. “There is another translation of the Rosarium Philosphorum. ‘The key to knowledge and the sum of all things’, since the physical shapes are also symbols of what the mind can learn.” Shane glanced down at her. “Am I boring ye?”

  “Not at all. I am enjoying your explanation.” And she was. Shane was not only speaking to her like an equal, but on matters most men would not think women could even comprehend. Science and symbolism. In a strange way, it all made sense.

  She smiled at Shane. At least, he wasn’t talking about faeries any more.

  Shane looked up at the darkening sky as he mounted his horse later that afternoon. Banks of scudding grey clouds were rolling in. The air had turned chilly and angry waves whipped white spray off Loch Shiel below the castle. He hoped it was just one of the regular sudden storms that formed in the Highlands and it would pass through quickly. The last thing he needed was a late-season blizzard.

  Shane had sent word to Ian’s neighbors, French exiles Andre Picard and Henri Robilliard, that he would be paying them a visit before he returned to Edinburgh. They were secret members of the Priory as well, and Shane wanted to let them how things were going in France. Now, as he rode toward Andre’s holdings, he reflected on how the morning had gone.

  Abigail had been suitably impressed with the stained-glass window and his explanation of the philosophy behind it. Shane had been tempted to go into more detail about how the whole thing was connected to the Priory’s mission, but over the centuries Templars had kept most of their knowledge hidden. The need to do so remained, lest they be accused of trying to overthrow governments and find themselves imprisoned. Of course, symbolic correlations to other missions were more obvious at Rosslyn Chapel—if one truly knew what to look for—but since he was not planning on taking Abigail back with him, there was no need to worry about that.

  Still, Shane found himself wishing he could share those ancient secrets with her. Abigail had the strangest effect on him.

  But then, maybe it was her strange behavior that was having its effect on him. Unlacing her dress last night had distracted him—Jesu, he could still feel the softness of her satin skin and the scent of her drifting up at him—that he’d forgotten her very strange behavior prior to that temptation.

  Did the lass suffer from a physical affliction? The slow gesture with her arm, the lumbering gait of her steps, the odd curl to the side of her mouth? Abigail’s mind seemed sharply intact, but then Shane recalled the measured pacing of her words. She had taken care to enunciate each one, her tone low and strained. Although Abigail seemed to be fine this morning, she’d fallen back to that speech pattern when he’d told her about the MacLeod legend. He had medical books in his library that spoke of such ailments, although they were usually associated with trembling and falls.

  Shane was still mulling over the possibilities when he reined his horse in at Andre’s front gate. A stable boy came immediately to take his horse and he sprinted toward the door as the first cold pellets of sleet began to fall.

  “Beinvenu,” Andre greeted him at the door. “Henri is in the library, pouring snifters of fine French cognac, I believe.”

  Shane grinne
d as he removed his damp plaid and hung it on the rack by the door. “Ye still have nae taste for fine Scots whisky? A wee dram of uisge beatha would do ye wonders.”

  Andre grinned too as he led the way down the hall. “Your breath of life near killed me the time I tried it.”

  “Och, well, if ye stay in the Highlands long enough, ye will get accustomed to it.”

  Having overheard the last remark as they entered the library, Henri asked, “Do we know how long that will be?” He handed the brandy to Shane. “Is there word from Louis?”

  Shane shook his head and glanced toward the door.

  “We can speak quite freely,” Andre said. “I have given the servants the afternoon off. With the storm coming, none of them lingered.”

  Shane sipped his drink. “Remy said Louis is having troubles with his cabinet as well as the church. Pope Pius wants the lands back that Napoleon confiscated.”

  “Certainement. No doubt, the money and power as well,” Henri said. “If the pope were any friend to our cause, he would not have reinstated the Inquisition. He particularly hates the Freemasons and they are imperative to our success.”

  “Do you think the pope’s cohorts will persuade Prince George to join them?” Andre asked.

  “No doubt they will try,” Shane answered, “but England remembers the reign of Bloody Mary. The regent has nae desire to allow any religion—and especially the pope—to rule the land.”

  Henri laughed. “I imagine the church might frown on some of the antics of the royal prince.”

  Shane grinned. “Aye. ’Tis well known he likes more than a bit of revelry, nae to mention bed sport.”

  “For a fairly benevolent ruler, he is barely tolerated in Scotland,” Andre mused.

  “Scots do nae easily forgive five hundred years of English oppression, nae to mention Culloden,” Shane replied, “but what is important now—for us—is that the prince does nae poke his nose too far into Scottish affairs.”

  “Which is why we will continue to serve on this side of the Channel,” Andre said, “much as we would like to return to France.”

  “Aye.” Shane agreed. “Ye are needed here, I think.” He set down his snifter. “I had best be going before the storm gets too bad.”

  “I have a ride of a few miles as well,” Henri said as he stood.

  “I think,” Andre said several minutes later when he opened the door to sharp pellets slicing at him and quickly closed it. “You may be too late. The courtyard is a complete sheet of ice. There is no sense in risking the horses slipping and breaking a leg. I have plenty of room here, although dinner will be simple. The cook left a kettle of stew on, so at least it will be hot.”

  Shane remembered the pot of stew that had not fared so well on his ship. Dinner that night had been cold thanks to Abigail. He shook his head, still amazed he had not recognized the lass.

  Andre looked at him quizzically. “You do not wish to stay?”

  “What? Oh, aye,” he said when he realized his headshake had been misinterpreted. “I will nae risk the horse to slippery roads. I was just thinking on something else.”

  Someone else. Someone with rich chestnut hair and velvet-soft brown eyes. Someone who would be expecting him home. The same someone who would expect him to share her bed. Something he could not do, much as his body was beginning to argue the fact with his mind.

  Perhaps the storm had been a blessing after all.

  Even though Ian had assured her Shane would not attempt to return in the middle of an ice storm and was perfectly safe at the neighbors, Abigail was still glad to see him when he rode into the bailey early the next morning. The skies were leaden and promised more foul weather.

  But Shane had barely taken time to greet her when she asked if he’d broken his fast. Instead, he’d asked Ian to join him in the library. They had been behind closed doors for nearly an hour, and when they emerged, Ian looked grim as he came into the dining room where Jillian and she lingered over tea.

  Abigail looked from him to Shane, who had gone past the door and was climbing the stairs. Jillian frowned, but Ian gave a slight shake of his head. Abigail pushed back her chair and stood. “Excuse me. I think I will join my husband.”

  “Of course,” Jillian answered.

  The door to Shane’s bedchamber was open and when Abigail arrived, she saw him packing. “Are we leaving?”

  “I need to return to Edinburgh before this weather gets worse,” Shane replied. “That shipment of kelp cannae wait forever.”

  Abigail moved toward her trunk. “It will not take me long—”

  “Nae, lass. Ye are nae going.”

  Abigail stared at him. “What? Why not?”

  Shane finished stuffing clothes into a duffle bag and closed it. “I cannae be slowed down by a carriage, lass. The barometer I keep here is falling. I need to get through Glen Coe before the snow closes it in.”

  “I can ride a horse. I promise I will not slow you down.”

  “Two riders are always slower than one.” He picked up the bag. “Besides, I will nae put ye in danger.”

  “But…it could be weeks before that pass opens up.”

  Shane paused and set the bag down, motioning for Abigail to sit. With a sinking feeling, she did as he asked, sitting gingerly on the side of the bed. “You do not want to take me with you, do you?”

  He sighed and sat down beside her. “’Tis better ye stay here where ye have the company of my cousins and Ian’s protection.”

  “My place is with you.”

  “Ye ken I spend most of my life at sea. The ship is nae a place for a woman.”

  “You have a townhouse. I can stay there.”

  “There would be no one to protect ye. Janet returns home to Albert at night. Ye cannae stay by yourself. Ye ken that.”

  Abigail felt her lower lip begin to tremble. She bit her inner cheek to keep from crying. Shane would never agree to let her go to Edinburgh if she acted like a helpless ninnyhammer. “Janet and Albert would be close by. Kyla would stay with me. I could hire a footman or maybe a butler or—”

  “Nae, lass,” Shane interrupted gently and took her hand.

  Abigail frowned, trying not to be distracted by his warm touch. “I want to live with you. We are married.”

  Shane took a deep breath. “In name only, lass. We have already discussed this. I will nae ruin ye.”

  “But I want to be ruined.”

  For a moment, Abigail saw desire burn in Shane’s grey eyes, and then it was gone and he stood.

  “I cannae dishonor ye. ’Tis better I am nae tempted.” Picking up his duffle bag, Shane headed toward the door, then stopped and returned to Abigail. Bending down, he swept a kiss to her forehead. “This is the best thing I can do for ye. Trust me,” he said and then walked swiftly out the door.

  Abigail listened as his footsteps faded into the distance until all was silent. She would not cry. Resolutely, she moved to the window and watched as Shane mounted his horse. He looked up toward their room and she moved quickly back, lest he see her. As she heard the horse’s hooves clattering across the bailey, steely resolve replaced the numbness she had felt. Leaving her with his relatives was the best thing he could do?

  She lifted her chin, recalling a phrase she’d heard but never dared to use.

  “Like bloody hell it is,” Abigail said. “Like bloody hell.”

  Chapter Ten

  The temperature remained just above freezing, keeping both sleet and snow from falling, but the cold, driving rain had Shane’s horse tossing its head and his own plaid nearly soaked. The weather matched his mood though, and he rode like the devil was on his heels, or at least not far behind.

  Why in the world was he running from Abigail? And Shane knew that he was. Even though a shipment of kelp was ready and he needed to get back to France, he still could have waited for this storm to pass. Late-season snow, even if blocking the pass at Glen Coe, usually melted quickly enough. The sad, cowardly truth was he had to put distance between himsel
f and his legally wedded wife.

  Shane welcomed the stinging slap of his hair whipping about his face. He deserved all the discomfort nature could sling at him. Once more, he had caused Abigail emotional pain. You do not want to take me with you, do you? He had heard the vulnerable note in her voice, the uncertainty that he was attracted to her. Silently, he cursed the foolish English dandies who put more stock into flirtatious dimwits with sausage curls and fancy gowns than they did into women with practical intelligence. How many times had Abigail been shunned? The few London events Shane had been forced to attend had given him enough insight toward the quiet, reserved girls who lined the edges of ballrooms simply because buffoons were more interested in flighty lasses.

  “My place is with you.”

  Shane swore as his horse slipped on a patch of mud. There was no cause to put the animal in danger because Shane was fleeing like a recreant. He slowed the gelding to a walk. He needed to collect his thoughts, not let them race wild down a treacherous trail like he’d been doing with the horse. “Sorry, boy,” he said as he stroked the animal’s sleek neck. “I had taken leave of my senses for a wee bit.”

  The beastie snorted, nodding his head as if in agreement.

  If the marriage had not been purely for keeping Abigail from having her reputation forever blighted, Shane would have agreed with her. He had a suspicion she would be an interesting companion—someone who could have an intellectual conversation about literature and appreciate his love of history. Someone who might even understand why the Priory’s mission was so important, if only he could tell her.

  But companion wasn’t what was on his mind. Every time Shane was close to Abigail, his cock reminded him his body wanted her for something other than conversation. He craved her physically—an awareness that had hit like an arrow from a crossbow when he’d undone her laces that evening and struck him like a dirk when he’d so causally brushed a kiss across her forehead. His body had turned to fire and it had taken every ounce of disciplined self-control not to taste her lips and let himself linger there.