Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  The rooms on the third floor were no longer empty either, having been furnished fairly quickly to accommodate Shane’s sisters and cousins, as well as Kyla. Although servants generally had rooms on the fourth floor, Abigail decided she wanted the master bedchamber there to ensure privacy. What man could resist the huge Chippendale four-poster bed that took up most of that room? Kyla had helped her pick it out, including the lush, overly thick feather mattress, and hinted at all sorts of lewd behavior that could take place in a bed that size.

  And, just in case Shane really was not experienced—Abigail was beginning to consider that a real possibility since he had not confessed to any affairs—she had purchased a very naughty painting of a partially naked Venus to hang above the bed.

  A thrill of excitement coursed through Abigail at the possibilities of that enticing picture—and privacy—would afford. With all his relatives about, Shane couldn’t possibly take to sleeping on the sofa in the library and sooner or later, Abigail would wear him down.

  Sooner would be better, though, especially since a month had already gone by.

  The rain had begun again, coming in hard with sideways bands of merciless pounding. Its sharp slashing forecast another strong storm surging from the North Sea. Shane was soaked to the skin in spite of the oiled foul-weather gear he wore.

  The crew looked as disgruntled as he felt. They had been beating to windward the entire passage, enduring not only a pitching ship, but regular drenching of cold water as waves sloshed over the bow and down the deck. Several days of jerky and hard biscuits for meals had done nothing to improve tempers either. Even in the Firth, the sea was still lumpy, making docking hazardous. To make matters even worse, he hadn’t remembered to ask Remy and Alain to send a man to Le Havre to check out Richard Reneau.

  All Shane wanted now was a hot bath and a hot meal and solitude.

  A muted cheer went up from his crew as dockhands secured lines, bringing the boat alongside the pier without damage. Shane watched as his men quickly finished their tasks and raced down the gangplank like drowned rats deserting a ship. At least the ship was not sinking.

  He walked to the office and stood to the side while the crew collected their pay. The new clerk seemed to be handling things efficiently, although Shane noticed Albert wasn’t moving as fast as he usually did. After the last man had disappeared down the road to a nearby tavern, Shane laid the check for the kelp shipment on the counter.

  “Ye are looking a bit peaked,” he said to Albert.

  “I have nae been feeling so well,” Albert admitted. “’Tis probably something I ate the last day or two.”

  “Doona let Janet hear ye criticize her cooking,” Shane warned.

  The older man grinned. “I have nae been married for thirty years to not ken that.”

  Shane laughed and bid Albert take care. Since he was already sopping wet, he decided to walk the few blocks to the townhouse, both to get his land legs back and to keep from making a mess in any hired hack.

  He slowed his steps when he passed the public house where his crew was no doubt on their third or fourth dram by now, and then he picked up his pace. On occasion—such as a particularly harrowing journey—he did join his men for a round, but today he just wanted to go home. Janet was an excellent cook, and by the time he’d soaked in a hot hipbath, she’d have something warm and invigorating waiting for him—and then he could retire to his library for that blessed dram of good whisky.

  “I am bored,” Caitlin complained, slumping in one of the parlor chairs.

  “Me too,” Caylin added.

  Fiona walked to the window where rain beat in steady rhythm against the panes and the low, leaden sky only held promise of more to come and sighed. “Will it ever stop raining? We have been cooped up for days.”

  Shauna looked up from her embroidery. “It rains in Glenfinnan, too, so stop complaining.”

  Fiona gave her sister a reproving glare. “The storms there blow through quickly though and then the sun shines. We cannot even go shopping with this downpour.”

  “Have ye nae done enough shopping with the house furnishings?” Shauna asked.

  “That was fine,” Fiona answered, “but we have nae had time to do any personal shopping. I want to see what the dressmakers have to offer.”

  “And ye will soon enough.”

  “But what can we do now?” Caylin asked, slumping in the chair opposite her twin. “The footmen dinna think our prank was funny this morn and Kyla scolded us.”

  “As well she should,” Shauna replied and returned to stitching. “’Tis nae funny to put mud inside their boots.”

  Caitlin giggled. “But there is so much mud right now.”

  Abigail shifted in the corner of the sofa where she’d been curled with a copy of Pride and Prejudice. She’d read it several times, but Mr. Darcy never failed to intrigue her. Something in his character reminded her of Shane and she wondered, for the umpteenth time, who the author was who’d written it.

  She closed the book with a sigh. Cold, dreary days with a blazing fire in the hearth—and perhaps a cup of hot chocolate—were perfect for reading a good book, but obviously thirteen-year-old girls didn’t see it that way. Neither did Fiona. Abigail was tempted to tell her London was grey and foggy much of the time, but she decided that could wait.

  “I think we could all use some action,” Abigail said as she put her book on the table. “Would you like to play a game of charades?”

  “Yes,” the twins shrieked in unison, both of them jumping up.

  Fiona nodded. “That would be fun. Mayhap Kyla would like to join us? She always has fun ideas.”

  Abigail refrained from rolling her eyes. Kyla’s ideas of fun ranged on the border of risqué, to say the least. “We can see if she is busy.”

  “Perhaps we should ask the footmen as well,” Shauna remarked as she put her embroidery loop aside and gave the twins a stern look. “To make up for your shenanigans earlier.”

  Fiona dimpled. “I am sure Kyla would like that.”

  Abigail was sure Kyla would too, although how the maid managed to keep the trio from engaging in fisticuffs over her flirtations, Abigail didn’t understand—although she had been watching with more and more interest. Perhaps she could learn a thing or two to use on Shane.

  It never hurt to be prepared.

  By the time Shane reached the townhouse, he was having second thoughts about having not hired a hack. The rain had turned to sleet and the icy shards struck his face like so many tiny needle pricks. He pulled the collar of his weather gear up, wishing he had a heavy wool tartan instead.

  Wearily, he climbed the steps, used his key to unlock the door and then stepped inside. He had no more than shut the door when male laughter and female giggling assailed him. The sounds seemed to be coming from the parlor. As he moved toward that room, he was nearly knocked over by two blurs that swept past him, shouting and shrieking. It took a moment for Shane to realize they were his sisters.

  What in the world were they doing here? He proceeded to the doorway and then stopped, aghast.

  The parlor was full of people, including his wife. Abigail’s hair had come loose, dangling in wild array about her flushed face. She had one leg in the air as though she were mounting a horse—a pose that exposed both ankle and calf to the gaping footmen—and she was flapping her arms as though she were going to take flight any minute.

  “What the devil is going on?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Caught off-balance—literally—by her husband’s huge, bedraggled frame filling the doorway, Abigail nearly toppled over, only managing to save herself by doing a less-than-graceful fouetté and finishing the unintended spin by lurching forward in a series of minute steps to slow her momentum. All of which brought her within a foot of her glaring husband.

  The frown on his face changed to an expression of incredulousness. “What exactly was that?”

  “An attempt not to fall over.” Abigail pushed her spectacles back and futilel
y tried to smooth her gown.

  His expression did not change. “And the…movement before that? I was unaware any human has tried to fly since Icarus.”

  She furrowed her brow. “Of course I was not flying. I was riding Pegasus.”

  “I see.” Taking her arm, Shane guided her toward a chair. “Perhaps ye should sit down and rest.” He leaned over her, causing her to more or less fall into the chair, and whispered, “Shall I call a physician? Is there some medication ye need?”

  “Of course not. There is nothing wrong with me.”

  “Of course not,” he repeated soothingly, as though speaking to an extremely distraught child.

  Abigail widened her eyes in comprehension. Shane thought she had a condition? “We were playing charades. The twins were bored.”

  At the mention of his sisters, Shane seemed to become aware of the others still in the room. He straightened slowly and looked about. The footmen were sidling toward the door, but Kyla gave him an unabashed look. Abigail hoped the maid would not choose this time to defend herself. Shane looked anything but amiable.

  His gaze settled on Shauna. “Ye are the least barmy of those present,” he said, “so mayhap ye can tell me why I come home to find near all my relatives here as well as half of Ian’s housemen?”

  “’Tis three, nae half,” Kyla muttered.

  Shane ignored her and folded his arms across his wide chest. “Well?”

  “What does barmy mean?” Abigail asked.

  “It means mad. Insane,” Kyla offered.

  “Silence!”

  Kyla lifted her chin and sniffed. “Well, it does,” she said cheekily before she swept out of the door.

  “I am waiting,” Shane said to Shauna.

  “You think I am mad?” Abigail asked.

  “Nae now, lass.” Shane began to pace. “We will discuss your problem later.”

  “My problem? What problem? I can assure you I am quite lucid.”

  He stopped and raised one eyebrow questioningly, looking unconvinced. “We will discuss it later, lass.”

  “She is actually nae a lass any longer,” Fiona said from where she stood near the hearth. “She is your wife, and that is why she is here.”

  Abigail cringed. Although she had explained the annulment to all of them, she had not been specific about what went on—or did not go on—behind closed doors.

  Shane turned his stormy gaze on Abigail, letting her know this conversation was not over, before he looked back to Shauna with a piercing glare. “What kind of stories did my wife spin to get Ian to agree to this lunacy?”

  Shauna shrugged, apparently used to Highlanders’ tempers. “Ian was nae pleased with your idea to leave your wife at Glenfinnan when her home is here in Edinburgh.”

  Shane folded his arms across his chest again. “And did my cousin decide he was tired of all of ye as well?”

  “Ian was nae tired of us,” Fiona protested.

  “Abigail felt your sisters should live with you,” Shauna said calmly, as though sparks were not flying from Shane’s eyes. “I offered to come along to oversee them until they adjusted to their new home.”

  “And I wanted to see Edinburgh!” Fiona added.

  “Of course ye did,” Shane answered, obviously making an effort to remain civil. “Who else is living here?”

  “Just the footmen Ian sent along. All three are trained in weaponry,”

  “And Kyla,” Fiona said, “although she was saying we probably need another maid. Maybe two. And a butler as well.”

  “Kyla suggested that, did she?”

  “It was just a suggestion,” Abigail intervened quickly, “but poor Janet is a bit overworked at the moment. However, we—I—refrained from making that decision until I had a chance to speak to you.”

  Shane looked around the room, seeming to notice the changes in the décor for the first time. “It seems there were other matters ye took into your hands.”

  “Do you not like it?”

  “’Tis nae the point.” Shane ran a hand through his still-wet hair and walked to the door. “We will discuss all of this later. Right now, I am going to soak in the hot-water tub behind the stove and thaw out.”

  “The tub has been moved,” Fionna said.

  Shane stopped in the doorway. “What? Why would ye move a tub from behind the stove where it keeps the water warm?”

  “Since we have footmen to carry the water, we thought it would be good to have hipbaths in each bedchamber,” Fiona replied. “It really has been heavenly.”

  Shane sighed. “Fine. If the tub has been moved to the back room where I keep my clothes, I will go there.”

  “Oh, your clothes are not there,” Fionna said, a dimple beginning to form. “They have been moved, along with the tub, to your bedchamber on the fourth floor.” Her smile widened. “It is the only chamber on that floor.”

  Shane turned his head toward Abigail slowly. His eyes darkened, but she didn’t think she read anger in his gaze—it was more of a smoldering look—and then it was gone. He turned without a word and walked out the door.

  It seemed every room on the third floor had been furnished as well. When had his conniving little wife had the time to do all this? She must not have wasted any time after he left for Edinburgh to convince Ian to go along with her mad plan.

  Shane truly was going to plant Ian on his arse the next time he saw him. He thought he could count on his cousin. Had Ian not realized Abigail would be much safer at the old castle than in a city? Had Ian not understood the complications of a sham marriage? Had Ian not realized how much easier it was going to be to seek an annulment if Shane were not living with Abigail?

  Shane swore as he reached the fourth floor. Ian had understood. He just had not agreed since he was besotted with Jillian. Shane didn’t blame him for that. Jillian was a wonderful woman. So was Abigail. But Abigail deserved someone who would be home, someone who would be a father to bairns, not a sea wanderer. Certainly not someone whose Templar background also put him in danger of being caught by factions who did not agree in restoring rightful kings to thrones. That was what Ian did not understand.

  Opening the door to the bedchamber, Shane stopped half-way through and gaped. The room looked like a strange mix of stalwart hunting lodge and French boudoir. A solid oak table with two chairs was placed next to a window covered with corded draperies in deep-forest green. The rest of the furniture was heavy and solid too, done in black walnut, intricately carved with what looked like Celtic designs. Contrasting with masculine furniture was an ivory brocade chaise near the hearth that had a MacLeod tartan tossed over the back. But what completely held him transfixed was the massive four-poster bed with its red satin spread—and the picture of a half-naked Venus, breasts fully exposed, taking up most of the wall above the headboard.

  Saints in Heaven. What had gotten into Abigail?

  As if he’d summoned her, she slipped up behind him, giving a tiny shove that got them both through the door before she closed it.

  “Do you like it?”

  Shane opened his mouth, closed it and then made another effort to speak. “It is…different.”

  She beamed. “I wanted something different.”

  “I would say ye were successful then.”

  “The merchant told me men liked heavy, dark furniture rather than Hepplewhite or Chippendale. He really was very helpful in explaining how the dark wood felt masculine. I wanted something you would be comfortable with.”

  “Ah…thank ye for thinking about me, but—”

  “Do you like her?” Abigail asked, looking pointedly at Venus.

  “Ah…it is a rather unusual painting.”

  “For the parlor maybe, but not for a bedchamber.”

  “Did the shopkeeper sell ye that too?” Shane had a sudden image of the very helpful clerk conversing about bed play and found himself clenching a fist.

  “Oh, no. I picked that out myself.”

  “Where…where did ye find it?”

  “I
n an art gallery, of course. It is a copy of something Canova did. They had others. I could get more.”

  “Ah…no. I think one is quite enough.”

  Abigail tilted her head, studying the reclining pose and then glanced at the ivory chase. The seeming trend of her thought sent a jolt through Shane, straight to his groin. Good heavens. She wasn’t thinking…

  “I suppose you are right. Too many pictures and poses would be confusing. We should just keep things simple.”

  “Simple?”

  “Yes.” Abigail turned to him with a strange gleam in her eyes. He was truly beginning to wonder if she did have an affliction of some sort.

  “What is it?” he asked cautiously.

  “The footmen will be bringing the hot water almost any minute now. You should take off your clothes.”

  “What?”

  “Your clothing. You cannot have a proper bath without removing your clothes.” Abigail said the words slowly, as if speaking to a dim-witted child, which Shane was beginning to think he was—at least, the dim-witted part. “I will take off my clothes once the water has arrived.”

  “Well, all right.” Abigail moved to the dresser, picked up a washcloth along with bar of soap and seated herself by the window.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Waiting.”

  “For what?”

  She gave him a sympathetic look, as one might a simpleton. “I intend to give you your bath.”

  “You what?” Merciful Christ, he was beginning to sound like a daft fool.

  “Your bath,” Abigail said patiently. “Maids often do it, but we have a shortage of maids and I did not think you would want Kyla—”

  “Great God! No.”

  “Good. Then it is settled.”

  Shane gave her a wary look. “Something about this whole conversation is verra unsettling, lass.”

  Tilting her head slightly, she considered and then nodded. “I suppose it is. Well, then, we will just get to the heart of it. No need to tarry.”