“Ye overslept. Shane is waiting for ye downstairs,” Fiona said.
“Good gracious.” Abigail looked at her window where bright sunlight shone through. Usually there was only a pale glow when she rose. “What time is it?”
“’Tis half past nine o’clock,” Fiona answered.
Abigail moved to the dresser where she quickly poured water from the pitcher into a basin to splash her face. In London, only the servants would be astir at this hour, but in Scotland, it seemed everyone rose early. Regardless, Shane’s office opened at nine every morning and she did not intend to ask for favors. “Is he angry?”
“Nae. Shane is slow to anger,” Fiona replied as she moved to help Abigail dress. “He does look tired though.”
“I wonder if there was trouble at the docks last night,” Abigail said as Fiona finished lacing her dress.
Motioning for Abigail to sit, Fiona reached for the hairbrush and gave her a curious look in the mirror. “He did say ’tis why he sleeps on the ship.”
“I suppose the docks are not truly safe at night.” Abigail looked down to smooth a fold in her gown so Fiona wouldn’t see her eyes. She had wondered what excuse Shane had given his cousins since neither of them seemed to find his not spending the nights at home particularly strange. Or maybe they just didn’t question anything he did.
“Since David’s attackers have nae been caught, Shane said he wanted to stay close to the ships.”
Abigail bit her lip, knowing that was not the real reason. But what if Shane was putting himself in danger by trying to avoid their non-consummation of marriage? She gave Fiona a worried look. “What if a group of thieves or cutthroats tries to board though? How can Shane defend himself?”
Fiona grinned, showing the MacLeod dimple. “Ye need nae fear about that. Jamie once told Shane he had arms of iron and fists of steel. Of course…” She giggled. “That was after Shane had sent Jamie’s big sword flying in a match.”
Abigail smiled. She remembered how fond Jamie was of carrying the huge claymore strapped to his back. Mari had quite a time persuading him he could not take it to parties and balls. “But Shane does not carry a sword usually. It gets in the way on board the ship.”
“Aye, but he will have one nearby. A Scotsman is never far from his sword or his collection of dirks.”
“Dirks?”
“Knives,” Fiona supplied as she finished brushing Abigail’s hair and laid the brush down. “There are always one or two on the belt and a small one in the sporran as well as the sgain dubh, which stays strapped to the leg even in sleep.”
Abigail’s ears perked. Really? Shane slept with a knife attached to his leg? She wouldn’t know, since she’d not seen him with his trousers off, although she did remember a black handle sticking out from his hose when he wore his kilt on their wedding day. She could ask him about it—to get the conversational ball rolling in the direction she wanted it to go. Maybe he needed a gentle nudge, just in case he was not experienced. Perhaps if she planted an image in his head of him removing his pants for her, he would—
She gave Fiona a speculative look. Could she answer questions about Shane’s past? “Were Shane and Jamie quite close growing up?”
“Aye. Ian too.”
“What kind of scraps did they get into?”
“The usual I suppose. Fights with other lads over imagined insults.”
“Over ladies too?”
Fiona giggled. “Aye. Lasses were always about.”
“Did…did Shane…er, did he have lots of girls swooning after him?”
“Aye. He is a braw man.” She sobered. “But ye need nae worry. Shane never took to having flings, so doona fash. No lass will be seeking him out with a bairn.”
Abigail blinked. She hadn’t thought about that possibility. Still, Fiona had told her pretty much what she needed to know. Shane would just need a little prodding. If she just could lure him to their bedchamber and lock the door…
“Where did this come from?”
Jarred from plotting a nice fantasy, it took a moment for Abigail to focus on what Fiona was holding in her hands.
“Oh, that is just a rock I found the day I fell at Ian’s. I thought it was rather pretty, so I saved it—and also to remind myself not to be crawling down steep ledges.”
Fiona frowned. “Was it just lying in the road?”
“No. I found it in the pocket of my dress when I got back. I must have done some rolling when I tumbled.”
“Did ye see anyone?”
Abigail hesitated. Should she mention the old woman? The whole idea of an elderly person appearing—and disappearing—in the middle of the road seemed fanciful, even to her active imagination.
“You saw no one?” Fiona asked again.
“Well, I thought I saw someone, but I must have bumped my head pretty hard.” Abigail smiled. “When I looked a second time, no one was there.”
Fiona didn’t return her smile. “Describe the person.”
Abigail knitted her brows. This was going to sound so inane. “All right, but you have to promise not to laugh.”
Her expression still serious, Fiona nodded. “I will nae laugh.”
“Like I said, I think I hit my head. I remember lying on my back, looking up at the sky and suddenly this old woman was there, asking me if I were hurt.”
“Go on.”
Feeling somewhat daft, Abigail decided to continue since Fiona was giving her such an intense look. “My ankle hurt, or at least I thought it did. I might have had a bit of a concussion since I imagined the old woman turning and rubbing it. When I finally got up and walked around, it felt fine.”
“And what did the woman say?”
“Nothing.” Abigail paused. “When I turned around, she was gone.”
“And ye did nae tell us this?”
Abigail felt her face warm. “No. I am sure I imagined the whole thing. I did have a bump on my head.”
“Ye dinna imagine it.”
“What?”
“Ye dinna imagine it,” Fiona repeated.
“Ye—you are saying there really was someone there? Humans do not just disappear, especially elderly ones.”
“Humans may nae disappear,” Fiona said, “but ye saw the Crone of the Hills.”
“The who? I mean, whom?”
“The Crone, a wise woman who has the sight. The old woman lives deep in the forest and is rarely seen since there was some talk years ago she was a witch. She helped Shane find Jillian last fall when she fell into the ravine.” Fiona turned the stone over. “And the Crone gave one of these to Jillian the first time Ian brought her to the castle. Ian said it saved Jillian’s life.”
Abigail refrained from laughing. “How could a stone do that?”
“’Tis a tiger’s eye. For protection.” Fiona lowered the stone and twisted it in the light, reflecting the yellow streak in the brownish stone. “There’s a faerie inside.”
Abigail hoped there was not a serious mental affliction affecting the MacLeod clan. She remembered Shane speaking of their faerie flag and a faerie inside the painting at Ian’s. Now Fiona was speaking of some magical woman who lived in a forest and weaving a tale about Ian believing in faeries too. Ian, of all people. He had always seemed fierce and unrelenting to her.
“Ye need to keep this near ye,” Fiona said as she handed it to Abigail. “The Crone would nae have given it to ye if she dinna think ye would need it.”
Goodness. Next Fionna would probably start talking of curses and prophecies or something. Not wishing to lead Shane’s cousin into the land of delusion, Abigail accepted the stone and dropped it into her pocket.
“We had better go downstairs. I have kept Shane waiting long enough.”
Fiona turned toward the door. “Be sure ye tell Shane about the stone.”
Although Abigail nodded, she didn’t think she was going to tell Shane anything about this whole episode any time soon. The less said to upset the possible fragility of the MacLeod temperament the better
.
Shane paced the dining room as he waited for Abigail, although it was much too small for him to work off any true agitation. He grimaced, suspecting what he felt was anxiety, not anger. Never in his entire life had he had a case of nerves. Not when he’d trained to use his sword and dirk. Not when he’d commanded a naval ship in the war against Napoleon. Not even when he’d battled pirates on his private enterprises. But one wee spectacled lass was practically doing him in.
He’d thought he had things under control. His cousins had accepted—or at least, they hadn’t questioned—his rather weak reason for staying on board the ship at night. Arriving at the townhouse early in the morning to break his fast ensured his young sisters were kept unaware of the arrangements as was the new clerk at the office. When Shane escorted Abigail to work each morning, it appeared they were arriving together, having spent the night at the townhouse.
Shane had also been careful not to spend much time alone with Abigail, especially in a private room. The kiss they’d shared reminded him all too well how attracted he really was to her—and that he’d given his word to her father. Better to avoid all temptation—after all, the original twelfth-century Templars had shunned all avarice and lasciviousness, even to the point of sleeping with candles burning in the common room lest one of them give in to relieving masculine needs in the middle of the night.
Lustful thoughts Shane could force aside—at least when he was awake. But his dreams? How could he control those? And if a Highland faerie had decided to share his home, how could he combat that?
He could almost hear the Crone of the Hills cackling.
The cackling, he soon realized, was his sisters giggling in the hall. Shane quickly sat down and attacked his coddled eggs as the twins accompanied Abigail and Fiona into the dining room.
“I am sorry to be late,” Abigail said a little breathlessly as she sat and accepted a plate Caitlin hastily put together.
“I was a bit late myself,” Shane replied while he took in Abigail’s state of dress. Normally, she looked as prim and proper as a schoolmistress, an image he found oddly intriguing, lending itself to all sorts of fantasies about Abigail literally letting her hair down and loosening the prudish clothes. Fantasies he quickly banished, of course. But today, her hair was not pulled severely back. The pins holding in place were already coming loose. One side of her collar was definitely higher than the other as though the dress hadn’t been properly buttoned. Even her spectacles were crooked, although she adjusted them as soon as she was seated. “I gather ye overslept?”
“I…yes, I did. Hopefully, it will not happen again.”
“I think Abigail was dreaming,” Fiona said with a giggle. “She looked all dazed, almost like she was in a trance.”
Abigail turned pink. ‘I was not in a trance.”
“Pleasant dreams, I hope?” Shane asked. To his surprise, her face turned bright red. What kind of dreams had she had? When she busied herself buttering toast and refusing to meet his gaze, he raised a brow. Surely, she had not had—?
Was it possible his wife harbored the same kind of fantasies he did? Hardly plausible, since ladies were given a refined education and certainly kept protected from carnal lechery—or even the thought of it. His oath to her father was proof of that. Still, Shane had a feeling that all sorts of things might be possible with Abigail. She admitted she’d disguised herself as a boy to sneak down to the wharf for sailboat races. Who knew what other lessons she might have been exposed to? And Abigail read books. Not just lighthearted frippery either. To what extent did her self-education go?
A woman with sexual fantasies—especially one plainly dressed and fastidiously inclined in mannerisms—was almost too much for his mind to absorb, although his lower region sprang into immediate readiness. Luckily, he could stay seated until his wayward appendage decreased in size.
As though lightning had struck him, Shane jolted upright in his chair, nearly dropping his fork. What if Abigail had shared the dream he had last night? He remembered the sparkles that had drifted in the air—and the silvery peal of laugher.
Faeries.
He needed to set sail as soon as possible.
Shane was acting strangely again. Abigail glanced sideways at him as he hurried her along the path toward the docks after breakfast. Luckily, she had long legs and could keep up with him, but he appeared jittery. Although Shane had assured her he was not angry at her being late, the few questions she asked him were met with short, terse answers and he seemed to be avoiding looking at her as well. He was acting as skittish as one of Jillian’s prized colts and Abigail wished now she had done more reading on horse training. By the time they reached the office, she was short of breath, but she made an effort to pitch her voice low as she lightly patted his arm. “There now. Easy. You will be just fine.”
Shane jerked as though she’d applied a red-hot iron to him and stared at her. “What…what do ye mean?”
“Everything will be all right now,” she said soothingly.
His eyes widened slightly. “Now? What…has something changed?”
“In a way,” Abigail said, deciding placating him might be a good idea. “I want to thank you for letting me be a part of your life and dreams.”
He nearly stumbled on a step and stopped abruptly, his expression turbulent. “My …dreams?”
Shane had the look of a man—or horse—about to bolt. Abigail moved in front of him, blocking his path, and ran her hands along his neck and over his shoulders gently as she’d seen Jillian do to a spooked animal.
He gave her an incredulous look. “What are ye doing?”
“Calming you,” Abigail replied, continuing her ministrations since Shane had stilled beneath her touch. “Was your rest disturbed last night?”
His eyes darkened and he studied her intently, as though she were some foreign creature he’d just encountered. “Why do ye ask?”
Goodness, why did he sound so intense? She smoothed her palm against his chest, murmuring softly.
Shane grabbed both her hands in one of his. “Ye must stop this behavior, lass, before someone thinks ye addled.”
Abigail blinked. Addled? Shane thought her addled?
“Why did ye ask about last night?” he said again.
She frowned as he dropped her hands. “Nothing. I just thought if you had slept late too, you might have had disruptive dreams.”
His eyes turned dark again and then he shook his head, as though to clear it. “I need to see to the shipment. The tide ebbs at midday. I hope to set sail then.”
Abigail’s frown deepened as she followed him inside. He certainly had changed the subject quickly. And she thought he hadn’t planned to leave for another day or two. It almost seemed as if he were running away.
But from what?
Richard watched with covert interest as MacLeod and his wife entered the office. The display of one-sided affection on the steps seemed strangely out of place, although what man would be interested in the bitch? She was opinionated and actually wanted to discuss things like politics, which were clearly a male prerogative, even in Scotland. What man wanted a woman around who thought she knew more than he did?
“Are you sure you must leave today?” Abigail asked Shane as she set her reticule on a shelf under the counter. “I thought the kelp had to dry completely.”
“It is dry enough,” Richard replied before Shane could. “This is a new client. If we get his shipment to him a bit early, that will bode well for us.”
Shane nodded. “He is right. There will be cases of wine and brandy to deliver to a second client in London as well. Securing two new clients with one haul is a blessing. Meeting deadlines assures continuing contracts.”
Richard wondered why MacLeod was bothering to explain commerce to a female. “Your husband is correct. Additional clients means additional money, which means additional shopping trips for you.”
Abigail gave him a scathing look. “I do not care to shop.”
He could believ
e that, considering she wore plain dresses with high necks and long sleeves that gave no shape to her. If she had any female assets at all they were well-hidden, not that he was inclined to care. She was too tall and thin for his tastes.
Besides, if Richard played his cards right, it would only take a couple of more trips to these new clients—both of whom had engaged in shady endeavors with him before—and Abigail MacLeod would have no need of fancy clothes. Her husband would be spending his days in Newgate—and using the family’s wealth to secure his release.
“While I am gone, perhaps you could secure a new butler,” Shane told Abigail.
“I will set up some interviews, but it is a very important position. I would want you to approve.”
Richard intervened. “A butler can be the success—or the bane—of a successful household. You really should take the time to find the right person. Mrs. MacLeod is doing an excellent job of filling in at the counter. I can handle the rest.” He ignored the raised eyebrow and skeptical look Abigail gave him. The last thing he needed was Albert returning too soon and discovering deficits.
It was bad enough to put up with the bitch. Her nosing about, asking too many questions and suggesting ways to improve the bookkeeping all put huge obstacles in his path. He’d already created a second set of books—safely hidden—and he was beginning to make a tidy profit off the funds he’d siphoned from some of the smaller ships operating within MacLeod’s shipping line. Richard didn’t think MacLeod’s wife was smart enough to actually figure out what was happening, but he’d much prefer she not be in his way at all.
But how to get rid of her would be a delicate matter.
Chapter Sixteen
“Ye nearly broke a yardarm on this run,” Donald told Shane as the schooner approached the harbor at Le Havre three days later. “’Tis nae like ye to let the sails full out with the kind of following sea we had. Were the fiends of hell off the stern?”
Rogue of the Borders Page 13