Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  Although he was too polite—and honorable—to bring up the subject in front of others, he was letting her know he had no further interest.

  The room suddenly became stifling. Her clothes felt too tight, as though she might suffocate any moment. She needed air—and she wanted nothing more than to run from the room and hide somewhere.

  Deportment took over however. Abigail had been trained by London’s elite, after all. Whether she agreed with all the silly rules, there was a reason for at least some of them. Mustering her inner fortitude, she composed her features, lifted her chin and rose as gracefully as she could, motioning the men to stay seated.

  “If you gentlemen will excuse me,” she said, surprised that her voice sounded calm and collected, “I am not feeling well this morning.” She managed to give a brief nod toward Shane. “Since you will wish to leave on high tide, which, if I looked correctly at the tables in the office, is shortly after lunch, I wish you a safe journey.”

  Amidst a chorus of sympathy for her illness, she turned and walked from the hall. All that boring practice of walking about with a book on one’s head seemed to be paying off. As long as she didn’t turn around, no one would see the tears welling in her eyes. She could—she would—keep her composure until she was safely in her chambers.

  The future had never been more uncertain. Shane and she would have to talk when he returned. Ironically, even though he’d indicated no further interest in her, one question had been answered.

  Shane had proved he definitely knew what he was doing in bed—no doubt through experience with women who had acted just as whorishly as she did.

  And what man wanted a whore for a wife?

  As she reached the stairs, Abigail let the tears flow.

  Abigail confounded him. Shane barely paid attention to Henri and Andre as they made their way to the warehouse, nor did he listen as they asked questions of the fishermen who doubled as warehouse workers when it came to baling their kelp.

  His wife was angry with him. Shane had not ever observed her acting haughty and assuming ladyship airs, not even in the most intimidating circumstances in London society. Yet, when Abigail rose from the table, she had looked and acted every inch an aristocratic noblewoman. The brief glance she’d allotted him was almost scornful. Why? What had he done?

  Not for one minute did he buy her story of not feeling well. She had looked in the bloom of health when she’d appeared in the dining room earlier. Her face bore a becoming shade of pink and her eyes had sparkled—she’d looked every inch a woman who had been thoroughly satisfied the night before.

  Lord, he’d wanted to satisfy her much more. As responsive as Abigail was to his hands and mouth, he could only imagine her reaction to having him buried deep inside her, awakening all her womanly instincts and giving her intense pleasure—as long and as often as she wanted.

  Which was exactly why he’d left her, barely able to walk due to his engorged, painful state. He hadn’t trusted himself to spend the night in that bedchamber, to lie beside Abigail and only hold her close—something he also wanted to do, oddly enough. His boyhood tumbles in the hay with willing milkmaids had been of short duration and later, when he’d decided he preferred paid courtesans to lasses who wanted husbands, those visits had not required a length stay either. But with Abigail—he wondered what it would be like to wake up with her in his arms?

  “What do you think?” Henri asked, breaking into his thoughts.

  Shane started. “Sorry. What did ye say?”

  Andre exchanged a bemused look with Henri. “I think our friend is still reliving last evening.”

  “Not that I blame him,” Henri replied with a grin, “but I was asking if you have established kelp trade with Ireland, given that it must need ash since it produces crystal as fine as France’s?”

  “Aye, even though Ireland can harvest some kelp, it doona have the firths and bays we do,” Shane answered, glad to veer off his wayward thoughts. “My ships in Glasgow make regular runs.”

  His thoughts returned to Abigail as they made their way to the office to collect the paperwork from Richard. Shane didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Even though he’d spent the night on board his ship, he’d made sure to come back to the house before dawn so no one would know he’d been gone. He thought she’d be pleased with that.

  Instead, she had snubbed him. Why?

  Well, well. The high-and-mighty MacLeod seemed to be having a bit of a problem. Richard kept his head down, pretending to be immersed in transferring figures to his ledgers, but his ears were perked.

  “Do what it takes to get those bales loaded,” Shane told Donald, his tone abrupt. “I want to be out of here on the ebb tide, but I need to go back to the townhouse.”

  Donald frowned. “The tide is already turning.”

  “I ken that. This should nae take long.”

  “If you forgot something, sir, I could run over and pick it up for you,” Richard offered, just to see what kind of response he’d get.

  “’Tis nothing ye can do,” Shane all but barked.

  Richard smiled to himself as Shane slammed out the door. Generally, when a man was so foul-tempered, a woman was behind it. Men were fools to let women lead them around by their cocks. Use the bitches, then lose them. That was what worked.

  However, in this case, having his employer ill-tempered fit very well into Richard’s plans. He’d already sent a message with the American captain to his father, Wesley, that the shipment from Le Havre would contain hidden opium powder in the sealed crates of brandy. Not that the drug was illegal, but importing it without declaration and paying taxes was. When Wesley received shipment all he had to do was ask to inspect each crate and viola. The discovery would be made and MacLeod would be arrested. With luck, his ship—and maybe even the shipping line—would be seized. Richard wasn’t exactly sure how the legal process worked in England, but in any event, MacLeod would not be coming home any time soon.

  Which gave Richard enough time to finish siphoning the funds he needed.

  As Henri and Andre took their leave, Shane decided he would go back to the town house before he left to talk to Abigail. Even though the tide was beginning to turn, he didn’t feel right leaving things as they were.

  Leaving Donald to supervise the final loading and securing of bales in the hold, he hired a hack, paying the driver double to take him home at a trot.

  Kyla met him at the door. “What brings ye back?”

  Her tone was just short of impudent, but Shane didn’t have time to address it. “I need to see Abigail.”

  “She is nae here.”

  He ignored the maid, bounding up the stairs. If Abigail were angry enough to have Kyla make up excuses, they would have a heart-to-heart right now.

  Knocking, he didn’t wait for an answer but pushed the door open. The room was empty. Frowning, he raced down the stairs. “Where is she?”

  “Nae here.”

  He felt like a thundercloud about to unleash a bolt of lightning. Something in his face must have warned the maid since she took a small step back and then held her ground. “She went shopping.”

  “Shopping?”

  “Aye. Fiona thought it would make her feel better.” Kyla gave him an accusing look. “Shauna and I agreed she needed to take her mind off ye.”

  “Why would she need to take her mind off me?”

  Kyla shrugged. “’Tis obvious ye did something to upset her.”

  Shane cloaked his frustration. He had no intention of explaining anything to the cheeky woman, nor could he ask if Abigail had actually mentioned what she was angry about, much as he wanted to.

  “Do ye ken when they will return?”

  Kyla shook her head. “They dinnae say.”

  He bit back a curse. He could not afford to wait. The tide had already turned. If they didn’t take advantage of the ebb, it would put them behind hours.

  “Tell Abigail I was here.”

  “Aye.”

  As he left, Shane wonder
ed if the maid would do it. He hoped so, but no matter—he would definitely have a long, private talk with Abigail when he returned.

  It would help, though, if he knew what he had done.

  Abigail was out of sorts at the office the next morning, so she was trying not to be snappish with Richard, but the man was becoming more obstinate and bossy every time Shane was gone.

  Not that she wanted to think about Shane either.

  Kyla had told her, albeit somewhat reluctantly, that Shane had come back to the house to talk to her yesterday. Had he meant to tell her she should pack up her personal things and be ready to be sent back to London when he returned? Their three-month marriage was almost up and Abigail had not convinced Shane that she would make a worthy wife. If anything, she had probably proved just the opposite. What man wanted a wife who couldn’t control herself?

  “If you are not planning to file those papers, then move aside and let me do it,” Richard said irritably.

  Or maybe she was the irritable one. She had been standing in front of the file cabinet for minutes, staring at the wall. Not bothering to turn around to face him, she opened a drawer. “I am sorry. I will get right to it.”

  “If you are not feeling well, you should go home.”

  Abigail didn’t think for a minute Richard was being sympathetic. He just wanted to get her out of the office—his domain. Jacob gave her a questioning look from where he stood by the door, but she shook her head. “I am fine.” Picking up the stack of papers, she realized she had not separated the bills of lading from the invoices from six of Shane’s ships that had put into port recently.

  Closing the drawer, she went to the small table that she used as a desk. She should probably assert her right as Shane’s wife to use the real desk, but she knew Richard coveted that position and it wasn’t a battle she wanted to fight.

  And there was a real possibility she wouldn’t be Shane’s wife for much longer. That was the important battle, and she had to win the war.

  She frowned a little at how crumpled some of the invoices and bills were, the ink faded, while others weren’t wrinkled at all and the numbers were clear and easy to read. Apparently, not all the quartermasters on Shane’s ships were as meticulous as Donald.

  “If you will hand me the ledgers, I will cross check to be sure all these entries have been made,” she told Richard.

  He gave her an incredulous look as though she had just asked him to bring the Scottish Honors down from the castle. “I have already done that. Everything is accounted for.”

  “It would not hurt to have someone else look at the books. I believe Albert always said he—”

  “Albert is not here,” Richard rasped. “Are you questioning my ability?”

  Jacob narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, but Abigail motioned him back. “I am not implying you have a lack of skills,” she said to Richard. “It is just that anyone can make a mistake now and then.”

  “Fine,” he said peevishly and shoved the ledger across the desk. “Look. You will find each and every one of those bills listed in the accounts.”

  Refusing to retort, Abigail forced a smile. “Thank you.”

  Carefully, she checked each entry while Richard glowered at her and Jacob glared at him. If she weren’t in such a captious state herself, she might have found the situation humorous. Clearly, Jacob itched to use his warrior skills on the Frenchman and, though Abigail eschewed violence, she didn’t think she’d mind if Jacob tossed Richard into the murky waters off the dock.

  The entries, as Richard had indicated, were all in order, although it seemed the profits were low once more. She didn’t want to goad Richard further by asking about them or annoy him by going back several months. At least he had allowed her to look at the books and that was a start. Closing the ledger, she returned it. “Thank you.”

  He mumbled something as he quickly put them back in his drawer and then looked up in annoyance as the door opened. However, his expression quickly changed.

  “Fiona. What in the world are you doing here?” Abigail asked.

  “And how did ye get here?” Jacob added.

  “Relax, both of you,” Fiona replied as she removed her bonnet. “George has returned. He has a crutch, but he wanted something to do. I told him to bring me here.”

  “But why?” Abigal asked.

  “I got bored. Shauna is forcing the twins to read and do their sums and I am tired of shopping. I decided I wanted to do something useful, so I thought I would come to the office and help you out.”

  Richard made a strangled sound from his desk and Abigail almost smiled. It would serve the man right to have two women to deal with. Careful to keep her face impassive, she turned to him. “Might I introduce Shane’s cousin, Fiona MacLeod?’ she said, expecting Richard to glare at both of them.

  Instead, he smiled while he rose and gallantly bowed to Fiona. “It is a pleasure to meet you, mademoiselle.”

  Chapter Twenty Two

  It was raining again. Gloomy, leaden skies shot sharp pellets of icy-cold drops that stung as they hit Shane’s face. He’d taken the wheel, giving the helmsman a break from the weather, as the Border Lass beat into heavy seas on her northward passage.

  The weather matched his mood—a phenomenon that hadn’t changed since he’d left Edinburgh heading south to Le Havre a week ago. The heavens remained layers of slate, the oppressive feeling of the low clouds pressing down on him as though they had actual weight. As if the Channel itself recognized the turmoil of his unsettled thoughts, the swells became more and more turbulent.

  He should have stayed in Edinburgh until he’d had a chance to talk with Abigail, even if it had meant a day’s delay in sailing. He should have waited for her to come home. Better yet, he should have gone and found her.

  Should have. Should have. Should have.

  It wasn’t like Shane to second-guess himself, but Abigail affected him in strange ways. His body reacted with an urgent lust he hadn’t felt since he was a green lad offered a golden opportunity in a pile of soft hay with a willing lass. The taste he’d had of Abigail had done nothing to staunch his appetite. It had served merely to whet his desire. Every night, as he tossed and turned in his bunk, images of her swollen, pink folds exposed to him, her soft, white thighs draped over his shoulders, played over again in his head. His mind played tricks on him, the scented heat of her arousal wafting through his nostrils as though she were physically there. With only frazzled sleep, his mood had deteriorated more quickly than the foul weather.

  “Ye want me to spell ye?” Donald asked as he joined Shane on the bridge, the collar of his oiled slicker pulled well up to his ears.

  “Nae, I just took over.”

  Donald squinted at him through the small rivulets of water dripping off the broad brim of his seaman’s hat. “Ye have been out here four hours.”

  Four hours? He had been out in this miserable, drenching cold for four hours? Why had the helmsman not returned? Shane grimaced at his own unspoken question. The man was probably avoiding him as much as the rest of the crew was, even if those nae on watch were using the excuse of staying below to keep dry. Sailors were used to foul weather, but having a foul-tempered captain was not acceptable.

  He had just violated one of his hard-and-fast rules. When on board, attend to the matter at hand. The sea was not forgiving. One mistake—or lack of attention to surroundings—could cost the crew their lives. Shane checked the compass. At least he’d maintained the proper heading.

  “Thank ye,” he said to Donald as he relinquished the wheel. “I’ll go down below and check the charts.”

  And keep to himself so his men could go about their work without glowering interference from him. Tomorrow they would be in Calais. He would tarry only long enough to retrieve the documents being held for him and then sail on to London.

  The Earl of Sherrington and he needed to have a talk.

  The weather broke, the sun sending shafts of light through the scattering cloud banks and Sh
ane’s mood lightened also as the Border Lass entered the port at Calais. His crew had endured a week of rough seas and blustery conditions—not to mention his own frayed temper—and he’d promised them all a week of shore leave once they reached London since Calais was only a temporary stop.

  The atmosphere at Remy’s townhouse was tense when Shane entered the man’s library a short time later. Even Alain, who was usually genial, seemed on edge. “Trouble?”

  “Hopefully, it has been averted,” Remy replied, motioning for Shane to have a chair. “There have been rumors Pius is recruiting the kings of Russia, Prussia and Austria to align with him.”

  “Restoring the Papal states last year was nae enough?” Shane asked.

  Alain grimaced. “The only way true wealth and total power can be restored is through absolute monarchies.”

  “Monarchies amenable to Pius’s control?”

  Remy shrugged. “With the atrocities those kings have forced on their people, perhaps they need someone to pave their way to heaven and not hell.”

  “Louis fears this may come to pass?”

  “Oui. Perhaps not soon, but our sovereign fears if France is pulled into war again—or overtaken—Masons will be persecuted with the same vigor the Templars were.” Remy unlocked his desk and withdrew a metal cylinder. “These documents will be safer in Scotland than here.”

  Shane took it, surprised at how heavy it was. “Where do I take these?”

  “To Dr. Charles Morrison,” Remy answered, “the Duke of Sussex’s physician.”

  The duke was Grand Master since the Prince Regent’s other brother had resigned. Shane had heard of Morrison. The name had been spoken at some of the Templar rituals held under the auspices of St. Stephen’s Lodge in Edinburgh. The man was in the process of collecting historical papers. What better place to hide a document than in practically plain sight?