Rogue of the Borders Page 15

  “I would appreciate that,” Shane replied.

  “Considerate it done.”

  “Thank ye. While I am here, tell me how the king fares.”

  “About the same,” Alain said. “The pope continues to take a hard line on Masons. We are all but declared heretics.”

  Shane grimaced. “Because we believe people should be free to worship as they choose?”

  “The idea of common people being able to communicate to God without intervention through the bishops does not set well.”

  Remy laughed. “Especially when it results in less contributions to the Church.”

  “True,” Alain agreed, “but there are also rumors—probably started by the Chambre, that Louis spends money that should be going to the people. The war was costly and made paupers of many.”

  “Aye. Britain fares the same, although the prince, as Regent, has nae borne the brunt of it. At least nae yet.”

  Alain sighed. “There will always be unrest. All we can do is continue on.”

  “Aye, continue on.”

  The phrase resonated with Shane as he left and he wondered if it lingered in his mind because of the Templar mission or because of Abigail.

  Two days later, with excellent winds off the quarter, Shane docked the schooner at a wharf on the east side of the Thames across from the Isle of Dogs. He normally used the Deptford pier, but Padget had assured him the client preferred to stay on the East Side. The area was not as safe given its proximity to the tenements and slums that had sprung up, but the shipment was paid for. All Shane had to do was declare his goods at the custom house. Once the liquor had been inspected, the cases could be unloaded and he could move the boat to a better location for the night.

  As he went down the gangplank, he noted his crew had belted their swords on in addition to the various knives each carried. Donald had strapped a musket to his side as well. Shane smiled and adjusted his own scabbard. There was no real worry of any attempted boarding in broad daylight, especially with constables patrolling the quay, but their own weapons would serve to remind cutthroats lurking about that the Border Lass was a ship best left alone.

  Shane had barely completed the paperwork and paid the taxes when he was informed the client had a wagon outside, ready to load. That was somewhat surprising since usually a runner had to be sent or the goods would be unloaded to a temporary warehouse. Maybe the man was really thirsty.

  The client pacing impatiently on the quay in front of his ship reaffirmed Shane’s thoughts about the thirst. He signaled Donald it was all right to begin unloading and approached the man. “Mr. Avery? Walter Avery?”

  The man stopped and gave him a sharp, piercing look. “Yes. Are you Captain MacLeod?”

  “I am.” Shane started to hold out his hand, but Avery walked away to supervise one of his men.

  Vaguely, the man reminded Shane of someone else. He was fairly sure they had never met. As he watched Avery directing his workers, Shane contemplated. The man was about the same age as Padget, although he sported no grey streaks in his dark brown hair. The hair was overly longish and in need of a trim, as were the mustache and beard. His clothing did not appear to be of quality stock and his boots were scuffed. Overall, he had the appearance of a servant, although his accent bespoke an education. Why would a man who could afford caseloads of French cognac appear so shoddy? He looked like he could blend in with the unscrupulous souls who occupied the East Side.

  Something seemed off, but who was Shane to judge? The shipment was paid for. Perhaps the man was a bit down on his luck. Maybe he worked in a public house somewhere and was only taking delivery of the liquor for an employer. The post-war recession had hit London particularly hard.

  Avery turned back to him once the last case had been loaded and held out his hand. “I will look forward to the next shipment.”

  It was only as Shane shook his hand that he noticed how pale and soft it was—almost like a woman’s.

  This was not a man who labored for a living, regardless of how he dressed and how rough he looked.

  Shane watched the wagon roll away with an uneasy feeling.

  The strange feeling had not left him when he rang the bell on the Earl of Sherrington’s townhouse the next afternoon. He intended to ask Townsend if he’d ever heard of the man.

  A white-gloved, liveried footman opened the door and an immaculately clad butler, complete with starched, snowy cravat, greeted Shane in the foyer. He had a moment of misgiving, hoping Abigail wouldn’t go so far as to expect a Scottish butler to dress as though he were attending a grand ball. Shane grinned, imagining what the response would be if Ian’s footmen were required to wear livery, let alone white gloves.

  The footman gave him a quizzical look and Shane realized no one had given him a cause to laugh. He sobered, knowing gossip spread amongst the servants below stairs faster than a trashcan fire in the street. Abigail’s reputation need not be sullied by servants thinking she’d married a daft Scot.

  With impeccable manners, the butler gave him a formal nod. “This way,” he said, as thought he’d not noticed anything amiss. “The earl is expecting you.”

  To Shane’s surprise, Sherrington wasn’t alone. George Campbell, the Duke of Argyll, rose from his chair as Shane entered.

  “Your Grace.”

  “MacLeod.”

  Sherrington raised an eyebrow. “You two know each other?”

  “We do,” the duke replied, giving Shane a speculative look. “Since some of my lands lie close to Glasgow, I often use the MacLeod ships.”

  Shane caught the warning. Campbell walked a fine line being a Scottish lord who also carried an English title. Not only was he a member of the House of Lords, he was also one of the Brethren, working within the auspices of the Scottish Rite. Some felt he would be Grand Master one day. Most importantly, though, he understood there was an important mission of which he was only partly privy to.

  A fact Abigail’s father knew nothing about.

  “I hope your lady wife is well?”

  Campbell grinned since he always seemed delighted to talk about his wife. “She gives me not a moment’s peace, but I find I quite like her company.”

  Abigail didn’t give Shane a moment’s peace either. And apparently, she’d somehow piqued the faeries’ interest in keeping him on the edge of madness. He’d dreamed of her again last night, only this time another man—whose face he couldn’t see—lured her away. Shane had run after them, determined to pound the bastard into oblivion, only to awaken entangled in sheets and punching his pillow.

  “I probably do not have to explain that to you, though, since you are recently married yourself,” the duke added.

  Shane gave Abigail’s father a quick glance. Obviously, nothing had yet been said about an annulment. Which, of course, was only proper. To protect her from any scandal, Abigail should be the one to denounce him when the time came.

  If it came. More and more, Shane was beginning to doubt Abigail would agree to do it. He had planned to talk to the earl about that problem, but it would have to wait.

  “I am sure you miss her when you are at sea,” the duke continued. “I doubt I could leave Caroline for any length of time.”

  In a strange way, Shane realized he did miss Abigail, even if she did have some rather peculiar traits. Things like the way her voice changed, sounding somewhat like a sick frog croaking as her movements suddenly slowed, causing him to wonder if she was going to topple over. Then there were the strange little slaps she’d applied to his arm outside the office—not that they hurt—before she began muttering to herself and rubbing her hands on him. Jesu! If they hadn’t been standing on public steps in the middle of the morning, he’d have thought she was attempting to entice him.

  Perhaps the faeries were at work again?

  “Of course, women do not belong at sea,” Abigail’s father said, bringing Shane out his musings.

  “Aye. They doona,” Shane said, wondering if he were making sense at all.

&nb
sp; “I am sure MacLeod has been staying busy—very busy—seeing to all his accounts,” the earl added, giving him a direct look. “You probably have not been able to spend much time at home, have you?”

  Well, that message was clear enough. Abigail’s father was asking if his daughter was still a virgin. Shane bristled. He’d made a vow, even if it seemed the entire realm of faeries had suddenly decided to get involved in having him break it. “I have been gone quite a bit,” he replied, wondering if the earl would use that as the reason for the annulment. “Presently, my cousins and my sisters have joined Abigail in Edinburgh.”

  Shane thought the earl looked relieved and decided it was time to change the subject.

  “I did gain a new client here in London. Do either of ye ken a businessman named Walter Avery?”

  Campbell frowned. “What does he do?”

  Shane told them of his encounter. “’Tis strange for an owner of a public house to be buying expensive brandy.”

  “And so much of it,” Sherrington said.

  “Especially off the East End,” Campbell added. “The clubs all take deliveries much closer in, so I doubt he works for one of them.”

  As unkempt as Avery had looked, Shane doubted any of the private clubs would have allowed him entrance even at the back door.

  Walter Avery, it seemed, was another mystery.

  Unlike the favorable weather conditions in which Shane had sailed southward, the passage back was rough. Shifting winds, confused seas and continuous tacking had made the journey twice as long as it usually took. Pelting rain had not helped the mood of his crew either. Twice he’d had to intervene to prevent a fight from breaking out—and that was before the cook took ill and they’d had to resort to cold rations again. For most of the last two days, his men had maintained a surly silence.

  With the boat closing in on the home dock, Shane breathed a sigh of relief. ’Twas good to be home. He’d given some thought to his conversation with Sherrington regarding his lengthy absences. Two months had already passed. Surely Shane could hang on to his sanity—and his urges—for another few weeks.

  The blunt truth, though, was he wasn’t sure he wanted to. He wasn’t even sure he wanted the annulment either. Knowing Abigail was here, waiting for him, was surprisingly comforting, especially after dealing with fractious, disgruntled sailors for days on end.

  Not that Sherrington had given any indication of being willing to change the terms of their agreement. In fact, he’d mentioned it would be good to have Abigail home again, supervising his staff as she had done before. Shane thought the household quite well run as it was, but he knew the earl had become overly protective of Abigail after her mother’s infamous demise. Shane also had a sneaking suspicion the man missed his daughter as well.

  Still, Shane was looking forward to an intellectually stimulating conversation with Abigail later, maybe in front of a warm fire in the library—after he’d had one of Janet’s good, hot meals.

  “Cleat the line properly,” Donald bellowed at one of the sailors who had sloppily secured it with one loop. “And ye two,” he said, pointing at crew members about to scurry down the gangplank. “I see the sheets have nae been coiled!”

  Shane sighed. Perhaps he needed to focus on the task at hand.

  Thirty minutes later, when all had been properly secured on deck and the near-mutinous men had gone off to the nearest tavern, he picked up the paperwork and headed toward his office.

  “Was the trip as profitable as you expected?” Richard asked as he entered.

  “Aye,” Shane answered, thinking at least the business end had gone well. “I wondered about the London client, Avery. What do ye ken of him?”

  Richard’s eyes shifted slightly and he shrugged. “I know nothing of him. Mr. Padget simply said he had a client needing cognac delivered.” He studied the papers Shane had given him. “I see you received another order for kelp. Do you have any idea how long it will take to have ready?”

  “I will need to check with the fishermen,” Shane replied and looked around. “Is my wife nae here?”

  “She left early.”

  “Unless ye need to go over some things, I will be heading that way myself.”

  “No, sir. Everything is under control. I will see you in the morning.”

  As Shane walked home, he wondered about Abigail leaving early since it was just past lunch—which reminded him he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in several days. Mayhap she was having Janet prepare something special? Then he shook his head. The faeries must have taken command of his common sense as well. Abigail had no idea of when he was due back.

  As he turned onto Moray Place and his townhouse came into view, Shane thought again of how good it was to be home.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Something was wrong. As soon as Shane stepped inside the foyer, he could sense it. None of the footmen were present. A wet Macintosh hung from the coat stand, water dripping onto the tile, forming small rivulets of mud where the floor had not been swept. Down the hall, he could hear the clatter of pans from the kitchen and the smell of something burning.

  As he walked past the dining room, he almost bumped into the wall in surprise. Caitlin and Caylin were sitting—quietly—parchment in front of them and quills in hand, while Shauna read to them from Sir Walter Scott’s Waverly. Not that Shane’s sisters shouldn’t be learning about the effects of the last uprising, but that they were studying anything, let alone quietly, amazed him.

  “I see someone has finally taken the two of ye in hand,” he said from the doorway.

  Both girls started, dropping their quills and looking at him with rounded eyes as their faces drained of color.

  Jesu. What had he said?

  “Abigail thought it best the twins learned some decorum,” Shauna said as she motioned for them to pick up their pens. “And I quite agree. They’ve been acting like street urchins for too long.”

  Shane raised a brow as neither of his sisters protested, meekly picking up their writing utensils and finishing whatever sentences they’d been working on. However, Caitlin’s hand shook. Something was definitely wrong.

  “I agree ’tis time the twins took an interest in book learning, but is there some reason Abigail decided to start those lessons now?” He noticed both of them stilled, although neither looked up.

  Even Shauna looked uncomfortable. “Ye need to ask Abigail. I think she is in the kitchen with Fiona.”

  In the kitchen? After the disaster on his ship with the stew, Abigail had confided she had limited knowledge on preparing meals. And Fiona was not known to take an interest in cooking either. Were they taking lessons from Janet? “I will do that.”

  Janet was nowhere to be seen when he reached the kitchen. From the various pots, pans and plates that covered every counter, it was evident she hadn’t been present for some time. Fiona was peeling potatoes, or at least attempting to. Shane winced as she wielded a rather sharp knife—albeit it a small one, thankfully—at an offending piece. Abigail stood by the table, her hands in a large bowl of flour, most of which was forming a white cloud around her. She looked up, her face smudged as she pushed a strand of hair away from her face, leaving a white streak. Shane’s mind—or maybe it was the faerie who seemed in control of his thoughts—wondered if that was how Abigail would look when her hair turned grey. It was somewhat appealing…

  “I…we did not expect you today,” Abigail said, wiping her hands on an apron that also contained spots and stains from other endeavors.

  “Obviously.” A large kettle had boiled over on the stove, which accounted for the burning smell he’d encountered earlier. Shane moved toward it, hesitating before looking over its rim. He thought the contents might have been stew, but he wasn’t sure.

  “What in the world are the two of you doing in the kitchen? Where is Janet?”

  Fiona looked at Abigail uneasily. It wasn’t the same look of terror the twins had shown, but it was close. “What the devil is someone nae telling me?”

&n
bsp; “Perhaps you should sit down,” Abigail said, gesturing toward a chair, flour floating in the movement’s wake.

  Cautious, Shane slid the chair back from the table, not wanting to look like Father Time from the billowing flour. “Do I need a drink?”

  Abigail brightened. “An excellent idea.” She moved to one end of the kitchen and retrieved a half-empty bottle of whisky from somewhere behind the stacked dishes.

  A bottle, he noticed, that was also open. His mouth almost dropped when Abigail poured a healthy portion in each of three glasses and handed him one, leaving flour-encrusted fingerprints on it. He widened his eyes as she and Fiona both took good swallows without grimacing. Jesu. He drained the contents of his glass in one gulp and waited.

  Abigail took another hefty swallow. “Janet had a bit of an accident.”

  “What kind of accident?”

  “She fell down the stairs and fractured both wrists.”

  Shane frowned. “How did that happen?”

  “She came out of the front bedroom and startled Johnny and George while they were brandishing their swords upstairs,” Fiona supplied.

  Shane eyed the whisky bottle. Perhaps one more? Resolutely, he turned away from it. “And why were trained men indulging in sword play in a hallway?”

  Abigail looked at the bottle too and then sighed. “Well, the twins…” she began.

  When she finished telling the story, Shane shook his head. “Let me get this straight. Because of a prank, my housekeeper cannae work and two guards—warriors who Ian considered his best—managed to slice each other and break their legs and ankles as well?”

  Abigail shook her head. “Not both. George broke an ankle. Johnny broke a leg.”

  “By the saints! I’ve heard of fewer injuries on a battlefield.”

  “They were trying to cushion the fall for Janet,” Fiona said, “and the doctor said the sword slashes didn’t cut any muscles.”

  Jesu. He’d contended with a crew just short of mutinous on a stormy passage and now he came to a home in shambles and trained swordsmen who had acted like green lads.