Rogue of the Borders Page 17

  “Of course not. This ghost dog was probably hungry. Tell me,” Abigail said, trying to keep a straight face, “what did the soldiers feed him?”

  “Tsk. Tsk,” Shane answered. “Ye ken ghosties do nae eat. ’Tis what happened later that makes the story.”

  “Do tell.”

  “Well, one night the Scot who killed the hound’s master drew guard duty near where the mon was killed. Everyone in the dining hall heard snarling and barking. The soldier came tearing through the hall, white as fresh snow and took to his quarters.”

  “The dog on his heels, I presume?” Abigail asked.

  “Nae, lass. The dog was nae seen again. The mon died three days later without having uttered a word.” Shane grinned at Abigail. “’Tis said, though, the dog still howls on dark and stormy nights.”

  “Oh,” Fiona exclaimed.

  “Dark and stormy nights?” Abigail asked. “Oh, please.”

  “Ye should nae be such a skeptic,” Shane replied. “There’s a lady in white that haunts these grounds as well.”

  Abigail gave him a long, steady look and slowly patted his arm. For a moment, Shane wondered if she were about to launch into that strange speech pattern she sometimes used. Perhaps he should not tell her about the white lady right now.

  “Do ye care to take a walk? There’s a waterfall nae far from here.”

  Abigail nodded slowly. “That would probably be good.”

  “Aye,” Fiona said as she scampered toward the steep path leading down toward the river. “Mayhap the beastie will show himself to us. Willnae that be exciting?”

  As Abigail followed Fiona down an increasing steep hill, she sincerely hoped the entire MacLeod clan didn’t suffer a hereditary affliction regarding imaginary beings. First it was faeries and now ghostly dogs that howled in the night. Hardly anything could be further from an eerie, abnormal experience than this idyllic woodland with sunshine filtering through the new leaves and sparkling off the gently running river. Even the waterfall offered a refreshing, tranquil setting and the walk back to the chapel, while vigorous, certainly didn’t produce an otherworldly atmosphere either.

  But Abigail’s opinion changed once she stepped foot inside the chapel. She had thought the many turrets, arches and stone carvings of the exterior wondrous. The stained-glass window she’d noticed outside was similar to the one in Ian’s chapel, but it was only part of the setting. She stopped abruptly, unsure where to look first. It truly was another world.

  Behind her, Shane chuckled. “It is an eyeful, the first time ye see it.”

  An understatement if she’d ever heard one. Stone carvings covered everything—the walls, around windows and on the arches of the many pillars supporting the structure. “Oh, my.”

  Shane touched her arm and then pointed upward. Abigail followed his gesture and then gasped. Stone flowers—roses, lilies, other multi-petalled flowers—as well as a section of stars literally covered the entire barrel-vaulted ceiling. Even Fiona was gazing at them in awe, her mouth slightly open. “What does it all mean?”

  “Och, lass. The chapel is a book in stone. Each time I visit, I find another story. For today, we will begin with a simple tale. Come this way.”

  Abigail and Fiona followed him as he turned to his right, leading them toward the front. Abigail paused at a series of steep steps leading downward to what looked like a small room.

  Shane stopped too. “’Tis the crypt,” he replied to her unspoken question. “Before the chapel was built, my ancestors worshiped there. An old tunnel connects it to the castle so they would not have to brave the rain or chill. But this is what I wanted to show ye.” Shane took a few more steps and gestured to an elaborately carved pillar. “’Tis called the Apprentice Pillar by some. I will tell ye the story someday. ’Tis nae important now.”

  Abigail studied its magnificence. A series of serpents encircled its base, vines emerging from their mouths, swirling upward and winding around the pillar. At the top, above a border of stone-hewn leaves and lavishly designed scrolls appeared to be a man lying on an altar and a ram nearby, not necessarily fitting in with the rest of the carvings. “How very strange.”

  “Aye. The entire chapel is a strange mix of religion and symbolism,” Shane agreed, “but I wanted to point this pillar out because it blends the history of the Sinclairs and the MacLeods.”

  “The MacLeods?”

  “The original Sinclairs were earls of Orkney under the rule of Norway, as were the MacLeods. In Norse lore, the serpents represent Nidhogg who lives beneath the great world tree, Yggdrasil. The vines represent the path of life. Ye will find them entwining everywhere in the chapel.”

  “How interesting,” Abigail said and turned to speak to Fiona, only to find she had wandered off to the other side. “Shouldn’t she be hearing this?”

  Shane gave Abigail an intent look. “’Tis a saying those with eyes to see and ears to hear will ken what is here. Perhaps she is nae ready to learn.”

  Abigail frowned, hoping Shane was not about to launch into something magical again. The environment of the chapel was already enigmatical. Yet, in a way, she thought she knew what Shane meant. Still, probably better to steer the conversation in a different direction. “I—” she began, but Shane was already moving on and gesturing to something else.

  “Do ye see the Green Man?” he asked, pointing.

  Abigail moved alongside him and peered upward toward a young face peering back amidst more stony foliage. At least this time it didn’t seem to wink at her like the one in Ian’s chapel had done. Of course, that had been an illusion—a trick of the lighting, but she was glad it didn’t occur here. “I see him.”

  “There are over a hundred green men inside the chapel,” Shane said. “I will point some of them out. Ye will notice the faces age as we move around the chapel.”

  “Symbolic of life?”

  “Verra good.” Shane smiled and took her arm. “’Tis one more thing I want ye to see today.”

  Abigail wondered if Shane realized how much she loved his touch. His warm, strong fingers made her insides all warm too. She glanced up at him, but he was intent on moving toward the back of the chapel. She sighed.

  He stopped at a monument with a round arch instead of a pointed Gothic one. At the top was what looked like a huge, stone artichoke. Abigail squinted at the inscription. “Commit thy verk to God.”

  “Aye. ’Tis the family motto, but what I wanted to show you was this.” He pointed to the right of the memorial where a burial stone lay atop a small stone platform.

  She moved closer. A sword and what looked like a chalice with a long stem were carved on its surface. Below were the words “William De St. Clair. Knight Templar”.

  Abigail felt her eyes widen. “Was this the ancestor you spoke of at Dunfermline?”

  “Aye.”

  “Was Robert the Bruce a Templar too?”

  Shane shrugged. “Doubtful. The Sinclair whom Queen Margaret knighted had a sister, Agnes, who married Philip de Bruce of Annadale, Robert’s ancestor.”

  “The Sinclair that inherited these lands was a Templar then?”

  “Probably. The original leader, Hugues de Payens, married a relative, Katherine St. Clair.” Shane grinned at what was probably her confused expression. “’Tis a complicated lineage, nae?”

  “It is fascinating. I would like to hear more.”

  Shane gave her another intense look. “And ye shall, but nae today. ’Tis time we went home.”

  Home. Abigail liked the sound of that. Perhaps Shane would truly begin to feel that they had a home—together. And his lineage was interesting. She’d always had a fondness for the Templars—or at least, the romanticized version that she’d read.

  Even better, there weren’t any green men attached to Shane’s ancestry.

  She hoped.

  Shane found himself preparing for his next voyage with a feeling of trepidation. Perhaps the faeries were trying to make him feel guilty for leaving. The past two days, since their
visit to Roslyn, they’d visited a museum—twins in tow—and spent time in his library without them. Abigail had asked for specific books on both the Sinclairs and the Templars. Shane hoped when he returned that they’d have a more open discussion. Even if he couldn’t share certain facts with her, he’d answer what questions he could.

  More and more, he found himself wanting to share her bed. Somehow, her modest dress and hairstyle enticed him more than a siren’s song ever could. He longed to unpin her heavy mane of hair and watch it tumble down over bare white shoulders. Just last night, he’d dreamt of having her in his arms, caressing her satin skin, cupping her breasts, bringing the nipples to hard little peaks with a flick of his thumb. She had mewled softly in the dream, shifting her body to meld with his. He’d awakened with a painful erection.

  Shane knew staying at the house at night was going to put temptation in his path, so it was just as well he was leaving in a few more days. The three-month marriage he’d agreed upon with Sherrington was drawing to an end. Soon he would have to release Abigail, since her father had made it clear he wanted her back in London—and Shane needed to return her with her virginity intact, as he had vowed to do.

  Surely he could resist the enticement just a little longer.

  Chapter Twenty

  The entire land of faerie must have united behind their queen to plague his life. At least, that’s what Shane thought when Jacob announced Henri and Andre had arrived unexpectedly along with luggage. Having overnight guests meant he would have to spend the night in his bedchamber—with Abigail.

  What were his comrades doing here?

  “Is something wrong at Ian’s?” Shane asked after they’d been shown into the library and he’d poured each a brandy. “Have Duncan and Broc returned?”

  “Non,” Henri replied. “All is fine with Ian.”

  “We received a message from Decrazes’s office,” Andre said.

  Shane frowned. They were referring to the Duke of Decrazes, who was France’s Minister of Police—and a friend of the French masons.

  “Trouble?”

  Andre inclined his head. “Louis continues to be under pressure from Pius to restore lands and certain documents to the Church. Decrazes feels these documents might be safer in Scotland.”

  “I see.” Shane’s ears nearly perked with interest. Scotland had been the receptor for many such important items since Hugues de Payens had brought back the treasure hidden under Solomon’s Temple in 1128. Some of that treasure had been scrolls the Vatican would love to possess—and destroy. “Were these documents recently discovered?”

  “Non. They have remained concealed in the vaults of the Grand Orient Lodge.”

  Not surprising. When the Templars fled France to avoid persecution, they’d brought much of their valuables with them to Balantrodoch and eventually to Roslyn. They’d not had time to gather all the items from the various places where they had been hidden due their hasty departure. “How immediate is the danger they will be found?”

  “Difficult to judge,” Andre replied. “The Chambre grows increasingly strong and the Pope threatens excommunication of innocents. The duke thought moving the papers prudent. Remy and Alain have been notified.”

  “I can sail tomorrow,” Shane said. “I have a shipment of kelp bound for Le Havre, but it can wait.”

  “No need to change your plans,” Henri answered. “The duke does not wish to arouse suspicion. Remy and Alain will be spending some leisure time in Paris before returning to Calais. So far, neither have them has been associated with the Masons—”

  A knock on the door interrupted their discussion as Abigail poked her head in. “I thought you might like some refreshments.” Pushing the door open with her foot, she carried in a plate of small sandwiches as all three men stood. Setting the food on a small table, she adjusted her spectacles. “I am afraid it is not much, but our housekeeper is incapacitated and I am not the best of cooks.”

  Shane cast a doubtful look at the tiny morsels of cucumber and cheese atop what he thought was bread. He hoped his guests weren’t hungry at the moment—and he sincerely hoped Shauna was in the kitchen taking care of dinner.

  “These look delicious,” Henri said gallantly.

  “We do not wish to impose,” Andre said.

  “Ye doona wish to spend the night then?” Shane asked hopefully. “’Tis an inn—”

  “Of course, you will stay,” Abigail cut in with a big smile. “You will be our very first guests.”

  Shane groaned inwardly. They already had a houseful of people, although he probably couldn’t call his relatives guests. Still, with only Kyla to help cook—which she did reluctantly after reminding everyone she was a lady’s maid—who knew what might be served. And Jacob was much handier with a sword and dirk than he was with serving plates and wine glasses.

  “Would you care to join us?” Henri asked.

  Abigail blushed as if just realizing that the men were still standing. “Thank you. I hope I am not interrupting.”

  She was, but perhaps enough had been said for now.

  “You are a delightful interruption,” Andre said. “We were regressing to political discourse. Hardly an interesting topic.”

  “But I am interested in politics—and history,” Abigail said as she sat and offered the plate. “Did I hear you mention Masons?”

  Shane nearly dropped his wee sandwich. How much had she heard? He had no wish to implicate his wife in what might prove to be dangerous.

  “A friend of ours recently wrote about matters in France,” Andre said easily. “We were recalling how Masonic lodges helped calm the situation after the Revolution.”

  Abigail furrowed her brow. “Did the Revolution not begin as a working-class protest that descended into chaos—”

  “These sandwiches are verra good,” Shane broke in, hoping Abigail would not continue along this particular line of conversation.

  His hope was short lived as she gave him a quizzical glance. “And did something called a Reign of Terror occur several years later?”

  “Indeed it did,” Henri replied, looking a little perplexed.

  Under other circumstances, Shane would have been proud of Abigail for knowing history, but this was not the path he wanted to go down. She was too close to the truth. “That was years ago. Order has been restored under King Louis.”

  “Yes. I believe we are in the Age of Reason,” Abigail continued, not about to be deterred. “Meaning, of course, the ability to think for oneself and not be dictated to—either by society or the clergy.”

  Shane saw Henri and Andre exchange looks. Shane would have liked to enforce their code of Avdi, Vide, Tace—hear, see, be silent—not that Abigail would understand. He only hoped his comrades would be tolerant.

  “Since you speak of reason, perhaps you would like to hear a story about that?” Andre asked.

  “Oh, yes.”

  Shane was thankful for the distraction, although he wasn’t sure what was about to come out of Andre’s mouth.

  “After the Revolution, people began to realize the benefits of the revolt. In particular, they resented the Church’s hierarchy demanding money from them to ensure their souls were saved. I do not know if this was due to reason or to simply being tired of being poor. At any rate, a young actress was brought to Notre Dame and seated on the high altar. In a ceremony defying the pompous rituals and elaborate dress of the bishops, she dressed in the simple robes of ancient goddess religions and lit a single candle that was called the Light of Reason. Interesting, is it not?”

  The man had the story-telling skills of an Irishman who’d kissed the Blarney Stone. Although the event had actually taken place, Andre had taken care to hide its real truth. The Masons who had done much to encourage individualism—and supported the Light of Reason—had indirectly caused the abandonment of state religion. The Church had never forgiven the Masons—or more specifically, the secret order within the Lodge—for depriving them of a lucrative income.

  Even now, they
were still hunted.

  Abigail could scarce contain herself as she finished setting the table for dinner. Having guests stay the night meant Shane would have to spend the night in their bedchamber, especially since she had made sure one of the Frenchmen was given the room downstairs with the cot and the other the comfortable sofa in the library. In hindsight, she must have been truly inspired not to purchase additional furniture for a guest room. There was no other place for Shane to stay. Even staying on his ship was out of the question since leaving his single cousins without a chaperone would be a huge breach in etiquette, not to mention honor.

  Just for good measure—in case Shane decided to avoid their bed—she’d had Jacob remove the ivory chaise and Kyla the extra blankets. The maid had shaken her head, muttering something about simpletons and fools, which Abigail thought was directed at Shane, but Kyla had disappeared—in the direction of Jacob and the chaise—before she could be questioned.

  Tonight. Tonight Shane would be hers. Abigail had it all planned out. After dinner—Shauna had banned her from the kitchen after she’d dropped a pan of freshly washed carrots and potatoes and sent water everywhere—she would graciously suggest the men enjoy their brandy. Or what was left of it. That part had been a bit tricky, since Shane and his guests had stayed in the library most of the afternoon. Still, she had managed to purloin the extra bottle along with the whisky, so they wouldn’t have much to finish. She’d considered removing the extra firewood from its basket so there would be no logs to re-bank the fire but then remembered Henri would be spending the night in the room.

  Still, without liquor, the evening should be short and she would be waiting.

  From one of the trunks, Abigail had retrieved the scandalously naughty negligee Mari had insisted on buying as part of her trousseau. Shane had never seen it and Madam Huette had sworn no man could resist the woman who wore it. The filmy white chiffon would contrast nicely against the red satin of the spread. Abigail intended to drape herself casually across the bed, posing like Venus in the picture above the headboard. Exposing her breasts made Abigail blush, but she would make sure her hair covered her. Of course, leaving her spectacles off would make Shane somewhat of a blur, but tonight she would appear the seductress…