Rogue of the High Seas Page 5

  “Do not forget your coat,” Abigail said.

  “I doona need it,” Shane replied and then opened the door for Robert.

  “But it is cold out—”

  “’Tis nae that bad,” Shane said and closed the door behind them.

  Abigail stared after them. “Shane is going to freeze out there.”

  Shauna smiled. “He would rather freeze than let Captain Henderson think he needs a coat.”

  Abigail shook her head. “Men.”

  What he should do, Robert told himself as he and Shane walked toward his ship, is get on aboard the New Orleans and sail hell-bent for leather for home, regardless of the weather.

  Except, of course, he couldn’t do that without a rudder.

  The Fates, those three goddesses that determined the birth, life and death of a man, must truly be she-devils. Otherwise, why would Shauna MacLeod have crossed his path? The only woman who intrigued him because she was so straightforward. The woman who was sister and cousin to men he respected. The woman he could not dally with, even if he were not encumbered with Jane. A man who spent his life at sea did not make suitable husband material. The fact had not bothered him when Jane had announced their betrothal. Truthfully, he’d thought he wouldn’t have to spend much time with her at all.

  But if a man cared for a woman, he shouldn’t leave her to fend for herself while he was gone for weeks at a time. Robert remembered how much his maman had complained about his father putting out to sea and leaving her with three children, even though she had a housekeeper and servants. His parents would argue when his father came home. Until one day, nearly a score of years ago, his father didn’t return. He left a note along with a sizable bank account. Maman had burned the note and did what any aristocratic Frenchwoman would do. She held her head high and told society her husband had drowned at sea. She’d remarried a year later. Robert hadn’t seen his father again.

  He shook his head. A man should be home to tend to things, to keep his wife company, to protect her, to help her raise the children. A man who had wanderlust in his soul didn’t need to entertain thoughts of marriage. Look what had happened to his parents. Robert stopped so suddenly he almost tripped. Shane MacLeod sailed the seas and he had married.

  Shane stopped too, giving him an inquiring look. “What is wrong?”

  “Uh, nothing. I…forgot to bring paper and pencil, but I think I have some on board to write down measurements.” Robert started walking again. He could hardly ask MacLeod how he ended up happily married. And he was happily married. Anyone except a newborn babe could see that. His wife near worshiped him. Robert hadn’t heard one complaint from Abigail about her husband, even when she was ill aboard the Sea Lassie.

  Would Shauna be as compliant? Somehow, he didn’t think so. She was calm and capable, but he sensed a sort of restlessness beneath her stable demeanor, as though she might long for a bit of adventure. Adventure he wanted to give her…and that would be a dangerous road to walk. Very dangerous. Shauna MacLeod deserved a man who could be there for her, all the time.

  He really should sail hell-bent for leather out of here.

  But then he did have a broken rudder…

  It seemed the Fates wanted to have a bit more fun and test Robert’s resolve after all. Two evenings later when he joined the MacLeods for a Saturday night dinner, another man sat beside Shauna. A man wearing a tartan sash of dark blue and green over a white shirt featuring lace at the throat and sleeves. Men wore lace in New Orleans’s French society, but this shirt looked different, more like part of Scottish attire. He appeared young, perhaps in his early twenties, with dark hair and eyes—eyes that focused on Shauna. She was looking down, but he leaned over and said something to her with a slow smile that Robert felt was practiced. And what the hell was he whispering to her? Her face went pink.

  Shane rose from his chair. “Meet Owen MacLean, a neighbor of Ian’s from Glenfinnan.” Turning to Owen, he added, “This is Robert Henderson, the sea captain I was telling you about.”

  Robert stepped forward to shake hands, but Owen merely nodded his head. “How interesting to have an American visiting.”

  Robert stopped, surprised by the English accent coming from someone dressed in Scottish clothes.

  Abigail gestured to a chair. “Please sit down, Robert. Owen was telling us about school in England.”

  That accounted for the accent, Robert thought as he took the indicated chair across from Shauna, but it didn’t explain why the man was in Edinburgh.

  As if she’d read his thoughts, Abigail said, “Owen has returned to Scotland to help his father manage their lands.”

  “And I had forgotten how bonny a Scottish lass could be,” Owen said with a grin that made Shauna’s face turn pink again, although she didn’t look up.

  “Seven years is a long time. I shall enjoy renewing my acquaintance with the sweet lassie here.”

  What the hell did that mean? Robert thought Shauna’s face reddened even more, but it was hard to say since she was studying her food with an intensity Robert would reserve for maneuvering a rogue wave. Come to think of it, she hadn’t even given him a glance, nor had she spoken a word. His hair began to prickle at his nape.

  Robert tried to keep his voice neutral. “What brings you to Edinburgh?”

  Owen studied him, much like a man deciding whether to throw a gauntlet down. Robert held his gaze steadily, sensing some kind of unspoken challenge. But he wasn’t prepared when Owen leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I have come to court Shauna. I find I am in need of a wife.”

  Shauna had never felt more mortified in her life. She could feel Robert’s shock clear across the table. She couldn’t look up at him—not until she had her emotions under control. She kept her hands tightly clenched in her lap, lest she lash out and slap the self-satisfied smirk off Owen’s face. Why had he said that when she’d only been polite—and as aloof as she dared—earlier this afternoon?

  He hadn’t changed at all. Less than fifteen minutes at the dinner table and he’d already managed to make her temper rise, a temper she prided herself on controlling. And the assumption she were willing for him to pay her court galled her. The man was insufferable. He thought his good looks and tendency to charm other girls—she remembered some of them following him around before he left for England—would impress her. It never had, which was probably why he enjoyed goading her so much.

  Worse, Owen had let his gaze roam over her in the foyer when he’d arrived, much like a man would look at a prospective broodmare. That expression had changed rapidly when Shane had came into the hall and Owen had turned solicitous, asking to speak to Shane privately. Privately. Shauna knew it was to discuss their possible nuptials and she wasn’t to be included in that discussion. No doubt, Owen would say he had Ian’s approval during the conversation.

  And if Shane thought he could stand in for Ian and make a decision for her, he was going to have one big surprise coming. They all would.

  For now though, Shauna’s thoughts were on Robert. She wanted to talk to him privately, to tell him she had no intent to marry Owen MacLean. She wanted to explain she had to be polite because neighborly alliances still mattered in the Highlands. She wanted to tell Robert how much more interesting she found him.

  And then she remembered the ball in London. How Amelia and Violetta and the other debutantes had clustered around Robert and how smoothly he’d handled the situation, showing an uncanny ability to converse with the entire group of chattering girls and not have them clawing at each other’s throats. He excelled at dancing too, and Shauna didn’t think his gracefulness was due solely to balancing aboard a pitching, rolling ship. Robert was at ease in society. What interest would he have in a Highland woman who was both practical and given to plain speech?

  What she’d told Shane was true. Robert Henderson always acted like the perfect gentleman around her. Shauna felt her face w
arm again. Only in her imagination had Robert ever flirted with her. She was being as foolish as a young girl. She took a deep breath and looked up to find Robert’s green gaze fixed on her.

  “Are congratulations in order then?” he asked.

  Chapter Six

  Shauna hesitated, not long, but long enough for something to change in Robert’s expression. His face closed, became guarded. Owen, on the other hand, looked more smug by the minute.

  “I think ’tis a wee bit early for congratulations,” she said, and was gratified to see Owen sober a bit. Good. He needed a bit of comeuppance. “Mr. MacLean—”

  “You always called me Owen,” he said. “There is no need to be formal now.”

  “We were children,” Shauna replied, careful to keep the irritation out of her voice. “Did your English schools nae teach ye proper address?”

  He smirked. “We are not in London.”

  “Still, I think proprieties are in order.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Shauna saw Shane raise an eyebrow and she remembered the conversation at this same table when Robert had asked to use her Christian name. That was different. She wanted to keep Owen at as much distance as possible.

  Shane looked as though he were about to say something, but then his gaze slanted suddenly towards his wife, who gave him an especially sweet smile. Shauna assumed the smile had been preceded by Abigail’s slippered foot nudging him.

  “Why?” Owen asked. “As I said, this is not London. It is Scotland.”

  “Aye,” Shauna said and then added before she could stop herself, “I forgot, we are barbarians here.”

  A corner of Robert’s mouth lifted although he quickly covered the smile by taking a sip of wine. Owen narrowed his eyes and turned to Shauna.

  “A sharp tongue is not a pleasant trait in a wife,” Owen remarked.

  She wanted to retort that he should find another woman then, but she caught Shane’s frown. Abigail wasn’t going to be able to keep him silent forever. Besides, Shauna refused to let Owen drag her into a spat like he did when they were children. Still, she wasn’t about to apologize either. “Perhaps it is not.”

  Shane’s frown deepened and Robert raised his glass again.

  Owen blinked and then recovered. “I am glad we are in agreement.”

  Shauna clenched her hands in her lap. She hadn’t agreed to anything, but Owen made it sound like she had. Drat him. Somehow, he always managed to twist her words.

  “I am sure you realize the importance of supporting your husband in all things. The MacLeans will expect nothing less.” He glanced at Shane. “The MacLeods would expect the same.”

  “Actually, I welcome my wife’s opinions,” Shane said. “She has—”

  “Pardon me, sir,” Jenkins said as he appeared in the doorway of the dining room, looking rather affronted. “The harbour master is at the door. I told him you were dining, but he insisted he needed to talk with you.” Jenkins sniffed. “The man obviously has no manners.”

  “He would nae have come if he dinnae think it important,” Shane said as he rose.

  “Do you need me to accompany you?” Robert asked.

  Shane shook his head. “I’ll find out what he wants and return shortly.”

  “As I was saying,” Owen continued after Shane left, “I did not mean to imply women should not have opinions. They must, if they are going to see to meal preparation, running a household and raising children. What man would argue with that? By the same token, a wife should not defy her husband. I repeat, a sharp tongue denotes a shrewish temperament.”

  “I’ve always felt a sharp tongue indicates a quick wit,” Robert said casually as he set his wine glass down.

  “Perhaps in the wilderness of America,” Owen answered. “We can hardly expect civility from colonies that revolted.”

  Shauna stared at him. Had he forgotten how many times Scotland had fought England? Forgotten Culloden? Forgotten that it wasn’t until 1782 that Scots had the right to wear the tartan again? Had seven years in England made Owen forget his heritage?

  “Autres temps, autres mæurs,” Robert said off-handedly. “Other times, other manners don’t make Americans barbarians either.”

  Owen frowned and Shauna hid her smile. Robert sounded as fluent as though he’d arrived from the continent, not an outpost in the wilderness. And he’d used the same term she had…barbarians. Her heart leaped a little and she knew it was silly, but the word made her feel as though they shared a thought. As though maybe Robert understood her. But when she looked at him, his face was impassive.

  Silly, silly girl. It was just a word.

  Owen MacLean was a pompous ass, Robert decided as he continued to watch him at the dinner table. He acted too possessive of Shauna—as though she were something to be owned. Hell, women didn’t have many legal rights to begin with. Stifling their speech didn’t need to be added to the list.

  Furthermore, the man was a fool if he didn’t see the sparks about to shoot from Shauna’s eyes. When she looked at Robert just now, he’d exerted every bit of self-control to keep his face immobile and not laugh out loud. She looked like a volcano about to erupt, which only served to remind him that the fiery passion he suspected existed beneath the calm exterior wasn’t just his imagination. If MacLean couldn’t see that, he’d either not been with many women or he hadn’t cared one whit about any of them. Robert was damn sure he didn’t want Shauna to join that number.

  “I understand New Orleans has a very sophisticated society,” Abigail said. “Would you tell us about it?”

  Robert forced his thoughts to focus on the conversation. Abigail, being the daughter of an English earl, was trying to smooth things over. As a guest, he knew it was his duty to help his hostess do just that, although he’d much prefer to agitate the hell out of MacLean.

  “The French settlers brought as much of their culture with them as they could,” Robert replied. “From food and wine to the more civilized aspects of society they took pride in.”

  “We defeated the French in 1815,” Owen said dryly, “in case the news didn’t reach you.”

  “And we finished fighting the British in 1814,” Robert answered, “but here I am.”

  “And all’s well that ends well,” Abigail put in and then smiled demurely. “If I might quote Shakespeare.”

  “And I agree,” Shauna added.

  She smiled equally as docilely as Abigail had done and Robert wondered if Shauna wasn’t taking a jab at Owen. The man wanted agreeable, but did he realize the ladies had told him, without saying so, to cease and desist?

  Owen shrugged. “I believe Shakespeare also said something about mortals being fools.”

  “What is important,” Shauna said, “is that we have peace so Scotland can concentrate on Scotland again.”

  “Which is why I have returned,” Owen replied, “and why I want a Scottish wife. A Scot woman deserves a Scot man.”

  Robert felt the barb zing past him and smiled. “As it happens, I have Scots’ blood as well.”

  “I thought you were French…French-American, I mean,” Shauna said.

  “I am on my mother’s side,” Robert answered, “but my great-ancestors were Vikings. My grandfather married a MacDonald.”

  Owen narrowed his eyes. “The MacLeans are not friends of the MacDonalds.”

  Why did that not surprise him? “Why not?”

  “Reiving. Donald Gorm of Slate stole cattle from Lauchlan MacLean of Jura. Then the Donald’s cousin, Angus, tried to attack Duart on Mull—”

  “Good heavens,” Shauna exclaimed. “That took place more than two hundred years ago.”

  “Time does not matter. There’s nothing good about a MacDonald.”

  Abigail looked distressed. “I thought the feuding had stopped. King George ended it.”

  “Hardly. Just ask your husband when he ge
ts back.”

  “Shane is not feuding with anyone,” Abigail said.

  “Maybe not.” Owen slanted a look at Robert. “But the MacLeods have no love of the MacDonalds either.”

  “What am I going to do?” Shauna tossed her shawl on the bed in her chamber and flopped down in a chair opposite Abigail the next afternoon. “Owen is unbearable.”

  “Well, be thankful he is staying at a hotel and not the townhouse.”

  “Aye.” Shauna looked at her friend. “Did ye have something to do with that?”

  Abigail tugged at the lace on her cuff. “I might have mentioned to Shane it was not proper for the man to stay here.”

  “Thank ye for that.”

  “No need to thank me. Shane agreed it would be better for Owen to stay at a hotel.” She stopped fussing with her cuff. “Shane does want you to be happy.”

  “I wish he could have heard Owen last night. ’Twas highhanded of the mon to expect me to be docile as a sheep. Does he think I donna have a mind that works?”

  “Mr. MacLean is not that different from most men in that respect,” Abigail answered. “You have heard the inane conversations at the balls.”

  “Aye. ’Tis fluff to worry about the color or style of next year’s bonnet. ’Tis more important what’s on your head keeps ye warm.”

  “Only you or I would think like that.” Abigail smiled. “London dandies prefer ninnyhammers. I spent years being a wallflower because I was a bluestocking—not that I minded. I would not have wanted to marry one of those men anyway.”

  “And neither do I. Even if Owen MacLean is a Scot, he doesnae act like one.”

  Abigail sobered. “What was he talking about that the MacLeods do not like the MacDonalds? I have not heard Shane speak of it.”

  “’Twas a long time ago, around 1480. Most of the Isles were involved. The MacDonald chieftain’s son rebelled against him and the MacLeods were divided on whom to support. ’Tis nae unusual.” Shauna sighed. “The problem came about when the MacLeod chieftain was killed by a MacDonald on the way home to Dunvegan.”