Rogue of the Borders Page 5

  Someone rapped at the door, but before she could respond, it opened and Shane stood there. Momentarily, her attention was diverted. He looked disheveled, his shirt wrinkled and stuffed haphazardly into his breeches. His inky hair was mussed as though he’d run his hands through it numerous times. He had a good day’s worth of stubble as well, which only made him look even more enticingly male. Involuntarily, her breath caught at the sight of him and then she looked away.

  “Donald told me ye were nae well. Is it the motion of the boat? Ye should come up on deck—”

  “I…I am fine.” Abigail blinked furiously, willing the tears not to flow again. “I…I prefer to rest. Thank you for checking though.”

  Shane closed the door. “Ye have been crying.”

  Abigail started to shake her head and then stopped. There was no use in denial since her face showed the effects. Instead, she shrugged.

  Shane moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “I dinna mean to make ye cry, lass.”

  She lifted her chin. “What…what makes you think you did? Perhaps I am just feeling a little overwhelmed with leaving—”

  “Doona lie,” Shane said and ran his fingers through his hair. “I ken I sounded like an arse last eve. Ye should have been told—I should have been the one to tell ye—long before the wedding day.” He picked up her hand. “I am verra sorry I hurt ye.”

  His touch sent a thousand lightning bolts to her brain. She should pull away, but her arm would not move. Instead, Abigail was aware of the enveloping strength of his large hand, the roughness of a callus on his thumb as he gently brushed it over her knuckles and most of all, of the warmth emanating from Shane that seared through her body straight to her core.

  She should hate him for scheming with her father. She should lift her nose in disdain and dismiss him as any lady of society would do. At the very least, she should make him squirm until he begged for forgiveness. Instead, she sat mesmerized, her traitorous body wishing he’d never let go.

  Taking a deep breath, she withdrew her hand. “Apology accepted.”

  Shane’s face lit like a Roman candle and he smiled, an unexpected dimple appearing in his right cheek. For no logical reason, Abigail wondered if dimples were a MacLeod trait. Jamie had one too. She couldn’t recall if Ian did…

  “’Tis more than I deserve, lass. I will try verra hard to make these months as pleasant as I can for ye.” Shane stood and looked at her uneaten porridge. “When ye finish breaking your fast, perhaps ye might join me on deck?”

  Abigail picked up her spoon. “I should like that.”

  She smiled after he left. Shane had said he’d try to make the next three months pleasant. That meant he’d be spending time with her.

  She had a chance to make this marriage work. Strangely enough, she didn’t question why—or if—she wanted to. Shane was the only man who had ever interested her. True, he had acted like the worst kind of ass—other than her father—but she sensed, even through her embarrassment, that he hadn’t meant to humiliate her. There was honor in the man. He didn’t have to agree to any kind of marriage since she was the one who’d stowed away, but he had agreed, which made the effort of staying his wife worth it.

  Her mother had always lamented that Abigail was strong-willed and determined—not desirable traits for a lady. But then ladies accepted the decisions men made for them. Abigail wanted to be in charge of her own life.

  And she wanted Shane MacLeod to be a part of it.

  Chapter Six

  “Is this where you keep the boat?” Abigail asked Shane as the Border Lass closed on a dock in the port of Leith three days later. They had been sailing in the wide Firth of Forth for several hours and she’d had glimpses of rolling, green hills as well as jutting, rocky headlands. She was anxious to see the rest of Scotland.

  “Aye. I keep close to a dozen ships here. ’Tis but a short walk to the office.”

  While Abigail was interested to see where Shane worked, she was more interested in seeing where he lived. Although he had not visited her in the cabin on their journey north—the bunk was small—Shane had greeted her pleasantly enough when she appeared on deck after breaking her morning fast. Maybe once they were in his home, he would change his mind about sharing a bedchamber.

  “I cannot wait to see everything,” she said as men scrambled to haul down sails. “Can I help with anything?”

  “Nae,” Shane answered as he picked up a line to throw to a handler on the quay. “For now, ye would do best to stay out of the way.”

  After three days on the open sea, Abigail knew what that meant. With a nod, she headed toward the stern where a wooden box was bolted to the deck behind the helmsman. The locker held charts, but its surface served as a bench and kept her out of the way of the crew when the wind picked up. She had been amazed at how quick and agile the men were in bringing the big sails around when the boat tacked and how quickly they could sheet them in to head on course as well.

  Abigail was quite proud of herself for knowing what those terms even meant. When she’d asked Shane to give her a tour of the ship, he’d looked rather skeptical. She hadn’t been satisfied with his general description of what was port, starboard, fore and aft and had asked persistent questions of how and why things worked. More than once, the crew had snickered only to stop when Shane looked at them. Abigail smiled, remembering how bug-eyed some of them were when Shane had actually let her steer the boat, albeit with the helmsman at hand.

  Words could not describe having the ship respond to her command. Well, actually, she had just held it on a straight course, but she could feel the response of the vessel if she moved the wheel even slightly in one direction or the other. And when she pointed the bow closer toward the wind, filling the sails and causing the hull to slice smoothly through the waves, she had been ecstatic. She absolutely loved sailing. Loved it. Even Shane had a look of admiration when she’d instinctively let the bow fall back so the sails wouldn’t start flapping.

  As soon as the lines were secured, Shane gestured for her to come forward. The crew seemed a lot friendlier than when they’d started out, but maybe that was because they were home.

  Shane held out his hand to assist her down the gangplank and Abigail wondered if he felt the tingle too when they touched. She would have loved to tuck her hand inside his elbow as English ladies did, but somehow it seemed inappropriate here. At any rate, he dropped his hand and moved toward a two-story wooden building at the end of the quay.

  “Is this your office?” she asked, glad her legs were long enough to keep up with Shane and not make him slow down.

  “Aye. I need to check in with Albert.”

  “Who is Albert?”

  “My man of business,” Shane said. “He keeps all the accounts and handles the bills of lading. Donald will give him the receipts for the tin shipment, but I need to check on how long until the kelp is ready.”

  “Do you harvest it yourself?”

  “Nae. There’s an abundance of fisherman who are eager for the work.”

  “How long does it take to harvest? To dry?”

  Shane laughed. “Do ye always ask so many questions?”

  Abigail bit her lip. Shane was easy to talk to, but that didn’t mean he wanted a woman constantly badgering him with questions. “I am just curious. I will try not—”

  “Nae, lass. Ye doona have to stop.” He gave her a curious look as they walked up the steps and he opened the door to the office. “I doona mind explaining.”

  She smiled in relief and turned her attention to the two men behind the counter. One was older with spectacles and a slightly receding, grey hairline. When Shane asked him about the kelp, she surmised he was Albert. The other man was younger, probably no older than she. He had short brown hair worn in the style of Beau Brummell and London’s dandies, and glacier-blue eyes that seemed to sharpen when he looked up.

  “’Tis a bunch of late spring storms we’ve been having,” Albert said, “so the harvest be a bit late.”

 
; “No matter,” Shane said. “I need to make a trip to Glenfinnan.” He turned and introduced Abigail. “My wife needs to meet my relatives.”

  For a moment, Albert looked stunned, but he quickly recovered and smiled broadly at Abigail before looking back at Shane. “’Tis glad I am ye have taken a wife, Captain. A mon needs a warm hearth to come home to.”

  Shane gave a curt nod and switched his attention to the young man. “And who might ye be?”

  “Richard Reneau, sir,” he answered with a French accent. “I am—how do you say?—taking the place of the helper.”

  Shane frowned and looked at Albert. “What happened to David?”

  “A most unfortunate accident a week ago,” Albert said. “Thieves waylaid him one evening when he was returning home. He survived, but both arms are broken.”

  “Did he get a description?”

  Albert shook his head. “It was too dark and their heads were covered. He only knows it was three men.” He gestured to Richard. “This young man had stopped by two days before looking for work and gave us the name of the hotel where he was staying. Since David will not be able to return for a while, I thought we could use Richard. He has turned out to be a quick learner.”

  Shane studied him and then slowly nodded. “Welcome aboard then.”

  “Thank you, sir. I will do my best,” Richard replied, “and might I add congratulations on your recent marriage?”

  Shane nodded again. “Donald has the Bills of Lading,” he said to Albert. “I will be in touch before I leave.”

  Abigail repressed a sigh as they turned and walked out the door. Shane seemed distant suddenly, just when she’d thought—hoped—he’d warmed to her a little.

  Somehow, she would make him see that marriage was not that bad.

  She had to.

  “Oh, my,” Abigail exclaimed as their open carriage entered Prince’s Street. She craned her head to look up a steep hill to the massive castle dominating the entire city. “It is huge.”

  Shane chuckled. “It does command your attention.”

  “How old is it?”

  “It has been there since 1000 BC.”

  Abigail stared at him. Was he jesting? “That is impossible. Castles were not built in stone until the Normans invaded in the eleventh century—”

  “True, lass. Building the castle ye see began in the twelfth century, but there has been a fort there since before the Vikings invaded. The Romans called the place Din Eidyn. Whoever held that fort, held all of eastern Scotland.”

  Abigail turned halfway around as the carriage turned off on Charlotte Street, not wanting to lose sight of the magnificent structure.

  “Does someone still live there? Can we go inside?”

  “Ye need to slow your questions.” Shane laughed again. “The answers are nae and aye.”

  Abigail frowned, not about to be diverted. “Nae—no—to which?”

  “No one actually lives up there. The royal residence is down the road at Holyrood. And aye, ye can visit the castle. But I thought ye wished to see where I live?”

  “Oh, I do.” Abigail turned around to face the front and felt her eyes widen. Ahead of them was a small park enclosed by a circling carriageway lined with a crescent of Georgian–styled townhomes. It reminded her of the terraces at Regents Park or perhaps the Royal Crescent at Bath. Never would she have suspected to see such in Scotland.

  “These look quite modern.”

  “They are,” Shane answered as the hackney stopped in front of one. Shane paid the driver and helped Abigail down. “This is Moray’s Place in New Town.”

  “Somehow, I had pictured old homes, almost medieval. Like the castle.”

  “That would be Ian’s place. Ye will have to wait until we get to Glenfinnan,” Shane said as they walked toward the front door. “This meets my needs.” He was about to unlock the door when it opened and a plump, middle-aged lady beamed at them.

  “’Tis happy I am to see ye home, lad,” she said.

  “’Tis good to see ye too, Janet,” Shane replied, looking a little sheepish at being called lad. “This is my housekeeper,” he said to Abigail and then added to Janet, “This is my wife.”

  “Och. I ken who she is. Albert sent a note along with the boy who brought her trunk.” Janet reached out to draw Abigail to her in a hug. “’Tis happy I am our laddie finally took a wife.” She released her, still chattering. “I will have lunch fixed for ye in just a wee bit. If ye care to rest a bit, the parlor is just across the hall.”

  Abigail found herself liking the cheerful, friendly woman immediately. She certainly did not stand on ceremony. Abigail couldn’t imagine one of her father’s servants even touching her.

  “Janet may take a bit of getting used to,” Shane said as the woman bustled away.

  “I like her already.”

  “I am glad. She is Albert’s wife. They are like family to me.”

  Abigail smiled. “I thought as much when she called you laddie.”

  “Hmph. She has known me since I was in knickers. Sometimes she forgets I am a grown man.”

  “I do not think she forgets at all,” Abigail said on impulse and was gratified to see Shane flush slightly although his eyes crinkled. So he could take teasing? Tucking that bit of information away, she walked into the parlor. And stifled a gasp.

  The room was nearly bare. No pictures adorned the walls. Plain beige draperies covered the windows on either side of the large fireplace and two straight armchairs faced the hearth with a small table between them. There was not even a proper sofa in the room. Abigail pasted a bright smile on her face and turned to Shane. “Will you show me the rest of the townhouse?”

  “’Tis nae much to see. The top floors are empty. Since I spend most of my time at sea, I keep a cot and clothes in what would be the drawing room on this floor. ’Tis easier on Janet nae to have to clean more than I use.”

  A cot? Something that felt like a heavy brick settled in the pit of Abigail’s stomach. How was she ever going to convince Shane to consummate their marriage if there was not even a bed in the house? Well. This was going to be her home now. Surely Shane would allow her to furnish it.

  “If you will give me a budget, I should be happy to purchase some furnishings.”

  “’Tis nae—” He stopped. “Let me show ye the library. I think ye will like it.”

  Furrowing her brow, Abigail followed him as he nearly bolted down the hallway. Did he not want her to buy furniture? She passed the dining room—at least it held a table and chairs, although nothing more. Shane didn’t really expect her to live in an empty townhouse, did he?

  Her mind reeled when she stepped foot inside the library. She had entered a completely different world. The room was circular with alternating black and white tiles on the floor. The walls ascended two stories and were richly paneled in the same dark-red teak as the ship. An iron, spiral staircase led to the upper floor that was lined with shelves containing hundreds of books. A thin, metal rail circled the balcony and a crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling on a heavy chain.

  On the ground floor, a massive desk occupied one side of the room, covered in architectural sketches and charts with a globe on its own stand beside it. Across from that, a huge black leather sofa faced two comfortable-looking wingback chairs near the hearth where a fire blazed welcomingly. Several pictures of Rosslyn Chapel adorned the walls as well as two paintings of battle scenes. A faint smell of sandalwood lingered in the air.

  “This is amazing.”

  “Thank ye. ’Tis the reason I bought the townhouse—to store my books.”

  “This room is like heaven. I could spend days in here,” Abigail said. “The circular design is so unique. It reminds me a little of Temple Church.”

  Shane gave her a thoughtful look and then smiled. “I designed the room myself.”

  “It is absolutely fantastic. I had no idea you were so talented.”

  Shane shrugged. “I did the design. I had help with the actual work.”
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  “Well, no matter. You were the architect.” Slowly turning in a circle, Abigail looked up at the second floor. “I am going to love spending time in here. You will not mind if I join you, will you?”

  Just then, Janet appeared at the door to announce lunch. It wasn’t until much later that Abigail realized Shane had given her no answer.

  David’s injuries were worse than Shane had thought. He looked at the young man braced stiffly in a chair beside a brazier in his parents’ small apartment. Plaster casts covered both upper arms as well as forearms, meaning he had suffered multiple breaks. His face was a mass of yellow-green and purple bruises, his eyes only half-open. From his shallow breathing, Shane knew David probably had several broken ribs as well.

  “Ye have nae idea who did this?”

  “Nae,” he answered through swollen lips. “I was nigh Cowgate when three of them came out of King’s Close.”

  Shane clenched a fist. Even though most of the cellars and basements that had once served as residences beneath the Royal Mile had been abandoned due to lack of water supply and ventilation, their narrow stairs and alleyways still served the criminal population. Cut-throats and thieves could disappear quickly down there as well.

  “Were ye coming home late?” Shane asked.

  “Nae. My usual time.”

  “Did any of them say anything to ye?”

  David shook his head slowly. “Only that I looked like a merchant and they wanted my coin.”

  Shane frowned. “Doona tell me ye resisted giving it to them.”

  “Nae. I gave them what I had. I kenned I couldnae fight three ruffians.”

  A thought niggled at Shane. Just two days before David was attacked, the Frenchman had approached Albert looking for work. Could it be connected somehow? “Did any of them have an accent? Maybe French?”