Rogue of the Borders (10 page)

She leaned against the door, not only to keep him from leaving—he’d actually have to move her aside—but also to keep him from making a mad dash to the window. Abigail didn’t have much experience soothing savage beasts, but she remembered watching Jillian train her beloved Andalusians when she’d visited Newburn with Mari.
“Make no sudden moves,”
Jillian had said,
“and keep your voice calm and low.”

“Easy now,” Abigail said, pitching her voice to the tone she used when disguised as a boy. “Steady yourself. Everything is all right.”

Shane blinked at her. “Why are ye speaking like that?”

“Why not have a seat by the fire?” Abigail answered, keeping her voice down and gesturing very, very slowly toward a chair. “Would that not be soothing?”

“Why are you moving like that? Is there something wrong with your arm?”

“Of course not. I just thought to ease your mind while I comb my hair.” She pointed to the dresser where Kyla had laid out her toiletries. “I have to walk over there.”

Shane glanced at the dresser and then back at her. “’Tis nae a far distance. Why would my mind nae be at ease? Ye are nae in danger.”

Abigail would very much like to be in danger—from him. But obviously, they were thinking of two different things. Still, Shane didn’t appear quite as on-edge as he had been. Maybe he wouldn’t dart to the window after all—or try to flee out the door. Cautiously, she took a drawn-out step forward, hesitating lest a sudden move startle him to action, and then another measured step toward him. Shane remained motionless, his eyes intent on her. She ventured one step closer.

“Are ye sure there is nae something wrong with ye, lass? Your gait is peculiar.”

She stopped. Shane’s body no longer showed any sign of tension. He stood quietly watching her, so maybe she had achieved her goal in calming him. Who would have thought horse training would ever come so in handy? “I am fine,” she said and lifted one corner of her mouth, showing only a hint of tooth in what she hoped was a seductive smile. At least, it looked seductive and come-hither when the debutantes practiced it at all those tedious balls.

Shane’s brows furrowed. “Perhaps I should call your maid to assist ye.”

“No. I mean…Kyla was quite tired from the journey so I told her I would not need her assistance this evening. Really,” she added as his face grew perturbed, “I can manage by myself.”

He looked unsure, but then he nodded and moved toward the whisky decanter on the small table.

Abigail watched him out of the corner of her eye as she sat down, undid the pins in her hair and began brushing her standard hundred strokes. Shane glanced at her and then moved quickly to the window, swirling the contents of his glass as he focused his attention in the courtyard below. He wasn’t contemplating crawling out, was he? She shifted slightly to get a better view of him from behind her strands of hair. He was standing ramrod straight, his back to her, but he didn’t appear to be on the verge of hopping out.

With a soft sigh, she laid down her brush. It was time to find out if Kyla’s parting comment was true. Abigail stood and moved quietly across the carpet until she stood behind Shane and then tapped him on the shoulder.

“Would you mind unlacing my dress?”

It took every bit of his warrior and seaman’s skills to hold himself steady and not spill what was left in his glass at her faint touch. He turned to find Abigail looking up at him with that strange looking smile again. He wondered if perhaps a particle of food had gotten caught in a tooth and she was trying to work it out. Then her words struck him. Good God. If he unlaced her dress, he wouldn’t want to stop there.

“Ye need your maid, I think.”

“Nonsense. I already told you I allowed Kyla to retire for the night. The laces are not that difficult.” Abigail turned her back toward him but looked over her shoulder. “You do have experience in helping ladies undress, do you not?”

Shane started to open his mouth and then snapped it shut. From any other woman, he would have considered the question coy, but Abigail was staring wide-eyed at him as though she expected an answer. He could see no hint of guile in her face either. “’Tis perhaps nae a good topic to discuss.”

“Why not? I would expect you to be experienced. I want you to tell—”

“Cease!” Shane was grateful he wasn’t wearing a kilt at the moment since his breeches were tight enough to keep his suddenly engorged member from emerging. Surely the lass didn’t actually want to hear about his escapades. Did she? The thought was fleeting but sent more blood rushing to his shaft. He shifted his weight to relieve the increasing pressure.

Abigail’s eyes widened suddenly as though a thought had just occurred to her. “You…are experienced? I mean, if you are not—if that is the reason why we have not—”

“Will you cease speaking, lass?” May the saints preserve him. Did she actually think—he could hardly finish the thought himself—that he was pure as the driven snow at nine-and-twenty? He was not sure whether to be amused or insulted. “I am no Sir Galahad,” he finally said.

Abigail turned around to face him and arched a brow over her spectacles. “I love the Arthurian legends. Mari likened Jamie to Gawain. Which knight are you most like? Lancelot? I always thought he was the most—”

“Enough.” Obviously, the saints were not about to step in. “Are ye always so plainspoken?”

She paused and her eyes grew suspiciously bright. “I am sorry. I speak sometimes before I think. My mother always chastised me for it. I shall try to remember not to—”

“Och, lass. I am nae scolding ye. Bridget speaks her mind as well. ’Tis just the subject is somewhat awkward. I have always taken care nae to discuss my…
experiences
.”

Shane set down his glass, took her arms and turned her gently around. Lifting her heavy mane of hair, he let his fingers play through several silky strands before placing the mass over her shoulder. He traced the line of her swan neck with the pad of his thumb before beginning to unfasten her laces. Abigail’s skin felt like satin beneath his fingertips. Shane allowed himself the luxury of leaning forward to get a glimpse of her ivory mounds and inhale the warm vanilla scent wafting from her cleavage. He lingered at each lace he undid even though each stroke against her soft skin made his erection more painful.

It was going to be hell sleeping in the chair tonight.

Chapter Nine

Abigail studied Shane covertly the next morning as they walked toward the small chapel not far from the castle as part of the tour he’d promised her. He had managed to elude her once again by sleeping in the chair last night, although by dawn he’d slipped to the floor in front of the hearth.

She was pretty sure most marriages didn’t start out this way.

Admittedly, she knew nothing about seduction—Shane had not responded to her come-hither look either—but she’d gotten the impression from giggling maids most men didn’t need much of an invitation at all.

So what was she doing wrong? She didn’t think Shane found her repulsive. His fingers had lingered in her hair and she could still feel the sensation of his callused thumb stroking softly along her neck. How in the world could such a large hand be so gentle? And she didn’t think he minded standing close if his soft, warm breath tickling her ear had been any clue. She was just going to have to work harder at her seduction methods.

“Here we are,” Shane said and Abigail realized they had already reached the chapel.

She gazed up and squinted. “What in the world is that?” she asked, pointing to a carving in the stone arch over the wooden door.

“’Tis the face of a green man,” Shane replied. “Ye remember the one we saw at Temple Church?”

“Yes, but this one looks really different.”

“They have many faces, but all are ancient symbols of prosperity dating back to the druids’ time.”

“This chapel cannot be that old. When was it built?”

“The cornerstone was laid in 1320.”

“Then it is a Christian chapel?”

“Aye, but Scots—as the Celts before them—saw no reason to anger what forces of nature remained. Especially not when a poor harvest might mean starvation for a clan.” He held the door open for her. “Go on in.”

It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. Several short rows of wooden pews on either side formed an aisle leading up to an altar upon which stood a small silver crucifix as well as a brass dish containing incense and three half-burned candles. Christian trappings. A stained-glass window on the eastern wall behind the altar filtered shades of colored light, but what drew Abigail’s immediate attention was the tapestry that hung below the window. She moved around the altar to get a better look. Bloodied bodies lay on the ground while a man astride a huge horse held his sword up in victory. “Why do you have a battle scene hanging in a church?”

“’Tis nae just a battle scene,” Shane said coming to stand behind her. “’Tis our ancestor, Leod, son of Olaf the Black who conquered these lands.” He leaned forward slightly and pointed. “The crimson and gold banner he holds in his other hand, ’tis our faerie flag.”

Abigail was concentrating on the warm, male scent of him and she nearly didn’t hear what he said. “Faeires?”

“Aye. ’Twas said long ago a faerie woman fell in love with a MacLeod. The King of the Faeries was angry she would defile herself with a mortal, but she was adamant the MacLeod would be her lover. The faerie king reluctantly allowed her one year in the mortal world. During that time she bore the MacLeod a son, but unable to raise her child, she left him the flag for protection. ’Tis said it can save our clan three times. ’Tis been used twice.”

Abigail gave him a long look. Was her handsome, strong husband a bit daft in the head? Perhaps that was why he had not understood her attempt at seduction yesterday? “You. Believe. In. Faeries?” she asked slowly.

He frowned slightly. “Aye, lass. Ye would be wise nae to mock them.”

Shane moved even closer and Abigail became lightheaded herself, enveloped by the heady sensation of soap, leather and
him
. He was just a hair’s breadth away from touching her. Maybe if she leaned into him…

“There,” he said, pointing to a small group of marigolds next to a tree at the side of the battle scene. “If ye look closely, ye may see her.”

“Her?”

“The faerie.”

Abigail carefully kept her face impassive. It seemed her husband did have a small quirk in his ability to think logically. Mythical beings aside, could scattered thinking be the reason he was so hesitant to come to the marriage bed? Maybe he really didn’t know how to proceed. After all, he had not really answered her question about
experience
.

She leaned forward to look at the painting. “I do not think I see her.”

Shane leaned closer too. “Och, she only appears when she chooses. The flower petals become her hair, the stem and leaves form her body. ’Tis a true blessing when ye see her for it means she will protect ye.”

“Of course she will,” Abigail said reassuringly.

“And do ye see a green man’s face in the tree?”

“I…actually, I do.” She breathed a sigh of relief. At least, the face she could
see
. As she gazed at it, one of the eyes slowly winked at her and she drew back, startled. Adjusting her spectacles, she peered again. Just a face etched into the tree. Nothing more. Heavens, how could she have thought the face had moved?

She turned her gaze to the stained-glass window above. An equal-armed cross inside a square inside a circle. Around the lower half of the circle were the Latin words
Rosarium Philosphorum
. It translated literally to, “The Philosophy of the Rose”. “What an odd phrase for such a window.”

“’Tis nae so odd if ye ken the symbolism.” Shane gave her an intent look. “The druids, as well as ancient philosophers, were aware of the importance of goddess worship in religion and incorporated astronomy into their teachings as well. Venus, symbol of women and wisdom, makes a complete transit of the skies every forty years following a path that resembles a five-pointed star or five-petal rose. Hence the phrase.”

“Too bad more men do not recognize women’s
wisdom
these days,” Abigail said. “They seem to favor silly, giggling girls instead.”

“Some men doona appreciate intelligence,” Shane replied.

Abigail felt her cheeks warm. Was Shane giving her a compliment? But when she looked at him, he was studying the window. She followed his gaze. “So how does the cross, square and circle fit in?”

“’Tis science—what the philosophers called sacred geometry,” Shane answered. “With the angles and curves of these three shapes, anything can be built.” He smiled and pointed at the phrase. “There is another translation of the
Rosarium Philosphorum.
‘The key to knowledge and the sum of all things’, since the physical shapes are also symbols of what the mind can learn.” Shane glanced down at her. “Am I boring ye?”

“Not at all. I am enjoying your explanation.” And she was. Shane was not only speaking to her like an equal, but on matters most men would not think women could even comprehend. Science and symbolism. In a strange way, it all made sense.

She smiled at Shane. At least, he wasn’t talking about faeries any more.