Rogue of the Borders (13 page)

Remy shook his head. “The ban on political demonstrations has been expanded to include any
secret
meetings of the lodges.”

“It does not help that Pope Pius maintains the rite of ex-communication of the masses if they join us,” Alain added.

“Freemasons pose a threat,” Remy said. “The Church’s power base is autocratic rule. Keeping the common folk ignorant and shackled to their stations in life means they can be controlled. The exact opposite of what the lodges represent.”

“Freedom from the oppression of church and state is a long road, but returning the rightful bloodline—in France and Scotland—are what we are sworn to do,” Alain said.

“Regardless of interfering popes,” Remy added. “We survived Clement and Phillipe. We will persevere.”

“Templars never surrender.”

“Aye. ’Tis our motto,” Shane said.

He was still thinking about that motto as the ship’s bow turned toward home. As tempted as he was by Abigail—lust aside, he actually enjoyed conversing with her—he could not surrender even though he was beginning to regret his agreement with her father. He must not give in to his desires, no matter how strongly they called to him.

He had done the right thing, leaving her with Ian and his cousins. She would have the company of other women. Even though his cousins didn’t tend to gossip like Londoners did, they all liked to chatter. They would include Abigail in their conversations and make her feel welcome. Ian would protect her. She would be fine until it came time to return her to her father. It really was best that he remove himself from temptation.

Truly, he had made the best decision.

Resolutely, he put thoughts of Abigail out of his mind. He had a stop to make in London, but once he was home in the quiet sanctuary of his library, all would be well.

Chapter Eleven

“Where do you think this should go?” Kyla asked, holding an oil painting of a sixteenth century galleon under full sails.

“Not in the parlor,” Fiona giggled. “We need something romantic in there.”

“I think we should hang it in the foyer,” Shauna said, “since Shane does own a shipping company.”

“I like that idea,” Abigail agreed. Usually entry halls either held a portrait of the hereditary aristocrat of the manor or they boasted some prestigious original by the likes of Rembrandt or Rubens. “I’d like to commission a painting of one of Shane’s actual ships sometime.” She started to motion to one of the footmen Ian had loaned them, but all three men were already vying to assist Kyla in the placement of the painting.

Her maid offered a smile and flirtatious look that somehow managed to include the entire trio at the same time. Abigail just hoped they wouldn’t come to blows over Kyla anytime soon. She needed everyone working together if they were to get the place ready by the time Shane returned home.

Luckily—for her, at least—a nasty storm had swept down the North Sea so Shane would be delayed a few more days. Abigail needed every minute of it.

Not that they hadn’t made a lot of progress. She recalled Janet’s shocked face when she’d arrived with Shane’s young sisters, two cousins, three footmen and a dozen armed guards. Janet had recovered quickly and Abigail suspected Kyla had filled the housekeeper in on just why everyone was here. In any event, Janet’s knowledge of which shops had the best furnishings had been a timesaver and she had wisely taken Kyla with her, thus ensuring three footmen would trail along to carry the goods not being delivered to the house directly.

The parlor did not have the lavish, gilded decorations that London’s townhomes had added to wall moldings and ceilings—for which Abigail was thankful—but it had a warmth that hadn’t been there before. Pale gold wallpaper with a subtle scroll design of small green leaves had been added. A comfortably plush-velvet sofa in deep-blue faced the hearth, matching the draperies at the long, narrow windows flanking the fireplace. The two straight-back chairs were replaced with Sheratons of maple-veneered cherry wood, the color enhanced by late afternoon sun and adding enriched color to the walls. The seats were well-padded rosy damask, the lyre-shaped chair backs carved to fit the curve of one’s back. Small pedestal tables of cherry wood stood within easy reach of each seat. All in all, it was a comfortable room and not too feminine.

The rooms on the third floor were no longer empty either, having been furnished fairly quickly to accommodate Shane’s sisters and cousins, as well as Kyla. Although servants generally had rooms on the fourth floor, Abigail decided she wanted the master bedchamber there to ensure privacy. What man could resist the huge Chippendale four-poster bed that took up most of that room? Kyla had helped her pick it out, including the lush, overly thick feather mattress, and hinted at all sorts of lewd behavior that could take place in a bed that size.

And, just in case Shane really was not experienced—Abigail was beginning to consider that a real possibility since he had not confessed to any affairs—she had purchased a very naughty painting of a partially naked Venus to hang above the bed.

A thrill of excitement coursed through Abigail at the possibilities of that enticing picture—and privacy—would afford. With all his relatives about, Shane couldn’t possibly take to sleeping on the sofa in the library and sooner or later, Abigail would wear him down.

Sooner would be better, though, especially since a month had already gone by.

The rain had begun again, coming in hard with sideways bands of merciless pounding. Its sharp slashing forecast another strong storm surging from the North Sea. Shane was soaked to the skin in spite of the oiled foul-weather gear he wore.

The crew looked as disgruntled as he felt. They had been beating to windward the entire passage, enduring not only a pitching ship, but regular drenching of cold water as waves sloshed over the bow and down the deck. Several days of jerky and hard biscuits for meals had done nothing to improve tempers either. Even in the Firth, the sea was still lumpy, making docking hazardous. To make matters even worse, he hadn’t remembered to ask Remy and Alain to send a man to Le Havre to check out Richard Reneau.

All Shane wanted now was a hot bath and a hot meal and solitude.

A muted cheer went up from his crew as dockhands secured lines, bringing the boat alongside the pier without damage. Shane watched as his men quickly finished their tasks and raced down the gangplank like drowned rats deserting a ship. At least the ship was not sinking.

He walked to the office and stood to the side while the crew collected their pay. The new clerk seemed to be handling things efficiently, although Shane noticed Albert wasn’t moving as fast as he usually did. After the last man had disappeared down the road to a nearby tavern, Shane laid the check for the kelp shipment on the counter.

“Ye are looking a bit peaked,” he said to Albert.

“I have nae been feeling so well,” Albert admitted. “’Tis probably something I ate the last day or two.”

“Doona let Janet hear ye criticize her cooking,” Shane warned.

The older man grinned. “I have nae been married for thirty years to not ken that.”

Shane laughed and bid Albert take care. Since he was already sopping wet, he decided to walk the few blocks to the townhouse, both to get his land legs back and to keep from making a mess in any hired hack.

He slowed his steps when he passed the public house where his crew was no doubt on their third or fourth dram by now, and then he picked up his pace. On occasion—such as a particularly harrowing journey—he did join his men for a round, but today he just wanted to go home. Janet was an excellent cook, and by the time he’d soaked in a hot hipbath, she’d have something warm and invigorating waiting for him—and then he could retire to his library for that blessed dram of good whisky.

“I am bored,” Caitlin complained, slumping in one of the parlor chairs.

“Me too,” Caylin added.

Fiona walked to the window where rain beat in steady rhythm against the panes and the low, leaden sky only held promise of more to come and sighed. “Will it
ever
stop raining? We have been cooped up for
days
.”

Shauna looked up from her embroidery. “It rains in Glenfinnan, too, so stop complaining.”

Fiona gave her sister a reproving glare. “The storms there blow through quickly though and then the sun shines. We cannot even go shopping with this downpour.”

“Have ye nae done enough shopping with the house furnishings?” Shauna asked.

“That was fine,” Fiona answered, “but we have nae had time to do any personal shopping. I want to see what the dressmakers have to offer.”

“And ye will soon enough.”

“But what can we do
now
?” Caylin asked, slumping in the chair opposite her twin. “The footmen dinna think our prank was funny this morn and Kyla scolded us.”

“As well she should,” Shauna replied and returned to stitching. “’Tis nae funny to put mud inside their boots.”

Caitlin giggled. “But there is so much mud right now.”

Abigail shifted in the corner of the sofa where she’d been curled with a copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. She’d read it several times, but Mr. Darcy never failed to intrigue her. Something in his character reminded her of Shane and she wondered, for the umpteenth time, who the author was who’d written it.

She closed the book with a sigh. Cold, dreary days with a blazing fire in the hearth—and perhaps a cup of hot chocolate—were perfect for reading a good book, but obviously thirteen-year-old girls didn’t see it that way. Neither did Fiona. Abigail was tempted to tell her London was grey and foggy much of the time, but she decided that could wait.

“I think we could all use some action,” Abigail said as she put her book on the table. “Would you like to play a game of charades?”

“Yes,” the twins shrieked in unison, both of them jumping up.

Fiona nodded. “That would be fun. Mayhap Kyla would like to join us? She always has fun ideas.”

Abigail refrained from rolling her eyes. Kyla’s ideas of
fun
ranged on the border of risqué, to say the least. “We can see if she is busy.”

“Perhaps we should ask the footmen as well,” Shauna remarked as she put her embroidery loop aside and gave the twins a stern look. “To make up for your shenanigans earlier.”

Fiona dimpled. “I am sure Kyla would like that.”

Abigail was sure Kyla would too, although how the maid managed to keep the trio from engaging in fisticuffs over her flirtations, Abigail didn’t understand—although she had been watching with more and more interest. Perhaps she could learn a thing or two to use on Shane.

It never hurt to be prepared.

By the time Shane reached the townhouse, he was having second thoughts about having not hired a hack. The rain had turned to sleet and the icy shards struck his face like so many tiny needle pricks. He pulled the collar of his weather gear up, wishing he had a heavy wool tartan instead.

Wearily, he climbed the steps, used his key to unlock the door and then stepped inside. He had no more than shut the door when male laughter and female giggling assailed him. The sounds seemed to be coming from the parlor. As he moved toward that room, he was nearly knocked over by two blurs that swept past him, shouting and shrieking. It took a moment for Shane to realize they were his sisters.

What in the world were they doing here? He proceeded to the doorway and then stopped, aghast.

The parlor was full of people, including his wife. Abigail’s hair had come loose, dangling in wild array about her flushed face. She had one leg in the air as though she were mounting a horse—a pose that exposed both ankle and calf to the gaping footmen—and she was flapping her arms as though she were going to take flight any minute.

“What the devil is going on?”

Chapter Twelve

Caught off-balance—literally—by her husband’s huge, bedraggled frame filling the doorway, Abigail nearly toppled over, only managing to save herself by doing a less-than-graceful
fouetté
and finishing the unintended spin by lurching forward in a series of minute steps to slow her momentum. All of which brought her within a foot of her glaring husband.

The frown on his face changed to an expression of incredulousness. “What exactly was that?”

“An attempt not to fall over.” Abigail pushed her spectacles back and futilely tried to smooth her gown.

His expression did not change. “And the…movement before that? I was unaware any human has tried to fly since Icarus.”

She furrowed her brow. “Of course I was not flying. I was riding Pegasus.”

“I see.” Taking her arm, Shane guided her toward a chair. “Perhaps ye should sit down and rest.” He leaned over her, causing her to more or less fall into the chair, and whispered, “Shall I call a physician? Is there some medication ye need?”

“Of course not. There is nothing wrong with me.”

“Of course not,” he repeated soothingly, as though speaking to an extremely distraught child.

Abigail widened her eyes in comprehension. Shane thought she had a
condition
? “We were playing charades. The twins were bored.”