Rogue of the Borders (17 page)

“And apparitions,” Abigail said.

Caylin ceased giggling. “Ye mean ghosts?”

“I do.”

Caylin frowned. “’Tis a true story?”

“Some of it is. I will let you figure it out.”

“Tell us now.”

“Nae,” Shane intervened. “And she will nae tell ye a word of the tale if ye do nae behave yourselves today.”

Abigail smiled at how quiet the girls became as they moved on to the abbey. But even she was speechless when the ruins came into view. “It is exquisite,” she said as they walked into the old nave. “The pillars are all different.” She moved from the first rounded one with rectangular-shaped bricks to the second that had a zig-zag pattern and the third striped one reminding her of peppermint candy.

“The Normans built these,” Shane said, “but more importantly, twenty-two Scottish kings and queens are buried here, including Robert the Bruce—minus his heart, of course.”

“Minus his heart?” Caitlin asked, her eyes round.

“Aye. When King Robert died, he requested his heart be taken to the Holy Land. Sir James Douglas and Sir William Sinclair led a contingent of Temp—Scottish knights—across Spain, but they were met by a host of Moors and killed.”

Abigail gave him a steady look. Had he almost said Templars? She would have to ask about that later. Right now, though, the twins were actually captivated and she didn’t want to lose their attention. “This Sir William was an ancestor of yours,” she said to them. “Is that not exciting? I believe I might have another story of soldiers braving very strange and exciting worlds in something called Crusades.”

“Will you tell us tonight?”

“I will tell you one story a night,” Abigail promised with a smile, already thinking of how she could make the history lessons really interesting. She did have an active imagination.

A corner of Shane’s mouth quirked in a slight smile. “I might like to hear these strange and exciting stories myself.”

Abigail’s pulse quickened as her imagination took flight into realms of naughty fantasy, but then she calmed as she realized Shane was teasing her.

At any rate, those kinds of stories—the ones where she wondered what Mr. Darcy wore under his clothes since the author would never say—were not meant for young ears.

Still, she gave Shane a slow smile and then almost giggled at his startled look.

Shane turned over, burrowing his head more deeply in his pillow, lost in the world of dreams.

Shadows lurked around the edges of swirling dark-blue and deep-lavender that deepened into the gloaming’s darkness, leaving any possibility for vision outside the carriage windows obscure. Its well-oiled wheels continued silently northward into the chilly dampness of the night, not that its two occupants noticed or cared.

Inside the coach, thick layers of furs lined the floor between the benches, forming a cozy, warm cocoon illuminated only by a small, gimbaled oil lamp.

Abigail lay on that soft bed, chestnut hair spread across the furs, a red satin sheet barely covering her torso as she gave him a seductive smile.

Shane grinned and tugged the sheet down, uncovering her lusciously full breasts. The ivory mounds glowed in the subtle lighting as he cupped one of them, feeling its full weight in the palm of his hand while he flicked his thumb across the nipple, causing it to peak immediately. He rolled the tightened bud between his fingers as he bent to circle his tongue around the delicious pink tip of the other breast, bringing a small whimper from Abigail. Leisurely, he continued his ministrations until her whimper grew into a hungry mewl and she arched her back for him to take more.

Slanting his head at an angle, he obliged, drawing her more fully into his mouth and suckling with alternating pressure. She twined her arms around his neck as she clung to him with increasing fervor.

Shane slid his hand down her side, trailing the curve of her hip and slowly tracing the outline of her leg. Abigail’s mewling noises changed to low moans as his fingers wandered softly upward along her inner thigh. Moist heat emanated from the juncture where tight curls already glistened with her readiness. He delved his fingers into her hot well, spreading the juices along her folds and covering her pulsating nub in slickness, making it easy for him to rub and knead and stroke until her body quivered and began to shake. Shane drew harder on her nipple, massaging his thumb over her swollen nib while he thrust a finger deep inside her core. Abigail writhed and cried out, her body shattering beneath his touch—

With a jolt, Shane shot upright in his bed. Moonlight streamed in the porthole and across his bed, revealing he was alone. His engorged shaft throbbed painfully, but he ignored it, sliding out of bed and pulling on a tunic. Opening the cabin door to the narrow walkway, he ascended the ladder and paced the deck. Maybe the cool night air would bring him back to his senses.

The dream had been so real. Even now, he could still feel the texture of Abigail’s skin, the taste of her. The scent of her arousal lingered in the air.

In the air? That could not be. Abigail was not here. Shane raised his head and sniffed. A faint smell of vanilla wafted toward him over the salt-scented water and he quickly looked around, half-expecting to find Abigail hidden on the deck somewhere.

No one was here. After checking with the two hands who stood watch, ascertaining all was well, Shane went below. Tossing aside the tunic, he climbed back into bed. As he did, something flitted in his peripheral vision, leaving sparkles of gold and silver in its wake.

Very faintly, he thought he heard the sound of faerie laughter.

Chapter Fifteen

Abigail woke the next morning in a somewhat befuddled state to the insistence of Fiona’s knocking at her door. She had been dreaming, a totally nonsensical dream of a fur-lined carriage and vibrant colors swirling around her. And something else—something tangible and yet out of reach—that made her body tremble. She wanted to sink back into the oblivion of the dream and continue, but the banging got louder. Reluctantly, she swung out of bed and padded in her bare feet to the door.

“Ye overslept. Shane is waiting for ye downstairs,” Fiona said.

“Good gracious.” Abigail looked at her window where bright sunlight shone through. Usually there was only a pale glow when she rose. “What time is it?”

“’Tis half past nine o’clock,” Fiona answered.

Abigail moved to the dresser where she quickly poured water from the pitcher into a basin to splash her face. In London, only the servants would be astir at this hour, but in Scotland, it seemed everyone rose early. Regardless, Shane’s office opened at nine every morning and she did not intend to ask for favors. “Is he angry?”

“Nae. Shane is slow to anger,” Fiona replied as she moved to help Abigail dress. “He does look tired though.”

“I wonder if there was trouble at the docks last night,” Abigail said as Fiona finished lacing her dress.

Motioning for Abigail to sit, Fiona reached for the hairbrush and gave her a curious look in the mirror. “He did say ’tis why he sleeps on the ship.”

“I suppose the docks are not truly safe at night.” Abigail looked down to smooth a fold in her gown so Fiona wouldn’t see her eyes. She had wondered what excuse Shane had given his cousins since neither of them seemed to find his not spending the nights at home particularly strange. Or maybe they just didn’t question anything he did.

“Since David’s attackers have nae been caught, Shane said he wanted to stay close to the ships.”

Abigail bit her lip, knowing that was not the real reason. But what if Shane was putting himself in danger by trying to avoid their non-consummation of marriage? She gave Fiona a worried look. “What if a group of thieves or cutthroats tries to board though? How can Shane defend himself?”

Fiona grinned, showing the MacLeod dimple. “Ye need nae fear about that. Jamie once told Shane he had arms of iron and fists of steel. Of course…” She giggled. “That was
after
Shane had sent Jamie’s big sword flying in a match.”

Abigail smiled. She remembered how fond Jamie was of carrying the huge claymore strapped to his back. Mari had quite a time persuading him he could not take it to parties and balls. “But Shane does not carry a sword usually. It gets in the way on board the ship.”

“Aye, but he will have one nearby. A Scotsman is never far from his sword or his collection of dirks.”

“Dirks?”

“Knives,” Fiona supplied as she finished brushing Abigail’s hair and laid the brush down. “There are always one or two on the belt and a small one in the sporran as well as the
sgain dubh
, which stays strapped to the leg even in sleep.”

Abigail’s ears perked. Really? Shane slept with a knife attached to his leg? She wouldn’t know, since she’d not seen him with his trousers off, although she did remember a black handle sticking out from his hose when he wore his kilt on their wedding day. She could ask him about it—to get the conversational ball rolling in the direction she wanted it to go. Maybe he needed a gentle nudge, just in case he was not experienced. Perhaps if she planted an image in his head of him removing his pants for her, he would—

She gave Fiona a speculative look. Could she answer questions about Shane’s past? “Were Shane and Jamie quite close growing up?”

“Aye. Ian too.”

“What kind of scraps did they get into?”

“The usual I suppose. Fights with other lads over imagined insults.”

“Over ladies too?”

Fiona giggled. “Aye. Lasses were always about.”

“Did…did Shane…er, did he have lots of girls swooning after him?”

“Aye. He is a braw man.” She sobered. “But ye need nae worry. Shane never took to having flings, so doona fash. No lass will be seeking him out with a bairn.”

Abigail blinked. She hadn’t thought about that possibility. Still, Fiona had told her pretty much what she needed to know. Shane would just need a little prodding. If she just could lure him to their bedchamber and lock the door…

“Where did this come from?”

Jarred from plotting a nice fantasy, it took a moment for Abigail to focus on what Fiona was holding in her hands.

“Oh, that is just a rock I found the day I fell at Ian’s. I thought it was rather pretty, so I saved it—and also to remind myself not to be crawling down steep ledges.”

Fiona frowned. “Was it just lying in the road?”

“No. I found it in the pocket of my dress when I got back. I must have done some rolling when I tumbled.”

“Did ye see anyone?”

Abigail hesitated. Should she mention the old woman? The whole idea of an elderly person appearing—and disappearing—in the middle of the road seemed fanciful, even to her active imagination.

“You saw no one?” Fiona asked again.

“Well, I
thought
I saw someone, but I must have bumped my head pretty hard.” Abigail smiled. “When I looked a second time, no one was there.”

Fiona didn’t return her smile. “Describe the person.”

Abigail knitted her brows. This was going to sound so inane. “All right, but you have to promise not to laugh.”

Her expression still serious, Fiona nodded. “I will nae laugh.”

“Like I said, I think I hit my head. I remember lying on my back, looking up at the sky and suddenly this old woman was there, asking me if I were hurt.”

“Go on.”

Feeling somewhat daft, Abigail decided to continue since Fiona was giving her such an intense look. “My ankle hurt, or at least I thought it did. I might have had a bit of a concussion since I imagined the old woman turning and rubbing it. When I finally got up and walked around, it felt fine.”

“And what did the woman say?”

“Nothing.” Abigail paused. “When I turned around, she was gone.”

“And ye did nae tell us this?”

Abigail felt her face warm. “No. I am sure I imagined the whole thing. I did have a bump on my head.”

“Ye dinna imagine it.”

“What?”

“Ye dinna imagine it,” Fiona repeated.

“Ye—you are saying there really was someone there? Humans do not just disappear, especially elderly ones.”

“Humans may nae disappear,” Fiona said, “but ye saw the Crone of the Hills.”

“The
who
? I mean,
whom
?”

“The Crone, a wise woman who has the sight. The old woman lives deep in the forest and is rarely seen since there was some talk years ago she was a witch. She helped Shane find Jillian last fall when she fell into the ravine.” Fiona turned the stone over. “And the Crone gave one of these to Jillian the first time Ian brought her to the castle. Ian said it saved Jillian’s life.”

Abigail refrained from laughing. “How could a stone do that?”

“’Tis a tiger’s eye. For protection.” Fiona lowered the stone and twisted it in the light, reflecting the yellow streak in the brownish stone. “There’s a faerie inside.”

Abigail hoped there was not a serious mental affliction affecting the MacLeod clan. She remembered Shane speaking of their faerie flag and a faerie inside the painting at Ian’s. Now Fiona was speaking of some magical woman who lived in a forest and weaving a tale about Ian believing in faeries too. Ian, of all people. He had always seemed fierce and unrelenting to her.