Rogue of the Borders (28 page)

Fiona stood and walked toward the painting. “What I find more interesting is the sky glowing above the castle when Lady Rosabelle drowned.”

“I’m sure Sir Scott was using a bit of poetic license there,” Abigail said as she walked toward the painting, “or maybe the moon was rising.”

“Or perhaps it was faeries,” Fiona said, her light-grey eyes gleaming in the shadowed light.

Faerie talk again. Abigail forced a smile. “Why do you say that?”

“Sometimes the faeries take to a mortal,” Fiona replied, “as the faerie queen did with the MacLeod. If they favored Rosabelle, they might have danced in the sky to welcome her home.”

“You believe that?”

“Of course. If ye were raised in the Highlands, ye would too. ’Tis bad luck to mock the fae.”

She seemed so sincere, Abigail could only stare. Shane had sounded serious too when he spoke of them. It truly seemed this odd belief was something the MacLeod clan bore. She loved Shane’s sisters and cousins. Most of all she loved Shane.

But…faeires?

“You know you do not have to do this,” Abigail told Fiona the next morning as Jacob stopped the hack in front of the office building on the wharf. “I doubt very much that Shane would approve of you joining me here.”

Fiona scampered down the carriage steps behind Abigail. “Shane is my cousin, not my brother.”

“As if that matters. He feels responsible for you. Your brothers would never forgive him if something happened to you.”

“Nothing is going to happen,” Fiona replied. “Besides, I can take care of myself.”

Abigail gave her a wry look. From what Jamie had told Mari, Fiona had a knack for finding trouble even when she wasn’t looking. “I still do not think—”

“Ye work here,” Fiona pointed out.

“That is different. I am Shane’s wife. Everyone who works on the dock knows that by now.”

“Well, I am a relative. Jacob can let everyone on the dock know that too.”

“It is not the same.”

“Why not? If ye doona get bothered, why should I?”

Abigail smiled. “You are a very attractive, young, single woman.” Did Fiona not realize how pretty she was with her raven hair and striking pearl-grey eyes? Not to mention a curvy figure that every London debutante would envy. Men were bound to notice her, especially since she was also inquisitive and talkative. Shane’s cousin was a walking recipe for disaster, even if she wasn’t aware of it.

Fiona waved a hand in dismissal. “I will simply ignore flirtatious suggestions.”

“Dock workers and longshoremen do not always adhere to the rules of a genteel society,” Abigail replied. “Most of them are not even aware there
are
rules.”

“Ye have nae seen a Highlander celebrating after a successful reiving with too much whisky. ’Tis wild the men get.”

Abigail furrowed her brows, almost afraid to ask. “A successful what?”

“Reiving,” Fiona repeated. “If an insult has been made against the clan, some of the men will take a few sheep or cattle in the dark of night to make up for it.”

“You mean steal?”

“Call it borrowing…except, of course, the other clan will have to do some reiving too, if they want the animals back.” Fiona grinned. “’Tis a favorite pastime.”

“When Highlanders are not brandishing swords in play,” Abigail said dourly, remembering Jamie’s fondness of carrying a huge claymore across his back.

“Aye. There is that too.” She shrugged. “Even the women can handle dirks easily enough.”

“You know how to handle a knife?”

“Aye. I dinna grow up with two warrior brothers and nae learn a few things.”

Abigail could only imagine. “I still do not think your brothers would want you working here.” She watched as Fiona’s jaw set in a way similar to Shane’s when he was not about to change his mind.

“I want to use my brain like ye do.”

Abigial blinked. She couldn’t argue with that. The office did generate a lot of paperwork with the fleet of ships arriving and departing. It would be nice to have someone to talk to. Besides, Jacob could stand guard over both of them. There wasn’t any reason for either of them to be out on the docks, since Richard dealt with the ships’ captains. She relented. “Promise me you will not leave the office.”

Fiona beamed at her. “I promise.”

Richard looked up from his desk as they walked in and he smiled. “It is a pleasure to see you again, Lady Fiona,” he said smoothly.

“And ye as well, Mr. Reneau,” Fiona said.

“Call me Richard.”

Fiona glanced at Abigail and she thought she saw her eyes twinkle, although she didn’t smile. “I doona think that would be appropriate, sir. I prefer to keep business relationships formal.”

An eyebrow went up. “Business?”

“Aye. I am planning to work in the office helping Abigail.”

Richard’s gaze turned intense, like a bird of prey spotting its next meal.

At least, that was the impression Abigail got, but then she shook it off. Richard always looked hawkish—and she did have an overly active imagination.

Abigail still felt uneasy several days later as she sat again at Shane’s desk in the library. She wished she could identify what was troubling her, but the feeling was vague. Although Richard seemed to watch Fiona intently whenever she was in the office, he had not made any flirtatious remarks, nor had he behaved inappropriately. Abigail got the impression he was studying Fiona much like a scientist might a strange specimen, but that made little sense either. It wasn’t as if Edinburgh didn’t have its share of women.

Forcing herself to focus on something else, Abigail reached for a handwritten journal she had found in the hidden safe beneath the spiral staircase. She’d had a twinge of guilt about snooping, but the key for it had been in the desk drawer. That twinge soon gave way to excitement when she realized the entries were made in the 1400s. Since the script was medieval English, it was slow translating. So far, she’d discovered two things. The first was the Priory of Sion had been founded before the Templars. Its mission was to protect ancient lineage of Jerusalem’s kings and the Templars were organized to protect the Priory. The other interesting bit of information concerned William Sinclair who’d traveled with the original Templars. He’d also persuaded them to bring the treasures they’d unearthed from under Solomon’s Temple back to Scotland. The manuscript did not describe what those treasures were, but it did say they were first housed at an abbey at Kelso and later moved to Kilwinning when war continued to threaten close to the English border.

She was about to start on the next portion when Shauna poked her head in. “Do ye want some lunch? ’Tis ready.”

“I will get something later,” Abigail replied.

“I thought ye would say that. Would ye like some tea?”

“No. I do not want to take the chance on spilling anything on this.”

Shauna’s expression turned curious and she came inside. “What have ye found?”

When Abigail told her, she pulled up a chair. “How exciting. I had nae idea.”

Abigail moved the journal so they could both read. Two minds might make the translation faster. “This is more about the Templars,” she said, “only later.”

Shauna leaned closer. “The date given is 1307. ’Tis when they fled France during the persecution. They were declared heretics by the pope.”

“I remember reading about that,” Abigail said. “The Templars developed a banking system and the French king borrowed too much so he had the pope declare them heretics to avoid paying his debt.”

“The king controlled the pope?”

“I think it has always been a delicate balance of power between the church and the heads of state.” Abigail shrugged. “Look what Henri Tudor did when the pope would not allow him to divorce Catherine.”

Shauna sat back and nodded. “Another pope excommunicated our Robert Bruce for killing a Comyn inside Greyfriars Church—not that the man dinna have it coming. He aided the MacDougalls.”

“Kyla said Scots had long memories. Are you telling me clan rivalry did not end simply because King George had disbanded them after Culloden?” Abigail asked wryly.

Shauna grinned. “Just doona mentioned a MacDonald too often in front of Ian or ye will find out.”

Abigail shook her head and went back to reading. “Actually, this seems to be about Robert Bruce.”

“Really?” Shauna moved closer. “What does it say?”

She read a little farther. “The two-day battle of Bannock Burn.”

“Oh, aye. I ken all about that,” Shauna said. “Scots were outnumbered four to one and yet Edward lost, thanks to a few hundred light cavalry Bruce held in reserve. Every child in the Highlands is raised on the story. ’Twas the most important charge in Scottish history.”

Abigail looked back at the book. “It says here—oh, my God. Those men were not Scots. They were Templars.”

Shauna’s forehead wrinkled. “Are ye sure?”

“Yes. Positive.” Abigail moved the journal toward Shauna. “See here? The date is June twenty fourth—and the notation says “Victory on the feast day of John the Baptist is doubly sweet for Templars claim him as their own.”

“I wonder—” Shauna began when the twins burst in.

They nearly collided with each other as they skidded to a stop, apparently remembering they were still under orders to act with decorum.

“Janet is back. Janet is back,” they shouted in unison, not bothering to use ladylike tones.

“Thank goodness,” Shauna said as she stood. “Perhaps we can have something besides stew or burned porridge. I will go see what she needs.”

Abigail returned the journal to the safe and started toward the kitchen. As glad as she was to have their housekeeper—and cook—back, she wondered when Shane would be returning. It had been nearly four weeks…

She stopped so quickly she nearly tripped over her feet. The feeling of dread and unease washed over her like a cold wave from the sea. Four weeks. Shane should have been back by now. She didn’t think there had been an accident at sea—Leith’s port had been busy and news of a ship’s sinking would immediately have spread among the sailors. Shane had said he’d be sailing to Le Havre, Calais and London.

London. Would Shane see her father? More than likely he would. The cold swept through her veins. The time for their sham marriage was nearly finished.

What if Shane had decided to proceed with the annulment while he was in there? The paperwork wouldn’t be harder to procure than a special license to marry, especially if a few pounds sterling exchanged hands. Abigail leaned against the hall wall, her legs suddenly too weak to sustain her.

Oh, Lord. What if she were a single woman again when Shane returned?

Chapter Twenty Four

Shane had seen the ugly three-story granite building situated on the corner of Newgate Street and Old Bailey, but he had never thought he would go through its massive entrance guarded with a working portcullis—or that he would actually spend the night inside a damp, dank cell stinking of human excrement. A broken chair and the remnants of a rodent-chewed, vermin-infested blanket in a corner were the only
amenities
the cramped enclosure offered. He’d had no food or drink and the passing turnkeys had made more than one jest of a “barbarous Scot now residing in luxury” as they made their rounds, although their language had not been that polite.

No wonder Newgate was called hell above ground.

But what worried Shane most, as dawn began to trickle through the narrow slats in the small window high above him, was how the
Border Lass
had fared. Even more importantly, had the documents inside the metal cylinder been discovered?

Had Donald been able to locate Campbell? Parliament was in session, but that didn’t necessarily mean the duke would be in attendance. Argyll wouldn’t have known Shane would be bringing the documents. For that matter, Shane was not even sure word would have been sent to Morrison or Sussex. Even a coded message would have been risky.

All he could do was sit on the cold floor and wait while beady-eyed rats skittered through the cell’s bars as though mocking him. One had ventured close, rising on its hind legs, wiggling its nose like a rabbit’s while it surveyed him. Either it didn’t think him choice meat—or maybe he still smelled too clean—but it dropped to all fours and scampered away. If Shane spent much longer in this place, he’d be naming them.

In spite of the guards’ taunts of hanging a Scotsman, Shane was pretty sure that sentence was no longer carried out. Real smuggling was too prolific, and much of it was carried out by men who had other skills but simply could not feed their families. With continuing wars, England couldn’t afford to obliterate half its coastal male population. He doubted he’d be sent to America or Australia either. A ship’s captain would soon be able to work his way back. The stocks, flogging or even branding, he could endure.

But he had to find out if the documents were safe—and who was responsible for setting this farce up in the first place. Did Alain and Remy have spies in their midst? Had someone in France gotten wind of the transfer? Or had Walter Avery simply made a trial run the first shipment and planned to bring in the opium the second time? But why implicate Shane and give up a lucrative profit by not keeping it? Did Richard Reneau have anything to do with this? Shane’s gut feeling was that he had been made the target. But why?