Rogue of the Borders (3 page)

“Ye will stay here. The men were nae happy with their supper ruined and I doona care to be scooping ye out of the sea.” Shane poured some water into the basin, picked up a bar of soap and began to lather himself.

Abigail’s breath caught again. Watching his muscles flex as he soaped himself was causing parts of her to tingle she didn’t know
could
tingle. She forced her eyes to focus on a picture of a medieval building on the wall to the right of him, even though her periphery vision was aware the water he’d sponged over himself silkily slid down every sinewy contour of him. Lord, it was suddenly warm in the enclosed space.

“What is that building?” she managed to ask.

“Rosslyn Chapel,” he answered, reaching for a towel. “My mother’s ancestors built it.”

“It is unusual,” Abigail said, her attention still tuned to his movements as he dried himself. Her hands actually itched to be doing it for him and she quickly clenched them in her lap.

Shane gave her a curious look. “Ye are interested in old buildings, lad?”

“I—”
Remember, I am a boy.
She lowered her voice and shrugged. “It does not look like a church.”

“It is different,” he answered, reached for his shirt and pulled it on. “If ye ever get to Edinburgh, it is worth seeing.” After lifting the basin out of its groove, he moved to the door. “I will bring ye some fresh water so ye can wash.”

Abigail watched the door close. Wash? In front of Shane? She could not take off her shirt like he had. He’d see her bound breasts. So far her disguise was working. Merciful heavens. What was she going to do?

She was still pondering her dilemma when Shane returned. She stared as he set the basin back in its spot and laid out a fresh towel. “Have at it, lad,” he said and turned back to the door. “I will be locking the door behind me since I have the first watch. Doona fash. Ye will be safe here. By morning, the crew will have gotten over their missed dinner.”

Abigail sighed with relief as the door shut and then washed quickly, just in case Shane returned for something. It wasn’t the crew she was worried about as she crawled into the surprising softness of the bunk.

What would happen when Shane returned from his watch?

Shane finished the first watch and went to the quartermaster’s cabin, adjacent to his. Donald would be taking the second watch, so Shane could use his bunk. He lay down on top of it, hoping to get some rest before returning to the deck, but he found sleep eluded him. Instead, he stared up at the ceiling.

Even though the day had been grueling, the crises had passed. The corsair had not turned back, and they were now on course to arrive in Calais in the morning. His crew would have shore leave for the day, which should remove any resentment they still held regarding the lad who’d ruined the stew. Still, the niggling feeling that something was amiss lingered.

Perhaps it was the lad. The more Shane observed him, the more he was convinced the youth was not a street urchin or ragamuffin. He was too pale to have spent much time outdoors and Shane seriously doubted the boy had ever been in a fisticuffs. Though his shirt was course muslin and his boots scuffed, the lad’s English held no hint of slang. In fact, the voice sounded cultivated, as if the boy were educated. His questions about the chapel picture verified Shane’s suspicion.

So what the hell had the boy been doing on the docks at dawn? And why did he want to work on a ship?

The only conclusion Shane could come up with was the one he’d had earlier. The lad was running away, perhaps from a boarding school he didn’t like. As soon as they returned to London, he’d turn the boy over to the authorities and offer to hire Bow Street runners to check out the boarding schools. The sooner he had the situation taken care of, the better for everyone.

Meanwhile, Shane needed to keep the boy safe. He certainly could not be allowed loose on the streets in the company of men who would be drunk before the noon meal, and Shane had a secret meeting with his Templar counterparts in regard to the French Restoration. He would have to ask Donald to take the lad with him while he made arrangements for the tin to be unloaded. The man would probably not be pleased, but he was a responsible person.

This was a trip Shane was ready to have over. The London docks would probably never look so good.

“Tell me how King Louis fares,” Shane said to his comrades, Remy Benoit and Alain Lyles, the next morning as they met in an abandoned warehouse.

“There are still squabbles and protests,” Remy answered. “The second Treaty of Paris did little to please the working class. They do not like having their taxes pay to house foreign soldiers.”

“Aye. Scotland was nae keen to accept English rule after Culloden either,” Shane replied. “But how does it go for
us
?” Although there was no reason to speak in secret code at this meeting, training had taught them all never to call themselves an order.

“Edward Stuart has secured the king’s favor, but our countrymen are another matter,” Alain answered. “The men elected into the
Chambre Introuvable
are influenced by the Roman church, which wants her lands—and coffers—back from the
biens nationaux
.”

“Even worse, the
Chambre
seeks to ban political demonstrations as well,” Remy added. “I suspect Pope Pius is behind that as well. If he succeeds, it will hinder our mission considerably.”

“And ’tis only a step to persecution of those nae favored,” Shane said grimly.

“
Oui
. Already, the
Verdets
strut like peacocks proud of killing their own countrymen who obeyed Napoleon. The implication is the corps will do the same to any not agreeing with the
Chambre
.”

“And Louis cannae stop them?”

“Our king walks a fine line.” Remy shrugged. “The
Chambre
ousted the moderates and the common people are not fond of the time Louis spent in English exile.”

“A time he probably used to assess the Regency situation and consider whether a bloodless coup is possible anytime soon.”

“That is true. The French are tired of war,” Alain answered.

“Which is a step in the direction we want to go,” Remy added. “Take heart, my friend, we will eventually accomplish what we seek to do.”

“We cannot give up hope,” Shane agreed as he stood to leave. “I will be bringing a shipment of kelp soon and we will talk again.”

The Frenchmen nodded. “Until then.”

Things were not going to be easy for the Brethren on either side of the Channel, Shane thought as he walked back to the docks, but that was the way of it. Bending people’s wills or forcing them to accept beliefs was against the mission as it had been since Godfrei de Bouillon founded the Priory in the eleventh century. Equally important was returning a rightful king to his throne.

As Shane spotted his ship bobbing gently on her lines, his thoughts turned to his crew. A few bottles of French cognac—and some tossed-up skirts—had probably softened their resentment of the lad. If the boy didn’t ruin their dinner tonight, maybe Shane could have his cabin back.

The deck was empty save for his quartermaster when he boarded. “Any trouble with unloading?” he asked.

Donald shook his head. “All went well. I have the bolts of material and champagne already on board for the passage home—if the crew doesna have too thick of heads in the morning.”

“They know the rules. No pay for any man who cannae keep a steady hand.” Shane looked around. “Is the lad in the galley getting supper started?”

“Nae. I sent him to your cabin. I thought it best to wait for Cook to return. The galley ’tis his domain.”

“Aye. Probably wise. I doona think the men will tolerate another cold meal, especially after a day of drink and swiving. I will have a word with the boy.”

As Shane climbed down the ladder to his cabin, he almost wished he could be as carefree as his crew. When was the last time he’d tumbled a lass? He’d stopped using doxies several years ago and he didn’t want to dally with proper lasses since he had no inclination to marry. Not that he was opposed to marriage—Ian and Jamie seemed happy—but he didn’t feel it would be right to leave a wife at home, having to cope with bairns by herself.

He knocked once on the door and then opened it to step through.

And nearly fell backwards. A woman in a silk robe was sitting by his table, her back to him, combing long chestnut hair.

The brush clattered to the floor as the woman turned, startled, and he found himself looking into the soft brown eyes of Abigail Townsend.

Chapter Three

“What the—” Shane stopped himself from cursing. “How did ye get on board my ship?”

Abigail gave him a small smile. “I walked on, of course. Yesterday morning.”

“Ye walked on?” He’d barely finished the question when he realized the breeches and shirt the
lad
had been wearing lay on the floor beside her. He pointed. “Those are yours? Ye disguised yourself?”

She nodded and put her spectacles on. “I did not think you would allow me on board otherwise.”

“Ye are right about that.” Shane frowned. “What were ye thinking, lass? A ship is nae place for a woman.” He shuddered to think what might have happened last night if he’d let her sleep in the common area. “Do ye have any idea what my crew might have done to ye if they found out ye were a woman?”

Her face paled, but she raised her chin. “I was not planning to undress.”

“Nae planning—” Shane ran a hand through his hair. “The men were nae pleased ye’d ruined their dinner. For sure, they would have battered ye about. It would nae take long to realize ’twas a female they had in their midst. Ye’d have suffered more than just a few bruises.” Even as Shane said the words, he was amazed he hadn’t recognized the lad was a girl. Maybe it
had
been too long since he’d had a woman. Abigail was too pale, her skin too soft, her hands well-cared for. Even her voice…he’d been a fool to think it a lad’s that hadn’t changed. He frowned again. “Why did ye do it?”

Abigail hesitated. “For the adventure.”

“For the adventure?”

She shrugged. “I have always wanted to travel.”

“Ye have always wanted to travel?” Shane repeated, realizing he sounded like a parrot, and then started to pace in the small space of his cabin. “There are proper ways to travel, lass. Ye doona hop on board a working schooner with a crew of men and nae chaperone.”

“Chaperones do not approve of adventure. Ladies are supposed be all excited about planning and attending parties. I am not,” Abigail answered. “Besides, I have used the disguise before when I wanted to watch the boat races on the Thames.”

“Ye have gone around London dressed as a boy?” Shane wasn’t sure if he should find that amusing or horrifying. It almost sounded like something his pertinacious cousin Fiona would do. Though he’d never met an English lass with that kind of willfulness.

“I always wanted to know what it would feel like to actually sail. I really enjoyed the passage, except for the problem with the stew.”

Shane shook his head. “Ladies who wish to
sail
arrange for the Grand Tour aboard conventional ships.”

“Oh, Papa would never allow me to go to Europe.”

Shane stopped pacing in his tight circle and stared at her. Her
father
. The Earl of Sherrington. The man who had faced off with Ian in a duel over Sherrington’s scheming wife—and a man Ian completely respected for it.

Suddenly, the problem of being accused of stowing a runaway lad shriveled into insignificance. Shane had a much, much bigger dilemma on his hands.

Without another word, he turned and went out the door, locking it behind him.

This trip hadn’t turned out as Abigail had planned. She stood by the rail watching the bustle of the wharfs on the Thames as the
Border Lass
skimmed past Cutty Sark toward the landing stage at Deptford. It was the first time she’d been allowed on deck since the ill-fated conversation in Shane’s cabin three days ago.

Abigail had envisioned—once the initial shock, and even anger, were over—that she would join Shane on deck, learning how to sail. Certainly she would help in the galley. Evenings would be spent having dinner together, perhaps with a glass of sherry, discussing history and literature. Mari had told her Shane was interested in both.

Instead, she had not seen Shane since he’d locked the door. The quartermaster had brought her meals, accompanied by a young sailor who took care of the chamber pot and brought fresh water for her to wash. Other than that, there had been no contact with any of the crew—or Shane. She had asked Donald MacFie if she could see Shane, but he’d shaken his head. When she’d asked to walk about on deck, he’d told her it wasn’t safe. Safe from whom? Surely the crew didn’t hold that much of a grudge over spilled stew. Was Shane that tremendously angry with her then? All she had wanted to do was give him a chance to get to know her without all those silly debutantes flittering around like annoying insects.

She glanced toward the stern. Shane had taken the helm and was busy maneuvering the boat toward the dock. Not that it mattered what he was doing. He hadn’t even glanced at her when Donald escorted her on deck earlier.