Rogue of the Borders (38 page)

“She had no right—”

“Silence! Before I decide to plant a fist in your mouth. Believe me, nothing would give me more pleasure.” When Richard subsided, Shane asked again, “What did ye find, Abigail?”

“Nothing.” She looked from Shane to Richard and then back to Shane. “I thought…profits have been lower the past three months. I thought…I thought Richard might have been adjusting the accounting, but I found nothing.” She took a deep breath. “I guess I owe Richard an apology.”

Shane growled. “He still tried to kill ye.”

“I thought she was an intruder!”

“I guess I was,” Abigail said.

Shane shook his head in disbelief. “Doona tell me ye doona want to press charges. I will truss the man up and those oafs who have been tearing my ships apart can take him to the magistrate.”

“I have the right to defend—”

“Silence!” Shane roared and raised his fist.

“Do not hit him.” Abigail stood. “He is right. I had broken in and…and I was wrong about the books. Just let him go.”

Shane wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Abigail wanted to let the man
go
? Looking at his wife’s earnest face, Shane felt his blood begin to slow and reason returned. He’d like nothing better than to beat the mon to a bloody pulp himself, but then he’d be the one arrested. And what kind of a case did they have? The recriminations from handing Richard over to the authorities and his countercharges would have far-reaching detrimental effects for Abigail.

And Shane still needed to face the Earl of Sherrington—again.

Swearing under his breath, he took a step back from Richard. “You are fired. Get your things and get out.”

Richard scrambled to his feet. “I will be glad to get out of here.”

He went to the armoire and picked up his valise. Shane thought he saw the Frenchman’s face pale, but the light was too dim to tell. After the slight hesitation, Richard threw his clothes into the bag and edged toward the door.

“Doona let me see ye in Edinburgh again,” Shane said.

Richard sneered. “Believe me, MacLeod. You will not be
seeing
me again, but you might hope you would.”

With those strange words, he raced down the steps, leaving Shane to wonder what he meant. The hair at his nape began to prickle.

Two afternoons later, a somewhat emaciated Donald arrived at the townhouse. His skin looked pasty, he sounded weak and he walked more slowly, but he insisted he was well on the road to recovery.

“The whole crew became ill?” Abigail asked as she served him tea in the library.

“Aye. The stew tasted a bit off, although the cook was highly insulted at anyone

 
saying so. But then he came down with the same thing too.” Donald shrugged. “I suppose the meat might have been out too long.” He turned to Shane. “I am glad ye are back though. ’Twas foolishness to arrest ye in the first place.”

“The charges have been dismissed, but I would still like to get to the bottom of this,” Shane replied. “Did Henri and Andre return from France while I was gone?”

Donald’s expression brightened. “Henri did. Andre was on his way to London.”

Abigail leaned forward in anticipation. “Did they find out who put the opium on board? Is that the reason Andre went to London? What did—”

“Steady, lass,” Donald said as he held up his hand. “There is some good news. Padget claimed the crates were already packed when he received them. However, when Henri and Andre backtracked the route to the distillery, they found out the owner had hired two new workers before that shipment went out. It seems three of his loaders had been attacked outside a tavern just a couple of nights before.”

“How convenient,” Shane said.

“Exactly,” Donald answered, “and those new workers disappeared soon after.”

Shane frowned. “So we still do not know who is responsible?”

“French officials are investigating,” Donald replied. “Your friends from Calais assured Henri they would work with the authorities. Meanwhile, the distillery owner signed a statement explaining what had taken place. Andre is delivering that to the London magistrates. Once your name is cleared, ye should be able to resume shipping through England.”

“That is a relief,” Abigail said. Even though Shane had not brought the topic up, she knew it bothered him. Not using the London docks was bad enough, but damage to the MacLeod name—and reputation—was something much more important. The clans may have been dissolved, but their pride never would be.

“After Henri told me about the attack in France, I decided to do a bit of investigating here myself,” Donald said and lifted the seaman’s bag he’d brought with him. “I thought it too coincidental that David had been attacked right after Reneau came around looking for work. Then your bookkeeper took ill unexpectedly. When Reneau would nae let me look at the ledgers, I grew more suspicious—”

“So did I,” Abigail exclaimed. “I wondered why the profits were down when business seemed to be doing better. I thought Richard was keeping a second set of books and siphoning funds—” She paused and looked at Shane, wondering if she should continue. He looked resigned, but gave her a slight nod. “I searched Richard’s quarters, but I could find nothing.”

Donald looked surprised and then amused. “I doona ken if I want to hear how ye did that, lass.”

“Ye doona,” Shane answered.

“Yes, well. Maybe it was not the brightest idea I ever had, but I really thought Richard was guilty.”

“He is.” Donald reached into his bag and brought out a small ledger. “I believe this is what ye were looking for.”

Abigail opened it and gasped. Rows and rows of entries and amounts were neatly listed, along with an account number at a bank. “Where did you find this?”

Donald grinned. “I searched his place before ye did. The book was in his valise.”

“No wonder he looked so pale when he lifted it,” Shane said as he took the journal and thumbed through it.

Donald’s grin widened. “I took the liberty to close out his accounts. Your money is safely put away. Now all ye have to do is arrest the bastard.”

“I wish it were that easy,” Shane replied with a sigh.

Donald sobered. “Ye have enough evidence.”

“It is not that,” Abigail answered.

“Then what is it?”

“Richard is gone.”

Abigail looked around the bedchamber, doing a final inspection to insure everything was in place. She’d folded the satin spread back, disclosing crisp linen sheets. She’d also closed the heavy drapes, allowing for a snug, cozy environment. Beeswax candles flickered softly on the table and bedside stands as well as the dresser behind the silk dressing screen. A small fire in the brazier in the corner lent a comforting, warm glow.

Abigail looked up at the picture of Venus and smiled. She wouldn’t need to be draping herself across the sheets to lure Shane to bed anymore. Since the near drowning and subsequent lovemaking, he hadn’t needed any more prodding.

The object of her fantasies opened the door just then, his eyes burning hot as the sheer negligee she wore from her trousseau left little to the imagination—although Shane had quite an imagination. He had been teaching her some truly creative ways to be very naughty. Abigail moved into his arms for a thoroughly arousing kiss as though they had been doing such for years instead of just days.

When Shane finally released her, he lifted his head and sniffed. “What is that scent? Is it coming from the candles?”

“Sandalwood and myrrh,” Abigail replied. “Do you like it? I got some leaves from the apothecary.”

“I do, but where is it coming from?”

Abigail stifled a giggle. “From your bath.”

“My bath?”

“Yes.” Abigail reached for his shirt and started undoing it. “If you remember, I told you once I wanted to give you a bath.”

“I think I do.”

Grinning, Shane made quick work of removing the rest of his clothes and lost no time in removing hers as well. Abigail hardly had time to appreciate the perfection of his hard, sculpted body—forget about those Greek and Roman gods, she had her own Viking Norseman right here—before he’d picked her up, moved around the screen and deposited her in the warm fragrance of the hip bath. The water sloshed over the sides as he joined her.

“It is a little crowded for two—”

“Nae, lass. We just have to fit together.”

With a few deft moves, Shane sank lower, spreading her thighs over his legs, and drawing her close until his thick, jutting erection was centered at her core. Abigail gave a slight gasp as he slid his length fully into her.

“Ye see? We have lots of room now.”

She splashed water at him. “You are a wicked man.”

“’Tis your fault. Ye have bewitched me.”

“I have not!”

“Sorceress,” he said and bent his head to suckle a nipple hard, nudging deeper inside her. “Do ye nae feel what ye do to me?”

Abigail giggled, slipping her steamy spectacles off and laying them beside the tub while his manhood continued to swell, filling her totally. “I certainly feel
that
.”

He lifted his head. “And now I shall grant ye your wish.”

“What do you mean?” She wiggled against him. “I think I have what I wish.”

Shane laughed. “Aye, but I figured out a while back that ye were attempting to train me like a horse.”

“Oh.” Abigail felt her face grow hot and it had nothing to do with the temperature of the water. “I only meant to ease your fear—well, I mean, I
know
you were not afraid. I just thought you were inexperienced, but of course, I know
now
that you are not. Inexperienced, I mean. You are—”

“Hush, lass. Why do ye nae just ride your stallion instead?”

Before she could answer, he braced his hands on her ribs, lifting her slightly and setting her down on his shaft while he rose to meet her. “Oooh,” she exclaimed and then her gasp turned into a delighted whimper as his thrusts grew deeper and her settling down on him more forceful. The rocking motion was very much like riding a canter…and then her mind lost rational thought as his efforts turned into a wild gallop.

Sometime later, Abigail lay panting against Shane’s wet, slick shoulder. He stroked her damp hair. “’Tis the best bath I’ve ever had.”

She sat up and gave him a crooked smile. “I forgot to actually bathe you.”

A corner of his mouth quirked up. “Somehow, I feel verra clean.”

“Ummm. So do I.”

Shane took her hand. “I have nae done right by ye these past three months.”

“You have made up for it.”

“I have only begun to make up for it, lass. I cannae change being a Templar, but France is nae ready to support a coup and Sussex can keep his brother, the prince, more or less out of Scottish business. Now that I ken my name will be cleared, I intend to speak to your father and ask for your hand properly.” Shane hesitated, a look of apprehension on his face. “That is, if ye will still have me to be your husband.”

Abigail stared at him, scarcely believing her ears. “Forever this time?”

“Forever this time. If ye will give me another chance.”

She threw her arms around him. “Oh, yes. Yes. Of course, I will.” And then she gave him a mischievous glance as she felt something harden against her leg. “But perhaps we can seal this promise another way?”

His eyes smoldered as he lifted her over him once again. “Perhaps we can.”

Dawn was nearly breaking before they crawled out of the now-cold water, although neither of them noticed it or the chill in the air since the brazier had long gone out. Steam rose from their bodies’ natural heat as Shane carried Abigail to the bed and laid her down. He arranged the blankets over them, drew Abigail into the circle of his arm and drifted quickly into the sleep of a very satisfied man.

Abigail sighed contentedly and looked up at a blurred Venus. Her eyes widened as something tiny, translucent and almost transparent fluttered in the corner of the painting, causing an effervescent shower of colorful sparkles. Slowly, a female faerie emerged, long, silky hair swirling about her and gossamer wings fluttering as she floated in the air briefly before dissolving into mist.

Venus winked at Abigail as the faint sounds of lightly trilling laughter faded away. She must be more exhausted than she thought.

Or, perhaps, faeries did exist after all.

About the Author

Cynthia Breeding developed a love for Scotland long before she took her first trip across the pond. Blending the rules of English Regency Society with the wilds of the Highlands was an adventure of its own.

Currently, the author lives in south Texas, basking on a balmy coast with her Bichon Frise. She enjoys sailing and horseback riding.

Cynthia can be reached via snail mail at 3636 South Alameda, B116, Corpus Christi, Texas 78411 or at her website:
www.cynthiabreeding.com
.

Slainte
(good health).

Look for these titles by Cynthia Breeding