Rogue of the Borders (2 page)

Shane spread his feet, bracing himself within the narrow confines of the bowsprit and breathed in the fresh scent of the sea. It was his favorite place to be at the start of a voyage, riding each wave as the swells lifted the bow, plunged it downward into the trough and then up again. Jamie compared the motion to the rocking-chair canter of a good horse, but no horse could gallop across the vast expanse of rolling water—unless maybe, one of the mythical Scottish kelpies.

Shane took in another deep breath and reflected on the last month. No one had been more surprised than he when Jamie announced he was getting
married
. His footloose, fancy-free cousin was thoroughly besotted with his English wife, and one who liked London parties at that.

At least last night Shane had been saved from having to endure one of those packed, hot ballrooms with too many people. The group of girls who’d surrounded him had all been pretty enough, but he didn’t think they’d made a complete, sensible sentence among them.

He’d spotted Abigail Townsend across the room. The blue of her gown had set off the rich chestnut of her hair. The chandeliers had reflected light off her spectacles, so he didn’t know if she’d seen him or not, and he hadn’t had time to seek her out. Not that he had any business—or intention—of encouraging any woman, for a man who spent most of his life at sea didn’t have time for a wife or family. But Abigail Townsend had been
interesting.
She actually liked history and literature, expounding that day in the library on Chaucer’s
A Knight’s Tale
as though she’d walked the dusty trail along with the pilgrims on their fifty-six mile trek from Southwark to Canterbury.

Shane wondered what she’d say if he told her
he
was a knight, too, one of the ancient Templars’ Priory now operating under the guise of the Grand Lodge. But of course, he couldn’t tell her. Their existence—and their mission—had to remain secret as it had been since the Templars fled to Scotland centuries ago.

His musings were cut short when the boatswain called down to him from the crow’s nest on the foremast and pointed with his scope.

“Black-hulled ship ahead, heading south, Captain!”

Shane’s senses went on high alert. Was this what the niggling in his brain had been about? “Adjust course,” he called to the helmsman. “Ten degrees northerly.”

“Aye, Captain.”

Although the Channel no longer posted a threat from France since Napoleon’s defeat, there were mercenaries who flew under no flag. Black-hulled ships served well for stealthy, undetected movement at night. Better to change course and avoid a confrontation.

If possible.

The uneasy feeling returned as Shane adjusted his own telescope for a better look and then slowly lowered it.

The boat was a corsair, its narrow hull fast and highly maneuverable. The oarsmen doubled as fighters. Shane didn’t need to see a Jolly Roger flying to know the boat belonged to Barbary Coast pirates. The question now was, had they been spotted?

When the horn sounded, the cook whipped off his apron and handed the soup ladle to Abigail. “Keep an eye on the stew,” he said as he grabbed a pistol from a lower shelf, “and don’t be letting it spill.”

“What is wrong? Where are you going?” she asked, eyeing the gimbaled cast-iron pot dubiously. Truth was she knew little of cooking other than preparing tiny sandwiches for afternoon tea and occasionally making a pudding. This contraption from which the heavy kettle swung was completely foreign to her.

“Captain’s sounded a pirate warning. It means all hands on deck.”

“Should I not be going as well then?”

The burly man paused with one foot on the ladder’s rung. “Captain doesn’t like green boys on deck if there’s going to be fight. Keep an eye on the stew. ’Tis the crew’s dinner.” He pointed to a pair of large tongs hanging off a hook. “Use those to keep the pot steady. Ye’ll be finding yerself swimming home if ye spill it.”

Abigail stared at the empty ladder after he’d gone. Pirates? Fight? England was not at war. Of course, she’d read in the
London Times
of ships being attacked on the high seas and even in the Mediterranean, but in the English Channel? In broad daylight?

She heard the crew running on deck, their feet sounding like thunder from her position down below. Something pinged off the deck and she heard the sharp crack of a gun fired, followed by a distant rumble of return shots. The acrid smell of gunpowder filled the air as the men on deck released a volley of musket fire. None of shots had the heavy vibration of cannon, but what was going on up there? The enemy’s guns sounded closer. Were they being boarded? Would Shane be hurt?

Staying below was irritating to say the least. Surely just a peek out the hatch would not hurt. Abigail glanced at the stew, bubbling in its gently swaying cradle. It certainly wasn’t going to boil over. She grabbed hold of the ladder and began to ascend. Just then, the boat heeled over sharply and sent her sprawling as it changed direction and picked up speed.

Abigail sat, nursing the arm that she’d landed on and then gasped in dismay. Stew had sloshed over the kettle and now covered the floor. Abigail slipped on the broth and tiny pieces of meat, causing her to land on her bottom with a thump.

Ye’ll be finding yerself swimming for home if ye spill it
. Those had been the cook’s last words. She had not only ruined the soup, she had destroyed it. There would be nothing hot for the men to eat.

The crew wouldn’t really have her thrown overboard, would they?

Shane walked the deck, checking his men for injuries. Luckily, only one had been grazed and the pirate ship was now moving swiftly away. He suspected the corsair had already made a haul elsewhere and decided to make a try for the schooner, not really expecting his crew to be fully armed. A few rounds of fire had convinced the pirates tackling the schooner would be a wasted endeavor.

He muttered an oath as he looked at the foresail. Several musket balls had ripped the canvas and it flapped even as the crew hauled it down. The two jib sails seemed not to have been damaged, but loss of the foresail would slow them down.

“We will post a double watch,” he told the boatswain. “One in the basket and one on the bow. Four hours on, four hours off.” The last thing he needed was for the corsair to circle back and see any damage had been done.

“Aye, Captain.”

Shane walked toward the helmsman. “How far off course did we go?”

“We are about a knot farther north than usual,” the helmsman replied. “Do ye want me to turn her back?”

Shane shook his head. “Adjust course to ninety degrees. We will sail east a wee while before turning south. It will cost us a half-day’s sail, but I doona want to be following too closely behind the corsair.” He rubbed his neck where a muscle was beginning to tighten. The feeling something was amiss had not gone away.

He didn’t have long to wonder what the next mishap would be. His cook appeared back on deck, holding the gangly youth firmly by one arm. From the dark look on the man’s face and the gravy splattered over the boy’s shirt, Shane knew a hot meal would probably not be served. “What happened?”

The cook gave the boy a shove and he stumbled forward, eyes down. “I gave him a simple order to watch the stew and use the tongs to steady the kettle, but the lad didnae listen. The fool wanted to see what was happening on deck.”

Shane could sympathize with that. It probably had sounded like all hell was breaking loose from below decks. Still, that did not matter. Orders were orders. “Look at me,” he said.

Slowly, the lad lifted his face.

“I will nae tolerate a man on my ship who will nae obey orders. The sea doona allow us second chances. Had ye been on deck and disobeyed my man, ye could have cost someone a life. Do ye have any idea of what a danger ye could be?”

The youth recoiled, his brown eyes suspiciously bright. Shane decided to tone down the tongue-lashing the boy deserved since the last thing he needed was for the youth to start crying. His crew would be relentless in taunting the boy, and right now, Shane did not want to dress any man down. He needed the crew alert, watching for pirates, not nursing bruised egos.

“It is imperative that orders be followed on board ship,” Shane said once more. “Lives depend on it. Do ye understand?”

The youth nodded. “I am sorry.”

Shane blinked at the soft tone. How young was the boy? His voice hadn’t even changed yet. On closer look, he appeared not to have ever shaved either. His skin looked soft as a woman’s. What had the quartermaster been thinking to take him on?

As if reading his thoughts, the cook said, “The lad said he can cook, so maybe he can work a miracle with dinner.”

“What is wrong with dinner?” a nearby sheet-handler asked while another who had been tending a line looked up as well.

The boy’s eyes widened and Shane had another misgiving. “Is the stew completely ruined then?”

“Aye. Everything spilled when we came about,” the cook answered grimly. “Which would nae have happened if the fool had used the tongs like I told him.”

The two men beside them cursed, giving the lad black looks. “Nae dinner?” one of them said, loudly enough to attract the attention of the other men on deck. “I say the lad goes for a swim.”

The boy started to tremble. “Please. I can…I can…make something to eat. I swear. I—”

“No one is going overboard,” Shane said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Salt biscuits and jerky will have to do for today.” He ignored the grumbles he heard. Those were rations they ate when the seas were rough. “Get back to your tasks.”

The muttering stopped as the men returned to their stations, but the murderous glances they gave the lad warned Shane the incident was not over. The boy would probably be a pulpy mess of bumps and bruises the next morning. Shane sighed. “Get below and help Cook get the victuals fixed. Then report to my cabin.”

“Your…your cabin?” the youth asked, starting to shake once more.

Again, Shane wondered what such a timid lad had been doing on the docks this morning. Obviously, the boy had not been living on the streets. Probably had never even had his nose bloodied. The uneasy feeling returned. Was the lad a runaway from some well-to-do home? The last thing Shane needed was to be accused of abducting the boy when they got back.

The least he could do was return him to London with no physical damage. There was only one way to keep the boy safe. “My cabin,” Shane said. “You will be sleeping there tonight.”

Chapter Two

Abigail looked around Shane’s cabin with the curiosity of a cat who’d lost none of her nine lives. Yet. The hostile glances of the crew all afternoon and muttered remarks made the small quarters seem like a safe haven. And it was Shane’s.

The cabin was one of two nestled beneath what was called the poop deck on which the helmsman stood. She didn’t really want to linger too long on the connotation for why a stern deck was called that. Thankfully, there was a chamber pot in this cabin.

Perhaps it was best the incident with the stew had occurred. Abigail hadn’t really given any thought to how she would tend to her personal needs amongst a crew of men.

Walls of well-polished teak gleamed in the light from a gimbaled oil lamp swaying gently with the rocking motion of the hull. Below the lamp, a small table was nailed to the sidewall with a stool beside it. A chest of drawers took up another corner, topped with an inlaid metal basin, washing cloths and shaving items secured in a leather satchel swinging from a hook. A bunk attached to one wall had a wooden rim that Abigail supposed was to keep the occupant from falling out. She eyed the bed with its tartan spread and sat down on the edge gingerly. It certainly was narrow, hardly big enough for Shane. And it was the
only
bed…

The door opened and Abigail started as Shane’s large frame filled the doorway. The cabin suddenly seemed much smaller. She attempted to stand, none too gracefully since the wooden fiddled rim cut behind her knees, and managed to plop onto the stool.

Shane frowned slightly and then turned his back as he rummaged through a drawer. Tossing a clean shirt on the bed, he began to unbutton the one he was wearing.

“What are you doing?”

One black eyebrow rose. “I am going to wash the salt off my body.”

He stripped his shirt, and Abigail stopped breathing. Never, never,
ever
had she seen so magnificent a specimen of man and she’d poured through every art book she could find to look at such. Shane was powerfully built, but the way his wide shoulders sloped to the bulk of his muscled arms and his broad chest rippled down to well-defined hard ridges of his belly was pure, chiseled sculpture.

“Are ye all right, lad? Ye look a bit peaked.” He frowned. “Ye are nae going to be sick, are ye?”

Abigail suddenly remembered to breathe again. Good heavens. Shane thought she was a boy. And boys did not stare at men. Of course, well-bred women should not be staring at men either. She felt a sudden hysterical bubble of laughter sliding up her throat and shook her head quickly. “I will be fine. Perhaps a breath of fresh air would be good though.”

He gave her a quizzical look and picked up a tin pitcher she hadn’t noticed tucked in a wooden box on the floor. Actually, she was amazed her mind was working well enough to even register the pitcher. She had to get out before he took off his breeches too. “I think I will take a short walk.”