Rogue of the Borders (34 page)

Since the Hanoverian king claimed the throne through his
mother’s
bloodline instead of being a direct male descendant, that meant the Stuart claim took precedence.

And it looked like this secret order of Templars wanted to restore a Stuart to the throne.

Abigail rushed to her wardrobe and dug out contents from its bottom.

She knew what she had to do.

By the saints! Abigail was proving as elusive as the mischievous faeries. Shane stared at Mari as she stood in the doorway of the townhouse. “What do ye mean, ye left her at her father’s? I was there, not half an hour ago.”

“You must have left just before we arrived then.”

Shane ran a hand through his hair, wondering if he were getting the same grey streaks Jamie claimed he had. How could one wee lass be so difficult to track down? Abigail had been
out
when he’d tried to talk to her before leaving Edinburgh. Now she was apparently at her father’s after having been
out
with Mari and Fiona. He didn’t see how he could have missed her. Could Abigail be hiding inside? Were the women shielding his wife because she didn’t want to see him? The thought stabbed him like a blade. If Abigail had truly wished to end the marriage—why else would she have been so eager to talk to her father?—she would probably think it easier to avoid him.

Only she wasn’t going to get the chance. Not this time. If she wanted to end the marriage—hell, he’d signed the blasted annulment papers himself—he wouldn’t argue the point. But he wanted to hear it from her. He wanted—God, help him, he must enjoy inflicting pain on himself—he wanted to hear her say it. Say she wanted nothing more to do with him. “I want to see for myself that Abigail is not here.”

Mari’s eyes widened, but she stepped aside. “Suit yourself.”

The parlor and library were empty. Shane was pondering searching the bedchambers when Fiona came down the steps, stopping halfway, her face turning pink. “What are you doing here?”

Shane narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Fiona blushed when she got caught doing something she shouldn’t be. “What are ye hiding?”

“N…no…nothing,” she stammered, her eyes darting to Mari’s.

The lass was lying. “Is Abigail upstairs?”

The blush faded and Fiona looked genuinely confused. “No. Why should she be? We left her at her father’s.”

Although their statements were consistent, both of them fidgeted. “What it is ye are hiding?” he asked again.

“Nothing,” Mari retorted. “If you want to see Abigail, I suggest you get over to her father’s house.”

Shane was tempted to search further, but time truly was running out on him. The tide was starting to turn. If he didn’t get to the ship soon, he would be in dire straits. Still, he would make one more attempt with the earl. Shane nodded a brusque thank you and bolted down the steps, tossing a gold sovereign to the almost-asleep driver of the rented hack. “Get me back to Sherrington’s place in double time.”

He barely had time to close the door when the carriage lurched off at a precarious pace, the horse startled at the crack of a whip. Luckily, the distance was not far. “Wait here,” Shane ordered as he leapt out of the carriage.

“Yes, sir, gov’r.”

The earl did not appear glad to see him and didn’t invite him in, saying only that Abigail was resting in her chamber and could not be disturbed. Shane did not want to waste precious time arguing the point, but he ordered the carriage stop again once it turned a corner out of sight of the townhouse. The driver gave him a dubious look that left no doubt in Shane’s mind that the man thought he was totally daft.

And maybe he was, but he had to see Abigail.

Taking care to crouch low, Shane skirted along the side, thankful Sherrington was on the end of the long row of residences. One of those windows on the third floor had to be Abigail’s. He looked around, hoping for a rose trellis the English were so fond of, but there wasn’t one. The bricks on the backside of the house were roughhewn though, the mortar not smoothed, and Shane had climbed many a rope ladder in gale-force winds to secure a sail to a yardarm. Plastering his body against the wall, he began his ascent, thankful his fingers were callused from handing lines and sheets.

Reaching the first window, he put his foot on the ledge and carefully shifted his weight. The drape was opened slightly and he peered in, noting a rumpled bed and books piled on the bedside table as well as on the dressing table beside a small mirror and brush. Clearly, the room was Abigail’s.

Equally clear was that she was nae in it.

Swearing softly, he eased his way down. The earl would nae invite Shane in if he banged on the door again and he dinnae want to risk being arrested forcing his way. He was out of options—for now. The tide was ebbing. He had to get to the ship.

But he wasn’t finished. Someway, somehow, he would see Abigail again.

But how soon?

Wesley Alton watched the activity aboard the
Border Lass
with interest. He’d positioned himself across the river from the wharf where he could observe without being seen. He had contemplated actually going to the quay, but he hadn’t wanted to take any chances on being recognized. Even though he wore a grey wig with a monocle on his eye and kept himself hunched over his walking stick like an old man, someone might see the resemblance to Walter Avery.

Wesley seethed with resentment over the MacLeod bastard’s release. What in god-damned hell had gone wrong with his plan? The scheme Richard had orchestrated had been working. Padget had done his part well, both in hiding the opium and in supplying a good quality brandy, most of which Wesley sent to Nicholas. His son had no trouble selling it in Dublin’s black market. Wesley—if he had to say so himself—had done a superb job in acting both shocked and surprised at the smuggled goods. What a pity he couldn’t take to the stage. He was a better actor than Edmund Kean.

Wesley had even persuaded the magistrate to investigate MacLeod’s entire shipping line, hoping to put the bastard out of business. The missive Richard had sent with the American captain—in code, of course—had let Wesley know enough funds had been siphoned off for both of them to live well. It was time to close the operation. Richard expected to come to London soon and Wesley had planned for both of them to be out of England while MacLeod and his damn cousins were still sorting through all the legal entangles.

So what in god-damned hell had gone wrong?

Wesley had spent time outside Newgate each day during visiting hours to see which of MacLeod’s relatives would show up. When the son-of-a-bitch who’d married Jillian—
his
Jillian, damn it—had showed up this morning, Wesley’s fingers had itched on the musket he carried beneath his heavy coat. The sight of two dukes flanking the bastard had deterred Wesley from acting.

A short time later, Shane MacLeod had walked from the prison a free man.

Wesley cursed his luck as he idly watched the quartermaster issuing orders to the crew in preparation for casting off. A gangly youth carried a basket of fresh fruit up the gangplank and headed toward the stern. Wesley swore again. MacLeod would be eating better than he did.

But then fresh fruit might be the last thing MacLeod ate—especially if the loosened bolts on the guard rails gave way on the voyage home.

Wesley grinned as he turned away. Sometimes, it paid to know whom to hire—and a couple of dock workers had developed a taste for fine cognac.

Chapter Twenty Nine

Abigail breathed a sigh of relief as she heard the command to cast off and felt the ship move into the current of the receding Thames. Once again, she had stowed aboard, dressed in boys’ clothes, but this time she’d hidden in Donald’s quarters, since he was in Edinburgh. She was safe from discovery, at least for now.

She had no idea of how Shane would react to finding her on his ship once more, but she wasn’t about to give him an opportunity to put into the nearest dock and have her removed. From what her father had said, once the
Border Lass
was in the Channel, she would not be allowed to return. All Abigail had to do was stay hidden until then.

A man’s footsteps thumped down the ladder from the deck. A moment later, Abigail heard the door of the other cabin open. Shane. He was so close. Would he sense she was here? She hadn’t thought to bolt the door. What if he opened it? Her eyes scanned the tiny enclosure. There was no place to hide. If he found her now—

Something heavy hit the floor. It must have been his valise. Shane muttered something in Gaelic, which sounded like a curse, before he slammed the door hard enough to make her own rattle and the footsteps stomped back on deck. Abigail breathed another sigh of relief.

Why was Shane so angry though? She would have thought being released from Newgate and having the charges dropped would have made him happy. Abigail was sure, given time—and the influence of two dukes, a marchioness and an earl—that entering London’s ports would not be an issue for long.

Perhaps it would be best if she stayed hidden as long as possible. Shane had signed the annulment, after all. He might not welcome facing her, but that was his problem. They needed to
talk
.

Shane muttered a few more choice phrases as he joined his helmsman and saw customs officials as well as several constables standing on the quay watching the
Border Lass
leave. Apparently, they had meant what they said when he was released this morning. Be on the ebb tide or be back in a cell.

He wished he’d been able to retrieve the document Remy and Alain had entrusted to him, but he had not been in a position to negotiate anything. As much as he didn’t want to implicate Sussex in the matter, Shane had no other choice. The brother of the Prince Regent would be able to get the cylinder back, but Shane prayed no one in the Customs office could read Latin, or Sussex and Argyll would both find themselves in jeopardy. Freemasons were well-tolerated in England, but members of a secret order of Templars who supported the return of a Stuart to the throne of Scotland would not be. Shane hoped the scrolls would soon be in safe hands.

His crew was already setting the sails as they maneuvered into the flow of river traffic, although the big mains would not be raised until they had more clearance. Shane squinted at the sky, estimating the sun’s position. This late in spring, they should be well out in the Channel before dusk descended.

And well away from Abigail.

He uttered another Gaelic curse.

The helmsman, who understood the language, gave him a sharp glance. “’Twill nae be long before we are away from the English devils.”

“Aye.” Shane pretended to be inspecting the coiled sheets that lay ready on the deck. It wasn’t the English devils that bothered him, but his own personal ones.

How in hell had he missed seeing Abigail again? She had been out when he called on her father this morning. Then Mari and Fiona told him she was back, which her father seemed to think as well, only Shane had seen the empty room. He had foolishly given himself over to a moment of fantasy, hoping she might have snuck down to the docks for a farewell, but the only people waiting had been the authorities.

He had been stupid to assume otherwise. Why would Abigail want to say goodbye when she was so eager to return to her father’s house? Her anger over their last parting had had ample time to grow while he had been gone. Even though Shane knew he had pleasured her—quite thoroughly, he hoped—Abigail was an innocent who probably thought he had used her for his own gratification. He
had
abandoned her in bed, but only because he was at the point of losing control—not something a virgin would understand.

And if—
if
—for some reason, she hadn’t wanted to return to her London home—
if
, just maybe she had come back with Jamie to help him get released, then she would truly be furious that he’d signed that cursed annulment.

He was damned either way.

“Is something wrong with the sheets, sir?” a crew member asked.

Shane frowned. “Nae. Why do ye ask?”

“You have been studying them for some time.”

He
had
been staring at the neatly arranged circles of rope that would uncoil easily when the sails were hoisted. Lord, all he needed was for an English crew member to think he was as daft as their mad George. “I was just checking for anything frayed,” Shane said as though it were obvious, “but they look fine.” He gave a brief nod and walked back to the helm before the sailor could inquire further.

By the saints. He needed to get a grip on his emotions.

It was well past dark when Abigail climbed the ladder to the deck, carefully looking around before she stepped out. She had kept on the boy’s clothing to better blend in with the sailors until she could spot Shane and gauge his mood. They had been underway for hours, so she knew there would be no turning back, but if he were still in a foul temper, she saw no reason to confront him until morning.

Only a few sailors were on deck, although Abigail knew the deck would swarm with crew if the boatswain standing watch in the nest called an alarm. Looking toward the stern, she could see Shane engaged in conversation with the helmsman. Having no need to interrupt, she decided to wait until they finished.