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?
Worse, if Reneau were involved, had Shane put Abigail in danger by letting her work in the office? A sharp piercing coursed through him at the thought. Abigail might have an affliction that caused odd behavior, but he’d also learned to appreciate her intelligence, if not her stubbornness. The worry that she might be in danger and he was helpless here nagged at him.
Shane heard the rattling of keys and the shuffling of feet. A few minutes later, two gaolers appeared, one to unlock his cell and the other to bind his arms before they shoved him out. Whether Shane was going to be dragged before a magistrate or tortured, he didn’t know, but at least he was being taken somewhere.
To his surprise, his surly companions led him toward the front of the building to a small room he later learned was called the visiting box. Donald stood up immediately as the gaolers pushed him inside and then took their places by the door. Apparently, he would have no privacy, but then he hadn’t expected any.
“How are ye doing?” Donald asked with a worried look.
“As well as can be expected,” Shane answered and gave a small shake of his head to alert Donald to take care in what he said. “What have ye learned?”
Donald glanced toward the guards and then back to Shane. “The ship is being searched by the Customs men.”
“Were ye able to accompany them?”
“Nae. No one has been allowed back on board.”
Which meant Shane didn’t know if the cylinder had been taken or not. He couldn’t very well ask if Campbell had attempted to board. Guards’ ears were always pricked for the opportunity to solicit bribes, and Shane had no wish to implicate the Duke of Argyll in this mess. “No one?”
“No one,” Donald repeated, acknowledging the unspoken question with a slight nod to indicate he understood. “The friend ye asked me to contact is nae home either.”
Campbell must have had a pressing matter in Scotland if he weren’t in town for Parliament. Shane hoped there wasn’t additional trouble brewing on that front, although right now, he could do nothing about it.
“Have ye spoken to Jamie?” His cousin knew a little about Shane’s hidden mission. Perhaps he could find out something about the cylinder.
“Aye. He left yesterday afternoon to fetch Ian.”
“Why?” Even though Ian had inherited an English title of earl and Jillian was, in her own right, a marchioness, Shane didn’t want to involve them either. He was used to handling his own problems. Once the ship was found clean, Shane could present his case to the magistrate, along with his suspicions of being ensnared. MacLeod Shipping was a reputable company and he’d never had any kind of infraction before. “I can get this straightened out, given a little time.”
Donald looked uncomfortable. “’Tis nae just the Border Lass that interests them.”
“What do ye mean?”
“Customs is sending agents to Edinburgh to freeze the entire shipping line until each vessel can be inspected.”
“What? Do the fools have any idea of how many families will go hungry if I canna ship the kelp? Nae to mention the wool—’tis near shearing time.”
“I doona think they care,” Donald replied.
Customs probably didn’t. They were concerned only with collecting huge duties on imports and exports and lining their own pockets with a percentage. Shane knew many of the agents were unscrupulous, which was why he preferred dealing with only certain docks and custom houses. Shutting down his ships, while hurting him financially, didn’t compare to starving fishermen and crofters because of this lunacy. Damn whoever was responsible for this.
“Jamie and Ian will go to Edinburgh then?” Maybe Ian’s title would hold some sway with English agents.
“I doona ken the plans. Jamie tore out of the house like the hounds of hell were on his tail. I will be following the damn agents north, though, so doona fash.”
In spite of the situation, Shane gave his quartermaster a small smile. The man had stood by him for years. If anyone could handle the shipping situation, Donald could. “I ken ye will do all ye can. Do me a favor though?”
“Name it.”
“Make sure Abigail is nae fouled up in this.” His smile widened a bit when he thought of his feisty wee wife. “I will warn ye…’tis nae going to be easy, but ye must make her stay home.”
Donald took a deep breath. “It might be easier to stop the tide, but I will do it.” He paused. “Do ye want me to contact Sherrington? Perhaps he can arrange for better accommodations for ye?”
“Nae. I doona want him involved.” Shane knew offering coin to the head jail keeper could get him a cell with a bed, at least, but he could make due since the English weren’t known to actually let prisoners starve.
The last thing he needed to do was ask his father-in-law for help.
Later that afternoon, the guards came for him again. Neither of them spoke, just gestured, and Shane assumed he was in for his first round of questioning, which would undoubtedly be torture. Painful it would be, but they weren’t going to glean any bits of information about the smuggling business from him, since he dinnae deal in it. The one secret he did have—the documents hidden beneath a loose plank in his cabin—were nae what the customs men would be looking for, even though the information contained in that cylinder was worth more than a thousand ship loads of opium. A price the Holy See would gladly pay. Thankfully, the manuscript was not written in English, and Shane doubted customs men read Latin.
When Shane found himself in a small, windowless room with a wooden tub half-filled with water, he wondered if the guards intention was to semi-drown him first. He knew many a man panicked at the thought of being keel-hauled, a practice he didn’t use but that was effective if the man survived being dragged beneath the ship. Shane had been trained at an early age to swim great lengths under water and he could hold his breath for minutes. He looked again at the tub. It wasn’t deep, and even with two guards, they wouldn’t be able to hold him long. He’d had lessons in untangling himself from ropes underwater as well—and they hadn’t tied his hands.
“Wash up,” one of the guards said as he tossed him a bar of lye soap. “You have a lady visitor downstairs.”
Shane wasn’t sure if he was more surprised over being given the chance to get clean or because a woman waited to see him. For one daft moment, he thought it could be Abigail and his emotions soared, but in the next they plummeted. She was far north in Scotland and had no idea he was even in London, let alone Newgate.
A short time later, having gotten most of the stench off himself, although he could do nothing about his clothing, he entered the visiting box again. Mari looked up at him and sniffed delicately. “You do not smell as bad as I thought you would. I was told you would stink.” She smiled at the guards lurking in the doorway. “Could you stand outside, please? I would like a bit of privacy.”
They both snickered and then looked at each other. The first one shrugged. “She canna go anywhere.”
“’Tis a pity the female warder already searched her,” the second one said with a lecherous grin that Shane was tempted to wipe off his face. “Maybe we should have another look?”
Shane clenched his fists and glared at the men. “No one
talks to—”
“Gentlemen,” Mari interrupted in a tone that sounded both authoritative and subtly inviting, as though the two ruffians were of the same social standing as herself. She handed each of them a half-crown. “I do not think a search will be necessary, do you?”
Their eyes rounded at the silver and they both tugged their forelocks as they backed out of the room.
Mari put her reticule on her lap and folded her hands. “There. Now we can talk as long as we keep our voices down.”
“What are ye doing here?” Shane asked, careful to slide the second chair away to keep the stench from her.
“To get you better accommodations, of course. I cannot have my cousin-by-marriage staying in what is probably a pigsty.”
A pigsty would be luxury, but Shane wasn’t about to describe cell conditions. “Does Jamie know ye came here?”
Mari waved a gloved hand. “He left in such a hurry.”
“He doesnae ken then. Ye should nae be here, lass. ’Tis nae place for a lady.”
Mari dismissed the thought with another wave. “Nonsense. My aunt Agnes, our butler, Givens and two footmen accompanied me. Jamie trained them all—well, not my aunt, of course.” Her eyes twinkled. “Robin and Joseph would love to show off those skills if anyone even looks at me wrong.”
Shane relaxed a bit. Robin and Joseph had been in Ian’s employ before Jamie took them to London. Mari should be safe enough, especially with her aunt acting as chaperone. The woman ran a boarding house and Shane suspected she was more than adept at boxing a man’s ears with her umbrella as well.
“Even so, Jamie will nae be pleased.”
Mari shrugged. “It will not be the first time. Actually, Jamie left the money for Givens to bring here, but I thought using my feminine wiles might be helpful.”
Shane groaned inwardly. What he’d just witnessed was bad enough. If Jamie ever found out his wife had set out to flirt with the chief warder— “What did ye do?”
“Nothing much,” Mari said evasively. “Besides, once the warder heard my sister was a marchioness and her husband an earl, he was more than eager to offer you better conditions. I would have brought Abigail’s father—”
Rogue of the Borders Page 21
