Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  Chapter Twenty Six

  Not until their fifth day on the road did Abigail realize in her haste to throw some things in a trunk, along with the faerie stone Fiona insisted might bring Shane luck, that she had completely forgotten to tell Albert about her concerns over the ledgers. She just hoped when the books were inspected, the agents wouldn’t think lower profits a motivation for smuggling.

  “How much farther is it?” Fiona asked, grabbing the side strap as the coach rocked and swayed over the bumpy road.

  Abigail hung onto her strap too, to prevent flying across the seat. She already had several bruises. Jamie had warned both of them this would not be a lady’s carriage ride in the park. He’d certainly made that statement true—alternately galloping and cantering the horses where the terrain allowed and keeping them to no less than a trot where it was not. He intended to stop only to rent fresh horses, at which time Fiona and Abigail could tend to their needs and pick up box lunches. Since Jamie was spelling the driver on the coach’s seat, they drove until dark and were back on the road when the first streaks of pink appeared on the horizon. Abigail was convinced her insides were as black, blue and sore as the rest of her body from all the jostling.

  “We are in Northhampton,” she said. “With the way the coach is moving, we should be in London by this afternoon.”

  “’Twill be good to stand on solid land,” Fiona said, bracing her leg against the other seat. “Jamie is driving like the devil is on our tail.”

  Abigail was beginning to wonder if Jamie were the devil, intentionally taking delight in making the trip uncomfortable. Then she remembered she had told Jamie she wanted to get to Shane as quickly as possible. He was only doing what she requested, although she had a sneaking suspicion he might just be enjoying it.

  “The coachman probably agrees with you,” Abigail replied.

  One of the carriage wheels hit a rut and Fiona bounced into the air and landed back on the seat with a thump. Rubbing her thigh, she muttered something in Gaelic that Abigail was pretty sure was a curse given the scowl on Fiona’s face. Perhaps the devil would get his due when this ride from hell was finished.

  By the time the carriage rolled into Mayfair late that afternoon, both Fiona and Abigail were too exhausted—and sore—to think about revenge. The coach and weary horses pulled to a stop in front of Jillian’s townhouse, where Jamie and Mari were staying. He jumped down from the driver’s seat with the agility of a five-year-old who’d had a good night’s sleep and poked his head inside the door. “I am going to see if Ian has arrived yet,” he said and then bounded up the short walkway to the door.

  “Where does he get that energy?” Abigail asked.

  Fiona shook her head. “He is probably as tired as we are, but is too proud to show it. My brothers are a stubborn lot.”

  Abigail was about to add Shane had his own intractable streak when the townhouse door burst open and Mari leapt—in a most undignified manner—straight into Jamie’s arms. Lifting her, he swung her around at the same time he bent his head to take her mouth in a long—very, very long—kiss that probably had the coachman’s eyes popping. Fiona was certainly wide-eyed.

  Abigail felt her nipples bead as wet heat pooled between her thighs and muscles contracted deep inside. Goodness gracious. Jamie was deepening the kiss, his hands wandering over Mari’s backside as he lowered her feet to the ground. Mari was making no effort to protest either.

  “Is he nae going to stop?” Fiona asked, her eyes still round. “Maybe I should remind him we are here.”

  As if Mari had heard, she pushed slightly away from Jamie, breaking the contact, although she looked neither embarrassed nor repentant of making a public spectacle of herself. Jamie nestled her against his side, keeping one arm around her waist while Mari placed her hand on his belly, tantalizing close to there. Heat washed over Abigail. Would Shane ever greet her like that?

  Givens stepped around them as if they were simply decorative urns placed on the stoop, although perhaps he was used to witnessing this kind of behavior. He gave no indication he had seen anything, but then well-trained English butlers were masters at noticing nothing. He gave his lapels a tug and nodded toward Abigail. “Will you be coming in, my lady?”

  “Nae,” Jamie answered. “I will be taking her to her father’s. I just wanted to find out if Ian has shown up yet.”

  “A post arrived yesterday morning,” Givens replied. “His lordship stopped at Argyll to inform the duke of—” he eyed the still-gaping coachman, “—of certain circumstances. He should be arriving shortly.” Givens turned back toward Abigail. “Your father returned just this afternoon.”

  “How does he know that?” Fiona whispered.

  Abigail smiled. “You will learn that servants know a great deal and butlers even more. It is part of the structure of London society.”

  Fiona’s mouth formed a small O although she said nothing.

  Mari accompanied Jamie back to the carriage, apparently not willing to separate physically just yet, since they still clung to each other. “Fiona,” she exclaimed in surprise. “I did not know you would be coming.”

  “Neither did I,” Jamie said dryly.

  Mari gave him a playful poke. “Well, I think it is wonderful. She can stay with us and I can begin to introduce her to all the right people.”

  Jamie looked heavenward and then gave Mari a kiss on the top of her head as he reluctantly disengaged. He held a hand for Fiona to step down. “At least try to stay out of trouble until I get back.”

  She made a face at him and Abigail watched as Mari walked her to the door, chattering away, for the moment having forgotten why they were in London. Hopefully, Abigail would be feeling that lighthearted soon.

  For now, though, her father waited.

  “What do you mean, you will not allow me to visit Shane?” Abigail asked, unable to believe her father was being so obstinate. She had been in the house fifteen minutes and already they were at odds. Hardly able to contain herself while the servant poured tea and left, she stood by the window, hands on her hips and glared.

  Her father dropped a lump of sugar into his cup and stirred. “I should think my wording was sufficiently clear. You are not to go anywhere near Newgate.”

  “It is perfectly safe during the day. I can take an escort.”

  “No.”

  “Why not? Shane is my husband.”

  The earl put down his teacup. “Not for much longer. The three-month arrangement we agreed to is nearly over.”

  “You mean what you agreed to. I did not.”

  “Do not take that tone with me, miss. Shane MacLeod agreed to the terms. That makes it binding.”

  Abigail wanted to scream. “I do not care what the two of you agreed to. I am married to Shane and I love him.”

  Her father stilled. “Has he had his way with you?”

  Her face felt on fire. She hoped it wasn’t as red as the heat felt. “With all due respect, Father, I do not see how that is of concern.”

  “It is very much a concern. MacLeod gave his word he would return you to me with your virginity intact.”

  Abigail’s mouth dropped. She stared at her father as though he’d suddenly grown horns—which maybe he had. Suddenly, it all became clear. Because of some stupid promise her father had extracted out of Shane, he had refused to consummate the marriage. It had nothing to do with her. All those times—arrgh. “You…you discussed that with Shane?”

  “I was not about to allow a stranger to take you to Scotland for three months and use you as though you were his mistress.”

  “Should that not be my decision, Father? I am three-and-twenty, hardly a silly debutante vying for a dozen beaus.”

  He looked pained. “I did not wish for you to follow in your mother’s footsteps.”

  Her mouth dropped open again and she snapped it shut. Never—ever—had she heard her father openly acknowledge her mother’s trysts. Abigail had only become aware that her mother’s reputation was less than stellar
through the snide, hateful remarks of other debutantes. Even the rumor that Wesley Alton had been her mother’s lover at the time of her death had been squelched.

  “I am not my mother,” Abigail said softly.

  Her father’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I know that, child. I only want to protect you from those kinds of rumors in your next marriage.”

  “I am not interested in marrying anyone else.”

  “Not right now perhaps, but suitable marriage arrangements will certainly be worked out in the future.”

  Never. Abigail could not imagine what it would be like to share a bed with another man. It would not happen, but she was still incensed as to the arrangement her father had made with Shane. “Why would my virginity be an issue anyhow?”

  Her father raised a brow. “You certainly have seemed to acquire blunt language.”

  “That is what it is called, is it not?”

  “You always have been outspoken.” He sighed. “As I said—and I will not say it again after this—I will not have your character defamed as your mother’s was. MacLeod agreed to my suggestion your marriage be annulled on grounds you did not suit and that you tired of him because he was gone to sea—” her father paused, “—and that he did not fulfill his marital obligations.”

  Abigail felt hysteria bubbling in her throat. All those nights when she wondered what was wrong with her were wasted efforts because of this…this myth that her husband was not capable of fulfilling his marital obligations? How utterly ironic she’d thought Shane merely inexperienced. “I do not see what difference it makes.”

  “When your next husband finds you have not been…violated, he will be most pleased.”

  Suddenly, Abigail understood. “This is about marrying an Englishman, becoming a brood mare and bearing an heir.”

  The pained expression crossed the earl’s face again. “You really do need to watch your language, my dear. You know how society is.”

  Abigail laughed, nearly unable to stop herself. Eventually, tears began to trickle down her face. “I do not give a damn what society thinks, Father. They can all go to bloody hell.”

  “Abigail!” Her father’s voice sounded shocked. “You are obviously in need of some medication.”

  “I am in need of nothing, Father,” she managed to say as she wiped the tears and suppressed another giggle, “except my husband. The one I am married to.”

  The earl studied her. “Do you wish to throw yourself after a man who does not care for you?”

  She sobered. The remark hit a bit too close to her heart. Did Shane care for her? He had opened his home to her—albeit it perhaps not willingly at first—established accounts for her shopping needs and made sure was protected when he was not there. He seemed to enjoy their conversations. But did that mean he cared? “What…what makes you say that?”

  “I mean that MacLeod has not reached out to me. When Marissa Barclay sent word this morning that Shane had been in Newgate for two weeks, it was the first I heard of it. I inquired of the butler whether any messengers have been sent to the house. They had not. I can only assume MacLeod did not wish to involve me in his release because he does not want to be obligated to a man who will soon be his ex-father-in-law.”

  Abigail bit her lip, willing real tears to stay at bay. Jamie had ridden to Glenfinnan to summon Ian. Ian had stopped in Argyll to inform the duke. Did that mean they did not need her father’s help? Or worse, that they did not want it?

  Dear Lord. Could it be true that Shane did not want to be married to her?

  “Papa will not let me go see him,” Abigail lamented to Fiona and Mari the next morning in Mari’s parlor. Her father’s townhouse felt like a prison of its own and she’d decided she needed some solace from friends. The early hour was indecent by London standards, but she was heartily tired of what society thought. Fiona was an early riser and Mari had gotten used to those hours since she’d married. “Can Jamie get a message to Shane? I need to let him know I am here.”

  “Of course,” Mari answered. “I will let Jamie know as soon as he returns.”

  “He is already gone?”

  “He went to Newgate.”

  “I wish I had gotten here even earlier then. Jamie could have escorted me,” Abigail said. “Even my father could not complain about that.”

  “Jamie probably would have refused. I know,” she said as Abigail started to protest, “but my husband was none too happy when he found out I had gone and he did not even know about the incident with the guards.”

  “What happened with the guards?” Fiona asked and her eyes grew round when Mari briefly explained. “And the English think the Scots barbaric?”

  Abigail would have laughed at the indignant expression on Fiona’s face, but she was too upset over the matters at hand. She’d hardly slept the night before and had taken a tray in her room, which she’d left mostly untouched.

  “Has Jamie nae taught ye to use a dirk?” Fiona demanded, sparks still flying from her eyes.

  Mari smiled and shook her head. “I suspect Jamie feels it might be more dangerous if I knew how. Besides, Newgate does not allow visitors to carry weapons inside the walls.” She turned back to Abigail. “Shane was ready to protect me from those jackanapes. I can only imagine how he would react if the guards even attempted to touch you. He might win a fight with them, but you can be assured he would be punished—and not lightly—for doing so. It really is better for you not to go.”

  “But I feel so helpless. Shane is sitting in a horrible cell and I am doing nothing.”

  Mari drummed her fingers on the wooden arm of her chair and looked thoughtful. “Actually, there might be something you—we—could do.”

  “What?”

  “Shane mentioned he had brought back a metal cylinder that contained an old document written in Latin. I thought it was a gift for you, but then he mentioned contacting Lord Frederick’s physician to retrieve it.”

  Abigail frowned. “Why would he contact the Duke of Sussex’s doctor?”

  “I do not know. Perhaps because no one was being allowed on the ship and a physician might have a better chance to inspect it for any signs of disease?”

  “That does not make much sense. Shane came from France, not the Orient.”

  Mari shrugged. “It must have worked though. Dr. Morrison told me he sent a message to Shane that the script was gone.”

  “So what can we do?” Fiona asked.

  “I am not sure, but the papers were probably taken to the Customs Office. Papa told me once that items confiscated were held there until the fate—er, the outcome—of the pris—er, the person—was decided.”

  Abigail didn’t need for Mari to spell things out. Too often items just disappeared, as did some prisoners. Lud. She felt like she was sitting on a pincushion. “You think there is some way we can get to the document?” she asked cautiously.

  “Well, there are methods of persuasion that have nothing to do with brute strength,” Mari said and then grinned. “After all, we are women.”

  Chapter Twenty Seven

  “’Tis glad I am ye are back,” Shane said to Jamie as they met in the visiting box. “What message did Ian send?”

  “He can tell ye himself. He is on his way but planned to stop in Argyll to let Campbell know the lay of things.”

  “Ye think I am in such trouble that Argyll needs to come back?”

  “He is a friend. Any influence will help.” Jamie looked him over. “How did ye get the black eye?”

  “’Twas a matter of the scullery boy being cuffed for nae reason by a guard.”

  “And ye decided to step in?”

  “Aye, well. The boy was bringing my dinner and the guard helped himself to the piece of meat. The boy tried to keep him from doing so.”

  “And how did the guard fare?”

  “Just a dislocated shoulder. Maybe a broken jaw.”

  Jamie grinned. “And ye probably have a devoted lad who worships ye now?”

  “I doona ken.
I got sent back to my old cell.”

  Jamie’s grin changed to a frown. “The damn gaol-keeper accepted enough money from Mari to nae let that happen.”

  “Ye kenned Mari came to the prison?”

  “Aye. Without permission of course.” Jamie ran a hand through his hair and sighed. “The lass truly does what she will.”

  Shane laughed. “Aye. Wee Abigail does the same.”

  “Ye doona have to tell me. I could nae persuade her to stay in Edinburgh.”

  “What? Abigail is here?” Shane had hoped—futilely, he realized now—that she would somehow not learn of his imprisonment. At least not until he was absolved of all wrongdoing. What woman would want to stay married to a man who brought shame to her? The thought struck a chord within him. Maybe Abigail had decided to accompany Jamie so she could stay in London. Their three months was over and he hadn’t departed on exactly a cordial note. “Did she…did she give ye a message for me?”

  “Nae. We just got here yesterday. She seemed eager to get home and speak to her father. He has nae come by?”

  Shane shook his head, his belly feeling like several hot lumps of coal had landed there. Abigail had been upset with him when he left. They hadn’t spoken. Now she was eager to come home. Eager to speak to her father. And Sherrington had not put in an appearance at the gaol. That could mean only one thing. Abigail wanted the marriage to be over. After all this time when Shane had been determined to have the marriage annulled, it would be his wee wife that would do it. What a bitter pill to swallow.

  “Are ye sure—”

  Several pairs of boots drummed a beat across the floor as the head gaol-keeper approached the visiting box, flanked by Ian, the Duke of Argyll and the Duke of Sussex. He handed Shane a piece of paper signed by the magistrate. “I guess this says you are free to go.”

  Shane looked at Ian and then to his two Masonic brothers. Both the dukes’ faces were grim and Ian looked none too pleased either. Shane read the paper and narrowed his eyes. “This says I have to leave England on the out-going tide and not return.”

  “Aye,” Ian replied, his eyes darkening dangerously. “The smuggling charges have been dropped but ye are nae to put into the Port of London again.”