Rogue of the Borders

by Cynthia Breeding

  The boatswain swung an oil lamp slowly back and forth from the crow’s nest. The light from that height wasn’t very bright, but every bit helped. Nothing broke the water. Where was the sailor? Shane had never had one of his crew end up in Davy Jones’s locker and he wasn’t about to let one meet that fate now.

  Had the man washed by him? Shane didn’t think so since he hadn’t seen anything floating. The sea at this point was building, but the undercurrent was minor. Still, the man might have been pulled past Shane’s point of reference. Turning, he sculled, wishing he’d had time to remove his now-waterlogged boots—and then he saw it. An arm flailing above the water a good fifteen meters ahead. Scissor-kicking, Shane sliced through the waves. “Hang on!”

  There was no answer, but Shane hardly expected one. He could hear choking as he got closer, though. The man was thrashing, panicked and wearing himself out. With an extra powerful kick, Shane reached him just as his head started to go under.

  “I have ye,” Shane said, careful to get behind the sailor and not get entangled with any desperate grabs. Cupping the man’s chin, Shane started to tell him to relax and float but realized he was already unconscious. Shane just prayed he wasn’t too late.

  The ladder was down and one of the crew had also thrown a line. Shane looped it over the sailor’s head—somehow his cap had stayed on—and secured it under the man’s shoulders. He gave a tug to tighten it and motioned for the crew to begin hauling the limp body as he followed on the ladder.

  By the time Shane pulled himself over the side and on deck, the boatswain was already tending the sailor and Shane heard the ragged sound of retching. Thank God. He moved around to kneel by the man’s side and then almost choked himself.

  The cap had come off. Long strands of wet, brown hair framed the face of Abigail Townsend as she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  It wasn’t exactly how she’d planned to let Shane know she was aboard.

  Even now, several hours later with Abigail warm and dry, plaid wrapped around her chemise, and seated on his bunk with hot chocolate, Shane still looked half-crazed with worry. She had finally gotten him to stop pacing—turning in circles since the cabin was small—by telling him he made her dizzy, but she hadn’t been able to stop him from running his hands through his hair like a madman while he sat in the chair opposite her.

  “You are going to be bald if you keep doing that.”

  “Bald or grey,” he muttered and then failed in his attempt to glare at her. “You almost drowned.”

  She didn’t need reminding, although she kept silent. Shane looked more worried than angry and she didn’t want to agitate him further. When she’d peeled off her wet clothes earlier, the faerie stone Fiona insisted she carry had fallen out of the pocket of her trews. Shane had stared at it in fascination and then started thanking the MacLeod faerie in both Gaelic and English, adding something about the Crone of the Hills as well.

  Yes, definitely better not to upset Shane further—and she certainly did not want to encourage such delusions. Truth be told, Abigail had thought she heard a woman’s voice while she was in the water, encouraging her, and once, she’d even thought she felt something bump into her, pushing her to the surface when she’d slipped under. But since she didn’t think faeries could swim—not that she was about to ask and start Shane on another delusional train of thought—she dismissed it as hysterics.

  “I am fine now, thanks to you. I am just glad your ship had not left by the time I got to the docks.”

  Shane eyed her as though realizing for the first time that she had stowed away on his ship and she hoped he wasn’t going to be angry.

  “About that.” His tone was mild. “Why did ye come? Jamie said ye were eager to see your father.”

  “I was.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “If ye wanted the marriage to be over, why—”

  “What are you talking about?” Abigail put down the chocolate. “I did not want the marriage to be over.”

  “Then why did ye want to come back to London?”

  Maybe he’d swallowed too much sea water in the rescue and it had done something to his brain. Should she resort to her horse-training techniques again? “To help you, of course.”

  “Help me?”

  How could a man so intelligent be so dim? Maybe if she enunciated each word? “Yes. To. Help. You.”

  Shane jumped up in alarm. “Why are ye speaking so slow? Are ye having your affliction again?”

  “My affliction?” Lordy, he was the one who thought faeries existed.

  “Ye sometimes act verra strange. ’Tis all right. Ye canna be blamed for something ye were born with.”

  “Born with. Good heavens. There is nothing wrong with me. I thought something was wrong with you.” No need to tell him it was because she thought him inexperienced and been proved wrong. “That is why I speak slowly sometimes.”

  Shane looked affronted. “’Tis nae a thing wrong with me, lass. I just doona ken why ye came aboard the ship.”

  “I wanted to find out why you signed the annulment without talking to me.”

  “I tried to find ye, lass. Looking for ye is like trying to find a wee pebble in a deep loch.”

  “Papa said you did not leave a message.”

  “I was too angry.”

  “Angry? Why?”

  He took a deep breath. “What your father said made sense, even though I dinna want to sign the paper.”

  Abigail frowned. “What exactly did my father say?”

  “That ye are better off without a man whose freedom was bought. From a man who cannae return to London. From a man whose name will only bring ye shame. From a man who—”

  “Stop! Do you think for one minute that I care about any of that? I detest the snobbery of the ton. If I never have to go to another crush, ball, rout or soiree, I will be a happy woman. Do you not know that?” Abigail smiled at him. “Do ye nae ken it?”

  Shane’s mouth quirked up. “Are ye making fun of me, lass?”

  Abigail shook her head, her smile widening. “I rather like the burr. Maybe I can lose my accent?” Then she sobered. “You saved my life, Shane.”

  Shane fidgeted. “I thought ye were one of my crew.”

  Abigail gasped. “You would have let me drown if you knew it was I?”

  He stared at her. “Are ye daft? No, of course not. I meant—” he ran his hands through his hair once more, “—oh, hell. Ye scared me. By the devil’s own horns, ye are capable of taking ten years off a man. I doona ken what lunacy has taken me, but God, I love ye in spite of the trouble ye are.”

  Abigail blinked. It wasn’t exactly the kind of romantic declaration of love a girl dreams of, but then she wasn’t in her first spring either. And he had said the words.

  “I love you too, you stubborn, bossy man. Now perhaps we can finally do what we should have done months ago. Take me to bed.”

  “I cannae. We are nae married.”

  Abigail arched a brow. “That is the point, is it not? When we were married, you would not consummate the act because you made a vow to my father. You upheld your end. Now that we are not married—”

  She didn’t get to finish the sentence. With a low growl, Shane sprang from his chair and Abigail found herself on her back, the plaid on the floor and then heard a ripping sound as he tore her thin chemise apart. She barely had time to register she was completely naked before Shane’s mouth covered hers, intense and demanding. His large hands squeezed her breasts, callused thumbs flicking back and forth over both nipples, faster and faster until they felt on fire. Flames that quickly spread heat through her body, igniting a hot pulsing between her legs. Shane thrust his tongue into Abigail’s mouth, mimicking the action of his hips rocking against her, inflaming her further. She felt her core soften and swell, the pulsation turning to a throb that soon became an aching need.

  Instinctively, she flexed her own hips to match his rhythm.

  Then suddenly he was off her. Cool air fanned her heat and
she whimpered. “No. Do not stop. Please.”

  “I doona plan to stop, lass.” Shane grinned wickedly at her as he removed his shirt. “But to continue, I must remove these clothes.”

  Abigail inhaled sharply at the sight of his bare chest, the perfect beauty of the sculpted muscles of his shoulders and arms and the rippled ridges of his belly. Truly, Shane was a work of art rivaling anything she’d seen in a book. She sat up, reaching for his trews. “Let me help.”

  His eyes smoldered as he stepped forward to give her access. “Have at it, then.”

  As Abigail fumbled with the buttons, her hand brushed against something hard as marble. Shane moaned and she dropped her hands. “Did I hurt you?”

  Closing his eyes briefly, he shook his head. “Nae, lass. It felt good.” He looked down at her with a grin. “Please continue…and do nae be afraid of hurting me.”

  Her hands felt incredibly clumsy, but finally she had the breeches undone and started to slide them down his narrow hips. Without warning, his manhood jutted out, thick and long, standing stiffly at attention.

  Abigail stared. Michelangelo’s David had not prepared her for this. None of the statues she’d drooled over had. Shane was huge. Huge. How in the world was that going to fit inside her?

  His hand brushed back her hair. “Do ye like what ye see?”

  The huskiness of his voice snapped Abigail out of her near stupor. She looked up, seeing hot desire burning in his eyes. His intense look rekindled her own want. “Very much.” Abigail reached out tentatively to touch his member and then drew her hand back quickly when it jumped under her hand. “It moves.”

  Shane laughed quietly. “Aye, lass. That it does. Go ahead. It likes ye.”

  She reached out again, running her fingers along the length of him, marveling at the satin softness of his skin over what felt like a rod of steel. Slowly, she circled the ridge of the rounded head, letting her fingertips trail over the silky smoothness of its tip. Shane made a choking sound. When she glanced up, his head was thrown back, his eyes closed. “Are you sure I am not hurting you?”

  He groaned. “Believe me, ye are doing nothing that hurts.”

  “Well, if you are sure…” She looked back at his manhood. It seemed to have grown even thicker and a drop of liquid had appeared on its crown as well. That was something she hadn’t read about. Abigail studied it. She leaned forward, wrapping her hand around his shaft and licked the drop off, savoring the slightly salty taste on her tongue.

  Shane’s eyes flew open. “My God.”

  Abigail licked her lips. “You did not like that?”

  “I—My, God,” he said again, and once more, Abigail found herself on her back, this time with her legs spread wide and Shane situated between them. The object of her scrutiny lodged itself against her wet opening, nudging gently.

  Desire shot through her as Shane’s deft fingers began teasing her already-quivering nub, sending flutters through her lower belly. She felt herself being stretched as he began to slide into her, and then he paused, waiting for her. The feeling was strange, but as Abigail adjusted to his size, other sensations came into awareness. Her breasts felt heavy and full, her nipples tingled, her breathing became shallow and her body thrummed. Shane’s hand increased its pressure, rubbing hard against the now throbbing, tightened bud, building her desire until her body began to writhe with need, and then he thrust hard, filling her completely.

  Abigail gasped at the sharp bite of pain, but Shane’s mouth was on hers now, his tongue filling her as well, and the pain subsided, replaced by slow, sensual vibrations as he began an easy, gentle rhythm until her body was once again flexing beneath his. Inner muscles began to spasm as Shane’s thrusts became hard and deep. Abigail’s body trembled and shuddered, her mind feverish and frenzied, wanting more. Needing more. More. Tiny brilliant lights danced in the air as Shane increased his pace. Abigail’s core contracted, clenching him as her body shattered, sending her over the edge of sanity just as she heard Shane roar.

  They both lay panting, trying to catch their breaths. Finally, Shane rolled to the side and gathered Abigail into his arms. “’Twas it what ye expected?”

  Even in her wildest fantasies, Abigail had not expected what she had just experienced. There were no words to describe. But then maybe words weren’t needed. “I am not sure.” She stifled a giggle. “Can we do it again?”

  Thoroughly satiated—how in the world had she ever thought Shane to be inexperienced?—Abigail awoke to the delightful sensation of her breasts being fondled lightly while something much, much, less soft pressed insistently against her backside where she lay nestled against Shane. Her sleepy murmurs turned into a surprised gasp as Shane brought her leg over his thigh and slipped his steel length fully inside her. The thrusts were so slow and easy, she didn’t even realize how much her passion was building until her entire body shuddered in response.

  Shane nibbled her neck. “’Tis a nice way to wake up, is it nae?”

  “Mmmm,” Abigail replied, turning toward him and burrowing into his shoulder. “Now we are truly man and wife.”

  His hand stilled on her hip. “We are nae man and wife.”

  “Oh, I know. We can get remarried as soon as we get home.” When Shane didn’t answer, Abigail opened her eyes to find him frowning. “What is wrong?”

  “I canna marry ye.”

  “What?” Abigail shot up in bed. “Why not? If this is about Papa—”

  “Nae, this has nothing to do with your father. That agreement is fulfilled.”

  “Then why—” Abigail felt the blood drain from her face. “You do not want to marry me.” She drew the sheets over her naked breasts. “You never did.”

  “’Tis nae true, lass.”

  Shane eyed her hands holding onto the sheet, and for a moment, she thought he might tug the sheet down. She clutched it tighter, although she was hoping he would do just that. Instead he sighed, swung his legs over the side and reached for his breeches. “I told ye I love ye. I wouldna say it if I dinnae mean it. I just cannae marry ye.”

  “That makes no sense.” Abigail paused, a painful thought shooting through her like the sharpened end of a dart. London aristocracy rarely married for love. What was important was title, wealth, power, land. She knew the old Scottish clans did the same. Just because they had been dismantled didn’t mean they didn’t still exist. “Are you…are you supposed to marry a Scottish woman?”

  He gave her a startled look. “Good God, nae. Where did ye get such an idea?”

  His answer soothed her just a little. “It is not that unusual to be practical in choosing a spouse. My father arranged our…our sham…for just such reasons.”

  Shane winced. “’Twas to save ye from scandal.”

  “And how are you going to save me from this one? I stowed away again. Chasing after an errant husband—especially one who has annulled his marriage—should provide delicious on dits for the gossips for months.”

  “Ye can stay in Edinburgh until the talk has died down.”

  “And be your mistress?”

  Shane hesitated, his shirt half on. “I would verra much like that.” Pulling the shirt on, he buttoned it. “’Twill be your decision though.”

  Abigail threw a pillow at him, wishing it were a brick. Something to penetrate his thick skull. “I want more than that.”

  Catching the pillow, he smiled sadly. “I cannae give ye what ye want.”

  If she were dressed, she would have stormed out of the room. “Well, I canna go back to London.”

  His brow furrowed. “In time, the gossip will die down as soon as something more scandalous happens. London society is fickle.”

  “Society may be fickle, but the law is not.”

  The furrow increased. “What do ye mean?”

  “I am a thief.” Wrapping the bed sheet around herself, Abigail padded over to the basket she’d brought on board and pulled out the scroll. “Here.”

  “What is this?”

  “Somethi
ng I thought was important to you.”

  Shane took it, his eyes widening as he unwrapped it. When he looked up, his eyes were dark. “How did ye get this?”

  “Mari, Fiona and I went—” She stopped when he groaned. “You probably do not want to know.”

  “I suspect ye are right.” Shane looked down at the papers again. “Do ye have any idea of the danger ye just put yourself in?”

  Abigail lifted her chin, trying to look as dignified as she could in a massive sheet. “I have some idea. I read Latin.”

  Shane took a deep breath. “I never wanted to involve ye in what King George would consider treason.”

  She waved a dismissive hand. “Well, no one will ever know.”

  “Perhaps nae the contents, but there will be hell to pay when the magistrate finds that cylinder empty. Do ye nae understand what ye’ve done?”

  “Of course I do. We did not leave the canister empty. Fiona suggested I substitute parchment for what I took.”

  “I am sure the container was inspected. The Customs mon will ken there was writing on the scrolls. ’Twill nae help if they find blank paper.”

  Abigail sighed, sorely tempted to resort back to her horse-training techniques. “We thought of that. I transcribed a children’s tale into Latin for the substitution.”

  Shane stared at her for a long moment and then began to grin. “Clever lass.”

  “The story was Mari’s idea.”

  He laughed. “No wonder Jamie is getting grey hair.”

  “I suspect he does not mind. Anyway, I found the older document much more interesting than a Stuart living in exile.”

  Shane sobered. “You read medieval Latin as well?”

  Abigail nodded. “I spent lots of time in libraries.”

  “Reading Latin?”

  “Yes, well. I had an interest in anatomy and most books were written in Latin.” Specifically, it was Greek and Roman anatomical art she was interested in, but Shane didn’t need to know that. “Whether or not Solomon’s treasure is buried beneath Rosslyn Chapel, I found it fascinating that though the Templars were outlawed by King Philippe, they managed to survive in Scotland until the 1400s. Is that not exciting?” Shane’s eyes grew dark again and he looked away quickly. Too quickly. “You did not approve of the Templars?”