Rogue of the Borders (21 page)

“Cleat the line properly,” Donald bellowed at one of the sailors who had sloppily secured it with one loop. “And ye two,” he said, pointing at crew members about to scurry down the gangplank. “I see the sheets have nae been coiled!”

Shane sighed. Perhaps he needed to focus on the task at hand.

Thirty minutes later, when all had been properly secured on deck and the near-mutinous men had gone off to the nearest tavern, he picked up the paperwork and headed toward his office.

“Was the trip as profitable as you expected?” Richard asked as he entered.

“Aye,” Shane answered, thinking at least the business end had gone well. “I wondered about the London client, Avery. What do ye ken of him?”

Richard’s eyes shifted slightly and he shrugged. “I know nothing of him. Mr. Padget simply said he had a client needing cognac delivered.” He studied the papers Shane had given him. “I see you received another order for kelp. Do you have any idea how long it will take to have ready?”

“I will need to check with the fishermen,” Shane replied and looked around. “Is my wife nae here?”

“She left early.”

“Unless ye need to go over some things, I will be heading that way myself.”

“No, sir. Everything is under control. I will see you in the morning.”

As Shane walked home, he wondered about Abigail leaving early since it was just past lunch—which reminded him he hadn’t eaten a decent meal in several days. Mayhap she was having Janet prepare something special? Then he shook his head. The faeries must have taken command of his common sense as well. Abigail had no idea of when he was due back.

As he turned onto Moray Place and his townhouse came into view, Shane thought again of how good it was to be home.

Chapter Eighteen

Something was wrong. As soon as Shane stepped inside the foyer, he could sense it. None of the footmen were present. A wet Macintosh hung from the coat stand, water dripping onto the tile, forming small rivulets of mud where the floor had not been swept. Down the hall, he could hear the clatter of pans from the kitchen and the smell of something burning.

As he walked past the dining room, he almost bumped into the wall in surprise. Caitlin and Caylin were sitting—
quietly
—parchment in front of them and quills in hand, while Shauna read to them from Sir Walter Scott’s
Waverly
. Not that Shane’s sisters shouldn’t be learning about the effects of the last uprising, but that they were studying
anything,
let alone quietly, amazed him.

“I see someone has finally taken the two of ye in hand,” he said from the doorway.

Both girls started, dropping their quills and looking at him with rounded eyes as their faces drained of color.

Jesu.
What had he said?

“Abigail thought it best the twins learned some decorum,” Shauna said as she motioned for them to pick up their pens. “And I quite agree. They’ve been acting like street urchins for too long.”

Shane raised a brow as neither of his sisters protested, meekly picking up their writing utensils and finishing whatever sentences they’d been working on. However, Caitlin’s hand shook. Something was definitely wrong.

“I agree ’tis time the twins took an interest in book learning, but is there some reason Abigail decided to start those lessons now?” He noticed both of them stilled, although neither looked up.

Even Shauna looked uncomfortable. “Ye need to ask Abigail. I think she is in the kitchen with Fiona.”

In the kitchen? After the disaster on his ship with the stew, Abigail had confided she had limited knowledge on preparing meals. And Fiona was not known to take an interest in cooking either. Were they taking lessons from Janet? “I will do that.”

Janet was nowhere to be seen when he reached the kitchen. From the various pots, pans and plates that covered every counter, it was evident she hadn’t been present for some time. Fiona was peeling potatoes, or at least attempting to. Shane winced as she wielded a rather sharp knife—albeit it a small one, thankfully—at an offending piece. Abigail stood by the table, her hands in a large bowl of flour, most of which was forming a white cloud around her. She looked up, her face smudged as she pushed a strand of hair away from her face, leaving a white streak. Shane’s mind—or maybe it was the faerie who seemed in control of his thoughts—wondered if that was how Abigail would look when her hair turned grey. It was somewhat appealing…

“I…we did not expect you today,” Abigail said, wiping her hands on an apron that also contained spots and stains from other endeavors.

“Obviously.” A large kettle had boiled over on the stove, which accounted for the burning smell he’d encountered earlier. Shane moved toward it, hesitating before looking over its rim. He thought the contents might have been stew, but he wasn’t sure.

“What in the world are the two of you doing in the kitchen? Where is Janet?”

Fiona looked at Abigail uneasily. It wasn’t the same look of terror the twins had shown, but it was close. “What the devil is someone nae telling me?”

“Perhaps you should sit down,” Abigail said, gesturing toward a chair, flour floating in the movement’s wake.

Cautious, Shane slid the chair back from the table, not wanting to look like Father Time from the billowing flour. “Do I need a drink?”

Abigail brightened. “An excellent idea.” She moved to one end of the kitchen and retrieved a half-empty bottle of whisky from somewhere behind the stacked dishes.

A bottle, he noticed, that was also open. His mouth almost dropped when Abigail poured a healthy portion in each of three glasses and handed him one, leaving flour-encrusted fingerprints on it. He widened his eyes as she and Fiona both took good swallows without grimacing.
Jesu.
He drained the contents of his glass in one gulp and waited.

Abigail took another hefty swallow. “Janet had a bit of an accident.”

“What kind of accident?”

“She fell down the stairs and fractured both wrists.”

Shane frowned. “How did that happen?”

“She came out of the front bedroom and startled Johnny and George while they were brandishing their swords upstairs,” Fiona supplied.

Shane eyed the whisky bottle. Perhaps one more? Resolutely, he turned away from it. “And why were trained men indulging in sword play in a hallway?”

Abigail looked at the bottle too and then sighed. “Well, the twins…” she began.

When she finished telling the story, Shane shook his head. “Let me get this straight. Because of a prank, my housekeeper cannae work and two guards—warriors who Ian considered his best—managed to slice each other
and
break their legs and ankles as well?”

Abigail shook her head. “Not both. George broke an ankle. Johnny broke a leg.”

“By the saints! I’ve heard of fewer injuries on a battlefield.”

“They were trying to cushion the fall for Janet,” Fiona said, “and the doctor said the sword slashes didn’t cut any muscles.”

Jesu.
He’d contended with a crew just short of mutinous on a stormy passage and now he came to a home in shambles and trained swordsmen who had acted like green lads.

Were the faeries declaring war on him?

Shane reached for the whisky, not even thinking to object when both Abigail and Fiona held their glasses out to him.

Thanks to Shane’s quick thinking and the fact his ship’s cook had not gone to the local tavern, the evening meal turned out quite well. They lacked fresh bread since the flour mess Abigail worked with was declared a total loss by the cook, but the fish chowder was hot, the potatoes properly boiled and nothing was burnt.

The twins ate in total silence. Abigail felt a twinge of sympathy for them since they were waiting for the proverbial ax—in this case, Shane’s wrath—to fall. He too remained quiet, which only prolonged the girls’ misery.

Abigail knew they had meant no harm. She intended to come to their defense, if she could just remember what she had planned to say. Her mind was a bit fuzzy around the edges thanks to the nip of whisky she’d had. Or had it been two?

She couldn’t rightly remember how many. Fiona had found the bottle beside Janet’s cooking sherry when they’d first attempted cooking a week ago. Abigail knew her father’s chef often added sherry to dishes so she assumed whisky was an alternative.

Fiona had been more speculative. Her brothers often had a dram, although they’d never allowed the women to partake. Since the house was currently vacant of men—Jacob wisely taking his meals at the public house and Albert at home caring for Janet—it seemed the perfect time to find out what having
wee dram
was about.

After the initial coughing, choking and feeling like their stomachs were on fire, they decided the warm, glowing aftermath was quite pleasant.

And it made the food more palatable.

Shane laid his fork down and crossed his arms. “’Tis time this family has a talk and comes to terms with what happened.”

The twins laid their utensils down also and kept their eyes on their plates. “We are sorry,” Caitlin whispered.

“We dinna mean to hurt anyone,” Caylin added.

“Lasses,” Shane said quietly. “Look at me when ye speak.”

Remorsefully, they turned their eyes upward.

“They really are re…repentable. I mean, repentant. I think…think they have been…chas…chastised enough.” There. Abigail was proud she’d remembered what she’d intended to say.

“We have all talked to them—” Shauna started.

Shane held his hand up for silence. “I am nae going to flog the lasses. They deserve a tongue lashing for certain, but I think that has already been done.” He turned to his sisters. “What did ye learn from this?”

“To nae trick people,” Caitlin said. As Shane waited, she added, “Especially if they have weapons.”

Caylin nodded solemnly. “And to nae act like children anymore.”

Abigail thought she saw Shane’s face soften, but his voice remained firm. “Good. Then the two of ye will assume Janet’s tasks until she returns.”

Their eyes went round. “Ye want us to cook?”

“Nae,” Shane replied. “Not the cooking.”

“We can handle that,” Abigail interjected, a warm, fuzzy feeling floating through her brain. “Actually, since Fiona and I discovered the effects of spirits, the food has become much better.”

Shane made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh but turned into a cough as he cleared his throat. “I will enlist my man for this week while we are in port. Perhaps by then, we can hire someone to do the cooking.”

The look of alarm Shauna had given Abigail faded. “I will assist the man. Perhaps I can take over the cooking.”

“An excellent idea,” Shane said a little too quickly.

Abigail lifted her chin. “You do not think I can cook?”

He made another strangled sound and then recovered. “Why do ye nae manage the household as ye did in London? I can talk to Albert about the office—”

“He has his hands full helping Janet,” Abigail interrupted. “Besides, there are no servants to manage.”

“Nae? Well, ye can start with these two.” Shane gestured to the twins. “They can sweep the floors and clean. I will nae have Janet returning to a filthy house.” He turned his head as Kyla and Jacob could be heard entering the foyer. “I will speak to Jacob about extra duties and ye can do the same to Kyla. Just because she is a lady’s maid doesnae mean she canna help in other areas.”

“She already assists the three of us,” Fiona said. “She will nae be happy.”

“She assists ye with dressing,” Shane replied. “That doona take all day.”

“And our bathes.” Fiona snickered. “She has a way of persuading the footmen to bring the water up the stairs while it is still hot.”

“One of the hipbaths can be returned to the kitchen and the problem will be solved.” Shane frowned. “’Tis nae London here. We are Scots. We fend for ourselves. A maid works where she is told. If Kyla doona want to do that—.”

“I will speak with her,” Abigail interjected before Shane could return to the subject of her working in the office. “You are quite right. We all need to work together until Janet, Johnny and George are able to return. Everything will be fine.”

“I hope ye are right.” Shane stood. “I will get Jacob to get a hipbath down before he retires for the night.”

“The one in the twins’ rooms will be best,” Abigail said quickly before Shane offered to bring their tub down. “It is the closest and the girls tend not to tarry.”

Abigail had plans for the tub in their chamber—with Shane in it, of course.

Handling grouchy, querulous sailors was an easy sail in zephyr winds compared to the disorderly chaos his home had become. Never in his entire life had Shane been beset by so much discord at one time.

It had to be the faeries.

Shane glanced across the worn leather seat of the rented hack at Abigail. She was a picture of innocence this morning—hair captured neatly at her nape, hands folded in her lap as she gazed out the window at streets she’d seen a dozen times before. Even the modest working gown of grey wool spoke of demureness.