Rogue of the Borders (22 page)

Could his wee wife have made a pact with the fae? She did seem a bit touched in the head at times. If the pixies were at work, it might explain why two well-trained warriors would have a go at each other in tight quarters where no danger loomed and sustain injuries. It might even explain how Janet popped out in the middle of the fray and toppled down the stairs, causing Albert to have to care for her. Could the fickle fingers of fate be at work to make Shane stay home and spend time with his wife?

The question was a moot point. He had a shipping business to run. But from now on, Abigail would ride to work in a carriage. Shane was taking no chances of further unforeseen incidences happening while she walked to work, even if she were escorted. He needed no additional troubles.

As the hack pulled up to the docks, Abigail turned to Shane as he was about to open the door. “There is something you should know.”

Resting his hand on the door handle, he wondered what new problem she would introduce. Things couldn’t get much worse. “What is it?”

“I glanced at the ledgers one day while Richard was out on the pier.”

Shane dropped his hand. “And?”

“It looked like your profits were down this past month.”

“Maybe all the accounts have nae been posted.”

“That could be,” Abigail replied. “I did not have much time to study the entries.”

He furrowed his brow. “Why nae? Ye should have access to anything in the office. Does Richard keep them locked up?”

“Not exactly. He keeps them in a drawer in his desk. He has made it clear I am to leave his desk alone.”

“I can take care of that.”

“Please do not say anything to him.” Abigail twisted her hands in her lap. “He already resents having a woman working with him. I do not want him thinking I run to you with tales just because you are my husband.”

“I
own
the company. I expect
any
employee to keep me informed. Has Reneau mistreated ye?”

“No. He is civil.”

“He needs to respect ye as well. I can make that
clear
to him.”

“No. Please do not say anything. You cannot force him to respect me. I do not want to make the situation worse. I just wanted you to know about the books.”

“I will go over them before we leave.” Shane studied his wife as he escorted her inside. She looked worried and tense. He really would have preferred she stay home and organize his household. The sooner Janet healed and Albert could also return to work, the better. Forget about needing a butler. For the time being, Shane would make sure Jacob understood he was not to leave Abigail out of his sight while she was at work.

A little over an hour later, Shane looked up from the ledgers and frowned. His profits
were
down this past month by about ten percent, although he could find no missing posts. Entries for each shipment were duly recorded.

“Is everything in order, sir?” Richard asked.

Shane closed the ledgers. “It appears to be.”

Richard smiled, although it reminded Shane more of a wolf baring its teeth. There was something about the Frenchman he didn’t trust. He decided he would pay a visit to David later. The sooner Shane could remove Abigail from Reneau’s presence, the better. Meanwhile. Shane would have to depend on his wife.

The feeling unsettled him.

Chapter Nineteen

“We are ready to leave when ye and Shane are,” Caitlin said from the doorway the next morning as Abigail was finishing her breakfast in the dining room.

“I will join you in the parlor in a moment. Shane should be ready soon.”

Abigail smiled as the twins left. The next shipment of kelp wouldn’t be dry for a few more days, so Shane had time to spend at home. Since Albert was gone and two of the footmen were still in a hospital ward, Shane had announced he’d be spending nights at the townhouse. Abigail’s heart had leapt wildly at the thought until he’d put a cot in the back room of the ground floor—supposedly to guard from who-knew-what kind of villains. He’d given her a peculiar look and mentioned the accidents seemed very strange coincidences—as if he thought someone, or
something
, had deliberately intended for things to go wrong.

Abigail certainly hoped he wasn’t harboring thoughts of the supernatural again. She really didn’t think Shane was a superstitious man, as some sailors were, but he did have an odd penchant for believing in faeries and the witch-crone person.

As if such things existed.

Still, having Shane in the townhouse at night was a step closer to having him in their bedroom. And from there, hers was a very human goal with a very human outcome—and one she intended to achieve. Abigail remembered the night he’d undone her dress. She didn’t know exactly how to undress a man—did one start with the shirt or boots? And when did one advance to undoing trousers?—but she thought it would be grand fun to try.

The object of her fantasy came into view. Her breath caught at the sight of him. Clean-shaven, his black hair still damp from his morning ablutions—unfortunately, he performed those in the back room as well—he was an arresting figure. His snowy shirt, open scandalously at the throat, contrasted with his sun-bronzed skin and revealed a dusting of black hair on his chest. A chest she remembered very well from her encounter in his ship’s cabin. Maybe she would start undressing him with the shirt…

“Are ye feeling well? Your face is flushed.”

“I—ah, yes. I am fine. The twins are waiting for us, but if you have not eaten—”

“I had something earlier.”

Abigail laid down her napkin and rose. Perhaps she would get up earlier tomorrow as well. “I hope the twins enjoy seeing the castle.”

He gave her an amused look. “I doubt it, but right now they’re willing to comply. ’Tis a good time for a history lesson.”

Shane proved himself right. The twins seemed suitably impressed with the idea that Castle Rock, upon which the sprawling fortress was perched high above the city, was an ancient dormant volcano. However, they were clearly bored once inside the castle grounds. Abigail wondered if the reason was because they’d grown up in a medieval castle—albeit it much smaller—themselves.

Still, she couldn’t help but exclaim over the small, simple chapel of St. Margaret. Its tiny space was actually divided in two by a carved stone arch. Although it was bare, one side had probably been for the altar and chancel, the other part a nave for the royal family. To be inside stone walls this ancient was mindboggling, at least to her.

Shane smiled at her excited reaction. “’Tis the oldest building in Edinburgh. Queen Margaret’s son, David, had it dedicated to her in 1130.”

“Amazing.”

“What is truly amazing is such a place was actually used to house gunpowder in the 1500s.”

“That is sacrilegious.”

“Aye. Practically the same thing happened to Sinclair’s Rosslyn Chapel,” Shane said. “Cromwell used it as a stable. Rosslyn Castle was also attacked.”

“When was it built?”

“The original about the same time as King David built his mother’s chapel.”

“I had no idea. Your ancestors were here—and actually knew the kings Shakespeare wrote about?”

Shane shrugged. “Probably. In those times, a castle would have been a necessity for any lord to survive. The first castle at Rosslyn no longer stands. The present ruins only date from the early 1300s.”

“
Only?
I should love to see them.”

“I can take ye there.”

“Do we have to go?” Caitlin asked, breaking into the conversation while Caylin tried to stifle a yawn.

Abigail looked at Shane and smiled. “I think your sisters have had enough history for one day.”

“Aye,” he replied and then looked at the twins. “Ye do nae have to go.”

“Oh, good,” Caitlin said. “Tomorrow Caylin and I want to—”

“Tomorrow Shauna will be expecting ye to write a report on what ye learned today,” Shane cut in. “Of course, Abigail and I could wait until ye finish and take ye with us.”

“Nae,” Caitlin said.

“’Tis fine,” Caylin quickly added.

Abigail’s heart fluttered. Tomorrow she was actually going to be alone with Shane? Hmmm…the possibilities were endless…

Shane wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or disappointed when Fiona decided to join them the next morning. From Abigail’s distressed look, he knew she had wanted to spend the day alone with him—and it would have been easier to talk historical details without worrying whether Fiona became bored. Although the more he thought about it, perhaps Fiona was a godsend—or maybe the faeries were finally siding with him—since he might have been tempted to use the opportunity of visiting the ruins and chapel to tell Abigail too much about his role with the Templars.

The carriage ride to the small village of Roslin took a little over an hour. When they disembarked on the narrow, steep road in front of the chapel, Abigail looked up in awe at the Gothic stone structure with its carved window arches and many turrets. “It is absolutely beautiful.”

“And we will go inside later. First, I want us to look at the castle ruins.” Shane gestured down the hill to a path leading through an ancient cemetery. “Some of these tombstones have no dates, but we know a small chapel was built earlier than the one that now exists.”

“Was that chapel built because of Queen Margaret?” Abigail asked as they continued down the rutted path toward a narrow stone bridge over a deep ravine.

“Aye. Queen Margaret ordered it built over a holy well when she granted knighthood to William in 1090. ’Twas said it had healing powers.”

Fiona paused when they reached the bridge and peered over the stone rail. “Was this a moat?”

“A natural one. The River Esk winds round the castle. ’Twas one of the reasons eight thousand Scots could hold against thirty thousand English in the Battle of Roslin.”

“’Twas worse odds than Cullode,” Fiona exclaimed.

“Battles are won on strategy,” Shane said as they walked up a short hill and through the ruined gatehouse to the courtyard. “And ’tis much different when ye are behind castle walls than open moors.” He gestured. “What do ye think?”

Abigail stood in the center of the open area and slowly turned around. Next to the partial arch were fragments of crumbling walls. To her right, much of a curtain wall still stood, including what looked like a postern gate. Straight ahead was a mound of rubble and a solitary wall that seemed none too stable.

“What is that?” Abigail asked.

“’Twas the keep where the Sinclairs lived before the new house was built.”

Abigail turned her attention to the massive five-story building on her left that Shane referred to. “New?”

“Aye. Since 1622.”

“Is looks in good condition compared to the rest. Is it still habitable?”

“Aye, although some say ’tis haunted.”

Fiona giggled. “All old castles are haunted.”

Abigail looked skeptical. “Is this one home to faeries?”

Shane shook his head, wishing one of the pesky pixies that were interfering with his life would
show
herself to Abigail so she would believe. Faeries, though, were mischievous by nature and not given to obliging humans. “’Tis a hound who does the haunting here.”

“A hound?”

“Aye. ’Tis said at the Battle of Roslin, an English soldier brought a wolfhound with him. When the man was felled by a Scot, the dog attacked and the Scot killed it. Later, while the Scots were celebrating, its wraith appeared in the dining hall.”

“A result of too much whisky, no doubt,” Abigail said.

“Och, lass. Ye need to have faith.”

“Faith? What does—”

“Go on,” Fiona interrupted. “What did the dog do?”

“Nae much except to appear each night at mealtime. The Scots got used to the spectre and called him the
Mauthe Dog
.”

Fiona looked disappointed. “That doesnae seem frightening.”

“Of course not. This ghost dog was probably hungry. Tell me,” Abigail said, trying to keep a straight face, “what did the soldiers feed him?”

“Tsk. Tsk,” Shane answered. “Ye ken ghosties do nae eat. ’Tis what happened later that makes the story.”

“Do tell.”

“Well, one night the Scot who killed the hound’s master drew guard duty near where the mon was killed. Everyone in the dining hall heard snarling and barking. The soldier came tearing through the hall, white as fresh snow and took to his quarters.”

“The dog on his heels, I presume?” Abigail asked.

“Nae, lass. The dog was nae seen again. The mon died three days later without having uttered a word.” Shane grinned at Abigail. “’Tis said, though, the dog still howls on dark and stormy nights.”

“Oh,”
Fiona exclaimed.

“Dark and stormy nights?” Abigail asked. “Oh, please.”

“Ye should nae be such a skeptic,” Shane replied. “There’s a lady in white that haunts these grounds as well.”

Abigail gave him a long, steady look and slowly patted his arm. For a moment, Shane wondered if she were about to launch into that strange speech pattern she sometimes used. Perhaps he should not tell her about the white lady right now.