Rogue of the Borders (24 page)

Shane saw Henri and Andre exchange looks. Shane would have liked to enforce their code of
Avdi
,
Vide
,
Tace—
hear, see, be silent
—
not that Abigail would understand. He only hoped his comrades would be tolerant.

“Since you speak of reason, perhaps you would like to hear a story about that?” Andre asked.

“Oh, yes.”

Shane was thankful for the distraction, although he wasn’t sure what was about to come out of Andre’s mouth.

“After the Revolution, people began to realize the benefits of the revolt. In particular, they resented the Church’s hierarchy demanding money from them to ensure their souls were saved. I do not know if this was due to reason or to simply being tired of being poor. At any rate, a young actress was brought to Notre Dame and seated on the high altar. In a ceremony defying the pompous rituals and elaborate dress of the bishops, she dressed in the simple robes of ancient goddess religions and lit a single candle that was called the Light of Reason. Interesting, is it not?”

The man had the story-telling skills of an Irishman who’d kissed the Blarney Stone. Although the event had actually taken place, Andre had taken care to hide its real truth. The Masons who had done much to encourage individualism—and supported the Light of Reason—had indirectly caused the abandonment of state religion. The Church had never forgiven the Masons—or more specifically, the secret order within the Lodge—for depriving them of a lucrative income.

Even now, they were still hunted.

Abigail could scarce contain herself as she finished setting the table for dinner. Having guests stay the night meant Shane would
have
to spend the night in their bedchamber, especially since she had made sure
one of the Frenchmen was given the room downstairs with the cot and the other the comfortable sofa in the library. In hindsight, she must have been truly inspired not to purchase additional furniture for a guest room. There was no other place for Shane to stay. Even staying on his ship was out of the question since leaving his single cousins without a chaperone would be a huge breach in etiquette, not to mention honor.

Just for good measure—in case Shane decided to avoid their bed—she’d had Jacob remove the ivory chaise and Kyla the extra blankets. The maid had shaken her head, muttering something about simpletons and fools, which Abigail thought was directed at Shane, but Kyla had disappeared—in the direction of Jacob and the chaise—before she could be questioned.

Tonight. Tonight Shane would be
hers
. Abigail had it all planned out. After dinner—Shauna had banned her from the kitchen after she’d dropped a pan of freshly washed carrots and potatoes and sent water everywhere—she would graciously suggest the men enjoy their brandy. Or what was left of it. That part had been a bit tricky, since Shane and his guests had stayed in the library most of the afternoon. Still, she had managed to purloin the extra bottle along with the whisky, so they wouldn’t have much to finish. She’d considered removing the extra firewood from its basket so there would be no logs to re-bank the fire but then remembered Henri would be spending the night in the room.

Still, without liquor, the evening should be short and she would be waiting.

From one of the trunks, Abigail had retrieved the scandalously naughty negligee Mari had insisted on buying as part of her trousseau. Shane had never seen it and Madam Huette had sworn no man could resist the woman who wore it. The filmy white chiffon would contrast nicely against the red satin of the spread. Abigail intended to drape herself casually across the bed, posing like Venus in the picture above the headboard. Exposing her breasts made Abigail blush, but she would make sure her hair covered her. Of course, leaving her spectacles off would make Shane somewhat of a blur, but tonight she would appear the seductress…

She hoped Shane would know what to do.

Abigail worried her lip. What if the scene she envisioned scared him? Perhaps he was as inexperienced as she was. Shane never had admitted to having taken another woman to bed—and the man acted skittish as a colt sometimes. She supposed she could revert to horse-training mode, keeping her voice low and steady. Shane might even find the tone seductive. Now that she thought of it, he usually reacted to her training tactics with a look of genuine intent.

If he were unacquainted with the facets of lovemaking, then it would be her
duty
to reassure him that he was indeed skilled.

The sound of boots in the hall snapped Abigail’s attention back to the table. She might be quite the ninny hammer in the kitchen, but she had supervised the setting of many a table at her parents’ gatherings. The silver was laid in order of use, china dishes and bowls stacked according to course and crystal glasses set properly. Elegant but simple candelabra gleamed on either side of the spring daffodils Fiona had procured for the center of the table. All was in order.

And when dinner was over…

Shane eyed Abigail warily from his end of the dining table. Throughout dinner, she had been more animated than he’d ever seen her, chatting amiably with Henri and Andre, encouraging more stories from both of them. If he didn’t know better, he’d think she was flirting.

She certainly was dressed for the part, wearing a gown he’d not seen before, probably from the collection shipped from London. Green silk with short puff sleeves, it left most of her arms bare, but worse, it was cut too low. From where he sat, the table ledge hid the neckline, creating an illusion there was more to reveal than just the plumb cleavage showing. That couldn’t be her intent. Could it?

Abigail was not a flirtatious person, although Henri and Andre were acting like captivated fools every time she laughed at one of their comments. Shane frowned and set down his spoon. He really did not see what was so humorous in the first place.

“Do ye nae like the stew?” Shauna asked.

“’Tis fine.” Noticing her worried look, he smoothed his own features. “Ye have done a fine job. ’Tis flavorful.” As he resumed eating, his mind went to the stew Abigail had managed to spill on the galley floor of the ship. Her ability as a cook had not gotten better, but her hostess skills had certainly improved. The Frenchmen appeared enthralled at whatever she had just said.

“Fiona helped,” Shauna said. “She suggested adding the herbs.”

Shane forced his attention away from the far end of the table where his wife was holding court. “Fiona? How did ye ken about herbs?”

A guilty look flashed across her face. “The crone—” she stopped and glanced toward Henri and Andre, “the old woman in the forest gave me some tips one day when I ran into her.”

Shane raised a brow, aware their conversation could be heard but doubting the three at the other end were paying any attention. The Crone of the Hills rarely showed herself in person. “Does Ian ken ye talk with the woman?”

Fiona shrugged, not meeting his gaze. “He has never asked.”

“’Tis nae the right answer, lass. Does your brother ken ye wander the hills?”

“Ye all ken I like to walk about.”

Shane grimaced. As a child, Fiona had often ventured out, her quest for adventure outweighing common sense. More than once, her brothers had to rescue her from the brink of some disaster. “How often have ye seen her?”

She shrugged again. “I doona ken. Every so often. We just talk.”

Shane hoped his surprise didn’t show. The crone was known to appear to persons on occasion when some important message needed to be imparted, but to sit and converse? He’d never heard tell of such a thing from any MacLeod. Did the Crone of the Hills have some special interest in his cousin?

Abigail’s tinkling laughter interrupted his train of thought. He looked up as Andre kissed his wife’s hand and Henri toasted her with his wine.

Shane put down his napkin, managing not to growl as he stood. “Gentlemen. May I suggest we retire to the library for some brandy?”

“Of course,” Andre replied, slowly letting go of Abigail’s hand.

For a moment, Shane thought the man had actually winked at his wife, but he couldn’t be sure in the candlelight.

Abigail smiled pleasantly at Shane as she stood. “Do enjoy your brandy.” With a swish of her skirts and a graceful sway of her hips, she moved to the stairwell and then looked back. “I believe I will retire early.”

He frowned as she walked up the stairs. What exactly had she meant by that?

Abigail dismissed Kyla after she’d undone her stays, telling her she could finish getting ready for bed herself. The maid had looked skeptical, but Abigail reminded her Shauna and Fiona would need her help in the kitchen. That had brought an even more dour look to Kyla’s face until Abigail suggested Jacob was waiting outside the library in case Shane needed anything.

She felt a little guilty over not helping in the kitchen herself, but this was truly a chance for her to persuade Shane to finally consummate the marriage. She did not want to miss the opportunity by being in the kitchen when Shane came up to their bedchamber.

Shauna had assured her that the presence of the hostess in the kitchen would probably be somewhat of a shock to the Frenchmen if they were to see it. Abigail thought Shauna preferred she stay out of the kitchen so she wouldn’t be in the way.

Quickly finishing her toilette and dabbing a spot of her favorite vanilla fragrance behind each ear, Abigail crawled onto the bed. She’d been tempted to ask Kyla for suggestions, but that would mean she’d have to admit the truth about her marriage. Abigail only hoped her seduction was successful. Nervously, she adopted Venus’s pose and arranged the negligee so it partly covered her.

Now she would wait.

Having finished off the brandy in relatively short order—Shane was sure he had another bottle in the cabinet along with a bottle of whisky—there was little left to do but bid his guests good night. Both Henri and Andre gave him surreptitious grins as he made his exit.

Shane paused at the foot of the stairs, wondering what awaited him in the bedchamber. Abigail had acted so strangely this evening—he had never seen her flirt before—he was sure she was up to something. He sighed. Visions of her cleavage practically spilling out of that gown had haunted his thoughts all evening. He wasn’t especially happy that both Henri and Andre had feasted their eyes on that cleavage either. Both of them had made comments on how lovely Abigail was and Shane didn’t think they were referring to her face. He might not have made her his true wife because of the promise he’d made her father, but he damn sure didn’t like other men ogling her either. Shane sighed again. Sleeping on the chaise was going to be pure hell.

He knocked softly on the door when he reached the fourth floor. If Abigail were already asleep, so much the better. That hope was short-lived when he heard her call out to him to enter.

He’d forgotten how garishly the room was furnished. The flickering candlelight made the red satin coverlet seem on fire while the half-naked picture of Venus with her Mona Lisa smile mocked him from her perch above the bed. But what made Shane’s breath catch was the swath of white lace strewn over the lurid spread. He squinted and then blinked in the dim light.

Reclined in a position similar to the gaudy painting, Abigail lay partially encased in the flimsy cloth. One curvaceous leg, bared to the thigh, rested atop the filmy night rail, while—he was pretty sure—nothing covered her breasts but her hair. Shane glanced back to the portrait. He could have sworn Venus winked at him. He shifted his gaze back to Abigail. It was going to be a long, long night. He looked toward the chaise.

It was not there. Shane drew a deep breath and eyed his wife. “What did ye do with the chaise?”

She gave him that strange, slow, crooked smile that always made him wonder if she suffered a physical affliction. “I removed it.”

“’Tis obvious.”

“I did not think we would need it.”

Abigail’s voice had lowered to that strange tone it took when she smiled like that. Shane remembered her shuffling gait the time in the bedroom. He hoped he would not have to call a physician. “Can ye move your arms?”

She looked startled and then the odd quirk to her mouth returned. “Of course.” With one hand she began to remove the material draped over her.

“Jesu!”
In three large strides he moved to the bed, sitting beside her while he reached for the gown as well. “Keep yourself covered, lass.”

Patting his arm, her voice deepened. “There is no need to be afraid.”

Shane scowled. Had his wee wife gone daft? “Afraid of what?”

Her fingers began stroking the length of his arm. “Us. I know you said you did not want to discuss other women, but I finally realized what the problem is.”

He arched a brow, curious now. “Really?”

Abigail nodded, gliding her hand across his shoulder. “You are inexperienced. It is nothing to be ashamed of.”

Not quite sure he’d heard correctly, Shane could only stare. His wife had obviously gone completely barmy.

“There, there,” she said soothingly, brushing a lock of hair off his forehead as though he were a child. “I can help you with this.”

His wayward cock was already reacting to her touch. The thought of Abigail helping him with his problem was causing fantasies that had no business being there to flash through his brain, especially if the poor lass had lost part of her wits. Shane caught her hand. “Ye must stop.”