Rogue of the High Seas (4 page)

Chapter Four

Gambling was not a vice Robert normally indulged in. He took risks—hell, anyone who sailed the high seas did—but they were calculated risks. Things like gauging the weather and being prepared when the sea unleashed her fury. He'd not lost a crew member to Davy Jones's locker yet. Right now, he felt like he was setting off on a treacherous journey in a leaky boat with no provisions.

Not that the voyage had anything to do with the
New Orleans
bobbing quietly on her mooring. Except for needing a rudder, his ship was seaworthy and in no danger of sinking. He wished he could say the same for himself.

He tossed his duffel bag on the bed in the quarters above the office and slid into the arm chair next to it. Dinner last night at MacLeod's had made him acutely aware of two things. The first was that Shauna MacLeod might look like a docile woman, but she had the allure of sea sirens who enticed sailors to their deaths. Her voice was low and musical, enchanting him by its timbre as much as any song a siren could sing. Her eyes changed color when she talked, going from dark gold to hazel, and Robert wondered if they would smolder to brandy color in the throes of passion. Not that he should be thinking of passion, but the hint of copper in her chestnut hair made him think a fiery nature lay hidden beneath the calm personality. And he itched to ignite that flame.

Which made him remember the second thing about the dinner. Shane MacLeod was a man who didn't miss much. Robert had caught the thoughtful expressions on his face when Shauna had asked questions about Robert's family. Questions that had to be answered evasively. He figured MacLeod had sensed he was holding something back, but he had no choice since he didn't know what had happened to Jane. If she reappeared, he was betrothed, albeit it not willingly. Even if she didn't, he'd still be facing suspicion when he returned to the States in the spring. The police commissioner had given him permission to sail since there was no evidence of foul play, but until Robert could clear his name, he had nothing to offer another woman. A fact MacLeod would not take lightly.

Robert knew he should have refused the offer of these quarters. Climbing a rope ladder to the deck while the
New Orleans
was in dry dock was no different than climbing on to the yardarms when a sail tore or a halyard tangled. He knew Shauna would be working the counter in the office directly below. He knew the opportunities to talk to her would be many—and maybe with no one else around. He knew the temptation that would bring. He'd be testing his will power daily to resist her. Given how he felt, the odds were against him. Would he win or lose?

Siren.

Shauna had not slept well. Once the place where Robert Henderson would stay had been settled, talk last night had turned to the kelp industry and how important the soda ash from burned kelp was in glass production and whether there would be a market for it in the States. Shauna had not been able to find out anything more about Robert's life.

Nor had she had a chance to ask Shane if he was aware of Owen MacLean's intentions. That was something she was about to rectify right now as she knocked on the closed library door.

“Enter.”

She placed a smile on her face and opened the door to step inside. “I am nae interrupting, am I?”

Shane put aside some papers and leaned back in his chair behind the desk. “Nothing that can nae wait.”

One of his brows lifted as she shut the door before taking a seat in the armchair in front of the desk, but he said nothing. He simply watched her and waited. It was a habit that intimidated some people, but Shauna had grown up with two intimidating brothers.

She handed Shane Ian's letter. Abigail had retrieved it from the floor where Shauna had left it. “Did ye ken about this?”

He glanced over it. “Mayhap”

“Mayhap? Ye either did or ye dinnae. Which is it?”

Shane shrugged. “Ian mentioned something about a possible match last fall before I sailed to America.”

Shauna stared at him. “Last fall? And neither of ye thought to say anything to me about this…this
match
?”

“It was nae a sure thing. John MacLean talked to Ian about the possibility.”

“So this is Laird MacLean's idea and nae Owen's?”

“I doona ken,” Shane said. “But doona fash yourself. If I remember rightly, Owen always had a yen for ye.”

“Yen? The boy tortured me near to death with his teasing.”

“Aye, well. 'Tis the same thing for a young lad.”

“A lad I have nae seen in seven years. He is a stranger.”

Shane tapped the letter. “Well, ye will have a chance to change that soon.”

“What if I doona want to?”

Shane gave her a scrutinizing look. “Why would ye nae want to give the mon a chance?”

Shauna opened her mouth and then clamped it shut. She knew that look. It meant Shane was considering what was
not
being said. Like maybe she had expressed too much of an interest in Robert last night. She didn't want Shane barring her from working in the dock office. “I just had nae thought to marry anytime soon. I want to have some independence.”

He drew his brows together. “Ye are two-and-twenty. Most lasses would be wed with a bairn or two by now.”

“Och, I ken how old I am.” She lifted her chin. “Ye dinna marry until ye were near thirty.”

Shane blinked at her. “I am a mon.”

An apparently an obtuse one at the moment. “I have nae wish to marry Owen.”

“Ye might hold your opinion until ye meet him.” Shane narrowed his eyes as he studied her. “Is it Robert Henderson ye are interested in?”

“Nae!” Shauna felt her face warm as heat coursed through her body. Maybe the light from the oil lamp was dim enough that Shane wouldn't see her blush. The steady look he gave her said otherwise. “I…I think he is an interesting mon to talk to, being an American…and having traveled so much.”

“Aye, he has traveled much and he has gained much experience in those travels.” Shane paused. “Experience in worldly ways that make him dangerous for a lass like ye.”

She felt herself flush again, but this time in anger. “Ye just reminded me I am two-and-twenty—hardly a young lass to be sheltered from the world. I do read books.”

“Books do nae prepare ye for everything.”

Shauna was tempted to tell him the art books she and Abigail had pored over, looking at pictures of nude statues had probably prepared his wife—and Shauna—more than he thought. But what was the use? Shane could be just as stubborn as Ian or Jamie when they thought they were
protecting
their wives and sisters. “Captain Henderson has always acted every inch a gentleman.”

A muscle twitched in Shane's jaw. “And that is the way it had better stay. If I find him trifling with ye—”

“Ye willnae.” Shauna rose and walked to the door. “I will meet with Owen, but he had better behave like a gentleman too.”

Shane nodded and slipped her letter into a drawer. “We are in agreement about that.”

Shauna still felt like sputtering an hour later as she stepped out of the hired hack in front of Edinburgh's home for the aged and infirm. She enjoyed her weekly visits talking and reading to the elderly who often were all alone in the world. She hoped the visit today would take her mind off her upcoming plight.

Shauna knew a woman's role was to marry and bear children. In times past, bairns were needed to replace the lads killed in endless feuding amongst clans. The more children, the larger the clan would grow. There was strength and power in numbers. And strength in allied neighbors. But this was the 1800s. Little reiving took place these days, and after Culloden, England left Scotland more or less in peace.

Shauna stomped up the steps to the door of an old warehouse that had been converted into the charitable home. Even in
civilized
England, women were expected to accept husbands chosen for them, albeit the reason for marriage amongst the aristocracy was to continue a peerage line. Shauna had seen and heard enough of London's society to know love had little to do with marriage.

But that didn't make it right. She wanted what her brothers and Shane had found. Spouses they loved who loved them back. Was it so very much to ask?

If her senses hadn't been deceiving her, Shauna felt that love started with attraction. Ian and Jillian had hardly been able to take their eyes—or hands—off each other. Though Jamie and Mari sparred a lot, they usually ended up going to their bedchamber, from which they would emerge much later grinning like fools. Even Shane, who always thought things through methodically, had thrown his usual caution to the winds when Abigail had stowed away aboard his ship.

It was as if they all had tiny magnets inside, pulling them towards each other. The kind of pull Shauna felt whenever she was in Captain Henderson's presence. She had lied to Shane when she'd said she wasn't attracted. The fib had left her mouth instinctively. And Shane was wrong about how naïve Shauna was. Not only had she studied Abigail's many
art
books, she'd also read the biology books in Ian's library. Although those books had more to do with animal husbandry than human anatomy, she had an inkling what it was all about.

That was probably something else better not shared at the moment.

Well, she'd worry about her predicament later. Pushing aside thoughts about what to do, Shauna stopped at the desk near the front door to sign the guest book. She never considered herself a guest at the home, but Mrs. Tate, the matron, liked to keep records in case the magistrate inquired about any patients.

Mrs. Tate bustled up to the desk with a big smile. “Miss MacLeod. 'Tis good to see ye back. Did ye have a good trip? How was London? How is your sister?”

Shauna smiled. Mrs. Tate always asked a string of questions, leaving no time to answer, so Shauna usually just answered the last one. “Fiona is fine—”

“And recovered then?”

“Aye.” Before Shauna had left for London last fall, she'd told Mrs. Tate that Fiona had been taken to Ireland by an unknown man. When Shane had discovered she'd been committed to an insane asylum by the abductor and managed to get her freed, Shauna had sent a letter Mrs. Tate saying she'd be in London for several weeks. “Fiona is married.”

“Married?” Mrs. Tate's eyes widened in shock. “Do nae tell me the mon who took her married her.”

“Nae! The mon got away. 'Tis a long story, but Fiona is nae angry. She says she would nae have met her true love otherwise.”

“'Tis a sweet ending then.”

“Aye.” Shauna picked up the list of patients from the counter, hoping that no one had died while she'd been gone. With relief, she saw they were all still there as well as a new name.

“We have gotten another patient?”

Mrs. Tate nodded. “Willis Adler. He arrived two days ago. He suffers back pain and has trouble walking.”

“Does he have any relatives?”

“A son who works in the textile industry.”

“Well, I will go in and see if Mr. Adler is interested in having me read to him,” Shauna said.

“I suspect he will,” Mrs. Tate answered. “He brought several books with him. He said reading helps him pass the time.”

Shauna knocked on his door at the end of hall a few minutes later and almost missed the feeble voice that bade her enter. Judging from the sound of that voice, she expected to see a frail, elderly man, but the one who sat in the armchair by the window appeared to be middle-aged, his hair only streaked with grey. He wore spectacles and had a thin mustache along with a goatee—a VanDyke, the English called it. An open book lay on his blanket-covered lap.

“Mr. Adler?”

He slipped his spectacles down the bridge of his nose and peered over them. “Yes. Who might you be?”

“My name is Shauna MacLeod. I come to visit the patients once a week.”

“That is very kind of you.”

“I enjoy doing it,” Shauna replied and gestured toward his book. “I see ye are reading Robert Burns. I like to read as well.”

“I find his themes of universal significance—friendship, growing old and especially love. Do you agree?”

“Aye. Our Robbie writes of the common man.”

Mr. Adler smiled. “Then perhaps, Miss MacLeod, we could discuss literature.”

“This has got to be the most hare-brained idea you have ever had, Father.” Nicholas Algernon, currently using the name Neal Austin, said as he looked around the room his father had been given at Edinburgh's charitable home. “Coming to Scotland was foolhardy.”

“Well, I couldn't return to France,” Wesley Alton replied. “Spies for Napoleon are still getting arrested.”

“Agreed, but this scheme is far too risky, even for you.
C'est folie
.”

Wesley shrugged, not much caring what his son thought. “
Au contraire
. When I found out the MacLeod bitch did charity work here, getting myself admitted seemed the most logical thing to do.” He gave Nicholas a sly look. “I told the matron I was injured at Tranent and the attending physician suggested I come here to recuperate.”

“You and I both know there was no attending physician.”

“Perhaps not.” Wesley shrugged again. “I forged a letter to that effect.”

“You are no more infirm than I am. Sooner or later that will be discovered.”

“I think not. You forget that I have acquired rather good acting skills over the past few years.” He stroked his chin. “Not to mention disguises.”

“I am not overly fond of having my hair dyed black either.” Nicholas grimaced. “Or having a beard.”

“For your own protection,” Wesley answered.

“I miss painting and doing portraits. The textile industry is boring.” Nicholas shook his head. “Why do you insist on seeking revenge for Jillian MacLeod not marrying you?”