Rogue of the Borders (36 page)

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?”

“Something 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?”

“’Tis nae that,” Shane replied, apparently interested in the floor suddenly. “They fought for the Bruce, after all.”

“I know. I read about that.”

Shane looked up. “Ye did? When?”

“While you have been gone. I had lots of time. I loved the way everything tied in. How the secret Priory of Sion organized to protect the Merovingian dynasty descended from David and Solomon and the Templars formed to find Solomon’s treasure. And how a Henri Sinclair was part of that, only he is usually referred to as the missing tenth Templar.”

Shane was watching her intensely and Abigail warmed up to her story. No one else she knew took as much interest in history as he did. “And then later, when they were declared heretics in France and fled to Scotland, aiding Robert the Bruce along with a William St. Clair—do you know how many Williams and Henris there are in your ancestry?”

“I have an inkling,” Shane said wryly.

“Yes. Well, that was interesting enough, but when I read this—” Abigail pointed to the documents Shane still held, “—I was fascinated to realize somehow they’d managed to exist right up to the building of Rosslyn Chapel. And all that time—three hundred fifty years—they protected the treasure as well.”

“Ye certainly have been studying my family.”

“I wanted to know all about you,” Abigail answered.

Shane eyed her intently and then shook his head. “Nae everything, lass.”

She frowned. “There is more?”

“Doona ask. ’Tis nae wise ye ken anything else.” Shane held up the papers. “’Tis too much knowledge here already.”

“I am certainly not going to tell—” Abigal stopped in mid-sentence as realization struck her like a full-force gale off the North Sea. The Sinclairs had been connected with the Templars—and the Priory of Sion—from the time they came into existence, but that connection had not stopped with the building of Rosslyn Chapel—a chapel built to house the secrets of Solomon—the secrets of the Priory of Sion.
That
William Sinclair had formed what became Freemasonry, which had always been shrouded in mythical mysteries. And the Stuarts—oh, my goodness—not only were the family rightful
stewards
of Scotland, their lineage could be traced all the way back to Josephes—a descendent of David and Solomon. And a Stuart was currently living in France.

Why had she not seen it before? Shane’s trips to France, his French friends in Scotland, secret documents being transferred—one of which could change the entire course of history—Shane’s adamancy that he could not marry…

The Templars may have been outlawed, but that didn’t mean they’d been dismantled, any more than the Scottish clans had given up their heritage. A descendent of Solomon still lived in the person of Edward James Stuart and it was the Priory’s duty to protect him.

“You are one of them, aren’t you?” Abigail asked softly.

“I doona think—”

“Do not lie to me, Shane. Are you a Templar?”

He hesitated, his eyes growing stormy as thunderclouds and then he nodded.

“Aye, lass, I am. And now ye ken why I cannae marry.”

Chapter Thirty One

What had he done? Shane welcomed the storm brewing on the near horizon, already whipping the sea into a frenzy and lashing him with stinging rain as he relieved the helmsman later that morning. The weather fit his mood, confused and angry.

The storm would also make Abigail stay below. After the broken railing last night, Shane had given orders she was not to be allowed on deck. Crew who were not tending sails were inspecting every last bolt along the rails. What they had found so far was disturbing. Nearly every nut had been loosened, not enough that the rails actually would wobble, but they certainly would give way under any kind of weight. That meant someone with access to the docks had sabotaged the
Border Lass
.

Even more disturbing, though, was what had transpired between him and Abigail. Not the lovemaking. Shane growled to himself. He had never called tupping a lass
lovemaking
before, but that was what it had been. Never had he felt so alive, so completely involved with a woman. He’d felt lost and found, their souls merging to the point where the lines of existence had blurred and they were only one. Shane wasn’t even sorry he had blurted out that he loved Abigail, since that was the truth also. The lass probably needed to hear it, given the poor treatment she’d endured because of the pact he’d made with her father. What made him angry was the fact he’d
admitted
he was a Templar.

Doing so put Abigail in peril, whether she understood it or not. As glad as Shane was the documents were safely in his hands—and he really would have to find out just how that happened although he suspected he wouldn’t like it—the fact that Abigail knew what was in them presented a great danger. Should the authorities suspect the parchment had been changed out, they would come looking. He could only pray the Customs man had given the documents no more than a cursory glance since they were searching for hidden contraband and would not be concerned over contents. As soon as they made port in Leith, Shane would send word to Jamie that the
children’s story
had been meant as a gift for Abigail. It was flimsy considering the age of the cylinder, but it might fly. The magistrate was more interested in opium smuggling—and collecting duties—than in Latin documents.

Were the Templars’ mission to be discovered, however, that would be another matter. If the authorities suspected Abigail were involved in any way—and she had knowledge of the truth now—they would not hesitate to use torture. He’d heard the cries and screams from the women’s side of Newgate. Money would not be able to buy Abigail protection since he would likely be imprisoned as well. Sussex and Argyll—neither of whom knew the full extent of the Priory’s goals—would risk exposure.

Things would only get worse for Abigail if she were married to him. She would be safer in London where she could claim no knowledge of anything.

She didn’t want to go.

He didn’t want her to go.

Lord help him. Shane wanted Abigail to be his wife. He wanted her beside him, not just at night but during the day. He wanted to talk to her, to argue with her, to make up with her.
Especially
to make up with her. Above all, he wanted to protect her as the knights of old had done, but did he dare?

Richard barely managed to contain his surprise—and his anger—when Shane MacLeod docked his ship at the wharf several days later. Why the devil was the man not still in Newgate? The amount of opium Padget had loaded on the boat should have brought enough unpaid duty to keep MacLeod behind bars for weeks, if not months. The fines alone should have bankrupted the son-of-a-bitch, yet here he was bringing the
Border Lass
back. The damn agents from London were still here too, waiting until each of MacLeod’s ships had returned and could be inspected. Pity that Richard hadn’t had contacts in more ports to insure other contraband, but he thought the opium from Le Havre would have sufficed. As it was, the agents—to say nothing about that damn quartermaster, Donald—were making it hard for him to do his
adjusted
bookkeeping.