Rogue of the Borders (6 page)

Shane took a deep breath. “There is an old custom in Scotland called hand-fasting. It means a bride and groom agree to be married for a year and a day. Once that time is up, they can decide to go their separate ways with no blame.”

“England has no such thing.”

“True. It is no longer practiced in Scotland either.”

She was beginning to wonder if one of them was going mad. “So why are you telling me this?”

“Because England acknowledges annulment—particularly in cases where the marriage act has nae been completed.”

“Has nae—not—been completed? What on earth are you talking about?”

He paused. “What I mean is at the end of three months, I will grant ye an annulment on the grounds that we did nae suit. I will take the blame for whatever accusations ye may make, however heinous they may be. Ye will then have a clear name with no scandal behind it.”

“What if I do not agree to this annulment?”

Shane stood. “Your father and I agreed to it.”

Abigail was stunned. “My father knew about this?”

“Aye. It was—”

“Get out!” She looked for something to throw at him, but everything within her reach was bolted down. “Get out! Now!”

“Ye need time to think—”

“Get out!”

He gave her a look of sympathy that made her even angrier. How dare he and her father connive behind her back like this. “Get out.”

Shane hesitated and then he nodded. Without another word, he closed the door behind him.

Abigail buried her face in her hands. Too late, she remembered the wedding vows—vows Shane had written—had said nothing about ’til death do us part.

Shane walked to the bow of the ship and leaned against the bowsprit rail. The dock was quiet save for the soft lapping of waves against hulls and slight straining of cleated boat lines. Soft yellow lights, like will o’ the wisps, shone from oil lamps as the boats bobbed against the tide. The sailors on shore leave wouldn’t return for several more hours. Normally, it was one of the times he enjoyed best when he was in port, but tonight, it felt like the devil himself stood watch beside him. If Shane didn’t have a crew to command at dawn, he would have gotten very, very drunk.

He felt like the worst kind of blackguard for hurting Abigail. And he had hurt her. He’d seen it in her expressive, velvety-brown eyes. He almost wished she had thrown something at him. He deserved to be as bruised outwardly as she was inwardly.

By the saints. Shane thought Abigail understood the situation. He had been clear—he thought—that he was protecting her honor with the marriage proposal. He had not accepted a dowry. When he’d talked to her father, Sherrington had assured him Abigail was a practical woman who would understand and accept the convenience of an annulment since she’d never expressed any desire to be married in the first place. He had agreed, thinking her father would inform her of the arrangement.

What a fool Shane had been to think that—and he was a coward, to boot. He should have been the one to explain it to Abigail.
Before
the wedding.

Even worse, she thought he did not find her attractive. He was not as adept as Ian or Jamie in dealing with women, but Shane had sensed how deeply wounded to the core Abigail had felt. It wasn’t just in her words.
“You do not find me desirable.”
It was the tone in which she’d said it. As though she’d had too many experiences with cads who found the gaggle of giggling gooses at the pointless parties and balls actually interesting.

Truth be told, Shane did find Abigail desirable. He had been drawn to her that first day in the library when she’d suggested he might like Chaucer. Her voice had been soft and melodious, in contrast to her severe hairstyle and drab dress. He had wondered then what she would look like with her hair loose and wearing a suitable dress. He’d caught his breath and felt his loins stir when he’d seen Abigail in the blue gown with the chandeliers catching the red glints in the soft curls that framed her face.

And that reaction was nothing compared to when she’d looked at him just a little while ago.
“Will you join me?”
she had asked, both trepidation and longing in the question. He’d hardened immediately, filled with the irrational desire to be her first lover. To show her how wonderful it could be between a man and a woman even if for a brief time.

Shane shook his head to clear it. That kind of thinking was dangerous. He spent his life on the sea and he refused to let a woman fend for herself while he was away.

And, he reminded himself, the only stipulation the earl had placed on him was that Shane return his daughter to him still a virgin.

Shane was honor bound to uphold that oath. The best way to do it would be to remove temptation. He looked up at the night sky with its twinkling stars, pondering, and a solution came to him. Once they reached Edinburgh, he would take Abigail to Ian’s castle near Glenfinnan. Shane’s twin sisters lived there as well as three female cousins. Abigail would have plenty of company, as well as protection. Three months would go by quickly, and Shane would be doing her a favor to stay out of sight.

Wouldn’t he?

“Am I to be confined to the cabin again?” Abigail asked the quartermaster as he brought her breakfast the next morning.

“Nae. The captain said ye were to move about as ye please.”

Well, at least that was good. Although she was still angry over the fact that no one—least of all her
husband—
had consulted her regarding this marriage scam, she had grown up with the
ton
. A great many marriages were arranged for girls without their consent. She had just never heard of one that was purposely going to be annulled though. The delicious scent of cinnamon assailed her nose and she sat down on the small stool and sniffed appreciatively at the porridge Donald had set on the small table. When she tasted it, she was delighted the cook had added butter—or perhaps saffron, it was so rich—to it as well. Porridge at home had always been bland.

Home. She laid the spoon down, having suddenly lost her appetite. She no longer had a home. Contrary to what Shane said about her freedom, once she was released from her sham marriage, she would not return to London. She had never cared for the snobbish behavior of the
ton
and she certainly did not want to return to face the
on-dits
and speculation about why her marriage was annulled. Nor did she care to live under her father’s roof any longer. She didn’t know that she could ever forgive him.

How could Papa have agreed to this charade? And
why
had he not told her, instead of allowing her to hope the marriage was real? Abigail felt her face heat. She had completely humiliated herself with Shane last night, acting like a hussy inviting him to join her on the bed, not knowing he never had any intention of making her his wife. Mortification overcame her as she thought of how pathetic she must have looked.

Tears welled up again and Abigail brushed them away. Lord, she’d done enough crying in the past hours to make up for a lifetime. And she was not an attractive crier. Her face blotched, her nose turned red and her eyes swelled. She hoped the quartermaster hadn’t noticed. Perhaps it would be best to stay in the cabin at that—at least, until she had her tears under control.

Someone rapped at the door, but before she could respond, it opened and Shane stood there. Momentarily, her attention was diverted. He looked disheveled, his shirt wrinkled and stuffed haphazardly into his breeches. His inky hair was mussed as though he’d run his hands through it numerous times. He had a good day’s worth of stubble as well, which only made him look even more enticingly male. Involuntarily, her breath caught at the sight of him and then she looked away.

“Donald told me ye were nae well. Is it the motion of the boat? Ye should come up on deck—”

“I…I am fine.” Abigail blinked furiously, willing the tears not to flow again. “I…I prefer to rest. Thank you for checking though.”

Shane closed the door. “Ye have been crying.”

Abigail started to shake her head and then stopped. There was no use in denial since her face showed the effects. Instead, she shrugged.

Shane moved to sit on the edge of the bed. “I dinna mean to make ye cry, lass.”

She lifted her chin. “What…what makes you think you did? Perhaps I am just feeling a little overwhelmed with leaving—”

“Doona lie,” Shane said and ran his fingers through his hair. “I ken I sounded like an arse last eve. Ye should have been told—
I
should have been the one to tell ye—long before the wedding day.” He picked up her hand. “I am verra sorry I hurt ye.”

His touch sent a thousand lightning bolts to her brain. She should pull away, but her arm would not move. Instead, Abigail was aware of the enveloping strength of his large hand, the roughness of a callus on his thumb as he gently brushed it over her knuckles and most of all, of the warmth emanating from Shane that seared through her body straight to her core.

She should hate him for scheming with her father. She
should
lift her nose in disdain and dismiss him as any lady of society would do. At the very least, she
should
make him squirm until he begged for forgiveness. Instead, she sat mesmerized, her traitorous body wishing he’d never let go.

Taking a deep breath, she withdrew her hand. “Apology accepted.”

Shane’s face lit like a Roman candle and he smiled, an unexpected dimple appearing in his right cheek. For no logical reason, Abigail wondered if dimples were a MacLeod trait. Jamie had one too. She couldn’t recall if Ian did…

“’Tis more than I deserve, lass. I will try verra hard to make these months as pleasant as I can for ye.” Shane stood and looked at her uneaten porridge. “When ye finish breaking your fast, perhaps ye might join me on deck?”

Abigail picked up her spoon. “I should like that.”

She smiled after he left. Shane had said he’d try to make the next three months pleasant. That meant he’d be spending time with her.

She had a chance to make this marriage work. Strangely enough, she didn’t question why—or if—she wanted to. Shane was the only man who had ever interested her. True, he had acted like the worst kind of ass—other than her father—but she sensed, even through her embarrassment, that he hadn’t meant to humiliate her. There was honor in the man. He didn’t have to agree to any kind of marriage since she was the one who’d stowed away, but he
had
agreed, which made the effort of staying his wife worth it.

Her mother had always lamented that Abigail was strong-willed and determined—not desirable traits for a lady. But then
ladies
accepted the decisions men made for them. Abigail wanted to be in charge of her own life.

And she wanted Shane MacLeod to be a part of it.

Chapter Six

“Is this where you keep the boat?” Abigail asked Shane as the
Border Lass
closed on a dock in the port of Leith three days later. They had been sailing in the wide Firth of Forth for several hours and she’d had glimpses of rolling, green hills as well as jutting, rocky headlands. She was anxious to see the rest of Scotland.

“Aye. I keep close to a dozen ships here. ’Tis but a short walk to the office.”

While Abigail was interested to see where Shane worked, she was more interested in seeing where he lived. Although he had not visited her in the cabin on their journey north—the bunk
was
small—Shane had greeted her pleasantly enough when she appeared on deck after breaking her morning fast. Maybe once they were in his home, he would change his mind about sharing a bedchamber.

“I cannot wait to see everything,” she said as men scrambled to haul down sails. “Can I help with anything?”

“Nae,” Shane answered as he picked up a line to throw to a handler on the quay. “For now, ye would do best to stay out of the way.”

After three days on the open sea, Abigail knew what that meant. With a nod, she headed toward the stern where a wooden box was bolted to the deck behind the helmsman. The locker held charts, but its surface served as a bench and kept her out of the way of the crew when the wind picked up. She had been amazed at how quick and agile the men were in bringing the big sails around when the boat tacked and how quickly they could sheet them in to head on course as well.

Abigail was quite proud of herself for knowing what those terms even meant. When she’d asked Shane to give her a tour of the ship, he’d looked rather skeptical. She hadn’t been satisfied with his general description of what was port, starboard, fore and aft and had asked persistent questions of how and why things worked. More than once, the crew had snickered only to stop when Shane looked at them. Abigail smiled, remembering how bug-eyed some of them were when Shane had actually let her steer the boat, albeit with the helmsman at hand.

Words could not describe having the ship respond to her command. Well, actually, she had just held it on a straight course, but she could
feel
the response of the vessel if she moved the wheel even slightly in one direction or the other. And when she pointed the bow closer toward the wind, filling the sails and causing the hull to slice smoothly through the waves, she had been ecstatic. She absolutely loved sailing.
Loved
it. Even Shane had a look of admiration when she’d instinctively let the bow fall back so the sails wouldn’t start flapping.