Rogue of the Borders by Cynthia Breeding

trying to overthrow governments and find themselves imprisoned. Of course, symbolic correlations to other missions were more obvious at Rosslyn Chapel—if one truly knew what to look for—but since he was not planning on taking Abigail back with him, there was no need to worry about that.
    Still, Shane found himself wishing he could share those ancient secrets with her. Abigail had the strangest effect on him.
    But then, maybe it was her strange behavior that was having its effect on him. Unlacing her dress last night had distracted him— Jesu , he could still feel the softness of her satin skin and the scent of her drifting up at him—that he’d forgotten her very strange behavior prior to that temptation.
    Did the lass suffer from a physical affliction? The slow gesture with her arm, the lumbering gait of her steps, the odd curl to the side of her mouth? Abigail’s mind seemed sharply intact, but then Shane recalled the measured pacing of her words. She had taken care to enunciate each one, her tone low and strained. Although Abigail seemed to be fine this morning, she’d fallen back to that speech pattern when he’d told her about the MacLeod legend. He had medical books in his library that spoke of such ailments, although they were usually associated with trembling and falls.
    Shane was still mulling over the possibilities when he reined his horse in at Andre’s front gate. A stable boy came immediately to take his horse and he sprinted toward the door as the first cold pellets of sleet began to fall.
    “Beinvenu,” Andre greeted him at the door. “Henri is in the library, pouring snifters of fine French cognac, I believe.”
    Shane grinned as he removed his damp plaid and hung it on the rack by the door. “Ye still have nae taste for fine Scots whisky?A wee dram of uisge beatha would do ye wonders.”
    Andre grinned too as he led the way down the hall. “Your breath of life near killed me the time I tried it.”
    “Och, well, if ye stay in the Highlands long enough, ye will get accustomed to it.”
    Having overheard the last remark as they entered the library, Henri asked, “Do we know how long that will be?” He handed the brandy to Shane. “Is there word from Louis?”
    Shane shook his head and glanced toward the door.
    “We can speak quite freely,” Andre said. “I have given the servants the afternoon off. With the storm coming, none of them lingered.”
    Shane sipped his drink. “Remy said Louis is having troubles with his cabinet as well as the church. Pope Pius wants the lands back that Napoleon confiscated.”
    “ Certainement. No doubt, the money and power as well,” Henri said. “If the pope were any friend to our cause, he would not have reinstated the Inquisition. He particularly hates the Freemasons and they are imperative to our success.”
    “Do you think the pope’s cohorts will persuade Prince George to join them?” Andre asked.
    “No doubt they will try,” Shane answered, “but England remembers the reign of Bloody Mary. The regent has nae desire to allow any religion—and especially the pope—to rule the land.”
    Henri laughed. “I imagine the church might frown on some of the antics of the royal prince.”
    Shane grinned. “Aye. ’Tis well known he likes more than a bit of revelry, nae to mention bed sport.”
    “For a fairly benevolent ruler, he is barely tolerated in Scotland,” Andre mused.
    “Scots do nae easily forgive five hundred years of English oppression, nae to mention Culloden,” Shane replied, “but what is important now—for us—is that the prince does nae poke his nose too far into Scottish affairs.”
    “Which is why we will continue to serve on this side of the Channel,” Andre said, “much as we would like to return to France.”
    “Aye.” Shane agreed. “Ye are needed here, I think.” He set down his snifter. “I had best be going before the storm gets too bad.”
    “I have a ride of a few miles as well,” Henri said as he