Moon Dreams Page 11

  “How could I resist such a flattering invitation?” Achieving what he sought, knowing by Alyson’s angry intake of breath that she had seen through his ploy, Rory bowed himself out.

  Alyson fielded the eager questions of Jane and Margaret with feigned disinterest, then pleaded a headache and retired to her room. The Lattimers had graciously extended an invitation for her to stay with them while waiting for response to her letter, but they would not be so gracious if Rory chose to reveal the details of their journey. She had used the excuse he had provided earlier by saying her maid had died en route, and then added that she had escaped from her abductors with just the clothes on her back, but even that tale put her reputation to question. Rory could ruin it, and then where would she be?

  She paced up and down the room in a fury of emotions. Rory had known she was here. He had not been surprised to see her. What did he mean to do? She knew he was angry. He had every right to be angry. But how could she possibly explain why she had run away?

  She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly look the Maclean in the eye and say, “I have every reason to believe you will violate me.” That was not only insulting but also insane.

  If she started believing nightmares, she would have to believe her father’s ghost walked the earth. She saw him just as vividly as she had seen Rory.

  It did no good to worry. She would have to wait to see what happened. Perhaps that exquisite creature he had brought with him would so fill his time that he would forget about her. It certainly seemed that both Jane and Margaret had taken a fancy to the captain. If she didn’t know better, she could almost imagine a twinge of pain at the thought. She really was developing a headache.

  By evening Alyson wasn’t much calmer. The mantua-maker had hurriedly basted in the hem of a sea-green taffeta and a pink-and-white-striped underskirt for Alyson to wear for evening, but that did not help her dismal mood. She glared at the pink cloth roses pinned to her bodice and detested the entire ensemble. The colors were all the rage in London, as she had told the dressmaker, but that did not make her appreciate them. She felt like wearing scarlet tonight. Brilliant, bold scarlet with a bodice that plunged to dizzying depths. Give Rory something to think about while he spent his flattery on Jane.

  Such a rage of emotion did not suit her. She had gone through life cosseted by her grandfather’s love. She ached for that safety now. These emotions were too raw and painful to endure. If Rory would just go away, she could return to normal. Even Alan had never stirred more than a quiet happiness until that day she came to her senses. She would give anything to return to her former idyllic peace now.

  Deciding she had dallied long enough, Alyson gave the mirror one last frowning glance. She had no maid to dress her hair, and powder made her sneeze, so she wore only her own dark tresses pinned tightly. Unfortunately, that style did not suit her thick hair. It escaped in tendrils wherever it could, and where it was supposed to lie flat and prim, it curled and billowed. Muttering a curse she had learned from Rory, she stalked out.

  ***

  Rory entered the Lattimers’ wide foyer that evening just as Alyson descended the curved rosewood staircase. A maid accepted his hat and sword, but he couldn’t drag his gaze from the image floating toward him. As Alyson lifted her skirts to descend, he caught glimpses of tiny green heels and delicate rose-embroidered stockings on slender ankles.

  The pleasurable sight disappeared in a flutter of petticoats once she spotted him. His gaze continued upward over the graceful sway of side hoops, to a tiny rose-bedecked waistline, and slid lingeringly over the full curve of her bosom. The maid’s gown and fichu she had worn throughout the voyage had covered her from neck to toe. The décolletage of this fashionable gown offered him a tantalizing view of all that had been hidden. Had he been subjected to the constant temptation of those milk-white curves earlier, he would have gone mad for want of touching.

  By the time Rory finally lifted his eyes to meet hers, Alyson was glaring at him, and he couldn’t control his grin. He had begun to realize that to draw any emotional reaction out of her at all was an accomplishment indeed, and he delighted in succeeding so quickly. He bowed in her direction.

  “Good evening, Lady Alyson. You appear in fine spirits this night. Shall we go in?” He nodded toward the parlor from which the sound of voices hummed.

  ***

  Alyson took a deep breath, forced herself to smile, and descended the stairs in a daze. The Maclean looked too damned handsome with the white lace of his jabot setting off his rugged features and auburn hair to perfection. No, “handsome” wasn’t the word. “Attractive”? “Appealing”? What did you call a man whose features were all wrong but made you want to touch them with lips and fingers? She was going insane. Perhaps the moon was full tonight. She had been told that the full of the moon had strange effects on the mind.

  Rory caught her hand in his hard brown one. He wore a hint of lace at his wrist that accented the brown. The blue coat was new, as was the simple white brocade vest. Just the sight of that wide chest made her lungs constrict.

  Without saying a word, and ignoring his proffered arm, Alyson removed her hand from his, picked up her skirts, and entered the parlor. Infuriatingly, Rory stayed close behind, his hand resting at the small of her back. Not one eye failed to note this familiarity, and eyebrows raised as Rory made a show of seating her on the sofa, then standing behind her with one hand proprietarily near her shoulder.

  Alyson sat upright, away from that compromising hand, while Mr. Lattimer inquired into Rory’s journey. It was obvious he was subtly searching for the reason she might have boarded a ship of a known privateer. She kept her expression impervious as Rory glossed over “old family relation,” making it seem as if both their families had united in spiriting her away to safety. Mr. Lattimer would have to know that was nonsense, but the ladies seemed to accept it with awe-filled exclamations and sympathetic clucking noises.

  She could not relax. Every time she tried to sit back, Rory’s rough finger traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder. Even when she sat forward, Alyson felt as if her corset were cutting into her lungs with each breath she took. She kept waiting for the ax to fall. Sooner or later Rory would exact his revenge for her tricking of Dougall and disappearing without a word. That was understood between them. All she could do now was sit breathlessly wondering in what manner it would come.

  Perhaps he meant to take it out in small torments. He gallantly led both Alyson and Jane in to dinner. He seated Alyson first, and she could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear as he leaned forward to whisper, “We’ll talk later.” A shiver went down her spine, but by that time he was on the other side of the table, seating Jane and taking his place beside her, across from Alyson.

  The meal was a blur. If Jane turned on hidden charms, Alyson didn’t care. All she recognized was the number of times Rory’s heated brown gaze fell on her.

  By the time the meal ended, Alyson had surrendered to the inevitable. She could not fight Rory. She didn’t even know where to begin. When he separated her from the others with murmured excuses, leading her out into the walled garden behind the house, she didn’t even object. All she wanted to do was get it over.

  The warm night encompassed them as they wandered the brick walk. The scent of an early night-blooming nicotiana perfumed the air. Alyson couldn’t avoid noticing the proximity of wide masculine shoulders, and when his fingers clasped hers, she didn’t pull away. The time had come.

  Behind a hedge, out of sight of the house, Rory brought them to a halt. “Why, Alyson? Why did you leave me to think you drowned or abducted and murdered? Why did you hide?”

  She shivered, not with fear but with need. She needed Rory to touch her, to put his arms around her, to hold her and promise her everything would be all right, as he had done that night after her dream. She wanted to feel the muscular hardness of his chest, the pounding of his heart beneath her ear, the strength of his arms around her back. She wanted her own destruction.


  With a sigh, Alyson disappeared into that vague world that protected her from reality. She could see Rory frowning down on her, waiting for an answer, but she had none to give. She allowed a smile to play upon her lips as she noticed the new leaves of the roses climbing a trellis just beyond his shoulder. She had never really paid attention to roses before. These had produced a single full bloom shimmering white in the moonlight, exuding a delicate scent.

  Rory followed her fascinated gaze. Plucking a bud, he tucked it behind her ear. He should have known better than to confront Alyson with direct questions. This fey child was beyond his ken; he ought to leave well enough alone and get the hell out of here. Instead, he found himself promising the moon.

  “You scared the hell out of me, Alyson, and I didn’t like it. For now, I will assume you have your reasons. I would have taken you to Margaret’s parents—they’re much easier to live with than the stiff-necked Lattimers—but if you’re happy here, I’ll not quibble.”

  Alyson’s attention drifted back to Rory, and a puzzled frown formed upon her brow. “You aren’t angry with me?”

  Well, he’d succeeded in catching her attention, anyway. Rory plucked another bud and handed it to her. “Yes, I am, but what good does it do me? I could lecture you about the dangers of young women wandering strange streets until I was too hoarse to talk, and you would do the same thing again. I briefly contemplated strangling you, but that rather defeats the purpose, doesn’t it?”

  He was talking in terms she could understand, and a tentative smile replaced the frown. Still, she refrained from standing too close. “What purpose? What does it matter to you what happens to me?”

  A very pertinent question. In her own roundabout way she had a knack for pinpointing the crux of the matter. Now it was Rory’s turn to squirm. He shoved his hands in his deep pockets and frowned down at her delicate face illuminated by moonlight. His body gave one answer to her question, his head could think of a dozen more, but none of them had anything to do with what his conscience said was right.

  “I feel responsible for you, lass. I brought you out here. I want to take you home. Is that so wrong of me?”

  She searched his face, perhaps reading the half lie there, since she still hesitated. “I do not wish to be a burden to you,” she replied stiffly. “I owe you for my life. I do not think I can afford to owe you for more.”

  That might be as close to an explanation as he would ever receive, Rory surmised. “Someday I might need friends in influential places. Let us leave it at that, Alyson. I want you to promise me you will stay right here until I return from the islands. You are safe enough with the Lattimers, and I will not worry if you promise me that.”

  “How long will you be gone?”

  “A month, six weeks. It depends on the weather and other things. There won’t be time for you to hear from Farnley, if that is what worries you. I’ll be back well before then. If he says it is safe for you to return, I would see that you traveled on a sound ship with a good captain. Will you promise me?”

  “I suppose there is no harm in promising what I cannot change. Will I see you again before you leave?”

  “Aye, if I can, lass. I thought I might make a few inquiries about the fate of your father’s ship while I am there, just to satisfy curiosity. Do you mind?”

  Her smile reflected her joy, sending the blood pounding to Rory’s head. He could not resist any longer. He would be gone for weeks, maybe months. He would have some reward now, a promise for the future, some payment for his restraint. His hand lifted to the dark curl at the nape of her neck; then he cupped her head in his palm, tilting her face so he could read the brilliant shine of her eyes.

  He thought to seek her permission first, but he didn’t want to chance her refusal. Without a word of warning, he bent to sample the full sweetness of her kiss.

  She trembled, and he touched her waist to steady her. He moved his mouth enticingly, teaching her the response he wanted. Her hands flew to his chest, burrowing into his vest, and her mouth responded eagerly.

  Her response led him on. Delirious with joy, Rory hugged her closer, tasting of her sweetness, then pressing for more. He teased his tongue along her lips and wrapped his arms about her round softness. She filled his arms so perfectly, her breasts pressing into him with a promise that made his loins ache, her hips at just the right height so he need only lift her slightly to meet his own. He could not ask for more perfection.

  Alyson parted her lips, balanced on her toes, and leaned into him while their breaths mingled. Rory took possession of her mouth, exploring and claiming it as his own.

  Finally sensing the completeness of her surrender, he retreated, returning Alyson to the ground and brushing her lips with a light kiss that drifted to her cheek and ear before he could bring himself to stop. He was reluctant to let her out of his arms. Although Alyson’s petticoats protected her from feeling the extent of his need, there was nothing to protect him. The ache of it brought a cold sweat to his brow as he disengaged himself. Before he could apologize, Alyson turned those cursed eyes of hers up to him with perplexity.

  “I thought you said I should not kiss a man unless he meant to marry me.”

  “Aye, and I wish I were the one who will someday have that pleasure, lass. You will make some man happier than he deserves. The moonlight has driven me to madness. I’ll not abuse you so again.”

  Alyson stared at him in confusion before replying. She could still feel the imprint of his hands on her back. Her lips burned with a fire he had fed and not quenched. She felt an ache in parts that no man had ever seen, and she knew he had the means to ease that ache. And he refused. He set her aside as if she were a toy with no feelings of her own. She hated this man worse than she had ever hated Alan for his betrayal.

  “If the moon is what leads a man to madness, I’ll be certain to lead all my suitors down the garden path in its light. Then they shall be as mad as they think I am, and I can choose the one who kisses me best.”

  With a flounce of her skirts, she fled back toward the house.

  11

  Summer 1760

  Rory called again before he sailed, but Alyson refused to see him. She probably had the right of it, and he should be grateful, but the ache of not seeing her was worse than the pain of seeing and not touching. At least when she was with him he could enjoy the pleasure of her delightful observations, the scent of heather, the sight of those gray-blue eyes turning color at every new wonder. He had not known how much he would miss all that until this week spent alone in his hollow cabin.

  He was not a man easily led astray by women. He had a head for business and he used it to the exclusion of all else. He had a goal which came closer with every profitable voyage across the sea. After unloading the illegal French brandy, he had taken on a shipment of rice, indigo, and tobacco that the British customs officials thought intended for London. The goods would bring a high price in the ports of the British West Indies, an even higher price in the ports of the French colonies, a trade totally illegal under the Navigation Acts.

  In the Caribbean he would fill his hold with barrels of raw sugar and molasses and return to the colonies, where the rum-makers would buy everything he could smuggle to shore. Rebelling against the injustice of forcing freemen to buy and sell only with a country on the other side of the world added satisfaction beyond his profits. Rory had no great love for the injustices of British Parliament and Farmer George.

  But this journey he found no joy in adding another bag of gold to his growing hoard. As the Sea Witch sailed down the river under Dougall’s direction, Rory stared restlessly at his fortune. He was not wealthy by any means. He had responsibilities that strained his pockets, but the amount he had invested back in England and the coins he kept with him for trading had almost reached a level where he could consider returning home, had he a home to return to.

  Therein lay the problem. Rory knelt beside the trunk and frowned as he realized it was a sum less than he had thought. The piec
e of paper he had shoved aside took on new significance, and he shook it open. If he were to return to Scotland, he would have to have the sum necessary to offer for the Maclean estate. Any inroads into that sum would delay him from that goal.

  He almost laughed at Alyson’s oddly phrased voucher. He didn’t doubt her ability or willingness to pay the entire sum plus interest. He had fully intended to gift her with enough to replenish her wardrobe while she stayed in Charleston. He almost threw the paper away, but he enjoyed seeing the rounded curves of her writing, could almost hear her saying the stilted phrases. He folded the note and placed it in his desk, where he could look at it again when the longing for a life different than this grew too strong.

  ***

  Alyson set out to assuage her restlessness by exploring every nook and cranny of Charleston, delighting in each new curiosity. She reluctantly restrained her purchases to the few coins she allotted herself each day. The coins went quickly when it was necessary to hire a mantua-maker, but the Charleston nights were too enchanting to miss, and she needed clothes.

  Her list of suitors grew in proportion to the number of festivities she attended. No one knew she was only the bastard granddaughter of a dead earl, and no one asked. That no one bothered to inquire into her antecedents amused Alyson, until gossip revealed that many families had a skeleton or two to hide. It seemed that in this fascinating country a butcher and a pirate could rise as high as an English lord.

  But as the weeks passed, the restiveness grew stronger. Rory had promised to search for news of her father, and she told herself she was impatient to hear if he had found anything.

  Then she wanted to go home. She wanted to wander the rocky shores of Cornwall. She wanted to see Deirdre and Mr. Farnley. She wanted something she could not put a name to, but it was not to be found where she was.

  Rory’s friends—Margaret’s parents— invited her to stay with them for a while. Alyson enjoyed the carefree environment of the Sutherland household. It took some while to get all the names and faces straight, with children and grandchildren and various strays, but she enjoyed the family bustle she’d never known.