Moon Dreams

by Patricia Rice

  Alyson did not sleep so soundly as the Maclean. Her thoughts skittered like mice, never settling in one place for long, but rattling madly all about. The heat of the man beside her warmed her skin, but a chill lingered around her heart. How had he come to her rescue again?

  Gradually she allowed the sound of Rory’s heavy breathing to lull her, and when his strong arm fell across her waist, she obligingly moved closer to his heat and fell asleep.

  When Rory woke to the cold gray light of dawn, his hand encountered a soft curve that shouldn’t be there, and his eyes flew open.

  Alyson was already awake and watching him warily.

  How had he ever thought those eyes to be misty like the summer hills? Behind that dark fringe they were icily clear. His gaze traveled downward to where his hand had inadvertently found the torn bodice of her dress. It felt so right resting there that he couldn’t resist cupping the full weight of her chemise-covered breast in his palm before removing it to the relative safety of her fully clothed waist.

  His lips twitched in a teasing smile as he studied the woman pinned between his arms. That fool last night had been right. He had never had a woman like this in his life, and he was not likely ever to have one again. Full, sweet curves beckoned a man’s touch, milk-warm skin begged to be tasted, and if he let his thoughts stray to her eyes and mouth, he would not be able to stand up straight, as her tension told him he would have to do shortly.

  “Good mornin’, lass. Did ye sleep well?” Pulling the blanket around him to cover his lap, Rory sat up.

  Released from the trap of his arms, Alyson hurried to right herself. She tugged at the torn laces and wrapped her arms to cover the rent in her bodice.

  “Tell me truly, what happened last night?” she asked. “I cannot remember much of anything except fighting three nasty men.”

  Rory frowned and stood up to pace. “That I don’t know, lass. I found you in a place where you shouldn’t be with men you shouldn’t be with. From what they said, I think they hadn’t had you long. Your clothes were like they are now. Only you can say whether they had time to harm you.”

  She shivered and reached for the blanket that he had abandoned, shaking her head, evidently to indicate she could not answer the question in his voice. “How did you find me?”

  Rory closed his eyes and gave a prayer to a God he had long abandoned, then met her questioning gaze. “By accident, I assure you. I thought you safely at Lady Hamilton’s with Deirdre. Why weren’t you?”

  Alyson ignored the question. “Where are we now?”

  Rory made a gesture of futility and surrendered to her method of conversing. “On my ship, the Sea Witch.”

  She smiled at that, a soft smile like the coming of dawn that nearly knocked Rory to his knees. He caught an overhead beam and stared down at her. “That pleases you?”

  “I have always wanted to sail on a ship. Can I go up and see the sails?”

  He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, shoving it back from his forehead. “Not now. The water’s still choppy and the wind is picking up. This is just a lull in the storm. I’ll have to be on deck shortly. Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”

  “Where are we going?” She pulled the blanket around her and slid to the edge of the bunk.

  Here it was. He had hoped that in her wandering way she would not stumble across the thorn in the rose just yet, but it had to come sometime. “Charleston.”

  Her head snapped back in surprise, throwing her loosened curls into a tumble about her shoulders. “Charleston? In the colonies? How can that be?”

  “That’s a long story, lass. We’ll talk it over later, when I have more time.”

  Alyson leapt to her feet, standing boldly up to him, with her eyes blazing. “You cannot take me to Charleston. That is kidnapping. Leave me anywhere on the coast. Leave me in Ireland if you must. Do not do this to me, Maclean.”

  With a tired sadness he touched her cheek. “I canna do that, Alyson. We are gone past any coast you know, and I canna be turnin’ back without riskin’ myself and my men. It’s too late, lass. You’ll be going with us.”

  Before she could react, he dropped his hand and walked out without another word.

  As the door slammed behind him, Alyson felt all the breath leave her, and her shoulders slumped. So much for her attempt at boldness. Rory didn’t slip into his Scots lilt unless he was deeply stirred by something, she had noticed. She didn’t know what had forced him to this criminal act, but it had to be a matter of great import.

  A shy cabin boy brought her a cold breakfast and fresh water but resisted answering questions. As the gale winds increased, the cabin grew darker, until she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face. Knowing nothing of the cabin, she could not locate lantern, wick, or flint. In any case, the ship began to toss so erratically that she could not keep her feet to look for them. She huddled in the corner of the bunk while the hours grew long and stretched from day to night. She didn’t know enough of the sea to be afraid. She simply trusted Rory to find land soon.

  The noisy pounding of several pairs of feet startled her from a doze, and Alyson sat up. Voices grumbled, a latch slipped free, and the door burst open. She leapt from the bed in fright, dragging the blanket with her as two rough seamen entered.

  In the light of the lantern they brought with them, her gaze traveled to the long burden sagging between them, and her stomach lurched.

  With a grunt, they swung Rory’s unconscious body into the bunk. The younger man turned to Alyson, and tugging his forelock, said respectfully, “He was knocked against the mast by a broken spar, ma’am. Will’m here will run fetch for you. We got to get back on deck.”

  They left, leaving Alyson staring down into Rory’s pale and bleeding face while the small cabin boy waited helplessly for her orders.

  7

  Alyson knew nothing of tending wounds. Thrown from her books and the comforts of home into a cold world she did not understand, she had only Rory to shield her, and he could be dead if she did nothing.

  Tersely she ordered the boy to find bandages and lint and water. Warm water would have been nice, but she had already learned the limitations of her new surroundings. She would be lucky to receive fresh water.

  After the cabin boy returned, Alyson knelt beside the bed and began to sponge the blood from the wound on Rory’s brow. His stillness nearly paralyzed her with fear.

  “You can’t die, Rory Maclean,” she informed him angrily, dabbing at the ugly gash opening his forehead from hairline to eyebrow. “Where would I be out here in the middle of the ocean with a ship full of strangers? You got me into this, Rory Maclean, and I’ll not let you rest until you get me out. So help me, if you die, I’ll follow you to the gates of hell to drag you back.”

  “Lass, if you dinna be careful, you’ll be following me sooner than you think.”

  Brown eyes opened warily, and Alyson ceased her scrubbing to stare. She had never seen anything so lovely in her life as the beginning of a twinkle in that cursed dark face, but she resisted the urge to kiss him for his contrariness.

  “Don’t think I won’t, Maclean,” she warned, but she could not hide her relief. His answering grin showed her voice had betrayed her.

  “I believe you’d try, dear heart, but not just now. I think I’ve cracked my ribs, and I’ll be needing you to bind them. Can you do that?”

  Despite his words and his attempts to relieve her anxiety, Alyson could tell he was in pain. She glanced down at the great length of him and frowned. “Can you sit up? I don’t know how else to wrap a bandage around you.”

  “Patch the hole in my head first, lass, then have William over there help you. The storm’s almost done, and I have a little rest coming to me anyway.” He closed his eyes and seemed to drift out of consciousness again.

  When William tried to lift him, jarring him awake, Rory swore irritably.

  Alyson tightened her lips at the curse, but she helped the boy to prop his captain against
the head of the bunk. Removing his blood-soaked and sopping shirt caused them difficulty, until Rory groaned to just leave the damned thing on and get on with it.

  Following his instructions, Alyson tore a sheet into wide strips. With the help of William, she wound it as tightly as she could manage around the Maclean’s brawny chest. Terror kept her from concentrating too long on the strength and breadth of the masculine planes beneath her fingers. Instead, she feared for Rory’s breathing, so tightly did they wrap the binding, but he nodded approval when they were done.

  “That’s good. Now let me back down and bring me the whisky flask from the desk there.”

  But by the time they had him lying flat, Rory had passed out again. Alyson gazed down at him with dismay coiling in her stomach. Already the blood was seeping through the clean white bandage she had so carefully applied.

  The cabin boy stoically stoppered the flask and offered his first words. “Cap’n will come round. I’ll get summat for ye to eat.”

  With that terse statement he handed Alyson the flask and left the cabin. Staring at the silver bottle as if it were a serpent, she contemplated tasting the contents herself. A drunken stupor might be the only way to survive this storm.

  As if hearing her thoughts, Rory lifted one heavy eyelid. “It’ll make you braw sick, lass. Gie it here.”

  Watching him drink with difficulty from that position, Alyson caught herself wondering if perhaps in some manner or form Rory Douglas Maclean might not be gifted with the Sight himself. He had certainly developed some extra sense for reading her.

  ***

  The storm died later that night. The first mate returned to the captain’s cabin for orders, but Alyson showed him the fevered man in the bunk. Rory was well beyond giving orders. The seaman tugged his forelock and bowed his way out.

  Alyson closed her eyes and swayed with weariness. Her grandfather had never pampered her with luxuries, but she had never known want either. She had always been warm and well-fed, but she had never appreciated her good fortune until now. Was this the kind of life Rory had lived all his years? Was it possible to survive like this day after day?

  After choking down the bread and hard cheese that served as supper, she washed in cold water. Then, looking down at the sad gown she had not had time to repair, she moaned in shame. She did not even wish to know what Rory’s men thought of her.

  Deciding if she were to be left with only one gown for untold days and nights, she had best treat it with care, she finished unlacing her bodice and skirt. Surely now that the storm had stopped the crew would all be resting, and she would not be disturbed.

  With the help of the lantern, Alyson searched the cabin. A practical man like the Maclean would know how to mend simple things. She smiled in triumph in finding a sewing kit in his trunk. The kit with scissors and thimble and choice of dark and light thread was better than she expected.

  The gown needed a good washing, but then, so did everything else she wore. She was grateful she had chosen to wear one of her sturdiest quilted petticoats beneath the maid’s rough gown. At least it kept her legs relatively warm while she worked. She could not say as much for the thin muslin of the chemise under it. Although the wide sleeves went down to her elbow, the gauzy material provided no warmth and little in the way of modesty. Alyson prayed Rory would not wake just yet.

  With the rent in the gown repaired, she had another problem to tackle. She desperately needed sleep, and the only bed in the room was occupied. She had slept beside him fully clothed last night, but the thought of spending another uncomfortable night in the stiff gown and stays did not appeal. She wished wholeheartedly to rid herself of garters and stockings too. These she could wash out in the basin and leave to dry overnight if she thought Rory would sleep and not notice her immodesty.

  Remembering the large linen shirts in Rory’s trunk, she brightened. Those shirts were long enough to make a robe of sorts. She would leave on her chemise and pull the shirt over it, and while she wouldn’t be fashionable, she would be modestly covered and comfortable.

  With that happy decision she at least wore clean and dry linen, and she felt almost human again. Washing out her stockings in the basin, then carefully folding her normal attire over the captain’s chair, she contemplated the problem of sleeping arrangements.

  Last time, Rory had politely slept on the very edge of the bunk so as to give her respectful space. Tonight he lay unconscious in the center of the bed, with only two narrow sides to choose from. Neither choice looked comfortable, and there was certainly nothing decent about the position she would be in, but the only alternative was the floor.

  With a sigh of resignation, Alyson bathed Rory’s brow in cold water, and when he did not stir, climbed in beside him. If she lay between him and the wall, she was less likely to be thrown out in the night. She would just have to pray her bedmate would not roll over and crush her.

  She adjusted the blanket over both of them. The heat of his fevered body engulfed her, and she felt comfortably warm for the first time in . . . What? Days? How long had she been gone from home and propriety? Two scandalous nights at least. She was truly ruined, but that was the least of her worries now. For her own safety, the well-being of the man beside her had to come first.

  Drowsily she curled into a tighter ball, and her bottom brushed his hip. She had never shared a bed with anyone before. The sensation made her edgy. But after a while the sound of Rory’s gentle breathing and the warmth of his closeness relaxed her, and she slept.

  Whether from the light filtering through the porthole or a change in her patient’s breathing, Alyson woke with a start. Sometime during the night she had rolled over. She was lying close to Rory’s side, her hand resting on his chest. The position seemed oddly natural, and she relaxed to the even beat of his heart beneath her fingers. Only when her brain belatedly remembered her predicament did she withdraw her hand. Cautiously she lifted herself on one elbow to observe the captain’s countenance. He seemed to be sleeping, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

  The fresh bandage she had applied to his head was still clean, so the bleeding had finally stopped. He felt feverish, but not dangerously so, she judged. When he woke, he would need better nourishment than had thus far been provided. Surely, now that the storm had abated, they could prepare some hot broth.

  Preparing to climb over his unconscious body, Alyson noticed a change in her patient’s breathing. She glanced down to find Rory’s eyes wide open and focused on the open neckline of her impromptu nightshirt. Between the ungainly shirt and the loose, low-cut chemise, she displayed an immodest amount of bosom. Hastily she pulled the edges of the shirt neck together and tried to complete her maneuver, but Rory caught her waist and held her.

  His gaze slowly drank in the mess of her hair tumbling over her breasts, and his fingers tightened on her waist.

  “What devil’s trick has cursed me with angels in my bed?” He closed his eyes again, and lacking strength, dropped his hand back to the bed.

  Scrambling to the floor, Alyson studied him with worry. Rory’s dark face seemed paler than usual, and lines of pain wreathed his mouth beneath the heavy growth of stubble. She didn’t know whether to scold him or worry that he was delirious.

  “Perhaps a drink from your flask will help?”

  Rory heard the uncertainty in her voice and saw clearly in his mind’s eye the wanton beauty she had just revealed to him. His body stiffened with the raging conflict between desire and propriety. He was in no humor for being proper, but neither had he the strength to satisfy his desire. He had definitely dug himself a hole to hell and fallen into it. It would take a saint to dig him out again, and he certainly wasn’t any saint, as the irritation in his reply showed.

  “Get out of here, Alyson. Fetch William.”

  She stared at him in disbelief. “You would have me run about your ship in little or nothing? Fie on you, sir! I’ll go when I’m ready, and not before.”

  Rory closed his eyes against any further onslaught
to his beleaguered senses. “If you think I’ll lie here and watch you dress yourself, you’re madder than I thought. Get out, Alyson, now. Or get back in this bed with me.”

  That seemed a very odd choice to make. She almost contemplated climbing back in bed with him, since she felt much safer there than roaming a ship of strange men in her chemise, but Rory’s tone warned that would not be a wise choice. Grabbing up her gown and praying, she ran out of the cabin.

  Luckily, the small common space where the captain normally shared his meals with his officers was empty. Although she wore no stays or stockings, she struggled into her gown and laced it as best she could, then set off to explore the ship.

  She refused to return to the captain’s cabin. She had taken all the humiliation one person should have to suffer. Finding William scrubbing pots in the galley, she sent him to tend to the wretched Maclean. She, on the other hand, set about making friends with the garrulous old man who served as cook. She might know nothing about sailing, but she was at least familiar with the activities of a kitchen.

  Sometime later William arrived to inform her that the captain wished her to return to the cabin. Alyson looked up from the dough she was kneading with a smile that made the young boy’s knees turn to jelly. Her reply, however, gave him good cause to worry about the state of his health if he had to carry the news back to the captain.

  “Angelo says I can hang a hammock in here. That way I can get up in the mornings and have fresh biscuits cooking, while the flour lasts.”

  Since she hadn’t directly said no, William held out some hope that he just hadn’t made himself clear. The thought of fresh biscuits every morning was very pleasant, but they held no comfort against the captain’s wrath.

  “Ma’am, my lady . . .” He didn’t know where she stood in the rank of things. She wasn’t like any woman he had known in his short life, but he had caught glimpses of ladies on the streets of London, and she came closer to matching their mystique than any other he knew. “The captain wants to see you now.”