Moon Dreams

by Patricia Rice

  Swinging her legs over the side, she decided on the whole it might be better if she were not in one piece. The parts she discovered ached abominably, and her stomach seemed prepared to heave its meager contents. A water pitcher sat in a hole carved for it on the wooden table, and she reached for the tin mug dangling beside it.

  By the time she sipped, someone was questioning her guard. At a rap on her door, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. She suspected she looked a fright, but she could think of no reason to worry about it.

  At her reply, the door swung open to admit the surgeon. He regarded her sitting position with approval. Checking and finding no fever, he bowed formally.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Maclean. It is a pleasure to see you awake this time. Shall I have them send up some broth and tea?”

  Food sounded repulsive. Alyson focused on the title with which he addressed her. As Rory’s wife she was entitled to the status of Lady Maclean, but of course the English would not recognize his Scots title even if they knew of it. On the other hand, as the daughter of an earl, she was Lady Alyson, unless they knew of her bastardy. Since even the governor had used her title, and Rory had no reason to name her bastard, she deduced this man knew Cranville and believed his version of her. She grimaced.

  “Where are we going?” She held her hand to her forehead, trying to remember the circumstances that had brought her here. She could only remember Rory and the nightmare.

  Apparently assuming the blow to her head had left her confused, the surgeon explained they were on a Navy ship bound for London. At the mention of London, she looked at him with hope, and he continued cheerfully, “Your cousin is most anxious to see you. He is overjoyed to have you returned at last.”

  Wary, Alyson backed against the wall, “Rory? Where is Rory?”

  The surgeon looked puzzled at her reaction but answered politely. “Your husband is well and on board, be assured. Let me have some broth brought to you. You will feel much better with some sustenance in you.”

  Alyson did not like his evasion, and her gaze unfocused as she tried to reason out this situation. Cranville was asking after her, but Rory was not. No, that was wrong. Even if Rory did not love her, he would be concerned about her wealth. Unless he thought her dead.

  She made no attempt to answer the physician’s question or even acknowledge his continued presence. Pursing his lips, he backed out of the room, leaving her to think in peace.

  She sipped at the tea brought to her but ignored all else on the tray. When handed a brush, she stroked her hair out of habit but without thought of her appearance. When a gown was laid out from the trunk the earl had brought on board, Alyson shrugged it off with disinterest and returned to brushing her snarled tresses.

  Unable to pry more than monosyllabic replies from his patient, the surgeon brought Cranville to the cabin.

  Alyson screamed before her cousin could even open his mouth to speak. She screamed without terror or feeling of any kind, but the nearer he came, the louder she shrieked. When he departed, she quieted and returned to brushing her hair.

  “I fear the shock has made her mad, my lord,” the surgeon murmured. “We cannot know with any honesty what she has undergone these last months. Perhaps rest and quiet will restore her nerves with time.”

  “You underestimate my cousin, Buscombe,” Cranville replied sardonically. “Tell her I’ve fallen overboard, and she will smile. Bring Maclean here, and we will see the true state of their affairs.”

  They talked as if she were deaf or witless, and Alyson smiled. So her cousin was not entirely the fool, after all. She could not hope that he would ever attain Rory’s level of understanding, but rational discussion might be achieved if he at least had the brains to seek it instead of physically forcing her.

  When they brought Rory to her, she wore a robe from the trunk. She had no pins for her hair, so it streamed over the gray lace of the robe. When Rory entered, she widened her eyes at his state. He shook his head warningly at her change in her expression.

  The others didn’t notice at all.

  She had never seen his hair so matted and dirty. He had attempted to tie it at his nape with a string, but with his hands bound it couldn’t have been an easy task. He wore an ill-fitting shirt that he had tried to tuck into his torn and blackened breeches, but large folds hung about his narrow hips. The hemp at his wrists had worn the skin raw, and the blood of the scrapes stained his cuffs.

  ***

  Rory held his shoulders straight and waited for Alyson’s verdict. He could not keep his gaze from her face. He winced at the sight of the blackening bruise. She was much too pale, and the icy gray of her eyes displayed a fear and a wariness he deserved.

  The men behind Rory waited for her to acknowledge him. Alyson simply drifted from her seat, past Rory, out the door, past her cousin and the physician, and down the passageway to the great cabin.

  When she picked up a knife from the table, Rory bit back a laugh. This was Alyson in wrathful goddess mode, although no one but him seemed to understand that.

  Cranville hurried to take it away from her. With a wicked smile, she raised it to the level of his manly parts. The earl hastily stepped aside. The surgeon watched her with professional curiosity, as if she were a particularly intriguing experiment. She ignored him as she proceeded back down the passage again, her long robe trailing the floor like a royal train, her head held proudly.

  Rory faced her as she reentered the cabin, and Cranville chuckled as Alyson raised the knife to him too. “It would serve you right if she gelded you, Maclean. Buscombe, what say we leave the happy pair together for a while?”

  Alyson did not seem to hear the jest. Understanding her intent, Rory held his bound hands out in front of him.

  Alyson inserted the knife between his wrists in an apparent attempt to do what Cranville suggested, and the surgeon hastened to stop her.

  Rory threw him a cold look. “Leave the lass be, lest you get the dirk in you.”

  Buscombe hesitated, then watched as Alyson methodically sawed at Rory’s bonds. “Why does she not say anything?”

  Rory lifted a brow with an ironic look. “And would you have cut the bonds had she asked?”

  “But she says nothing. It is not natural!”

  Rory chuckled grimly. “It is natural when you’re accustomed to being ignored. Alyson seldom speaks if action suffices. For all I know, she fully intends to emasculate me for your amusement. Lord only knows, she has every right to do so.”

  He sighed in relief as the rope fell free, and she set the knife aside. Alyson offered him a fleeting grin before turning away to search her trunk. When she came up with a jar of lotion to rub into Rory’s wrists, Cranville raised a protest. “The man is a dangerous prisoner! You cannot let him go unfettered for the sake of some besotted female.”

  As he attempted to intervene, Alyson lifted the knife to his midsection again. Cranville shifted his glance from her pleasant expression to Rory’s grim demeanor. Rory shrugged.

  “’Tis your life, mon. I cannot know how far ye’ve pushed her.” The mockery of his accent was not lost to the earl, who scowled.

  When Alyson held firm, Cranville backed away and allowed her to finish rubbing Rory’s wounds. When she was done, he once more demanded, “Buscombe, have your men escort the scoundrel back to the brig.”

  Alyson merely returned to her bunk and placed her hands in her lap. Rory looked down at her with a mixture of compassion and resignation. “You’re on your own now, lass. Ye know that, don’t ye?”

  Something flickered behind the gray mist of her eyes, but to the surprise of all but Rory, she murmured in perfect, musical tones, “Go to hell, Maclean.”

  23

  London, Fall 1760

  When they led Rory away in chains, leaving Cranville to walk free, Alyson understood the enormity of the mistake that had been made. Rory did not even turn to glance at her as he strode down the plank to the dock. She had not seen him since the day she had cut his bonds, and h
e had said she was on her own.

  He had released her from all the vows they’d made. She had thought that was what she wanted. She was a free woman now, their marriage a matter of inconvenience that Mr. Farnley would soon put asunder. So why did she feel so devastated when it was Cranville at her side and not Rory once she set foot in England again?

  Rory had trapped her, forced her into marriage, nearly brought her to death in a pirate’s hold. He had no love for her, only for her money. He had used the same words of love as Alan, and had meant them just as little. Senseless, then, to regret what had never been.

  Cranville tried to take her arm and lead her into the waiting carriage, but she shook him off. He had treated her with the care due to fragile porcelain throughout the journey, but she had been too miserable to notice. She blamed it on the seasickness that had kept her abed.

  She turned to the gruff navy captain who had befriended her. “Would you see me home, please? Lady Campbell will be worried.”

  Cranville protested, but she ignored him as she had ignored the man who claimed to be her husband. Pain appeared momentarily behind the hard mask of the earl’s face, but, squaring his shoulders, he set off in another direction.

  Once they arrived at the townhouse, Deirdre ran to greet them. She tensed at sight of Alyson with a stranger and hugged her in concern. Alyson merely introduced the officer and followed the servants inside, leaving Deirdre to do as she wished with the captain.

  A few hours later, Mr. Farnley arrived at the Campbell residence. Alyson quietly recited events, gave him his orders, and left him shaking his head in dismay.

  It took a week before the solicitor could locate Rory, hire barristers, and have him freed on bond. The bedraggled scarecrow who emerged from the cell in no way resembled the confident man who had once visited Farnley’s offices.

  With no other place to go, Rory allowed the solicitor to deliver him to his aunt’s doorstep. Alyson had had an entire week to slip away into whatever world she sought now. He would linger only long enough to bathe and dress and seek word of the Witch. What he would do after that, he didn’t know. The charges held him bound in London for the nonce. Somehow, after that, he would go to Scotland.

  Deirdre welcomed him with open arms and tears and led him to his old room with admonishments about hot baths and good food and lots of sleep. Rory humored her with polite nods, knowing full well he hadn’t slept a night in weeks and might never sleep another again.

  He wanted to ask after Alyson, but he could not bring himself to utter the words just yet. Wearily he shut the door after his aunt and stared at the empty candlelit room. He had exchanged one cell for another. He needed the solace of action to amputate the emptiness and pain. He needed to go home to the welcoming heather of the hills and forget the lovely woman who had been his for so short a time. He had never deserved her, and he would never forget her, but he had to let her go. For both their sakes, he had to let her go.

  The ivory-handled brush in his hand snapped, and he stared down at it in dull confusion. He didn’t remember picking it up. He forced his fists to relax. The brush seemed familiar, but he was in no state to think about a brush. He needed a drink. First, he had to wash.

  The servants brought a bath, and he tried to soak in it, but he couldn’t relax. He scrubbed and climbed out, drying and padding about the room in search of old clothes he might have left behind. He was nearly dressed by the time a footman announced that he had a caller.

  Hoping that Dougall had found him, Rory pulled on his coat and hurried down the stairs to the guest salon. The identity of their visitor struck him with such disgust that Rory nearly walked out again.

  Garbed in the same simple style he had worn on the ship, his dark hair bound and unwigged, the Alexander Hampton, earl of Cranville, appeared more country gentleman than elegant dandy. His dark eyes raked over Rory’s gentlemanly attire. “Going out already, are we? So eager to spend your new fortune that you cannot even bide awhile to see to my cousin’s comfort?”

  Shoulders straight, fist clenching the sword he had donned without thought, Rory met the insult coldly. “You are not welcome in this house, Cranville. So long as I remain her husband, this house is Alyson’s. If you have any concern for her at all, you will show it by removing yourself before I fling you out.”

  “I’ll leave, but not before accepting the challenge you offered once before. I’ll be waiting at White’s for your seconds.” Cranville picked up his hat and cane and waited for Rory to move aside so he might leave.

  Rory walked to the decanter on the sideboard and poured a tumbler of brandy. He would enjoy nothing more than taking out his vengeance and frustration on the arrogant Englishman. Except the thought of the pleasure he would receive from such measures warned that he thought only of himself, and he could no longer afford selfishness.

  “The challenge is withdrawn, Cranville. I would have fought you then, when Alyson was no relation to me, but I cannot kill her only relative now that she is my wife.”

  To Rory’s shock, the object of their discussion materialized in the doorway. Her eyes widened at sight of him. His fingers cracked the fragile stem of his snifter before he set it aside. He had thought she would be long gone by now.

  Greedily he studied her lovely figure as she drifted into the room. Studying her face, he noted an ominous misty look in her eyes. He had seen that look before, and a protective instinct leapt to the fore. He rested his hand on his sword as warning to Cranville.

  Both men remained silent as Alyson glided through the room without a word of greeting. She halted before the long draped windows overlooking the street below. She didn’t need to speak; her presence spoke for her.

  Cranville sent her an anguished look, but Alyson’s blank gaze didn’t acknowledge him. Worried, Rory waited for his unwelcome guest to leave. Alyson’s silence did not bode well.

  “Then I will seek satisfaction in the courts, Maclean.” Cranville gripped his cane.

  Rory did not acknowledge the challenge, and the earl had no choice but to depart.

  Alyson clutched her arms, fighting the sudden cold that had overtaken her. The window became a winter-white blizzard. She fought a chilling wind. A black rock reared out of the distance, and she screamed, but the roar of the wind whipped the sound from her breath. Horse and rider rode toward the swirling darkness where the only difference between land and air was shades of gray. She tried to follow, to scream for him to stop, that he was galloping to certain death. Death pierced her with sharp talons, laughing at her in the howl of the wind, but invisible to her blinded eyes. She fought its hold, crying into the wind, screaming for mercy, but she was strangely weighted and could not move. When horse and rider disappeared over the precipice, she crumpled into a welcoming blanket of ice.

  Seeing only her stiff back, Rory waited, afraid to disturb her. When she began to sway and sound as if she were choking, he hurried across the room. Before he could reach her, she crumpled to the faded Persian carpet.

  “Alyson!” Shocked into shouting, Rory knelt on the carpet to gather her into his arms.

  His yell brought servants running. Deirdre’s lady’s maid raced for the smelling salts and burnt chicken feathers. The others milled uncertainly until Rory shouted for a physician. A footman did as bidden. The housekeeper ran up the stairs, trailing a contingent of maids to light fires, fetch hot water, and warm the bed.

  Terrified by Alyson’s stillness in his arms, Rory was reluctant to release her to the care of others when he reached the chamber they directed him to. He sat on the bed and held her close, willing her to open her eyes. He had thought her lost to him before, but not like this. Panicked, he watched her breasts rising and falling—not with lust, but as proof she lived. Gently he smoothed the linen sheets and laid her upon them as the maid entered with her salts.

  Alyson stirred with the departure of his arms. Her eyes opened, and Rory could see the shock in them. The maid waved salts and burnt feathers beneath her nose, and Alyson coughed. We
akly she waved them away and pushed to sit upright.

  “I’m fine. Leave me alone,” she muttered. She sent Rory an accusing glance. “Tell them to go away.”

  Rory noted the bruised look of her eyes, then turned a questioning gaze to his aunt, who had followed the servants in.

  “A physician has been sent for,” Deirdre murmured. “Keep her here until he comes.”

  Alyson relaxed as Deirdre ushered the crowd out the door but still didn’t face him.

  “What did you see, Alyson? Can you tell me?” He took her pale hand and rubbed the knuckles, feeling the iciness of her fingers, warming them with his own. He couldn’t halt the still-frantic beat of his heart, and he fought for some simple explanation to reassure himself that he had not somehow caused her faint, that she was well and all was right with her world.

  Alyson shook her head wearily. Rory’s hands were like burning brands, but she welcomed their heat, wishing it could spread across her body. The thought of those strong hands upon her breasts ignited the dry tinder of her heart. After all that had happened, she still wanted him to touch her.

  Sadly she listened to his pleas, but she could give him no sensible answer. She could not describe the scene, nor the danger. She only knew that it in some way involved Rory, and common sense told her the snowy landscape had to be Scotland. What could she say that would make him understand? Or even make a difference?

  “At least let me know if ’twas the Sight or if you are ill, lass. You canna keep everything to yourself.”

  The rough concern in his voice returned her wandering gaze to her husband. Over and over she had debated why he had treated her as he had done, but her wealth was all the conclusion she could reach. Perhaps he had meant to sell her to the pirates, but she could not believe that of him. She did not understand him or his actions, but there were many things in this world she did not understand.

  She retreated behind indifference. “I am fine, just a little weary perhaps. I’ll rest . . . you go on with whatever you were after.”