“At this rate, you could not spend everything if you live to be a thousand. That is not my concern.” Rory set the bills back on the desk when Alyson gave him only a blank stare. He felt like an ogre, and he shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his coat. She flitted like a butterfly from place to place, everywhere at once, never lighting anywhere. She appeared on the verge of flight right now. Her unexpected reply staggered him.
“Your concern is only for your conceited pride,” Alyson answered. “When will you learn there are more important things in this world than pride and money?”
Without a second look, she left the room, gently closing the door between them. On the other side, where Rory’s eyes couldn’t find her, Alyson’s cool expression crumpled, and she hurried up the stairs to her chamber.
She would have fared better had her grandfather left her penniless. Rory would never forgive her greater wealth. Throwing herself across the bed, she remembered the dull look of pain in Rory’s eyes. He had looked so handsome standing there, the firelight sending flickering copper through the thick strands of neatly clubbed auburn hair and accenting shadows across his broad cheekbones. He had worn both coat and vest against the chill, but neither could disguise the strength of his wide shoulders or the restless energy of those powerful muscles.
She had wanted him to understand, had wanted him to accept her as she was. But he was blind. He could not see beyond the stack of bills to the person behind them, the one who so badly needed his love that she had followed him here and offered everything she possessed, including herself. He was so blind that he could not see that offer for what it was, and his rejection hurt more than anything she could imagine.
She had never understood people. She didn’t know why she continued to try. If Rory didn’t want her or her wealth, why had he married her? Guilt? Was guilt the only reason he had forced her into this marriage? Did that make sense? He hadn’t felt guilty the day he had taken her virginity. Had something happened on Barbados to change his feelings?
Remembering the pink canary, Alyson closed her eyes and shuddered. There was nothing to be done about it now. The child made their choices irrevocable. Her one goal now was to keep Rory alive so the child would know his father as she had never known hers. That was a task that could engage every parcel of her energy.
He thought she didn’t know what he was about, but she listened, and she understood more than he realized.
She didn’t think he would ride into battle with his cousin, as his Highland ancestors might have, but he was quite capable of robbing his cousin blind to draw the man out. The result would be the same. There would be words and bloodshed, and neither would be the winner.
If only she knew more about this mysterious cousin and how he would react when he discovered Rory was systematically undermining his tenants, encouraging rebellion, and endangering the rents he needed to live, then she might better prepare her defenses.
***
Alyson’s gifts could not see into the magnificently paneled dining hall where George Drummond sat drinking his morning coffee. His frowning gaze did not appreciate the exquisite workmanship of the carved lintels or the gleaming chandelier and polished mahogany table with places for twenty-four. He was accustomed to such luxury, even though it was unusual in these hills. The Maclean family had always been an educated, sophisticated lot who bought the finest art and hired the best workmen. Drummond did not improve upon their accomplishments. He simply accepted the result as his due.
He leaned back in his chair and gazed with contempt on the casually dressed members of his small party. They were dressed for the country, in loose tweeds and leather breeches, instead of in their usual fine silks and satins. Even informally, they exuded wealth in just the manner in which they wore their tailored clothes, in the accents they favored as they played at words while idling over their meal. Drummond enjoyed this company, although to feed them for a week cost him the entire year’s rent of one tenant.
There was one exception to this idle, elegant company, and his gaze fell on the powerfully built man just entering the room. Since coming into his earldom, the rakehell Alexander Hampton had changed, and Drummond wasn’t sure if he approved the difference. Once, Hampton had fitted into this company, his pale features and languid airs matching the elegance of his silks and laces. Only his cutting cynicism had marked him as one of a higher intelligence than most.
Drummond contemplated the changes and their source. He knew the man had not gained the inheritance he had expected. That and his debt explained the less ornate coats and waistcoats and the abandonment of all personal servants but the one valet.
He also knew the new earl had spent considerable time chasing the elusive heiress who would have made his fortune. The time spent in the tropics would explain his unusually healthy color. Perhaps life on board ship was also responsible for his controlled restlessness. He had actually bagged half the grouse shot yesterday—a disgusting performance, considering the amount of good whisky imbibed during the hunt. Drummond had rather hoped one of his inebriated guests might bag another of the company before the day ended, but Cranville had held them fascinated with his skills, and the party had ended without mishap.
Drummond could only hope the changes worked in his favor. It was time he sounded out the earl about the heiress in the crumbling estate down the road. He wondered if Cranville realized his elusive cousin was so close. He certainly couldn’t know how much trouble her infuriating husband was causing, but Drummond wagered the earl would have his own tales of woe concerning one Rory Douglas Maclean. Yes, they might very well deal well together.
Maclean must think him a fool if he thought he didn’t realize what was going on. Sheep didn’t escape stone walls without help. The pitiful peasants who could not raise a crop or pay the rent did not suddenly inherit enough to eat well. Drummond had hoped to starve them out, since he could make more money raising sheep than they could pay him in rent. Their surprising ability to survive in the face of economic reality had other sources beyond God’s will. The mysterious losses he had taken in various other investments over the years began to take on new meaning. If Maclean wanted a fight, he would get one, but it wouldn’t be on the battlefield of his choice.
Being ruthless had its advantages, and Drummond’s lack of conscience had never troubled him. He considered Cranville’s bored expression with triumph. He knew how to destroy Maclean without lifting much more than a finger.
***
Blissfully unaware of the nearness of her cousin or of her neighbor’s dangerous arrogance, Alyson watched the Sea Witch anchoring in the loch. She still loved to watch the sails, and she longed to have the deck rolling beneath her feet again.
She sent Rory a surreptitious look as he stood with hands in pockets, gazing at the harbor too. Did he miss the ship and the life he had led? Could part of their problem be that he wasn’t ready to be tied down to home and family? She ached to know, but his expression gave away nothing.
Alyson was the one to run and joyfully greet the men upon their entrance. Dougall’s beaming face rated him a hug, but as he lifted her exuberantly from the floor, Alyson’s gaze fell on a startled female face behind him.
“Dougall! What on earth . . . ? Put me down and introduce me.” She struggled to right herself as he returned her to the floor.
He stepped aside to bring forward the woman sandwiched amid the horde of sailors. Dougall grew crimson and his gaze gentled as he took the hand of the woman. Cloaked in heavy wet wool, little could be seen of her other than large luminous eyes, a head of luxuriant black hair, and a serene smile.
“Well, lass, it seemed if the Maclean here could go and get himself shackled and give up the good life, then it was time I did the same.” Embarrassed, Dougall attempted a formal introduction. “Lady Maclean, my wife, Myra.”
Alyson reached out to make the new bride welcome, and Rory exclaimed happily and pounded his friend on the back. The celebration began then and lasted well into the evening.<
br />
Weariness required that Alyson retire well before the celebration was near its end. Delighted as she was to see familiar faces again, she knew the men preferred their own company. Giving a few orders about the arrangements for beds, Alyson slipped from the hall.
Rory watched her go with a longing he could not conceal from himself. Dougall and his new wife were holding hands and looking at each other as he and Alyson had once done. Was there no way to go back to those days? Was there no way to go back to the time when Alyson had looked at him with trust and affection and had come eagerly into his arms?
When it became apparent that Dougall meant to take his bride from the rough company to their bed, Rory rose to his feet with decision. Perhaps he was making another mistake. Where Alyson was concerned, he seemed to do that frequently, but he could not sit and watch their lives wither and die. He gestured to Dougall and led the couple toward the stairs.
Only two bedchambers had been refurbished since their arrival, Alyson’s and his own. Rory knew that a guest room had been ordered opened and a clean pallet laid on the floor for Dougall and his wife, while the others would make their beds in the great hall, but that cold, unadorned guest room was a poor excuse for a bridal chamber. Smiling grimly, he led the pair past the first landing to the second.
With a gallant gesture, Rory surrendered the comfort of his own newly decorated bedchamber, gambling away all his chances on the throw of one die. Not realizing the sacrifice offered, Dougall and Myra extended their gratitude and their good-nights and closed the door. Rory turned and stared at the solid oak panel separating him from his wife and her bed.
He could choose to enter those forbidden chambers or he could drink himself into a stupor below with his men. Given the possibility of heaven over the certainty of hell, Rory did not linger over the decision. He reached out to grasp the latch.
30
Alyson stripped to the soft flannel of her winter shift so she might wash while the water in the bowl remained warm. The master suite was excessively large, and the heat from the peat fire did not reach all corners of the room. She was eager to find the comfort between the walls of her unfashionable bed, where the maid had laid hot bricks to warm the sheets.
She had given little thought to anything other than warmth in furnishing this room. There was little reason to linger in its empty vastness to require more. The wooden panels of the bed cut off drafts on three sides, and she had filled the open side, where the door once had been, with heavy pale blue hangings. The same velvet had been hung on the narrow windows, and recently she had added silver braid and tassels to the draperies to make them a little more elegant. The only decent carpet she had found in the tower she had put in Rory’s room. She wished to order one for the cold wooden planks in here, but Rory’s lecture on bills made her hesitate at purchasing such luxury.
Perhaps if she employed local looms to weave the carpet, he would approve of the extravagance. It made sense to spend money where it was needed instead of sending it to rich London merchants.
Satisfied with this compromise, Alyson reached for a hair ribbon to tie her hair from her face. In the act of fastening the bow, she was startled to hear the latch turn on her door.
Rory entered and pushed the door closed behind him. Alyson’s figure in the thin white gown was silhouetted by the fire. With her arms above her head to fasten the ribbon, every curve could be seen clearly, and Rory took a deep breath as his gaze focused on the changes in her slender form.
Her high, full breasts were rounder and heavier. Without the cover of thick skirts and petticoats, a pear-shaped curve extended the once-flat plane of her abdomen. She was so beautiful, he could feel his chest constrict with the strain of holding his breath and his words. The pain was too great, searing his lungs with all that needed to be said.
“Don’t tie it.” His first words emerged as a harsh whisper as he crossed the room.
Alyson let her hands drop, and the cascade of ebony curls fell about her shoulders and over her breasts. At least, she did not flee him but sought his eyes questioningly.
Holding her gaze, Rory placed his hand over the curve of her stomach. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are like this?”
Black lashes flew upward, startled. “You prefer me plump?” she asked with genuine curiosity.
Rory had to smile at the tangent Alyson’s irrepressible mind took. Any other woman would have been satisfied with the compliment. Alyson had to know its reason. “I prefer you, period. No exceptions, no exclusions, without qualification. It could be I’m biased, but I think you are the most beautiful woman on this earth. And selfish, conceited male that I am, I like seeing my child growing within you.”
Alyson’s smile at these blandishments could have blinded the sun. She did not shrink from him when his arm circled her. This was almost as it had been before between them, and his heart raced. She tilted her head to study him and traced her fingers along his stubbly jaw. He regarded her warily, and her smile broadened.
“Are you drunk, my lord?”
Rory considered the question. “No, I think not. But I gave Dougall and his bride my room. If you wish me to go away, I’ll have no alternative but to join my crew in their drunken revels.”
A worried frown creased her brow, and Rory dropped his arms to his sides, giving her room to escape if need be. “I’ll not force you to anything, lass. If ye wish me to go, ye have only to say.”
“I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” she whispered in confusion. “Is it just the bed you wish to share? There is room enough for two.”
Rory stared at his moonstruck angel in a daze of disbelief that bordered on the laughable. Lifting her chin, he gazed into the shifting mists of her eyes, willing the clouds to part so he could see into her heart.
“Lass, I wish your gift would give you understanding and not pictures of nightmares. Why would you think I did not like you anymore?”
“What else should I think? You had to get drunk to marry me. You made love to your pink canary, but not to me. You hurt me terribly, then tell me I’m on my own. You avoid me as if I have the plague. You didn’t even want to bring me here. I try very hard to understand, Rory, but what else should I think?”
If he were a weeping man, he’d weep at how badly he had communicated his fears. But a man was not supposed to admit the weaker emotions, and so he had not explained himself. He did not know how, even now.
Instead, he swung her up in his arms. “Devil take it, Alys, is that how it seems to you? What a pair we make.”
Despairing at the gulf separating them, he deposited her on the bed, yanking back the heavy covers so she could slip beneath their warmth. Gingerly he sat down upon the bed’s edge and tried to gather his scattered wits.
“Will you tell me what this is of a pink canary? You have mentioned such before, but I think I would remember anything so ludicrous as pecking at a bird.”
Alyson slid her toes down in the bed and pulled the blankets over her knees. “She’s not really a bird. You know who I mean. All that blond hair and pink ribbons and frilly lace. Don’t tell me you never made love to her, Rory Douglas. I saw her, and you didn’t act as if she were a stranger.”
Minerva. Rory stretched his legs and stared at his knee-high boots. “Alyson, I don’t expect you to believe me, but until you came along, I couldn’t remember the name of a single woman I’d ever gone to bed with. They were few and far between and I’m not at all certain that I even knew their names. I seldom spent more than a few hours in their company. Then, there you were, all wide-eyed and innocent and more tempting than any woman has a right to be. I knew I couldn’t have you, so after I left you in Charleston, I looked for someone else. Your pink canary served the purpose of distracting me for a few nights when you were not near. She ceased to exist the moment I set eyes on you again.”
Alyson sat silent, digesting that information. Rory prayed that she would believe him. How could he have let anyone so useless as Minerva to come between him and th
e treasure that was Alyson?
She seemed to be studying his legs. Was that a good or bad sign?
“You had best take off your boots if you wish to join me,” she admonished him.
Hope flared, and then, as he studied her carefully blank expression, he almost laughed at his eagerness. She had merely traded his boots for her pink canary. That was a long way from where he wanted to be, but much closer than he had been in months.
Pulling off one boot and resting his stocking against the floor to pry at the other, he noticed the cold bare planks. He glanced down at the uncovered wood with perplexity. “Lass, what have you done with your carpet? You’ll freeze your toes on these cold boards.”
“I thought to have one woven,” she said. “I know there is wool aplenty hereabouts. I need only locate looms and weavers. It would not cost so much to have one made, would it? And it would keep the money here, where it is needed.”
Her soft, careful words shot an arrow straight through Rory’s hard heart. He had done nothing but harm her, but still she had tried to please him. Guilt seared him, but he was still oddly thrilled that she had thought of his wishes. Dropping the second boot to the floor, he leaned back on one hand to better study her face in the shadows.
“Alys, I did not expect to feed my people at your expense. It will be years before there are looms and weavers enough to produce a carpet such as you need. The thought was a good one, but I’ll not have you take cold because of it. Order a carpet and have mine brought in here until it arrives.”
“Our people,” Alyson insisted indignantly, if not to the point. “These are my lands as well as yours. My mother grew up here too. I have responsibilities as well as you.”
Rory had always known she was intelligent, but each day brought a new surprise at the number of things she grasped and accepted without being told. Not easy things, but difficult concepts that most women would balk at and most men argue over. She was the granddaughter of an English earl, raised in luxury. What could she know of the harsh environs of his home?
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