For the first time in his life, Drummond felt true, gut-wrenching fear.
He had not believed the tenants capable of this kind of organized retaliation to the Maclean’s death. How could they even know of it? Besides, he had made it look like an accident. No court of law could prove anything else.
Drummond blanched at realizing the fools didn’t intend to go through proper courts. For centuries, the lairds had been judge and jury. But he had killed the laird, hadn’t he? All of them. The old man and his favored son and now the younger. He was the laird now.
His mother had been a Maclean. There was precedence for the title to pass through the female line. He was laird now. They couldn’t march against his orders.
The large public chambers on the first floor with their wide windows would provide no protection at all. The moans from above reminded him of his best source of safety. Grabbing rifle and rapier from the game room, Drummond ran for the stairs to the upper chambers.
He had dumped Maclean’s wife in the first guest room at the top of the stairs. The windows there would provide better observation.
Holding his weapons, Drummond slammed into the room where he held his hostage.
***
Alyson winced at the slamming door. Wrapped in a haze of pain, she frowned at seeing her captor shove a small sofa in front of her door. That seemed an odd thing to do, but when he looked up, she saw the wild-eyed fear in his eyes.
Drummond strode toward the draperies at the far end of the room. Alyson struggled to sit up against the pillows. She had never met Rory’s cousin, but she had no doubt as to his identity. His hair was fair and not Rory’s rich auburn. He was of much the same height as Rory, but he was slender where Rory was sturdy. Despite the differences, she could still find the resemblance in the hollowed planes and square jaw.
She had been thinking of Rory as alive, denying the reality that he could not have survived both gunshot and fall. She felt Rory as surely as she felt this man’s fear. Something was terribly wrong out there.
She groaned as the pain returned.
Drummond didn’t even look at her but stayed frozen at the window.
Alyson dug her fingers into the folds of her gown and tried to stifle her cries. Moisture broke out on her forehead as the pain rolled endlessly.
Rory’s son had obviously decided he wished to join the battle. She was almost relieved at the notion. A son like Rory would be a mother’s joy.
In the flicker of the room’s one candle, Drummond turned and snarled at her smile.
“Are you expecting visitors, sir?” Alyson inquired, indicating his anxious placement at the window.
***
Demented. Cranville had said his wealthy cousin was a trifle odd, but that was scarcely the word for it. Instead of railing and screaming at him, calling for midwives or maids, the Maclean’s woman was talking to him as if they were downstairs in the drawing room. She wouldn’t be a major loss.
Drummond turned back to watch the activity below, seeking the leaders.
They weren’t hard to find. Three men on horses had taken strategic positions near the main paths to the house. Their coats blew in the wind, and he could tell by their bearing that they weren’t common laborers. One of the fools even wore a tartan. He would have them all hanged for treason. Even as he watched, they gestured in unison, sending their mob storming toward the house.
It was now or never. Drummond threw open the casement just as his captive stifled another moan. He needed screams to catch their attention. He crossed the room and grabbed her shoulder, dragging her from the bed.
Alyson fought him, but he forced her to her feet. She screamed as he shoved her toward the window, and he grinned in the darkness.
She collapsed against him, breathing heavily, and he half-carried, half-dragged her to the window. He hated to waste his ammunition firing a warning shot. He waited until his prisoner could stand again. Then, grabbing her hair, he shoved her halfway through the open window.
***
Gasping in agony, Alyson gazed in astonishment at the sight of an army of Scots marching on the mansion. Far from being terrified, she was exultant. The wrongs against Rory’s family would finally be avenged!
Without sense or logic, she scanned the milling crowd. With exultation, she found what she sought almost at once. Although she had seen the horror of her vision come true, she had felt Rory with her, always.
She had no way of knowing whether the man out there in the belted plaid was vision or reality, but she still rejoiced. His face was pale as he stared up at her. Perhaps this was a specter returned to haunt the enemy, but Alyson still thrilled at the hope that his spirit was with her to see his son born.
“If you ever want to see her alive again, you will all go home and to your beds,” Drummond shouted, reminding her of her predicament.
Alyson felt the pain building again. The mob hesitated, muttering and gesturing at the window. Bent partially over the sill, Alyson felt as if the babe must fall on its head at any minute, and she fought the urge to scream her pain. She didn’t want Rory— or his people— to do anything foolish.
She sought his approaching shadow. The blizzard had lessened to a heavy, wet snow so she could see him more clearly now. He held himself stiffly—unlike a specter. He was hurt, then, not dead.
Rory was alive!
When she refused to scream, Drummond twisted her hair, forcing her to face him as he drew his rapier and held it across her throat.
Alyson knew nothing of the difference between rapiers and swords, but she felt no pain but the one in her abdomen. She spit in his face.
***
Rory watched his beautiful wife hanging half out the window with a rage and anguish he had no intention of controlling much longer. He had to bite his tongue to keep from yelling at her when she spit in Drummond’s face. She was as mad as he.
His men had secured the house against any escape. Rory had only to reach Alyson before her wayward behavior enraged Drummond to murder. If his cousin had expected a docile and weeping prisoner, he had chosen the wrong woman.
Rory drew his sword to catch his cousin’s eye. Here was the enemy who had destroyed his family. He had wanted to fight Drummond face-to-face for years. But the past was not what whipped him with blind fury now. That any man could be so spineless as to harm a pregnant woman enraged him beyond all remaining reason.
He shouted plainly against the dying wind. “Come down and we will fight this man-to-man, Drummond. If you win, you walk away. That is the only choice I give you.”
Above, the fair-haired man laughed. “I’ll not duel with phantoms. You’re dead, Maclean. The house and this woman are mine, and there is nothing you can do about it. Go away, and I let her live. Stay, and she will die.”
Boldly Alyson grasped the window ledge and called out in her usual melodic tones, “I do believe he’s wet his breeches, Rory. When you come up, bring Myra with you, would you, love?”
He couldn’t help it. Tears of rage and laughter poured down Rory’s cheeks as he reared his horse and rode straight for the garden door. No one would keep him from Alyson. It was madness—he could read it on the faces of her father and cousin as he rushed by—but he was going to her now. For once, logic failed him and passion ruled.
A servant shoved the wide French doors open as Rory galloped his sturdy horse across the terrace and through the doorway, shouting the rebel cry of “Tha tighinn fodher eiridh!” with triumph as he finally returned to his home.
Behind him, his men took up his cry. They surged forward to reclaim what had been stolen.
***
As the mob rushed the house, Drummond drew back from the window, slamming it shut against the cold. Already he could see men running from the stables with ladders. Fools! Couldn’t they see he held a hostage here?
Shoving his worthless prisoner toward the bed, he sought other escape. Fire! That would delay them awhile. Even if Rory cared little about his bastard wife, he would never stand and
watch his precious home burn.
Drummond yanked down the bed curtains. The wound in his side reopened and he grimaced. Blood seeped through the makeshift bandage, but he ruthlessly worked on his next plan. He had not come this far to be defeated by a phantom. He had the heiress. He didn’t need the vast cold house any longer.
His prisoner struggled to stand as he opened the bedroom door. He ignored her while piling the heavy curtains at the head of the stairs, then found an unlit lamp.
Drummond emptied the oil from the lamp on the pyre. The damned female tried to launch herself at him when he returned for the candle, but she could barely stand. He smiled at her horror as he flung the flame to the explosive oil.
Magnificent! He could hear Rory’s heavy boots running up the stairs, but the flames were spreading too quickly for him to fight his way through. Drummond turned back to his prisoner. Her hair tumbled in thick black ringlets about her shoulders, and her face appeared pale, but her well-being wasn’t of importance now. Even as she groaned and bent in half, he jerked her toward the dressing-room door. They would go out the servants’ stairs.
Thick black smoke spilled into the room. Alyson was a deadweight in his arms, scarcely able to stay on her feet, but he needed her. Keeping his arm around her, he dragged her choking and coughing toward his escape route.
Only when he flung open the door did Drummond realize the back stairs were filled with pitchforks, hatchets, and carving knives of his own servants.
He turned and found Rory waiting for him in the doorway, claymore in hand, the fire blazing impossibly high behind him, glinting red off his hair as if he were a demon from hell.
He was dead. He had to be a demon.
Drummond dropped Alyson, grabbed his rapier, and leapt forward, thrusting his blade at the specter of his enemy.
***
Rory’s heavy sword weighed down his wounded shoulder, but a little inconvenience was as nothing to the sight of Alyson groaning in pain. He could have lobbed the heads off a herd of stampeding cattle. Drummond’s puny rapier presented no obstacle.
One swing of the broad sword sent the rapier spinning. Rory advanced toward the coward who had deprived him of family and home and threatened the same again. One more swing and Drummond would breathe his last.
Finally faced with the living, breathing result of his actions, Drummond turned and fled—straight into the arms of the tenants he had cheated these last fifteen years.
Rory stepped aside and let Drummond flee with the mob on his heels.
In terror, he bent over Alyson’s fallen form. She moaned as he lifted her, and he cursed and fought anguish at the sight of her pale, strained face. Remembering her call for Myra, he knew his babe was about to be born in a bloody inferno.
***
Alex shoved through the triumphant crowd cornering Drummond in the upstairs linen cupboard. He listened with disdain to the Englishman’s cries for mercy. His gaze was drawn past the crowd, down the corridor, to where the distraught Maclean held his unconscious wife in his arms.
Past the Maclean, men rushed to douse the fire under the elderly earl of Cranville’s command. There was something to be said about carpetless floors, Alex supposed. Men dragged the burning draperies to the windows, extinguishing the last sparks in the snow.
His shoulders sagged as he realized he had just admitted the old man’s title to himself. He had not even the meager advantage of a title left now.
But at least he wasn’t the dastard in the cupboard. With a sardonic grin, he gestured over the heads of the crowd for Rory to follow him.
Using his size, Alex forged a path through the rioting crowd. As the mass recognized the Maclean and his wife, they grew silent. The mindless screaming mob of moments earlier turned into individuals once again, people who had worked for and respected and claimed kinship to the Macleans for decades. They watched the laird’s expressionless face as he carried his pregnant wife toward the chamber that should have been his. Somewhere, a woman began to keen.
***
The mourning cry grated on Rory’s nerves. Knowing Alex had no real control over these people, he sought for a face he could trust. Finding Dougall, he allowed himself a very small measure of hope. “Send everybody home and go fetch Myra. I don’t think my son intends to wait.”
The confidence of his voice raised a cheer from those who heard. Alex lifted a cynical eyebrow, but Alyson’s cousin played the part of bodyguard well. Silently, he held the door open so Rory could pass through, then shut out the crowd of eager well-wishers.
Alyson stirred as Rory laid her upon the wide bed of the master suite. Her eyes flickered, then focused on him. A smile curved her lips and she reached out to touch him.
“Real, and not a vision?” she asked.
“A moon dream, remember?” he murmured, holding her close. “I am not really here. We’re out on the Witch, sailing beneath a Caribbean sun. The island’s just ahead. Shall we throw out the anchor?”
Her laughter filled the room with music that lasted long after she twitched and moaned again. Rory threw a look of frustration to his bodyguard. “Devil take it, Hampton, do something. Find hot water and linens and someone who knows what the hell to do with them.”
Alyson clutched his hand as the pain rolled past, then gasped, “Your son will be fine. Just stay with me. Tell me how you escaped that cliff.”
“A fortune-teller told me I would walk on air, so I was prepared. I’ve ridden my horse over it dozens of times. Snow is tricky, but he’s a sound horse and learned the tricky ledges. I think I’ll have his shoes bronzed. And worship the fortuneteller forevermore. Can you foretell when my son will arrive?”
Alex strode to the grate and groped in the dark for kindling and flints. “You’re both Bedlamites, I see that now. How can you be so damned certain it is a son? That’s all I’ve heard talk about. What if the poor thing is a girl? Do you give her away and start another one?”
Rory forced a grin as Alyson’s face pulled taut with pain. “I’d like nowt better than a wee lass to lighten my days, but my wife says it is to be a braw boy, and I’ll not argue the matter.”
As the fire kindled, Alyson grimaced. “Alex, you must go now. Find my father and tell him I am fine. Perhaps there is someone below who could help Rory. I don’t think the babe will wait for Myra.”
Her fingers tore at Rory’s hands as the contractions pushed faster, pressing at her middle. Her petticoats and skirts were soaked already. Rory watched helplessly.
His look was bleak as his last ally prepared to desert him. “You’d better see to securing Drummond,” he told Alex. “I’ll not have his death upon my hands if it can be avoided.”
Glancing from husband to wife, Hampton growled, “I don’t mind having it on mine.” Leaving them with that grisly thought, he stalked out.
“Your cousin is a rash man. I’d better stop him before he does something foolish.” Rory made no immediate move to rise from the bed. His wife and his son deserved his attention more than a traitor.
Alyson plucked at a charred hole in his tartan. “You’ll never have a decent wardrobe, Maclean,” she murmured, before the pain took her speech away.
He held her against the pain, breathing with her as if they were one in this moment of trial. He ached to take the pain away, but he was helpless in this.
A woman finally bustled in carrying a pitcher of water and fresh linens. Capable hands stripped Alyson of soiled gown and petticoats, washed her, and garbed her in a clean nightshirt. Then she stripped the bed and covered it with thick sheepskin and clean linen.
Rory felt as if he had done royal battle by the time the women were done.
“Thank you.” Alyson caressed Rory with her smile. “Send for more warm water and good strong soap. You will feel better when you are clean, and the babe will need to be washed.”
“I’m supposed to be the one in charge here,” Rory remonstrated, only to turn and order the maid to do as instructed.
“No, God is in charge,�
�� she informed him. “Hold my hand, Rory. I don’t think I can wait much longer.”
“Scream then, lass. Let it go. Let them know our son comes into the world fighting.”
As her cries tore through the air, Rory wished to scream with her, but she needed his strength and not his fear. When the maid returned, he rolled up his shirtsleeves to wash.
“Good lass, very good. Your grandmother would be proud of you. That’s a good Scots cry.” He murmured senseless phrases so she would know he was still here. “Try it harder. Teach our son how to make himself heard.”
He felt lines permanently etching his brow as he sat beside her again. He wet a cool cloth and smoothed her damp skin. “I’m proud of you, lass. I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re all I want, Alys, you and the child. We can sail foreign seas or find that London house of yours or stay in Cornwall, whatever you wish when this is over.”
The bedroom door slammed open and Myra rushed in, carrying in the cold scents of outdoors. She flung off her cloak and gloves and nodded approvingly at the kettle of hot water steaming over the fire.
Alyson panted breathlessly, and Rory continued to soothe her. “Push, Alyson. Let him come. Let me see him. A bairn born with so much love should be big and strong, shouldn’t he? Remember the night on the island when our blood flowed together so strongly? Do you think he was conceived on that night, lass? Ach, but I loved you so that I thought my heart would break of it. Lass, let me love you again. Hold on and push, push, Alys!”
As Alyson writhed, Myra whispered, “Almost. He’s almost here.” She adjusted the sheets over her patient while Rory continued pleading, although his wife seemed beyond knowing what he said.
“Ach, my bonny jo, ’tis bad I’ve been for you, but never again, my lovely lass. All the home I need is you. I’d see grass beneath your feet and flowers in your hair and our bairn running at your side. I’ll make ye love me as I’ve loved ye since that first day I set eyes on you, all heather and mist wrapped in a stableman’s coat. Alyson, for the love of God, push!”
He screamed this last as he held her, while the terrible pain made her weep and cry and cling to him with fear. It went on and on, longer than any before, and Rory felt his life draining away before his eyes—until the violent shudders ended and a thin cry cut the air.
Moon Dreams Page 37