Moon Dreams (11 page)

Alyson’s eyes widened. “You will be leaving me there? You
can’t do that. What will they say? What will they think? I have no clothes. I
have no money. Why would strangers wish to take me in?”

Rory could see she was near tears, and the tremble of her
bottom lip created a manic urge to take her in his arms and tell her everything
would be all right. He wanted to say, “marry me and I’ll take care of you
forever.” He wanted . . . Lord, but he wanted. And couldn’t
have.

Steeling himself, Rory tried to respond sensibly, knowing
that applying logic to Alyson was a futile quest at best. “I will tell them you
are my ward, that your maid died on the voyage, your luggage was washed
overboard—anything you like, lass. They will take you in because they are my
friends and will want to be yours. I’ll buy you some new clothes, and you can
go to parties and teas and whatever else young ladies do with their time.”

“But I don’t know if I can repay you! I’ll have disappeared
off the face of the earth, and Mr. Farnley will think I’m dead! I’ll be
penniless and homeless, and all because of you, Rory Maclean! You can’t do this
to me. You have to take me home.”

“Alyson, I can do any damn thing I want!” he cried in
frustration. “I don’t know why in hell you were wandering the streets of London
looking like a char girl when I told you to go with Deirdre to Lady Hamilton’s,
but you did, and you’re bloody lucky I found you before you ended up in some
French brothel. You haven’t got the sense God gave a goose, and if I were to
send you back to London, Cranville would have you for dinner, and that could be
a lot worse than being stuck on a ship to the colonies. So for now consider
yourself penniless and homeless and let me take care of things.”

He couldn’t have hurt her worse if he had slapped her. She
had thought that, out of all the greedy, mean people in the world, Rory Maclean
was her one true friend, but he just considered her a foolish nuisance. She had
spent too many years hiding from the snide, cutting comments of the outside
world to allow him to see that he had hurt her, however. Gathering her ruffled
feathers, Alyson rose and walked toward the door.

“Thank you for saving my life. I shall do my best not to
disturb you for the duration of the trip.”

“Alyson, wait!”

His cry came too late. The door closed softly behind her.

Rory did not allow the feather-brained female to escape so
easily, of course. Whatever he might have become in these last years of exile,
he had been brought up to treat ladies with respect and courtesy. True, he had
encountered very few ladies since being forced from his home at the tender age
of fifteen, but that did not mean he didn’t know what was proper.

Alyson glared at him mutinously when he sent two of his more
trusted men to fetch her from the galley at day’s end. He had given her time to
cool off, given himself time too, although anger wasn’t exactly the worst of
Rory’s problems where Alyson was concerned.

She had not trusted him enough to take off her gown so she
might don her stays this morning. Her ripe figure taunted him with every move
she made.

“You summoned me, my lord?” The sarcasm was laced with sugar
as she stood between two huge sailors and defiantly met his gaze.

Rory had donned a clean shirt over his bandages, and tied
his hair back in a queue, but he was still too lightheaded to stand up for long.
He sat up in bed and leaned against the bulwark.

“Jake, Dougall, you can go now.” He dismissed his officers
with a nod. They obeyed with alacrity, although he detected the wry lift of a
brow from Dougall. No matter how it might look, Rory was no pirate intent on
kidnapping innocents. He owed the man explanations, but he was damned if he
knew how to give them.

He turned his gaze back to Alyson. “There is good reason for
the superstition that a woman on board is bad luck. Men who have been without
women for long periods of time tend to go a little crazy. I’ll not have knife
fights and brawls over your tender little body. From now on, Dougall or I will
escort you to the galley and back when you wish to go. Only William and Angelo
will be allowed in the galley when you are there. If any other man enters,
William has orders to take a chopping knife to them. At all other times, you
are to stay in here or with me. Do you understand?”

He couldn’t tell if she even heard him. She jammed her hands
in her pockets and let her gaze wander to the curtain of sheets and ropes that
he had had constructed during her absence. The bunk and a small table and the
cabin door were on this side of the curtain. His desk and trunk were on the
other side.

“I should think it would be easier to dry your linens in
fresh air,” she observed.

Rory closed his eyes and prayed for divine guidance. He had
spent the entire afternoon composing that impressive sermon, and it had drifted
right past her like the wings of a dove. What did he have to do to connect with
the intelligence he knew existed behind all that innocence? Remembering a night
when they had discussed men and marriage, he tried to appeal to that lucidity.

“Unless you wish us to live as man and wife, I thought to
offer you some privacy. I have no strong objection to making a lass such as you
my wife, but I thought you stated your dissatisfaction with that happy state.”

That brought her back to reality, Rory noted dryly. She
stared at him as if he had grown horns and tail. With some effort he raised
himself from the bed and, standing, poured a swallow of Scotch from his flask
to a tumbler on the table. He would be a drunkard by the time this journey
ended.

She flashed him a puzzled look, but Rory just drank his
whisky and waited to see where her mind had wandered this time.

“I have considered what you said about Mr. Farnley putting
my inheritance in a trust so a husband could not touch it,” she said politely, “only
I doubt that Alan could be made to marry me now. But if Mr. Farnley thinks me
dead and gives away my funds according to my instructions, I will have no
choice but to marry you.”

Rory gulped the whisky down the wrong way, spluttered,
coughed, and grabbed for the flask to take another drink. She would drive him
mad before she killed him. Marriage! He had introduced the topic as so patently
ridiculous that she would have to wake up and realize her position. Never had
it entered his head that she would in any way entertain the idea. He would have
to disillusion her quickly. He knew he couldn’t have what he wanted, but Alyson
still lived in a fantasy world.

“I daresay Mr. Farnley will not be too amenable to giving
away all that money without a fight. Does Cranville get it then?” he calmed
himself and tried to think his way out of this one.

Alyson took the chair he offered and settled her homespun skirts
as if they were silks and satins. “I expect he thinks so, but he will be rudely
disappointed. When Mr. Farnley suggested that I needed to have a will, I told
him I wanted it all to go to homes for mothers and children who have no family
to care for them. I think he started drawing up something he called a
trusteeship that will build a home and operate it. I do not understand the
details, but I do know Cranville won’t get a farthing of it.”

Rory chuckled. He could just imagine Cranville’s black expression
when presented that instrument. He would take it to court, undoubtedly. The
solicitors would eat it up for years. Alyson might be naive, but she was no
simpleton.

“I don’t think you have to worry about your inheritance,
then. By the time I return you to London, Cranville will be in debtor’s prison,
and you will be free to choose a more suitable husband. If Alan is so foolish
as not to want you, there will be a hundred more better than he. You might even
meet a better man in Charleston.”

Alyson accepted the glass of wine he poured for her. “How
long do we have to live like this?”

“Depending on the winds, six weeks, more or less. I’ll try
to make it as easy for you as I can, lass. We’ve not had an auspicious
beginning, I know . . .” Rory gestured helplessly. He would
never understand what went on behind those inscrutable light eyes.

“Perhaps it is just the blow to your head. You have not
quite been yourself,” Alyson decided, biting her finger thoughtfully. “That
would explain many things. If you don’t want to marry me, you really shouldn’t
look at me as you did earlier. Perhaps you don’t realize you’re doing it?”

Rory gave a sigh and took another gulp of whisky as William
carried in their meal. Maybe another blow to the head was what he needed to
bring him to his senses. He was almost ready to agree with her that he was out
of his right mind.

Later, when he lay in the hammock hung on the far side of
the curtain from the bunk, listening to Alyson undress and wash, he again
contemplated a good solid blow on the head to put him out of his misery. He
could hear the rustle of her petticoats as she slipped them off and could
almost see her standing there in her billowy sheer chemise. She would take that
off too, so she might wash. He already knew she wore nothing else beneath that,
and he tried not to groan as he imagined all those soft round curves uncovered.
Why couldn’t she be one of those gangly women who needed all the hoops and
stuffing to make them round? Or even one of those stout females who needed
extra stays to cinch them in, and even then looked as broad as they were tall?
Why did she have to be so confounded perfect that he could find no fault or
flaw?

“Shall I turn the lantern out, Maclean?”

He felt her voice whispering in his ear even though he knew
she had not gone beyond the curtain. He let the hammock sway and couldn’t bring
himself to answer. It took all the strength he possessed just to stay where he
was and not get up to see what she wore to bed.

Assuming he was already asleep, Alyson contemplated checking
on him to be certain the fever had not returned. Some second sense warned her
that might not be wise, and she turned down the lantern instead and climbed
into the empty bunk. It would feel very strange to sleep there alone. She
almost wished Rory would join her. She had liked having him beside her. He made
her feel warm all over, almost as if he were kissing her. Did that have
something to do with why men and women married?

If Rory didn’t want to marry her, then she didn’t think any
man would. She wasn’t as foolish as he seemed to think. Still, if her
inheritance was safe, she need not marry at all.

Curling up inside the blanket, she tried to imagine what it
would be like to be married to Rory. He had never even kissed her. His one
brief touch had been more exciting than anything Alan had done. She tingled
down to her toes just thinking about it.

The day had been a wearing one, and these thoughts carried
her off to sleep.

The vision came to her during the night, so Alyson could not
tell what was real and what was not. She only knew it was dark, and that she
was someplace strange, and that she was afraid. She opened her eyes to see a
man hovering over her, pressing against her, pinning her down. His masculine
nakedness filled her vision, and terror shivered down her spine as she realized
she was naked too.

Whimpering, she lifted her gaze to the man’s face, but she
did not need the sight of his wild eyes to tell her it was Rory. When she felt
something piercingly hard pressing between her thighs, she started to scream,
but he smothered her with his kisses. His hands were hot as they ran down her
cold flesh, and she struggled oddly, rising against him as if to push him off.
His kisses fed on her mouth, and his hands held her imprisoned. Only when she
felt the final pain of his possession did she scream. And scream.

Rory fell from his hammock and cursed the pain shooting
through him as he stumbled toward the curtain. The whimpers had woken him, but
it had taken her scream to jar him into action. Surely no man of his would dare
enter this cabin while he was in it. What in hell could be wrong?

Alyson thrashed against the blankets, her eyes open but
staring blankly into the low light of the lantern. Puzzled, Rory sat down upon
the bed and tried to take her hands, but she fought him off. Could a person
dream with her eyes open? She didn’t seem to be conscious that he was there.

Gently he lifted her struggling form into his arms. She wore
only the loose chemise, but his mind was not on that now as he tried to calm
her hysteria. She fought him until he pulled her into his lap, and his arms
closed around her. Then she collapsed, weeping, against his shoulder.

Awkwardly Rory caressed her back, holding her tight. Thank
God he had worn his breeches to bed, or she would have something to scream
about. She was so soft and light in his arms . . . He kissed the
top of her head and tried to murmur sensibly reassuring words.

“Hush, lassie, it was naught but a dream. I won’t let
anything hurt ye. I promise I won’t. Shhh, my little one, do not greet so.”

He was holding her, reassuring her as if she were a child.
And she could feel the rough fabric of the bandage around his chest and the
buttons of his breeches against her hip. He wasn’t naked as in her dream. And
neither was she. It must have been a dream, a terrible nightmare. Alyson
cowered against his strong chest, seeking comfort from his greater strength.
Rory would protect her, wouldn’t he?

But looking up into his face, she saw the face of the
strange Rory—the one whose brandy eyes were not gentle but burned with a
strange fire she did not understand. His hold on her tightened, and she knew he
meant to kiss her, just as the Rory in her dream had. Terrified, she tore away.

Rory let her go. He did nothing to stop her. Surprised,
Alyson sat in the middle of the bed and pulled the blanket around her, feeling
the sudden chill at the loss of his embrace. He was watching her with
curiosity, but he made no move that she could consider threatening.