Moon Dreams (15 page)

Perhaps he meant to take it out in small torments. He
gallantly led both Alyson and Jane in to dinner. He seated Alyson first, and
she could feel the warmth of his breath against her ear as he leaned forward to
whisper, “We’ll talk later.” A shiver went down her spine, but by that time he
was on the other side of the table, seating Jane and taking his place beside
her, across from Alyson.

The meal was a blur. If Jane turned on hidden charms, Alyson
didn’t care. All she recognized was the number of times Rory’s heated brown
gaze fell on her.

By the time the meal ended, Alyson had surrendered to the
inevitable. She could not fight Rory. She didn’t even know where to begin. When
he separated her from the others with murmured excuses, leading her out into
the walled garden behind the house, she didn’t even object. All she wanted to
do was get it over.

The warm night encompassed them as they wandered the brick
walk. The scent of an early night-blooming nicotiana perfumed the air. Alyson couldn’t
avoid noticing the proximity of wide masculine shoulders, and when his fingers
clasped hers, she didn’t pull away. The time had come.

Behind a hedge, out of sight of the house, Rory brought them
to a halt. “Why, Alyson? Why did you leave me to think you drowned or abducted
and murdered? Why did you hide?”

She shivered, not with fear but with need. She needed Rory
to touch her, to put his arms around her, to hold her and promise her
everything would be all right, as he had done that night after her dream. She
wanted to feel the muscular hardness of his chest, the pounding of his heart
beneath her ear, the strength of his arms around her back. She wanted her own
destruction.

With a sigh, Alyson disappeared into that vague world that
protected her from reality. She could see Rory frowning down on her, waiting
for an answer, but she had none to give. She allowed a smile to play upon her
lips as she noticed the new leaves of the roses climbing a trellis just beyond
his shoulder. She had never really paid attention to roses before. These had
produced a single full bloom shimmering white in the moonlight, exuding a
delicate scent.

Rory followed her fascinated gaze. Plucking a bud, he tucked
it behind her ear. He should have known better than to confront Alyson with
direct questions. This fey child was beyond his ken; he ought to leave well
enough alone and get the hell out of here. Instead, he found himself promising
the moon.

“You scared the hell out of me, Alyson, and I didn’t like
it. For now, I will assume you have your reasons. I would have taken you to
Margaret’s parents—they’re much easier to live with than the stiff-necked
Lattimers—but if you’re happy here, I’ll not quibble.”

Alyson’s attention drifted back to Rory, and a puzzled frown
formed upon her brow. “You aren’t angry with me?”

Well, he’d succeeded in catching her attention, anyway. Rory
plucked another bud and handed it to her. “Yes, I am, but what good does it do
me? I could lecture you about the dangers of young women wandering strange
streets until I was too hoarse to talk, and you would do the same thing again.
I briefly contemplated strangling you, but that rather defeats the purpose,
doesn’t it?”

He was talking in terms she could understand, and a
tentative smile replaced the frown. Still, she refrained from standing too
close. “What purpose? What does it matter to you what happens to me?”

A very pertinent question. In her own roundabout way she had
a knack for pinpointing the crux of the matter. Now it was Rory’s turn to
squirm. He shoved his hands in his deep pockets and frowned down at her
delicate face illuminated by moonlight. His body gave one answer to her
question, his head could think of a dozen more, but none of them had anything
to do with what his conscience said was right.

“I feel responsible for you, lass. I brought you out here. I
want to take you home. Is that so wrong of me?”

She searched his face, perhaps reading the half lie there, since
she still hesitated. “I do not wish to be a burden to you,” she replied
stiffly. “I owe you for my life. I do not think I can afford to owe you for
more.”

That might be as close to an explanation as he would ever receive,
Rory surmised. “Someday I might need friends in influential places. Let us
leave it at that, Alyson. I want you to promise me you will stay right here
until I return from the islands. You are safe enough with the Lattimers, and I
will not worry if you promise me that.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“A month, six weeks. It depends on the weather and other
things. There won’t be time for you to hear from Farnley, if that is what
worries you. I’ll be back well before then. If he says it is safe for you to
return, I would see that you traveled on a sound ship with a good captain. Will
you promise me?”

“I suppose there is no harm in promising what I cannot
change. Will I see you again before you leave?”

“Aye, if I can, lass. I thought I might make a few inquiries
about the fate of your father’s ship while I am there, just to satisfy
curiosity. Do you mind?”

Her smile reflected her joy, sending the blood pounding to
Rory’s head. He could not resist any longer. He would be gone for weeks, maybe
months. He would have some reward now, a promise for the future, some payment
for his restraint. His hand lifted to the dark curl at the nape of her neck;
then he cupped her head in his palm, tilting her face so he could read the
brilliant shine of her eyes.

He thought to seek her permission first, but he didn’t want
to chance her refusal. Without a word of warning, he bent to sample the full
sweetness of her kiss.

She trembled, and he touched her waist to steady her. He moved
his mouth enticingly, teaching her the response he wanted. Her hands flew to
his chest, burrowing into his vest, and her mouth responded eagerly.

Her response led him on. Delirious with joy, Rory hugged her
closer, tasting of her sweetness, then pressing for more. He teased his tongue along
her lips and wrapped his arms about her round softness. She filled his arms so
perfectly, her breasts pressing into him with a promise that made his loins
ache, her hips at just the right height so he need only lift her slightly to
meet his own. He could not ask for more perfection.

Alyson parted her lips, balanced on her toes, and leaned
into him while their breaths mingled. Rory took possession of her mouth, exploring
and claiming it as his own.

Finally sensing the completeness of her surrender, he
retreated, returning Alyson to the ground and brushing her lips with a light
kiss that drifted to her cheek and ear before he could bring himself to stop.
He was reluctant to let her out of his arms. Although Alyson’s petticoats
protected her from feeling the extent of his need, there was nothing to protect
him. The ache of it brought a cold sweat to his brow as he disengaged himself.
Before he could apologize, Alyson turned those cursed eyes of hers up to him
with perplexity.

“I thought you said I should not kiss a man unless he meant
to marry me.”

“Aye, and I wish I were the one who will someday have that
pleasure, lass. You will make some man happier than he deserves. The moonlight
has driven me to madness. I’ll not abuse you so again.”

Alyson stared at him in confusion before replying. She could
still feel the imprint of his hands on her back. Her lips burned with a fire he
had fed and not quenched. She felt an ache in parts that no man had ever seen,
and she knew he had the means to ease that ache. And he refused. He set her
aside as if she were a toy with no feelings of her own. She hated this man
worse than she had ever hated Alan for his betrayal.

“If the moon is what leads a man to madness, I’ll be certain
to lead all my suitors down the garden path in its light. Then they shall be as
mad as they think I am, and I can choose the one who kisses me best.”

With a flounce of her skirts, she fled back toward the house.

Summer 1760

Rory called again before he sailed, but Alyson refused to
see him. She probably had the right of it, and he should be grateful, but the
ache of not seeing her was worse than the pain of seeing and not touching. At
least when she was with him he could enjoy the pleasure of her delightful
observations, the scent of heather, the sight of those gray-blue eyes turning
color at every new wonder. He had not known how much he would miss all that
until this week spent alone in his hollow cabin.

He was not a man easily led astray by women. He had a head
for business and he used it to the exclusion of all else. He had a goal which
came closer with every profitable voyage across the sea. After unloading the
illegal French brandy, he had taken on a shipment of rice, indigo, and tobacco
that the British customs officials thought intended for London. The goods would
bring a high price in the ports of the British West Indies, an even higher
price in the ports of the French colonies, a trade totally illegal under the
Navigation Acts.

In the Caribbean he would fill his hold with barrels of raw
sugar and molasses and return to the colonies, where the rum-makers would buy
everything he could smuggle to shore. Rebelling against the injustice of
forcing freemen to buy and sell only with a country on the other side of the
world added satisfaction beyond his profits. Rory had no great love for the
injustices of British Parliament and Farmer George.

But this journey he found no joy in adding another bag of
gold to his growing hoard. As the
Sea Witch
sailed down the river under
Dougall’s direction, Rory stared restlessly at his fortune. He was not wealthy
by any means. He had responsibilities that strained his pockets, but the amount
he had invested back in England and the coins he kept with him for trading had
almost reached a level where he could consider returning home, had he a home to
return to.

Therein lay the problem. Rory knelt beside the trunk and frowned
as he realized it was a sum less than he had thought. The piece of paper he had
shoved aside took on new significance, and he shook it open. If he were to
return to Scotland, he would have to have the sum necessary to offer for the
Maclean estate. Any inroads into that sum would delay him from that goal.

He almost laughed at Alyson’s oddly phrased voucher. He didn’t
doubt her ability or willingness to pay the entire sum plus interest. He had
fully intended to gift her with enough to replenish her wardrobe while she
stayed in Charleston. He almost threw the paper away, but he enjoyed seeing the
rounded curves of her writing, could almost hear her saying the stilted
phrases. He folded the note and placed it in his desk, where he could look at
it again when the longing for a life different than this grew too strong.

***

Alyson set out to assuage her restlessness by exploring
every nook and cranny of Charleston, delighting in each new curiosity. She
reluctantly restrained her purchases to the few coins she allotted herself each
day. The coins went quickly when it was necessary to hire a mantua-maker, but the
Charleston nights were too enchanting to miss, and she needed clothes.

Her list of suitors grew in proportion to the number of
festivities she attended. No one knew she was only the bastard granddaughter of
a dead earl, and no one asked. That no one bothered to inquire into her
antecedents amused Alyson, until gossip revealed that many families had a
skeleton or two to hide. It seemed that in this fascinating country a butcher
and a pirate could rise as high as an English lord.

But as the weeks passed, the restiveness grew stronger. Rory
had promised to search for news of her father, and she told herself she was
impatient to hear if he had found anything.

Then she wanted to go home. She wanted to wander the rocky
shores of Cornwall. She wanted to see Deirdre and Mr. Farnley. She wanted
something she could not put a name to, but it was not to be found where she
was.

Rory’s friends—Margaret’s parents— invited her to stay with
them for a while. Alyson enjoyed the carefree environment of the Sutherland
household. It took some while to get all the names and faces straight, with
children and grandchildren and various strays, but she enjoyed the family
bustle she’d never known.

When July had nearly passed, the Sutherlands were ready to
return to New York. They begged her to accompany them, but Rory was long past
overdue, and Mr. Farnley’s reply should arrive any day. Alyson couldn’t bear
waiting even the extra time it would take a message to reach her.

The Lattimers welcomed her again. Mr. Lattimer had word that
a British ship, the
Neptune
, would be arriving shortly, and he fully
expected her reply to be on it. Alyson refrained from asking after the
Sea
Witch
. Rory should have returned a month ago.

At the end of July, the
Neptune
finally entered the
Cooper River. Alyson paced the parlor floor. There had still been no word from
Rory. What if the
Neptune
carried a letter telling her to come home? She
had promised Rory to wait, but he had promised to come weeks ago. How could she
leave without knowing what had happened to him?

How could she not leave at the first opportunity?

The Lattimer household lacked good reading material, so
Alyson joined her hostess in the upstairs parlor. The lady greeted her with a
smile but little conversation, and they sewed in silence, Alyson listening for
any sound that might indicate a messenger.

The only arrival was her host for the midday meal. To her
surprise, he gestured for her to join him in his study. He stood with hands
behind his back, rocking on his heels, looking pleased with himself. He had
news, she knew he had, and she waited impatiently.

“I told you I would receive an expeditious response to your
problem, Lady Alyson. As I predicted, the
Neptune
carried your reply in
today.”