Moon Dreams (22 page)

Alyson heard the heartbreak behind his cold recitation. He’d
only been a boy! To see his brother murdered and the blood of all his kinsmen
shed across that horrible plain… She could not imagine the depth of his pain.

She listened without understanding as Rory explained how the
English king and Parliament took away his grandmother’s lands that rightfully
should have gone to his father, then bestowed them on his Drummond cousin. His
grandmother had died from the shock of it, and the Maclean himself had been locked
away in prison for treason.

“Drummond petitioned to have all us declared Jacobite
traitors,” he continued with an undertone of anger she understood better than
the politics. “I had to flee the country. My father died in prison, a proud,
educated man brought to his knees by shame. For that loss alone, I will never
forgive Drummond or the bloody English.”

Her soul wept for the boy he’d once been, the boy whose
heart had died almost as surely as his family had. “There is more?” she asked
quietly. “How can there possibly be worse?”

“Drummond is driving out the crofters who depended on the
Macleans for their livelihood. He is draining the estates to support his London
habits. He’s not satisfied with killing my family, he is killing land and
people, just like Butcher Cumberland did.”

She heard his deep sorrow as if he’d spoken the words aloud.

The sun was dipping toward the ocean. The tide lapped at
Alyson’s feet on the empty beach where they had wandered. Rory had made lunch
for her out of turtle and fish, but the pangs in her stomach warned it was near
time to eat again. Rory’s competent hands finished weaving a hat of palm fronds
for her, and he presented it to her without comment.

She knew the icy snow at his center for what it was now, and
silently mourned the man he might have been had fate not intervened. The
studious boy had been forced to develop a hard streak that twisted everything
he touched until he found its advantage. It would take a harshness and cruelty
he did not yet possess to dispose of his powerful cousin.

“You will need to marry a lady with great influence at
court,” she murmured. She drew a pattern in the sand with her toe and watched
the tide wash it away.

Rory shrugged away such an impossible suggestion. “Even had
I title and wealth enough to attract such a creature, I would prefer the kind
of fight I understand. The courts and the law drain a man and his pockets. Let
us see how my cousin fights when it is just the two of us.”

“You cannot get your land back by killing your cousin!”
Alarmed at his tone, Alyson glanced up to the man leaning against the log
beside her. His skin had drawn tight over his cheekbones, and there was a hard
look in his eyes.

“The land, I’ll buy back. Drummond’s courting bankruptcy
even now. I’ve almost enough for what it’s worth, but he’ll not sell it to me.
That is why, someday, we’ll have to meet. Now, lass, it is time to go. Have you
changed your mind any about me? Shall we sail on to Barbados and find you
another ship?”

Rory lifted her from the log and held her against him so
Alyson had to tilt her head to see his face. The need to have his arms around
her had evolved into a desperate desire to feel his kiss again. Rory had seldom
taken his hands from her throughout the day, and now she could see the kiss
burning in his eyes as he waited for her reply. He would retreat should she say
she had changed her mind, but she would not trade the fires in his eyes for the
coldness that would replace them for all the coins in the world.

“I need no other ship but yours, my lord. Will you take me?”

“Aye, I’ll take ye.” Rory’s soft burr spoke of where he
would take her, and if she did not understand, there was his kiss to tell her.
He bent his head to capture her lips.

Alyson threaded her hands behind his neck as Rory lifted her
against him. The heat of his bare chest burned through the thin linen of her
shirt. Then his mouth claimed hers, and all of the sensations of this day came
together as one, melting what she once had been into some new and, as yet,
formless creature.

Rory’s lips caressed hers, making love to her with their
tenderness, stroking and persuading until her passion rose to meet his. When
Alyson parted her lips in eagerness, his tongue darted inside, teasing her into
further response. She strained against him, wanting whatever it was his kiss
promised. His hand traveled from her waist to cup her buttocks, pressing her
tightly to the hard bulge pulsing against her thigh. Rory groaned and released
her lips.

“Ach, lass, I’ll take ye, will ye, nil ye, if we do not
return to the ship now. There is time yet to do this with a little more
ceremony.”

Knowing nothing of what he meant, Alyson regretfully followed
his lead as he set her back on the sand. Gathering up their odds and ends of
clothing, helping each other to dress and fasten buttons and ties, touching as
often as possible, they prepared to return to the company of others. Hand in
hand, they walked around the beach to the cove where the ship was anchored.

A well-fueled fire burned on the sand, outlining the silhouettes
of Rory’s crew. Rory tightened his grip on her hand as a raucous cheer broke
loose at their arrival.

A retinue of men escorted them toward a pallet of palm
leaves near the fire. Alyson marveled at the change in the normally unshaven,
ill-kempt crew. Beards had been trimmed or shaved. Clean white shirts had been
donned, often accented with colorful neckerchiefs. Dirty hair had been trimmed
and washed, queued or braided, until they could almost pass as respectable
fishermen. Even Dougall and Jack, who normally maintained a decent appearance,
had dragged out coats and cleaned their silver shoe buckles until they
sparkled. Dougall had actually donned a cravat.

In comparison, Rory and Alyson were less than elegantly
dressed, but no one cared. They were seated like royalty beside the fire,
handed pewter mugs of wine appropriated from the officers’ quarters, and
entertained with jokes that often left Alyson in bewilderment. Her puzzlement
produced even greater laughter as the meal was served and the drinking began in
earnest.

Rory’s arm rested reassuringly behind Alyson as she sipped
at the strong red wine. He seemed to find nothing odd in his men’s behavior,
and his laughter at their odd jests about strange fruits and stolen treasures
came easily. After his horrifying tale, it was a wonder he could still laugh at
all.

She enjoyed the way his laughter rumbled up from deep inside
him and burst like breakers upon the shore. She liked it even better when he
turned those brandy eyes on her with warmth and a deep affection that she could
sense even if he did not voice the words. With his fingers, he fed her tempting
nuggets from a bowl of fruit.

Rory grinned when she licked the last drop of juice from his
fingers, and he kissed the smear of pulp beside her lips. “I bet your grandmother
never taught you table manners like that,” he murmured against her ear.

“My grandmother taught me to respect the customs of my
hosts,” she replied demurely.

“That could get you into very serious trouble if you
continue to keep bad company, lass.” Rory captured her fingers and carried them
to his mouth, tasting them one by one, enjoying the way her eyes widened into
oceans of blue as he gently sucked them clean of juice.

The tingling she had enjoyed earlier was growing out of
control and into a sensation Alyson did not fully understand. She felt warm all
over. The tips of her breasts rose into hard aching points against her
cumbersome shirt, and she squirmed at the hot moisture forming in her nether
parts. Still, the brush of Rory’s lips or hands held her captive.

Her wineglass was refilled with something stronger and
sweeter. The jests became tales of the sea, of heroes and villains and
impossible feats and beautiful women. Rory’s hand roamed, not satisfied with
resting behind her. The fire flickered higher as his fingers traced the curve
of her breast and lingered at her waist. He sat contentedly cross-legged beside
her, and Alyson’s glance too often traveled to that part of him that made him
male.

As the tales grew bawdier and her head swam with the heady
nectar in her cup, Rory’s caresses grew bolder. His kisses found the nape of
her neck, shivering her spine with excitement. In the shadows, hidden by the
unbound length of her hair, he traced her breast, circling the aching tip until
she nearly groaned with pleasure when he finally stroked it. The heat had
become a raging fire to equal the flames in front of them, and she could no
longer raise the cup to her lips to quench it.

Music played against the backdrop of crashing waves. Alyson
tore her mesmerized thoughts from Rory’s hands to the musicians. An odd
assortment of instruments had appeared, flutes and whistles and mouth harps, a
cracked and worn fiddle, some hollow object covered with leather for a drum.
The sounds they produced had very little to do with melody, but the beat
pounded much as her pulse beat through her veins.

Before long, those of the crew not playing began to dance in
unsteady jigs about the fire. Alyson grinned as they pantomimed courtly bows
and then swung into country reels. Seeing her smile, Dougall bowed over her
hand, glancing to Rory for permission to join the others.

“I think not.” Rory refused him with a glance down at Alyson’s
black curls.

Alyson looked up in surprise, more at the sultry tone of his
voice than at his refusal. When Rory stood and held out his hand to her, it was
Dougall’s turn to register surprise. Apparently the dour Scotsman didn’t
normally join in his crew’s revelry.

Pleased at his offer, Alyson leapt up, taking Rory’s hand
and swinging it joyously as they joined the antics about the fire. The crew
made room for them, and an impromptu reel ensued. The reel involved much
shouting and laughter and stumbling over toes. Even shy William took his turn
swinging Alyson about, and Dougall was granted the favor of one circle before
Rory claimed his turn again.

Alyson’s breath quickened as the music raced faster and
louder and the wine danced in her head. The crackling fire swirled with smoke, the
scent mixing with the rich, mossy aroma of the heavy undergrowth.

Awareness heightened by alcohol, Alyson was acutely
sensitive to the sway of Rory’s narrow hips and the press of his muscular
thighs as they danced., Her feet scarcely touched the ground. She was giddily conscious
of the masculine scent and warmth of his brown chest.

The men began a meaningless chant. With all her senses
wrapped up in Rory, she scarcely noticed that the others had stopped dancing
and formed a circle beside the fire. Rory, however, must have known this moment
was in the making. With a grin and a glance to her breasts, he caught her close
and led her toward the waiting crew.

“The broom! The broom! Give them the broom!” The laughing
chant made no sense to Alyson, and she glanced around for understanding.

The men were sitting and standing around in a rough circle,
brandishing their bottles and jugs and mugs and smirking hugely as Rory
presented her. One of the crewmen, a giant African, had apparently been
selected as spokesman, and he stood blocking their entrance into the circle.
For some odd reason, the men behind him were waving a worn-out broom from the
ship’s galley.

Alyson could not comprehend the low rumble of the African’s
monotone, but she suspected no one else could either. He had been selected for
the sonorous qualities of his voice and perhaps his ceremonial sway at the
rhythm of his words.

When the speech ended, the music jumped to rowdier levels
and the circle closed behind them, forcing them nearer the broom that was now
held across their path, a foot from the ground. The chant of “Jump the broom!”
swelled louder, the circle closed tighter, and before Alyson understood, Rory
had leapt across the broomstick, carrying her with him.

A cheer rocketed through the night, but the African
obviously had not done with them. Brandishing a wicked knife, he halted them
before the circle could open again. Rory’s hand tightened around Alyson’s, and
he looked down at her questioningly, as if she had some choice in what happened
next, but the African grabbed their joined hands and held them up before she
knew how to reply. The pounding in her head and the swirl of her senses
prevented understanding. It was not until the point of the knife cut into the
vein at the base of her thumb that she felt anything at all.

There was not even time to cry out before the process had
been repeated with the heavy pad of Rory’s palm. With further intonations, the
African rubbed their bleeding palms together, and Rory’s fingers twined around
hers. Their blood mixed and flowed into each other, and Alyson felt the
completeness of this joining as her legs threatened to give way beneath her.

Her head spun in light-headed circles, and she felt she had
no weight at all. The pain in her hand throbbed against the bleeding wound in
Rory’s. His eyes held her steady, and her pulse pounded in her lower regions as
he lowered his head to hers. The kiss, when it came, was applauded with riotous
clamor.

The circle opened. Alyson had little knowledge of how she
came to be in Rory’s arms, engulfed in the empty shadows of forested
vegetation. Tall grasses, twining vines, and stunted trees closed in upon them.
Rory’s stride was swift and sure along the path. His heart beat near her own,
and she buried her face against the folds of his unfastened shirt. The
primitive hunger roused by the strange ceremony made explanations unnecessary.
In front of man and God, she belonged to Rory, and he meant to take full
possession of his claim.

No church or law legalized what they were about to do, but
Alyson had no doubt about their right to do so. She wondered if Rory felt the rightness
of the ceremony that had joined them, but she could not ask. She clung to his
shoulders, absorbed the strength of his arms, and waited.