Moon Dreams (25 page)

He had yet to discover anyone who could tell him what had
happened to the ship or its crew in the aftermath of the storm. Perhaps more
reliable informants had been found by now. He had left messages in every cafe
and tavern across the Caribbean. Barbados had been the only place where anyone
recalled the ship.

Rory entered the Swan and searched for his bailiff. The room
stank of unwashed bodies, cheap candles, burning oil, and rum. If there had
once been windows, they had been paneled over long ago. The resultant dark didn’t
disguise the less-than-gentlemanly occupants. On the whole, the clientele
tended to be seamen just hitting port or looking for a ship out, and the ragtag
scavengers who preyed on them.

Montrose looked as out-of-place as one of the few frock-coated
planters. Even in this heat he had not discarded the wig he considered his
badge of office, his claim to authority. Years ago, he had managed the laird’s
sprawling estates. Since the rebellion, he had lived hand-to-mouth until Rory
had come upon him. As a twenty-year-old seaman Rory had not been able to offer
the man more than some semblance of pride and hope, but Montrose had been
grateful for the recognition. He had been loyal to a fault ever since.

Still, Rory approached him with dismay. He didn’t want to
know what trouble was brewing back in the Highlands. Tales of bankrupt crofters
and ailing cousins could be dealt with by letter and his infrequent trips home.
Whatever Montrose wanted now would demand time and money, and he had little
enough to spare of both. He wanted to find Alyson before he tackled new
problems.

The bailiff had chosen a table at the rear of the room, near
the kitchen. That probably meant he didn’t wish to be overheard. Rory settled
in the chair opposite the bailiff and gestured to the barmaid. He hadn’t eaten
since breakfast, but a drink was what he needed now. “You came a long way to
see me, Montrose. How did you find me?”

“Lady Campbell had your letter from Charleston saying you
were headed here, and I took the first ship out. When I arrived, I heard you’d
already been and gone, and I despaired of finding you. It’s the Lord’s will
that you returned.”

The Lord’s will and a fey creature with ebony hair and a
face like an angel’s, but Rory didn’t disillusion the man. He threw a coin to
the barmaid and drank deeply of the rum she delivered to him. The fiery liquid
burned all the way down to his empty stomach but did not reach the cold place
around his heart.

“So what has my esteemed cousin done this time to send you
cavorting halfway around the world to tell me?”

Montrose never launched directly into any story when a
substitute route could be found, and Rory imbibed heavily as the tales of woe
unfolded and grated his nerves to threadbare ribbons. His monosyllabic replies
provided no encouragement, but the bailiff diligently proceeded down his list
of wrongs while Rory ordered a second round.

On the other side of the wall, nursing a bruised shin while
a kindly landlady pressed her newly mended and cleaned gown, Alyson heard the
sound of Rory’s curt monotone and wept.

Barbados, August 1760

How could Rory have found her? Alyson was quite certain
she had lost Dougall in the near-riot outside, and the landlady had adamantly
lied about her whereabouts when he returned later asking questions. Rory couldn’t
know she was here.

Of course he didn’t, or he would be in here now dragging her
out by the hair. He knew she was gone, but he didn’t care enough to search for
her personally. His business was obviously more important.

That thought hurt, even though Alyson had known the truth of
it from the very first. Rory had never lied about her importance in the scheme
of things. He had shown her that quite clearly when he had hauled her across
the ocean rather than risk his ship, and again when he had not returned to
Charleston for months after he had promised. It was best that she leave now
before she began dreaming impossible dreams again.

She glanced toward the older woman, who chatted amiably
about the friends and home left behind in Sussex many years before. The
innkeeper evidently considered Alyson a genteel young lady momentarily injured
and separated from her servants in the riot, and sought to keep her occupied
while she awaited rescue. She had been a trifle dubious when Alyson insisted
that the man sent to find her was not from her family, but she had offered to
repair Alyson’s gown after Dougall had been sent away. Now Alyson regretted the
delay.

She had to escape before Rory discovered her with his extraordinary
finding skills. Trapped on the other side of the wall from him, she tried not
to eavesdrop, but the man doing most of the talking had a very insistent voice.

She listened with dismay to tales of some family called
Crandall, whose breadwinner had been forced off his land. Crandall had
apparently been killed when he tried to poach salmon to feed his ailing wife.
The wife had died and the daughters had slipped into the desperation of the
streets, forced to sell themselves for the crumbs needed to eat.

Somehow, these tales were related to the English cousin who
had stolen Rory’s land and title. She recognized the name Drummond spoken with
bitter scorn.

The tales became more heartbreaking, and Rory’s replies grew
fewer and more curt. She cringed and drew the borrowed blanket around her when
the laird’s roar finally erupted and his heavy fist thudded against the table.
She tried to remember the words just previous to that roar—something about the
lands and Drummond and the market. She listened more carefully when the other
man spoke again.

“Hamilton has agreed to act as go-between, Maclean. The king’s
too ill to intervene. He’ll make the offer and sign the deeds, then transfer
them to you when the money changes hands. But he canna do it without your being
there. He’s poor as a church mouse and canna raise those kinds of funds on his
own.”

“And what in hell makes you think I can?” Rory’s voice broke
with a mixture of fury and despair. “I doubt there’s that much money in all the
Highlands. My cousin taunts me, you fool. Can you not see that?”

Dismay tinged the reply. “But Lady Campbell says you have
run off with an heiress. It’s all about London. Some say you kidnapped her,
others say she ran after ye, but it’s the truth you both disappeared at the
same time.”

Alyson heard this plea as if in a dream. London seemed so
distant now. She had rather imagined the inhabitants would have forgotten her
as she had forgotten them, but the scandal of her departure was not as
disconcerting as the implication of the man’s words.

Deirdre had obviously thought Rory would marry her and had
sent this man to bring them back to save the family estate. She couldn’t blame
Deirdre, she supposed. Rory must have sent her a letter reassuring her that Alyson
was safe. It was only to be expected that they would have to marry under the
circumstances.

Rory’s reply to the man’s gossip consisted of long strings
of invectives, and Alyson didn’t linger to hear more. Her gown was complete,
and she hastily slid from her stool to allow the landlady to help her dress.
She didn’t know what she ought to do, or even what she wanted to do. She just
knew she could not let Rory find her here.

Her benefactor’s frequent references to the “governor” had
indicated this town had some type of British authority. That seemed a logical
place to appeal for help. If she used the title Deirdre insisted she had a
right to and explained her situation, surely the governor would take her in
until Mr. Farnley could be notified and funds sent to her.

Remembering the result of that last plea made Alyson a
trifle wary, but she had little choice. This time she had left Rory without a
farthing to her name. She could not even find employment cleaning kitchen
floors, garbed as she was in satin and lace.

“Mrs. Brown, if I could only reach the governor’s house, I
am certain he could find my father. I would be safe waiting for him there.
Could I hire a carriage?” The lie did not come with too much difficulty. After
all, her father had last been seen in these waters, although unless he were a
wizard, the governor would not be able to find him beneath the deep blue sea.

The landlady frowned and regarded Alyson with doubt. “I’ll
have Jacob and Aloysius escort you. No man would think to lift a finger to you
with those two about.”

Alyson understood her reasoning when presented to the
landlady’s two hulking youngsters. Although still in their youth, they towered
well over six feet and had shoulders like young oxen. Their bland, pleasant
expressions gave no cause for fear, and she accepted their escort with delight.

***

Rory was not having it quite so easy. After sending
Montrose back to the ship for a meal and a decent bunk, he tried to locate
Alyson. The agony tearing at his heart spilled into his rum at every saloon and
tavern along the wharf where he asked after her.

At one of the more respectable inns, he related a portion of
his woes to a slim, graying man who appeared as out-of-place here as himself.

With quiet questions in a dignified English inflection, the
man pried out of Rory the reason he was searching taverns for a black-haired
lady in braids and satin gowns. He nodded understanding at the parts left
unsaid and stared glumly into his own mug.

“I hope you find her, son. I know what it is to lose one you
love from sheer youthful enthusiasm. The cause may seem worth it today, but
take my word for it, lad, you will regret losing her when you are older. If the
lass loves you, she will marry you whatever your fortune might be. Women are
like that. They don’t see things as we do, and thank the good Lord for that. If
I were you, I’d inquire at the governor’s. He’s a hard man, but fair. He’ll not
want a young lady to come to harm in these streets. And when you find her,
marry her, lad, marry her proper and legal. If she were my daughter, I would
want that. You look like a likely young man. Lack of fortune should be no bar
to love and honor.”

To Rory’s drunken mind, this logic made good sense, even
knowing he possessed very little honor any longer. He left the tavern feeling
much as if he had been given a father’s blessing. He’d find the wench and wed
her, and then she would have no reason for flight. Wives didn’t run from their
husbands. It would serve his wicked angel right to have her wings clipped.

An even more fortuitous thought crossed Rory’s befuddled
mind. By damn, if he married her, Hampton couldn’t! That would put an end to
the notorious earl’s pursuit. Rory would marry Alyson to protect her! Even
Alyson could understand that.

Montrose’s insinuations that all of London thought her
ruined didn’t give him pause. Alyson would give no care to what all of London
thought. Besides, they would have to live at sea until he had earned the
fortune necessary to pay off his greedy cousin. Finding Alyson and keeping her
was what mattered.

He would have the governor send out troops to look for her.
That was the least his old friend could do after insulting him by searching his
ship and delaying him this day. They would have the wedding here, with the
governor in attendance. That should quiet any clacking tongues.

Quite proud of his decision, Rory returned to his ship long
enough to wash and change into decent clothing. He would play the part of
gentleman for Alyson’s sake. He could not offer much, but he could offer that.

The memory of how little he had to offer caused a brief
depression, and Rory swigged heavily from his flask to return the golden haze
of earlier. The whisky on top of the rum and an otherwise empty stomach did
wonders for his well-being, and he left the ship with determination and Dougall
in tow.

By the time Rory arrived at the governor’s mansion, the
evening was well advanced. Light streamed from the windows and music drifted
through the open panes. Carriages lined the drive, and couples strolled about
the spacious grounds.

Rory glared at this unexpected obstacle to his plans. The
governor would scarcely be available for a private audience with this melee
going on, and Rory still had presence of mind enough to know it would take very
serious conversation to have troops sent out to locate one misplaced female.

Stationing Dougall outside as a precaution, Rory entered the
festivities. His face was known here; the servants had no hesitation in giving
him entrance.

Strolling into the crowded ballroom, Rory tried to locate
the short rotund figure of his powerful friend, but the swirl of dancers and
onlookers confused his already befuddled brain. Minerva found him before anyone
else did.

The pretty widow flounced up to greet him while clinging to
the arm of a wealthy planter. Rory wondered what he had ever found attractive
in her colorless features. True, she had been willing, and he, desperate enough
to try her favors, but compared to Alyson’s fascinating beauty . . . !

His gaze drifted past Minerva’s shoulder to search the room,
until her chatter finally penetrated his cloudy brain.

“And Lady Alyson is such a delightful creature! Why, she has
charmed every man in here this evening. How quaint of her to come unattended.
There is some mystery about it all, I’m sure. The governor has welcomed her
like a long-lost cousin, and she did seem eager to leave your tender care, Rory
dear. That
was
her you were chasing through the crowd this noon, wasn’t
it?”

Rory ignored Minerva’s maliciousness in favor of searching
the ballroom. Alyson, here! Damn, but he must be drunker than he thought to be
chasing her through taverns, when he ought to know by now that she always
landed on cat’s feet.

Now that his target was Alyson and not the portly governor,
he found her soon enough. Some lady’s maid had brushed and coiffed her hair
into an elegant chignon with only a minimum of pretty curls escaping. The blue
satin held up moderately well under the brilliance of the chandeliers, with the
addition of a froth of lace about her bare shoulders. Even from this distance
he could feel the effect of the daring décolletage he had chosen for his eyes
only. The little witch had not worn a fichu in this elegant company.