Moon Dreams (46 page)

Behind him, the crying of the servant girl mixed with
Drummond’s laughter.

Stagshead, February 1761

Everett Hampton, newly-returned Earl of Cranville, put his
elegant buckled shoes upon the needlepoint cushion and sipped at the fine
claret in his goblet. “My cousin James Hampton and I went to school together.
My uncle died young and James was left to run wild, and so he did. At the time,
I rather admired his escapades, and admittedly, I imitated a few too many, but
as heir to the title, I had this rigid sense of duty beaten into me, so I
admired from afar, as it were.”

Although his chamber had been hastily prepared from remnants
found in other rooms and attics, he felt quite at home here. The weather had
grown worse since Christmas, and he saw no profit in leaving the snug warmth of
this apartment his daughter and son-in-law had provided. Besides, he wished to
know more of them before making any decisions.

He studied his host’s rough-hewn face with interest. The
Maclean was restless, but shackled by wife and family, he could not risk the
perils of foul weather just to be out and about. Cranville gave him a
sympathetic smile and continued his tale.

“James’s escapades went too far, too fast, when he
dishonored a lady of quality. He had a choice of dueling with one of the finest
swordsmen in the country or marrying the girl. Alex was the only issue of that
marriage. My cousin broke his neck racing his stallion cross-country on a wager
that he could reach Yorkminster before several other young fools who were bound
for the same wedding.”

The earl shrugged and continued, “I had joined the navy by
then and knew little of my cousin’s wife or child. I assumed my father kept
them on an allowance. I doubt seriously that my uncle or cousin had much to
leave them. What surprises me is that my father never brought Alex to the
estate when he thought me dead. The boy had a right to learn of his heritage.”

The Maclean sipped at his whisky and stared out the narrow
mullioned window to the raging snowstorm outside. “Farnley told me a little
when I signed over an allowance to him to run the estate. Apparently Alex’s mother
came from a family with some wealth and thought poorly of Hamptons in general.
After what they went through with your cousin, that might be understandable. They
refused to let your father have anything to do with their only grandchild. They
were determined their grandson would be raised a gentleman, not a Hampton.”

Cranville laughed at his distinction. “The title isn’t
ancient, I agree. We more or less bribed and bought it like everyone else in
the last century. There always seemed to be one Hampton in every generation
good at buying and bribing. The rest were scoundrels, no doubt. The line seems
to be dying out, though. If Alex can’t make the estate work, we’ll become
nonentities like so many others. I remember there was a time after I recovered
my memory when I spent long, frustrating hours debating whether I should return
to Brianna and father a legitimate heir to the title, but with wife and
children already, can you imagine the devastation I might have wreaked?”

Despite the growing darkness, Rory continued staring out the
window. He acknowledged the question with a polite nod. “Fate leads us down
strange paths. I wish you would reconsider your decision about Alyson’s
inheritance. I feel as if I came by it under false pretenses. It sits upon my
shoulder like some great malevolent raven that I will never shake.”

The earl chuckled again, thoroughly pleased by the Scotsman’s
dilemma. All that money sitting there waiting to be planted and tended and
harvested, and all of it to be had from an English aristocrat. He clucked his
amused sympathy.

“You shall just have to hand it over to Alyson, then. She
seems perfectly capable of spending every cent without a qualm. I doubt that my
father ever denied her anything.”

Rory shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets and studied
some scene out the window. “I would prefer we live within my means, but I
cannot deny her the things she takes for granted. I am not a poor man, but my
income must stretch to include my clan as well as this estate. That leaves very
little for the comforts Alyson deserves. So she writes to Farnley for what she
wants and scorns my meager offerings.”

Cranville understood that he had just been given a very
private glimpse of the closemouthed Scotsman. Very few men of his acquaintance
would be troubled by a wife’s overlarge dowry. “If Alyson’s wealth is the only concern
you have, count yourself a lucky man,” he replied dryly, reaching for the
decanter.

His host’s back stiffened, and he smacked the window frame. The
Maclean’s rigid stance warned of some event in the outside world.

“Is there someone out there?” the earl asked.

“It’s a bloody blizzard out there. The man must be mad.”

Recollecting his own arrival more than a month ago, the earl
could not in all conscience comment on this remark. Madness was come by easily
in this environment.

Cursing, Rory strode from the room.

Cranville contemplated the inviting decanter of claret
sparkling in the firelight. It seemed a damned shame to waste all this warmth
and comfort for an icy blast of snow and wind, but on the other hand, there was
little enough to keep a man occupied. He rose from the comfortable chair to
follow Rory through the hallway.

They came upon Alyson already struggling into boots and a
fur-lined cloak, to the anxious protests of Myra. At sight of the two men, Myra
flung up her hands in relief.

“Talk some sense into her. She swears there is someone out
there, and it won’t do but she go out to find him herself. As if anybody in his
right mind would be out there. He would be frozen to a block of ice.”

Rory snatched the bonnet from Alyson’s hands and flung it to
Myra. “Keep her here. I’ll go.”

Myra’s eyes widened. Alyson merely gave him the information she
could not possibly know. “It’s my cousin. I can’t tell if he’s hurt, but there’s
something wrong. I don’t want you to kill him.”

Myra drew in a sharp breath and the earl looked bewildered.
Rory scowled. “You don’t even know how far away he is or where he is, and you
would go out after him? Is his welfare more important than yours?”

Alyson had given the matter very little thought. She had
simply seen the vision and reacted accordingly. Neither Myra nor her father
would believe that she knew Alex was out there, but Rory didn’t even question.
Already he was pulling on his greatcoat and gloves. She should have gone to him
in the first place—except she didn’t want her husband killing her cousin, or
vice versa.

“Take someone with you, Rory,” she insisted.

“I’ll go.” The earl signaled for his outer garments.

Well-wrapped against the bitter wind, the two men stepped
into the dying light of midafternoon. Alyson watched them go with fear, then
hurried to seek a window where she could follow their progress. She still had
nightmares of snowstorms and dark hills and Rory disappearing on horseback over
the edge of that wicked cliff out there, but she had no premonition that this
was the snowstorm to be feared. Rory would never take his animals out in
weather like this. It would be quite foolhardy.

She found their dark figures staggering against the wind,
the lanterns in their gloved hands blinking as they swung between the flapping
lengths of caped coats. She did not know how Rory knew which direction to take
until she spied the man and horse limping down the snow-covered hillside. She
held her breath as the trio of figures espied each other.

She could see the musket in Rory’s hand. He must have taken
it from the stable before heading up the hill. She shivered as her cousin
reached for something on the horse’s saddle. She wanted to scream at their
foolishness, but screams would be futile. She could only pray that one of them
would recover his senses.

***

Outside, the earl caught the Maclean’s arm, keeping him
from lifting the weapon. The howl of the wind made conversation impossible, but
he shouted a furious command. Rory shook off his hold and lifted the firearm, dodging
the earl’s blow. The musket fired, spewing the smell of sulfur, shattering the
snow-deadened silence with its explosion.

The man on the far hill stepped backward, shaken, until it
became apparent the shot was not aimed at him. Water spurted from a hole blown
in the ice not yards from his feet. The thin ice would never have held the
weight of man and horse.

Weakly, their visitor leaned against his animal and waited
for lantern bearers to show him the safest route.

Minutes later, forced by the wind and exertion into silence,
the men traveled down the dangerous rock-strewn path of the hillside to the
safety of the stone tower near the cliff’s edge. In a beacon of light from the
upper-story window, a lone figure waited for their return.

By the time they reached the front door, the hall fire blazed
and warm blankets and hot toddies were waiting. Servants scurried to remove
soaked coats and boots, leaving the three men regarding each other warily.
Alyson’s entrance focused their attention.

Garbed in a loose maroon wool that trailed behind her in a
ripple of stiff petticoats that disguised the extent of her pregnancy, Alyson appeared
as a throwback to some Highland princess amid the threadbare tapestries and
tarnished halberds. Her thick black curls were untamed by pomatum and barely
restrained by the combs. Only her porcelain features revealed the lack of royal
hauteur. She welcomed them as if they had strolled in from an afternoon’s walk.

Waiting until warm slippers had been found for Rory’s feet,
she took his arm and steered him toward the roaring fire. Chairs and tables had
been arranged near enough to the fireplace to be warm and not roasted. Rory
gestured for his guest to precede him.

No introductions had yet been made. Alyson smiled at the
incongruous sight of her father’s old-fashioned elegance in buckram-stiffened
silks and red heels preceding Alex, his heir, in his stylish velvet and stiff
cravat.

Only Rory in his open shirt and old worsted loose coat
appeared at home. That was because in her mind she saw him with the tartan over
his shoulder that he had worn at Christmas. Out of deference to the earl, he
had not worn it since, but he walked as if he wore this insignia of his title
and position against the medieval grandeur of the old hall.

Ignoring the steaming mugs of punch, Rory poured himself a
dram of whisky before making the introductions that would likely explode Alex’s
small world.

Alyson settled her skirts on a settee as her husband curtly introduced
the newly titled Earl of Cranville to the rightful claimant to the title.

Alex Hampton made a mocking bow to the older man seated
before him. “Very well done, I must say. It had not occurred to me that Maclean
would also wish to usurp the few beggarly things remaining to me by hiring an
impostor. Very clever, indeed. Shall I return to Cornwall to find myself locked
out of my own house?”

“Damned insolent pup, if you were there where you belonged,
you would know, wouldn’t you? Damme if I don’t believe Maclean is right. My
heir is not only a fool, but a damned impertinent one at that.”

Everett Hampton crossed his arms, and Alex’s mouth curled
with scorn. Rory took a seat with his back to the fire. His curiosity demanded
to know what had brought his nemesis here in a blinding storm, but he could
wait while the two Englishmen went for each other’s throats.

“Out of respect for your age and my hostess, sir, I’ll not
call you out for those insults,” Alex said stiffly. “I have come with a message
for my cousin and her husband, not to duel with an old fool.”

The earl grew livid with rage, and setting aside his mug,
began to rise. Alyson was ahead of him. Her gentle hand touched his shoulder,
holding him back. Her musical voice filled their ears, although not with songs
of peace, Rory noted with amusement.

“Alex, for once be sensible instead of hasty,” she commanded.
“Rory and I have no need of your estates and would not go to such lengths as to
hire an impostor. This is my father, returned from Barbados apparently by the
vicious rumors you planted all over the island about me. Had you held your
tongue, he might never have returned and the title would be yours. As it is,
you would do well to listen before you spoil your chances of ever seeing
Cornwall again. Can you not see the resemblance to the portrait in the main
drawing room?”

Alex stared at her in mockery. “I thought you had some
modicum of sense, little cousin, but if you believe this faradiddle, you are as
great a fool as you look. You would take a faint resemblance to an ancient
portrait as proof positive that this man is your father? Isn’t it odd that he
does not happen along until you are worth a king’s ransom?” He turned to Rory
with equal scorn. “Surely you have sense enough to see the convenience of his
disguise? I can only believe you play along with him for nefarious purposes.”

Alyson’s hand tightened in anger upon her father’s shoulder.
He patted it reassuringly. “I can see why you did not take a liking to him,
dear. I’ve not seen such arrogance since his father announced he could drink
every man in White’s under the table and then proceeded to do so . Drinking was
certainly a poor talent to cultivate, but he did it exceedingly well, while he
lasted. I suppose you have cultivated equally useless talents?” He directed
this last to his heir.

Alex fingered the hilt of his sword. “I am accounted a fair
swordsman, sir. Would you care to try me?”

“As to that, I’ll let the Maclean settle those differences,”
the earl said dismissively. “I daresay our host is quite proficient with that
broadsword of his, and he seems to have good reason for taking arms against
you. I myself prefer fencing with words. Do you remember aught of your father?”