Moon Dreams (50 page)

Thick black smoke spilled into the room. Alyson was a
deadweight in his arms, scarcely able to stay on her feet, but he needed her.
Keeping his arm around her, he dragged her choking and coughing toward his
escape route.

Only when he flung open the door did Drummond realize the
back stairs were filled with pitchforks, hatchets, and carving knives of his own
servants.

He turned and found Rory waiting for him in the doorway,
claymore in hand, the fire blazing impossibly high behind him, glinting red off
his hair as if he were a demon from hell.

He was
dead.
He
had to be a demon.

Drummond dropped Alyson, grabbed his rapier, and leapt
forward, thrusting his blade at the specter of his enemy.

***

Rory’s heavy sword weighed down his wounded shoulder, but a
little inconvenience was as nothing to the sight of Alyson groaning in pain. He
could have lobbed the heads off a herd of stampeding cattle. Drummond’s puny rapier
presented no obstacle.

One swing of the broad sword sent the rapier spinning. Rory
advanced toward the coward who had deprived him of family and home and
threatened the same again. One more swing and Drummond would breathe his last.

Finally faced with the living, breathing result of his
actions, Drummond turned and fled—straight into the arms of the tenants he had
cheated these last fifteen years.

Rory stepped aside and let Drummond flee with the mob on his
heels.

In terror, he bent over Alyson’s fallen form. She moaned as
he lifted her, and he cursed and fought anguish at the sight of her pale,
strained face. Remembering her call for Myra, he knew his babe was about to be
born in a bloody inferno.

***

Alex shoved through the triumphant crowd cornering
Drummond in the upstairs linen cupboard. He listened with disdain to the
Englishman’s cries for mercy. His gaze was drawn past the crowd, down the
corridor, to where the distraught Maclean held his unconscious wife in his
arms.

Past the Maclean, men rushed to douse the fire under the
elderly earl of Cranville’s command. There was something to be said about
carpetless floors, Alex supposed. Men dragged the burning draperies to the
windows, extinguishing the last sparks in the snow.

His shoulders sagged as he realized he had just admitted the
old man’s title to himself. He had not even the meager advantage of a title
left now.

But at least he wasn’t the dastard in the cupboard. With a
sardonic grin, he gestured over the heads of the crowd for Rory to follow him.

Using his size, Alex forged a path through the rioting
crowd. As the mass recognized the Maclean and his wife, they grew silent. The mindless
screaming mob of moments earlier turned into individuals once again, people who
had worked for and respected and claimed kinship to the Macleans for decades.
They watched the laird’s expressionless face as he carried his pregnant wife
toward the chamber that should have been his. Somewhere, a woman began to keen.

***

The mourning cry grated on Rory’s nerves. Knowing Alex had
no real control over these people, he sought for a face he could trust. Finding
Dougall, he allowed himself a very small measure of hope. “Send everybody home
and go fetch Myra. I don’t think my son intends to wait.”

The confidence of his voice raised a cheer from those who
heard. Alex lifted a cynical eyebrow, but Alyson’s cousin played the part of
bodyguard well. Silently, he held the door open so Rory could pass through,
then shut out the crowd of eager well-wishers.

Alyson stirred as Rory laid her upon the wide bed of the
master suite. Her eyes flickered, then focused on him. A smile curved her lips
and she reached out to touch him.

“Real, and not a vision?” she asked.

“A moon dream, remember?” he murmured, holding her close. “I
am not really here. We’re out on the
Witch,
sailing beneath a Caribbean
sun. The island’s just ahead. Shall we throw out the anchor?”

Her laughter filled the room with music that lasted long
after she twitched and moaned again. Rory threw a look of frustration to his bodyguard.
“Devil take it, Hampton, do something. Find hot water and linens and someone
who knows what the hell to do with them.”

Alyson clutched his hand as the pain rolled past, then
gasped, “Your son will be fine. Just stay with me. Tell me how you escaped that
cliff.”

“A fortune-teller told me I would walk on air, so I was
prepared. I’ve ridden my horse over it dozens of times. Snow is tricky, but he’s
a sound horse and learned the tricky ledges. I think I’ll have his shoes
bronzed. And worship the fortuneteller forevermore. Can you foretell when my
son will arrive?”

Alex strode to the grate and groped in the dark for kindling
and flints. “You’re both Bedlamites, I see that now. How can you be so damned certain
it is a son? That’s all I’ve heard talk about. What if the poor thing is a
girl? Do you give her away and start another one?”

Rory forced a grin as Alyson’s face pulled taut with pain. “I’d
like nowt better than a wee lass to lighten my days, but my wife says it is to
be a braw boy, and I’ll not argue the matter.”

As the fire kindled, Alyson grimaced. “Alex, you must go
now. Find my father and tell him I am fine. Perhaps there is someone below who
could help Rory. I don’t think the babe will wait for Myra.”

Her fingers tore at Rory’s hands as the contractions pushed
faster, pressing at her middle. Her petticoats and skirts were soaked already.
Rory watched helplessly.

His look was bleak as his last ally prepared to desert him. “You’d
better see to securing Drummond,” he told Alex. “I’ll not have his death upon
my hands if it can be avoided.”

Glancing from husband to wife, Hampton growled, “I don’t
mind having it on mine.” Leaving them with that grisly thought, he stalked out.

“Your cousin is a rash man. I’d better stop him before he
does something foolish.” Rory made no immediate move to rise from the bed. His
wife and his son deserved his attention more than a traitor.

Alyson plucked at a charred hole in his tartan. “You’ll
never have a decent wardrobe, Maclean,” she murmured, before the pain took her
speech away.

He held her against the pain, breathing with her as if they were
one in this moment of trial. He ached to take the pain away, but he was
helpless in this.

A woman finally bustled in carrying a pitcher of water and
fresh linens. Capable hands stripped Alyson of soiled gown and petticoats,
washed her, and garbed her in a clean nightshirt. Then she stripped the bed and
covered it with thick sheepskin and clean linen.

Rory felt as if he had done royal battle by the time the
women were done.

“Thank you.” Alyson caressed Rory with her smile. “Send for
more warm water and good strong soap. You will feel better when you are clean,
and the babe will need to be washed.”

“I’m supposed to be the one in charge here,” Rory
remonstrated, only to turn and order the maid to do as instructed.

“No, God is in charge,” she informed him. “Hold my hand,
Rory. I don’t think I can wait much longer.”

“Scream then, lass. Let it go. Let them know our son comes
into the world fighting.”

As her cries tore through the air, Rory wished to scream
with her, but she needed his strength and not his fear. When the maid returned,
he rolled up his shirtsleeves to wash.

“Good lass, very good. Your grandmother would be proud of
you. That’s a good Scots cry.” He murmured senseless phrases so she would know
he was still here. “Try it harder. Teach our son how to make himself heard.”

He felt lines permanently etching his brow as he sat beside
her again. He wet a cool cloth and smoothed her damp skin. “I’m proud of you,
lass. I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re all I want, Alys, you
and the child. We can sail foreign seas or find that London house of yours or
stay in Cornwall, whatever you wish when this is over.”

The bedroom door slammed open and Myra rushed in, carrying
in the cold scents of outdoors. She flung off her cloak and gloves and nodded
approvingly at the kettle of hot water steaming over the fire.

Alyson panted breathlessly, and Rory continued to soothe
her. “Push, Alyson. Let him come. Let me see him. A bairn born with so much
love should be big and strong, shouldn’t he? Remember the night on the island
when our blood flowed together so strongly? Do you think he was conceived on
that night, lass? Ach, but I loved you so that I thought my heart would break
of it. Lass, let me love you again. Hold on and push,
push,
Alys!”

As Alyson writhed, Myra whispered, “Almost. He’s almost
here.” She adjusted the sheets over her patient while Rory continued pleading,
although his wife seemed beyond knowing what he said.

“Ach, my bonny jo, ’tis bad I’ve been for you, but never
again, my lovely lass. All the home I need is you. I’d see grass beneath your
feet and flowers in your hair and our bairn running at your side. I’ll make ye
love me as I’ve loved ye since that first day I set eyes on you, all heather
and mist wrapped in a stableman’s coat. Alyson, for the love of God, push!”

He screamed this last as he held her, while the terrible
pain made her weep and cry and cling to him with fear. It went on and on,
longer than any before, and Rory felt his life draining away before his eyes—until
the violent shudders ended and a thin cry cut the air.

“It’s a boy, my lord.” Myra held the kicking infant in the
air while the maid rushed over with warm linens.

Rory could feel the grin pushing foolishly across his face
as he gazed upon the perfectly formed infant with a thick thatch of black hair,
then back to his wife’s lovely black tresses. He brushed the curls from her
forehead, and Alyson’s eyes flickered open for just a moment.

“I’ve always loved you, Maclean. Whatever made you think
elsewise?”

Rory’s whoop of sheer joy could be heard throughout the
house. The sound lifted heads and brought tears to the eyes of all who
listened.

***

“Alyson’s fine and it’s a boy!” Rory yelled over the
banister at the expectant faces below. A cheer raced around the room, and the
defiant wail of a bagpipe commenced.

In his excitement, Rory raced down the stairs to accept the
tumbler of whisky Alex held out to him. He drained it appreciatively, then
gestured for a refill for everyone. The crowd cheered again, and the illegal
bagpipe played more boldly, filling the long stale air of Stagshead with the
wild, haunting strains of the mountains.

Dougall grabbed two swords held out by men in the crowd and
threw them down on the marble floors. The house had never been properly
christened. Never would there be a better time.

Rory glanced to the crossed swords, up to the piper, and
around at the expectant faces of friends and family with a grin of
exhilaration. With the whisky and his joy winging through him, he set his hands
on his hips, and in shirtsleeves and breeches, with his tartan flying around
him, he flung himself into the wild dance of homecoming and celebration that his
ancestors had performed for centuries.

He was home, at last.

Laughter and yells of triumph combined with streaming tears
of happiness on the faces of the crowd as the laird proclaimed his proud
possession in this dance of victory. Perhaps the days of Highland warriors were
over, but never their courage. The pipes wailed louder, and voices lifted in
old familiar songs.

Throwing an eager glance overhead to where his wife and
child rested, Rory surrendered the floor to others. He needed to be back with
them, but first, he had to recognized the needs of those who had helped him get
here. Panting from exertion, he clasped his father-in-law’s back and shook his
hand.

“I never thought I’d see the day when I’d be happy to have
my daughter married to a barbarian, but that day has just come. She needs you,
son. Take care of her,” the English earl said with weary pride.

Rory couldn’t wipe the grin from his face. He had spent half
his life on the dire edge of nothing, painstakingly plodding his way toward his
goal. Of a sudden, none of that mattered. He knew Stagshead still didn’t belong
to him, might never belong to him. He knew he had broken enough laws to land
him in jail for the rest of his life.

But none of that mattered any longer. He had told Alyson the
truth, a truth he had long denied and felt better to have said. All he really
needed was her. Everything else would follow. It seemed so easy, now that he
recognized it. His grin broadened as he watched Hampton’s skeptical expression.

“Aye, my wife and I both need keepers,” Rory chuckled,
taking another glass that someone offered. He lifted it in toast to Alyson’s father
and cousin. “But then, I think there’s a wee dram of madness in Hampton blood
too. What have you done with Drummond, Alex?”

Hampton shrugged his broad shoulders and continued to look
bored as he lifted his glass to his lips. “He’s keeping cool. You needn’t
concern yourself yet. There’s another bottle of this gullet lye somewhere
around. Care to join me?”

The earl lifted a disapproving brow at his heir’s ill
manners, but Rory only laughed. “I will, and we will see who is the true
Highlander here. But first, I want to see how Alyson fares.”

He sprinted back up the stairs, carried by wings of
happiness, ignoring the ache of his injured shoulder. He had everything now,
and everything waited for him at the top of the stairs.

Myra let him into the room, handing him the sleeping infant.
With a few whispered words of caution, she slipped out. Rory awkwardly held the
bundle in his arms, smoothing a petal-soft cheek and touching infinitely tiny,
perfect fingers. Wanting to share his joy, he sat down upon the bed and gazed
lovingly at the beautiful woman lying upon the pillows.