Moon Dreams (7 page)

“I can make my own home, and I have a feeling your name will
not be decent much longer. No, thank you, my lord. I cannot accept your offer.”
She refused even to look at him but seemed to be staring longingly at the door.

Alex laid his hand on her shoulder. He didn’t have time for
more pretty words when threats worked equally well. “You have no choice,
cousin. You will marry me in the morning, and we will get along suitably well.
Or you can refuse and find your friend’s home in flames, her person set upon by
thieves and rogues, and yourself bound and gagged on the way to a whorehouse in
France. I have friends in a great many interesting places. You would be much
better off joining me than fighting me.”

With satisfaction, he felt her shudder. He had already
marked her for one of those frail, cowardly females who would run at the first
sight of a real man but cower at his feet forevermore after he bedded her. He
preferred a more spirited wench, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He had no intention of carrying out any of his threats, but
anyone foolish enough to believe them needed a man’s protection. He would be
doing her a favor to wed her innocence to his experience.

His hand slid up her throat to cup her chin and turn it to
face him. She had odd eyes. He had never paid much heed to a woman’s eyes, but
hers were impossible to escape. They were all he saw when he forced her chin
up.

He had thought them a washed-out blue at first, but as he
held her, they turned an icy gray that would have frozen a lesser man. Behind
that heavy fringe of black they were a witch’s eyes, but he was not the
superstitious sort. He lowered his head to claim the luscious lips that would
be his alone until he tired of her.

Aroused by the spell of the woman in his hands, the earl
failed to hear the click of the door as it opened. Not until the bitch sank her
teeth into his lower lip, and he yelped in pain, did he hear a laugh and know
his humiliation had been witnessed. Cursing, Cranville shoved Alyson from his
hold and grabbed his sword hilt.

The intruder leaning against the doorframe did not match his
height, but the nonchalant manner in which he crossed his arms across his muscular
chest warned of the strength behind the sword dangling at his fingertips. Cranville
narrowed his eyes. Here was no anxious lover, but a soldier looking for a
brawl.

“No introductions are necessary, lass,” the intruder
announced. “I can assume this is Cranville. I go by Maclean. Now that the
amenities are accomplished, where shall I send my seconds?”

Rory ignored Alyson’s gasp. He scarcely cared if it were
astonishment or fear that caused her lovely hands to rise in protest. His rage
was such that it would scald all within sight until he had this monster’s head
on a skewer. Alyson might choose to throw herself away on a fool, but no one would
force himself on her while Rory Douglas Maclean had a breath in his lungs. He
could do that much to protect the only good thing he knew in his life.

The earl lifted his big shoulders in a casual shrug, then
drew out his card with his direction. Maclean watched him with suspicion, but
stepped aside to let him pass. Cranville turned for one last look at his errant
cousin.

“Remember what I have told you, Alyson. After I have
disposed of your lover here, I will be coming back for you. I expect you to be
waiting.”

Rory’s fist clenched around his sword hilt. His desire to
run the blade through this vermin was so strong that it almost felt like an
outside force. He restrained himself, however, and when he glanced at Alyson, he
forgot Cranville.

The vibrant beauty who had so daringly defied a man twice
her size moments before had dwindled into a dazed waif who neither met his eyes
nor replied to his call. When he stepped into the room and held out his hand to
offer her comfort, she did not even seem to know him. More terrified than he had
ever been in battle, Rory buckled his sword. He approached her slowly, catching
her shoulders in his hands, reassuring himself that she was alive and well behind
those glassy eyes.

“Alyson! Say something. What is wrong? What did that bastard
say to you? Alyson, dammit, wake up and tell me what happened!”

Rory’s tortured cry apparently reached her, and she emerged
from her trance. Fear and horror lingered in her eyes, but seeing the anxiety
in his, she smiled slowly.

“My lord, how can anyone fear a man with eyes as beautiful
as yours? I can see right into your soul.” With that, she rested her hands on
his chest, stood on her toes, and kissed his lips.

The shock thrilled him down to his bones. But with this
angel, Rory had to be a gentleman. His hands had instinctively circled her
waist, but he released her as soon as she pulled away.

“Do not worry. I will not let anything happen to you or your
aunt,” she murmured, before drifting past him as if he were not there, to
disappear into the rooms beyond.

Rory ran his hand through his loosely bound hair and stared
after her, no longer an arrogant man in full control of his life but a man
whose soul had just been plunged into torment.

Deirdre found him shortly after, but Rory had no intention
of telling her he meant to kill Alyson’s insufferable cousin. He suggested that
she and Alyson spend the night with friends, then walked out.

Upstairs, Alyson was already packing her trunk. She had laid
out the shabby maid’s costume she had arrived in and was now sorting through
her new wardrobe for the simpler gowns and petticoats. At sight of Deirdre, she
smiled vaguely and continued packing.

“I do wish someone would explain what is happening,” Deirdre
complained, taking a seat at the vanity and poking around the bottles and
brushes.

“I told the Maclean I should travel incognito.” Alyson
folded a flaring petticoat and shoved it to the bottom of the trunk.

“Rory says we are to leave the house and spend the night
elsewhere. Is your cousin that dangerous?”

“I thank you very much for your hospitality, Deirdre, but I
cannot impose on you longer. I will write and tell you how I fare. Thank Rory
for me. Besides my grandfather, he is the only true gentleman I have ever
known. I regret that I involved him in this.”

“You are talking nonsense, child! Anyone who calls Rory a
gentleman is all about in the head. Have no illusions about my nephew. He is
well able to take care of himself, has done so since he was a child. You needn’t
be protecting him by running away. I’ll just send a servant over to Lady Emilie,
and we’ll pass the night comfortably with her until Rory and your cousin have
put an end to their differences.”

With a sad smile, Alyson shook her head. Why couldn’t others
see what she did? There wasn’t time to explain. She had to change and get to
the bank before it closed.

“Rory has nothing to fear from my cousin. You do. Go to your
friend’s house, please. I will be fine.” This last was a lie. The vision she
had seen when Rory had challenged the earl had been filled with terror, but she
could not pin a name or place or face to it.

She had known nameless terror before. Just before her
grandfather died she had felt it. It was a cold sensation that surrounded her
heart and stopped it from beating and clouded her thoughts with wispy vapors of
fear, but the source was never clear. She just knew this time that it was
directed at herself, and she could surmise Cranville was the source of it.

She knew other things too, vague things that were not always
clear until the moment struck. That was the frightening part, waiting for it to
happen. But action, any action at all, was better than sitting still. By
separating herself from her friends, she assured herself that they would not be
struck by whatever befell her.

Alyson returned to methodically gathering her belongings.
Deirdre gave up with a sigh and departed, presumably to scribble a message to
Lady Emilie.

A fog was rolling in from the water by the time Alyson had completed
her packing and changed to her maid’s costume. She left the house with her
reticule wrapped around her wrist and hidden beneath the old woolen cloak. The
unusual warm weather had turned bitingly cold for March. The damp fog had driven
people inside, and there were few to observe her direction.

She hurried to the corner on Piccadilly where she knew she
would find a sedan chair to take her the distance to Cheapside. It had not been
easy leaving without a maid. Surely no one would blame an entire household if
she disappeared quietly on her own.

The mist settled on her cloak, dampening her spirits until
she located a chair. It might have been faster if she walked, but she was
afraid of the empty streets and the shadows in the fog.

By the time she arrived on Cheapside, the bank was preparing
to close. It, too, was nearly empty, and the clerk was impatient. The account
she drew upon, however, was a healthy one, and after some fussing, he provided
her with the funds requested.

With enough coins to travel anywhere, Alyson set out to
locate a post chaise. She had learned a good deal about travel in these last
few weeks, but not so much as she would like. It would be better if she had a
destination, with someone waiting for her at the other end, but Cranville would
only make life a misery for any friends of hers. Better to just disappear and
reappear elsewhere as someone new. She owned property in Bath. That gave her a
direction, at least.

Her mind cluttered with worries, she hurried through the fog-shrouded
street. Turning from the wide avenue of the financial district into a short
alley that would take her to the hiring inn, she became aware of men following
her.

Garbed as a servant, she assumed she had nothing that would
interest a thief. But as she hurried on, she heard two more pairs of footsteps
in the fog. That was when she knew she had been a fool to think Cranville would
wait until morning.

She began to run, but she had no hope of outdistancing three
strong men while running in clogs and long skirts. Hard arms grabbed her from
behind. She kicked and struck out with her reticule, but no amount of struggle
could free her from three pairs of sturdy arms. Her screams brought no reply.

They covered her face with a heavy, sweet-smelling rag that
made her gag. Fighting to breathe, she was helpless to prevent them from
binding her arms. Darkness prevented any other thought.

***

The man holding the plump pigeon’s waist chuckled and slid
his other hand beneath her cloak to explore her pleasing curves. The girl
moaned and moved restlessly. With a predatory hunger, he glanced to his
companions, who were busily tying her wrists and ankles and recovering the
heavy purse she had used to strike at them.

“’E didn’ give no time we’re to bring ’er, did ’e?” her captor
asked.

Opening the reticule and ignoring this question, his
companions whistled. “We’re rich, yer bastids! Rich! Blimey, just look at this!”

Hauling their burden into a doorway, they emptied the coins
into their own pockets, arguing as to who should get the greater share. But
even with this wealth to worship, more primitive hunger called. The one who’d
first caught her gestured toward their sleeping burden.

“We’ve got more bloody gold than ’e offered us. What if ’e
finds out we emptied her pockets? She’s got a mouth on ’er. She’ll tell.”

That produced a sudden silence as they recalled their
employer’s unpleasant temper.

The thin, sharp-faced one spoke up. “She’s a prime piece.
Molly would let us live like gents for a week if we brung ’er somethin’ this
fine. Maybe even let us break ’er in to the trade, if you catches my meanin’.”

The sturdier man looked interested. “Yeah, then arter we
gots what we could, we could tip off the gent that we hunted high and low and knows
where to find ’er, and maybe ’e’d pay to ’ave ’er back. ’E wouldn’t ’ave to
know we was the ones to roll ’er.”

The third and oldest man shook his head. “’E’ll kill us fer
not bringin’ ’er directly back. ’E’ll know she’s gone. It won’t do.”

The argument continued until someone appeared at the alley
entrance to see what the noise was about, and they decided to make their
decision in a safer place.

They carried their prize with her arms wrapped about their
necks like a drunken doxy. Arguing and singing, they weaved their way back to
their favorite inn in a shabby waterfront district near London Bridge, just off
Bishopsgate, easily within walking distance of their posh surroundings.

Rory Douglas Maclean stood on the wharf staring over the
jungle of rigging and masts that filled this point of the Thames. His ship had
returned and was now anchored on the edge of the current, ready for sailing at
a moment’s notice. More than ready. He scowled and contemplated the fog rising into
the rigging. His fool crew hadn’t completed their run, and the casks filling
the false bottom made the ship lie low in the water, a certain signal for the
customs officers.

He cursed silently. The fog would hide the ship for now, but
it would also prevent its sailing. He couldn’t afford to forfeit his entire
livelihood to the customs agents.

The seaman who had brought the message said the revenue
cutters had been waiting for them. That meant they were out there now searching
for the
Sea Witch.
It had been a bold maneuver to sail straight up the
Thames—bold but foolish.

There was no time left. That villain Cranville hadn’t been
at his lodgings when Rory’s seconds went around to call on him. There had been
creditors enough on the doorstep willing to report his comings and goings, but
they hadn’t seen him in days. The coward evidently had no intention of
returning until he had his hands on Alyson’s money.

Rory couldn’t leave the girl with a predator like that
hovering around her. What in hell had he gotten himself into?