Moon Dreams (10 page)

With the rent in the gown repaired, she had another problem
to tackle. She desperately needed sleep, and the only bed in the room was
occupied. She had slept beside him fully clothed last night, but the thought of
spending another uncomfortable night in the stiff gown and stays did not
appeal. She wished wholeheartedly to rid herself of garters and stockings too.
These she could wash out in the basin and leave to dry overnight if she thought
Rory would sleep and not notice her immodesty.

Remembering the large linen shirts in Rory’s trunk, she
brightened. Those shirts were long enough to make a robe of sorts. She would
leave on her chemise and pull the shirt over it, and while she wouldn’t be
fashionable, she would be modestly covered and comfortable.

With that happy decision she at least wore clean and dry
linen, and she felt almost human again. Washing out her stockings in the basin,
then carefully folding her normal attire over the captain’s chair, she
contemplated the problem of sleeping arrangements.

Last time, Rory had politely slept on the very edge of the
bunk so as to give her respectful space. Tonight he lay unconscious in the
center of the bed, with only two narrow sides to choose from. Neither choice
looked comfortable, and there was certainly nothing decent about the position
she would be in, but the only alternative was the floor.

With a sigh of resignation, Alyson bathed Rory’s brow in
cold water, and when he did not stir, climbed in beside him. If she lay between
him and the wall, she was less likely to be thrown out in the night. She would
just have to pray her bedmate would not roll over and crush her.

She adjusted the blanket over both of them. The heat of his
fevered body engulfed her, and she felt comfortably warm for the first time in . . .
What? Days? How long had she been gone from home and propriety? Two scandalous
nights at least. She was truly ruined, but that was the least of her worries
now. For her own safety, the well-being of the man beside her had to come
first.

Drowsily she curled into a tighter ball, and her bottom
brushed his hip. She had never shared a bed with anyone before. The sensation
made her edgy. But after a while the sound of Rory’s gentle breathing and the
warmth of his closeness relaxed her, and she slept.

Whether from the light filtering through the porthole or a
change in her patient’s breathing, Alyson woke with a start. Sometime during
the night she had rolled over. She was lying close to Rory’s side, her hand
resting on his chest. The position seemed oddly natural, and she relaxed to the
even beat of his heart beneath her fingers. Only when her brain belatedly
remembered her predicament did she withdraw her hand. Cautiously she lifted
herself on one elbow to observe the captain’s countenance. He seemed to be
sleeping, and she breathed a sigh of relief.

The fresh bandage she had applied to his head was still
clean, so the bleeding had finally stopped. He felt feverish, but not
dangerously so, she judged. When he woke, he would need better nourishment than
had thus far been provided. Surely, now that the storm had abated, they could
prepare some hot broth.

Preparing to climb over his unconscious body, Alyson noticed
a change in her patient’s breathing. She glanced down to find Rory’s eyes wide
open and focused on the open neckline of her impromptu nightshirt. Between the
ungainly shirt and the loose, low-cut chemise, she displayed an immodest amount
of bosom. Hastily she pulled the edges of the shirt neck together and tried to
complete her maneuver, but Rory caught her waist and held her.

His gaze slowly drank in the mess of her hair tumbling over
her breasts, and his fingers tightened on her waist.

“What devil’s trick has cursed me with angels in my bed?” He
closed his eyes again, and lacking strength, dropped his hand back to the bed.

Scrambling to the floor, Alyson studied him with worry. Rory’s
dark face seemed paler than usual, and lines of pain wreathed his mouth beneath
the heavy growth of stubble. She didn’t know whether to scold him or worry that
he was delirious.

“Perhaps a drink from your flask will help?”

Rory heard the uncertainty in her voice and saw clearly in
his mind’s eye the wanton beauty she had just revealed to him. His body
stiffened with the raging conflict between desire and propriety. He was in no
humor for being proper, but neither had he the strength to satisfy his desire.
He had definitely dug himself a hole to hell and fallen into it. It would take
a saint to dig him out again, and he certainly wasn’t any saint, as the
irritation in his reply showed.

“Get out of here, Alyson. Fetch William.”

She stared at him in disbelief. “You would have me run about
your ship in little or nothing? Fie on you, sir! I’ll go when I’m ready, and
not before.”

Rory closed his eyes against any further onslaught to his
beleaguered senses. “If you think I’ll lie here and watch you dress yourself,
you’re madder than I thought. Get out, Alyson, now. Or get back in this bed
with me.”

That seemed a very odd choice to make. She almost
contemplated climbing back in bed with him, since she felt much safer there
than roaming a ship of strange men in her chemise, but Rory’s tone warned that
would not be a wise choice. Grabbing up her gown and praying, she ran out of
the cabin.

Luckily, the small common space where the captain normally
shared his meals with his officers was empty. Although she wore no stays or
stockings, she struggled into her gown and laced it as best she could, then set
off to explore the ship.

She refused to return to the captain’s cabin. She had taken
all the humiliation one person should have to suffer. Finding William scrubbing
pots in the galley, she sent him to tend to the wretched Maclean. She, on the
other hand, set about making friends with the garrulous old man who served as
cook. She might know nothing about sailing, but she was at least familiar with
the activities of a kitchen.

Sometime later William arrived to inform her that the
captain wished her to return to the cabin. Alyson looked up from the dough she
was kneading with a smile that made the young boy’s knees turn to jelly. Her
reply, however, gave him good cause to worry about the state of his health if he
had to carry the news back to the captain.

“Angelo says I can hang a hammock in here. That way I can
get up in the mornings and have fresh biscuits cooking, while the flour lasts.”

Since she hadn’t directly said no, William held out some
hope that he just hadn’t made himself clear. The thought of fresh biscuits
every morning was very pleasant, but they held no comfort against the captain’s
wrath.

“Ma’am, my lady . . .” He didn’t know where
she stood in the rank of things. She wasn’t like any woman he had known in his
short life, but he had caught glimpses of ladies on the streets of London, and
she came closer to matching their mystique than any other he knew. “The captain
wants to see you now.”

“Hell hasn’t frozen over yet,” Alyson replied cheerfully.

William threw an anguished look to Angelo, but the cook was
struggling to maintain his usually stern demeanor and wouldn’t meet his eye.
Perhaps the lady was like the simpleton that used to live in the village, and
she really didn’t know what she was saying. That thought gave him courage, and
he hurried to report to the captain.

He wasn’t so certain of his conclusion a few minutes later
when the captain raised up on his elbows and stared at William as if he had
just removed his head and put it under his arm.

“She said what?” Rory glared at the terrified boy and began
a string of curses. Then, realizing he was taking out his temper on a
go-between, he sank back against the pillow and contemplated what he should do
now.

Hell hasn’t frozen over, indeed. He didn’t want to know
where she had learned that particular phrase. Working in the galley would
undoubtedly teach her a good many more. It would be much easier if she did stay
in the galley, but this was a smuggling ship, and some of his crew he wouldn’t
trust in a dark alley, and certainly not with a woman like Alyson.

His gaze fell on the stack of neatly folded undergarments
that had taunted his imagination all morning. She was out there roaming the
ship wearing practically nothing. It didn’t take a great deal of thought to
discover what had caused her anger. Or he assumed it was anger. The boy had
said she seemed quite cheerful. With Alyson, who the hell could tell the
difference?

Angelo would look after her for a while, but she was Rory’s
responsibility. He would have to learn to deal with it. Staring at the ceiling,
he ordered more calmly. “Tell her she cannot go about barefoot, and that if she
does not put on her shoes and stockings, I shall personally come after her.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” The boy leapt to do his bidding once more.

Alyson contemplated this new message with more interest. The
weather had turned warm again, and the kitchen fire provided a nice heat, but
she was not accustomed to going barefoot. She would dearly like to have her
shoes and lovely petticoat back, but she had no privacy in which to don them.
That was the whole problem with this ship. She had no place in it.

She puckered her bottom lip in a frown. It wouldn’t do to
have Rory coming after her. He should be resting. If anything happened to him,
she could be in serious trouble. With a sigh, she threw the bread dough back in
the bowl, covered it, then wiped her hands on the apron Angelo had given her.
She would have to confront Captain Rory Douglas Maclean and find out his
intentions.

Rory’s eyes were closed when she entered the cabin, and
Alyson hesitated, letting her gaze anxiously sweep over him. Someone had helped
him to shave, and he had obviously felt well enough to sit up and allow someone
to change his bandages. He now wore no shirt at all, just the binding around
his chest. With fascination she noted his shoulders were as sun-browned as his
face, and her cheeks reddened.

She was still hesitating, daydreaming, when he opened his
eyes and stared back at her. The look on his face was almost tender, but he hid
his expression quickly, pointing at her clothing. “I will not have you go about
catching your death of cold. Put those on.”

Alyson did nothing so simple as picking up the offending
articles and donning them. Instead, she drifted to the side of the bed and
touched cool fingers to the portion of his brow not covered by bandages.

“You’re still warm. I think you’re supposed to be drinking
lots of liquid. Can you sit up?” She sat down on the edge of the bed beside
him, like the lamb beside the lion.

Rory closed his eyes and groaned as his body leapt in
response to her proximity. Without her stays, her gown would not close tightly,
and she was practically spilling out of her bodice. It was so much easier to
play the part of gentleman when everybody concerned was wrapped in several
dozen layers of clothing and surrounded by people. This forced intimacy was
harsh retribution for past sins.

He would have to keep reminding himself that she was an
innocent, that it was his fault she found herself in this situation, and that
she was now his responsibility. She thought of him as an uncle or older
brother. That would have to be the attitude to take.

“I am fine, lass. I’ll keep my eyes closed. Put on yer
stockings and things. It’s not so warm that ye can be cavortin’ about in yer
bare toes.”

Obediently she rose, and turning her back to him, pulled the
heavy petticoat up under her skirts. Then she sat down and began to work on her
stockings. She adjusted her garters and slipped on her large-heeled shoes.

He moaned. When she glanced over her shoulder, Rory covered
his eyes with his arm.

“Rory?” she questioned softly.

That was the first time he had ever heard her use his name,
and he slid his arm away to look up into the full loveliness of her face. Was
it God or the devil taunting him for his sins? She was so beautiful standing
there with her black cloud of hair tumbling about her shoulders and wide gray
eyes watching him with trusting innocence. She was everything he had ever
imagined a woman could be, and he had no right to be in the same room with the
likes of her, even if she were but a poor orphan. The fact that she was the
granddaughter of an earl and as rich as Croesus put her beyond the pale. Fate
was almighty cruel.

“Pull up a chair, lass, and don’t look at me as if I’m
dying. I’ve survived worse than this.” While she actually did as told, Rory
struggled to sit upright. His ribs felt as if all the demons in hell were
ripping out his insides while the devil pounded at his head, but he had to make
things straight with the girl.

Alyson brought the chair but poured a glass of water from
the pitcher and handed it to him before she would sit down. Rory grimaced at
the stale taste, but drank it as she settled into her chair.

“Lass, we’ll have to learn to live together these next
weeks. I’m that sorry about it, but I couldna do aught else at the time. I
could save you or the ship, but not both, without taking you with me. Do you
understand what I’m telling you?”

Alyson knit her hands together and studied him. “I don’t
know anything about Charleston. I’ve never met savages before, and I don’t
think I’d like living in log cabins. Do we have to go to the colonies?”

Rory grinned at the odd tack her mind took. Here he was
worried about their sharing sleeping quarters, and all she wanted to know about
was red Indians. Maybe he ought to let her lead the conversation, just to see
what fascinating byways they found themselves on.

“Charleston is a lovely little town, lass. I think you’ll
like it. I have friends there who come from a fine old family in England. They
have a daughter who must be about your age by now. It’s the best place for you
while I finish my trading.”