Moon Dreams (40 page)

Without a second look, she left the room, gently closing the
door between them. On the other side, where Rory’s eyes couldn’t find her,
Alyson’s cool expression crumpled, and she hurried up the stairs to her
chamber.

She would have fared better had her grandfather left her
penniless. Rory would never forgive her greater wealth. Throwing herself across
the bed, she remembered the dull look of pain in Rory’s eyes. He had looked so
handsome standing there, the firelight sending flickering copper through the
thick strands of neatly clubbed auburn hair and accenting shadows across his
broad cheekbones. He had worn both coat and vest against the chill, but neither
could disguise the strength of his wide shoulders or the restless energy of
those powerful muscles.

She had wanted him to understand, had wanted him to accept
her as she was. But he was blind. He could not see beyond the stack of bills to
the person behind them, the one who so badly needed his love that she had
followed him here and offered everything she possessed, including herself. He
was so blind that he could not see that offer for what it was, and his
rejection hurt more than anything she could imagine.

She had never understood people. She didn’t know why she
continued to try. If Rory didn’t want her or her wealth, why had he married
her? Guilt? Was guilt the only reason he had forced her into this marriage? Did
that make sense? He hadn’t felt guilty the day he had taken her virginity. Had
something happened on Barbados to change his feelings?

Remembering the pink canary, Alyson closed her eyes and
shuddered. There was nothing to be done about it now. The child made their
choices irrevocable. Her one goal now was to keep Rory alive so the child would
know his father as she had never known hers. That was a task that could engage
every parcel of her energy.

He thought she didn’t know what he was about, but she
listened, and she understood more than he realized.

She didn’t think he would ride into battle with his cousin,
as his Highland ancestors might have, but he was quite capable of robbing his
cousin blind to draw the man out. The result would be the same. There would be
words and bloodshed, and neither would be the winner.

If only she knew more about this mysterious cousin and how
he would react when he discovered Rory was systematically undermining his
tenants, encouraging rebellion, and endangering the rents he needed to live,
then she might better prepare her defenses.

***

Alyson’s gifts could not see into the magnificently
paneled dining hall where George Drummond sat drinking his morning coffee. His
frowning gaze did not appreciate the exquisite workmanship of the carved
lintels or the gleaming chandelier and polished mahogany table with places for
twenty-four. He was accustomed to such luxury, even though it was unusual in
these hills. The Maclean family had always been an educated, sophisticated lot
who bought the finest art and hired the best workmen. Drummond did not improve
upon their accomplishments. He simply accepted the result as his due.

He leaned back in his chair and gazed with contempt on the
casually dressed members of his small party. They were dressed for the country,
in loose tweeds and leather breeches, instead of in their usual fine silks and
satins. Even informally, they exuded wealth in just the manner in which they
wore their tailored clothes, in the accents they favored as they played at
words while idling over their meal. Drummond enjoyed this company, although to
feed them for a week cost him the entire year’s rent of one tenant.

There was one exception to this idle, elegant company, and
his gaze fell on the powerfully built man just entering the room. Since coming
into his earldom, the rakehell Alexander Hampton had changed, and Drummond wasn’t
sure if he approved the difference. Once, Hampton had fitted into this company,
his pale features and languid airs matching the elegance of his silks and
laces. Only his cutting cynicism had marked him as one of a higher intelligence
than most.

Drummond contemplated the changes and their source. He knew
the man had not gained the inheritance he had expected. That and his debt
explained the less ornate coats and waistcoats and the abandonment of all personal
servants but the one valet.

He also knew the new earl had spent considerable time
chasing the elusive heiress who would have made his fortune. The time spent in
the tropics would explain his unusually healthy color. Perhaps life on board
ship was also responsible for his controlled restlessness. He had actually
bagged half the grouse shot yesterday—a disgusting performance, considering the
amount of good whisky imbibed during the hunt. Drummond had rather hoped one of
his inebriated guests might bag another of the company before the day ended,
but Cranville had held them fascinated with his skills, and the party had ended
without mishap.

Drummond could only hope the changes worked in his favor. It
was time he sounded out the earl about the heiress in the crumbling estate down
the road. He wondered if Cranville realized his elusive cousin was so close. He
certainly couldn’t know how much trouble her infuriating husband was causing,
but Drummond wagered the earl would have his own tales of woe concerning one
Rory Douglas Maclean. Yes, they might very well deal well together.

Maclean must think him a fool if he thought he didn’t
realize what was going on. Sheep didn’t escape stone walls without help. The
pitiful peasants who could not raise a crop or pay the rent did not suddenly
inherit enough to eat well. Drummond had hoped to starve them out, since he
could make more money raising sheep than they could pay him in rent. Their surprising
ability to survive in the face of economic reality had other sources beyond God’s
will. The mysterious losses he had taken in various other investments over the
years began to take on new meaning. If Maclean wanted a fight, he would get
one, but it wouldn’t be on the battlefield of his choice.

Being ruthless had its advantages, and Drummond’s lack of
conscience had never troubled him. He considered Cranville’s bored expression
with triumph. He knew how to destroy Maclean without lifting much more than a
finger.

***

Blissfully unaware of the nearness of her cousin or of her
neighbor’s dangerous arrogance, Alyson watched the
Sea Witch
anchoring
in the loch. She still loved to watch the sails, and she longed to have the
deck rolling beneath her feet again.

She sent Rory a surreptitious look as he stood with hands in
pockets, gazing at the harbor too. Did he miss the ship and the life he had
led? Could part of their problem be that he wasn’t ready to be tied down to
home and family? She ached to know, but his expression gave away nothing.

Alyson was the one to run and joyfully greet the men upon
their entrance. Dougall’s beaming face rated him a hug, but as he lifted her
exuberantly from the floor, Alyson’s gaze fell on a startled female face behind
him.

“Dougall! What on earth . . . ? Put me
down and introduce me.” She struggled to right herself as he returned her to
the floor.

He stepped aside to bring forward the woman sandwiched amid
the horde of sailors. Dougall grew crimson and his gaze gentled as he took the
hand of the woman. Cloaked in heavy wet wool, little could be seen of her other
than large luminous eyes, a head of luxuriant black hair, and a serene smile.

“Well, lass, it seemed if the Maclean here could go and get
himself shackled and give up the good life, then it was time I did the same.”
Embarrassed, Dougall attempted a formal introduction. “Lady Maclean, my wife,
Myra.”

Alyson reached out to make the new bride welcome, and Rory exclaimed
happily and pounded his friend on the back. The celebration began then and
lasted well into the evening.

Weariness required that Alyson retire well before the
celebration was near its end. Delighted as she was to see familiar faces again,
she knew the men preferred their own company. Giving a few orders about the
arrangements for beds, Alyson slipped from the hall.

Rory watched her go with a longing he could not conceal from
himself. Dougall and his new wife were holding hands and looking at each other
as he and Alyson had once done. Was there no way to go back to those days? Was
there no way to go back to the time when Alyson had looked at him with trust
and affection and had come eagerly into his arms?

When it became apparent that Dougall meant to take his bride
from the rough company to their bed, Rory rose to his feet with decision.
Perhaps he was making another mistake. Where Alyson was concerned, he seemed to
do that frequently, but he could not sit and watch their lives wither and die.
He gestured to Dougall and led the couple toward the stairs.

Only two bedchambers had been refurbished since their
arrival, Alyson’s and his own. Rory knew that a guest room had been ordered
opened and a clean pallet laid on the floor for Dougall and his wife, while the
others would make their beds in the great hall, but that cold, unadorned guest
room was a poor excuse for a bridal chamber. Smiling grimly, he led the pair
past the first landing to the second.

With a gallant gesture, Rory surrendered the comfort of his
own newly decorated bedchamber, gambling away all his chances on the throw of
one die. Not realizing the sacrifice offered, Dougall and Myra extended their
gratitude and their good-nights and closed the door. Rory turned and stared at
the solid oak panel separating him from his wife and her bed.

He could choose to enter those forbidden chambers or he
could drink himself into a stupor below with his men. Given the possibility of
heaven over the certainty of hell, Rory did not linger over the decision. He
reached out to grasp the latch.

Alyson stripped to the soft flannel of her winter shift so
she might wash while the water in the bowl remained warm. The master suite was
excessively large, and the heat from the peat fire did not reach all corners of
the room. She was eager to find the comfort between the walls of her
unfashionable bed, where the maid had laid hot bricks to warm the sheets.

She had given little thought to anything other than warmth
in furnishing this room. There was little reason to linger in its empty
vastness to require more. The wooden panels of the bed cut off drafts on three
sides, and she had filled the open side, where the door once had been, with
heavy pale blue hangings. The same velvet had been hung on the narrow windows,
and recently she had added silver braid and tassels to the draperies to make
them a little more elegant. The only decent carpet she had found in the tower
she had put in Rory’s room. She wished to order one for the cold wooden planks
in here, but Rory’s lecture on bills made her hesitate at purchasing such
luxury.

Perhaps if she employed local looms to weave the carpet, he
would approve of the extravagance. It made sense to spend money where it was
needed instead of sending it to rich London merchants.

Satisfied with this compromise, Alyson reached for a hair
ribbon to tie her hair from her face. In the act of fastening the bow, she was
startled to hear the latch turn on her door.

Rory entered and pushed the door closed behind him. Alyson’s
figure in the thin white gown was silhouetted by the fire. With her arms above
her head to fasten the ribbon, every curve could be seen clearly, and Rory took
a deep breath as his gaze focused on the changes in her slender form.

Her high, full breasts were rounder and heavier. Without the
cover of thick skirts and petticoats, a pear-shaped curve extended the
once-flat plane of her abdomen. She was so beautiful, he could feel his chest
constrict with the strain of holding his breath and his words. The pain was too
great, searing his lungs with all that needed to be said.

“Don’t tie it.” His first words emerged as a harsh whisper
as he crossed the room.

Alyson let her hands drop, and the cascade of ebony curls
fell about her shoulders and over her breasts. At least, she did not flee him
but sought his eyes questioningly.

Holding her gaze, Rory placed his hand over the curve of her
stomach. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you are like this?”

Black lashes flew upward, startled. “You prefer me plump?”
she asked with genuine curiosity.

Rory had to smile at the tangent Alyson’s irrepressible mind
took. Any other woman would have been satisfied with the compliment. Alyson had
to know its reason. “I prefer you, period. No exceptions, no exclusions,
without qualification. It could be I’m biased, but I think you are the most
beautiful woman on this earth. And selfish, conceited male that I am, I like
seeing my child growing within you.”

Alyson’s smile at these blandishments could have blinded the
sun. She did not shrink from him when his arm circled her. This was almost as
it had been before between them, and his heart raced. She tilted her head to
study him and traced her fingers along his stubbly jaw. He regarded her warily,
and her smile broadened.

“Are you drunk, my lord?”

Rory considered the question. “No, I think not. But I gave
Dougall and his bride my room. If you wish me to go away, I’ll have no
alternative but to join my crew in their drunken revels.”

A worried frown creased her brow, and Rory dropped his arms
to his sides, giving her room to escape if need be. “I’ll not force you to
anything, lass. If ye wish me to go, ye have only to say.”

“I thought you didn’t like me anymore,” she whispered in
confusion. “Is it just the bed you wish to share? There is room enough for two.”

Rory stared at his moonstruck angel in a daze of disbelief
that bordered on the laughable. Lifting her chin, he gazed into the shifting
mists of her eyes, willing the clouds to part so he could see into her heart.