Moon Dreams (43 page)

***

Behind a rock on a nearby rise, Cranville furiously knocked
Drummond against a boulder, dislodging his grip on the rifle. The weapon swung upward,
shooting the charge into the atmosphere. Wrathfully he spun the gun holder
around.

“Are you mad? What are you trying to do? That looks like
Alyson out there.”

Drummond dusted the snow from his shoulder. With a shrug, he
lifted the rifle to load it again. “I would only have winged her enough to give
excuse to carry her back to London. She so seldom comes out, it seemed an auspicious
occasion.”

Cranville shot his friend a look that should have burned
through his soul, if he’d had one. “You would shoot her to save her? I scarcely
think she would appreciate the thought.”

“Faith, sir, I can’t see that you have come up with a better
idea. When the prey is Maclean, I enjoy stalking him more than anyone, but I
grow bored with the waiting.”

Cranville glanced into the valley to see his ruffled cousin
rise and shake the snow from her cloak. Voices were already traveling from the
direction of the tower. He shoved his idiot friend toward the horses.

“You would have me invite her to tea, perhaps?” the earl
asked in irritation. “Other than the fact that Maclean practically holds her
prisoner and no message would reach her, she isn’t likely to race to my
welcoming arms. She hates me more than she ever did that rogue of a husband of
hers.” He grudgingly mounted his horse. Instinct told him to see how Alyson
fared, but common sense sent him after his host.

Drummond scowled. “I had hoped you would lure the heiress
away so I can blast the whole damned tower. As always, I suppose I must do
everything myself. Maclean has grown so confident, perhaps it won’t be
necessary to abduct his wife to get at him.”

Shooting Cranville’s thunderous expression an amused glance,
Drummond spurred his horse to the safety of his own land.

***

Rory grabbed Alyson’s shoulders and shoved her behind a
protective outcropping of rock before running his hands over her bundled figure
in search of damage. Finding none, he gathered her in his arms and vented a
stream of invectives.

Even with his greatcoat wrapped around her, Alyson shivered.
Gratefully she slid her arms around his neck and rested her head against his
shoulder. She had not known for certain that it was a gunshot she heard until
Rory and the others had come running. She knew the men were now surrounding the
rocks that provided the only hiding place, but she also knew the danger had
escaped.

“Why the deuce were you out here alone, Alys? Have you taken
leave of your senses?” Rory’s voice shook with fury.

“I like to walk alone. Nobody told me it was a crime. What
is happening, Rory? Couldn’t it have just been someone hunting?”

Visibly struggling with his fear, Rory caressed her back and
pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Of course, but seeing you fall like that
terrified me. Are you sure you’re all right? Shall I carry you home?”

He lied. Alyson felt the lie, and her arms tightened around
him, fearing to let go. “I’m fine. Just hold me. I don’t want to go back alone.
Come with me.”

Rory gazed out on the gray, forbidding sky and the hilly
snow-covered terrain where Dougall and the tenants circled the far hill, searching
for a trace of the men who had hidden there. Alyson feared they would follow
the tracks, and she clung to her husband. She didn’t want him to go.

“We’ll go back to the house and find you some dry clothes,”
Rory said soothingly. “You shouldn’t be walking out alone. Think of the child,
lass. You’re no longer responsible for just yourself.”

Alyson pulled away to read his expression. She saw the pain
there, and understood the torment. Sadly she lifted her heavy skirts above her
boots and started down the path toward the house. Once again, she was but a
nuisance in the path of his plans.

“You will not tell me what is happening?” she asked as Rory
caught her elbow to help her over the rocky path. The snow was just deep enough
to be treacherous underfoot.

Rory pulled Alyson’s hood over her face as a gust of wind
hit them broadside. “’Tis nothin’, lass. Dinna fash yerself.”

Alyson’s lashes grew wet with tears at the soft burr of his
voice. She loved the way he spoke, and she wanted her child to know his voice
as well as she. What chance was there of that if Rory persisted in this feud?

“Drummond will not sell?”

Rory sent her a quick glance, but she didn’t allow her face
to betray her fears.

“It is no matter,” he said. “There is much to do here. Are
they cooking Christmas dinner yet?”

Did he still think her so empty-headed that she thought only
of dinners and children? If that was what he required of a wife, she would try
to please him, but she could not be happy about it.

“The puddings are made long since. The goose and the cow
have been slaughtered, although where you found them is a mystery to me. We’ll
have enough for all the tenants.”

“And enough for me, I trust. An expectant father needs to
keep his strength up.”

His grin warmed a smile from her. She lifted her lips to
his, before she let him lead her back to the safety of their stone fortress.

That night the fire crackled in the vast fireplace, taking
away some of the damp as Alyson worked nervously with a piece of cloth and
thread. The gifts to be exchanged the next day were piled high on a table in
the room’s center and adorned with what greenery could be found. Earlier, the
room had been filled with music and merriment as the entire household had
congregated for prayers, followed by much eating and drinking as they added
their bundles to the growing stack. The hall was a public room for the use of
all, and Rory had kept the custom, enjoying the camaraderie as much as any.

Alyson studied her husband as he sat beside the fire
shuffling through a stack of papers that had arrived by courier earlier. The
rich glow of his auburn hair framed the molded contours of his square, stern
face. His lace and linen were snowy white against the weathered skin of his
throat and hands and the dark broadcloth of his coat and vest. He looked severe
as he read the papers, but Alyson knew that when he looked up to her his
expression would soften and his dark eyes would gleam. She wished to see a
smile upon his lips more often, but she would have to be content that it was
there when he looked on her.

The uneasiness of earlier had not subsided. She still had
the urge to inspect the narrow windows for some sight into the darkness, but
she resisted. Myra and Dougall had retired with warnings that she must do so
soon, but Alyson felt no weariness. She waited expectantly.

Looking up and giving her bosom an appreciative look, Rory
set his papers aside. Before he could rise, Alyson cast a nervous look toward
the window. Built as a fortress, the tower had been graced only with narrow
leaded panes in later years. They provided small glimpse of the outside on a
night like this. Rory apparently caught the same sound that had alerted Alyson,
and he stilled.

A horse. Some madman was out in the dark and blowing snow
riding the unmarked roads of these hills. The gale winds blew in from the sea,
freezing the snow to treacherous ice. No sane person would be out on such a
night.

Rory reached for the musket. The hall had a display of
swords, rapiers, hatchets, and knives that had never been confiscated after the
‘45, probably because the place appeared abandoned, and its owner was an
Englishman. The musket was the most modern weapon among them, and Rory had kept
it cleaned, oiled, and primed. He ignored the way Alyson’s face paled as he
lifted it from its hooks.

“Go on upstairs, Alyson. Call Dougall if it will make you
feel better, but I daresay our guest is no more than some drunken fool with a
complaint to make.”

The horse halted outside, and they heard muffled footsteps
in the snow through the silence of the empty hall.

The household was full of female servants. The few tenants
left tended the land and slept in their own beds, not the hall. Besides Rory,
only Dougall and a few old men too crippled to work their plows were present.
Nearly eighty and bent with rheumatism, the steward doddered into the hall,
wielding a broadsword.

The huge door knocker pounded furiously, startling Alyson.
Closer to the door than either Rory or the steward, she lifted her skirts and
swept in that direction. No man should have to linger in that inhospitable wind
on her doorstep.

Rory caught up with her and held her back, nodding for the
steward to answer. Drawing her back toward the fire, they waited.

Alyson leaned against Rory’s hard frame and sought the
reassurance of his strong arm. He still held the musket barrel, resting the grip
against the floor, but one horse signaled no army. He was tense, but he, too,
expected no trouble on Christmas Eve.

So they stood when the doors flew open to reveal the tall,
travel-weary stranger in his snow-covered hat and cloak. Without waiting for
welcome, the furious guest strode in.

Cold blue eyes glared at them. Gloved hands swept off cocked
hat and cloak, handing them to the steward with a practiced gesture. A sword
hung at his side, and as he removed his gloves, one hand came to rest on its
hilt. His gaze skimmed Rory’s imperturbable features and came to rest on Alyson.

Before their guest could speak a word, she flew from Rory’s
protective embrace with a cry of unadulterated delight. “Father!”

All knowing her history—that her father had died before she
was born—stared at her as if she were demented. But their obviously
aristocratic guest’s lined face grew less rigid, his frozen eyes melted, and
his arms opened to lift Alyson in his embrace.

Stunned, Rory could only watch with growing comprehension
and disbelief. Not even in his worst nightmares had he imagined that his wife’s
noble father would return to life to claim her. An earl, a naval officer, and a
furious father all rolled into one dreadful apparition to haunt his guiltiest
thoughts—not even Rory’s conscience could have conjured such a fate. With
lessening hope he waited for the stranger to set Alyson aside and disavow her
mad claim.

Instead, the pair seemed content to explore the miracle of
reunion. With a gesture, Rory sent the servants back to their beds, commanding
only one kitchen maid to fetch hot drink. He had no idea where they would house
an earl unless they threw Dougall and Myra from their bed, and he felt
disinclined to do so. He would much rather the apparition disappeared into the
night from whence it came.

Keeping his hand on Alyson’s shoulders, Everett Hampton,
Earl of Cranville finally glared at the man who had abducted and ruined his
daughter. “I have come for my daughter.”

“She is my wife now.” Still holding the musket barrel, Rory
stood firm. If this man was as Alyson claimed, he represented all that Rory was
not—aristocratic, wealthy, powerful, and presumably honorable. But still Rory
could not yield his most precious possession.

Alyson blithely ignored this test of wills. Tugging her
father’s hand, she led him past Rory’s obstinate stance to a place by the fire.
The earl refused to be seated, however. Shrugging her shoulders, she floated
back to Rory’s side. Removing the gun and setting it aside, she led him back to
the fire too.

With a polite curtsy, she made the introductions. “Father,
this is the Maclean, Rory Douglas, my husband. Rory, my father, Everett
Hampton, Earl of Cranville.” She sent a mischievous look to the stern nobleman.
“I did get that right, didn’t I? I’ve never raised an earl from the dead
before, and so I’m not sure of the proper courtesy.”

The stunned look was now on her father’s face and not Rory’s.
Rory would almost have managed a smile at Alyson’s conceit had he not been more
concerned with holding her until this challenger to his possession had
disappeared.

Deliberately not extending his hand, the earl spoke first. “I
cannot say it is a pleasure to meet you, Maclean. You will forgive me if I
overlook the pleasantries.” He turned his watchful gaze to Alyson. “As much as
I wish to spend this time with you, my dear, I must come to terms with your
husband first. I would not subject you to our discussion. Perhaps if you could
just show us to a private room . . .”

Despite his despair, Rory couldn’t help a small grin as
Alyson gazed pleasantly at her father, ignored his command, and hastened to
help the kitchen maid with the tray. Without any sign that she had heard or
understood a single word, she set the tray on a table near her father’s hand,
poured a steaming tankard of rum punch, and handed it to him.

“I saw you outside my window the day Rory and I were
married. Of course, I thought you were a ghost. You aren’t, are you?” she asked
anxiously.

Outside the window the day they were married… Rory studied
the earl, trying to decide why he looked so familiar.

The distinguished gentleman gazed at his lovely, fey
daughter in confusion. Very well aware of that feeling, Rory seized the moment
to establish the upper hand. “Alyson, take a seat so your father need not stand
all night. Lord Cranville, I apologize for my cold reception. You must admit I
had some reason for surprise.” If Alyson accepted this stranger as parent, he
could do no less, although he continued to harbor reservations.

As Alyson settled into a chair next to his, Rory took her
hand and waited for his guest to be seated. Given no other choice, the earl
reluctantly lowered himself to the massive Jacobean armchair across from them.

“I would prefer Alyson be kept out of our differences,
Maclean.” The older man frowned as he sipped his drink, his hooded gaze studying
them. “You do yourself no favors by hiding behind her skirts.”

Rory accepted the insult without rancor. “Alyson is free to
do as she wishes. I would protect her from harm if I could, but I have already
learned the hard way that she will make her own choices.” Turning his head to
confront Alyson’s too-bright gaze, he asked, “Lass, I am quite capable of
dealing with this gentleman’s accusations. Wouldn’t it be easier if you went
upstairs now? All will be settled by the time you come down in the morning, I promise.”