Moon Dreams

by Patricia Rice

  Seeing her surprise, the elderly gentleman turned his gaze on her. “I apologize for losing my temper, Miss Alyson. Your grandfather was a close friend of mine, and I mourn his passing deeply. It has been a long, tiring day, and I will have to return to London immediately. Is there anything I can do for you? Do you need me to go over any of the facts again?”

  Facts? What facts? Why did that cold stranger stare at her with such fury? She twisted her fingers in her lap and wished she had listened more carefully. She hated that the term “half-witted” appeared justified. She wasn’t half-witted. It was just that half her mind was usually elsewhere.

  She sighed and sent a pleading look to the kindly man behind the desk. “Mr. Farnley, I am sorry, but if you could explain some of it in . . . less formal terms, perhaps. I don’t quite grasp what is being said.”

  Her cousin sniffed in disdain, but the solicitor smiled and polished his glasses.

  “Your grandfather regretted that he could not name you his heir for the purposes of entitlement, but he has left you all else. You have a town house in London, tenements and terraces throughout the city, a commercial block in Bath, and a number of other very substantial investments. In other words, Miss Alyson, you are an extremely wealthy young lady.”

  She felt her mouth fall open, remembered to close it, but then could think of nothing to say. A town house in London? And what on earth was a commercial block in Bath? She had never been out of Cornwall in her life. Odd’s fish, how was she supposed to know what to do with these exotic acquisitions?

  Flushed, she said to Farnley with honesty, “I’d much rather have my grandfather back. What do I do with all those things? Why didn’t he explain things to me before?”

  Farnley turned his palms up in helplessness. “I suspect he had hoped to live to see you happily married to some fine young man who would know how to take care of these properties. He kept mentioning it was time to bring you out in society, but first you were too young, then your grandmother died, and then, selfishly, he preferred to keep you to himself when you expressed no desire to leave Cornwall. Money has a way of taking care of itself, and I will be more than happy to deal with any problems that arise until you are prepared to make some decisions.”

  “I’m sure you will, you old humbug,” the new earl scoffed, “but as head of the family, I’ll see that Miss Alyson’s affairs are managed properly. The first thing I will do is have my own solicitors examine your books.”

  Her cousin had a way of holding Alyson’s attention but not pleasantly so. She gaped at his rudeness. Then, when he sent her a triumphant look which seemed to mark her as part of his entailment, she recovered some of her senses.

  Rising, she held out her hand to the solicitor. “Mr. Farnley, if I understand you rightly, the inheritance is mine to do with as I wish. I wish you to continue to look after it, and if it is advisable for me to have someone else go over the books, I will have the courtesy to send you a personal letter with the name of the man I have selected. Will that suit, sir?”

  Farnley rose and accepted her hand with a shake and a familial pat. “That will suit excellently. I’d recommend that you visit London whenever you are prepared to travel. I will be delighted to introduce you to your city home.”

  Alyson ignored the rude noise of the macaroni and allowed herself the comfort of knowing she had one friend in the world. Only too shortly, he would be gone and she would be left with the despicable fiend who had apparently inherited her home.

  2

  It didn’t take long to discover that old routines were irrefutably gone. After the guests had all left, Alyson tried to find comfort in familiar duties, but what point was there in planning menus when there was no grandfather to appreciate them? And when she took Peabody out for a walk, she could have no expectation of running into the earl as he argued with one of his tenants or rode his fields. She had no one to share her books with, no one to appreciate the first crocus blooming, no one to talk to at all.

  The new earl finally showed up at dinner looking much the worse for what must have been a long bout of drinking. Alyson gazed at his disheveled, uncovered hair with dismay. She hastily returned her attention to consuming her food. Her grandfather had never joined her at dinner unshaven and unwigged.

  Nervously she felt his gaze follow her as she left the room, but he didn’t speak. For the first time in her life, she contemplated the security of the bolt on her chamber door.

  She wasn’t certain she welcomed Alan’s arrival the next day. She walked along the cliff ridge to be alone, to feel her grandfather’s presence in the strong wind off the sea, to discover what it was best for her to do. Seeing Alan was not conducive to deep thought.

  He dismounted, extending his hand with every expectation of her taking it as she always had. When she just stood there, the wind whipping at her mantilla, he gazed down at her with a small frown. “I have worried about you, my love. You looked so pale the other day, but the servants would not let me in to see you. I know you have suffered a terrible loss. I wish I could offer you some comfort.”

  Alyson stood proudly, although she trembled inside. She had grown up that night when he had made it clear her illegitimacy destined her only for the life of a courtesan. That didn’t mean her heart stopped fluttering like a caged bird when he was near. She clutched the folds of her cloak. “I am fine, thank you, Alan. It’s chilly out here, and I was just returning to the house. Will you excuse me?”

  She turned away, but he wouldn’t let her escape. His hand closed over her shoulder, pulling her back into the circle of his arms.

  “Don’t, Alyson. Don’t throw it all away just like that.” Pain racked his voice as he lifted his gloved hand to her cheek. “I made a mistake. I’m not afraid to admit it. I was a fool. But don’t you see? You cannot go on as you have been. Soon the neighbors will be carrying tales about your living with a man not your husband, and the scandal will be enormous. For once in your life, Alyson, you must make some decisions quickly instead of turning your back on problems. Or if you would, let me make them for you. You know I have only your best interests at heart.”

  The warmth of his hand was so tempting, the solace of his voice such a boost to her spirits, that Alyson almost succumbed. She wanted to be enfolded in his embrace again. She wanted it to be last summer, when all she need do was take his hand and his kisses rained down on her like heaven. She had lived in bliss then.

  Only, he had taught her what lay outside her dreams.

  She allowed Alan to wrap his arms around her, and she rested her head against the strength of his chest as she had so longed to do. She needed this small piece of comfort to do what she must. It would have been so easy to accept his apology and forget there had ever been a rift between them. Except, once open, her eyes could not be blind again.

  “You had only my best interests at heart when you offered for Lucinda?”

  Alan brushed the scarf back from her forehead so he could kiss her there. “No, that was my mistake, love. I thought to be sensible, when there is naught sensible about love. Forgive me, Alyson, then come home with me and tell my family you have agreed to be my wife. You will be safer under my family’s protection than with that rake who inhabits your home now.”

  Just the thought of that daunting old battleax Alan called mother gave Alyson courage. She ripped her heart out of her chest and walked on it in the process, but she still clung to a fragment of pride. She pushed away from his hold.

  “My wealth makes up for my lack of name now, so that your family will welcome me with open arms? Is that what you are saying? I’ll not ever forgive you for not standing up to them, Alan. Never. You took every shred of happiness I ever hoped to possess and ground it beneath your heel like dirt. I’ll go to hell with my cousin before I ever run to the likes of you again.”

  It hurt. By all that was holy, it hurt. She should feel proud and vengeful and triumphant as she turned and stumbled away from the stunned look on his face, but she could only feel wave after w
ave of pain. She loved him so. It wasn’t fair. Nothing in this world was fair.

  Alan did not follow her. She almost wished he would. If he could only explain, convince her that she was wrong, that she was just having another one of her foggy notions, but he did not. Because he could not. He had been in the wrong of it, and so had destroyed both their lives.

  She almost didn’t go down to supper, but she refused to hide in her room like some lamb terrified of slaughter. If she had to make it on her own in this world, she would have to start somewhere.

  She didn’t reveal how she quailed inside when she entered the family parlor to find her cousin waiting. Cook had chosen to set up a buffet before the fire.

  The new earl had shaved and cleaned himself up to an almost respectable figure. His powdered hair had been pulled back in a neat bagwig, and even though his fingers trembled as he lifted his glass, he did not appear dissolute. In Alyson’s opinion, his face was more striking than handsome. He still had not learned to smile, but she no longer found him repulsive.

  “Cousin Alyson, this is a pleasant surprise. The way you’ve been sneaking around corners made me think you did not want to see me. Help yourself to the fare the kitchen has thrown up for our amusement and have a seat.”

  Alyson helped herself to small portions of the informal buffet on the sideboard the Scots cook had prepared to suit her tastes. Her cousin’s plate had not been emptied, and he was already pouring another glass of wine. Apparently haggis and bannocks were not to his appetite. She found a chair beside the fire and set the tea tray in front of her.

  “If the food is not satisfactory, I have only to notify the cook,” she told him. “You have some preferences? I’m certain the staff will be more than happy to cater to them.” She helped herself to a bannock while she awaited his reply.

  “The cursed creatures are accustomed to having you order them about, aren’t they? I daresay that will not be too infamous a thing when we are married, not like breaking in a new wife, I suppose. I’m beginning to see advantages to such an arrangement.”

  His insolent stare stripped away the layers of her woolen mourning gown until Alyson felt her skin burn. Two arrogant male assumptions in one day were more than her strained nerves could handle. She acted on instinct alone.

  “We are getting married?” she inquired, without a hint of emotion. In truth, she had no emotion left.

  “Of course, you silly chit. It is the only solution left to us. You have the money, I have the name and the house. It took me a while to see what the old man intended, and it was a bloody unfair way of manipulating me, but I’ll give him credit for winning this battle. I’ll make arrangements for the special license in the morning.”

  Alyson toyed with that idea as she toyed with her food. Had her grandfather really meant for her to marry his heir? Was this his way of making certain she had a home? She thought it more likely a matter of giving her a choice, but she took care not to mention that to Cranville.

  “I’ll think about it,” was all she replied.

  The new earl scowled and stood. Lifting her from her chair, he toppled back in the nearest sofa with her on his lap. “You flutter like a plump pigeon, cousin,” he chuckled as he pulled at the laces of her gown, exposing the chemise covering her breasts. “I’ll have pigeon for supper, and then in the morning, you’ll have nothing left to think about.”

  Alyson squealed with outrage as he tore at her laces and chemise. She tried to slap at his shadowed jaw, but even though she sprawled across his knees, he exerted full control with just one muscled arm around her waist. His chuckle infuriated her, and she struggled to pull away. Instead, he leaned back against the sofa’s arm, pulling her flat against him. One muscular leg crossed over hers, and her hips were trapped intimately against his. Terrified, she began to scream.

  Cranville cursed and tossed her over, covering her mouth with his hand. But Alyson had found all the weapon she needed. His empty pockets might pay the servants now, but decades of loyalty to the old earl and his granddaughter didn’t disappear overnight.

  The parlor door slid open and the butler stalked through, his nose in the air as he contemplated the ceiling. “You called, miss?”

  Alyson bit hard on the villain’s fingers, and he yelped. With a shove at his chest, she tumbled him off. A footman had followed the butler and was engaged in clearing plates, but she understood that she had only to say the word and they would risk their livelihoods to come to her aid.

  Cranville scowled as she rose from the sofa, pulling her bodice together. He scrambled from the floor and glanced warningly at the servants. “Miss Alyson and I are having a discussion. We do not need your interference this evening. The next man who walks through that door is dismissed.” He grabbed her arm and held it so she couldn’t escape.

  The butler stiffened.

  Muttering “Like bloody hell,” Alyson picked up the teapot and poured a boiling stream of tea down Cranville’s leg. He released her with a string of oaths that should have blistered the walls.

  Haughtily she lifted her skirts and swept from the room, followed closely by the two servants. She suspected they were fighting back grins, but she wasn’t in a humor to join in. Stomping up the stairs with unladylike grace, she slammed into her chambers and threw the bolt. Let the new lord lick his own wounds tonight. She had bags to pack.

  Hettie knocked shortly after and Alyson let her in.

  Taking in the mounds of clothing scattered across the room, the maid sent orders for a trunk and valise to be brought down, and set about making order of the situation.

  “Now, miss, you’ll be traveling by public coach, and a right rowdy lot they’ll be. It won’t do to let them think you’re quality. Mind me, now, you say nothing to nobody until you can get to a respectable posting house and hire a chaise.”

  Having utterly no idea how one went about traveling by coach or chaise, Alyson listened carefully as she folded those items she most needed for travel. Obviously, she could not wear her riding habit, nor any of her expensive gowns. Consulting with Hettie, she sent for one of the younger maids. She gave her a choice of any gown in exchange for a servant’s dress suitable for her disguise. The girl gaped but hastily agreed.

  By the time Alyson was garbed in a threadbare cotton dress and cloaked in an old wool that still smelled of the stable, the hour had crept past midnight. The butler reported his lordship had drunk himself to sleep. Still, she crept quietly out the back with her loyal servants carrying lanterns to light her way.

  A cart had been prepared to take her trunk to the coach station. With tears in her eyes, Alyson hugged her friends before climbing in.

  Alan had wanted her to make a decision. Well, she had. She would go to London and see the world.

  The groom made the ticket purchase at the staging inn and stayed with her until her trunk was loaded on top of the rickety wooden coach. Without a single look backward, Alyson waved farewell and climbed into the crowded interior.

  3

  Rory Maclean cursed and scratched surreptitiously at a suspicious itch beneath his arm. Beneath the coarse wool of his decrepit coat, his stained leather jerkin and threadbare homespun shirt stank from hard use and no washing. Why the devil he had decided to make this trip was far beyond his capacity to comprehend. The country that had branded him an outlaw for all these years would scarcely welcome him with open arms now—even less so if they knew he was more of a criminal now than he had been when he left. But his family had worked hard to obtain his pardon, and it seemed only fair that he should thank them personally.

  His ship had landed off the coast of Cornwall. His men were unwilling to risk the British Navy in closer ports. Glaring over the desolation of a Cornish mining town, Rory knew he was in for a long and tedious ride to London.

  The gray colors of day were fading to twilight, and he yawned. He could have chosen to arrive in a little more grandeur than his usual disguise, but he preferred to keep the connection between himself and the ship undetected. The
men had their orders and would carry them out well enough without him for a while. And they would be ready when he was. This courtesy visit should not last overlong.

  Sometime after midnight the coach rattled to a halt to change horses and take on passengers, but by this time he was sound asleep.

  When he woke again, Rory found the opposite seat occupied by two daunting women who glared at him as if he had threatened rape at knife point. One was so obese as to make the act physically improbable. The other wore the prim attire and thin-lipped mien of a spinster. Maliciously Rory winked and watched her shiver in horror, before he returned to watching the passing landscape.

  The barely perceptible evergreen scent of heather in springtime gradually reached his senses. Rory wondered if one of those damn fleas had given him the fever. Springtime would not have reached the Highlands yet, and he was a long way from those lovely hills.

  The soft rustle of a page turning jerked his attention back to the far occupant of his seat. Since she was not in his direct field of vision, he had not bothered to examine the passenger blocked by a large merchant snoring between them.

  Adjusting his position so his long legs nearly touched the skirts of the wide-eyed spinster, Rory glanced over. The cloak the small passenger wore was as disreputable as his own and totally enveloped her. The fabric might smell of the stables, but the scent of heather had to be coming from somewhere.

  The smooth white hands turning the pages revealed she was as much a fraud as he—more so, he suspected. But the fact that she was a fraud wasn’t what fascinated him. It was the hands. He hadn’t been this close to soft hands like that in years. The women he knew lived harsh lives, and the toil showed in the brown filth and calluses. These hands didn’t appear to have ever lifted anything heavier than roses or touched anything dirtier than crystal. They were slim and soft. He wondered how they would feel against his skin, but remembering the unshaven bristles of his jaw and the work-hardened coarseness of his own palms, he turned to stare out the window again.