Moon Dreams

by Patricia Rice

  Rory fell from his hammock and cursed the pain shooting through him as he stumbled toward the curtain. The whimpers had woken him, but it had taken her scream to jar him into action. Surely no man of his would dare enter this cabin while he was in it. What in hell could be wrong?

  Alyson thrashed against the blankets, her eyes open but staring blankly into the low light of the lantern. Puzzled, Rory sat down upon the bed and tried to take her hands, but she fought him off. Could a person dream with her eyes open? She didn’t seem to be conscious that he was there.

  Gently he lifted her struggling form into his arms. She wore only the loose chemise, but his mind was not on that now as he tried to calm her hysteria. She fought him until he pulled her into his lap, and his arms closed around her. Then she collapsed, weeping, against his shoulder.

  Awkwardly Rory caressed her back, holding her tight. Thank God he had worn his breeches to bed, or she would have something to scream about. She was so soft and light in his arms . . . He kissed the top of her head and tried to murmur sensibly reassuring words.

  “Hush, lassie, it was naught but a dream. I won’t let anything hurt ye. I promise I won’t. Shhh, my little one, do not greet so.”

  He was holding her, reassuring her as if she were a child. And she could feel the rough fabric of the bandage around his chest and the buttons of his breeches against her hip. He wasn’t naked as in her dream. And neither was she. It must have been a dream, a terrible nightmare. Alyson cowered against his strong chest, seeking comfort from his greater strength. Rory would protect her, wouldn’t he?

  But looking up into his face, she saw the face of the strange Rory—the one whose brandy eyes were not gentle but burned with a strange fire she did not understand. His hold on her tightened, and she knew he meant to kiss her, just as the Rory in her dream had. Terrified, she tore away.

  Rory let her go. He did nothing to stop her. Surprised, Alyson sat in the middle of the bed and pulled the blanket around her, feeling the sudden chill at the loss of his embrace. He was watching her with curiosity, but he made no move that she could consider threatening.

  “Will you tell me, Alys?”

  The soft burr of his voice and the familiar pet name brought tears to her eyes. It was all so strange, so new. She had nothing of her past, her home, anymore. She was all alone, and there was only this man to remind her she had once been loved. Her grandmother had talked with an accent like his, and she had called her by that name too.

  “It was a dream. A terrible dream. I’m sorry. I did not mean to wake you.”

  Rory lifted his hand to brush her cheek. She flinched from his touch, and he pulled away in puzzlement. “Sometimes it helps if you talk about it, lass. Do you have these kinds of dreams often?”

  It hadn’t felt like a dream. She had seen him, just as she had seen other things that made no sense but came true later. But she couldn’t explain that to him. Only her grandmother had understood what she meant.

  “I used to dream about my father,” she said. “He was lost at sea before I was born. Sometimes I would see him walking down the path to the beach, or sitting in the library, staring at the fire. Other times, he was in strange places I didn’t recognize, but I always knew he was my father. Is that odd, or do you ever have dreams like that too?”

  Rory relaxed. “My father died when I was sixteen. I remember him very well, but I can’t say that I ever dreamed of him. If your father died before you were born, how could you know him in your dreams?”

  Because they weren’t dreams, but Alyson did not bother to explain that. It would be like saying she saw ghosts, which she apparently did. “There was a portrait of him in the hall. I would recognize him anywhere. He was in the navy, and he wore his uniform and had a big white-trimmed hat under his arm. In the portrait, he wore one of those fat old-fashioned wigs, but in my dreams his hair was golden. I once asked my grandfather about it, and he said yes, that would be the color of his hair. So I know it’s him.”

  An officer in His Majesty’s Navy. Gad, but it was a good thing her father wasn’t alive now to see his daughter on one of the free traders that plagued the British frigates in colonial waters. That was all he needed, someone in the navy with a personal vendetta against him. They had been after his neck for fifteen long years. It made his throat itch just to think about it.

  “Do you know how he died, lass?”

  Alyson drew her knees up under her chin. “He was in the navy, as my grandfather had been in the navy before him. It was a family tradition. Of course, since he was the only son, it was expected that he would not stay, but he liked it, until he met my mother. Before she died, my mother said he had promised that he would resign his position, but he had to complete this one tour of duty. She went out and visited the ship and met his captain and everything. Or at least that’s what my grandmother said.”

  Alyson lowered her voice as if speaking only to herself. “My mother claimed they were wedded on board, that the captain wrote it down in his book for all to see, but they knew it wasn’t in the church and proper and legal like it should be. It was his last night onshore, and they just pretended that it was real. Then he sailed away to the West Indies and never came home again.”

  The story, or perhaps the way she told it, was haunting, an eerie echo of love lost. Rory could see it now, could easily see how it had happened, and looking at the bent head of the result of that union, he was glad it had. He touched a finger to her chin and lifted it until he could see the misty gray of her eyes.

  “Your mother was Scots, was she not?” Alyson nodded. “So they met in Scotland?” Alyson nodded again, her gaze fastening on him with curiosity. “Then if your mother’s words are true and they said their vows in front of witnesses in Scottish waters, under Scots law, they were well and truly married. They didna need the kirk to make them man and wife.”

  Alyson’s eyes widened. “Then I really would be Lady Alyson and have just as much right to my father’s house as Cranville.”

  Rory grinned and tapped her nose lightly. “Unfortunately, lassie, you have the same problem as before. Without the captain, the log, or the witnesses, you canna prove a thing. Remember that if you should ever feel foolish enough to do the same. Churches don’t go down in the sea.”

  Alyson made a wry face. “It would serve my cousin right if I could find that log. Or a survivor.” She brightened. “There may have been survivors. The ship went down in a storm off the coast of one of the islands. Some of the men could have escaped, couldn’t they?”

  Rory didn’t smile at her sudden eagerness. “Do not start dreaming fancy dreams, Alys. A storm in the islands is no laughing matter. Unless there was someone there to pull them ashore, they would most likely be battered on the rocks or coral or swept back to sea. The currents are wicked, and in a storm . . . The chance is slight. And even if one man survived, how would you find him? I’m sorry, lass, but you had best be happy knowing they loved each other.”

  She smiled sleepily and yawned. Rory patted her hand and rose from the bed. “You can sleep now?”

  She nodded, and reluctantly Rory returned to his side of the curtain. Maybe, just maybe, he was doing the wrong thing by saving her for some elegant nobleman with name and title and little more. Why should he let her go for the likes of an Alan Tremaine or Earl of Cranville?

  And then he remembered the brandy in his hold and the false letters of marque in his desk and the man he meant to kill back in Scotland. They were just the beginning of any number of reasons why he couldn’t marry now. Even Cranville looked good compared to the likes of him.

  9

  Charleston, Spring 1760

  Their first sight of land came at the beginning of May. Fair winds and calm seas had courted them, and Alyson’s pale complexion had gained a honey hue from the hours she spent watching the crew climbing through the rigging.

  That was what she was doing now, Rory observed as the first cries of “Land ho!” echoed from the crow’s nest. Instead of searching for t
he shoreline, Alyson was sitting on the lid of a water barrel watching the brisk flapping of the sails. She had made a cap of sorts out of an old piece of linen, but the bit of scrap and ribbon could not hold that mass of ebony curls in place. They frothed about her face like a wild sea, and Rory wondered for the millionth time what it would be like to have those raven tresses spread out on a pillow beneath him. He could almost feel what it would be like pressed into her welcoming softness, releasing the wild ecstasy hiding behind her demure features.

  It was no use contemplating it, however. The easy camaraderie that had sprung up between them had disappeared the night of her dream, never to come back quite the same. She regarded him warily and took care that she no longer came close to him, a pattern of behavior that did not seem natural to the free spirit Rory had seen. But it had eased his problem somewhat. If she had not learned to confine her carefree behavior, he would have bedded her by now. The need was so great as to bring him anguish every time he looked on her.

  Unaware of the thoughts of the man at the tiller, Alyson brought her gaze down from the sails to the green haze of land in the distance. She would soon be in another country, an alien place where she knew no one and no one knew her. She had wanted a new identity. What better way than this?

  If only she didn’t have to worry about relying on the Maclean. If she had the coins the thieves had stolen from her, she could disembark and never see him again, and then the vision couldn’t possibly come true.

  It had taken these weeks and snatches of conversations and glimpses of male habits to knit together some meaning to the vision. Most of the understanding came from what she felt when Rory touched her. Her insides grew shaky and uncertain. She had no genuine knowledge of what happened between a man and a woman, but she knew now her complete vulnerability. The thought terrified her, but more than that, the hollow ache that opened when Rory simply offered a tender smile—terrified her even more. She wanted what he would do to her.

  That was enough to make her contemplate escape. Rory had no mind for marriage, and she had no mind to bring a child into the world without it.

  Alyson frowned at the horizon, contemplating a plan that had begun to form since discovering the hoard of gold in Rory’s trunk. She could not escape without coins to live on until Mr. Farnley could send a bank draft. That would be months and months. But if she could borrow some of Rory’s money, she could repay him when her funds arrived. The only objection was that Rory would never lend it to her without knowing all the whys and wherefores, and that was what she hoped to avoid.

  If the thought of leaving Rory caused regret, she ignored it as she had learned to ignore all the other hurts in her life. She had lived without friends for years and not felt their lack.

  They did not attempt the river at Charleston until the tide turned at dawn the next day. In the morning, Rory allowed Alyson to watch as he maneuvered the ship up the narrow channel. He pointed out various buildings and called their names as they sailed by.

  To Alyson’s amazement, the town appeared to be built entirely of sturdy brick structures, some of them quite substantial. Up the bank from the river she caught glimpses of several lovely residences. After the streets of London, these streets seemed clean and orderly, and even the market opening up near the waterfront appeared fresh and new. The air was hot and clean, without the incessant belching of smoke from thousands of chimneys. Charleston was definitely the nicest place she had ever seen.

  Thrilled with this discovery, Alyson almost forgot her plans, until Rory came down to collect her and lead her back to the cabin. His words as they returned inside sent her heart anxiously to her throat.

  “I need to leave the ship to arrange for the unloading of my cargo, lass. Stay here and tidy yourself up, and when I come back, we’ll go into town.”

  He was already pulling on his coat and reaching for his hat as he spoke. She noticed he was careful to tie his jabot, shake out his cuffs, and put on his best vest, but he didn’t bother with the formality of a wig. She would have to learn the manners of this new society, but judging from Rory’s appearance, it could not be so very different from London.

  He accepted her silence as agreement and strode off. When he was gone, Alyson set her plan into motion.

  She carefully counted out the number of coins from Rory’s hoard that she expected to need. Perhaps if they weren’t enough, she could supplement her income. She wouldn’t make a very good teacher, but she could be a lady’s companion, and she sewed a fair hand. Rory would scarcely notice such a small amount, but she would not betray his friendship by taking more than she needed.

  Carefully she penned a note with supplies from his desk, stating her name and the amount she owed, and promised to repay one Rory Douglas Maclean upon demand. She had learned the words from the markers Jack and Dougall used when they played cards. They sounded legal, so Rory need not worry about being reimbursed.

  This time she was not so careless about storing her coins. She opened up holes in the quilting of her petticoat and sewed a coin into each little pocket. She kept a few small coins in her pockets for immediate use.

  By the time she was done, she was terrified Rory would have returned, but the men seemed to be going about their chores as usual, judging by Dougall’s shouts above. Now came the hard part. She used Rory’s brush and shaving mirror to straighten out her hair and tidy her fichu. The gown was well worn after so many washings in seawater, but she could not wear the sailor’s breeches she had occasionally donned when her own clothing was being cleaned. She must strive to somehow look like a lady, if a poor one. Then she had to contrive some way to escape the ship without being seen.

  That was an impossibility, of course. The ship had docked at a wharf, and a gangplank had been thrown out so Rory could reach land, and men swarmed all around it. The sailors were busy checking lines and sails and scrubbing the decks. She might possibly skirt them. But a small crowd of people was gathering, speculating on the contents of the ship, and she dreaded the thought of walking off alone.

  Boldly, she walked up on deck. Dougall spotted her first, and he hurried forward to greet her. “Miss Hampton, is there aught I can do for you?” He swept off his hat and made a hasty bow.

  Dougall was some years older than Rory but had not the hard appearance of a man who looks into the future and sees his own destruction, as Rory did. Bushy red-gold eyebrows made Dougall’s pitted face memorable, and she saw only kindness in his faded blue eyes.

  “Rory asked me to mend his good linen shirt,” she lied, “but I have used up the last of the thread on my petticoat. I know he wishes to wear it today, but I hated to bother anyone. There ought to be some way I can do this one small thing myself. Surely there is a booth where I can buy notions in that market?”

  “I’ll send William out to look for some thread,” Dougall said. “He will have it to you in plenty of time, I promise. The captain had quite a few errands to run before he’ll be back.”

  “Thank goodness.” Alyson managed to look relieved instead of frustrated. She tried another tack. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on land, might I go over with him?” She looked embarrassed, and glanced away. “There are some other things I really would like to buy.”

  “If it were up to me, I’d say yes, Miss Hampton, but the captain gave strict orders that you weren’t to go about without me or him. It’s for your own protection, you know.”

  Alyson sighed and continued to look over the wharf. Small boats, canoes, and pirogues maneuvered in between the larger ships, unloading the fresh produce and fish for the day. People were starting to accumulate among the fish and vegetable stalls to inspect the merchandise as it arrived. Soon the wharf would be quite crowded. If she could just get across that plank . . .

  “I’m sure he means well, Dougall, but it does make it very difficult for me to show my gratitude for his care. How can I surprise him when he is always with me? His best coat needs new buttons, and . . . well, I ruined his blotter when I emptied most of his
inkwell on it. I thought it might please him if I replaced it.”

  Dougall looked as if she’d crushed his lonely heart. “The captain don’t deserve your care, Miss Hampton, but I’ll see to it. Wait here a minute while I tell Jake where we’re going, and I’ll escort you personally. The captain can’t object to that, once he understands how you feel.”

  Alyson breathed a sigh of relief as Dougall strode off to relay his message. She had never done anything so difficult in her life, but she had a feeling it would get worse instead of better. Now she would have to lose poor Dougall in the crowded streets of Charleston.

  That part went quite well. She lingered so long over the selection of buttons in a storefront just off the wharf that the poor man took to watching the pretty girls passing in the street. It was a simple matter to have the shopkeeper show her his warehouse of goods behind the store, and from there to step out the rear entrance into the street above the one Dougall waited on. She was free!

  Fat matrons in skirts lacking London’s panniers elbowed her aside as Alyson tried to lose herself in the crowd around the market. Black servants perversely blocked her way when she tried to dodge around them. Small boys in slouch hats and loose homespun shirts darted in and out around her legs, nearly sending her stumbling into a portly wigged gentleman sniffing at a fruit she did not recognize.

  After the routine of six weeks on a ship, this crowd of colors, people, sights, sounds, and scents was exhilarating, but exhausting. Her stomach rumbled at the sight of fresh strawberries and the smell of pastry baking nearby. She wrapped her fingers around the coins in her pocket and wished heartily to indulge in a brief spurt of marketing, but she could not. She had to find somewhere safe before Rory found her gone.

  She would have enjoyed sharing the excitement of Charleston with him, she realized with regret. He would have told her what those strange fruits were, explained why the black ladies in their drab clothes wore those colorful kerchiefs around their heads, told her which of those scrumptious-smelling pastries would be the best. Instead, she had to hurry past them all without knowing, wondering if she would ever know, or if she would ever see him again.