“Couldn’t we stay here forever?” she murmured as Rory rolled over and carried her with him. Alyson sifted a handful of sand across his sun-browned chest once she rested atop him.
Rory lay back against the hot sand and entwined her long hair in his fingers. “Moon dreaming again, my love? We should perish of thirst as soon as the water barrels emptied. Or we would drown in the first storm to come along. Whichever came first. There would not be time to worry about starving, come winter.”
Alyson sighed. “Always the practical Scot. I offer you warmth and love and pleasure, and you think about hunger and thirst. Men are all alike. I’ll never understand you.”
The strange thing was, Rory understood exactly what she meant. His daydreaming angel had no use for wealth or lineage or even the common basics of shelter and food. She lived in a world entirely her own, made up of sensations instead of thoughts. Had there not always been someone there to see her clothed and fed, she would have perished long since. He wasn’t entirely certain that she would even find dying unpleasant.
Chuckling at that thought, Rory roused himself. They had only until the tide turned. The men would be irritable and restless if left to themselves too long. Alyson might dream as she wished. It was his lot in life to be practical.
“You need not understand my mind, lass. You understand the rest of me well enough. Come, let us enjoy what time we have without worrying about the morrow.”
Rory rose from the sand and pulled her with him. She circled his waist with her arms and buried her head against his shoulder and tears scorched his skin. Nothing was forever.
***
Leaning against the railing, waiting for some sign of the island Rory had promised her, Alyson felt as if forever might be a long time in arriving. These last lazy days while the ship sailed smooth waters to a port where Rory could unload his goods had drifted by in long, lovely hours. The sun had smiled upon them, as the golden color of her skin could attest.
She really ought to be ashamed of her behavior, but Alyson could not summon the necessary moral rectitude. Garbed in Rory’s and William’s discarded shirts and breeches, tanned by the sun, her hair plaited loosely in a single braid down her back, she looked the part of graceless savage. And she played the part, too, when Rory came to her at night and took her in his arms and taught her things no lady should know.
Alyson looked back over her shoulder to find his broad-shouldered figure on the quarterdeck, giving curt orders to Dougall. As if he felt the path of her thoughts, Rory set his spyglass down. The look he gave her warmed her all the way through, reminding her of what they had just done only a few hours ago. He grinned and turned back to this task, but Alyson knew his thoughts traveled with hers. She clasped the beribboned hat Rory had made for her to keep the wind from sailing it away. The shirt she wore tightened over her breasts, and she sighed. If anything, her need for him had multiplied.
Made restless by the memory of Rory’s arms around her, Alyson pushed from the railing. As pleasant as these last days had been, she was eager for land and people and, with any luck, books. Rory had the ship to keep him busy. She had very little to occupy her time.
“Port is in sight,” he yelled. “Go put on your frills and furbelows, and I will take you ashore as soon as I can.”
Blowing him a kiss, Alyson danced below and out of sight.
Having learned something of ship routine, Alyson knew she had plenty of time in which to dress. Rory would not go anywhere until he had his precious ship safely anchored and his cargo prepared for unloading. He had said nothing to her of the loss he had taken by not completing his load in Charleston, but she had heard Jack and Dougall talking. He had only the barrel staves from New England, and none of the tobacco that was so much in demand here.
There was some talk about not daring to enter the French ports while she was on board, which she did not try to follow. France was at war with England. She knew that much. Why Rory would want to enter their ports, she couldn’t fathom. She only knew it was costing him money to have her around. She would have to have Mr. Farnley pay him handsomely for this journey, but she wasn’t certain Rory would accept it.
That was one of the major problems looming before them, and Alyson was reluctant to face it just yet. Rory might say he lived outside the law, but his gentlemanly upbringing still ruled his behavior in many ways. If he were truly an outlaw, he would have kidnapped her, forced her into marriage, and gone back to England to live happily ever after on her wealth. But he was too much the gentleman to take what was not his, and too proud to marry for money. Perhaps that was the reason she loved him, but it made it damnably difficult to contemplate any kind of future.
Donning the lovely gown and petticoats Rory had bought for her, Alyson tackled the problem of her hair. It needed washing in something other than salt water, a good thorough brushing, and some of her grandmother’s lotion. She would never control it otherwise. Besides, she had not enough pins. Wrinkling her nose at the sunburned, wild-haired image in the small shaving mirror, Alyson merely tidied her braid and returned to the deck.
They had already docked, and she amused herself by perching unladylike on a barrel in the shadow of the bulkhead. She stayed out of the way, but in a position where she could see the sights and sounds below.
She had grown accustomed to seeing Africans in this new world, but on this island there seemed to be more black faces than white. Bright colors abounded, not just in the garb of the island inhabitants, but in the flowers hanging from houses and over walls, in the brilliant color of the sky and waves, and in the variety of fruits and vegetables in the market stalls. So engrossed did she become in this rainbow swirl that she began to grow a little dizzy with it all.
She watched an open carriage roll boldly onto the dock, evidence of its owner’s wealth. A crowd had gathered to bargain for the Sea Witch’s cargo. They gave the occupant of the carriage irritated looks and jostled aside to make way for it.
A black slave held the carriage horse steady while the carriage occupant leaned out. Alyson’s vision abruptly narrowed to this lone figure emerging from the vehicle in a swirl of pink and white organdy, satin bows and frilly parasol. Her pink-and-white complexion had aid of few cosmetics, and her golden hair went unadorned by cap or bonnet. Her smile brightened as she looked up to the Witch.
The brilliant sights and sounds blurred into an ethereal distance. Alyson didn’t fight the sensation, but surrendered to it, needing the knowledge that always followed.
She fought back waves of dizziness as the vision faded into night. Gone were the pink frills and expensive accoutrements. In their place was a nearly transparent night rail. Blond hair cascaded wantonly over white shoulders and voluptuous curves. The crowds disappeared, replaced by a candlelit bedroom and a single man, a man who held the blond temptress in his bare, sun-bronzed arms, arms that had held Alyson just the night before.
Barely able to choke back a scream, swallowing nausea, Alyson jerked away from the horrifying vision. Reality was scarcely better as the vision in pink glided up the plank to board the Witch, her gaze focused on the handsome captain in shirtsleeves on the quarterdeck. Rory did not order the intruder thrown overboard as Alyson wished he would do.
Why the knowledge that these two were lovers should come as such a shock was beyond her comprehension. Rory was a man of the world and would have many such amours. He had never led her to believe otherwise. Her stomach turned upside down realizing that she was only one of many, and her heart shattered into shards.
She had known better this time, but still she had allowed a man to make a fool of her. An even worse fool than the first time.
Refusing even to look in Rory’s direction, not wishing to witness the happy reunion, Alyson climbed down from her barrel. Head high, cheeks pale, she lifted her skirts and swept down the gangplank the pink canary had just ascended.
***
Unaware that Alyson had left the cabin, caught up in the multitude of tasks of anchoring and unloading
, and severely irritated by the inopportune appearance of the one other woman who had ever lingered in his life for more than one night, Rory did not immediately notice Alyson’s departure. Not until he lifted his head from his charts to fend off Minerva’s embrace did he catch a glimpse of gray-blue disappearing into the crowd. That thick curly braid of ebony could belong to only one person.
To the dismay of the woman clutching his arm, Rory began shouting furious orders. Shaking off Minerva, he dashed down to the main deck.
Men scrambled from the rigging and up from the hold. Dougall, on the dock discussing terms with vendors, glanced up at Rory’s bellows. He shoved the cargo manifest into his surprised companion’s hands and sprinted into the crowd.
Rory, unfortunately, didn’t reach the crowd where Alyson had disappeared. Two uniformed soldiers of His Royal Majesty’s Navy blocked his way, and he was forced back to the ship to present his documents for the customs officer.
The governor of this island had always looked the other way when Rory had landed here before. The trade between the French islands and their nearby neighbors in the Americas had been forbidden by the British Navigation Acts, but the island’s needs were too demanding to take such nonsense from halfway around the world seriously. Barbados benefited as much from his trade as Rory did.
The French wines and silks that Rory carried to trade for Barbadian molasses and sugar were much in demand by the island gentry. Rory had operated under the unspoken agreement that to interfere in his trade would jeopardize the governor’s position as much as his own.
So the insult of being boarded not only for the first time but also on a legal trip, by navy officers as well as the customs man, infuriated him. He couldn’t help but feel the interference had been deliberately planned for reasons he had yet to discern.
He produced the ship’s manifest. The soldiers leisurely searched the cargo for illegal goods. The search was such that Rory sarcastically asked if they would like to check his private quarters in case he had packed it with runaway slaves, and he was not surprised when they did, indeed, search the officers’ cabins.
After ascertaining that the cargo had been legally purchased in the colonies and glancing askance at Rory’s insistence that he was here only to fill his hold with sugar to take back to England, the intruders reluctantly withdrew, but only after posting guards.
Furious at the hours of delay, unmindful that Minerva had fled in a huff, Rory glared bleakly out at the dock as his men drifted back to the ship empty-handed. When Dougall appeared last of all, he knew Alyson had done it again.
Dougall glanced at his captain’s stiff features and shuddered. For a few short days Rory has been a carefree boy again. Dougall remembered him from when he was a studious lad in Edinburgh who loved the few minutes he had free from his studies. Rory had been that boy once more with Alyson.
Now he had returned to the ruthless seaman who had acquired a fortune by circumventing the law and skillfully plying his trade. That much of the fortune had gone to the aid of debt-stricken clansmen, only Dougall knew. He had hoped this charitable side of the captain would keep him on an even keel, but the look on Rory’s face now was that of a hunted man. There would be no reasoning with him.
“I lost her near Swan’s Inn. A horse bolted and overturned a couple of stands, a crowd gathered to grab what fell, and she escaped before I could. I’m sorry.” Dougall gestured in resignation. He had searched every building for an hour afterward, but the Maclean would know that without being told.
Rory glanced at the sun setting in the western sky. Alyson would be unaccustomed to the sudden darkness in the tropics. He hoped she had found a safe harbor, but if the district Dougall had left her in was any indication, she was about to find more trouble than she could handle.
Wishing he could steel himself against caring, but realizing the impossibility of hardening his heart to Alyson, Rory nodded acknowledgment of his friend’s report. He wished he knew what made her do these things, what set her into flight, but her reticence complicated communication. On the surface, she was cheerful and as open as any book. What simmered below that surface could be a full-time occupation for any man to explore.
“I’ll start at the Swan, then. Divide the others up into districts. I canna believe the whole damned world is blind to her.”
Dougall scuffled his foot and coughed. “Montrose is here,” he murmured. “I knew you’d be heading for the Swan, so I told him to wait there.”
Montrose never brought good news. Rory always left a meeting with his father’s onetime bailiff in a temper.
He scowled at the heavens as if the sky above were at fault. For Montrose to come this distance meant worse news than usual. Maybe the simplest thing to do would be to burn the whole damn town down until there was nothing left for Alyson to conceal herself behind. Then he could get on with the business at hand.
Nodding curtly, he strode off in the direction of the inn. He ought to forget the brat, he really ought to. They were no good for each other. Nothing could come of this madness that had overtaken them. Or perhaps it was just he who had gone temporarily insane. Perhaps Alyson only amused herself and had left when she saw a more interesting sight. With Alyson, it would not even have to be another man. A bright bird, a pretty horse, a book vendor’s stall would suffice. She was quite capable of drifting away and forgetting to return.
His thoughts were savage, though his heart protested their untruth. He wanted to believe in her. He wanted to believe that just this once he would be allowed to hold something lovely and valuable and not have it torn from him.
Scowling at this conflict between heart and head, Rory recalled the weeks he’d spent here this summer trying to track down information on the death of Alyson’s father. He’d learned there had been a navy brigantine patrolling these waters about the time he judged her father would have been here. An early hurricane had swept through at the time, leaving the residents unprepared, making the date fairly reliable.
He had yet to discover anyone who could tell him what had happened to the ship or its crew in the aftermath of the storm. Perhaps more reliable informants had been found by now. He had left messages in every cafe and tavern across the Caribbean. Barbados had been the only place where anyone recalled the ship.
Rory entered the Swan and searched for his bailiff. The room stank of unwashed bodies, cheap candles, burning oil, and rum. If there had once been windows, they had been paneled over long ago. The resultant dark didn’t disguise the less-than-gentlemanly occupants. On the whole, the clientele tended to be seamen just hitting port or looking for a ship out, and the ragtag scavengers who preyed on them.
Montrose looked as out-of-place as one of the few frock-coated planters. Even in this heat he had not discarded the wig he considered his badge of office, his claim to authority. Years ago, he had managed the laird’s sprawling estates. Since the rebellion, he had lived hand-to-mouth until Rory had come upon him. As a twenty-year-old seaman Rory had not been able to offer the man more than some semblance of pride and hope, but Montrose had been grateful for the recognition. He had been loyal to a fault ever since.
Still, Rory approached him with dismay. He didn’t want to know what trouble was brewing back in the Highlands. Tales of bankrupt crofters and ailing cousins could be dealt with by letter and his infrequent trips home. Whatever Montrose wanted now would demand time and money, and he had little enough to spare of both. He wanted to find Alyson before he tackled new problems.
The bailiff had chosen a table at the rear of the room, near the kitchen. That probably meant he didn’t wish to be overheard. Rory settled in the chair opposite the bailiff and gestured to the barmaid. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast, but a drink was what he needed now. “You came a long way to see me, Montrose. How did you find me?”
“Lady Campbell had your letter from Charleston saying you were headed here, and I took the first ship out. When I arrived, I heard you’d already been and gone, and I despaired of finding you. It’s the
Lord’s will that you returned.”
The Lord’s will and a fey creature with ebony hair and a face like an angel’s, but Rory didn’t disillusion the man. He threw a coin to the barmaid and drank deeply of the rum she delivered to him. The fiery liquid burned all the way down to his empty stomach but did not reach the cold place around his heart.
“So what has my esteemed cousin done this time to send you cavorting halfway around the world to tell me?”
Montrose never launched directly into any story when a substitute route could be found, and Rory imbibed heavily as the tales of woe unfolded and grated his nerves to threadbare ribbons. His monosyllabic replies provided no encouragement, but the bailiff diligently proceeded down his list of wrongs while Rory ordered a second round.
On the other side of the wall, nursing a bruised shin while a kindly landlady pressed her newly mended and cleaned gown, Alyson heard the sound of Rory’s curt monotone and wept.
18
Barbados, August 1760
How could Rory have found her? Alyson was quite certain she had lost Dougall in the near-riot outside, and the landlady had adamantly lied about her whereabouts when he returned later asking questions. Rory couldn’t know she was here.
Of course he didn’t, or he would be in here now dragging her out by the hair. He knew she was gone, but he didn’t care enough to search for her personally. His business was obviously more important.
That thought hurt, even though Alyson had known the truth of it from the very first. Rory had never lied about her importance in the scheme of things. He had shown her that quite clearly when he had hauled her across the ocean rather than risk his ship, and again when he had not returned to Charleston for months after he had promised. It was best that she leave now before she began dreaming impossible dreams again.
Moon Dreams Page 18
