“Where are you going?” she asked foggily, wondering if she were still dreaming. Did he mean to leave her here?
“To find a clergyman. There’s bound to be one in this forsaken place somewhere. Dougall’s gone to fetch Rosie. She’ll find something suitable for you to wear.”
He was trying very hard to enunciate clearly. Alyson paid more attention to his forced speech than his actual words, thus entirely missing his meaning. “Why are you talking like that?” She sat up in the bed, pulling the sheet around her.
How in the hell could a man vent his justifiable rage when its object sat like a wanton mermaid in the middle of his bed asking inane questions instead of fighting back? How could anybody argue with a misty vapor who defied logic?
Grinding his teeth, Rory made another attempt. “I am trying very hard to be patient, Alyson. If you wish to explain why you ran away again, I’m prepared to listen, but nothing you can say will change my mind. It has been made very clear to me this night that we have no other choice. As soon as I can find a clergyman, we will be married. There will be time to shop for a trousseau afterward, and then we will return to London.”
She continued to stare at him in perplexity. “You are very drunk.”
“I was, but I’m cold sober now.” That came close enough to the truth. As he saw her there in the first rays of dawn, her satin-soft hair streaming in thick cascades over nearly bare shoulders, his mind had nearly stopped functioning. Not even drunken thoughts could intrude through his desire.
“Were you cold sober when you made love to that pink canary?”
Had that question made any sense at all to Rory’s befuddled mind, he might have recognized it as the opening for the fight he sought. But Alyson didn’t play the game fairly, and he stared at her with incomprehension.
“I don’t see pink canaries when I’m drunk, and I don’t think I even want to know what you’re talking about. Just be ready when I return.” He lifted his shoulders from the door and started to turn away, when Alyson’s reply brought him to a halt.
“You can find all the clergymen you like, Rory Douglas, but I’ll not marry you.”
For Alyson, this speech was quite firm and decisive, and Rory turned to stare at her in disbelief. She was the one who had wanted marriage. Now what in hell had she got in her mazed brain? “You have someone else in mind, perhaps?”
Alyson shrugged. “Not particularly. I do wish you would leave, Rory. You are making me quite uncomfortable.”
“I am making you uncomfortable?” He repeated her words with incredulity. “Uncomfortable, is it? Someday let me tell ye how I’ve spent this night while ye played at yer fancy ball and slept soundly in my bed! It is more than uncomfortable I will make ye, should ye ever lead me such a merry dance again!”
His control was slipping. Alyson glanced nervously at the door.
And then she apparently registered his words and glared at him in incredulity. “Your bed? Dougall brought me to your bed? Did you make love to the pink canary here?” With visible distaste she stood up, trailing the linen sheet like a Grecian goddess. “If we make each other so uncomfortable, then it is obvious we should not marry. I’ll dress and leave you to your bed, if you will but give me a few minutes’ privacy.”
To touch her would be fatal to what remained of his control, but Rory contemplated grabbing those lovely white shoulders and shaking her until her teeth rattled. “I’ll give ye privacy enough for now, but I’ll be back with the clergyman before noon. I expect you to be ready when we arrive.”
Alyson peered at him uneasily as she clutched her sheet and backed toward the window. “He cannot marry us against my will. Even I know that much.”
It had never occurred to him that she would refuse, and Rory had no formulated plan to persuade her otherwise. He only knew that he had made up his mind it was in her best interest, and that she had best agree to it before anything else happened. Having little expertise in the fine art of persuading maidens, he fell back on his practical business sense.
“Then I would suggest, lass, that you change your mind or find yourself staring at the cold walls of Bridgetown’s charming prison.”
***
He had gone stark raving mad—that much was clear as Alyson gazed in dismay upon Rory’s disheveled handsomeness. Dark curls fell across his bronzed brow, and beneath them, his wickedly-lashed eyes gleamed with unholy fires. Something or someone had driven him quite over the edge. “I have done nothing wrong. I can’t be put in prison for refusing to marry you.”
Rory stonily disregarded her argument. “Do you remember the voucher you left in my trunk when you ‘borrowed’ that gold from me?”
That had been so many months before that Alyson was left at a loss. Voucher? Was that what she had written? The word had an ominous ring. She was almost afraid to nod acknowledgment.
Rory continued coolly at her nod. “Are you prepared to repay it?”
Bewildered, Alyson almost lost her grip on the sheet. Rory seemed some stranger to her, not at all the considerate gentleman of yesterday. Could a person change overnight? “Of course,” she responded faintly. “Just as soon as we return to London.”
“That’s not what I had in mind, Lady Alyson.” Rory mocked the title the governor had thrown in his face. “I need the money now. People who give out vouchers are expected to repay upon demand, otherwise they go to debtors’ prison until they raise the sum. At least, while you were in there, I would know where you are.”
Alyson backed against the window seat and abruptly sat down. She couldn’t tear her gaze from Rory’s frozen features. There was nothing of gentleness in his eyes, and the hawk-like nose added fierceness to his visage. She had been warned of his ruthlessness, but she had never believed.
“You wouldn’t do that,” she whispered uncertainly, waiting for him to laugh and tell her he teased.
“Try me. I’ll be back with a clergyman and a soldier. You can choose which one you prefer.”
Rory swung on his heel and stalked out, leaving Alyson crying for the man she had thought she loved.
19
The bright light of a Caribbean midafternoon caught on golden strands in the tall, distinguished visitor’s otherwise silver locks as he took the slip of paper from the pocket of his beige silk frock coat. Dressed for a formal call, Everett Hampton looked up to a shabby town house and back at the paper with a frown.
Returning the paper to his pocket, he regarded the stream of surprisingly well-turned-out guests entering the shabby house. He had already seen the governor, several distinguished gentlemen, and a clergyman enter. A host of fluttering maids and dressmakers and people with flowers ran in and out. It seemed quite possible that a wedding was in preparation.
Remembering the drunken young sea captain from the night before, the gentleman smiled. He was no stranger to the odd quirks life takes. Perhaps he had been talking to the man he sought just last night and didn’t know it. He hoped so. He liked what he had seen of the man, and he hoped he had taken his advice to wed his little heiress. Everett’s own daughter had just recently married, and she seemed content with her wedded state, despite her husband’s lack of wealth.
He remembered Brianna laughing at what she had called his “moon dreams.” He had thought it was necessary to prove himself to his father, to prove that he was worthy of being his son and heir, and earning the right to choose the woman he loved instead of the one chosen for him. How foolish he had been; what lives he had wasted on those foolish dreams.
In guilty memory of the woman he had finally married and who had borne his children, he had to admit that he had not suffered for his decision. True, he missed the love that had bound him to the home and family of his youth, and the memory of Brianna would always tear at his heart, but he had no reason for complaint. Had it not been for Diana, he would have died and had no life at all.
Yet he continued to finger the paper in his pocket. Why would anyone be searching now, after all these years, for a ship and crew lo
ng since buried in the deep?
There surely must have been an official inquiry at the time, although Diana and her father had never mentioned it to him. That was the only thing he held against them. Withholding his past had been cruel, although he certainly understood why they had done it. Diana’s father had been a dying man even then. The plantation had been in ruins and was no dowry for a daughter whose kind and generous nature did not overcome her lack of physical beauty. A healthy young man with no memory must have seemed a gift from heaven at the time.
Everett sighed and headed for the tavern. Memories were all he had anymore. His deceitful Diana had died in the epidemic of yellow fever that had claimed his sons last year. Only his daughter survived, and she was happily wedded and breeding his first grandchild. That gave him something to look forward to, but not enough. His son-in-law managed the plantation well enough. He needed something new to occupy his mind.
That was why his mind kept returning to the scrap of paper and the life he had left behind. Thinking him dead, Brianna would be happily married by now, with probably a dozen children around her feet. She had always loved children and scolded him for making her wait for a proper marriage.
Perhaps he would ask the young sea captain about the best ship to take should he decide to return to England.
Diana had never realized his memory had slowly returned. It would have only brought her pain to know he had already been married and that their entire respectable life was a sham. Besides, he had his sons and daughter to think of by that time. It had seemed best not to dredge up the past.
But he could see no obstacle in doing so now. Perhaps he should inquire into family affairs first. If his father were no longer alive, his cousin’s son would have inherited. The lad could not possibly recognize him after all these years. Or his father could have remarried and there would be complete strangers in residence now.
It gave him a task that made his step a little jauntier as he left the shabby townhouse and the wedding preparations.
***
From the window of Rory’s bedroom Alyson watched the distinguished-looking gentleman disappear from view and gave a sigh as reality intruded. As the clergyman behind her had droned on, she had lost herself in daydreams of the gentleman’s identity and why he would stand looking so forlorn outside a house that had seen much better days. She knew he had a fascinating story to tell, but she would never hear it. Rory and the clergyman would never understand when she explained she wished to follow a stranger simply because he resembled the ghost of her father.
Wearing a silver satin gown adorned with yards of white lace that the mantua-maker had produced, Alyson turned to face the black-clad vicar. He seemed a kindly man, if somewhat nervous, and she should not have been so rude to him. She simply had no idea what on earth he was talking about.
“You do understand, then, my lady, the seriousness of the step you take today? It is not a decision to be made in haste. There is your family to consider . . .” He hesitated as Alyson turned her vacant stare to him.
“Family?” Alyson’s mind jolted back to the present with mad glee. “Yes, there is my family to consider, of course. Thank you, Reverend. You have been so very helpful. You may reassure the Maclean that I will say my vows as promised.”
Since he had spent the better part of an hour trying to persuade her otherwise, the vicar only frowned, bowed, and departed.
Alyson watched the vicar go without regret. She had been bathed and perfumed and pinned and sewed together for what seemed like hours. She really had very little choice. Every man she met would admire her money without seeing her. It seemed a pity that Rory wasn’t any different, as she had hoped, but at least he had a good reason for his greed. Once they were married, he could buy back his lands and save his family and tenants from a life of poverty. That was a noble cause.
She had never seen Scotland, but that had been her grandmother’s home, and she had heard the tales. She wouldn’t mind living there and helping Rory return his estates to production. She could almost imagine some semblance of happiness in that life. It wouldn’t be too bad.
And it would put an end to Cranville. That thought again filled her with unholy glee. He would be so furious he would most likely have an apoplexy. ’Twas a pity she couldn’t be there when he found out. Marriage to Rory would certainly be better than anything the drunken earl had to offer.
She wanted to talk to Rory again. She needed to reassure herself that this sense of impending doom was only a matter of last-minute nerves. He’d had time to sleep off the drink and make himself presentable. If she could just see the Rory she knew, and not that ruthless stranger, she would know she had made the right choice.
All the maids and mantua-makers had left, but she knew the house was full of Rory’s men. Acting on the moment, she flew to the bedroom door. And found it locked.
Alyson shook the latch in disbelief. He had locked her in! She was a prisoner in what was soon to be her marital chamber. She stared at the latch in dismay. How could he?
Remembering that first night aboard his ship, and the horror of finding herself locked in, Alyson felt all the doors to freedom clicking closed. She had been Rory’s prisoner from the very first. There never had been any escape. He had just given her time to adjust the noose around her own neck.
Alan had but bent her heart in comparison to what Rory had done. The horror of it washed over her as her hand slipped away from the latch, and she stared at it as if it had just turned into a Gorgon’s head. Backing away, she tried to gather her thoughts, but could not.
Images of Rory in another woman’s arms intermixed with the demon Rory who crushed her beneath him in a mockery of love. It could not be like this. She struggled to remember the man who had held her with love and taken her with gentleness. She had to recall how he had rescued her from kidnappers and saved her from her cousin.
Only, the evil thoughts corrupted the good ones. He had seduced her with his gentleness, claimed her in the only way left to him, since he had already stolen her from home. She had only Rory’s word for it that Cranville had hired her kidnappers. It had been very convenient that he found her before they returned her to her cousin. Too convenient.
And someone must have told Cranville that she was in Charleston. Mr. Farnley surely wouldn’t betray her after what she had said in her letter. Only Rory could have done that, Rory, who had written to his aunt to tell her Alyson was with him, destroying her reputation so she would have no other choice than to marry him. It was all beginning to make some kind of insane sense. Rory had been waiting for her cousin to chase after her so he could come sailing to her rescue, hoping she would fall into his arms in gratitude.
And she had. Oh, my Lord, she had. With all her heart and soul she had fallen into his arms and betrayed herself. She was no better than her mother, never had been. She was as wanton as Rory had called her, and now she would pay for it for the rest of her life.
Desperately, she glanced out the window, but she wasn’t mad enough to fling herself from such a height. Steps sounded outside her door, and she looked for a hiding place, but there was none. The room didn’t contain so much as a curtain or a wardrobe to cower behind.
A weapon would be useful, but the door opened before she could even figure out what would constitute a weapon. She stifled her scream as a stiffly formal Dougall entered.
Sorrowfully he held out his hand to what she regarded as her execution. “Come, lass, the company is waiting for ye.”
***
Rory watched Alyson come down the stairs on Dougall’s arm and his insides contracted into tight knots. Her beautiful misty eyes had transformed into glass-hard mirrors. Her sun-tinged complexion had gone pale overnight, and her skin seemed drawn taut over fragile cheekbones. He should never have done this. He should back out now, send the whole company home, go drown himself in the ocean and be done with it.
He couldn’t, of course. The governor stood at his elbow, and his official men-at-arms were interspersed th
roughout the room. He had vowed that the marriage would be made legal before church and state, and they were all here to see that Rory kept that vow and henceforth trod the path of honesty for Alyson’s sake.
Rory hadn’t quite determined how he was to uphold all the promises he had made in these last hours or why he’d made them. His head hurt as if pounded by the seven hammers of hell, and he hadn’t had any sleep for nearly two days. His every waking thought since seeing Alyson running down the dock had been fully occupied with getting her back. There had not been time to contemplate what he would do after he caught her.
And now it was too late. He could tell by the brittle set of her face that he had already destroyed something rare and precious. He had been given this one chance to share something special, to hold someone lovely, and he had destroyed it with his need to possess. Perhaps everything had been taken from him for a reason, and he had yet to learn the lesson.
Alyson stood without touching him during the service. Rory’s neckcloth felt too tight, and in the warmth of the afternoon and the crowd of people, his long formal vest and frock coat began to melt the linen of his shirt against his back. His head spun from lack of food and the aftereffects of too much drink.
When Alyson gazed up at him, he lost all thought of what he was supposed to do. Her eyes were like the gray clouds that formed on the hills before a winter storm, and he felt their frozen winds blowing through his heart. If he believed in witches, he would know she had cast an evil spell on him at that moment. The effect would be much the same.
Dougall prodded him, and Rory remembered the ring. He slipped the gold band on her finger, and she gazed blankly at the place where their hands joined. The clergyman continued his ritual chant. The pagan ceremony they had celebrated earlier had more meaning than this one. These were just words. The love and joy had disappeared. Alyson’s fingers were lifeless in Rory’s hand.
The token kiss at the end of the ceremony brought a round of stifled cheers from the crew. Alyson’s breath was warm and sweet against his lips, but it seemed to come in short gasps. Rory glanced at her worriedly, but they were soon surrounded by well-wishers. He clasped her hand and the ring cut into his palm near the healing wound at the base of his thumb—symbols of his possession. But they didn’t make him happy.
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