Rory set his jaw stubbornly. “I’m not a child to be dismissed at a whim, Alys. As much as you may dislike the notion, you are still my wife, I assume, and while I can, I will take care of you. Deirdre has sent for a physician. Perhaps it would be best if he examined you.”
“No, Rory. I cannot abide yet one more person poking and prodding at me. Let me be, please,” she whispered.
“Persuade me you are not ill and I will go away and send the physician home.”
Alyson closed her eyes, but the blizzard was gone. She could feel the heat returning to her bones through the medium of Rory’s hand. Her fingers wrapped unconsciously around his as she spoke.
“The visions are not things I can describe, Rory. Sometimes I might see someone I know walking up the road when I have no access to a window, or I can see the ground crumbling away in a tunnel, but there are others that I cannot see so clearly. Grandmother said they are windows into another world, often a future world, and those we cannot see clearly because they have not happened yet. But I feel them. I am there and I experience them, but I do not know what it is I see or do.” Alyson gestured at the futility of explaining what she could not explain to herself.
“My mind rebels at the idea of a future that cannot be changed. Can you tell me what it was you felt today?”
Alyson chewed on her bottom lip and tried to put the sensation into words. “In the vision, I feel cold. Very cold. And it is white all around me. There’s a man on horseback. I cannot stop him. My throat is hoarse from screaming, and he keeps riding.” She hesitated, waiting for Rory to voice his skepticism, but he stayed silent, waiting. “The danger is all around, something I can feel; I don’t know why. Then the rider disappears. I think he has gone over a cliff.” She drew a deep breath and held his gaze. “I’m certain the rider is you.”
He studied her for a full minute before replying. “A storm like you describe would be found only in the northernmost part of the Highlands, lass. I would have no business there. My home is in the hills along the coast, where the winters are mild.” Rory shoved his hand through his hair. “If there is naught we can do to change the future, then there is no use in our worrying over it, is there? Now, get some sleep, and I will send the physician away.”
Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she couldn’t change the future. But if she had not seen the vision of Rory making love to her, would she have allowed him the liberties that she had? Would she have thought of marriage?
If she had not seen that vision of Rory with another woman, she would have married him happily and been innocent of his true nature.
Alyson frowned as Rory quietly rose and went out the door. If she had not run away that last time, would he have married her at all?
24
“I am sorry if I have called at an inconvenient time.” James Farnley, Esq., narrowed his bespectacled eyes as the Maclean paced the parlor with irritation. “There are some important matters that must be discussed, but if you would prefer to come to my office later today . . .”
In the week since his release from prison, the captain had evidently spent little time or money on embellishing his wardrobe. His broadcloth coat was impeccably kept, but not the fashion of colorful silk or satin. Although evidently dressed to go out, he wore no wig, did not powder his hair, carried no decorated walking stick, disdained red heels and clocked stockings, and had no expensive sedan chair waiting outside for him.
The oddity of a newly wealthy man acquiring none of the material symbols of his success made the cynical lawyer suspicious. Combined with the fact that the Maclean had not attempted to inquire into his new wife’s considerable business affairs, Farnley’s instincts for trouble were aroused.
Rory halted his pacing and tapped his fingers against the desktop. “I have given your messages to my wife, sir. I do not know why she has chosen not to respond to them. If there is some matter of importance that must be discussed, I will hear of it, but any decisions are Lady Alyson’s.”
The solicitor raised his eyebrows. “As her husband, you are the one with the legal responsibility of seeing to her business affairs. I recognize that the lady is of exceptional character, but as I have already informed her, your signature is required on all legal documents.”
Rory’s fist closed around the handle of a letter opener. “You have spoken with Alyson? She did not mention it to me.”
Farnley coughed. He did not know the state of affairs between the young couple, but in Alyson’s best interests, he had investigated the young man his wealthiest client had married. He had reservations about the marriage and the man’s character, but none about his business acumen. Since that was Farnley’s main concern, he attempted to placate his profitable client.
“Lady Alyson has never shown any interest in her holdings. I have asked her opinion on several outstanding matters, but she always defers the decision to me. I have helped the former earl with his business affairs, but I must face the fact that I am growing older and more cautious and have not the will to seek the more aggressive investments that I once did. I had the presumption to inquire into your finances when it came to my attention that you had taken on the responsibility of protecting Lady Alyson.”
That was as polite a way as he could state the case of Alyson’s abrupt disappearance. Farnley had been horrified when he’d learned his clerk had intercepted the lady’s letter from Charleston and sold it to the earl. He’d done his best to learn more of his client’s disappearance since then and had learned much from Lady Campbell. He was reassured that the Maclean was more trustworthy than the lady’s bankrupt cousin.
Rory gave him a look of cynical respect. “And?”
Not in the least intimidated by the captain’s cold tone, Farnley continued, “You have amassed a considerable fortune from your choice of investments, Captain. You are very daring. I would not advise risking a large fortune in such undertakings, but I think you are well aware of that. I’m quite convinced you are capable of managing Lady Alyson’s wealth without my interference.”
Rory clenched the engraved brass letter opener so tightly that the metal ought to pierce his palm. “I don’t believe you understand my position, sir. I believe the barrister you have employed has forwarded copies of the earl’s charges against me to your office. There are also several indictments pending in the Admiralty. Law has never been my profession, but I understand I could be hanged or transported for just one of these charges. I don’t believe it is in Lady Alyson’s best interests for me to be involved with any of her affairs. I am surprised that she has not already requested an annulment.”
That shocked Farnley. He stared at the young Scotsman in consternation before recovering his tongue. “An annulment? I should think not. I would advise against it, most certainly. The charges are specious, at best. The lady has suffered enough indignity by reason of her birth. I knew her father and grandfather well. They would not approve of such shabby treatment of one so dear to them. No, whatever the problems are, they must be overcome. The lady is your wife, Captain—it is your responsibility to look after her. Shall you come to my offices later today to take a look at the books?”
Rory set his jaw. “I am resigned to the fact that I have been assigned the task of responsibility for my wife by some immutable force, but my protection does not extend to include Alyson’s fortune. Find somebody else, Farnley.”
Understanding seized Farnley, and he favored the reluctant husband with approval. “It is difficult to find someone competent and trustworthy enough not to be tempted by such vast sums, Captain. Your wife would be left destitute if the wrong person had access to them. In the interest of her protection, perhaps I could hire you to manage her investments? They require a goodly amount of time and effort. I am certain a percentage fee would be needed to compensate for your time.”
Rory’s grip on the letter opener relaxed. He crossed his arms and leaned against the bonnet of the secretary. “You are a clever man, Mr. Farnley. I begin to understand why you and the former earl must have
got on so famously. The only way I can protect Alyson from fortune-hunters is to take on that task also?”
Farnley beamed. “Exactly, Captain. Shall we say two-thirty this afternoon? I will have my clerks gather the necessary papers. A quantity of matters has gone unattended in these last months.”
***
After a day spent grasping the enormity of Alyson’s inheritance, Rory staggered home with aching head. In their shared dressing room, he discovered his wife scantily garbed in what appeared to be silver tissue as Deirdre’s maid coiffed her hair in powdered ringlets. He eyed the powder with disfavor and studied Alyson in the long vanity mirror. The daring décolletage of her gown left little to the imagination. The full globes of her breasts pressed against the thin material, beautiful without need of jewels for adornment. Rory could well imagine every male eye in the town resting on his wife’s bosom, and he gritted his teeth in frustration. He had not imagined spending this time before the trial trapped in his wife’s company. For the life of him, he did not know why she stayed. Perhaps she had some foggy notion of being noble and standing by his side until he was proved guilty.
“Have I forgotten some occasion?” he asked warily, wondering why his normally reticent bride had suddenly decked herself out in all her glory.
Alyson puckered up her nose at her image as the maid inserted yet another silver butterfly in the intricate net of her hair. “Nothing of importance,” she answered absently. “Lady Hamilton is giving a small soiree, and I told Deirdre I would accompany her.” She started to tie a velvet ribbon with another tiny butterfly upon it around her neck. “Do you think this is too much? The modiste recommended it if I did not wear diamonds, but it seems a trifle foolish.”
“Alyson, you have enough wealth to buy every diamond in London. It matters not whether you wear butterflies or nothing at all. Am I expected to attend this function?” Wearily Rory shrugged out of his serviceable frock coat.
Alyson turned from the mirror to look at him in surprise. “I did not think you would want to, but I’m certain Lady Hamilton would be delighted if you could come.”
Rory’s initial reaction was relief. He had no desire to waste an evening making polite conversation with the same people who would have seen him hanged for a Jacobite. But as Rory watched the rise and fall of her breasts in that shimmering gown, his next reaction was purely jealous. He’d be damned if he’d let her out of the house like that unless he were at her side to black the eye of any man daring to look too closely.
“I’ll be ready shortly.” He swung out of the room toward the chamber he used as his.
Alyson stared after him with amazement. To have Rory glowering at her all evening was enough to cause alarm, but even worse, she could not contain her excitement at having him at her side. This past week, he had spent the evenings out of the house, and she feared he had found a mistress. At least this night he would be with her and not the other woman.
Unwilling to sort out such complex emotions, Alyson retreated behind her wall of vagary.
Despite Rory’s attempts to keep her at his side, she dived into the swirl of dancers, enjoying the popularity she’d never experienced at home. Rory glared at the effusive compliments her companions simpered, but there was little he could do to stop her from dancing.
Rory finally quit the dance floor and occupied his time with a halfhearted game of cards. The conversation at a neighboring table kept him amused as some half-drunken young man quoted Macpherson’s so-called Highland poetry. He recognized Samuel Johnson’s rasping voice wittily criticizing the spouted nonsense. Unfortunately, neither was sufficient to distract him from a second conversation behind him.
“Who would believe all that beauty would possess so much wealth? Had I known, I would have been tempted to abduct her myself.”
Drunken laughter met this idle jest. “Lud, for all that wealth, I would even endure a fool. Have you noticed how she looks right through you, as if you wasn’t there? I almost thought a ghost had appeared over my shoulder. Deuced spooky, if you ask me.”
Rory’s hands tightened around his cards. He wasn’t known in these circles, and he doubted that the speakers would even recognize his name, but they had certainly identified Alyson as clearly as if they had used hers. He clenched his teeth and held his peace.
“You must be losing your touch, Trevor. I knew a time when you wouldn’t let a woman like that out of your sight until you had her in bed. Are you telling us a heathen Scot has more to offer than you?”
Raucous laughter filled the air. Rory folded his cards and laid them on the table. When he glanced up, he found the elder statesman of literature watching him with cynical curiosity. Johnson didn’t say a word as the table of young rakes continued their drunken conversation. The other card players at the table simply counted Rory out and proceeded with their gambling.
“I’ll wager you’ll not get any further with her than I!” the first young blade declared hotly. “She’s daft as a Bedlamite. You could call her a blue-eyed mule, and she wouldn’t bat an eyelash. I’d like to know how that heathen husband of hers talks her into bed, or if he even bothers. As heavy as his pockets are now, he could buy ten mistresses and not notice the cost.”
More laughter greeted this sally, but the second young rake took him seriously. “You’re on, Trevor. I’ll wager I can have Our Lady of the Melting Eyes in my arms within the hour, and in my bed before the week’s out.”
Rory turned in his chair to observe this self-confident speaker as the wagers were thrown on the table amid much jesting. Rory’s lips curled in disdain at the sight of the overdressed peacock who fancied himself as Alyson’s lover. It wouldn’t even be amusing to run him through with his sgian dubh—the dandy’s veins would probably bleed water.
Rory started to rise, but a heavy hand rested on his shoulder. He turned a skeptical look to the stout old man bracing himself against the table. “Sir?”
“You wouldn’t be about to do something rash, now, would you? I understand the Scots are a barbaric race, but you look a gentleman to me.”
Rory watched as the young bucks rose en masse to follow their leader in pursuit of new amusement. He lifted a sardonic eyebrow. “Dr. Johnson, am I correct?” At the man’s nod, Rory offered his arm. “I understand you enjoy a good wager. I’ll gamble fifty guineas that young dandy won’t persuade my wife any farther than off the dance floor. Care to join me?”
Chuckling and wielding his walking stick, the man of letters followed him out. “Your wife Scots too?”
“Half, by birth. All, by temperament.” Rory stalked his prey, keeping well behind them as the foolish dandies spread out along a wall of windows overlooking the terrace and the garden beyond.
The peacock homed in on Alyson. Rory could see her checking her dance card with a puzzled frown, then gazing blankly as the young man persuaded her next partner to give up this dance.
“Lovely, she is. I always had an eye for a pretty face. I understand it’s another language entirely in Scotland. I’ve been wondering if it wouldn’t be worth looking into.”
“The old language is still spoken in the farther regions of the Highlands,” Rory said. “Education is not yet available to us all, the same as in England. I understand the Cornish often speak a dialect not found in your dictionary.”
The English ignorance of his homeland never failed to amaze Rory, but he was willing to be patient while he waited for this dance to end. The steps of the minuet were harmless enough. He could afford patience, though he would very much like to eliminate the smirk on the face of Alyson’s partner.
The desultory discussion of language ended with the music. Gauging the direction in which the dandy led Alyson, Rory followed in his wake, not caring if his elderly companion followed or not.
The couple strolled toward a wall of glass doors opening onto the terrace. Not far from the doors rested a jardinière of ferns on a tall pillar. Rory leaned unobtrusively against the pillar, hidden by the velvet draperies over the wall of glass
. Crossing his arms, he waited as the bewigged and bejeweled rake led Alyson toward the terrace doors.
She appeared bewildered at whatever nonsense the man spouted. Rory’s lips curved as he watched her lovely hands flutter out of the impudent man’s reach. His smile broadened when Alyson noticed him by the ferns. Her bewilderment disappeared, replaced by that heart-stopping smile she always bestowed on him. It crippled Rory with longing, even though she meant nothing by it.
What her smile did to her companion was worth watching. Rory waited to see what happened.
Instead of following her partner out the door he held open, Alyson drifted past the dandy. His self-confident smile slipped away in confusion as she turned her smile toward the ferns rather than on himself. He attempted to redirect her to the garden but Alyson shook him off.
“There you are, Rory. I thought myself completely deserted. Is Deirdre ready to leave?”
Rory stepped from the shadows to take her hand. He heard Johnson chuckling behind him, but his senses were filled by a cloud of soft perfume and the shine of blue-gray eyes. Gentle hands clasped his arm while she ignored her protesting partner and waited for Rory to introduce his friend.
“Dr. Johnson has an interest in language, lass, if you would speak with him a moment.” He gave her hand up to his companion. “My wife, Lady Alyson Maclean.”
Without further explanation, Rory stepped away from the pillar to intercept the dandy and his approaching cohorts. “Sir, I would have a word with you.” Rory’s cold tone made it clear that his was more than a polite request.
The dandy gazed insolently at Rory’s unadorned plain navy coat and unpowdered queue and sneered. “I’m certain you would, but I have more pressing business.”
He attempted to push past, but Rory caught his shoulder. “The only business you will need pressed is your clothes when I am done with you.” With a negligible shove, he sent the man reeling through the open door to the terrace.
Moon Dreams Page 25
