Rory discarded only his coat, cravat, and shoes. With all Alyson’s quilted petticoats between them, they had little choice but to lie spoon fashion to fit in the narrow bed. Rory circled her waist and formed a wedge between her and the floor.
The temptation to move his hand higher to stroke the twin peaks of her breasts was subdued by Alyson’s tension. His arousal went unnoticed due to the protection of the petticoats. Rory stifled a groan of frustration and tried to remember where they were. They had made love behind thin walls and in narrow beds before, but that was before the black cloud of his guilt had separated them. He had little chance of winning back her good graces like this.
When he woke in the morning, Alyson was still sleeping, more exhausted by the journey than she would admit. Rory smoothed the ebony silk of her hair from her forehead and pushed himself up on one elbow to study her face. Dark circles stained the skin beneath her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed with healthy color, and her lips parted in moist sweetness, drawing him like a bee to nectar. Just one taste, he promised himself, just one small taste to ease his day . . .
The clatter of an iron pot in the next room startled Alyson to awake. The heavy blankets were pulled up about her chin, so she was well-protected from his sight, but she flinched in fear as he touched the chin that had once been blackened with the bruise of his fist.
Rory withdrew his caress and forced a smile. “The sun is shining, lass. If we rise now, we will be home by nightfall.”
She nodded and held the blanket as he rose. There was no water with which to wash and no privacy for using the cracked chamber pot under the bed. Still wearing yesterday’s shirt and breeches, Rory shrugged on his coat and pulled on his muddy boots.
Alyson watched him with an anxious frown. “Mr. Farnley said he sent someone on ahead to see the tower was ready, didn’t he? Should I change into something suitable for our arrival?”
Rory picked up her perfectly suitable traveling gown and gave her a puzzled glance. Then realizing she was worried about how a laird’s wife ought to look, he grinned and shook his head. “You’ll be far too grand for those who greet you as it is. We’ve left London behind, lass. You need no longer worry if your jewels are rich enough or if your silks sport enough lace. There are those who would try it, perhaps, but not for a Maclean. Keep yourself and the child warm and dry, and you will be deemed a good, sensible lass. There is no higher compliment.”
Alyson smiled in relief. “I think I’ll like the Macleans. Will the Maclnneses be the same?”
“There are not enough of them left to count, love. Now, up with you. It’s time to be about.”
She had kept track of the times he had called her “love” and knew how precious few they were. She had long ago surrendered any notion that Rory might actually love her, but she couldn’t kill all hope. She had been so accustomed to being loved that she had taken it for granted before. Now she knew the value of what she had once possessed, and she was willing to work hard to earn it. She would just have to learn to overcome her panic when Rory came too near. She would never win him with that behavior.
As he left the room in his knee-high boots, his hair neatly clubbed at his nape, and his woolen frock coat fitted snugly to strong shoulders, Alyson felt the frozen fire inside begin to melt. Whatever Rory was, whatever he had done, she could not hide her love for him from herself. She loved him, and somehow she would have to teach him to love her. He had learned to love as a boy. As a man, he needed reminding.
***
Having ridden all the way from the docks at Plymouth, the slender, silver-haired gentleman on horseback arrived at his Cornish home long past nightfall. His heavy caped greatcoat dripped from the cold rain. He’d been a mere lad of twenty when he’d left these lands. His years in the Caribbean had weakened his taste for England’s icy storms.
Only instinct and distant memories had kept him to the right road. He sighed in exhaustion and relief at the plain stone mansion rising above the cliffs. Lights flickered deep within. His journey was almost at an end.
The heavy knocker clattered against the brass plate, echoing through the hallway beyond. He raised it a third and fourth time before he heard footsteps on the other side of the door. When the door opened, he hurried in out of the rain.
The butler backed off in astonishment as he swept off his soaked cocked hat. With an air of authority, Everett Hampton glanced around the drafty foyer with a proprietary interest.
“Your business, sir?” the butler demanded.
Hampton glanced at the elderly servant, searching for some clue to his identity. Twenty years had taken their toll, but he found what he sought. Grinning boyishly for one whose silver-streaked hair declared his age, he declared, “Hevers, isn’t it? You were growing bald when I left. The wig had me fooled. Is Alexander in?”
At this informal mention of his employer’s name, the butler blanched. “All Hallow’s Eve has passed. Ghosts cannot walk the night,” Hevers said fearfully, studying the visitor.
Everett ruefully rubbed his graying hair. “Not a ghost, although Alex might wish it so.”
“If you refer to his lordship, he is not at home at present. If you will state your request, I shall be happy to forward the message to his man of business.”
Everett laughed at this formal response and swung off his coat, handing it to the reluctant butler. “I’ll not be sent back out on a night like this just because you have turned superstitious in your old age, Hevers. If my cousin’s son is not here, where is he?”
The butler blanched several shades paler. “It is never yourself, my lord?” He lapsed into the accents of his youth in the presence of the apparition.
Everett Hampton, the rightful earl of Cranville, let his grin disappear. “Aye, and it is, Hevers. It’s been a long time and an even longer story. I heard my father has passed, but they say I have a daughter, Hevers. I meant to question Alex, but if he is not here . . . I cannot be proper and wait. Where is she? Do you know?”
The last time Hevers had seen the little miss had been the night she poured the tea down his lordship’s leg and packed her bags and left. There had been rumors between the houses—the Tremaines had seen her—but they were all servants’ talk. What could he tell a man who was supposed to be dead?
“I cannot say, my lord. Let me call Hettie to make up your room for you. Perhaps the Tremaines can give you that information in the morning.”
The rightful Earl of Cranville stared hard at the nervous butler, causing the old man to quake in his shoes. He had not come halfway around the world to be fobbed off by servants. With the governor’s story still burning in his ears even after all these weeks, he had too much rage and anguish to be put off by any less than the devil himself.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where my heir is, Hevers.”
It was more command than request, and the butler responded with alacrity. “Hunting with friends in Scotland, my lord.”
28
Stagshead, November 1760
Enveloped in the evening mist off the water, the square stone tower and crumbling ruins of the fortress seemed not quite real. The ruts and stones jostled the carriage so severely that Alyson clung to the window frame. The path was meant for sheep, not carriages.
They were seen long before they gained the summit. The massive wooden door opened welcomingly as Rory handed Alyson down from the carriage. She gazed upward at the height of the fortress her mother and grandmother had called home and clung to his fingers for reassurance. Once it must have been an imposing fortification. Now it felt abandoned.
Several small figures appeared in the lighted doorway. It took a moment before Alyson realized it was not the people who were small but the door which was massive. Relieved that she would not be greeting the Scots equivalent of leprechauns, she leaned on Rory’s arm as he led her to their new home.
She was too tired to notice more than a beaming smile here and a dour expression there. Her head ached, and the dizziness that occasionally forewarned of
one of her spells made her cling to Rory’s arm. She didn’t want to have one of her spells here, in front of these superstitious people.
Warned by the pressure of her fingers, Rory glanced down. Alyson’s vacant gray eyes pleaded with him. His stomach lurched as he felt her slipping away. One minute she was there behind the mist of those lovely eyes, and the next minute she was gone.
Catching her up in his arms, Rory strode through the huge doorway and into the stone and tapestried interior of the tower. “Where is the lady’s room? Quickly!”
Alarmed, a capped and aproned gray-haired woman scurried toward the massive stone stairway filling the central hall. Rory strode after her, leaving his driver and footman to oversee the unloading of trunks.
The flight of stairs seemed endless as they passed one landing and raced on to another. Alyson shuddered against his chest, and fear kept him moving. The stairwell went up still another flight, but blessedly the housekeeper turned down a narrow hall at the second landing, throwing open a door to the right.
Any moldering bed hangings and draperies had been removed before their arrival, leaving the wainscoted room cold and forbidding. A small fire licked at the grate, but the draft from the uncovered window dissipated the heat.
Rory shivered and strode toward the paneled bed. The high wooden panels cut off the worst of the draft. Fresh linens and heavy woolens covered the mattress. Gratefully, Rory laid Alyson upon the covers and began to unfasten her cloak.
He called over his shoulder to the old woman, “Fetch some warm water, and if you have some, hot tea or broth. My lady is not well and the journey has exhausted her.”
Relieved with sensible explanations, the woman hurried to do as bidden, leaving Rory to cope alone with Alyson’s retreat behind ephemeral walls.
“Lass, I canna see what ye are seein’. Help me, lass. Tell me what to do,” he whispered in confusion. She terrified him when she did this, leaving him reeling in a world of uncertainty. He feared one day she would leave into that other world and not return.
Her eyes flickered, and her fingers closed around his. “I am fine, Rory,” she murmured.
“Alys, you tear the breath from me when you do that. I think the first thing we need do is find a physician.” He hid his insane fears behind a mask of practicality, but he couldn’t completely conceal his concern.
“Even could you find such an unlikely personage out here, he would merely say, ‘Aye, and she’s with bairn, lad. Call me back in five months or so.’”
Rory grinned weakly at her mimicry. “I’ll not survive that long if you persist in doing this. Do you have any idea how many stairs there are out there?”
Alyson laughed and struggled to sit up just as the housekeeper bustled in with a tray and a young girl hurried after her with a pitcher of hot water.
She didn’t have time to explain that she had seen the snowstorm again, only a little clearer. He might say these hills did not receive the snow of their northern heights, but she knew differently. The landscape she had seen in her vision was only a snow-covered version of the one outside their window right now.
If she could do naught else, she could prepare their home for the winter storm. She glanced around as the servants bustled about, then tugged on Rory’s hand. “When will you next hear from Dougall?”
He raised a questioning eyebrow. “I have not sent him far. We established a method of sending messages through Glasgow long ago. Why?”
“I will need to order a number of things from London or Edinburgh or wherever one can obtain materials here. I suspect we may be sleeping on the only linen in the house.” She whispered this last so as not to offend the servants adding peat to the fire.
Rory frowned. “I cannot afford to be sending the Witch on shopping trips for luxuries, Alyson. You saw last night how the people here must live. We would do better to study the situation and see how best to use our resources.”
Alyson stared at him in dawning comprehension. Far from using their marriage to fatten his pocket with her wealth, Rory meant not to use it at all! There could be no other reason for his parsimonious ways. Furious at his stubbornness when so much could be done with that worthless accumulation compounding interest in some London vault, Alyson sat up and tried to push past Rory’s broad frame.
“I never saw such a stubborn, pigheaded, mule-minded, intolerably arrogant excuse for a gentleman in all my life! I thought Dougall would be more reliable, but I’ll send my requests to Deirdre and Mr. Farnley and they will see to them for me. You may freeze yourself blue in some garret if your conscience requires, Rory Maclean, but I’ll not see the people in my household suffer needless discomfort for the benefit of your pride. Go away. I wish to change out of these dratted muddy clothes.”
The two servants stared in astonishment as the laird rose and performed an icily correct bow. When the hard-featured gentleman stalked out, they didn’t know whether to hurry after him or stay with the lady. Not until they realized tears poured down the lady’s cheeks did they grasp the first hint of tragedy. The laird had all the strength; the lady had only her beauty with which to defend herself.
In the way of the world, the servants divided between themselves. The housekeeper hurried after the master to see to his needs. The young maid stayed to help the lady from her gown and to see to her comfort. So it was that the remainder of the household divided as the days passed.
Alyson had little experience in running a household, particularly a newly acquired one in which none of the people had worked together before. She wished desperately for the experienced butler and head housekeeper of her grandfather’s establishment as she contemplated the enormous task ahead.
The caretaker had seen that the walls remained standing and the roof didn’t collapse, but he had not seen to the little things like the mice in the larders, the leaks in the casements, nor the mold in the pantries. The kitchen had only a cavernous fireplace for cooking. The dinnerware was a motley assortment of cracked pottery and pewter. The magnificent Jacobean pieces of furniture with which the house had originally been furnished nearly two centuries before had rotted from neglect. There was scarcely a suitable pallet left for the very limited staff of servants which Rory had provided.
Since no one had been there to stock the larder over summer, lists of necessary supplies had to be drawn up—with the primitive kitchen and the distance they would have to be hauled in mind
Alyson was almost ready to surrender at the hopelessness of the task, when the young maid who had become her staunchest ally made a casual comment.
“Me mam used to work fer yer gran’ther when he was alive. She said ’twas a fine hoose then, and there were none that went beggin’ that came here. It will be good to see those times ag’in.”
Sitting at the knife-scarred kitchen table, Alyson looked up from her endless list to study the dark-haired girl sweeping the ashes in the fireplace. “Where is your mother now?”
The girl swept the pile into a bin. “’Twas a poor summer year before last, and she was sickly. When the winter turned cruel . . .” She shrugged her shoulders in resignation. “It will be different nae that ye’ve coom. She always said, even when the laird died, his lady saw none went hungry. Of course, that was before the uprisin’ an’ a’ that. There’s few left to look after nae.”
Alyson set about her list-making with new will. It was her neglect that had allowed these lands to lie fallow too long. Her Cranville grandfather had known nothing of this place or the tenants’ reliance on their landlord during times of hardship. She had known it. Her grandmother had drummed the importance of her responsibilities into her from an early age. She had just never understood the amount of personal responsibility involved. A steward had sounded sufficient to her. She could see now that it was that sort of lax thinking that had brought the land to rack and ruin.
With so many of the Highland landowners driven from their estates and the lands left to waste in His Majesty’s coffers, there were none to personally oversee the tenants
and crofters, to give them aid or education as the lairds had in the past. Absentee landowners were little better than King George. Both demanded their rents without consideration of what the tenants had to do to provide them. And then they complained when the people turned to cattle stealing for support. No wonder the honest, ambitious ones found a way to emigrate.
Alyson knew she did not need to preach her newfound lessons to Rory, even had she the opportunity. He was already out every day and half the night compiling his own lists. She knew he ranged farther afield than her own small holdings, to be gone so much of the time, but she had expected that. The estates that had once been his were within riding distance.
She had become so accustomed to his absence in London that she did not really begin to worry until she caught a chance remark in the stairwell.
“They say there’s no respectable girl will work there with Lord Drummond home. ’Tis a shame, it is, with the rightful laird livin’ in this drafty auld place when he might have a’ that.”
Alyson stiffened and waited for more, but the voices drifted down the stairs. Rory had not mentioned that his English cousin was in residence. She had assumed he was just another of the absentee landlords living in London. Rory’s threats to one day have it out with Drummond took on new meaning. Had he already been to his cousin to offer for the estate, then?
She wanted to question him, but the day’s tasks and her body’s new, demanding needs drained her of the ability to stay awake until he came home. When he did arrive in the wee hours, he made his bed in the room across from hers, leaving her to sleep undisturbed until after he was gone in the morning.
Alyson raged inwardly, but she presented a docile expression to the servants as she discussed the various needs of the household. Let Rory right the world on the outside. She would start at home.
Moon Dreams Page 28
