Moon Dreams

by Patricia Rice

  31

  December 1760

  Alyson looked out over the snow on the hillsides and held her hand to the mound where the child grew. Uneasiness—and the snow—made her restless. She drifted from window to window as she went about her work, looking out over the loch when she brought her knitting to the kitchen, checking the sloping hillside when she remembered a needle left in the hall.

  The Sea Witch had left the loch weeks ago, sailing for warmer ports, leaving Rory, Dougall, and Dougall’s wife behind. Myra had become a welcome part of the household, her serenity providing the balance Alyson needed when the dark clouds were upon her, as they were today.

  The snow haunted her dreams, and she could not escape the recurrent nightmares. Rory and Dougall were out there on those snowy hillsides now, as they were every day. It was going to be a harsh winter, and few were prepared for it. Rory was laying in provisions and helping repair cottages as quickly as man and beast would allow. She just wished he didn’t have to oversee these activities personally.

  There was something wrong, something out of kilter, but she could not put her finger to it. If it were not the snow or her dream, it must be something else, but what?

  ***

  Myra watched Alyson’s nervous pacing with concern. It could not be good for the child. Sewing tiny stitches into an infant’s gown, she reflected on ways of occupying the lady who had become her closest friend in this forlorn outpost.

  There was more to the smiling butterfly the Maclean had married than could be seen on the surface. Dougall had called the lady simple and innocent, but it was more than that. Despite her occasionally childlike manner of dealing with people, Lady Maclean knew at a glance or a whisper what was happening at all times. She had an uncanny knack for arriving in the kitchen to settle Mary’s tirades about the evils of their neighbor. Once, she had been pacing the top of the tower when a crofter’s cottage caught fire. The lady had been able to warn the servants to run for buckets in time to save the roof.

  Myra had the feeling that Alyson’s restlessness now did not bode well.

  True, it was not always danger that Alyson sensed. The servants had told Myra of how the lady had known when the Witch would arrive. She had also been all smiles and running from window to window just before the shipment had arrived from London.

  Half those packages were still stored in a secret hiding place waiting for Christmas. The others had been spread generously throughout the household: shoes and shawls and yard goods and a new loom to replace the broken one upstairs, among other things.

  It wasn’t that Alyson just sensed danger, it was that there seemed more danger than pleasure these days. That was the reason Myra watched Alyson’s pacing with caution. Danger to just one could easily be danger to all.

  Dougall had explained the feud between the Maclean and his cousin. She knew men didn’t ride out to battle as they once had, but she was thinking it might be simpler if they would. From the tales she heard in the kitchen, there wasn’t a man in the countryside who would rise to arms at Drummond’s call. Maclean would emerge victorious from a clean-cut battle. These underhanded tactics now were of an uglier nature.

  Myra felt certain Rory had not told his pregnant wife that he was helping the tenants slaughter Drummond’s sheep so that they might eat and keep warm this winter. Nor would he have told her how someone had taken to shooting at him whenever he strayed too far alone. There were other matters, too, legal documents that he and Dougall pored over, letters going back and forth between here and London and Edinburgh, but Myra didn’t know their contents beyond Dougall’s worried frowns.

  “If I brought you a hot toddy, could you lie down and sleep awhile?” Myra finally asked.

  “No. No, I think I’ll go out. The snow has stopped, and the wind seems to have died. A little fresh air would be nice. I wish there was more greenery to decorate the house.” Murmuring her thoughts to the air, Alyson drifted from the room.

  Half an hour later she was traipsing up the side of the hill with more exuberance than she had felt in days. She enjoyed being outside, feeling the brisk wind on her face, crunching through the crystalline snow. It made her feel alive as Rory did when he touched her. All her senses prickled and danced with the brilliance of the sun glinting off the snow-wrapped hills.

  The shot, when it came, echoed in her ears long after she fell to the ground.

  ***

  Behind a rock on a nearby rise, Cranville furiously knocked Drummond against a boulder, dislodging his grip on the rifle. The weapon swung upward, shooting the charge into the atmosphere. Wrathfully he spun the gun holder around.

  “Are you mad? What are you trying to do? That looks like Alyson out there.”

  Drummond dusted the snow from his shoulder. With a shrug, he lifted the rifle to load it again. “I would only have winged her enough to give excuse to carry her back to London. She so seldom comes out, it seemed an auspicious occasion.”

  Cranville shot his friend a look that should have burned through his soul, if he’d had one. “You would shoot her to save her? I scarcely think she would appreciate the thought.”

  “Faith, sir, I can’t see that you have come up with a better idea. When the prey is Maclean, I enjoy stalking him more than anyone, but I grow bored with the waiting.”

  Cranville glanced into the valley to see his ruffled cousin rise and shake the snow from her cloak. Voices were already traveling from the direction of the tower. He shoved his idiot friend toward the horses.

  “You would have me invite her to tea, perhaps?” the earl asked in irritation. “Other than the fact that Maclean practically holds her prisoner and no message would reach her, she isn’t likely to race to my welcoming arms. She hates me more than she ever did that rogue of a husband of hers.” He grudgingly mounted his horse. Instinct told him to see how Alyson fared, but common sense sent him after his host.

  Drummond scowled. “I had hoped you would lure the heiress away so I can blast the whole damned tower. As always, I suppose I must do everything myself. Maclean has grown so confident, perhaps it won’t be necessary to abduct his wife to get at him.”

  Shooting Cranville’s thunderous expression an amused glance, Drummond spurred his horse to the safety of his own land.

  ***

  Rory grabbed Alyson’s shoulders and shoved her behind a protective outcropping of rock before running his hands over her bundled figure in search of damage. Finding none, he gathered her in his arms and vented a stream of invectives.

  Even with his greatcoat wrapped around her, Alyson shivered. Gratefully she slid her arms around his neck and rested her head against his shoulder. She had not known for certain that it was a gunshot she heard until Rory and the others had come running. She knew the men were now surrounding the rocks that provided the only hiding place, but she also knew the danger had escaped.

  “Why the deuce were you out here alone, Alys? Have you taken leave of your senses?” Rory’s voice shook with fury.

  “I like to walk alone. Nobody told me it was a crime. What is happening, Rory? Couldn’t it have just been someone hunting?”

  Visibly struggling with his fear, Rory caressed her back and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Of course, but seeing you fall like that terrified me. Are you sure you’re all right? Shall I carry you home?”

  He lied. Alyson felt the lie, and her arms tightened around him, fearing to let go. “I’m fine. Just hold me. I don’t want to go back alone. Come with me.”

  Rory gazed out on the gray, forbidding sky and the hilly snow-covered terrain where Dougall and the tenants circled the far hill, searching for a trace of the men who had hidden there. Alyson feared they would follow the tracks, and she clung to her husband. She didn’t want him to go.

  “We’ll go back to the house and find you some dry clothes,” Rory said soothingly. “You shouldn’t be walking out alone. Think of the child, lass. You’re no longer responsible for just yourself.”

  Alyson pulled away to read his expres
sion. She saw the pain there, and understood the torment. Sadly she lifted her heavy skirts above her boots and started down the path toward the house. Once again, she was but a nuisance in the path of his plans.

  “You will not tell me what is happening?” she asked as Rory caught her elbow to help her over the rocky path. The snow was just deep enough to be treacherous underfoot.

  Rory pulled Alyson’s hood over her face as a gust of wind hit them broadside. “’Tis nothin’, lass. Dinna fash yerself.”

  Alyson’s lashes grew wet with tears at the soft burr of his voice. She loved the way he spoke, and she wanted her child to know his voice as well as she. What chance was there of that if Rory persisted in this feud?

  “Drummond will not sell?”

  Rory sent her a quick glance, but she didn’t allow her face to betray her fears.

  “It is no matter,” he said. “There is much to do here. Are they cooking Christmas dinner yet?”

  Did he still think her so empty-headed that she thought only of dinners and children? If that was what he required of a wife, she would try to please him, but she could not be happy about it.

  “The puddings are made long since. The goose and the cow have been slaughtered, although where you found them is a mystery to me. We’ll have enough for all the tenants.”

  “And enough for me, I trust. An expectant father needs to keep his strength up.”

  His grin warmed a smile from her. She lifted her lips to his, before she let him lead her back to the safety of their stone fortress.

  That night the fire crackled in the vast fireplace, taking away some of the damp as Alyson worked nervously with a piece of cloth and thread. The gifts to be exchanged the next day were piled high on a table in the room’s center and adorned with what greenery could be found. Earlier, the room had been filled with music and merriment as the entire household had congregated for prayers, followed by much eating and drinking as they added their bundles to the growing stack. The hall was a public room for the use of all, and Rory had kept the custom, enjoying the camaraderie as much as any.

  Alyson studied her husband as he sat beside the fire shuffling through a stack of papers that had arrived by courier earlier. The rich glow of his auburn hair framed the molded contours of his square, stern face. His lace and linen were snowy white against the weathered skin of his throat and hands and the dark broadcloth of his coat and vest. He looked severe as he read the papers, but Alyson knew that when he looked up to her his expression would soften and his dark eyes would gleam. She wished to see a smile upon his lips more often, but she would have to be content that it was there when he looked on her.

  The uneasiness of earlier had not subsided. She still had the urge to inspect the narrow windows for some sight into the darkness, but she resisted. Myra and Dougall had retired with warnings that she must do so soon, but Alyson felt no weariness. She waited expectantly.

  Looking up and giving her bosom an appreciative look, Rory set his papers aside. Before he could rise, Alyson cast a nervous look toward the window. Built as a fortress, the tower had been graced only with narrow leaded panes in later years. They provided small glimpse of the outside on a night like this. Rory apparently caught the same sound that had alerted Alyson, and he stilled.

  A horse. Some madman was out in the dark and blowing snow riding the unmarked roads of these hills. The gale winds blew in from the sea, freezing the snow to treacherous ice. No sane person would be out on such a night.

  Rory reached for the musket. The hall had a display of swords, rapiers, hatchets, and knives that had never been confiscated after the ‘45, probably because the place appeared abandoned, and its owner was an Englishman. The musket was the most modern weapon among them, and Rory had kept it cleaned, oiled, and primed. He ignored the way Alyson’s face paled as he lifted it from its hooks.

  “Go on upstairs, Alyson. Call Dougall if it will make you feel better, but I daresay our guest is no more than some drunken fool with a complaint to make.”

  The horse halted outside, and they heard muffled footsteps in the snow through the silence of the empty hall.

  The household was full of female servants. The few tenants left tended the land and slept in their own beds, not the hall. Besides Rory, only Dougall and a few old men too crippled to work their plows were present. Nearly eighty and bent with rheumatism, the steward doddered into the hall, wielding a broadsword.

  The huge door knocker pounded furiously, startling Alyson. Closer to the door than either Rory or the steward, she lifted her skirts and swept in that direction. No man should have to linger in that inhospitable wind on her doorstep.

  Rory caught up with her and held her back, nodding for the steward to answer. Drawing her back toward the fire, they waited.

  Alyson leaned against Rory’s hard frame and sought the reassurance of his strong arm. He still held the musket barrel, resting the grip against the floor, but one horse signaled no army. He was tense, but he, too, expected no trouble on Christmas Eve.

  So they stood when the doors flew open to reveal the tall, travel-weary stranger in his snow-covered hat and cloak. Without waiting for welcome, the furious guest strode in.

  Cold blue eyes glared at them. Gloved hands swept off cocked hat and cloak, handing them to the steward with a practiced gesture. A sword hung at his side, and as he removed his gloves, one hand came to rest on its hilt. His gaze skimmed Rory’s imperturbable features and came to rest on Alyson.

  Before their guest could speak a word, she flew from Rory’s protective embrace with a cry of unadulterated delight. “Father!”

  All knowing her history—that her father had died before she was born—stared at her as if she were demented. But their obviously aristocratic guest’s lined face grew less rigid, his frozen eyes melted, and his arms opened to lift Alyson in his embrace.

  Stunned, Rory could only watch with growing comprehension and disbelief. Not even in his worst nightmares had he imagined that his wife’s noble father would return to life to claim her. An earl, a naval officer, and a furious father all rolled into one dreadful apparition to haunt his guiltiest thoughts—not even Rory’s conscience could have conjured such a fate. With lessening hope he waited for the stranger to set Alyson aside and disavow her mad claim.

  Instead, the pair seemed content to explore the miracle of reunion. With a gesture, Rory sent the servants back to their beds, commanding only one kitchen maid to fetch hot drink. He had no idea where they would house an earl unless they threw Dougall and Myra from their bed, and he felt disinclined to do so. He would much rather the apparition disappeared into the night from whence it came.

  Keeping his hand on Alyson’s shoulders, Everett Hampton, Earl of Cranville finally glared at the man who had abducted and ruined his daughter. “I have come for my daughter.”

  “She is my wife now.” Still holding the musket barrel, Rory stood firm. If this man was as Alyson claimed, he represented all that Rory was not—aristocratic, wealthy, powerful, and presumably honorable. But still Rory could not yield his most precious possession.

  Alyson blithely ignored this test of wills. Tugging her father’s hand, she led him past Rory’s obstinate stance to a place by the fire. The earl refused to be seated, however. Shrugging her shoulders, she floated back to Rory’s side. Removing the gun and setting it aside, she led him back to the fire too.

  With a polite curtsy, she made the introductions. “Father, this is the Maclean, Rory Douglas, my husband. Rory, my father, Everett Hampton, Earl of Cranville.” She sent a mischievous look to the stern nobleman. “I did get that right, didn’t I? I’ve never raised an earl from the dead before, and so I’m not sure of the proper courtesy.”

  The stunned look was now on her father’s face and not Rory’s. Rory would almost have managed a smile at Alyson’s conceit had he not been more concerned with holding her until this challenger to his possession had disappeared.

  Deliberately not extending his hand, the earl spoke first. “I cann
ot say it is a pleasure to meet you, Maclean. You will forgive me if I overlook the pleasantries.” He turned his watchful gaze to Alyson. “As much as I wish to spend this time with you, my dear, I must come to terms with your husband first. I would not subject you to our discussion. Perhaps if you could just show us to a private room . . .”

  Despite his despair, Rory couldn’t help a small grin as Alyson gazed pleasantly at her father, ignored his command, and hastened to help the kitchen maid with the tray. Without any sign that she had heard or understood a single word, she set the tray on a table near her father’s hand, poured a steaming tankard of rum punch, and handed it to him.

  “I saw you outside my window the day Rory and I were married. Of course, I thought you were a ghost. You aren’t, are you?” she asked anxiously.

  Outside the window the day they were married… Rory studied the earl, trying to decide why he looked so familiar.

  The distinguished gentleman gazed at his lovely, fey daughter in confusion. Very well aware of that feeling, Rory seized the moment to establish the upper hand. “Alyson, take a seat so your father need not stand all night. Lord Cranville, I apologize for my cold reception. You must admit I had some reason for surprise.” If Alyson accepted this stranger as parent, he could do no less, although he continued to harbor reservations.

  As Alyson settled into a chair next to his, Rory took her hand and waited for his guest to be seated. Given no other choice, the earl reluctantly lowered himself to the massive Jacobean armchair across from them.

  “I would prefer Alyson be kept out of our differences, Maclean.” The older man frowned as he sipped his drink, his hooded gaze studying them. “You do yourself no favors by hiding behind her skirts.”

  Rory accepted the insult without rancor. “Alyson is free to do as she wishes. I would protect her from harm if I could, but I have already learned the hard way that she will make her own choices.” Turning his head to confront Alyson’s too-bright gaze, he asked, “Lass, I am quite capable of dealing with this gentleman’s accusations. Wouldn’t it be easier if you went upstairs now? All will be settled by the time you come down in the morning, I promise.”