“Will you tell me, Alys?”
The soft burr of his voice and the familiar pet name brought
tears to her eyes. It was all so strange, so new. She had nothing of her past,
her home, anymore. She was all alone, and there was only this man to remind her
she had once been loved. Her grandmother had talked with an accent like his,
and she had called her by that name too.
“It was a dream. A terrible dream. I’m sorry. I did not mean
to wake you.”
Rory lifted his hand to brush her cheek. She flinched from
his touch, and he pulled away in puzzlement. “Sometimes it helps if you talk
about it, lass. Do you have these kinds of dreams often?”
It hadn’t felt like a dream. She had seen him, just as she
had seen other things that made no sense but came true later. But she couldn’t
explain that to him. Only her grandmother had understood what she meant.
“I used to dream about my father,” she said. “He was lost at
sea before I was born. Sometimes I would see him walking down the path to the
beach, or sitting in the library, staring at the fire. Other times, he was in
strange places I didn’t recognize, but I always knew he was my father. Is that
odd, or do you ever have dreams like that too?”
Rory relaxed. “My father died when I was sixteen. I remember
him very well, but I can’t say that I ever dreamed of him. If your father died
before you were born, how could you know him in your dreams?”
Because they weren’t dreams, but Alyson did not bother to
explain that. It would be like saying she saw ghosts, which she apparently did.
“There was a portrait of him in the hall. I would recognize him anywhere. He
was in the navy, and he wore his uniform and had a big white-trimmed hat under
his arm. In the portrait, he wore one of those fat old-fashioned wigs, but in
my dreams his hair was golden. I once asked my grandfather about it, and he
said yes, that would be the color of his hair. So I know it’s him.”
An officer in His Majesty’s Navy. Gad, but it was a good
thing her father wasn’t alive now to see his daughter on one of the free
traders that plagued the British frigates in colonial waters. That was all he
needed, someone in the navy with a personal vendetta against him. They had been
after his neck for fifteen long years. It made his throat itch just to think
about it.
“Do you know how he died, lass?”
Alyson drew her knees up under her chin. “He was in the
navy, as my grandfather had been in the navy before him. It was a family
tradition. Of course, since he was the only son, it was expected that he would
not stay, but he liked it, until he met my mother. Before she died, my mother
said he had promised that he would resign his position, but he had to complete
this one tour of duty. She went out and visited the ship and met his captain
and everything. Or at least that’s what my grandmother said.”
Alyson lowered her voice as if speaking only to herself. “My
mother claimed they were wedded on board, that the captain wrote it down in his
book for all to see, but they knew it wasn’t in the church and proper and legal
like it should be. It was his last night onshore, and they just pretended that
it was real. Then he sailed away to the West Indies and never came home again.”
The story, or perhaps the way she told it, was haunting, an
eerie echo of love lost. Rory could see it now, could easily see how it had
happened, and looking at the bent head of the result of that union, he was glad
it had. He touched a finger to her chin and lifted it until he could see the
misty gray of her eyes.
“Your mother was Scots, was she not?” Alyson nodded. “So
they met in Scotland?” Alyson nodded again, her gaze fastening on him with
curiosity. “Then if your mother’s words are true and they said their vows in
front of witnesses in Scottish waters, under Scots law, they were well and
truly married. They didna need the kirk to make them man and wife.”
Alyson’s eyes widened. “Then I really would be Lady Alyson
and have just as much right to my father’s house as Cranville.”
Rory grinned and tapped her nose lightly. “Unfortunately,
lassie, you have the same problem as before. Without the captain, the log, or
the witnesses, you canna prove a thing. Remember that if you should ever feel
foolish enough to do the same. Churches don’t go down in the sea.”
Alyson made a wry face. “It would serve my cousin right if I
could find that log. Or a survivor.” She brightened. “There may have been
survivors. The ship went down in a storm off the coast of one of the islands.
Some of the men could have escaped, couldn’t they?”
Rory didn’t smile at her sudden eagerness. “Do not start
dreaming fancy dreams, Alys. A storm in the islands is no laughing matter.
Unless there was someone there to pull them ashore, they would most likely be
battered on the rocks or coral or swept back to sea. The currents are wicked,
and in a storm . . . The chance is slight. And even if one man
survived, how would you find him? I’m sorry, lass, but you had best be happy
knowing they loved each other.”
She smiled sleepily and yawned. Rory patted her hand and
rose from the bed. “You can sleep now?”
She nodded, and reluctantly Rory returned to his side of the
curtain. Maybe, just maybe, he was doing the wrong thing by saving her for some
elegant nobleman with name and title and little more. Why should he let her go
for the likes of an Alan Tremaine or Earl of Cranville?
And then he remembered the brandy in his hold and the false
letters of marque in his desk and the man he meant to kill back in Scotland.
They were just the beginning of any number of reasons why he couldn’t marry
now. Even Cranville looked good compared to the likes of him.
Charleston, Spring 1760
Their first sight of land came at the beginning of May.
Fair winds and calm seas had courted them, and Alyson’s pale complexion had gained
a honey hue from the hours she spent watching the crew climbing through the
rigging.
That was what she was doing now, Rory observed as the first
cries of “Land ho!” echoed from the crow’s nest. Instead of searching for the
shoreline, Alyson was sitting on the lid of a water barrel watching the brisk
flapping of the sails. She had made a cap of sorts out of an old piece of
linen, but the bit of scrap and ribbon could not hold that mass of ebony curls
in place. They frothed about her face like a wild sea, and Rory wondered for
the millionth time what it would be like to have those raven tresses spread out
on a pillow beneath him. He could almost feel what it would be like pressed
into her welcoming softness, releasing the wild ecstasy hiding behind her
demure features.
It was no use contemplating it, however. The easy
camaraderie that had sprung up between them had disappeared the night of her
dream, never to come back quite the same. She regarded him warily and took care
that she no longer came close to him, a pattern of behavior that did not seem
natural to the free spirit Rory had seen. But it had eased his problem somewhat.
If she had not learned to confine her carefree behavior, he would have bedded
her by now. The need was so great as to bring him anguish every time he looked
on her.
Unaware of the thoughts of the man at the tiller, Alyson
brought her gaze down from the sails to the green haze of land in the distance.
She would soon be in another country, an alien place where she knew no one and
no one knew her. She had wanted a new identity. What better way than this?
If only she didn’t have to worry about relying on the
Maclean. If she had the coins the thieves had stolen from her, she could
disembark and never see him again, and then the vision couldn’t possibly come
true.
It had taken these weeks and snatches of conversations and
glimpses of male habits to knit together some meaning to the vision. Most of
the understanding came from what she felt when Rory touched her. Her insides
grew shaky and uncertain. She had no genuine knowledge of what happened between
a man and a woman, but she knew now her complete vulnerability. The thought
terrified her, but more than that, the hollow ache that opened when Rory simply
offered a tender smile—terrified her even more. She
wanted
what he would
do to her.
That was enough to make her contemplate escape. Rory had no
mind for marriage, and she had no mind to bring a child into the world without
it.
Alyson frowned at the horizon, contemplating a plan that had
begun to form since discovering the hoard of gold in Rory’s trunk. She could
not escape without coins to live on until Mr. Farnley could send a bank draft.
That would be months and months. But if she could borrow some of Rory’s money,
she could repay him when her funds arrived. The only objection was that Rory
would never lend it to her without knowing all the whys and wherefores, and
that was what she hoped to avoid.
If the thought of leaving Rory caused regret, she ignored it
as she had learned to ignore all the other hurts in her life. She had lived
without friends for years and not felt their lack.
They did not attempt the river at Charleston until the tide
turned at dawn the next day. In the morning, Rory allowed Alyson to watch as he
maneuvered the ship up the narrow channel. He pointed out various buildings and
called their names as they sailed by.
To Alyson’s amazement, the town appeared to be built
entirely of sturdy brick structures, some of them quite substantial. Up the
bank from the river she caught glimpses of several lovely residences. After the
streets of London, these streets seemed clean and orderly, and even the market
opening up near the waterfront appeared fresh and new. The air was hot and
clean, without the incessant belching of smoke from thousands of chimneys.
Charleston was definitely the nicest place she had ever seen.
Thrilled with this discovery, Alyson almost forgot her
plans, until Rory came down to collect her and lead her back to the cabin. His
words as they returned inside sent her heart anxiously to her throat.
“I need to leave the ship to arrange for the unloading of my
cargo, lass. Stay here and tidy yourself up, and when I come back, we’ll go
into town.”
He was already pulling on his coat and reaching for his hat
as he spoke. She noticed he was careful to tie his jabot, shake out his cuffs,
and put on his best vest, but he didn’t bother with the formality of a wig. She
would have to learn the manners of this new society, but judging from Rory’s
appearance, it could not be so very different from London.
He accepted her silence as agreement and strode off. When he
was gone, Alyson set her plan into motion.
She carefully counted out the number of coins from Rory’s
hoard that she expected to need. Perhaps if they weren’t enough, she could
supplement her income. She wouldn’t make a very good teacher, but she could be
a lady’s companion, and she sewed a fair hand. Rory would scarcely notice such
a small amount, but she would not betray his friendship by taking more than she
needed.
Carefully she penned a note with supplies from his desk,
stating her name and the amount she owed, and promised to repay one Rory
Douglas Maclean upon demand. She had learned the words from the markers Jack
and Dougall used when they played cards. They sounded legal, so Rory need not
worry about being reimbursed.
This time she was not so careless about storing her coins. She
opened up holes in the quilting of her petticoat and sewed a coin into each
little pocket. She kept a few small coins in her pockets for immediate use.
By the time she was done, she was terrified Rory would have
returned, but the men seemed to be going about their chores as usual, judging
by Dougall’s shouts above. Now came the hard part. She used Rory’s brush and
shaving mirror to straighten out her hair and tidy her fichu. The gown was well
worn after so many washings in seawater, but she could not wear the sailor’s
breeches she had occasionally donned when her own clothing was being cleaned.
She must strive to somehow look like a lady, if a poor one. Then she had to
contrive some way to escape the ship without being seen.
That was an impossibility, of course. The ship had docked at
a wharf, and a gangplank had been thrown out so Rory could reach land, and men
swarmed all around it. The sailors were busy checking lines and sails and
scrubbing the decks. She might possibly skirt them. But a small crowd of people
was gathering, speculating on the contents of the ship, and she dreaded the
thought of walking off alone.
Boldly, she walked up on deck. Dougall spotted her first,
and he hurried forward to greet her. “Miss Hampton, is there aught I can do for
you?” He swept off his hat and made a hasty bow.
Dougall was some years older than Rory but had not the hard
appearance of a man who looks into the future and sees his own destruction, as
Rory did. Bushy red-gold eyebrows made Dougall’s pitted face memorable, and she
saw only kindness in his faded blue eyes.
“Rory asked me to mend his good linen shirt,” she lied, “but
I have used up the last of the thread on my petticoat. I know he wishes to wear
it today, but I hated to bother anyone. There ought to be some way I can do
this one small thing myself. Surely there is a booth where I can buy notions in
that market?”
“I’ll send William out to look for some thread,” Dougall
said. “He will have it to you in plenty of time, I promise. The captain had
quite a few errands to run before he’ll be back.”
“Thank goodness.” Alyson managed to look relieved instead of
frustrated. She tried another tack. “It’s been so long since I’ve been on land,
might I go over with him?” She looked embarrassed, and glanced away. “There are
some other things I really would like to buy.”
“If it were up to me, I’d say yes, Miss Hampton, but the
captain gave strict orders that you weren’t to go about without me or him. It’s
for your own protection, you know.”