She had not had time to register her reaction at discovering
his desertion when a loud knock sounded at the door.
“Up with ye, lass. It’s too late to be lying abed!”
Rory’s voice. The same Rory who was supposed to share her
bed last night—the one she had trusted with her most intimate feelings and had
not even bothered to avail himself of her offer.
Furious, embarrassed, she grabbed his shaving mug and flung
it at the door.
The resounding crash raised Rory’s eyebrows, and he rightly
surmised he had somehow managed to do something wrong again. Shrugging, he
walked off. To let himself in now could be suicidal, judging by his previous
encounters with enraged women. Alyson’s good nature would prevail eventually.
When he heard that William had successfully delivered her
breakfast and lived to speak of it, Rory returned to the cabin. Deciding the
degree of intimacy she was about to grant him made knocking a false modesty, he
simply walked in.
He caught her trapped in the entanglement of donning her
gown. He stopped to admire the view of slender ankles and well-turned calves.
As she hastily jerked the bodice waist in place, he was given a fine view of
scantily clad breasts. A hot surge of desire boiled through his blood. But it
was not his intention to take her like this. He gritted his teeth when she
pulled the bodice closed and held it there with a death grip.
Rory regarded the elegant satin gown with a practical eye
and shook his head. “It will not do. The heat will kill you. Take it off and
let us find something more suitable.”
Alyson glared at him and deliberately began fastening her
laces.
Rory grabbed two great handfuls of skirt and jerked upward.
Alyson’s dark hair disappeared in a swirl of blue satin. She shrieked as the
unfastened waist caught on her breasts and left all else bare for his perusal.
Rory chuckled at the sight of her thin chemise riding up to her hips, leaving
only her stockings and garters below. She was a joy to behold, and his gaze
lingered on the full curve of hip and rounded thighs before he gave in and worked
the gown the rest of the way off.
He flung the satin over a chair and headed for his trunk
without drinking his fill of the sweet sight she offered. If he were to last
through this day, he would have to avoid tempting himself beyond the bounds of
endurance.
“It is summer and the heat here is more than Charleston.
Save the gown for cooler months.”
Tight-lipped, Alyson grabbed up her gown and held it before
her. “Shall I go about in nothing, then? That should be sufficiently cool.”
Rory pulled out his long linen shirt. Trying not to look too
closely at her flimsily concealed curves, Rory yanked the shirt over her
disheveled black curls.
“I have no desire to share you with my men.” Rory
contemplated the impromptu gown. The billowing sleeves of his shirt hung below
her fingers. The neck closure plunged nearly to her waist. Only the chemise
preserved any modesty.
If he looked more closely, he could discern the erect tips
of her breasts. No wonder women wore all those foolish garments. Any less, and
men would lie raving in the streets.
Meaning only to lace the neck closure to hide some of her
generous proportions, Rory couldn’t resist cupping the full curve of one
breast. Alyson closed her eyes and held herself taut but didn’t resist.
When she did not flee, Rory smiled and teased temptation a
little more. Her startled look transformed to a more sensual one, and she swayed
toward him. He pressed a warning kiss against her lips and reluctantly removed
his hand.
“Don’t let’s fight, lass. It’s much more pleasant to take
things as they come. Trust me.”
Rory tied the knot in the lacing, hiding most of her
nakedness, then inspected the results. The shirt hung to mid-calf, revealing
the enticing sight of embroidered stockings and blue satin slippers. The
problem of the long sleeves was easily solved by using her old garters as bands
to hold the flowing material high enough for comfort, but Rory shook his head
at the way the thin material revealed all the full, womanly curves beneath. Men
would kill for less than that.
He rummaged in the trunk again until he produced one of his
old flare-bottomed vests. The yellow silk was moldering, but the quilted lining
had a good deal of strength left. He held it out for her, and Alyson slipped
into it. He sliced off the lengthy arms at the shoulders.
Alyson’s eyes widened in surprise, but she appropriated the
length of material that resulted, looped the two pieces together, and knotted
them in a belt around her waist. She looked like a pirate, but all except her
legs was covered.
“Aye, you’ll do. It’s better than William’s breeches,
leastways.” Contemplating the satisfying fact that her impromptu skirts came up
much more easily than boy’s breeches came down, Rory congratulated himself on
his sartorial inspiration. To test his talent, he ran his hand over the curve
of her buttock. When she looked up in surprise, he grinned. His men could not
see the curves the cloth concealed, but he could feel them.
“Shall we see what there is to see, my love?” He made a
courtly bow, then opened the cabin door to escort her out.
“But I haven’t even brushed my hair!” Alyson protested,
glancing nervously toward the outer cabin.
Rory picked up his brush from the shaving stand and offered
his arm. “I’ll do it for you later. You could never look less than lovely.”
That flattery astonished her into silence. She accepted his
arm and stepped into the bright light of day in her daring dishabille. The crew’s
reaction to her appearance caused her to start with surprise.
They cheered. They yelled. They whistled until a bright
scarlet flush suffused her cheeks, and Rory scowled with a ferocity that had
the men nudging each other and winking.
“If all ye layabouts have naught to do but embarrass a lady,
I’ll send ye to scraping barnacles,” he finally roared into a lull in the
commotion.
That sent men scurrying into the rigging. The woman at his
side relaxed and scanned the protected cover of the island to which he’d
brought her.
Gentle waves lapped upon sandy beaches, and scrub palmettos
filled the interior. Beyond the barrier of the reef, the ocean roared, but the
ship rocked only slightly.
Rory watched her, hoping she understood what he offered. The
island provided an escape from the confinement and lack of privacy of a small
ship. He relaxed at her smile of comprehension and approval.
Relieved, Rory gestured to the men working on a spar above. “There
wasn’t time in Charleston to make the repairs we needed. I’d prefer to have
them done before we sail any closer to the islands.”
She gazed at the rigging, then abruptly tugged on his arm. “Make
him come down, Rory, please.”
She did not raise her voice or convey her urgency in any
untoward way, but he frowned and glanced upward. “Who, lass? What is wrong?”
“William. I want to see William. Have him come down
now
, please.”
Since William had nearly reached his goal high atop the
mainmast, this was not a reasonable request. With another woman, Rory would
have dismissed it without a second thought. With Alyson, he couldn’t help but
have second and third thoughts. He signaled to Dougall, who gave the shouted
command for William to return to the deck.
William quickly complied, scurrying down the mast with
amazing speed, until he reached the deck and presented himself at his captain’s
feet.
Not having any good reason for calling the lad, Rory lifted
a quizzical eyebrow in Alyson’s direction.
With a vague smile of apology, she asked, “Have you a hat I
could borrow, William? I fear I will become dreadfully sunburnt out here.”
Boy and man stared at her in incredulity, but a frightened
cry from above diverted their gazes upward. The splintered spar the men had
been lowering crashed loose from a frayed rope, swinging in a wide arc along
the mast, knocking loose the gaff spanker that had been William’s destination
not minutes before.
Had Alyson not called him down on her ridiculous errand, the
boy would have been knocked clear of the rigging and onto the main deck to his
death.
William turned white as he realized the nearness of the
miss. Those of the crew who had seen William’s departure and the accident shouted
in relief. The remainder of the crew righted the spar with hefty curses.
Rory narrowed his eyes to study the woman beside him, but
Alyson’s misty gaze revealed naught but the shadows of the clouds crossing the
sun.
He sent William on his errand. Then, placing his hands on
her shoulders, he turned Alyson to face him. He had seen that look on her face
before, and uneasiness roiled his innards. When he was certain he had her
attention, he asked, “You have the Sight, don’t you? That’s why you look at me
sometimes as if you’re looking through me. What else have you seen, Alyson?”
Her lips turned up in a surprised smile that did not reach
her eyes. Without a word, she walked away from his hold and drifted over to
speak to a shaken Dougall. Rory stared after her with a mixture of confusion
and understanding.
Of course she would not admit to possessing the curse of
Sight. It had labeled women as witches for centuries, or set them so far apart
from their peers that they became hermits.
He knew of a woman in the village near his home who was
reported to have the ability to see things no other could. She had no friends
or family. The only ones who sought her out were those desperate to know the
secrets of their future, young girls in love, old people preparing for death.
He remembered clearly what he had seen with his own eyes. The
old woman had appeared in the street one day, grabbed a toddler playing in the
dirt, and shoved the child into the arms of an irate mother. Seconds later, a
load of heavy whisky barrels had tilted out of a cart and cascaded down the
hill just where the child had been playing.
He had tried to convince himself that the barrels had fallen
first and that the woman had merely rescued the child from the obvious danger.
But he had been in a position to see both woman and barrels, and he could not
lie so easily to himself, no more than he could lie to himself now.
It would be easy to call it coincidence. Another man might
have. That was the beauty of Alyson’s deception. For years she had been convincing
people of her half-wittedness with her vague habits, when in truth she had just
adapted to the behavior expected of her, the one that explained her strangeness
to everyone’s satisfaction.
Believing her half-witted was preferable to believing in the
supernatural. The ridiculous reason she had given William for her call had
completely fooled the lad because he thought her foolish. He would never know
that it had been more than the hand of fate that had saved him. Alyson’s
quick-wittedness in the moment of danger was astounding, once the veil of
deception was removed.
Rory watched her gesture with her lovely hands as she
soothed Dougall’s fears. He had almost believed her foolish innocence. Had he
not been such a curious bloke, or so infatuated with her confounded hands, had
they not been forced into long confinement for the length of that coach ride,
he would have believed her half-crazed.
No wonder the old earl had kept her hidden in the country
where no one had the opportunity to learn her true character. Her disguise
worked best at a distance or with those too blind to see beyond their own
noses. Dougall was neither, and Rory hastily sent his first mate back to his
duties.
Alyson looked up at Rory’s abruptness, but William raced up
with a disreputable-looking straw hat. She beamed with delight, perched it
rakishly over her curls, and struck a pose for his approval. The boy grinned,
then sprinted off to his assigned tasks.
“If you have that boy talking more than two words at a time,
they’ll call you another kind of witch. Come on, lass, you and I will do some
exploring.”
Alyson hesitated at sight of the dinghy he meant her to
climb into, then back to his familiar crew. Rory waited for her to come to
terms with this next stage of their life. She had been more or less forced from
the shelter of her grandfather’s home. She had been given no choice at all when
Rory had kidnapped her from London. Accepting the intimacy of his private
protection would have to be her own decision.
Alyson turned back to him, and her lips curved upward in
happy decision. Without further hesitation she gripped the rope ladder and
swung her unencumbered legs over the side.
Rory scarcely heard the appreciative catcalls as he hurried
after her, his heart beating wildly. He hadn’t been at all certain that last
night wasn’t a moonstruck dream and that dawn would return them both to their
senses. His imagination ran free, picturing sun-drenched days and moonlit
nights in the arms of the fairest angel he had ever chanced to come upon. They
didn’t have to hurry back to London. Perhaps he could persuade her to linger in
these warm waters until England’s harsh winter had ended. Anything was
possible.
Alyson had proved that beyond questioning.
Alyson dug her toes into the hot sand and gazed dreamily
into the intriguing pattern of tree fronds above her head. She had never seen
anything like it. A scarlet vine spilled over the sharp shrubs Rory had called
palmettos on either side of the path. A strange bird crackled above. They had
left the sea and the mournful cries of the gulls at the ship earlier, but this
miniature jungle fascinated her.
The heat was a tangible weight upon her skin, and she longed
to pull her hair off her neck and cut the sleeves from her shirt. Rory had
unfastened his shirt to the waist and rolled up his sleeves as he hacked
through the vines with his wicked-looking knife. Alyson lowered her gaze from
her study of the sky to the powerful sway of the Maclean’s shoulders beneath
his sweat-drenched shirt and the bulge of his arms as he chopped at the
undergrowth.