Food sounded repulsive. Alyson focused on the title with
which he addressed her. As Rory’s wife she was entitled to the status of Lady
Maclean, but of course the English would not recognize his Scots title even if
they knew of it. On the other hand, as the daughter of an earl, she was Lady
Alyson, unless they knew of her bastardy. Since even the governor had used her
title, and Rory had no reason to name her bastard, she deduced this man knew
Cranville and believed his version of her. She grimaced.
“Where are we going?” She held her hand to her forehead,
trying to remember the circumstances that had brought her here. She could only
remember Rory and the nightmare.
Apparently assuming the blow to her head had left her
confused, the surgeon explained they were on a Navy ship bound for London. At
the mention of London, she looked at him with hope, and he continued
cheerfully, “Your cousin is most anxious to see you. He is overjoyed to have
you returned at last.”
Wary, Alyson backed against the wall, “Rory? Where is Rory?”
The surgeon looked puzzled at her reaction but answered
politely. “Your husband is well and on board, be assured. Let me have some broth
brought to you. You will feel much better with some sustenance in you.”
Alyson did not like his evasion, and her gaze unfocused as
she tried to reason out this situation. Cranville was asking after her, but
Rory was not. No, that was wrong. Even if Rory did not love her, he would be
concerned about her wealth. Unless he thought her dead.
She made no attempt to answer the physician’s question or
even acknowledge his continued presence. Pursing his lips, he backed out of the
room, leaving her to think in peace.
She sipped at the tea brought to her but ignored all else on
the tray. When handed a brush, she stroked her hair out of habit but without
thought of her appearance. When a gown was laid out from the trunk the earl had
brought on board, Alyson shrugged it off with disinterest and returned to
brushing her snarled tresses.
Unable to pry more than monosyllabic replies from his
patient, the surgeon brought Cranville to the cabin.
Alyson screamed before her cousin could even open his mouth
to speak. She screamed without terror or feeling of any kind, but the nearer he
came, the louder she shrieked. When he departed, she quieted and returned to
brushing her hair.
“I fear the shock has made her mad, my lord,” the surgeon
murmured. “We cannot know with any honesty what she has undergone these last
months. Perhaps rest and quiet will restore her nerves with time.”
“You underestimate my cousin, Buscombe,” Cranville replied
sardonically. “Tell her I’ve fallen overboard, and she will smile. Bring
Maclean here, and we will see the true state of their affairs.”
They talked as if she were deaf or witless, and Alyson
smiled. So her cousin was not entirely the fool, after all. She could not hope
that he would ever attain Rory’s level of understanding, but rational
discussion might be achieved if he at least had the brains to seek it instead
of physically forcing her.
When they brought Rory to her, she wore a robe from the
trunk. She had no pins for her hair, so it streamed over the gray lace of the
robe. When Rory entered, she widened her eyes at his state. He shook his head
warningly at her change in her expression.
The others didn’t notice at all.
She had never seen his hair so matted and dirty. He had
attempted to tie it at his nape with a string, but with his hands bound it
couldn’t have been an easy task. He wore an ill-fitting shirt that he had tried
to tuck into his torn and blackened breeches, but large folds hung about his
narrow hips. The hemp at his wrists had worn the skin raw, and the blood of the
scrapes stained his cuffs.
***
Rory held his shoulders straight and waited for Alyson’s
verdict. He could not keep his gaze from her face. He winced at the sight of
the blackening bruise. She was much too pale, and the icy gray of her eyes
displayed a fear and a wariness he deserved.
The men behind Rory waited for her to acknowledge him.
Alyson simply drifted from her seat, past Rory, out the door, past her cousin
and the physician, and down the passageway to the great cabin.
When she picked up a knife from the table, Rory bit back a
laugh. This was Alyson in wrathful goddess mode, although no one but him seemed
to understand that.
Cranville hurried to take it away from her. With a wicked smile,
she raised it to the level of his manly parts. The earl hastily stepped aside.
The surgeon watched her with professional curiosity, as if she were a
particularly intriguing experiment. She ignored him as she proceeded back down
the passage again, her long robe trailing the floor like a royal train, her
head held proudly.
Rory faced her as she reentered the cabin, and Cranville
chuckled as Alyson raised the knife to him too. “It would serve you right if
she gelded you, Maclean. Buscombe, what say we leave the happy pair together
for a while?”
Alyson did not seem to hear the jest. Understanding her
intent, Rory held his bound hands out in front of him.
Alyson inserted the knife between his wrists in an apparent
attempt to do what Cranville suggested, and the surgeon hastened to stop her.
Rory threw him a cold look. “Leave the lass be, lest you get
the dirk in you.”
Buscombe hesitated, then watched as Alyson methodically sawed
at Rory’s bonds. “Why does she not say anything?”
Rory lifted a brow with an ironic look. “And would you have
cut the bonds had she asked?”
“But she says nothing. It is not natural!”
Rory chuckled grimly. “It is natural when you’re accustomed
to being ignored. Alyson seldom speaks if action suffices. For all I know, she
fully intends to emasculate me for your amusement. Lord only knows, she has
every right to do so.”
He sighed in relief as the rope fell free, and she set the
knife aside. Alyson offered him a fleeting grin before turning away to search
her trunk. When she came up with a jar of lotion to rub into Rory’s wrists,
Cranville raised a protest. “The man is a dangerous prisoner! You cannot let
him go unfettered for the sake of some besotted female.”
As he attempted to intervene, Alyson lifted the knife to his
midsection again. Cranville shifted his glance from her pleasant expression to
Rory’s grim demeanor. Rory shrugged.
“’Tis your life, mon. I cannot know how far ye’ve pushed
her.” The mockery of his accent was not lost to the earl, who scowled.
When Alyson held firm, Cranville backed away and allowed her
to finish rubbing Rory’s wounds. When she was done, he once more demanded, “Buscombe,
have your men escort the scoundrel back to the brig.”
Alyson merely returned to her bunk and placed her hands in
her lap. Rory looked down at her with a mixture of compassion and resignation. “You’re
on your own now, lass. Ye know that, don’t ye?”
Something flickered behind the gray mist of her eyes, but to
the surprise of all but Rory, she murmured in perfect, musical tones, “Go to
hell, Maclean.”
London, Fall 1760
When they led Rory away in chains, leaving Cranville to
walk free, Alyson understood the enormity of the mistake that had been made.
Rory did not even turn to glance at her as he strode down the plank to the
dock. She had not seen him since the day she had cut his bonds, and he had said
she was on her own.
He had released her from all the vows they’d made. She had
thought that was what she wanted. She was a free woman now, their marriage a
matter of inconvenience that Mr. Farnley would soon put asunder. So why did she
feel so devastated when it was Cranville at her side and not Rory once she set
foot in England again?
Rory had trapped her, forced her into marriage, nearly
brought her to death in a pirate’s hold. He had no love for her, only for her
money. He had used the same words of love as Alan, and had meant them just as
little. Senseless, then, to regret what had never been.
Cranville tried to take her arm and lead her into the
waiting carriage, but she shook him off. He had treated her with the care due
to fragile porcelain throughout the journey, but she had been too miserable to
notice. She blamed it on the seasickness that had kept her abed.
She turned to the gruff navy captain who had befriended her.
“Would you see me home, please? Lady Campbell will be worried.”
Cranville protested, but she ignored him as she had ignored
the man who claimed to be her husband. Pain appeared momentarily behind the
hard mask of the earl’s face, but, squaring his shoulders, he set off in
another direction.
Once they arrived at the townhouse, Deirdre ran to greet
them. She tensed at sight of Alyson with a stranger and hugged her in concern. Alyson
merely introduced the officer and followed the servants inside, leaving Deirdre
to do as she wished with the captain.
A few hours later, Mr. Farnley arrived at the Campbell
residence. Alyson quietly recited events, gave him his orders, and left him
shaking his head in dismay.
It took a week before the solicitor could locate Rory, hire
barristers, and have him freed on bond. The bedraggled scarecrow who emerged
from the cell in no way resembled the confident man who had once visited Farnley’s
offices.
With no other place to go, Rory allowed the solicitor to
deliver him to his aunt’s doorstep. Alyson had had an entire week to slip away
into whatever world she sought now. He would linger only long enough to bathe
and dress and seek word of the
Witch.
What he would do after that, he didn’t
know. The charges held him bound in London for the nonce. Somehow, after that,
he would go to Scotland.
Deirdre welcomed him with open arms and tears and led him to
his old room with admonishments about hot baths and good food and lots of
sleep. Rory humored her with polite nods, knowing full well he hadn’t slept a
night in weeks and might never sleep another again.
He wanted to ask after Alyson, but he could not bring
himself to utter the words just yet. Wearily he shut the door after his aunt
and stared at the empty candlelit room. He had exchanged one cell for another.
He needed the solace of action to amputate the emptiness and pain. He needed to
go home to the welcoming heather of the hills and forget the lovely woman who
had been his for so short a time. He had never deserved her, and he would never
forget her, but he had to let her go. For both their sakes, he had to let her
go.
The ivory-handled brush in his hand snapped, and he stared
down at it in dull confusion. He didn’t remember picking it up. He forced his
fists to relax. The brush seemed familiar, but he was in no state to think
about a brush. He needed a drink. First, he had to wash.
The servants brought a bath, and he tried to soak in it, but
he couldn’t relax. He scrubbed and climbed out, drying and padding about the
room in search of old clothes he might have left behind. He was nearly dressed
by the time a footman announced that he had a caller.
Hoping that Dougall had found him
,
Rory pulled on his
coat and hurried down the stairs to the guest salon. The identity of their visitor
struck him with such disgust that Rory nearly walked out again.
Garbed in the same simple style he had worn on the ship, his
dark hair bound and unwigged, the Alexander Hampton, earl of Cranville, appeared
more country gentleman than elegant dandy. His dark eyes raked over Rory’s gentlemanly
attire. “Going out already, are we? So eager to spend your new fortune that you
cannot even bide awhile to see to my cousin’s comfort?”
Shoulders straight, fist clenching the sword he had donned without
thought, Rory met the insult coldly. “You are not welcome in this house,
Cranville. So long as I remain her husband, this house is Alyson’s. If you have
any concern for her at all, you will show it by removing yourself before I
fling you out.”
“I’ll leave, but not before accepting the challenge you
offered once before. I’ll be waiting at White’s for your seconds.” Cranville
picked up his hat and cane and waited for Rory to move aside so he might leave.
Rory walked to the decanter on the sideboard and poured a
tumbler of brandy. He would enjoy nothing more than taking out his vengeance
and frustration on the arrogant Englishman. Except the thought of the pleasure
he would receive from such measures warned that he thought only of himself, and
he could no longer afford selfishness.
“The challenge is withdrawn, Cranville. I would have fought
you then, when Alyson was no relation to me, but I cannot kill her only
relative now that she is my wife.”
To Rory’s shock, the object of their discussion materialized
in the doorway. Her eyes widened at sight of him. His fingers cracked the
fragile stem of his snifter before he set it aside. He had thought she would be
long gone by now.
Greedily he studied her lovely figure as she drifted into
the room. Studying her face, he noted an ominous misty look in her eyes. He had
seen that look before, and a protective instinct leapt to the fore. He rested
his hand on his sword as warning to Cranville.
Both men remained silent as Alyson glided through the room
without a word of greeting. She halted before the long draped windows
overlooking the street below. She didn’t need to speak; her presence spoke for
her.
Cranville sent her an anguished look, but Alyson’s blank
gaze didn’t acknowledge him. Worried, Rory waited for his unwelcome guest to leave.
Alyson’s silence did not bode well.
“Then I will seek satisfaction in the courts, Maclean.”
Cranville gripped his cane.
Rory did not acknowledge the challenge, and the earl had no
choice but to depart.
Alyson clutched her arms, fighting the sudden cold that had
overtaken her.
The window became a
winter-white blizzard. She fought a chilling wind. A black rock reared out of
the distance, and she screamed, but the roar of the wind whipped the sound from
her breath. Horse and rider rode toward the swirling darkness where the only
difference between land and air was shades of gray. She tried to follow, to
scream for him to stop, that he was galloping to certain death. Death pierced
her with sharp talons, laughing at her in the howl of the wind, but invisible
to her blinded eyes. She fought its hold, crying into the wind, screaming for
mercy, but she was strangely weighted and could not move. When horse and rider
disappeared over the precipice, she crumpled into a welcoming blanket of ice.