His welcoming bed erupted in a crescendo of shrieks and
flailing limbs, nearly unmanning him before he had time to register that his
guest was awake.
Vulnerable in his nakedness, Rory hung on to the blanket. A
clog caught his shin, and, cursing, he grabbed at an arm aimed at ripping his
eyes out. As another kick found its mark, he flung his leg over the dangerous
weapons of her feet. Alyson! How had he forgotten Alyson?
Because he’d wanted to. Because he knew he had exceeded all
bounds of propriety by taking her into his protection, and that there would be
hell to pay when everyone came to his senses. It looked like the lass had finally
come to hers. Rory caught her wrists behind her back and pulled her up against
his chest, slowing her struggles.
“Hush, lass, it’s just me. I forgot ye were here. Calm down
and I’ll find some dry clothes.”
The reassuring lilt of those rolling R’s brought Alyson’s
heart back down from her throat, and fighting hysteria, she nodded. The iron
bands of his hands released her. Rory moved slowly, his hand hovering over her
as if wishing to alight somewhere, and she almost wished it would. She was
freezing.
But he rose from the bed and she heard him rummaging in his
trunk and grumbling about wasting a clean shirt.
He returned to the bed and cupped her chin. “I’m sorry to
have frightened you, lass, but it is that weary I am that I canna think. How
are you feeling?”
Numbly Alyson gathered the blanket tighter. She was
half-frozen and completely confused. She didn’t even know where to begin.
Rory wouldn’t be taking her to France. She trusted Rory. “Are
you taking me home?” she finally forced out between chattering teeth.
“And where might that be, lass?” He ran his hand down her
blanket-covered arm, trying to warm her. “We’ll talk in the morning. I need a
few hours’ sleep first. If you’ll spare me the pillow, I’ll sleep on the floor
this night.”
Where
would
home be? That was a good question, one
Alyson’s numb mind could not hold on to. What she did finally comprehend was
that she was lying in Rory’s bed, and she had no desire to leave it. She
struggled up on one elbow and untangled the blanket to give him a length.
“If you won’t be uncomfortable, there’s room for two. The
floor’s awfully cold.”
He hesitated. Apparently too tired to question, he sprawled
his length beside her, accepted the offered cover, and promptly fell asleep.
Alyson did not sleep so soundly as the Maclean. Her thoughts
skittered like mice, never settling in one place for long, but rattling madly
all about. The heat of the man beside her warmed her skin, but a chill lingered
around her heart. How had he come to her rescue again?
Gradually she allowed the sound of Rory’s heavy breathing to
lull her, and when his strong arm fell across her waist, she obligingly moved
closer to his heat and fell asleep.
When Rory woke to the cold gray light of dawn, his hand
encountered a soft curve that shouldn’t be there, and his eyes flew open.
Alyson was already awake and watching him warily.
How had he ever thought those eyes to be misty like the
summer hills? Behind that dark fringe they were icily clear. His gaze traveled
downward to where his hand had inadvertently found the torn bodice of her
dress. It felt so right resting there that he couldn’t resist cupping the full
weight of her chemise-covered breast in his palm before removing it to the
relative safety of her fully clothed waist.
His lips twitched in a teasing smile as he studied the woman
pinned between his arms. That fool last night had been right. He had never had
a woman like this in his life, and he was not likely ever to have one again.
Full, sweet curves beckoned a man’s touch, milk-warm skin begged to be tasted,
and if he let his thoughts stray to her eyes and mouth, he would not be able to
stand up straight, as her tension told him he would have to do shortly.
“Good mornin’, lass. Did ye sleep well?” Pulling the blanket
around him to cover his lap, Rory sat up.
Released from the trap of his arms, Alyson hurried to right
herself. She tugged at the torn laces and wrapped her arms to cover the rent in
her bodice.
“Tell me truly, what happened last night?” she asked. “I
cannot remember much of anything except fighting three nasty men.”
Rory frowned and stood up to pace. “That I don’t know, lass.
I found you in a place where you shouldn’t be with men you shouldn’t be with.
From what they said, I think they hadn’t had you long. Your clothes were like
they are now. Only you can say whether they had time to harm you.”
She shivered and reached for the blanket that he had
abandoned, shaking her head, evidently to indicate she could not answer the
question in his voice. “How did you find me?”
Rory closed his eyes and gave a prayer to a God he had long
abandoned, then met her questioning gaze. “By accident, I assure you. I thought
you safely at Lady Hamilton’s with Deirdre. Why weren’t you?”
Alyson ignored the question. “Where are we now?”
Rory made a gesture of futility and surrendered to her
method of conversing. “On my ship, the
Sea Witch.”
She smiled at that, a soft smile like the coming of dawn
that nearly knocked Rory to his knees. He caught an overhead beam and stared
down at her. “That pleases you?”
“I have always wanted to sail on a ship. Can I go up and see
the sails?”
He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, shoving it
back from his forehead. “Not now. The water’s still choppy and the wind is
picking up. This is just a lull in the storm. I’ll have to be on deck shortly.
Is there anything I can do for you before I go?”
“Where are we going?” She pulled the blanket around her and
slid to the edge of the bunk.
Here it was. He had hoped that in her wandering way she
would not stumble across the thorn in the rose just yet, but it had to come
sometime. “Charleston.”
Her head snapped back in surprise, throwing her loosened
curls into a tumble about her shoulders. “Charleston? In the colonies? How can
that be?”
“That’s a long story, lass. We’ll talk it over later, when I
have more time.”
Alyson leapt to her feet, standing boldly up to him, with
her eyes blazing. “You cannot take me to Charleston. That is kidnapping. Leave
me anywhere on the coast. Leave me in Ireland if you must. Do not do this to
me, Maclean.”
With a tired sadness he touched her cheek. “I canna do that,
Alyson. We are gone past any coast you know, and I canna be turnin’ back
without riskin’ myself and my men. It’s too late, lass. You’ll be going with
us.”
Before she could react, he dropped his hand and walked out
without another word.
As the door slammed behind him, Alyson felt all the breath
leave her, and her shoulders slumped. So much for her attempt at boldness. Rory
didn’t slip into his Scots lilt unless he was deeply stirred by something, she
had noticed. She didn’t know what had forced him to this criminal act, but it
had to be a matter of great import.
A shy cabin boy brought her a cold breakfast and fresh water
but resisted answering questions. As the gale winds increased, the cabin grew
darker, until she could scarcely see her hand in front of her face. Knowing
nothing of the cabin, she could not locate lantern, wick, or flint. In any
case, the ship began to toss so erratically that she could not keep her feet to
look for them. She huddled in the corner of the bunk while the hours grew long
and stretched from day to night. She didn’t know enough of the sea to be
afraid. She simply trusted Rory to find land soon.
The noisy pounding of several pairs of feet startled her
from a doze, and Alyson sat up. Voices grumbled, a latch slipped free, and the
door burst open. She leapt from the bed in fright, dragging the blanket with
her as two rough seamen entered.
In the light of the lantern they brought with them, her gaze
traveled to the long burden sagging between them, and her stomach lurched.
With a grunt, they swung Rory’s unconscious body into the
bunk. The younger man turned to Alyson, and tugging his forelock, said
respectfully, “He was knocked against the mast by a broken spar, ma’am. Will’m
here will run fetch for you. We got to get back on deck.”
They left, leaving Alyson staring down into Rory’s pale and
bleeding face while the small cabin boy waited helplessly for her orders.
Alyson knew nothing of tending wounds. Thrown from her
books and the comforts of home into a cold world she did not understand, she
had only Rory to shield her, and he could be dead if she did nothing.
Tersely she ordered the boy to find bandages and lint and
water.
Warm
water would have been
nice, but she had already learned the limitations of her new surroundings. She
would be lucky to receive fresh water.
After the cabin boy returned, Alyson knelt beside the bed
and began to sponge the blood from the wound on Rory’s brow. His stillness
nearly paralyzed her with fear.
“You can’t die, Rory Maclean,” she informed him angrily,
dabbing at the ugly gash opening his forehead from hairline to eyebrow. “Where
would I be out here in the middle of the ocean with a ship full of strangers?
You got me into this, Rory Maclean, and I’ll not let you rest until you get me
out. So help me, if you die, I’ll follow you to the gates of hell to drag you
back.”
“Lass, if you dinna be careful, you’ll be following me
sooner than you think.”
Brown eyes opened warily, and Alyson ceased her scrubbing to
stare. She had never seen anything so lovely in her life as the beginning of a
twinkle in that cursed dark face, but she resisted the urge to kiss him for his
contrariness.
“Don’t think I won’t, Maclean,” she warned, but she could
not hide her relief. His answering grin showed her voice had betrayed her.
“I believe you’d try, dear heart, but not just now. I think
I’ve cracked my ribs, and I’ll be needing you to bind them. Can you do that?”
Despite his words and his attempts to relieve her anxiety,
Alyson could tell he was in pain. She glanced down at the great length of him
and frowned. “Can you sit up? I don’t know how else to wrap a bandage around
you.”
“Patch the hole in my head first, lass, then have William
over there help you. The storm’s almost done, and I have a little rest coming
to me anyway.” He closed his eyes and seemed to drift out of consciousness
again.
When William tried to lift him, jarring him awake, Rory
swore irritably.
Alyson tightened her lips at the curse, but she helped the
boy to prop his captain against the head of the bunk. Removing his blood-soaked
and sopping shirt caused them difficulty, until Rory groaned to just leave the
damned thing on and get on with it.
Following his instructions, Alyson tore a sheet into wide
strips. With the help of William, she wound it as tightly as she could manage
around the Maclean’s brawny chest. Terror kept her from concentrating too long
on the strength and breadth of the masculine planes beneath her fingers.
Instead, she feared for Rory’s breathing, so tightly did they wrap the binding,
but he nodded approval when they were done.
“That’s good. Now let me back down and bring me the whisky
flask from the desk there.”
But by the time they had him lying flat, Rory had passed out
again. Alyson gazed down at him with dismay coiling in her stomach. Already the
blood was seeping through the clean white bandage she had so carefully applied.
The cabin boy stoically stoppered the flask and offered his
first words. “Cap’n will come round. I’ll get summat for ye to eat.”
With that terse statement he handed Alyson the flask and
left the cabin. Staring at the silver bottle as if it were a serpent, she
contemplated tasting the contents herself. A drunken stupor might be the only
way to survive this storm.
As if hearing her thoughts, Rory lifted one heavy eyelid. “It’ll
make you braw sick, lass. Gie it here.”
Watching him drink with difficulty from that position,
Alyson caught herself wondering if perhaps in some manner or form Rory Douglas
Maclean might not be gifted with the Sight himself. He had certainly developed
some extra sense for reading her.
***
The storm died later that night. The first mate returned
to the captain’s cabin for orders, but Alyson showed him the fevered man in the
bunk. Rory was well beyond giving orders. The seaman tugged his forelock and
bowed his way out.
Alyson closed her eyes and swayed with weariness. Her
grandfather had never pampered her with luxuries, but she had never known want
either. She had always been warm and well-fed, but she had never appreciated
her good fortune until now. Was this the kind of life Rory had lived all his
years? Was it possible to survive like this day after day?
After choking down the bread and hard cheese that served as
supper, she washed in cold water. Then, looking down at the sad gown she had
not had time to repair, she moaned in shame. She did not even wish to know what
Rory’s men thought of her.
Deciding if she were to be left with only one gown for
untold days and nights, she had best treat it with care, she finished unlacing her
bodice and skirt. Surely now that the storm had stopped the crew would all be
resting, and she would not be disturbed.
With the help of the lantern, Alyson searched the cabin. A
practical man like the Maclean would know how to mend simple things. She smiled
in triumph in finding a sewing kit in his trunk. The kit with scissors and
thimble and choice of dark and light thread was better than she expected.
The gown needed a good washing, but then, so did everything
else she wore. She was grateful she had chosen to wear one of her sturdiest
quilted petticoats beneath the maid’s rough gown. At least it kept her legs
relatively warm while she worked. She could not say as much for the thin muslin
of the chemise under it. Although the wide sleeves went down to her elbow, the
gauzy material provided no warmth and little in the way of modesty. Alyson
prayed Rory would not wake just yet.