“I’m not accepting your resignation, Dougall. You’re under
arrest until I have time to hang you. Now, come along and show me where you
lost her.”
He didn’t know what had sent her flying this time, but this
was the last time he would pull her pretty little neck out of trouble. Damned
if he wouldn’t have the brat branded and manacled when he caught up with her.
Three days later, Rory hadn’t found a whisper of Alyson’s
whereabouts. His men had tracked through every brothel, tavern, and inn in town.
Alyson was too distinctive not to be noticed, but no one had seen her.
That left only alternatives Rory couldn’t bring himself to
consider. It wasn’t possible for Cranville to have followed her here. There was
no reason for anyone else to murder her on her first day in town. But unless
she were dead and buried, he could think of no other way she could have
disappeared totally.
He had even checked and found all the other ships on the
river that day. The ones still in dock reported no sign of her. The ones that
had sailed were fishing vessels that would soon return. He had to have missed
something, but he couldn’t imagine what.
He didn’t know why her disappearance was destroying him. She
had caused more consternation, confusion, frustration, and downright terror
than any one person had ever inflicted upon him, except one, maybe, and that
one was his mortal enemy. He ought to be glad she had walked out of his life.
Why, then, did he feel the skies were dark and the sun didn’t rise, when it was
May in Charleston and a cloud never crossed the sky?
He was almost glad, instead of angry, when he finally
stopped to call on Lord Kerry and his wife Katherine, and his associate’s young
daughter Margaret greeted him with her news. She was on the way to tea with a
real English lady just over from London, she informed him proudly.
It didn’t take a long stretch of the imagination to guess
who the lady might be, and a great sense of relief swept over Rory, before
anger replaced it. For once, unexpectedly, she had landed on her feet. As
Margaret chattered on, he began to relish the thought of Alyson’s expression
should he appear.
Learning that Kerry was still at their plantation and
Katherine had gone to visit her stepdaughter, Rory invited himself as Margaret’s
escort. The eighteen-year-old’s green eyes turned up to him in adoring wonder,
but Rory’s mind was on a certain pair of mist-colored eyes, and he paid no heed
to any other. Offering his arm, he stepped into the bright heat of a Charleston
street with one of that town’s most eligible young ladies, but his thoughts
were solely on revenge.
***
Seated in the small but elegant Lattimer parlor, garbed in
a white and rose-flowered dimity the mantua-maker had just completed, Alyson listened
to her companion’s conversation with a half-smile. Jane Lattimer was a year or
two older than she, older than the usual marriageable age for this society, she
had ascertained from several mother-daughter conversations. But the
strong-willed Jane had rejected what few suitors she had acquired, and Alyson
was beginning to understand why she had so few. Her opinions on every subject
were strident, her scorn of the vast majority of the male populace did not go
unvoiced, and although at heart she was a very kindly person, her demeanor gave
no such impression.
So it was with great surprise that Alyson observed a
softening change in Jane’s expression as she gazed out the front window in
expectation of Miss Sutherland’s arrival. Alyson had looked forward to meeting
more of this society now that she was appropriately attired, but she had been
of the opinion that today’s guest was female. The look on Jane’s face was not
that of a young woman anticipating the arrival of her best friend. Excitement
trembled through the older girl’s hands as she dropped the draperies and
hurriedly seated herself on the vacant sofa behind the tea tray.
Still, Alyson had no warning when Captain Rory Maclean
walked through the parlor door. He was accompanied by the loveliest, daintiest
blond she had ever had the misfortune to see, but Alyson could focus only on
Rory and his rage. Her heart stopped beating and didn’t resume again until she met
Rory’s cold gaze; then it began to pound.
“Captain Maclean, how good of you to call!” Jane gushed
effusively, leading her guests to their seats, neglecting introductions as she
attempted to part Margaret from her escort in order to place the captain on the
sofa beside herself.
Since the tea tray indicated their hostess’s seat, and there
was no other sofa in the room, Margaret reluctantly relinquished her prize to
take a chair beside Alyson. Rory, despite Jane’s admonitions, remained
standing. His gaze scarcely left Alyson. As Jane attempted to introduce him to
her guest, he waved her aside.
“Lady Alyson and I have already met, haven’t we, Alys?” The
insinuation in his voice and the use of her familiar name was plain. The
company looked shocked and extremely curious.
Alyson had learned a bit about society in his aunt’s home.
She employed her lessons now and gazed at him vaguely and took a sip of tea. “Oh,
yes, I arrived on the good captain’s ship. We are old friends. Rory, do please
seat yourself before you give Miss Lattimer a crimp in her neck.”
That pronouncement neatly took the poison out of his words,
and Jane and Margaret looked relieved, if not still a good deal curious.
Alyson felt his gaze as a physical presence lingering on her
hair, caressing her throat, boldly touching her bosom. She had never been so
uncomfortable in her life, and it took all her capacity for control to keep
from squirming in her chair. She answered questions politely without knowing
what she said. She sipped at tea and nibbled at sandwiches without knowing what
passed her lips.
Rory was the first to react to Jane’s increasingly sharp
remarks.
Upon entering, he had decided Alyson looked too damned
beautiful to strangle. He should have known better than to try to fluster her.
The only times he had ever seen her perturbed were times when she had reason to
believe no one would see her. Remembering how she had cursed him and sworn she
would follow him to hell if he died, Rory studied her placid countenance. He
wanted explanations.
He was aware that on past visits Jane Lattimer had welcomed
his presence, but he was more interested in business with her father. Alyson
had distracted him, but he still had business to complete. If Jane’s remarks
were for his benefit, he would put an end to them, but not without snagging
Alyson in his net.
Retrieving his hat, Rory bowed to his hostess. “I trust you
ladies will forgive me if I depart so soon. To be surrounded by all this
loveliness after weeks at sea has left me dazed, and I have forgotten an
appointment. My ship will be in port a few days more. Is there any chance I can
induce your lovely selves and your parents to join me for a small supper party
at the inn where I stay?”
Rory noticed Alyson’s grimace. He had to hide his amusement.
His little lady did not believe him for an instant, and rightly so. He had no
appointment, stayed at no inn, and knew the proud parents of these young ladies
would never consent to their visiting a sailors’ tavern.
“Oh, Captain Maclean, I am certain my mother would be
delighted if you could come to dinner this evening. You may ask my father then
about your party.” Jane rose and boldly laid her hand upon Rory’s coat sleeve.
“How could I resist such a flattering invitation?” Achieving
what he sought, knowing by Alyson’s angry intake of breath that she had seen
through his ploy, Rory bowed himself out.
Alyson fielded the eager questions of Jane and Margaret with
feigned disinterest, then pleaded a headache and retired to her room. The
Lattimers had graciously extended an invitation for her to stay with them while
waiting for response to her letter, but they would not be so gracious if Rory
chose to reveal the details of their journey. She had used the excuse he had
provided earlier by saying her maid had died en route, and then added that she
had escaped from her abductors with just the clothes on her back, but even that
tale put her reputation to question. Rory could ruin it, and then where would
she be?
She paced up and down the room in a fury of emotions. Rory
had known she was here. He had not been surprised to see her. What did he mean
to do? She knew he was angry. He had every right to be angry. But how could she
possibly explain why she had run away?
She couldn’t. She couldn’t possibly look the Maclean in the
eye and say, “I have every reason to believe you will violate me.” That was not
only insulting but also insane.
If she started believing nightmares, she would have to believe
her father’s ghost walked the earth. She saw him just as vividly as she had
seen Rory.
It did no good to worry. She would have to wait to see what
happened. Perhaps that exquisite creature he had brought with him would so fill
his time that he would forget about her. It certainly seemed that both Jane and
Margaret had taken a fancy to the captain. If she didn’t know better, she could
almost imagine a twinge of pain at the thought. She really was developing a
headache.
By evening Alyson wasn’t much calmer. The mantua-maker had
hurriedly basted in the hem of a sea-green taffeta and a pink-and-white-striped
underskirt for Alyson to wear for evening, but that did not help her dismal
mood. She glared at the pink cloth roses pinned to her bodice and detested the
entire ensemble. The colors were all the rage in London, as she had told the
dressmaker, but that did not make her appreciate them. She felt like wearing
scarlet tonight. Brilliant, bold scarlet with a bodice that plunged to dizzying
depths. Give Rory something to think about while he spent his flattery on Jane.
Such a rage of emotion did not suit her. She had gone
through life cosseted by her grandfather’s love. She ached for that safety now.
These emotions were too raw and painful to endure. If Rory would just go away,
she could return to normal. Even Alan had never stirred more than a quiet
happiness until that day she came to her senses. She would give anything to
return to her former idyllic peace now.
Deciding she had dallied long enough, Alyson gave the mirror
one last frowning glance. She had no maid to dress her hair, and powder made
her sneeze, so she wore only her own dark tresses pinned tightly.
Unfortunately, that style did not suit her thick hair. It escaped in tendrils
wherever it could, and where it was supposed to lie flat and prim, it curled
and billowed. Muttering a curse she had learned from Rory, she stalked out.
***
Rory entered the Lattimers’ wide foyer that evening just
as Alyson descended the curved rosewood staircase. A maid accepted his hat and
sword, but he couldn’t drag his gaze from the image floating toward him. As
Alyson lifted her skirts to descend, he caught glimpses of tiny green heels and
delicate rose-embroidered stockings on slender ankles.
The pleasurable sight disappeared in a flutter of petticoats
once she spotted him. His gaze continued upward over the graceful sway of side
hoops, to a tiny rose-bedecked waistline, and slid lingeringly over the full
curve of her bosom. The maid’s gown and fichu she had worn throughout the
voyage had covered her from neck to toe. The décolletage of this fashionable
gown offered him a tantalizing view of all that had been hidden. Had he been
subjected to the constant temptation of those milk-white curves earlier, he
would have gone mad for want of touching.
By the time Rory finally lifted his eyes to meet hers,
Alyson was glaring at him, and he couldn’t control his grin. He had begun to
realize that to draw any emotional reaction out of her at all was an
accomplishment indeed, and he delighted in succeeding so quickly. He bowed in
her direction.
“Good evening, Lady Alyson. You appear in fine spirits this
night. Shall we go in?” He nodded toward the parlor from which the sound of
voices hummed.
***
Alyson took a deep breath, forced herself to smile, and
descended the stairs in a daze. The Maclean looked too damned handsome with the
white lace of his jabot setting off his rugged features and auburn hair to
perfection. No, “handsome” wasn’t the word. “Attractive”? “Appealing”? What did
you call a man whose features were all wrong but made you want to touch them
with lips and fingers? She was going insane. Perhaps the moon was full tonight.
She had been told that the full of the moon had strange effects on the mind.
Rory caught her hand in his hard brown one. He wore a hint
of lace at his wrist that accented the brown. The blue coat was new, as was the
simple white brocade vest. Just the sight of that wide chest made her lungs
constrict.
Without saying a word, and ignoring his proffered arm,
Alyson removed her hand from his, picked up her skirts, and entered the parlor.
Infuriatingly, Rory stayed close behind, his hand resting at the small of her
back. Not one eye failed to note this familiarity, and eyebrows raised as Rory
made a show of seating her on the sofa, then standing behind her with one hand
proprietarily near her shoulder.
Alyson sat upright, away from that compromising hand, while
Mr. Lattimer inquired into Rory’s journey. It was obvious he was subtly
searching for the reason she might have boarded a ship of a known privateer. She
kept her expression impervious as Rory glossed over “old family relation,”
making it seem as if both their families had united in spiriting her away to
safety. Mr. Lattimer would have to know that was nonsense, but the ladies
seemed to accept it with awe-filled exclamations and sympathetic clucking
noises.
She could not relax. Every time she tried to sit back, Rory’s
rough finger traced idle patterns on her bare shoulder. Even when she sat
forward, Alyson felt as if her corset were cutting into her lungs with each
breath she took. She kept waiting for the ax to fall. Sooner or later Rory
would exact his revenge for her tricking of Dougall and disappearing without a
word. That was understood between them. All she could do now was sit
breathlessly wondering in what manner it would come.