The old woman chopped more vegetables for the simmering pot and
glanced to Alyson with a gap-toothed smile. Alyson recognized the word “bairn” in
her thick speech, and she turned from contemplation of the fire to glance at
Rory for explanation.
“She said carrying a child teaches patience. Would you
agree?”
Alyson blushed that the woman had guessed so easily. The old
man and woman laughed at her sudden color and went about their chores without
expecting reply. The intensity of Rory’s gaze heated her face more.
He had not taken advantage of her offer or even showed any
desire to do so since she had made it. She had thought his desire for her must
have died upon gaining what he wanted, but she could see now that she was
wrong. She did not know the reason he still stayed from her bed, but his
decision to do so saddened as well as relieved her. It would be difficult to
build a marriage without the loving they had once shared.
She swallowed a sigh and accepted the offer of the room’s
only chair. The gap between them had seemed almost unbridgeable in London.
Perhaps here they could have the time to themselves necessary to conquer it.
The carriage driver and footman came in out of the rain,
stomping their filthy boots on the clean floor and cursing as they studied the
dismal hut. Rory’s scowl silenced them, and they settled on a rough bench out
of the way of the kitchen activities. Tin cups of hot cider brought grudging
nods.
Alyson sipped at her cider and listened as the old woman
chattered. Rory replied in careful English so both she and their hostess could
understand. They talked of people and places she did not know, but her desire
to know everything about Rory compelled her to listen. When the conversation
came around to her own family, Alyson was startled by the old woman making a
sign of the cross.
“What did she say, Rory?” Alyson intruded in the
conversation, drawing the eyes of everyone back to her. She hid her discomfort
at the attention and waited for Rory’s reply.
To her surprise, it was their host who answered. “It is an
old woman’s foolishness.” He spat into the fire and glared at his wife before
speaking in guttural but careful English. “Your mother was a lovely lass with
no harm in her. There are those who still mourn the day she left these lands.”
That piece of information brought a smile to Alyson’s lips,
but she was not satisfied with the reply. Her grandmother had taught her to
love the Highland tales, but she had also warned of Highland superstition.
Almost apologetically the old woman set out bannocks and
poured bowls of thick soup for their supper. When Alyson exclaimed with delight
at this simple offering, the woman appeared surprised and turned to Rory for
confirmation.
“My wife has simple tastes, Peg,” Rory replied to the woman’s
look. “Else why would she choose me?”
This brought a round of laughter, and the food was devoured hungrily.
Alyson noticed the lines about Rory’s mouth relaxed and the creases on his
forehead all but disappeared. He was at home here. She would have to learn to
be the same.
She had doubts about her ability to adapt sometime later
when they were showed into the narrow back room and given the honor of the
cottage’s only bed. The others would make do on the floor of the main room. She
glanced at the thin, sloping pallet, then back to Rory.
In the light of one short candle, he caught her look and
shrugged. “It is this or the carriage, lass. Would ye hurt their feelings by
refusing?”
Practical Rory. Silently Alyson turned her back to him to
help with her gown. The number of heavy chemises and petticoats she wore
beneath the gown prevented anything so intimate as a touch, but her spine still
stiffened as his fingers worked their way through the fastenings.
Rory discarded only his coat, cravat, and shoes. With all
Alyson’s quilted petticoats between them, they had little choice but to lie
spoon fashion to fit in the narrow bed. Rory circled her waist and formed a
wedge between her and the floor.
The temptation to move his hand higher to stroke the twin
peaks of her breasts was subdued by Alyson’s tension. His arousal went
unnoticed due to the protection of the petticoats. Rory stifled a groan of
frustration and tried to remember where they were. They had made love behind
thin walls and in narrow beds before, but that was before the black cloud of
his guilt had separated them. He had little chance of winning back her good
graces like this.
When he woke in the morning, Alyson was still sleeping, more
exhausted by the journey than she would admit. Rory smoothed the ebony silk of
her hair from her forehead and pushed himself up on one elbow to study her
face. Dark circles stained the skin beneath her eyes, but her cheeks were flushed
with healthy color, and her lips parted in moist sweetness, drawing him like a
bee to nectar. Just one taste, he promised himself, just one small taste to
ease his day . . .
The clatter of an iron pot in the next room startled Alyson
to awake. The heavy blankets were pulled up about her chin, so she was
well-protected from his sight, but she flinched in fear as he touched the chin
that had once been blackened with the bruise of his fist.
Rory withdrew his caress and forced a smile. “The sun is
shining, lass. If we rise now, we will be home by nightfall.”
She nodded and held the blanket as he rose. There was no
water with which to wash and no privacy for using the cracked chamber pot under
the bed. Still wearing yesterday’s shirt and breeches, Rory shrugged on his
coat and pulled on his muddy boots.
Alyson watched him with an anxious frown. “Mr. Farnley said
he sent someone on ahead to see the tower was ready, didn’t he? Should I change
into something suitable for our arrival?”
Rory picked up her perfectly suitable traveling gown and
gave her a puzzled glance. Then realizing she was worried about how a laird’s
wife ought to look, he grinned and shook his head. “You’ll be far too grand for
those who greet you as it is. We’ve left London behind, lass. You need no
longer worry if your jewels are rich enough or if your silks sport enough lace.
There are those who would try it, perhaps, but not for a Maclean. Keep yourself
and the child warm and dry, and you will be deemed a good, sensible lass. There
is no higher compliment.”
Alyson smiled in relief. “I think I’ll like the Macleans.
Will the Maclnneses be the same?”
“There are not enough of them left to count, love. Now, up
with you. It’s time to be about.”
She had kept track of the times he had called her “love” and
knew how precious few they were. She had long ago surrendered any notion that
Rory might actually love her, but she couldn’t kill all hope. She had been so
accustomed to being loved that she had taken it for granted before. Now she
knew the value of what she had once possessed, and she was willing to work hard
to earn it. She would just have to learn to overcome her panic when Rory came
too near. She would never win him with that behavior.
As he left the room in his knee-high boots, his hair neatly
clubbed at his nape, and his woolen frock coat fitted snugly to strong
shoulders, Alyson felt the frozen fire inside begin to melt. Whatever Rory was,
whatever he had done, she could not hide her love for him from herself. She
loved him, and somehow she would have to teach him to love her. He had learned
to love as a boy. As a man, he needed reminding.
***
Having ridden all the way from the docks at Plymouth, the slender,
silver-haired gentleman on horseback arrived at his Cornish home long past
nightfall. His heavy caped greatcoat dripped from the cold rain. He’d been a
mere lad of twenty when he’d left these lands. His years in the Caribbean had
weakened his taste for England’s icy storms.
Only instinct and distant memories had kept him to the right
road. He sighed in exhaustion and relief at the plain stone mansion rising
above the cliffs. Lights flickered deep within. His journey was almost at an
end.
The heavy knocker clattered against the brass plate, echoing
through the hallway beyond. He raised it a third and fourth time before he
heard footsteps on the other side of the door. When the door opened, he hurried
in out of the rain.
The butler backed off in astonishment as he swept off his
soaked cocked hat. With an air of authority, Everett Hampton glanced around the
drafty foyer with a proprietary interest.
“Your business, sir?” the butler demanded.
Hampton glanced at the elderly servant, searching for some
clue to his identity. Twenty years had taken their toll, but he found what he
sought. Grinning boyishly for one whose silver-streaked hair declared his age,
he declared, “Hevers, isn’t it? You were growing bald when I left. The wig had
me fooled. Is Alexander in?”
At this informal mention of his employer’s name, the butler
blanched. “All Hallow’s Eve has passed. Ghosts cannot walk the night,” Hevers
said fearfully, studying the visitor.
Everett ruefully rubbed his graying hair. “Not a ghost,
although Alex might wish it so.”
“If you refer to his lordship, he is not at home at present.
If you will state your request, I shall be happy to forward the message to his
man of business.”
Everett laughed at this formal response and swung off his
coat, handing it to the reluctant butler. “I’ll not be sent back out on a night
like this just because you have turned superstitious in your old age, Hevers.
If my cousin’s son is not here, where is he?”
The butler blanched several shades paler. “It is never
yourself, my lord?” He lapsed into the accents of his youth in the presence of
the apparition.
Everett Hampton, the rightful earl of Cranville, let his
grin disappear. “Aye, and it is, Hevers. It’s been a long time and an even
longer story. I heard my father has passed, but they say I have a daughter,
Hevers. I meant to question Alex, but if he is not here . . . I
cannot be proper and wait. Where is she? Do you know?”
The last time Hevers had seen the little miss had been the
night she poured the tea down his lordship’s leg and packed her bags and left.
There had been rumors between the houses—the Tremaines had seen her—but they were
all servants’ talk. What could he tell a man who was supposed to be dead?
“I cannot say, my lord. Let me call Hettie to make up your
room for you. Perhaps the Tremaines can give you that information in the
morning.”
The rightful Earl of Cranville stared hard at the nervous
butler, causing the old man to quake in his shoes. He had not come halfway
around the world to be fobbed off by servants. With the governor’s story still
burning in his ears even after all these weeks, he had too much rage and anguish
to be put off by any less than the devil himself.
“Then perhaps you can tell me where my heir is, Hevers.”
It was more command than request, and the butler responded
with alacrity. “Hunting with friends in Scotland, my lord.”
Stagshead, November 1760
Enveloped in the evening mist off the water, the square
stone tower and crumbling ruins of the fortress seemed not quite real. The ruts
and stones jostled the carriage so severely that Alyson clung to the window
frame. The path was meant for sheep, not carriages.
They were seen long before they gained the summit. The
massive wooden door opened welcomingly as Rory handed Alyson down from the
carriage. She gazed upward at the height of the fortress her mother and
grandmother had called home and clung to his fingers for reassurance. Once it
must have been an imposing fortification. Now it felt abandoned.
Several small figures appeared in the lighted doorway. It
took a moment before Alyson realized it was not the people who were small but
the door which was massive. Relieved that she would not be greeting the Scots
equivalent of leprechauns, she leaned on Rory’s arm as he led her to their new
home.
She was too tired to notice more than a beaming smile here
and a dour expression there. Her head ached, and the dizziness that
occasionally forewarned of one of her spells made her cling to Rory’s arm. She
didn’t want to have one of her spells here, in front of these superstitious
people.
Warned by the pressure of her fingers, Rory glanced down. Alyson’s
vacant gray eyes pleaded with him. His stomach lurched as he felt her slipping
away. One minute she was there behind the mist of those lovely eyes, and the
next minute she was gone.
Catching her up in his arms, Rory strode through the huge
doorway and into the stone and tapestried interior of the tower. “Where is the
lady’s room? Quickly!”
Alarmed, a capped and aproned gray-haired woman scurried
toward the massive stone stairway filling the central hall. Rory strode after
her, leaving his driver and footman to oversee the unloading of trunks.
The flight of stairs seemed endless as they passed one
landing and raced on to another. Alyson shuddered against his chest, and fear
kept him moving. The stairwell went up still another flight, but blessedly the
housekeeper turned down a narrow hall at the second landing, throwing open a
door to the right.
Any moldering bed hangings and draperies had been removed
before their arrival, leaving the wainscoted room cold and forbidding. A small
fire licked at the grate, but the draft from the uncovered window dissipated the
heat.
Rory shivered and strode toward the paneled bed. The high
wooden panels cut off the worst of the draft. Fresh linens and heavy woolens covered
the mattress. Gratefully, Rory laid Alyson upon the covers and began to
unfasten her cloak.
He called over his shoulder to the old woman, “Fetch some
warm water, and if you have some, hot tea or broth. My lady is not well and the
journey has exhausted her.”
Relieved with sensible explanations, the woman hurried to do
as bidden, leaving Rory to cope alone with Alyson’s retreat behind ephemeral
walls.