Moon Dreams (30 page)

The heat coming to a boil in Rory’s loins was fair warning
of another kind of confrontation. The heated words outside paralleled the
argument inside himself as Alyson’s breasts rubbed against his chest. Action of
some sort was needed.

Rory watched the earl and the navy officers stalk away in
anger and head back for the ship. His eyes closed in silent thanksgiving as his
theory proved correct. They would chase after the
Sea Witch
now. He and
Alyson were safe.

That left only the bundle of fragrance and softness in his
arms, and Rory bent his head to plant a gentle kiss on the top of her head.
Unexpectedly, her face turned up to his, and her lips sought and clung to his
for long, frenzied minutes.

***

Alyson needed Rory too desperately to heed mental
warnings. His kiss was as hungry as hers, and she greedily accepted the passion
offered. He held her so tightly that she was lifted from the floor in the
strength of his embrace. She wrapped her arms about his neck and surrendered to
the heady demands of his tongue and lips. As their breaths mingled, Rory
groaned, and his hand came between them to find the fastenings of her shirt.

The heat in the tiny room had already reached tropical
heights, and intensified once Rory’s hand forced her bare breast from the
untied chemise. Alyson cried out as he returned her feet to the floor and bent
his head to sample the swelling beneath his fingers. The tug of his teeth and
lips burned erotic trails inside her, and she wished only to be rid of the
cloth hampering his access to the rest of her.

All pride had flown with the need to be a part of him again.

Rory’s competent hands shoved shirt and chemise from her
shoulders and halfway down her arms, then returned to fill his palms with her
breasts while his mouth sought her approval. She returned his kiss with
eagerness, and with this permission, he took full possession of his claim.

Rory lifted Alyson to the mattress. It was only by chance
that he spied the large insect scuttling across the filthy pallet, but that
chance returned him to his senses. His depraved existence was about to reduce
the lovely innocence of Lady Alyson Hampton to the status of seaman’s whore,
with legs spread upon any filthy surface that he laid her.

Loathing and disgust for himself diverted his raging need.
Returning Alyson to the floor, Rory squashed the insect with his foot. Alyson’s
innocent features expressed all the expected emotions of dismay and despair
before she had time to hide them.

Curtly he pulled her clothing back in place and refastened
it before he weakened again. “We need to find you some clothes before we sail,”
he reminded her.

Financial transactions completed, Rory returned to help Alyson
carry her assortment of bundles into the darkened street. The wind had picked
up during the day and now whipped about them. Rory struggled to hold her
packages and his hat, while Alyson clung to her new skirts. Neither of them
spoke as they walked toward the wharf.

The crew of the other ship evidently expected them. As they
climbed on board, Alyson gazed around. It was too dark to discern much other
than that this ship seemed larger than Rory’s and carried more canvas. She felt
uneasy as they stepped into the great cabin, but whatever warning she was meant
to receive was lost in the effusive welcome of the captain and his officers.

In the lantern light, Alyson could see that the cabin was
not so neatly scrubbed and highly polished as Rory’s had been. Rory had been
adamant that his crew keep all surfaces scrubbed, calked, repaired, sewn, or
polished, depending on whether it was wood, trim, or sail.

Captain Margoulis stood half a head shorter and several
stone heavier than Rory. He sported a full beard, but the top of his head was
nearly bald. He grinned and bowed over Alyson’s hand as the introductions were
made.

“Lady Alyson, it is a pleasure. I’ve heard so much about
you. I am honored that Maclean trusts me with your safety.”

“I don’t trust you any farther than my sword can reach,
Margoulis,” Rory interrupted dryly. “But you’re a damn good sailor and we need
a swift ship. I’ll trust you with my business.”

“It is true, the weather grows foul. We should be out of
here by now. I am thinking of sailing this night, before the winds increase.”

Rory frowned, listening to the wind creaking through the
spars, flapping at loose canvas. “Aye, if the hurricane season has arrived
early, I’d rather be out of the Caribbean ahead of it.”

“Good, then we sail tonight. There is only one problem. We
are shorthanded. If you would not mind . . . ?” Margoulis posed
the question tentatively.

Alyson knew they were paying passengers and to ask Rory to
take on a sailor’s place bordered on insult, but in his haste to be gone, Rory
nodded curtly.

“Let me see Alyson to our bunk, and I will join you.”

Alyson looked dubiously on the cramped closet they’d been
assigned, with its one hard bunk and a hammock swung over it for a second bed.
She certainly need not worry about Rory forcing her to share his bed under these
conditions. The only question was what she would do with herself for days on
end staring at these narrow partitions.

There was scarcely room for Rory to close the door behind
them. A small trunk of necessary toilet articles had been sent ahead and rested
against one wall. Other than that and the bunk, there was no other furniture.

“It is not much, lass, but with this wind, we should not be
long about our journey. Margoulis will let you use his cabin for washing. I’ll
come for you when the water is drawn in the morning. It looks as if there might
be a bit of a gale tonight.”

They stood so close they were practically in each other’s
arms. Remembering the rashness of her passion earlier, Alyson didn’t look him
in the face. If she could not see the smoldering desire in Rory’s eyes, she
could pretend it was not there. It was a little more difficult to pretend away
square shoulders and narrow hips when they practically pressed against her. She
could feel her skirt brushing his leg, and her hand trembled with the struggle
to keep it at her side.

“I shall be fine. Do not concern yourself about me.”

He hesitated, as if to say something, then simply nodded. “Fasten
the latch behind me and do not lift it until you hear my voice. None of this
crew is to be trusted, including Margoulis.”

Alyson heard his grating of anger and did not know how to
reply to it. Her cousin was the reason he wasn’t sailing away with his own
ship. She watched him leave without farewell.

Not liking the feel of guilt, Alyson undressed and lay in her
chemise upon the rough bunk, listening to the wind and the shouts of the men
above. Perhaps it would be better to be a man and express all this pent-up
emotion in the form of action instead of keeping it inside, where it festered
and grew. She could not define what she felt for Rory. It had seemed so calm
and good and strong, at first. Now it was all chaos, and she didn’t have anyone
to help her understand.

***

Up on deck, Rory had little time to diagnose the cold
anguish wrenched out of him by Alyson’s averted face. Her voice had been cold
and distant, not the melodic softness that so enraptured his ear. He had hurt
her more than once, and probably would again. They must be the mismatch of the
century.

Margoulis had understated the situation by calling himself
shorthanded. It appeared that one-third of his crew had decided to ride out the
hurricane season in port. It was pure madness to attempt to stay ahead of the
storm with only one overworked crew to man the sails.

He threw aside shirt and sword and bent his back to the
arduous task of keeping the ship afloat and sailing without capsizing in one of
the sudden rough gusts of wind. As the night wore on, Rory judged they were
making good time, if he could only be certain they weren’t being blown farther
out to sea in recompense.

By the time the raw dawn broke, the immensity of the clouds chasing
them became visible, and Rory knew they fought a losing battle. Jagged streaks
of lightning illuminated the distant sky, shooting eerie flashes of yellow
across the tired, dirty faces of the crew. They would have to seek port.

He knotted off a hawser and strode aft to locate the
captain. Margoulis gave him a black frown as he checked their course, and the
reason was ample.

Rory glared at him in astonishment. “You cannot make the
Windwards in this storm. We’ll be blown to shore, if not to pieces. We’ll have
to try for Jamaica.”

“It’s no good, Maclean. She won’t make Jamaica in one piece.
I’ve got friends in St. Domingue. We’ll shelter there.”

“Friends! Those French renegades will slit your throat if
they see you’re helpless. Friends don’t count when it’s war and there’s a prize
to be won. I’ll take my chances on the storm.”

“’Tis easy for you to say when it’s not your ship. I’m
taking her in.”

Rory was too loyal a seaman to breech a contract. Without
another word, he stalked off to locate his weapons.

He allowed Alyson to sleep undisturbed. There was nothing
she could do against weather or pirates. There was very little
he
could do.

The storm hit with the first sign of land. A breaker half
the size of the mainmast crashed against the stern, sweeping tons of water
across the deck, splintering weakened wood, and leaving men clinging to
anything nailed down. A gust of wind caught the gaff mainsail before it could
be furled, and the vessel lurched dangerously to starboard.

The heavy clouds seemed prepared to engulf them. The brief
dawn darkened again as the foundering ship limped toward shore. No one dared
mount the rigging to right a loosened spar, and with the loss of a lateen,
there was little control over direction. The wind sank its teeth into every
spare inch of canvas and ripped at it with violence.

“Ship ahoy!” came the cry from a battered sailor clinging to
his roost on the mainmast. Rory glanced in the direction indicated and clenched
his fingers around the hilt of his sword. This was where Margoulis would be
proved right or wrong. If he did not mistake, the ship idling to leeward of the
jutting coast of St. Domingue bore French colors.

There was no question of a fight. Crippled, short-handed,
the crew exhausted by the night’s travail, they could offer little in the way
of defense. Without giving a second thought to Margoulis and his beleaguered
crew, Rory headed for the cabin and Alyson.

She was dressed and waiting for him, her pale face pinched
with fear, her dark brows drawn together in almost a single line as she scanned
his face. Beneath the heavy fringe of lashes, her eyes were entirely gray
without a hint of blue. Rory had learned to be wary of that look. It foretold
anger or premonition. He didn’t need the Sight to tell him of the dangers
outside.

Her relief at his return disappeared as he made no attempt
to don his shirt, but only secured his broad sword and tucked an ivory-hilted
dagger into his breeches. She stared at him wordlessly.

Alyson’s silences were as evocative as another woman’s
tirades, Rory decided. He planted himself against the wooden door and pinned
her with his gaze. “The ship is foundering off the coat of St. Domingue. There’s
a French ship out there. Margoulis claims he is welcome here. I’m none too
certain of his claim.”

“What will they do with us?” Nervously, she ran her tongue
over dry lips.

She had no notion of how the sight of that small pink tip slayed
him. Hunger drove through him like a stake. He hid his despair as he drowned in
her Scots beauty, for he was certain no part of her English heritage tainted
this vision. Hair black as the coal of the hills, eyes the color of a Highland
mist, complexion as fair as the mountain snow, she was his home. He would not
lose her again.

“Hold us for ransom, I suspect. Steal the cargo, of a
certainty. But perhaps I am being a doomsayer. I just don’t intend to take
chances.”

They could hear the bumping and grating as the two ships ran
abreast, then the unmistakable rattle of grappling hooks. The ship seemed to
shudder and shake, then sigh with surrender. The shouts above did not sound
welcoming.

“You are not a doomsayer,” Alyson said, lowering her gaze.

A piercing scream from above confirmed their fears. Rory
cursed, and his jaw tightened. A man died up there, not yards from where they
stood. Foes, then. Not friends.

Booted feet trampled the gangway without any roar of a
fight. They were boarded, and the captors had come for the loot. A woman as
beautiful as Alyson would be parceled out as a valuable along with what gold
and cargo they carried. Rory’s fingers curled over the hilt of the sword with
the certain knowledge of what he should do, but when a hand shoved against the
door at his back, he spun the sword in the direction of his attacker, not
toward Alyson.

The grinning, rapier-wielding Frenchman at the door did not
elicit a single scream from the woman at his back, but Rory could feel her
tension. The pirate’s dark eyes assessed the danger of approaching Rory’s mighty
broad sword in a narrow space, and he opted for assistance.

When the pirate’s shouts brought two of his mates, Rory cut
through their leering threats with the voice of command. In the French learned
as a student many years ago and polished only in the waterfronts of the
Atlantic, Rory demanded, “We will see your captain.”

They laughed at this, but the dangerous arc of Rory’s sword
caused them to fall back and regroup. The longest weapon between them was the
rapier, and a Scots claymore would easily break that in two. Rory knew it was
only a matter of time before they sought out firearms, but he hoped to gain
some authority first.

He was grateful that Alyson chose to hide at his back. She
could not hide her wide skirts, nor her presence, but the men did not yet know
whether they dealt with child or dowager, and curiosity kept them entertained.
At Rory’s repeated command, the rapier-wielding pirate laughed and ordered one
of the others to fetch someone by the name of Courvais.