Free Moon Dreams by Patricia Rice Page B

down her
cheek as she dragged the blanket more securely around her and studied the
situation.
    She was a prisoner, and if her cousin were her captor, she
was most likely on the way to that French brothel he had threatened her with.
She’d heard the gossip about those places. The rumors were all over London.
They said Frenchmen would pay high prices for young English girls. Some came
back to tell their tales, the rumors said, but Alyson didn’t think she would be
one of them. She would die of shame first.
    Nauseated from the ship’s rocking and the lingering fumes of
ether, damp and cold and terrified, she continued her search of her prison
cell. Nothing. No escape. No weapons.
    Her mind finally grasped the fact that even could she escape
this prison, she had nowhere to go but overboard, but it couldn’t grasp the
fact that she would soon be sold to a house of prostitution. She wasn’t even
certain what went on in those places that made people lower their voices to a
whisper when they were mentioned.
    Wearily she crawled back into the bunk to face the wall.
Perhaps she would die of misery before they reached land.
    ***
    Drenched to the skin, his feet shriveled to frozen bone in
the puddles that his boots had become, Rory staggered down the companionway to
his cabin and dry clothes. No sighting had been made in the last hour of the
navy cutters that had been chasing them, and he felt safe in taking some
respite before the storm worsened. For it would worsen, his long years at sea
had taught him. At least they were out of the Channel now and in the long
stretch across the sea. He felt safer than he had in weeks.
    Not bothering to light the lantern, he peeled off his soaked
garments, sitting at his desk chair to wearily pry off his boots. He could use
a pot of coffee, but fires couldn’t be lit on a night like this. A sip of good
Scots malt would have to do, and he lifted a flask from his desk and took a
long drink.
    The fiery liquid warmed his insides as he toweled himself
dry. Then, before the heat had time to wear off, he fell down on the bunk and
reached for his blanket.
    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