The Last Rose Pearl: A Low Country Love Story (Low Country Love Stories Book 1)

by Grace Walton

  “Dylan, is that her?” whispered Lysander.

  “I believe so, Sander.”

  “She’s not at all what I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I don’t know. I thought she’d be older or frumpy, or I don’t know, just different.”

  “Windsor says she’s twenty, Sander”

  “Yes, but most unmarried twenty-year-old women don’t look like she does.”

  St. John stared intently at the reunited family. His gaze riveted to the laughing graceful woman caught up in Windsor’s arms. “You are wrong my friend. She is married, to me. And I very much doubt there is a woman alive anywhere on the planet like Aurora Windsor.”

  Something in the deep rumble of his voice disturbed Lysander. A thread of the old detachment was still there, but so was something else. His nephew had never mixed business with pleasure before, but a reminder not to start might be called for.

  “She’s not for you Dylan, no matter what mad game you’re playing,” he warned.

  Dylan’s eyes narrowed in reaction, but he replied smoothly, “I agree with you my friend. This is a mad, dangerous game, and the lady is most definitely not for me. Not now or ever.”

  A hearty shout from Graham ended their private exchange, “Gentlemen, this young rapscallion is my son Stuart.” He drew the boy forward by an arm thrown across the lad’s narrow shoulders. The youngster had his father’s burly stance and features. He smiled an open, friendly welcome to his father’s guests and bowed courteously to them.

  Aurora Windsor hung back behind her menfolk. She was ready to be neither friendly nor welcoming to these strangers her brother had brought to her home. She wanted nothing to do with them, especially not the big arrogant one.

  Dylan seeing her defiance made a conscious effort to be insulting. “I was under the impression you possessed two sons Windsor.”

  His lazy stare slowly inventoried her clothing from the rough boots to the tweed cap now sitting jauntily on that glorious mane of hair. A delicate flush of peach tinted her high-boned cheeks at the apparent meaning of his rude statement. She raised her chin rebelliously and met his hard gaze refusing to look away or lower her eyes.

  The crowded deck erupted in hoots and snickers as the sailors caught on to St. John’s thrust. Graham stiffened at the cut directed toward his sister.

  “You mistake yourself, sir. This lady is my sister, Miss Aurora Windsor.” He emphasized the important word ‘lady’ and indicated the seething young woman.

  Dylan made an elaborate court bow in her direction and continued to carefully watch. He waited for her response to his baiting. Something playful lit the depths of her pansy eyes as she approached him. She moved toward him confidently. Rory Windsor was as beautiful in boy’s breeches as many women strove to be in diaphanous evening robes, and the seamen were all well aware of that fact.

  In the two years they had been gone Miss Rory had surely grown up. She was no longer a pesky little brat forever into something that was not her business. No now she was a woman grown, ripe and ready to be plucked. And the sad fact was none of them better do the plucking, not if they wanted to live and prosper on Windsor’s Island.

  She’s up to something, mused Dylan as he monitored her progress across the deck towards him. He was aware of the stir she was causing among the deckhands. Dylan was sure she had no idea how men instinctively reacted to her lush beauty. If Aurora ever realizes the power she has, she’ll manage to manipulate every man she knows he thought grimly. In Dylan’s experience, women were seldom if ever honest, and beautiful women were never to be trusted.

  Aurora stopped a mere foot in front of him and reached out a cheeky hand as if to shake his. “No Graham, let Mr. St. John treat me as a boy if he wishes. From what I’ve seen of him I believe I’ll be much safer that way.”

  Dylan bowed again to concede the hit amid renewed laughter from the others. He took her small hand in his noticing the manicured almond-shaped nails and long artistic fingers. Instead of the masculine handshake she expected, Aurora’s eyes widened as he lifted her hand to his lips. He turned it to press a lingering kiss on the point of her wrist where an erratic pulse jumped up to meet his lips.

  “Be assured Miss Aurora, I have no desire to treat you as a boy,” he mocked.

  The amused crowd watched to see how Rory would take such treatment from the tall domineering man. They expected another explosion of anger. But they were doomed to disappointment.

  She glared intensely up at him before whispering emphatically, “Leave me alone.”

  “God knows, I wish I could.”

  Rory was confused by his cryptic answer. “What do you mean?” she demanded.

  “We’ll speak of it later.”

  “No, we’ll talk about it now.”

  “No, we’ll speak of it later,” he said and walked away.

  Rory didn’t accept this dismissal. She followed and dogged his footsteps, taking two steps for every stride of his.

  “Stop, please. Stop and tell me what’s going on.” She’d managed to run in front of him and block his path. “What do you mean you can’t leave me alone?”

  Seeing her trembling uncertain lips and troubled eyes Dylan felt a powerful surge of compassion. Although he’d always been careful to shield females from unpleasantness, never had he experienced such a compulsion to safeguard another person. He felt it, but he didn’t like it.

  “Miss Windsor we’ll speak tonight after dinner.” He stopped her from continuing her questions by placing a hard finger to her lips. “Tonight.”

  He was gone swiftly down the ladder to his cabin. She was left standing in the milling departing crowd on the deck. Graham frowned as he watched his sister and St. John. Sparks flew every time the two of them were within speaking distance. He didn’t count on any complications in this affair. It should be very simple, cut and dried. At the moment, it was anything but simple.

  “Rory,” he beckoned to her.

  She went warily over to where he stood. “Who is he Gray?” She wasn’t smiling.

  “Who do you mean?”

  “Answer me.”

  “He’s a friend.”

  “Why haven’t I met your ‘friend’ before?”

  “He’s a new friend.”

  “Oh, Gray,” she said, rolling her eyes in disgust.

  “Fine, I’ll tell you. He works for the government, and he needs your help.”

  “My help? How could I possibly be of any help to him?”

  “Rory do you know what I’ve dreamed about for two years now?” he coaxed. “Tirzah’s fried chicken.”

  “Gray you’re changing the subject,” she said.

  “I haven’t seen you or Stuart in such a long time. I’m tired Rory, tired of being away from home.” His pitiful hangdog succeeded.

  “Oh Gray, I’ve missed you too.” She hugged him again and planted a noisy kiss on his rough hairy cheek. “I’ll go back to the house now and tell Tirzah, her favorite man is in port, and he’s asking for fried chicken,” she teased over her shoulder as she mounted her big paint.

  “Aurora you know better than to ride a horse onto a pier,” groused Gray.

  “Yes big brother,” she replied and laughed. Gripping the animal with her knees, she made the horse rear and shoot down the pier. Aurora waved happily to all the sailors leaving the ship as she rode over the crest of the dunes.

  Rory took special care as she dressed for dinner that night. After all, Gray was finally home, and he had brought visitors. Visitors were a rare treat at Windsor’s Island. The island itself was not so distant from the mainland. It was just that, traveling at this time of the year was risky at best. Winter was a storming wet season in the Low Country. So Rory wriggled into her very best dress for the evening. It was a rich velvet gown made with very simple severe lines. The color exactly matched her eyes. That had been what attracted Gray to the bolt of material in a London warehouse five years ago. It was a very prim gown fit for a fifteen-year-old mi
ss. Five years hadn’t changed the dress, but they certainly had changed the girl.

  What had once been a modest décolleté now would have put even the fastest opera dancer to the blush. Rory noticed none of this. She rarely, if ever, paid attention to her looks or knew their effect on men. As long as she judged her clothing and hair neat she was satisfied. So at the moment, standing in front of her Cheval mirror, she didn’t see the impropriety of her dress.

  Rory was mainly concerned with her hair. The dratted stuff was too heavy and curly to stay up in the elegant knot she wanted to wear. Every time she dragged it to the top of her head it escaped the ivory pins that were supposed to hold it in place. Disgusted, she yanked out the pins, threw them on the vanity, and furiously began brushing her hair out. I’ll just have to wear it down. She decided in a huff. Throwing the glowing mass over her shoulder, she glanced quickly at the small Sevres clock ticking quietly on the mantel. Seven forty five, she had just enough time to check on Stuart before she went down to dinner.

  Rory blew out the candle on the vanity and went to leave. At the last minute, she remembered something. Moving back to the vanity, she grabbed up the dainty necklet and hurriedly clasped it around her throat. In the dim room, she turned checking her appearance in the mirror once more, satisfied she left.

  At her nephew’s door, she tapped lightly and whispered, “Stu, it’s me Rory, let me in.”

  On the other side of the door, Dylan sat comfortably by the fireplace drinking from a squat glass and smoking a thin brown cheroot. He heard the tentative tap and recognized a woman’s voice calling. The mechanical smile that settled on his chiseled features was resigned as he rose. He’d fully expected Aurora Windsor to be intrigued by him. He’d planned it that way. But this was premature even by his standards. He’d only met the chit this afternoon after all.

  He set the drink down on the nightstand by the bed and drew deeply on the little cigar before he turned to the door. Dylan pulled it open and rested the long fingered hand with the cheroot casually on the door frame above his head. Appreciative gray eyes scanned her from head to toe. She really is a lovely little thing, he admitted to himself.

  Rory’s eyes widened at the impressive, if rakish, picture he made. Dressed entirely in somber black he appeared even taller than he had on the dock. His shoulders filled the doorway. And she recognized the speculative look in his eyes. She’d been getting that particular look from men regularly for at least four years now. Rory wasn’t exactly sure what those looks meant. But she knew they made her uncomfortable. Blushing, she became suddenly obsessed with the square toes of her satin evening flats.

  “What can I do for you Miss Windsor?” He blew a curling tendril of smoke into her face.

  Her nose twitched at the heavy smell of tobacco. She knew he did it merely to torment her, and she should give him a stern set-down. But instead, her disobedient heart thumped heavily at his low intimate tone.

  “Where is Stuart?” Even to her own ears she sounded silly and breathless.

  He smiled slowly down into her eyes. “I believe Stuart is staying in his father’s room. Your housekeeper put me in this chamber, but I’ll be glad to move elsewhere if this arrangement disturbs you.”

  Rory was puzzled. This couldn’t be the same overbearing man she’d met this afternoon. The one who’d just infused her gown and hair with tobacco smoke. This man was polite, kind, and very interesting. Instinct told her to flee. But her feet were suddenly rooted to the hardwood floor. “Why should I be disturbed by your using Stuart’s room Mr. St. John?”

  “1 can’t think of a reason Miss Windsor, but I’ll be pleased to accommodate you in any way I can.” His voice deepened suggestively as he stared at the glowing tip of his cigar. He drew on the cigarillo and blew a curling ribbon of smoke towards the ornately plastered ceiling.

  Somehow she knew they weren’t talking about rooms anymore. Yes, she decided with a frown. He’s the same man all right. Her annoyance was plain in her answer.

  “Mr. St. John that is a vile and nasty habit. Kindly dispose of that foul thing in my presence.” She pointed to the cigar. “And I can’t think of one other thing you could do to accommodate me except to stay out of my way. Can that be arranged?”

  He flicked the cigar across the room and into the blazing fireplace. “Miss Windsor, I don’t see how we can avoid each other completely,” he answered.

  “Let’s try shall we?”

  Dylan bowed. “I’ll do my best.”

  “I hope your best is good enough Mr. St. John.”

  “I’ve never had any complaints before Miss Windsor.”

  Rory fumed at his cool infuriating reply. She knew immediately he wasn’t alluding to his ability to leave her alone. Turning and stamping down the hall, she dismissed him ungraciously. “I’ll see you at dinner Mr. St. John.”

  Dylan watched her graceful swaying form descending the curving staircase. This one has a mind of her own, he mused. He decided to see how far he could push her before she eventually exploded. It might prove to be very informative. She was beautiful, intelligent, and liked to be in control. He knew that much about her already. What he wanted to learn was what happened when she lost that composure, she was so proud of.

  Turning back into the bedchamber, he retrieved the glass. He tossed its contents down his throat and savored its smooth mellow burn. Dylan strolled out of his room and ambled slowly down the stairs.

  He found the others already congregated in a small cozy parlor. They were engaged in the idle chit chat common to strangers. Rory and Sander appeared to be discussing the weather. Captain Windsor and his son were teasing each other.

  Upon seeing Dylan, Graham hailed him, “St. John, we were beginning to think we’d have to start without you.”

  “On the contrary, Captain Windsor, I wouldn’t have missed this meal for the world.”

  Sander’s brow knit at Dylan’s light tone. Oh no, he groaned to himself. The devil’s up to something.

  “Miss Windsor, may I have the pleasure of taking you into supper?” Dylan offered his arm to her.

  She glared daggers up at him. He’d placed her in an untenable situation. And blast the blackguard, he knew it. For a hostess to refuse a guest such a trivial request would be the height of bad manners. So she did the only thing she could, she placed one graceful hand lightly on his arm and let him lead her toward the dining room.

  Rory managed a practiced smile and ground out softly through her teeth, “I hate you.”

  He returned her smile and leaned down to whisper into her ear. “Yes, I believe you mentioned that this afternoon.”

  She shivered at the feel of his warm breath against her skin. The graceful hand on his black satin sleeve pinched viciously through to the hard muscle beneath the slippery material. Her artificial smile never wavered.

  He covered her hand with his own and gave it a fatherly pat, but his words were deep and hard. “Don’t play rough with me, little girl. I’ve a world of experience in devising interesting retaliations. If you’re foolish enough to pick a fight, you have my vow, I’ll finish it.” He pulled out a chair to seat her on his right.

  She was seething. Rory sat stiffly in the chair and instantly turned to her other dining partner. I’ll just ignore him. I’ll ask the Lord to help me diffuse this anger, and I’ll ignore him, she promised herself. She launched into cheerful innocuous conversation with Sander.

  Things went relatively well through the first course, but when the next course was laid, and she continued to talk exclusively with his uncle. Dylan decided to take matters into his own hands. Under the table, he firmly gripped her knee.

  Shocked, she jerked the hand holding her wine glass and a ruddy puddle spilled onto the snowy white tablecloth. Dylan was all helpful concern as he mopped at the stain with his napkin. All eyes turned to her. She blushed scarlet.

  “What happened Rory?” Gray asked startled.

  “Yes, Miss Windsor whatever happened?” inquired Dylan equally solicitous.r />
  “Nothing Gray, I’m just being clumsy tonight.” As the others returned to their conversation, she hissed under her breath toward her tormentor, “Why did you do that, you awful man?”

  “It’s generally considered poor manners to ignore one’s dinner partners.”

  “Is it considered poor manners to murder one’s dinner partners with a butter knife?”

  He covered an involuntary snort of laughter with a judicious cough. She had spirit, he’d give her that. He replied, “Yes, I believe that would be considered a serious breach of etiquette.”

  “Then don’t touch me again, or I will be forced to commit a serious breach of etiquette.”

  Dinner ended soon thereafter much to her relief. Since Rory was the only female present and it was such a small company, she was invited to join the men instead of retiring to the parlor by herself. The men smoked and drank while Rory fetched an old Spanish guitar from the corner and seated herself on the rug by the fire.

  She spent a long time tuning the instrument before she began quietly strumming a restful tune. The others were soon engaged in a game of whist. Dylan seemed to be concentrating on his cards, but he unobtrusively watched her every move. The deep hued velvet of the gown was a perfect background for her. She had pushed her shimmering hair to hang over one shoulder, and her feet were tucked neatly up under her. The scene filled him with a peace and serenity totally foreign to his experience. He had spent years guarding against such feelings, and he was not prepared for them now. He scowled at his cards.

  “That bad?”

  “What’s that My Lord?” Dylan asked his uncle.

  “I said are your cards that bad?”

  “Yes” It was a curt answer.

  “Rory would you sing for me?” Gray’s voice held a wheedling note he knew she couldn’t refuse. “Sing the one I like so much. Something about black hair?”

  “Just one Gray, I don’t want to bore our guests.” She began to pick out the notes and sing a haunting love song in a low soft voice. “Black is the color of my true love’s hair. His eyes are something wondrous fair.”