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

by Grace Walton

  At a signal from the man, the sorrel loped rhythmically away down the same trail the girl had taken just a few moments earlier. Rory made it to the dunes by the docks. The Rozelle lay rocking slowly in the tide. Some of the sailors saw the girl atop the sand hill and waved a greeting. She waved back, but turned, walking her horse in the opposite direction down the beach.

  She didn't feel like talking to anyone right now. Why does he have this effect on me, she quizzed herself? The ‘he’ was self-explanatory. A frown marred the smooth skin of her forehead. I don't even like the man. He's too tall, and he's too good looking, and he knows it. Rory reined up the paint and turned him to look out to sea. They stood there motionless for long minutes staring at the horizon as she thought about what had happened in the stable.

  She understood all the logical reasons why she should dislike Dylan St. John, but she didn't understand why she was so drawn to him. Even though he made her furious, she sensed automatically that he was a man who could be trusted. Rory leaned over to hug the horse's neck. Lying there she remembered the butterfly touch of his lips. Rory had never felt this way about Bram. The Bible talked about passion in The Song of Solomon. Tirzah had finally let her read it when she was sixteen. In fact, it was right after the incident with the young sailor and the tavern song. But Tirzah had stressed many times that the writer wrote of his feelings for his bride and hers for him. That kind of Godly passion was a gift. It was reserved for marriage.

  Rory knew enough about men to know that marriage was not on Dylan St. John's mind. Marriage- the word was probably nowhere in his vocabulary. Rakes didn't marry women. They used them. And he was a rake, for sure and certain. He was probably the King of the Rakes, if there was such a thing. He’d be the one the others came to for advice on how to debauch helpless women.

  Besides, according to Tirzah, good women, even married women, were above all that sort of earthy passion. Rory wasn’t sure if she quite believed Tirzah knew what she was talking about. The black housekeeper had never been married. But if it was true, if good women truly avoided passion, Rory wasn’t so sure she wanted to be ‘good’. And if she decided she did, she’d have to work a whole lot harder at reining in her impulses. Especially if Dylan St. John stayed on Windsor’s Island for more than a day or two.

  Lost in thought, she continued to castigate herself. She had a troublesome tendency to think too deeply about blame. Tirzah, Bram, and Graham all agreed on this point. But it was hard not to find fault in herself. Over the course of her short life, Rory had caused so much trouble, both for herself and for others. Not on purpose, of course. But her ebullient spirit seemed to spill over into almost every aspect of her life. And that had often caused problems. So it was natural that she would wonder if she was actually the one who had caused the scene in the garden... and in the stable.

  The way I've been acting, she thought with a great deal of remorse. He probably believed I expect that kind of scandalous behavior from him. Tirzah always says only a hoyden would prance about in breeches. St. John most likely thinks I'm chasing after him, and his natural inclination was to let me catch him. Her lovely face twisted into a grimace. It was a lowering thought.

  I'll just have to put myself on a more friendly footing with Mr. Dylan St. John and keep him at arm's length, thought Rory. If I can do that, I'll feel the same way about him that I do about Bram. That will be safe. The way she felt about Bram was not threatening. It was comfortable. That's how she wanted to feel around Dylan. Safe, not drawn to some masculine magnetism she knew nothing about.

  Behind her, Rory heard the faint tattoo of hooves above the rhythmic crash of surf. She sat up on her mount and watched as Dylan crouched over the sorrel's neck. He rode like a centaur. She sighed and wished there was something she could find disgusting about the man. If she could concentrate on one really bad habit of his, she might be able to break the growing infatuation that seemed to be taking hold of her. True, she didn’t like his smoking the smelly cigar. But all men smoked cigars after dinner, even her young nephew Stuart indulged.

  She realized St. John must have taken off after her without bothering to saddle his mount. When he pulled the gelding abreast of the paint, Dylan slid his big, rugged frame gracefully off the horse. He stood gripping the rein in a powerful fist that rested on his hip. He ran restless fingers through his wind tousled hair. He stared down at the relentless salt water lapping up over the polished hessians he was wearing.

  Neither of them spoke. Rory liked him this way. He wasn't half so imposing when he wasn't towering over a person. She liked the hard, solid silhouette he made against the thin morning light. The breeze off the ocean plastered the loose white shirt he was wearing against his broad chest. Hair the color of a crow's wing whipped around his throat and fell to tease the tops of his shoulders. This must be the way God intended for a man to look strong, solid, and unwavering.

  That was when she decided she ought to apologize to him. After all, she reasoned, it's certainly not his fault that I'm attracted to him. Most women probably were. And, she assured herself, it's not even his fault he's responded to invitations I didn't even know I was issuing. Besides, I'm his hostess. He's supposed to follow my lead. That's all he’d done. She was completely mortified. She’d led this poor helpless man astray. It was all her fault.

  “I'm sorry.” It was a bald statement.

  Dylan's dark head whipped up, and his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. The one word he uttered sounded suspicious, “What?”

  Rory swallowed the huge dry lump in her throat and squeaked, “I said, I'm sorry.” She looked nervously away from those penetrating eyes he had trained upon her.

  “For what?”

  She felt compelled to look back down at him. A wash of red stain bathed her face as she recalled exactly what she was apologizing for. Her vibrant hair had now completely escaped its ribbon. The wind teased it across her lips. Rory impatiently threw it back. “I'm sorry for what happened in the stable and last night in the garden.”

  Dylan placed a restraining hand on the spotted horse's neck and repeated automatically, “You're sorry for what happened in the stable and the garden?”

  She nodded.

  He didn't understand what this sudden change of heart was all about, but it certainly had possibilities. If Rory believed she had wronged him, she would be more receptive. She’d naturally seek a way to make amends. He knew just how he’d let her. “No, it was my fault, all of it. Forgive me?”

  He sounded so repentant and sincere she was won over completely. “Mr. St. John, could we just forget what happened last night and this morning? Could we just start over again? I mean, could we try to be friends.” Rory leaned down and placed a friendly imploring hand on his arm.

  Here it was- the perfect solution. Miss Aurora Windsor wanted to be his friend. With perfect honesty, he answered her, “Miss Aurora I would be honored to have you as my friend.”

  Rory was so pleased with herself. To her way of thinking, she’d neatly resolved a very sticky situation. Now if she could maintain control of what Tirzah called her ‘lower instincts’ around this handsome man, she would find herself with another safe male friend.

  Dylan, in the same instant, was congratulating himself. Rory Windsor was clearly devoted to her friends. And if he could number himself among them, she would help him find the traitors he sought. Just imagine, he marveled to himself, the little imp wants me to be her ‘friend’. He'd had to play some strange roles in his checkered past, but this would be by far the most uncommon.

  Her low feminine voice broke through his thoughts. “I think you and I are certainly past formal titles.” She thrust out a scruffy little hand for him to shake. There was a distinctive smudge from the stable across its back. “My friends call me Rory.”

  He grasped her fingers and felt a surprisingly firm grip as they shook. Somehow it made her seem even more fragile and feminine. He said, “Mine call me St. John.”

  “I prefer Dylan,” she said.

&nbs
p; “As you please Milady.”

  She could call him anything she pleased, he thought. As long as she ultimately agreed to help him. The sudden unrestrained smile she favored him with was a testimony to her unstudied allure.

  The little voice in his head drilled on and on- friend, friend, friend. This whole turn of events was totally unique and intriguing for Dylan. She wanted a friend. A platonic relationship with a woman, he chuckled mirthlessly and shook his head. His brother Connor would never believe it.

  “What's so funny?” Rory asked. The merest hint of suspicion flavored her words.

  “I was thinking how lucky I am you're willing to give me another chance,” he lied.

  “I should be thanking you for another chance.”

  Dylan shrugged as if she might be right. Then he walked to his horse. It was cropping sea oats. He tugged at its reins. The gelding obediently raised his head and waited for the man to mount.

  “You really shouldn't do that,” Rory teased.

  “Ride this horse?”

  She nodded. She was being playful. And he liked it. But he was a past master at being flirtatious and playful with women. So he challenged her to increase the stakes.

  “Why?”

  “You don't have a saddle.”

  “Neither do you.”

  “That’s true. But I almost never use one. You’re a more mature sort and most likely need a saddle.”

  “Did you just call me old?” His eyes narrowed, and he grinned like a shark.

  Her dainty shrug said it all. “I would never be so rude. But you could, perhaps, prove your… vigor.”

  Dylan smiled, but his mind was working like a many geared clock. Curse the minx, he’d like to show her his vigor. But that would defeat his purpose. And he had no intention of losing any of the ground, he’d so recently gained with her. “What do you propose?” he asked.

  A race,” she said.

  “Done,” he agreed. “What do I get when I win?”

  “You won’t win,” Rory said.

  “I’m a fair rider,” he said with false humility. Her laughter made the hair on his arms rise up. It was delicious. He’d give all he owned to taste it upon her lips just once. “I’ll want a boon from you when I win.”

  “You’ll lose. I’ll win.”

  “I don’t pull up in a race for anyone,” he warned.

  “Neither do I.”

  “That sorrel you’re riding is handsome. But he’s as slow as cane syrup on a winter morning. He’s never beaten Spot?” She clamped her heels into the paint's sides and galloped down the beach

  “God help me,” he muttered along with several more explicit oaths. Vaulting onto the horse's back in one graceful motion, he was after her before she was three lengths ahead.

  “Where's the finish line?” Dylan called companionably as he cursed fluently under his breath.

  “Dolphin's Point,” was the answer. Rory pointed to a little sandy jut of land a quarter of a mile down the beach. The piebald was obviously the better horse. But the man was obviously the better rider. The girl called on her mount to give all he had.

  Dylan rode his horse like he was part of the animal. Eventually, he was able to pull aside the laughing girl.

  Rory rode low over her mount's neck. The horses lengthened their strides. They splashed in the shallow water of the tide. Cool jets of seawater bathed the riders’ boots. The animals pulled great volumes of air into their distended nostrils as they approached Dolphin's Point.

  He waited until the last possible second to pull ahead of Rory. He only meant to win, not shame her. Seeing her spotted horse slide to a stop nearby, he slid down the heaving side of the sorrel. He walked over to Rory's horse.

  “I don't believe it.” She shook her head in wonder looking down at him.

  He raised his arms to help her dismount.

  “There's no horse in Savannah that can beat Spot.”

  His hands encircled her small, neat waist, and he lifted her lightly down. “You don't really call that brute Spot do you?”

  “I most certainly do. What's wrong with Spot?” She bristled as she turned away and climbed up the gritty cliff. Plopping down on the sand, she sat hugging her knees and looking at the quiet bay.

  Dylan followed her up the steep incline. He lowered himself onto the sand beside her. “It's original,” he said dryly.

  She made a gamine face at him. He shrugged and plucked a stalk of sea oats. He began stripping the kernels off one at a time. He tossed them into the wind.

  “He was already named when Bram bought him for me,” she admitted, hypnotized by the play of his lean brown hand traveling up and down the stalk.

  Dylan was annoyed. But he didn't show it. Her response reminded him of the greys he'd given to Celeste Avansley. And of the reason, he'd given them to her. He didn't like the idea of a man giving Rory an expensive gift like a horse. It might cause costly complications, and he definitely didn't need any more complications.

  “Who's Bram?” he asked in a neutral voice.

  “My best friend.” She smiled and continued, “A circus had Spot. He does tricks. Sometime I'll show you, if you’ve a mind to see them. The circus owner abused him. The poor thing was almost starved to death. And the sores on his poor back were criminal. Bram bought Spot, so I could take care of him.”

  “Bram sounds like a good friend.”

  “Yes, he is.” Rory gave him a shy glance. “You'll like him.”

  “Why is this place called Dolphin's Point?” he asked, changing the subject. He’d heard all he wanted to hear about her good friend Bram.

  “I named it. Every night at dusk, a family of dolphins comes up into this bay to feed.”

  “How do you know that it's a family?”

  “You see there's a big one who is constantly monitoring the young one. I think he’s the father. And there's a mother too. She stays close to the big male. They have a calf.” Here she expressively shrugged her shoulders. “They belong together. I've never seen the male and female apart.”

  “You envy them,” he commented softly, still staring out at the unending surf.

  “In a way I do,” she admitted reluctantly. “They know where they belong. And who they fit. They belong to each other.”

  “Who do you fit Rory?”

  “It's one of those questions I've asked God a lot in the last few years.”

  “Does He answer?” Dylan had no belief in any deity. But if she did, he would humor her.

  “Right now He doesn't,” Rory said ruefully and made another face.

  His rich, deep laughter sent a shiver down her spine. Her eyes dropped in confusion. She couldn’t tell if he was mocking her or not.

  “So what are you going to do to solve your dilemma?” he wondered aloud.

  “Keep asking.” She had to laugh now too. “I'll just keep asking until I get an answer. And if I have to wait until I get to Heaven for my answer that's all right. I'll just add it to my list.”

  “List?” He couldn't resist goading her.

  “I've got a, uh…, well a sort of list of things I want to ask God when I get to Heaven.”

  “How,” he murmured. He searched for the correct word, something suitably bland and vague. “How organized you are.” He turned to stare in the opposite direction, so she couldn't see the smile curving his lips. The minx actually sounded like she was prepared to confront the Almighty. “What sort of things are on your list?”

  She drew a steadying breath, trying to decide whether to proceed. She had never told anyone about her list. But he was her friend now. And friends trusted each other, didn't they?

  “Well, it's the usual sort of list.” She threw that out as if every sane person kept a running list with which they might cross-examine the Almighty.

  The look he gave her when she met his eyes was full of quiet amusement.

  “The usual sort of list?” St. John couldn't remember when he'd been so entertained by a woman. In his vast experience, females always wanted someth
ing from him, either material or sexual. But not Aurora Windsor, she just wanted to be his friend.

  “You know,” her tone showed her exasperation at his obtuseness. Really, she thought, for a fine-looking man, he's as thick as a plank. “Things like, why do some really good people die young? My sister-in-law Rozelle died young. While God lets some horrible people live to be very old and very selfish? Then too, I’ve always wanted to know why God lets some people own other people? To my way of thinking slavery is not that good of an idea. But God must have a reason for letting it happen. And I'd like to know that reason. And why is my hair red? God’s omnipotent. He knows I hate red hair? I'd rather be baldheaded than have this mess. So why did He think I needed it?” She stopped and frowned at his sudden bark of laughter.

  He threw up a repentant hand. “I'm sorry, that was inexcusably rude of me Rory. Please go on.”

  “I don't think I will,” she refused his apology. Rory straightened her shoulders. She turned away from him. Maybe he wasn't going to be such a good friend after all. There was a mutinous set to her lips as she ignored him.

  She felt one of his hands capture a heavy curl that fell over her shoulder. He picked it up and rubbed it between his fingers.

  “I laughed because your hair is beautiful, and you don't like it.”

  She turned to him and shook her head in disbelief.

  “It is,” Dylan insisted smoothing another rebellious curl away from her face. “It's like living fire. I want to bury my hands in it just to feel the burn.” He started to do that very thing, but stopped himself. He pulled away. He began calmly stripping sea oats again. “Tell me what else you have on your list.” He was surprised by the fact that he really wanted to know.

  She was mesmerized by his words. He thought her hair was beautiful. No one had ever called it that before. She started speaking again in a hesitant voice, “Well, I wonder why my throat closes up at the beauty of a sunset on the beach? And why did God make some people black and some people white and some people in between? Why do mothers sometime die giving life to their babies?”