by Grace Walton
“Sander shut up.” Dylan's face was hard, and his voice was grim. He turned one arm laying the length of the marble mantel.
“But you need to look at all possible...”
“She already trusts me.”
“Really?” He was interested. “Why?”
“Because Abraham Gottlieb is a mule, and I happened to be in the right place at the right time when he brayed.”
“Well, God bless him for being a mule.” Sander leaned back in the chair with a satisfied grin. “When do we forge ahead to Savannah?”
“Soon,” Dylan said and left the warmth of the fire. He selected another shirt from the room’s chest of drawers.
“Soon, soon,” Sander mimicked sarcastically. “I don't want to hear soon. I want to hear when, exactly when, we'll leave for Savannah. The quicker we get there, the quicker we'll get through with all this. In my opinion, now is the time to strike. If you have her trust, you should sodding use it now.”
Dylan, buttoning his shirt, looked across the room at his pleading uncle. “Sander, enough.” It was an ominous threat.
“What is wrong with you Dylan?”
“Nothing is wrong with me. I merely find the suggestion that I use the vulnerability of an innocent girl repugnant.”
“In the last ten years, I've watched you take advantage of every possible weakness you could find in every person you’ve met. It's the single most important thing keeping us both alive and breathing.” The black man shook his head. “And it can't change now. I don't care how beautiful Aurora Windsor is, or how pure. It can't change now. You'll get us both killed if you start feeling guilty over the fate of some foolish country lass.”
Dylan's dark laughter as he pulled another superfine riding coat from the chiffonier was harsh and mirthless. “Afraid I'll follow in my father's footsteps?” He started for the door.
“No!” Sander immediately regretted his hasty tongue. “Dylan, wait.”
The tall scowling man stopped in the doorway. “Sander trust me. I promise you. Neither one of us is going to die over a woman.” The door shut with a final click behind him.
Sander was left alone in the gloom. Through the rippled glass of the room's only window, he saw the afternoon sun descend into pink clouds dragging the horizon. Below in the puddled stable yard, he could see Dylan swing up into the saddle of a nervous bay. The horse's head jerked about. It tried unsuccessfully to unseat its rider.
The man in satin robes knew he wouldn't see his nephew again that night. When St. John was forced to remember his past, he rode like a madman. He'd find the wildest horse he could. He'd ride until he numbed the memories. Sometimes he was gone but an hour. After his father had died, he'd been missing a whole week. Dylan would come back focused, controlled, and ready to act. But he’d be cold, so very cold. He’d be as icy, uncontrollable, and free as an Atlantic iceberg. Lysander slowly gathered the pieces of his costume together and slipped down the hall to his own chamber.
St. John cantered the fractious bay down the bridle path leading through the tangle of pines to Dolphin's Point. A damp chill wind tore in off the ocean. He heard the thunderous crashing of breaking waves as he reached the top of the ridge of sand hills protecting the island. The elegant sea oats that had swayed so beautifully earlier were flattened against the rain sculptured sand. The big red horse didn't like the loud din or the cold gusts whipping its mane and tail ruthlessly to and fro. The man seemed unaware of the raging elements around him. His body was astride the dancing horse. But his soul was in a safe place somewhere far away.
A mechanical unfeeling resolution crept through him. It cleared his cluttered mind and freed it from anything that would jeopardize his peace. This detachment was a skill he’d mastered years ago during an awful, pain filled adolescence. It was a necessary survival skill then. It was second nature to him now.
Dylan's hands and legs moved automatically as he quieted the frightened animal beneath him. Launching the bay down the dune, they raced away challenging the churning bite of the seawater as it lapped up against the beach. The horse snorted. Its hooves sent up wet jets of icy black ocean onto it's warm smooth hide. The man leaned low over the pumping neck of his mount savoring the power of the animal and the unleashed wildness of the night beginning to cover them. Slowly, slowly he began to feel the frozen tendrils of the calm control he sought.
As his mind cleared, long standing priorities reasserted themselves. Dylan felt focused on the task that had brought him to Windsor's Island. A pelting rain began as he started to review all of his remaining options and foresee their possible outcomes. His hand tightened on the horse's leather reins slowing it to a sedate plod in the driving downpour.
Too many of those outcomes seemed destined to end in violence. Chances were better than average someone was going to get hurt or killed before it was all over. Dylan knew, in all probability, he would be that someone. It wasn't a particular concern. After all, he'd taken that risk from the beginning. It was easy to hazard your life when you were past caring whether you lived or died.
Sander could take care of himself. Dylan was sure the black man would survive. He had a talent for dodging death. Dylan studied the rising sickle moon. His uncle had proved that many times over. So Sander’s welfare wasn't in question.
After many cold, wet miles, he finally admitted to himself that Rory was the problem. The tired bay stopped and hung its head. Dylan threw a careless leg over the pommel of the saddle. He rested with the horse. His clothes were soaked. They clung to his hard body like a clammy second skin.
Why, he asked himself again and again. Why, why, why. It was an endless accusing litany in his brain. You know why. Don't lie to yourself. She matters, you fool. Somewhere along the way, Rory Windsor ceased to be a convenient tool. She’d become a person. A warm, unselfish, funny, smart, and completely innocent person. He wiped the dripping rain from his eyes and admitted the truth to himself. She might get hurt. And for some reason, he couldn't tolerate that happening. The horse's ears pricked at the man’s low involuntary curses.
I'll do whatever it takes to make sure she doesn't get hurt. I'll keep my distance. I’ll find the guns. And then it'll be over. Over. His head nodded in agreement with his silent words.
With that decided, Dylan hauled the weary horse's head back around in the direction of the house. He nudged the horse with his heels. They started the long ride back.
Much later he stood in the massive barn taking care of the bay. Steam rose in the brisk night air from the wet bodies of both the horse and the man. Dylan murmured encouragement to the tired animal as he rubbed it down.
When he was finished, he made his way quietly into the sleeping mansion. Carefully wiping his muddy boots on a woven sweet-grass mat by the door, he heard the tall case clock in the parlor chime three times. The house was totally dark. He stood quietly waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the blackness. Slowly, he began to make out the shapes and outlines of furniture and doors. Ahead and to the left, he saw the beginnings of the narrow back stairs.
Silently, he made his way to them. He started up trying to avoid loud creaks that might awaken anyone. This was one part of spying he’d never liked. Sneaking about dark houses in the middle of the night was an unfortunate tool of the trade. He reached the hall. He was creeping toward his bedchamber when he was startled by a whisper directly behind him.
“Dylan?” It was Rory.
“Sweet Holy Mother…, what are you doing out here?” he whispered back in exasperation.
“You really oughtn't curse in front of a lady,” she scolded primly. Rory stood there in bare feet and a thick virginal nightgown.
His cynical reply was low, “The next time I find myself in the company of one. I'll be sure to remember not to curse.”
“Why are you all wet?” she asked, indicating the puddle forming around his boots.
“I've been outside. It's raining. Why are you up at this hour?”
“Why were you outside?”
&n
bsp; “Go to bed.”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Bloody, sodding… No.”
“Dylan,” she said, shaking her head.
“I'll talk to you in the morning. Go back to bed.”
“I don’t want to go to bed. I need to speak with you.”
“What would happen if your brother found you out here, in the middle of the night, in your night-rail, with me?”
“Oh,” She shielded her breasts with crossed arms.
“Go to bed.”
“Bram asked me to marry him.”
“Of course he did,” he muttered. “It only needed that.”
“Please.”
“Get a wrapper. Meet me in my room in ten minutes.”
“Your room?” Her voice quavered slightly.
“It’s the last place your brother would think to look,” Dylan explained ruefully. “He'd be afraid of what he might find.”
“Your room, ten minutes,” Rory repeated the instructions.
He nodded and watched as she scurried off in the direction of her bedchamber, shapely legs revealed beneath the whipping tail of her gown. Dylan moved quickly to his room. He stripped out of his wet clothes. He threw them into a dripping pile on the floor by the bed. After lighting a single candle, he pulled on a pair of dark knee britches. Then he dragged a rich black velvet robe from the chiffonier. He shoved his arms into its sleeves. A soft, hesitant knock sounded at the door. As he crossed the room and opened it with one hand, he finished knotting the gold brocade belt at his waist.
Rory's eyes widened at the raw power of Dylan St. John. Wet tousled midnight hair was pushed carelessly away from his face. It lay drying in reckless waves. A rough black rasp shaded his lower face, making its chiseled angles and predatory features stand out in sharp relief. Visible above the slanted opening of his robe was the hint of a muscled torso. He stood there silently waiting for her to speak.
“I believe this was a very foolish idea.” Rory's voice squeaked on the last word. She turned beating a hasty retreat.
Dylan caught her elbow before she got away. He steered her into the cold bedchamber. He carefully closed the door with two hands, then turned finding her shivering behind him.
Rory was rubbing both arms to ward off the chill. Her warm breaths were punctuated with little clouds that immediately disappeared into the dark spicy smelling room. She nervously threw her thick chestnut colored night braid over one shoulder. She busied herself tugging the edges of her wrapper tighter around her waist. One little bare foot covered the other trying to keep it warm.
Dylan frowned at her discomfort. “Where are your slippers?”
“Where are yours?” she shot back defensively eying his bare feet.
He snorted in disdain.
“I don’t wear slippers,” she retorted. “Why isn't there a fire in here?”
Striding to the fireplace, he began to lay one. He answered, “Because I wasn't here to build it. Bring me the candle. I'll get one started.” He pointed to the flickering taper in a pewter candlestick on the table by his bed.
“There should be a fire in here,” she argued, handing him the candle. “Tirzah lights the fires in all the occupied rooms at dusk every night.” Rory tried to keep her eyes away from him as he knelt to kindle the fire.
“That explains it then. She’s punishing me.” His lopsided grin froze her.
Rory's heart stalled in her chest at the intimacy of that look. Words flew out in a torrent as she tried to control its erratic beating. “Of course she’s not punishing you. Why just tonight she was telling me what a fine-looking man you are. Of course, I knew that already,” she rambled on not listening to herself, eyes darting nervously around the room trying to avoid looking at him. “In fact, she said if she was only twenty years younger she would-” Her hand flew up in embarrassment to cover her errant words. “What I mean is, well, that is, you see.”
A deep rumbling chuckle from him ended her misery. “I'm flattered.” One roguish eyebrow arched as he continued, “If Tirzah was twenty years younger, I might find myself sorely tempted.”
She scolded, “You really shouldn't say such things to me.”
“You have a great many rules.”
“No I do not.”
He walked over to the table and lifted the decanter resting there. “Do you want a drink?”
Rory shook her head, seated herself in the uncomfortable chair near the hearth, and began absently worrying her lower lip with her teeth.
“Do you mind if I have one? Or does that violate your sensibilities in the same way cursing and being honest about temptations does?”
Again shook her head. She heard the liquid being sloshed into a glass, but refused to turn. Instead, she launched into a stream of nervous chatter.
“Wasn't it a horrible day today? Rain, rain, rain all day long. It never stopped raining. Well, maybe it did this afternoon. I slept all afternoon, so I wouldn't know.”
She paused for breath. Dylan brushed past and settled himself comfortably on the floor, his back against the hearth. His proximity made her even more nervous. She began to babble once again.
“It smells wonderful in here. What is that marvelous spicy scent?”
“My soap,” he replied impersonally and drank from the snifter.
“Oh.” Rory was chagrined at her silly question. She was forced to look at him when he’d answered her. Once she had, it was impossible to tear her gaze away.
As he sat by the fireplace, he looked like a resting panther in his plush black robe. One long muscled leg stretched the length of the rough bricks. The other was drawn up, a knee supporting his elbow while he slowly swirled the caramel colored drink around and around in the glass. He never looked up. He seemed preoccupied with the darting orange flames in the hearth.
Thank goodness he isn't paying any attention to me, Rory thought. I'm as jumpy as a bag full of cats. Her fingers pleated and smoothed the white flannel of her wrapper. The oppressive silence was too much for her. She had to speak. “Yes, it's really been a wet day. I wonder if my roses will mildew. They do, you know, sometimes when it rains too much, and they can't dry out they-”
“Rory,” he said. He watched her from over the brim of his glass. He took another deep swallow. “I'm not going to hurt you.”
She pulled her braid back around and started fiddling with its tail. “I didn't think you would. It's just that I've never…” Rory couldn't make herself face him. “It's just that I'm not used to,”
“You're not used to being alone in a dark bedchamber with a man dressed in his robe at three o'clock in the morning.”
“Is that all you've got on?” Her head jerked up. She met his amused eyes.
“I'm not wearing pantelets, if that's what you're asking.”
“I know that you idiot, but what about small clothes? Surely you’re wearing small clothes?”
“You're so familiar with men's undergarments?” he said with a wolf’s smile. “What is the world coming to when a gently bred young woman asks a man if he’s wearing his small clothes?”
“I'm leaving. This was a mistake.” She rose to go. “A big, big mistake.”
“I thought you had to talk to me about Gottlieb. Stay, I promise I won't tease you anymore. See I'm respectfully covered.” He drew the edge of his robe away to show her the drab brown knee pants he wore. “Stay please.”
Rory settled reluctantly back down in the chair. “There is very little, if anything respectable about you. But I will stay for a few minutes. Dylan, what am I going to do?” She asked bleakly as she tucked her feet up under her and hugged her knees. “He asked me to marry him again. I think he's really serious this time.”
“Do you want to marry him?”
“It isn't that easy.” She shrugged expressively.
“What about this afternoon in the parlor?”
“Oh, he apologized for that.”
“Did he?” His voice still held an unemotional conversational tone, but his fingers
tightened on the sturdy glass in his hand.
“He did. And I forgave him. I'm going to try to forget his behavior, Dylan.” She sighed and drummed her fingers on the wood of the chair’s arm. “I'm going to try.”
When he spoke again the strained intensity of his words frightened her. “Rory never forget what he did to you. Remember every ugly word he said to you. Remember how your skin crawled when he touched you.” His voice was harsh as he tossed down the last of his drink and continued, “Remember his foul drunken mouth covering yours. Then ask yourself if you can live with that every day for the rest of your life.”
“Stop it.” She shuddered. “For pity's sake, stop it Dylan.”
“Do you love him?”
“He's my friend.” She reached out an imploring hand to explain.
“Sweet Mother,” he growled. He sat up, grabbed her outstretched hand, and pulled her down to the floor in front of him. “I didn't ask you if he was your friend. If the devil was your friend, you'd be telling me he was a misunderstood angel. Do. You. Love. Him?”
“I don't know,” she told him earnestly.
Their faces were so close Rory felt the warm caress of his breath against her cheek. It was intoxicating, dangerous, and wonderful, altogether and wholly wonderful. “God help me, I don't know. I just don't know,” she whispered sinking into the black glittering depths of his eyes. “Help me, Dylan. Tell me what to do.”
“I can't sweetheart.”
She took his hand and cradled it against her hot flushed cheek. Her peony eyes filled with frustration. When she closed them scalding teardrops spilled over branding his fingers.
“Don't Rory.” He brushed away the tears. “Don't cry love.” His lips hovered a mere fraction of an inch above hers. He dropped a gentle kiss that was meant to comfort on her trembling lips. The taste of mouth was far more intoxicating than the drink he’d been sipping. She was everything good, fresh, and sweet. His fingers tightened as he deepened the kiss. Every part of him wanted her. His body, soul, and heart all conspired to defeat his will. He drew her closer. A rapturous sigh from Rory finally made him pull away. He carefully set a hand’s breath, of distance between them. Shaken to the core he looked down into her beautiful face. Her eyes were closed. A lovely blush tinted her countenance. Breathing slowly and deeply, he denied the demands of his traitorous body. His thumbs smoothed the porcelain skin of her cheeks.
