by Grace Walton
“It's my fault you know,” he mumbled as he marched forward and backward. “She almost died with the last 'un. It didn’t even take a breath. It was a boy. We buried him out by the plum bush.” He stopped and dragged his rough sleeve over his eyes. “Why can't I help with her now? I'm her husband. Man ought to be able to do for his wife iffen he wants to. Anything would be better than being out here in this dad-blamed shed. What's taking that dad-blamed baby so long anyway?”
Dylan watched all these perambulations from a warm and comfortable mound of hay. “Seth do you play games of chance?” he asked mildly.
“Sir?” the rough farmer replied puzzled.
“I was just wondering if we could pass the time with a deck of cards?”
“You talkin’ about gambling Mister St. John?” Seth was horrified at the thought. “Miss Rory would have a fit if she thought we was gambling out here.”
“She's not out here.” One lean hand indicated her absence while the other drew a worn pasteboard deck from the deep pocket of his cloak. “And I'm afraid you'll drive us both to Bedlam if you keep on marching about in circles.”
“What's Bedlam?” he asked, lowering himself into the straw beside St. John.
“It's a place in England where they lock up lunatics.” Dylan shuffled the cards expertly as the other man watched fascinated at the pattern of the falling cards.
“Mister St. John, I ain't no looney. And I ain't aiming to be. So I guess you better teach me to play this here game of chance.” He settled in to listen and learn.
After a quick tutorial in the complicated rules of whist, Seth began to play in earnest. In fact several hours later, he was so caught up in the play, he didn't hear the baby's first high-pitched scream. Dylan, hearing the cry, began counting the straws they had used to keep track of their points.
“Aw Mister St. John, you don't want to quit do you?” Seth was disappointed.
“Seth, if we keep playing you'll make me a pauper. I've never seen anyone with such beginner's luck.” Dylan solemnly handed the farmer three gold crowns from his pocket.
It was a fortune to one such as the simple farmer. More than he’d see at one time his whole life long. Seth beamed in delight. He never guessed Dylan had changed the rules to favor him whenever it looked as if he was about to lose. Seth remained oblivious to the obvious.
“Brother Seth,” Tirzah called from the weathered steps of the house. “Brother Seth you better get yourself up here and see this fine new babe.” A giant grin split her face and showed several missing teeth.
“Hallelujah!” he yelled and tore across the yard. “How's my Reba?” He was suddenly worried again.
“She fine, just fine.” Tirzah laughed and patted his sturdy back reassuringly. “The Good Lord and Miss Rory done got her through again.”
He moved in a spirit of awe over to the bed where his radiant wife held the newborn. He kissed Reba and asked, “What is it?”
“We got us a man-child Seth,” Reba announced proudly. “What we gonna call him?”
Seth looked over and smiled at Dylan, who had followed him into the tiny room. “Sweet Reba, I believe we gonna call this babe Chance.”
Reba was tired, and Rory had insisted she have valerian tea. It was making her very sleepy. So she didn't argue she just asked in a weary voice, “Seth where'd you get a strange name like Chance? I ain't never heard nobody called Chance.”
“Honey Child, it's just something that came to me in the night,” he explained. He winked at the big man standing in the doorway, then he leaned down to kiss her cheek.
Chapter Eight
The tall case clock in the mansion’s foyer struck four as Dylan carried a sleeping Rory into the big quiet house. Tirzah’s skirts swished as she followed them, the only other sound in the darkened space.
“Set her down Mister St. John,” hissed the old black woman. “I can get her to her bed.” Tirzah was feeling disposed to ease some of her earlier distrust of the man. She’d seen a different side of him this night past. He might not be the complete reprobate she’d thought.
Dylan shook his head and eased past her. He mounted the curving staircase with his precious burden. Before Tirzah could call him back, he strode to Rory’s bedchamber door. He nudged it open with his boot and carried her inside. He carefully placed her on the bed’s quilted counterpane. Leaning over he brushed a lock of hair from her still porcelain face.
The black man watching from the open doorway, saw the internal battle his nephew waged. It was uncomfortable to watch. He felt as if he was trespassing on something infinitely rare and private. But he couldn’t turn away.
Dylan bent down and tenderly roused the sleeping girl.
She moaned. Her eyes fluttered open. “Is this a dream?” she whispered looking into his steady eyes.
“No,” he said and bent to kiss her parted lips. He knew it was folly, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. She was the North Star, and he was a weary traveler, struggling to find his way back home. The moment their lips met he felt it, the homecoming.
Rory still half asleep felt the gentle pressure of his mouth upon hers. His kiss was one of restrained longing and perfect control. But her breath quickened. He was gone before she had a chance to call him back. Now wide awake, she lifted trembling fingers to her sensitive lips.
The black man witnessed it all. He’d slipped into the hall so neither would know. Sander met his nephew in the dark corridor. Tirzah frowned at him as she swept by on her way to tend Rory.
“This is becoming quite a regular occurrence for you isn't it?” he hissed as Dylan passed him.
“What is becoming a regular occurrence?” Dylan asked unruffled.
“You chasing after Rory.” He followed his nephew. “In some societies, I believe that act is seen as a nuptial ritual.”
“Sander, get out of my way. I just needed to make sure she was all right.”
The older man snorted in disbelief and rolled his eyes. His response told Dylan exactly what the black man thought of his words.
“If you have something to say to me, don't waste my time with riddles,” St. John said. It had been a long, difficult night. Dylan was in no mood to play guessing games. Sander followed him back to the door of her bedchamber.
“If you're trying to make an allusion to my marital status, don't waste your breath. It's something of which I'm well aware.”
“Maybe you ought to tell her.”
“What good would that do?”
“None,” admitted the black man. “But I think she ought to be told.”
Dylan stood there listening, hoping not to hear anything. His heart lurched when he heard the sounds of her sobbing through the door. Tirzah’s low voiced platitudes, he heard as well. Rory’s continued crying tore at him. His first impulse was to go in, explain, and comfort her. He leaned his head firmly against the cold wood of the door. His eyes shut as he fought against the overwhelming need to go to her.
“She's upset.” Sander was like a dog with a bone.
Dylan shot him a killing glance, then leaned back against the door. “How long were you watching us?”
“Long enough,” he answered. “Did you hurt her?”
“No.” Knowing he could not ease her suffering was untenable. Dylan’s jaw clenched as did his fists. He turned to leave. It was the hardest thing he’d ever done. Harder than facing down an armed gang. Harder than burying his dead father. Harder than the awful, endless nights of sleeping with women he despised. It was by far the worst, most despicable and unnatural act he’d ever attempted. But he managed it. For her sake, he walked away. Until Sander’s voice stopped him.
“Tell her Dylan,” the black man begged. “At least then you can stop trying to seduce her.”
“I am not trying to seduce Aurora Windsor. I'm doing my dead level best to keep her from being seduced,” he ground out at the door to his room.
“If that’s true, tell her, and then…”
“No. I'm sure her opinion of the marrie
d state leans heavily towards a till death do we part commitment. And I don't think the fact that she hadn't consented to the marriage in the first place would have any bearing on her viewing the vows as permanent. I won’t do that to her.”
“But what if something happens to you?” It was turning into a heated debate. “How would she feel finding out she was a widow, when she hadn't even known she was a wife?”
“Planning ahead?” Dylan taunted. “I'll set your conscience to rest. If I get killed, you can tell her about the marriage.”
“That's not amusing.”
“It wasn't meant to be. Tell me, what happened to do whatever it takes to get the job done?”
His uncle frowned sourly before fashioning a reply, “I changed my mind. Sometimes people are more important than jobs.”
“And this is one of those times?”
“Yes, of course.” It came out rather more forcefully than Sander had intended. He didn't understand why all of the sudden it was so important to him to influence Dylan regarding Rory. He just felt compelled on the issue. He was thoroughly surprised by the cold answer he got.
“People are more important than what I do Sander,” the younger man said. “But there's no denying that what I'll do in Savannah will save many. So what exactly would you have me do? Spare one woman's sensibilities at the expense of hundreds of lives?”
“Of course not,” Sander argued. “But you can't just walk away.”
“I can. I have. Tell me your other perfect solution. Because if you don't have one, I’m doing this my way.”
“I don't have a perfect solution.” It was a glum mutter.
“There's not one.” Dylan stopped and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He took a deep breath and rasped a weary hand across the bristles on his face. “There’s no easy solution. Nothing you or I do is going to tie this up nicely with a blue ribbon and tuck it away on a shelf. I can keep her safe Sander. And I can stop the guns going to the Indians. But I can't stay here so she can live happily ever after. Even if I could, she wouldn't be happy, not with me. You know that as well as I do. What she's experiencing is an infatuation, perhaps her first. But certainly not her last.” The hand on his door, curled into a fist. “The way she looks, as incredible as she is, every man with a pulse who sees her is going to want her. And sooner or later one of them will catch her fancy.” A killing fury tore at his control as he thought of any other man touching her. “Curse you Sander, don't prod me. Not now.”
“I'm not trying to prod you. I'm not saying you need to stay here. I'm saying you should at least tell her the truth.” Sander was being tenacious. He still wasn't sure why.
“Sweet sodding Hades, I am fast losing patience with you.” The tone was steely. Dylan’s dead eyes were unblinking. “I've told her the truth, as much of it as I can. More than I've ever told any woman. The only thing I've kept back is the slight detail that her misguided brother insisted I marry her. And the less she knows about that, the better.”
“Aurora Windsor would not consider Holy Matrimony a slight detail.” It was a caustic reply.
“My point entirely,” Dylan challenged him to deny it. The two men were at an impasse, and they both knew it.
“Dylan you're my blood, my family, and I'll never go against you, but I don't want her life left in a bloody shambles when you leave.”
“Neither do I. Telling her, she's married to me, would only bring her more pain.” He grasped the heavy door brass. He pushed against the solid wood and warned, “Sander if you go behind me and burden her with the knowledge of this cursed marriage. Even though we share a common ancestor, I will take retribution against you.”
It was not meant as a threat just a statement of fact. Dylan shut the door before his uncle could answer or argue further.
Sander stood rooted staring bleakly down the hall towards his own chamber. He still didn't understand why this idea of telling Rory of the proxy marriage had suddenly taken on such gigantic proportions for him. It wasn't rational. Nothing could be gained by it. Much could be lost. It just wasn't rational at all, he chided himself.
It nagged at his mind all night and all through the following morning. It was still preying on his thoughts at luncheon when he next saw his nephew. Sander entered the light-filled dining chamber to find Dylan and Rory seated at one end. Rory's head was lowered as if she would rather be anywhere but alone here with Dylan. Sander saw she was wearing a riding habit. The same creamy colored one she had taken the spill in two days before. Dylan, also in riding clothes, glanced up at the elaborately robed Arab and beckoned him over to sit with them.
“Welcome Bu Allah,” he said mocking. It seemed the ridiculous pretense must be maintained before the servants. Even one breath of suspicion could ruin all their efforts. “We are making our plans to leave for Savannah on the afternoon tide. Do you go with us Sir?”
“Certainly, Mister St. John,” Sander said using a far eastern sounding accent. Or at least it was what he’d imagined that accent would sound like. He noticed Rory's pale face and downcast eyes. He spoke again anyway, “I've heard marvelous tales of the wild natives and strange animals that are to be seen on the American Continent.” Then he lapsed into a comfortable silence as a trim mulatto maid offered him an astounding selection of meats and vegetables.
Dylan and Rory resumed their silence. A faint bluish mark on her forehead was all that remained of her tumble. During the wee hours of the morning while she’d slept, Dylan helped Gray oversee the loading of the Rozelle. They would leave for the Savannah townhouse soon. Everything was loaded except the livestock. Dylan's towering black and Rory's skittish mare would be led aboard last.
“Rory let's go over your introduction of me one more time,” he coaxed. He didn’t like the wan defeated look on her face. It was clear she’d seen his leave-taking of her the night before as a scalding rejection. And he wouldn’t enlighten her. If he’d somehow finally found his up-till-now absent conscience, he would ruthlessly exploit it. He knew if he’d stayed with her, they’d be well and truly married this morning. He refused to shackle her to an unworthy man. Especially if he was that unworthy man.
“Dylan,” she whispered never meeting his eyes. “We've practiced. How many times must I do this?”
“Until I think it’s at least plausible if not quite believable.” He really just wanted to make the girl talk to him. She was treating him like an unsavory stranger.
“I told you at the start I was no liar,” the words were a soft accusation.
“I should have believed you.” He goaded trying to make her mad. Anything was better than this freezing denial, he was getting.
“It’s not too late to stop this stupid farce,” she suggested, eyes flashing. “I never wanted to be your fiancée. I could always introduce you as a distant cousin.”
“It is far too late,” he cut her off. “There is the distinct possibility we may meet someone who knows me or the St. John name in Savannah. Imagine you are presenting me to a matron at a party.”
“As you wish,” she began in a monotone. “Mrs. Highbrow, please come and let me introduce my fiancé to you. Dylan St. John, please be made known to the lovely Mrs. Highbrow.”
“Much better,” he approved, rose, and pulled her chair out. “Bu Allah, forgive us for leaving you to dine alone, but we need to let the horses run off their high spirits before they go onto the ship. We shall see you abroad the Rozelle.”
“Don't hurt her,” the Arab growled under his breath.
“Pardon?”
Sander knew good and well Dylan had heard him quite clearly. So he chose to ignore the question altogether.
“It wasn't his fault. The fall couldn't be avoided,” Rory defended him.
Dylan gritted his teeth. He knew Sander wasn't speaking of her accident. But thankfully Rory was too naïve to hear the hot undercurrent running through the black man’s comment. She didn't know Sander was making one last effort to warn his nephew away from her.
Dylan had never been naï
ve. And he knew exactly what Sander meant. And he also knew that he would ignore his uncle’s protestations.
He propelled Rory out of the dining room with a firm hand in the small of her back. “Bu Allah just feels I need to be reminded to take better care of you. True?” he challenged the seated man from across the elegant room.
Sander did not reply. He just watched the pair at the door steadily. When he failed after several minutes to respond, Dylan could feel alarm rising up in the girl. Their relationship was tenuous at the moment. Especially after his cavalier treatment of her the night before. He didn't need to add another layer of mistrust. He would not allow Rory to become suspicious because of Sander's uncharacteristic behavior.
“You are merely concerned for Miss Windsor's welfare, since her unfortunate fall are you not?” he said.
Sander knew he had to relent. So he did with as much grace as possible under the circumstances. But he decided to obliquely warn his nephew yet again, “Just so Mr. St. John, just so. And I'm entirely sure you've had abundant experience protecting maidens.”
“I'll take care of her,” Dylan countered in cutting accents from the threshold of the chamber.
“Arrogant puppy,” Sander mumbled to his nephew’s broad disappearing back.
Out in the garden, on the way to the stable, curiosity got the better of her anger. Rory wanted to know what was happening between the two men.
“What is wrong with Sander?” she demanded having to take several steps to his one long stride to keep up with him. “Why is he so out of sorts this morning?”
“It's nothing.” He didn't supply any more information. He kept moving towards the stables.
“Are you going to tell me?” she asked breathlessly. Keeping up with him was like running a foot race.
“No”
“Dylan slow down,” she pleaded and stopped to catch her breath.
“As you wish.” He stopped and gazed down at the panting girl. He intentionally grasped his hands behind his back. He waited. When she didn't say anything else he spoke. “Rory, I'm sorry.” They were on the brick walk in the middle of the garden, halfway to the horses.
