by Grace Walton
She didn't make a show of trying to misunderstand him. He was, of course, speaking of the kiss they'd shared the night before. “I'm not a harlot.”
“I know,” was all he said for a long while. They stood there watching each other. “I am sorry, Rory,” he repeated quietly. He couldn’t explain.
“It can't ever happen again,” she insisted, softening. She needed to be sure he understood. If they shared another kiss, she'd be lost. “I will pretend I'm your fiancée. I'll do whatever I have to do to maintain that lie. But I can't. We can't…”
“I know,” he agreed sparing her. “There is no excuse for what I did. None.” He was intentionally making himself her target.
That wasn't fair. Rory knew he wasn't to blame exclusively. She still blushed when she thought how she'd reacted to his touch. She may say she wasn't a harlot, but in her heart, she felt she'd acted like one with him. She tried for a safer topic. “You aren't going to tell me what's wrong with Sander?”
“I'm not going to tell you,” he agreed.
She could tell by the tone of his voice and the set of his jaw, he wouldn't let her run away from what had happened between them. He would make her deal with it.
“Dylan?” she asked.
His shoulders squared as he looked down at her. “Yes?”
“Are you still my friend?”
“If you want me to be. If you think you can trust me.” He didn't touch her. He waited for her.
“I do.” She nodded. “I do trust you.”
“Good.” He offered her his arm. She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. They walked toward the stable yard. As sometimes happens in the Sea Islands off the Georgia coast, a brace of frigid temperatures are often followed by several days if not weeks of unseasonably spring-like weather. That was the case this wonderful mild morning. The sun was already riding high in the brilliant blue sky. There was a warm fertile smell drifting up from the earth. The horses felt it too. Standing impatiently by the stable boy who held their reins tightly, they stamped their polished hooves and snorted as their muzzles touched. Dylan threw Rory into the elegant, if old, sidesaddle that had been her mother's. Then he mounted the black.
“Let's run their fidgets out on the beach,” she proposed.
Dylan nodded. “Be careful Rory.” His voice was deep and steady.
They cantered down the path that led to the sand dunes. Topping the dunes they raced along the water's curling lip until both the horses were blowing hard. She pulled the mare up and settled her into a sedate walk through the surf.
Dylan eased his gelding along beside. Neither one of them spoke. It was an appealing collection of silent moments. She remembered it long afterward. The only sounds were the rushing of the drumming waves pounding the shore, the creaking of comfortable saddle leather, and the cries of sea birds in the distance.
“You and Sander argued about me didn't you?” She reluctantly broke the quiet. He didn't utter a word, but his steady ashen eyes were a damning reproof.
“Fine, I'll stop asking.” She surrendered, completely chastised. The companionable silence returned.
Finally, after a long while and against his better judgment, he broke the quiet. “Some rakes make a game of courting danger by playing the philanderer with women who are pledged to other men. Wagers are made on how quickly a woman's reputation can be shredded,” he stated somberly. His gaze searched the smooth contours of her face.
She summoned up a sad smile. She nodded as if she knew what he was talking about. In reality, she had no idea.
“Know of rakes and their scandalous ways, do you?” he said nothing, refusing to rise to the bait. Dylan wasn’t fooled. He knew precisely how innocent Rory Windsor was.
“You think that might happen to me in town?”
“It's a possibility.”
“How should I handle them?”
He shook his head. “You don't handle them. I do.”
“You mean dueling?” She was alarmed. One of her cousins had been killed in a duel at the Jewish Cemetery when she was a child. His opponent had been offended by the boy's political views and had killed with the first shot. It was a meaningless waste of a young life. “I'd rather have no reputation, rather than have you defend it that way.”
“I always avoid duels.” He shrugged broad shoulders. His face was unreadable.
“Dueling is illegal in Georgia,” she warned him.
“Yes, I heard that in London,” he answered his words were mild. “Very progressive. But no duelist has ever been brought to trial, has he?”
She flushed miserably and agreed, “No, they're still killing each other with as much abandon as they did seventy-five years ago.”
“I thought as much.” He chuckled cynically. “Rory if you stay out of dark-walled gardens and refuse to go view some poxy lecher's private portrait collection, I think I can manage to keep myself off the cemetery's field of honor.”
“How did you know men duel at the cemetery?”
“Don't they always?” His voice was suddenly cold.
She patted the mare's satiny neck. “Spot loves Savannah. I wish I could take him with us. The crowds of people and all the other animals on the streets fascinate him.”
Suddenly, his voice was low and serious and his eyes hard and black. “You're a stunning woman and because of it many will be fascinated with you.”
“Dylan, I'm still the same Rory Windsor,” she protested laughing. “Last year I was in town and nothing happened.”
“Nothing?” he asked skeptically. “Are all the men in Savannah blind?”
“What a nice compliment, kind sir.” She smiled up at him. “And as I said, nothing happened.”
“You're lying again.” He reached over and flicked the end of her nose.
“You're calling me a liar?” She was outraged. “And you're treating me like a child.”
“Make no mistake Rory, I know you for what you are. A beautiful, provocative, and intelligent woman. That's why I know you're lying.” He settled back into his saddle daring her to argue.
“Well...” She wasn't sure how to respond. He'd just given her another compliment. At least, she was pretty sure he had. “Well, almost nothing happened.” That was as far as she'd concede. But glancing up at him again, she could see he didn't look like he believed her. She was going to wipe that arrogant smirk off his face if it was the last thing she did. “Really, you impossible man, nothing happened.”
“So you say.” An arched eyebrow accompanied the deep sarcastic word.
All right, Rory mused, wheels turning in her brain. Two can play this game. She made a slow show of straightening her hat and veil before answering. “Really, there was just that one little time.”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Tell me.”
Inside, she was cheering. She'd actually done it. He believed her. Outwardly, her face was calm and sad. “I'd really hoped I'd never have to tell anyone.” A tiny sob caught in her throat.
“Tell me.” The muscle jumped again.
She lowered her head, so he couldn't see her face and nodded glumly. “Of course, I knew my husband would have to know.” Her voice trailed off and dabbing away imaginary tears, she dared a look at him. She saw his whole body stiffen as his face filled with an unimaginable wrath. She swallowed and was casting about for some way to stop what had started out as a harmless joke.
A string of unsavory oaths poured out of his mouth. “Who was he Rory?” he asked tightly.
This was bad, she thought. Very, very bad. “Why do you want to know Dylan?” Gone was the trembling upset voice she had been using. She had to placate him and quickly. “It really doesn't matter who the man was.”
“Curse you, it does matter,” he swore putting a hand under her chin, forcing her worried eyes to meet his own. “I'm going to kill that son of…”
“No!” God help her, what could she do now? She felt a warm wash of color flood her face.
Seeing the revealing blush, Dylan exhaled the furious br
eath he'd been holding. The chit was teasing. He was impressed. She’d been convincing. And if she wanted to toy with him, hone her skills a bit, he'd play right along.
“Yes,” Dylan replied firmly and rubbed her hot cheek. “I'll kill him for you. It’s easily accomplished. I’ll make him suffer. And don't feel so badly darling. Plenty of brides aren't nearly so pure as they seem.”
“What?” She was suddenly lost.
He sighed, getting into the spirit of the game. He leaned across his horse and placed a chaste reassuring kiss on her cheek. “It's all right, darling. Virginity is a highly over-rated commodity.”
“You think that I'm not a…” There was no way she was going to be able to get out of this, she told herself glumly. No way at all. “Not a.., uhh, that is to say, I’m still a…”
“Virgin?” he said helpfully.
She swallowed and nodded.
“It’s quite all right love. There’s no need to lie to me. I’ll keep your secret.”
“Dylan?” She was going to have to tell him the truth. And she'd rather be drawn and quartered.
“What?” he said, staring off at the ocean.
“Dylan I lied. A few boys did try to steal kisses last season in Savannah. But I was able to talk them out of it. I lied to you.” She waited. He didn't turn around to face her. He just kept staring out over the ocean. “Dylan did you hear me? I said I lied to you.”
“I know you did.” He turned then and she saw the insufferable grin on his face. “But I think you might be getting a trifle better at it.” He spurred his horse. It jumped forward. He rode away without a backward glance.
Saying some things she'd have to pray about later, she urged the mare down the dune after him. They came far enough up the beach to see the Rozelle rocking lazily by the pier. At the foot of the pier Dylan dismounted. He walked over to her horse and raised his arms to help her down. On the wild ride to the pier, she’d decided she wasn't going to talk to him again, ever. She threw her leg over the horse's back and slid down, ignoring the tall handsome man.
“What’s wrong Rory? Still mourning your lost chastity?” he goaded softly leading their mounts slowly out to the ship.
“I'm not talking to you ever again,” she said in a tight little voice.
“Promise?” he mocked from behind her.
She threw him a look that should have singed his hair and stalked off ahead down the pier. A wide gangplank formed a slow incline onto the ship. A couple of burly sailors stood waiting to take the horses. One at the time, the tired animals were led up the gangplank and secured below decks.
Gray shouted a greeting to them from the massive ship's wheel. “The tide's running strong. Come aboard and let's cast off.” Once they were safely on the ship, Gray gave the command to cast off and set the sails. “Rory could you go down to your cabin and check on Tirzah? She was moaning and groaning before she even set foot on the deck.”
Tirzah hated anything to do with boats, in fact, she often lamented the fact God had seen fit to make her live on an island. Her home was a place that could only be reached by boat. All the herbs in her famous herb bag did not assuage the terminal sea sickness with which she was so afflicted.
When Rory entered the cabin, the bulky black woman was laid out on a bunk with a damp handkerchief pressed against her forehead. “This time I gets to Savannah, I'm staying. You a woman growed. You don’t need me on that cussed island. I ain't coming back, not on a boat no how.”
Rory smiled to herself. Tirzah said the same thing every time they left for town. “I guess you'll have to learn to walk on water like Peter, to get back home,” she teased as she changed into a muslin walking dress. “I don't know why in the world they call this thing a walking dress. The skirt is so narrow. I feel like a hobbled horse when I try to walk,” the auburn haired girl complained. “It ought to be called a stay put dress.”
The bodice of the dress was tightly fitted but the skirt fell in narrow graceful drapes to the floor. It nicely accented all of her richly feminine curves. The pristine muslin was a perfect foil for indigo eyes and Titian hair. “Tirzah, I'm going to leave now. Did you drink some ginger and valerian tea before we left? That ought to settle your stomach and make you sleep until we dock in the morning.”
“No, you know I didn’t drink none of that valerian. That stuff smell so nasty, it’s worse than the water sickness.”
“I'm sorry you feel so bad. Would you rather I stayed here with you instead of going up on deck?”
“No, child, you go on. I just wants to be by myself.” She moaned again and prayed as the ship lurched forward, “Jesus help me.”
Rory threw a beautifully patterned Norwich shawl around her shoulders. She climbed the few steps up to the deck. It was glorious up here, she thought. The sails whipped above her making popping music in the breeze. The tart saltiness of the air stung her nostrils. She had to hang on tight to the railing, as the ship bucked on the waves roiling beneath. The sky and the sea merged on the horizon into one enormous unrelieved cerulean expanse. Rory was so occupied with the majesty of God's handiwork. She didn't realize someone had joined her.
“Good Day Miss Aurora.” The handsome young sailor touched his cap respectfully.
Rory was glad to see this particular sailor. She had sewn up a nasty cut on his hand several days ago. She was anxious to see how her handiwork fared. “Hello Sean, let me see that hand if you please.” She carefully unwrapped the soiled bandage from the hand he offered her. As she inspected the wound, the bold young sailor moved closer. Rory spontaneously backed away, but found the railing gave her nowhere to retreat.
Something in this unwanted closeness with a man made her extremely uncomfortable. With Dylan, she’d experienced delicious warmth. Now she only felt cold, clammy, and a little bit ill. Sean's body pressed against hers. She felt like she was being invaded as he moved closer still.
Then he leered suggestively, “I've got something else to show you.”
She became aware of a towering shadow. But neither she nor Sean saw the blow that caught the seaman squarely on the chin. It drove him crashing like a lead weight to the deck.
“Get to your cabin Aurora,” Dylan commanded coldly, his eyes never leaving the prone man struggling to regain consciousness.
“But…” she sputtered.
“Don't argue, get below.”
Frightened at this dangerous and unfamiliar Dylan, she ran down the deck to the stairs. She looked back once before plunging down the steps.
On deck, every activity stopped as the men watched to see what dangerous thing might happen next. No one envied the hapless Sean. St. John stood over him and in one lithe, easy motion pulled a stiletto from its hidden scabbard in his riding boat. It was as sharp and deadly as a surgeon's scalpel, and it was perfectly weighted to his hand. Sean paled at the sight of the delicate lethal weapon.
Dylan drawled to the sailor sprawled out at his feet, “She’s mine.”
No one actually saw him throw the knife. There was just a blur. Then a solid thunk as the blade dug into the planked deck.
Sean thought he was dead as the stiletto rocketed toward his face. So he did the only sensible thing. He fainted. When he woke up minutes later, St. John was gone. But the seaman found the collar of his coat pinned to the deck directly underneath his left ear by a fancy little Spanish knife.
Captain Windsor jerked the blade out of the wood to free the boy. “I'm going to give this back to St. John. He might need it again,” he said.
It was a threat Sean, and every other man on the ship understood. At sea, a captain usually tried to forestall the violence of his crew. But Windsor was telling them all he fully approved of the way St. John planned to protect his baby sister.
Rory never got to see the Tybee Light as they rounded the point and turned into the Savannah River that night. She made a conscious effort to stay in her cabin with Tirzah until they docked ten miles inland at the Savannah harbor the next morning. She’d been awake when the ship n
udged up against the wharf and was tied off. The sounds of men unloading the hold had begun soon after. By the time she was dressed and on deck, most of their goods had been stowed into the waiting wagons to be hauled over to the house on East State Street. She saw the steep cobbled incline past the river's bank leading up to Bull Street. That was the name of the wide street facing the river.
All along Bull Street cotton warehouses rose to the height of several stories. They were constructed of the large gray stones used as ballast in the sea going ships. Their doors and shutters were painted in various gaudy shades of blue, which was considered lucky. The road itself was nicknamed Factor's Row because the wealthy cotton merchants were called factors. They held court in their offices near the warehouses.
Towering water oaks lined and shaded the dusty road. Street entrances were raised to small porticos several feet above the simple boulevard to keep the ever-present dust and mud out of homes and businesses.
Black slaves hawked seafood, fresh fruits, and vegetables from big buckets parked in front of them like a store. Stray dogs roamed the city in packs. And white women did not go out and about without a suitable escort to protect them.
There was a stale malodorous quality to the air by the docks. Some residents feared the smell claiming it caused all types of terrible, incurable maladies and fevers. Rory was convinced it was not the fault of the air, but of too many shallow and tainted wells that supplied the city's inhabitants.
In the warmer months, most people, fled to the coast to escape those fevers which invariably came with the spring warming. But even the clean sea air hadn’t saved her Aunt Rozelle. She’d caught the killing malaise after she’d nursed a sick family on the island.
Savannah was the largest and most cosmopolitan city south of Charleston. It boasted a theatre, several newspapers, and a large and diverse population. On the streets, one might hear German, Gaelic, or French spoken.
And like any big city, there was a ruling aristocracy. The surprising fact about Savannah's elite society was that unlike those of Europe, it included a considerable number of Hebrews. In fact, some members of the local temple claimed that if their forefathers hadn't arrived directly after the colony's founder Oglethorpe, Georgia might never have survived.
