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

by Grace Walton

  The man with the gun, having spent his shot, wasted no time reloading. He launched the pistol through the air toward Dylan before fleeing off into the night. But the other man was not so intimidated.

  “Cursed fancy lord,” he snarled, weaving his knife back and forth. “You killed me mate. Now I'm gonna kill you.”

  “You can try,” St. John said.

  This infuriated the sailor so that he made a mad lunge toward the big man. Dylan stepped easily out of his way. He waited for the thief to rush again. But instead of charging, the sailor became very calm and moved in slowly closer.

  The cut-purse decided to draw back on his experience. And he had plenty of that. The rough life of the sea trained him well. More than one man had fallen to his knife over the years. The cagey thief was surprised when St. John easily matched him move for move.

  When the sailor's knife flashed out to slash his upper arm, Dylan countered with a lightning deadly slice and drew blood across the other man's chest. The sailor jumped back and grabbed at his gaping wound. Blood seeped between his fingers and inched in a crooked stream down his arm. His eyes reflected the shock he felt. No one had ever drawn his blood in a knife fight. That was his one claim to fame.

  “Drop the knife, leave, and live.” St. John's words were completely devoid of emotion. “Or stand and I'll slice open your throat.”

  The sailor's knife fell to the dirt. He limped off quickly in the direction of the dock. The other thief, Joe, lay unconscious and still in the street.

  The black gelding snorted and kicked as Dylan swung up into the saddle. He avoided the Watch by cutting through side-streets and yards until he reached the Windsor’s house on Liberty Square. Sander was waiting in the barn as he led the horse into an empty stall.

  “Well?” They both knew what he was asking.

  “Avansley's here with the weapons.” Dylan drew off the saddle and bridle from the weary animal. “We've got one week. How about you?”

  Sander had been 'out' that afternoon too. “Connor's ready. He'll talk to you tomorrow night.” Dylan nodded and started toward the house when Sander saw the blood on his shirt.

  “Bullet wounds?”

  “Just the one.”

  “I'll come up to your room. It’s two doors to the right at the top of the stairs. Will I be digging for the bullet?”

  “I don’t know. Bring your embroidery kit Sander. I think you'll need it.”

  They separated to go in different directions at the door. Sander was sharing a bedchamber with Graham on the bottom floor. He crept into the dark room and silently retrieved what looked to be an old-fashioned wig box from underneath his narrow bed. Graham in the opposite bed turned over and snored loudly, but appeared undisturbed.

  By the time Sander had made his way up the stairs and into the chamber, Dylan had already stripped off his coat, vest, and shirt. He wadded up what had been the beautifully tailored shirt. He pressed it to the open dripping wound in his side. Each thump of his heart sent another trickle of blood. The thick stream threatened to spill onto the carpet.

  With workman-like movements, he lit two candles. Gripping the shirt to his side, he reached down and rolled up the carpet. He shoved it to one side. Then he dragged a straight-backed chair from its place along the wall into the middle of the room.

  He straddled the chair, rested one arm across the back of it, and invited the black man in. “Try to take smaller stitches this time, Sander.”

  “My sewing was fine the last time. But, a row of twenty stitches is impossible to hide. Besides, I don't see why you'd worry about one more scar.” Sander returned a jab of his own looking at the network of raised flesh running helter-skelter across Dylan’s broad exposed back. “You already have more than enough marks on your body to make women swoon and frighten small children.”

  Dylan jerked the sticking shirt away from his wound. He replied, “I don't need scars to make a woman swoon.”

  Sander's eyes tightened at the bloody sight. But he carried on with their banter. “I always said you were too confident for your own good. I'm glad Connor is here. He'll take you down a peg or two.” Gentle black fingers probed the raw edges of the bleeding furrow. It traveled from the middle of Dylan's back to exit under his right arm.

  “This is going to take a while.” Sander eyed it professionally. “Do you want laudanum before I start? It might help?”

  Dylan shook his head. “No, just sew me up, so I can move around without dripping. I've got one more thing that needs doing tonight. I don't want to leave a blood trail.”

  Sander opened the wig box. Inside were military rows of medical equipment and colored jars of medicines. He took out a neat roll of cat gut and a curved needle. He reached back in the box's depths to extract a covered jar. He opened the jar and a foul odor filled the room.

  “Mother is ripe,” he commented satisfied as he threaded the needle. He dragged it and the attached gut through the slimy mess in the jar. Mother was what Sander called the moldy substance. He swore by its healing powers. A Tunisian sailor had given the medicine to the black man along with detailed instructions on how to feed it. Mother grew best on stale bread. Dylan had not suffered an infection in any wound since Sander had started using her.

  The older man slowly poured a small, steady stream of liquor down the length of the wound. He knew the alcohol must burn like the very devil, but the man in the chair didn't make a sound.

  “Dylan were you trying for a matched set?” Sander nodded toward the long ugly scar on the opposite side of his nephew’s back as the needle pierced the skin to take the first stitch. A sword had made that one four years ago in France. They continued to speak quietly while Sander worked until there was a soft knock at the door to the chamber.

  “Guess who?” Dylan whispered darkly.

  “Should I let her in?” Sander asked cautiously.

  “You might as well. If we don't let her through the door, she'll probably go outside and try to climb in through the window.”

  Sander walked over. He opened the door.

  Rory stood there in her wrapper surprised to see him. “What are you doing in here?”

  “A question better asked of you,” said a sardonic voice from the dim interior of the room.

  “What?” She moved around Sander and walked toward Dylan. Her breath rushed out in a hiss when she saw his back. In the instant she'd looked, she wished she hadn't. Congealed blood and old scars combined with the deep half stitched wound made a gruesome sight.

  Sander steadied her arm and asked quickly, “You aren't going to swoon are you?”

  Rory, not wanting them to see how the gore affected her, turned to glare at him. “Of course I'm not going to swoon.” She held her breath and got closer to examine Dylan. “My goodness, that's the worst cut I've ever seen.” She was pleased with herself. There was only a faint tremble in her voice.

  Dylan shrugged, despite the sharp bite of pain the movement produced. The initial shock was wearing off. The grinding agony was beginning. “I’ve seen worse,” he said.

  Sander mopped up the fresh bleeding caused by the shrug. “You've had worse.” It was a caustic mutter. “Don't move. I can hardly see to sew as it is.”

  She had sewn many a small cut before with one or two stitches, three at the most. But this was far out of her league. His back looked like a side of dressed beef. Rory felt her head begin to swim as the black man pushed the large needle through Dylan's jagged flesh. Her face whitened and there was an involuntary muffled noise coming from her throat. It rattled hollowly through the stillness of the room.

  The man in the chair couldn't see her face. But he had a fair idea of what was running through her brain. “Sweetheart, come around here and talk to me, so I’ll have something pretty to look at while Sander finishes,” Dylan coaxed.

  She wasn't leaving so he had to do something to distract her. Rory didn't have to be asked a second time. She settled herself on the wood floor directly in front of him. Pulling the wrapper over her
legs, she hugged her knees.

  “Is he taking small stitches?” Dylan winked and asked, hoping to divert her attention from what his uncle was doing.

  “What?” She was still in shock from what she'd just seen. “Oh, they looked small and neat to me. Why do you ask?”

  “He asks because he's a vain goat.” Sander entered into the attempt to give her a moment to compose herself. “Big stitches leave big scars.”

  She ignored this sally completely. “Dylan, what happened? How did you cut yourself?”

  “It's not a cut,” the black man interrupted without thinking. “Sword wounds leave nice tidy edges. This is a,”

  “Sander,” Dylan warned.

  “If you didn't get cut, what in the world happened to you?” Rory persisted.

  “I had a little accident.”

  “It must have happened while you were out,” she said stiffly still angry over his earlier evasion. “Were there very many other men involved in your little accident?”

  “Only three,” he said and grinned down at her as she fumed.

  “Were they injured too?” She vowed not to lose her temper over that superior grin.

  He raised one arrogant eyebrow, but refused to answer her question.

  She was not amused. “Dylan this is crazy.” Rory was afraid truly afraid. And the pitch of her voice rose. “You could've been killed.”

  “I wasn't.” He calmly cut her off.

  “Not this time,” she went on wildly. “But what about next time? There'll always be a next time with you won't there?”

  “I told you that before we left the island.” His calm, deep words did nothing to soothe the turmoil in her heart. He was right, of course. He had warned her that his life was filled with gore and mayhem. He’d even cautioned her about his own predisposition towards violence. She’d not wanted to believe him. Now here was the evidence laid bare before her, raw and bloody. She hated it.

  “You said you got your information listening to drunks at parties,” she accused and a little sob tore at her throat.

  Dylan didn't admit or refute his lies. There’d been so many, he wouldn’t know where to begin recalling them. His steady eyes held hers.

  She felt her spirit quiet. Her heart stopped its frantic racing. Rory realized she had only thought of herself, her own fear. She did not spare a thought for his pain. Which must be considerable.

  “I'm sorry Dylan. I suppose my ranting isn't very helpful. I'm sitting here scolding you when I should be doing something to help. Does it hurt very much?”

  He gave a low chuckle and drawled, “It's not something I'd recommend to fill an idle hour.”

  She remembered something she had in her room. She stood to go get it, saying, “I'll be right back.”

  When Rory had left, Dylan gave a brusque order, “Sander get this finished before she comes back. She doesn't need to see any more surgery tonight.”

  “I'm on the last stitch,” he agreed with his nephew. Aurora seemed to become whiter and more strained every time she’d seen Sander draw a stitch. He snipped the trailing ends of gut beside each tiny knot. Then he straightened to pack his instruments back into the wig box. Next he cleaned the area around the wound with soap and water from the pitcher and wash bowl in the corner. Then he carefully dipped a square of clean muslin into the jar of Mother and plastered it gently across the surface of the stitches. Sander was just winding a length of clean linen around Dylan's torso to form a snug bandage when Rory returned.

  “You're done,” she exclaimed. Neither man missed the note of relief in her voice. “This will help you sleep and lessen the pain. I should have thought of it earlier.” She held up a small blue bottle. “If you'll just take a few drops, you'll sleep soundly until tomorrow afternoon. It's,”

  “Laudanum,” both men said in unison. Sander's eyes grew round at the sight of the tiny bottle in her hand. Dylan merely smiled lazily in her direction. Their response startled her.

  She groped for what to say next. “Well, mmm... as I was about to say, it's a great help,” she assured them. “It really is. It won't hurt you. You'll just fall asleep.”

  “Miss Aurora he can't take laudanum.” Sander stepped protectively in front of his nephew. “No, no it’s simply out of the question. You can take that hellish stuff right back to your room.”

  The man behind him in the chair spoke with quiet resignation, “Sander if I promise not to take the laudanum, will you stop guarding me like a rabid mastiff?”

  Sander turned shamefaced. “I'm sorry Dylan. I may have over-reacted. But you know what that stuff does to you.”

  “What does it do to you?” Rory was very interested. Was it possible the man actually had a weakness?

  “Sweetheart, laudanum is a wonderful drug for most people. But it has an odd effect upon me.”

  “It does? If it doesn't put you to sleep, then what does it do? I mean, when I take it, I fall into the most restful sleep. It's marvelous really.” She stopped to study the bottle. “Although I have heard it can be very addicting. If you're not careful about how much and how often you take it, you can develop an unhealthy appetite for laudanum.”

  Dylan endured this lecture with equanimity before he replied, “I know Rory.”

  “Is that what happened to you? Did you use too much laudanum and become dependent upon it?”

  “No I did not abuse laudanum. But I can't use it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it drives him stark raving crazy, that's why.” Sander's answer was almost incoherent.

  “Crazy?” She stared at the seated man in disbelief. “Really? Lunatic crazy?”

  Dylan frowned at Sander and corrected him, “No, it does not make me a lunatic. It makes me hallucinate.”

  “Halluci… what?”

  “Hallucinate, it's a medical term for seeing and hearing things that aren't really there,” he explained.

  “See,” Sander said, folding his arms satisfied with his nephew's explanation. “He admits it drives him crazy.”

  “Sander it's a temporary state caused by the drug. It's not a symptom of insanity.”

  “That's easy for you to say, last time you took the blasted stuff I had to tie you to the bed to keep you from trying to kill the imaginary Indians you saw invading the room. Miss Aurora,” Sander turned to the girl to plead his case. “He had that devilish knife of his at the chambermaid's throat before I could stop him. Ask her, why don't you? She thought you were crazy.”

  “Sander stop.” All the lazy ease had left Dylan's voice when he saw the sudden anxiety flicker across her face. “You're scaring Rory. Besides be reasonable, I only took laudanum the one time.”

  “One time was more than enough.” His grumble was subdued.

  Rory watched this interplay with wide eyes. “I, I, think I'd better keep this bottle in my room,” she stammered uncertain as to who to believe.

  Dylan explained matter-of-factly, “Sweetheart my physician assures me that even though it’s a rare condition, it’s not unknown.” He reached out a hand to her and coaxed, “I promise you have nothing to fear from me.”

  He took her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. He didn't get up but placed a friendly kiss on her knuckles. Then he ordered her to bed, “Away with you, woman. You're keeping me up.”

  She smiled impishly and started to leave. “You probably are exhausted. Good night Dylan, Sander. I'll pray for you both before I go to sleep.” She nodded to them before closing the door behind her.

  Dylan waited until he heard the distinct sound of her bedchamber before he spoke to his uncle. “Toss me a clean shirt.”

  Sander went to the chest beside the bed. He pulled out one of the drawers and fished around for a white shirt. He handed it over saying, “I don't know why you even bother putting on a clean shirt. You'll probably bleed all over this one too.”

  Dylan gingerly pushed one arm and then the other through the sleeves of the shirt. He dragged it up over his shoulders. He pulled on his vest. Then he reac
hed for the key in the vest pocket. “I don't plan on getting shot again. Once an evening is my limit.”

  “Jest if you must,” Sander snapped with irritation. “But you're an idiot if you leave this house before the morrow. Whatever mad start you think to accomplish can wait till the morning.”

  “No, it can't.” Dylan plucked a cloak from one of the pegs lining the walls. He settled it over his shoulders. He took a short barreled pistol from under his pillow and tucked it into the waistband of his britches.

  “I'm going with you,” grunted Sander.

  “No you're not,” he was corrected. “You're staying here so that if I don't show up by breakfast, someone can send Connor to find me.”

  “Where should I tell him to look for you?” the black man responded bitterly.

  “The docks,” Dylan said. He moved toward the doorway, but stopped before leaving to add one more thing. “Sander, do you think you might set the room straight for me?” He left without waiting to hear the other man's reply.

  Sander rolled his eyes in disgust before moving the chair back along the wall and pulling the rug back into place. Padding down the hall, he was shocked to see Rory standing in the open doorway of her chamber waiting for him to pass.

  “Dylan left again, didn't he?” There was a sad concern in her voice. “Will he be all right? He's lost so much blood, and his back must be a torment right now.”

  The black man took a breath and pondered for a moment, trying to decide how to answer the question. “I don't know Miss Aurora. I truly don't know if he'll be all right. But I suppose I'll do what I always do. I'll just wait and hope he comes back.” The words were bleak.

  In the cold Georgia night, Dylan tied up his horse to the railing in front of a noisy tavern on the waterfront. No one would notice an extra animal. Light spilled through the saloon’s grimy window. Coarse laughter sounded from the interior. He judged the place would scarce close its doors before the sun rose. That would give him more than enough time.

  Since there were no street torches, getting unobtrusively down to the docks was an easy task. He strolled down the incline from Bull Street. Then he walked to Factor's Row. Up and down the street rose massive cotton warehouses. They looked like prosperous businessmen. Their bow windows protruded over the cobblestoned way like fat bellies.