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

by Grace Walton

  Dylan began inserting the captured brass key into the lock of every door. He knew eventually he'd discover the right establishment. Halfway down the row, he heard a screeching whistle and feet pounding heavily on the cobblestones. He ducked into a deep doorway. It was the watch.

  “Hiram, Hiram!” A man's hoarse excited shout echoed down the dark empty street.

  “Here I am,” another man shouted back.

  “What are you yelling about?”

  “There's a poor old bugger in the road in front of Mrs. Belton’s boarding house. We got to move him for daylight.”

  “Is he dead?” Hiram was disgusted at being roused over something so petty.

  “Dead drunk, maybe.” He gave a snorting laugh at his own joke.

  “If he’s not dead, we got at least three hours then.” That came from Hiram.

  “Let's us go by O'Steen's on the way to Mrs. Belton’s and hoist a few. Chances are the old sod will wake up and go home on his own.” It seemed like solid reasoning to the other man, so they left in the direction of the pub.

  As soon as they were out of sight, Dylan began trying the locks again. He smiled in triumph when the key finally slid smoothly into a lock and turned. A short click indicated the lock was open. He raised it off the latch and silently pushed the thick oak door. Once inside, Dylan tried to locate a lantern. It would be impossible to search the dark building without one. Most places kept a lantern handy near the door. He felt along the wall until his hand brushed against the metal bottom of a lamp. It was hanging from a nail about eye level. When it was lit it cast eerie shadows onto the tall bales of raw cotton piled in neat rows.

  The rustle of wharf rats came from the rafters above. Pine board steps marched against one wall. They led up to an open attic. He nudged aside a bold brown rat with a boot toe as he climbed the steps. It squeaked and bared its teeth before scratching off into the blackness.

  The attic was really no more than a rough platform built on stilts. Peering up over the edge, he saw the square outlines of boxes stacked five deep. Across the front of each box the word Avansley was stenciled in black paint.

  He climbed up and used his knife to pry the nailed lid away from the nearest box. Inside under a layer of straw, Dylan caught the metallic glint of gun barrels. Rifles with oiled wood stocks filled the box. He was confident some of the Avansley boxes held ammunition to go with the guns. He meticulously replaced the lid and hammered it back into place with the butt of the knife.

  Satisfied, he got out of the warehouse as quickly as possible. He snapped the lock on the closed latch together. There was only one more thing left to discover. Whoever owned this particular warehouse would surely be his traitor. Bold red letters above the door proclaimed that the warehouse belonged to Captain Graham Windsor.

  Chapter Ten

  An hour after dawn Sander could wait no longer to check on Dylan. He’d stifled his concern until the hall outside the rooms was quiet. He then slipped into his nephew's chamber. Expecting to see the wounded man asleep in the four-poster bed, Sander jumped when he heard the greeting from the other side of the room.

  “Good morning Uncle.” Dylan was stripped to the waist. He stood over a speckled washbowl resting upon a low chest. A small mirror hung above the chest. In the mirror, Sander watched Dylan’s long, steady sweeps with a straight edged razor. The bandage around his lean body looked like a fancy military sash. Something a stylish fop would wear to impress the debutantes at a ball. Sander came over to examine it.

  “How're the stitches?” He saw one place on the linen that was rusty, damp, and ugly.

  “Fine,” Dylan said.

  “You're a liar,” Sander grunted. “They always hurt more the day after.”

  Dylan mopped his face with a hand towel and turned, staring down his uncle. “It hurts like bloody, sodding, cursed Hades. Now get out.”

  “Let me change the bandage first.” Sander got the box out from under the bed. He'd shoved it there the night before. Cutting the linen away, he saw what he'd most feared. The torn flesh around the stitches was swollen and purple. He scowled and said, “You've got to stay in bed today, all day. You should have stayed there last night. Any sudden movement could rupture this wound.”

  “Sander just slap another dressing on the thing,” Dylan ordered. “I promise. I will come back to this room after breakfast. I’ll not leave for the rest of the day. If you’ll stop harping and wringing your hands.”

  “Would you consider having breakfast in here?” The black man finished the bandage and stood back to examine his handiwork.

  Dylan clenched his jaw and shrugged carefully into the shirt he'd laid out on the bed. “No, I'm having breakfast with the rest of you.”

  Sander pulled at the shirt to hide the bulky material beneath. “You're just trying to make her think you're all right,” he accused.

  Dylan's face was impassive when he replied, “I am all right.” He didn't wait to hear whatever else Sander had to say. He set his jaw and left the room. He went out into the hall and down the stairs with no sign of injury or pain.

  Entering the small dining room, he heard Tirzah and Rory coming through the entrance. Breakfast had to be carried from the kitchen out in the yard. Both of the women supported heavy platters. He took Rory's away from her and deposited it on the polished wooden table.

  There was a distinct question in her eyes as she searched his face. “Good morning Mr. St. John, how are you this morning?”

  She desperately wanted to ask about his injury. But she couldn't in front of Tirzah.

  “I am well, wonderfully well Miss Aurora, and how are you?”

  His gallantry told her nothing. She wrinkled her nose at him and sat in the chair he'd pulled out for her.

  “How fare you this morning Mistress Moon?

  “I'm fine. Thank you kindly for askin’.” Tirzah put her own platter down. She went back out the door to fetch the rest of the food.

  As soon as she was gone Rory pounced. “How are you really feeling?” She studied his face intently. As usual, it was inscrutable.

  “I feel really hungry.”

  Rory rolled her eyes in disgust. “You know full well what I'm asking. You are being irritating on purpose. Now tell me.”

  Tirzah came in rattling pottery as she tried to balance a coffee urn and several assorted covered bowls. Dylan's narrowed eyes warned Rory not to speak of his injury. She nodded in understanding. As the hostess, she began serving his plate from the array of food in front of them.

  Tirzah started talking as she poured coffee from the pot into their cups, “Miss Rory, I done heard the strangest thing this morning.” She waited to see if they would demonstrate any interest.

  Without being asked to illuminate, Tirzah told her tale with the relish of an accomplished gossip. “Well, I went down to the market round day break. Like I always does.” She offered them cream and sugar. “And I seen Missus Belton, what runs the boardin’ house. And she done told me a wild tale.”

  Dylan's eyebrow rose, but he kept on eating quietly. Rory noticed, and she did her best to catch his eye. But he appeared completely absorbed with his breakfast.

  “What kind of wild tale?” Rory probed, almost afraid to hear what Tirzah might say.

  “She say,” Tirzah answered in words so broad and sarcastic they intimated Mrs. Belton had probably made the whole thing up. “That one of her boarders got brought home last night by a strange Eye-talian.”

  Rory glared directly at him. He brought the cup up to his lips, drank, and turned a concerned face towards the black woman.

  “An Italian, you say?” His voice was full of surprise.

  “That what she say.” Tirzah still didn't believe the whole story. But as long as he was interested she might as well enjoy giving him all the details. Her scandalized words were almost whispered.

  “She say long about midnight she opened the door and found that Eye-talian and her boarder. That boarder was all slumped down. She say he looked drunk as a po
ssum in a cane buck barrel. That foreign feller try to talk to her but she couldn't make out what he was sayin'. So she just told him to take her boarder up to the room and git.” She stopped to draw in a deep gulp of air. It was always so satisfying to repeat a good story. “And that's not all.” She let the delicious syllables dangle in the air.

  “There's more?” Rory sent an accusing frown across the table at Dylan. The bland smile he gave her in return was infuriating. She knew he was somehow involved in this escapade. Savannah was a sleepy place at best. Sinister Italians were not the norm.

  “They show is.” The housekeeper nodded. “They was a gun shooted by her window in the middle ‘o the night and moaning something awful. She was out before day to sweep her steps. Like she always do and they was a man laying right smack dabble in the middle of the road. Right in front of her house.”

  “Was it the Italian?” Dylan wondered out loud.

  “No sir, it was not.” Tirzah had asked Mrs.Belton the same question. So she knew the answer. “Missus Belton went out to check. It wutn' the Eye-talian. It was some old dirty sailor man. And he wutn' even shot. But she say he had a big goose egg rising on the top his head.”

  “What an amazing tale.” He shook his head in astonishment and took another sip of coffee.

  “Yes, isn't it?” The heavy suspicion in Rory’s voice was aimed directly at him.

  Tirzah bustled out, eager to tell all the other servants about the incredible happening at Mrs. Belton’s house. Rory stared speculatively at the big man for several minutes. He continued to eat undisturbed by her examination.

  “That poor sailor must have had an accident.” She let the words drop casually. “Just like you did.”

  “They happen all the time.”

  “Especially around you,” she muttered. “What other languages do you speak? I mean besides Italian?”

  “It was Russian. Why do you want to know?” he asked, unperturbed by the seemingly bizarre question.

  “I just want to eliminate the leftover nationalities in case Tirzah comes home with any more wild tales. It would be nice to know when you were the cause of trouble. And when I could judge you innocent.” There was a definite sarcastic undertone in her voice.

  “I've never been innocent.”

  She was not about to be deterred. “How many?”

  He shrugged and said, “I can ask for water in most western languages.”

  She shook her head woefully. “I guess that means if I hear about a rogue Chinaman, at least I'll know it’s not you.”

  He chuckled and turned back to his plate. She reached over and placed a compassionate hand on his sleeve and asked softly, “Does your wound hurt very badly?”

  “No,” he said. His constant silver eyes held hers without revealing anything.

  “It must be excruciating.” She tossed her head in exasperation. “Gunshot wounds hurt.”

  “Had a lot of them, have you?” There was a devilish twinkle in his eyes, but his face remained bland. His voice deepened suggestively. “Perhaps later we could compare scars?”

  The legs of her chair scraped the wooden floor as she shoved it aside. She stood with defiant fists on her hips. “This is not a laughing matter, you impossible man. You could have been killed last night. Don't you even care?”

  He appreciated the sparks flashing from her extraordinary eyes. They were even more beautiful when she was angry. What he said next made them explode like fireworks shot over the Thames on the King’s birthday. “No, I don't care. I don’t want you to care either.”

  She flew around the table to confront him on this last remark. “I can care if I want to.” She pushed a lock of russet hair away from her face. “Blast your hide, I do care. I don't know why I care, but I do. You’ve got less sense than any man I've ever known.” She leaned even closer toward him. She pointed a finger at his nose. “You sit there with your superior attitude and jest about dying. Can't you see I don't want you to die? And don't start lecturing me again about falling for your fatal charm. I'd care about anybody who lived as recklessly as you do. This isn't about attraction, love, or lust. It's about life, your life. Even if it's worthless to you, it's not to me. It’s not worthless to Sander or to your brothers or to your sister. Your life is not worthless. You are not worthless. You are priceless.”

  She was near to becoming hysterical. Her hair had completely fallen out of its knot and flowed around her like a flaming sea, dipping and floating with the furious movements of her body. “Sander said something terrible would happen to you. He said you might get hurt and blast it all you did.”

  Dylan knew the accepted way of calming a hysterical person was a brisk slap across the face. If she’d been anyone else, he would have easily accomplished the feat. But he’d never harm Rory. He could never make himself strike her. It would be impossible. So he caught her hand easily and pulled her down onto his lap. He started speaking before she could continue her angry tirade.

  “It's all right sweetheart.” His voice was soothing and deep. “It's all right.”

  She fought him, not wanting to give up the anger that had energized her. Rory knew once the white-hot fury passed, she would be perilously close to tears. And she refused to be conquered by them.

  “It's not all right. You could have been killed.”

  Her argument was cut off abruptly by the gentle pressure of his lips capturing hers. Now she couldn't think about her fury or the fear that had caused it. All she could do was wonder at the tenderness of his kiss. His arms tightened around her as he deepened the kiss. She surrendered herself in trust to him. When he began to lift his mouth from hers, the hands behind his head pulled him back for one last heart- stopping moment.

  That was when he felt his legendary control begin to slip. It was a subtle thing granted, but disturbing to him nonetheless. Dylan, breathing raggedly, was startled by the riotous effect she had upon him. He’d dallied with Europe's most voluptuous courtesans and had never been stirred as he was by the virginal girl in his arms. He looked down into her wet pansy eyes and was instantly drawn into their depths. The honestly and longing she showed him in that gaze was his undoing. Bending his dark head, and against his better judgment, he took her lips once again. A fire leapt up and burned forever between them.

  “Dylan!”

  Rory tried to jump up at the bark from the doorway, but Dylan's steely hands kept her in place. Sander was glowering down at his nephew.

  “What in the name of all that’s Holy are you doing?” the black man asked.

  “Let me go!” she whispered embarrassed by the scene they were creating.

  St. John’s eyes caressed her face for a long moment. He was memorizing her features before he loosened his hold on her. He replied, “As you will.”

  She refused to look at either man as she fled from the dining room in a swirl of skirts.

  “Don't do this to her.” Sander marched belligerently up to the man seated lazily in the chair. “She's already halfway in love with you. She doesn't know the difference between flirtation and love. Leave her be or”

  “What could you possibly do if I refuse?” Dylan's eyes narrowed dangerously at the implied threat.

  The black man swallowed hard, but held his ground. “I'll set Connor on you.”

  The room rumbled with a harsh laugh as Dylan got up. “Then who would save her from him? He's a worse rake than I am. You’d be setting the hungry fox to guard the delectable chicken. You'll have to do better than that Sander.” Dylan ambled out the door.

  Sander threw the only threat he had left. “I'll tell her about the marriage.”

  Dylan turned in the hallway and taunted softly, “No you won't. You won't tell her because you don't want to see her shackled for life to a scoundrel like me.”

  “Dylan wait,” he called to the tall man mounting the stairs. “I was wrong. I know you'd not hurt her intentionally, but she'll be hurt all the same.”

  St. John stopped to address him sarcastically, “It's so comforti
ng to know how highly you rate my character. For your peace of mind, what you saw down there was not an attempt at seduction.”

  “What would you call it then?” Sander challenged from the floor below.

  St. John said, “Temporary insanity.”

  He pounded up the staircase without further delay. Sander heard the door to his nephew's chamber slam shut. The black man walked dejected back towards the dining room. He slumped into a chair. Tirzah, back from the yard stood behind the buffet. She’d heard it all.

  “You got troubles Mr. Bu Allah?” she asked the seated man.

  “My name is not Bu Allah.” He was tired of the pretense and had more important things to worry about.

  She didn't wait to be asked when she pulled out the chair beside him and took a seat. “I know that.” She poured them both a cup of coffee from the sterling silver pot on the table.

  “How did you know?” It was said with clinical interest.

  “Seth told me you asked him about the cotton crop. He said you know all about chopping cotton. Onliest folks that know about chopping cotton is planters and slaves. That told me you ain't no Bu Allah.”

  He admired her perception. “I was born a slave on a plantation outside of Richmond Virginia.”

  “But you's free now?” After lacing her coffee with three spoonfuls of sugar, she passed him the sugar bowl.

  He nodded and watched her carefully. If Tirzah chose to, she could destroy his ability to assist Dylan at all. She smiled and put his mind to rest.

  “I was a slave once too. But I'm free now, praise God.”

  “You're a believer, then?” He was very interested.

  “I am.” Her face beamed with joy.

  “How can you live in this place and be happy? Even the free Negroes are treated like slaves by the whites here.”