by Grace Walton
“What did you do to him?” She was certain bodily harm was involved.
“I did nothing to him,” he continued smoothly as he gathered up the sleeping baby. “We had a very civil conversation.”
“What did you say to him?” she accused.
“I told him to go home.”
“Was that all you said?”
“Mostly,” he hedged. “Now I want you to go home too. I'll tie my horse up at the docks. Give me fifteen minutes. Go find him down there. Ride him home.”
“What about the baby?”
“I'll take care of the baby,” he assured her. “And Rory?”
“Yes,” she said as she sat on the bed preparing to wait the specified amount of time.
“Wear my coat.” His smile warmed her down to the toes. “Nothing could make you look like a boy. But the coat will cover you up. And don't look anyone in the face. No one in his right mind could mistake those eyes of yours as anything but female.”
Rory was absurdly pleased with his odd compliment. But she didn't want him to know that. “When will you be home with the baby?”
“I'll be back in time to take you to the Avansley's dinner party.”
As he pivoted to leave, she saw a bloody stain on the back of his shirt. She knew some of his stitches must be hemorrhaging. Her horrified intake of breath caused him to turn to see what was threatening her.
“You're bleeding,” she murmured explaining as his narrowed eyes automatically scanned the room to locate the source of danger.
Finding none, the steady pewter eyes settled on her face. “It’s nothing. Remember what I told you.”
“Can I do anything to help you?” she asked bleakly, knowing she couldn't.
He shook his head. He seemed unconcerned about the slowly spreading stain.
“You'd be all right if you hadn't followed me here.” The words were laden with guilt and remorse.
Dylan sauntered back to her and leaned down as if he would whisper something in her ear. Instead, he tilted her downcast face up to his with his free hand. He captured her lips with his own.
The kiss only lasted a second. But in that tiny second Rory's heart lurched. Her breath quickened.
“It was worth it, whatever the price,” he whispered against her lips. He was gone before she opened her eyes.
Rory had no problem finding the gelding. And thankfully no one seemed interested in a scruffy young boy who looked to be wearing his father's coat. Back at the house on Liberty Square, she gave the animal to a waiting stable boy. She crept up the back steps. She was able to get back in the house unnoticed. And she finally made it to the cool, dark sanctuary of her room.
Instead of changing immediately into more suitable clothing, she lay across the high rice-carved bed and prayed.
Lord, keep him safe. I know I'm not supposed to worry about him, but it seems so natural to do just that. Help me trust that you have my life and his life in your hands, and that you don't make mistakes.
Hopping off the tall bed, she moved to the wardrobe. She took out a simple day dress and changed into it. Seated at the vanity, she twisted the long, heavy length of her hair into a respectable knot. Then she fastened the ebony string of rose pearls around her throat.
In the mirror, she saw a fashionable young woman. It was still difficult for her to understand she was that fashionable young lady. A few weeks ago, she’d been a rag-tag hoyden with no social graces. The joke of Savannah, she thought ruefully.
But that had been before Dylan. Tonight she was going to a ball in a beautiful evening gown on the arm of a remarkably handsome man. She was to be announced to the whole world as his fiancée. And the surprise on the faces of the gentry of Savannah would be wonderful to behold. All because of him.
She sighed and got up to go downstairs. Her intention was to wait in the double parlor nearest the street to watch for his return. Settling into a comfortable chair by the window, she prepared to read and keep an eye on the street.
There was a brisk rap from the door knocker and the mellow tones of Tirzah answering. Someone entered the foyer. Then Rory heard the plodding steps of the black housekeeper as she came toward the parlor.
“Miss Rory, it's Miss Rebekah,” Tirzah called from the entrance to the parlor. “She wants to if you at home to her.”
Rory was confused. This was not at all the way her friend usually acted. They were bosom bows since childhood. They didn’t stand on ceremony with each other. “Of course I'm at home to her.” With that, Rory got up herself to welcome Rebekah.
“What is this 'at home' business?” she teased when she saw her friend.
Rebekah Gottlieb was wearing a lovely plum-colored muslin visiting ensemble that flattered her trim little figure. But she did not look happy. The small dark woman's face was a mask as she answered seriously, “I didn't know if I would be received.”
Rory laughed disbelieving. “You must be jesting. I'm always glad to see you.”
There was a flood of relief washing across Rebekah’s face. “After what Bram told me, I wasn't sure. Especially since I was such a cat to you the last time you were in town. I’m so sorry. I was just being a jealous twit.”
Rory indicated a seat on the brocaded sofa. Ignoring the last part of Rebekah’s words, she sat beside her friend. “What did Bram say?”
“Are you really engaged?” The question was eager.
The stunning red-head twisted the huge emerald ring on her finger and stammered, “Yes, yes I am.”
The other girl's black eyes danced with excitement. They were the only remarkable feature in a rather plain face. “And did he really challenge Bram to a duel?”
“What?” The word exploded from her lips.
“Bram came home about an hour ago. He said your fiancé threatened him with a duel if Bram kept taking you out in his carriage.” Rebekah giggled at the delicious thought. “Of course I'm glad poor Bram doesn't have to meet him on the field of honor.” She giggled again in a way that was fast becoming annoying to Rory. “But it must be heavenly to have two men willing to fight over you. One of them might have gotten killed.”
Rory sat up straighter. She fixed a severe eye on the bubbling girl. “For goodness sakes, Rebekah stop. Dueling is not something to speak of lightly.”
The little brunette's face fell. “Oh Rory, I’m sorry.” But it only took a moment for her to regain her good humor. “Well, we don't have to worry. Because Bram agreed to stop squiring you about. Although I don't mind saying he was not happy about it. Not in the least. Now tell me what he looks like.”
“Dylan?” Rory was stalling for time. Just what and how much could she tell her best friend about him?
“Is that his name?” She looked like she might swoon. “What a heavenly name. Is he dark or fair?” Rebekah interrogated.
“He's dark, very dark.” Rory gulped. She tried to decide what to say next.
“He's not Spanish, is he?” There was a trace of disappointment in the Rebekah’s voice.
“No, he's not Spanish,” Rory assured her. “He's British.” That seemed safe to say.
“Is he tall?”
“Yes, he's very tall.” She still seemed distracted. “Very tall.”
“How did you meet?”
“Well,” Rory murmured. This question was hard. “Gray introduced us.”
“How nice,” the dark girl chortled her response. “He must be a friend of your brother's.”
Rory nodded, hoping the questions had come to an end. Fortunately, Tirzah chose that moment to interrupt them by bringing in a tray of cakes.
“Miss Rory, I'll be right back with the tea.” The housekeeper looked straight at Rory as if to tell her something. Rory couldn't imagine what it might be.
“Bram said your fiancé was too dangerous to cross.” She shivered delicately before continuing, “I don't believe I'd want to be married to a dangerous man.” Of course, she would she admitted to herself. But she wanted to see the reaction of her friend sitting beside her on
the sofa.
“I wouldn't call him dangerous exactly.” Rory groped for the words she wanted. “He’s not dangerous really.” She was sure she’d be thrown into the Lake of Fire for that enormous lie.
“What would you call him then?” Rebekah persisted.
“Impervious.” It seemed like an apt description.
“That's a rather strange way to describe the man you love isn't it?” Her mouth twisted into a distasteful moue.
“He is invulnerable. Nothing touches him. Nothing hurts him.”
“What do you mean?” That didn't make any sense to the brunette.
A rueful smile settled on Rory's face as she began trying to describe Dylan St. John to the other girl. “I mean nothing seems to stop the man. Except, perhaps, laudanum.” She stopped and frowned.
Rebekah was intrigued at the slip. “What did you say about laudanum?”
Rory reached for a plate and began elaborately trying to select an iced cake from the serving tray. She ignored her friend's last question.
“Rory,” Rebekah's calling her name forced Rory to respond.
“Pardon?”
“What were you saying about your fiancé and laudanum?”
“Oh,” She said and took a dainty bite of her cake. She acted as if what she had said was unimportant. “He doesn't like to take it.”
Rebekah sat back perfectly satisfied. She nodded in agreement. “Well, neither do I. It gives me the most awful headaches the next day.”
Rory breathed a sigh of relief. “Really Rebekah, I'm not doing a very good job of describing Dylan. Are you going to the Avansley's ball tonight?”
The other girl nodded and spoke in a cutting voice, “I don't know why Irene persists in calling her party a ball. It's the most ostentatious thing imaginable. But I suppose the whole town will turn out for the chance to meet her legendary uncle. Lord Richard Avansley.” She giggled. “I'll wager he's two hundred years old and speaks with a lisp. You know how those fancy Englishmen are. But yes, I'll be there along with the rest of the throng. Why do ask?”
“Dylan is escorting me to the Avansley ball.” Rory was more than ready for this interview to be over. “You can see him for yourself tonight. I’ll introduce you.”
Tirzah came in again, this time with the tea. “Miss Aurora,” Something was wrong, Tirzah never called Rory be her full name. “I'm sorry, but I needs you to come look at the menu for tomorrow. To see if it suits you.”
Rebekah stood up, “Yes, dear, go and help Tirzah. Don’t let me hold you here. I've got to run along home anyway. It will take me all afternoon to get ready for the Avansley's party.” She walked out of the parlor through the foyer toward the door. “I'll see you and your dangerous man on the dance floor.” She was still giggling as she tripped down the steps and let her coachman hand her into the carriage.
Rory waved to her. She shut the heavy oak door. Once she heard it click shut, she leaned against its bulk. “Oh, thank you Tirzah. You saved my life. I couldn't stand much more of her questions and giggling. She's been my best friend forever, but I swear I never noticed how much she giggles.”
The round black woman scowled at her mistress. “You ain't gonna be thanking me when you hear what I got to tell you.”
“Oh?” Rory commented weakly. This day was one calamity following another.
Tirzah nodded. Her ample mouth set in a hard straight line. “Mister St. John needs your help.”
A cold hand gripped the girl’s heart as she thought about the gunshot wound. “His back?” she asked apprehensively.
“No ma'am.” Tirzah began lumbering toward the kitchen entrance. “It ain't his back.”
Stepping out into the brilliant sunlight of the yard, Rory was immediately aware of voices coming from the stable.
“Aw Davey, I'll get my Papa to buy your indenture papers from old tightwad Windsor. We can find you something better to do than work in a stable.”
The suggestive words came from a tall, buxom girl with her arms locked around Dylan's waist. She was dressed in a homespun brown gown that was covered by a voluminous apron. Her straw-colored hair trailed from under an old-fashioned mob cap. She looked like one of the country women who came into town to sell their vegetables at the market.
Dylan pinched the woman's cheek. He tried to step away from her by making a low voiced joke. It didn't work. The rough woman cackled with risqué laughter. Then she attached herself to him like a leech. He leaned down to whisper in the farm woman’s ear.
“He doesn't need my help,” Rory snapped at Tirzah. “He's doing fine on his own.”
The housekeeper laid a restricting hand on the girl’s arm. She stopped Rory from turning back toward the house. “No ma'am, he ain't. Miss Rory he been trying to get rid of that hussy for a long time now. And she just won’t go away.”
“It doesn't seem to be bothering him much.”
She watched him shake his head and laugh at something the coarse woman asked him. Rory frowned in disgust. She could well imagine what the question had been even without hearing it. Her angry feet, ate up the ground between where she had been standing and the laughing couple. She was awesome in her furious dignity as she approached them.
“Davey, you get back in that stable and get to work,” she barked.
Rory thought she detected a gleam of admiration in his eyes. That was just before he began pulling at his forelock and whining something about being sent to the market.
“That's enough, you sluggard. I'm not interested in your excuses.” She pointed to the interior of the barn and commanded, “Get back to work.”
He hurried to do her bidding. Then Rory turned to the startled woman. “And you, madam, you may leave my property at once. We do not allow women of low reputation to dally with our servants.”
The woman in the homespun dress took exception to this. She tried to defend herself. “I ain't no trull of the streets,” she spat out. “I was only helping the poor man with the wee babe.”
Rory's face took on a haughty superior cast similar to the one she’d seen Irene Avansley sport all last season. “My good woman, that villain Davey has been tomcatting around the market all week long. He takes my poor maid's baby to attract attention. That baby acts like a magnet for women. You're lucky I came out and stopped him before he had you in his evil snare. The man has the morals of a tomcat.”
“He does?” she said with a hopeful note.
“Madam!” Rory threatened sternly.
“Oh aye,” she said instantly repentant. “He's a regular rogue he is. Taking advantage of a poor innocent lass like me. Thank you Ma'am for saving me.” It wasn't very convincing. And there was more than a hint of regret in her voice as she shambled off down the road in the direction of the market.
“Evil snare?”
Rory heard his familiar sardonic drawl behind her. Musical feminine laughter filled the stable as she spun around to justify her use of the outrageous phrase. “I heard that in a play two years ago in Charleston.”
Dylan opened the door for her and followed her into the residence. It was at that precise moment Rory noted he was wearing the vest she was sure he had discarded at the Lavender Rose. It hung loosely unbuttoned over his untucked shirt.
“I thought you left this,” she said as she touched the expensive material of the vest, “at the Lavender Rose.”
“No, I kept it.”
Abruptly, Rory realized why he was still wearing the vest. He must be using it to cover the blood soaking his shirt. She knew he’d not want her sympathy. But she couldn’t help making an offhand comment.
“It covers the stain very well. If I didn't know you were bleeding, I would only guess you had a very peculiar taste in clothing.”
Dylan grinned. He was pleased by her astute observation. Aurora Windsor, for all her beauty and fetching ways, was a very intelligent woman.
“I will go remedy my offensive garments straightaway if you will send a maid up with some bath water.”
“Do you need
any help?” There was a hint of her concern in her voice.
“Is that an invitation?” He baited her. Seeing the blush rise into her cheeks had become one of his favorite pastimes. “I know I'd enjoy it, but I don’t think you’re that adventurous, yet.”
“No, it is not an invitation,” Rory replied primly. “And if you feel well enough to harass me, you feel well enough to take care of yourself.” She stalked away leaving him alone in the hall.
Chapter Eleven
The ball gown sparkled every time the girl moved. The white taffeta was heavily embroidered with hand cut crystals. The light from a nearby brace of candles danced across its textured surface. The bodice was cut lower than anything she had ever worn. Aurora frowned and briefly considered tucking a lace handkerchief into the neckline of the gown. She felt almost naked with so much exposed bosom. Knowing intuitively that would spoil the lines of the beautiful dress, she sternly refused the impulse. But it was difficult. Dylan had specifically insisted on low necklines. Well, she thought ruefully. This dress ought to suit. If she took a deep breath, she would be in danger of completely embarrassing herself.
Rory sat and stared at the stranger in her vanity mirror. The new maid had just left. She was an elegant creature Sander had somehow, who knew how, hired that afternoon.
Marie was undeniably French. Even her servant’s toilette seemed chic. The little woman had taken one long considering look at Rory and had begun to work. Rice powder was dusted on the girl's ivory shoulders. Hair tongs were heated in hopes of taming her wild mane. The last thing Marie did before she left, was pull the skin-tight creamy kid gloves up to Rory's elbows. And the fruit of her labor sat on the stool before the mirror unmoving.
There really was no reason to tarry here in the bedchamber. And yet she couldn't make herself get up and leave. In the mirror was a beautiful calm woman. In the flesh, Aurora was anything but calm. Her hair was bound up in a series of cunning braids that sat like a burnished coronet on her head. Flattering tendrils escaped at her temples and the nape of her neck.
A greenhouse gardenia was sent up earlier in the afternoon. Enclosed in the little gilt box was a card from the sender. The card was inscribed with a very few words in a very masculine scrawl. Forgive me, St. John, was all it said. It was more in the way of a command than a question.
