by Grace Walton
Chapter Twelve
Rory decided to keep her side of the bargain. Even if Dylan was proving to be a thoroughly unsavory character. It wasn't a specific emotion making her cling to her job. No, she’d told herself that at least three times since reentering the crowded hot ballroom. And she was almost convinced.
It was her word. She’d given her word. And even if it had been given to a rake and a scoundrel like Dylan, it was still her word. It must be kept. So far, she had danced with one old lecher who had kept asking her name. She’d told him at least eight times. He’d stared so long and so hard at her bosom, he became incapable of remembering her name. To make things worse, what little he did say did not even remotely resemble information a spy might use.
To the best of her knowledge, spies were not interested in the newest intestinal purgatives. Or in the fact that weather could be foretold by the color of a hound's urine on tree bark. No, she was absolutely positive these interesting facts were not at all what Dylan had in mind when he'd asked her to listen out for pertinent information.
Next she’d gone through the figures of an elaborate country dance with one of the boys who used to want to talk dogs and horses with her. Now he talked about her hair being full of flaming moonlight. And about how her lips were red as ripe cherries. She’d imagined having a man say those things to her would have been wonderful. But it wasn't. It was uncomfortable and downright embarrassing. After all, there was no suitable polite reply when a man tells you his soul has been set ablaze by the fire from your hair. The best she could do was not giggle in his face. And that was an effort. Rory managed to keep the set smile on her face. But she would have much rather talked of dogs and horses.
Rory still wondered about the stranger in the garden with Dylan. No one came in the French doors. She knew because she’d been watching, like a hawk. And it wasn't easy to maneuver a dancing man in such a way that one could keep a fixed object in sight at all times. But somehow she managed.
Rory noticed a faint sheen of perspiration on the forehead of her dancing partner. The heat of the room was oppressive. Too many people in too small a space, and some of them, none too well washed. Her nose wrinkled ruefully.
A cool fresh breeze coming from the doorway announced someone's entrance. She turned to catch sight of Dylan. He entered alone. Where was the big blonde man? She’d liked his smile. And she’d liked the fact that he seemed unafraid of St. John. Her fiancé seemed to be uninterested in the dancing. He made his way to Celeste Avansley's side. They stood there flirting with each other. There was a familiarity to their exchanges. It appeared, they knew each other far better than they should. Rory didn't like that familiarity.
The woman really did remind her of a spider. Now the spider rapped his arm in response to something he'd leaned intimately over to say. Rory saw him run a suggestive finger up the length of the blond woman's elbow length gloves. His dark head bent to hers. He whispered something obviously private and probably seductive. Then he led her laughing out of the ballroom.
“Eleanor do you see that?” An elderly woman powdered and patched in the fashion of the previous century spoke to her friend. They were sitting in the dowagers' chairs at the edge of the dance floor.
What Patsy?”
Rory found it impossible to ignore their loud grating voices.
“The little Windsor's man just stole off with the English lord's wife.”
They tittered maliciously. “I'm not at all surprised. A man who looks like that, well I say a man like that is only interested in one thing. And it's certainly not matrimony.” Her floury curls bobbed sagely settling a fine white dust onto her somber mud-colored satin dress. “Mark my words. You can never trust one like that. You know what I heard about him don't you?” Eleanor responded.
“No, what?”
“He was visiting the Lavender Rose just this afternoon. He actually bowed to Margaret as she passed. Stood right in the middle of Bull Street and bowed.” The old biddy huffed through her nose at the man's audacity before continuing, “Margaret ignored him of course.”
“Really? Imagine that? Not even married and already unfaithful, poor Aurora. But I always knew she'd come to grief the way she tears around town in men's britches. I heard the two of them put on a shameless display when her brother's ship docked. Locked around each other like two crabs at low tide.” Patsy was enjoying this delicious tidbit of gossip.
That was the limit for Rory. She had to leave this awful place. She’d agreed to pretend to be engaged. But she’d never agreed to become the laughing stock of Savannah. It didn't matter that she knew his trip to the bordello had been prompted by her own recklessness. No that didn't matter one iota.
What really made her angry was the way he’d rushed to that spider's side. Then he’d stolen off with her. Yes, that was really the heart of the matter. All his noble talk of never being attached to a woman was just a lie. A cold, calculated lie. Her lovely eyes hardened like sapphires. She was already walking out of the room to follow him. What the rogue should have said, she thought wrathfully, was that I just wasn't the right woman. Celeste Avansley was his kind of woman, hard, artificial, and sophisticated. Celeste Avansley was the woman he wanted. Rory's heart felt like a cold heavy stone in her chest.
She walked without knowing where she was through the smelly crowded ballroom. Once out of the crowd, she turned down a deserted hall and came upon an anteroom. It was really nothing more than a glorified cloak room. Rory knew this because she’d spent the better part of a party hiding out there last season. The door to the anteroom was closed. She’d heard voices when she entered the passage. So she knew someone was in there.
It must be Dylan and Lady Avansley. She realized suddenly with a sinking feeling. There was nowhere else they could be. The dimly lit corridor only led out to a side entrance. Should she knock, just go right in, or be a complete coward and retire to the carriage? Her mind was in turmoil. If she burst in on a lover's tryst, what would she say? He’d made it very clear from the beginning that they were not to be accountable to each other. So what could she say? Excuse me for interrupting, was the only thing that came to mind. That stupidity would probably set the pair off into howls of laughter. Why couldn't she come up with something more sophisticated and cutting?
A frown settled on her features as she realized she wanted to hurt Dylan, hurt him like he'd hurt her. That would be wrong, so very wrong. He'd never lied to her. He’d never told her cared for her. But her heart still ached. An angry confrontation with Dylan was out of the question now. But what was she to do? If she was humble and meek, she would go back to the ballroom and wait patiently for Dylan. The problem was she didn't feel the least bit humble or meek.
She bit her bottom lip. She looked back down the hall in the direction of the party. The passageway was lit by one branch of flickering candles. The sounds of the dance were loud. The laughter had become strident as more spirits were consumed. Slinking back to the party was her only option. But standing here in the lonely hall seemed preferable to returning to the ball alone.
All the wonderful enchantment of the night seemed to have fled. Now it seemed to be just another tedious Savannah evening. The same mean-spirited people saying the same mean-spirited things, and none of them interesting to her. Just exactly like the parties she'd endured for the last four years. Only this time she didn't even have Bram to make the time pass quickly. Too much Chatham Artillery Punch would only make the party coarser as the evening progressed.
And she was trapped here. Good Lord, what was she going to do? With a heaving sigh Rory thought that she wished Dylan and his spider would just give up the anteroom. If they did, she could hide out in there until this assembly was over.
“It can't be as bad as all that.” It was a deep voice full of humor.
Her eyes filled with quick tears. She snapped open her fan to hide them before she answered, “I beg your pardon?”
Solemn emerald green eyes met her own. It was the stranger from the garden.
He offered his hand. Even though they’d not been introduced, she relented. At the moment, she needed a sympathetic ear. His would do fine.
“Any rascal who makes a beautiful lady sigh like that deserves to pay for the transgression on the field of honor. Give me his name. I'll call the devil out.” His foolish words teased a tiny smile out of her and another sigh.
“I couldn't let you do that sir. He would most likely kill you in a duel.” She tried to withdraw her fingers and found them held fast in the warm strength of his big hand. Something about this man was vaguely familiar. Though Rory was certain, she'd never met him before. He was just as devastating as Dylan. But he seemed St. John’s total opposite. Dylan was dark. This man was golden. He put her in mind of what a Viking must have looked like.
“You haven't got much faith in my ability to rescue maidens in distress,” he mocked. His perfect features lit with a roguish smile.
She smiled back in spite of herself. “Well, I don't know if you are any good at rescues.” She cocked her head to one side as if considering him. “But I do know that he,” Rory said as she tilted her head towards the closed door. “He has only been in town two days. In that time he’s been shot. He’s threatened to kill one of my brother's crew. And he’s issued a challenge for a duel.” She ticked off each item on her fingers.
“Bloodthirsty sod is he?” The Viking seemed impressed.
Why in the name of all that was holy, did men always want to resort to violence? “Yes, he is. I recommend you stay away from him. Far, far away. That’s what I would do. If I had a choice in the matter.”
“He warned me to stay away from you.” There was the devil in those green eyes again. “Ironic, isn't it?”
Dylan was treating her terribly. He was making a fool of her with another woman in a cloak closet, a cloak closet. And now she thought incredibly, he's warning off a perfectly good man. In fact, she gave the tall blonde Viking a thorough inspection. He was more than good. He had distinct possibilities.
“I hope you won’t let him scare you away.”
He gave a low, seductive chuckle at her impulsive words. Her face twisted into a delicate frown. She could swear that laugh was familiar. But, for the life of her, she couldn't place it.
Rory was sure she’d just sounded like the most forward hussy. Now what should she say to let him know she was interested, but not too interested? She was still a lady after all. And ladies did not pursue gentlemen. They let the gentlemen pursue them.
Connor watched her struggle silently. He wished again, she wasn't his sister-in-law. The woman was beautiful, obviously passionate if temper was any indicator, and funny. How could a man walk away from that kind of female? Dylan would be stupid to let her go, or impossibly noble. And if he knew his brother, it would be the latter.
It was obvious she cared for Dylan. Why else would she be standing here in this deserted hall undecided as to what to do?
“Tell me what's wrong,” he coaxed, neatly diverting her away from him and back to Dylan. “I'm surpassing good at solving problems.”
“And modest with it.”
He firmly suppressed an almost overwhelming urge to kiss the saucy smile right off those delectable lips. “That too, of course.” He gave a mocking bow.
“You know him?” She had to be very careful. As angry as she was at this moment with Dylan, she didn't want to do anything that would put him into further danger.
The Viking nodded.
“Do you know him well?” She thought this man might work with Dylan. If he did, he probably knew St. John much better than she could ever hope to.
Connor schooled his face ruthlessly to appear impassive. It was a trick the Indians had taught him. “I know him fairly well. Why do you ask?”
“You know what he’s doing here, in Savannah?” Rory was taking a big risk. And a warning voice nagged at her to be cautious.
“Yes, it’s the same thing I'm doing.”
Relief washed over her at his reply. “You're here to help capture the guns aren't you?”
He held a long finger to his lips. He motioned her to be silent.
“Then you know we're pretending to be engaged.” The words were rushing out in a torrent. Here was someone she could confide in. God was truly good.
“He mentioned it in the garden.” Connor was letting her do all the talking. And not saying much himself.
“Well, he's in there with another woman.” She sounded angry and jealous.
“I assure you, it’s a regular occurrence.” He was being kind. He was being truthful. She deserved both. “He comes by his name honestly.”
“Heartless?” she muttered.
Connor only shrugged his shoulders.
“I've heard about his fearsome reputation,” Rory said. “Too many times. First from my brother. Then from Sander, and twice from Dylan himself.”
“And the reputation bothers you?” His voice was level with no inflection.
“Of course it bothers me, you ninny.” Her exasperation made her throw all caution to the wind. “I didn't expect him to try to expand upon it while he's here in Savannah. He's humiliating me in front of all my friends. When I agreed to this sham, I didn't realize I would be made the brunt of a scandal. If I had my gun, I think I'd go in there and shoot him. And her too.” She paused and took a deep breath. “What kind of decent woman, married mind you, trots off for an assignation with someone else's fiancé?”
“You do have a problem. A serious problem, a monumental problem,” he agreed solemnly. This was going to be fun, he decided. Dylan might kill him, but it would be worth the pain and suffering. Not even Griffin had ever been able to pull a trick this magnificent over on their big brother. And his efforts were legend.
“Have you ever heard the saying, What's good for the goose is good for the gander?”
She nodded, confused not following this conversation at all.
“We could change that saying to, What's good for the gander is also good for the goose.” A golden eyebrow flew up to tempt her.
She had seen someone else do that with their eyebrow, but who? This sense of familiarity was driving her wild. “I don't think there’s anything I could do to embarrass that man. He has no sense of propriety, none at all.”
“They’ve dubbed him Heartless St. John haven’t they?” he egged her on. She nodded, trying to follow him. “Loves them and leaves them, doesn't he?”
“He definitely leaves them,” she said sourly. “If I hear that one more time from anybody else, I think I'll paint myself blue and call myself a heathen.”
“What if his lovely fiancée suddenly became interested in another man?”
“Oh. You?” Understanding dawned. “He might kill you.” She adored the idea. But felt honor-bound to warn him.
“I'll take my chances.” A cocky grin settled onto his face. “Come on.” He draped a casual arm around her shoulders and herded her toward the closed anteroom door.
“No!” she hissed and pulled away. “They're in there.”
“I know.” He gathered her back under his arm and propelled her forward. He opened the door. He swept her inside with one audacious movement.
Rory was vaguely aware of the sounds of a furious woman. Could that horrid voice be Celeste Avansley? It didn't seem possible. Had they stumbled upon the wrong couple?
“I warn you Dylan. You can't just cast me off like some cheap little opera dancer. I expected more from you. Much, much more.”
Dylan stopped talking the moment he heard the latch lift. And he'd looked automatically to where the light spilled into the dark anteroom from the opening door. What he saw made his eyes narrow dangerously. A muscle clenched to life in his jaw.
“Excuse us for interrupting,” Connor's said. “Come on poppet. Let's find a more private spot.” He dragged her out the door and down the hall.
“What good did that do?” she grouched dejectedly.
“You'll see.” His long strides made her run. “I'd say we've got about five minutes
to find a place to hide.”
“What are you talking about?” She was becoming winded keeping up with him. He turned out of the hall and began mounting the stairs two at the time. “I told you the man couldn’t be embarrassed. I don't think we were even in there long enough for him to know who we were.”
“Oh, he knew.” He chuckled, thinking of the killing look Dylan had shot at him before he’d escaped with Aurora. “It will take him all of two minutes to get rid of the blonde virago. And three minutes at the most to track us. We've used one minute. What's up here?” He nodded curtly toward the top of the stairs.
“A library, bedchambers.” She almost stopped, but was jerked along by an insistent iron hand. “But I'm not going into one of the bedchambers with you. I don't even know your name for goodness sake.”
“No, I agree, no bedchamber. If he found me with you in a room with a bed, he really would kill me. What else besides the library?”
“The attic?”
“Excellent!” They went down a corridor with a set of library doors on one side and closed doors on the other. They must be the bedchambers. At the end of the hall there was a door that once pushed open led to a rough set of steep narrow steps. Connor grabbed a candle from a wall sconce. He led the way up into the Stygian darkness of the attic.
“You aren't afraid are you?”
“Of the dark?” she asked without thinking.
“No, of being in the dark with me.” He stopped before drawing her deeper into the musty room. “As you said, you don't even know my name.”
“Are you going to hurt me?” she asked candidly, watching him carefully drip melted wax onto an old table. He then stuck the candle upright into the middle of the hot puddle.
“No Aurora, I'm not going to hurt you.” He looked steadily down at her. “Not ever and I'll try to keep Dylan from hurting you if I can.”
His caring words were too much for her. Indigo eyes were swimming with unshed tears as she shook her head. “That's very kind. But you're too late to help with that particular problem.”
