by Grace Walton
Graham came to stand beside her as they cast off. The ship would sail to the fork that would lead them to Isle of Hope.
“Rory has that blackguard tried anything with you?” He was gruff, and he was worried. It didn't appear that St. John and his sister were playing at being engaged. If he didn't know any better, he'd think St. John had told her they were married. And they planned to stay that way. He didn’t anticipate a permanent arrangement between the two. Now it seemed he may have one whether he liked it or not.
“What do you mean tried anything?” She suddenly felt so tired, weary to the bone.
“You know what I mean,” he bellowed at her in frustration.
“No, dear,” she said and patted his arm. “Lord MacAllister hasn't taken advantage of me. On the contrary, he's gone out of his way many times to reassure me we merely have a business relationship.”
“Well, I don't think I like the way he does business,” groused her brother. “The way he kissed you out there on the street was a shame and a scandal. Makes me want to call the blackguard out.”
The blood froze in her veins at the thought of her bumbling big brother facing Dylan across the field of honor. He would have no chance of survival, none at all. “Gray you must promise me you will never duel with him.”
“I'm not afraid of St. John.” He was offended.
“I know you're not afraid darling.” She soothed his ruffled feathers. “But I am. So you must promise me you will never call him out.”
Gray refused to look down at her entreating face.
“Please Gray, promise me you will not fight him.” She would not stop until she had his promise.
“Oh, all right,” he finally relented. “But if he kisses you like that again, he's going to marry you Rory. I'll see that he does. I'll get the new circuit rider to do the deed. That preacher was sure mad enough over the show you put on to do it. I thought he was going to perform the ceremony right there on the street.” He tasted the bitterness of the lie all the way down his throat. Poor sweet Rory was already married. He’d tied her to the worst rake in London for life.
“You don't have to worry Gray.” Rory stared off at the darkening horizon. “He won't kiss me again.”
“We're coming on the fork Captain,” a seaman yelled from the wheel. Gray patted his sister on the shoulder and left muttering something about having to steer the fork.
For a while, she stood there and watched the sun set over the water. The sea breeze was taking its toll on her hair. Curling wisps were dancing around her face and trailing onto the nape of her neck. But she didn't care. The wind whipped her cloak around her ankles, but that was all right too. Her lips were tender and aching from Dylan’s kisses.
But nothing could hurt or bother her in this moment. It was a perfect moment. One of those few when time itself seemed to stand still, and peace settled all around like a blanket. She stayed up on the windy deck, alone savoring every tranquil second. God had given her a gift. The kiss shared with Dylan was a treasure, one to be cherished. And cherish it, she would, forever.
The night was entirely black now. No more mauve washes colored the sky. Stars pricked the darkness and played with the luminous butter-colored moon. The air was heavy with the fertile smell of fish and salt marsh. Past the fork and up ahead, she saw darts of hot colors, orange and red, dotting the horizon.
The masses of moving colors were bonfires on the river bank leading them towards the Wingate jetty. Stately mansions lining the river could be seen in the fires' lights. A quiet voice at her side startled her.
“Miss Rory?” Sander was resplendent in his Arabian robes. “Are you going to be all right tonight?”
“Of course I am Sander,” she assured him quietly. “Will you?”
The black man nodded without smiling. “It won't be the first time I've been somewhere where I was considered an intruder. The outcome will be either amusing or dangerous. If what you and Dylan did at the docks didn't capture their attention, I certainly did. Wait till they realize I'm not an outlandish servant. I'm one of the guests.”
“Well, I don't care what they do or say, I want you to be at this party.” Rory locked arms with him. “Especially if you can help Arlene.”
Sander grinned. “I hope to do that before the evening is over.”
Shouts from the bank grabbed their attention. Once the ships let their people off at one of the Wingates’ several wide docks, they were given a spot to anchor on the bank. All of the five ships discharging passengers were crowded. Because of limited docking space, most folks shared the trip out to Isle of Hope whenever there was a party given there. The Rozelle was the only ship not fully loaded with friends and neighbors. Dylan had planned this excursion. He obviously wanted no one else on board the Rozelle.
The sailors were expected to stay on board and have the ship ready to leave at any time their captains ordered. Some guests would spend the night with the Wingates or one of their near neighbors instead of heading back to Savannah in the wee hours of the morning.
That's what Rory had done in the past. The Wingates were people of great wealth. Their home reflected that wealth. They could easily accommodate fifty overnight guests in their huge tabby mansion. But the Windsors did not accept the invitation to stay over this time. Rory didn't know why. She just knew Dylan had declined the invitation for all of them. It was another one of his mysterious secrets.
“Where is he Sander?” she asked, scanning the deck as the ship bumped gently up to the dock. Dylan had disappeared like a shadow when they’d boarded the Rozelle. Rory wondered what he could be doing below deck all this time. Maybe he was trying to stay as far away from her as possible? That was certainly a lowering thought. He was most likely afraid she would throw herself at him again. Well I won't, she silently vowed. I'll be a model of maidenly propriety. Sander still didn’t answer her. He seemed consumed with the approach of the Avansley ship hard upon their heels.
“Sander?” She broke through his reverie.
“Pardon?” he asked with a hint of impatience, distracted by the ship approaching their own.
“I asked where Dylan has gotten himself off to.”
“I’m here.”
Rory jumped at the sound of his low, deep voice directly behind her. “Didn't your mother ever tell you, it's impolite to sneak up on people like that?” she said.
“No,” he said, also studying the Avansley's ship preparing to anchor next to them. “She died before she had the opportunity to correct that particular flaw in my character.”
It was obvious to the girl that he was not interested in their conversation.
“What's so fascinating about the Avansley’s ship?” she asked.
First Sander was preoccupied with it and now Dylan. Rory wondered briefly if the spider, Lady Avansley was aboard. That would certainly account for Dylan's interest, but not for Sander's. Now that it was closer, she could make out some of the people standing on deck. Irene was there dressed to the nines. And so was her disgusting aristocratic uncle.
Standing to one side was the spider. She was deep in conversation, with a man of course. Rory strained her eyes to see who was paying court to the poisonous woman. In the dark it was hard to tell, until she caught a flash of sun-bleached hair and heard a Viking laugh.
“Dylan,” she hissed forgetting her question about the ship. “Connor is with the Avansleys.”
“Is he?”
“Why is he on their ship?” Rory asked suspiciously.
Dylan smiled in a fatherly way down at her. “He could hardly swim all the way from Savannah, Rory.”
“Don't be condescending,” she fumed.
“Then don't be too inquisitive,” he countered smoothly. He managed to capture her hand and pull her toward the gangplank. “Connor can take care of himself.” As they strolled down the wide plank onto the pier, he continued, “Your task tonight is to be decorative. His and mine are something different altogether.”
Rory automatically smiled as Irene hailed
her from the deck of her father's ship. “Are the guns being moved tonight?” she asked under her breath.
Dylan bowed to an elderly gentleman ahead of them on the walkway leading up to the Wingates’ house before responding, “Perhaps.” His answer was enigmatic and thoroughly unsatisfying to the girl at his side.
“The guns are being moved tonight.” Rory could not keep the excitement out of her voice.
They moved into a crowd meandering down the oyster shell path. Now there was no opportunity for private conversation. People were greeting them and making the inane comments that always seemed the mainstay of large impersonal parties. Rory noticed several women who should have known better, making sheep's eyes at Dylan. He appeared not to notice their flirtatiousness. He answered all their silly questions with perfect courtesy.
The back of her neck prickled the way it did when she knew she was being watched. Hearing a low, deliberately seductive woman's laugh told her why. Celeste Avansley and her predator husband followed closely behind them.
Rory tried her best to ignore the disturbing sound. She concentrated on keeping up a steady flow of inanities with those around her. It was hard. Being artificial was completely foreign to her. It was almost impossible when she knew the evening might erupt into an adventure. How does one seem enthralled with a recitation of ills and woes being spouted one's way by an old, obviously healthy dowager? Excitement fairly sang through the humid air. This must be why he does it, she decided as they mounted a curving set of brick steps to enter the mansion. She felt alive in a way both wonderful and frightening at the same time.
Torches were mounted high out of harm's way all down the exterior of the building. They cast dancing shadows on the people waiting on the long wide porch waiting to enter and go through the receiving line within the foyer. The ball at the Wingates’ was worthy of the name. It was not to be a small affair as had been Irene's dinner. This would earn the highest accolade to be had in society. It would be remembered as a sad crush. A ball at which everybody, who was anybody, would see and be seen.
There would be little room for dancing. The midnight supper would have to be consumed standing up by most. In the midst of these lovely surroundings, Rory was being genteelly shoved to one side as more partygoers filled the porch. The crowd moved as one huge entity. She felt her grasp on Dylan's sleeve slip. Now she found herself alone in the crowd. Rory was not surprised this had happened, and neither was she frightened. Dylan would find her again soon, and in the interim, she knew almost every person around her.
At the moment, she was formulating the proper answer to give a lady, who had just asked Rory’s opinion on the latest styles. But the same woman didn't do Rory the favor of attending to her response. The woman in question had her head turned about in the opposite direction.
Rory felt an arm wrap around her waist. Assuming it was Dylan, she turned to smile at him in relief. The smile that answered hers was wolfish and belonged to Lord Richard Avansley.
“Hello darling,” his voice oozed offensive familiarity. “I knew you would be waiting for me.” The slender paw at her waist tightened.
Try as she might, Rory could not twist out of his hold. “I was not waiting for you, Milord.” She drew herself up to her full height, frowned, and tried to discourage the odious man. “On the contrary, I am looking for my fiancé.”
“Haven't seen him,” the blonde man replied, pulling her closer. His rank breath branded her cheek. “Any man who deserts his lady in a crush like this deserves to lose her.”
“He didn't desert me,” she protested intently searching the crowd for Dylan. “My hand slipped from his sleeve and then,” She stopped.
Why was she trying to explain anything to this horrible man? She made another concerted effort to break free from his hold. Stamping on the toe of his evening shoes and pulling with all her might Rory almost escaped his grasp. She fully intended to get away from him. But Avansley just brayed with laughter. He dragged her even closer with his free hand. Now the entire length of her body was plastered against his.
“Lord Avansley let me go,” she commanded with as much dignity as was possible while being held captive. “Let me go at once or”
“Or what?” he interrupted leering suggestively down into her face. “What will you do, my dear? Set your oafish brother on me? That might be rather amusing. Dueling is an entertaining sport. It's a pity only one participant enjoys the outcome though. Better yet, perhaps you'll report my unwanted attentions to your gallant fiancé? Tut, tut pigeon. That would do you no good. Because, you see the man owes me a woman. And you will do quite nicely.” He laughed obscenely at the puzzled look on her face. “You didn't know? By God, that's rich.” His harsh bark of laughter made heads turn all around them. “My wife, played the lightskirt for him not three months past in London. And now it’s my turn.”
“No,” she said. Her eyes widened in disbelief and denial.
“Oh yes, my dear, yes.” He ran an invading finger down the side of her cheek. “Else why would he have given her that ruinously expensive team of carriage horses? Nice touch that,” he mused tracing the outline of her eyebrow.
“What has he given you?” Avansley asked maliciously. “I hope it’s something better than that exceedingly vulgar bauble on your hand.” He lifted the hand in question up to eye level to examine it more closely. “I believe he is a hopeless clod, but I did expect him to have the scantest modicum of taste. He is the heir to the Duke of MacAllister after all. But this is exceptionally vulgar, my dear. At least he gave Celeste something worthy of a lady.”
Rory's face whitened at the obvious insult. She was being held against her will in a sea of people. Avansley knew he had the girl cornered. She couldn't cry out. He would only claim he was trying to help her through the crowd. If she pretended to swoon, a trick heroines in novels always used, he'd most likely let her fall to the floor and be trampled underfoot.
She smiled as a solution became apparent. “Milord please let me go. I'm feeling rather unwell.” She covered her mouth and leaned heavily on him.
“What?” It was a startled question. He didn’t expect the wench to try to get closer to him. Alarmed, he set her a small distance away from him. “What mischief is this?”
Rory fished a dainty handkerchief from her reticule. She dabbed it weakly to her lips. “Oh Lord Avansley, don't leave me,” she said in a pleading whine. “I'm very much afraid I may cast up my accounts. And I'll need your strong arm to lean upon.”
That last did it, she thought with satisfaction. He moved as far from her as the throng would allow. It seemed satisfying a lust was one thing. But allowing his clothes to be damaged was something else altogether.
“See here, my girl.” Avansley straightened his cravat with a nervous hand. “If you were feeling that badly, you shouldn't have come to the ball.” With that said, he somehow weaseled his way into the thick of the crowd and disappeared.
A low voice praised her. “Well done, sweetheart.” It was Dylan, of course. His face was hard. A muscle leaped along his jaw.
“How long have you been nearby?” Rory was angry. “I needed you to rescue me from that snake.”
He led her toward the doors of the mansion. “I've told you times without number, I'm no knight in shining armor come to rescue the beautiful damsel in distress. Besides, you didn't need me. You rescued yourself.” His mild words were at odds with the dangerous glittering light in his eyes. There was a pleasant smile on his face. But his eyes said he wanted to kill someone.
“How long were you there?” she insisted.
“You were never out of my sight.”
“He said some detestable things about you.”
“All true, no doubt.”
He led them through the crowd until they had reached the huge double doors leading into the mansion's foyer. A brace of footmen stood before the doors inquiring of names. They relayed these to the major domo. He in turn announced the guests as they entered the house.
As they wa
ited their turn, Rory gazed up at the tall, dark man at her side. “Were they all true, then? The spiteful things he said?” For some reason, she had to hear it from his own lips.
“If what he said had to do with me enjoying his lovely wife, then yes. They were all true.” He might have been discussing the weather if one judged by his unconcerned tone.
“Then it might interest you to know Lord Avansley offered me the same sort of arrangement you enjoyed with Lady Avansley.”
Dylan's expression never wavered. But the hand she could not see clenched into a tight lethal fist. “And how did you respond to his invitation?”
“I told him I was going to be sick all over his beautiful velvet waistcoat,” she said sourly.
Dylan said, “That must have dampened his ardor considerably.” He turned from her and gave their names to a footman. Then he escorted her across the threshold.
“His Grace, the Duke of MacAllister and Miss Aurora Windsor.”
Rory's head snapped up in surprise and chagrin. A startled hum ran through the length and breadth of the crowd. The Savannah Snake Pit began hissing in earnest.
“I had no idea I traveled in such exalted circles.” The words were ground out through her stiff lips. “And will you be a prince at the next ball you attend Milord?”
“Only if Scotland invades England and overthrows the Hanover monarchy. If that happens, I might become a very paltry sort of prince.”
He smiled down at her in such a way that several maidens watching them progress into the ballroom sighed with envy. Oh to have a man gaze at them with such depth of feeling. Especially a man who looked like the new Duke of MacAllister.
Rory was too mad to be impressed with the smile. “You could bestir yourself to tell me these little details. At least before someone in bad livery shouts them in my face, couldn’t you? Every time we venture out, I tremble to imagine who you'll be masquerading as next.”
