by Grace Walton
“Tell him,” the peer hissed into her ear. “Or I will put a nice gaping hole in his chest.”
Rory swallowed hard and obeyed. “I’m going with him.” It wasn’t a lie. She was going with Avansley. She must protect Dylan.
“No!” roared Dylan in one last tremendous effort. He battled to wrench her out of Avansley's arms. But the laudanum still numbed his brain and limbs. As he struggled to encircle her shoulders and pry her away from Avansley's grasp, his fingers caught Rory's rose pearls.
She felt the hot sting of tight rasping black beads against her throat. For a moment, she thought she might be strangled from the intense pressure he was putting on the necklace. She was being garroted, and she didn't care. There was no way to take a breath. Fleetingly she wished she would die. Let this nightmare be over Lord, she silently implored. I don't want to be at Avansley's mercy. Take me now and spare me the abuse I see in his eyes, she prayed.
Then, with a sharp snap, the string of pearls broke. She gulped in sweet hay-scented air. Jet colored beads cascaded to the floor of the stall. They disappeared into the yellow straw.
Dylan watched them spill slowly down around him. It seemed to him that time was grinding to a stop. He could see the solitary path of each pearl as it floated down through the heavy air. His last conscious thought was to register Rory's arm flying out. He heard a scream and the scalding report of a pistol. Then he sprawled backward and fell unconscious into the straw.
Richard Avansley cursed the girl. He viciously backhanded her across the face. Her head snapped back with the violence of his blow. She saw stars bursting where there was only darkness. His ring raked her face. Crimson blood spurted from her torn lower lip. It inched unheeded down her chin and onto the stark white gown.
“Why did you spoil my aim?” he roared at her, all lover-like pretense at an end. “I almost had him. Curse you, I almost had him. I want St. John dead. He will be dead. And I will be the one who kills him.” Avansley hastily aimed the pistol's mate at the still man's head.
Rory watched in horror as he cocked the gun and prepared to fire. She threw herself in front of him. “Don't! No, Please, No.”
Avansley licked his lips and smiled. He turned to take aim at her instead. “We have a bargain then? You for him?”
Rory nodded.
“Well, don’t just stand there, get moving,” he purred. “You didn’t think I’d kill you here did you? I vow you are the stupidest chit I know. Rebekah said as much. But my crew won’t care if you’re thick as a plank. They’ll just enjoy that delicious little body of yours. After I’ve had my fill of it, of course.”
Rory moaned as if she’d been struck again. She used the tail of her elegant ball gown to wipe blood from her chin.
“You never guessed did you? About your bosom bow Rebekah?” Avansley crowed. “She’s my little plaything. Ever since her brother shipped her off to London for polishing. She’s been polished well and good. I had a jolly good time breaking her in. The poor thing was so very, very modest. But she’s not anymore. And it helps that she loves me. She believes every pretty little lie, I tell her. We planned this entire business arrangement together. Took time to get everything lined up. She even offered up the Windsor & Gottlieb warehouse down on River Street to me. I’ve been hiding arms shipments there for months.”
Rory had the presence of mind not to argue with the madman. Her heart tore knowing he’d so callously stolen Rebekah’s innocence. She would make sure he never hurt anyone else she loved.
“Come on, girl,” he sneered and grabbed her arm. “You’re going to be my revenge. And my insurance. If I keep you, for a while at least, the St. John brothers dare not challenge me.”
He dragged her out into the cold night air. Concealing his pistol under his coat, he made sure she understood what he was capable of. “But if you so much as utter one syllable of protest, I’ll go back into that dirty sty and put a bullet between St. John’s eyes. I’ll make you watch him perish before I have you. Then I’ll put a bullet in your head as well.”
Rory couldn’t let him make good on that threat. She’d die herself before she’d let Dylan be murdered. She knew she’d be dead before this night was over. But no one else she loved would die along with her. She was meek and quiet as they strode over the wet grass of the lawns. In the distance, she recognized the Avansley ship tied up next to The Rozelle.
“Not a word,” he warned withdrawing his pistol. “I’d hate to see some poor innocent sailor die because you thought to play the heroine. That kind of nonsense only happens in gothic romances, my dear,” he said as he clipped her head with the pistol butt.
Rory cried out as she was overwhelmed by the darkness. She didn’t see Rebekah run up wearing a theatrical red wig. She didn’t see the burly sailor with a large sea chest.
Chapter Sixteen
All night the Rozelle sailed hard on the heels of the Avansley ship. Down the tidal river, around the lighthouse set on a narrow spit of land on Tybee Island, and off into the rough open sea they sailed. And all night Sander and Connor kept a vigil at Dylan's bedside. Every few hours it seemed the madness would grasp him in its hold. He thrashed. He shouted at the demon challenging his sanity. Sander couldn't tell what or at whom his tormented nephew was screaming. But he had a fair guess. Aurora Windsor.
Connor watched his brother with a taunt white face. He silently cursed the woman who’d done this to them all. Somehow he would make her pay, some way. She had to pay. No one treated St. Johns like she had and came away unscathed. Unable to stand the oppressive silence following one of Dylan's episodes, he began speaking in a low intense voice to his uncle.
“How could she have fooled me Sander? I thought she was so sweet and innocent. Innocent!” He snorted mirthlessly. “The sailors on watch said she acted like a harlot with Avansley right there on the dock. Right in front of them. She's not an innocent sweet maiden Sander. She's a trollop. They say Avansley slapped her face. She just laughed. Then she attacked him like a tigress. They fell to the dock and would have coupled like animals if the catcalls of the sailors hadn't stopped them. Lord… Sander, I believed she was completely besotted with Dylan, completely. I even envied him. I wanted her myself. I was sure I could take care of her, cherish her the way my big brother didn't.” He broke off disgusted with his lack of perception.
He bent forward in the chair, resting his elbows on his knees, hands clasped limply between his legs. “How stupid can one man be? I even railed at him twice for his uncaring behavior toward the girl. Can you believe that? I tried to warn him away from the woman. I thought he wasn't treating her well enough. I wanted to protect her. I still can't believe it.”
“I know Connor. I know,” Sander replied wearily. “Did the men on watch see anyone else get on Avansley's boat? Another woman, perhaps?” Sander still didn't want to believe Rory Windsor could be the traitor they were looking for.
“Just the seaman I've already told you about Sander. The one who carried a sea chest aboard.” Connor's abrupt voice told of his frustration.
“I know. I know. We've been through this all night long,” Sander said, trying to calm his nephew. “Stop blaming yourself. I’m the one who lost track of time and didn’t keep an eye on him.”
“But you found him. I would’ve never thought to look in the stable.”
“It still took us both too long to get the Rozelle under way. Avansley has a huge lead on us. And we’re not sure exactly where he’s sailing the bloody ship.”
“My money’s on Fort Mims,” Connor said.
“I thought as much myself,” Sander agreed.
As the delicate amber fingers of dawn broke through the night, sailors in the rigging finally saw clearly the ship they had been chasing through the darkness. It was far in the distance. But its white sails could be seen with the first mate's viewing glass. Something about the course they were on bothered Kent all night. It teased the edges of his memory, but never quite solidified so he could identify what was causing his unrest.
He lifted the heavy glass in its leather case once more to watch the progress of Avansley's ship. Neither he nor anyone else in the crew understood the urgency in Reverend Washburn's order to trail Avansley. Of course, he'd known about the new preacher even though he'd only seen him at a distance until last night.
Everybody knew about Reverend Washburn. Word was the new Methodist Circuit rider looked to be a bodacious fighting man. The way he'd arrived in town was fairly odd too. He came into Savannah in an Indian canoe. Lots of trappers and small farmers hitched a ride down the river with their peaceful Indian neighbors. But these natives weren't even decent Creek Indians from Georgia. They didn't dress like white men. They wore feathers in their hair instead of the sensible straw hats the Creeks favored. And there were a lot of them, at least twenty in six or seven canoes. Strange goings on to be sure.
Sailors in the taverns had been talking about him almost as much as they had been spreading rumors about Dylan St. John and that Arab of his. So when the angry preacher had boarded last night with a drunken Lord St. John and that foreign Shiek, Kent had known better than to ask any questions. No sirree, he wasn't about to ask any questions. Let the quality explain to Captain Windsor about why they had taken his ship and chased after the English fancy man. It was nothing to him. He was just following orders like a good first mate should. He would not tempt fate, not if he could help it anyway.
But the course they were following did bother him. More than a little if the truth be told. As he brought the glass down again, it struck him that this course they were on was familiar. In truth, if the Englishman's ship started taking a four degree starboard turn soon, he'd lay odds he knew exactly where they were headed. The sun began its slow rise. Kent watched the ship ahead. For two hours, he stood there and watched unmoving. The sailors on deck started whispering among themselves about the eerie way their first mate was standing like a statue watching the tiny white sails on the horizon.
If his hunch was correct, any second now he should see the telltale dip in the sails that indicated a turn of exactly four degrees starboard. He threw the glass to the nearest sailor who caught the precious treasure in surprise. Kent was already down the stairs rapping ferociously on the door to the captain's cabin.
“Sir! Reverend Washburn, sir!” His voice was loud and demanding.
Connor jerked the door open almost as soon as the racket started. Dylan was calm for the moment. He wanted his brother to stay that way for as long as possible. Connor didn't want to hold his brother down as Dylan strained against the ropes that cut into his hands and feet. No, he couldn't do that again. Dylan was too strong for him. One more time and he would break free. That might prove fatal. They’d taken his knife. But Dylan didn’t need a weapon to kill. His hands would be enough.
Connor considered those powerful hands. He wondered if the ropes would leave permanent marks on them. Like the sight of Dylan's wild, incoherent fighting against them seared permanent marks in his own mind. It was a terrible thing to watch someone who was always in consummate control lose that control.
“Silence man,” he hissed at the excited first mate. “What is it? Do you see Avansley's ship?”
Kent's wide smile showed a missing front tooth. “Oh aye sir, we've had her in sight for goin’ on two hours now.”
“Good, watch her closely. I need to know immediately if she makes to pull up to shore on one of these little deserted islands.” Connor had already decided one of those marshy dots of land that lay parallel to the shore would be a wonderful hiding place. A safe harbor for men transferring something illegal from a ship to flat-bottomed ferry boats.
“She's not going to do that, sir.” Again the gap-toothed confident smile was in evidence.
“Why do you say that?” Connor was intrigued by the seaman's comment.
“Because I know where she's bound sir.”
“You do?”
“Yes sir, she's bound for Windsor's Island, sir.”
Connor's head whipped up. His eyes hardened like agates. “You're sure?”
“Oh aye sir, I've sailed this way too many times to count. I wasn't certain until she took that last turn. But then I knew. With the tides the way they are I'd say we'll make landfall about dark.”
“Thank you Kent,” Connor began to shut the door but stopped. “Keep her in sight. Let me know if there are any changes.” Then the door clicked in the first mate's face before he had a chance to ask any questions.
“What did he say?” Sander asked in a hushed voice.
“She's taking the guns to her own island. That must be the distribution point.” He spoke with obvious distaste. A tight white line formed around his mouth. “Can you believe the outrageous audacity of the bi,” He didn't get a chance to finish because a hard deep voice cut him off in mid-word.
“Connor, you're speaking of my wife.”
Both Sander's and Connor's eyes were immediately riveted to the still form on the bed. Connor spoke first, though hesitantly. “Thank you for keeping me alive by stopping my bad manners, Dylan.” It was a sheepish attempt to lighten the atmosphere. It didn't work. “How long have you been awake?”
“I've been rational for about an hour. I think. Long enough to hear you and Sander discuss Avansley and Aurora.”
“Why haven't you said anything?” Sander choked out the words. He didn't like the sound of his nephew's voice. It was implacable and frozen.
“I had nothing to add to the conversation. Nothing any of us says will change the truth. Will it? Truth is always truth, whether it’s ugly or not. And the ugly truth about Aurora Windsor is that she must be the single most cunning and traitorous woman I've ever met. She's good.” A chilling smile settled on his chiseled lips. “And she'll die because of it. She'll be given a perfectly legal trial. But that lovely little body of hers will still twist and turn at the end of a hangman's noose. Then I'll cut my wife down and bury her. It's the least I can do. Don't you think? Since I'm the one who will turn her over to the law. And I’ll testify against her.”
No one in the room made a sound until Dylan spoke again. “Could I bother you to release me now? I believe I can keep my murderous urges under control for the time being.”
They knew he was making an oblique reference to what was coming. To the part he would have to play in Rory's death. Sander cut the ropes with Dylan's stiletto and laid it on the bed beside his nephew.
As the numbness in his limbs began to subside, Dylan felt a tiny sphere clenched in his hand. When he uncurled his cramped fingers, he saw the little perfect black ball resting in his palm. It was a rose pearl. He wondered if she'd lied about them too. Was the sentimental necklace all part of her scheme to enthrall him? To make him believe she was everything he’d searched for in a woman, but never found? To convince him she was honest, kind, caring, and pure? They were all lies, ugly lies. He almost cast the thing to the floor in revulsion. It must have been in his hand all night since he'd torn apart her necklace trying to save her.
Save her, what a clever joke, he thought sarcastically. And one at his expense. His mind slowly replayed the scene in the barn. She'd stood there beside Avansley. So incredibly beautiful and so unmoved almost bored, as Avansley taunted him with the details of their duplicity. At the time, his drug hazed mind had registered what he'd thought was her unwillingness to be pawed over by the Englishman.
But after hearing what Connor had been told by the first mate, cold reality settled in with a vengeance. If only one man repeated the story to Kent, Dylan would have doubted the truth of it. But all the men on the watch had seen what happened. They all told the same story. She hadn't been struggling to break free from Avansley's bestial lust in the stable. She'd probably shared it, he thought with disgust.
Some women felt giving and receiving pain from their men was pleasurable, as twisted as that sounded. Aurora Windsor must be one of them. She wasn't trying to get away from that animal masquerading as English nobility, he realized darkly. The tart was just waiting for he
r turn to draw blood.
Sander stood by the bed and watched his nephew's aristocratic features harden. He saw the other man's jaw clench as if he was struggling to control a temper threatening to rage out of control. Sander looked up to meet Connor's troubled eyes. They were each powerless to stop the events that were already set in motion. They were equally unable to say or do anything to penetrate the awareness of the man sitting on the bed. He didn't know they were there at that particular moment, nor did he care. His mind was consumed by her, with Rory.
She was such an amazing paradox. Memories of her sped through his brain. Her beauty, her courage, and her innocent honesty, they all rushed in on his searing mind. Sodding Hades, he'd thought he'd known the woman so well he could read her thoughts. Even anticipate her emotions before she felt them. But he'd been wrong. Dead wrong.
By the time he'd been pricked by those first stirrings of guilt about manipulating her, she'd already manipulated him. And he'd never realized it. That was the most amazing thing. It was a quality he could have admired if something akin to the blackest hate imaginable wasn't already inching its way through his analytical brain.
Move, he had to move or risk sitting here paralyzed forever by the turmoil in his head. Sheer strength of will accomplished the task for him. Slowly, he buried the bead deep in his britches pocket and retrieved the knife. He felt the perfect balance of the blade in his hand before moving. It really was a beautiful weapon. It would be much more merciful than a hangman's rope.
He lowered his long legs over the side of the bed. He tried to ease the crippling tightness in his shoulders by rolling the heavy muscles there. His head was pounding like the surf during a hurricane. But he didn't say anything to the men standing near him. He wasn't thinking about physical pain at the moment. There would be time and plenty for that later. And maybe, he thought with a cynical smile. It would matter then. If he was lucky, he thought darkly, he'd be dead soon and nothing would matter.
