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

by Grace Walton

  “Ahh,” It was a tiny wisp of a sound. But it filled the awful stillness of the room.

  “Dylan?” Sander asked, afraid of acknowledging what he'd just heard.

  Dylan didn't move. In disbelief, he studied the girl in his arms as if she was a precious treasure. The second moan he heard set him into instant action.

  “Connor!” he bellowed. His deep voice shook the very timbers of the ship. “Connor, get down here.” There was the sound of a large man racing down the corridor.

  “What?” Connor yelled as he stuck his head in the door.

  “Get me a horse and a wagon.” Dylan stood meticulously with the woman in his arms. Connor looked at him dumbfounded, not moving. “Do it now!”

  “Sander?” Connor still didn't move.

  “Connor go get that wagon.” Sander's voice was just as intense. He pressed the wadded sheet against Rory's chest. “She's alive.”

  Two bright spots of red dotted Connor's cheeks. He grinned. He whooped, “It'll be waiting for you.”

  Dylan walked carefully down the hall with his precious burden and up the short steep steps to the deck. Sander flanked him continuing to apply pressure to her sluggishly bleeding wound. Rebekah Gottlieb trailed them down the length of the deck.

  “Is she really alive?” she asked breathlessly. “I heard him say she was alive.” Neither man stopped nor answered her. “Tell me!” she screamed after them. “Is she alive?”

  “Yes,” Dylan said through stiff lips. Rory was alive. But for how long?

  At the foot of the gangplank stood Connor. He held the reins of a brown mule hitched to a rough farm wagon.

  “Where did you get it?” Dylan asked as he climbed into the back of the wagon. He wedged himself into a corner cushioning Rory's body as best he could. Sander leaped up into the driver's seat. He expertly gathered the reins in one fist.

  “Do you care?” Connor said, standing beside the wagon.

  “No.”

  “Somebody had already fetched this rig. I suppose it was for unloading cargo.” Connor watched the mule's withers bunch as Sander lifted the coach whip.

  “Connor get to the Windsor house ahead of us. Find the women who know anything about healing. Bring them to Rory's bedchamber. Have whatever they need ready.”

  “Anything else?” he said mentally trying to decide where he was going to come by a saddle horse.

  “Get around to the Dolphin's Point.” Dylan spoke tersely. “Tell Kent to get over here and take this ship. I want him to sail back to Savannah as fast as he can. She's going to need a doctor. Sander go!”

  Connor nodded. He ran off into the darkness. Sander slapped the reins viciously onto the broad back of the mule. The wagon lurched forward. The violent motion pulled another painful moan from Rory's pale lips. Dylan scowled at the sound.

  “I'm sorry sweetheart. I know it hurts. I'm so sorry. But live, please, you’ve got to live. Nothing will ever hurt you again. I won't let anything hurt you. I promise,” he whispered against her hair. “Don't die Rory, don't die.” He repeated the same low intense words over and over until they became a sacred litany.

  The approach to the house was pandemonium. Torches were lit. Runners were sent out with them to light the way. The boys from the school volunteered to help when Connor rode into the stable yard yelling like a banshee.

  Long stretches of the dark road were punctuated by flares of light and shouts of “Godspeed,” and “We're praying for you Miss Rory.” Faces shone in those flickering lights. Faces filled with fear and sorrow, some with unashamed tears trailing down them. The shouts echoed behind the speeding wagon as it careened along the rutted road.

  “How is she?” Sander shouted over the screeching protests of the wagon. The steady hollow tattoo of the mule's hooves as it galloped, throwing its full weight against the jerking harness added to the din.

  “Don't ask, just get us to the house,” Dylan warned. He never looked away from her pale face.

  As the wagon rumbled into the stable yard, it seemed the whole population of Windsor's Island was congregated there waiting. Waiting to see her. Waiting to see if she was really as bad off as the tall blonde man claimed. Surely Miss Rory wasn't dying. Arguments had broken out among the house servants when Connor had started issuing his wild orders.

  Nobody knew who he was. He'd torn into the yard riding Matthew Long's sleek bay. And that was a mystery too. Matthew didn't let anyone ride his bay. The gossip was that Matthew had moved out to that shack by the docks, so he could be as far away from the rest of the folks on the island as possible. Just so's nobody would ask to use that horse. He was real particular about that bay.

  But the towheaded man had jumped off the trembling horse. He’d roared like a wild Indian. He’d been fierce enough to scare them all into following his orders.

  Finally Reba, the woman whose baby had been lately delivered with Rory's help, spoke up firmly. “I believe him. I'm going to get her bedchamber ready. Who's gonna help me?” They all nodded and spoke their agreement. And then she started firing out some orders of her own.

  “Seth you go gather up the torches. You and the men light the way. Martha lay the fire in Miss Rory's chamber. I'll turn down the bed covers. Lilly start brewing the willow bark tea. Make it strong. And gather the herbs for a cleansing poultice. Mary, I'll need some clean spider webs. Look in the attic. And Mary.” Her voice stopped the brown-skinned girl as she hurried away. “Bring Miss Rory's needle and thread, in case I have to sew the wound.”

  Everybody jumped to do her bidding at the same time. No one said a word. They didn't pause to talk about what was happening. There would be plenty of time to talk later.

  On the veranda, Connor leaned exhausted against a wide white column. He was glad he didn't have to persuade them to move. Dark agate eyes narrowed as he watched the drive leading up to the house. How long he wondered? Could she survive the rough journey? Was she already dead? What would happen if she was? So many questions with no answers. In his heart, he knew even though she had somehow beaten all the odds thus far, a wound such as she had taken was almost always fatal.

  “Here they come!” A high excited yell pierced the darkness. “I see'um.”

  Connor leaped down the wide steps of the veranda. He met the wagon as Sander hauled it to a sliding stop in front of the plantation house. The mule's sides heaved. Its head almost hung to the ground with fatigue after the wild run. But no one noticed. Every eye was glued to the man in the wagon bed. The one holding the still pale girl like he would never let anyone else touch her.

  “Connor?” he growled with a feral light in his eyes.

  “Here,” Connor said as he went to the foot of the wagon to receive Rory from his brother. “I'm here. I'll take her.”

  “No.” Dylan shook his head. “Just help me get down.”

  Connor watched as Dylan rose gently to avoid jostling Rory and moved to the edge of the wagon. Sander's strong mahogany hands anchored one of Dylan's arms while Connor steadied the other one. Together they helped him ease off the wagon.

  A startled exclamation shot up from the circle watching as the flickering torchlight fell upon Rory. The viscous clotting blood spread all the way down to the hem of her gown. There was blood everywhere, too much blood.

  Dylan's hand was rusty with it from pressing the wadded sheet against the wound that would not stop flowing. He scowled at them and their shocked, curious faces.

  “Get out of my way.”

  He didn't want their invading eyes to look at her. Their expressions said they thought she looked more dead than alive. And he hated them all in that moment. Even the most pushing ones fell back under the force of his challenging eyes. He strode a bold path through the crowd. The mansion's door stood open. Branches of candles lit the interior. It looked lit for a ball. But he didn't notice.

  His only thought was to get her to her chamber, so she could be made whole. Incidentals like the state of the surroundings didn't matter. They didn't matter at all. Reba dogge
d one step behind him as he pounded quickly up the staircase to the second story.

  “Are you the healer?” he demanded as he, with great care, laid Rory onto the counterpane of her bed. The room was awash in candlelight. A bowl of pungent steaming herbs stood on the table by the bedstead. Two maids hovered by the fireplace afraid, holding the things Reba had sent them after.

  “Aye,” Reba choked on the word. Looking into his hard face, she dared not say anything else.

  “Well?” One of his bloodstained hands clenched at his side.

  “Milord, you will have to leave so we can get her gown off and tend to her.” She wanted him out. How could she ever help Miss Rory when those black eyes of his made her hands tremble so?

  “She's laying there dying, and you're worried about me seeing her in her shift?” he hissed stalking toward her. “Curse you woman, get over here and help her.”

  “What?” She squeaked and cringed as he grabbed her by the arm and began to drag her towards the bed.

  “Dylan!”

  His head jerked toward the door where Sander stood.

  “Come away boy. The woman is so frightened of you, she can't think straight.”

  Dylan looked at his bloodstained hand clutching the maid's arm with cruel strength. Then he looked at the stark terror in her eyes. But still he remained adamant. “I can't leave her Sander. I can't. She might be taken before I can get back to her.”

  “She might,” Sander calmly agreed prying the tight fingers off Reba's arm. “But if you don't let the women see to her, she'll bleed to death while you watch.”

  Dylan's mouth tightened. He let his hand drop completely away from the frightened woman. He shook his head as if to clear it. “Ten minutes, I'll give you ten minutes.”

  Reba nodded. “Yes Milord, ten minutes.”

  He leveled a long accusing finger at Reba's face. “I'll be in the hallway. You will call me if she worsens. Do you understand me?”

  Reba swallowed and backed away from his fury. “I, I... I understand Milord. I vow I'll call you if she begins to fade. I will,” she stammered over the weak assurance.

  Dylan nodded. He turned on his heel to leave. Sander followed him and closed the door. At exactly three paces outside of the chamber, Dylan turned back to glare at the closed door.

  His fists spasmodically tightened. He felt the stickiness of the drying blood clinging to them.

  Sander saw the dark stains on the clenched hands. He barked an order to the boy waiting in the shadows of the passageway. “Go fetch me a basin of water, soap, and clean linen.” Then he spoke in a softer voice to his nephew. “You need to get the blood off your hands Dylan.”

  Bloodied hands were lifted and slowly examined. As St. John turned them over to see the palms, ghostly shadows played across the wall behind him. A low, harsh laugh escaped his lips.

  “Soap and water won't get her blood off my hands Sander. Nothing could, and nothing will. Rory's blood will always be there.”

  The boy appeared carrying the basin, balancing the soap on the rim. A clean towel folded over one arm. “Here you are sir.” He bobbed his head respectfully to Sander.

  The black man took the bowl. He held it patiently before Dylan. “I won't argue with you. You're too stubborn. It does no good. But for her sake, will you wash? Would you have her first sight on waking be those hands?”

  Dylan stared into the older man's calm chocolate eyes for a long second before moving. Without a word of argument, Dylan plunged his hands into the warm water. He began to rub them with the green tinted soap. The scent of rosemary, rose from the basin as the water turned a ruddy brown. When he was satisfied with the results of his washing, Dylan lifted his hands from the water and shook them slightly over the bowl.

  Sander motioned for the boy to hand the other man the towel. Although he was clearly afraid, the boy stepped forward and handed over the length of linen. Dylan dried his hands, but kept his eyes trained on the closed door to Rory's bedchamber. Without acknowledging the child, he handed back the towel.

  “Sir?” It was a tentative and shy voice. Dylan gave no indication if he'd heard the boy.

  “Sir?” This time the little voice was more insistent.

  “Sir?” And more insistent it became. “Sir?”

  “Dylan,” Sander's one word somehow broke through.

  “Pardon?” Troubled pewter eyes found him.

  “The boy,” Sander said and nodded toward the child. “He's talking to you.”

  One questioning eyebrow flew up as Dylan faced the small boy. He saw a handsome mulatto lad of about nine. Obviously, one of the children from the school. “Yes?”

  “Sir, Is Miss Rory gonna die?”

  “I hope not.” That was the most honest answer he could give.

  “But sir, they say she been shot. And getting shot is bad, way, way bad.”

  Dylan looked down into the youngster's desperate face. He saw his own face at twelve when his mother lay dying. His throat was suddenly dry. The words came out as a croak. “You're right. She has been shot. And it is very bad.”

  “Well should I be fetching some roses then?”

  “What?”

  “Roses, should I be fetching some roses? I know where some is blooming. They's just old scrub roses. They's called Cherokee roses cause they ramble wild. And the cold won't stop'em lessen we get a hard freeze. They ain't like her pretty garden ones, but they's still roses.” He was trying so hard to be helpful.

  “I'm sure Miss Rory would love to see some flowers when she wakes up.” Sander imposed seeing Dylan was fighting to keep his attention on the boy and away from that closed door.

  “Naw sir, you don't understand.” He wiped away a tear that threatened to unman him and kept talking, although there was a little catch in his voice. “They ain't to go in one of them fancy jars for looking at. They's to make them black beads. Miss Rory, she say when somebody die you love, you got to make the black rose beads. It show how much you love somebody. She so full of love for folks she got a whole string of them things. If she die, we gonna need a lotta roses cause everybody gonna want to make her a rose bead. I ain't gonna let her go without some of them beads.” His lip poked out challenging them to deny him.

  Understanding and fury flooded through Dylan's body. “No!” he snarled taking a menacing step toward the boy. “No rose pearls, none. Not for her. If I find you or anyone else making those indecent things I'll,”

  “Dylan, no!” Sander flew to put his body between Dylan and the cowering boy. “Leave him be. He's just a child for mercy's sake.”

  “Then get him away from me. I never had much mercy to begin with. And what little there was is gone now.” A hard hand shoved the black man against the wall as Dylan strode away to stand vigil at the door to Rory's bedchamber.

  Sander patted the frightened boy on the back. “Go on son, go downstairs. We won't need anything else.”

  “Yes, sir.” The words were watery and weak.

  “You're not helping matters.” Sander moved across the corridor to stand by Dylan.

  The other man said grimly, “No? Doesn't it help to get innocent women shot and cut men’s throats? I’m a weapon Sander. That’s all I am. That’s all I’ve ever been. A weapon Arthur Bassett uses when all humane ways of solving his government related dilemmas fail. I destroy. But I can at least be in there with her.”

  Sander closed his eyes in surrender. “Tell me Dylan, what do you plan to do in there?” He nudged his head toward the door. “Play the nursemaid? You're hardly equipped for that. Maybe a deathbed prayer vigil? No, not that either. You don't believe in prayer do you?”

  Dylan's hard eyes bore into Sander's but he didn't speak.

  “Don't bother to answer me. I already know what you're going to do. You're going to sit in there.” Sander folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. “And you're going to crucify yourself.”

  “Leave me alone Sander.” He bit off the low murderous words.

  “Or you'll do what?”
Sander's face was hard. “What will you do to me Dylan?”

  Dylan's hands clenched into fists. “Sander, stop.”

  The door latch to the bedchamber rattled. Reba stepped silently out into the hall. Dylan's breath hissed as he saw the tears streaming unheeded down her face. He gently grasped her upper arms and turned her to him. “Is she?”

  Reba's head lowered, but shook as she answered, “No sir, she's not dead. But it can't be far off. I held the hand mirror up to her nose. She barely fogged its surface.” The maid shuddered. “And the blood, oh my Lord, the blood was everywhere. All of her clothes were soaked, even her slippers. I don't see how she's lasted this long after losing so much blood.” She raised the edge of her apron to mop at her wet face. “I've got out the pistol ball and stitched her wound, but…” Her weary voice trailed off.

  “I'll sit with her.” Dylan walked toward the bedchamber. “You can all go.” He pushed a shoulder against the heavy door and slipped inside. The other maids scurried out as he entered. Sander frowned as he watched his nephew leave.

  “Sir,” Reba asked tentatively. “Shouldn't I stay with her?”

  “Can you do anything else to heal her?” Sander asked in resignation.

  “No, sir,” she said. “I've done all I know to do.”

  “Then I suggest we leave them alone.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Her bedchamber was dark except for the dancing fire in the fireplace. One flickering candle sat on the little table beside the bed. There was a faintly herbal scent teasing the air. It smelled medicinal and he automatically decided it must have come from some of the potions they had dosed her with. He moved with determination to her bedside. He lowered himself carefully down to sit there beside her.

  A muscle leaped in his jaw as black eyes took an inventory of the woman lying upon the bed. She was still and pale. That much he'd expected. But the air of fragility about her, shook his resolve to stay. The maids who'd cleaned away the blood dressed her in a creamy laced nightgown. And they brushed her russet hair down. It lay like a sleeping fox curled to one side of her pillow. Her small hands lay gently against the beautiful pattern of her bedclothes.