by Grace Walton
Dylan looked down at his own hands. They were not gentle. They were hard and capable of killing. Not just capable of killing, he goaded himself. His hands were good at it. Too good. And now because of his murderous hands, she was lying there waiting to die. The flame from the candle danced off the gold of his ring. With deliberate motions, he tugged the battered circle from his finger.
“You always watched this ring.” he said. “I saw you staring at my hand. I knew the ring was what intrigued you. You'd seem almost ready to ask about it. But then I'd see something flicker in the back of your eyes. You'd turn away or change the subject. It became a sort of game with me to see whether you'd question me about its origins. I wanted to tease you with the thing. Just so I could see that marvelous blush of yours.” He swallowed hard and held the ring up to the light.
“It was my Mother's wedding ring. Nothing fancy or costly. I once heard my aunt tell my mother, she thought the son of a duke could do better for his bride than this plain and simple band. Mother laughed. She said the ring was priceless. To her, it was priceless because of what is engraved upon it. The inscription is in Latin, it’s a vow my father made to her on their wedding day. One I’d convinced myself he was too weak to keep. I was so pompous and so self-righteous in my condemnation of him. But now I know his excruciating agony. And it goes far beyond petty emotion and paltry feelings. It’s like the very essence of life has been drawn from your body and yet you still breathe. Your heart beats even though it’s a shattered dead thing in your chest. The engraving on the ring, Caritas Mea Non Recedet, means My Love Has No End. I never understood until I met you. I never thought love was real. It was just something idiots sang about or silly poets wrote flowery verse over. But you loved me, didn't you sweetheart? Even when I accused you of treachery, you still loved me enough to die for me. And I… I love you. I know the love I have for you will never end. Even if you leave me and this life, I’ll love you still. Until they lay me down in the ground, I’ll love you. And even then, I’ll love you beyond all I know and all I understand.”
Dylan closed his fist over the battered little ring in his palm. He smiled sadly. “I should have told you about the marriage. Sander tried to warn me. I was a stupid fool. I didn't listen. It wasn't that I didn't want you. I know that's what I tried to make you believe. But that was a lie too. I want you sweetheart, and it’s more than hungry lust. It’s more than mere infatuation. It’s deeper. It’s so bone deep in me, it’s a part of who I am. I want you more than I've ever wanted anything or anyone. You make every woman I've ever known pale in comparison. I want you, body and soul. God knows I always will. I wish I’d had the courage to give you this ring. The courage to be honest with you about just how broken and ugly I am. But I’ve been a coward, much more of one than my father ever was. He was brave enough to take the risk. To love without restraint or selfish guilt. I envy him that courage.” Words failed as he tenderly stroked her hair.
He gruffly cleared his throat. “With your spirit and beauty you were born to be the Duchess of MacAllister. I can see you in the ballroom of my house in London holding court. You'd be called the latest original because no one would be able to understand how you could be so beautiful and so good at the same time. Beauty is a cheap commodity in London. But true goodness is rare sweetheart. Very rare, as rare as you are. You'd probably set up a school for climbing boys in the drawing room and invite all the ladies of the ton to help you teach.” He smiled at the thought. “You weren't there the first time I made these vows. And they didn't mean anything then. But now they do. I never thought I'd ever say these words. But I need to say them now. I need to believe there's a chance you're hearing them. That you know I love you.”
He laced the long strong fingers of his hand through the small still hand lying on the coverlet. “I, Dylan take thee, Aurora to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness or in health, to love and to cherish, 'till death…” The next words of the liturgy never came. They would be too final. His head dropped. He suddenly wasn't speaking to the girl on the bed anymore. His voice wasn't tender anymore. It became hard and cold.
“Listen God, if you're there, this is wrong. Her dying is all wrong. I thought you never made mistakes, all powerful, all seeing God. Well, you're making one now. She's everything that is good in this world, everything. And she's never hurt anyone. Look at all the good she's done. What about the school? How many good women befriend soiled doves in this world? Tell me what other woman would have played that charade in Savannah to help people she didn't even know. If you want to punish someone, look at me. Or has your omnipotent memory failed you?” he asked sarcastically to the ceiling. “How many men have I killed? How many women have I seduced? How many lies have I told? Too many to count. If you have to take a life, take mine.” His words were raw and shaking. “Just leave her alone. Can't you just leave her alone? I'm not asking for a miraculous healing. Just leave her alone. My death would be a much better bargain. Instant justice for the wicked. Strike me down where I stand. Just let her have her life back.”
Nothing happened. The room was still except for the dancing flame of the candle. “What's wrong? Are you out of thunderbolts? No avenging death angel available to do your bidding. Fine, I'll do it for you.” He strode across the silent room and jerked open the door. Sander, who had been standing outside, jumped in fright.
“How is she?” he asked, afraid of the answer.
“That's a very stupid question,” Dylan said coldly. “She's dying.”
“Where are you going then?” Sander called to his retreating back. Dylan didn't even turn to acknowledge the other man. He pounded down the stairs.
“Boy!” he commanded in a voice that brought every servant in the house instantly crowding around him. Their faces were shadowed with concern as they looked up at him.
“Sir?” the boldest man asked.
“I want the boy who brought the basin.” His eyes scanned the crowd of servants not finding a child. “Where is he?”
“Here I am, sir.” The little boy peered afraid around the back of one of the men. “What you want?”
“Go get me some of those wild roses you were babbling about upstairs.”
“Miss Rory dead?” A look of unutterable sadness settled on his freckled face.
“Don't ask stupid questions, just get the roses.” It was a dismissal. He turned and walked toward the library. All the servants began to moan and whisper among themselves. But the boy tore out of the house and down the black path to where the last roses bloomed in the scrub.
Sander stayed by Rory's bedchamber until Reba appeared in the hallway. Then he set off downstairs to look for his nephew. He found Dylan rifling through the drawers of a massive cypress desk in the small library.
“What are you doing in here?” he asked.
“Did you leave her alone?” Dylan's accusation fired back.
“No,” Sander said and held up his hands in his defense. “No, she's not alone. Her maid came back as soon as you'd left. I think the woman had been hiding around the corner hoping you'd leave so she could check on her mistress. What are you doing?” He asked again.
Dylan didn't stop his search. He didn't answer the question. “Sander I want you and Connor to go after the guns. You can find them easily. There can't be that many trails to Fort Mims.”
“We'll wait for you,” the black man argued.
“No, I want you to go now. Tonight,” he said, reaching into the back of a deep drawer. He pulled out a wide thin wooden box.
“We'll wait for you,” Sander insisted eyeing the polished box.
Dylan's head snapped up and his voice grated, “Sander, I am not asking your opinion or begging a favor. I am telling you to go.”
“No.”
“Sander, be sensible. You can't do anything here. But you can finish this one thing for me. You can stop the guns from getting to the Indians.”
“No, I'm not going to leav
e you here to do something reckless.” He nodded toward the box.
A cold hard smile settled on Dylan's lips as he mocked, “When have you ever seen me do anything reckless old man?”
“I'm not leaving while you're here playing with a pair of dueling pistols.”
“Afraid one of them might go off?” He flicked open the box's latch and lifted the lid. Inside, nestled in black velvet were two beautiful long barreled pistols.
“I'll make you a bargain,” Sander said. “I'll take Connor and chase after the guns, if you give me your word you'll be here when we bring the arms back.”
“Done,” Dylan said as he snapped the box's lid closed. He shoved it back into the drawer “How do you know I'll keep my promise?”
Sander grinned in relief. “Dylan, you've never broken your word to me. Even as a boy. You might lie and dissemble to others, but you've always told me the truth. I can trust your word. I was afraid you might hurt yourself. I guess I'm becoming an old woman. It's just that every time I look at you, I see your father. And I remember how his life ended. It was such a waste. But you're not like him are you?”
“No,” Dylan agreed.
“He was a man who let emotion rule his life.”
“Yes, he was.”
“You've never let any feeling dictate how you acted.”
“No, Sander I haven't.”
“Why do you need a gun?” Sander asked further reassured.
“Mine must have gotten lost when I was drugged. I thought I'd borrow one from Windsor in case some of Avansley's men decided they didn't like the way I treated their master.” It was a perfectly logical answer.
“No, the gun's not lost. I took it off of you when we tied you down,” Sander apologized sheepishly.
Dylan shrugged. “I would have done the same in your position.”
“Dylan, I hope and pray she recovers,” Sander said slowly.
Dylan draped a companionable arm around his uncle's shoulders and steered him out of the library. “So do I Sander, so do I.” As they reached the entrance to the veranda, he spoke once more. “Sander, I'll be waiting here when you and Connor return. Get back as soon as you can.”
“Do you think I'm a foolish old man for worrying about you?” Sander needed to ask.
Dylan held out his hand and grasped his uncle's in a tight clasp. “I think you're the most honorable man I've ever known.”
A glaze of tears filmed over the older man's eyes. “Thank you, son.”
“You'd better leave before we get too maudlin. And watch Connor's back will you? He's far too reckless.”
“Like someone else I know,” Sander said.
“I take calculated risks. Connor will learn to do the same with your help. Just keep him alive until he learns.”
Sander nodded, “If I can keep you alive, your little brother poses no challenge at all,” he joked and waved a tired hand before turning to leave. At the bottom of the stairs, he looked back up at Dylan. “You'll be here?”
“I'll be here. Now go on. At the rate you're moving, the Indians will shoot you with the same guns you're trying to track.”
Sander nodded and went off into the darkness of the stable yard. Dylan watched as the dark swallowed his uncle up. Then he carefully shut the front door behind him. The face that had been open and honest a few seconds before froze into a hard and determined mask. Striding back into the library he ripped open the drawer with the pistol case. Extracting the case, he set it on the top of the desk, lifted the lid, and began methodically to prepare one of the guns. He looked up when he heard a hesitant knock at the door.
“Sir?” It was the little boy holding out a hand in which a wild rose trembled violently. “This one was all that was left.”
“Bring it here,” Dylan ordered scarcely sparing him a glance. The child hurried to obey. Dylan took the flower. He laid it on the desk. The boy watched in fascination as the man primed the pistol and rammed a ball down its glinting barrel. When Dylan glanced up, he saw the child's large frightened eyes.
“Now leave, get as far from the house as you can. Run boy, and don't come back till tomorrow.” At least he could be sure this child didn't have to live with the sound of a pistol shot. The door was left open as the boy sped out.
The other servants milled nervously around in the foyer. It was as if they were waiting for someone to give them direction, give them a task, or a focus. Their eyes were confused and lost. Tears rolled down many faces. They stood aside as Dylan walked through the crowd and headed for the stairs.
“Seth, why he got Mr. Gray's fancy-pants popper and that there posy?” one man whispered fearfully to another.
“I don't rightly know,” was the answer. “And I sure ain't gonna ask.”
“He do look like he could bite a nail in half and spit out the ends, don't he?” the first man agreed.
Dylan mounted the stairs quickly, turned down the hall, and opened the door to Rory's room. Reba, sitting in a chair pulled near the bed, gasped at the sight of him.
“Mister MacAllister, let me sit up with her,” she pleaded. “Please?”
Dylan searched her strained face. He set the pistol and the rose on the mantel. “You can stay for a while, if you think you can tolerate my company.”
Reba smiled weakly. “Oh, I 'spect you're a fair tolerable man when you puts your mind to it. Miss Rory thinks so anyway.”
Dylan moved across the room. He sat at the foot of the big tester bed. He said nonchalantly, “I think you're wrong on that score. Miss Rory knows me for the scoundrel I am.”
“Scoundrel or not, I know she's crazy in love with you. Lord, the child could eat you with a spoon. For days, all I heard was, I detest him, he's arrogant, and he can't tell me what to do.”
Dylan eased back to prop his shoulders against the bedpost. “Doesn't sound like love to me. Sounds more like hate.”
Reba's laugh was rusty and low. “Oh, that's what she was sayin' with her mouth. But her eyes told the true tale. Lovesick, that's what she was. Purely lovesick.”
“Then I'm a lucky man to have such a fine lady care for me.” The words were noncommittal.
Reba cocked her head to the side like a bird. She studied the handsome man. “She is that, a fine lady I mean. But I don't believe you think you're lucky.”
He smiled sadly. Her heart broke just a little seeing his pain. “You're a mind-reader as well as a healer, are you?”
She shook her head. “No, I lay no claim to the sight. But I see what's plain.”
“And what do you see so plainly in me?”
Reba drew in a long shuddering breath and wondered if she dared tell him the truth. Well, she decided. I might as well have my say.
“I see a man who knows he's about to lose the only thing on this earth that matters to him. And he can't do a blessed thing to stop that hurt. He would sell his soul to turn the clock back for just one night. To keep his wife alive.” Reba touched the gold circle on Rory's finger.
“But he can't do that cause he never told her they were married. And anyway, he lost his soul a long, long time ago. He's seen too much badness. Done more than his share. So he's sitting here watching and waiting. He's hoping to God, she's not suffering. And he's praying she'll wake up just for a minute, so he can tell her something that's burning him inside out. Something he doesn't even want to admit to himself.”
“How long have you known about the marriage?” He ignored everything else the maid had said. “Does anyone else know?”
Reba folded her hands in her lap before answering. “I've known since the day you sailed up on Mister Gray's boat. So has mostly everybody else. Mister Gray never could keep a secret. He worried and he stewed, and he asked just about everybody who crossed his path if he'd done the right thing. I guess the only one who didn't know was Miss Rory. The way the sparks flew around you two, we all thought she'd be carrying your babe by now.”
His eyes narrowed at the thought of a child who would never be born. His child and Rory's. The vision o
f a little girl with curly red hair cut into his heart like a rapier. He turned the conversation immediately.
“If she dies, I want her buried up on the bluff at Dolphin's Point. And I want the stone to read Aurora, Duchess of MacAllister.”
“You'll be here. You take care of the arrangements,” Reba said. “After all, you're one of them high toned mucky-mucks. A duke no less. Leastways thats the new gossip going around the big house tonight. Duke or not, you haven't been much of a husband. But you can at least get her buried all right and tight.”
“Just remember what I've told you.” Dylan cut her off. “And tell my uncle, I stayed here like I promised. What’s left of me will always be here.”
“Mister Duke you ain't making a lick of sense. Is that A-rab your uncle? Now that's something, Mister Gray managed to keep to himself.” Reba was puzzled.
Dylan rose from the bed. Taking a firm grip on her arm, he helped her out of the chair. He escorted her across the floor toward the door.
“I know this is confusing. But all you have to do is remember what I've told you. Remember and by morning, it will all fall into place.” He gently pushed her out and clicked the door shut.
The walk back to Rory’s bed was the longest he'd ever taken in his life. For a while, he stood there watching. She could have been carved in ivory. There was an ethereal deathlike stillness to her features. Her chest barely rose and fell with each shallow breath.
When he could stand it no longer he walked to the mantel. He picked up the rose he had left there. In one violent movement, he ripped its head away from the stem. He threw the stalk angrily into the fire. The flames danced and popped as they consumed it. With his free hand, he retrieved the pistol. He tucked it under his arm.
As he went back to the chair by the bed, he began tearing the rose petals from the bloom one by one. Sitting, he laid the gun on the bed. He then spread the beautiful magenta petals out in a line alongside her arm. The contrast between the black of the gun and the bright flower was startling against the white of her sheets and gown. As he began shredding the bits of color, he spoke in a low intense voice.
