by Grace Walton
Graham refused to discuss his sister except with the broadest and most innocuous compliments. She was bright, generous, kind, and industrious. All these vapid terms, St. John knew, usually described a woman who might look quite at ease, stirring a steaming cauldron in a spider and bat infested cave. According to her brother, Aurora Windsor was a paragon of every womanly virtue. The very fact that he constantly stressed her goodness made the whole tale unbelievable.
The crew was no better. St. John knew most of the men, and their families lived on Windsor’s Island, the sea island plantation home belonging to Captain Windsor. He’d hoped some one of them would provide him with a true picture of the woman he’d married. But he didn’t count on the depth of their loyalty. To a man, they all supported Captain Windsor’s assertions that Miss Aurora was all that was pleasing. The only chink in this impenetrable armor of good will came one sunny afternoon when the sails fell slack from lack of wind. St. John sat with a group of seamen inspecting the endless miles of rope necessary for the running of a sailing vessel. The men were assembled, sitting cross-legged, in an informal circle checking for fraying or knotting in the lines. Dylan was among them working, putting the men at ease with jokes and stories of his own rascal boyhood in Virginia.
As a spy, he knew well how to manipulate others into saying things they dearly wished later had never been uttered. This was the case with the callow youth who sat beside him.
The boy was anxious to impress St. John when he leered, “Miss Aurora’s wonderful all right. I like it when she sashays around in that pair of man’s britches. That lass has the most ripe, apple-shaped… ”
Suddenly, the deck was as silent as the grave. The poor lad slowly turned a dull shade of red as every other sailor in the circle glared at him fiercely. Uttering not another word, he immediately got back to mending rope.
Dylan said nothing, nor let on that anything was amiss. He merely filed the surprising piece of information away in his brain in the same analytical way one sorts the pieces of a puzzle.
The outspoken young sailor was not so lucky. The next day he sported an intensely purple shiner and a painfully split lip. Both were gifts from other members of the crew who’d taken exception to his remarks about the Captain’s sister.
The sheltered harbor of Windsor’s Island was sighted from the riggings one late afternoon about a week later. All hands worked feverishly to prepare for landfall. Sander went quickly below to pack and don his costume, thus assuming his new alter ego.
Dylan St. John stood by the guardrail staring ahead, resolute. He leaned forward. His hands lightly poised on the rough wood. The salty breeze ruffled his hair, grown long during the journey. It only enhanced his aura of rakish sang-froid. He’d dressed for comfort in a pair of snug buckskin breeches and an open-throated black poet’s shirt. Its sleeves billowed in the wind.
His unflinching silver eyes watched the shore like a bird of prey’s might. This was the true Dylan St. John. Underneath all the charm and pretense he put on and took off like most people changed their clothes, there was a ruthless determined warrior.
The ship fought an outgoing tide which would in all probability delay their disembarking until sometime shortly before twilight. The crew was visibly excited. Men were singing and taking turns shimmying up the mast. They all wanted to see if anyone familiar waited on the long pier. It was a rickety affair that snaked out to the deep water of the snug little harbor.
They were home, home after two years at sea. Two years of sloughing through foreign ports. Two years of stagnant water from moldy barrels, biscuits riddled with weevils, and cold lonely nights. They were home, home to warm houses, well cooked meals, growing children, and loving wives.
St. John stood, a silent, strong figure etched black against the dying rays of a sinking tangerine sun. He wasn’t arriving to the peace and tranquility of a home like the others. Any ties he’d felt for a piece of geography died twenty years ago with his parents.
This was a deep, dangerous game he played, not one to be entered into without caution and expert preparation. He’d been in similar situations countless times before at Arthur Bassett’s bidding. But this time it felt different. This time he must infiltrate himself convincingly into a band of thugs. He must deliver vital damning information to his brother Connor. He must protect a young girl and her fragile reputation. And somehow, somehow he must extricate himself and Sander neatly from the whole mess once it was all over.
The Hindu called it Karma. The Calvinists preferred Predestination. And the ancient Greeks’ named it Fate. Whatever the label, he felt it. And he knew he would never be the same when this came to an end.
The swishing and whisper of brocade against satin captured his attention. He turned his head to find the origin of the sound. Before him stood a stately Arab arrayed in the robes of Persian state. The turban twisted atop the potentate’s head was turquoise silk adorned with an egg sized pigeon’s blood ruby. St. John turned, leaning back lazily against the rail.
“Nice dress Sander,” he said.
“It’s not a dress,” huffed his uncle. “I am Bu Allah, cousin to the current Sheik of Rasai.” Now his words were strangely accented.
“Looks like a gown to me. Shall I address you as Bu, Allah, or Mr. Bu Allah?”
“Your Grace will do.”
“Certainly Your Grace, where did you find that gaudy tent?”
“Stop disparaging my clothing. It is quite appropriate for this disguise. Astley’s Amphitheater fired their Arabian Nights act last season. I bought all the props and costumes.”
Dylan inclined his head forward causing an unrepentant lock of midnight hair to fall onto his brow, “So now you are His Grace, Bu Allah, late of Persia.”
“At your service, Mr. St. John,” Sander said once again in his faux Persian accent. He bowed deeply from the waist.
“Well Your Grace,” Dylan said, as they both turned to the rail and faced the sheltered cove, “Welcome to Windsor’s Island, Georgia.”
The sun was a fiery half globe floating on the waves of the western horizon. The sky painted in streaks of lavender, peach, rose, and grey was swiftly becoming opaque. Far, far above the schooner a pale sickle moon rose. The Rozelle bumped softly against the waiting pier. Several men jumped down to secure her, tying sturdy and elaborate knots meant to hold fast.
Graham was quick to bark out commands. Sailors hurried to get their last jobs completed so they could get to their home. Men were hauling up from the depths of the ship chests, boxes, and miscellaneous bags containing the accumulated belongings of two years.
In all the hustle and noise, the horse and rider went unnoticed until they plunged recklessly over and down the high sand cliff near the pier. Seeing them, a raucous cheer shot up from the seamen. They were relieved to see at least someone would be there to welcome them home.
The yell died in many throats as the slight rider, leaning low over the big piebald’s neck, urged his mount into a dead run. Flying across the beach, solid hooves setting off little churning explosions of sand, the black and white horse strained to answer his master’s demand for more speed.
St. John swore under his breath in disbelief as the animal leapt up onto the pier without a break in stride. It continued to thunder down its length to where the schooner lay berthed.
Graham Windsor came to stand close beside St. John at the rail. He groaned and pleaded, “No Stuart, No son.” Perspiration beaded up on his forehead as he watched the lad’s rapid progress towards him. Finally, he bellowed hoarsely, “Rein him up you fool! Rein him up!”
A piercing whistle from the boy stung the air. The animal halted immediately. His forelegs stiffened. His haunches sliding under his massive body absorbed the shock of the abrupt stop. The rider dove from his back and began racing up the gangplank.
From his position, Dylan perceived rather than saw the body hurtling through space at him. Only his lightning reflexes saved them from tumbling overboard as he caught the boy securely against his ch
est. Two things registered in Dylan’s mind as he circled round to lessen the unexpected blow. One was the delightfully husky timbre of the feminine voice buried in his throat.
“Gray welcome home. I’ve missed you so much,” she whispered.
The voice, though seductive enough to set his mind blazing with its carnal possibilities, he could manage. He’d been managing women since he’d been in long britches. But the other thing, the other thing was more of a problem. The incredible surge of protectiveness running through him as he responded to the woman’s spontaneous embrace was as foreign to him as Bu Allah would prove to be to Savannah. He’d never felt such an instant or more bothersome reaction to a female.
His captive dangled happily twelve inches above the deck completely trusting the strength and motives of the one who held her tightly to him. That was her first mistake. Clad in a worn riding jacket several sizes too big, figure hugging breeches, a pair of scuffed boy’s knee boots, and an old linen shirt, she lovingly wrapped her arms around his neck.
Dylan recognized the perfect curves of the woman in his arms. He was an acknowledged connoisseur of the female form. And he was nothing if not an opportunist. He tightened his hold to gather her closer and was again shaken by the fierce protectiveness she called out of him. The delicate faint perfume of apothecary roses meandered up from her warm velvet skin.
He was suddenly transported back in time to his mother’s flower garden at St. John Hall, back to his unfettered childhood. He focused his mind ruthlessly on the present to clear it and rid himself of the unconscious memories of home and love.
Beside him, Dylan saw Windsor noisily embracing a gangly youth of about fourteen who had dismounted from a second horse at the foot of the pier and sped down the weathered planks toward his father.
The girl heard the commotion too. In the midst of pressing a warm, loving kiss directly below her brother’s ear, she stopped. “Graham?”
The tentative frightened question in her voice ripped at St. John’s resolve. He gazed down into the delicate heart-shaped face lifted up in confusion to his. This is the face of my wife, he thought unemotionally. He began to study it at his leisure. Aurora Windsor was tall for a woman, and not beautiful in the common way.
She could claim no sloping brow, girlish double chin, saucy cropped butter colored curls, or pleasingly rounded and dimpled arms. No, she had none of these things currently considered prerequisites for fairness.
But hers was an arresting appeal both exquisite and haunting. It seemed to radiate like a candle’s flame from within. About her, clinging like the salt on a sea breeze was an aura of wild and fey beauty. She seemed almost completely unhampered by worldly convention.
Aurora’s troubled indigo eyes were enormous. Her features were perfectly proportioned and marred now only slightly by the nervous way she bit at her lush bottom lip. A tiny beauty mark nestled above the right corner of her generous mouth.
Thirty years before women had worn artificial black silk patches in just the same place to encourage the kisses of their lovers. He felt the same compulsion now. But he had too much discipline to act upon it. St. John held himself in check. This came not out of fear of another’s retribution, but from a hard-earned sense of self-preservation.
Aurora tilted her head further back in order to better view the one who held her captive. She shoved ineffectively against hard broad shoulders. The struggle loosened the stable boy’s cap she had earlier jammed over her ears and sent it spinning to the deck.
St. John’s jaw tightened in an involuntary response as the long silky length of her hair enveloped them both. It tumbled in a profusion of rumpled Titian waves to her waist. This russet glory of tresses was shot through with veins of old guinea gold. St. John realized, if he could dampen his own raging reaction to the young woman, this was the perfect time to engage her interest. So he turned the full force of heavily lidded quicksilver eyes upon her. Then he moved in for the coup de grace. It came in the form of a lazy tempting smile.
“I’m not your brother,” he stated the obvious. He then stared down at her and waited. It was a practiced gesture for him. This seductive gaze. In the past it produced either blushing stammering denials or passionate invitations. Either outcome was suitable. Either gave him complete control of the situation.
Unfortunately, for St. John, neither expected response came to pass. Angry and fighting in earnest to be free, Aurora Windsor began muttering a furious stream of poisonous invective.
“Let me go!” Her rough boots tried vainly to connect with his shins or hopefully something more vital to procreation. “Graham!”
The crowd of men looking on shouted with rowdy laughter. They were surprised to see someone at last take the reins with the feisty Miss Rory. St. John grasped her waist and effortlessly swung her up onto the dock’s railing, effectively blocking her fists and boots.
Suspended there she glared down at him. “Put me down you blasted shark,” she gritted out, “put me down now, or as God is my witness you’ll live to regret it.”
The sailors hooted at the threat, but St. John merely grinned. The first truly genuine smile he’d favored a woman with in years. And this one succeeded wildly where the other more practiced gesture had failed.
Aurora swallowed hard. But she refused to lower her eyes. Truthfully, she couldn’t lower them. Somehow they’d been snared by the easy glamor of his gesture. No man should look that appealing. She thought, fuming.
Dylan made note of her obvious self-possession. She was definitely not afraid of him. That daring might be very useful later as his mission progressed. In his business, it always helped to have someone who could keep their head in trying circumstances. Aurora neither bowed her head nor glanced aside to escape this momentary awkwardness. She continued to stare steadily back into his eyes. Aurora Windsor was like no female he’d ever met, unearthly beauty combined with audacious spirit, a fit partner in the dangerous game ahead.
“If you’ll but say please, as any gentlewoman would, I’ll let you down.”
“What?”
“Say please,” he repeated patiently, still smiling.
“Why should I?”
“Just say please.”
“No”
“Very well,” St. John said as he calmly proceeded to easily hoist her over the railing as if she weighed no more than a feather.
She began to struggle again. She looked down at the lapping murky water beneath. “I can swim.”
“Good,” he said. His eyes glinted with amusement as he held her glare. “You’ll need to soon.”
“Let me go. You may be the prettiest man I’ve ever seen, but I don’t have to do as you say,” she snapped stubbornly not daring to move lest he let her fall. Hearing her words as they flew from her mouth she moaned. She was forever saying things without first considering them fully.
“You find me handsome?”
Rory swallowed hard. Now what was she to say? She couldn’t lie, that would surely grieve the Lord. And he was the most beautiful man she’d ever beheld. And well he knew it, the blackguard. A deep blush stained her cheeks. She decided to be honest, but not to pander to his already outrageous conceit. She nodded. It was a simple gesture and should have been innocent enough. Except the beast had the audacious temerity to grin at her once again.
“Thank you for your kind regard,” he said as if it was his due to be worshiped by every woman who crossed his path.
Rory’s eyes narrowed. She had just about decided to jump into the coffee-colored water and drag him down with her when he spoke again. The sound of his voice stirred something deep in the pit of her stomach. It was as deep, dark, and delicious as one of Tirzah’s pecan pralines.
“And of course you don’t have to do anything I say. But I don’t have to hold you up here forever either,” he mentioned casually as he eyed the rhythmic rise and fall of the tide below.
In this battle of wills the victor was already all too apparent. Aurora had finally stumbled upon a man she could
n’t manipulate with her considerable feminine charm or intimidate with her plain spoken ways. She knew the towering stranger would drop her into the ocean without a backward glance or even a fleeting moment of concern for her safety. And she really didn’t relish a dunking in the stinking water of the harbor. All kinds of predators lurked beneath its surface, including bull sharks. So she took the only avenue open to her. She conceded defeat, temporarily.
“Please,” the word was stated grudgingly through stiff lips.
“What was that? Did you say something?”
Really, the man’s nerve knew no bounds she thought disgustedly. “Please,” Aurora parroted louder.
He inclined his dark head in a salute to her graceless surrender and pulled her away from the danger of the water. St. John allowed her body to slide down the long hard length of his own, holding her fast for an instant as their eyes became level.
In that moment, something caused her to tremble in his arms. Some heretofore unknown force sucked the very air from her lungs. She was freezing to death and burning up at the same time and she had no idea why. Aurora’s eyes widened with shock and confusion at the way her truant body was behaving. I must be sickening, she thought. Intuitively aware that he was the cause of her distress, she hissed vehemently at him, “I hate you.”
Dylan St. John looked down into her infuriated face. He’d watched and clearly read each emotion as it was revealed. His eyes softened at the innocence there. For some insane reason, he felt an overwhelming urge to protect her from anything and everything that might hurt her, even from himself.
So he calmly and quietly assured her, “It’s better for us both that way.” With that, he gently set her down on the solid deck.
She turned gratefully into her brother’s waiting embrace. St. John silently watched them. Shrugging finally, he turned to nonchalantly take a place by the side of his puzzled and bewildered uncle, Bu Allah.