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

by Grace Walton

  Dylan didn’t hear the rest of the words. He sat at the card table and studied the woman on the floor. What would be the most expeditious way to gain her confidence? She was too brave for her own good. And she seemed impervious to his practiced charm. Abruptly, the sound of scattered applause broke over him.

  “Rory take Mr. St. John out and show him your rose garden,” suggested Gray.

  An obstinate expression settled on Rory’s face. “It’s the middle of winter Gray, there’s nothing growing in the garden.”

  “Take him out to the garden.” It was no longer a suggestion. It had become an order.

  Rory knew she had no choice in this matter, but she didn’t have to like it. “Mr. St. John, the garden,” she said it tersely and stalked from the room without waiting to see if he followed.

  “Miss Windsor I’m honored.” A sardonic Dylan trailed leisurely behind in her wake.

  She’d gone out onto a veranda that ran the length of the two-storied mansion. Then she’d followed a crushed shell walk that led into the cold moonlit garden. He found her tapping an impatient foot by a host of dead rose bushes. She didn’t seem interested in polite conversation.

  “They’re dead,” Rory said.

  “I can see that.”

  “Mr. St. John what are you doing here?”

  “Inspecting a dead rose bush,” he evaded lightly.

  “No, really, what are you doing in Savannah. It’s not exactly the place fashionable people travel to for the winter.”

  Dylan chuckled softly at her sarcasm, “No, I suppose that’s true.”

  “Is Gray in some sort of trouble?”

  “No”

  “Then why are you here.”

  “I’ve business to attend to in Savannah.”

  “What kind of business?” Rory was determined to find out what Mr. Dylan St. John was doing in Savannah.

  “You’re a nosey little thing, aren’t you?” He brushed back a curling strand of hair that had fallen across her cheek hoping to distract her. It worked.

  Suddenly she was fully aware she was alone at night in a deserted garden with a compellingly handsome man. In a detached sort of way, she rather liked the feeling. It made her feel slightly scandalous and more than slightly reckless. She’s never felt so elementally feminine in her whole life.

  He moved closer and began playing idly with a curl that danced in front of her ear. Dylan watched in satisfaction as, he saw a tiny pulse leap in her throat.

  Rory reveled in the delicious heaviness plaguing her senses. She was beginning to feel the same sensations she had experienced the time she had drunk two glasses of wine at dinner one evening. It was wonderful to feel so unconcerned and euphoric.

  “What are you Dylan St. John?” she asked innocently.

  “A man, Miss Windsor, I’m just a man.”

  In a supremely orchestrated movement, Dylan bent and his lips took possession of that little quivering point at the base of her throat with a feather-like caress.

  The moment he touched her, Rory came instantly to the full realization that what was happening was wrong, very, very wrong. She was letting this man take liberties, and she was supposed to be a Christian, for goodness sakes. She was thoroughly disgusted with herself. Her hand swung up in response, and she automatically slapped his face. Hard.

  He caught her hand as she raised it to hit him again. “Once was quite enough.” He seemed unaffected and unbelievably bored by what had just transpired.

  “1 want you to stay away from me, do you understand?” She backed away from him. She needed to put some distance between them so she could think. “Gray told me you work for the government. He said you need my help. I don’t care who you work for. I’m not helping you. You could be drowning in front of me at low tide, and I wouldn’t throw you a rope.”

  The beautiful lethargy of a few moments before had fled. Now Rory was scared of the way he made her feel. It was too powerful. He was too powerful. There were tears in her eyes as she continued, “I don’t like you. I don’t trust you. Stay away from me. Leave me alone.” She fled back towards the lighted windows of the tabby house.

  Dylan plowed a distracted hand through his hair. It was his fault he knew. He had moved too fast, and now he’d have to start again from square one. He shouldn’t have let this kind of mistake happen. He knew how to play the game with more finesse than he’d just used. He’d never been so clumsy with a woman. She’d been badly frightened. He’d tasted it on her skin. Felt it in the sudden tremor of her body.

  Now he’d need to come up with a different method of turning her to his will. Aurora would never help him if she was afraid of him. Resigned, he made his way back to the house. The house was quiet now and dark. Sander was waiting in his room.

  “How did it go?” he asked from a comfortable chair by the fire.

  “Don’t ask,” Dylan muttered as he stripped off his coat, threw it on the bed, and poured himself a generous drink from the decanter on the night table.

  “She doesn’t want to be engaged to you?” the black man ventured.

  “Her exact words were, if I was drowning at low tide she wouldn’t throw me a rope,” he answered in disgust.

  “My, my, my, what did you do to the poor girl?”

  Dylan crossed long legs in front of him and settled into a warm chair. “It doesn’t matter Sander. How am I going to get her to help me?”

  “Well, there is the obvious choice,” offered Sander.

  “Tell me.”

  “If she was infatuated with you, she’d do anything you asked.”

  “No. I don’t want to do it that way.”

  Sander didn’t need to know he’d already tried seducing her tonight. And he’d done it with little success.

  “Why? You’ve done it ‘that’ way plenty of times in the past.”

  “It’s not fair.” He thought of the fear in her eyes after he’d kissed her. A bitter taste rose up in the back of his throat.

  “Fair to who? Fair to you or fair to her? Could it be the legendary Heartless St. John has at last been caught in Cupid’s trap?”

  “Shut up Bu Allah.” His air of sangfroid was undisturbed. “This is a job, just a job.”

  “All right, if it’s just a job, do what you need to do to get the job finished and be done with it.”

  Dylan rose and faced the sputtering fire. “You’re right as always Sander.” He raised his glass and toasted, “to the job.”

  “To the job”

  Dylan didn’t look at his uncle. He finished the remainder of his drink and ushered Sander out of the room. After the black man left, Dylan sat slouched in the chair by the fire. He watched the shadows dancing sluggishly on the opposite wall and planned just how he would painlessly bend the stunning Miss Windsor to his formidable will.

  Chapter Four

  Rory heard the morning sounds drifting into her dim and shadowed bedchamber. Clinking china against trays and the softly accented Gullah dialect of the servants were comforting and familiar. She turned onto her side dragging the soft cotton material of her voluminous night-rail. A sweet smile settled on her sleepy features as she remembered that Gray was home. It was quickly replaced by an annoyed frown as she recalled the two visitors he'd brought home with him. Stretching supple arms up toward the ceiling, Rory thought about the two strangers. The Arab was all right, she supposed. But the other one was going to be trouble. Big, big trouble, any man that good-looking, couldn't be trusted.

  After the way he'd acted in the garden the night before, she had decided to give him a wide berth. She’d work hard to avoid both of them. There was something very unsettling about the man calling himself Bu Allah, as well. If she was a betting lady, and she surely wasn’t, she’d guess the black man was no more Arabian than she was herself.

  How long would they be visiting? A few days, a week at most? She could surely stay out of their way that long. There was the school to manage and the herb garden to see to. Not to mention the fact that Reba, one of the white h
ousemaids, was due to deliver her fifth child any day. Rory hoped this time Reba would have an easier lying in. The last baby almost killed her. It was a worrisome thought.

  She threw her legs over the sides of the high tester bed and pushed the rich quilted bed covers back. She’d need to pray over that situation, long and hard. She’d always felt mornings were the best time of the day to pray. Every dawn was quiet and fresh. There was a newness to mornings that always reminded her of the Bible verse- The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases. His mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning.

  She had a feeling she'd need some of that mercy today if she ran into St. John. Dainty feet swung back and forth in a lazy pattern above the floor. Below them lay a rug woven with vivid roses and twining leaves. It matched the bed's heavy coverlet. Aurora studied the colors and swirls caused by the dawn filtering through the heavy damask draperies onto the carpet. Reba would be all right, she assured herself. The gaudy Arab and Dylan St. John would be bored with Windsor's Island soon enough. Then they would move on. Besides, Bram had promised to sail out to the island today. It wouldn't be such a bad day after all, if she could just get out of the house unnoticed.

  With this thought in mind, Rory jumped down and hitched up the tail of her nightgown. She walked gingerly across the cold wooden floor to a gigantic chiffonier set against the side wall. Inside were shelves filled with the lacy linen articles required by respectable women. Instead of reaching for these staid pieces, Rory dragged out plain underclothes, a worn pair of dark blue britches, and a faded boy's work shirt. The old plaid shirt was cuffed and simple. No collar, no frills to hamper her. When Stuart had out-grown the thing last year, Rory had seized it before Tirzah could throw it into the midden. It’s comforting soft, worn fabric fit her mood this morning perfectly.

  The pants and shirt suited her slight frame. She didn't like anything that brought attention to her form. She had enough trouble with men without drawing attention to herself. From under the tall bed, she dragged the same scuffed boots she'd worn to meet the Rozelle the night before. She jammed them on her feet. Satisfied with her attire, Aurora picked up an ivory-backed hair brush from the dressing table near the long set of windows. Plopping down on the elegant vanity bench, she stared at her reflection in the rippling glass of the mirror. The young woman looking back seemed set for battle. There was a spark in her sea-colored eyes. And the stubborn tilt of her chin begged for an argument. Rory stuck her tongue out at the cross girl. Then she giggled at the ridiculous picture she made.

  The hard bristles of the brush felt good as she pulled it through the length of her russet hair. Here and there, a streak of sunlight danced across its surface and caused the strands to come alive with fire. Stroke after monotonous stroke was required to tame the unruly mass.

  Why do I go to all this trouble, she wondered? It will be down my back before I'm halfway out the door. Rory's hair was a constant source of displeasure to her. It was so long and heavy that many times she'd threatened to hack the thick stuff all off. Only Graham's dire warnings of what he’d do to her if she clipped the red mess stayed her hand. With nimble fingers she fashioned a thick braid. It had the width of a strong man’s wrist and fell between her shoulders to touch her trim waist.

  One final glance in the mirror told Rory she looked neat and presentable. Now all she had to do was spirit herself out of the house without notice. If that could be accomplished, she could lose herself all day on the island. Peeking out, she saw no one in the long hall leading to the back stairs. Assured that she was alone, Rory crept silently along its length trying not to wake the inhabitants of the other bedchambers. It seemed to have worked too. She took the back stairs two at a time. Long practice at stealing away taught her which squeaky steps to avoid.

  Entering the warmth of the keeping room, Rory plucked a hot beaten biscuit from the steaming platter of them on a pine table. It served as a rustic sideboard. She juggled the hot bread from one hand to another as she stepped out into the misty backdoor garden.

  Rory hummed a lively hymn as she made her way through the foggy gardens to the stables. Her sister-in-law Rozelle had taught her this particular hymn when she was too young to understand what the words meant. Even though she knew how dire the lyrics were now, she still loved the cheerful tune. When she was sixteen, one of Gray's sailors asked her if she wanted to know the 'real' words to the hymn. As curious as she had always been, of course her answer was yes. She never got to hear all the 'real' lyrics. Gray caught the young man singing it to her. Her brother promptly ended the impromptu music lesson. Later, Tirzah told her the hymn had originally been a tavern song the Wesley brothers had reworded. On this beautiful morning, she was glad she only knew the Godly Wesley vicars’ version that accompanied the sprightly melody.

  She'd finished her biscuit and was brushing the crumbs from her hands, just as she came to the whitewashed stable. No one seemed to be around here either. Rory was proud of herself. She'd left the house, and no one was the wiser.

  A smug little smile settled on her face as she strolled into the dark, fragrant interior of the barn. Several of the horses nickered in her direction as they recognized their mistress. She stopped at each stall obligingly blowing into flared nostrils and rub straining necks. At last, she reached the stall of her favorite. He wasn't the handsomest one stabled here. In fact, his ears had a decidedly mulish cast to them, and his lower lip had a tendency to separate from his upper and dangle down when he was relaxed. But this particular horse had something none of the others possessed. He was one of her strays. And like all the people and animals she had saved or mothered. He had her heart. Aurora unlatched the stall door and slipped inside. She ran a loving hand down his satiny side. Looping her arms around his neck, they hugged each other as only horse and master can.

  “Lucky horse,” the voice was dry and masculine.

  She knew at once who it belonged to. Aurora stiffened, but did not turn to acknowledge him. “If you're looking for Graham, he's up at the house Mr. St. John.” The distaste and distrust she felt was evident.

  “I'm not looking for your brother.”

  “I haven't seen Mr. Bu Allah this morning either,” she noted primly.

  “Neither have I.”

  Rory turned to face him down. This was easier said than done, however, she thought ruefully. He looked quite at home propped there with his arms crossed lazily atop the stall gate. His easy smile hid whatever he was thinking. And those sleepy looking eyes made her uncomfortable. The embarrassing memory of last evening in the garden was still too fresh. Rory didn't like the way she felt around this man. She wanted to leave. But he was in her way.

  He's too large to be easily pushed aside. He's obviously not going to take the polite hint and leave on his own. Drat the man, she fumed. He keeps popping up in the most annoying way. Slipping a bridle over the paint's big head, Aurora led him toward the door.

  “Well, Mr. St. John, if you'll excuse me. I'm on my way out.”

  “Are you?” It was obviously a challenge. He didn't budge and that infernally confidant smile never wavered.

  “Listen you,” she said. She stamped up to him and stared belligerently. She punctuated every angry word with a jab of her finger. “I've tried the nice way. But that didn't work with you. So I'll just be plain.”

  Never before had his conscience bothered him about using a woman. But this time a little accusing voice inside his brain was relentlessly accusing him. She has no experience. It droned. She's not like the others. She'll only love once. It informed him as if he hadn’t figured that out the first time he’d met her. Even when he tried to be pragmatic, and Dylan St. John was nothing if not pragmatic. The annoying voice kept up its silent attack. If she gives her heart to you, she'll never give it to another man. It whispered to him. You'll use her up and leave her an empty rusk before this is over, the grating sound berated him. In a totally businesslike move, he ruthlessly pushed all this aside.

  After talking to Sander last n
ight, Dylan was positive the only way to get her assistance was to manipulate her into trusting and caring for him. So he captured the slender hand with the finger pointing at him and assured her in a deep smoky voice. Blatant seduction might not work on Rory Windsor. She was an untried maiden, after all. Seduction required experience from both partners. Seduction had failed. But dishonest wooing might work.

  “No man in his right mind would ever call you plain, Rory Windsor.”

  She shivered in reaction to the intent in his voice. He turned her hand over and planted a warm kiss into the center of her palm. The tingling sensation accompanying his touch surprised her. Not that again, she groaned. She snatched her hand away as if she'd been burned. With stricken eyes, she looked up to him.

  Dylan was drawing her toward him, she decided. That was why she was suddenly leaning limply against the stall door. She closed her eyes. Her head tilted lethargically back. Rory opened her eyes to see Dylan bending towards her. He's going to kiss me. The thought registered from somewhere far off. I want his kiss, she told herself. She impulsively reached up on tiptoe to meet it with one of her own. Then it dawned on her that what she saw in his wonderful eyes was not love, nor even a heartfelt attraction. What she saw was pity. Pity. The embarrassment she felt was overwhelming. He felt sorry for her.

  “Get out of my way.” It was a brusque order. Rory didn't wait to hear his response. She leapt upon the bare back of her horse. He snorted and threw up his head. She kicked his flanks viciously and aimed him out of the stall. Dylan threw the door open, so she could escape unharmed. Then he dodged flying hooves as he watched them gallop away down an overgrown path towards the beach.

  Disgusted, he muttered darkly, “Sod it.”

  He stalked purposely back into the cavernous stable. He jerked open the first stall, he came to. Inside a big sorrel gelding shied away. Dylan retrieved a halter from the peg by the door. He approached the horse murmuring soothing words to calm him. Catching a handful of flaxen mane Dylan slipped the headstall over the gelding's ears and nose. He led the big animal out into the stable yard and vaulted easily astride it.