by Grace Walton
She paused to take a breath and look up at him. If that rascal dared laugh at her again, she was going to hit him, friend or no. But he wasn't laughing. The look in his gunmetal eyes stole her breath away. And his deep low words stopped her heart's pounding in her chest.
“Aurora Windsor,” he said as his hand captured one wayward curl. He teased it across her lips. Then drew it slowly through his fingers. “You are fascinating.”
She felt him drawing her like a compass finds True North. Just before she surrendered to him completely, she abruptly pulled away. This attraction she felt had to stop. Every single time she was around the man, she started acting the fool. With that bracing thought, she stood and briskly brushed the sand from her breeches.
“Mr. St. John how would you like to return to the house with me and eat an obscenely large lunch?” Rory asked using his formal name. She would put distance between them any way she could.
“Miss Windsor, I can't think of anything I'd rather do.” He answered following her lead. Inwardly, he cursed. She was as skittish as a yearling filly. He would have to make a disciplined effort to keep his hands off of her.
The ride back to the house was made in companionable silence. Neither felt the need to indulge in meaningless small talk. The mild winter morning swiftly became overcast. They wheeled into the stable yard just as a cloud burst overhead. All the hands were out and about. Grooms and yard boys scurried to take the two returning horses into the barn and rub them down. Dylan and Rory stood in the open doorway of the barn watching the downpour.
The cool rain splattered into the dust of the yard turning it muddy. All the earthy odors familiar to stables and wet earth rose from the ground. Neither one moved as the storm washed out the sky. Puddles and rivulets formed in front of them. The staccato tattoo of the falling rain made an unearthly sort of music.
Dylan thought she looked like a mischievous angel. It made him almost believe there might be a worthwhile Heaven after all. The moisture in the air caused rebellious waves to spring up along the length of her unraveling braid. He’d seen their hue in a Botticelli painting once. There was a smudge of something on her straight little nose. Her hands were jammed into the back pockets of her britches as she leaned casually against the rough wood.
Rory was too intent on watching the rain. She didn’t notice she was being studied so intently. She loved this kind of wild weather. It made her feel alive and vital. It somehow connected her with forces not quite under control. A drop from the roof plopped squarely on her nose. She laughed and wiped it away.
“I suppose that should teach me to stay in out of the rain.”
“Pardon?” He realized the angel had spoken to him.
Rory smiled and moved closer to him. “I said, I ought to know by now to stay out of the rain.” She reached up and teasingly brushed a drop from his chin. “And so should you.”
As soon as she touched him, Rory knew she'd made another stupid mistake. Dylan’s posture automatically stiffened at her touch. His eyes narrowed. A muscle in his jaw tensed spasmodically.
She must stop being so familiar with him. Even if it did seem as natural as breathing to touch him. Rory had never been nervous with the opposite sex. She'd doctored field hands, danced with every boy in Savannah, and occasionally received a chaste kiss on the cheek from Bram. And she'd never felt anything.
Now she felt everything. Her mind warned her to be careful. But her disobedient heart wouldn’t let her. The rasp of his freshly shaved skin made her fingers tingle and want to linger. She needed to smooth the frown on his lips away. Her wayward fingers seemed to have a mind of their own as they mapped the sculpted planes and angles of his face.
Dylan knew he was in control of the situation, so he waited for her examination to come to an end. If she wants a friend, she'd better stop experimenting on me, he decided ruefully. If it had been another woman, he would have locked her tight in his arms. He would surely give her the searing kiss, she sought. But Dylan knew Aurora Windsor was not begging to be kissed. So instead, he gave her hesitant fingers a playful nip with his white teeth.
Shocked, Rory jumped away and snatched her hands behind her back. She searched his face. In her inexperience, she misread his action. She nervously rubbed her hands down her pants.
“Be careful Rory. All men are ravening beasts. And I’m the worst among them.” This part of what he said was true. He was ravenous for something only she could supply. “I’m too hungry for you to play with.” This part was true as well. Though the passionate hunger he suffered was worlds away from the innocent ones she understood. “Likely I’d eat your hand were you to offer it.” Finally, he offered the pleasant lie.
The rain slowed to a languid drizzle. As they walked towards the house, Dylan steered the conversation towards things that were safe. Light things that didn't really matter. He was determined that Rory feel at ease and comfortable in his company. The success of his scheme depended on her help. Nothing would be allowed to jeopardize his lulling her into a false sense of security.
As they climbed the garden steps, three loud gunshots blasted through the quiet. Instinctively, Dylan pulled her behind him. He reached for his hidden pistol. Both were immediate and automatic reactions. But even as he tried to protect her, Rory danced away from the safety he provided. She raced off through the garden.
A powerful awareness of danger gripped him as he watched her blithely run in the direction of the gunfire. Time ceased to move forward. An instant icy cold gripped his mind.
“Rory, no!” His voice sounded alien and hoarse even to his own ears. Grown men were known to stop dead in their tracks and tremble at an order from him. But Aurora Windsor didn't even slow down.
No stranger to guns and their effects, Dylan chased after her. The path took him through the fenced kitchen garden and out into a foggy grove of fruit trees. He emerged near a dilapidated dock on the river side of the island. A small sailboat was being tied up to a set of jutting pilings lodged in the marshy bank.
“Bram,” Rory called joyously to the sailor wrestling to make the little vessel secure.
Hearing her, the man on the dock threw up a ham-sized hand in greeting. He yelled cheerfully across the grove, “Schatze!”
He was a big bull of a man with a massive neck and powerful shoulders. Wiry sun-bleached hair hung in ragged swathes over his wide brow. His clothing was too formal to be worn on a simple punt over the river. His coat was cut by a master tailor, and his boots shone like they’d been freshly greased.
Rory saw none of this. She only saw her best friend, her safe best friend. The man whose looks and actions were as predictable and comfortable as her oldest pair of slippers. She sped towards him. She ran down the bank towards the sodden marsh dodging puddles as she went.
Dylan mentally made a note of all these things. The German endearment, the inappropriate attire, and the gargantuan size of the man wearing it. St. John stayed hidden amongst the trees. Even so, he took no chance with her life. His gun was aimed at the man's head. If one unacceptable move was made, he’d be put down. Dylan silently watched and protected. He’d do what he must to ensure her safety.
With a seemingly total and foolish confidence in his ability to catch her, Rory launched herself recklessly at the newcomer. Laughing, Bram caught her. He tossed her high into the air, and then caught her. He gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek as he lowered her feet to the ground.
Dylan watched the intimate interaction playing out by the misty river’s edge. Yes, he thought as he uncocked the pistol and eased it back into its hiding place, this will be a complication. One whose effects he would limit quickly.
The whole scene by the water resembled a very bad play, he'd once endured at the behest of Celeste Avansley. That particular piece of fluff relied heavily on desperate villains and reunited lovers. He’d not seen the final act, thankfully. Celeste was so easily bored they’d left after the intermission. He scowled as he remembered how that particular evening had ended.
They look like lovers. He thought unemotionally, as he watched them climb the hill toward him. Rory chattered excitedly up at Bram while he, adoring, leaned near to catch her every word. Gottlieb kept her in the protective circle of one bear-like arm.
Something elemental in Dylan rose up and took exception to that casual embrace. One of Dylan's lethal swordsman's hands clenched into a white-knuckled fist. But he favored the couple with a totally detached smile as he strolled nonchalantly over to meet them.
The blond German eyed the tall self-possessed man with suspicion. Rory had been nattering on about Gray bringing visitors home this trip. But he hadn't expected one who looked like this. Suddenly, Bram felt an uncomfortable qualm as he caught the taller man's eyes.
There were danger and menace for him in that cold stare. Icy glittering shards of warning shot from the man’s eyes. Those, juxtaposed with the mild sophisticated smile the man wore, proved to be an unsettling combination. For some reason, Bram felt compelled to remove the friendly arm, he’d casually draped across Rory's shoulders.
“Dylan do come meet my friend Bram Gottlieb.” She grasped St. John’s hand and pulled him towards the German. Rory was startled when Dylan threaded his long, powerful fingers through hers and locked them. She was caught fast at his side. Although surprised, she didn't mind. They’re touching was becoming a habit. And even though she felt the shiver his nearness always elicited from her, she also felt warm and oddly at peace imprisoned there beside him. What Bram would make of it, she didn't hazard to guess.
Bram knew exactly what it meant. Dylan was claiming Rory in a most subtle way. We'll just see about that, fumed Bram inwardly. He hadn't been quietly courting her for years to give her up to the first rake who strolled past. If this Dylan St. John wanted to fight for her, he'd be glad to accommodate him.
Bram nodded curtly to the stranger. He reached out to shake hands. The burly German's grip was legendary in the Low Country. He meant to use it to put this outsider quickly in his place. Bram began to exert the bone crunching handshake he was known for, only to find St. John's strength matched, even exceeded his own. He was alarmed and surprised. He struggled to refuse the grimace threatening to break his composure, finally failing in the last seconds of the undeclared contest.
The expression on Dylan's features never flickered. His satisfied smile at the victory was as cold as his mild welcome had been earlier. He was fully aware the blond man had received his message clearly. That would suffice for the time being. At least until he worked at more completely wooing Rory to aid him.
The trio moved away from the dreary river bank and through the fruit grove back towards the plantation house. The girl didn't talk much. She was having trouble concentrating because her mind was focused on the dark man holding her hand.
“Isn't that right, Rory.” Bram tried to get her attention. He didn't like the dreamy preoccupied expression wreathing her exquisite face.
“Pardon?” she asked.
“I said, it's about time you came into town again.”
“Oh Bram, you know how I hate going to Savannah during the Season. All the society cats try to make me even more awkward than I am. They almost always succeed for, you know how shy I am in a crowd. The men only dance with me because they know I can talk about dogs and horses.” Rory's voice became tight and hard as she looked away. “Or they want to lure me into a dark corner of some garden. The girls whisper about me behind their fans. My hair is a scandal and the way I dress is outrageous, according to their precious mamas. After I raced Tom Billingsley through Liberty Square last year, I’m named a complete hoyden, a social suicide. Just inviting me to tea in their homes could ruin their reputations. I’m to be avoided, at all costs. I’m only tolerated at balls and assemblies because Rebekah insists they be civil. I don't have a place there. I never have.”
“Who's Rebekah?” asked Dylan conversationally. He filed everything he'd just heard away in that analytical mind of his for further reference.
“Rebekah is my sister,” Bram asserted.
“Go to Savannah, Rory,” Dylan ordered softly. This was working out much better than he'd anticipated. Getting her to Savannah was his first priority. Everything hinged on getting her help in Savannah. To do that, they must both be in residence in the city. “It will be different this time.”
“What's going to be so different about this time?” she snapped, resenting his air of command. She resented his appeal. And she was afraid. Afraid of what she would have to face if she made the trip into Savannah.
“I'll be with you.”
“You'll be with me?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Why in the world would you want to go into Savannah and subject yourself to a round of dreary society parties?”
“I’d go because you're my friend. And you need my help. Friends do that, they help each other.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.
“Oh.” She was completely baffled by his behavior. How could a man be intriguing and dangerous one second, then friendly and supportive the next? She didn’t know. She was only unequivocally certain of one thing. She wasn't going to miss the social fireworks exploding all over Savannah when the complex and devastating Dylan St. John arrived there.
“Guess what Bram?”
“What Schatze?”
“My new friend and I are going to Savannah.” Rory threw a mischievous look at Dylan. She squeezed his hand as they climbed the brick front steps. “You’ll truly help me?”
“Absolutely.”
His arrogant nod and devilish grin convinced her she was definitely going to enjoy this particular Holiday Season in Savannah.
Chapter Five
Gottlieb was clearly irritated. All through the long afternoon luncheon he’d been forced to observe Dylan St. John charm Rory and everyone else at the polished table with his witty conversation and courtly manners. At the moment, St. John was making a sensual art of peeling a pear for Rory while seeming to hang on her every word.
Bram snorted in disgust. He clumsily fingered the twisted stem of his crystal goblet. St. John's playing her like a finely tuned violin, he thought. And she doesn't even know it. He drained the delicate stemmed glass. Then he carefully placed it by the small figured-china plate. The heavy monogrammed silver dessert fork in his thick fingered hand poked at the remnants of a raspberry trifle.
The meal dragged on. They’d been at the table for nearly three hours. Wines were changed with every course. The water being what it was on this coastal island, people were forced to drink fruit juices, which were hard to obtain in the winter or spirits. The combined effect of the wines was beginning to take their toll.
St. John alone was unaffected as he surveyed his dinner partners. Instinct told Gottlieb would turn into an ugly drunk. The brawny man's face was awash with a heavy scowl as he met Dylan's steady eyes above the elaborate gilded magnolia leaf centerpiece that divided the table.
Gray's booming voice was too loud and hearty. Bu Allah's eyes were glazed and slightly crossed as his satin draped form sank lower and lower in his elegant dining chair. Stuart's wine was heavily diluted with brackish water from a rain barrel because of his youth. Even so, his adolescent face was flushed bright red. His words were slurred. Dylan thought Rory resembled a sleepy kitten. He'd noticed she’d confined herself to one glass of wine, refusing the many others that followed.
A secret dreamy smile was settled upon her lips. Most of her hair had once again escaped its confines and fell in a voluptuous cascade over one shoulder. Her simple and modest green round gown was completely correct and totally at odds with the impertinent elbows, she rested neatly on the white damask tablecloth. Her hands cradled a drowsy head. That action alone was a fatal violation of all known dictates on acceptable table manners.
He pondered offering to carry her up the stairs. She was almost asleep already. Rationality told him to make such a possessive move would be a mortal mistake. He might make an indelible impression on Rory, but the drunken G
ottlieb would doubtless demand an instant duel to defend the lady's honor. His internal debate was interrupted by the sound of Bram's chair legs scraping loudly across the highly polished floor.
“Rory come to the parlor.” The rough voice of her brother's partner didn't really request. It ordered.
She didn't respond. Rory continued to be mesmerized by the Dylan's long brown fingers stripping the ripe pear from its skin. When God had fashioned this one, she mused thoughtfully, He had been intent on pleasing even the hardest female heart. Through the lovely cloud fogging her mind, Rory saw an incredibly appealing, warm, and kind man intent on pleasing her.
If he could have read her thoughts, Dylan would have been inordinately pleased to know that all his efforts were being appreciated.
“Rory!” the blond man barked at her from across the wide table.
“What Bram?” She focused on him with difficulty. She wasn’t truly befuddled by the one glass of weak wine she’d drunk. She was befuddled by the man peeling her a piece of fruit.
“Come with me to the parlor.”
“Now?” She rose from her seat compelled by the fury on his red face.
Dylan caught her hand as she started to leave. “You don't have to go with him,” it was whispered so softly no one heard but the girl.
“Yes, I do,” Rory smiled down at him. “He's my friend too.”
Dylan frowned and watched as she gracefully followed the angry Gottlieb into the adjoining parlor. He'd planned on waiting for a count of ten before he followed them. But that fine plan was doomed to failure. The sound of a man's heated voice began drifting back into the dining room. St. John decided to take the situation in hand. Rising from the table and excusing himself, he strode toward the escalating disturbance.
Standing in the middle of the room, Rory was amazed at the horrid accusations spewing from the mouth of her best friend.