by Grace Walton
“He's using you,” Bram brayed. He was far the worse for all the spirits he'd consumed. He towered over the girl in an attitude of belligerence. “And you're letting him. Can't you see he's running some kind of rig on you?”
“Bram,” she said and ran a soothing hand up his arm. “Bram you must get hold of yourself.”
“He wants you,” he whined. His words became sloppy and emotional. “He wants you like a stallion wants a mare. But I won't ever let him have you.” Punishing hands jerked her small form against his bulk, imprisoning her there. “You're mine, Rory Windsor, do you hear me, and you’ll always be mine.” Bram's meaty fingers cruelly mauled and kneaded her tender back and shoulders.
Even the loathsome sound of her dress ripping didn't deter his drunken fumbling. “I'll kill you before I'll let him touch you. You belong to me Schatze, only to me. Don't you ever forget you're mine alone.” Bram intended to ravage her mouth with a hard brutal kiss.
And he most likely would have succeeded if Rory hadn’t been struggling against his onslaught. A slack wet mouth raked one of her cheeks and settled clumsily on her protesting lips. She instinctively gagged on his fetid breath. Rory was truly afraid. She tried to loosen her arms and strike back at him. But he had them pinned tightly at her sides. This awful stranger wasn't her gentle Bram. She wriggled and twisted, trying to break loose from his stranglehold. Sober, Bram Gottlieb was a wonderful friend. Intoxicated, he was a woman's worst nightmare come to life.
Dylan reached the open door just as the struggling girl overturned a small table in her frantic attempts to be free. A killing red haze settled across St. John’s eyes. With Herculean effort he denied the overwhelming impulse to pull his knife on the drunken man and slice his throat open. It would be so easy to end Gottlieb’s life. And the sot deserved nothing short of death for the way he’d treated Rory. But instead of murdering him, St. John shoved Gottlieb savagely away from her. He saw her free. Then, with the cold, ruthless efficiency of a machine, he rained blow after punishing blow into the man’s paunchy body.
Bram reeled under the brutal force of St. John's fists. His drunken attempts to defend himself left him staggering and breathless. All too quickly he collapsed, bloody and senseless to the parlor floor.
Standing over the drunken man, Dylan saw the forlorn little figure hunched quiet and still against the elaborate French-papered wall of the parlor. He shook out his stinging knuckles as he scrutinized Rory crouched in silence unmoving. He’d seen soldiers after battle with the same broken expression on their faces.
The prim gown she’d changed into for lunch was entirely ruined. Gottlieb's invading hands had managed to rip the bodice open. The ivory lace of her collar was torn and hanging. Angry crimson streaks marred Rory's delicate throat. An old cotton chemise saved her modesty, but she seemed totally unaware of the state of her dress.
Dylan clenched his jaw. He fought again against overpowering bloodlust. He craved killing the man on the floor. He felt violence run through him like a lightning strike. And it wasn’t the first time such a thing had happened. Recently, the dark episodes were gaining momentum and occurring with a rather alarming regularity. By a single act of his formidable will, instead of falling to its deadly allure, he shrugged out of his riding jacket. He gently and carefully placed it across her shoulders, covering the wide ragged tears in her gown.
Rory flinched at his touch, but otherwise remained in shock. Dylan silently vowed further retribution against Gottlieb. He would stop short of killing the man. But he’d make sure the big German never laid a hand on another woman in anger. St. John released the battered girl and moved back.
The others, alarmed by the noise, crowded together in the doorway clamoring to know what was going on. Rory didn't hear them. Her eyes were a flat, opaque blue fixed straight ahead, seeing nothing.
Dylan moved to shield her with his tall frame from the curious stares of the other men. His stern and set face told them to stay away.
Gray barged in anyway, yelling, “What in Hades did you do to my sister?”
“It wasn't me, you fool. It was Gottlieb.”
“You're a foul liar. Bram would never hurt Rory. I don't believe you.”
“It doesn’t matter what you believe.” Dylan's eyes were black, hard, and dangerous. “Keep him out of my way, or I’ll kill him.”
Gray felt an icy chill grip his stomach. He shouldn't leave Rory alone with St. John, not right now, not with the man in such a murderous mood. But how in the world was he going to get her away? St. John stood guard over the young woman like an angel with a flaming sword stood at the gates of Heaven. As usual, Windsor took the direct approach.
“Get out of here, and let me take care of my sister,” he blustered.
Dylan ignored him. If anything St. John became more detached, even resolute, as he taunted softly, “Get out of here and let me take care of my wife.”
“Shh, they'll hear you.”
“Who?” Dylan questioned as he looked beyond Gray to the empty doorway.
Windsor turned to see that the others had decided quickly not to challenge St. John's authority. They left as quietly as possible. “What about Rory?” he hissed. “What if she heard you call her your wife?”
“Look at her, do you honestly think she's aware of anything that's been said?”
It was true. The girl stood just as before. She was a cold beautiful statue. Gray gave a defeated sigh and stalked out of the parlor. Seconds later, he returned with a burly servant. It took both of them to haul out his bleeding business partner.
When they left, Dylan turned back to the stunned girl. “Rory,” he spoke gently. He brushed the hair away from her face. “Come back to me Rory. I vow no one will hurt you ever again. Just come back to me.”
Taking her hand, he led her to the floral patterned settee. Rory's fingers were unresponsive and stiff as he methodically rubbed them between his own. He let them drop to her lap. He gathered her into his arms and began rocking her back and forth as one comforts a child. He kissed the top of her head and planned exactly how he would make Gottlieb pay for he’d done. It would be painful and slow. He’d make sure the blonde man suffered. Dylan was good at inflicting such a punishment. He’d see justice done for Rory.
As they sat there, slowly the small hands warmed. Then he watched them relax. A rush of air escaped her lungs. Her lower lip began to tremble.
“He's my friend. He wouldn't really hurt me,” she said as if coming out of a night terror. She didn’t look up. She spoke as if she was trying to make herself believe the far-fetched explanation.
Against his better judgment, Dylan pulled her closer into his arms to comfort her. “I know, sweetheart. I know.” Rory needed to hear that lie right now even though the words caused bitter bile to rise in the back of his throat.
“Cry, sweetheart,” he whispered into the fragrant tangle of her hair. Anything would be better than her icy restraint, even sobbing. He tightened his hold on her fragile shivering frame. He felt her spine straighten immediately at his words.
“Windsor women don't cry,” Rory said and sniffed, “ever.” She tried to smooth her hair and leaned away from him.
“They don't?”
“They don't.” It was positive and very formal.
“Why?”
“Because it's undignified.” She yanked the skirt of her gown straight and hugged his coat closer. “And it's a sure sign of weakness.” Rory's eyes filled with tears and her voice choked as she continued; “Besides it was nothing really, nothing at all. It was just a misunderstanding between friends, one that’s easily forgiven and forgotten.”
She was trying so hard to be brave, but the sympathy on Dylan's face was her undoing. With a heartbreaking sob, she launched herself unashamedly back into his waiting arms.
He pressed her bright head against his shoulder with a gentle hand. He rocked her back and forth soothingly. Women tried in the past to influence him with pretty tears and pretend sniffles. But those charades had ne
ver worked. These tears were real. And he felt Rory's betrayal and grief as deeply as if he himself had been betrayed.
“Why Dylan, why would Bram hurt me?” She lifted her tear-stained face up to ask.
His jaw stiffened as he saw her swollen bruised lips and chalky white complexion. One of Rory's hands had burrowed into the wet cloth of his shirt exactly where her tears had fallen. The other curled unconsciously around his mangled cravat. He rubbed the back of her slender neck to ease the tension there.
“Shh, love, don't think about it now.” His deep velvet voice was like a soothing lullaby.
She was safe with him, safe and secure. She felt nothing could ever hurt her while Dylan St. John held her in his arms. The world returned rotating, as it always had, on its steady axis. The sun shone through the parlor window. She heard birds chirping out in the garden. From the shelter of his strong arms, it seemed all was right with her world.
After a few last shuddering breaths, Rory raised her head. “Tell me. You're a man. Tell me what I did wrong.” She scooted away and wiped the last trace of tears from her cheeks onto the sleeve of the borrowed coat she was wearing.
He watched her fuss with her clothes and hair before bravely facing him again. He marveled at her courage. Any other woman would be hiding under the bed linens from not till eternity trying to deal with the seeds of fear Gottlieb had sown. But not Aurora Windsor.
“I mean it Dylan. Please tell me what I did. I can promise you, once I know. I'll never make that mistake again.” Her soft laugh was rueful.
Dylan chuckled in relief. She glared at him for his trouble.
“Sorry, I find you fascinating.”
The quiet compliment made her blush, but didn't deter her. “Tell me what I did wrong,” she demanded in frustration.
“Nothing, you did nothing wrong Rory.”
“I must have. Bram called me some terrible names and his hands…” She swallowed and turned her head away, unable to meet his eyes any longer.
“You didn't do anything wrong.”
She shook her head in denial ready, as always, to take the blame herself. “That's not possible,”
“Curse him. It's more than possible.” Dylan cut her off curtly. “Some men lose all control when they drink. Gottlieb is obviously one of them.”
Rory daintily cleared her throat and looked at him. “Are you one of them?” It was tentative and a little bit frightened.
“No Rory. I am not.”
“I'm glad.” She gave him a wan smile that stopped before it reached her eyes. “What happened to you?” She picked at one of the blood spots on his white cotton shirt.
“Nothing.”
“Bram?”
Dylan shrugged noncommittally. He was right. She had been so far withdrawn, she had no memory of the fight. Or what he’d said to her brother.
“Did you hurt him?” Rory demanded.
“Not nearly enough,” was the grim reply.
She rolled her eyes and sighed. “Men are so complicated.” She feebly rubbed her pulsing temples. “My head is pounding.”
“You need to rest.”
“I don't rest and I don’t nap. Naps are for children and invalids.”
“Today you're taking one.” He lifted her easily into his arms. He started out the door towards the curving staircase.
“I suppose it won't do me any good to argue?”
Mounting the stairs, he shook his head and answered, “No.”
“You know, you're taking scandalous advantage of my weakened condition.”
“Yes,” he said.
She settled comfortably back against his solid chest. “Dylan.”
“Mmm?”
“I like you.” Her voice was low and weary.
“I like you too, Rory.”
Rory relished his deep words. She snuggled closer to the warmth of his body. She sighed contentedly and closed her eyes. “No, I mean I really like you.” She was drifting in and out. “You know what I mean, the serious, forever kind of liking.”
He didn't answer. Finally, a muffled whimper at his shoulder told him she was sound asleep, cradled in his arms. Dylan forced the door to her bedchamber open with one booted foot. The curtains were drawn against the chill of the afternoon. The room was dark and intimate. He carefully laid her on the four-poster. He stood riveted by the side of the tall bed. She might have been a painting by one of the old masters as she lay there in delicate light and haunting shadows. Black lashes fanned her cheeks. Her bosom lightly rose and fell with each breath. He could see the lustrous black string of rose pearls peeking out beneath the collar of his jacket.
Dylan sat down, leaned over her, and braced one hand against her pillow. He seemed intent upon memorizing every perfect cameo feature of her lovely face. “Forever is just a fairy tale, sweetheart.” It was a whisper. “It’s a wonderful fantasy that never quite comes true.”
He pressed a light kiss to her creamy brow. The fragrance of roses was like an aura surrounding her. It played havoc with his senses. It beckoned and tempted him to stay, gather her in his arms, lay beside her, and watch over her until she woke. The sound of bustling down the hall in their direction stopped him.
The door exploded open with a flurry of rustling petticoats and furious mumbling. “What happened to Miss Rory?” The black woman was clearly in a huff. “And what do you think you’re doing on that bed you scoundrel?”
St. John rose with easy grace. He met the servant as she marched toward the sleeping girl. “Don’t wake her.”
He forced the protesting housekeeper out into the hall. Closing the bedchamber door quietly, he surveyed the plump fuming woman. She waited with arms crossed for him to explain. Bowing, he introduced himself, “I am Dylan St. John, ma'am.”
“I know that,” she said as she propped impatient hands on ample hips. She stared him down. “Everybody on the whole island knows that. I want to know what happened to my child.”
“Well, Mistress?”
“I ain’t no Mistress. I’m Tirzah Moon. I keep house, and I raised that child.”
“Well Mistress Moon, ask Miss Aurora to explain when she wakes.” He started down the hall to his own room.
She bustled after him tenacious as a bulldog. “The house boy, Caesar, says Mister Gray got him to help carry Mister Bram out of the parlor. He say Mister Bram all beat up.”
Dylan ignored her and entered his bedchamber. He firmly closed the door in her face. He leaned his shoulders against that barrier and started unbuttoning the stained shirt. Through the solid cypress door, he heard Tirzah still questioning.
“Mister St. John, you been fighting Mister Bram over Miss Rory?” Not getting an answer was no obstacle to the woman. “Mister St. John I clean that shirt for you, just leave it outside your door.”
There was quiet as she waited to see if her generous offer would bring forth any information from the stubborn man on the other side. It didn't. She turned and left muttering about foreign men with bad manners.
“Who was that yelling demon?” moaned a pitiful figure huddled on the bed.
Dylan smirked seeing his uncle's pained expression. “That was no demon, Sander. More like an oversized guardian angel.” He threw the ruined shirt onto the quilted coverlet.
“She was cursed loud for a guardian angel don't you think?” he grated in a tortured whisper.
“I wouldn't know. She's the first one I've met.” Dylan walked to the fireplace and propped a boot on the fire guard.
“You're not going to stand there while I'm dying over here, are you?”
Dylan smiled into the fire. “You’re dying?”
“Lord it feels like it. Windsor said the water was bad here, but I'm not ever drinking wine again. Never. The sodding stuff sneaks up on you,” he moaned and turned over. “Did you kill him?”
“No.”
“Did he rape her? I couldn't see much from behind the crowd at the door.”
“No.”
“Did he try?”
“
Yes”
“My, aren't we a fount of information today.” The mocking black man slid off the bed. He carefully picked his way over to his nephew.
“What exactly do you want to know, Lysander?”
“Don't take that superior aristocratic tone, you young hellion. It doesn't work on me, remember? I want details. I want to know what happened in that little country parlor this afternoon. I want to know if you've made any more enemies today. Ones I'll have to watch out for. I want to know how your bout of fisticuffs will affect your work for Arthur Bassett.” He lifted an imploring hand. “Most of all I want to know if the girl was hurt.” Exasperated, he pulled the garish satin robes back and sat gingerly on the straight chair by the fire.
Dylan watched the flames a long time before he answered, “When Gottlieb drinks, he wants a woman. He doesn't take the time to see if the woman wants him.”
“A dangerous combination,” commented Sander.
Dylan nodded and continued, “He tried to force her.” He shrugged. “I stopped him.”
“So we do have another enemy.” Sander sighed. “Is the girl all right?”
“Physically, yes.”
“But I suppose she won't be in a very trusting frame of mind now.”
“I hope not.”
“What?” He was clearly startled.
“I said, I hope she doesn't trust that animal again.” His voice was strained. He planted solid hands against the mantle. He let his head drop to stretch the tightened muscles in his neck.
“If the woman has any sense at all she won't, but I wasn't talking about her trusting him.”
“I know you weren't.”
“Curse you, will you quit playing games with me?” Sander was hunched forward in the chair trying to ease the thudding ache in his head. “Won't this little episode complicate things? Surely she'll be thinking she can't trust any man now.”
Dylan didn't move. He continued to stare into the fire. “That's not a problem.”
“That's a little arrogant, don't you think? I mean I know how ridiculously easy it has been for you to manipulate women in the past, but don't you think this girl might be different?” He stared morosely down at the frayed edge of the hearth rug by his pointed shoes. “There's always that chance. She seems like an independent sort that,”