by Grace Walton
“Sir?” The black boy who ran out to take the horse was clearly intimidated by the big scowling man. He’d watch the man make a splintered mess out of the side of the barn. Even now blood trailed over the knuckles of the white man’s right hand. The boy moved closer. He timidly tried again. “You all right, sir?”
The brooding giant, distracted by the question, straightened resolutely as if some monumental decision had been reached. Acknowledging the lad with an impersonal nod, he handed over the horse's reins. The man followed the girl down the oyster shell path toward the house.
Entering the dark, fragrant keeping room, Dylan caught sight of Rory perched on the back staircase. She was sitting several steps above Bram. They were both so intent on their conversation neither noticed him. Dylan stood quietly within the doorway listening.
“Schatze, You really must marry me after yesterday.” He hung his head in shame and guilt, beefy red hands clenching and twisting in an agony of remembrance. “Mein Gott, When I think of how I treated you, I could retch.” He started to speak again but was halted.
“Shh Bram.” She reached for one tortured hand and held it lovingly between hers. “I've already forgotten it.”
“Oh Schatze,” he moaned in remorse. “I'll never forget it.”
“Neither will I,” drawled a deep, dangerous voice from the bottom of the stairs.
The two sprang apart like guilty conspirators. Although she couldn't fathom why, those unwavering eyes of Dylan St. John's made her exceedingly nervous. The blood dripping from his fingers onto the wooden floor did nothing to alleviate that anxiety. Her unease grew when he mounted the steps to join them.
But I haven't done anything wrong. She silently defended herself. He doesn't understand. I'll just explain it to him. “Dylan, Bram was apologizing again for his behavior in the parlor yesterday.”
“So I heard darling.” He pulled her gracefully to her feet. He purposely put himself between Rory and the other man.
Bram frowned at the endearment, but was determined to do the honorable thing. “Mr. St. John, I am sorely ashamed of my behavior toward Rory.” He tugged at his neckcloth in dismay.
Dylan's expression of polite boredom never changed. His steely eyes continued to bore into the discomfited Gottlieb’s. Didn't the man ever blink?
Bram stumbled over the words, but continued his confession. “And I am also sorely ashamed of the fact that you had to protect her from my advances.” Finally, he choked out the last, “I was no gentleman.”
“On that at least we agree.” The reply was as smooth and uninflected as it was deadly.
Bram nodded helplessly. He could no longer face the other man. “Then help me convince her to marry me. You're a man of experience. Tell her how truly she's been compromised. Servants being what they are, the whole tale will be spread far and wide by the week's end. They'll be calling her all kinds of insulting names all the way to Charleston.” He was pleading and desperate.
Rory began sputtering indignantly at this outrage. Dylan just leaned arrogantly against the stair rail and cradled the upset girl against his chest. That she suffered this familiarity willingly surprised her friend of so many years. But that was just a mild forerunner of what was to come.
“No, I don't believe I will convince her to marry you.” St. John smiled lazily. He ran one hand slowly down Rory's arm and lifted her fingers to his lips. Bram stiffened in outrage when the delicate hand was turned so that the taller man could press an intimate kiss into her palm.
“Now see here!” the blonde man started to protest.
Dylan's insolent drawl stopped him cold. “Why would I want to convince my betrothed to marry another man?” It was a mild and purely rhetorical question. Then his eyes narrowed while his voice hardened into granite. “I’ll give you fair warning. My wife will not be insulted by anyone. Not without retribution.”
“What!” Bram's entire world exploded.
Rory was a silent witness to this whole exchange. It wasn't that she didn't have anything to say. On the contrary, there were an abundance of things she would have liked to add. It was just impossible to articulate anything very clearly at this particular moment. What should she say? And exactly how should it be said?
Dylan, realizing that she was floundering, had the perfect solution for her problem. He pinched her waist. And none too gently either. The shock of this assault on her person was an outrage. She jerked her hand away. She poked his taunt stomach with an angry, if discreet elbow. Gottlieb noticed nothing. He was completely distraught.
“Schatze, is this the truth?” Bram asked unbelieving.
“The truth?” She wasn't sure how to answer that question. The whole world was supposed to believe she was engaged to Dylan St. John. Telling Bram it was all an elaborate ruse would not serve their purpose.
“You aren't going to marry St. John, are you?” He was frantic. “You can't love him. You don't even know the man. And as far as his faith is concerned, I vow he doesn’t pray to any god. A blackguard with his reputation believes only in himself. At least, I’m devout.”
“Well,” her voice trailed off as she tried to formulate an answer.
Dylan looked down at her. He raised one quizzical eyebrow. He waited to see how she was going to handle Gottlieb's question. She would face this question and many more once they got to Savannah. If she couldn’t tell an acceptable version of the lie they would be living, she’d be of no use to him. This was her trial by fire. A small niggling part of him wished she’d dispute what he’d just told Gottlieb. If she called him a liar, he would leave her alone. He’d have no recourse. She’d be safer, by far, if she told the truth.
He's no help, she thought ruefully. It came to her then quite suddenly that he was giving her all the aid at his disposal. He was giving her the opportunity to dispute every word he'd said thus far. If she chose to expose the farce, he'd look a humiliated fool. But she would be free. Then she remembered the vow she'd made in the stable yard. She knew in her heart, there could be no turning back. So Rory reached to her waist. She caressed Dylan's hand that rested there. Bram's face whitened as she nodded.
“I love him Bram,” she said. It really wasn't a lie. She did feel something extraordinary for Dylan St. John. It could be love. It could.
Abraham Gottlieb's soul shattered there right before her eyes. Some part of her cried silently out to comfort him. While the rest of her knew there was no comfort she could give him and still keep her promise to the man at her side.
Bram tried to say something to her. But the shock robbed him of his voice. He finally just turned and stumbled down the stairs and out the door.
A little sob escaped Rory's throat. “I've hurt him so badly.”
“He'll get over it.”
It was so dry and so absolutely devoid of any human sympathy, she felt she simply had to do something in retaliation. So she squeezed his injured hand with all her might.
“Bloody Hades, don’t do that,” he muttered softly and put the offended knuckles to his lips. The coppery taste of his own blood filled his mouth.
Rory turned up her nose and sailed up the stairs in queenly fashion. From the top she called down majestically, “You'll get over it.”
“Minx,” he said darkly as he heard her call for Tirzah, asking the housekeeper to lay out all of her wardrobe.
The big black woman bustled down the hall, complaining bitterly all the way, to Rory's room. “Child you done lost your mind?” she grumbled. “What you want to get out all your clothes for? We going into town?”
Dylan was climbing up the stairs toward them when Rory replied caustically. “Yes, we're going to Savannah. Mr. St. John says he wants to see all my gowns before we go.”
Tirzah mumbled as she shoved the doors of the clothes closet open with a bang. “That ain't all he want to see.” She began laying the four dresses Rory owned out on the bed. “Why he got to see your clothes anyway?”
“Tirzah, don’t ask.” Rory turned. She saw Dylan leaning agai
nst the door, waiting to be invited in. The girl stuck up her chin and continued, daring him to comment. “He's asked me to marry him. I've accepted.”
The housekeeper whirled around in shock. She still didn't see the man lounging in the doorway. “You what?”
“I said I'm engaged to Dylan St. John. He's asked to see my wardrobe because, because,” she said, looking at him, eyes begging for help.
Without stopping a beat, he strolled into the middle of the room and supplied it. “Because I want to help Miss Rory plan her trousseau,” he answered for her smoothly.
“What that?”
“My bride clothes Tirzah,” the girl explained patiently. “He means my bride clothes.”
The black woman screwed up her face. “I heared about a man picking out his wife's horse and her jewelry. But I ain't never heard tell of a man picking out her clothes.”
Dylan ignored this sour observation entirely. He examined the gowns on the bed. What he saw lying there were four sad dresses. The newest of which was at least two years behind the current fashion. There was the torn round gown from yesterday. Another, a sapphire evening gown was at least two sizes too small. Then there were two insipid pink creations. They looked as if they had been worn last by a twelve-year-old.
“All of these are unsuitable,” he said.
“All?” Rory couldn't believe what she'd just heard. “You're telling me I've got to throw out all my dresses?”
“Yes, they’re rags.” He held up a hand to silence her before she started arguing. “We'll have new gowns made for you. I want you to capture everyone's attention in Savannah, remember?”
Rory nodded. She hated to admit it, but the cursed beast was right. “I suppose none of those would even warrant a second glance.”
“Well, I wouldn't go that far. The blue is so inappropriate. I’d warrant it would earn a third or even fourth glance. But I don’t have the time to chase lovesick puppies away from you in dark gardens.”
“It was so beautiful when Rozelle made it.”
“It was made for a skinny little girl. You’re a woman now, Rory. When you wore it last night, your whole bosom was on display for all to see.”
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. A hot blush climbed up her cheeks.
“You got no call talking about Miss Rory’s bosom.” Tirzah chastised him with a fierce protective glare.
Rory began busily gathering the dresses up. She shoved them into Tirzah's waiting arms. He sauntered over to sit in the chair by the window.
Rory regained her composure. She stood at the foot of the bed with her hands on her hips and demanded. “Well, what do I do now that all my clothes are gone?”
“There are innumerable responses to that particular question.” The words were a seductive invitation.
“Don't, please don't play with me, we both know I'm not up to your games.” She was in no mood for dalliance at the moment. Rory was close to begging off from her promise to him. The pain in Bram's eyes haunted her.
Dylan sensing the turmoil in the girl turned the subject. “Tirzah is there a decent seamstress on the island?” He was all business.
The black woman answered automatically, “Well, now let’s see.” Her face twisted into a frown as she thought. “There’s Reba, but she's about to birth her babe. Then there’s Sukey. She's right good with a needle.”
“Go get them both.”
“I ain't leaving you alone in here with Miss Rory.” There was an obstinate set to her chocolate features.
He looked beyond her to where Rory stood. He silently demanded she handle her servant. She nodded her understanding and spoke sharply to the housekeeper. “Tirzah please do as he says.”
The older woman stiffened at the unaccustomed hardness in the girl's voice. Glaring at them both, she huffed from the room.
Rory sighed and trudged over to stand looking out the window. “I swear Dylan. Before this is over, I won't have any friends left.”
He studied the weary droop of her shoulders and spoke calmly, “Spies don't have friends, Rory. They're too much of a liability.”
She turned and wrinkled her little nose in distaste. “I'm not a spy. You're a spy. I'm just a,” She floundered.
“Yes?”
“I'm a temporary spy.” She sniffed.
“I see,” he allowed with no more than polite interest. “Since you are only a 'temporary' spy,” he drawled. “You may be allowed one friend.”
“How kind of you.” It was biting. “Do I get to choose this friend?”
“No, sweetheart you do not”
“I didn't think so,” she muttered and flopped ungraciously down in the chair beside his. “That's all fine and good for you. But what happens to me when my only friend sails back to London with that ridiculous Arabian Sheik?”
“Rory once you jilt me, you'll be amazed at how quickly the horde will descend upon you.” He leaned his head back against the chair. He closed his eyes as if he were suddenly supremely weary. “They will want to hear every disgusting and decadent detail of our relationship. People you've never met will miraculously turn into bosom bows in their attempt to wheedle every morsel of information out of you they can.”
“But there won't be any disgusting and decadent details. You do understand this is all a masquerade? I’m not offering you anything but help in finding the people giving guns to the Indians.”
“I understand.” He nodded. “But we are the only ones who will know it’s a ruse. To everyone else we’ll be the picture of young love.”
“I'd rather not think about that now,” she said. The prospect of being the center of so much malicious attention sounded awful.
He neither moved nor opened his eyes. He merely replied, “As you will.”
They sat in silence until she was sure he must have fallen asleep in the chair. Rory leaned forward and studied him intently. Sprawled there in lazy repose he looked to be the most perfect model for all those scandalous Greek and Roman statues that were recently imported to England. Their sketches were published in the Savannah Gazette. Their draped gladiator's bodies caused quite a scandal. Rory had doubted that any real man could live up to their pretensions.
But she thought ruefully, St. John had a face and form that would tempt an angel. She swallowed hard and squirmed uncomfortably in her chair. God, please help me do your will in this, she prayed. Don't let me love this man if you haven't picked him for me.
“Rory?”
She jumped when he spoke. “Yes?” The words were shaky and cautious.
“You're making me feel like a specimen in an insect collection.”
“What do you mean?” She was horrified he'd caught her studying him so intently.
His eyes were finally open. “I've learned never to trust a silent woman,” he answered her. “Being ogled for fifteen minutes is a new record.” He lay back in the chair and closed his eyes again.
She thought she would surely perish with shame on the spot. But upon further reflection, she decided it would be much more pleasant to bruise his enormous vanity. So she defended herself, “I wasn't ogling you.”
“You weren't?” His voice was heavy with disbelief.
“I most certainly was not,” she denied it with as much force as she could muster.
Dylan shook his head regretfully, “I was right about you sweetheart.” She seemed to relax slightly at his apology, but then he continued. “You are an abysmal liar. In fact, I would say you are the poorest liar I have ever met.”
“For your information, Mr. St. John, I was praying.”
“Praying?” He seemed to be considering this. “Good, I'd say we need all the help we can get. “
He fell silent again as she continued to ponder. Dylan seemed so sure there was a clear-cut boundary between physical attraction and love. But Rory was not completely convinced. Every time he'd kissed her, she’d felt more and more bound to him. And one thing she understood with perfect and total clarity was that she must not give her heart completely to th
is man. Nothing would keep him from leaving Savannah. She didn't want her heart to sail away with him. It was too awkward to meet his eyes, so she turned away. “Dylan?”
“What?” His hand grasped hers in a comforting grip.
“You're right. I'm not a good liar. I hate lies. They always end up hurting someone and my conscience always makes me admit my lies. I'm guessing that's not a very valuable quality in a spy is it?”
“No Rory, it's not.” He was finally looking at her. “But I'm not asking you to be a spy. I'm just asking you to be a diversion. Be yourself, that's the only way this will work.” He raised her hand and kissed it.
That is how Tirzah found them, fingers locked together. “Lord, have mercy child, what you up to now?”
Two seamstresses spilled into the room in her wake. Their eyes widened and their mouths fell open. What was their mistress doing sitting in her bedchamber with a man, and him kissing her hand too?
Rory jumped to get up. But Dylan only held her hand more firmly. “Miss Rory and I were discussing her new wardrobe,” he answered for her with perfect aplomb.
“I didn't hear nobody talking.” The old black woman was like a bear defending her one remaining cub.
“Poor Tirzah,” he said and clucked his tongue sympathetically. “Losing your hearing in old age?”
“Humph,” she said and bore down on them with a disapproving eye. “Miss Rory, you get yourself away from that scoundrel.”
“Yes, Rory,” he urged innocently as though he had not held her there prisoner but a moment before. “Do get up now. Let these ladies take your measurements.”