by Grace Walton
“I don't listen to gossip about my family.” Dylan stood before the mirror. He met the reflection of his uncle's eyes there.
“Well, uh yes, of course,” Sander mumbled suitably chastised. He anxiously watched the cravat forming under his nephew's fingers. “I could tie that if you wanted me to.”
“I'm sorry if it's not up to your high standards Sander. But I don't have ten minutes for you to waste making me look like a dandy.” He picked up a silver-backed brush and ran it through his tousled hair. He put on a black silk waistcoat. “When I finally caught up with Connor this afternoon, I told him what you saw at the docks last night.”
“Can he do what we planned?” Sander asked.
“Yes,” Dylan said as he shrugged into a tight fitting black evening coat. “He wasn't too pleased at the prospect of wheedling a ride on Avansley's ship to the party tonight. But someone has to make sure the guns aren't unloaded between Savannah and Isle of Hope. After you told me they’d been loaded back onto Avansley's ship last night, I knew he was getting ready to make his move.”
“Did you tell Connor in whose warehouse the guns had been stored?” It was a hesitant question Sander hated to ask. “If Windsor is involved, he has the upper hand. He knows why you're here. He knows what you're looking for. If you tell Connor, he could at least watch your back.”
“You're supposed to watch my back.”
“The way you lark about you could use several people to make sure no one ventilates your back, again. Did you tell him?”
“No, I’ve said nothing to Connor about Windsor.” Dylan picked up his knife from the table by the bed. He eased into the waistband of his britches at the small of his back. Placed there it was completely invisible. “And neither will you. If Graham Windsor is involved in this fiasco, he will suffer the consequences of what he's done. Rory will remain ignorant of his treason. And no one else needs to know of his error in judgment.”
“How will you manage that?” He watched Dylan take his black greatcoat from a hook behind the door and throw it around his shoulders. “Court trials are conducted in public. She's sure to be implicated somehow.”
“I'll give Windsor a loaded pistol and encourage him to have a hunting accident,” the tall man replied grimly.
“What if he balks at killing himself?” Sander stood and shook out his robes. “He doesn't seem the type to be that noble.”
“If that happens, I'll challenge him to a duel.” Dylan's words were hard as he opened the door.
“That's murder.” It was an accusation. “He'd be no match for you in a duel. He'd be dead before he'd had a chance to level his gun. It would be cold-blooded murder without a legitimate reason.”
“It wouldn't be murder. It would be mercy, Sander.” He stood there in the doorway, severe in his black clothes. His face a study of dark planes and shadows. His tone revealed he didn't care if the other man agreed with him. “And I have an excellent reason. Her name is Aurora Windsor. She’s my wife. If it would keep her safe, I'd shoot Windsor down like a rabid dog in the middle of the street. And I’d never look back.”
Sander sputtered, “She would hate you if you killed her brother.”
“I don't care how she feels about me. Her emotions are unimportant. But I do want her safe.” His words were low and commanding. “Do you understand Sander? She will be safe. No matter what I have to do to make it so, she'll be safe. She’ll not be swinging from a traitor's gallows for some crime her idiotic brother committed. And if I'm not alive to keep her safe, then you will do it for me.” He didn't wait for Sander to reply, to say yes or no. He simply knew his will would be obeyed. He strode off in the direction of the staircase.
Sander followed Dylan down the stairs without comment. What could he say? Nothing, absolutely nothing. If Dylan had made his mind up to protect Aurora Windsor, she would be protected until the man drew his last breath. There would be no disputing him over the subject.
Graham and Aurora were waiting patiently in the parlor for the arrival of their guests. Windsor seemed uncomfortable in his fancy dress clothes. He pulled at the simply tied cravat, and tugged at the garish waistcoat that made up part of the outfit.
“I'm not used to this sort of rig,” he muttered by way of a greeting. “Bram usually takes Rory to all these society kicks and starts. I hate putting on the dog for a bunch of wrinkled up old prunes. The Wingates are teetotalers too. There won't be a decent drink to be had the whole night.” He made a disgusted face.
Dylan ignored the complaining man. He went directly to the white-faced girl who sat on the settee beside her brother. She looked strained and worried as he approached.
Rory had to admit she was terribly nervous over the party at the Wingates’ mansion tonight. Dressing should have been fun. But it hadn't been. Marie dressed her hair into a high knot and trailed three saucy curls over one shoulder. Rory had looked at her reflection in the mirror, and marveled at the skill of the French woman. Again, she’d been made to look like a beautiful and sophisticated lady. And once again, she was uncomfortable with the ruse. Tonight was worse than the last time because she couldn't even deceive herself into believing that the fairy tale might come true. She knew without a shadow of a doubt the incredible man walking her way cared not a whit for her. Not a whit.
“Miss Aurora?” He bowed deeply and extended a hand to help her rise.
Rory automatically gave him her left hand. The candle light caught the green fire of her engagement ring as she rose gracefully to stand beside him. It was so lovely and yet so false. The ring was what this whole escapade had always been, a beautiful illusion. She vowed silently to make sure he took it when he left. She could never wear the ornament again once he was gone.
“Lord St. John?” Her pride told her she could be just as formal as he. She dropped a deep curtsy. One fit for a reigning monarch.
“I'm not the king, Rory.” he mocked in a low voice and took her hand to raise her once more.
“No,” she agreed and gave him a dazzling smile. “You just act like him.”
“Am I as mad as poor King George, or merely too imperial?” he asked baiting her.
“Perhaps a bit of both, Milord.”
“Well, if you say I act the king, then we are fairly partnered. For you look like a queen this evening.”
He smoothly brushed away the venom dripping from her reply. He frankly admired her gown. It was white as were all her clothes, but this time not heavily embroidered or beaded, merely plain white satin. It was a supremely simple dress. And he judged it to be far more carnal than any she'd worn before. Tailored to expose her pale shoulders and hug her bosom it fell in straight graceful lines to the floor. The only colors were her deep blue eyes, flaming hair, lush red lips, and ebony black rose pearls.
Rory ignored his admiring eyes. She answered, “And you look like the devil in black evening clothes.” She would not be cowed by this man. Not tonight, this might be the last time they attended a social function together. She was determined to maintain her dignity at any cost.
Gliding past him toward the door was very easy. Allowing Tirzah to drape the satin wrap around her bare shoulders was easy. Walking to the open door of the carriage was easy. Being helped inside by their coachman was easy. But that's where easy stopped. Their carriage was usually roomy and provided plenty of space for its occupants. But tonight was a different story.
Three men took up a great deal of space. Graham and Sander took the opposite seat, leaving only the space beside her for Dylan. She dreaded the closeness to him, she would have to endure. That fear was well founded.
He climbed into the coach and sat on the seat beside her. The length of his legs and the breath of his shoulders made her search for a way to retreat. But there was nowhere to go. She was trapped between his strength and the side of the cushioned carriage.
The trip to the dock seemed to take a lifetime. She sat there quietly as the men conversed in the dark carriage. Rory's mind didn't register what the others were saying. It
couldn't. Her brain was totally concerned with controlling her traitorous body's reaction to the man's closeness. The dark protected the blush that raced to her cheeks. But only a stern self-control was keeping her breathing steady. To make matters worse, every time the carriage rolled through a pothole she was thrown up against the long muscled length of him. The ride would have been so much more comfortable if he’d put an arm around her shoulders and cushioned the carriage's jerking with his own body. But she dare not think of that. An she and was very glad he hadn't.
Dylan seemed unmoved by the bumpy trip. As far as Rory could tell he wasn't even aware of her presence. He was deeply involved in the conversation with the other men. He neither looked her way, nor tried to include her in their conversation. After what seemed like an eternity, they arrived at the docks. Sander and her brother were the first to leave the confines of the coach.
As she rose to leave, Dylan's fingers closed around her gloved hand and gave an encouraging squeeze. Her surprised eyes flew up to meet his steady ones.
“The last time we left a carriage I asked you to pretend you cared for me. You gave a remarkable performance. I’m asking you to do that one more time.” He was trying to make this as painless for her as possible. After last night and this morning he knew there would be no misunderstandings. Any tender feelings she might have been cherishing for him were surely annihilated by his recent behavior.
Rory gazed up into his quicksilver eyes. She nodded, not sure if she could manage to do as he asked. It seemed he still needed her, at least as a distraction. She’d given her word. Do it, she told herself, just do it and pray this farce would soon be over.
“Come on then sweetheart. Give them one last show.” He stepped down into the street. He held his arms up to her.
Without reservation, she allowed herself to be lowered slowly to the paving stones with exquisite care. The blasted man had the ability to make her feel tiny and wonderfully feminine. From the shelter of his arms, she was dimly aware of the hustle and bustle of the street. Everyone attending the Wingate party was congregating near the docks to leave. The carriages of the gentry of Savannah lined the broad street.
And Rory was neither surprised nor afraid as she watched Dylan lower his dark head towards her. She knew what he would do. It was to be another scandalous public kiss. One in view of the whole of Savannah. A ploy to grab everyone's attention.
She didn't care. It was his kiss. Most likely the last one she would ever share with him. She intended to remember this kiss for the rest of her life. So instead of waiting for his lips to capture hers like a well-bred young woman should. She rose high on her tiptoes like a wanton. She kissed him first. Her hands crept up to his shoulders. Her soft lips gave him all of her loveliness and innocence. They were precious gifts to be given just once. A dam broke inside Rory Windsor. The sweet love spilling out was only for Dylan St. John and never for anyone else.
His arms tightened around her body as if to protect her from the world and from himself. His strength surrounded her. He slanted his mouth across hers to deepen their kiss.
She was completely and entirely lost. When his lips gently teased her own apart, his mouth tasted of mint, lemons, and dark molasses. She thought it the most wonderful flavor in the world. Could a woman die from the ecstasy of a kiss she wondered? Probably, she decided as he trailed a line of hot caresses across her cheek to an incredibly sensitive spot below her right ear.
Her senses were totally taken up by the man, this wonderful, horrible man. Rory’s senses spun out of control into a hazy delicious cloud of heat and light. She felt the rough scrape of his face upon hers. She inhaled the spicy scent that was his alone. She shook her head in refusal as he tried to break the magnetic grip they had on one another.
With a growl from deep in his throat Dylan surrendered. He took her deep into an intimacy she’d never imagined might exist. One of his big hands cradled her face. His long fingers splayed along the sensitive throbbing length of her throat. He pulled her closer and closer against his hard muscled body. He plundered the warmth and sweetness of her mouth. There was a primitive rhythm to his caress that she didn't understand. She found her own lips tentatively responding in kind. At her innocent response, he seemed to go wild. Skillful hands wandered down her spine and pulled her against his hard straining body. She was stunned by how well they seemed to fit. Like pieces of a puzzle, they were made for each other. They were each a lonely half seeking the other to be made whole.
Every part of her being connected with his on an elemental, spiritual, and physical level. She wanted to be closer to him, to breathe the air escaping from his hungry lips. She must know the very thoughts of his mind, and have him know hers. She wanted to feel his heart beat under her hand. She wanted to tell him she loved him once. Just once she must confess her love, and not have him make a jest or read her a homily over the telling.
Dylan heard the catcalls and whistles first. He tore his mouth away from hers. He cradled her protectively away from the crude noises. Breathing raggedly he was bombarded by a wall of ugly jeers. Every sailor on every ship in the rough little harbor yelled obscene suggestions and instructions. There was a muted evil hiss from the scattered groups of staring men and women about to embark. Even the harbor gulls seemed to be chastising him with their strident cries. Anger, fast and furious welled up in him. He knew anger at the sailors and their rude ways, anger at the people gossiping and pointing fingers at them, but most of all red hot anger at himself. The black violence constantly simmering in his soul tempted him to rise up. To unleash the deadly skills he’d gained during a lifetime replete with bloodlust and fury.
He knew the instant his famous control slipped. A dark filthiness, like none he’d ever known, slipped powerfully through his raging mind. They deserve your retribution, it hissed. After all you’ve been through, it’s your right to take revenge. You’d just be protecting your woman if you killed them, it lied.
Somehow he saw all the love in her eyes. And it grounded him. He literally felt the evil essence taunting him flee in the face of Rory’s pure and honest love.
He shook his head. How could he allow himself to be so affected? He knew. He knew he must always keep an iron stranglehold on the darkness within him. If he failed to be vigilant even for a scant moment, it would spring forth and consume him. It almost had. But this time it was different. The rage was not for himself. The rage was directed towards the coarse men who made mock of Rory.
The last reasonable place in his mind told him Rory was not the cause of his weakness. Just because she made him feel things no other woman ever had was no reason to abandon control completely. Already, he felt an insatiable need to taste her again to see if she could possibly be as sweet and pure as he'd believed. He craved that sweetness, that purity.
Curse him, the way he felt right now, one taste would not be enough. He feared he’d never get enough of Rory Windsor. Sweet Hades, she made him burn. But it was a clean fire. A pristine flame that made him aware of the stinking mire that had become his life. He knew. He’d always known in some troubled corner of his mind, that she was far and away too good for the likes of him. Everything he touched eventually was despoiled and destroyed. He wouldn’t let that happen to Aurora Windsor.
He had to somehow make this right. He’d find those cursed guns. He’d get away from her before he did something selfish and stupid. Something that would destroy far more than just her pride.
An insistent hand pulled at his shoulder. When he looked, Dylan was confronted with his brother's condemning face.
“What in the name of all that’s Holy are you about Dylan?” Connor’s fury knew no bounds. He could hardly believe Dylan intentionally meant to ruin the girl. It made no sense, no sense at all. But that would surely be the outcome of this outrageous debacle.
“She's mine.” The words were primitive and menacing. Dylan’s narrowed eyes dared Connor to question his right to the woman in his arms. “Go away.” Or I'll hurt you, was the dangerous imp
lication.
Connor started to say something else, but the savage look on Dylan's face stopped him. Was this another of his brother's ruses? Surely not? First Dylan hurts and insults the woman. Then his brother ravishes her in full view of the entirety of polite society in Savannah. The blonde man was disgusted. Connor knew if he stayed, he'd mill his brother down in the street. Or try to at least. Clenching his jaw, he turned and stalked down the dock towards the Avansley's ship.
Dylan watched his retreat the way a hawk watches a hare before he strikes. He pulled the girl closer. He stared haughtily above her head into the crowd of interested onlookers, daring any one of them to comment. They quickly looked away.
“I'm not your fiancée, nor even your friend,” she whispered bleakly into the snowy folds of his cravat. That one quiet statement sent reality crashing in on her. There was no future for them. There never had been. She’d deceived herself.
“We both know I'm nothing to you,” she continued in a steady little voice.
“But they don't know that.” He set her carefully away from him, not contradicting in any way what she’d just said. His granite eyes were level. “I’m sorry.”
Her gentle fingers covered his lips. “I kissed you, remember?” Rory’s smile was sad. Her lower lip trembled.
Without realizing he did so, Dylan kissed her fingers as they lingered against his lips. Then he took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm. As they walked past groups of partygoers, they heard whispers and titters. Neither one seemed to be affected. After Dylan led her up the gangplank onto the Rozelle, he swiftly took his leave and disappeared below decks.