by Grace Walton
She'd finally managed to block out what he was saying to her. She’d given up on trying to change his mind. That organ was as black as his heart. There was no changing it. But she tried, with varying degrees of success, to stop listening to his ranting. And she'd prayed, oh how she'd prayed. She'd prayed that Dylan would believe all the lies Avansley had told in the stable. If believing those lies would save him, then she prayed he would believe them. She'd prayed he would let her go, let the guns go, and live. Please God, let Dylan live. Let someone else stop the Creeks, but let Dylan live. Now it was the most difficult thing she'd ever done, this schooling of her face into a mask as Dylan's accusing eyes bore into hers.
“Ah,” Avansley's word was a hiss. “You're still interested in my new trinket, I see. I've found her to be naïve and uninspired up to this point. Innocence can be so very bland, don't you think.” He stopped to let the words hang there between them.
Dylan never acknowledged them. He kept his eyes trained on Rory. Avansley continued. Intent on somehow piercing what seemed to be St. John's impervious armor.
“Of course I relieved the bitch of her tiresome virtue long ago. But for all her stunning looks, she seems to lack a certain fire. If you know what I mean.” Avansley leered at Rory. She sat white-faced in the chair. The English lord turned to Dylan with a proposition. “How's this? You let me go on my merry way with the guns and you're welcome to her.”
“No, thank you.” Dylan's response was quiet.
“No? Well, I can't say as I blame you.” Avansley walked to stand beside the chair and possessively reached out to play with a curl that lay across Rory's bosom. “I've schooled the wench in the arts of the bedchamber. But I can't make her lusty. It's a staggering disappointment, I confess.”
“How odd.” Dylan's words were analytical and detached. “I found her to be quite a passionate little thing.” He studied the suddenly angry red face of the man standing by Rory. “Perhaps the fault is not with her, but with you.”
Avansley swore and turned with a lifted hand. Rory didn't have time to duck even though she saw the blow coming. Stars exploded behind her eyes when the back of his hand bit into the tender flesh of her face.
“You little conniving bitch. Did you think you could play this game both ways? Did you rut with him after all? Did you actually think I would let you use me? Get me to run the guns for you. And then get a besotted St. John to lie about the whole thing and save you if we were found out? I ought to kill you too.” His hand rose to strike her again.
“Don't.” The command was deep and menacing. Dylan’s eyes narrowed to menacing slits. A muscle jumped along the length of his clenched jaw.
“You actually believe you could stop me?” the Englishman sneered. He tilted up her chin to watch her a moment. Not seeing the fear he craved, he slapped her face once more.
Rory's vision was blurred by the force of the second blow. But she saw Dylan fall into a warrior’s crouch. Then there was the glint of a knife in his hand. As if somehow time slowed, she saw Avansley turn. The dragoon’s pistol he'd pointed toward the floor until now, was raised and aimed at Dylan.
“Is she worth it St. John?” he taunted. “Will you die to save the chit?”
The cocking of the gun was loud in the still darkness. Avansley steadied the heavy pistol with the help of his other hand.
Dylan straightened to his full height. He waited. Every violent impulse, he’d ever suppressed, roared to life within him. He started slowly pacing towards the pasty lord.
Even with two pale hands balancing the gun, it wavered alarmingly. Avansley swallowed hard. His brow sprouted a sheen of oily sweat. His eyes widened as St. John’s progress towards him never slowed.
“Are you going to shoot me, or are you just going to wave that thing about?” Dylan mocked. “That may be your problem in the bedchamber too Milord. You’re all show, but no action.”
“Dylan no!” Rory pleaded from her chair.
“Have I offended your delicate sensibilities again?” His jaw clenched as he made himself speak to her. “Don't worry. I won't murder your little proper English lord. I’d rather watch him swing from a hangman's noose.”
Without thinking, Rory sprang up. She stood between the two men. She took one long last look at Dylan standing in the doorway. Her tear-glazed eyes spoke volumes of her love for him. And then she purposely turned her back to him. Facing Avansley, she raised one beseeching hand.
“No,” she begged. “Don't do this. Please don't do this.”
“Rory get out of the way,” Dylan growled.
“Yes, Rory,” Avansley sneered. “This pistol only has one bullet. I'd hate to waste it on a little guttersnipe like you.”
“I can't let you do this,” she said as she took a tentative step toward the Englishman. “It wasn't part of our agreement.”
“What agreement?” Dylan asked tersely.
“Nothing that concerns you,” Avansley lied, looking toward the door nervously.
Rory inched closer until the gun almost touched her breast. “I won’t let you do this.”
“How are you going to stop me?” Avansley smiled. “It may have escaped your notice my dear, but I have a loaded weapon pointed straight at your heart.”
“She won't have to stop you. I'm going to do that.” Dylan promised in a deadly voice.
“With that little toy knife you have in your hand?” He laughed and took a step toward Rory. He rested the barrel of the gun on the ghostly fabric of her gown precisely above her left breast. “I have a better idea. Why don't we see what happens when I fire this pistol into Miss Windsor? Do you think the entry wound caused by the bullet will be bigger than the exit wound? You're in a better position to judge. If I were you, I'd move back. I'd hate to see your clothes ruined. The gore is liable to be blown a considerable distance. I must confess. I can't wait to see the look on your face as I exterminate her.”
“You won't live to see it.” Dylan's hand tensed on the knife. “If you pull that trigger, you'll be dead before she falls to the floor.”
“No!” Rory grabbed the gun.
In the same moment, she moved, the pistol exploded with a spark and a terrible deafening report. Dylan howled as he launched the stiletto towards Avansley. It was a terrible, primitive sound. It echoed through the room. He rushed forward to catch Rory as she crumpled to the floor.
When Sander raced into the cabin, he saw two things. Richard Avansley dead on the floor with a knife sticking out of his throat. And Dylan clutching the still form of Rory Windsor to his chest.
Chapter Seventeen
Dylan frantically felt for a pulse in her throat. There was nothing. His fingers pressed harder against the creamy flesh. If she'd been alive, she'd bear the bruises to prove how hard he was probing. But she wasn't alive. The stillness of her throat bore witness to that fact. Her ivory skin was warm and soft. But there was no life surging through it. Something icy and hard settled in the pit of his stomach.
“She's dead.” The words were a harsh whisper and as lifeless as the woman. He delicately brushed a shining curl away from her forehead. He traced the shape of her lips with one unsteady finger. “Sander, she's dead,” he whispered it again and continued caressing her face.
He gathered her more carefully into the shelter of his arms. He cradled her there, trying to will the life back into her. But it didn't work. She looked almost as if she was only asleep. That she would awaken if he waited long and patiently enough. I can wait forever, he thought bleakly. After all, what was left now? Just an eternity filled with useless recriminations and regrets.
Dylan's mind told him she would never wake up no matter how long he waited. But his mind didn't seem to be able to control his body any longer. It refused to believe what he knew was true. So he knelt there cherishing the feel of her and trying to achieve the impossible. Regeneration of her body and soul. If he could just breathe in her scent, warm her with his body, or shake the life back into her, he would. There’s nothing you can do, his m
ind screamed. She's dead.
“Dylan I'm sorry.” Sander pressed a firm consoling hand to his nephew's shoulder. He bent over the body of the Englishman. The knife made an ugly sucking noise as he pulled it from the dead man's throat. Wiping it clean on the gaudy satin evening jacket he said, “Avansley’s dead.”
“Good,” Dylan answered harsh and deep. His entire focus was on the still white girl in his arms. “If I could, I'd kill him again.”
Sander sighed and tried to hand the knife to him. “Come away Dylan. I'll take care of her.”
“No, I promised I'd take care of her.” Pain dropped from each low word. “Remember in London? In Arthur's office? I promised I'd always take care of her Sander. Always.”
From the door, they heard a hysterical moan. “Richard? Richard? My God, what have you done to him?” A woman flew into the cabin and raced to the fallen man. She screamed when she saw the widening puddle of blood inching across the floor. Dropping to her knees, she lifted his bright head. Seeing no sign of life she raged at Dylan.
“You killed him!” she accused madly. “We were going to London. I was going to be a lady. He promised I'd be a countess. He loved me. Do you hear me? He loved me.”
Sander moved up behind the distraught woman trying to pull her away. She turned on him with fingers poised like talons.
“Get away from me!” she screamed. “None of you understand. You could never understand how it is for me. But Richard did. Only Richard did. He didn't care that I'm not pretty, or that I am a Jew. Richard loved me. He truly loved me.”
“I think we understand Miss Gottlieb.” Sander's voice was comforting.
“No you don't.” Rebekah shrieked. “All you care about are those cursed guns,” she taunted. “And they're not even on the ship.”
“What?” Dylan's head snapped up as he fired the question.
“I said the stupid arms aren't on the ship.”
“Where are they?” He was relentless.
“Halfway to the wilderness by now I imagine, gone to some place called Fort Mims. You thought you were so smart following us because we had the guns.” She laughed in shrill disdain. “All we had were the gun boxes filled with ballast. You followed us for a load of rocks. Richard had the guns unloaded and hidden inside farm wagons. All the while you've been chasing us. Your precious guns have been getting further and further away from Savannah. We laughed at your stupidity, you clod. I hate those stupid guns. Hate them! I told Richard we didn't need the money they would bring. I have more gold than he could ever need. But he didn't want to take my money. He swore a gentleman would never take money from a woman. He said we'd need the funds when his father disowned him. And he would, of course, because of the divorce. And because I'm Jewish. But that didn't matter. He was going to leave his wife anyway and marry me.” She stopped and glared at Dylan. “But you murdered him.”
“He lied to you Miss Gottlieb,” Dylan said. “He lied to you and he used you. He'd already taken money from a woman. When he married. He'd never leave Celeste. Her marriage settlement saved his whole family from ruin. He couldn't afford to lose that. They had a business arrangement. His title for her money. If he divorced her, she could reclaim all her dowry.”
“You're lying,” she panted. “He did love me.”
“Then why did he make Aurora Windsor his mistress?”
“Rory? Richard's mistress?” High-pitched hysterical laughter flooded the room. “Rory Windsor would never be any man's mistress. If you don't know that, you don't know her at all. She's so wrapped up in purity and chastity no man can get near her. She wouldn't even let poor Bram kiss her properly,” she sneered. “I was his mistress. Does that shock you?” she asked defiantly. “That whole horrible year I spent in London, I was his mistress.”
“Then why take her?” he asked hoarsely.
“Revenge.” She stopped to lovingly gaze down at Avansley's still grey face. “He said she was going to be his revenge against you. That's why he made me wear that ridiculous red wig when we boarded. I told him to leave her alone. I knew you didn't care for her. How could you care for such a madcap? Everyone in London talked of the escapades of Heartless St. John. Handsome as the devil and just as dangerous. Once I even saw a cartoon of you in the window of a bookseller's shop. You were drawn surrounded by sophisticated women of all sorts. And there were beds. All manner of beds. The likeness was good, but just so no one would mistake you, there was a huge heart drawn on your coat. They were weeping. These women in the drawing. And the beds were all tousled like someone had sported in them. Men were standing by that window when I passed. Bragging that they knew you, that you certainly lived up to your rakish reputation. At every party I attended, the girls whispered about you. They traded stories about how wicked you were. They shivered wishing you would ask them to dance. I told Richard it couldn't be true, that false betrothal of yours. After all, what could you possibly see in someone as naïve as Rory Windsor?”
A muscle jumped in his jaw. “How did he get her on board?” The words were hard. He already knew the answer.
“In a trunk. We put her into a trunk. A big sailor followed us and carried it onto the ship.” The explanation was blunt. “She always did get herself into every wild scrape imaginable. I wasn't surprised at all to find her in this one. The silly twit. Has she fainted?” she asked, pointing to Rory.
“No,” he said as he clasped Rory tighter to his chest. “She hasn't fainted.”
“Then what's wrong with her?” There was a tinge of alarm in her voice. “I only heard you fire the one shot.”
“That's right, there was only one shot. But I didn't fire it. Your lover fired it when Rory stood between us and refused to let him murder me. She stood there and watched him cock the pistol and set it against her heart. The barrel must have been icy cold against her skin. Her heart would have been racing with fright, Miss Gottlieb. But she stood between us after I had just intentionally humiliated her. She stood there and tried to save me. She knew he only had the one bullet. He boasted about not wasting it on her. But he did, didn't he? She forced him to spend the bullet on her. She's dead Miss Gottlieb, Rory's dead.”
Rebekah Gottlieb made a wild keening sound. She collapsed onto the body of her lover.
“Connor get her out of here,” Dylan commanded.
Connor stood in the doorway surveying the chaos within the room. He'd heard the shot and rushed to help. But what he'd seen made him hang back. Blood was everywhere. It puddled under Avansley's body and covered his brother's hands.
“Dylan, I'm sorry. I mean it shouldn't have happened this way. I wish,” his voice sounded thick. Rebekah's screams dulled now to great wrenching sobs.
Dylan watched ugly crimson blood soak through the front of Rory's white dress. “Just get her out of here.” He nodded curtly to the distraught woman.
Connor moved to where Rebekah lay huddled over her lover. He lifted the unresisting woman up into his arms. He carried her out of the room.
Sander dragged the cover off the captain's bed. He laid it over Avansley's body. Then he padded softly over to where Dylan knelt holding Rory. The black man crouched down beside his nephew.
“Let her go Dylan,” he pleaded softly. “Please, you've got to let her go.”
Dylan shook his head. He raised her lifeless hand. He uncurled the limp fingers and laid the soft palm gently against his face. “I can't Sander. She's still warm.” He pressed a kiss into her hand. “I can't leave her here on this cold floor. I'm going to stay with her awhile.”
“For how long?” Sander asked in frustration. “She may be warm, but you know she's dead. Are you going to sit here in this dark room and hold her until the body stiffens? Maybe we ought to just nail you into the coffin with her.”
“Don't tempt me,” he snarled back.
“She's dead Dylan. Dead. Don't stay here and torture yourself thinking she'll suddenly wake up. It's not going to happen.”
“Curse you, I know,” Dylan spat out. “I just want to be alon
e with her. Can you understand that? I won't get to hold her body close to mine or listen to her laugh or watch the color of her eyes deepen when she's excited for the rest of my life. Don't begrudge me these last few minutes.”
“It's not your fault,” Sander said. “She put herself in the way of danger.”
“It's not my fault? Not my fault? Whose fault is it then Sander? You tell me.” He leaned against the wall. He settled Rory against his body. His head was propped back wearily exposing the tanned strength of his throat.
“You tell me whose fault it is. I'm the one who made her fall in love with me. I accused her of all kinds of foulness. And I actually believed she'd betrayed me. I'm the one who stood there taunting Avansley until he aimed that hellish dueling pistol of his. But I wasn't the one who took the bullet was I?” He broke off distractedly. “Sander get me something to press against this sodding wound.” He didn't like the way blood continued to spill down the pristine surface of her gown.
“What?” Sander was dazed. But he went over to the bed and yanked the sheet off. Rolling it into a lopsided ball, he handed it over to Dylan. “She can't be bleeding that heavily Dylan. Dead people don't really bleed. A little blood might seep out of a body. But only a beating heart makes blood pump.”
“I know,”
A flicker of something akin to the merest hope flared through Dylan’s body. Ripping the soaked clinging fabric of the gown away, he exposed her skin. He pressed his open palm against her chest searching. He ached to feel the vigorous rhythmic thud that would prove she lived. There was nothing. He didn't feel anything. Defeated, Dylan's eyes closed. His forehead fell to rest in the tangle of her hair. Slowly his hand moved up to circle her throat in a final tender caress.