Shanna (19 page)

“A woman?” Shanna interrupted, her curiosity piqued.

Ruark eyed her with a twisted grin. “Why, Shanna, love, are you jealous?”

“Of course not!” she snapped, but her face was warm with a blush. “I was merely curious. You were saying?”

“ 'Tis only the fishwoman, Shanna.” Ruark did not relent “No need for dismay.”

The sea-green eyes narrowed in a glare. “You're impossibly conceited, Ruark Beauchamp!”

“Shhh, love,” he gently admonished, and his eyes sparkled. “Someone might hear you.”

“And what do you do for Mrs. Hawkins?” Shanna inquired peevishly, irked with his very presence. She wanted to scream at him! Pound his chest with her fists! Anything to get that smirk from his face.

Ruark took his time in answering; he laid his hat on top of a pile of merchandise and slipped out of the open shirt, tossing it atop his other.

“Mostly what Mister Hawkins could do if he stirred himself—repair her boats and that sort of thing.”

“At the rate your money is accumulating, you'll not be with us too long,” Shanna commented.

“Money has never been my problem, Shanna. Considering events of late, I would say 'twas women, or more aptly perhaps, woman, as my problem is only one.”

Ruark's gaze was now direct, challenging, almost insulting, raking her from her trim and shapely ankles adorned in white silk stockings showing beneath the lifted hem of her skirts, and passing over the narrow waist cinched tightly in the pink-and-white-striped gown, and then more leisurely over her round bosom. The neckline of the bodice was demure with a froth of delicate white lace at her throat Still, Shanna felt undressed beneath his stare. Self-consciously she plucked at one of the lace inserts in a wide, voluminous sleeve.

“Do you regard me, then, as your problem?”

“Occasionally, Shanna.” His countenance grew serious as he met her gaze. “For the greater part, I regard you as the most beautiful woman I've ever seen.”

“I cannot for the life of me believe that I am your problem, Ruark,” Shanna chided him. “I have scarcely seen you these past weeks. I would say you overstate your case.”

His lips spoke no word, but his eyes clearly expressed his wants. The bold stare touched a quickness in her that
made her feel as if she were on fire. It flamed in her cheeks and set her fingers to trembling as she stared back at him. He was bathed in a light cast by the setting sun and was aglow with deep golden colors that rippled along his hard, lean frame. He was Apollo cast in gold, and she was no less shaken by the sight of him than by his slow perusal.

“You must have been raised with the savages,” she snapped in verbal defense. “You seem to have an aversion for wearing clothes.”

Ruark chuckled softly. “At times, Shanna my dearest, clothing can be a hindrance. For instance,”—his eyes again caressed her from toe to top—“a man finds them very troublesome when his wife wears them to bed.” His smile grew wicked. “Now that bit of a thing you wear to sleep in, 'tis close to naught. It wouldn't be much of a bother to slip a woman out of it.”

The color in her cheeks deepened. “You have your nerve, wandering beneath my balcony like that!”

Abruptly Shanna turned back to the desk as if dismissing him and flipped a page that might as well have been blank for as much as she saw on it.

A soft light shone from a small, high window set in the wall above the desk, outlining her profile in a radiance that made her seem warm, almost angelic. Ruark's eyes touched the hair that tumbled in gold-veined cascades down her back. Just to stand this near to her was a heady wine. He saw the arch of her brow, the delicate line of her nose, the sweet, full curve of her lips which he longed to caress with his own, the firm but gentle thrust of her jaw and the slim, white column of her throat where her hair fell away, baring its ivory softness. His own blood thudded in his ears, and his feet seemed to move of their own volition until he stood close behind her.

Shanna could feel his nearness in every fiber of her being. The manly odors of sweat, leather, and horses invaded her senses. Her pulse raced, and her heart took flight. She wanted to say something, do something to turn away his attention, yet it was as if she were frozen and could only wait for his touch. His hand moved toward her, his fingertips brushed her hair—

Hurrying footsteps came along the wooden planks of
the front porch, and a small woman's shape moved across the windows toward the door. Ruark straightened and moved quickly away, and when Milly Hawkins came bursting through the door, he made a show of sorting through a pile of hats. The desk was hidden from view behind a stack of small kegs as one entered from the front, and the girl completely missed Shanna's presence in her hasty glance about the store. She saw Ruark's bronzed back and ran toward him, clutching a bundle of his bondsman's garb against her breast. He had no choice but to face her as she rushed into an explanation.

“I saw ye coming into the village, Mister Ruark, and I thought to save ye from havin' to fetch yer clothes we washed for ye.”

“I pass near your house on the way home, Milly. I could have picked them up then.” He gave her a lame smile and over her head caught Shanna's brittle regard of them.

“Oh, Mister Ruark, that's all right. I weren't doing anything an' I thought I'd save ye some time.” Milly tossed her raven curls coyly, and her wide, black eyes touched him everywhere. Boldly she reached out and ran a hand along the lean ribs.

Shanna's glower was more than piercing as she stared at the young woman's back and watched the slim fingers caress the bronze skin. Absently Ruark brushed aside Milly's hand.

“Are you free this evening. Mister Ruark?”

Ruark chuckled at the girl's tactless approach. “It so happens I have duties wh ich will occupy me most of the night”

“Oh, that old man Trahern!” Milly cried in exasperation, setting her hands on her hips. “He al'ays got sompin' for ye to do!”

“Now look, Milly,” Ruark began, not missing the raising of Shanna's brows. He was having trouble keeping his own mirth silent, and it infected his voice. “The squire has demanded nothing more of me than what I have offered.” He held up the bundle of clothes. “But thank your mother for these.”

It was a known fact in the village that Milly Hawkins was among the laziest wenches about. She and her father
were inclined to lie about most of the day complaining of their poor state of finance while Mrs. Hawkins labored hard and long as sole supporter for their family. But the money she earned was much wasted as the father had a taste for rum. Ruark knew it was not the girl who had washed his garments, and he was not of a mind to spread gratitude where it was not due, for the twit would likely be at his shack next with the flimsy excuse of seeing it clean.

“Me ma says ye must be the cleanest man on Los Camellos,” Milly reported gayly. “She sees ye cartin' yerself off down to the creek every evening and pretty soon ye come back and give her yer dirty garb. Me pa says bathin' that much ain' good for ye, Mister Ruark. Why, there ain' nobody, ‘ceptin' maybe that high and mighty Trahern bitch and her folks there in that big house who waste so much time trying to keep clean.”

Ruark's roar of laughter made the girl stop abruptly. Shanna sat stiffly upon her stool, considering Milly with anything but love or affection. The young woman, bemused by Ruark's response, turned to find herself beneath Shanna's glare, which was cold enough to freeze her on the spot. Milly's jaw dropped like a dead weight, and she gaped in wordless astonishment

“ 'Tis Madam Beauchamp now, Milly,” Shanna corrected icily. “Madam Ruark Beauchamp, if you please, or, if you don't please, the Beauchamp bitch.”

Milly groaned in abject misery and rolled her eyes at Ruark, who had subsided somewhat. Shanna slammed the ledger closed with a bang and, tossing the quill aside, stepped lightly to the floor.

“Is there something else you wanted here, Milly, besides the good man. Mister Ruark?” Shanna raised a challenging brow to the other. “He's not for sale, but everything else here has a price.”

Ruark was enjoying himself immensely and moved to the stool Shanna had vacated, there leaning a hip on it while he eyed the two women. Shanna stood majestically proud and haughty, well fired with anger. Sparks flashed in the sea-green pools of her eyes. Milly, on the other hand, slumped and sauntered across the room, hips swaying and bare feet scraping against the wood floor. She was shorter
than Shanna, slight of frame with an olive complexion that darkened readily under the sun. She was pretty enough, but it was not difficult to envision her in a few years with a passel of dirty-faced brats hanging to her skirts while one suckled lazily at her breast.

“By yer pa's own law, a bondsman is free to choose any wife who be willing to have him,” Milly stated, though the retort was certainly softened. Los Camellos belonged to the Traherns. To anger one of them was truly tempting fate. “Why, Mister Ruark might even choose me. There ain' many others here on the island.”

Shanna's surprise displayed itself for a tiny moment “Oh?” She arched a wondering brow at Ruark. “Has he asked you yet?”

Ruark made no nod or gesture of denial, but grinned lazily into Shanna's regard.

“Why, he ain' had much time, workin' like he does.”

“ 'Tis what my father bought him for,” Shanna quipped tersely, annoyed with the girl, “not for breeding as you seem to think and most certainly not for siring a string of brats.”

Before Shanna could continue with her tirade, the elderly Mister MacLaird entered from the back and announced to Ruark, “Aye, the rum's a good lot Take it below for me, will ya, laddie?”

He halted abruptly as his spectacled vision fell on Milly.

“Oh, I didna know there be a customer. Shanna, me lovely, see to whatever the lass wants like a good bairn. The tavern keeper will be along after the aged brew, and I'll have to figure his accounts.”

Shanna nodded graciously to the man, but for some elusive reason felt a growing sense of resentment toward the younger woman.

“Is there something you wished in the way of goods, Milly?”

“As 'tis I do.” The girl could boast later to her friends that she had the haughty Shanna doing her bidding for at least a small space of time. “Mister MacLaird had some scents he said come from far off. I'd like to take me a sniff or two of 'em.”

As Milly obviously was encumbered with neither purse
nor coin, it was not hard to guess the ruse, but Shanna went anyway to where the fragrances were kept. Milly dallied over the perfume vials until Ruark reentered from the back, carrying a keg on his shoulder with another tucked in the crook of his arm. Under the strain, his muscles and tendons stood out like the cords of a taut rope, while his arms and body gleamed with a film of sweat as if rubbed by a fine oil. Milly gasped, and desire shone in her dark eyes as she whispered in awed observation.

“Gor! Like a bloody Greek statue, he is!”

A line of untanned white showed above his breeches, and the hard, flat belly was displayed with its thin line of dark hair which traced downward from the lightly furred chest Milly's gaze was so caught upon that stretch of bareness that Shanna wanted to pinch the girl smartly. Sweeping past her, Shanna snatched up the keys and ran to open the cellar door for Ruark. Striking tinder she blew it aflame, then lit the wick of a candle and preceded him down the stairway, lighting the passage. She used the keys to open the lower door. The cellar was cool and dry and, once within, Ruark lowered the kegs to the floor then paused to rest a moment before he lifted one and glanced questioningly at Shanna. She indicated a space at the far end of the rack.

“ Twill age while the others are used.”

Ruark returned for the other he had left, and with a grimace Shanna hooked a slim finger inside the top of his breeches, drawing his somewhat wondering and dubious regard. Snapping the loose waistband against him, she admonished in a true vein of sarcasm.

“Milly is a simple girl and easily excitable. If you show her much more, she may not be able to control herself, and you might find yourself the one ravished.”

“I shall take care, madam,” Ruark grunted as he hefted the other keg in place. “At least 'tis good to know,” his white teeth flashed, “that I am safe with you.”

Months of tension and aggravation had built beneath Shanna's supposedly serene exterior. She stood close to Ruark, and her voice was low, almost a whisper, yet burning anger spit through every syllable.

“Sir, I have reached the end of my endurance. You insult me at every meeting and call me less than a woman.
You berate my lack of honor, though I but denied your coarse advantage.”

“You agreed,” he snarled back at her. “You gave your word, and I hold you to it.”

“There is no bargain,” she hissed in frustrated rage. “You were supposed to die, and I will not be held because you did not.”

“What wiles of womanhood would you wield, madam? I gave you the full count. I played your game and trusted you. When I could have fled or at least so tried, it was your part of the bargain which held me.” He kept his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I have tasted that most delicious dish, Shanna, the sweet warmth of you, and thereafter have I starved for that which was mine by right of wedlock. And I will have it.”

Shanna clenched her fists and slowly thumped them against his hard, bare chest

“Go away!” she sobbed. “Let me be! What can I say that will convince you that I want no part of you? I hate you! I despise you! I cannot stand the sight of you!”

Shanna fought her tears and gasped for breath, bracing her arms against him. His words were low and harsh in her ear.

“And what am I? Something less than human? Lower than any that have gone before because you found me in a dungeon and I choose to honor a debt to your father I did not earn? More evil than any yet to come? What am I that you can whine and say the fault was mine and deny the bargain was fair? But I tell you this—” He lowered his face until he stared into hers, his eyes bright with his own frustration and anger. “You are my wife.”