Shanna (2 page)

Shanna grew anxious in the sheltered interior of the luxurious Briska, and the voice of the wheels as protection, she tested the name that was so new on her lips, so full of promise.

“Ruark Beauchamp. Ruark Deverell Beauchamp.” No one could deny such a fine distinguished name, nor the aristocracy of the Beauchamps of London.

A slight twinge of conscience invaded the moment as the carriage drew her ever closer to her moment of reckoning, but Shanna summoned her courage in defense of herself.

“'Tis
not
wrong! 'Tis an arrangement to profit us both. The man will see his final days eased and be laid in an honorable grave in return for his temporary service. In two weeks, my year will be up.”

Still, apprehension began to gnaw at the edge of her resolve as questions by the dozen flew at her like bats in the night Would this Ruark Beauchamp be sufficient for her cause? What if he were some hunchbacked, rotten-toothed beast of a man?

Shanna set her jaw, lovely in any mood, with the willfulness of a Trahern and looked for a diversion to ease the multitude of fears which threatened to envelop her. Drawing aside the leather shade at the window, she peered out into the night Shreds of fog had begun to seep into the streets, half masking the darkened dram shops and inns they now passed. It was a dreary night, but she could abide fog and dampness. It was storms she feared, lending little comfort and peace to her mind when they raged across the land.

Letting the shade fall into place again, Shanna closed her eyes, finding no release for her tensions. In an effort to still the trembling that possessed her, she pressed her slender hands deep into a fur muff, clenching them tightly together. There was so much depending on this night She could not expect everything to go well, and doubt thwarted her attempts at calm.

Would this Ruark laugh at her? She had swayed the hearts of many men. Why not his also? Would he deny her plea with a cruel jest?

Shanna shook the qualms from her mind. She primed her weapons, arranging the daring décolletage of the red velvet gown she had chosen. She had never fully exercised her wiles, but she suspected a sane man could hardly refuse a full broadside of tears.

Somewhere a bell tolled in the night.

The wheels of the carriage thumped against the cobblestones, and Shanna's heart seemed to match the rapid pace. Time hung motionless as uncertainty pecked at the
outer limits of her mind, and somewhere deep inside she wondered what madness had spurred her to start this thing.

An inward cry surfaced to consciousness. Why must it be like this? Had her father lost the sense and tenderness of love in his greed and desire for court acceptance? Was she only a useful pawn for some greater gambit? He had loved her mother deeply and had given no heed to the fact that Georgiana had been the daughter of a common smithy. Why must he then push his only child into a relationship she would abhor?

It was not as if she had not tried. She had been constantly beset by suitors from the moment she arrived in London, but in all of them she saw flaws. She disliked most those who came courting with a desire for riches exceeding a desire for her. Could her father not understand her longing for a husband of stature she could admire, as well as one she could love and respect?

No voice gave the answers Shanna sought. There was only the steady drum of the horses' hooves bringing her ever closer to her testing.

The carriage eased its relentless pace and swung around a corner. Shanna heard Pitney's voice ring out as they rumbled to a stop before the forbidding facade of Newgate gaol. Her breath seemed caught in her throat, and her heart beat a chaotic rhythm. The sound of Pitney's footsteps falling heavily against the cobblestones reverberated within her head. Like a doomed prisoner, she waited until he opened the door and leaned in.

Mister Pitney was a giant of a man, broad-shouldered, with a full wide face to match his size. A stringy thatch of tan hair was tied at the nape of his thick neck beneath a black tricorn. At the age of fifty, he could best any two men younger or older than himself. His past was a mystery, and Shanna had never inquired into it, but she rather suspected it might rival her grandfather's. Yet she had no concern for her safety with Pitney near. He was like a part of the family, though some might have termed his position one of a hired servant, for her father engaged him as her personal guard to see to her welfare whenever she went abroad. On Los Camellos he was independent of Orlan Trahern's wealth and spent his time there carving
and making furniture. The big man served the daughter as well as the father and was not inclined to rush to his employer's ear with tales of her slightest infraction. He admired her on some matters, counseled her on others, and when Shanna felt a need to pour out her troubles, it was Pitney who most often comforted her. He had been her co-conspirator on other occasions that her father would not have approved of.

“Your mind is set?” Pitney asked in a deep, rasping voice. “This is to be the way of it?”

“Aye, Pitney,” she murmured quietly and, with more determination, “I will see it through.”

In the meager light cast by the carriage lanterns, his gray eyes met hers. His brow wore a worried frown. “Then you'd best make yourself ready.”

Shanna set her mind and with cool deliberation pulled a heavy lace veil down over her face and adjusted the deep hood of her black velvet cloak so that it further obscured her identity and held her long, golden-veined tresses from view.

Pitney led the way toward the main portal, and, following, Shanna fought an almost overwhelming urge to flee in the opposite direction. But she checked the impulse, reasoning that if this were madness, then marriage to a man she loathed would be hell.

At their entry the turnkey struggled to his feet with an eagerness born of greed and came forward to greet her. He was a grotesquely fat man whose arms resembled battering rams. His legs were so immense he had to walk with his feet well apart, causing a rolling motion in his gait Yet for all of his size, he was short, his height barely matching Shanna's, which for a woman was more small than tall. His wheezing breath, quickened with the exertion of rising from the chair, filled the room with an aroma of stale rum, leeks, and fish. Quickly Shanna pressed a perfumed handkerchief beneath her nose to ease the stomach-wrenching scent of the foul fumes.

“Milady, I feared ye ‘ad changed yer mind.” Mister Hicks chortled as he tried to take her hand to bestow a kiss upon it.

Shanna held back a shiver of revulsion and pulled away before his lips could touch her fingers, pushing her
hands safely into the fur muff. She could not decide which was worse, having to stand and abide the fetid stench that hung like an unseen cloud about him or bear the sickening feel of his mouth upon her hand.

“I am here as I said I would be, Mister Hicks,” she replied sternly. The obnoxious odor got the better of her, and she again drew the lace kerchief from the muff to wave it in front of her veiled face. “Please—” she choked, “let me see the man, so we might get on with the arrangements.”

The gaoler delayed a moment and stroked his chin thoughtfully, wondering if there might be more to gain from this than he was promised. The only other time the lady had been to the prison was nearly two months prior, and she had been heavily disguised then, also. His curiosity was greatly piqued, but she had not elaborated on the reason she wanted to meet with a condemned man. The prospect of a weighty purse urged him on, and he had faithfully supplied the names of prisoners bound for the triple tree, giving them over to the hulking man at her side when he had come to fetch them. On her first visit Hicks had taken careful note of the ring on her finger and the subdued but rich cut of her clothes. It was not hard to surmise this was no pauper's daughter. Aye, she had a fortune all right, and he was not above wheedling a greater portion of it than he had been pledged—if he could. And that was where the difficulty lay. He dared ask nothing of her when she was accompanied by her manservant, and the bloke seemed reluctant to leave her.

Still, it seemed a shame that a woman who smelled as tempting and sweet as she, should waste any moment of her life talking to a doomed man. That fellow Beauchamp was a troublemaker, the worst prisoner he had ever led to a cell. Hicks rubbed his fat cheek reflectively, recalling the man's fist against it. What he wouldn't give to see the damned rogue gelded. It would serve him right. But the knave was to die, and revenge
would
be had, though a slower end would be more to his liking.

Mister Hicks heaved a heavy sigh, and then snorted abruptly.

“We'll 'ave to see to him in his cell.” The rotund gaoler
snatched a ring of keys from a peg on the wall. “Been kept away from others 'e 'as. Likely 'e woulda 'ad the 'ole bloody lot of 'em rising agin us.” He lit a lantern as he chattered on. “Why, took a fistful o' redcoats to put ‘im down an' chain him when they caught him at the inn. Him bein' a colonial and all, 'e's liken to be 'alf savage, anyway."

If Hicks meant to put a fright into her, Shanna was having no part of it. She was calm now and knew what must be done to ease her own plight. Nothing would stand in her way after she had come this far.

“Lead the way, master gaoler,” she directed firmly. “There'll not be a farthing exchanged until I have decided for myself that Mister Beauchamp will meet my needs. My man Pitney will accompany us should there be any trouble.”

The smile faded, and Hicks shrugged. Finding no other excuse to delay, he took up the lantern to light the way. With his peculiar rolling gait, he preceded them from the dingy room, through the heavy iron doors leading to the main gaol then down a dimly lit corridor. Their footsteps echoed on the stone steps while the lantern cast eerie, flickering shadows around them. An unearthly silence held the place, for most of the prisoners slept, but now and again a groan or muffled weeping could be heard. Water dripped from some unseen fount, and swift scurrying sounds in dark corners brought chills and a strange foreboding to Shanna. She shivered in apprehension and clutched her cloak tighter about her, feeling the wretchedness of the place.

“How long has the man been kept here?” she inquired, glancing uneasily about her. It seemed impossible for anyone to long retain their sanity in a hole like this.

“Nigh to three months, milady.”

“Three months!” Shanna gasped. “But your note said he was only just condemned. How is that?”

Hicks snorted. “The magistrate didn't rightly know what to do with the bloke, milady. Wid a name like Beauchamp, a fellow 'as to be bloody careful just 'oo 'e's 'anging, even Lord 'Arry himself is a mite afeared of the Marquess Beauchamp. Ol' 'Arry was reluctant, ye might say, but him being the magistrate, it were up to himself and
no other. Then 'bout a week ago, 'e gave the word—'ang him.” Hicks's weighty shoulders lifted then fell as if they were a burden too heavy for him. “I 'spect it's cause the bloke's from the colonies and as far as known, 'e's no close kin to folks 'ere. Ol' 'Arry instructed me to have the fellow 'anged quiet like with no fuss so these other Beauchamps and the Marquess wouldn't learn o' the deed. Being the clever man that I am, I figured when they give me to 'andle the matter on the sly that Mister Beauchamp be the one for ye.” Hicks paused before an iron door. “Ye said ye wanted a man bound for the gallows, and I couldn't give him over to ye until Ol' 'Arry made up his mind to 'ang him.”

“You've done well, Mister Hicks,” Shanna replied, a trifle more graciously. It was even better than she had hoped! Now as to the man's appearance and consent.…

The gaoler thrust a key into a lock and pulled on a door which, with a loud creak of rusty hinges, yielded. Shanna exchanged a quick glance with Pitney, knowing the moment was at hand when she would either see an end to her plan or a beginning.

Mister Hicks lifted the lantern to let more light into the small cell, and Shanna's gaze settled on the man within. He was huddled on a narrow cot and clasped a ragged, threadbare blanket about his shoulders as meager protection against the chill. As the candle's glow presented him, he stirred and covered his eyes as if they hurt. Where the sleeve was torn from his arm, Shanna saw an ugly bruise. His wrists were chafed raw where manacles had been. Straggly black hair and a dark beard hid most of his features, and staring at him Shanna could not help but think of some fiendish creature which had crawled up from the bowels of the earth. A shudder ran through her as the worst of her fears seemed realized.

The prisoner pushed himself up against the wall until he sat and shaded his eyes.

“Damn it, Hicks,” he growled. “Can you not even let me enjoy my sleep?”

“On yer feet, ye bloody cur!”

Hicks reached out to prod him with the hardwood staff he carried, but when the prisoner obeyed, the turnkey hurriedly stepped back several paces.

Shanna's breath caught in her throat, for the lean frame unfolded until the man stood a full head taller than Mister Hicks. She could now see the wide shoulders and, beneath the open shirt, the lightly furred chest which tapered to a flat belly and narrow hips.

“'Ere's a liedy to see ye.” Hicks's voice was noticeably less demanding than before. “And if ye has it to harm her, let me warn ye—”

The prisoner strained to see into the blackness beyond the lantern. “A lady? What madness do you practice, Hicks? Or perhaps some more subtle torture?”

His voice came smooth and deep, pleasant to Shanna's ears and bore no hint of a slur. It was easy flowing and less clipped than what she was accustomed to hearing in England. A man from the colonies, Hicks had said. That was, no doubt, the reason for the subtle qualities in his speech. Yet there was something else as well, an amused mockery that seemed to scorn everything about the gaol.

Shanna held to the shadows for a moment longer as she carefully studied this Ruark Beauchamp. His garments were as ragged as the blanket, and she became acutely aware that they were gathered in places with string in an attempt to cover his slender torso. His breeches were torn nearly to the waist on one side, and the rough mending concealed little of the lithe line of his flank. A linen blouse, perhaps once white, was now mottled with filth and barely recognizable. It hung in tattered shreds from his shoulders and showed thinly fleshed ribs that were still well muscled despite his deprivation. His hair was uneven and wildly tossed, yet his eyes filled with alert awareness as he attempted to make out her form. Failing that, he drew himself up and bowed formally to the blackness that shrouded her. A satirical tone was in his voice.