Shanna (28 page)

Ruark cocked a wondering brow at her. “Why, Shanna,” a lazy smile tugged at a corner of his mouth, “I've told you before that you are my only love."

“Be serious,” she gently rebuked. “I know you've had other women. Were you ever in love with any of them?”

He shrugged slightly and lifted her hair from her shoulder, smoothing it down her back. “Only a small infatuation when I was a lad, 'tis all.”

“A lad?” Shanna queried. “Nine? Ten?”

“Not so young,” Ruark grinned. “I was eighteen, and she was a young widow with flaming red hair. She taught me much about women.”

Shanna's curiosity would not be satisfied with only bits and parts. “What happened? Did you make love to her?”

“Shanna, Shanna, my inquisitive little mouse. Why would you want to know that? Twas long ago and best forgot.”

“I'll leave if you don't tell me,” she threatened. “And you can lie here and rot.”

“Vicious wench,” he teased. “Jealous, too, I think.”

“Of the widow? Ha!” Shanna scoffed. “You are conceited.” A moment of silence passed and then, “I suppose you were terribly in love with her. Was she pretty?”

“Pretty,” Ruark conceded. “Tall, slender. Twenty-and-four
she was. She bought a stallion and I did but deliver—”

“Then you became her stallion,” Shanna broke in and could not fathom the rising irritation within her. “Is that not right, milord? Was she like your little trollop in the inn?”

Ruark recognized the sneer in her words and sought to divert her interest, hooking his arm behind her head and drawing her down. But Shanna gave a small, muffled shriek and flung his arm away, sitting up on her heels.

“Tell me, damn you,” she cried. “Was she like your little trollop in the inn?”

“Oh, hell!” Ruark growled and knelt before her, frowning into her eyes as he leaned toward her, forcing her back against the wall. “I don't even remember anymore what either of them looked like.”

He softened as his eyes lowered to caress her nakedness and, giving a ragged sigh, he tried to carefully explain.

“I was but a lad, Shanna. The widow was worldly. If you can believe this in that beautiful, stubborn head of yours, she seduced me. For a time I thought she was everything to me. Then I grew up. Much of the splendor faded. She began to demand too much of my time. I was training horses and working other places besides. She married an old but wealthy lord, and when I refused to continue as her lover, she became angry and ended the affair. I was actually relieved. Tis simple enough. I was glad to be rid of her. And if you can believe another thing, Shanna, there have not been too many entanglements since. What I said this morning was mostly true. My father thought me married to my work, and perhaps I was—until you.”

Shanna chuckled wickedly, and her eyes gleamed with gleeful mischief as Ruark braced an arm on the wall beside her, contemplating her impish smile.

“What devilment are you up to now, wench?” he inquired. “'Tis naught of good, I swear.”

Shanna ran her fingers through the light matting of dark hair on his chest as she spoke in a teasing tone.

“I suppose if I'm to be free of you I must bore you first with constant demands.”

Ruark smiled with an easy assurance. “Try, lady. Send for me whenever you're free, and we'll find out if you can bore
me. Twould be interesting to see if you have the strength, if you can stay in bed that long working your heart out to weary me. I find the idea most intriguing. But there is some danger, of course, and we're both susceptible. What happens should hearts grow fonder? What would you do if you fell in love with me?”

Shanna dropped her eyes from his, wondering what she would do if she found herself in love with him. Silence dragged out, growing pained, yet Shanna's mind still struggled in a turmoil. No answer came to the surface. She was almost afraid to plunge into the turbulent depths because of what she might find there. She had never been in love with anyone but the ideal man of her imagination and, in fact, had never even been attracted to a man before Ruark. The whole idea was simply beyond her experience, although she could little admit it, even to herself.

The rain had stopped. Its soft patter was gone from the roof. The birds were still, the wind had died, the quiet was thick—almost as if one could rend it with a blade—and still Ruark waited for an answer.

Then from a distance, a thud of horse's hooves rapidly nearing the shanty broke the silence. With a curse Ruark leaped from the cot and snatching up his damp breeches, hurriedly slipped them on. It appeared very likely that the door would be flung open momentarily, revealing the tryst, and Shanna could do naught but draw herself into a small shape as she huddled beneath the linen quilt in a corner of the bed. The hooves rattled on the boardwalk and halted just outside the door. A pause intervened, in the midst of which Shanna exchanged a somewhat pained grimace with Ruark. Then an odd scraping sound intruded, and a slow smile spread across Ruark's face as he looked at Shanna. It became a chuckle and grew into a laugh. At Shanna's bemused stare, he stepped to the door and threw it wide despite her gasp of protest.

“Nay! Wait!”

Shanna slowly dropped her extended hand and stared in amazement. There, filling the sun-bright portal, stood Attila. He had broken loose from his tether. The horse shook his head, snorted, and pawed the ground again. Reaching for his shirt, Ruark searched through it until he found the pocket.

“Tis the way I trained him,” he explained, holding out his hand for her to see two lumps of brown sugar candy. “He's become overly fond of it, and I forgot to give him his ration.”

“Oh,” Shanna sighed weakly and sagged back against the wall limply. “That beast has frightened me into an early graying.”

The steed daintily nibbled the sweets from Ruark's hand, crunching the sugar loudly and tossing his head in obvious pleasure. Ruark closed the door and leaned back against it, gazing across the room at Shanna. The guilt had dropped away from her, and Ruark devoured his treat as greedily as Attila had the candy. Her breasts glowed like amber melons in the muted light, and her slender limbs were laid bare to his heated gaze. Seeing where his interests wandered, Shanna reached for her chemise, giving him an accusing glance before she slipped the garment over her head.

“If you seek food with the same lust you do me,” her voice was light with humor, “you shall soon exceed my father's girth.”

Ruark caught his arm around her waist as she rose to turn her gown and see to its drying.

“Would that my wasting body could feed upon such nourishment as I have found from you,” he murmured huskily, holding her close to him and smoothing her hair away from her shoulder. “But should my food come with the regularity of your love, I would be long dead of wanting. Like food, my need of you is a daily thing, and these lengthy fasts do not appease my hunger.”

“Daily! Ha!” Shanna leaned back against the circle of his arms and absently traced a finger in a pattern on his chest. “Your lust is a slavering dragon devouring all I can offer on the moment I fear you would never get beyond the bedchamber door should we live as man and wife.”

Shanna's brow suddenly furrowed as she stared at what her finger had drawn. Against his darker tan the white marks faded even as her eyes touched them, but they were burned like a brand into her brain. The words, “I love,” were unfinished, but still they dismayed her with their betrayal She cringed as if pained, quickly pulled away from his embrace, and began to dress in fevered haste.

Confused by her abrupt change, Ruark watched her closely as he rolled one of his drawings and played with the cylinder of parchment.

“I had intended to spend the night here,” he began almost hesitantly. “Mister MacLaird gave me a lift up here when he brought supplies for the morrow's work, but I left several sketches I shall need on the morrow. Will you give me a ride back?”

Shanna paused in drawing her gown over her head.

“You are welcome to the ride,” she murmured, sliding her arms into her dress and settling it on her hips. Once within the barrier of clothes, she calmed and presented her back to him, holding her hair aside.

“Will you lace me up?”

Ruark leisurely complied, taking his own good time as he settled one hip on the edge of the wooden planks of the table. He was reluctant to see the afternoon gone.

For the most part Shanna held still for his lengthy administering, though she reached across him once, bracing her hand on his thigh, to turn several sketches spread across the table. She studied them recognizing Ruark's handwriting scrawled boldly across the bottom. As he gave a last tug on the strings, she turned.

“You've been working,” she commented, rubbing away a smudge of ink from the brown skin over his ribs.

Ruark smiled into the depths of twin aqua pools. “As I had no hopes of seeing you again today, Shanna, I put my mind to something less tormenting.”

Shanna scoffed playfully. “Pray tell, sir, how do I torment you? Do you see me as some witch who pricks you sorely for the sake of amusement? How can I, a mere woman as you see me now, trouble you so?”

Grinning lazily, Ruark folded his arms about her, drawing her between his legs, and brushed his lips against her temple.

“Aye, you're a witch, Shanna. You have cast some strange spell over me that makes me yearn for you every moment of my waking.” His breath stirred the light curls that lay against her ear. “But you're an angel, too, when you lie beside me soft and warm, letting me love you as I will.”

Shanna placed a trembling hand across
his
lips, recog
nizing the quickening of her own pulse. The effect of those burning amber eyes was total and devastating.

“Say no more, devil dragon.”

Ruark kissed her soft palm, her slender fingers, the narrow wedding band she wore. His gentleness touched a quickness in Shanna's breast, and she gazed at him in soft bewilderment, unable to fathom the tenderness that she suddenly felt for him. Abruptly he frowned and caught her hand, staring at the ring.

“What is the matter?” Shanna asked, seeing nothing about her hand that was odd.

His frown deepened. “I wore a ring on a chain about my neck, and it was there when I visited the wench at the inn. I haven't had it since. With everything that has happened, I completely forgot about it until now. The band you wear reminded me. The ring was to be yours.”

“Mine?” Shanna's own brow showed bemusement. “But you didn't even know me then.”

“It was meant for my wife, whenever I married. It once belonged to my grandmother.”

“But, Ruark, who took it? The girl at the inn? Or the redcoats when they laid hold of you?”

“Nay, I came awake the minute they touched me. The girl must have taken it. But if she did, then I had to have been asleep.”

“Ruark?” Shanna asked quietly. “What does all this mean?”

“I don't know as yet, but I'd swear the little bitch meant to rob me all along. Perhaps she gave me some drug in the wine.” Ruark shook his head. “But she drank from it, too.” Then he tilted his head as if remembering. “Or did she? Damn fool me for not being more wary!”

After a long moment he gave up trying to recall the events and, sighing, gathered Shanna's stockings and frilly garters and handed them to her.

“We'd best go before your father comes out in search of you. The next time we might not be so lucky to find Attila at the door.”

Shanna seated herself again on the cot and, beneath Ruark's admiring regard, lifted her skirts and smoothed the silk carefully over her shapely calves. Finished, she dropped her gown and smiled at him with her question.

“Ready?”

“Aye, love,” Ruark grinned, scooping up his shirt.

His hand rode on the small of her back as he escorted her through the door. Closing it behind them, he stepped around Attila and lifted Shanna up onto the animal's back, guiding her knee around the horn of the sidesaddle. Placing his foot in the stirrup, he swung up behind her, taking the reins from her hands. Smiling, Shanna leaned back against him and enjoyed the ride up along the hill, well away from the village and prying eyes. A quiet peace descended upon them as they shared the brilliant panorama spread out before them, seeing the blue-green of the sea through the tall trees.

They were, for that moment, aware only of each other and knew naught of the lone figure that stood some distance off, watching them. Ralston held the reins of his horse firm lest the animal betray his presence, and his brow lifted thoughtfully as the couple exchanged a long kiss. His surprise mounted as the bondslave, John Ruark, made bold with his hand upon Shanna's breast. Instead of the stinging slap the agent expected, the intimacy was accepted most casually without an attempt even to brush away the hand.

“'Twould seem Mister Ruark has caught the lady's eye and dallies where he should not,” Ralston muttered to himself. “I'll have to keep an eye on the man.”

T
HE CLOUDS RACED
over the face of the island, seeming to herald in the billowing sails of a mighty vessel which glided effortlessly through the tossing sea, curling the blue crystal water beneath her lofty prow. The azure sky was vivid beyond the fluffs of white, and, against the indistinct horizon, the ship was like an eagle in flight, soaring gracefully on outspread but motionless wings.

“That's a big one, 'tis,” Mister MacLaird stated as Ruark lifted an eyeglass to peer through it “Can you
make
out her name, laddie? Is she English?”

“Colonial. She flies the Virginia Company's flag.” Ruark replied, squinting through the glass as he focused on the banner waving below the other. “She's the
Sea Hawk.
”

“Aye, she moves in like one,” MacLaird rejoined. “A beauty she be. As fine a ship as any of Trahern's.”

Ruark lowered the glass, and even as they watched, the ship dropped some of her sail and entered a trim tack to the harbor entrance. Almost anxiously Ruark turned to the older man, who stared out the window over the top of his small, square spectacles.

“That wagon you have loaded with rum out there.” Ruark gestured with his thumb toward the front of the store. “Is it to be taken aboard one of the ships?”

Mister MacLaird moved his attention to Ruark, lifting his nose and staring at him through the metal-rimmed glasses. “Aye, lad, to the
Avalon
it be going. The schooner's making the rounds of the islands this week. Why do you ask?”

“I was wondering if I might take the load down for you. Tis been nigh to a year since I left the colonies, and I want to see if that ship might have news of home.”

The aged storekeeper waved a gnarled thumb toward
the door as a merry twinkle lit his blue eyes. “Then get yourself down there, laddie, before the rum spoils from sitting in the sun.”

A grin spreading wide on his face, Ruark nodded and eagerly set about his task. Jamming his hat on his dark head, he leapt to the seat of the wagon and clucked to the team of mules, slapping the reins against their broad backs and sending them down the lane toward the pier. As he went, an odd smile played about his lips, and he began to whistle.

Late afternoon brought a cooling breeze, and Shanna escaped the tedium of book work for a ride on Attila's back. She urged him along the beach where once she had met Ruark, following the same path they had taken through the wooded copse and eventually halting in the clearing to enjoy the serenity of the peaceful glade. Birds called high overhead and fluttered through the trees; frogs croaked from the marshes. Gay-colored flowers bedecked the lush green carpet, while butterflies flitted on vibrant-hued wings, touching a blossom, perching on a leaf, weaving a riotous path on a light and fragrant breeze.

Shanna sighed, content with the day. All fears had been set aside with the affirmation that she was not with child and that those pleasant interludes with Ruark had not left her carrying his seed within her belly. In time, she thought, there would be another man to give her as much pleasure as that cocky colonial, and she would bear his child, but until then she would take no more chances. No matter what, she would hold Ruark at arm's length and say him nay on every turn. She could not let all she had planned for be swept away in a moment of passion and weakness. Aye, 'twas weakness which made her forget her resolve and like any common lustful wench fall into bed with Ruark. She had not seen him since that stormy Sabbath nearly a full week before and had purposefully kept to herself and out of his way. If she had learned anything in her dealings with Ruark, it was that she could not handle him or the situation. In any confrontation with him, her plans always went awry, and she could not chance another quirk of nature sending her
flying into his arms with no thought of the consequences. However stubbornly she declared her intentions, it was still best not to tempt fate.

In the leafy bower the flowers were the same, the riot of color, the heady perfume, the dark coolness. Beneath her, Attila pawed restlessly at the soft turf, anxious to be at a fast run, but Shanna's thoughts were elsewhere. Amber eyes invaded her unwilling mind, and a warmth slowly spread through her. They stared down to the depths of her being, stirring unwelcome longings as parted lips bent closer—closer—

“Get out of my mind!” Shanna shrieked to the treetops, setting to flight a flock of birds resting there. Then she slammed her gloved fist into the skirt of the saddle with frustrated rage. Clenching her jaw in determination, she gritted out, “Get from my mind, dragon beast! The bargain is complete as agreed! I have not betrayed you!”

Angrily snatching the reins, Shanna whirled the stallion about and fled from the place, no longer at peace there. She wasted no mercy on the horse as she pushed him to his fastest gait. His hooves churned up the wet sand along the beach, sending heavy clumps of it out behind them. The wind whipped tendrils of hair from the coiled knot at the nape of her neck. She raced as if the whole forest behind her were ablaze and she would be consumed if she but eased her reckless pace. Indeed, there was a plea haunting those amber eyes that burned her even now.

Soon Attila began to labor, and Shanna knew his endurance was near an end. She slowed him to a calmer pace and meandered along the beach until they came to a spot where a small rivulet of water trickled its way across the beach. Turning the mount, Shanna sent him splashing to the source of the brook. The dense foliage opened to reveal a cliff which reached above her head, and from its brink the small stream plunged, giggling like a virgin maid as it tumbled down from rock to rock until it fell to an emerald pool at the bottom.

Shanna flung herself down, and Attila waded fetlock-deep in the water, plunging full half his head beneath its cool surface while he quenched his thirst and rested. Shanna gathered her hair into some semblance of order and laved her neck with a handkerchief she dampened in
the chilled spray. As her warmth and excitement waned, she wet the kerchief again and drew it slowly over her face until the flush subsided and she began to regain her composure.

Once more the unruffled daughter of Trahern, Shanna mounted and reined the horse about, continuing on toward the village. Attila had enjoyed the run, and his blood still raced hot in his veins. He fought against Shanna's hand and would have thrown himself into a wild dash again had she relented but a bit.

This was the apparition that entered the town and rattled across the cobbles to the dock, the mottled gray steed with his darker muzzle and stockings, prancing, flinging his legs wide and high, chafing against the control of the bit, his tail arched high and his full mane flowing with every movement And on his back a vision of beauty such as few men see in a lifetime, cool and relaxed, controlling the beast with a practiced hand. A low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat sat squarely on her head, and the full riding skirt covered both herself and the side of the horse like the draped mantelet of some gallant knight.

Small wonder that the colonial seamen dropped what they were doing and paused in their labors to watch with gaping stares. Finding their gentle attention not unpleasing, Shanna gave them a brief nod in greeting and headed for the slip where the newcomer lay. There Shanna espied her father's barouche and drew up beside to ask Maddock where the squire might be.

“'Board the ship, ma'am,” the black man drawled and threw a careless thumb toward the tall barque. “Palaverin' wit' the cap'n, I 'spect.”

When Shanna tossed the reins to the man and began to dismount, there was an immediate scuffle. A small crowd of tars had congregated and now jostled for the honor of helping her down. Patiently she waited until a young giant, who would have dwarfed Pitney, elbowed his way through the others and with a blushing grin offered his hand for her assistance. Swinging down, Shanna gave the lad a gracious smile of thanks then proceeded to the gangplank, trailing behind a chorus of half-muffled groans and sighs. Her dainty boots had not yet touched the deck of the ship when another young man stumbled to a halt
before her. He stood ramrod stiff and clutched a brightly polished telescope beneath his arm; a brand new tricorn crushed his tousled blond hair. Recalling his manners, he snatched the hat from his head, almost dropping the glass, and greeted her loudly, overeager to be of service.

“Good afternoon, ma'am. May I be of service, ma'am?”

“If you will.” Shanna smiled while the poor youth seemed to swallow his tongue. “Might you carry a message to my father, that if he is to be shortly finished with his business here, I would enjoy a ride home with him.”

The young man began a salute but remembered himself. Instead, he did a smart quarter turn and flung out his arm to point.

“Is that your father, ma'am, with the captain by the—”

He snatched his hat as it threatened to blow overboard and caught the glass again from certain disaster. Holding the two clutched to his chest, he jerked his head toward the men.

“That be him, ma'am, with the captain?” he mumbled, a bit red-faced.

Shanna nodded as her eyes settled on the stocky shape of her father. The other man's back was presented to her, displaying only a dark, thick thatch of auburn hair tied in a queue above his tall, blue-garbed frame.

The youth brightened. “Whom shall I say is aboard, ma'am?”

Shanna laughed at his spirit “Madam Beauchamp, sir.”

“Madam Beau—” The young officer's voice trailed off in unmasked surprise, and the tall man with her father turned abruptly and fixed her with a piercing gaze from beneath a glowering, frowning brow, as if he half expected some leering witch to be aboard his ship. Beneath that condemning stare, Shanna stood transfixed, unable to move or speak.

Ever so slowly the scowl faded. The eyes roamed over her briefly then returned to her face. Now a smile played just behind his features, and he gave a slow nod of what appeared to be approval.

Shanna let out a sigh and realized she had been holding her breath since he faced her. Had her life depended upon
it, she could not explain why the approval of this man, whom she had never seen in her life, should please her.

As the captain strode across the deck, Shanna noticed that he was thin, almost to a fault, yet he moved with the easy, rolling stride of a seasoned seaman. His face was long and squarish, somewhat angular. Though a hint of fine humor showed about his brown eyes, there was a trace of sternness about the lips, or rather the firm decisiveness of a man accustomed to command. Pausing before her, he locked his oversize hands behind him as he rocked back on his heels in the briefest of cordial bows.

“Madam Beauchamp?” The words rolled from his lips in a drawl, yet they were spoken as a question.

Like the bow wave of a ship rolling forward, Orlan Trahern came to join them. Placing both hands on the gnarled end of his staff, he leaned heavily on it.

“Aye, captain, I would have you meet my daughter, Shanna Beauchamp.” Something odd twinkled behind the elder Trahern's eye and, thus warned, Shanna braced herself. Still, the shock was no less stunning. “My dear, this is Captain Nathanial Beauchamp.”

The words were slow and deliberate, and he waited as, with crushing slowness, the full weight of the name dawned on the daughter. Shanna's mouth opened as if she would speak, but no words came. Her eyes turned their burning question upward to the tall captain.

“Aye, madam.” His rich voice rumbled again. “We shall have to discuss this at length, ere my own good wife disowns me for a knave.”

“Later perhaps, captain.” Orlan Trahern cut short any further conversation. “I must be on my way. If you will excuse us, sir. And will you join me, Shanna, my dear, for a ride back to the house?”

Numbly Shanna nodded her assent, unable to shape a comment Trahern gently guided her to the rail, there pausing as he called back over his shoulder.

“Captain Beauchamp.”

Shanna flinched at the name.

“I shall send a carriage for you and your men later.”

Without waiting for a reply, the squire departed from the ship, leading his mute and confused daughter on his arm. The captain strode to the rail, leaning against it as
he watched the barouche swing about and disappear around the corner of a warehouse.

Shanna paused outside the drawing room door as she recognized Captain Beauchamp's voice replying to Pitney. Ralston interrupted, cutting him short, but that deep, confident voice was unmistakable. Shanna clenched trembling hands together, trying to calm herself, and cast a glance toward the front door where Jason stood tall and silent.

“Jason,” she asked softly. “Has Mister Ruark arrived yet?”

“No, madam. He sent a note by a boy from the mill. There has been some difficulty, and he will need to remain there.”

“The wily knave!” Shanna thought “He's left me to flounder about for the explanations! I don't even know if he's really a Beauchamp. For all I know, he might have borrowed the name. So what then is that bloody beggar's name? And
my
name? Madam John Ruark?” Shanna groaned inwardly. “Heaven forbid!”

Panic almost made her flee like a coward to the safety of her chambers, but she struck down the corrosive feelings which ate her composure away.

Soothing her raging emotions with the single thought, “
I am Madam Beauchamp,
” Shanna smoothed the multiple yards of pale pink satin cast with the iridescent luster of pearls. Delicate pink lace, dainty as the tiny satin rosebuds which caught the billowing skirt into little tufts, cascaded to the floor between twin borders of ruching. At mid-arm the same rich lace was gathered in flounces, and a narrow satin ribbon was tied about her slim, graceful throat where the lace had been stiffened to frame the expanse of flawless skin.

Shanna was just touching a hand to her elaborately woven coiffure when the young third mate who had ushered her aboard the
Sea Hawk
strode near the door to set his empty glass on a small table there. When his eyes discovered her, he came to a halt and almost gaped.