Shanna (3 page)

“I beg your pardon, milady. My quarters have little to recommend them. Had I foreknowledge of your visit, I would have tidied up a bit. Of course,” he smiled and indicated his surroundings, “there's not much to tidy up.”

“Hold yer bloomin' tongue!” Hicks interrupted officiously. “The liedy's here on business, she is, and ye'll show her all respect—or else.” He slapped his open palm suggestively with the club and chuckled at his cleverness.

The convicted man arched a dark brow toward Hicks and stared at him until the fat gaoler began to squirm uneasily.

Having encountered no obstacles to her plan thus far, Shanna was greatly heartened. Everything seemed to be going smoothly, as if she had planned for it all her life when in truth it was not much of her doing at all. Confidence and courage had rekindled within her, and with a graceful, flowing movement, she swept forward into the full light of the lantern.

“No need to bully the man, Mister Hicks,” she gently rebuked.

The sound of her voice, low and honey smooth, assured that the prisoner's attention was fully upon her. Shanna walked slowly, completely, deliberately around him, evaluating him as she would a prize animal. His eyes, an unusual amber hue flecked with golden lights, followed her in amused patience. The enveloping black cloak and the wide panniers Shanna wore beneath her gown left much to the imagination, allowing no hint of her age or figure to show forth.

“I have heard the dowagers of court practice strange pleasures,” he remarked, folding his arms across his chest. “If there be truly a woman beneath that garb, I see little proof of it. Your pardon, milady, but the hour is late, and my mind is dulled with sleep. For the life of me, I cannot determine your purpose here.”

His smile was only slightly mocking, but there was open challenge in his voice.

Purposefully, Shanna moved closer until she was sure the man could detect the fragrance of her perfume.

The first assault was launched.

“Watch h'it, milady,” Hicks cautioned. “He's a cagey one, ‘at he is. He's killed one filly and her wit' babe. Beat her to a bloody pulp, he did.”

Pitney strode to a place in the light behind his mistress, protectively near. His immense size loomed menacingly in the small confines of the cell and dwarfed those about him. Shanna saw only a flicker of surprise in the prisoner's eyes.

“You've come well escorted, milady.” His tone was no less audacious. “I'll be careful to make no sudden
movements lest I should err and cheat the hangman of his fee.”

Ignoring his jibe, Shanna withdrew a silvered flask from the folds of her cloak and held it toward him. “A brandy, sir,” she said softly. “If you care for it.”

Slowly Ruark Beauchamp stretched out a hand, covering the slender fingers with his own for a brief moment before he drew the decanter away. He smiled leisurely into her veiled face.

“My thanks.”

On any other occasion Shanna would have snubbed the man for his boldness, but she remained cautiously silent. She watched him as he removed the cork and raised the flask toward his lips. Then he paused and tried again to make out her features through the black lace cloth of her veil.

“Would you share it with me, milady?”

“Nay, Mister Beauchamp, ‘tis yours to enjoy at your leisure.”

Ruark sampled a long draught before sighing in appreciation. “My gratitude, milady. I had almost forgotten such luxuries exist.”

“Are you accustomed to luxuries, Mister Beauchamp?” Shanna queried softly.

The colonial shrugged in reply, lifting a hand toward his surroundings. “Certainly more than this.”

A noncommittal answer, Shanna thought derisively. After three months in the place, the man should have been more welcome for her company. She withdrew her hand from beneath her cloak again, this time oflering him a small bundle.

“Though admittedly your days are numbered, Mister Beauchamp, there is much that can be done to ease your circumstance. There is this for your hunger.”

He stood without accepting it until Shanna was forced to open the large napkin herself, displaying a small loaf of sweetened bread and a generous share of tangy cheese. He stared at her curiously, making no move to take it.

“Milady,” he implored her, “I do desire this gift, but I am wary, for I cannot guess what you wish in return, and I have naught to offer.”

A shadow of a smile crept across Shanna's lips. Gazing
at her directly, Ruark thought he glimsed a soft mouth curving beneath the gauzy lace veil. It stirred his imagination no small amount.

“Your ear for a moment and your consideration, sir, for I have a matter to discuss,” Shanna replied slowly, placing the food on a rough-hewn table standing near his cot.

Resolutely, Shanna faced Mister Hicks, and her command was quietly spoken but firm.

“Leave us now. I wish a private word with this man.”

She was aware of the prisoner's aroused interest. From beneath dark brows, he observed them all with close attention, and with quiet patience he waited, like a cat before a mousehole.

Pitney loomed nearer and worry marked his broad face. “Mistress, are you sure?”

“Of course.” Her slender hand indicated the portal. “Escort Mister Hicks from the cell.”

The portly gaoler sorely protested. “The bloke'll wring yer neck if'n I allowed h'it!” Who would authorize his purse if some harm befell the wench? He pleaded, “I daren't, milady.”

“Tis my neck to chance, Mister Hicks.” Shanna cut him short and, as if she read his mind, added, “And you'll be paid just the same for your services.”

Hicks's bloated cheeks flushed almost purple, and his stuttering lips seemed to flutter in his expelled breath. He threw a wary glance toward the prisoner. Then, with an odorous sigh, he secured the lantern above his head. Taking up a stub of a candle from the rough table, he touched it to the flame in the lantern.

“He's a fast one, liedy,” he warned direly. “And ye keep yer distance. If he makes a move towards ye, call out.” His glare came close to piercing the colonial. “Try anything, ye ruddy bloke, and I'll see ye swing ‘fore the sun is up.”

Muttering sourly to himself, Hicks strode out. Pitney remained, standing stock still, indecision etching the deep furrows of his brow.

“Pitney, please.” Shanna waited expectantly, and when he still made no move to leave, she raised her hand
imploringly toward the iron portal. “Tis safe enough. What can he do? Nothing will happen.”

The large man spoke finally, but only to Ruark. “If you would see the hour out,” he rumbled, “take care that no smallest harm befall her. If it should, you'll well rue the moment. You have my most earnest word on that.”

Ruark's gaze weighed the other's broad frame, and respectfully he nodded his acquiescence. Still wearing a discontented scowl, Pitney wheeled about and strode out of the cell. Closing the door behind him, he slid open the small port in it. His back could be seen from within as he placed himself to guard against a possible eavesdropper.

The prisoner stood without moving, awaiting Shanna's pleasure. She walked slowly across the cell, carefully placing herself out of his reach now. Lowering her hood, she faced him and slowly swept away the lace veil, letting it float to the table beside her.

The second salvo was fired.

It struck home with a crushing weight Shanna little realized. Ruark Beauchamp could not trust himself to speak. Her beauty was such that his knees grew weak. It brought home to him the starvation of his long and forced celibacy. Her pale honey-hued hair, caught in a mass of loose ringlets, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. It was rich and luxuriant, in studied disarray. Golden strands, lightened by the sun, shimmered among the carefree curls. Ruark felt a great temptation to go to her and caress the bountiful silken mane and gently run his fingers along the delicate cheekbones blooming with color. Her features seemed perfect, the nose straight and finely boned. The soft brown brows arched away from eyes that were clear and sea-green, brilliant against the thick fringe of jet-black lashes. They stared back at him, open, yet as unfathomable as any sea he had ever gazed into. The soft pink lips were tantalizing and gracefully curved, vaguely smiling. Under his warming gaze, the creamy skin flushed slightly. With a will of iron, Ruark clamped a grip upon himself and held his silence.

Shanna murmured coyly, “Am I so ugly, sir, that words are stricken from your tongue?”

“On the contrary,” Ruark answered with an apparent
ease he little felt “Your beauty so blinds me, I fear I must be led to the gallows by the hand. My mind can little absorb such splendor after the dreariness of this dungeon. Is it meant that I should know your name, or is that a part of your secret?”

Shanna recognized that she had struck her target and saved the balance of her weapons for a later moment. She had heard similar vows often, indeed much these same words, and they seemed trite to her. That this ragged wretch would use them was almost an affront to her pride. But she played the game on. She shook her head, tossing the curling tresses enticingly, and laughed somewhat ruefully.

“Nay, sir, I give it to you, though I beseech your discretion, for therein lies the weight of my problem. I am Shanna Trahern, daughter of Orlan Trahern.”

She paused, waiting his reaction. Ruark's brows lifted, and he could not hide his amazement. “Lord” Trahern was known in all circles, and in that of young men, Shanna Trahern was often the topic of heated debate. She was the ice queen, the unattainable prize, the heartbreak of many a lad, and the professed goal of ten times that number—the dream of unrequited youth.

Satisfied, Shanna continued. “And you see, Ruark,”—she used his given name with casual familiarity—“I have need of your name.”

“My name!” he burst out in disbelief. “Ruark Beauchamp? You need the name of a condemned murderer when your own would open any door you wish?”

Shanna moved to stand close before him to lend weight to her words. Her eyes wide and appealing, she stared into his and spoke almost in a whisper.

“Ruark, I am in distress. I must be wed to a man of sterling name, and you must be aware of the importance in England of the Beauchamp family. No one would know except myself, of course, that you are no kin. And since you have little future need of your name, I could use it well.”

Ruark's confusion blunted his wits. He could not think of her motive. A lover? A child? Certainly not debts, for she was of money such as no debt could entangle. His puzzled frown met the blue-green eyes.

“Surely, madam, you jest To propose marriage to a man about to hang? Upon my word, I cannot see the logic in it.”

“Tis a matter of some delicacy.” Shanna presented her back to him as if embarrassed and paused before continuing. She spoke demurely over her shoulder. “My father, Orlan Trahern. gave me one year to find a husband, and failure shall find me betrothed to whom he wills. He sees me a spinster and wants heirs for his fortunes. The man must be of a family privy to King George. I have not yet found the one I would choose as my own, though the year is almost gone. You are my one last hope to avoid a marriage arranged by my father.” Now came the hardest part. She had to plead with this filthy, ragged colonial. She kept her face averted to hide her distaste. “I have heard,” she said carefully, “that a man may marry a woman to take her debts to the gallows in return for an easing of his final days. I can give you much, Ruark—food, wine, suitable clothing and warm blankets. And surely my cause—”

At his continued silence, Shanna turned toward him and tried to see his features in the gloom, but he had carefully maneuvered their positions until she now was presented full to the light when she faced him. The wily beggar had moved so stealthily that she had not been aware of it.

Ruark's voice was somewhat strained as he finally said, “Milady, you test me sorely. A gentleman my mother tried to teach me to be, with good respect for womanhood.” Shanna's breath caught as he stepped nearer. “But my father, a man of considerable wisdom, taught me early in my youth a rule I've long abided.”

He walked slowly around her, much as she had done with him a few moments before, then halted when he stood at her back. Scarcely breathing, Shanna waited, feeling his nearness yet not daring to move.

“Never—” Ruark's whisper came close to her ear, stirring awake a tingling of fear in her. “Never buy a mare with a blanket on.”

Shanna could not suppress a flinch as his hands came over her shoulders and hovered above the fasteners of her cloak.

“May I?” he asked and his voice, though soft, seemed to fill the very corners of the cell. Ruark accepted her silence as consent, and Shanna braced herself while his lean fingers undid the velvet frogs. He drew the cloak from her, and she knew a moment of regret. Her carefully devised attack was spent in an unplanned rush. But little did she guess the carnage it reaped. Though lacking splendorous trimming and fancy laces, the deep red velvet gown enhanced her beauty divinely. She was the gem, the jewel of rare beauty which made the dress more than a garment but rather a work of art. Above the hooped panniers which expanded her skirt on the sides, the tightly laced bodice showed the narrowness of her waist while it cupped her bosom to a most daring display above the square décolletage. In the golden glow of the tallow lantern, her skin gleamed like rich, warm satin.

Ruark stood close, his breath falling softly against her hair, his head filled with the delicious scent of woman. Time slipped past, flying on silent wings, and still he did not move. Shanna felt suffocated by his nearness. The smell of brandy permeated her senses, and she could feel his eyes slowly roaming over her. Had the cause been less dire, she would have fled in disgust. Indeed, she had to fight the urge to do so now. It nettled her sorely that she had to stand on display for him. But like her father, with a high profit at stake, there was no limit to her patience, determination, or guile.