Shanna (31 page)

T
HE LATE
A
UGUST DAY
whimpered under the cruel heat of the sun. The sand on the beach was too hot to walk upon; even the playing children had withdrawn into the cool shelter of their homes. The island grew quiet as its inhabitants sank into the torpor of a long siesta. Heat waves rose from the rooftops and shimmered on the distant horizon like a thousand shards of rippling aqua. A languid lapping of the sea on the shore was the only movement that could be seen; no breeze stirred the smallest leaf. The sky was devoid of clouds and seemed bleached of its normal blue by the sheer heat of the day.

Sighing, Shanna turned from her balcony and entered into the coolness of her room, shedding the light robe which in the warmth was almost unbearable. Her firm, young body glistened with a light film of perspiration beneath the short shift, and her long, heavy mass of hair was damp against her nape. For a time she plucked idly at a tapestry, but she gave that up to sprawl on the cool silken sheets of her bed. The sewing had only been brought out to keep her mind and hands busy. This piece was one she had begun years ago but never had had the patience to finish. It was a labor for her, and thus a thing she hated. In the days of her schooling it had been even more loathsome, being a required skill each girl had to master. Her mentors taught it with diligence, not understanding her sighs and groans of frustration. In a fit of temper she had torn many a piece to shreds, detesting her errors and having no patience to correct them. The chastening frowns of her tutors would have turned to openmouthed gapes if they could have known of her desire to train under the artist, Hogarth, at St. Martin's Lane Academy.

“How crude!” They would have trembled. “Why, 'tis
said the young men sketch from live models there. Naked ones!”

Shanna laughed to herself and wiggled on the bed. They little guessed that some of their own “innocent children” volunteered for the task, or if they guessed they carefully averted their thoughts.

“But at least the stitchery has served its purpose,” Shanna thought. “It diverts me from thinking on that dragon Ruark when he's about.”

Rolling onto her stomach, she propped her chin on crossed forearms, closing her eyes in the bliss of memory. Ruark had become almost a fixture in the manor. He was present at most every meal and accompanied her father on many of his trips. Shanna could hardly descend the staircase without the prospect of meeting him, and whenever they met his eyes devoured her with a boldness that in itself roused her. Even that she could bear. In fact, she rather enjoyed his warm perusals. It was during the quiet moments when no one else was looking that those golden orbs turned toward her with a hunger in them that nearly tore her heart, a longing so intense she had to avert her own gaze. Then, if her mind were free to roam, she would remember the exciting touch of his hands, the warmth of his lips on hers, the whisperings—a memory of the times they had shared love. She could hear again his murmurs, coaxing her, gently directing her in the ways of love, and recalled the pleasure of his mouth at the crest of her breast, teasing, rousing, hot, devouring—

Shanna's eyes flew open. “My lord!” she whispered. “My own mind betrays me!”

Her breasts tingled against the thin fabric of her shift, and there was an empty ache in her loins. She rose and flew to the tapestry frame but a moment later sucked her finger where the needle had teased a drop of blood to the skin. Slowly clenching her hands into fists, Shanna stood staring at her chamber door, knowing that if Ruark walked in now she would welcome him with all the willingness of her ripe woman's body. Tears flooded her eyes, in part tears of anger. She wanted him and hated herself for that weakness. In the depths of her was a passion only Ruark could ease, and it was a desperate struggle to keep even a small anger alive.

Suddenly she was tired, tired of having to avoid even the briefest moment alone with him. Yet she was afraid. Captain Beauchamp had surprised them once. The next time it could be someone of less sympathy or manners, perhaps even Orlan Trahern himself. Shanna's mind soared on in endless circles as she tried to resolve her plight. Again she lay upon the bed, and as sleep overcame her she had solved no more of her problems than the sun in its brief passage across the sky had cased of its heat.

Night drew down upon the island, and the heat of the day was quenched to a point that clothes could be borne. Light, gusty breezes further abated discomfort as the meal was served. Just the day before, an English frigate on its way to the colonies had put into port, and the dinner guests this evening included persons from the ship—her captain, a major of the Royal Marines, and a knight, Sir Gaylord Billingsham, who traveled as a minor emissary. Several of the overseers had brought their wives, and Ralston, Pitney, and Ruark filled out the table.

The group adjourned to the drawing room where the women gathered at one end while the men congregated at the other, there to fill their pipes or light cigars. After the ladies exchanged amenities, several produced items of sewing and began a low-voiced exchange of recipes and gossip. Except when questions were directed to her, Shanna remained silent. and under the guise of her needlework watched Ruark as he leisurely drew on his pipe and conversed with the other men. He wore a brown coat over tan breeches and waistcoat, a white shirt with a ruffled jabot. His fortune had continued to grow, and shortly after Nathanial Beauchamp had left, Ruark had spent a part of it for clothes, plainer and not as formal as the ones with which Trahern had gifted him, but no less flattering to his own fine good looks.

Shanna bent her attention back to her work as one of the women leaned closer.

“I say, Shanna, isn't that young Mister Ruark a handsome man?” the woman whispered over her embroidery.

“Yes,” Shanna murmured. “Handsome, indeed.”

She smiled, warming with pleasure. For all her avowed dislike of him, she felt an unusual pride when someone boasted of Ruark.

With half an ear to the gossip, Shanna learned that Sir Gaylord Billingsham was single, unattached, available. He was traveling to the colonies to seek financial backing for a small shipyard in Plymouth that his family had acquired.

He's a strange one, Shanna mused, lightly considering him. He was taller than Ruark, a trifle large-boned, and moved with an odd disjointed grace that bordered on the awkward yet seemed somehow appropriate for his lanky frame. Light tannish hair curled about his long face, hinting of some attention to direct it thus, and was tied in a bagwig at the base of his neck. His eyes were pale grayish blue, his wide mouth full-lipped for a man and expressive. His manner ranged from stilted inanity to haughty arrogance, yet he was quick to smile at a quip and seemed to enjoy the sometimes coarse humor of the overseers. His quick temper displayed itself briefly when he had been informed that he shared a table with a bondsman. Though he recovered quickly, he made a point of avoiding Ruark from that time on. Shanna found it strangely upsetting.

Even as she studied him, he decried the “filthy habit” of smoking tobacco and instead, taking a small, silver-chased box from his waistcoat pocket, he laid a pinch of the finely powdered leaf on the back of his hand and delicately sniffed it into one nostril then the other. A moment later he sneezed lightly into his lace handkerchief then leaning his head back, sighed, “Ahh, truly the man's way.” And at the stares he received, further explained, “One must bear the bite before the pleasure.”

Snuffing loudly, he directed his next remark to the frigate's captain. “But for all of it, sir, I must admit I could never be a proper seaman. I abhor the narrow space of a cabin when it is well tossed upon the seas and cannot stand the confines of it in a safe harbor.”

With a flourish of his hand, he bent his regard to Trahern. “Good squire.” His nose was at an arrogant height. “It hardly seems possible that there is not some good inn or tavern where I might find proper lodging for the days I am here. Or perhaps some gentlefolk have space in their home?”

He raised his brow and let the question hang.

Trahern smiled. “There is no need, Sir Gaylord,” he
assured the man. “We have more than ample space here, and it shall be my pleasure that you reside with us.”

“You are most kind, Squire Trahern.” The knight almost simpered with the success of his own ploy. “I shall send a man for a few of my belongings.”

Trahern raised a hand and shook his head. “We can see to your immediate needs, sir, and should you desire something more, we can have it fetched on the morrow. You shall be our guest for as long as you wish.”

And though Trahern knew he had been maneuvered, he was still pleased at the prospect of playing host to a titled gentleman.

Having heard the exchange, Shanna gestured for a servant and in a low voice bade him prepare the guest chambers in the squire's wing. As the servant left she caught her father's eye and nodded slightly. Trahern returned to his conversation, assured that the preparations were made and glowing at his daughter's efficiency.

Shanna concentrated on her tapestry, frowning briefly over a difficult stitch. Then, feeling eyes upon her, she raised her own to seek Ruark out among the men. To her surprise he was not watching her but stared across the room, a frown creasing his brow. Following his gaze, she found herself looking into the eyes of Sir Gaylord Billingsham. They were filled with more than light interest as he obviously admired her beauty. The wide lips twitched then spread into a slow smile which somehow was more like a leer. It was enough to make Shanna glad she had set him a room far from her own. Quickly she averted her gaze. Her eyes swept the room and halted on Ralston. With an enigmatic smile, the man was slyly perusing Sir Gaylord.

Before the evening drew to a close, Orlan Trahern invited all those present and the entire ship's complement to take part in celebrating the opening of the mill. Since all the townsfolk would be there, he explained, there was little else for them to do but join the festivities on the morrow.

Shanna's nap in the afternoon delayed her sleep, and for a long, hectic hour she tossed and turned, fighting a vision of Ruark in the bed beside her and struggling to quell the insistence of her own mind which threatened to send her dashing down the lane toward the cottage.
Still, she prevailed and finally found victory in sleep, though that, too, was riddled with dreams which left her trembling between sweat-dampened sheets.

Early the next morning Ruark arrived at the mill long before anyone else and took care to tether his mule, Old Blue, well away from the stock barn. The cantankerous mule had a penchant for teasing the simpler and much more handsome horses by nipping them about the rump or ears. This play usually degenerated into a fight at which the venerable old street brawler excelled. Many a fine horse limped off, quite ragged from the encounter. So to preserve peace with the drivers and overseers, Ruark was forced to seclude his steed.

Ruark gave a glance over his shoulder as Old Blue laid back his ears and with a rasping, seesawing voice brayed his challenge to the animals. Ruark jammed his hat down lower over his brow, not overly willing to be a party to any row that might be forthcoming. Pushing open the small door beneath the hopper, he retreated from the mule's sight. He stood for a moment in the collecting room, letting his eyes adjust to the dark, while he savored the pungent scent of the new woods which formed the greater part of the structure. The rich, warm tones of the unweathered surfaces still bore the marks of ax and adz and reflected the sun to lend the interior a hue of mysterious golden brown. There was an atmosphere of expectancy; everything was new, ready, waiting.

Here, where the juices were collected, were the huge rollers that would crush the cane. Six oversize tubs stood on a circular platform which could be rotated when each became full. Allowing his imagination to wander, Ruark could almost see the tubs as giant gnomes squatting on their table, awaiting the first stir of life in the mill to fill their gullets with the sweet nectar of the cane. Ruark rapped his knuckles against the bellied side of the nearest tub to dispel the thought and listened to the echo of the hollow sound within the room.

A frown lightly crossed his brow. Would Shanna view this building of the mill as an attempt to woo her father's favor?

He moved on to the cooking room, strolling along be
tween the two rows of great iron kettles, idly swinging a stick against the sides of each. They, too, seemed to wait like elephantine elves resting their distended paunches over the brick hearths wherein fires would be stoked to render the thin juices into thick, brown molasses.

And what on this day would Shanna's mood betray, Ruark wondered idly. Was she to be the fiery-tongued vixen whose words of denial were sharp enough to cut or the docile sweet maid who of late he had seen much of?

Reaching the end of the room, Ruark paused and looked back, listening to the hollow notes of his passage die like the bronzed chorus of the church bells on a Sabbath morn. A slow smile touched his lips as a memory came to mind of one evening, several nights back, when he and Trahern had withdrawn to the drawing room after the evening meal, and Shanna had taken a place beside the French doors to catch the last of the fading light as she bent to her tapestry. It had been a most idyllic time, a gentle time with the peace of a good pipe, easy conversation and her presence there, the soft beauty at hand whenever his eye should wander to it, lighted by the rosy glow of the waning sun. He had found himself envisioning her in a similar scene, but with a babe in her arms and her face tender with love. It was a gracious thing to relax and enjoy a meal with Shanna, beautiful and demure across the table, yet the agony had been there as well, for though she seemed much mollified and serenely pleasant, he had not had the briefest moment alone with her.

He sighed, slapping the stick against his fawn-clad thigh and continued his tour into the brewing wing. Nearly half the room was filled wall to wall with great barrels where the younger green sap could be fed into them and, with careful additions, would be fermented into the new rum. Here above the stills, red serpentine pipes writhed in a frenzied Stygian dance, frozen for all eternity, then plunged down to dribble the cooled spirits into kilderkins for aging and sale. This was the master brewer's place, his realm where his talent and skill would wring the best from the cane.