Shanna (48 page)

Shanna was unappreciative of his reminder and gritted between gnashing teeth. “Then permit me to see your back turned, sir. At least that much privacy, I beg you.”

“Done.”

Cautiously she looked over her shoulder to see if he had really complied with her request. He had, and she fled into the protection of the trees. Shortly she returned to find Ruark wading in the pool. He had removed his weapons and vest and left his sandals and hat beside them.

“Would you share a bath, my love?” he inquired as he gave her a laconic grin.

Shanna's sunburned nose snubbed him. However, the pool offered the only relief in sight, and the temptation to join him was almost overwhelming. She trailed a toe in the water and watched surreptitiously as Ruark sought out the deeper part. In a slow, leisurely motion he swam
across the pool, returned again to the shallows near her, and peered up at her expectantly.

“Well?” He came to his feet and stood beside her. “Are you coming in?”

He slapped the sodden breeches that covered his lean hips then plucked the clinging cloth away while Shanna twitched under her woolens. Droplets of water clung to his bronzed skin and tinier beads sparkled in the dark furring on his chest.

Shanna shrugged, noncommittal. Taking her reply as affirmation, Ruark waded out into the deeper part again until the water played in widening circles about his chest Shanna made her decision. She reached behind her to the laces of her gown, but paused as she heard the clanking of a bell coming closer. A pair of big-uddered nanny goats appeared with their bleating kids trailing at their heels, and not far behind them, humming a tuneless air, strolled Carmelita. Espying the group that had preceded her, she gave a cry of greeting.

“Eh, gov'na, I sees ye got me spot Well, move it over then, laddie, cause 'ere I come.”

Her clothes seemed to take flight of their own and landed on a nearby bush. Then with open abandon, a total lack of modesty, her ponderous foreparts naked to the breeze, she cleaved the air in a joyous dive and landed upon the formerly glass-smooth surface of the pond, raising a geyser that left Ruark's hair dripping across his face and ears and dampening the still-shocked Shanna no small amount.

Ruark waded to the shallows and stood gasping and wiping wet hair from his eyes. He looked up in time to see the last twitch of Shanna's shirts before she disappeared up the trail. He called after her and heard what he thought might have been a wild goat snort in anger for a reply. Hastily he bent to pull the sandals onto his feet.

“Damn little fool,” he muttered. “She'll find trouble yet.”

He snatched the rest of his gear into his arms and was trying to thrust an arm into the jerkin as he ran after his charge. Behind him a disappointed Carmelita, great
dark-peaked bosoms floating before her like twin short-fused bombs, leaned back and stroked the water.

“Bloody rude beggars,” she mused. “Couldn't stay for a little fun. Huh! Had his britches on anyways.”

Ruark had caught up with Shanna as she stalked along. Shrugging his sash over his shoulder, he settled the sword to his hip and patted his hat in place, restoring himself to his jaunty image. Her pace was now the one that made him hustle and he had to stretch out to gain his position in front of her. Shanna strode along in silence, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her lips clenched tightly in vexation. Ruark made it through the door of the inn in front of her, but as he paused inside she pushed by and without a break in her gait took to the stairs and fled into their room. Luckily the place was empty save for Mother, who dozed in his chair. The huge man started and roused and stared at Ruark for a moment then, just as quickly, returned to his slumbers.

Shanna still stood just inside the door as Ruark closed it behind him, surveying the chamber in surprise. It had been scrubbed clean and smelled of strong lye soap. The wooden floor showed damp spots from a recent mopping, and every piece of furniture gleamed with a sheen of light oil rubbed on it The stained feather ticks from the night before were gone, and fresh new ones replaced them; clean linens were neatly tucked in at the corners. Large, soft pillows in clean casings were propped at the head of the bed, and every piece of clothing had been put in its place. Even the tub had been scoured and glowed softly like a fine jewel at the end of the room. One small table was stacked high with linens and towels and close beside it another bore a rich assortment of scented oils, attars, sundry perfumes, and salts. A clean chamber pot was in the bottom of the washstand, and the pitcher on top brimmed with clear cool water beside a basin that had miraculously lost its coating of scum.

Shanna gave a small start as if returning to reality and reached behind her neck to tug loose the bow of the lacing. A forward movement of her shoulders spread the back of the dress, and she shrugged, letting it fall to the floor. Oblivious to Ruark, she stepped out of its folds, giving the hated garment a disgruntled kick She strolled
leisurely to the washstand where she poured water into the basin, thrust her hands into the refreshing liquid, then drew one after another up her arms, letting the cool water trickle down. She sighed deeply and taking a soft cloth and a sliver of soap, began to wash herself with undisguised pleasure. She stretched her chin upward, displaying the long, shapely column of her neck and gently laved the reddened area where the collar had chafed. After a moment, she opened her eyes and in the mirror caught Ruark's eyes on her. Half turning, she tossed him a withering glare.

“Fill your eyes, you gawking ass. Perhaps your Carmelita still waits in the pool.”

Ruark snatched his hat from his head and with an irritated flip of his hand sailed it onto the bed. His voice came curt and bitter. “'Tis plain you've lost none of your talent for teasing, my love.”

He lifted the sash from his shoulder and paused beside the woolen gown, raising it up on the point of the scabbard.

“Shall I air your gown, milady?” he mocked. “Perhaps for a stroll on the morrow?”

“Aye, milord,” she sneered, her tone every bit as loving and gentle as it had been before. “Air it out the window”—she pointed her chin in that direction—“with the rest of the trash.”

Obligingly the garment was banished. When it had sailed from sight, there was a sudden flurry of voices beneath the window. Ruark braced his hands on the iron rail and, leaning out, saw below a pair of urchins, no more than a half-score years to either of them. They argued spiritedly, playing a tug of war with the dress. At his appearance they halted their squabble, looking up; then, perhaps fearful that he might recall the treasure, they skittered across the low wall and into the brush, each keeping a desperate hand locked on the coarse black cloth. Ruark's amazement knew no end, for there below, where a high pile of cast-off garments, ticks and blankets and other assorted rubble had been, was nothing but a thin scattering of broken glass. Even the maligned chamber pot was gone. Ruark drew back inside.
Little had he realized that such offal would be so valued in the hovels of the village.

A trickle of water ran down his neck from his hair, and tossing the sword and jerkin into a chair, he snatched a towel from beside the tub and began to dry his hair. Shanna still washed herself, and from beneath the folds of the towel, he could view her unnoticed. Her ripe, young bosom caught his eye and so enticing was that soft peak where a small lather of soap collected that he could not resist the urge and reached out, wiping it from her with his finger, then cupping the whole of her breast in his eager palm. A sharp pain caught him in the ribs, and Shanna drew back her elbow for another blow. This one brought a grunt from him, and he pulled back his wandering hand to rub his own bruised flesh.

Shanna faced him, a snarl on her lips. “Get your hands from me. You do not own me.”

“Have I, then, your permission, milady, to seek from another that which you would not yield?” he jeered.

“I'll yield you nothing”—she snapped and, jaw thrust out, put a finger to his chest and slowly twisted it about a lock of hair—“but a fist in your belly if you touch me again. Get off.”

She jerked her hand away from him, wringing a flinch of pain as the hair went with it and turned away, dismissing him as if he had never existed. Still, she casually fetched a sheet and wrapped it about her, bringing it up snug beneath her arms and tucking it carefully over that tempting fruit he had been wont to test.

Shanna returned to washing her face, and with a rueful snort Ruark finished drying his hair. He threw the towel down, picked up a carved shell comb that lay atop the linens, then flicked his dampened locks into a general semblance of order. Admiring the careful workmanship that had shaped it, he turned the comb over in his hand, but suddenly it was snatched from him, and Shanna stood beside him, staring at it, her vengeance forgotten.

“Where did you find this?” she asked in wonder.

“There.” He pointed casually. “ Twas right beside the brush.”

With a cry of joy Shanna flew and caught up the brush,
also. She clutched them to her breast as if they were a highly valued gift.

“Oooh,” she crooned softly. “Thank you, Gaitlier. You do have a way with women.”

Ruark stared at her with injured pride. “ Tis nothing but a brush and comb,” he observed gruffly.

“Nothing but!” Shanna threw him a glance of some surprise then smiled softly at her treasures. “You simple oaf, you would do far better in your fickle meanderings with half that man's understanding.”

Happily Shanna scrambled to the middle of the bed. Gathering her legs beneath her and sitting back upon her heels, she laid the articles before her gently as if they might shatter at the slightest abuse. Lifting the comb and ignoring Ruark's scowl, she began to work the tangles from her wildly cascading tresses, framed in reflections from her audience of mirrors.

Day ended, bringing Carmelita and Dora with oil lamps to hang above the long table in the common room as darkness invaded the inn. Boisterous joviality grew louder with each cup that was passed among Harripen and the other captains. Ruark sat in the shadows away from the mainstream of coarse banter and watched as these outcasts bolstered their spirits on the plentiful rum and ale. He sampled the brew in his own mug more than a small bit and cast many a glance toward the shadows at the head of the stairs, waiting for Shanna to make an appearance. Her toilette had proved too much for him, and he had retreated here to the safety of numbers, before lust overcame him and he attacked her.

Harripen drew away from the loud group which had gathered near his seat and approached Ruark. “Ah, man, ye're just the one I would see,” he ventured in a slurred voice. “Ye see, I've been wondering now as to the wench.”

Ruark raised a brow questioningly. In the meager light his eyes were like stone, staring into the man without a trace of warmth.

“Be it true, lad? One of Trahern's bondsmen said the liedy were no virgin at all, but a widow.”

Ruark shrugged. “She was made a widow some months past Some fellow by the name of Beauchamp.”

“Oooii,” Harripen breathed, lust showing in his eyes. “And a new widow'd be most grateful for a good man on her belly.”

He lay back on the table and bellowed his mirth at the timbers on the ceiling. His companions clustered around, and Ruark could feel the muscles in his own gut tighten. Shanna, as the topic of their conversation, would only brew trouble.

Hawks sat on the table and leaned over his captain, gathering the others to him as if to share a secret with them, but his voice rang loud enough for Ruark to hear the words clearly.

“If one man should please the liedy,” he leered, “is it not sure that a dozen would please her more? I say we should each take turns, being fair-minded like we are, that no man”—he hooked a thumb toward Ruark—“should have a giant's portion of the loot. Share and share alike, I sez. And he already has had his own and poor ol' Robby's.”

A general nodding of agreement followed, and lecherous grins gaped about the table, showing the readiness of the rogues to enter into a common arrangement. Harripen pushed himself up through them and slid back into his chair. Still chuckling, he peered at Ruark, but his eyes glinted as he connived to be first in any such arrangement.

Ruark leaned back, his tension becoming a relaxed readiness to do instant battle. He returned Harripen's stare over his mug as he sipped calmly at his ale.

“Where is the wench?” Harripen asked. “She's usually hanging onto yer coattails.”

Ruark waved his mug toward the stairs. “In the room, but I would warn you—”

“Ah, warn us not, ya Yankee swaggy,” the mulatto captain made bold to speak. The black rum had given him an unusual measure of courage. Swinging a meaty fist, he stood away from the table. “I'll bring the Madam Beauchamp down to greet her peers.”

Guffawing loudly, he plowed an uneven path to the stairway. “Don't call if it takes me a while,” he roared over his shoulder and set his foot on the first step.

The explosion in the confines of the room numbed the ears of all, and the mulatto froze as plaster flew where the
huge ball struck the wall a bare hand's breadth in front of his nose. In anger, he whirled and saw Ruark lowering the still smoking pistol. Snarling a curse, the man snatched the cutlass from his side and leapt down to seek vengeance upon his assailant. His feet barely hit the floor before he stopped abruptly. The bore of the second pistol seemed twice as large as the other, and it gaped hungrily at his chest. He did not miss that the hammer was at full cock, and his rage vanished as rapidly as he sobered. He stared into the golden eyes of death, which gleamed behind the flintlock like twin orbs of hardened amber, and his swarthy face paled. Slowly, carefully, he replaced the cutlass in his sash and straightened, while he tried to twist suddenly thick lips into a smile.

“I—,” he stammered, “I meant no harm, cap'n. I was only funning, you see?”