Shanna (50 page)

“Damn and be damned, me hearties, she's as mean as Trahern himself.”

The Dutchman was feeling high of spirit, mostly the strong black rum he preferred. He stepped close to Shanna and, before she could react, locked her in a sweaty bear hug while he roared his merry chortles painfully in her ear.

“Dat Harripen don't have goot luck wit' women. Now, lil' gal, ol' Fritz Schwindel vill keep ya from des hahnhunders.”

Shanna's knee found a likely spot, and the Dutchman reeled away with a shout of pain while his meaty hand swung around to deliver a cuff to her head. Shanna was faster than the obese Netherlander and ducked beneath his paw, but his huge fingers caught in the nape of her dress, splitting it down the back seam to her waist. She gave his booted toes the best of her heel and spun away from him, grasping the front of her gown in sudden distress. She whirled to Ruark, and in a split second a rush of fleeting emotions held her rooted to the spot: her desire to fling herself into his arms and beg him to take her from this flared; her anger that he would expose her to such debauchery raged; her humiliation roweled; and her fear of that yet to come reduced all to a confused jumble of feelings. Tears came, ready to spill from her eyes, but all was solved for her in a twinkling. With crystal clarity she saw it all, though much was lost to the others.

A snarl twisted Ruark's face. He crouched low then uncoiled like a striking snake. He flew across the space, stretched out like a leaping tiger on the attack. Herr Schwindel was still hopping about, trying to hold his twisted toes and soothe his ruffled groin at the same time, when Ruark struck him full on the chest The assault carried the Dutchman backwards to slam against the wall, and as they rebounded Ruark set his feet and heaved. The fat man rode across Ruark's shoulder to sail his length and more, before crashing onto the floor and, still spinning on his back, sliding beneath the table.

The sabre hummed its bittersweet song as it sprang from its sheath, and the Dutchman scrambled onto the other side of the table, spilling chairs and men from his path in his eagerness to escape.

“Nein! Nein!” he blubbered. “Der recht ich nicht haben!” Seeing his words had no effect on Ruark, he struggled with the English. “I have no right! I give! I yield!”

The sight of the coward groveling behind the table brought Ruark to his senses, and he slowly relaxed and put away the sword. He glanced at the faces of the pirates and saw no challenge. He need speak no further. They understood at last the tooth of his claim to the wench and that he would tolerate no encroachment of it. He presented his back to them and, though his muscles twitched, he felt no prick of steel. A motion of his hand sent Shanna ahead of him, and he followed with slow, measured tread until the door to their chamber was closed and bolted behind him.

Ruark leaned against the portal and breathed deeply to ease the tension in his back. It had built with every step he had taken away from the table, and he was sure that, with the possible exception of Mother, there was not one below who did not yearn for the courage to sink a blade between his ribs. He watched Shanna cross the room to the window and there she stood, silently staring out into the darkness beyond the shutters. He could guess she was still riled about Carmelita and would have nothing to do with him.

He sighed, as much in frustration as in any relief he might have felt for even being alive. He'd be damned before he'd crawl to her begging forgiveness for what he was innocent of; yet he wanted the tenderness his explanations could bring from her. He craved an understanding look, her lips against his, her silken body within his arms, but knew it would somehow be lacking if trust were not mutally shared.

A candle had been lit beside the bed. Gaitlier, he guessed. And the bed was turned down invitingly. He couldn't remember seeing the small man below or on the stairs. Must have come and gone the back way, Ruark mused, the stairs outside.

Aimlessly Ruark wandered about the room, shucking his weapons and jerkin, leaving them lay where they would be handy at morning's first rising. No hint of a glance came from Shanna, only brooding silence. He
paused beside the tub, realizing it had been filled, and smiled to himself. Gaitlier really did know a lady's heart, especially Shanna's.

Ruark went to stand close behind his wife and gently lifted a curl from off her shoulder. “Shanna?”

She jerked around, red-rimmed eyes wide with anger and a challenge on her lips.

“Hush,” he breathed before she could speak and laid a finger upon her mouth. Taking her hand, he led her to the tub. Here, the room was dark, and she could not understand his purpose until he lit a candle. Her gasp of surprise warmed him, and she gave no pause, but pushed him away and quickly made a makeshift drapery between two mirrors with a sheet. A moment later Ruark smiled as he heard a splash followed by a long sigh of pleasure. Moving to the window, he lifted a leg onto the sill and sat gazing out across the low, forbidding blackness of the island.

It was sometime later when Ruark turned and noticed that Shanna's candle cast her shadow on the sheet. His perusal of the darkness was forgotten as his attention shifted to her performance. Once she rose and reached into the armoire, and her silhouette showed in full detail upon the cloth. His blood warmed, flooding his body with desire. He remembered a night gone by when she had come to him and laid herself in his arms with a passion such as he had never known in a woman. There was a great longing in him for it to be that way again. With a slow but purposeful stride, he went to the drapery and lifted it aside, giving her a start. His eyes caressed all that they touched. Her swelling breasts gleamed with wet droplets, which seemed to sparkle in the candlelight The shallow water held nothing from his regard, and his passion fed upon the stirring sight Her own gaze was soft, and her breathing shallow as she stared up at him. Then her eyes moved downward and something less than desire kindled within them.

She pulled a cloth over her bosom. “My Lord Captain, you intrude. Am I to have no privacy?”

Ruark scowled. “Shanna love, you are indeed ravishing beyond words, but I feel the bitter bite of ire much
too sharply and of late too often. Am I to endure this outrage when you have no cause?”

“No cause indeed!” Shanna snapped. “You flaunt yourself with cutoff breeches and shirtless back, roam the lower streets of town, then prance yourself across my balcony to beseech me greet you as some long-lost lover. Am I a fool? Am I simple? For them,” she jerked her head toward the door, “I will play the mopish slave, but do not mistake yourself, my Captain Rogue. In this chamber you will lie alone. Or if you be in truth the pirate bold, then you may ease yourself by force and nothing less.”

“Shanna,” Ruark was set to argue the point “Why do you do this? I—”

“Will you straighten the panel please”—she cut him short—“and let me find some comfort for a moment?”

So dismissing him, Shanna leaned back in the tub and, raising a shapely limb, began to leisurely wash her leg. Ruark fought the urge to snatch the towel away and set an end to the indifference she portrayed. His passion demanded it, but his mind knew the folly of such. He was well aware that Shanna, confronted with force, would rally to meet it with all the energies of an outraged feline and would not yield short of exhaustion. Where would the pleasure be in taking her then? He had known the joy of her willing response. He could settle for nothing less.

Angrily he jerked the barrier over the mirrors again and stretched out on the bed to watch her shadow for his enjoyment Her silhouette fled as she left the tub. Long moments passed. Ruark doffed his breeches and slipped beneath the sheet With something less than patience he waited, aware that Shanna could not so easily dismiss his presence once in bed. He had already noted the tendency of the feather ticks to gather in about them, drawing them to one another. Even with her sternest efforts, she would be hard put to stay away. He folded her side of the sheet down further so she would find no hindrance there. The candle by the bed lit the room with its dim glow. Still he waited. Finally her light was doused and the sheet taken away. Shanna was fully dressed, but
how
she was dressed. A long, black silk skirt garishly embroidered with colorful flowers was tucked up upon itself as Carmelita's had been, showing a trim and shapely thigh.
A loose, thin blouse, several sizes too large, barely held its place across one shoulder and the high, full curve of her bosom. Her hair, highlighted with its own gold, was drawn back with a scrap of ribbon and cascaded down her back to its long, glorious length. Her sea-green eyes sparkled with mischief as she cocked her hip and ran her hand along its curve.

“Does this fashion suit my Lord Captain Pirate? Is it common enough for your taste?”

She came slowly across the room toward the bed, rolling her hips like a ship aground in a heavy sea. Her breasts swung wantonly as she moved, threatening the security of her modesty as the oversize blouse slipped ever lower.

“Does my Lord Captain Pirate wish a warm bedmate for the night?” she simpered sweetly.

Pausing at the foot of the bed, she swayed her hips invitingly, and her look was teasingly seductive, her lips wet and parted with a hint of a mysterious smile. Ruark closed his mouth when he realized it had sagged open. Then suddenly Shanna's eyes flashed with rage, and she whirled in majestic fury, strode to a sea chest and snatched out a heavy woolen blanket, folding it into a long, tight roll as she returned. She placed it carefully in the middle of the bed beneath the top sheet, dividing the area neatly in half. Bracing her hands on the bed, she leaned forward with no modesty at all. The blouse gaped away from her body completely, and Ruark could see to her waist The very fruit he desired to caress hung ripe, ready to be tasted. In rapt attention, he stared at her display before finally raising his eyes to hers. A withering sneer spread slowly over her face as she looked closely into his.

“Then my Lord Captain Pirate,” she gritted, “can find himself another bed and another bitch!”

Primly she presented her back, slipped out of the skirt, the blouse, and loosed her hair. Fluffing the pillow, she slid beneath the sheet and laid her head back upon the feather-filled rest Casting her gaze beyond the foot of the bed, she saw the face of her Ruark smiling back at her, the lazy grin spreading across his lips. She raised her head, and there he was again and again and again. Each
mirror was set to cast back to those upon the bed whatever occurred upon it. A full dozen Ruarks stared back at her, as if the one were not beyond endurance. The roguish face haunted her, but lo, each mirror has a weakness and no less the likes of these. She gave a derisive grunt and, wetting her finger on her tongue, snuffed the candle.

Mouthing a low curse, Ruark punched his pillow heartily with his fist, yanked up the sheet to cover himself, and felt the rough coarseness of the blanket against his back. Sometime later his voice was heard in the dark.

“Woman,” he muttered, “I yield that you are certainly mad.”

T
HE NIGHT HELD NO COMFORTS
for Ruark in sleep or blissful pleasures. He tossed restlessly and could find no solace for his mind. Though the rough blanket separated them, he was ever aware of Shanna's presence beside him. The silvery glow of the moon shining in through the open shutters cast shadows with its brightness, and in its light Ruark rose to fetch himself a strong bracer of rum. He prowled the room, liberally sampling the brew and casting more than occasional glances toward the softly curving form in the bed.

In abject frustration he slipped into the shortened breeches, filled a pipe from a small cask of tobacco, lifted the bolt and eased open the door, taking care not to wake his peacefully slumbering wife. He went below to the common room. It was empty save for Mother. No sound came from the eunuch to give him clue whether he slept or was fully awake. Ruark stepped quietly to the fireplace and lifted a small charred stick, blew the coal at its end into life, and touched it to his pipe. He puffed until the tobacco caught too, then seated himself at the table to enjoy his smoke.

“'Tis a warm night, Mister Ruark.”

Ruark stared in surprise at Mother and saw the small, alert eyes watching him in the dim light of the subdued lantern.

“Aye,” Ruark finally nodded and gave the excuse. “I'll never be accustomed to this heat”

A snicker of amusement set Mother's rolls of flesh quavering. “The Trahern wench warmed ye a mite, eh? She were a spirited one, even as a tot. She'll lead some man a merry chase for the want of her favors. Beware 'tis not you, me hearty.”

Ruark grunted and averted his face. He drew on the
pipe then leisurely blew a slim column of smoke into the air, leaning his head back to watch it curl down upon itself.

“I was not always a buccaneer.” Mother interrupted his thoughts, and Ruark contemplated the man in the meager light, amazed because his voice no longer bore any hint of the guttural tones or crude speech which he had used earlier.

“I was a young man at the peak of my profession,” Mother continued. “A tutor at Portsmouth. The cream of the blue bloods came to hear my lectures, but alas, one of the hypocrites twisted my reasoning, and I was accused of preaching treason. They gave me a quick trial and threw me in the gaol. Then I was placed on the lists and impressed into the service as a common seaman.”

He paused, staring into the low-burning embers in the hearth. Ruark waited, his interest aroused, until the eunuch snorted and resumed his tale.

“Would you see the stripes on my back, Mister Ruark? I was a slow learner and did not take to the sea as well as the mate thought I should.” He sipped from a mug of strong rum to wet his tongue before he sighed heavily. “The captain deemed me useless and sold me to Trahern as a bondsman. 'Tis Trahern's justice that finds me here amid this scurvy lot Be careful you do not fall victim to his revenge. His daughter is his pride, and he'll see you gelded for having used her. You can never go back to Los Camellos without losing some portion of your life, if not all of it. I give this advice freely. Do not let the wench get in your blood, lad, else you might be tempted to test the fates to have her again.”

“Bah,” Ruark returned gruffly and played his part well. “What's one skirt from another? I'll tire of her before her father pays the ransom.”

“Then 'tis wise you be.” Mother nodded at his own wisdom as he murmured, “I know that you are no common thief. And I know, too, that you will not long stay with us.”

Ruark would have denied the statement, but Mother held up a hand to delay him.

“The others had decided to do away with you at a convenient moment. That is why Harripen freely gave
you the purse. He expected to regain it soon. But you killed Pellier, which all of them desired to do, and became one of them, thus gaining some measure of respect and freedom. Tis fully expected that you will leave. We find that young, energetic men who find their way here are soon gone. We only hope your going will not cost us dearly, and most will be glad to see you go, for you are a constant reminder of the youth and vigor we have lost. Go your way, my young hearty, but trust no one, not even me, and do not press us beyond what we can bear. As you may have guessed, even our own lives are less than desirable in this hole and are held rather cheaply. I, myself, only mark time and hold my freedom until the day death releases me from this shallow existence. Perhaps. that is why we dare danger and challenge death for the very luxuries we crave.”

Ruark could make no denial or comment on Mother's insight and felt a small measure of respect for the mind trapped within the hulking body. Thoughtfully he stared at the pipe he held in his hand. There was no further word from Mother, and, for all Ruark knew, he had lapsed into slumber, having exhausted his moment of sanity. Ruark got to his feet, counting himself far luckier than any man on the island, despite what they might have termed poor luck in being imprisoned for murder and sold into bondage. In truth, if he hadn't been in the gaol, he never would have married Shanna, and he counted all the abuse he had suffered there well worth the gain of such a wife. There were matters to be settled yet, but by God's grace they would be settled and be all the sweeter for the trials.

In a thoughtful mood, he climbed the stairs and bolted the door securely behind him. He stripped, careful not to wake Shanna, and sat on his side of the woolen barrier, his back braced against the baroque, carved headboard, an arm slung across a drawn-up knee. For a long time he contemplated his sleeping wife, taking solace in the fact he didn't have to leave her with the coming of dawn. Her gilded tresses spread like a wide fan over the downy pillow, touching her pale shoulders. Her slender hand lay in the midst, and in the gentle glow of moonlight the single band of gold upon her finger gleamed with its own luster.

“You are my wife, Shanna Beauchamp,” he whispered.
“And I will have you as that There will come a day when you'll proudly declare our marriage to the world. God help me, you will.”

The warmth that came with the dawn was an insidious omen of what the later hours would bring. Shanna lay asleep with the sheet covering all but her head, and Ruark again slipped from the bed. Donning his breeches, he went below to the common room to see what he might find in the way of food for them. He knew Shanna hadn't been able to eat much before Mother's harsh command. He would assure this time that a modicum of peace accompanied their meal.

The night of merrymaking by the pirates had reduced the place pretty much to shambles, a situation Dora, the young serving woman, was trying to remedy. Mother, dozing heavily under a series of loud snores in the chair, was the only other one present. It seemed the eunuch had given up the use of a bed long ago, so Harripen had explained. Mother found only acute discomfort with his great weight pressing down upon him and feared that he might be somehow trapped in those muffling confines. A living nightmare, Ruark mused.

He bent his attention to the girl, a thin, bony thing with straggly brown hair and a plain face that betrayed the smallest hint of charm when she smiled, but that was rare indeed. Gaitlier had said she would do chores for a copper or two, and Ruark wondered if she preferred that method of earning her keep to Carmelita's.

Pausing beside her, Ruark asked for a tray of food, and at his first words the snoring halted abruptly in mid-snort. From beneath the shadow of his beetled brow, Mother fixed his small eyes on them. Then with a grunt he heaved his large shape from the chair and padded out of the room.

The door slammed behind the obese man, and Dora scurried to fetch what Ruark had requested, setting out fruits, bread, and meats, while she brewed a pot of strong tea. His show of patience on this morning quite bemused her, for he had nearly scared the wits out of her the previous day with his bellowing. He was handsome and moved like a dream, yet she had seen him kill a man and threaten others just last night—although that was not an uncommon occurrence on this island, nor the first she had witnessed.
Still, she was fearful of him and went to great pains to avoid raising his ire. But because of his awesome presence, she was awkward and more inept than usual, and in her haste she dropped the hot kettle, nearly scalding herself as the steaming water flew upward like a geyser.

Dora's heart thumped wildly as Ruark rose and stepped close, but to her amazement he only inquired of her welfare and returned the kettle to her trembling hands. Assuring him that she was not injured, she flew to refill the copper kettle and hung it again on a hook above the fire. While she sliced meat, her large eyes moved to where he sat smoking his pipe, and she frowned in confusion. The other pirates would have descended upon her in rage at her clumsiness. They were always eager to rebuke her with a hamlike fist or booted foot on her buttocks. Ever since they had taken her captive some nine years before, at the age of twelve, she had suffered much humiliation and abuse from them all, not the least from Carmelita and that evil one, Pellier.

Only Gaitlier and some of the village folk had been kind to her, but her days were passed in servitude to these beasts and marred by the hardships the pirates heaped upon her. They had killed her parents and raped her before she was even a woman. They delighted in everything perverse and cruel, and long ago she had made it her purpose in life to escape this brigade of thieves. She could envy the young woman taken captive from Los Camellos while, at the same time, pitying her for having to submit to this man's lust. At least Trahern was rich and could ransom his daughter from this hell. There was no one in the world who knew or cared that she, Dora Livingston, was alive, let alone slave to madmen.

Ruark shifted his gaze to her, and she wilted into shy retreat as he indicated her blouse, pointing at it with his pipe. Numbly she half expected him to order her to disrobe.

“Is there a place where I might find a waistshirt like that for the Trahern wench?”

Dora's fear became suspicion, but she nodded and answered haltingly. “There's an old woman who makes 'em for 'er keep.”

Ruark fished into the purse hanging from his belt.
“Fetch me several for the maid and some of whatever is worn beneath. And a pair of sandals, if you will.” He glanced down at Dora's own and indicated with his pipe. “Not too big. About your size or less. You can have what coin is left.”

He flipped her several, and she caught the pieces between her palms then looked at them, somewhat puzzled. She did not know how to respond to kindness, for any small show of it from her captors had only been followed by some further depravity. She eyed him now in bewildered apprehension.

“But, sir, 'ere are rich gowns in Pellier's chests. In the room they are, sir.”

A sneer crept into Ruark's voice as he replied. “My tastes differ from Pellier's brothel garb, and I must keep the Trahern brat alive for her father. Twould only brew trouble to parade her around half naked.”

Dora hung her head shamefacedly. “Whenever some of the women would go with him up there, Captain Pellier would make 'em wear those. He fetched the old hag what sells fruit in the village to put on the best of them and strut about for him while he laughed at her.” Dora's face flushed crimson, and her eyes fell to her twisting hands. “And even meself.”

The shame she felt was apparent, and Ruark would have said some consoling word, but his role of pirate did not permit displays of kindness.

“I'll wait while you run to fetch the things for the wench. But hurry. She may grow restless if I'm gone too long.”

When Ruark returned to the chamber above with the clothes Dora brought, he secured the door behind him. Then he set the food tray down on the table next to the bed with a deliberate clatter, startling Shanna from sleep. She sat up in alarm, snatching the sheet high under her chin.

“Easy, love. Tis only your master bringing the morning fare to his beautiful slave,” he mocked lightly and flashed her a devilish grin as his warm gaze caressed her.

“Oh, Ruark!” Shanna's voice cracked with fear, and she rubbed a hand across her brow as if to clear her mind.
She regained her composure and remembered the state of her relationship with him as she ran her fingers through her tangled mane of hair. “I dreamt you had left me here with them and fled to the colonies to be free.” The sheet was draped carefully over her bosom and held under her arms, but she was oblivious to the fact that she salved Ruark's gaze with the reflection of her naked back in several of the mirrors. “Do dreams come true, bondsman?” Her bright sea-hued eyes caught his and held them.

Ruark shrugged. “Sometimes, Shanna, but mostly because you want them to and work at it.” He prepared her a plate of food and placed it before her, sitting beside her on the bed. Reaching out a hand, he smoothed her sleeptossed curls, grinning in that one-sided, roguish way. “You know I'll never leave you, Shanna. Never!”

She tried to read his eyes, wondering whether he teased or gave a statement of fact.

“I brought a gift for you,” he said suddenly, rising from the bed and retrieving the bundled garments from the chair beside the door. He presented them with a decorous bow. “These should suit the occasion better than what the good gentleman, Pellier, left behind.”

“Pellier was no gentleman,” Shanna assured him as she sipped her tea.

“Well spoken, my love,” Ruark agreed. His handsome brow knitted as if he considered some deep subject, then he pointed out, “You can never declare a gentleman by his collection of riches or lack of them, by a name or lack of one. Now take your father, for instance. He is basically a good man, a gentleman by any twist, yet his father was hanged. What great harm has your father suffered? He is an honest man, rich, powerful. Do you hold him beneath lords and dukes, Shanna?“

“Of course not!”

“And what of yourself, my love? The granddaughter of a highwayman, you have the airs of a grand duchess. Yet if I bore the title or the blood of a noble, I would not think you beneath me. Perhaps if we had children, 'twould go well for them rather than bad.” He paused at her gasp of indignation and then leaned forward and stared at her as he continued slowly. “Suppose, my love, that I had wealth and came from a family with more than a fine name, could
you then love me and be content to bear the fruit of my devotion, giving life to our children as beautiful and honorable offsprings of our love?”