Shanna (55 page)

Shanna gave no credence to the crude ruse. “On a cold day in hell,” she replied. “But you're welcome to test this bit of lead I hold.”

Her voice had barely stilled before a loud crash resounded from the door, trembling the planks. The bolts, bar, and hinges groaned in protest Then another jarring of the thick planks followed and still another, which was heavier than those before. Another deafening crunch, and the wood began to splinter away from the hasps and bolts.

The bar jumped and began to crack as it took the full weight of the assault With trembling hands Shanna raised the horse pistol until it centered on the door. Closing her eyes tightly, she squeezed. The flintlock went off with a roar that numbed her ears. The shot seemed to shatter the door asunder, and it caved inward with a mighty
crash. Though one of the picaroons was flung backward against the far wall, the others charged through with a rush, the mulatto, Harripen, and the Dutchman squeezing through before the last two followed.

Shanna threw the useless weapon at them and fumbled with her numbed fingers, but before she could find the other pistol they were upon her. She snarled, shrieked in rage and fought like a demon in a frenzy, kicking, scratching, biting, but desperate as it was, her strength was not such to prevail against the five who had fallen upon her.

The Dutchman seized his fingers in her long hair, and she was cruelly jerked back upon the bed. Hands clawed at her thrashing limbs, stretching them on the bed. Harripen twisted a towel across her mouth to stifle her cries and bent low until his ale-soured breath smothered her.

“We've come for our share, wench. We cast lots for ye to see what one of us will go first on ye. And there's no Mister Ruark saving ye this time. We've seen to that”

Shanna's eyes were wide with outrage and horror. Her mind raged on in fear. Had they killed Ruark? Is that what he meant? She lunged beneath their pawing hands and writhed frantically to escape their rough caresses.

“Hold her!” a younger man snarled when Shanna's knee struck his groin. He retreated from the side of the bed where he had tried to mount her and glared at his companions. “She ain't but a little thing, and you can't even hold her still.”

“'Ell's bells, boy! Move aside and let a real man show you what to do,” chortled Harripen.

“Like hell I will!” the youth railed. “Now hold her!”

The meaty hands bruised Shanna's wrists and ankles, spreading her out on the bed. The pirates leered down at her, and the fetid stench that clung to them nearly made Shanna retch in revulsion. The dark-skinned mulatto withdrew from the fray and lounged beside the door, while the young one, having boasted much of his prowess with women throughout the night, began to unfasten his garments while he laughingly bragged.

“No need to trouble yerself with any more show of struggles, milady. I'll make you forget that bastard bondsman.”

“Get on with it!” Harripen sneered. “Or I'll see ye made last I've 'ad it hot for the wench long enough.”

The Dutchman chortled. “Just yer luck, Harripen, to draw the last lot”

Shanna squealed beneath the towel as the youth reached out his hand toward her blouse. Though she tried to twist away, the other three held her, and she could not move. The sound of rending cloth went through her very soul, and she was filled with a sickening horror. Again she tried to scream as the young man's grasping fingers began tearing at her shift and pulling up her skirts. Suddenly he was lifted as if by a giant hand and thrown from the bed. Before he touched the floor, the room reverberated with the deafening crash of a shot, and all eyes flew to Ruark as he charged through the door, raising the other pistol as he flung the empty one aside to reach for his sword. It was obvious that Gaitlier had found him just in time. But now the mulatto stepped from behind the door and swung a heavy belaying pin across Ruark's shoulders, sending him sprawling forward; the pistol flew from his grasp. The sword was pinned beneath him, and half dazed, Ruark tried to roll and free his blade, but all four of the captains fell upon him. It was a wild melee as Ruark fought to regain his feet, but he was lifted up and pinned against the wall. Harripen stood free, snatching out his cutlass. He raised it for the blow.

A weird moan escaped Harripen's lips, and the blade fell from his fingers. In horror he looked over his shoulder where the hilt of a small silver dagger stood out boldly. His gaze lifted, and he stared into the wicked bore of the small flintlock Shanna held. She faced them all in magnificent rage.

“Back off!”

Her snarl held a ragged warning, and Harripen stumbled back to seat himself unexpectedly on a large chest The pistol was now trained on the huge mulatto. Seeing the sureness of her vengeance, he backed away carefully. Ruark sank a fist into the soft belly of the Dutchman and scooped up the loaded pistol before he drew the long, thirsty sabre. He went to stand beside Shanna, and his cold gaze swept the pirates slowly.

“It seems your own laws fail you, but if you have a taste for it, I'll be glad to oblige.”

He raised his brow in a question and the blade in a threat toward Harripen. The Englishman shrugged and, having worked the small blade from his shoulder, now tossed it to Ruark's feet

“I am wounded,” he grunted and remained seated.

The blade moved on to the Dutchman who still held both arms across his gut. He shook his head with such vigor that his heavy sagging jowls seemed to flap. The mulatto frowned and might have accepted the bait, but he stared at the small pistol Shanna still held on him and backed slowly through the door. The others made haste to follow, but once out the door there was a dead silence in the inn.

Ruark stepped to one side of the door and unloaded the pistol through it, hearing the shot whine viciously as it ricocheted down the corridor. He laughed in satisfaction as the sound of running boots now filled the hall.

“You have lost more over this maid,” he shouted after them, “than over any other treasure you ever sought Run, my good friends. Flee from her.”

Muffled curses drifted back as at least one of the brigands stumbled in his haste on the stairs. Ruark turned back toward Shanna. When she saw the concern in his eyes, she shook her head and stuffed the tattered corners of her blouse into the top of her shift.

“I have endured much better than they,” she assured him. “But what now, my Captain Pirate Ruark?”

Ruark sheathed his sword and surveyed the damage while he reloaded his pistols. The young pirate lay sprawled on his back, his eyes rolled upward; the door was a shambles and would offer no further protection. Another pirate was a shapeless heap in the hall.

“We must go,” he stated bluntly, “before they gather their wits and drink up their courage.”

Preparations had already been made. Ruark snatched the rope ladder from the chest and threw it over the narrow balcony outside the windows, tying the upper end in place with a knot that could be pulled loose from below; Shanna snatched the bundles of clothing Gaitlier had brought from the bottom of the armoire.

Ruark checked the courtyard below before he tossed the bundles to the ground. He gestured Shanna to the window and lifted her over the railing. As she climbed down, he slipped over the sill and closed the shutters behind him. It was a small misdirection, but it would compel the pirates to search the rest of the inn before setting out in pursuit. Shanna grabbed up the bundles and as Ruark directed, headed for the back of the inn and the edge of the swamp. Ruark tugged on the cord, and the ladder fell down to him. He let it trail in the sand behind him, erasing their footprints as he backed along, following Shanna's path. Once well into the dense undergrowth with its stunted, wind-twisted trees, he hid the cumbersome ladder in a crevice beneath a bush and joined Shanna, taking the bundles from her. Taking her hand in his, he led her at a breakneck pace across the brow of the hill and downward until they waded up to their knees in slime-covered water. The swamp was dark at this level, for, though the sun was high, little light filtered through the dense foliage above them. A fetid stench rose from the water, recently roiled by the storm, and Shanna, pulled along by Ruark, gagged on the suffocating odor of it.

There were strange splashings and slitherings, an occasional rapid fluttering punctuated by startled squawks or grunts as the creatures of this dark morass fled from these intruders who entered their domain. Shanna was gasping for breath, and her chest ached when Ruark finally stopped and lifted her out of the water onto the twisted bole of a huge cypress. He pulled himself up beside her, and they both rested, lying back against the trunk that rose behind them like a towering bulwark. It was a long time before they could breathe easily again. Shouts sounded on the hill high above them, and they waited in silence, brushing leeches and biting insects from each other. The noise of pursuit gradually faded as the pirates realized that an attempt to search for them in the swamp was hopeless.

Ruark opened one of the bundles, lifted a gourd filled with water, and broke the wax seal, handing it to Shanna. She took a large draught then choked as she discovered it was heavily laced with rum. She sipped more slowly and savored the bite of it. The grog soothed her parched throat and helped to relax her. He handed her a small strip of
dried meat, tough and chewy but, in this moment, as savory as any they had tasted. Shanna gnawed another piece of it, and Ruark filled his own mouth, sated his own thirst, and, as he chewed, looked upward to mark the passage of the sun.

“Gaitlier and the girl will be waiting for us.” He spoke past his food and chewed for another few minutes before swallowing heavily. He washed his throat clear with another long pull on the gourd.

“Our fine friends are not of long patience and they know we must eventually come out of the swamp, but they will expect it on the morrow or later. They will go now to lick their wounds and drink away their soreness. Well change clothes on dry ground.” He hefted the other bundle. “Theyll not be alert to two common seamen. Are you rested enough to travel now?”

Shanna nodded and struggled to swallow a mouthful of the meat, finally washing it down as Ruark had done. Ruark lowered himself into the water and, slinging the bundles over his shoulder, reached up to lift Shanna down. She had to steel herself as her feet again broke the scummy surface and sank into the ooze beneath. Now they proceeded more slowly, for any sound might give them away. On higher ground they found a small glade in a tangle of brush where they shucked their garments. The clothes Gaitlier had found were striped seamen's shirts, knee breeches, floppy hats, and sandals. Shanna's problem immediately became apparent, for even in the loose duck shirt and the knee breeches of her costume, she was obviously a woman to anyone's eye.

Ruark grinned and bade her doff the shirt again. He tore the cloth that had wrapped the bundle into wide strips and wound the fabric over her bosom until she was pressed as flat as she could be. With more cloth stuffed into her breeches to disrupt the curve of her hips, she now appeared more like a seaman, albeit a slightly lumpy one. Tucking her long hair into the hat, Shanna pulled the brim low over her face. Ruark added a bright scarf about her neck to cover the slim, soft lines of it then stood back to survey their efforts.

“Hunch your shoulders a bit,” he directed. “Now walk
around.” He grunted. “Huh, no seaman ever walked like that”

Shanna faced him, dropped a shoulder askew, hung her jaw slackly aside, and swung her foot as if it were clubbed.

Ruark grinned. “Aye, Pirate Beauchamp. No one would now guess your true virtue.”

Shanna giggled and stumbled as she neared, grasping at his arm to steady herself. Her eyes danced as she turned her face upward and sought his approval. Ruark could not resist the impish visage incongruously framed by floppy hat and vivid kerchief. Pulling her into his arms, he lowered his mouth to hers. Her response was warm and eager, and it was a long, long moment before Ruark raised his head.

“Gaitlier will be waiting,” Shanna reminded him and handed him the jerkin from the bush where he had thrown it.

Ruark spread the jerkin, placing within it the food that was left, her silver dirk, and the small pistol. He shoved the rest of the garments beneath a bush before tucking the bundle he had made into Shanna's breeches. He pushed the pistols into his own waistband, not an unusual sight on this island. Making a small puddle of mud with some of the water, Ruark rubbed smears of it on Shanna's arms and legs to further mask the feminine grace of them. He considered the sword for a long moment, loathe to discard the fine piece. Finally he chose a stick of wood the same length, wrapped the two of them together with strips of cloth, then rubbed the whole with mud. It made an odd-looking staff, but with the pistols once fired it would prove to be worth more than the risk.

Thus it was that a small, begrimed and oddly shaped seaman with a clubbed foot strolled with another who was tall and handsome to a fault, but who limped and leaned on a crooked staff. Slowly the odd pair passed along the hillside, nodded to a bespectacled older man, and finally passed to lounge in a spot strangely near the schooner. Lying in the shade of the fronds of a leaning palm tree, they seemed to doze.

The island lay quietly beneath the full heat of the late afternoon sun.

On the quay, a man with glasses stood near a young woman who was seated, and if one watched closely, it
seemed that the man gazed frequently and nervously up the hill where an alert eye could pick up a thin trail of smoke rising. Then a dull thump was heard, and the smoke thickened. The whole hillside seemed to burst into flame. Sparks scattered, and the black smoke billowed.

Voices from the village rose into shouts as a huge ball of fire separated from the rest and ponderously rolled down the hill until it stopped, showering flames full against the side of the powder-filled blockhouse. Loud cries of alarm rose as the entire citizenry of the island ran to quench the blaze. Bucket brigades from the nearby stream were formed and smoking blankets were used to flog the smoldering brush.