Shanna (59 page)

Silently Shanna cursed the schooling that had given her a fine knowledge of how to curtsy and conduct herself among aristocrats and a skill of composing useless poetry, or sitting for hours before a sampler making neat, precise stitches in a cloth, yet left her helpless and inadequate in most of the skills of everyday living. She was ignorant of balms and medicinal cures and of caring for the sick or injured. The only thing she could rely upon was common sense. When Ruark grew feverish and his brow felt like hot parchment, she bathed him with cool water. When he ranted and raved incoherently, she spoke softly and caressed his brow until he calmed. She had a thin broth brought to the room, and she kept it beside the bed on a warming pan, and when Ruark roused to a half-conscious state, she pressed spoonfuls of the stuff between his dry lips. There was little else to do.

“So damn little!” she groaned to herself in growing frustration. Her vision blurred with tears as an overwhelming sense of despair sank its merciless talons into her, shredding hope and confidence. “Oh, God, please”—her plea was nearly a whimper in the stillness that enveloped them—“don't let him die.”

The dark shade of evening crept stealthily across the island, and the moon blossomed on the horizon like an oversized orange flower. It rose high until it faded to a mottled silvery blue and touched all beneath it with the same hues. For Shanna, the hours flowed together, and when Ruark rested in the quieter states of fevered sleep, she curled in a chair beside the bed, sometimes dozing, sometimes just studying him. Listlessly she watched the moon sail lazily above the treetops and listened to the dainty clock ticking the night away. Midnight brooked no refusal of its coming. It approached, it went, and Shanna still kept her vigil.

Ruark began to moan and mumble more violently with a feverish delirium, making Shanna's heart leap within her as he emitted a weird, ragged groan from his parched lips. She feared he might try to get up, and she knew she didn't have the strength to hold him even in his weakened condi
tion. She pressed him back upon the pillow and then half sat on the bed beside him, while she murmured soothingly and tenderly stroked his brow. He lay limp and unresponsive to her soft inquiries. Hoarsely he began to sing a child's ditty—then abruptly he stopped in mid-word, twisting beneath her hands. A fierce grimace contorted his face, and his eyes flew open. He seized her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her close, hurting her with the careless grip of his fingers.

“Dammit! I never saw the girl before!” he snarled. “Why don't you believe—”

With a growl he pushed Shanna away and lay back, staring blankly toward the outflung balcony doors. Sadness sagged the corners of his mouth, and he began in a singsong voice, “Four walls—ceiling—floor—door. Count the stones, make them more. Count the days, one by one. But how, good lad, since you never see the sun?”

His chant trailed off into an incoherent mumble, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Shanna thought him pained, for he seemed to be caught in a moment of torment. She reached for the cloth in the basin of water but halted as his words became clear again. Sharp and angry they matched in tone the scowl that came swiftly upon his face.

“Then take it all! Take my life! What care I now that the wench is gone! Damn her! Damn her fickle heartl Ah, man, I hate her! Fickle wife! She taunts me, seduces me, cajoles me, flees me, leaves me wanting her all the more. Have I no more will of my own?”

His voice broke, and he sobbed, hiding his face behind an arm flung across it. Shanna's throat tightened, and there was no ease for the ache in her breast. With tears of her own gathering in her eyes she tried to hush him. He heard none of her pleas, but lifted his hands and held them before his eyes, turning them, staring at them as if he had never seen them before.

“But still—I love her. I could take my freedom and fly—but she holds me bound to her.” His hands became limp fists which slowly crumpled to his sides as he groaned listlessly. “I cannot stay. I cannot leave.” His eyes closed, and swiftly the moment was gone.

Choking on a sob, Shanna bowed her head in abject misery. How carelessly she had woven her web about him.
She had not meant to entrap him, no more than she had been willing to see herself ensnared. On that cold, dark night in the London gaol she could not have foreseen this end. It had been a game she played, a challenge to outwit her father, to prove herself as shrewd as any man, a total disregard of other people's feelings and emotions.

Tears fell on hands clenched in her lap as she relented to the sorrow she felt. She was deeply ashamed, contrite in her heart. Of all the men she had wounded with the sharp edge of her tongue, Ruark was the only one she had never really meant to hurt. And now he was near death because of her. And she could do naught but stand aside and watch, while the relentless poisons drained his once exuberant vitality.

“Damn!” she cried in wretched frustration and came to her feet, wringing her hands together. She paced about the room, racking her brain for any tiny bit of knowledge which would aid her. Her mother had caught the fever, and they had bled her. Little help, for Georgiana died, much weakened under their care. And if she relented to the surgeon's arguments and allowed Ruark's leg to be taken, what then? If such a wound as he had now could fester, how much more the raw flesh of a stump? Should the leg be taken, he might die all the more quickly. How, then, would she ever console herself?

No answers came, though Shanna agonized over each fact, each question that presented itself to her. Her mind grew numb with worry and exhaustion until it refused to grasp logic. As if by rote she cared for Ruark, bathing and soothing him, spooning liquid between his parched lips. And still he raved and tossed as if plagued by some unavenged demon.

“ Twill mean naught to me,” he rasped. “Do not press me further. She'll have the gift—”

It became an endless labor. The night wore thin. Finally shafts of light from the dawning sun intruded into the room through the French doors. In her chair Shanna dozed fretfully, her mind skimming the ruffled fringe of sleep, while her head lolled languidly against her shoulder. Dimly she was aware of the door opening and closing behind her. Suddenly a huge, dark shadow stood over her. With a start she came fully awake, a scream half born on her lips, as if
she expected to recognize Pellier come to haunt her. To her overwhelming relief, it was Pitney. Her breath sighed heavily from her as she relaxed again in the chair, rubbing a hand across her brow.

“I knew you would trust no one else.” His deep, rasping voice touched her gently, but it held a hint of sarcasm in its tone.

Shanna had no defense and stared numbly at Ruark.

“This is useless.” Pitney's broad hand swept the room. “You'll soon be no good to him, or yourself. Go to your room and sleep. I will watch.”

He would hear none of her protests but dragged her up from the chair and led her to the balcony doors. With a hand on her back he pushed her out and when she faced him with more arguments, waved them off.

“Go!” His tone was stern but eased as he saw her worry. “I will see to your man as well as your secrets.”

Shanna could do little but obey. In complete exhaustion she stumbled to her bed, and, still clothed in the gown her father had brought with him on the
Hamptead,
she stretched her weary body across satin sheets and tumbled into the deep vortex of slumber.

It seemed only a moment later that Hergus was shaking her awake. “Come, Shanna,” the woman urged. “Have a bite to eat.”

Shanna sat up with a start, looking to her clock, and saw that it was nearly three hours into the afternoon. In dismay she snatched a piece of oat cake from the tray and fled out onto the balcony, slipping quickly past the lattice barrier that separated the areas. Pitney had produced a deck of game cards and was playing with them on a small table when Shanna returned. He glanced up and leaned back in his chair, regarding her disheveled appearance.

“Your father dropped in for a moment but left.” He gestured to the cards. “He thinks them evil and cannot abide them. But of the two,” Pitney nodded toward Ruark who still tossed and mumbled as before, “I thought these less disastrous to his nature.”

Shanna found no words to reply and hurried to Ruark. His brow had not cooled even the slightest Lifting the sheet, she gasped at the sight of the red streaks which had crept almost to his hip and heavily marked the lower leg.
Pitney came to stand beside her, and he frowned deeply as he reached out a finger to test the swollen flesh.

“He's likely to lose it,” he commented ruefully. He had seen enough—and heard many gory tales—of the barber's surgery. It was a shame to have it practiced on a man. “'Tis a pity your Mister Ruark is not a horse. We could practice some of his cures on himself. The mare is well healed, with hardly a mark on her.”

Shanna wrinkled her nose, remembering the sight and smell of the balm. “A horse remedy,” she scoffed. “That stuff would be enough to take his leg off. Rum and herbs which could make a man howl—”

Abruptly she stopped as a memory came flooding back. The leaves Ruark had picked for her heel had also stung when applied to the cut, but the pain soon ebbed, and he had said it would draw the poison.

Her jaw set in grim determination, Shanna faced Pitney. “Fetch Elot. Send him after the leaves Ruark made the balm with. We've strong black rum to add.” As Pitney hurried to the portal, she flung over her shoulder. “And tell Hergus to fetch fresh linens and hot water.”

The door slammed behind the hulking man, and Shanna bent over Ruark, carefully uncoiling the wrappings from his leg. She was amazed at her calm and clearheaded purpose as she gently washed the area around the ragged flesh. For modesty's sake she draped a cloth over Ruark's hips so Hergus would not be unduly shocked. It was enough to have Berta clucking in disapproval without upsetting Hergus as well.

After an unbearable wait, Pitney returned with Elot's find. New coals were added to the warming pan, and Shanna crushed the leaves into a small amount of water and set it to steam. Soon the chamber filled with a pungent odor. Cloths were steeped in clean, hot water before being placed on the wound to soak away the gore. This brought a renewed thrashing from Ruark, as the pain seeped into his delirium. Pitney laid broad hands on the leg and held it still while Shanna worked, cleaning the oozing holes.

With a silent prayer running through her mind, Shanna mixed the herbs and rum and slapped the warm paste onto the leg. It drew an immediate reaction from Ruark. He cried out with the first touch of it and twisted away in
agony as the caustic herb and warmed rum penetrated the torn flesh. Shanna worked all the faster, while Pitney held him down, and Hergus stirred fresh herbs into the kettle. Shanna trickled rum from the bottle over the whole of it and then repeated the process. Over and over again she cleaned away the poultice when it cooled, replacing it with the warm. She did not count the hours she remained at his side doing this. An ache began to grow at the small of her back with her constant bending, and her hands became red from molding the hot poultice around the wound. It was well into night before she paused long enough to realize that Ruark was resting easier. His lips had ceased their endless movement, and he no longer tossed like a man placed upon a rack of torture. Touching his skin, she knew the fever ebbed.

“Fetch my needle and good, strong thread,” Shanna bade the maid. “For once in my life, I can see the need of good stitchery.”

Hergus was perplexed but hastened away on the errand, returning shortly. The maid stood at the end of the bed watching Shanna painstakingly close the gaping wounds with rum-soaked thread and the needle. It was with some pride at her own fine handiwork that she finished the task and remarked:

“ Twill hardly be a scar left to even boast about.”

Hergus grunted. “As if ye should be fretting about a scar on a man's leg.”

“Let the poultice cool on his leg,” Pitney offered. “He's through the worst of it.”

Agreeing with him, Shanna covered a new batch of the mixture with fresh strips of linen around Ruark's leg and piled towels on either side to hold it all against any movement.

“I'll stay a while longer,” Shanna sighed as she sank wearily into the nearest chair.

Hergus shook her head in exasperation. “Canna ye even take a bite and a bath? Why, ye're to skin and bones now with those pirates starving ye. And look at ye! Ye'd scare the mon sure if he came awake now and saw ye.”

Self-consciously Shanna ran her fingers through her tangled hair, realizing she had not combed it or seen to her
appearance since she last dressed aboard the
Hampstead.
It seemed an eternity ago.

“And yer poor pa downstairs, fretting, wanting to see ye yet saying naught. The bonnie lad there can hold his own now. See to yerself and give yer pa a kind word or two. It nearly laid him low when he learned ye'd been taken by those pirates.

“ 'Tis more likely papa flayed the countryside with his rage,” Shanna corrected with levity.

Pitney wrinkled his brows together as he remarked gruffly. “Aye, and he vowed to hang Mister Ruark after the bondsmen came back with their tales.”

Shanna grimaced gingerly. “What did they tell him?”

“They said he fought for ye and claimed ye as his,” Hergus rushed to answer. “Even that he killed a mon to have ye.”

“Is that all?” Shanna questioned carefully.

The maid cast a wary glance toward Pitney and, noticeably more reluctant, replied, “Aye, there was more of it”

Pitney was more brusque. “The lot of us were present when the bondsmen agreed that if ye were ravished at all, 'twas Mister Ruark doing it to ye.”

He waited effectively as his words sank in, watching her closely as the sea-hued eyes widened in distress. Then he shrugged, taking himself to the door.