Shanna (62 page)

“Thank you, Sir Gaylord.” Ruark brushed by him and took a place close behind Shanna. “You're most considerate.”

Gaylord found himself with no choice but to fall in behind them like some attending lad. Even the sight of Milly still lingering in the hallway did not alter Shanna's sense of relief at having outmaneuvered him.

“Aye, gov'na,” Milly's voice echoed in the immensity of the hall as she caught the coin Ralston tossed to her. She
immediately tied it safely in her bodice and sauntered to the door, calling back, “I'll be there.”

Ralston greeted the three of them soberly and in the presence of Shanna barely managed a brief nod to Ruark. His eyes crossed Gaylord's face, and he hurriedly returned his regard to Shanna.

“I came to fetch some papers from your father's study. If you will excuse me, madam?”

“By all means,” Shanna consented coolly. “Shall I send Jason to help you find them?”

“No need, madam,” the agent replied stiffly. “Your father instructed me on their whereabouts.”

The small group ambled out the door onto the portico while Ralston stood and watched, his face dark with loathing. His fist was knotted about his quirt as if he longed to use it on the questionable Mister Ruark and it was a long moment before he turned and made his way toward the squire's chambers. Taking a place in the squire's chair, he casually began sorting through papers and sketches scattered across the top of the mammoth desk. He studied the drawings of the two mills closely. The construction of the sawmill had taken a hold on Trahern's fancy, and Ralston noted recent markings on the parchment that could only have been made by the bondslave. No doubt the anxious squire had hastened to Mister Ruark's bedside to discuss the project before aught else could delay it. At present Trahern was at the site, taking the place of the architect as much as he could.

Though Ralston carefully followed each line and read each notation, he could understand little of the plan and dismissed the drawings as a weapon to discredit the designer. Arrogantly he leaned back in the chair which seemed to diminish his narrow frame and mused on the success of John Ruark. It grated against his own sense of self-importance that the man had risen to such a state of worth to the squire as to be thought indispensable. Someday, Ralston promised himself, he would have the chance to deal with that bondslave in the manner deserving such a one.

Sir Gaylord also found it difficult to cope with John Ruark and his interference. However crippled the bondsman truly was, he somehow managed to maintain a posi
tion between the lady and himself. Gaylord longed only for a private moment to court her and was deeply aggravated to find himself forever speaking around the cocky knave. Finally he begged to be excused.

“Arrogant slaves and servants,” Gaylord muttered to himself as he crossed the lawns with his long, gangling gait, “should be horsewhipped, the lot of them.” He sneered to himself. “But come the marriage, I'll see them well instructed on the subject of good servitude.”

Ruark leaned on the blackthorn staff and watched the man depart. “At least that oaf has the wits to know when he's not wanted.”

But as he turned his gaze to Shanna, she was already moving away, strolling among the shrubs, plucking a dead leaf here, pausing to pull withered petals from a blossom, bending to clean a weed from the neatly raked soil. Ruark trailed along behind her, trying to work the stiffness from his leg, setting his weight upon it carefully before taking a step, relying as little as possible upon the cane.

Once they were left alone, Shanna had difficulty maintaining even an outward show of serenity. Her heart hammered in her breast, and she felt like a young girl smitten with her first suitor. Cautiously she kept her gaze averted from his and centered on the flowers and greenery. From the corner of her eye, she saw him stumble and, glancing at his face, caught the quick grimace of pain before he could hide it. Her stilted composure flew from her, and she was at his side in a second.

“Your leg!” It was as if the agony were her own. “It must be hurting you dreadfully.”

Ruark raised his eyes to meet hers, and time trembled to a halt Shanna's hand rested gently on his shoulder, and almost hungrily he searched her face for some sign. They stood motionless, touching, yearning, longing, and those soft, curving lips seemed to draw him closer, closer—

Shanna let out her breath in a rush. Nervously she stepped backward and rubbed her hand as if it still tingled from touching him. She gestured toward his thigh and lamely tried, “We should be getting back. You're not used to this.”

“That is truth,” Ruark agreed hoarsely. “I am not used to being close to you, and you sorely test my restraint.”

Shanna turned away, not wanting to meet his gaze again. She toyed with a large poinciana bloom. Ruark watched her closely for a long moment, somewhat bemused, sensing her uncertainty but seeing no reason for it. He could not know how her pulse raced. He moved to stand close behind her and laid his hand upon her slim waist Shanna started as if burned and whirled away from his embrace.

“Don't!” She began and struggled in an effort to control herself. “Don't touch me.” She attempted to laugh in a gay manner, but it came out half choked and forced. “Must I remind you, sir, that we are unchaperoned? Keep your distance.”

The words sounded bare and heavy as she spoke them, not at all light and amusing as she had intended.

“Is it something I've said or done?” Ruark questioned softly.

“No.” Shanna tried to smile into those probing eyes, but the effort was a failure. Awkwardly she plucked the blossom, and her fingers whirled it restlessly.

“'Tis been three nights since you—stayed with me,” Ruark murmured, his voice low and gentle. “I hear you moving about in your rooms late at night as if you were upset over something. Are you angry with me?”

“No!” The answer came out too sudden, too short, and clipped. Shanna shook her head, her lips tightly clenched. Ruark leaned forward to caress a lock of her hair where it tumbled over her shoulder. His voice was hoarse, ragged. “May I touch—just for a moment?”

She gave him no answer, but crushed the blossom between hands which sought each other to keep from shaking.

“I want you.” His whisper crackled like fire in her ears.

“Oh, Ruark, don't say that!” The words burst out of her in a half sob. “I can't—”

Her hand pressed tightly across her quivering lips, and her eyes squeezed shut as she fought against the flood of emotions that washed apart her every resolve. The flower fluttered unnoticed to the ground.

“Don't touch? Don't say?” Ruark's tone was harsh. “Shanna, are you afraid of me?”

Her eyes flew open and saw the glint of anger in his.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Her mind screamed until her skull
ached with the pain of it, but her voice was gone, and her hands were clenched at her sides as she stared mutely at him. “Yes,” her thoughts raged silently. “I am afraid you will touch me and I will crumble. I am afraid you will say, ‘I love you,' and I will melt at your feet. I am afraid that I cannot stand against you anymore. Don't you understand? I am defenseless now. You've known me too closely, and I have known you too dearly. I've tended your hurts and calmed your ravings as you have mine. I have waited in fear for some word of hope from your lips and watched you weak and helpless on the bed. I cannot deny you longer.”

But to Ruark she stood with a pained frown marring her beautiful face, twisting her hands together and licking suddenly dry lips.

“I—my father will be home soon.” Her voice was shrill, as taut as a bowstring. “I must see to his lunch.”

It was the shallowest of excuses, scarcely better than none, but it was enough, and Shanna fled the garden, leaving Ruark to carefully make his way back alone.

Suddenly Ruark's words came back to her, and Shanna halted where she stood, realizing she had again been prowling about her bedchamber. The week had aged, and seven torturous nights had passed since she had gone to him. But her will was crumbling. His eyes haunted her, for she saw in them the mirror of her own passion and desires. Now that he had regained some degree of mobility, he was always near, watching her, waiting. The only relief from his regard was when some of the overseers came from the sawmill to obtain details or clarifications of his sketches, and she would be safe for a time from his unwavering stare.

In the pursuit of the sleep she so sorely wanted, Shanna tried everything: a warm bath, reading, a light snack, poetry, even a glass of warm milk that Hergus had brought to her. Still there was a restlessness in her. The bed seemed overly large and the sheets cold to the touch. Though her clock had chimed the eleventh hour, she felt no yearning for sleep. Indeed, she sensed a new awakening deep within her, so sharp and pungent as to be almost physical. Since her return she had grown more careful of her manners
with Hergus and more aware of Berta's gentle, loving nature and of Pitney's sometimes brusque affections, even of her father. She had never been particularly demonstrative of her love with any of them, but like a child had responded with affection when they pleased her and flared in anger when they did not.

Then there was Ruark. His leg was healing with almost magical rapidity, and though Shanna struggled to cool the affair, more and more she found herself comparing all other men with him, no longer using her imagined knight for the contrast. And beside Ruark everyone else seemed lacking. She was afraid to even question the significance of this, fearful she might then have to admit things she refused to let herself think about.

With a slow, thoughtful stride Shanna wandered out onto her balcony. There was just the slightest chill in the cool breeze, and she was glad she had chosen a heavier dressing gown after her bath. Half sitting upon the balustrade, she tugged its soft folds tighter around her naked body and gazed up wistfully at the moonless sky. The stars were brilliant and clear, twinkling against the velvet black of the night The hazy glow of the Milky Way arched in magnificent display from horizon to horizon.

Shanna began pacing again and found herself standing before the French doors of Ruark's dark chamber. Did he sleep? Was he awake? He had said he often heard her walking about She felt a driving need to satisfy her curiosity and her slender feet carried her forward against her will. He was there. She could see the shape of him beneath the sheet and the darker expanse of his bare chest Then she realized his eyes were open and that he watched her in return.

Her hands tugged at her belt, and the robe slid to the floor. Her soft, pale skin glowed briefly in the blackness before she lifted the cover and slipped in beside him. His arms were about her, and his mouth was upon hers, hard, insistent, moving, seeking, finding—stirring fires that had smoldered to an unbearable intensity and were now leaping flames of ecstasy. It was the bliss of homecoming, the thunder of renewed passion, the sweetness of a spring awakening, and the ache of surrender all merged into one and mingled with the mutual rhythmic movements of
their bodies as she eagerly took him into her. The blend was explosive, fusing them into oneness, then flinging them aloft on a plunging, soaring flight until it left them breathless and exhausted in its afterglow.

“Ruark?” she whispered against the furry chest

“Aye, my love?” The answer was soft as his lips touched her brow.

There was a long silence.

“Oh—nothing.” She snuggled closer and smiled through the drowsiness that engulfed her before she slept.

And so it was. The last dregs of Shanna's dreams began to break apart under the determined onslaught of Ruark's love. She found her chambers lonely when he was not there with her. When he rode with her father to the mill site, she would watch eagerly for his return like she had in her youth for her father. On a few occasions the overseers came after dinner to air problems of the mill which only Ruark could set right, and on those occasions, to avoid Gaylord's persistent company, Shanna sought the privacy of her chambers. There, waiting for Ruark, the clock's pendulum seemed to stand suspended. More than once, the book of poetry sagged in her hands as sleep overtook her. Then she would awake and smile drowsily as strong arms came around her and a warm, hard body pressed close to hers. A hoarse voice would whisper against her ear, “I love you,” and then the moments would speed by, and the sound of the clock would become a chattering she wished she could stop.

The pond so essential to the mill site was above the town but close to where logs could be lifted from the bay below or floated down the small stream from above. The dam had been completed and the flow of the creek dwindled to a trickle; water filled the rock-strewn gully. The mill itself was placed to make it easily accessible for the wagons which would bear the sawn lumber away. A high flume would carry the water and the logs to the mill from the pond wherein they were to be collected. The whole of it was sketched on the design, but many of the details had not been committed to paper. Ruark's hours were well taken between the squire's demand of his attention and the insistent queries of the overseers. The mornings were
hectic times, with repeated visits by the taskmasters bringing problems for Ruark to solve. More often than not, the overseers arrived for breakfast and began an immediate discussion of the plans.

On this morning, having ushered the last of the overseers out, Ruark found himself alone in the huge mansion except for the servants. When he sat, Milan or Berta hovered nearby, wishing to please him with some service, however small. When he paced, Jason stayed near the front portal to open it in case the guest of the house should leave also. Ruark began to sense that he intruded upon their routine, which did nothing to ease his agitation. He chafed that Shanna had gone riding with Sir Gaylord. It was a bitter draught to swallow—having to watch others pay homage to his wife while he could not declare his most insignificant rights as her husband. The house became a torture chamber for him, and slipping into the leather jerkin, he left the manor to the servants.