Shanna (63 page)

Attila fretted in the stable, unaccustomed to being left behind, and nervously took the sugar lumps from Ruark's hand. Ruark had not ridden since his capture, but he was restless and made the decision to further test his leg.

“Come on, you gourd-head goat” He petted the finely shaped velvet nose. “Let us be about some pleasures of our own.”

He held the stallion in close check for a space, proving the strength of his leg. Then finding it sufficent, he shook out the reins and set the steed upon the high road to the cane mill.

The late morning was gusty and warm, but as Ruark crossed the ridge of the island's spine, the breezes whipped fine mist into his face, and before he descended into the small valley which held the mill, his shirt was soaked where the leather jerkin did not cover it. The ride was invigorating. The only thing missing was Shanna to share the elation.

The rollers of the crushing mill were silent, awaiting the new harvest, and only a few supervisors remained. The rest of the men were working on the sawmill, rushing to complete it before Trahern left for the colonies. Ruark entered the cane mill through the cooking room and tossed
a cheery greeting to the man who tested and fired the kettles of molasses.

“Why, Mister Ruark, what be ya about here?”

“Just looking things over,” Ruark replied. “Any problems?”

The man chortled. “No, sir. Ya built it pretty goot, Mister Ruark. But then, the master can tell ya better about that He's in testing his rum.”

When he entered the distillery wing, Ruark became impressed with the feeling of unhurried activity that pervaded the place. The crackle of the fires beneath the huge boilers mixed with the chuckle of trickling spigots and the hiss of steam through the pipes, filling the place with subtle sounds. The shadow of a man was elongated on the cobbled floor where the sun spilled through the windows at the rear of the room. Calling a question to the master brewer, Ruark began to make his way between the squat kettles which gleamed golden beneath their serpentine coppery coils. The heat was almost unbearable, and steam came from his sodden shirt and breeches. Sweat oozed from every pore, and he wondered vaguely if the man had been cooked alive in the hot, humid air or gone deaf. Then as he was rounding a timber, Ruark's foot slipped on the damp stone floor, and he struggled briefly for balance. The sudden effort on the weakened leg brought a twinge of pain that made him curse sharply. Clutching the timber for support, he leaned against it until the cramp died away.

Suddenly a loud clank of metal rang in the room, and an arm-sized section of piping swung heavily against the timber where he stood, spewing scalding steam and mash everywhere. Ruark stumbled backward, flinging an arm over his face to shield his eyes. His leg was still too stiff to allow such alacrity, and he sprawled on his back upon the cobblestones but managed to roll away from the spouting geyser of half-brewed rum.

Distant rafters were obscured by the rolling cloud of brownish steam, and Ruark realized that had he taken but another step forward he would have been caught in the midst of the inferno gushing out of the pipe and would have had no chance to escape. Only the brief pause had saved him from agony, even death.

A shout came from behind him, and he glanced around to see a worker crouching low in the doorway, trying to peer through the thick haze. At Ruark's answering call, the man crept forward until he was at his side.

“Are you all right, sir?” The question was shouted over the roaring wheeze of escaping pressure.,

Ruark nodded, and the fellow leaned closer.

“There's a valve. I'll try to shut it off.” He disappeared into the murky cloud before Ruark could tell him the master brewer was there to do it. After a long moment the hissing bellow began to subside and finally lisped into silence.

“Me lord! What happened here?” The bellow came from the doorway, and Ruark's brows lifted in surprise as he recognized the master brewer's voice. He got to his feet.

“A pipe let go. An accident—”

“No accident, sir.” The cooker came forth from amid the haze. “Look at this, will ya.” He held up a heavy hammer. “Some bloody idiot hit the joint off wid dis.”

“Me kettles! Me rum! Ruined!” The master brewer wrung his hands as he wailed. “'Twill take me days to clean up the mess.” His tone became a shout of rage. “If I catch the bloomin' blighter, I'll hit the joint off his neck!”

“Save a crack or two for me, Timmy,” Ruark said tersely, curious as to whose shadow he had seen. “I'd have been cooked proper, but for the timber there.”

The master stared at Ruark as if seeing him for the first time and was mutely flabbergasted.

“Aye,” the cooker chipped in. “Some toad tried to boil Mister Ruark, 'at 'e did. I check every joining and pipe afore I fire the kettles. This one only started this morn. 'Ere's no way it coulda let loose by itself.”

“It could have been that the man meant no harm to me, only to do some mischief. Whatever his intent, we'll let the matter be unless we find a cause.” Ruark silenced their objections with an upraised hand. “If he meant to do me injury, then I am warned, and I shall be more cautious henceforth.”

He dismissed the subject as he spoke to the master. “I came to see if all was well. Do you have any problems?”

“Nay,” the man replied with a snort “Not until this.”

“'Tis my fervent hope you shall have no other trouble the likes of this,” Ruark avowed. “I will be gone, then. Rest assured I do not envy you your work.” With a last rueful glance upward at the dripping plumbing, he left the room.

Swinging open the small door, Ruark stepped out and leaned against the heavy, planked wall to draw several deep breaths of fresh air as he massaged away the ache that had begun in his thigh. There was no way anybody could have missed his presence in the distillery room, so he could only surmise someone had reason to do him ill.

His eyes roamed the yard for any sign of his assailant, then paused. A short distance away, near the hopper, two men stood, one tall and thin, dressed in somber black. None other than Ralston! The man he spoke with was one of the workmen, a brawny fellow with thick arms. As his eyes met Ruark's, Ralston stiffened. He whirled abruptly and stalked off to his mount, leaving the workman staring after him with jaw aslack.

Ruark frowned heavily. Now that he thought of it, he did remember hearing the clatter of hooves some distance behind him on the trail as he came up the road to the mill. Had the agent followed him with some mischief in mind? Perhaps Ralston was fearful that he could tell Trahern about the purchasing of bondslaves from the gaol, but then the man must also realize he had to guard the secret himself, as he had more to lose with a hangman's noose around his neck.

Ruark flipped the reins over Attila's head, mounted, and set off down the road. The stallion was in rare form, and Ruark let him stretch his muscles well before he finally turned him toward the creek.

He had stowed the saddle and trappings in their proper place in the stable and was rubbing the sweat from Attila's sides with a handful of coarse sacking when Ruark heard, or sensed, a small movement behind him. He was quick to look lest some other disaster befall him. It was Milly, standing just inside the stable door. For a moment the girl seemed poised to flee, but she plucked up her courage, squared her shoulders, and came toward him swinging her hips in what she hoped was a provocative
manner. Ruark continued with his chore, debating whether he should feel relieved or more apprehensive.

The young woman leaned against the post of the stall gate, watching him. “Good marning, Mister Ruark,” she drawled lazily, chewing on a stem of hay. “I seen ye comin' down the high road on that foin piece o' horse there.” Attila snorted and nuzzled Milly's shoulder. “I got a way with animals meself, I has.” She laughed. “We ain't so far apart”

Ruark grunted noncommittally and spread the rag to dry. He began to comb burrs from the long flowing mane and tail.

“Well, Johnnie, m'deary.” Milly's tone became a trifle hard, “ye can ignore me if ‘tis yer likin', but 'tis ye, yer ownself, I've come ter see.”

Ruark paused and bent her a quizzical eyebrow. “Sure now, lass.” He had a fair brogue when he chose. “Meself, 'tis it? And wot foin affair has brought ye to a smelly old stable?”

He threw down a handful of burrs and lifted one of Attila's hooves to check it for pebbles.

“'Twas the only place I could speak ter ya widout that 'igh Madam Beauchamp ‘angin' 'bout yer neck.”

Ruark chuckled. “Begorra, now!” he mocked her gently. “And it's soundin' like ye got somethin' dear to be settled.”

“Sure I do!” she snapped with surprising rancor. “And what I got is to set that Shanna bitch back on 'er 'eels.”

Ruark dropped the last hoof and straightened, looking at the girl over the horse's back. “Now that, lass, I should warn ye 'bout That woman has a fair ta middlin' temper and might not take kindly to a rash accusation.” He came around Attila and rested his arm on a high slat of the stall. “I'd be very cautious of what I bandy about”

Milly braced her feet apart and leaned forward from the hips, her finger pointing to her own chest as she sneered haughtily, “I—got—meself—wid—a—babe.”

Each word was accentuated heavily, and all thought of humor fled Ruark. This suddenly became a serious matter. He knew her next words before she spoke them.

“An' you,” she jabbed her finger at him, “are goin' ter be its pa.”

Ruark's lips became a thin, angry line as his eyes sparked with cold, piercing lights. He flung out a hand. “Milly, do you think I'd let myself be rooked in so easily?”

“Nay.” She stood back and leaned again, chewing a straw in supreme confidence. “But I gots me a friend what'll say 'tis so. An' I knows all about ye and Miz High and Haughty. Her pa won't take ter a bondsman sleepin' wid 'is pet. ‘At should be worth a foin penny or two from 'er, and I wouldn't be so picky as ta say ye'd not see 'er at all. She might even pay for it, come to think. Could make us an easy livin', dearie.”

Ruark stared at her, realizing she meant everything she had spoken, and his scowl grew black as thunder.

“I am not easily coerced, Milly, nor will I be father to some sailor's brat for your comfort.” His voice was low but bore a whiplash in it that stung more than the words.

“I'll swear the babe is yours,” she challenged.

“You know I've never touched you. You would speak a lie and 'twould soon be out.”

“I'll make ye wed me!”

“I will not!”

“Trahern, 'imself, will see to it.”

“I cannot wed you,” he growled.

Milly stared at him in wonder.

“I already have a wife.” It was the only thing he could say that would stay her. Her mouth sagged open, and she staggered back a step as if he had struck her.

“A wife!” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “A wife! O' course, ye could've 'ad one in England. A wife! An' wee ones, too, I'd wager. Won't Miz High and Haughty be took aback wid 'at.” She glanced around wildly and began to laugh, loud and insanely. “A wife!” Half sobbing, half mewling, she fled in distress.

Shanna was riding Jezebel back to the stables and was just about to enter the open door when the mare shied and reared back. Milly, bursting out of the place, almost ran beneath the horse's feet. When she saw the pawing hooves above her, the girl screamed in terror. Jezebel pranced away, and it was all Shanna could do to stay in the saddle. When she had quieted her mount, she turned her attention
to Milly who stood staring up at her, a weird half smile twisting her face.

“What the devil are you about now, Milly?” Shanna snapped, angry at the girl's carelessness.

“There she is!” The frightened Milly sobbed as tears flowed unheeded down her cheeks. She skittered sideways in the dust away from the stable and Shanna as if they were both something to be avoided.

“Miz High and Mighty! Miz Shanna Trahern Beauchamp! So ya got yerself a man, do ya? Ye always gets the best, don't ye? And now, ye gots the ‘andsomest man crawlin' ter yer bed. Well, I got some news fer ya. 'E don't need ya. 'E can't wed ya. 'E's already got a wife.”

Horrified, Shanna attempted to calm the raving girl. “Milly! Milly! You don't know what you say. Be quiet!”

The girl would hear none of it She spread her hands wide and rolled her head, laughing loudly all the while.

“Oh, wait 'til they hears this!” she wailed. “All them high fallutin' folks who thinks ye're so lily white and pure. Wait 'til they hears it.”

Shanna slid from Jezebel's back. “Milly, don't!” she implored. “You have no idea what this is all about Milly!”

The girl danced around in a circle, kicking up a small cloud of dust and sending Shanna's mare prancing again.

“Be still, you nag!” Shanna jerked on the reins angrily.

“Oh, lawsy me!” Milly trilled. “Mis Shanna, taken in by a bondsman. An' folks frettin' so for fear them pirates 'ad raped 'er. Oh lawsy, wait'll they hear.”

“Milly!” Shanna's voice took on a warning note.

“You, Miz Got-it-all! Never worked for a thing. Never wanted a thing. Got herself a man now. She ain't no better'n me. Honkin' it wid a married man. Betcha she'll have a fat belly, too.”

Shanna's face flamed crimson with Milly's last comment. She could bear the insults no longer and flared, “Just who do you think he's married to, anyway?”

No sooner were the words out than Shanna realized what she had blurted. Aghast she clapped a hand over her mouth as if that would bring the words back, but it was
too late. The slow dawning was already creeping over Milly's face until she gaped in pained astonishment.

“You!” she barked. “You! Ooooh, nooo!” It became a mournful wail. Now sobbing harshly, Milly whirled and fled down the path toward town.