Shanna (75 page)

Shanna was suddenly fearful. It seemed too much of a coincidence to be awakened from a sound slumber and
then to hear Attila. Had they been asleep they wouldn't have heard him at all with the windows closed and the stable a goodly distance from the house.

“Ruark, don't go,” she pleaded. “I don't know what, but I sense something is wrong here.”

“I'll be careful” He kissed her lips quickly. “Keep my aide warm. I'll be cold when I come back.”

Shanna frowned with worry and followed him to the door. “Please be careful.”

The portal was locked behind him, and Shanna began to pace the room uneasily, chewing on a long fingernail. Only the red glow of embers gave her light, and with the chill of the room she shivered in her nightgown. Kneeling before the fireplace, she stirred the hot coals until a tiny flame appeared and then placed upon it two heavy chunks of oak from the woodbox. Afterwards she could not have said how long she sat watching the fire blaze up again and enjoying its warmth. But cold dread was brought sharply to her heart as a scream pierced the night, and she heard Charlotte shriek from a bedroom down the hall.

“The stable! The stable is burning! Nathanial, wake up. The stable's on fire!”

Shanna came to her feet with a cry. A brief, fearful glance to the window showed her a light flickering on the drapes.

“Ruark!” With a strangled scream she was at the door, clawing at it, her shaking fingers fumbling at the key. “Oh, no! Please, nol Ruark!”

Heedless of her bare feet and nightgown, Shanna flung the door wide and ran into the hall, nearly colliding with Nathanial, who had barely managed to don a pair of breeches. Charlotte was behind him, carrying a lantern and hugging a quilt about her shoulders for a wrap. Beyond them in the wide hall, doors had already begun to fly open.

“Ruark!” Shanna sobbed almost in hysteria. “He's in the stable!”

“Oh, my God!” Charlotte clapped a hand over her mouth, her dark eyes wide with fear.

Nathanial had no time to comment, but now fully awake he tore down the stairs as if a demon were at his heels. Shanna flew after him and barely recognized that
Charlotte threw a blanket about her. They ran through the house to the back, flinging doors wide as they went, and did not pause as they crossed the lawn.

Flames were licking like hungry tongues up the walls of the stable, and they found the doors closed, the broad ones barred and the small one with a heavy post braced against it. The snorts and screams of the animals within rent the night, and the crackle of flames grew into a roar.

Shanna caught Nathanial's bare arm, her long nails digging into his flesh. “Ruark!” she screamed above the din. “He came to see about the horses!”

They drew near the small door, and Nathanial snatched buckets of water from the trough to splash onto the flames that threatened the sills as Shanna struggled against the dead weight of the heavy post. He brushed her aside, and with a single heave sent the post tumbling. Sobbing, Shanna snatched at the latch. The hot metal burned her fingers, and she wrapped her hand in the end of the quilt and managed to lift the post.

Heavy billows of smoke rolled out as the door swung free, choking Shanna and forcing her back, gasping for air. Nathanial snatched the quilt from her back and doused it in the trough then, flinging it over his head and shoulders, crouched beneath the roiling, strangling black clouds, and entered the inferno.

Attila's scream of terror shredded the air, and Shanna pressed shaking hands over her ears, sobbing against her own fear. Men were running all over now. Lines were formed to pass buckets of water and throw them on the towering mass of flames. A shower of sparks fell within, and Shanna's breath froze in her throat Sickening horror congealed in her chest as her imagination did its worst with her, flashing before her mind's eye a vision of Ruark writhing in flaming agony. Panic would have brought her screaming into the barn like a frenzied banshee, but then she saw a form struggling toward her through the smoke. Drawing a deep breath, Shanna plunged forward into the eye-searing smoke. Nathanial staggered against her with Ruark flung across his shoulders, the blanket draped over them both. Snatching his arm, Shanna led him out, her own lungs near to bursting.

They cleared the stables as other men ran past to free
the horses, Orlan Trahern in a wine velvet dressing robe stepping lightly for his girth and Pitney charging across the lawn, the tails of his long nightshirt flapping loose over his britches. Nathanial fell to his knees, choking, gasping for breath, and Ruark sprawled limply from his shoulders, tangled in the wet quilt. Charlotte was at her husband's side, bending over him, while Shanna frantically tore the sodden cover from Ruark. He groaned as she lifted his head to her breast.

“Oh, my darling. My darling.” She wept in relief as his eyes blinked open. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

“My head.” He winced as her fingers touched his scalp. Shanna stared in amazement—the sleeve of her nightgown was smeared with blood.

“You're bleeding!” she gasped.

Charlotte came around to kneel on the other side of him, bending over his head. Her slim fingers carefully parted his hair away from a small gash and gently probed at the swelling knot, drawing a grimace from Ruark.

“There's a cut here,” Charlotte announced. “Did you hit your head?”

“Some damn bastard hit me from behind,” Ruark growled low. He sat up beside Shanna, gingerly touching the back of his head.

“He was on the floor by the stalls, and the stable doors were barred from the outside,” Nathanial panted. “Whoever set the fire intended him to roast in it.”

Pitney ran by, leading the mare, Jezebel, and other men hurried out of the burning stable, bringing more horses to safety. Amelia had come to stand above Ruark, her tall, slender frame hidden in the folds of her husband's robe. In the bright firelight her face appeared pinched and drawn as she questioned in a strained voice:

“Are you all right?”

“Aye,” Ruark assured her with an effort. He rolled over and attempted to come to his feet but fell back to his knees and grasped his head as if to hold it in place. Worried, Shanna watched him closely and, as Gabrielle wrapped a patchwork quilt around her shoulders, reached out with a corner of it to wipe his soot-grimed face.

Clad only in a nightshirt, George paused to ask, “What the hell happened?”

An enraged scream, not of an animal, forestalled any reply, and they all turned to the fiery stable. Attila came dashing out, half bucking and fighting against the dark form that clung to his side. Ruark gave a piercing whistle, and the steed swung toward them, coming to a halt by Shanna. The horse stood trembling and snorting as he pawed the grass, and the dark form resolved itself into a bedraggled Orlan Trahern.

“Thank God!” Orlan wheezed. “I was afraid he was headed for the woods.”

He held his loose robe gathered in one hand, and it could now be seen that one end of the robe's belt was wrapped about the stallion's neck and the other end was twisted firmly in Trahern's other hand.

The elderly Trahern was a mess. His hair was singed about the ends and stood away from his head in a silvered corona. His face was smudged and streaked with soot, and his best dressing robe was mottled with black-ringed holes where myriad sparks had touched it. One slipper was missing and his foot and leg were smeared with a brownish stuff, while his other slipper had an oddly crushed look about it.

Shanna gaped. “Papa! What on earth—”

“The beast was tied in his stall,” Trahern puffed, sagging against the horse's shoulder, his hand still locked in the twisted belt “When I loosed him, the nag trod upon my foot and would not let me take the lead.”

Gingerly he tested his foot and growled with pain as it touched the turf. “Ungrateful beast!” Trahern moaned. “You have injured me sorely. I should see you fed to the dogs.”

The stallion snorted, nudging the squire's side with his head.

“Eh, what's this?” Trahern caught the rope halter and held the steed's head. “He's all bloody.”

Ruark forgot the pain in his head and came to his feet to examine Attila's nose and face where long, bloody welts showed in the firelight, crisscrossing the velvet snout.

“He's been beaten. And you say he was tied?”

“Aye!” Trahern untwisted his hand and flexed it as if he were somewhat doubtful he could still use it “And with his head low, close against the boards.”

George stepped near to peer through his spectacles and mused aloud, “'Twould appear it was done to get someone into the stable.”

He gazed thoughtfully at Ruark and then at Shanna who had risen to take her husband's arm. The fact that Ruark had stated he would sleep in the stables was not questioned as George concluded. “With each moment that passes, I think this deed has more the taste of murder. But in heaven's name, why?”

“I can't say why,” Ruark growled and turned to the other men. “Are the horses safe?”

“Aye!” Pitney answered gruffly. “But look here what I stumbled over.” He held up a buckshot-weighted quirt which had blood gleaming on its black surface and short gray hair clinging to the sticky red.

Ruark's lips tightened as he reflected on the brutal mind that would so cruelly beat an animal. “Damn the bastard!” he vowed vehemently. “If I ever get my hands on the bloody bitch's son who did this, I may well throttle him.”

“Well, whatever you do to him, you'll have to use your hands,” Nathanial drawled wryly. “I believe I saw your pistols and musket in the stable before supper. They're probably part of what's warming your backside now.”

The stable blazed into a soaring inferno, defying the best efforts to douse the flames. Some of the men had chopped a hole in the tack room's outer wall, and most of the harnesses and saddles had been saved. Dawn began to glow above the hilltop before the last charred frames of the place collapsed in a heap upon the burning rubble.

It was a tired, black-faced group who returned to the house. The women had been forced to retreat sooner from the cold. Amelia, still in her husband's robe, met the men in the house and quickly served glasses with a rich amber brew twinkling in the bottom of each, the only exception being a tall, brimming mug of chilled ale for Pitney. Recognizing that it could have been a worse disaster, the group wearily raised their drinks in a grateful salute to their health. Amelia watched with growing amusement as they sampled the stuff, and her husband glanced up in question.

“'Tis a fine lot you are,” she chuckled.

George examined his broken eyeglasses with a rueful smile. “Aye, warriors from the field.” He heaved a sigh and matched her smile. “Now I can have the stable on the oak hill where I've always wanted it.”

“Good fortune, then,” Amelia returned gently. “Except, of course, for the squire's foot, Mister Ruark's head, and your spectacles. Whatever happened?”

“Your youngest son. madam, mistook me for thin air. In the fray he tried to run right through me.”

His dry humor brought responsive laughter from the tired men and a much reddened hue to Jeremiah's face.

“Mister Ruark,” Amelia said over her shoulder as she left the room “You may use Nathanial's old room. Tis next to Shanna's. I think you can find it.” She gave the smallest of laughs. “That poor old tree is stunted enough being so close to the kitchen.”

A bustle of activity pervaded throughout the house as the servants rushed to prepare baths for the Beauchamps and their guests. Ralston's bed had not been slept in, and he was nowhere to be found. Gaylord snoozed peacefully, his snores echoing loudly from his chambers.

It was a late hour when the rest of the household took their morning meal. Orlan hobbled into the dining room on a bandaged foot Despite Shanna's pleas Ruark had refused a bandage for his head and quietly took a place beside her at the table. No one questioned his right to sit there, and in the absence of both Gaylord and Ralston the dining was a warm and hearty affair. As the tale was retold, Shanna was amazed at how quick the Beauchamps were to laugh at themselves, as if the loss had not affected them in any manner. With rich enthusiasm they began to plan the new stable, and the ease with which Ruark offered his advice almost made Shanna wonder.

Gaylord appeared, and his bland, bluish-gray eyes surveyed the group around the table before he consulted his watch in some bemusement. “Hmm,” he minced genteelly, tucking the timepiece away. “Is it some local holiday I have missed?”

“You slept the whole night through?” Shanna asked, her own amazement showing.

“Of course,” he sighed. “I read from a volume of sonnets until a late hour, but from then on—” He paused
and scratched his cheek thoughtfully with an immaculate forefinger. “It seems there was some disturbance, but after a while the house quieted, and I much assumed I had dreamt the whole of it.”

He seated himself in a chair and began to fill a plate. For a man of much leisure, his appetite never seemed to flag.

“Why do you ask?” he questioned. “Is aught amiss?”

“You rest exceedingly soundly, sir,” Ruark observed, only mildly satirical.

“Mm, yes,” Gaylord smiled as he spooned a liberal serving of fruit perserves on a slice of hot bread. “A trait of the breeding, I assure you. An honest mind is a peaceful one.”

He fixed Ruark with a jaundiced stare, taking note of his proximity to Shanna.

“I believe you have forgotten yourself again, bondsman. No doubt these good people are too polite to remind you of your place.”

Ruark snorted derisively. “But you will, of course.”

Beneath the table Shanna's hand lightly squeezed her husband's thigh, cautioning him to be careful. It was best to avoid any confrontation with the man that might somehow bring Lord Harry's notice to Ruark. Soon Gaylord would be gone, and the truth could be revealed to her father. Then, perhaps, they could set about clearing Ruark's name. Ruark's thin, brown fingers slipped over Shanna's beneath the tablecloth, tightening briefly to quietly assure her, and remained to hold them.