Shanna’s pride was raw beneath this rebuke. Drawing herself up, she sniffed haughtily. “If you cannot see my reasoning there, then ‘tis certainly within my rights to request that, at least, you do not invite him to my breakfast table where he can gawk and stare or even insult me with his silver words.”
Trahern’s arm flung out, and his finger pointed stiffly toward the small dining room. “That is my table and my chair, just as this is my house!” he bellowed and continued only a trifle more calmly. “I invite you to share my breakfast, and ‘tis there I begin my working day. If you seek privacy, then find it in your room.”
Somewhat stunned by his outburst, Shanna stared at him, but she tried once more. “Father, you would not have denied mother if she had asked you not to bring someone to this house, a person she detested or someone she disliked.”
This time Trahern did heave himself out of the chair, and he towered over his daughter. His voice and his manner were harsh.
“Your mother was mistress of this house and all else I owned. Never to my knowledge did she ever turn away one I had asked to come. If you wish to serve as mistress here, you will be a gracious hostess to one and all. You will treat that man Ruark as a guest in my house whenever he is here. You know that I care little for gilt, pomp, and finery. Indeed, I fled it to come here. I cherish honesty, loyalty, and a good day’s labor far more. All of those Mister Ruark has given me. And I dare say, daughter, he has given you no less than you deserve. But enough of this foolishness. I must complete these books of Ralston’s.” His anger eased, and his voice became almost pleading. “Now be kind to a doddering old man, child, and let me finish my work.”
“As you will, father,” Shanna said stiffly. “I have had my say.”
Satisfied, Trahern seated himself and, picking up his quill, was soon deeply engrossed. Shanna made no move to leave as she considered this turn of events. There was no help here, but neither was this the end of her resources. With sudden determination she rose and went to rest a hand on her father’s shoulder until he looked up at her.
“I shall be going for a ride now, papa. I have several errands in the village and a few purchases to make. I may be home late so don’t worry about me.”
She brushed a quick kiss on his forehead then was gone. Orlan watched her leave then slowly shook his head in bemusement.
“Too much damned schooling for a woman,” he muttered, then shrugged and returned to the stack of papers on his desk.
It was late in the afternoon when Shanna guided Attila to the hitching post before Pitney’s house. It was a quaint cottage set somewhat above the town and reminiscent of those found in western England. Behind it was a small shed where Pitney was usually engaged in making fine furniture from the rare woods the captains of the Trahern ships brought him from wherever their voyages took them. As a child Shanna had spent many hours here watching his skilled hands turn rough boards into handsome, sturdy chairs, tables and chests. Carvings of his own design liberally embellished most of the larger pieces. It was here Shanna found him, drawing a plane carefully across a slim piece of wood, his large feet buried in curled shavings. He saw her approach and rose to greet her, wiping the sweat from his brow with a tattered piece of faded blue cloth.
“Good day, lass,” he greeted her amiably. “ ‘Tis been a goodly time since ye’ve been up the hill to visit me. But come, we’ll sit on the porch. I have some good brew cooling in the well.”
Pitney sipped the Trahern wines out of good manners, but his liking for bitter English ale was well known. He slid a cushioned chair around for Shanna as she followed him, and while he turned the crank of his well, she seated herself.
“Just a cup of water for me,” she called. “I’ve no taste for your brew.”
The well was an oddity in itself. Pitney had found an ice-cold spring years ago when the Trahern mansion was being laid and the town was but a few sparse dwellings, and he had built his house around it. The stone wall of the well formed the end of his porch. Water could be lifted from the porch or through a window into the cottage.
Pitney brought her a pewter mug filled with chilling cold water that made Shanna’s teeth ache as she sampled it. Taking a seat on the rail in front of her, he sipped the foamy dark ale from his own mug, waiting patiently until she was ready to speak. The house faced westward where all the colors of the brilliant sunset could be seen, and from the height Shanna could look down on the roofs of the town spread out below. This was a man’s house, sturdy and thick-hewn, with doors a little larger than usual, much like Pitney himself. To Shanna’s knowledge only three women had ever set foot here, her mother, herself, and an old woman from the village who cleaned it once a week.
Finally Shanna withdrew from reverie and bent her thoughts to her business here. Facing Pitney, she came abruptly to the point.
“Ruark Beauchamp is alive and here on the island. He is a bondslave to my father and goes by the name of John Ruark.”
Pitney nodded and balanced his mug on the rail beside him. “Aye, I know all of that.”
His voice was calm, and Shanna stared at him, for once wondering what she would say next.
“I knew that he was not hanged,” Pitney labored further, “and that we buried another man, old and wasted in his years. I would’ve told ye at once, but Ralston was there with you. And after that, I could not see the harm in it nor the need to worry ye. I even knew that he was on the Marguerite. I followed Ralston to the gaol, for ‘twas there I knew he got his men, not from the auction block as he has always said. And I would’ve told ye that, but there were too many about who would have carried the word back to your pa. If I’ve done ye harm in this, ‘tis no less than the harm I’ve done for that lad. Ye wouldn’t have recognized him when they brought him to the ship, so badly mauled was he. Indeed, lass, he was the one ye saved from a beating the night before we sailed. In God’s truth, I do not know how the man bore it all without being maimed for life or at least being scarred. And I’ve been there meself.”
Pitney did not elaborate what his own plight had been, nor did Shanna ask, assuming he would tell her in his own good time. But she felt her own cause failing badly and had to make another try.
“Will you get him away from here?” she asked sternly, already sure of what his answer would be. “Can you not get him off this island, back to his colonies or wherever he wants to go?”
Pitney gazed out across the harbor for a long time before looking squarely into Shanna’s eyes.
“Madam Beauchamp.” He seemed to try out the title for some whim of his own. His words were studied and slow. “I bounced ye on me knee when ye were no bigger than a spit in the wind, and I’ve seen ye grow into a lovely young woman. Ye’ve had trouble with your pa, and I’ve not always agreed with him. I went with ye on yer journeys under an oath to him to see after ye and to see ye safely home. I’m not so sure I’ve done the first, giving in to yer pleading about this marriage against Orlan’s wishes, but I’ve seen well to the last. Now there’s naught that troubles me but the fact that I’ve added to a man’s woes and abused him for no good reason.”
“For no good reason!” Shanna was angered at his excuses. “But the man was accused of murder and condemned to hang. A brutal murder of a woman with child. Why,”—she waved a hand toward the village—“the next could be any down there, or even me!”
“Lass,” Pitney slipped back into a more familiar form of address. “Do not take to heart all that comes to your ears. I would say the man could not do such a thing. And as I’ve heard of him, there are many who would believe the same.”
Shanna rose and irritably smoothed her riding habit, unable to meet Pitney’s eyes. “Then you will not help me?”
“Nay, lass.” His voice was gruff and firm. “I’ve already hurt the man enough. I will not again lift my hand against him without a deeper cause.”
“Then what am I to do?” she whispered almost shyly.
Pitney thought for a moment, and there was an odd half smile in his
eyes as he spoke again.
“Go talk to the man, John Ruark, like ye did in the gaol. Before you leave I’ll give ye directions to reach him. Perhaps ye can convince him to leave. If he wants to go, I’ll help him.”
With some anguish in her tone Shanna asked, “You would help him and not me?”
“Aye,” Pitney nodded. “Yours is but a whim. His would be a need.”
Night descended to cloak Shanna’s ride through the village. The people had sought out their homes after the day’s work, and the streets were quiet and barren. Leaving Attila at the store where he would not draw undue attention, she made her way through the alleyways, keeping to the dark and shadows. When she came in sight of Ruark’s residence, she stopped in amazement. It was little more than a lean-to against the back of an adobe warehouse. A light from a weak lantern leaked from the multitude of cracks between the boards which covered it and from the door which stood half open. Cautiously Shanna drew near and peered within, taking care not to betray her presence. For a moment she thought he stood naked as he sponged his shoulders and arms with water from a small basin, but when he moved further into the light, she realized he still wore those infernal chopped-off pants. Steeling herself for the confrontation, she reached out. Beneath her light knock, the door opened wider, and Ruark swung around instantly, startling a gasp from her.
“Shanna!” His first word came with some surprise, but he quickly recovered, smiled and reached for her hand to draw her in. “Your pardon, my love. I was not expecting a visitor, let alone such a charming one.”
Ruefully he rubbed a hand across his bristly chin.
“Had I been warned of your coming, I’d have made some preparations.”
In the dim light his eyes shone softly as he gazed down into hers. He stood close beside her, his other hand resting on the small of her back. Nervously Shanna glanced about the cramped room, unable to bear this attention he so freely gave her. The pressure of his touch was light, but to her it felt like a trap of steel. She began to seriously doubt her wisdom in coming here alone.
The smell of the strong lye soap and vinegar which had been used to scrub the bare boards of the place was pungent in her nostrils. Though the fittings were meager, they were almost painfully neat and well repaired. A narrow rope bed with a straw-filled mattress and clean, though threadbare, sheets filled one corner, and a small, rough table bearing a stack of drawings, quill and ink was pushed into another. A single, once-broken chair, bound back into service with small rope, and a high shelf were the only other appointments. The shelf bore several boxes, one with a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese, a bottle of wine, and a meager collection of unmatched dishes. The light patchwork quilt on the bed was frayed and much mended but was neatly folded back, while the sheets were white with sun-bleached cleanliness.
Seeing where her gaze wandered, Ruark smiled. “Hardly a fit place for a tryst, Shanna, but the best I could manage. It costs me naught of coin, only my services in keeping an eye out for vandals.” He laughed lightly and grinned as her eyes turned to meet his. “I had no idea that you would come so soon to fulfill our bargain.”
Shanna gasped, stunned at his suggestion. “I did not come here to spend the night with you!”
“Alas,” he sighed as if forlorn, brushing a curl from her cheek and bending near as he did so. “I am to be tortured more, then. Ah, Shanna, love, do you not ken that the merest sight of you is enough to bring me pain?”
His voice was low and husky in her ears, and Shanna had to dip deeply into her reservoir of will to dispel the slow numbing of her defenses.
“Do you know how my arms ache to be filled with you? To be so near and never touching is agony for me.” His fingers lightly stroked between her shoulder blades. “Are you some dark witch to bring me hell on earth, being that which I desire most and that which I may have the least of? Be soft, Shanna, be woman, be my love.”
He bent closer, his lips drawing perilously near.
“Ruark!” Shanna spoke sharply and jerking away from him, commanded, “Behave!”
“I do, my love. I am a man. You’re a woman. How else should I behave?” He would have reached out and taken her in his arms.
“Do not press me so!” Shanna eluded his grasp. “Be a gentleman for once!” She held him at arm’s length, her riding crop against his chest.
“A gentleman? But how, my love?” He played the simpleton. “I am only a cloddish colonial, unschooled in the postures of court, trained only in honesty and the truth of a bargain fairly met. I cannot bear to see you here, alone with me, and not reach out to touch you.”
“I agree.” Shanna stepped further away and continued moving as he followed. “We should limit our meetings.”
Her glance flitted hesitantly across his hard, brown chest and its light furring of hair before her eyes lifted to meet that steady, predatory stare. Suddenly Shanna felt much like a hen before a wily fox, expecting to be devoured any moment.
“If you will stop seeking favor with my father and agree to stay away from the house, ‘twould ease things. Now stop that!”
She brushed away his hand as he reached to caress her hair, but the coil was undone beneath the quickness of his fingers and tumbled in soft curls down her back. She tried without success to gather it again into a sober knot.
“Will you be serious for a moment!” she bridled. “Control your lust. I did not come here to bed you but to appeal to your honor. Let go!” She raised both her voice and the quirt dangerously high. “I’ll not be pawed by the likes of you again!”
Ruark stood back and leaned against the wall beside her, “Ah, Shanna, love,” he said sadly. “Am I really to believe that you will not see out the bargain?”
“Bargain!” Shanna struck the half-open door with her whip in exasperation. “Sir, you are the most—”
“Shhh.” His finger lay across his lips. His face was in the shadows, but his eyes seemed to glow, laughing at her, mocking her. “You’ll have the village down upon us.”
He reached behind him on the shelf and lifted the wine bottle and a cup, pouring a draught into the latter.
“Perhaps a small libation will settle your nerves, Shanna. A bit of sherry?”
“My nerves!” The words were lashed out. “Sir, ‘tis your nerve that must be reckoned with.” She took the mug he held toward her and sampled a drop, wrinkling her nose then sneering into his warming gaze. “Of that, dear Ruark, you have no short supply.”
“You abuse me, madam.” His hand reached out toward her tresses but paused as her quirt lifted again. He shrugged. “I but know my wants and seek these out.”
“Dear Ruark,” Shanna gritted venomously. “When I give myself to a man, ‘twill be under the vows of marriage with all the love I can muster.”
Ruark chuckled and placed his foot on the bed, leaning an elbow across his knee. “Will you not settle for my everlasting adoration and the bonds of a bargain fairly set? I could add,” he gestured casually, “the vows have already—”
“Oh, you crude—!” Shanna was speechless at his brazen disregard of grace. “I have a dream—”
“No dream!” His reply snapped back. “But a barrier set against a flesh-and-blood man.”
“Have you so little honor that you would hold me to so vile a bargain?”
“Honor? Aye, I have it.” He tossed his head and stared at her, his amber eyes brittle. “And what have you? To offer yourself for a whim and, when once rightly paid, deny the pact?”
Angry tears stung Shanna’s eyes. “I was gently born and tenderly reared but then bent to the will of another!”
“Aye.” His tone was scornful. “The virgin Shanna, cruelly betrayed.”
“I will not be dictated to!” Rigid with fury, turbulent tears streaming down her cheeks, she glared at him.
“Oh?” Ruark feigned surprise. “So now ‘tis the Queen Shanna, regal, domineering. Hide behind your thorny throne, my love. Never be a woman!”
“Oh, you filthy clod!”
“Shanna.” His voice was flat, hard, and biting. “Grow up.”
The quirt lashed out and struck his chest and, coming back, cracked again. She raised it for another blow, but his hand knocked the whip aside, and it sailed from her grasp. Shanna’s rage had mounted to violent proportions. The open palm of her empty hand completed the stroke upon his cheek and returned with the back of it against his other while her eyes blazed her hatred. Of a sudden her wrist was seized in a grasp of iron, and her arm was twisted behind her back, crushing her against his naked chest which bore two livid weals across it. Her temper soared the higher at this restraint, and Shanna tried to raise her other hand to claw at that smirking face before her, but his arm encircled her until she could not move. She was caught to him, her breath hissing between clenched teeth and her bosom heaving against his chest.
“Enough, Shanna love,” he bade sharply. “You have taken both cheeks ‘ere I had a chance to turn the other.”
His embrace tightened about her until her toes cleared the floor and Shanna lay against him, gasping for breath. His mouth swooped down upon hers, twisting, bruising, rousing, his tongue thrusting through like a brand, searing her, possessing her. Shanna struggled weakly, trying to summon some logic from the chaos in her mind. Pleasure seeped through the barrier of her own will. The brutal crush of his lips on hers, his strong arms holding her clasped to his work-hardened frame became somehow bearable, and she was answering, not fighting anymore, growing warm. Then his arms were gone, and she stumbled free of him, coming up against the open door. The amber eyes were puzzled as he stared at her for a moment; then they filled with anger.
“Arm yourself, Shanna. No young girl’s wiles will see you safely away from me. I will have you when and where I bid.”
Fear rose up within her, not of him but of herself, for in spite of her words, she wanted to draw him down with her upon the narrow pallet and show him once and for all time that she was more a woman than he could guess. Shaking, Shanna bit the back of her hand, seeking pain to awaken her will. Whirling, she ran from the hovel, not pausing until she stood gasping against Attila’s side. She had to wait for her strength to return before she could heave herself to the saddle. Her face burned where his unshaven chin had rasped against her tender flesh.