Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Suddenly Ruark burst into laughter, and Shanna turned to stare with eyebrows lifted in wonder. Casually Ruark gestured to the blossom she had picked.

  “An Indian woman wears a flower thus when she would tell her husband of her desire.”

  Shanna reddened and snatched the bloom from its place, and then, pouting prettily, thrust it above her other ear.

  Ruark grinned. “And that means an unmarried maiden is available.”

  Shanna took the adornment from her hair and began to idly braid it with other flowers. After a moment she realized that Ruark stood looking at her with a strange and tender smile on his lips.

  “My Lady Shanna, your beauty doth dim the very radiance of this haven,” he avowed.

  “Why, Ruark, do you court me?” Shanna inquired in soft amusement. Her mouth curved into a tantalizing smile as she came toward him with almost sensuous grace, halting a close measure from him and stretching out a finger to lay its tip in the midst of the black fur that darkened his chest. “I’ve never been courted by a bond slave before. ‘Tis the first ever. Not long ago ‘twas one who was bound for the gallows. That was the first, also. But mostly ‘tis been lords and high gentlemen of the courts.”

  “Methinks you bait me, my lovely Shanna,” he returned without a pause. “Ah love, do you seek to find the end of my patience that you might then have cause to hate me? Would your conscience then be eased at your broken word?” His mouth curved in a devilish grin. “If that be your game, madam, lead on. I will welcome your attention and the challenge.”

  Irate sparks flared brightly in the blue-green eyes as Shanna snatched her hand away. “You’re very arrogant.”

  In what was meant to be a display of disdain, her eyes skimmed his slender frame barely clothed by the brief breeches, but her gaze faltered as the realization flashed through her mind that there was nothing in all that bareness she could poke fun at. Nothing! He was hard and lean, not thin, but with long, firm muscles beneath sun-darkened skin. Of a sudden she wondered what it would be like to lie against that strong body for one long night.

  “I’m going back,” Shanna announced abruptly, embarrassed by her own musings. “Help me to mount.”

  “Your servant, madam.”

  Gleaming whiteness flashed as he grinned down at her, and Shanna whirled haughtily. Ruark followed along in her wake, appreciatively watching her hips as they swayed with a natural, graceful provocativeness. At Attila’s side he bent, folded his hands to receive her bare foot, and boosted her up onto the stallion’s back. Quickly straddling Attila’s back, Shanna gave the beast a kick to send him in a flying leap from the bower, leaving Ruark staring after her, arms akimbo.

  The outer edge of the swamp had been reached when Shanna’s mind betrayed her with the memory of a raging howl coming on a stormy, rain-swept night. A frustrated moan escaped her, and with a low, gritted curse Shanna wheeled the steed about and raced along the path leading her back to Ruark. He was running along at a slow, measured pace, but as the horse came thundering down the trail toward him, he glanced up in surprise. He reached out to catch his arm about the animal’s neck as Attila jolted to a halt beside him.

  “Whoa—easy,” Ruark soothed and stroked the velvet nose, peering up at Shanna with a silent question.

  “We’ll need your skill in the fields on the morrow.” She gave the excuse crisply. “If you walk most of the night to return to the village, you’ll be little good to us.”

  “My undying gratitude, madam,” he said and Shanna did not miss the inflection in his voice.

  “You rogue.” A reluctant smile was wrenched from her. “I thought for sure that Mister Hicks would hang you. He seemed eager enough.”

  “Not as eager for that, madam, as for a coin,” Ruark grinned and swung up behind her. “And for that I am most thankful.”

  His brown arms came around her again, and he tapped his heels lightly against Attila’s flanks, urging the animal into a canter. His horsemanship was effortless, and Shanna relaxed against him and allowed him to command the spirited steed, but with the close contact she was ever aware of the hard, masculine feel of him and the tingling warmth that spread through her body.

  When they were almost to the place where he had whistled from, he asked against her temple, “Will you meet me here again?”

  “I most certainly will not!” She was the proud Shanna again, ignoring the budding excitement that had begun to stir within her. She sat upright and threw off his hand which had come to rest upon her thigh. “Do you honestly think I’d go behind my father’s back to meet one of his bondsmen for a tryst in the woods? Sir, you are odious to make such a suggestion.”

  “Aye, you would hide behind your father’s shadow,” Ruark retorted glibly. “Like a child, afraid of being a woman.”

  Shanna’s back stiffened, and she twisted away from him in a flare of temper.

  “Get down, you—you scoundrel!’ she demanded. “Get down and leave me alone! I don’t know why I ever rode with you. You—you blackhearted whelp of a scullery maid!”

  His low chuckle pricked her anger more, but Ruark drew Attila to a halt and slid from the stallion’s back and peered up at her in that deliberate, roguish manner that half mocked, half devoured her. This time Shanna did not turn back as she kicked the steed and set him on a rapid ride down the beach.

  Her self-styled solitude having failed, Shanna gave herself over to activity. Without making a plan of it, she became much of a personal scribe to her father. She accompanied him on his trips about the island, making notes of importance as they passed fields and cleared areas. She listened as the overseers and foremen made reports and jotted down their remarks or figures. She kept records of the hours and men required to complete a task and of the crops their efforts produced.

  It became apparent that where there were areas of difficulty, she would usually see a mule with a rider wearing shortened pants perched cross-legged on its rump engrossed in the labors of the men or walking about, explaining some innovation with gestures of his hands or a drawing from his ever-ready quill and parchment. It seeped into her mind with a multitude of figures and notes and the frequent mention of his name that where John Ruark was the men were happier and the work moved along apace.

  Though Shanna was well occupied with her new duties, it was impossible, despite considerable effort, to ignore the man. As her father commented one afternoon with a chuckle, John Ruark was as well known as himself on the island and apparently better liked. But struggle Shanna did, and she managed to immerse herself in work. When the squire was otherwise occupied and she had no duties at the manor, she made her own tours of his various interests, checking the books, the quality of goods, or just listening to the people and hearing their problems.

  It was in this capacity that she found herself in the village store on a late Friday afternoon, reviewing the accounts of the bondsmen. As she leafed through the ledger, the name of John Ruark caught her eye, and curiosity made her scan the columns of his accounts. The figures amazed her.

  The column of purchases was quite brief. Aside from writing implements, a pipe, and soap, there was only a rare bottle of wine and an occasional pouch of tobacco. The longest column was that which detailed changes in his pay and there—she traced downward with the tip of her finger—why, it had been increased time and again, tripled, nay, more than ten times the sixpence of a new bondsman. She went further over to the balance of credits and with a swift mental calculation found that by the end of the month he would have nearly a hundred pounds of credit. Then another item caught Shanna’s eye. There were moneys other than his wages. At the rate he was building his account, he would probably be free in a year or two.

  The back door slammed where Mister MacLaird, the storekeeper, had gone out a few moments before, and the sound of footsteps came across the floor behind her.

  “Mister MacLaird,” she called over her shoulder. “There’s an account here which I would discuss with you. Would you come—”

  “Mi
ster MacLaird is busy outside, Shanna. Is there something I might help you with?”

  Shanna spun about on the high stool, for there was no mistaking the voice. White teeth showed in the tanned face as Ruark’s ready smile spread leisurely across his lips.

  “Are you distressed, my love?” He challenged her stunned appraisal. “Have I been away so long you do not recognize me? Some service I can render perhaps or—” he raised a string of shell beads on his fingers—“some bauble for my lady?”

  He lowered them and grinned ruefully.

  “Your pardon, madam. I forgot myself. You own the store. A pity—and a waste of another of my talents.”

  Shanna could not contain a smile at his lighthearted banter. “Of those I am sure you have plenty, Ruark. My father reports you have started building the new crushing mill. ‘Twould seem you have convinced him ‘tis necessary and would be more efficient than what we already have.”

  Ruark nodded. “Aye, Shanna. I said as much.”

  “Then why are you here? I would think you hard at work instead of coming and going as you will. Do you oversee yourself of late and set your own hours?”

  Ruark’s eyebrow raised as he contemplated her. “I do not cheat your father, Shanna. Have no fear.” He gestured with his thumb toward the back of the store. “I brought a wagonload of black rum from the brewing house since I had to come in and finish some drawings for your father. Mister MacLaird is testing the kegs now. If ‘tis a chaperon you wish, he’ll be in shortly.”

  Shanna flicked her quill to the open ledger. “For a wagon driver you seem highly paid. And there are other amounts here which puzzle me.”

  “ ‘Tis simple enough,” he explained. “In my leisure hours, I work for other people on the island. In return they either do a service for me or repay me with coin. There’s a woman in the village who washes my clothes and bedding for—”

  “A woman?” Shanna interrupted, her curiosity piqued.

  Ruark eyed her with a twisted grin. “Why, Shanna, love, are you jealous?”

  “Of course not!” she snapped, but her face was warm with a blush. “I was merely curious. You were saying?”

  “ ‘Tis only the fishwoman, Shanna.” Ruark did not relent. “No need for dismay.”

  The sea-green eyes narrowed in a glare. “You’re impossibly conceited, Ruark Beauchamp!”

  “Shhh, love,” he gently admonished, and his eyes sparkled. “Someone might hear you.”

  “And what do you do for Mrs. Hawkins?” Shanna inquired peevishly, irked with his very presence. She wanted to scream at him! Pound his chest with her fists! Anything to get that smirk from his face.

  Ruark took his time in answering; he laid his hat on top of a pile of merchandise and slipped out of the open shirt, tossing it atop his other.

  “Mostly what Mister Hawkins could do if he stirred himself—repair her boats and that sort of thing.”

  “At the rate your money is accumulating, you’ll not be with us too long,” Shanna commented.

  “Money has never been my problem, Shanna. Considering events of late, I would say ‘twas women, or more aptly perhaps, woman, as my problem is only one.”

  Ruark’s gaze was now direct, challenging, almost insulting, raking her from her trim and shapely ankles adorned in white silk stockings showing beneath the lifted hem of her skirts, and passing over the narrow waist cinched tightly in the pink-and-white-striped gown, and then more leisurely over her round bosom. The neckline of the bodice was demure with a froth of delicate white lace at her throat. Still, Shanna felt undressed beneath his stare. Self-consciously she plucked at one of the lace inserts in a wide, voluminous sleeve.

  “Do you regard me, then, as your problem?”

  “Occasionally, Shanna.” His countenance grew serious as he met her gaze. “For the greater part, I regard you as the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”

  “I cannot for the life of me believe that I am your problem, Ruark,” Shanna chided him. “I have scarcely seen you these past weeks. I would say you overstate your case.”

  His lips spoke no word, but his eyes clearly expressed his wants. The bold stare touched a quickness in her that made her feel as if she were on fire. It flamed in her cheeks and set her fingers to trembling as she stared back at him. He was bathed in a light cast by the setting sun and was aglow with deep golden colors that rippled along his hard, lean frame. He was Apollo cast in gold, and she was no less shaken by the sight of him than by his slow perusal.

  “You must have been raised with the savages,” she snapped in verbal defense. “You seem to have an aversion for wearing clothes.”

  Ruark chuckled softly. “At times, Shanna my dearest, clothing can be a hindrance. For instance,”—his eyes again caressed her from toe to top—“a man finds them very troublesome when his wife wears them to bed.” His smile grew wicked. “Now that bit of a thing you wear to sleep in, ‘tis close to naught. It wouldn’t be much of a bother to slip a woman out of it.”

  The color in her cheeks deepened. “You have your nerve, wandering beneath my balcony like that!”

  Abruptly Shanna turned back to the desk as if dismissing him and flipped a page that might as well have been blank for as much as she saw on it.

  A soft light shone from a small, high window set in the wall above the desk, outlining her profile in a radiance that made her seem warm, almost angelic. Ruark’s eyes touched the hair that tumbled in gold-veined cascades down her back. Just to stand this near to her was a heady wine. He saw the arch of her brow, the delicate line of her nose, the sweet, full curve of her lips which he longed to caress with his own, the firm but gentle thrust of her jaw and the slim, white column of her throat where her hair fell away, baring its ivory softness. His own blood thudded in his ears, and his feet seemed to move of their own volition until he stood close behind her.

  Shanna could feel his nearness in every fiber of her being. The manly odors of sweat, leather, and horses invaded her senses. Her pulse raced, and her heart took flight. She wanted to say something, do something to turn away his attention, yet it was as if she were frozen and could only wait for his touch. His hand moved toward her, his fingertips brushed her hair—

  Hurrying footsteps came along the wooden planks of the front porch, and a small woman’s shape moved across the windows toward the door. Ruark straightened and moved quickly away, and when Milly Hawkins came bursting through the door, he made a show of sorting through a pile of hats. The desk was hidden from view behind a stack of small kegs as one entered from the front, and the girl completely missed Shanna’s presence in her hasty glance about the store. She saw Ruark’s bronzed back and ran toward him, clutching a bundle of his bondsman’s garb against her breast. He had no choice but to face her as she rushed into an explanation.

  “I saw ye coming into the village, Mister Ruark, and I thought to save ye from havin’ to fetch yer clothes we washed for ye.”

  “I pass near your house on the way home, Milly. I could have picked them up then.” He gave her a lame smile and over her head caught Shanna’s brittle regard of them.

  “Oh, Mister Ruark, that’s all right. I weren’t doing anything an’ I thought I’d save ye some time.” Milly tossed her raven curls coyly, and her wide, black eyes touched him everywhere. Boldly she reached out and ran a hand along the lean ribs.

  Shanna’s glower was more than piercing as she stared at the young woman’s back and watched the slim fingers caress the bronze skin. Absently Ruark brushed aside Milly’s hand.

  “Are you free this evening, Mister Ruark?”

  Ruark chuckled at the girl’s tactless approach. “It so happens I have duties which will occupy me most of the night.”

  “Oh, that old man Trahern!” Milly cried in exasperation, setting her hands on her hips. “He al’ays got sompin’ for ye to do!”

  “Now look, Milly,” Ruark began, not missing the raising of Shanna’s brows. He was having trouble keeping his own mirth silent, and it infected his voice. “The
squire has demanded nothing more of me than what I have offered.” He held up the bundle of clothes. “But thank your mother for these.”

  It was a known fact in the village that Milly Hawkins was among the laziest wenches about. She and her father were inclined to lie about most of the day complaining of their poor state of finance while Mrs. Hawkins labored hard and long as sole supporter for their family. But the money she earned was much wasted as the father had a taste for rum. Ruark knew it was not the girl who had washed his garments, and he was not of a mind to spread gratitude where it was not due, for the twit would likely be at his shack next with the flimsy excuse of seeing it clean.

  “Me ma says ye must be the cleanest man on Los Camellos,” Milly reported gayly. “She sees ye cartin’ yerself off down to the creek every evening and pretty soon ye come back and give her yer dirty garb. Me pa says bathin’ that much ain’ good for ye, Mister Ruark. Why, there ain’ nobody, ‘ceptin’ maybe that high and mighty Trahern bitch and her folks there in that big house who waste so much time trying to keep clean.”

  Ruark’s roar of laughter made the girl stop abruptly. Shanna sat stiffly upon her stool, considering Milly with anything but love or affection. The young woman, bemused by Ruark’s response, turned to find herself beneath Shanna’s glare, which was cold enough to freeze her on the spot. Milly’s jaw dropped like a dead weight, and she gaped in wordless astonishment.

  “ ‘Tis Madam Beauchamp now, Milly,” Shanna corrected icily. “Madam Ruark Beauchamp, if you please, or, if you don’t please, the Beauchamp bitch.”

  Milly groaned in abject misery and rolled her eyes at Ruark, who had subsided somewhat. Shanna slammed the ledger closed with a bang and, tossing the quill aside, stepped lightly to the floor.