Shanna flung herself down, and Attila waded fetlock-deep in the water, plunging full half his head beneath its cool surface while he quenched his thirst and rested. Shanna gathered her hair into some semblance of order and laved her neck with a handkerchief she dampened in the chilled spray. As her warmth and excitement waned, she wet the kerchief again and drew it slowly over her face until the flush subsided and she began to regain her composure.
Once more the unruffled daughter of Trahern, Shanna mounted and reined the horse about, continuing on toward the village. Attila had enjoyed the run, and his blood still raced hot in his veins. He fought against Shanna’s hand and would have thrown himself into a wild dash again had she relented but a bit.
This was the apparition that entered the town and rattled across the cobbles to the dock, the mottled gray steed with his darker muzzle and stockings, prancing, flinging his legs wide and high, chafing against the control of the bit, his tail arched high and his full mane flowing with every movement. And on his back a vision of beauty such as few men see in a lifetime, cool and relaxed, controlling the beast with a practiced hand. A low-crowned, wide-brimmed hat sat squarely on her head, and the full riding skirt covered both herself and the side of the horse like the draped mantelet of some gallant knight.
Small wonder that the colonial seamen dropped what they were doing and paused in their labors to watch with gaping stares. Finding their gentle attention not unpleasing, Shanna gave them a brief nod in greeting and headed for the slip where the newcomer lay. There Shanna espied her father’s barouche and drew up beside to ask Maddock where the squire might be.
“ ‘Board the ship, ma’am,” the black man drawled and threw a careless thumb toward the tall barque. “Palaverin’ wit’ the cap’n, I ‘spect.”
When Shanna tossed the reins to the man and began to dismount, there was an immediate scuffle. A small crowd of tars had congregated and now jostled for the honor of helping her down. Patiently she waited until a young giant, who would have dwarfed Pitney, elbowed his way through the others and with a blushing grin offered his hand for her assistance. Swinging down, Shanna gave the lad a gracious smile of thanks then proceeded to the gangplank, trailing behind a chorus of half-muffled groans and sighs. Her dainty boots had not yet touched the deck of the ship when another young man stumbled to a halt before her. He stood ramrod stiff and clutched a brightly polished telescope beneath his arm; a brand new tricorn crushed his tousled blond hair. Recalling his manners, he snatched the hat from his head, almost dropping the glass, and greeted her loudly, overeager to be of service.
“Good afternoon, ma’am. May I be of service, ma’am?”
“If you will.” Shanna smiled while the poor youth seemed to swallow his tongue. “Might you carry a message to my father, that if he is to be shortly finished with his business here, I would enjoy a ride home with him.”
The young man began a salute but remembered himself. Instead, he did a smart quarter turn and flung out his arm to point.
“Is that your father, ma’am, with the captain by the—”
He snatched his hat as it threatened to blow overboard and caught the glass again from certain disaster. Holding the two clutched to his chest, he jerked his head toward the men.
“That be him, ma’am, with the captain?” he mumbled, a bit red-faced.
Shanna nodded as her eyes settled on the stocky shape of her father. The other man’s back was presented to her, displaying only a dark, thick thatch of auburn hair tied in a queue above his tall, blue-garbed frame.
The youth brightened. “Whom shall I say is aboard, ma’am?”
Shanna laughed at his spirit. “Madam Beauchamp, sir.”
“Madam Beau—” The young officer’s voice trailed off in unmasked surprise, and the tall man with her father turned abruptly and fixed her with a piercing gaze from beneath a glowering, frowning brow, as if he half expected some leering witch to be aboard his ship. Beneath that condemning stare, Shanna stood transfixed, unable to move or speak.
Ever so slowly the scowl faded. The eyes roamed over her briefly then returned to her face. Now a smile played just behind his features, and he gave a slow nod of what appeared to be approval.
Shanna let out a sigh and realized she had been holding her breath since he faced her. Had her life depended upon it, she could not explain why the approval of this man, whom she had never seen in her life, should please her.
As the captain strode across the deck, Shanna noticed that he was thin, almost to a fault, yet he moved with the easy, rolling stride of a seasoned seaman. His face was long and squarish, somewhat angular. Though a hint of fine humor showed about his brown eyes, there was a trace of sternness about the lips, or rather the firm decisiveness of a man accustomed to command. Pausing before her, he locked his oversize hands behind him as he rocked back on his heels in the briefest of cordial bows.
“Madam Beauchamp?” The words rolled from his lips in a drawl, yet they were spoken as a question.
Like the bow wave of a ship rolling forward, Orlan Trahern came to join them. Placing both hands on the gnarled end of his staff, he leaned heavily on it.
“Aye, captain, I would have you meet my daughter, Shanna Beauchamp.” Something odd twinkled behind the elder Trahern’s eye and, thus warned, Shanna braced herself. Still, the shock was no less stunning. “My dear, this is Captain Nathanial Beauchamp.”
The words were slow and deliberate, and he waited as, with crushing slowness, the full weight of the name dawned on the daughter. Shanna’s mouth opened as if she would speak, but no words came. Her eyes turned their burning question upward to the tall captain.
“Aye, madam.” His rich voice rumbled again. “We shall have to discuss this at length, ere my own good wife disowns me for a knave.”
“Later perhaps, captain.” Orlan Trahern cut short any further conversation. “I must be on my way. If you will excuse us, sir. And will you join me, Shanna, my dear, for a ride back to the house?”
Numbly Shanna nodded her assent, unable to shape a comment. Trahern gently guided her to the rail, there pausing as he called back over his shoulder.
“Captain Beauchamp.”
Shanna flinched at the name.
“I shall send a carriage for you and your men later.”
Without waiting for a reply, the squire departed from the ship, leading his mute and confused daughter on his arm. The captain strode to the rail, leaning against it as he watched the barouche swing about and disappear around the corner of a warehouse.
Shanna paused outside the drawing room door as she recognized Captain Beauchamp’s voice replying to Pitney. Ralston interrupted, cutting him short, but that deep, confident voice was unmistakable. Shanna clenched trembling hands together, trying to calm herself, and cast a glance toward the front door where Jason stood tall and silent.
“Jason,” she asked softly. “Has Mister Ruark arrived yet?”
“No, madam. He sent a note by a boy from the mill. There has been some difficulty, and he will need to remain there.”
“The wily knave!” Shanna thought. “He’s left me to flounder about for the explanations! I don’t even know if he’s really a Beauchamp. For all I know, he might have borrowed the name. So what then is that bloody beggar’s name? And my name? Madam John Ruark?” Shanna groaned inwardly. “Heaven forbid!”
Panic almost made her flee like a coward to the safety of her chambers, but she struck down the corrosive feelings which ate her composure away.
Soothing her raging emotions with the single thought, “I am Madam Beauchamp,” Shanna smoothed the multiple yards of pale pink satin cast with the iridescent luster of pearls. Delicate pink lace, dainty as the tiny satin rosebuds which caught the billowing skirt into little tufts, cascaded to the floor between twin borders of ruching. At mid-arm the same rich lace was gathered in flounces, and a narrow satin ribbon was tied about her slim, graceful throat where the lace had been stiffened to frame the expanse of flawless skin.
; Shanna was just touching a hand to her elaborately woven coiffure when the young third mate who had ushered her aboard the Sea Hawk strode near the door to set his empty glass on a small table there. When his eyes discovered her, he came to a halt and almost gaped.
“Madam Beauchamp!” he beamed, recovering himself. “What a lovely—” His eyes dipped to the high curves of her bosom displayed above her gown, and he stammered, blushed, and collected himself once more. “Ah—home you have here.”
Conversation in the room ceased and thus having been announced, Shanna could no longer hesitate. Forcing a smile, she swept gracefully into the room, lightly resting her hands on the wide panniered skirt to keep it from swaying too much. She was a vision men struggled to grasp as reality, and it was all too obvious the junior officer of the Sea Hawk was smitten. He stumbled in a parody of a bow when she paused before him, then flushed with pleasure as she bestowed the brillance of her smile on him, ignoring his clumsiness. A long sigh escaped him as she turned to her father who had come across the room to greet her. Brushing aside the gawking young men who had come with their captain, Orlan Trahern was obviously filled with pride as he presented his daughter to them. Throughout the introductions, Shanna was aware of Nathanial watching her with a slow, steady regard and was puzzled at his frown as his junior officer slipped through the press of admirers to stand beside her. She was also conscious that Ralston’s attention seemed more acute than usual, but she gave him little thought, not really caring what the man had on his mind.
The duties over, and secure on her father’s arm, Shanna paused before the colonial captain.
“Sir, it quite bemuses me how we’ve come to have the same name. Have you kin in England, mayhap?”
Nathanial Beauchamp smiled, and the brown eyes twinkled their humor as he looked down at her. “Madam, I came by the name quite honestly as my parents gave it to me. What we shall really have to discuss is how you came by it. Of course, all Beauchamps are kin in one way or another. Though we’ve had our rogues, pirates, and a blackguard or two, the name seems to recur with amazing regularity.”
The corners of Shanna’s mouth lifted impishly. “Your pardon, sir. I did not mean to pry. But should I not call you uncle, cousin, or some such?”
“Whatever suits your whim, madam,” Nathanial grinned. “But welcome to the family.”
Shanna nodded and laughed but dared press the matter no more, for her father was giving undue notice to the exchange and appeared to treasure and enjoy each morsel of it.
The dinner passed with relative ease as Captain Beauchamp and his officers conversed with Trahern on the possibilities of trade between Los Camellos and the colonies. Ralston was not in favor of this exchange, and spoke boldly.
“What can you get there, sir, that England and Europe cannot give you better? The crown will not be too pleased with you taking your business elsewhere.”
The purser of the Sea Hawk snorted. “We pay good taxes to the crown, but hold it our right to trade where we choose. As long as the duty is met, who is to complain?”
Ralston’s contempt was held to a sneer, but his tone was carefully polite as he spoke to Trahern. “Surely, sir, you cannot hope to gain much from trading with backwoods colonies.”
Edward Bailey, the first mate, sat forward in his chair. He was a short man, barely taller than Shanna, but broad and with brawny arms and shoulders. His short, stocky neck supported a face that was ruddy and almost cherubic behind an ever-present grin. His round, rosy cheeks never lost their vibrant hue, and when his ire was pricked, as it was now, they darkened even more.
“ ‘Tis, apparent ye’ve missed the colonies in yer travels, Mister Ralston, else ye’d be aware of the riches to be had. Why, in the northern climes they produce woolens and other goods, the likes of which would rival the best of England. We make a long rifle what can take the eye from a squirrel at a hundred paces. There be cordage and lumber mills along the southern coasts which provide quality cable, planks, and spars. The very ship we sail was made in Boston, and the likes of her has never touched the sea from another land.”
Trahern slid his chair back. “Your tales fascinate me, sir. I will have to look into this.”
With the signal that the dinner hour was at an end, the junior officer hastened to stand behind Shanna’s chair, almost kicking his own over in his rush. As she leaned forward to rise, Shanna caught a brief glimpse of Captain Beauchamp’s face and the heavy, pointed frown he directed to his third mate. But when her eyes returned to scan the visage, it bore once more its gentle half smile. Had it only been vexation at the youth’s clumsiness, Shanna wondered, or had the captain warned the lad away? At any rate, the young man limited further attentions to those of common courtesy and seemed much chastened.
The evening nearing an end, Shanna retired to her chambers, a sense of dissatisfaction wearing her mind raw. Finding no ease from her discontent, she sat silent before the dressing table while Hergus brushed out her hair. The maidservant sensed the pensive mood of her young mistress and held her tongue, realizing the effort Shanna had taken to avoid Ruark in the days past.
Dressed in a gown and a heavy silk wrapper, Shanna paced the length of her rooms, empty now of Hergus and lit only by a candle. Her mind raced and settled on no single point. Names pressed in upon her from every side, plaguing her with their question.
Shanna Beauchamp? Madam Beauchamp? Captain Beauchamp? Nathaniel Beauchamp? Ruark Beauchamp? John Ruark? Mistress Ruark Beauchamp? Beauchamp! Beauchamp! Beauchamp!
On and on the name rasped through her mind until, with a stifled cry of frustration, Shanna shook her head, wildly tossing the radiant mane about her. In search of clearer air, she stepped out onto the wide veranda and tried to walk away the goading doubts.
The night was gentle, warm, with a soft quality known only on the Caribbean Islands. High above the trees a moon flirted with white billowy clouds, kissing them until they glowed with its silvery light, then hiding its face behind their fleeting shoulders. Shanna wandered along the veranda, past the latticework that separated her balcony from those belonging to the other chambers. A face began to form in her mind’s eye, and an amber gaze penetrated the night. Shanna groaned within herself.
Ruark Beauchamp, dragon of her dreams, nightmare of her waking hours, why did he haunt her so? Before she had sought him out in the dungeon, she was frivolous and witty, even gay, but now she wandered listless and dreamy like a moonstruck maiden.
Shanna stared out across the shadow-mottled lawns.
“Ruark Beauchamp,” her whisper fell as soft as a wispy breeze, “are you there in the dark? What spell have you cast upon me? I feel your presence near me, and it touches me boldly. Must my passions hunger so when my mind tells me nay?”
Shanna leaned over the rail and tried to control her suddenly vivid imagination. “What spell has this man cast upon me?” she wondered. “Why can’t I break free and see my own ends out? I feel entrapped, as if I were his slave. Even now, he’s sitting in the cottage, mumbling some enchantment to bring me to his side. Is he warlock or wizard that I am bound to his demands? Nay, I shall not be! I cannot be!”
Drawing away from the balustrade, Shanna continued with her stroll, her eyes downcast, her mind occupied with musings.
Suddenly a dark shadow beside her moved, and she was engulfed in a cloud of fragrant smoke. Her heart fluttered into her throat.
Ruark! The name almost burst from her lips, but she choked it back.
“Your pardon, madam.” The deep, rich voice of Nathanial Beauchamp wore its concern heavily. “I did not mean to startle you. I was only taking a pipe in the open air.”
Shanna stared, trying to penetrate the dark shadow that hid his face. Her father had invited the captain to stay the night, but she thought little of him in her musings of Ruark.
“That smell—tobacco,” she spoke hesitantly. “My husband—used to—”
“A common enough habit, I suppose. They grow the stuff near my home. The Indians taught u
s to smoke it.”
“The Indians? Oh, you mean the savages.”
Nathanial chuckled, his voice rumbling easily. “Not all savages, madam.”
Shanna wondered how she would dare broach the subject that burned so in her mind. Deep in concentration, she started as his voice broke the lengthening silence.
“Your island is most beautiful, madam.” His hand with the pipe cradled in it came out in a brief span of moonlight, and the long stem swept to encompass the rolling hills beyond the trees then dipped to point toward the town. “Your father seems to have made the most of it.”
“Los Camellos,” Shanna murmured absently. “The camels, so the Spaniards called it.”
She turned to look directly into the shadows that surrounded him.
“Sir? There is a question I must ask you.”
“Your servant, madam.” He thrust the pipe into his mouth and puffed it alight, illuminating his features slightly.
Though her desire to know was strong, Shanna was at a loss as to how to frame her request. “I—I met my husband on a somewhat frivolous affair in London, and we were married only a few days later. We were together only a short while before he was—taken from me. I know naught of his family, or if he even had one. I would most dearly like to know if he has—I mean—left any—”
Her voice trailed off, and the pause grew strained as she struggled to find adequate words. It was he who answered her unspoken question.
“Madam Beauchamp, I can account for all my immediate family, and to my knowledge I have no cousins or distant kin by the name of Ruark Beauchamp.”
“Oh.” Her voice was small with her disappointment. “I had hoped—” She could not finish that statement either, for she did not know what she had hoped for.
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