Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “The lad’s not there,” Trahern interrupted tersely. “I have sent about this island and none have seen him.”

  Gaylord appeared perplexed. “My word, I’ve no thought as to where a man might disappear to, especially on an island like this. Is he inclined to—wander a bit?” At Trahern’s raised brow and Shanna’s questioning stare, he cleared his throat and made his apologies to the latter. “Pardon me, dear lady, for being so bold in your presence. But being a widow yourself, you must be aware that some men enjoy the company of a—ah—lady on occasion. Mayhaps he’s been—ahem—detained.”

  Shanna’s cup rattled on the saucer, and she almost spilled the hot liquid over her lap before she managed to reclaim her poise. It was Gaylord’s misfortune that Berta stepped to the door in time to hear this last exchange. She quickly bustled in to give the man a hot retort.

  “She be liddle more den a babe, ya lanky galoot, a mere child, and I tank ya to hold dose wile tings to yaself.”

  Casually Pitney sipped his toddy and peered at Shanna from under his brow while Gaylord hastened to make humble apologies to both women.

  Trahern snorted and ignored Gaylord’s plight. “I give the lad credit for knowing the difference between work and pleasure. I fear some disaster might have befallen him, else he would be here.”

  “Aye,” Ralston agreed derisively. “He found himself a tidy hole on that ship that sailed in the night. Why else would it go, leaving like some slinking hound who’s been up to no good? Ye’ll not see Mister Ruark again lest ye set a purse for his return. Then I swear if caught, he should be hanged for an example, or you’ll be having the lot of them trying the same.”

  Trahern heaved a heavy sigh. “If he cannot be found, then I must assume he’s gone of his own will. If that be so, I’ll set a purse of fifty pounds for his capture.”

  Ralston smirked with his renewed importance and cast a glance toward Shanna. “What do you think, madam? Do you not agree that a treacherous renegade should be hanged for a villain?”

  Shanna was stunned, unable to answer. Her thoughts clanged together in confusion. Even in her wildest imagination she had not thought they’d hunt Ruark down like a mad beast. Her eyes caught Pitney’s scowl upon her, ominous and accusing, and she knew not what to reply.

  The search for Ruark continued through the afternoon. Shanna retreated to her bedchamber and tried to dismiss the gnawing fears that had begun to plague her. Giving Hergus the excuse of not feeling up to dressing, she sought the comfort of her bed again and attempted to retrieve some hours of the sleep she had missed during the night. Exhaustion finally overcame her racing mind, and she drifted into sweet oblivion. Then dreams began to invade the peace of sleep. She was happy, surrounded by children of varying ages, while she cuddled an infant to her breast. Laughter squealed from the playing youngsters, and a toddler ran between his father’s legs to be swept up into strong arms. Their dark heads came together, and the father became Ruark, laughing as he came to her and bent near to kiss her lips—

  Shanna woke with a start, her body clammy with perspiration. It was a lie! She recoiled in sudden sadness. The dream could never be! An oppressive, aching, downtrodden feeling of loneliness assailed her, and she cringed beneath its crushing weight, burying her face in her pillows. Because of her actions she would never see Ruark again, no more know the sweet, caressing warmth of his lips upon hers, nor again be comforted in his protective arms.

  It was dark when Hergus came with a tray of food. Shanna hid her swollen eyes and tear-blotched face behind the pages of a book and lamely directed the woman to leave the platter on a table, not even caring to inquire why she had brought it up. The maid, however, offered the information as she peered suspiciously at her young mistress.

  “Yer pa said for me to tell ye. Sir Billingsham thought he sighted someone who looked like Mister Ruark in the village, and the squire’s gone to search the town, taking all the men from the island with him to see if Mister Ruark might be found. Why, there ain’ even one single soul of a man in the house left. Yer pa is mighty determined to catch Mister Ruark if he’s to be caught. I wonder meself where he’s got to.”

  Shanna was mute, and the woman finally left, gaining no more information than she had entered with.

  For Shanna, time slowed to an agonizing eternity. She could not force herself to take even a small morsel of the food on the tray. She donned a fresh nightshift and belted a light robe over its thin batiste and then sat staring at a book of poetry in her lap. She could not concentrate—in every verse she saw the hero, slender and dark, a half-naked, savage-looking man with amber eyes. With a moan she threw the volume aside and flung herself across the bed to stare moodily across the space of her chamber. Her dainty clock heralded the eleventh hour. Sometime later she heard a noise below and could only reason it was her father returning, in defeat of course. Then her ears caught the sound of shattering glass. Her father in a rage? She could understand that. He had been fond of Ruark. Now, he must imagine that he had been betrayed.

  A slam of a door drew a frown from her, and she rose and, taking up a candle, passed through her sitting room to the hall. Hergus had stated that her father had taken all the men. If he had returned, then the servants would have come with him. But the house was dark and, for the first time in her life, seemed strangely menacing to her.

  “Who’s there?” Shanna called down from the top of the stairs and tried to see into the shadows below.

  No answer came, only a hushed and oppressive silence. Bravely she set her feet on the steps and began to descend slowly, listening, waiting for some familiar sound to ease her tensions. A muffled shuffle of feet broke the eerie quiet, making the skin on the back of Shanna’s neck crawl. Much the stranger to fear, she plucked up her courage and hastened her steps downward, shielding the candle with her hand.

  “Who is it, I say? I know you’re there.”

  She had only taken two steps from the stairs when a hairy hand reached out of the darkness and snatched the candle. Shanna gasped and whirled. The light was lifted until it revealed a pockmarked face; a scar running the length of it pulled down the corner of one eye in a curious pinch of skin. A leering grin displayed uneven, blackened teeth. In that moment of nightmarish terror, it seemed the devil had taken human form.

  Part Two

  Chapter 15

  WHEN GUNSHOTS SOUNDED from the island, Ruark suffered an uneasy moment, expecting Harripen and the waiting crew to turn on him. They were clustered on the quarterdeck gazing off toward the island, and they seemed for the moment to have forgotten him. As no threatening moves were made toward him, he continued worrying at his bonds in an attempt to loosen the ropes looped tightly about his wrists. It was sometime later that he was again interrupted by Harripen, who called several of the men to join him and pointed to land. Ruark could see nothing of what transpired ashore but was relieved that no further attention was directed toward him. He redoubled his efforts, but the knots were stubborn and well tied.

  Harripen resumed his pacing across the deck of the schooner, and Ruark made little progress with his bonds. The night grew still, the only sounds being the creaking of the ship, the slip-slap of waves against the hull, and an occasional muffled voice. There was no further activity from Trahern’s island.

  Almost two full hourglasses had run when there was a shout from the masthead and word was passed that the landing party returned. Though it was far from his expectations, Ruark sighed his relief at the news. By the grace of God he might survive it all yet.

  That thought, however, was short-lived, and he braced himself for the worst as Harripen dashed down from the quarterdeck, drawing his cutlass as he came. Ruark eased considerably when he realized the man’s blow was not for him but was, rather, a quick slash that severed his bonds and set him free. Quickly Ruark disentangled himself from the now limp strands as the pirate captain hurried hack to the rail, throwing a comment over his shoulder.

  “ ‘Twould seem ye’ve served us true, laddie. Ou
r men come now.”

  The schooner was hailed by a whistle in the night, and soon the pirates were swarming aboard, hoisting with them bags and chests heavy with loot. Ruark seized upon the distraction and eased back into the shadows at the far side of the deck, waiting for a chance to dive overboard and swim ashore. He was slipping off his sandals to be free of them when a large, carved chest with an unusually ornate brass lock was sweated aboard. Apprehension raised its worrisome head as Ruark recognized it as the one which had sat below Georgiana’s portrait in the manor house. It took six of the deck hands to sway the ponderous piece over the rail, and it settled to the deck with a thud that bespoke its weight. Ruark stepped nearer, cold dread beginning to build within him.

  From the boats below, a muffled screech suddenly pierced the air, raising the hackles on the back of Ruark’s neck. He waited tensely as the French half-breed, Pellier, climbed over the side of the ship and reached back to lift aboard a struggling form covered from top to knees by a heavy burlap sack that was firmly bound with cordage. Trim ankles and small, bare feet protruded from the bottom, with the trailings of a white garment twisting about shapely calves.

  Ruark swore viciously under his breath and strode forward into the lantern’s light as the bonds were loosened and the sack was snatched away. Then he found himself staring into the most enraged green eyes he had ever seen.

  “You!” Shanna gasped. “You—blackguard!”

  She seized a short oar from the railing and, before any one could move, swung it with all her strength at Ruark’s head. He ducked easily, and the weapon splintered against the mast behind him. Shanna yelped, and the shaft fell from her numb hands. Fighting tears of pain, she could only glare her hatred.

  “You damned witless fools!” Ruark roared, stopping Pellier’s loud guffaws. “Do you not ken what you’ve done? This is Trahern’s brat, and he’ll be after you with a sail full of vengeance!”

  “Aye, and I’ll see he hangs you first!” Shanna railed. “Then I’ll laugh when he feeds your foul carcass to the sharks!”

  Before her blazing glower, Ruark bowed in mockery. He well knew the depth of their precarious situation. With only himself to worry about, escape would have been relatively simple, but to get them both away to safety would take careful planning.

  Three other prisoners were pulled aboard, and Ruark recognized them as bondsmen. They were thrown roughly to the deck against the rail and lashed together there. They would continue to know slavery, Ruark surmised, but now beneath the ready whip of less than humane masters.

  Ruark made a turn about Shanna, a careless swagger in his walk. He gave her a lusty perusal as if his mind held lewd thoughts. At the moment Pellier and Harripen were more interested in the material treasures which were being hauled aboard from the small boats and had left their lovely captive to be guarded by several of the men.

  “You traitor,” Shanna hissed as her eyes followed Ruark.

  “No traitor, milady.” His voice was low and reached her ears alone. “But a simple victim of fate and a woman’s whimsy. I bend with the winds of chance and make the best of what they offer.”

  Shanna was furious. That she had even felt a tiny inkling of remorse for her actions was now bitter gall to swallow.

  “You beggardly wretch of a knavish whoreson!” she sneered. “You bastardly rakish cur!”

  Beneath the onslaught of her insults, Ruark laughed sardonically. Her robe hung open, forgotten in her plight, and the shortened batiste nightshift she wore underneath little impaired his wandering gaze. Ruark could see that she was causing a stir among the crew, for they were beginning to come forth from different parts of the ship to better view this dazzling beauty whose hair tumbled in magnificent disarray around her shoulders and shimmered like gold in the lantern’s glow. His task was laid out for him, to be sure.

  Suddenly, Shanna felt Ruark’s hand bold upon her breast, seizing her in a rough caress, and in choked outrage she flung it from her, snatching the dressing gown tightly about her narrow waist and belting it securely. She saw the challenge in his eyes and rose to it in a vengeful fury.

  “This time you’ve betrayed my father,” she gritted through clenched teeth. “And he’ll hunt you down like the dog you are.”

  “Betrayed!” Ruark laughed caustically and continued in derision, “Nay, madam. I pray you consider. I but sought the favors of my own wife. ‘Twas she who callously betrayed my trust—”

  “You filthy guttersnipe! You gallivanting cock!” Livid with rage, Shanna flew at him and sought to claw the smirk from his handsome face, hating him with every fiber of her being. Snarling, Ruark caught her wrists and jerked her close, crushing her brutally against him. Shanna gasped in pain, feeling the terrifying strength of his lean, hard body and her own helplessness. Her ribs creaked beneath the strain, and breathing seemed futile. Though she mustered every bit of her energy, she could not escape and finally collapsed limply against him. Her tears trickled through thick lashes, and Ruark heard her mutter in bitter defiance:

  “Hicks should have hanged you, and I wish he had!”

  Cupping her lovely chin in his hand, Ruark forced it up until Shanna stared into those savage amber eyes. His dark face was rigid, and his words snapped into her like bolts from a crossbow.

  “Little thanks to you, I have thus far survived this last bit of your treachery.” His tongue gave his words added venom. “But if my luck holds, I’ll see this matter to my advantage as well.”

  He pushed her into the bony hands of Gaitlier, Captain Pellier’s wizened manservant.

  “Hold the wench and keep her from mischief,” Ruark commanded. He stepped to the rail and climbed onto the ratlines to peer toward the village.

  “Pellier, give me your glass,” he called after a moment. He received the instrument without delay and through it scanned the port. In the bright moonlight he could see the dark masts of a ship and barely discerned movement on it. He tossed the glass to the Frenchman. “They’re already warping the Hampstead out. You will soon be feeling the cast of her guns.”

  Ruark had seen the carnage a broadside could wreak aboard a ship and knew it played no favorites. He could guess that Trahern’s rage at this attack would be at its fullest, and he wondered yet how it had come to be. If the squire were aware that they had kidnapped his daughter, he would proceed with caution, but Ruark could not take the chance. The Good Hound bore two bow chasers and two stern chasers with several small falconettes on swivels along the rail. The small guns would be no match for the armed brig setting to the chase, but the schooner was trim and with her blackened sails could easily slip away.

  Ruark stepped down from the rigging and faced the silent group. “Unless you fancy a long night’s swim, my hearties, I suggest you get underway.”

  Harripen was more a man of decision than the others and bellowed, “ ‘E’s bloody well right.”

  The Englishman set the seamen to action with a flurry of commands. “Get those boats aboard. Ahoy there, Pinch,” he called to an elder seaman who mounted watch on the forecastle. “Hoist the bloody anchor. And, Barrow, set every inch of dark sail you can find.”

  Then he turned in a calmer manner to Pellier and grinned into the scowling, scarred face.

  “Excuse me, Robby. ‘Tis your ship. If ye’d care to set the course for Mare’s Head, we’d be only too ‘appy to be on our way.”

  The Frenchman took a mean swipe at one of the men who had gone ashore with him. “We could have gone unnoticed had you not let that other bitch escape the manor.”

  His victim squawked, stumbling backwards under the man’s assault. “ ‘Tweren’t me ‘oo let that tonguelashin’ Scottish biddie go. It were Tully! She kicked him in his jewels and struck out fo’ the village.”

  “I’ll see him gelded,” Pellier threatened, going aft.

  Tully, a sparse man, peered after his captain doubtfully. “Why, cap’n, if it weren’t fer her,” he called after Pellier, “we wouldna caught ye these three who come running at he
r call.”

  His words were ignored as the pirate captain set his crew into motion. Soon the dark schooner had a bone in her teeth and was racing away in the night. It was not until the square, white sail of the brig was lost on the horizon that the picaroons turned again to counting the booty. A weighty iron box was opened and was found to contain gold coins. This was hastily transferred to the captain’s cabin, where it was stowed in a larger chest for division later. There were several huge bags of silver and gold plate to be valued and shared and a barrel of fragile porcelain carefully packed. The latter, of no value to the pirates, was marked for the mayor of Mare’s Head for his tithe, as were some crates of finer wines and food. Then only the one large chest remained, and all held their breath, for this promised to be the greatest treasure.

  Pellier leered and boasted loud. “The Trahern wench says this has a wealth no man can count.”

  Shanna stepped closer, a wry and twisted smile curving her soft lips. Ruark read her face and knew full well that mischief was brewing in her beautiful head. For the sake of caution he waited nearby, watching the proceedings but taking no part. A blow of an ax crushed the lock and freed the pawl. Pellier shouted and threw open the lid. His dark eyes gleamed at the tray filled with small leather pouches.

  “Jewels!” he proclaimed. “We’ll all be rich!”

  Greedily he snatched a sample, pulled open the cord, spilled the contents in his hand, then stared in mute amazement, for he held no greater wealth than the trigger, lock assembly, and the butt plate of a musket. Frantically he rummaged through the bags and found only the hard clink of iron. He and Harripen lifted the heavy tray and pulled aside an oil skin to reveal beneath it tier upon tier of long, slim musket barrels stacked neatly in place upon notched wooden strips.

  Harripen lifted one in bemusement and turned it in his hands. “ ‘Pon me saints,” he remarked as he hefted one of the pouches. “ ‘Tis not but muskets—without butts even. Useless bloody muskets!”