Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Shanna shrugged, noncommittal. Taking her reply as affirmation, Ruark waded out into the deeper part again until the water played in widening circles about his chest. Shanna made her decision. She reached behind her to the laces of her gown, but paused as she heard the clanking of a bell coming closer. A pair of big-uddered nanny goats appeared with their bleating kids trailing at their heels, and not far behind them, humming a tuneless air, strolled Carmelita. Espying the group that had preceded her, she gave a cry of greeting.

  “Eh, gov’na, I sees ye got me spot. Well, move it over then, laddie, cause ‘ere I come.”

  Her clothes seemed to take flight of their own and landed on a nearby bush. Then with open abandon, a total lack of modesty, her ponderous foreparts naked to the breeze, she cleaved the air in a joyous dive and landed upon the formerly glass-smooth surface of the pond, raising a geyser that left Ruark’s hair dripping across his face and ears and dampening the still shocked Shanna no small amount.

  Ruark waded to the shallows and stood gasping and wiping wet hair from his eyes. He looked up in time to see the last twitch of Shanna’s shirts before she disappeared up the trail. He called after her and heard what he thought might have been a wild goat snort in anger for a reply. Hastily he bent to pull the sandals onto his feet.

  “Damn little fool,” he muttered. “She’ll find trouble yet.”

  He snatched the rest of his gear into his arms and was trying to thrust an arm into the jerkin as he ran after his charge. Behind him a disappointed Carmelita, great dark-peaked bosoms floating before her like twin short-fused bombs, leaned back and stroked the water.

  “Bloody rude beggars,” she mused. “Couldn’t stay for a little fun. Huh! Had his britches on anyways.”

  Ruark had caught up with Shanna as she stalked along. Shrugging his sash over his shoulder, he settled the sword to his hip and patted his hat in place, restoring himself to his jaunty image. Her pace was now the one that made him hustle and he had to stretch out to gain his position in front of her. Shanna strode along in silence, her gaze fixed straight ahead, her lips clenched tightly in vexation. Ruark made it through the door of the inn in front of her, but as he paused inside she pushed by and without a break in her gait took to the stairs and fled into their room. Luckily the place was empty save for Mother, who dozed in his chair. The huge man started and roused and stared at Ruark for a moment then, just as quickly, returned to his slumbers.

  Shanna still stood just inside the door as Ruark closed it behind him, surveying the chamber in surprise. It had been scrubbed clean and smelled of strong lye soap. The wooden floor showed damp spots from a recent mopping, and every piece of furniture gleamed with a sheen of light oil rubbed on it. The stained feather ticks from the night before were gone, and fresh new ones replaced them; clean linens were neatly tucked in at the corners. Large, soft pillows in clean casings were propped at the head of the bed, and every piece of clothing had been put in its place. Even the tub had been scoured and glowed softly like a fine jewel at the end of the room. One small table was stacked high with linens and towels and close beside it another bore a rich assortment of scented oils, attars, sundry perfumes, and salts. A clean chamber pot was in the bottom of the washstand, and the pitcher on top brimmed with clear cool water beside a basin that had miraculously lost its coating of scum.

  Shanna gave a small start as if returning to reality and reached behind her neck to tug loose the bow of the lacing. A forward movement of her shoulders spread the back of the dress, and she shrugged, letting it fall to the floor. Oblivious to Ruark, she stepped out of its folds, giving the hated garment a disgruntled kick. She strolled leisurely to the washstand where she poured water into the basin, thrust her hands into the refreshing liquid, then drew one after another up her arms, letting the cool water trickle down. She sighed deeply and taking a soft cloth and a sliver of soap, began to wash herself with undisguised pleasure. She stretched her chin upward, displaying the long, shapely column of her neck and gently laved the reddened area where the collar had chafed. After a moment, she opened her eyes and in the mirror caught Ruark’s eyes on her. Half turning, she tossed him a withering glare.

  “Fill your eyes, you gawking ass. Perhaps your Carmelita still waits in the pool.”

  Ruark snatched his hat from his head and with an irritated flip of his hand sailed it onto the bed. His voice came curt and bitter. “ ‘Tis plain you’ve lost none of your talent for teasing, my love.”

  He lifted the sash from his shoulder and paused beside the woolen gown, raising it up on the point of the scabbard.

  “Shall I air your gown, milady?” he mocked. “Perhaps for a stroll on the morrow?”

  “Aye, milord,” she sneered, her tone every bit as loving and gentle as it had been before. “Air it out the window”—she pointed her chin in that direction—“with the rest of the trash.”

  Obligingly the garment was banished. When it had sailed from sight, there was a sudden flurry of voices beneath the window. Ruark braced his hands on the iron rail and, leaning out, saw below a pair of urchins, no more than a half-score years to either of them. They argued spiritedly, playing a tug of war with the dress. At his appearance they halted their squabble, looking up; then, perhaps fearful that he might recall the treasure, they skittered across the low wall and into the brush, each keeping a desperate hand locked on the coarse black cloth. Ruark’s amazement knew no end, for there below, where a high pile of cast-off garments, ticks and blankets and other assorted rubble had been, was nothing but a thin scattering of broken glass. Even the maligned chamber pot was gone. Ruark drew back inside. Little had he realized that such offal would be so valued in the hovels of the village.

  A trickle of water ran down his neck from his hair, and tossing the sword and jerkin into a chair, he snatched a towel from beside the tub and began to dry his hair. Shanna still washed herself, and from beneath the folds of the towel, he could view her unnoticed. Her ripe, young bosom caught his eye and so enticing was that soft peak where a small lather of soap collected that he could not resist the urge and reached out, wiping it from her with his finger, then cupping the whole of her breast in his eager palm. A sharp pain caught him in the ribs, and Shanna drew back her elbow for another blow. This one brought a grunt from him, and he pulled back his wandering hand to rub his own bruised flesh.

  Shanna faced him, a snarl on her lips. “Get your hands from me. You do not own me.”

  “Have I, then, your permission, milady, to seek from another that which you would not yield?” he jeered.

  “I’ll yield you nothing”—she snapped and, jaw thrust out, put a finger to his chest and slowly twisted it about a lock of hair—“but a fist in your belly if you touch me again. Get off.”

  She jerked her hand away from him, wringing a flinch of pain as the hair went with it and turned away, dismissing him as if he had never existed. Still, she casually fetched a sheet and wrapped it about her, bringing it up snug beneath her arms and tucking it carefully over that tempting fruit he had been wont to test.

  Shanna returned to washing her face, and with a rueful snort Ruark finished drying his hair. He threw the towel down, picked up a carved shell comb that lay atop the linens, then flicked his dampened locks into a general semblance of order. Admiring the careful workmanship that had shaped it, he turned the comb over in his hand, but suddenly it was snatched from him, and Shanna stood beside him, staring at it, her vengeance forgotten.

  “Where did you find this?” she asked in wonder.

  “There.” He pointed casually. “ ‘Twas right beside the brush.”

  With a cry of joy Shanna flew and caught up the brush, also. She clutched them to her breast as if they were a highly valued gift.

  “Oooh,” she crooned softly. “Thank you, Gaitlier. You do have a way with women.”

  Ruark stared at her with injured pride. “ ‘Tis nothing but a brush and comb,” he observed gruffly.

  “Nothing but!” Shanna threw him a glance of some
surprise then smiled softly at her treasures. “You simple oaf, you would do far better in your fickle meanderings with half that man’s understanding.”

  Happily Shanna scrambled to the middle of the bed. Gathering her legs beneath her and sitting back upon her heels, she laid the articles before her gently as if they might shatter at the slightest abuse. Lifting the comb and ignoring Ruark’s scowl, she began to work the tangles from her wildly cascading tresses, framed in reflections from her audience of mirrors.

  Day ended, bringing Carmelita and Dora with oil lamps to hang above the long table in the common room as darkness invaded the inn. Boisterous joviality grew louder with each cup that was passed among Harripen and the other captains. Ruark sat in the shadows away from the mainstream of coarse banter and watched as these outcasts bolstered their spirits on the plentiful rum and ale. He sampled the brew in his own mug more than a small bit and cast many a glance toward the shadows at the head of the stairs, waiting for Shanna to make an appearance. Her toilette had proved too much for him, and he had retreated here to the safety of numbers, before lust overcame him and he attacked her.

  Harripen drew away from the loud group which had gathered near his seat and approached Ruark. “Ah, man, ye’re just the one I would see,” he ventured in a slurred voice. “Ye see, I’ve been wondering now as to the wench.”

  Ruark raised a brow questioningly. In the meager light his eyes were like stone, staring into the man without a trace of warmth.

  “Be it true, lad? One of Trahern’s bondsmen said the liedy were no virgin at all, but a widow.”

  Ruark shrugged. “She was made a widow some months past. Some fellow by the name of Beauchamp.”

  “Oooii,” Harripen breathed, lust showing in his eyes. “And a new widow’d be most grateful for a good man on her belly.”

  He lay back on the table and bellowed his mirth at the timbers on the ceiling. His companions clustered around, and Ruark could feel the muscles in his own gut tighten. Shanna, as the topic of their conversation, would only brew trouble.

  Hawks sat on the table and leaned over his captain, gathering the others to him as if to share a secret with them, but his voice rang loud enough for Ruark to hear the words clearly.

  “If one man should please the liedy,” he leered, “is it not sure that a dozen would please her more? I say we should each take turns, being fair-minded like we are, that no man”—he hooked a thumb toward Ruark—“should have a giant’s portion of the loot. Share and share alike, I sez. And he already has had his own and poor ol’ Robby’s.”

  A general nodding of agreement followed, and lecherous grins gaped about the table, showing the readiness of the rogues to enter into a common arrangement. Harripen pushed himself up through them and slid back into his chair. Still chuckling, he peered at Ruark, but his eyes glinted as he connived to be first in any such arrangement.

  Ruark leaned back, his tension becoming a relaxed readiness to do instant battle. He returned Harripen’s stare over his mug as he sipped calmly at his ale.

  “Where is the wench?” Harripen asked. “She’s usually hanging onto yer coattails.”

  Ruark waved his mug toward the stairs. “In the room, but I would warn you—”

  “Ah, warn us not, ya Yankee swaggy,” the mulatto captain made bold to speak. The black rum had given him an unusual measure of courage. Swinging a meaty fist, he stood away from the table. “I’ll bring the Madam Beauchamp down to greet her peers.”

  Guffawing loudly, he plowed an uneven path to the stairway. “Don’t call if it takes me a while,” he roared over his shoulder and set his foot on the first step.

  The explosion in the confines of the room numbed the ears of all, and the mulatto froze as plaster flew where the huge ball struck the wall a bare hand’s breadth in front of his nose. In anger, he whirled and saw Ruark lowering the still smoking pistol. Snarling a curse, the man matched the cutlass from his side and leapt down to seek vengeance upon his assailant. His feet barely hit the floor before he stopped abruptly. The bore of the second pistol seemed twice as large as the other, and it gaped hungrily at his chest. He did not miss that the hammer was at full cock, and his rage vanished as rapidly as he sobered. He stared into the golden eyes of death, which gleamed behind the flintlock like twin orbs of hardened amber, and his swarthy face paled. Slowly, carefully, he replaced the cutlass in his sash and straightened, while he tried to twist suddenly thick lips into a smile.

  “I—,” he stammered, “I meant no harm, cap’n. I was only funning, you see?”

  The pistol dipped away from his chest, and Ruark nodded stiffly. “Your apology is accepted.”

  Ruark’s gaze went beyond the man and found Shanna at the top of the stairs. She had donned a modest gown of proportions approaching Carmelita’s. It hung almost straight from her shoulders, but its previous owner had not the height to allow the garment to cover Shanna’s trim ankles and bare feet.

  There was a glimmer in the shadows beside her skirt, and he took note of the small, silver dagger she held, no doubt found among Pellier’s effects in her search for appropriate apparel. It was a pitifully tiny thing, but, knowing her, Ruark could guess she stood prepared to fight the world.

  The mulatto took a place at the far end of the table, keeping carefully away from Ruark even though he had tucked the loaded pistol back into his belt.

  “Join us, Madam Beauchamp. Please do,” Ruark called, striding forward a pace or two. He beckoned to her and indicated a place at his side. “Come, stand here.”

  Before she came down into the full light, Shanna tucked the knife away in a shadowed fold of the skirt. As she appeared, Ruark faced the pirates and made a slow, deliberate show of reloading the fired piece. He rammed the shot home, tapping it gently against the powder, then rested the ramrod on Shanna’s shoulder when she moved beside him. She seemed very pale, very small, and very obedient.

  “This is mine,” he barked, and even Shanna started at the sound of his voice cracking loud in the silence of the room. He stepped to the table and put the butt of the pistol on it while, with a solid click, he slid the rod into its place beneath the barrel. Opening the pan of the flintlock, he primed it carefully, then placed his foot on the bench and rested his elbow on a knee, letting the pistol dangle loosely in his hand. Calmly he scanned the faces before him.

  “You speak of shares,” he sneered, his tone dangerously soft. “I could have claimed yours.” He pointed to the mulatto captain with his weapon. “And yours.” He stared directly at Hawks and ran his thumb almost longingly over the hammer. “Or even yours.” He smiled at Harripen. Then he laughed sardonically and spoke over his shoulder. “ ‘Twould appear that Mother is the only one who will not challenge my rights to you, Madam Beauchamp.”

  Replacing the pistol with its companion, he drew the long sabre, resting its point on the table in front of the men.

  “If anyone would challenge my right to anything, let him speak, and we’ll have it out now.”

  His eyes mauled the pride of each of them until each man either turned away or shook his head, refusing the glove. Ruark slammed the blade back into its sheath.

  “I thought not.”

  He went back to stand beside Shanna and began to speak in a stilted tone as if lecturing a group of small boys.

  “You may consider Madam Beauchamp a piece of merchandise which has by your own rules and consent been given over into my care. She is a treasure of great wealth, the bounty of which could send many of you to the colonies as wealthy country gentlemen.” He lifted a lock of her hair and displayed it for them. “A tapestry or a painting is a thing of great beauty and a thing of great value, but if abused and torn it becomes of no more worth than a rag, of little use to anyone. Do you think to trade a ravished daughter to her doting father for a rich reward? Have you heard of Trahern?” He grunted. “I have! Mother has! He will bear me out. If Trahern’s daughter is one whit less than she was, the man will hunt you all, each and every one to the ends of the earth
if need be, and he will make you dance from the yardarm for his vengeance.”

  The room was silent as they considered his warning. Mother rose from his. chair, and the table creaked as he leaned his weight upon pilelike arms.

  “Listen to him, lads,” his tenor voice commanded. His bald pate gleamed beneath the lamps, and his braided queues swung as he moved his head to look at each of them. “The man speaks well, and I fear that even should you take him, there would not be half of you left fit to pace a deck. We need every good hand, his with the rest.”

  Reluctant murmurs rose in assent, and after a moment Harripen slammed his mug down.

  “Carmelita! Dora! Fetch some vittles,” he bellowed. “Me belly aches with hunger, both for food and a good toss.”

  The tension was broken, and the corsairs turned to their cups. Ruark gave a nod of his head toward a bench in the shadows behind his chair, and Shanna quickly crossed to it, her knees still weak and trembling beneath her. She glanced up into Ruark’s face as he took his seat beside her, but even now it was hard for her to show gratitude. Not wanting to meet his eyes, she looked away.

  The men bantered and exchanged jibes as before, but every now and then Ruark caught a glare tossed in his direction. Orlan Trahern had best come apace to fetch his daughter to safety, Ruark mused, for he could not himself say how long he would be able to hold the pirates at bay. They were, for the most part, criminals fleeing the law—outcasts, rejects. With careless abandon they faced death, for it meant only an end to a meaningless existence. Maiming was what they feared most of all, for like wolves they must be healthy and strong to roam. Once crippled, they would have to beg scraps from the cruel and ruthless pack.

  Appearing to the others relaxed and confident, Ruark stretched his long legs before him and rested his arm on the edge of the table. Only Shanna knew there was that in him which was like a beast in the wilds. One could never be sure of his mood and must always treat him with the respect due a dangerous animal.