“God help the world should he ever become a real pirate,” she thought. “He’d make a hellishly good one. He has a flair for leading men”—her eyes narrowed as Carmelita sauntered near him with a platter laden with roast meats—“as well as a way for leading women.”
Dora kept as far from the men as she could, loading the trenchers at the hearth and filling the pitchers of ale and wine from the huge casks, setting both on a low table there and letting Carmelita serve, a task that she accomplished most heartily. She could skillfully balance a large tray of meats on one hand, seize a brace of brimming mugs with the other, and still walk with a full swaying motion of her hips. Laughing gaily, she spun away from encircling arms and avoided the rougher grasping hands which seemed eager to seize portions of her body. Still, she pranced and displayed the deep cleavage of her ample bosom with amazing impartiality, though beside Ruark she lingered overlong and rubbed her thigh unnecessarily against his. She bent low so he could not miss the full display of her endowments and leaned well over his arm to refill his mug with ale. As she drew back, her bosom caressed the full length of his arm in an open, deliberate way.
Shanna bristled, incensed that Ruark did not remove himself from the woman’s attention. She could not see the disturbed frown he fixed upon Carmelita, and she dearly longed to lay the sole of her foot smartly against those broad buttocks.
Carmelita drew away to a safer distance, fetching another armful of food and drink and allowing Shanna to cool her rising temper, if only a small bit. As Ruark turned in his chair to Shanna, offering his plate for her to select a morsel, he could not miss the import of her squared jaw and the fine, tilted nose that somehow snubbed him while she chose what she wanted from his trencher.
Suddenly Mother slammed down his tankard and glared at them all accusingly. “There’s a stench in this room,” he snarled, “of the rich and haughty.” He silenced them all with a vicious swipe of his hand across the table. “ ‘Tis an odor of whips and blood and sweat. ‘Tis a stench of wealth and twisted justice. It smells like—”
His gaze flitted about the room again until it settled on Shanna. She stared into his mad eyes and had she been alone, without Ruark beside her, she would have hidden herself in terror. With a sudden movement Mother flung out a thick arm and pointed an accusing finger at her.
“ ‘Tis the smell of a Trahern,” he screamed, and Shanna quaked convincingly as all turned to stare. Ruark stiffened imperceptibly and lowered his glass. Mother’s high laughter rang in the room. “Rest yerself, Mister Ruark. No one here disputes yer rights to the vixen. Ye know full well I cannot hinder yer claim. But ‘tis my end that she serve us as we served her father—like a slave.”
Bellowing agreements came from every side, and Carmelita smirked as the noise died and added her verdict. “Aye, let the little twit earn her keep.”
Mother waved his arm toward Shanna and commanded, “Let her be about her labor like any good slave.”
At Shanna’s questioning glance, Ruark ever so slightly nodded his consent. In some confusion she rose to her feet, not quite aware of what was expected of her. Her gaze flickered across the leering faces until it came to rest on Mother. The giant smiled slowly.
“If ye please, Madam Beauchamp—a goblet of wine will tide me for a spell.”
A flagon was thrust into Shanna’s hand by Carmelita, who regarded her with dark, lazy eyes and a self-satisfied smile. With shaking fingers, Shanna clutched the pitcher to her, feeling the full weight of many stares and Mother’s sly eyes upon her. She refilled the eunuch’s cup. Then as others beckoned her with raised glasses and gaping grins, she moved hesitantly about the table, carefully filling the goblets with the thick, heady brew.
Harripen leaned back in his chair, watching her every movement, his eyes testing the soft curves hidden beneath her oversize gown. With a flip of her wrist Shanna brushed a curl off her cheek, and his heated gaze turned to the loose bodice which lay against her round breasts. Reflectively he let his perusal leave her to pass over the robust Carmelita, who sliced meat with an energetic motion, setting her heavy breasts swinging. He sipped his wine and began to eat again, having decided that at the proper time he would ease his needs—but not with the slut.
The mulatto showed no such patience. As Shanna came near him, he grasped her wrist, causing her to slosh wine over his knee. Fearfully Shanna tried to snatch free, but he pulled her ever closer until he chanced a glance toward Ruark. Then he froze, seeing those golden eyes hardening with that same piercing coldness he had seen glowing behind the flintlocks. With a pained smile he set her from him, and Shanna made haste to step beyond his reach.
Ruark waited until all had been served then motioned to Shanna, who came quickly. She leaned over to pour wine into his goblet, and in a careless moment her breast lightly brushed against his shoulder where the sleeveless jerkin left it bare. The contact caught them both unawares, startling each with a quick excitement that rippled through their bodies. Their eyes met with a suddenness that made a blush suffuse Shanna’s cheeks. Unsteadily she straightened, clutching the pitcher against her bosom in painful confusion.
Having witnessed the whole of the encounter, Harripen burst out into loud guffaws, grasping the shirt of the Dutchman, who joined his glee when the Englishman pointed to them, drawing everyone’s attention.
“ ‘Ey there, Mister Ruark, ye’ve trained her well.”
Ruark slipped an arm about Shanna’s hips, placing his hand with bold familiarity upon her buttock, and returned a grin to the leering men. “Aye, but she has a mite to learn yet. ‘Tis like breaking a good mare. I can’t leave her alone too long.”
He felt Shanna stiffen and could guess how his words must rankle.
“Aye,” the Englishman bellowed. “ ‘At’s the way of it. But here, lass, let Carmelita show you a thing or two.”
Carmelita came forth eagerly, swinging her broad hips, and leaned against Ruark’s chair, oblivious of Shanna, who slowly burned while brown fingers curled in Ruark’s dark hair. In the face of the smaller woman’s glare, Carmelita laughed.
“Take it easy, lovey. He looks like he’s got enough to please the both of us. The mores the merrier, I al’ays say.”
Shanna’s eyes narrowed as the woman fell giggling into Ruark’s lap, causing his breath to leave with a “whoof.” He struggled to sit up beneath the weight and seemed somewhat pained as Carmelita spread eager kisses over his face and chest. Twisting upon his lap and crooning in his ear, she pulled his hand to her breast and settled her own hand intimately upon the bulge of his manhood.
Something within Shanna snapped, like a dry twig beneath a heavy foot. With a low, rising shriek of rage, she reached out and gave Carmelita a heave that sent the woman sprawling to the floor. There Carmelita sat, somewhat dazed by the attack of this supposed lady. The roaring laughter of the pirates, however, would not let this affront go unpunished, and a long, slim blade suddenly appeared in Carmelita’s hand.
Ruark rose to his feet as it again looked as if he would have to intervene, but a shattering of glass brought his attention around to Shanna. His brow raised in mild wonder as he saw that she faced the larger woman with a cloth slung through the handle of a broken pitcher. He removed his chair and himself from Shanna’s way, though not far. She stood her ground, swinging the sharp-edged shard on the length of towel. It made an excellent mace. The graceful line of her jaw was set with the same stubbornness he had often witnessed before. He could not but admire the savage beauty her wrath brought forth as her sun-streaked hair swirled in glorious disarray around her.
Carmelita retreated a step, her uncertainty written plainly in her face. Even if she managed to cut Shanna, the jagged edges of the shattered pitcher could mar her for life, and in this place, having to make her living from men, she could ill afford the loss of any part of her meager beauty. She saw the determination in Shanna’s eyes, the fire in the bluish-green depths. She had not been bested before, but she thought it wiser, for the moment at leas
t, to retreat.
She tucked away the knife, and relaxing, Shanna set her own weapon down. Harripen chuckled as he reached out to pat Shanna’s rump in approval, then almost swallowed his tongue in surprise as the open palm of her hand struck him smartly across his face. Ruark held his breath, awaiting the Englishman’s reaction; but Harripen, after the first shock, gave a hearty roar of laughter.
“Damn and be damned, me hearties, she’s as mean as Trahern himself.”
The Dutchman was feeling high of spirit, mostly the strong black rum he preferred. He stepped close to Shanna and, before she could react, locked her in a sweaty bear hug while he roared his merry chortles painfully in her ear.
“Dat Harripen don’t have goot luck wit’ women. Now, lil’ gal, ol’ Fritz Schwindel vill keep ya from des hahnhunders.”
Shanna’s knee found a likely spot, and the Dutchman reeled away with a shout of pain while his meaty hand swung around to deliver a cuff to her head. Shanna was faster than the obese Netherlander and ducked beneath his paw, but his huge fingers caught in the nape of her dress, splitting it down the back seam to her waist. She gave his booted toes the best of her heel and spun away from him, grasping the front of her gown in sudden distress. She whirled to Ruark, and in a split second a rush of fleeting emotions held her rooted to the spot: her desire to fling herself into his arms and beg him to take her from this flared; her anger that he would expose her to such debauchery raged; her humiliation roweled; and her fear of that yet to come reduced all to a confused jumble of feelings. Tears came, ready to spill from her eyes, but all was solved for her in a twinkling. With crystal clarity she saw it all, though much was lost to the others.
A snarl twisted Ruark’s face. He crouched low then uncoiled like a striking snake. He flew across the space, stretched out like a leaping tiger on the attack. Herr Schwindel was still hopping about, trying to hold his twisted toes and soothe his ruffled groin at the same time, when Ruark struck him full on the chest. The assault carried the Dutchman backwards to slam against the wall, and as they rebounded Ruark set his feet and heaved. The fat man rode across Ruark’s shoulder to sail his length and more, before crashing onto the floor and, still spinning on his back, sliding beneath the table.
The sabre hummed its bittersweet song as it sprang from its sheath, and the Dutchman scrambled onto the other side of the table, spilling chairs and men from his path in his eagerness to escape.
“Nein! Nein!” he blubbered. “Der recht ich nicht haben!” Seeing his words had no effect on Ruark, he struggled with the English. “I have no right! I give! I yield!”
The sight of the coward groveling behind the table brought Ruark to his senses, and he slowly relaxed and put away the sword. He glanced at the faces of the pirates and saw no challenge. He need speak no further. They understood at last the tooth of his claim to the wench and that he would tolerate no encroachment of it. He presented his back to them and, though his muscles twitched, he felt no prick of steel. A motion of his hand sent Shanna ahead of him, and he followed with slow, measured tread until the door to their chamber was closed and bolted behind him.
Ruark leaned against the portal and breathed deeply to ease the tension in his back. It had built with every step he had taken away from the table, and he was sure that, with the possible exception of Mother, there was not one below who did not yearn for the courage to sink a blade between his ribs. He watched Shanna cross the room to the window and there she stood, silently staring out into the darkness beyond the shutters. He could guess she was still riled about Carmelita and would have nothing to do with him.
He sighed, as much in frustration as in any relief he might have felt for even being alive. He’d be damned before he’d crawl to her begging forgiveness for what he was innocent of; yet he wanted the tenderness his explanations could bring from her. He craved an understanding look, her lips against his, her silken body within his arms, but knew it would somehow be lacking if trust were not mutally shared.
A candle had been lit beside the bed. Gaitlier, he guessed. And the bed was turned down invitingly. He couldn’t remember seeing the small man below or on the stairs. Must have come and gone the back way, Ruark mused, the stairs outside.
Aimlessly Ruark wandered about the room, shucking his weapons and jerkin, leaving them lay where they would be handy at morning’s first rising. No hint of a glance came from Shanna, only brooding silence. He paused beside the tub, realizing it had been filled, and smiled to himself. Gaitlier really did know a lady’s heart, especially Shanna’s.
Ruark went to stand close behind his wife and gently lifted a curl from off her shoulder. “Shanna?”
She jerked around, red-rimmed eyes wide with anger and a challenge on her lips.
“Hush,” he breathed before she could speak and laid a finger upon her mouth. Taking her hand, he led her to the tub. Here, the room was dark, and she could not understand his purpose until he lit a candle. Her gasp of surprise warmed him, and she gave no pause, but pushed him away and quickly made a makeshift drapery between two mirrors with a sheet. A moment later Ruark smiled as he heard a splash followed by a long sigh of pleasure. Moving to the window, he lifted a leg onto the sill and sat gazing out across the low, forbidding blackness of the island.
It was sometime later when Ruark turned and noticed that Shanna’s candle cast her shadow on the sheet. His perusal of the darkness was forgotten as his attention shifted to her performance. Once she rose and reached into the armoire, and her silhouette showed in full detail upon the cloth. His blood warmed, flooding his body with desire. He remembered a night gone by when she had come to him and laid herself in his arms with a passion such as he had never known in a woman. There was a great longing in him for it to be that way again. With a slow but purposeful stride, he went to the drapery and lifted it aside, giving her a start. His eyes caressed all that they touched. Her swelling breasts gleamed with wet droplets, which seemed to sparkle in the candlelight. The shallow water held nothing from his regard, and his passion fed upon the stirring sight. Her own gaze was soft, and her breathing shallow as she stared up at him. Then her eyes moved downward and something less than desire kindled within them.
She pulled a cloth over her bosom. “My Lord Captain, you intrude. Am I to have no privacy?”
Ruark scowled. “Shanna love, you are indeed ravishing beyond words, but I feel the bitter bite of ire much too sharply and of late too often. Am I to endure this outrage when you have no cause?”
“No cause indeed!” Shanna snapped. “You flaunt yourself with cutoff breeches and shirtless back, roam the lower streets of town, then prance yourself across my balcony to beseech me greet you as some long-lost lover. Am I a fool? Am I simple? For them,” she jerked her head toward the door, “I will play the mopish slave, but do not mistake yourself, my Captain Rogue. In this chamber you will lie alone. Or if you be in truth the pirate bold, then you may ease yourself by force and nothing less.”
“Shanna,” Ruark was set to argue the point. “Why do you do this? I—”
“Will you straighten the panel please”—she cut him short—“and let me find some comfort for a moment?”
So dismissing him, Shanna, leaned back in the tub and, raising a shapely limb, began to leisurely wash her leg. Ruark fought the urge to snatch the towel away and set an end to the indifference she portrayed. His passion demanded it, but his mind knew the folly of such. He was well aware that Shanna, confronted with force, would rally to meet it with all the energies of an outraged feline and would not yield short of exhaustion. Where would the pleasure be in taking her then? He had known the joy of her willing response. He could settle for nothing less.
Angrily he jerked the barrier over the mirrors again and stretched out on the bed to watch her shadow for his enjoyment. Her silhouette fled as she left the tub. Long moments passed. Ruark doffed his breeches and slipped beneath the sheet. With something less than patience he waited, aware that Shanna could not so easily dismiss his presence once in bed
. He had already noted the tendency of the feather ticks to gather in about them, drawing them to one another. Even with her sternest efforts, she would be hard put to stay away. He folded her side of the sheet down further so she would find no hindrance there. The candle by the bed lit the room with its dim glow. Still he waited. Finally her light was doused and the sheet taken away. Shanna was fully dressed, but how she was dressed. A long, black silk skirt garishly embroidered with colorful flowers was tucked up upon itself as Carmelita’s had been, showing a trim and shapely thigh. A loose, thin blouse, several sizes too large, barely held its place across one shoulder and the high, full curve of her bosom. Her hair, highlighted with its own gold, was drawn back with a scrap of ribbon and cascaded down her back to its long, glorious length. Her sea-green eyes sparkled with mischief as she cocked her hip and ran her hand along its curve.
“Does this fashion suit my Lord Captain Pirate? Is it common enough for your taste?”
She came slowly across the room toward the bed, rolling her hips like a ship aground in a heavy sea. Her breasts swung wantonly as she moved, threatening the security of her modesty as the oversize blouse slipped ever lower.
“Does my Lord Captain Pirate wish a warm bedmate for the night?” she simpered sweetly.
Pausing at the foot of the bed, she swayed her hips invitingly, and her look was teasingly seductive, her lips wet and parted with a hint of a mysterious smile. Ruark closed his mouth when he realized it had sagged open. Then suddenly Shanna’s eyes flashed with rage, and she whirled in majestic fury, strode to a sea chest and snatched out a heavy woolen blanket, folding it into a long, tight roll as she returned. She placed it carefully in the middle of the bed beneath the top sheet, dividing the area neatly in half. Bracing her hands on the bed, she leaned forward with no modesty at all. The blouse gaped away from her body completely, and Ruark could see to her waist. The very fruit he desired to caress hung ripe, ready to be tasted. In rapt attention, he stared at her display before finally raising his eyes to hers. A withering sneer spread slowly over her face as she looked closely into his.
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