“Strange you should be the one to say that, Ruark,” Shanna said coolly and turned her face seaward as they meandered across the dock area. The breezes whipped strands of hair around her face into a frame of soft, feathery curls.
His scowl darkened on her. “ ‘Tis not I, my love, but you who cannot settle on one.”
Shanna lifted her nose disdainfully. “ ‘Tis only that I have yet to find my proper mate.”
Ruark snarled. “Madam, may I remind you once again that I am your mate, proper or otherwise.”
She ignored him deliberately. “My father will expect me to choose a husband soon. He wants grandchildren, and I cannot disappoint him.”
Ruark’s insides wrenched with the coldness of her tone. “Dammit, Shanna! Do you think if I had been the chooser, that I would have chosen you?”
Struck dumb by his statement, Shanna stared at him.
Ruark flung an arm wide, encompassing the sea that stretched endlessly into the horizon and sneered, “What were you? The Goddess Shanna from Mount Olympus, raised upon that pedestal of your own construction, that all men must approach you from beneath your level. The haughty Shanna, beautiful, untouched, pure, who strolls this earth for but a passing whim and sighs for that great knight upon a charger, that perfect man who will snatch her from this squalor and take her to some hidden Eden and there with dovelike tones of adoration meekly serve her every wish. Hah!” Ruark snorted. “Beware, my love. That perfect man might also seek a perfect woman.”
He turned away, his brow black with rage while Shanna stared at him, confused and not knowing the reason for this attack.
“What do you say?” she demanded, much stirred by his accusations. “I but held myself for the man of my own choosing, and, God willing, I will yet find that man.”
Ruark whirled and looked at her in wide amazement. Then his scowl darkened thunderously. “You held yourself too high, Shanna. Of course each man has some flaw and once you found it, you rejected him. What did you make of yourself, pray tell? A prime wife? Hardly! A gentle mate to share a man’s life? Nay! Rather the regal Shanna.” He answered his own question. “A challenge to any man, a goal for a night’s toss, and a mark well worthy of the game. That man who could shatter your wall of ice would be an instant hero to every bachelor. You were the high fortress to be assailed but once taken, worthless. You were a fortune to be gained, but of what value as a wife? A worthy man would seek that gentle dame who with calm and sweet repose would thus enrich his life. Have you then so greatly enriched mine? I was given as a slave to pirates at your command. Now your father thinks me not only a flown bondsman but a pirate, and he has in all likelihood placed a high reward upon my head. If taken by his men, I might yet find a rope my final unearned reward. And that because of you, my loving wife.”
Shanna met his words with a stiff back, standing straight and unbowed. “You say that truth will out. But do you say you love me?”
Spreading his arms, Ruark faced into the breeze and spoke as if to the open sea. “Madam, at this moment you are the last one to whom I would admit my love.”
It was a twisted truth, for love her he most certainly did. But there was much to pass before he would place that weapon in her hands.
He glanced over his shoulder to see her reaction but found her walking slowly away from him, her head high, the wind whipping her skirt, her shoulders erect, her pace carefully measured. He wanted to run to her, to take her into his arms or grovel at her feet and tell her of this all-consuming desire that gnawed at the roots of his being, but he let her go, hoping the challenge of his denial might spur her to some new consideration of herself and him.
Shanna walked along the beach toward the edge of the water, away from the village and the inn. From where he stood on the jetty, Ruark observed her solemnly, feeling more than a trifle unsure. He could not help but wonder what her mood might bring. Would his words find his intent or would she turn away from him in injured pride and reject even his attempts to help? Briefly she glanced back at him, then, facing forward again, went further away. Reaching down, she caught the rear hem of her skirt and brought it forward between her legs, tucking it in the wide waistband like a fishwife. She removed her sandals and slung them over her shoulder. Wading in the shallows, she kicked idly at wave tops and rolled shellfish and rocks with her toe while Ruark continued to watch, unable to ease the ache in his chest.
It was some time later when a shout came from behind him, and Ruark turned to find Harripen and several of the crewmen rowing out to the Good Hound. The pirate waved, and Ruark returned the gesture, wondering what they were about. Harripen and another man boarded the schooner, and the longboat was positioned beneath her stern. The crew caught the end of the cable Harripen tossed to them and made it secure to their own boat, then, rowing heartily, began to swing the slim, dark ship so that her stern was to the dock. Harripen barked an order forward, and the other man struck loose the latch on the anchor capstan. Now the dozen men in the longboat strained, bending their oars, and slowly the Good Hound began to move inward toward the slip, playing out her anchor cable as she came. As the ship neared her berth, the longboat swung away, putting slack in the tow and letting the Good Hound’s own momentum carry her until she bumped gently against the pilings. She scrubbed her side against them, and Harripen tossed down a looped cable, which Ruark made fast to the cleat. Then he ran along the pier to catch another from the man on the forecastle. Harripen called for him to come on deck, and Ruark glanced to see what had become of Shanna. She stood with her hands shading her eyes, having watched the ship drawn in, but as his gaze found her she resumed her stroll in the shallows. Confident that she was well in sight and not so far away that he could not be quickly at her side, Ruark climbed up the tumble home. Somehow he felt Shanna needed this time alone to straighten her own thoughts. He swung his legs across the rail and found Harripen waiting, leaning on his elbows while he stared at the lone figure on the beach.
“Hell, man, I envy you that bit of fluff,” the Englishman moaned huskily. “Even from there she warms me loins.”
Ruark scowled, but his tone was light as he replied with a great deal of truth. “Aye, she’s hard to walk away from. But enough of her, Harripen. What are you about with my ship?”
“Yer—ah—well, that she be of course, laddie, what with Robby gone and all.” The man scratched his scarred and stubbled chin reflectively. “We—ah—took a vote. Aye, ‘at we did, she being the biggest and all.” He gestured to the smaller vessels swinging at their tethers in the bay. “We thought we would put a few things ‘board her, supplies and what not, just in case his lordship, Trahern, comes along with his bloody little fleet. We expect the sloop to return sometime tonight, and we’re not anxious to ‘ave our tails blown out of the water.”
Ruark nodded toward the wreck on the reef. “But surely, if the Spanish fleet could not—”
“Ha!” Harripen interrupted. “Them dons were a bunch of clucks, with a lot of brass and flags and show. But Trahern, now, is another tale, and if there’s one to do us ill, ‘tis him, if’n he sets his mind to it.”
Ruark agreed silently. The Englishman leaned over the rail and as Ruark followed his gaze he saw a pair of heavy carts, each laboriously dragged along by a pair of mules, moving down from the edge of town toward the dock. When they drew alongside, Ruark noted that the first bore several kegs of water and twice the number of hogsheads of rum and ale. The second was half filled with casks of salted meats and meal, and the rest of it was crammed with crates filled to overflowing with silver, gold plate, and other loot. Beside Hawks on the driver’s seat rode the small, black chest of gold coin. It was the first item to come aboard. The treasure was quickly hauled into the captain’s cabin, while all the other stuff was swung down on the gun deck, there to be lashed down, carefully out of the way so they would not interfere with the operation of the small cannons. Ruark saw with amusement that the great chest of musket barrels still sat on the deck where it had been left.
> When all was secure, Harripen returned to him. “Well, lad, if ye’ll be good enough to cast us off, we’ll winch her out to her hook again.”
Ruark paused as the grizzled fellow stared at him, an odd look in his squinting gaze.
“I’m leaving a pair o’ me own men aboard ‘er to see what’s all ‘ere is kept safe. And if ye’ve noted, the wee box is locked, and ‘tis more than one man can hoist.” He gave a sly chuckle. “And Mother ‘as the keys. ‘Tis his way of protecting ‘is share. But then, with the possible exception of me an’ thee, he’s the most honest one ‘mongst us.”
The man leaned back, guffawing heartily at his own abused humor, then sobered, wiping his nose on his arm.
“Well, I see yer liedyship is waiting for ye, laddie.”
Thus dismissed, Ruark had no choice and climbed down to the crudely cobbled jetty, there to cast off as Harripen had indicated. The crew was ordered to the capstan and, with a singsong chant, began to march around it. The clank of its pawl counted time, and the anchor cable grew taut, water dripping from its length as the Good Hound slowly slipped out into deeper water.
The sun was scarcely more than its own width above the horizon when Ruark strode the length of the pier and passed where Shanna waited for him. She was still stiff and proud, though she kept her eyes from meeting his. Several paces behind she fell in, dropping her skirt into place and walking barefoot across the sand.
Back in the common room, Ruark stopped for an ale, but Shanna went quickly past him and fled up the stairs to their chamber. Listlessly she leaned against the door, closing it, and moved to sit upon the windowsill, pushing out the shutters. Dark clouds had begun to roll overhead and, with the sticky heat, she recognized the ominous signs of a storm. Releasing a ragged sigh, she began to loosen the heavy braid, raking her fingers through the long tresses as she gazed down upon the courtyard below where a young child played chase with a small piglet. His black hair gleamed beneath the waning rays of the sun, much the same way Ruark’s did under a candle’s soft glow. Wistfully she watched the dark head bob along until, with angry squeals giving evidence of his success, the youngster scooped the animal up into his chubby arms and merrily trotted off toward the village. As he disappeared in the distance behind thin, scrubby trees, Shanna smiled ruefully, and in the silence of the room, the memory of Ruark’s words whispered in her brain.
“Beautiful and honorable offsprings of our love.”
“But he doesn’t love me!” she cried aloud and flung her sandals across the room. Petulantly she began to pluck at the lacings of her skirt while she paced aimlessly about.
“Haughty Shanna! Queen Shanna! Unloved Shanna!”
Hot tears scalded her cheeks. She dropped the skirt and she snatched away the shift. A cool breeze, the first of the day, stirred the draperies at the windows as she lit a candle on a small table beside the tub. She lowered herself into the tepid bath Gaitlier had prepared and lifted a decanter, trickling drams of scented salts through her fingers. They sank into the liquid, dissolving like the fading stars of dawn.
“A strange man you are, Mister Beauchamp,” she mused aloud. “You ply me as a lover then berate me as if I were a child and set your cause much awry when you say that I am the last of your choices for a wife.”
Relaxing back against the rim, she lost herself in thought. Those words bit deep and rankled hard, but there was a gritty truth in them. Those who had seemed most eager to wed her were those most in need of her father’s fortune.
Her gaze settled on a mirror which stood nearby and she stretched out a trim, well-curved leg to turn it until she could see herself. Calmly she considered what she saw, noting the deepening golden color of her oval face. Blue-green eyes rimmed with thick, sooty lashes shone startlingly bright in contrast. They were her best asset and usually effective in most any situation when she wanted to gain her way or charm a man. Wheaten streaks, newly bleached by the sun, swirled amid the mass piled high on her head. In the main, she was pleased with her image. Her breasts were high and full, softly hued in creamy white and delicate pink. Without being thin, she knew her waist was smaller than most women could claim, and her legs were long and well-shaped.
She smiled at herself. White, even teeth flashed back at her from the glass.
“Well, my Captain Pirate Ruark, if I have set you to these dire straits wherein your neck is forfeit, you must realize I am also the key to my father’s pardon. You would do well to see me safely back to his care. So on that score, my beloved, we shall be even.”
The room had darkened when Ruark finally entered. Shanna returned her makeshift draperies to the mirrors and engaged in a leisurely toilette. She heard him rummaging through the sea chests, and some moments later the quietness which had descended pricked her curiosity. When she peeked around the curtain, she found him at the table with a large sheet of parchment spread out before him. He was intent upon the sheet and made notes here and there with a quill. Restoring her shelter, Shanna stood thoughtfully chewing on a knuckle; then with sudden decision she went to the armoire and drew out a red silk gown of daring cut which she donned. It hinted of a Spanish owner, for the bodice was long, and the dress fitted well over her hips, spreading from there to a full hem which gathered up to show tiers of multicolored underskirts. The bare expanse from shoulder to gown was startling and most inviting. The back of the gown dipped low as well, revealing much of the soft, alluring curve of her body. Shanna ran her hand from bosom to hip, smoothing the soft silk.
“This should show that wandering stud the difference between a lady and a common street wench,” she mused shrewishly. She did not pause to consider there was little of a ladylike appearance about her. Still, there was nothing of a common wench either.
Tossing aside the screen, Shanna moved toward Ruark, hips swaying provocatively, hair flowing about her shoulders in a manner that belied the care she had given it. It was what Ruark had expected, another assault upon his senses. It took an effort to return his gaze to the parchment, giving no hint of the success of her ploy.
Shanna wandered about the room, doing small, inconsequential chores in an effort to draw his attention but, much to her disappointment, he appeared completely engrossed in his study and gave her no apparent notice.
There was a light knock on the door, and Gaitlier’s hesitant voice called for entry. At Ruark’s nod, Shanna unlatched the door for the man and was delighted to see him carrying a large platter which bore an assortment of fruits, breads, roasted fowl, and boiled vegetables. There was even a bottle of good French burgundy. Shanna’s mouth watered at the enticing aroma, and she could hardly contain her eagerness to taste the fare.
“Oh, Gaitlier!” she exclaimed, “You’re a dear man!” She smiled brightly for his blushing pleasure and missed the dark scowl Ruark threw at them over his shoulder.
“Dora prepared it,” Gaitlier remarked timidly, casting a cautious glance toward Ruark. He hastened to set his burdens down seeing that Ruark pulled his papers aside for the tray to be placed, then stood sheepishly, rubbing his feet together and looking hesitantly toward the rolled map. Ruark thought the man might speak, but as he leaned back in his chair to wait the servant’s pleasure, Gaitlier appeared to lose his nerve. With a quick nod to Shanna and Ruark, he left.
Setting the bolt in place behind him, Shanna seated herself across from Ruark and began to nibble tidbits from the platter while he opened the wine and poured it into the goblets.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked as he took up the map again and began to study it as he ate.
“Trying to find some hint of the channel through the swamp,” he replied without looking up.
The meal continued, though both of them took no great relish in the tasty fare. Ruark sipped his wine and sampled the food without so much as a glance in Shanna’s direction. After a while he pushed his half-filled plate from him, having lost his appetite under the stoical manner he forced upon himself.
It was with a good measure of dejectio
n that Shanna rose, releasing a sigh. Taking a small slice of melon, she went to the window. A distant rumble of thunder echoed her mood. An errant gust of wind swept into the room, setting the heavy drapes astir and rustling Ruark’s charts as he held them down against its teasing. Worried, Shanna pushed the hinged shutters wide and leaned against the sill, watching the evening squall race toward the island. The aging dusk was turned white briefly by a flash of lightning that drew a gasp from Shanna and made her pull back with a start. The storm clouds drew overhead, and the first drops splashed on the thirsty sand. Soon more distant detail was lost in the haze of pounding rain.
His arms spread wide across the charts to keep them from going astray, Ruark raised his eyes to the window. His breath caught in his throat at the stirring sight there. Shanna half sat, half leaned, upon the sill, her thigh raised upon its edge, her face presented in profile as she gazed out at the darkening clouds. The diffused late light made her seem some classic statue cast in gold and robed in brilliant carmine. Her hair appeared almost transparent, tumbling like an amber waterfall of dark rich honey to her waist. The gown clung to her breasts, conforming to the natural swell that dared the touch of man. As he stared, a flash of lightning crossed the sky, and in its pure light she became a carving in fresh white ivory, her garment mellowing to a gentle pink. The dark clouds sapped the brightness from the sky, and, with its fading, her skin became the oiled oak of a ship’s bold figurehead, her hair knotty swirls of ebony. Her face was pensive, her smile sad. Her eyes alone took on a lighter hue, that of a brilliant green sea stirred and swirled by the storm.
“My God,” Ruark groaned inwardly, frozen at the table by this innocent panorama. “Does she know how beautiful she is? Does she know how she tortures me?”
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