Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “You tempt me sorely,” Ruark moaned. His hand slid down, inside her loose breeches, and found the womanly softness of her. Her eyelids lowered and her breath trembled from parted lips.

  It was only Gaitlier coming aft that cooled their play. In nervous embarrassment Shanna drew away and sat on her heels, facing Ruark. She tightened the rope belt around her waist. Ruark watched her, unable to resist a last stroke of his hand along her thigh. Warily Shanna glanced back over her shoulder to see what had become of Gaitlier and saw him walking back to Dora in response to a timid-voiced question. Shanna turned back and placing her hand over Ruark’s, smiled in soft, intimate communication. She leaned down to him, bracing her elbows on the pallet beside his head, heedless of the loose shirt that gapped away, presenting every detail of her ripe, tempting bosom. As Ruark boldly eyed her display, a lazy grin spread across his lips.

  “You’re an evil temptress, Shanna Beauchamp.”

  Her finger twirled in his hair as she admitted, “Aye, but only with you, my Captain Pirate Ruark.”

  “Good enough then, my love.” Reluctantly he raised on his elbows, and his voice was firm as he stated, “I must see to the ship lest she race on and plunge herself against the Africa shore.”

  “Oh, Ruark, don’t get up!” Shanna pleaded. “I’ll do whatever needs be done. Sit still.”

  “I can’t, Shanna. I must be about. My leg will be better after I’ve walked on it a bit.”

  Shanna saw that he was determined, though he winced as he moved his leg and would get up by himself if she refused to help him. His leg was stiff and sore, but with some difficulty Ruark soon stood beside the wheel. Shanna was reluctant to leave him even then and remained beside him as he checked the course in the binnacle. Lifting his head, he scanned the sails. The wind had shifted slightly, and he would soon have to correct for it. But how far had they come, he wondered. If the wind had blown hard, they would be long past the islands and would have to turn back into them. In this breeze it would be a difficult task, which Ruark doubted his crew of three could handle. But where—

  His eyes searched the horizon to port, and Ruark lifted himself as high as he could.

  Ah, there! Low clouds with a dark shadow beneath. That heralded an island. He felt Shanna’s hand upon his ribs and glanced down to see her watching him, a worried look on her face.

  “We’ll soon be there,” he assured her, mistaking her distress. “No need to fret.”

  Shanna opened her mouth to deny his thoughts but silenced the words before they were spoken. How could she explain her own feelings when they were a mystery even to her?

  Ruark looked pointedly toward her bosom. “That garb has served you well, but it does not seem right for you. A bit too mannish would be my opinion.”

  Shanna smoothed the rumpled shirt and straightened the loose breeches over her hips.

  “If my memory serves me right, Carmelita left without her clothes. Perhaps they might be taken in here and there—”

  “Bah!” Shanna cut him short. “I threw them overboard last night. Do you think I would wear anything of hers?”

  Shanna set her back to him, raising an impertinent nose to scan the sea. Ruark reached out to tug a tress until she faced him again. White teeth gleamed against the darkness of his skin as he teased her with a smile.

  “You’re a devil, Ruark Beauchamp!” Shanna declared but softened and rubbed her cheek against his knuckles. She raised on tiptoes and brushed a kiss upon his lips. “You must be hungry. I’ll go see what’s left in the cabin.”

  As she strode from him, Ruark stared after her with warm attention, observing the graceful swing of her hips.

  It came to his mind there was no possible way a sane man could mistake those curves for anything but woman. That only left two possibilities. The citizens of Mare’s Head were either blind—or terribly mad.

  Chuckling at his thoughts, Ruark slipped the lashing from a spoke then leaned against the chest-high wheel, whirling it around and trimming the schooner against the wind. The ship plunged along the gently rolling sea, and as he replaced the lashings to hold the vessel on the new course, Gaitlier left Dora and ambled aft.

  “Captain?” The man appeared bemused. “Is Trahern as bad as Mother complained? Will I be taken as bondslave, too? Which master will I serve, you or him, sir?”

  “You’ll have no master, Mister Gaitlier,” Ruark returned boldly. He was unable to say what his own fate would be, but he could assure this man a return to dignity. “Mayhap you might find the island to your liking and wish to remain. If not, I am sure that Trahern will give you passage to any port of your choosing. He will be grateful for your help in rescuing his daughter, and a tidy sum might be forthcoming.”

  “And what of you, sir?” Gaitlier laid the question to him, but Ruark chose to misunderstand his meaning.

  “I have no need of money.” He looked at the man. “However, there is one thing I would ask of you, Mister Gaitlier.”

  He nodded. “Anything, sir. Anything at all.”

  Ruark rubbed a thumb against his unshaven cheek. “Trahern knows me only as bondslave. Unless Madam Beauchamp tells him differently, I would ask your silence in this matter of our marriage. I am, to those on Los Camellos, John Ruark, and the lady is Madam Ruark Beauchamp, a widow.”

  “Rest your fears, sir. Dora and I will say naught of you and the madam. I give my word to that.”

  The four of them shared a leisurely repast around Ruark’s pallet. Shanna was quick to see to his comfort, gently propping his leg on a pillow, filling his plate and taking his cup of pale wine as he reached to place it on the deck. His hand rested possessively upon her thigh as she sat cross-legged beside him, while he explained to Gaitlier about handling the ship. It was a quiet time, a restful time, and when it was over, Ruark limped again to the wheel. Raising the brass-bound telescope, he studied the still distant island off the port bow. It was the last of the chain; high bluffs dropped sharply into the sea at its eastern end. Once past it, they would turn toward Los Camellos.

  Returning to his pallet, he stretched out full length again. His leg ached, and the muscle began to jump in his thigh, sending white-edged shards of pain through his body. He rubbed his hip and thigh to ease the throbbing and found his hand brushed away by Shanna’s as she took up the chore. Beneath the tender care, he dozed and dreamed of soft pink lips bending near and caressing his.

  The island was low on the horizon behind them, and the sun hung high overhead when Ruark set the course for Los Camellos then stumbled back to his pallet. Gaitlier had rigged a shade for him, and Shanna now shared that small spot of coolness with him. His leg ached agonizingly, and each time he rose, the effort was greater. He sampled the rum again, but this time its fire did little to ease his discomfort.

  He laid his head back on Shanna’s lap, and with her cool hand she gently stroked his eyes and forehead until he began to relax and the pain ebbed. As she sat holding his head, Shanna hummed a few lines from a tune that flitted through her mind and softly Ruark’s rich baritone began to fill in the words. Shanna’s humming stopped, and she listened quietly. Suddenly she knew the voice that had drifted up to her from below decks on the Marguerite one starry, moonlit night as she sailed homeward from England.

  “Oh, Ruark,” she whispered softly and kissed the brow that was hot beneath her hand.

  A shout came across the deck and both of them rose. Ruark lurched and leaned against the rail to steady himself, staring forward to see Gaitlier prancing along the deck waving his arms, Dora following close behind.

  “Ships! Ships up ahead!” the man shouted as he ran toward them. “Two of them! Big ones!’

  Unable to calm himself, Gaitlier jumped up and down, gesturing with his arm. Ruark laughed almost wildly as he scrambled for the wheel and the long spyglass. He braced the instrument on a spoke, centering it on the sails that gleamed white in the sun and drew closer with each breath. He moved the glass to the fluff of color that floated on the masthead. It wa
s blurred for a moment. They all waited. Finally it cleared.

  “English!” he shouted. “They’re English! But there’s another flag.” He put his eye to the glass again. After a moment he turned and grinned at Shanna. “ ‘Tis your father! The Hampstead and Mary Christian.”

  A cry of joy escaped her, and Ruark fought for balance as she flung her arms about his neck. Holding her close, he called past her to Gaitlier.

  “Drop the sails! Get them down! We’ll come about and wait for them!”

  The man needed no urging. He leapt to the rail, snatched the ax, and with a single blow severed the riser to the mainsail. The yard came crashing down to bounce and lie still, spilling canvas onto the deck. Gaitlier scrambled over the billowing sail to the foredeck where with like energy he brought the spritsails rattling down.

  Ruark threw the lashings off the wheel and spun it hard aport. The schooner groaned and creaked and dug her nose into the waves as she slowed and came about until she was stern on to the approaching vessels. The Hampstead drew near, and soon there was no doubt. Beside the thin stick in black that could only be Ralston was the white bulk which could only be Trahern. Shanna gave a glad cry and ran down to the main deck where she joined Gaitlier and Dora by the rail. Ruark would have joined them, but his leg would not bear his weight. As the huge bulk of the Hampstead drew alongside, he held fast to the wheel. The ports were opened and the guns run out. Behind the gaping black muzzles he could see the eager, white faces of the gun crew, alert for any sign of hostility.

  Grappling hooks were thrown fore and aft as the two ships bumped together. Then at a shout from the mate a detachment of men swarmed up from behind the Hampstead’s rail and leapt onto the deck of the Good Hound, pistols and cutlasses at the ready as if they expected to do battle. The Mary Christian stood off the port side, and all the while her four small guns were run out, ready for a fight.

  When any possible resistance had been quelled, Ralston cautiously joined the men on the schooner then more boldly began to order them about before stalking aft with his angry, jerky, storklike stride.

  One of the seamen, seeing no threat from the small crew, put aside his cutlass and gave a hand to Shanna as she stepped over to the Hampstead.

  She had barely set her feet down onto the deck before she ran across it and up the gangway to the lofty quarter-deck. When her eyes fell on her father, she dashed to him and threw her arms about his neck, sobbing her joy and relief. Trahern fought to keep his balance. His arm came around her tightly for a moment, and his breathing was curiously hoarse and somewhat ragged. Then with a quick pat on her shoulders he thrust her away to arm’s length to survey her.

  “You are indeed my daughter,” the squire chuckled, half questioning. “And not some ragamuffin thrusting himself on my good nature.”

  Shanna laughed brightly and opened her mouth to reply, but her gaze went astray, and she jerked away, her intended words ending in a choked gasp of dismay as she stared at the deck of the schooner below them.

  Ruark had been willing to greet even Ralston as his deliverer and reached out a hand to grasp the other’s as the thin man neared him, but Ralston ignored the gesture, instead striking out viciously with the heavy butt of his riding crop. It caught Ruark full across the face, and the force of the blow was such that he spun away from the wheel, careened off the binnacle, and crashed heavily to the deck. As Ruark struggled groggily to rise, Ralston placed a foot roughly in the middle of his back, forcing him down against the splintered planks. The thin man gestured imperiously to two burly seamen he had commandeered. Without ceremony the pair heaved Ruark to his feet, bound his wrists tightly behind him, and, as he regained his senses, stuffed a rag into his mouth to still his curses. Ralston walked stiltedly to the head of the stairs and stood glaring back as he waited for his prisoner to be brought forward. The men thrust Ruark before them. He could not walk on his own, and he crashed down, twisting to protect the injured leg. When he was dragged to his feet again, an ugly bruise had swelled on his forehead and a small trickle of blood coursed down from it. They dragged him along between them, with Ralston leading the procession in the full glory of his victory.

  Aghast, Shanna whirled to her father, but he was not of a mind to hear her pleas and set his back to her, stating firmly over his shoulder, “He’ll be hanged for piracy as soon as we return to Los Camellos. The three bondsmen set free by the brigands told me well enough of our Mister Ruark.”

  With that Orlan proceeded to climb carefully down from the quarterdeck and went to greet the party from the schooner.

  “Nnnnooo!” Shanna moaned as she struggled past the captain and the helmsman to race after her father. As she reached the main deck, she saw Pitney leaning back against the rail, his arms folded across his chest, huge horse pistols in his belt, and a sour frown on his face. He stared at Shanna for a long moment then with a cluck of his tongue turned his back, as if unable to bear the sight of her. A muffled groan was heard as Ralston’s henchmen threw Ruark onto the deck while the thin man himself raged about, gloating in the power he had seized.

  “This slave is guilty of a dozen crimes,” he bellowed. “Hoist him up on the yardarm.” He gestured wildly to those who had gathered about. The pair tossed a rope over a yard and, stretching Ruark’s arms upward, bound them again over his head. Then, doing as they were told, they lifted him up until his toes barely brushed the deck.

  Again Shanna turned a frantic appeal to her father and again he ignored her as Ralston halted before him. Instead of its usual gray color, the agent’s face was flushed. He coughed in his glove to clear his throat and argued boldly.

  “If an English seaman can be flogged for disobeying an officer, then surely this man deserves a thousand stripes or so. Let us see now that he pays for at least a few of his heinous sins, one of which being his abduction of your daughter. Justice must be swift to be of any good.

  “Quartermaster,” he shouted, bent upon showing no mercy at all, “fetch your cat-o-nine and let’s make the bloody beggar whimper.”

  Trahern remained silent, for to his mind the once trusted man deserved what he was getting. Arrogantly Ralston strode to Ruark and lifted his sagging head with a gloved hand.

  “So now, my good man,” he sneered, “you shall find the full folly of your adventure at escape. You shall feel your justice on your back and also serve as a good example for the other slaves.”

  He snapped his hand away, and Ruark’s head lolled loosely between his arms. Ralston snatched the gag away, and his dry metallic breath close in Ruark’s face, he mocked, “Have you no comment, milord? No defense? No plea for mercy?”

  Ruark’s tongue was thick in his mouth, and he could not ease the searing pain that seeped upward from his thigh; it seemed to fill his entire body. A brighter red began to mark the left leg of his knee breeches. The effort of the past days had sapped his strength. He could not fight this farce now set upon him.

  Almost wildly Shanna glanced about her. Was there no one to help her?

  The quartermaster emerged from below deck, shaking out the nine knotted cords of the implement. The small lead balls woven into the end of each rattled on the deck as he flexed the handle. Pitney stood away from the rail and hitched up his britches. He had viewed enough of this travesty and was not about to let it go further. But before he moved, he glanced down at Shanna and paused. Her face wore a grimace of outrage he had never seen before.

  Ralston saw the quartermaster approach, and his sadistic penchants forced him on to new heights. Bravely he posed, staring at Ruark, and reached back his arm. “I shall mete out the punishment myself,” he boasted, “to assure that there be no light strokes to cheat justice. Give me the whip.”

  A moment later Ralston gave a frightened shriek of pain as the wicked strands shredded his sleeves and bit deep into his arm. In stunned surprise he whirled to stare directly into Shanna’s enraged face. Snarling, she drew the whip back and shook it out, ready for another stroke. She stood her ground like some wild
animal, her hair spread back over her shoulders like a lion’s flying mane.

  “I’ll give you the whip, milord bastard, if you touch that man again!”

  The quartermaster stumbled forward apologetically and reached out to take the cat from Shanna’s hand but suddenly halted and gaped with sagging jaw. Pitney had pulled a pistol from his belt, and now its muzzle was less than an inch from the seaman’s nose. Ralston himself would have stepped forward in indignant rage, but he held his heroism in check for Pitney drew his other piece and with a slow, casual grin spreading his mouth, cocked it.

  “Cut him down!” Shanna’s wicked snarl broke the silence, and the whip waved toward the two men who had hoisted Ruark up.

  They hastened to slash the rope, and Ruark crumpled to the deck. Shanna yearned to rush to his side but held fast lest he be taken again. She stood rigid before her father, while Pitney held at bay any who would have interfered. One of the pistols stayed centered on Ralston’s chest, and he stared agog at the menacing black bore.

  “You have made a dreadful mistake, father,” Shanna declared, using the more stilted form of address. “ ‘Twas this Mister Ruark who saved us all from the pirates’ hands as these good people will attest.” She nodded to Gaitlier and Dora, who had followed it all with widened eyes, fearful lest this be their reward also. “Indeed,” Shanna murmured, “ ‘twas Mister Ruark who saw that”—she paused, uncertain, but for a reason none of them guessed, and continued more cautiously—“he saw me safe from those bloodthirsty villains at the risk of his own life. I am as I was, untouched by them because of him.”

  Ralston sneered and cold, sea-green eyes turned on him, but Shanna went on with her defense though she faced away from her father’s gaze and could not bear to meet Pitney’s, either.

  “Mister Ruark was taken to Mare’s Head from Los Camellos much against his will and ‘twas by his wits he managed to get the rest of us away. If you insist upon taking him, you must do so over me. I swear you will.”

  At a groan from Ruark she dropped the whip and flew to kneel beside him.