Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “You look none the worse for your ordeal, child,” he finally remarked. “Indeed, if it be possible, you are more lovely. The sun has agreed with you.”

  “Thank you, papa,” she managed quietly before hiding further comment behind her cup.

  Trahern came upon the jerkin folded neatly on the chaise and the dagger and pistol lying on top of it. Taking up the latter, he squinted dubiously over his shoulder at her, and Shanna could only shrug.

  “It served its purpose.”

  Trahern came to stand before her table, and Shanna put down the cup, folded her hands primly in her lap, and lifted her gaze to meet his.

  “You did fare well?” he asked with concern.

  “Aye, father,” she replied, slipping into the more formal address. She braced herself inwardly for the coming interrogation.

  “And none of the pirates—touched you?” he questioned gruffly.

  “Nay, father. You have heard it that Mister Ruark killed a man for me. ‘Twas two, if you’re taking count of his deeds. I survived only because of Mister Ruark’s cunning and skill with weapons. Had he not been there, I would not be here today.”

  “And this Mister Ruark—” He let the question hang as he sought for the words to speak of that which nagged him sorely.

  Shanna suddenly rose to her feet. She could not face him and moved to the French doors leading onto the balcony and set them wide to catch the night breezes, for suddenly the room was stifling.

  “Mister Ruark is a most honorable man. He has brought me no harm, and I am no different from when I left.” She faced him with a sweet smile curving her lips and spoke honestly, for truly none of what she had said was a falsehood. “My greatest distress at the moment, papa, is for his welfare and even that seems to be much improved.”

  For a long expanse of time Trahern stared at her as if considering her words. Abruptly he nodded his head, willing to accept her story.

  “Good enough, then.”

  Satisfied now, he started toward the door, but Shanna’s voice halted him.

  “Papa?”

  Trahern turned and raised his brows questioningly.

  “I love you.”

  With much blustering he stammered out a good night and glanced quickly about as if he had forgotten something. His hands searched his sides, then he snorted.

  “Hmph, he’s got the damn cane.” At the door he paused for one last glance. “Good to have you home, child. Good to have you home.”

  It was the sound of her name being called that brought Shanna into full wakefulness. For a moment she lay still, wondering if the voice were real or if it had been some spectre from a dream. Then it came again, this time clearly.

  “Shanna! Shanna! Don’t go!”

  It seemed a call of distress, lonely in the silence of night, and she could not mistake the voice. She flew from her bed and out onto the balcony, not pausing for her robe, and entered Ruark’s room. He tossed upon the bed and fought against invisible bonds, some imagined restraint. His brow was dappled with sweat, and the nightshirt they had managed to clothe him in was damp with perspiration. Shanna almost laughed in relief as she wiped his face with a towel. His skin was moist and cool. The fever had broken. By the light of the single dim candle, she could now see that his eyes were open and regarding her with some bemusement.

  “Are you really there, Shanna? Or does my dream befuddle my sight?” His fingers closed lightly around her wrist and brought it against his lips. Kissing her soft skin, he murmured, “No maiden of my dreams could taste as sweet. Shanna, Shanna,” he sighed. “I thought I had lost you.”

  She bent low to press her trembling mouth upon his. “Oh, Ruark,” she breathed against his lips. “I thought I had lost you.”

  He laid an arm about her nape and pulled her down beside him, searching her eyes in the meager glow.

  “I’ll hurt your leg!” Shanna protested in concern.

  “Come here!” he commanded. “I would know if this is a dream or more heady stuff.”

  His eyes grew lambent, sending her senses reeling, and there was a soft union of tongues and lips as their mouths parted and clung with a leisurely sweetness that held still the very moments of time.

  “I do believe the fever’s gone,” Shanna breathed, nestling against him. “But it must have left you addled in the head. Your kiss speaks much more of passion than of pain.” She slipped her hand inside the nightshirt and rubbed his furry chest, reveling in the strength she felt in his lean, muscular ribs.

  “Addled indeed!” He smiled at her and sighed. “Must I forever bear the barbs of a disappointed bride?”

  Shanna traced a finger in the crisp hair of his chest. “In your madness you said you loved me,” she murmured shyly.

  His humor fled, and the smile left her lips as she continued, “You said it before, too. When the storm struck, I asked you to love me, and you said you did.” Her voice was the barest of whispers.

  Ruark’s gaze turned away from her, and he rubbed the bandage on his leg before he spoke. “Strange that madness should speak the truth, but truth it is.” He met her questioning eyes directly. “Aye, I love you.” The pain of longing marked his face with a momentary sadness. “And that is madness, in all truth.”

  Shanna raised herself from his side and sat on her heels, staring down at him. “Why do you love me?” Her tone was wondrous. “I beset you at every turn. I deny you as a fit mate. I have betrayed you into slavery and worse. There is no sanity in your plea at all. How can you love me?”

  “Shanna! Shanna! Shanna!” he sighed, placing his fingers on her hand and gently tracing the lines of her finely boned fingers. “What man would boast the wisdom of his love? How many times has this world heard, ‘I don’t care, I love.’ Do I count your faults and sins to tote them in a book?” He gazed at the timid candle flame. “I am thinking of a mouse-haired girl of plain face, one whose virtue was destroyed before she knew of its existence. Then there is a man of some account who was abused as a slave. Good Gaitlier and his Dora.” He looked upon Shanna’s face, but she would not meet his eyes. “They stand hand in hand against the taunts of all and tightly close their eyes and shout aloud, ‘It makes no difference. We love!’ Do men step forth and declaim upon the clever way they chose the object of their devotion? Or if asked, would the young swain more likely shrug and spread his hands with an unminded grin and softly say, ‘I love her!’ “

  Ruark moved his leg onto the pillow and touched the bindings as if he would ease the ache of his wound.

  “I dream of unbelievable softness. I remember warmth at my side the likes of which can set my heart afire. I see in the dark before me softly glowing eyes of aqua, once tender in a moment of love, then flashing with defiance and anger, now dark and blue with some stirring I know I have caused, now green and gay with laughter spilling from them. There was a form within my arms that I tenderly held and touched. There is that one who has met my passion with her own and left me gasping.”

  Ruark caressed Shanna’s arm and turned her face to him, making her look into his eyes and willing her to see the truth in them as he spoke.

  “My beloved Shanna. I cannot think of betrayal when I think of love. I can count no denials when I hold you close. I only wait for that day when you will say, ‘I love.’ “

  Shanna raised her hands as if to plead her case then let them fall dejectedly on her knees. Tears coursed down her cheeks, and she begged helplessly, “But I do not want to love you.” She began to sob. “You are a colonial. You are untitled, a murderer condemned, a rogue, a slave. I want a name for my children. I want so much more of my husband.” She rolled her eyes in sudden confusion. “And I do not want to hurt you more.”

  Ruark sighed and gave up for the moment. He reached out and gently wiped away the tears as they fell. “Shanna, love,” he whispered tenderly. “I cannot bear to see you cry. I will not press the matter for a while. I only beg you remember the longest journey is taken a step at a time. My love can wait, but it will neither yie
ld nor change.”

  His voice took on a lighter note, and his eyes twinkled with golden flecks of mischief.

  “You should know by now that I am a willful man. My mother called me determined, my father called me spoiled.”

  Shanna sniffed and managed a weak smile. “Aye, I admit that as fact.

  He chuckled at the gibe. But come, my love, worry no more. Lie here beside me and let me feel that warmth and softness. If you cannot declare your love, at least humor a sick man.”

  Shanna complied and cuddled close to his side, resting her head on his shoulder. She heard laughter deep inside his chest and glanced up in wonder.

  “I cannot rest, for I fret sorely on which is worse.” She raised on her elbow to frown at him until he explained. “The ache in my leg or the one in my loins.”

  “You lusty ape,” she giggled, dropping her head again into the crook of his arm. “No man is ill who rouses so quickly at the slightest smile.”

  Ruark held her close for a moment, kissing the softness beneath her ear before searching out her lips. There his mouth stayed long and enjoyed heartily the honey sweet taste. The room grew quiet, and for Shanna it was a most natural place to be, held close within the circle of his arms. Still, many in the house would have raged to find them thus entwined and in one bed.

  A morning tray had been delivered by Berta, and Ruark was settling down to eat the first solid nourishment in days, when the door swung open and Pitney entered with a tray loaded with a coffee service. He was followed by Orlan Trahern himself. Soon a steaming cup was placed on his bedside table by the squire.

  “ ‘Tis an early hour but the best time to come and thank you without the interference of my daughter.” Trahern jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “She’s still asleep, so keep your voice down, or we’ll be set upon by more of her fretting.”

  Ruark chewed on a mouthful of food, not quite sure of his status. He glanced apprehensively toward Pitney, who stood at the foot of the bed, his massive arms folded across his chest. The man returned his stare with a warning frown creasing his brow.

  “I have assured Orlan that I know a man who saw ye dragged off onto the pirate ship. He was a bit addled at the time, confused ye might say, and dared say naught of the deed.”

  Ruark nodded and sipped the coffee to find it heavily laced with brandy. He raised the mug in silent thanks to Trahern and savored the heady aroma that issued from it.

  Pitney appeared to have spoken his fill and was satisfied with Ruark’s silence. Trahern sat back in the chair beside the bed and folded his hands across his paunch as Pitney drew a straight chair up and straddled it, resting his thick arms on the back. When the room had been quiet for a few moments, the squire spoke.

  “Would you tell me the way of it all? I have judgments to make, and I have little enough to go on.”

  While he ate, Ruark began his narration. He told of the raid and of the voyage to the island. He spoke frankly of his attempted misdirection and its unfortunate results and made a point of the fact that all three of the captured men had wished to return when given the chance. He let it be urged from him of Shanna’s time in the pit and his rescue of her. He avoided the details of their days and nights together but let it seem as if they had been caught together by the storm. He mentioned briefly the two men he had killed and his reasons. Included was the episode in which Shanna had slain the one. He related the plan and execution of the escape, with minor details omitted, and made much of Gaitlier’s and Dora’s parts in it. He drew chuckles from both of them over Shanna’s valor in the face of adversity.

  The two older men seemed well pleased with his tale and grinned in relief when he assured them that no unusual harm had befallen Shanna. The squire let his chin sink to his chest and was lost in thought for a space. Pitney caught Ruark’s eye and smiled, nodding ever so slightly his approval. Then abruptly Trahern came erect and slapped his knee in sudden joviality.

  “By George,” he chuckled, then lowered his voice with a furtive glance toward the balcony. “I see no help for it but to give the three bondsmen a bonus for their service.”

  Ruark cleared his throat and, as Trahern gave him pause, lent voice to another matter. “Sir, Mister Gaitlier and Mistress Dora risked their lives to no small degree. If the matter of rewards is discussed, surely they must be considered. I fear that they will be cast to dire straits for their effort.”

  “Rest assured that I have not forgotten and will deal with them handsomely.” Trahern coughed and glanced at Pitney. “It has been brought to my attention, though I had already considered the fact, that you have done me a great service in the return of my daughter unharmed. When you are about, I shall give you your papers, paid and clear. You are a free man.”

  He waited for the expected joyful response, but instead Ruark frowned and pondered first one and then the other of the two men. Ruark noted that Pitney was the more uneasy of the two and well surmised the reason. But Trahern had grown somewhat puzzled by his bondsman’s delay in answering.

  “Sir, would you have me accept reward for a common decency to another?” Ruark waved away any argument. “I did myself a service in escaping from the band of miscreants, and could not have left other innocents behind. I cannot accept payment for it.”

  There was double meaning in his words, but Ruark was not about to take any recompense for saving Shanna. Besides, being a bondslave allowed him a good reason to stay on the island with her.

  “Bah! You have more than earned your freedom with the two mills,” Trahern snorted.

  “Those would be yours if I had been hired as a free man to serve you. There is no cost to me there. I but served my employer as best I could.”

  Orlan Trahern stared at him in bemused amazement, but Pitney avoided looking him in the eye.

  “Had I not been forced to purchase expensive clothes,” Ruark reminded the squire with a twinkle in his eye, “I would have earned nearly enough to buy my freedom.”

  Trahern protested as any good, outraged merchant. “I paid far more for your garb than you did!”

  Ruark chuckled and then grew serious. He peered askance at Pitney when he spoke and noticed the fine beading of sweat on his brow as Pitney chafed beneath the double edge of his statement.

  “I have been known as one who always pays my debts to the hilt.” He shifted his gaze and met Trahern’s directly. “When I lay the full sum of my indebtedness in your hands, there will be no doubt that my freedom is not another man’s gift.”

  “You are a rare man, John Ruark,” Trahern sighed. “I would not see you as a merchant, for you have set aside fair payment.”

  He heaved himself up from his chair, paused, and studied Ruark closely. “Why is it I feel as if I have been taken to the limits of my purse?”

  He shook his head and turned away, moving to the door and letting Pitney precede him out. He looked back again.

  “My trader’s intuition is outraged. I have been rooked, John Ruark, but I know not how.”

  Chapter 21

  ORLAN TRAHERN ATE a light, brief breakfast and quickly took himself from the table, thus avoiding any conversation with Sir Gaylord. It had become the custom of the knight to join the family in its morning repast. He was not really as boring as he seemed. It was only that the mention of: money, finances, the sea, England, war, peace, or the prospect of either, ships, water, trade, nations, wind or rain ended in an oration by him on the wisdom of investing in a small shipyard which could supply hundreds of sloops and schooners for the price of a single ship-of-the-line. His topic was noticeably limited, though he seemed remarkably adept at taking any random subject as an entry to it.

  Thus it was that Squire Trahern gave a last pitying glance at his daughter, shrugged away her silent appeal, and took his leave with a zeal that belied his age and girth. With a frown of disappointment Shanna watched her father go and managed to bestow a tolerant smile upon Sir Gaylord, who gave his own delicate but effective attention to the well-filled plate before him. His manner
s did not leave him room to speak with food in his mouth, for which Shanna was immeasurably grateful, but he was not above letting his gaze warm appreciatively as it roamed her trim figure.

  The briefest of nods sufficed to excuse her, and on her way to the drawing room she quietly bade Berta bring her fresh tea, now that she would be able to enjoy it in some peace. Alas, it was her undoing. No sooner had she seated herself upon the settee than Gaylord entered, dabbing the last of his meal from his lips and then tucking the napkin into his sleeve. Were it not for the ornate “T” embroidered on it, the cloth might have served as an elaborate kerchief. But then, the man seemed to have a penchant for anything artfully stitched with a letter and a special liking for the “B” which ornately decorated all his clothing. Even his coats had the monogram where it could be worn over his heart. As Berta set out the cups and readied the tea to be poured, he rose and brushed her away.

  “Not a manly grace, my dear,” he informed Shanna pompously. “But one that must be approached with a skill one rarely finds away from England.”

  Lifting the teapot with a flourish, he poured into two cups no more than half their fill of the rich brown fluid, topped them off with a like amount of cream and stirred until the cups held a thick pale concoction that on no account resembled tea. He gave no notice to Berta’s gasp of horror, but ladled several spoons of sugar into one and then paused over the other, raising a brow toward Shanna.

  “One or two, my dear?” he asked solicitously.

  “No cream, Sir Gaylord, please. Just the tea and a touch of sweetening.”

  “Oh!” He responded blankly and paused to sample his own cup. “Delicious, my dear. You really must try it this way. The rage of London.”

  “I have,” Shanna managed without malice and leaning forward poured herself a fresh cup and added a shallow spoon of sugar.