WAKING CAME WITH A BRIGHTNESS that seemed almost painful. Shanna’s mind became slowly aware of the disturbing glare. Light filled the entire room, and though she lay with her back to the windows, it still intruded, shining through her closed eyelids, penetrating into her brain. She retreated beneath the pillow, hugging it close over her head, to sink again in the outer fringes of slumber. She stirred sleepily as a hand began to caress the small of her back, kneading away the stiffness that she sensed more than actually felt Lazily she stretched like a sleek, contented feline and rolled onto her stomach to let the strong fingers better do their work. A throaty moan came from her as she arched her back against the gentle massaging, letting it soothe her aches and pains. The hand plied her back and the soft muscles across her shoulders, sending waves of weakening pleasure up and down her spine. Languidly she rolled toward the source of her enjoyment until her back pressed against a hard, furry chest. Her head lolled upon the strong-muscled shoulder, and she rubbed her cheek against the smooth, warm skin. Then her mind tripped into full awareness. Only one person in her whole lifetime had ever shared a bed with her, and no one, not even Hergus, had rubbed her back. Her eyes came open, and all memory flooded back as she stared into Ruark’s smiling golden eyes.
“Oooohh!” The groan escaped her as she fell forward on her stomach and snatched the pillow over her head again, pressing it tightly to her ears. Still, she heard the gentle voice with a hint of laughter behind it.
“Good morning, madam. I trust your sleep has agreed with you.”
“Never before,” she railed with muffled disappointment, “has heaven turned so quickly to hell!”
“Reality, madam,” Ruark mocked lightly. “And a poor reality at that. ’Twould seem we’ve adopted the local ways, as I note the sun is high and the noon hour is near. I fear we’ve slept the morning away, and as much as my poor, bereaved body cries out for yours close beside it, I must bid you rise lest our dastardly antagonists steal a march on us and set the whole day awry.”
Shanna snatched the covers from her head and gasped, realizing that she lay completely exposed to his gaze. Even more humiliating was the fact that he had apparently undressed her and put her to bed. Giving a moan of despair, she caught the sheet beneath her and rolled to bring its protective cover over her, but she came to an abrupt halt, once more against Ruark’s chest. He reclined on his side, head propped casually on his hand, pinning beneath his body the greater portion of the sheet. As his eyes played with hers, glowing devilishly, his arm curled warmly about her, and his hand stroked her bare back.
“Why, Shanna love,” he crooned. “ ’Tis a dread late hour of the morn for wifely passion, yet I would not dare turn you away.”
His lips began to lower to hers. A soft breast was crushed against his lean, hard chest, their thighs were caught together, and Shanna became abruptly aware that he was more than willing, and most certainly ready, to make the hour later still.
She scrambled away from him, surrendering the sheet to whatever purpose he might make of it. It was easier to contend with her own nakedness than with his amorousness. She rose from the bed and sought cover, aware that she must garb herself or face the prospect of rape. Ruark indulged himself in a leisured observation of her flight across the room.
Hastily Shanna snatched up and donned Ruark’s leather jerkin, which offered at least some protection—it reached to her knees. Generally large, there were no fastenings above the slim, belted waist of the garment or any below.
Slowly Ruark grinned as his look ranged over her, halting momentarily upon the full, ripe curves showing between the lapels. He rose from the bed, strode naked across to the chair beside her to fetch his short breeches, causing Shanna to glare at him in suspicion.
“I truly admire the garment on you, madam,” he commented. “And I really don’t mind sharing my possessions with you, but I suggest more discretion among the pirates. Without warning, you might find yourself tossed upon your lovely backside by some horny knave.”
Shanna’s eyes flickered down him and carried the implication.
“Excluding myself, of course, madam.”
Shanna rolled her eyes disbelievingly. “Are you sure that day will ever come, sir, when you will resist the urge to tumble me?”
“Not even when I’m fourscore and six, madam,” he reassured her lightly. “With you near me I would need the frigid north seas to cool my blood.”
“True,” she nodded. “And so ’tis with every wench you meet.”
Ruark straightened and peered at her in open question of her insult. “Every? Lord, woman, allow me some discrimination.”
Shanna’s small chin raised a notch. “You could have had more, but it doesn’t matter now. ’Tis over between us.”
“So, ’tis torture you have planned for me.” He stood beside her, hands resting low on his hips, his breeches trailing in a casual grasp on his fingers. “Madam, the sight of you naked in my bed makes my loins ache. The sight of you in my clothes makes my loins ache. Just thinking of you makes my loins ache. Madam, if you do not relent soon, I shall spend the rest of my days in a stoop like an old man bent with age. Do you have no mercy? You’re a wench, Shanna Beauchamp, a hussy to so parade yourself”—he stalked about her and slapped the rounded tail of his jerkin heartily—“when you have foresworn that very thing you strut about.”
He seized his breeches in both hands and slipped them on while Shanna laughed at him.
“ ’Tis a simple mind, my lord and master, that bends the meekest movement to a strut Indeed, of strutting I have much to learn from you.” She clamped the straw hat on her head and struck a posture, one knee forward and a hand braced upon her hip. “The Pirate Captain Ruark, conqueror of all he sees, be it maiden, budding child-girl or heavy-breasted harlot. Pray tell me, sir, have your conquests so burned your brain that you ignore the twist of words which brings our fate to this? You prattle of oaths and pledges, bargains fully made. And what of you, good sir? Have you a special standard where you hold yourself to no single pledge?”
“Shanna, love.” Ruark checked the priming in both pistols and laid them down again. “You have oft declared that I am no husband and that you are widowed full and true.”
“If that be the case,” he leaned close and spoke into her face with almost a snarl on his lips, “then, my love, what claim do you have on me? Why do you defame me loudly for this supposed taking of another? You gave me naught to say, no simple chance of denial, but set your hound on me. All that goes beyond that day, my love, must rest upon your pretty head, for had I not been cast asea by your anger, none of this would have come to pass. A crew of men would have been at your house thus to protect it, and close at hand another score or more to raise arms and set these curs upon their heels. Now what say you, my lovely? Am I your husband? Or am I free? And if the last it be, then why should you at every turn set upon me like a jealous vixen on her mate? Do I stray from you? Or am I some toy pulled along on a string meant to perform when milady would turn and play, but ever on the string?”
Shanna’s anger subsided, and she tried vainly to replace it with reason. “ ’Tis not the wedding vows I claim. Tis the other that any woman hates, to be trifled with, to be taken to bed and there warmly plied with love and devotion then brought to listen as another woman lays honors to that selfsame love and warmth. How can I lie with you, tender and loving in your arms, when I know that others have of late been there like me and that others in times coming will usurp my place and with their pleasures make a common thing of that which I would treasure?”
“Now there’s a word.” Ruark strode the full length of the room and returned to stand before her. “ ’Tis my first sight of something worth the keeping. A treasure? Aye, so ’tis, my love. A thing of value, but cheapened if not valued. And now I have it from your lips. A treasure.” He nodded. “Aye, I have a need to hear that word from you.”
He went to the window, there to stand staring thoughtfully out across the island. In confusion Shanna frowned at his back. She had meant to prick his pride but somehow had given him a weapon to use against her.
She made use of his averted attention and crossed to the armoire, shrugging out of the jerkin and kicking it free as it fell to her ankles. She snatched a black velvet gown from the door, slipped it over her head and with a quick wiggle, settled it in place upon her body. The deep front gaped open to her navel with a crisscrossing of laces across her bare skin. The fabric barely held the rosier hue of her breasts in its confines. Shanna worked the laces tight as she moved to stand before the nearest mirror, and there she stopped, her breath catching in a gasp as she viewed herself. The gown did more to destroy her modesty than protect it.
She saw of her image a somewhat disheveled maid with wildly tossed hair tumbling over her back and shoulder and, with breasts pressed together, forming such a vale as to entice the sternest miser. The velvet gown would not close, coyly showing the white of her belly. Shanna glanced back to the armoire, wondering what she had overlooked in her haste to don the dress. There had to be something more to the garment. A blouse? A shift?
Wrinkling her nose in aggravation, she turned slowly before the mirror and over her shoulder caught sight of Ruark. He no longer watched the breezes, but, instead, yielded her his full attention. A wicked grin lifted a corner of his handsome mouth as he sat on the edge of the window, arms folded across his naked chest, silent but deeply appreciative.
“This cannot be all there is to the thing,” she said in some perplexity. “There must be more.”
Leaving his perch, Ruark came to stride behind her musingly, rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he contemplated her reflection. In a casual tone he finally commented as he looked pointedly toward the overflowing bosom, “There doesn’t seem to be much room for anything else.”
“There should be at least a shift,” Shanna argued.
Ruark went to stand beside the mirror to ponder the matter, gazing at her directly. He nodded. “Harripen should like it The Dutchman too, I think.”
“Ruark!” She stared at him in horror that he might make her wear this below, but suddenly she saw the laughter twinkling in his eyes. In impatient exasperation she stamped her foot, setting her hands on her hips, letting go the ends of the lacing. Ruark choked on his breath as her splendorous beauty nearly burst forth. As he stepped forward, Shanna cast him a challenging glare, struggling with the strings in an effort to cover herself.
“Madam.” Ruark’s voice was strained, strangely tight “I have never cast my coin for a lady’s bed nor exerted my will beyond a tender lass’s power to resist” His stare was fastened on the swelling curves, which seemed so eager to be out He heaved a slightly tremulous sigh. “But on occasion there comes a point in a man’s life when he is greatly beset and tempted beyond his will.” At her raised and questioning brows, he stated himself more bluntly. “Madam, rape does have its rewards, even if they be onesided. And if I am brought to this brink, do you think yon pirates will hold themselves in check? I suggest you find a gown that would not entice them overmuch and in the course of such, spare me as well from thoughts of violence.”
Petulantly Shanna went to search through the sea chests, discarding garment after garment; none would suffice. It seemed when the size was right, the cut was overbold, and when the style was right, the size was large enough to boggle the mind with the immensity of its wearer.
It was a treasure near the bottom of a large trunk which caught her eye, and she could barely suppress her glee as she examined it How a Puritan garment found its way into a pirate’s possession, she could not guess, but she was as happy with it as if she had received a precious gift. It was black wool, high at the neck, with sleeves to the wrists. A wide, stiff collar and cuffs were folded in the long skirt, and beneath it lay a bonnet, as drab as the gown.
Tossing a glance over her shoulder, Shanna assured herself that Ruark was paying no heed. He stood with his back turned, stropping a razor at the washstand as he prepared to shave. Gathering everything into a bundle, she slipped behind a mirror where she would be screened from his wandering gaze. She doffed the black velvet, donning in its stead the heavy woolen. No chemise had been found, not even the simplest shift, and the prickly gown was, at the least, a monstrous torture for her tender body, causing second thoughts to gather quickly in her mind. Still she had a need to disturb that confounded complacency of his, and with puckish anticipation she carefully settled the straight-cut garment in place over her narrow waist and round bosom. Moving to stand behind Ruark, she made a small request.
“Will you lace me?”
“Aye, love,” he readily replied, setting the razor down, before facing her. He suddenly appeared pained. His eyes slowly descended and his tone reflected his lack of appreciation. “Where did you manage to find that?”
Innocently Shanna shrugged and waved a hand toward the chests. “Over there.” She smoothed the gown where it was loose around her waist. “Am I covered well enough?”
For a reply Ruark only snorted derisively.
Shanna pouted defensively. “ Twas all I could find.”
She lifted the long, heavy tresses from her neck and presented her back where the unfastened garment revealed the smooth, creamy nakedness of it. A long, quiet moment slipped past as Ruark performed this service for her, time enough for Shanna to reflect upon the advantages of having a husband. There was almost a domestic tranquility, or more rightly a truce, between them in this moment when her need dictated his attention.
“Have you found a brush for your hair?” he asked over her shoulder.
Shanna shook her head, all too aware of its unsightly state. She felt his hand against it, smoothing the snarled mass, and stepped away, not wishing him to be repulsed by the feel of the wind-ravaged locks.
Sweeping the dampened tresses into a large knot on top of her head, she went to the bed and perched on its edge. The heat of the day had increased, and it was distressingly warm. The prickling of wool against her soft skin as she secured her hair was a forewarning of what was to come. She could not help squirming beneath it and glanced at Ruark to see if he noticed. He had returned to his shaving, and her eyes found his tall, slender back. She looked away and caught sight of herself in the mirrors. A Puritan’s wife, she mused in disdain. But then, that end would be infinitely more acceptable than what the pirates intended for her. She tried to imagine the kind of life a woman would have in Puritan clothes, living by Puritan manners. She envisioned a small plot of land, a cabin in the wilds, Ruark behind a plow while she, large with child, trod the furrows behind him, spreading a handful of seed. Shanna had meant to make mock of the idea, but strangely the illusion was not so distasteful as she had guessed, and she was baffled. Much in justification of her own lifestyle on Los Camellos, she stubbornly concluded that she would soon pine away for luxuries.
Ruark finished shaving, and Shanna watched him make preparations for his role of pirate. Her red silk tether was thrown over his shoulder and across his chest. Tied in a knot over his left hip, it became a sash from which to hang the heavy scabbard. He selected a handful of medals from the armoire to adorn his jerkin, and in his hat he stuck a long, red plume. He spread his hands, presenting Shanna a clear view of his outlandish creation, and she groaned. He portrayed a truly roguish pirate.
“But, madam, I must be a pirate.” He glanced down at his array of arms. “Is there something lacking?’
“Nay, Captain Pirate,” she sighed. “I vow no strutting cock could outshine your display.”
“Why, thank you, Shanna.” His teeth flashed in a bright smile. “Shall we be about our business?”
Striding to the door, he laid his hand on the latch, looked back at her, and gestured imperiously with his finger.
“Come along, madam. A step or two behind, as a good slave should.”
Before Shanna could grit a reply, he was in the hall, leading the way with a jaunty confidence in his step. Shanna struggled to her feet and followed humbly down the stairs, having lost the heart for argument beneath the discomfort of the wool dress.
The group was already swilling ale in the common room and for several moments Ruark and Shanna were the center of amusement. Ruark played his charade to the hilt. With open arms and great gusto, he greeted them. He flipped the medals and related impossible, lurid tales of how he had earned them. His entertainment was supreme, and the other picaroons soon held their sides in pain, while Shanna stood quietly and quailed at their overly vivid retorts. When the greeting had worn thin, Ruark bellowed for food and banged the table loudly until Dora scurried in fear to do his bidding. He tore a joint of roast goat from the carcass that was brought to him, took up a loaf of bread, and tossed a bit of both to Shanna. With a hearty whack on her rump, he sent her to a corner where she crouched and halfheartedly chewed on the noisome fare, observing Ruark with a jaundiced eye. He did not settle himself to a seat but strode around the table and exchanged banter with the men between bites and swills of ale. Pausing, he set a foot on a bench and gestured for them to gather about. Shanna could not hear his words, but she knew the tale was lusty, for the pirates leaned forward eagerly as it progressed and doubled over with gales of laughter at its finish. Ruark smiled at them, then waved an arm in farewell. He snapped his fingers loudly as he passed Shanna’s corner, and she quickly rose and fell into place behind him.
Once out of the cool, dark shadow of the inn, Shanna met the full weight of her folly. The black cloth drew the heat until it scorched her nearly as much as the hot sand beneath her feet. The gown had been cut for chaste modesty and allowed no room for the swell of her breasts. From there down it fell in a straight, loose mass that widened into a full, heavy skirt, which swung as she tried to match Ruark’s gait. His legs were long and the pace faster than she would have walked. In desperation, she seized the skirt and fought to keep it still lest her bosom and hips be scoured raw.
Ruark strode along as if he were enjoying an afternoon stroll. He seized a small branch and with a knife trimmed it until it made a neat walking stick, and as he went along, he aimlessly swatted tufts of grass and hanging twigs. A tuneless whistle wandered from his lips. Apparently he gave no notice to the girl who struggled along in his tracks.
The wide collar chafed her throat, and Shanna started to remove it but found the coarse wool more painful. The starched cuffs slid down against her wrists, and she had to constantly raise an arm to shake them back into place. They entered the village, and the worn pebbles that marked the paths between the squalid shacks were hotter than the sand. She almost moaned with pain, but seeing the careless swing of Ruark’s shoulders, she bit back the urge and vowed to ask no favor of him that might ease her distress.
“He wants me to crawl and beg of him,” Shanna fumed silently. “I will not! I shall not! Though I am worn to bleeding flesh, I will not give him the pleasure of knowing it.”
The sun beat down with a merciless glare from straight overhead. There was no shade, and most of the inhabitants had slunk into their dens to take a siesta in the heat of the day. Beneath a small thatched shelter, a withered, ragged old crone dozed amid stacks of vegetables and fruits. When Ruark roused her to ask for a sample of her wares, she was sorely aggravated, but her temper moderated greatly when she saw the color of his coin. While he and the old woman dickered, Shanna sat on a bale of hemp to ease her burning feet and testily refused Ruark’s offer of a tidbit or two to lunch upon. When they resumed the march, she rose and gritted her teeth with the effort it cost her. Ruark’s pace had slowed as he nibbled on small, ripe plantains and chunks of dry coconut meat, and Shanna had no difficulty staying with him, but she was already much the worse for wear. Sweat began to tickle maddeningly as it traced a slow path down the middle of her back. She wanted desperately to scratch, but her hands were occupied with the skirt and floppy cuffs. When they passed a small tangle of brush, she tore the wristlets off and threw them behind it, careful lest Ruark should see her. It was little comfort, for now the sleeves grew moist with perspiration and clung to her arms with a cloying prickliness.
They marked the end of the beach in one direction and saw the beginning of the swamp on that side. The sun moved in the sky as they retraced their steps to the dock and followed the beach in the opposite direction. It was here that Shanna strayed to wade where the gently lapping water touched the sand. She grimaced at the brief sting of the salt in the myriad tiny cuts and scrapes on her feet. She longed to tear the stupid garment from her body and race out into the lazy sea and stretch her muscles and cleanse her body in its tepid waves. Having slowed, she now found Ruark some distance ahead of her. Reluctantly she raised the damp skirts and ran after him.
Ruark paused upon a small knoll and stood thoughtfully surveying this end of the beach and the steaming mangrove swamp that stretched as far as the eye could see. He heard Shanna approach and turned, a question on his lips, but it died as he found her limping toward him, the heavy skirts flopping about her legs and hobbling her stride. Her face was flushed, and her breath rasped in her throat. Her hair had half fallen from its knot As she flung herself down upon a small tussock of grass, Shanna glared her anger at him and painfully raised a slim foot to touch the heel from which a thorn protruded.
“Here, let me, Shanna,” he offered, true concern in his tone. He had taken out his knife and would have knelt at her foot.
“Keep away from me.” Her snarl halted him. “You drag me on a tour of this Godforsaken sand pile without proper shoes for my feet or as much as a shade to protect me. Ouch!”
The last came as she pulled the stub of thorn from her heel. Ruark stepped to a low bush and pulled several of its small, narrow leaves, twisting them together until they formed a wet mass.
“Press these to the spot,” he directed. “Twill sting for a moment, but it draws away the soreness and any poison.”
Shanna did as she was told and nearly shrieked as the searing juices penetrated. Almost immediately, however, the pain began to ebb. In a few moments her heel was numb. Ruark never ceased to amaze her. His resources were completely beyond her ken, and his knowledge seemed full of these small tidbits.
Facing the swamp again, Ruark spoke over his shoulder as his eyes ranged far, his voice gentle. “You’ve called our outing pointless, Shanna. And so it must seem to all of them. But ’tis out there that we might find our escape.” He bent earnest eyes upon her. The Spaniards cut a channel through the swamp, but Mother hid the entrance and will not yield its secret” He nodded with his head toward the tangled growth. “You hear the birds?” he asked There was a constant murmur of sound from the swamp. “There are birds, my love, but then there are other things. Caimans, lizards, all sorts of snakes. Tis impossible to cross on foot, and if we could, there is open sea beyond. We shall need a boat, a fairly large one, though the Good Hound is too much for the two of us to handle.” Then Ruark shrugged. “But ’tis useless to prattle on. We’ll find what we need if we must Perhaps your father will pay your ransom and see you safe before too many days are passed. The bondsmen the pirates sent back will reach him tonight or early on the morrow. He will surely come apace.”
Ruark gazed down at her, knowing well that if he managed to get her back to Los Camellos, it might very well mean a severe punishing for himself. Trahern would take his leaving amiss, as he no doubt already did, and Ruark wondered if Shanna would see him thrashed rather than offer the truth to her father. Whether she did or not, his only concern at present was getting her out of this hellhole.
He took out his knife and knelt beside her.
“Poor Shanna.” He smiled softly, though she turned a still heated glower upon him. He lifted his broad shoulders in a shrug. “I only meant to spy out the lay of the land should I need to know.” He reached toward her and as she drew away his tone became brusque. “Hold still.”
His command brooked no refusal. The knife bit into the sleeve of the gown, cutting it off at the elbow. Then he split the seam on the underside so that a small capelet hung from her shoulder, demure but loose and cool. He repeated the operation on the other sleeve and then sat back on his heels, considering her tightly pressed bosom for a short time before leaning forward again. The starched yoke sailed off into the brush, startling a flock of birds with its flight. Lopping the loose end from his sash, he rolled the soft silk beneath the neck of her gown, frowning as he saw the raw skin there.
“I’ll not have you abuse my property, madam. I command you to take better care.”
Shanna sniffed at his attempted humor, but, somewhat ashamed of her own foolishness, she held her tongue and submitted herself further to his ministrations. As he plied his blade to the outer stitches of the seams, she could feel the binding bodice loosen in stages across her breasts. His hushed voice came to her ear.
“I’ve sought to find an alliance with you, Shanna, and in my search I have tried to conduct myself with wisdom and make the best of whatever is offered. Tis my aim to see you safely back to your father, and to that end I beg you cease this self-abuse and lend yourself to seeking out whatever will serve our welfare. That same is common to us both, my love. At least for a time. There!”
He rose to his feet and stepped back a pace, staring down as Shanna took the first deep breath she had been able to draw since donning the garment.
“What is left of the seams,” he remarked, indicating the bodice, “should hold until we are in our room again. Are you comfortable now?”
“As much as can be expected,” she replied, much sharper than she had intended.
Ruark presented his back, and his own voice was gruff as he spoke again. “If you are able, we can return now.”
Shanna tested her heel, amazed to find it without pain. She was more surprised to find Ruark’s arm waiting to assist her. Taking it, she leaned against him until they came in sight of the village and then dropped back in her usual place. He whistled and swung his stick again, appearing for anyone who cared to take note as if he were out for a lighthearted stroll. But now his stride was shortened and his pace more considerate; his gaze wandered around now and again to take notice of Shanna’s progress.
They had passed through the village and were approaching the inn when Ruark left the well-traveled path, exploring along a narrow trail which wove a way through grass-tufted dunes and low, scrawny brush leading them eventually to a small, clear pond. A herd of goats scattered at their approach and fled into the scrubby bushes that hid the oasis. It was a vale well hidden from the casual eye. A small, seeping spring fed the pool which in turn gave its moisture, through a shallow rift, to the sea. The air hung motionless in the hollow, and the sun beat down mercilessly, lending it the warmth of a kiln.
With a quiet word to her, Ruark stepped away a short distance while Shanna stood in some dismay, wondering where she might find privacy for her own needs, at least more seclusion than Ruark appeared worried about Such intimacy she had never had to contend with before and was not willing to indulge in it now. Determinedly she strode along the edge of the pool toward a thick cluster of brush near the far end but stopped abruptly as Ruark called a warning.
“Not too far.”
Shanna’s back stiffened, and she stood with clenched fists, silently fuming. Without turning, she asked tersely, “Am I not allowed some privacy, milord and master?”
Ruark’s chuckle was soft in reply, “Stray too far, my love, and you might have more company than you wish. We are too close to the inn for you to be wandering off alone.”
Shanna was unappreciative of his reminder and gritted between gnashing teeth. “Then permit me to see your back turned, sir. At least that much privacy, I beg you.”
“Done.”
Cautiously she looked over her shoulder to see if he had really complied with her request. He had, and she fled into the protection of the trees. Shortly she returned to find Ruark wading in the pool. He had removed his weapons and vest and left his sandals and hat beside them.
“Would you share a bath, my love?” he inquired as he gave her a laconic grin.
Shanna’s sunburned nose snubbed him. However, the pool offered the only relief in sight, and the temptation to join him was almost overwhelming. She trailed a toe in the water and watched surreptitiously as Ruark sought out the deeper part. In a slow, leisurely motion he swam across the pool, returned again to the shallows near her, and peered up at her expectantly.
“Well?” He came to his feet and stood beside her. “Are you coming in?”
He slapped the sodden breeches that covered his lean hips then plucked the clinging cloth away while Shanna twitched under her woolens. Droplets of water clung to his bronzed skin and tinier beads sparkled in the dark furring on his chest.
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 snatched 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.
“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 least, 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.
“Then my Lord Captain Pirate,” she gritted, “can find himself another bed and another bitch!”
Primly she presented her back, slipped out of the skirt, the blouse, and loosed her hair. Fluffing the pillow, she slid beneath the sheet and laid her head back upon the feather-filled rest Casting her gaze beyond the foot of the bed, she saw the face of her Ruark smiling back at her, the lazy grin spreading across his lips. She raised her head, and there he was again and again and again. Each mirror was set to cast back to those upon the bed whatever occurred upon it. A full dozen Ruarks stared back at her, as if the one were not beyond endurance. The roguish face haunted her, but lo, each mirror has a weakness and no less the likes of these. She gave a derisive grunt and, wetting her finger on her tongue, snuffed the candle.
Mouthing a low curse, Ruark punched his pillow heartily with his fist, yanked up the sheet to cover himself, and felt the rough coarseness of the blanket against his back. Sometime later his voice was heard in the dark.
“Woman,” he muttered, “I yield that you are certainly mad.”