Shanna
Ruark came awake with a start. One moment he was asleep, the next wide awake. He could find no reason for it. He was alert and seemed in the best of health, though he had dozed off in the chair where he had been sampling from a jug. Pulling the cork, Ruark sniffed then grimaced at the bitter pungency of the oily black rum. He had never acquired a taste for it and much preferred the lighter, gentler brews.
The tall clock behind him in the hall gave a single chime, and, turning, Ruark verified the hour as the first of the morning. A frown drew his dark brows together. Rising from the chair, he went to stand beside the window. Old Blue was in his own small yard, though the gate stood wide, dozing beneath the open shelter Ruark had built.
Loosening his linen shirt and slipping it over his head, Ruark went to the washstand in the bedchamber and, having naught else to do, shaved and washed the sweat of the day from his body. He rinsed the bitter taste from his mouth and then donned a pair of shortened breeches before going out onto the small porch to catch the coolness of the night. Though slightly lightheaded, as if some of the effects of the rum were still with him, he had a sense of well-being and clarity of mind.
The moon was low and skimmed the treetops. Where it penetrated the high canopies it lit the cool but oddly tense night with an eerie gray cast. There was an urging in him that made Ruark uneasy. The night seemed to call, the shadows to beckon. Stepping from the porch, he felt the dampness of dew beneath his bare feet. He passed the shrubbery and wandered beneath the tall trees. The manor house drew him. Its great dark hulk squatted in the midst of slimmer trees. All the lights were gone now, and he knew that the revelers had returned and were abed.
A familiar bulk loomed beside him, and reaching out his hand Ruark felt the bole, identifying the tree that stood before Shanna’s balcony. He leaned a shoulder against the comfortable bulwark of sturdy wood and stared upward toward the open doors that marked her room. His mind wandered until it touched on a scene of Shanna sleeping beside that hulking English knight. The vision was most distasteful, and Ruark banished it quickly from his mind. Thus freed, his thoughts trod gently backward to a night when he had watched her in slumber, her honey- and gold-streaked hair spreading in careless cascades across the pillow, framing her perfect face. Her lips parted slightly with her breathing as she slept in innocent trust upon his bed. Then there was a time in the cottage when she had knelt above him naked and leaned across to kiss him, her breasts in silken tresses caressing his chest until he nearly dissolved in bliss. And once she had curled close beside him, cuddling her body against his, her warmth touching a warmth deep within him, stirring his passions to a soaring flight like a covey of quail from an upland lea. The burning inside him grew hotter until it became an exotic torture, and he found himself beneath her balcony, stretching upward to grasp the vine.
Shanna floated in a deep well of dream stuff, a limbo, an endless void. She was swimmmg in a gently rolling sea, bright turquoise water shattering with the easy strokes of her arms. A small panic began to build as she realized there was no land in sight, not even the green-hued clouds that reflected its presence, but then the fear fled. Beside her, a man’s golden, bronzed arms matched the movements of her own, stroke for stroke. The man turned, and the visage was Ruark’s, his white teeth flashing in a tantalizing grin. His lips moved in a voiceless plea, then he rose and arched his muscled back to dive beneath the waves. With a playful laugh she followed, going deep where the light faded into dark green and endless tendrils of seaweed twined about them as they came together in a timeless kiss. She felt no need to breathe. They were like two nymphs drifting in an oceanic nirvana, deeper, deeper. Then suddenly she was alone—
Ruark’s face returned in gigantic proportions drifting above her. It came ever closer, yet she could not touch it. She blinked her eyes and moved her head, trying to banish the vision. Suddenly she realized she was awake, and he was there. His arms, braced on either side of her, trembled beneath his weight. His lips hovered over hers, and his voice was soft as he spoke, like a small boy pleading for a favor.
“Shanna—love me, Shanna—love me.”
With a small, welcoming cry, she reached silken arms to draw him down to her, her heart flooding her body with warm gladness. It was like a time for things meant to be, like the trees, the sand, the sea, the sun, and the stars. It was a thousand twinkling stars blending to a single sun, the naked hunger that caught them both into a sweet, violent whirlwind. Shanna arched against him, opening her thighs and meeting his deep thrusts with all the vigor in her trembling body, holding no reserve. They were one, belonging and possessing, giving and taking.
Sated, they lay entwined, Shanna warm and secure in his arms, knowing the strange peace she had found nowhere else. There was no shame, no sense of having strayed, not the smallest tinge of regret that she had yielded once again. In the record of her mind, the words of the clergyman long ago in a small country church came drifting back. A long and enduring marriage, he had said. For some reason those words no longer frightened her.
Shanna sighed contentedly and kissed the side of Ruark’s neck where she nestled close. The slow drum of his heartbeat lulled even the peaceful thoughts, and she drifted to sleep, cradled in his arms.
In the still, ebony darkness that precedes early dawn, Shanna came aburptly awake, realizing Ruark was easing from her side.
“Wait, I’ll light a candle,” she murmured drowsily. Her hand searched the dark for him, touching his hard, muscular thigh, and she rose, slipping an arm about his neck as he leaned to her.
“I thought you were asleep,” he whispered, his lips playing upon hers.
“I was, until you moved,” she replied softly. Wistfully she released a sigh. “Dawn comes so quickly.”
“Aye, love. Much too quickly.” She was like a fragile bird resting against him, and Ruark almost feared to move lest she fly away. The soft, delicate peaks of her bosom touched their warmth to him, and, aware that he must soon leave her, he was like a man on the rack.
Shanna drew away to light a candle on the bedside commode. Then she knelt back upon her heels to smile at him, her hair cascading in a wild torrent over her naked body.
Ruark half groaned, half sighed in longing at the sight of her. “Lord, you’re a witch. A beautiful, sweet witch.”
His hand brushed aside the thick curls from her rosy breasts so his gaze could roam unhindered. Shanna laughed as she raised on her knees, her eyes sparkling with bright, happy, glittering lights. Throwing her arms about his neck, she fell against him in playful abandon.
“A witch, am I? Fie upon thee, sir, for taking the best I have to offer and then calling insults. Is this how you’ve kept your coins, plying your manhood through wicked brothels then claiming you’ve been cheated?”
Small, white teeth nipped at his ear before she rolled him on his back and raised her fist as if she would lay him lower still. Chuckling, Ruark cringed in mock terror.
“Please, mistress, have pity. I’ve been sore misused this night.”
“Sore misused!” Shanna gasped. “Indeed, knave, you will soon know what misuse is. I’ll tear your fickle heart from your bold chest,” she tweaked a few hairs of his chest, drawing a quick grimace from him, “and feed it to the crabs. How dare you call me a witch when little Milly is so simpering, sweet, and willing. I vow ‘twill be more than your heart go missing.”
A strange note of sincerity in Shanna’s teasing made Ruark give her a questioning look, but Shanna chuckled wickedly, raking him with a mischievous stare that nearly drew his breath from him and rekindled the fires in his loins. Satisfied with the rapidity of his response, Shanna sat back upon her heels again.
“A mere glance? Can Milly boast of such? That skinny, flat-bosomed twit tempting the dragon Ruark? Ha! I’ve seen better matches in my day.”
Ruark relaxed upon the bed, folding his arm beneath his head. He looked much like the sleek panther her mind had often compared him with. He gave her that slow, careful scrutiny that made her feel d
evoured.
“You’re a bold wench, Shanna Beauchamp. Bold enough to tame a dragon.”
Ruark stretched out a finger and leisurely traced an imaginary line over the full, swelling curve of her breast, studying her eyes as he traveled the peak, seeing them grow dark and limpid like two bottomless pools staring at him from behind lowered lids. Her soft mouth parted with yearning, and Shanna leaned down to him and kissed his waiting lips, touching her tongue to his. His arms came around her, pulling her lithe body over his, and, once again, time ceased to be, though on the eastern horizon the sky lightened to a dark blue.
Humming a light and airy tune, Shanna almost skipped with glee as she descended the stairs for breakfast. She shocked Berta by greeting the housekeeper with an exuberant hug, and the old woman almost gaped as she stared after her young mistress. It was a rare thing, indeed, when Shanna appeared before the elder Trahern came from his chambers, and never so cheerfully. Laughter mingled with her words as Shanna dismissed Jason to admit the bondsman, John Ruark, into the manor. Her face glowed as radiantly as the very sun that shone in the eastern sky. Much bemused, Berta took herself to the back of the house, shaking her head in wonderment as she went. Shanna hardly noticed the woman’s confused retreat as she gave Ruark a sprightly curtsy and accepted his warm appraisal as a silent compliment.
“You seem to have suffered no ill in your witch hunt, Mister Ruark.” Shanna’s eyes scanned him. “No scars? No festering wounds from the witch’s fangs?”
A rakish grin spread lazily across his mouth. Taking her slender fingers into his, he made a show of examining her long, carefully tended nails while Shanna watched in amusement.
“Nay, none to be seen, milady. ‘Twas only a bit of skin she came away with when she clawed at me.”
Shanna tossed her head in a playful scoff and disentangled her hand from his grasp. “You are speaking nonsense, sir. I remember nothing—”
“Shall I tell you what you whispered in the dark?” Ruark interrupted, speaking in a hushed tone as he bent slightly to her. His smile was tantalizing as he gazed down into her wondering, searching eyes.
“I said nothing—” Shanna began defensively, but she was curious. Had her thoughts betrayed her? Had she spoken some unbidden words?
“You sighed in your sleep, ‘Ruark—Ruark.’ “
A light blush touched her cheeks, and Shanna quickly turned away, not wanting to meet his close perusal.
“Come in, Mister Ruark. I believe I hear papa coming down the hall. And Mister Ralston should be here any moment. You’ll not have long to wait.”
Thus dismissing his words, Shanna led him to the dining room and there some moments later greeted her father, brushing a light kiss upon his cheek as Ruark looked on, still as much unable as ever to fathom her moods.
Sir Gaylord was a late riser. The conversation at the morning table had been leisurely and well marked with varied opinions of the lumber mill, but he did not make an appearance until well after Ruark and the squire had left to inspect the sawmill being built. So it was that Mister Ralston, after being coolly bid good day by Shanna, remained the only one to greet the swaggering Englishman as he came into the dining room.
“I say there, ‘tis a bit of a balmy day without,” Gaylord remarked, taking a pinch of snuff and sneezing into his lace handkerchief. “Mayhaps I should invite the Widow Beauchamp on an outing this morn. No doubt she will be anxious for some gentlemanly companionship after these months of widowhood. Such a lovely, young woman. I am endeared to that sweet face.”
Ralston folded his accounting books and studied the man. A calculating gleam brightened his dark eyes.
“If I might suggest a bit of caution there, sir—I have known Madam Beauchamp for a considerable part of her life, and she seems to have a natural aversion to most men who come courting her. I can tell you much of her, though I am considered in the ranks of those she detests.”
Gaylord dabbed at his sweat-moistened upper lip. “Then how, my good man, do you propose to help me if you cannot help yourself?”
Ralston’s thin mouth almost smiled. “If you should succeed in wedding the widow with my advice, would you be willing to divide the dowry in return?”
Ralston had guessed rightly. Gaylord was eager to strike up any agreement that would lead toward his gaining riches and reestablishing his family’s depleted wealth. The knight was not ill-advised on the Trahern fortune, and he was determined to make the most of it, through marriage to the lovely widow or through dealings with the squire. His inherited shipyard was badly impoverished and needed a goodly amount of coins to set the whole of it right. With Trahern providing the purse, he could share a simple dowry with this man.
“As gentlemen,” Gaylord stretched forth his hand, and the bargain was made.
“First of all I would suggest impressing the squire with your importance at court and your good name,” Ralston said. “But you must be warned. If Madam Beauchamp suspects you have taken me as your counsel, all is lost. Even convincing the squire of your merits will not mend that error. So take care, my friend. Take special care in courting the Widow Beauchamp.”
Chapter 13
A PAIR OF SEA EAGLES nested on the bluff along the east shore of the island. Shanna had often watched them hang on motionless wings as they rode the currents of air high above the crashing surf. Her spirit soared with them. Even with the renewed assurance that motherhood was not forthcoming, she gave little thought to the consequences of letting Ruark invade her chambers again. Her mind was filled with the pleasurable remembrances of when he had come to her in the deep ebony of night and tomorrow had ceased to be. She was content to live moment by moment, surrounded by an airy castle of bliss. She was in tune with her world, and she felt an overriding sense of peace and a strange aura of confidence that all was as it should be. The realization that this state was due to Ruark’s daily presence in the manor did not seem to disturb her as it had in the past. She was like a flower, a rose, unfolding under the warm rays of the sun as she bathed in the glow of Ruark’s eyes.
Nearly a week had passed since his visit to her room. The day had dawned with heavy black clouds threatening to engulf the verdant island in a storm. Standing on her balcony, Shanna contemplated the ominously dark sky which seemed to press down upon the hills with evil portent.
A loud, angry whinny rent the air, and Shanna whirled to find several men in the lane before the manor, struggling to subdue a horse that reared up before them, pawing the air with its forelegs. Even from where she stood, Shanna could see the bloody slashes that marred the glistening reddish brown coat. Her rage soared at the thought that such a magnificent beast had suffered abuse.
“Here there, be careful with the nag. The beastie is already sore.”
The voice that bellowed was one Shanna had never heard before, but she recognized the garb of the men as being that of seamen—the largest boasted a braided coat, while the other three wore the dress of common tars.
“You there!” Shanna called down as she hurried along the veranda. “What is the meaning of this? Have you no ken to the value of that animal? Were you all born on the wooden planks of a deck?”
Like a whirlwind she descended the wide steps, gilded curls bouncing riotously, and approached the four, glaring at them before she turned to the task of calming the mare. Speaking soothingly, she reached out a hand to caress the silken nose of the steed and stroke its shivering sides. Gradually the animal quieted beneath her gentle touch and condescended to stand still as the men gaped their amazement. They had battled the mare all the way from the village as she had refused to be led either by wagon or themselves.
The large, bewhiskered man took a step forward and spoke apologetically. “We had a bit of a tiff with the weather after we left the colonies, and the ship was tossed to such a degree that the mare was bruised against the stall we built for her. ‘Twas not from ill use, I assure you, mum.”
Shanna contemplated the man and decided he spoke the truth. “What is your
name, sir, and for what purpose have you brought the animal here?”
He gave a quick bob of his head. “Captain Roberts at your service, mum, of the Virginia Company. Captain Beauchamp bade me see the mare safely to Squire Trahern or his daughter in return for their generous hospitality while he was here. Might you be the Widow Beauchamp?”
Shanna nodded. “I am.”
The captain fished in his coat, withdrawing a sealed letter which he handed to her. “This be for you, mum, from Captain Beauchamp.”
Accepting the packet, Shanna gazed a moment at the wax seal bearing an elaborate “B.” She was overwhelmed by Captain Beauchamp’s generosity, for this was no pauper’s gift he had sent. She had long ago learned of horses and their value. The broad but tapering head of the mare, the large, expressive eyes, and the gracefully arched neck bespoke Arabian blood, and as she read the letter, Shanna was assured of this, for Nathanial had detailed the blood line. The mare was as worthy a steed as Attila, and no doubt would produce good foals if bred to the stallion.