Shanna

  “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.”

  Chapter 18

  THE NIGHT HELD NO COMFORTS for Ruark in sleep or blissful pleasures. He tossed restlessly and could find no solace for his mind. Though the rough blanket separated them, he was ever aware of Shanna’s presence beside him. The silvery glow of the moon shining in through the open shutters cast shadows with its brightness, and in its light Ruark rose to fetch himself a strong bracer of rum. He prowled the room, liberally sampling the brew and casting more than occasional glances toward the softly curving form in the bed.

  In abject frustration he slipped into the shortened breeches, filled a pipe from a small cask of tobacco, lifted the bolt and eased open the door, taking care not to wake his peacefully slumbering wife. He went below to the common room. It was empty save for Mother. No sound came from the eunuch to give him clue whether he slept or was fully awake. Ruark stepped quietly to the fireplace and lifted a small charred stick, blew the coal at its end into life, and touched it to his pipe. He puffed until the tobacco caught too, then seated himself at the table to enjoy his smoke.

  “ ‘Tis a warm night, Mister Ruark.”

  Ruark stared in surprise at Mother and saw the small, alert eyes watching him in the dim light of the subdued lantern.

  “Aye,” Ruark finally nodded and gave the excuse. “I’ll never be accustomed to this heat.”

  A snicker of amusement set Mother’s rolls of flesh quavering. “The Trahern wench warmed ye a mite, eh? She were a spirited one, even as a tot. She’ll lead some man a merry chase for the want of her favors. Beware ‘tis not you, me hearty.”

  Ruark grunted and averted his face. He drew on the pipe then leisurely blew a slim column of smoke into the air, leaning his head back to watch it curl down upon itself.

  “I was not always a buccaneer.” Mother interrupted his thoughts, and Ruark contemplated the man in the meager light, amazed because his voice no longer bore any hint of the guttural tones or crude speech which he had used earlier.

  “I was a young man at the peak of my profession,” Mother continued. “A tutor at Portsmouth. The cream of the blue bloods came to hear my lectures, but alas, one of the hypocrites twisted my reasoning, and I was accused of preaching treason. They gave me a quick trial and threw me in the gaol. Then I was placed on the lists and impressed into the service as a common seaman.”

  He paused, staring into the low-burning embers in the hearth. Ruark waited, his interest aroused, until the eunuch snorted and resumed his tale.

  “Would you see the stripes on my back, Mister Ruark? I was a slow learner and did not take to the sea as well as the mate thought I should.” He sipped from a mug of strong rum to wet his tongue before he sighed heavily. “The captain deemed me useless and sold me to Trahern as a bondsman. ‘Tis Trahern’s justice that finds me here amid this scurvy lot. Be careful you do not fall victim to his revenge. His daughter is his pride, and he’ll see you gelded for having used her. You can never go back to Los Camellos without losing some portion of your life, if not all of it. I give this advice freely. Do not let the wench get in your blood, lad, else you might be tempted to test the fates to have her again.”

  “Bah,” Ruark returned gruffly and played his part well. “What’s one skirt from another? I’ll tire of her before her father pays the ransom.”

  “Then ‘tis wise you be.” Mother nodded at his own wisdom as he murmured, “I know that you are no common thief. And I know, too, that you will not long stay with us.”

  Ruark would have denied the statement, but Mother held up a hand to delay him.

  “The others had decided to do away with you at a convenient moment. That is why Harripen freely gave you the purse. He expected to regain it soon. But you killed Pellier, which all of them desired to do, and became one of them, thus gaining some measure of respect and freedom. ‘Tis fully expected that you will leave. We find that young, energetic men who find their way here are soon gone. We only hope your going will not cost us dearly, and most will be glad to see you go, for you are a constant reminder of the youth and vigor we have lost. Go your way, my young hearty, but trust no one, not even me, and do not press us beyond what we can bear. As you may have guessed, even our own lives are less than desirable in this hole and are held rather cheaply. I, myself, only mark time and hold my freedom until the day death releases me from this shallow existence. Perhaps that is why we dare danger and challenge death for the very luxuries we crave.”

  Ruark could make no denial or comment on Mother’s insight and felt a small measure of respect for the mind trapped within the hulking body. Thoughtfully he stared at the pipe he held in his hand. There was no further word from Mother, and, for all Ruark knew, he had lapsed into slumber, having exhausted his moment of sanity. Ruark got to his feet, counting himself far luckier than any man on the island, despite what they might have termed poor luck in being imprisoned for murder and sold into bondage. In truth, if he hadn’t been in the gaol, he never would have married Shanna, and he counted all the abuse he had suffered there well worth the gain of such a wife. There were matters to be settled yet, but by God’s grace they would be settled and be all the sweeter for the trials.

  In a thoughtful mood, he climbed the stairs and bolted the door securely behind him. He stripped, careful not to wake Shanna, and sat on his side of the woolen barrier, his back braced against the baroque, carved headboard, an arm slung across a drawn-up knee. For a long time he contemplated his sleeping wife, taking solace in the fact he didn’t have to leave her with the coming of dawn. Her gilded tresses spread like a wide fan over the downy pillow, touching her pale shoulders. Her slender hand lay in the midst, and in the gentle glow of moonlight the single band of gold upon her finger gleamed with its own luster.

  “You are my wife, Shanna Beauchamp,” he whispered. “And I will have you as that. There will come a day when you’ll proudly declare our marriage to the world. God help me, you will.”

  The warmth that came with the dawn was an insidious omen of what the later hours would bring. Shanna lay asleep with the sheet covering all but her head, and Ruark again slipped from the bed. Donning his breeches, he went below to the common room to see what he might find in the way of food for them. He knew Shanna hadn’t been able to eat much before Mother’s harsh command. He would assure this time that a modicum of peace accompanied their meal.

  The night of merrymaking by the pirates had reduced the place pretty much to shambles, a situation Dora, the young serving woman, was trying to remedy. Mother, dozing heavily under a series of loud snores in the chair, was the only other one present. It seemed the eunuch had given up the use of a bed long ago, so Harripen had explained. Mother found only acute discomfort with his great weight pressing down upon him and feared that he might be somehow trapped in those muffling confines. A living nightmare, Ruark mused.

  He bent his attention to the girl, a thin, bony thing with straggly brown hair and a plain face that betrayed the smallest hin
t of charm when she smiled, but that was rare indeed. Gaitlier had said she would do chores for a copper or two, and Ruark wondered if she preferred that method of earning her keep to Carmelita’s.

  Pausing beside her, Ruark asked for a tray of food, and at his first words the snoring halted abruptly in mid-snort. From beneath the shadow of his beetled brow, Mother fixed his small eyes on them. Then with a grunt he heaved his large shape from the chair and padded out of the room.

  The door slammed behind the obese man, and Dora scurried to fetch what Ruark had requested, setting out fruits, bread, and meats, while she brewed a pot of strong tea. His show of patience on this morning quite bemused her, for he had nearly scared the wits out of her the previous day with his bellowing. He was handsome and moved like a dream, yet she had seen him kill a man and threaten others just last night—although that was not an uncommon occurrence on this island, nor the first she had witnessed. Still, she was fearful of him and went to great pains to avoid raising his ire. But because of his awesome presence, she was awkward and more inept than usual, and in her haste she dropped the hot kettle, nearly scalding herself as the steaming water flew upward like a geyser.

  Dora’s heart thumped wildly as Ruark rose and stepped close, but to her amazement he only inquired of her welfare and returned the kettle to her trembling hands. Assuring him that she was not injured, she flew to refill the copper kettle and hung it again on a hook above the fire. While she sliced meat, her large eyes moved to where he sat smoking his pipe, and she frowned in confusion. The other pirates would have descended upon her in rage at her clumsiness. They were always eager to rebuke her with a hamlike fist or booted foot on her buttocks. Ever since they had taken her captive some nine years before, at the age of twelve, she had suffered much humiliation and abuse from them all, not the least from Carmelita and that evil one, Pellier.

  Only Gaitlier and some of the village folk had been kind to her, but her days were passed in servitude to these beasts and marred by the hardships the pirates heaped upon her. They had killed her parents and raped her before she was even a woman. They delighted in everything perverse and cruel, and long ago she had made it her purpose in life to escape this brigade of thieves. She could envy the young woman taken captive from Los Camellos while, at the same time, pitying her for having to submit to this man’s lust. At least Trahern was rich and could ransom his daughter from this hell. There was no one in the world who knew or cared that she, Dora Livingston, was alive, let alone slave to madmen.

  Ruark shifted his gaze to her, and she wilted into shy retreat as he indicated her blouse, pointing at it with his pipe. Numbly she half expected him to order her to disrobe.

  “Is there a place where I might find a waistshirt like that for the Trahern wench?”

  Dora’s fear became suspicion, but she nodded and answered haltingly. “There’s an old woman who makes ’em for ‘er keep.”

  Ruark fished into the purse hanging from his belt. “Fetch me several for the maid and some of whatever is worn beneath. And a pair of sandals, if you will.” He glanced down at Dora’s own and indicated with his pipe. “Not too big. About your size or less. You can have what coin is left.”

  He flipped her several, and she caught the pieces between her palms then looked at them, somewhat puzzled. She did not know how to respond to kindness, for any small show of it from her captors had only been followed by some further depravity. She eyed him now in bewildered apprehension.

  “But, sir, ‘ere are rich gowns in Pellier’s chests. In the room they are, sir.”

  A sneer crept into Ruark’s voice as he replied. “My tastes differ from Pellier’s brothel garb, and I must keep the Trahern brat alive for her father. ‘Twould only brew trouble to parade her around half naked.”

  Dora hung her head shamefacedly. “Whenever some of the women would go with him up there, Captain Pellier would make ’em wear those. He fetched the old hag what sells fruit in the village to put on the best of them and strut about for him while he laughed at her.” Dora’s face flushed crimson, and her eyes fell to her twisting hands. “And even meself.”

  The shame she felt was apparent, and Ruark would have said some consoling word, but his role of pirate did not permit displays of kindness.

  “I’ll wait while you run to fetch the things for the wench. But hurry. She may grow restless if I’m gone too long.”

  When Ruark returned to the chamber above with the clothes Dora brought, he secured the door behind him. Then he set the food tray down on the table next to the bed with a deliberate clatter, startling Shanna from sleep. She sat up in alarm, snatching the sheet high under her chin.

  “Easy, love. ‘Tis only your master bringing the morning fare to his beautiful slave,” he mocked lightly and flashed her a devilish grin as his warm gaze caressed her.

  “Oh, Ruark!” Shanna’s voice cracked with fear, and she rubbed a hand across her brow as if to clear her mind. She regained her composure and remembered the state of her relationship with him as she ran her fingers through her tangled mane of hair. “I dreamt you had left me here with them and fled to the colonies to be free.” The sheet was draped carefully over her bosom and held under her arms, but she was oblivious to the fact that she salved Ruark’s gaze with the reflection of her naked back in several of the mirrors. “Do dreams come true, bondsman?” Her bright sea-hued eyes caught his and held them.

  Ruark shrugged. “Sometimes, Shanna, but mostly because you want them to and work at it.” He prepared her a plate of food and placed it before her, sitting beside her on the bed. Reaching out a hand, he smoothed her sleep-tossed curls, grinning in that one-sided, roguish way. “You know I’ll never leave you, Shanna. Never!”

  She tried to read his eyes, wondering whether he teased or gave a statement of fact.

  “I brought a gift for you,” he said suddenly, rising from the bed and retrieving the bundled garments from the chair beside the door. He presented them with a decorous bow. “These should suit the occasion better than what the good gentleman, Pellier, left behind.”

  “Pellier was no gentleman,” Shanna assured him as she sipped her tea.

  “Well spoken, my love,” Ruark agreed. His handsome brow knitted as if he considered some deep subject, then he pointed out, “You can never declare a gentleman by his collection of riches or lack of them, by a name or lack of one. Now take your father, for instance. He is basically a good man, a gentleman by any twist, yet his father was hanged. What great harm has your father suffered? He is an honest man, rich, powerful. Do you hold him beneath lords and dukes, Shanna?”

  “Of course not!”

  “And what of yourself, my love? The granddaughter of a highwayman, you have the airs of a grand duchess. Yet if I bore the title or the blood of a noble, I would not think you beneath me. Perhaps if we had children, ‘twould go well for them rather than bad.” He paused at her gasp of indignation and then leaned forward and stared at her as he continued slowly. “Suppose, my love, that I had wealth and came from a family with more than a fine name, could you then love me and be content to bear the fruit of my devotion, giving life to our children as beautiful and honorable offsprings of our love?”

  Shanna shrugged, not wanting to answer. “If—if you had been true—I suppose—Oh!” She flared. “ ‘Tis foolishness to speak of these things when we both know they are not so. You can be nothing more than what you are.”

  “And what am I, madam?” he persisted.

  “You ask me?” she snapped irritably, turning away from those amber eyes which seemed to bore into her. “Of all people, you should be the one to know.”

  “Then the reply is, madam, that you could easily accept me as your husband if I were rich and titled? You would find no argument with me if I had these qualities and none of those I have now?”

  Shanna squirmed uncomfortably. “You put it crudely, Ruark, but, aye, I suppose I could abide marriage with you, if all you say were true.”

  “Then, my dear, Shanna, you’re a p
rudish snob.”

  He said it so kindly, with a sparkling flash of white teeth, that it was not until he uttered the last word that Shanna felt the prick of his sarcasm. She choked on a mouthful of tea then stared at him in speechless outrage.

  “Please put your clothes on, madam,” he suggested and turned away to sample his portion of the morning fare.

  In a petulant mood, she rose, snatched the garments he had provided and donned them. She retrieved the embroidered black skirt she had worn the night before, though this time she did not hitch it up. She laced the wide waistband tightly over the white gypsy blouse then braided her hair into one long, heavy plait which hung down her back. Lastly she slipped the leather sandals on and crisscrossed the narrow thongs about her ankles.

  Her appearance was so stirring it momentarily numbed the wits of Harripen and a goodly number of men who had gathered in the common room. There was no dallying with the pirates this morning, for Ruark felt the need to hasten her from beneath their heavy perusals.

  Catching her wrist, Ruark pulled her along after him, feigning annoyance at her slowness. “Get a move on, wench. Do you think I have nothing else to do but wait on you?”

  “ ‘At a lad,” Harripen roared with mirth. “Keep that twit ‘opping, in bed and out!”

  Loud guffaws rang in the room as Ruark and Shanna quickly fled the inn.

  “Don’t they ever think of anything but—making love?” she questioned with a derisive glance over her shoulder.

  Ruark peered down at her and hastened to correct. “ ‘Tis not love they do in bed, Shanna. They have not learned that gentle art. They release an urge on the one they’ve chosen for the night, like an animal. They call themselves lovers because of the great number who’ve passed beneath them. A bull can do the same. Love is that wherein two people share themselves because of some deep and abiding emotion between them. They cast away all others and seek out the one they have chosen to go through life with, and be it thick or thin, they’ll stand by each other until death.”