Shanna

  They cleared the stables as other men ran past to free the horses, Orlan Trahern in a wine velvet dressing robe stepping lightly for his girth and Pitney charging across the lawn, the tails of his long nightshirt flapping loose over his britches. Nathanial fell to his knees, choking, gasping for breath, and Ruark sprawled limply from his shoulders, tangled in the wet quilt. Charlotte was at her husband’s side, bending over him, while Shanna frantically tore the sodden cover from Ruark. He groaned as she lifted his head to her breast.

  “Oh, my darling. My darling.” She wept in relief as his eyes blinked open. “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “My head.” He winced as her fingers touched his scalp. Shanna stared in amazement—the sleeve of her nightgown was smeared with blood.

  “You’re bleeding!” she gasped.

  Charlotte came around to kneel on the other side of him, bending over his head. Her slim fingers carefully parted his hair away from a small gash and gently probed at the swelling knot, drawing a grimace from Ruark.

  “There’s a cut here,” Charlotte announced. “Did you hit your head?”

  “Some damn bastard hit me from behind,” Ruark growled low. He sat up beside Shanna, gingerly touching the back of his head.

  “He was on the floor by the stalls, and the stable doors were barred from the outside,” Nathanial panted. “Whoever set the fire intended him to roast in it.”

  Pitney ran by, leading the mare, Jezebel, and other men hurried out of the burning stable, bringing more horses to safety. Amelia had come to stand above Ruark, her tall, slender frame hidden in the folds of her husband’s robe. In the bright firelight her face appeared pinched and drawn as she questioned in a strained voice:

  “Are you all right?”

  “Aye,” Ruark assured her with an effort. He rolled over and attempted to come to his feet but fell back to his knees and grasped his head as if to hold it in place. Worried, Shanna watched him closely and, as Gabrielle wrapped a patchwork quilt around her shoulders, reached out with a corner of it to wipe his soot-grimed face.

  Clad only in a nightshirt, George paused to ask, “What the hell happened?”

  An enraged scream, not of an animal, forestalled any reply, and they all turned to the fiery stable. Attila came dashing out, half bucking and fighting against the dark form that clung to his side. Ruark gave a piercing whistle, and the steed swung toward them, coming to a halt by Shanna. The horse stood trembling and snorting as he pawed the grass, and the dark form resolved itself into a bedraggled Orlan Trahern.

  “Thank God!” Orlan wheezed. “I was afraid he was headed for the woods.”

  He held his loose robe gathered in one hand, and it could now be seen that one end of the robe’s belt was wrapped about the stallion’s neck and the other end was twisted firmly in Trahern’s other hand.

  The elderly Trahern was a mess. His hair was singed about the ends and stood away from his head in a silvered corona. His face was smudged and streaked with soot, and his best dressing robe was mottled with black-ringed holes where myriad sparks had touched it. One slipper was missing and his foot and leg were smeared with a brownish stuff, while his other slipper had an oddly crushed look about it.

  Shanna gaped. “Papa! What on earth—”

  “The beast was tied in his stall,” Trahern puffed, sagging against the horse’s shoulder, his hand still locked in the twisted belt. “When I loosed him, the nag trod upon my foot and would not let me take the lead.”

  Gingerly he tested his foot and growled with pain as it touched the turf. “Ungrateful beast!” Trahern moaned. “You have injured me sorely. I should see you fed to the dogs.”

  The stallion snorted, nudging the squire’s side with his head.

  “Eh, what’s this?” Trahern caught the rope halter and held the steed’s head. “He’s all bloody.”

  Ruark forgot the pain in his head and came to his feet to examine Attila’s nose and face where long, bloody welts showed in the firelight, crisscrossing the velvet snout.

  “He’s been beaten. And you say he was tied?”

  “Aye!” Trahern untwisted his hand and flexed it as if he were somewhat doubtful he could still use it. “And with his head low, close against the boards.”

  George stepped near to peer through his spectacles and mused aloud, “ ‘Twould appear it was done to get someone into the stable.”

  He gazed thoughtfully at Ruark and then at Shanna who had risen to take her husband’s arm. The fact that Ruark had stated he would sleep in the stables was not questioned as George concluded. “With each moment that passes, I think this deed has more the taste of murder. But in heaven’s name, why?”

  “I can’t say why,” Ruark growled and turned to the other men. “Are the horses safe?”

  “Aye!” Pitney answered gruffly. “But look here what I stumbled over.” He held up a buckshot-weighted quirt which had blood gleaming on its black surface and short gray hair clinging to the sticky red.

  Ruark’s lips tightened as he reflected on the brutal mind that would so cruelly beat an animal. “Damn the bastard!” he vowed vehemently. “If I ever get my hands on the bloody bitch’s son who did this, I may well throttle him.”

  “Well, whatever you do to him, you’ll have to use your hands,” Nathanial drawled wryly. “I believe I saw your pistols and musket in the stable before supper. They’re probably part of what’s warming your backside now.”

  The stable blazed into a soaring inferno, defying the best efforts to douse the flames. Some of the men had chopped a hole in the tack room’s outer wall, and most of the harnesses and saddles had been saved. Dawn began to glow above the hilltop before the last charred frames of the place collapsed in a heap upon the burning rubble.

  It was a tired, black-faced group who returned to the house. The women had been forced to retreat sooner from the cold. Amelia, still in her husband’s robe, met the men in the house and quickly served glasses with a rich amber brew twinkling in the bottom of each, the only exception being a tall, brimming mug of chilled ale for Pitney. Recognizing that it could have been a worse disaster, the group wearily raised their drinks in a grateful salute to their health. Amelia watched with growing amusement as they sampled the stuff, and her husband glanced up in question.

  “ ‘Tis a fine lot you are,” she chuckled.

  George examined his broken eyeglasses with a rueful smile. “Aye, warriors from the field.” He heaved a sigh and matched her smile. “Now I can have the stable on the oak hill where I’ve always wanted it.”

  “Good fortune, then,” Amelia returned gently. “Except, of course, for the squire’s foot, Mister Ruark’s head, and your spectacles. Whatever happened?”

  “Your youngest son, madam, mistook me for thin air. In the fray he tried to run right through me.”

  His dry humor brought responsive laughter from the tired men and a much reddened hue to Jeremiah’s face.

  “Mister Ruark,” Amelia said over her shoulder as she left the room. “You may use Nathanial’s old room. ‘Tis next to Shanna’s. I think you can find it.” She gave the smallest of laughs. “That poor old tree is stunted enough being so close to the kitchen.”

  A bustle of activity pervaded throughout the house as the servants rushed to prepare baths for the Beauchamps and their guests. Ralston’s bed had not been slept in, and he was nowhere to be found. Gaylord snoozed peacefully, his snores echoing loudly from his chambers.

  It was a late hour when the rest of the household took their morning meal. Orlan hobbled into the dining room on a bandaged foot. Despite Shanna’s pleas Ruark had refused a bandage for his head and quietly took a place beside her at the table. No one questioned his right to sit there, and in the absence of both Gaylord and Ralston the dining was a warm and hearty affair. As the tale was retold, Shanna was amazed at how quick the Beauchamps were to laugh at themselves, as if the loss had not affected them in any manner. With rich enthusiasm they began to plan the new stable, and the ease with which Ruark offer
ed his advice almost made Shanna wonder.

  Gaylord appeared, and his bland, bluish-gray eyes surveyed the group around the table before he consulted his watch in some bemusement. “Hmm,” he minced genteelly, tucking the timepiece away. “Is it some local holiday I have missed?”

  “You slept the whole night through?” Shanna asked, her own amazement showing.

  “Of course,” he sighed. “I read from a volume of sonnets until a late hour, but from then on—” He paused and scratched his cheek thoughtfully with an immaculate forefinger. “It seems there was some disturbance, but after a while the house quieted, and I much assumed I had dreamt the whole of it.”

  He seated himself in a chair and began to fill a plate. For a man of much leisure, his appetite never seemed to flag.

  “Why do you ask?” he questioned. “Is aught amiss?”

  “You rest exceedingly soundly, sir,” Ruark observed, only mildly satirical.

  “Mm, yes,” Gaylord smiled as he spooned a liberal serving of fruit perserves on a slice of hot bread. “A trait of the breeding, I assure you. An honest mind is a peaceful one.”

  He fixed Ruark with a jaundiced stare, taking note of his proximity to Shanna.

  “I believe you have forgotten yourself again, bondsman. No doubt these good people are too polite to remind you of your place.”

  Ruark snorted derisively. “But you will, of course.”

  Beneath the table Shanna’s hand lightly squeezed her husband’s thigh, cautioning him to be careful. It was best to avoid any confrontation with the man that might somehow bring Lord Harry’s notice to Ruark. Soon Gaylord would be gone, and the truth could be revealed to her father. Then, perhaps, they could set about clearing Ruark’s name. Ruark’s thin, brown fingers slipped over Shanna’s beneath the tablecloth, tightening briefly to quietly assure her, and remained to hold them.

  George had lowered his teacup and now spoke firmly. “Mister Ruark is welcome at my table, sir.”

  Gaylord shrugged. “ ‘Tis your home, of course.”

  They were leaving the table when the knight asked of his host, “I say, would you have a servant fetch a gentle steed for me from the stables? I’ve a yen to see this country you boast of so much, to try, if possible, to find some merit in it.”

  Casting him a dubious glance, Ruark inquired with a hint of sarcasm. “Can you find your way alone, or do you need a guide?”

  Pitney hid a smile of amusement as the knight glared his contempt at the bondsman.

  “Whatever, I shall not need you to fetch me,” Gaylord sneered.

  “The stable burned to the ground this morning,” Amelia interrupted the two men, eyeing each and appearing somewhat worried.

  Gaylord’s eyebrows lifted. “The stable, you say? And the horses as well?”

  Pitney rasped gruffly. “We saved them all. As it appears, someone set the fire off after locking Mister Ruark inside. But of course ye were asleep and wouldn’t be knowing ’bout that.”

  The knight snorted. “No doubt that’s the bondsman’s story after he carelessly touched it off himself. A good ruse, I would say.”

  “That can hardly be the way of it,” Nathanial interceded, “since the doors were bolted from without.”

  “Perhaps the slave has made some enemies,” Gaylord shrugged. “But that is of no importance to me. I only asked for a steed, not a full accounting of everyone’s misfortune.”

  “One will be fetched,” George announced brusquely.

  It was to the relief of all that Sir Billingsham did manage to mount a horse and, his loosely jointed frame bouncing in the saddle, galloped off from view. Family and guests congregated in the drawing room, for it was decided the day would be spent much in relaxing. George’s vision was somewhat impaired with the broken eyeglasses, and Orlan’s crippled state did not lend to a great deal of mobility. He was carefully ensconced in a massive chair, his heavily wrapped foot propped on a footstool. A determination had been made that no bones were broken, but the foot was badly bruised and swollen to a point of discomfort.

  It was a short time later that the sound of a carriage coming up the lane drew the attention of all. Gabrielle went to the window, brushing aside the silken panel to look out. Past her shoulder, Shanna caught a glimpse of a young woman with a baby clutched in her arms descending the steps of a landau with the aid of her driver. Dropping the drapery, Gabrielle whirled to face her mother, eyes wide.

  “ ‘Tis Garland! Didn’t you tell her to stay away?”

  Amelia gasped and dropped her needlework. She came to her feet but appeared undecided as to which way to move. “Oh dear! Garland!” she fretted. “Good heavens!” She turned in supplication to her husband. “George?”

  Ruark, as well, seemed suddenly disturbed. Shaking his head as if pained, he moved away from Shanna’s side and went to lean against the mantel, folding his arms across his chest and frowning with what was apparently genuine disgust. Quite bemused by his actions, Shanna turned to stare at him wonderingly.

  Garland’s entry was like a whirlwind coming in the door, a fresh, airy breeze sweeping through the house. She did not pause as she came into the drawing room, but went straight to her mother to place the child in her arms. Glancing away from Ruark, Shanna saw only Garland’s slim, velvet-clad back and a wide-brimmed hat that completely hid her face. Without a glance toward anyone else, the new arrival went boldly across the room to Ruark. He smiled tolerantly as she stood on tiptoes to place a kiss on his mouth.

  “Welcome home, Ruark,” she said in a voice soft and warm.

  Garland turned, sweeping off her hat and came directly to Shanna, who could only stare agog at the raven hair, golden eyes, and the dazzling smile and looks. There was no doubt in Shanna’s mind that here was Ruark’s sister. But then, Garland was Gabrielle’s sister—and Nathanial’s—and Jeremiah’s! Brothers and sisters all and to—Ruark Deverell Beauchamp!

  “And of course you would be Shanna,” Garland beamed. “Nathanial did not do you justice with his words.”

  “Oh!” The gasp escaped Shanna as she roused from shock. Her eyes flew to Ruark, who could only smile lamely as he shrugged. “You!” No other word would come, and Shanna stared at the girl again. “You’re—oh!”

  Her face flaming with her own foolishness, Shanna whirled and fled from the room, up the stairs, and into the bedchamber that she had been using. Locking the door behind her, she faced a surprised Hergus who had been tidying the room. It was as if Shanna saw her surroundings for the first time and the realization came—this was Ruark’s room. It was his desk, his book of Greek, his bed, his armoire. Oh, how he had tricked her!

  Orlan Trahern’s voice rang loud in the suddenly subdued drawing room. “Will someone tell me what’s going on?”

  A chuckle escaped Pitney as Ruark stepped before Trahern and with a click of his heels, gave a slight bow.

  “Ruark Beauchamp at your service, sir.”

  “Ruark Beauchamp!” Orlan bellowed.

  His bondsman did not wait to explain, but hastened after Shanna. Trahern rose and started to follow but was painfully reminded of his injured foot. He snatched the staff and hop-skipped to the bottom of the stairs and roared upward:

  “How in the hell can she be a widow if you’re Ruark Beauchamp?”

  Ruark replied over his shoulder. “She never was a widow. I cheated.”

  “Damnation. Are you married or not?”

  “Married.” Ruark was halfway up the stairs.

  Orlan bellowed louder. “Are you sure?”

  “Aye, sir!”

  Ruark disappeared down the hall, and Trahern hobbled back into the drawing room, his head bowed in thought, his brow furrowed in a frown. He looked accusingly at Pitney, who only shrugged and lit his pipe. Glancing around, Orlan saw the worried frowns of all the Beauchamps, the deepest on the face of the girl, Garland, who seemed not at all sure now that she had done the right thing. Trahern’s belly began to shake, a chuckle burst forth and became rolling laughter. A few hesit
ant smiles appeared. Limping forward to George, Orlan stretched forth a large hand.

  “Whatever else, sir, I am sure we shall not suffer from boredom.”

  Ruark tried the knob and found the way barred. “Shanna?” he called. “I would explain.”

  “Go away!” her shriek answered him. “You made a fool of me in front of everyone!”

  “Shanna?” he rattled the knob again. “Open up.”

  “Get away!”

  “Shanna?” Ruark’s own anger rose, and he leaned a shoulder against the portal to find it as solid as he remembered.

  “Leave me be, you mewling jackanape!” Shanna gritted out. “Go play your puns on some other fool!”

  “Dammit, Shanna, I can explain.”

  “Damn what? Damn me for a fool?” she hurled. “Get thee gone, you many-named goat!”

  “Open this door!”

  “Nay!”

  Ruark stood back and kicked with all his might. The panel was solid oak, but the latch and jamb were not meant to take such abuse. With a splintering crash, the door flew wide, and a shower of plaster and wood fell from the side of the adjoining wall. Down below, Amelia laid a worried hand on her husband’s arm, but he patted it reassuringly.

  Ruark stepped through the door, glancing in momentary wonder at the wreckage he had wrought, but where he had expected to see Shanna, there stood a horrified Hergus. Her hands were clenched to her mouth, and her eyes were wide as moons.

  “M-M-Mister Ruark!” she stuttered and then found her tongue. “Get ye gone from this room, Mister Ruark,” she stammered. “I’ll not see ye doing yer dirt here with these nice people.”

  Ruark ignored her and stepped toward Shanna, who had her back to him. But the Scotswoman scurried to block his path.