Shanna by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
“Come in, papa,” she called.
Shanna waited, listening to the click of the latch and her father’s steps in the outer sitting room. Then in horror she realized Ruark’s hat and shirt were still on the foot of her bed. Quickly she snatched them beneath the sheets and when the squire entered the bedchamber, Shanna had retrieved the covers under her chin.
“Good evening, child.” He tried to soften his usually gruff voice. “I trust I have not disturbed you unduly.”
“No, papa.” She gave a trembling yawn and stated truthfully. “I was not really asleep.”
The elder Trahern patted the edge of the bed then lowered his bulk upon it as Shanna moved over, making room for him to sit. The squire plucked a grape from a bedside dish and chewed on it for a thoughtful moment.
“You seem to enjoy being home again,” he half questioned almost hesitantly.
“Most surely, papa,” Shanna reassured him with a wide smile. For the present she seemed on safe ground. “I’m afraid that, like you. I was never meant to prance and posture in the courts, and I value the gentler ways and freedom of this island much more than pomp and splendor.”
Orlan’s chest rumbled with his version of a chuckle, and he reached out a huge paw to cover her dainty hand. “I never could stand those milk-white maids with their mincing ways, and like your mother you are more beautiful with the color of the sun on your cheek and in your hair. Indeed, in my eyes you grow more lovely with each passing day. And I have found to my surprise that you have a mind and a will of your own. But there is that which I cannot explain. There is almost a wifely manner about you lately.”
Shanna blushed and lowered her eyes, suddenly afraid that he might guess the truth. What had Ruark done to her that even her father could see the difference? To herself she was the same as she had always been, and it came as something of a shock that anyone would see her changed.
“Do not worry, papa.” Shanna wondered if Ruark had left the balcony or still lingered there. “ ‘Tis quite unlikely that my husband could have affected me much in our brief days together.”
Her father fixed her with a baleful eye. “Do you know that you have affected Sir Gaylord sorely?”
Shanna froze.
“He has been mewling about all afternoon, and finally after you left the table, he made so bold as to petition me for your hand.” Orlan read the sudden startled look in Shanna’s eyes and hurried to allay her fears. “I told him the first condition he must meet was to win your approval. So do not fret, daughter. I promised your mother that I would find you a worthy husband, and I shall not yield on that account.”
Then it was Trahern’s time to lower his eyes, and he rubbed his palm awkwardly on a buckled shoe.
“There is something that troubles you, papa?” Shanna asked in awe, for she had never seen her father so much at odds before.
“Aye, much that has troubled me for some time.”
Shanna’s heart went out to this large man whose words came with painful slowness.
“I have for my own ends brought upon you some pain and sorrow. This was never my intent.” He looked straight at her, and his shoulders seemed to hunch about his thick neck. “I am old, Shanna, child, and getting older.” He raised a hand to still her protest. “I have a strong need to see my dynasty continued with a flock of bouncing babes.” The chuckle rumbled again. “A dozen or so if you would meet my mark. But I am moved to believe that whatever wisdom guides our fates will see to that in all good time. I defer to your choice, as I have found no man worthy of your hand. I will press the matter no further, and I bid you seek out your husband wherever you would find him.”
“I understand, papa.” Shanna spoke with love heavy in her heart. “And I thank you very much for your understanding.”
For a long moment Trahern stared at his daughter and then gave a single, loud sniff before he rose to stand where his face would be hidden in the dark shadow.
“Enough of this chatter,” he said gruffly. “I’ve kept you awake beyond your hour.”
The minute dragged out until Shanna spoke, her voice tiny like a small child’s.
“Goodnight, papa.” And as Trahern turned to leave, he barely heard her continue. “I love you.”
There was no answer, only another loud snort before his footsteps hastened through the sitting room and the door closed gently behind him.
Shanna stared in the shadows, her eyes unusually moist, her mind lost within itself. It was a long time before she lifted her gaze and found Ruark standing at the foot of her bed, gazing down at her, an odd half smile twisting his lips.
“You heard?” Her inquiry was barely audible.
“Aye, love.”
Shanna sat up in bed and hugged her knees, resting her head upon them. Wistfully she sighed, “I never realized he was so lonely.”
It was a giant step from self-centered youth into caring adulthood and awareness of others. The transition was great and painful, and Ruark remained silent, letting her take it at her own speed. Shanna weltered in the depths of her newfound maturity. It was a new experience and not all unpleasant. She was assured her father loved her, and that knowledge warmed her heart, yet beneath it burned the memories of harsh arguments and the sting of his angered words spurring on her own stubborn willfulness. Her vision of a handsome lord kneeling to beg her hand was suddenly trite and childish. Beneath the attack of reality, it faded slowly from her mind. A blur of faces flew before her mind, hauntingly vague and nondescript. They all faded before the memory of her father sitting at her bedside, lonely and apologetic. His tirades had only stirred her determination the more, but this almost humble declaration bound her more firmly to his desires.
He wanted her married and with babes. And who would she choose? Sir Gaylord, a foppish caricature of her envisioned knight? In the shadows behind him another figure stood, dark and mysterious. There her peace dissolved like snow beneath spring’s pelting rains, and her mind struggled to grasp the significance of her unrest.
Slowly Shanna lifted her gaze to Ruark. Her dragon. Had he snatched away the quiet spirit of her soul?
Ruark had wandered aimlessly about her chamber, pausing to run a finger along the edge of her dressing table whereupon lay her brushes and combs, her powders and perfumes.
The outward substance of a woman, he mused silently. Soft hair, beauty, tantalizing scents. But how much more fascinating was the underlying person? The quicksilver moods, responsive to her world; the whimsical wit, quick to humor and as quick to anger; the softness of her body and the unsuspected strength when the demand was made; the incredible warmth of her caresses and the bliss of her lips on his.
He turned, and his eyes went to Shanna where she sat huddled on the bed lost in thought. She seemed so small and defenseless, yet he knew if challenged she could rise with determination and stand forth with a fury that would dim the rage of a wounded tiger. At the moment she was soft beauty in repose, and he longed to give her some bit of wisdom that would calm the turmoil of her mind.
“He said I’m free to choose my own husband when I will,” Shanna murmured, and Ruark realized she watched him, too. “What am I to do with you?”
Ruark came to stand at the foot of her bed. “I have no wish to seek the hangman out, Shanna, but I find little to fear of the truth.”
“Well enough for you to say.” Shanna was irked that he should take the matter so lightly. “But I might yet find myself the bride of some popinjay if my father is angered again.”
Ruark laughed caustically. “Madam, if the truth is out, you will find yourself well wed and most assuredly with husband. Me! Thus until my neck is stretched, you need have no fear of other men. Indeed, if my services are of value to your father, he might extend my debt to the cost of barristers and a defense.” Ruark leaned forward and grinned wickedly. “Consider this, my love. It could well be my game to get you with child, that your father might not be disposed to see his heirs the offspring of a hanged man.”
“How can you s
“Ah love, your endearments bestir me,” Ruark taunted. “I can only note your pleas in the dungeon were more gentle and you saw your cause so dire that you would yield your maidenhood to see a better end.”
“Vulgar unsired son of a fishmonger!” Shanna railed, her face crimson as she pounded the sheets with her fists. Her burgeoning tirade dwindled to a spluttering search for further epithets. This was unusual in itself, for Shanna had in her youth been exposed to the coarse language of seamen and other laborers and could upon proper incentive tinge the air with a shower of phrases the like of which the meanest urchin would envy.
Ruark leaned closer, and his own rage and frustration began to show. “And now would you have me as your pocket paramour, Shanna?” he sneered. “To be hidden in your chambers from the world and denied the right to stand beside you in the light of day? You decry your fate should all be known and bemoan some fancied punishment, but I, madam, have more to lose. Even so, were it my choice to face your father as your husband or hide in the dark corners of your boudoir, madam, I can assure you that I would rather be your spouse, honored, loved, cherished for all the world to see.” Ruark turned aside, and his voice was bitter. “Were there more to gain other than my death and your undying hatred, I would seek out your father this moment and claim my rights, putting an end to this mockery.”
“Mockery!” Shanna’s voice was ragged with emotion. “Is it mockery, then, that I sought to avoid a life with some doddering count or baron? A mockery that I want to share a life with a man of my own choosing? Is it mockery that I want more than that in life?” Her tone took on an accusing snarl. “Yea, you mock me when I only seek to live out my days with some hope of happiness.”
“And you are certain that life with me would bear no happiness?” Ruark stared at her, waiting for her answer.
“The wife of a bondslave?” Shanna was incredulous. “You could not afford one of my gowns.”
His scowl was dark, brooding. “ ‘Twould not be so for long.”
Shanna scoffed. “Aye, your neck would soon be lengthened beyond your endurance. Then I would truly be a widow.”
“If I believe you, then I must abandon all hope.” Ruark gave her a wry smile. “Your pardon, madam, if I continue, as you did, to seek a better end than fate would indicate.”
“You test me with your inane bravado.” Shanna’s tone was hard, but she could not meet his eyes. “And you tire me with your theories.” She lay back on the pillows with a sigh, turning her face away from him.
“Of course, my lady.” Ruark spoke with exaggerated concern. “If you would be so kind, my shirt and hat. I value my meager garb since ‘tis all that belongs to John Ruark.”
Petulantly Shanna reached beneath the sheets and flung the shirt to him without a word. She had more difficulty locating the hat. Then, as a look of dawning flooded her countenance, she raised her hips from the bed and drew the hat from beneath her. She sailed it toward him and, with a flounce, presented her back.
Ruark caught his hat and surveyed its flattened form for a long moment before he swept it across his chest in a stiff bow.
“Your leave, my lady,” he jeered. “I shall not bore you further with my woes.”
Shanna lay still, listening for the sound of his departure. Finally she rolled onto her back to see what delayed him and was amazed that she was alone.
Dismally Shanna stared into the empty shadows. An ache began to grow within her chest, seeming to erode her very soul. Suddenly she wanted to call Ruark back. Even their battles held more joy than the painful void she now was lost in. There was no happiness in the world; it was cruel and cold, holding no warmth to ease the chill in her heart.
Her lips trembled, and tears blurred her vision. With an agonized cry, she buried her face into the pillow and like a child sobbed and beat the bed with clenched fists to shut out the loneliness that sucked her down into a blackened pit of despair.
“Oh God,” she moaned in abject misery and whispered plaintively, “please—”
But even as she prayed, Shanna could not name for what she asked. She shook her head, struggling against the sudden overwhelming depression. Groaning, she threw herself from the bed and snatched a long, white robe from the armoire. Her chambers had ceased to be a haven, and like a displaced wraith she prowled the furthermost corners of the manor, seeking some ease for her troubled spirit, but nowhere in the darkened rooms did she find what she wanted. Listlessly she wandered down the stairs and paused beside the drawing room door, standing uncertainly as her father glanced up from his papers.
“Shanna?” His tone held a note of surprise. “What be you about, child? I was about to retire.”
“I thought to take a stroll through the gardens, papa,” she replied softly, finally meeting his concerned frown. “I’ll return shortly. No need for you to wait up.”
Orlan Trahern watched his daughter move away from the door and then waited in the silence of the house as her bare feet padded across the marble floor. The front portal opened, then closed, and stillness returned. Sighing heavily, Orlan heaved his large bulk up from the chair and slowly made his way to his chambers.
Shanna stood on the lawn, enshrouded in the night. Stars peeked through the drifting shreds of clouds, and the moon made a brief appearance before hiding its silvered face behind a lacy fan of vapors.
Shanna meandered through the trees, a deep voice, husky with passion, and amber eyes haunting each path she took. She had come a distance from the mansion and was passing near the stables when she heard a neigh from within the stables and moved in the darkness toward the sound, scuffing her small feet against the dew-dampened grass.
A light shone from the stables. Drawing near the door, she heard Ruark’s voice, low and gentle, soothing the mare. Shanna’s mood lifted. Pausing in the open portal, she saw his profile etched in the glow of the lantern. His dark brows were drawn downward in a heavy scowl, blunting the straight, thin nose; and in the sharp line of his jaw a muscle twitched angrily. Still, his long, agile fingers tended the mare’s bruises and scrapes with the same gentle touch that Shanna herself had often responded to. The horse snorted and nudged her muzzle against his shoulder familiarly, and in a distracted manner Ruark reached up to caress her silken nose.
“Not now, Jezebel,” he admonished.
Shanna’s whole awareness perked at his use of the steed’s name. She had not mentioned it to him.
“How came you to know her name?”
Ruark straightened, his eyes searching the ebony blackness behind the lanterns. He stood wiping his hands as Shanna came forward, his gaze casually caressing her as if the robe did not exist.
“Her name?” He waited for Shanna’s nod before he shrugged. “The boy, Elot.”
“Oh.” Her voice had lost its challenge. Shanna glanced around, wondering where the stableboy had gone.
Ruark threw his thumb over his shoulder toward the tack room. “His usefulness lies in cleaning and grooming, not in healing. I sent him to bed.”
Shanna folded her hands behind her back, letting her eyes roam about the stables, unable to meet Ruark’s open stare.
“What is that?” She nodded toward a small wooden bowl that held a rather noxious concoction.
Ruark briefly followed her gaze then returned his regard to her. His reply was clipped and curt. “Herbs and rum in warm tallow. Cleans the sores and seals them.”
“Oh.” Again he barely heard her.
After a moment of continued silence, Ruark returned to his labors, dipping his fingers in the odious mixture. Behind his back, lying on a tall stool, Shanna espied the crushed circle of straw that had of late represented his hat. Lifting it, she took its place, drawing up her bare feet to rest them on the top rung. She slowly turned the ruined headpiece around in her hands.
&
Ruark grunted his reply without pausing in his ministrations to the mare. “ ‘Twas a company gift. I have another.”
Shanna was a trifle piqued at his rude manner and retorted tersely, “On the morrow I shall leave a shilling for its cost by your plate.”
Ruark’s laughter was quick and stung as much. “A turnabout indeed, madam, that you should pay me for damage done in your bed.”
“Blast it, Ruark,” Shanna began angrily, and her tone brought his gaze around to fix on her. Her flaring rage quelled under the calm golden stare, and, lowering her eyes, Shanna continued on a softer note. “I am sorry, Ruark, about everything. It has never been my intent to hurt you.”
Ruark stood beside the mare and stirred absently in the bowl with his finger. “In your good intentions, madam, you have never failed to strike me where it hurts the most.” He smiled wryly. “If you will, my love, ask any of your suitors, and they no doubt will agree. The slightest blow from you bloodies the spirit.”
Shanna protested. “And were your own words so tender, milord? You do berate me sorely, though I have given much more to the bargain than was ever agreed upon.”
“Damn the bargain!” Ruark growled. In exasperation he went back to the mare and began to smear his poultice along a welt below the beast’s neck. “Do you think that contents me now?” he questioned brusquely over his shoulder. “I was a man condemned, the hours left to me few. The agreement brought sweet respite, and I could ease my mind anticipating the consummation of it.” He laughed shortly. “What more did I dare hope for?”
The stilted silence that followed made Shanna crane her neck in an effort to see him, but, with the deep shadows in the stall, she could not. Fetching herself one of the lighted lanterns and climbing up the boards beside him in the next stall, she draped her arms over the top board, holding the light for him. Ruark accepted her service and issued no comment or notice until he finished where he was and moved to dress a wound on the steed’s rear leg. He hunkered on his heels, almost between the hooves, then gestured with the bowl.