Shanna by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss
But to Ruark she stood with a pained frown marring her beautiful face, twisting her hands together and licking suddenly dry lips.
“I—my father will be home soon.” Her voice was shrill, as taut as a bowstring. “I must see to his lunch.”
It was the shallowest of excuses, scarcely better than none, but it was enough, and Shanna fled the garden, leaving Ruark to carefully make his way back alone.
Suddenly Ruark’s words came back to her, and Shanna halted where she stood, realizing she had again been prowling about her bedchamber. The week had aged, and seven torturous nights had passed since she had gone to him. But her will was crumbling. His eyes haunted her, for she saw in them the mirror of her own passion and desires. Now that he had regained some degree of mobility, he was always near, watching her, waiting. The only relief from his regard was when some of the overseers came from the sawmill to obtain details or clarifications of his sketches, and she would be safe for a time from his unwavering stare.
In the pursuit of the sleep she so sorely wanted, Shanna tried everything: a warm bath, reading, a light snack, poetry, even a glass of warm milk that Hergus had brought to her. Still there was a restlessness in her. The bed seemed overly large and the sheets cold to the touch. Though her clock had chimed the eleventh hour, she felt no yearning for sleep. Indeed, she sensed a new awakening deep within her, so sharp and pungent as to be almost physical. Since her return she had grown more careful of her manners with Hergus and more aware of Berta’s gentle, loving nature and of Pitney’s sometimes brusque affections, even of her father. She had never been particularly demonstrative of her love with any of them, but like a child had responded with affection when they pleased her and flared in anger when they did not.
Then there was Ruark. His leg was healing with almost magical rapidity, and though Shanna struggled to cool the affair, more and more she found herself comparing all other men with him, no longer using her imagined knight for the contrast. And beside Ruark everyone else seemed lacking. She was afraid to even question the significance of this, fearful she might then have to admit things she refused to let herself think about.
With a slow, thoughtful stride Shanna wandered out onto her balcony. There was just the slightest chill in the cool breeze, and she was glad she had chosen a heavier dressing gown after her bath. Half sitting upon the balustrade, she tugged its soft folds tighter around her naked body and gazed up wistfully at the moonless sky. The stars were brilliant and clear, twinkling against the velvet black of the night. The hazy glow of the Milky Way arched in magnificent display from horizon to horizon.
Shanna began pacing again and found herself standing before the French doors of Ruark’s dark chamber. Did he sleep? Was he awake? He had said he often heard her walking about. She felt a driving need to satisfy her curiosity and her slender feet carried her forward against her will. He was there. She could see the shape of him beneath the sheet and the darker expanse of his bare chest. Then she realized his eyes were open and that he watched her in return.
Her hands tugged at her belt, and the robe slid to the floor. Her soft, pale skin glowed briefly in the blackness before she lifted the cover and slipped in beside him. His arms were about her, and his mouth was upon hers, hard, insistent, moving, seeking, finding—stirring fires that had smoldered to an unbearable intensity and were now leaping flames of ecstasy. It was the bliss of homecoming, the thunder of renewed passion, the sweetness of a spring awakening, and the ache of surrender all merged into one and mingled with the mutual rhythmic movements of their bodies as she eagerly took him into her. The blend was explosive, fusing them into oneness, then flinging them aloft on a plunging, soaring flight until it left them breathless and exhausted in its afterglow.
“Ruark?” she whispered against the furry chest.
“Aye, my love?” The answer was soft as his lips touched her brow.
There was a long silence.
“Oh—nothing.” She snuggled closer and smiled through the drowsiness that engulfed her before she slept.
And so it was. The last dregs of Shanna’s dreams began to break apart under the determined onslaught of Ruark’s love. She found her chambers lonely when he was not there with her. When he rode with her father to the mill site, she would watch eagerly for his return like she had in her youth for her father. On a few occasions the overseers came after dinner to air problems of the mill which only Ruark could set right, and on those occasions, to avoid Gaylord’s persistent company, Shanna sought the privacy of her chambers. There, waiting for Ruark, the clock’s pendulum seemed to stand suspended. More than once, the book of poetry sagged in her hands as sleep overtook her. Then she would awake and smile drowsily as strong arms came around her and a warm, hard body pressed close to hers. A hoarse voice would whisper against her ear, “I love you,” and then the moments would speed by, and the sound of the clock would become a chattering she wished she could stop.
The pond so essential to the mill site was above the town but close to where logs could be lifted from the bay below or floated down the small stream from above. The dam had been completed and the flow of the creek dwindled to a trickle; water filled the rock-strewn gully. The mill itself was placed to make it easily accessible for the wagons which would bear the sawn lumber away. A high flume would carry the water and the logs to the mill from the pond wherein they were to be collected. The whole of it was sketched on the design, but many of the details had not been committed to paper. Ruark’s hours were well taken between the squire’s demand of his attention and the insistent queries of the overseers. The mornings were hectic times, with repeated visits by the taskmasters bringing problems for Ruark to solve. More often than not, the overseers arrived for breakfast and began an immediate discussion of the plans.
On this morning, having ushered the last of the overseers out, Ruark found himself alone in the huge mansion except for the servants. When he sat, Milan or Berta hovered nearby, wishing to please him with some service, however small. When he paced, Jason stayed near the front portal to open it in case the guest of the house should leave also. Ruark began to sense that he intruded upon their routine, which did nothing to ease his agitation. He chafed that Shanna had gone riding with Sir Gaylord. It was a bitter draught to swallow—having to watch others pay homage to his wife while he could not declare his most insignificant rights as her husband. The house became a torture chamber for him, and slipping into the leather jerkin, he left the manor to the servants.
Attila fretted in the stable, unaccustomed to being left behind, and nervously took the sugar lumps from Ruark’s hand. Ruark had not ridden since his capture, but he was restless and made the decision to further test his leg.
“Come on, you gourd-head goat.” He petted the finely shaped velvet nose. “Let us be about some pleasures of our own.”
He held the stallion in close check for a space, proving the strength of his leg. Then finding it sufficent, he shook out the reins and set the steed upon the high road to the cane mill.
The late morning was gusty and warm, but as Ruark crossed the ridge of the island’s spine, the breezes whipped fine mist into his face, and before he descended into the small valley which held the mill, his shirt was soaked where the leather jerkin did not cover it. The ride was invigorating. The only thing missing was Shanna to share the elation.
The rollers of the crushing mill were silent, awaiting the new harvest, and only a few supervisors remained. The rest of the men were working on the sawmill, rushing to complete it before Trahern left for the colonies. Ruark entered the cane mill through the cooking room and tossed a cheery greeting to the man who tested and fired the kettles of molasses.
“Why, Mister Ruark, what be ya about here?”
“Just looking things over,” Ruark replied. “Any problems?”
The man chortled. “No, sir. Ya built it pretty goot, Mister Ruark. But then, the master can tell ya better about that. He’s in testing his rum.”
When he entered the distil
Suddenly a loud clank of metal rang in the room, and an arm-sized section of piping swung heavily against the timber where he stood, spewing scalding steam and mash everywhere. Ruark stumbled backward, flinging an arm over his face to shield his eyes. His leg was still too stiff to allow such alacrity, and he sprawled on his back upon the cobblestones but managed to roll away from the spouting geyser of half-brewed rum.
Distant rafters were obscured by the rolling cloud of brownish steam, and Ruark realized that had he taken but another step forward he would have been caught in the midst of the inferno gushing out of the pipe and would have had no chance to escape. Only the brief pause had saved him from agony, even death.
A shout came from behind him, and he glanced around to see a worker crouching low in the doorway, trying to peer through the thick haze. At Ruark’s answering call, the man crept forward until he was at his side.
“Are you all right, sir?” The question was shouted over the roaring wheeze of escaping pressure.,
Ruark nodded, and the fellow leaned closer.
“There’s a valve. I’ll try to shut it off.” He disappeared into the murky cloud before Ruark could tell him the master brewer was there to do it. After a long moment the hissing bellow began to subside and finally lisped into silence.
“Me lord! What happened here?” The bellow came from the doorway, and Ruark’s brows lifted in surprise as he recognized the master brewer’s voice. He got to his feet.
“A pipe let go. An accident—”
“No accident, sir.” The cooker came forth from amid the haze. “Look at this, will ya.” He held up a heavy hammer. “Some bloody idiot hit the joint off wid dis.”
“Me kettles! Me rum! Ruined!” The master brewer wrung his hands as he wailed. “ ‘Twill take me days to clean up the mess.” His tone became a shout of rage. “If I catch the bloomin’ blighter, I’ll hit the joint off his neck!”
“Save a crack or two for me, Timmy,” Ruark said tersely, curious as to whose shadow he had seen. “I’d have been cooked proper, but for the timber there.”
The master stared at Ruark as if seeing him for the first time and was mutely flabbergasted.
“Aye,” the cooker chipped in. “Some toad tried to boil Mister Ruark, ‘at ’e did. I check every joining and pipe afore I fire the kettles. This one only started this morn. ‘Ere’s no way it coulda let loose by itself.”
“It could have been that the man meant no harm to me, only to do some mischief. Whatever his intent, we’ll let the matter be unless we find a cause.” Ruark silenced their objections with an upraised hand. “If he meant to do me injury, then I am warned, and I shall be more cautious henceforth.”
He dismissed the subject as he spoke to the master. “I came to see if all was well. Do you have any problems?”
“Nay,” the man replied with a snort. “Not until this.”
“ ‘Tis my fervent hope you shall have no other trouble the likes of this,” Ruark avowed. “I will be gone, then. Rest assured I do not envy you your work.” With a last rueful glance upward at the dripping plumbing, he left the room.
Swinging open the small door, Ruark stepped out and leaned against the heavy, planked wall to draw several deep breaths of fresh air as he massaged away the ache that had begun in his thigh. There was no way anybody could have missed his presence in the distillery room, so he could only surmise someone had reason to do him ill.
His eyes roamed the yard for any sign of his assailant, then paused. A short distance away, near the hopper, two men stood, one tall and thin, dressed in somber black. None other than Ralston! The man he spoke with was one of the workmen, a brawny fellow with thick arms. As his eyes met Ruark’s, Ralston stiffened. He whirled abruptly and stalked off to his mount, leaving the workman staring after him with jaw aslack.
Ruark frowned heavily. Now that he thought of it, he did remember hearing the clatter of hooves some distance behind him on the trail as he came up the road to the mill. Had the agent followed him with some mischief in mind? Perhaps Ralston was fearful that he could tell Trahern about the purchasing of bondslaves from the gaol, but then the man must also realize he had to guard the secret himself, as he had more to lose with a hangman’s noose around his neck.
Ruark flipped the reins over Attila’s head, mounted, and set off down the road. The stallion was in rare form, and Ruark let him stretch his muscles well before he finally turned him toward the creek.
He had stowed the saddle and trappings in their proper place in the stable and was rubbing the sweat from Attila’s sides with a handful of coarse sacking when Ruark heard, or sensed, a small movement behind him. He was quick to look lest some other disaster befall him. It was Milly, standing just inside the stable door. For a moment the girl seemed poised to flee, but she plucked up her courage, squared her shoulders, and came toward him swinging her hips in what she hoped was a provocative manner. Ruark continued with his chore, debating whether he should feel relieved or more apprehensive.
The young woman leaned against the post of the stall gate, watching him. “Good marning, Mister Ruark,” she drawled lazily, chewing on a stem of hay. “I seen ye comin’ down the high road on that foin piece o’ horse there.” Attila snorted and nuzzled Milly’s shoulder. “I got a way with animals meself, I has.” She laughed. “We ain’t so far apart.”
Ruark grunted noncommittally and spread the rag to dry. He began to comb burrs from the long flowing mane and tail.
“Well, Johnnie, m’deary.” Milly’s tone became a trifle hard, “ye can ignore me if ‘tis yen likin’, but ‘tis ye, yer ownself, I’ve come ten see.”
Ruark paused and bent her a quizzical eyebrow. “Sure now, lass.” He had a fair brogue when he chose. “Meself, ‘tis it? And wot foin affair has brought ye to a smelly old stable?”
He threw down a handful of burrs and lifted one of Attila’s hooves to check it for pebbles.
“ ‘Twas the only place I could speak ten ya widout that ‘igh Madam Beauchamp ‘angin ’bout yen neck.”
Ruark chuckled. “Begorra, now!” he mocked her gently. “And it’s soundin’ like ye got somethin’ dear to be settled.”
“Sure I do!” she snapped with surprising rancor. “And what I got is to set that Shanna bitch back on ‘er ‘eels.”
Ruark dropped the last hoof and straightened, looking at the girl over the horse’s back. “Now that, lass, I should warn ye ’bout. That woman has a fair to middlin’ temper and might not take kindly to a rash accusation.” He came around Attila and rested his arm on a high slat of the stall. “I’d be very cautious of what I bandy about.”
Milly braced her feet apart and leaned forward from the hips, her finger pointing to her own chest as she sneered haughtily, “I—got—meself—wid—a—babe.”
Each word was accentuated heavily, and all thought of humor fled Ruark. This suddenly became a serious matter. He knew her next words before she spoke them.
“An’ you,” she jabbed her finger at him, “are goin’ ter be its pa.”
Ruark’s lips became a thin,
“Nay.” She stood back and leaned again, chewing a straw in supreme confidence. “But I gots me a friend what’ll say ‘tis so. An’ I knows all about ye and Miz High and Haughty. Her pa won’t take ter a bondsman sleepin’ wid ‘is pet. ‘At should be worth a foin penny or two from ‘er, and I wouldn’t be so picky as to say ye’d not see ‘er at all. She might even pay for it, come to think. Could make us an easy livin’, dearie.”
Ruark stared at her, realizing she meant everything she had spoken, and his scowl grew black as thunder.
“I am not easily coerced, Milly, nor will I be father to some sailor’s brat for your comfort.” His voice was low but bore a whiplash in it that stung more than the words.
“I’ll swear the babe is yours,” she challenged.
“You know I’ve never touched you. You would speak a lie and ‘twould soon be out.”
“I’ll make ye wed me!”
“I will not!”
“Trahern, ‘imself, will see to it.”
“I cannot wed you,” he growled.
Milly stared at him in wonder.
“I already have a wife.” It was the only thing he could say that would stay her. Her mouth sagged open, and she staggered back a step as if he had struck her.
“A wife!” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “A wife! O’ course, ye could’ve ‘ad one in England. A wife! An’ wee ones, too, I’d wager. Won’t Miz High and Haughty be took aback wid ‘at.” She glanced around wildly and began to laugh, loud and insanely. “A wife!” Half sobbing, half mewling, she fled in distress.
Shanna was riding Jezebel back to the stables and was just about to enter the open door when the mare shied and reared back. Milly, bursting out of the place, almost ran beneath the horse’s feet. When she saw the pawing hooves above her, the girl screamed in terror. Jezebel pranced away, and it was all Shanna could do to stay in the saddle. When she had quieted her mount, she turned her attention to Milly who stood staring up at her, a weird half smile twisting her face.