The briefest of moments had passed before Nathanial spoke. “I beg your pardon, Mister Ruark—Madam Beauchamp.” He stressed the names oddly. “I forgot my pipe and pouch.”
Without waiting for their assent, he crossed the room to his chair and retrieved the articles from the table and then paused again at the door. His smile had a strange quality as his eyes touched them each in turn. His fingertips brushed his brow in the briefest of salutes.
“Good day, Mister Ruark.” And with a quick nod to her, “Madam Beauchamp.”
Without another word he turned and closed the door gently behind him. It was some moments before Shanna could find her voice, and when she spoke it was as if she were certain of her words.
“He’ll tell my father. I know he will.” She stared at Ruark, despair written on her pale face. “ ‘Tis over—all my plans for naught.”
A flicker of a frown crossed Ruark’s face, but he sought to ease her worry. “He seemed a good enough chap to me, Shanna, not the kind to run and tell. But I have cause to be on the docks today. I’ll stay close and should the chance present itself, I’ll talk to him and try to explain—something.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what.”
“Would you? Would you really, Ruark?” Shanna brightened a small shade. “Perhaps he’d understand if you’d put it right to him.”
“I’ll try, Shanna.” He took her trembling hands in his and kissed her fingers. “If all goes awry, I shall at least try to send you a warning.”
“Thank you, Ruark,” she whispered gratefully. “I’ll be waiting.”
Then he was gone from her, and Shanna slowly made her way back to her rooms. The rest of her day was spent in nervous waiting. From moment to moment she expected her father to arrive, breaking down the doors as he sought her out; or a messenger from Ruark with word that she should flee; or Ruark himself to state all was well; or the whole lot of them, including the captain, to accuse her and have the whole thing out. All sorts of imaginings flew through her mind, and she could not sit still long enough even for her hair to be combed. With unusual patience, Hergus waited three times for her mistress to be seated before the task was done.
Late in the day Ruark returned with her father, but his only indication was a noncommittal shrug as he passed her at the front door. It was only as he was leaving for the evening that she managed to catch him alone for a moment and to her frantic, “Well?” Ruark smiled wickedly and whispered, “The captain assured me that no gentleman would carry such tales.”
In her absolute relief, Shanna was in her rooms and dressed for bed before she realized that Ruark had deliberately let her stew until the last moment.
Chapter 12
THE LATE AUGUST DAY whimpered under the cruel heat of the sun. The sand on the beach was too hot to walk upon; even the playing children had withdrawn into the cool shelter of their homes. The island grew quiet as its inhabitants sank into the torpor of a long siesta. Heat waves rose from the rooftops and shimmered on the distant horizon like a thousand shards of rippling aqua. A languid lapping of the sea on the shore was the only movement that could be seen; no breeze stirred the smallest leaf. The sky was devoid of clouds and seemed bleached of its normal blue by the sheer heat of the day.
Sighing, Shanna turned from her balcony and entered into the coolness of her room, shedding the light robe which in the warmth was almost unbearable. Her firm, young body glistened with a light film of perspiration beneath the short shift, and her long, heavy mass of hair was damp against her nape. For a time she plucked idly at a tapestry, but she gave that up to sprawl on the cool silken sheets of her bed. The sewing had only been brought out to keep her mind and hands busy. This piece was one she had begun years ago but never had had the patience to finish. It was a labor for her, and thus a thing she hated. In the days of her schooling it had been even more loathsome, being a required skill each girl had to master. Her mentors taught it with diligence, not understanding her sighs and groans of frustration. In a fit of temper she had torn many a piece to shreds, detesting her errors and having no patience to correct them. The chastening frowns of her tutors would have turned to openmouthed gapes if they could have known of her desire to train under the artist, Hogarth, at St. Martin’s Lane Academy.
“How crude!” They would have trembled. “Why, ‘tis said the young men sketch from live models there. Naked ones!”
Shanna laughed to herself and wiggled on the bed. They little guessed that some of their own “innocent children” volunteered for the task, or if they guessed they carefully averted their thoughts.