Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(103)

“But at least the stitchery has served its purpose,” Shanna thought. “It diverts me from thinking on that dragon Ruark when he’s about.”

Rolling onto her stomach, she propped her chin on crossed forearms, closing her eyes in the bliss of memory. Ruark had become almost a fixture in the manor. He was present at most every meal and accompanied her father on many of his trips. Shanna could hardly descend the staircase without the prospect of meeting him, and whenever they met his eyes devoured her with a boldness that in itself roused her. Even that she could bear. In fact, she rather enjoyed his warm perusals. It was during the quiet moments when no one else was looking that those golden orbs turned toward her with a hunger in them that nearly tore her heart, a longing so intense she had to avert her own gaze. Then, if her mind were free to roam, she would remember the exciting touch of his hands, the warmth of his lips on hers, the whisperings—a memory of the times they had shared love. She could hear again his murmurs, coaxing her, gently directing her in the ways of love, and recalled the pleasure of his mouth at the crest of her breast, teasing, rousing, hot, devouring—

Shanna’s eyes flew open. “My lord!” she whispered. “My own mind betrays me!”

Her breasts tingled against the thin fabric of her shift, and there was an empty ache in her loins. She rose and flew to the tapestry frame but a moment later sucked her finger where the needle had teased a drop of blood to the skin. Slowly clenching her hands into fists, Shanna stood staring at her chamber door, knowing that if Ruark walked in now she would welcome him with all the willingness of her ripe woman’s body. Tears flooded her eyes, in part tears of anger. She wanted him and hated herself for that weakness. In the depths of her was a passion only Ruark could ease, and it was a desperate struggle to keep even a small anger alive.

Suddenly she was tired, tired of having to avoid even the briefest moment alone with him. Yet she was afraid. Captain Beauchamp had surprised them once. The next time it could be someone of less sympathy or manners, perhaps even Orlan Trahern himself. Shanna’s mind soared on in endless circles as she tried to resolve her plight. Again she lay upon the bed, and as sleep overcame her she had solved no more of her problems than the sun in its brief passage across the sky had eased of its heat.

Night drew down upon the island, and the heat of the day was quenched to a point that clothes could be borne. Light, gusty breezes further abated discomfort as the meal was served. Just the day before, an English frigate on its way to the colonies had put into port, and the dinner guests this evening included persons from the ship—her captain, a major of the Royal Marines, and a knight, Sir Gaylord Billingsham, who traveled as a minor emissary. Several of the overseers had brought their wives, and Ralston, Pitney, and Ruark filled out the table.

The group adjourned to the drawing room where the women gathered at one end while the men congregated at the other, there to fill their pipes or light cigars. After the ladies exchanged amenities, several produced items of sewing and began a low-voiced exchange of recipes and gossip. Except when questions were directed to her, Shanna remained silent, and under the guise of her needlework watched Ruark as he leisurely drew on his pipe and conversed with the other men. He wore a brown coat over tan breeches and waistcoat, a white shirt with a ruffed jabot. His fortune had continued to grow, and shortly after Nathanial Beauchamp had left, Ruark had spent a part of it for clothes, plainer and not as formal as the ones with which Trahern had gifted him, but no less flattering to his own fine good looks.

Shanna bent her attention back to her work as one of the women leaned closer.

“I say, Shanna, isn’t that young Mister Ruark a handsome man?” the woman whispered over her embroidery.

“Yes,” Shanna murmured. “Handsome, indeed.”

She smiled, warming with pleasure. For all her avowed dislike of him, she felt an unusual pride when someone boasted of Ruark.

With half an ear to the gossip, Shanna learned that Sir Gaylord Billingsham was single, unattached, available. He was traveling to the colonies to seek financial backing for a small shipyard in Plymouth that his family had acquired.

He’s a strange one, Shanna mused, lightly considering him. He was taller than Ruark, a trifle large-boned, and moved with an odd disjointed grace that bordered on the awkward yet seemed somehow appropriate for his lanky frame. Light tannish hair curled about his long face, hinting of some attention to direct it thus, and was tied in a bagwig at the base of his neck. His eyes were pale grayish blue, his wide mouth full-lipped for a man and expressive. His manner ranged from stilted inanity to haughty arrogance, yet he was quick to smile at a quip and seemed to enjoy the sometimes coarse humor of the overseers. His quick temper displayed itself briefly when he had been informed that he shared a table with a bondsman. Though he recovered quickly, he made a point of avoiding Ruark from that time on. Shanna found it strangely upsetting.