Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(106)
“I should have better tied my fate to the tail of a whirlwind,” Ruark mused wryly, “than be so committed to that whimsical bit of woman.” That sweet Circean witch had cast her spell on him from the first moments in the gaol. Perhaps he did, in fact, commit the crime on that other wench in the inn and this was his punishment to ever know Shanna as his bride, but never to know the joys of marriage. If that were truth, then he should accept his state and the rare monthly wedded bliss and, for the other days, his slavery. What a dreadful twist of fate. As a man unattached, he had threaded his way among the wiles of tender, fetching maids and lightheartedly plucked that which they offered, but now, wedded to that one who in all honesty he would have chosen in any circumstance—he was denied the state of matrimony and must creep into each tryst, enjoying only the hidden hours between the dark of midnight and the break of dawn. Even then, the chance footstep, the mistaken door, might see them snatched apart and, like wayward children, brought before her father for whatever punishment the man would dictate.
A shout from below interrupted his musings, and Ruark glanced up to see Trahern’s barouche coming through the trees lining the narrow, low road. Leaving the cupola, he hurried down and quickly crossed the empty storeroom to the door where he had entered. As he caught sight of Shanna beside her father, Ruark’s spirits soared, but they were dashed quickly when he identified Sir Billingsham in the seat opposite her. It had been in his mind to greet them, but now, angry and silent, Ruark retreated into a shadow and watched the lanky popinjay hand his wife down from the carriage. Ruark’s displeasure deepened as Gaylord’s hand lingered at Shanna’s elbow. It was doubly hard for him to bear when he could not even touch her himself in public. Ruark clamped the white, straight-brimmed hat tighter on his head and leaned against the wall of the mill in frustration.
A goodly crowd had gathered around the Trahern carriage, and soon the squire was happily introducing his titled guest to the various shopkeepers and other personages of importance on the island. Sir Gaylord was forced to turn away from Shanna and left her side to acknowledge the compliments and salutations. Smoothing her gown, Shanna scanned the press of people for Ruark’s face. She saw him in the shade of the building, arms folded across his chest as he braced a shoulder against the wall. His hat was cocked forward, obscuring his face, but she knew that tall, lithe form. He was dressed casually, and, in the heat of the day it appeared the most sensible fashion. A white shirt, opened at the throat and ruffled at the cuffs, contrasted sharply with his bronze skin. He was as dark as any Spaniard and his lean, muscular build was accentuated by the close-fitting breeches and white stockings.
Shanna smiled in thought. The tailor must have waxed gleeful at the opportunity to garb such a handsome figure. Most of the men on the island who had money for the richer fabrics and latest styles were well past the prime of life. But Ruark had the good looks and the trim frame to complement the lowest garb, even those boldly shortened breeches. Still, Shanna felt a twinge of disapproval that these breeches should be so narrow in their cut and that Ruark should carelessly flaunt his manliness for the goggling stares of love-smitten girls. Yet she knew he was not one to be overly conscious of his appearance as the dandies of court were, or even this Sir Gaylord who was garbed in laces and velvets and seemed hot enough to burst.
Seeing Shanna momentarily alone, Ruark seized upon his chance and began to make his way toward her through the crowd. His haste and his singleness of mind, however, were his downfall, for suddenly his arms were full of the soft body of a girl, and he was abruptly knocked off balance. A sharp feminine squeal pierced his ears, and Ruark spun half about, grasping the young woman close to keep them both from sprawling headlong.
“ ‘Od’s blood, Mister Ruark,” Milly’s shrill voice giggled. “Ye’re a mite too sudden for a bit of a girl like meself.”
The apology stumbled lamely from Ruark’s tongue. “Uh, your pardon, Milly. I was in a hurry.”
Ruark would have extricated himself, but the girl held onto his arm, clasping it firmly against her small bosom.
“Aye, ‘at I can see, John.” Her familiar use of his name grated against his ears. Suddenly her voice sounded loud enough to carry across the island. “ ’Twould seem of late ye’re always in a hurry.” Milly’s chuckle struck an uneven chord. “But no need to cart yerself away, John Ruark. ‘Ooever she be, she can wait.”
Ruark tried to hide his irritation. Twisting his arm in an effort to be free of her grasp, he glanced over her dark head toward Shanna who watched them rather tensely. Milly’s hand reached up to caress his chest, and her black eyes smiled into his invitingly.