Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(116)

“Aye, love, a witch.” His smile was slightly broader.

“And I will someday take your heart from you.”

“That, love, you already have.”

Shanna lowered her eyes, at once confused and embarrassed.

“Come, witch.” Ruark’s voice was soft but rich with laughter. “Out of your kettle and dry yourself.”

Handing her the towel, Ruark waited close beside the tub. Beneath his warm regard, Shanna rose and wrapped the linen securely about her, tucking the end down between her breasts. Casually he offered his hand to assist her in stepping from the bath. He followed her to the dressing table, warmly admiring the gentle swing of her hips beneath the linen cloth.

“Why were you looking for me, my love?” Ruark inquired, meeting her eyes in the mirror as she brushed out her long hair.

Remembering Jezebel, Shanna turned excitedly and caught his thin fingers. “Oh, Ruark, Captain Beauchamp has given me the most marvelous gift. A beautiful mare, but she’s been abused and needs attention.”

Ruark’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Abused?”

“Captain Roberts said there was a storm at sea and she was tossed about dreadfully. I instructed the stable boy to do what he could until you came.” The blue-green eyes begged him. “Oh, Ruark, you will see her made better, won’t you—for me—please.”

Ruark stretched out his free hand to stroke the gilded locks, and his eyes were soft and caressing. “Do you like her so much, Shanna?”

“Aye, Ruark, I do. Very much.”

“I will do what I can for her,” he smiled. “You know that I am your most ardent slave.”

Shanna tossed away his hand in rebuff of his tender gibe and faced the mirror again. “What if you were free?” she questioned under his perusal. “Would you say me yea or nay? Would you be gone from here, seeking your fortune somewhere else?”

“What great treasures can tear me from your side, my love?” he spoke in a teasing vein as he played with a captured curl. “Would I ever leave you? What madness would see me to that end? Ah love, do you not ken?” His eyes glowed into hers. “You are my treasure, the rare jewel of my desires.”

Shanna pouted, throwing the brush aside. “You jest, Ruark, and I would know the truth.”

“The truth, milady?” Ruark swept a bow before her mirrored image then grinned. “Milady should herself remember the vows spoken before the altar. I am pledged to you until my dying breath.”

Flinging her lustrous mane with a flick of her arm, Shanna flounced off the velvet bench and strode across the room beneath his regard. She was not unaware of the effect her nearly naked state had on him. The linen towel was very accommodating, meagerly covering her breasts and displaying the full length of her long, shapely legs for his pleasure. Her movements were slow and languid, graceful and flowing, as she punished him severely for his impertinence in reminding her of her vows.

“How you love to taunt me about that. You smirk and posture in my chambers as if you owned more in this world than that foolish garb you use to cover your loins.”

“If I be a pauper, madam, then you are indeed a pauper’s wife,” Ruark pointed out with a chuckle.

“You’re a rutting rake who uses any flimsy pretext to invade my rooms,” Shanna retorted. “And to silence you I must submit lest I find my secret prated about like common knowledge. There is a name for your, sir—a blackguard. One who would use a lady so is not worthy to be hanged.”

Ruark paced forward with measured tread, a slow, hypnotic grin stretching across his lips. Shanna backed away, aware of his stalking her, and tried to keep the distance between them open.

“Madam, I must admit I would seek you out on any excuse. But a rutting rake? Surely my life of late should be compared to something more monkish.”

“Ha!” Shanna scoffed. She gasped and twisted away as he lunged forward. Ruark’s sweeping arm caught nothing more than the air, though the fragrance of her warm body and the scent of her dampened hair filled his nostrils and clouded his mind. He was undaunted and came after her. Attempting to evade him, Shanna darted behind the long chaise, trailing behind a fluid sound of musical laughter not unlike the chuckling burble of a swift mountain brook. Safe for the moment with the lounge between them, Shanna made a comic face at him, but her eyes spoke volumes as they sparkled in coquettish witchery, half challenging, half beckoning him.

His eyes flared in answer as he stepped onto the chaise, showing her that it formed no barrier between them. Giggling, Shanna retreated behind a small, marble-topped table, seeking whatever shelter it might offer her.