Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(12)
It was impossible to imagine anything which would turn Hicks’s nature for the better or budge his grotesque shape for another’s sake other than the promise of a purse, whether small or great. The arrival of clothes and food and the gaoler’s good manners were a fine indication that all had not gone astray.
Still, in the dim, lonely cell, Ruark paced restlessly. The shadow of the noose darkened the days that slipped by, and doubt and fear tortured his mind. He had no way of knowing whether Shanna Trahern would hold to her word and send for him. Just to see the world outside again would be a heady draught, but his thoughts were occupied with a vision of that most beautiful maid in his arms. Perhaps she would yet change her mind, deciding she could abide her father’s will more than she could a night with him. Or had he imagined it all? Was it a dream that he had conjured from the depths of hopelessness? Did Shanna Trahern, a most delectable figure of a woman and the ethereal goal of every unwed swain here and abroad, actually enter his cell and make such a pact with him? The one vision that totally eluded him was of this proud woman yielding herself to a man branded a murderer.
Pausing before his cell door, Ruark rested his forehead against the cold iron. The haunting image of soft, perfect features, honey and gold tresses swirling around fair shoulders, and ripe, curving breasts swelling almost free of a red velvet gown was branded on his memory with minute detail, stirring an agonizing impatience which could only be relieved when she was truly his—if that moment was to be. He realized that where Hicks’s brutality had failed, the illusion of Shanna came close to breaking him. Nevertheless, he held the vision, for when it faded it was replaced by a gruesome one of the triple tree and its fruit.
He paced. He sat. He washed. He waited.
Finally, in increasing frustration he flung himself to his pallet, weary of the agony of uncertainty. He rubbed his hand across his bristly beard and then winced as his own shabby appearance was brought painfully to mind. The best Shanna could have thought him to be was a barbarian.
He flung his arm over his eyes as if to shut out those torturing illusions and dozed fitfully. Even then he found no peace and woke in a cold sweat, a gnawing ache in the pit of his belly.
He was still struggling to contain his emotions when footsteps echoed in the stillness. Ruark came fully awake as the sound halted just outside his cell. A key rattled in the lock, and Ruark swung his long legs over the edge of the cot as the door was thrown open. Two burly guards with drawn pistols came in and motioned him out. Glad for any break in the boredom, Ruark hastened to obey. He stepped out of the portal and found himself face to face with Mister Pitney.
“ ‘E’s come for ye, ye scum.” Hicks poked at Ruark’s lean ribs with the long cudgel. “I care not for the likes of ye to be nobbin’ wit‘ gentle folk, but the liedy is set to wed. Ye’ll be going wit’ the man and me own good lads ‘ere, John Craddock and Mister Hadley.” He leered at Ruark’s raised eyebrow. “Just to see, of course, ’at ye do not take to some fancy highjinks.”
The corpulent turnkey chortled as heavy irons were fastened on Ruark’s wrists. The ends of the chains were handed to Mister Pitney, who grasped them in his hamlike fist. With a gesture to follow, Hicks led the procession through the gaol and halted only when they reached the waiting wagon which was drawn up close before the outer gate. The conveyance much resembled a large, ironbound oaken box on wheels with only a small, barred window mounted in the side door. A third guard was high in the driver’s seat with the reins already threaded through his thick fingers. His cloak was pulled close around him against the chill of the drizzling rain, and he gave no heed to them other than the lowering of his tricorn upon his brow.
“Now ye do as Mister Pitney says,” Hicks bade his men. “And ye bring this scurvy bloke back ‘ere live or dead.” His black, beady eyes glared at the prisoner. “Mind ye, if ’e makes one move to escape, blow ‘is head off.”
“Your kindness is exceeded only by your grace, master gaoler,” Ruark told him lightly. Then he squared his shoulders. “Can we be about our affairs, or are there more matters you wish to discuss with these gentlemen?”
Hicks waved him into the wagon. For the deepest cut he knew where to thrust. “Git in, ye bloody rogue. I warrant good Pitney will keep ye from doing in ‘is liedy like ye did ’at wench in the inn—an‘ ’er carrying yer babe.”
Ruark’s eyes hardened as the gaoler pushed a slobbering grin up to his face and snickered mockingly, but the younger man remained mute even beneath Pitney’s frowning perusal. Offering neither nod nor explanation, Ruark stepped past him, reached to the top of the doorway, and swung himself and his chains into the wagon. In the dark, barren interior of the van, he slumped into a corner to seek what comfort could be found. The door was barred, and Hicks rapped his staff against the wooden sides.