Dismally Shanna stared into the empty shadows. An ache began to grow within her chest, seeming to erode her very soul. Suddenly she wanted to call Ruark back. Even their battles held more joy than the painful void she now was lost in. There was no happiness in the world; it was cruel and cold, holding no warmth to ease the chill in her heart.
Her lips trembled, and tears blurred her vision. With an agonized cry, she buried her face into the pillow and like a child sobbed and beat the bed with clenched fists to shut out the loneliness that sucked her down into a blackened pit of despair.
“Oh God,” she moaned in abject misery and whispered plaintively, “please—”
But even as she prayed, Shanna could not name for what she asked. She shook her head, struggling against the sudden overwhelming depression. Groaning, she threw herself from the bed and snatched a long, white robe from the armoire. Her chambers had ceased to be a haven, and like a displaced wraith she prowled the furthermost corners of the manor, seeking some ease for her troubled spirit, but nowhere in the darkened rooms did she find what she wanted. Listlessly she wandered down the stairs and paused beside the drawing room door, standing uncertainly as her father glanced up from his papers.
“Shanna?” His tone held a note of surprise. “What be you about, child? I was about to retire.”
“I thought to take a stroll through the gardens, papa,” she replied softly, finally meeting his concerned frown. “I’ll return shortly. No need for you to wait up.”
Orlan Trahern watched his daughter move away from the door and then waited in the silence of the house as her bare feet padded across the marble floor. The front portal opened, then closed, and stillness returned. Sighing heavily, Orlan heaved his large bulk up from the chair and slowly made his way to his chambers.
Shanna stood on the lawn, enshrouded in the night. Stars peeked through the drifting shreds of clouds, and the moon made a brief appearance before hiding its silvered face behind a lacy fan of vapors.
Shanna meandered through the trees, a deep voice, husky with passion, and amber eyes haunting each path she took. She had come a distance from the mansion and was passing near the stables when she heard a neigh from within the stables and moved in the darkness toward the sound, scuffing her small feet against the dew-dampened grass.
A light shone from the stables. Drawing near the door, she heard Ruark’s voice, low and gentle, soothing the mare. Shanna’s mood lifted. Pausing in the open portal, she saw his profile etched in the glow of the lantern. His dark brows were drawn downward in a heavy scowl, blunting the straight, thin nose; and in the sharp line of his jaw a muscle twitched angrily. Still, his long, agile fingers tended the mare’s bruises and scrapes with the same gentle touch that Shanna herself had often responded to. The horse snorted and nudged her muzzle against his shoulder familiarly, and in a distracted manner Ruark reached up to caress her silken nose.
“Not now, Jezebel,” he admonished.
Shanna’s whole awareness perked at his use of the steed’s name. She had not mentioned it to him.
“How came you to know her name?”
Ruark straightened, his eyes searching the ebony blackness behind the lanterns. He stood wiping his hands as Shanna came forward, his gaze casually caressing her as if the robe did not exist.
“Her name?” He waited for Shanna’s nod before he shrugged. “The boy, Elot.”
“Oh.” Her voice had lost its challenge. Shanna glanced around, wondering where the stableboy had gone.
Ruark threw his thumb over his shoulder toward the tack room. “His usefulness lies in cleaning and grooming, not in healing. I sent him to bed.”
Shanna folded her hands behind her back, letting her eyes roam about the stables, unable to meet Ruark’s open stare.
“What is that?” She nodded toward a small wooden bowl that held a rather noxious concoction.
Ruark briefly followed her gaze then returned his regard to her. His reply was clipped and curt. “Herbs and rum in warm tallow. Cleans the sores and seals them.”
“Oh.” Again he barely heard her.
After a moment of continued silence, Ruark returned to his labors, dipping his fingers in the odious mixture. Behind his back, lying on a tall stool, Shanna espied the crushed circle of straw that had of late represented his hat. Lifting it, she took its place, drawing up her bare feet to rest them on the top rung. She slowly turned the ruined headpiece around in her hands.
“I’m sorry about your hat, Ruark. I didn’t mean to destroy it,” she ventured, fighting the heavy quietness that had descended upon the stables.
Ruark grunted his reply without pausing in his ministrations to the mare. “ ‘Twas a company gift. I have another.”