Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(122)
“And when have you ever said you loved me?” Shanna retorted. “What manna have you bestowed upon my heart?” She flung out a hand, and the violence of the gesture warned Ruark to keep his distance. “I have had lords aplenty, princes by the score, and feverish rakes all pleading for my hand, or at the very least a most singular favor. They plied me with tender words meant to stir my heart or make me know that I was wanted, even admired. But what of you? Where are those words that would nourish my woman’s vanity? Have you once just held my hand and told me that I was”—she shrugged and spread her hands in a questioning gesture—“pretty? Graceful? Warm or gracious? Soft or lovely? Nay, you ply me ever with arguments like a nagging child seeking a bite of sweets.”
Ruark laughed, tossed the towel to a peg, then paused to ponder for a moment. When he continued, he addressed her like an orator before parliament, striding back and forth, arguing his case and accenting his statements with flourishes of his hands like a learned barrister.
“Madam, you most surely speak the truth. But I for one”—he softened his voice and tapped his chest with a finger—“have never been wont to question the method of success. Where are those mincing fops and drooling lads? Name me one who has not fled holding the halves of his heart together by dint of will.” He leaned forward and his voice was almost a whisper. “The favor you extended was mine alone to sample, Shanna, my love.” He straightened and considered the back of his hand for a moment. “Of course, since then I cannot vouch—”
Shanna was outraged at his suggestion. “You know no other has been where you have.”
Ruark met her stare with anger in his own. “There is one of late who seems to attract you overmuch.”
Shanna shook her head.
“And fondles you—”
“He but took my arm,” she denied, wondering at Ruark’s sudden venom.
“And ogles you as if he possessed you beyond the common lot.”
“Sir Gaylord?” Shanna giggled at the sheer ludicrousness of his charges. “But he’s just a—” She paused and her gaze became incredulous. “Why, Ruark! You’re jealous!”
“Jealous?” His look of surprise ebbed to one of pained realization. He dropped his eyes and scuffed the straw beneath his feet. “Jealous? Aye.” His voice was so low that she barely understood his words. “Of any man who stands beside you openly in public and touches so much as one soft curl and looks at you when I may not. While I must strangle dead the slightest show of yearning for you.” He whirled suddenly with fierce determination. “You speak of tender words.” His lips were strained and tight. “My tongue has formed them by the thousands while I lie alone in my bed at night, half feeling the warmth of you beside me. There, unspoken, they writhe and twist beneath my flesh until good anger smothers them. Still, the arguments were there and always between us, burning to be spoken. And speak I did, trading away the softer terms of love for that which was ignored though obvious. I found no time to speak them, though they were ever in my mind.”
“Then speak them now,” Shanna bubbled gaily. “Come on,” she urged against his reluctance. “Pretend that I am a high-born lady.” She straightened. Raising her nose appropriately, she brought her areas beneath her heavy mass of hair, lifted it to a momentary towering edifice, then let it fall to an even more glorious splendor. “And you,” she pointed a finger imperiously, “will be my lordly suitor come to pledge your troth. Let me hear a sampling of your treasured rhymes.”
Ruark laughed and found his crushed hat, raised its splintered crown and set it jauntily upon his head. Shanna choked back a giggle at his appearance.
“Milady, you look more like a great white stork with four wooden spindly legs,” Ruark accused as he eyed her with a roguish grin.
Shanna’s eyes were animated and full of gaiety as she gathered the bulk of her robe around her and tucked its folds between her knees, unconsciously bringing to his full view dainty ankles, long, slim calves, and a good measure of thigh. With a quick jerk, Ruark doffed the hat and held it in both hands before him like a bondslave suddenly confronted by his master.
“As my lady wishes,” he murmured. When his voice came again, it was warm and rich, with a texture one could almost feel and a strength that belied his humble stance. “Oft have I wandered witless in the dark, bemused by a vision of such beauty that my simple mind refused to leave it. ‘Tis thee, my love. ’Tis thee whose fair face is ever before me. I have set my feet on many foreign lands and ventured boldly forth to sample the womanhood thereof. But had I in my strongest moment drawn a likeness of that one who could bring me senseless to her feet and set me mumbling in rapturous pleas for the slightest touch of her soft hand, a kind smile, a brief caress, I would most surely have drawn this silken glory that rests upon your head.”