Horse and rider climbed the hill to where Pitney’s whitewashed house perched on the bluff like a lookout scanning the horizon. Here was a haven for Shanna and someone to listen as she gave vent to her troubles. No lights illuminated the windows, but at her urgent rapping a flickering glow of a candle appeared, and a mumbled voice bade her wait a moment. Several lamps were touched with flame before the panel swung wide and Pitney’s huge bulk filled the door. A stocking cap sat askew atop his thinning pate, and breeches had been hastily hitched up over his nightshirt. Stepping aside and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he called for her to enter.
“Aye, come in, lass,” he rumbled. “What brings you out at this hour?”
Shanna avoided his gaze as she moved past him. “I had a need to talk, and there was no one else—”
Her own mind confused, Shanna was hard put to find the beginning of her plight. Restlessly she paced the room and twisted her hands; she opened her mouth to speak but found the ready words empty. Pitney sat on a bench before the cold hearth as he checked his pocket watch against the clock on the wall. It was well past the mid of night and into the wee hours. Stifling a yawn, he rubbed the heel of his hand across bleary eyes and arched his large feet away from the cool stone of the hearth, waiting for her to broach the subject. His attention perked to amazement as Shanna seized the rope at his well and raised his cooling ale jug up. She took the tin cup that hung on the trestle and poured a hearty drink. In alarm Pitney half rose as she slammed the cork back into the jug and pushed it carelessly back into the well. The rope twanged, but no sound of shattering crockery came from the shaft. Much relieved, Pitney sank down again, letting out his breath in a long sigh.
Watching her closely now, he waited as she sipped daintily from the mug, wrinkling her nose at the bitter brew. The inevitable shudder of revulsion followed. No surprise to Pitney. For her to even taste the stuff was highly out of character, and he surmised her distress was more than a trifling irritation. Grimacing, Shanna thrust the cup out toward him, and Pitney calmly accepted her offering as he continued to contemplate her in some bemusement.
“ ‘Tis your father again?” he ventured carefully.
Shanna shook her head and grew more upset with the thought. “ ‘Tis not him. In fact,”—she laughed faintly—“he has released me from any further demands of marriage until I find a husband I would have.” Her brow gathered like a dark storm, and Pitney saw in her frown no good for the one who had provoked her. “ ’Tis that rogue we dragged from Newgate who haunts me.”
“Oh,” Pitney shrugged. “Mister Ruark. Or Beauchamp. Whatever. Your husband.”
“Husband!” Shanna snapped and threw a glare at him. “Do not use that title for that blackguard! I am a widow.” She stressed the word. “You prepared the coffin yourself and witnessed the burial.” Her voice sharpened as she added, “Perhaps if you had taken more care, you might have saved me much suffering.”
Pitney grew a bit piqued himself. “I explained it all before. I see no need in going through it again.”
Shanna released a wavering sigh, realizing she would get nowhere blaming him. Her problem as it stood stemmed solely from Ruark.
She groaned inwardly. Damn him! Damn the strutting peacock! Playing with all the wenches on the island behind her back and then coming and mewling about his monkish life!
She could not let him remain on Los Camellos, sharing her table, frequenting the manor house where she would be forced to meet that mocking jeer. He had used her; like a bauble on a string he had added her to his collection. How many others on the island were there? An isle of lonely sea captains’ wives and young girls seeking husbands. He must have thought it paradise to find so many willing women, and herself among them. Surely he was rolling with mirth by now, the proud daughter of Orlan Trahern, toppled and tossed by a common slave. She cringed painfully at the thought. The roving stud deserved no more than the fate of a shipwrecked tar on a deserted island. ‘Twould do him good to truly realize the celibate life.
But how could she implore Pitney to do her bidding? He had denied her once and might well again if she could not convince him that her need was dire.
“Pitney.” Her tone was soft and plaintively appealing. “You have done much to aid me where I had no right to ask. I did not mean to sound ungrateful. ‘Tis only that I am sorely plagued by that man. He has begun to pester me—”
Pitney’s brow raised in question, and Shanna managed a blush.
“He claims to be my husband truly wed and wants me to admit to being his wife.”