Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(145)

“Aye,” Ruark replied. “ ‘Twas a choice of a hangman’s noose or bondage, so I was shipped from England to Los Camellos.” He braced a shoulder against a solid, rough hewn post and openly studied the men seated around the table. “There is also another score I’d like to settle, but time enough for that.”

Mother chortled and saluted him with his mug. “We’ve a tie between us then. I was a bondsman of Trahern’s many years ago. The lass were but a tot at her father’s knee.” He swilled more of the ale then mused aloud, “I fought a man in a fair fight, I did, and killed him. Trahern said I ‘ad to do his work as well as me own ’til the man’s debt was paid.” He sank back in his chair and beneath bushy brows, glowered darkly. “I tried to escape, and they caught me. Spread me on a hatch cover for the whip as an example. The field master was happy at his work, and when he had bloodied me back well enough, he bloodied my chest and struck lower.”

Mother emptied the mug and threw it across the tavern, shattering it against the wall.

“He made me a bloody eunuch!” His fist crashed down to emphasize the last word. Then he slid low in his chair and his neck disappeared in folds of fat. His eyes glowed, tiny and feral, deep in their sockets. He chortled, almost as if to himself. “But he won’t get hold of me again. No he won’t.”

Harripen rose to stretch his legs and nudged Ruark with his elbow in passing, nodding toward the enormous man.

“That’s our dear Mother,” he grinned. “He takes care o‘ the town ’ere, sort of lord mayor as it be.”

Ruark contemplated the eunuch who was blubbering in a fresh cup. Mother was not what he had expected, but he made no comment as to that. He had seen many men in his travels, but these brigands would have made the poor wretches in Newgate seem like mild-mannered children. Mother and Harripen acted friendly enough for the thieves they were, but he had no doubt that if their way of life were threatened, they would turn on an enemy with the ferocity of wolves.

Ruark’s eyes roamed further. No sign of Shanna and the other captives. But with Pellier present she could not be in too great a danger. Still, it would have eased his mind considerably to know her whereabouts.

Pellier snorted and came to his feet. “Bah! This ale sours my gut.” He caught the arm of the shy young woman who served his fellow captains, making her crouch away in sudden fear. “You doltish slut, fetch us meat and better wines.”

The girl nodded quickly and skittered off to do his bidding. Pellier leered after her, taking his seat again, and rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Heaping trenchers of pork and fowl were brought, and Carmelita delivered him a flagon of wine, placing several others around the table. As she offered one to Ruark, she leaned against him and smiled seductively into his carefully blank face. She pranced off and returned with a tray of fine crystal goblets. Giving him one, she brushed hard against him, and for a moment her hand dipped brazenly beneath his belt to fondle him.

“Gor, she’s after ye, lad!” Harripen roared and watched her swinging hips as she paraded off to distribute the glasses. “But mind yer ways, lad. She has a temper, that one.”

Ruark declined comment but decided she was one person to avoid in Shanna’s presence. The woman could have almost made two of Shanna. A full skirt was hitched up to show her bare feet, and a loose blouse clung precariously to one shoulder, the other sleeve drooping down her arm. As he had already observed, she wore nothing beneath it, and her dark-nippled breasts swayed ponderously with each movement. Her hair was raven black, her skin dark. There was a Spanish look about her, though her speech was flavored more like Harripen’s. She was comely enough for a man who wanted an easy toss.

A scowl had blackened Pellier’s face as he witnessed Carmelita’s provocative invitation to the bondsman. It was an affront to the half-breed’s pride that she had never displayed such eagerness for him—and another reason to hate the bondsman. Carmelita set the glasses down beside him, and Pellier lowered his plate abruptly to seize her, snatching her onto his lap and roughly caressing her heavy breasts.

“Come, Carmelita,” he crooned. “Share a bit of that with an old friend.”

Driving her heel into his instep, she whirled away from him. A ringing slap cracked through the room. In stunned surprise, Pellier gaped at her.

“Old friend, hah!” she jeered. “You come to my door and beat it with your fist. Boom! Boom! Boom!” She stood with feet spread, shaking a fist as she raged at him. “You tell me of all the duels you’ve fought and all the men you’ve killed, and then you fall asleep drunk.” She laughed at his reddened face and deep scowl then dangled a hand limply toward the others. “He is like the little octopus who catches a big fish and doesn’t know what to do with it. Huh!”