Pellier rose and hitched up his breeches. “Methinks the lady needs more of the pit.”
“Ruark!” Shanna’s whimper came choked with fright, and she clutched his leg frantically, pressing close against him.
“Why, milady,” Pellier mocked. “Did your quarters disagree with you?” He stepped a few paces nearer but then paused as if to muse. “Mayhap the linens were not as fresh as you like.” His voice deepened to a rasping snarl. “Or mayhap your little friends are more a comfort to you than the likes of us.” Then he roared, “Back to your dungeon, slut!”
With his command he charged forward to seize Shanna, but she flung herself behind Ruark and several spaces beyond. It may have been that Pellier simply did not believe that another man would dare interfere with him. Whatever the cause, he ignored Ruark, and that was his downfall. He never saw the foot that was thrust out in front of him as he passed Ruark. Nevertheless, he again tested the sturdiness of the stone floor, this time with his face.
An almost deathly silence gripped the room; those who watched held their breaths in anticipation of what they knew would come. Pellier rolled over, spitting dirt from his mouth, and his dark, glaring eyes settled on Ruark. Casually the colonial caught the back of a chair and spun it about to place his foot on the seat. Leaning forward and resting an elbow on his knee, he shook his head and chided lightly.
“You learn so very slowly, my friend. I have more claim to the wench than you. ‘Twas I who watched her strut about while I sweated for her father. ’Twas I who guided you onto the island. And were it not for me, you’d be feeding the fish at the bottom of Trahern’s harbor.”
Pellier’s glower shifted to Shanna, who sidled back to Ruark’s side, taking refuge there. Deliberately Pellier rose and dusted himself off. He was oddly calm now and there was an air of deadliness about him.
“You’ve touched me twice, bondsman,” he commented arrogantly.
“The more to instruct you with, my good man.” Ruark’s words lashed Pellier’s pride raw in spite of their softness. “In good time I might teach you to respect your betters.”
“You have hindered me from the first,” Pellier sneered, struggling to keep his temper in check. “You’re a swine! A colonial swine! And I never have had any use for colonials.”
Ruark shrugged the insult off and stated simply, “The wench is mine.”
“The Trahern bitch is mine!” Pellier bellowed, losing all restraint. This was too much! He could allow no further erosion of his position if he were to maintain dominance over the other pirates.
He lunged forward, hoping to catch his tormentor off guard, but the chair slammed painfully into his shins. Then he found his shirtfront gathered in Ruark’s fist, and his toes brushed the floor as he was nearly lifted clear of it. An open hand struck the side of his face and returned to slap the other side.
Ruark shook the dazed pirate until the man’s eyes stopped dancing. “I believe the slap is a challenge,” he informed Pellier, loud enough for all to hear. “The choice of weapons is yours.”
Ruark shoved and let go. Pellier staggered backward to crash into the table, sprawling helplessly across it before rolling into his own chair. Red-faced, he drew himself to his feet, straightening his jacket with a jerk. A calculating gleam grew in his eyes as he considered the weapons at hand, and he began to relish the thought of the bondsman sprawled lifeless in a heap. The pistols hung on the back of his chair, ready and tempting, but he had heard much of the marksmanship of the colonials.
“You have a blade, pig,” he growled. “Do you know how to use it?” He had killed too many with the sword to doubt his own skill.
Ruark nodded and, setting the chair against the wall, guided Shanna to it. He drew his pistols and, cocking them both, laid them atop a keg, well within her reach. For a moment he gazed down at her. Shanna ached to say some gentle word at what might be her last chance, but there was still a bitterness towards him that sealed her lips. She could not meet his eyes.
Carmelita leaned against the door to the back room, her eyes eager for the bloodletting. Behind her huddled the thin girl, no emotion on her face, carefully keeping her place. The other pirates settled themselves for the show as the table was pushed back and a large space cleared for the duel. Money changed hands as wagers were made. Only Mother abstained. He studied the young man closely.
Ruark took the sheath from the sash and held it in his hand. A loose, swinging scabbard had been the death of many a good man and it was, itself, a weapon of sorts. As he drew the sabre, its long length gleamed pale blue, and he was glad he had taken the time to select a fine weapon. He swished the blade through the air; its balance was superb; the edge was keen.