Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(150)
“A fine weapon,” Ruark stated. “It has served me well.”
Mother nodded. “I wonder if you realize the rest of it.”
Ruark shrugged, noncommittal, and hung the scabbard again on his sash. Harripen rose and came around the table to clasp Ruark’s shoulder.
“A foin fight, lad! And ye’ve gained a bit for it. The Good Hound be yours, of course, and all of Robby’s goods, his share of the booty and”—he turned and surveyed his companions—“What do ye say, me buckoes? Do ye think ‘e’s earned it?”
Ribald laughter and a hearty chorus of “Ayes” answered the Englishman.
“A fittin‘ justice!” shouted Mother. Bracing his meaty fists on the table before him, he rose to his feet. “Trahern’s slave shall have his daughter!”
“ ‘Tis done then!” Harripen announced. “Ye’ll ’ave the girl ‘til the ransom is settled.”
New tankards of ale were brought, and Ruark laughed, his own tension easing. A toast was shouted for his victory while Pellier’s body was unceremoniously hauled out. No one seemed sorry at his going, least of all Shanna, who sat with her hands covering her face, quietly sobbing out of her absolute relief. She could not disguise her gratitude, and, when Ruark returned to her side to fetch his pistols, she managed a brief, trembling smile before tears came flooding back.
Boldly Ruark strode across to the other three captives and demanded, “Which of you has a mind to stay?”
None answered him as they glanced sheepishly at each other, no one willing to take the fore and declare his desire.
“So! You prefer slavery to freedom here,” Ruark loudly surmised then demanded, “Should we let you go, will you witness to the squire that his daughter is safe and shall be held as hostage to his payment of ransom?”
The three bobbed their heads in eager agreement, drawing a derisive snort from Mother.
“Fools they be to trade this for Trahern’s yoke.”
“We’ll send them out on the sloop come the morrow’s dawn,” Harripen offered. “ ‘Til then, let the poor lads ’ave a bit to fill their bellies. And by me saints, the wench, too! She’ll need it if she’s to ride beneath this bucko.”
Shanna favored the man with a glare, but she gratefully accepted a plate when the thin girl brought it. In the midst of the revelry, she was intent upon satisfying her hunger. She mostly ignored the coarse scurrility that she and Ruark had become the subject of. Harripen found a bolt of bright red silk and with his dirk sliced off a long length of it. With much fanfare and ceremony he and the Dutchman formed a loop in one end of the silk and placed it about Shanna’s neck. With suggestive leers they led her to Ruark and bestowed the other end in his hand, declaring her bondage to him. Playing the game, Ruark held it high that all might see. Then with a fiendish, wild laugh he crushed her against his chest and forced a savage kiss upon her lips. His hand boldly stroked her buttock, wandering upward, while Shanna squirmed in mute protest of this public fondling. Her face burned in outrage as he held her in a steellike hold until he snatched her up and tossed her over his shoulder, jolting the breath from her. His hearty slap on her rump brought a shriek of rage from Shanna and loud guffaws from the men.
Following Harripen’s directions, Ruark carried her up the stairs and to the quarters Pellier had of late relinquished. The Dutchman held open the door, and Ruark swung Shanna from his shoulder, setting her to her feet. His hand upon her backside, he thrust her into the room. His companions made as if to follow, but Ruark stopped between the sills, blocking the way and daring them with mocking gaze until each in turn lowered his eyes and turned away with a mutter of disappointment. When they had gone, Ruark closed the portal, dropped the heavy bar in place, and leaned against it in great relief.
In the dark void of the chamber, Shanna stood where she had stopped, reluctant to go further lest she come upon some nightmare worse than her dungeon below. Her nostrils were assailed by the fetid stench that pervaded the place, an unwelcome reminder of the pit. Half in panic she groped for Ruark, needing the reassurance of his strength to carry her through a bit longer, just until she could see what she faced. His hard fingers folded securely around hers, squeezing gently as his other arm came around her shoulders. The monstrous fears, which crowded close in about her, reluctantly retreated to a bearable distance, leaving her drained, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. She sagged weakly in the protective circle of Ruark’s arms.
“Pellier’s sty,” he commented in disdain, choking on a deep breath. “Let me find a candle. Perhaps ‘tis not half so bad to the eyes as the odor indicates.” He felt her sway against him. “Will you sit?”