Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(151)

Shanna shuddered. “I dare not until I know what’s here.”

“Aye,” Ruark agreed ruefully. “I fear there is something dead on Mare’s Head and we’ve found it.”

After locating a stub of candle, Ruark emptied the priming from one of his pistols and, placing a bit of lint in its place, snapped the lock until a weak spark glowed in the pan. Blowing it aflame, he touched it to the wick. A soft, dim glow spread over the chamber as the candle flickered then blazed.

The room was a shambles of discarded clothes, empty bottles, and assorted sea chests and wooden barrels, looted no doubt from unwary merchants. A massive, ornately carved, four-poster bed seemed to float on a sea of trash. Several layers of fat feather ticks were stacked beneath a covering of stained linens, while ragged and filthy netting hung askew from the canopy frame. The foot of the bed was hidden by heaps of cast-off clothing. A tall armoire gaped open with garments of various silks and satins, rich coats and gowns, carelessly draped over its sagging doors. No chair was empty; all were piled with assorted debris. Heavy red velvet drapes, dusty and worn with age, covered the windows. A huge porcelain bathtub bore the remains of empty flasks, bottles, and flagons which had been tossed in that general direction. Shanna’s bare feet had narrowly missed treading upon a jagged piece of glass. Several mirrors stood about the room, all facing the bed. A chamber pot appeared much the villain in the way of odors.

Shanna gagged and whirled away from the sight of it while Ruark took more positive action. He snatched back the drapes, flung open the shutters to let the ocean breezes sweep the room, and tossed the menace out the window to the courtyard below. Crusted blankets and linens from the bed followed its descent, and soon a tall pile of Pellier’s clothing—distinguishable mainly by the sour smell—began to form beneath the window. Bottles from the tub shattered against the stones below; anything else that would threaten their comfort left the room. Ruark swept his arm across the wooden planks of the table, sending the dried scraps of many meals flying into a sheet which he had yanked from the bed. He bundled it with other filth and sailed it through the window. Though the air still offended the senses, it was at last rendered fit to breathe. Ruark blew into the depths of a pitcher which sat on the washstand and was greeted by choking dust.

“ ‘Twould seem Pellier had an aversion to bathing,” he remarked with a snort of derision.

Shanna gave a repulsive shudder as she picked the cloying, stained folds of her own garb from her body. She yearned for a bath and the soft comfort of a clean bed for her tired and drooping body. Ruark contemplated her and was sympathetic to her plight, but there seemed to be an almost waiting silence in the common room below. He came to stand close before her, and, as she lifted her gaze, he made his request.

“Scream.”

Shanna’s eyes searched his face without understanding.

“Scream. And loudly,” he commanded firmly.

But with a mute frown Shanna only stared at him.

Almost leisurely Ruark reached out his hands and locked them in the soft fabrics covering her bosom and with an easy twist, split the robe and flimsy gown full length, flinging them wide so that she stood openly displayed to his rapidly warming perusal.

Now, giving vent to all the pent-up rage, fears and frustrations, Shanna complied with a piercing shriek that trembled the mirrors. She paused only to draw breath and then raised her voice again. This time Ruark stepped close and cut it short with his hand across her mouth. In the quiet that followed, they heard the gale of loud laughter that filtered up from the common room below.

Ruark folded her in his arms, crushing her naked breasts against his leather jerkin, and Shanna felt the chuckle deep in his chest.

“That should give them something to think about for a while.”

But some of Shanna’s spirit had revived. Angrily she snatched away from him.

“Take your hands off me!” she sneered. She moved to put the bed between them and struggled to close the shreds of the dressing gown around her in a late burst of modesty. “Find some simple little tramp if you want to play, but I’ll not be the waiting wife in your game.”

The muscles in Ruark’s jaw worked tensely, but he held to a stubborn silence, not giving credence to her accusations by arguing his innocence.

“You play the stud so well,” she raved, warming to her subject. She gave him a slow, contemptuous perusal and trembled with her rage and fatigue. “So strong, so virile, so very talented in bed. Do you think I will twiddle my thumbs while you lay every bed-minded trollop who’ll take a tumble with you?”

Ruark gave voice to his own frustration. “What in the sweet, loving hell do you prattle about?” He aired his injured pride. “I sit and watch you with your audience of men and bite my tongue to keep from shouting that you’re mine!”