Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(16)
The plump wife of the good clergyman sat nearby, sipping tea while she observed Shanna. It was not often people of wealth tarried in their quiet village, much less within the humble rectory, and such rich garments Mrs. Jacobs had never seen in her whole life. A mauve cloak of silk moire, lined lavishly with soft, gray fox, lay across the arm of a chair, forgotten as if it were discarded. The woman could not even imagine the cost of the matching silk gown with its tiers of pinkish gray lace cascading down the front of the skirt between twin borders of silk ruching. Lace flounces adorned the sleeves where they ended at mid-arm. Pleated lace spread like a fan from a point at the tightly cinched waist upward to the demure display of creamy skin. A narrow mauve ribbon was tied about the slim column of the young woman’s throat, and the intricately woven coiffure, left unpowdered, was glorious in its own magnificent color. The effect of the golden strands amid the tawny would have challenged the best efforts of the most artful hairdresser.
Mrs. Jacobs sat much in awe of this beauty, for envy was not in her soul. Deep in her heart she was a romantic and took delight in what was to her the serious art of matchmaking. The groom, as she envisioned him in her mind’s eye, would have to be handsome and charming, for no common sort should have claim upon this bride.
Shanna leaned forward to gaze intently out the window, and her movement brought Mrs. Jacobs to her side.
“What is it, my dear?” the kindly woman inquired with eager interest. “Do they return?”
Mrs. Jacobs’s blue eyes searched the distant road, and, as she had guessed, a carriage was just topping the crest of the hill and would soon be arriving at the church.
Shanna, a multitude of explanations on the tip of her tongue, thought better of it and bit the words back. If she gave excuses for her husband-to-be, his faults would be all the more apparent. It was better to let the woman think love was blind in her case.
Shanna smoothed her hair, preparing herself mentally to meet the wretch.
“Ye are radiant, my dear.” The “r” rolled from Mrs. Jacobs’s tongue with a thick Scottish burr. “Daen ye worry none ‘bout that. Go greet your betrothed. I’ll fetch yer cloak.”
Gracefully Shanna obeyed, thankful she could catch Ruark before the clergyman and his wife would meet him, on the chance his appearance could be improved at this late date. As she hurried along the covered pathway from the rectory of the church, a thousand reasons to worry raced through her mind, and she swore to herself, using several of her father’s favorite oaths, then gritted her teeth as she thought of the care a gentleman must exercise in dressing.
“That cloddish colonial,” she fretted. “At least let him have his breeches on straight!”
The dapple-gray horses tossed their fine, noble heads and pranced to a halt before the church. Pitney carefully tucked his pistol under his coat as Mister Craddock jumped down to the turf and, like any good coachman, swung open the door for them. Accepting Pitney’s warning frown, Ruark stepped down from the Briska and paused, pensively gazing out over the moors. He had a great longing to run through the fields for the sheer freedom of it, but he knew he would get no further than the low stone wall. Pitney was strong, but his size hindered his agility, and Mister Craddock and Hadley did not appear too swift of either foot or mind. Even after his confinement, Ruark was convinced that he could outrun them, but Pitney’s pistol and its lead could very well outspeed him. Then, too, there was the matter of a bargain he was most eager to see out. This held him in check far better than the threat of death. Of late that dark damsel had been too much his close companion.
Leisurely he strolled toward the steps of the church but found himself the center of a close-knit group. On the first stone, Ruark paused and regarded the three men, all carefully within arms’ reach of him.
“Gentlemen.” A faint smile twisted the corner of his mouth. “If I should attempt escape, you will no doubt use the weapons you cover so obviously. I do not ask that you be remiss in your duties but do hang back a bit as if you were really hired servants.”
At a nod from Pitney, the two guards returned to the Briska and leaned against it, though their attention remained on Ruark, never wavering, for they had grasped enough of the fact to realize their reward would come only with a task well done.
“What now, Pitney?” Ruark inquired. “Shall we enter or await my lady’s pleasure here?”
The servant pursed his lips in consideration of the question and then seated himself on the step. In his rasping voice, he stated flatly, “She’s heard the carriage. She’ll be out when she’s ready.”