Shanna gave a small start as if returning to reality and reached behind her neck to tug loose the bow of the lacing. A forward movement of her shoulders spread the back of the dress, and she shrugged, letting it fall to the floor. Oblivious to Ruark, she stepped out of its folds, giving the hated garment a disgruntled kick. She strolled leisurely to the washstand where she poured water into the basin, thrust her hands into the refreshing liquid, then drew one after another up her arms, letting the cool water trickle down. She sighed deeply and taking a soft cloth and a sliver of soap, began to wash herself with undisguised pleasure. She stretched her chin upward, displaying the long, shapely column of her neck and gently laved the reddened area where the collar had chafed. After a moment, she opened her eyes and in the mirror caught Ruark’s eyes on her. Half turning, she tossed him a withering glare.
“Fill your eyes, you gawking ass. Perhaps your Carmelita still waits in the pool.”
Ruark snatched his hat from his head and with an irritated flip of his hand sailed it onto the bed. His voice came curt and bitter. “ ‘Tis plain you’ve lost none of your talent for teasing, my love.”
He lifted the sash from his shoulder and paused beside the woolen gown, raising it up on the point of the scabbard.
“Shall I air your gown, milady?” he mocked. “Perhaps for a stroll on the morrow?”
“Aye, milord,” she sneered, her tone every bit as loving and gentle as it had been before. “Air it out the window”—she pointed her chin in that direction—“with the rest of the trash.”
Obligingly the garment was banished. When it had sailed from sight, there was a sudden flurry of voices beneath the window. Ruark braced his hands on the iron rail and, leaning out, saw below a pair of urchins, no more than a half-score years to either of them. They argued spiritedly, playing a tug of war with the dress. At his appearance they halted their squabble, looking up; then, perhaps fearful that he might recall the treasure, they skittered across the low wall and into the brush, each keeping a desperate hand locked on the coarse black cloth. Ruark’s amazement knew no end, for there below, where a high pile of cast-off garments, ticks and blankets and other assorted rubble had been, was nothing but a thin scattering of broken glass. Even the maligned chamber pot was gone. Ruark drew back inside. Little had he realized that such offal would be so valued in the hovels of the village.
A trickle of water ran down his neck from his hair, and tossing the sword and jerkin into a chair, he snatched a towel from beside the tub and began to dry his hair. Shanna still washed herself, and from beneath the folds of the towel, he could view her unnoticed. Her ripe, young bosom caught his eye and so enticing was that soft peak where a small lather of soap collected that he could not resist the urge and reached out, wiping it from her with his finger, then cupping the whole of her breast in his eager palm. A sharp pain caught him in the ribs, and Shanna drew back her elbow for another blow. This one brought a grunt from him, and he pulled back his wandering hand to rub his own bruised flesh.
Shanna faced him, a snarl on her lips. “Get your hands from me. You do not own me.”
“Have I, then, your permission, milady, to seek from another that which you would not yield?” he jeered.
“I’ll yield you nothing”—she snapped and, jaw thrust out, put a finger to his chest and slowly twisted it about a lock of hair—“but a fist in your belly if you touch me again. Get off.”
She jerked her hand away from him, wringing a flinch of pain as the hair went with it and turned away, dismissing him as if he had never existed. Still, she casually fetched a sheet and wrapped it about her, bringing it up snug beneath her arms and tucking it carefully over that tempting fruit he had been wont to test.
Shanna returned to washing her face, and with a rueful snort Ruark finished drying his hair. He threw the towel down, picked up a carved shell comb that lay atop the linens, then flicked his dampened locks into a general semblance of order. Admiring the careful workmanship that had shaped it, he turned the comb over in his hand, but suddenly it was snatched from him, and Shanna stood beside him, staring at it, her vengeance forgotten.
“Where did you find this?” she asked in wonder.
“There.” He pointed casually. “ ‘Twas right beside the brush.”
With a cry of joy Shanna flew and caught up the brush, also. She clutched them to her breast as if they were a highly valued gift.
“Oooh,” she crooned softly. “Thank you, Gaitlier. You do have a way with women.”
Ruark stared at her with injured pride. “ ‘Tis nothing but a brush and comb,” he observed gruffly.