Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(162)

The pistol dipped away from his chest, and Ruark nodded stiffly. “Your apology is accepted.”

Ruark’s gaze went beyond the man and found Shanna at the top of the stairs. She had donned a modest gown of proportions approaching Carmelita’s. It hung almost straight from her shoulders, but its previous owner had not the height to allow the garment to cover Shanna’s trim ankles and bare feet.

There was a glimmer in the shadows beside her skirt, and he took note of the small, silver dagger she held, no doubt found among Pellier’s effects in her search for appropriate apparel. It was a pitifully tiny thing, but, knowing her, Ruark could guess she stood prepared to fight the world.

The mulatto took a place at the far end of the table, keeping carefully away from Ruark even though he had tucked the loaded pistol back into his belt.

“Join us, Madam Beauchamp. Please do,” Ruark called, striding forward a pace or two. He beckoned to her and indicated a place at his side. “Come, stand here.”

Before she came down into the full light, Shanna tucked the knife away in a shadowed fold of the skirt. As she appeared, Ruark faced the pirates and made a slow, deliberate show of reloading the fired piece. He rammed the shot home, tapping it gently against the powder, then rested the ramrod on Shanna’s shoulder when she moved beside him. She seemed very pale, very small, and very obedient.

“This is mine,” he barked, and even Shanna started at the sound of his voice cracking loud in the silence of the room. He stepped to the table and put the butt of the pistol on it while, with a solid click, he slid the rod into its place beneath the barrel. Opening the pan of the flintlock, he primed it carefully, then placed his foot on the bench and rested his elbow on a knee, letting the pistol dangle loosely in his hand. Calmly he scanned the faces before him.

“You speak of shares,” he sneered, his tone dangerously soft. “I could have claimed yours.” He pointed to the mulatto captain with his weapon. “And yours.” He stared directly at Hawks and ran his thumb almost longingly over the hammer. “Or even yours.” He smiled at Harripen. Then he laughed sardonically and spoke over his shoulder. “ ‘Twould appear that Mother is the only one who will not challenge my rights to you, Madam Beauchamp.”

Replacing the pistol with its companion, he drew the long sabre, resting its point on the table in front of the men.

“If anyone would challenge my right to anything, let him speak, and we’ll have it out now.”

His eyes mauled the pride of each of them until each man either turned away or shook his head, refusing the glove. Ruark slammed the blade back into its sheath.

“I thought not.”

He went back to stand beside Shanna and began to speak in a stilted tone as if lecturing a group of small boys.

“You may consider Madam Beauchamp a piece of merchandise which has by your own rules and consent been given over into my care. She is a treasure of great wealth, the bounty of which could send many of you to the colonies as wealthy country gentlemen.” He lifted a lock of her hair and displayed it for them. “A tapestry or a painting is a thing of great beauty and a thing of great value, but if abused and torn it becomes of no more worth than a rag, of little use to anyone. Do you think to trade a ravished daughter to her doting father for a rich reward? Have you heard of Trahern?” He grunted. “I have! Mother has! He will bear me out. If Trahern’s daughter is one whit less than she was, the man will hunt you all, each and every one to the ends of the earth if need be, and he will make you dance from the yardarm for his vengeance.”

The room was silent as they considered his warning. Mother rose from his. chair, and the table creaked as he leaned his weight upon pilelike arms.

“Listen to him, lads,” his tenor voice commanded. His bald pate gleamed beneath the lamps, and his braided queues swung as he moved his head to look at each of them. “The man speaks well, and I fear that even should you take him, there would not be half of you left fit to pace a deck. We need every good hand, his with the rest.”

Reluctant murmurs rose in assent, and after a moment Harripen slammed his mug down.

“Carmelita! Dora! Fetch some vittles,” he bellowed. “Me belly aches with hunger, both for food and a good toss.”

The tension was broken, and the corsairs turned to their cups. Ruark gave a nod of his head toward a bench in the shadows behind his chair, and Shanna quickly crossed to it, her knees still weak and trembling beneath her. She glanced up into Ruark’s face as he took his seat beside her, but even now it was hard for her to show gratitude. Not wanting to meet his eyes, she looked away.