The men bantered and exchanged jibes as before, but every now and then Ruark caught a glare tossed in his direction. Orlan Trahern had best come apace to fetch his daughter to safety, Ruark mused, for he could not himself say how long he would be able to hold the pirates at bay. They were, for the most part, criminals fleeing the law—outcasts, rejects. With careless abandon they faced death, for it meant only an end to a meaningless existence. Maiming was what they feared most of all, for like wolves they must be healthy and strong to roam. Once crippled, they would have to beg scraps from the cruel and ruthless pack.
Appearing to the others relaxed and confident, Ruark stretched his long legs before him and rested his arm on the edge of the table. Only Shanna knew there was that in him which was like a beast in the wilds. One could never be sure of his mood and must always treat him with the respect due a dangerous animal.
“God help the world should he ever become a real pirate,” she thought. “He’d make a hellishly good one. He has a flair for leading men”—her eyes narrowed as Carmelita sauntered near him with a platter laden with roast meats—“as well as a way for leading women.”
Dora kept as far from the men as she could, loading the trenchers at the hearth and filling the pitchers of ale and wine from the huge casks, setting both on a low table there and letting Carmelita serve, a task that she accomplished most heartily. She could skillfully balance a large tray of meats on one hand, seize a brace of brimming mugs with the other, and still walk with a full swaying motion of her hips. Laughing gaily, she spun away from encircling arms and avoided the rougher grasping hands which seemed eager to seize portions of her body. Still, she pranced and displayed the deep cleavage of her ample bosom with amazing impartiality, though beside Ruark she lingered overlong and rubbed her thigh unnecessarily against his. She bent low so he could not miss the full display of her endowments and leaned well over his arm to refill his mug with ale. As she drew back, her bosom caressed the full length of his arm in an open, deliberate way.
Shanna bristled, incensed that Ruark did not remove himself from the woman’s attention. She could not see the disturbed frown he fixed upon Carmelita, and she dearly longed to lay the sole of her foot smartly against those broad buttocks.
Carmelita drew away to a safer distance, fetching another armful of food and drink and allowing Shanna to cool her rising temper, if only a small bit. As Ruark turned in his chair to Shanna, offering his plate for her to select a morsel, he could not miss the import of her squared jaw and the fine, tilted nose that somehow snubbed him while she chose what she wanted from his trencher.
Suddenly Mother slammed down his tankard and glared at them all accusingly. “There’s a stench in this room,” he snarled, “of the rich and haughty.” He silenced them all with a vicious swipe of his hand across the table. “ ‘Tis an odor of whips and blood and sweat. ’Tis a stench of wealth and twisted justice. It smells like—”
His gaze flitted about the room again until it settled on Shanna. She stared into his mad eyes and had she been alone, without Ruark beside her, she would have hidden herself in terror. With a sudden movement Mother flung out a thick arm and pointed an accusing finger at her.
“ ‘Tis the smell of a Trahern,” he screamed, and Shanna quaked convincingly as all turned to stare. Ruark stiffened imperceptibly and lowered his glass. Mother’s high laughter rang in the room. “Rest yerself, Mister Ruark. No one here disputes yer rights to the vixen. Ye know full well I cannot hinder yer claim. But ’tis my end that she serve us as we served her father—like a slave.”
Bellowing agreements came from every side, and Carmelita smirked as the noise died and added her verdict. “Aye, let the little twit earn her keep.”
Mother waved his arm toward Shanna and commanded, “Let her be about her labor like any good slave.”
At Shanna’s questioning glance, Ruark ever so slightly nodded his consent. In some confusion she rose to her feet, not quite aware of what was expected of her. Her gaze flickered across the leering faces until it came to rest on Mother. The giant smiled slowly.
“If ye please, Madam Beauchamp—a goblet of wine will tide me for a spell.”
A flagon was thrust into Shanna’s hand by Carmelita, who regarded her with dark, lazy eyes and a self-satisfied smile. With shaking fingers, Shanna clutched the pitcher to her, feeling the full weight of many stares and Mother’s sly eyes upon her. She refilled the eunuch’s cup. Then as others beckoned her with raised glasses and gaping grins, she moved hesitantly about the table, carefully filling the goblets with the thick, heady brew.