“Damn and be damned, me hearties, she’s as mean as Trahern himself.”
The Dutchman was feeling high of spirit, mostly the strong black rum he preferred. He stepped close to Shanna and, before she could react, locked her in a sweaty bear hug while he roared his merry chortles painfully in her ear.
“Dat Harripen don’t have goot luck wit‘ women. Now, lil’ gal, ol‘ Fritz Schwindel vill keep ya from des hahnhunders.”
Shanna’s knee found a likely spot, and the Dutchman reeled away with a shout of pain while his meaty hand swung around to deliver a cuff to her head. Shanna was faster than the obese Netherlander and ducked beneath his paw, but his huge fingers caught in the nape of her dress, splitting it down the back seam to her waist. She gave his booted toes the best of her heel and spun away from him, grasping the front of her gown in sudden distress. She whirled to Ruark, and in a split second a rush of fleeting emotions held her rooted to the spot: her desire to fling herself into his arms and beg him to take her from this flared; her anger that he would expose her to such debauchery raged; her humiliation roweled; and her fear of that yet to come reduced all to a confused jumble of feelings. Tears came, ready to spill from her eyes, but all was solved for her in a twinkling. With crystal clarity she saw it all, though much was lost to the others.
A snarl twisted Ruark’s face. He crouched low then uncoiled like a striking snake. He flew across the space, stretched out like a leaping tiger on the attack. Herr Schwindel was still hopping about, trying to hold his twisted toes and soothe his ruffled groin at the same time, when Ruark struck him full on the chest. The assault carried the Dutchman backwards to slam against the wall, and as they rebounded Ruark set his feet and heaved. The fat man rode across Ruark’s shoulder to sail his length and more, before crashing onto the floor and, still spinning on his back, sliding beneath the table.
The sabre hummed its bittersweet song as it sprang from its sheath, and the Dutchman scrambled onto the other side of the table, spilling chairs and men from his path in his eagerness to escape.
“Nein! Nein!” he blubbered. “Der recht ich nicht haben!” Seeing his words had no effect on Ruark, he struggled with the English. “I have no right! I give! I yield!”
The sight of the coward groveling behind the table brought Ruark to his senses, and he slowly relaxed and put away the sword. He glanced at the faces of the pirates and saw no challenge. He need speak no further. They understood at last the tooth of his claim to the wench and that he would tolerate no encroachment of it. He presented his back to them and, though his muscles twitched, he felt no prick of steel. A motion of his hand sent Shanna ahead of him, and he followed with slow, measured tread until the door to their chamber was closed and bolted behind him.
Ruark leaned against the portal and breathed deeply to ease the tension in his back. It had built with every step he had taken away from the table, and he was sure that, with the possible exception of Mother, there was not one below who did not yearn for the courage to sink a blade between his ribs. He watched Shanna cross the room to the window and there she stood, silently staring out into the darkness beyond the shutters. He could guess she was still riled about Carmelita and would have nothing to do with him.
He sighed, as much in frustration as in any relief he might have felt for even being alive. He’d be damned before he’d crawl to her begging forgiveness for what he was innocent of; yet he wanted the tenderness his explanations could bring from her. He craved an understanding look, her lips against his, her silken body within his arms, but knew it would somehow be lacking if trust were not mutally shared.
A candle had been lit beside the bed. Gaitlier, he guessed. And the bed was turned down invitingly. He couldn’t remember seeing the small man below or on the stairs. Must have come and gone the back way, Ruark mused, the stairs outside.
Aimlessly Ruark wandered about the room, shucking his weapons and jerkin, leaving them lay where they would be handy at morning’s first rising. No hint of a glance came from Shanna, only brooding silence. He paused beside the tub, realizing it had been filled, and smiled to himself. Gaitlier really did know a lady’s heart, especially Shanna’s.
Ruark went to stand close behind his wife and gently lifted a curl from off her shoulder. “Shanna?”
She jerked around, red-rimmed eyes wide with anger and a challenge on her lips.
“Hush,” he breathed before she could speak and laid a finger upon her mouth. Taking her hand, he led her to the tub. Here, the room was dark, and she could not understand his purpose until he lit a candle. Her gasp of surprise warmed him, and she gave no pause, but pushed him away and quickly made a makeshift drapery between two mirrors with a sheet. A moment later Ruark smiled as he heard a splash followed by a long sigh of pleasure. Moving to the window, he lifted a leg onto the sill and sat gazing out across the low, forbidding blackness of the island.