“But he doesn’t love me!” she cried aloud and flung her sandals across the room. Petulantly she began to pluck at the lacings of her skirt while she paced aimlessly about.
“Haughty Shanna! Queen Shanna! Unloved Shanna!”
Hot tears scalded her cheeks. She dropped the skirt and she snatched away the shift. A cool breeze, the first of the day, stirred the draperies at the windows as she lit a candle on a small table beside the tub. She lowered herself into the tepid bath Gaitlier had prepared and lifted a decanter, trickling drams of scented salts through her fingers. They sank into the liquid, dissolving like the fading stars of dawn.
“A strange man you are, Mister Beauchamp,” she mused aloud. “You ply me as a lover then berate me as if I were a child and set your cause much awry when you say that I am the last of your choices for a wife.”
Relaxing back against the rim, she lost herself in thought. Those words bit deep and rankled hard, but there was a gritty truth in them. Those who had seemed most eager to wed her were those most in need of her father’s fortune.
Her gaze settled on a mirror which stood nearby and she stretched out a trim, well-curved leg to turn it until she could see herself. Calmly she considered what she saw, noting the deepening golden color of her oval face. Blue-green eyes rimmed with thick, sooty lashes shone startlingly bright in contrast. They were her best asset and usually effective in most any situation when she wanted to gain her way or charm a man. Wheaten streaks, newly bleached by the sun, swirled amid the mass piled high on her head. In the main, she was pleased with her image. Her breasts were high and full, softly hued in creamy white and delicate pink. Without being thin, she knew her waist was smaller than most women could claim, and her legs were long and well-shaped.
She smiled at herself. White, even teeth flashed back at her from the glass.
“Well, my Captain Pirate Ruark, if I have set you to these dire straits wherein your neck is forfeit, you must realize I am also the key to my father’s pardon. You would do well to see me safely back to his care. So on that score, my beloved, we shall be even.”
The room had darkened when Ruark finally entered. Shanna returned her makeshift draperies to the mirrors and engaged in a leisurely toilette. She heard him rummaging through the sea chests, and some moments later the quietness which had descended pricked her curiosity. When she peeked around the curtain, she found him at the table with a large sheet of parchment spread out before him. He was intent upon the sheet and made notes here and there with a quill. Restoring her shelter, Shanna stood thoughtfully chewing on a knuckle; then with sudden decision she went to the armoire and drew out a red silk gown of daring cut which she donned. It hinted of a Spanish owner, for the bodice was long, and the dress fitted well over her hips, spreading from there to a full hem which gathered up to show tiers of multicolored underskirts. The bare expanse from shoulder to gown was startling and most inviting. The back of the gown dipped low as well, revealing much of the soft, alluring curve of her body. Shanna ran her hand from bosom to hip, smoothing the soft silk.
“This should show that wandering stud the difference between a lady and a common street wench,” she mused shrewishly. She did not pause to consider there was little of a ladylike appearance about her. Still, there was nothing of a common wench either.
Tossing aside the screen, Shanna moved toward Ruark, hips swaying provocatively, hair flowing about her shoulders in a manner that belied the care she had given it. It was what Ruark had expected, another assault upon his senses. It took an effort to return his gaze to the parchment, giving no hint of the success of her ploy.
Shanna wandered about the room, doing small, inconsequential chores in an effort to draw his attention but, much to her disappointment, he appeared completely engrossed in his study and gave her no apparent notice.
There was a light knock on the door, and Gaitlier’s hesitant voice called for entry. At Ruark’s nod, Shanna unlatched the door for the man and was delighted to see him carrying a large platter which bore an assortment of fruits, breads, roasted fowl, and boiled vegetables. There was even a bottle of good French burgundy. Shanna’s mouth watered at the enticing aroma, and she could hardly contain her eagerness to taste the fare.
“Oh, Gaitlier!” she exclaimed, “You’re a dear man!” She smiled brightly for his blushing pleasure and missed the dark scowl Ruark threw at them over his shoulder.
“Dora prepared it,” Gaitlier remarked timidly, casting a cautious glance toward Ruark. He hastened to set his burdens down seeing that Ruark pulled his papers aside for the tray to be placed, then stood sheepishly, rubbing his feet together and looking hesitantly toward the rolled map. Ruark thought the man might speak, but as he leaned back in his chair to wait the servant’s pleasure, Gaitlier appeared to lose his nerve. With a quick nod to Shanna and Ruark, he left.