Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(174)
Setting the bolt in place behind him, Shanna seated herself across from Ruark and began to nibble tidbits from the platter while he opened the wine and poured it into the goblets.
“What are you doing?” she finally asked as he took up the map again and began to study it as he ate.
“Trying to find some hint of the channel through the swamp,” he replied without looking up.
The meal continued, though both of them took no great relish in the tasty fare. Ruark sipped his wine and sampled the food without so much as a glance in Shanna’s direction. After a while he pushed his half-filled plate from him, having lost his appetite under the stoical manner he forced upon himself.
It was with a good measure of dejection that Shanna rose, releasing a sigh. Taking a small slice of melon, she went to the window. A distant rumble of thunder echoed her mood. An errant gust of wind swept into the room, setting the heavy drapes astir and rustling Ruark’s charts as he held them down against its teasing. Worried, Shanna pushed the hinged shutters wide and leaned against the sill, watching the evening squall race toward the island. The aging dusk was turned white briefly by a flash of lightning that drew a gasp from Shanna and made her pull back with a start. The storm clouds drew overhead, and the first drops splashed on the thirsty sand. Soon more distant detail was lost in the haze of pounding rain.
His arms spread wide across the charts to keep them from going astray, Ruark raised his eyes to the window. His breath caught in his throat at the stirring sight there. Shanna half sat, half leaned, upon the sill, her thigh raised upon its edge, her face presented in profile as she gazed out at the darkening clouds. The diffused late light made her seem some classic statue cast in gold and robed in brilliant carmine. Her hair appeared almost transparent, tumbling like an amber waterfall of dark rich honey to her waist. The gown clung to her breasts, conforming to the natural swell that dared the touch of man. As he stared, a flash of lightning crossed the sky, and in its pure light she became a carving in fresh white ivory, her garment mellowing to a gentle pink. The dark clouds sapped the brightness from the sky, and, with its fading, her skin became the oiled oak of a ship’s bold figurehead, her hair knotty swirls of ebony. Her face was pensive, her smile sad. Her eyes alone took on a lighter hue, that of a brilliant green sea stirred and swirled by the storm.
“My God,” Ruark groaned inwardly, frozen at the table by this innocent panorama. “Does she know how beautiful she is? Does she know how she tortures me?”
His mind whirled. “How can she tease and taunt like a shrewish vixen and refuse me that which I crave? What hellish task has she conjured for me now? She cannot believe that I can long ignore her. Perhaps here again she seeks from me some violence so she can have reason to hate me.”
The rain pattered down, and she became a cameo, a work of art, but no artist ever touched a brush who could portray this beauty. Darkness descended with its cloak of black, and she was etched in the candles’ glow. Again she became the mysterious beauty with gown of deep red crimson which showed her every movement. Ruark forced his eyes away and stared at paper suddenly bare, void of any marking. His mind wandered, and he considered what plea might bring an end to her unreasoning anger.
Should he ply her as some loving swain? Nay, not that. She’d only throw it back at him. But what did she expect of him? He was lost. He sat bemused. If she knew his mind, would she have pity on him? A simple touch, one finger laid onto his arm. “A gaze,” his mind screamed in agony. “Anything!”
Nothing came. No touch. No kiss. No gaze. He looked away in despair.
Shanna’s eyes turned slowly to Ruark, who was, it appeared, still poring over his maps. Her throat ached slightly with the effort of suppressed tears, and she had a sudden, intense desire to be held in someone’s arms. Forlornly she crossed the room and stretched out across the bed, staring at his bronze, naked back, while a thousand ideas flitted through her mind only to be rejected one by one. A desperate longing welled within her, the need to run her fingers over that expanse and feel his muscles flex beneath her hands.
There were numbers on a sheet before Ruark, notes in his own hand, but his mind no longer made sense of them, though he tried for a long time. Finally he began to fold them away. Shanna saw his movement, and her thoughts flew:
“He’s coming to bed! What shall I do now? Perhaps I shall yield to him if he only presses me a bit.”
“Nay, damn him!” Her ire rekindled. “He takes a common trollop beneath my nose and so shortly after begging truth and love from me. I’ll tutor him rightly on truth and love. I’ll see him straining at the bit before I’m through with him.”