Ruark shifted the direction, and two of the smaller ships bucked in the water as the shots smashed through their sides. Smoke began to pour from one, and the other rammed hard ashore, her crew fleeing into the swamp. More shots were fired until the small fleet was a smoking mass of floating wreckage. Now Ruark set the aim. more carefully, but it still took three rounds before the blockhouse dissolved in an explosion. Again the direction shifted, and Mother’s inn took the brunt of the attack. Nearly twenty rounds had been fired before the facade slowly began to crumble, leaving the interior agape.
Once more Ruark bade the crews reload, and, sighting carefully, he adjusted the barrels. His hand dropped and Shanna stared as the eastern wall and the room wherein they had resided dissolved in a cloud of dust.
From the main deck Ruark called to Trahern, “Unless you wish to slay innocents, the most damage is done. It will be months before a ship sets sail from here. Those responsible for your daughter’s capture are either dead or fled. I await your decision, sir.”
Trahern waved an arm and turned to Captain Dundas. “Secure the guns. Set sail for Los Camellos. We have seen enough of this place. God willing, we’ll see no more.”
The exertion had cost Ruark his strength. He hung his head and sagged weakly against the handspike. One of the gun captains handed him the squire’s staff, and, taking it, he moved a step aft toward the quarterdeck, toward Shanna. His mouth was strangely parched, and his face and arms felt hot while the sun began to make dizzying loops around the masts above him. He saw Shanna running toward him, then the rough deck was beneath his cheek, and the smell of gunpowder was strong in his nostrils. The day grew dark and faded further still. Cool hands were under his neck, and a strange wetness fell on his face. He thought he heard his name called from afar, but he was so tired, so tired. The blackest of nights closed in around him.
Chapter 20
THE SURGEON MUTTERED AND SWORE as he tried to steady the wounded man’s legs against the lurch of the barouche.
“Have patience, Herr Schauman.” Shanna Beauchamp’s voice was soft and sure. “ ‘Tis only a bit further.”
She held Ruark’s head upon her lap and placed a cool, wet cloth against his brow. Trahern sat on the other side of her and studied his daughter in some bemusement. He noticed a new self-confidence and a quiet reserve that he was sure had not been there before. She had made much of keeping a silver dirk. It and a pistol so small as to be almost useless were wrapped carefully in the leather jerkin at her feet. With a single-minded purpose and a tenderness she had shown no other man, she tended this bondslave whom she had once hated.
“The leg festers.” The surgeon’s voice broke into his musings.
Trahern brought himself to awareness and listened to the doctor.
“It should be removed. Now! Before he awakens. The longer we wait, the more difficult the task will be.”
Shanna gazed silently at the doctor and her mind was filled with the terrible vision of Ruark struggling to mount a horse with his left leg gone at the hip.
“Will it save him?” she asked quietly.
“Only time will tell that,” Herr Schauman answered brusquely. “There is every chance he will survive.”
For a long moment Shanna looked down at Ruark. His face held a deathly pallor, and she could find no courage in herself; yet, when she spoke, her voice was both soft and firm.
“Nay, I think our Mister Ruark will fight for his leg as well. Perhaps between the two of us we’ll save it for him.”
Both men recognized her statement as final and said nothing more.
The carriage rattled to a halt in front of the manor and before the horses had stopped their prancing, Pitney, who had ridden ahead, was reaching to take Ruark carefully in his huge arms. Immediately Shanna stood beside him.
“To the chambers next to mine, Pitney, if you will.”
Her father’s eyebrows rose sharply. She had been anxious to see Sir Billingsham quartered completely across the house from her, and now she took the bondslave into her own wing.
Sir Gaylord meekly held the door ajar for the returning party. As Trahern passed through, last in the procession, he paused to consider the knight’s bandaged foot.
“Well, Sir Gaylord,” the squire grunted. “I see your ankle is much the better.”
“Of course,” the man replied heartily. “Dreadfully sorry I couldn’t go with you, but the bloody animal stepped away just as I— Well, he banged me up, you see, then trod all over it. But it’s mending rapidly.” Gaylord lifted his cane and then winced as he bravely tried the foot.
With a snort Trahern brushed by, struggling with the sneer that threatened to conquer his face.