Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(197)
“ ‘Tis charitable of you, sir, but whatever seeds I might have gathered in my—ah—adventure,”—her smile was grittingly sweet—“I will carry through to their fruition!”
Sir Gaylord dusted his cuff as he continued to demonstrate his magnanimity. Surely this common wench would be impressed. “Still, my dear, we should get into marriage before you are disgraced. Should you be found with child, we will deny all rumors, and I shall stand forth as its father.”
He glanced toward her to see the effect of his unimpeachable logic but saw only her rigid back. He had no way of knowing that her lips were tightly set and white with rage. She must, he surmised, be completely demolished by the generosity of his offer. Then he boldly vowed, “I would personally challenge any oaf who casts a slur upon your name.”
Shanna’s arm flung out, and her finger trembled as it indicated the most direct path to the door.
“Aaaaooout!” Her voice was a half-strangled shriek.
“Of course, my dear,” Sir Billingsham mumbled, never realizing the nearness of his total maiming. “I understand. You are distraught. We can discuss this later.”
He took several steps before nearly tripping on his cane, and displaying excellent recall, he suddenly remembered to limp on his bandaged foot; it took the knight a quick step and a hop to avoid the slamming door behind him.
Shanna leaned against the door, and a slow moment dragged out before she could wash the outrage of Sir Gaylord’s proposals from her mind. It was a moan from Ruark that emptied the ire from her and sent her flying across the room to his bedside. She saw his face flushed and dark in the dim light. His head rolled from side to side with a loose, disjointed fervor. Anxiously she felt his forehead and found nothing to solace her there. His skin still burned with that hot dryness that put a chill of dread in her.
Silently Shanna cursed the schooling that had given her a fine knowledge of how to curtsy and conduct herself among aristocrats and a skill of composing useless poetry, or sitting for hours before a sampler making neat, precise stitches in a cloth, yet left her helpless and inadequate in most of the skills of everyday living. She was ignorant of balms and medicinal cures and of caring for the sick or injured. The only thing she could rely upon was common sense. When Ruark grew feverish and his brow felt like hot parchment, she bathed him with cool water. When he ranted and raved incoherently, she spoke softly and caressed his brow until he calmed. She had a thin broth brought to the room, and she kept it beside the bed on a warming pan, and when Ruark roused to a half-conscious state, she pressed spoonfuls of the stuff between his dry lips. There was little else to do.
“So damn little!” she groaned to herself in growing frustration. Her vision blurred with tears as an overwhelming sense of despair sank its merciless talons into her, shredding hope and confidence. “Oh, God, please”—her plea was nearly a whimper in the stillness that enveloped them—“don’t let him die.”
The dark shade of evening crept stealthily across the island, and the moon blossomed on the horizon like an oversized orange flower. It rose high until it faded to a mottled silvery blue and touched all beneath it with the same hues. For Shanna, the hours flowed together, and when Ruark rested in the quieter states of fevered sleep, she curled in a chair beside the bed, sometimes dozing, sometimes just studying him. Listlessly she watched the moon sail lazily above the treetops and listened to the dainty clock ticking the night away. Midnight brooked no refusal of its coming. It approached, it went, and Shanna still kept her vigil.
Ruark began to moan and mumble more violently with a feverish delirium, making Shanna’s heart leap within her as he emitted a weird, ragged groan from his parched lips. She feared he might try to get up, and she knew she didn’t have the strength to hold him even in his weakened condition. She pressed him back upon the pillow and then half sat on the bed beside him, while she murmured soothingly and tenderly stroked his brow. He lay limp and unresponsive to her soft inquiries. Hoarsely he began to sing a child’s ditty—then abruptly he stopped in mid-word, twisting beneath her hands. A fierce grimace contorted his face, and his eyes flew open. He seized her roughly by the shoulders and pulled her close, hurting her with the careless grip of his fingers.
“Dammit! I never saw the girl before!” he snarled. “Why don’t you believe—”
With a growl he pushed Shanna away and lay back, staring blankly toward the outflung balcony doors. Sadness sagged the corners of his mouth, and he began in a sing song voice, “Four walls—ceiling—floor—door. Count the stones, make them more. Count the days, one by one. But how, good lad, since you never see the sun?”