Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(198)

His chant trailed off into an incoherent mumble, and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut. Shanna thought him pained, for he seemed to be caught in a moment of torment. She reached for the cloth in the basin of water but halted as his words became clear again. Sharp and angry they matched in tone the scowl that came swiftly upon his face.

“Then take it all! Take my life! What care I now that the wench is gone! Damn her! Damn her fickle heart! Ah, man, I hate her! Fickle wife! She taunts me, seduces me, cajoles me, flees me, leaves me wanting her all the more. Have I no more will of my own?”

His voice broke, and he sobbed, hiding his face behind an arm flung across it. Shanna’s throat tightened, and there was no ease for the ache in her breast. With tears of her own gathering in her eyes she tried to hush him. He heard none of her pleas, but lifted his hands and held them before his eyes, turning them, staring at them as if he had never seen them before.

“But still—I love her. I could take my freedom and fly—but she holds me bound to her.” His hands became limp fists which slowly crumpled to his sides as he groaned listlessly. “I cannot stay. I cannot leave.” His eyes closed, and swiftly the moment was gone.

Choking on a sob, Shanna bowed her head in abject misery. How carelessly she had woven her web about him. She had not meant to entrap him, no more than she had been willing to see herself ensnared. On that cold, dark night in the London gaol she could not have foreseen this end. It had been a game she played, a challenge to outwit her father, to prove herself as shrewd as any man, a total disregard of other people’s feelings and emotions.

Tears fell on hands clenched in her lap as she relented to the sorrow she felt. She was deeply ashamed, contrite in her heart. Of all the men she had wounded with the sharp edge of her tongue, Ruark was the only one she had never really meant to hurt. And now he was near death because of her. And she could do naught but stand aside and watch, while the relentless poisons drained his once exuberant vitality.

“Damn!” she cried in wretched frustration and came to her feet, wringing her hands together. She paced about the room, racking her brain for any tiny bit of knowledge which would aid her. Her mother had caught the fever, and they had bled her. Little help, for Georgiana died, much weakened under their care. And if she relented to the surgeon’s arguments and allowed Ruark’s leg to be taken, what then? If such a wound as he had now could fester, how much more the raw flesh of a stump? Should the leg be taken, he might die all the more quickly. How, then, would she ever console herself?

No answers came, though Shanna agonized over each fact, each question that presented itself to her. Her mind grew numb with worry and exhaustion until it refused to grasp logic. As if by rote she cared for Ruark, bathing and soothing him, spooning liquid between his parched lips. And still he raved and tossed as if plagued by some unavenged demon.

“ ‘Twill mean naught to me,” he rasped. “Do not press me further. She’ll have the gift—”

It became an endless labor. The night wore thin. Finally shafts of light from the dawning sun intruded into the room through the French doors. In her chair Shanna dozed fretfully, her mind skimming the ruffled fringe of sleep, while her head lolled languidly against her shoulder. Dimly she was aware of the door opening and closing behind her. Suddenly a huge, dark shadow stood over her. With a start she came dally awake, a scream half born on her lips, as if she expected to recognize Pellier come to haunt her. To her overwhelming relief, it was Pitney. Her breath sighed heavily from her as she relaxed again in the chair, rubbing a hand across her brow.

“I knew you would trust no one else.” His deep, rasping voice touched her gently, but it held a hint of sarcasm in its tone.

Shanna had no defense and stared numbly at Ruark.

“This is useless.” Pitney’s broad hand swept the room. “You’ll soon be no good to him, or yourself. Go to your room and sleep. I will watch.”

He would hear none of her protests but dragged her up from the chair and led her to the balcony doors. With a hand on her back he pushed her out and when she faced him with more arguments, waved them off.

“Go!” His tone was stern but eased as he saw her worry. “I will see to your man as well as your secrets.”

Shanna could do little but obey. In complete exhaustion she stumbled to her bed, and, still clothed in the gown her father had brought with him on the Hampstead, she stretched her weary body across satin sheets and tumbled into the deep vortex of slumber.

It seemed only a moment later that Hergus was shaking her awake. “Come, Shanna,” the woman urged. “Have a bite to eat.”