Trahern protested as any good, outraged merchant. “I paid far more for your garb than you did!”
Ruark chuckled and then grew serious. He peered askance at Pitney when he spoke and noticed the fine beading of sweat on his brow as Pitney chafed beneath the double edge of his statement.
“I have been known as one who always pays my debts to the hilt.” He shifted his gaze and met Trahern’s directly. “When I lay the full sum of my indebtedness in your hands, there will be no doubt that my freedom is not another man’s gift.”
“You are a rare man, John Ruark,” Trahern sighed. “I would not see you as a merchant, for you have set aside fair payment.”
He heaved himself up from his chair, paused, and studied Ruark closely. “Why is it I feel as if I have been taken to the limits of my purse?”
He shook his head and turned away, moving to the door and letting Pitney precede him out. He looked back again.
“My trader’s intuition is outraged. I have been rooked, John Ruark, but I know not how.”
Chapter 21
ORLAN TRAHERN ATE a light, brief breakfast and quickly took himself from the table, thus avoiding any conversation with Sir Gaylord. It had become the custom of the knight to join the family in its morning repast. He was not really as boring as he seemed. It was only that the mention of: money, finances, the sea, England, war, peace, or the prospect of either, ships, water, trade, nations, wind or rain ended in an oration by him on the wisdom of investing in a small shipyard which could supply hundreds of sloops and schooners for the price of a single ship-of-the-line. His topic was noticeably limited, though he seemed remarkably adept at taking any random subject as an entry to it.
Thus it was that Squire Trahern gave a last pitying glance at his daughter, shrugged away her silent appeal, and took his leave with a zeal that belied his age and girth. With a frown of disappointment Shanna watched her father go and managed to bestow a tolerant smile upon Sir Gaylord, who gave his own delicate but effective attention to the well-filled plate before him. His manners did not leave him room to speak with food in his mouth, for which Shanna was immeasurably grateful, but he was not above letting his gaze warm appreciatively as it roamed her trim figure.
The briefest of nods sufficed to excuse her, and on her way to the drawing room she quietly bade Berta bring her fresh tea, now that she would be able to enjoy it in some peace. Alas, it was her undoing. No sooner had she seated herself upon the settee than Gaylord entered, dabbing the last of his meal from his lips and then tucking the napkin into his sleeve. Were it not for the ornate “T” embroidered on it, the cloth might have served as an elaborate kerchief. But then, the man seemed to have a penchant for anything artfully stitched with a letter and a special liking for the “B” which ornately decorated all his clothing. Even his coats had the monogram where it could be worn over his heart. As Berta set out the cups and readied the tea to be poured, he rose and brushed her away.
“Not a manly grace, my dear,” he informed Shanna pompously. “But one that must be approached with a skill one rarely finds away from England.”
Lifting the teapot with a flourish, he poured into two cups no more than half their fill of the rich brown fluid, topped them off with a like amount of cream and stirred until the cups held a thick pale concoction that on no account resembled tea. He gave no notice to Berta’s gasp of horror, but ladled several spoons of sugar into one and then paused over the other, raising a brow toward Shanna.
“One or two, my dear?” he asked solicitously.
“No cream, Sir Gaylord, please. Just the tea and a touch of sweetening.”
“Oh!” He responded blankly and paused to sample his own cup. “Delicious, my dear. You really must try it this way. The rage of London.”
“I have,” Shanna managed without malice and leaning forward poured herself a fresh cup and added a shallow spoon of sugar.
Gaylord folded his frame into a straight-backed chair and crossed his legs before he sipped more of the tea.
“Ah, well, no matter. I trust I shall have a lifetime to teach you the niceties of good British gentlefolk.”
Shanna quickly raised her cup and lowered her gaze while Berta paused in her puttering to glare at the knight.
“Shanna, my dear,”—Sir Gaylord leaned back and contemplated her—“you have no idea what simply being near you can do to even a peer of the realm. ‘Tis sore upon my heart that we find so little time alone, or I would speak of the wonderful passions that stir my heart.”
Shanna gave a small shudder and hastily excused it as she saw he had taken note. “Too much sugar, I’m afraid.”