“Your leg!” It was as if the agony were her own. “It must be hurting you dreadfully.”
Ruark raised his eyes to meet hers, and time trembled to a halt. Shanna’s hand rested gently on his shoulder, and almost hungrily he searched her face for some sign. They stood motionless, touching, yearning, longing, and those soft, curving lips seemed to draw him closer, closer—
Shanna let out her breath in a rush. Nervously she stepped backward and rubbed her hand as if it still tingled from touching him. She gestured toward his thigh and lamely tried, “We should be getting back. You’re not used to this.”
“That is truth,” Ruark agreed hoarsely. “I am not used to being close to you, and you sorely test my restraint.”
Shanna turned away, not wanting to meet his gaze again. She toyed with a large poinciana bloom. Ruark watched her closely for a long moment, somewhat bemused, sensing her uncertainty but seeing no reason for it. He could not know how her pulse raced. He moved to stand close behind her and laid his hand upon her slim waist. Shanna started as if burned and whirled away from his embrace.
“Don’t!” She began and struggled in an effort to control herself. “Don’t touch me.” She attempted to laugh in a gay manner, but it came out half choked and forced. “Must I remind you, sir, that we are unchaperoned? Keep your distance.”
The words sounded bare and heavy as she spoke them, not at all light and amusing as she had intended.
“Is it something I’ve said or done?” Ruark questioned softly.
“No.” Shanna tried to smile into those probing eyes, but the effort was a failure. Awkwardly she plucked the blossom, and her fingers whirled it restlessly.
“ ‘Tis been three nights since you—stayed with me,” Ruark murmured, his voice low and gentle. “I hear you moving about in your rooms late at night as if you were upset over something. Are you angry with me?”
“No!” The answer came out too sudden, too short, and clipped. Shanna shook her head, her lips tightly clenched.
Ruark leaned forward to caress a lock of her hair where it tumbled over her shoulder. His voice was hoarse, ragged. “May I touch—just for a moment?”
She gave him no answer, but crushed the blossom between hands which sought each other to keep from shaking.
“I want you.” His whisper crackled like fire in her ears.
“Oh, Ruark, don’t say that!” The words burst out of her in a half sob. “I can’t—”
Her hand pressed tightly across her quivering lips, and her eyes squeezed shut as she fought against the flood of emotions that washed apart her every resolve. The flower fluttered unnoticed to the ground.
“Don’t touch? Don’t say?” Ruark’s tone was harsh. “Shanna, are you afraid of me?”
Her eyes flew open and saw the glint of anger in his.
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Her mind screamed until her skull ached with the pain of it, but her voice was gone, and her hands were clenched at her sides as she stared mutely at him. “Yes,” her thoughts raged silently. “I am afraid you will touch me and I will crumble. I am afraid you will say, ‘I love you,’ and I will melt at your feet. I am afraid that I cannot stand against you anymore. Don’t you understand? I am defenseless now. You’ve known me too closely, and I have known you too dearly. I’ve tended your hurts and calmed your ravings as you have mine. I have waited in fear for some word of hope from your lips and watched you weak and helpless on the bed. I cannot deny you longer.”
But to Ruark she stood with a pained frown marring her beautiful face, twisting her hands together and licking suddenly dry lips.
“I—my father will be home soon.” Her voice was shrill, as taut as a bowstring. “I must see to his lunch.”
It was the shallowest of excuses, scarcely better than none, but it was enough, and Shanna fled the garden, leaving Ruark to carefully make his way back alone.
Suddenly Ruark’s words came back to her, and Shanna halted where she stood, realizing she had again been prowling about her bedchamber. The week had aged, and seven torturous nights had passed since she had gone to him. But her will was crumbling. His eyes haunted her, for she saw in them the mirror of her own passion and desires. Now that he had regained some degree of mobility, he was always near, watching her, waiting. The only relief from his regard was when some of the overseers came from the sawmill to obtain details or clarifications of his sketches, and she would be safe for a time from his unwavering stare.
In the pursuit of the sleep she so sorely wanted, Shanna tried everything: a warm bath, reading, a light snack, poetry, even a glass of warm milk that Hergus had brought to her. Still there was a restlessness in her. The bed seemed overly large and the sheets cold to the touch. Though her clock had chimed the eleventh hour, she felt no yearning for sleep. Indeed, she sensed a new awakening deep within her, so sharp and pungent as to be almost physical. Since her return she had grown more careful of her manners with Hergus and more aware of Berta’s gentle, loving nature and of Pitney’s sometimes brusque affections, even of her father. She had never been particularly demonstrative of her love with any of them, but like a child had responded with affection when they pleased her and flared in anger when they did not.