“Shanna. Lovely Shanna,” he murmured huskily. “Your splendor blinds this poor beggar. How beautiful you are, my love.”
Tremulously she had brushed a kiss upon his cheek, her feelings too strong for words.
The illusions vanished abruptly as Hergus called through from the sitting room, gave a quick knock on the bedchamber door, and entered. Hastily Shanna rose and snatching a large towel around her, stepped behind the dressing screen to dry herself.
Hergus took umbrage at this and chided, “Ne’er ye mind about the fact I swaddled ye when ye were a babe and helped ye to dress for years. Since ye’ve taken with yer bondsman, a body would guess ye only trust him to see yer blessed skin. ‘Tis not right that ye should strut about in front of ’im in yer altogether then be so flighty and shy before me whose known ye almost as well as yer own ma.”
Shanna gave a worried look toward the French doors, blushing lightly. If Ruark had heard her pacing the floor, then he most certainly overheard this exchange. Donning her shift, she stepped from behind the screen and gave the servant a warning frown as she firmly presented her with a brush.
“If you’ve come to do my hair, proceed. Otherwise, I’ll find a task worthy of your good nature, such as emptying chamber pots in the morning tide.”
Chapter 22
SHANNA’S SLIPPERED FEET were a blur flitting down the curving stairs, barely seeming to touch the steps. She was like a young girl again, fretful of her tardiness, flushed and breathless and, in her haste, heedless of the display of trim and shapely ankles that flashed beneath her lifted skirts. Hergus had barely contained her curls with a ribbon before the full realization of time struck Shanna. If there was any one thing that consistently roused her father’s ire, it was the needless delay of his meal.
Jason stood tall and erect at his post beside the front portal. He seemed to study the far wall, an intense frown pulling his dark face into heavy folds. He gave no notice to Shanna in her immodest haste. As in the days of her youth, Shanna felt his reproof and halting, dropped her skirts and smoothed her teal blue gown, then lifting her head proudly, continued down with a poised aloofness that drew his regard and won a smile of approval from the black man. He stiffly bowed.
“You look mighty fetching this evening, madam.”
She gave a gracious nod. “Thank you, Jason.”
From the drawing room her father’s voice boomed out. “Berta! Go see what’s keeping that girl! ‘Tis half past the dinner hour.”
Shanna eased somewhat as there was still a touch of good humor in his tone. She moved to the door and took a deep breath, feeling much like Daniel before the lion’s den. But if Milly had found a chance to tell her father, Shanna reasoned, by now she would have been facing a raging snarl. Summoning an outwardly serene smile, she entered the room and paused as the men rose to their feet. Pitney was already standing beside her father, and they turned together, each with his own choice of libation in his hand.
“Gentlemen, do be seated,” Shanna begged softly as her gaze traveled about the room.
Ruark had garbed himself handsomely in his royal blue finery, and his lithe, powerful grace made the long, gangling form of Sir Gaylord seem much like an uncoordinated giraffe as they stepped forward simultaneously. Ralston gave her a brief nod which sufficed for an acknowledgement of her presence.
“I am sorry I’m late, papa,” Shanna murmured sweetly. “I didn’t realize the time.”
Trahern brushed aside his daughter’s apology. In the face of her almost girlish radiance, he could do naught but consider that there was, after all, no harm done.
“I am sure the gentlemen will regard the wait well worthwhile, my dear. We were just discussing the voyage to the colonies.”
“Is it much like England?” Shanna charmingly presented the question to Ruark. “I suppose ‘twill be cold.”
“Cold? Aye, madam,” Ruark smiled and could not suppress the glow that came into his eyes as he beheld her beauty. “But I think not entirely like England.”
“Gracious, no!” Gaylord piped in. He indulged himself with a bit of snuff, taking it from the back of his hand, and delicately applied a monogrammed handkerchief to his pale nostril. His blue-gray eyes watered as he sniffed. “A savage land, hardly fit for a lady. Crude forts, untamed wilderness. Heathens, the lot of them there. I dare say, we shall all be in constant danger.”
Ruark arched a dubious brow toward the man. “You seem an authority, sir. Have you ever been there?”
Gaylord bent a cold, withering glare upon the bondsman. “Did I hear you speak?” The inflection in his voice carried a tone of amazement, as if he could not believe he had been addressed by a common slave.