Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(239)

“I hoped you would come,” Ruark said huskily. He came forward into the light, and his heel caught the door, slamming it shut behind him. The bolt dropped in place of its own, barring them against any intrusion. He tossed a large bundle he carried down before the fire, leaned his rifle beside the door, and sailed his hat off onto the wooden planks of the table.

“Good lord, I missed you,” he rasped and took her hard against him, heedless of the icy rain that clung to their garments. His mouth came down like the plummeting attack of a bird of prey and seized hers in a fierce, crushing, impassioned kiss. Shanna clung to him as the only solid thing in her reeling world. Their faces were cold from the wind, but their kiss flamed with the stirring heat of desire. Her cloak slid to her feet, and she was clasped tight against his damp furry coat, but she scarcely felt the chill that soaked through her gown.

“I love you,” she whispered against his lips, and tears of gladness sparkled in her eyes as he raised his head to stare down at her. His hands rose to hold her face as he searched its depth for truth. And Shanna repeated the words, with her heart, with her eyes, with all the feeling of a woman in love. “Oh, Ruark, I love you.”

Laughing with ebullient joy, he snatched her high, almost upon his shoulders, and spun her about until the sounds of their mirth mingled in a heady swirl. Carrying her closer to the fire, Ruark stood her there, smiling down at her. Very gently he reached out a hand to touch her cheek, and she caressed it with her own, pressing a kiss into his palm. In the dampened gown Shanna shivered, both from the cold and the overwhelming, near-to-bursting sense of contentment that welled up inside her.

“Here, we’ll warm you. Wait a moment.”

Ruark stood back, and her eyes followed him as if they were fed by the mere sight of him. His clothes were strange to her—buckskin breeches that fit closely to the hard, muscular leanness of his thighs and a coat of beaver fur whereon bejeweled droplets clung; in the twinkling firelight, the droplets gleamed like a thousand rubied eyes. He was more the beast, the lean hunting cat, and she felt both pride and fear. This was his land, and he was free. No man would ever tame him, nor would she in her own mind ever name him slave again. She considered the the question her father had started and knew that if Ruark fled to seek his freedom, she would follow wherever he led.

With a tug at the ties, he shrugged the heavy coat from his shoulders and spread it around hers. Shanna snuggled beneath the beaver, still warm from his body, and watched as he added small sticks to the fire until it blazed high. Her gaze roamed the room in wonder, passing in question over the rope and wood frame of a bed that might have once served the occupants of the cottage, but not even a feather tick was in evidence.

Ruark saw where her eyes paused, and his own sparkled. “Have no fear, my love. I have been about this night to see that your comfort is well served.”

Shanna laughed and drew the coat close about her as if demure. “Beast! Now that I am trapped in your lair, I fear I shall find myself devoured for a tidbit.”

“Devoured?” Ruark pulled the tight, dark linen shirt over his head, and Shanna’s breath caught in her throat as his naked torso stretched before her in the shifting light.

“Nay, not devoured, love.” He reached out and traced a long tress where it curled over her shoulder. “This is the magic cup filled for lovers at the table of the gods. The more often it is tasted, the richer the nectar. Wealthy kings have beggared themselves trying to draw the limits of this treasure. This is a thing that must be shared, but it can never be devoured in selfish greed.”

Shanna touched his arm, her eyes caressing his face in fond possession. “I am nothing but selfish with you, my darling.”

Ruark’s mouth pressed lightly upon her lips. “And ‘tis so with me, lovely Shanna.”

Kneeling, he plucked at the ties on the bundle and then straightened, kicking the lot. It spilled wide open, blossoming like some weird, unearthly flower. A pallet formed of rich, luxuriant furs—glossy reds, tawny golds, thick dense roans and blacks, nothing but the choicest of them all.

“Where—”

“ ‘Tis mine,” Ruark said in answer to her unfinished question. He gestured casually. “I fetched it from the wagon.”

“But how came you to have them? And those clothes you’re wearing. They’re yours, aren’t they? Made for you—the fit—”

“Aye, ‘tis so.” He paused to grin up at her, kneeling on one leg and resting his arm across the other thigh. “My family learned I would be passing here, and they sent them, ’tis all.”