“Stop him! Stop him!” he sobbed. “He’ll kill me!”
Shanna struggled against the grayness that engulfed her, and through the buzzing in her ears, she heard a distant cursing mingled with a whimpering cry. She shook her head to free herself from the daze, and some vision returned. She saw Sir Gaylord at her feet on the floor, clutching the hem of her gown, begging for his life. Suddenly her mind was clear. What he had not given to others would be granted to him. Mercy. She stepped over the sprawling knight and caught Ruark’s arm to her breast.
“Ruark,” she pleaded. “Let him have his day with the hangman.” She slipped a hand behind Ruark’s head and, with the other, pushed his rigid body back. Stepping before him, she pulled his face close to hers and kissed his lips until his sanity began to return and she felt the stiffness of rage leave him. She knew she had won when he took her in his arms and lifted her against him in a fierce, crushing embrace.
Shanna was sitting on the stump, holding still while Ruark applied a cool wet cloth to her bruised cheek, when Nathanial and the major halted their mounts before the cabin. Gaylord sat nearby on a rough-hewn bench, well wrapped in a length of rope.
The latecomers surveyed the scene that greeted them as George and the others joined them. Considering the unhinged portal, George chuckled down at Ruark.
“My son, you truly have a way with doors.”
Gaylord was put on a horse, and Shanna was lifted to Attila’s back, where she perched in the arms of her husband. She would have traded no part of her world away. The door of the cabin was roped in place, and the party was preparing for the return journey when suddenly a shout rang out from the trail and a rattle of hooves drifted down to them. They waited in wonderment until an ancient mare with stiff legs and a spine-jolting gait came trotting around the bend. It could not be said which wheezed the harder, the gallant mare or her courageous rider. A string of jolted curses drifted ahead of them as the mare neared. Nathanial stepped down from his mount and mercifully assisted Trahern to the firm turf. Stripping the saddle from Trahern’s mount, he laid it on the back of Jezebel, that mare of gentler gait, while George led the aging mare to the pasture and turned her out to graze in peace.
Dusk was gathering over the land as the mostly jovial party neared the manor house, and no one noted that Attila with his double load chose to lag far behind the rest. Indeed, it was questionable whether any hand guided him, since both his riders seemed much occupied with each other.
The returning party went directly to the barn where George pointed out a heavily planked stall intended to contain the occasionally errant stud or bull. It was little used. A small table and a stool were placed within, along with a pile of fresh straw and several blankets. The ropes were stripped from Sir Gaylord, and he was thrust into his stall-cell. Glaring about him, he rubbed his wrists then sneered at his captors.
“You may abuse me like this if you will, but as a knight of the realm I can be tried before no less than the high tribunal of His Majesty’s court in London.”
“Perhaps,” Major Carter replied musingly, “that will be up to the magistrate in Williamsburg.”
“I will have none of your bumbling colonial justice!” Gaylord snarled. “My father will see that I am cared for.”
“The same, of course.” The major rubbed a finger along his chin. “Lord Billingsham has come to the colonies to—uh—improve the crude system, I believe he said. He has taken the bench in Williamsburg and will be the first to hear your case.”
Gaylord’s mouth gapped open, and his eyes grew dim and distant. He seated himself on the stool and stared at the blank wall, seeming not to hear any further comments. His lips moved briefly, and the whisper was barely heard.
“Old Hanging Harry.” His shoulders sagged, and his air of arrogance deserted him.
A moment later George entered the manor and stalked through the room directly to the brandy decanter. Close on his heels came Nathanial and Jeremiah, their broad grins warning of good news, while Pitney and the major assisted a ruffled, bone-weary Trahern to his chair. He plumped down and stared at the muddied, grass-stained wrappings of his injured foot, once more propped on its hassock. Bringing up the rear, Shanna and Ruark strolled in with their arms entwined and happy smiles on their faces as if the day had borne nothing but blissful togetherness.
The uproar of relieved laughter and shouts filled the house until it fair danced on its foundation. The tale was told, then retold, and each added his own part until it was complete. Backs were pounded, hands clasped, toasts proposed and properly completed, and in the darker corners the heroes were welcomed home in a much quieter fashion. Only Orlan Trahern sat in his chair in a dour mood and sipped from a rum and bitters Pitney had managed to prepare. It was into this riot of congratulations that Hergus bore a tray of tidbits to whet the appetites of the starving men. Her shriek of recognition was ear-splitting.