Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(278)

“Jamie! Jamie Conners!”

The Scotsman turned and stared at the woman who called his name, as did everyone else in the room.

“Hergus?” he said slowly, his eyes widening in amazement. “My Gawd! Hergus! Me own true love!” He burned beneath the slow regard the surprised woman bent on him.

“Humph, a score of years ye been gone and not a word! Ever!”

Hergus presented her tray and a warm smile to Pitney and her stiff back to Jamie, as she recalled in a rush the multitude of wiles she had watched Shanna use on various suitors. Her love had strayed and ere there would be a reconciliation, his price would be dear.

“I—I—” the poor man stammered, “I found no trace of ye when they finally let me go.”

No answer came as Hergus calmly served the others from the tray. But as Shanna caught her eye, she could well read the slow smile and lowering of eyelids. At the moment Shanna almost felt sorry for Jamie, but she saw something new in Hergus, both soft and firm at the same time, and guessed that with proper retribution the Scotsman might regain what he had lost.

Shanna stepped to her father’s side and gazed down at him for a moment. At the glowering frown she gently asked, “Does your foot pain you, papa?”

“ ‘Tis not my foot that aches as much as another part,” he snorted. “It took a dire threat to put me atop a horse, but should the very earth crumble beneath my feet, I will not straddle another. Now I cannot find comfort either standing or sitting. I would hie myself to my bed to find aught of ease.”

Shanna began to chuckle and could not stop, though his scowl grew deeper as he glared up at her.

“Oh, Papa, ‘tis the worst of it that you should have done it for me.” She bent and kissed his brow.

“Bah!” Trahern shifted in his chair as if to ease some ache and spoke to Ruark who had come to stand beside Shanna. “I hurt in every bone, and she chortles like some half-wit. Beware, my son, ere she drive you harried and haunted to your grave.”

“If I knew that as fact,” Ruark laughed, “I would change no small whit of it.”

Shanna took her husband’s hand and squeezed it lovingly, then sat on the arm of her father’s chair and rested her own arm about his shoulders.

“I am beset with beasts in the two of you.” She smiled softly to belie her words. “A dragon on my left and a hoary bear on my right. Am I ever to fear your fangs?”

“Keep her with child, lad!” Trahern chuckled, his mood easing. “ ‘Tis the only way. Keep her with child!”

“Much my own thoughts, sir.” Ruark met Shanna’s eyes, and their love glowed in unspoken communication.



Ruark was at the window, watching the gray streaks of dawn spread across the sky. Lying in bed, Shanna, too, was wide awake. He came back and slid beneath the covers.

“You’re cold,” Shanna told him.

“Warm me.” They snuggled close together.

“It’s been almost a year,” she murmured.

“Aye, and with each dawning,” he whispered in her ear, “the sun has come to part us. But no more.”

A moment of silence passed as they nestled in each other’s arms. Ruark traced a curl where it fell across her arm.

“Have I slain your dragon, my love?”

“Slain my dragon? Nay, and I will hear no more such talk.” Shanna slipped her arms about his neck. “Let the devil take the shiny knights. Come, Dragon Ruark, breathe your fire and warm me. The day is just beginning for us.”





Epilogue




ORLAN TRAHERN sat in the small church on the island of Los Camellos and listened to the minister’s voice droning on from the pulpit. His mind was not on the sermon but drifted to other topics.

The island seemed lonely of late. There was something missing. Life here moved on as usual, slowing in the heat of the day, hastening when the harvests of cane and timber called. It accommodated the rush of the mills, and the new wealth was liberally disbursed to be enjoyed by all. It was what he had always dreamed of, but now the edge was gone from the achievement.

He thought of his daughter and her husband. The babe would be born by now, but weeks would pass before he received word of it. He glanced toward the small oil painting of his wife, Georgiana, which hung near his church box and knew she would have thrilled at the prospect. Indeed, she would have insisted they go to be with Shanna at her labor. He could almost see his wife smiling back at him with her ever-tolerant, knowing gaze.

He had of yesteryear considered his blood to be aged and thin, but now it quickened with the fervor of youth as he imagined the wealth of new markets that waited a knowing hand in the colonies. More and more he longed to be out in the marketplace with a wad of credit slips in his purse and a shipload of merchandise at the dock. He yearned to elbow his way through a throng and hear the jargon of barter, the rhythmic song of an auctioneer, and to feel the lift of that moment when a good bargain is struck. He wanted to whet his mind against the sly half truths of the seller and hone his appetite with a taste of the same on a wary buyer.