Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(51)

“My pleasure, madam,” he answered warmly.

Shanna gritted out a menacing smile. “John Ruark, did you say? I knew of some Ruarks in England. Scurvy bunch they were, murderers and cutthroats. Filthy wretches. Are you perchance related, sir?”

The sweetness of her tone did not hide the sneer she intended. He met it with a flicker of amusement showing upon his lips, but Trahern harrumphed sharply and gave her a warning glare.

“You must forgive me, Mister Ruark. ‘Tis not oft I find myself entertaining a slave.”

“Shanna.” Her father’s tone was low but challenging.

If only a trifle, Shanna did relent and slipped into her chair. Ignoring Ruark as he settled again in the place across from her, she turned to the small, elderly, gray-haired black who waited to serve her. She bestowed her best smile upon him.

“Good morning, Milan,” she said cheerily. “Another bright day we’ll be having, don’t you agree?”

“Yes ma’am,” he beamed. “Bright and shiny, Jest like yourself, Miz Shanna.

“And what might you be having this morning? I’ve a juicy melon saved for you.”

“That would be nice,” she smiled.

As he set a cup of tea before her and moved away to the sideboard, Shanna dared to meet the amused regard of Ruark across the table.

While the men’s conversation drifted across many topics, Shanna sipped her tea, listening quietly as Ruark expressed himself in bold opinions in response to the squire’s questions. He quickly took up a quill and made sketches when needed. He acted not as a man who was a slave, but as one who was a valued peer. He leaned with the squire over stacks of drawings which covered their corner of the table and explained in detail the mechanical workings of designs. Shanna was anything but bored as she listened. She realized he was clever, as keen-minded as her father, and he seemed no stranger to the workings of a plantation. In fact, as the conversation progressed, it became evident he could teach his master much.

“Mister Ruark,” she interrupted in a pause as Milan refilled their cups. “What was your trade before you became a bondsman? Overseer, mayhap? You are from the colonies, are you not? What were you doing in England?”

“Horses—and other things, madam,” he drawled leisurely, a slow smile coming as he gave her his full attention. “I worked with horses quite a bit.”

Shanna frowned slightly as she pondered his reply. “Then you must be the one who tended my horse, Attila.” No wonder the stallion was not skittish of him. The wily beggar had taken care of him. “You mean you train horses? For what, sir? And why were you in England?”

“Mostly for riding, madam.” He shrugged. “And some enjoy the sport of racing their mounts. I went first to Scotland to select breeding stock.”

“Then you were trusted by your squire to know good blood stock when you see it?” she persisted.

“Aye, madam, and that I most certainly do.” The lights gleamed golden in his eyes as he lightly measured her form. The insinuation was clear. Her father’s gaze remained on her, so he missed the slow perusal and the nod that followed it.

Squire Trahern sipped the tea, pursing his lips as he savored the spiced warmth of the brew. “I sent my daughter there on much the same mission, but she only returned as a widow with an empty cradle. I didn’t even get to meet her young man and that eats at my heart. Having seen so many swains refused, I was in great suspense to see her final choice.”

Shanna spoke to her father, but her eyes were on Ruark, and she smiled behind her cup of tea. “There’s little I can tell you of him, papa. But ‘twas only fate that decreed I was not to bear his offspring. You see, Mister Ruark,” Shanna directed her remarks to him openly, “my father sent me to find a worthy husband who would sire sons for his dynasty. Such was not to be the way of it, despite my efforts. Yet I have no doubt that I shall find another man, perhaps more clever of foot so as to avoid the same end as he.”

She raised her eyebrows ever so slightly to emphasize her last words and stared straight into the amber eyes which dipped momentarily to acknowledge her riposte.

“In truth, Madam Beauchamp,” Ruark’s tone showed concern and he spoke in earnest, “I can only agree that such a fine man could no doubt have made your life far richer. Still, I find that what is called fate oft has the workings of most worldly hands about it. Sometimes a whim or fancy, a base desire, can deny the best-laid plans. My own case for example. Though I was in dire need, my best opportunity was denied by the very one who sought the bargain.”

“Aye, I have suffered much because of that one,” he continued musingly. “Yet justice, though oft delayed, will usually find its end. I have debts to pay, not the least of them to your father. Still, there are other debts owed me to which I look forward with great anticipation.”