Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(53)

Orlan tossed another sheet of paper at her.

“After that, he has suggested a dam on the river to drive the wheel of a sawmill so that we might cut our own trees into lumber and sell the excess. He has already given a dozen ways to save men and animals. Aye, my high and mighty daughter, I do value him highly and I will not see him put away like some animal because he does not meet your high standards of comportment.”

Shanna’s pride was raw beneath this rebuke. Drawing herself up, she sniffed haughtily. “If you cannot see my reasoning there, then ‘tis certainly within my rights to request that, at least, you do not invite him to my breakfast table where he can gawk and stare or even insult me with his silver words.”

Trahern’s arm flung out, and his finger pointed stiffly toward the small dining room. “That is my table and my chair, just as this is my house!” he bellowed and continued only a trifle more calmly. “I invite you to share my breakfast, and ‘tis there I begin my working day. If you seek privacy, then find it in your room.”

Somewhat stunned by his outburst, Shanna stared at him, but she tried once more. “Father, you would not have denied mother if she had asked you not to bring someone to this house, a person she detested or someone she disliked.”

This time Trahern did heave himself out of the chair, and he towered over his daughter. His voice and his manner were harsh.

“Your mother was mistress of this house and all else I owned. Never to my knowledge did she ever turn away one I had asked to come. If you wish to serve as mistress here, you will be a gracious hostess to one and all. You will treat that man Ruark as a guest in my house whenever he is here. You know that I care little for gilt, pomp, and finery. Indeed, I fled it to come here. I cherish honesty, loyalty, and a good day’s labor far more. All of those Mister Ruark has given me. And I dare say, daughter, he has given you no less than you deserve. But enough of this foolishness. I must complete these books of Ralston’s.” His anger eased, and his voice became almost pleading. “Now be kind to a doddering old man, child, and let me finish my work.”

“As you will, father,” Shanna said stiffly. “I have had my say.”

Satisfied, Trahern seated himself and, picking up his quill, was soon deeply engrossed. Shanna made no move to leave as she considered this turn of events. There was no help here, but neither was this the end of her resources. With sudden determination she rose and went to rest a hand on her father’s shoulder until he looked up at her.

“I shall be going for a ride now, papa. I have several errands in the village and a few purchases to make. I may be home late so don’t worry about me.”

She brushed a quick kiss on his forehead then was gone. Orlan watched her leave then slowly shook his head in bemusement.

“Too much damned schooling for a woman,” he muttered, then shrugged and returned to the stack of papers on his desk.



It was late in the afternoon when Shanna guided Attila to the hitching post before Pitney’s house. It was a quaint cottage set somewhat above the town and reminiscent of those found in western England. Behind it was a small shed where Pitney was usually engaged in making fine furniture from the rare woods the captains of the Trahern ships brought him from wherever their voyages took them. As a child Shanna had spent many hours here watching his skilled hands turn rough boards into handsome, sturdy chairs, tables and chests. Carvings of his own design liberally embellished most of the larger pieces. It was here Shanna found him, drawing a plane carefully across a slim piece of wood, his large feet buried in curled shavings. He saw her approach and rose to greet her, wiping the sweat from his brow with a tattered piece of faded blue cloth.

“Good day, lass,” he greeted her amiably. “ ‘Tis been a goodly time since ye’ve been up the hill to visit me. But come, we’ll sit on the porch. I have some good brew cooling in the well.”

Pitney sipped the Trahern wines out of good manners, but his liking for bitter English ale was well known. He slid a cushioned chair around for Shanna as she followed him, and while he turned the crank of his well, she seated herself.

“Just a cup of water for me,” she called. “I’ve no taste for your brew.”

The well was an oddity in itself. Pitney had found an ice-cold spring years ago when the Trahern mansion was being laid and the town was but a few sparse dwellings, and he had built his house around it. The stone wall of the well formed the end of his porch. Water could be lifted from the porch or through a window into the cottage.

Pitney brought her a pewter mug filled with chilling cold water that made Shanna’s teeth ache as she sampled it. Taking a seat on the rail in front of her, he sipped the foamy dark ale from his own mug, waiting patiently until she was ready to speak. The house faced westward where all the colors of the brilliant sunset could be seen, and from the height Shanna could look down on the roofs of the town spread out below. This was a man’s house, sturdy and thick-hewn, with doors a little larger than usual, much like Pitney himself. To Shanna’s knowledge only three women had ever set foot here, her mother, herself, and an old woman from the village who cleaned it once a week.