Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(57)
One sunlit afternoon Shanna sought out the privacy of a small hidden cove beneath the cliffs at the western reach of the island. For the sake of caution, she took Attila the long way around, riding the beach and avoiding the road that cut across inland. Urging the stallion belly-deep into the surf, she made her way around jutting rocks, and then she was there. Cliffs towered on three sides. The only approach was from the sea. Feeling secure, Shanna tethered the animal and left him to graze on the tufts of tender grass growing in the lee of the crag.
On a narrow stretch of sand, she spread a blanket in the shade and removed her clothing down to a shortened chemise. Here at last was privacy no one could break. For a time she lay and involved herself in a book of sonnets, combing her fingers absently through her loosened tresses as she read. With the warmth of the day she grew drowsy and, folding an arm across her eyes, slept.
When she woke, she did so with a start, unable to determine what had roused her. Her mind was unsettled, but there appeared no reason for alarm. The cliffs were bare as they had been before. No one was there.
Disquieted now, Shanna sought diversion to settle her thoughts and rose and went splashing into the gentle surf. In a clean dive she cleaved the water and with long, flowing strokes swam a good distance out to sea. Playing a childhood game of seeking shells and starfish, she dove to the bottom. For a time she floated on her back, rising and falling with the gentle swells, her hair spreading out in a giant fan, like some shy sea creature displaying its glory to only a few. A huge gray gull on motionless wings came over her and hung there, drifting close to better view this odd sea nymph.
Tiring of the play, Shanna returned to the narrow, hidden beach. She toweled herself dry, wrapped the cloth about her hair, and lay back. She watched a fleecy cloud drifting by. It touched the top of a cliff and—
Smothering a scream, Shanna came to her feet. The figure of a man stood on the brow of the cliff. A wide straw hat shaded his face; his shirt was carelessly carried over his shoulder. Short white breeches covered his loins, and long brown legs showed straight and lean beneath. Shanna knew golden eyes smiled down at her, mocking, challenging, consuming her.
The shriek that rose in her throat was not smothered this time. It was one of pure rage. Was there no place where she could flee from him? Furiously she snatched the towel from her head, flinging it to her feet.
“Begone!” she cried, her voice echoing in the cove. “Go away! Leave me be! I owe you nothing!”
Ruark’s laughter floated down to her as he strolled along the edge of the cliff circling the cove. He began to sing in a rich baritone, and the words were inane and silly, put to a tune she had heard before:
The high Queen Shanna could find no love.
The high Queen Shanna flirted with a dove.
He watched her as closely as Shanna did him. With a start she realized that her thin chemise was soaked and clinging to her skin like a filmy haze, leaving no detail to be imagined.
Another irate shriek drowned out his song as she pulled her gown over her head, not stopping to lace the back. Tossing her other garments onto the blanket, she gathered it in a roll and threw it over Attila’s bare back. Hauling herself astride, she forced the animal again into the water and around the point then raced full tilt along the beach.
“Good day, my lady.”
Ruark’s shout made her urge the steed faster, and once more the sound of Ruark’s mirth rang in her ears until, home at last, she hid her head beneath the pillow in her room.
The air was heavy, the night was hot. The sheet felt damp and Shanna thrust its clamminess away like the sweaty embrace of some unwelcomed suitor. Sleep was not within her grasp, and she lit a candle, setting it aglow before placing it on the night table. Restlessly she paced about the room, seeking out and verifying familiar shadows, but in every one seeing that lone figure standing high upon the jutting cliff.
Long ago her mother had instructed her that whatever the heat, she was never to sleep naked. It was a command Shanna had not been able to break, but she had compromised, taking a few of her lightest gowns and cropping them off just below her hips. It was one like this she wore, the briefest wisp of a gown so thin that it could barely be given the name.
Even this heat was better than foggy, wet London, Shanna mused as she pulled at the cloying fabric that stuck to her damp skin. She passed out onto the veranda, where she leaned her hip against the cool, carved wood of the balustrade.
The night was still, but she spread her arms and slowly turned her whole body, trying to catch the cool touch of a stray breeze. Thrusting her arms straight over her head, she stretched, arching her back, feeling the gown tighten over her breasts.