A long sigh slipped from her. She enjoyed swimming in the clear blue waters, racing among the trees, and sitting on the back of a laboring horse as he sped like the wind along the lanes. In England it was unseemly for a lady to so exercise, and Shanna reveled in her freedom to do so here. But of late there seemed something lacking, as if some other play might more fulfill the design of her person. She could not name it, but when this feeling came it was usually accompanied by a memory of warm, golden eyes smiling into hers.
Bracing her hands on the balustrade, Shanna leaned outward, staring into the dark night sky. Fleecy clouds flitted by on gusts of wind. A quarter moon, bright and sharply horned, gave light to the grounds below, peeking briefly here and there then hiding coyly, giving silver halos to the fleeing wisps of vapor.
She perched on the rail, placing a slim bare foot upon it and raising her knee. Her gaze leisurely swept the yards beyond. Great patches of blackness gathered under the banyan trees whose tall spreading tops made dense shadows. Spots of light were painted across the lawn by the rapid brush of the flippant moon. One passed beneath a tree. Shanna gasped, for there beside an ancient trunk was a shadow darker and of more manly shape than the rest. Coming to her feet, Shanna leaned against the rail, staring hard at the figure which squatted on its haunches. The shadow unfolded as the man rose, and she could see he was naked but for short, white breeches.
“Ruark!” the whisper rushed between her lips unbidden.
Turning his back, he kicked at the turf with a sandaled foot and then strode casually away, a light and airy whistle trailing a tune behind him. Shanna was certain now. She knew that walk, that graceful half-animal saunter.
“Damned rogue!”
Whirling, Shanna dashed back into the bedchamber, her pride suddenly nipped that he had not come to stand beneath her balcony and. ardently entreat for her favors. She blew out the candle and flounced onto her bed and there sat glaring back at the leering windows.
“How can I sleep with him ever about, sneaking beneath my balcony, spying on my every moment?”
In sore aggravation she flopped upon her stomach and propped her chin on folded arms.
What did the knave want of her? Ha! No question there! The bargain! Ah, damned bargain! And he did sorely want the bargain out. And what a price! A night with him, at his every beck and call!
Shanna tried to feel much abused and angered, but the thought of that whole night stirred something more akin to—
“ ‘Tis but curiosity,” she vowed. “I have meagerly tasted of the brew and only want to sample it more fully. ’Tis naught but what any woman would want. Aye, and I am a woman and being in a well and hearty condition would seriously test that rogue’s ardor. He charges that I am less than woman, not bent to give myself to any man. More fool he, for I do yearn most fervently for that kind and great and noble man who will come and take me in his arms and thus bend my fullest passion to his charms.”
Closing her eyes, Shanna tried to form an image of that one of yore who would come to her so readily. He came, this time with raven hair and smiling amber gaze. Her eyes flew open, and anger arched her brows.
“He spies upon my very mind!”
Enraged, Shanna rolled and threw a pillow at the post. What manner of man was this Ruark Beauchamp, who crept into her dreams?
A fortnight passed, and on Sabbath afternoon Shanna straddled Attila’s bare back and ran him along the beach some distance beyond the village. She had dressed in a light, casual gown and a wide-brimmed straw hat which protected her skin from the burning rays of the sun. No shoes hindered her slim feet as she urged the powerful steed into deeper water, raising the hem of her skirt well above her knees and tucking it beneath her. The wind snatched her hair free from its mooring until she released the long curling tresses to let the golden-lit mass fly riotously behind her. She clamped her hat tighter upon her head and laughed gaily as she raced faster along the shore, bending low over the stallion’s neck.
Suddenly a whistle pierced the air, and the horse slowed. The shrill call came again, and, despite her efforts to direct Attila otherwise, Shanna found herself being carried toward a clump of trees that edged the swamp. Without a bridle she could not enforce her commands upon the steed.
Ruark stepped into the sunlight and whistled again, softly this time, offering out his hand to the horse. Attila snorted and came willingly, taking the sugar.
Shanna’s lagging jaw snapped shut, her glare boring into Ruark’s amused and mocking stare. Casually he caressed Attila’s nose while his eyes boldly roamed her bare thighs and the dampened gown that clung to her breasts.
“You’ve ruined a good steed!” she cried, infuriated that he had gained Attila’s trust so readily.