Irate sparks flared brightly in the blue-green eyes as Shanna snatched her hand away. “You’re very arrogant.”
In what was meant to be a display of disdain, her eyes skimmed his slender frame barely clothed by the brief breeches, but her gaze faltered as the realization flashed through her mind that there was nothing in all that bareness she could poke fun at. Nothing! He was hard and lean, not thin, but with long, firm muscles beneath sun-darkened skin. Of a sudden she wondered what it would be like to lie against that strong body for one long night.
“I’m going back,” Shanna announced abruptly, embarrassed by her own musings. “Help me to mount.”
“Your servant, madam.”
Gleaming whiteness flashed as he grinned down at her, and Shanna whirled haughtily. Ruark followed along in her wake, appreciatively watching her hips as they swayed with a natural, graceful provocativeness. At Attila’s side he bent, folded his hands to receive her bare foot, and boosted her up onto the stallion’s back. Quickly straddling Attila’s back, Shanna gave the beast a kick to send him in a flying leap from the bower, leaving Ruark staring after her, arms akimbo.
The outer edge of the swamp had been reached when Shanna’s mind betrayed her with the memory of a raging howl coming on a stormy, rain-swept night. A frustrated moan escaped her, and with a low, gritted curse Shanna wheeled the steed about and raced along the path leading her back to Ruark. He was running along at a slow, measured pace, but as the horse came thundering down the trail toward him, he glanced up in surprise. He reached out to catch his arm about the animal’s neck as Attila jolted to a halt beside him.
“Whoa—easy,” Ruark soothed and stroked the velvet nose, peering up at Shanna with a silent question.
“We’ll need your skill in the fields on the morrow.” She gave the excuse crisply. “If you walk most of the night to return to the village, you’ll be little good to us.”
“My undying gratitude, madam,” he said and Shanna did not miss the inflection in his voice.
“You rogue.” A reluctant smile was wrenched from her. “I thought for sure that Mister Hicks would hang you. He seemed eager enough.”
“Not as eager for that, madam, as for a coin,” Ruark grinned and swung up behind her. “And for that I am most thankful.”
His brown arms came around her again, and he tapped his heels lightly against Attila’s flanks, urging the animal into a canter. His horsemanship was effortless, and Shanna relaxed against him and allowed him to command the spirited steed, but with the close contact she was ever aware of the hard, masculine feel of him and the tingling warmth that spread through her body.
When they were almost to the place where he had whistled from, he asked against her temple, “Will you meet me here again?”
“I most certainly will not!” She was the proud Shanna again, ignoring the budding excitement that had begun to stir within her. She sat upright and threw off his hand which had come to rest upon her thigh. “Do you honestly think I’d go behind my father’s back to meet one of his bondsmen for a tryst in the woods? Sir, you are odious to make such a suggestion.”
“Aye, you would hide behind your father’s shadow,” Ruark retorted glibly. “Like a child, afraid of being a woman.”
Shanna’s back stiffened, and she twisted away from him in a flare of temper.
“Get down, you—you scoundrel!‘ she demanded. ”Get down and leave me alone! I don’t know why I ever rode with you. You—you blackhearted whelp of a scullery maid!“
His low chuckle pricked her anger more, but Ruark drew Attila to a halt and slid from the stallion’s back and peered up at her in that deliberate, roguish manner that half mocked, half devoured her. This time Shanna did not turn back as she kicked the steed and set him on a rapid ride down the beach.
Her self-styled solitude having failed, Shanna gave herself over to activity. Without making a plan of it, she became much of a personal scribe to her father. She accompanied him on his trips about the island, making notes of importance as they passed fields and cleared areas. She listened as the overseers and foremen made reports and jotted down their remarks or figures. She kept records of the hours and men required to complete a task and of the crops their efforts produced.
It became apparent that where there were areas of difficulty, she would usually see a mule with a rider wearing shortened pants perched cross-legged on its rump engrossed in the labors of the men or walking about, explaining some innovation with gestures of his hands or a drawing from his ever-ready quill and parchment. It seeped into her mind with a multitude of figures and notes and the frequent mention of his name that where John Ruark was the men were happier and the work moved along apace.