Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(65)

“Is there something you wished in the way of goods, Milly?”

“As ‘tis I do.” The girl could boast later to her friends that she had the haughty Shanna doing her bidding for at least a small space of time. “Mister MacLaird had some scents he said come from far off. I’d like to take me a sniff or two of ’em.”

As Milly obviously was encumbered with neither purse nor coin, it was not hard to guess the ruse, but Shanna went anyway to where the fragrances were kept. Milly dallied over the perfume vials until Ruark reentered from the back, carrying a keg on his shoulder with another tucked in the crook of his arm. Under the strain, his muscles and tendons stood out like the cords of a taut rope, while his arms and body gleamed with a film of sweat as if rubbed by a fine oil. Milly gasped, and desire shone in her dark eyes as she whispered in awed observation.

“Gor! Like a bloody Greek statue, he is!”

A line of untanned white showed above his breeches, and the hard, flat belly was displayed with its thin line of dark hair which traced downward from the lightly furred chest. Milly’s gaze was so caught upon that stretch of bareness that Shanna wanted to pinch the girl smartly. Sweeping past her, Shanna snatched up the keys and ran to open the cellar door for Ruark. Striking tinder she blew it aflame, then lit the wick of a candle and preceded him down the stairway, lighting the passage. She used the keys to open the lower door. The cellar was cool and dry and, once within, Ruark lowered the kegs to the floor then paused to rest a moment before he lifted one and glanced questioningly at Shanna. She indicated a space at the far end of the rack.

“ ‘Twill age while the others are used.”

Ruark returned for the other he had left, and with a grimace Shanna hooked a slim finger inside the top of his breeches, drawing his somewhat wondering and dubious regard. Snapping the loose waistband against him, she admonished in a true vein of sarcasm.

“Milly is a simple girl and easily excitable. If you show her much more, she may not be able to control herself, and you might find yourself the one ravished.”

“I shall take care, madam,” Ruark grunted as he hefted the other keg in place. “At least ‘tis good to know,” his white teeth flashed, “that I am safe with you.”

Months of tension and aggravation had built beneath Shanna’s supposedly serene exterior. She stood close to Ruark, and her voice was low, almost a whisper, yet burning anger spit through every syllable.

“Sir, I have reached the end of my endurance. You insult me at every meeting and call me less than a woman. You berate my lack of honor, though I but denied your coarse advantage.”

“You agreed,” he snarled back at her. “You gave your word, and I hold you to it.”

“There is no bargain,” she hissed in frustrated rage. “You were supposed to die, and I will not be held because you did not.”

“What wiles of womanhood would you wield, madam? I gave you the full count. I played your game and trusted you. When I could have fled or at least so tried, it was your part of the bargain which held me.” He kept his voice to a hoarse whisper. “I have tasted that most delicious dish, Shanna, the sweet warmth of you, and thereafter have I starved for that which was mine by right of wedlock. And I will have it.”

Shanna clenched her fists and slowly thumped them against his hard, bare chest.

“Go away!” she sobbed. “Let me be! What can I say that will convince you that I want no part of you? I hate you! I despise you! I cannot stand the sight of you!”

Shanna fought her tears and gasped for breath, bracing her arms against him. His words were low and harsh in her ear.

“And what am I? Something less than human? Lower than any that have gone before because you found me in a dungeon and I choose to honor a debt to your father I did not earn? More evil than any yet to come? What am I that you can whine and say the fault was mine and deny the bargain was fair? But I tell you this—” He lowered his face until he stared into hers, his eyes bright with his own frustration and anger. “You are my wife.”

Shanna’s eyes widened and fear began to grow.

“Nay,” she whispered.

“You are my wife!” he gritted out slowly and seized her shoulders just as she would have turned away.

“Nay! Never!” she gasped out, her voice rising.

“You are my wife!”

Shanna began to struggle, and he clasped his arms about her, holding her close, smothering her movements in an embrace of steel. Sobbing, Shanna pushed in vain against his chest. Her head tipped backward with her effort, and his mouth crushed down upon hers. In the way of love, rage was transformed into passion. Shanna’s arms slipped upward about his neck and were locked in a frantic embrace. Her lips twisted against his, and the full heat of her hunger flooded him until his mind reeled with the frenzy of her answer. He had expected a fight and instead found the fury of a consuming desire sweet on her lips, warm in her mouth, stirring as the quick thrust of her tongue met his own.