Resolutely, Shanna faced Mister Hicks, and her command was quietly spoken but firm.
“Leave us now. I wish a private word with this man.”
She was aware of the prisoner’s aroused interest. From beneath dark brows, he observed them all with close attention, and with quiet patience he waited, like a cat before a mousehole.
Pitney loomed nearer and worry marked his broad face. “Mistress, are you sure?”
“Of course.” Her slender hand indicated the portal. “Escort Mister Hicks from the cell.”
The portly gaoler sorely protested. “The bloke’ll wring yer neck if’n I allowed h’it!” Who would authorize his purse if some harm befell the wench? He pleaded, “I daren’t, milady.”
“ ‘Tis my neck to chance, Mister Hicks.” Shanna cut him short and, as if she read his mind, added, “And you’ll be paid just the same for your services.”
Hicks’s bloated cheeks flushed almost purple, and his stuttering lips seemed to flutter in his expelled breath. He threw a wary glance toward the prisoner. Then, with an odorous sigh, he secured the lantern above his head. Taking up a stub of a candle from the rough table, he touched it to the flame in the lantern.
“He’s a fast one, liedy,” he warned direly. “And ye keep yer distance. If he makes a move towards ye, call out.” His glare came close to piercing the colonial. “Try anything, ye ruddy bloke, and I’ll see ye swing ‘fore the sun is up.”
Muttering sourly to himself, Hicks strode out. Pitney remained, standing stock still, indecision etching the deep furrows of his brow.
“Pitney, please.” Shanna waited expectantly, and when he still made no move to leave, she raised her hand imploringly toward the iron portal. “ ‘Tis safe enough. What can he do? Nothing will happen.”
The large man spoke finally, but only to Ruark. “If you would see the hour out,” he rumbled, “take care that no smallest harm befall her. If it should, you’ll well rue the moment. You have my most earnest word on that.”
Ruark’s gaze weighed the other’s broad frame, and respectfully he nodded his acquiescence. Still wearing a discontented scowl, Pitney wheeled about and strode out of the cell. Closing the door behind him, he slid open the small port in it. His back could be seen from within as he placed himself to guard against a possible eavesdropper.
The prisoner stood without moving, awaiting Shanna’s pleasure. She walked slowly across the cell, carefully placing herself out of his reach now. Lowering her hood, she faced him and slowly swept away the lace veil, letting it float to the table beside her.
The second salvo was fired.
It struck home with a crushing weight Shanna little realized. Ruark Beauchamp could not trust himself to speak. Her beauty was such that his knees grew weak. It brought home to him the starvation of his long and forced celibacy. Her pale honey-hued hair, caught in a mass of loose ringlets, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. It was rich and luxuriant, in studied disarray. Golden strands, lightened by the sun, shimmered among the carefree curls. Ruark felt a great temptation to go to her and caress the bountiful silken mane and gently run his fingers along the delicate cheekbones blooming with color. Her features seemed perfect, the nose straight and finely boned. The soft brown brows arched away from eyes that were clear and sea-green, brilliant against the thick fringe of jet-black lashes. They stared back at him, open, yet as unfathomable as any sea he had ever gazed into. The soft pink lips were tantalizing and gracefully curved, vaguely smiling. Under his warming gaze, the creamy skin flushed slightly. With a will of iron, Ruark clamped a grip upon himself and held his silence.
Shanna murmured coyly, “Am I so ugly, sir, that words are stricken from your tongue?”
“On the contrary,” Ruark answered with an apparent ease he little felt. “Your beauty so blinds me, I fear I must be led to the gallows by the hand. My mind can little absorb such splendor after the dreariness of this dungeon. Is it meant that I should know your name, or is that a part of your secret?”
Shanna recognized that she had struck her target and saved the balance of her weapons for a later moment. She had heard similar vows often, indeed much these same words, and they seemed trite to her. That this ragged wretch would use them was almost an affront to her pride. But she played the game on. She shook her head, tossing the curling tresses enticingly, and laughed somewhat ruefully.
“Nay, sir, I give it to you, though I beseech your discretion, for therein lies the weight of my problem. I am Shanna Trahern, daughter of Orlan Trahern.”
She paused, waiting his reaction. Ruark’s brows lifted, and he could not hide his amazement. “Lord” Trahern was known in all circles, and in that of young men, Shanna Trahern was often the topic of heated debate. She was the ice queen, the unattainable prize, the heartbreak of many a lad, and the professed goal of ten times that number—the dream of unrequited youth.