Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(81)
Suddenly Shanna stiffened as it came to her that she was looking for Ruark! The name blazed across her mind. Anger stirred because she had so little control of her own thoughts.
Petulantly Shanna returned to her bed and threw herself upon it, flinging her arm across her brow and closing her eyes tightly, determined to sleep. But she had tasted the sweetest of nectars; she knew now the long, sleek hardness of his thighs, the rippling muscles of his back, the flat, hard belly, the strength of him pressed against her. Her eyes flew open and Shanna realized she lay sprawled tense upon the bed.
With a muted groan she rose again and dressed in a long skirt and loose blouse, the usual garb for women on the island. She bound her hair in a brightly flowered kerchief. Her bedroom had ceased to be a haven, and Shanna fled from it, climbing from her balcony and dropping to the ground. The cool, damp grass beneath her bare feet brought memories to mind of her childhood when she had run across the lawns with carefree abandon. Slowly she strolled away from the manor and sighed as she stared up toward the moon. The clouds had gathered in density and the wind had quickened, whipping her peasant’s skirt about her. Aimlessly she meandered through the trees and reveled in the privacy the darkness gave her. When as a child she wished to pass unnoticed, she often dressed as a peasant. Few gave a young, commonly garbed girl more than a second glance, and although she could not bear close scrutiny, she could with casual caution pass unhindered. Now she wandered the grounds of the mansion as she pleased, pausing as a memory marked a tree or a path. It was not until she stood before a porch and saw the light of a single lamp burning in a dining room, that full awareness penetrated, and she realized she had come the way her mind had so often led her of late.
A great weariness had come over Ruark in the quiet of the cottage. The battle for Shanna’s attention suddenly seemed inane and pointless. She ever welcomed the considerations of other men and ever rejected his. The labors in the heat of the day as well as the party had sapped his strength, and his mood plunged into the blackest depths of despair. He lay naked across his bed in the unlit room and stared upward into the darkness. His mind was numb, and the very air he breathed seemed heavy and oppressive. His eyes closed, and wispy, foglike tendrils of slumber drifted about him. It was as if he stood in a dense mist while colored lanterns moved about beyond his sight; then a single bright beacon flamed alight, and he hastened toward it until he came into a stone-walled garden, sunlit and barren but for a single stem which bore a rose of such beauty as to make him halt for breath. As he stared the stem dissolved, and the rose floated free amid glittering mists that obscured all else. The deep red bloom filled his mind. Then it seemed to drift away, shrinking, lightening, changing shape. It was a pair of lips, moist, gently parted; then above them pale green emeralds became a pair of eyes, sea-green and haunting, with a depth that beckoned to him. The swirling mists became a face of fragile beauty formed with the skill of an artist expending all his talent in one effort. The eyes held him entranced. The lips formed voiceless words that enthralled his soul.
“Reach out thy hand. Pluck me. Take the bloom. ‘Tis yours for the holding.”
When he stretched forth his hand, a long, black-tipped thorn thrust into his flesh, and in searing pain, he withdrew. The face laughed and tossed brilliant tresses which flowed about it in a wild disarray of dark honey streaked with gold.
It retreated from him until it floated in the midst of a leafless thorn-twined jungle. The siren song increased and became intense, blinding his will to all but the beauty that beckoned, calling, crying out for his touch. He lunged forward carelessly. His fingers almost seemed to brush the blood red petals before the vines caught him, held him, and with evil eagerness the thorns plunged deep into his limbs and body until he sobbed in agony and the burning whiteness of the pain wiped away his vision. He tried to withdraw, but each movement freshened the ecstatic torture. Then he was falling, plunging through a green, flower bedecked forest—
Ruark’s eyes flew open, and he stared into the darkness again as his senses returned. Cursing he rose, lighting a candle beside the bed, and donned his short breeches. He would turn to work for ease of mind, and he’d be damned before he would let Shanna’s little games torture him.
He strode into the dining room where he had been working and sat on the table’s edge. An oil lamp hung on a chain overhead, and in its light he stared blankly at the parchments and the sketches scattered across the table’s surface. Even here, Shanna was too much on his mind to allow him freedom.
Slowly Ruark felt a presence in the room and raised his gaze to see the shadow of an island woman. She leaned silently against the door. With fluid movements she came forward into the light, and Ruark rose quickly to his feet, recognizing Shanna. He tossed the quill to the table and then went without a word to the sideboard, there pouring a glass of Madeira. Returning to her, he offered her the goblet, standing close before her, desiring yet not daring to touch her. Was this another dream which would fade if he reached out to take her?