Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(86)
Dropping her gaze, Shanna surreptitiously studied the hand resting near her own. It was dark against the dazzling white of his ruffled cuff but clean, with nails neatly trimmed and given some care, out of character for an ordinary bondsman. Yes, John Ruark was a man totally different from any she had ever come across. Though known as a bondslave, he could pass as a peer in any circle of nobles and lords.
“How is it that you never found a wife in the colonies, Mister Ruark?” Shanna asked deliberately. “Is there a shortage of women there?”
“No shortage, milady. Indeed, there are many beautiful women there.” He grinned as his eyes met hers with warm communication. “Though none to equal yourself, madam. ‘Twas only that work held me much in hand and permitted little leisure time for me to pursue a lady’s company. It sorely plagued my father as he believed I was too dedicated to a single life of toil. But then in England, a sweet young thing quite firmly caught my fancy. Someday I hope to convince her that I would be a fit husband.”
“There’s room enough for a large family here,” Trahern commented, gesturing about to the chairs. “But alas, I have yet to see the pew sufficiently filled. Should she ever find a fit husband, ‘twill be a miracle.”
Shanna gave little heed to her father’s gibe and pointed glance and refused to acknowledge even hearing Ruark’s comments.
“I am still young,” she said primly. “And I will no doubt mother many children for your old age, papa.”
“Huh,” Trahern snorted. “I am already old. Find yourself a hearty man, and hurry, daughter, I pray thee, hurry.”
“Papa!” Shanna gave a quick smile to her father which he accepted more as a grimace of irritation. “I’m sure we are boring Mister Ruark. Indeed, he seems to be lacking sorely of rest.”
The squire peered past his daughter at his bondsman, who was hiding his mirth behind what appeared to be a pained yawn.
Saved from further aggravation by the call to worship, Shanna gave a special prayer of gratitude for the promptness of the minister. Throughout the service, however, she was ever aware of the presence at her side. As the harpsichord played and the congregation sang, the deep richness of Ruark’s baritone roused a tingling within her, and she could do little more than mouth the words to the song herself.
It was only after they had left the small church that Shanna finally drew an easy breath and relaxed a bit. The strain of having to guard each glance and of trying to appear unaffected by Ruark’s nearness while at the same time displaying a polite, albeit somewhat strained, facade for the benefit of her father had proved much unsettling. In the barouche on the ride home, she could only question her own sanity at ever taking Ruark Beauchamp as husband. He was like a beast of the wilds, caught and tamed to all appearances but dangerous to the unwary. Her once firm belief that she could control him was rapidly being replaced by a nagging fear that she had made an awesome error.
Shortly after lunch, feeling in need of strenuous exercise to tire her mind as well as her body, Shanna ordered Attila saddled. She sought out her father in his study to invite him on the outing.
“There is naught about a piece of leather strapped to the back of a horse,” he snorted derisively, “that appeals to my sense of ease. I have not the least desire to have my backside pounded around this island whenever you are wont to venture out.” But to soften his words, he added. “Go and enjoy yourself, girl. Pitney will soon be here to see me to another game of chess.”
Thus Shanna rode alone up the hill toward the site of the crushing mill. On one of the narrow streets of the village she passed Ralston, but as he paused and tipped his hat in greeting, Shanna pressed her steed into a faster pace, ignoring the man and spurring on the stallion along the road to the hill.
The day was pleasant, almost cool, with gusts of wind that billowed out the skirt of her dove gray riding habit and loosened tendrils of hair about her face. As she drew near the construction site, Attila began to prance a bit beneath her, tossing his fine head and lifting his legs smartly as he sidled along the road. Shanna was an experienced equestrienne, yet this afternoon she gave little heed to the animal whose nervousness on any other day might have been a warning to her. A tinkling of a bell and a rustling in the bushes alongside the path proved to be a goat loose from its tether. It darted onto the road in front of them and shot away, making Attila rear in fright. Pawing the air with his forefeet, the horse jerked his head against the bite of the bit. Caught off guard, Shanna felt the reins snatched from her hand. She had to struggle to keep from falling. The stallion came down free of restraint and was set to run. He had taken only a single lunge when a sharp, clear whistle split the air. Attila halted with a bounce that brought Shanna’s teeth together with a click, then, as sedately as a weanling colt, the horse began to trot along the path toward the mill.