Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(97)
The corners of Shanna’s mouth lifted impishly. “Your pardon, sir. I did not mean to pry. But should I not call you uncle, cousin, or some such?”
“Whatever suits your whim, madam,” Nathanial grinned. “But welcome to the family.”
Shanna nodded and laughed but dared press the matter no more, for her father was giving undue notice to the exchange and appeared to treasure and enjoy each morsel of it.
The dinner passed with relative ease as Captain Beauchamp and his officers conversed with Trahern on the possibilities of trade between Los Camellos and the colonies. Ralston was not in favor of this exchange, and spoke boldly.
“What can you get there, sir, that England and Europe cannot give you better? The crown will not be too pleased with you taking your business elsewhere.”
The purser of the Sea Hawk snorted. “We pay good taxes to the crown, but hold it our right to trade where we choose. As long as the duty is met, who is to complain?”
Ralston’s contempt was held to a sneer, but his tone was carefully polite as he spoke to Trahern. “Surely, sir, you cannot hope to gain much from trading with backwoods colonies.”
Edward Bailey, the first mate, sat forward in his chair. He was a short man, barely taller than Shanna, but broad and with brawny arms and shoulders. His short, stocky neck supported a face that was ruddy and almost cherubic behind an ever-present grin. His round, rosy cheeks never lost their vibrant hue, and when his ire was pricked, as it was now, they darkened even more.
“ ‘Tis, apparent ye’ve missed the colonies in yer travels, Mister Ralston, else ye’d be aware of the riches to be had. Why, in the northern climes they produce woolens and other goods, the likes of which would rival the best of England. We make a long rifle what can take the eye from a squirrel at a hundred paces. There be cordage and lumber mills along the southern coasts which provide quality cable, planks, and spars. The very ship we sail was made in Boston, and the likes of her has never touched the sea from another land.”
Trahern slid his chair back. “Your tales fascinate me, sir. I will have to look into this.”
With the signal that the dinner hour was at an end, the junior officer hastened to stand behind Shanna’s chair, almost kicking his own over in his rush. As she leaned forward to rise, Shanna caught a brief glimpse of Captain Beauchamp’s face and the heavy, pointed frown he directed to his third mate. But when her eyes returned to scan the visage, it bore once more its gentle half smile. Had it only been vexation at the youth’s clumsiness, Shanna wondered, or had the captain warned the lad away? At any rate, the young man limited further attentions to those of common courtesy and seemed much chastened.
The evening nearing an end, Shanna retired to her chambers, a sense of dissatisfaction wearing her mind raw. Finding no ease from her discontent, she sat silent before the dressing table while Hergus brushed out her hair. The maidservant sensed the pensive mood of her young mistress and held her tongue, realizing the effort Shanna had taken to avoid Ruark in the days past.
Dressed in a gown and a heavy silk wrapper, Shanna paced the length of her rooms, empty now of Hergus and lit only by a candle. Her mind raced and settled on no single point. Names pressed in upon her from every side, plaguing her with their question.
Shanna Beauchamp? Madam Beauchamp? Captain Beauchamp? Nathaniel Beauchamp? Ruark Beauchamp? John Ruark? Mistress Ruark Beauchamp? Beauchamp! Beauchamp! Beauchamp!
On and on the name rasped through her mind until, with a stifled cry of frustration, Shanna shook her head, wildly tossing the radiant mane about her. In search of clearer air, she stepped out onto the wide veranda and tried to walk away the goading doubts.
The night was gentle, warm, with a soft quality known only on the Caribbean Islands. High above the trees a moon flirted with white billowy clouds, kissing them until they glowed with its silvery light, then hiding its face behind their fleeting shoulders. Shanna wandered along the veranda, past the latticework that separated her balcony from those belonging to the other chambers. A face began to form in her mind’s eye, and an amber gaze penetrated the night. Shanna groaned within herself.
Ruark Beauchamp, dragon of her dreams, nightmare of her waking hours, why did he haunt her so? Before she had sought him out in the dungeon, she was frivolous and witty, even gay, but now she wandered listless and dreamy like a moonstruck maiden.
Shanna stared out across the shadow-mottled lawns.
“Ruark Beauchamp,” her whisper fell as soft as a wispy breeze, “are you there in the dark? What spell have you cast upon me? I feel your presence near me, and it touches me boldly. Must my passions hunger so when my mind tells me nay?”