Kathleen E. Woodiwiss(98)

Shanna leaned over the rail and tried to control her suddenly vivid imagination. “What spell has this man cast upon me?” she wondered. “Why can’t I break free and see my own ends out? I feel entrapped, as if I were his slave. Even now, he’s sitting in the cottage, mumbling some enchantment to bring me to his side. Is he warlock or wizard that I am bound to his demands? Nay, I shall not be! I cannot be!”

Drawing away from the balustrade, Shanna continued with her stroll, her eyes downcast, her mind occupied with musings.

Suddenly a dark shadow beside her moved, and she was engulfed in a cloud of fragrant smoke. Her heart fluttered into her throat.

Ruark! The name almost burst from her lips, but she choked it back.

“Your pardon, madam.” The deep, rich voice of Nathanial Beauchamp wore its concern heavily. “I did not mean to startle you. I was only taking a pipe in the open air.”

Shanna stared, trying to penetrate the dark shadow that hid his face. Her father had invited the captain to stay the night, but she thought little of him in her musings of Ruark.

“That smell—tobacco,” she spoke hesitantly. “My husband—used to—”

“A common enough habit, I suppose. They grow the stuff near my home. The Indians taught us to smoke it.”

“The Indians? Oh, you mean the savages.”

Nathanial chuckled, his voice rumbling easily. “Not all savages, madam.”

Shanna wondered how she would dare broach the subject that burned so in her mind. Deep in concentration, she started as his voice broke the lengthening silence.

“Your island is most beautiful, madam.” His hand with the pipe cradled in it came out in a brief span of moonlight, and the long stem swept to encompass the rolling hills beyond the trees then dipped to point toward the town. “Your father seems to have made the most of it.”

“Los Camellos,” Shanna murmured absently. “The camels, so the Spaniards called it.”

She turned to look directly into the shadows that surrounded him.

“Sir? There is a question I must ask you.”

“Your servant, madam.” He thrust the pipe into his mouth and puffed it alight, illuminating his features slightly.

Though her desire to know was strong, Shanna was at a loss as to how to frame her request. “I—I met my husband on a somewhat frivolous affair in London, and we were married only a few days later. We were together only a short while before he was—taken from me. I know naught of his family, or if he even had one. I would most dearly like to know if he has—I mean—left any—”

Her voice trailed off, and the pause grew strained as she struggled to find adequate words. It was he who answered her unspoken question.

“Madam Beauchamp, I can account for all my immediate family, and to my knowledge I have no cousins or distant kin by the name of Ruark Beauchamp.”

“Oh.” Her voice was small with her disappointment. “I had hoped—” She could not finish that statement either, for she did not know what she had hoped for.

“ ‘Tis a widespread name, and though we Beauchamps can usually trace back to a common origin, I do not claim to know everyone by his given name. Perhaps there are some I am not acquainted with.”

“No matter, captain.” Shanna shrugged it all away with a sigh. “I am sorry to have troubled you with my impertinence.”

“No trouble, madam, and indeed, no impertinence.”

With his thumb, he tamped the coals into the bowl of his pipe. His hands were huge, and though they appeared to have the strength to squeeze a cannonball in two, they were amazingly gentle, and the slim clay pipe seemed like a fragile bird between them.

“ ‘Tis my pleasure, madam, and be assured—to discourse with a woman on a moonlit night on a tropic isle can never be a trouble. And with you, Madam Beauchamp,” his tall shadow bowed briefly, “it has been a pleasure beyond compare.”

Shanna laughed and waved a hand toward her loose hair and dressing robe. “You are gallant, sir, to so grace my blighted appearance, but you have made my evening. I shall bid you goodnight, Captain Beauchamp.”

Nathanial paused for a moment before he answered. “Whatever the beginning or the end of it, I consider at this moment that you honor the name. Goodnight, Madam Beauchamp.”

Shanna was still musing upon his words when she realized the shadows surrounding her were empty. Without a sound or a stir of air, he was gone.



The early morning breezes swept through the intricate latticework, stirring the potted greenery in the informal dining room. The sea-freshened air brought with it the fragrance of jasmine which bloomed alongside the veranda, mingled with the tantalizing aroma of hot, glazed meats, bread, brewed coffee, and tangy fresh fruits that graced the table for the morning meal and presented to Captain Beauchamp as he paused in the doorway a most heavenly scent after long months of sea fare.