Shanna (10 page)

Her carriage door was gently closed, and Pitney's weight on the coach made it rock slightly as he took the driver's seat. The coach lurched into motion, and as they passed the wagon and splashed through the mud into the looming darkness, an almost unhuman, raging howl rose from the wagon accompanied by repeated thuds against the heavy wooden door. Suddenly Shanna could believe that Ruark Beauchamp was a madman.

Clenching her eyes tightly, she covered her ears with her hands. But the image of his battered face was scored into her brain, and nothing could force the image to flee

A
DEATHLIKE STILLNESS
hung over the eerie corridors of the gaol. Then a heavy door slammed, its bolt rattled, and the sound of scuffling feet and an ominous dragging broke the quiet Hicks, started from his slumber. Beads of cold sweat dappled on his brow, and he stared with fear-glazed eyes into the shadowed and contorted face bending over him.

“Nay! Nay!” he blubbered pleadingly as he fought the tangled blankets and thrust up fat, pudgy fingers to ward off the ghost of his dreams looming above him.

“Blimey, Hicks, settle yerself!”

The shadow straightened and became more of a man. Hicks blinked as he focused on the group standing before him. Awareness finally penetrated his mind, and his pinched stare turned to one of gaping surprise as he noted their condition. John Craddock gestured to the prisoner.

“The bloody beggar tried to escape, 'e did.” He managed to swagger only slightly. “'E gave us a run 'fore we caught him.”

“Run!” Hicks snorted. With a heave of his massive body, he rolled to his feet and surveyed his beefy crew. Craddock nursed a split lip, Hadley displayed a blackening eye, the third guard tested his sore jaw. “Lor' help ye if 'e ever turns to fight!”

A smirk of satisfaction marked his thick lips as he mused on Ruark's sorry state.

“So! Ye thought to cheat the 'angman, did ye?” The gaoler chortled, and there was a gleam of cruelty which brightened his small, beady eyes. “Ye can bet yer old doxy won't care a mite if I lay me stick to yer back now.”

Ruark returned mute defiance to the man's challenge.
His bruised and bloody face had been beaten, but was as yet undaunted.

Mister Hadley tenderly touched his discolored eye. “Ah, she weren't no old doxie, mate. She were a real beaut, she were, and him hot after 'er. Wouldna mind meself 'aving a piece o' that”

Hicks cocked his eye to Ruark. “She got yer blood up a mite, eh? An' there ye were wedded an' not bedded. Serves ye right, ye ruddy blighter.” He lifted his cudgel and poked at the prisoner's shoulder. “Come on, tell us her name. Maybe she”ll be wantin' more of a man than what ye are. Come on. Tell us.”

Ruark's scornful reply was bitter, harsh. “Madam Beauchamp, I do believe.”

The bloated jailer stared at Ruark a long moment, slapping his stick across the palm of his hand, but the jeering taunt on the other's face did not retreat from the silent threat.

“Put 'is lordship in 'is chambers,” Hicks ordered. “And leave 'is braces on. I would na want him ter hurt ye's. 'E'll be taken care of soon enough.”

It was two days later, early in the morning, when a loud pounding on the door again caused the snores of the head gaoler to end in a choking gurgle. Hicks rolled himself upright in the bed and after a rumbling belch cleared his throat He let his ire at being so rudely roused sound in the tone of his bellow.

“Aye, ye blundering lout!” he roared. “Would ye strip the plank from its 'inges? I'm up!”

Hicks thrust his short, rotund legs into his breeches and without tucking in the long tail of his nightshirt stumbled across the room to throw aside the bar on the iron door and tug the heavy portal open. As the guard stood aside, Hicks stared with mouth agape as he saw Mister Pitney, his large bulk filling the narrow passageway. In his brawny arms were a bundle of clothing and a basket well laden and with such a delicious aroma it set the gaoler's mouth to watering.

Pitney thrust into the room. “I've come from Madam Beauchamp to see to the welfare of her husband. Will ye allow it?”

Though asked as a question, it was much more of a command, and Hicks knew he had little alternative but to nod and fetch the keys. As he took them from the peg, he gave the man a once-over scrutiny, and his pudgy face compressed into a smirking leer.

“Whate'er it was ye did to the bloke, ye did it good.”

The tan brows lifted in question, and Hicks snickered.

“We had to chain the beggar to the wall, else see ourselves done in. He's come on like a raving madman. Ain' even touched a morsel o' the food ye been sending. Just takes 'is bread and water like 'e did afore and just sits ‘ere glarin' at us when we brings what ye've sent. If 'e could reach us, 'e'd kill us, or see us kill him which would be the way o' it for sure.”

“Take me to him,” Pitney rasped.

“Aye,” the gaoler shrugged. “That I will.”

The scurryings and squeakings of rats, disturbed by the light, intruded upon the silence of the dimly lit cell. Pitney waited for some stir of life from the motionless form sprawled on the ragged cot, and he was quick to observe the chains fastened on the lean ankles and wrists and the length of chain which ran to the wall from the iron collar secured about the prisoner's neck.

Pitney frowned into the shadows. “Are ye well, lad?”

There was no answer or other sign of life, and the brawny man moved forward a step.

“Are ye bad hurt?”

The form lifted itself to a sitting position, and the golden eyes stared through the gloom.

“Me mistress sent fresh garments for ye and bade me to ask if there be aught we can do for ye.”

The colonial rose with a wordless snarl and paced the narrow cell, holding the long chain so it did not weight the heavy collar. Raw, red flesh showed on his neck where the skin had been chafed away, and there were marks on his face and body too fresh to have been made the night of the wedding. The torn shirt showed ugly weals upon his back, as if a whip had been used on him. He gave no sign that any of Pitney's words had penetrated to his brain. He was like a caged animal; and for a moment Pitney, for all of his own bulk and strength, felt an unreasoning fear of him.

Pitney shook his head in bemusement He had seen this Beauchamp as a man and knew him as one. It was an ugly travesty that he had been reduced to this state.

“Here, man! Take the clothes. Eat the food. Wash yerself. Act like ye are a man and not a beast.”

The pacing stopped, and Ruark stood half crouched, glaring at him like a cornered cat.

“I'll leave it.” Pitney stepped forward and laid the bundle on the table. “Ye need not be—”

An angry growl warned him, and Pitney stumbled back as the chained arms swung. The blow hit the table and swept it clean with a crash.

“Do you think I'd take her charity?” Ruark spat He gripped the edge of the table with his hands, and the chain to his neck was stretched taut as he leaned forward to its limit.

“Charity?” Pitney asked. “ Twas the bargain ye struck, and me mistress intends to see her part of it well done.”

“'Twas her offer!” Ruark roared in maddened rage. “No part of the bargain.” He slammed his fist down on the table, opening a split in its top. His voice went low and became sneering, insulting. “Tell your bitchtress she will not ease her conscience with this simple sop you bear.”

Pitney would not stand and hear Shanna so abused. He turned to leave.

“And tell your bitchtress,” Ruark shouted at his back, “though it be in hell, I
will
see her part of the bargain full met!”

The door closed with a solid clank, and the cell was silent again but for the sounds of the chains dragging as the prisoner paced.

Ruark's message, repeated bluntly, brought a cry of outrage from Shanna. She strode irately across the width of the drawing room while Pitney patiently waited for the stormy tide to stem.

“Then let him be content!” She flung an arm wide. “I've tried to help him all I can. Tis out of my hands now. What will it matter in a few days?”

Pitney slowly turned his tricorn in his hands. “The lad seems to think ye owe him something more.”

Shanna whirled and the blue-green eyes flared. “That
pompous jackanape! What do I care what he thinks! If he's so proud, let him hang and be done with it! He's made his bed—” She stopped abruptly. Flushing deeply, she flounced around so Pitney could not see. “I mean—after all, did he not slay that girl?”

“He's like a man gone mad,” Pitney commented with a heavy sigh. “He will not eat the food and takes naught but bread and water.”

“Oh, hush!” Shanna cried and began to pace nervously. “Do you think I want to hear? I did not declare his doom. Twas done before I knew him. Twill be bad enough to face the burial without being constantly reminded of how he went. I wish I were home! I hate it here!”

Suddenly Shanna stopped her agitated prowling and faced Pitney.

“The
Marguerite
sails before the week is out! Go inform Captain Duprey that we desire passage home.”

“But yer pa arranged for the
Hampstead
to see you home.” Pitney frowned. “The
Marguerite
is only a small merchant—”

“I know what she is!” Shanna snapped. “ Tis the least of my father's vessels. But 'tis his and homeward bound. And I will not be refused. The
Hampstead
will not be leaving until well into the twelfth month, and I want to go home
now!
”

Tapping her toe against the plush carpet, she smiled with a calculating gleam in her eyes.

“And if he wishes to face my father when I do, Mister Ralston will have to hasten to his business as well. 'Twill give him precious little time to delve into the truth of my marriage. God help us all if he ever finds out!”

With Pitney gone and the servants moving quietly about their labors, Shanna felt strangely alone. Her spirits were far from high, and she sank into the chair at the small secretary, morose of mood and quite ill-tempered. Visions of Ruark as Pitney had described him—ragged, thin, bruised, chained, angry—contrasted oddly with the man she had seen on the steps of the church. What would change a man so, she wondered. And the answer came as she thought of a twisted face pressed against the bars of the van and the wailing cry that had followed her through the night She knew full well the cause.

Her mind played tricks. She imagined herself beaten, abused, chained, helpless, condemned, hopeless, betrayed—

A small cry escaped her lips, and in the briefest flicker of time she felt a taste of the bitter rage that must now fill him. Angrily she pulled herself away from this morbid bent and did not allow her mind to touch it again lest she feel some further unwelcome remorse.

The bright sun spilled in rare volume through the windows. The day was crisp, cool, unusual for London at this time of year, with a clear blue sky. A fresh sea breeze had risen with the sun and swept away the low clouds and smoke, leaving the air clean and with just a hint of salt in it. Yet Shanna hardly noticed the brilliance of the day. She stared blankly at the top of the secretary, quill in hand and fine parchment nearby. Idly she began to scrawl her new name across the white sheets.

Shanna Beauchamp.

Shanna Trahern Beauchamp.

Shanna Elizabeth Beauchamp.

“Madam Beauchamp!”

“Madam? Madam Beauchamp?”

Slowly it dawned on her that she was being summoned by a voice outside her thoughts. She glanced up to see her maid standing inside the doorway holding several items of clothing, mostly heavy garb for cold weather.

“Hergus?”

“I was wondering, mum, if ye be wantin' me to pack these for the voyage home. 'Ere seems to be enough as 'tis. Or would ye be leaving 'em here for the next time?”

“Nay! If I've anything to say on the matter, I shan't be returning for a good long time. Put them in one of the larger trunks.”

The Scotswoman nodded, then paused and gave Shanna a worried look. “Are ye feeling well, lass? Would ye na like to rest yerself now?” Hergus had been unusually concerned about her since the difficult moment when Shanna, with Pitney at her side, had announced her marriage and widowhood to the stunned household staff.

“I'll be all right, Hergus.” Shrugging away the older woman's earnest concern, Shanna dipped the point of the long-plumed quill into the inkwell and spoke over her
shoulder. “We'll be going back on the
Marguerite
before the week is out. I know 'twill rush you, but I want to go home as soon as possible.”

“Aye, and well you should so yer pa can comfort ye.”

As the servant's footsteps retreated down the hall, Shanna drew the quill across the parchment again. But her mind did not flow in the direction of the bold strokes she made, straying instead on its own museful venturings. She grew warm and flushed, remembering the fiery wetness against her breast, amber eyes staring down at her almost into her soul, and the last surging impalement that she had welcomed.

With a gritted groan of frustration, Shanna stabbed the quill into the well and came to her feet, sweeping her hand down the front of her wine velvet gown as if to brush aside some imperfection or the memory of a strong, hard body pressing down upon her with heated fervor.

She bent to snatch up the parchment, intending to tear it to shreds; but her eyes saw the work her hands had wrought while her thoughts drifted, the face amid the swirls and flourishes, the sketch of Ruark Beauchamp! The lips, handsome and sensual yet somehow stern, smiled at her in amused mockery while the eyes—Nay, those were not quite right, and she doubted that even a great master of art could capture them with a quill.

Irritated with herself, she rebelled against the strong grasp his memory held upon her mind, and she spat vehemently, “The knave! He's only sorry that I gave him no chance to escape. Truly that was his intention, to get me alone then flee.” She flung the parchment down. “'Twas what he wanted, and I shan't be haunted by what I didn't do.”

Almost relieved, Shanna sighed, having defended herself adequately before the high magistrate of her mind, her conscience.

“I will not think of him again!” she firmly decided.

Yet even as she crossed to the window, in the innermost recesses of her thoughts, barricaded against attack, the vague challenge of amber eyes thwarted her victory.