Shanna (5 page)

Ruark gave him a level stare. “'Twas never my intent.” Considering the manservant, he added, “'Tis my wedding day, or have you forgot?”

Pitney's scowl darkened as he swung his large feet to the floor, and he strode to the window where he could look out upon the gray day.

“I would not fret much on that, either,” he rumbled over his shoulder. Stretching his long arms wide and flexing his fingers in a low squeezing movement, he turned and smiled at Ruark, though there was little humor in his eyes. “I'm here to see out me mistress's bidding, whether I like it or no. Me first task is always to see to her welfare, but that I judge for meself. I would not take it kindly should ye give me cause to doubt that her good is served.”

Ruark measured his answer with care. “I know little of this deed of which I am accused. In truth, I do not remember more than accompanying the wench to her room at the inn. With certainty I can avow, ‘twas not my babe she carried. I had not been a fortnight in the country and most of that I spent in Scotland. In fact, ‘twas my first day in London. Thusly, if I bedded her at all, ‘twas on the same night that was her last. But I have no recollection of even that The next morning when the innkeeper came to rouse the maid to her duties, he found me asleep in her room. So you see, my friend, I cannot deny that I bedded or murdered her, for she was dead, beaten and bloody, and there was I, slumbering peacefully in her bed. Yet I can and do deny that the babe was mine.”

Beneath the weight of Pitney's close scrutiny, Ruark stripped off the useless waistcoat and shirt and laid a towel over his shoulders. He settled himself in a chair to await the maid's return and further consider his silent companion's words. It was well possible that the lady, Shanna, had told her man nothing of their agreement. Whether she was bent on treachery or simple caution, Ruark could little guess. But as Pitney himself had made clear, either way it boded ill.

The chambermaid returned, and Ruark submitted to her deft hands as she plied his beard with hot towels to free the dried mud. If this poor girl found him so repulsive, he thought, then the high lady, Shanna, could have seen nothing more than a beast She must have felt herself in dire straits, indeed, to have submitted to his bargain.

Still, this was a pleasant interlude for Ruark, one he had enjoyed all too rarely in the past months, even if the girl was none too gentle in her haste to be done with him.
However, his only injury was a tiny nick dealt on the last stroke of the razor when the girl, surveying her work, took full note of the face whereon she labored.

“Blimey, gov'na!” she gasped and suddenly asmile, wet the towel to press it upon the small cut. Her face reddened now before his amused gaze, and she became more than a trifle flustered. Pitney's attention was drawn when she tipped the pan of water, spilling most of it in Ruark's lap.

Ignoring the man's discomfort, Pitney remarked casually, “You seem to upset the wench. She's as flighty as a nesting sparrow.”

The chambermaid bobbed a quick curtsy. “Sorry, gov'na. 'Twas naught 'e did. 'Twas me own doin'.”

Snatching the towel from Ruark's shoulders, she began to dab at his lap before he caught her wrists and firmly set her from him.

“Never mind,” he bade her dryly. “I'll do that.”

The girl could hardly keep her eyes from that wide, lean, muscular expanse of naked chest as she gathered her razor and strap.

“Trim his hair while ye have the shears, girl,” Pitney ordered and shrugged away the angry glance Ruark shot him.

The maid grinned widely and bobbed another birdlike curtsy. “Aye, gov'na. Be glad to, sir.”

For her strange behavior, Pitney gave the girl a frown of bemusement Shaking his head, he muttered something to himself and presented his backside to the warmth of the fire while he sipped his ale in a leisurely fashion.

The maid puttered about Ruark's hair with a new zeal as if she would cut every strand the same length, and by no means was it a thin batch. Pausing often to present a small looking glass so that he might approve her efforts, she held the mirror before her, managing to press it between her breasts with amazing results. The girl grew petulant with his lack of interest, and it was with obvious reluctance that she accepted his assurances that he wished no assistance in his bath. Eventually she gathered her shears and tools into her apron and left.

Ruark lost no time in stripping his smelly breeches away and settled himself into the bath, giving a long sigh of
appreciation. He scrubbed thoroughly several times with a strong soap to remove the filth and vermin of the gaol, lathering the pungent suds into his hair as well. He was anxious to be on his way and toweled himself briskly before donning the dark stockings and breeches. But he paused long enough to note the close fit of the latter. Perhaps Shanna Trahern had noticed more of him than he realized, he mused with a rueful grin. He had certainly been aware of her.

Discarding the scented powder that had been made available, he combed his black hair into a bagwig at the nape of his neck and brushed it smooth before the looking glass. Standing in front of his image, he donned the cream shirt with its ruffles of lace about the cuffs, attached the lacy jabot, and then slipped into the silk waistcoat that matched the narrow breeches. He put on the brown velvet coat that was lavishly embellished with gold threads twining an ornate way around the wide cuffs and down the front. The leather of the brown shoes was softly buffed and adorned with gold filigree buckles on the high tongues. A tricorn of velvet, embroidered with gold, completed the outfit.

In all, Ruark surmised as he critically surveyed himself in the standing mirror, Shanna had spared no expense to have him garbed as a man of title. Over the shoulder of his reflection, Ruark caught Pitney's eyes as the man regarded him. Pitney reviewed the changed appearance of his charge and managed a bleak smile.

“I think me mistress will be pleasantly surprised.” He finished his ale in a gulp and consulted his timepiece. “We'd best be on our way.”

It was a small country church, in summer ivy-twined, but with the crisp chill of the approaching winter, the vines clung dark and brittle against the gray stone of its walls. The drizzle had ceased, and bright shafts of sunlight pierced the broken clouds, setting the crystal panes of the rectory windows aglitter with shifting shards of color.

Shanna stood bathed in light coming through an oriel. Her face, as she gazed out upon the rolling fields, held the smile of one confident of her goals in life. She had ar
rived early at the church, in a hired coach, for her carriage had to carry Pitney to the inn, more than an hour's ride away, and there remain while he journeyed by another hired coach to London and back again with Ruark Beauchamp. But the Reverend and Mrs. Jacobs had been warm and hospitable, and Shanna had managed to endure the wait.

The plump wife of the good clergyman sat nearby, sipping tea while she observed Shanna. It was not often people of wealth tarried in their quiet village, much less within the humble rectory, and such rich garments Mrs. Jacobs had never seen in her whole life. A mauve cloak of silk moire, lined lavishly with soft, gray fox, lay across the arm of a chair, forgotten as if it were discarded. The woman could not even imagine the cost of the matching silk gown with its tiers of pinkish gray lace cascading down the front of the skirt between twin borders of silk ruching. Lace flounces adorned the sleeves where they ended at mid-arm. Pleated lace spread like a fan from a point at the tightly cinched waist upward to the demure display of creamy skin. A narrow mauve ribbon was tied about the slim column of the young woman's throat, and the intricately woven coiffure, left unpowdered, was glorious in its own magnificent color. The effect of the golden strands amid the tawny would have challenged the best efforts of the most artful hairdresser.

Mrs. Jacobs sat much in awe of this beauty, for envy was not in her soul. Deep in her heart she was a romantic and took delight in what was to her the serious art of matchmaking. The groom, as she envisioned him in her mind's eye, would have to be handsome and charming, for no common sort should have claim upon
this
bride.

Shanna leaned forward to gaze intently out the window, and her movement brought Mrs. Jacobs to her side.

“What is it, my dear?” the kindly woman inquired with eager interest “Do they return?”

Mrs. Jacobs's blue eyes searched the distant road, and, as she had guessed, a carriage was just topping the crest of the hill and would soon be arriving at the church.

Shanna, a multitude of explanations on the tip of her tongue, thought better of it and bit the words back. If she gave excuses for her husband-to-be, his faults would
be all the more apparent. It was better to let the woman think love was blind in her case.

Shanna smoothed her hair, preparing herself mentally to meet the wretch.

“Ye are radiant, my dear.” The “r” rolled from Mrs. Jacobs's tongue with a thick Scottish burr. “Daen ye worry none 'bout that. Go greet your betrothed. I'll fetch yer cloak.”

Gracefully Shanna obeyed, thankful she could catch Ruark before the clergyman and his wife would meet him, on the chance his appearance could be improved at this late date. As she hurried along the covered pathway from the rectory of the church, a thousand reasons to worry raced through her mind, and she swore to herself, using several of her father's favorite oaths, then gritted her teeth as she thought of the care a gentleman must exercise in dressing.

“That cloddish colonial,” she fretted. “At least let him have his breeches on straight!”

The dapple-gray horses tossed their fine, noble heads and pranced to a halt before the church. Pitney carefully tucked his pistol under his coat as Mister Craddock jumped down to the turf and, like any good coachman, swung open the door for them. Accepting Pitney's warning frown, Ruark stepped down from the Briska and paused, pensively gazing out over the moors. He had a great longing to run through the fields for the sheer freedom of it, but he knew he would get no further than the low stone wall. Pitney was strong, but his size hindered his agility, and Mister Craddock and Hadley did not appear too swift of either foot or mind. Even after his confinement, Ruark was convinced that he could outrun them, but Pitney's pistol and its lead could very well outspeed him. Then, too, there was the matter of a bargain he was most eager to see out. This held him in check far better than the threat of death. Of late that dark damsel had been too much his close companion.

Leisurely he strolled toward the steps of the church but found himself the center of a close-knit group. On the first stone, Ruark paused and regarded the three men, all carefully within arms' reach of him.

“Gentlemen.” A faint smile twisted the corner of his
mouth. “If I should attempt escape, you will no doubt use the weapons you cover so obviously. I do not ask that you be remiss in your duties but do hang back a bit as if you were really hired servants.”

At a nod from Pitney, the two guards returned to the Briska and leaned against it, though their attention remained on Ruark, never wavering, for they had grasped enough of the fact to realize their reward would come only with a task well done.

“What now, Pitney?” Ruark inquired. “Shall we enter or await my lady's pleasure here?”

The servant pursed his lips in consideration of the question and then seated himself on the step. In his rasping voice, he stated flatly, “She's heard the carriage. She'll be out when she's ready.”

Ruark climbed the several steps to the covered doorway and took a place there to wait He was seriously pondering striking up a conversation with his stoic escort when the heavy wooden door creaked open, and his intended bride stepped out. Ruark's breath caught in his throat, for in the full light of day Shanna Trahern was the most ravishing beauty he had ever seen. She seemed almost fragile in the subtle mauve gown. There was no hint of the bold wench who had visited the jail to seek a husband.

Shanna passed the stranger with hardly more than a glance, not even pausing for the sake of politeness as the man swept his hat from his dark head. Instead she lifted her wide skirts to rush down the steps.

Ruark leaned back against the stone and smiled his appreciation as his eyes caressed her trim back. Suddenly Shanna stopped, almost stumbling on the steps as Pitney turned to stare up at her. Then in amazement she whirled to gape at Ruark, her sea-green eyes wide in disbelief. His heavy cloak was thrown back over his wide shoulders, and the sight of the garments she had purchased struck her with the truth. A somber color, brown. She had carefully chosen it at the time. It could cover a multitude of faults and perhaps lend the colonial some slight dignity, she had thought, but now it was marvelously appropriate and so much more pleasing than she had dared to hope.

His face was
handsome
, recklessly so, with magnificent dark brows that curved neatly; a straight, thin nose; a
firm but almost sensuous mouth. The lean line of his jaw showed strength and flexed with the movement of the muscles there. Then Shanna's eyes met his, and, if a flicker of doubt remained, it was immediately dispelled as she looked beyond thick, black lashes into deep amber eyes burning with golden lights.

“Ruark?” the question burst from her.

“The same, my love.” Now having her full attention, he again swept the tricorn before his chest in a bow of exaggerated politeness. “Ruark Beauchamp at your service.”

“Oh, give that damned thing to Pitney,” she snapped, feeling the bite of his mockery.

“As you wish, my love,” he laughed lightly and sailed the hat to Pitney who all but crushed it as he caught it against his chest. He passed it along to Mister Craddock with such firmness that a breathless “whoof” came from the guard.

“Take this to the carriage,” Pitney ordered tersely. “And keep a respectful distance.”

Standing with arms akimbo, Shanna tapped her foot irritably. She could not name the cause for her petulance, but Ruark Beauchamp was much more than she had bargained for. There was something insufferable about a condemned man being so cocksure of himself. He was probably the type who would go to the gallows like a swaggering hero, she thought shrewishly.