Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “Pitney, please.” Shanna waited expectantly, and when he still made no move to leave, she raised her hand imploringly toward the iron portal. “ ‘Tis safe enough. What can he do? Nothing will happen.”

  The large man spoke finally, but only to Ruark. “If you would see the hour out,” he rumbled, “take care that no smallest harm befall her. If it should, you’ll well rue the moment. You have my most earnest word on that.”

  Ruark’s gaze weighed the other’s broad frame, and respectfully he nodded his acquiescence. Still wearing a discontented scowl, Pitney wheeled about and strode out of the cell. Closing the door behind him, he slid open the small port in it. His back could be seen from within as he placed himself to guard against a possible eavesdropper.

  The prisoner stood without moving, awaiting Shanna’s pleasure. She walked slowly across the cell, carefully placing herself out of his reach now. Lowering her hood, she faced him and slowly swept away the lace veil, letting it float to the table beside her.

  The second salvo was fired.

  It struck home with a crushing weight Shanna little realized. Ruark Beauchamp could not trust himself to speak. Her beauty was such that his knees grew weak. It brought home to him the starvation of his long and forced celibacy. Her pale honey-hued hair, caught in a mass of loose ringlets, cascaded over her shoulders and down her back. It was rich and luxuriant, in studied disarray. Golden strands, lightened by the sun, shimmered among the carefree curls. Ruark felt a great temptation to go to her and caress the bountiful silken mane and gently run his fingers along the delicate cheekbones blooming with color. Her features seemed perfect, the nose straight and finely boned. The soft brown brows arched away from eyes that were clear and sea-green, brilliant against the thick fringe of jet-black lashes. They stared back at him, open, yet as unfathomable as any sea he had ever gazed into. The soft pink lips were tantalizing and gracefully curved, vaguely smiling. Under his warming gaze, the creamy skin flushed slightly. With a will of iron, Ruark clamped a grip upon himself and held his silence.

  Shanna murmured coyly, “Am I so ugly, sir, that words are stricken from your tongue?”

  “On the contrary,” Ruark answered with an apparent ease he little felt. “Your beauty so blinds me, I fear I must be led to the gallows by the hand. My mind can little absorb such splendor after the dreariness of this dungeon. Is it meant that I should know your name, or is that a part of your secret?”

  Shanna recognized that she had struck her target and saved the balance of her weapons for a later moment. She had heard similar vows often, indeed much these same words, and they seemed trite to her. That this ragged wretch would use them was almost an affront to her pride. But she played the game on. She shook her head, tossing the curling tresses enticingly, and laughed somewhat ruefully.

  “Nay, sir, I give it to you, though I beseech your discretion, for therein lies the weight of my problem. I am Shanna Trahern, daughter of Orlan Trahern.”

  She paused, waiting his reaction. Ruark’s brows lifted, and he could not hide his amazement. “Lord” Trahern was known in all circles, and in that of young men, Shanna Trahern was often the topic of heated debate. She was the ice queen, the unattainable prize, the heartbreak of many a lad, and the professed goal of ten times that number—the dream of unrequited youth.

  Satisfied, Shanna continued. “And you see, Ruark,”—she used his given name with casual familiarity—“I have need of your name.”

  “My name!” he burst out in disbelief. “Ruark Beauchamp? You need the name of a condemned murderer when your own would open any door you wish?”

  Shanna moved to stand close before him to lend weight to her words. Her eyes wide and appealing, she stared into his and spoke almost in a whisper.

  “Ruark, I am in distress. I must be wed to a man of sterling name, and you must be aware of the importance in England of the Beauchamp family. No one would know except myself, of course, that you are no kin. And since you have little future need of your name, I could use it well.”

  Ruark’s confusion blunted his wits. He could not think of her motive. A lover? A child? Certainly not debts, for she was of money such as no debt could entangle. His puzzled frown met the blue-green eyes.

  “Surely, madam, you jest. To propose marriage to a man about to hang? Upon my word, I cannot see the logic in it.”

  “ ‘Tis a matter of some delicacy.” Shanna presented her back to him as if embarrassed and paused before continuing. She spoke demurely over her shoulder. “My father, Orlan Trahern, gave me one year to find a husband, and failure shall find me betrothed to whom he wills. He sees me a spinster and wants heirs for his fortunes. The man must be of a family privy to King George. I have not yet found the one I would choose as my own, though the year is almost gone. You are my one last hope to avoid a marriage arranged by my father.” Now came the hardest part. She had to plead with this filthy, ragged colonial. She kept her face averted to hide her distaste. “I have heard,” she said carefully, “that a man may marry a woman to take her debts to the gallows in return for an easing of his final days. I can give you much, Ruark—food, wine, suitable clothing and warm blankets. And surely my cause—”

  At his continued silence, Shanna turned toward him and tried to see his features in the gloom, but he had carefully maneuvered their positions until she now was presented full to the light when she faced him. The wily beggar had moved so stealthily that she had not been aware of it.

  Ruark’s voice was somewhat strained as he finally said, “Milady, you test me sorely. A gentleman my mother tried to teach me to be, with good respect for womanhood.” Shanna’s breath caught as he stepped nearer. “But my father, a man of considerable wisdom, taught me early in my youth a rule I’ve long abided.”

  He walked slowly around her, much as she had done with him a few moments before, then halted when he stood at her back. Scarcely breathing, Shanna waited, feeling his nearness yet not daring to move.

  “Never—” Ruark’s whisper came close to her ear, stirring awake a tingling of fear in her. “Never buy a mare with a blanket on.”

  Shanna could not suppress a flinch as his hands came over her shoulders and hovered above the fasteners of her cloak.

  “May I?” he asked and his voice, though soft, seemed to fill the very comers of the cell. Ruark accepted her silence as consent, and Shanna braced herself while his lean fingers undid the velvet frogs. He drew the cloak from her, and she knew a moment of regret. Her carefully devised attack was spent in an unplanned rush. But little did she guess the carnage it reaped. Though lacking splendorous trimming and fancy laces, the deep red velvet gown enhanced her beauty divinely. She was the gem, the jewel of rare beauty which made the dress more than a garment but rather a work of art. Above the hooped panniers which expanded her skirt on the sides, the tightly laced bodice showed the narrowness of her waist while it cupped her bosom to a most daring display above the square décolletage. In the golden glow of the tallow lantern, her skin gleamed like rich, warm satin.

  Ruark stood close, his breath falling softly against her hair, his head filled with the delicious scent of woman. Time slipped past, flying on silent wings, and still he did not move. Shanna felt suffocated by his nearness. The smell of brandy permeated her senses, and she could feel his eyes slowly roaming over her. Had the cause been less dire, she would have fled in disgust. Indeed, she had to fight the urge to do so now. It nettled her sorely that she had to stand on display for him. But like her father, with a high profit at stake, there was no limit to her patience, determination, or guile.

  All his senses completely involved with her, Ruark felt an overwhelming desire to take Shanna in his arms. Her fragrance beckoned him, her soft, ripe curves made him ache with the want of her. Her breathtaking beauty quickened his very soul, stirring his mind with imaginings of what loveliness lay hidden from view. There was a need in him to feel the warmth of her beneath him, to sweep her up in his trembling arms and ease the lust in his loins. But he was painfull
y aware of his own rags and filth.

  And, too, there was a puzzling glimpse just beneath the surface of her beauty of something to which he could not lay a finger, a hint of sarcasm, a brief flash of insincerity, a strange touch of arrogance. Still, he was convinced that had she any other choice she would not have been here. He knew Orlan Trahern was a man of power but found it difficult to imagine that the man would so constrict the life of his only offspring.

  Shanna could bear it no longer and whirled to face him. “Do you find it so distasteful, then, this sharing of your name? Do you say me nay?” Why in heaven’s name did she have to plead with this cloddish knave?

  Ruark drew a ragged breath and by an extreme effort of will replied casually. “There’s much to consider here—Shanna?” He peered at her questioningly, arching a dark brow, and at her nod of consent, continued. “My name is all that I have left, and there are those who would be greatly pained at seeing it further dishonored.”

  “I promise you, Ruark, that I have no intention of misusing it,” she hastened to assure him. “I will but borrow it for a time and when I have found the one I can love, then ‘twill all be over. If you agree, you’ll be buried with all respect in a well-marked grave in a churchyard. Can those for whom you care then long remember your shame?”

  “And for my last days you promise me ease, Shanna?” It was as if he had not heard her. “Yet that will take away my one enjoyment—the challenge of Mister Hicks.”

  As if disturbed, Ruark paced the cell, seemingly deep in thought. He paused before the cot, and again his gaze was inquiring.

  “Might I sit, Shanna? I apologize as there is no chair for you. If you wish, you may join me here.”

  “No—no thank you,” she quickly answered. She glanced down at the filthy straw and could not suppress a shudder.

  Taking a seat in the corner, Ruark leaned back against the damp stone wall, drawing up a knee to let his arm rest upon it, the hand dangling limply. His eyes fastened on her, and Shanna steeled herself for the final act. She must make it good. At least he had not yet openly laughed at her.

  “Do you think I lightly consider this, Ruark? My father is a man of iron will, and, though he has been called many things, I have never heard a man question his word. I have no doubt that he will do as he said and force me to marry a man I despise.”

  Ruark’s contemplation was steady, but no words parted his lips. It was her turn to be nervous and pace, and doing so furthered her cause no small amount. Shanna Trahern moved with the natural grace of one who led an active life and bore nothing of the affected daintiness so often displayed by beauties of the courts and salons. There was a sureness in her stride that lent a smooth, fluid grace to her every movement. Ruark admired every side of her, and for the most part her words missed him, for he had already set the price in his mind and only waited the moment.

  Shanna stopped, and, resting her hands on the table, leaned toward him. The gown opened enticingly, and she saw his eyes fall where she wanted them.

  “Ruark,” she said firmly, and his gaze raised reluctantly to meet hers. “Is there something about me which you find distasteful?”

  “Nay, Shanna, my love.” His voice was hushed but sounded hollow in the cell. “You are beautiful beyond my imagination. And I have enjoyed this repast so much I would not see its end. But please consider this. If your cause is really so dear, I will bargain with you for my name, but the price will be high, Shanna. And I ask you say me yea or nay before you leave, for that suspense I could not bear.”

  Shanna held her breath in fear of what he was about to say.

  “My price is this.” His words echoed through her brain. “The marriage will be one in fact as well as vow. I am condemned to hang, and I would elect the chance to leave an heir. The cost is that you spend the night with me and consummate the vows in deed as well as words.”

  Her breath came out in a rush and her eyes flared with anger. She gasped in stunned rage at his affront. That he should dare! Shanna was set to shriek her fury in his face, but his laughter rang in the cell and brought quick death to her ire. Swinging both legs onto the cot and clasping his hands behind his head, he was as relaxed as if he were in some inn swigging ale.

  “Ah, yes,” he chuckled derisively. “I thought that might see the real price of your predicament. You seek my name for a cause so dear, this name which is my last and sole possession and mine alone to give. When I ask the same of you—that the cost be what is yours alone to give—then the price is much too dear. So you reject the price, deny the bargain, and will be seen to that end your father wills.”

  Ruark seized the flask and raising it high, gave the toast. “To your wedding, Shanna, love.”

  He drank deeply and then sat staring at her with a wan smile, feeling his loss. Shanna returned his gaze with little warmth in her eyes.

  That damned filthy fool! Did he think he could best her?

  She came toward him, swinging her hips like a gypsy dancer, hair tumbling and eyes flashing with green fire. She had been stung and felt a need to set his smirk awry. Anger ruled where good sense trembled in fear. She stood before him, feet spread and arms akimbo and slowly reached out a finger to rest it along the straight line of his nose.

  “Look,” she sneered. “I dare touch you, filthy though you are, swine though you are to mock my need. And if I bed you, what then do I gain? To trade my father’s will for your brat?”

  Leaning his head back, Ruark laughed into her glare. “Your father’s will, my love, seems to be a sure thing that, like death, you will not escape. And, what then, when husband dearly found weds the widow and finds her virgin still? What will he say? That she gave a lie to her father? And my brat, if that be the case—it may or may not take. God wills that. If not, then you are nothing out and have much gained. If so, then a truly widowed wife no father could deny.” He sighed deeply. “But ‘tis all to naught, for I see that you are not the sort to take the chance. You want my name, and all the bargain in the boot while I have naught to gain, at least not that which I would treasure to my dying breath, a memory that would truly ease my last days. But alas, enough of this. You are indeed most captivating, my Shanna.”

  He laid a hand upon her arm in a tender caress.

  “Do you know that you are mine until I die? ‘Tis the price a woman pays to seek out a man and to ask for him in marriage. So the sages say that she must belong to him until his death.”

  Shanna stared at him in disbelief, aware of the trap that closed slowly around her.

  “But my need is great,” she whispered and realized some truth in what he said. She would not feel free until he was dead. “I came prepared to plead.” Her voice was low and husky. “I did not come to yield, but yield I will. ‘Tis a bargain then.”

  Ruark’s bearded jaw dropped for barely an instant. He had not expected this. Suddenly he was elated. It would almost be worth the hanging. He rose to stand before her, though still not daring to touch her, his hands pressed flat against his thighs as he fought the urge. His voice came gentle, almost a whisper.

  “A bargain. Yea, a bargain. And be it known that the first to wed you, my lovely Shanna, purchased the right with the dearest price of all.”

  Staring into those warm amber eyes, Shanna could find no reply or other words to speak for the moment. Taking up her cloak, she numbly accepted his assistance in donning it. She arranged the veil and pulled the hood forward, carefully covering her hair.

  At last, ready to leave, she faced him but almost pulled away as his hand rose to touch her. To her surprise he only tucked in a stray curl that had fallen free and slowly fastened the catch that held her hood in place. Shanna gazed into his face. His eyes were soft and yearning and touched her everywhere.

  “I must make arrangements,” she spoke firmly, bracing up her courage. “Then I will send Pitney for you. It won’t be more than a day or two. Good night.”

  With hard-won poise Shanna turned and left. At that moment Ruark could have shouted for joy.
Even Hicks could not dampen his happiness as later, once more in the dark, Ruark stretched himself on the cot and engaged in his pastime of late, chasing fleas.

  Chapter 2

  THE DAY DRAGGED OUT INTERMINABLY, a matter Ruark Beauchamp would have done something about normally. Within the confines of his narrow cell, he could do nothing but await his end. The remains of his morning meal dried on a trencher, yet he knew a sated hunger not often experienced behind the iron doors of Newgate. The same fare would have eased the lot of any poor soul who had had the misfortune to be locked away in the gaol, whether he was sentenced for a debt unpaid or a worse offense which would lead eventually to a hangman’s noose at Tyburn. It was a grim three-hour ride from Newgate to the triple tree at Tyburn, and one could think over a lifetime in that span of time, though usually the way was lined with sightseers and hecklers anxious for the killing.

  Ruark had not been trusted with a razor; thus, a full growth of beard still covered much of his face, but with the clean garb Hicks had brought, he presented a neater appearance. A linen shirt, breeches, hose, and a pair of leather shoes could be greatly tolerated after three wretched months in the same filthy rags. In that time his bucket of water, laced with a portion of rum to keep it from souring, had been used both to quench his thirst and for what cleanliness it could provide. But since Shanna’s visit, fresh water seemed in good supply, and a bottle of wine accompanied the evening platters.

  It was impossible to imagine anything which would turn Hicks’s nature for the better or budge his grotesque shape for another’s sake other than the promise of a purse, whether small or great. The arrival of clothes and food and the gaoler’s good manners were a fine indication that all had not gone astray.

  Still, in the dim, lonely cell, Ruark paced restlessly. The shadow of the noose darkened the days that slipped by, and doubt and fear tortured his mind. He had no way of knowing whether Shanna Trahern would hold to her word and send for him. Just to see the world outside again would be a heady draught, but his thoughts were occupied with a vision of that most beautiful maid in his arms. Perhaps she would yet change her mind, deciding she could abide her father’s will more than she could a night with him. Or had he imagined it all? Was it a dream that he had conjured from the depths of hopelessness? Did Shanna Trahern, a most delectable figure of a woman and the ethereal goal of every unwed swain here and abroad, actually enter his cell and make such a pact with him? The one vision that totally eluded him was of this proud woman yielding herself to a man branded a murderer.