Shanna

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Pausing before his cell door, Ruark rested his forehead against the cold iron. The haunting image of soft, perfect features, honey and gold tresses swirling around fair shoulders, and ripe, curving breasts swelling almost free of a red velvet gown was branded on his memory with minute detail, stirring an agonizing impatience which could only be relieved when she was truly his—if that moment was to be. He realized that where Hicks’s brutality had failed, the illusion of Shanna came close to breaking him. Nevertheless, he held the vision, for when it faded it was replaced by a gruesome one of the triple tree and its fruit.

  He paced. He sat. He washed. He waited.

  Finally, in increasing frustration he flung himself to his pallet, weary of the agony of uncertainty. He rubbed his hand across his bristly beard and then winced as his own shabby appearance was brought painfully to mind. The best Shanna could have thought him to be was a barbarian.

  He flung his arm over his eyes as if to shut out those torturing illusions and dozed fitfully. Even then he found no peace and woke in a cold sweat, a gnawing ache in the pit of his belly.

  He was still struggling to contain his emotions when footsteps echoed in the stillness. Ruark came fully awake as the sound halted just outside his cell. A key rattled in the lock, and Ruark swung his long legs over the edge of the cot as the door was thrown open. Two burly guards with drawn pistols came in and motioned him out. Glad for any break in the boredom, Ruark hastened to obey. He stepped out of the portal and found himself face to face with Mister Pitney.

  “ ‘E’s come for ye, ye scum.” Hicks poked at Ruark’s lean ribs with the long cudgel. “I care not for the likes of ye to be nobbin’ wit’ gentle folk, but the liedy is set to wed. Ye’ll be going wit’ the man and me own good lads ‘ere, John Craddock and Mister Hadley.” He leered at Ruark’s raised eyebrow. “Just to see, of course, ‘at ye do not take to some fancy highjinks.”

  The corpulent turnkey chortled as heavy irons were fastened on Ruark’s wrists. The ends of the chains were handed to Mister Pitney, who grasped them in his hamlike fist. With a gesture to follow, Hicks led the procession through the gaol and halted only when they reached the waiting wagon which was drawn up close before the outer gate. The conveyance much resembled a large, ironbound oaken box on wheels with only a small, barred window mounted in the side door. A third guard was high in the driver’s seat with the reins already threaded through his thick fingers. His cloak was pulled close around him against the chill of the drizzling rain, and he gave no heed to them other than the lowering of his tricorn upon his brow.

  “Now ye do as Mister Pitney says,” Hicks bade his men. “And ye bring this scurvy bloke back ‘ere live or dead.” His black, beady eyes glared at the prisoner. “Mind ye, if ’e makes one move to escape, blow ‘is head off.”

  “Your kindness is exceeded only by your grace, master gaoler,” Ruark told him lightly. Then he squared his shoulders. “Can we be about our affairs, or are there more matters you wish to discuss with these gentlemen?”

  Hicks waved him into the wagon. For the deepest cut he knew where to thrust. “Git in, ye bloody rogue. I warrant good Pitney will keep ye from doing in ‘is liedy like ye did ‘at wench in the inn—an’ ‘er carrying yer babe.”

  Ruark’s eyes hardened as the gaoler pushed a slobbering grin up to his face and snickered mockingly, but the younger man remained mute even beneath Pitney’s frowning perusal. Offering neither nod nor explanation, Ruark stepped past him, reached to the top of the doorway, and swung himself and his chains into the wagon. In the dark, barren interior of the van, he slumped into a corner to seek what comfort could be found. The door was barred, and Hicks rapped his staff against the wooden sides.

  “Ye take good care o’ this piece now,” he admonished them all. “And I would not mind a lump or two if ’e so much as turns a bad eye to ye. I’ll be seeing ye after the high gate is closed. Mind ye now, see ‘at this comes ter no ill.”

  With a lurch, the heavy wagon jolted on its way. The hour was close to noon. Ruark could not guess how long the ride would be, or where they were bound. Glimpses of leaden sky and rooftops wet with cold drizzle flitted across the narrow scope of the small, high window. They journeyed beyond the outskirts of London, and the horses were urged into a faster pace. Through the iron bars, Ruark caught sight of farm cottages in the distance topped by thatched roofs, and fields, with the remains of fall crops stubbling them, separated by hedges or low stone walls. The winding muddy road swept past hamlets and country manors, but hardly a body was seen, for the rain held the people from work in the fields and kept them off the streets. The wagon sped on with no eyes to mark its passage, save for those of a squealing pig running from the path and of horses leisurely grazing on the damp turf.

  It was some time later when the van suddenly swerved from the road and entered a small clearing, narrowly missing trees which grew thick along the way. The wild ride nearly turned Ruark out of his corner, but he managed to brace himself against the jostling. His tensed body relaxed only when the wagon came to a halt beside a green stagnant pool.

  “We be well hid now, me hearties,” came the booming voice of the driver. “Give ‘at bloke a hand out.”

  Pitney climbed down the opposite side as the two burly guards jumped to the ground and hauled Ruark out by the chains, giving him no opportunity to object or resist. For a brief moment Ruark was crushed between them and grunted in pain as their elbows found his lean ribs. Then with a hearty shove they sent him sliding into the scummy mire bordering the pond. Guffawing in vindictive glee, they clapped each other on the back with howling good humor.

  “Rise yerself, yer lordship,” the larger one crowed and kicked at him. “Yer liedy’s waitin’ fer ye.”

  Angry amber eyes glared from a begrimed face, and Ruark came to his feet with a snarl, gathering his chains into a long loop and swinging it in open threat. The smaller guard, John Craddock, staggered back in surprise, clawing at the pistol in his belt.

  “Now, me hearties,” Ruark ground out in a determined warning, “I’ve already got a rope around my neck, and they’ll hang me no longer if I take a few of you with me. You can use that pistol, but I for one would not be of a mind for explaining to Mister Hicks why he won’t be getting his fat purse. You can take your pleasures on someone else, for if you put a hand to me again, I’ll lay these links to your heads, then let the devil take the hindmost.”

  They were simple men and looked on their prisoner with a new respect. He had a nasty way of turning a bit of fun awry and taking the enjoyment out of it. Still, Craddock held his pistol at the ready as Ruark climbed to solid ground and once more assumed the role of proper captive.

  Mister Pitney had leaned against the rear of the prison van and taken in the whole of the episode. He chuckled to himself as he recognized that here was a man who just might match Shanna Trahern for spirit. It might prove damn good sport to see his mistress nose to nose with this one. At least, more sport than what was going on. It rankled him to watch a bound man being baited.

  Fishing in his waistcoat for the key, Pitney came toward Ruark, but passing close behind Craddock, he appeared to stumble. As a solid shoulder caught him squarely in the back, Craddock gave an explosive squawk and lurched forward, trying to keep his balance as the mud sucked at his feet. Grunting, he fell against his mate, Hadley, and both of them sprawled headlong into the slimy pond. Spluttering and coughing, they came up while Mister Pitney contemplated them calmly.

  “Gor! Three of ye lookin’ just alike. Now which be the one— Huh, I guess the one with the chains is me man.” His mirth drew glares from the two guards, and he gestured to the water. “Blimey, mate, you’ve dropped Mister Hicks’s pistol.”

  As John Craddock fell to his knees and groped in the mud, Pitney made his way to Ruark. Hadley began to trudge to shore until his companion swiped at his shins.

  “Watch yer step!” John Craddock hollered. “ ‘At thing were cocked, an’ h’it’ll blow yer blooming foot off!”r />
  Pitney smiled and, having Ruark’s attention, threw a thumb over his shoulder.

  “There be an inn down the road a piece where ye’re to wash and groom yerself for the wedding. These lads will have a time to dry themselves out.” His voice rasped as he sternly warned, “Mind ye, hold yer tongue ’bout why ye’re here and where ye’ve come from. And ye’re to speak naught of me mistress to any but meself. Do you ken?”

  Ruark wiped mud from his bearded chin and peered at the man. “Aye.”

  “Then I’ll set these irons from ye, and we’ll be on our way. The day is awastin’, and me mistress is awaitin’.”

  They gained entrance to the inn by a back stairway, and none knew of their coming as they made their way to a small room tucked high beneath the rafters. After spreading their cloaks before the fire to dry, the two guards reluctantly took up posts outside the door, leaving Ruark to the care of Pitney. Pitney gestured to a wooden tub in the corner of the room.

  “The chambermaid will fetch water for a bath. There’s a mirror for ye to mark yer appearance.” He opened a small leather chest and displayed the contents for Ruark. “The mistress sent garments to fit the occasion. She begs ye to groom yerself with care so as not to bring shame upon her.”

  Ruark glanced askance at the brawny man and laughed without humor. “For one who has gone abegging, your mistress seeks much.”

  Pitney gave no sign that he heard. He pulled a timepiece from a deep pocket in his waistcoat. “We’ve no more than two hours to dally here.”

  Stowing the watch, he cocked his head slightly and regarded Ruark with a rare smile.

  “In case ye’re ponderin’ on what I would be, there’s two ways out of here. Through yonder door, with the good men outside just waitin’ fer a chance at ye, and this window.” He beckoned to Ruark and pushed open the shutters. It was a straight three-story drop to a pile of jagged rocks. “I have only to sound me pistol, and the other guard will bring the wagon around with all good speed.”

  Ruark shrugged as the man closed the window against the chill drizzle and strode to a spot before the hearth.

  “But either way, first ye must get past me.” Pitney doffed his heavy cloak and opened his coat to show a pair of oversized horse pistols tucked in his belt. After only a brief consideration and with complete honesty, Ruark assured him such ideas were far from his mind.

  The chambermaid was a small but buxom lass, not quite plain, not quite pretty. If she claimed a score of years, it was a lie by four, and she betrayed her lack of age in her obvious reluctance to approach anywhere near the filthy patron. But having made all the preparations, she could delay only a bit more.

  “I’ll shave ye in a minute, sir. But me razor’s a bit blunt. Let me fetch a strop.”

  Her pale eyes flickered down Ruark’s torn and grimy clothes and warily came to rest on his mud-caked beard. An expression of disgust was all too evident on her face, and her freckled nose wrinkled at the stench of the mire on him. Quickly she skittered out upon her errand.

  “Could be the wench doubts I’m human,” Ruark remarked wryly.

  Pitney grunted as he lounged back on the bed, bracing his shoulders against the headboard and sipping from a mug of ale. “Ye needn’t fret none. Ye won’t be tarryin’ long enough to try her.”

  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 enoug
h 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.