An almost deathly silence gripped the room; those who watched held their breaths in anticipation of what they knew would come. Pellier rolled over, spitting dirt from his mouth, and his dark, glaring eyes settled on Ruark. Casually the colonial caught the back of a chair and spun it about to place his foot on the seat. Leaning forward and resting an elbow on his knee, he shook his head and chided lightly.
“You learn so very slowly, my friend. I have more claim to the wench than you. ‘Twas I who watched her strut about while I sweated for her father. ‘Twas I who guided you onto the island. And were it not for me, you’d be feeding the fish at the bottom of Trahern’s harbor.”
Pellier’s glower shifted to Shanna, who sidled back to Ruark’s side, taking refuge there. Deliberately Pellier rose and dusted himself off. He was oddly calm now and there was an air of deadliness about him.
“You’ve touched me twice, bondsman,” he commented arrogantly.
“The more to instruct you with, my good man.” Ruark’s words lashed Pellier’s pride raw in spite of their softness. “In good time I might teach you to respect your betters.”
“You have hindered me from the first,” Pellier sneered, struggling to keep his temper in check. “You’re a swine! A colonial swine! And I never have had any use for colonials.”
Ruark shrugged the insult off and stated simply, “The wench is mine.”
“The Trahern bitch is mine!” Pellier bellowed, losing all restraint. This was too much! He could allow no further erosion of his position if he were to maintain dominance over the other pirates.
He lunged forward, hoping to catch his tormentor off guard, but the chair slammed painfully into his shins. Then he found his shirtfront gathered in Ruark’s fist, and his toes brushed the floor as he was nearly lifted clear of it. An open hand struck the side of his face and returned to slap the other side.
Ruark shook the dazed pirate until the man’s eyes stopped dancing. “I believe the slap is a challenge,” he informed Pellier, loud enough for all to hear. “The choice of weapons is yours.”
Ruark shoved and let go. Pellier staggered backward to crash into the table, sprawling helplessly across it before rolling into his own chair. Red-faced, he drew himself to his feet, straightening his jacket with a jerk. A calculating gleam grew in his eyes as he considered the weapons at hand, and he began to relish the thought of the bondsman sprawled lifeless in a heap. The pistols hung on the back of his chair, ready and tempting, but he had heard much of the marksmanship of the colonials.
“You have a blade, pig,” he growled. “Do you know how to use it?” He had killed too many with the sword to doubt his own skill.
Ruark nodded and, setting the chair against the wall, guided Shanna to it. He drew his pistols and, cocking them both, laid them atop a keg, well within her reach. For a moment he gazed down at her. Shanna ached to say some gentle word at what might be her last chance, but there was still a bitterness towards him that sealed her lips. She could not meet his eyes.
Carmelita leaned against the door to the back room, her eyes eager for the bloodletting. Behind her huddled the thin girl, no emotion on her face, carefully keeping her place. The other pirates settled themselves for the show as the table was pushed back and a large space cleared for the duel. Money changed hands as wagers were made. Only Mother abstained. He studied the young man closely.
Ruark took the sheath from the sash and held it in his hand. A loose, swinging scabbard had been the death of many a good man and it was, itself, a weapon of sorts. As he drew the sabre, its long length gleamed pale blue, and he was glad he had taken the time to select a fine weapon. He swished the blade through the air; its balance was superb; the edge was keen.
Ruark’s eyes caught Harripen’s as the man exchanged gold pieces with the Dutchman.
“Sorry, me lad,” the Englishman laughed with a shrug. “But I must recoup me losses. The purse you have goes to the winner as does all the loser’s possessions.”
The grizzled man completed his wager with gusto. It was only Shanna who was dismayed by the forthcoming event. Her gaze followed Ruark’s every movement. Within her wearied mind a thousand thoughts clashed in riotous confusion. This man who made ready to defend her was the same one she had lain with in passion and cast away in anger. Her ire seemed only a memory of another day, unreal and irrational now with her anxieties for him.
Pellier’s own light épée was no match for the sabre, so he snatched up a cutlass that hung with his pistols on the back of his chair. It was a broad, heavy piece, shorter by inches than the sabre Ruark held.
“A man’s weapon!” he sneered. “One made for killing. To the death, bondsman!”
Leaping away from the table, he plunged into immediate attack. His rush was vicious and intense, but Ruark fell into a comfortable stance and parried each thrust easily. For too long he had been forced to depend on the decisions of others for his survival, but now he could rely on his own skill. Come what may, at least once more in his life he was nobody’s man but his own. He cut and thrust and now began to swing the blade into attack. Feeling out his opponent, he was aware that he faced no neophyte. Pellier was determined and adept, but as their blades met again and again, Ruark began to sense the lack of finesse in the other man’s arm. He gave a quick quartet of attacks, and a small gap appeared in Pellier’s jacket as if by magic. The man fell back in surprise.
The cutlass was a weapon for killing, but it was also weighty and cheaply made. The edge nicked, caught, and hung again and again on the fine steel of the sabre. The victory was not going to be as swift as Pellier had expected. This was no farm-reared colonial he fought! The effort of swinging the unbalanced cutlass began to tell, and when it caught, he had to jerk it free to parry the continual ripostes.
Seeing an opening, Ruark reached deep and low on the outside, drawing blood from Pellier’s shoulder. A shallow cut, but he drew back, prepared to give quarter. Pellier’s challenge was not an idle threat. He followed, swinging the heavy cutlass with both hands. Shanna cringed in trembling fear, expecting to see Ruark sliced through, but he braced the back of the sabre with the scabbard and took the blow full, edge to edge. The fine steel held. For a moment the two men stood nose to nose, the swords crossed above their heads as every muscle strained. Pellier quickly retreated, and Ruark jumped back to escape a wicked slash to his belly. He riposted, and Pellier barely recovered in time to parry.
Now the battle became wearying. The swords met repeatedly in heavy-handed blows. Pellier thrust and as Ruark parried, a wide nick in the cutlass blade caught on the curved back of the sabre. The thick, soft blade was turned sideways, and, already weakened, it snapped as Pellier fought to free it. In surprise he stumbled back several paces and stared at the empty hilt. Dropping the useless thing, he spread his hands as if in defeat. It would have been murder to charge him through, and Ruark nodded and began to sheath his sabre.
Shanna’s scream alerted him. His head snapped up as Pellier’s hand came clear of his boot top, clutching a long stiletto. Pellier raised his arm to hurl it. Ruark was too far away to strike, but he swung the sabre, sending the scabbard sailing to strike full across the pirate’s face. Pellier cursed and stumbled again, and his knife clattered to the floor. The Frenchman caught himself, faced Ruark, and read his gaze.
A slim rapier was quickly handed to him, and Pellier defended himself with all the skill he could muster. Ruark no longer smiled or enjoyed the game. He understood the rules. To the death! His attack was relentless. Ruark could smash through the light defense, but he would then leave himself open, unable to match the speed of recovery with the heavier sabre. His sword flashed blue fire, ever touching Pellier’s. Ruark could give no room to allow Pellier a thrusting attack. He pressed his own. His visage was stern, and he began to feel the effort in his arm, but still he gave no relief. Now a slash opened the front of Pellier’s shirt. Another thrust caught his thigh and dark red blood stained his trousers. Ruark’s riposte took him under the arm. For the ba
rest moment the point of the rapier dipped, and the sabre hummed with the force of the blow. Pellier fell backwards, taking Ruark’s weapon with him. His body arched once against the floor, then lay still.
Ruark’s face was dark as he glanced around to meet the astonished and gaping stares of the brigands. None challenged him further. After a moment he retrieved the sabre and wiped it clean on Pellier’s short jacket. Sheathing it, he rested its end on the floor and then leaned on the hilt as he faced the others again. He looked to Mother who still sat in his strange hunched posture.
“A fine weapon,” Ruark stated. “It has served me well.”
Mother nodded. “I wonder if you realize the rest of it.”
Ruark shrugged, noncommittal, and hung the scabbard again on his sash. Harripen rose and came around the table to clasp Ruark’s shoulder.
“A foin fight, lad! And ye’ve gained a bit for it. The Good Hound be yours, of course, and all of Robby’s goods, his share of the booty and”—he turned and surveyed his companions—“What do ye say, me buckoes? Do ye think ‘e’s earned it?”
Ribald laughter and a hearty chorus of “Ayes” answered the Englishman.
“A fittin’ justice!” shouted Mother. Bracing his meaty fists on the table before him, he rose to his feet. “Trahern’s slave shall have his daughter!”
“ ‘Tis done then!” Harripen announced. “Ye’ll ‘ave the girl ‘til the ransom is settled.”
New tankards of ale were brought, and Ruark laughed, his own tension easing. A toast was shouted for his victory while Pellier’s body was unceremoniously hauled out. No one seemed sorry at his going, least of all Shanna, who sat with her hands covering her face, quietly sobbing out of her absolute relief. She could not disguise her gratitude, and, when Ruark returned to her side to fetch his pistols, she managed a brief, trembling smile before tears came flooding back.
Boldly Ruark strode across to the other three captives and demanded, “Which of you has a mind to stay?”
None answered him as they glanced sheepishly at each other, no one willing to take the fore and declare his desire.
“So! You prefer slavery to freedom here,” Ruark loudly surmised then demanded, “Should we let you go, will you witness to the squire that his daughter is safe and shall be held as hostage to his payment of ransom?”
The three bobbed their heads in eager agreement, drawing a derisive snort from Mother.
“Fools they be to trade this for Trahern’s yoke.”
“We’ll send them out on the sloop come the morrow’s dawn,” Harripen offered. “ ‘Til then, let the poor lads ‘ave a bit to fill their bellies. And by me saints, the wench, too! She’ll need it if she’s to ride beneath this bucko.”
Shanna favored the man with a glare, but she gratefully accepted a plate when the thin girl brought it. In the midst of the revelry, she was intent upon satisfying her hunger. She mostly ignored the coarse scurrility that she and Ruark had become the subject of. Harripen found a bolt of bright red silk and with his dirk sliced off a long length of it. With much fanfare and ceremony he and the Dutchman formed a loop in one end of the silk and placed it about Shanna’s neck. With suggestive leers they led her to Ruark and bestowed the other end in his hand, declaring her bondage to him. Playing the game, Ruark held it high that all might see. Then with a fiendish, wild laugh he crushed her against his chest and forced a savage kiss upon her lips. His hand boldly stroked her buttock, wandering upward, while Shanna squirmed in mute protest of this public fondling. Her face burned in outrage as he held her in a steellike hold until he snatched her up and tossed her over his shoulder, jolting the breath from her. His hearty slap on her rump brought a shriek of rage from Shanna and loud guffaws from the men.
Following Harripen’s directions, Ruark carried her up the stairs and to the quarters Pellier had of late relinquished. The Dutchman held open the door, and Ruark swung Shanna from his shoulder, setting her to her feet. His hand upon her backside, he thrust her into the room. His companions made as if to follow, but Ruark stopped between the sills, blocking the way and daring them with mocking gaze until each in turn lowered his eyes and turned away with a mutter of disappointment. When they had gone, Ruark closed the portal, dropped the heavy bar in place, and leaned against it in great relief.
In the dark void of the chamber, Shanna stood where she had stopped, reluctant to go further lest she come upon some nightmare worse than her dungeon below. Her nostrils were assailed by the fetid stench that pervaded the place, an unwelcome reminder of the pit. Half in panic she groped for Ruark, needing the reassurance of his strength to carry her through a bit longer, just until she could see what she faced. His hard fingers folded securely around hers, squeezing gently as his other arm came around her shoulders. The monstrous fears, which crowded close in about her, reluctantly retreated to a bearable distance, leaving her drained, her limbs heavy with exhaustion. She sagged weakly in the protective circle of Ruark’s arms.
“Pellier’s sty,” he commented in disdain, choking on a deep breath. “Let me find a candle. Perhaps ‘tis not half so bad to the eyes as the odor indicates.” He felt her sway against him. “Will you sit?”
Shanna shuddered. “I dare not until I know what’s here.”
“Aye,” Ruark agreed ruefully. “I fear there is something dead on Mare’s Head and we’ve found it.”
After locating a stub of candle, Ruark emptied the priming from one of his pistols and, placing a bit of lint in its place, snapped the lock until a weak spark glowed in the pan. Blowing it aflame, he touched it to the wick. A soft, dim glow spread over the chamber as the candle flickered then blazed.
The room was a shambles of discarded clothes, empty bottles, and assorted sea chests and wooden barrels, looted no doubt from unwary merchants. A massive, ornately carved, four-poster bed seemed to float on a sea of trash. Several layers of fat feather ticks were stacked beneath a covering of stained linens, while ragged and filthy netting hung askew from the canopy frame. The foot of the bed was hidden by heaps of cast-off clothing. A tall armoire gaped open with garments of various silks and satins, rich coats and gowns, carelessly draped over its sagging doors. No chair was empty; all were piled with assorted debris. Heavy red velvet drapes, dusty and worn with age, covered the windows. A huge porcelain bathtub bore the remains of empty flasks, bottles, and flagons which had been tossed in that general direction. Shanna’s bare feet had narrowly missed treading upon a jagged piece of glass. Several mirrors stood about the room, all facing the bed. A chamber pot appeared much the villain in the way of odors.
Shanna gagged and whirled away from the sight of it while Ruark took more positive action. He snatched back the drapes, flung open the shutters to let the ocean breezes sweep the room, and tossed the menace out the window to the courtyard below. Crusted blankets and linens from the bed followed its descent, and soon a tall pile of Pellier’s clothing—distinguishable mainly by the sour smell—began to form beneath the window. Bottles from the tub shattered against the stones below; anything else that would threaten their comfort left the room. Ruark swept his arm across the wooden planks of the table, sending the dried scraps of many meals flying into a sheet which he had yanked from the bed. He bundled it with other filth and sailed it through the window. Though the air still offended the senses, it was at last rendered fit to breathe. Ruark blew into the depths of a pitcher which sat on the washstand and was greeted by choking dust.
“ ‘Twould seem Pellier had an aversion to bathing,” he remarked with a snort of derision.
Shanna gave a repulsive shudder as she picked the cloying, stained folds of her own garb from her body. She yearned for a bath and the soft comfort of a clean bed for her tired and drooping body. Ruark contemplated her and was sympathetic to her plight, but there seemed to be an almost waiting silence in the common room below. He came to stand close before her, and, as she lifted her gaze, he made his request.
“Scream.”
Shanna’s eyes searched his face w
ithout understanding.
“Scream. And loudly,” he commanded firmly.
But with a mute frown Shanna only stared at him.
Almost leisurely Ruark reached out his hands and locked them in the soft fabrics covering her bosom and with an easy twist, split the robe and flimsy gown full length, flinging them wide so that she stood openly displayed to his rapidly warming perusal.
Now, giving vent to all the pent-up rage, fears and frustrations, Shanna complied with a piercing shriek that trembled the mirrors. She paused only to draw breath and then raised her voice again. This time Ruark stepped close and cut it short with his hand across her mouth. In the quiet that followed, they heard the gale of loud laughter that filtered up from the common room below.
Ruark folded her in his arms, crushing her naked breasts against his leather jerkin, and Shanna felt the chuckle deep in his chest.
“That should give them something to think about for a while.”
But some of Shanna’s spirit had revived. Angrily she snatched away from him.
“Take your hands off me!” she sneered. She moved to put the bed between them and struggled to close the shreds of the dressing gown around her in a late burst of modesty. “Find some simple little tramp if you want to play, but I’ll not be the waiting wife in your game.”
The muscles in Ruark’s jaw worked tensely, but he held to a stubborn silence, not giving credence to her accusations by arguing his innocence.
“You play the stud so well,” she raved, warming to her subject. She gave him a slow, contemptuous perusal and trembled with her rage and fatigue. “So strong, so virile, so very talented in bed. Do you think I will twiddle my thumbs while you lay every bed-minded trollop who’ll take a tumble with you?”
Ruark gave voice to his own frustration. “What in the sweet, loving hell do you prattle about?” He aired his injured pride. “I sit and watch you with your audience of men and bite my tongue to keep from shouting that you’re mine!”
Shanna Page 40
