“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.
“Well, since you’re here, I see no reason for delay,” she said curtly and mentally debated his age. No more than ten or so years older than herself, if that, though at their first meeting she had thought him nearly twenty years older. “Let’s be about it.”
“Your most obedient servant.” Ruark smiled, then laughed as she glared at him. He pressed his hand earnestly to his lacy jabot and lightly vowed, “Madam, I am as eager to wed as thee.”
Of course he is, she silently jeered. He would, no doubt, brag upon the morrow about the wench he laid. The rutting cad!
Before she could turn her thoughts away, the door opened again, and Mrs. Jacobs appeared with her tall, thin husband. The woman’s blue eyes settled merrily upon Ruark and twinkled with obvious delight.
“Oh, my dear, bring your young man in by the fire,” she urged Shanna. “We’ll have the ceremony when he’s warmed himself, and I’ve a bit of sherry to hasten the chill away.”
Shanna mused derisively that he was warm enough. But for the benefit of the older couple, she went to him, resting her hand casually on his chest as she smiled sweetly into that amused and taunting grin. She would have dearly loved to wipe that smirk from his handsome face.
“Ruark, dearest, this is the Reverend and Mrs. Jacobs. I did mention them, didn’t I? They’ve been so kind.”
The inane chatter sounded strange from her own lips. She could feel the slow thud of Ruark’s heart beneath her fingers while for some odd reason her own pulse raced.
A man to take advantage of all opportunities presented him, Ruark seized upon her cue and slid his hands around her waist, squeezing it slightly as he smiled down into the less than warm depths of her eyes. In his own, there was a kindling fire that touched her like a hot brand.
“I trust the good Pitney remembered to publish the banns. I fear I shall taste death before we be wed, if it not be posthaste.”
If Ruark thought he won a victory as Shanna melted against him, pressing soft breasts full upon his chest, he was harshly rebuffed. Shanna herself refused no challenge and rose to this like a cornered feline. Beneath the wide folds of her skirt, she trod not lightly on his instep.
“Cease your worry, my dearest,” she crooned and leaned her weight upon his foot. “The banns are published.” She feigned worry in her frown. “But you seem somewhat pained. Aren’t you feeling well? Or is that old wound plaguing you again?”
Shanna pulled back slightly but not enough to give him ease, and her slender fingers went searchingly to the buttons of his waistcoat.
“How I have pleaded with you, Ruark, to take better care of yourself. You’re always so reckless.”