“No need to bully the man, Mister Hicks,” she gently rebuked.
The sound of her voice, low and honey smooth, assured that the prisoner’s attention was fully upon her. Shanna walked slowly, completely, deliberately around him, evaluating him as she would a prize animal. His eyes, an unusual amber hue flecked with golden lights, followed her in amused patience. The enveloping black cloak and the wide panniers Shanna wore beneath her gown left much to the imagination, allowing no hint of her age or figure to show forth.
“I have heard the dowagers of court practice strange pleasures,” he remarked, folding his arms across his chest. “If there be truly a woman beneath that garb, I see little proof of it. Your pardon, milady, but the hour is late, and my mind is dulled with sleep. For the life of me, I cannot determine your purpose here.”
His smile was only slightly mocking, but there was open challenge in his voice.
Purposefully, Shanna moved closer until she was sure the man could detect the fragrance of her perfume.
The first assault was launched.
“Watch h’it, milady,” Hicks cautioned. “He’s a cagey one, ’at he is. He’s killed one filly and her wit’ babe. Beat her to a bloody pulp, he did.”
Pitney strode to a place in the light behind his mistress, protectively near. His immense size loomed menacingly in the small confines of the cell and dwarfed those about him. Shanna saw only a flicker of surprise in the prisoner’s eyes.
“You’ve come well escorted, milady.” His tone was no less audacious. “I’ll be careful to make no sudden movements lest I should err and cheat the hangman of his fee.”
Ignoring his jibe, Shanna withdrew a silvered flask from the folds of her cloak and held it toward him. “A brandy, sir,” she said softly. “If you care for it.”
Slowly Ruark Beauchamp stretched out a hand, covering the slender fingers with his own for a brief moment before he drew the decanter away. He smiled leisurely into her veiled face.
“My thanks.”
On any other occasion Shanna would have snubbed the man for his boldness, but she remained cautiously silent. She watched him as he removed the cork and raised the flask toward his lips. Then he paused and tried again to make out her features through the black lace cloth of her veil.
“Would you share it with me, milady?”
“Nay, Mister Beauchamp, ’tis yours to enjoy at your leisure.”
Ruark sampled a long draught before sighing in appreciation. “My gratitude, milady. I had almost forgotten such luxuries exist.”
“Are you accustomed to luxuries, Mister Beauchamp?” Shanna queried softly.
The colonial shrugged in reply, lifting a hand toward his surroundings. “Certainly more than this.”
A noncommittal answer, Shanna thought derisively. After three months in the place, the man should have been more welcome for her company. She withdrew her hand from beneath her cloak again, this time offering him a small bundle.
“Though admittedly your days are numbered, Mister Beauchamp, there is much that can be done to ease your circumstance. There is this for your hunger.”
He stood without accepting it until Shanna was forced to open the large napkin herself, displaying a small loaf of sweetened bread and a generous share of tangy cheese. He stared at her curiously, making no move to take it.
“Milady,” he implored her, “I do desire this gift, but I am wary, for I cannot guess what you wish in return, and I have naught to offer.”
A shadow of a smile crept across Shanna’s lips. Gazing at her directly, Ruark thought he glimpsed a soft mouth curving beneath the gauzy lace veil. It stirred his imagination no small amount.
“Your ear for a moment and your consideration, sir, for I have a matter to discuss,” Shanna replied slowly, placing the food on a rough-hewn table standing near his cot.
Resolutely, Shanna faced Mister Hicks, and her command was quietly spoken but firm.
“Leave us now. I wish a private word with this man.”
She was aware of the prisoner’s aroused interest. From beneath dark brows, he observed them all with close attention, and with quiet patience he waited, like a cat before a mousehole.
Pitney loomed nearer and worry marked his broad face. “Mistress, are you sure?”
“Of course.” Her slender hand indicated the portal. “Escort Mister Hicks from the cell.”
The portly gaoler sorely protested. “The bloke’ll wring yer neck if’n I allowed h’it!” Who would authorize his purse if some harm befell the wench? He pleaded, “I daren’t, milady.”
“ ’Tis my neck to chance, Mister Hicks.” Shanna cut him short and, as if she read his mind, added, “And you’ll be paid just the same for your services.”
Hicks’s bloated cheeks flushed almost purple, and his stuttering lips seemed to flutter in his expelled breath. He threw a wary glance toward the prisoner. Then, with an odorous sigh, he secured the lantern above his head. Taking up a stub of a candle from the rough table, he touched it to the flame in the lantern.
“He’s a fast one, liedy,” he warned direly. “And ye keep yer distance. If he makes a move towards ye, call out.” His glare came close to piercing the colonial. “Try anything, ye ruddy bloke, and I’ll see ye swing ’fore the sun is up.”
Muttering sourly to himself, Hicks strode out. Pitney remained, standing stock still, indecision etching the deep furrows of his brow.
“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.