Passion's Joy (31 page)

There came a drawn pause, during which she knew Ram considered the unpleasant possibility.

"You wear your blessed luck like an iron wall," Sean said, "and aye, no doubt you will escape for some time yet. But how long before a coward's bullet finds your back? Besides your death," his voice lowered with cold determination, "there is only one thing that can stop this. I have laid her bare and vulnerable at your feet. And, consider, my lord, what if the child doesn't escape the madness? Between you and I, what chance could the child have of playing out the terror of this curse?"

Ram's fist slammed the mantel with rage. "I will not have it! Measure my words Sean; I chose death over the chance. The future is but a darkness ahead, the shape it will take cannot be guessed. I will take no chance; there will be no child!"

"She is not like any other! You can't do this to her!"

Ram's bitter laughter stopped him dead. "No, she is not like the others. That's your mistake and her misfortune."

"We shall see. Fate has been with me thus far—"

"Fate is naught but the will of men, and by God Sean, my will be done!"

"And by God's grace, I pray that you fail." Sean left then; she heard his footsteps, an angry slam of the door. Ram remained at the mantel, she discerned by the clink of his glass.

Do not panic!

She lay perfectly still, stifling tears and trembling. Stifling dizziness and sickness. Stifling the cold terror threatening to reduce her to hysterics.

Do not panic!

If the Reverend had taught her only one thing, it was that panic was one's worst enemy in danger. She swallowed it and tried to quiet the pounding of her heart with deep even breaths.

She could not persuade him! She could not fight him! Nay, his will was the monster of his determination, his strength its weapon.

Oh God, what to do? What to do?

Wits darlin', wits. That's the key to any hopeless situation. All ye got to do is use your head.

Ask yourself, what has to happen to get me out of this? Then make it happen. Wits pitted against strength, or pistols even, wins time and again.

What has to happen to get me out of this? She must escape, put distance and time between them! But how? How to make it happen?

When nothin' comes to mind quick enough, then you gotta stall. Stall any way you can: Fall on your knees beggin', pretend you're a dog, mad like, start talkin' in tongues to your dear dead aunt—anything! And this darlin', this is the queer thing—so often the solution comes in the stall.

Stall! She must stall…

She abruptly realized Ram stood over her, and she opened her eyes. "You fainted. Are you all right now?"

She nodded.

"Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?"

She shook her head and sat up, holding the quilt over herself. "Did you call for the surgeon?"

"Yes. My men are looking for him." He went to the brandy decanter and poured her a healthy portion, handing it to her. "It might help—"

She declined, for if wits were all she had, she would not dull them.

"I heard what Sean said to you," she began quietly in a feigned tone of defeat. "If he cannot dissuade you, then I cannot hope to. I will not fight you. Besides," she said with a disarming sigh, "I am too tired to fight."

Ram was studying her, she knew, but his gaze revealed nothing. How maddening he was!

How could that gaze speak streams of poetry, while now, when it was most important, his stare was a silence as stony as a deaf mute.

Minutes ticked away in this silence as she searched frantically for a stall. The physical elements of panic conspired against her; oddly, all she could think of was Libertine—Libertine, who gave wings to her flight, who always carried her at wind's speed from danger.

"This has happened before? I mean has another woman—"

"Yes, though normally I see that precautions are taken. There have been women, though, who have used it as a ploy to solicit a proposal. When that failed, each ah, 'lady'," he drawled the title with indifferent scorn, "settled easily for financial compensation."

"They lost their child for monies?"

The shock in her voice reminded him of the nature of her heart. "Women can be as mercenary as men, Joy. That didn't surprise me. What surprised me was that they were each willing to bear such a child in return for my title and fortune."

The words spun clear in her mind and she knew. Knew, for the heat in her palm—ever present—began pulsating to the pounding of her heart. She turned away, holding the searing palm of her hand.

"Well," she began in a voice barely trembling, "what you call mercenary, I call fair. You insist I do this thing; then I, too, would ask compensation."

She half thought he could hear the throbbing pulsation of her whole being now, it felt so loud in her mind. The silence stretched endlessly. If she had but met his gaze, she might have been cautioned about the wisdom of this ploy, but her back kept to him as she waited. Finally she heard the clink of glass set to table and his strides to his desk. A drawer opened and a pad was removed, a quill dipped.

"Name your price."

Not having anticipated this, she stumbled uncertainly. What sum could she name? "What of the others? What was their compensation?"

"Oh no, Joy. That's not how this game is played. Like the others, you will name your sum, and like the others"—the meaning of his words were plain—“I will offer the same advice.

Whatever sum your small mind conjures, double it, then triple that. For I shall give you what you ask."

It amused him! The whole sordid scene, the petty greed of women's minds, was a source of amusement to him! Oh, how she'd love to slap that look from his face, to spit back at him! To scream that his entire fortune doubled, then multiplied thrice would not be enough!

"Well," she nonetheless proceeded, swallowing the fury that was liberating in its force. "A thousand twice, then thrice is six thousand—enough for my family and I to live in relative prosperity for always."

Amused but with no hesitation, Ram wrote the sum down and raised the bank note to her. "No," she shook her head, this being her trump card. "I must have bills." She looked away

and whispered in a pretense of embarrassment. "A banknote of that sum from you would be awkward to submit, to say the least."

"You should get used to the... ah, awkward consequences of accepting a man's money. I'm sure you could do a good deal more than just relative prosperity."

She jumped to her feet and cried, "How dare you? I would remind you it is your child I carry, it is your deed I must do and it is your history that has brought this upon me!"

The lazy indifference of his gaze sent her trembling with fury, pure, liberating and real. She spun away to control herself and said the last: "I know... know not to ... to trust you. I would be paid before I do this. Before, and not afterward."

She waited, her entire being caught up in the prayer that this scheme would work, that he would have to wait until the morrow when the bank opened. Minutes and minutes filled in silence.

"Very well," he said at last. "The sum can be got on my ship. I'll go myself. You will wait until I return and, Joy," he finished as he moved to the door. "Just as you say you no longer trust me, I no longer trust you."

With that he left, shutting the door behind him, and making his meaning plain, he locked it. She silently cursed the fortune that would give him access to such a sum, but with luck, it was good enough. She heard him call quick orders to a servant. The front door opened. She ran to the window. Ram waited in the rain until a horse was brought. She watched him mount and leave.

The groom left the heavy iron gate open. One less passage to worry about.

She ran back to the door, fumbling to remove a hairpin left from her hasty change from night clothes to skirt, though the letter opener on his desk would have done just as well, she realized. It was an ancient means of escape, but the reason hairpins and locks have been closely linked for the ages was that it works; she knew it worked. She stuck it in the lock, jiggling it. The lock clicked and the door opened. She raced down the empty and dark hall, finding the foyer empty. Tiptoeing, she quietly opened the front door, shut it and raced down the stairs into the rain.

There was no thought past running, running from the death of his will. She flew down the lane, her boots splashing in the puddles, holding her sides tight against the sudden cold and rain. Dashing through the gate, she came to a sudden dead stop.

He was waiting for her. Dismounted, with reins held in folded arms and rain falling unnoticed upon his person, he stood there waiting.

She backed away shaking her head, stopped finally by the cold metal of the iron wrought fence. He approached. The rain hammered against the ground, a loud backdrop for the gentleness of

his voice as he said, "If only you were like the others." His gaze bore into her. "I never believed it, for I know you, I know you Joy; I have touched your soul."

Her mouth formed the word "no" but no sound came forth as a violent surge of determination sent her suddenly into his arms. He lifted her, holding her instinctively as her thin arms clung tightly to his neck. "No! Don't do this! Please—"

He closed his eyes, and for a long moment he just held her tight. She felt the restraint and rigidity in the hard lean body holding her, the inexplicable warmth enclosing her in a momentary illusion of security and protection. She felt the force of his emotions, so heavily laden with grief and regret. It was a moment of escape, one that with blind desperation she sought to prolong by bringing her head back to touch her lips to his. It was as if a hot white burst of lightning struck the sky, the unleashing of it, and he lowered her to the ground only to get a better hold on her head as his mouth took hers with unrestrained force. There was no end of it. Her desperation, their violent warring emotions forced him to throw her this one lifeline. The cold sting of rain could not wash the wild ravishment of that kiss, the surge of mindless desire like a rushing onset to obliterate what must come, what would come later.

She still clung to him when his mouth left hers and he bent to lift her to his arms. With a soft vicious curse, he carried her back to the house, kicked the door shut and quickly brought her up the stairs and down the hall to his bed chambers.

Any other time Joy would have found herself beholding the most beautiful room she had ever entered. It was spacious and warm. An enormous fire crackled in the hearth, throwing warmth and dancing shadows about the room. The furnishings were dark, prominent and heavy. The colors were not the muted shades found in most homes but rather the rich and dark shades of green and blue, the colors of the sea that he loved. Dark blue velvet drapes hung on the four poster bed and framed the windows where rain pounded noisily, unceasingly. A magnificent tapestry, depicting Diane's mythological hunt, hung on the wall above the bed. A thick, dark blue and green, patched velvet quilt covered the bed. A bear skin rug spread before the fire place.

Yet she noticed none of it, for her heart pounded and her pulse raced with a potent mix of fear, desperation and panic, all of which blended to meet the intense desire in his gaze.

His hands wrung the moisture from her hair as he stared down. She didn't know pain and helplessness marred her features, that his breath caught with the utter vulnerability of her

desperation, that she was trembling with it, until he caught her small cold hands in his. "Joy," he whispered passionately, "it will not change anything. I give you less than this night. One night—"

"Please—"

Hesitation flashed in the dark desire of his gaze, but only briefly before he lowered his head to take her mouth. She was but a night removed from innocence, and he might have wanted to have her slowly, to lead her gently to desire's call, yet such could not be the case. It was an act of desperation for both of them, and he knew the moment his lips came to hers that he could not stop or even slow the avalanche of hungry, terrible need. It was the same kiss given in the rain, deep, plunging, devouring, as he molded her soft wet form against the swelling hardness of his body.

She wanted the bruising pain of his mouth, that warmth sweeping into the cold dead of her limbs as he lifted her into his arms and brought her to the heat before the fire. They separated only as he left her to remove his own clothes, and she turned toward the flames, hiding her face in her arms, but from what she knew not. She realized he had unlaced her wet boots only as they came off, then her stockings. With that impervious nakedness, he came to lay beside her on the soft fur of the rug, keeping some distance as his hands worked the buttons of her blouse for the second time that night. Color rose on her face as he parted this. She closed her eyes and held still as his hand traced a single line over her breasts beneath the fabric of her chemise, cupping the fullness there, measuring its softness against the hard palm of his hand before reaching behind her to remove the skirt. He pulled these off and tossed them away, returning to unlace, then slip her chemise from her shoulders. This slid off her form but slowly, for the unveiling brought him pleasure and a certain cruel agony as well.

He stared, leaving her untouched, shivering and cold and so obviously afraid. Gone was the girl who had awakened to passion in his arms. The new rounded fullness to her slender form made her a woman and so much more beautiful because of it. His hand strayed to the still flattened stomach, lingering there with a soft curse. A curse because no other words could give meaning to what they were doing.

She opened her eyes as his strong calloused hands cupped her face and he was staring into dark pools of pain, pleading. "Oh yes, my love." He bit her lip, then caught the lone tear on her cheek. "I give you this respite, brief and ill-begotten, it is but one filled only with my love."

He kissed the trembling corners of her mouth, then swept deeply and insistently, filling her with the taste of brandy and desire as he gathered her cold form against his warmth. The shocking

heat of him brought her from a cold winter snow to lay against a searing desert sun. His arms crossed over her back to draw her even closer, molding her small form to him. Her body instantly absorbed the life-giving heat of him, as pure sensations chased the dark future far, far away.