Passion's Joy (8 page)

"There's something about you," he finally said after a long study of an innocence so blatantly plain, "something past the breeding in your voice, that makes me truly believe you never considered this." He looked at the boys' clothes as he wiped the last tear from her cheek, his hand traveling all the way down the long rope of hair. He loved braided hair, long braids as Mary once wore. "You are a curious, if not alluring, mix. Tell me, how old are you?"

Like his touch, his stare was casual, yet assuming an intimacy that would have brought a blush to her cheeks with any other man. "Ten and seven," she finally whispered.

He would have guessed even younger, but then it was hard to tell with her in this costume. "What's your name?"

Panic lifted quickly to her eyes. "I can't say."

"Why is that? Do you think I'm unenlightened as to the activities that brought bounty hunters after you?"

She gasped in surprise, "You know?" He nodded.

Running slave ships was no more illegal than stealing slaves to freedom, and she saw how he had dealt with the former. On the heels of a frightened pause, she asked, "Are you going to turn me in?"

"Why should I? Is there a reward posted for you?'

The answer appeared in quick renewed panic. There was indeed a reward, not specifically for her by name but for the information leading to or the capture of anyone aiding and abetting runaway slaves. The sum of the reward was monstrously huge from her estimation, and as she thought of it, Ram felt her small form tense before those lovely blue eyes darted to the horses.

"Easy sweetheart," he warned. "You're not going anywhere, not until my, ah, curiosity is at least partially satisfied, and besides," he said to put her back at ease long enough to answer his questions, "Whatever that reward is, I'd wager I spend more on a pair of boots. I'm not motivated by want of coin; but even if I were, I can't fathom the sum that would be worth seeing a noose around this neck."

He reached out to trace a finger there, and she shivered lightly, then caught his hand to stop him. For a moment time seemed to stop as she studied the size and strength of his hand, the dark bronze color contrasting sharply in the paleness of hers. The effect of his touch was disarming and she was confused by it. Still feeling an odd lingering heat from the line he drew, she dropped his hand and covered the place on her neck.

This was not lost on Ram, and a small hint of amusement lifted on the handsome features. "Rest assured, I won't turn you into the, ah, so called proper authorities." "What will you do with me, then?"

"Not," he assured her, "what I might want. I'll send you home. You do have a home?"

She nodded. "And parents?"

"No, but I've a guardian, an uncle who's as good and kind to me as any parent might be." "I'm not convinced. What kind of guardian would permit this?" He indicated her clothes. "Oh, but he doesn't know!"

To his relief, this told Ram that her guardian was not the old drunk at the bar. Still, he said, "Ignorance is hardly an excuse."

"Well, no it's not, of course." She looked down. "But you see, Jos—my uncle—" she thought better than to name him—"is not well and his illness, I'm afraid naturally consumes his energies and attentions."

He noted the sadness springing quickly into the enchanting eyes as she spoke of this. "What kind of illness?"

Joy stared at the ground and hesitated, always finding the subject difficult to face. "He has consumption and the affliction leaves him weak and often bedridden. He's recovering, of course"— her tone lifted slightly, then dropped—"though it does seem to be taking a very long time. I'm told that such is often the case."

The intensity of the young girl's love for the man-whatever he was—as well as her concern over his health were plain to Ram, not just from her words but by her tone, softened with trepidation and fear. "So," he said gently, "he remains unaware of what you're up to?"

"Sometimes I think he suspects but then—" She looked away again, studying the distance as though to discover something. "Cory provides excuses for my absence, while the Reverend—" Instantly, her gaze shot to his face to see his reaction.

"I thought I already established I'm not going to turn you in," he replied easily. "Which brings me back to my original question in all this. Tell me your name."

"Joy Claret."

"Ah, Joy Claret. I might have guessed you'd have an unusual name." He laughed. "I can easily imagine why a woman would name her daughter that. Joy upon birth, yet all from a single night of passion, one owing to a bottle of claret."

He was right of course and she blushed. She had yet to decide if she liked her name or not. Her mother had been a language teacher at a prominent English girls' school, her father—Joshua's

older brother—a language teacher at Cambridge. Her mother, like so many women, died at her birth; her father died two years later in London's worst cholera epidemic to date.

Joshua told her many stories about them. He painted a picture of two hot-headed and eccentric people who, like all members of the Reubens family, were fanatics on the subject of religion—Methodist—and slavery. Joy was inordinately proud of her mother's role as a founding member of the prestigious anti-slavery society, the English Christian Women's Society of Abolitionists. She had also fought hard for the rights of women to speak publicly. There were no children from the ill-conceived union until the twenty-third year of marriage. Her parents went from one argument to the next without stopping to catch breath and her name told her the rest.

Ram marveled at the emotions playing in her eyes. "So," he continued, wanting to know more. "Tell me what your relationship is to that old drunk at the bar?"

Joy stared in sudden alarm. "You do know!"

When he nodded, she shocked him by throwing herself against him with clenched fists and begging, "Oh, please tell me you won't hurt him! He's done you no harm—"

Ram caught her arms to hold her still and said with tempered anger, "That man does not deserve your concern, which I can only surmise comes from some undeserved affection. Your guardian is bad enough, but I shudder to think how that man would come to your defense in there, drunk as he was. And he obviously has quite a lot to do with your very presence in there—as well as in the forest."

Each angry word lashed at her, causing a slight jerk of her head, obviously scaring her witless. Yet each time he witnessed her blatant femininity, the obvious fragility and vulnerability, his anger rose. He simply could not reconcile it with her previous actions.

His anger merely reduced her to sputtering imbecility, yet anger was not the cause of her fear. Her body melted against his with a treacherous enthusiasm that sent shock waves through her. His hands pressed the small of her arched back, holding her softer form against the hard muscles of his. The startling sensations that swept through her—vaguely reminiscent of the sweet warmth brought by her silly school girl fantasies—caused a tensing, not at all unpleasant. At the points where their bodies touched, a quivering of tingling excitement spread through her abdomen. Her reaction alarmed her with an instinctual, primitive force, a gasp. "Loose me," she begged breathlessly, attempting to pull away only to hear his capricious chuckle, warm, yet menacing as he caught her hands, holding them captive behind her back.

"I believe you insisted on the position. In turn I'll insist on the outcome."

Instantly, she tried squirming loose only to realize that this was absolutely the wrong thing to do. The shock of feelings, no less than his sharp intake of breath, stopped her instantly.

Ram had as many ways of kissing a woman as the sun had of shining. All depended on his mood, his inclination, his interest. His mood was dangerous and always capricious; there had been little inclination until the moment her small body fitted against him, giving an arresting hint of the curves hidden in the baggy boys' clothes. His interest had been only mildly intrigued, until the moment he touched her lips.

Fear molded her lips with a maddening vulnerability, while her sudden stillness said this was her first kiss. These two things, combined with the sweet moist taste of her mouth, formed an unexpected urge.

As his tongue swept skillfully in her mouth, she froze with panic and fear natural to a young lady with plenty of worldly, unchaste knowledge, but not a real kiss to her experience. Yet as his mouth molded to hers with the play of his tongue, she was stricken with a tremor, a warmth in its wake, making her dizzy, weak knees and limp again. Then she was melting as the kiss suddenly deepened.

He broke the kiss at last and stared for a long moment. She was unaware he had granted her freedom, so she remained intimately positioned in his arms, dazed by the kiss, the heat of his body, the roar in her ears and the pounding of her heart. Then, with a warm chuckle against her ear, he whispered, "Joy Claret, my surprising vixen, would you have me—a virtual stranger—lay you beneath this tree to take your virtue?'

Some small part of her mind that was still working managed an uncertain shake of her head, and warm, wonderful humor lifted into his gaze as he laughed.

Only then did she realize she was free. Gathering her dazed wits, she slowly stood to her feet and backed away. As long as he lived, he'd not forget the small hand touching her lips, the eyes wide with wonder and incredulity.

She backed right into Derrick.

"Yes? What is it?" Ram asked, as he stood brushing off his pants.

"You're not going to believe it, Ram." Derrick caught her at the shoulders. "Twas little wonder the bastard didn't break with a whip given what he knew. Sean finally said we seemed to just be making a mess of the floor, and he put Cane on it, with that Oriental thing he does. That

always works, but lord," Derrick laughed, "the bastard didn't have to give us all five names. One would have done it."

"Get to the point."

Derrick passed a meaningful glance down at the girl. "You better come inside, Ram. Suffice to say, this favor you're doing for your uncle has suddenly grown larger, even for you, as it seems to shed considerable doubt on the integrity of some of Orleans' finest families."

"Well," Ram chuckled. “I’ll be damned. A day full of surprises." The worst day of her life ended as he ordered Derrick to fetch Bart to escort the lady home, then gently caught Joy's arm and whispered into her ear just what he was likely to do if he ever found a girl dressed as a boy out without an escort. Color raced to her cheeks, and she was quite speechless, helplessly humiliated and immobile again. With plenty of laughter, Ram returned to the Red Barn.

* * * * *

along.

The hot Louisiana sun threw a bright ribbon of light over the river as Bart and Joy rode

Engaged in a furious and futile battle with gnats, Bart was proving to be an amicable and

talkative companion. She might add sweet-like, if his very size didn't preclude such niceties. He claimed to be Ram Barrington's personal valet! The thought of Ram Barrington needing help getting his boots on in the morning seemed patently absurd, though here Bart was in all his glory.

Joy understood the metaphor tired to the bone as she never had before and she suspected Libertine did as well. The humidity covered her with a thin sheen of perspiration; dirt and grime covered her form. She looked worse than ridiculous. Uncomfortable thoughts of her disheveled appearance were paired distressingly with the memory of Ram Barrington's gaze. She had never known vanity like this! To make matters worse, every time she thought of his threat, which was every ten paces it seemed, she felt herself blushing, rosy embarrassment traveling from the roots of her hair to the tips of her toes.

"Just who is he?" she asked in a whisper of wonder.

Bart chuckled at this. "Unless ye've got time for a book the size of the good one lass, ye'll find the man kin not be summed by words."

She believed it, yet she was also quite determined to discover all the reasons why she should dislike Ram Barrington. "Where's he from, then?"

"England, but 'e was raised for a long spell in me own country, on the Irish coast there in ilerian. 'Is family's titled to a piece of me island, ye see." *"She couldn't believe this. "He's titled?"

What Bart couldn't believe was the creature crossing the road, and he gasped, reining his mount to a halt, while simultaneously withdrawing a long-barreled, ivory-handled pistol. "What the hell—"

really."

"’Tis only an armadillo.,” Joy smiled, stopping Libertine as well. "They're quite harmless

Appearing unconvinced, Bart watched the creature move slowly across the road. He simply

could not get used to this dark swampy land, a place where steam rose from its very bowels as though it was that close to Satan's own hell. This place was full of fist-sized insects, gnats and mosquitoes—creatures not seen in his worst nightmare— dark skinned Negroes and girls dressed in boys' clothes—sweet as the last might be. He felt a good deal safer in England, even with the intrigue threatening Ram's very life and the countless assassins sent to kill him.

"Tis only the snakes one has to worry about," Joy explained as they started forward again. "Snakes!" Bart turned to the water, expecting to see slithering horrors there. Just that

morning he had been swimming with the others— "What?" He realized she asked him something. "You say he's titled?" she repeated in a question, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Aye, indeed he is: Lord Ramsey Edward Barrington III, Lord and Regent of Dreisbury, Compton and Cornington." Bart forgot to be afraid as he named the endless list of Ram Barrington's titles. "Ah." He smiled when he at last finished. "I see ye are properly surprised by it!"

Shocked might be a better word, for she simply could not imagine how Ram Barrington could possibly be a product of England's titled and privileged class. The Reverend had imparted many of his thoughts on the English aristocracy. For hundreds of years, he oft explained, England's been spawning her blue bloods, men who never had to lift anything heavier than a tea cup, men whose major concern was the quality of their tailoring, fops whose lives are oceans removed from their fellow countrymen ...