Passion's Joy (29 page)

Worry suddenly creased Cory's forehead. “I got my monthly today, did you?" "Yes."

The lie came without thought; the word yes just suddenly manifest. Joy first tried to ignore it as all other thoughts, but the question refused dismissal. Why had she lied?

"Well, I’m glad 'cause—well, I ain't never told you this before—but a while back, Mister Seanessy took me aside an' you ain't gonna believe it, but we get to talkin' 'bout monthlies. He knows all about it! He says the reason ours comes together on the full moon day is 'cause our souls is a touchin'! Ain’t that sweet? He says the night of the new moon is the one, and when I ask what

the heck he’s talking about, he just laughs and said it was the best night ‘cause it is a fortnight from the full moon. Like it’s good luck, I suppose. I know it sounds mighty fanciful but—"

Joy slowly sat up. "What did Sean say to you?"

"Well, you see, he said there's a disease going about. He said the first sign is a missed bleedin', and if’ n you or me miss, to come to him to get de cure. I was goin' to go first and second time you missed, but then with all that happen." She stopped, not wanting to bring Joy back to her grief this first time she managed to engage her. "So well, anyway, you never seemed sick, exceptin' that once, but I suppose you fine now. You don't feel sick, do you?"

Joy fought desperately to control herself enough to understand through the sudden turmoil of her horrified thoughts. Control herself long enough to ask, "When Cory? When did he say this to you?"

The air warmed with the promise of rain, and bursts of light competed with darkness as huge, billowy white clouds moved continually across the moonlit night. The humidity covered Ram with sweat as he ran north toward Orleans from the river road. One of the first things he always did after a voyage was run.

With effort, Seanessy tried to keep his mount to Ram's even pace. Four men rode behind, watchful when neither Seanessy or Ram bothered. Watchful, for word had it that certain parties in England had discovered that Lord Barrington had sold two of his mining interests, and had guessed the rest. Watchful because Ram truly ran on the razor's edge now.

Needing to get away, Ram had left Orleans to see to the purchase of the ships himself. Ships with crews were now docked in the bay. The small fortune was well spent. The ships would soon set sail for the dark continent under the pretense of filling their holds with the valuable and coveted Black Ivory, only to be captured by the Black Ghost and the Black Raven, both sailing the Atlantic winds. Once captured, Seanessy would sell the crews and see minor repairs made to the captured ships, which would eventually be sold at a sizable profit.

Ram finished the brief list and description of each ship, the repairs he thought should be made, things Seanessy would be seeing to tomorrow. Seanessy finished his own comments and there came a pause, almost awkward as it stretched with time.

They had not seen each other since the fateful night, and though there was no animosity whatsoever remaining between them—if anything, surviving that night only proved the tenacity of

their bond—Sean waited for word of the emotional content of Ram's past months away. None came, yet Sean knew it was there. Not only had Ram's men been quick to tell of the wild "Rampages," as they always called them, but Sean saw it in his friend's face. Harder and leaner, with months of a beard's growth on the devilish features, there remained a sharp edge to his face and manner not previously there. Sean also knew of Ram's unkind farewell to one of his mistresses in Boston, then the stop over on Devil's Isle, a place of barbarian cut throats, rot and whores, of Ram's wild tricks there. He knew the physical toll Ram's men had watched their captain put himself through. Anything and everything to extirpate feelings he did not want.

"Joy's guardian died," Sean said, at last filling the pause with the news.

Ram came to an abrupt halt, and the four men behind them reined in too late, trampling past and around them. With Ram's gaze locked to Sean's, he but motioned to the men to back away.

Ram didn't have to say anything, for the message was exchanged wordlessly. He didn't have to say he was sorry but not surprised; Sean knew that, just as Ram knew that if she had needed anything, Sean would have seen to it. He didn't have to say the last part either, except he wanted it spelled out.

"I will hear her name no more." His breathing was heavy, his gaze cold. "God's rest, but I want to forget her, Sean. She has brought me enough trouble."

Sean glanced up at the full moon. Clouds suddenly washed them in darkness as Ram started running again. It was not to be, he knew with a certainty he couldn't explain. Ram would be hearing from her soon, perhaps even tonight—the night of a full moon—when she, even in her grief, would not be able to escape what now should be clear. Sean pushed his mount ahead, riding alongside in silence.

Not minutes from this exchange, they were alerted to the sound of a rider ahead. The four men behind them, ever cautious, removed cocked and readied pistols.

Sean and Ram stopped as the night rider came into view down the darkened road. A small cloaked figure rode atop the magnificent horse that all recognized at wind's speed. Her hair and face remained concealed in a hooded cloak that spread like wings with her flight, and Ram drew a sharp breath, quickly stepping back into the shadows as she reined her horse to an abrupt halt upon the unexpected encounter in the road. She turned the nervous horse till she sided and faced Seanessy. The moonlight burst from behind the clouds, and Ram glimpsed the terror raging with tears in her eyes. Eyes, he saw, locked to Seanessy's; she didn't know he was there.

Joy stared at the man who had orchestrated her fate, changing it for life. Tears blinded her, and she trembled with violence as she raised her riding crop and sent it hard against Sean's face.

Ram started with the shock of it and watched the emotion blaze on Sean's face, none of anger, even as the crop raised a second time. Sean caught her arm, and she twisted with the rage of a wounded creature's last struggle. "I hate you! I hate you!" she cried, fighting the arms now lifting her onto his saddle, then binding her struggle completely. Helplessness bound the surge of violent fury, forcing her to collapse all at once into tears. "Why, oh God, why Sean? Why did you to this to me?'

Incomprehension mixed dangerously with other emotions as Ram watched this drama, and his gaze locked to Sean's. "Trust me," Sean called down to him. "You will know soon enough!"

Ram made no move at first, but then the light disappeared, and with it, rain started falling.

Followed by four men, Ram was gone.

The house Ram purchased for his temporary stay rested on the outskirts of Orleans' affluent Garden District. Surrounded by acres of magnificent gardens, the house was built from an architect's encounter with a roman temple at Nimes in southern France. Double, two-story-high houses, were joined by a spacious single story wing. The magnificent house had Romanesque pillars, heavy modillions and triangular roofs, all of which generated a powerful ancient and masculine feel. An unusual and magnificent home but one he felt suddenly glad was only temporary. Nothing, certainly not a house in this country, compared to Barrington Hall in England.

Normally, he had no trouble controlling the restlessness and ill-ease brought by the English intrigue, but of late he had begun realizing just how much it took from him, his life. He had thought the voyage—the ceaseless lull of waves, the salty taste of the air, sunsets made of glorious plays of color, light and form too beautiful to be imagined—would help. It had not, and yet as soon as he stepped into this house, dismissed all but one of the servants and dressed, he longed to return to his ship and to the sea. He longed to return to England.

The one place he could not go.

Dressed now after the run, after witnessing the drama of that unfathomable scene, he stood at the mantel of his study, staring into the dancing flames of the fire there. He rarely drank, having learned long ago that drink heightened his emotions rather than stifled them, but as his thoughts traveled in restless turns around the picture that was his life, he was drinking, and heavily.

He heard the heavy iron front gate swing open and stepped to the window to look out into the dark, rain-washed night. Tiers, one of his grooms, stood in the rain holding the gate open to Seanessy, and upon seeing whom Sean still held, he cursed low and passionately.

"Nay Sean— 'tis madness to bring her to me again!"

He did not want to know what created that scene he had just witnessed. He could not fathom it, and he could not guess. All he knew was that he closed his heart to her; he would not open it again.

Seanessy had explained to Joy only what he knew Ram would not. He had explained his motivation for forcing this fate upon her; he had explained the English intrigue, how what he had made happen would save Ram's very life. Even when she finally understood, Sean never asked her forgiveness, only her understanding of the deed. Once she had understood, words became superficial and none were then offered. Silently, he set her to the ground before dismounting himself and handing the reins to the waiting groom.

Joy stood staring at the great house numbly, vaguely aware of Sean escorting her up the stairs. The doors opened and they stepped inside. She saw nothing; she saw not the spacious foyer, the magnificent dark-green landscape paintings adorning the walls, the polished marble floor or the curious look of the maid as she took her wet cloak. She saw only him, for Ram stood in the hall staring back at her.

A wave of Ram's hand dismissed the maid, though his intense and cold gaze never left her. He wore gray English riding pants, a white silk shirt and a gray double-breasted vest carelessly left unbuttoned. With the crown of dark hair, now a beard and the ever so familiar patch, taken with the tailored clothes, he had the air of a ruthless and arrogant aristocrat. A look matched perfectly by the cold light of his gaze.

"I leave her to you," Sean said simply. "I'll wait elsewhere."

It seemed he had no choice. "This way," Ram said, leading her down the darkened hall to the west wing and into his study. She followed him quietly inside. After shutting the door, he left her standing, and he went to the brandy decanter. Their silence sang loud, broken only by the rain falling on the window, the crackle of the fire in the hearth.

So much had been buried in her grief, but upon seeing him again, an emotional swell rose through the numbness of her shock and grief. With the scorching memory of their night, she felt her heart pound, the color rise in her cheeks, a tremble start in her hands. Her eyes found the floor as

she tried desperately to stifle it, for she could not feel anything until this was done. No matter what, she could not feel anything.

Ram struck a kindling match to the flame and lit a lamp. Gold light filled the large room, and she saw it all in the sweep of her gaze. Like his ship's quarters, the house spoke its owner's name. Dark Dutch landscape paintings hung on the walls. The colors of the parted drapes, drawn by gold ropes, the oversized couch and chairs all matched with a dark forest-green damask. The huge desk was cluttered with open books, drafting paper and piles, a place where he obviously spent much of his time.

Ram waited now, cruelly aiding the silence. The last thing he wanted was a reminder of that night. Yet there she stood before him. Braids crowned her head, and she wore a simple dark skirt and blouse, a black frock over it because she was too poor to even own a mourning dress. He saw the shame color her cheeks, the tremble in her hands. It cost her much, too, and not able to wait any longer he asked, "What in hell's name have you come for?"

She never looked up but said with simply unalterable truth, "You must marry me."

She spoke so softly he almost hadn't heard, and he stared hard, held for but a moment incredulous. "Marry you?" Her silence confirmed what he simply could not believe he heard. "Marry you?" he repeated yet again in a low tone still marked with disbelief as he came to her. He towered over her, his expression one of mocking disbelief she didn't understand. She assumed, was certain in fact, she would not have to say the rest.

"I cannot guess what has prompted this; I thought even you understood that night," he finally said. "Let me make it perfectly clear." He took her face in his hands harshly forcing it up. "Men do not marry their whores. They pay them. And while I had your innocence, this was certainly unintentional and unknowingly, and I believe you were in fact paid in full."

He would never forget her eyes at that moment. So wide and translucent with unshed tears, filled with a horror each cruel word had brought, yet disbelieving, too. He was not able to meet the depth of emotion there, and he released her abruptly, turning away. "Now, can I assume you understand your position?"

She didn't know she was nodding, or that her legs were backing her away, that she was reaching for the door. She grabbed onto the brass door knob, clutching it tight as though needing something to hang on to. Seconds passed as she stared in horror at her hand that could not turn the knob. With a small gasp and using both hands, she finally managed and it turned.

"No!" He threw the glass hard against the bricks of the mantel. She pressed herself against the door and bit her hand to stop her cry as he came back to her, stopping, staring at her as before, yet now fear showing where only anger had been. "No Joy." He shook his head, desperately trying to deny the obvious that had finally reached his mind. "Say it isn't so!"

"Yes," she said with her own pain, "I carry your child."

He came upon her, staring at the awful truth in her frightened eyes until they lowered. Time stopped, as he reached back to untie the ribbons of her frock, then lifted it over her head. The frock dropped to the ground. She held perfectly still as he slowly unbuttoned her shirt. Calloused bronze hands parted it, and he stared through the fabric of her chemise at the changed fullness of her breasts. "No," he whispered. "God forbid, we had but one night—"