Passion's Joy (32 page)

Her arms were around his neck, and he broke the kiss to grab a handful of hair, gently forcing her head back to trail his moist lips along the soft curve of her neck to the hollow of her throat, then lower still. She gasped as his mouth took the rosy pink tip of her breast, teasing so lightly as to be torture. Wild shivers raced through her, and she grabbed his head, her fingers combing through the raven black curls, holding him against the rise and fall of her bosom. Then his hands glided over her, kneading her back and shoulders, sliding over the curve of her waist to caress her hips while his mouth and kisses urged with the increasing heat of his desire.

He brought her carefully to the edge of ecstasy, blind exultation, only to stop and slow his pace to start again, stretching passion's sanctuary to its absolute limit over and over again. The urgency remained throughout, growing, mounting with the hungry insistence of his hands, his mouth, as though by this single sweep of passion, he sought to exorcise her place in his heart.

She was flushed, feverish, trembling with languid consuming desire, not knowing she called his name over and over until he answered her cries with a kiss almost savage and the sound abruptly stopped. Coming over her, kissing still, his leg parted her for his entrance, discovering with a husky groan, a shelter, the blessed sweet recess of her body, spreading like warm molten ash to accept him—all of him, mind, body and soul, nothing less—and he thrust deep inside her.

He stopped with the intensity of pleasure so great it bordered on pain. Joined to her in the timeless way of a man and a woman, he brushed her face with kisses and slowly began the journey to passion's ecstasy. Never had he loved a woman as that night. It was slow and timeless, carrying her up to the cliff where his own passion soared, sustaining them both in certain agony. He listened to his name on her lips, watching the sultry darkening of her eyes until finally he sent her into rapture's sweet mercy and followed her there.

Timeless and slow, yet not long enough. Not nearly long enough. The dying light of the fire danced over them as they both lay still entwined in each other's arms. His hands ran over her flushed, love-soaked form as his lips brushed her forehead. He could not stop touching her, yet—

He desperately wanted her to fall into a merciful sleep. Her eyes were closed, her heartbeat spiraling slowly down. Just when he thought she had fallen asleep, he felt a sudden tensing, a slow

awakening thud of her heart, ever escalating. She opened her eyes and there lay her plea, a plea ever more desperate now.

He sat up, bringing her with him. He held her face and kissed her one last time. "Forgive me, my love," he whispered. "Forgive me."

The words brought a cry to her lips, one never uttered, for he suddenly snapped his fingers to the side of her head. Her head jerked reflexively, and in that instant, using the lightest force he knew, his elbow, not his hand, struck her head. In the same instant, he caught her unconscious form before she fell against the fur.

Ram lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. His only hope now was that she remain unconscious until the surgeon came, then throughout. She lay so still, a ghost-like pallor to her skin. He checked her pulse and breathing, both faint and low and distant. She would be out for some time yet. The last thing he did was brush his lips upon her forehead, drinking the sweetness of her, hesitating with the thought that it would be the last time.

If only—

He forced himself away and left the room. Halfway down the stairs, he looked up and saw the old woman standing at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at him. She wore a freshly starched maid's frock and held a tray. A brandy bottle was opened and already poured in a goblet. He had never seen her before. His servants were still new, and while she was unfamiliar, she could have been hired recently by his housekeeper while he had been away. Though his mind was upstairs, he noticed something strange. It was not just the woman's age, but—

A chill ran up his spine. "I thought I dismissed the servants for the night?" "I was told to bring you this."

Not given to irrational impulses, he dismissed the queer feeling, as he dismissed the maid. "Set it in the study."

She nodded and he came the rest of the way down, following the old woman into the study. She set it on the serving table, while Ram walked to the window and stared out, quickly lost to his troubled thoughts.

"Sir?”

Startled, he turned to see she still stood there, holding a drink out to him. "It will ease the pain."

"Is it that obvious?" He took the drink from her, swallowed it whole, adding distractedly, "I dare say, nothing will help me tonight."

"A soul never knows what the very next moment brings."

He looked up, hearing the words, innocent yet not, but for some reason his mind focused on the old woman's gaze shining in the darkness. Cat eyes caught in the moonlight. She looked so old, ancient... No one would have hired her. Had she come seeking work, destitute and impoverished, the housekeeper would have given her a pocketful of money and sent her on her way. Yet here she was, handing him a drink after he had dismissed everyone ... dismissed everyone ... dismissed—

"Who ... are ... you?" he asked much too slowly. He raised the glass to examine it, thinking of assassins and plots and intrigues, but his hand felt like lead, lifting much too slowly. "Who .. .are you?" He stumbled to catch her, but the room spun suddenly and he fell. "Nooo—Who? ..."

"Just a old woman with visions."

Visions, visions, visions, echoed in his mind as he struggled desperately to get up. Darkness burst in his head, and he collapsed, moving no more.

The old woman considered the fallen man. Some men would of died of it! He should be out at least the space of three days; three days, Joy Claret, all I can give you.

The old woman turned away. After she roused the girl and got her on her way, this long day that started with that awful vision was through—finished at last. Three days was plenty, for if anyone knew about escaping, it was the girl, Joy Claret. The girl who loved freedom.

* * * * *

Ram woke to see a winter's sun streaming through the small portholes aboard Sean's ship, the St. Mary, docked in Boston after months of pirating the ill-fated slave ships. Only Sean would keep quarters like this. The good-sized room was vaguely reminiscent of an Arab sheik's harem, certainly put to the same purpose. Large and small silk pillows, done in a riot of rainbow colors: orange, pink, maroon, green and splashes of blue filled the entire space. There were no furnishings, save for one long and low table. He became aware of the perfumed scent surrounding him, and he

closed his eyes, thinking of another. He could easily sleep another two days after last night, a night spent celebrating the Black Ghost's victories.

"Ah, the sleeping prince has awakened at last."

Ram's gaze drew lazily to Sean, sitting at the table cross-legged like an Indian. The amusement on Sean's face told him there would be no more sleep, though the fresh scent of coffee on the table seemed an adequate reward for the effort of rising.

Sean watched as Ram carefully tried to disentangle himself from the two ladies without waking them. "One wasn't enough, my lord?"

Standing now, Ram gave the ladies a moment's consideration before finding a seat at the table. "Blast all but I can't remember one of them, let alone the two there. And I don't have drink as an excuse." He had not touched a drop of liquor since the poisoning nearly four months past. "A hundred faceless women save—"

"One." Sean finished for him, pouring the coffee. "No doubt she will be found any day

now."

Sean thought of the assassination attempt Ram had recently survived, thwarted by none

other than Rake, who gave warning of the two men hiding in wait for Ram on one of his runs, and just in time too. And though Ram thought the old woman who had poisoned him on the last night anyone, anywhere had seen Joy Claret was of a different thing, he was not convinced. In any case, Ram's uncanny luck simply would not last forever; Joy must be found, forced to marry and the child—God, make that child survive—must be christened and named to the title.

"Yes," Ram whispered, taking his coffee to stand at the porthole. "She will be found." His motivation for wanting Joy found was entirely different than Sean's. "Well, now that this thing is finally through, and once Joy is found, I will finally be returning to England." The favor for his uncle was over, or at least the end had begun.

Seanessy had returned yesterday from an absence of many months. Word would soon reach the Orleans' port that the mysterious Black Ghost and Black Raven had captured the first eight of the ships—ships that never even reached the Dark Continent. It was now clear that not only would there be no return on their investment, but the investment itself would be lost. The five investors would be devastated. There would be some selling of property in the desperate preparation to make good the bank notes due soon. Only, unbeknownst to them, Ram owned their banknotes. Ram had also taken an added precaution: he bought up the excess Georgian and Mississippian cotton,

planning to flood the market this season and depress the price. Additionally, with his connections in England, he had made it almost impossible for any of the five planters to sell. They would think Ram was a victim of the Black Ghost as well, at least until it was too late.

In another month, maybe sooner, it would be clear though. For as it was he who owned the bank notes, and one by one they would discover the fact. Where the banks might have shown leniency, he would show no mercy. Charles Simone might be able to hang on for a while. True, he could, sell some acreage and Negroes and probably make the first payment. Yet with no cash from his cotton crop, he too would soon fall. So, the favor neared completion; his agents would see the rest finished.

"I know how close she is to delivery now. Two months ... the knowledge is agony ..." Ram's voice was laden with emotion.

Sean had reassuring words on his lips—how a thousand dollar reward would surely bring the information within a day or two—and just as he was about to speak, a knock interrupted. Sean's man Tim entered with an excited Bart, and Sean laughed, for words were not necessary. The gleam in Bart's eyes said it all! Joy had been found at last.

Thomas Spiegel, the Reverend Archibald Cox's undersecretary, was unused to running, yet as he flew over the two long miles from town to the church, his thin, frail frame drew on stamina he never imagined he owned. He raced up the steps and through the doors, down the aisles of the empty seats and finally came to a stop at a far door that marked the Reverend's study.

The Reverend was in the midst of a conference with Drew Paterson, the famed Negro Reverend, outlining the speech to be given before the United States Senate next month. The two men were engrossed; the opportunity the address offered would not be wasted. The abolitionist movement was beginning to swell, a small swell but one that, with God's grace, would burgeon with the passion of the hearts and minds of people across the land. The address was sure to cause an uproar. At a time when many people, most Southern senators included, refused to believe that the mind of a Negro could be uplifted from their imposed ignorance, the Reverend Paterson came as a shock. He appeared mild at first, owning a gentleness and serenity that transcended racial hatred and bigotry time and again. Until he stepped on the pulpit. With words of fiery brilliance and elegance, his God-given gift of oration, the Reverend Drew Paterson swept people to their feet with tears, cheers and impassioned cries for justice and God's will to be done. Subsequently, those souls

on the other side of the issue were raised to their feet with fists clenched, waving madly. A Southern newspaper, laying across the Reverend Cox's desk, explained the phenomena of Drew Paterson by claiming that he was a white man disguised as a Negro, and as outrageous as the claim was, it came as no surprise that many people believed it.

When the knock sounded, the very urgency of the rap solicited both men's attention. "Come in," the Reverend Cox said.

Young Spiegel opened the door, breathless and appearing afraid. "I came as soon as it was brought to my attention. I saw them myself—the posters."

The Reverend's bushy white brows drew together. "Posters?'

"For Joy Claret—Miss Reubens. They ask for information leading to her whereabouts. They describe Reverend Doddered, Mr. Freeman and Cory, even her horse. They're everywhere!"

"A reward?”

"One thousand dollars!" Spiegel cried.

"Good Lord," Reverend Cox whispered, as his gaze blankly swept his desk. The Lord Barrington's men had been to see him twice, having traced Joy and her family to Boston. Then Lord Barrington himself had appeared. He had heard so much about Ram from his uncle, Admiral Byron, then much from Doctor Reubens before his death. He knew all about Lord Barrington's bold and courageous scheme that was bringing ruin to the five financiers of those slave ships. He knew so much about the man, and yet nothing could have prepared him for meeting him in person.

As he presented his case, Lord Barrington's calm and civility concealed a dangerous power, and the case was remarkably persuasive. He said it was too late to harm the child she carried and his duty now was to marry Joy and see the child raised. If it was her welfare he was concerned for "then let me assure you, sir, she will see no harm from my hand. Indeed, I would bestow upon my wife the kindness, care and consideration of the most solicitous of husbands. I shall not waste time enumerating the benefits of marrying into either my station or fortune, you can imagine that yourself. ..."

Yet, he could not betray Joy. He had tried to convince her, but just mentioning Lord Barrington's name brought fear and panic into her eyes. She refused to listen to the arguments, wanting only the secrecy and safety of hiding until he gave her up for lost. This, Lord Barrington said in no uncertain terms, would not happen, and his parting words shocked the Reverend, reminding him of what was often said about Lord Barrington—a gentleman until the moment it