Passion's Joy (47 page)

Death would be a merciful void, as is losing oneself to the needs of others. Yet he took my charity work from me, too. I cannot keep going on like this; I must change my circumstances. This

is my plan: As soon as Ram returns, I will ask to leave for a visit home—a very long and extended visit, though I won't tell him that. Once I am home again and the prearranged time of departure nears, I shall send a letter home asking for a longer visit. Of course he'll say no, but it will take two to three months just for the exchange of posting. Then I'll repeat the measure, and again, and who knows how long I might gain? A year? More?

The thought of going home to Cory, Sammy and the Reverend—

Joy could not hold the thought and keep writing. Rising abruptly, hands to cheeks, she sought a distraction, willing herself not to cry again. Crying did so little good. Turning from her desk, she stopped, seeing a reflection through the doorway in the looking glass. An ancient pair of eyes, the oldest she had ever seen, stared back at her. She gasped, swinging to the door, but the figure was gone. Racing to the doorway, she caught sight of a candle turning down the dark hall.

"Oh, that must 'ave been ole Nanny Collins," Pansie told her the next day as they took a picnic basket to a pleasant spot by the stream in the woods.

"Who?" Joy asked as she spread the blanket. Pansie set their things on it, while Joy set little Sean on the loosened moist earth of the bank and, to his delight, presented him with a bucket and shovel.

"Ole Nanny Collins," Pansie repeated as she sat down. "Lady Barrington's old maid." "Lady Barrington's maid! Why, I never knew! She still lives here?"

"Aye. She has 'er own rooms on the third floor of the east wing. 'Ardly comes out. Only person who sees 'er really is Bertha, who brings 'er meals and tidies up. But I don't 'ave a farthing what she was doin' near milady's rooms, I don't."

"Hmmm." Joy's gaze thoughtfully fixed on Pansie. "How very queer. Ram knows, I suppose

—"

"Oh, that 'e does. Tis only decent to look after dependents, I know, but a lesser man than 'is

lordship would 'ave thrown the ole bat out." "Why do you say that?"

Pansie had learned to be as frank with Joy as she was with her own mother. "Well, 'tis common knowledge that the ole woman was always mean to 'is lordship. Bertha says she blamed 'im for 'er ladyship's passing. There were many a time when she spoke bad about 'im. And 'e so generous with 'er!"

"Oh?" Joy murmured watching Sean's industriousness as he filled the bucket, dumped it over, then with a happy cry, socked the neat mound. As always, Rake sat by his side— Rake having aspired to the unlikely and exulted position of little Sean's best friend. Despite Mrs. Thimble's unconventional use of a broom, Rake insisted on sleeping in the nursery, and recently Ram finally gave up coaxing Rake to go with him. "How sad," her thoughts came out loud, "she must have loved Lady Barrington very much."

"That's one way of looking at it," Pansie said, but with clear skepticism.

"I wonder why she was watching me, Pansie." It suddenly occurred to her. "Why, you don't suppose 'twas she who gave me Lady Barrington's cross, do you? I mean, if Ram never had it, she probably did!"

"Makes sense, I suppose, save the fact that the ole woman's not sweet enough for such a kind gesture. Though unless there's ghosts, I don’t see how else it ended up on your vanity."

Silence came between them as Joy thought of going to meet the old woman. She would ask for an explanation, and no doubt, she'd hear all about Ram's mother. What was she like? How did she survive?

"Milady? You don't imagine I'll ever be old, senile, stuck up in those rooms long after you're gone?"

Joy smiled and nudged Pansie playfully before digging into the picnic basket. The smile stopped suddenly as she lifted a huge plump orange from the basket. She held it up, staring at the fruit, remembering how he had once stopped a whole ship, nearly eighty men, and changed its course merely to satisfy her whim for fresh fruit. She held the poignant reminder of his tenderness and fought back the familiar swell of sadness. To have once thought she knew his love, to know now its loss...

Despite her efforts, the sadness shadowed the rest of the day, though she carefully hid it from Sean. After eating, she took Sean to the stables where they counted the number of kittens in the lofts. Between the picnic of mud pies and the stables, enough dirt covered the happy little boy to leave an inch-high layer of mud in the tub. Carrying him back to the great house, Joy’s gaze fortuitously came to rest on the fountain, and she smiled, hoping Mr. Cutler didn't catch them in their mischief.

Ram spotted the disaster from the hill, and every forward step of his mount magnified his unease tenfold. He heard her laughter mixed with the wild giggles of his son, as she stood knee

deep in the fountain, bending over to hold little Sean up. Little Sean's clothes and Joy's sun hat lay carelessly on the ground. She wore a pretty apricot cotton day dress, the skirts of which were hiked up and wrapped around her legs like boys' breeches. Her long hair, apparently once piled neatly on her head, now fell in chaotic disarray. He tensed with the quick and familiar effect, damning her and his desire, never suspecting it could be worse until suddenly, she stood up, and shielding her eyes from the rare appearance of the sun, she looked to see him mounted there.

He couldn't move at first; he just stared. Flirting dangerously with his control, the dress was wet, not only nearly transparent, but it clung to those slender curves like an extra layer of skin.

Unwilling, he imagined lifting the cloth from her skin...

While little Sean splashed wildly, pointing—"Fa! Fa! Fa!" Joy met Ram's intense disapproval and held her breath. He looked fierce with sudden anger, the fury accented by the three-week growth of beard, an ugly bruise on his cheek and what she always thought of as his pirate clothes; an open vest, breeches, boots, the jeweled dagger. The overwhelming physical presence of him made her breath catch, tension gripped her, replacing the play and laughter.

Little Sean tried to climb over the fountain edge to get to his father, and recovering somewhat, Joy managed to lift him up to Ram, before he was trampled under the hooves of that beast of his. As she lifted him over head, her breast rose up from the fabric of the gown, and his swift curse brought her eyes to him. Little Sean jumped excitedly in his arms, yet Ram could not even pass a greeting. "What's wrong?" she asked, trepidation softening her voice. "Are you angry that we're playing in the fountain?"

He looked away, chuckling yet without warmth. "Hardly. What has touched my temper is seeing your charms displayed in a way that's bound to have half my household trying to cuckold me!"

She lowered her eyes to her dress, and he swore when her arms shyly covered herself. "Here," he said removing his vest, handing it to her. "God's curse, girl, don't let me see you like that again." He reined his mount around, and with his son's laughter, he rode away.

A wave of humiliation and embarrassment washed over her, and for long minutes afterward, she stood barefoot and dripping wet in the fountain, numb and chilled by turns. He simply could not bear the sight of her. She met his disapproval at every turn, no matter what or who she was. How much animosity he must nurture if to meet her eyes brought him only agony?

As Ram could not bear the sight of her, she could not bear the thought, and she stifled it.

She wrung out her skirt and climbed out of the fountain, but as she walked back to the great house alone, the irrepressible longing filled her again.

How much love she had once had in her life! She had held Joshua's love for as long as he lived, Sammy's, Cory's and the Reverend's. True, she now felt a mother's love, and though nature's infinite wisdom made this love greater, it also was not enough. How she longed to be with her family, happy and laughing and ... loved again!

The longing followed her everywhere; every time she let her thoughts run, they ran home. Home. Yes, she would ask him tonight.

Joy anxiously waited through dinner with Pansie, Susan and Mrs. Thimble, all of whom had long since stopped protesting the highly unconventional practice of dining with their mistress. She was like no other; they knew that the first day and got used to it every day since. Of course, they cared for her, more than she'd ever guess, and had long since agreed among themselves that to know her was to love her. They avoided only one subject between them, that of his lordship and the obvious rupture between them. By unspoken agreement, it was never mentioned, though on nights like tonight, when he was at Barrington Hall and their mistress dined in the company of her maids, it pressed heavily on everyone's mind.

Ram saw his son to bed, then retired to his study with his secretaries for a long night's work. Joy waited for the chance to speak to him; but she refused to disturb him and besides, she wanted to speak to him alone and uninterrupted, all of which meant she had to wait until he retired. She waited in her rooms, trying to amuse herself with a book. She read the first page a hundred times before giving up. The wait seemed endless; she began pacing the floor, nervously phrasing and rephrasing the simple request, as though she was petitioning the House of Commons for a change of law.

It was after midnight when she finally heard the clink of his silver spurs ruining the polished floor as he walked down the hall to his apartments. A door opened and shut. She raced to her dressing table, splashed water on her face and tossed down the towel. Taking a deep breath, she quietly left

her room.

Ram began removing his clothes, thinking not of his day or his work but of the set of seven brawls he had had in these last two weeks. It was an old trick, one he tried the day he left, four

times in between, and twice before returning. First, select the tavern, not a seedy place but the next step up, a place where working class stiffs congregated after a long day's hard labor. Walk in, order a cherry wine, ask politely that it be put in a champagne glass, then insult the tavern master when he starts laughing. The better dressed one was, the quicker the brawl. The brawls were not easily won, for the challenge came by balancing force and restraint—the rule being no one could be permanently hurt. Before returning to Barrington Hall, he had closed two such taverns and might have gone for a third if it had had any effect in dissipating the force of his emotions.

Nothing helped; that was it. He felt lost and out of control, a restless ill ease because of it. The last person he wanted to see that night, any night, was Joy Claret. Yet a soft knock sounded on his door.

"Ram ... it's me. May I come in?"

He heard the trepidation in her voice, and he might have saved her by shouting to get the hell away from his bed chambers, of all places—especially after the two hours it took before the hard press of his groin eased from seeing her in the fountain—but that very trepidation cautioned him. He thought immediately of little Sean, and he moved quickly to the door.

He opened the door, took one look, and his hand tightened on the brass knob. She stood shrouded in the soft light of the hall lantern. The long hair was unbound and brushed smooth, the front ends held back by two thin silver barrettes. She wore only a nightdress, no robe, nothing but a single layer of rose silk held on straight shoulders by two thin strings. The flickering light silhouetted the every inch of the slender curves...

The last thing on Joy's mind was her nightclothes. Long ago her maids had conspired against her by getting rid of her two1 plain cotton night dresses, leaving her with the two dozen or so silk nightgowns. Each night one was selected, laid out for her, and since she never saw anyone in the hours of night, she never thought about it and could honestly claim she had never viewed the nightdress in the looking glass.

Ram's apartments, which included a sitting and dining room, a dressing room and his bedchambers, were the only set of rooms in Barrington Hall in which she had yet to venture. Nervously, she briefly cast her gaze behind him to his bedchambers. One glance was enough to tell her it was like no other room in the house. It seemed large enough to hold a small ball, smaller by feet than the downstairs hall. The huge hearth alone, occupying the far corner, could comfortably house three people. The colors were dark: shadows hid the room, for only the light from two

lanterns and the fire filled the enormous space. The furnishings were like nothing she had ever seen. They were heavy, polished dark wood and large, though sparsely populated throughout the room. Few things adorned the tops, for there was no space not taken by the piles of books and papers. At a glance, it seemed half of the library was in this room. The one painting she glimpsed was a seascape, a small ship battling an omnipotent raging storm.

Returning her gaze to him, she received the message there. With no explanation given, she felt the violence radiating in his tall muscled frame, somehow accented by the ugly bruise on his cheek, a scrape on his arm, and another, she saw, on his leg, all pronounced by the dark patch, the small scar disappearing into his thick dark curls.

He turned abruptly away and stalked to an open window, where he looked out into the black velvet night. Desire felt like a physical jolt through him, the effort to control it a battle between the will of his mind and the force in his body.

Every muscle strained as he forced away images of a rainy night and the terror he had brought to someone he loved more than life.

The message rang loud in their silence as she saw the constant anguish she brought him. The muscles defining the width of his bare back tensed dramatically, his strong hands clenched tight into fists on the windowsill and he seemed to be fighting for control. As she watched, her own eyes filled with his inexplicable pain, and she acted without thought, stumbling forward into his room. “Ram, Ram, what is wrong? Why do I upset you so?"

He heard the questions, but could not for his life answer, as still he refused to turn around. "How can you ask that?" he, too, spoke in questions. "Why would you come to me like this? Do you want me to force you? God girl, do you know how close I am—"