Read Online Passion's Joy by Jennifer Horsman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Horsman
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way like a paper doll's. He caught her back into his arms and brought her beneath the shade of a willow tree. He sat down against the trunk, fitting her beneath his outstretched legs, and for a long while he just stared. The dramatic evidence of just how shaken it left her only fueled his anger.
"That show obviously has upset your, ah, delicacies is it?" he asked.
Joy glanced up to meet the anger in his cold gaze. Now, all her fear rose from the single dread that he would force her to return to that nightmare. It was all she could do not to beg.
"If that scene reduced you to tears and trembling, sweetheart, imagine this," he said evenly. "Imagine a young girl on some ill-conceived mission of charity, donning boys' clothes in a ridiculous attempt to disguise her... oh so obvious sex. Imagine that girl entering an establishment like this." He motioned to the Red Barn.
"Now, sweetheart," he almost whispered, catching her thin arm in his hand, as if he needed more of her wide-eyed attention. "Imagine the patron's delight, nay excitement, upon discovering this young girl's sex. Imagine this girl being thrown backside to a foul smelling floor—"
She covered her ears, "Nooo ..."
"Yes." He caught both her arms to force her to hear the rest. "Imagine the line forming, a line that would not stop when the girl finally, mercifully passed out. A line that would only stop when there was enough blood between your thighs to convince the most dull-witted among them that you were indeed quite dead!"
She tried desperately to deny this vision, and while she shook her head almost frantically, the graphic details he drew could neither be escaped nor ignored. It was the straw that broke the camel's back, seeing not what could have happened but what probably would have happened. That nightmare was the last awful end to the worst day of her life. Emotionally and physically exhausted, she collapsed with the last tears, now drained even of the burden of caring what he would do.
Exhaustion was her only explanation for what happened next. She didn't know how it happened; perhaps she had collapsed into his arms or perhaps those arms had guided her there, but suddenly she was folded in his embrace with her face buried in his chest, crying softly.
She had never before experienced the comfort of a man's arms, save for Joshua, the Reverend and Sammy. It was even more odd that he—a man who had dealt her nothing but the most punishing blows—was the one providing her comfort. Yet, even through her dazed wits, she intuitively grasped that he was no longer going to harm her, that while she still had reason for fear and uncertainty, his anger had diminished as she had broken.
She felt her emotions quiet somewhat, and her thoughts struggled to answer the most pressing question: Who was he? He sat like a king on a totalitarian throne with a stream of men at his beck and call: huge, mean, terrifying men that included a whole band of hardened sea pirates. He even had the attentive deference of their leader. She had witnessed his great strength and aura of command when dealing cruel and harsh justice to the evil of running a slaver. This demonstrated such an unlikely and unexpected nobility of purpose, the thought sent her into a quick tumult of confusion.
To say he was not like anyone she had ever known or heard of or even read about was an understatement. He seemed a hundred times more than most men, stronger not just physically but also of will, and at least that much as sharp. She did not think he would be received in any house she knew; yet he had an aristocratic bearing that made Louisiana's grandest look as dull and impoverished as the Reverend's peddler's hat.
These thoughts registered but dimly on her mind, waiting to crystallize and grow with the mystery of Ram Barrington. What was not so vague was the gentle stroke of his hand through her hair, that inexplicable warmth of his touch and his scent: clean, fresh and masculine. The increasingly
"That show obviously has upset your, ah, delicacies is it?" he asked.
Joy glanced up to meet the anger in his cold gaze. Now, all her fear rose from the single dread that he would force her to return to that nightmare. It was all she could do not to beg.
"If that scene reduced you to tears and trembling, sweetheart, imagine this," he said evenly. "Imagine a young girl on some ill-conceived mission of charity, donning boys' clothes in a ridiculous attempt to disguise her... oh so obvious sex. Imagine that girl entering an establishment like this." He motioned to the Red Barn.
"Now, sweetheart," he almost whispered, catching her thin arm in his hand, as if he needed more of her wide-eyed attention. "Imagine the patron's delight, nay excitement, upon discovering this young girl's sex. Imagine this girl being thrown backside to a foul smelling floor—"
She covered her ears, "Nooo ..."
"Yes." He caught both her arms to force her to hear the rest. "Imagine the line forming, a line that would not stop when the girl finally, mercifully passed out. A line that would only stop when there was enough blood between your thighs to convince the most dull-witted among them that you were indeed quite dead!"
She tried desperately to deny this vision, and while she shook her head almost frantically, the graphic details he drew could neither be escaped nor ignored. It was the straw that broke the camel's back, seeing not what could have happened but what probably would have happened. That nightmare was the last awful end to the worst day of her life. Emotionally and physically exhausted, she collapsed with the last tears, now drained even of the burden of caring what he would do.
Exhaustion was her only explanation for what happened next. She didn't know how it happened; perhaps she had collapsed into his arms or perhaps those arms had guided her there, but suddenly she was folded in his embrace with her face buried in his chest, crying softly.
She had never before experienced the comfort of a man's arms, save for Joshua, the Reverend and Sammy. It was even more odd that he—a man who had dealt her nothing but the most punishing blows—was the one providing her comfort. Yet, even through her dazed wits, she intuitively grasped that he was no longer going to harm her, that while she still had reason for fear and uncertainty, his anger had diminished as she had broken.
She felt her emotions quiet somewhat, and her thoughts struggled to answer the most pressing question: Who was he? He sat like a king on a totalitarian throne with a stream of men at his beck and call: huge, mean, terrifying men that included a whole band of hardened sea pirates. He even had the attentive deference of their leader. She had witnessed his great strength and aura of command when dealing cruel and harsh justice to the evil of running a slaver. This demonstrated such an unlikely and unexpected nobility of purpose, the thought sent her into a quick tumult of confusion.
To say he was not like anyone she had ever known or heard of or even read about was an understatement. He seemed a hundred times more than most men, stronger not just physically but also of will, and at least that much as sharp. She did not think he would be received in any house she knew; yet he had an aristocratic bearing that made Louisiana's grandest look as dull and impoverished as the Reverend's peddler's hat.
These thoughts registered but dimly on her mind, waiting to crystallize and grow with the mystery of Ram Barrington. What was not so vague was the gentle stroke of his hand through her hair, that inexplicable warmth of his touch and his scent: clean, fresh and masculine. The increasingly
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