Joy's gaze darted nervously to and fro, but no one gave her any notice, for after all she looked a sight less than common. Even the bartender gave the appearance of an unkempt river rat as she stepped behind the Reverend's back. He now wore clerical black, the beard, hat and spectacles had been discarded, replaced by the ruddy cheeks and reddened nose of a religious man who had indulged in one too many drinks.
"Reverend! Reverend!" she whispered urgently, shaking his thin shoulders. "It's me! Wake
up!"
At the sound of the familiar voice, and with great effort, the old man lifted his head. "Lord of mercy," he cried, seeming neither surprised nor alarmed by her presence, which told her he was not halfway to oblivion, but there. "It's too sad ... too sad."
"What's too sad?”
"Didn't Sammy tell ye?" His drunken slur was thick.
'Tell me what?" She stared with incomprehension at the genuine tears in his eyes.
"The girl. Lord, 'tis a cryin' shame, 'tis. Right on the threshold of freedom and the good Lord sees fit to take her."
“Take who? What are you mumbling about?"
"Mary. We lost her lass." And with the burden of these genuine tears, only slightly affected by four cups of ale, he laid his head down again and promptly passed out.
Joy stood staring in shock, seeing nothing as the tragedy of it filled her young heart. It worked swiftly and completely, overwhelming her with a familiar ache, a sadness she once described in her diary as the sound of a thousand silent tears...
"Hey, you thar boy!" a voice called from her side.
So numb had this news left her, Joy did not realize she was being addressed until the man asked, "What the hell is wrong with you boy? Yeah, you! I kin see plain that ye be dumb but are ye deaf as well?"
This rude comment solicited a chuckle or two from the patrons hanging out at the bar.
Joy lifted clear blue eyes to the man speaking. He was a common seaman—one could tell by the worn cotton uniform—a good sized, crude looking man, one who would pick on the only small person in the place. Malice, plain and simple, appeared in unremarkable brown eyes, and with great alarm she realized he saw her as sport.
"Boy, you look like you been up to no good. Is that the truth or what?"
The real doer of no good approached, and Joy leaned hard into the Reverend.
"Yes sir," the man grinned meanly, displaying a mouth where the only teeth that were not missing were yellow and rotting from tobacco stains. "Am I right boy? Tell the God's honest truth now—ye be up to no good?"
Alarm increased ten-fold, and Joy shook her head, desperately trying to jostle the Reverend
awake.
"Why, I bet that dollar ye got in ye pocket that ye got a dollar there from all the no good ye been up to!"
The logic of this assertion brought more laughter from the patrons as they watched in amusement. Joy could only shake her head again, casting a quick glance at the door.
"Don't be lookin' to that thar door, boy. That ain't gonna save ye. What's gonna save ye is handin' that dollar of yours over to Jack here."
Never had Joy Claret wanted a dollar more than this moment.
"Well then, if ye won't hand it to me, I see I'll jest have to shake it from ye."
Joy gasped, stopping herself just short of a telling scream as, with a chuckle, the man's hands fitted round her, and with some exertion, he turned her upside down. The onlookers roared with pleasure as he shook her senseless. She grabbed her hat; it was all she could do, all she could think to do as her brain rattled inside her skull, for every ounce of her energy and strength went to stop the scream in her throat.
Suddenly, like a cold fresh wind, a great hush rippled over the crowded room. One by one, voices dropped, then ceased altogether. Activities stopped and in this ominous silence came only the tiny clinks of cups being brought slowly to the tables. Even Jack, who still held her upside down, fell silent and like everyone else, his gaze held fast the person who just walked through the doors.
The huge room seemed suddenly to grow small by nearly all accounts, and even those few persons who did not know this man were wisely cautioned by the silence of those who did. A small handful of the Red Barn's patrons would at this moment have gladly parted with a handsome sum to quit the place, if only the very act of getting up and leaving wouldn't draw this man's attention to their desire to escape.
Attention was not what one wanted from Ram Barrington,
The man's reputation proceeded his every appearance, and he and the twelve or so men behind him were quite used to the effect their entrance caused. A cool intelligent gaze surveyed the room and spotted immediately the table he sought. He headed for it with long sure strides. His men followed, with the noted exception of two who remained on either side of the door to further caution all those who found that sudden need to flee.
Only one person remained unaware of this silence and its threat. All she knew was that she was going to be sick, very sick if this man did not—"Git your cotton pickin' hands off me, mister!"
The horrifying sound of her small voice against the larger silence shocked her as she instantly realized she had just made herself the sudden interest of every living soul in the room.
The sound of the familiar voice brought Ram to an abrupt stop, and he was laughing even before he turned round to confront the sight of her, in all the ridiculousness of her precarious upside down position. If there was any surprise at finding her in a place like the Red Barn and in the unusual position, it showed only in the sound of his amusement.
"What's your name, my good fellow?"
"Who me?" Jack could hardly believe he was being addressed. Ram nodded.
"Jack. 'Tis Jack, gov’ner," he answered back.
"Well Jack, I believe that's my baggage you're handling there." "Yours, gov’ner?"
"Mine," Ram made the simple pronouncement. "And you'll do me honor if you drop it where you stand."
"Well, certainly gov'ner." Jack dropped Joy, and because he sensed Ram Barrington's animosity toward this baggage, he did so unceremoniously. Joy fell in a heap on the floor. Gasping for breath and fighting dizziness, she found the way to her hands and knees. Only because she had to know if her worst nightmare had become a reality, she ventured a bold glance up and across the room.
How he looked taller, meaner and far more threatening than before, she could not for her life imagine, but he did, standing there with his hands resting on his hips and staring at her with all the respect due a naughty child not yet out of swaddling clothes. As her gaze traveled up from the shiny black boots and over the tailored black breeches and open, white silk shirt—gentlemen's garb notably minus any fashionable foppish adornments of nicety—her emotions were best represented by the urgency with which she scrambled to her feet and made a mad dash to the door.
Ram motioned to a man, and with no further interest in the matter, he turned and approached the table where the other pirates were congregating. Joy had not gotten as far as the door when, from behind, a man's merciless strong hands put a quick halt to her flight. She cried out as the man tossed her over his shoulder like the baggage she was named and headed in the opposite direction that she would have chosen. Small, white-knuckled fists pounded furiously on the large
back, and though she tried, she could not catch enough breath to give voice to the screams in her throat.
Ram stopped before the table and locked his gaze with the giant blond leader. Had anyone besides their men cared to notice, they would have been surprised, even shocked, by the plain, unmasked affection in both gazes.
"Such a dramatic entrance, my lord," the pirate said in dispassionate exasperation and in a voice that rang with clear evidence of English aristocratic breeding. "It gets worse each time I've a chance to witness."
Ram chuckled, then shrugged. "I can't seem to stop it. Although, much as I hate theatrics, I must admit it does wonders for business." Knowing they would talk later, Ram surveyed the group of men, nodded to the familiar faces and saw nothing or no one amiss. "My man said you already had something Sean?"
It was half question, half demand, and Sean motioned two men up to see to it. While they waited, Ram turned his attention to the frantic cries and desperate struggle of the baggage draped over Derrick's shoulder.
Derrick set Joy Claret on her feet. Panic molded her pale, fear-stricken features, and her breath came in those huge uneven gulps Ram was getting used to seeing in her. So frightened by him, she could not even think to know it was her absolute end. She stepped back, shaking her head, and
Derrick, not wanting to chase again, grabbed her shoulders and asked, "Where do you want it, Ram?"
Ram lifted one long leg over a bench and indicated his bent knee. "Why, right here Derrick." He smiled.
Odd how quickly his intention crashed into her scared wits. The frantic cry "Nooo!" sounded with Derrick's chuckle as he lifted her again, only to drop her over the place Ram had indicated and this, to the chorus of amusement that rose from the crowd.
The sting from Ram's hand spread like hot bolts of lightning through her small form, and though she struggled for all she was worth, he held her with maddening ease.
Turning a brat over one's knee apparently was not unusual or mean enough to solicit more than perfunctory notice from this crowd, notice expressed in some mild amusement and at least one comment:” Look at the fight in that little tyke!”
Sean watched with mild interest, too, far more curious about what the brat had done to earn Ram's interest. "Dear me, Ram," he asked in mocking sarcasm. "Has your benevolence extended to the reformation of delinquents, or can we hope this is an isolated incident?"
Ram laughed, and without missing a beat, he advised, "I know one brat who better be praying it's an isolated incident."
Joy was praying all right; fervently praying that she would not let herself cry, but when she finally exhausted her small strength and felt his last hard slap, the tears were plain in her eyes.
Ram brought her up to sit on his lap. So consumed with the rage of her emotions, she failed to notice that her hat and wig had fallen. An interested gaze stared at the beauty thus revealed to him: the bright flush of humiliation in her cheeks, the large, translucent blue eyes filled with tears and fury—eyes that seemed like openings to a summer sky. And that hair!
Ram withdrew two visible pins, and the thick, long ropes of light, auburn hair swung down past her waist to curl on his lap.
"Bloody Mary, it's a lass!" was heard from at least ten men. Even Sean's brow lifted with interest.
Ram ignored most of the comments and exclamations, and perhaps only Sean could guess at his emotions: anger, anger at how terribly young she was, at the innocence etched so plainly in the lovely features and innocence so at odds with her behavior that it begged destruction.
Joy could not think to save herself. Not a thought could rise beyond the helpless humiliation and blind fury that raised a trembling hand to give a hard slap to his face.
"That sweetheart"—he caught her arm well before it hit its mark—"will only get you more of the same."
For the first time in her life, she understood the base fury that led to violence; her rage demanded revenge, immediate, quick and merciless. She wanted to hit, pound and hurt him, but he held her hands, making her helplessness clear with an all consuming strength that left her trembling. Then abruptly she lost his interest, and it only vaguely penetrated her thoughts but somehow added to her rage; it was grossly unfair that her emotions toward him could be so enormous, while his toward her were naught but passing.
Sean's men returned with a chained and bound man. The man was led directly in front of Ram, and she forgot her own rage as she listened in horror to this man's violent curses and threats. Humiliation and rage shook his much larger frame, but his straight back and squared shoulders
spoke of a great pride, despite his unenviable circumstances. He had aging and rather distinguished features; he looked past forty, with graying, dark hair, a new beard and markedly intelligent eyes. Cory always claimed that the lord wrote a person's deeds on his face—especially white folks—and Joy thought of this as she stared at this bound man. There was something in the lines and creases of the man's eyes and mouth that suggested cruelty—not the small common meanness of men like Jack or indeed, even the bounty hunters—but larger somehow, revealing itself most in the shrewd glare of his gaze.
Joy would have been alarmed to know that what she read as pride, the far more experienced men of the crowd read only as the ignorance of a man too stupid to be afraid.
Abruptly she sensed Ram's gaze—she could actually feel it! She took one quick look of confirmation and lowered her eyes quickly, embarrassed by the shocking intimacy of being held like this, on his lap with his arms wrapped securely around her, confused by the inexplicable warmth of his body pressed against her, and so afraid, she could hot for her life stop trembling.
Ram was acutely conscious of her fear, a fear he'd see increased two-fold before he was through with her. He gently brushed loose tendrils of her hair from her face, and because she could no longer manage to meet his gaze, he lifted her face to his. "I still don't know your story. Indeed, I don't even know your Christian name."
She refused to lift her eyes. 'I’ll not tell you," she whispered in the passion of her fury. "Never! You can beat me ten times and you still won't hear it from me!"
This boldness lifting through her fear brought an amused light to his eyes. "Fortunately, I'm not depending on you for the information. Because sweetheart," he whispered against her ear, "your small strength is not impressive even for one of your sex, and I don't think you'd survive one more thrashing, let alone ten."
All waited for Ram, and in a single fluid motion, he stood, lifting her to set her back on the bench alone. "Since you seem bent on playing in a man's world, you might enjoy witnessing a man's game. Sit tight and behave yourself."