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
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
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