Passion's Joy Read Online Free PDF Page A

reading time and once right in the middle of old Miss St. Ivy's tea, these silly school girl dreams would take hold of her mind!
    What in heaven's name was wrong with her? The daydreams were bad enough in themselves, but after a conscious review of the content, it irked her to realize she was always in need of rescuing, instead of doing the rescuing. Yet, whenever she changed the circumstances to
    suit her well-defined character, whenever she became the rescuer, the dream suddenly had as much appeal as a slice of moldy bread.
    A low groan interrupted her musings, and as she sat up, a shrewd cautious gaze instantly replaced the dreamy one. The dark-haired devil lifted his head but with a great effort, then it fell back with another low muffled growl.
    Alertness fixed in her large, blue eyes.
    A dog barked in the far distance. The sound came from the forest rather than the road. A quick glance behind reassured her that Libertine was near, but the mare's ears were pricked with sudden caution. The sound drew closer still, and as her gaze riveted to the hunting path, she withdrew her pistol.

    It was the habit of Ram Barrington to run for no other reason than the sheer joy and exhilaration of physically exhausting himself. He'd developed this odd habit as a young boy; it helped him escape the pain and terror of a troubled childhood long forgotten. Later, running had eased the accumulated tension and restlessness of many long sea voyages taken as a young boy aboard his great uncle Sir Admiral Byron's English man-of-war. Then, as a young man, it helped ease the tedium, his impatience with the slow peaceful pace of India's eternal summers. The habit carried over into adulthood, and he sometimes chuckled to himself with a vision of himself as an old eighty-year-old man, cane in hand, still passing an early morning hour or so trying to run.
    He had cleared a good six or seven miles, with another mile or two left in his legs, when Rake, his great mastiff dog, caught scent of something and dashed on ahead, barking. The narrow path ran alongside a fair-sized stream. Ram spotted the pond, dammed by two large fallen trunks, and after a quick inspection, the cool depth could not be resisted.
    As he rested, drying in the sun, he suddenly realized Rake had not returned or stopped barking. Not particularly wanting a dead rabbit dropped at his feet, he set off in pursuit.
    The path led abruptly to a small clearing. Agitated and still barking, Rake held an attack stance in front of two bound, gagged and apparently quite unconscious men.
    "What the devil is this?”
    Joy Claret was asking herself that exact question as she stared in great alarm. She could not explain the threat she felt from this man's inexplicable presence, but he was like no other man the innocence of her eyes had ever beheld. She felt the danger—danger that moved as a physical force
    through her frame, causing her breath to catch and a cold numbness to seep into her hands. Her hands tightened around the pistol.
    The blatant masculinity of his imposing form as he stood there, hands on hips, staring at the bounty hunters, seemed at once more dangerous than ... than even those pirates she watched pass on the road! Half naked and bootless—this did seem the day for affronts to her sensibilities—the bronze frame was tall, taller even than Sammy, and he wore only sun-washed white breeches, cut at the knees, and a black belt. His bare form radiated a threatening and well-exercised strength.
    Muscles, he seemed nothing but muscles. Numerous scars marked the wide breadth of his bare muscled chest—testament to what could only be too many battles fought and won. Thick, raven- black curls crowned distinctly aristocratic features. As if an artist painted the square cut to his jaw, his wide firm mouth, fine large nose and markedly prominent forehead, his features were all drawn with clean strong strokes. Yet the final stroke, she saw with a small gasp, was a black patch that covered