Desire in the Sun

by Karen Robards

  Her eyes had remained fixed on him from the time she had first recognized him, while his had scornfully challenged the crowd. As they swept the assemblage, daring anyone to bid, they passed over where she stood toward the rear. Then, as if in slow motion, they returned. Those green eyes whose color she remembered more vividly than she did her own fastened on hers.

  VIII

  Joss was snarling out over the mob like a wild beast at bay when he saw her. She was standing near the edge of the gawking crowd staring up at him, the deep frilled brim of her pale yellow sunbonnet casting a shadow over her face. She was exactly as he remembered her, more beautiful than any young woman had a right to be, looking cool as spring water in the sweltering August heat. The masses of silvery hair that he had seen first in charming disorder were tucked up primly under the sun- bonnet, which was trimmed with a narrow ribbon in a soft grayed blue almost exactly the color of her eyes, if his memory served him correctly. She looked as insubstantial as a sunbeam in a pale yellow dress secured under the sweet high curve of her breasts by a ribbon in the same shade of blue that trimmed her bonnet. The long end of the ribbon fluttered down the front of her narrow skirt. The dress itself was made of some gauzy material apparently designed to reveal as much as conceal the delectable curves of her slender body. Below short puffed sleeves her arms were bare, tantalizingly slim and pale in the bright afternoon sunlight. Her expression was hidden from him, but even at that distance he could sense her revulsion, feel her pity for him. Rage flooded through him, covering a tide of humiliation deeper than anything he had ever known.

  When he had met her he had been cockily sure of his power over her sex; sure that, if he wished it, he could have nearly any woman he wanted. Females had always found him attractive, and he had managed to take full advantage of that fortunate circumstance more times than he could remember. Then Delilah Remy had gone tumbling into a bush, baring a pair of slender, thrashing, white-stockinged legs to the thigh to pique his interest. When he had done nothing more than the gentlemanly thing by attempting to adjust her skirt for her, she had tried to punch his nose. At first he'd merely been vastly amused. But then, after he'd gotten a good look at her and discovered that the spitfire was a staggering beauty, he'd been enchanted. And had stayed enchanted until this nightmare had caught him in its thrall. There'd been something about her that had appealed to him, something beyond the delicate perfection of her face and form. He had liked her, really liked her. And he had wanted her. Just as she had wanted him, though she was probably too innocent to put what she had felt when he had touched her in those terms. Even that baby's breath of a kiss he'd given her had caused her to catch fire…

  But that was in the past. Harsh reality was standing on a platform in the broiling sun, his tongue swollen from thirst and his arms throbbing from being bound so tightly. The rest of his body ached in too many locations to enumerate. He'd been hit and kicked and whipped and beaten so many times that he'd lost count. He'd been stripped of his name and identity and even his race, reduced to the status of a beast to be bought or sold simply because his grandmother had been the great- granddaughter of a gullah, and enslaved.

  Impossible to believe-it had taken him some days to become convinced that the whole thing wasn't a hideous mistake-but horribly true. His own ancestry was thirty- one parts white to one part black, a mere teaspoonful of blood, and yet it was enough in this colonial backwater to condemn him to the ranks of the inhuman. His education, his background, even the successful shipping business he had built up, counted for nothing against that soup^on of blood. Never in his life had he imagined being brought so low, or being so powerless to do anything about it. Even his protestations that he had the funds to buy his freedom at that farce of a hearing availed him of nothing. They would not even permit him to send a message to his ship. Slaves had no rights, and could claim ownership of nothing, he had been told as they dragged him away in chains.

  He'd been visited in the shed that was his prison by that crazy old woman, Amanda Barton, who had told him-as if she were discussing the weather-that she meant to see him broken. He'd raged at her, spewing profanity that he'd been shocked to find himself using toward any female, even her. She'd cackled with delighted laughter, and left him, chained and ranting, in the dark. Later someone-it had been too dark to make out his assailant's identity-had come in and, without a word, beaten him senseless. He'd been starved and deprived of water, beaten and humiliated and left to wallow in his own filth until he felt himself to be less than human. Ever since the nightmare had started he'd been treated like an animal, no, worse than an animal, with malicious cruelty. And he had, finally, been driven to responding like an animal, earning for his pains more beatings with fists and cudgels, and a bout with a bull- whip.

  Eventually he had learned to husband his anger, hoarding it like a miser with his gold, promising himself that if he waited he would have an opportunity to escape. He had not guessed that the old witch planned to sell him like the unwanted property she claimed he was, or that he would be taken from the tumbledown shed where he'd been kept chained and filthy for weeks, only to find himself chained and filthy on an auction block.

  To be put up for public inspection and bid on like a damned horse-he'd not thought he could sink to any greater depths. Then to find her eyes on him, knowing that she was seeing him dirty and stinking and half- naked and that the shaming marks of the whip were clearly visible to her eyes… He wanted to kill. The blood-lust that rushed through him was so intense as to sweep every consideration of prudence or even survival before it.

  He roared with rage, baring his teeth and throwing every ounce of his strength into the lunge that was intended to break the chain that held him to the post. The post groaned and quivered, and for a moment, just for a moment, he thought he might break free. Though if he did he would likely be shot for his pains…

  The more fearful in the crowd cried out while the auctioneer spun around so fast that he tottered and almost fell off the block. Immediately two burly guards were upon Joss, their cudgels falling thick and fast around his head and shoulders. With his arms tied behind him and his ankles chained, there was no way he could protect himself, but he tried, ducking and dodging as best he could to escape the worst of the blows. Inevitably he was beaten to his knees. Then a heavy boot crashed into his ribcage. Pain sharp enough to penetrate the fog of rage that enveloped him stabbed through his chest. He gasped, doubling over so that his forehead touched the dusty wood of the block. Another boot caught him in the lower back. He gasped a second time, and cold sweat break out on his forehead.

  "I’ll bid a hundred dollars for him!"

  Joss had thought his agony couldn't increase, but he'd been wrong. That sweet, softly accented voice from the crowd brought a wave of shame with it so intense that it hurt more than the almost certainly broken ribs. Gritting his teeth, he managed to lift his head to look at her. She had come closer, close enough so that now he could see the delicate perfection of her features beneath the shadowing sunbonnet. She was not looking at him, but up at the auctioneer. Those huge blue eyes were darkened with a combination of what he decided was pity for him and fright at her own daring. For a young lady to buy a male slave was unheard of; females, unless they were confirmed spinsters or widows and lacked the protection of a man, were never even heard to bid at slave auctions at all. In most cases they were prohibited from owning property of any kind; everything was held in the names of their husbands or fathers. And for a young lady such as Lilah to buy a young, virile male slave… It was a courageous act. He recognized that, realized that she would be the talk of the auction, of this little one- horse town and beyond. But he still felt not the smallest spurt of gratitude for what she was doing for him. His blanket hatred and fury at the world stretched in that moment to cover her, too, for being a witness to and a participant in his utter debasement. He was on his knees before her, helpless, bloodied and bowed, his very manhood outraged. How could he not hate her for pitying him?

&n
bsp; "Can you beat that? Lookit her, now!"

  A scandalized murmur rose from the crowd as necks craned and the bidder was identified as a fashionably dressed young lady. The auctioneer stared down at Lilah as if he were having trouble believing his ears. The guards too turned to look. Lilah, suddenly aware of all the attention she had attracted, turned pink, but her eyes never left the auctioneer. Joss winced for her, and for himself. Her intentions were of the best, he knew, but she was only making things worse. A thousand times worse, and he hadn't thought that was possible.

  "Miss, did you really mean to bid?" The auctioneer questioned at last, his tone lowered and marginally respectful. Even the likes of him recognized quality when he saw it, apparently. Joss held his breath without even being aware that he was doing so. She could still back down, and save herself some grief. He hoped she would. Being sold to the meanest, omeriest bastard in the world wouldn't eat at him the way being beholden to her would.

  "Yes, I did. I said I'd pay one hundred dollars for him, and that's just what I meant." Her voice was stronger now, the tone and words clear. Her chin was lifted, her lovely eyes bright with defiance. Joss felt intense shame. He growled a wordless protest. The boot of the guard nearest him lifted threateningly, and he shut up. Still she didn't look at him, but he couldn't tear his eyes from her.

  "I can't sell a slave like this buck here to a young lady," the auctioneer said, disapproval lacing every word. "What would you want with him, anyway?"

  "As you pointed out, properly trained he'll be worth almost five times what I'm paying for him. And I'm not buying him for myself; I'm acting as a proxy for my father. Our overseer bought nearly a dozen slaves at the auction around the front earlier. He'll be taking possession of this one, too."

  "Oh." The auctioneer rubbed his chin. "I suppose that makes a difference. If you'll bring your overseer over here…"

  "He's busy just now with the other slaves we bought.'' Lilah's chin went a fraction higher, and her voice firmed. "My money is as good as anyone's, I should think. And I don't see anyone else offering you a hundred dollars for him."

  The auctioneer frowned down at her for a moment, then looked out over the crowd. "The lady's got a point," he called out. "She says there ain't anyone else offered a hundred dollars. Any of you folks care to top her bid? Do I hear one-twenty? One-ten? No? Then he's going once, going twice, sold to the young lady here for a hundred dollars!"

  "I'll send someone around with the money in a little while," Joss heard her say as the guards unfastened the long chain securing him to the post and hauled him to his feet. A haze of pain made his mind go fuzzy as he was half led, half carried from the block. Newly purchased slaves awaited their masters' convenience in a well-guarded corral at the edge of the lawn. He supposed that was where he was being taken. His injuries would be left to heal on their own, unless his new master-mistress-was compassionate. Bitter laughter shook him, bringing with it another onslaught of pain. The very fact that she had bought him-bought him!-testified to her compassion. In his new life as her slave, he could count on being well-treated.

  She was waiting at the rear of the block when they dragged him down. The guards stopped, staring at her with speculation and something less than respect in their eyes as she came up to them, to him, oblivious of the milling, murmuring crowd. She did not come too close, but close enough to make him furiously aware of how he must stink, how filthy and debased he was. He was unsteady on his feet, pain making him sweat and grit his teeth, but still he tried to shake off the arms of the guards. It was a mistake. One of them elbowed him sharply in his injured ribs, causing a knife of agony to slice through his insides. Joss groaned, closing his eyes as more cold sweat broke out on his forehead and upper lip.

  "You there, don't do that again! I don't want him hurt any more, do you hear?" She came to his defense in a swirl of skirts. Taken by surprise, the guards released their grip and stepped back. To his horror he found that his legs could no longer support him. He crumpled, falling to his knees, then without the use of his hands to catch himself toppled sideways on the soft carpet of dusty grass. Around him the world tilted and twirled sicken- ingly. For the first time in his life he thought he might faint.

  "You've hurt him!" she cried out, dropping to her knees beside him and touching his sweaty, filthy temple with cool fingers. Her touch made his stomach clench. She at least did not regard him as a beast-but he could not allow her to make such a spectacle of herself, knowing the evil that lurked in men's minds. Their obscene imaginations would enjoy this… He gritted his teeth and forced his eyes to open. The world still swam, but by focusing on her face he was able to will himself to stay conscious.

  "Get away from me," he growled so that no one else could hear, and was both glad and sorry when her eyes widened and she rocked back on her heels. Glaring up at her, he made an abortive attempt to sit up preparatory to getting back on his feet, but in his weakened condition he found that even sitting was beyond him. Pain swamped him whenever he moved. It was either stay conscious just as he was, or move and risk the indignity of fainting. He chose the former, closing his eyes again as another wave of agony washed over him. When he opened them at last, it was to find her still crouched beside him, the hem of her skirt nearly touching his arm and her face filling his vision. Frowning down at him, she looked sweetly worried, and so cool and lovely that his insides ached from more than his damaged ribs. Her proximity brought a black scowl to his face.

  "Damn it, I thought I told you to get away from me!" The fury he felt turned his hissed words into a whiplash. Instead of jumping up and running away, as he half expected her to do, she reached out to touch his ribs as if to check for damage. The feel of her hand sliding so intimately over his side maddened him. He jerked sideways, out from under her touch, and paid for the gesture with another knife-thrust of pain.

  "Everything will be all right now, you'll see," she said to him softly, ignoring all his efforts to repulse her. Then a stocky, craggy-faced man loomed up behind her, catching her by both elbows and hauling her bodily to her feet.

  "Damn it, Lilah, just what the bloody hell do you think you're doing?" he roared. "Howard LeMasters told me you were over here making a bloody scandal of yourself, but I didn't believe him! Now I see that if anything he understated the case! Suppose you explain yourself, miss."

  The man still had his hands on her arms, looking as if he'd like to shake her. He had turned her around to face him so that Joss could not see her expression. But the man looked furious.

  Joss stiffened, and with grim determination tried to force himself to his feet. It was useless. He managed to get to his knees, but could not have risen farther if his life-or hers-had depended on it. If this man became abusive in words or actions, he was in no shape to defend either her honor or her person.

  "Oh, Kevin, I was just coming to look for you! I want you to pay the auctioneer a hundred dollars for me, if you please!" She was clearly untroubled by the man's violent reaction to her indiscreet behavior, or by the strength of his grip on her bare arms. At the sight of those beefy hands on her pale skin, a strong dislike for the other man sprang up full-blown in Joss. Then Kevin looked at him over the top of the yellow sunbonnet, and Joss realized that his feelings were well reciprocated.

  "Have you lost your bloody senses? I can't believe you would actually bid on a slave-especially this one! He's old George's bastard son, isn't he? The one young Calvert's been telling everyone you were making sheep's eyes at before you found out he was a black buck?"

  "Kevin! Lower your voice! He's not deaf, you know, and neither is anyone else!" Her back stiffened in outrage. She turned a little as she said it, glancing down at Joss self-consciously. He noted with the tiny portion of his mind that was not preoccupied with either their conversation or his pain that she had a grass stain on her skirt from where she had knelt beside him.

  "Well? That's what he is, isn't he? And now you’ve actually been fool enough to buy him at public auction! The whole damn country
will be talking about you after this! I can't believe you'd do something so bloody dumb!"

  The other man's eyes were a cloudy color somewhere between brown and hazel, Joss discovered as he met them with hatred in his own. He looked Joss over with all the arrogance of a man whose superior position in the world is not in doubt. Joss was naked to the waist, filthy, and covered with welts, bruises and cuts. He was unshaved and unkept and ashamed. But he refused to cringe before Kevin's scathing appraisal. He glared with fierce defiance as the other man's broad nose wrinkled with distaste. At that disdainful gesture, Joss felt killing rage flood his veins. He had not yet accustomed himself to being despised. But before he could say or do anything unwise, Kevin shifted his attention back to the girl.

  "Oh, Kevin, don't be cross, please," she coaxed, smiling up at him in a way that made Joss grit his teeth. He'd thought that smile she'd turned on him three weeks ago was special for him. Now he realized that she was an accomplished little flirt who batted her lashes at everything in trousers.

  "Don't be cross? You drag your good name through the dirt and tell me don't be cross? You had no business even bidding at a slave auction and well you know it, much less for him! I suppose you think I haven't heard the talk? Hah! But I was willing to ignore it, under the circumstances. You couldn't have known what he was, and I know you better than to think that he laid a hand on you. But still you had no business-"

  "They were hurting him," she interrupted quietly. "I couldn't bear it."

  Kevin stared down at her, shaking his head. "You and your damned soft heart," he said after a moment's silence, and muttered something else under his breath. Joss didn't catch the rest of his words because the knife was twisting in his entrails again. Hot shamed blood rushed into his face. Christ, he hadn't blushed in fifteen years, not since he was a boy of fourteen confronted with his first pair of naked female breasts! But the pity in her voice was more than he could stomach.