Prisoner of Desire (13 page)

Marcel poured the wine and placed the bottle aside. He checked one last time to be certain that they had everything, from silverware and china to the saltcellars with their tiny spoons. He bowed. “Is there anything else, mam’zelle?”

“No, thank you, Marcel. That will be all.”

“Shall I stay to serve you?”

“I believe we can manage.”

“Perhaps I should send the carriage for you in a half hour, in case it begins to rain.”

“That won’t be necessary. I don’t believe it will start so soon.”

The instant the answer was made, Anya regretted it. Consideration for the people who served her, people who might be tired and hungry themselves, was so ingrained that she had not paused to seriously consider the suggestions Marcel was making, and the reasons behind them, until it was too late. Marcel, perhaps instructed by his mother, had meant to offer her the protection, slight though it might be, of either his presence or the imminent arrival of her coachman. She could not now change her mind without making her distrust of her prisoner obvious. It was with great uneasiness that she watched Denise’s son bow himself from the room.

When he had gone, she took a deep calming breath. She was letting her imagination run away with her. She was in no danger. The man sitting across the table from her was chained. What could he do?

And yet he had threatened her. In addition, it did not seem likely that a man like Ravel Duralde would so easily resign himself to being kept a prisoner. Or that he not make some serious attempt to escape in order to uphold his honor by appearing on the dueling field at the proper time. She must take care.

Her appetite had vanished. She managed to eat her gumbo, but could do no more than push her chicken about on her plate. She sipped her wine, glad of something to do to occupy her hands, as well as for the sake of its warmth to banish the chill inside her.

She searched her mind for something innocuous to talk about, but could discover nothing. The silence was broken only by the clatter of silver and the booming of thunder drawing slowly nearer.

Ravel was aware of the constraint, but seemed to find satisfaction in it. He ate with a certain ruthless precision, pulling the small crusty loaves of bread apart with his strong fingers, slicing the chicken so that the meat fell cleanly from the bone, spearing the venison steak to transfer it to his plate. Anya poured coffee for them both. When Ravel had finished his dessert, he leaned back with his cup in his hand, watching her over the rim as he sipped at the strong brew.

Finally he set the cup down. His tone thoughtful and yet accusing, he said, “What about love?”

Anya’s cup wobbled on its saucer. Hastily she placed it on the table. “What do you mean?”

“You said earlier that you weren’t interested in marriage and children. But what of love? Do you seriously intend to remain a virgin all your life?”

The Creoles had little reticence about private matters. Anya had heard women describe in mixed company the embarrassments and hilarities of their wedding nights, and list in excruciating detail the dreadful pangs and difficulties they had suffered during their confinements. Madame Rosa complained to all and sundry about the horrors of the change of life through which she was currently passing, receiving a full quota of sympathy from Gaspard because of them, and Celestine was as likely as not to tell her Murray that the reason she did not feel well enough to go driving or walking was because of her monthly courses. Creole ladies tended to find the Anglo-Saxon reluctance to discuss such things in public vastly amusing. It was only natural, was it not? But Anya had never quite managed to rid herself of her notions of personal privacy.

Frowning, she said, “That is no concern of yours.”

“Oh, I think it is. I am responsible for your being alone now.”

“You need not let it trouble you.”

“I think I must. Because of what happened one night seven years ago, I am what I am, and you are also as you are. Whether you recognize it or not, there is a bond between us. It’s something neither of us wants, but it is a fact.”

Lightning crackled above the cotton gin, flashing at the windows in an eerie white glare. Thunder boomed hard upon it, and rumbled away into the night. Immediately afterward came the first spattering drops of rain on the roof. The fire hissed and crackled as raindrops fell down the chimney.

Gooseflesh rose on Anya’s arms, in part because of the chilling sound of the rain, in part reaction to the words Ravel had spoken and the deep, prophetic rasp of his voice. The cotton gin seemed suddenly as distant from the main house and the quarters as the moon. Its isolation struck her like a blow in the pit of her stomach.

Her fingers were clenched on the handle of her coffee cup. She released them with an effort and crossed her arms over her chest, clasping her arms.

“You feel it, don’t you?”

She had recognized the bond he spoke of, though it seemed to her to be a thing of mutual antagonism. Even that, however, was too personal to admit. “No,” she said hurriedly. “No.”

“You do, but you refuse to accept it. You are afraid of me, but you try to cover it with anger. Why? Why do you fear me?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” she said, goaded into a reply she would not have made under ordinary circumstances, “I dislike you.

“Why?”

“That must be obvious.”

“Indeed? If Jean had killed me that night, would you have blamed him in the same way? Would you have called him a murderer and an assassin, a mad dog who knows only how to kill?”

The words he spoke awakened echoes in her mind. Had she really said them to him that night he had come to tell her about Jean? They must have hurt him, that he remembered them so well.

“You don’t answer. I take that to mean you would not. Your dislike must be personal then. Perhaps it’s my background — or lack of it.”

“Certainly not,” she snapped, more disturbed than she would have liked to admit by the relentless questions and the direction they had taken.

“There is only one other possibility then. You feel the attraction between us that has been there from the beginning, long before Jean died. You feel it, but you are afraid to acknowledge it. You are afraid because it might mean that you don’t have a proper regret for your fiancé’s death.”

She came to her feet so abruptly that she jarred the table, toppling her cup and spilling the coffee across the cloth in a dark brown stain. She did not pause to see the damage, but pushed her chair back and spun away, moving toward the door.

The rattle of the chain warned her, but in her elaborate gown and layers of petticoats she was not swift enough to escape. He caught her from behind, clamping hard fingers on her forearm and swinging her around to face him. He grasped her other arm, holding her immobile.

She wrenched back against his hold, but there was more strength in his hard soldier’s hands than she had ever encountered. Fury rose inside her. Through clenched teeth she said, “Let me go!”

“Do you really expect that I will?”

Ravel held her heated gaze for a moment before allowing his own to drift over her flushed cheeks to the vulnerable curve of her neck and lower, to where the white curves of her breasts rose and fell in her agitation, filling the décolletage of her gown. The need to press his lips to that enticing softness was so great that a wave of dizziness mounted to his head. In the effort of control, his grasp tightened.

Anya drew in her breath in a gasp of pain. “Bastard!”

His face hardened. Bending abruptly, he placed his arm under her knees and lifted her high against his chest. Her skirts, spilling over his hold, brushing his legs, flared out as he swung around with her. Her shawl slid from her arms to the floor. It twisted around his shackle, threatening to trip him for an instant, but he kicked it aside and strode toward the bed.

“No!” Anya cried as she saw his purpose. She twisted in his arms, pushing at him, reaching with fingers curved into talons for his eyes.

He breathed a curse and flung her down on the thick cotton mattress. She thrust herself up, sliding away from him. He put his knee on the bed, catching her with one arm, forcing her back down with his weight as he lowered himself beside her. She beat at his head and shoulders with her fists. He winced as she caught him on the cheekbone, but immediately snatched her wrists, pinning one under his body while he brought the other down beside her face, thrusting his arm under her head to catch and hold it. Shifting, he brought his leg up over both of hers, stilling her movements.

She stared up at him with her eyes dark with wrath and fear she would not admit. His weight upon her chest made her breath come in hard gasps, and tremors of reaction shuddered over her, one behind the other. He watched her for long moments, his gaze fastened on her mouth. When he spoke at last, there was a faint thickness in his tones.

“Where,” he asked deliberately, “is the key?”

“The key.” The words as she repeated them held paralyzed disbelief.

A sardonic smile softened the harsh curves of his mouth. “Did you think I had designs upon your delectable body?”

That was exactly what she had thought. She lifted her chin. “Why should I not, since you seem to be capable of anything?”

His smile faded. The pressure of his grasp upon her wrist increased until there was no feeling in her hand. “It is, of course, an idea.”

She searched his face, trying to discover if he was serious or if he was only trying to frighten her. She could feel the heavy beat of his heart against her rib cage, the powerful corded muscles of his body and the hard length of him as he held her. He wanted her; she was not mistaken in that, and yet he held his desire in firm leash. For the moment.

She moistened her dry lips with the tip of her tongue. “I — I don’t have the key. It’s outside.”

“I know that the key to the door is left on a hook outside,” he said, his voice soft. “I have had plenty of time to discover that much. What I require is the one to this leg shackle.”

“It’s at the main house.”

“How convenient.”

“It’s true!”

“I wonder.”

Holding her gaze, he moved his free right hand to the neckline of her gown. His fingers burned as he touched them lightly to the upper curves of her breasts. Slowly he inserted them under the rose pink silk, sliding them with infinite care toward the valley between the twin globes.

“Don’t,” she said on a gasp. “I told you I don’t have it.”

He made no reply, but plundered the secret and shadowed hollow that he had found, caressing the warm satin of her skin. “Not there.”

Removing his fingers, he spread his hand over a rounded breast, pressing, stroking. He lingered as he discovered the bud of her nipple through the layers of cloth, caressing until it hardened under his skillful attention.

“What are you doing?” She strained away from him, struggling also against the slow seep of desire, like a gentle poison, invading her senses.

“Searching for the key,” he answered her, the words absorbed as he directed his interest toward her other breast. Ignoring her attempts to evade him, he captured that warm, silk-covered mound, gently clasping, kneading, brushing the nipple with his thumb.

The blood throbbed in her veins. The surface of her skin was growing warmer, so that she felt as if every portion of her body were mantled with a flush. She had heard the word
seduction
all her life, but had never known until this moment how pervasive such a thing could be. Did he know what he was doing to her? Did he?

“Don’t do this,” she cried, a strangled sound.

He smoothed his hand down over her ribs to the narrow indentation of her waist, and lower to her abdomen. He grasped her skirts, drawing them upward. His breath warm at her ear, he said, “Let’s see if you have a petticoat pocket.”

“No — Yes, but there’s nothing in it.”

“Any lie to thwart me,” he said with a sorrowful shake of his head.

“I promise—” The words were stifled by a gasp as he lifted her crinoline, pushing the hoops aside so they collapsed across her abdomen, and ran his hand along her thighs through the layers of petticoats underneath. “Ravel, please.”

He reached lower still, drawing up the last petticoats, placing his hand on her bare knees, then sliding it upward over the silk of her pantalettes until it finally rested, warm and heavy, upon the small mound at the juncture of her thighs.

“So the key is at the house. I wonder what it would take,” he drawled, “to persuade you to send for it.”

“There’s no one to send!”

“You could signal with the lamp. I’m sure your housekeeper will be on watch.”

It was a threat. The question was, would he carry it out if she did not do as he suggested? Would he deliberately possess her if she did not secure his release? She would like to think that he would not, and yet there was about Ravel Duralde, an unknown quality, a sense of behavior pushed beyond the normal boundaries, as if he might not recognize the same limits as ordinary men. It might be possible that he would take her refusal as an excuse to satisfy his own desires, above and beyond the issue between them. He might well feel it was his right to do so after the thing she had done to him, or at the very least a fitting revenge for it.