Prisoner of Desire (21 page)

She swung from the levee in sudden decision. If she hurried, she could be home before midnight.

8

THE JOURNEY BACK TO Beau Refuge seemed endless. The winter night closed in early. The road wound before them into dark infinity, relieved only by an occasional spark of light from a house set back from the road among the trees. The carriage jolted on its springs as they rolled through potholes and swayed as they rounded the curves. On the box, Solon the coachman whistled and sang to keep himself company and to rout the specters of the night.

Anya sat bolt upright, staring into the darkness. She was tired, but too on edge to doze away the time. The fears that haunted her were not of ghost and goblins or marsh spirits, nor could they be banished by whistling. The closer she came to the plantation, the more certain she grew that when she arrived she would find Ravel was no longer a prisoner. He would have tricked Denise and Marcel in some way so as to gain his freedom. He would be gone, riding for New Orleans to wreak vengeance upon her and her people for the indignity he had suffered, preparing to challenge Murray, thereby retrieving his good name.

His escape might be the best thing that could happen; certainly she had no idea of what she was going to do with him if he was still there. And yet she could not bear the thought of letting him go. That would be to admit that she had made a mistake, that she should not have abducted him, should not have interfered in the affair between him and Murray. She would make no such concession. No matter how the matter turned out, she could not see how she could have behaved otherwise. To have done nothing would have been cowardly and supine conduct.

She might, of course, have spoken to Ravel in a common-sense fashion. She had an uncomfortable suspicion, however, that things would have ended in the same way. He was unlikely to have courted the social disgrace of failing to live up to the dueling code without a suitable recompense, one of his own choosing.

Your virtue for my honor
—

She clenched her hands into fists, then slowly forced herself to relax them once more. Would she ever forget those words, those hours in Ravel Duralde’s arms?

She would, if it killed her. What was so memorable, after all, about the kisses and caresses of a wastrel, a scoundrel, a murderer? It was not as if it were an experience she was going to repeat. It had seemed so shattering to her because it was her first time, because she had been unprepared for such an assault upon her senses, or for her own passionate response, because of the circumstances involved that had included the attempt to save a man’s life. Given enough time, the emotional upheaval would be as nothing. Doubtless her wedding night, if she should ever choose to marry, would banish the last vestiges of remembrance. Certainly the possibility was as good an argument as she had yet encountered for being wed. Not that she needed to resort to such desperate measures. After her stay in town, she was able to view the incident with considerable detachment.

Regardless, when finally she stood outside the door of the small room in the cotton gin, her palms were damp and her knees were weak. The key as she took it down from its hook jangled in her hand, and she had to make the third attempt before she could fit it into the lock. She turned the handle and thrust the door open, then almost fell into the room as she tripped in her haste to step inside.

She came to such an abrupt halt that her skirts and the heavy hem of her cloak swirled around her feet. Her heart leaped inside her, then pounded on once more. Ravel lay stretched out on his side upon the bed with his head propped on one hand and a book in front of him. Even in repose there in the confines of that small room he appeared lean and dangerous. However, the white bandaging around his head, in such strong contrast to his bronzed skin, gave him a certain rakish charm. He looked up, and a smile, warm and yet shaded with irony, kindled in his eyes.

She was more lovely than he had remembered. Her hair caught the lamplight in russet-gold gleams and her skin had the soft sheen of ivory silk. She had presence, the ability to command attention, and yet there was in the straightness of her dark blue gaze something unconsciously fine, unquestionably trustworthy. The lack of pretense about her made her rare among women. Her body had a slender but elegant grace, with high, gently rounded breasts and a narrow waist. Her skirts hid the shape of her hips, but he remembered their perfect curves well. She was a lady, of that there could be no doubt. Still, there was about her a hint of strength and the will to retaliate if she were injured, also of unpredictability, and a sparkle caught for an instant in the depths of her eyes that made her fascinating. He wondered if she realized her attraction, then decided in the next instant that she must know it well, that many men must have told her.

“I understood that you had returned to New Orleans. It must have been a hasty trip.”

“So it was,” she answered, moving to close the door behind her. Swinging back, she said with abruptness caused by relief and guilt, “Your head appears to be giving you little trouble.”

“It’s fine, so long as I’m careful about how I comb my hair.”

His dry tone and the look in his eyes troubled her. She dragged her gaze from his, transferring it to the book he held, the extra pillows stacked on his bed, her father’s chess set that was arranged on the table, and the tray beside it holding a bottle of wine and a plate of sandwiches covered with a damp napkin. “You seem to have made yourself comfortable during my absence.”

He gave her a smile of singular charm. “Marcel has been seeing to my needs. I believe he feels sorry for me.”

“Sorry for you?” Her voice echoed with surprise and a degree of wariness.

He closed his book and lay back on the pile of pillows with his hands clasped behind his head. “Apparently he thinks you are holding me here for your own pleasure.”

“He thinks nothing of the kind!”

Ravel went on as if she had not spoken. “Naturally I tried to disabuse him of the notion—”

“Naturally!” The word was laden with scorn.

“But he seemed to feel that, as uncomfortable as my situation might be, it was the best chance for his mistress to acquire a husband.”

A dangerous light appeared in her eyes. “Why, you—”

“You mustn’t blame him. He is only concerned for you.”

“As there is no possibility of my ever accepting you as a husband, I won’t!”

“Never?”

“Certainly not.”

His eyes narrowed. “Ah, but suppose you are pregnant with my child?”

“There is always the English remedy,” she answered with a lift of her chin.

He pushed abruptly to a sitting position. “You wouldn’t.”

The English remedy was the celebrated female pills supposedly prepared from a prescription of Sir James Clark, physician to Queen Victoria, and advertised as being able to “bring on monthly period with regularity.” The warning against using the pills during the first three months of pregnancy, since they were “sure to bring on miscarriage,” was so prominently displayed that they were commonly used as a specific for that purpose. Anya was by no means certain she could make herself swallow them should the need arise, but she had no intention of allowing this man to think he might have any hold over her.

“Wouldn’t I?”

He stared at her for long moments. When he spoke, his voice was hollow. “Do you hate me so much?”

“Tell me why I should not.”

There was a note in her own voice she did not like, one that almost had the sound of pleading. He did not appear to hear it, however.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

“That is of course a consolation.” She went on before he could say anything more. “But if you were able to appeal so successfully to Marcel’s sympathies, why are you still here? Surely you could have persuaded him to let you go?”

“It could be I was in no hurry to leave.”

“Oh, yes, you are enjoying your stay immensely. It is, in fact, a perfect rest cure?” She sent him a glance of solicitation that was scathing in its falseness.

“I was curious to see if you would come back. And of course I could not deprive you of the joy of telling me exactly in what ruins my honor now lies.”

A flush rose to her face at his use of that word, and also at the memory of some of the remarks Murray had made. Her voice compressed, she said, “It will not be so bad, I think. There are many who speak for you.”

“Are there?” He watched her with frowning interest in his dark eyes.

“Emile Girod, for one.”

“Emile,” he repeated softly. “He has returned?”

She nodded, not really surprised that he was aware of the movements of Jean’s brother. Reckless, unprincipled, and unscrupulous he might be, but she had come to recognize that there was more to Ravel Duralde than appeared on the surface. It was confusing, when she wanted nothing more than to despise him with a whole heart.

He came to his feet with swift courtesy. “My manners are terrible, for which you may blame my surprise at seeing you again so soon. Won’t you sit down,
chère?
And permit me to offer you some of this excellent wine?”

“Thank you, no,” she said with meticulous politeness. “I have had a long journey, and I’m tired.”

The chain on his ankle clattered on the floor as he moved to hold a chair for her. The sound affected her with an unpleasant sense of embarrassment.

“All the more reason for resting here a few minutes,” he insisted.

She remembered suddenly his dislike for solitude. A good memory and ready sympathy could be burdens at times. She stood irresolute, torn between leaving and staying, knowing instinctively it would be better to go and yet unable to bring herself to be so insensitive. It was his calm patience that decided her. As he stepped to touch her arm, inclining his head in a small bow as he indicated the chair, she moved stiffly to accept his invitation.

The room was small, the night was dark, and the lamp that burned on the table made only a small pool of golden light. There in that bed against the wall she had lain naked with the man who moved now to take the chair across from her. The sense of intimacy between them was so strong all at once that it was as if her body, beyond the control of her mind, recognized him deep within its marrow and sinews. She could feel her pores expand, sense a deep relaxation inside her. She was aware with an intense familiarity of the planes and angles of his face. She knew without conscious memory the feel of the smooth and warm surfaces of his lips on hers, the texture of the hair that grew on his chest. She had felt his weight upon her, had taken him inside her, had fallen asleep against his muscled length, and her senses refused to disregard it.

“What are you thinking of?” he asked, his voice deep, his gaze upon her face.

“Nothing,” she said hurriedly.

She thought for a moment that he would persist. Then, with a slight movement of his shoulders, he said instead, “I trust you had an uneventful drive this evening?”

“Yes, though last night was not so pleasant,” she answered, and in gratitude for his forbearance and to aid the pretense of normalcy, went on to tell him of the attack upon their carriage as they returned from the theater.

“It was fortunate Nicholls was armed,” he commented.

“Yes. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing.”

A corner of his mouth lifted an instant. “Is that a warning?”

“If you care to take it that way.”

“I am unmanned by your concern.”

“I somehow doubt it,” she snapped, annoyed by his obvious amusement.

“Well, perhaps not,” he agreed, unperturbed, “not with a woman like you so near me.”

She sent him a look of smoldering resentment for the innuendo. “Am I supposed to be flattered?”

“Interested, possibly. Do you have any idea how enticing you are, sitting there? Do you have any conception of the self-control it requires to prevent myself from reaching out and pulling you into my arms? I know how soft and sweet your lips are, and how your breasts fit into my cupped hands. I’ve seen the way your eyes turn into dark blue pools of desire, and the need to put that look there again is driving me slowly insane. I want—”

He stopped, biting back the words, closing his lips firmly. Pushing back his chair, he got to his feet and moved away a few steps, his hand clasped on the back of his neck. Over his shoulder he said. “I’m sorry.”