Prisoner of Desire (24 page)

“I see. You bribed Marcel.”

“He was careful to read the note first to see that it did not compromise his position as my guard.”

She shook her head. “It isn’t like him.”

“I did tell you that he felt sorry for me.”

“You played on his sympathies.”

“Only a little. It seemed necessary.”

“I’m surprised you thought to relieve your mother’s mind.”

A hard light came into his eyes. “You think that you have more concern for the woman who bore me than I would be likely to show?”

“I’m not certain what to think about you.” She held his dark gaze, though it was an effort.

“Now, that,” he said, “is progress of a sort. Shall we play again?”

Marcel brought them afternoon coffee along with fruitcake and marzipan. It was an excuse, Anya thought, for checking on her and the trend of their game. The coffee was welcome. The mental exercise of staying ahead of Ravel had taken such a physical toll that she needed the stimulation.

It was not long after she and Ravel had finished the last of the dark brew in the silver pot, draining their second and third cups, that the man across from her reached into his trouser pocket and took out a hairpin. He turned it over and over in his long fingers with an idle motion as he contemplated the pieces on the chessboard, as if he were hardly conscious of what he was doing.

A hairpin. Her hairpin. She must have missed it that night, left it behind in her flight from his bed. Such a hairpin could be used to pick a lock if one were patient and relatively skillful, or at least so it was said. She had tried it once without success as a child on an armoire she had suspected of being filled with New Year’s Eve presents. It would not be surprising if Ravel knew the secret after his years in prison.

But if he did, why hadn’t he used it? Why was he still sitting opposite her with a shackle around his ankle? Why had he not released himself, overpowered Marcel, and made good his escape? Could it be that he had his own reasons for waiting?

What they could be she hardly dared consider. A strong possibility was that he had been waiting for her return, waiting until he could catch her off guard, until he could achieve the particular vengeance he craved.

Her scalp prickled as the idea sank in. She stared at him, at his hard ascetic features that were relaxed now, even touched with wry humor. Sensing her gaze, he looked up at her, and a ghost of a smile flitted across his lips.

The conviction came to her abruptly that he knew exactly what he was doing. The display of the pin was like a chess move. He was waiting for her countermove, waiting with interest and a certain cynical enjoyment to see what form it would take.

No. She was being entirely too fanciful. He was not the kind of man to resort to petty revenge; she would swear to it.

There was nothing to indicate that his vengeance would be petty, of course. He had already exacted a considerable price for his incarceration. If he should attempt to take the same coin again, would her resistance deter him? This time she would resist, with all her strength.

There was one way of discovering how aware he was of what he was doing. She lifted her hand to smooth at the tendril of hair escaping from the knot on the nape of her neck. Reaching out with her other hand toward Ravel, she said as lightly as possible, “You found my pin. It’s so vexing the way they disappear. May I?”

He glanced down at the pin he held, then back up again, his smile widening. “You need it? Sorry, I can’t oblige.”

“Whyever not?” She feigned surprise, though her heart began to increase its beat against the wall of her chest.

“Call it sentimentality. To you it’s a hairpin, a useful object. To me it’s a keepsake. Men, like your own sex, sometimes cling to the things that evoke pleasant memories.”

A furious accusation hovered on the tip of her tongue. It died unspoken. There was an expression in the depths of his black eyes that sent a shiver along her nerves. She was assailed by uncertainty combined with a sudden debilitating need to believe him.

She was a fool. Her returning fury rushed in upon her like a tidal wave. Her voice tight, she said, “Nonsense!”

“You think so? How little faith you have in yourself,
chérie.
But if your need for pins is so great, I might, just might, be persuaded to give this one up.”

“Yes?”

“Yes. For the proper recompense.”

“And what,” she asked in dawning suspicion, “might that be?”

He pretended to consider. “We might begin with a kiss, freely given.”

“Begin?”

He was laughing at her, toying with her in full recognition of the fact that he had the upper hand, and knew that she realized it. The knowledge, instead of weakening her resolve, only served to strengthen it.

“Forgive me,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “but it has become an ambition of mine to taste the sweetness of your lips without coercion from me.”

“You don’t call this coercion?”

He lifted a brow, his gaze limpid. “In repayment for a pin only? Its surely a mild form, one you are free to repudiate if the prize isn’t worth it.”

He knew precisely what he was doing. But why? Why?

“If that’s all—,” she began.

“Ah, well, if we are speaking simply of what I would like, it would be to feel your body against mine, pressed close from chest to ankle, every soft yet firm curve, without restraint.”

Heat flowed through her, radiating from the deepest recesses of her body, rising to burn on her cheekbones. With what hauteur she could muster, she said, “You expect a great deal.”

The smile in his eyes kindled. “I would like to see you take down your hair and shake it free. I would like to have you turn your back to me for aid with the buttons of your gown, asking my assistance in ridding you of the surfeit of clothing you wear. It would be my pleasure to lift it away, layer after layer as if penetrating to some ancient mystery. And when you were down to your white and shimmering skin and nothing more, I would like you to turn to me, unblushing, and step into my arms as if you belonged there.”

He stopped, his lips closing in a firm line, as though he had said more than he intended. The silence between them was taut, laden with torn emotions and things left unspoken, unasked.

Anya’s tenuous control snapped, abruptly, like the breaking of a twig under strain. She surged to her feet and, in the same motion, reached to snatch the pin from Ravel’s fingers and whirl from the table. He came upright, but before he could disentangle his chain from the chairs legs, Anya was halfway across the room.

She faced him, backing toward the door out of range of the chain. Her voice was breathless as she spoke. “The price was too high. You should not have been so greedy.”

“You are an unprincipled witch.”

His words lacked the heat she expected. “I have learned to be.”

“At my tutelage? I should be flattered.”

“But you aren’t, are you?”

“No. Are you surprised? Never mind. I have your measure,
chère
Anya. Next time I will know what to expect.”

Anya gave him a level look, her eyes as dark as ink. “If there is a next time.”

Swinging around, she left him standing beside the table as she let herself from the room. Still his words, soft with confidence, followed her.

“There will be,” he said. “Oh, yes, there will be.”

The February dusk had fallen early. A smudge of soft blue and gold lay in the west, but there were moving shadows under the trees and in the sharp-angled shades cast by the outbuildings. Somewhere a dog barked and pigs grunted and squealed as they were fed. A field hand lying resting on the porch of his cabin while his woman cooked their supper played a Jews harp with a haunting, mournful sound. His dark shape was half-hidden in the dimness as Anya passed, though he lifted a hand in greeting.

Fruit trees were budding and blooming behind the cabins, and the grass was beginning to turn green again. The cool air carried a hint of the sweet scent of spring. The short subtropical winter this far south would soon be done. In two days it would be Mardi Gras, the beginning of the meatless days of Lent. The
saison des visites
would be at an end, and though Madame Rosa and Celestine would remain in the city until after Easter, Anya would be released to see to the planting.

The barking dog yelped and was silent. A faint breeze rustled the leaves of the live oaks overhead with the sound of stealthy footsteps. Anya, her head bent as she placed her hard-won hairpin in the knot on her nape, paused in what she was doing, coming to a halt. She lowered her hands, at the same time turning to look back the way she had come, aware of a distinct unease. The field hand had got up and gone inside. The church, with its bell off to one side, looked small, shrunken in the uncertain light. The nursery on her right was empty, the babies and small children home with their mothers on this day of rest.

Further back down the road, half-hidden as it curved, the gray bulk of the cotton gin was silent, lifeless. Not a glint of light showed, though the windows on the back would be spilling their lamplight into the gathering night. Ahead of her as she swung back, the big house was also dark, the colonnettes of the upper floor at the rear gleaming pale and insubstantial in the dimness. Denise usually left a lamp burning in Anya’s back bedchamber as well as downstairs when she was out; surely the housekeeper did not think she meant to stay the night at the gin?

An oversight, that was all. The outdoor kitchen, separate from the main building, was brightly lighted. At any moment she would see the glow of the lamp moving, being carried from it toward the big house. She would see Marcel coming to meet her perhaps, or else Denise bustling about, carrying food into the house for her dinner. Perhaps it was not as late as she thought. She was on edge from her unsettling encounter with Ravel; her imagination was running away with her. But it had been years since she had last felt nervous of the dark or anything that moved in it at Beau Refuge.

They came at her from behind the carriage house. There were five of them. Their clothes were gray and shapeless, their hair shaggy where it was not covered by dirty, floppy, and sweat-stained hats. They were big and brawny, with the broken noses and gapped teeth of the kind of thugs who prowled Gallatin Street near the river. They were sure of themselves and of her, for their grins were wolfish as they swept down on her, and their arms were spread wide as if they were shooing baby chicks.

In the house lay possible safety, a weapon, Marcel to stand beside her. The men were between her and that goal, however. Back the way she had come lay the bell that when rung would peal out a call for help, signal an emergency that would bring the hands running toward the sound. It was her best chance.

She whirled, lifting her skirts high. She was fleet from years of racing with Jean in tomboy games and from the exertions of riding and walking over the plantation. The men cursed and pounded after her. She could hear their heavy footfalls, their grunting breathing. She sprinted harder.

One of her slippers came off. She stumbled and kicked off the other. They were gaining on her. A sharp ache pierced her side. The air rasped in her chest with every breath. Tears of effort blurred her vision. The church was ahead of her. The bell post. The bell. Its rope.

She reached out her hand, caught the rope. The impetus of her forward motion sent it clanging against the side of the bell. Discordant, so loud it ached in the ears, the noise vibrated in the air.

It was not repeated. Rough hands clamped bruisingly on her arms and shoulders. The bell rope was jerked from her hand, the clapper caught, silenced. The single loud peal might have been caused by no more than a young boy jumping up to slap at the clapper.

Anya was hauled around, her arms twisted behind her back until a scarlet haze of pain spread over her vision, stilling her twisting struggles as she caught her breath against it. A rough-clad arm with the hard feel of an oak limb cut across her middle, compressing her lungs, while one breast was caught in an aching grasp. She smelled sweat and stale tobacco and foul breath as the man who held her growled in her ear.

“Where is he? Where’s Duralde?”

Shock held her silent. She could not think. It was only the shafting pain as her breast was slowly squeezed that made her gasp out, “Who? Who do you want?”

“Don’t play dumb. You know. Duralde.”

“What makes you think I would know?” The pain had eased for an instant, but that calloused hand held its hard grip, a palpable threat. Anya twisted her head, catching a glimpse of the man who held her. For an instant there seemed something familiar about him. The impression vanished before she could grasp it.

“A little bird told us,” one of the others said, and laughed, a grating sound.

“Quit stallin’.” The first man jerked her arm up higher so that her shoulder and elbow joints creaked, streaking pain into her back and arm. “We ain’t got all night.”

“He isn’t here,” she gasped. “Really!”

Had Ravel sent a message to these men as well as to his mother? Or had there ever been a note of concern sent to the woman who bore him? Had it been to his vicious crew all along? No matter how it was done, she would be damned first before she would help him in his escape.