Prisoner of Desire (30 page)

She felt sick with rage, and at her own idiocy for getting involved with Ravel Duralde. Sick, and with a strong inclination to put her head down somewhere and weep. She leaned her forehead against the door panel for a long moment, closing her eyes tightly against the acid seep of tears into her lashes.

Then with a deep breath she drew herself erect. She would not stand for it. There was no power on earth that could make her submit to so debasing an arrangement. She would far rather face the whispers and the tittle-tattle, the inevitable ostracism that would come. What did she care for society, for parties and balls and the trivial round of amusements? She had Beau Refuge. She liked her own company. She would survive.

But Madame Rosa would be appalled, and Celestine would feel the shame as her own. What Murray would make of the scandal she could not think. He was not so bound by tradition as the Creoles, and yet he was a most conservative young man.

Murray and Celestine, so young and in love. There might be protection for them in a marriage between Ravel and herself. There would no longer be cause for a duel, and, in addition, a meeting between men so closely related was unlikely.

Unlikely, but not impossible. In all probability that was where Ravel was going now, to find and challenge Murray. No doubt settling that affair was the urgent business that had brought him back to town. It could not be permitted. Somehow, someway, she must stop it. In order to do that, she must first find the means to escape. This was a bedchamber, not a room designed as a prison. There had to be a way out.

The simplest method must be eliminated first. Anya dropped to her knees before the door, placing her eye at the keyhole. If the key was in the lock, she could slip something, a piece of cloth or paper, under the door, push the key out of the hole from this side with a buttonhook or nail file if such a thing could be found, then when the key fell on the cloth outside, draw it back toward her under the door.

The key was not in the lock. Ravel must have taken it with him.

She rose and made a quick circuit of the room. The windows here on this second floor were not only quite far above the ground due to the high ceilings of the house, typical of the warm climate, but were also barred across the lower halves with iron grilles. The grillwork was primarily decorative, but might have been installed by a previous owner for the safety of a child. It was ornate, but had a substantial look.

She returned to the door. She had watched Ravel pick the lock at the gin. It had not appeared too difficult, and pins were one thing she had with her in abundance. Drawing one from her hair, she got down on her knees once more and set to work.

It was not as easy as it had seemed. The mechanism was stiff and unwieldly, refusing to yield to the pressure she was able to exert, or else her knowledge of how a lock worked was faulty. She should have paid more attention to such matters, but how was she to know it would ever be useful? She threw the pin down in frustration, and pulled herself to her feet with her hands on the knob. She had sat so long on her legs that they tingled from lack of circulation, refusing to work. She was growing hungry, too. It was well past noon and she had not eaten. At least she had not starved Ravel! So great was her sense of ill-usage that she picked up a cherub in pink onyx, strongly tempted to throw it out the window just for the satisfaction of smashing something.

Out the window. Though the bottom half was covered by a grille, the top was not. She had only glanced at the windows through the muslin curtains, assuming that since the house was fairly new and had many American features the windows were double sashes. Now she moved to jerk the draperies open and pull the muslin curtains underneath to one side. With the filmy fabric out of the way, it was easy to see that the windows were casements. They opened on hinges, swinging into the room, leaving the entire expanse free and uncluttered. All she had to do was climb over the grille. That was, of course, if she could find some way of letting herself down to the ground.

There was an obvious solution. Whirling to the bed, she threw the pillows and bolster aside and stripped back the coverlet and quilts. The sheets were of linen, monogrammed at the top hem, gratifyingly strong. She tugged the top sheet from the mattress, holding it up, wondering if it would not be better to tear it in half.

The knob of the door rattled, was twisted back and forth. Anya hurriedly bundled the sheet in her arms, turning toward the bed. There was no time to remake it. What Ravel would say when he saw what she was doing, what action he would take, she did not like to think. The key was being inserted in the lock, scraping as it was turned. The knob began to move.

The woman who stepped into the room was tall and elegant, if rather thin, and dressed in a visiting costume of soft velvet trimmed with gray and pink striped ribbons. Her hair, drawn back in lustrous waves, was black with wings of white at her temples. Her eyes were dark and quick with intelligence under rather thick brows, dominating a face that seemed to gain strength from the fine lines of humor and pain around the eyes and about the mouth. Her age might have been no more than forty, though common sense suggested it must be nearer fifty, perhaps more. The resemblance to Ravel was unmistakable.

The woman’s entrance was swift, impetuous; then as she saw Anya her footsteps slowed. Her face pale, she said in soft distress, “If I had not seen it for myself, I would not have believed it.”

“Madame Castillo?”

“You have it right.”

“I’m Anya Hamilton.”

“I am aware. This is really too bad. This time he has gone too far.”

Anya moistened her lips. “Perhaps I should explain—”

“There is no need; I have eyes in my head. The arrogance of him, the sheer unprincipled gall. That he could do it at all is shocking, but that he would dare while I am under the same roof makes me long to slap him!”

“If you think,” Anya said, her temper kindling, “that I am some loose woman your son has brought here to embarrass you, or that this is an episode of simple lust, I take leave to inform you—”

Madame Castillo’s expression changed rapidly from concern to blank surprise to amusement. She gave a choke of laughter. “Simple lust! Oh,
chère,
if only it were.”

“You are aware then of — of what is between your son and myself.”

“In part, and the rest, knowing Ravel, I can guess.”

The message he had sent from Beau Refuge must have been more comprehensive than he had indicated. An uncomfortable flush rose to Anya’s face. “I can’t blame you for being angry for what I did—”

“Oh, I’m not angry. Anything done to prevent a duel in which my son is involved must have my blessing — even if his continued good health was not the purpose.”

“Then your disapproval is for his keeping me here?” Anya said slowly, a trace of surprise in her tone.

“Not, perhaps, the fact, but the method seems lacking in finesse.”

The older woman tipped her head to one side, her gaze upon Anya direct, relentlessly appraising. She was no easier to understand than her son. Did she mean that she had no objection to Anya despite the abduction, that her annoyance was with Ravel’s flouting of the conventions? Or was she saying that she understood and applauded Ravel’s deeper purpose, to pressure Anya into marriage, but deplored the way he was going about it? In either case, it made no difference. There was only one point of importance at this moment.

“You will let me go then?”

Madame Castillo smiled. “I doubt that I could stop you; you appear a very determined young lady. Of course, it might be best for the peace of this house if I were to go away and close the door, permitting you to make your way out the window. My conscience won’t allow it, however; I should never forgive myself if you fell. And so you are free to go, if that is what you want.”

Anya tossed the sheet she held on the bed, searching out her bonnet and gloves where they had been thrown to the floor as she removed the coverlet. She stood, tying the bonnet of sea blue velvet set with nodding egret plumes on her head, smoothing on her kid gloves.

Of course it was what she wanted. How could it not be? To be free at last of Ravel Duralde, never to cross his path again, was her dearest wish. It was unreasonable of her then to think of him as he had been that morning, splendidly naked, with his hair damp and curling on his forehead and his eyes black and lustrous with passion.
“Look at me, Anya
—”

If she left now she would never again feel his caresses, never see the sudden flash of his laughter or the intent concentration of his thought processes as they played chess or solved problems together, never again lie replete and languorous in his arms. If she were to marry him, no matter how or why, she would have those things.

But there was nothing to say he wanted to marry her at all. The suspicions she harbored might be no more than tortuous fancies without foundation. Because she found his chess moves complicated and filled with clever entrapments did not mean that he must proceed in that manner in the situation in which they found themselves. He was a man of the nineteenth century, not some Byzantine ruler from the ancient world plotting confusion to those who had injured him. She would go home, back to Madame Rosa’s house, and that would be the end of it.

She did not truly expect that it would be. Nor was it.

The problem was not the necessity of explaining everything to Madame Rosa and Celestine. As the matter was discussed over an early tea hastily prepared for Anya, her half-sister cried and fumbled with her vinaigrette in a storm of sympathy and indignation and foreboding, but Madame Rosa remained reassuringly sanguine. There would be talk, a great deal of it, but so long as Anya and Ravel conducted themselves in a suitable manner, it would pass. To aid matters, she would have Gaspard drop just a hint here and there about a visit by M’sieur Duralde to Beau Refuge to inspect some — what? Horses? Mules? Of how he had become ill of an unknown and possibly contagious fever so that he had insisted on keeping well away from the main house until he recovered. And of how grateful they all were that he was on hand when the gin went up in flames. Anya might have to endure a few prying questions and suggestive remarks, but if no more serious consequences developed, they should be able to launder this particular piece of linen in private.

The oblique reference to consequences referred to the hope that Anya was not pregnant. What she would do if she should be was a question Anya refused to consider. She had spoken blithely to Ravel of taking the English remedy, but she preferred not to put her resolve to the test. The time might come when she would be glad for Ravel to marry her, whatever his reasons.

Because of that, and because she could not prevent herself from thinking of what had happened, the question that had haunted her from the beginning remained with her, preventing her from making an end of the affair. Gaining in importance from minute to minute the longer and harder she struggled with it, was the puzzle of what sort of man Ravel truly was.

It was not the only question, of course. The more she thought of the things he had said to her, the more puzzled she became. He suspected her of being involved with the men who had tried to kill him, a not unreasonable surmise in view of her abduction of him. And yet there seemed something more behind his suspicion. What could it be? The duel and its cause appeared central to the matter, but surely he could not think that Murray would choose so low a means of avoiding a meeting, or that she would help him if he had? Nor did it make sense for Ravel to suppose that, if she had aided Murray, he would then have turned on her and ordered her death. It was ridiculous.

But what else was there? There must be something she was missing. Her need to know was so strong that she could think of nothing else. She could not relax, could not rest. She felt only a terrible need to find the answers she sought someway, somehow, and soon.

Where was she to look? Whom was she to ask? What questions should she use to discover the information she needed? She didn’t know but she would find out. It seemed sensible to suppose that the best way to learn about a man would be to ask those who knew him. There were three people who came immediately to mind. The first of these was his mother, but Anya had spoken to her, and it was unlikely that she could or would reveal more than she had already. Of the other two, the most important was Emile. He had been out of the city, but he must have some idea of Ravel’s character, the esteem in which he was held by the men who knew him, or else could find out. The final person was the actress Simone Michel, Ravel’s current mistress.

With Anya, to decide on a course of action was to embark upon it. She sat down at once at the
escritoire
in her sitting room and wrote a short and carefully worded note asking Emile to call upon her. Ringing for a servant, she dispatched the missive as soon as she had folded and sealed it.

Her messenger had hardly left the room before a knock came. Anya called out her permission to enter, then as she saw who it was, sprang to her feet in quick apprehension.

“Marcel! How did you come to be here? Is something wrong at Beau Refuge?”

“No, no, don’t alarm yourself, mam’zelle. Nothing is wrong.”

As he came forward, Anya saw that his arm was in a sling of black cloth, a color so nearly matching his coat she had not seen it at once. She indicated it now. “You look far from right.”

He gave her a smile as he shook his head. “My wrist is broken, just a small crack in the bone, or so the doctor said. I didn’t feel it until after you had gone this morning. I was only an hour behind you on the road, but I had instruction from Maman to go straight to the doctor, without troubling you until I was sure of the problem.”