Prisoner of Desire Page 17

  “Never mind,” he said, his smile rueful and yet warm as he turned, “I’m only grateful your hand didn’t fall on the coffeepot. As for breakfast, I’ll put it by the fire for a few minutes; it will be fine.”

  She moistened her lips. “Actually, it’s also my breakfast.”

  “I am honored,” he said, his voice dry. “Of course you must do as you please.”

  “I’m sure it will be all right,” she said, and turned abruptly away, minutely adjusting the tray on the table.

  They sat down to eat a short time later. While the coffee and rolls warmed, the room had been tidied: the shaving water poured away into the slop jar, Anya’s apron rescued from its corner and folded neatly, the puddled water on the floor mopped up with a length of toweling, the bed made and the table, to make room for their meal, cleared of the chess set and books that had been stacked upon it. They had worked together to achieve that neatness, still there was constraint between them. In silence they spread butter and jam on their rolls. The tinkling as they stirred sugar into their coffee was loud. Anya sipped at the dark brew, and it was an effort to prevent the tightness of her throat from betraying her with swallowing noises.

  She could not recall ever being so on edge with a man before, nor so aware of his every movement, of the way the muscles tensed in his jaws, the fine black hairs that grew on his wrists, the grace and strength of the shape of his hands. She had also never held a man prisoner before, or been intimate with one; betrayed one, or been betrayed by one. To be comfortable with Ravel was too much to expect; it should be enough that they were no longer antagonistic toward one another. It should be, and yet she could not help wishing that the strain could be eased.

  Ravel touched his napkin to his mouth, then dropped it beside his plate. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers toying with the rim of his Sevres coffee cup. He stared at her a long moment with a slight frown between his eyes.

  “Tell me something,” he said at last.

  “Yes?”

  “Why are you here? I don’t mean to sound blunt or unwelcoming — God knows I am glad of the company — still, visiting as if I were an invited guest is the last thing I would have guessed you would do.”

  “I didn’t intend it.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She glanced up at him, then back down at the fleur-de-lis design in the pat of butter that she was destroying with a tine of her fork. “In the first place, it is hardly proper, and in the second it can only call attention to the fact that you are here.”

  “That makes sense.”

  She threw down the fork. “What has happened between us makes a mockery of proper behavior, and your stay has been protracted past the time when it can be hidden. You can’t remain here much longer; soon you will have to return to New Orleans. There must be a way to enlist your help in putting a stop to any meeting between you and Murray. There must be, but I don’t know what it is. In order to find it, I have to discover what kind of man you are.”

  “You could ask.”

  “When would I know when I had the right answer?”

  The angles of his face tightened, then relaxed again. “Do you play chess?”

  “What?”

  “There is a great deal to be learned about a person from how they play games of any kind, but especially from chess.”

  “I used to play with my father,” she said slowly.

  “And will you play with me?”

  It occurred to her to refuse. He had spoken as if he were a master of the game, and it was unlikely she was a match for him, though she had sometimes, not often but sometimes, beaten her father. Still, that was not the reason. If she could discover something of his strengths and weaknesses during the test of strategies and maneuvers, then he could do the same for her own. Why he should wish to, she could not imagine, but she did not make the mistake of thinking that his suggestion had been made at random, or from a desire to be accommodating. He had a reason, and she would give much to know what it was before she sat down across a chessboard from him.

  She met his dark gaze above the ruins of their breakfast with trepidation and excitement crowding in her mind. Slowly she smiled. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I will.”

  9

  CHESS HAD CEASED TO BE A GAME for intellectuals and become the rage in Louisiana. With the advent on the world scene of the chess champion from New Orleans, Paul Morphy, people in the state who had never sat down to a chessboard in their lives suddenly began to find it a delightful pastime. Ladies in the haut ton bought special game tables with boards inlaid in the tops, or set out chess sets in their salons with pieces on various squares to make it appear that there was a perpetual game in progress. Young ladies speaking of knights and castles were not always engrossed in the medieval period, and it was not uncommon for an elderly gentleman, taking his handkerchief from his pocket, to shake out a captured pawn or two.

  The chess set that had belonged to Anya’s father was Venetian and nearly two hundred years old. It had a board of ebony and ivory in satinwood, and pieces of silver and bronze on bases that were inlaid with lapis lazuli and mother-of-pearl and trimmed with gold. Each piece was carefully fashioned, a small work of art, from the imperious queens to the pawns that looked like foot soldiers. As a child, Anya had played other games with them, pretending that they were families with many brothers, or arranging royal weddings. It had given her pleasure to handle them then, and still did.

  While Anya removed the breakfast dishes, Ravel pulled on his clothes, then they both set up the board. She put more wood on the fire so that they need not to be distracted by the need to replenish it and, when Marcel came for the remains of breakfast, sent a message to Denise with directions for the noon meal to be served in the gin. Finally she and her prisoner sat down facing each other at the table with the board between them.

  Their play was cautious at first as they took each other’s measure. Anya’s father had been a sober player who went by the book, one who preferred the classic games. Anya had little patience with such moves by rote, tending toward a cavalier but watchful style with sudden brilliant forays into enemy territory. Ravel’s play, she discovered as the morning advanced, was both classical and daring, but also with a degree of concentration and Byzantine calculation she had never before encountered. His ability to predict her moves far in advance was annoying in the extreme. She did not pretend to be an expert at the game, but the ease with which he was able to achieve check and mate the first time put her on her mettle. She settled down to make it a bit more difficult for him.

  The morning passed with amazing quickness. Noon came, and still they played. They ate cold meat and bread, fried cauliflower and fried fruit pies without taking their eyes from the board. The rivalry that had sprung up between them was friendly, but intense. Neither gave quarter or asked for it, nor did they take an unfair advantage or expect one.

  Ravel, Anya had plenty of opportunity to discover, was generous in victory. He did not gloat, nor did he point out her errors unless she asked. He took her pieces from the board matter-of-factly, without triumph or vindictiveness. When she thwarted his schemes, he was admiring of the strategy even at his most irritated, and when in midafternoon they battled to a draw, there was wry satisfaction in the smile he gave her across the board.

  It was then Anya realized that in the heat of the contest she had forgotten the purpose of it. She wondered if Ravel had done the same, or if the manner in which he had played had been designed to give her a good impression of his character. There was no way of knowing. It also crossed her mind to wonder what he had learned of her, what she might have given away. She could think of no reason why it should matter, and yet it did.

  “This has been a pleasure,” Ravel said, leaning back in his chair. “With practice you could be formidable.”

  “It’s kind of you to say so.”

  “I’m not being kind. And I appreciate the sacrifice of your time today.”

  “You make me sound like a martyr, when al
l the time it’s you who—” She stopped, reluctant to remind him of his imprisonment.

  His voice soft, he said, “If this is martyrdom, then you should have men beating down your door to endure it.”

  Anya gave him a straight look. “Next you will be saying that it was a privilege.”

  “Some portions of it,” he said promptly.

  Color flared into her face as she took his meaning. She refused to acknowledge her discomfiture, catching at the first thing that came into her mind as a distraction. “It must be growing inconvenient. I understand your mother lives in New Orleans and is not in good health. If you would care to write out a message, I will see that it reaches her.”

  “There is no need.”

  “No?”

  “I sent one yesterday.”

  “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?