Prisoner of Desire Read online

  Instead, they found glory, intangible, ephemeral, beyond price, the perfect completion.

  11

  ANYA AND RAVEL LEFT for New Orleans within the hour. They did not travel separately; after what had taken place between them, the possibility was not even mentioned again.

  Their behavior was most circumspect in front of the servants. Ravel waited for her downstairs and gave her his arm out to the carriage. He helped her inside and got in after her, taking the opposite seat with his back to the horses. They pulled away from the house to the cries of good-by from half the people from the quarters, most of whom, on learning that the horses and carriage had been ordered, had found some excuse to ease up toward the main house. It seemed they wanted to get a good look in the daylight at the man their mistress had been keeping locked in the gin, the man who had done so much the night before to prevent their being carried off and to save Beau Refuge from burning.

  Anya thought Ravel bore with the inspection, the craning necks and hoarse whispers, with commendable restraint. He seemed hardly aware of it, his attention turned inward as if grappling with some private problem. He returned the waves with a brief smile, his posture in his seat relaxed and yet slightly aloof. It was only as the miles churned away beneath the wheels of the carriage and his withdrawn attitude remained the same that she realized it was not a pose.

  By slow degrees, the warmth she had felt in his arms began to cool. It seemed there would be no private acknowledgment of what they had shared. It must have meant little to him if he could dismiss it so readily. She swallowed on a hard knot in her throat and gathered the tatters of her own dignity around her, turning her head to stare out the window. There was little to see except stretches of fields lying fallow under the weak February sun, interspersed with thick woods floored with the dark green spikes of palmetto and hung with vines showing tender new growth.

  As they neared New Orleans, Anya suggested that Ravel direct the driver Solon to his lodgings, or wherever he wished to stop. He inclined his head in silent agreement and did as she indicated. The carriage wound through the city, pulling up finally at a commodious house on Esplanade Street.

  Fairly new, an acquisition since Ravel’s rise to prosperity, it was of two stories, built of brick covered with cream plaster, and finished with graceful window arches and Ionic columns that gave it the look of a Roman villa. Set back under a pair of oaks, it was enclosed by a wrought-iron fence and had a formal front garden with paths outlined with box shrubs and planted with massed beds filled at the moment with pansies in full bloom.

  The carriage came to a halt before the gate of the fence. Ravel turned to Anya. “I would be grateful if you would come inside for a moment. I would like to present you to my mother.”

  There was reserve behind the words, almost as if he expected her to refuse for reasons that had more to do with who he was than with what had occurred at Beau Refuge. Anya hesitated, torn between a desire to leave him and have done with this episode and curiosity to see the woman he spoke of with such softness in his voice. It was possible, too, that an explanation for Ravel’s absence would be required, one Anya would be expected to give to Madame Castillo. She would rather face the Gallatin Street thugs any day, but she was not a coward. She would go.

  Ravel directed Solon to the kitchen, where he would find food and drink and a place to rest after his long drive, then took Anya’s arm. As he opened the gate and closed it behind them, she had the odd feeling of being coerced, almost as if she were being led like a captive to his home. The recent events had affected her mind more than she had realized. She must not allow such fancies to take root, or she would become as mad as her Uncle Will.

  The interior of the house was American in style, with rooms opening off a central hall, but very French in feeling with its subdued colors and graceful, beautifully made furnishings. It was also extremely quiet. Ravel had not rung for a servant, but had opened the door with his own key. No one came to greet them or offer assistance with wraps and hats. The ticking of a great cabinet clock standing in the hall was loud, doleful. It chimed the half hour, and the sound seemed to echo endlessly through the silent rooms.

  “If you will step upstairs, I’ll show you to a room where you can wash your hands while I go in search of Maman. Don’t hurry. It will be better, I think, if I take the time to make myself a little more presentable before she sees me.”

  Anya had no objections. He was still wearing clothing from the Beau Refuge storeroom, clean enough since it had replaced that which had been scorched beyond repair during the fire, but hardly fitting for a gentleman. She could not blame him for wishing to change. And naturally anything he might do to lessen the number of questions she herself was called upon to answer must have her approval.

  She moved ahead of him up the wide, curving stairs with their mahogany treads covered by an Oriental runner. At the end of the upper hall, he stepped ahead of her to open the door to a back bedchamber. She moved inside. He inclined his head, and with a few brief words to indicate that he would return for her shortly, he shut the door upon her and went away.

  Anya stood listening to his footsteps receding down the hall with a frown between her brows. After a moment she shook her head, as if to rid herself of the unease that gripped her. Removing her bonnet and gloves, she looked about the room.

  It was a pleasant chamber, very feminine in feeling, with walls painted palest blush pink, an Aubusson carpet on the floor in shades of rose, cream, and green, and embroidered muslin curtains under rose silk draperies lavishly hung with rose red fringe and tassels at the windows. The decorative leitmotif was cherubs. The small figures could be seen holding back the mosquito netting of the tester bed, lying on the fireplace mantel, hanging on the wall. Some were of marble, some of carved and painted or gilded wood; most were quite old and valuable.

  Anya removed the dust of travel and tidied her hair, then sat down to wait in a slipper chair. The bedchamber, for all its softness, was oppressive to her. It took only a moment for her to discover the cause. Unlike the rooms she was accustomed to, it had only one door, the one leading into the hall. There was no access to the outside other than a pair of windows, and no connecting rooms. It gave her a closed-in feeling that was similar to that which had been caused by the small room in the cotton gin. It was a distinct relief to hear the quiet knock as Ravel returned.

  He did not wait for her to open the door, but turned the silver knob and stepped inside. Anya came slowly to her feet. The man who advanced into the room might have been a stranger. He wore a frock coat of deep charcoal gray with light gray trousers, a white waistcoat, and black cravat. He had removed his bandaging, and his hair was well brushed, lying in sculptured waves over his head. His half-boots were polished to a mirror shine, and the watch chain that looped across his flat abdomen had the rich gleam of purest gold. His face was stern, the eyes as hard as obsidian.

  “My mother isn’t in,” he said abruptly. “This is her visiting day.”

  “I see.” Anya lowered her lashes, afraid he would see the alarm that was rising inside her. She moved to the bed where she had placed her bonnet and gloves. “Perhaps another time then.”

  “You could wait.”

  “I think not. I need to talk to Madame Rosa, and there are other things that must be done.”

  He made no reply. Though she moved toward him, he did not give way to permit her to approach the door. She came to a halt. With a coolness she did not feel, she lifted a brow in inquiry.

  At last he spoke. “Suppose I said to you, ‘Don’t go; stay here where it’s safe.’”

  “Safe?”

  “Someone tried to kill you.”

  “Because of you.” She started to step around him, but he moved to block her way.

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  She stood still. “What do you mean?”

  He watched her with care. “Are you sure you don’t know? It occurs to me that what you did may have been part of a larger scheme, that once your
part was played, you were no longer of use. You were expendable.”

  “You can’t believe such a thing,” she said as his meaning crept in upon her. “You can’t think that I deliberately took you to Beau Refuge so that you could be killed!”

  “Can’t I?”

  “You must be mad!”

  There was no relenting in his face. “I’m beginning to wonder.”

  “It makes no sense. If anyone wanted you dead, there are plenty of assassins in New Orleans.”

  “A telling point, but the fact remains that you did drag me to Beau Refuge and we were nearly killed, both of us. Whoever made the attempt may try again. I would prefer that they don’t succeed.”

  His dry irony was lost on Anya. “So would I! Listen to me, if you please. There was no scheme! I thought I could stop the duel by seeing to it that you did not appear when the time came. That’s all there is to it! I have no idea where those men came from or why, but I had nothing to do with them or with whoever sent them.”

  “It was a coincidence, in fact, that they came when they did?”

  “Yes!” she cried, her voice throbbing with anger and apprehension. He was so tall and broad. In all the time she had known him, even when he first discovered that she had had him chained, she had never seen him look quite so forbidding.

  “I’m not a fool,” he said softly.

  “Nor am I a murderess!” She took a deep breath, struggling for control. “The best way to prove that it’s so is to find out who wanted you dead, and why. To stand here arguing about it is only wasting time. Unless of course you know who it might be?”

  His answer was indirect. “It will be best if you stay here until I can be sure.”

  “I can’t stay here; it’s out of the question!”

  A faint smile touched his lean features. He took a step toward her. “I think you can.”

  “If you are doing this for revenge,” she said, her blue gaze stormy as she gave ground, “let me tell you I consider it more than a little excessive.”

  “Meaning that I have already had my — satisfaction? It may be that I consider it incomplete.”

  The implication, coupled with the raking look he gave her and the sudden warmth in his eyes, was unmistakable. The color drained from her face as she absorbed the shock. “You mean you — you want me, even though you think I tried to have you killed?”

  “Perverse of me, isn’t it?”

  “Demented! As demented as staying chained to the wall at Beau Refuge when you could have gone. I thought it was honor that had kept you there. What was it in truth? This need for revenge? The pleasure of ruining my good name by lingering? The prospect of forcing yourself on me again?”

  “Forcing, Anya?” he said, his voice rough as he reached for her. “There was no force used or required. There was only this.”

  He pulled her against him, his fingers biting into her arms as he captured her mouth with his. His lips were hard, burning in their demand for surrender. She struck at him with her hands that were trapped between them, twisting, struggling. He released her arm, sinking his fingers into the thick coil of hair at the nape of her neck to hold her immobile. Still she fought him, though the pressure of his mouth lessened, his lips moving upon hers with insistent, devastating tenderness.

  It was so familiar, so frighteningly familiar, the deep, hot burgeoning of desire inside her. She did not want it, would not succumb to it or give him the satisfaction of knowing he could arouse it. She could not fight him and herself at the same time. She went still, concentrating on subduing the treacherous impulses while she stood as lifeless and cold as a statue in his arms.

  He released her so abruptly that she nearly fell, might have if it had not been for the grasp he retained on her elbow. The urge to strike out at him was so great that she trembled with it, but something, perhaps his hold on her arm, perhaps the expression in his eyes, prevented it. They stared at each other, their breathing jagged, loud in the tense quiet.

  Ravel curled his free hand into a fist as he slowly brought his needs under control. He wondered if she knew how close he was to taking her there on the floor. Another word, a single gesture of defiance—

  God, he was as mad as she called him. How much of what he had said to her did he believe? He hardly knew himself. He only knew that he would do anything to hold her with him a little longer. Anything. And if she hated him for it, so be it. At the back of his mind, scarcely acknowledged but beckoning, lay a solution to his dilemma. To broach it would, however, be most unwise; it would give her an advantage he was almost sure she would not hesitate to use. Almost.

  “If my presence and my touch are so distasteful to you,” he said, his voice tight, “why did you visit me in my prison? Why didn’t you leave me out there alone?”

  Her answer, dictated by impotent rage, came unbidden. “Because I was sorry for you!”

  No, she would not hesitate. His grip on her arm closed harder and harder until suddenly she paled, wincing. He flung her from him, swinging away, heading for the door.

  “You will never get away with this!” she cried, taking a step after him. “Solon knows I’m here.”

  He spoke over his shoulder. “Your coachman is locked in the stables and your carriage out of sight.”

  “You’re a fool if you think you can keep the fact that I’m here a secret. It will be all over the city in twenty-four hours.”

  He turned at the door, his face grim. “Has it occurred to you, Anya, ma chérie, that, fool though I am, that might be my purpose?”

  The door closed behind him. There came the rasp and click of a key turning in the lock.

  Revenge, that was what he had meant. He was going to complete the ruin of her name begun at Beau Refuge. Anya went swiftly toward the door and, knowing it was useless, turned the silver knob back and forth in frustration. She stopped. No. It could not be. His mother lived here with him, a more than adequate chaperone. In fact, a visit to his home, his mother, could conceivably shed some aura of respectability on his sojourn at the plantation. It would also give rise to speculation about a match between them.

  The idea was insupportable. It was also laughable. Ravel would never think of marrying her, not after what she had done to him. The conventions meant little to someone like him. If she was compromised, he would doubtless consider it her own fault, not his. Certainly if it had been his intention to do the honorable thing he must surely have said so before now.

  Unless his motive had nothing to do with honor? Vengeance would be equally served, perhaps better served, if he forced her to marry him. To be wed to him, Jean’s killer, a man who had taken her virginity by a trick; he must know she would hate it. He wanted her, she knew that. How he would enjoy being able to save her good name, prevent her from dwindling into a spinster because of what he had done. At the same time, he would gain the respectability he had never had by the alliance with Madame Rosa’s stepdaughter, and force her into his bed quite legally. Revenge indeed!

  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. Th
ere 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.