Prisoner of Desire Read online

  He lowered his lashes, indicating the table with a smooth gesture. “Won’t you be seated?”

  “I am here because of your base threat. I have no intention of sharing a meal with you as if your massage had been an engraved invitation.”

  “You have to eat.”

  “Not with you.”

  “You have cracked my skull, taken my freedom, and compromised my honor. Your company for a meal doesn’t seem much to ask in return.”

  “My view of the matter is somewhat different.”

  “How so?”

  “It would be tedious to explain.”

  His tone dry, he answered, “I have no pressing appointments.”

  “Your dinner is getting stone-cold.” Anya cast a look of irritation at the covered silver servers that had been spread out on the table. An aroma that was decidedly appetizing hovered above them. She felt her stomach shift, making ready to growl, and in haste she moved away from him.

  “Don’t be shy. You know you are panting to tell me what a blackguard I am for using such threats to get you here.”

  She sent him a brief glance over her shoulder. “I’m afraid that would give me scant satisfaction for what I feel at the moment.”

  “What would give you satisfaction, Anya?” he asked, his tone soft.

  Something in his voice sent a quiver along her nerves. She moved away from him. At the doorway she had left open, Marcel stood, on guard, awaiting further orders. His face was expressionless, the face of discretion worn by all good servants. Should she send him away, or tell him to bring her own meal? Neither course was acceptable to her, and yet it would be awkward for her to hover in this manner while Ravel sat down to eat.

  When she did not answer, Ravel lifted a brow. “What is it? You don’t like having someone else’s will imposed on your own? It troubles you to feel you are no longer entirely in control? Will it mend matters if I pledge my word to deliver the matches I hold into your hand immediately after dessert?”

  She swung around. “You would do that?”

  His slow smile was charming but enigmatic. “They will have served their purpose.”

  Circumstances sometimes changed plans. A tête-à-tête with Ravel Duralde was not what she had intended, still it might be worth it for peace of mind.

  He watched her face. “The situation may be unusual, but there is no reason that we can’t behave in a civilized fashion.”

  The words were sensible enough, and their formality should have been reassuring; Anya could not say that they lacked sincerity. And yet even as her brain counseled capitulation, her basic instinct was for caution.

  “You can pretend that I am some doddering past acquaintance of your father’s to whom you need be no more than polite. Except for an occasional request to pass the salt, you can ignore me.”

  Nothing was more unlikely. Still, it did not matter. She was hungry after her work in the garden, and it seemed suddenly the height of stupidity to allow pride and anger and this man’s games to make her feel uncomfortable on her own property or to interfere with her evening meal. She gave a curt nod, then directed that the cold food be taken away and replaced with a fresh selection of hot dishes, for two.

  Silence descended around them like a thick and smothering coverlet when Marcel had gone. The wind had died. The night stillness was sullen, waiting. The thunder that grumbled around the sky had a closer sound.

  The light in the room was yellow, overbright. The lamp on the table beside the fireplace sent a spiral of black smoke toward the ceiling, burning with a hectic glow caused by a wick turned too high. Anya walked to the table and removed the lamps soot-blackened globe, lowering the wick until the flame that danced upon it was blue and barely edged with yellow.

  Ravel watched her, his features stern to conceal his satisfaction at the progress of events. The glow of the lamplight, reflecting in her face, gave her a strange, unearthly beauty, and he felt a stir of something like despairing desire in his loins. He suppressed it with ruthless care. She must not be made more wary of him than she was already.

  He moved toward the eating table that sat in the corner and pulled it forward into the room, closer to the fire. He reached for the straight-backed chair that went with it, placing it on one side, then turned to the armchair near the hearth. Bending, he lifted the heavy, upholstered piece with ease, then set it down opposite the straight chair at the table.

  Anya followed his movements, her gaze abstracted. The red flannel shirt she had sent him pulled taut across his shoulders and back as he bent, emphasizing the muscled hardness. His trousers, perfectly tailored for fit, fastened under the instep, clung with amazing fidelity to his thighs and the lean line of his hips. There was about him as he moved a dark and predatory grace. He was sleek and powerful and dangerous, with a faint intimation of some desperate need. Watching him, she was afraid that she had made a mistake in agreeing to his demand.

  He turned toward her, indicating with a brief gesture the place he had arranged as he inclined his head. “If you please?”

  The heat of a flush caused by her wandering thoughts about him rose to her cheekbones as she met his gaze. She lowered her lashes and, maneuvering her skirts with one hand to collapse the hoops of the crinoline and prevent wrinkling of the silk, sat down gingerly in the chair. He waited until she was ready, then shifted the heavy chair closer to the table. His hand brushed her arm, and she sent him a quick, startled glance as she felt the stinging heat of the contact.

  His chain clanked over the floor as he stepped to the other side of the table and took his place facing her. She averted her gaze from him, though she could feel his upon her. The depth of her consciousness of him amazed her. She had never been quite so acutely aware of a man in her life, certainly had never felt this uncomfortable degree of perception with Jean. She tried to tell herself it was because of the circumstances, her antipathy for Ravel, the memories of the past that linked them and the peculiar circumstances of the present. She did not quite believe it. There was something in the man himself, something that had always affected her adversely, even in those long-ago days of her betrothal, when Ravel had been among Jean’s friends.

  The need to dispel the feeling was so strong that she unconsciously fell back on the formal graciousness of a hostess.

  “We were speaking this morning of William Walker,” she said with a cool smile. “Did you attend the meeting of the Friends of Nicaragua last week?”

  Amusement for the ploy flitted across his face before he nodded. “I was there.”

  “Were you, by chance, one of the speakers?”

  “As it happens, I was.”

  “Your sympathies are with Walker, I imagine.”

  Again he inclined his head.

  “They are saying that he may be formally tried in court for violating the neutrality laws. Do you think he will be convicted?”

  “It depends on where the trial is held. If it’s in Washington, it’s possible. If it’s here in New Orleans, where he has his greatest base of support, the chance is slight.”

  “There has been a rumor lately about the men who fought with Walker in Central America. People are saying that they are the force behind this secret committee of vigilance.”

  His features hardened for an endless moment. His dark gaze was probing, assessing as he studied her. The suspicion that closed in upon him was blighting, but must be considered. “You are remarkably abreast of events.”

  “For a woman, you mean?”

  “There aren’t many of your sex who interest themselves in what is happening outside their family circle.”

  “I enjoy knowing what is taking place, and why. Is there anything wrong with that?”

  “Hardly. It’s just surprising.”

  His comments were no more than an attempt to distract her from her original question. She smiled artlessly, saying, “But about this Vigilance Committee, do you know anything of it?”

  “Vigilance against whom, or what? Do these rumors say?”


  “Against the corrupt officials and police force of New Orleans who were bought and paid for by the Know-Nothing party.”

  “I see. And you approve of that goal?”

  The lash concealed in that question was surprising. Anya lifted her chin. “I can’t say that I disapprove. It looks as if someone is going to have to do something.”

  He was wrong. He must be. A smile curved the strong lines of his mouth, rising to brighten his eyes. “I should have known a woman so ready to take unconventional measures to get what she wants would not condemn others for doing the same.”

  She was not given a chance to form an answer. Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Marcel bearing an enormous silver tray covered with dishes. He placed before them a seafood gumbo rich with shrimp and crab and sausage in a spicy, dark brown roux. He had also roast chicken with cornbread dressing and oyster sauce, venison steak with rice, and a selection of cheeses. There were small loaves of French bread wrapped in a white cloth, and for dessert blackberry cobbler made with berries put up the year before and served with clotted cream. To drink there was white wine in crystal goblets, and coffee that was kept hot by supporting the pot in a silver cradle over a burning candle.

  Marcel poured the wine and placed the bottle aside. He checked one last time to be certain that they had everything, from silverware and china to the saltcellars with their tiny spoons. He bowed. “Is there anything else, mam’zelle?”

  “No, thank you, Marcel. That will be all.”

  “Shall I stay to serve you?”

  “I believe we can manage.”

  “Perhaps I should send the carriage for you in a half hour, in case it begins to rain.”

  “That won’t be necessary. I don’t believe it will start so soon.”

  The instant the answer was made, Anya regretted it. Consideration for the people who served her, people who might be tired and hungry themselves, was so ingrained that she had not paused to seriously consider the suggestions Marcel was making, and the reasons behind them, until it was too late. Marcel, perhaps instructed by his mother, had meant to offer her the protection, slight though it might be, of either his presence or the imminent arrival of her coachman. She could not now change her mind without making her distrust of her prisoner obvious. It was with great uneasiness that she watched Denise’s son bow himself from the room.

  When he had gone, she took a deep calming breath. She was letting her imagination run away with her. She was in no danger. The man sitting across the table from her was chained. What could he do?

  And yet he had threatened her. In addition, it did not seem likely that a man like Ravel Duralde would so easily resign himself to being kept a prisoner. Or that he not make some serious attempt to escape in order to uphold his honor by appearing on the dueling field at the proper time. She must take care.

  Her appetite had vanished. She managed to eat her gumbo, but could do no more than push her chicken about on her plate. She sipped her wine, glad of something to do to occupy her hands, as well as for the sake of its warmth to banish the chill inside her.

  She searched her mind for something innocuous to talk about, but could discover nothing. The silence was broken only by the clatter of silver and the booming of thunder drawing slowly nearer.

  Ravel was aware of the constraint, but seemed to find satisfaction in it. He ate with a certain ruthless precision, pulling the small crusty loaves of bread apart with his strong fingers, slicing the chicken so that the meat fell cleanly from the bone, spearing the venison steak to transfer it to his plate. Anya poured coffee for them both. When Ravel had finished his dessert, he leaned back with his cup in his hand, watching her over the rim as he sipped at the strong brew.

  Finally he set the cup down. His tone thoughtful and yet accusing, he said, “What about love?”

  Anya’s cup wobbled on its saucer. Hastily she placed it on the table. “What do you mean?”

  “You said earlier that you weren’t interested in marriage and children. But what of love? Do you seriously intend to remain a virgin all your life?”

  The Creoles had little reticence about private matters. Anya had heard women describe in mixed company the embarrassments and hilarities of their wedding nights, and list in excruciating detail the dreadful pangs and difficulties they had suffered during their confinements. Madame Rosa complained to all and sundry about the horrors of the change of life through which she was currently passing, receiving a full quota of sympathy from Gaspard because of them, and Celestine was as likely as not to tell her Murray that the reason she did not feel well enough to go driving or walking was because of her monthly courses. Creole ladies tended to find the Anglo-Saxon reluctance to discuss such things in public vastly amusing. It was only natural, was it not? But Anya had never quite managed to rid herself of her notions of personal privacy.

  Frowning, she said, “That is no concern of yours.”

  “Oh, I think it is. I am responsible for your being alone now.”

  “You need not let it trouble you.”

  “I think I must. Because of what happened one night seven years ago, I am what I am, and you are also as you are. Whether you recognize it or not, there is a bond between us. It’s something neither of us wants, but it is a fact.”

  Lightning crackled above the cotton gin, flashing at the windows in an eerie white glare. Thunder boomed hard upon it, and rumbled away into the night. Immediately afterward came the first spattering drops of rain on the roof. The fire hissed and crackled as raindrops fell down the chimney.

  Gooseflesh rose on Anya’s arms, in part because of the chilling sound of the rain, in part reaction to the words Ravel had spoken and the deep, prophetic rasp of his voice. The cotton gin seemed suddenly as distant from the main house and the quarters as the moon. Its isolation struck her like a blow in the pit of her stomach.

  Her fingers were clenched on the handle of her coffee cup. She released them with an effort and crossed her arms over her chest, clasping her arms.

  “You feel it, don’t you?”

  She had recognized the bond he spoke of, though it seemed to her to be a thing of mutual antagonism. Even that, however, was too personal to admit. “No,” she said hurriedly. “No.”

  “You do, but you refuse to accept it. You are afraid of me, but you try to cover it with anger. Why? Why do you fear me?”

  “I’m not afraid of you,” she said, goaded into a reply she would not have made under ordinary circumstances, “I dislike you.

  “Why?”

  “That must be obvious.”

  “Indeed? If Jean had killed me that night, would you have blamed him in the same way? Would you have called him a murderer and an assassin, a mad dog who knows only how to kill?”

  The words he spoke awakened echoes in her mind. Had she really said them to him that night he had come to tell her about Jean? They must have hurt him, that he remembered them so well.

  “You don’t answer. I take that to mean you would not. Your dislike must be personal then. Perhaps it’s my background — or lack of it.”

  “Certainly not,” she snapped, more disturbed than she would have liked to admit by the relentless questions and the direction they had taken.

  “There is only one other possibility then. You feel the attraction between us that has been there from the beginning, long before Jean died. You feel it, but you are afraid to acknowledge it. You are afraid because it might mean that you don’t have a proper regret for your fiancé’s death.”

  She came to her feet so abruptly that she jarred the table, toppling her cup and spilling the coffee across the cloth in a dark brown stain. She did not pause to see the damage, but pushed her chair back and spun away, moving toward the door.

  The rattle of the chain warned her, but in her elaborate gown and layers of petticoats she was not swift enough to escape. He caught her from behind, clamping hard fingers on her forearm and swinging her around to face him. He grasped her other arm, holding her immobile.
r />   She wrenched back against his hold, but there was more strength in his hard soldier’s hands than she had ever encountered. Fury rose inside her. Through clenched teeth she said, “Let me go!”

  “Do you really expect that I will?”

  Ravel held her heated gaze for a moment before allowing his own to drift over her flushed cheeks to the vulnerable curve of her neck and lower, to where the white curves of her breasts rose and fell in her agitation, filling the décolletage of her gown. The need to press his lips to that enticing softness was so great that a wave of dizziness mounted to his head. In the effort of control, his grasp tightened.

  Anya drew in her breath in a gasp of pain. “Bastard!”

  His face hardened. Bending abruptly, he placed his arm under her knees and lifted her high against his chest. Her skirts, spilling over his hold, brushing his legs, flared out as he swung around with her. Her shawl slid from her arms to the floor. It twisted around his shackle, threatening to trip him for an instant, but he kicked it aside and strode toward the bed.

  “No!” Anya cried as she saw his purpose. She twisted in his arms, pushing at him, reaching with fingers curved into talons for his eyes.

  He breathed a curse and flung her down on the thick cotton mattress. She thrust herself up, sliding away from him. He put his knee on the bed, catching her with one arm, forcing her back down with his weight as he lowered himself beside her. She beat at his head and shoulders with her fists. He winced as she caught him on the cheekbone, but immediately snatched her wrists, pinning one under his body while he brought the other down beside her face, thrusting his arm under her head to catch and hold it. Shifting, he brought his leg up over both of hers, stilling her movements.

  She stared up at him with her eyes dark with wrath and fear she would not admit. His weight upon her chest made her breath come in hard gasps, and tremors of reaction shuddered over her, one behind the other. He watched her for long moments, his gaze fastened on her mouth. When he spoke at last, there was a faint thickness in his tones.