Prisoner of Desire

by Jennifer Blake

  But he returned from that one also, arriving back in New Orleans in May of ‘57, not quite a year ago. He was a defeated man, cast out of Central America with his leader, but it had not shown in his manner. He had also been unharmed, though he had passed through fierce fire in numberless battles.

  Ravel had not signed up for the second Walker expedition the previous fall. Some said it was because of his mother, widowed now, and not well. Others less charitable said it was because he had disagreed with Walker about the proposed site of the landing. In either case, he had spared himself another defeat, and possibly a court appearance with his leader since Walker was at present under indictment for violating the laws of neutrality. Ravel’s luck had held.

  Anya had not really wished him harmed; she was not of a vindictive nature in spite of the antagonism she felt toward this man. Her own virulence sometimes shocked her, for no one else had ever roused such heat in her. She was normally of a warm and even disposition, not given to brooding or holding grudges, yet it seemed that there should be some retribution.

  Anya leaned to crane her neck, staring up at the shuttered windows of the second-floor rooms of the actress. Unbidden, there came to her mind a picture of what was surely taking place behind those shutters. The bodies entwined, the straining muscles and overstretched senses, the creaking bed ropes were so vivid that her breath caught in her throat. She threw herself back against the seat and clenched her hands into fists, forcing the images from her. She cared not at all how Ravel Duralde amused himself. Not at all.

  The actress, Simone Michel, was young and attractive in an obvious fashion. Anya had seen her in several roles earlier in the winter, and thought her not bad in her chosen profession, though lacking the polish that experience would bring. The woman also lacked the hardness of the females who had been some years in the theater, even if she could not be described as virginal. It was always women like this that Ravel Duralde had chosen to take to bed in the past, women of a certain experience and only a few easily satisfied expectations.

  Surprisingly, he had not, so far as Anya knew, given a carte blanche to one of the attractive free women of color who were paraded for young men of fortune at the quadroon balls. It might be that such a liaison had too much of an air of permanency. The quadroons, with their mothers who had been there before to guide them, had their expectations; they required guarantees of at least a semi-permanent relationship with a high degree of security.

  Such reflections brought Anya to a central question. Why, given his usual choice of women, knowing her past antagonism toward him, had Ravel Duralde approached her at the ball?

  That question had teased her all evening, hovering persistently at the back of her mind. He had known who she was, even masked; that much he had made plain. She would have sworn that in the past he had gone out of his way to avoid her when she was in New Orleans. Certainly she herself had seen to it, insofar as she was able, that they never came face to face. Why, then, had he violated what had been almost an unacknowledged pact between them? Why had he asked her to dance?

  There came the tread of footsteps. Firm and even, they sounded from inside the courtyard, approaching the gate. Anya took her mask from her pocket and slipped it on. She opened the carriage door and stepped out onto the banquette, then paused to raise the hood of her cloak so that it lay close to her face on either side, concealing her hair. She twitched the edges of the cloak in place down the front, then swallowed on a sudden tightness in her throat, searching her mind for the words she had planned to say. Panic brushed her as her brain failed to produce them.

  He was coming closer. His shadow preceded him, thrown by the light from a distant door left standing open. It appeared black and enormous and menacing. Abruptly the door was closed. The shadow disappeared. All that was left was the dark, moving form of the man. Anya took a step forward, leaving the protection of the carriage. She took another, then another.

  The gate creaked open.

  What was she doing?

  The silent cry rose full-blown inside her. Panic beat up into her chest in a smothering wave. She could not do it. This was a mistake, a fatal mistake.

  There was no time to question, no time to draw back. She took a deep breath, then spoke in tones as low and seductive as she could make them. “M’sieur Duralde, good evening.”

  He went still as she materialized out of the darkness. It was not the stillness of fear, however, but of swift and incisive thought, a prelude to action. The night wind stirred the short cape that fell from his shoulders, and she realized that at some time in the past few hours he had changed from his costume into evening dress. In one hand he held a cane and top hat.

  Ravel Duralde heard the sound of her voice, a sound that had haunted his dreams through a thousand wakeful nights, and felt his stomach muscles tighten. He could not mistake it, any more than he could mistake her straight, slender form or the tilt of her head there in the dimness. There were few things that could bring a woman like Anya Hamilton to accost a man like him at this time of night. Attraction to him was not one of them, nor was concern for his health. An explosive mixture of rage and desire seeped into his veins, mingling with the kind of embarrassment that he had not felt since he was sixteen, the embarrassment of being discovered coming from an assignation. No one except this woman could have the power to make him so vividly aware of his shortcomings.

  When he spoke, the words had the hard crack of a whip. “What in the name of living hell do you want?”

  Anya was startled by his vehemence and its underlying irritation. She stared for a long moment into his eyes that were as black and fathomless as the strong coffee of the Creoles, eyes that, with his dark hair, lean face, and aquiline nose, gave him the look of a Spanish ascetic. She thought that in a moment he would turn from her and be gone. Where were Samson and Elijah? She took a hasty step closer, reaching out to him. “I only wanted to speak to you.”

  “For what purpose? Have you been sent to plead for Nicholls? Have you come to persuade me that, being the less worthy of the two, I should back down?”

  His ability to recognize her was infuriating. She abandoned pretense, allowing her voice to rise. “And if I have?”

  “You of all people should know the futility. How can you think to appeal to my better instincts when you are so certain I have none?”

  “There is always the possibility that I’m wrong.” She risked a glance behind him, but could see no sign of the two for whom she waited.

  “So cool, so unmoved. What would you wager against the possibility? What have you to stake that will compensate for my loss of honor?”

  “Honor,” she said, her tone scathing. “It’s only a word.”

  “A concept, rather, one very similar to dignity, or to chastity. If you fail to value one, does that mean you have no regard for the others?”

  “What do you mean—?” she began.

  The words were snatched from her lips as he reached out a hard arm to encircle her waist, dragging her against him. His mouth descended upon hers with punishing force, and with the strong fingers of his other hand he imprisoned her face, forcing her to accept his kiss.

  She made a small sound of distress, pushing at him with her hands that were confined in the folds of her cloak. Abruptly the pressure eased. His lips, warm and firm, brushed hers in a wordless apology, and with the tip of his tongue he soothed their sensitive, burning surfaces. Gently then, he tested their softness, seeking the sweetness within.

  A distraction had been needed; a distraction had been gained. It must not be lost, not now. Anya forced her taut muscles to relax, allowed her lips to part a mere fraction, since it seemed to be what he wanted. Smooth-nubbed, his tongue slipped into her mouth, its warmth touching the fragile inner lining. She drew in her breath as sensation flooded her. It was as if, against her will, a locked gate somewhere deep inside had been opened. Rich languor seeped along her veins. Her heartbeat quickened. Her skin seemed to glow with internal fire. There was a heaviness in t
he lower part of her body. Conscious thought receded. She wanted, with piercing, frightening intensity, to be closer to him. With a soft murmur, she pressed nearer. Hesitantly, she met his tongue with her own, touching and retreating, touching and twining, permitting greater, deeper access.

  Without warning, there was a muffled thud. Ravel’s head snapped forward under the blow. Anya felt the throbbing sting as her bottom lip split; then she was sent staggering backward, off-balance as his weight plunged toward her. With a strangled cry, she caught him, and an instant later the weight was removed as Samson and Elijah grasped his tall limp form, hauling him back upright.

  His head fell forward, lolling on his shoulders, and his long legs buckled at the knees. There was a creeping stain, black in the dimness, fast spreading down onto the white of his shirt collar and his cravat. His hat of gray cashmere and his ebony cane had fallen to the banquette. The wind caught the hat, bowling it out into the street.

  Anya raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “He isn’t dead? You haven’t killed him?”

  “Seeing what he was up to, we mighta hit him a bit hard,” Elijah admitted in a base rumble.

  Samson grunted agreement. “It’ll be better for the long ride.”

  “But he’s bleeding so.”

  “Scalp cuts always bleed. We’ll take his shirt off for bandages. If you’ll hold the door, mam’zelle, we’ll git him inside the carriage before somebody gits curious.”

  “Yes,” she said on a sudden shuddering sigh as she looked around with the bemusement fading from her eyes. “Yes.”

  With more speed than care, they bundled Ravel Duralde into the landau. Anya climbed in and slammed the door. The vehicle jerked into motion, so that she was thrown across her prisoner as he lay on the seat. In the brief moment she rested upon him, she felt the lean and hard masculinity of his body. Hurriedly, she pushed off of him and knelt at his side. She slipped her hand under his head to test the extent of his wounds, and the warm wet feel of the blood in his hair sent sick remorse flooding through her.

  She had been criminally overconfident. She should have known it would be no easy thing to kidnap a man and hold him prisoner. Her plan had been simple. She would distract Ravel for an instant, allowing Samson and Elijah to stun him with a blow from behind. They would bind his hands and feet if need be, put him in the carriage, and the deed would be done.

  It had worked. And yet there was little pleasure for Anya in the fact. As they set out for what looked to be a nightmare journey to Beau Refuge, Anya could only castigate herself for her failure to take into consideration the things that could go wrong.

  Samson, riding inside with Anya while Elijah sat on top with the driver, helped her strip the cape and frock coat from Ravel. With fingers that had an annoying tendency to tremble, Anya removed his cravat and slipped free the studs of his shirt, then held his inert figure to her in the rocking vehicle while Samson dragged his shirt down his arms. By the time they had torn the garment into bandaging, Ravel’s blood had stained not only the leather seats, but her cloak and the front of her Indian costume. The wounds were bleeding so copiously that she had ordered the carriage stopped within a block or two in order for Elijah to light the carriage lanterns once more, as their bright glow was needed in order to see to dress them. Finally, with Ravel Duralde’s head in her lap to cushion his injuries, they drove on into the night.

  He lay so still and lifeless; his weight was so heavily inert upon her thighs. Beneath the bronze of his skin his face was pale. It was a strong face, she discovered, with a broad forehead, thick, dark brows, and high cheekbones that sloped into lean cheeks. His eyes, set deep in their sockets, were thickly lashed. His mouth was firm, with sensual curves, chiseled edges, and small, sickle-shaped smile lines at the corners that served to soften the severity of his features. His chin was square, and smoothly shaven, though with a faint blue-black shadow under the skin. His hair, where it was not covered by the thick bandage, was close-cut to prevent its thick waves from becoming curls, though it still made whorls behind his ears and on the nape of his neck, and fell onto his forehead in a short crisp curl.

  What if she had killed him? It did not seem possible that a man so forceful and virile could die so easily, and yet there were few injuries more serious than those to the head. She should not care, still as much as she might despise him, she did not want to be the cause of his death.

  Reaching under his cape, which they had wrapped around him, she placed her hand over his heart. It beat with strong regularity against her palm, giving her some reassurance. His skin was warm and supple, covered by a triangular mat of soft hair that was faintly abrasive to her fingertips. Beneath it she could feel the bands of muscle that wrapped his rib cage. Her touch lingered upon them. Involuntarily, she smoothed her palm in a slight, circular motion. The tip of her forefinger touched one of his small, flat paps. She jerked her hand back as if she had been burned, and in the dimness a flush mounted from her toes to her hairline. She felt as guilty as if she had been caught out in some act of promiscuity. It was long moments before she could convince herself that the impulse that had made her stroke him had been a simple desire to soothe that she might feel toward any injured person, longer still before she could relax again.

  The carriage jolted and bounced on its springs. Time and again Anya was forced to catch her prisoner close, to reach across his wide shoulders and clasp him in her arms to prevent him from being thrown to the floor. His long legs sprawled across the seat, one of them bent at the knee and banging against the far door, the other stretched between the seats. She was wedged into the corner, hardly able to move. She grew stiff, and her back and arms ached from trying to hold him. All feeling left her thigh on which his head lay.

  She looked across at Samson. His head was back and he was snoring none too gently. It was as if she were alone with Ravel Duralde; his life was in her hands. It was not a responsibility she wanted. She had brought it on herself, however, and could not avoid it.

  If he died, it would be her fault. She would stand condemned for murder. There would be little she could say to escape prosecution; she would be lucky if she were able to prevent Samson and Elijah from being hanged. To have the deaths of three men on her hands would be a devastating thing. Rather than live with that knowledge the rest of her life, it might be better to pay the ultimate penalty herself.

  Suppose someone had seen them. Suppose someone had recognized the carriage, or perhaps had identified Samson and Elijah. The size and strength of the two men made them memorable; she should have thought of that. Even now, the police pursuit might be forming, coming after them. They might be overtaken on the road with Ravel lying lifeless and covered in gore in her lap. The whole story would come out.

  Anya had been careless of the opinions of others, even rather wild on occasion, but she had never been involved in anything truly scandalous. If it should happen now, with Ravel Duralde, the furor would be great. This was not something that Madame Rosa could explain away to her friends as being the result of youth or grief. Her stepmother would be devastated, and Celestine too ashamed to show her face. Murray would be a laughingstock if it became known that his future sister-in-law had prevented his opponent from keeping their appointment on the field of honor.

  No. She must not think such things. Things were bad enough in all truth, but not that bad. She had her prisoner. She was on her way with him to Beau Refuge. She had only to hold him for a little more than twenty-four hours, then everything would be as it was before.

  She looked down once more at the still figure in her lap. She had never been this close to a man before, not for this length of time. Her father had loved her dearly, but had never been a demonstrative man. Jean, the perfect gentleman, had seldom touched her for longer than it took to help her down from her mount or carriage. He had sometimes given her swift hugs for the pleasure of it, or to comfort her, but had always released her at once. She never knew if he was afraid he would hurt or frighten her, if it was himself he f
eared, or if possibly it was the dictates of convention that restrained him.

  It was also true that no man had kissed her as had Ravel. Jean’s caresses had been brief, almost reverential, filled with warm and boundless affection but little passion. They had involved only the quick pressure of his mouth on her cheek or lips; never had they gone deeper. She had thought them satisfactory, even exciting, until tonight.

  The relationship of one human being to another was curious. She disliked this man, even hated him; she despised everything he stood for, everything he was. Still, because both she and Ravel had been special to Jean, because Ravel had sought her out tonight, and later taken it into his head to chastise her with a kiss; because she had injured him and made him her captive, and because they shared this long midnight ride, there was a peculiar bond between them. It was disturbing to realize it, and she would have repudiated it if she could. Still she could not help wondering if Ravel would feel it when he woke, or, feeling it, if he would acknowledge it.

  The wind, steadily rising, rocked the carriage and whipped the branches of the trees overhead. It seeped in through the cracks around the doors and windows, bringing with it a taste of rain. Thunder rumbled far away, a growling, ominous sound. Onward the carriage rolled.

  At a point nearly halfway to the plantation, they stopped to rest and water the horses at a low tavern. There was no one on duty except an old black man, who drew water from a well to fill the horse trough, then brought out a glass of sour wine for Anya and mugs of weakly fermented sugarcane juice for the three men with her. To keep the tavern servant from coming too close, Samson served Anya. Even so, she kept Ravel covered with the carriage blanket. When the man went away, she tried to pour a little of the wine down Ravel, but it ran from the corner of his mouth.

  Lightning was flashing in white brilliance before they were ready to travel once more. There was no question of putting up for the night, not with their prisoner, though the elderly servant did his best to persuade them. “You going to be soaked,” he told the men on the box, shaking his grizzled head.