Prisoner of Desire

by Jennifer Blake

  With her soft lips tightly pressed together, Anya considered the situation. She had not meant to go near Ravel Duralde again. “I suppose I had better see about him.”

  She gave a few instructions to Joseph, then moved off toward the cotton gin. Her strides were firm, kicking out her skirts in front of her, though she recognized the faint tremor along her nerves as apprehension. Her thoughts played cautiously with the fear that Ravel might be developing brain fever or some kind of inflammation from his wounds, but she was by no means sure that a major part of her disturbance wasn’t from sheer reluctance to face her prisoner.

  The sky was overcast, banked with low clouds. The wind was out of the north. Anya pulled the coat she wore, an old frock coat of her father’s that she had saved for outdoor chores, about her more closely as she looked around at the heavens. They needed a south wind to bring back the warmth from the gulf, though it would probably mean more rain. It would come, perhaps in a few hours, perhaps in a day or two. Hopefully, by the time it did, Ravel would be gone.

  The cotton gin was dim and deserted, a brooding hulk of a building. Anya took down the key of the room from where it hung on a strip of leather behind the pierced tin lantern. She turned the key in the heavy lock, then as a precaution, one always observed by her father, hung the key back up before pulling open the door.

  It was dim in the room, and rather chilly. The fire had burned down to a bed of pulsing red coals. Ravel turned from the wall onto his back as she entered, but only lay watching without speaking as she stirred the embers with a poker and put three or four sticks of wood on the fire. The split oak caught with a muffled roar. Straightening, she placed her back to the leaping flames, clasping her hands behind her to warm them.

  She met Ravel’s black gaze, and held it with an effort. “Do you have fever?”

  “Not that I know of,” he said evenly.

  “Why didn’t you eat your food?”

  “Beef broth, coddled eggs, and custard? I’m not an invalid.”

  “I would have thought,” she said, restraining her worry and irritation with an effort, “that you must have eaten worse things while you were in prison in Spain.”

  “Frequently. This isn’t Spain.” He lifted his leg and the chain links of his shackle clanked together with a cold sound. “I swore when I was released from the Spanish dungeons that I would die before allowing myself to be chained again. Strange how things work out.”

  It was a moment before she spoke; then she said slowly, “I hadn’t thought of what a reminder this must be.”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice dry, “but you don’t intend to remove the shackle.”

  “No.”

  He turned his head, staring up at the ceiling. “Your compassion is overwhelming.”

  “Surely you didn’t expect anything else?”

  “I didn’t expect to be kidnapped, either.”

  “For that,” she said firmly, “I have no apologies. I will send you something else to eat.” She stepped away from the fire, moving toward the door.

  He pushed erect in a fluid movement. “Don’t go! Stay awhile, talk to me.”

  With her hand on the door, she paused. “There is no point. We can only disagree.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Anything is better than—” He stopped. He let himself back down on the mattress, his face expressionless, a mask of hard control. “Forget it.”

  Was it real, this dislike of being confined that he showed, of being left here alone, or was it a trick? She weighed the question carefully, her teeth set in her bottom lip. There were many who could not bear small, close places or to have their freedom of movement restricted; her father had been one of them. After Ravel’s enforced stay in Spain, it would not be surprising if he were the same. He was being confined at her instigation, for no real fault except the high-handed temper that had caused him to challenge Murray. Did that not make him in some peculiar fashion her guest? In which case, wasn’t it her responsibility to entertain him? That she despised him made no difference to that obligation. A hostess was often forced to amuse people she cordially disliked.

  With stiff reluctance, she turned and moved to the armchair of split and faded brocade that sat in the corner, drawing it away from the fireplace so that it faced the bed with the back to the door. She sat down. Ravel turned his head to stare at her a long moment. Finally he shifted, sitting up and leaning with his back against the wall. Whether from manners or the coolness of the room, he pulled a quilt up and draped it around him like an Indians blanket. Drawing one leg up, he rested his forearm on his knee.

  Anya glanced at him, then away again. There was another reason she had acceded to his request, she told herself. It was curiosity, an irresistible desire to see what other weaknesses the man might reveal. She leaned her head back, allowing her gaze to move once more to the man in the narrow bed.

  “Was it so bad in prison?” she asked quietly, almost at random.

  “It wasn’t pleasant.”

  “You were — mistreated?”

  “No more than in any other prison,” he said with a small movement of wide shoulders. “I was kept alone in a cell for two years. The worst of it was the feeling that the world had forgotten us, those of us who were sentenced and sent to Spain. But it was better than the alternative.”

  “Which was?”

  “Death by firing squad.”

  “Yes,” Anya said with a faint shudder. It was a moment before she went on, and then her tone was reflective. “They are strange men, the leaders of the filibuster expeditions like the ones to Cuba and to Nicaragua. Why do they do it?”

  “For glory, for greed, because they are driven like the explorers by a need to conquer something, to prove themselves. It would be hard to find two men more different than Narciso Lopez and William Walker, and yet they both wanted to carve out empires, and have the privilege of turning those empires over to the United States.”

  “With themselves as the leaders.”

  He inclined his head in agreement. “Of course. That’s only human nature.”

  “Could they really have done that?”

  “About Lopez, I’m not sure; Spain has a strong presence in Cuba. But Walker certainly could have. He was president of Nicaragua for some months. All Washington had to do was give him official sanction and some sign of military backing. Congress and the president failed to do that, in spite of previous encouragement. They gave a lot of reasons, but in fact it was Northern monied interests, and Cornelius Vanderbilt in particular, that swayed them. The moment when intervention could have been successful passed. Walker failed.”

  “I believe I read that it was a ship of the United States Navy, under a Captain Paulding, who shelled Walkers men and finally captured him. Did that really happen?”

  “It did indeed.”

  “But why? Walker and his men were Americans.”

  “A bagatelle. The government meant to disassociate the United States from the undertaking so that Vanderbilt could continue to do business, to run his steamers through the Nicaragua route from the Atlantic to the Pacific Ocean. Paulding exceeded his orders officially, but probably not unofficially. I believe they are going to give him a medal.”

  There was bitterness in his voice, and also a hint of hardships endured and tragedies remembered. Anya said slowly, “I can see what Walker hoped to gain, but what of the others, the men who fought?”

  “They went for the promise of land, grants of hundreds, even thousands of acres, and for a fresh start in a new country, on a new frontier. There were also those who went for the sake of the fight, the excitement of it. And as always, there were a few who went to escape hanging here.”

  “And you? Why did you go with them?”

  “I went,” he said with deliberation, “to escape my own personal demons.”

  “Meaning?”

  He turned his head, his dark eyes shadowed with torment. “Surely you can guess?”

  For a short while there had been something very like a t
ruce between them. It was gone. “The duel.”

  “The duel,” he repeated. “I killed my dearest friend. On a moonlit night when the world was cool and beautiful and touched with silver, I pushed my sword through his body like a pin into a butterfly, and watched him die.”

  She drew in her breath, tried to speak, then had to stop and clear her throat of the lump of anger and pain that had gathered there. “There must have been more to that night than that.”

  He was quiet. He looked down at the chain on his ankle, picking up the links and letting them drop so that they made a musical clinking in the silence.

  “Well?”

  “I could tell you, but I doubt you would believe it.”

  “There have been many things said about you, but I’ve never heard that you were a liar.”

  “A damaging admission. Take care, or you may find something to approve.”

  There was a raw edge to his voice. She chose to disregard it. “We were talking about the duel.”

  “It might be best if we didn’t.”

  “Why?” she asked, her voice hard. “Is there something you prefer that I not know?”

  “No, I—”

  “Something that reflects upon you?”

  “No!”

  “Some reason for that stupid contest besides the one given out?”

  “It was a mistake to mention it. Let it go.”

  “I can’t!” she cried, leaning forward, her eyes dark blue and luminous with unshed tears. “Don’t you see I can’t?”

  “Neither can I.”

  He leaned his head back with a sigh, staring at nothing. At last he went on. “It’s nothing so different. There were the six of us, the moonlight, the empty dueling field under the oaks. We paired off. It was a simple contest of skill, at first. We were all a little tipsy, perhaps some of us more than a little. There was a great deal of laughing and slipping around in the dew. Then I pinked Jean in the arm. Jean flared up in a rage. I never knew before that night that he resented my hard-earned skill with a blade, but apparently he did. More than that, I had ruined his new frock coat.”

  “His frock coat.” She repeated the words as if they had no meaning.

  “It may sound funny, a trivial thing, but men have died before for less. In any case, Jean wouldn’t put his sword down, but demanded that we continue. He lunged, I parried and began a riposte, all the while talking to him, trying to make him see reason.”

  There was more; Anya knew it from the sound of his voice. She did not want to hear it, still it was as if she were driven to it. “And then?”

  “There is a point in many moves of swordplay past which it is impossible to draw back. I was driving forward in a riposte, intending to nick him in the arm once more as a warning. He slipped in the wet grass, lurched toward me. My sword point caught—”

  “Stop! Please.”

  Her breasts rose and fell with the swiftness of her breathing and her heart was beating so hard it jarred the bodice of her gown. Her hands were clenched on the arms of the chair. When his voice ceased, she closed her eyes. Still the image of the duel he had conjured up with his words burned in her mind.

  “You did ask,” he said, his voice shaded with weariness.

  She lifted her lashes to stare at him with a cold and leaden feeling inside her. His face there in the dim room was pale, shadowed by a dark growth of beard on his chin, and with the faint glint of perspiration on his forehead. His black eyes were steady though the set of his mouth was grim.

  “Your skill,” she said, the words scathing. “Is that what you call your ability to kill other men on the dueling field? How does it feel to know that you can take a life at will? Do you enjoy it? Does it make you feel good to know that other men fear you?

  A muscle clenched in his jaw, then relaxed again. When he spoke, the words were even. “I have never sought a fight or killed a man if there was another choice.”

  “Oh, come! Surely you don’t expect me to believe that.”

  “I repeat—”

  “What of Murray? He would never have dreamed of challenging you, never in this life!”

  “It’s surprising what young men will do — if they think it will increase their prestige. Half the meetings I have had were with fools who thought it would be a fine thing to be able to say they had drawn blood from Ravel Duralde.”

  “So you killed them for their effrontery.”

  “You would have preferred that I had died instead?” he asked, then answered himself. “Foolish question; of course you would.”

  “I would prefer,” she said, her tones hard,” that no one die in a duel ever again.”

  “A noble sentiment, but impractical.”

  Her eyes blazed with blue fire at his reply. “Why? Why is it so impractical to ask that men settle their differences without resorting to bloodshed? Is it so impossible for them to be reasonable, rational men and still have pride and honor?”

  “I understand how you feel,” he answered, his tones deep and curiously gentle, “but the custom of the duel has its uses. The threat of it curbs the excesses of braggarts and bullies, guards the sanctity of the family by discouraging adultery, and protects females from unwanted attention. It’s rooted in the ideals of chivalry, a means of insuring that men live up to their better instincts, that they keep to the canons of decent behavior or face the consequences. And it allows them to take a portion of their protection into their own hands, without relying exclusively on a police force that may or may not be there when they are needed.”

  That he would dare attempt to defend the practice of dueling to her sent cold fury racing through her veins. She controlled it, saying in sweetly puzzled tones, “A primitive means of deciding the justice of an issue, surely? By might instead of right? What if it’s the bully who kills his opponent, or the wronged husband who dies instead of his wife’s seducer? And what is there in the code duello to prevent a man who is known to be superior with a sword or pistol from playing the complete villain, doing precisely as he pleases, even forcing himself upon any woman he chooses?”

  He was not fooled. Bluntly he asked, “A man like me?”

  “Exactly.” Her answer was grim.

  “Nothing.”

  Ravel watched the angry color rise into her face with a certain bemusement overlaid by savage satisfaction. If she expected him to accept her insults as well as the situation in which she had placed him, she was going to be disappointed. He wanted her to remain where she was, talking to him, with a longing that came as a severe shock; still, he was not ready to retain her company at any price.

  Dear God, but she was beautiful, sitting there in her old coat that was too large for her, with her hair windblown and straggling from its knot on top of her head and her hands as grubby as any schoolboys. He would like to draw her down beside him, to take down her hair and spread it out on his pillow like a shawl of rich, glowing silk, to press his lips to hers, warming them, melting their thin, tight line until they opened softly, sweetly, to him. Oh, yes, she was beautiful, a natural, desirable woman. She was also unattainable. Maddeningly so.

  Ravel broke the silence, his tone abrupt. “What have you been doing to yourself?”

  “What do you mean?” She scowled at him.

  “You look worse than an Irish washerwoman in that ragged coat, with your hair in your face and dirt under your nails.”

  “I regret that my appearance offends you,” she said with cold sarcasm. “I was working in the garden.”

  “Don’t you have people to do that for you?”

  “No one I trust in my verbena beds. Besides, I like it.”

  “As you like riding about the fields until you are so freckled no amount of the renowned Antephelic Milk will remove them?”

  “The state of my complexion is not your concern!”

  “It might be to your future husband.”

  “As I have no intention of getting married, it doesn’t matter.”

  “You mean to live like a nun for the rest of yo
ur life? That’s ridiculous.”

  She pushed to her feet, her voice rising. “Why is it ridiculous? I don’t see you leaping into matrimony!”

  “Men are able to arrange these matters without it.”

  “Oh, yes, certainly, but it isn’t the same thing, is it? What of companionship and children and a home and — and love?” If the words she spoke were a trifle disjointed, she ignored it.

  “What of them?”

  “Don’t they matter?”

  “They matter,” he said, “they matter a great deal, but as I am unlikely to have them—”

  “Why should you be?”

  “Perhaps it’s because I am not quite a gentleman?”

  His words were mocking, but carried also a lash of bitterness. Anya, hearing it, felt a surge of unwilling empathy. For all his bravado, for all the adulation heaped upon him because of his repute as a duelist and his success with women, he knew no contentment. He was, in his way, as haunted by the death of Jean as she herself. More, because of his birth, he was as firmly and forever outside the magic Creole circle of society as she was due to her américaine blood.

  She swung from him in agitation, pacing toward the window in the corner behind his bed. She did not want to look at him, did not want to acknowledge any common bond between them. She wanted to hate him, to blame him for what had become of her life, for its emptiness. She did not want to think of him as able to feel pain and remorse, hunger and cold, loneliness and fear, but rather to think of him as the Black Knight, armored in steel, a hard and insensitive killer. She did not want to admit that the sight of his long, lean body, his muscled shoulders, bronze features, and the black pools of his eyes made her intensely aware of him as an attractive man; she wanted instead to find him repulsive, twisted of soul and ugly.