Prisoner of Desire

by Jennifer Blake

  Ravel seemed to touch some sensitive inner trigger, again, again. She tensed, gasping, then called his name as she was taken by the silent grandeur of a brilliant and annihilating internal explosion. He buried his face in her hair, still generously striving, his skin dewed and glistening with his effort. “Ah, love,” he whispered, “ah, my love,” and thrust deep, deep into her being.

  14

  IT WAS SOMETIME LATER when Ravel and Anya left the cemetery. They had gone less than three blocks when they were met by Ravel’s carriage with Marcel on the seat beside the coachman. Marcel, after eluding pursuit, had circled around to the saloon where he knew the coachman was waiting for the hour to pick up his master. Together, they had proceeded slowly to the rendezvous so as to give the excitement time to die away. They had been around the area twice, searching, before coming upon Ravel and Anya.

  The relief at seeing Marcel free and unharmed was enormous. Anya had been afraid that with his wrist in a sling he would be handicapped enough to be caught. She would have done everything in her power to secure his release, but it might have taken several days and a great deal of effort to arrange the proper style and amount of inducement for the proper officials. The police, the manservant said, had been so taken by surprise at the sudden flushing of their quarry that no one had been caught. Even the quadroon, the woman who lived in the house, had been spirited away safely.

  Hearing the last, Anya acknowledged the possibility that Ravel had spoken the truth when he denied the quadroon as his mistress. She knew enough of him to realize, on reflection, that had the woman been his responsibility, he would not have left her side in the crisis. She recognized also with grim self-knowledge that in her concentration on that particular point she overlooked the main issue.

  What had been the purpose of the meeting at the house of the quadroon? What was so dangerous about it that a corrupt police force had been called upon to intervene? When the carriage reached Madame Rosa’s townhouse and Ravel got down to escort Anya to the gallery outside her bedroom, she taxed him with the question.

  He watched her a long moment. “You never give up, do you?

  “It isn’t in my nature,” she said, and heard the unhappiness in her voice with some surprise.

  “Suppose I said the meeting had nothing to do with you, that it poses no danger to you and yours.”

  “In other words, it’s none of my affair?”

  “Exactly.”

  She made a helpless gesture. “I can’t just leave it like that.”

  “Why not?” he asked, the words quiet but with an undertone of steel. “What is so important about what I may be doing that it would drive you to something like tonight’s escapade?”

  She had constructed a trap for herself. What answer could she give him other than the truth, which was that she had a compulsive need to understand him? The obvious question then was why that should be so. It was one she had no desire to examine, much less answer.

  “Call it curiosity,” she said.

  If her answer failed to satisfy him, he did not show it. “A motive known for its danger.”

  There were others more perilous. “Is that a warning?”

  “The consequences,” he said deliberately, “could be worse next time.”

  Consequences. It was a cold description for the transports they had shared. Had it meant no more than that to him, another small revenge? Had the words he had spoken meant nothing except as a means to assure her acquiescence?

  With a lift of her chin, she said, “The consequences for whom?”

  “For both of us.”

  He turned then and walked away. Anya watched him go, watched the proud set of his shoulders, his long, easy stride, and the way the moonlight caught blue gleams in his hair as he descended the stairs. She watched him, and the hollow ache beneath her breastbone swelled, threatening to consume her.

  Ravel forced himself to walk, placing one foot in front of the other, though the effort made his muscles stiff with cramp and his brain felt like hot jelly inside his skull. He wanted nothing more than to go back and force Anya to listen to him, to hear and understand what he had to say instead of rushing defenses of hate and fear into place against him. He had come near, so near to renewing his proposal. But what was the point in giving her the chance to throw it back in his face once more? He should accept defeat and bow out with what grace he could muster, but he would be damned if he would. She was his. He would make her see it if he had to destroy them both to do it.

  The night was far gone when Anya finally slept. Even then, her endlessly turning thoughts would not allow her to rest, but brought her awake at odd intervals. When she rose at mid-morning there were dark shadows under her eyes and a look of strain about her face. She drank her coffee, but had no appetite for the hot rolls and butter brought to her bedchamber with it, nor could she summon the energy to get dressed.

  She was standing at the open French door with her coffee cup in her hand, staring out into the courtyard, when a light tap came on the door that connected her room to that of her half-sister. Immediately it opened and Celestine swung inside. “Do I disturb you, chère? Is now a good time to talk?”

  Anya made a conscious effort to cast aside her low spirits and thrust her own problems to the back of her mind. She gave her half-sister a warm smile. “Of course. Would you care for coffee?”

  “I had mine ages ago, but I’ll have another roll if you aren’t going to eat yours.”

  “Help yourself.”

  Celestine did not wait for a further invitation, but perched herself on the edge of the bed beside the silver tray with its cream-colored linen napkin, small silver coffeepot, and napkin-covered basket. She unwrapped the rolls and selected one, taking a bite.

  “Now, what seems to be the problem?” Anya asked.

  Celestine looked at her, then lowered her lashes. She swallowed. “There is something I wanted to ask you.”

  “Well, what is it?”

  “It’s a personal thing, and perhaps you won’t wish to tell me.”

  “How can I know until you ask?”

  Celestine looked up, a frank look in her brown eyes. “I don’t want to embarrass you. You are very American sometimes when it comes to such matters.”

  “Ah,” Anya said, beginning to see the trend of the conversation, “those matters. What is it you want to know? I thought surely Madame Rosa had explained things to you.”

  “Well, yes,” Celestine said, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “She told me what happens and why when a man and a woman make love. She told me that I must be guided by Murray and that I must strive to please him, but she did not say how a woman feels about it.”

  “I suspect that depends on the woman.”

  “Come, Anya, you know what I mean! I have heard the whispers that say you were intimate with Ravel Duralde. Is it nice? Will I like it? You must tell me, for soon I will be married, and then if I don’t like it, it will be too late!”

  Anya looked at her half-sister with a lifted brow, ignoring the faint heat of her own flush. “Second thoughts?”

  “No, no,” Celestine said, pulling apart the roll she still held and balling the dough between her fingers. “Only, so much seems to depend on the man.”

  “Yes.” Anya’s tone was reflective as her thoughts went back to that night in the cotton gin.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Celestine persevered.

  Anya took a deep, steadying breath, then said slowly, “As it happens, I did.”

  “But what was it like? Tell me! Don’t make me keep asking questions and more questions.”

  “It was—” Anya stopped. What could she say to make the other girl understand, to explain the tumult of emotions and the changes they had wrought within her? What words could she use to make her see the wonder of it without causing alarm?

  “Anya!” There was exasperation in her half-sister’s tone.

  “It was a thing of incredible intimacy, lying so close with nothing whatever between us, ou
r bodies perfectly fitted, interlocking. It was a deep and profound pleasure, and at the same time it was exciting, wild and free.”

  Celestine looked a bit surprised, and most intrigued. “Maman said it would hurt.”

  “A little, but Ravel helped to make it less.”

  The other girl bit her lip. “I wonder if Murray knows how to do that.”

  “I’m sure that he will take great care, knowing how he feels about you.”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Don’t start worrying about it. Even if it isn’t perfect at first, I understand it usually gets better.”

  “I was just thinking—”

  Celestine stopped and sat staring into space. Anya, in mystification, said, “What were you thinking?”

  “I will wager Emile Girod knows. He probably had lots of experience abroad.”

  “Possibly,” Anya agreed, then added as she remembered Emile’s rather pompous strictures on the conduct expected of girls of good family, “though I somehow doubt it included many untried females.”

  With a scowl and a flounce on the bed, Celestine abandoned that line of discussion, reverting to the original topic. “But how strange to think of you and Ravel Duralde together the way you describe. You hardly knew each other, much less were in love. How can it be?”

  Anya turned away, moving to the French doors. “I don’t know.”

  “Would it be the same, do you think, with any other man?”

  “No!” The answer was instant and instinctive.

  “Perhaps,” Celestine said, watching her with wide eyes, “perhaps it was love between you after all, one of those sudden passionate attachments like star-crossed lovers in an opera.”

  “More likely it was simple lust,” Anya answered, her tone hollow.

  “Is that possible?”

  She made a sudden gesture of impatience. “How should I know? My own experience is not that wide!”

  Celestine jumped down from the bed and came toward her, putting her hand on Anya’s arm. “I didn’t mean to suggest that it was, truly I didn’t!”

  “I know you didn’t,” Anya said, turning to give her half-sister a quick, fierce hug. “I know.”

  Anya rang the bell for her maid, and she and Celestine talked of other things while the mulatto girl who answered helped her into a morning gown and dressed her hair. Sometime in the afternoon, she and her half-sister would don their costumes and go into the streets, but the time was not yet.

  The excitement of the day was building, for they could hear the sound of merrymaking coming from the street, but it would reach a peak only as darkness began to fall and the torchlight parade of the Mistick Krewe of Comus came in view. Then would be the best time to join the revelers for a few hours. They could not tarry long. They had received cards of invitation for the Comus Ball to be held at the Gaiety Theater immediately after the parade. The cards were much coveted since the ball would not only be the social event of the season, but also an occasion to see the costumed figures from the floats at close quarters as the ball was sponsored by the same men who had organized such stupendous entertainment for the city.

  In the meantime, the day was fine, warmed by the golden light of the subtropical winter sun. The French doors from the salon out onto the gallery overlooking the street were thrown open, and Madame Rosa ordered a table of refreshments and a row of chairs placed outside, where those who wished could view the passing scene in comfort. Many of their neighbors had done the same, and there was much calling back and forth from balcony to balcony, and much visiting to drink a glass of wine or sample some special trifle of pastry or savory. Nearly everyone had a Mardi Gras cake, a yeasty sweet glazed with sugar icing in yellow, green, pink, and purple, and into which a bean had been baked that was supposed to confer a year of good luck upon the finder.

  There was no lack of entertainment in the street below. Costumed figures strolled along arm in arm, cavaliers and red Indians, priests and corsairs, gypsies and queens, Venetians, Turks, Chinese, South Sea Islanders, and Eskimos. A pair of ladies of most peculiar gait, surpassing homeliness, exaggerated coquettish gestures, and wearing hoops so large they nearly filled the street were obviously gentlemen in disguise. They were accompanied along the street by the sound of smothered giggles and the calling of florid compliments.

  Another troupe of women were viewed with less noise, but no less curiosity, at least on the part of the ladies. Painted, bejeweled, handsomely and rather ostentatiously gowned as courtesans with demi-masks, or else wearing the masculine costumes of Canal Street dandies, boisterous sailors, or goggling greenhorn flatboatmen, they were easily recognizable as women from the bordellos. They were not seeking custom, but rather enjoying the one day of the year when their presence was tolerated in the more respectable part of the city. To complete the world-turned-upside-down aspect of this day, it was possible for ladies, with perfect propriety, to venture into the higher class of bordello to further satisfy their curiosity. Many took advantage of the open invitation, though all were heavily veiled or masked, and few admitted it.

  As the day advanced into afternoon, the streets became more crowded. The sense of gaiety and merriment increased. This was a day dedicated to laughter, a day to cast off care and escape from an identity that might be burdensome, assuming one that was fanciful, light, and free. It was a day of license and of catharsis, a day of purest pleasure without thought of tomorrow.

  Many of the maskers, having fortified themselves for the strenuous festivities at various wineshops and barrooms along their way, were beginning to be a little tipsy. These, along with the few who were abroad without mask and costume, were the targets for the young boys who by time-honored tradition pelted them with small paper bags of flour that burst on contact. Some even threw bags of the white powder up at the galleries before taking to their heels. The flour, brushed from costumes and swept from gallery floors, fogged in the air, sifting down to cover the streets like snow.

  Murray, arriving toward teatime, had his new silk top hat knocked from his head by a well-placed flour bag while he was only a few feet from Madame Rosa’s door. The flour also showered down over his face and right shoulder. He was still wiping at the flour and brushing his sleeve as he came into the salon.

  Anya had deserted the gallery. She could not seem to enter into the spirit of the day, and as the sun waned and their side of the street was covered with shadow, she had felt cool. A small coal fire burned in the grate and she curled up in a chair before it, picking up the book that Madame Rosa had been reading and had left beside the chair. Celestine came inside, going to her room to dress for the evening; still Anya read on. She had just been telling herself for the tenth time that she really must go and make herself ready, when Murray entered. She put her book aside and rose with grace to greet him. Seeing the flour, she insisted that he remove his coat and gave it to the maid who had let him in, along with his hat, to be brushed. At the same time, she asked the girl to inform Celestine that her fiancé had arrived.

  “You are very thoughtful,” Murray said as he tugged at his shirt sleeves in a vain attempt to straighten the wrinkles that had formed under his coat. He seemed a bit ill at ease, which was not surprising. A gentleman seldom if ever appeared in his shirt sleeves before a lady not a member of his immediate family. She remembered with a pang that no such compunction had troubled Ravel.

  “Not at all,” she said.

  “You are also, if I may say so, a most unusual woman.”

  Anya glanced at him uncertainly. Woman, not lady. Had the term been used purposely? Was it her imagination, or was there a shade of familiarity in his tone beyond that of a future brother-in-law? She had been expecting to hear something of the sort since her return, though not specifically from that quarter. It was inevitable that the story that had been circulated as protection would not be believed by everyone, but she had expected more faith, or perhaps more concealing guile, from her half-sister’s fiancé.

  “I can’t think why you should
say so,” she answered repressively. “Madame Rosa and Gaspard are out on the gallery, if you would care to join them.”

  “I will wait for my coat, unless you prefer to be alone?”

  What could she say? She returned to her chair and seated herself upon it. “No, no, pray sit down.”

  He took the settee that was placed at a right angle to her chair beside the fire, and leaned back in a relaxed pose. “I understand I have you to thank for the cancellation of my meeting with Duralde.”

  “Who told you?”

  He smiled with a flash of dimples as he shook his head. “Two people who are to be united as one cannot have secrets from each other; Celestine told me, of course. Besides, I had a special interest.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. It — seemed the right thing to do at the time.”

  ‘“I had not realized you were so concerned for me.”

  Her shrug was as casual as she could make it. “The truth is I have not been rational on the subject of dueling since — well, since Jean’s death.”

  “I see.”

  Did he? There was warmth, but apparently nothing more in his eyes as he watched her. She said, “I would hate to see Celestine’s happiness destroyed over such a minor affair.”

  “It wasn’t minor to me. However, it’s over and done. But as you are on our side, so to speak, I wonder if I could prevail upon you to use your good offices in my favor? I cannot bring Madame Rosa to a serious discussion of our marriage. She smiles and nods and agrees that the waiting is hard, but always finds some excuse why the date we have chosen will not do. Can you not make her see that we are impatient to be together?”