Until now.
It was possible that her doubts stemmed from the identity of her prisoner. She had hated Ravel Duralde for a long time, and hate was a powerful emotion. To have the object of it near her, at her mercy, could not help but affect her. The fact that she was disturbed by his presence should not be surprising, nor was it unreasonable for her to be upset by the violent swings in her feelings toward him. Though she had reason to despise him, she could also feel compassion for his predicament, and remorse for her part in it. What could be more natural?
More, she was a normal woman, quite capable of responding to a handsome and virile man in a purely physical way. It was a matter of animal forces, nothing more. It had no meaning. The feeling would disappear once she was away from him. She would forget that he had kissed her, forget the feel of his warm and mobile mouth upon hers, the strength of his arms about her, the hard length of his body against hers. She would.
By this time tomorrow, the ordeal would be over. Ravel Duralde would be gone. In the meantime, she certainly would not be eating her dinner at the cotton gin.
Anya finished weeding the bed of verbena. She and Joseph piled the leaves he had raked around the azaleas and camellias, the hydrangeas and winter honeysuckles and cape jasmines of the back garden. She pruned the huge old muscadine grapevine on its pergola in the side garden, and also the fig trees that grew behind the laundry, then put down the cuttings to root in a shady bed of sand beside the door of the detached kitchen building, where the dishwater as it was thrown out would keep them constantly moist. Now and then she stopped to breathe the fresh air of spring, to smell the wafting fragrances of the spirea and daffodils and white winter honeysuckle, and the rich scent of the yellow jasmine coming from the tangle of vines that grew along the fencerow near the house. She did not, insofar as she was able to prevent it, think about Ravel Duralde.
When the light began to fade, she dismissed Joseph and went into the house. Feeling grimy and gritty from head to toe, she ordered a bath brought to her room. She soaked in the hot, steaming water for a time, then lathered herself with fine-milled Lubin’s soap perfumed with an extract of damask roses. She also rubbed the rich lather through her hair, enjoying the scent and silken feel of it. The smell of roses lingered upon her skin and among her tresses even after she had rinsed the soap away and blotted the water from her body with thick Turkish toweling, after she had dried the shining curtain of her hair before the fire.
She was not in the habit of dressing for dinner while alone at the plantation. When Madame Rosa and Celestine were in residence it was different, of course, but when there was only herself at the dining room table it seemed a needless labor to change into an evening gown. Often, she avoided the dining room altogether, preferring to have a tray in her room. On these occasions, she usually relaxed before the fire in no more than her dressing gown.
This evening, however, she felt an urge to dress formally, to look her best. It had nothing whatever to do with the slighting comments on her appearance made by Ravel, of course. She could permit herself a whim now and then surely? She had been most informal, even sloppy, all day; tonight she would have a grande toilette.
Denise served as Anya’s maid. The woman had been her nurse when Anya first came to the plantation as a young, frightened girl without a mother. After so many years, Denise felt it her proprietorial right to dress Anya, and also to scold her and to worry over her. On this evening, the older woman helped her into underclothing and tightened the strings of her new empress corset. She lifted her quilted petticoats with their embroidered hems over her head, settling them into place for warmth and to prevent her cage crinoline from swinging like a bell. Next came the crinoline itself, an affair of five graduated sizes of hoops covered with cloth tapes, all together with straps. Over this went another layer of petticoats, also embroidered and edged with lace, and padding to prevent the crinoline’s hoops from showing through like bones under her gown.
The gown itself was of bayadere silk in shades of pink to deepest rose red. It had been made up in France and imported by Giquel and Jaison on Chartres Street, the emporium where she had bought it. Very little had been required to perfect the fit, no more than a minor alteration of the bodice seams to make it conform to her slimmer waist. Madame Rosa and Celestine preferred to have their gowns made by their own dressmaker; they claimed that the workmanship was far superior. But Anya could not force herself to endure the endless fittings required unless absolutely necessary, and so bought ready-made garments when she could find them.
The neckline of the gown was cut low across the bosom, exposing a great deal of her neck and shoulders. In an attempt to distract from that expanse of pale flesh, Anya fastened around her throat a necklace of garnets. It was a beautifully designed piece of glittering, faceted stones, with a Maltese cross at the center surrounded by scrollwork and flanked by tiny tulips, fleurs-de-lis, and arrow points made of jewels on either side. Delicate, yet large enough to be showy, it had been given to Anya by her father. It was not terribly valuable, the garnets being set in base metal with only a wash of gold, but she loved it.
Anya sat before her dressing table with a hairdressing cape about her shoulders while Denise brushed the long mane of her hair and put it up. Denise plaited and shaped a portion of it into a coronet, then brought the hair at the crown through the coronet and allowed it to fall in a smooth swath that curled over Anya’s shoulder to lie in a fat, glossy ringlet. Denise drew out small tendrils of hair at the temples and in front of Anya’s ears, and used a curling iron heated on a bracket placed over the lamp chimney to form them into fine curls. Satisfied at last, she moved about the room putting things away while Anya turned her attention to the array of bottles and jars on the dressing table.
Her hands were dry and rough from her yard work. She smoothed a soothing lotion known as Balm of a Thousand Flowers into them, then shaped her nails and buffed them to a gloss with a chamois skin buffer.
The Creole ladies of New Orleans had been accused by the American women of painting their faces. That was not strictly true, though they were known, on occasion, to aid nature somewhat. Madame Rosa had instructed Anya in that art as naturally as she had pointed out the importance of attention to her teeth.
Now to give her brows and lashes darkness and sheen, Anya applied a touch of a pomatum with her fingertips, then to even her skin tone used Lilly White, liquid blanc de perles, smoothing it over her face. Deciding after a critical inspection that she needed a little color, she took a rouge paper from a small box, brushed it delicately across her cheekbones, then, after moistening her lips, pressed it to them also.
She sat for a moment surveying the results in the mirror. Satisfied, she tossed the rouge paper aside and wiped her fingertips on a cloth. She looked rather different than she had earlier. It was a pity, she thought, that Ravel Duralde would not be able to see how different, even if the change had not been made for his benefit.
As with most houses of Creole style, the principal rooms of Beau Refuge were on the second floor to protect them from the possibility of flooding, with the lower floor being little more than a basement built above the ground and used for storage and sometimes for servants’ quarters. There was no hallway in the house. The galleries on the front and back served that purpose, giving access through the many pairs of French windows that opened onto them. In addition, the rooms opened into each other, so that if every window and door in the house was thrown wide, there was free circulation of air throughout, a great boon in the warm, humid climate.
There were nine large, high-ceilinged rooms in the house. Across the front was the library, the salon in the center, and the bedchamber used by Madame Rosa. The second rank of rooms included the dining room in the center and a bedchamber on each side, while across the back was Anya’s bedchamber, a sitting room she claimed as her own, and another bedchamber that belonged to Celestine.
The decor of the house, redone at the time of the marriage of Madame Rosa to Anya’s fathe
r, was in wheat-straw gold and olive green. There were heavy brocades at the windows and medallion carpets on the floor; chairs and settees were covered with silk, and the bed coverings were of ecru linen edged with heavy Valenciennes lace. Bronze-framed mirrors topped the fireplaces, and marble statuary was set in the corners of the rooms. The chandeliers were of bronze doré and Baccarat crystal. Sevres porcelain graced the mantels and tables here and there, and the paintings and lithographs that hung on the walls of gentle pastoral scenes in gilded frames.
To reach the dining room, Anya had only to walk into the sitting room, turn right, then pass through the sitting room door into the dining room. The table sat ready, with her place laid, waiting for the meal to be served. No one was in sight however, nor was there any sign of food. She moved to the sideboard where a tray of decanters stood. After pouring a small sherry for herself, she wandered back into the sitting room and seated herself as was proper upon the edge of the seat of the wing chair.
The stiff pose was too uncomfortable to maintain. Unlike many young ladies among the Creoles, Anya had never been forced to wear an apple slat in her bodice to encourage rigid, upright posture. Careless of the possible wrinkling of her dress or the possibility of revealing her petticoats and crinoline, she leaned back in the chair, resting her head against the padded upholstery.
As she sipped her wine, she stared out into the darkness beyond the French windows. It was an uneasy night. The wind had changed its quarter, blowing steadily from the south. It waved the ancient arms of the live oaks so that they creaked and groaned in protest. Thunder rumbled in the distance, a low, threatening sound. Drafts of air finding their way into the room caused the flames in the lamps to flutter on their wicks, casting wavering shadows on the walls. The air smelled of kerosene and the rose-petal potpourri that filled a Chinese jar on the table beside her, of pollen from the trees that were beginning to bloom, and of the sulphurous taint of the coming storm.
There was a copy of the Louisiana Courier also on the table. Setting down her glass, she picked up the newspaper, scanning the columns, stopping to read an item from France holding up to ridicule the entourage of postillions, liveried servants, mounted lancers bearing small flags, and equerries thought necessary to accompany the young son of Louis Napoleon of France and his nurse for a carriage outing. She had passed on to a tale of Indian trouble with the Shawnees in the Kansas Territory, when Denise’s son Marcel appeared in the door.
She laid the paper aside, saying with a smile, “Dinner at last? I’m starving.”
Marcel was a grave and intelligent young man near Anya’s age, with a slender frame, waving black hair and soft brown skin. There was enough of the Caucasian in his features so that Anya had been forced to wonder more than once if his father might not have been the man from whom her own father had won the plantation. Denise was reticent on the subject, claiming, when Madame Rosa asked her in forthright Creole fashion about the boys parentage, that she could not name his father. Marcel was an excellent servant, quiet, efficient, and loyal. When he could be teased out of his habitual solemnity, he had a wide and infectious grin. There was never any indication by word or deed that when they were children he and Anya had run and romped together up and down the galleries of the house.
Tonight his face was even more sober than usual, and he did not quite meet her gaze as he bowed. “I’m sorry, mam’zelle. Dinner is indeed ready, but I’m not certain where to serve it.”
“Not certain? What do you mean?”
“I went just now to the cotton gin with a tray. M’sieur Duralde said to me that I must bring your meal also. He will not eat alone.”
She got to her feet with a swish of skirts. “I see. Then he must go hungry. I will eat in the dining room as usual.”
“Your pardon, mam’zelle. He also said that if you should refuse, he will be forced to set fire to the cotton gin.”
She went still. Flags of color appeared on her cheekbones. “He’ll what?” she asked sharply.
“I am to say for him that he regrets the necessity of the threat, but you must not doubt he will carry it out.”
“But how—?” She stopped before the question was formed. She seemed to remember leaving the tin box containing phosphorus matches on the side table in the corner when she had used them to light the lamp the night before. Her Uncle Will had never been able to reach that far, but Ravel was a taller man, with longer arms and, perhaps, greater initiative. Somehow he must have found a way to knock the box from the table and pull it toward him.
“He has matches,” Marcel answered helpfully. “He showed them to me.”
“Why didn’t you take them from him?” she asked in agitation.
“I thought of it, but he warned me not to try. He said, mam’zelle, that you must come and get them yourself.”
5
RAVEL STOOD AT THE WINDOW. With his height, he could see above the sill, out into the windswept darkness. His face was silhouetted against the gray light, his expression pensive. He had mended his appearance since Anya had left him, taking advantage of the comforts she had provided; still the red flannel shirt he wore and the white swath of bandaging about his head, half-concealed by the curling crispness of his dark hair, gave him the look of a pirate. The chain of his shackle lay stretched across the floor, the steel links gleaming dully in the lamplight. It made a faint rattling as he turned with the opening of the door.
He stared at Anya, his dark gaze missing no detail of her appearance, from the gleaming coronet of hair on top of her head and the glitter of jewels at her throat, to the edging of lace on her petticoat that was visible as she held the rose-hued silk of her gown above the floor. A look of warm appreciation rose in his face, to be quickly replaced by sardonic amusement. He leaned his shoulders against the wall under the window and crossed his arms over his chest.
“Ravishing. If this magnificence is for my benefit, I am honored.”
“I didn’t expect to see you this evening, as you well know.” Her answer was short. His effrontery was incensing. Her cheeks were flushed and her mouth set in a thin line as she lowered the hem of her skirt to the floor and threw back her shawl, draping it over her arms.
“How disappointing. You have other guests?”
The temptation to lie, to plead social duties as a means of escaping, was strong. She conquered it with a severe effort. “As it happens, I don’t.”
“How fortunate for me.” He pushed away from the wall. “Permit me to offer you a chair.”
She took a quick step backward as he came toward her. “Stay where you are.”
He stopped. His tactics earlier, he saw clearly, had been at fault. His voice quiet, he said, “If I have given you reason to be wary of me, I beg your pardon.”
“That’s a novelty, at any rate.” She lifted her chin as she spoke.
She was one of the most desirable women he had ever seen. If there had been a time in the past seven years when he had forgotten it, he knew it beyond a doubt now. The shape of her mouth, the curves of her breasts, the slender span of her waist enticed him. He wanted her as he had never wanted anyone or anything in his life. Honor was a paltry thing compared to that great hunger.
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.
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