Drawing her to him then with her knee over the long, lean-muscled length of his thigh, he entered her, pressing, receding, gradually easing deeper and deeper still. There was an instant of burning pain, though before she could draw breath to cry out, it was gone, banished by his sweet and steady rhythm against her.
A soft sound of mingled relief and purest voluptuous gratification left her lips. As if at a signal, he gathered her to him and turned her to her back, raising himself above her. His chain, attached beside and above the bed, was twisted beneath her, around her thighs, binding them together, inseparably.
Anya scarcely noticed the additional bond linking her body to his. She strained upward against him, accepting the deeper angle of penetration in trembling ecstasy, without reserve. Her lashes quivered on her cheeks. Gooseflesh rose, tingling, along her skin. Her lips parted and she spread her hands, pressing her sensitive palms upon his shoulders, rubbing, clenching and unclenching her fingers.
In rich, fervid wonder, they moved together. Anya accepted the increasing urgency of his thrusts, absorbing their impact, letting them fuel the vivid and beatific grandeur inside her. It hovered, expanding, pouring through her in liquid heat, seeking an outlet.
She caught her breath on a smothered cry as it spilled over her. It was elemental, a storm of passion as tumultuous and unchecked as that which raged in the windswept night. Together they rode it, striving, reveling in its violence. Man and woman, locked in each other’s arms, they rose above the petty reasons that had united them, seeking, finding the essential truth: from the prisons of themselves, the prisons life had made for them, this was the only escape.
6
THE THUNDER RUMBLED AWAY into the darkness. The rain slackened, then returned to fall with soft relentlessness, as if it meant to continue through the night. Anya and Ravel lay with bodies entwined, their ragged breathing slowly returning to normal. With gentle fingers, he brushed at a fine strand of hair that lay across her face, enmeshed in her lashes. He ran his hand down her arm and along her flank and, feeling the cool surface of her skin, reached to drag the quilt that covered the bed up over her.
Anya lay with her cheek against his shoulder. There was such confusion in her mind. She did not know whether she was glad or sorry for what had just happened; she only knew that she was content for the moment in the arms of the man who held her. Her body was replete and her mind relieved of a great weight. There was a peculiar wanton pleasure in lying naked against him, one she made no attempt to resist. In the back of her mind she knew she should feel soiled and used, uplifted only by a consciousness of the good she had done, but she could not quite capture that sense of martyrdom. Her major concern, she discovered, was not for the man she had saved, but for the one she might have harmed.
Her voice low, she asked, “Is it really true that some men may call you a coward if you don’t appear in the morning?”
“Not to my face.”
“What do you mean? That they won’t say it in front of you out of fear, but may whisper behind your back?”
“Something like that.”
She frowned. “What if there are those who aren’t bashful, some of the young men who want to meet you for the glory of it? Wouldn’t it make a good excuse?”
“Possibly.”
She heard the grimness behind the noncommittal tone of his voice, and knew that his answer was less than forthright. It was not just possible, but probable, that other meetings would stem from this one failed appointment on the field of honor. Why had she not realized it?”
She had not realized it because her concern had, until this moment, been for Murray and Celestine, for anyone and everyone except the formidable, undefeatable Black Knight. But she had defeated him, and now, suddenly, she was afraid for him.
She pushed herself up to one elbow. “You would not go out of your way to challenge anyone who might slight you!”
He withdrew from her a little so that he could see her face. “What do you require of me, that I permit your precious future brother-in-law to insult me?”
“Murray wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“He did.”
“You must have misunderstood him, or else he didn’t realize how touchy Creoles can be. He was only trying to protect me.
“I did not fail to understand. I gave him an opportunity to explain, and he chose to take that as a reflection on his courage, for which he slapped me in the face with his gloves. I had no choice except to issue a challenge.”
“He must not have known who you were.”
“Should that have made a difference?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. In any case, it makes none now since there can be no rescheduling of the meeting.”
“Suppose,” he said, his gaze steady on her face, “Murray Nicholls decides that my failure to appear is another insult, cause for a new meeting?”
“Impossible. The code—”
“The code prohibits men from meeting more than once over the same cause,” he said, his tone weary. “That is, when anyone pays attention to it. It also condemns crossing swords again after the drawing of first blood or the exchange of more than two rounds of fire, though I’ve seen men fight to the death or exchange fire five and six times, until one of them falls. But the code is silent on the question of an entirely different pretext for a duel, and there is nothing easier to discover.”
She pushed slowly erect, staring at him in dismay. “You are saying that if you please, you can challenge Murray again?”
“For the last time, our quarrel was not of my choosing.”
“You put him in a position where he felt he had to make a stand, which is the same thing,” she accused him. “And now you mean to do it again!”
With controlled animal grace and splendid nakedness, he sat up to face her. “All I am trying to tell you is that another meeting is possible; I tried to make that clear once before, but you wouldn’t listen. I will avoid it if I can, but I will not run from Murray Nicholls, not for you or anyone else.”
Anya barely let him finish. “You made a fool out of me, letting me barter myself to prevent this meeting, knowing full well that you could go ahead with it as you pleased later! I should have known there was no honor in you, nothing but stupid pride in your reputation as the master duelist in New Orleans. Nothing must interfere with that – nothing, not even your word as a gentleman!”
Dark color rose in Ravel’s face. When he spoke, the words carried a slicing edge of contempt. “I didn’t begin the practice of dueling, and it gives me no pleasure to continue it. My one object when I walk out on the field is to stay alive with honor. I have pledged, and will pledge, to keep to the letter of the agreement made between us this night, but as memorable as the interlude has been, I don’t intend to die because of it.”
“You mean to kill Murray for revenge for what I’ve done,” she said in choked tones, “to make him pay for the humiliation I’ve caused you!”
He looked at her, his expression bleak. “A fine opinion you have of me. I would give you my word to spare this man’s life if at all possible, if he will allow it, but I doubt you would accept it.”
She swung from him, sliding off the bed, bending to scoop up her clothing and scrape together her hairpins. With her things in her arms, she faced him. “No, I won’t accept it. Nor will I let you go. One treachery deserves another, or so it appears to me. You can stay here and rot!”
He came up off the bed, but she was ready for him. She skipped backward the few steps that took her out of reach, beyond the length of his chain.
He did not pursue her, but stood with one knee resting on the mattress. As she started out the door, he said, “I still have the matches.”
She turned back with the knob in her hand. “Burn the place down then. But you’ll roast in it, because I intend to give the order to let it go up in flames with you inside!”
“You think your people will obey?” The look on his face was skeptical.
“I don’t kn
ow,” she answered with a scathing smile. “Why don’t you try them?”
She stepped through the opening, then slammed the door behind her. She took down the key and turned it in the lock with vicious satisfaction, then hung it back in place.
Her clothes were spilling from her arms. She dropped them on the small landing and tried to sort them out in the darkness. The rain was louder here, falling beyond the open ends of the building. A cool wet wind whipped down the wagon drive. Anya shivered, though as much from reaction as from cold. Finding her camisole, she pulled it on, then searched out pantalettes and petticoats, donning them before struggling into her gown and crinoline. She could not fasten her buttons without half breaking her arms bending them backward, and so did not try. Twisting her hair up in a knot as best she could, she thrust her pins into it and at the same time stepped into her slippers and started down the rough steps.
At the doorway of the wagon drive, she threw her shawl over her head and tied the ends under her chin. Lifting her skirts and taking a deep breath, she plunged out into the night.
Water splashed underfoot, wetting her slippers before she had gone a dozen feet. The wind billowed her skirts like sails, holding her back, and blew raindrops into her face, so that she could barely make out the lights of the big house. She had no thought of turning back, however, but marched on with her teeth tightly clenched and her eyes narrowed. She did not want to see Ravel Duralde again, not now, not ever.
The man was a double-crossing, womanizing scoundrel. He had taken advantage of her in the most despicable way possible. If she were a man, she would do her best to run him through with a sword.
She should have known better than to trust what he said. She did not know what had come over her that she had succumbed so easily to his wiles; she was not usually so gullible. He had even had her beginning to believe him, to think that she might have been mistaken about him all these years. She had wanted to believe it, God help her, had wanted to think that he was as haunted by Jean’s death as she was, that he had lived with the constant specter of regret and remorse. She had pitied his years spent in a Spanish prison and had overflowed with compassion for his dislike of being confined. Worst of all, she had been enormously flattered by the thought that the desire he felt for her was greater than his care for his honor. What an idiot she had been! Just the thought of it made her want to scream.
A sound like a sob caught in her throat and she choked it down. She would not cry; it was too late for that. If only she could turn back the clock and be the way she had been that morning, whole and chaste, and with her self-respect intact. She could not. There was nothing to be done except forget the incident, put it behind her.
Your virtue for my honor—
Dear heaven, would she ever forget the things he had said, the way he had looked at her and touched her, the way she had responded to him? Would storms and the smells of cottonseed and lint and a warm male body always remind her? How long would it be before she ceased to feel as if she had been used like a woman of the streets? How long before she could learn to live with the fact that Ravel Duralde had taken her virginity, not out of passionate need or caring, but simply because he could not resist an easy conquest, a fitting revenge?
Denise was waiting, sitting in a chair in Anya’s bedchamber. She got to her feet as Anya stepped in through the open French windows from the back gallery. Her gaze widened until her eyes were round and staring in her head as she saw Anya’s wet gown opened down the back and her hair straggling from its makeshift knot.
“Mam’zelle, what happened?” she cried.
“Nothing of importance,” Anya said, summoning a smile. She threw aside her shawl and began to take the pins from her damp tresses, letting them fall once more. “I would like a brandy, and a hot bath, if you please?”
The housekeeper did not move. “Did he attack you?”
“I would rather not talk about it.”
“But, chère, you got to tell me.”
Denise had been Anya’s nurse, companion, and near as much of a mother as Madame Rosa had ever been. It was impossible to deny her. Anya gave a soft sigh. “He didn’t attack me; at least not in the way you mean.”
“He forced you?”
“Not precisely.”
“But you went to bed with him?”
Anya moved away from her. “What does it matter? I’m all right. There’s no need for concern.”
“You are compromised, chère; he done this to you and he has to make it right. He’s got to marry you.”
Anya whirled back to face the housekeeper. “No! I won’t have it.”
She could just imagine what Ravel would say if he were told he must marry the woman who had abducted him. But even if he would agree, she had no wish to be wed to a man she hated, a man who would use such base means to get what he wanted.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure.
The housekeeper hesitated a moment, as if she would argue further, but then began to move toward the door.
“Denise, when you return you may begin packing for me. I return to New Orleans in the morning.”
“With M’sieur Duralde?” the woman asked, her tone stiff with disapproval.
“Alone.”
“You will leave him here, in the gin? But mam’zelle, you can’t!”
“I can.”
“Think of the scandal if people get to know! I understand you being mad at him, chère, but this ain’t right.”
“Maybe not, but I don’t care.”
“His people will be worried; they’ll search for him. They may even call in the police.”
“Let them.”
“But chère—”
Anya sighed and let her shoulders sag. “I know, I know, and I will be back to set him free in a day or two. As for his people, I have been told it isn’t unusual for him to be gone without notice for short periods; there should not be too much of a stir.”
“He’ll be fit to be tied, sure enough. He may go to the police himself.”
“And admit he was held prisoner by a woman? He will not want to make such a thing public knowledge.”
Denise gave a slow nod. “You might be right, but what if he decides to dish out justice hisself? He’ll have plenty of time to think about it.”
The thought sent a shiver along Anya’s nerves. It was entirely possible, though it might also be that Ravel would consider what he had done already as ample repayment for her crime.
“I will worry about that when the time comes.”
The housekeeper said no more, but went away to prepare the bath. Later, when Anya had soaked the chill from her bones and drunk her brandy, when Denise had packed her trunk, then lowered the lamp and taken her rain-soaked silk gown and mud-splashed petticoats away to be refurbished, Anya lay in bed staring into the darkness. The anger that had buoyed her up until this moment slowly seeped away. She was left with a great weariness of the spirits.
She felt betrayed. It was not just what Ravel had done to her that oppressed her, but a feeling also that she had been deceived by her own emotions. She had come very close to feeling compassion for him and even sincere admiration. More than that, he had awakened in her a degree of passion and desire she had never dreamed she could know. His tenderness, his generous concern for her pleasure, the exquisite care with which he had initiated her into the mystery of making love had been a revelation. She had come very near to liking him for a few short minutes.
How could she have been so wrong? How could a man she had hated for so many years convince her so easily to reassess her feelings toward him? It argued a blind spot of some kind in her nature that he had been able to do so. It made her wonder if, in some way she had not heretofore expected, she was susceptible to the blandishments of handsome men, that the overpowering strength of her own passions could make her forget reality. Or was it possible that it was only one man who could trigger those emotions, only one to whom she was vulnerable?
Her sole source of satisfactio
n was that, regardless of her supine behavior, she had not been weak enough to let Ravel go free. There would be no duel tomorrow, no matter what might happen in the future.
It was not much of a consolation. Slow tears, draining from the corners of her eyes, tracked down her temples into her hair. She turned her face into her pillow and wept.
The first thing Madame Rosa wanted to know when Anya entered the salon of the townhouse in New Orleans was what emergency had taken her from the city in the middle of the night. She was looking soignée in her usual plump and indulgent fashion, dressed in a morning gown of black silk and with a cap of white lace tied with lavender and black ribbon rosettes set with purple silk violets on her hair. She was having her usual cup of midmorning imperial tea, along with a few trifles to stave off hunger until noon, among them coconut bonbons, cream chocolates, and dragées on a crystal plate, with nearby a jar of English biscuits smelling strongly of vanilla, and beside that a plate laid with slices of Gruyère cheese, truffled sausages, small rounds of bread, and, as an aid to digestion, a few fancy dried prunes.
Anya removed her kid gloves and took off her bonnet, handing them to a maid. Moving to her step-mother’s chair, she bent to kiss her cheek. “If you will pour me a cup of tea while I go to my bedchamber to wash my hands, I will tell you all about it when I get back.”
“Certainly, chère, and I will put something on a plate for you. You have always been thin, but this morning you look positively peaked.”
Madame Rosa, for all her indolence, was nothing if not observant. Anya knew she should have remembered and been prepared. Aloud she merely thanked her and continued through the salon to the more private rooms of the house.
By the time she returned, she had pinched some color into her cheeks and was ready with a glib tale of an illness in the slave quarters that Denise had feared was dysentery from polluted water but had turned out to be merely a highly contagious stomach ailment. To forestall further questions, she went on to ask what the older woman and Celestine had done in her absence.
At that moment, Celestine swept into the room. Hearing the question, she answered before Madame Rosa could begin to speak. “We have had the most frustrating time this morning you can imagine! High and low we have looked for a scarlet petticoat like the one worn by Queen Victoria at Balmoral, and have not been able to find such a thing anywhere. All we have had is stupid jokes about red flags to bulls and the trouble sure to be brought on by wearing such a garment. One buffoon even suggested that after being tossed by a bull, the petticoat should then be called a ‘gored’ skirt!”
Louisiana History Collection - Part 2 Page 86
