Prisoner of Desire (12 page)

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.

“You can pretend that I am some doddering past acquaintance of your father’s to whom you need be no more than polite. Except for an occasional request to pass the salt, you can ignore me.”

Nothing was more unlikely. Still, it did not matter. She was hungry after her work in the garden, and it seemed suddenly the height of stupidity to allow pride and anger and this man’s games to make her feel uncomfortable on her own property or to interfere with her evening meal. She gave a curt nod, then directed that the cold food be taken away and replaced with a fresh selection of hot dishes, for two.

Silence descended around them like a thick and smothering coverlet when Marcel had gone. The wind had died. The night stillness was sullen, waiting. The thunder that grumbled around the sky had a closer sound.

The light in the room was yellow, overbright. The lamp on the table beside the fireplace sent a spiral of black smoke toward the ceiling, burning with a hectic glow caused by a wick turned too high. Anya walked to the table and removed the lamps soot-blackened globe, lowering the wick until the flame that danced upon it was blue and barely edged with yellow.

Ravel watched her, his features stern to conceal his satisfaction at the progress of events. The glow of the lamplight, reflecting in her face, gave her a strange, unearthly beauty, and he felt a stir of something like despairing desire in his loins. He suppressed it with ruthless care. She must not be made more wary of him than she was already.

He moved toward the eating table that sat in the corner and pulled it forward into the room, closer to the fire. He reached for the straight-backed chair that went with it, placing it on one side, then turned to the armchair near the hearth. Bending, he lifted the heavy, upholstered piece with ease, then set it down opposite the straight chair at the table.

Anya followed his movements, her gaze abstracted. The red flannel shirt she had sent him pulled taut across his shoulders and back as he bent, emphasizing the muscled hardness. His trousers, perfectly tailored for fit, fastened under the instep, clung with amazing fidelity to his thighs and the lean line of his hips. There was about him as he moved a dark and predatory grace. He was sleek and powerful and dangerous, with a faint intimation of some desperate need. Watching him, she was afraid that she had made a mistake in agreeing to his demand.

He turned toward her, indicating with a brief gesture the place he had arranged as he inclined his head. “If you please?”

The heat of a flush caused by her wandering thoughts about him rose to her cheekbones as she met his gaze. She lowered her lashes and, maneuvering her skirts with one hand to collapse the hoops of the crinoline and prevent wrinkling of the silk, sat down gingerly in the chair. He waited until she was ready, then shifted the heavy chair closer to the table. His hand brushed her arm, and she sent him a quick, startled glance as she felt the stinging heat of the contact.

His chain clanked over the floor as he stepped to the other side of the table and took his place facing her. She averted her gaze from him, though she could feel his upon her. The depth of her consciousness of him amazed her. She had never been quite so acutely aware of a man in her life, certainly had never felt this uncomfortable degree of perception with Jean. She tried to tell herself it was because of the circumstances, her antipathy for Ravel, the memories of the past that linked them and the peculiar circumstances of the present. She did not quite believe it. There was something in the man himself, something that had always affected her adversely, even in those long-ago days of her betrothal, when Ravel had been among Jean’s friends.

The need to dispel the feeling was so strong that she unconsciously fell back on the formal graciousness of a hostess.

“We were speaking this morning of William Walker,” she said with a cool smile. “Did you attend the meeting of the Friends of Nicaragua last week?”

Amusement for the ploy flitted across his face before he nodded. “I was there.”

“Were you, by chance, one of the speakers?”

“As it happens, I was.”

“Your sympathies are with Walker, I imagine.”

Again he inclined his head.

“They are saying that he may be formally tried in court for violating the neutrality laws. Do you think he will be convicted?”

“It depends on where the trial is held. If it’s in Washington, it’s possible. If it’s here in New Orleans, where he has his greatest base of support, the chance is slight.”

“There has been a rumor lately about the men who fought with Walker in Central America. People are saying that they are the force behind this secret committee of vigilance.”

His features hardened for an endless moment. His dark gaze was probing, assessing as he studied her. The suspicion that closed in upon him was blighting, but must be considered. “You are remarkably abreast of events.”

“For a woman, you mean?”

“There aren’t many of your sex who interest themselves in what is happening outside their family circle.”

“I enjoy knowing what is taking place, and why. Is there anything wrong with that?”

“Hardly. It’s just surprising.”

His comments were no more than an attempt to distract her from her original question. She smiled artlessly, saying, “But about this Vigilance Committee, do you know anything of it?”

“Vigilance against whom, or what? Do these rumors say?”

“Against the corrupt officials and police force of New Orleans who were bought and paid for by the Know-Nothing party.”

“I see. And you approve of that goal?”

The lash concealed in that question was surprising. Anya lifted her chin. “I can’t say that I disapprove. It looks as if someone is going to have to do something.”

He was wrong. He must be. A smile curved the strong lines of his mouth, rising to brighten his eyes. “I should have known a woman so ready to take unconventional measures to get what she wants would not condemn others for doing the same.”

She was not given a chance to form an answer. Their conversation was interrupted by the return of Marcel bearing an enormous silver tray covered with dishes. He placed before them a seafood gumbo rich with shrimp and crab and sausage in a spicy, dark brown roux. He had also roast chicken with cornbread dressing and oyster sauce, venison steak with rice, and a selection of cheeses. There were small loaves of French bread wrapped in a white cloth, and for dessert blackberry cobbler made with berries put up the year before and served with clotted cream. To drink there was white wine in crystal goblets, and coffee that was kept hot by supporting the pot in a silver cradle over a burning candle.