Prisoner of Desire (15 page)

Beneath her, she could feel the long rigidity of him, an indication of the force of his desire for her. There was no haste in his movements, however, only a deep and sensual appreciation of the moment, as if he meant to impress the taste and feel of her upon his body, his memory.

Holding her to him, he turned with a taut flexing of muscles until she faced him on her side. He trailed heated kisses from the corner of her mouth and along the curve of her cheekbone. He pressed his face into the silken swath of her hair that lay along the turn of her neck, brushing the rich-colored strands with his lips before he raised himself and bent to draw her pantalettes down her thighs, freeing her of them. He lowered his head then, tasting her skin at the narrow indentation of her waist and along her rib cage, cupping a breast in his hand before encircling it with his tongue and taking the strutted nipple into the gentle adhesion of his mouth.

Anya breathed deep as heated desire flooded through her, spiraling downward, ever downward. With her eyes tightly closed, she reached out to him, stroking with sensitive, questing fingertips along the corded muscles of his arm and over his chest, drifting lower to the firm flatness of his belly. He caught her hand, guiding it to the thrusting length of him that was yet satiny in its smoothness. She accepted that invitation, exploring, lost in unexpected delight, and also in wonder at the generosity with which he offered himself to her.

Time ceased to have meaning. The rain clattered and drummed overhead and lightning flared in the room. The lamplight wavered and flickered, and the coals of the fire pulsed, softly crackling. Their bodies were gilded with gold and red and silver, awash and throbbing with their own internal heat. The sound of their breathing grew heavier, their movements more driven, less controlled.

Ravel’s hands upon her were gently marauding, allowing no modesty as he sought out the secret and untouched source of her femininity. His slow and insistent caress there seemed to dissolve her very bones and send the blood racing in molten splendor along her veins. There was a heaviness in her limbs and a melting, abandoned sensation deep inside her. The muscles of her abdomen contracted in spasm. Her heart jarred in her chest. She arched toward him, wanting, needing to be closer, to become a part of him.

He pressed his hand closer upon her, a finger slipping between her thighs, insidiously, delicately penetrating. Circling, easing, he soothed that first stinging sensation, breaching her tightness with slow and delicious insistence. His close-held patience without limit, he eased the way, until with a soft and strangled sound she moved against him in mounting, undeniable rapture.

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 know,” 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.