Prisoner of Desire (25 page)

“I’ll bet she’d show herself right helpful if we was to throw her down and lift her skirts.”

“Lord God, I hope she don’t squeal soon, so’s I get my turn,” another said, rubbing at the front of his greasy trousers.

The rage and disgust and striving that churned in her mind clashed suddenly with horror. The suggestion, so casually spoken, was not idle, not meant simply to frighten her into compliance. It was all too real. She kicked backward at the man holding her, surging forward against his grasp. For her pains her arms were wrenched so hard that she snapped upright again, rising on her toes with her teeth set hard in her bottom lip to keep from crying out.

Her hair had been loosened by her struggles, uncoiling, sliding down in a shower of pins. A fourth man, one somewhat cleaner than the rest, stepped forward and sank his fingers into the silken mass, closing them in a tight fist. “Nice,” he said, his tone slick, his mouth wet, his voice thick with lust and an Irish brogue. “As nice a piece as I’ve ever seen.”

“Back off,” growled the man who held Anya, apparently the leader of the pack.

The other ignored him, running his hand down the swath of her hair so that it cascaded over her other breast. He rubbed his palm over that fullness. “Very nice indeed.”

“I told you, back off.”

“You go to hell, Red!”

The two men glared at each other and the air crackled with the threat of violence. The others in that group eased back, giving them room.

In that moment of inattention, a man stepped from the shadows. He was slim and tall and dressed in the white coat of a servant, and in his hands he carried a chased dueling pistol. Marcel’s voice was strained, uneven, but the pistol he bore was steady as he called out. “Let mam’zelle go!”

“Jump ‘im!” The leader swung Anya so that she covered him even as his voice cracked out the order.

There was the rush of booted feet, the click of a hammer as Marcel’s pistol, perhaps primed in haste, misfired. Marcel was thrown to the ground. There came the sodden thud of blows as the men crouched over him, their arms rising and falling.

“Stop, oh, stop,” Anya cried.

“Here, that’s enough! Let him up.”

Marcel was hauled erect. He could not stand straight, but bent over with his hands at his belly. His face was cut and bleeding and one eye already swelling shut. The look he gave Anya was despairing, shamed.

“A real hero,” the leader growled. “Tell us where Duralde is, boy, and we’ll maybe let your mistress go.”

“No—,” Anya cried, the word choked off by the slice of pain.

Marcel raised his dark brown gaze to her face. “I am sorry, mam’zelle, but what else can I do?”

Together Anya and Marcel were half-dragged, half-pushed toward the gin. Anya stumbled along, tripping over her skirts and petticoats. Her hair slid forward into her face as she was jerked back and forth. Her skin crawled with loathing for the men who pulled at her, mauling her, groping at her with their hands in the darkness. Helpless anger grew inside her, seething, searching for an outlet. She longed for a knife or a club, a weapon of any kind and the chance to use it. She wanted to kick and claw and bite, no matter how little good it would do, no matter the cost.

Her chance came as the leader was unlocking the door. He released her into the charge of one of the others, using both hands as he manipulated the heavy key in its padlock. That man misjudged her strength. His grasp was loose as he reached to catch her chin, bending toward her with his mouth loose and open for a kiss. She snatched her wrist free and brought her forearm up under his chin in a swift, hard thrust. His head flew back with an audible snap. Immediately she slammed her fist into this nose. He made a strangled noise and staggered back. She spun around, ready to run, but the leader blocked her way, his rust red hair hanging in a rough curtain from under his bowler hat. Behind the man, the door of the small room swung open and she glimpsed Ravel rising from the chessboard, a tall, broad shape against the lamplight.

“Damn wildcat bitch,” the leader called Red spat out. “Git in there where you belong.” He caught her arm in a grip that made the bones grate together, and slung her with vicious force through the open doorway. The door slammed and the lock grated.

Anya staggered across the floor, falling with her hair whipping around her like a bright silken flail. Ravel moved with oiled swiftness, and she was caught against a hard chest, held, sheltered until she caught her breath with a sob of rage and pain. Her face a mask of fury and her body trembling with convulsive shudders, she pushed from him, backing away until she came up against the wall. She put her palms against it for support, holding to its stability as the tremors shook her and salt tears beaded her lashes, catching the lamplight as they quivered.

“What is it? What’s happening?” Ravel felt his blood congeal in his veins as he saw how pale and disheveled she was. He started toward her and she slid sideways along the wall.

“Stay away!”

Ravel stopped. She was so distraught that she did not realize he could not reach her. He watched the knowledge register with her, saw her draw a deep, shuddering breath as she fought for composure.

“Anya, tell me!” he said, his voice low and throbbing.

“As if you didn’t know!” Her eyes were as hard as cobalt porcelain.

“I don’t, I swear it.”

“They are your men, doing your bidding. Command, master, and they will obey.”

“They aren’t mine.” He put his hands on his hips, willing her to listen to him, to believe him.

“They asked for you. How else could they know where you were unless you sent for them?”

“The grapevine, someone you told in New Orleans possibly; how the devil should I know? But they have nothing to do with me.”

Anya didn’t believe him. He could not reach her, and would not so long as he was held by the chain. He didn’t like that. He would say anything to persuade her to come closer. “Why did they ask for you, then?”

“I have no idea.”

“You lie.”

“You took my word once.”

“I was wrong.”

He would not plead. “How many are there?”

“Enough.”

“Four, five? Are they armed?”

Anya gave him a scathing glance. He seemed so in earnest, as if the information were important, but she would not be taken in, not again.

Ravel tried once more. “If they are my men, why didn’t they release me?”

“I can only assume you wanted it this way.”

“Think, Anya!” he urged. “If I had wanted to keep you with me against your will, a raging mistress, I could have taken you at any time in the past twenty-four hours. There would have been no need for reinforcements.”

It was true. “You had no idea I would be returning when you sent your message.”

“In which case my instructions should have been different.”

A stillness came over her as her mind moved in swift and cogent thought. “Why else would they be here? What purpose could they have?”

There was one, but he preferred not to voice it. “A very good question. Have you no ideas?”

“None,” she said shortly.

“What are they doing now?”

“I don’t know.”

She moved toward the fire, holding her hands out to the blaze. She was chilled to the bone, the effects of reaction to what had happened. The movement brought her closer to Ravel, within reach if he cared to make the effort. It was, perhaps, a sign that she no longer feared him, if he cared to take it that way. It did not mean, Ravel well knew, that she believed him completely. There was in her manner the same skittishness as a doe scenting danger. If he made a wrong move, she would turn on him in an instant.

He moved to lean against the bedpost with his arms crossed over his chest. Silence fell. Together they strained to hear, to gain some hint of what might be taking place beyond the confines of the small room. There was no sound.

Robbery attempts against plantation houses were rare, in spite of their isolation. Southern men in general were excellent shots, since a great deal of their time was spent hunting, and they were notoriously short of temper when it came to trespass upon their lands or their good natures. In addition, it was not unusual to find three or four superior shots among the servants, men whose job it was to keep the tables at the main house and in the quarters supplied with wild meat. Anyone unwise enough to challenge such prowess usually found more trouble than they could handle.

Anya, as she had told Ravel, was a fair shot, as was Marcel, but they had been caught by surprise. The men in the quarters could be depended on to come to the aid of their mistress; Anya did not question that loyalty. They would, however, need a leader. Even if they learned what had taken place, it was unlikely that they would risk interference without specific instructions. Marcel could lead them if he were free, or even Denise. But nothing was less likely than that they would be allowed to do so.

If the purpose of the men was simple theft, perhaps they would ransack the main house and leave with their spoils. Or if the slaves, the most valuable commodity on the place, were their object, maybe they would take them and go. It seemed unlikely they would do either one. They had asked for Ravel. Somehow, some way, he was at the root of their presence, no matter how he might deny it.

The minutes slipped past, becoming an hour. The evening twilight left the sky and darkness descended. Neither Anya nor Ravel made a move to light the lamp. Shadows filled the room, thickening until the only light was the flickering red glow of the fire. Anya sank down to sit before it with her elbows propped on her knees and her chin in her hands, staring into the flames. After a time she closed her eyes.

Ravel stood watching the firelight dancing across the pale and shadowed oval of her face with a grim smile on his own features. The demon that had hounded him for seven years had caught up with him at last. He had killed Jean, and out of guilty grief had invited death. It had not come to him, despite countless battles with comrades falling around him and years spent in prison. He had played recklessly, enticing ruin in the gambling dens, only to emerge enriched. He had sought forgetfulness in the arms of women, and found affection that he did not deserve or require. He had gone his way alone, but discovered that his self-sufficiency drew friends and acquaintances to him. He had, in fact, walked the world daring its dangers, and always returned unscathed. Until now. Until he had seen Anya Hamilton across a ballroom and recognized, suddenly, the form of his demon.

He loved her, had loved her for years. He had seen her at the masked ball, and he could no more stop himself from approaching her than he could stop breathing. He had felt that if he was not allowed to touch her, if only for a moment and behind the shelter of a disguise, then the rest of his life would be dust and ashes.

His abduction had been quite a shock; he would be the first to admit it. The daring of it, the thoroughness, and the reason had been so enraging that if he had been able to put his hands on her when he first regained his senses he might well have done something he would have regretted. Later, when he had had time to think, it had seemed a heaven-sent opportunity. The meeting with Nicholls in New Orleans could wait. Discovering ways to force Anya to come to him, to talk to him and accept him for what he was, just a man, he was content. If it had not been for that moment of weakness, when he had succumbed to the temptation to have her at any price, he might have been able to walk away when the time expired and she decided to let him go. It was no longer possible. He would not willingly leave her, nor would he permit her to escape him. Not when this ordeal was over. Not ever.

There came a soft scratching at the door. Anya opened her eyes with an effort. There had been too many late nights with little sleep for her, and to much strain. She felt drugged with weariness and fireglow, sore in every muscle and joint from the mistreatment she had received. She did not think she could move.

A faint smile touched Ravel’s mouth. Thrusting himself away from the bed, he moved as close as he could to the door. The soft scratching came again as he neared.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice low.

The cover for the small grille in the door was pulled aside. The answer came in a woman’s sibilant whisper with the sound of the patois of the slaves, though the words were couched with an attempt at refinement that identified one of the maids from the main house. “Marcel sent me. He could not come himself for being locked up with Denise in his room. He said to tell you and mam’zelle that the men do nothing for now but eat and drink. They wait for the one they call the boss.”

“I see.”

“I better go back now, ‘fore they miss me.”

Ravel thanked the girl and they heard her quiet footsteps retreating down the stairs and out of the gin.

Anya clasped her arms around her knees, watching Ravel as he stood so broad and tall in the dimness. It was incredible, but suddenly she wanted to believe he had nothing to do with these men. She was seized with a swelling tightness inside her chest that threatened to cut off her breathing. To banish it, she cleared her throat, saying in husky tones, “What does it mean?”

He turned toward her, and the firelight reflected red in the back of his eyes. “I have no idea.”