Prisoner of Desire (46 page)

Dead? The word gave Anya a cold feeling deep inside. No, it could not be. He was so vital; he had such strength both in body and mind. That it could all be ended in an instant did not seem possible. But it was possible. Like the pagan god he personified, once so powerful, he could cease to be. Nothing would remain except the memory of him in the minds of a few and some carved letters on a tombstone.

What then of the love she felt, the love that, like her heart, beat inside her as if frantic to escape? What would happen, she wondered, if she suddenly said, “I love you, Ravel”? Would he believe her? And if he did, would he laugh? Would he take advantage of her? Would he be unmoved, or worst of all, moved only to pity?”

He was not the only half-dressed man in the room — there were the fauns who had accompanied him and the satyrs of Bacchus — but he was easily the most magnificent. Half the women in the boxes had their opera glasses trained upon him, and most of them would cheerfully sacrifice their good names for the honor of being called out by him at this Comus ball.

What was there about women that, no matter how staid they pretended to be, delighted in a rake? Like moths to a flame, they enjoyed fluttering near the danger. She must not be a silly moth.

“Is your mother here tonight?” she asked, running her gaze over the women in the boxes once more.

“I could not persuade her.”

“She wasn’t too ill to come?”

“No, no. The truth is, her literary circle meets this evening and she preferred to be there. Her illness is more of an inconvenience than a bar to doing what she wishes. Her heart is a little weak, possibly, but I’ve discovered that it gets weaker when there is something she wants me to do.”

“Such as remaining in New Orleans instead of joining William Walker in Nicaragua last fall?”

“The very thought brought on severe palpitations. She’s a wise lady, if a little devious.”

The warmth in his voice gave Anya a curious feeling in the region of her heart. “Your mother saw the parade, I suppose?”

“She did, and pronounced my costume vulgar but effective.”

“A woman of taste,” Anya said, her tone demure.

Effective it certainly was. To be so close to him in public while he was half-naked was making her feel decidedly overheated, a heat that seemed to radiate from the lower part of her body, affecting her as if he were mighty Pan himself.

Ravel, glancing down at the soft color across her cheekbones, murmured, “I’m glad you like it.”

Anya searched her mind for something, anything, to change the subject. “I don’t believe I thanked you for coming so gallantly to my rescue this afternoon.”

He shook his head. “You will do so now at your own peril.”

“My life means a great deal to me; it would be the basest ingratitude not to express my appreciation.”

“It also means much to me.”

She absorbed that in silence as they whirled with her gown belling out around them, almost obscuring the lower part of his body in teal silk. His forest green cloak swung from his shoulders, and the metallic cord that held it, his mask, and the leaves of his crown caught the lamplight so that together they made a swirling kaleidoscope of grace and color and bright gold reflections.

Slowly there grew between them a sense of unity, of restraints lifting, enmity receding. They moved with one accord, as if every muscle and fiber was guided by the same impulse. However much or little else there might be between them, this physical harmony could not be denied. It carried its own pleasure, its own genuine gratification.

His arms were strong, his hold and his movements sure, his feel for the rhythm true. For that brief space of time Anya gave herself up to him with inescapable and implicit trust. He would not betray her or himself here, this she knew.

Lightly, tirelessly, she floated in his arms, following him by instinct and with precision, so that to Ravel she seemed a part of him, bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, as if parting would be a severance. He never wanted to let her go. Never in this life.

It was right, a perfect melding, a free blending of spirit and mind and body, a thing of fate and unconscious will, grand and beautiful. It was also impossible to sustain.

The music ended. There was a spattering of applause. Around Anya and Ravel the dancers made polite noises and began to move toward the boxes as each lady was escorted back to her seat. Dazed and reluctant, Anya and Ravel stepped back from each other. Once more Anya placed her hand on his wrist. She glanced up at the box and saw Celestine sitting with her elbows propped on the railing and a look of longing on her face. Madame Rosa was gossiping with a friend while Gaspard hovered behind her. Murray and Emile were nowhere in sight.

To break the strained silence that gripped them, Anya said, “What a pity Celestine isn’t able to dance.”

“There’s something wrong with her?”

“No, no, only that she knows no one here except Murray and Emile, who are in evening wear and may not take the floor.”

“I could have her called out.”

She looked at him sharply, but his attention was on the shadowy alcove toward which they were moving, the alcove that held the short flight of steps leading to the box. “You could, of course, but would it be prudent?”

“I’m growing a little tired of being prudent.”

“I thought a moment ago you were worrying about Murray’s righteous anger?”

“A moment ago you were also wishing me on the field with him. Tell me, if such a thing really happened, what would you do this time to save him?”

“Don’t talk nonsense!”

“Perhaps it’s sense. Perhaps it would be better to go back to where we began and make an end of it.” He looked down at her, his eyes through the slits of his mask dark and opaque.

“You’re trying to frighten me.”

“Would you be frightened, Anya?”

“You swore you would never be the one to force the issue between you and Murray!” There was a tightness in her chest, so that she could not get her breath.

“Nor will I be. All I propose is a waltz, or perhaps a polka, with a lady who is being neglected.”

“It’s sheer provocation!”

He smiled with wicked charm, though there was something watchful behind his eyes. “Now, if I were to take you in my arms and, while tasting your sweet lips, release about half the buttons of that lovely but constricting gown you are wearing, that would be provocation.”

“That,” she said between her teeth, “would be suicide. I would kill you myself.”

“It might be worth it.”

They were nearing the alcove. As if driven, Anya said, “Ravel, you really wouldn’t provoke Murray, would you?”

“Give me an alternative.”

“What do you mean?” Something in his manner alerted her, so that she sent him a dark look.

“Promise me other, more personal, entertainment.”

The color drained from her face as she took his point. She waited for rage to erupt inside her, but instead there was only a spreading ache. There was something here she did not understand. His words, the way he said them, did not sound like him. It was as if he no longer cared what she thought, as if he wanted to offend her, and yet there was more to it than that.

Who was he, what was he really behind his mask? The gold metallic cloth of it gave him a hard, almost foreign appearance, as if she had never known him. It was like an ambush he was hiding behind, hiding from her, hiding from himself.

He sensed her withdrawal from him, the flicker of puzzled fear within her, and knew a piercing regret. Almost he reached out to her, but stilled the impulse, as he must. For an instant only he permitted himself to wonder what it would be like to have her concern directed toward him instead of against him. It was not a vision he could hold to for long.

In choked tones, Anya answered, “I’ll see you damned first.”

“You did that long ago, my darling Anya, so there’s no need to hold yourself above what we both know would be a pleasure—”

She could not find an answer, but neither was one required. A man, his form obscured by the dimness until that moment, stepped from the alcove. It was Emile. His color was high and his eyes overbright, but his manner was exquisitely polite as he bowed.

“It’s Duralde behind that mask, I believe, and annoying Mademoiselle Anya again. For too long you have persecuted her unchecked. Its time you were stopped.”

Ravel’s eyes widened a fraction and he breathed a soft oath as he faced Jean’s young brother. A moment later, all visible sign that he had been taken by surprise was gone as he stood at ease in his outlandish costume. His voice was calm when he spoke.

“And you propose to do it?”

“If I must.”

“Even knowing it will mean her ruin when the gossips are done? Your concern for her is touching beyond belief.”

“Your continued pursuit will have the same effect.”

“Meaning?” Ravel inquired, his tone soft.

“Meaning you are unfit to associate with her, unfit for any society except that of the
canailles américaine
such as those who have staged this affair tonight.”

“Emile, no!” Anya cried, regaining her voice that shock and horror had taken from her.

“No, indeed,” came the corroboration as Murray moved quickly down the steps and stepped onto the edge of the dance floor. “As an American, I take exception to being called such a name.”

Emile barely glanced at him. “I will give you satisfaction when I am done with this renegade dog.”

Anger came finally to Anya’s rescue. “Don’t be idiots, all of you! There is nothing whatever that requires this.”

“I must request that you leave us, Mademoiselle Anya,” Emile said, his tone polite. “This is not a thing of women.”

“It certainly should be, since I am involved! It’s ridiculous, barbaric, and I will not stand by and see any of you killed because of it, or because of me!”

“You cannot prevent it.”

Gaspard, apparently attracted by the sound of raised voices, opened the door of the box and came down the alcove stairs to join them. His tone of voice quietly censorious as he surveyed the three younger men, he said, “What madness is this? You will disturb the ladies, to say nothing of doing Mademoiselle Anya irreparable harm.”

“Yes,” Emile said. “Let us go elsewhere.”

“What’s the point?” Murray asked. “We can settle this right here, right now. It’s a question of who will take the dueling field first.”

“Nonsense,” Gaspard said testily. “Things are not done this way.”

“I demand satisfaction,” Murray insisted.

From behind them there came a cry. Celestine stood at the doorway of the box. She stared at the tense group below her, looking from one man to the other with her hands clamped to her mouth. Abruptly her knees gave way and she fell to the floor in a swoon.

Emile made an abortive gesture toward her, but halted as Madame Rosa went to the girl’s aid. His face grave, he looked at Murray. “You may demand nothing at this point, m’sieur. That privilege belongs to Duralde.”

“That is perfectly right,” Gaspard approved.

“Spare me the punctilio,” Ravel said to Emile. “I will not fight you.”

“One assumes there is a reason?” Emile inquired.

“You are Jean’s brother.”

“An accident of birth. I am also Mademoiselle Anya’s defender. “

“It makes no difference.”

“Perhaps it will make a difference if I assume that role,” Murray said. “As her future brother-in-law I demand that right. Will you now meet me?”

“This is not possible,” Emile said hotly, turning on Murray. “If you wish to issue a challenge, you must wait your turn.”

“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” Gaspard pleaded, making imperative gestures for quiet.

It was a farce, a deadly farce. Anya closed her eyes, then opened them to look toward where Celestine had fallen. Madame Rosa was there, loosening her daughter’s bodice and the stays underneath. The eyes of the two women met and in them there was both scorn and despair.

“If he has been forcing himself upon Mademoiselle Anya again,” Murray was saying, “I will be delighted to have the opportunity of chastising the scoundrel. If it need be after you, then well enough.”

“That is, of course, if I am alive,” Ravel said, his voice mocking under the pleasantry. “On the other hand, it’s perfectly agreeable to me if you two would like to exchange shots or cross swords first, after which I will face the one left standing.”

Emile drew himself up even more stiffly than before. “This not a matter for humor, Duralde, nor will I be cheated of a meeting with you. If you will not deign to resent my insults, then I demand satisfaction for your insolent attitude toward the lady who was once my brother’s betrothed.”

“Oh, very well!” Ravel said in sudden explosive wrath. “Let us have a grand exchanging of cards and civilities before we each gather our friends to watch us try to kill each other! Tomorrow is Ash Wednesday. If we die, then we will not have to face forty meatless days. If we survive, how better to start the Lenten season than by having something worthwhile to repent?”

18