Prisoner of Desire (51 page)

But sometimes when he was not looking Anya would watch him, the way his lashes shielded his eyes, the curve of his mouth when he smiled, the negligent grace of his movements. She would watch and remember, and she would bleed inside.

There was a carriage coming. It was a phaeton buggy traveling at great speed, trailing a long plume of white dust. There was only one man in the open vehicle. Marcel stared at it hard, then turned to give the signal. It was Ravel. He was alone, driving himself. The four of them gathered their reins. Anya repeated her quiet instructions.

The buggy bowled past. They allowed it to gain a small distance, then set out after it. No attempt was made to come up with it, but they kept it well in sight. The dust fogged around them in a choking cloud, but they did not falter.

The road they were on ran from the city straight out some two or three miles to the Allard plantation. On that property, just across Bayou St. John, lay the twin oak trees a convenient pistol shot apart that were known as the dueling oaks. The meeting ground was a reasonable distance from town, quiet and private, and far enough from all habitation that there was little danger of accidental injuries. For these reasons, it was here that most affairs of honor had been settled for the past twenty years. The list of men who had injured, maimed, or killed their man on that field comprised most of the respectable male population of New Orleans. Those who had not set foot under the oaks did not count.

They were nearing the bayou. The trees grew thicker on the sides of the road here; the new leaves, opening at the tips of their branches due to the last few warm days, appeared colorless, like a wreath of fog in the gray light, while the clutter of vines and shrubby growth at their bases was still black.

It was from that dark cover that the firing came, streaking the dawn with explosions of orange and red. Terror leaped in Anya’s chest. She had expected an attack, some attempt to stop Ravel’s carriage, but not this cowardly ambush from cover. With a shout of rage that strained her throat she spurred forward. Only slightly behind her, Marcel and Samson and Elijah did the same.

The buggy did not stop, but rather picked up speed. There was no cracking whip, however. It was running away, out of control. Now from the thicket came a trio of men. They clung to their mounts like men unaccustomed to the saddle, kicking their horses into a run as they set out after the speeding buggy. They either had not seen Anya and her men, or chose to ignore them. It was a mistake.

Beside Anya, Samson fired. The weapon he carried was no pistol, but a double-barreled shotgun loaded with ounce balls. It roared like a cannon, setting up thunderous echoes. One of the horsemen ahead threw up his hands and catapulted from the saddle as if struck in the back by a huge fist. The others looked over their shoulders. One turned to shoot with the pistol be held in his fist. The bullet whipped past with a whistling sound. Elijah, yelling an angry oath, fired his own shotgun. The man with the pistol pitched from his horse and was caught by a foot in the stirrup. His horse reared and whinnied, trying to jar him loose. He jerked free and flew to land in the ditch. The third man crouched low on his horse, flinging looks of wild fright over his shoulder. At the first break in the trees, he veered from the road and plunged away over the plowed fields.

Marcel, riding with the agility of a jockey, moved ahead. He was coming closer to the buggy, closer. He flew past it, reached for the harness of the horse.

They saw him check, draw his hand back. The buggy was slowing of its own accord. By then Anya was riding even with the driver’s seat. Ravel was on one knee, bracing against the kickboard. He had lost his hat when he had thrown himself to one side to avoid the shot that had torn a hole the size of a man’s fist in the leather upholstery where he had been sitting, but he was unharmed and he had his horse back under control. As the vehicle drew to a stop, he regained his seat. Anya and the others reined in their horses.

Anya could not speak. She sent a glace to Marcel. He interpreted it in an instant from long practice. Turning to Ravel, he said, “You are all right, m’sieur?”

“As you see,” Ravel said shortly. “Tell your meddling mistress that she may now go home, before she gets hurt!”

“Ah, M’sieur Duralde,” Marcel said, his tone gently chiding, “I would not be so unwise. You must give her that message yourself.”

Ravel turned to Anya. Before he could speak, she said in clipped tones, “Save yourself the trouble. We were on our way to view a duel. I believe you are heading the same way. If our company does not offend you, we will ride with you.” He could not refuse without at least an implied insult to the men who had just rescued him. Still, he tried once more. “Don’t think me ungrateful, for I’m not. There are few who have ever done as much for me. It’s just that a duel is no place for a woman.”

She would not allow herself to be warmed by his gratitude. “You think I will faint at the sight of blood? I have been present when women were brought to bed for childbirth. By comparison, any bloodletting at this affair can only be paltry.”

“I would remind you that should anything happen to me, your danger will increase.”

“I have my guard.”

“Yours, or mine?”

“Ours. Does it matter?”

He looked at her for a long moment before a faint smile tugged at his mouth. He shook his head with slow incredulity. “I don’t suppose it does.”

“Shall we proceed, then?”

They did. In a short time they had crossed the bayou and come to the two huge old oaks. Beneath them the dry grass of autumn, mixed with the new green of winter grass, was wet with dew. Morning mists lay upon the surrounding fields, shrouding the carriages that sat waiting. Voices were muffled, ringing with a curious dullness as the men gathered in two knots at either end of the field talked among themselves. They sky was lightning almost perceptibly. A breeze, little more than a breath of air, moved the topmost leaves of the trees. A bird sang and then, when there was no answer, fell into abashed silence.

Anya and the men with her dismounted. Marcel took Ravel’s reins as he alighted from the buggy. Ravel’s seconds started toward him. Murray, with his back rather conspicuously to the road, began to turn. He caught sight of Ravel.

Anya saw the face of the man who was engaged to Celestine turn white, then red again, saw his mouth fall open, then close so tightly that his lips seemed to disappear. Murray whipped his head to stare back down the road as if expecting to see his men. Then slowly, as if just registering her presence, he turned back to stare at Anya. There was malevolence in his eyes, but she was untouched by it. Lifting her head, she smiled.

Ravel barely noticed Murray except to follow his gaze directed toward Anya. Ravel saw her smile, the bright pride and glory of it as she stared at the man she had risked so much to save before, and his footsteps faltered. Had there been any truth at all in the story she had told him in the early hours of the morning, or had it been a tale of nonsense concocted to prevent him from appearing on the field? An assassin, she had called him, which might have been the only true indication of her sentiments she had given. Why else would she speak of love, except to sway him to do what she wanted?

But what of the thugs, hired by Murray to attack him in order to even the odds? Had she routed them out of nothing more than a sense of fair play? It was not impossible; he had benefited from her essential fairness before.

Anya and Murray. She might despise the things he did and try to stop them, might have relinquished all hope of intimacy between them for the sake of Celestine, but she would not deny what she felt for him. That was her way, the way of many women who loved unwisely.

The formalities began. The seconds tossed a coin among them to see which representative of the two men would have the privilege of giving the signal to begin. To the losing seconds went the choice of which direction their man would face, though there was little difference as to smoothness of the site or angle of the sun on either end of this field, another reason for its popularity. To Ravel, as the challenged man, went not only the choice of time and place, but also of the weapon with which the contest would be decided. It was to be swords.

The blades were brought out, a matched pair of small swords in a case lined with white satin. The blades were of Toledo steel, elaborately chased, and the hilts were inlaid in Arabic designs in gold and silver. To Murray went first choice of the blades, as was customary since the swords had been provided by Ravel. He took one gingerly in his hand, hefting it for weight and balance, slicing the air with it a few times. His movements were jerky and there was a frown between his hazel eyes. There could be little doubt that he had never meant matters to go this far.

The sound of another set of wheels grating on the shell-covered road drew Anya’s attention. A closed carriage drew up a short distance away. A man stepped down and, with all the nonchalance of one out of his morning constitutional, strode toward where she stood. Perfectly dressed in the black that might be suitable should the occasion turn out to be a somber one, it was Gaspard. Anya gave him a strained smile of greeting.

“Madame Rosa sent me, so that I may tell her what happens,” Gaspard said in low tones. “I would have come for myself if she had not. I feel as responsible as she does.”

“You?”

“It seems to me that if she had to choose someone to show up Nicholls, it should have been me.”

His pride was hurt, Anya thought. For the second time in as many days, she saw him as a man instead of merely Madame Rosa’s perennial escort. “Perhaps she valued your company too much to risk even the possibility of losing it?” she suggested.

Gaspard gave her a searching look, as if fearing ridicule. After a long moment he said, “Possibly.”

Anya’s attention was drawn irresistibly by the business at hand and she turned away. The seconds were directing the principals as to where they must stand, Ravel to the right, Murray to the left. Once in place, they could not move until the signal to begin was given, on pain of being cut down with pistol or sword by the opposing seconds. The two men removed their coats and rolled their sleeves to the elbow. They took up their stances, their swords held loosely at their sides in their right hands, their left fists behind their backs. The seconds moved to their places near the duelists they represented.

The morning grew brighter. The rising sun sent its first rays above the tree-lined horizon. They danced and sparkled in the dew. They splashed the white linen shirts of the two men with yellow and gleamed with iridescent fire along the blades the duelists held in their hands as they swept them up in a salute. They caught the drift of the white signal handkerchief as it fell to the grass like a snowflake out of its proper climate.

The blades of the two men came together with a sharp, musical chiming, tapping, testing. The men circled warily, feinting and parrying as each searched out the strength of the other’s wrist, the depth of his knowledge. They shifted back and forth, leaving trails in the wet grass. Each watched for an opening, dividing his attention in these first moments between the face of the opposite man and the tip of his sword.

Slowly the tempo increased. Murray lunged and Ravel parried, giving ground, then in a sudden display of skill, pressed the younger man back. He did not pursue his advantage, but recoiled, holding his guard. Emboldened, Murray attacked, using one clever stratagem after another. Ravel defended himself with each appropriate countermeasure, sometimes deflecting a wicked ruse with a device so brilliant that it brought murmurs of admiration from the men watching.

Regardless, time and again Ravel failed to follow through. It was as if he held himself in check, keeping the full range of his skill in reserve.

Gaspard said in puzzlement, almost to himself, “What is he doing?”

Anya, watching with her heart choking her, could find no answer.

Perspiration appeared in a sheen on Murray’s forehead. The breathing of both men grew deeper. In the intense quiet, the scuffling of their footsteps in the grass was loud. Their shirts, growing limp and damp in the moist morning air, clung to their shoulders and upper arms, and their trousers were molded to the muscles of their thighs. Ravel’s hair curled over his head, falling toward his eyes, and he flung it back with a quick impatient jerk of his head.

Baffled rage crept into Murray’s face. He redoubled his efforts so that is blade darted and sang. He made a sudden lunge that Ravel parried in seconde at the last moment. The small swords scraped in a shower of orange sparks. Then in an instant Murray whirled the tip of his blade in a riposte and leaned in extension toward Ravel. There was an odd movement, almost a hesitation in the swordplay, as if Ravel began a defense and deliberately abandoned it. When Murray drew back, there was a red stain on Ravel’s sleeve.

The seconds ran forward and thrust a sword between the two men, knocking Murray’s blade aside as he tried to thrust again at Ravel, who was already dropping his guard. The two men disengaged. Ravel’s representative bowed to Murray. “In keeping with the code, sir, I must now ask you if honor is satisfied.”

There was a greenish tinge to Murray’s skin and a hunted look in his eyes as he stared at Ravel. His victory had been a fluke; he had been allowed a small bloodletting and he knew it. His role now was to declare himself satisfied and permit the contest to end. It was apparent that he would like to comply, but either he had more courage than suspected, or else he had more to fear from capitulating than he did from continuing. His answer, when it came, was bald.