Prisoner of Desire (53 page)

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“For what?”

His tone was brusque. If there were not such an interested audience around them, if he did not feel quite so covered with gore, he would snatch her in his arms and taste her soft lips before he forced her to explain why now, after all this time, she should care whether he lived or died.

“For everything. For the words spoken in grief and malice seven years ago. For interfering between you and Murray. For whatever it was I did that made you let Murray carve you like a choice piece of—”

“Even,” he interrupted, “if I am not?”

“Even so.”

He stared at her a moment, his dark eyes searching her face. “There is a matter unsettled between us, one made even more imperative after this morning. A matter of marriage.”

Pain burgeoned inside Anya, but she kept her voice steady, and even managed a faint smile as she repeated the answer he had given her so short a time ago. “Such a sacrifice. There is no need, not for my sake.”

“I have no use for sacrifices.”

“I am to believe that, after what I saw here? No, we will forget it, if you please. We have hurt each other enough; there is nothing that requires us to go on doing it. I care not at all what society thinks, nor do you. That being so, we are free to go back to the way we were. Shall we agree on a new pact? When we meet it will be as friends, polite, distant friends who bow and smile but do not meddle in each other’s lives.”

“I would rather,” he said, his tone grinding, “be your enemy. “

It was a moment before she could speak. To cover her distress, she turned swiftly from him and picked up the hem of her leather skirt. Over her shoulder she said, “As you wish.”

Ravel stood with his muscles hard cramped in the effort to prevent himself from reaching out and snatching her back. Let her go. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? She had made that clear.

Celestine was not inconsolable. In fact, her spirits improved and her grief receded in direct proportion to the speed of Emile’s recovery. When she was coherent, she explained to Anya that it had not been Ravel she had called a bloodstained butcher at all, but Murray. She had discovered on Mardi Gras night, as Emile had thrown down his challenge to both Ravel and Murray, that it was the gallant Frenchman she loved. It was that sudden knowledge and the predicament of having two men in her life about to meet each other on the field of honor that had rendered her senseless.

Then as she lay abed at the townhouse, Emile had been brought in with his skull cracked. Madame Rosa had, reluctantly, told her of the perfidy of her fiancé. Celestine had realized what a monster he was and how he had used her. She had been torn between the desire to remain at Emile’s side and the need to know if she was to be released from so horrible a man, as well as a frighteningly urgent need to see justice meted out to him for what he had done to both Anya and Emile — and herself. She had begged a place in Gaspard’s carriage.

Then had come that terrible duel. It had appeared that Ravel was allowing himself to be slaughtered for some strange reason having to do with men’s stupid sense of honor. She had feared that Murray would finally kill him and be free to finish what he had begun with Emile, to persecute and endanger Anya, even to force her herself to marry him as she had pledged. She had gone a little mad.

Now it was over and they could be easy again. Emile was mending nicely and seemed to enjoy having her sit with him, read to him. Yesterday he had caught her hand and carried it to his lips, calling her his lovely angel. Murray had never called her an angel.

Madame Rosa was vindicated in her distrust of Murray. She did not, however, make the mistake of denouncing him to her friends and enjoying her triumph, which would of course have called for explanations that could only besmirch her daughter with the same filth that had covered him. With dignity and reserve, she expressed her regret over the death of the young man on the field of honor. Her daughter, she said, had been prostrate, but was trying to rise above her sorrow by making herself useful in the sickroom. She was always well chaperoned, naturally. She, Madame Rosa, would be sorry to see the Girod boy leave her house when his injury permitted him to be moved. He was so very agreeable as a patient, and was having such a salutary effect upon Celestine, not only in overcoming her grief but in helping her become more mature and responsible. It was most comical to watch her persuade him to take his medicine and rest as the doctor ordered.

With Celestine more or less in seclusion and Anya refusing all invitations, in part to save her stepmother embarrassment but primarily out of a disinclination for frivolous amusement, it fell to Gaspard to escort Madame Rosa to the few entertainments available during the Lenten season. They seemed, perhaps, a little more overtly affectionate, a little more satisfied in each other’s company, but of the prospect of a closer relationship there was not a sign. There was nothing, apparently, to keep them from going on as they were indefinitely.

It was fortunate, Madame Rosa said after a few outings, that the duel and Anya’s part in it had occurred on Ash Wednesday, since the balls and parties of the winter season were at an end, and many people had left town. There was talk; it would have been useless to expect there to be none, but it was not nearly so rabid as it might have been earlier. Most people seemed to agree that Anya was eccentric and headstrong, if not immoral, and that it was unlikely she would ever find a man who could endure her wild ways. There was also much interest in the fact that Ravel Duralde, the other party in the stories circulating, had dropped out of sight. There were some who swore that he had left the country, while others, who claimed to have it from eye-witnesses of the duel, said that he was so mutilated his health was impaired and he was recuperating at some Northern spa. Still another story placed him in the country where, it was whispered, he had every intention of becoming a recluse like his father.

Anya listened to the stories and the gossip concerning Ravel and herself that were brought by Madame Rosa, but they hardly touched her. It was as if they concerned other people. She heard Celestine speaking volubly and without end of how she felt about Emile and Murray, and she was glad that her half-sister was not as devastated as she had feared, was glad that she appeared to be in reach of happiness, but wished only that she would talk about something else, anything else. In a vague way, she was relieved that Madame Rosa’s social round seemed little affected by what she had done, that life was going to go on just the same. Still, her sole impulse of any strength was to have done with the last of the obligations that tied her to New Orleans and to get away, away from the mess she had made of things, away from her longing for Ravel Duralde, away from her barely expunged guilt over Celestine, away from her concern for Madame Rosa. Away, she just wanted to get away.

Beau Refuge, beautiful place of refuge. It was more than just a name, it was an ideal. Anya longed for it, for its quiet that soothed her and its routine that absorbed and rejuvenated her; for its peace that would allow her the time to remember, for its memories.

For the moment, she tried not to think of Ravel. She did try. But it was difficult when every hour brought some reminder, when nearly everything that was said had some reference to him, or when the way those around her avoided mention of his name made it plain he was on their minds. Even the single visitor announced for her in the week that followed the duel was a piercing reminder.

She entered the salon to find Madame Castillo standing in the center of the room. Ravel’s mother was beautifully dressed in a walking costume of gray velvet and with a small hat of the same material tipped forward on her dark curls. Her face was haggard, however, and there were new lines of worry in her face. Anya went forward with perfect politeness to offer her hand though there was a gripping in her stomach and she could feel the blankness of her own features.

Madame Castillo spoke first. “I hope you don’t mind that I have come, but I had to see you.”

“Certainly. Please sit down. May I offer you refreshment, a glass of
eau sucre
or perhaps a little wine and a few cakes?” The amenities served to give her time to recover her poise.

“Thank you, no.” The older woman sank down upon the settee. She looked for a moment at her gloved hands clenched into fists on her knees, then raised her head to meet Anya’s gaze. “It’s about Ravel. Have you seen him?”

“I assume you mean since the duel. No. No, I haven’t.”

Madame Castillo closed her eyes. “I was afraid of it.”

“He — he is gone?” It was impossible not to ask.

“Since the day after that morning when they brought him home. I would not have you think me an alarmist, but once before he left like this. I did not see him again for four years.”

Once before, when Jean was killed. Anya made a helpless gesture. “I understand, but I have no idea where he may be.”

“I thought he might have given you some idea of his destination, might have at least communicated with you.”

“No.” Her voice was flat.

“Forgive me, but I find it difficult to comprehend. My son has never been irresponsible. Even when he was younger, seven years ago, he left behind a letter for me. He is most considerate of those he loves, so much so that I now find it beyond belief that he would not let me, or you, know where he was going!”

The words reverberated in Anya’s mind so that it was a moment before she could grasp them. “Those he loves? He has no love for me.”

“Don’t be foolish.” Madame Castillo’s tone was sharp. “He has loved you for years, since you were his best friend’s betrothed. Why else would the things you said to him the night Jean was killed have such power to destroy him?”

There was a swelling, choking feeling inside Anya’s chest and she could hear her own heartbeat fluttering in her ears. She whispered, “It can’t be true.”

“I assure you it can. It is.”

“But why didn’t he tell me?”

“Perhaps he had some reason to think it wouldn’t matter. But it does, doesn’t it?”

The dazed look Anya gave her was answer enough. “If you had not come, I might never have known.”

“Now are you certain he said nothing, gave no hint of where he might be going, when last you saw him?”

Anya shook her head, looking down at her hands.

Madame Castillo frowned. “It’s so perplexing. I heard him speaking to his valet the night before he left. It seemed odd at the time, though I was not really attending. I can’t think it was important or see how it might pertain at all to his whereabouts, but I could swear he asked for a chess set — and a chain.”

Slowly Anya lifted her gaze to meet that of the other woman. A shiver ran along her nerves and she suppressed it. A chess set? A chain? Was it possible? No, it couldn’t be. He would not go to Beau Refuge, not for love. No, and not even for revenge; he was not that kind of man. Was he?

I would rather be your enemy!

“What is it,
chère?”

Anya moistened her lips. “Possibly nothing. But — it may be I can find Ravel.”

It had been midafternoon when Madame Castillo made her visit. The early darkness of February was falling by the time Anya could have her things packed, make her arrangements to leave town, and say her adieux to Madame Rosa, Celestine, and Emile. No one tried to dissuade her. They had become so used to her hurried departures and unexpected arrivals that it caused scarcely a ripple. In any case, she had sighed often enough for Beau Refuge in the past few days that they had been in almost hourly expectation of her setting out for the plantation.

The good weather they had enjoyed through Mardi Gras and beyond had not held. There was a chill wind blowing that crept into the carriage. It carried in its breath a presage of rain, though for the moment the moon shed enough light to see the road. Anya huddled under a fur rug against the damp cold and prayed that the rain would not come until morning. By then she would have reached her home. By then she would know if Ravel was there. By then she would have discovered, once and for all, what, if anything, he felt for her.

He might have loved her once; that would explain much. It did not mean, however, that he loved her still. It would be amazing if he did, after everything she had done to him, all the trouble she had caused. Her motives had been of the best, but he could hardly be blamed for failing to believe it.

She thought of him as he had been when they played chess together, or when she had bartered with him for a hairpin, the way he had smiled, the teasing, caressing light in his eyes. Dissembling devil. He had only pretended to be her prisoner. But how handsome he had been, and what pleasure she had taken in the feeling that he could not escape her. Only a part of what she felt, if she were truthful, had been the satisfaction of vengeance. She had quite enjoyed thinking that he was in her power, even while she had feared what he would do if released. Human beings were strange creatures.

She would not feel that same way now in the same circumstances. Or would she? If the means presented itself and she knew it would end this uncertainty, she might be tempted to confine him once more. Admitting it, she was not quite certain what kind of woman that made her, except an honest one.

The miles jolted by. Anya sat staring into the dark, thinking and also trying not to think in an endless round. Now and then a shiver rippled along her nerves. She was not sure whether the cause was cold or excitement, dread or anticipation.