Free Prisoner of Desire by Jennifer Blake Page A

floor at its outermost limits, caused by years of her uncles pacing. Even if Ravel stretched out the length of his body, he could not quite reach her. The arrangement had been planned that way. The man being held could draw near to the fire in the room’s fireplace but not reach the flames. He had access to the bed, the armoire, and the eating table, but not the lamp on the side table between the fireplace and the door. His comfort was assured, but so was his safety. And the safety also of whoever might enter to tend the fire, bring food, or see to his comfort.
    Anya was trembling, her heart beating high in her throat. Her eyes were dark blue with angry fright as she stared across the room at Ravel Duralde. He had subsided back onto the bed, supporting himself on one elbow. He looked at the trench worn into the floor and the length of the chain that he held in his hand where he had picked it up to prevent it dragging. He lifted his black gaze to Anya where she stood.
    His voice deep and even, he said, “Next time.”
    There would not be a next time, not if she could help it. Anya made that silent vow as she marched away from the cotton gin. She would not go near the man another time. He was not seriously injured; he could not be if he had an appetite. If he was not hungry, if the pretense had been no more than a ploy to gain sympathy, then it would serve him right if she did desert him. She would send the whiskey for his headache and something for him to eat, and that would be the end of it. She did not care if she never saw him again. Let Denise and Marcel tend to the man.
    He was not that easily dismissed, however. She could not stop thinking of him and the things he had said, not while she bathed the grime of the night away in a tub of hot water, not while she lay in her bed with the curtains drawn and the quilts up to her chin, trying to rest after being awake all night.
    Would he really do the things he threatened? Would he force himself into her house, her bed, if he were freed? He could not be so vindictive. Could he?
    It didn’t seem likely. If he had not been more of a gentleman than she had been led to expect, he would have cursed her roundly for the predicament in which he found himself. She had been waiting for that, but it had not come. Perhaps he had been too weak for such a violent reaction? Perhaps he was saving his strength for the vengeance he preferred, the one he had outlined?
    Even if he were, she must release him. She could not keep him locked up a moment longer than necessary. The rest of the house servants and the field hands would soon discover his whereabouts, if they didn’t know already after all the problems and extra trips back and forth to the cotton gin created by his injuries. The news would fly from plantation to plantation and all the way to New Orleans faster than a man on a good horse could ride. It was amazing, the speed and accuracy of the news on the slave grapevine. Her good name would be in jeopardy, as Ravel had said.
    She must take care for Madame Rosa’s and Celestine’s sakes. Despite Ravel’s accusations, ruining herself was not part of her plans.
    Was she burying herself as he had said?
    She could see how it might appear that way, but she enjoyed riding over the plantation, seeing after the crops and animals and the people who lived and worked on the place. She did not care for parties and idle gossip, the endless round of visits and entertainments where the same faces were seen day after day, night after night. She had no aptitude for doing Berlin work in colored wool or fashioning flowers out of wax or weaving ornaments out of hair carefully saved from her nightly brushing. She enjoyed fine clothes and the search for the items to complement them as much as the next woman, but could not bear to sit in the salon waiting for callers, looking like a dressed-up doll, or else lying at ease eating chocolate bonbons and reading novels. She liked to do things, to see things