Prisoner of Desire by Jennifer Blake Read Free Book Online

she met his tongue with her own, touching and retreating, touching and twining, permitting greater, deeper access.
    Without warning, there was a muffled thud. Ravel’s head snapped forward under the blow. Anya felt the throbbing sting as her bottom lip split; then she was sent staggering backward, off-balance as his weight plunged toward her. With a strangled cry, she caught him, and an instant later the weight was removed as Samson and Elijah grasped his tall limp form, hauling him back upright.
    His head fell forward, lolling on his shoulders, and his long legs buckled at the knees. There was a creeping stain, black in the dimness, fast spreading down onto the white of his shirt collar and his cravat. His hat of gray cashmere and his ebony cane had fallen to the banquette. The wind caught the hat, bowling it out into the street.
    Anya raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “He isn’t dead? You haven’t killed him?”
    “Seeing what he was up to, we mighta hit him a bit hard,” Elijah admitted in a base rumble.
    Samson grunted agreement. “It’ll be better for the long ride.”
    “But he’s bleeding so.”
    “Scalp cuts always bleed. We’ll take his shirt off for bandages. If you’ll hold the door, mam’zelle, we’ll git him inside the carriage before somebody gits curious.”
    “Yes,” she said on a sudden shuddering sigh as she looked around with the bemusement fading from her eyes. “Yes.”
    With more speed than care, they bundled Ravel Duralde into the landau. Anya climbed in and slammed the door. The vehicle jerked into motion, so that she was thrown across her prisoner as he lay on the seat. In the brief moment she rested upon him, she felt the lean and hard masculinity of his body. Hurriedly, she pushed off of him and knelt at his side. She slipped her hand under his head to test the extent of his wounds, and the warm wet feel of the blood in his hair sent sick remorse flooding through her.
    She had been criminally overconfident. She should have known it would be no easy thing to kidnap a man and hold him prisoner. Her plan had been simple. She would distract Ravel for an instant, allowing Samson and Elijah to stun him with a blow from behind. They would bind his hands and feet if need be, put him in the carriage, and the deed would be done.
    It had worked. And yet there was little pleasure for Anya in the fact. As they set out for what looked to be a nightmare journey to Beau Refuge, Anya could only castigate herself for her failure to take into consideration the things that could go wrong.
    Samson, riding inside with Anya while Elijah sat on top with the driver, helped her strip the cape and frock coat from Ravel. With fingers that had an annoying tendency to tremble, Anya removed his cravat and slipped free the studs of his shirt, then held his inert figure to her in the rocking vehicle while Samson dragged his shirt down his arms. By the time they had torn the garment into bandaging, Ravel’s blood had stained not only the leather seats, but her cloak and the front of her Indian costume. The wounds were bleeding so copiously that she had ordered the carriage stopped within a block or two in order for Elijah to light the carriage lanterns once more, as their bright glow was needed in order to see to dress them. Finally, with Ravel Duralde’s head in her lap to cushion his injuries, they drove on into the night.
    He lay so still and lifeless; his weight was so heavily inert upon her thighs. Beneath the bronze of his skin his face was pale. It was a strong face, she discovered, with a broad forehead, thick, dark brows, and high cheekbones that sloped into lean cheeks. His eyes, set deep in their sockets, were thickly lashed. His mouth was firm, with sensual curves, chiseled edges, and small, sickle-shaped smile lines at the corners that served to soften the severity of his features. His chin was square, and smoothly shaven, though with a faint blue-black shadow under the skin. His hair, where it