Prisoner of Desire by Jennifer Blake Read Free Book Online Page A

was not covered by the thick bandage, was close-cut to prevent its thick waves from becoming curls, though it still made whorls behind his ears and on the nape of his neck, and fell onto his forehead in a short crisp curl.
    What if she had killed him? It did not seem possible that a man so forceful and virile could die so easily, and yet there were few injuries more serious than those to the head. She should not care, still as much as she might despise him, she did not want to be the cause of his death.
    Reaching under his cape, which they had wrapped around him, she placed her hand over his heart. It beat with strong regularity against her palm, giving her some reassurance. His skin was warm and supple, covered by a triangular mat of soft hair that was faintly abrasive to her fingertips. Beneath it she could feel the bands of muscle that wrapped his rib cage. Her touch lingered upon them. Involuntarily, she smoothed her palm in a slight, circular motion. The tip of her forefinger touched one of his small, flat paps. She jerked her hand back as if she had been burned, and in the dimness a flush mounted from her toes to her hairline. She felt as guilty as if she had been caught out in some act of promiscuity. It was long moments before she could convince herself that the impulse that had made her stroke him had been a simple desire to soothe that she might feel toward any injured person, longer still before she could relax again.
    The carriage jolted and bounced on its springs. Time and again Anya was forced to catch her prisoner close, to reach across his wide shoulders and clasp him in her arms to prevent him from being thrown to the floor. His long legs sprawled across the seat, one of them bent at the knee and banging against the far door, the other stretched between the seats. She was wedged into the corner, hardly able to move. She grew stiff, and her back and arms ached from trying to hold him. All feeling left her thigh on which his head lay.
    She looked across at Samson. His head was back and he was snoring none too gently. It was as if she were alone with Ravel Duralde; his life was in her hands. It was not a responsibility she wanted. She had brought it on herself, however, and could not avoid it.
    If he died, it would be her fault. She would stand condemned for murder. There would be little she could say to escape prosecution; she would be lucky if she were able to prevent Samson and Elijah from being hanged. To have the deaths of three men on her hands would be a devastating thing. Rather than live with that knowledge the rest of her life, it might be better to pay the ultimate penalty herself.
    Suppose someone had seen them. Suppose someone had recognized the carriage, or perhaps had identified Samson and Elijah. The size and strength of the two men made them memorable; she should have thought of that. Even now, the police pursuit might be forming, coming after them. They might be overtaken on the road with Ravel lying lifeless and covered in gore in her lap. The whole story would come out.
    Anya had been careless of the opinions of others, even rather wild on occasion, but she had never been involved in anything truly scandalous. If it should happen now, with Ravel Duralde, the furor would be great. This was not something that Madame Rosa could explain away to her friends as being the result of youth or grief. Her stepmother would be devastated, and Celestine too ashamed to show her face. Murray would be a laughingstock if it became known that his future sister-in-law had prevented his opponent from keeping their appointment on the field of honor.
    No. She must not think such things. Things were bad enough in all truth, but not that bad. She had her prisoner. She was on her way with him to Beau Refuge. She had only to hold him for a little more than twenty-four hours, then everything would be as it was before.
    She looked down once more at the still figure in her lap. She had never been this close to a man