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

before, not for this length of time. Her father had loved her dearly, but had never been a demonstrative man. Jean, the perfect gentleman, had seldom touched her for longer than it took to help her down from her mount or carriage. He had sometimes given her swift hugs for the pleasure of it, or to comfort her, but had always released her at once. She never knew if he was afraid he would hurt or frighten her, if it was himself he feared, or if possibly it was the dictates of convention that restrained him.
    It was also true that no man had kissed her as had Ravel. Jean’s caresses had been brief, almost reverential, filled with warm and boundless affection but little passion. They had involved only the quick pressure of his mouth on her cheek or lips; never had they gone deeper. She had thought them satisfactory, even exciting, until tonight.
    The relationship of one human being to another was curious. She disliked this man, even hated him; she despised everything he stood for, everything he was. Still, because both she and Ravel had been special to Jean, because Ravel had sought her out tonight, and later taken it into his head to chastise her with a kiss; because she had injured him and made him her captive, and because they shared this long midnight ride, there was a peculiar bond between them. It was disturbing to realize it, and she would have repudiated it if she could. Still she could not help wondering if Ravel would feel it when he woke, or, feeling it, if he would acknowledge it.
    The wind, steadily rising, rocked the carriage and whipped the branches of the trees overhead. It seeped in through the cracks around the doors and windows, bringing with it a taste of rain. Thunder rumbled far away, a growling, ominous sound. Onward the carriage rolled.
    At a point nearly halfway to the plantation, they stopped to rest and water the horses at a low tavern. There was no one on duty except an old black man, who drew water from a well to fill the horse trough, then brought out a glass of sour wine for Anya and mugs of weakly fermented sugarcane juice for the three men with her. To keep the tavern servant from coming too close, Samson served Anya. Even so, she kept Ravel covered with the carriage blanket. When the man went away, she tried to pour a little of the wine down Ravel, but it ran from the corner of his mouth.
    Lightning was flashing in white brilliance before they were ready to travel once more. There was no question of putting up for the night, not with their prisoner, though the elderly servant did his best to persuade them. “You going to be soaked,” he told the men on the box, shaking his grizzled head.
    They knew it, but there was no help for it. Pleading urgent business, they set out once more. The rain began to fall before they had gone three miles. It began as fat, heavy drops, changing quickly into a torrent that swept toward them in wind-chased sheets. It drummed on the carriage roof and slapped against the windows. It chased in distorting rivulets down the glass, obscuring all vision. It channeled in runnels along the road, splashing as the wheels rolled through it. Behind it came a cold wind to add to the misery. Their pace slowed to a crawl. The coachman, Solon, had traveled that road countless times since he was first set up on a carriage box as a groom, and so followed the winding road by instinct and the faint gleams of the lanterns. Waterlogged, hunched against the chill, enduring, they crept on through the night.
    The dawn was watery and overcast. Light rain still pecked relentlessly against the carriage roof, falling with heavier splat-ting sounds as the vehicle passed under the limbs of the evergreen live oaks. Suddenly from the box above, Anya heard a rich and bitter cursing. Samson woke from his second nap of the night. Her eyes wide and her heart beating heavily in her chest, she nodded to him to find out the trouble. He opened the small front glass, calling out, “What’s the