Anya said in sharp concern.
“Yes, mam’zelle,” Elijah and Samson said in unison, though the two men looked at each other in what appeared to be relief at the sound of life from their burden.
With all the gentleness of nursemaids handling a newborn, they carried the tall gentleman up the stairs to the small landing fronting the doorway of the room. Anya hung the key in its old hiding place, behind a lantern on a hook, then pushed open the door with its small grilled window and stepped before them into the room. She moved to the bed and fluffed the cotton mattress that had been folded toward the foot for airing, pulling it back down flat on the bed ropes.
There was a thick gray light filtering through the three high windows in the wall above the bed, but it was not bright enough to allow them to see well. As Samson and Elijah placed Ravel on the mattress, Anya stepped over to the lamp on the side table beside the fireplace, shook it to see how much oil it had in it, then searched out a box of phosphorus matches from the tables drawer. It took the third try to find one that was not too damp to strike, but finally the lamp was burning with a bright yellow flame. She picked it up, bringing it to the bed, where she stood staring down at the man who was her prisoner.
His coat had been discarded as being too soaked with blood to be useful, and his shirt had gone to make the rough bandage wrapped around his head. The evening cape around his shoulders had fallen aside, leaving him naked to the waist. The lamplight cast a golden sheen across his harsh features, softening their lines, and gave the sculptured planes of his chest the look of having been cast in bronze.
She had expected to feel some triumph at this moment. Instead, she was aware only of being tired and on edge and defensive. She was also, as she looked at Ravel Duralde, assailed by a feeling that was very like remorse. Lying unconscious, completely still, the man exuded such strength and masculine force that it seemed regrettable that he should be brought low by what was admittedly a base attack.
She dismissed that instant of introspection with an impatient shake of her head. It could not be helped. He had brought it upon himself. Over her shoulder, she said, “Elijah, would you please build a fire? And then go to the house and help Denise and her son bring quilts and sheets to make the bed and water to be heated. Samson, I think any chance of escape is unlikely at the moment, still it might be wise if the leg shackle was put on him.”
“Very wise, mam’zelle,” the man answered, and reached for the leg ring and its chain that was coiled on the floor.
She went on. “After that, I expect it would be as well if the pair of you rested a little while, then took mounts from the stable and started back to New Orleans. Most men in this situation would feel more than a little vindictive toward those who laid hands on them. M’sieur Duralde may not be one of them, but I would rather not take that chance.”
“What of you, mam’zelle? If he would be angry with us, he will be much more than that with you.”
“I’m a woman; he is a gentleman. What can he do?”
Samson only stared at her with his dark gaze steady in his broad face.
Anya looked away over the man’s shoulder, aware of the rise of color to her cheekbones. “I’ll keep out of his reach once he wakes, you can be sure of that. But you must see that I can’t leave until he regains his senses? I’m responsible. If he doesn’t rouse by midmorning, I may have to send for a doctor.”
“How can you do that?”
She made a brief gesture with one hand. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell him that we found M’sieur Duralde on the side of the road, or that he was inspecting the gin machinery and fell. I’ll think of something.”
“And when Duralde comes to himself?”
“Then I will leave him alone, only sending someone, probably Denise’s son Marcel, to release him toward noon tomorrow,
“Yes, mam’zelle,” Elijah and Samson said in unison, though the two men looked at each other in what appeared to be relief at the sound of life from their burden.
With all the gentleness of nursemaids handling a newborn, they carried the tall gentleman up the stairs to the small landing fronting the doorway of the room. Anya hung the key in its old hiding place, behind a lantern on a hook, then pushed open the door with its small grilled window and stepped before them into the room. She moved to the bed and fluffed the cotton mattress that had been folded toward the foot for airing, pulling it back down flat on the bed ropes.
There was a thick gray light filtering through the three high windows in the wall above the bed, but it was not bright enough to allow them to see well. As Samson and Elijah placed Ravel on the mattress, Anya stepped over to the lamp on the side table beside the fireplace, shook it to see how much oil it had in it, then searched out a box of phosphorus matches from the tables drawer. It took the third try to find one that was not too damp to strike, but finally the lamp was burning with a bright yellow flame. She picked it up, bringing it to the bed, where she stood staring down at the man who was her prisoner.
His coat had been discarded as being too soaked with blood to be useful, and his shirt had gone to make the rough bandage wrapped around his head. The evening cape around his shoulders had fallen aside, leaving him naked to the waist. The lamplight cast a golden sheen across his harsh features, softening their lines, and gave the sculptured planes of his chest the look of having been cast in bronze.
She had expected to feel some triumph at this moment. Instead, she was aware only of being tired and on edge and defensive. She was also, as she looked at Ravel Duralde, assailed by a feeling that was very like remorse. Lying unconscious, completely still, the man exuded such strength and masculine force that it seemed regrettable that he should be brought low by what was admittedly a base attack.
She dismissed that instant of introspection with an impatient shake of her head. It could not be helped. He had brought it upon himself. Over her shoulder, she said, “Elijah, would you please build a fire? And then go to the house and help Denise and her son bring quilts and sheets to make the bed and water to be heated. Samson, I think any chance of escape is unlikely at the moment, still it might be wise if the leg shackle was put on him.”
“Very wise, mam’zelle,” the man answered, and reached for the leg ring and its chain that was coiled on the floor.
She went on. “After that, I expect it would be as well if the pair of you rested a little while, then took mounts from the stable and started back to New Orleans. Most men in this situation would feel more than a little vindictive toward those who laid hands on them. M’sieur Duralde may not be one of them, but I would rather not take that chance.”
“What of you, mam’zelle? If he would be angry with us, he will be much more than that with you.”
“I’m a woman; he is a gentleman. What can he do?”
Samson only stared at her with his dark gaze steady in his broad face.
Anya looked away over the man’s shoulder, aware of the rise of color to her cheekbones. “I’ll keep out of his reach once he wakes, you can be sure of that. But you must see that I can’t leave until he regains his senses? I’m responsible. If he doesn’t rouse by midmorning, I may have to send for a doctor.”
“How can you do that?”
She made a brief gesture with one hand. “I don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell him that we found M’sieur Duralde on the side of the road, or that he was inspecting the gin machinery and fell. I’ll think of something.”
“And when Duralde comes to himself?”
“Then I will leave him alone, only sending someone, probably Denise’s son Marcel, to release him toward noon tomorrow,
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