Celine (8 page)

“It's all right,” Justin soothed. “You're fine, Celine.” He kept talking to her, rocking her in his arms as the storm hit with a fury. Her cries melted into pitiful low moans.

The tempest howled, growing fiercer with the journey. With each fire bolt that illuminated the blackness, Celine disintegrated a little further. The band around Trevor's chest cinched tighter at every roar of thunder.

As soon as they reached the manor, he intercepted his father, swooping Celine up in his arms and dashing for the door Marie held open.

“I've been waiting for her. Quick, get her to her quarters.”

Trevor rushed a whimpering Celine up the stairs, taking them two at a time. As he laid her gently on the bed, he wrenched the wet cape from her shoulders.

Marie rudely cast Trevor aside. “Now git!” she ordered, before slamming the door in his face.

“What the hell was that about?” Trevor demanded as his father mounted the stairs.

Justin dismissed the others to their rooms before addressing Trevor. Sparing no detail, he told his son how a stable hand had found Celine in the storm, how if it weren't for Old Jim, she would not be alive. “All of Celine's blood relatives had been deceased for some time, and after that terrible day, she was left with no one, so I took her in.”

Speechless, a shudder ran through Trevor.

“We never did find her father-in-law, but Old Jim dug him a grave next to Celine's husband anyway. He mounded the earth back on top of the empty pit, so she would think he was in there.”

Justin caught his breath, and then continued. “He buried the infant, as well.”

A jolt spiked through Trevor. “Infant?”

Justin nodded. “I think that was the hardest part. Her child wasn't due for another three months, but she gave birth to the babe while she lay trapped under the wagon. Old Jim lifted that child from Celine's bloody body, wrapped it in a blanket, and buried it alongside its father. The physician told us she would never bear another child, her injuries were so severe.”

Nausea bit at Trevor's gut. He ran a trembling hand through his wet hair, shoving the curls away from his damp forehead. “Good God, I had no idea. You told me she was a widow. I . . . I simply assumed—”

“Assumed what, Trevor? That she was like your Mrs. Beaudrée, or any of the other questionable women you frequent? Marrying some old man for his money and helping him to a premature grave so she can romp with the likes of you? Is that what you thought? Celine isn't made of such thin fabric. And don't you for one second assume otherwise.”

His father stood taller, drew in an audible breath, and shot Trevor a scowl that could have frozen the Mississippi. Christ. Trevor bit back a sharp retort. Not since his mother's death, when he'd blamed his father for not calling in a physician soon enough, had he been the recipient of such animosity. Blast it all, he'd only been fifteen at the time. When would the past stop haunting them? He stood for a long moment, not knowing what to do with the raw emotion fogging his brain. All he knew was he wanted to go to Celine.

Marie opened the door and Trevor stalked in, his father right behind. A fist hit Trevor's gut at the sight of Celine.

She lay silent and limp beneath the covers, as pale as the nightgown she wore. Her eyes were closed in apparent slumber.

“I got a good dose of laudanum in her, but looks like this storm has a mind to carry on all night by the sound of it. She'll be needin' someone, so I'd best spend the night with her. No tellin' when that stuff wears off a person when they're so upset.”

She regarded the sleeping figure. “Tch, tch. Poor thing. What she's been through.”

Trevor couldn't bear the thought of leaving her. “You go along, Marie. I'll watch over her.”

Marie's jaw dropped. Wide-eyed, she looked at Trevor and then at Justin. She scowled and opened her mouth to speak.

Trevor raised a hand to stop her before she got the words out. “
Mon Dieu,
woman. What do you take me for?”

His foul temper caused even Marie to back away.

“Trevor's right,” Justin broke in, heaving a tired sigh. “Actually, with his size and strength, he's probably the best one to handle her if she becomes hysterical. Remember how it took both of us at one time? Should that happen, you'd only have to call him in anyway, since his bedchamber is closest. Besides, we have a house full of guests you'll need to be tending to come morning and Trevor can sleep the day away.”

Marie shook her head in disapproval, but went around pulling the drapes and securing doors. “It'd be best to keep the lightnin' out as much as you can. And lock the doors so they don't rattle and shake. That gives her such a fright.” She nodded to the chair by the fireplace. “I usually pull that chair right up beside the bed, pat her hand when needed.”

She surveyed the men, giving in to them. “Lordy, but you two had better get out of those wet clothes before you catch your deaths. I'll bring your robe, Mischie Trevor.” She walked off, shaking her head and muttering.

“Sure talks a lot when she's nervous, doesn't she, Father?”

Justin smiled tiredly at Trevor's attempt to bridge the gap between them. He studied Trevor thoughtfully before bidding him good night.

Perhaps, Trevor thought, the hollow relationship they'd had since his mother's death was about to change.

By the time Marie returned, carrying a thick towel and robe, Trevor had a fire blazing. He was stripped to his trousers, his hands held over the flames when she walked in. She threw the robe and towels onto the chair and hurried to Celine's side, as if to shield her from the sight of him.

“Don't worry, she's asleep.” Trevor spoke in a hushed, annoyed voice as he grabbed the towel and dried his hair and arms. “Now turn around while I disrobe, or get out.”

Marie put her back to him. “I near raised you, Trevor. It ain't like I never seen you nekkid.”

A small smile passed over his lips. He stepped out of his sodden trousers and reached for his robe. “I never thanked you for all those nights you waited up for me and made excuses regarding my whereabouts.”

When she didn't deign to reply, he said, “You can leave and take this wet heap with you.”

She walked over to the clothing on the floor, wrapped everything in the towel, and started for the door.

“Why did you?”

She stopped and turned to face him. “Why did I what?”

“What made you risk standing by me back then? I think I was quite mad, you know—the effects of an angry young man filled with liquor.”

The scowl left her face and her words softened. “That and the mating call.”

“I never thanked you for saving my skin on several occasions.”

“Savin' your skin while I risked my own hide? I'll have you know my covering for you wasn't because of all the liquor you were pickling your liver with, or the loose women you were seducing like a damned jack rabbit.” She stepped closer. “So don't go thanking me, 'cause I didn't do nuthin' for you. Whatever I did was for your father's sake.”

“Father?”

“Don't you remember the night Thérèse Dubois's husband lit up the front yard with his torch lookin' for you? I always feared after that night that a time would come when your papa would wake up to a passel of torches, and it would be more than a bush being put to flame. That's why I fibbed the skin right off my teeth every time the sheriff showed up.”

She glanced over Trevor's shoulder at Celine and then back to him. “Things are mighty peaceful around here. Maybe you'd best get back to your business in N'awlins. I don't see nuthin' but trouble for Miss Celine if'n you stay here.”

“Maybe I've changed,” he said.

“And maybe you haven't.”

Trevor glanced to where Celine lay. A desire to protect her crept through his bones. But this wasn't just about protecting her. He was growing damn tired of carousing. “What if I change whatever needs changing?”

Marie paused, holding the door's handle. “What if you can't?”

When the door closed, Trevor lifted the chair over to the side of the bed and settled in. He studied Celine while she slept. He wondered what it was about her that made him want her so much. Desire flooded through him at the very thought. He picked up her limp hand and pressed a kiss on the back. He caught the scent of her skin before tucking the covers around her.

He leaned back in the chair. His desire for her went beyond the physical. How had she gotten under his skin so quickly? What was it about her that made him hunger so, that filled him with an aching need that wouldn't dissipate? Maybe it was nothing more than his growing restlessness of late. Hell, he didn't know.

A shutter banged in the wind and Celine moaned.

“Everything's all right,” he murmured. “I'm here.” He hoped the damn storm was almost over, and they weren't merely in the eye of a hurricane running up from New Orleans.

He recalled the time he'd broken his leg as a child. He'd been given laudanum to help him through the worst of it. Frightened and disoriented, he'd wanted someone to hold him, to comfort him in his pain and fear. But even though his fogged brain could think, and his eyes could see, his thick tongue refused to move in his mouth, so he lay there, staring up at his mother, suffering in mute terror. He wondered if Celine wasn't experiencing the same thing.

He slipped his hand under the covers and, finding hers again, gave it a small squeeze. The weak pressure he felt in return gave him the answer. His heart pumped hard as concern grew into quiet alarm. Moving atop the covers next to her, he stroked her hair, combed through the mass with his fingers, all the while whispering soft, gentle words of comfort.

The edges of the shutters lit up, followed by a crack of thunder that shook the rafters. Christ, they'd been in a lull after all. The worst of the storm was most likely moving overhead.

A shutter tore loose and hammered against the house. A thunderbolt split the air again. Celine's eyes flew wide in terror, focusing on nothing.

“There, there, Celine. It's all right.” Trevor leaned over her, squeezed her hand in his.

She shivered and her teeth chattered.

“Hush.” He tucked the covers up under her chin and ran his hand across her forehead in soothing strokes.

A low moan escaped her lips.

“Celine, listen to me. You're all right. Everything's fine now. You're safe.”

Panic bit at his gut.
Mon Dieu.
Maybe she would have been better off with Marie. At least the maid would know what the hell to do now.

Celine's body curled up like a child's, and she began to moan and thrash about. He didn't know what else to do, so he crawled under the covers, shushing and nurturing as he went.

Slowly, gently, he straightened her quivering body, rolled her onto her side, and nestled her against him. He buried her head in his chest and rocked her.

She shook and trembled. Her teeth chattered, but her skin was almost hot to the touch. Trevor knew from experience she was gripped by a fear beyond rational thought.

“It's all right,
ma petite
. I'm taking care of you.” He stroked her hair and placed soft, tender kisses on her eyelids. “
Mon amour, mon amour,
you are safe.”

She managed enough movement to slip her arms under his, wrapped them tightly around his back as though she couldn't get close enough, nearly bringing him atop her. He lay firm but gently against her, the quaking in her body lessening by the sheer force of him.

 

 

Trevor? Was that Trevor? No, it must be a hazy dream. Yet, a sense of great comfort settled over her. The wind whispered her name as it blew across her eyelids.

“
Mon amour, mon amour,
you are safe with me.”

In her foggy haze, clouds gathered together, descended upon her, body and soul. Warm, safe, cotton clouds. Gently, they pressed her down, a warm blanket of protection. She dreamed the storm was Trevor enfolding her, protecting her, loving her. And she ceased to be frightened, for now it was a gentle storm, a loving storm, a nurturing storm.

The storm gentled further and pressed closer. She relaxed against it, let the warmth envelop her, let the tenderness sweep her into its depths until she was completely surrounded, possessed entirely.

In the far reaches of her mind, she heard herself moan as she tried to receive more of the storm's warmth, wanting it to enter her, to become a part of her.

The wind continued to whisper her name, and slowly, she pulled her head back, searching.

Lightning struck her mouth. Soft and cool and sweet, it pulsated through her, filled her with a velvet glow. She felt supremely safe, warm and loved.

Thunder roared through the night like a wild bear. And the wind—like a hungry wolf—howled and beat its claws against the shutters.

She whimpered and he held her closer.

Was she dreaming?

Had she heard Trevor murmur to her? Was he actually holding her tightly to him—so safe?

The wind howled louder and beat against the walls.

His whispers soothed, his arms held.

This could only be a dream. But let the reverie continue, for she felt so safe and warm.

And in her dream she was snuggled against Trevor. Her quaking body ceased its tremors. She pulled him closer, sought his comfort.

Did he just say he ached for her? That he ached to taste her sweetness, but not now, not tonight?

Somewhere in the recesses of her fogged brain, she again questioned if she was only dreaming.