Only With Your Love (13 page)

He froze as he heard the click of a primed revolver and felt the press of cold metal against his temple. A steady voice cut through the silence. “Let go of her, you little bastard.
Now.
”

“Jesus,” Risk muttered. His hands eased away from Celia’s waist and mouth. He held his arms well out from his sides.

Celia stumbled away, sobbing in anguish and relief. She whirled around to see Maximilien holding a gun to Risk’s head.

The young pirate looked just as he had four months ago, a scarf knotted around his head, a black patch covering his damaged eye. Breeches, boots, and a tattered shirt covered his lean form. Celia’s eyes widened as she saw that one side of his body was soaked with blood.
Bon Dieu,
had he been wounded?

“Old Vallerand himself?” Risk inquired gingerly.

Max ignored the question, his gaze flickering to Celia. “Did he hurt you,
petite bru?
”

She shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat had closed up permanently.

“All right,” Max said calmly. “Go into the main house.” When he saw her hesitate, he spoke more firmly. “Go on.”

Step by step she edged toward the house.

“Before ye do anything,” Risk said to Max, “ye might want to hear me out.”

“If I don’t kill you for trespassing on my land, I most certainly will for assaulting my daughter-in-law.”

“It wasn’t an
assault,
I was—”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A bloody fool, I am,” Risk muttered, and winced as the gun prodded him lightly. “Th’ name’s Jack Risk.”

“Why are you here?”

“I come about Cap’n Griffin,” came the sullen reply.

Celia leaned against the outside wall of the house. The fear began to lessen its clutch on her throat, and she began to breathe easier. She watched intently as Maximilien allowed Risk to turn and face him.

“…now I wish I’d dumped him in the stinkin’ bayou and got it over quick,” Risk was saying moodily, his posture relaxing into a comfortable slouch. “He’s all shot up, looks like a sieve. Won’t last long, but I thought ye could—”

“Where is he?” Max asked harshly.

Risk gestured toward the water. “Down there in th’ pirogue.”

“Anyone else there?”

“Nay, not a soul. I swear it on me mother’s grave.”

The two men started down the incline where the pirogue was moored, and Celia stared after them with wide eyes. Justin was wounded, perhaps dying. Had there been a confrontation with Legare? She wiped her slick palms on her dress and followed Max and Risk, compelled by curiosity and some emotion she dared not name. A twig snapped underneath the toe of her slipper, and Max glanced over his shoulder. Their gazes met, and she paused uncertainly. To her relief, he did not tell her to go back, only turned and continued down to the water’s edge. The men reached the pirogue and stood over it. Max’s shoulders tensed visibly.

Celia crept to the spot beside Max and caught her breath. Justin was there, his body covered in bloodstained clothes and bandages. He was unconscious, sprawled in an ungainly heap in the center of the tiny boat. His face was turned to the side, but she could see the bristly mass of his beard. One long hand rested palm-up on the wet planking, his fingers curled slightly. It was odd to see him, a man of such vitality and power, reduced to this helpless state. She looked up at Max, who had not said a word. His face could have been carved from marble.

“I couldn’t carry him far,” Risk commented. “Went through hell just to load him in th’ pirogue.”

Max placed the pistol in Celia’s hand, arranging her fingers around it with care. “The trigger is delicate,” he said gruffly.

She nodded, blanching as she remembered the last time she had held a gun.

Max threw Risk a sideways glance. “You’re coming up to the house with us, Mr. Risk. I want to speak with you privately.”

Risk began to protest. “Nay, I’ve done what I set out to do. There’s a ship and crew awaitin’ my return. Take yer son an’ do what ye can for him. I can’t keep him safe anymore—can’t keep me own head above water! There’s danger for me here, an’ everywh—”

“I’m not offering you a choice.”

Risk stared at the pistol, evidently unnerved by Celia’s unsteady grip on it. “Darlin’, there’s no need to point that at me—”

“
Taisez-vous,
” Max said curtly, silencing him.

Celia wondered if Justin was still alive. The heap in the boat was ominously still. Max waded into the water until it covered his ankles. He bent
over the pirogue and hefted the slack body up and over his broad shoulder, exhaling with the effort. Laboriously he made his way toward the house, while Celia and Risk followed.

Celia kept the gun pointed at Risk as they walked. The sight of him, not to mention Justin, had brought back all the dark memories of Crow’s Island. There was no reason for her to trust Risk any more now than she had then. Her mind was swarming with questions. “Was it Legare?” she asked in a low voice.

Risk answered readily. “Aye, Legare’s been at us like a dog after a rat. His men are everywhere. No place for us to cool our heels. Legare attacked the
Vagabond
in the Gulf—near two weeks ago, it was. Griffin was caught in a cannon explosion, and he…was in a bad way. Me, Aug, and a couple of the others sneaked him to a place where he could lay low and heal up, a bottomland swamp where—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be damned if Legare didn’t root us out. He came along the overland route and launched a surprise attack.” He shook his head, his tone laced with pride. “Our men fought like sons-of-bitches. Legare had to retreat.” His boyish enthusiasm drained away as he added, “Course, by the time we got Griffin out of there, there warn’t much left of him.”

“You endangered yourself by bringing him here,” Celia said quietly. “Why did you not abandon him and see to your own safety?”

“
Abandon
him?” Risk asked, sounding insulted. “Ye’d ask that even after what he done for ye! I’d go to hell for Griffin—gave me eye for him, I did, and he’d do the same for me or any jack-tar on his crew.”

“What he did for me,” Celia repeated bitterly.
Justin Vallerand…Captain Griffin…whoever he was…was a cruel, selfish brute. Were he not wounded so badly, she would have been tempted to inflict further damage on him!

They entered the house through the French doors in one of the back rooms, and Lysette flew to meet them. Noeline appeared close behind. Uncomprehendingly Lysette stared at the small parade, her eyes lingering on the ungainly load her husband carried. “Max—”

“Upstairs,” her husband said, nearly out of breath. He brought his son to the bedroom Justin had occupied as a boy, pausing as Lysette scurried to light the lamps. The room was spartanly furnished with simple mahogany pieces, including a high-post bed draped with scarlet damask. Hastily Lysette stripped back the flat, heavy counterpane, and Max lowered the wounded man onto the white linen sheets.

For a moment there were no words spoken as Lysette and Noeline bustled around the room. The housekeeper piled towels and medical supplies on the bedside table. Lysette snatched up a pair of scissors and began cutting away the tattered clothes and filthy bandages. Silently Celia handed the pistol back to Max. She moved to the side of the room, her fingers clenching together as she saw the extent of Justin’s injuries.

A bullet wound festered in his right shoulder, another in his thigh. Deep rapier slashes scored his midriff, while purple bruises marked the place where his ribs had been broken. Crusted blood formed trails from his nose and ear. His skin was black with powder burns and covered with lacerations. There was a peculiar jagged wound on his right side that might have been made by a
sword thrust. It had been clumsily stitched and looked none too clean.

“We took th’ bullets out, Aug and me,” Risk mumbled. “Don’t think there’s much use in trying to save him now.”

Silently Celia agreed with the observation.

Lysette exclaimed softly as she pried away the bandage that had covered the wounded man’s eyes.

“Blinded in the explosion,” Risk said.

Automatically Celia stepped forward. Lysette stayed her with a firm gesture. “Noeline and I will see to him. Perhaps the rest of you should leave the room.”

“Should we not send for a doctor?” Celia asked, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice.

Max shook his head, dragging his bleak gaze from his son. “Once it became known my son was here, we would be overrun by local and federal authorities, not to mention bounty hunters. I couldn’t keep them from taking him no matter what his condition.”

“Aye,” Risk agreed wisely. “For men like Griffin and meself, there’s no safe harbor.”

Max looked back at Justin. “We’ll have to do what we can for him and hope that—” He broke off, his jaw clenching. When his emotions were in check once more, he motioned Risk to precede him out of the room. “I have questions for you.”

Celia stayed behind, watching the two women remove the remainder of Justin’s clothes. The sight of his nakedness was startling; clearly the memory of that powerful body had not faded from her mind. Having occasionally assisted her father when he had attended his patients, she had caught glimpses of other men—but none so robust
and flagrantly masculine. In spite of the wounds, there was still an aura of danger around him, as if he were a sleeping lion who might awaken and lash out at any moment.

A housemaid appeared at the doorway with a basin of steaming water, and Celia took it from her with a nod of thanks. She set it by the bedside and picked up the rent garments Lysette had tossed to the floor. Noeline took them from her, wrinkling her nose at the rank odor of the clothes. “I get more clean rags,” the housekeeper murmured. “An’ burn dese.”

“
Bonne idée,
” Celia said in approval, and dipped a rag in the hot water, wringing it out carefully. There was a strange, sick feeling in her stomach as she saw the bloodied surface of Justin’s eyelids. She wondered how she could feel moved to pity when she hated him so much.

“I’ve never seen injuries quite like these,” Lysette said under her breath, prying at a bandage that was sticking to Justin’s upper arm. Celia saw with compassion that Lysette’s small hands were trembling. Gently she took over the task, removing the bandage with efficiency, seeing without surprise that the open wound underneath was as infected as the others.

“I have,” Celia said quietly, wadding the bandage and setting it aside. “When the Austrians and Prussians marched on Paris. The Emperor Napoleon had turned France into a nation of soldiers. A boy who had been wounded in the resistance…” She paused, fumbling for the right words in English. “
Depuis trois ans
…it was since three years—”

“Three years ago,” Lysette corrected.

“Yes. This boy was brought to his home in Paris. My father was summoned, and I accompanied
him. The boy had injuries much like these.” Celia pressed a hot rag against Justin’s ribs, and his body twitched. They would have to reopen and clean his side. “My father told me the wounds were typical of wartime.”

“Did the boy die?” Lysette asked.

Celia nodded shortly, gathering the long mane of Justin’s brown-black hair and pulling it away from his dirt-caked face and shoulders. “The danger is the infection. If we are able to bring him through the infection and fever…”

“We must,” Lysette said with quiet intensity. “For Max’s sake.”

Celia was puzzled by the complex relationship between father and son. Clearly they were at odds, sharing a troubled past that cast a shadow over their feelings for one another. But Maximilien’s concern for Justin was undeniable. Celia knew that it would cause him great pain to endure the loss of a second son only a few months after Philippe’s death. As she stared down at the wounded man, she was troubled by a new thought…if by some miracle Justin did survive, he might be left permanently blind. The image of his searing blue eyes flashed before her. She knew enough to be certain that Justin would choose death rather than face a lifetime of forced dependence on others.

Putting aside such considerations, she began to cut the stitches at his side.

“The plantation is stocked with herbs and distillations to draw out poison,” Lysette remarked, heading to the door. “I am certain Noeline is preparing some poultices. I’ll return in a moment,
d ’accord?
”

“Certainly.” And Celia was left alone with him. She plunged the rag back into the hot water,
wrung it out, and laid it over the rankling wound. He must have felt the pain even through his oblivion, for he groaned and began to stir fretfully.

“I could easily take my revenge now,
mon ami,
” she said softly. “
Bien sûr,
you never dreamed you would someday be at my mercy, did you?” Her brow creased as she concentrated on removing the decayed matter from the gash. As she worked, she saw his chest rise and fall with a broken gasp. “But try as I might, I cannot take pleasure in seeing you brought to this.” She pressed a cloth firmly against the wound, staunching the flow of fresh blood. “You’ll do well to be forbearing. There are many unpleasant hours ahead of us.”

Mumbling incoherently, Justin managed to reach feebly toward his side. Celia pushed his hand away and continued talking in the same measured tones. “No,
mon ami,
do not move. You intend to make things difficult for me. I will not let you.”

Using the corner of a moistened rag, she probed delicately around his swollen eyes, cleaning away the clotted soot and blood. She laid the length of one hand against his cheek as he tried to turn his face. Her touch seemed to calm him, and he quieted. “You are going to be well again,” Celia said, dabbing the cloth against his skin. A mixture of bitterness and determination welled up inside her. “You will not die…You must get well so you can avenge Philippe’s death. You said Legare would pay with his life, and I will hold you to your promise.”

“H
ow is he?” Celia stood in the doorway of the bedchamber, having just come from the
garçonnière.
Last night she had slept poorly, absorbed in thoughts of Justin and how he might be faring. She knew that the Vallerands and Noeline were giving him the best of care. His welfare was their concern, not hers. All the same, she felt a compelling need to see him this morning even before she washed her face or had breakfast.

A sheet had been pulled up to Justin’s waist, the linen snowy white against his skin. Celia remembered from what she had seen last night that he was the same dark bronze all over. She recalled the way he had plunged into the lake without a shred of clothing on, free and pagan in his nakedness.

His eyes were bandaged, as were the rest of his wounds. He turned his head on the pillow and muttered in French.

Lysette sat in a bedside chair, her hair untidy, her face drawn. “The fever is running its course,” she said.

“You are tired,” Celia observed, but her gaze was still upon Justin.

“Max insisted on staying up with him all night—and I can never sleep when Max is not with me.” Lysette changed the cloth on Justin’s forehead. “He is with the children now, explaining that we have a guest who has taken ill.”

“Will they try to see him?”

“No, I do not think so. And if they do, I doubt they’ll suspect who he is. It has been five years since his last visit, and he was here for only a few minutes then.”

“Philippe…” Justin moved until he had dislodged the pillow from beneath his head. His words were almost too slurred to understand. “My fault…don’t punish…Philippe didn’t…”

Lysette replaced the pillow and checked the bandage around his eyes. Celia forced herself to stay in the doorway, although every nerve in her body demanded that she go to him.
You’ve taken leave of your senses,
she told herself, but the feeling remained. Justin continued to mutter, his hands moving restlessly across the mattress as if searching for something to hold on to.

“He seems to be recalling incidents that took place when he and Philippe were boys,” Lysette said, easing back in the chair. “Sometimes they would both be punished for trouble that only Justin caused. Philippe never complained, but I am certain Justin felt terribly guilty.”

Celia could not imagine Justin feeling guilty for any reason. “
Alors,
there was rivalry between them?” she asked.

“Oh, yes.” Sadly Lysette looked at Justin’s bearded face. “I am afraid that throughout their childhood they were often ignored by their father. Max cared about nothing after his wife Corinne died. Aside from disciplining his sons he had
little to do with them. Everyone in New Orleans considered Philippe to be the good brother and Justin the bad one. It was a burden for both of them.”

“I suppose Justin was jealous of Philippe.”

“Oh, they were jealous of each other. Yet I am certain they would have defended each other to the death.” Lysette stood up and put a hand to her back, obviously feeling the effects of many hours spent at the bedside.

“I will watch him now,” Celia offered.

“
Non, merci,
I could not ask that of you. I will have Noeline attend to him.”

“It would be no trouble,” Celia said in a brisk tone. “Remember, my father was a doctor. I am no stranger to the sickroom.”

Lysette threw a glance toward Justin’s halfnaked body. “But what must be done for him—”

“I am—was—a married woman,” Celia said evenly. “I will not be shocked. And Noeline will be of more help to you in running the plantation, whereas I have nothing to do today.” She gestured for Lysette to leave the room, as if the matter were settled.

Lysette paused, staring at her strangely. “I’m aware of your feelings about Justin, Celia. I know how distasteful it would be for you to take care of him.”

“We Frenchwomen are practical. I will not allow my feelings to interfere with what must be done.”

Lysette still stared at her, then shrugged. “Very well. Noeline and I will be attending to household tasks. If a problem arises, send Carrie or Lena to find one of us. Thank you, Celia.”

“It is nothing.” Celia sat in the chair. “Lysette, why did he run away when he was young?”

Lysette stopped at the door and considered the question for a long moment. “Part of it was the family, and part was Justin’s nature. He resented authority of any kind. Especially his father’s.” She left with a sigh.

Celia could not explain why she was so determined to be with Justin at this moment. She only knew that she had to stay. She stared at him, remembering how that powerful body had covered hers, the savage force of him driving deep inside her. What should she feel for him? He had hurt and humiliated her, but he had also saved her life.

“You are a most unpleasant sight,” she told him. “Fearsome monster, Griffin…the name suits you. I may be able to believe you are Philippe’s brother, but not his twin. You have his eyes, but that is all the likeness you can boast of.” She touched the bandage over his face. “And perhaps not even that, not anymore.”

She let her fingers drift lightly over the bandage. He stopped moving his head, as if he sensed her touch. A low groan escaped his lips.

“I can well believe you were jealous of Philippe.” Celia hesitated before touching the rumpled mane of his hair. It was barbaric for a man’s hair to be so long, but it was thick and smooth against her fingertips. “Philippe was everything a man should be,” she continued, “and you are everything he shouldn’t. How could the two of you have been brothers? Philippe was so gentle, so civilized, but
you
…there is not a thimbleful of decency in you.” Her gaze turned distant. “I know all about jealousy. I have younger sisters. They are pretty girls who have always charmed men without effort, while I…” She paused and smiled ruefully. “You already know about my
lack of charm.” Her smile disappeared. “You wanted me because I was Philippe’s wife,
n’est-cepas?
You think of me as an object to be stolen, then discarded at will. But Philippe desired me for myself. You will never understand that. You will never feel such a thing for a woman, and because of that you’ll never know what it is like to be truly loved. Even for a little while it is worth—”

Abruptly Celia stopped, realizing she was smoothing Justin’s hair. She snatched her hand away. What possessed her to behave so oddly with him? Troubled, she busied herself with the salves and bottles on the bedside table.

Demons were attacking him, tearing at his flesh with long black claws, gouging out his eyes. Bound and gagged, Justin could do nothing but writhe in torment, screams bottled in his throat. There was smoke and fire all around him, and he was drifting into the very pit of hell. Suddenly there was a cool touch on his face, and a presence that drove the fiends away. He gasped with relief. The demons waited a short distance away, ready to resume their torture. He could hear their cackling as they watched him.

There was a gentle sound, an angel-whisper that promised safety and peace. Fiercely he concentrated on the unseen protector, willing her to stay beside him. The demons were coming closer, reaching out for him once more. He could not face them alone.

Celia picked up a jar of pungent salve Noeline had prepared and began to smooth it over Justin’s swollen face and cracked lips, and the places where his beard had been scorched. His lips moved, forming soundless words. “Later I will change the bandage over your eyes,” she said out
loud. “I am not a doctor,
mon ami,
but I do believe you will see again. You are a fortunate man. Perhaps Noeline is right about the loas. There must be one on your side.”

Celia set the jar of salve down and turned back to his still form. She froze, thunderstruck by the sensation that he was aware of her. He knew she was there.

Her gaze riveted on his expressionless face. “Justin?”

Suddenly he moved. Growling, he lifted his hand to his bandaged shoulder. Celia caught at his hand, afraid he might inflict damage on himself. Her slender forearm was gripped by punishing fingers that cut off her circulation. She drew in a pained breath.

“No, let go,” she hissed, prying at his hand.

Before she could draw another breath, she forgot about her arm, forgot that he was hurting her. She began to tremble, feeling something open between them, a current of warmth like nothing she had ever experienced before. She stared at his face in astonishment. He was breathing raggedly. For a second Celia knew his emotions as if they were her own. He was afraid, alone, trapped in darkness, tormented by creatures with claws digging deep, ripping—

“No!” Frightened, Celia stumbled out of the chair, her heart thundering in her chest. She wrenched her arm from his grasp, rubbing at bruises that were already beginning to show. She turned to look at him. The fingers of his right hand were clenching and unclenching.

Unwillingly she turned back to the bed. Justin was not moving now, but she sensed his inward response to her nearness. Oh yes, he knew she was there. She passed a shaking hand over her
face, pushing back the hair that had fallen over her forehead and eyes. What was happening? Surely her imagination was playing tricks on her. She wanted to escape from the room, from him. But she was strangely afraid to leave him alone.

“I have no reason to stay here with you,” she said. “I owe you nothing, and I will not…” Her voice dissolved. Unable to help herself, she sat on the edge of the bed and took his hand, stroking the back of it. His fingers closed around hers again. “Justin? Can you hear me?” Celia watched him closely, but he was subsiding into a feverish sleep.

Her gaze fell to his hand. He had long, well-shaped fingers, tanned and powerful hands that were accustomed to hard work. The backs of his hands and the knuckles were sprinkled with dark hair.

Slowly Celia looked down the length of his body, noticing that the sheet had fallen low over his hips. Color climbed high in her cheeks as she contemplated the pattern of hair across his chest and groin, scars of long-ago wounds, and hard muscles of an active man. The skin on the back of his neck was pale where his long hair had shielded him from the sun.

He was the first man she had ever been able to scrutinize in such a way. She was at once fascinated and embarrassed. She wondered if other women had found Justin Vallerand attractive. Certainly he was strong and exceedingly masculine, but not handsome in the least. She was certain he possessed not a shred of vanity, or he would have made some effort to keep his beard and hair from being so long and ragged. He was coarse and primitive. Perhaps, she thought to herself, he cannot help the way he is. A man cannot
change his own nature. “I wonder if you are capable of loving anyone at all,” she mused out loud, unconsciously toying with his lax fingers. “
Non,
that would not be at all convenient for a pirate, would it?”

“It is Thursday morning and friends will be calling soon,” Lysette said anxiously. “Should I turn them away? What should I tell them? We cannot keep Justin’s presence a secret for long. Everyone on the plantation knows there is a stranger in the house. Soon the news will spread to town. Then there will be inquiries, and the police will take an interest, and—”

“I am aware of all that,” Max said gruffly, pulling his petite wife to his lap. “For the time being we’ll have to think of some convincing lies.”

Lysette linked her arms around his neck and sighed in frustration. “I am a poor liar, Max. One lie always leads to another, and I can never keep them all straight.”

Celia watched the pair from the corner of the library. She had just come from Justin’s room, where she had spent yet another long night. For almost a week she had occupied the chair near his bed hour after hour, insisting in her own quietly stubborn way that she was more suited to the task than the others. After all, they had their own responsibilities—Lysette and Noeline for the running of the plantation, Maximilien for his shipping business.

Justin had not yet regained consciousness, but he mumbled in his sleep, sometimes mentioning his mother’s name. Corinne had died when the twins were only five. Celia remembered that Philippe had spoken of his mother with sadness and regret, but Justin seemed to regard her with nothing
but hostility. The only other name he would utter frequently was Philippe’s, but Justin’s feelings for his brother were far more difficult to decipher.

When compelled by exhaustion Celia would allow Noeline or one of the Vallerands to take her place for a few hours. But she always returned as soon as she was able. And when she was there, Justin rested more quietly, swallowed the broth she spooned between his lips, docilely accepted her ministrations when she cleaned his wounds and changed his bandages.

After stitching his wounds closed, they had sprinkled them with a styptic powder Noeline had provided. Celia recognized it with surprise as the green powder Aug had used on her feet. At her request Noeline showed her the herb it was made from, the dried and crushed roots of wild geranium plants that were abundant in the swamp. To cool Justin’s fever they brewed a bitter concoction of Indian sage, pouring boiling water over the white flowers and hairy leaves, and letting it steep for hours. It was difficult to make him drink the foul liquid, but Celia coaxed and forced him to swallow. She alone could make him obey her.

No one quite understood the situation, least of all Celia. It was certain that the Vallerands speculated on her motives and on Justin’s untoward reaction to her. Heaven only knew what they thought. “Celia,” Lysette had said in a perplexed manner, “perhaps you feel you owe it to Philippe’s memory to take care of his brother, but—”

“It has nothing to do with Philippe,” Celia replied sincerely.

“But there is nothing you are doing for Justin
that cannot be undertaken by Noeline or me, or even—”

“He is better when I am there.” Celia winced as she heard the defensiveness in her own voice, but she could not suppress it. “You know it is true. You have remarked on it more than once.”