Only With Your Love

  “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.”

  Chapter 7

  “How 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 toda
y.” 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—”