Legare paused in the entrance, staring into the concealing depths of the passage. There was no sound except for Justin’s broken gasps. “Captain Griffin,” Legare said scornfully. “What a fraud. To think I once considered you a threat. Killing you will be cheap sport indeed.”
Legare lifted his sword and walked into the passage. His boot struck the wire, and the spring gun swiveled.
A shot cracked in the narrow hall, making Justin’s ears ring.
Legare hesitated and then continued to move. The sickening thought that he hadn’t been hit raced across Justin’s brain. Then Legare began to fall forward, clumsily aiming the point of his sword. Justin jerked to the side, the rapier slicing through the air and narrowly missing him.
Legare let out a howl of fury that congealed his blood. “Damn you, Griffin!”
Then all was quiet. As Justin’s eyes adapted to the darkness and daylight crept timidly into the shattered parapet, he saw Legare’s face frozen in a death mask, eyes staring blankly and lips curled back in a grimace. He had been fatally wounded in the stomach. The spring gun had done its work.
Justin stood up and braced himself against the wall, looking down at the twisted form. Dazedly he wondered why everything was so quiet and still, why the noise and explosions had stopped. The naval siege had ended. Soon military officers would be swarming over the island.
“Griffin,” he heard Aug’s voice from above.
Laboriously Justin left the passage and mounted the steps. He picked up his rapier as he ascended. Aug was at the top, regarding him without surprise. Justin frowned at him. “How did you know Legare wasn’t the one left standing?”
“I have known you too long to doubt you,” Aug said simply.
Another body was crumpled right outside the entrance, one of the two men who had challenged Aug. Justin glanced at Aug questioningly. “Where’s the other one?”
Aug shrugged. “He ran away.”
Justin smiled slightly, and then thought about Celia. “Get me to the entrance of the tunnel.” They set off to the edge of the fort. Aug grabbed a burning torch that had been stuck in the sand. Flames and black smoke leaped toward the sky from the palmetto-thatched village, the tavern, and the brothel. The burning island was a vision of hell.
A copse of twisted oak guarded the entrance to the tunnel. The opening in the ground was nearly concealed by shrubs, fern, and moss. “She should be out here by now.” Aug said, searching the edge of the thicket.
“Celia!” Justin called hoarsely, then took the torch from Aug. “Something’s wrong,” he said, knowing instinctively that searching above ground was a waste of time. He crouched low as he entered the tunnel. Gradually the space widened, but not enough for him to stand up. He was aware of Aug following him. “Celia!” he called. All he could hear was the mocking echo of her name. They forged ahead about one hundred feet and then the course branched off in two directions. Justin paused. “Which way did she come from?” he asked.
Aug pointed straight ahead. “There.”
Justin glanced at the sharp turn to his right. “Where does that lead?”
“The brothel.”
“We’ll try that way first.”
“It is not likely she would have—”
“It’s damn likely she did,” Justin said grimly, taking the path to the right. “I know her. She has a talent, a gift, for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
They made their way along the twisting course. Justin smelled smoke, and he frowned as they continued. He stopped short as he was confronted by the collapsed tunnel, heavy rock, dust, and debris blocking their way. Near the top of the pile was a fissure through which small hands were prying. Smothered cries reached his ears.
He dropped the torch and the rapier, his mind going blank. In a frenzy he hurled himself toward the opening, grasping a large hunk of rock and struggling to pull it away. Cursing, straining, he sent the boulder tumbling down the pile. Aug worked beside him, both of them pawing and tearing at the rock wall.
Justin forced his head, shoulder, and arm through the opening they had widened. Blindly he reached out, grabbed hold of a slim arm, and began to pull. Aug helped him drag a buxom woman with brown hair through the hole, and she collapsed in a heap at the bottom of the pile, coughing weakly.
Desperately Justin reached in again. His wrist was grasped by another pair of female hands. A second woman was pulled through the wall of rubble, and a third, and Justin saw that Celia wasn’t among them. Shaking, he threw himself at the opening. “Celia!” His eyes blurred with sweat and tears. “Celia—”
He felt a hand grip his, and he clenched it hard enough to make the delicate bones compress beneath his fingers. He pulled her arm through the hole, reached in and grasped the back of her dress, and hauled her out. Celia lay against him, her body trembling. Justin cradled her in his lap, terrified that it had been too much for her, that she might die. With a low animal groan he rubbed his cheek against her singed hair. “My God…Celia…”
Her arms clenched around his neck. “I’m all right,” she whispered against his ear. “I’m all right.”
After a minute her swollen eyes slitted open. She heard the rough choking of his breath in her hair and realized with astonishment that he was crying. She twisted to sit up in his lap, staring at him. “Justin…” Her voice was hoarse. She wiped his tearstained cheek with her fingers, leaving streaks of black across his face. As he stared at her and felt her reassuring touch, some of the torment left his gaze. “It wasn’t that bad…I haven’t been hurt. Now…get me out.”
She began to push herself off his lap, and his arms tightened. He didn’t want to let go of her.
“I can walk,” Celia insisted hoarsely, and looked toward Aug, who had picked up the mulatto girl. The brunette prostitute had the torch and was leading the way.
Lunging to his feet, Justin helped Celia up and kept close behind her as they advanced to the end of the tunnel. She found that she couldn’t regain her breath. Her lungs and throat felt as if they had been scoured and set on fire. But she didn’t have any serious burns, and very little smoke had filtered into the cavity beneath the brothel floor.
They reached daylight, and she crawled out of the tunnel with a cry of gladness. The prostitutes flopped onto the ground underneath the shade of the trees. Wearily Celia sat down, relishing the feeling of having the sky overhead. She inhaled deeply, coughed, and forced herself to take in more shallow breaths. The cool breeze blew around her, and she lifted her face to it. Never in her life would she go underground again, no matter what the reason.
Justin leaned over her, his eyes shot with red, his face haggard and drawn with torment. Without a word Celia put her arms around his neck and kissed him, pressing her smoke-tinged lips to his. C’est bien,” she said, and stroked the back of his neck. He shuddered and held her, closing his eyes. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“Am I…?” Justin laughed shakily against her hair. “I didn’t know where you were. I thought you might be dead. No, I’ll never be all right again.” He grasped the back of her head and turned her face up to his. “How could you do that to me?” he whispered angrily, and kissed her. The pressure of his lips was hard and hurtful. He lifted his head and glared at her. “I told you to stay at the plantation where it was safe! I should beat you for following me!” Before she could answer he crushed her mouth with another punishing kiss.
“Vallerand.” Aug’s voice interrupted them.
Justin looked up at him. Aug was holding the mulatto girl at his side, supporting her. The girl’s leg was burned, but she was fully conscious and clinging to Aug as if he were a lifeline. The other two prostitutes were with him.
“We must leave the island,” Aug said. “A schooner is moored on the other side. There is still time to reach it.”
“You’re taking them?” Justin asked, gesturing to the women.
Aug nodded. “They wish to go. And the men will welcome them.”
“There’s no question
of that,” Justin said dryly.
“Come, we must hurry.”
Justin was quiet.
Celia tightened her arms around his neck and hid her face against him, afraid he was thinking of leaving her here alone. “Justin…take me with you,” she begged. “Please don’t leave me, let me go with you—”
“Shhh, quiet,” he said, smoothing her hair. “Doucement. I’m not going anywhere.” He glanced at Aug and smiled. “Goodbye, mon ami. And good luck.”
“They will hang you,” Aug said quietly.
“We’re staying here,” Justin replied with finality. His blue eyes locked with Aug’s black ones. Suddenly he grinned. “You called me Vallerand.”
“Aye.” Aug touched his forehead in a brief salute, smiled at him, and left with the women.
Feeling the tremors running through Celia’s body, Justin soothed her gently. “It’s all right, mon coeur, I’m not going to leave you. You’re safe in my arms, and it’s all over now.”
“Legare is dead?” she faltered.
“Yes.”
“And Risk—”
“He’s dead.” Justin eased her head back and kissed her forehead. His bloodshot eyes stared into hers. “Celia…did Risk or any of the others…hurt you?”
“No, no.”
He seemed to relax a little, stroking her hair.
“You could have escaped with Aug and your men,” Celia said. “Why didn’t you? I would have gone with you. You know I would have—”
“No. There’s still a bounty on my head. I couldn’t live with the possibility of you being in danger ever again.” Justin took her scraped hands in his, regarding them broodingly. His dark head bent, and he kissed her rough palms.
“It would not matter—”
“Oh yes, it would,” he said. “And I’m tired of being a fugitive. I’d rather face a hangman’s noose than run any longer.”
“No,” she cried, and wrapped her arms around him.
He winced. “Careful of the ribs,” he said through his teeth, and released a taut sigh as her grip loosened.
“What will happen next?” she asked miserably.
Justin stared off into the distance, scanning the smoke-obscured horizon. “A certain Lieutenant Benedict is probably landing his men and combing the island for me. No doubt my father will be at his heels.”
“A-and you…you intend for us to just sit and wait for them? Justin…how can I sit and wait when…when this might be the last time you’ll ever hold me, and—why are you smiling?”
He bent his head over hers, his teeth startingly white in his sooty face. “We have a little time together. I’d choose spending a few minutes with you and dying tomorrow over having a lifetime without you”
“Bien, that is fine for you,” she choked, “but I will not be satisfied with a few paltry minutes!”
He laughed. “Well, there’s still reason to hope. My father isn’t finished with Governor Villeré yet. And he’s accomplished the impossible before.” His lips nudged at hers. “Kiss me,” he murmured, but her lips were pressed tightly together as she tried not to cry. “Tell me you love me,” he said against her cheek, her chin. He caught at her lower lip with his teeth. His warm breath fanned over her skin. “That’s all I care about. Tell me.”
“I love you,” she whispered, and slowly her lips parted beneath his. In the back of her mind she wondered how he could kiss her like this when they were about to lose everything. He caressed her throat with his hand, and her breath caught. Suddenly she had to pull away with a gasping cough. “I’m sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I’m sorry—”
He hushed her with a low murmur and kissed her neck, and then his lips returned to hers. In consternation she thought she should convince him to go after Aug. They could escape somewhere—that was the only way for them to be together. But his arm was tight around her, his mouth gently ruthless against hers, and she could not think anymore. She let his arm support her, her head drop back, and her mouth open to his lazy exploration. There was no way of knowing how much time passed…he made her forget everything but the warm lips against hers and the stroking hand that kindled her nerves to aching delight.
She gave a muffled protest as he pulled away from her. Justin kept his hand at the back of her neck and watched as a six-man detail of sailors and marines approached them. He was faced with an assortment of bayoneted muskets. Holding his arm over his ribs, he stood up slowly and reached down to assist Celia.
Lieutenant Benedict arrived, looking determined and excited. It was not difficult to see that his pride had been wounded at having been taken in by Justin’s charade. “Captain Griffin,” he said. “It would be wise of you not to offer resistance.”
“I don’t intend to,” Justin said.
Benedict looked at Celia. “Step away from the prisoner, Madame Vallerand.”
She did not move. Justin ducked his head and touched his lips to her ear. “I love you, vas-y,” he whispered, and gave her a little push. She walked away from him with a sob. As the men moved around Justin and secured his wrists, Celia saw a tall, black-cloaked man in front of her. The rising sun was behind him, partially blinding her.
She recognized Maximilien Vallerand’s deep, authoritative voice at once. “Celia, you willful little fool…” She went to him in relief, and he placed his cloak around her, steadying her with a fatherly arm across her shoulders. He asked if she had been hurt, and she murmured something in reply, but her attention was focused on Justin. She flinched as she saw the men tug at his bruised wrists.
“Lieutenant Benedict,” Max said coldly, “you seem to need reminding that my son provided the means for you to capture this damn island.”
After that, their handling of Justin was slightly more gentle as they marched him away. He would be taken to New Orleans and imprisoned in the Cabildo, a government building with massive stuccoed arches and well-guarded prison rooms. Celia watched them with tear-blurred eyes and then turned to her father-in-law. “Max, you must help him—”
“I cannot believe you are here,” Maximilien interrupted, taking it upon himself to upbraid her. His voice was quiet and chilling. “It is beyond the scope of my imagination. You have placed yourself in danger, caused trouble for Justin, and abandoned Philippe when he needed you. I suspect my home is in an uproar and Lysette is halfmad.” It was clear that of all these concerns, the last was the most significant to Max. To him nothing was as bad as causing Lysette distress.
“It was wrong to me to leave the plantation,” Celia admitted, her voice hoarse and scratchy. “I followed you, and I shouldn’t have, and…oh, does any of that matter now? A thousand apologies from me are not going to help anyone, least of all Justin!”
Max looked at her impatient, tear-ravaged face, and sighed. “Petite bru, one way or another I will help to extricate my son from this unholy mess,” he said. “On that point you may rest assured.”
She desperately wanted to believe him. “What are you going to—”
“Your concern, Celia, would be better directed toward another problem.”
“Another problem?” she echoed. All else paled in comparison to the sight of Justin being led away.
“It seems to me that you are forgetting something. Philippe is waiting at home for you, and there is much you will have to explain to him. You are his wife, not Justin’s. You must question whether the feelings you have for Justin are worth sacrificing the kind of life you have known until now. As much as Justin may care for you, he will never be able to offer you a conventional life.”
“I love him.”
“Perhaps you do. But it is not always easy to distinguish love from…sensuality.” Briefly Max’s gaze flickered away from hers, for the comment was decidedly personal. Celia knew that Maximilien would not have undertaken such a discussion had he not felt it was absolutely necessary. “To a woman who has lived as quietly as you for most of your life,” he continued, “a man like Justin—a black sheep, someone exciting and forbidden—must be very attractive.
But that attraction may not wear well over time.”
Celia stood her ground, her brown eyes unwavering. “Of course I find Justin attractive,” she said. “But I love him for many more reasons than that. I have so much to give to him, things that he needs desperately and Philippe does not.”
Max’s face softened, and a curious smile touched his lips. “Oh? And what does Justin have to offer you?”
“Everything,” she said without hesitation. “I’ve always considered myself a very ordinary woman, but when I’m with him…” Celia paused, staring at a distant point on the horizon. Justin made her feel cherished and beautiful, and so uninhibited that she was free to share everything with him, her heart, mind, and body. And he gave her all of himself just as freely. As long as she had that, she would not care about a conventional life.
“All right, petite bru,” Maximilien said. He had been watching her closely, and seemed to have made up his mind. “I cannot take one son’s part against the other, and therefore I cannot be your ally in this. But neither will I stand in your way. However, I warn you, I do not anticipate that Philippe will be amenable.”
Celia had not expected to be so nervous at the prospect of seeing Philippe again. She didn’t know what she would feel when she looked into his eyes or embraced him. In the past several months she had changed; her life had gone on while Philippe had been imprisoned. For him time had stopped. He was asleep in his room when she and Maximilien arrived at the plantation, something for which Celia was boundlessly grateful.
Lysette scolded and comforted her at the same time, clearly shocked by Celia’s appearance. At first she insisted that Dr. Dassin must be called back to attend to her, but Celia begged her not to. “All I need is a bath and a few bandages,” she said. “Noeline can take care of me.”
“But your poor hands,” Lysette exclaimed, surveying Celia’s burned palms, scraped fingers, and broken nails.
“They’ll heal. Dr. Dassin could not do any more for me than Noeline can.”
“The doctor will be returning tomorrow to see Philippe,” Lysette said. “I insist that you allow him to look at you then.”