by Lisa Kleypas
Griffin’s eyes swept the terrain. Seeing that the area was clear, he took Celia’s free arm and propelled her toward the warehouses. Valiantly she tried to keep up with his long strides. As they rounded the corner of a building, a rough voice broke from the darkness.
“Qui est-ce?” The stalwart form of a man confronted them, one of Legare’s men assigned to guard the warehouse. After one glance, he bellowed for help and rushed toward them with an upraised sword.
Celia froze like a frightened rabbit.
“Go!” Even the biting sound of Griffin’s voice failed to jolt her from the paralysis. She started as she felt the stinging slap of his hand on her buttocks. Without thinking she began to run toward the open water.
Griffin hit the ground and rolled to the side, while the cutlass slashed into the sand. Before the attacker could extract the buried blade, Griffin pounced on him with a snarl, making short work of him with a deft thrust of his sword. Just as the man underneath him shuddered in a death throe, Griffin heard sand-muffled footsteps. Whirling around, he saw another of Legare’s men, alerted to the emergency.
This time Griffin had no chance to avoid the swing of the blade. He swerved, feeling the bite of the sword on the side of his shoulder. Ignoring the searing pain, he reached up and caught hold of the pirate’s arm, pulling the man down to the sand. Rolling over and over, they fought like dogs, snarling and gouging, until Griffin used a downward blow of his arm to break the man’s neck.
Breathing heavily, he rose to his feet.
Celia stumbled across the beach, her lungs aching from her tortured gasps. There was a blurred shape before her eyes, a small craft on the water. She stopped as she saw the group of men gathered in and around the pirogue. Should she approach them? Was this the pirogue Griffin had intended her to reach, and if so, would the men help her or prove to be another set of cruel captors?
A large man with gleaming black skin strode toward her purposefully. A colored kerchief was wrapped around his head, and loose cotton garments covered his muscled body. His features were hawklike and expressionless. Celia’s eyes widened at the sight of the brace of pistols hanging at his waist. Dropping the whiskey jug, she began to back away, then turned and ran in panic. Her only thought was to find a place to hide. Darkness and danger whirled around her, and she no longer felt human, only a frightened animal hunted by a pack of wolves.
Chapter 3
Swift footsteps sounded behind Celia. Suddenly she was hauled off her feet and held in a pair of brutal arms. She screamed and tried to claw at her captor’s face.
“Shut up, you little idiot,” a familiar voice growled in her ear.
She put her arms around his neck, her groping hands finding the locks of thick black hair. It was Griffin. Without a word she buried her face in the crook of his shoulder and neck. She had no more thoughts of escaping him. He was her only chance of survival.
Griffin carried her to the water’s edge, scooping up the discarded jug along the way. The black man Celia had seen before joined them.
“We’ve run into heavy weather, Aug,” Griffin muttered.
“As usual, you understate, Captain.” Aug regarded him gravely. “You are wounded.”
“It’s nothing. We’ll see to it later. How goes it with Risk and the rest of the crew?”
“They and Vagabond are under way.”
“Good. Not a man jack of us will be safe until we’re far away from this bloody island.”
A hint of a smile appeared on Aug’s dark face.
“I think you chose the wrong Legare to kill, Captain.”
“Aye,” Griffin said ruefully, and shifted the weight of the small bundle in his arms. “I have a bit of goods to be smuggled into New Orleans.” The journey would take at least twenty-four hours. “Let’s shove off.” He waded through the shallow water and lowered Celia into the pirogue, where a half-dozen of his most able-bodied men were seated with oars.
As he set Celia down, Griffin found it difficult to pry her arms from around his neck. “Let go,” he said, but she refused to release her death-grip. “I said let go,” he added in his most threatening tone. It was only when she still refused to move that he realized how afraid she was. He made his voice as soft as possible. “You’re safe, ma pauvre petite,” he said against her cheek. “No one will hurt you. Now be a good girl. Do as I say.”
Her strangling clutch eased. Reluctantly she unwrapped her arms from around his warm neck and huddled alone on the wooden planking.
Griffin and Aug pushed the pirogue deeper into the water and hoisted themselves over the sides. In spite of Aug’s protest Griffin took hold of an oar and contributed to the feverish rowing that took them away from shore. Finally the island disappeared from sight and they ventured into the sea marsh, a vast plain of water and marsh grasses dubbed the trembling prairie. It was a smuggling route they used regularly, and it took skill to navigate it without becoming hopelessly lost. His wounded shoulder aching, Griffin left off rowing and joined Celia at the front of the pirogue. The oarsmen settled into a slower, steadier pace that could be maintained for several hours. They worked silently, rhythmically, as if they were all part of some great machine.
“Here.” Griffin dropped a heavy canteen of water into Celia’s lap. “Drink it slowly.”
She stared at the object dumbly, then realizing it was water, fumbled with the cap in a burst of energy. Dropping the cap to the floor of the pirogue, she gulped the water down greedily, reveling in the cool rush of liquid down her parched throat. Immediately the canteen was ripped away from her. She struggled to grab it back, her whole being concentrated on gaining more of the precious water.
Griffin held the canteen out of reach and pulled her onto his lap to restrain her. “Slowly,” he said, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Lentement. Understand?”
“Oh, please,” Celia begged hoarsely, “it has been so long since I—just a little more—”
“In a minute.”
“But I need—”
“Hush. You don’t want a bellyache, do you?”
Celia stopped straining to reach the canteen and stared at his bearded face suspiciously, deciding that he was being deliberately cruel. The small amount of water she’d managed to swallow revived her. She felt new strength coursing through her body. “C-Captain Griffin, why are you doing this? Why are you taking me to New Orleans?”
“Perhaps I wish to be in the good graces of your family. It’s rare that a man finds himself in the position of being owed a favor by Maximilien Vallerand.”
Celia stared into his midnight-blue eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. I-I have lost everything. I have nothing left…no hope, no husband, no future. You can at least tell me the truth. Of what value was it to you, to take me away from there? Why put yourself and your men at risk? Wh-why did you want me enough to…to kill…” She would have continued, but something in those intense blue eyes made her feel as if she were drowning. She had to look away in order to catch her breath.
“Perhaps I decided you were worth it,” he said in a voice too low for the others to hear. “Worth dozens of lives. Worth any risk at all. It’s been years since I’ve even touched a woman like you…a woman with soft white hands and the eyes of a child. Aye, that’s reason enough.”
Suddenly she was aware of how her breast was pressed against him. She was naked underneath his shirt, and he must have been able to feel the shape of her body, the heat of her skin, through the soft fabric. Uneasily Celia tried to move. He would not permit it.
“There…there must be another reason,” she stammered.
“Even if there weren’t, I’d still have taken you from Legare.”
Mon Dieu, she thought, her heart beating wildly as she realized he was not going to let her go without demanding the use of her body as payment. She began to shake at the memory of his insistent mouth, the length of his powerful body crushing against her, the muscled thigh that had parted hers with such ease. Even if he tried to be gentle with her—and she
doubted that he would—how could he keep from killing her?
“You’re trembling,” he observed. “Because you know I want you. But when I take you, ma petite, you’ll want me just as much.”
Celia was stiff with fear. She wanted to escape the whisper that sent nervous chills over her skin. She wanted to climb out of his arms and run far away from that mesmerizing gaze and the reach of those hands that could be so gentle and so deadly. But she was trapped with him on the pirogue. And without him she would have no chance of reaching New Orleans.
“Selfish pig,” she said unsteadily. “I do not want you, but you tell yourself that I do. It does not matter to you. It does not matter that I have just lost my husband.”
“That matters more than you could guess. But since he is dead, Madame Vallerand, your wifely virtue is of no consequence to anyone.” He handed her the canteen. She drank from it automatically, her thirst overpowering all other considerations. Once again he pulled it away from her after a few greedy gulps. “You have no sense of caution,” he said, smiling slightly. “That’s enough for now.”
This last was spoken in English, and Celia answered in kind. “I do not think enough is yet,” she said, her eyes on the canteen.
He did not answer, showed no intention of allowing her more, and she lapsed into a cowardly silence. Gradually the rhythm of the oars soothed her into a half-sleep. Twice her head bobbed against his good shoulder, and she jerked it back up, blinking rapidly. The third time she let it rest there, finding it too much of an effort to lift it again. Griffin offered no objections. “The other shoulder,” she said groggily. “It is bad, non?”
“No, not bad.”
With an incoherent murmur she settled against him, too exhausted to stay awake any longer.
* * *
The morning light awakened Celia from a dreamless sleep. Uncertain sunshine flickered through the trees overhead, illuminating a world unlike anything she had ever seen before. The pirogue was moving through a lush, gray-green swamp, curtained with long streamers of moss. The water was frosted with a delicate layer of vegetation upon which insects danced and scattered. Flowerlike ferns and clumps of cane lined the muddy banks. A heavy scent, green, fresh, and primitive, permeated the moist air.
There were cypress trees with staggeringly thick trunks that must have existed since the earth was created. Mudfish swam in between their half-submerged roots. Here in this mixture of woods and water, it was difficult to believe that somewhere there were paved streets and white-painted houses, drawing rooms with pianos, libraries filled with books and stately chairs. Civilization was another world away.
Slowly becoming aware that she was snuggled comfortably between Griffin’s thighs, her ear pressed against his steady heartbeat, Celia tried to push herself away. There was stabbing pain in her back, neck, shoulders, legs—in fact, everywhere in her body. She couldn’t suppress a moan of distress. One of Griffin’s large hands settled on the back of her neck, his long fingers kneading gently.
“Don’t,” she said groggily, her natural sense of modesty rebelling against the prospect of being handled so familiarly, especially in front of others. Four oarsmen faced away from her, but Aug and two men at rest were seated in the stern of the craft. No detail escaped their notice.
Ignoring her protest, Griffin moved down to her shoulders, massaging the tense, strained muscles. Celia closed her eyes in resignation. There was no use in objecting. And his hands were blissfully soothing, drawing out the aches and leaving her muscles tingling. His thumbs and the pads of his fingers worked in the hollows of her spine, back up her neck, then across her shoulders to her upper arms. Involuntarily she leaned into his hands, which seemed to know exactly how and where to touch her.
Griffin looked across the boat at Aug’s impassive face. “What of the next relay?” he asked, kneading the soft muscles beneath Celia’s prominent shoulder blades.
Aug replied in a dialect Celia could not quite follow. It was derived from French, but mingled with slurring words she didn’t understand.
“That’s good,” Griffin said, moving Celia off his lap. “We should make as much distance as possible today. Otherwise Legare may catch up to us by nightfall.”
Rather sorry that the massage had ended, Celia looked up at the man beside her. “How long will it take to reach New Orleans from here?”
“Hopefully before dawn tomorrow.”
“How do you know Legare is—” she began to ask. She stopped as she saw his face in direct sunlight for the first time. Those intense sapphire eyes tinged with violet, framed with spiky black lashes. She felt herself turn pale.
“What is it?” Griffin asked sharply.
“Your eyes…they are the same as my…my husband’s, and—”
His expression turned forbidding. She saw that she had displeased him to no small degree. “Many people have blue eyes,” he said.
“But not like—”
“I’ve no patience for a woman’s chattering,” he interrupted, and moved to one of the idle oars. Wincing at the nagging pain in his wounded shoulder, he began to row. The muscles of his chest and arms bulged as he pulled at the oar. Celia continued to stare at him, wondering what he looked like without the long, shaggy hair and rough beard.
“Monsieur,” she said timidly, having to repeat herself before he would look at her. “Monsieur. I am very much hungry.”
Amusement flickered in Griffin’s eyes at her faltering English. He nodded in the direction of a worn pouch a few feet away from her. “Look in there.”
Spying the canteen next to the pouch, Celia reached for the water also. She darted a cautious glance at Griffin, her fingers tightening on the canteen. “And very much thirsty,” she said.
“Then have at it,” he said ingraciously.
Eagerly she rummaged through the pouch, finding it full of hard, crunchy biscuits and strips of dried meat. The first bite of biscuit crumbled in her mouth, chalky and flavorless. She washed it down with a swig of tepid water. Her small white teeth bore into the dried meat, which required several minutes of concentrated chewing.
When the panic had died away and her stomach was comfortably full, Celia placed the pouch and canteen back where she had found them. Now that her most pressing needs were satisfied, she twisted to look at the smarting soles of her feet. Her attention was diverted by Griffin’s cutting voice. “I’ll see to those soon. In the meanwhile do what you can to keep yourself covered.”
Celia flushed, yanking down the hem of the black shirt. Watching Griffin as he rowed, she wondered who he was and where he had come from. He looked like nothing more than a dirty backwoodsman, but his French was perfectly accented, spoken as if he were an aristocrat. He had the muscled torso of a laborer, a seaman, but his eyes contained keen intelligence, and she had the feeling that he had once known far better circumstances than these. He was a powerful man—a crew of pirates would not follow him unless he were greatly feared and respected—and yet he had risked his life for the sake of a helpless woman. Why?
The sun climbed higher, and the pirogue traveled farther down the quiet bayou to a place where it ended at a tiny island and branched off into several smaller courses. An ancient tree trunk bridge crossed one of the streams. Celia looked at the men in the pirogue closely, sensing anticipation in the atmosphere. They were all quiet as the vessel drifted toward the right bank.
The chittering whistle of a bird interrupted the silence. Celia frowned curiously as Griffin whistled back in a like manner. She was startled to see movement in the woods, swarthy faces appearing in the midst of the greenery, muskets and axes clutched in filthy hands. The men in the pirogue seemed to recognize them.
“Our next crew,” Griffin said to Celia.
“They are friends of us?” she asked doubtfully, gazing at the motley bunch.
“Not exactly,” he said dryly. “Rivermen owe their allegiance to no one. But I pay them to carry contraband and luxury items through the lakes to the river.”
“Why
cannot this crew row us?”
“It’s just possible they are tired, enfant.”
One of the oarsmen looked up at her and grinned. “Tired, sure mebbe, but I’d row ye to China if ye wanted, ma’am!”
Not understanding but deciding the comment was friendly, Celia smiled faintly.
Aug leaped off the pirogue and secured it to a half-buried tree trunk on the bank. Groaning in relief, the men put down their oars and climbed off the vessel. Celia sat still, watching Griffin anxiously. He tied a small, flat leather pouch to his waist and hung a cutlass at his left side. “Hold that jug of whiskey,” he said. She picked it up, cradling it in her lap. He slid his arms under her knees and back and lifted her easily into his arms.
As soon as they saw her long blond hair, the rivermen gave wolf calls and lusty shouts of appreciation. Celia clutched Griffin’s neck in alarm while he carried her over the bank toward the tree trunk bridge. The men crowded around her. She flinched as rough hands brushed over her bare legs.
“This all the cargo ye brought, Cap’n sir?” one of the rivermen inquired.
“Finest little bit o’ cargo I ever seen!” another exclaimed gleefully.
Someone yanked at a lock of her hair, and she squeaked in surprise. Griffin stopped suddenly, his cold blue gaze sweeping over the eager men. A thin smile appeared, nearly hidden by his wiry beard. “The woman is my property. If any man touches her again, I’ll rip his privates off.”
The group chuckled heartily, none of them seeming to take offense. The insulting hands withdrew. Celia hid her face against Griffin’s hairy chest. “I think,” she said in a muffled voice, “that without you here, they would—”
“Yes,” Griffin said wryly. He set his foot on the creaking bridge. “Now, my charming bit of alligator bait, don’t look down. And for God’s sake don’t throw me off balance or we’ll both be up to our necks in mud.”
Alligators? Philippe had entertained her with horrifying stories about the creatures, saying they were part dragon, part lizard. They had long tails, big jaws, sharp teeth. Her eyes squeezed shut. “Do not drop me,” she whispered.