by Lisa Kleypas
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.”
“Yes, I have,” Lysette admitted. “But that does not mean you must exhaust yourself taking care of him.”
Celia schooled her features into impassiveness. “Justin is your stepson. You have the right to say what must be done with him. If you wish me to stay away from him, that is what I will do.”
“No, I am not talking about—” Lysette stopped and scowled mildly. Both of them were a
ware that they were on the brink of an argument. “I have no desire to bicker with you, Celia. All I am doing is trying to make you understand that you do not have to tire yourself nursing him, not when there are others capable of carrying the burden.”
“I understand that.”
“Good.”
“Bien.”
They had exchanged a glance of annoyance, and Celia had returned to Justin’s room, relieved that Lysette was not going to stop her. Day by day it was becoming more important that she stay with Justin and watch over him every minute. He seemed to know when she was there, seemed to recognize the sound of her voice.
Celia dragged her attention back to the present, listening to Lysette’s conversation with Max. “What are we going to tell people, bien-aimé?” Lysette asked. “The minute they think we have something to hide, they will suspect it has to do with Justin.”
“I have a plan,” Max said slowly, “but it isn’t a good one. If we have to resort to it, there will be danger for all of us. And I doubt we’d have a chance in hell of pulling it off. I need time to think of something else.”
Lysette and Celia exchanged a worried glance. Then Lysette turned back to her husband. “Time,” she said, “is something we do not have, Max.”
“C’est vrai,” Celia agreed with a frown of worry. “Perhaps you should tell us about this plan you have conceived. Perhaps we should consider…”
She paused as an odd feeling shook her. Struggling through layers of darkness, an image rose up before her…it was Justin. Turning pale, she clenched a fold of her skirts in her hand and walked rapidly to the doorway. “Excuse me. I am going to look in on Justin,” she said. She strode toward the wide double staircase and began to run, her feet flying up the steps.
Slowly Justin awakened, wondering where he was. What had happened to him? He was on a bed with sheets and pillows, a novel occurrence for him. He was surrounded by darkness. The air was scented with bitter herbs and freshly washed linen. Groaning faintly, he tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. He lifted his hand, surprised at the weakness of his limbs. He was never weak.
Beginning to gasp with effort, Justin put his hand to his face and felt heavy bandages over his eyes. The realization panicked him. There had been a battle…gunshots…Legare’s victorious face, a sword pushing into his side…Risk’s anxious pleading…He had known he was dying. His body hurt, and he couldn’t move his leg, couldn’t even feel it. Had it been amputated? He fumbled with the bandages, needing to rip them away and see for himself what was wrong. Pain stabbed between his eyes, and his head began to swim.
“No, no.” A soft, urgent voice fell on his ears. Suddenly there was a woman beside him. Her cool hands took hold of his, pulling them down to the mattress. He tried to push her away. “Let your eyes stay covered,” she soothed. “They must heal. Rest now. Doucement, you are all right.”
All at once he remembered the angel in his dreams. It was her voice, her light hand on his head, her presence beside him. “My leg,” he managed to say hoarsely.
“It is healing,” she murmured, blotting away the sweat that stood out on his forehead. “You will be able to walk on it again.”
“Hurt…” He tried to tell her that his head felt as if a red-hot poker were being driven into it. She seemed to understand. A strong, slender arm slid underneath his neck, propping him up. The side of his face brushed against the tender resiliency of a woman’s breast, and he was surrounded by a delicate flowerlike fragrance. The rim of a glass was pressed between his teeth. At first he choked on the acrid taste of willowbark that had been stirred into the water.
“No…”
“Just a little,” she coaxed. “A swallow or two.”
Seeking to please her, he forced himself to drink. All too soon she lowered his head back to the pillow, and he was deprived of the comfort of her arms. He felt the last of his strength drain away. “Are you real?” he managed to ask.
“Bien sûr, of course I am real.” She stroked his hair with light fingers.
After a moment he felt her moving away. “Stay,” he croaked. But she left, as if she had not heard him, and he could not say another word.
A full day passed, but Celia did not return to Justin’s room after the fever had broken. His need for her was over. His wounds were free of infection and he would begin to recover his strength. If the Vallerands had been puzzled by her concern for him before, they were frankly dazed by what they saw as her sudden lack of interest now. In a matter of hours she had apparently gone from obsession to indifference, and they did not know what to make of her. “I am tired,” she had explained, unable to tell them that she was afraid of facing Justin when he was fully conscious.
Celia was distraught over what had happened when he had awakened. She kept remembering the scene over and over, and the awful, aching tenderness that had possessed her. She remembered the heaviness of his head on her arm, the obedient way he had taken the medicine she had held to his lips, the scratchiness of his voice as he demanded that she stay. She had wanted to stay, to stroke and soothe and comfort him. It was impossible that she could feel such a thing for that filthy pirate, and she had to avoid him until she was able to control her emotions.
That evening she accidentally overhead Lysette and Maximilien discussing her abrupt change in attitude as they sat alone in the parlor. Celia was just coming in from a walk in the garden to have dinner with the family. Hearing her name, she stopped inside the front entrance hall, her ears pricking.
“It is not that I dislike her,” Lysette was saying, “I just do not understand her. I can never be certain of how she truly feels.”
There was the sound of Max’s husky laugh. “It’s not necessary for you to understand her, petite. And I would wager Celia herself doesn’t know how she truly feels.”
“She claims to hate Justin. But if that were true she would not have wanted to tend him during the fever.”
“One thing is obvious,” Max said thoughtfully. “Something transpired between them that they’re both determined to keep secret.”
Celia felt her cheeks turning red. Maximilien was a perceptive man, and he had a fair idea of what his son was capable of. Did he suspect they had been intimate, with or without her consent? Mortified, she slipped out the front door, intending to walk around the house to the garçonnière.
There was a carriage coming down the long drive to the plantation, elegant but modestly fitted. Celia paused to watch its approach. The passenger of the vehicle emerged without the help of the attending footman and strode up the front steps of the main house with the brisk precision of a military officer. He was an American. Although he was out of uniform, she recognized him from the memorial service they had had for Philippe. If she remembered correctly, the young man was Lieutenant Peter Benedict, the assistant to Commander Matthews, the master-commandant in charge of the naval station in New Orleans.
Benedict seemed surprised by her presence on the front porch. “Madame Vallerand.” He took her bare hand in his gloved one and bowed his head over it politely. “A pleasure to see you. You may not remember me.”
“Oui, I remember you, Lieutenant Benedict,” she said, looking at his boyish face. It was the sensitive visage of a man of earnest disposition, one who paid strict attention to his duty and protocol. As she met his warm brown eyes, she recalled that Benedict and Commander Matthews had been appointed by the president to deter the pirates in the Gulf. Locating a stray pirate, especially one of Justin’s reputation, would be a considerable feather in the lieutenant’s cap. Had Benedict heard any of the rumors about their houseguest? Had he come to find out if it was Justin?
“I am here to call on Monsieur Vallerand,” Benedict said, giving her a searching stare.
Celia did her best to look unconcerned. “This is a social call, Lieutenant?”
“I hope so, madame.” He took a step toward the door, then stopped as she did not move.
Just then Noeline opened the front door and regarded the visitor impass
ively. “Welcome, monsieur,” she said, her gaze darting from Benedict’s serious face to Celia’s anxious one.
“Lieutenant Benedict,” the man introduced himself. “I am here to see Monsieur Vallerand.”
Noeline appraised him, looking unimpressed. “Come inside, lieutenant, s’il vous plaît. I go see if Monsieur Vallerand have time for you.”
“Tell him it would be in his interest to see me,” Benedict said. “I am here on behalf of Commander Matthews.”
They walked into the entrance hall, the mahogany paneling and benches gleaming from a recent polishing. Celia decided to leave the lieutenant by himself and find some way to warn the Vallerands of the danger. She followed Noeline toward one of the double parlors, pulling nervously on the long sleeves of her black gown.
Max emerged from the parlor, raising his eyebrow as he saw their somber faces.
Unconsciously Celia took hold of his arm. “Monsieur,” she whispered frantically, her fingers digging into his wrist. “Your son is in danger. The visitor—he is from the naval station. He must have heard something. What should we tell him? What should—”
“Shhh.” Max patted her hand lightly before prying it off of his arm. He looked over her head at the young naval officer who was straining indiscreetly to hear them. “I will take care of it,” Max said to Celia. “Go to Lysette, hmm?”
“All right,” Celia replied inaudibly, while Max stepped forward to greet Benedict with the handshake that Americans preferred in their social and business dealings.