by Lisa Kleypas
Benedict had the grace to look embarrassed. “I must do my job, Philippe. And your brother is known to be a dangerous outlaw. Until I saw you for myself I could not be certain what was going on.”
“I don’t know how dangerous my brother may or may not be,” Justin said with boyish frankness, and smiled. “But it would be bad for my practice, Peter, were people to suspect me of being a pirate. I am trained to wield a scalpel, not a cutlass.”
“Philippe, I must ask you some questions. I hope you will be able to furnish the Navy Department with information about these brigands. Is it true you were held captive on Crow’s Island for the past four months?”
“Yes.” Justin frowned and rubbed his forehead.
“Were there any others taken beside you?”
“No, I was the only one.”
“Can you tell me why they chose to spare you?”
“I believe it was because of my medical knowledge. There are no doctors on Isle au Corneille.”
“Obviously you were well-treated,” Benedict remarked, regarding Justin skeptically. Celia had to admit that Justin did not look like a man who had been held captive for several months. In spite of a touch of sickroom pallor, his skin was still darkly tanned. Were it not for his wounds, his body would have been in superb condition. “Can you describe the island to me, and how it was fortified? And how you escaped, of course.”
“There seem to be some gaps in my memory,” Justin said, lacing his fingers with Celia’s and drawing her hand to his thigh. “I will tell you all I can. I don’t know how much of it will be useful.”
Celia listened with admiration as Justin answered the questions with a minimum of detail, giving just enough information to make his story plausible. He told of being held on the island, described the fort and its maze of passageways both above and beneath the ground, related how he had bribed some of the pirates to help him, and discussed the battle that had ensued during his escape. Benedict required him to repeat several parts of the tale, obviously searching for inconsistencies, but Justin did not betray himself. After a half-hour had passed, Max interrupted the questioning by clearing his throat.
“Lieutenant Benedict,” Max said, “It is obvious that my son is beginning to tire. I am certain you would not wish to deplete what little strength he has left.”
“No, of course not,” Benedict replied reluctantly.
Celia leaned over Justin worriedly. He was white underneath his tan, and there were dots of sweat on his forehead. The furrows between his thick eyebrows betrayed his pain. She blotted his forehead with the handkerchief. “Another headache?” she asked.
“No, it’s all right, I can go on,” he said. “I just need—”
“You need to rest.” She slipped her palm over his shirt-covered torso, letting her hand linger on the bandage wrapped around his middle. “You shouldn’t have come downstairs,” she said, while Max and Benedict conferred behind her in quiet tones.
“I had to get out of that blasted room,” Justin murmured.
“There was no need for you to put on clothes. You could have worn a robe.”
He gave her a brief grin that was too mischievous to belong to Philippe. “In certain situations a man feels at a disadvantage without his clothes.”
“Philippe,” Lieutenant Benedict said, walking to the sofa, “I suppose this will have to do for now. But there is much more I would like to know—when you have recovered more of your strength, that is.”
“Certainly,” Justin returned, and struggled up with the use of his cane, ignoring Celia’s protests. He draped an arm over her narrow shoulders to steady himself. “I hope your wife is in good health.”
“Yes, she is,” Benedict replied, looking at him speculatively. “When may I tell her you will be resuming your practice?”
Celia answered for Justin, slipping her arm around his waist. “I will insist that Philippe recover completely before contemplating a return to his work.” She smiled at the lieutenant. “I’ve only just had my husband returned to me…New Orleans will have to forgive me for wanting him all to myself for a little while.”
After bidding them farewell, Benedict left with a bemused expression. Justin let out a long sigh, his body aching from the exertions of the morning. Max gave him an oddly preoccupied glance. “It went well, I think,” he said shortly. “I’m going to talk with Lysette now. She will want to hear about it.”
Celia kept her steadying arm around Justin’s waist as they made their way to the stairs. “Do you think the lieutenant was convinced?” she asked.
“Not entirely,” Justin replied with a brooding frown. “But he could have made it much more difficult.” He swore under his breath as he lifted his leg awkwardly on the first step. “Maybe that will come later.”
“You were very…different in there,” she said, bracing him with her slim body. “So friendly and nice.”
“Like Philippe.”
“A little,” she conceded. “Philippe was open, trusting, in a way that you are not. He liked people, wanted to help them. They could see it in his face. That was why he—”
“Aye, I’m aware of all that,” Justin said tersely.
“Why are you not more like Philippe?” she couldn’t help asking, and he laughed dryly.
“That, petite, is the question I was asked throughout my trouble-ridden youth. I wished to be like him. On occasion I tried. But there is bad blood in the Vallerand family. Almost every generation turns out at least one âme damnée. It seems that is to be my fate.”
me damnée…a damned spirit, a lost soul. Celia shivered slightly, and she knew he had felt it.
They finally reached his room, and Justin lowered himself to the bed with a groan of relief, sweating profusely. Carefully Celia pulled off his shoes and helped him ease his arms out of the blue coat. Holding his hand to his side, he leaned back against the pillows. She unwrapped his necktie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, but he pushed her hand away. “No,” he said. In spite of his pain and weariness, he wanted her. If she undressed him, he wouldn’t be able to keep from yanking her to the bed and forcing himself on her.
“I wish to check your shoulder—”
“Later. It’s all right.”
Celia went to pull the drapes completely closed, then returned to his bedside. Their eyes met in the semi-darkness. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, “for what you did for me this morning. I know it was difficult.”
“I did it for Philippe,” she murmured. “Not for you. I think Philippe would have wanted me to help his brother.”
There was the flash of his jeering grin. “Do you? I’m not so certain. I think he wouldn’t want his wife anywhere near me. If I were Philippe, I’d have come back from the dead to stop you from—” He stopped suddenly, his voice switching to a more impersonal tone. “Philippe, God rest him, wasn’t fool enough to trust me around any woman he cared for.”
“Justin,” she asked softly, “has there ever been a woman you cared for?”
He gave her a taunting smirk. “Many.”
“No, I did not mean that. I meant…” She paused and bit her lip.
“You’re asking if I’ve ever been in love?” He snorted derisively. “Why do women have such fascination for matters of the heart? I suppose it’s their way of—”
“Bah, do not answer me, then,” she said in annoyance.
“The answer is no. I’ve enjoyed my share of women…” He paused, and in the short silence that followed they both thought of that night in the lakeside cabin. “…and had a liking for some. But I’ve never been in love.” He yawned and settled himself more comfortably. “And I will never be. Love’s a damn nuisance. Thank God I’m not susceptible.”
“Perhaps someday—”
“Never. It’s not in me.” He closed his eyes, indicating the conversation was over.
Thoughtfully Celia wandered out of the room and shut the door behind her. She could not imagine Justin being in love, nor could she think of what kind of woman would
inspire him to it. But she was certain that if he ever did succumb to love, it would be only once, and for him it would be a dangerous, destructive emotion.
The double parlors were filled with callers. One day a week was visiting day, when the ladies of New Orleans paid calls to one another, partook of refreshments, and exchanged news and gossip. This week it seemed that every girl, matron, and tante within traveling distance had found the Vallerand plantation the most inviting place to visit. The news of Philippe Vallerand’s return had exploded throughout the city.
The horde of callers was doubly large because Lysette had cultivated many friendships with American women as well as Creoles. It seemed that only under her roof could the two groups mingle harmoniously. There were many reasons for the conflict between Creoles and Americans. In the last decade Americans had poured into the city and begun to take control of the city’s wealth, business, and government. They were building a new section of the city uptown to compete with the Creoles’ Vieux Carré. Creoles considered it indecent to squabble over pennies as the Americans did. They regarded the Americans as crude, unprincipled merchants, always in a hurry, badmannered. The Americans thought the Creoles were lazy and decadent, their men hot-tempered, their women too flirtatious.
The Vallerands, however, were oddly compatible with both cultures. Both Maximilien and Lysette had come from families with established names that no Creole could reproach. Their bloodlines were undeniably aristocratic. But Maximilien was respected by the Americans for the small but efficient shipping business he owned and managed. Moreover, he was a friend of the American governor. Lysette was a respected matron held up to Creole girls as an example of proper behavior, yet she was young and stylish. She spoke perfect English and counted many American women among her friends.
“What would you do,” one of Max’s Creole friends had asked him curiously, “if an American someday expresses the desire to court one of your daughters, Max? Certainement you would not allow such a thing! You see that this interaction with Americans can lead to no good!”
“I would judge the man by his own merits,” Max had replied with shocking candor. “Being Creole would not automatically make a man deserving of my daughter’s hand, just as being American would not make him undeserving.” It was quite a liberal view, but then, Maximilien had long been known as a man of unorthodox beliefs.
Lysette’s voice could be heard all the way upstairs as she sought to calm the excited chattering and squabbles brewing among her guests. Her usually soft voice had an edge that cut through the noise as she invited them all to partake of refreshments. The scent of strong, heavily sugared coffee rose to the upstairs rooms where Justin prowled.
Justin did not dare show his face for fear of being beset by a crowd of eager women. As Lysette had explained to him, Philippe had been the most sought-after doctor in New Orleans. The combination of his medical skill, handsomeness, and quiet charm had made him exceedingly popular, and the news of his “return from the dead” had been welcomed enthusiastically.
“Bien sûr, Philippe,” Justin muttered wryly. “I see now why you were so eager to take up the medical profession.”
He limped along the hallway with his cane, his ears pricked for the sound of Celia’s voice from downstairs. Many questions were being asked of her, but her replies were too quiet for him to hear. As he passed by the door of Philippe’s room, closed as always, he heard a noise from within. The hair stood up on his arms, and he felt a small shock. How many thousands of times had he burst into Philippe’s room unannounced and dragged him away from his books? Memories flashed through his mind. He could almost believe he was a boy again, and that if he opened the door right now he would find Philippe there. With a hand that was not quite steady, he reached for the knob and turned it.
The door swung open, and Justin was confronted with the small upturned faces of Lysette’s daughters. His half-sisters. They were sitting on the floor with a polished wooden box between them, and several small objects scattered about. Searching through Philippe’s possessions, he thought. It was only natural for them to investigate.
Evelina and Angeline stared at him with round hazel eyes exactly like their mother’s. They were both exquisite replicas of Lysette, with almost no trace of Vallerand in their features. So far they had avoided Justin, instinctively cautious of coming face to face with the stranger who had appeared so mysteriously and caused such an uproar. The girls knew without a doubt that he was not Philippe, the half-brother they had adored.
Justin looked at them curiously, having taken little interest in them until now. He had caught glimpses of them around the house and thought them pretty creatures, but felt no sense of kinship to them. “What do you have there?” Justin asked mildly, hobbling into the room.
Silently Evelina scooped up handfuls of the scattered objects and put them into the box as quickly as possible. Angeline seemed frozen, her gaze fastened on Justin’s face. He smiled at her and levered himself into the chair with difficulty.
“Arrowheads,” he said, peering down at the floor. “Philippe and I used to find them along the banks of the bayou. One time we even found a hatchet. Choctaw Indians used to live here a long time ago. I suppose we always hoped that if we looked hard enough we’d find one or two. Or maybe a pirate.”
Evelina spoke then with great dignity. “You are a pirate, n’est-ce pas?”
“Oh, not a bad one.”
“All pirates are wicked.”
Justin grinned at her. “But I would never do anything to hurt little girls.” He reached out for the box, and Evelina gave it to him, taking care not to touch him. Flipping open the lid, he stared at the numerous arrowheads Philippe had saved all those years ago. A reminiscent smile crossed his lips. Only Philippe would have retained such useless things for sentimental reasons. “I remember roaming through the swamps with him in search of adventure,” he said, more to himself than the girls. “We had a little pirogue we would paddle back and forth. How Grand-mère would scold us when we returned covered in mud from head to toe!” He laughed and turned his gaze to Evelina. “Do you ever go down to the bayou, enfant?”
“Papa told us not to. C’est dangereux.”
“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Papa once told me the same thing. It is wise to obey him.”
Angeline crept forward until her tiny hands rested on the arm of his chair. “He is your papa too?” she asked in childish surprise.
“Angeline, viens, come with me,” Evelina said sharply, pulling her younger sister back. “Mama said we should stay in the nursery.”
Reluctantly Angeline followed her from the room, casting several glances back at Justin. He grinned at her and turned his attention back to the arrowheads. Picking one out, he set the box aside. He rubbed the polished surface between his thumb and forefinger, contemplating it in tently, remembering the day he had last seen Philippe, when they were sixteen…
“Justin, don’t leave!” Philippe had stopped him just before he reached the pirogue. What few possessions Justin intended to take with him had already been stowed in the bottom of the tiny craft. It was midnight, but the clear white moonlight illuminated their young faces. “If you leave now I know it will be for good,” Philippe said desperately. “You must stay. I need you here, Justin.”
“None of you need me here, and you know it. I make trouble for everyone. I don’t belong here. I…Dieu, you know all the reasons.”
“Wait a little while longer, wait and think. If you only—”
“I’ve waited and I’ve thought.” Justin smiled humorlessly. “The reason I tried to leave in the middle of the night, mon frère, is that I wanted to avoid a scene like this.”
“But the trouble between you and Father is gone.”
“Yes. But every time he looks at me he’s reminded of the past, of…painful things. Of her. I see it in his face.”
“Justin, you’re nothing like our mother, you—”
“I’m exactly like her,” Justin said coldly. “I don’t want
to be, but I can’t change it. It’s better for all of us if I leave.”
“What will you do?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll do far better out there than I have here. I want to be free. I want to go where no one knows I’m a Vallerand. I’ve never pleased anyone here, and never will, so I may as well begin to please myself. You stay here and be the good son. Be the only son. I’ll take the bad blood with me.” He saw his brother’s eyes glitter suspiciously. “Crying like a girl,” Justin mocked, but Philippe continued to stare at him. And suddenly Justin realized that his own eyes were stinging. He cursed and turned away, stepping into the pirogue…
Celia stood in the doorway, having left the visitors downstairs with the excuse that she wanted to look in on the children. She had been on her way to the girls’ room when she saw that Philippe’s door was ajar.
Justin was inside, sitting in a chair with his knees spread, his head bent. One of his fists was clenched around an unseen object. His expression was closed. To look at him no one would guess at his emotions, but Celia sensed his pain, the grief he was fighting to suppress. And along with her empathy came a feeling of wonder.
“So you did care for him,” she said.
Justin looked up at her, startled. It took a moment for him to speak. “Get the hell out of here,” he snarled.
Celia was unintimidated. “You speak about Philippe so casually. I thought his death had meant little to you. But it wasn’t real to you until now, was it? You could not let yourself believe that he was gone.”
His gaze dropped from her face.
Walking farther into the room, Celia studied his averted profile. “You loved him, didn’t you?” she whispered. He didn’t reply, and for her that was answer enough. Slowly she knelt by the chair, staring up at him.
“It was always the two of us,” he said, looking at his closed fist. “When we were boys we lived like savages, roaming through the swamp, doing as we pleased. For the most part we raised ourselves. Father didn’t give a damn as long as we caused him as little trouble as possible.” He smiled bitterly. “He was a cold bastard. All of New Orleans suspected him of murdering our mother. For years I believed it too.”