Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(11)

The bearded face was impassive. “I’ve just done André one hell of a favour.”

Celia turned her head and looked at Griffin with wretched contempt. How was it that she could feel betrayed by him? She had not really believed he would take her to New Orleans, but some part of her had dared to hope there was a chance. His blue eyes had lost their snapping intensity, seeming cold and flat.

“A demain,” he said in perfectly accented French.

Until tomorrow. She did not give a sign that she had heard. Until tomorrow, she thought bitterly, when he knew that for her there would be no tomorrow.

His gaze held hers for a chilling second, and then he looked away, seeming to lose interest. “Jack,” he said, gesturing to Risk, and the pair walked away.

“Troublesome bitch,” she heard Legare’s quiet voice in her ear as he jerked her toward the waiting André. “I hope my brother rips you limb from limb.”

Celia was sent stumbling into the room with a hard shove of André’s foot. She fell to the floor, raised herself up on her forearms, and looked at the scarred Aubusson carpet beneath her with astonishment. It was not what she would have expected to see in the ruins of an ancient fort. The room was filled with gold and finery, elaborate mismatched furniture, baroque lamps, and luxury goods. Dust, rotting food, and liquor stains were everywhere. A ripe, sickly-sweet odor filled her nostrils, and she nearly gagged.

André bent over her with a leer. “Like what you see? All of it presents from Dominic. Like you.”

“He…he takes care of you,” Celia stammered, twisting and rising to her feet.

“Dominic? Oui, toujours, always. Since we were boys in Guadeloupe. Orphan boys.”

She looked out of the corner of her eyes for some kind of weapon to use against him. “A-and he gives you all the women?” she asked, edging away from him. “He takes none for himself?”

André followed her every movement. “He gives all to me and takes none,” he said thickly, and made a quick grab for her.

Celia gasped and stepped back, avoiding the heavy, grasping hand.

Laughing delightedly, he caught her tangled hair in his fist and dragged her to the disheveled mahogany bed. Celia screamed as she was thrown halfway across the mattress. In spite of his portly size, André had more than enough strength to force her to his will. The bedclothes were unwashed and foul. Before she could move, he had pulled her wrist to the bedpost and fastened it with a leather strap already hanging there. Breathing fast from excitement and exertion, he took hold of her other arm. Celia began to scream without stopping as he reached for the strap on the opposite side of the bed. She struggled violently, but she was too weak.

Having rendered her helpless, André took the top of her dress in his hands and ripped it open, exposing the pale beauty of her body. His huge belly pressed against hers as he leaned over her. Baring his teeth, he lowered his mouth to her breast. Celia felt herself plummeting through endless depths of horror, and her mind began to turn inward, refusing to acknowledge what was happening.

Suddenly the crushing weight of his body was gone. Her screams faded into astonished silence as she saw a knife making a quick pass around his throat, a spurt of dark red blood. He dropped to the Aubusson rug, clutching his throat, making a peculiar gurgling noise. His body writhed and shuddered.

Griffin stood over him, casually wiping his knife on the wounded man’s shirt. “I changed my mind,” he said, smiling coldly into André’s bulging eyes. “I couldn’t wait for her until morning.”

André clutched his throat harder, twitched once, twice, then closed his eyes. Slowly the pudgy hands relaxed.

Griffin sheathed the knife back in his boot and turned to the bed, ignoring André Legare’s dead body. He stripped off his jerkin and began to unbutton the black shirt, while his searing blue eyes swept over the woman’s still form. Dark bruises marred her skin. She needed fattening—she was slender enough that the points of her hipbones were sharply prominent.

But something about her awakened a primal urge that nearly undid him. Griffin was troubled enough by the momentary loss of self-control to waste precious seconds looking at her. Her br**sts were small but perfectly curved, adorned by tiny pink ni**les. He wanted to put his mouth on them. Slowly his gaze moved down her flat abdomen to the triangle of delicate golden curls. It would be so easy to climb on top of her, relieve the aching pressure that was rapidly building between his legs. He dropped his shirt on the bed and put his sleeveless jerkin back on. She watched with a vacant stare while he untied the leather straps around her wrists. Her skin felt downy and cool underneath his fingers.

“What is your name?” he asked in French, pulling her to a sitting position. She was pliant and motionless. He repeated the question more harshly, wondering if her mind had snapped.

“Celia,” she whispered.

He was relieved by the fact that she was able to answer him. “We don’t have much time, Celia.” Deftly he stripped off the remains of her gown and pushed her arms through the sleeves of the discarded black shirt. She didn’t move as he fastened it over her na**d body. “You do everything I tell you. Understand?”

She looked at him with that blank stare. Cursing, he searched the room, found a half-empty bottle of rum, and brought it back to her. As he raised it to her lips, she recovered enough to protest and push it away. Griffin cupped his hand around the back of her head and brought the bottle close again. “Drink it, damn you, or I’ll pinch your nose shut and pour it down your throat.”