Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(113)

As he continued, Celia stopped listening to his actual words and concentrated on the soothing sound of his voice. She didn’t care about all the reasons that there was no danger. She just couldn’t help remembering the last time she had sailed across the ocean with a new husband! Philippe had assured her with just as much conviction that it would be safe. Her anxiety lessened but did not entirely disappear. There were times when the creaking of the ship or some unexpected noise would cause her heart to throb with terror.

She heartily disliked being at sea, but she tried to conceal it from Justin, for he loved it. He loved the waves and the wind, even the storms. The strain of keeping her fear inside made her irritable and sharp-tongued.

Patiently Justin coaxed her on deck and stood with her at the rail, his arms braced around her until she stopped flinching with each crash of the waves against the hull. He took her around the ship and explained how everything worked, from the chain pumps to the spindle that turned the capstans. After that she still couldn’t profess any great enjoyment of the journey, but at least it was tolerable.

Once they had reached Le Havre and traveled to Paris, everything became wonderful. It was summer and France was lovely, the sky clear and luminous. Celia was excited to see her father, brothers, and sisters again. She had written letters to prepare them for the fact that although Philippe was indeed alive, she was now married to his brother. She had received a torrent of shocked, disapproving, and disbelieving replies.

Now that she had introduced Justin to the Verités she was amused by their reactions. Her boisterous family actually seemed to find him intimidating. She had to admit that even dressed in the most elegant and conservative clothes, Justin still looked vaguely…well, piratical. The Verités were a pragmatic family who did not like mysteries and unanswered questions. Usually they could dissect a stranger inside a quarter of an hour. But Justin’s eyes, bluer than sea or sky, seemed to mock their indelicate prying.

By the time they left Paris, Celia’s sisters were making calf-eyes at Justin, and her brothers were repeating tales of his adventures to their friends. Her father was not so easily convinced of her new husband’s merits, but after conducting a long conversation with Justin in private, he treated him with coolness rather than open disapproval. Ruefully Celia reflected that nothing would ever please her father quite like having a doctor for a son-in-law, especially one he himself had introduced to his daughter.

When Justin expressed a desire to visit the shipyards and port in Marseilles, they set out from Paris at once. Now they had been in the port city for eight weeks, each one more blissful than the last. For the past few days Justin had spent the mornings in town, answering Celia’s questions evasively. She knew he was planning something, and she speculated idly on what it could be.

A shadow blocked the sun on her closed eyelids, and she looked up with a smile. Justin was there in trousers and bare feet, and a half-open shirt. The breeze stirred his dark hair. Lowering his long body beside her, he swept his gaze over her appreciatively.

“You look like a little brioche,” he murmured, “warm and golden, and very tasty. I think I’ll take a bite out of you.”

He leaned over and nipped at her sun-warmed throat, making her fall back and giggle. Disregarding propriety, she had ventured out many times without long sleeves, gloves, bonnets, and frilly parasols, and her milk-white skin had turned a creamy golden color. Her hair, already pale, had lightened to the most brilliant shade of sunlight. Fashionable society decreed that women should shield themselves from the sun, but Celia did not care. There was only Justin to please.

The effect of her glittering hair and golden skin was striking. When Justin took her to the outdoor cafés in the center of town, men literally came off the streets to approach their table, even under Justin’s repressive glare. Frenchman appreciated women as much as they did wine, and considered themselves connoisseurs of both.

Celia protested breathlessly as his hand slipped inside her bodice, “Don’t, someone will see—”

“The beach is deserted,” he returned, kissing her throat. “And if someone does happen along, he’ll be French and turn a blind eye to us. The French forgive lovers anything.”

“We are not lovers, we are married, and…” She sighed in pleasure as his fingers curved over her na**d breast. “Justin…” she said weakly.

“All right, I’ll defer to your modesty, chérie. For now.” He sat up, pulling her between his thighs so that they both sat facing the water.

She settled her back against his chest with a contented wriggle. “Do not let your hands stray,” she warned.

“I’ll try. Pauvre chérie, a forbearing wife married to a lecherous wolf—”

“Recently an abandoned wife,” she said.

“Ah. I wondered how many days would pass before you remarked on my absences. Almost a week. You’ve been most tolerant.”

“Well?”

Justin smiled and watched the ebb and flow of the waves, the silvery sheets of water that spread almost to their feet. He sidestepped her question with one of his own. “You like Marseilles, don’t you?”

“Naturellement. It is a lovely place, and the people are charming.”

“I’ve been considering…” He paused and looked down at the top of her head. “Do you like it enough to stay for a while?”