Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(14)



“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 bu**ocks. 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.

Lisa Kleypas's Books