Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(15)

Griffin held the canteen out of reach and pulled her onto his lap to restrain her. “Slowly,” he said, half-annoyed, half-amused. “Lentement. Understand?”

“Oh, please,” Celia begged hoarsely, “it has been so long since I—just a little more—”

“In a minute.”

“But I need—”

“Hush. You don’t want a bellyache, do you?”

Celia stopped straining to reach the canteen and stared at his bearded face suspiciously, deciding that he was being deliberately cruel. The small amount of water she’d managed to swallow revived her. She felt new strength coursing through her body. “C-Captain Griffin, why are you doing this? Why are you taking me to New Orleans?”

“Perhaps I wish to be in the good graces of your family. It’s rare that a man finds himself in the position of being owed a favor by Maximilien Vallerand.”

Celia stared into his midnight-blue eyes. “Please,” she whispered. “Please. I-I have lost everything. I have nothing left…no hope, no husband, no future. You can at least tell me the truth. Of what value was it to you, to take me away from there? Why put yourself and your men at risk? Wh-why did you want me enough to…to kill…” She would have continued, but something in those intense blue eyes made her feel as if she were drowning. She had to look away in order to catch her breath.

“Perhaps I decided you were worth it,” he said in a voice too low for the others to hear. “Worth dozens of lives. Worth any risk at all. It’s been years since I’ve even touched a woman like you…a woman with soft white hands and the eyes of a child. Aye, that’s reason enough.”

Suddenly she was aware of how her breast was pressed against him. She was na**d underneath his shirt, and he must have been able to feel the shape of her body, the heat of her skin, through the soft fabric. Uneasily Celia tried to move. He would not permit it.

“There…there must be another reason,” she stammered.

“Even if there weren’t, I’d still have taken you from Legare.”

Mon Dieu, she thought, her heart beating wildly as she realized he was not going to let her go without demanding the use of her body as payment. She began to shake at the memory of his insistent mouth, the length of his powerful body crushing against her, the muscled thigh that had parted hers with such ease. Even if he tried to be gentle with her—and she doubted that he would—how could he keep from killing her?

“You’re trembling,” he observed. “Because you know I want you. But when I take you, ma petite, you’ll want me just as much.”

Celia was stiff with fear. She wanted to escape the whisper that sent nervous chills over her skin. She wanted to climb out of his arms and run far away from that mesmerizing gaze and the reach of those hands that could be so gentle and so deadly. But she was trapped with him on the pirogue. And without him she would have no chance of reaching New Orleans.

“Selfish pig,” she said unsteadily. “I do not want you, but you tell yourself that I do. It does not matter to you. It does not matter that I have just lost my husband.”

“That matters more than you could guess. But since he is dead, Madame Vallerand, your wifely virtue is of no consequence to anyone.” He handed her the canteen. She drank from it automatically, her thirst overpowering all other considerations. Once again he pulled it away from her after a few greedy gulps. “You have no sense of caution,” he said, smiling slightly. “That’s enough for now.”

This last was spoken in English, and Celia answered in kind. “I do not think enough is yet,” she said, her eyes on the canteen.

He did not answer, showed no intention of allowing her more, and she lapsed into a cowardly silence. Gradually the rhythm of the oars soothed her into a half-sleep. Twice her head bobbed against his good shoulder, and she jerked it back up, blinking rapidly. The third time she let it rest there, finding it too much of an effort to lift it again. Griffin offered no objections. “The other shoulder,” she said groggily. “It is bad, non?”

“No, not bad.”

With an incoherent murmur she settled against him, too exhausted to stay awake any longer.

*   *   *

The morning light awakened Celia from a dreamless sleep. Uncertain sunshine flickered through the trees overhead, illuminating a world unlike anything she had ever seen before. The pirogue was moving through a lush, gray-green swamp, curtained with long streamers of moss. The water was frosted with a delicate layer of vegetation upon which insects danced and scattered. Flowerlike ferns and clumps of cane lined the muddy banks. A heavy scent, green, fresh, and primitive, permeated the moist air.

There were cypress trees with staggeringly thick trunks that must have existed since the earth was created. Mudfish swam in between their half-submerged roots. Here in this mixture of woods and water, it was difficult to believe that somewhere there were paved streets and white-painted houses, drawing rooms with pianos, libraries filled with books and stately chairs. Civilization was another world away.

Slowly becoming aware that she was snuggled comfortably between Griffin’s thighs, her ear pressed against his steady heartbeat, Celia tried to push herself away. There was stabbing pain in her back, neck, shoulders, legs—in fact, everywhere in her body. She couldn’t suppress a moan of distress. One of Griffin’s large hands settled on the back of her neck, his long fingers kneading gently.