Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(16)

“Don’t,” she said groggily, her natural sense of modesty rebelling against the prospect of being handled so familiarly, especially in front of others. Four oarsmen faced away from her, but Aug and two men at rest were seated in the stern of the craft. No detail escaped their notice.

Ignoring her protest, Griffin moved down to her shoulders, massaging the tense, strained muscles. Celia closed her eyes in resignation. There was no use in objecting. And his hands were blissfully soothing, drawing out the aches and leaving her muscles tingling. His thumbs and the pads of his fingers worked in the hollows of her spine, back up her neck, then across her shoulders to her upper arms. Involuntarily she leaned into his hands, which seemed to know exactly how and where to touch her.

Griffin looked across the boat at Aug’s impassive face. “What of the next relay?” he asked, kneading the soft muscles beneath Celia’s prominent shoulder blades.

Aug replied in a dialect Celia could not quite follow. It was derived from French, but mingled with slurring words she didn’t understand.

“That’s good,” Griffin said, moving Celia off his lap. “We should make as much distance as possible today. Otherwise Legare may catch up to us by nightfall.”

Rather sorry that the massage had ended, Celia looked up at the man beside her. “How long will it take to reach New Orleans from here?”

“Hopefully before dawn tomorrow.”

“How do you know Legare is—” she began to ask. She stopped as she saw his face in direct sunlight for the first time. Those intense sapphire eyes tinged with violet, framed with spiky black lashes. She felt herself turn pale.

“What is it?” Griffin asked sharply.

“Your eyes…they are the same as my…my husband’s, and—”

His expression turned forbidding. She saw that she had displeased him to no small degree. “Many people have blue eyes,” he said.

“But not like—”

“I’ve no patience for a woman’s chattering,” he interrupted, and moved to one of the idle oars. Wincing at the nagging pain in his wounded shoulder, he began to row. The muscles of his chest and arms bulged as he pulled at the oar. Celia continued to stare at him, wondering what he looked like without the long, shaggy hair and rough beard.

“Monsieur,” she said timidly, having to repeat herself before he would look at her. “Monsieur. I am very much hungry.”

Amusement flickered in Griffin’s eyes at her faltering English. He nodded in the direction of a worn pouch a few feet away from her. “Look in there.”

Spying the canteen next to the pouch, Celia reached for the water also. She darted a cautious glance at Griffin, her fingers tightening on the canteen. “And very much thirsty,” she said.

“Then have at it,” he said ingraciously.

Eagerly she rummaged through the pouch, finding it full of hard, crunchy biscuits and strips of dried meat. The first bite of biscuit crumbled in her mouth, chalky and flavorless. She washed it down with a swig of tepid water. Her small white teeth bore into the dried meat, which required several minutes of concentrated chewing.

When the panic had died away and her stomach was comfortably full, Celia placed the pouch and canteen back where she had found them. Now that her most pressing needs were satisfied, she twisted to look at the smarting soles of her feet. Her attention was diverted by Griffin’s cutting voice. “I’ll see to those soon. In the meanwhile do what you can to keep yourself covered.”

Celia flushed, yanking down the hem of the black shirt. Watching Griffin as he rowed, she wondered who he was and where he had come from. He looked like nothing more than a dirty backwoodsman, but his French was perfectly accented, spoken as if he were an aristocrat. He had the muscled torso of a laborer, a seaman, but his eyes contained keen intelligence, and she had the feeling that he had once known far better circumstances than these. He was a powerful man—a crew of pirates would not follow him unless he were greatly feared and respected—and yet he had risked his life for the sake of a helpless woman. Why?

The sun climbed higher, and the pirogue traveled farther down the quiet bayou to a place where it ended at a tiny island and branched off into several smaller courses. An ancient tree trunk bridge crossed one of the streams. Celia looked at the men in the pirogue closely, sensing anticipation in the atmosphere. They were all quiet as the vessel drifted toward the right bank.

The chittering whistle of a bird interrupted the silence. Celia frowned curiously as Griffin whistled back in a like manner. She was startled to see movement in the woods, swarthy faces appearing in the midst of the greenery, muskets and axes clutched in filthy hands. The men in the pirogue seemed to recognize them.

“Our next crew,” Griffin said to Celia.

“They are friends of us?” she asked doubtfully, gazing at the motley bunch.

“Not exactly,” he said dryly. “Rivermen owe their allegiance to no one. But I pay them to carry contraband and luxury items through the lakes to the river.”

“Why cannot this crew row us?”

“It’s just possible they are tired, enfant.”

One of the oarsmen looked up at her and grinned. “Tired, sure mebbe, but I’d row ye to China if ye wanted, ma’am!”

Not understanding but deciding the comment was friendly, Celia smiled faintly.