Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(17)

Aug leaped off the pirogue and secured it to a half-buried tree trunk on the bank. Groaning in relief, the men put down their oars and climbed off the vessel. Celia sat still, watching Griffin anxiously. He tied a small, flat leather pouch to his waist and hung a cutlass at his left side. “Hold that jug of whiskey,” he said. She picked it up, cradling it in her lap. He slid his arms under her knees and back and lifted her easily into his arms.

As soon as they saw her long blond hair, the rivermen gave wolf calls and lusty shouts of appreciation. Celia clutched Griffin’s neck in alarm while he carried her over the bank toward the tree trunk bridge. The men crowded around her. She flinched as rough hands brushed over her bare legs.

“This all the cargo ye brought, Cap’n sir?” one of the rivermen inquired.

“Finest little bit o’ cargo I ever seen!” another exclaimed gleefully.

Someone yanked at a lock of her hair, and she squeaked in surprise. Griffin stopped suddenly, his cold blue gaze sweeping over the eager men. A thin smile appeared, nearly hidden by his wiry beard. “The woman is my property. If any man touches her again, I’ll rip his privates off.”

The group chuckled heartily, none of them seeming to take offense. The insulting hands withdrew. Celia hid her face against Griffin’s hairy chest. “I think,” she said in a muffled voice, “that without you here, they would—”

“Yes,” Griffin said wryly. He set his foot on the creaking bridge. “Now, my charming bit of alligator bait, don’t look down. And for God’s sake don’t throw me off balance or we’ll both be up to our necks in mud.”

Alligators? Philippe had entertained her with horrifying stories about the creatures, saying they were part dragon, part lizard. They had long tails, big jaws, sharp teeth. Her eyes squeezed shut. “Do not drop me,” she whispered.

“After the trouble I’ve gone to getting you this far?” Griffin asked, and grinned. “Just don’t drop the whiskey.”

Celia didn’t dare breathe as she felt him advance step by step along the felled tree trunk. The rivermen followed them expertly, giving a few more hoots and grunts at the sight of her pale legs silhouetted against the dark green of the bayou.

Jumping from the bridge to the ground, Griffin approached a collection of ramshackle huts in a clearing. “An old Indian camp,” he said as Celia lifted her head and looked around curiously.

“What happened to them?” she asked.

“Driven away a long time ago. Too many traders and smugglers coming from the river.” He lowered her to the ground beside the entrance to a crude hut. “Aug,” he called out. “Step lively. We have only a few minutes.”

“A few minutes?” Celia repeated. “What are you going to do?”

“Get inside.” He pointed to the doorway. “And drink some of that whiskey.”

Her heart began to thump unpleasantly fast. “Why? Why are you calling Aug? Why—”

“Must I repeat myself?” he asked, his tone laced with soft menace.

Blanching, she crept into the hut. A pallet was rotting in the corner. Large holes in the ceiling and a crumbling wall allowed a measure of light and air to filter inside. With trembling hands Celia uncorked the jug and lifted it to her lips. The liquor was vile, the sharp, strong taste of it burning down to her stomach. Seating herself gingerly on a corner of the pallet, she waited. A fat-bellied, furry-legged spider wandered by, and she watched its progress silently.

“I see you have a visitor,” Griffin’s voice came from the tiny doorway, and he ducked his head as he came inside. His booted foot sent the unlucky spider hurtling away. “I’d have expected you to scream.”

Celia was tempted to tell him that at the moment she was far more afraid of two-legged creatures. “There were mice in the hold of Captain Legare’s ship,” she told him.

“Were there?” He knelt in front of her, ripping a ragged length of cloth in two. “Well, better to keep company with mice than service Legare’s crew.”

“Yes, that is true,” she agreed fervently, then inched backward as he reached for her ankle.

“Be still.” Griffin looked at the swollen underside of her foot, realizing how acutely painful it must be. She had not complained once. His gaze moved up to her face, while he felt a twinge of admiration. Given all the terror, grief, and abuse she had suffered during the past two days, and the fact that her husband had just been murdered, she was remarkably self-possessed. Many women would have collapsed under the strain. But it seemed there was iron beneath her vulnerable exterior.

Celia bit her lip as his thumb brushed lightly over her blistered heel. “Poor little girl,” he said, moistening the cloth with a splash of whiskey. His voice was gentle, caressing. She frowned in confusion, for all of a sudden he sounded like Philippe.

“What are you going to—” She yelped in pain as he probed at a sand-encrusted cut. “Ah, mon Dieu,” she gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle another cry.

“Scream if you like,” he said. “It won’t bother anyone.”

Her foot jerked out of his grasp as he touched the cloth to it again. She felt the pain spear through her body until even her teeth ached. “Please, it is not necessary—”

“You’ll be a hell of an inconvenience if your feet start to fester. Hold still.”