Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(19)

“Stop sniveling, you little fool,” he said in exasperation. “God knows why relieving yourself is a matter of such delicacy.”

He snapped at her again when she didn’t move fast enough to suit him. When the hem of the wrinkled black shirt had ridden up her thighs, he inquired sarcastically if she desired to be raped by every member of the crew, beginning with himself. At his bidding, she seated herself in the pirogue, staying as far away from him as possible. After exchanging a few parting words with Aug, Griffin clapped him on the back and boarded the vessel.

Employing oars and long poles, the new crew guided the pirogue along the sluggish bayou. In spite of their earlier insolence, the men quickly became accustomed to Celia’s presence, and they made no overtures to her. She found her attention captured by the exotic scenery: dense foliage and clusters of amethyst irises, muddy water filled with turtles, thick-whiskered muskrat feeding on cattail roots. The insects seemed to plague her more than they did the others, and she slapped at the flies and mosquitoes irritably. By the end of the day, she decided she had never felt so grimy and uncomfortable.

Night brought coolness with it, and Celia began to blink sleepily, wondering if the journey would ever come to an end. The pirogue passed through the last humid stretch of the bayou and through its head, into a wide, cool lake. The light of a full moon glittered over the dark water.

Griffin was faced with a decision as the vessel surged across the rippled surface of the lake. If he pressed on through the night, he would have Celia at the Vallerand plantation in a matter of hours. They could cross the lake, travel by horseback to the Mississippi River, find someone to ferry them across, and make a short trip through the Bayou St. John. Legare was probably at their heels already. It would be best to deliver Celia to the Vallerands quickly, and then disappear into the night.

He looked at Celia. She sat a few feet away from him, huddled in a ball of misery, resting her head and arms in her lap. The disheveled cloud of hair obscured her face. Her neck was streaked with sweat and dirt. The black shirt was pulled closely over her body, but he knew that underneath it were bony knees and h*ps as slim as a boy’s. Wryly he wondered how she could have inspired such lust earlier.

She sat up and looked straight ahead, clasping her hands in her lap like a prim little girl. Griffin was puzzled by the sight of her. She couldn’t possibly be the same creature who wrapped herself around him like a second skin when he kissed her. Had he imagined the warm silken mouth, the seductive undulation of her body against his…Had he been so exhilarated by a mixture of bloodlust and danger that he had felt a response she hadn’t given?

Celia rested her chin on her hands and closed her eyes. She was about to collapse from exhaustion. Scowling, Griffin decided they would rest for the night. The sleep would do them both good, and a few more hours would make little difference to his plans. As for the debt he had threatened to claim from Celia, he’d said that merely to torment her. She had been correct earlier. He would not force himself on a woman, certainly not one brittle enough to break in two if he touched her. She was in no danger from him.

At Griffin’s command the crew pulled to shore following a route they knew well. Smuggling was their business, and no one was as familiar with the lakes and bayous near New Orleans as they. The pirogue touched ground. Two of the men clambered out to hold the vessel fast while its passengers disembarked. Celia opened her eyes and stared at Griffin blearily. She did not appear to understand his order to leave the vessel. He spoke to her sharply and took her upper arm, dragging her onto the marshy shore. Giving a short nod to the rivermen, he headed into the woods.

“Where are we going?” she asked, stumbling beside him.

“Keep pace with me,” he said curtly.

Celia tried to hold her tongue, but after a minute of walking her resentful words burst forth. “How far must we go? Five miles? Ten? I am not wearing shoes! And you have boots, and long legs, and my feet are…” She fell silent with surprise as he pulled her into a small clearing that held a lean-to house and a paddock and stable.

With no attempt at subterfuge, Griffin strode to the dwelling and banged on the rickety door. “Nettle,” he said gruffly. “Nettle, get out here and saddle a horse.”

There was an apprehensive voice from inside. “Captain? Captain Griffin?”

“Aye, I’ll take Lebrun tonight. Saddle him, and be quick about it.”

A slim, mousy man with a balding head appeared. He looked first at Griffin and then at Celia. He was clearly shocked at the sight of a woman dressed in only a shirt.

“Nettle,” Griffin said abruptly, “do you have another pair of breeches?”

“Of…of…yes, I do, Captain.”

“My companion has need of some additional clothes. And bring food if you have any.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hurriedly Nettle darted into the house, emerged with a small sack, and handed it to Griffin, his gaze averted from Celia. Without a word he rushed to the stable. Griffin handed Celia a pair of worn but clean breeches.

“He works for you?” Celia murmured, yanking on the breeches gratefully.

“In a way.”

“This is his horse you are taking?”

“It’s my own horse,” he said in a voice that forbade further questions.

In a remarkably short time Nettle led a magnificent chestnut horse with a white forehead over to them. The large horse, at least sixteen hands high, seemed nothing but a bundle of nervous energy.