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

“I don’t want to be kind anymore. I want my wife.” His hands swept over her body, cupping her br**sts, pulling at the twisted fabric of her gown. “Show me, Celia,” he whispered against her neck. She shivered at the scratch of his unshaven jaw, and turned her mouth to his.

Suddenly there was a loud rapping on the cabin portal.

“Monsieur Vallerand! Monsieur!” a young midshipman called out, his fist hammering on the mahogany paneling. There was no mistaking the terror in his voice. Celia stiffened in alarm as Philippe leaped from the bed. Not bothering to put on his breeches or even a robe, Philippe opened the door a few inches. “What is it?” he asked tersely.

“Captain Tierney sent me to warn you…” the boy said, gulping for air. “American-made schooner in distress…We went to assist…They just hoisted the Cartagena flag.”

Before Philippe could utter a word the boy disappeared, shouting hoarsely. Beyond the door there was an explosion of noise and movement. “Boardaway!” someone was calling. “Boarders on the starboard bow!” Celia could hear the sound of gunfire and the clash of swords coming from the deck. The ship was under attack!

Startled, she lifted a hand to her throat, feeling her pulse thrash underneath her skin.

“Pirates,” she managed to say.

Philippe did not deny it.

Thoughts whirled through Celia’s mind. She had heard of the privateers who sailed against Spain with letters of marque from Cartagena. They prowled the waters of the Gulf, the Bahama Channel, and the Caribbean. She had heard the stories of their robbery and cruelty, how they tortured their victims, the horrible things they did to women. Fear rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard to keep it down. No, it can’t be real, she thought. It is just a nightmare…oh, let it be a nightmare!

Philippe was yanking on his breeches and boots and shrugging into a white shirt. “Get dressed,” he said shortly, and fumbled in a built-in rosewood cabinet for a brace of pistols.

Teeth chattering, Celia hopped from the bed to the floor, abandoning her modesty in favor of haste. Feverishly she searched through the trunk where some of her clothes were kept and found a blue damask gown. She nearly ripped her nightgown as she pulled it off, then yanked the damask over her body, not bothering with undergarments. Her pale silken hair flew in wild locks, falling over her face and neck, trailing down to her waist. While she searched for a ribbon to tie it back with, she heard bloodcurdling yells from above, and she quivered violently.

“How could this happen?” she heard herself asking. “How could Captain Tierney not know they were pirates? Why aren’t we firing any of the cannon? Why—”

“Too late for cannon fire. Apparently they’ve already boarded the ship.”

Philippe strode to her and took her hand, and Celia looked down as she felt the cold press of metal in her palm. He had given her a dueling pistol, a flintlock made of blackened iron! Slowly she raised her eyes to his.

There was a strange look on his face…alert, urgent, fearful. She supposed she must have appeared dazed, because he shook her gently, as if to bring her to attention. “Celia, listen to me. The gun will fire only once. If they come in here…you understand what you’re to do with it?”

She gave a slight nod, her breath rattling in her throat.

“Good girl,” Philippe murmured, and took her head in his hands, kissing her hard. She accepted the pressure of his lips docilely, still numbed by the realization that it was all really happening. It was too fast—there was no time to think.

“T-tell me it will be all right,” she stammered, clinging to the front of his shirt. “Philippe—”

He wrapped his arms around her, holding her to him. “Of course it will,” he said against her hair. “Don’t be afraid, Celia. I—” He stopped abruptly, giving her a crushing hug before releasing her. Stepping back, he turned to leave the cabin.

Silently his name formed on Celia’s lips. Philippe. As he walked away from her, the shadows in the companionway enveloped him in darkness. He did not look back. She was seized by a horrible premonition. “Mon Dieu, I’ll never see you again,” she whispered, and she felt her knees begin to wobble. Stumbling to the door, she bolted it with shaking hands, then backed into the corner of the room, the pistol cradled against her breast.

Chapter 1

Before ten minutes had passed the sounds of combat died away and hundreds of footsteps seemed to pound the deck. Celia remained in the cabin, longing to open the door and see what had happened. But all she could do was wait with terrified anticipation.

She stiffened with alarm as heavy feet walked the length of the companionway and the door rattled. “Locked,” a voice growled. Celia jumped as a blunt object crashed against the other side of the door, splintering the fine paneling. Swiftly she readied the gun to fire. Another sharp blow, and the hinges creaked in protest.

Celia used her palm to wipe at the cold sweat on her face. She raised the barrel of the pistol, pressing it to her temple. At the touch of the metal to her skin, thoughts raced through her mind. If Philippe had died, she would not want to live. And if she did not use the gun on herself now, she would face a horrifying fate at the hands of the sea bandits. But something inside rebelled at the thought of pulling the trigger. She took a deep breath and steadied her hands.

The door crashed open. Frozen, she stared at the two men who stood there, both swarthy and unkempt, their matted hair held back with kerchiefs, their faces sunburned and stubbled. The shorter of the two held a cutlass in his hand, while the other clasped a bloodstained boarding pike.