Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(20)

“I’ll return tomorrow,” Griffin said to Nettle.

“Yes, sir.”

Griffin took the horse’s reins, inserted a foot in the stirrup, and swung himself into the saddle with ease. He stretched an arm down to Celia. “Take hold.”

Gingerly she grasped his arm with both hands, and he caught her frail wrist, pulling her up to sit sideways in front of him. The chestnut pranced uneasily at the added weight. Celia grabbed for some means of support, her hands searching wildly over Griffin’s thighs, waist, and arms.

His breath hissed through his teeth, and he clamped an arm around her, nearly cutting her in two. “Don’t move,” he said, sounding oddly strained. “Don’t touch anything.”

“I-is something wrong?”

Griffin considered telling her yes, something was very wrong, he was a hair’s breadth away from throwing her on the ground and falling on her in a frenzy of lust. The feel of her against him was agony. There was a demanding ache in his loins. His hands itched to roam over her br**sts, down her waist, between her thighs. As his mind searched for a subject to distract it from its present course, his gaze happened to fall on Nettle, who was staring at them bemusedly.

“Goodbye, Nettle,” Griffin said meaningfully. Finding himself to be the recipient of an intimidating glare, Nettle wandered back to the house.

Celia felt an icy-hot shock as Griffin’s hand closed over her knee. Blushing violently, she allowed him to draw her leg over the saddle until she was straddling the horse as a man would. Aware of her trembling, he asked her brusquely if she was afraid of horses.

“Yes,” she lied. “A-a little, yes.” She could not tell him that the tremors running through her body had nothing to do with the horse, and everything to do with the touch of his hand. She didn’t understand why it affected her so.

The forward lunge of the horse caused her to fall back against Griffin’s chest, and she stayed there, held in place by his arm. They rode so swiftly it seemed they were flying. Griffin seemed to Celia to be well-acquainted with the forest, since it was dark and he clearly had no difficulty finding his way. Night birds flew from their roosts in alarm as the horse passed by. The foliage became dense, and Griffin was forced to slow down.

“Are we going to travel all night?” Celia murmured.

“We’re going somewhere to rest a few hours.”

“Indian huts again?”

Griffin half-smiled. “A deserted woodcutter’s cottage. I use it now and then when I travel to New Orleans along this route.”

“What happened to the woodcutter?”

“He moved to a new place after I paid him for the property.” He laughed softly. “I suppose you think I did away with him.”

“Why should I not think that?”

“Why indeed,” he said dryly.

“Captain Griffin, will you tell me why you are taking me to the Vallerands?”

“Not now.”

“But why—”

“At the moment I don’t feel like explaining.”

For the thousandth time Celia wondered who he really was. “Does everyone call you Captain Griffin?”

“I use other names, depending on the situation.”

“Your real name is French, oui?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because of the way you speak. Your parents must have been French.”

“Creole,” he said quietly. “Would you like to know my first name?”

She nodded, her head still resting on his shoulder.

“Justin.”

“Justin,” she repeated softly.

“Does it mean anything to you?”

“No.”

“I didn’t expect it to,” he said, a puzzling note of irony in his voice.

The woods opened up before them, displaying a view of a glistening lake. A small cottage nearby was half-concealed by pine trees. Griffin reined in the horse, dismounted, and reached up for Celia. She put her hands on his broad shoulders, feeling them flex as he lifted her from the saddle and lowered her to the ground. He let go of her immediately and strode to the cottage. The wooden door was swollen from the humid air, and it took a hard shove to open it.

“Here.” He gave her the sack. “Go inside. Try to find some candles. I’ll see to the horse.”

Squinting in the darkness, Celia ventured into the cottage. The floor creaked underneath her feet. Seeing the outline of a window covered with heavy batten blinds, she crept toward it, her ears pricked for the sounds of rodents or any other creatures who might have taken refuge there. The blinds opened with a squeak, allowing a flood of moonlight into the room. Celia drew the curtain of coarse netting across the open window and turned to look at her surroundings. There was little furniture in the cottage, only a battered trunk, a tiny rope bed in the corner, a stove, and a table and two chairs.

Slowly she went to the trunk and lifted the lid, searching through its contents. There were a worn blanket, an ax, a mallet, tin cups, and various other articles. A breeze from the window stirred her hair, and she lifted her face appreciatively, relishing the cool air on her skin. It was quiet…so quiet.

Without warning, a strange coldness crept up inside her, a feeling that would not subside. Standing up, she wrapped her shaking arms around her middle. There was no reason to be afraid, she told herself. Only children were frightened of the dark. But the room was filled with a menace that hovered around her. It was the first time she’d been alone since she had been locked in the hold of the ship. Being alone in the darkness had suddenly become her greatest terror. She was too afraid to move. The sack dropped from her nerveless hands.