Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(23)

She swallowed hard, beginning to regain her wits. “Why?”

“It was a practice he began years ago, when—”

“No,” she interrupted. “Why would you care if Philippe were alive?”

There was a long, taut silence. “I’ll tell you when we reach New Orleans.”

“Why not now? Why does it have to be a mystery? What does it matter if I reach safety or not?” She began to cry brokenly. “You’re no less guilty th-than the men who killed him,” she said through her raw, angry sobbing. “You’re no better than they! You’ve killed before, many times. His blood is on your hands as much as theirs!”

Even in her torment, she sensed she had somehow hurt Griffin. The arms around her withdrew, and he stood up from the bed, walking away. The shock of aloneness and encroaching darkness caused something inside her to shatter. She had to escape from the demons howling around her, run, find a place to hide. Wildly she sprang from the bed and stumbled to the door, tearing at it until it was open. But Griffin’s arm came around her waist before she could slip outside. A panicked scream burst from her lips, and she clawed at him ferociously.

“Stop it, damn you!” He shook her slight frame. “Stop it!”

“No…let me go…Philippe!”

Griffin raised his hand to slap her, unable to think of any other way to stem her rising hysteria.

“No,” she sobbed, collapsing against him.

Griffin’s hand lowered. He stood there, breathing hard, looking down at her small, cowering figure. Her face was hot against his chest, her closed fists pressing hard on his shoulders. Bleakly he realized he would rather confront a shipboard battle than this frail slip of a woman—he could face danger, death, far more easily than he could deal with her tears. She needed comfort, kindness, things he was incapable of giving anyone.

Fear had made her spine grow rigid and her teeth chatter. The roots of her hair were wet, and her skin was clammy. He held her against his warm body, easily taking her weight. She felt like a child in his arms, small and slight. But she was no child, and he was uncomfortably aware of the texture and scent of her. The sight of her na**d on André Legare’s bed was still fresh in his memory. His pulse raced at the thought. He had fought for Celia Vallerand, claimed her. It was his right to take her. But some remaining shred of civilized feeling stirred within him, reminding him that she was a defenseless woman.

Celia wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I had a gun wh-when the ship was taken. I was going to kill myself before they…but I-I didn’t. I was a coward. If I had another chance, it would be different. I wish I had died with Philippe.”

“No,” Griffin said, brushing at her wet cheeks with his thumbs.

“I should have died,” she whispered with scalding intensity, her eyes streaming with tears.

He bent down and picked her up, carrying her to the bed. She clung to him and cried helplessly, giving vent to the sorrow and fear that had gathered inside her since Philippe’s death. Silently Griffin set her down and leaned over her, his hand gliding over her hair, her shoulders, the back of her neck. Her body was light and delicate underneath his palm. Celia’s crying finally dissolved into soft hiccups, and she wiped her face with a handful of the shirt, feeling drained.

“My head hurts,” she said in a thin voice.

“Don’t talk.”

Surprised by the trace of kindness in his tone, Celia glanced up at him. He was so quiet, so self-controlled, it seemed impossible that he was the same man who had savagely killed André Legare right before her eyes.

“I did not mean what I said to you,” she whispered. “About his blood on your hands—”

“You meant it. Don’t be a coward.”

Celia hesitated and nodded slightly. He was right; it was better to be truthful. She could not deny she was revolted by what he was—a thief, an outlaw, a murderer. “But you helped me,” she said in confusion. “I do not understand why. You must want something from the Vallerands, or…perhaps you owe something to them. What is it?”

Her hand seemed to burn. Unconsciously she had placed it on his chest. She could feel the frighteningly strong thud of his heart, the heat that radiated from his skin. Pulling her hand away, she closed her fist, but her palm still tingled from his vital pulse.

Griffin flinched as if he had been touched by a branding iron. The feel of her in his arms was too much. He tried to call forth what little compassion and honor he still possessed, but he could not force himself to let her go. Never in his life had he wanted anything as much as he wanted her. “I’m in no one’s debt,” he said thickly. “But you owe me something.”

There was no mistaking his meaning. Celia’s heart gave a frightened leap. “When we r-reach New Orleans,” she stammered, “Monsieur Vallerand will give you a reward for saving my life.”

“I want it now.” His voice was harsh and strained.

“I have no money—”

“It’s not money I want.”

She made a sudden bolt out of his lap, trying to crawl off the bed. His arms became bands of steel that locked around her chest and hips.

“No,” she gasped.

The bristle of his beard scratched the back of her neck, the velvet heat of his mouth rubbed over the top of her spine. Celia gave a low cry. His hot breath roamed over her neck, and hair, sinking into her shirt.