Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(29)

While the men conversed in soft tones clearly meant to elude her, Celia rested her hands on the wooden railing of the flatboat and stared into the sluggish water. In one of his letters Philippe had described the muddy river to her. He had said that some claimed the silt-filled water was healthier to drink than clear. Viewing the amber depths skeptically, she decided it could not be true.

Clusters of woods and hardy trees reached up toward a deep turquoise sky rippled with hazy clouds. Turtles swam near the banks of the river, congregating around the exposed roots of a tree that grew half-in, half-out of the water. As she looked downriver she saw a smudge on the horizon that might be the distant city of New Orleans.

Vessels from all over the world would be crowded at the docks there, while the quay would undoubtedly be filled with the colorful and motley mixture of people Philippe had written about. Celia could hardly believe she had finally reached the place she had dreamed of for so long. But there was no feeling of anticipation, no excitement—only emptiness inside. She had broken with her past, and lost her future.

“It will be different from France,” she heard a deep voice from behind her.

How was it that Griffin seemed to read her thoughts? “Yes, I know,” she replied.

“The people here are rougher than those you left behind. Even the most refined Creoles have an earthiness—at times a wildness—you may find difficult to become accustomed to.”

“Cela ne fait rien,” she said. “It does not matter. I will stay here as long as the Vallerands allow. I have no wish to return to France.” She had no doubt her father and her family would welcome her back, but after all that had happened to her, she could not resume the life she had once led.

Griffin came to stand beside her, aware of the way she flinched at his nearness. “You’ll do well here,” he said flatly.

“Why do you say that?”

“Once the proper mourning period is observed, you’ll be the most desirable catch in New Orleans. An attractive French widow, relatively young, having inherited a considerable fortune—aye, you’ll be targeted by every eligible man from the Vieux Carré to the American District.”

“I will never marry again.”

“Why not?”

“I was not meant to be anyone’s wife.”

He shrugged lazily. “Perhaps. I know I wasn’t meant to be anyone’s husband. I’ve always thought of marriage as an unnatural arrangement.”

“Unnatural?”

“No one can remain faithful to another for life. There isn’t a woman alive I wouldn’t grow tired of sooner or later.”

“Not all men feel as you do.”

“Even in the best of marriages one partner or the other is eventually tempted to stray.”

“You’re wrong,” she said coolly. “No one on earth could have tempted Philippe to stray from me. And I would never have…” Suddenly she stopped, her heart beginning to pound, her hands balling into fists as the truth hit her. She had betrayed Philippe. Last night all her principles of honor and fidelity had been forgotten. Agonizing shame welled up inside her. Although Philippe was dead, she felt no less an adulteress.

Griffin knew exactly what she was thinking. He was troubled by the sudden urge to take her in his arms and comfort her. It was good that he would soon be rid of her—he didn’t like the side of himself that she seemed to bring out. “Don’t blame yourself for last night,” he said with callous lightness. “It was enjoyable, but hardly worth the significance you attach to it.”

As the meaning of his words sank in, Celia’s spine went rigid. Never had she hated another human being as she did him! “It was not enjoyable,” she said, glaring at him from underneath the brim of her hat.

“No?” He smiled, finding an unexpected pleasure in provoking her. “What was it, then?”

Her face reddened, and she took several breaths in an effort to calm herself. Hot, insulting words rose to her lips. She wanted to tell him how revolting he was, how vile the memory of last night was. But as she looked at his mocking face, she could not speak. His eyes were such a pure, stabbing blue—deeper than the sky or sea. She remembered the gleam of them in the darkness, the sound of his low voice in her ear, the brush of his beard on her br**sts. She remembered the muscled weight of his body on hers, and the way his hard flesh had filled her so intimately. Underneath the coarse shirt her ni**les ached, and she bit her inner lip in horror. What had he done to her? How could she stop this wanton craving he had awakened?

Seeing her distress, Griffin willed himself to keep his hands at his sides, when all he wanted was to touch her, pull her h*ps to his, kiss her hungrily. It was then that he realized how dangerous she was. He had to keep his wits about him in New Orleans. There was a price on his head, and if anyone discovered he was there, it would mean certain death. The thought helped to clear his mind. Only a little longer until they reached the Vallerand plantation, and he would be able to wash his hands of her.

“You’re a distracting wench,” he observed, idly flicking the brim of her hat with his finger. “Dressed like a woman, you’d be a sight to behold…all perfumed and powdered, dressed in silk and ribbons. I’d like to see that.”

There was a faintly teasing note in his voice that struck a chord of recognition in her. Bewildered, she continued to stare at him, wiping the sweat from her palms on the sleeves of her shirt. “I have just realized something, Captain Griffin,” she said. She concentrated on his bearded face. “Not only are your eyes the same color as Philippe’s, but your brows are the same shape. One is naturally arched a little higher than the other.”