Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(31)

Griffin came back to retrieve her, sliding his arm around her narrow waist. He frowned as he felt the tremors running through her body. “I feel compelled to point out,” he said casually, “that if you had agreed to become my mistress, you never would have had to set foot in a swamp again.” When she gave no sign that she had heard him, he continued talking in that same light manner. “There’s no danger here. I roved through this territory often when I was a boy.” He paused, considering her hate-filled eyes thoughtfully. “I can’t risk untying you. There’s a chance we may pass someone on the bayou. With the price on my head, I have to keep you quiet.”

He lowered her into the pirogue, settled in the seat facing hers, and used one of the oars to push them away from the sodden bank. “Sit still,” he said, twisting to see what was behind them.

She huddled as low as possible, her nerves twitching. Gigantic frogs hopped away at their approach. A water moccasin moved sinuously through the water. She kept her eyes on the interior of the boat, stifling a distressed moan. Griffin rowed rhythmically and tirelessly, only slowing their pace when it was necessary to maneuver the boat past rushes and fallen logs. There were times when the water was only a foot deep, the soft mud underneath pulling at the oar.

As Griffin worked steadily, the muscles of his great arms flexed, and the flat surface of his stomach tensed. Occasionally mosquitoes and other tiny predators descended on his gleaming brown skin, but he seemed not to notice them. Celia’s gaze was unwillingly drawn to him. He would frighten anyone with that savage body and wild beard and hair. Ironically she recalled the fairy tales she had pored over as a little girl, of princes and chivalrous knights rescuing young maidens from beastly ogres. Although Griffin had rescued her, he resembled an ogre, not a prince.

Closing her eyes, she thought with melancholy of Philippe’s face, handsome and utterly masculine. His mouth had been pleasingly wide and expressive, one moment serious, the next curved with a teasing smile. His jaw, so strong and cleanly cut, his nose straight and perfect. She could almost feel his short, shiny dark hair sliding through her fingers, and the brush of his shaven cheek against hers. She could almost hear him whisper tenderly that he loved her. What a fool she had been not to have made love with Philippe. Now what should have belonged only to her husband had been taken by a brutal stranger who had no respect for her innocence or what it had meant to her.

Griffin seemed to catch sight of something in the distance. Celia followed his gaze and saw a flicker of movement in the quiet green bayou. Griffin turned back to her, his expression cold. “A flatboat coming this way,” he said. “Keep your head down. And don’t make a sound.”

She met his gaze defiantly. She could make trouble for him, if only by causing enough of a disturbance that the passersby might decide to investigate. If they saw that she was bound and gagged, they might intervene. Surely they would be glad to collect a bounty for a notorious pirate captain.

“You little fool,” Griffin muttered. “They wouldn’t help you. And once they realized you’re a woman…put your damn head down.”

Slowly she obeyed, allowing the hat to shield her face from the view of others.

Griffin continued to row while the other boat passed them at a distance of close to thirty feet. There were two men aboard, obviously smugglers, operating a flatboat that was little more than a glorified raft. A coarse blanket covered a low stack of boxes. The men appeared to be unaware of Griffin, but he knew that was not the case. They were Kaintocks from up the river, rough backwoodsmen who transported both legal and contraband goods between New Orleans and Louisville. Although Kaintocks were usually uneducated, Griffin knew of no better riflemen. They had to be superb shots in order to protect themselves from bands of cunning river pirates who would rob and slaughter them without mercy.

Celia did not look up when she heard one of the smugglers send a greeting across the water. The language he used sounded vaguely like English, but it had a mangled, nasal quality that distorted the words beyond her comprehension. Griffin replied in a like manner, his voice emotionless. Nothing else was said, and each vessel continued on its way. Finally Celia dared to lift her head and breathe in relief.

Griffin was watching her keenly, his eyes like sapphires. “It won’t be long,” he said.

Not long…and the waking nightmare of the past days would come to an end. Celia wished her hands were free so she could rub her aching forehead. It was only now that she dared to allow herself to believe she would be delivered more or less safely to Philippe’s family. The thought brought a treacherous pain to her throat. She longed to share her grief with decent, kind people who would mourn Philippe as she did. She wondered if she would ever feel secure again, if she would be able to find a quiet life that would afford her a measure of peace.

She watched Griffin, who devoted his full concentration to rowing. Her blond brows knitted together. If he were related to the Vallerands, she thought, it could not be closely. They were a wealthy family, and they would have provided one of their own with a fine upbringing and an education that would steer him toward some gentlemanly occupation. He was an intelligent man—he certainly would not have become a filthy brigand had there been another choice for him.

The warmth of sunlight heated the back of her shirt. Surprised, Celia looked up and saw that the dense overhang of trees had thinned out. The water had deepened into a channel with distinct banks, while the lush vegetation and debris of the swamp had obviously been cleared by human hands. The pirogue moved along the east bank of the bayou. Celia stared over the fringe of wild grasses and between the cypress and willow trees. Then her gaze was riveted on the outline of a cluster of buildings that could only be a plantation.