Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(33)

The red-haired woman dropped the spoon she was holding. “Justin,” she breathed, her hazel eyes dilating. “Is it you? I cannot believe—” She broke off and turned to the lean, dignified woman with iron-gray hair. “Noeline, go find Max. Tell him to come quickly.” Noeline departed with a murmured assent.

Celia shrank back into a corner, watching in confusion as Lysette descended on Griffin like a small storm, scolding tearfully and throwing her arms around him. “For so long we’ve wondered what happened, why you never…Mon Dieu, you don’t look like yourself…you…” She stopped and peered into his dark face. “You know about Philippe—I can see it in your eyes.”

“Yes, I know,” Griffin said. Gently he extricated himself from Lysette’s grasp. She was the only woman in the world he had any respect and affection for. Even so, he did not like to be touched. Not by anyone. Brusquely he gestured to Celia “Belle-mère…this is Philippe’s wife.”

His statement was met with shocked silence. “It can’t be,” Lysette said. “Philippe’s wife was with him on the merchant ship, and—”

“She was taken to Crow’s Island by the men who captured the ship. I happened to be there at the time.”

“Justin, is there any chance Philippe—”

“No chance,” he said huskily.

Lysette nodded sorrowfully and turned to study Celia’s strained face. “My poor dear,” she said with compassion. “I can only imagine what you must have gone through.” When Celia did not speak, Lysette turned to Griffin questioningly.

“Use French,” he said. “Her English isn’t good.”

Celia passed a trembling hand over her moist forehead. The hot, sweet air in the kitchen filled her nostrils. She felt dizzy as she stared at Griffin. “Why did you call her belle-mère?” she asked in a faltering voice.

Lysette threw Griffin a sharp look. “Justin,” she said in French, “you didn’t tell her who you are?”

He shrugged. “The less she knew the better.”

“Of course,” Lysette said with a scowl, and turned back to Celia. “He’s made a lifelong habit of trusting no one, least of all women. The reason he calls me belle-mère is that I am his stepmother. Justin and Philippe are—were—brothers. Twins, in fact.”

Celia shook her head dazedly. “No.”

“Here, come sit down in this chair, you look pale—”

“No!” Celia fought off the gentle hands, feeling as if she had just been hit in the stomach. She leaned against the wall, staring at Griffin’s implacable face. “Philippe did not have a brother. He never mentioned one, never—”

“It’s safer—not to mention more convenient—for them to ignore my existence,” Griffin said.

Lysette sputtered with indignation. “Perhaps if you did not disappear for six years at a time we would find it easier to include you in the family!”

“Five years,” he corrected.

Celia continued to stare at Griffin. “If you were truly Philippe’s brother, you…you would not be an outlaw. A pirate.” She gave the last word a loathing emphasis. “And you are not Philippe’s twin, because he was only twenty-five, and you…” Confused, she fell silent. She had assumed he was at least in his thirties. Oh God, might he bear some resemblance to Philippe underneath all that hair and beard? The eyes were the same. She put her hand over her mouth, feeling ill.

“I’m older than Philippe by about five minutes,” Griffin said. “Or so I’ve been told.”

“Eight,” came a masculine voice from the doorway. “I was there.”

The voice belonged to the most imposing man Celia had ever seen. There was no doubt it was Maximilien Vallerand. He more than matched Philippe’s descriptions. His features were steely, and his eyes were an oddly pale shade of brown that looked like gold. A handsome man of forty-five, he had the lean, long-limbed body of a horseman and the dark elegance of a Creole aristocrat. He was dressed in black breeches and boots, and a snowy white shirt open at the throat. His hair was jet-black, touched with silver at the temples. It was easy to see where Philippe had gotten his looks.

Justin stepped forward and met his gaze steadily. “Father. I know what Philippe meant to you. I’m sorry.”

For a second the golden eyes glittered, and Maximilien appeared to swallow back some painful emotion. It was only then that Celia noticed the deep shadows that sleepless nights had left under his eyes, and the harsh lines of grief on his handsome face.

There was a brittle silence while the two men assessed each other. Celia found it hard to believe they were father and son. Aside from their similar build and height, there was no likeness between them. She was reminded of a sleek panther confronting a shaggy swamp cat. Maximilien Vallerand was polished and sophisticated. He had a presence and authority that commanded the attention of everyone around him. But Justin was unkempt, ragged. He had only the shrewd cunning of a scavenger. Years of association with the lowest ranks of society had erased any cultivation he might have once had.

“I know the man responsible for Philippe’s death,” Justin said abruptly. “Dominic Legare. He and his men took the ship, put the crew to death, and kidnapped Philippe’s wife.” He indicated Celia with an awkward gesture. “I brought her to you. That’s the only reason I’m here. I swear I’ll make Legare pay for what he’s done.”