Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(4)

Her head snapped from right to left as she heard a tiny scrabbling sound. Her breath stopped. Drawing her knees up, she waited tensely, wondering if she might have imagined the noise. Suddenly there was an investigative nibble at her toe. She gave a shrill scream and kicked out with her feet. Mice? Rats? Oh God, how long was she going to be trapped down here with them? In the darkness there were more sounds, the pad of animal feet on the planking, a brief scuffle, a rodent squeaking.

Celia burst into tears, realizing that there was something else besides rodents in the hold. Should she scream for help? No one would bother to come to her aid. Her thoughts were interrupted by a quiet, steady purr somewhere nearby. She jerked in surprise as a warm, furry body brushed against her arm. A cat. Its long whiskers tickled as it rubbed the side of its face against her arm. She moved slightly, and her foot encountered the dead body of the mouse. With a shudder of disgust, she kicked it away.

One paw at a time, the cat crept into her lap. Celia did nothing to disturb it. She had always detested cats, thinking them sly, sneaking creatures, but this particular one she was willing to make friends with. “Mon ami, you’ve done more to protect me than anyone else today,” she said in a watery voice, her head inclined toward the contented creature, who was kneading the fabric of her dress with its paws. The cat soon ventured off to investigate a noise, but later it returned to her lap.

Leaning her head against the side of a barrel, Celia murmured ceaseless prayers until she sank into an exhausted silence. Images floated before her, remembrances of childhood and her family, but most of all of Philippe. She remembered the first time they met. Her father, Dr. Robert Verité, had invited him to dinner. “Philippe Vallerand,” her father announced, welcoming the young man into their small but cozy home. “An American, and one of my medical students…but well-mannered for all that.” Good-naturedly they cleared a place for him at their long table. Bemused, Philippe stared at the enormous family. “Eight children,” Verité said with a hearty chuckle. “Big, healthy brood. A man couldn’t ask for better. Here now, Claudette, change places with your sister so she can sit by our guest. You’re already promised to a young man. Let Celia have the chance to catch one!”

It was all Celia could do to keep from running out of the room. Embarrassed and shy, she sat stiff-backed in the vacant chair next to the handsome stranger.

The family began the meal in its usual noisy way. The Verités all possessed dominating personalities. It had always been easier for Celia, the oldest child, to fade into the background and let the others attract the attention. Since their mother had died ten years before, she had taken care of them all, settling into a quiet domestic role. Men had always found her company pleasant but far from alluring. Long ago she had reconciled herself to becoming a spinster devoted to the service of her family.

Celia watched as Philippe Vallerand adroitly handled a barrage of questions, unintimidated by the clamor surrounding him. His smile was natural and easy, his features clean and fine-edged, his thick, close-cut hair a shade of brown so dark it was almost black.

Mercifully he said nothing to her. It would have terrified her to have to respond to even the most mundane question. But every now and then he would glance at her with those bright blue eyes, and she had the feeling he could read her mind. As the family laughed boisterously at her father’s humorous account of a surly patient, Celia felt something slide from the pocket of her apron and fall to the floor. It was a small book she had been reading in her spare moments. Ducking to retrieve it, she nearly bumped heads with Philippe.

She curved her fingers around the book, and her heart stopped as Philippe’s hand closed gently around her frail wrist.

“I-I have it,” she managed to whisper. The family’s chatter continued above them, but he kept holding her arm, while his other hand gently pried the book from her grasp.

“Rousseau,” he remarked softly. “You like to read philosophy, mademoiselle?”

“S-sometimes.”

“So do I. Would you allow me to borrow this?” The book looked absurdly small in his hand.

She thought briefly of refusing his request, since lending it to him would necessitate the ordeal of having him return it. But her fear of seeming rude outweighed her fear of the handsome stranger. “Yes, monsieur,” she said timidly.

Still, he did not let go of her wrist. “Yes, Philippe,” he prompted, a teasing light in his eyes.

She stared at him in astonishment. Surely he knew how improper it would be for her to call him by his first name.

Her father’s voice resounded over the table. “Young Vallerand, may I ask what causes you to hide under the table with my daughter?”

Flushed and bewildered, Celia tugged at her wrist, but he would not let go. “Yes, Philippe,” she said in a frantic whisper, and was rewarded with a slow smile as he released her.

He returned with the book a few days later, and in his quiet way insisted she take him outside to show him their garden. As they talked, she realized with some surprise that her usual shyness seemed to have disappeared. She confided in him more readily than she did in her own brothers and sisters. She was not afraid of him…not until he pulled her behind a wall of climbing roses and bent his head to kiss her.

“No,” she said, twisting away from him, her heart racing.

“Untouchable,” he murmured against her cheek, wrapping his arms tightly around her. “That’s how everyone thinks of you, isn’t it? You don’t need anyone. You don’t need anything but your books and your solitude.” His lips were hot against her face, seeming to scorch her skin.