Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(40)

The image vanished abruptly, and she was left with nothing but the darkness. Crickets chirped, and the breeze rustled through the trees. The night was heavy and black around her. Her heart beat heavily, and she knew in a moment of panic that the cold fear was about to overtake her again, the fear of being alone in the dark that had plagued her ever since her escape from Isle au Corneille. It was something she could not seem to overcome.

Quickening her step, she focused on the dim outline of the garçonnière, her breath coming hard and fast.

Something reached around her. Her body jerked in terror. She opened her mouth to scream, but a hand covered her mouth, smothering the sound. She writhed hysterically, her eyes bulging, her body straining against the steely arms that held her immobile.

A not-quite-familiar voice was at her ear. “Easy, darlin’, easy. Yer in no danger from me. It’s yer old friend Jack Risk. ’Member me?”

She trembled violently, his words failing to penetrate the blanket of terror around her.

Risk continued speaking to her softly. “Ye have to help me, darlin’. That’s why I waited for ye to come out. Come now, put some starch in yer knees. I need ye to do somethin’…”

He froze as he heard the click of a primed revolver and felt the press of cold metal against his temple. A steady voice cut through the silence. “Let go of her, you little bastard. Now.”

“Jesus,” Risk muttered. His hands eased away from Celia’s waist and mouth. He held his arms well out from his sides.

Celia stumbled away, sobbing in anguish and relief. She whirled around to see Maximilien holding a gun to Risk’s head.

The young pirate looked just as he had four months ago, a scarf knotted around his head, a black patch covering his damaged eye. Breeches, boots, and a tattered shirt covered his lean form. Celia’s eyes widened as she saw that one side of his body was soaked with blood. Bon Dieu, had he been wounded?

“Old Vallerand himself?” Risk inquired gingerly.

Max ignored the question, his gaze flickering to Celia. “Did he hurt you, petite bru?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. Her throat had closed up permanently.

“All right,” Max said calmly. “Go into the main house.” When he saw her hesitate, he spoke more firmly. “Go on.”

Step by step she edged toward the house.

“Before ye do anything,” Risk said to Max, “ye might want to hear me out.”

“If I don’t kill you for trespassing on my land, I most certainly will for assaulting my daughter-in-law.”

“It wasn’t an assault, I was—”

“Who the hell are you?”

“A bloody fool, I am,” Risk muttered, and winced as the gun prodded him lightly. “Th’ name’s Jack Risk.”

“Why are you here?”

“I come about Cap’n Griffin,” came the sullen reply.

Celia leaned against the outside wall of the house. The fear began to lessen its clutch on her throat, and she began to breathe easier. She watched intently as Maximilien allowed Risk to turn and face him.

“…now I wish I’d dumped him in the stinkin’ bayou and got it over quick,” Risk was saying moodily, his posture relaxing into a comfortable slouch. “He’s all shot up, looks like a sieve. Won’t last long, but I thought ye could—”

“Where is he?” Max asked harshly.

Risk gestured toward the water. “Down there in th’ pirogue.”

“Anyone else there?”

“Nay, not a soul. I swear it on me mother’s grave.”

The two men started down the incline where the pirogue was moored, and Celia stared after them with wide eyes. Justin was wounded, perhaps dying. Had there been a confrontation with Legare? She wiped her slick palms on her dress and followed Max and Risk, compelled by curiosity and some emotion she dared not name. A twig snapped underneath the toe of her slipper, and Max glanced over his shoulder. Their gazes met, and she paused uncertainly. To her relief, he did not tell her to go back, only turned and continued down to the water’s edge. The men reached the pirogue and stood over it. Max’s shoulders tensed visibly.

Celia crept to the spot beside Max and caught her breath. Justin was there, his body covered in bloodstained clothes and bandages. He was unconscious, sprawled in an ungainly heap in the center of the tiny boat. His face was turned to the side, but she could see the bristly mass of his beard. One long hand rested palm-up on the wet planking, his fingers curled slightly. It was odd to see him, a man of such vitality and power, reduced to this helpless state. She looked up at Max, who had not said a word. His face could have been carved from marble.

“I couldn’t carry him far,” Risk commented. “Went through hell just to load him in th’ pirogue.”

Max placed the pistol in Celia’s hand, arranging her fingers around it with care. “The trigger is delicate,” he said gruffly.

She nodded, blanching as she remembered the last time she had held a gun.

Max threw Risk a sideways glance. “You’re coming up to the house with us, Mr. Risk. I want to speak with you privately.”

Risk began to protest. “Nay, I’ve done what I set out to do. There’s a ship and crew awaitin’ my return. Take yer son an’ do what ye can for him. I can’t keep him safe anymore—can’t keep me own head above water! There’s danger for me here, an’ everywh—”