Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(41)

“I’m not offering you a choice.”

Risk stared at the pistol, evidently unnerved by Celia’s unsteady grip on it. “Darlin’, there’s no need to point that at me—”

“Taisez-vous,” Max said curtly, silencing him.

Celia wondered if Justin was still alive. The heap in the boat was ominously still. Max waded into the water until it covered his ankles. He bent over the pirogue and hefted the slack body up and over his broad shoulder, exhaling with the effort. Laboriously he made his way toward the house, while Celia and Risk followed.

Celia kept the gun pointed at Risk as they walked. The sight of him, not to mention Justin, had brought back all the dark memories of Crow’s Island. There was no reason for her to trust Risk any more now than she had then. Her mind was swarming with questions. “Was it Legare?” she asked in a low voice.

Risk answered readily. “Aye, Legare’s been at us like a dog after a rat. His men are everywhere. No place for us to cool our heels. Legare attacked the Vagabond in the Gulf—near two weeks ago, it was. Griffin was caught in a cannon explosion, and he…was in a bad way. Me, Aug, and a couple of the others sneaked him to a place where he could lay low and heal up, a bottomland swamp where—” He broke off and cleared his throat. “Well, I’ll be damned if Legare didn’t root us out. He came along the overland route and launched a surprise attack.” He shook his head, his tone laced with pride. “Our men fought like sons-of-bitches. Legare had to retreat.” His boyish enthusiasm drained away as he added, “Course, by the time we got Griffin out of there, there warn’t much left of him.”

“You endangered yourself by bringing him here,” Celia said quietly. “Why did you not abandon him and see to your own safety?”

“Abandon him?” Risk asked, sounding insulted. “Ye’d ask that even after what he done for ye! I’d go to hell for Griffin—gave me eye for him, I did, and he’d do the same for me or any jack-tar on his crew.”

“What he did for me,” Celia repeated bitterly. Justin Vallerand…Captain Griffin…whoever he was…was a cruel, selfish brute. Were he not wounded so badly, she would have been tempted to inflict further damage on him!

They entered the house through the French doors in one of the back rooms, and Lysette flew to meet them. Noeline appeared close behind. Uncomprehendingly Lysette stared at the small parade, her eyes lingering on the ungainly load her husband carried. “Max—”

“Upstairs,” her husband said, nearly out of breath. He brought his son to the bedroom Justin had occupied as a boy, pausing as Lysette scurried to light the lamps. The room was spartanly furnished with simple mahogany pieces, including a high-post bed draped with scarlet damask. Hastily Lysette stripped back the flat, heavy counterpane, and Max lowered the wounded man onto the white linen sheets.

For a moment there were no words spoken as Lysette and Noeline bustled around the room. The housekeeper piled towels and medical supplies on the bedside table. Lysette snatched up a pair of scissors and began cutting away the tattered clothes and filthy bandages. Silently Celia handed the pistol back to Max. She moved to the side of the room, her fingers clenching together as she saw the extent of Justin’s injuries.

A bullet wound festered in his right shoulder, another in his thigh. Deep rapier slashes scored his midriff, while purple bruises marked the place where his ribs had been broken. Crusted blood formed trails from his nose and ear. His skin was black with powder burns and covered with lacerations. There was a peculiar jagged wound on his right side that might have been made by a sword thrust. It had been clumsily stitched and looked none too clean.

“We took th’ bullets out, Aug and me,” Risk mumbled. “Don’t think there’s much use in trying to save him now.”

Silently Celia agreed with the observation.

Lysette exclaimed softly as she pried away the bandage that had covered the wounded man’s eyes.

“Blinded in the explosion,” Risk said.

Automatically Celia stepped forward. Lysette stayed her with a firm gesture. “Noeline and I will see to him. Perhaps the rest of you should leave the room.”

“Should we not send for a doctor?” Celia asked, surprised at the steadiness of her own voice.

Max shook his head, dragging his bleak gaze from his son. “Once it became known my son was here, we would be overrun by local and federal authorities, not to mention bounty hunters. I couldn’t keep them from taking him no matter what his condition.”

“Aye,” Risk agreed wisely. “For men like Griffin and meself, there’s no safe harbor.”

Max looked back at Justin. “We’ll have to do what we can for him and hope that—” He broke off, his jaw clenching. When his emotions were in check once more, he motioned Risk to precede him out of the room. “I have questions for you.”

Celia stayed behind, watching the two women remove the remainder of Justin’s clothes. The sight of his nakedness was startling; clearly the memory of that powerful body had not faded from her mind. Having occasionally assisted her father when he had attended his patients, she had caught glimpses of other men—but none so robust and flagrantly masculine. In spite of the wounds, there was still an aura of danger around him, as if he were a sleeping lion who might awaken and lash out at any moment.