Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(42)

A housemaid appeared at the doorway with a basin of steaming water, and Celia took it from her with a nod of thanks. She set it by the bedside and picked up the rent garments Lysette had tossed to the floor. Noeline took them from her, wrinkling her nose at the rank odor of the clothes. “I get more clean rags,” the housekeeper murmured. “An’ burn dese.”

“Bonne idée,” Celia said in approval, and dipped a rag in the hot water, wringing it out carefully. There was a strange, sick feeling in her stomach as she saw the bloodied surface of Justin’s eyelids. She wondered how she could feel moved to pity when she hated him so much.

“I’ve never seen injuries quite like these,” Lysette said under her breath, prying at a bandage that was sticking to Justin’s upper arm. Celia saw with compassion that Lysette’s small hands were trembling. Gently she took over the task, removing the bandage with efficiency, seeing without surprise that the open wound underneath was as infected as the others.

“I have,” Celia said quietly, wadding the bandage and setting it aside. “When the Austrians and Prussians marched on Paris. The Emperor Napoleon had turned France into a nation of soldiers. A boy who had been wounded in the resistance…” She paused, fumbling for the right words in English. “Depuis trois ans…it was since three years—”

“Three years ago,” Lysette corrected.

“Yes. This boy was brought to his home in Paris. My father was summoned, and I accompanied him. The boy had injuries much like these.” Celia pressed a hot rag against Justin’s ribs, and his body twitched. They would have to reopen and clean his side. “My father told me the wounds were typical of wartime.”

“Did the boy die?” Lysette asked.

Celia nodded shortly, gathering the long mane of Justin’s brown-black hair and pulling it away from his dirt-caked face and shoulders. “The danger is the infection. If we are able to bring him through the infection and fever…”

“We must,” Lysette said with quiet intensity. “For Max’s sake.”

Celia was puzzled by the complex relationship between father and son. Clearly they were at odds, sharing a troubled past that cast a shadow over their feelings for one another. But Maximilien’s concern for Justin was undeniable. Celia knew that it would cause him great pain to endure the loss of a second son only a few months after Philippe’s death. As she stared down at the wounded man, she was troubled by a new thought…if by some miracle Justin did survive, he might be left permanently blind. The image of his searing blue eyes flashed before her. She knew enough to be certain that Justin would choose death rather than face a lifetime of forced dependence on others.

Putting aside such considerations, she began to cut the stitches at his side.

“The plantation is stocked with herbs and distillations to draw out poison,” Lysette remarked, heading to the door. “I am certain Noeline is preparing some poultices. I’ll return in a moment, d ’accord?”

“Certainly.” And Celia was left alone with him. She plunged the rag back into the hot water, wrung it out, and laid it over the rankling wound. He must have felt the pain even through his oblivion, for he groaned and began to stir fretfully.

“I could easily take my revenge now, mon ami,” she said softly. “Bien sûr, you never dreamed you would someday be at my mercy, did you?” Her brow creased as she concentrated on removing the decayed matter from the gash. As she worked, she saw his chest rise and fall with a broken gasp. “But try as I might, I cannot take pleasure in seeing you brought to this.” She pressed a cloth firmly against the wound, staunching the flow of fresh blood. “You’ll do well to be forbearing. There are many unpleasant hours ahead of us.”

Mumbling incoherently, Justin managed to reach feebly toward his side. Celia pushed his hand away and continued talking in the same measured tones. “No, mon ami, do not move. You intend to make things difficult for me. I will not let you.”

Using the corner of a moistened rag, she probed delicately around his swollen eyes, cleaning away the clotted soot and blood. She laid the length of one hand against his cheek as he tried to turn his face. Her touch seemed to calm him, and he quieted. “You are going to be well again,” Celia said, dabbing the cloth against his skin. A mixture of bitterness and determination welled up inside her. “You will not die…You must get well so you can avenge Philippe’s death. You said Legare would pay with his life, and I will hold you to your promise.”

Chapter 7

“How is he?” Celia stood in the doorway of the bedchamber, having just come from the garçonnière. Last night she had slept poorly, absorbed in thoughts of Justin and how he might be faring. She knew that the Vallerands and Noeline were giving him the best of care. His welfare was their concern, not hers. All the same, she felt a compelling need to see him this morning even before she washed her face or had breakfast.

A sheet had been pulled up to Justin’s waist, the linen snowy white against his skin. Celia remembered from what she had seen last night that he was the same dark bronze all over. She recalled the way he had plunged into the lake without a shred of clothing on, free and pagan in his nakedness.

His eyes were bandaged, as were the rest of his wounds. He turned his head on the pillow and muttered in French.

Lysette sat in a bedside chair, her hair untidy, her face drawn. “The fever is running its course,” she said.