Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(45)

Justin had not yet regained consciousness, but he mumbled in his sleep, sometimes mentioning his mother’s name. Corinne had died when the twins were only five. Celia remembered that Philippe had spoken of his mother with sadness and regret, but Justin seemed to regard her with nothing but hostility. The only other name he would utter frequently was Philippe’s, but Justin’s feelings for his brother were far more difficult to decipher.

When compelled by exhaustion Celia would allow Noeline or one of the Vallerands to take her place for a few hours. But she always returned as soon as she was able. And when she was there, Justin rested more quietly, swallowed the broth she spooned between his lips, docilely accepted her ministrations when she cleaned his wounds and changed his bandages.

After stitching his wounds closed, they had sprinkled them with a styptic powder Noeline had provided. Celia recognized it with surprise as the green powder Aug had used on her feet. At her request Noeline showed her the herb it was made from, the dried and crushed roots of wild geranium plants that were abundant in the swamp. To cool Justin’s fever they brewed a bitter concoction of Indian sage, pouring boiling water over the white flowers and hairy leaves, and letting it steep for hours. It was difficult to make him drink the foul liquid, but Celia coaxed and forced him to swallow. She alone could make him obey her.

No one quite understood the situation, least of all Celia. It was certain that the Vallerands speculated on her motives and on Justin’s untoward reaction to her. Heaven only knew what they thought. “Celia,” Lysette had said in a perplexed manner, “perhaps you feel you owe it to Philippe’s memory to take care of his brother, but—”

“It has nothing to do with Philippe,” Celia replied sincerely.

“But there is nothing you are doing for Justin that cannot be undertaken by Noeline or me, or even—”

“He is better when I am there.” Celia winced as she heard the defensiveness in her own voice, but she could not suppress it. “You know it is true. You have remarked on it more than once.”

“Yes, I have,” Lysette admitted. “But that does not mean you must exhaust yourself taking care of him.”

Celia schooled her features into impassiveness. “Justin is your stepson. You have the right to say what must be done with him. If you wish me to stay away from him, that is what I will do.”

“No, I am not talking about—” Lysette stopped and scowled mildly. Both of them were aware that they were on the brink of an argument. “I have no desire to bicker with you, Celia. All I am doing is trying to make you understand that you do not have to tire yourself nursing him, not when there are others capable of carrying the burden.”

“I understand that.”

“Good.”

“Bien.”

They had exchanged a glance of annoyance, and Celia had returned to Justin’s room, relieved that Lysette was not going to stop her. Day by day it was becoming more important that she stay with Justin and watch over him every minute. He seemed to know when she was there, seemed to recognize the sound of her voice.

Celia dragged her attention back to the present, listening to Lysette’s conversation with Max. “What are we going to tell people, bien-aimé?” Lysette asked. “The minute they think we have something to hide, they will suspect it has to do with Justin.”

“I have a plan,” Max said slowly, “but it isn’t a good one. If we have to resort to it, there will be danger for all of us. And I doubt we’d have a chance in hell of pulling it off. I need time to think of something else.”

Lysette and Celia exchanged a worried glance. Then Lysette turned back to her husband. “Time,” she said, “is something we do not have, Max.”

“C’est vrai,” Celia agreed with a frown of worry. “Perhaps you should tell us about this plan you have conceived. Perhaps we should consider…”

She paused as an odd feeling shook her. Struggling through layers of darkness, an image rose up before her…it was Justin. Turning pale, she clenched a fold of her skirts in her hand and walked rapidly to the doorway. “Excuse me. I am going to look in on Justin,” she said. She strode toward the wide double staircase and began to run, her feet flying up the steps.

Slowly Justin awakened, wondering where he was. What had happened to him? He was on a bed with sheets and pillows, a novel occurrence for him. He was surrounded by darkness. The air was scented with bitter herbs and freshly washed linen. Groaning faintly, he tried to open his eyes but couldn’t. He lifted his hand, surprised at the weakness of his limbs. He was never weak.

Beginning to gasp with effort, Justin put his hand to his face and felt heavy bandages over his eyes. The realization panicked him. There had been a battle…gunshots…Legare’s victorious face, a sword pushing into his side…Risk’s anxious pleading…He had known he was dying. His body hurt, and he couldn’t move his leg, couldn’t even feel it. Had it been amputated? He fumbled with the bandages, needing to rip them away and see for himself what was wrong. Pain stabbed between his eyes, and his head began to swim.

“No, no.” A soft, urgent voice fell on his ears. Suddenly there was a woman beside him. Her cool hands took hold of his, pulling them down to the mattress. He tried to push her away. “Let your eyes stay covered,” she soothed. “They must heal. Rest now. Doucement, you are all right.”