Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(46)

All at once he remembered the angel in his dreams. It was her voice, her light hand on his head, her presence beside him. “My leg,” he managed to say hoarsely.

“It is healing,” she murmured, blotting away the sweat that stood out on his forehead. “You will be able to walk on it again.”

“Hurt…” He tried to tell her that his head felt as if a red-hot poker were being driven into it. She seemed to understand. A strong, slender arm slid underneath his neck, propping him up. The side of his face brushed against the tender resiliency of a woman’s breast, and he was surrounded by a delicate flowerlike fragrance. The rim of a glass was pressed between his teeth. At first he choked on the acrid taste of willowbark that had been stirred into the water.

“No…”

“Just a little,” she coaxed. “A swallow or two.”

Seeking to please her, he forced himself to drink. All too soon she lowered his head back to the pillow, and he was deprived of the comfort of her arms. He felt the last of his strength drain away. “Are you real?” he managed to ask.

“Bien sûr, of course I am real.” She stroked his hair with light fingers.

After a moment he felt her moving away. “Stay,” he croaked. But she left, as if she had not heard him, and he could not say another word.

A full day passed, but Celia did not return to Justin’s room after the fever had broken. His need for her was over. His wounds were free of infection and he would begin to recover his strength. If the Vallerands had been puzzled by her concern for him before, they were frankly dazed by what they saw as her sudden lack of interest now. In a matter of hours she had apparently gone from obsession to indifference, and they did not know what to make of her. “I am tired,” she had explained, unable to tell them that she was afraid of facing Justin when he was fully conscious.

Celia was distraught over what had happened when he had awakened. She kept remembering the scene over and over, and the awful, aching tenderness that had possessed her. She remembered the heaviness of his head on her arm, the obedient way he had taken the medicine she had held to his lips, the scratchiness of his voice as he demanded that she stay. She had wanted to stay, to stroke and soothe and comfort him. It was impossible that she could feel such a thing for that filthy pirate, and she had to avoid him until she was able to control her emotions.

That evening she accidentally overhead Lysette and Maximilien discussing her abrupt change in attitude as they sat alone in the parlor. Celia was just coming in from a walk in the garden to have dinner with the family. Hearing her name, she stopped inside the front entrance hall, her ears pricking.

“It is not that I dislike her,” Lysette was saying, “I just do not understand her. I can never be certain of how she truly feels.”

There was the sound of Max’s husky laugh. “It’s not necessary for you to understand her, petite. And I would wager Celia herself doesn’t know how she truly feels.”

“She claims to hate Justin. But if that were true she would not have wanted to tend him during the fever.”

“One thing is obvious,” Max said thoughtfully. “Something transpired between them that they’re both determined to keep secret.”

Celia felt her cheeks turning red. Maximilien was a perceptive man, and he had a fair idea of what his son was capable of. Did he suspect they had been intimate, with or without her consent? Mortified, she slipped out the front door, intending to walk around the house to the garçonnière.

There was a carriage coming down the long drive to the plantation, elegant but modestly fitted. Celia paused to watch its approach. The passenger of the vehicle emerged without the help of the attending footman and strode up the front steps of the main house with the brisk precision of a military officer. He was an American. Although he was out of uniform, she recognized him from the memorial service they had had for Philippe. If she remembered correctly, the young man was Lieutenant Peter Benedict, the assistant to Commander Matthews, the master-commandant in charge of the naval station in New Orleans.

Benedict seemed surprised by her presence on the front porch. “Madame Vallerand.” He took her bare hand in his gloved one and bowed his head over it politely. “A pleasure to see you. You may not remember me.”

“Oui, I remember you, Lieutenant Benedict,” she said, looking at his boyish face. It was the sensitive visage of a man of earnest disposition, one who paid strict attention to his duty and protocol. As she met his warm brown eyes, she recalled that Benedict and Commander Matthews had been appointed by the president to deter the pirates in the Gulf. Locating a stray pirate, especially one of Justin’s reputation, would be a considerable feather in the lieutenant’s cap. Had Benedict heard any of the rumors about their houseguest? Had he come to find out if it was Justin?

“I am here to call on Monsieur Vallerand,” Benedict said, giving her a searching stare.

Celia did her best to look unconcerned. “This is a social call, Lieutenant?”

“I hope so, madame.” He took a step toward the door, then stopped as she did not move.

Just then Noeline opened the front door and regarded the visitor impassively. “Welcome, monsieur,” she said, her gaze darting from Benedict’s serious face to Celia’s anxious one.

“Lieutenant Benedict,” the man introduced himself. “I am here to see Monsieur Vallerand.”