Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(5)

“Yes,” she heard herself whisper. “That is what they think.”

“I know it isn’t true.” His mouth played gently at the corner of her lips. “I understand you, Celia. You need to be loved. And you’re going to be mine…”

In the dark, fetid ship’s hold, Celia blotted her tears on her shoulder. It had taken her so long to realize that Philippe’s love for her was real and lasting. He had gone back to New Orleans and stayed for three years until the American war with the British was over and international waters were declared safe once more. Three years of waiting and writing letters, three years of hope and frustration and doubt.

But Philippe had returned to France to make her his wife and take her back to New Orleans with him. Finally she had let herself believe that they would have a life together, and it had all been taken away in the space of few minutes. Now Philippe was dead. She felt ashamed of herself, for not only was she consumed with grief, she was also angry at him. It made no sense to blame Philippe—none of it had been his fault—but still she was angry that he had not been able to foresee the danger. She stared blindly into the stifling darkness while the drowsy cat rearranged itself on her lap. Now that Philippe was gone, she had no desire to live. She could only hope that death would come to her quickly, and that she would have the courage to face it with dignity.

He had several aliases, but his crew knew him as Captain Griffin. Like the mythical monster with the wings of an eagle and the body of a lion, he was swift, cunning, and lethal. Under his command a schooner could outsail any other vessel on the water. He sailed as he did everything else, by instinct. It was because of him that his men worked without the usual sloppiness of pirate crews, for he had made them understand that discipline and efficiency were the quickest means to the end they all desired.

Stretching out his long legs on the beach, Griffin settled his broad back against a grounded pirogue and lit a thin black cigar. After placing the cigar between his lips, he rubbed a hand over his shaggy beard and pushed back an unruly lock of hair that had fallen over his face. His blue eyes, as dark as the sea at midnight, sought and found his own ship Vagabond moored in the harbor.

For the past few days the schooner had been tucked in the safety of the harbor of Isle au Corneille, Crow’s Island. More than a dozen other vessels were anchored there—brigantines, gunboats, and schooners of varying sizes, all armed to the teeth. Almost thirty warehouses—not to mention a village of palmetto-thatched huts, a brothel, and a few large slave corrals—had been built amid the thick groves of shrubs and twisted oak trees on the island.

While Vagabond was at anchor its crew had partaken of whores and spirits, both of which were cheap and plentiful here. Meanwhile at Griffin’s orders the cargo had been appraised and unloaded into relay warehouses. As usual, the spoils of their recent plunders had been divided equally among the hundred men who comprised his crew.

Griffin drew again on the cigar and breathed out a puff of smoke. He was relaxed but still alert. Now that he had been declared an outlaw by the American government, he could never afford to let his guard down. A year ago, his ventures had been more or less legal. Armed with letters of marque from Cartagena, a seaport on the Caribbean coast of South America, he had preyed upon Spanish commerce and garnered a considerable fortune. But along the way it had been impossible to resist capturing a few fat-bellied merchant ships from other nations he had not been commissioned to attack…hence the upgrading of his status from privateer to full-fledged pirate. Griffin’s only hard-and-fast rule was that his ship left American vessels unmolested. Everything else was fair game.

Feeling in need of a drink, Griffin stubbed out the cigar and rose to his feet in a lithe movement. He headed toward the crumbling fort, which contained the closest thing to a saloon the island possessed. It was a dismantled brig, set in the sand and converted into a tavern and dwelling place.

Brilliant with lamps and torchlight, the tavern, dubbed the Cat’s-head, beckoned invitingly. It was filled with unruly seamen. Many of them were Legare’s men, just in from a successful tour of the Gulf. Even in their drunken merriment the men took care to avoid Griffin as he crossed the threshold.

“Cap’n,” a voice hailed from a table in the corner. Griffin threw a glance over his shoulder. It was John Risk, a black-haired Irishman with an able sword arm and a perpetually roguish grin. Risk was the second-in-command and the best cannoneer on Griffin’s ship. He wore a black patch where one of his eyes used to be. The eye had been lost just last year, when he had saved Griffin’s life during a hand-to-hand contest on the deck of a ship they were boarding. A hard-faced whore perched on Risk’s lap, holding a half-empty bottle of rum.

“Cap’n, are we planning to up-anchor soon?” Risk asked carefully.

Griffin reached for the bottle, took a healthy swig, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Are you that eager to leave, Jack?”

“Aye, I’ve had a bellyful o’ Legare’s men boastin’. ‘Twas six prizes they tuck on this trip…well now, didn’t we do the same not three months ago? Next time out we’ll show them rovers how to pack on sail! We’ll come back towin’ ten prize ships behind us! We’ll—”

“We’ll lay low for the time being,” Griffin interrupted dryly. “After all the recent activity, the Gulf is crawling with gunboats fresh from New Orleans.”