Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(52)

“You can’t have regular food yet.”

“Then don’t bring me anything!” To punctuate the sentence, he lifted a small bowl of clear broth in his good hand and threw it across the room. Lysette left in a fury, sending up a frightened maid to clean the mess.

Justin clasped his hand over his aching ribs as he heard the housemaid scuttling around the corner of the room where the bowl had landed. His leg hurt. So did his shoulder and side and stomach. But worst of all was the knifing pain in his head, a pain that drove deeper with every throb of his pulse. When he had complained earlier, Noeline had offered to give him another sleeping draft, and he had cursed her out of the room. He didn’t want to sleep any more. He wanted to be able to get out of bed and move around, he wanted his head to stop aching, and most of all he wanted to escape this relentless darkness.

“You,” he barked at the housemaid. “Finish that and take a message to Madame Val—to Celia. Tell her she can’t hide from me forever.” He paused, thinking that the message might not be enough to get her up to his room. “And tell her the bandage on my side is slipping.” It was a torturous ten minutes before he heard Celia’s footsteps and smelled her sweet fragrance.

“You took your time,” he sneered.

“All your roaring and growling has upset the household,” she said coolly. “Noeline is muttering something about evil loas, Lysette is red in the face, and the children are convinced we are keeping a monster in the bedroom.”

“Devil take you all!”

“What is this about your bandage?” She bent over him, pushed the sheet down enough to view his side. “It is not slipping.” She noticed the deep lines on his forehead, and her voice softened. “Your head aches, doesn’t it? After your tantrums I am not surprised. Here, I will change your pillow.”

He grunted in assent. Gently she lifted his head, pulling away the flattened pillow and replacing it with a fresh one. She moved around the bed, straightening the sheets, then opened the window to allow a cooling breeze into the room. “Are you thirsty?”

“Thirsty? Not when someone’s pouring some foul liquid down my gullet every—”

“Would you like me to read to you?” she interrupted.

“No.” Justin raised a hand to his throbbing forehead, exasperated by the pain and tedium. She pushed his hand away and slid her fingers underneath his matted hair, stroking his temples and the sides of his skull. He was still with surprise, realizing how much he liked her hands on his brow, her fingers in his hair. And that was strange, considering his usual aversion to being touched.

“Is that better?” came her soft voice.

If he said yes, she would stop. If he said no, she would stop. “Maybe a little,” he muttered. The light caress continued until he began to feel a bit drowsy. He sighed softly, and then her hands left him and she stood up. “Don’t go,” he commanded.

“There is nothing I can do for you.”

“Read to me.”

She went in search of a book and returned to his bedside, seating herself with a rustle of silk damask. His head turned in her direction as he listened to the sound of her voice. The novel was mundane, boring, but he didn’t care. It soothed him to hear the turning of the pages and her low voice. Idly he tried to picture her face, but he couldn’t remember it clearly. Only a tangle of pale blond hair, thin cheeks, dark brown eyes.

Over the past four months Justin had thought every day of Philippe, and of Celia. It was impossible to picture them together. He had tried, but he could not think of her as his brother’s wife. He knew he should feel guilty for having taken her. But that had always been his downfall, not feeling guilty at the appropriate moments. He was not at all sorry for what had happened between them. How often did she think of that night? he wondered. Or did she choose to think of it at all? Beginning to doze, he imagined that the pillow underneath his head was her soft lap.

Chapter 8

Someone walked into the bedroom. Justin recognized the sound of Maximilien’s heavy-booted feet immediately. At least once a day Max came to visit him, checking on his progress and bringing him news of New Orleans and the Gulf. Recently there had been a lull in pirate activity, but the naval commander was no less determined to bring the outlaws to justice.

“Lieutenant Benedict was here again,” Max said without preamble. “I have held him off for a week, but I can’t avoid his demands to see you any longer. He wants to question you about the pirate island and your supposed escape. And I am certain he’ll try to trick you into admitting you’re not Philippe. I told him your injuries had caused some loss of memory. That should help you to skirt around some of his questions.”

“How long did Benedict and Philippe know each other?” Justin asked.

“Perhaps a year. The lieutenant’s wife, Mary, suffered a miscarriage during a riding accident, and Philippe saved her life. Benedict said he would be indebted to him forever.”

“That’s good,” Justin said. “That will make Benedict more inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

“Or that much more determined to prove that you are not Philippe.”

Justin’s mouth twisted sardonically. “It would be easier to play the part had Philippe not been such a blasted saint.”

“At least you’ll look like him.” Max surveyed him thoughtfully. “You’ll have to begin by shaving and cutting off that hair.”