Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(53)
“Aye,” Justin said gloomily. “Noeline’s been sharpening the scissors for a week.”
Max chuckled. “Ask Lysette to shave your beard. She became adept at it when I injured my arm last year.”
Justin tilted his head in an attitude of curiosity. “How did you do that?”
“Doing some work around the plantation. Just a sprain, but it kept me from using my right arm for a week or two. I needed help with many things, most particularly shaving. After some practice Lysette became quite proficient, but the first few days…well, imagine having a nervous woman at your throat with a razor blade.”
Justin laughed. “You’re a braver man than I, Father.”
They talked for a few more minutes and then Max left. Justin fingered his long beard thoughtfully. It struck him that they had just had the kind of relaxed, amiable conversation Max and Philippe had always enjoyed. The kind he and his father had never been able to have before. He wondered why that was possible now, and why the brittle edge to their relationship seemed to have softened.
* * *
Lysette watched as Celia busied herself in the kitchen with Justin’s supper tray. “Celia, it is not necessary for you to prepare his meals,” Lysette said quietly. “Noeline is perfectly capable of that.”
“It is no trouble.” Celia folded and refolded a napkin. She knew why Lysette was concerned. For the past week Celia had allowed Justin to dominated her every waking moment. Whenever he wanted something she was the one he called for. His temper rarely flashed out with her as it did with the others, and her very presence seemed to ease his restlessness. He did not like the way anyone else changed his bandages or even arranged his pillows. The process of eating, especially, was something no one but Celia was allowed to witness. The blindness disadvantaged him in many ways, and he was infuriated by his loss of independence. Celia read to him, soothed his headaches, entertained him with stories of her childhood in France.
Just why he required her for these things and why she obliged him was something she could not explain even to herself. All she knew was that the few times she had ignored his demands and let one of the others see to his needs, she had felt a terrible nagging urge to go to him.
“Celia,” Lysette said, her brow furrowed, “I am aware of the demands Justin has made of you. I want to make it clear that you are not responsible for him in any way. Perhaps he reminds you of Philippe and that is why you—”
Celia interrupted with a laugh. “Bon Dieu, he does not remind me of Philippe, not at all!”
Lysette did not return her smile. “I am trying to understand why you feel this obligation to care for him.”
“There is nothing to understand,” Celia said, her amusement dying. “It has nothing to do with feelings. It is a matter of practicality. You have your husband, your children, and the plantation to care for. Noeline has many responsibilities. I have more time than anyone else, that is all.”
“Very well.” It was clear that Lysette did not believe her, but she was willing to let the matter drop.
Celia looked down at the tray, struggling with an urge to confide in her. She wished that Lysette were a few years older. If only there was some older, motherly woman Celia could talk to. She still grieved for Philippe, still cried when she thought of him. And she despised Justin’s callousness. The death of his twin seemed to have made little impression on him. She did not think Justin really cared about anything except himself and his own comfort. It would not be wise to entertain illusions about him.
But why, then, did she feel this frightening connection to him? Why was she sometimes able to know what he was feeling so acutely? Was it because they had known each other intimately? She did not think so. Perhaps it was because he had saved her life. Perhaps that was why she felt a compulsion to take care of him.
“The food is getting cold,” she murmured to Lysette. She left the kitchen and went into the house, carrying the tray upstairs to Justin’s room.
Justin was silent as she crossed the threshold. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she glanced at him only briefly, noticing that he was sitting up in bed and wearing a blue robe. She was halfway across the room before she realized that something was different. Her fingers gripped the tray until the tips turned white.
Justin had taken the bandage off his face once again. There were smears of herbal salve underneath his eyes. His face was turned toward her, his blue eyes wide open. The dishes on the tray began to rattle, and she set it down on the floor before she dropped everything.
“Justin?” she asked. Step by step she made her way to the edge of the bed and sat. He continued to stare at her with those bloodshot, unblinking eyes. His chest was moving up and down rapidly, his breathing unsteady. “Justin, can you see me?”
Slowly he lifted his hand and touched the curve of her cheek, and watched the pink flush that had begun to rise from her neck. He withdrew his fingers, although he wanted to touch the shining blond hair drawn back so smoothly and pinned at her nape. Her dark eyes were as velvety brown and innocent as he had remembered. He wanted to cover the vulnerable curves of her lips with his own, to run his hands over her gleaming skin. Her body had filled out; her br**sts were round, her waist small and neat.
“Can you see as well as you did before?” she asked.
“Aye,” he said huskily. “I think so.”
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