Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(58)

“No, it’s all right, I can go on,” he said. “I just need—”

“You need to rest.” She slipped her palm over his shirt-covered torso, letting her hand linger on the bandage wrapped around his middle. “You shouldn’t have come downstairs,” she said, while Max and Benedict conferred behind her in quiet tones.

“I had to get out of that blasted room,” Justin murmured.

“There was no need for you to put on clothes. You could have worn a robe.”

He gave her a brief grin that was too mischievous to belong to Philippe. “In certain situations a man feels at a disadvantage without his clothes.”

“Philippe,” Lieutenant Benedict said, walking to the sofa, “I suppose this will have to do for now. But there is much more I would like to know—when you have recovered more of your strength, that is.”

“Certainly,” Justin returned, and struggled up with the use of his cane, ignoring Celia’s protests. He draped an arm over her narrow shoulders to steady himself. “I hope your wife is in good health.”

“Yes, she is,” Benedict replied, looking at him speculatively. “When may I tell her you will be resuming your practice?”

Celia answered for Justin, slipping her arm around his waist. “I will insist that Philippe recover completely before contemplating a return to his work.” She smiled at the lieutenant. “I’ve only just had my husband returned to me…New Orleans will have to forgive me for wanting him all to myself for a little while.”

After bidding them farewell, Benedict left with a bemused expression. Justin let out a long sigh, his body aching from the exertions of the morning. Max gave him an oddly preoccupied glance. “It went well, I think,” he said shortly. “I’m going to talk with Lysette now. She will want to hear about it.”

Celia kept her steadying arm around Justin’s waist as they made their way to the stairs. “Do you think the lieutenant was convinced?” she asked.

“Not entirely,” Justin replied with a brooding frown. “But he could have made it much more difficult.” He swore under his breath as he lifted his leg awkwardly on the first step. “Maybe that will come later.”

“You were very…different in there,” she said, bracing him with her slim body. “So friendly and nice.”

“Like Philippe.”

“A little,” she conceded. “Philippe was open, trusting, in a way that you are not. He liked people, wanted to help them. They could see it in his face. That was why he—”

“Aye, I’m aware of all that,” Justin said tersely.

“Why are you not more like Philippe?” she couldn’t help asking, and he laughed dryly.

“That, petite, is the question I was asked throughout my trouble-ridden youth. I wished to be like him. On occasion I tried. But there is bad blood in the Vallerand family. Almost every generation turns out at least one âme damnée. It seems that is to be my fate.”

Âme damnée…a damned spirit, a lost soul. Celia shivered slightly, and she knew he had felt it.

They finally reached his room, and Justin lowered himself to the bed with a groan of relief, sweating profusely. Carefully Celia pulled off his shoes and helped him ease his arms out of the blue coat. Holding his hand to his side, he leaned back against the pillows. She unwrapped his necktie and unfastened the top button of his shirt, but he pushed her hand away. “No,” he said. In spite of his pain and weariness, he wanted her. If she undressed him, he wouldn’t be able to keep from yanking her to the bed and forcing himself on her.

“I wish to check your shoulder—”

“Later. It’s all right.”

Celia went to pull the drapes completely closed, then returned to his bedside. Their eyes met in the semi-darkness. “Thank you,” he said gruffly, “for what you did for me this morning. I know it was difficult.”

“I did it for Philippe,” she murmured. “Not for you. I think Philippe would have wanted me to help his brother.”

There was the flash of his jeering grin. “Do you? I’m not so certain. I think he wouldn’t want his wife anywhere near me. If I were Philippe, I’d have come back from the dead to stop you from—” He stopped suddenly, his voice switching to a more impersonal tone. “Philippe, God rest him, wasn’t fool enough to trust me around any woman he cared for.”

“Justin,” she asked softly, “has there ever been a woman you cared for?”

He gave her a taunting smirk. “Many.”

“No, I did not mean that. I meant…” She paused and bit her lip.

“You’re asking if I’ve ever been in love?” He snorted derisively. “Why do women have such fascination for matters of the heart? I suppose it’s their way of—”

“Bah, do not answer me, then,” she said in annoyance.

“The answer is no. I’ve enjoyed my share of women…” He paused, and in the short silence that followed they both thought of that night in the lakeside cabin. “…and had a liking for some. But I’ve never been in love.” He yawned and settled himself more comfortably. “And I will never be. Love’s a damn nuisance. Thank God I’m not susceptible.”