Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(60)

Evelina spoke then with great dignity. “You are a pirate, n’est-ce pas?”

“Oh, not a bad one.”

“All pirates are wicked.”

Justin grinned at her. “But I would never do anything to hurt little girls.” He reached out for the box, and Evelina gave it to him, taking care not to touch him. Flipping open the lid, he stared at the numerous arrowheads Philippe had saved all those years ago. A reminiscent smile crossed his lips. Only Philippe would have retained such useless things for sentimental reasons. “I remember roaming through the swamps with him in search of adventure,” he said, more to himself than the girls. “We had a little pirogue we would paddle back and forth. How Grand-mère would scold us when we returned covered in mud from head to toe!” He laughed and turned his gaze to Evelina. “Do you ever go down to the bayou, enfant?”

“Papa told us not to. C’est dangereux.”

“Ah.” He nodded sagely. “Papa once told me the same thing. It is wise to obey him.”

Angeline crept forward until her tiny hands rested on the arm of his chair. “He is your papa too?” she asked in childish surprise.

“Angeline, viens, come with me,” Evelina said sharply, pulling her younger sister back. “Mama said we should stay in the nursery.”

Reluctantly Angeline followed her from the room, casting several glances back at Justin. He grinned at her and turned his attention back to the arrowheads. Picking one out, he set the box aside. He rubbed the polished surface between his thumb and forefinger, contemplating it in tently, remembering the day he had last seen Philippe, when they were sixteen…

“Justin, don’t leave!” Philippe had stopped him just before he reached the pirogue. What few possessions Justin intended to take with him had already been stowed in the bottom of the tiny craft. It was midnight, but the clear white moonlight illuminated their young faces. “If you leave now I know it will be for good,” Philippe said desperately. “You must stay. I need you here, Justin.”

“None of you need me here, and you know it. I make trouble for everyone. I don’t belong here. I…Dieu, you know all the reasons.”

“Wait a little while longer, wait and think. If you only—”

“I’ve waited and I’ve thought.” Justin smiled humorlessly. “The reason I tried to leave in the middle of the night, mon frère, is that I wanted to avoid a scene like this.”

“But the trouble between you and Father is gone.”

“Yes. But every time he looks at me he’s reminded of the past, of…painful things. Of her. I see it in his face.”

“Justin, you’re nothing like our mother, you—”

“I’m exactly like her,” Justin said coldly. “I don’t want to be, but I can’t change it. It’s better for all of us if I leave.”

“What will you do?”

“Don’t worry. I’ll do far better out there than I have here. I want to be free. I want to go where no one knows I’m a Vallerand. I’ve never pleased anyone here, and never will, so I may as well begin to please myself. You stay here and be the good son. Be the only son. I’ll take the bad blood with me.” He saw his brother’s eyes glitter suspiciously. “Crying like a girl,” Justin mocked, but Philippe continued to stare at him. And suddenly Justin realized that his own eyes were stinging. He cursed and turned away, stepping into the pirogue…

Celia stood in the doorway, having left the visitors downstairs with the excuse that she wanted to look in on the children. She had been on her way to the girls’ room when she saw that Philippe’s door was ajar.

Justin was inside, sitting in a chair with his knees spread, his head bent. One of his fists was clenched around an unseen object. His expression was closed. To look at him no one would guess at his emotions, but Celia sensed his pain, the grief he was fighting to suppress. And along with her empathy came a feeling of wonder.

“So you did care for him,” she said.

Justin looked up at her, startled. It took a moment for him to speak. “Get the hell out of here,” he snarled.

Celia was unintimidated. “You speak about Philippe so casually. I thought his death had meant little to you. But it wasn’t real to you until now, was it? You could not let yourself believe that he was gone.”

His gaze dropped from her face.

Walking farther into the room, Celia studied his averted profile. “You loved him, didn’t you?” she whispered. He didn’t reply, and for her that was answer enough. Slowly she knelt by the chair, staring up at him.

“It was always the two of us,” he said, looking at his closed fist. “When we were boys we lived like savages, roaming through the swamp, doing as we pleased. For the most part we raised ourselves. Father didn’t give a damn as long as we caused him as little trouble as possible.” He smiled bitterly. “He was a cold bastard. All of New Orleans suspected him of murdering our mother. For years I believed it too.”

“You…you…” she stuttered, wondering if she had heard him correctly.

“My mother was a heartless bitch who cared only for her own pleasure. She shamed my father by having affairs with other men. She had no maternal instincts whatsoever. Philippe and I were nothing to her but an inconvenience. After she died, my father could not look at either of us without being reminded of her.” His eyes met Celia’s. “To everyone else Philippe and I were objects of curiosity, suspicion, sometimes pity. Other boys would dare us to fight for our honor. While I was always ready to oblige, Philippe tried to play the peacemaker.” He laughed quietly. “Although I’d provoke him at times, Philippe always came to my defense, even sharing the punishment for my misdeeds. And I protected him when I could. He was a dreamer, a sentimental idiot. I couldn’t begin to understand where he got his damn naive innocence. He was…remarkable. He was all I had. Love him? God, yes, I—” He swallowed hard and tightened his fingers.