Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(61)

“Justin,” she whispered. “What are you holding?”

He didn’t seem to hear her.

Taking hold of his fist, she pried it open finger by finger. In his palm was a brown arrowhead. His hand lay open, unresisting as she picked up the small object. She recognized it from the box that had been on Philippe’s dresser. Her eyes widened in concern as she saw the smear of blood on Justin’s palm. The point of the arrowhead had pierced the tough skin.

“Justin,” she gasped, and without thinking she pressed her lips to the welling drop of blood.

He sucked in his breath as he felt her soft mouth buried in his palm. Her blond head was bent over his hand, the tip of her tongue touching the puncture wound and collecting the salt-flavored droplet.

Celia froze as she realized what she was doing. She took her lips from his skin and stared at the large hand cradled in hers. Shocked by her own actions, she continued to kneel at his feet. Justin was still, and so was she, but she heard how his breathing had quickened. She wanted to look at his face, but she was terrified. What was happening to her? She wanted to pull that strong, warm hand to her throat and down to her breast. She wanted to crawl further into the lee of his thighs and feel his mouth on hers. Somehow the specter of Philippe’s death had just been removed from between them, and she was afraid of Justin in a way she had never been before.

She raised her head jerkily and stared into his eyes. The dark blue depths contained a bewilderment that matched, perhaps even surpassed, her own. Celia was helpless to move or speak. Her face felt hot, and her heart thumped painfully in her chest. She knew that her stillness and silence was an invitation. Gradually his hand turned until both of hers were imprisoned. They stayed like that for what seemed to be minutes, hours, frozen in a timeless place where his awareness and hers grew in leaping surges.

They broke apart quickly, Celia springing to her feet with an incoherent excuse about looking for the children. “The girls…I must find them,” she said hoarsely.

“Celia—”

But she was gone before he could say anything else. Justin stared at the empty doorway, then dropped his head and cursed viciously. He had to leave. His instincts told him that a silken net was closing around him. If he didn’t escape soon, he would be entangled forever in its soft, tenacious bonds. But he couldn’t leave—he didn’t yet have the strength or the resources to evade Dominic Legare. This fragile masquerade was his only protection. The only question was, which threat was greater? The one posed by Dominic Legare…or the one posed by his own brother’s wife.

Bored and restless, he could not resist seeking Celia out in the afternoon, wandering to the garçconnière where she disappeared for an hour or two every day. He was irritated with the limitations his wounds placed on him, his usually free stride reduced to a pained hobble, his side and shoulder aching. The plantation was quiet as everyone attended to his own tasks and took little notice of him. Impatiently he knocked on the small front door and scowled at the housemaid who answered it. “Where is Madame Vallerand?” he asked. The girl eyed him uneasily before running to tell Celia of the visitor.

Celia appeared, clad in a simple blue dress and a full-length white apron. Her hair had been gathered with a ribbon and left to fall down her back. She lifted her tawny brows. “What is it?” she asked without preamble. “Ça va?”

“Yes, I’m all right.” Justin experienced the same mystifying reaction he always had when she was near, feeling soothed and comfortable. “What is the apron for?”

Celia hesitated before answering. “I am painting.”

He looked at her in mild surprise. “I didn’t know you painted. Let me in. I want to see your work.”

“No,” she said firmly. “No one sees it. It is not very good. I paint only for myself.”

His interest piqued, he set about to cajole her. “I wouldn’t criticize.”

“Even if you did, your opinion means nothing to me.”

“Then let me come in.”

“No, I will not have you ruin my privacy merely because you have need of entertainment!”

“Then you won’t let me in?”

She tried to stare him down, but a reluctant laugh escaped her. The flash of smiling beauty caused a strange constriction in Justin’s chest. “All right,” she said gruffly, and turned to walk down the small hallway that led to the room where she worked. Justin was at her heels immediately, the thump of his cane muffled by the carpet on the floor.

As they crossed the threshold of her studio, Celia was aware of a pang of nervousness. She wondered half-angrily what had prompted her to give him, of all people, the opportunity to ridicule her. Adopting a businesslike air, she went to the easel by the window and regarded the almost-finished watercolor with her arms folded. Justin followed and stopped behind her, leaning his weight on his good leg. He stared at the painting closely.

She had painted the bayou in dark greens, grays, and blues, capturing the shadows and thick trailing moss, the ancient trees with their limbs like outstretched arms. It looked gloomy and threatening; her fear of the place was evident in every brushstroke. Contemplating the picture, he said the first thing that came into his mind. “It’s not always that sinister.”

“It is to me.”

“Sometimes it can be beautiful.” Then he went off on his own, investigating the sketches scattered around the room and the canvases piled carelessly on top of one another. Her work was delicate and deft. Even in her more amateurish efforts her feelings showed through. He smiled at the sketch of a bored driver and footman leaning against a carriage as they waited outside the house. And there was a painting of Maximilien on a horse as he surveyed the plantation—Justin recognized the proud tilt of his father’s head and the upright line of his back. Glancing at Celia over his shoulder, he smiled, and she seemed to relax. Perhaps his liking for her work wasn’t based solely on its own merits. Perhaps it was influenced by his feelings for her. But he didn’t give a damn why he liked it, he only knew that he did.