Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(68)

“No,” Justin murmured. “Philippe would want you to come to an acceptance of his death and then go on. There are years ahead of you that should be lived, not spent in regret and sorrow. He would want you to be happy.”

Celia looked up at him wonderingly. “Why are you being so kind?” she half-whispered.

He took her face in his hands. “I’m not being kind. I’m never kind.” He stared into her eyes, and then glanced down at her throat, where a telltale pulse was throbbing violently. Her small hands fluttered up to his wrists, trying to pull them away. “Relax,” he said. “I’m not going to kiss you.” He grinned mischievously. “Unless you ask me to.”

Suddenly she laughed, and shook her head within the frame of his hands. “Let go of me, you buffoon.”

He chuckled and dropped a kiss on the top of her head before she could twist away. “There—I can’t seem to help myself with you.”

Late in the evening Justin made his way to the bank of the bayou. Since he had been able to walk on his own he had gone to wait there for a few minutes each night, suspecting there would soon be some word from Risk.

The bayou was quiet, the moss-draped cypress rustling with the softest of breezes. Snowy egrets and wild geese settled in their camps for the night. Slowly the filtered sunlight dissolved, leaving the surface of the water like onyx. The lemon trees on the plantation sent their citrus fragrance through the air. He heard the distant sound of a Negro woman singing, her crooning low and plaintive. The song was a Creole lullaby he remembered from childhood.

Others say it is your happiness

I say it is your sorrow

When we are enchanted by love

Farewell to all happiness…

The sound drifted into silence. Leaning his weight against a tree, Justin stared into the water with narrowed eyes.

Time was running out. He was healing quickly, and the danger for him increased each day that he remained here. No one would continue to believe the story that he was Philippe for much longer—the gossip and suspicion in town were spreading rapidly. Although Max was confident in his own power to protect his son, Justin knew he was not safe—from the authorities, or from Legare. He had to disappear and hide somewhere until he was well enough to go after Legare.

There was nothing keeping him here. Except Celia. A self-mocking smile twisted his lips.

After he vanished from her life she would be safe and content. This was what she was meant for, being surrounded by family, respected by friends, secure in the knowledge that each day would be as well-ordered as the last. She would never want to leave everything that was familiar.

Justin’s smile died away. Distractedly he raked his hands through his short hair until it stood on end. His entire being rebelled against the newfound feelings, but he could not seem to get rid of them. The realization was infuriating. His mother had shown him that women could never be trusted. He had always regarded them as entertaining creatures to be used for pleasure and then discarded.

Where Celia was concerned, however, he was driven by something he didn’t understand. If it were only physical desire, he could have found someone else to satisfy his need. There were other women more experienced, more seductive, women who affected the senses like the finest liquor. But his hunger for Celia was more than that. It had not begun on Crow’s Island or even at the lakeside cabin, but during his illness. He knew he couldn’t have survived the fever and wounds without her. For the first time in his life he had relied on someone else, on the fine-tempered strength of a woman half his size. She had fought for him; she had reached into his very dreams to pull him away from death. A link had been forged between them, and now she was part of him, haunting his thoughts, tormenting him. He tried to imagine never seeing her again, living out his life half a world away from her. Silently he damned her and himself.

A quiet splash from the bayou drew his attention. Justin drew back into the shadow of the tree, listening intently. A low, warbling whistle floated to his ears. Justin grinned. He peered at the approaching pirogue and its two passengers, waiting until it had reached the bank. Softly he spoke from the darkness. “A fine thing to dump a helpless man into the laps of the Vallerands.”

Risk stepped from the pirogue to the muddy bank, easing his way toward the direction of the voice. “’Tis a ghost I’m hearin’, to be sure.”

Justin was heartily glad to see Risk—and Aug, who was tethering the pirogue to the bank. “Hello, Jack.” He approached Risk, and the younger man seized him in a rough embrace punctuated by a hearty clap on the back.

“My God, man, the look o’ ye!” Risk exclaimed, standing back to survey him. “Scraped clean an’ smellin’ pretty. An’ not long ago ye were totterin’ on the brink o’ the grave!”

Justin smiled slightly. “You could have left me for dead, Jack.” His expression sobered. “Once again I owe you my life.”

“An’ I won’t be lettin’ ye forget it.”

Aug came to join them, and Justin exchanged greetings with him, clasping hands briefly. “Griffin,” Aug said, “once again you have cheated the devil.” His teeth showed in a smile. “Even he would not have you, eh?”

Justin smiled ruefully and shook his head, studying the pair of them. He was troubled by what he saw. Even in the worst of times Risk had never lost his roguish air, but it was gone now, replaced by a sharp, hunted look. And there was an unfamiliar tenseness about Aug, for all that he tried to keep his dark face expressionless.