Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(87)

He couldn’t have refused her even if both their lives had depended on it. His arms were around her before he could even think. Her small form was made bulky by his coat. As her head rested on his shoulder, the warmth of her breath sank through his shirt to the skin beneath. She leaned against him while he gazed at the bayou.

“I kept dreaming about Philippe,” she said almost absently. “In all those dreams he was drowning and I kept reaching for him. But I could never save him.”

“You’ll have him back soon.”

“What do you mean—”

“Shhh.” Gently he pushed her away from him as a pirogue approached. It was Risk, rowing steadily, his unwashed hair covered by a kerchief. He glanced over his shoulder at both of them and grinned. Justin made his way to the bank to secure the pirogue while Risk climbed from it. His gaze alighted on Celia first.

“Is he alive?” she burst out.

“Aye,” Risk said with a chuckle. “Alive, well, an’ itchin’ for ye, darlin’.”

Justin scowled. Celia was too innocent to know that among sailors the word itch had a purely sexual connotation.

“Did they mistreat him?” Celia asked.

“He’s been held in one o’ the cells in the bottom o’ the fort,” Risk said, looking at Justin. “Ye know the ones. Used when the slave corrals were bustin’ at the sides an’ they needed more room. By God, he’s the spit o’ you, Griffin!”

“Did you see Aug while you were there?” Justin asked.

“Nay, I couldn’t—”

Celia interrupted in surprise. “Aug is on the island?”

Suddenly there was silence. Justin took her by the shoulders and stared down at her. “Go back to the house,” he said.

“But that is not necessary, I will be quiet, I will not say another—”

“Go back to the house,” he repeated softly, his eyes piercing. Abashed, she dropped her gaze and left, cursing herself for not having been silent.

Lysette was rocking Rafe to sleep while Evelina was playing with her dolls. Angeline, the younger daughter, was fretful and bored, and Celia decided to coax her to the parlor for storytime. A small fire crackled in the grate, lending a warm glow to the room. Angeline cuddled in her lap as they looked at a drawing in her sketchbook. It was a game they’d begun playing soon after Celia had shared her artwork with Justin, Celia sketching imaginary people and places and scenes, encouraging Angeline to help her make up stories about them. The stories forced her to concentrate on something other than Philippe, and Celia began to relax. It was an enjoyable way to pass the time, and she delighted in the little girl’s assertiveness.

How lucky Lysette Vallerand was to have three beautiful children and a husband who loved her, and a large home and a multitude of friends and interests to keep her busy. Celia could have had such a life with Philippe. Perhaps there was still a possibility of it. But it was no longer what she wanted. She was not even certain exactly what kind of life Justin would offer her, and she didn’t care. She knew she would be loved as few women were ever loved, and that Justin would take care of her. Undoubtedly her father and family would believe she had gone mad. She had always been so quiet, so moderate and predictable in all things. The thought made her smile ruefully, and she turned her attention back to Angeline.

Justin went to the library and found his father sitting before the fire. The yellow glow turned Max’s hard face into a mask of bronze and gold.

“Philippe’s alive,” Justin said. “Jack confirmed it.”

Max inhaled sharply. “Is he all right?”

Justin’s gaze was bleak. “Considering that he’s been Legare’s prisoner all this time, probably not.”

“I’ll go to Commander Matthews now. God willing, he’ll agree to your plan.”

“Be persuasive, Father.”

“Of course,” Max said matter-of-factly, and left the library.

Justin wandered to the parlor where Celia sat with Angeline. He paused at the side of the doorway and watched unnoticed while the little girl pointed her chubby finger at one of Celia’s sketches. “…the princess went in there,” she was saying to Celia, who lifted her blond brows questioningly.

“Into the dragon’s cave?”

“Oui, to find the king’s stolen treasure!”

Celia’s pencil moved busily at the side of the page, doing a quick line drawing. “Yes, but then the dragon returned, and he found her in his cave! What did the princess do?”

“She…” Angeline frowned thoughtfully. “She made a pet of him!”

“Oh, but he was a very mean dragon.”

“Non, it is only that he was very sad.”

Celia smiled and kissed the top of Angeline’s head. “Poor dragon,” she murmured.

“Yes, poor sad dragon…”

A clutching pain began in Justin’s chest as they continued the story. He had never seen Celia so tender and maternal. The extent of what he was about to lose was suddenly made clear, and it shook him badly. He wanted to give her children, he wanted a family with her, the kind of life he had never even been able to dream of before.

The story of the sad dragon was concluded, and Celia looked up to find his blue eyes on her. She shifted Angeline from her lap. “Darling,” she said to the little girl, and handed her the sketch, “why don’t you go see if your maman is finished with Rafe now?”