Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(89)

“Stay at home,” Justin said slowly, deliberately. “Don’t go anywhere. Stay out of this.”

Her face whitened. “You are hurting me!”

His cruel grasp did not slacken. “It’s not just your choices and your life I want to protect, it’s Philippe’s. And my own. Do you want to be responsible for my death?”

“No,” she whispered, and gulped painfully, her eyes turning glassy.

Justin groaned. “Damn you, don’t start that!”

“I’m afraid.”

He set her down and pulled away, although it was agony to let go of her.

“You are going to exchange yourself for him, aren’t you?” She sniffled. “Exactly as Legare planned it. When will it be? Soon? Tomorrow night?”

“Yes.”

“Where is it going to happen?” As he remained silent, she smiled bitterly. “Where? It won’t make any difference if you tell me. I wouldn’t be foolish enough to think I could stop you. I just want to know. I have the right to know.”

He looked away from her, and dragged his fingers through his disheveled hair. “Devil’s Pass,” he muttered.

By now Celia was familiar enough with the terrain around New Orleans to know the name. It was a narrow stretch of swamp located between the river and the lake where she had spent the night with Justin all those months ago. Occasionally the small channel was used by travelers and had to be cleared of the swamp sand and debris that threatened to choke it off.

“Is that where Legare wants the exchange to take place?” she asked.

“Yes.”

She wiped away tears of fright. “It’s all going the way he planned, isn’t it?”

“I’ll make it through this, Celia.”

“How will I know? Even if you live, you won’t come back for me, will you?”

Justin didn’t answer.

Celia bit her lip to keep back a sob of anguish. “Why did you tell me now instead of tomorrow?” she whispered. “Why couldn’t we have had one more night?”

“Because…” Justin paused and thought of lying to her, and found that he couldn’t any longer. “Because then I wouldn’t have a chance in hell of leaving you,” he said hoarsely.

Celia knew she could not stop him from doing as he wished. She should accept his decision with dignity, but instead she was reduced to pleading. “Don’t leave me, Justin, you don’t have to.”

“You’ll have Philippe,” he said.

Celia was overwhelmed with despair. He was going to leave her, and he thought he was doing it for her own good. “No, I won’t,” she sobbed. “Don’t you understand anything?” She was humiliated by her own helpless crying, but she could not stop it. Brushing by him, she strode rapidly down the hall, heading out of the main house to the privacy of the garçonnière.

*   *   *

Max waited patiently in the parlor of the Matthews residence until the commander joined him. Some men would have donned a dressing robe for such a late and informal meeting. Matthews came downstairs wearing his military coat, breeches, and shoes. His short but stalwart form was impeccably turned out. The only thing missing was his wig. He passed his thick, square hand over his balding pate, smoothing the short gray strands back over his head. Then he approached Max with a frown.

“Monsieur Vallerand,” he said, “I trust you have good reason to call at such an unconventional hour.”

“I do indeed,” Max replied, shaking the commander’s hand. “Forgive me for disturbing your night’s rest, but I had no other choice.”

Matthews gestured for him to sit down, and Max complied. Were the commander a Creole, he would have offered a drink or a cigar, but that was not the American way. From his familiarity with Americans, Max knew better than to expect the kind of hospitality that his own culture was renowned for.

The commander had come from a privileged family in Pennsylvania, compiled an exceptional record in the Tripolitan war, and served in the Navy Department in Washington, D.C. Since the recent war with the British, Matthews had been assigned to New Orleans. He had encountered only frustrations and obstacles in his efforts to deal with the Gulf pirates. Unfortunately, he seemed to feel that the local Creoles’ lax attitude toward smuggling had been responsible for much of his failure so far.

“Monsieur Vallerand,” Matthews said, “I’ve no doubt that what I’m about to say will sound rude. But it is my experience that Creoles never go directly to the point of a conversation, and I am hoping that will not be the case with you. I am tired, monsieur, and I will be quite busy for the next few days. Therefore I hope you will endeavor to tell me the purpose of your visit as concisely as possible.”

“Certainly,” Max replied politely. “I have come to discuss the attack on Isle au Corneille.”

Matthews’ face turned white, then purple. “The attack, the…the…No one is supposed to know about that! Who…How…”

“I have my sources,” Max said modestly.

The commander’s eyes bulged and his chin quivered. “You double-dealing Creoles and your intrigue and your spies. I demand to know the person or persons who gave you information that threatens the security of the government, the navy, the state—”