Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(9)

“Wh-what do you want with me?” she whispered. Soft as the question was, he heard it clearly.

“Call it a debt I have to honor.” He stood over her, settling his hands on the back of her chair. “And I always take care of my debts,” he murmured, staring down at her. She shrank away, feeling she would shatter into pieces if he leaned one inch closer.

“I-if you take me to New Orleans,” she said shakily, “the Vallerands will reward you for returning me un-unmolested—”

His eyes glinted with amusement. “If I do take you there, you’ll be received the same whether you’re molested or not.”

“But the Vallerands would not want—”

“And you think I give a damn what the Vallerands want,” he interrupted, his gaze traveling over her body. She froze as she felt his fingertip touch the tip of her ear and slide around the delicate curve. He tickled gently behind her earlobe, as if she were a prickly-tempered cat. “Well, you have nothing to fear from me, my little bag of bones. When I lay with a woman, I like some cushion to her.”

Risk snickered, while Celia jerked her head back to avoid that teasing fingertip. Although she feared Griffin as much as she did the others, there was something about him that provoked a far deeper sense of outrage. Not even Dominic Legare seemed as casual in his cruelty as he did.

Griffin stared at the woman with new interest. She had the translucent skin of a child, softly rounded cheeks, a little snip of a nose. Her mouth was formed with the fashionable rosebud prettiness he usually had no taste for. Long, silky lashes framed her luminous brown eyes. What caught his notice, however, was something oddly inappropriate for such a conventionally pretty face, a mixture of intelligence and dignity that gave her distinction.

Griffin looked over at his second-in-command. “Has Legare chosen his man or not, Jack?”

Risk squinted at the other side of the room with his one eye. “’Tis hard to tell, with the pack we have in here, all gathered ’round—ah, wait, looks like Pounce. Big bear of a man—just might have some reach on ye.”

Griffin responded with a noncommittal grunt, pulling his knife from his boot. The well-sharpened blade gleamed brightly. Tossing it up in the air, he caught it expertly by the hilt. “Pity there’s not room for the cutlass,” he said. “So much quicker that way.”

“Show them a bit of fancy work,” Risk urged, excitement on his face. “Let Legare’s men see why we’ve followed ye to hell an’ back, Cap’n.”

“Nay, I’ll do it without a show.”

Without another word, Griffin turned and walked to the center of the room, where the crowd had cleared away a tight circle. The one Risk had called Pounce, a tall, solidly built man with a hideously slashed cheek, stepped forward.

The din of encouragements, threats, and excited cheers exploded into a frenzy. Terrified by the noise and animosity that thickened the air, Celia leaped to her feet, knocking over her chair. Driven by instinct, she backed away from the ferocious crowd, and felt an obstruction behind her heels. Unceremoniously she fell into Risk’s lap. He had tripped her again.

“Big feet,” he said, answering her glare with an innocent smile. “Always in the way.”

She tried to push herself off his knee, but he kept his arm around her waist. Although he was slim, there was a resilient steeliness in his limbs. “’Tis me duty to keep ye here,” he remarked pleasantly. “Don’t fear I’ll maul ye with these scaly paws, darlin’. Ye’re a sweet temptation, sure…but I know too well that Griffin would start in on me after finishing with Pounce.”

And truthfully, his hold on her was far more impersonal than any other man’s so far. Celia forced her muscles to unclench. “Poor mite,” Risk said, noticing the cracked surface of her lips. “How long since ye last had water to drink?”

“I-I do not remember,” she said in her uncertain English.

“We’ll fix ye after the broil’s over. Vagabond’s got a first-rate cook, serves up grub that won’t sour in yer belly.”

She did not even try to decipher what he had just said. “Your captain…will he lose maybe?”

“Oh, Griffin nivver loses. He’s kin to the divvil an’ fights twice as mean.”

She looked at Risk curiously. His appearance was almost civilized compared to the others in the room. His hair was cropped short, completely unlike Griffin’s wild locks. In spite of the ruined eye and the black patch, his clean-boned face was far from ugly. He was a young man, perhaps even her age. “Why does he do this?” she asked. “What does he want with me?”

“That’s for the cap’n to say. But know this, ye’ll be better off with Griffin than Legare.”

She stared at him bitterly. For a moment she could not think of the right words in English, and then she formed a reply. “You cannot know for certainly.”

“For certainly I do,” Risk said, and laughed. He lifted her off his knee and stood up. “Come, darlin’, let’s have a look at the fight.”

Celia didn’t know how he could see anything with the room in such an uproar. They were all animals bellowing coarsely, with threatening fists and bloodlust on their faces. Occasionally there was a break in the crowd and she caught sight of the flashing of knives in the shifting circle. Risk did not bother to restrain a few vigorous shouts of his own. She strained away from him, but his arm was firm around her waist, and his guard did not slacken.