Only With Your Love (Vallerands #2)(92)

“I’d sooner question your loyalty than his,” Justin growled, fiercely defensive. He would never forget that Risk had lost an eye for him. “What reason have you to doubt him?” he asked. “Your infallible instincts?…Bien, that’s a good enough reason for me to mistrust a man who’s saved my life a dozen times, isn’t it?”

Max frowned and turned away, contemplating the smooth water.

Celia dismounted from her horse and led it into the woods. She had pushed herself and the horse as hard as she could. The closer she got to Devil’s Pass, the stronger her sense of danger grew. Every nerve was prickling with fear. She followed the deep tracks left in the soft ground by the horses’ hooves until she heard the quiet murmur of voices. Cautiously she dropped the reins and drew closer to the water, wary of stumbling into the middle of a dangerous situation.

She leaned against a sturdy tree trunk and peered through an opening in the thicket. The white light of the three-quarter moon filtered through the curtain of mist that hung over the swamp. Everything was quiet except for the small ripples against the shore and the dip of oars into the water. From her vantage point, Celia could see everything: the two sides of the channel, Legare’s men standing on one shore, Vallerands on the other. Legare was not visible, but Maximilien was. He stood with his feet slightly apart and his hands clenched. The exchange had already begun. Pirogues were being rowed away from the shallow banks, two figures in each small vessel.

Mesmerized, Celia watched and chewed the inside of her lower lip. Justin sat with his hands tied behind his back while Risk rowed him across the water. His head was turned toward the other pirogue. Celia knew he was staring anxiously at Philippe to ascertain his brother’s condition. The vessels passed within ten yards of each other. How odd and dreamlike it was, the pirogues gliding across the water, one taking away the man she loved, the other bringing back a husband she had thought was dead.

Her nails dug into the tree bark. That shaggy bearded figure, bound and gagged…could it really be Philippe? He looked exactly as Justin had five months ago, except that his hair and beard weren’t as long, and his skin appeared eerily pale. The sight of him sent a chill down her spine. Part of the past she had thought was gone forever was now returning.

She remembered how she had thought of Philippe as a prince who would sweep her off to some enchanted land. It had been like a fairy tale come true. He was a kind, loving man. It was not his fault that she had discovered needs in herself that only Justin could fulfill. How unfair, how wrong that any of this should have happened to Philippe! Guiltily she thought that now they would seem like strangers to each other. But he was her husband. In the eyes of the church or any moral person, it was her duty to stay with him if that was what he wanted.

Justin moved his gaze from the bank where they were headed, his eyes unfocused. His nostrils flared as he inhaled sharply.

Risk glanced at him, rowing mechanically. “What is it?” he asked in a low voice.

Justin wanted to look behind them, but he didn’t dare. For the first time in his life he was so alarmed he had trouble speaking. He felt that Celia was somewhere nearby and he was helpless to do anything about it. “Celia’s here,” he said.

“Celia?” Risk looked startled. “Have ye seen her? Where?”

“I don’t know, back there…” Justin felt the blood pumping through his body. “After you hand me over to Legare, go back and find her. Make certain nothing happens to her.”

“There’s a look about ye…” Risk murmured, staring hard at Justin. “I’ve nivver seen ye afraid before, Griffin.” Then he shook his head and spit.

The bow of Philippe’s pirogue approached the land, and Max clambered into the knee-deep water. Ignoring the warning from the lout who pulled at the oars, Max reached into the pirogue and lifted his son from it bodily. The craft bobbed violently, and Philippe’s legs splashed in the ice-cold water. After helping Philippe up the bank, Max pulled off the gag that had kept him silent while Alexandre cut the rope that had secured his arms. Gasping, Philippe stared at him with bewildered blue eyes.

Only the eyes were recognizable to Max. Every other resemblance to his elegant, impeccably groomed son was obscured by the long hair and beard, and the tattered, roughly made garments that Max would not have tolerated on one of his slaves. His cheekbones stood out like knifeblades and his skin was gray-white.

Max reached for him and held him tightly. “My God, Philippe,” he said hoarsely, his arms strong and secure around his son. They were both silent for a moment, and then Philippe pulled away, twisting to see Justin being dragged out of the pirogue on the opposite side of the channel.

Philippe turned back to Max. “Why?” he asked desperately. “Why did you let Justin do it?”

“It’s all right,” Max said. “We have a plan—”

“No, no, you’ll never win against Legare! He’ll kill Justin…He’ll…” Philippe’s thin, ragged form swayed, and Max braced him up.

“I’ll see to your brother, mon fils,” Max soothed. “Everything will be all right. Alex will take you home now, d’accord? Go with him. Lysette is waiting and so is Celia.”

“Celia?” Philippe repeated numbly.

“Didn’t Risk tell you when he visited the island that she is alive?”