LISA Page 16

  “What would you like for me to say?”

  “Tell me how it has been for you the past few months.”

  “Your family has been good to me,” she said. “My life here has been quiet and peaceful. Until you arrived.”

  He grinned. “Trouble seems to follow me like a flea-bitten dog.”

  “I hope that you leave soon and take it with you.”

  “God, so do I.” Justin touched the bandage over his face. “When will this come off?”

  “I do not know. The eyes are usually the quickest to heal.”

  His fingers moved experimentally over the cloth. “How bad are the injuries?” His voice took on a new edge. “How long does this thing have to stay on?”

  “I am not a doctor.”

  “You know enough to guess.”

  She could not give him a guess, not when there was a chance he would never be able to see again. “You need time and rest,” she said calmly. “That is all I can tell you.”

  Justin was unnaturally still, as if he could read her mind. “Have I lost one of my eyes? Both?”

  “I do not know how much vision you will have. First we will have to wait and—”

  “Then I’ll find out for myself.” He dug his fingers underneath the bandage and began to pull it off.

  Celia stared at him in horror, then grasped his hand in hers. “Justin, stop it! Justin—”

  He shook her off impatiently.

  “No, it is too soon, you will hurt yourself!” She flew back to him, chattering in French, trying in vain to stop him from tugging off the white linen strips. Even in his weakened condition he was able to keep her at bay. The bandages fell to the floor.

  Justin tried to open his eyes and his head was filled with a white-hot explosion. He gave a garbled cry, shielding his face with his arms. Dimly he heard Celia’s voice over his vicious curses.

  Panic-stricken, Celia rushed to his writhing form. “Oh, you stubborn fool, of course it is too soon for you to see anything! Stop it, you’ve hurt yourself!”

  He felt her touch his head and he shoved her away, maddened by the pain. Undaunted, Celia persisted in prying his hands from his face, and she wrapped a towel over his eyes. Noeline entered the room, having heard the commotion as she passed by. Her dark eyes took in the situation in one glance. Celia looked at her wildly. “A sedative,” she said, somehow managing to sound calm. “Quickly.” Wordlessly Noeline went to the dresser and poured fresh water into a glass. Justin groaned, feeling as if his eyeballs had been ripped out.

  “Be still,” Celia hissed into his ear, pulling his head against her soft shoulder. It was the only way to keep him from doing more damage. “You deserve this—I told you not to take those bandages off! If you want to be able to see again, you’ll rest quietly and allow yourself time to heal!”

  “Get the hell away from me…unfeeling bitch…” he gasped, but his shaking arm stole around her waist as if she were his only refuge. His breath burned through her dress like steam. She grasped the edge of the sheet and yanked it over his naked body, feeling somehow protective of him. Ridiculous, considering that Noeline had known him since the day he’d been born.

  Noeline brought the sleeping draft, and Celia took the glass in her free hand. “Justin, drink this.”

  “What is it?” he asked through clenched teeth.

  “Something to help you.” She forced it against his mouth until she heard the glass click against his teeth. Some of the liquid sloshed onto her breast.

  He choked a little and swore helplessly. “No, goddamn—”

  “Drink this now,” she said, her voice soft but unyielding.

  He downed the contents of the glass in a few gulps, some of the liquid trickling from his chin to her bodice. While Justin swallowed, Celia looked at Noeline despairingly. “Please bring some more of that balm you made for his eyes. And some clean strips of linen.”

  Noeline frowned at the pair on the bed as if such dramatic scenes were too much for her limited patience. “Oui, madame.”

  Celia set the glass aside and looked at the dark head cradled against her shoulder. Justin was quiet except for his rough breathing. She could only guess at his suffering. His head dropped heavily against her breast, then lifted as he tried to fight the oblivion stealing over him. Celia’s aggravation was tempered by a new feeling of tenderness. He was like a big, bad-tempered animal that lashed out at those trying to help him. “Justin,” she said gently, cradling his head. “It’s all right. Rest now.”

  “I won’t be blind,” he mumbled. “I won’t be…led around…”

  “No, you will be fine,” she crooned. “Quiet now. Quiet.” She continued to murmur reassurances until he sighed deeply and slumped against her, his arm loosening from around her waist.

  They kept Justin sedated the next day, deciding that it was the only way to keep him still and allow his wounds further time to mend. “He is not going to make things easy for us,” Lysette said ruefully. “You may have had experience with difficult patients in the past, Celia, but I assure you Justin will prove to be the worst you’ve ever encountered.” Justin was too groggy to resist as Lysette and Celia administered another small dose of laudanum.

  Unfortunately, when Justin finally awakened he proved Lysette’s prediction to be true. His mood was ugly, every word spoken in a tone of pure meanness. He was even insulting to Lysette, snapping at her irritably. “Bring me something decent to eat,” he growled. “No more of this sickroom swill.”

  “You can’t have regular food yet.”

  “Then don’t bring me anything!” To punctuate the sentence, he lifted a small bowl of clear broth in his good hand and threw it across the room. Lysette left in a fury, sending up a frightened maid to clean the mess.

  Justin clasped his hand over his aching ribs as he heard the housemaid scuttling around the corner of the room where the bowl had landed. His leg hurt. So did his shoulder and side and stomach. But worst of all was the knifing pain in his head, a pain that drove deeper with every throb of his pulse. When he had complained earlier, Noeline had offered to give him another sleeping draft, and he had cursed her out of the room. He didn’t want to sleep any more. He wanted to be able to get out of bed and move around, he wanted his head to stop aching, and most of all he wanted to escape this relentless darkness.

  “You,” he barked at the housemaid. “Finish that and take a message to Madame Val—to Celia. Tell her she can’t hide from me forever.” He paused, thinking that the message might not be enough to get her up to his room. “And tell her the bandage on my side is slipping.” It was a torturous ten minutes before he heard Celia’s footsteps and smelled her sweet fragrance.

  “You took your time,” he sneered.

  “All your roaring and growling has upset the household,” she said coolly. “Noeline is muttering something about evil loas, Lysette is red in the face, and the children are convinced we are keeping a monster in the bedroom.”

  “Devil take you all!”

  “What is this about your bandage?” She bent over him, pushed the sheet down enough to view his side. “It is not slipping.” She noticed the deep lines on his forehead, and her voice softened. “Your head aches, doesn’t it? After your tantrums I am not surprised. Here, I will change your pillow.”

  He grunted in assent. Gently she lifted his head, pulling away the flattened pillow and replacing it with a fresh one. She moved around the bed, straightening the sheets, then opened the window to allow a cooling breeze into the room. “Are you thirsty?”

  “Thirsty? Not when someone’s pouring some foul liquid down my gullet every—”

  “Would you like me to read to you?” she interrupted.

  “No.” Justin raised a hand to his throbbing forehead, exasperated by the pain and tedium. She pushed his hand away and slid her fingers underneath his matted hair, stroking his temples and the sides of his skull. He was still with surprise, realizing how much he liked her hands on his brow, her fingers in his hair. And that was stran
ge, considering his usual aversion to being touched.

  “Is that better?” came her soft voice.

  If he said yes, she would stop. If he said no, she would stop. “Maybe a little,” he muttered. The light caress continued until he began to feel a bit drowsy. He sighed softly, and then her hands left him and she stood up. “Don’t go,” he commanded.

  “There is nothing I can do for you.”

  “Read to me.”

  She went in search of a book and returned to his bedside, seating herself with a rustle of silk damask. His head turned in her direction as he listened to the sound of her voice. The novel was mundane, boring, but he didn’t care. It soothed him to hear the turning of the pages and her low voice. Idly he tried to picture her face, but he couldn’t remember it clearly. Only a tangle of pale blond hair, thin cheeks, dark brown eyes.

  Over the past four months Justin had thought every day of Philippe, and of Celia. It was impossible to picture them together. He had tried, but he could not think of her as his brother’s wife. He knew he should feel guilty for having taken her. But that had always been his downfall, not feeling guilty at the appropriate moments. He was not at all sorry for what had happened between them. How often did she think of that night? he wondered. Or did she choose to think of it at all? Beginning to doze, he imagined that the pillow underneath his head was her soft lap.

  Chapter 8

  S omeone walked into the bedroom. Justin recognized the sound of Maximilien’s heavy-booted feet immediately. At least once a day Max came to visit him, checking on his progress and bringing him news of New Orleans and the Gulf. Recently there had been a lull in pirate activity, but the naval commander was no less determined to bring the outlaws to justice.

  “Lieutenant Benedict was here again,” Max said without preamble. “I have held him off for a week, but I can’t avoid his demands to see you any longer. He wants to question you about the pirate island and your supposed escape. And I am certain he’ll try to trick you into admitting you’re not Philippe. I told him your injuries had caused some loss of memory. That should help you to skirt around some of his questions.”

  “How long did Benedict and Philippe know each other?” Justin asked.

  “Perhaps a year. The lieutenant’s wife, Mary, suffered a miscarriage during a riding accident, and Philippe saved her life. Benedict said he would be indebted to him forever.”

  “That’s good,” Justin said. “That will make Benedict more inclined to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

  “Or that much more determined to prove that you are not Philippe.”

  Justin’s mouth twisted sardonically. “It would be easier to play the part had Philippe not been such a blasted saint.”

  “At least you’ll look like him.” Max surveyed him thoughtfully. “You’ll have to begin by shaving and cutting off that hair.”

  “Aye,” Justin said gloomily. “Noeline’s been sharpening the scissors for a week.”

  Max chuckled. “Ask Lysette to shave your beard. She became adept at it when I injured my arm last year.”

  Justin tilted his head in an attitude of curiosity. “How did you do that?”

  “Doing some work around the plantation. Just a sprain, but it kept me from using my right arm for a week or two. I needed help with many things, most particularly shaving. After some practice Lysette became quite proficient, but the first few days…well, imagine having a nervous woman at your throat with a razor blade.”

  Justin laughed. “You’re a braver man than I, Father.”

  They talked for a few more minutes and then Max left. Justin fingered his long beard thoughtfully. It struck him that they had just had the kind of relaxed, amiable conversation Max and Philippe had always enjoyed. The kind he and his father had never been able to have before. He wondered why that was possible now, and why the brittle edge to their relationship seemed to have softened.

  * * *

  Lysette watched as Celia busied herself in the kitchen with Justin’s supper tray. “Celia, it is not necessary for you to prepare his meals,” Lysette said quietly. “Noeline is perfectly capable of that.”

  “It is no trouble.” Celia folded and refolded a napkin. She knew why Lysette was concerned. For the past week Celia had allowed Justin to dominated her every waking moment. Whenever he wanted something she was the one he called for. His temper rarely flashed out with her as it did with the others, and her very presence seemed to ease his restlessness. He did not like the way anyone else changed his bandages or even arranged his pillows. The process of eating, especially, was something no one but Celia was allowed to witness. The blindness disadvantaged him in many ways, and he was infuriated by his loss of independence. Celia read to him, soothed his headaches, entertained him with stories of her childhood in France.

  Just why he required her for these things and why she obliged him was something she could not explain even to herself. All she knew was that the few times she had ignored his demands and let one of the others see to his needs, she had felt a terrible nagging urge to go to him.

  “Celia,” Lysette said, her brow furrowed, “I am aware of the demands Justin has made of you. I want to make it clear that you are not responsible for him in any way. Perhaps he reminds you of Philippe and that is why you—”

  Celia interrupted with a laugh. “Bon Dieu, he does not remind me of Philippe, not at all!”

  Lysette did not return her smile. “I am trying to understand why you feel this obligation to care for him.”

  “There is nothing to understand,” Celia said, her amusement dying. “It has nothing to do with feelings. It is a matter of practicality. You have your husband, your children, and the plantation to care for. Noeline has many responsibilities. I have more time than anyone else, that is all.”

  “Very well.” It was clear that Lysette did not believe her, but she was willing to let the matter drop.

  Celia looked down at the tray, struggling with an urge to confide in her. She wished that Lysette were a few years older. If only there was some older, motherly woman Celia could talk to. She still grieved for Philippe, still cried when she thought of him. And she despised Justin’s callousness. The death of his twin seemed to have made little impression on him. She did not think Justin really cared about anything except himself and his own comfort. It would not be wise to entertain illusions about him.

  But why, then, did she feel this frightening connection to him? Why was she sometimes able to know what he was feeling so acutely? Was it because they had known each other intimately? She did not think so. Perhaps it was because he had saved her life. Perhaps that was why she felt a compulsion to take care of him.

  “The food is getting cold,” she murmured to Lysette. She left the kitchen and went into the house, carrying the tray upstairs to Justin’s room.

  Justin was silent as she crossed the threshold. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she glanced at him only briefly, noticing that he was sitting up in bed and wearing a blue robe. She was halfway across the room before she realized that something was different. Her fingers gripped the tray until the tips turned white.

  Justin had taken the bandage off his face once again. There were smears of herbal salve underneath his eyes. His face was turned toward her, his blue eyes wide open. The dishes on the tray began to rattle, and she set it down on the floor before she dropped everything.

  “Justin?” she asked. Step by step she made her way to the edge of the bed and sat. He continued to stare at her with those bloodshot, unblinking eyes. His chest was moving up and down rapidly, his breathing unsteady. “Justin, can you see me?”

  Slowly he lifted his hand and touched the curve of her cheek, and watched the pink flush that had begun to rise from her neck. He withdrew his fingers, although he wanted to touch the shining blond hair drawn back so smoothly and pinned at her nape. Her dark eyes were as velvety brown and innocent as he had remembered. He wanted to cover the vulnerable curves of her lips with his own, to run his hands over her gleaming ski
n. Her body had filled out; her breasts were round, her waist small and neat.

  “Can you see as well as you did before?” she asked.

  “Aye,” he said huskily. “I think so.”

  Celia swallowed back tears of relief. She had not known until this moment how afraid she had been that his sight might not come back. “Oh, I’m so glad…I thought…I was afraid…” She stopped in confusion, intensely aware of his riveting blue eyes.

  He had not taken his gaze from her face. “You’re more beautiful than I remembered.”

  Her heart began a heavy thudding rhythm. She should get up from the bed and put some distance between them. But she continued to sit there, caught in the grip of a strange confusion. She bent her head, her gaze falling on his large hand as it rested close to her hip. He was not touching her but she felt him staring at her.

  “Y-your father told me that Lieutenant Benedict will see you tomorrow,” she stammered. “You will have to make him believe you are Philippe.”

  “You’ll have to help me.”

  “I…I don’t think it will be possible. I don’t think we will be able to convince anyone…”

  Justin waited patiently for her to finish.

  “I cannot pretend that you are my husband,” she whispered.

  Justin wanted to touch her, wanted to feel her soft skin under hands, her small body next to his. But it was not his right, and here in these civilized surroundings his usual techniques of force and conquest could not be used. Here he could not take something—or someone—just because he wanted to.

  “I understand,” he said slowly. He had never been good at situations such as this. He had never taken an interest in analyzing feelings, his own or anyone else’s. He judged others by their actions and what his own instincts told him. “It’s repellent, isn’t it,” he continued, “to make a mockery of Philippe’s death this way. If I don’t manage to betray my identity, you’ll have to discard your black gowns. I’ve robbed you of the mourning period you’re entitled to. You’ll have to lie to everyone you know and convince them of your joy at having your husband returned to you. And you’ll have to pretend that the man you hate the most is the man you love. You’re wrong if you think I’ll get any enjoyment out of it. I’m aware of all the offensive aspects of this charade. If it weren’t necessary to save my own skin I’d have refused to do it. God knows it won’t be easy to play Philippe. I’m a proficient liar, but how to portray all that honesty and decency…Bien sûr, it taxes even my fertile imagination.”