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  “You mock Philippe for his goodness,” she accused in a low voice.

  “Not at all. When I was younger, yes.” He smiled briefly. “It infuriated me, the way he could walk away from an insult or a challenge. I was never able to resist a fight even when I knew it was senseless.”

  She raised her luminous eyes to his. “Why did Philippe never mention you to me?”

  Justin gave a sardonic laugh. “I’m hardly someone to boast of, ma petite.”

  “Philippe should have told me. Having a pirate for a brother is not something that can be kept a secret for long!”

  “Oh, Creoles can keep secrets for generations, unlike the French. Perhaps it’s the Spanish influence. Spaniards are very good at intrigue. Philippe may have thought—and rightly so—that it would be years before you found out about me.” He leaned back against the pillows and closed his eyes with a grimace. His face was lined with strain.

  “You should sleep now,” she said softly. “You must be well-rested for tomorrow.”

  “I’m nothing if not well-rested,” he returned, his eyes still closed. “It’s all I’ve done since I was brought here.”

  Celia stood up from the bed. “I will tell Maximilien and Lysette that you have recovered your sight. They will be very happy.”

  “More likely relieved.”

  “Yes, that too.” She leaned over him to adjust the pillows behind him, as she had hundreds of times before. But this time was different…this time his eyes flickered open to watch her, and the moment was startlingly intimate. She pulled back quickly. Everything was different now that he could see. The helplessness was gone. His wounds would heal, and he would be as he was before. And there was no question that he would leave as soon as he was able, never to be seen by his family again.

  “You always smell like flowers,” he murmured. “It’s like…violets, or…”

  “Lavender.”

  “Lavender,” he repeated. He turned his head and fell asleep, clearly exhausted. Celia watched him for a long time. Why had Justin turned out so different than Philippe? She had tried to find out the answer, but no one would explain it to her. There had to be a reason; something had to account for one brother being the pride of the family and the other a disgrace. She wondered if Justin and Philippe had hated each other. Wouldn’t Philippe have told her of the existence of his twin had he felt any sort of affection for Justin?

  “Oh, Philippe,” she whispered to herself, “would you have wanted me to help him? Or would you turn in your grave if you knew?”

  Lysette smoothed her daughter’s red hair, looking seriously into the small faces so like her own. Angeline was perched on her lap, while Evelina sat on the arm of her chair. “So you see, mes anges, it is like a game. We are going to pretend that he is Uncle Philippe, just for a little while. And we must not tell anyone about our game.”

  “Oui, Maman,” both little girls said obediently.

  Celia held Rafael’s chubby form in her arms and watched Lysette apprehensively. She wished it had not been necessary to tell the children who Justin really was, but Lysette had been adamant.

  “They are old enough to see that he is not Philippe,” she had said. “And they would know we were lying to them. Telling them the truth will increase the danger for Justin, but I must think of my children first. They have never had reason to doubt anything Max and I have told them. They are good girls, and they will obey me if I tell them to be quiet.”

  Celia hoped fervently that Lysette was right. She smiled at the two girls as they left the room, and moved to give the baby to Lysette. Rafe, who had been fidgeting, settled contentedly on his mother’s shoulder.

  “They did not seem shocked by what you told them,” Celia remarked.

  “Oh, children take everything in stride,” Lysette said with a soft laugh. “It is adults who have difficulty accepting the vagaries of life.”

  Celia paced to the window and back to her chair. “It has been very quiet upstairs.”

  “Yes,” Lysette replied, “Justin seems to be making fewer protests with Noeline than he did with me. Of course, she is more accomplished with the scissors than I am with the razor.”

  In spite of her tension, Celia smiled, remembering the yelps and protests that had filled the whole upstairs while Lysette was shaving off Justin’s beard. “Did you cut him very badly?” she asked.

  “Two tiny nicks,” Lysette boasted. “Not bad at all. And taking off the beard has made such a difference in his appearance. One could almost mistake him for a gentleman. Justin’s poor face is remarkably untouched considering all the battles and hardships he has survived.” She smiled whimsically. “He looked at himself in the glass and complained that no one would think him a very fearsome pirate now.”

  “Good,” Celia said in a heartfelt tone.

  “He’ll feel bereft indeed after Noeline finishes shearing off all that hair.”

  Celia nodded and took a deep breath, expelling it in a shaky sigh. “I wish this morning were over,” she said. “I wish Lieutenant Benedict had already come and gone.”

  Lysette regarded her with a perceptive stare. “You are worried for Justin, aren’t you?”

  “Aren’t you?” Celia asked, flustered.

  “Oui, naturellement. He is my stepson. I knew him when he was a boy, before he left home. And I do care about him. But…I learned long ago that he does not wish to form attachments to people or places. It is wise never to expect anything from him. I think that is why he chose the sea. On a ship he is constantly moving.”

  “But why become a pirate?”

  “Oh, I suppose it was the worst thing he could think of. It was the way he could finally prove that he was as wicked as everyone had always suspected. He had a boy’s natural instinct to misbehave, always running away from home, going where he should not, stirring up trouble. But the gossips made more of his escapades than they should have. And the fact that his twin was so quiet and responsible only made Justin’s behavior seem worse. I thought that much of his rebellion had to do with Max, that if Justin knew he had his father’s love and approval—” Lysette shrugged. “Perhaps it came too late. Even after they came to an understanding, it wasn’t enough for Justin. Max was only part of the puzzle. Justin still needed something no one was able to give him. I’ve come to believe that no one ever will.”

  Their attention was caught by the sudden appearance of Noeline in the doorway. The kerchief on her head was askew, and there was a look of exasperation on her usually dignified features. “Ah ain’ never gonna have a go-roun’ like dat again,” she announced.

  “It is finished?” Lysette asked.

  “Oui, madame.”

  “Noeline, thank you. I know that Monsieur Justin has done his best to try your patience. Where is he now?”

  “In de pahlor.”

  “Downstairs? How did he come all that way?”

  “He is walking wid de cane dat Monsieur Victor use to carry.” Victor Vallerand had been Maximilien’s father.

  “His leg,” Celia said in concern. “He may have started the bleeding again. Oh, I knew he would push, I knew…” She rushed out to the second of the double parlors that bordered the entrance hall.

  She saw a tall figure standing with a cane by the window. He was dressed in a blue coat and buff-colored breeches. His thick, waving black hair was cut close to his head, and the face that turned toward her was clean and starkly handsome. Celia felt a sickening wave of dizziness. She drew closer to him, her legs trembling beneath her. His blue eyes smiled at her, and the corner of his mouth quirked disarmingly. She saw the hint of a dimple in his lean cheek. His deep voice was tinged with amusement. “You’re not going to faint, are you?”

  It could have been Philippe. The resemblance was so perfect that she gave a wrenching cry. What she most wanted, what she had ached for, was there in front of her—and it was an illusion, an illusion she couldn’t bear. She turned to escape, but he snatched her wrist before she moved out of reach. He kept hold even thou
gh her frantic tugging pained him. “Celia, no. Look at me!”

  “I can’t,” she said, bursting into tears. “I can’t bear to see…Philippe’s face…”

  “Dammit, it’s my face too!” Justin pulled her closer, and she dropped her forehead on his shoulder, crying weakly. He spoke against her ear, sounding shaken. “It’s my face too.”

  The feel of Celia weeping against him made his heart beat in an anxious staccato. He wanted to kiss her, wanted her to stop her broken sobbing. Fumbling for a handkerchief, he found the neatly folded one Noeline had tucked in his coat. Unused to drying anyone’s tears, he pressed it against her half-hidden face and dabbed clumsily at her cheeks. Gasping, she took it from him and blew her nose.

  Justin did not notice Lysette and Noeline standing in the doorway. He rubbed Celia’s spine and kneaded the back of her neck while she fought to control her emotions. “Help me to the sofa,” he said. “I’m about to lose my balance.”

  Lysette pulled Noeline away from the doorway, and they exchanged a worried glance before deciding tacitly to let the pair settle the matter on their own.

  Sniffling, Celia helped Justin ease down into a sitting position on the sofa. He pulled her beside him, his hand wrapped firmly around her upper arm.

  “Let me go,” she whispered.

  “Not until you look at me,” he said roughly. “You should be able to see the differences between me and Philippe. Look and tell me you see them.” When she did not move, he caressed the inside of her arm with his thumb. “Celia. Don’t be afraid.”

  Slowly her gaze wandered up to his face. He was right. To strangers they would have been identical, but to those who knew them it was certainly possible to tell them apart. Justin’s shocking blue eyes were different from Philippe’s gentle ones. His nose was a shade longer, and his mouth was a little wider, his lower lip more deeply curved.

  His body, too, was different. The clothes he was wearing would have fit Philippe perfectly, but Justin was leaner, toughened by years of scavenging and fighting. He had lost even the minimal amount of fat that most healthy, active men possessed. Unwillingly Celia remembered how he had been before his injuries, when he had rescued her from Isle au Corneille, the power and limitless strength that had flowed from him.

  He had the same long black eyelashes as Philippe, the same cowlick, and the same dark handsomeness. “I see the difference,” she croaked. “And the likeness.”

  Not a muscle in his face moved, but there was an odd play of concern and anger in his eyes. “I’m not Philippe.”

  “I know,” she whispered sadly.

  “Are you going to think of him every time you look at me?”

  “I…I don’t know.” She winced as his grip on her arm tightened until it began to hurt. “Oh—”

  Suddenly he let go of her. “This situation is obscene,” he snarled. He couldn’t stand the thought of her being reminded of Philippe, comparing him to Philippe, looking at him and wanting Philippe. It was insane for him to be jealous of a dead man. Of his own brother.

  Both of them found relief from the tension by setting their tempers free.

  “Ce n’etait pas mon idée,” she said heatedly, too upset to speak in English.

  “It wasn’t mine either! It was my father’s idea, an idiotic one. Go find him—tell him we’re not going to do it!”

  “We have no choice!” she snapped. “It is too late now.”

  They glared at each other, and Justin raised a hand to his jaw, remembering too late that there was no beard to stroke. He cursed violently. “Dammit, I want my beard back!”

  “It was a nasty beard,” she said, continuing to glare at him as she blew her nose once more. “Philippe would never have allowed himself to look like a goat.”

  “Aye, there were a hell of a lot of things Philippe never allowed himself to do. But I’m not Philippe.”

  “It is not necessary to keep telling me that!”

  “Then stop looking at me as if—”

  “I see,” Max said from the doorway, “that we have a marital squabble brewing.”

  Justin stared at him icily. “This isn’t going to work.”

  “Yes it is,” Celia said in determination, scrubbing the handkerchief over her moist face. “I have not made you well only to see you arrested and hanged. I refuse to have endured the past two dreadful weeks all for nothing!”

  “No one asked you to do a damn thing,” Justin sneered.

  “Then who was it that shouted for me to run up the stairs, down the stairs, every time you wanted a drink of water or—”

  “Assez,” Max said sharply. “Enough. Perhaps the two of you have forgotten that the lieutenant will be arriving at any moment.” His hard golden eyes moved from Celia’s flushed face to Justin’s inscrutable one. “The two of you do not exactly give the appearance of a loving husband and wife. Let me remind you that Justin’s life depends on how convincing you are.” He was interrupted before he could finish the lecture.

  “Monsieur,” Noeline came to inform him serenely, “de lieutenant is coming up de drive.”

  Celia started up from the sofa, but Justin pulled her back down. “Stay here,” he said quietly. Wide-eyed, she watched as Maximilien strode out of the room to the entrance hall. The parlor was abruptly quiet except for the ticking of the figured bronze clock on the mantel. “Where is Lysette?” Justin asked.

  Celia discovered that she was almost too nervous to speak. “Sh-she is going to stay with the children upstairs.”

  His large hand slid over her trembling one. “Relax,” he muttered.

  “I cannot pretend that you are Philippe,” she said, jumping as she heard the sound of the front door opening.

  Justin took her jaw in his hand, turning her face toward him. Suddenly all his own annoyance and jealousy disappeared in a surge of concern for her. It was unsettling. Completely unlike him. He didn’t want to cause her pain, not even if it meant sacrificing his own neck. “Then don’t,” he whispered. “Not if it hurts you. It isn’t worth it.”

  Her eyes were round with wonder as she saw that he meant it. “You’re mad,” she said faintly. “Of course your life is worth it. I will help you.” She heard someone walking to the doorway of the parlor. Before Justin could say anything else, she lifted her hand to his newly shorn hair, smoothing the dark, silky strands back from his face. The gesture was tender and possessive, the gesture a wife might make to her husband. Justin caught his breath, color creeping up to his cheekbones.

  Lieutenant Benedict walked further into the room, staring at the pair in a transfixed manner. Justin looked up and smiled slightly, his blue eyes gleaming. He extended his hand in greeting. “Peter. It is good to see you again.”

  Benedict took the proffered hand, clasping it firmly. “Philippe?” He sounded slightly out of breath.

  “Forgive me for not being available to you before now. As you’ve discovered, the Vallerands are quite protective of their own.” Justin pulled Celia closer against his warm side and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Thanks to my wife’s expert nursing, I expect to be fully recovered soon.”

  Celia smiled and gestured for the lieutenant to sit in a nearby chair, and he complied quickly.

  “I heard you had been blinded,” Benedict said, staring at Justin closely.

  “We removed the bandages from his eyes last night,” Celia answered for him. She gave a soft laugh. “Actually, Philippe took them off himself before we could stop him. The saying is true—doctors do indeed make the worst patients.” She threw Justin a glance of wifely concern. “As you can see from the redness, Lieutenant, his eyes are still not completely healed. And he is prone to headaches.”

  Benedict shook his head slowly. “My God, Philippe,” he said, his voice changing. “The chances of surviving a pirate attack…being captured…the escape…The story is incredible.”

  “Yes, I know,” Justin said ruefully. “It is incredible.” A glint of mischief entered his gaze. “I hear it has led you to entertain doubts ab
out my identity.”

  Benedict had the grace to look embarrassed. “I must do my job, Philippe. And your brother is known to be a dangerous outlaw. Until I saw you for myself I could not be certain what was going on.”

  “I don’t know how dangerous my brother may or may not be,” Justin said with boyish frankness, and smiled. “But it would be bad for my practice, Peter, were people to suspect me of being a pirate. I am trained to wield a scalpel, not a cutlass.”

  “Philippe, I must ask you some questions. I hope you will be able to furnish the Navy Department with information about these brigands. Is it true you were held captive on Crow’s Island for the past four months?”

  “Yes.” Justin frowned and rubbed his forehead.

  “Were there any others taken beside you?”

  “No, I was the only one.”

  “Can you tell me why they chose to spare you?”

  “I believe it was because of my medical knowledge. There are no doctors on Isle au Corneille.”

  “Obviously you were well-treated,” Benedict remarked, regarding Justin skeptically. Celia had to admit that Justin did not look like a man who had been held captive for several months. In spite of a touch of sickroom pallor, his skin was still darkly tanned. Were it not for his wounds, his body would have been in superb condition. “Can you describe the island to me, and how it was fortified? And how you escaped, of course.”

  “There seem to be some gaps in my memory,” Justin said, lacing his fingers with Celia’s and drawing her hand to his thigh. “I will tell you all I can. I don’t know how much of it will be useful.”