LISA Page 4

  Lowering Celia’s feet to the floor, Griffin sent her stumbling toward Legare with a careless nudge. Dominic caught her by the shoulders. “Tell your brother to restrain himself with her,” Griffin said coolly, “or I’ll have his head.”

  Dominic’s smugness vanished. “No one threatens André.”

  The bearded face was impassive. “I’ve just done André one hell of a favour.”

  Celia turned her head and looked at Griffin with wretched contempt. How was it that she could feel betrayed by him? She had not really believed he would take her to New Orleans, but some part of her had dared to hope there was a chance. His blue eyes had lost their snapping intensity, seeming cold and flat.

  “A demain,” he said in perfectly accented French.

  Until tomorrow. She did not give a sign that she had heard. Until tomorrow, she thought bitterly, when he knew that for her there would be no tomorrow.

  His gaze held hers for a chilling second, and then he looked away, seeming to lose interest. “Jack,” he said, gesturing to Risk, and the pair walked away.

  “Troublesome bitch,” she heard Legare’s quiet voice in her ear as he jerked her toward the waiting André. “I hope my brother rips you limb from limb.”

  Celia was sent stumbling into the room with a hard shove of André’s foot. She fell to the floor, raised herself up on her forearms, and looked at the scarred Aubusson carpet beneath her with astonishment. It was not what she would have expected to see in the ruins of an ancient fort. The room was filled with gold and finery, elaborate mismatched furniture, baroque lamps, and luxury goods. Dust, rotting food, and liquor stains were everywhere. A ripe, sickly-sweet odor filled her nostrils, and she nearly gagged.

  André bent over her with a leer. “Like what you see? All of it presents from Dominic. Like you.”

  “He…he takes care of you,” Celia stammered, twisting and rising to her feet.

  “Dominic? Oui, toujours, always. Since we were boys in Guadeloupe. Orphan boys.”

  She looked out of the corner of her eyes for some kind of weapon to use against him. “A-and he gives you all the women?” she asked, edging away from him. “He takes none for himself?”

  André followed her every movement. “He gives all to me and takes none,” he said thickly, and made a quick grab for her.

  Celia gasped and stepped back, avoiding the heavy, grasping hand.

  Laughing delightedly, he caught her tangled hair in his fist and dragged her to the disheveled mahogany bed. Celia screamed as she was thrown halfway across the mattress. In spite of his portly size, André had more than enough strength to force her to his will. The bedclothes were unwashed and foul. Before she could move, he had pulled her wrist to the bedpost and fastened it with a leather strap already hanging there. Breathing fast from excitement and exertion, he took hold of her other arm. Celia began to scream without stopping as he reached for the strap on the opposite side of the bed. She struggled violently, but she was too weak.

  Having rendered her helpless, André took the top of her dress in his hands and ripped it open, exposing the pale beauty of her body. His huge belly pressed against hers as he leaned over her. Baring his teeth, he lowered his mouth to her breast. Celia felt herself plummeting through endless depths of horror, and her mind began to turn inward, refusing to acknowledge what was happening.

  Suddenly the crushing weight of his body was gone. Her screams faded into astonished silence as she saw a knife making a quick pass around his throat, a spurt of dark red blood. He dropped to the Aubusson rug, clutching his throat, making a peculiar gurgling noise. His body writhed and shuddered.

  Griffin stood over him, casually wiping his knife on the wounded man’s shirt. “I changed my mind,” he said, smiling coldly into André’s bulging eyes. “I couldn’t wait for her until morning.”

  André clutched his throat harder, twitched once, twice, then closed his eyes. Slowly the pudgy hands relaxed.

  Griffin sheathed the knife back in his boot and turned to the bed, ignoring André Legare’s dead body. He stripped off his jerkin and began to unbutton the black shirt, while his searing blue eyes swept over the woman’s still form. Dark bruises marred her skin. She needed fattening—she was slender enough that the points of her hipbones were sharply prominent.

  But something about her awakened a primal urge that nearly undid him. Griffin was troubled enough by the momentary loss of self-control to waste precious seconds looking at her. Her breasts were small but perfectly curved, adorned by tiny pink nipples. He wanted to put his mouth on them. Slowly his gaze moved down her flat abdomen to the triangle of delicate golden curls. It would be so easy to climb on top of her, relieve the aching pressure that was rapidly building between his legs. He dropped his shirt on the bed and put his sleeveless jerkin back on. She watched with a vacant stare while he untied the leather straps around her wrists. Her skin felt downy and cool underneath his fingers.

  “What is your name?” he asked in French, pulling her to a sitting position. She was pliant and motionless. He repeated the question more harshly, wondering if her mind had snapped.

  “Celia,” she whispered.

  He was relieved by the fact that she was able to answer him. “We don’t have much time, Celia.” Deftly he stripped off the remains of her gown and pushed her arms through the sleeves of the discarded black shirt. She didn’t move as he fastened it over her naked body. “You do everything I tell you. Understand?”

  She looked at him with that blank stare. Cursing, he searched the room, found a half-empty bottle of rum, and brought it back to her. As he raised it to her lips, she recovered enough to protest and push it away. Griffin cupped his hand around the back of her head and brought the bottle close again. “Drink it, damn you, or I’ll pinch your nose shut and pour it down your throat.”

  Trembling, she took a swallow of the sharp liquid and gasped as it burned through her innards. “Oh—”

  “Again.”

  Obeying the stern voice and the uncompromising hands, she let him tip the bottle into her mouth once more. Another two gulps, and she felt as if she had been set on fire, inside and out. Color rushed over her white skin. She looked into Griffin’s bearded face, and then down at herself, as if just realizing what had happened.

  “Better,” he said quietly, seeing that the blank look had gone from her face. He set aside the bottle and helped her off the bed. As soon as her feet touched the floor, she tried to twist away from him. He pulled her against his body and pushed her head back, glaring into her terrified eyes. “Listen to me, you little fool. I’m your only chance in hell of getting off this island. And after what I’ve just done for you, there’ll be a price on my head that even my own men will find tempting. You’ll go where I tell you, and do exactly as I say, or I’ll wring your neck.”

  There was no hint of softness in the sinewy body pressed against hers. He could kill her with a mere twist of his wrists. Shaking uncontrollably, she glanced at the floor, at the crumpled, bloodied mass that had once been André Legare. “Yes,” Griffin said softly. “You understand what I’m capable of.”

  “Do not hurt me,” she choked. “I’ll do whatever you say.”

  “Good.” He let go of her and pulled off the cord that held back his long black hair. Celia did not move. Gathering the folds of the gaping shirt together, he tied the cord around her waist. The garment hung on her slight frame like a tent, reaching to her knees.

  “Wh-why did you come for me?” she asked.

  “Because I fought for you and won. And no one takes what is mine.”

  “What do you want of me?”

  He ignored the question. “Come.” Taking hold of her wrist, he hauled her to the door, stopping abruptly as he sensed rather than saw her limp. “Dammit, what’s the matter?”

  “Nothing—it is just—” She fell silent as he knelt down and picked up one of her torn feet. The tender soles of her feet were accustomed to the protection of shoes. Going barefoot over rough surfaces had caused
several painful scrapes and blisters. Every step felt as if she were walking on broken glass.

  “Well, this should do a fine job of slowing us down.”

  “It was not my fault,” she said mutinously.

  Swiftly Griffin pulled out his long knife, and she covered her head with her arms, cowering against the door. Muttering something about idiotic females, he picked her up and hoisted her over his shoulder. He used one hand to hold her in place and grasped the knife with the other. Stepping through the doorway, he avoided the slumped-over body of one of Legare’s men.

  He carried her through the dark passageways of the aging fortress, moving with the grace of a lion, stealthy and sure. Celia dangled helplessly from his shoulder, dizzy and half-drunk. Miserably she wondered what would be in store for her at the end of this journey. Griffin seemed to know the maze of corridors well, ignoring fake entrances and blind alleys, cutting through empty rooms and bypassing the longer routes to an exit.

  The sound of voices alerted him, and he ducked into an unlit passageway. He let Celia slide down his front until her feet were on the ground. The voices drew nearer until Celia could discern two different men and the sultry tones of a woman. Evidently she was taking them to a place where she would entertain them both. The conversation was vulgar and explicit. In spite of the danger of being discovered, Griffin smiled mockingly at Celia’s bewildered expression. He concealed his knife in his belt so that no stray gleam from its surface would betray them.

  “This way, hearties,” the whore said in a sultry purr, and the seamen staggered after her with cheerful abandon.

  “Make way, stan’ on course, make way,” one of the men called out, and the other guffawed.

  Terrified, Celia pressed herself tighter against Griffin as the three figures passed by the entrance to the passage. His body was tough and hard. Although he made no move to comfort or hold her, she felt her fear lessen.

  “Wait, wait I see…hard alee!” one of the rovers exclaimed, stopping and peering into the dark corridor. “Shift the rudder!”

  Griffin tensed, fingering the hilt of his knife.

  “What do y’see, darlin’?” the whore asked.

  Celia knew the seaman had seen them and was going to call attention to them. Panic-stricken, she wondered what Griffin would do, if he might kill the three of them right before her eyes.

  Griffin turned in an unexpected movement, pressing her back against the wall. Confused, she looked up at him, just as his long fingers sank through her hair and clamped around her scalp. His dark head bent, his bearded face swooping down to hers. There was the shock of his mouth on hers, a hard mouth that plundered hers ruthlessly. She made a small, frightened sound and caught at his wrists. As she gasped for air, his scent filled her nostrils, a salty, masculine smell. At first the kiss was nothing but brutal domination, but at the feel of her mouth under his, he angled his head and eased the crushing pressure. His tongue swept between her lips, exploring her mouth with savage hunger.

  Weakly she pulled at his wrists, and he forced her hands over her head, pinning them to the wall. Quivering, she gulped in a deep breath, forgetting where they were. Everything faded away except the assault on her senses. Her lungs seemed to fill with fire, and she thrashed in vain to escape the scorching heat.

  His knee pressed between hers, wedging them apart. Inexorably he pulled her forward until she straddled his sturdy thigh. Celia groaned in agony as she felt a terrible pleasure invading her body. It betrayed everything she was, everything she held dear, and still she could not hold it back. His hand covered her breast completely, his thumb rubbing gently over her nipple until it contracted to a point. Shivering, she arched her back, her body responding wantonly to his caresses. Somehow her arms were around his neck and her fingers were tangled in his thick hair…Somehow his hands were soothing her aching breasts, his thumbs stroking over the hard peaks, and her hips were pressing harder against his thigh in response to the gentle rhythm he had begun.

  The whore peered at the outline of two writhing figures in the shadows, and she smiled knowingly. “Why, it’s nothin’ but one o’ the girls and some salty jack givin’ it a turn.” She ventured farther in the passageway, hand braced on her ample hip. “’Ey, me ’earty, care to join a merry crowd already half-seas over?”

  Griffin lifted his head, taking care to keep his face out of the light. “Begone with you,” he said roughly. There was a dangerous note of warning in his voice.

  Wisely the woman backed away to avoid the prospect of trouble. She motioned for her two companions to follow her. “Leave ’em to their ruttin’,” she said. “We got our own to do. You two jack-tars ever had a woman at th’ same time?”

  Eagerly the seamen followed her sashaying form down the corridor.

  Celia watched until they had disappeared. Her breath rushed out in uneven bursts, ruffling through the crisp black curls on Griffin’s chest. She could not look up at his face, not when she was suffused with humiliation. She was no better than the whore who had just passed by them. How could she have behaved in such a way? The feelings that had flamed inside her were unfamiliar and painfully confusing.

  She knew there was such a thing as lust, a desire that had nothing to do with love, but until now she had thought herself incapable of such a thing. She loved Philippe so much that she couldn’t bear the idea of life without him, and yet she had just been unfaithful to the ideals and the love they had shared. Her eyes stung sharply. It took all her strength to hold back her tears.

  Slowly Griffin’s knee withdrew from between hers, but his hand was still closed around her wrists. Neither of them moved until Celia forced herself to raise her chin. “Let me go,” she whispered, her hatred easy to read.

  His face was sheathed in darkness. She could see little but the glitter of his eyes. The silence deepened. He bent his head again.

  “No,” she whimpered, just before his mouth closed over hers. His muscular arms wrapped around her struggling body, one hand pushing her slim hips against the bulging ridge that strained against his breeches. Her lips were forced open by a devastating kiss, his tongue thrusting deeply inside her. Rage exploded in her chest. She fought him viciously, using her nails, her elbows, her knees. But he muffled her screams with his lips and slid his hand over her bottom in an insolent caress. Celia groaned and shivered, her resistance crushed by his strength, her senses careening.

  He kissed her as Philippe never had, his mouth uncivilized, voluptuous, barbaric. The tip of his tongue slipped underneath her top lip, finding an excruciatingly sensitive nerve, teasing gently until she moaned in protest. He drew her trembling breath into his mouth, wet her inner cheeks with his tongue, traced the line of her teeth.

  When he broke off the kiss and eased her away from his aroused body, she was too stunned to move. Gasping for air, she leaned her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

  His voice was mocking. “I’m intrigued, Madame Vallerand. You look and speak like a lady, but you don’t kiss like one.”

  She quivered with fury, striking out blindly, her fists beating on his chest. Griffin laughed and picked her up, slinging her over his shoulder. “Quiet, or I’ll knock your head against the wall.”

  As they emerged from a seldom-used entrance to the fort, more of a hole in the wall than an actual door, Griffin lowered Celia to the ground. Carefully he drew her to the corner of the building. The air was filled with merrymaking, fist-fights, drunken quarrels, and the sounds of prostitutes entertaining their customers on the beach. There were pools of light shed by the torches, and a sea of shadows. Pushing aside a swath of Celia’s hair, Griffin murmured into her ear.

  “Do you see the row of three warehouses over there? A pirogue is waiting on the other side. If I tell you to run, move quickly and don’t look back. All right?”

  “All right,” she echoed, her eyes fastened on the dark outline of the buildings.

  He took her elbow firmly. “Come.”

  Celia was too anxious to notice t
he pain in her feet. Stealthily Griffin pulled her along the moss-covered wall of the fort and across a short stretch of sand to a group of worn boulders. Celia stopped with a gasp as she saw a scrawny figure propped up against one of the rocks. The man stirred and gave a contented snore, loosening his grip on the small jug of whiskey in his lap. Griffin sank to his haunches before the sleeping figure. Celia held her breath as she watched Griffin ease the jug away from the man’s lax grip. Bewildered, she took the whiskey as Griffin stood and handed it to her.

  Griffin’s eyes swept the terrain. Seeing that the area was clear, he took Celia’s free arm and propelled her toward the warehouses. Valiantly she tried to keep up with his long strides. As they rounded the corner of a building, a rough voice broke from the darkness.

  “Qui est-ce?” The stalwart form of a man confronted them, one of Legare’s men assigned to guard the warehouse. After one glance, he bellowed for help and rushed toward them with an upraised sword.

  Celia froze like a frightened rabbit.

  “Go!” Even the biting sound of Griffin’s voice failed to jolt her from the paralysis. She started as she felt the stinging slap of his hand on her buttocks. Without thinking she began to run toward the open water.

  Griffin hit the ground and rolled to the side, while the cutlass slashed into the sand. Before the attacker could extract the buried blade, Griffin pounced on him with a snarl, making short work of him with a deft thrust of his sword. Just as the man underneath him shuddered in a death throe, Griffin heard sand-muffled footsteps. Whirling around, he saw another of Legare’s men, alerted to the emergency.

  This time Griffin had no chance to avoid the swing of the blade. He swerved, feeling the bite of the sword on the side of his shoulder. Ignoring the searing pain, he reached up and caught hold of the pirate’s arm, pulling the man down to the sand. Rolling over and over, they fought like dogs, snarling and gouging, until Griffin used a downward blow of his arm to break the man’s neck.

  Breathing heavily, he rose to his feet.

  Celia stumbled across the beach, her lungs aching from her tortured gasps. There was a blurred shape before her eyes, a small craft on the water. She stopped as she saw the group of men gathered in and around the pirogue. Should she approach them? Was this the pirogue Griffin had intended her to reach, and if so, would the men help her or prove to be another set of cruel captors?