LISA Page 7

  Breathing hard, she forced herself to take a step toward the door. The shadows seemed to pull at her. Griffin, she tried to call out, but her voice was only a strangled whisper.

  There was a movement outside the doorway. All at once she bolted out of the cottage in silent terror, feeling a hand catch at her elbow. “Celia—”

  She wrenched her arm free and stumbled backward a few steps, her eyes wide. Griffin stood before her, his eyes narrowed. “What is it?” he asked. “Are you hurt? Did you see something?”

  No, nothing so ordinary. Just a nameless, childish fear she could not control. “I-I’m all right,” she said with difficulty, wondering if she had finally lost her wits. Griffin stepped forward, and she continued to back away. If he touched her, she thought hysterically, she would fall apart. She couldn’t bear any more. She wanted it all to be over, now. She was so tired of being afraid, feeling lost. She wanted to be at home in Paris, in her own soft bed with its crisply ironed sheets, listening to her family’s voices just outside the door. She wanted to go to sleep and never wake up.

  “Celia.” He spoke quietly, staring at her drawn face. “Celia, come here.”

  “No.”

  “We’re going to the water.”

  “No—”

  “Then do whatever the hell you want.” He turned and walked away at a relaxed pace. After a few seconds of indecision she began to follow him.

  He heard her footsteps behind him, and his frown eased. As he had expected, she was too exhausted to make decisions for herself. He was sorely troubled by his own reactions to her, which was why he was glad he would be rid of her on the morrow. Women were nothing but a momentary convenience, something to discard as soon as they sated his desires. This one was the first who had ever depended on him for anything, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like the way he felt when that stricken look came into her eyes. He especially didn’t like the damnable urge to comfort her that swept over him with increasing frequency. Softness was something he did not allow himself—ever.

  He reached the water’s edge and surveyed the area with expert eyes. “Take the bandages off your feet,” he said shortly. “You may as well wash the powder off. By now it’s done all the good it’s going to.”

  Celia sat on the pebbled ground, stretching out her slim legs one at a time. It would be a relief to wash her feet, for they had been hot and suspiciously itchy all day. Leaning over her right foot, she pulled at the knotted cloth, loosening the bandage. The smell of the herbs, bitter and moldy, rose to her nostrils. Painstakingly she began to unwind a strip of cloth, finding that her fingers were unusually clumsy.

  With a soft curse Griffin sank to his knees beside her, his thighs widespread. She stared at him, wondering what had irritated him. He unwrapped her foot efficiently and lowered it into the water. Celia closed her eyes at the feel of the cool water and the strong hands rubbing away the caked powder. Gently, his fingers slipped between her toes, over the ball of her foot, pressing deep into the arch. She responded with an involuntary sigh of bliss. He flexed her foot at the ankle, set it down, and reached for her other one. Celia was ashamed of the pleasure she received at his hands, but that did not stop her from relaxing and enjoying it.

  All too soon the moment was over, and she opened her eyes as Griffin pulled off his boots. “Are you going to wash your feet also?” she asked.

  He dropped his jerkin to the ground. “I’m going for a swim.”

  “But—but there may be alligators—”

  “Not on this side of the lake.” He smiled. “Not usually.”

  “But what will you do if one has decided to visit?”

  “I’ll tell him I’ve brought a Vallerand with me. That should frighten him away.”

  As he stripped off the last of his clothes, Celia turned her face with a gasp, covering her face with her hands.

  “Very modest, for a married woman,” his softly jeering voice fell to her scarlet ears. “Or did your husband bed you only in the dark? No, don’t bother to answer. You’re easy to read.”

  She glared at him through her fingers. Laughing, he plunged into the water. She watched him dive and disappear under the surface, then reappear. While he swam, Celia examined the soles of her feet in the moonlight, surprised to see how quickly they were healing. Scabs had formed where there had been deep blisters, and the swelling was completely gone. There was a line where the clean white of her feet met the grayish skin of her leg. Frowning, Celia looked out at the water, thinking of how wonderful it would feel to wash herself.

  Griffin treaded water and faced her, seeming to read her thoughts. “I could have raped you many times over by now,” he said bluntly. “Don’t you trust me a little?”

  Celia fingered the top button of the hateful black shirt indecisively, then unfastened it.

  “On the other hand,” his voice floated over to her, “I don’t promise not to look.”

  Immediately she hugged her arms around her knees, abandoning the idea of swimming.

  “For God’s sake,” he said in disgust, “I won’t look.” With that, he turned away and dove under the surface again.

  Celia made up her mind to do it quickly. Feverishly she unbuttoned the shirt and slid out of the breeches. She waded in up to her hips, splashing and scooping up water with her hands. Once she submerged her head, scrubbing ferociously at her scalp, then flung her wet hair back and squeezed out the excess water. She didn’t notice if Griffin watched her, and she didn’t care. The lake was heavenly, and she felt clean and restored.

  Making her way back to the lake shore, she wrapped her black shirt around her wet body and pushed her arms through the sleeves. She used a cuff to dry the beads of water from her face, and raked her fingers through the dripping skeins of her hair.

  When Griffin came out of the water, Celia did not turn around. She was unbearably conscious of his naked body behind hers, the rustle of his clothes as he dressed again. Then there was no movement.

  “I’m tired,” she half-whispered, needing desperately to break the silence.

  “Allons,” Griffin replied, giving her a nudge toward the cottage. “Let’s go. It’s going to be a short night.”

  Chapter 4

  C elia perched on the edge of the bed, nibbling a piece of hard yellow cheese and a crust of bread. The rough cotton ticking and the blanket beneath her were musty, but after the past few days the bed seemed luxurious. She looked at Griffin, whose dark form blended with the shadows on the other side of the room. He sat on the floor with his back braced against the trunk. The tip of his cigar glowed red as he drew on it slowly. The scent of tobacco was strangely comforting to Celia, reminding her of the after-dinner cigars her father enjoyed.

  “Do others use this place?” she asked.

  “Some of my crew on occasion.”

  Celia was compelled to ask more questions, even though she sensed how he disliked them. “Do you have a home somewhere?”

  He took his time about replying, fitting the cigar to his lips and breathing out a puff of smoke. “I have my ship.”

  “Is there someone waiting for you? A wife, a family?”

  “A family is one thing I’ve never wanted and will never have.”

  Celia believed him. She could not imagine him with children, a wife, anyone at all. Several times she glanced at him as she ate. She could see nothing but the tip of the cigar. Then that was extinguished. Griffin was unnervingly quiet.

  She longed to lie down on the bed and close her eyes, but she was afraid to. She might drift to sleep only to be awakened by his despoiling hands and his body smothering hers. If he were going to take her, he would do it now, tonight when she had no defense against him. She waited tensely, and jumped at the sound of his voice.

  “If you’re waiting for me to ravish you, you’ll be disappointed. Go to sleep.”

  Relaxing a little, Celia lowered herself to the thin mattress and drew her knees up to her chest. She was tired, and it took only a few moments to drop into a deep slum
ber.

  But when sleep came, it provided no peace. She felt herself moving, walking in and out of dreams, taking part in conversations that made no sense. An invisible force pulled her this way and that, slowing her when she tried to run, throwing her off-balance. Frightened, she covered her head with her arms and called for Philippe…She wanted him so much…She ached to have him hold her, protect her, love her. And suddenly he was there, his blue eyes smiling at her.

  “Do you want me?” he asked tenderly. “I’ll always be here when you call.”

  “Oh, Philippe, I thought you were dead. I th-thought you had left me—”

  “No, I’m right here,” he murmured. “Right here. Don’t be afraid.”

  “But I am afraid…I am…don’t leave me.” She tried to ask him what had happened to him, but her words were incoherent. As she babbled faster, he began to drift away from her. “No!” she cried, reaching out for him, trying to keep him with her.

  Talonlike fingers closed over her shoulders, and she spun around in horror to confront Dominic Legare. “You’ll do as a present for André,” he said with a snarling smile. And he began pushing her toward a corpse, forcing her head down until she was staring into André’s bloodied face. His eyes were open and frozen in an astonished expression.

  Celia fought to escape Legare’s hurtful grasp. She twisted away and screamed as she saw lifeless bodies everywhere. “Philippe, come back to me,” she begged. “Come back!” She stumbled across the deck of the ship, searching for her husband, while Dominic Legare followed. If only she could find Philippe, he would protect her from Legare. She would find safety in Philippe’s arms.

  She came to the rail of the ship and stared into the water at the bodies floating face-down around the ship. Her husband was there. The water was dark with his blood. “Oh God, Philippe, no!” She reached her arms down toward him, and as if he had heard her, he began to flail at the water, slipping underneath the surface. He was drowning before her eyes. She screamed again and again for someone to help them, but Dominic Legare was behind her, choking off her cries with his hands…

  Celia woke up fighting against the arms that confined her. “No! No—”

  “Quiet,” a low voice said above her head. “It’s over now.”

  She shuddered convulsively, burying her wet face in her hands. “Philippe? Philippe—”

  “No. You know who I am.” Large hands smoothed over her head and back, and she lay folded up and gasping against a hard chest.

  “Justin,” she said weakly, not certain why his real name sprang to her lips when she was more familiar with him as Griffin.

  “You were having a bad dream, petite. Just a dream.”

  “I saw…Philippe…H-he was alive.”

  Griffin continued to stroke her back. “If he were, I would go back and find him. But Legare leaves no survivors.”

  She swallowed hard, beginning to regain her wits. “Why?”

  “It was a practice he began years ago, when—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “Why would you care if Philippe were alive?”

  There was a long, taut silence. “I’ll tell you when we reach New Orleans.”

  “Why not now? Why does it have to be a mystery? What does it matter if I reach safety or not?” She began to cry brokenly. “You’re no less guilty th-than the men who killed him,” she said through her raw, angry sobbing. “You’re no better than they! You’ve killed before, many times. His blood is on your hands as much as theirs!”

  Even in her torment, she sensed she had somehow hurt Griffin. The arms around her withdrew, and he stood up from the bed, walking away. The shock of aloneness and encroaching darkness caused something inside her to shatter. She had to escape from the demons howling around her, run, find a place to hide. Wildly she sprang from the bed and stumbled to the door, tearing at it until it was open. But Griffin’s arm came around her waist before she could slip outside. A panicked scream burst from her lips, and she clawed at him ferociously.

  “Stop it, damn you!” He shook her slight frame. “Stop it!”

  “No…let me go…Philippe!”

  Griffin raised his hand to slap her, unable to think of any other way to stem her rising hysteria.

  “No,” she sobbed, collapsing against him.

  Griffin’s hand lowered. He stood there, breathing hard, looking down at her small, cowering figure. Her face was hot against his chest, her closed fists pressing hard on his shoulders. Bleakly he realized he would rather confront a shipboard battle than this frail slip of a woman—he could face danger, death, far more easily than he could deal with her tears. She needed comfort, kindness, things he was incapable of giving anyone.

  Fear had made her spine grow rigid and her teeth chatter. The roots of her hair were wet, and her skin was clammy. He held her against his warm body, easily taking her weight. She felt like a child in his arms, small and slight. But she was no child, and he was uncomfortably aware of the texture and scent of her. The sight of her naked on André Legare’s bed was still fresh in his memory. His pulse raced at the thought. He had fought for Celia Vallerand, claimed her. It was his right to take her. But some remaining shred of civilized feeling stirred within him, reminding him that she was a defenseless woman.

  Celia wiped her nose on her sleeve. “I had a gun wh-when the ship was taken. I was going to kill myself before they…but I-I didn’t. I was a coward. If I had another chance, it would be different. I wish I had died with Philippe.”

  “No,” Griffin said, brushing at her wet cheeks with his thumbs.

  “I should have died,” she whispered with scalding intensity, her eyes streaming with tears.

  He bent down and picked her up, carrying her to the bed. She clung to him and cried helplessly, giving vent to the sorrow and fear that had gathered inside her since Philippe’s death. Silently Griffin set her down and leaned over her, his hand gliding over her hair, her shoulders, the back of her neck. Her body was light and delicate underneath his palm. Celia’s crying finally dissolved into soft hiccups, and she wiped her face with a handful of the shirt, feeling drained.

  “My head hurts,” she said in a thin voice.

  “Don’t talk.”

  Surprised by the trace of kindness in his tone, Celia glanced up at him. He was so quiet, so self-controlled, it seemed impossible that he was the same man who had savagely killed André Legare right before her eyes.

  “I did not mean what I said to you,” she whispered. “About his blood on your hands—”

  “You meant it. Don’t be a coward.”

  Celia hesitated and nodded slightly. He was right; it was better to be truthful. She could not deny she was revolted by what he was—a thief, an outlaw, a murderer. “But you helped me,” she said in confusion. “I do not understand why. You must want something from the Vallerands, or…perhaps you owe something to them. What is it?”

  Her hand seemed to burn. Unconsciously she had placed it on his chest. She could feel the frighteningly strong thud of his heart, the heat that radiated from his skin. Pulling her hand away, she closed her fist, but her palm still tingled from his vital pulse.

  Griffin flinched as if he had been touched by a branding iron. The feel of her in his arms was too much. He tried to call forth what little compassion and honor he still possessed, but he could not force himself to let her go. Never in his life had he wanted anything as much as he wanted her. “I’m in no one’s debt,” he said thickly. “But you owe me something.”

  There was no mistaking his meaning. Celia’s heart gave a frightened leap. “When we r-reach New Orleans,” she stammered, “Monsieur Vallerand will give you a reward for saving my life.”

  “I want it now.” His voice was harsh and strained.

  “I have no money—”

  “It’s not money I want.”

  She made a sudden bolt out of his lap, trying to crawl off the bed. His arms became bands of steel that locked around her chest and hips.

  “No,” she gasped.


  The bristle of his beard scratched the back of her neck, the velvet heat of his mouth rubbed over the top of her spine. Celia gave a low cry. His hot breath roamed over her neck, and hair, sinking into her shirt.

  “Please,” she said wildly, “don’t do this—”

  He turned her to face him and grazed her mouth with a surprisingly soft kiss. She jerked her head back and struggled furiously, a short scream escaping her lips. His hands tangled in her hair, pushing her head down to the bed. A powerful thigh swung over her body, and he straddled her hips, crouching over her intently. She whimpered in fear, clawing at his face, his chest, but nothing would stop the ravenous mouth that wandered over her throat, cheeks, chin, and salty-wet lashes. Her cries were smothered as his lips forced hers open, his tongue plunging into the hollow of her mouth.

  At first Griffin intended to take her without delay. It didn’t matter if his desire was reciprocated or not—he had to bury himself inside her and satisfy his hunger. Roughly he pulled at the clothes that covered her.

  Suddenly Celia went still. She turned her face away from him, closing her eyes, steeling herself to endure what would follow. Griffin stared at her naked body. She was slim and fragile, soft as silk, her skin translucent in the moonlight. He could see the delicate tracing of veins above her breasts, the pale satin points of her nipples, the glint of down that formed a line along her midriff.

  Her lips were wet from his kisses. Slowly he bent over her, tasted those soft lips with a gentleness that was foreign to him. She clenched her teeth and held herself immobile while his mouth brushed over hers. He touched the side of her breast, traced the shallow curve underneath. A sweet scent clung to her, the natural fragrance that belonged to her alone. He pressed his mouth to a soft pink nipple until it formed a hard bud, brushed his beard against the aroused peak, then soothed it with his tongue.