LISA Page 9

  “Shiploads of stolen bounty?” she asked. “Merci, non.”

  She stepped away from him, but he followed and turned her around, holding her shoulders in his hands. “That and a great deal more,” he murmured. “I don’t have to take you to the Vallerands. I could make other arrangements.” His grip tightened as she tried to pull away. “Be still. I never have the opportunity to hold a lady of quality in my arms. I may as well enjoy it while I can. You’re an intriguing woman, Celia. I wouldn’t tire of you easily. And in spite of what you claim, the satisfaction wasn’t all mine last night.”

  “What are you saying?” she demanded, squirming in his grasp.

  “I’m pointing out that things could be quite pleasant between us. Instead of going to the Vallerand family, you could let me take care of you.”

  She went absolutely still. “What?”

  He studied her with intent blue eyes, while a half-smile played on his lips. “I’d give you the choice of where we go. Anywhere in the world. There are more exotic and beautiful places than anyone could see in a lifetime. If you grew weary of traveling, I’d establish you in your own home, two or three if you like. You’d have money to spend on whatever you wish. The only thing I’d ask in return is that you never refuse me your bed.”

  “And endure more nights like the last?” she asked, feeling more degraded with every word he spoke.

  “I can promise you far more agreeable experiences in the future.”

  “You are asking me to be your mistress,” she said in a choked voice.

  “I believe so,” he said dryly.

  She stared at him with wide eyes. “How could you think that would appeal to me? How could you suppose I would even consider it? All I have ever wanted is what all women want, a husband and children, and a quiet home—”

  “Is that so? You wanted something else last night.”

  Horrified, Celia recognized the truth of his words. There was another side of her, one she would have to suppress and guard against for the rest of her days. He had made her see that.

  “You disgust me,” she said unsteadily.

  He smiled as if her reaction was what he had expected.

  “You took advantage of me,” she continued. “I would never have behaved in such a way had I not been so distraught about my husband. You cannot buy me as if I were a prostitute, you…you insolent monster! You’re dirty, unkempt, barbaric—and I find you revolting! I know exactly who you are and where you came from. You are a gutter rat, and you belong in the sewer!”

  “I take it the answer is no?”

  She was enraged to the point of speechlessness.

  His smile remained a few seconds longer, and then his expression became serious. “Look at me.”

  Celia felt her heart stop as she heard those last three words, the same words he had spoken several hours ago in the heat of passion.

  “I said look at me, Celia.”

  Unwillingly she raised her eyes to his.

  “Your grief over your husband may have been the reason you gave in to me the first time. But not the second.”

  * * *

  When Celia asked Griffin how much farther they would have to travel, she was startled to learn they were much closer to the Crescent City than she had thought.

  “About three hours,” he said, reining the horse back to a slow gallop when it tried to break to a canter. They were riding along a trail in the forest, nearly invisible until one stumbled directly onto it. “After crossing the river, it’s a short ride to the plantation on the Bayou St. John.”

  “How do you know where the Vallerands live?”

  “I’m…acquainted with them.” They came to a stretch where many low-hanging tree branches forced Griffin to slow the horse to a walk and duck his head.

  “That cannot be true,” Celia said haughtily. “The Vallerands do not associate with thieves and pirates.”

  Griffin laughed. “The Vallerands were thieves and pirates until two generations ago. So were many other fine families of New Orleans.”

  “Are you not afraid of Monsieur Vallerand?”

  “I’m not afraid of anyone.”

  Irked by his arrogant self-confidence, Celia tried to nettle him. “Monsieur Vallerand is very powerful and dangerous. Philippe told me that his father has the best sword arm in all of Louisiana. When he hears what happened to Philippe—”

  “He already knows what happened to his son,” Griffin said quietly. “Your ship was due in port two days ago. It was one in a string of attacks in the Gulf. They’ll have no choice but to assume the worst.”

  A string of attacks? How many other ships had been overtaken? Celia gave a little shudder as she remembered all the slain men on board the Vallerand merchantman, the mutilated bodies, the blood-slick deck. She was not the only woman who had been bereaved. Many families would be mourning the losses of sons, husbands, fathers, and brothers. “I heard Legare give an order,” she managed to say, her throat constricting, “to lock the men who were still alive in the hold…and…set fire to the ship. How could anyone…It is inhuman…”

  “I agree,” he said tersely.

  “Do you? Or are you and Legare cut from the same cloth? After you capture a ship, perhaps you find it convenient to do just as he—”

  “Nay, there is nothing to gain by the slaughter of innocent men. I take ships for profit, not out of bloodlust.”

  “But you have killed before. I have seen it with my own eyes. You killed at least three men while taking me away from the island.”

  “If I hadn’t, you’d be dead. After being tortured for hours by André Legare.”

  “You and the others on that island…you are so different from the men I’ve known. Philippe was like my father. He had such kindness, such respect for life, and he would never hurt anyone. He would rather bear pain himself than see someone else suffer—”

  “Much good his kindness did him,” Griffin said coldly.

  “He died without regrets.”

  “So will I, when the time comes.”

  Celia realized with awed uneasiness that it was probably true. Griffin was like an animal in the wilderness, never thinking of the past or future, only of how to satisfy his needs for the present. Regret, guilt, shame, repentance, all of those human qualities were something he could not afford or perhaps even understand.

  “When did you begin your pirating?” she asked.

  “I began as a privateer. All strictly legal. I captured ships from warring countries who gave me commissions to do so and rewarded me well when I delivered enemy goods to port. But on one or two occasions I was tempted to help myself to the wrong ship, and I was branded an outlaw.”

  “Which is what you are.”

  “True.”

  “If you are ever caught—”

  “I’ll hang.”

  “But you cannot continue being a pirate, because Captain Legare will be looking for you, and he wishes to harm you, non?”

  “I’ll probably stay out of sight for a while.” Grim satisfaction colored his voice. “I wish I could have seen his face when he found out his brother was dead. Oh, I enjoyed sending André to hell.” He felt Celia tremble, and he frowned. “There’s no reason to be afraid of him. I’ll keep you safe from Legare.”

  “I am afraid of you,” she said in a tense voice, and after that there was nothing but silence between them.

  They reached a secluded bank of the Mississippi River where two men in rough garb ferried them across on a flatboat. The men were obviously part of an established smuggling network, for they treated Griffin with great respect and seemed to feel a sense of companionship with him. At Griffin’s request, one of them gave Celia his hat. She stuffed her long hair under its wide brim and pulled it low over her face. Because of the looseness of her outlandish garments and her less than amply endowed form, she gave the appearance of being a skinny boy.

  While the men conversed in soft tones clearly meant to elude her, Celia rested her hands on the wooden railing of the fl
atboat and stared into the sluggish water. In one of his letters Philippe had described the muddy river to her. He had said that some claimed the silt-filled water was healthier to drink than clear. Viewing the amber depths skeptically, she decided it could not be true.

  Clusters of woods and hardy trees reached up toward a deep turquoise sky rippled with hazy clouds. Turtles swam near the banks of the river, congregating around the exposed roots of a tree that grew half-in, half-out of the water. As she looked downriver she saw a smudge on the horizon that might be the distant city of New Orleans.

  Vessels from all over the world would be crowded at the docks there, while the quay would undoubtedly be filled with the colorful and motley mixture of people Philippe had written about. Celia could hardly believe she had finally reached the place she had dreamed of for so long. But there was no feeling of anticipation, no excitement—only emptiness inside. She had broken with her past, and lost her future.

  “It will be different from France,” she heard a deep voice from behind her.

  How was it that Griffin seemed to read her thoughts? “Yes, I know,” she replied.

  “The people here are rougher than those you left behind. Even the most refined Creoles have an earthiness—at times a wildness—you may find difficult to become accustomed to.”

  “Cela ne fait rien,” she said. “It does not matter. I will stay here as long as the Vallerands allow. I have no wish to return to France.” She had no doubt her father and her family would welcome her back, but after all that had happened to her, she could not resume the life she had once led.

  Griffin came to stand beside her, aware of the way she flinched at his nearness. “You’ll do well here,” he said flatly.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Once the proper mourning period is observed, you’ll be the most desirable catch in New Orleans. An attractive French widow, relatively young, having inherited a considerable fortune—aye, you’ll be targeted by every eligible man from the Vieux Carré to the American District.”

  “I will never marry again.”

  “Why not?”

  “I was not meant to be anyone’s wife.”

  He shrugged lazily. “Perhaps. I know I wasn’t meant to be anyone’s husband. I’ve always thought of marriage as an unnatural arrangement.”

  “Unnatural?”

  “No one can remain faithful to another for life. There isn’t a woman alive I wouldn’t grow tired of sooner or later.”

  “Not all men feel as you do.”

  “Even in the best of marriages one partner or the other is eventually tempted to stray.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said coolly. “No one on earth could have tempted Philippe to stray from me. And I would never have…” Suddenly she stopped, her heart beginning to pound, her hands balling into fists as the truth hit her. She had betrayed Philippe. Last night all her principles of honor and fidelity had been forgotten. Agonizing shame welled up inside her. Although Philippe was dead, she felt no less an adulteress.

  Griffin knew exactly what she was thinking. He was troubled by the sudden urge to take her in his arms and comfort her. It was good that he would soon be rid of her—he didn’t like the side of himself that she seemed to bring out. “Don’t blame yourself for last night,” he said with callous lightness. “It was enjoyable, but hardly worth the significance you attach to it.”

  As the meaning of his words sank in, Celia’s spine went rigid. Never had she hated another human being as she did him! “It was not enjoyable,” she said, glaring at him from underneath the brim of her hat.

  “No?” He smiled, finding an unexpected pleasure in provoking her. “What was it, then?”

  Her face reddened, and she took several breaths in an effort to calm herself. Hot, insulting words rose to her lips. She wanted to tell him how revolting he was, how vile the memory of last night was. But as she looked at his mocking face, she could not speak. His eyes were such a pure, stabbing blue—deeper than the sky or sea. She remembered the gleam of them in the darkness, the sound of his low voice in her ear, the brush of his beard on her breasts. She remembered the muscled weight of his body on hers, and the way his hard flesh had filled her so intimately. Underneath the coarse shirt her nipples ached, and she bit her inner lip in horror. What had he done to her? How could she stop this wanton craving he had awakened?

  Seeing her distress, Griffin willed himself to keep his hands at his sides, when all he wanted was to touch her, pull her hips to his, kiss her hungrily. It was then that he realized how dangerous she was. He had to keep his wits about him in New Orleans. There was a price on his head, and if anyone discovered he was there, it would mean certain death. The thought helped to clear his mind. Only a little longer until they reached the Vallerand plantation, and he would be able to wash his hands of her.

  “You’re a distracting wench,” he observed, idly flicking the brim of her hat with his finger. “Dressed like a woman, you’d be a sight to behold…all perfumed and powdered, dressed in silk and ribbons. I’d like to see that.”

  There was a faintly teasing note in his voice that struck a chord of recognition in her. Bewildered, she continued to stare at him, wiping the sweat from her palms on the sleeves of her shirt. “I have just realized something, Captain Griffin,” she said. She concentrated on his bearded face. “Not only are your eyes the same color as Philippe’s, but your brows are the same shape. One is naturally arched a little higher than the other.”

  He was silent, watching her closely.

  Celia shook her head, suspicions burgeoning in her mind. She could not ignore the fact that there were similarities, albeit superficial ones, between Griffin and Philippe. Was that purely coincidental? Could it be? If what she was thinking was true, then she was the greatest fool and he was the most heartless scoundrel that had ever lived. “You have admitted that you are acquainted with the Vallerands,” she continued slowly. “Perhaps it is more than just an acquaintance…Perhaps it is some sort of…kinship?”

  Still he did not reply. But those unfathomable blue eyes continued to rest on hers, and she felt her knees weaken. Had she not been so confused and frightened during the last two days, she might have guessed before now. “S-somehow you are related to Philippe,” she whispered, swaying unsteadily. Immediately his arm was there to support her, and she accepted its strength without thought. “You are helping me because I am Philippe’s widow, and you…are a Vallerand.”

  Chapter 5

  W hen Celia had found her balance, Griffin let go of her and spoke very quietly. “I’m helping you at the risk of my own life. If you make any kind of a scene, or try to alert anyone between now and the time we reach the plantation, I’ll have to kill you for the sake of my family and my own neck. Understand?”

  She could not help but believe his threat. She had seen for herself that he was a ruthless cutthroat. Her fear of him, however, was outweighed by indignation and a sense of terrible injustice. “You must have known Philippe,” she accused. “Why did you not tell me?”

  “I didn’t want you to blurt it out to the men on the island, or the relay crew.”

  “How could you have done what you did to me last night—especially if you knew Philippe?” she whispered angrily. “Are you a Vallerand? Or of some related family? Are you one of Philippe’s cousins? Mon Dieu, why did you take me last night if—”

  “Because I wanted you. Now keep still.”

  A temper she did not even know she had flared out of control. “I will not,” she said, her voice rising. The two men working the oars glanced at her. “I will not be silent! I asked you a question, and I have the right to an answer! How can you have been so vile as to—”

  She was cut off with astonishing quickness as his hand clamped over her mouth with a pressure so firm that she could not open her jaw enough to bite him. Eyes wide, face mottled with rage, she clawed at his hand as he snapped an order at one of the men. A sweat-stained kerchief was brought over, and Celia managed a half-scream before
a wad of cloth was shoved in her mouth and Griffin tied a length of foul-tasting cotton over it. She struggled furiously as her hands were bound behind her with the cord from Griffin’s hair. He turned her to face him, shaking her slightly. His long sable locks fell over his face and shoulders.

  “I should have done this two days ago,” he growled. “Now stop wiggling or you’ll fall overboard. And if you do, I won’t go in after you.” Despite the harshness of his words, his grip on her arms was gentle as he pulled her to a wooden crate. “Sit down,” he said. She stiffened her legs and stared at him challengingly. His eyes narrowed. “It wouldn’t trouble me in the least to force you.”

  Slowly she eased down, her eyes fastened on the horizon, her chest burning with hatred. After experimenting with a few twists of her wrists, she realized Griffin had left no possibility of her untying the cord by herself. Oh, it had been wise of him to silence her! The way she felt right now, she would have no hesitation in shouting his identity at the top of her lungs. She wished there was some way she could have him sent to the Cabildo, the filthy Louisiana prison Philippe had described to her with such horror after he had attended some sick inmates there. She wished she could see Griffin hanging from the end of a rope! Was he a Vallerand? Justin Vallerand…Feverishly she racked her brain. Philippe had told her the name of his father Maximilien, stepmother Lysette, cousins, and half-sisters. The name Justin was not in the least familiar.

  The flatboat reached the bank, drifting into a tiny cove framed by a dense growth of trees. “Good work,” she heard Griffin’s voice rumble softly, and he paid the men for their passage across the water. He picked Celia up as easily as if she were a doll, stepped from the craft, and ventured into the copse. Celia tensed in his arms, her velvet-brown eyes widening as she saw what they were heading into. This swamp was darker and more oppressive than the one they had traveled through before. Limbs of immense oak trees blotted out every trace of sky, while vines and gray moss streamers choked off all but a few shafts of sunlight. Everything was dank and ominously still, permeated with a moist rotting smell. Heaven knew what kinds of creatures seethed underneath the stagnant water. The swamp was a living being…she felt as if they were entering the mouth of a monster and traveling down to its belly.