Celine (23 page)

He opened his mouth, breathed her deep inside of him, took in the essence of her as his tongue tasted one corner of her mouth. His lips found hers.

But he did not—could not—let her go. Jerking at the buttons on his shirt until his chest lay bare, he pressed himself tightly against her. He crushed his mouth to hers once again. With one hand, he pulled himself free from his trousers, slid his hands beneath her hips, and lifted her legs up around him.

She moaned and dug her hands into his shoulders.

He was miserably scared now. Scared she would reject him, scared she would not. And so damn afraid of backing down from what he was now doing and from what he'd committed to do on the morrow.

He began to move, as if to withdraw from her.

She clutched at him.

With a visceral groan, he plunged into her full force and took her in deep, hard thrusts.

She cried out as her body shuddered with a climax.

And then a volcano of hot pleasure rolled through him.

He squeezed his eyes closed and pressed his forehead, wet with perspiration, against the wall, frayed breathing fracturing the air around them.

Remorse washed over him like hot lava, burning away any sweet taste of sensual pleasure. His fist slammed against the wall beside her.

She flinched against his damp chest.

“Christ Almighty, what have I done?”

Her breath quivered in the strange silence.

Pushing away from her, he turned his back as he fumbled at his trousers. He swept his hands over his eyes in exasperation. “I'm sorry.”

She was still breathless. “There is nothing to be sorry about. I wanted you, and you needed what just happened.”

“I am so goddamn sorry about everything—including tomorrow.”

He walked beyond the French doors, stepped over the low railing, and disappeared into the night.

Chapter Sixteen

In the predawn silence, Celine heard the wrought iron gate to the courtyard swing open, and the clip-clop of horses' hooves. She stood, gathered a breath into her lungs for courage, and walked stiffly toward the rear of the townhouse.

Marie met her in the dimly lit hallway. “Mister Andrews and Cameron's father are by the kitchen door with the carriage.” Her strained voice scraped through the air like a taut bow drawn across a violin out of tune.

Celine's heart plunged into mourning as though death had already come calling. Both men were here, which meant the duel would still take place. Justin and Miles greeted her with somber nods.

Justin spread his hands and shook his head. “Trevor went to Cameron during the night to make amends, said he would not participate, but Cameron refused, threatened to have Trevor posted.”

Celine's hands pressed into her gut to try to assuage her pain. “Dear Lord, why would Cameron say such a thing? Trevor has no choice then.”

To publicly post Trevor's refusal to fight according to the code duello, would brand him a coward for the rest of his days. The news would travel to France and England like the plague, and he would be shunned.

Justin placed a hand at her elbow, assisted her out the door and down the steps. Celine squinted to see through the morning shadows. She stumbled with the shock of realizing it wasn't the family carriage she was about to climb into, but a plain wooden wagon, the bed just long enough to carry the body of a full-grown man.

She swayed on her feet.

Justin and Miles grabbed her and helped her onto the middle of the hard, wooden bench. They climbed in on either side of her.

She felt movement in the wagon's bed and glanced behind her at the silhouette of a figure readjusting his position.

She shivered and pulled her shawl around her shoulders.

They rode in silence to Dueling Oaks. The dull thud of horses' hooves on the dirt road, metal rattling against leather, and the groaning of the wagon, wood to wood, were the only sounds to break the grip of utter stillness. Justin dejectedly guided the horses, as if his slow pace would buy the precious time it might take to change this terrible morning.

Celine thought her senses would have been dulled by a night's worth of spent emotions, but just the opposite was true. The creaking and popping of the wagon grated at her ears, and the pungent scent of the horses nauseated her.

She swore she could smell the awful contents of the surgeon's bag as well. The hard, unpolished bench rubbed her spine raw. Bile rose in her throat, and she swallowed hard.

Couldn't anyone stop this living nightmare? She longed to send her agonized cries echoing in the winds ahead of her, to land on the ears of the only two people who could prevent this senseless ritual of death.

Gray mists from the levees and bayous snaked along the floor of the woods and out onto the road, leaving vague patches of fog floating low to the ground. As they rode deeper into the woods, forest dwellers gave off their haunting calls, signaled the oncoming intruders, only to fall silent at their passing.

Celine pulled her shawl even tighter and rubbed at her arms. She didn't belong here.

No one did.

Justin halted the wagon a good distance from Dueling Oaks and waited in the hushed glen. The surgeon climbed down from the wagon, clutching a small black valise and the case containing the pistols.

To her left, Celine could make out Trevor standing under an ancient, gnarled oak. He was impeccably dressed in black breeches tucked into black riding boots. A white lawn shirt, open at the neck and with sleeves rolled up, covered his upper torso. His second stood a few feet away.

Cameron stepped out from where four horses were tethered and removed his coat, folded it, and handed it to his second. He was dressed in similar fashion to Trevor.

How genuinely awful. A uniform for death.

Celine could almost hear the deep, resonant ring of a bell inside her head. The death knell. She twitched and pulled her closed fist into her gut.

Without so much as a glance at those standing at the wagon, Cameron made his way somberly toward the surgeon, who opened the pistol case. Trevor, as acceptor of the duel, followed Cameron's lead. They both nodded, and the pistols were handed to the seconds for loading.

Celine closed her eyes to avoid the sight of the deadly balls being inserted into the weapons. She gritted her teeth against the urge to rush forward and stop the madness. She opened her eyes just as the seconds handed the pistols to Cameron and Trevor.

“Oh, dear God,” she muttered.

Justin grabbed her hand and squeezed.

Cameron and Trevor faced each other for a long moment. Then, with a word from the surgeon, they turned and marched in opposite directions to the count of twenty paces. They paused, and at the surgeon's command, turned again, raised their weapons and aimed.

It was over so quickly, Celine's brain hadn't time to register the bark of the pistols firing. It was only when she saw a crimson stain blotching the left front of Cameron's shirt and growing in size that she realized what had happened.

Cameron staggered backward a few steps. His still-smoking pistol slipped from the hand hanging limp at his side. Slowly, his knees folded beneath him. With the grace of a fallen warrior, his body found the forest floor. His gaze, still locked with his cousin's, broke off only when he closed his eyes and sank into the dark depths of unconciousness.

Celine didn't recall how she came to cross the distance from the wagon to Cameron, but suddenly she was simply there, on her knees, cradling Cameron's head on her lap and calling his name. Miles and Justin kneeled next to the surgeon.

Trevor approached the group.

Miles rose from his knee. “Don't come any closer. You've done enough for today.”

Trevor faltered, and then backed away. He stood in outcast silence, pistol in hand. Even from where he stood some ten paces away, there was the lingering acrid scent of gunpowder.

The surgeon spoke as he worked. “He should be all right if infection doesn't set in. The ball went through his shoulder. It's clean. He's passed out from the shock.”

He looked up at Miles. “Someone knew exactly what he was doing to send the bullet through just so.”

Miles's shoulders drooped, and he leaned into his brother, his gray face mottling with the return of color.

Justin helped Celine to her feet and into the rear of the wagon. Then he helped Miles and the surgeon load Cameron onto the bed, his head in Celine's lap. She cradled him, murmured to him of his will to live, of his zest for life.

And she wept.

Her tumbled hair did little to hide her tears. The wool blanket covering Cameron drank thirstily of the wetness.

As the wagon pulled away from Dueling Oaks, Celine lifted her head, tossed her tangled hair from her face, and blinked away the tears.

Trevor's sorrowful gaze locked with hers.

Her spine stiffened with the shock of it. The center of her chest twisted with a pain so intense, she tried to cry out Trevor's name. But her mouth only opened and closed, moving in mute mockery.

Even as the wagon headed for the townhouse, and the lone figure standing like a statue at Dueling Oaks shrank in the distance, those eyes filled with stark pain held hers.

And even when he became little more than an indistinguishable figure, and then a mere silhouette the size of her thumb, she could feel the strength of his gaze locked with hers—holding her prisoner.

His had been a silent and solitary cry for help.

To her alone.

And because of her dazed state, it was too late when she realized she had rejected him.

Chapter Seventeen

That nagging headache was creeping up on her again. Celine rubbed her temples and descended the stairs leading to the parlor. Two more days, and she'd be gone. She couldn't set sail fast enough. These past four days with Cameron and his devil-may-care attitude had her clenching her teeth to keep from railing at him. Then there was Justin and his unannounced visits at all hours, during which he went directly to Cameron's sickroom and remained there for hours behind closed doors. Healing a family rift, once her passionate goal, no longer mattered. If there were rewards to be had for failure, she'd be in line for the grand prize.

Cameron sat in the middle of the blue velvet divan, his arm in a sling; a wicker basket in his lap contained a ball of gray and white fluff. “What are you doing out of bed?” she demanded.

He grinned. “It's teatime.”

Celine sat on the divan, taking the side next to his uninjured shoulder. “And what is
that?
”

“A cat. Leave it to Felicité to give me a damnable get-well gift.” The bundle of fur, belly up and legs in the air, was sound asleep.

Celine ran the back of her hand up and down its leg. “It's a kitten, not a cat.”

“Well, it'll be a cat soon enough, so you may as well call the blasted thing what it is.” Despite his complaining, Cameron's fingers raked gently back and forth along the kitten's middle. “It'll make a good mouser aboard ship.”

“What a pretty little thing. It looks as though it's been painted with an artist's brush, the way its paws and ears are tipped white. Have you given it a name?”

“Emeraude.”

“Then it is a she.”

“Don't know, haven't looked.”

“Why not?”

“It takes two hands—one to lift the bloody thing, one to inspect. And in case you haven't noticed, I've got a rather useless shoulder at the moment. Unless you think this sling strapped on me is meant for storage. Besides, it doesn't matter the gender, since there will be only one aboard.”

Despite her gray mood, Celine had to smile. “Your mind works in odd ways at times. Does the name Emeraude have any special meaning?”

“It's my favorite brothel in Paris.”

“I should've known it would be something like that.” She shook her head in disgust, but a bubble of amusement tried to work its way free. “You seem to be getting along rather well today.”

He grinned wickedly. “Marie takes good care of her Mischie Cameron.”

Celine rolled her eyes. “Didn't the doctor order bed rest?”

“I refuse to loll about like a sickling any longer. Besides, I have business to attend to on the morrow that requires me to leave the premises.”

“So soon?”

“In case you are unaware, our first clipper arrived two days ago, and I have yet to set my eyes on it. You should be surprised that I remain on this divan.”

Celine could stand it no longer. “What of Trevor, have you heard anything?”

“Oh, I do believe you are about to get serious on me.” He gave her a faux pout. “And just when tea is due.”

Her mood sank back to sorrowful. “Unlike you, most of us have been quite sober throughout this grim debacle.”

“Trevor is fine, Celine.” Suddenly serious, he measured his words. “In fact, he's due here shortly. We have a business meeting.”

Her heart tripped. “I . . . I have to ask you this, Cameron—why in heaven's name did you threaten to have him posted?”

He shrugged. “So he couldn't back down.”

“
What?
But that's insane. You could have been killed.”

“He knew full well where he was aiming.”

“But he could have missed!”

“Celine.” He laid his hand over hers. “Did anyone ever tell you that while Trevor might have a bit of an edge on me in business matters, when it comes to anything sporting, I excel? I'm a crack shot.”

It took a moment for Cameron's words to sink in. “You mean you both knew you could have taken him, so you intentionally let him take the first shot?”

He removed his hand from hers and went back to raking his fingers ever so lightly through the kitten's fur.

The throbbing in Celine's head stepped up a beat. “Do you think so little of yourself that you would risk your life over a foolish argument?”

“Perhaps it was more than that, Celine. Perhaps the bond between Trevor and me is so strong that I was willing to risk my life if it meant Trevor would change his spots.”

Celine gasped. “You forced him to take that shot.”

Cameron shrugged. “Someone had to take drastic measures. We've seen him on a path of self-destruction before. But don't think the others had anything to do with it. The decision was mine alone.”

A dawning light struck Celine's mind. “Then that duel was not entirely over what happened the other night.”

“More of a culmination of events that has been building up over the years.”

“I cannot believe I am hearing this.” Celine pinched the bridge of her nose. Damnable headache. “Do you think your foolish act might have done any good?”

“One would hope so. Trevor's had a more difficult time accepting his destiny than have I.”

“What do you mean?”

He shifted his weight, and with a wince and a hiss, slipped his good arm over the back of the sofa behind Celine. “Try to understand our positions. At about the same time I was deciding to settle down, suddenly I was leaving behind a decent life in a country I loved, and not knowing who or what I might run across in San Francisco. I've had ghastly dreams of seeing the only woman around for miles crawling out of some godforsaken gold mine with grit on her cheeks and half her teeth rotted out.”

Celine laughed. “But what does all that have to do with—”

“A lot. I knew I had to be the one to head up operations in San Francisco. My father and uncle are too old, and Trevor is vital to running the entire company. Mine wasn't an easy decision to make. I suppose I felt lonely at the prospect of embarking for the godforsaken place.”

He shrugged. “So, when I met you, and learned you were on your way to San Francisco as well, I thought it providential and got stars in my eyes. So many, in fact, that I refused to see you had them, as well. Only yours were for Trevor.”

Oh, good heavens. “There's no need to go on—”

“Please, Celine, hear me out. It didn't take much to see that Trevor wanted you straight away, but knowing he had no plans to settle down or change his wandering ways, I thought if I could manage to hold him off, you'd see things differently once you and I were settled in San Francisco, and he'd sail off to China and then back to England without giving you another thought.”

Celine's blood froze at the idea of never seeing Trevor again. She knew it would happen. She just wasn't ready to hear it. She joined Cameron in stroking Emeraude. “In some ways it might have been better had it worked out that way.”

He shook his head. “An attraction between two people is something we have no control over. Forgive me for misinterpreting my own feelings, Celine. I have no female siblings by which to measure brotherly love. At the time, I couldn't get ahold of the idea that you might serve me much better as the sister I never had.”

“But you see me as that now?”

He nodded. “Thank the saints you aren't as exasperating as Felicité.”

What a relief. She could have hugged him . . . but then, his shoulder. “Being an only child, and raised by a devoted grandmother, I've had difficulty understanding how members of a close-knit family can go to war with one another one minute, and then be willing to die for each other the next.”

“Perhaps it's a bit of the hot-blooded French in us?”

Celine frowned. “Justin and Trevor butt heads like a couple of goats, and Justin is not French.”

“Ah, but has no one told you, Celine? My uncle was as wild in his youth as Trevor.”

Now if that wasn't news. “Justin was a rakehell?”

Cameron's mouth quirked. “Enough so that my grandfather banished Uncle Justin from their English estate, which is why he came to America. My father tagged along, as younger brothers often will.”

“I had no idea.”

“Perhaps as his penance, my uncle sired a son who is his mirror image—not in looks, but in deeds and temperament. They are fiercely joined as
family,
but I suspect they will always knock heads.”

“My word.” Celine eyed a portrait of a dark-haired beauty with a small boy nestled comfortably in her lap. “You mean Trevor could end up a wizened old man one day?”

Cameron cocked a brow. “Oh, I wouldn't go so far as to say that.”

Marie wheeled in a cart laden with cups and saucers, a steaming teapot, and hot beignets. Conversation ceased. Maria stiffened. “Don't pay no attention to me. I'll be out of your way in no time.”

“Don't go getting yourself in a twist. It's far more entertaining to listen in not two feet from us rather than eavesdropping from afar.” Cameron grinned and reached for a pastry. “Ah, my favorite.”

Marie's guilty blush flashed across her cheeks. “Seems to me everythin' is your favorite.”

While the maid poured tea and Cameron continued to tease, Celine set her sights once again on the portrait. “Is that Trevor and his mother? They look rather cozy.”

Cameron nodded. “Trevor is eight years Michel's senior, so he was an only child for a good while. My mother looked much like her.”

Melancholy swept through Celine at the thought of never having any portrait such as that to hang on a wall.

“You would have liked our mothers, Celine. They fawned over their children, and spoiled us rotten as August fruit. Unfortunately for Trevor, his mother's attention could only be had when his father wasn't in the same room.”

Celine nearly choked on a beignet. “Why?”

“My uncle did not share his wife with Trevor. And therein lies a major difference between my cousin and me. Then just when it looked as though he'd gotten over losing his mother, he affianced himself to a lovely little thing. Unfortunately, she was not quite as devoted as he was. He came home a week early from a sail and found her still abed, but not alone. That's when he moved to London.”

“Good heavens. No wonder he's the way he is.” Celine turned to the maid. “What are your recollections of that situation, Marie?”

Marie wheeled the cart out of the room. “I'm gone now. Disappeared. Have your intimate conversation without me, mischie.”

Cameron chuckled and called out, “
Merci beaucoup.
”

With Marie out of sight, he tapped Celine's shoulder. “Since we speak of Trevor, let's discuss the two of you before he arrives?”

Celine set her cup down before it touched her lips and rubbed at the back of her neck. “Please Cameron, nothing further about Trevor. I am so completely enervated, so entirely sick of all of this.”

“What happened that night in the
garçonnière?
”

Celine lurched off the sofa. “I distinctly said I will no longer discuss the matter of your cousin. You are being quite impudent.”

Cameron clasped her wrist and pulled her back down beside him. “I know what happened physically, Celine. What I want to know is what transpired between the two of you in a much deeper sense.” His voice grew quietly serious. “I have my reasons for asking. You must know I would not impose otherwise.”

Why didn't he just twist her heart in a few more knots? “What happened in the cabin was nothing more than a tryst. And a mistake.” She rubbed at her temples with her free hand. “I should go to my room. I have a terrible headache.”

Cameron let go of her wrist and gave her hand a squeeze. “Let me tell you what I think happened that night, Celine. Like deer in the woods, the two of you caught one another's scent the moment you laid eyes on each other. Scared the devil right out of the both of you. That's why you've picked at each other. You were terrified of that powerful force driving you together. But nothing you did, or can do, will dissipate that energy. I think it's your destiny.”

Cameron touched her chin and eased her face toward him. “Not just you, I said
both
of you.”

He let go and slipped his hand back into hers. “And so came that night in the
garçonnière
. Sooner or later, a twist of fate was bound to throw the two of you together. Someplace where the barriers would come down, and you would be forced to confront one another. And that you did.”

He tucked a wayward curl behind her ear. “I've never had a sister before, Celine. It's amazing how overly protective we brothers become. I am terribly sorry I stood in your way.”

Oh, she wouldn't weep in front of him. She couldn't. Cameron slipped his arm around her again. She leaned into him for comfort. He was right, and it was shredding her heart.

“It's a rare thing the way you two connected. I think the great pity is that both of you are about to throw it all away. Mark my words, if you leave each other now, you're bound to suffer a deprivation that nothing or no one else will be able to fill.”

Celine sat for a long moment, her fingers buried in the kitten's fur. “It seems you can speak with a good deal of wisdom when you've a mind to.”

“I read Emerson,” he answered with a flippant grin.

Celine chuckled and they fell silent again. Finally, she spoke from her heart, telling Cameron of her experiences in the
garçonnière,
about dropping all pretext and armor, of a lovingness so sublime as to be painful, and of its enduring memories.