Only With Your Love (23 page)

“Do not be foolish,” she said unsteadily.

“I’m not being foolish. I didn’t choose to feel this way…couldn’t stop it…” He pressed her hand more tightly against his chest. “I’ll come back for you. I want a life with you. I want to make you happy, give you things I never thought I could give anyone…”

“Then I’m to be an outlaw’s mistress?” Celia asked gruffly.

“Aye, that and a companion, partner, wife—”

“Wife?” she repeated in astonishment. “Y-you are asking me to marry you?”

Justin urged her onto her back and braced his arms on either side of her head, his mouth gentle on her kiss-bruised lips. “No. I’m not
asking.
”

Celia considered him for a long moment and smiled tremulously. “Then I’m not to be given a choice?”

“I can’t afford the possibility of refusal.”

“You told me once you were not susceptible to love.”

“I wasn’t. Not until you.”

“You want me as a convenience. To save you the trouble of seeking other women to satisfy your desires.”

He rained swift kisses all over her face. “I’ll be your convenience. I’ll teach you to have an appetite for me,
ma belle,
until you plague me with your constant demands.”

“I’m a sudden fancy of yours. It is because I
once belonged to Philippe that you find me attractive—”

Justin clamped his hands on either side of her head, staring down at her with lightning-blue eyes. “I love you, dammit! I love you because you belong to me. I love you for taking care of me. For making me feel as if there is still some good left in me. Philippe was a better man than I’ll ever be. God knows he deserved you more than I do. But he’s gone now…and I need you.”

Her gaze was dark and soft. “What do you need me for?”

Ruthlessly he laid his heart before her. “Love me. Help me become worthy of you. Help me find the courage to try. You’re the only one who can.”

Celia gazed at his face, as stark and beautiful as a marble sculpture. She wanted to take away the haunted look in his eyes, lavish him with all the things he needed from her. Lifting her hand to his forehead, she pushed back a lock of sable hair. “I’ll be yours, I’ll follow you anywhere, everywhere, if you’ll promise me one thing.”

“What is it?”

“Give up your revenge on Dominic Legare.”

He was still, staring at her through the darkness. “I can’t.”

“It will not bring Philippe back. You do not owe it to me, or the family, or anyone. Is it not enough that you killed Legare’s brother? He had a close attachment to André. Is that not enough of a retribution?”

“André was as worthless a creature as any that ever scuttled over the earth. If you think the exchange of my brother for Legare’s was equal—”

“But what if you lose your life?” she asked desperately. “Must I lose you as well as Philippe?”

Even before he spoke, she saw the refusal in his face. “I’ve already set the plans in motion.”

“You could stop it if you wanted to!” Celia turned away from him, scarcely able to contain her churning emotions. She was angry with him, almost as much as she was afraid for him. “If you won’t promise me, then leave.” Her spine stiffened as she felt his lips brush between her shoulder blades. “I don’t want you here in my bed. You can choose me or your revenge, but you cannot have both.”

“We won’t be safe anywhere until Legare is dead,” Justin said flatly. “He’ll scour the world until he finds me. The danger will be just as great for you if I take you with me.”

“We will go somewhere he can’t find us.” She pulled his palm to her breast and caressed the back of his hand. “You’ll keep me safe, Justin.”

Justin could not control the instant response of his body. She moved softly against him, and he found it difficult to think. “Celia, you don’t understand. I—”

“You said you wanted to change.”

“Yes, but first—”

“All I want is for you to love me.”

“I do—”

“Then forget about revenge. For me.”

“Damn you,” he said thickly, his senses tortured by her nearness. He needed her again, had to feel her tight and hot around him once more. Pushing her thighs apart, he groaned her name and pulled her hips up to his. His hand searched over her stomach, between her legs.

“
Promise me,
” she whispered.

He could not refuse her anything, her love was too precious. “Damn you, all right,” he groaned, urging his loins against her buttocks, letting her
feel the rigid pressure of his arousal. He feasted on the nape of her neck, her shoulders, his pulse rocketing as he felt her weight settle naturally against his thighs. Searching for the hot, slick entrance to her body, he pushed into her from behind. His hand shook against her stomach, and his head hung over her soft shoulder.

Celia clung to the hard arm wrapped around her waist and arched against his chest. There was a giddy rush of her senses in response to the flex of his body. “Move with me,” he entreated, gasping heavily. “Push back…
oui, comme ça, ma petite,
just like that…”

She moved in a luscious counterpoint to his rhythm, losing awareness of everything but him. He kissed her throat and moved his hand to her breast, sheltering her wild heartbeat in his palm. Her hand covered his, cupping it closer, and then time was suspended as the rapture broke over her. He thrust and thrust again, long, leisurely strokes that drew out her pleasure until she was exhausted. She felt the hot flood of his release within her, and his arm pulled her body tighter into his until she could barely breathe.

They collapsed to their sides, her smaller form tucked into his spoon-fashion. After a while her breathing slowed, and so did his, falling gently in her hair. Celia blinked tiredly. She knew he was falling asleep. She should remind him that he did not belong there. She did not want him to be discovered in her bed.

“Justin, you should not stay,” she said groggily.

His voice was a low rumble near her ear. “I’ll leave before the sun rises.”

“You should go now.”

He grasped her closer and burrowed under the
covers obstinately. “I have little enough time with you as it is.”

She slept in his arms until the night began to fade, and awakened as she felt him drawing away from her. He bent to take one last kiss, and her warm, clinging lips lured him to take a deeper taste. With a muffled groan he made love to her once more, spreading her limbs wide and sheathing himself in her softness. She quivered and pressed her small fists against his back, straining up to his hard body. He clasped her head to his chest, concentrating on the motion of plunge and withdrawal.

They tried to make it last forever, but all too soon he felt her delicate shudder, and the exquisite tension was released in a searing burst of fire. He lowered his head and kissed her chest, his lips resting on her heart. She stroked his dark head, her eyes prickling with tears. Then the warm, crushing weight of his body lifted, and suddenly he was gone.

Celia was not certain what to expect of Justin when she joined him and the Vallerands in the parlor the next evening. Perhaps he would give her a roguish smile, a mocking comment, something that would betray his new familiarity with her. Instead he looked at her with a seriousness she had never seen before, his face still, his eyes hot and intensely blue.

Lysette was dressed in her sea-green gown, her red hair twisted on top of her head and anchored with diamond combs. She took Celia’s gloved hands in hers. “How lovely you look in your ball gown,” she exclaimed, and turned a bright smile to her husband. “Doesn’t she, Max?”

“She does indeed,” Maximilien said automatically,
but there was a preoccupied air about him. Celia knew he was troubled about the evening to come. There would be many old friends and acquaintances at the Duquesne plantation. Even if Justin’s performance was flawless, their suspicions would not be put entirely to rest. Much of the responsibility of convincing everyone that he was Philippe would rest on Celia’s shoulders. If she appeared uncomfortable or at odds, the ruse would most certainly fail.

Celia had dressed in the most resplendent gown she owned, a silver-blue satin with a high waist and a stomacher of white roses and pearls. The scooped bodice was as low as propriety permitted, the short sleeves gathered at the top with loops of pearls, the hem finished with a broad band of pleated white satin. Her hair was curled in light ringlets and caught up in the back with three white roses.

Justin and Max were dressed identically in black breeches, single-breasted waistcoats, snowy white shirts, and starched white cravats. Maximilien was as superbly elegant as always, but Justin was not comfortable in the stiff cravat and confining clothes. Not after years of being accustomed to the uncivilized attire of Captain Griffin. And he hated not being able to carry a weapon. In the crowd tonight he would feel like a cat divested of its claws and set in the middle of a pack of sniffing hounds.

Celia approached him, resting her hand lightly on his arm. As he looked down at her, some of his inner agitation faded. She was so pristinely beautiful with her ice-blond hair and alabaster skin. Her gaze was steady on his. Her gentle strength supported him like an invisible bulwark.

“Where is your cane?” she asked softly. “Aren’t you going to carry it tonight?”

“I’ll manage without it.”

Her lips curved in a smile. “
Oui,
I think you will manage quite well tonight. In those clothes you look exactly like Philippe. To everyone but me, that is.”

Justin would have replied, but his attention was caught by a hard, questioning stare from his father. His blue eyes met Maxmilien’s piercing golden ones. It was obvious Max either knew or suspected what was going on between them.
Don’t make foolish mistakes,
his father’s gaze said. Justin smiled slightly, sending his own silent warning:
Don’t interfere.

The Duquesne plantation blazed with light and merriment. It was a typical Creole ball, the women delicately beautiful, the men hot-tempered and dangerous, the music vigorous, and the gaiety infused with volatile energy. For all their apparent frailty, the ladies were known to dance for hours without tiring, sometimes all night. Sometimes the young bucks would provoke each other into duels which would be held outside as they tested their honor and their masculine pride.

The guests had brought their own guests, for this was the time of year when relatives visited family homes and stayed for weeks on end. Strangers—of Creole or French descent—were always welcome. There was nothing Creoles loved more than delving into an unknown’s background and asking countless questions about his family and past. Even better was to discover a common ancestor, no matter how obscure. Creoles felt that a person was not quite acceptable
unless he was related either to their family or to someone they knew.

The matrons, dressed in satin gowns and elaborate wigs, sat on small silk-upholstered chairs and busily kept each other
en rapport
with the latest gossip, for the details of the newest scandals must be scrutinized. To them, nothing that happened in the world at large was as important or as fascinating as what occurred in New Orleans.

The married men collected in their own groups, discussing politics, hunting, and other such masculine subjects, while the unmarried ones went through the intricacies of courting the favor of strictly chaperoned young women.

A startling hush fell over the gathering as the Vallerands entered the large cream and white colored ballroom. The Duquesnes hurried to greet them, and suddenly there was a multitude of welcoming cries. Celia braced herself as a crowd surrounded them.

“Dr. Vallerand,” an elderly woman exclaimed, “to finally see you with my own eyes—
c’est merveilleux!
”

“Philippe! I did not believe it until this moment—”

“They said you were wounded—”

“Is it true about the pirates—”

“It is a miracle,
vraiment
—”

Justin replied gravely to the inquiries and statements, suffering many impetuous embraces and hearty kisses. Creoles were never too abashed to display their feelings. Evidently Justin’s appearance was enough to quell any suspicions, for he could detect no signs of hesitancy or censure in any of the faces around him. After a while, the initial torrent began to slow, and his Uncle Alexandre appeared with his Aunt Henriette in tow.

Justin glanced at Maximilien, who had remained by his side. “Does Uncle Alex know who I am?” he asked out of the corner of his mouth.

“He has not asked,” Maximilien replied matter-of-factly.

Of course not. Alexandre was Max’s younger brother, unquestionably loyal to the family. Whatever story they put forth Alex would support. Unfortunately his wife, Henriette, a lovely but featherbrained woman, was given to gossip. It would be necessary to maintain the pretense in front of her.

“Philippe.” Alexandre took his shoulders and embraced him briefly. Like the other Vallerand males, Alex was tall and dark-haired, with a temperament that could be as charming as it was volatile. His eyes met Justin’s. He nodded briefly as if he saw what he had expected. “It is good to see you again—though I never expected to.”

Justin grinned at him, knowing Alexandre was not deceived. “You always were my favorite uncle, Alex.”

Craving attention, Henriette stepped between them and lifted her face pertly. “Shame, shame, Philippe, refusing to see anyone all these weeks! I’ve had no news to give my friends during Thursday coffees!”

“Forgive me,” Justin said, and laughingly placed a kiss on either side of her face. Henriette seemed to believe he really was Philippe. “Truly, there’s been nothing of interest to tell. I’ve done nothing but rest and submit to the expert nursing of my devoted wife.” He grinned down at Celia. He would have liked to slide an arm around her waist, but Philippe would not have made such a familiar gesture in public.

“Philippe, when you walked in you seemed to
limp,” Henriette observed tactlessly. “Is it permanent?”

There was a split-second of silence, and Celia answered before Justin could. “It may be,” she said, looking pointedly at Henriette. “But it gives him a rather dashing air, don’t you think?”