Only With Your Love (33 page)

Celia had not expected to be so nervous at the prospect of seeing Philippe again. She didn’t know what she would feel when she looked into his eyes or embraced him. In the past several months she had changed; her life had gone on while Philippe had been imprisoned. For him time had stopped. He was asleep in his room when she and Maximilien arrived at the plantation, something for which Celia was boundlessly grateful.

Lysette scolded and comforted her at the same time, clearly shocked by Celia’s appearance. At first she insisted that Dr. Dassin must be called back to attend to her, but Celia begged her not to. “All I need is a bath and a few bandages,” she said. “Noeline can take care of me.”

“But your poor hands,” Lysette exclaimed, surveying Celia’s burned palms, scraped fingers, and broken nails.

“They’ll heal. Dr. Dassin could not do any more for me than Noeline can.”

“The doctor will be returning tomorrow to see Philippe,” Lysette said. “I insist that you allow him to look at you then.”

“All right,” Celia said reluctantly. She proceeded
to ask many questions about Philippe’s condition and his emotional welfare, but Lysette was not able to supply much information.

“Philippe is tired and very thin,” Lysette said matter-of-factly, “but he has been resting, and Berté has prepared all of his favorite foods. I do not think it will be long before he looks like his former self. He seems somewhat dispirited, but Dr. Dassin says that is normal and will fade. All we can do is keep him surrounded by people who care for him.”

“I should have been here to welcome him home,” Celia said.

Lysette frowned, looking just as guilty as Celia felt. “There is something I must tell you, Celia. Soon after Philippe was brought here I…sent for Briony Doyle. I-I did not know what else to do. He needed someone, and you were not here, and…I hope you will not be too angry with me.”

“No, no I…” Celia fell silent, surprised by a twinge of jealousy. She remembered the sight of Briony in the garden with Justin. So Briony had welcomed Philippe home, had kissed and comforted him.
I am glad she was able to,
Celia thought, feeling terrible for that brief moment of jealousy. Briony had given Philippe her love and her innocence. Somehow Celia felt it was wrong to begrudge the Irish girl a single moment with him. “Did she…help him?” Celia asked.

“Yes, I believe so,” Lysette said. “She was able to comfort him.”

Celia sensed that Lysette would say nothing else on the subject. “Why don’t you rest for a few hours before seeing Philippe?” Lysette suggested.

Although she was exhausted, Celia shook her head. “No, I will bathe and change in the
garçonnière
and return in a little while. I want to see him as soon as possible.”

After taking a soothing bath, Celia sent for Noeline, who exclaimed over her with dismay and applied herbal salves on her eyes, her hands, and all her cuts and bruises. She produced a bad-tasting but soothing tisane for her throat and made certain Celia swallowed every drop. Celia wondered who was taking care of Justin. Surely Maximilien would make certain that a doctor was brought to the Cabildo to attend to his son. When she tried to interrupt Noeline’s handiwork, determined to find Max and ask him about the doctor, Noeline sat her firmly in a chair.

“Monsieur Vallerand always take care of everyt’ing,” Noeline said firmly. “Now
sit.
”

She trimmed several inches of Celia’s singed blond hair, cutting it in a straight line across the middle of her back. They pulled it back with a blue ribbon at the nape of her neck. “I still look dreadful,” Celia said ruefully, surveying her red, swollen face in a hand mirror.

“Monsieur Philippe ain’ gonna pay no mind to dat.”

With Noeline’s help Celia dressed in a cream and pale blue gown, long-sleeved and modestly high at the neck, with an overlapping pelerine collar. Deciding there was nothing more that could be done, Celia walked over to the main house and found Lysette in the parlor occupied with some needlework. “Is Philippe awake?” she asked.

Lysette shook her head. “He should be soon. Why don’t you go up to him?”

Quietly Celia went to Philippe’s room and sat in a chair by his bed, watching him sleep. She had thought she was drained of tears by now, but
her eyes moistened at the sight of him. He was dressed in a clean white nightshirt, his dark hair ruffled, his black lashes lying in thick crescents on his cheeks. She remembered how Philippe had smiled at her the first time he’d had dinner at her family’s home. She remembered, too, the first time he had kissed her. How overwhelming he had been in his handsomeness and gentleness.

Philippe had been her first love…but she understood now that she had cared for him as a beloved friend. There had been an element of restraint between them that no amount of time or affection would have erased. She would always care for Philippe, but she would never be able to love him as she did Justin.

His face was relaxed in slumber, a softer, less chiseled version of Justin’s. Unable to help herself, she leaned over and touched his cheek with her fingertips. “Philippe,” she whispered, and his eyes opened. The depths of blue were soft and warm, not the shockingly vibrant shade to which she had become accustomed.

Philippe inhaled sleepily, blinking as he looked at her. Seeming to realize that she was not part of a dream, he sat up and stared. “Celia?”

She smiled at him, thinking he might reach for her, but instead he continued to stare. Awkwardly she leaned foward and hugged him, and his arms went around her. “All these months I thought you were dead,” he said unsteadily, and she put her head on his shoulder and wept.

A
fter Celia’s tears had dried, she felt more at ease with Philippe, but not for long. The outburst of emotion had not cleared the air at all, and the conversation was guarded and strained. Celia felt that her husband was relieved to see her, but that did not change the fact that there were many obstacles between them.

Sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed, she tried to explain why she had not been there to greet him and tell him everything that had occurred. “What of Justin?” he asked.

“He killed Dominic Legare—”

“Good,” Philippe said in a low, savage voice.

“And I think he is well enough, except for a few minor injuries. But they took him away to prison. I…I am afraid of what may befall him next. They’ll want to punish him. He may be executed—”

“No. Father won’t let that happen.”

Celia looked into Philippe’s clear blue eyes, and she could not help but believe him. Once, a long time ago, she had told him he had the eyes of an angel. How, after all he had gone through, could he still have such a gentle gaze?

Lysette had shaved his beard and cut his hair,
revealing the clean lines of his face. It was unnerving to look at him and see shades of Justin. Most people would claim that Philippe was the more handsome of the two. His face was like a perfect work of art, elegant and kind and open. She could not imagine his lips quirking with Justin’s sardonic sneers, his eyes hot with malice, passion, or wild excitement. Justin, on the other hand, would always have the air of a loner, and he possessed an untamable quality that was an integral part of his character.

“Philippe,” Celia said softly, “could you try to tell me about the past few months?”

She was compelled to ask. Perhaps if Philippe showed signs of needing her, if he would share the pain he felt with her and let her help him, it might reawaken the old feelings.

But Philippe shook his head. “I can’t,” he said huskily. “I don’t want to talk about it.” He diverted her by asking what it had been like for her in New Orleans since their forced separation. Celia began to describe the emotions she had felt in the months following his supposed death, but then she saw the gathering bleakness on his face. Searching for more lighthearted subjects, she managed to amuse him with a few tales of her encounters with his family and friends.

Suddenly there came an awkward silence. Celia realized with dismay that she could think of nothing to say.

She looked at him uncomfortably and wondered what they had found to talk about in France, and in all those letters they had written. Conversations had not been this difficult with him before, had they? She realized she was perched on the chair…when had she retreated to it from the edge of the bed? Taking his hand in hers, she
pressed it gently, and Philippe grimaced as he felt the traces of salve Noeline had put on her palms.

“Ugh,” he said with a laugh, pulling his hand away from hers, “why are your hands slippery?”

Celia flushed slightly. “I am sorry,” she apologized. “I scraped them while I was…It is just medicine Noeline put on them.”

“Don’t smear it on the sheets.”

Justin would not have worried about a little salve, or the sheets. Justin would have made her laugh by reacting as if she were grieviously wounded, and then he would have showered her with kisses…She shoved the traitorous thoughts from her mind.

Philippe settled back against the pillows, his smile dissolving. “I am tired,” he murmured.

“I will let you rest, then. Perhaps you will have more strength for talking tomorrow.”

Philippe looked at her gravely. “Yes. There are things we have to settle.”

“Tomorrow.” Celia stood up and leaned over him, kissing his cheek. “
Bonne nuit,
Philippe.”

Distraught, Celia went downstairs and left the main house without saying good-night to any of the Vallerands. She needed to be by herself and think. She did not believe Philippe had been deliberately cool to her. He did not know how to talk to her any more than she knew how to talk to him. She fervently wished she had been able to detect some sign of his real feelings for her. It would be so much easier to sort things out if she knew what he wanted and expected!

Celia walked along the path to the
garçonnière
at an unhurried pace, lost in thought. Even if she could never have Justin, she wanted an annulment. She did not think Philippe would want to stay married to her, especially not when Briony
was available to him. It would be wrong to attempt a marriage with Philippe, who would forever remind her of his brother. But she did not want Philippe to feel as if she were deserting him. He would have to be satisfied that severing their marital ties would bring them both happiness.

Nightfall was coming quickly, and Celia took a detour through the garden. Every part of her body ached with weariness, but she was too restless to retire for the evening. Sitting on a cold stone bench, she surveyed the thickly planted greenery around her. She shivered as a chilling breeze swept over her. She was no longer so afraid of the dark…the only thing she really feared was losing Justin.

She sat there for a long time, contemplating the cloudless black sky pierced with stars. A sleepy yawn overtook her, and she stood up to go to the
garçonnière.
A soft sound came from somewhere nearby. Curiously she crept around a hedge to investigate. She drew back hastily when she saw that it was Philippe. But what was he doing out here? Her eyebrows drew together, and she frowned indignantly. Philippe was fully dressed, and he was clasping a small cloaked figure in his arms…Why, he had come outside into the cold for a clandestine meeting with Briony! And he had been too tired to talk with her earlier!

Peeking through a space in the hedge, Celia watched as he pulled the hood from Briony’s hair and bent his head to kiss her—a long, open-mouthed kiss, unlike any he had ever given Celia. Briony said something to him, and he laughed quietly and hugged her. Celia was affronted by the way he talked to the girl, so eagerly and naturally, as if he had too many things to tell her and not enough time.
I could barely drag a word out
of him,
Celia reflected with a scowl. She folded her arms across her chest and watched them, feeling rather like a betrayed wife. It was tempting, the idea of leaping out of the shrubbery and announcing that she had caught them, their secret was out. On the other hand…

Philippe’s face was clearly visible in the starlight. Celia was amazed at the change in him. The haunted, dispirited look had gone, and his eyes sparkled as he looked at the girl. Briony reached up to touch his face, and he turned his lips into her palm. The tenderness between the two moved Celia in spite of herself.

Suddenly she smiled. Oh, this made everything simple! Philippe was different with Briony because he was in love with her. He would want an annulment without a doubt. He would probably talk to her about it tomorrow, and she would assure him that she thought it was the wisest decision for both of them. She let out a quiet sigh of relief, and stole away before the pair discovered they had been observed.

In the morning Maximilien went to visit the jail, and Celia passed the time in the parlor with Lysette and her children. Her nerves were tightly stretched as she wondered what Justin might be suffering. Once she had been driven by the Cabildo when a particularly hated prisoner had been lodged there. Many of the townspeople had gathered at the courtyard beside the prison rooms, shouting obscenities and throwing refuse at him. The news that the notorious pirate Griffin had been arrested would spread rapidly. What if at this very moment they were visiting the same cruel treatment on Justin?

Evelina and Angeline played with their dolls at
a safe distance from the fireplace while Lysette sat with a basket of mending. Since there were few tasks to which Celia could turn her scraped and burned hands, she sat on the settee with Rafe cuddled on her chest and read an English-language newspaper. Occasionally she would say a few words aloud to check the meaning of a phrase, and Lysette would translate. The wood and gilt bracket clock on the mantel ticked with torturous slowness.

At last Maximilien arrived, bringing with him the scent of the cold outdoor air as he strode into the cozy parlor.
“Bien-aimé,”
Lysette exclaimed, jumping up from her mending. Max took her in his arms and kissed her briefly.

Celia was prevented from moving by the weight of the sleeping baby on her shoulder, but her eyes were fixed on him.

“Max, do tell us your news at once,” Lysette said, removing his coat and tugging him to a chair.

Maximilien stretched out his long legs comfortably, looking more than a little smug. “I will meet with Governor Villeré this evening. The word I have received is that the assistance Justin rendered in the attack on the pirate island has caused Villeré to consider the matter of his pardon with new lenience.”

Celia leaped up, clutching the baby so tightly that he woke and began to squall. “
Mon Dieu,
I am afraid to let myself hope,” she said breathlessly.

Lysette smothered Max with kisses and lavish praise. Evelina and Angeline rushed to him, giggling and sharing in the excitement although they did not understand the reason for it. For a moment
Max was hardly visible in the swarm of red heads around him.

Rudely awakened from his slumber, Rafe refused to quiet until Lysette took him. Snuffling irritably, the baby laid his head on her shoulder and chewed on his fist. Celia forced herself to sit down again. “What of Justin’s condition?” she demanded, leaning forward.

“He is in good health. The doctor has seen to him and none of his ribs appear to be broken. At my insistence Justin has been allowed hot water, soap, and fresh clothes.” Max smiled wryly. “In truth, I rather wish he were not being made so much of.”

“Made much of?” Celia echoed in bewilderment.

Max shook his head ruefully. “
Bien sûr,
I have been astonished by the reaction of the public to Justin’s capture.”

“What do you mean?” Lysette asked.

“Apparently throughout New Orleans Justin is being depicted as a dashing pirate. A romantic figure. Stories about his exploits, real and imagined, are being exchanged in the coffee houses and the town square. Ridiculous as it is, the town is agog over him.”

“What is this ‘agog’?” Celia asked suspiciously.

“It means that there is an admiring crowd encamped outside the Cabildo. He is allowed no visitors—except me, of course—but many women of the town have displayed an untoward concern over his welfare. They have brought foodstuffs and bottles of wine to the building, most of which Justin has passed out to his jailers and fellow cagelings.”

“But this is absurd!” Celia exclaimed.

“More so by the hour. I have been told this morning about three different women who were supposedly seduced by him at the Duquesne ball.”

Evelina looked at him curiously. “Papa, what is ‘seduced’?”

Lysette frowned at Max reprovingly. “Hush, Evie, that is not a nice word for little girls to say.”

“Absurd,”
Celia repeated, turning pink with consternation. Justin was
hers,
not some object of adoration for foolish women who imagined themselves in love with a fearsome pirate! She could picture Justin’s enjoyment of the attention he was receiving. He was having a high time while she was here pining for him! “Did he ask after me?” she blurted out.

Max’s ironic smile faded into a more serious expression. “In truth,” he said quietly, “he wanted to talk of nothing but you.”

Celia’s outrage died away, and she looked down at her lap, suffused with longing. “What did he say?” she asked.

“Most of it I am certain he will repeat to you in private. He does seem to expect that while he is incarcerated you are resolving matters of your own here.”

“Oh, does he?” Celia glowered at no one in particular. “I suppose he thinks it will be easy. I suppose he expects that after five months of separation I will simply march up to Philippe and tell him—”

She stopped with a gasp as she saw Philippe in the doorway. He was clad in a full-length dressing robe, his dark hair neatly brushed and his blue eyes steady on her.

“Tell me what?” Philippe asked gravely.

Celia felt her tongue freeze in her mouth. The
blood rushed to her face, and she was aware that the room had become absolutely quiet. Everyone was staring at her.

Lysette was the one to break the dreadful silence. “Philippe,” she suggested softly, “why don’t you take Celia to the morning room? Neither of you have eaten. I will send Noeline up with brioches and
café.
You will be able to talk there without interruption.”

Celia sipped sweet black coffee out of a delicate porcelain cup, while Philippe broke open a brioche roll and buttered it. She stared at him warily, waiting for him to say something until finally she could stand the silence no longer.

Her cup clattered against the saucer as she set it down. “Philippe, we must begin to think about…about our marriage, and the situation we find ourselves in.”

A series of emotions crossed Philippe’s sensitive face—surprise at her straightforwardness, perturbation, and then determination. “I have been thinking about it,” he said. “It has not been easy.”

“No, of course not,” Celia said. “It is hardly a simple matter.”

“In some ways it is.”

Celia frowned uncertainly. “Philippe, I know you do not want to talk about what has happened, I know it is painful for you…but there are some things I must tell you.”

“About Justin?” he asked bitterly.

“About
me.
Philippe, please…” Celia reached out to take his hand. “For all those months I thought you were dead, I may as well have been locked in that cell with you. I did not suffer physically,
but I felt such terrible grief that I wished I might die.”

Philippe stared at her compassionately. He held her hand in a strong grasp. “Celia—”

“I knew I would never take pleasure in anything again,” she continued. “I would never laugh or be happy. I was certain I would always be alone and I would never love again. And then…I reached an acceptance of your death, Philippe.”