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.
Two small wooden boats equipped with oars were tethered to the arched root of a half-submerged tree. Carefully Griffin stood Celia on a bit of firm ground. “Don’t move,” he said. “I don’t want you stepping on a snake or landing yourself in a sinkhole. I’m going to see which pirogue is in better condition.”
Don’t move? Celia couldn’t even blink. She watched as Griffin poked around the tiny vessels. It was the middle of the day, yet the swamp was a tunnel of murky gloom. If they became lost, no one would ever find them. They had no provisions. How could Griffin possibly find his way through this endless maze of trees, water, and slime? She would almost rather take her chances back on Isle au Corneille than face this.
Griffin came back to retrieve her, sliding his arm around her narrow waist. He frowned as he felt the tremors running through her body. “I feel compelled to point out,” he said casually, “that if you had agreed to become my mistress, you never would have had to set foot in a swamp again.” When she gave no sign that she had heard him, he continued talking in that same light manner. “There’s no danger here. I roved through this territory often when I was a boy.” He paused, considering her hate-filled eyes thoughtfully. “I can’t risk untying you. There’s a chance we may pass someone on the bayou. With the price on my head, I have to keep you quiet.”
He lowered her into the pirogue, settled in the seat facing hers, and used one of the oars to push them away from the sodden bank. “Sit still,” he said, twisting to see what was behind them.
She huddled as low as possible, her nerves twitching. Gigantic frogs hopped away at their approach. A water moccasin moved sinuously through the water. She kept her eyes on the interior of the boat, stifling a distressed moan. Griffin rowed rhythmically and tirelessly, only slowing their pace when it was necessary to maneuver the boat past rushes and fallen logs. There were times when the water was only a foot deep, the soft mud underneath pulling at the oar.
As Griffin worked steadily, the muscles of his great arms flexed, and the flat surface of his stomach tensed. Occasionally mosquitoes and other tiny predators descended on his gleaming brown skin, but he seemed not to notice them. Celia’s gaze was unwillingly drawn to him. He would frighten anyone with that savage body and wild beard and hair. Ironically she recalled the fairy tales she had pored over as a little girl, of princes and chivalrous knights rescuing young maidens from beastly ogres. Although Griffin had rescued her, he resembled an ogre, not a prince.
Closing her eyes, she thought with melancholy of Philippe’s face, handsome and utterly masculine. His mouth had been pleasingly wide and expressive, one moment serious, the next curved with a teasing smile. His jaw, so strong and cleanly cut, his nose straight and perfect. She could almost feel his short, shiny dark hair sliding through her fingers, and the brush of his shaven cheek against hers. She could almost hear him whisper tenderly that he loved her. What a fool she had been not to have made love with Philippe. Now what should have belonged only to her husband had been taken by a brutal stranger who had no respect for her innocence or what it had meant to her.
Griffin seemed to catch sight of something in the distance. Celia followed his gaze and saw a flicker of movement in the quiet green bayou. Griffin turned back to her, his expression cold. “A flatboat coming this way,” he said. “Keep your head down. And don’t make a sound.”
She met his gaze defiantly. She could make trouble for him, if only by causing enough of a disturbance that the passersby might decide to investigate. If they saw that she was bound and gagged, they might intervene. Surely they would be glad to collect a bounty for a notorious pirate captain.
“You little fool,” Griffin muttered. “They wouldn’t help you. And once they realized you’re a woman…put your damn head down.”
Slowly she obeyed, allowing the hat to shield her face from the view of others.
Griffin continued to row while the other boat passed them at a distance of close to thirty feet. There were two men aboard, obviously smugglers, operating a flatboat that was little more than a glorified raft. A coarse blanket covered a low stack of boxes. The men appeared to be unaware of Griffin, but he knew that was not the case. They were Kaintocks from up the river, rough backwoodsmen who transported both legal and contraband goods between New Orleans and Louisville. Although Kaintocks were usually uneducated, Griffin knew of no better riflemen. They had to be superb shots in order to protect themselves from bands of cunning river pirates who would rob and slaughter them without mercy.
Celia did not look up when she heard one of the smugglers send a greeting across the water. The language he used sounded vaguely like English, but it had a mangled, nasal quality that distorted the words beyond her comprehension. Griffin replied in a like manner, his voice emotionless. Nothing else was said, and each vessel continued on its way. Finally Celia dared to lift her head and breathe in relief.
Griffin was watching her keenly, his eyes like sapphires. “It won’t be long,” he said.
Not long…and the waking nightmare of the past days would come to an end. Celia wished her hands were free so she could rub her aching forehead. It was only now that she dared to allow herself to believe she would be delivered more or less safely to Philippe’s family. The thought brought a treacherous pain to her throat. She longed to share her grief with decent, kind people who would mourn Philippe as she did. She wondered if she would ever feel secure again, if she would be able to find a quiet life that would afford her a measure of peace.
She watched Griffin, who devoted his full concentration to rowing. Her blond brows knitted together. If he were related to the Vallerands, she thought, it could not be closely. They were a wealthy family, and they would have provided one of their own with a fine upbringing and an education that would steer him toward some gentlemanly occupation. He was an intelligent man—he certainly would not have become a filthy brigand had there been another choice for him.
The warmth of sunlight heated the back of her shirt. Surprised, Celia looked up and saw that the dense overhang of trees had thinned out. The water had deepened into a channel with distinct banks, while the lush vegetation and debris of the swamp had obviously been cleared by human hands. The pirogue moved along the east bank of the bayou. Celia stared over the fringe of wild grasses and between the cypress and willow trees. Then her gaze was riveted on the outline of a cluster of buildings that could only be a planta
tion.
Griffin seemed to understand the wild curiosity behind her silence. “Five plantations front this stretch of the bayou,” he murmured, pulling on the oars between words. “This is Bonheur. The next will be Garonnes. After that the Vallerands.”
Her eyes stung, and despite her best efforts she felt herself begin to tremble. Griffin rowed more slowly now, his movements less fluid than before. There was a distant look in his eyes. The air around them was hot and oddly luminous, and Celia breathed deeply through her nose, feeling as if she would suffocate.
Griffin guided the pirogue to the bank and tied it to the root of a weathered oak. He took a moment to look up a steep incline toward the main house of the Vallerand plantation. “Five years,” he said under his breath. The structure had changed not a whit. Cool and gracious, it was poised serenely against a backdrop of cypress trees and the blue Louisiana sky. The white stuccoed house was elegant in its simplicity, two stories high and ornamented with deep covered galleries and slender columns. The scent of the earth beneath his feet and the hints of poplar and magnolia in the air brought back the past as nothing else could have. Five years…
Boys’ voices echoed in the woods.
Justin, attends! Wait for me!
Let’s go downstream, Philippe, and look for pirates.
Don’t let Father find out…
Quickly Griffin glanced around, then relaxed as he realized the voices were remnants of longburied memories. He lifted Celia out of the pirogue and steadied her against a tree. Carefully he removed her hat and smoothed her sweat-soaked hair. Her body was shaking with nervous tension.
“You’re safe now,” he said, untying the gag and fishing the wad of sodden cloth from her mouth. She made an incoherent sound and touched her tongue to her dry lips. His fingers moved to her wrists. “No reason to be afraid. They’ll take care of you.” He unwrapped the cord that bound her and used it to tie back his hair.
“Who are you?” she asked unsteadily.
“Not before I get you to the house.” He looked up at the brilliant sky. “Broad daylight,” he said, pulling her with him up the slope. “I must be insane.”
Celia looked down in surprise as her thin fingers were engulfed in his large hand. It was the first time he had ever taken her hand in his.
They approached the back of the plantation house, pausing in the shadow of a grove of cypresses. Herbs growing in the kitchen garden spread a pungent scent through the warm air. Celia’s gaze wandered from the tiny chapel building and the storehouses on the right to the orange trees and flowering bushes that marked the edge of an immaculate green lawn. She knew from Philippe’s descriptions of the plantation that this was only a corner of the property. Farther on there would be more gardens, greenhouse, hen coop, mill and bell tower, bachelor house, overseer’s house and stable, and slave cabins bordering extensive fields.
Wondering why Griffin had stopped, she took a step forward, only to be hauled back again. She followed his gaze and saw a dark-skinned boy carrying a pair of buckets toward the smokehouse. Although she had tried to prepare herself for this aspect of plantation life, the sight still startled her. What did Griffin think of this enslavement of others, when his friend and cohort Aug was a Negro?
Griffin glanced down at her, reading her thoughts. “Nearly half my crew are either former slaves or Negroes from Haiti,” he said gruffly. “There are things I never questioned when I was a boy. Now I know one man was never meant to own another.”
Careful to keep them from being observed, Griffin urged her toward the kitchen, which was attached to the house by a long porch. They passed the smokehouse, from which emanated the smell of smoking pork. Celia swallowed convulsively, her mouth suddenly drenched with saliva. A lazy orange cat reclined in the shade of the house, its tail flicking as it watched them approach.
Keeping Celia to the side, Griffin peered in the screened door of the kitchen, his eyes glinted with satisfaction. “As I’d hoped,” he said, and pried the door open with the tips of his fingers. Celia stumbled beside him, following blindly as he pulled her inside.
The kitchen was large, possessing a fireplace with logs at least twelve feet long. There was an enormous iron cookstove, racks of pans and cranes from which pots and kettles hung. Three women, two Negro and one white, were putting up preserves. The air was thick with the aroma of boiling fruit and sugar. At the sound of the intruders, the women turned simultaneously and froze at the sight of the bearded giant who had entered their domain. No recognition was evident on their faces.
The woman at the stove, who had been stirring the contents of a boiling pot, stared at Griffin uncomprehendingly. Her hair, the most brilliant shade of red Celia had ever seen, was disheveled and curling from the steam. Her porcelain skin was flushed pink. A black dress and gray apron swathed her small but voluptuous form. She looked to be in her late twenties, her lush beauty fully developed and matured. Celia collected her scattered thoughts enough to decide that this must be Lysette Vallerand, Philippe’s stepmother.
The plump, bosomy woman working at the wooden table in the center of the room was the first to move. She lifted the small paring knife she had been using to slice strawberries, and brandished it threateningly.
Griffin smiled. “Restes tranquille,” he said. “Settle your feathers, Berté—I don’t intend to steal anything today.”
“Monsieur Justin,” the cook exclaimed.
The red-haired woman dropped the spoon she was holding. “Justin,” she breathed, her hazel eyes dilating. “Is it you? I cannot believe—” She broke off and turned to the lean, dignified woman with iron-gray hair. “Noeline, go find Max. Tell him to come quickly.” Noeline departed with a murmured assent.
Celia shrank back into a corner, watching in confusion as Lysette descended on Griffin like a small storm, scolding tearfully and throwing her arms around him. “For so long we’ve wondered what happened, why you never…Mon Dieu, you don’t look like yourself…you…” She stopped and peered into his dark face. “You know about Philippe—I can see it in your eyes.”
“Yes, I know,” Griffin said. Gently he extricated himself from Lysette’s grasp. She was the only woman in the world he had any respect and affection for. Even so, he did not like to be touched. Not by anyone. Brusquely he gestured to Celia “Belle-mère…this is Philippe’s wife.”
His statement was met with shocked silence. “It can’t be,” Lysette said. “Philippe’s wife was with him on the merchant ship, and—”
“She was taken to Crow’s Island by the men who captured the ship. I happened to be there at the time.”
“Justin, is there any chance Philippe—”
“No chance,” he said huskily.
Lysette nodded sorrowfully and turned to study Celia’s strained face. “My poor dear,” she said with compassion. “I can only imagine what you must have gone through.” When Celia did not speak, Lysette turned to Griffin questioningly.
“Use French,” he said. “Her English isn’t good.”
Celia passed a trembling hand over her moist forehead. The hot, sweet air in the kitchen filled her nostrils. She felt dizzy as she stared at Griffin. “Why did you call her belle-mère?” she asked in a faltering voice.
Lysette threw Griffin a sharp look. “Justin,” she said in French, “you didn’t tell her who you are?”
He shrugged. “The less she knew the better.”
“Of course,” Lysette said with a scowl, and turned back to Celia. “He’s made a lifelong habit of trusting no one, least of all women. The reason he calls me belle-mère is that I am his stepmother. Justin and Philippe are—were—brothers. Twins, in fact.”
Celia shook her head dazedly. “No.”
“Here, come sit down in this chair, you look pale—”
“No!” Celia fought off the gentle hands, feeling as if she had just been hit in the stomach. She leaned against the wall, staring at Griffin’s implacable face. “Philippe did not have a brother. He never mentioned one, never—”
>
“It’s safer—not to mention more convenient—for them to ignore my existence,” Griffin said.
Lysette sputtered with indignation. “Perhaps if you did not disappear for six years at a time we would find it easier to include you in the family!”
“Five years,” he corrected.
Celia continued to stare at Griffin. “If you were truly Philippe’s brother, you…you would not be an outlaw. A pirate.” She gave the last word a loathing emphasis. “And you are not Philippe’s twin, because he was only twenty-five, and you…” Confused, she fell silent. She had assumed he was at least in his thirties. Oh God, might he bear some resemblance to Philippe underneath all that hair and beard? The eyes were the same. She put her hand over her mouth, feeling ill.
“I’m older than Philippe by about five minutes,” Griffin said. “Or so I’ve been told.”
“Eight,” came a masculine voice from the doorway. “I was there.”
The voice belonged to the most imposing man Celia had ever seen. There was no doubt it was Maximilien Vallerand. He more than matched Philippe’s descriptions. His features were steely, and his eyes were an oddly pale shade of brown that looked like gold. A handsome man of forty-five, he had the lean, long-limbed body of a horseman and the dark elegance of a Creole aristocrat. He was dressed in black breeches and boots, and a snowy white shirt open at the throat. His hair was jet-black, touched with silver at the temples. It was easy to see where Philippe had gotten his looks.
Justin stepped forward and met his gaze steadily. “Father. I know what Philippe meant to you. I’m sorry.”
For a second the golden eyes glittered, and Maximilien appeared to swallow back some painful emotion. It was only then that Celia noticed the deep shadows that sleepless nights had left under his eyes, and the harsh lines of grief on his handsome face.