Celine (22 page)

“Excuse me, madame
.
I believe I have a certain pair of pistols to purchase.”

Chapter Fifteen

The ticking of the French mantel clock grew louder by the hour, and now it seemed to be marking cadence with the beat of Celine's heart. She glanced across the room at the ornate timepiece. Only a few minutes after midnight. Barely fifteen minutes had passed since she'd last checked.

Heaven help her.

She struggled for a breath. Thank goodness she'd had the sense to remove her corset or she wouldn't have been able to breathe at all. She rose from the divan and wandered to the window, where she gazed at the yellow saucer of a moon. She would never make it through this night.

Yesterday had come and gone with no trace of Trevor or Cameron. It was as though they were making themselves scarce lest anyone keep them from their self-destruction. She and Justin had desperately searched everywhere, checked each of the men's hotel rooms throughout the day, to no avail. If only they could find one of them, perhaps they could stop the morning's carnage.

She hoped at least Cameron had come to his senses and retreated, perhaps intending to remain reclusive until their ship set sail. But her hopes were dashed when she was told that a pristine set of dueling pistols, nestled neatly in a velvet-lined mahogany box, had been delivered to a local surgeon.

Justin had offered to spend the night at the townhouse, but she'd declined. Before nightfall she had secretly left the Vieux Carré for a solitary ride to Dueling Oaks.

Dueling Oaks.

What a cruel name, and crueler purpose, for so beautiful a place in nature. How peaceful it seemed by day's ebbing light, as though nothing had ever transpired there to disrupt the serenity. Yet the very ground on which she'd stood had played host to so many fatal meetings, no count of the dead was kept.

She shuddered when she walked the grassy opening between the trees where the duel was to occur. Had the grass grown greener where it drank the blood of the fallen? Or were those the places where no grass grew at all? And the morrow would bring yet another victim who refused to see the absurdity of bloodshed, refused to peer inside himself to resolve the real quarrel.

Dueling had become so commonplace of late it seemed to be more a disease of epidemic proportions than a battle for honor. Wives, who kissed their husbands good-bye in the morning, heard from passersby that they would not make the dinner hour. Mothers, watching sons depart in the youthful promise of a new day, often saw a lone figure making his way home at dusk.

Celine had heard of duels occurring over the slightest insult, and wondered how a grown man could have so little regard for his own life or that of another. What havoc false pride created. She'd never dreamed such a scourge would touch her life.

She rubbed the gooseflesh on her arms and checked the clock. Barely twenty minutes had gone by. Oh, she could not bear another moment of this torture. Grabbing a light wool cloak, she set out on foot from the house. She had to try one more time to stop this madness.

She traveled up Royal Street and over to the St. Charles Hotel. She approached the clerk at the front desk. “Have Mr. Trevor Andrews or Mr. Cameron Andrews been to their rooms this evening?”

“
Non,
mademoiselle. I have not seen either gentleman.”

The clerk turned his attention elsewhere, but kept a keen eye on Celine. With the socially prominent cousins being so close, the gossip over the duel raged through the city like a yellow fever plague. By the way the clerk regarded her, he couldn't wait to pass on another morsel of scandal.

She didn't care.

After she paced the lobby for a few moments, the clerk grew bored and returned to his duties. The moment he turned his back, she hurried down the corridor to Trevor's room. Her hollow knock echoed in the late hour. She started to knock again but hesitated and tried the knob instead. With a click, the door released.

Her heart beat wildly as she inched it open. “Trevor?” She stepped inside the darkened room, closing the door behind her, and leaned against the hard panel until her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A lone shaft of moonlight cast a shadowed path across the floor.

It was Trevor's essence she became aware of first, and then, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, she made out a form stretched across the bed. Cautiously, she moved over to where he lay flat on his back, clad only in trousers. His crossed hands pillowed his head, and he stared up at the ceiling. His coldness registered through her flesh, as though death had already claimed his heart. The lash of a razor would not have cut her so deep.

“Trevor, I . . . I came to . . . to beg you to please call this whole thing off.”

He ignored her.

“Please, Trevor, listen to me.” She sat at the edge of the bed and awkwardly reached over to caress his cheek. It, too, was cold and hard. She snatched her trembling fingers away and clasped them in her lap. “Cameron loves you like a brother. You can't be a party to this ... this debacle. Brothers support one another, work out their disagreements. They remain loyal to one another. They don't kill each other over ... over trivial matters.”

Trevor lay silent, motionless.

“Your actions may very well mean the death of your own father. I don't know how much more he can take.”

Slowly, Trevor turned his head and stared at her through piercing shards of ice. “Have you made this same speech to Cameron?”

She trembled at his coldness.

He went back to staring at the ceiling. “I didn't think so. Your only interest in coming here is to save Cameron's hide.”

A boulder on her chest would not have crushed her more. “That's not true. I came to you because ... because I honestly felt you to be more mature than Cameron. I thought that you would be more willing to swallow your senseless pride.”

Again, she elicited no response. She had to force her most difficult words. “I also think you may have a killer's instinct, where Cameron does not.”

Trevor's bark of laughter filled the air. “You couldn't be more wrong.”

He rose on one elbow, then reached over and gripped the back of her neck and pulled her toward him with a slow, steady force until she could feel his hot breath against her lips. He held her there for a long while, glaring at her, his eyes flashing. His scent captured her senses once again. A compelling urge to close her eyes and press her lips to his shot through her, startling her and bringing her thoughts back into focus.

His hard, emotionless voice cut through the air with finality. “I would take no pleasure in killing my cousin, contrary to what you have decided I am.”

He released his vise-like grip on her, and shoved one arm behind his neck, laying his head back on the pillow. He resumed his sightless staring at the ceiling. “I was right—you did come here to save Cameron's hide. Now I suggest you leave.”

“I don't know why I said what I did, Trevor. I am truly sorry. I . . . I'm frightened. And so very, very tired.”

She took in a heavy breath and exhaled her words. “I am horrified by all of this, and I feel I am at fault. This entire mess has been caused by my having tried to become a part of your family.” Tears slid down her cheeks, and a sob escaped her throat.

“Aren't you filled with a little too much self-importance, Mrs. Kirkland? You don't belong in our family. You never have, and you never will.” His words, rapier sharp, cut through her midsection and left her bleeding at her core.

Stunned and utterly speechless, she was unable to move. Somehow, despite his cruel words, she thought she understood his pain and isolation.

Her tears stopped. She sniffed and wiped her cheeks and nose with a handkerchief she'd dug from her pocket. “If only I could reach you in some way. If only I knew what magic it would take to make the darkness go away. God knows how deeply I desire to do so.”

She stood to leave, her words hanging in the air, tangled threads of pain, love, and fear. The misery of his silence, of her search for the right things to say, squeezed her heart until she teetered on the very brink of collapse.

She bent and kissed him on the cheek, then pressed her own against his, whispering into his ear. “Dear Trevor, I know I don't have the right to feel this, or to say this, but I love you.”

Sickened when there was only silence in response, she left the hotel and wound her way slowly through the darkened streets toward the townhouse. The sorrowful click of her heels against the hard wooden boards echoed through the night.

Like a child, she peered into one shop window after another, as though the distraction would make her nightmare go away. The aching in her heart only quickened as uninvited memories of growing up parentless in the Vieux Carré haunted her. She wandered aimlessly in the general direction of the townhouse.

When she found herself climbing the stairs to her room, she was unaware of how long she had roamed the French Quarter, or when exactly it had begun to drizzle. Her clothes were wet, and her shoes, crusted with mud, felt so very heavy.

She entered her room in the darkness and locked the door, suddenly feeling stifled and claustrophobic in her clammy clothing. She tore frantically at the buttons. “I shouldn't have worn wool. It's too late in the year for wool. It's too hot for wool. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it!”

She yanked and pulled at her clothes, flung them across the room, crying and cursing the air until she stood naked in the darkness.

The pins in her hair came next. Frenetically slinging them as she pulled, she raked her fingers through her hair, tossed her tangled mane about until it hung in disarray around her shoulders. Depleted, she sniffed, and then moved to the basin near her nightstand. She cupped her hands and splashed cool water over her face, cleansed her stained cheeks.

Trevor stood in the blackness of a corner nearest the open French doors, watching her shadowed movements.

He tasted the bittersweet words she had fed him back in the hotel. Pain, slow and deep, washed through him once more. Why had he come here, tonight of all nights? Why did he continue to torment himself? He could barely watch her from across a crowded room without wanting her, and now she stood before him, naked, primitive, alive with an angry fire he had never seen before.

Her words had stunned him. They rang sacred—deep waters to quench his parched soul. The agony and isolation when she'd left him had driven him here. Why he came, what he was seeking, he did not know. Now he was becoming less sure of his actions, confused by the tumult in his soul.

What effect had those devastating words had on her when she'd uttered them? Or had she used them only in the passion of death's threat, only to be forgotten when the crisis was over?

Christ, what was he doing here?

She turned from the basin and moved to the French doors. Her bare feet padded soundlessly against polished hardwood; moonlight shimmered on her satin flesh.

He drew in a staggered breath.

Celine stopped in her tracks. “Who's there?” Raw terror flashed across her features. “Show yourself this instant, or I shall scream.”

He stepped from the shadows.

Her shoulders slumped, and she exhaled with a
whoosh.
“Trevor!”

Not knowing what to say, he stood in silence and stared at her. He saw her bare shoulders, her wild hair framing her like a dark halo, moonlight glancing off the rosy tips of her breasts. Slowly, he moved closer as he lost himself in her.

She didn't move.

He reached out, barely touched her, and then drew his fingertips slowly down her shoulder. She caught his hand in hers and brought it to her lips.

Dear God, he might die in the morning and never be able to touch her again.

Something in him snapped.

He grabbed her and crushed her against him. Her minted breath caught in his mouth as his lips came down on hers. She tried to slip a hand between them but he would not allow the separation. Instead, he backed her against the wall, imprisoning her. He pulled his mouth from hers and peered deep into her eyes.

A faint gasp escaped her lips. “Yes,” she whispered, telling him she understood that no other words were necessary.

Raw, savage need for her spiraled through him.

He braced himself and pushed her harder into the wall, covered her with his heat. Helplessly, he found the soft sweep of her neck with his mouth, buried his face in her sweet-smelling mane, caught her familiar floral scent. He hung suspended against the provocative warmth of her body. Fire flashed over him as his hands slid down to her silken hips.

She made no sound.

There was only his ragged breathing.