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After the trouble I ve gone to getting you this far? Griffin asked, and grinned. Just don t drop the
whiskey.
Celia didn t dare breathe as she felt him advance step by step along the felled tree trunk. The rivermen
followed them expertly, giving a few more hoots and grunts at the sight of her pale legs silhouetted against
the dark green of the bayou.
Jumping from the bridge to the ground, Griffin approached a collection of ramshackle huts in a clearing.
An old Indian camp, he said as Celia lifted her head and looked around curiously.
What happened to them? she asked.
Driven away a long time ago. Too many traders and smugglers coming from the river. He lowered her
to the ground beside the entrance to a crude hut. Aug, he called out. Step lively. We have only a few
minutes.
A few minutes? Celia repeated. What are you going to do?
Get inside. He pointed to the doorway. And drink some of that whiskey.
Her heart began to thump unpleasantly fast. Why? Why are you calling Aug? Why
Must I repeat myself? he asked, his tone laced with soft menace.
Blanching, she crept into the hut. A pallet was rotting in the corner. Large holes in the ceiling and a
crumbling wall allowed a measure of light and air to filter inside. With trembling hands Celia uncorked the
jug and lifted it to her lips. The liquor was vile, the sharp, strong taste of it burning down to her stomach.
Seating herself gingerly on a corner of the pallet, she waited. A fat-bellied, furry-legged spider wandered
by, and she watched its progress silently.
I see you have a visitor, Griffin s voice came from the tiny doorway, and he ducked his head as he
came inside. His booted foot sent the unlucky spider hurtling away. I d have expected you to scream.
Celia was tempted to tell him that at the moment she was far more afraid of two-legged creatures.
There were mice in the hold of Captain Legare s ship, she told him.
Were there? He knelt in front of her, ripping a ragged length of cloth in two. Well, better to keep
company with mice than service Legare s crew.
Yes, that is true, she agreed fervently, then inched backward as he reached for her ankle.
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Be still. Griffin looked at the swollen underside of her foot, realizing how acutely painful it must be. She
had not complained once. His gaze moved up to her face, while he felt a twinge of admiration. Given all
the terror, grief, and abuse she had suffered during the past two days, and the fact that her husband had
just been murdered, she was remarkably self-possessed. Many women would have collapsed under the
strain. But it seemed there was iron beneath her vulnerable exterior.
Celia bit her lip as his thumb brushed lightly over her blistered heel. Poor little girl, he said, moistening
the cloth with a splash of whiskey. His voice was gentle, caressing. She frowned in confusion, for all of a
sudden he sounded like Philippe.
What are you going to She yelped in pain as he probed at a sand-encrusted cut. Ah,mon Dieu,
she gasped, and covered her mouth with her hand to stifle another cry.
Scream if you like, he said. It won t bother anyone.
Her foot jerked out of his grasp as he touched the cloth to it again. She felt the pain spear through her
body until even her teeth ached. Please, it is not necessary
You ll be a hell of an inconvenience if your feet start to fester. Hold still.
I c-can t! She tried to resist as he grasped her ankle again. Instead of applying the cloth, he searched
the back of her heel with his thumb and forefinger. What are you doing? she asked in confusion. He
pinched deeply into a cluster of nerves until her foot began to feel numb. Slowly she relaxed.
Better? he asked.
Yes, better, she said with a sigh of relief. Although there was still discomfort, it was not nearly as bad
as it had been. Deftly, Griffin continued to clean out the sand and tiny pebbles embedded in the tender
sole. How do you know how to do that? she asked, giving him her other foot when he gestured for it.
He applied the same pressure to the back of it.
In my far-reaching travels I ve learned a trick here and there, Griffin said, and grinned at her. Later
I ll show you some others.
Non, merci,I would rather not& Her voice trailed into silence as Aug entered the hut carrying a folded
cloth sack.
Impassively Aug knelt down beside them, sitting on his heels. He began to pull out a strange assortment
of feathers, small stones, lumps of dried clay, bags containing powdered substances.
Griffin held his hand up in a staying gesture. We don t have time for charms and fetishes, Aug. Dispense
with the voodoo show. All I want is some of the green powder.
What is this voodoo? Celia asked warily.
Voodoo? It s magic, medicine, superstition. They practiced it in Haiti, where Aug hails from.
What is the green powder?
Something we re going to put on your feet. If, of course, Aug doesn t insist on some ritual burning of
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dirt, feathers, and nail cuttings first. Or slaughtering some poor fowl.
Celia stared at Aug, who was frowning at Griffin s irreverence. Does Monsieur Aug worship the devil?
she asked suspiciously. If the answer was yes, she would not allow one particle of green powder near
her feet!
Aug replied in the same patois as before, while Celia strained to decipher it.
Not exactly, Griffin translated. But he does believe that the spirits of the dead sometimes return to
torment the living.
Doyou believe so? Celia asked.
Griffin smiled. Living people always seem to present more difficulty to me than dead ones.
Aug reached out to touch her foot, and Celia scuttled back in alarm. For the first time a smile twinkled in
his black eyes. He murmured something to Griffin.
Griffin laughed huskily. Aug wants you to know he has no taste for skinny women. Now let him attend
to your feet.
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