by Regan Walker
Lady Joanna shifted her gaze to Émile. “It must be dear. I cannot pay more than the prices agreed by my agent.”
“’Twill cost ye nothing.” Then looking toward Jean leaning against the rail, Émile added, “The capitaine would make ye a gift of the silk.”
Aware his quartermaster thought him insane, Jean merely nodded. He wanted to see what the lady would do. Would she covet the silk for herself? He had included the vermilion because it would go well with her coloring. Or, might she reject the gift, suspicious he would bestow anything so valuable on a fellow smuggler?
Her head jerked from Émile to Jean. “Why?” Suspicion dripped from the word.
Jean nodded to Émile. With his face shadowed by his tricorne in the dim light of the fading sky, he was confident she did not recognize him.
“The capitaine is feeling generous.”
“Most generous, Monsieur,” she said, rising from where she had knelt next to the chest. “Very well. We accept your gift of the silk as a seal on our partnership and accept the lace, brandy and tea as agreed.”
Her companion, the scarred man, was about to lift the chest of lace, but Émile ordered some of the crew to take the chest down to the rowing boat. Once the lace was loaded, the giant climbed over the rail and lowered himself down the manrope to the small boat.
Jean’s crew had returned from the shore and were winching the longboats onboard.
Lady Joanna handed Émile a pouch of coins. At Émile’s direction, a crewmember hefted the chest of silk and waited for her. She turned to Jean, standing a mere stone’s throw away. “I will not forget your generosity, Monsieur. I can assure you, the proceeds from the silk will be used to feed families in dire need.”
He touched his tricorne, but said nothing. So, she was not a bored aristocrat out for a bit of nonsense, as he had once thought, but a well meaning, although perhaps misguided, lady wanting to help others. Nevertheless, if he had anything to say about it, she would not persist in this dangerous business better left to men like him.
“Sail, ho!” shouted his lookout.
“Where away?” yelled Lucien from the helm.
“Off the larboard quarter, coming on hard!”
Jean reached for his spyglass and peered through the lens to see a revenue cutter under full sail bearing down upon them from the west.
Lady Joanna cried, “I must go!”
Jean shouted out the orders. “Run out the starboard battery! And get underway!”
He turned to see Lady Joanna staring at him open mouthed, as if seeing him for the first time. “Monsieur Donet?”
“Oui, Mademoiselle, it is I.”
The guns rumbled as they were moved into place. His crew let go of the lines they’d been holding and the ship veered away from shore, heading into the Channel with the gun ports thrown open and the guns run out.
Off the starboard bow, Jean saw the English cutter coming closer.
Lady Joanna lurched for the rail. “My brother!”
“Too late for that!” he roared, pulling her back. He pointed to the aft hatch. “Get below decks where you will be safe.”
She backed away, again going for the rail. “Freddie!” she yelled.
“Stubborn woman,” he muttered. Striding to the rail, he looked over the side. A short distance from the ship, the rowing boat bobbed in the water, its occupants staring at him with a look of shock. “Get to shore!” Jean shouted. “I will take care of her!”
“’Tis the comte!” Frederick cried to his large companion. With that, the scarred man bent to the oars and rowed hard for shore.
Jean faced Lady Joanna. “Your brother will be safe. The two ships will soon pass. Do as I say and get below!”
He turned from her to see the revenue cutter hoisting her signals, the red ensign flying from the gaff visible even in the fading twilight.
The English ship fired a single musket shot, an order for la Reine Noire to heave to.
Jean took no notice. He had no intention of doing as the English captain wished. He would not deliver his ship or his aristocratic passenger into the hands of English Customs.
Émile stepped up to him. “Yer orders, Capitaine?”
“As soon as the cutter is in range, fire a warning over her bow.”
Émile saluted and stepped to one of the starboard guns. “Hé, le gars! Let us give this English dog a warning bark to show him we, too, can bite.”
As the ships began to pass before each other, la Reine Noire sailing west and the revenue cutter heading east, Jean read the name on the English ship: HMS Orestes.
Behind him, Lady Joanna shouted, “’Tis Captain Ellis’ ship!”
Shocked she had disobeyed him, he turned and scowled. “Right now, I care not, Mademoiselle. You must go below! The cutter has no idea I have a female on board. You are fair game like the rest of us.” He turned to his nearest crewmember. “Baudin, get this one to my cabin.”
The bos’n grabbed Lady Joanna’s arm and turned her toward the aft hatch. This time, she did not protest.
Émile shouted, “Fire!” The starboard gun belched flame and smoke, blazing away.
On the deck of the Orestes, a biscuit toss away, red-jacketed Marines raised their muskets and fired, the snap and whine of the shots echoing over the water.
Smoke billowed in the air and balls flew across la Reine Noire’s deck. Jean’s crew yelled as they scampered to avoid them. His sailmaker let out a groan and dropped to the deck not far away.
Chaos reigned all around him for a moment, but his well-trained crew quickly moved into battle positions and readied the guns.
Jean shouted orders and the deck crew jumped to obey. The square sails filled with a “thump” and the yards creaked as the ship picked up speed, lunging ahead. “The English ship will have to turn to give chase,” he yelled to Émile, who hurried to Jean’s side. “But with more guns, the cutter is a laboring ox. They’ll not catch us.”
He turned to be certain his passenger had gone below. To his horror, just short of the aft hatch, the bos’n stood looking down at Lady Joanna lying unconscious on the deck. Her hat had come off, leaving her beautiful auburn hair splayed out around her. Dark red blood seeped from her belly and flowed to the wooden planks.
“Seigneur Dieu!” he cried and rushed to her, crouching down to sweep her into his arms. He shouted to Émile, “The ship is yours. Make for Lorient!”
The quartermaster, his face frozen in shock, stared at the woman Jean held in his arms. “Oui, Capitaine.”
Jean disappeared down the hatch. At his open cabin door, he passed Gabe and laid Lady Joanna on his bed. “Quickly, Gabe, more light, warm sea water and bandages! I fear the lady has been gravely wounded.”
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jean grabbed one of his shirts lying on top of the cover and pressed it to the front of Lady Joanna’s blood-soaked breeches. Out of the corner of his eye, Jean saw Gabe pause to look.
“No time to gawk. Maintenant!”
“Oui, Capitaine.” The lad scurried to do as ordered, lighting another lantern and placing it on the table near Jean. Then Gabe dashed to one of Jean’s chests for the bandages. Heating sea water would take longer for the boy would have to go to the galley.
The ship’s carpenter handled minor injuries and could even dig out musket balls when necessary, but Jean’s miracle-working surgeon, Pierre Bouchet, remained in Lorient, stubbornly refusing to go to sea. Jean would allow no one, except him or his surgeon, to touch Lady Joanna. He clenched his teeth, determined to do whatever he must to see her through this.
The blood seeping from her breeches soon soaked through the shirt he held to her body. He could see no alternative but to remove her clothes.
His cabin boy brought him the bandages.
“Drying cloths, Gabe!” Jean ordered, reaching out his hand so the boy need not approach.
The cabin boy placed the requested cloths in his hand. “I will see to the water, Capitaine.”
The cabin door slammed shut as
boy left for the galley.
Jean ripped open Lady Joanna’s waistcoat, sending buttons flying, then more cautiously lifted her shirt. He did not allow his gaze to linger on her beautiful breasts, but covered them with one of the cloths. Then he carefully opened her blood-soaked breeches and slid them off, tossing them to the deck. He had tried not to look at the auburn curls at the juncture of her thighs but so alluring a sight was impossible to avoid. As if Neptune had washed a sea goddess up on Jean’s deck, her pale ivory skin and long auburn hair made her appear an ethereal creature.
He ripped the rest of her shirt from her and placed another drying cloth over the thatch of auburn curls. With only her belly bared, he turned his attention to the damage done by the musket.
She had worn no stays under her man’s clothing, so he was seeing her marred naked flesh. The ball had sliced across her abdomen, from one side to the other. Thankfully, the resulting gash was not deep. If none of her organs were affected, as he hoped, she would have a good chance of surviving. Even so, she could die from fever or blood loss.
His cabin door sprung open and Gabe stood there holding a metal container. “Are ye ready for the sea water, Capitaine?”
“Oui, set it there.” He pointed to the stool next to his shelf bed. Gabe placed the container on the stool, together with another drying cloth.
“At least she is unconscious,” Jean muttered as he set about cleaning the wound, “or this would be agony for her.”
He tried to remember what Bouchet had done when treating flesh ripped open by musket balls. He glanced at the decanter on the table. “Bring me that brandy, Gabe.”
The boy held out the brandy. Once Jean had cleaned the wound of fibers and blood, he doused it with the liquor, something he’d seen Bouchet do countless times.
Holding a cloth over the wound, he said to Gabe, “Ask Cook for some of that clover honey we acquired in Guernsey, s’il vous plaît. A small jar will do.”
While he waited for the honey, another substance Bouchet used liberally, Jean brooded over the grisly wound on so fair a skin. “Quel sacrilège,” he hissed under his breath. Silently, he prayed she would heal. Her skin would be marked, but he was not a man to care about a woman’s jagged scar. He had scars of his own to match any left on her.
A lock of her hair had fallen over her forehead and he reached out to brush it from her beautiful face. A long auburn curl lying on the pillow drew his attention. He picked it up and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. He had admired her hair from afar more than once and, now, it was in his hand. In the light of the lantern, he saw more clearly the strands of burnished copper ribboned in auburn locks.
More than her beauty, it had been her spirit that drew him. Lady Joanna was bold, independent and unafraid. Seeing her like this, broken and struggling to live, flooded him with tender feelings and a desire to protect her.
He could love such a woman if he allowed himself, but his last venture down that path had nearly destroyed him. He could not again risk so much. And she might not be willing. Despite what must have been many offers for her hand, she had accepted none. Then too, they came from different worlds, even different faiths.
But if he had anything to say about it, she would be a smuggler no more.
He took her hand and gently squeezed. “’Twill be all right, Lady Joanna,” he whispered. “I will not allow you to die.”
A few minutes later, Gabe returned with the honey.
“Good lad. Now, a clean shirt if you will.” Once he had bandaged her wound, the shirt would serve as a chemise de nuit for her.
The boy took one of Jean’s shirts from a chest under the stern windows and brought it to the bed, laying it at her feet.
“Ask Cook to make some willow bark tea.” The tea could have waited, but Jean wanted to be alone with Lady Joanna for what he had to do next.
Gabe did as bid and turned toward the cabin door.
Jean poured a bit of honey on her wound, just enough to cover and seal the gaping flesh. Removing the cloth that covered her breasts, he lifted her with one arm and wrapped the length of bandage around her belly with the other. He repeated the action three times before laying her back against the pillow.
As carefully as he could, Jean slipped the shirt over her head and worked her arms into the sleeves, then inched the shirt down her body. Unable to resist, he bent over her and touched his lips to her forehead. Her skin was still cool. Then he covered her and sat back.
“Voilà, c’est fait.”
If by sheer force of his will he could compel her to live, she would.
Chapter 13
Joanna’s thoughts swirled in a misty fog as she and her companions waited on the beach for a smuggler’s ship expected off Bognor. Near darkness surrounded them as hours passed, the only sound the waves racing over the shingles. The ship had not appeared as expected. She fretted, a sinking feeling coming over her. What has happened?
Finally, a ship emerged out of the fog, heaving to just offshore. Its sails seemed to glow in the light of the full moon peeking through the mist.
Anxiety washed over her. Something was amiss.
Suddenly, an Excise cutter broke through the darkness, guns blazing flames, illuminating the smoke-filled air. Shot sliced through the sheets of the smuggler’s ship.
Men grunted as they fell; others raced to the guns to return fire.
The air exploded around them.
“No!” she screamed, her heart pounding in her chest.
A cool cloth brushed over her forehead and the images faded. She awoke to pain and nausea and a vague sense of motion like being rocked in a cradle. Someone held her hand.
Where was she?
“’Tis all right, Lady Joanna. You are safe.”
She rolled her head toward the voice she recognized as belonging to the French comte and slowly opened her eyes.
Haunted black eyes looked back at her. He was not the fashionably attired comte she remembered in his crisp white shirt garnished with lace, claret waistcoat and black velvet coat. He was not even the ship’s captain clothed all in black, his features shadowed beneath his tricorne. Here was an entirely different man.
Haggard in appearance, his ebony hair, shot with silver, hung disheveled and unconfined, long to his shoulders. His wrinkled shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing a scattering of black hair on his tanned chest. Here was the pirate she had only heard about, a seductive Frenchman who must have broken many hearts.
“Ah, you are awake. I am greatly relieved. Were you to die on my ship, Torrington would be most displeased.”
Joanna detected amusement in his words. It would be like him to try and humor her even in this. But his dark eyes revealed only concern.
“We cannot have that,” she croaked. Her gaze reached behind him seeing moving reflections filtering through the stern windows. The rocking motion suggested she might be on a ship. “Where am I?”
“In my cabin, Mademoiselle, aboard my ship and sailing to Lorient.”
With his free hand, he again wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. “My surgeon, Pierre Bouchet, is in Lorient and I want him to see your wound. The musket ball grazed you. ’Twas clean, but you lost a great deal of blood. I have done all I can, but I do not possess Bouchet’s skill.”
She struggled to rise. The pain in her abdomen pierced like a knife. She subsided onto the pillow with a heavy sigh. Donet placed his hands gently on her shoulders, holding her down.
“You must not move overmuch, Mademoiselle. I believe you are out of danger, but your body needs time to mend and that will take weeks.”
She could not go to France. She must go home! Freddie would be worried. Freddie! What had become of him and Zack? In her mind, she heard echoes of muskets firing, felt the searing pain in her belly and the hard deck rising up to meet her as she fell. “Freddie and Zack… Were they hurt?”
“Your brother is safe and he knows you are with me. The large man with the scarred face—the one you call Zack—rowed them both to
shore. The cutter can’t pursue them on land, of course, but your Commander Ellis will be plying the waters off Bognor more frequently now.”
Joanna let out a breath, relieved to hear they had gotten away. “Did they know I was injured?” She settled into the soft bed, trying to ignore the throbbing in her belly.
“I do not think so.”
“Oh.” In a way, that was worse, for Freddie and Zack would wonder, if she were well, why she remained with the comte. “I must return to England, Monsieur. My family will worry.”
“I do not believe your younger brother will expect you anytime soon. And, after the encounter with your Commander Ellis, I cannot sail la Reine Noire back to England, at least not for some time. They might seize my ship. The English authorities cannot summon me to England for trial, but I must consider what they would do to you. I’d not see you face the hangman’s noose.”
He watched her closely. Did he expect her to panic? She would not. She met his steady gaze with her own. “You have other ships, I trust?”
He smiled. “I do.”
“Perhaps you would be so good as to return me to England in one of those?”
“Eventually, oui. But not until you are well and I am free to do so.”
His voice was that of a captain in command of his ship. It would do little good to confront him in her weakened condition. She took in a breath and slowly let it out, trying to ignore the pain. “I shall try to recover quickly. You have my thanks for seeing to Freddie and Zack.”
“You are welcome, my lady.”
She looked toward the stern windows. “What time is it?”
“’Tis afternoon but the sky is clouded over, hence the dim light in my cabin. We may soon be into rough seas. I should be on deck.”
Another thought occurred to Joanna causing her to shut her eyes tight. If word got out she had remained on a ship full of men with no chaperone, her family would face scorn. But there was no help for it. She could not very well swim back to England. She had always believed she would live an unusual life, but she had not imagined all of London would gossip about her as a fallen woman.
