Echo in the Wind

by Regan Walker

  Arriving at his cabin door, Jean hesitated before knocking. He shouldn’t have to knock to enter his own cabin, but gallantry required he do so.

  Gabe opened the cabin door and greeted him with a terse “Capitaine.” He supposed the lad didn’t like having a woman aboard any more than did Émile, but both had accepted their captain’s orders and were treating her like a guest.

  Jean scanned the table. The lad had laid a fine repast of brioche, smoked fish, fruit and cheese. His mouth watered and he inhaled deeply the aroma of hot coffee wafting through the air. His first cup of the day was always most welcome.

  Sunlight streamed in through the stern windows touching all in his cabin, including the vixen sitting at his table. He shut the cabin door and accepted the coffee from Gabe.

  The cabin boy begged leave to go to the galley to see to his own breakfast. Jean nodded and waved him on his way.

  He sipped his coffee watching his guest. She sat straight in her chair as if she had just paid a morning call on Lady Danvers and they were sharing tea in her London parlor. Her attire, however, one of his shirts and a pair of Gabe’s breeches, spoke of an entirely different setting. After she had awakened from the fever, she had insisted on changing her own bandages, depriving him of a glimpse of her glorious body, but he had not forgotten what lay beneath her male attire.

  “Won’t you join me?” she asked.

  He pulled out a chair and sat. “You do better as each day passes.”

  “I do, don’t I?”

  Franklin sidled to the table and disappeared under it. Jean inclined his head to see the cat rubbing against her leg. “My cat has become quite attached to you.”

  The cat purred and she reached down to scratch his ears.

  “Ben and I have become friends; he likes to sleep next to me.”

  “Ben?”

  Her cognac eyes glistened with her smile. “I think the shorter name suits him, don’t you? In any event, he doesn’t seem to mind.”

  “Hmm…” Jean set down his coffee and picked up a piece of brioche. The vixen continued to stroke the cat’s fur. He wouldn’t mind what she called him either if he could sleep next to her and she petted him the way she was petting the cat.

  Since his wife died, he had indulged in only a few liaisons with women, finding them unsatisfying. Yet he still had desires and the stirrings her presence caused brought to mind feelings long forgotten, emotions he thought never to have again. Fear licked at the wounds he had hidden for years.

  Lady Joanna lavished honey on her brioche and then licked it off. Watching her pink tongue reach out to taste the sweet nectar made his loins harden.

  He remembered spreading honey on her belly but, at the time, licking it from her skin had not occurred to him so focused had he been on saving her life. But now, he wanted to kiss those honeyed lips, to take her full breasts in his hands and lick her all over before sending his hard body pounding into her softness. Clamping down on his rising desire, he broke off another piece of brioche and brought it to his mouth.

  “’Tis a bit like painting the lily to add honey to the sweet bread, don’t you think?”

  She grinned. “Since I am forced to be your guest, Monsieur Donet, I should think I might eat the brioche any way I like. Besides, your cabin boy offered me the honey and ’tis quite good.”

  “It comes from Guernsey.” He lifted his coffee to his mouth and swallowed the dark liquid, ordering his body to calm. “A place I think you would like very much. I have a warehouse there full of tea, brandy and… other things. That is where the silk was stored.”

  “I remember the silk,” she said with a sigh. “Brocade such as I have never seen.”

  “I chose the vermilion because I knew it would go well with your hair.”

  Her eyes flashed a look of surprise before focusing on her coffee. “I do recall you telling me you have known from the beginning I was a smuggler. ’Tis embarrassing to think my disguise so transparent.”

  “Only to me. My quartermaster, M’sieur Bequel, with whom you spoke, never suspected. Nor did any of my crew.”

  She smiled at him over her brioche and swept her tongue over her honey-sweetened lips. The sunlight had rendered her long auburn curls a waterfall of burnished copper. The innocence in her eyes told him she was unaware of her seductive effect.

  Her eyes seemed to scrutinize him as she bit her bottom lip. “So, you keep secrets?”

  “Many,” he said.

  “A man who keeps secrets is unusual. And one who knows ladies’ fashion is most rare. You, Captain Donet, are a rare and unusual man.”

  He laughed. “I am French, Mademoiselle. I once had a wife and still have a daughter, and I have been to Versailles, which may explain my familiarity with silk and ladies’ fashions. As for the other, you must know that pirates and spies, both of which I have been, must frequently keep secrets.”

  “I knew you had been a pirate, but a spy?”

  “In the war, oui. Ostensibly for America’s Mr. Franklin, but our Foreign Minister, Charles Gravier, comte de Vergennes, was his partner in all.”

  She merely shrugged at his past pursuits, then blithely licked honey from another piece of brioche. Many women would be horrified. Not this one.

  He liked looking at her across his table and would regret the day he must return her to her brother. But until then, he would enjoy her company. “Once we are anchored in Lorient, I will take you to my home. It overlooks the harbor. You will be more comfortable there. I will, of course, provide you with a maid.” He didn’t expect to find a lady’s maid at the château in Saintonge since both his brother and father had been widowers at the time of their deaths.

  “How long will we be in Lorient?”

  “Only a few days.” He did not tell her they would be going on from there to Saintonge. She would know soon enough. “If M’sieur Bouchet assures me you are on your way to a full recovery, I will take you to a modiste I know who can make up some gowns. At my expense, of course.”

  “’Tis very generous, Monsieur, but it hardly seems fitting for you to buy clothes for a lady who is not your wife, your sister or your daughter.”

  “If it bothers you, I can seek recompense from Torrington, but I would prefer the gowns and other garments you will require be my gift for your trouble. I can hardly send you back to England in breeches.”

  Her cheeks flushed scarlet. At that moment, sitting there with her auburn hair falling down her back and honey glistening on her lips, he had no desire to return her to England or, indeed, to send her anywhere he did not plan to go.

  Stifling an urge to tumble her to his bed, he set his napkin on the table and stood. “I must see my ship safely into Lorient. When that is accomplished, I will come for you.”

  Joanna drank the last of her coffee, which was quite good, though she found it ironic Donet did not offer her tea when he must have plenty of it stashed in his hold. Or, maybe he no longer did, having unloaded his goods at Bognor. All but the silk, she reminded herself. That was still aboard. He had known she would like the vermilion silk. The man had very good taste.

  Slowly, she rose, flinching only a little at the pull of her damaged but healing skin and walked to the stern windows. She felt quite accomplished now that she could cross the cabin while the ship was under way without holding on to the edge of the table.

  Gazing out at the sun dancing on the waters roiling in the ship’s wake, she drifted into a contented state and her mind turned to the mysterious Captain Donet.

  She had no trouble picturing him as a spy. There had always been an air of danger and mystery about him. The way he had shouted orders to his crew as the revenue cutter sailed straight toward them proved he was calm in the face of danger.

  He had said she would be staying at his home in Lorient. ’Twould be scandalous if it were known she had been alone with him in his home, but the prospect appealed all the same. He had been a gentleman for all she had feared him a rogue. And she believed he would keep his word and return
her to England. Truth be told, she enjoyed being with him, perhaps too much for her own good.

  Behind her, she heard the cabin door open and turned to see Gabe returning. “Good morning.”

  “Bonjour, my lady.” He set about clearing the table and straightening the cabin.

  Joanna turned back to gaze out the large windows. The coastline of Brittany lay off one side of the ship. As the ship turned eastward, land came into view off the stern she had not noticed before. “Is that an island?”

  Without looking out the window, the cabin boy said, “Île de Groix, the island Groix. It marks the place where the ship turns into the channel leading to the harbor of Lorient.”

  The small island seemed to float above the blue waters. Above its sea-battered cliffs, white clouds drifted in an azure sky. She would have liked to see the island from the main deck, but Donet had not allowed her out of his cabin. At first, the pain from her wound would not permit her to climb the ladder or to walk so far. Now, she believed his order to stay below had more to do with his men. They must know he kept a woman in his cabin, but did they believe she was an injured English smuggler who had masqueraded as a man? Or did they think he had made her his mistress?

  She toyed with the wicked thought for a moment, allowing her imagination to sweep her into his arms. He was the first man to ever make her think of such things. But perhaps he did not find her attractive, particularly in her men’s clothing. After all, he had been more polite than anything. He did not even flirt with her like other men did.

  When he came for her, ready to disembark, she might be able to discern from the faces of his crew what they believed about her. M’sieur Bequel, the quartermaster, gave no hint of his feelings when he had joined her and Donet for dinner. A gruff man, he had nevertheless been gracious in his manners, recalling to mind his attendance at the christening. Even then, she had thought there was something familiar about Bequel.

  Gabe came up beside her. “The capitaine asked me to give you one of his cloaks to wear. I have placed it just there.” He gestured to a black cloak flung over the back of one of the chairs. “It will be too large, I fear, but at least you can cover yourself. It has a hood.”

  “Merci, Gabe. If he insists, I will wear it, but I expect today is too warm for a cloak. From what I can see, it will be a lovely day in Lorient.”

  “Oui. Lorient is a very fine place.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Many privateers and smugglers sail from there.”

  She smiled to herself at the boy’s remark. Yes, she was a smuggler. Just like his captain.

  Lorient, France

  Draped in the ridiculously large cloak, Joanna followed Donet out of his cabin, grateful for his assistance in scaling the ladder to the weather deck. His touch, as ever, made her body come alive. She would have liked to turn in his arms and see if he would kiss her, but he acted only the gentleman.

  With the hood drawn over her head, she crossed the deck behind Donet, his crew turning to stare, but not uttering a single jeer or rude comment.

  With a few words to M’sieur Bequel, Donet took her elbow and led her down the gangway to the quay, the long cloak trailing behind her.

  Once on the quay, she paused to scan the immense harbor, noting the many ships were not crowded together as they were on the Thames.

  “So many ships,” she remarked.

  “Lorient trades with Africa, India, America and the French colonies, so there are merchantmen as well as Indiamen here. And the Royal Navy of France uses Lorient. The port is always busy.”

  Joanna thought it a splendid place. She had always loved the energy surrounding London’s port on the Thames. This port had the same feel.

  One of Donet’s crew hailed a carriage and, soon, they were traveling away from the harbor. “The town is a half-mile from the port. ’Tis where M’sieur Bouchet has his practice.”

  Joanna turned toward the open window, enjoying the breeze on her face after so many days below decks. The horses’ hooves clattered on the cobblestones as the carriage briskly moved along.

  Lorient’s streets were broad and well paved with white stone houses and buildings on either side. Beyond the harbor lay wooded hills with scattered homes visible among the trees. Might he live in one of those?

  He gazed out the window, pointing to the distant streets. “The main streets diverge in rays from the city gate. The others cross them at right angles. All is very orderly and clean, as you can see.”

  She looked at him askance. Amusement danced in his dark gaze. She would not rise to the bait. All knew London had dirty streets. “And where do you live?”

  “In the hills above the town. But first, we must pay a visit to M’sieur Bouchet. I dispatched one of my crew to let him know to expect us.”

  They arrived at a small storefront with paned glass windows looking out on the street. Over the carved wooden door hung a gilded sign with the name “M. Bouchet” painted in script and beneath it “Chirurgien”.

  The surgeon was nothing like Joanna expected.

  A man of small stature with thinning gray hair, his green eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. “My lady, I have been expecting you.”

  He wore simple but well-made clothing: a moss green velvet coat over black waistcoat and breeches. His cravat was devoid of lace but well tied. His manner was confidant yet oddly humble for a man so well thought of. So this is the miracle-working surgeon.

  After Donet introduced them, Bouchet glanced at her briefly before waving her into the room where he examined his patients.

  When Donet tried to follow, Bouchet stopped him with his outstretched hand. “I can see you are anxious, Capitaine, but you must allow me to do my work. Once I am finished with the mademoiselle, you will have my report.”

  It occurred to Joanna that no one addressed him as the comte de Saintonge or Monsieur le comte, not on his ship, nor here in Lorient. All seemed to identify him with his ships and the sea, not the lands that went with his title. A nobleman engaged in business would be thought odd in England. Likely, it was the same in France, yet all accepted Donet no matter his role.

  She followed the small surgeon into the room. One wall of his office was covered by a large mahogany cabinet filled with bottles and leather-bound books. The bottles were all neatly labeled though she could not read them from where she stood.

  She turned to face him, uncertain as to what she should do.

  “Show me the wound, if you will, Mademoiselle.”

  Even though she knew him to be a surgeon greatly respected by the comte, to her, Bouchet was still a strange man. Nevertheless, she did as he asked and lifted her shirt and opened her breeches to bare her wounded flesh for his examination. She had given up the bandages this day knowing she was to see him.

  He touched the large scab stretching across her belly, studying the skin around the healing wound. “You are fortunate ’twas M’sieur Donet who treated the wound, for he has watched me patch up his crew over the years and has obviously been paying close attention.”

  He stood and wiped his hands on a cloth. “You will have a scar, but none so grievous as you might have had if another had tended you.”

  Joanna believed she lived because of Donet’s efforts. Here was confirmation.

  Monsieur Bouchet eyed her over his spectacles. “You may restore your clothes, Mademoiselle, such as they are. I expect the capitaine will replace them with proper attire for a lady.”

  She felt her cheeks heat and tucked the captain’s shirt into her breeches. “He has told me he intends to do so.”

  “I don’t suppose it would do any good to inquire as to how you came by the wound.”

  “Does it matter, sir?” She would rather not admit she and the captain were smugglers, pursued by one of His Majesty’s revenue cutters.

  “Perhaps not. Keep the wound clean and give it fresh air.” He handed her a small pot with a cork stuck in it. “Here is some salve. You will need it, for the wound will itch as it heals. Once you have a lady’s clothing, do
not bind your stays or lace your gowns as tightly as you might otherwise.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, accepting his salve and his advice.

  He paused as if considering what next to say. “I am very fond of the impudent capitaine, Mademoiselle, and since he has brought you to me, concern for you seeping from his every pore, I can only assume he is very fond of you. Know this: He bears wounds only seen with the heart, and the scars that have formed over the years still pain him. Tread carefully.”

  The surgeon’s manner was in earnest, his counsel sincere and given for a purpose. She would remember it. “Thank you for telling me.”

  He returned her a small smile and, with his words still echoing in her mind, she followed him out of the room. In the entry, Donet paced before the door.

  When he looked up, brows raised in question, Bouchet said, “The wound heals nicely. You have done well, Capitaine, though you would have done better to have prevented the lady’s wound in the first place.”

  “You are right, of course,” said Donet with uncharacteristic humility. “I will endeavor to assure la Reine Noire is not again exposed to the muskets of England’s Royal Marines.”

  Joanna cringed. ’Twas the very information she had hoped to conceal.

  The surgeon chuckled. “I recall hearing similar words from you before.”

  Donet reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. Bouchet waved him off. “You have given me enough money over the years to pay for my lodgings for the next decade. I would rather you spent your gold on proper garments for the lady.”

  Joanna offered her hand to the surgeon, whom she was coming to like very much. Anyone who stood up to Donet earned her respect. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

  “My pleasure,” he replied, bowing over her hand. Then he winked at Donet and went back into his office, closing the door.

  They returned to the street and Donet assisted her into the waiting carriage.

  “He is a surgeon of great skill?”

  “He has saved the life of more than one of my crew. We hold him in the highest regard but, unfortunately, I have not been able to persuade him to sail with me.”