Echo in the Wind

by Regan Walker

  “That sounds perfect.” He offered Joanna his arm. “Rose maintains a small garden on one side of the house that rewards her tender care with fine vegetables.”

  The dining table could seat eight, but as there were only the two of them, he suggested they dine at one end.

  This room did not face the harbor. Through the windows, she glimpsed trees, dark silhouettes against the indigo sky.

  Once the claret wine was poured and the dishes served, Donet dismissed the housekeeper, leaving them alone. Candles flickered from silver stands set in a row in the center of the table. It struck her as a too intimate setting for an English spinster, even one who had gained that status by choice, yet she had no desire to leave him.

  The aroma of the chicken wafted in the air, making her mouth water. She took a bite, tasting a rich blend of herbs and butter. “The chicken has an unusual flavor, ’tis the best I’ve ever tasted.”

  He watched her closely. “’Tis the spices. Rose comes from Provence and her sister, who is still there, sends her herbs to use in her cooking.”

  In the candlelight, his olive skin glowed, his black brows and hair striking. On his forehead was the beginning of a frown.

  She sipped her wine. “Something worries you?”

  He met her gaze. “You are most perceptive, my lady. I do worry, but not for my ship. The repairs are under way.” Cutting into his chicken, he said, “Some messages I received today tell me conditions in my country are worsening. I will not know how bad the situation is until I get to Paris.” He looked up. “I fear the revolution in America has laid the foundation for another in France.”

  “But France is not a colony suffering under unfair laws and heavy taxes,” she observed.

  “Non, but we have the Crown and the clergy, both of which benefit from the peasant class bearing the burden of taxes and tithes. It cannot go on, but convincing the king that change is needed may not be easy. Or even possible.”

  Joanna finished her chicken and he poured her another glass of wine. She had just lifted her wine to her lips when he asked, “Would you take your wine with me in the parlor? The fire is better situated there to warm us both.”

  Sated with good food, she readily agreed. “Of course.”

  He stood and offered his hand. They carried their glasses to the parlor and went to stand in front of the crackling fire. He set his glass on the mantel and, using a poker, stirred the fire to greater life. “The nights can be cool.”

  They finished their wine in amiable silence. “If you are willing,” he offered, “I would show you the harbor and the stars above it.”

  “I would like that.”

  He took her hand and led her through a door that connected to a study at the back of the house. His warm hand held hers, anchoring her unstable legs to the floor. It occurred to her that being unused to walking on land, her drinking might not have been wise.

  As they passed through the study, she noticed a painting of a black-hulled ship hanging over the fireplace. “Is it your ship?”

  He paused to admire the painting, letting go of her hand to touch the gilded frame. “Oui, I had it commissioned the year I bought la Reine Noire.”

  “The name in English means ‘the Black Queen’. Did you have a particular one in mind?”

  “Queen Marie Antoinette. Beautiful and charming, but indifferent to the needs of her people, as is the king. They were raised to believe they rule by Divine Right, so they are blind to the storm that may soon be upon them.”

  Casting her gaze around the room, she spotted a chess set in one corner. “You play chess?”

  “I do. And you?”

  “Yes, but not very often. My oldest brother Wills and I used to play.” She dismissed the pang of regret at the memory and turned back to Donet.

  Taking her hand, he said, “Come, the stars above the harbor await us.”

  He led her through a door to a patio running alongside the rear of the home. The light was too faint to see clearly, but the heady smell of roses told her the flowers surrounded them.

  Lights from the quayside taverns and lanterns on the ships dotted the harbor, competing with the glorious array of stars above them. She walked to the edge of the patio and gazed into the distance. “I have never seen anything so beautiful. The lights in the harbor are like jewels in a dark setting. The stars above are a wondrous complement.” Feeling the chill of the night air, she wrapped her arms around her midriff.

  “You are cold,” he said, stepping close behind her and encircling her in his arms. “Let me warm you.”

  At first, his bold touch alarmed her. But she found his rich French-accented voice intoxicating, lulling her to contentment within the circle of his arms. He knew precisely how to warm a woman.

  If it had been any other man, she would have pulled away, but this was Jean Donet for whom she had developed a strong attraction. And the more she knew of him, the more her respect for him had grown. Many men had pursued her, but here was the first man who had ever made her want to escape not from him but to him.

  Leaning into the warmth of his chest, she turned her face to the side where his lips met her temple, his breath warm on her skin. She deeply inhaled his rich, masculine scent that spoke of the sea. It was not the wine she had consumed that made her feel lightheaded; it was he.

  “If you would allow it, I would kiss you, my lady,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her temple.

  She turned in his arms to meet his midnight gaze. “It seems to me, Monsieur, you already have.”

  His mouth curved in a slow sensuous grin, his brilliant smile visible in the faint light. “That was hardly a kiss. I assure you I can do better.” Bending his head, he brought his lips to hers.

  She closed her eyes and opened to his kiss, enveloped in his arms and the heat of his body. Instinctively, she raised her hands to his nape, entwining her fingers in his silky hair.

  He slanted his mouth over hers and joined their tongues in a slow dance as his hands stroked her back. She had never kissed a man in such a way. It seemed unduly intimate but, because it was him she was kissing, her body responded to his mouth and his hands. Soon, her breasts became sensitive and an ache grew in her woman’s center. Perhaps he sensed her innocence in such matters, for he did not hurry.

  As the kiss went on, Joanna became his willing partner, learning from him how to move her tongue against his.

  He responded by kissing her more fervently. All she could feel, all she could think about was him. In her mind, she whispered his name, “Jean”, over and over.

  She would have kissed him long into the night but, suddenly, he pulled his lips from hers. She kept her eyes closed, savoring his kiss. She didn’t want it to end.

  Breathing heavily, he kissed her again, this time more forcefully. She knew a moment of fear at the power of his urgent demanding kiss with his hands on her hips, pressing her belly into his hardened flesh. But, as her desire grew, her fear diminished.

  Ripping his mouth away, he pressed his forehead to hers, breathing harder than before. “If we do not part now, my lady, I fear the morning light will find us lying together in twisted sheets.”

  She had no idea what to say. He was right, of course. In one brief span of time, everything had changed. To wake next to him in those tangled sheets seemed a very real possibility.

  She blurted out the first thing that entered her mind. “Why do you have to be French?”

  His laughter was a rich melodious sound as he stepped back. “Ah, my lady, don’t you see? It is precisely because I am French that I could reach beneath the thin veneer of your aristocratic English upbringing and kiss the smuggler lurking there.”

  And quite suddenly, Joanna was envious of his dead wife, the young woman who had shared his kisses, his bed and made a child with him.

  He took her trembling hand and led her back inside. “I will see you to your chamber where you have my word I will leave you there to sleep alone this night.”

  Only the growing darkness prev
ented him from seeing her frown.

  Jean had known it was only a matter of time before he kissed Lady Joanna. Not since Ariane had he desired a woman like he did her. But he had not expected his hunger for her to be so great.

  The sleepless night that followed the kiss came as no surprise, his mind conjuring thoughts of what might have happened had he succumbed to the temptation she presented.

  He would have to be careful in the future not to allow the passion between them to have its predictable end or he would make an English earl’s sister his mistress. Marriage between them was out of the question.

  He had loved Ariane with a fervor that had not died in the years they were together. Her death had rent his soul. For years, he was no more than an empty shell. He could not again risk such a loss. He still bore a weight of guilt for the times he had left his young wife.

  At first, he had taken to the sea to meet their needs, but it soon became a love affair of a different sort. The sea became his mistress, stealing time from the family he loved. The risks he took excited him, but Ariane only feared she might lose him in a storm at sea or a battle in the Channel. Ironically, in the end, he had been the one to lose her. He was not even in Lorient when she died, a fact he deeply regretted for she must have felt afraid and very alone. And after, he had not given up the sea even though it meant sending Claire to the Sisters of Saint-Denis for her education when he could have educated her at home.

  When light finally crept into his bedchamber, he rose and dressed, not bothering to summon his valet. Wearing only his breeches and shirt, he silently padded down the stairs.

  Musing on the past always put him in a morose mood. He wandered into the parlor, knowing he would find there the one thing that would soothe his soul.

  The rising sun filled the room with light, exposing to his seeking eye the object he had left sitting on the cabinet. He went to the familiar case and lifted the lid. The fine wood instrument called to him. He lifted it to his shoulder, drawing the bow across the strings.

  Joanna woke to the mournful sound of a solitary violin. Lying in bed, she listened, wondering who could be making such ethereal music. It sounded to her like the sorrowful cry of a tormented heart and yet so beautiful as to fill her with awe.

  Being as yet without a maid, she donned the pale green gown, tying the laces as best she could, determined to find the source of the music.

  At the dressing table, she ran the brush through her hair and tied it back with a ribbon. A brief glance at herself in the mirror told her she had changed.

  The woman who looked back at her had knowing eyes and cheeks flushed with remembered passion. Donet had awakened in her a new desire, a new longing. She wanted to see him, to be with him. Was it mere infatuation? Or could it be more?

  She hurried from the bedchamber.

  At the bottom of the stairs, she met the housekeeper. “Oh, Mademoiselle, I did not know you were up. Did the master’s violin wake you?”

  “Monsieur Donet is the one playing?”

  “Oui, in the parlor.” She gestured to her right.

  Joanna whispered, “Can you tie my laces?”

  The housekeeper hastily complied. Joanna thanked her and stepped into the parlor.

  Donet’s back was to her as he stood before the windows playing to the trees outside. He wore one of his fancy shirts with lace falling over his wrists and snug black breeches that emphasized his lean muscular thighs. She had never seen him barefoot before and it brought to mind the image of a pirate climbing the rigging.

  Quietly, she sat on one of the sofas to listen, enraptured with the music. Her mind drifted to the Handel concert in London. No wonder he had loved the violins. She recognized the piece as another of the great composer. She thought it might be from the opera Xerxes.

  After a while, he played a lighter piece she had never heard before.

  He must have become aware of her, because he stopped playing and turned, his midnight eyes intense as they confronted her.

  “Don’t stop on my account. I am enjoying your music.”

  He shrugged. “I don’t play often, not anymore.” He returned the violin to its case.

  “What was that last piece?” she asked. “It is new to me.”

  “’Tis the music of Viotti, an Italian court musician at Versailles. I heard him two years ago when I was there.”

  She went to join him. “I had no idea you could play, but I should have known your fondness for the violins at the Handel concert had its roots in a knowledge of the instrument. You play very well.”

  “Do you play an instrument, Lady Joanna?”

  She lowered her eyes. Compared to his talent, she had none. “The cello, but not well.”

  He smiled as he stepped closer. “I should like to hear you play sometime.”

  Neither of them acknowledged the tension flowing between them, but it was there in his eyes and she supposed it was in hers. She could not stop looking at his lips. The kiss had taken them from grudging friends to something more. Something neither wanted to discuss.

  “Perhaps that can be arranged,” she said. “I need only a cello.” Behind him, she glimpsed again the globe hanging from the ceiling and walked toward it. “This continues to fascinate me.”

  Joining her in front of the globe, he twirled it around. “I like to know where I am going. Charts, maps, even this globe, provide certainty as to where one is headed.”

  Her gaze fixed on his sensual lips and the black hair peeking out from his white shirt, open at the neck. “I find it difficult to know where life will take me, no matter the plans I make or the maps I consult. See where it has taken me now?”

  “That may not be life directing your steps, Mademoiselle, as much as it is you setting your own course.”

  “Yes, I suppose,” she reluctantly agreed. It had been her choice to engage in the smuggling that had led her here.

  He offered his hand. “I think this conversation is better carried out over a leisurely déjeuner. You will join me, oui? I am certain, by now, Rose has set the table in the breakfast room.”

  Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his. It was like coming home.

  He escorted Lady Joanna to the small room at the back of the house off the main dining room where the table had been laid with the foods he liked to eat in the morning: fresh eggs, salty sweet Gruyère cheese, some petit pains and a dish of butter. In the center of the table was a bowl of strawberries. And for the lady, chocolat.

  Next to his place, Rose had set a small pitcher of sweet cream for his café au lait. The aroma of the rich dark brew drew him. After his sleepless night, he needed the coffee.

  He pulled out a chair for her facing the view of the harbor. “I see Rose has thoughtfully included tea and chocolate for you, my lady. Do you mind my dining as I am, without even a waistcoat?”

  “Not at all,” she said, taking her seat. “You look as I imagine a pirate might when eating his breakfast.”

  He laughed. “A pirate would not wear so much lace, I assure you. Is the food to your liking? Perhaps I should ask for some honey?” He had not forgotten her pink tongue licking the golden nectar from her luscious lips.

  “With all this, I do not need honey. Your housekeeper is a wonder.”

  They ate in amiable silence for some minutes, Jean enjoying the quiet. He liked that she was not given to constant chatter, as were some females. He peered at her over his coffee. This morning, wearing the simple morning gown, her lovely hair tied back with a ribbon, she appeared a beguiling creature as she bit into a strawberry. But young, he reminded himself.

  He should not have kissed her, because now he very much wanted to do it again. Clearing his mind of such thoughts, Jean picked up the Journal de Paris Rose had placed on the table and read a bit of the article by Benjamin Franklin. He sat back and laughed.

  “What is it?” Lady Joanna asked, setting down her chocolate.

  “If Benjamin Franklin were a sailor, he would have made this discovery long ago.” Seein
g he had piqued her interest, he went on. “It seems Franklin’s servant forgot to close his master’s drapes. Awakened at six o’clock by a noise, Franklin was surprised to find his bedchamber filled with sunlight. The statesman had no idea the sun came up so early in June.”

  “Hardly a revelation.”

  Jean could not resist a smile. “You must remember, this is Franklin the scientist. His discovery got him to thinking how many candles the city of Paris could save if the French would merely arise and retire at an earlier hour.”

  Lady Joanna screwed up her face in an enchanting manner and shook her head. “How could he be so smart, such a clever inventor, and yet not have realized that before?”

  “Well, the article indicates it is his habit to retire several hours after midnight and then sleep until noon so he never sees the sun rise and, seeing it, his brilliant mind began to consider the possibilities.” Jean looked again to the article, his finger following one of the lines. “Among other things, he proposes that every morning, as soon as the sun rises, all the bells in every church should be rung. And if that is not sufficient, cannons should be fired in every street to wake the sluggards.”

  Lady Joanna shook her head and licked the berry juice from her now red lips. “I cannot see that becoming a popular idea.”

  “He has one thing correct,” Jean said, trying to focus on the article and not her enticing lips. “He claims the heavy taxes imposed upon the people by the necessities of state provide abundant reasons to be economical.”

  “Somehow, I think the poor do not have to try and rise or retire early. Their work requires it.”

  “’Tis true. I remember my life in Saintonge as a youth. The workers were in the vineyards early.”

  “You were raised in Saintonge?”

  “Oui. Except for excursions to Paris, I lived there until I was twenty. Which reminds me, we sail tomorrow, but not for England. I must first go to Saintonge.”

  “What? But I thought—”

  “Yes, I know, but Saintonge is closer, and I have not been there since I learned of the deaths of my father and brother. It is imperative I go now.”