by Regan Walker
“What will you do?”
“While I am here, I will investigate, ask questions. Someone is bound to talk.” He took her empty teacup from her hand and set it next to his own on a nearby bench. “Come, the sky is still blue and ’tis unusually warm. Let us speak of more pleasant things and enjoy the evening.”
Jean did not wish to speak of death, not with the beautiful vixen walking beside him. A soft and feminine woman with an inner strength he admired. With her, he wanted only to embrace life. Since that night in Lorient when he’d given in to temptation and kissed her, he had desperately wanted to do it again.
Not since Ariane had a woman reached inside him and taken hold of his heart like this one. Lady Joanna made him want things he thought never to have again. She made him want to love again. But what if he did, only to lose her? France was becoming more dangerous. With the attack on his family, perhaps England might be the best place for her.
He had only to look at her and his body responded with an overwhelming desire. But would she want him without marriage? Would such a woman, a lady of noble birth, give herself to him? That he even considered the possibility troubled him, for what would he do with her if she did? She hardly fit into his life, which, he reminded himself, grew more complicated by the day. Still, the thought tempted him as never before.
She walked ahead of him, the path narrowing between the tall hedges. The pink sash tied in a bow at the back of her small waist drew him like a banner. Her auburn hair fell in curls to her shoulders beneath her straw hat. He pictured it splayed out on his pillow.
“You should be leading me,” she said. “I am likely to get us lost.”
“I am only too happy to oblige,” he said. “If I remember correctly, there is a stone bench not far on.” Drawing up behind her, he inhaled her lovely floral scent and turned sideways to pass. She turned as well, toward him, bringing them face-to-face on the path.
She tilted her chin up and he gazed into her cognac-colored eyes. He had only to dip his head to bring their lips close. No longer fighting the desire welling up inside him, he brushed his lips across hers. “As you are destined ever to tempt me, Mademoiselle, I am destined always to succumb.”
She did not protest, but closed her eyes as their lips met. He reached his hands to her waist and she slid her palms up his arms.
Her lips soft and welcoming, she tasted of the plum she had eaten and the honey she had added to her tea. Intoxicated with her scent and her taste, he held her tightly, then kissed her deeply.
Drawn by the slender neck he had observed so often but had never dared touch, he left her lips to kiss the warm column. With a small moan, she tilted her head to expose the span of ivory skin to his lips.
When he slid his tongue over her ear, she melted into his body.
He did not release her until his mouth returned to hers and she had been thoroughly kissed. Finally, he raised his head.
Slowly, she opened her eyes.
He smiled. “’Tis a prelude to more if you want it, my lady.”
“I do,” she said in a husky whisper.
Taking a leap into an uncertain future, as he had done so many times in his life, he said, “I give you leave to change your mind. I do not forget you are a lady. But if you still feel the same when night falls and the household is asleep, come to my bedchamber. ’Tis the one next to yours. You do not need to knock. I will be waiting.”
Staring into his eyes, she slowly nodded.
“Oncle Jean!” came Zoé’s voice from somewhere close. “Where are you?”
He let go of Lady Joanna and moved beyond her. “Over here!” Then reaching for Lady Joanna’s hand, he pulled her along to the bench he had remembered. He invited her to sit while he stood. It seemed a more appropriate scene for his niece to come upon. He was glad his coat hid his body’s reaction to the exchange of kisses.
“There you are!” Zoé said. “I’d forgotten about this old bench. It’s quiet here.” His niece turned in a circle in the small space. “I should come here to read. I like to listen to the birds.” Then pointing to the white flowers, she said, “Oh, see? Old François has been tending the wood sorrel.”
“We have wood sorrel in Sussex,” offered Lady Joanna.
Her mention of the flower that grew near her home reminded Jean of her expectation to return. If he made her his, would she still want to leave? Could he let her go?
Joanna sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair and listening for the sounds of footsteps in the corridor. The candle on the small bedside table flickered in the breeze coming through the lace curtains that hung over her open window. Outside, the stars glistened in the midnight sky.
In the bedchamber next door, he waited.
Since their kiss in the garden, her ardor had calmed enough for her to carefully consider the choice he had offered her. There would be no turning back if she went to him.
If she declined his offer, she could return to England, untouched. One day, she might marry an Englishman, even a peer. But she had never believed that would be her fate. And there was the matter of her reputation, which might, even now, be in tatters.
Still, she was not running from that life as much as embracing another. Jean Donet had shown her there was another choice, another path.
She did not believe his invitation was due solely to a moment’s passion. A man who had loved only one woman and taken no mistress since her death would not casually invite a woman to his bed. She had glimpsed the desire, the amusement and the admiration in his eyes so many times, she knew his offer was based on something more.
To be with a man as free as the wind that filled the sails of his ship, as wild as the raging sea he had conquered and, at times, as fierce as a storm, that would be her fate if she accepted his invitation.
He was not like any other man she had known. He was a man she could love. Might already love. That he had not spoken to her of love or marriage did not surprise her. Given the torch he carried for his dead wife, he might never do so. But even if he never said the words, never asked for her hand, to be with him would be enough.
She had never known a man the way she would know him. To give herself to him was to risk her heart. A man of his experience would know that. But he had asked it of her, which told her he would not cast her aside once they were lovers. He would be faithful. That meant more to her than a loveless marriage that might await her in England.
Would she stay in France as his mistress if there were no marriage? She might, especially if she were to conceive a child. She remembered the way he had looked at the babe Jean Nicholas. One day, it could be her child he smiled at.
Her mind made up, dressed only in her chemise de nuit and green silk robe, she laid aside her brush and padded to the door. As she opened it, the light from her bedchamber flooded the corridor showing her which door was his. She listened for sounds and heard none.
Silently, she crept from her chamber, closing the door behind her, and walked to his door. With shaking hand, she opened it. The light from a single candle cast shadows on the massive four-poster hung with burgundy velvet curtains tied back at the posts.
The bed cover was rolled back and, in the center of the bed, Donet indolently reclined on white pillows, his tanned, muscled chest bare and a sheet pulled up to his waist. His black hair, threaded with silver, hung long to his shoulders.
His black eyes fixed on her. On his lips was a faint smile. Had he expected her not to come?
He spoke not a word, but his eyes followed her as she took tentative steps across the thick carpet. She knew instinctively he would not help her, would not reach for her.
This was a chasm she alone had to cross. He had extended the invitation; she must be the one to accept it.
Arriving at the edge of his bed, she let her robe slip to the carpet. Then, gathering her courage and keeping her eyes on him, she reached for the sheet.
He smiled and raised his hand to her face, cupping her cheek. His touch on her face was warm and calmed he
r fears a bit. Perhaps he knew she needed that. His expression told her he was pleased.
“Come,” he said at last, drawing her onto the bed.
She was glorious in her brave display, her dark red hair a waterfall over her skin, glowing like alabaster in the candlelight.
The vixen had come this far. He would do the rest. Soon, by her own choice, she would be his.
He pulled her into his arms. Only her thin chemise lay between them. Her beautiful breasts he remembered so well pressed into his chest, stirring his loins. He slid his palm over her rounded buttocks, firm beneath the silk, and stroked her back to calm her rapidly beating heart.
Burying his head in her neck, he inhaled deeply her floral scent.
She would be frightened of what lay ahead, but Lady Joanna had a brave heart. She had chosen this course and would not shrink from it. And he would show her he could be tender.
Holding her tightly to him, tying together their heated limbs, he kissed her with all the passion he felt, emotion and desire he had suppressed for so long.
She was everything he had thought she would be and more. Though as yet untutored in the ways of love, she showed her willingness to learn, reaching her hands to his nape and holding him to her.
“Let’s get rid of this,” he said, pulling up her chemise. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen you before. And I so want to see all of you again.”
She raised her arms and he lifted the thin chemise over her head.
Taking one rounded breast into his hand, he gently cupped the ripe mound, coaxing a moan from her throat. “You are just as I thought you would be, my lady, soft to the touch, sweet to the taste.”
“Joanna,” she whispered, grasping his shoulders.
“Joanna,” he returned, loving the sound of it on his lips, “you will be mine this night.”
“Yes…” she whispered.
“Trust me with this.”
She splayed her hand on his chest and ran her fingers through the black curls. “’Tis soft.”
He heard the nervous tenor in her voice, her touch that of a virgin’s first acquaintance with a man’s body. Yet she seemed to delight in learning it. “Beneath your skin I feel hard muscle.”
She had no idea.
Pulling back, she moved her fingers over his ribs and down his side. “There is a scar, more than one. Wounds from a sword, Sir Pirate?”
“And other pursuits,” he said with a chuckle. He placed her hand on his rigid flesh. “Your touch affects me, my lady.”
“Joanna,” she murmured and, with tentative strokes, moved her fingers gently over his hard length. Her delicate touch inflamed his desire for her.
“If you keep touching me like that ’twill soon be over. You have much to learn. Let me initiate you in the ways of lovemaking.”
Propping himself up on one elbow, he slid his hand down her belly, touching gingerly the scarred flesh. Then he pulled her to him and tenderly kissed and licked her breasts. The musky scent of her skin mixed with the floral smell was a heady mixture, making his blood pound in his veins.
She made small noises that told him her body was responding. He had been ready for her since she walked through his door. But he would be patient this night, allowing her fear to be consumed by her rising passion.
He held her close, keeping her warm as he slid his hand past the scarred flesh to the nest of red curls he had glimpsed when she lay wounded on his bed. He felt her shiver at his touch. “Open your legs for me.”
When she complied, he dipped his finger into her center, wet with honey he would taste before the night was through. Slowly, he circled the place that would bring her to her peak if he allowed it, but he had other plans. For her first time, he wanted to be inside her when the moment of ecstasy came.
She panted out her breaths, matching his own, and moved her hips against his hand. Her nails sank into his back, her body telling him she was ready. On her own, she let her knees fall to the side, making way for him.
He kissed her as he centered himself above her. With a single thrust, he was past the barrier and deep into her core.
She shuddered and tensed. He stilled, their tongues entwined as their bodies.
She was so close to her peak her muscles were already beginning to clench around him. He retreated, then advanced, coaxing her passion to its crest.
Their bodies grew slick against each other.
“Ah…” she moaned, raising her hips to meet him as he drove deep, her core pulsing around him.
The storm came upon him, violent in its power. He rode the crest of the wave until, with a groan, he gave into its depths.
Locked in her arms, he allowed himself to drift, feeling a fierce possessiveness for this woman. He did not sleep nor did he roll from her, but stayed inside her, kissing the damp, salty skin of her neck, prolonging their union as long as he could.
He was still hungry for her.
The sun had not yet risen when Joanna stirred in his arms, slowly coming awake. The candle had burned to a nub and the room was cast in shades of gray. She turned her face on the pillow to see him, feeling his warm breath on her face. Still asleep, his face was partly covered by his long black hair. She brushed an errant strand from his forehead and thought of their long night of love when her fingers had been tangled in those same locks.
A pang of guilt rose up to accuse her for what she had done. She was now one of the fallen. Yet she would not have missed Jean Donet for anything. What would he think of her now? He had known her as a smuggler, then a lady, but what was she to him now? Merely a conquest?
She had loved his body, his touch and their joining, surprised at how little pain there had been. She had no one to compare him to, of course, but she couldn’t imagine a more considerate lover. He had been tender, even romantic. She had felt… loved.
He had made her a woman, giving her a night she would never forget. In turn, she had given him her body and, she was quite sure, her heart. In the hours he had taught her about the physical side of love, she sensed his feelings, though unspoken, were there in his touch. Surely he felt more than mere lust. It was all very well to be desired, but even a mistress would want a man’s love.
She kissed his warm forehead and, carefully disentangling herself from his arms and legs, silently crawled from the bed. Quickly, she donned her chemise and robe. She did not want the servants to find them in “twisted sheets”, as he had once said.
No one was in the corridor as she slipped into her bedchamber and brushed the tangles from her hair.
When Gabrielle entered, along with the morning sun, Joanna called for a bath.
Soaking in the hot water, she wondered where this new path would take her and whether she would have any regrets.
Chapter 19
Jean left his chamber, slightly annoyed the vixen had deserted his bed without waking him for a last kiss or more. Images of her willowy body and beautiful breasts flitted through his mind. He had made her his, and he was almost certain she had reciprocated by claiming him.
At the foot of the stairs, Lefèvre waited wearing another shockingly bright suit. Before it had been bright orange; this one was the color of immature grapes. Jean tried not to cringe. Only his softhearted brother Henri could have retained such a one.
“Bonjour,” he said to the butler and strode into the small dining room where his family had always eaten their morning meal.
He thanked Sophie for the coffee she handed him and took his seat at the head of the table, adding the cream that made the drink café au lait.
Feeling sated from the night before, but bleary-eyed for lack of sleep, he drank half the cup before turning to the only other person at the table.
His niece sat watching his every move as she quietly ate her eggs and brioche and sipped her chocolate. “I always waited for Papa to drink his coffee before I spoke.”
“Wise child,” he muttered, turning his attention to his brioche and berries.
A tear rolled down her cheek. To speak of
her papa must be painful. Reaching across the corner of the table, he took her hand. “I know you miss your papa, Zoé. I miss him, too.” In truth, Jean had missed Henri for a very long time.
She nodded and wiped away the tear. “’Tis not so bad since you came, mon oncle. ’Tis almost like having him here again. He was in Paris much of the time before the accident. I was so happy to have him back.” She looked down at her plate. “I kept pretending he was away again on one of his trips, even though I knew he was gone and not coming back.”
Jean squeezed her hand. “Perhaps one day I will take you to England. Would you like that?”
“Oh, yes! When I grow up I want to travel on a ship like you!”
He laughed. “Well, maybe not exactly like me.” He popped some of the ripe strawberries into his mouth, thinking they tasted like Joanna.
He rather enjoyed his niece’s company. She reminded him of Claire at that age. He would gladly act as Zoé’s guardian. Holding his grandson Jean Nicholas and his lovemaking with Joanna raised the possibility of fathering another child. Until now, he had not considered it. What would he do if their lovemaking produced a child?
“What did you want to be when you were my age, Oncle Jean?”
Roused from his musings, he thought for a moment, remembering the long days of summer when he and Henri walked together among the vines, planning their lives. “I wanted to grow the best grapes in Saintonge and to make the finest cognac in all of France.” Winking at his niece, he added, “For a short time, I even entertained the possibility of becoming a violin virtuoso.”
She gave him a look of pity. “You didn’t get to do those things, did you?”
“Non. But sometimes, Zoé, when one dream dies, another is born. My new dream was to become a ship’s captain and master the sea. Eventually, I discovered I love the sea more than I do the land.”
“I cannot wait to sail on your ship!” she exclaimed.
