by Regan Walker
Her heart overflowed with love, watching him draw close. She blushed, remembering what he looked like when he wore nothing. She had touched his lean muscled body and knew its scars as well as her own. The words of his surgeon came back to her: He bears wounds only seen with the heart, and the scars that have formed over the years still pain him. Would she ever see those wounds, touch those deeper scars?
As he reached her, an easy smile crossed his face. “Here you are!” he exclaimed. “Lost among the flowers.”
“Did you come to pick flowers with us, mon oncle?” asked Zoé with a hopeful expression.
The look in his dark eyes told Joanna he hadn’t come to pick flowers. His purpose was more serious.
“Non.” He picked up one of his niece’s long curls, the color so like his own. “I must speak to Lady Joanna alone for a moment. Do you think you could carry the flowers back to Marguerite? I promise to join you shortly.”
“All right.” Zoé glanced at the two of them and reluctantly accepted the basket Joanna handed her. “But don’t be long. We are to have tea on the terrace.”
The girl skipped away, swinging her basket, the blue ribbons from her straw hat flying behind her in the breeze.
Donet watched her for a moment, then turned back to Joanna. “She is becoming quite attached to you.”
“I like her, too.” She was afraid to say more, afraid to confide her thought that she would love to be a sister to his niece, even a mother if the girl would allow it. “What is it you wish to discuss with me?”
He took her hand and led her to one side of the field where a copse of oak trees provided shelter from the sun and, she thought, from prying eyes.
“I have been summoned to Paris by the king. We are leaving Saintonge tomorrow.” At her raised brows, he added, “’Tis probably only the usual requirement for one new to a title to pay homage to his sovereign.”
“Oh.” She looked down at the ground, remembering Richard had done the same when he became the Earl of Torrington. She had a sinking feeling her time in France, her time with him, was about to end.
His thumb rubbed the top of her hand, making sensual circles over her skin. She grew warm at his nearness, at the memory of their night together. At the desire that flooded her senses.
“I know you have wanted to return to England,” he began in his French-accented voice, “but I would prefer you go with me to Paris.”
Go with him to Paris? She looked up, losing herself for a moment in his obsidian eyes. “As what, M’sieur?”
He pulled her close, their bodies touching. His lips were so close. Their eyes met and neither looked away. “As my guest, if you like. More, if you would have it. I have made a few changes on my sloop so that you will have your own cabin. In Paris, you would have your own rooms, though I would welcome you in mine.”
His gaze remained intense, his eyes so dark and heated she could fall into their depths. “I would like to see Paris.”
He touched her cheek with his fingers. She shivered at his touch, at the prospect of staying with him.
His hands went to her waist and he bent his head to brush his lips over hers, once, twice. “I want you in my bed, Joanna.” He kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth, possessing, plundering. Like a pirate claiming his gold.
She gave in to the wanting of him, raising her hands to his nape, and welcomed the kiss. Her breasts pressed against his hard chest and she felt her body yearning to be joined with his again. She had never realized a woman could feel such hunger for a man.
When he broke the kiss, she opened her eyes, feeling slightly dazed. His kisses always left her witless.
He touched his forehead to hers. “Will you go?”
“You knew I would say ‘yes’, didn’t you?”
“I had hoped. I don’t wish to go without you, and I must take Zoé for her safety. She would want you to go, too.” Joanna did not tell him that if Zoé had her way, they would be wed. Her instincts told her doing so might frighten him away.
He took her hand and they walked back to the château. “I have ordered gowns for you for Paris. You will need them for Versailles.”
“Versailles. I thought never to see it.”
“Now you will,” he said, squeezing her hand.
She glanced at him, unsure how to broach the next subject. “Before you leave Saintonge, I wanted to ask you about your tenants and the workers in the vineyards.”
“Yes?”
“The cottages I saw on our way to Saint Jean d’Angély were miserable heaps of mud, without even windows. Is that where your workers and tenants live?”
“It might be. I’d have to ask Giroud. It has been many years since I lived here, you may recall. At that time, they lived close.”
“Is there nothing you can do for them? The children looked so miserably poor.”
“I see you are still the lady who smuggles French goods into Sussex to feed the English poor. And now you would have me taking on the woes of the French.”
Her forehead creased with concern. “The children were barefoot and in rags. As the women watched our carriage, some looked angry. I couldn’t blame them. You have spoken of the egregious taxes they pay. If the comte de Saintonge is wealthy, might you pay them? Or give them new cottages?”
He took a deep breath and let it out, as if to think. Finally, he said, “I can and because you ask, I will. M’sieur Giroud can be put to the task of reducing the rents they pay. And we can increase their wages. ’Twill be the same result in the end. I do not wish to become one of those aristocrats who expects to be carried on the backs of the poor.”
“Thank you,” she said. “It means much to me that you would do something for them.”
He brought her hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to her skin. “I do it for you, Joanna.”
Her emotions were mixed as they returned to the château. Already, her awkward position was making her feel uncomfortable. A female “guest” traveling with an unmarried aristocrat would be thought his mistress. And if she returned to his bed that is precisely what she would be. Here on his estate, she did not worry for her reputation, but how would they treat her in Paris?
Early the next morning, the carriage loaded, Jean said his goodbyes to the servants lined up in front of the château. The parting was vastly different from his stormy exit a score of years before when they had stared openmouthed at the shouting match between him and his father.
Tears flowed down Marguerite’s cheeks as she hugged his niece to her bosom. Zoé, too excited to be sad, told her not to worry. The girl’s only thought was for what lay ahead, sailing on his ship and seeing Paris for the first time.
He had spoken with Giroud about doing something to lighten the burden on his tenants. With the money from the stored casks they would sell, the estate would be flush with coin. Jean did not need to dip into his own considerable wealth to help his tenants, though he would have done so if need be to make Joanna happy.
The estate manager seemed relieved to hear of his plans. “Take care, M’sieur. I will send word should I hear of anything.” Jean nodded, knowing he referred to the murders and the carriage attack.
When Marguerite finally let go of Zoé, Émile gave the housekeeper a kiss on both cheeks.
Marguerite blushed.
“I’m in yer debt for sewing up the gash in my shoulder.”
“’Twas nothing, Monsieur.”
When all the goodbyes were said, they climbed into the carriage. The new driver was one of his footmen, pressed into service as his coachman. Inside, Joanna and Zoé took the forward-facing seat while Émile and Gabrielle took the other.
His quartermaster had wanted to ride on top with the driver, now armed, but Jean would not hear of it. With both his pistols poised and ready, he took Émile’s place, climbing on top and ordering the driver to depart.
As the carriage hurtled down the road, Jean scanned the long rows of vines and the ripening grapes, wondering when he might return. It would not be soon. Perh
aps in winter when the grapes were harvested.
Since Joanna and Zoé were with him, he had all he wanted from Saintonge.
Chapter 21
Lorient, France
It took Jean and his crew a day to sail from La Rochelle to Lorient. They arrived midday to find his three-masted sloop waiting for him.
The figurehead on the prow, a woman in a flowing gown, had a new coat of paint on her long hair, rendering it the color of a red fox. On the stern, the new name, la Renarde, in gold script spoke of the auburn-haired beauty for whom it was named.
The ship’s rigging had been changed to square sails for the Channel instead of fore and aft for the Atlantic crossing. And some cargo space had been sacrificed to add two more cabins and a temporary bulkhead separating the stern cabins from his crew’s quarters in the forecastle.
He’d had his cat, Franklin, transferred from la Reine Noire to the sloop, but given the way he followed Joanna about, the cat might have managed the transfer on his own.
Jean escorted Joanna, Zoé and Gabrielle up the gangplank to the deck of the sloop where his cabin boy waited. “Gabe can show you to your cabins. Instead of crowding into mine, you will have two, smaller but yours alone. I suggest you take one of them, Lady Joanna, and your maid and my niece the other, but if you prefer a different arrangement, that is fine.”
Joanna met his gaze. She had to know there was a purpose in the new arrangement that was different from that on la Reine Noire. Hoping the vixen would join him, he’d also had a larger shelf bed installed in the captain’s cabin. Since they had left Saintonge, he’d not had a moment alone with her and the thought of their being together brought his body alive.
“How long will it take to get to Le Havre?” asked Zoé, her gray eyes alight with interest as she watched the crew making ready to set sail. His niece had enjoyed their journey north and never once became seasick even though they’d had rough seas for part of the time.
“A day and a half with favorable winds. We will sail tomorrow with the evening tide and should arrive in Le Havre in time for supper the next day. Then on to Paris.”
Then to Joanna, “While there is still time today, you must visit Madame Provot. She has some new gowns for you and my niece.”
Zoé beamed her happiness and followed Joanna and her maid as they went below.
He shouted after them, “M’sieur Bequel will take you to Madame Provot’s and return you to the ship for supper!”
Madame Provot welcomed Joanna and Zoé as they entered her shop, ushering them into the inner room where her assistants bustled around, hanging gowns on the pegs. These gowns were more ornate, more elaborately decorated than the other ones the modiste had made for Joanna.
“Capitaine Donet was most specific in his instructions,” she said as she fidgeted with the gowns. “As if I do not know what is required for Paris. I was trained there!”
Flavie helped Joanna to undress and Madame Provot slipped a gown over her head. Another assistant was helping Zoé who appeared delighted to be receiving the attention paid a young woman.
“I am sorry to be so much trouble,” said Joanna in an effort to soothe the modiste’s temper.
“You are no trouble but the capitaine, impatient as always, insists on haste. How am I to create a masterpiece in haste?”
Joanna smiled encouragingly at the petite woman. “Oh, but you have.”
Madame Provot laced her tight, more from her mood than Joanna’s need. At least her wound no longer pained her. The gown’s ivory silk, embroidered with flowers, was beautiful.
“The gown is lovely,” Joanna remarked.
In a calmer voice than before, the modiste said, “Oui, the capitaine has excellent taste. And with you, Mademoiselle, he is most particular.”
Joanna wasn’t certain how to take that. Was it for his own sake and the reception she might receive at the French Court that he cared so much about her gowns? Or, did his feelings run deeper?
They were with the modiste for some time before she and Zoé dressed and returned to the antechamber where M’sieur Bequel waited, no more patiently than had his captain.
“Ye are done?” he inquired, his heavy brows raised in hope.
The modiste answered for Joanna. “Oui, nous avons terminé. The gowns shall be delivered to the ship tomorrow afternoon.”
“Bien, but do not be late, Madame. Tomorrow, we sail on the evening tide.”
Jean had invited Joanna and Zoé to dine with him and Émile in his cabin. Gabe left with Joanna’s maid to escort her to the galley where they would eat together as they had the night before. When they’d gone, Joanna asked, “Will Gabrielle be all right with your men?”
“No one will bother her in the galley,” he replied. “My crew knows she is your maid and you are my guest.” He gave her a look meant to convey he had communicated to his men she belonged to him. “Definitely out of bounds.”
While his niece conversed with Émile, the two having become fast friends, Jean handed Joanna a glass of sherry and picked up his brandy, beckoning her to join him at the stern windows. From here, they could glimpse the lights on shore from the taverns and hillside homes.
“Did you enjoy your time with Madame Provot?”
“’Tis much easier to be fitted for breeches,” she said, a mischievous grin lighting her face. “And you might want to know that Madame Provot would appreciate having more time for her creations.”
He laughed. “Ah, oui. She has made her feelings known before.”
Some of his men entered, carrying trays with their supper. He and Joanna joined the others at the table.
The meal was simple by a nobleman’s standards but elaborate for seafaring men. For all the time he spent on his ships, Jean insisted on decent food. Perhaps it was the memory of those first years with Ariane when he’d been poor and their food was often a simple fish stew. Ariane never complained and he had loved her all the more for it. Once he had been able to afford better fare and a cook, he made sure his small family ate well.
Jean liked his food French and cooked with skill. The white fish served them tonight, cooked in wine and butter with fennel, was among his favorites.
“In France, it’s called ‘le loup’,” Zoé explained to Joanna, showing her pride at knowing something an English earl’s sister might not.
Joanna screwed up her face. “The wolf?”
“’Tis an aggressive fish,” teased Émile in serious fashion.
They all laughed at Joanna’s reaction, looking at them askance as if she did not believe his quartermaster.
“But it is an aggressive fish,” Jean insisted.
In addition to the fish, they also had fowl wings en hâtelets, cooked on skewers, cauliflower with Parmesan and a salad. He made sure all his ships carried fine Bordeaux wine as well as cognac, which they drank this evening.
He watched Joanna sip the dark red wine, her cheeks flushed and her laughter ringing out at Zoé’s chatter. He loved watching the candlelight flicker across her face and causing the copper strands in her auburn hair to glisten. She was a woman any man would be proud of.
It frightened him to think he could lose her to England, or worse, to illness or some attack by brigands. He was beginning to think it mattered not if she were mistress or wife. The pain of losing her would be just as great. Hadn’t Louis XV mourned the death of his mistress, Madame de Pompadour? Jean had refused to consider marrying again, thinking he could protect his heart from the pain of loss and avoid the plunge into darkness that had followed Ariane’s death. Now, he had to wonder if it were even possible to protect his heart from Joanna.
Paris became the topic of their conversation since neither Joanna nor Zoé had been there. His niece asked Joanna her opinion about the gowns Madame Provot had made for them. Joanna expressed her pleasure at the vermilion silk robe à la française. “I shall save it for something special. And the gown with the green satin underskirt is lovely.”
It should not have surprised him that his niece loo
ked to Joanna for a woman’s advice. Zoé needed more than a father; she needed a mother. He had raised Claire alone with the help of the Ursuline Sisters of Saint-Denis. But even they could not take the place of a mother.
At the end of the meal, they climbed to the weather deck to enjoy the balmy evening. Franklin, who’d likely been hunting for his own dinner, sauntered up to Joanna and rubbed against the foot of her gown, his long black tail raised high. Holding on to the rail, she reached down to scratch his ears. “Funny cat,” she said to the animal.
Jean came up behind her and whispered in her ear, “You have claimed my cat, Mademoiselle.”
She laughed. “So I have. Do you mind terribly?” She looked at him in all innocence.
“Not as long as I have you both,” he teased.
A short distance away, Zoé tagged after Émile as he inspected the deck. Though rough in appearance and voice, his quartermaster showed great patience with the child, just as he had with Claire at that same age. It made Jean wonder why Émile had never married. He had nieces and nephews he cared for—his brother’s children—but none of his own.
“Those are deck prisms, little one,” Émile explained to Zoé when she asked about the glass set into the weather deck. “They bring light into the deck below but without allowing water to leak downward. The glass is flat here, but the prism hangs below the overhead and sends the light sideways. A very clever invention.”
“Most clever,” said Zoé, staring down at the glass under her feet.
“Your niece has an intelligent and curious mind,” said Joanna.
He slowly let out a breath. “She does, and I must decide what to do with her.” He turned to gaze over the rail at the sun, now lower in the sky and reflecting off the blue waters. “Should I send her to the Sisters of Saint-Denis for her education? Or should I keep her with me? My life is not exactly one in which a child, particularly a girl, fits easily.”
Joanna turned to place her palms on the rail’s brightwork. “Given all she has suffered and her great attachment to you, I would keep her with you. She needn’t go on all your voyages, but when you come home, she would be there.”
