by Regan Walker
“True. She could live in Lorient or even Saintonge.”
“Must you sail so much?”
He jerked his head around to catch the serious look on her face. Whatever her thoughts, she cared deeply about his answer. Was she asking for Zoé or for herself? “Non. I have men to manage my affairs and worthy seamen to sail my ships. ’Tis just that I love the sea. But now I have more to be concerned with: the estate in Saintonge, my ships in Lorient, the king’s demands—which will no doubt take me more often to Paris—and you.”
“Me? Do you think to find room for me in all of that?”
He chuckled, lifting one of her curls from her shoulder and rubbing it between his fingers. “I do not worry about you, Joanna, at least not about finding room for you in my life.” He did not think he could live without her.
She pressed her lips together as if holding back words she wanted to speak.
“Come to me tonight,” he whispered in her ear. “I will send Gabe away as soon as I return to my cabin.”
She did not reply but continued to stare out to sea.
Would she come?
Alone in her small cabin, Joanna watched the flame flicker in the lantern, thinking about the last few days and the comte. He had teased her about his cat becoming hers. She had wondered, at the time, if he meant what he said about not minding as long as he could have both the cat and her.
If she returned to England, the cat might mourn her loss, but would he? How did she fit into his life? He had said he did not worry about including her. Did that mean he was confident she would stay with him? Follow him around like the cat followed her? Ironically, just when she’d found a man she wanted, he seemed in no hurry to make their relationship more than it was. Perhaps the lusty comte considered her a mere convenience, a woman to be enjoyed for a time and then cast aside.
She had grown close to his niece, tucking her in each night and hearing her prayers. It would be hard on both of them if Joanna were to return to England.
She wished she had her friend Cornelia to talk to. She had left her home in America to marry a British nobleman and remained by his side even when England declared war with her country. Of all women, surely Cornelia would understand Joanna’s love for a Frenchman. And she would understand Joanna’s choice of Donet, who Cornelia once described as a hero decorated by both America and France. But would she agree with Joanna’s decision to become Donet’s mistress?
Running her brush through her hair, she felt suspended between the inner voice that told her to stay in her cabin and her longing to go to his. Would she go to him tonight? Donet’s arrangement of the cabins provided a way for her to go to his cabin without others knowing. Surely he had planned it just for that reason.
She had gone to him once. How much easier to go to him now when she knew the passion that awaited her? Perhaps, that is how a woman raised to be a lady became a man’s mistress. The first time would be difficult, even a bit frightening. But the remembered passion would make the next time easier. After all, such a woman would already be ruined in the eyes of all. Once compromised, the path ahead would be clear. And if she loved the man, she would willingly go to him.
As if a tether connected them, she felt the pull of his dark beauty, his man’s body, lithe and muscled. She wanted to be with him, had longed for his touch. And she wanted to feel him moving against her, kissing her, making love to her.
They had not come together since that night in Saintonge, but she had glimpsed the desire in his eyes. Perhaps others had seen it, too. She was certain Gabrielle had guessed what lay between them after she had glimpsed Joanna’s bed, turned down but unused.
Having made up her mind, Joanna realized she would have to move as silently as the cat curled up on her bed so as not to draw the attention of one of his crew or her maid.
What did one wear to a tryst aboard a ship? She still had on her gown of cinnamon patterned cotton with a bit of lace around the bodice. Perhaps she should not change into her nighttime attire. He would only remove it anyway. Better to be discovered wearing a gown than a chemise and a robe.
Heart racing, she quietly slipped into the passageway and took the few steps to his cabin. She didn’t knock but slowly opened the cabin door, careful to make no sound as she entered.
He stood with his back to her, staring out the windows at the moonlight dancing on the waters. His midnight hair hung loose over his black velvet robe. When he turned, she saw beneath it he wore a white shirt, open at the neck, and black breeches. He was barefoot.
“You came,” he said in his richly accented voice.
“Did you know I would?” Sometimes she hated that he read her so well.
“One can never be certain with a vixen.” He walked to the pedestal table in the center of the cabin. “Would you like something to drink?”
She shook her head. “La Renarde… the name on the ship?”
He lifted the crystal decanter from the fenced tray and poured himself a brandy. “Oui, ’tis named for you, Joanna. I trust it meets with your approval?”
“’Tis embarrassing,” she scolded, twisting her hands at her waist. “What will people think?”
He took a drink and set the glass down, coming closer. Lifting her hand to his mouth, he placed a warm kiss on her knuckles. Behind him, the light of the lantern cast his face in shadows. “My crew, no doubt, wonders at your continued presence. If they make the connection between the ship’s new name and the red-haired beauty who travels with me, they will only smile at the change in their capitaine. But no one will speak a word of it.”
Raised to be a proper lady, Joanna was feeling uncomfortable in her new role as his mistress. She had thought she could go along with it being as she was in France, away from her family and those who knew her well, but her mind was plagued with second thoughts.
He pulled her into his arms and kissed her. Like a brimstone match set to dry timber, she caught fire, opening her mouth to him, drinking deeply of his brandy-tinged kiss.
Her second thoughts flew away.
She raised her arms to his shoulders, threaded her fingers through his long hair and returned his kiss with all the love she possessed. His mouth blazed a trail of heated kisses down the side of her throat to the tender place at the base of her neck. “Jean,” she rasped as an ache grew between her thighs.
He raised his head. “You have never spoken my Christian name before.”
She lifted her eyes to his. “Would you prefer I call you Donet? I often think of you by that name. But it seems rather formal given where we are and what we are doing.”
He chuckled. “I like that you call me Jean when we are alone. No one else does.” He pressed his warm lips to her forehead and captured one breast in his hand, his rough palm sending shivers up her spine and causing her nipple to harden. “Let me undress you. I want to feel your skin next to mine. I want to touch your soft rounded places.”
Swiftly, he rid her of her gown, petticoats and stays and then shed his robe and breeches. He backed her to the bed and they tumbled onto the blue cover.
He gazed into her eyes. “Do you like my new bed?”
“’Tis nearly the size of the one in Saintonge.” She nuzzled his stubbled cheek and inhaled his scent that always reminded her of the sea. “Did you have us in mind?”
“How did you guess?” In a swift movement that spoke his impatience, he lifted her chemise to her waist and then above her head. “I only left this strip of silk for your modesty. I can see ’twas a mistake.”
She slipped her hands free of the chemise and tugged up his shirt. She wanted nothing between them. He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it to the floor. Then he set about kissing her mouth, her breasts, her belly, all the while moving his hands over her.
Her skin burned with heat under his deft touch.
“You’re like satin, Joanna, softer than a baby’s skin. And so warm. You are not afraid this time, are you?”
“No, not afraid.” She was hungry for him. She opened
her thighs to welcome him and he slipped his hands beneath her thighs, lifting them, separating them to rub his hard flesh against her womb, wet from want of him. “Now, Jean, oh now.”
He eased himself into her, filling her. “Joanna,” he murmured against her neck. “You are like silk inside.”
It felt glorious to be one with him again. She gripped his shoulders and raised her hips to meet his slow thrusts, panting out her breath as their bodies grew slick moving together.
With every thrust, his furred chest met her breasts, the sensation lifting her higher and higher.
The first tremor came, causing her to try and hold him inside her. He wouldn’t allow it, becoming fierce as he took her. The tremors increased, becoming a spasm of intense pleasure, sending her into a sublime ecstasy.
As Donet neared the end, he shook with the violence of his passion. His heart pounded so hard, she could feel it against her chest.
Breathing heavy, he sank against her, his mouth against her neck. “Joanna,” he whispered, “making love to you is like riding a storm to a haven I never want to leave.”
What could she say to that? Like a storm, he had taken over her life. So she spoke the words in her heart in the way she knew best, kissing him and holding him as his heart calmed, loving the feel of him still inside her. Loving the man who had taken her.
Beyond all else, she wanted Jean Donet for her own.
Jean came awake to Joanna’s soft breathing against his neck. They lay entwined, one of her legs captured between his and her breasts softly pressing into his chest. He savored the moment, for he knew it would soon end.
Dawn crept into his cabin as the ship’s bell sounded the beginning of the morning watch. Soon there would be many feet scurrying to and from the weather deck. He’d wait till they quieted before scouting the passageway to let her slip back into her cabin. He had time to make love to her one last time.
He pulled his head back on the pillow to look at her. Auburn hair cascaded over her ivory shoulder. Her hand, flat on his chest, was the color of fresh cream on his olive skin.
Unable to resist her, he had taken her innocence. Yet he believed she had more of him than he had intended to give.
In sleep, she appeared very young. Was he too old for her? Perhaps she should have a younger man, someone closer to her own age. And yet the thought of another man having her was unthinkable. When it came to Joanna, his thoughts were all selfish. She would belong to no one but him.
He kissed the top of her head. When she titled her head up, eyes still closed, he pressed a kiss to her lips and drew her into his arms, letting her feel how she affected him.
“You’re awake,” she muttered, drowsy but stirring.
“I am, sleepyhead. And I want you.”
She opened her eyes, mischief in their cognac depths. “Who am I to deny a pirate?”
He chuckled. “Wise woman.”
Exhausted from the night before, Joanna went back to her cabin and promptly fell asleep. By the time she awoke, it was late morning. After she’d washed, Gabrielle helped her to dress in the green day gown.
She enjoyed a late breakfast with Zoé, who had been up for hours. After breakfast, the two of them climbed the companionway to the main deck, bustling with activity. The air was cool and the sky blue and clear, making her glad for her straw hat, but she had no need for a cloak. Donet was huddled with his quartermaster in the prow. Not wishing to disturb him, she went to the rail and Zoé followed.
In the harbor, gulls shrieked, vying for scraps. Men shouted to each other as they loaded ships tied up at the quay.
He had said they would sail tonight for Le Havre. The first time he had kissed her it had been on the terrace of his home here in Lorient. She couldn’t help but wonder if she would ever return. After Paris, would he sail to England to keep his promise to take her home? It was what she had wanted, after all.
Chapter 22
Le Havre
The ship arrived at Le Havre the next afternoon. Joanna and Zoé were on deck to glimpse the harbor bustling with activity.
“Does it remind you of London?” said a familiar voice as Donet came up behind them. Joanna turned to see him in his familiar black coat, white shirt with lace at his throat and black breeches tucked into polished boots. On his head was a fancier tricorne than the one he’d worn that first night in Bognor.
Zoé grinned up at him. “Bonjour, mon oncle.”
He mussed her hair. “Where’s your hat, ma petite?”
“In my cabin,” she said and dashed away to where M’sieur Bequel stood near the helm.
Joanna met Donet’s gaze, her body thrumming with his nearness. She had slept alone in her cabin last night and missed him. He had not asked her to come.
She wanted to lean back against his chest and savor his familiar scent, but to do so would announce to all their intimate relationship. Even a wife might not do so. Instead, she grasped the rail with both hands and faced the harbor, letting the wood anchor her to the deck.
“No, it doesn’t remind me of London,” she said. “There are many ships, of course, but the buildings are much taller than the warehouses on the Thames. Some are five stories high. Many look like homes.”
“Le Havre has become a favored place for the aristocracy to build homes. When Louis XV’s mistress, Madame de Pompadour, wanted to visit the sea, he brought her here.”
“But that must have been long ago. Yet you remember her?”
“All of France remembers her, my lady. She was well educated, smart and gave the king wise advice, even in foreign affairs. She was only three and forty when she died, the year I left Saintonge. I still remember it. Even Voltaire mourned her death.”
Joanna didn’t know how she felt about Donet admiring a king’s mistress, but perhaps that contributed to his being content with her own status. The French would likely think little of a nobleman taking a mistress.
Zoé and M’sieur Bequel came to join them at the rail. The girl motioned to a distant point in the harbor and asked the quartermaster, “What is that round fortress over there with the building on top?”
Joanna remarked to Donet, “You’d never see that on London’s quay. It looks positively medieval.”
“Nearly so.” He stepped to the rail. His arm touched hers, lighting a fire in her breast. “That’s la citadelle du Havre de Grâce. It has guarded the harbor since the sixteenth century.”
“’Tis very old, little one,” M’sieur Bequel explained to Zoé.
“London’s port is on the Thames,” said Joanna, thinking of another difference, “while Le Havre is a seaport, open to the Channel.”
“I can see you are in fine form today,” said Donet. “’Tis true that London’s port has its differences, but Le Havre lies at the mouth of the Seine, the river that runs through Paris.”
“Paris!” piped up Zoé, who was petting the black cat that had slinked up to them. “When will we be there, Oncle Jean?”
“If we leave today, our carriage should get us there by tomorrow evening.”
Zoé beamed her happiness. “Will I get to see Versailles?”
“There aren’t many children at Versailles, ma petite, but you will see Notre Dame and all of Paris. My townhouse is well situated. Perhaps M’sieur Bequel can take you and Lady Joanna for a day’s trip around the city.”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Zoé.
“A day in Paris would be a welcome change,” said the quartermaster. “We might even see more of those air balloons floating over the Tuileries.”
“I would like to see them,” said Zoé excitedly, her eyes full of wonder.
One of Donet’s crew stepped forward and thrust a paper into his hand. “Capitaine, this was waiting for you. ’Tis from our contact in London.”
Joanna hoped it might be a letter from Freddie, but he would have sent his letter to Lorient. Sadly, no reply from him waited for her when they had arrived there. At the moment, Freddie would have no idea where she was.
Donet read t
he message and looked up at her, a smile forming on his face. “What?” she asked. He took her elbow and led her a short distance away, leaving M’sieur Bequel with Zoé and the cat.
On the quay, a fishmonger cried of his fresh catch as gulls circled above him.
“It appears your Prime Minister Pitt has taken action to end smuggling as he said he would. He has slashed the duty on tea and spirits.”
So they had done it. “The night of the concert in the Pantheon,” she told Donet, “I heard my brother and Lord Danvers speak of a bill Pitt had just proposed. But there are other goods. The smuggling will continue.”
“Not for you, Joanna. I won’t let you risk yourself again like that. Besides, ’tis unseemly for an earl’s sister.”
Laughter erupted from her throat. “This from the smuggler himself?”
He frowned. “That is different. You are a woman.”
She gave him an exasperated look.
“What’s more,” he said, rather sternly she thought, “you are not just any woman.” His voice had been low, only a whisper. “I will not have it.”
Joanna was tempted to stomp off in a fit of pique but the look on his face spoke of concern, not a disdain of women.
“Very well,” she said. “I will find some other way to help the poor in Chichester. But if I am to give up free trade, then you, too, must cease smuggling.”
The look on his face was one of incredulity. This time, she did turn and stride off, pleased with herself at the condition she would exact for her compliance.
Paris
As the carriage drove through the arched porte-cochère of his townhouse in Paris, Jean looked up to admire the fawn-colored stone, tall paned glass windows and scrolling wrought iron balconies.
He had acquired the three-story home two years before when he’d thought he would be coming to Paris more often to see his daughter. Her marriage to the English captain made that unnecessary but, now that he had acquired the Saintonge title, Jean supposed it would be convenient to keep a pied-à-terre in the city.
