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She raised her head and glanced at d’Artois.
“Very well.” Artois brushed his coat sleeve as if removing dust. “If that is how you feel. However, the invitation shall remain open, Lady Joanna, should you change your mind.”
She was tempted to spit at the arrogant prince but, reminded he was the king’s brother and a favorite of the queen, she glared. “Never!”
“Ah, the lady’s spirit draws me,” said d’Artois.
Donet clenched his jaw and returned his sword to its sheath, never taking his eyes off d’Artois as he led her away.
Jean held Joanna as the carriage made its way back to Paris. She had fallen asleep, presumably from the champagne, the excitement at fighting off d’Artois’ ravishment and the long ride. If any man, save the king’s brother, had tried to force her, Jean would have happily run him through.
He gazed down at her, nestled against him like a bird with a broken wing. Her wounded spirit called to his better nature. He was certain now that he had one. For many years, he had thought it gone forever.
The years following Ariane’s death had been bleak, lost to the drunken haze in which he had existed. He’d been reckless in his adventuring then, risking his life as a pirate, uncaring if he survived. Hoping he would not. Bouchet had patched him up many times, testing the miracle working power of the good surgeon. What finally brought him back to life was his friend Émile, sent by the crew to see if he could pull their capitaine back from Hell’s door.
Once out of the stupor, Jean had resumed his life as a privateer. He remembered well those exciting days, seizing ships for bounty. Before he gained his letter of marque, he preyed on merchantmen with allegiances other than France. His prizes had gained him much wealth.
With the American War, his fortunes had turned. His battles on the Channel and his spying became legitimate efforts to win America her freedom and weaken the British threat to France. He’d accepted the praise that came after, knowing his men were proud of their service.
But now, because of this English vixen, he wanted more. He could not imagine his world without her. And letting her go or watching her live with a shame she could not accept were not acceptable. She had the right of it. She was not a very good mistress—because she was a lady born.
The remedy was clearly before him. He must make her his wife. He could no longer deny the truth. He loved her. Hadn’t he known it when he’d first invited her to his bed? Like an echo in the wind, love had come to him a second time and he was more than grateful it had. It meant risking again the loss of the woman he loved, but there was no help for it. He could not live without her.
Would she marry a Frenchman? A Catholic? He would not give her a choice. She would simply accept his decision. He would remain in Paris only to see them wed and dispose of the ones who threatened his very existence.
Joanna woke as the carriage entered Paris, rolling over the cobblestone streets. She regretted that she had not been able to say goodbye to the queen, but Donet had insisted, telling her he would send the queen a note saying they would be available should their presence be required again.
“You’re awake. Parfait. I have something to say to you.”
Joanna feared what might come. With his recent indifference and the embarrassing episode with the comte d’Artois, perhaps Donet would be returning her to England when he sailed. She sat up and faced him, ready for the blow that was coming.
“You will become my wife.”
Shocked, Joanna blurted out, “Your wife? Why?”
He shrugged. “I have decided it must be.”
“Am I to take this as a proposal?”
“More like a demand,” he said without humor.
“Because of what happened with d’Artois? I am sorry I was not more careful.” She did feel guilty for not paying proper attention to his warning.
“Non. It is merely something I have come to.”
“But you don’t want to marry! You have never before mentioned it.”
“I have changed my mind.”
Joanna wondered at this sudden change, from indifference to a desire to marry, with no mention of love. “I will think on it,” she said shortly.
“Do not think overlong, Joanna.”
She stared out the window as they crossed Paris. All she had wanted was to be his wife, but his jealousy and abrupt demand for her to become his wife seemed insincere.
“By the way,” she said, “I have seen enough of the streets of Paris to know they compete well with London for mud, filth and sludge.”
“Oui, peut-être.” His manner was curt. She could see he would not give her an inch in which to move. She needed some insight into what had happened to bring about this change. As she thought on it, she knew just the one to ask. His closest friend, the man who was ever at his side.
