Page 104

“To me and his crew, he is. And I daresay to ye, as well.”

The light in the study was dim, giving her hope Bequel could not see her flush at the truth of his words. “But why was he indifferent to me before this demand we marry? I fear he will regret his hasty decision.”

The quartermaster let out a huff. “Peut-être only I have seen it. The capitaine has been like a wild animal caught in a trap, fighting to be free, thinking he should drive ye away but hoping ye’d not go. He thinks ye young and he fears loving again.”

“He is afraid? But that is absurd.”

“It only seems so to ye, my lady. There is one thing the capitaine fears more than war, more than another man’s sword, even more than a storm threatening his ship: a bond of love that can be severed by death.”

“Because of Ariane.”

The quartermaster folded his arms over his broad chest. “I saw it when the English captain abducted his daughter, Claire. And sometimes, I see it when he looks at ye.”

Joanna let out a sigh. It was so hard to believe Jean Donet feared anything at all.

Bequel continued. “The capitaine loves in a way few men do. When Ariane died, it nearly destroyed him. His recent indifference, as ye call it, is only the death throes of a losing fight.”

She recalled the words of the surgeon in Lorient… the scars that have formed over the years still pain him. “He loves me?”

“Oui. And he knows it. I have been with him a long time, Mademoiselle. I know him well. There have been few women since Ariane and only the kind who satisfy a man’s baser needs. None of them affected him like ye. At two score, he has lived much, but his soul is much older than his years.”

“What must I do?”

“Challenge him with something he cannot accept and ye will see his true heart.”

Joanna pondered what Donet might consider a challenge as applied to her. An idea came to her. If he truly loved her, he would not want her to go on as his mistress, would he?

It was late afternoon when she found Donet in his bedchamber, donning a fresh coat. “I have thought about your demand we marry,” she said, standing very straight as she made her announcement. “I know you do not really wish to marry. You have only spoken of it now because of d’Artois.” She did not look at him as she spoke these next words but kept her eyes on the carpet. “I have decided to remain your mistress.” Pressing her point, she added, “I shall content myself to live in sin.”

She looked up and encountered his piercing look, the same look he must give men who defied him. It would have frightened her to death had she not understood him as well as she did.

He stalked toward her and took her arms in a vise-like grip. “No woman of mine will live in sin, Mademoiselle! Do you understand?”

She might have pointed out that she had been doing precisely that, but realization suddenly dawned. “What makes you think I am your woman?”

“This.” His mouth came down on hers in a crushing kiss as he wrapped one arm around her waist and used the other to hold the back of her head. She did not resist, but reveled in his fierce reaction, for it did not just say she was his, but he was hers.

He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. His black eyes flinty with shards of silver, he threw her down on the cover and shrugged out of his jacket. With his gaze fixed on her, he began to unbutton his waistcoat. “Before I am finished,” he snarled, “you will know whose woman you are, Joanna, and whose wife you will be.”

She laid her head on the pillow, her eyes following his every move. Her heart pounded in her chest as he slowly shed the rest of his clothes. When he was naked, he came to the edge of the bed and loomed over her, his beautiful scarred body stark before her.

“It shall be as you wish,” she said as meekly as she could manage with outrageous joy filling her heart.

Now that Jean had made love to Joanna in a way that left her in no doubt that she was his woman, his mind spun with plans. She lay complaisant in his arms, but her fingers playing with the hair on his chest told him she was not asleep.

“You are not fearful of this marriage, are you, my love?” Her words came out in tentative fashion as if the question itself frightened her.

“Terrified,” he frankly admitted. “I might lose you to disease, childbirth or… Mon Dieu, England.”

“Then why—”

“Because I love you, Joanna. It would kill me to lose you, but since I am unwilling to live without you, I must do the honorable thing and make you my wife. Did it never occur to you that I, too, found your role as my mistress unacceptable?”

“No. I thought, ‘Well, he’s French’. It seemed to explain all.”

He laughed. “It explains much but not all.”

“You needn’t laugh,” she said, tugging on the hair on his chest. “I have loved you for a long while, Jean Donet.” She pressed kisses into his shoulder. He inhaled deeply, finding it hard to think with her soft lips on his skin.