Page 43 of Echo in the Wind

Returning her smile, he ordered a bottle of cognac and two glasses before taking his seat. Émile slipped in next to him.

She tossed her long red hair over her shoulder. “I’m Annie.”

At first glance, she reminded him of a certain auburn-haired lady he would soon see off the coast of Bognor, but the comparison did not hold. Annie, albeit a pretty girl, was a pale shadow of the woman Jean could not dismiss from his mind.

Her gaze roved over his black coat, waistcoat and breeches. Reaching out a long-fingered hand, she lifted the white lace at his throat.

Gently, he brushed away her hand but smiled to soften the dismissal. “Non, merci.” She was young and attractive. Her rounded breasts rising above her loose-fitting bodice would have tempted most men, perhaps even him were he not consumed with thoughts of Lady Joanna West.

Undiscouraged, the girl trailed her fingers over his hair he’d worn long to his shoulders. “’Tis a shame, what with ye being such a fair looker. But I’ll be back.” She returned him a wicked smile. “Maybe ye’ll think of something more I can get ye.” Flipping him a smile, she sauntered away.

Beside him, Émile’s gaze slid to another table where something had garnered his interest. Jean looked in that direction to see a brute of a man glaring at him.

“Ye seem to have drawn the ire of one of her admirers, Capitaine.”

The man had the look of a sailor off an Italian ship, a swarthy man of rough countenance with a knit cap shoved down over his forehead to just above his dark hooded eyes and prominent nose. His upper lip sported a wide dark mustache and he wore a gray-striped shirt like the kind Jean had seen on the crew of Italian ships. A sash of bright yellow circled his waist to which he had secured a long knife with a wide blade.

Jean turned his face away from the man’s angry stare. It was not as if he wanted the girl. But if he had, the Italian sailor would not have stopped him from having her.

A bottle and two glasses appeared on the table. Jean poured the brandy and handed one glass to Émile. The color of the cognac reminded Jean of Lady Joanna’s eyes. Would he ever drink cognac again without thinking of the darling of the ton who made smuggling her pastime?

She was not alone in her pursuit. Lady Holderness had smuggled over one hundred French silk gowns into England, but that embarrassment to the English had been many years ago.

Émile nudged Jean’s elbow, interrupting his musings. Slowly, he became aware of a hovering presence. The serving girl stood beside him.

Inclining his head, he looked up at her green eyes.

“Well?” she asked. “Any second thoughts?”

Before Jean could answer, she plopped into his lap, her breasts served up before his face like a meal. She wrapped her arms around his neck and smiled coyly.

Beside him, Émile sputtered, spewing his drink.

Jean had had enough. Placing his hands on her waist, he lifted the girl from his lap, rising from his chair as he did so.

The sound of wood scraping over the floor caused Jean to swivel his head to look behind him.

The huge Italian sailor got to his feet, knocking over his chair. The tavern suddenly grew quiet. “Hands offa mia ragazza, Frenchie!”

Jean dropped his hands.

Annie shot the Italian sailor a scathing look. “Don’t mind him. I’m not his girl.”

“Se na vada!” the Italian roared and stomped toward Jean.

Émile grabbed the bottle of cognac and backed away. “This one’s all yers, Capitaine.” To the Italian, the quartermaster said, “Consider yerself warned.”

“Out of the way, Annie.” Jean gestured the girl away from what was soon to be a fight. Turning to the sailor, Jean tried to calm the man. “There has been no harm done, mon ami. I make no claim on the lady.”

“I’m not yer amico, Frenchie,” said the Italian. He drew his wide blade from his waist and waved it threateningly in front of Jean’s face. “I carve you like a roast and feed you to the dogs. I hear they love frog.” He bellowed his laughter, his friends joining in. They shouted their encouragement to their fellow sailor.

Jean sized up the Italian as patrons backed away, dragging their tables and drinks with them. Much heavier than Jean, the Italian would be slow and possibly lumbering.

“Best leave off, Antonio,” yelled a voice Jean recognized as one of his crew. “The capitaine is fierce with a blade.”

“Quel piccolo? This little one?” The Italian sailor sneered and spat, clearly not impressed. His ignorance would be his downfall. In Jean’s experience, bullies who preyed upon others weaker than themselves were cowards. This one was just bigger than most.

Jean pulled his sword from his belt, the blade gleaming. “Très bien, if you insist.” The Italian had longer arms and a longer reach, but the length of Jean’s weapon made up for the disparity. And then there was the matter of skill. Jean’s father had arranged for Jean and Henri to be trained by the best fencing master in France. After that, there had been years of practice wielding his weapon as a privateer.