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“At times.” Then he smiled broadly and laughed. His laughter warmed her. “It seems we both dabble in free trade, non?”

“So it seems, Monsieur,” she said, resigned to his knowing what she could no longer deny.

He frowned. “You engage in the business with some misguided notion of helping the poor, I believe.”

“I am not misguided. Half of Chichester starves and I am determined to see them fed.”

“Would not a ladies’ charity be more appropriate for the sister of an English peer? And less dangerous?”

For some reason, she wanted him to understand. “It started with a basket of food I delivered to a poor family barely surviving. The husband had been killed in the war. There were three children. When I learned many of the villagers—even the brother of my own maid—had become smugglers to feed their families, I offered to help. One thing led to another and, well, here I am.”

“Oui, and where is that?” His gaze traveled over her body, bandaged beneath the bed cover, a body he had obviously perused at some length. “You’re wounded and lying on a smuggler’s ship.”

“I did what I could. Foolish, it may have been, but it improved the lives of the villagers.”

“I would not argue with you in your weakened condition. We will discuss your future in smuggling when you have recovered. À présent, I must see you fed. Some broth, I think.” Over his shoulder, he said, “Gabe, fetch more of Cook’s chicken broth for our guest, this time with some bits of meat.”

Gabe must be his cabin boy. She did not realize the lad had been hovering in the shadows.

“Oui, Capitaine,” the boy replied. The cabin door opened and shut.

“You should know Gabe has been my able assistant in your care.”

The comte still held her hand, its strength and warmth bringing her comfort. How long, she wondered, had he done so? She had a vague memory of her hazy fevered state in which she floated somewhere above the bed. Always she had been tethered to a hand gripping hers. He had held her to reality, to earth, perhaps even to life. She could not fail to show her gratitude.

“I am grateful, Monsieur, to you and your cabin boy for all you have done for me.”

The boy returned with a bowl and spoon. “Bonjour, Mademoiselle.”

She smiled at the boy. Donet let go of her hand and helped her to sit against the pillows. The pain knifed through her belly, causing her to wince.

His brow furrowed. “You can thank me by being a good patient, eating your broth, and doing as I instruct.”

“So, I am now subject to your orders?”

“As is everyone on my ship, Mademoiselle. Would you like some brandy with the broth? It might help dull the pain.”

She let out a breath, resigned for the moment to complying with the arrogant captain’s demands. After all, he had likely saved her life. “Perhaps that would be wise,” she agreed.

The comte took the brandy from his table and poured some in the bowl of broth Gabe held. Then Donet took the bowl and brought a spoonful of the broth to her lips.

She sipped, the burn in her throat distracting her from the pain in her belly. She had tasted brandy before, of course, but it was not a lady’s drink and not usually mixed with broth.

When she’d finished all of the broth, Donet gently laid her back on the pillow. How many times had he done so over the last few days?

“I will see you have some laudanum tonight so that you can sleep.”

“A small amount, perhaps. From the look of you, Monsieur, you also need some. Did you not sleep?”

“I will now that you are out of danger.”

A sudden movement at the foot of the bed drew her attention. Huge golden eyes peered at her from glossy black fur. “A cat?”

“’Tis the ship’s cat, M’sieur Franklin, named after the American statesman who provided my letter of marque in the war. He is well beloved in France.”

The cat rose from the bed and stalked toward her. It was the largest cat she had ever seen. “Has the cat been here all this time?”

“Oui, he has not left your side but to catch his dinner in the days you have lain here.”