Page 53 of Echo in the Wind

Had the comte really stayed with her for more than two days? She would never have thought him capable of so much tender care.

Her gaze drifted about his cabin, alighting on the pedestal table and, beyond it, the mahogany desk and bookcase, its treasured volumes secured with strips of wood. Cobalt blue velvet curtains framed the windows, the same fabric as the bed cover. The large well-appointed cabin spoke of a man who wanted his comforts while at sea.

It felt improperly intimate to be in his bed and in his private domain.

Her courage flagged as she considered her situation. She had sailed away from her home and family on a foreign ship to a country she’d never seen under the command of a captain who’d once been a pirate, not to mention his cutthroat crew. Yet Donet had tended her wound and held her hand through her fevered days and nights. Perhaps because of that, despite all the strangeness and uncertainty around her, she felt no fear. Instead, she felt protected and safe.

But what did she really know of him? A pirate turned nobleman, Donet was entering his fourth decade; she was in her second. She’d been five years old and sneaking treats from the kitchen when he’d defied his father to marry the woman he loved. When she was taking cello lessons and learning how to dance, he had become a privateer, capturing English ships and gaining accolades from two countries. He had experienced much of life when her life had only begun. Yet smuggling had brought them together and now her life was in his hands.

It could be worse, she supposed. She could have been killed. And how would Monsieur Donet, comte de Saintonge and captain of the sixteen-gun la Reine Noire, have explained that to Richard? She smiled to herself as her eyes began to grow heavy.

Perhaps pirates—or former pirates—never had to explain anything at all.

Chapter 14

Bay of Biscay, off the coast of Brittany, France

Another three days and they were past the storm and heading south by southeast, closing on Lorient. Jean felt much better for having had some sleep, though Émile’s loud snoring was making him eager to return to his own bed. Not likely that. It would belong to Lady Joanna for as long as she was aboard.

Each night, he fell into the narrow bunk, imagining her curled up in his larger bunk with his cat, a very inviting scene. He had an overwhelming desire to replace the cat in her bed though he knew it could never be a simple affair with a woman like that.

After checking with M’sieur Ricard at the helm, he headed below decks. He had taken to joining Lady Joanna for his déjeuner and dinner since he was accustomed to eating in his cabin. Émile had dined with them once, but the quartermaster fumbled with his knife and fork, still awkward in her presence and uncomfortable with her lad’s attire.

Arriving at his cabin door, Jean hesitated before knocking. He shouldn’t have to knock to enter his own cabin, but gallantry required he do so.

Gabe opened the cabin door and greeted him with a terse “Capitaine.” He supposed the lad didn’t like having a woman aboard any more than did Émile, but both had accepted their captain’s orders and were treating her like a guest.

Jean scanned the table. The lad had laid a fine repast of brioche, smoked fish, fruit and cheese. His mouth watered and he inhaled deeply the aroma of hot coffee wafting through the air. His first cup of the day was always most welcome.

Sunlight streamed in through the stern windows touching all in his cabin, including the vixen sitting at his table. He shut the cabin door and accepted the coffee from Gabe.

The cabin boy begged leave to go to the galley to see to his own breakfast. Jean nodded and waved him on his way.

He sipped his coffee watching his guest. She sat straight in her chair as if she had just paid a morning call on Lady Danvers and they were sharing tea in her London parlor. Her attire, however, one of his shirts and a pair of Gabe’s breeches, spoke of an entirely different setting. After she had awakened from the fever, she had insisted on changing her own bandages, depriving him of a glimpse of her glorious body, but he had not forgotten what lay beneath her male attire.

“Won’t you join me?” she asked.

He pulled out a chair and sat. “You do better as each day passes.”

“I do, don’t I?”

Franklin sidled to the table and disappeared under it. Jean inclined his head to see the cat rubbing against her leg. “My cat has become quite attached to you.”

The cat purred and she reached down to scratch his ears.

“Ben and I have become friends; he likes to sleep next to me.”

“Ben?”

Her cognac eyes glistened with her smile. “I think the shorter name suits him, don’t you? In any event, he doesn’t seem to mind.”

“Hmm…” Jean set down his coffee and picked up a piece of brioche. The vixen continued to stroke the cat’s fur. He wouldn’t mind what she called him either if he could sleep next to her and she petted him the way she was petting the cat.

Since his wife died, he had indulged in only a few liaisons with women, finding them unsatisfying. Yet he still had desires and the stirrings her presence caused brought to mind feelings long forgotten, emotions he thought never to have again. Fear licked at the wounds he had hidden for years.

Lady Joanna lavished honey on her brioche and then licked it off. Watching her pink tongue reach out to taste the sweet nectar made his loins harden.

He remembered spreading honey on her belly but, at the time, licking it from her skin had not occurred to him so focused had he been on saving her life. But now, he wanted to kiss those honeyed lips, to take her full breasts in his hands and lick her all over before sending his hard body pounding into her softness. Clamping down on his rising desire, he broke off another piece of brioche and brought it to his mouth.