Page 60 of Echo in the Wind

A man of action, Jean hated to linger anywhere without good cause, but knowing the woman he waited for only increased his anticipation. He wanted to see her dressed as a lady again and looked forward to showing her his home in Lorient.

After what seemed like an hour, which he attributed to the ladies’ chatter as well as the selection of fabric and measuring, Lady Joanna emerged from the fitting room in the lovely green silk gown, now tailored to her enticing curves. It was not unlike the one she had worn the night he’d first met her at the reception in Chichester. However, this was more of a day gown and the color more subdued than the emerald green she had worn that night.

“Do you like the hat?” Lady Joanna asked, tipping the brim of the straw hat to an angle that drew his attention to her eyes. “Madame Provot insisted I wear it.”

Her auburn curls had been drawn away from her face and simply tied with a ribbon. She looked very young and very pretty with it styled that way, reminding him how much older he was than she. Had she lived, his wife, Ariane, would have been a decade older than Lady Joanna.

The English vixen was a bold adventuress. Ariane had been shy, sweet and retiring. His wife had been horrified at the risks his smuggling brought. Had she lived to see his privateering, she would have known great fear. The two women were both ladies but so very different.

“Noëlle has excellent taste,” he said. “The hat becomes you.” To Noëlle, who had followed Lady Joanna into the shop’s antechamber, he said, “You have done well.”

The modiste’s assistant hurried to place a package in her mistress’ arms. Noëlle passed it to him. “She will need this before she has the rest of the gowns.”

“I owe you my thanks, Madame.” With that, he tipped his tricorne to the modiste and offered his arm to Lady Joanna. As they left, he had the oddest feeling his world was about to change. ’Twas the same feeling he got whenever a squall threatened his ship.

The carriage wound its way into the hills above the harbor. Joanna gripped the strap to avoid falling into the comte as the vehicle careened around the curves. The carriage seat was narrow, bringing his body close to hers. When his thigh touched her gown, she forced herself to look out the window and not at him.

Many ships were anchored in the harbor’s cerulean blue waters. Several appeared to be merchantmen, but there were also men-of-war and smaller boats.

In the distance, fishing boats were returning with the afternoon tide.

On one side of the harbor was a huge round tower that looked to be a hundred feet high. Made of white stone, it had a railed gallery at the top.

“Can that tower be a lighthouse?” she asked Donet.

“Non, though it does look a bit like a very tall one. In recent years, lightning has damaged it, so pieces are missing. ’Tis the signal tower, built as a watchtower to monitor the approach of the ships belonging to the Company of the Indies. And to discourage smuggling.”

“Oh.”

“Do not worry, my lady. The king’s grandfather, Louis XV, bought the buildings and properties for the Royal Navy when the Company went bankrupt some years ago. Smuggling ships destined for England now operate quite unimpeded to the benefit of France.”

“Is that why you live here?” she asked, turning to face him.

“In part. When Claire was born, Lorient became our refuge. Neither my father nor Ariane’s approved of our marriage. We were cast out without a sou. It was here a friend put me in touch with the smugglers. And it was here I first went to sea as a smuggler myself to feed my family. It took years, but eventually I gained my own ship.”

Ariane. His wife’s name. Joanna had so many conflicting emotions running through her just then. She felt sad for the plight of the young family and a nobleman’s son forced to turn to smuggling to buy bread, but his hard life had made him the man he had become. Not the soft French nobleman he might have been, but a man of the sea, a man of great inner strength whose crew snapped to follow his commands. Perhaps, there was little difference between what he had done and what the villagers of Chichester did to keep from starving.

“It must have been a hard time.”

His look turned wistful. “In many ways, it was the very best of times.”

She attributed the look in his eyes to his love for his wife. Perhaps he still loved her. Joanna sighed. One could vie with another woman for a man’s affection, but how did one compete with a ghost given the status of a saint?

Looking out the window again, she searched for another subject, a happier one. “Can you see your ship from here?”

He reached across her to point to a black-hulled ship. “Just there.” His body pressed into hers and she leaned into his heat, melting like wax put to a flame. She recalled another time his touch had affected her so. The night they had danced in London.

“Lorient trades with both India and China,” he said, sitting back on the seat. “’Tis a profitable business. Privateers, too, sailed from here, especially during the American War.”

“How many ships do you have?” she asked, curious.

“Three now, but I often held more during the war. They were English ships I seized for M’sieur Franklin, their crews exchanged for American sailors imprisoned in England. One of the three ships I own now is currently in the West Indies. Only my sloop and la Reine Noire are here in Lorient.”

Climbing a small rise, the carriage stopped in front of a well-kept white stone house of two stories nestled among the trees. Behind the house in the distance, she glimpsed the harbor. A profusion of pink and lavender flowers grew in neat rows against the front of the house.

Sunlight filtered through the branches to fall upon the front door. Painted black, like the shutters, it had a large doorknocker of polished brass. A glistening shell sat on top of the rounded knocker and wave-like embellishments curved all around.

She counted eight windows across the front of the house, four on each story. Delicate lace curtains hung in the windows. It was not the home she would have pictured for a widowed sea captain much less a pirate.