Page 66 of Echo in the Wind

She blurted out the first thing that entered her mind. “Why do you have to be French?”

His laughter was a rich melodious sound as he stepped back. “Ah, my lady, don’t you see? It is precisely because I am French that I could reach beneath the thin veneer of your aristocratic English upbringing and kiss the smuggler lurking there.”

And quite suddenly, Joanna was envious of his dead wife, the young woman who had shared his kisses, his bed and made a child with him.

He took her trembling hand and led her back inside. “I will see you to your chamber where you have my word I will leave you there to sleep alone this night.”

Only the growing darkness prevented him from seeing her frown.

Jean had known it was only a matter of time before he kissed Lady Joanna. Not since Ariane had he desired a woman like he did her. But he had not expected his hunger for her to be so great.

The sleepless night that followed the kiss came as no surprise, his mind conjuring thoughts of what might have happened had he succumbed to the temptation she presented.

He would have to be careful in the future not to allow the passion between them to have its predictable end or he would make an English earl’s sister his mistress. Marriage between them was out of the question.

He had loved Ariane with a fervor that had not died in the years they were together. Her death had rent his soul. For years, he was no more than an empty shell. He could not again risk such a loss. He still bore a weight of guilt for the times he had left his young wife.

At first, he had taken to the sea to meet their needs, but it soon became a love affair of a different sort. The sea became his mistress, stealing time from the family he loved. The risks he took excited him, but Ariane only feared she might lose him in a storm at sea or a battle in the Channel. Ironically, in the end, he had been the one to lose her. He was not even in Lorient when she died, a fact he deeply regretted for she must have felt afraid and very alone. And after, he had not given up the sea even though it meant sending Claire to the Sisters of Saint-Denis for her education when he could have educated her at home.

When light finally crept into his bedchamber, he rose and dressed, not bothering to summon his valet. Wearing only his breeches and shirt, he silently padded down the stairs.

Musing on the past always put him in a morose mood. He wandered into the parlor, knowing he would find there the one thing that would soothe his soul.

The rising sun filled the room with light, exposing to his seeking eye the object he had left sitting on the cabinet. He went to the familiar case and lifted the lid. The fine wood instrument called to him. He lifted it to his shoulder, drawing the bow across the strings.

Joanna woke to the mournful sound of a solitary violin. Lying in bed, she listened, wondering who could be making such ethereal music. It sounded to her like the sorrowful cry of a tormented heart and yet so beautiful as to fill her with awe.

Being as yet without a maid, she donned the pale green gown, tying the laces as best she could, determined to find the source of the music.

At the dressing table, she ran the brush through her hair and tied it back with a ribbon. A brief glance at herself in the mirror told her she had changed.

The woman who looked back at her had knowing eyes and cheeks flushed with remembered passion. Donet had awakened in her a new desire, a new longing. She wanted to see him, to be with him. Was it mere infatuation? Or could it be more?

She hurried from the bedchamber.

At the bottom of the stairs, she met the housekeeper. “Oh, Mademoiselle, I did not know you were up. Did the master’s violin wake you?”

“Monsieur Donet is the one playing?”

“Oui, in the parlor.” She gestured to her right.

Joanna whispered, “Can you tie my laces?”

The housekeeper hastily complied. Joanna thanked her and stepped into the parlor.

Donet’s back was to her as he stood before the windows playing to the trees outside. He wore one of his fancy shirts with lace falling over his wrists and snug black breeches that emphasized his lean muscular thighs. She had never seen him barefoot before and it brought to mind the image of a pirate climbing the rigging.

Quietly, she sat on one of the sofas to listen, enraptured with the music. Her mind drifted to the Handel concert in London. No wonder he had loved the violins. She recognized the piece as another of the great composer. She thought it might be from the opera Xerxes.

After a while, he played a lighter piece she had never heard before.

He must have become aware of her, because he stopped playing and turned, his midnight eyes intense as they confronted her.

“Don’t stop on my account. I am enjoying your music.”

He shrugged. “I don’t play often, not anymore.” He returned the violin to its case.

“What was that last piece?” she asked. “It is new to me.”