Page 76 of Echo in the Wind

“There you are!” Zoé said. “I’d forgotten about this old bench. It’s quiet here.” His niece turned in a circle in the small space. “I should come here to read. I like to listen to the birds.” Then pointing to the white flowers, she said, “Oh, see? Old François has been tending the wood sorrel.”

“We have wood sorrel in Sussex,” offered Lady Joanna.

Her mention of the flower that grew near her home reminded Jean of her expectation to return. If he made her his, would she still want to leave? Could he let her go?

Joanna sat on the edge of the bed, brushing her hair and listening for the sounds of footsteps in the corridor. The candle on the small bedside table flickered in the breeze coming through the lace curtains that hung over her open window. Outside, the stars glistened in the midnight sky.

In the bedchamber next door, he waited.

Since their kiss in the garden, her ardor had calmed enough for her to carefully consider the choice he had offered her. There would be no turning back if she went to him.

If she declined his offer, she could return to England, untouched. One day, she might marry an Englishman, even a peer. But she had never believed that would be her fate. And there was the matter of her reputation, which might, even now, be in tatters.

Still, she was not running from that life as much as embracing another. Jean Donet had shown her there was another choice, another path.

She did not believe his invitation was due solely to a moment’s passion. A man who had loved only one woman and taken no mistress since her death would not casually invite a woman to his bed. She had glimpsed the desire, the amusement and the admiration in his eyes so many times, she knew his offer was based on something more.

To be with a man as free as the wind that filled the sails of his ship, as wild as the raging sea he had conquered and, at times, as fierce as a storm, that would be her fate if she accepted his invitation.

He was not like any other man she had known. He was a man she could love. Might already love. That he had not spoken to her of love or marriage did not surprise her. Given the torch he carried for his dead wife, he might never do so. But even if he never said the words, never asked for her hand, to be with him would be enough.

She had never known a man the way she would know him. To give herself to him was to risk her heart. A man of his experience would know that. But he had asked it of her, which told her he would not cast her aside once they were lovers. He would be faithful. That meant more to her than a loveless marriage that might await her in England.

Would she stay in France as his mistress if there were no marriage? She might, especially if she were to conceive a child. She remembered the way he had looked at the babe Jean Nicholas. One day, it could be her child he smiled at.

Her mind made up, dressed only in her chemise de nuit and green silk robe, she laid aside her brush and padded to the door. As she opened it, the light from her bedchamber flooded the corridor showing her which door was his. She listened for sounds and heard none.

Silently, she crept from her chamber, closing the door behind her, and walked to his door. With shaking hand, she opened it. The light from a single candle cast shadows on the massive four-poster hung with burgundy velvet curtains tied back at the posts.

The bed cover was rolled back and, in the center of the bed, Donet indolently reclined on white pillows, his tanned, muscled chest bare and a sheet pulled up to his waist. His black hair, threaded with silver, hung long to his shoulders.

His black eyes fixed on her. On his lips was a faint smile. Had he expected her not to come?

He spoke not a word, but his eyes followed her as she took tentative steps across the thick carpet. She knew instinctively he would not help her, would not reach for her.

This was a chasm she alone had to cross. He had extended the invitation; she must be the one to accept it.

Arriving at the edge of his bed, she let her robe slip to the carpet. Then, gathering her courage and keeping her eyes on him, she reached for the sheet.

He smiled and raised his hand to her face, cupping her cheek. His touch on her face was warm and calmed her fears a bit. Perhaps he knew she needed that. His expression told her he was pleased.

“Come,” he said at last, drawing her onto the bed.

She was glorious in her brave display, her dark red hair a waterfall over her skin, glowing like alabaster in the candlelight.

The vixen had come this far. He would do the rest. Soon, by her own choice, she would be his.

He pulled her into his arms. Only her thin chemise lay between them. Her beautiful breasts he remembered so well pressed into his chest, stirring his loins. He slid his palm over her rounded buttocks, firm beneath the silk, and stroked her back to calm her rapidly beating heart.

Burying his head in her neck, he inhaled deeply her floral scent.

She would be frightened of what lay ahead, but Lady Joanna had a brave heart. She had chosen this course and would not shrink from it. And he would show her he could be tender.

Holding her tightly to him, tying together their heated limbs, he kissed her with all the passion he felt, emotion and desire he had suppressed for so long.

She was everything he had thought she would be and more. Though as yet untutored in the ways of love, she showed her willingness to learn, reaching her hands to his nape and holding him to her.

“Let’s get rid of this,” he said, pulling up her chemise. “It’s not as if I haven’t seen you before. And I so want to see all of you again.”