by Regan Walker
Once she recovered, she would somehow find her way back to The Harrows. Richard was rigid in many ways, but he would never turn her out. Perhaps the comte might take her to England in another of his ships. If she were lucky, she would return before Richard, Tillie and Aunt Hetty left London. Parliament had been called into session in the middle of May, so the Lords would not be released until sometime in August. She had time.
She opened her eyes as Donet laid his hand on her forehead. His calloused palm was warm on her skin. His touch was gentle but too intimate to be proper. Of course, she felt certain he had touched her in more intimate ways than that in tending her wound.
“You have been fevered, my lady, but Dieu merci the fever has finally broken.”
“How long was I… unconscious?”
“Two days or more, though you were not so much unconscious as delirious. Last night, I gave you laudanum to help you sleep. It seems to have worked.”
She slipped one hand beneath the cover and realized only a thin cloth covered her naked body. “Who?”
“It was I who removed your clothes. It was necessary. Of course, my attention was directed at your wound. You wear one of my shirts, which is long enough to serve as a lady’s shift.”
Hardly decent. But she could not complain under the circumstances. Still, imagining the comte seeing her naked caused a deep blush to creep up her face and heat to spread across her breasts, the same breasts he must have seen no matter how focused he was on her wound. What about her personal needs? She could not bear to think of the comte tending to those. Moreover, she had no intention of raining the subject. Instead, she took a deep breath and asked, “You are a smuggler then?”
“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.”
“And I have not sneezed?”
“Sneezed? Non, not once.”
The cat came closer. She reached out to stroke its glossy fur. The huge animal began to purr and curled up beside her. “Aunt Hetty’s cat always makes me sneeze. How odd this one does not.”
Donet grinned. “It seems mon chat is pleased with your touch.”
Jean trudged up the companionway, forcing his eyes to stay open, still thinking of Lady Joanna’s fingers running through Franklin’s fur. He had imagined those same fingers running through his hair. He shook his head to clear his thinking. After going so long without sleep, even longer without a woman, his mind had conjured something that could never be.
Emerging onto the weather deck, he breathed in the fresh sea air and yawned. The white caps on a gray sea beneath heavy dark clouds told him a storm was coming. The growing wind blew his hair into his face. Taking a ribbon from his waist, he tied it back.
Émile glanced toward Jean standing near the helm. The quartermaster’s face was set in grim lines as he marched toward Jean from amidships.
“Well?” said Émile, arriving at Jean’s side. “After so long and very few reports from yer lad, the whole crew wonders if the English smuggler has survived. Or their capitaine for that matter.”
“She lives. I have remained with her because I was worried. The wound was not a simple one. She lost much blood. Then the fever consumed her.” He met Émile’s gaze. “For a while, it was close, mon ami, but I think she will recover.”
“Mon Dieu, Capitaine, what would ye have done had she died? This smuggler is not only a woman, but Lady Joanna West!”
“Yes, yes, I know.” He crossed his arms over his chest. Standing with his feet apart, he searched the ship for signs of damage. “I have known all along.”
Émile inclined his head. “Ye have?”
“You don’t think her breeches could hide her woman’s shape from me, do you? It took only a little more information for me to ascertain her precise identity. I have been wondering how long it would take you to realize the truth of it.”
Émile pressed his lips tightly together and scowled.
“’Tis
true. Lady Joanna leads the Bognor smugglers.”
Émile shook his head. “The crew won’t like having a woman aboard. We both know ’tis bad luck to have a woman on the ship, especially one they can’t touch.”
“Most will accept it. You may tell them she is my lady. And those few who do not accept her I will replace in Lorient.” In the long nights he had watched over her, Jean had sorted through the crew in his mind, deciding which ones might present a problem.
“How fares the ship? Gabe’s reports were rather vague, but I knew if the damage were severe, you’d have sent for me.”
His quartermaster looked aloft. “The English dog got off a lucky shot that sheared the main peak halyard. The bos’n and his mates rigged a jury splice that’s holding for now. The spanker boom and stern are cut up some, but nothing serious.” Facing Jean, he said, “The carpentry can wait until we reach port, but meanwhile, what’ll ye do with her, Capitaine?”
“Lady Joanna will sail with us to Lorient, of course. ’Tis not far from there to Saintonge. I would not send her back to England until she is well. Nor would I allow anyone other than myself to see her safely home. Since I cannot sail la Reine Noire to England any time soon and my sloop in Lorient needs some alterations to be readied, the lady will be with us for some time.”
“Does she know her sojourn in France will be longer than she might expect?”
Jean shook his head. “After she made her displeasure known to me at being forced to sail to Lorient, I thought to wait till we arrive before telling her she will be seeing more of France.”
His quartermaster gave Jean a lingering perusal. “Ye don’t seem bothered by the prospect of having her with ye.”
Jean gave his friend a sidelong glance. “Oddly, I am not.”
“I see.”
Perhaps Émile saw more than Jean intended. But he was too weary to think of it. He closed his eyes, swaying with the movement of the ship. He could fall asleep where he stood.
“If ye don’t mind my saying so, Capitaine, ye look like a whore’s bed. Why not get something to eat and a few hours of sleep?”
Jean’s head ached and his eyes burned. “That was my plan, but I could not sleep without a damage report and seeing to our passenger. Wake me should the storm turn out to be more than a small squall.”
“And where will ye be sleeping?” asked Émile.
He fought a yawn. “Oh, did I forget to say? Since yours is the largest of the officers’ cabins and the only one with two bunks, I thought to share with you.”
Émile smirked. “Ye may recall there’s a reason few would share my cabin.”
Jean furrowed his brow.
“I snore.”
He shrugged. “I doubt if any noise will keep me awake tonight. But if the sea turns ugly, Lady Joanna might become frightened, so wake me. I’ve kept Gabe out of the cabin for most of the last days. He is putting it to rights now. He’s to bring her food if she is up to it, but no one, save me, may tend her wound.”
Émile muttered an oath under his breath, unhappy, Jean knew, for having the lady aboard. “Oui, it will be done as ye say.”
Jean, on the other hand, had no such qualms. With the vixen onboard, life was bound to be interesting.
Joanna watched Gabe move about the captain’s cabin, cleaning up the mess created by her presence. During the two days she had lain in the throes of the fever, Donet must have denied the boy his usual duties.
Everything was in disarray, her bloodstained clothes in one corner where Donet had apparently thrown them, books scattered on the table and charts strewn across his desk. Even the leavings from his hastily eaten meals were evident.
Thoughts of the comte’s care for her, especially his removing her clothes, made her cheeks flush with heat. He must have seen all of her.
The boy fussed as he cleaned the cabin, giving her the feeling he had no tolerance for disorder in his captain’s domain. He set the empty chamber pot next to the bed.
Before the night was out, she would need to use it. Perhaps the brandy he had left on the stool nearby would dull the pain so that she could get out of the bed on her own.
Awake for the first time in days, she thought to engage the boy in conversation. “Gabe, I want to thank you for helping the captain attend my wound.”
He looked down at his feet. “I only did as ordered.”
“Even so,” she began and then thought better of it. “You speak English well. Have you served the captain long?”
He straightened. “The last three years of the American War, Mademoiselle.”
He must have been eight or nine when he joined Donet’s crew. He had the swarthy complexion of a Breton, yet his face still possessed the soft curves of a boy beneath his wavy brown hair. Circling his neck was a red handkerchief. Over his shirt, he wore a light blue jacket. Like most of the crew, his breeches were wide-kneed “slops”. Some of the crew, she had noticed, went barefoot, but Gabe wore white hose and leather shoes.
The boy reshelved two leather-bound volumes that had been lying open on the table, night reading for the comte, perhaps.
“Monsieur Donet is a good captain?”
“Le meilleur.” Then, possibly because he did not know she spoke French well, he added, “the best.”
His hurried movements implied he felt awkward in her presence. “I imagine you would rather I did not occupy his cabin.”
The boy shrugged. “’Tis what the capitaine wishes.”
Curious, she ventured to ask, “Am I the first woman to be in his cabin?”
He turned and faced her, his stance proud. “No woman has ever stepped foot in his cabin while I have served him.”
Tempted to laugh, she smiled instead. “Then I shall try not to be a burden. Once I am better able to move about, perhaps the captain can assign me another cabin.”
The boy’s face appeared to take on a pleased expression as he considered her words. Loyal, this one, and she admired him for it.
Gabe left the cabin saying he would return shortly. Now was her chance to use the chamber pot. Fortified with another gulp of brandy, she eased off the bed. The cabin swam before her. Slumping back on the bed, she waited until the cabin settled and the only movement was the pitch and roll of the ship.
With one hand on the bed, she gingerly slipped her feet to the deck and reached for the chamber pot, an action that brought a knifing pain to her belly. She clenched her teeth and waited for the wave of pain to pass. She had yet to see what lay under her bandages and was none too eager to glimpse the damage inflicted by Commander Ellis’ Marines.
Since she could not very well crouch, she leaned to the left, stretching out her hand, and grasped the edge of the metal container. Taking a deep breath, she brought the pot up under the captain’s shirt that fell to her mid-thighs and let nature do the rest. “Ah,” she sighed in relief.
Still lightheaded, Joanna slowly slid the chamber pot to the deck and sagged back on the bed. The roll of the ship as it sliced through the gray sea she glimpsed out the windows only added to her unstable feeling. It wasn’t the seasickness some experienced, rather a kind of weakness. It might be due to her lack of food or the loss of blood, or both.
She rested her head on the pillow and slowly pulled the blue cover over her. Her new friend, Franklin, whom she had decided to call “Ben”, curled up beside her and promptly went to sleep, purring like a warm clockwork.
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.