by Regan Walker
She recalled the words of the surgeon in Lorient… the scars that have formed over the years still pain him. “He loves me?”
“Oui. And he knows it. I have been with him a long time, Mademoiselle. I know him well. There have been few women since Ariane and only the kind who satisfy a man’s baser needs. None of them affected him like ye. At two score, he has lived much, but his soul is much older than his years.”
“What must I do?”
“Challenge him with something he cannot accept and ye will see his true heart.”
Joanna pondered what Donet might consider a challenge as applied to her. An idea came to her. If he truly loved her, he would not want her to go on as his mistress, would he?
It was late afternoon when she found Donet in his bedchamber, donning a fresh coat. “I have thought about your demand we marry,” she said, standing very straight as she made her announcement. “I know you do not really wish to marry. You have only spoken of it now because of d’Artois.” She did not look at him as she spoke these next words but kept her eyes on the carpet. “I have decided to remain your mistress.” Pressing her point, she added, “I shall content myself to live in sin.”
She looked up and encountered his piercing look, the same look he must give men who defied him. It would have frightened her to death had she not understood him as well as she did.
He stalked toward her and took her arms in a vise-like grip. “No woman of mine will live in sin, Mademoiselle! Do you understand?”
She might have pointed out that she had been doing precisely that, but realization suddenly dawned. “What makes you think I am your woman?”
“This.” His mouth came down on hers in a crushing kiss as he wrapped one arm around her waist and used the other to hold the back of her head. She did not resist, but reveled in his fierce reaction, for it did not just say she was his, but he was hers.
He lifted her into his arms and carried her to the bed. His black eyes flinty with shards of silver, he threw her down on the cover and shrugged out of his jacket. With his gaze fixed on her, he began to unbutton his waistcoat. “Before I am finished,” he snarled, “you will know whose woman you are, Joanna, and whose wife you will be.”
She laid her head on the pillow, her eyes following his every move. Her heart pounded in her chest as he slowly shed the rest of his clothes. When he was naked, he came to the edge of the bed and loomed over her, his beautiful scarred body stark before her.
“It shall be as you wish,” she said as meekly as she could manage with outrageous joy filling her heart.
Now that Jean had made love to Joanna in a way that left her in no doubt that she was his woman, his mind spun with plans. She lay complaisant in his arms, but her fingers playing with the hair on his chest told him she was not asleep.
“You are not fearful of this marriage, are you, my love?” Her words came out in tentative fashion as if the question itself frightened her.
“Terrified,” he frankly admitted. “I might lose you to disease, childbirth or… Mon Dieu, England.”
“Then why—”
“Because I love you, Joanna. It would kill me to lose you, but since I am unwilling to live without you, I must do the honorable thing and make you my wife. Did it never occur to you that I, too, found your role as my mistress unacceptable?”
“No. I thought, ‘Well, he’s French’. It seemed to explain all.”
He laughed. “It explains much but not all.”
“You needn’t laugh,” she said, tugging on the hair on his chest. “I have loved you for a long while, Jean Donet.” She pressed kisses into his shoulder. He inhaled deeply, finding it hard to think with her soft lips on his skin.
“And I have known for a long while. I tried not to love you, Joanna, for fear of losing you, but I had no success in that.”
“None of us knows how many years we have, but however many we are given, I want to spend them with you.” She looked up at him. “And what of you, Sir Pirate? You sail a ship into storms; you battle revenue cutters and the Royal Navy on the Channel; you draw your sword on brigands. What if I lost you?”
“I think you far more resilient than I, chérie. You would survive.” He thought of something that had long bothered him. “Do you think I am too old for you?
She laughed. “I think you may not be old enough!”
“I shall take that as a sign I am still gaining wisdom. So be it. Since it is agreed we will wed, let us speak of plans. I thought we might marry here in Paris before a priest and then again before one of your Anglican clergy, perhaps on Guernsey. What say you?”
Her hand began moving in slow circles on his belly. “Yes, ’tis best. Though I am certain God would not care, in England, we must be wed by an Anglican clergyman for our marriage to be valid. And I would like to see Guernsey.”
“Since I am a Catholic, we must also be wed by a priest. By the bye, should you want to know the name of the man you will marry, I was born Jean-Philippe Donet. But when I went to sea, I dropped all but Jean.”
Her hand paused a few inches short of his groin. “Shall I call you Jean-Philippe?”
“Non. I am used to the name Jean Donet.” He kissed her forehead. “But I would like it if you called me Jean when we are alone.”
“I would like that, too.” Her palm circled just above his groin. “There will be a dowry, you know. Richard will insist.”
“I will not insult him by refusing.” He placed his hand over hers so he could think. What might they do with the dowry? He had no need of money. “Perhaps, if you like Guernsey, we can use your dowry to build a home there.” He lifted his hand and stroked her hair.
“Another home?” she asked, her fingers playing with the thatch of black hair at his groin. “Are three not enough?”
“More than we need, certainly, but it occurs to me that it would be good to have a place on what is considered English soil. If violent times are ahead for France, as I fear they are, you and my niece would be safe there.” He kissed the top of her head, smoothed her auburn hair over her shoulders and caressed one of her breasts. “An excellent place for a honeymoon, mon amour.”
“What about Zoé?” she asked, bringing her palm back to his chest and laying her chin on it to look up at him. “Can she live with us?”
“My niece is so attached to you, I rather think she will insist.”
“I was hoping you would agree. It will make her very happy.” She stroked his belly and his imagination followed the direction of her fingers. “At some point, we must return to England,” she said in a husky voice, “if only to see my family and share the news. Richard will be pleased I have wed, I think.” She laid her cheek on his chest and trailed her fingers to his groin.
His body responded to her increasingly provocative touches. “If my business in Paris can be soon concluded, we can be married and back in Sussex by the end of August. Would that please you, ma chérie?”
Her breathing began to speed and her heart pounded against his chest. “Oh, yes. Richard and Tillie will be home from London by then. Perhaps once we are wed, I might send a letter from Paris so they will not worry overmuch if they return and find me gone. I can tell them you took me from The Harrows, a willing bride.”
Her hand grasped his hardened flesh sending a shudder through him. The blood in his veins boiled. Unable to stand another minute of her ministrations, Jean rolled her beneath him.
She parted her thighs, her soft body welcoming him.
“Oui,” he whispered in her ear, “a most willing bride.”
Chapter 25
After supper, Jean retired to the salon with Joanna, Émile and Zoé. Joanna had just poured tea and he and Émile were sipping their cognac when Flèche appeared at the door.
“Gaspar is here to see you, Capitaine.”
Jean looked up, his eyes meeting Émile’s sitting across from him. “We will see him in the study.” Rising, he kissed Joanna on the cheek.
Once the three of them were ensconced in the stu
dy, Jean poured each of them a glass of cognac and, leaning against his desk, watched his quartermaster and former carpenter get reacquainted. “Ye old dog, Gaspar, how many children do ye have now?”
“Three, but a fourth is on the way. What about you, Émile?”
“Too many ladies to satisfy to settle with one.”
“Enough, you two,” said Jean. He met Gaspar’s steady gaze. “You have information for me?”
Gaspar reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out a piece of paper. “The man who did the dirty work is Joseph Frey, a Swiss mercenary working for one of Necker’s Swiss friends, a Joseph de Vogelsang.”
“Whose address is this?”
“Vogelsang’s. ’Tis near the Seine. I do not have one for Frey, but you might find him at one of the taverns the mercenaries frequent.”
“Is there any reason to believe Necker himself is involved? I’d rather not kill one of the king’s former ministers even if he is now disfavored.”
“Nay, ’tis thought Necker may know nothing of it. The word is he accepted his change in station, but those who benefitted from his high position did not. They sought to send a message to Vergennes by killing his spy.”
“Thank you, Gaspar. You have served me well.” Jean went to his desk and took a bag of coins from the bottom drawer. “You earned this and I am grateful.”
“Merci.” Gaspar bowed and accepted the coins. “For the little ones. Now, can I meet this new lady of yours?”
“But of course,” said Jean. “And, by the way, that lady will soon be my wife.”
The next day, Jean and Émile set off on horseback to find Vogelsang. The streets of Paris were wet with the rain from the night before. A carriage would have had to fight its way across town, while horses could better maneuver and afforded them a quick escape if need be.
The directions Gaspar had provided Jean led them to the fashionable area of faubourg Saint-Germain near the Seine River. This morning, the river was crowded with small boats. Voices rose from the quay where people, engaged in business of one sort or another, shouted to passersby. Adding to the cacophony of sounds were seagulls shrieking above the banks. A duel amid all of this would not suit.
A short distance away, they dismounted in front of the townhouse, modest for the area, but no less well built. Jean lifted the knocker and dropped it a few times while Émile secured the horses to a post. No groom or footman had appeared.
The door opened and a young maid in mobcap and apron gave them a blank look. Clearly she had expected no visitors. “Messieurs?”
“We are here to see Monsieur Vogelsang. You may tell him Monsieur Donet has come to call.”
She invited them into the entry, a rather dim place with a stone floor and scant windows, then disappeared through a corridor.
Jean checked his pistol and put his hand on the hilt of his sword when the maid returned.
“The master will see you. Please follow me.”
The large room they entered appeared to be a combination of parlor and study. Jean recognized the tall thin man who rose from behind the ornate desk though the wig he wore today was a darker gray and his face not the powdered white it had been at Versailles.
Behind the desk stood two burly henchmen like a pair of andirons flanking a cold fireplace.
“So, ’tis true,” said Vogelsang in a high voice that grated on Jean’s nerves, “there are two of you. I can see now you are not Henri Donet. A brother, peut-être? A twin?” Carefully, he appraised Jean. “So very alike, so easy to kill.” His voice echoed his arrogance for what he obviously considered a trivial matter soon dispensed with.
Jean spoke in a voice his men would have taken as a warning. “You will find, Monsieur Vogelsang, I am nothing like my brother. Henri was the more refined of the comte de Saintonge’s sons. The kinder one. I, on the other hand, have a darker side and a much blacker past.”
Émile smirked at Vogelsang. “Have ye never heard of the pirate Jean Donet?”
The Swiss man narrowed his gaze on Jean. From his expression, Vogelsang clearly knew the name and he feared the man behind it. “You are he?” When Jean nodded, Vogelsang shouted to his henchmen, “Seize him!”
The two andirons lunged forward. Jean and Émile drew their pistols, causing the andirons to pause mid-stride.
“Which one of you guard dogs is Joseph Frey?” Jean asked, his voice edged with loathing.
One of the andirons grimaced and Jean returned him a harsh glower. “You arranged for my brother’s accident?”
“What if I did?” he spit out arrogantly.
Jean didn’t hesitate. He fired his pistol and the man dropped to the ground, a ball through the center of his forehead. Facing Vogelsang, Jean said, “So, now there are two. Not so very many.”
Vogelsang began to shake.
“Did you think we came only to talk?” asked Jean.
“The capitaine is short on patience today,” chimed in Émile.
Vogelsang held out his hand, palm facing Jean, as if to hold back his fury. “Non,” he whimpered. Jean hated cowards who hid behind swaggering bullies.
The other guard drew his sword and stalked toward Jean with a stiff stride.
“Watch the master, Émile, while I deal with the servant.”
His quartermaster smiled and pointed his pistol at the tall man. “Avec plaisir, Capitaine.”
Jean had previously assessed the andirons as opponents. They were not well matched, as the ensuing swordfight made clear. This lumbering mercenary had strength on his side and, from his initial parries, some expertise. However, he lacked the finesse d’esprit Jean had been taught long ago as one of Pierre Donnatieu’s most avid pupils.
After a preliminary exchange, the guard lunged.
Jean parried and then backed away only to push in, slicing across the man’s cheek.
“Damn Frog!” the man bellowed, touching his face. His fingers came away covered in blood.
“Does the Swiss cow bellow?” Jean asked mockingly.
The mercenary raged and, with less precision than before, lunged.
Jean parried the thrust using his left hand to block the man’s arm and brought his own blade around his back and turned to sink his sword into the man’s belly. The guard had not expected the move, one Jean’s fencing master had taught him long ago.
The mercenary grabbed his belly, staggered to the wall and slid to the carpet. He would die but not soon. In some small measure, it compensated for what Henri must have suffered.
Jean wiped the sweat from his forehead with his lace cuff and faced the only miscreant left standing.
Vogelsang’s thin face already appeared like a death mask. He sank into his chair behind the desk.
“You directed the so-called accident that killed my father and brother? And the murder of the driver?”
The truth of it spoke loudly from Vogelsang’s guilty expression. He did not even cast blame on another as Jean had expected.
“And you arranged for the attack on my carriage near Saint Jean d’Angély?”
His nose in the air, Vogelsang replied, “I have no knowledge of these trivial country villages.”
“It was not trivial to my niece and my lady, nor to my quartermaster and driver both of whom were wounded in the attack. I can assure you, they will forever remember the name.”
“Let me have this one, Capitaine,” drawled Émile. “I am owed a blood debt and seek vengeance of my own.”
“If you wish, mon ami. I know you enjoy firing that pistol and I can think of no target more worthy.”
“No!” shouted Vogelsang “I have money. I can make you rich!”
“You do not have enough of France’s money to make up for the lives you have taken from me!” Jean threw back.
Vogelsang yanked open his desk drawer and pulled a pistol from its depths.
The shot rang loud in the room as Émile fired first. Vogelsang slumped in his chair and fell to the floor, joining his guard.
The maid came to th
e doorway, glanced at the bodies and screamed. Covering her mouth, she turned to stare in horror at Jean.
“Do not be concerned, Mademoiselle.” Jean spoke in a gentle voice. “I will send someone to remove the bodies. But lest you think we are brigands of the worst sort, know what has been done here is justice for the murder of my father, a nobleman, and my brother. There will be no inquiries.”
That night, Jean would arrange for the bodies to be dumped in the Seine. In the morning, they would be found along with others. All knew Paris could be a dangerous place.
Joanna heard the horses’ hooves in the courtyard and rushed from the parlor. Flèche opened the glass doors and Donet stepped inside, handing his hat, pistol and sword to the butler.
She went to him, looked into his eyes and wrapped her arms around him, hugging him tightly. The tension in his body told her the task had been difficult, but the relief she had glimpsed in his eyes told her it was finished. She had feared for him, but she had not tried to persuade him to stay. She never would.
Jean Donet had carved a life of danger for himself, winning the respect of his men and his country. More than one man looked up to him. More than one country had depended upon him. If she were to become his wife, she must let him face the danger and trust him to return. If the day ever came he did not, she would count herself lucky to have had the years with him she did.
She let go of him to search for wounds and found none. “You and M’sieur Bequel are well?” she asked, her gaze shifting from Donet to his quartermaster standing just behind him.
“We are fine, chérie. Rest assured, there will be no attacks on my carriage in the future. The deaths of my father and brother have been avenged, sending a message that will deter any others.”
“You killed the bad man who killed my papa?” asked Zoé from behind Joanna. “Tell me you did, mon oncle. I want him to be dead.” The child’s bold manner did not surprise Joanna. Zoé was a lot like her uncle.