Page 55 of Echo in the Wind

Without looking out the window, the cabin boy said, “Île de Groix, the island Groix. It marks the place where the ship turns into the channel leading to the harbor of Lorient.”

The small island seemed to float above the blue waters. Above its sea-battered cliffs, white clouds drifted in an azure sky. She would have liked to see the island from the main deck, but Donet had not allowed her out of his cabin. At first, the pain from her wound would not permit her to climb the ladder or to walk so far. Now, she believed his order to stay below had more to do with his men. They must know he kept a woman in his cabin, but did they believe she was an injured English smuggler who had masqueraded as a man? Or did they think he had made her his mistress?

She toyed with the wicked thought for a moment, allowing her imagination to sweep her into his arms. He was the first man to ever make her think of such things. But perhaps he did not find her attractive, particularly in her men’s clothing. After all, he had been more polite than anything. He did not even flirt with her like other men did.

When he came for her, ready to disembark, she might be able to discern from the faces of his crew what they believed about her. M’sieur Bequel, the quartermaster, gave no hint of his feelings when he had joined her and Donet for dinner. A gruff man, he had nevertheless been gracious in his manners, recalling to mind his attendance at the christening. Even then, she had thought there was something familiar about Bequel.

Gabe came up beside her. “The capitaine asked me to give you one of his cloaks to wear. I have placed it just there.” He gestured to a black cloak flung over the back of one of the chairs. “It will be too large, I fear, but at least you can cover yourself. It has a hood.”

“Merci, Gabe. If he insists, I will wear it, but I expect today is too warm for a cloak. From what I can see, it will be a lovely day in Lorient.”

“Oui. Lorient is a very fine place.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Many privateers and smugglers sail from there.”

She smiled to herself at the boy’s remark. Yes, she was a smuggler. Just like his captain.

Lorient, France

Draped in the ridiculously large cloak, Joanna followed Donet out of his cabin, grateful for his assistance in scaling the ladder to the weather deck. His touch, as ever, made her body come alive. She would have liked to turn in his arms and see if he would kiss her, but he acted only the gentleman.

With the hood drawn over her head, she crossed the deck behind Donet, his crew turning to stare, but not uttering a single jeer or rude comment.

With a few words to M’sieur Bequel, Donet took her elbow and led her down the gangway to the quay, the long cloak trailing behind her.

Once on the quay, she paused to scan the immense harbor, noting the many ships were not crowded together as they were on the Thames.

“So many ships,” she remarked.

“Lorient trades with Africa, India, America and the French colonies, so there are merchantmen as well as Indiamen here. And the Royal Navy of France uses Lorient. The port is always busy.”

Joanna thought it a splendid place. She had always loved the energy surrounding London’s port on the Thames. This port had the same feel.

One of Donet’s crew hailed a carriage and, soon, they were traveling away from the harbor. “The town is a half-mile from the port. ’Tis where M’sieur Bouchet has his practice.”

Joanna turned toward the open window, enjoying the breeze on her face after so many days below decks. The horses’ hooves clattered on the cobblestones as the carriage briskly moved along.

Lorient’s streets were broad and well paved with white stone houses and buildings on either side. Beyond the harbor lay wooded hills with scattered homes visible among the trees. Might he live in one of those?

He gazed out the window, pointing to the distant streets. “The main streets diverge in rays from the city gate. The others cross them at right angles. All is very orderly and clean, as you can see.”

She looked at him askance. Amusement danced in his dark gaze. She would not rise to the bait. All knew London had dirty streets. “And where do you live?”

“In the hills above the town. But first, we must pay a visit to M’sieur Bouchet. I dispatched one of my crew to let him know to expect us.”

They arrived at a small storefront with paned glass windows looking out on the street. Over the carved wooden door hung a gilded sign with the name “M. Bouchet” painted in script and beneath it “Chirurgien”.

The surgeon was nothing like Joanna expected.

A man of small stature with thinning gray hair, his green eyes sparkled behind his spectacles. “My lady, I have been expecting you.”

He wore simple but well-made clothing: a moss green velvet coat over black waistcoat and breeches. His cravat was devoid of lace but well tied. His manner was confidant yet oddly humble for a man so well thought of. So this is the miracle-working surgeon.

After Donet introduced them, Bouchet glanced at her briefly before waving her into the room where he examined his patients.

When Donet tried to follow, Bouchet stopped him with his outstretched hand. “I can see you are anxious, Capitaine, but you must allow me to do my work. Once I am finished with the mademoiselle, you will have my report.”

It occurred to Joanna that no one addressed him as the comte de Saintonge or Monsieur le comte, not on his ship, nor here in Lorient. All seemed to identify him with his ships and the sea, not the lands that went with his title. A nobleman engaged in business would be thought odd in England. Likely, it was the same in France, yet all accepted Donet no matter his role.

She followed the small surgeon into the room. One wall of his office was covered by a large mahogany cabinet filled with bottles and leather-bound books. The bottles were all neatly labeled though she could not read them from where she stood.