Page 56 of Echo in the Wind

She turned to face him, uncertain as to what she should do.

“Show me the wound, if you will, Mademoiselle.”

Even though she knew him to be a surgeon greatly respected by the comte, to her, Bouchet was still a strange man. Nevertheless, she did as he asked and lifted her shirt and opened her breeches to bare her wounded flesh for his examination. She had given up the bandages this day knowing she was to see him.

He touched the large scab stretching across her belly, studying the skin around the healing wound. “You are fortunate ’twas M’sieur Donet who treated the wound, for he has watched me patch up his crew over the years and has obviously been paying close attention.”

He stood and wiped his hands on a cloth. “You will have a scar, but none so grievous as you might have had if another had tended you.”

Joanna believed she lived because of Donet’s efforts. Here was confirmation.

Monsieur Bouchet eyed her over his spectacles. “You may restore your clothes, Mademoiselle, such as they are. I expect the capitaine will replace them with proper attire for a lady.”

She felt her cheeks heat and tucked the captain’s shirt into her breeches. “He has told me he intends to do so.”

“I don’t suppose it would do any good to inquire as to how you came by the wound.”

“Does it matter, sir?” She would rather not admit she and the captain were smugglers, pursued by one of His Majesty’s revenue cutters.

“Perhaps not. Keep the wound clean and give it fresh air.” He handed her a small pot with a cork stuck in it. “Here is some salve. You will need it, for the wound will itch as it heals. Once you have a lady’s clothing, do not bind your stays or lace your gowns as tightly as you might otherwise.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, accepting his salve and his advice.

He paused as if considering what next to say. “I am very fond of the impudent capitaine, Mademoiselle, and since he has brought you to me, concern for you seeping from his every pore, I can only assume he is very fond of you. Know this: He bears wounds only seen with the heart, and the scars that have formed over the years still pain him. Tread carefully.”

The surgeon’s manner was in earnest, his counsel sincere and given for a purpose. She would remember it. “Thank you for telling me.”

He returned her a small smile and, with his words still echoing in her mind, she followed him out of the room. In the entry, Donet paced before the door.

When he looked up, brows raised in question, Bouchet said, “The wound heals nicely. You have done well, Capitaine, though you would have done better to have prevented the lady’s wound in the first place.”

“You are right, of course,” said Donet with uncharacteristic humility. “I will endeavor to assure la Reine Noire is not again exposed to the muskets of England’s Royal Marines.”

Joanna cringed. ’Twas the very information she had hoped to conceal.

The surgeon chuckled. “I recall hearing similar words from you before.”

Donet reached into his pocket and pulled out some coins. Bouchet waved him off. “You have given me enough money over the years to pay for my lodgings for the next decade. I would rather you spent your gold on proper garments for the lady.”

Joanna offered her hand to the surgeon, whom she was coming to like very much. Anyone who stood up to Donet earned her respect. “Thank you, Monsieur.”

“My pleasure,” he replied, bowing over her hand. Then he winked at Donet and went back into his office, closing the door.

They returned to the street and Donet assisted her into the waiting carriage.

“He is a surgeon of great skill?”

“He has saved the life of more than one of my crew. We hold him in the highest regard but, unfortunately, I have not been able to persuade him to sail with me.”

“Your talk of Royal Marines firing on your ship would not convince him to leave France?”

He chuckled. “You are probably correct. He knows well the hazards of the sea, particularly on a privateer’s ship. Even as a merchantman, my decks are not always free of danger. I take it you did not tell him?”

“I said nothing of how I came by the wound.”

“Well, Bouchet has seen enough to recognize yours for what it is. Given his optimistic words of your recovery, if you are willing, I would take you next to the modiste.”

“I cannot follow you about Lorient dressed like this.” She opened the cloak to reveal her male attire. “Yes, by all means, the modiste’s.”