Page 10 of A Fierce Wind

The corner of her mouth rose in a smile. “Since when do we stand on formalities?”

“Since you turned twenty and Donet watches over you like the pirate he once was.”

Her only reply was to roll her eyes and press the spoon to his lips.

The thought of her feeding him was not unappealing. “Tyrant,” he mumbled as he opened his mouth and swallowed the gingered carrot soup, another of his favorites. “Is Cook complaining of my special treatment?”

“Not a word after I told her you probably saved my life and that of Oncle Jean’s.”

When he finished the soup, she lifted a bite of omelette to his mouth. He took the fork from her hand. “How about you hold the plate and I handle the fork? We’ll work together, n’est-ce pas?”

She returned him a fetching one-sided smile, seemingly content with her part as long as he continued to eat. Perhaps it was due to having lost her parents so young but, in the years he had known her, he had observed Zoé had a need to cosset those she loved. That he was considered friend enough to qualify for her care was at least something. One day, he hoped she would want him to be more.

The last of the omelette soon disappeared. With a raised brow, she regarded the clean plate. “You appear to have been ravenous.”

“Indeed, I was.”

She handed him a napkin. “’Tis a good sign.” Reaching to the bedside table, she picked up a single sheet of paper. “I brought you the Gazette. What fills Guernsey’s meager newspaper is taken from the Paris journals we have yet to receive.”

“I cannot imagine any news from Paris is good these days unless it’s a battle the Republic has lost to England and her allies.”

“Normally, I would agree, however, ’tis a good day when Georges Danton meets the guillotine.”

Freddie raised a brow. “The architect of the September Massacres is dead?”

“Aye, along with Camille Desmoulins and thirteen others. It seems Robespierre has taken swift vengeance upon his opponents.” She glanced down at the newspaper. “According to this, ’tis because Danton and Desmoulins advocated peace with France’s enemies.”

“Robespierre could not have been happy to learn Desmoulins, his childhood friend, desired peace.”

“… with England, Austria and Prussia,” she finished. “And, more than that, Desmoulins wanted an end to the Terror Robespierre himself prescribed.” She handed him the paper. “Danton’s last words were, ‘Robespierre will follow me.’”

“Would that it were so.” Freddie glanced at the Gazette then gazed out the open window next to his bed, past the flowers at the edge of the lawn to the sun shining off the azure blue waters surrounding Guernsey. A world away from the horrors in France yet only a short distance from the coast of Normandy. A wave of fatigue washed over him. He turned back to Zoé. “Meanwhile, Pigeon, did the refugees get safely to the ship?”

“Aye, they did and now they are all here. Not that I’m displeased with your foolishness, Freddie. But why did you do it?”

“Do what?” He hoped his feigned innocence was convincing.

“Take that boat and come after me!” She narrowed her eyes. “It was me you came after, wasn’t it? You could not have known my uncle had arrived in Granville.”

He summoned his rational self. He would not mention the horrible fear for her that had overcome him that night. “You were late. Moreover, I was perturbed that you left the ship knowing I meant to accompany you.” Seeing she remained unconvinced, he added, “You ask too many questions.”

A movement at the open door caused Freddie to look up. There stood a striking young woman poised to enter. He did not recognize her as one of the Donets’ many servants but her lace-edged mobcap and simple gown marked her as such. “A new member of the household?” he asked Zoé.

Regarding the woman over her shoulder, Zoé said, “’Tis Madame de Montconseil’s maidservant. What is it, Éloise?”

The woman grinned at Freddie. “My mistress sent me to see if I may be of assistance.”

“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said Zoé, “but come and meet my friend, Frederick West.” She turned to Freddie and smiled. “The hero of the day.”

Éloise padded toward his bed, her blue eyes twinkling as she dropped a brief curtsey. “Bonjour, M’sieur.”

“Bon matin to you, Éloise.”

Her forehead wrinkled in surprise. “You are Anglais?”

“He is… well, almost always,” Zoé interjected.

Freddie chided her with a frown. “Best not to venture into that, Pigeon, or you will confuse her. Besides, she need not know.” Zoé knew little of his work for the Crown, but there were times, and they could both recite the stories, when he had posed as a French merchant to help her retrieve the refugees. His French was that good he had never been detected as the Englishman he was.