To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (11 page)

Disturbed by her thought and afraid he might catch her
staring, Claire quickly turned to watch the men at the anchor finish their
work. The ones who had manned the capstan were removing and stowing the bars,
all the while exchanging friendly insults.

The thick anchor rope was now splayed on deck. It was
dripping water and covered with mud, muck, slime—and to her horror—sea
creatures! The muck had fallen onto the legs and hands of the crew, though they
did not seem to notice. The creatures flopped, flailed and scuttled about the
deck obviously trying to get away. She saw starfish and slimy things she could
not identify slithering toward her. In a matter of minutes, they began to dry
out in the warm air and a sickening smell rose in her nostrils. With a grimace,
she stepped from the rail, backing away from the creatures.

Nate followed her, asking with a grin, “Are ye bothered by a
wee sample of the sea, miss?”

“Not entirely,” she said truthfully. “But I am glad they are
over there and I am now over here.”

The cabin boy laughed, drawing the attention of the captain.
For a moment her gaze met his where he stood at the helm. She looked away,
embarrassed that she was staring once again at his powerful form.

“Do they always sing with their work?” she asked Nate in an
attempt to cover her lapse.

“Most times. It makes the work go easier.”

The ship rolled beneath her feet leaving Claire unsteady.
She looked toward the rail, a short distance away. Observing her plight, Nate
offered his arm, which she gratefully accepted. “Thank you, Nate. I’m still a
bit awkward on deck.”

He tipped his tricorne to her. “Any time, mistress.”

Simon was pleased at their progress. Their course was steady,
heading south by southeast, taking advantage of the favorable winds at their
back as they headed into the Channel. It was a warm summer’s day without clouds
or rain on the horizon. The waters, though never placid, were not white
capping.

He exalted in having his hands on the wheel, feeling the
Fairwinds
respond to his urgings. Like a woman she was, though easier to tame than some.
He might have no family but he had his crew, and his ships, or he would as soon
as he returned the girl.

He shot a glance at his captive and smiled at the thought of
the convent-raised girl moving her foot in time to his men’s work song. She had
more spirit than even she was aware of. He recalled their earlier dinner where
she had acted the lady, but he also knew there was fire in her belly and he
liked it when she could not contain it, no matter it might be anger that
spilled forth. He liked her kissing him back when she was angry even more.

She had apologized for making a mess of his cabin. Likely
her convent training made her feel guilty for the incident. It prompted the
thought that had been rumbling around in his head since he’d first taken her
from Saint-Denis. How could such a woman become a nun? He was not mistaken
about her. She had a fiery temper like no nun he’d ever met. And he’d seen her
pleasure at their sailing, her face lifting to the wind with a look of intense
joy as the ship glided out of the harbor. She had a desire for adventure and
the sea much like his own. It had been that same love of the sea that first led
him to join the crew of a merchant ship.

He was a son ignored by a father who only wanted to forget
his bastard’s inconvenient existence. But on his deathbed, the Earl of
Montmorency had left Simon ten thousand pounds, more than enough to purchase
and outfit his first ship, the
Abundance
, named after a legacy bestowed
by a guilty conscience.

When the request came from Lord Danvers in London to meet
with William Eden to discuss helping the government retrieve messages from
their spies in Paris, he had quickly agreed. He might be a patriot, but he was
no fool. Coming to England’s aid now, as a spy and a privateer, would serve him
well in the future. He had dreams of building a merchant shipping enterprise
the likes of which England had never seen. And for that he needed his country
at peace.

They reached the open Channel and he set a course heading
northeast toward the Strait of Dover when he heard the lookout’s cry.

“Sail ho!”

“Where away?” shouted Jordan from amidships.

“Dead ahead!” came the reply on the wind.

His first mate strode toward him wearing a serious
expression and holding out a spyglass. “Captain, you’d best have a look.”

Simon gestured for Jordan to take the wheel and accepted the
spyglass, extending it to its full length as he studied the sails on the
horizon. The ship was a fair distance away, but he caught a flicker of red,
white and blue flying off the stern of what looked to be a brig-sloop. If Donet
had an American letter of marque he might fly that flag. A sudden dread came
over him. “
La Reine Noire
?”

“Aye, could be. A brig-sloop to be sure. Might be coming
from Calais.”

Casting his gaze about the deck, he spotted the French girl
still standing at the rail with his cabin boy. The lad was so absorbed in their
conversation, he’d likely missed the threat. “Mr. Baker!”

The boy turned. “Sir?” he yelled back.

“See our passenger to my cabin—now!”

Nate took her by the elbow and hustled her toward the aft
hatch. As they drew closer to where Simon stood on the quarterdeck, she gave
him a puzzled look.

“It seems your father intends to pay us a visit,
mademoiselle.”

“Papa?” she asked, concern showing in her beautiful blue
eyes. Tendrils of her ebony hair whipped about her face causing something to
settle in his chest, a longing he’d not experienced before. Produced as it was
by Donet’s daughter, it was most unwelcome.

Ignoring her question, with a jerk of his head he signaled
to Nate that haste was in order. The lad urged her through the hatch to the
deck below.

“Will he attack?” Jordan asked, staring eastward toward the
sails growing larger on the horizon.

“Aye, he will for a certainty, but he won’t be looking to
sink us. He’ll not risk his daughter. I expect he’ll try to do enough damage to
leave us limping so he can board. Donet would have his daughter and keep his
spoils, if he could.”

Simon raised the spyglass. The brig-sloop was beating
against the wind, heading toward them through the rough waters of the Channel.
As he watched, the ship veered off slightly. He handed the glass back to Jordan
and took control of the wheel. “He’s moving to attack from the south. If I’m
right, he’ll try and rake our starboard.”

“Your plan?” asked his first mate.

“To escape, of course. I’ll not risk my ship against so many
guns. And, like Donet, I’ll not risk the lady.” Simon felt protective of her,
even possessive, but he knew his feelings for her were not worth a button on his
waistcoat. He must think only of his men. “Neither will I fail to engage.”

He bellowed to his crew, “Run out the guns!” His men,
watching the other ship closing, were swift to move.

The French ship, as Simon had predicted, was preparing to
bear in passing with its guns rolled out, ready to blow holes in the
Fairwinds
.

“Hold fire!” Simon shouted, gritting his teeth. To allow
Donet to fire his guns while his own men did nothing was asking a lot. But for
his plan to work, he needed them to forebear.

Turning to Jordan, he barked, “Give me all the sail you
can!”

His first mate shouted the orders aloft. The square-sails
filled with a “thump” and the yards creaked as the
Fairwinds
picked up
speed, lunging ahead like a racehorse hearing the starting shot.

A moment later, Donet’s guns blazed away. A crash, followed
by a crunching noise, told him the French guns had hit wood. But as the
Fairwinds
sailed clear of the cloud of smoke, Simon let out the breath he’d been holding.
From what he could see, only the fancywork on the stern’s transom had been
clipped. His smaller, lighter, faster schooner had managed to fling itself out
of the reach of most of the Frenchman’s guns. Below decks, his captive would be
frightened, but it could not be helped. He would comfort her later.

Grinding the wheel hard to port, Simon deliberately turned
across the wind, a tactic he knew might lose him the forward drive he needed.
The sails shivered and flapped, but then caught the wind with a crack like a
whip. The main boom swept across the deck, and the schooner was through the
wind and away on her new tack, running a circle around the slower, larger ship.

When the schooner turned across the bow of the Frenchman, he
bellowed, “Fire!”

The
Fairwinds
’ guns belched smoke sending shot into
the French ship from stem to stern, destroying, Simon hoped, at least some of
their gunnery posts. He was rewarded with the sound of a smash, the splintering
of wood and shouts coming from the brig-sloop as the French crew scrambled to
deal with the damage.

He turned the wheel again, this time hard to starboard,
bringing the wind to their back. With
la Reine Noire
crippled, unable to
fire its guns, Simon set a course for the Strait of Dover, and to the cheers of
his crew, sped away.

When the cabin door opened, Claire was still shaking, shocked
at all she had endured.

“Are you all right?” said the captain, his brows drawn
together. His white shirt stretched across his muscled chest, he appeared a
strong tower in a swirling world of chaos.

Without thinking, she ran into his arms and held on to the
one man she’d wanted in the midst of the battle.

No, I am not all right.

Minutes before, her heart in her throat, she had stared into
the mouths of eight threatening guns, too stunned to move and not knowing where
to flee. The moment had been suspended in time, her agony endless, as the ships
passed close in front of each other. Then, to her amazement, her papa appeared,
standing on the deck of the other ship, shouting orders to the crew. His long
black hair wild and loose about his shoulders, his dark eyes crazed with fury,
he looked every bit the pirate Captain Powell had claimed he was. When he had
shouted the command “Fire!” the guns had spit forth white smoke laced with
crimson flames. She had crossed herself, thinking her life was over. But to her
surprise, the schooner seemed to fly through the inferno. Then a loud crack had
sounded nearby sending a shudder through the deck. Pieces of wood had flown
past the windows. She had feared the ship was breaking up and gripped the edge
of the captain’s desk. But as she braced herself, the schooner shook off the
bonds of the sea and glided over the water as if it had wings.

The danger had passed, but she was still shaking. She needed
his strength. He was a lifeline in a raging sea. In his arms she felt safe.

He held her tightly and kissed the top of her head, a
gesture so tender it nearly made her weep.

“And here I’d thought to send you below decks to keep you
safe. Instead, it seems I sent you to the only place your father aimed his
guns.”

With sudden clarity, Claire understood it all. Her papa did
have a ship. And this man, this English captain—her golden one—was her papa’s
enemy, on the opposite side of America’s war. How could she find comfort in his
arms if that were true? Anger welled up inside her, anger at him and at herself
for her attraction to him. Rearing back, she sent her fist into his chest.
“You! You fired on my papa! How dare you!”

His amber eyes flashed as he clenched his jaw and lifted his
chin, but he did not let her go. “Did you happen to notice, mademoiselle, that
your beloved papa fired on my ship
first
?”

She raised her hand to slap the impudent smirk off his face
but he grabbed it, twisting it behind her. “This time I claim a prize for a
victory won.”

His lips crushed hers in a demanding kiss.

She fought his embrace, but even enraged at his
confrontation with her father, she warmed to his touch, the fight in her
melting away as his kiss became tender. Reaching her free hand to the nape of
his neck, she held him to her, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm as she
entwined her tongue with his.

He let go of her hand and, gripping her hips, drew her
tightly into his heat as he continued to kiss her.

Moments later he pulled away, the loss of his warmth leaving
her feeling bereft. She was panting and so was he.

“Sweetheart,” he said, looking into her eyes, his voice
husky, “whatever compelled a woman with your passion to seek the veil?”

She raised her chin and frowned her displeasure at the
sarcastic tone of his voice. “It is none of your concern.” She pulled away and
he let her go. It was bad enough he had fired upon her papa’s ship and scared
her half to death, turning her into a ninny, vulnerable to his masculinity and
his kiss. Never would she tell him of the consequences of her foolish behavior
the night she’d first encountered him. How could such a man understand her
promise to Élise?

“Well, you will never make a nun.”

She stiffened. “And what makes you think that, sir?”

Tossing her a wry smile, he said, “I’d be happy to show you,
mademoiselle, but I fear the display would be too sinful for you, and might
cost me the men your father holds.” And with that, he turned and abruptly
departed.

Staring at the closed cabin door, Claire felt her cheeks
warm.
Incorrigible rake!
Was he suggesting he would do to her what he
had nearly done with that female hussar?

Surprisingly, the thought was not altogether unpleasant. And
that made her wonder. Was he right when he told her she would never make a nun?