To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (3 page)

Claire frowned. “But her dream was to become a teaching
sister.”

As gently as she could, Sister Augustin said, “Wanting
something is not the same as getting it, Claire.” Her nerves tightened a little
as something like disapproval clouded Claire’s face.

“Surely you would not have refused her because she was not
from a noble family?”

The question was not unexpected so Sister Augustin took no
offense. “Of course not.” Claire’s expression eased a little. “It had occurred
to me that Élise might have entertained the hope of joining us. Sadly, she did
not broach the subject with me or the sisters, so we had no opportunity to
counsel her.” She hesitated. “The truth of the matter is her health alone would
have made it impossible. She would not have been physically able to endure the
convent’s routine. Nor did she have the inner strength for this life.”

Claire lifted her chin. For a moment, Sister Augustin
thought she saw a flicker of the old defiance.

“Unlike
me
?”

Refusing to be drawn into an argument, Sister Augustin
placed her rosary on the desk and rose from her chair. The young woman also
rose.

“Think about it, Claire. In your evening prayers tonight,
ask God what he would have you do. Tomorrow morning, after Lauds, come and see
me. If, after prayer and contemplation, you are still of this mind, I will
write to your father. But I cannot predict his thoughts on the matter.”

Claire bowed her head, then turned and left the room.

Sister Augustin stared after her.
That young woman is special
.
She was tempted to tell Claire’s father the girl should be allowed to join the
Order, but she hesitated, and then dismissed the thought, knowing in her heart
it was not the right thing. Claire would be a fierce defender of the
downtrodden and an intelligent and creative teacher, yet Sister Augustin could
not escape her inner conviction that Claire Donet was meant for something a
world away from the convent in Saint-Denis.

She settled into her chair and stared out the window,
fearing the answer she would receive the next morning would not be the one she
hoped to hear.

Rye Harbor, England

A pounding on his cabin door interrupted Simon Powell’s
examination of the chart of the English Channel spread upon his desk. “Enter!”

The door burst open and Amos Busby, the burly first mate on
Simon’s second ship, the
Abundance
, erupted into the cabin, his wiry
brown hair clinging to the sweat on his forehead. “Captain,” he rasped. His
chest heaved as he hunched over, hands on his knees, wheezing.

Surprised to see Amos in Rye, Simon snapped his fingers at
his cabin boy who stood open-mouthed beside the desk. “Pour the man some ale,
Nate.”

“Yes, sir.” The lad snatched up the pewter flagon, splashed
some of the amber liquid into a mug and pushed it toward the first mate’s
outstretched hand.

Amos straightened, took a long swig and wiped his mouth with
the back of his hand. “Aye, that’s better.” He stepped forward and set the mug
on the desk. “’Twas this morning before dawn, sir. The damned Frenchie Donet
seized the
Abundance
.”

Simon surged out of his chair, the legs screeching across
the timbered deck in protest, as his mind tried to take in the words. “
What?
”
Fury raced like a firestorm through his veins. “That heathen frog has my ship?”

Amos backed away from the desk in the face of Simon’s wrath.
“We were anchored off Dover in heavy fog, sir. I had just come on shore with
some of the crew, fixing to arrange for supplies when, bold as brass, a sloop
flying the red ensign of one of our merchantmen crept up in the fog, and its
crew slithered over the rail with knives between their teeth.”

“You saw this?”

“No. ’Twas Zeb, the cabin boy. He was the only one to
escape. Jumped overboard and swam to shore”

Simon let out a breath and raked his fingers through his
hair. “Bloody hell.” His brows drew together in a puzzled frown. “How did you
know it was Donet? He captains a brig-sloop with that Frenchified Jolly Roger
of his.”

Amos held up his hand. “A minute, sir.” He disappeared out
the cabin door, immediately returning with a young lad in tow. Simon recognized
Zeb Grant, the cabin boy on the
Abundance
. Soon after he was hired on,
the sandy-haired lad had become a favorite of John Wingate, captain of the
Abundance
.

“Here’s the lad, Captain,” the first mate said, shoving the
boy forward.

Zeb quaked before Simon’s intense gaze.

“I understand you were there, Zeb. Did the ship fly a Jolly
Roger on a blue field?”

“Nay, sir. She flew a British flag.” That news did not
surprise Simon. Pirates and privateers carried many flags.

“Did the men who attacked you speak French? Did they talk of
Donet?”

The lad stood at attention, obviously proud of the knowledge
he alone possessed. “They did, sir. They spoke the Frenchie tongue. I
understood some. One of ’em dropped Donet’s name and reminded his men of their
orders.”

Busby interjected, “The crew would’ve been suspicious of any
ship, Captain, even an English one coming so close, but the fog hid them.”

“’Twas as dense as pease porridge, Cap’n, with nary a light
on deck,” said Zeb. “Made the Frenchies near invisible till they were
’longside.”

Simon fixed his gaze on the cabin boy. He needed answers,
not excuses. “And the crew?” he demanded, concern for his men settling into his
gut like a heavy weight.

“The Frenchies said their orders were not to kill ’em, but
one of ours took a knife in the chest and a few suffered slashes before I
jumped. We was outnumbered, sir, ’twas at least two to one.”

“It’s not like Donet to attack a privateer,” said Simon.
“His usual fare is English supply ships.”
What the devil is he up to?

“I’m thinking it was the crew and the ship he was after,”
suggested the first mate.

“They talked of capture,” Zeb cut in.

“Did they say nothing of cargo?” Simon asked.

“No, sir,” Zeb replied in earnest.

“’Twas an odd affair, Captain,” said Amos. “It’s not like
the bloodthirsty Donet to be so—”

“Gracious?” Simon raised his brows. “No, I should say not.
Damn scurvy corsair!” For years, the French pirate had been the bane of their
existence, attacking English merchantmen and supply ships for the cargo bound
for the Colonies. But from his contacts in Paris, Simon had recently learned
that the American commissioner, Dr. Franklin, had been enlisting privateers in
his cause to gain prisoners to exchange for Americans held by the British. “Seems
like Donet has a new mission.”

“Aye, sir,” Busby replied. “And maybe a new letter of
marque.”

“Pirate scum.” Simon clenched his teeth and his eyes
fastened on the
Abundance
’s cabin boy. “What of Captain Wingate?”

“It were him that took the knife in the chest,” said Zeb,
sadness and worry etched on his young face.

Simon sank into his chair, resting his forehead in his hand.
Wingate was a good captain and more. He was a friend from their boyhood days in
Dartmouth who’d signed on as a seaman the same day as Simon.

After a moment, Simon raised his head. The
Abundance
’s
first mate looked dead on his feet. “Sit down Mr. Busby.”

The man eagerly reached for a chair.

“Nate, fetch Mr. Landor and Mr. Hawkins,” ordered Simon.

“Aye, sir.” The boy darted through the door.

Simon turned his attention back to Zeb. “Do you know if
Captain Wingate’s wound was fatal?”

“I didn’t stay long enough to find out, sir. The knife was
stuck high in his chest near his shoulder, so mebbe not. ’Twas him who yelled
at me to jump just after he took the blade.”

Simon turned to the windows, casting his gaze on the harbor
and the sun glistening off the water. The river mouth formed a huge marsh, a
labyrinth for any pursuers, the perfect port for a privateer, which is why he
had selected it as the home port for his two schooners. He let out an
exasperated sigh. If the
Abundance
had been anchored here, he would
still have a second ship, and he would still have his friend.

At the sound of boots coming toward him, Simon shifted his
attention to the cabin doorway where his curly-haired first mate, Jordan
Landor, appeared. Behind him was Elijah Hawkins, the wizened old bos’n of the
Fairwinds
.
The old salt wore his usual dark blue knit cap pulled down over his ears where
it met his short gray beard.

“Captain?” said Jordan, his green eyes casting an anxious
glance at the first mate from the
Abundance
.

“Come in, Jordan. You, too, Elijah. We have a most
unpleasant business to deal with.”

With a nod and a mumbled “Amos” to the first mate from the
Abundance
,
the two men claimed the remaining chairs in front of his desk. Young Nate and
Zeb took a stand in front of his shelf bed.

Simon allowed his gaze to drift out the window, this time
stretching beyond the harbor toward the coastline of France. In a somber mood,
his jaw set in firm resolve, he turned to face the two men who had joined them.

“Donet has struck again and this time he has taken the
Abundance
.”

Simon studied the faces of the men who were gathered a few
days later around a table in the common room of the Mermaid Inn in Rye, key
members of his crew from the
Fairwinds
, and several from the
Abundance
who had been ashore when it was seized. Good men and true, some former Royal
Navy, some who’d crewed with him on his first ship and some from Dartmouth, all
now together as one, having fought enough battles in the last several years to
bind them together.

From their faces, he could see his men still seethed at the
Frenchman’s effrontery. For his own part, Simon was more than a little
embarrassed that one of his ships had been so easily taken. If his friend John
Wingate had survived the knife wound, he would be giving himself a scathing
rebuke about now.

“We must retake her and regain the crew,” Simon said, not
bothering to hide his anger. “I will not lose them to that heathen, God-cursed
Frenchman.”

Sally arrived at their table just then to hand out mugs of
ale. “Can I get you and your men some food, Captain Powell?” The blonde
innkeeper’s daughter waited for a response while glancing at the others, but their
gazes were fixed on Simon.

“Not just now, lass, we’ve a problem to solve,” he said.
“Perhaps later.”

“Just give a shout when you’re ready.” She smiled and left,
swaying her hips flirtatiously as she walked away. Simon watched her wend her
way through the empty tables to the one by the front window where two men
conversed over their food. It was only afternoon and the tavern had yet to fill
for the evening, which suited his purpose well.

“It can be done,” said Jordan Landor, in a low voice, his
green eyes staring off into the distance. “Donet can’t stay in Lorient forever
and I reckon that’s where he’s holed up with the
Abundance
.” Then
turning to Simon, “He’ll be expecting trouble and prepared to sink us right
quick. ‘Twill call for stealth.”

“Aye,” said Simon. He’d had experience at stealth, going in
and out of France for the last several years collecting messages and gathering
information for his superiors in London.

Undaunted, he was about to set forth his plans for the
hazardous mission when Amos Busby spoke up. “I’ll go, Captain. It’s my crew,
too.”

Simon nodded. “We’ll include you in the plans, Amos.”

Elijah Hawkins pulled his pipe from his mouth. “I’ve a
thought ye might want to consider, Cap’n.”

All eyes turned to the old bos’n whose advice, though rarely
given, was seldom ignored.

“And that would be?” Simon raised a brow.

Elijah took a draw on his pipe, then blew out the smoke.
“I’d heard tell Donet had turned to privateerin’, so I did some sniffin’
around, askin’ about ‘im on the quiet like. Knew it was only a matter o’ time
before he tangled with us.” He laid the stem of his pipe along the side of his
nose, a sly grin deepening the multitude of wrinkles carved into his face.
“Last time we slipped into Paris to see the Scribe, I learned somethin’ I
reckon will be right useful now.”

Elijah’s reference to “the Scribe” stirred Simon’s interest.
It was their name for the British spy who worked as a secretary for the
American mission in Paris. “And?” he asked impatiently.

Speaking out of one side of his mouth, holding his pipe in
the other, Elijah leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Seems Donet has
somethin’ he prizes more than his ship.” The old seaman sat back in his chair,
a satisfied smile on his face as he puffed on his pipe.

Simon narrowed his gaze. “Enough mystery, Elijah. What could
he possibly prize more than
la Reine Noire
?”

A gleam came into Elijah’s pale blue eyes. “A daughter,
Cap’n—”

“He has a daughter?” Jordan blurted out, his brows rising.
“I didn’t even know he had a wife.”

“He’s not had a wife fer many a year,” said Elijah. He
turned the stem of his pipe toward them, stabbing the air as he spoke. “That’s
why he keeps the daughter in a convent near Paris.” He scratched the side of
his nose with the end of his pipe. “Must be young if she’s there, I should
think.” Then to Simon, “If ye had her, I ‘spect ye’d soon have yer ship.”

“Hmm,” murmured Simon, thinking of the possibilities. They
could sail to Dieppe, the closest port to Paris, and after a days’ carriage
ride, take the girl from the convent.

“You know where this convent is?” he asked Elijah.

The old bosun sat back in his chair, his pipe resting on his
chest and a smug look on his face. “It just so happens I do.”

“It might work,” said Simon, letting his gaze drift over his
men to judge their reaction. “If there are no objections, gentlemen, we’ll set
our course for Dieppe, not Lorient.”

Every head at the table nodded.

In less than an hour, Simon and his men were back on the
Fairwinds
gathered round a map of the area surrounding Paris, planning the raid that
would gain them a treasure for ransom.

“We need some intelligence,” insisted Simon after they’d
agreed on the plan. “I’d not want to grab the wrong girl in the dead of night.”

“I’ll do the scoutin’, Cap’n,” offered Elijah. “I can take
Mr. Berube with me. The sailmaker speaks the Frenchie tongue as well as ye an’
me. Once in France, we can travel by horse. If all goes well, we’ll be back in
a little over a week.”

Simon thought Giles Berube a good choice for the mission.
He’d spent his youth in France before coming to England to live with his uncle
who was a sailmaker in Dartmouth where Simon had first met him. Simon nodded to
Elijah. “Aye, and while you are there, see if the Scribe has left any messages
for me. This business with Donet has delayed my return.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” said the trusted old seaman.