To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (6 page)

He spoke to her in English. “Do not think to try it,
mademoiselle. I am a very good swimmer.”

Her plan thwarted, she crossed her arms over her chest, shot
him a frown and looked away, obviously seething.

No matter her resentment, she would soon learn that while he
could be polite, he would have his way, particularly when it meant recovering
his men and his ship.

Lorient,
on the coast of Brittany

Jean Donet strode confidently across the deck of his ship to
stand at the rail. Gazing into the sunset, he pulled his cocked hat low over
his forehead. His hair was neatly queued at his nape. Though quite different
than how he dressed as the captain of a privateer, it was his usual attire when
contemplating a visit to his daughter—a bunch of lace at his chin, a waistcoat
of burgundy velvet, and breeches of black satin above white stockings and silver-buckled
shoes.

Beyond the port of Lorient, where his ship was anchored, the
sky drew his attention where it met the sea in a flame of deep orange melting
into a band of dark red. Above the fiery colors, streaks of yellow and gold cut
large swaths across the celestial canvas. A more spectacular sunset he had
never seen. Claire would have thought so, too. But she would never see the
sunset from the deck of his ship. He could never tell her of his former
smuggling and subsequent piracy, or the sixteen-gun brig-sloop they had gained
him, named after the black-hearted queen of France herself, wife of the king
who oppressed the French people. Claire could never know that her papa was now
a privateer sailing under an American letter of marque—and an American flag. He
had happily retired the one with the skull and crossbones set against a blue
field of fleurs-de-lis he had used as a pirate.

Claire and the good sisters of the Ursuline Convent in
Saint-Denis knew him only as the wealthy son of the comte de Saintonge. And, in
truth, he was that, though there was so much more to know. Had they known the
whole of it, they would have been dismayed.

As a younger son, he had known if he married outside his
noble father’s wishes, he would have few prospects and fewer coins. But despite
that, he had married the beautiful Ariane Moline when he was twenty and she but
seventeen. The estrangement from his father that followed mattered little
compared to the desperate passion he’d had for Ariane, a passion that had not
abated in the years God gave them.

He thought of his daughter, born soon after his marriage,
and rubbed the thin mustache on his upper lip as he pondered. Claire had his
black hair and Ariane’s blue eyes, the same eyes that haunted his dreams. Now
that she was of age he would fulfill his promise to Ariane and ensure their
daughter’s future.

And, afterwards? He had no idea. His country had defied
England, with whom they were not actually at war, in order to help create an
American republic that many feared might one day devour Europe. He hoped that
would never be and that France—and he—had made the right choice. He had reason
to believe they had. The unpleasantness with England was showing signs of
ending. America would soon be free and the connections he had made in the
government would assist whatever future course he chose.

“
Capitaine
?” The rough voice of his quartermaster
roused him from his meandering thoughts.

He turned to face the man who had sailed with him for the
last nine years. “
Oui
?” Of uncertain origins, Émile Bequel was in his
late thirties, the same as Jean, though he looked older. The quartermaster’s
swarthy face was all hard planes, his dark eyes disclosing little. Yet he’d
faithfully discharged every task Jean had ever assigned him. Since the first day
his quartermaster had glimpsed Claire at the convent six years ago, the tough
seaman had loved her as if she were his own child.

“The
Abundance
is anchored in port,” said Émile.

“Ah,
c’est
bien
. And the English prisoners?”

“In the warehouse where M’sieur Bouchet sees to their
wounds.”

“None were killed?”

“No, the men were careful to take them alive, though one
tried some foolish heroics and was wounded worse than the others.”

Jean pictured the old physician they had relied upon since
he began sailing. Pierre Bouchet was a man of small stature and thinning gray
hair, but with fine features behind his spectacles. Even now, he would be bent
over the injured captives and soundly cursing Jean under his breath. Perhaps
Bouchet had cause. Over the years, the physician had cleaned up more blood from
the wounds of his men than Jean cared to remember.

He turned to his quartermaster. “See that Bouchet is
rewarded.”

“Already done,” Émile confidently replied.

“Excellent.” Concern for his crew made him ask, “Any lost?”

“Not one. Lucien tells me it was easier than he’d expected.
Sailed that English sloop we captured last week into Dover unnoticed.
La
chance
was with him. Just as he arrived, a large number of the crew on the
Abundance
went ashore. Lucien was able to board her in the fog, surprising the captain
who was still on board.”

Jean couldn’t resist a smile. Capturing the English sloop
had proven fortuitous, indeed. He rested his hands on the polished wood rail
and looked back to the fading sunset. “First we will go to the convent to see
Claire, then to Paris to call upon M’sieur Franklin.”

“The commissioner will be pleased to learn we have another
load of prisoners for him to barter for his precious Americans,” said Émile.

“I will let him have the English sloop and both crews. You
can sail the sloop and the prisoners to Dieppe, but I intend to keep Powell’s
fine schooner. I want it for Claire’s dowry. The
Abundance
is a proper
name for such a purpose, no?”

Émile chuckled. “Have you told the little one of her coming
marriage?”

“I wrote of it to the Mother Superior in my last letter, so
perhaps Claire knows.”

“Do you think she will be pleased with your choice?”

“I will know soon enough.”

Rye Harbor

Claire sat on the edge of the bed where Captain Powell had
rudely dropped her only moments before, leaving both her thoughts and her gown
in a jumble.

The infernal privateer claimed her papa was a pirate.
Absurde!
Could he have Papa confused with another man?
Surely a comte’s son would
have no dealings with an English sea captain. But then she recalled the night
she had first encountered the golden one. He was attending a ball. In France.
With members of the nobility. The possibility the English captain knew more
about her papa than she did made her stomach clench.
It could not be!

Without warning, the ship lurched. She leapt up to go to the
window, nearly falling to the deck as she tried unsuccessfully to walk while
the ship rolled and the world shifted beneath her feet. Grabbing on to the
captain’s desk, she steadied herself and gazed out the window to see the cliffs
fading into the horizon. The nuns had taught her geography, so she knew the
coastline of France. And she knew the location of Rye, where he’d said they
were headed. It was one of the Cinque Ports on the southeast coast of England.
But knowing that brought no comfort. She felt only a deep sense of loss and a
foreboding for what lay ahead. Would she ever see the cliffs of France again?

Still holding on to the desk, she maneuvered herself into
the chair and studied the cabin. Its location in the ship and its size told her
it must be the captain’s.
Who is this man who has taken me captive?
She
knew nothing of him save for what she’d learned the night of the masquerade
when she’d seen him with the female hussar. Her cheeks heated at the memory of
the two lovers trysting beneath the tree. A future nun should never have
witnessed such a sight. But she had. And she had wondered even then if it had
changed her forever, awakening a part of her that would never be silenced.

His cabin was larger and better appointed than she would
have imagined. The windows on the sides allowed light to stream through the
panes of glass framed by dark blue curtains. The bed where he had thrown her so
unceremoniously a short while ago was covered with the same dark blue cloth.
That he had dropped her in his bed did not escape her notice. With a deep
breath, she continued her survey. Four chairs surrounded an oak pedestal table
in the center of the cabin. On the table sat a fenced tray that held four round
bowl glasses and a flat-bottomed decanter of what she assumed—with his forays
into Paris—was French brandy.

A bookcase, built into the side of the cabin, contained
shelves crowded with well-used volumes secured by wooden strips. At least she’d
have something to read to occupy her time.

Her searching eyes found no weapons. She had yet to examine
the content of his chests but somehow she was certain he’d removed the sword, a
pistol and a knife a privateer would be expected to have. Not that she’d been trained
in the use of any of them. Panic rose in her chest. Would she need a weapon? If
he was holding her as hostage, as he had said, would he harm her? Would he
allow his men to do so? She shuddered at the possibility.

A glance around the cabin told her someone took good care of
Captain Powell, or he insisted on order. Everything was in its place and spoke
of a discipline she would not have imagined when she’d first seen the
flamboyant golden one at the masquerade. There was obviously more to this English
captain than she had thought at first.

The cabin door swung open and a boy of perhaps twelve
entered carrying a wooden tray. With an easy stride, he reached the desk as if
the deck wasn’t reeling beneath his feet and set down his burden.

Doffing his dark brown tricorne, he bowed. “Good day,
mistress.” Straightening, he smiled. “Cap’n says ye speak English. I’m to see
to yer needs.” The boy, who was a handsome lad with sun-bleached, brown hair,
ruddy cheeks and brown eyes, a shade lighter than his hat, seemed elated to
have her as a new responsibility. “I brought ye some food, though I can’t vouch
fer its taste. We’ve a new cook.”

She looked down at the plate of mangled eggs. “Hmm.”

The boy pursed his lips as if unsure what more to say about
the master of their galley. “New cook’s name’s McGinnes. Tom McGinnes. Ye’ll be
meetin’ ‘im soon, I ‘spect. Hails from Ireland. He’s young fer a cook. Me belly
tells me he ain’t been cookin’ long neither, but the cap’n likes ’im.”

“And who might you be?” she asked, fixing a pleasant smile
on her face. If he was going to tend to her needs, she wanted his favor. He
might become an ally and help her escape.

He stared at her as if he hadn’t heard the question. Then
shaking his head like he was coming out of a trance, he said, “Oh, did I ferget
to say, miss? I’m Cap’n Powell’s cabin boy. Me name’s Nathaniel Baker, but
everyone calls me Nate… well unless the cap’n’s issuin’ orders or angry. Then
I’m Mr. Baker.” His brown eyes twinkled.

She shared a smile with him. “Does he get angry very often?”
Despite the captain’s assurances he would treat her well, and she had seen him
at his most charming, she wondered.

“Not often, miss.”

Her gaze returned to the tray. In addition to the eggs,
there were fresh berries, brioche, butter and a pot of jam.
Brioche?
“Does the ship’s crew often dine on our sweetened French bread?”

“The cap’n has a fondness for it, so whenever he’s in
France, one of the crew picks up a supply.”

“Most civilized.”

“Best part is ’twas not made by McGinnes.” The boy grinned.
“He tried to make rolls a few days ago, but they were as hard as rocks. The
cap’n ferbade ‘im from doin’ it again.”

She liked the lad. “My name is Claire Donet, but then I
suppose you know that.”

“Aye, mistress, I do.” The boy tipped his hat and started
toward the door. “I’ll bring ye some water. Oh, and the cap’n’s asked me to get
ye some shoes when we anchor in Rye.” He stole a glance at her bare feet as if
trying to fix the size.

“Thank you, Nate. You are most kind.”

“The cap’n’s done right by me, miss. When he got this ship,
he took me with ‘im. I’ve been here ever since.”

Well at least he can be generous with small boys
. “I
would take it as a favor, Nate, if you would tell the captain I’d like to speak
with him.”

Looking doubtful, the boy nevertheless agreed. “Aye, miss,
I’ll tell ‘im. What should I say ’tis about?”

“He must return me to the convent, Nate.”

With that, the lad shrugged and retreated to the door
leaving her alone. She turned to her food, suddenly ravenous. Captain Powell
must be made to see reason.

Sainte Mère, he cannot keep me here!