To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (9 page)

There’d been no word from Dartmouth or Donet. With a fast
coach from Paris and a faster ship across the Channel, he thought he might have
heard something by now, unless Donet had not yet received the missive he’d left
on the girl’s pillow in Saint-Denis.

An hour later, he had turned to his charts of the Channel
when his first mate stepped over the threshold. Jordan’s dark eyes, usually
full of mirth, carried a grave look. It raised the hair on the back of Simon’s
neck.

“You have news?”

Jordan stepped into the cabin. “I do. Donet received your
note. You won’t be surprised to learn he’s sent a nasty reply.”

“I expected as much. After all, we have his daughter. What
does he say?”

“You might as well read it.” He walked to the desk and
dropped the letter on top of the ship’s log.
The blue wax seal was
already broken. “The short answer is he agrees to the exchange and threatens
the crew with death if she’s harmed.”

Simon unfolded the single sheet, quickly confirming the
message, and raised his head. “He says nothing of the
Abundance
?”

“I noted that as well. Expect the pirate intends to keep
her.”

Simon sat back, wondering if he should go himself. But the
note said Donet was sending his quartermaster. And he’d need Jordan in London.
“Send Elijah and Giles to Paris for the meeting Donet wants. Whitehall has
enough of its representatives in France right now, they’ll be in good company.
Tell Elijah to demand the return of the
Abundance
as well as her crew.”

“I’ll see to it, Captain,” Jordan said and turned to leave.

Before his first mate had stepped through the cabin door,
Simon asked, “Where’s the girl now?”

Jordan paused, looked over his shoulder and smiled. “She’s
in the galley with Nate listening to tales from our new cook. Safe enough, I
think. And one of the crew stands guard as you ordered.”

He nodded and Jordan departed.
So she’s discovered
McGinnes.

During the day when he had work to do at his desk, Elijah
often escorted her to the weather deck. The galley was a new venue for her, but
he’d known she’d eventually find her way there. His Irish cook was only a few
years older than she and quite a charmer. Educated in one of the Ursuline
schools for the poor in Cork, they would have many stories to exchange. Simon
had no bias against Catholics, as many in London did, and knew the Ursulines to
do much good. That his captive was Catholic concerned him not at all. That she
was French nobility and the daughter of his enemy concerned him more.

Since Simon had kissed Donet’s daughter, they’d arrived at
an uneasy truce. He was polite and she was cool and remote, though from the way
she had responded to his kiss, he suspected a core of molten liquid simmered
beneath the surface. He was certain she feared her response should he kiss her
again. No future nun would have responded so. How would she explain
that
to the sisters in Saint-Denis? Lord knew he wanted to kiss her again. No woman
had captured his attention like the wild Claire Donet. He still remembered the
taste of her lips, the feel of her soft breasts pressed against him and the way
she had kissed him back, notwithstanding her innocence. In his mind’s eye, he
could still see the look of wonder in her passion-glazed eyes when he’d left her
in his cabin that day.

She was a tasty tidbit he dare not touch again.

Simon looked about his cabin, noting the feminine things
piled neatly on top of his sea chest at the foot of his bed. Oddly, he did not
resent the intrusion into his domain. And he liked the lavender fragrance her
presence left in his cabin.

But he had more to worry about than her dreams or his
attraction to the French beauty. Yesterday’s messages from London had included
a summons from his superiors, William Eden and Lord Danvers. He must sail to
London. The night they had taken the girl from the convent, one of his men had
retrieved additional messages from the Scribe in Paris that he must place in
their hands.

Once they were anchored in the Thames, he would leave Jordan
in command, but what was he to do with the French girl? He did not want her to
remain on the ship. Nor did he want to leave her in Rye. The Mermaid Inn was
not a safe place for a fetching young innocent who must be watched at all
times. And because of the note he had left him, Donet was now aware of Simon’s
connection to Dartmouth, so that was not an option. Not that he wanted to let
her out of his sight. There was no help for it. She would have to go with him.
He smiled to himself. She would enjoy Cornelia, Lady Danvers. After all, the
baroness, only six years older, was an American.

Claire sat in the galley listening to the cook weave stories
of Irish fairies, her mind wandering. She had been on the ship over a sennight
and anxious to escape. Once they had anchored in Rye, seeing land so close, she
had begun to devise a way to get a message to her papa. A friend would be
needed as she had no coins to bribe someone motivated only by greed. To a man,
the captain’s crew appeared loyal to him. Though she still held out some hope
young Nate could be persuaded to help her, she knew she would feel guilty for
making use of the growing affection between them.

Elijah Hawkins had introduced her to Sally at the Mermaid
Inn, who’d offered to find Claire another gown and proper underclothes. Claire
was happy for the chance to be alone with the woman, thinking the innkeeper’s
daughter might be enlisted to help. But Sally had been more interested in why a
woman was aboard the handsome captain’s ship. After listening to her prattle on
about the gallant captain of the
Fairwinds
, Claire determined the woman
was too enamored of Simon Powell to be of any assistance in her cause. The
woman’s affection for the English privateer annoyed Claire more than she wanted
to admit. Had they been lovers?
aHa
Shrugging
off the nagging thought, she admitted any help she might find for an escape
would have to come from another source. And since the captain never left her
unguarded, it would not be an easy task.

Claire had been reluctant to accept the captain’s generosity
in providing her clothes, but she reminded herself that none of the expense
would have been necessary had he not kidnapped her in the first instance. So,
reluctantly, she had accepted the clothing she so desperately needed.

One advantage of being in port was that she was able to walk
about the ship without holding on to the rail for balance. But that did not
mean she was comfortable. When Mr. Hawkins escorted her on deck, she could feel
the eyes of the crew ogling her. The only woman on the ship, she stood out like
a raven in a flock of white gulls.

Nearly all her life she had lived in the world of women. Now
she was immersed in the world of men. Even the ship’s cat, a lean, black feline
that stalked the decks for its dinner, was a male.

Sometimes the change from the convent to the ship was
jarring. The crude language and ungentlemanly habits of the crew often startled
her. Sister Angélique would have been horrified. But at those times, Claire
would suddenly become interested in the large numbers of beach-nesting terns
flying low over the harbor, their black heads and striking white plumage
catching her eye. When he was on deck, she would beg Mr. Landor to lend her his
spyglass so that she could watch the birds up close. Soon, her feigned
fascination became real as she watched the elegant birds take flight over the
rocky shore. Behind them was the hill town of Rye, a glittering topaz rising
out of a setting of blue-green water.

After a few days of strolling the deck with Mr. Hawkins,
Claire had noticed a change in the men. They cursed less and smiled more.

“’Tis yer doin’,” said Mr. Hawkins. “The men know’d ye were
in a convent. They’re not wantin’ to offend a woman who talks to the Almighty.”

“But Mr. Hawkins, I am no closer to God than is any
God-fearing man on this ship.”

“But there be few of those, lass.”

Her memory of her fit of temper in the captain’s cabin
suddenly returned with a pang of remorse. Her actions had hardly seemed godly.
Though she was an unwilling prisoner on the ship, they had treated her as the
guest Captain Powell had claimed she would be. In such circumstances, would not
the Reverend Mother expect her to be civil? If the privateer’s crew could
change, perhaps so could she. “I am grateful for the crew’s courtesy.”

“Aye, I ’spect they know that, too, mistress.” The old
seaman drew on his pipe sending a puff of smoke into the clear morning air, a
pale cloud against a sky of blue.

Because she wasn’t so preoccupied with keeping her balance
now that the ship was anchored in calm waters, she noticed more about the
schooner. It was a sleek vessel, black-hulled with two fine masts and a well
maintained deck. Even now the crew was scrubbing it clean as they did most
mornings.

When she remarked on it, Elijah explained, “’Tis the cap’n’s
baby, this one. He coddles it like a lass. Handpicked the crew, he did, from
those who’d sailed with him fer years.”

“And you are one of those?”

“Aye, been with him since he sailed as first mate under
another cap’n. Even then it was clear how good a cap’n he’d make.”

To her relief, Elijah had assured her that while the crew
might gawk at her and occasionally engage in course talk, she was in no danger
from the captain’s men. None would defy his orders to treat her as the lady she
was. The captain, she feared, was another matter. It was her own weakness for
him that placed her in peril. Even knowing the man was her papa’s enemy did not
nullify the fascination she had for him, one she’d had from that first night
she’d seen him at the masquerade. So she took the coward’s way out and avoided
him as much as she could.

When she was not with Elijah, a member of the crew dogged
her every step. Captain Powell, it seemed, did not trust her, which was
probably wise on his part, for escape was ever on her mind. But with no coins
and no friend to aid her, she had yet to arrive at a plan.

She had discovered the ship’s galley was a safe, cozy place
to while away a few hours. There was a stool or two to sit upon and Tom
McGinnes, the Irish cook, working away at his table or stirring something on
the black stove, made her laugh with his stories of the Ursuline sisters in
Cork. His escapades rivaled hers in Saint-Denis and must have caused the nuns
many sleepless nights. When he’d finished recounting one of his stories, he
would tell her and Nate, who often joined her, of the Irish legends. This
morning was no different.

“When the Gaels first came to Ireland,” the cook began as he
slapped a mound of dough, sending a cloud of flour into the air, some of it
lodging in his long copper hair he reined in with a ribbon, “they banished the
natives to the underground where they became the fairy folk. ’Twere the
Sídhe
,
don’t ye know. ’Tis said they live in the hawthorn tree.”

“Truly?” asked Nate, his eyes wide.

“Sure an’ the tree is a door to the fairy realm, best left
undisturbed if’n ye ask me,” he counseled while he continued to knead the mound
of dough.

Claire rubbed her arm, feeling once again the thorns slicing
into her skin as they had two years ago when she had plunged to the ground from
her perch in the tree. It had been a hawthorn tree, and for a long while after,
the cuts had pained her. “What happens if one disturbs such a tree?”

“Now that’d depend on yer intent, lass,” he said with a
gleam in his green eyes, looking from her to Nate and then to the silent
crewmember, standing in the corner. “The hawthorn fairy can enchant yer life
and bring ye love if’n she’s of a mind to. They say she protects the unwary,
but if the one who disturbs her tree means ill, she can bring great
misfortune.”

Nate stared at the cook, enraptured.

“Well I never meant… ” she mumbled under her breath as a
shudder came over her. Was all that had happened the result of her climbing
that hawthorn tree?
Holy Mother, no!
Sister Angélique would call the
Irish cook’s stories heathen foolishness. “Surely you don’t believe such
tales?”

“I ain’t sayin’ if’n I do or I don’t,” McGinnes replied.
“But I seen things I can’t explain, strange things, both in Cork and since I
been at sea.”

“Careful, McGinnes, or you’ll have these two believing we’ve
mermaids off the stern,” said the amused voice of the captain behind her.

Claire turned on her stool to see him leaning indolently
against the bulkhead. The small galley seemed to shrink with his tall form and
the masculine energy he gave off. Amidst the smell of stew cooking, she
detected the smell of the sea and the man himself. His golden hair hung loosely
to his shoulders as he stood there smiling, his arms crossed over his chest.
The muscles of his forearms, browned from the sun, flexed, reminding her of the
strength he had used to hold her to him just before he’d kissed her. A shudder,
not unpleasant, coursed through her.

When his amber eyes turned on her, she sat up straighter on
her stool. “Good day, Captain Powell.”

“And to you, mademoiselle.” He made a small bow. She was
certain the gesture was done to further his amusement. Then turning to
McGinnes, he said in a serious tone, “Much as I enjoy my time in Rye, I’d have
you set an early dinner, and feed the crew early. We sail for London on the
evening tide.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

“London? You are sailing to
London
?” she asked,
hardly believing he intended to take her there.

“Aye, I am.” Bidding the others good day, he turned to her.
“Would you accompany me, mademoiselle? There is something I would like to ask
you.”

She rose from her stool, unable to imagine what the captain
had in mind and keenly aware they had not been alone together since he’d kissed
her. As they walked to his cabin, she asked, “How can you take me to London?
What about returning me to Saint-Denis?”

“That will have to wait.”

Inwardly she fumed. Much as she’d like to see London, she
had hoped her captivity would soon end. Reluctantly, she entered his cabin,
where he held out a chair for her. “I’d offer you sherry but we do not keep it
on board.”

“I do not require sherry, Captain. What was it you wanted to
ask me?”

“I’m told you suffer from bad dreams.”

“I would have no knowledge of that,” she said shortly. Did
the guard he had posted at her door report to him about even her sleep? She was
well aware of her nightmares but she could not bring herself to bare her soul
to him, to tell him of the girl who still haunted her dreams. And it was none
of his business anyway.

“I see.” He watched her for a moment.

“Is there anything else, Captain?”

“Not at the moment. You may go.”

She rose and left, determined not to let the man get any
closer to her than he already had.

Simon watched the young woman march from his cabin, her head
held high, hearing in his mind the sound of a door slamming in his face. So she
would tell him nothing of the nightmares that plagued her. He had seen the
faint, blue circles under her eyes and wondered at their cause even before
Anderson had spoken of her troubled dreams. But he could not pry her secrets
from her.

She was not the first to shut him out, only the most recent.
His father had been the first, then his mother’s family. Despite them all, he
had succeeded. So why should it leave him feeling unsettled that a mere slip of
a French girl was unwilling to share her burdens with him?

Perhaps it was a matter of trust. Their attraction to each
other notwithstanding, they were still enemies. Moreover, while he was bastard
born, she was French nobility. But he had trouble seeing her in those terms.
She did not act like the members of the aristocracy he had known in England,
Lord Danvers being a notable exception. She was more like the baron’s wife,
Cornelia. Even though she could be stubborn and had a temper that, at times,
defied reason, he liked Claire Donet. She was intelligent as well as beautiful.
And he wanted her as a woman. He wanted to share her confidences, to share her
fears. Foolish desires, all.

What Claire Donet did with her life was her own affair.
Hadn’t she told him it was none of his business when he’d inquired of her
reasons for wanting to join the Ursulines? What bad dreams she had and their
cause were also her affair. She would be gone soon.

He had a war to see to its end, his men to recover and a
shipping enterprise to build. He must focus on those things.

Focus
, he told himself.