To Tame the Wind
Regan Walker
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
TO TAME THE WIND
Copyright © 2015 Regan Walker
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the author is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
ISBN: 978-0692401729
Acknowledgements
Many people contribute to bringing a book into the world, but some make special contributions that must be noted. For To Tame the Wind, this included Kalinya Parker-Pryce, a gifted artist and fellow writer who once lived in a convent in Italy and nearly took vows. Kalinya helped me to add realism to my research and to understand the internal workings of a convent. Then she stayed to give me very helpful comments on the rest of the book. As with the 3rd book in the Agents of the Crown trilogy, Wind Raven, my friend Dr. Chari Wessel, who donates her weekends to serving as a member of the crew of the schooner Californian, a period ship not unlike the Fairwinds in my story, made sure my ship descriptions were correct. And lastly, I must thank my beta readers whose suggestions are always invaluable.
“A sea adventure like no other, a riveting romance!”
–NY Times Bestselling author Shirlee Busbee
“Ms. Walker has the rare ability to make you forget you are reading a book…the characters become real, the modern world fades away and all that is left is the intrigue, drama and romance.” – Straight from the Library
YOUR FATHER IS A PIRATE
Though she knew he was English and a privateer, she had no idea why he had taken her, and she would wait no longer to learn the truth of it. “Why did you bring me here? Why did you take me from the convent?”
Leaning one arm against the frame of the carriage, he regarded her intently, his eyes like chips of amber.
“You have your father to thank for that, mademoiselle. As soon as he returns what is mine you will have your freedom.”
Claire blinked. “My father?” Her voice sounded to her like the pleading of a feeble schoolgirl. She would not be cowed! She lifted her chin, confident in his error. “What has he to do with this… this perfidy? Papa is a man of business and letters, a man of some wealth. He has no need to steal!”
His mouth twitched up in a grin, drawing Claire’s gaze to his sensual lips, reminding her of a night when she had seen him use those lips to good effect. She scowled, angry with the rogue and with herself for finding him so attractive.
He shut the door of the carriage and peered in through the open window. “Your father, mademoiselle, is a pirate.”
Contents
Map
Characters of Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Post Script
Author’s Note
Author’s Bio
Back Cover Synopsis
Characters of Note
(Both real and fictional)
Simon Powell, captain of the Fairwinds
Claire Ariane Donet, daughter of Jean Donet
At the Ursuline Convent in Saint-Denis:
Sister Augustin, the Mère Supérieure or Mother Superior or Reverend Mother
Sister Angélique, the Mistress of Novices
Élise
On the Fairwinds:
Jordan Landor, first mate
Nathaniel Baker (“Nate”), cabin boy*
Elijah Hawkins, bosun and old salt
Giles Berube, sailmaker
Tom McGinnes, cook*
On the Abundance:
John Wingate, captain
Amos Busby, first mate, who will join the crew of the Fairwinds
Zeb Grant, cabin boy
On la Reine Noire and in Lorient:
Jean Donet, captain and younger son of the comte de Saintonge
Émile Bequel, quartermaster
In London:
Cornelia, Lady Danvers*
John Ingram, Baron Danvers, part of the British intelligence community
Higgins, the Danvers’ butler*
William Eden, British spymaster
Thomas Field, American privateer captain and British prisoner
In Paris:
Dr. Benjamin Franklin, American Minister to France and Commissioner
Edward Bancroft, secretary to the American diplomatic mission in Paris
Charles Gravier, comte de Vergennes, Foreign Minister
François de Dordogne, a lawyer and Claire’s betrothed
Characters with an “*” are also characters in WIND RAVEN, book 3 in the Agents of the Crown trilogy, set in 1817.
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.
--From a headstone in Ireland
Chapter 1
Saint-Denis, a town north of Paris 1780
A small scraping sound exploded in the still night like a pistol shot setting Claire’s every nerve on end. Flattening herself against the cold stone wall, she peered back the way she had come, her eyes searching the darkness. Someone was following her. A small form, instantly recognizable by its frailty and pale blonde hair, crept from the shadows.
Élise.
Claire bit back a groan. Her friend had followed her once again. This was not good. Not good at all. She waited until Élise was almost level with her, and then stepped away from the wall, into the girl’s path.
Élise gasped.
“What are you doing here, Élise? You should be home in bed. Your family will be worried if they discover you are gone.”
The younger girl seemed torn between triumph and defensiveness. “I knew it! I knew you would defy Mother Superior and sneak out again. I have been watching the convent, waiting, and here you are.” She leaned closer, her excitement almost tangible. “Where are you going? What is your adventure tonight?”
Claire scowled. “Go home, Élise.”
The girl persisted. “Non, I will not. Where are you going?”
Claire let out a sigh. “To see a masquerade.” The relief she had felt at being free of the confines of the convent disappeared with the responsibility for her unwanted companion. Élise might want to be a part of Claire’s adventures but she really lacked the fortitude.
Élise’s eyes widened. “The one the sisters spoke of?”
“Oui, if you must know. But you should not follow me this night.” Claire lifted her gaze to scan the canopy above her. Dark clouds marched across the sky, and where they parted, the moon cast its pale rays on the streets. A cold wind blew her hair acr
oss her face. “There is rain in the air and you will catch a chill.”
“Deny me this and I will tell Mother Superior of your… your escapade.” Élise’s spurt of defiance was so uncharacteristic it rendered Claire momentarily speechless.
“Then you had better keep up, for I am in a hurry and will not slow down for you.” Claire shrugged out of her woolen cloak. “Here.” She thrust it around the other girl’s shoulders covering her dark blue convent school dress. “It might help ward off the chill.” The cloak fell to the ground on the shorter girl, but it could not be helped.
Claire set a brisk pace through the empty streets, hugging the shadows until she reached the broad expanse of manicured lawn surrounding the château where the bal masqué was being held. Moonlight, thin and weak, shed light on their path, but not enough to reveal Élise and herself to those inside the château.
Behind her, Élise’s labored breath had become an audible rasp. The sound pricked Claire’s scalp. Élise was all but wheezing. Claire paused, worry warring with impatience.
When Élise reached her, Claire caught the younger girl’s cold hand in her own and drew her close. “Are you certain you do not wish to return home?”
Élise nodded.
“Then we must hurry for we cannot risk being seen.” Or being caught in the rain. Perhaps they could be gone before it descended. Hearing a distant rumble of thunder, Claire suffered a pang of guilt, but with no time to waste and no wish to turn back, she let go of Élise’s hand and darted toward the terrace. Glancing over her shoulder, she was relieved to see the frail blonde was keeping up.
Élise should not be out on a night such as this. Claire shrugged off the nagging thought, anxious to observe the masquerade she had looked forward to all day. Her excitement had grown ever since that morning when she’d heard the younger nuns describing the fête one of the convent’s benefactors was hosting.
She reached the stone balustrade surrounding the terrace. Élise joined her scant seconds later, gasping for breath.
Lively music wafting through the tall doors that stood open to the stone terrace drew Claire’s attention from Élise’s labored breathing to the colorful characters that populated the magnificent ballroom. Lighted by ornate crystal chandeliers and candles in gilded sconces, the rich costumes of red, gold, green and orange silks and satins sparkled on the twirling couples. The brilliant flashes of color, so different from the black and white of the nuns’ habits, took her breath away.
The dancing men and women were costumed in what she could only assume they had a mind to be, and not what they otherwise were. Though she was certain all were from the aristocracy, they were dressed as milkmaids, shepherdesses, jesters, pirates and a few Persian kings. It was as if the characters in the fantastic stories her mother read to her as a child had come alive.
To one side of the dancers, a devil dressed in black conversed with a cardinal in scarlet and a woman attired as a trousered hussar. The red pelisse with its gold braid worn over blue trousers might have been tailored for the woman’s curves, but Claire recognized the uniform all the same.
Many wore masks, from simple black to those more elaborate, some even bejeweled and adorned with feathers.
Her heart raced at the pageantry of it. If only she could join them. If only she could dance to the wonderful music. “Oh, Élise… is it not the grandest sight you have ever seen?”
Élise drew the cloak more tightly around her. “It is cold.”
So why did you follow me? Claire bit back the question. She had to remember Élise was a day student, one of those to whom the nuns gave charity, who lived at home and looked to the older Claire for adventure. But tonight was not a good time for her to do so. “Your parents will not be pleased you left home without their permission to follow me.”
“If you did not sneak away from the convent, I would have no cause to be out and about.”
“Oh, pish! So now it is my fault you are here?” Instantly, her traitorous memory reminded her of the scolding she’d received after her last nocturnal outing. You, Mademoiselle Donet, the Reverend Mother had scolded, are a trial. A wild child your father expected me to educate and keep until you marry, a challenge that, on some days, seems beyond all endurance.
Claire knew her papa did not share that opinion. He was proud of her and had told her so on his many visits. If only he had not chosen to send her away to the convent school when Maman had died. Surely a governess would have sufficed. And their housekeeper in Lorient could have seen to her needs while he was away on business. But he had insisted she stay with the sisters even after she was of an age to return home.
She sighed remembering the day her papa had sent her to the Ursuline Convent. She had just turned seven. She remembered the teary scene as if it were yesterday. She missed him so. To please him, she had worked hard to become proficient at her subjects. But now, at sixteen, her restless spirit drove her to escape the convent walls whenever she could.
And she was determined not to miss the most elegant ball in Saint-Denis—perhaps in all of Paris!
“Quickly, Élise.” Claire gestured toward the bushy tree, its branches reaching over one side of the terrace. “We must climb that tree so we can better see into the ballroom.”
“You go,” said Élise, her huge, brown eyes looked up at the tree and then back to the stone balustrade. “I can see all I want to from here. I do not like to climb trees.”
“Oh, all right,” Claire said, annoyed. “I will only be a moment. Stay close to the balustrade, away from the wind.” Leaving Élise in the shadows of the terrace, she hurried toward the tree, impatient for a better look at the dazzling array of costumes.
Using a rock as a stepping-stone, she scaled the lower limbs. A hawthorn tree! Its nasty thorns warned her of the pain they could inflict, but she was determined. As she ascended higher, a branch with sharp thorns caught her dark blue dress. She tugged it free and heard the fabric tear. Sister Angélique would not be pleased, but it was a small price to pay for a glimpse of Paris’ nobility attired in their costumed finery.
Avoiding the thorns, she balanced on one of the limbs, holding aside a leafy branch, and turned her attention to the glimmering ballroom. The music slowed as the dancers assembled for the Menuet de la Cour Papa had described to her, but which she had never seen.
It was then she spotted him.
A flash of shimmering gold cape swirled around broad shoulders. A gilded mask of an eagle barely concealed long, blond hair tied back at his nape. At his side hung a sword in a golden sheath. His was the brilliance of the sun compared to everyone else’s candle, a mythical creature condescending to join the parade of mortals now moving in slow cadence. Tall and well-muscled, he moved with sinuous grace through the steps of the dance as his lips curved in a brilliant smile.
For the first time, her heart sped at the presence of a man, the sensation so unfamiliar her hand flew to her breast to rub the pounding spot. Oh, he was handsome, this golden one.
Who could he be?
The minuet ended. The golden one took his partner by the hand and led her to the terrace. It was then Claire’s gaze shifted to his partner. The female hussar! The woman wore a gilded blue mask over brown hair swept up into a nest of curls. Not a very good disguise, Claire thought.
Her gaze followed the striking pair as they descended the terrace steps. Claire released her grip on the branch and shifted slightly while avoiding the thorns, so she could keep in sight the couple coming closer. And closer. Her breath froze in her chest when, a moment later, they stopped at the base of her tree. From where she was perched she had a clear view of them. Her heart beat so fast she worried it might leap from her chest. Mon Dieu, do not let them look up!
The man stood back, his eyes roving over the woman’s costume, down to her trousers and then back up, pausing at her breasts bulging into view from the short, red pelisse she wore open at the neck. “So, you would wear the trousers tonight, ma petite chérie?”
The woman inched
closer to him, her breasts brushing against his chest. Slowly she removed her mask. “If you—an English privateer—are brave enough to risk detection by attending a masquerade in France, I would not presume to act the man, my eagle.” The woman’s voice was low and husky as if she had something caught in her throat. The mask slipped from her hand to the ground.
English? The golden one is English and a privateer? Claire would never have guessed. His French was impeccable, his speech that of an aristocrat. The news of his origin took her aback. From the whispered tales she had heard at the convent, she would have expected an Englishman to have horns and breathe brimstone, but this one was so handsome she could not tear her eyes from him.
He smiled at his partner, a long, leisurely smile that caused Claire’s pulse to speed. If he smiled at me like that…
He ripped off his mask and flung it to the ground. “I could hardly resist the opportunity.” Then in a more serious voice, “Besides, I had business here tonight.”
“Your only business now is me,” said the woman in a sensual voice.
The golden one smiled, backing her against the tree, then bent his head to kiss her.
Claire had never seen a man kiss a woman like that. The woman seemed to enjoy his kiss, running her hands through his hair. She hung on to his shoulders as if to keep from falling. Silly woman. She was wedged between the man and the tree and in no danger of falling... Perhaps the woman was weak?
Transfixed by the couple, Claire’s eyes widened as the man’s mouth moved to the woman’s neck while his hands were busy elsewhere. Mon Dieu! Is he unfastening her trousers? The woman’s hands moved to assist his efforts. Oh my, oh my! Claire’s heart leaped into her throat.
To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) Page 1
