To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0)
Page 5
Not unexpectedly, she refused his hand.
The blue gown his men had procured from the local seamstress in Rye fit her well, hugging tightly to her small waist. He’d guessed right that if she was an older student, at seventeen or eighteen she would be taller than the young girls and slim, and she was. The shift and the dress were enough to render her decent even without a corset. But he’d not counted on her bosom filling the bodice, which it certainly did. Casting his gaze over her slender form, he suddenly noticed her bare feet peeking out from beneath the gown.
Damn. He’d forgotten shoes.
“I expect you’d like some private time, mademoiselle, but do not think to escape. One of my men will be watching where you go.” He raised his brows in amusement. “They are probably hoping you will give them reason to follow.”
Her only response was a frown as she turned and stalked off in the direction of a dense cluster of bushes to one side of the carriage.
He strolled down to the water’s edge to watch for the return of the skiff, determined to keep his mind focused on the task set before him. Gulls scavenging along the waterline took to the air at his approach, wheeling and screeching in protest. They quickly settled higher up the beach behind him.
A few minutes later, the flurry of screeching gulls alerted him to the girl’s return. He turned to watch her. Bare-footed, she gingerly picked her way through the shells left scattered in the sand by the outgoing tide. He strode up the beach.
“I must apologize for your lack of shoes,” he said when he reached her. “I’ll see you get a pair as soon as we anchor in Rye.”
“Rye?”
“’Tis the Fairwinds’ home port.” He did not mind her knowing this. Even if Donet learned of it upon her return, the Frenchman could not intrude there with any success.
Though she’d refused his hand, she now walked beside him as he strolled toward the water. Shielding her eyes with her hand, tendrils of her ebony hair blowing around her face, she looked toward his ship where his men were scurrying up the rigging as they prepared to sail.
“You fly the American flag, yet you are British and would speak to me of an English port?”
He couldn’t help the smile despite her haughty tone. How little she knew of privateers. She held his gaze, waiting for an answer. By God, she is lovely. “A necessary ruse when we are in French waters.”
A frown crossed her face. “I see.” She mumbled words in French he was certain were not ones the nuns had taught her.
“These are perilous times, mademoiselle, particularly in the Channel. One must be cautious.”
“Especially when one is kidnapping another man’s daughter,” came her impudent reply. “You deserve to be hung, sir.”
His lips twitched, fighting a smile. “Notwithstanding how you came to be among us, I will endeavor to make you comfortable while you are my guest.”
“Oui, but even if you act the gentleman, Captain—”
“Powell,” he reminded her.
Her eyes, like deep pools of crystalline water, fastened on him. “Even if you act the gentleman, Captain Powell”—giving him a look that told him she very much doubted he would—“you will have ruined my good reputation. Your ship is hardly a fitting abode for a future nun.”
His brows drew together involuntarily. Nun? She expected to become a nun? “You will have to excuse me, mademoiselle, but you hardly look the nun.” His eyes raked over her very feminine curves. Definitely not a nun. “No matter your future, you need have no worry for your safety. I left a message for your father assuring him you will be well-treated.” Inwardly he corrected himself. In fact, his message to Donet had been rather vague on that point. He wanted the Frenchman to be concerned enough about his daughter to promptly surrender the Abundance and her crew.
The skiff returned and his men jumped out and hauled the small boat onto the sand. He gestured her toward it. “Will you accompany me to the ship?”
She balked. “No. I will not. I have no intention of leaving France.”
“Well, then, allow me.” In one quick movement, he hefted her over his shoulder.
She gave out a harsh shriek. “Stop! Put me down, you beast!” This she shouted in English while pounding his back with her small fists.
His men laughed at the sight of their captain carrying the French wildcat.
“You speak English quite well, mademoiselle!” Simon remarked as he strode towards the skiff ignoring her attempts to injure him. “I’m delighted.”
He drew near the skiff, his men looking on with avid interest. It wouldn’t be the first time they had seen their captain carry a woman so, though on prior occasions it had been for an entirely different reason. Still, with her beauty, perhaps it was not a bad thing for his crew to think he had claimed her as his.
He set the angry girl in the skiff, keeping his eyes on her as his men shoved off and began rowing to the ship. The fiery rebellion in her eyes told him if he but looked away for a moment, she would jump overboard in a useless attempt to swim ashore.
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.
Chapter 5
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 wo
uld 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?”
“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!
At the sound of the topsail’s luffing, Simon tilted his head back and gazed skyward. “Trim that sail!” he shouted to the crewmember working aloft. The wind had risen and was now blowing fiercely in a southeast direction. He would use it to his advantage as they sailed to Rye. He was eager to leave the shores of France.
“Cap’n,” Nate said, coming toward him from the aft hatch, “Mistress Donet would like a word with ye.”
“Oh she would, would she? And what does she want now?”
Suddenly finding interest in his shoes, Nate said, “She’s of a mind to go back to the convent, sir.”