“Not likely,” Simon mumbled under his breath, the wind stealing away his words.
“Sir?”
“I said ’tis not likely.”
“But she looked so pitiful when she begged me to ask ye.”
Begged? Somehow he could not picture it in his mind. Moreover, she had to know he could not grant her request no matter if she did. Seeing the anxious look on his cabin boy’s face, Simon let out an exasperated sigh. “All right. I’ll see her.” Spotting his first mate amidships he called out, “Mr. Landor, you have the ship. I’m going below.”
At Jordan’s nod, Simon quickly descended the aft ladder leading to his cabin. He suspected she’d want more than a word. Even though she had reason enough to object to being kidnapped, he had hoped she would not be much trouble. But remembering the fire in her eyes when he’d dropped her onto his bed, he resigned himself to the confrontation his gut told him was coming.
He knocked once, unlatched the door and ducked his head as he entered his cabin, his eyes focusing on the spot where he’d left her. The bed was empty. A movement at his desk drew his gaze to where she sat in his chair behind an empty tray. “I trust breakfast was satisfactory?”
“Quite satisfactory,” she replied. “We seem to share a fondness for brioche, Captain.” Her tone was short, as if the concession was grudgingly made.
The sun coming through the window cast a halo around her dark hair though he was certain it was no angel he’d captured. “If not the food, what is it that has you summoning me from the deck?” He knew, of course, but he would hear it from her lips.
“We must discuss my… situation, Captain Powell. Before the ship goes any farther, you must reconsider your plan and return me to the convent. There has to have been some mistake.”
Apparently she had not understood him, or his resolve. Once committed, he rarely altered course. Besides, in this case he had no choice. “Alas, I cannot do that, mademoiselle, at least not until your father returns my ship and my men.”
“Your ship?”
“My second ship, the Abundance. Along with it, your father seized a large number of the crew. He now holds them prisoner, I suspect to exchange for Americans.”
“What?” She shook her head in denial. “That is ridiculous. Papa would not do such a thing! And he has no ship with which to capture another.”
Simon chuckled to himself. She really knew nothing of the man’s deeds. “I’m afraid he would and he does. It seems he’s told you little of his life. I suppose you do not know of his brig-sloop la Reine Noire?”
“Papa has a ship?”
Remorse swept over him. In her bewilderment, his captive suddenly appeared as vulnerable as a newborn lamb. He regretted being the one to shatter the image of her “papa” but it could not be helped. “I could remain silent and allow you to think what you will, but I believe it might help you to know that I was telling the truth when I said your father is a pirate. Or, rather, he was. I believe he now sails as a privateer under an American flag.” Simon hesitated, regarding her curiously. The bewildered look in her blue eyes told him she knew nothing of any of this. Just how far removed from the world was that convent of hers?
Perhaps he should start at the beginning. “Surely you know of the American war with England and France’s support on the American side?”
“Of course I know of the war,” she snapped. “And I am aware that France is aligned with America in its desire for independence.” With a glare in his direction, she added, “At the moment England is friend to neither country.”
He needed no reminder of the rivalry between his country and France. “Your request to return to France is denied, mademoiselle, at least for the present. And I’d ask you to stay in my cabin.” He turned on his heel and departed. He did not want the girl wandering about his decks, parading her beauty in front of his men. With that thought, he reminded himself to post a guard as night fell.
Once he was topside, he went to the rail and stared into the dark waters of the Channel. He couldn’t blame the girl for wanting her freedom. She was a hostage in a dangerous game that had only begun.
He looked to his left and saw Elijah had joined him at the rail. Despite the wind, the old seaman neatly patted tobacco into his pipe and lit the bowl while strands of his gray hair, freed from his cap, whipped around his face.
“Ye look a might disturbed, Cap’n,” he said letting out a puff of smoke.
“The French girl is none too pleased to be my guest,” said Simon. “And she’s all too free with her tongue.” His brow furrowed. “I thought convent schools raised young women to be demure and well-mannered.”
Elijah chuckled and blew a ring of smoke into the clear air only to have it swept away by the wind. “Not this one, Cap’n.”
Simon snorted. “She thinks she has the makings of a nun.”
Elijah took his pipe out of his mouth, leaned his arms against the rail and smiled. It was the look of a man who had lived long enough to have an opinion on almost everything. “Nay. I’m thinkin’ Claire Donet takes after her father. Can’t see her makin’ a nun. More like she’s as wild as the wind, that one.”
“Aye, I’m quickly coming to see that. But still I must deal with her. She’ll be with us for a while.”
“There’s an art to catchin’ the wind to set a vessel on the right course, Cap’n. Yer a master at it. I’m thinkin’ if anyone can tame Donet’s daughter, ’tis ye.”
Claire could feel her anger simmering just below the surface as Simon Powell’s words came back to her. Could her beloved papa really be all the English captain had said? Surely not! A privateer was not so bad, perhaps, but a pirate? Pirates did horrible things, like murder and rape. Papa would never do that.
It was just an excuse for the English captain to hold her prisoner for as long as it took to get what he wanted. The stark realization that she was the pawn of a man to whom she had felt an attraction since the first night she’d seen him had her biting her lower lip. For two years, she had thought of him, longing to see him again while forcing his handsome face from her mind. Now, here she was—his hostage!
Her anger boiled over. Mon Dieu, the audacity of the man! Seeing a book on the edge of his desk, she had the sudden urge to hurl it through the air. The urge grew. Perhaps if she was a thorn in his side, he’d want to return her to the convent. With a swift reach of her arm, she lifted the book and hurled it across the cabin. It struck the cabin door with a satisfying thud. Throwing his book felt so good, it was worth the penance she would suffer later.
Carefully making her way to the shelving, she freed the strip that held the books and began tossing them to the deck. They cascaded down in a waterfall of paper and bindings, and with each one that hit the deck, Claire began to feel free, the spirit inside her, bound for so long, suddenly released.
Once she began the destruction, she did not stop. A pot clanged to the deck. A brass spyglass joined the pile of books. Crashes echoed around the cabin as, with a vengeance, she tossed more of his things onto the spreading mass of objects around her. The ship pitched and rolled and she had to hang on to the bookcase to keep her footing but even that did not dampen the exhilaration she felt at her effort to let the man know in no uncertain terms she was not happy with her abduction. He would take her back or regret it!
The cabin door opened and young Nate peeked in, his eyes widening as he looked around.
Claire straightened her shoulders and set her mouth in a tight expression that she hoped would tell the boy, “So there!”
He slammed the cabin door shut, the sound of his feet scampering down the deck toward the companionway fading as she lifted a wooden box and thrust it into the midst of the debris.
“Cap’n!” shouted Nate.
Simon covered his ear. “Not so loud, lad. I’m right here.” He turned from the rigging he’d been examining to his cabin boy. “What’s the matter?”
“’Tis the French girl, Cap’n.” The boy’s face was flushed as he took a deep br
eath. “She’s wreckin’ yer cabin!”
Simon frowned.
Nate’s face bore an expression of panic. “She’s thrown all yer books to the deck.”
Simon’s frown deepened. “I’ll have no schoolgirl tempest on my ship.” Stalking to the hatch, he took the ladder in three steps and flung open his cabin door. It banged against the bulkhead as a brandy glass flew past his face and crashed, shattering into a hundred pieces.
“What the hell is going on here?” he roared.
She stood speechless in the center of his cabin next to the table, his books forming an untidy heap around her topped by his spyglass and his chronometer. On her face was a crazed expression. Her black hair was in violent disarray about her shoulders. She looked like a witch in the midst of a storm unleashing her fury, nothing like the future nun she pretended to be.
He seethed at the unnecessary destruction before him. Narrowing his eyes, he stomped toward her, shoving the debris aside with his boot. Lifting his spyglass and chronometer to the table, he stepped closer to her and grabbed her upper arms. Tightening his grip till she grimaced, he demanded, “Well? Answer me!”
She squirmed and twisted. “I do not wish to be your prisoner.”
“Do I look like your fairy godmother?” he asked in a cold voice. “I care naught for your wishes!”
Jerking one arm free, she swung her fist at him, connecting with his jaw. He seized her arm and twisted it behind her bringing her slamming into his chest.
“I am not one of your crew to obey your every whim,” she raged. “I am a lady, and I will be treated as such, even by a common sailor like you!”
“A lady?” Still steaming, he looked down at her bow-shaped lips, which in his anger tempted him beyond reason. If this was the only way he could dominate the girl he would see to it.
He took her lips in a harsh, demanding kiss.
He expected her to fight all the more, which he would have enjoyed given what she had done, but to his surprise, she softened. When her mouth opened on a sigh, he took full advantage, plunging his tongue in to probe her softness. Letting go of her hand, he wrapped his arms around her waist and drew her tightly into the hard planes of his body. She moaned as the kiss deepened, sending a message straight to his groin.
God, the taste of her is sweet.
Moments later, when he finally lifted his mouth from hers, they were both breathing hard and his heart was racing. Her blue eyes were glazed and her lips swollen with his kiss.
Remembering Elijah’s words, he whispered, “It seems I have found a way to tame the wind after all.”
The cabin door closed with a thump, the sound jarring Claire back to the present. What had just happened? Her heart still pounding in her chest, with trembling fingers she explored her pulsing, sensitive lips. A deep sigh escaped her as she carefully stepped to the bed and collapsed upon its edge. Damn the arrogant man! Tame the wind, indeed.
To her shame, she had responded to him like one of the tavern wenches she’d seen in the village of Saint-Denis. Sainte Mère! She had no barrier that was effective against his hot, seeking mouth. Instead, she had clung to him like the trousered hussar that night in the château’s gardens. Were all women turned into pudding by his impassioned kisses? Even now, her body tingled in an unfamiliar way and she felt his absence like a tangible thing.
Did she now have to fear her own desire for him would put her virtue in danger? It cannot be. I cannot want my abductor. I am to be a nun!
The words floated in her mind like so much chaff on the wind, making her wonder if she was worthy of the vows she had hoped to one day take. In some way she did not fully understand, he had marked her, as surely as he had marked his ship the Fairwinds.
She gazed at the objects she’d tossed to the deck in her fit of pique and froze. To her utter horror, sliding down the pile was a Holy Bible, some of its pages now torn. Snatching it from the heap, she fell to her knees and clasped the sacred volume to her breast. Mon Dieu, forgive me.
A soft knock snapped her out of her prayer. Had the captain returned? No, he would never knock. It was young Nate who slowly opened the cabin door, stuck his head in and looked about, his brown tricorne askew.
“Gads, mistress. Why’d ye do this?”
Guilt assailed her. “I lost my temper.”
The boy smiled encouragingly, as if she could do no wrong, and stepped into the cabin. “Don’t worry. I’ll soon have the cabin set to rights.”
“But it’s my fault entirely,” she protested, feeling more guilty by the moment. The boy was not the one who deserved her anger and she had been taught to be polite, controlled. “I’m not usually so undisciplined, but your captain seems to stir my wrath.”
“Aye, I see he has. But I’m here at his command to set all in order.”
She rose and carefully set the Bible on the table, regretting the loss of control for which she would surely have to do penance. “Then I will help you, Nate.” Reaching for an intricate brass pot encrusted with jewels, she held onto the table and then to the bookcase where she returned the pot to the shelf where she’d found it.
Together the two of them worked to put all the books and other things back into their proper places. Claire experienced a pang of remorse when she realized she had broken one of his fine brandy glasses. She gathered the pieces into her hand and Nate held out a bucket to catch the glass shards. “This one is beyond repair, I fear.”
“Not to worry, mistress,” the cabin boy said with a winning smile. “The cap’n has a hoard of ‘em squirreled away in the hold. ’Twouldn’t be the first that fell to the deck.”
“You are very kind to me, Nate, and serve your master well.”
The boy beamed and, to Claire, it seemed she had found a friend.
Chapter 6
Saint-Denis
Turning away from the Mother Superior, Jean Donet crumpled the note in his hands and gritted his teeth, as outrage rose in his chest. Merde! He had expected Powell to strike, but in Lorient, where the Abundance was guarded night and day, not in Saint-Denis where he hid his most valuable treasure. Where he believed Claire was safe with the sisters behind convent walls. Where his own misdeeds could not touch her. Never had he expected the English privateer to kidnap Claire. But he’d been wrong. Powell was more wily than he’d imagined and more well informed.
His dark brows drew together. “I will have my revenge and my daughter!” he hissed to Émile. The first mate’s dark gaze echoed his own rage.
Jean faced Sister Augustin, who backed away with an anxious look. “I am most sorry, M’sieur Donet. We had no idea Claire was in danger.”
Coming to his senses, he shot a glance at Émile, who wisely remained silent in the face of his captain’s anger. “No, of course not. I will handle this, Reverend Mother. I do not hold you responsible.” The danger to Claire had always been there but he’d grown complacent after so many years.
From her habit the Mother Superior withdrew an unsealed letter, which she handed to him. “Claire must have written this the night she was taken. It concerns her desires for her future. Knowing her wishes, I had also sent you a letter, but it may not have arrived before you left.”
Something he had heard in the tone of the nun’s voice puzzled him as he unfolded the letter. “What were her desires? Surely you told her I wish her to wed, that I’d arranged a marriage?”
“Oui, Claire was aware of your plans, but she had developed a strong commitment to the Order and hoped to one day take vows to join us. I, for one, did not encourage her, but since I was unable to dissuade her, I told her I would pass along her request to you, which I did.”
He looked up from the paper. “No, that is not the path I have in mind for my daughter.”
“I thought as much, m’sieur.”
“Please have her things packed, s’il vous plaît, Reverend Mother. I have a meeting in Paris this afternoon I must attend and I would take them with me.”
The Reverend Mother nodded, then hesitated. “Ther
e is something I have held for her, knowing it was among the things she prized.” The nun walked to her desk and opened a drawer. Lifting out an item, she dropped it into his open palm. He turned it over with his thumb. The blue moonstone shimmered in the ring he had given Claire for her birthday a year ago.
He studied the stone that he’d purchased because it reminded him of her eyes… her mother’s eyes. “It was not on her hand when she was taken?”
“No, she kept it safe among her things. But I am certain she will be grateful to have it again.”
A short while later, he and his quartermaster departed. The horses pulled in their traces as the coachman’s whip cracked over their heads. Jean stared out the window at the ever-changing landscape as the carriage sped on its way through the city. “If he harms one hair of her head,” he hissed to his quartermaster sitting across from him, “or fails to return her, I will kill his crew.” He clenched his teeth. “All of them.”
“Oui, I will see to it myself,” came the grim reply from Émile, his harsh voice sounding as deadly as Jean’s thoughts.
He pulled the crumpled parchment from the pocket of his waistcoat, flattened it out and handed it across the space. “Send Powell a message to the address in Dartmouth he gives in the note. Offer to meet with him in Paris to arrange an exchange—his men for Claire. Warn him if he harms her, the bodies of his men will soon be washing up on the coast of England.”
Not long after, the carriage pulled up in front of the imposing gray stone of the Valentinois château in Passy, a village just west of Paris. Though his thoughts were consumed by Claire and what indignities she might be enduring at the hands of the English privateer, he would not disappoint the American commissioner.
M’sieur Franklin was respected by all in Paris, a man wise in his words. He cared little for the trappings of nobility while careful to observe its niceties, the importance of which Jean well understood having once been a part of that world. Beyond that, Franklin had a wit Jean admired. Aligned as France was with America, Jean had been pleased to accept the letter of marque Franklin had issued him.
To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) Page 6
