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

by Walker, Regan

  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.

  The first thing Simon noticed when he returned to his cabin after conferring with the ship’s carpenter on some needed repairs was the setting of his table. Typically the table would remain bare, save for his brandy and glasses, until Nate delivered the meal. Then the stack of pewter plates would be passed out. But today there was a white linen tablecloth on which was set blue and white porcelain dishes. In the center was a decanter of claret wine. All was laid out with careful attention. Scurrying around the table was Nate, checking the placement of the silver.

  “What’s all this?” Simon inquired, baffled.

  “Mistress Donet has been teachin’ me how to set a table. I thought as it’s our last dinner in Rye before we sail for London, I’d show ye what I’ve learned.”

  “And the tableware?”

  “Ye probably forgot, sir, but it was the extra we had in the hold from that time ye bought Lady Danvers all those dishes.”

  “Aye, it does look familiar.”

  Most days his French captive joined him for dinner along with his two first mates, Amos Busby from the Abundance having joined the Fairwinds’ crew. So he expected she would share the early meal today. Sure enough, before long the two first mates strolled into his cabin along with Claire Donet. Her ebony hair was twisted into a knot at her nape, which was how she often wore it. The blue gown was still lovely on her despite its daily wear. He reminded himself to ask Nate to fetch the ones she’d ordered in Rye.

  Jordan’s eyes widened when he glimpsed the table. “Ah, what a difference the lady has made!”

  To Simon, she appeared pleased, possibly smug. Shooting him a glance, she sa
id, “I don’t suppose you like the change, do you?”

  “It’s an improvement,” he admitted. She seemed mildly pleased by his response which after their afternoon, was encouraging. While her English had improved since she’d been with them, she still had a deep French accent, which was so sensual it often left him staring at her mouth when he had no intention of doing so.

  In uncharacteristic fashion, Amos Busby pulled out a chair and gestured her to it. “Well, I like it,” he said. “’Tisn’t often I’ve dined in so civilized a manner aboard ship.”

  “We don’t often have the time or calm waters,” Simon reminded him.

  “I’ll be back with the food,” said Nate as he straightened a last knife and left.

  Simon poured the claret and handed each person a glass of the dark red wine. He lifted his own in toast. “To a fair sailing to London.”

  “To a fair sailing!” the three echoed.

  A few moments later, Nate returned with McGinnes and two trays laden with food.

  “I thought to make somethin’ special for ye,” said the Irish cook in his lilting brogue as he set the dishes on the table.

  Inwardly Simon groaned. What new cuisine horror was about to befall them? It was better when his new cook relegated himself to simple stews. While in port they always had fresh meat and vegetables. “What is it?” he asked with dubious interest, peering at the dishes set before them.

  “A soup to start, Skipper.” He began ladling out an orange liquid into small bowls.

  “Soup?” They rarely had soup, only stews.

  “Gingered carrot, Captain,” Claire Donet said, winking at the cook. Some collusion was going on, he was now certain. “Perhaps you are new to the dish?”

  “Sure an’ Mistress Donet gave me the idea.”

  “I see.” And Simon did.

  “And for the main dish?” inquired Jordan.

  McGinnes lifted a lid to reveal slices of beef covered in a dark sauce. “’Tis a bit of beef in red wine. And vegetables.”

  “I’m starved,” said Amos.

  “I’m overwhelmed,” said Simon. He only hoped the food tasted better than McGinnes’ last venture into the unknown.

  McGinnes stood back, beaming his pleasure at the array of food he’d set before them. Nate collected the lids and trays. “As I’ve had a bit of time,” the cook said, “Mistress Donet’s been teachin’ me to plan meals. Oh an’ before I ferget, dessert will be sugared fruits,” he said pointing to a plate he had set on the desk.

  “Smells wonderful,” said Jordan.

  “I’m sure it’s splendid,” said Claire Donet with an encouraging smile directed at the cook. From McGinnes’ response, Simon was certain she and the Irishman were now partners in some culinary plot.

  Resigned to sample the orange broth set before him, Simon raised his spoon of steaming liquid to his mouth just as the girl bowed her head and said a prayer of thanks. Remnants of her convent life, he assumed. With his spoon suspended in front of his face, he and the two first mates watched in silence. As soon as she finished, they dove into the food.

  His captive shot him a look of disapproval.

  Simon ignored her. But he had to admit the soup was quite tasty and the beef was better than McGinnes’ usual fare. Perhaps the Irishman was learning to cook. Or God was answering the French girl’s prayers.

  She ate with delicacy, her manners those of a lady. The afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows cast a warm glow over her pale skin. He wasn’t the only one who stole glances at her. Jordan and Amos had taken a new interest in their reluctant guest. He suspected she had no idea of her effect on men. Half his crew was drooling over her yet she appeared to remain ignorant of their lustful glances.

  When several minutes had gone by and a shadow crossed her face, he asked, “Why so brooding, mademoiselle?”

  “I was just wondering what the sisters and my friends at the convent were doing. Dinner is the one time when we can gather to share not only a meal but the events of the day and, oft times, the news of the village.”

  Simon had not thought much about her schooling at the convent. “What did they teach you at the convent besides how to pray?”

  “All manner of things,” she replied in a somewhat defensive tone. “To read and write, of course. But also mathematics, Latin and the things a lady of society must know, like the planning of meals, needlework, art and music. Because my papa chose to have me stay longer, I was able to learn things the younger girls did not.”

  Simon was impressed.

  “I had no idea,” said Jordan.

  “I don’t suppose they taught you how to cook?” Simon inquired. “McGinnes could use some help.”

  “No. That was not one of our subjects. It was expected I would one day take my place as the mistress of my own home where I would have servants, including a cook. But being French, I know something about food.” This she said with a superior tone he supposed was the purview of the French when it came to culinary matters. “And being as I’m your prisoner,” she added petulantly, “I needed something to do while on your ship.”

  Ignoring the question of her status, he said, “Well, you have my thanks for whatever you have done to inspire McGinnes. The food is a genuine improvement.”

  Between bites of beef, Amos and Jordan chimed in their agreement.

  His captive smiled, seemingly satisfied at what she’d accomplished.

  When dinner was concluded, Claire ascended the ladder to the deck above, her guard following. But even his presence and the captain’s many questions could not dampen her spirits. Though she resented the captain’s thinking he could haul her around like a crate full of goods wherever he sailed, the more she thought about it, the more she was delighted with the news they were sailing to London, a city she’d never seen.

  London!

  A captive she might be but they had not mistreated her and now she was to see a place she’d never been. Surely she could see it once before taking her vows?

  The captain had told her he would allow her to remain on deck as they sailed if she stayed out of the way. As if she would be a burden! Insufferable, handsome lout.

  Taking care so as not to fall in a crumpled heap to the deck when they sailed, she accepted the arm of Amos Busby, as he led her to the rail. Despite who her father was, the first mate from the captain’s other ship had been kind to her and for that she was grateful.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, she gripped the polished wood of the rail with the other in anticipation of the lurch that would come as the sails filled with wind.

  “All hands on deck to weigh anchor!” shouted Mr. Landor. He stood on the quarterdeck with his hands clasped behind him and his legs planted firmly on what she knew would soon become a rolling deck.

  Some of the crew scurried into the rigging. Nate had told her all that would take place in preparation to sail, but this was the first time she’d be experiencing it for herself.

  “Hands to the capstan! Set the capstan bars! Heave around now!" Mr. Busby yelled out.

  At his words, a part of the crew hastened to circle a wooden cylinder with bars pointing out at right angles like spokes of a wheel. That must be the capstan. Each man took hold of one bar, pushing on it as they circled around. With their effort, a rope as thick as the spread of a man’s hand was dragged from the water and coiled around the wooden structure.

  Suddenly one of the men broke out in song.

  Our packet is the Island Lass

  The other men, joining him, sang a refrain.

  Low lands lowlands lowlands low

  And so it continued,

  There's a laddie howlin' at the main topmast

  Low lands lowlands lowlands low

  The old man he's from Barbados

  Low lands lowlands lowlands low

  He's got the name of Hammer Toes

  Low lands lowlands lowlands low

  He gives us bread as hard as brass

  Low lands lowlands lowlan
ds low

  Nate took his place next to her at the rail. “Ye like the crew’s song, miss?”

  “Very much. Seeing them work together like that is exhilarating.”

  The song soon became a loud chorus of deep male voices singing in perfect harmony. Her foot began tapping in time with their song and her heart sped as she joined them in spirit. It was exciting to feel the energy rise as they readied the ship to sail. Their singing was different from the soft, high voices of the nuns at Saint-Denis and she loved it. There was a power in the crew’s deep voices she had never experienced before.

  “Up and down! Up and down,” bawled Mr. Busby, and the singing trailed off. “Vast heaving, there!”

  Claire had no idea what his words meant, so she watched to see what the crew did in response. Immediately, the men at the capstan stopped their work and stood by with sweat running down their faces and their chests heaving as they shook out their hands and arms.

  Mr. Landor moved to the rail, checked the wind and craned back to look at the thin, red pennant streaming from the top of the mainmast. He looked toward the helm and with a nod from the captain, shouted, “Hands to make sail! Man the topsail gear! Man the foresail gear! Man the mainsail gear! All halyards, haul away! Haul away smartly!”

  Crewmembers hauled the heavy lines hand-over-hand. In response, three tall squares of canvas billowed out above like sheets on a laundry line caught in the wind. With a sharp tug, like a horse jerking free of its tether, the ship surged forward. Claire gripped the rail with both hands and held on.

  “Heave away, you men!” cried Mr. Busby. “Stamp and go! Stamp and go!”

  Claire waited, anxious to see what the strange commands would produce. The men at the capstan leaned in and strained, their muscles bulging with the effort as they pushed at the bars. There was no singing now, only low grunts and growls as they slowly, slowly pushed around the capstan, bringing in the final length of the huge rope and hauling the massive anchor up to the large wooden beam on the side of the bow.