Quick as a monkey, one of the crew scrambled over the bow to secure the anchor to the ship.
Mr. Landor turned his gaze toward the stern. Claire’s eyes followed. The captain stood at the ship’s wheel, smiling with apparent pleasure at the brisk teamwork of his crew.
Claire couldn’t take her eyes off him. He was made for the sea. Here he rules as surely as a king on his throne. Though his crew had shouted the orders, it had been the captain who had directed all with a nod of his head, a look in his eye. Subtle commands to his first mate that were instantly carried out.
He held his head proudly as the wind billowed his white shirt, his strong hands on the wheel, strands of his golden hair, glistening in the sun, blowing around his face. He looked every inch the fierce bird of prey he appeared that night in Saint-Denis… l’aigle royal, the golden eagle. She could not look away from his strong face and his powerful form. He was magnificent. How she envied him the freedom to chart his own course, to sail the seas to places she’d never been. How I would love to sail with him.
Disturbed by her thought and afraid he might catch her staring, Claire quickly turned to watch the men at the anchor finish their work. The ones who had manned the capstan were removing and stowing the bars, all the while exchanging friendly insults.
The thick anchor rope was now splayed on deck. It was dripping water and covered with mud, muck, slime—and to her horror—sea creatures! The muck had fallen onto the legs and hands of the crew, though they did not seem to notice. The creatures flopped, flailed and scuttled about the deck obviously trying to get away. She saw starfish and slimy things she could not identify slithering toward her. In a matter of minutes, they began to dry out in the warm air and a sickening smell rose in her nostrils. With a grimace, she stepped from the rail, backing away from the creatures.
Nate followed her, asking with a grin, “Are ye bothered by a wee sample of the sea, miss?”
“Not entirely,” she said truthfully. “But I am glad they are over there and I am now over here.”
The cabin boy laughed, drawing the attention of the captain. For a moment her gaze met his where he stood at the helm. She looked away, embarrassed that she was staring once again at his powerful form.
“Do they always sing with their work?” she asked Nate in an attempt to cover her lapse.
“Most times. It makes the work go easier.”
The ship rolled beneath her feet leaving Claire unsteady. She looked toward the rail, a short distance away. Observing her plight, Nate offered his arm, which she gratefully accepted. “Thank you, Nate. I’m still a bit awkward on deck.”
He tipped his tricorne to her. “Any time, mistress.”
Chapter 8
Simon was pleased at their progress. Their course was steady, heading south by southeast, taking advantage of the favorable winds at their back as they headed into the Channel. It was a warm summer’s day without clouds or rain on the horizon. The waters, though never placid, were not white capping.
He exalted in having his hands on the wheel, feeling the Fairwinds respond to his urgings. Like a woman she was, though easier to tame than some. He might have no family but he had his crew, and his ships, or he would as soon as he returned the girl.
He shot a glance at his captive and smiled at the thought of the convent-raised girl moving her foot in time to his men’s work song. She had more spirit than even she was aware of. He recalled their earlier dinner where she had acted the lady, but he also knew there was fire in her belly and he liked it when she could not contain it, no matter it might be anger that spilled forth. He liked her kissing him back when she was angry even more.
She had apologized for making a mess of his cabin. Likely her convent training made her feel guilty for the incident. It prompted the thought that had been rumbling around in his head since he’d first taken her from Saint-Denis. How could such a woman become a nun? He was not mistaken about her. She had a fiery temper like no nun he’d ever met. And he’d seen her pleasure at their sailing, her face lifting to the wind with a look of intense joy as the ship glided out of the harbor. She had a desire for adventure and the sea much like his own. It had been that same love of the sea that first led him to join the crew of a merchant ship.
He was a son ignored by a father who only wanted to forget his bastard’s inconvenient existence. But on his deathbed, the Earl of Montmorency had left Simon ten thousand pounds, more than enough to purchase and outfit his first ship, the Abundance, named after a legacy bestowed by a guilty conscience.
When the request came from Lord Danvers in London to meet with William Eden to discuss helping the government retrieve messages from their spies in Paris, he had quickly agreed. He might be a patriot, but he was no fool. Coming to England’s aid now, as a spy and a privateer, would serve him well in the future. He had dreams of building a merchant shipping enterprise the likes of which England had never seen. And for that he needed his country at peace.
They reached the open Channel and he set a course heading northeast toward the Strait of Dover when he heard the lookout’s cry.
“Sail ho!”
“Where away?” shouted Jordan from amidships.
“Dead ahead!” came the reply on the wind.
His first mate strode toward him wearing a serious expression and holding out a spyglass. “Captain, you’d best have a look.”
Simon gestured for Jordan to take the wheel and accepted the spyglass, extending it to its full length as he studied the sails on the horizon. The ship was a fair distance away, but he caught a flicker of red, white and blue flying off the stern of what looked to be a brig-sloop. If Donet had an American letter of marque he might fly that flag. A sudden dread came over him. “La Reine Noire?”
“Aye, could be. A brig-sloop to be sure. Might be coming from Calais.”
Casting his gaze about the deck, he spotted the French girl still standing at the rail with his cabin boy. The lad was so absorbed in their conversation, he’d likely missed the threat. “Mr. Baker!”
The boy turned. “Sir?” he yelled back.
“See our passenger to my cabin—now!”
Nate took her by the elbow and hustled her toward the aft hatch. As they drew closer to where Simon stood on the quarterdeck, she gave him a puzzled look.
“It seems your father intends to pay us a visit, mademoiselle.”
“Papa?” she asked, concern showing in her beautiful blue eyes. Tendrils of her ebony hair whipped about her face causing something to settle in his chest, a longing he’d not experienced before. Produced as it was by Donet’s daughter, it was most unwelcome.
Ignoring her question, with a jerk of his head he signaled to Nate that haste was in order. The lad urged her through the hatch to the deck below.
“Will he attack?” Jordan asked, staring eastward toward the sails growing larger on the horizon.
“Aye, he will for a certainty, but he won’t be looking to sink us. He’ll not risk his daughter. I expect he’ll try to do enough damage to leave us limping so he can board. Donet would have his daughter and keep his spoils, if he could.”
Simon raised the spyglass. The brig-sloop was beating against the wind, heading toward them through the rough waters of the Channel. As he watched, the ship veered off slightly. He handed the glass back to Jordan and took control of the wheel. “He’s moving to attack from the south. If I’m right, he’ll try and rake our starboard.”
“Your plan?” asked his first mate.
“To escape, of course. I’ll not risk my ship against so many guns. And, like Donet, I’ll not risk the lady.” Simon felt protective of her, even possessive, but he knew his feelings for her were not worth a button on his waistcoat. He must think only of his men. “Neither will I fail to engage.”
He bellowed to his crew, “Run out the guns!” His men, watching the other ship closing, were swift to move.
The French ship, as Simon had predicted, was preparing to bear in passing with its guns rolled out, ready to b
low holes in the Fairwinds.
“Hold fire!” Simon shouted, gritting his teeth. To allow Donet to fire his guns while his own men did nothing was asking a lot. But for his plan to work, he needed them to forebear.
Turning to Jordan, he barked, “Give me all the sail you can!”
His first mate shouted the orders aloft. The square-sails filled with a “thump” and the yards creaked as the Fairwinds picked up speed, lunging ahead like a racehorse hearing the starting shot.
A moment later, Donet’s guns blazed away. A crash, followed by a crunching noise, told him the French guns had hit wood. But as the Fairwinds sailed clear of the cloud of smoke, Simon let out the breath he’d been holding. From what he could see, only the fancywork on the stern’s transom had been clipped. His smaller, lighter, faster schooner had managed to fling itself out of the reach of most of the Frenchman’s guns. Below decks, his captive would be frightened, but it could not be helped. He would comfort her later.
Grinding the wheel hard to port, Simon deliberately turned across the wind, a tactic he knew might lose him the forward drive he needed. The sails shivered and flapped, but then caught the wind with a crack like a whip. The main boom swept across the deck, and the schooner was through the wind and away on her new tack, running a circle around the slower, larger ship.
When the schooner turned across the bow of the Frenchman, he bellowed, “Fire!”
The Fairwinds’ guns belched smoke sending shot into the French ship from stem to stern, destroying, Simon hoped, at least some of their gunnery posts. He was rewarded with the sound of a smash, the splintering of wood and shouts coming from the brig-sloop as the French crew scrambled to deal with the damage.
He turned the wheel again, this time hard to starboard, bringing the wind to their back. With la Reine Noire crippled, unable to fire its guns, Simon set a course for the Strait of Dover, and to the cheers of his crew, sped away.
When the cabin door opened, Claire was still shaking, shocked at all she had endured.
“Are you all right?” said the captain, his brows drawn together. His white shirt stretched across his muscled chest, he appeared a strong tower in a swirling world of chaos.
Without thinking, she ran into his arms and held on to the one man she’d wanted in the midst of the battle.
No, I am not all right.
Minutes before, her heart in her throat, she had stared into the mouths of eight threatening guns, too stunned to move and not knowing where to flee. The moment had been suspended in time, her agony endless, as the ships passed close in front of each other. Then, to her amazement, her papa appeared, standing on the deck of the other ship, shouting orders to the crew. His long black hair wild and loose about his shoulders, his dark eyes crazed with fury, he looked every bit the pirate Captain Powell had claimed he was. When he had shouted the command “Fire!” the guns had spit forth white smoke laced with crimson flames. She had crossed herself, thinking her life was over. But to her surprise, the schooner seemed to fly through the inferno. Then a loud crack had sounded nearby sending a shudder through the deck. Pieces of wood had flown past the windows. She had feared the ship was breaking up and gripped the edge of the captain’s desk. But as she braced herself, the schooner shook off the bonds of the sea and glided over the water as if it had wings.
The danger had passed, but she was still shaking. She needed his strength. He was a lifeline in a raging sea. In his arms she felt safe.
He held her tightly and kissed the top of her head, a gesture so tender it nearly made her weep.
“And here I’d thought to send you below decks to keep you safe. Instead, it seems I sent you to the only place your father aimed his guns.”
With sudden clarity, Claire understood it all. Her papa did have a ship. And this man, this English captain—her golden one—was her papa’s enemy, on the opposite side of America’s war. How could she find comfort in his arms if that were true? Anger welled up inside her, anger at him and at herself for her attraction to him. Rearing back, she sent her fist into his chest. “You! You fired on my papa! How dare you!”
His amber eyes flashed as he clenched his jaw and lifted his chin, but he did not let her go. “Did you happen to notice, mademoiselle, that your beloved papa fired on my ship first?”
She raised her hand to slap the impudent smirk off his face but he grabbed it, twisting it behind her. “This time I claim a prize for a victory won.”
His lips crushed hers in a demanding kiss.
She fought his embrace, but even enraged at his confrontation with her father, she warmed to his touch, the fight in her melting away as his kiss became tender. Reaching her free hand to the nape of his neck, she held him to her, her heart pounding a fierce rhythm as she entwined her tongue with his.
He let go of her hand and, gripping her hips, drew her tightly into his heat as he continued to kiss her.
Moments later he pulled away, the loss of his warmth leaving her feeling bereft. She was panting and so was he.
“Sweetheart,” he said, looking into her eyes, his voice husky, “whatever compelled a woman with your passion to seek the veil?”
She raised her chin and frowned her displeasure at the sarcastic tone of his voice. “It is none of your concern.” She pulled away and he let her go. It was bad enough he had fired upon her papa’s ship and scared her half to death, turning her into a ninny, vulnerable to his masculinity and his kiss. Never would she tell him of the consequences of her foolish behavior the night she’d first encountered him. How could such a man understand her promise to Élise?
“Well, you will never make a nun.”
She stiffened. “And what makes you think that, sir?”
Tossing her a wry smile, he said, “I’d be happy to show you, mademoiselle, but I fear the display would be too sinful for you, and might cost me the men your father holds.” And with that, he turned and abruptly departed.
Staring at the closed cabin door, Claire felt her cheeks warm. Incorrigible rake! Was he suggesting he would do to her what he had nearly done with that female hussar?
Surprisingly, the thought was not altogether unpleasant. And that made her wonder. Was he right when he told her she would never make a nun?
Back on deck, Simon proceeded to the bow and raised his spyglass looking eastward, but his mind was not on the Channel ahead. It was on the French beauty who stirred a craving in him like no other woman.
Why had he kissed her again?
To want her was to court disaster. Claire Donet must be returned to her father as she had come—innocent. Yet, even now, she was hardly the innocent she had been, responding as she had to his kisses. She was fire in his arms and a flame now growing in his heart. It had taken all his control not to carry her to his bed and make her his. She would not have resisted, he was certain, for the passion he had felt in her would rise to meet his own. Given who she was, that would be sailing into dangerous waters.
A flock of birds flew across his line of sight, recalling him to the task at hand. The Channel was clear as far as he could see, but as they neared Dover, he knew the number of ships would increase. He and his countrymen faced the French, Spanish and Dutch aligned against them. Despite the Royal Navy’s plying the waters of the Strait intercepting merchant ships, hoping to seize war supplies, they had not captured all.
La Reine Noire continually eluded them.
After the shot he’d sent into the Frenchman’s brig-sloop, it would be a while before Donet could transport war supplies. Limping back to port, as he must have done, he would have to make significant repairs, allowing Simon time for his trip to London. He thought of his captured crew and worry furrowed his brow. He could only hope Donet would keep them in good health knowing Simon held the one thing the pirate prized above all.
Chapter 9
London
Claire held on to the rail, staring transfixed at the hundreds of boats and ships crowding the River Thames. The afternoon sun bathed the sky in golden hues etching the clo
uds in brilliant light and sending a myriad of colors rippling through the water.
All around her ships were tied up to a tall mooring post, to the wharf or to each other, some with their sails hanging loosely from the crossbeams like so much neglected laundry left out in the rain. Her blood surged with excitement at seeing such a sight.
They had sailed up the Thames, the captain at the wheel, navigating the river from its mouth through a dozen treacherous bends to where they were anchored in the area of the river Nate called the Pool of London.
She had marveled at the captain’s skill sailing in changing winds and the river clogged with so many ships moving in both directions. At the most difficult place in the river, he had taken the wheel and, with his brow furrowed in concentration, deftly maneuvered the schooner away from the other ships while steadily maintaining their course. The memory of those same powerful hands holding her sent tiny shivers down her spine.
Would he keep her with him in London? She could not deny that she looked forward to more time with him.
Nate joined her where she stood on the foredeck of the ship and tipped his brown tricorne to her, his eyes quickly taking in her new gown. “Yer a picture this mornin’, mistress!”
Claire warmed to the cabin boy’s compliment, glad she’d taken the extra time to dress her hair. “Thank you, Nate.”
The cabin boy gestured to the other ships tied up to the wharf. To Claire, he appeared as excited as she was to be in the busy port. “See the men movin’ on the decks, mistress?”
Directing her gaze to the laborers hefting cargo from the ships to the wharf, she remarked, “They are certainly working hard.”
“Aye, and soon we’ll be seein’ the same thing on the Fairwinds.”
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