The dinner that followed passed in a flurry of conversation as M’sieur Franklin expressed his hope for the negotiations for peace, which had apparently broken off some weeks ago, and the comte de Vergennes spoke of his concern for the outcome of the recent assault on Gibraltar by the combined forces of France and Spain. The battle did not seem to be going well from what Claire could determine. To her relief, the only ships the men spoke of were warships, not those of privateers.
Her betrothed said little. She glanced about the dining room she had glimpsed for the first time only the day before, admiring the walls that were the rich color of burnt sienna, complementing the rug of scrolling design in similar hues. Her papa had certainly taken pains to provide a beautiful home in the city.
The next day, the sky threatened rain as Claire took the short carriage ride to Saint-Denis to pay her respects and say her goodbyes.
“You can remain in the carriage if you like,” she said to her maid when they arrived in front of the convent. “I won’t be long.”
The girl nodded, “Oui, mademoiselle.”
Claire stepped down from the carriage and looked up at the gray-colored stone of the four-storied structure that had been her home for so long. Now it seemed strangely confined to the past, no longer a part of either her present or her future. Was it only months ago she had been here? So much had happened it seemed like years.
The Reverend Mother and Sister Angélique met her as she entered the office, their familiar black and white habits flowing around them, as their faces drew up in broad smiles.
“You are well?” Sister Angélique asked enthusiastically.
“I am much like I was when you last saw me.”
“Only different, I think,” said the Mother Superior examining Claire with her intense gaze, always seeing more than anyone else. “You have changed, Claire.”
“Yes,” she looked down for a moment fighting tears, and then met the Reverend Mother’s clear gaze. “I have learned you were right, but then you had no doubts I was not meant for the Order, did you?”
“No, Claire, I had no doubts. I believe you have your own, very special path to tread. One that God will make clear in time.”
“You know Papa means me to wed M’sieur Dordogne?”
“Yes,” said the Mother Superior, watching Claire like a hawk, seeing too much as she always did.
Sister Angélique put her palms together and held them close to her starched wimple, the excitement in her expression almost more than Claire, in her sadness, could bear. “When is the wedding?”
“’Twill be in Paris a sennight from now,” Claire informed them.
“You do not appear to be pleased with the upcoming nuptials,” said the insightful Mother Superior. “There is another, perhaps?”
“Well, there was a man I met in England... ” Claire’s voice trailed off. How could she explain Simon Powell and her love for him to the sisters? Would they even understand?
“Ah,” said the wise Mother Superior. “Then I will pray once again that God’s will be done. Never doubt, Claire, He has you in the palm of His hand. All will be well.”
Claire fought back tears as she considered the Reverend Mother’s words. Her broken heart left little room for hope. But she would not ruin her time with the sisters or the students she had yet to see. “I thought to say goodbye to my friends and those students for whom I was dizainière.”
“Of course,” said the Reverend Mother, leading her into the convent, “they are anxiously waiting to see you.”
It was a sad afternoon for Claire, realizing that this was yet another goodbye that she could not avoid. But she was glad she had come for it had reminded her that here, at least, she had done some good.
The days after her visit to the convent passed through Claire’s fingers like so many beads on her new rosary, the practiced routine comfortable but requiring little of her active mind. Her appetite had waned though her papa had plied her with her favorite foods and sweets and taken her to a private showing of art in one of the salons of the day. Without the man she loved, even the joy of being with her papa often failed to bring a smile to her face.
Her betrothed, the young Dordogne was something of an enigma. One evening, he’d joined them for dinner and afterward he had read her poetry. She’d had the oddest feeling it wasn’t her he was thinking of, but someone else as his eyes filled with a longing she’d never seen before. Of whom had he been thinking? She was still wondering as she bid him goodnight.
He would not be a difficult husband, of that she was certain, but would he be much of one at all? Having loved a bold man of the sea, could she settle for less? Could she bring herself to give Dordogne more than a sisterly peck on the cheek? Doubts settled around her like so many brooding vultures, ready to snatch away any chance for happiness.
Simon leaned back in his chair to watch the large room crowded with men. A haze of smoke hung in the air of the taverne Ramponneau in Paris. Elijah and Giles, sitting on either side of him, nursed their glasses of claret as they surreptitiously looked about, searching for some familiar face. It had been nearly a week since they’d left Rye. A rough crossing and rain had delayed their arrival in Paris. He’d left Jordan with the ship in Dieppe while he, Elijah and Giles traveled to Paris.
Only that morning, he had learned the name of Claire’s betrothed, a lawyer from a good family who apparently worked with the French foreign minister. From the description he’d obtained, it sounded like François de Dordogne might be an acceptable choice for the convent-raised daughter of a French comte’s younger son. It grieved him to acknowledge that her father may have made a wise choice, someone more worthy of her than a bastard English sea captain.
But before he conceded defeat, he would know more.
Elijah crossed his arms over his chest, his pipe in one hand. “That name ye were given sounds familiar, Cap’n, like I heard it before. And this place, ’tis ticklin’ me memory.”
Giles stared at the bar. “…Dordogne… Dordogne. Ah! I have it!” he said, slapping the table. “Elijah, recall the last time we were here, the proprietor shouted to one of the dandies as he was leaving?”
“Aye,” said Elijah, “I remember. The Frenchies strollin’ out the back room wearin’ all that lace.”
“Dordogne,” Giles repeated. “That was the name!” he exclaimed. “Captain, if ’tis the same man, he’d not be a fit man for the mademoiselle’s husband. Nor any woman’s husband, come to that.”
“What?” Simon said with a start.
“He was with the group of fops Elijah spoke of, Cap’n,” explained Giles, as if that told Simon much. It did not.
Elijah leaned in to whisper, “They’re effeminate frog-eaters.” When Simon frowned in puzzlement, the old salt clarified. “Mollies, sir. Sodomites.”
Simon drew his head back. “Damn.”
“Just what I was thinking,” said Giles.
“Why,” Simon wondered aloud, “would such a man take a wife?”
“So as to keep his pretty head on his pretty shoulders, likely,” said Elijah with a shrug. “He wouldn’t be the first to put on a masquerade to fool the rest o’ the world. Likely won’t be the last neither. ’Tis a crime that could see ‘im hanged in most places.”
“Donet must have no inkling,” said Simon, shaking his head.
“Half the aristocrats in Paris dress like that, Cap’n,” offered Giles. “’Tis likely Donet sees nothing unusual in the man’s appearance. But it was clear to us that his affectation and that of his companions was more than a tribute to fashion.”
“And Donet ain’t a man to judge another by the cut of his coat,” said Elijah. “He’s jus’ lookin’ at the fop’s pedigree, not the… er… stud horse hisself.”
“Gelding, more like,” muttered Giles.
“Well, I’ll be happy to enlighten him,” said Simon, suddenly smiling at the turn of events and glad he’d asked Danvers for that favor. He would not see her go to such a man, no matter his pedigree. If s
he’ll have me, I will have her for myself!
By the end of the day, Simon had gained the location of Donet’s Paris home and the date of the wedding: the next day.
He made plans accordingly.
The afternoon of the wedding, Simon and his men took up positions around the townhouse. He’d hoped for a glimpse of Claire, but never saw her. As the afternoon waned, carriages began arriving and passengers alighted, dressed in finery fit for a celebration. With the guests creating a distraction, the time had come.
At his signal, Simon’s men fanned out around the rear of the townhouse, finding hiding places among the trees and the boxwood hedges. Scanning the various approaches, Simon’s gaze came to rest on the inner courtyard and what he could see of balconies. They would lead to the bedchambers.
“I’m going up,” he advised Elijah. “You and the others wait below with the rope. I’ll signal when I want it. You and Giles will be needed to lower Claire safely to the ground, assuming she will come with me.”
“The demoiselle will come,” said Elijah. “When the first mate led her to her father, I’d never seen a woman so miserable.”
Simon hoped the wizened old bos’n was right. She’d be leaving her country and her beloved Papa to take up with a bastard English privateer. But he was encouraged when he remembered her words that she did not want to leave him. If she came he would spend his life making sure she never regretted her choice.
At Elijah’s signal, Giles brought the rope, while Simon looked up to where curtains covered the windows and glass doors.
He ran to the tree nearest the tall structure and began to climb. One branch took him to another and to another until finally, he could jump to a balcony and climb over the railing. Flattening his body against the side of the townhouse, he peered cautiously through the glass into the bedchamber, detecting no light. He tried the handle of one of the tall, paned glass doors. It opened. Beyond the heavy curtains, the chamber was dark. He paid it no mind, but strode through it to the corridor and began cautiously opening doors. Behind each of the doors was a darkened room. As he made his way down the corridor, from below the stairs, he heard music and the sound of many voices in conversation.
Time was short, but only one door remained. He tried the handle, relieved when it gave way. With barely a sound, he stepped over the threshold and into a room bathed in candlelight. Carefully, he closed the door behind him.
In the middle of the room, in front of a four-poster bed, stood the woman who haunted his dreams. She was dressed in a gown of ivory satin, embroidered with red roses. It was lavish and hugged her small waist like a second skin. Even with her back to him, he could see it was trimmed in a good deal of fancy lace. Her wedding gown. He shuddered to think how close he’d come to losing her.
His heart pounding in his chest, he spoke the name that had been in his mind every waking moment since he’d left her in Calais, “Claire.”
Chapter 20
Lost in her thoughts, at first Claire thought she was imagining his voice. But it sounded too real, too close. She whirled. “Simon!”
She ran into his welcoming arms, hugging him with fierce determination, inhaling his scent of salt and the sea. His warmth encircled her as she tipped her head back to welcome his urgent kiss, tears streaming from her eyes in glorious happiness.
Their hungry mouths seemed starved for each other. Too soon, he broke off the kiss.
“You’re here,” she said. “Why?”
“It seems I cannot live without you,” he said, a faint tone of amusement in his voice. “And I could not allow your father to give you to so unworthy a man.”
“Oh, Simon. It matters not to me if he is worthy; he is not you. I was just gathering my courage to tell Papa I could not go through with it, not even for him.”
He held her away, his expression serious. “I want you by my side Claire, for always. But if you come with me, your home will never again be in France.”
Tears filled her eyes as she spoke the truth that was in her heart. “My home is with you.”
His smile was brilliant and his amber eyes glistening as he asked, “Will you marry me?”
Her heart soared. Her most fervent prayer had been answered. “Yes. Oh, yes.”
A knock at the door made her jump. He looked down at her wedding gown. “There is no time to change,” he whispered. “We must go.”
“Une minute,” she shouted to the door, hoping to buy them time.
Taking her hand he pulled a letter from his waistcoat, laid it on the pillow of her bed and hurried her toward the balcony. At his wave, a coil of rope flew up from the courtyard below. He caught the end, looped it around her hips and swiftly tied some kind of seaman’s knot, forming a loop for her to sit in. Leaning over the balcony, he tossed the other end over the stout branch of the nearby tree and waved to his men waiting below in the gathering darkness. They grabbed the rope and braced themselves while Simon gathered her into his arms and lifted her over the edge of the balcony.
She looked at him in rising panic.
“Don’t look down,” he whispered. “Hold on tight. I’ll lower you. Elijah and Giles are just below.”
She nodded but could not hide the fear in her eyes.
Gradually he let the rope take her weight as his men below lowered her down. By the time she shed the rope from around her hips, Simon had scrambled down the tree with easy agility and stood beside her.
Shouts from the balcony above followed them as Claire gathered up her long skirts and they ran from the courtyard. On the street, a carriage awaited. It was not unlike the night he’d taken her from Saint-Denis, except she was running beside him and wore no blindfold. Could she be that same girl?
Jean looked down at the note he held in his hand, shaking with anger, and leaned toward the candle to read.
M’sieur Donet,
I love your daughter and I believe she loves me.
Having learned the man you have chosen to be her husband is not worthy of her, I have claimed Claire as my own. Know that she went with me most willingly this time or I would not have taken her.
I have sought a special license from the Archbishop for us to wed, but as she is not yet one and twenty, we must have your consent if we are to marry under England’s laws. I will give you a week to come to Rye where my ship is anchored. If you do not come, we will sail for Scotland where I will assure we are legally wed.
Come with your blessing, sir. Attend the wedding. It is what Claire would want above all. If you do, I promise our firstborn son will bear your name.
Yours most sincerely,
S. Powell
So, the chess game had ended. The queen had been captured, this time with her willing consent. Jean let out a deep, resigned sigh.
The sound of footfalls made him turn. His quartermaster stood in the open doorway.
“Capitaine?”
Jean ran his fingers over his slight mustache, still trying to take in all that had happened. Looking into the deep-set eyes of the man who had been his friend for the last many years, unable to hide his pain from one who knew him so well, he said, “François de Dordogne hides a secret, Émile. Under threat of death, if necessary, learn the truth of it. And then send a message to the crew to change la Reine Noire into her British costume. We are bound for Rye Harbor.”
“Aye, Capitaine.”
Jean looked down at the note in his hand, once more reading the words. “Émile?”
The quartermaster paused at the door. “Oui?”
“Have the messenger see me before he leaves. I have a thought about the name I would have the ship bear.”
At last Claire was finally alone with the man she loved. Simon had asked his men to ride on top of the carriage that would take them from Paris to Dieppe. She hoped it was the last long carriage trip she would have to endure for some time. While they did not have to contend with rain, traveling on the road north was still rough as the driver urged the horses to a fast run. Curled next to Simon as she was, the bumps
and jolts she experienced were soon forgotten for the joy of being with him again.
He pulled her into his arms, a fierce passion burning in his eyes. “You are mine now, Claire.”
“Kiss me Simon.”
His mouth descended on hers. It was a deep, searing kiss, more passionate than his others, and it left her heart racing and every part of her body sensitive to his touch. She kissed him back, mating her tongue with his in rampant pleasure. Leaving her mouth, his lips sought the tender skin where her neck met her shoulder as he pulled her tightly into the curve of his body.
“I love you, Claire.”
She responded with moans she could not hold back as he kissed the pulse at her throat. “And I you. I feared never to see you again.”
He ran his fingers through her hair, sending pins flying around the velvet seat, freeing heavy, black curls to fall around her shoulders. Her palms smoothed over his chest and his shoulder, unable to resist touching him. He was hers, this golden man she had dreamed of for so long.
His hand stroked her breast, his fingers lingering over her nipple, causing her to experience pleasure she had not known before. She pulled him closer, wanting more.
With a deep sigh, he pulled back and looked at her. “You’re even more beautiful tousled in the moonlight. It requires all my will not to take you here in this carriage. But I’d rather our first joining not be in a bumping box on the road to Dieppe. I want to make slow love to you on my ship. In my bed. I want you to remember it all of your life. For this night I intend to possess you, Claire, body and soul. Unless you insist I wait, I’d prefer not leave your innocence unclaimed. There is still the possibility your father might yet try to rip you from me.”
“I am yours now, no longer under my papa’s control. I will not ask you to wait.”
He kissed her again and, for a moment, she was lost in the feel of him. His masculine scent surrounded her. How she had missed him!
To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) Page 22
