Wind Raven (Agents of the Crown)
Page 1
“A salty, sweeping, evocative tale of romance on the high seas—and a good old-fashioned love story that will keep you up far, far past your bedtime. So, reach for the coffee. Brava for Regan Walker!”
—Danelle Harmon, New York Times & USA Today Bestselling Author
“Wind Raven is grand romance of the sea with much insight into piracy in the early 19th century and the tropical lifestyle of the island of Bermuda under British rule. The scenes of both everyday life and storms on a ship at sea were well done, very real.”
—Jennifer Blake, New York Times Bestselling Author
HER LOVE WAS A TIDE
SHE COULDN’T HOLD BACK
“A fine fix we’re in,” Tara said, looking first at the captain and then at the night sky. The stars began to show themselves in the darkening canvas above, giving her the sense she stood on a precipice at an auspicious moment in time. It had only been a short while ago she had gained the insight she had now about the two of them. She should have realized the truth long ago.
“What do you mean?” he asked, coming up behind her, so close she could feel the heat of his chest. His warmth had always drawn her, and it was pulling her to him now like a strong undertow.
“Each of us withheld from the other the one thing we wanted,” she remarked, staring into the night sky.
“And what would that be?” He put his hands on her arms, drawing her back against his chest. She shivered with his touch but allowed it, while fighting the urge to turn and fall into his arms.
“You wanted my body and, fool that I am, I wanted your heart.”
He spun her around so fast her vision blurred. “My heart? You wanted my heart?”
“Yes, but I cannot seem to touch it.” His eyes carried a look of astonishment. “Well, you can keep it,” she said emphatically. “I don’t want it anymore. And you shall never have me!”
He stared at her for only a moment. “Oh, yes, I will.” As if she had defied one of his many orders and he was having none of it, he brought his mouth down on hers in a kiss that was claiming. One of his hands closed on her nape and his other arm wrapped tightly around her waist, holding her to him, trapping her with his powerful strength.
WIND RAVEN
Book 3 in the Agents of the Crown Trilogy
Regan Walker
www.BOROUGHSPUBLISHINGGROUP.com
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Boroughs Publishing Group does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites, blogs or critiques or their content.
WIND RAVEN
Copyright © 2014 Regan Walker
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of Boroughs Publishing Group. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of Boroughs Publishing Group is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
Digital edition created by Maureen Cutajar
www.gopublished.com
ISBN 978-1-941260-02-9
To my technical advisor and friend, Dr. Chari Wessel, who patiently answered all my questions and provided wonderfully detailed advice. A veterinarian by profession, on her off hours she is a gunner on the crew of the historic Californian, a reproduction of a topsail schooner of the period still in active service today—and a woman after Tara’s heart.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In addition to the invaluable assistance of Dr. Chari Wessel, I must also thank one of my readers. When Patricia Barraclough learned that Wind Raven would feature scenes in the waters off Puerto Rico (or “Porto Rico” as it was known then due to a mistake in the Treaty of Paris), she suggested I include a scene set at night in one of the bioluminescent bays. And so I did. As a result, Patricia will be getting a courtesy copy of the book! I love that readers suggest ideas…’tis wonderful!
As always, my critique group and beta readers have helped this story become a tale that I hope will bring you many hours of reading pleasure. Also taking time from their very busy schedules, authors Jennifer Blake, Virginia Henley and Kaki Warner read the manuscript and provided helpful comments. Danelle Harmon, New York Times bestselling author of high seas romances, read the final, and it thrilled me to hear her say I’d hit the mark. These authors are my inspiration and their gracious mentoring means much.
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Author’s Note
Author Bio
Synopsis
WIND RAVEN
Book 3 in the Agents of the Crown Trilogy
Regan Walker
Prologue
St. Thomas, the West Indies, July 1815
Captain Jean Nicholas Powell stepped from the oppressive Caribbean sun into the dim light of the familiar dockside tavern, pausing for his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. Sweat dripped from his forehead, and he wiped it away with the back of his hand. Swallowing, his throat felt as dry as the dock he’d left baking in the sun.
Tobacco smoke hung in the hot, still air, so thick it obscured the tankards on the shelf behind the bar and the faded painting of a nude woman hanging above it. Casting a glance at the men who leaned against the counter nursing their drinks, he noted the man he searched for was not among them.
Striding from the bar, Nick weaved his way through the tables crowding the long, smoke-filled room. The sharp smell of tobacco, though familiar, made him regret there were so few windows. Some of the other captains looked up as he passed, their eyes acknowledging him as one of their own.
“’Lo, Nick,” said Latimer, an English merchantman. “’Bout time you were joining us.”
His eyes still searching the room, Nick said, “Had an appointment at the dock. I’ve been desperate for a drink for nigh on an hour. Seen Russ?”
“Think he came in earlier. Might be in the back.”
A buxom redhead approached Nick with beckoning eyes. He recognized Molly, one of several wenches employed by Amos for the pleasure of those who patronized Esmit’s Tavern.
“What would you like, Cap’n?” The invitation in her smile and the shoulder bared by her low bodice suggested she was offering more than drink.
“Just rum for now, lass. Thanks.”
A familiar shout of “Captain!” from the rear of the tavern drew Nick’s attention to the blond head of his first mate, Russell Ainsworth.
He resumed his path through the tables of drinking men and serving wenches, their conversations a dull roar, the stink of sweat and rum blending with the tobacco to assail his nostrils. Reaching the table where Russ sat al
one with a tankard, Nick slid into the unoccupied chair as Molly delivered his rum and another smile. Lifting the tankard, Nick took a long draw on the lukewarm liquid. At least it was wet.
He wiped his brow on his sleeve and inquired, “Is all in order on the Raven?”
“It is. Wasn’t pleasant, though. Last night’s revelries are taking their toll. There were a few dropped crates and the netting for one load tore free, leaving one of the crew tangled in the ropes.” At Nick’s raised brow, Russ added, “But she’ll be ready to sail on the tide. Did you have any success finding a bos’n?”
Nick threw back another swallow of the sweet liquor and let out a sigh. “I did. A big Swede named Johansson. You might remember him from a fight last time we were in port. The men said he fought like a gentleman but with fists of iron. When we lost the bosun last run, they suggested his name to me and said he might be in port today. I thought it would be good to have him on our side given the waters we sail. And it seems he’s anxious for a change.”
“Sounds like a good acquisition,” Russ said.
Nick looked around, taking in those men he didn’t recognize. At the next table two tawny-haired Americans argued with three hardened seamen. The older American’s clothing and his air of command suggested he was a captain of an age with Nick. The conversation of the five men, who were clearly in their cups, grew boisterous, their disagreement apparent to any near enough to hear above the din of the crowded tavern.
Out of the corner of his eye, Nick watched the American captain raise his tankard in toast. “A drink to our sister, one of the finest crewmembers ever to sail aboard my ship!”
The other American, nearly identical in appearance and with the same tawny hair, clinked his mug against his brother’s, the rum sloshing onto the table. “That she is, George!”
The old salts looked doubtful but nevertheless joined in what was obviously one of many toasts. “If’n ye say so, Cap’n George, but I’ve never been easy with such meself. Don’t like sailin’ with women,” he said with a sneer. “Them’s trouble. The captain I sail for would have none of ’em on his ship.” His compatriots mumbled their agreement but took up the toast and, with dazed expressions, cheerfully quaffed their rum.
Nick shuddered as he tried to imagine what a woman would look like who crewed with men. One of those damned Yankee women, no doubt. Like most captains, he’d have no females among his crew. Passengers only occasionally and even those presented a risk. On rare occasions, he might invite an English girl with creamy white skin or a tanned island beauty with dark gypsy eyes aboard the Raven. But neither served as crew and neither sailed with them long.
With one pint of rum in his belly, he greeted Molly’s return to their table with a smile and pulled her onto his lap. “There’ll be no hag in the rigging on the Raven. I prefer only beautiful women and those in my bunk, not swabbing the deck.” He glanced at the smiling Molly, whose bountiful breasts were pressing against his chest. “Seems the right place for a pretty lass, don’t you agree?”
“You can take me on yer ship anytime, Cap’n Nick,” purred the redhead.
Russ gave out a chuckle, and the American captain threw Nick a fierce gaze. With narrowed eyes and slightly slurred words, the tawny-haired captain pushed back his chair and stood to glare at Nick.
“You don’t know our sister, English, so you can keep your views to yourself.”
Nick set Molly aside and slowly rose from his chair. “I have no opinion of your sister, my good man, but if it’s a fight you’re looking for, I’ll not turn aside a challenge.”
The younger American tugged at his brother’s shirt. “George, leave off. It’s too hot to fight.”
Ignoring the caution, the tall American captain leaped across the small distance, and with speed that belied his condition, slung his fist into Nick’s jaw, nearly knocking him off his feet. Nick shook off the pain, shoved aside the table and threw a hard punch into the American’s ribs.
The American fell backward, knocking over another table with a loud thud. Tankards of rum flew in all directions, splashing the liquor on those sitting nearby. Curses rose in a loud crescendo as the observers, doused with rum, stepped aside.
“Get Molly out of here, Russ,” Nick ordered his first mate, who hastened to usher the barmaid out of the way. Nick and the American circled each other. The men in the tavern cleared a space around them and, shouting encouragement to their favorite, placed bets in what was quickly becoming the afternoon’s entertainment.
“Two quid on the American!” shouted one.
“Five on Cap’n Nick! I’ve seen him fight.”
Fists flew, and feeling the pain from another gut punch, Nick realized it might be some time before he could defeat this man, who, even foxed, was very much his match. Resolved, he slammed his right fist into the American’s jaw, sending him to the floor.
Nick braced himself for the next round as the American picked himself off the floor, but the bartender stepped between them.
“Ye can take yer fight outside, captains,” said Amos, with his fists on his broad hips and a scowl on his round face. “I’ll not have me tables broken.”
Nick dropped his arms to his side. “Sorry, Amos. Was just a misunderstanding between…ah...friends.”
The American captain’s blue-green eyes glared hatred, but his brother whispered into his ear and pulled him back to his seat. The men who had gathered around, seeing the fight had come to an end, ambled back to their chairs, mumbling words of disappointment as their bets were returned.
“Nick,” whispered Russ, ‘the last thing we need is a fight with an American. The war is over, remember? And England had declared St. Thomas a free port.”
Russ was right. As a merchant captain, Nick looked forward to the lucrative trade peace would bring. Holding his hand over his heart, Nick dipped his head in grand gesture to the Americans. “My apologies, good fellows. Never meant to insult your sister. I like women just fine, though I prefer them in my bed and not cluttering up the deck of my ship.”
The older American’s thunderous expression told Nick that, notwithstanding his apology, he’d made an enemy. He hoped he would not see the American again soon. Dropping some coins on the table Russ had righted, Nick and his first mate left the tavern, a question rumbling in his mind.
What kind of a woman would crew with men?
“They change their skies, but not their souls who run across the sea.”
—Roman poet
Chapter 1
London, May 1817
Tara pulled the offending pins from her hair as she paced across the parlour rug in front of her aunt, sending long tawny ringlets cascading down her back. Her eyes were drawn to the stern face of her Irish grandfather staring down from the painting over the fireplace in the elegant townhouse. She was certain he would not approve. But then he would not be the first male in her family who took a dim view of her seafaring ways.
“All these petticoats, corsets and pins, Auntie! How do women bear it? I’ve been in London nearly a year and still it feels like I’ve been lashed to a main mast and suffered a storm each time I don the frippery. My head and back ache. I cannot breathe.” She paced another length of the drawing room and turned. “I will be glad when this Season is done and I can go home! How I long for salt air and a moving deck beneath my feet.”
“Tara Marie McConnell!” her dignified aunt chided. “A young lady does not talk so. Where are your manners for heaven’s sake?”
Tara sighed and slumped onto the sofa next to the older woman. “I’m sorry, Auntie. You have been so kind to host me in London. I must seem ungrateful.”
“Really, Tara. How could I not respect your mother’s dying wish? Your father vowed to her before the last war that you would come to me when the time was right. I could do no less than to see her wish fulfilled and my niece become a lady.”
Tara felt guilty at the reminder it had been her mother’s desire to see her schooled in the ways of a debutante by her aunt, a baron
ess. How could she complain? “Forgive me. It seems my manners have fled with the pain of the finery we women must wear. Do you never wish to be free of it?”
Her aunt smiled. “No, I rather look forward to dressing the lady, and the finery, as you call it, is a joy to me. A trip to the modiste for a new gown is one of my favorite pastimes.”
“Perhaps I’m just different. Or it may be what I’m accustomed to. Being raised on my father’s ship, I had no need for a corset.” Seeing her aunt’s countenance fall, Tara hastened to add, “I appreciate all you’ve done for me, Auntie; I do. And I have worn the gowns as you and Father wished. But you must remember, London’s not my home—and never will be!”
“London may not be your home but it was where your mother wanted you to become a lady. And so you have. Why, the smiling faces of those handsome young men at the ball last night told me as much. Surely their admiration was worth the pain of dressing the part. Your Season has been a great success.”
Tara’s heart warmed at the kind words of the silver-haired woman, her American aunt who had married an English baron many years ago. Now a widow, she was respected for her charity work with the families of British seamen killed in the wars that had consumed the country in the past years.
“My brother Sean would be proud, Tara.”
“Oh, to be sure, my father would be happy for the gowns I wear and all I have learned of dancing and dining and such. But despite their smiles, I rather doubt those young men you think so enamored of me are seeking an American wife. Why, only a few years ago our countries were at war! And besides, I’m not ready to marry. Even if I was, it wouldn’t be to an Englishman.”
“The war with America was not so important in England, Tara. It was stories of that horrid Frenchman Napoleon that filled our newspapers.”
“Well, it was important to us. How can I forget about it when I lost a brother in one of those battles at sea? Do you know, every time one of those dandies smiled at me, I saw Ben’s face? I felt like a traitor smiling back.” Tara grew melancholy thinking of her youngest brother. Ben would have been twenty-four this year, five years her senior. Growing up, they were the closest of the five siblings and she missed him with a deep ache that never seemed to go away. When he was killed, it had been like losing a part of herself. She always regretted that she’d not been there to try and save him