Wind Raven (Agents of the Crown)

by Regan Walker

  “Martha,” she said in answer to his unspoken question.

  The first mate coughed, nearly choking on his brandy, then laughed. “Nay, you’re no Martha.”

  “I would agree. The name Tara appealed to Father’s romantic nature. A blustering sea captain at times,” she said, looking directly at the captain, “he can be sweet, too.” She let out a sigh. “A rare man.” She turned to the captain. “Will we be long in the Caribbean? I am anxious to see for myself the condition of his health.”

  “Hopefully not long, but it is too soon to tell.” The captain shot an enigmatic glance toward his first mate. She had a feeling the two shared some knowledge they were keeping to themselves.

  A knock at the captain’s door interrupted her thoughts as Peter and Billy entered, carrying trays laden with covered dishes. The smell of spices filled the cabin, making Tara’s mouth water.

  “Whatever McGinnes has in store for us tonight smells wonderful,” said Mr. Ainsworth.

  “’Tis a beef dish, sir,” said Peter. “He’s been preparin’ it all afternoon. There are vegetables and roast potatoes, too. Oh, and he sent up your favorite French wine, Cap’n.”

  The captain pulled out a chair for Tara. She took her seat and the two men joined her as Peter and Billy began serving the food.

  “Here are the rolls.” Peter placed a basket on the table and winked conspiratorially at Tara—she’d spent much of the afternoon helping McGinnes with his baking. “I’ve set the cinnamon and raisin tarts on your desk, Cap’n, when you’re ready for dessert. Billy and I will return later to collect the dishes.” With that, the two young men departed.

  As they ate the wonderfully tender beef dish, they slipped into easy conversation, made even easier by the Bordeaux wine. Tara sensed a kind of truce emerging between her and the captain. There was still tension between them, but somehow the mood had changed. Perhaps it was Mr. Ainsworth’s witticisms, which acted much like grease on the skids, making it easy for Captain Powell to be gracious. Cautiously, she determined to accept the captain’s apparent offering of peace between them. She had to admit that the English captain could be charming when he wanted to be. And when he laughed, the sound was a deep, rich baritone. Perhaps donning a lady’s frippery had been worth the effort after all.

  “These rolls McGinnes cooked up tonight are a far cry from his usual fare,” remarked the captain as he took another bite.

  Tara kept her eyes fixed on her plate.

  “Has he suddenly gained a knowledge of baking?” he asked Mr. Ainsworth. “Or are some of his fairies working in the galley?”

  “You might say so,” the first mate said, grinning at Tara as she looked up. “Miss McConnell has been sharing her knowledge with our cook.”

  “You?” The captain shifted his attention to her. His golden eyes were full of wonderment. “You had something to do with these?”

  “I have been spending part of my day helping Mr. McGinnes, yes.”

  “Hmm,” he murmured as he took another bite, “very good. My compliments. Seems your talents are not limited to scrubbing the deck.”

  He was deliberately baiting her, but she would not allow his teasing to have its normal effect. Any compliment from the captain was a coup, even if he did add that annoying bit about scrubbing the deck, which he well knew she did not do. She just wished the compliment he’d chosen to convey hadn’t been for her cooking. She would prefer he recognize her skills at helping to sail the ship.

  “Miss McConnell, I’ve been curious,” said the captain, “how is it your father allows you to dress like a man?”

  “I didn’t seek permission, if that’s what you mean.” Seeing she had the two men’s interest, she elaborated, “One day a few years after my mother died, when he and my brothers were in port, I borrowed some clothes from my youngest brother, Ben, and went aboard my father’s ship, asking to be taken along. They were my family and I wanted to be with them. Perhaps my father felt sorry for me. Anyway, he relented.”

  “What about your education? Did you have no governess?” Mr. Ainsworth asked.

  “Eventually Father may have come to that, but he already had a tutor for my brothers, who traveled with them when they went to sea, so it was rather convenient to include me in their lessons. I suppose for my father it was like gaining another son. As for me, I would have done anything not to be left behind. Dressing like a lad was part of being one of the family. Then, too, once I was on the ship, I found I loved the life at sea. Those were some of the happiest days for my brothers and me. We had lost our mother but we had our father and we had each other. We were all together.” Tara knew she sounded nostalgic as she spoke of those days. She had truly loved all things about her father’s ship, and tagging after her brothers had been a great adventure.

  The captain rose and went to fetch the tarts, offering them to Tara and his first mate. “How long did you do this?” he asked, resuming his seat.

  Tara bit into the raisin and cinnamon tart, a recipe she had given the cook. The wonderful aroma of the cinnamon blended with the pastry and the plump raisins to win a moan from her as she licked a drop of juice from her bottom lip. Reluctantly, she set down her fork. “I sailed with my father for seven years, until I was fourteen. By then the war had began. My oldest brothers had their own ships and Father insisted I stay home.”

  “Is that where you were when you left for London?” Mr. Ainsworth inquired.

  “No. Two years ago when the war was over, I took up sailing with my brother George, mostly on his runs to the Caribbean. I’d just turned seventeen when, one day, Father came onto the ship. When he sighted me in the rigging, he suddenly became furious and informed me he was sending me to my Aunt Cornelia in London.”

  Mr. Ainsworth chuckled behind his napkin. “No wonder you are so comfortable acting as one of the ship’s crew. You have been doing it most of your life.”

  “Seems to me, Miss McConnell, that your days as a seaman are over,” pronounced the captain. “Surely you must see your father has the right of it?”

  Tara bristled inwardly. He of all people should understand how she felt. “No, Captain, I do not. It’s difficult to give up something you love. The sea and ships have been my home, more than any parlour in London or America. I will sail as long as I can, perhaps if I am fortunate, for the rest of my life. It may be possible my brothers will allow me to sail with them, for they haven’t always agreed with Father.”

  Tara had not really thought about what she would do when she returned home, but she knew in her heart that, while she would miss Aunt Cornelia, she had no desire to return to the social whirl of London society. Perhaps she might become a part of her family’s growing shipbuilding enterprise—even if she could no longer sail as one of the crew.

  “Time will tell, Miss McConnell,” said the captain, shaking his head. He did not look happy. Why he should care how she spent her life was something she did not bother to ponder.

  When the lads came to clear away the empty plates, Tara rose and the men followed suit. “Dinner was wonderful. Thank you. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll take a turn about the deck since there is light still.”

  “I’ll accompany you,” said the captain. Tara didn’t resist, aware it was probably better if she was escorted—dressed as she was. The watch would notice her feminine attire and not all of the captain’s men were like Mr. Johansson. The bos’n had become her guardian angel, but he might not be on deck at this hour. The captain’s presence might discourage an unwanted leer.

  Once they were topside, she walked beside the captain toward the bow. The ship was gliding through the waves and the sun was just setting. She drew her shawl around her shoulders. Keeping apace beside them was the gray cat.

  “Oh, there’s your cat,” said Tara, admiring Samantha’s graceful movements despite her unwieldy front paws.

  “Sam isn’t my cat. She comes and goes as she wills.”

  “The crew thinks she’s yours. And cats have a way of selecting their owners.”


  They had reached the rail on the starboard bow, where Tara stood in silent admiration of the grand display of color splashed across the horizon. Brilliant swaths of violet, crimson and orange held her attention. It was more beautiful than any painting she’d ever seen. Permeated by golden light from the dying sun, the surface of the ocean reflected the sky’s colors of red, pink and gold. The schooner sliced through the water, making a soft hissing sound, as if the ship were whispering soft words on the evening air and the ocean was answering back.

  She let out a sigh. The grandeur of God’s work in the evening sky always reminded Tara of her mother. Tara had very few memories of the woman, but she did remember that her mother wore bright colors like those in the sunset. On the night Lucy McConnell died, Tara had carried her mother’s crimson cloak to bed with her, wrapped herself in its warm folds, and cried herself to sleep while breathing in the jasmine scent that clung to the fabric. She had slept with the cloak for days until she’d discovered her mother’s bottle of jasmine perfume. When she grew older she began to wear the scent as a tribute to the mother she loved.

  A tear slipped down her cheek as she recalled those days from her childhood.

  * * *

  Nick had stared at the girl across the table at dinner as she’d made light conversation. She might not favor the drawing rooms of London but she would have done well there. With her aquamarine eyes and tawny hair reflecting the candlelight, she had been desire itself—a vision shimmering in blue, green and gold. Now, here on the deck, with the colors of the sunset glimmering on her face, she was even more alluring. Tawny curls gathered at the crown of her head reflected the light, making her hair appear like burnished gold.

  As she watched the sunset, he watched her. Tonight she was the alluring lady, not a young woman playing at being a lad. The swells of her breasts were like ripe fruit rising above the bodice of her gown. He didn’t know which he preferred, her enticing bottom encased in breeches or the pale mounds of her full breasts begging to be touched. Her seductive innocence called to him like a siren. She was a woman any man would desire, but to him she was more, a woman who loved ships and the sea. It was a dangerous combination. And tonight there’d been no sharp tongue, no hoyden antics to draw his ire. He had an irresistible urge to reach out and touch her, and idly wondered if the siren could sing.

  As she stared into the distance, a tear rolled down her cheek and she brushed it away with the back of her hand.

  “What is it that makes you sad while gazing at so glorious a sight, Miss McConnell?”

  She faced him with a watery smile. “A memory of my mother. I was young when she died.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, you are still quite young.” A temptress, yes, but a young one still, he thought. If he had it figured right, he was fourteen years her senior.

  “I was very young then,” she said, her smile brightening. “Just six. But I remember her.”

  “That would be a tragic loss at any age, but six is very young to lose a mother. How did she die, if I may ask?”

  “In childbirth, trying to bring into the world a sister I’ll never know.”

  “I’m sorry. I understand it happens all too often, even to women who have successfully birthed other children.”

  “Yes, that is what the doctor told my father. Her death shattered him; he never thought he could lose her. None of us did.”

  She looked up at him with sad eyes, deep blue-green pools of unshed tears. He could lose himself in those eyes.

  What made him take her into his arms he could not say, but it felt right to hold her, to comfort her, to run his hands up and down her back trying to sooth her. She rested her cheek against his shoulder. For a moment the world seemed to still. The heat from her body burned into his soul and they swayed with the movement of the ship, bathed in the colors of the brilliant sunset. His reaction to her was unlike his feelings for any other woman. He wanted to protect her—even from himself.

  He lifted her chin with his finger. Her lips parted as she gazed up at him. The siren called and Nick was powerless to deny her. Bending his head, he touched her lips with his. They were soft and sweet. Though a voice told him to leave off, he could not stop. Driven by a powerful desire to merge with her, he kissed her deeply and she responded, only slightly hesitant in her innocence. He was suddenly overwhelmed by all that was Tara McConnell—the feel of her in his arms, her jasmine scent, her sweetness. Time slowed while he savored her. He may have been her anchor in the memory of a storm, but to him she was a wild fury, tamed perhaps for only a moment, but he would take that moment.

  Reluctantly, he broke the kiss. She did not move but opened her eyes and looked at him as if seeing him for the first time. “Oh…” she breathed, coming out of her daze. The passion in her eyes faded. Stiffening as if she just realized where she was and who was holding her, she quickly glanced to where the watch would be. “Your crew—”

  “—will have the good judgment to be looking elsewhere just now.”

  She stepped away from him, and he let her go. Turning, she fled to the hatch leading to the deck below and to her cabin. He watched her go and his eye caught the movement of a figure a score of feet above him in the rigging, the bos’n, Jake Johansson, who had the watch. The eyes of the large blond seaman narrowed on his captain in unspoken warning. Nick shrugged. By the time he looked again toward the hatch, the girl had disappeared.

  Nick turned back to the sunset, curling his fingers around the smooth brightwork of the rail as he stared into the darkening sky. The brilliant colors of a short while ago had faded into a palette of purple, gray and rose, as his passion faded into a memory of a siren who he feared would drive him mad with desire before they reached Baltimore.

  He cursed under his breath for allowing himself the kiss. He had wanted to kiss her since he’d seen her impudent smile the morning she’d danced in the rigging, but she was no tavern wench. She was a passenger entrusted to his care by his mother’s good friend. Even if Tara McConnell were willing, he would not take her to his bed. Since Caroline, he’d avoided virgins. And he was certain the blushing American who wore breeches was a virgin. His love for Caroline had been a young man’s folly—not something ever to be repeated.

  He recalled the day he had proudly taken Caroline to the docks to see his new ship. It had been a rare summer’s day and he’d thought it the perfect setting to show the woman he loved the ship that held his heart. But with a perfume-suffused handkerchief held to her nose and a sneer cast at his crew, she had shown her disdain for the men he cared for and the ship he loved. No matter the Wind Raven and the other ships in the family business would make him a fine living. Foolishly, he’d still made love to her, thinking to make her his wife, excusing her behavior as that of a young woman unused to the sea.

  With the retrospect the years allowed him, he wondered if she had only feigned love until the better offer had come along. And it had come along soon thereafter in the form of a title he could never give her. The way she had told him she was leaving him, abrupt and cold, had been ugly. And it had made him wonder if she would always be free with her favors.

  No matter how accomplished a sea captain he might become, no matter how much worth he might obtain as a leader, a man or a merchant—he would never have been a proper suitor in her eyes, certainly never a peer. She had played him for a fool.

  Caroline’s rejection eight years ago had torn him apart. But he survived, firmly closing the door to his heart. He was not about to open it again.

  * * *

  Tara slammed the door of her cabin and leaned against the wood planks, her heart racing from her flight from the captain. She had let him kiss her. Her first real kiss.

  She took a deep breath and slowly let it out, trying to calm her pounding heart. Bringing her fingers to her still-sensitive lips, she marveled at her own vulnerability to the hardened English captain. He had caught her at a weak moment; that was all there was to it. Warmed by the brandy and the wine, and dra
wn to the comfort he offered in response to her sadness, she had not thought to resist. Indeed, embarrassing though it was to recall, she had willingly responded.

  Her brothers had warned her about such men; she should have been prepared. He was a rake if ever there was one, and he had outmaneuvered her. She had never had to face such a situation before. On her brothers’ ships, no man would touch her for risk of losing their position. But this captain was different. Instinctively, she knew she would have to be cautious if she were to avoid being seduced by the handsome Englishman, because innocent though she was, she was suddenly aware she wanted more of his kisses.

  As her heart slowed to its normal pace, she stepped to her bunk, where the gray cat sat licking one of her white paws. The animal had raced into her cabin when she’d opened the door. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Tara stroked the soft gray fur and the cat’s purring calmed her.

  “The captain has no appreciation for a female’s wits, Samantha,” she told the cat, calling her by the name she preferred for the beautiful animal. The cat’s green eyes seem to consider her words. “He probably thinks of you as a mere decoration to grace his desk, not a member of his crew, though indeed you work as hard as any, ridding his ship of vermin as you do.” Tara realized then she was talking to herself as well as the cat. No matter how much she desired to be respected as one of them, the captain saw her as only a woman. He had admired her gown and complimented her baking, but when it came to sailing his ship, his only reference to her skills was to acknowledge her “fancy footwork” the day she’d rescued Billy. The insufferable captain would never recognize her sailing prowess, as her brothers did. Why did it matter? And why was she attracted to such a man?

  “It’s so unfair!” she said to the cat. “Why did it have to be him? He’s English! I cannot care for an Englishman.”

  The cat didn’t answer but the green eyes seemed to convey understanding.

  “Samantha, you probably want to be about your night’s hunting, don’t you? It’s when you do your best work for the captain.”