Wind Raven (Agents of the Crown)

by Regan Walker

  “We’ve weathered many a storm, old friend,” said the captain. “We’ll weather this one, mermaids or no.”

  He may be stern at times, Tara thought, but it was clear the captain cared for his crew. McGinnes had mentioned he’d known the captain’s family for a long while, and she could see there was trust between them.

  They soon finished eating, and the captain directed her down the passageway. When they arrived at her door, he gestured her on to his cabin.

  “Miss McConnell, a word if I might?” Seeing his stern countenance, she did not refuse.

  Peter was just finishing the captain’s bed when they stepped through the doorway. The gray cat jumped up and settled herself onto the freshly made linens, her tail twitching.

  “Hullo, Miss McConnell,” Peter said. Then to the captain, “Is there anything more you require, sir?”

  “No, Peter, thank you. But see that you stay below when the storm descends. I’ll not have you slipping overboard.”

  “But, sir, I should be bringing you food to keep up yer strength and your rain cloak when it gets wet on deck!”

  “If I want for food, I’ll send word, and you can ask Mr. Ainsworth for a good place to stow my greatcoat topside.”

  “Aye, Cap’n, and if’n ye need me after that, I’ll be with McGinnes or helping with the pump crew.”

  She was glad Peter would be one of those below decks. Many cabin boys would wait upon their captains during a storm, bringing them dry clothes and coffee. She admired the captain for letting the slim youth remain below. Smiling at Tara, his dimple on full display, Peter departed, leaving them alone.

  “You wished to speak to me, Captain?” Tara tried to remain calm, but being alone with the man who had kissed her twice was, to say the least, disconcerting. She tried not to look at his bed. He leaned against his desk, crossing one booted foot over the other. The sight of his black hair tousled by the wind and his golden eyes framed by his dark eyebrows scattered her thoughts.

  “I want you below decks and in your cabin when the storm hits, Miss McConnell. You might even want to tie yourself to the bed so you’re not tossed to the deck. It’s going to be rough.”

  “This isn’t my first storm, Captain.” Surely the man must know by now that she could pull her own weight with the crew.

  “Perhaps not, but it’s your first storm aboard my ship, and I’ll not be taking any chances with your safety. Is that clear?”

  “Perfectly.” He was staring at her as if he wanted to say something more but then shrugged and pushed away from his desk. A sudden lurch of the ship brought her careening into his chest. He steadied her with his hands on her upper arms and, for a moment, stared into her eyes, then at her lips.

  Instead of letting her go, he drew her more tightly against his chest, his golden eyes boring into hers. “I don’t seem to be able to resist you this close, Miss McConnell.”

  She felt the heat between them as he bent his head and kissed her, a kiss as fierce as the storm she knew was fast approaching. Her body seemed to come alive as his arms held her. His lips lifted from hers.

  “I wish I had time to show you more, but right now my ship requires my attention.” He set her away from him and, reaching for a chart from his desk, swept up the rolled document and strode from the cabin as if the ship wasn’t rolling beneath his feet.

  Tara gripped the edge of his desk to steady herself, and not just because of the swells that had the ship constantly dipping and lunging. Damn the unmitigated gall of the man! What made him think he could kiss her whenever he wanted? More troublesome still, why had she let him?

  Holding her hand to her still-racing heart, she could feel the scrape of his unshaven face on her chin, could still taste his kiss and smell the scent of salt air and man. She scolded herself ten times over for allowing the man such liberties, for not fighting harder to convince him she was not his toy for the taking. The fact she had not fought him disturbed her, and left her slightly amazed as she realized, to her dismay, that she was beginning to like the arrogant captain.

  * * *

  They were making good progress, now sailing south, when several hours later Nick searched the darkening sky to see a great mantle of billowing gray clouds, stirred by fierce winds, encompass the ship. Though he had made good time in his effort to circle the storm to the south, he grew sullen at the realization that they would experience at least the edge of nature’s fury. Nick gave the order to begin reefing sail, furling from the top down.

  “Douse the t’gallant!” Russ shouted, his voice thin above the wind. The crew scrambled to comply, and Nick was satisfied they were dropping sail before it was too late. Just as they finished, the clouds opened up, pelting them with a cold, hard rain.

  “Reef the topsail, fore and main!” Russ shouted to be heard over the descending storm.

  When the wind rose, Nick braced himself and said to Russ, “We’ll fly only the storm trysail, the headsails and the one jib, and hope that will suffice.” Those sails would provide balance, allowing the Raven to run before the wind, or at least he hoped it would be so.

  To the seamen working amidships, Nick shouted the order, “Set a sea anchor!” And leaning closer to Russ, he said, “I fear we’re going to need it.” He hoped the spare sail rigged as a drag-chute would hold the ship’s bow into the oncoming waves and stabilize her so when the full fury of the storm struck, the ship would resist turning sideways into the large waves.

  His eye caught Tara McConnell helping his bos’n and two seamen secure the topgallant along the bulwark, and knew it was past time she should go below. “Miss McConnell, go to your cabin!” He had to yell to be heard above the wind blowing the rain sideways. When she didn’t move, he added, “Now!”

  She looked up at his shouted words. “But, Captain!” Her tawny hair hung wet against her head, darkened by the rain running down her face. A water sprite come aboard his ship to taunt him. There was no way he’d allow the fetching creature to stay above decks, where the raging storm and pitching deck could toss her into the sea.

  Ignoring her protest, he called to the blond bos’n, who stood as tall as Nick but with much greater bulk, “Jake, escort our passenger to her cabin.” Making his way to the bos’n, he pressed into Jake’s hand the key he’d kept against this moment. “Lock her in.”

  The blond giant latched onto the girl’s elbow, and with an eager “Ja, sir, I see to it,” took her below. Nick didn’t allow himself to look at her face; the anger he was certain he’d see in her aquamarine eyes would be one more unneeded distraction.

  Though it was only midday as told by the sounding of eight bells, a foreboding darkness settled around them. On the distant horizon, which he and Russ had been carefully watching, a bolt of white lightning streaked from the black clouds through the sky to the ocean, a silver finger of the gods pointing to the depths below. Thunder, like an exploding cannon, rent the air. As the rain continued to fall, Nick donned his greatcoat and Russ did the same. The rain, now coming in torrents, joined the huge waves crashing onto the deck, causing the ship to reel. Nick braced himself on the quarterdeck, preparing for what he knew lay ahead.

  “Mr. Trent, go below,” he ordered, “and see if our sailmaker needs help checking the water in the well. I don’t want you up here again. Mr. Adams can send me reports. Join the pump crew on your watch.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” said John as he carefully made his way to the centerline hatch, the only one left open because it was sheltered by a protective housing.

  Nick turned to Russ. “Find out if Smitty or Nate needs help at the helm and whether they’ve secured the wheel.”

  “I saw to the wheel earlier, but I’ll check on the men,” Russ said as he wiped water from his eyes with the back of his hand.

  “Good man,” acknowledged Nick, watching his first mate reach for the manrope and make his way to the helm. The rain, coming down in sheets, blurred Nick’s vision, making it impossible to see clearly, but he thought he saw Russ join the two experie
nced seamen, who were manning the wheel despite the waves crashing over them.

  Nick studied the ship as it rode the large waves, pleased the topsail, fore and main had been reefed and that the sea anchor was holding them steady.

  Suddenly lightning filled the sky, streaking down on all sides and rendering the deck nearly as bright as day. The waves breaking onto the ship appeared to be on fire with blue flames dancing on the white crests. He tilted his head back, unsurprised to see blue flames atop the two mastheads, making them appear like two huge candles.

  “’Tis St. Elmo’s fire!” yelled Smitty.

  “My God,” said Russ, rushing to Nick’s side, “I’ve never seen the like of it.”

  “I’ve seen it once before, in the Mediterranean on my father’s ship. One of his Portuguese sailors called it corpo santo, holy body. Some seamen say it’s an omen.”

  A puzzled look appeared on Russ’s face. “For good or for ill?”

  “Depends on who you ask,” Nick shouted to be heard as a wave crashed over them. He wasn’t worried about the appearance of the blue flames, but he knew many on his crew would not see the phenomenon as benign. Sailors were a superstitious lot.

  The crew stopped their work to stare in wonder at the blue flames. Some were startled. Others were clearly frightened. “Don’t be concerned, men,” Nick shouted, trying to be heard above the violent storm. “The blue fire won’t harm the ship—or you.”

  Smitty encouraged the others. “Aye, the cap’n is right. I’ve seen it before.”

  A gigantic wave—fifteen feet high—rose up and crashed over the deck. Nick turned to Russ and yelled, “Get all those below we can spare!”

  Chapter 8

  Locked in!

  Tara’s mind screamed the words.

  Furious, she paced five steps, turned and paced five steps back. Still angry, she took a deep breath and threw herself on the bunk, forcing her mind to think logically. Her brothers would never have imprisoned her in a cabin. Not even her father on his most ill-tempered days would have done such. She should be considered a valued member of the crew, not a passenger who had to be restrained! Why couldn’t Captain Powell realize that simple truth?

  Tara flipped to her back, bracing her arms against the outer edge of the bunk to keep from being tossed with every pitch of the ship. She took another deep breath, thinking of all that had happened that morning. Grudgingly, she admitted Nicholas Powell was a careful captain. She could see him in her mind’s eye, standing firm on the deck, his hands on his hips as if defying Neptune to do his worst. The captain had wisely guided the crew in the steps necessary to ready the ship for the storm. She respected his knowledge of when to set more sail and when to start strapping things down for the blow that had finally come. He’d carefully watched the signs of the developing storm as the wind carried them south, setting a course that gave them every bit of wind he could squeeze from the sails until the gale rose and the rigging could take no more.

  Though she knew he was desperately trying to outrun the storm, he had not overset the masts and rigging. At just the right moment, he’d sent the crew aloft to douse and furl sails. She had watched her father making the same careful, astute decisions on many occasions.

  The comparison between the Raven’s captain and the man she all but worshipped was a startling revelation.

  Tara tried to imagine what was occurring on deck as the ship pitched and rolled. The wood creaked and the waves roared as they crashed onto the deck above. She could only hope they’d come through it. After a few hours she was exhausted, and during a lull in the storm, she began to doze in and out of sleep.

  Sometime later, she awoke to a loud boom, followed by the sound of splintering wood and a resounding thud on the weather deck, which sent shudders throughout the ship. The Wind Raven suddenly pulled hard to port. In the dark it was frightening. But Tara knew those sounds. A mast had broken. She could help! And she needed to ensure that if the ship were to go down, she would not be trapped like a rat in the hold. But how could she get out?

  Her thoughts scattered, frantically seeking an answer. And then she remembered the time she’d lost the key to her jewel box and had to use a hairpin to pick the lock. With a lurch, she rose from the bunk and felt for her trunk. Finding it, she pulled one of the pins from the case where they were stored. Quickly, she braced herself against the door and, feeling in the dark, found the lock and applied the pin, all the while trying to keep her hands steady.

  The ship lurched, spilling her onto the deck. Frantic, she clawed her way back to the cabin door, the pin still clutched in her fingers. It took another try and another pin to finally conquer the lock, but at last the door swung open. She lurched toward the centerline hatch, her body slamming against the bulkhead every time the ship pitched with the storm. Clinging to the ladder, she climbed and made it through the hatch.

  On deck, everything was in chaos. Despite the rain, the smell of spent lightning and wood smoke hung in the air. There were shouts of men trapped beneath downed rigging. Waves a dozen feet high broke over the rails, flinging men into the broken rigging of the foremast, its top half missing. The sails and rigging had fallen over the rail leeward, dragging the ship in that direction like a great sea anchor. It was then she saw Billy, trapped in the fallen rigging swept over the side. He was struggling to climb over the downed rigging back to the rail.

  “Man overboard!” a seaman shouted as the men battled to get to the young sailor, but a huge wave crashed over the deck, driving them back.

  Tara was closest to the young seaman and, she realized, Billy’s only hope. Careful not to slip on the wet deck, she reached for the rigging, using it to make her way to the rail. The wind buffeted her and the rain soaked her shirt but she pressed on. Once there, she extended her arm toward Billy, whose face was frozen in terror. Waves washed over her making it difficult to see.

  “Take my hand!” she yelled in the direction she’d last seen his panicked face. She reached her arm as far as she could, leaning over the rail while still holding on with one hand. Relief washed over her when she felt Billy’s fingers tighten around hers.

  The ship slewed around and the sails and rigging slipped farther into the water as the rough seas sought to claim them. Her one hand would not be enough to hold him. She had to get Billy up to the deck before the crew cut the lines and broken spars to save the ship. “Billy, hold on!”

  She could feel his hand slipping. Desperate to get a better grip, she let go of the rail to reach with both hands. It was a chance she’d have to take that to save him she, too, might be swept overboard. Bracing herself against the rail, she screamed, “Take my other hand!” Suddenly Billy’s hand was ripped from hers as she was grabbed from behind. Strong arms lifted her, hauling her away from the rail. The crew rushed in to cut the lines and Billy floated away. “Billy!” she screamed.

  Locked in the arms that held her, the rain pouring down, she watched another huge wave crash over Billy. He fell away with the rigging and torn sails, his head bobbing in the choppy waters. Lost to the sea. “No!” she cried.

  Tara felt herself carried down the hatch but was hardly aware of who held her until she was thrust into the captain’s cabin and tossed onto his bed. The gray cat that had been sleeping there rose with a hiss and jumped to the deck.

  “Why didn’t you stay below?” the captain bellowed, his black hair wet around his face, his expression as thunderous as the raging storm.

  “You let Billy go! You let him die!” she cried, tears streaming down her face.

  “We could not save Billy, and in your valiant efforts, I almost lost you! I shouldn’t even be down here now; I should be with my crew!”

  Tara had never seen him so angry—but she didn’t care. Billy, her friend, the boy from the Midlands who reminded her of the brother she’d lost, who tried so hard to tie a bowline knot, was gone forever. Shivering, she wrapped her arms around her middle and let the sobs come.

  The captain reached into a chest, withdrew a
blanket and tossed it to the bed. “Get out of those wet clothes. I’ll not have you dying of lung fever.” He spun around and strode to the door, then looked back over his shoulder. “This time you’ll not find it so easy to gain your freedom, Miss McConnell.”

  He stalked from the cabin, slamming the cabin door behind him. She heard a key turn in the lock and a block of wood slide into a slot as he barred the door.

  Tara slumped onto the bed.

  Gone. Billy was gone. All who sailed accepted the risk such a thing could happen and she’d seen men lose their lives before at sea, but never one so tender of years, so hopeful in his desire to be more than his beginnings would have made him. Tara cried until her tears ran dry. She cried for Billy and she cried for her brother Ben. Both were gone from this life.

  Shivering with cold, weariness and grief, Tara was too numb to move. Her clothes were indeed soaked through with both rain and salt water, for she’d worn no cloak when she’d hastened above decks. The captain had demanded she shed her sodden garments, and though she knew he was right, she had no dry clothes of her own to put on. It seemed she had little choice but to see what she might find in his sea chests. Remembering where they stood against the bulkhead, in the dim light the flashes of lightning provided, she slowly worked her way toward them.

  The ship was still tossing in the waves like a child’s toy thrown into a raging river.

  Feeling one chest before her, she raised its lid. She could see and feel only books. In the second chest, she found the shirts and breeches that had been her goal. The captain was tall and well muscled. It was hopeless to think they would fit, but perhaps she could wear one of his shirts. He might leave her here all night. And if they did not survive the storm, what mattered the garment she wore? Peeling her wet shirt, vest, breeches and chemise from her, she used one of his shirts to dry herself off. Then sitting on the wooden planks of the deck, the ship creaking and moaning with the storm, she donned one of the captain’s shirts, rolling the sleeves to her wrists. She stood, feeling the fabric fall to just above her knees.