Wind Raven (Agents of the Crown)

by Regan Walker

  “I see you have bluebirds as we do,” remarked Tara.

  “Yes. The first men coming to these islands brought many birds and animals that were not native. I’m told the bluebirds we have are a bit different from yours. The bird’s breasts are more cinnamon in color and the blue plumage more purple.”

  Tara studied the bird on the hedge closest to where they were sitting, observing the differences, though they were subtle. The gardens here were similar and yet different from the gardens in London. “Your gardens are truly beautiful, Mrs. Albouy.”

  “I have lived my whole life in Bermuda,” the older woman said, “and still I love the weather that allows us to enjoy the exotic plants all year long. It was my intention to combine the best of what I pictured an English garden to be with more unusual flowers of the island.”

  “I have lived my whole life in Baltimore,” said Tara, “except for the times I’ve gone to sea and the last year I spent in London. But this last year allowed me to see those gardens you speak of. Still, yours are more exotic and quite unique.”

  “Thank you, dear. Captain Powell always remarks about our gardens. England has beautiful gardens, of course, but nothing quite like ours.”

  “Have you known Captain Powell long?” Tara asked as her thoughts turned, once again, to the enigmatic man who acted the harsh captain one moment and kissed her with such care the next—and for the first time last night had called her beautiful.

  “For a few years, yes, since he first began coming to Bermuda, I should think.”

  “I was told he was a privateer for England before he was a merchant sea captain.”

  Mrs. Albouy’s next words confirmed what Nate had told Tara. “Yes, he and his father took many French ships as prizes. The Prince Regent was most pleased, I understand.”

  For a while longer, they sat on the bench enjoying a companionable silence and then, at Mrs. Albouy’s suggestion, meandered through the gardens. They arrived back at the main house just as a messenger arrived. “A package for Miss McConnell from Mrs. Esten, ma’am,” said the footman, dipping his head.

  Tara accepted the small package and opened it to find a book. The cover read, “Pride and Prejudice, by the author of Sense and Sensibility.” It was the promised novel written by the sister of Captain Austen. Inside the cover she found a note:

  My dear Miss McConnell,

  As promised, here is one of Jane’s novels you might enjoy.

  Sometimes first impressions can be wrong. You might consider giving Captain Powell an opportunity to prove himself.

  I do not believe you will be disappointed.

  Most sincerely,

  Esther Esten

  Tara wondered just what it could mean and why Mrs. Esten thought she had the wrong impression of the captain’s character. Could the English captain be anything other than what she’d observed him to be in the weeks she had known him? Could he be more than an overbearing, but competent, captain, and what the ton called a rake? Her brother George had warned her of such men when she’d left for London. Could Mrs. Esten really be recommending him to her?

  * * *

  Seated in the parlour an hour later, Tara heard the voices of boys at play and hastened to the front gallery to see Captain Powell flanked by what she surmised were the Esten sons, since they looked very much like their parents. Both had the dark hair of their father and the finely drawn features of their mother.

  Captain Powell smiled up at her from where he stood at the foot of the stairs. “It seems we have companions for our outing to Elbow Beach.” The two boys stopped their gallivanting to stare up at Tara.

  “Miss McConnell,” the captain said in what Tara took to be mock formality, “allow me to present James and John Esten. James,” he turned to the older boy on his right, “and John,” he said to the younger boy, “make your bows to the lady.” Tara came down the stairs and the boys very properly bowed to her.

  “I’m delighted to meet you,” she said, greeting the two boys, who were dressed in breeches and shirts, absent their jackets, obviously prepared for a day of play in the sun. “Did you enjoy your morning on Captain Powell’s ship?”

  The boys’ wide grins told her all she needed to know. “He let us climb into the rigging!” exclaimed the older James.

  “Well, that’s more than he will allow me,” said Tara, looking at the unapologetic captain, who seemed amused at her comment. “Is all well on your ship?” she asked him. The boys scampered up the steps in front of them.

  “The mast will be swayed up tomorrow so we can leave the next day with the tide.” He looked relieved to know his ship would soon be restored to rights and they would be on their way. Apparently the mast was taking longer than he’d believed the night before. Tara was glad they would soon resume their trip; she was anxious to see her father. She had even considered seeking a ship sailing northwest from Bermuda. But since she had already defied her aunt in leaving without her maid, she was reluctant to leave the one ship her aunt had insisted she take. Moreover, she could not very well travel alone on an unknown ship. Those were perfectly good reasons—her only reasons—to stay with Captain Powell and his ship. Or so she told herself.

  They walked up the steps to the front door. “If you agree, Miss McConnell, I thought to pack a picnic lunch and take the boys with us to the beach. The rascals can romp while we enjoy the scenery.”

  “Mrs. Albouy’s cook is a step ahead of you, Captain,” Tara replied. As they entered the house, the butler took the captain’s hat and Mrs. Albouy greeted him.

  “Good morning, Captain. I have shuffled the Esten lads into the parlour. They seemed quite eager to tell me about their morning adventure. Why don’t you join them while I ask Cook to add a bit more food to the picnic fare—we don’t want those boys to go hungry—and then you can be off?” She left them, saying over her shoulder, “You’ll have your hands full, I expect.”

  * * *

  Elbow Beach, named, as Mrs. Albouy had told her, for the gentle curve of the cream-colored sand that stretched between the tree-topped cliffs and the blue waters, was the most beautiful beach Tara had ever seen. In the pale blue sky overhead, puffy white clouds drifted slowly as if lethargic and reluctant to be on their way. The water closest to shore was the blue-green of the turquoise ring her father had given her when she’d left for London, but farther out, the deeper water appeared indigo. Mrs. Albouy had told her the coral reefs around the island had sent many an unwary ship to the bottom. But today all was calm, and the palette of colors and the breeze rustling through the palm fronds were an elixir to her senses.

  The boys scrambled out of the carriage, doffing their stockings and shoes to run across the wide expanse of untouched sand to where small waves were breaking on shore. Captain Powell watched them for a moment, then set down the picnic basket in the shade of a palm tree, and quickly shed his own stockings and shoes to leave his muscular calves bare below his breeches. The skin on his legs was bronze like his face, making her wonder just how much skin he showed to the sun when he was with only his men. She had seen her brothers frolic in the waters off Fell’s Point and when they were anchored off some island, but she’d not seen them naked. Somehow she thought the captain did not observe the niceties.

  “I hope you will forgive my partial disrobing, Miss McConnell, but I may as well join the lads. It is far more comfortable to have one’s toes free, don’t you think?” He said this with a smile that Tara was certain held a dare. Not to be daunted, she sat on a nearby rock, and with up-turned brows waited for him to turn his back. When he did, she took off her gloves and then removed her stockings and shoes and, covering her legs with her skirts, sank her feet into the warm sand and wriggled her toes.

  “It feels wonderful.”

  He whipped around, chuckled and held out his hand. “Come, sea nymph, let us walk to the water. After the hot sand, the waves will feel even better.” He was not wrong. By the time they reached the shore, her feet were on fire and she was happy to lift the edge of
her white muslin gown to let the water rush over her bare feet.

  The boys splashed each other, playing in the shallow water up to their knees. Staring down at their feet, they shouted with delight when they saw their toes through the clear water. The captain joined in their fun, splashing them with seawater only to dart away. The boys took it as a challenge and raced after him, the three of them running down the beach. She could see them in the distance engaging in a game of tag.

  Had she worn her breeches instead of a gown, she would have joined in their game. But instead she was content to watch, amazed at the captain’s lighthearted frivolity with the two boys. Once again she marveled at how different he seemed away from the responsibility of his ship and its crew.

  Eventually the three tired of their game and began to return to where Tara was waiting. Giving into a sudden desire, she lifted her skirts and ran barefoot down the beach toward them. The captain picked up the younger boy and carried the lad on his shoulder while James walked at his side, chatting away. As she approached, James raised his face to the captain’s, hanging on every word the man uttered. Watching them, and the captain’s patience with the boys’ antics, Tara realized he was very fond of these children—and obviously they idolized the English sea captain.

  For a moment Tara wished it were her family, her boys and, to her surprise, her man. Her feelings for Captain Powell had changed. The arrogant, unbending captain had softened, along with her resentment for the Englishman. Standing on Elbow Beach, Nicholas Powell, captain of the Wind Raven, was different from the man she’d first encountered. He was so much more.

  “You seem the exuberant one today, Miss McConnell,” the captain remarked when she caught up to the three of them. His golden eyes pointedly looked at her bare toes peeking out below her gown. He set John on the sand and the boys each took one of his hands.

  “I’m just enjoying this place.” And you. For he’d become a charming and winsome man. Why would he show her such tenderness now? Was it only being free of the burden of command?

  “Are you hungry yet, lads?” the captain asked. “Shall we see what the Albouy cook has prepared for us?”

  With glad agreement and shouts of “I’m starved!” the boys ran to the shade, where the picnic basket waited. Once there, the captain spread the picnic cloth on the sand in the shade. The meal the cook had prepared was, indeed, a feast: roast chicken, mussels in a spicy sauce, sliced cucumbers and, for dessert, apricot tarts.

  “Tarts!” shouted John when Tara set them on the cloth.

  “Tarts last,” said the captain, gently chiding the boys, who sighed in compliance and accepted the plates Tara handed them, which she had piled with chicken, mussels and cucumbers. There was fresh fruit juice, a blend of orange and mango, for the boys and white wine for the captain and her.

  After luncheon, the boys played near the water’s edge, building a castle in the damp sand, while Tara and the captain reclined in the shade looking on. It was very peaceful with the birds chirping in the palm trees above them and the soothing sound of the rhythmic roar of the waves rushing to shore. Leaning on one elbow, Nicholas Powell stretched his legs before him. A lock of ebony hair blew across his forehead as he watched the boys, who were now playing in the water. The lines of concern in the captain’s face were gone. Instead, the face of a contented man emerged.

  Tara glanced at his hand lying on the cloth. Eager for something to fill the awkward silence, she remarked, “That’s a beautiful ring you wear.”

  He looked at the blue stone, glowing in the dappled light filtering through the palms. “It’s my mother’s. She gave it to me when I earned my ship, in recognition of my becoming a man in my father’s eyes, or so she said. It’s a blue moonstone, and was a gift from her father when she turned seventeen.”

  “Ah, a family heirloom.”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.”

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Captain, you seem a different person in this place.”

  “So do you, Miss McConnell,” he said smiling, his golden eyes glinting. “So do you.”

  For a moment, she openly returned his gaze. But she was not so unwise as to allow him to see she might care. She had been raised around men who loved the sea, as indeed she herself did, and she recognized only too well this English captain was content with his lot as a man, having no ties save those to his ship and his crew. She would not allow him to see the change in her feelings.

  Like the small shimmering shell she had picked up on the beach and tucked into her watch pocket, her growing feelings for Captain Powell would remain her secret.

  Chapter 12

  The Tres Puertas tavern in Cabo Rojo was crowded as Roberto Cofresí and a few of his men stepped through the open door. A reception as warm as the night air greeted them. They were expected, it being their custom to celebrate a prize when there was plenty to share. A drink among friends after a good dinner was also a welcome tradition. The patrons who knew his crew lifted their heads to shout words welcoming them home as they wound their way through the tavern.

  “Ah, Roberto!” the tabernero, Ramón, shouted, a wide smile on his round face as he began pouring them rum from where he stood behind the bar. “I have heard the fishermen of the Retribución had a good catch today, no?”

  “Sí, Ramón, a good day,” acknowledged Roberto as he headed toward his table in the rear of the room, the one always reserved for him and his men when they were expected. There he could sit safely with his back to the wall, watching all who entered.

  The tavern keeper himself delivered the rum, setting the four tankards before them. “So there will be much sharing with the people of Cabo Rojo?” Ramón inquired.

  “Sí, spoils enough to buy your wife that dress she’s been ogling, and coin enough to feed even your growing brood.”

  Ramón gave a hearty laugh and leaned in to whisper. The men sitting with Roberto discreetly looked away. “I came to your table myself to deliver a message.”

  Roberto studied the tavern keeper’s face, which had suddenly grown serious.

  “There was a man asking about you yesterday.”

  Roberto sensed the tavern keeper’s determination to remember the smallest details. His loyalty, like that of the others, reminded Roberto it was not only vengeance he sought in his piracy, but a better life for the people of Cabo Rojo and the island that was his home.

  “He’s an old man with graying hair, and a foreigner, sin duda. Not a Spaniard, and not from here. More likely English,” Ramón speculated, twisting his mouth as if he chewed on something distasteful. “Though his accent was hard to place.”

  Roberto turned to Portalatin, who he knew had been listening. “See what our spies have to say. Perhaps the man has also been asking elsewhere.”

  Portalatin took a swig of his rum and rose to depart. “Sí, Capitán.”

  Roberto had many spies around Porto Rico, most in Cabo Rojo, ordinary people like shopkeepers, a school teacher, even a priest—people who owed much to El Pirata Cofresí and whose gratitude was reflected in the information they provided concerning merchant ships. They would not miss a foreigner asking about him or his men. Nor would they fail to send him word.

  Turning back to Ramón, he inquired, “What did the man seek?”

  “Information on your ship. He wanted to know when the Retribución was expected in port. He must know this is your home.”

  “Was he followed when he left?”

  “Sí, I put José on the man but he disappeared in the market crowd and José was unable to find him. I thought him a wily one.” He paused and looked briefly toward the bar as if thinking, and then back to Roberto. “I remember now. José thought the man seemed to know he was being followed.”

  “We will find him. I cannot imagine he is alone. Could be someone seeking vengeance for a lost ship.” Roberto rested his chin on his upturned hand, his elbow on the table. It would not be the first time. That was one reason he maintained a network of spies in the various ports.

&nbs
p; Cabo Rojo was not a large place. He would soon have the man’s identity.

  * * *

  Nick watched his passenger as she stood at the prow gazing into the orange and red sky, the large glowing disk slowly sinking into the Caribbean Sea. The light turned her tawny hair into strands of shimmering gold. He had watched her many an evening as they sailed south to Porto Rico, never growing tired of gazing at the beautiful girl, as she never grew tired of gazing at the sea.

  The Wind Raven, now bearing the name Viento del Cuervo and flying the flag of Royal Spain, had been anchored on the far side of Boquerón Bay on the west coast of Porto Rico for two days, and he could see his passenger was growing restless. He had confined her to the ship for her protection, though he had refused to answer her many questions about the changes made to the schooner. He did not want her to be aware of his mission concerning the pirate Cofresí for fear she would insist on becoming involved.

  She leaned against the rail, her stance proud and fearless as if she were daring the world—or him—to stop her should she take a fancy to leave the ship. He expected a further rebellion, and soon.

  He could not envision Tara McConnell as one of the ladies of the ton, content to while away her time in the drawing rooms of London as Caroline had been. Caroline would have hated the life that this American girl loved. Why had he never seen that before? In her own way, perhaps Caroline had recognized the truth he’d denied. They were never meant to be together; they were only an interlude in each other’s lives. Tara was different. At some level, he had recognized it the first time she’d climbed into the rigging, assured and smiling before his men. Even in Bermuda, where she had delighted his British friends, she had shone like a sparkling gem, willing to try foods that were new to her and conversing on all manner of topics. He remembered her running barefoot at Elbow Beach, lifting her skirts as she splashed in the small waves rushing to shore. Like a mermaid suddenly given legs, she embraced life. He had fought to act the gentleman in front of the Esten boys when what he had wanted to do was lay her down in the sand and make love to her. Since then, his eyes had often found her in the evening as she stood at the rail gazing into the setting sun. What would he do about her when they reached Baltimore?