To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0)

by Walker, Regan

  Chapter 4

  Saint-Denis

  Exhausted, Claire finished the letter to her papa, set the paper on the bedside table and blew out the candle.

  The half-dozen older students in her chamber were already asleep on their narrow beds. One of the most senior of the convent’s boarding students, she enjoyed her role as a dizainière, a pupil-teacher, with younger students to look after. It meant her days were full and they left her with little enthusiasm for conversation when she sought her bed after Vespers.

  Claire undressed in the dark room. Echoing through the walls, Claire could hear the soft voices of the nuns singing at Compline in the chapel. It was a soothing, familiar sound. One day soon, she would join them.

  Would she be a good nun? In the past two years she had tried hard to repress her secret longings so that she might become an acceptable postulant. She had not always succeeded. The memory of a golden man and the craving for a life beyond the convent’s walls and a home where she could put to use all the nuns had taught her still lurked, hidden in the recesses of her mind. When the cravings taunted her, she would remember her vow to a dying girl.

  Would Élise, looking down from Heaven, be pleased? And what of Papa’s plans? If he knew his only daughter intended to join the Order, would he agree? Or might he still insist she wed? She had wondered whom her papa had selected. Since her meeting with the Reverend Mother, Sister Angélique had told her the man was a lawyer in Paris. She shoved aside the curiosity it roused. Like her secret longings, it was not to be.

  She rubbed her eyes. Worry over her conversation with the Reverend Mother and the nightmares that came often had robbed her of sleep for days. And this day had been full. After her classes, she had accompanied Sister Angélique to the village for shopping. Upon her return, she had sought a quiet place to rest for a few minutes, but her mind was filled with what she must tell her papa in the letter she knew she must write. Surely he would understand why she could not marry.

  When the afternoon began to wane, she had drawn on what little patience she’d had left and helped the younger girls with their work before joining the others to set the table for the evening meal. Afterwards, she was so weary she had to pinch herself twice during Vespers to stay awake. But she had not allowed herself to pursue her rest until she had composed the letter to her papa.

  Weariness crept over her like a heavy cloak, dragging her down. She was too tired to think more about her future this night. The solace of her bed called to her. Perhaps tonight the nightmares—the wretched dreams of Élise gasping out her last breaths—would not come.

  She reached for her nightgown, a pale swath lying across the foot of her bed, illuminated by the moonlight shining through the glass panes of the only window in the room. In the mornings, the window allowed her a glimpse of the sun’s first rays. That and the waking birds called her to Matins each day.

  Pulling the modest nightgown over her head, she plaited her long hair and peeled back the cover of her bed. She stepped out of her slippers and slipped into the welcome coolness of the clean sheets.

  A noise outside the window disturbed her thoughts, but too bleary-eyed to care about an owl out for its evening meal, she rolled over, said a quick prayer for her papa, and succumbed to sleep.

  Giles eased the window open and Simon, using his arms, soundlessly lifted his body onto the sill and then into the room. The sailmaker followed closely behind. Simon stepped to one side and gestured Giles away from the window where the moonlight would most assuredly reveal him in silhouette should one of the girls awaken.

  Simon surveyed the sleeping students. Several with dark hair rested their heads on white pillows. Damn. How was he to find the one with blue eyes without waking them all? And what if more than one had blue eyes? A moment’s anxiety gripped him. He had no time for this. Forcing himself to remain calm, he gazed about the room in the faint light afforded him, seeing what appeared to be workbooks and papers stacked on the small tables paired with each bed. From the table closest to him—next to the bed where a girl with dark hair slept—he picked up a letter, still unsealed. Tilting it toward the moonlight, he studied the elegant script.

  M. Jean Donet, Lorient.

  He grinned. Luck was with him. He’d found the girl. He gazed down at her. Her head lay to the side, her black plait resting over her shoulder. In the moonlight her skin looked like fine porcelain.

  Gesturing to Giles, Simon pulled a handkerchief and a strip of cloth from his pocket, then gently rolled the girl onto her back. She moaned, but before she could rouse, he stuffed the handkerchief into her mouth and wrapped the strip of cloth around her mouth, securing it with a knot at the back of her head.

  Her eyes flew open, her fear stark and tangible. She tried to sit up, her hands reaching for the cloth around her mouth.

  He grabbed her hands. “Ça suffit!” he whispered in French as he bound her wrists with a strip of cloth. “I will not harm you.”

  Even in the dim light her eyes flashed her disbelief.

  She twisted on her bed, straining against the binding cloths and kicking out her feet. Her muffled grunts were starting to worry him for fear one of the other girls might hear.

  He pulled the blanket from her bed and wrapped it around her against the night chill.

  Giles grabbed her ankles and bound them, then stepped to the window and jumped to the ground.

  Simon scooped up the squirming girl and passed her through the window into the sailmaker’s outstretched arms.

  He was about to depart when he remembered the note tucked into his breeches. Lifting the paper from its hiding place, he laid it on the girl’s pillow. A last scan of the room told him the other girls still slept. Satisfied, he jumped through the open window to the ground, turned and eased the window closed. Reclaiming the girl from Giles, he and the sailmaker crept from the convent grounds and to the carriage where his men waited.

  Trussed up like a cat in a bag, fear and anger warred within Claire as she was awkwardly jostled in the arms of her abductor. Now starkly awake, questions swirled in her head. Though the cloth rudely stuffed into her mouth prevented her from demanding answers, she uttered a muffled oath that would have shocked the Reverend Mother.

  Who are these men? The man who carried her had not been overly rough. He could have thrown her over his shoulder like a bag of stolen goods but oddly, he carried her like something that he valued, something precious.

  Racking her brain, Claire tried to recall an incident or anything that might provide a clue as to the source of her abduction, but she could think of nothing. Her life at the convent was simple, uncomplicated, absent of discord, particularly in the last two years.

  Why have they taken me?

  Perhaps they knew her papa was a man of means? Would they hold her for ransom? But there were other girls of the nobility at the convent whose fathers were wealthy men with lands and titles. Why had these bandits taken her?

  She shivered with fear at the thought of what might lie ahead.

  Robbed of her sight for the moment and unable to speak, her other senses rose to the fore. The sound of the men’s boots crushing plants as they strode through the gardens, the tight bindings that chaffed her hands and ankles and the warmth of the man’s shoulder where her head rested, albeit unwillingly. She was angry now, more angry than afraid.

  Who are these men? When her eyes had first opened, she had glimpsed only a masculine form and fair hair. His face had been shadowed. Unlike the other one who had carried her for a brief moment, the one who held her now did not smell of unwashed clothes. His scent was of soap and salt, like the smell of the sea.

  When speaking to the others, even in hushed tones, his voice was somehow vaguely familiar. It was also the voice of command. He must be their leader.

  Though he had initially spoken to her in whispered French, he now conversed with his men in English. And the deep timbre of his voice stirred her memory. Had she heard it before?

  She understood some of their whisper
ed English since her papa had long used the language in his business and her mother had taught her to speak and read it as a child. Still, years had passed since she had spoken the language. But she understood their words saying they were headed to a ship, the Fairwinds.

  Where they pirates then? Would they sail to England with her as their captive? Could it have something to do with their American war?

  But why take me?

  At the crack of the coachman’s whip, the horses leapt ahead, speeding the carriage northwest toward Dieppe. Simon relaxed for the first time in hours.

  Elijah and Giles rode on top with the coachman; two more of Simon’s men followed on horseback as guards, leaving him alone in the carriage with the girl. Long after she had ceased struggling, he could feel her anger rolling off her in waves. He had said nothing, knowing enough about women to allow her anger to cool before he tried to reason with her. Not wishing to hear her angry invective, he left the gag in place.

  Sometime later, the girl’s moan roused Simon from sleep. Even in the dim light with part of her face covered by the gag and blindfold, he could see she was pale and her face was twisted in what appeared to be pain as she dreamed, slumped awkwardly against the back of the seat. He gently removed her gag and blindfold, taking care not to wake her. Her hands and feet he left bound. The face that was revealed took his breath away. She was beautiful with an oval face, dark, crescent brows and delicate, bow-shaped lips. No child, this one, but a woman full grown.

  On impulse, he lifted her into his lap to make her more comfortable in the swaying carriage, and to try and calm her. As his chin brushed her cheek, he caught a whiff of fresh lavender.

  Her skin was as soft and smooth as a baby’s. Cradling her head against his shoulder, he reveled in the feel of her warmth. Gathering the curl at the end of her long plait between his fingers, he noticed it, too, was soft. And as black as a raven’s wing. Everything about her was feminine, alluring.

  She ceased moaning and curled into his chest like a kitten seeking his warmth.

  Her beautiful, bow-shaped lips tempted him. For a moment he considered stealing a kiss. But she was his enemy’s innocent daughter. And he her abductor.

  No kiss of his would be welcomed and none was given.

  Claire stirred as the rays of the sun warmed her face, but instead of the gentle sound of the songbirds that woke her each morning, she heard raucous shrieking. What is that noise? Am I late for Matins? The cacophony of sound suddenly reminded her of her childhood in Lorient before she’d gone to live at the convent.

  Gulls.

  Eyes still closed, she frowned. Non. It cannot be gulls. She inhaled, deeply, cautiously, smelling fish, and the unforgettable briny smell of the sea.

  She opened her eyes and the memory of the night returned. Mon Dieu! Had all that really happened? She looked around the carriage, realizing she’d been left alone. Her captor had removed the blindfold and the cloth that had been stuffed in her mouth. Dieu merci! She swallowed and licked her dry lips, her dazed brain trying to make sense of her predicament. Where am I?

  Realizing she was still wearing only her nightgown and wrapped in the blanket her captor had thrown over her the night before, a wave of shame rippled through her at the thought he and his men had seen her in such a state.

  Not that she had been given any choice in the matter! Anger surged through her veins at the memory of her abduction. English pirates!

  She drew the blanket more tightly around her and pushed herself into a sitting position. Through the open carriage window, she glimpsed the sun glinting off the ocean, so bright she winced. White, puffy clouds floated idly in the blue sky. A ship with sails furled was anchored just off shore. On the beach, men loaded crates into a small boat. It wasn’t Lorient but it might still be France. The nearby cliffs looking out on la Manche, what these men would call the English Channel, told her it was.

  Had she been left without a guard? Might she escape? A shout for help would only gain the attention of her kidnappers, but perhaps she could work loose the bindings on her hands and ankles and sneak away before they were aware. She reached toward the cloth around her ankles.

  The door of the carriage swung open, a gown was tossed into her lap and a broad-shouldered man filled the opening.

  Claire’s jaw went slack while her heart kicked into a gallop as if responding of its own accord to the first man to stir it from slumber.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle Donet,” he said in French. “Captain Simon Powell.” He bowed in a grand gesture. “Your humble servant with something for you to wear.”

  The golden one. It had been nearly two years since she had seen him, but she had never forgotten the night of the masquerade. She had never forgotten him. Though the linen shirt stretched tight across his broad chest and the leather breeches and boots he wore now were a far cry from the shimmering costume he’d worn then, his amber eyes were the same. Impossibly, he was even more handsome than in her faded memory. In the last two years, he had never been far from her thoughts, for the night she’d first seen him—and imagined a man’s pleasure—was the night Claire’s girlish dreams had ended forever.

  And now he’d returned to France and abducted her.

  He leaned into the carriage and untied her feet, then her wrists. The touch of his rough hands on her skin sent odd chills rippling through her. She bit her lip, shamed by her body’s reaction to this stranger. Her living temptation turned away for a moment, then faced her, a cup in his outstretched hand. “’Tis only water,” he said when she was reluctant to take it.

  Too grateful to complain, she hastily brought the fresh water to her dry lips and drank her fill.

  “I’ll give you some time to dress,” he said not unkindly. His eyes shifted to her blanket-covered nightclothes. “I wouldn’t want my men to see you as you are.”

  Claire felt her cheeks burn at the thought.

  “The gown is modest enough to please even your nuns,” he said. “Call me if you need… ah, assistance. I will be just outside.”

  She fumed at his insolence, at his actions that had placed her at his mercy. Though she knew he was English and a privateer, she had no idea why he had taken her, and she would wait no longer to learn the truth of it. “Why did you bring me here? Why did you take me from the convent?”

  Leaning one arm against the frame of the carriage, he regarded her intently, his eyes like chips of amber.

  “You have your father to thank for that, mademoiselle. As soon as he returns what is mine you will have your freedom.”

  Claire blinked. “My father?” Her voice sounded to her like the pleading of a feeble schoolgirl. She would not be cowed! She lifted her chin, confident in his error. “What has he to do with this… this perfidy? Papa is a man of business and letters, a man of some wealth. He has no need to steal!”

  His mouth twitched up in a grin, drawing Claire’s gaze to his sensual lips, reminding her of a night when she had seen him use those lips to good effect. She scowled, angry with the rogue and with herself for finding him so attractive.

  He shut the door of the carriage and peered in through the open window. “Your father, mademoiselle, is a pirate.”

  Simon left the stunned girl and walked a short distance toward the shore to watch his men loading supplies into the skiff. Damn but she had beautiful eyes, like the blue of the open sea on a cloudless day. The Saint-Denis butcher had been right about that. But her beauty only complicated matters. His men would take an interest.

  He supposed he should not be surprised she was unaware of her father’s surreptitious dealings. After all, Donet had hidden her away in a convent where she’d been isolated from the world. She had no knowledge of her father’s piracy or his part in a war that would determine if America would have its independence. It seemed to Simon that despite England’s desires, such was inevitable. Had not the Commons voted to end the war just a few months ago, following the defeat at Yorktown? Yet the battles continued, and so did Simon’s work on the sea and in P
aris.

  In London, they called it the American War, but Simon thought it was more appropriately dubbed the French War. After all, the American victory at Yorktown had only been possible with the aid of the French fleet. The American army, too, was fed, clothed and paid by England’s enemy. And France’s privateers, like Donet, had wreaked havoc on British shipping.

  Jordan strode toward him across the sand, interrupting his thoughts. “Soon as this load of supplies is on board, Captain, we’ll be ready to sail.”

  Simon was gratified to feel the wind rising. “The girl is just getting dressed. I’ll bring her in the last boat.”

  Jordan shot a glance toward the carriage. “How is she faring this morning?”

  “None too happy, but she’ll come—willingly or unwillingly.”

  Jordan chuckled, his disheveled brown hair blowing about his face. “Unwillingly, most likely.” At his signal, the skiff, now loaded with the last of their supplies, shoved off.

  Turning back to Simon, Jordan asked, “How will Donet know we have his daughter?”

  “I left a message for him on the girl’s pillow. I expect I’ll soon have a reaction.”

  “Like poking a stick at a shark, more like. But at least your note will ensure the continued health of the Abundance’s crew.”

  “My thought exactly. I imagine the good sisters will be in a panic when they realize they’ve misplaced one of their students. The note will at least tell them she is with me, though I doubt that will be of much comfort.”

  Simon heard the carriage door open. He wheeled around to see the French girl’s long, black plait falling over her shoulder as she bent forward to step down. He hurried up the beach to help her.