Simon strode to the bed and sat on the edge, reaching out to grasp her flailing arms and lay them at her side. “Mademoiselle.”
She did not respond, but tossed her head back and forth on the pillow, gasping the words, “Non! Non!”
Perhaps she would respond to her Christian name. With one hand, he gently shook her shoulder. “Wake up, Claire.”
She uttered a sound deep in her throat that sounded like pain mixed with terror.
He gathered her into his arms and held her close. She was shaking. “Claire, sweetheart, ’tis all right. Was just a bad dream.” Her warm body was pliant in his arms. She felt right snuggled close to his chest. He wanted to keep her there.
She woke then. “Captain? … is it you?”
In the faint light from the window she would only know him by his voice. “Yes, Claire, ’tis Simon. You’re all right now.”
She clung to him as if he were the only raft in a storm-tossed sea. It tugged at his soul. At times, she was a wild child, at others stubborn, but at this moment she was vulnerable and he wanted to protect her, even from her dreams. He could never have explained the deep feelings that rose to the fore then. They were not feelings he’d had for any other woman.
He didn’t want to leave her, but he knew he must.
The bedcover had fallen to her waist, leaving only the thin nightgown she wore separating them. Beneath it, the warmth of her skin and her soft breasts pressed against his bare chest tempting him beyond endurance. He wanted to crawl into the bed with her. He wanted to make love to her. “I must return to my chamber.”
“No!” she cried. “Don’t go. Not yet. Please… stay till the dream passes from my mind.”
“All right.” What else could he do? She was frightened and shaking, but why? “What has you so frightened?”
“Élise. Her ghost follows me. The dream is always the same.”
He slid his palm up and down her back trying to soothe her. The heat of her skin beneath the thin cloth tempted him unmercifully but his intent was to comfort, not ravish.
After a minute she stopped shaking.
“Tell me, who is this Élise?”
“A girl who died because of my foolishness.”
“What foolishness?” How could a young woman’s silliness lead to another’s death?
She looked up at him in the dim light, placing her hand on his chest, her cool fingers on his warm skin stirring his manhood. Their heads were so close he could smell her sweet breath.
“Two years ago, I sneaked out of the convent to see a masquerade. It wasn’t the first time I had escaped the confines of the convent walls, nor the first time Élise followed me. She was really too frail to have done so, especially on that night. On the way home it rained and we were drenched. Élise took ill with pneumonia.” He felt the dread that came over Claire as she sobbed. “She suffered so.” Burying her face in his chest, she shuddered. “It was horrible and all because of me.”
He held her close, his brows drawing together as he puzzled over her words, remembering a night long ago when he’d attended a masquerade outside of Paris. There had been a girl then, one who’d fallen from a tree. A girl who had fascinated him with her pluck and her mesmerizing eyes. “The girl in the tree at the château… that was you?”
She raised her head. “Oui, c’était moi.” Her voice was faint and somber as if she carried an overwhelming burden of guilt.
“I remember now. You ran away with another girl. Was that her?”
“Oui. She died a sennight later.”
Suddenly he understood. She had tortured herself with the other girl’s death. “You blame yourself. That is what troubles your sleep?”
She nodded. “Élise haunts my dreams, but there is more. Before she died, I promised her I would become an Ursuline nun and teach the children. It was her dream, one she would never realize because of me.”
He let out a sigh. “A noble vow, perhaps, but I do not think ’tis your destiny. And Élise did not ask it of you, did she?”
“No, but I promised… I made a vow to her.”
In the darkness of the room, he could not see her well, but he thought he heard a pout in her voice. She was so close, her breasts pressing into his chest. He kissed her hair. It smelled of lavender and the touch of it on his lips was like silk. “God will not hold you to a promise made when you were young and filled with remorse.”
She tipped her head back, “But… ”
Unwilling to let the moment go without acknowledging his desire for her, he brushed his lips across hers. They were warm, soft and oh, so sweet. She did not protest when he kissed her more deeply. He had to steel himself from claiming all he wanted, to keep from joining her in the bed. But it wasn’t just her father and the crew of the Abundance that held him at bay. It was her innocence. It was not his to claim.
“Even that night I wanted to kiss you, Claire.”
She stiffened. “But you were doing things with that… that trousered hussar!”
He let out a laugh, embarrassed by what she had seen, and at a time when she was even more innocent than she was now. “Aye, well, would it please you to know that we did no more that night and I’ve not seen her since?”
She settled into his arms. “It might, though I have no right to ask. What I saw was very… shocking, and if I am truthful, absorbing.”
He laughed again and laid her back on the pillow. “That wild-eyed girl who fell from the tree all tattered and torn has come to my mind many times over the last two years. I should have recognized you, shouldn’t I?”
“I have changed.”
“Aye, I can see that you have.” Lying there, her head on the pillow, her ebony tresses fanned out around her, she appeared the young seductress, more beautiful, more alluring than when he’d first glimpsed her. He wanted to press his lips to hers, to stroke her tender skin, to lift the thin gown from the curves it hid and make her his. Instead, he took a deep breath, gathered his resolve, and reminded himself she was not his to take. “Now, to sleep with you.”
He rose to leave.
She stared up at him. “That night was the first time I saw you, but I never forgot the golden eagle.”
Even in the faint light he could see her eyes fixed on him, the same azure eyes that had captivated him that night in Saint-Denis.
“Sleep, and that’s an order.”
Chapter 12
The sunlight was just slipping into his bedchamber when Simon rose and left for the Thames. He had not slept well after leaving Claire’s room, troubled by her intent to become a nun. As the night wore on, he had come to a decision. He did not want to return her to her father, much less to a convent. If he could recover his crew, perhaps he could persuade her to stay in England. She could write her father a letter and tell him she’d chosen a new life. His imaginings did not dwell on what that new life might consist of. But one thing he knew: A convent was no place for her.
Once onboard his ship, Simon spotted Amos Busby, the first mate from the Abundance, talking with Jordan. With a jerk of his head, he summoned both men to follow him to his cabin.
He closed the cabin door as they entered and invited them to join him at the table.
“You’re back already?” asked Jordan.
“My business in London is not yet concluded, but I have a task for Amos and I want you to be aware of it.”
Simon could see from Amos’ eager expression he was anxious for something more to do. He’d been in charge of the men watching Claire but it was not enough for a man who’d been first mate. And, after a day or two in port, his men were always impatient to sail.
“I’ve an idea to rescue the crew of the Abundance from Donet’s clutches before the exchange.” The two men leaned forward, interested. “But for that I need to know where Donet is keeping them.”
Smiles broke out on the faces of the two men.
“Aye, Captain, ’tis a worthy idea,” said the burly Amos.
“My first thought,” ventured Simon, “wa
s that the Frenchman holds them in Lorient where he has resources, but he may have moved them to another location. If I were him, I might have moved them closer to where I expected the exchange to take place. We must know if they are still in Lorient where I imagine he first took them.”
Jordan leaned back in his chair and ran one hand through his curly brown hair. “Aye, ’tis logical, but the Frenchman has often done what we least expect.”
Simon nodded. Indeed Donet had done some daring things in taking his prizes and avoiding the Royal Navy’s frigates and cutters plying the Channel. And Lorient was his domain. “Amos, how would you like to go hunting for our men?”
“’Twould please me, Captain.”
“Good. Take some of the idle crew from the Abundance with you to Lorient—the most skilled at stealth, the ones who speak French and can keep their heads when matters become difficult. You’ll need to move fast; you don’t have much time.”
“I have just the men in mind, Captain,” said the burly Amos, rubbing his rough hand over his dark stubbled chin. “We can leave this morning.”
“Elijah and Giles may have learned something in Paris,” said Jordan. “Might be they already know the place Donet wants the exchange to take place.”
“I’m hoping they do,” admitted Simon, “but I would not wait for them to return when Amos can be on his way to Lorient. It would be good to know if the men are there. Amos, when you’ve learned what you can, return to Rye, not London. By the time you’re back, Elijah and Giles will have returned. I’ll meet you there.”
Amos grinned. “Yes, sir.”
“And, Jordan, I’ll be expecting you to arrange the guards for Mademoiselle Donet for the few days we remain in London. She’s our insurance for the return of our crew.”
“I’ll see to it,” his first mate said.
It was a crazy scheme, Simon knew. And its success required much to go right if he were to find his captured crew before he had to meet Donet. He could only hope his idea worked.
“Claire,” Cornelia asked as she finished the last bite of roll, “would you like to come with me today? I’m to visit the American prisoners.”
Her mind still on the captain and his words the night before, Claire was not certain if she had heard correctly. “Did you say American prisoners? In London?”
“Yes, though most are kept in the ports, like Plymouth and Portsmouth, we have a small number here, most of them taken off privateers.”
She picked up her coffee and sipped. These were the men her papa was fighting to free. “I’d love to go with you.”
Cornelia raised her palm. “Before you consent, you should know it may be unpleasant.”
Claire frowned, puzzled. “Whatever do you mean?”
Her new friend let out a sigh. “Well, it was much worse earlier in the war when they were half-starved and sick, their clothes hanging in tatters with no blankets to keep them warm. They are better now, but the conditions are not ideal.”
“Why were they treated so badly?”
“The British considered them mere rebels rising against the king, pirates charged with high treason. They had no status to protect them from harsh treatment. Then, too, the British never anticipated having to deal with such large numbers of prisoners. And most of us knew nothing of it.”
“How awful.”
“It was. But that changed when correspondence between Mr. Franklin and Lord Stormont, then our ambassador to the French court, made its way to the London Chronicle. It revealed the plight of the prisoners in graphic detail. Some of us in London formed a committee of relief with Reverend Thomas Wren, a minister in Portsmouth. Thankfully, it was successful. We raised over three thousand pounds.”
“What did you do with so much money?”
“We took the prisoners clothing, blankets and food. Medicine when it was needed. They are so much better off now. Parliament finally designated them prisoners of war, so they can be exchanged for British prisoners.”
No wonder Papa had wanted Simon’s crew. Claire was relieved the Americans were being better treated. That they had not been so at the beginning of the war made her wonder at the British who claimed to be so civilized.
“But what the Americans really love,” Cornelia continued, “is news from the outside world, the war and a kind word. I still bring them blankets, clothes and food. New prisoners arrive each week and have nothing save what we give them. Sometimes, I write letters for them. It gives them comfort to know their families have word.”
“They let you send letters for the prisoners?”
“The letters are read by the military, of course, but they are generally allowed to go through. We send them to ministers in the main American ports who can read them to the families.”
Claire’s sympathy rose for the beleaguered prisoners. “I will gladly be by your side as you help them. I may not be able to write English as well as you, but I can distribute clothes and blankets and speak to them of the support France is giving them.”
“They like to see an American face, but I know a French woman would be very welcome. They are well aware of France’s aid.” Then looking at the gown Claire wore, she said, “You must wear your plainest gown. The blue one will do nicely. The place they are being held is not in the best part of town.”
Not long afterward, Claire and her hostess left by carriage for what Cornelia had described as a warehouse in a rough area of London near the Thames. Two footmen accompanied them.
They arrived at the tall, wooden building, its paint peeling with age, to see British soldiers with their red coats and muskets standing guard outside the entrance. More waited inside the door as Claire followed Cornelia into the darkened space.
“Lady Danvers,” a senior soldier greeted Cornelia, who was obviously known to him.
“Good morning, sir,” Cornelia returned. When the guard’s gaze shifted to Claire, Cornelia said, “I have brought a friend to assist me.”
The guard tipped his head and allowed them to pass.
Claire trailed Cornelia into a cavernous room, her eyes adjusting to the dim light. Small windows at the top of the rough wooden walls and lanterns posted around the edges provided the only light. Some of the American prisoners lounged on pallets scattered around the dirt floor while others sat at a large, central table, appearing to be playing games. She counted about forty men.
The footmen who had followed them inside opened the baskets and bundles to allow the guards to see what they had brought. Once the search was complete, the footmen stood waiting for their mistress to direct them.
One of the Americans approached Cornelia, a broad smile on his face. The guard behind them moved closer, hands on his musket. “Lady Danvers,” said the handsome American in an accent much like Cornelia’s. “A welcome sight you are!” His left arm was in a white linen sling, but the injury did not appear to dampen his spirits.
“Mademoiselle Donet,” said the baroness, “may I present Captain Thomas Field.”
Claire was surprised at the youth of the American captain. “I am pleased to meet you.”
“Captain Field is a privateer for America, Claire, taken captive a month ago. He’s the one I told you about who knows my brother, Sean.”
The face of the American, who appeared younger than Captain Powell, took on a serious expression. “My sloop was outgunned by the British. Lost half my men in that battle. ’Twas a sad affair.”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” Claire said respectfully. “I hope I can bring some cheer to you and your men. I am here to assist Lady Danvers.”
“Your mere presence cheers me, mademoiselle. Have you traveled from France to be with us?” His gray eyes hinted of interest and mirth. In the candlelight, his clothes appeared fine but a bit threadbare, the coat and breeches the color of nutmeg, his shirt a faded ivory. His hair, brown and streaked with the sun, was neatly tied back at his nape.
“Oui,” she said. “You could say that. We French are on America’s side, and also like you, I am a captive, hel
d hostage for a British ship and her crew.”
Captain Field directed his confused gaze to Cornelia.
“It’s a long story, Captain Field. Suffice it to say, Mademoiselle Donet has traveled here from Paris and is currently our guest. She was eager to join my efforts to help the American prisoners.”
Captain Field beamed at Claire. “No matter the circumstances, I am pleased to find one of our allies in London. You are most welcome among us.” He gestured into the room as if inviting her into a grand home when it was no more than a dark and dingy warehouse. “Other than Lady Danvers, we rarely get to see so beautiful a woman confined as we are. Most days all we have to look at are the surly guards and these four walls.”
He pulled a face at the scowling guard who stood within hearing distance and Claire had to laugh.
“Lady Danvers,” said the captain, “with your permission, I will introduce Mademoiselle Donet to my fellow prisoners. Some of my men want to send letters home. Others are anxious for word of the war. Did you happen to bring a newspaper?”
“Alas, I forgot, Captain,” said Cornelia, bringing her gloved hand to her breast, “but I can bring some tomorrow. Claire, why don’t you go with Captain Field? I’ll distribute these blankets. When you’re done with introductions, we can set out the food.”
“Gladly,” she replied, happy to be escorted by the handsome American.
Claire followed Captain Field around the room as he introduced her to his crew captured with him and others from different American ships. None wore uniforms, he explained, since they were all crew from privateers.
In response to her inquiries about their homes, families and health, they were very polite. Many were injured, their white bandages beacons drawing her attention and her sympathy in the darkly lit room.
The warehouse was dusty, the floor hard-packed earth. The men’s clothes appeared soiled, their faces smudged with dirt, some of them still bearing signs of battle. The smell of too many bodies crowded together for too long rose to her nostrils. There was a stench of unemptied chamber pots. She wondered how long it was since any had bathed.
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