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

by Walker, Regan

  Turning to gaze out the window at the green countryside, she watched rolling hills covering the landscape dotted with small farms and copses of trees. It was not unlike the countryside of Northern France, which she had always thought romantically bucolic.

  He had braced himself with his boot pressed into the base of her seat, his strong thigh muscles flexing beneath his tight breeches. She held on to keep from being jostled about, though she was not entirely successful. The constant bouncing was jarring.

  They stopped more than once to change horses and to allow themselves a chance to take the air on solid ground and find some refreshment. Though the stops were only brief respites, the coachman had managed at each stop to accept a mug from one of the tavern girls.

  In no time, they were back on the road. A sigh escaped her as she sank into the padded seat. The long silence between them had grown uncomfortable. She found that she could not make herself stay angry with him, not when it was obvious his main concern had been for her safety. So she decided to make use of the hours stretching before them by asking the captain about his youth.

  “What made you choose a life at sea?”

  His amber eyes turned from the window to focus on her. He hesitated as if deciding what he would say. “’Tis what any lad growing up in Dartmouth would think of. Merchant ships with their tall masts and bulging cargoes captured my interest from the time I was a boy. When the opportunity came to join the crew of a merchantman sailing to the Caribbean, I took it.”

  “And you liked it.”

  “I was good at figures, so learning navigation came easy. Before too many years, I was first mate. Aye, I liked it.”

  “And now you are a captain. You were good at more than figures.” She thought he was better than good. From the words of his crew, he might be the best. When his hands took the wheel of his schooner, it was something to behold. “And you chose what you were to do.”

  “You did not choose the convent, I take it.”

  “No, my papa chose for me. But I am not sorry for it. I stayed longer than most of the students, of course. And because the Mother Superior took an interest, I learned much the other students did not. Unlike some girls of the aristocracy, I learned more than how to manage a home. I studied the world of literature and so much more. I am grateful for their instruction.”

  “Confined as you were, considering the result, I’d say they did you a good turn.”

  She couldn’t resist a smile at his offhanded compliment. “They are very learned and very wise. It’s a teaching Order, you see.”

  “Yes, I remember what you told me. And of your friend who died, the one who wanted to teach the children. Do you also want to teach children?”

  The glint in his eyes hinted of amusement and more. Was his question aimed at her desire to teach the children at the convent, or interest in teaching children of her own? For some reason, she thought it might be the latter. “Why yes, Captain, I love children.”

  She looked out the window, thinking of the younger students at the convent. For a long time after Élise had died, the youngest of them had reminded her of the frail blonde girl, but no longer. The nightmares had stopped and she had begun to think of her young friend as being in Heaven. Did Élise teach children there? The idea brought a smile to Claire’s face. If there were children in Heaven, and she was certain there were for death in infancy and disease had claimed many, then that is what Élise would be doing.

  She returned her gaze to the captain, who was now watching the countryside go by. Her eyes lingered on his face, the high forehead, the strong nose, the determined jaw. A man whose very countenance told her he had faced his demons and overcome them. A man she respected. A man she loved.

  Toward evening, the carriage slowed as they entered a village, finally stopping in front of a three-story, red brick inn. The sun still lingered in the sky reflecting off the gold lettering of the wooden sign that read The Rose & Crown. The coachman opened the door, pulled down the few stairs for them to alight and quietly informed the captain, “We have arrived in Tonbridge, sir.”

  The captain leaped out, turned and offered his hand. She took it, allowing him to help her down. An unexpected weariness washed over her when her feet touched the ground, making her glad for his strength. “You were correct, Captain. I will be most happy to have a night’s rest in a bed that is not moving.” He, on the other hand, did not even look tired, much less weary. “I envy your energy after so long in that bouncing conveyance.”

  He chuckled. “I don’t mind the long carriage ride even if it is difficult to sleep or read for all the bumps. But it would have been slower had we taken the public coach. And just imagine the journey with the elbows of strangers in your ribs.”

  She cringed at the thought. “It was most kind of you to arrange for a private carriage.” She knew it had to be costly.

  “I would have preferred the ship.”

  Knowing the reason they did not take his ship to Rye, she said nothing. She had no desire to remind him that her papa had followed them to London and that she had tried to find him there.

  “A ship is not so bumbling and rough, not so dusty,” he continued.

  “And not so many bruises,” she said, feeling the effect of the carriage’s last encounter with a rock.

  Nate climbed down from atop the carriage and caught her portmanteau as the coachman threw it to him. The captain gently cupped her elbow and guided her into the inn, his case in his other hand.

  Her legs still wobbly, she was glad for the captain’s support.

  Nate followed them with his own small bundle and her portmanteau.

  Inside, lighted only with lanterns and a small fire burning in the fireplace, the inn was dim until her eyes adjusted. She waited with Nate while the captain handled the business of securing them rooms. In the background, she heard the noise of many people and wondered if they were eating in the common room. She was hungry after their long day of travel.

  “Nate,” the captain announced above the noise of the inn upon his return, “I’ve secured a chamber for Mrs. Powell and a private sitting room for our meal; see about some food while I take my wife upstairs.”

  Claire was startled at the name and the status he’d bestowed upon her, but Nate didn’t blink an eye. He merely nodded, handed her portmanteau to the captain and headed for the common room. The cabin boy must have been forewarned that she traveled as the captain’s wife. How silly of her not to have anticipated the name when he’d given her the wedding ring. While the deception bothered her, the idea of being Mrs. Powell did not.

  The captain took her arm and led her up the stairs. The room he opened with the key he took from his pocket was large though sparsely furnished with a four-poster bed, a round table and chairs. Since it was summer the green bed curtains were drawn back and tied at the posts. On a side table under the one window sat a flowered basin and pitcher of water. At least all appeared clean.

  “I’ll give you some time to freshen up. I’ll send Nate up to escort you to dinner. I want to talk to the coachman before I meet you in our private sitting room.”

  “Is your room next door?” She wanted to know if he was close should she need him—or his protection.

  “Closer.” He grinned. “I’ll be sharing the room with you.”

  Shocked he would even consider such a thing, she spit out, “You will not!”

  “Aye, but I will. The innkeeper would think it most unusual should a husband and wife have more than one room when many guests, even strangers, share beds.”

  “But I must protest.”

  “’Twill do you no good. I assure you it is necessary. You needn’t worry for your virtue.”

  “But—”

  He turned and left, leaving her staring at the closed door, wondering how she was to manage a whole night in the same room with him. He might have his reasons, but she was not pleased. He had just assumed it would be fine with her. It was not. She might have shared his cabin on the ship, but not while he was
in it!

  Claire’s look of incredulity when he’d told her they’d be sharing a bedchamber was nearly worth the agony he would experience spending the night in that same bedchamber unable to touch her. He must be one of her Catholic saints to even think it possible.

  After a word to Nate, he left the inn to speak to the coachman. He found the man in the stable instructing the groom on the proper care of his horses. At his approach, the coachman waved off the groom.

  “These are fine animals,” Simon told the coachman as he ran his hand down the glistening, reddish coat of one gelding. In truth, he’d not seen finer horseflesh.

  The coachman beamed his approval. “I’ve been on this route for several years and deal only with inns that keep good horses.”

  “I came to discuss tomorrow’s travel. We start early, aye?”

  “Dawn if you like, sir.”

  “Dawn it is. I’d like to be in Rye as soon as your fine horses can get us there.”

  He left the stable walking slowing back to the inn, reminding himself to ask the innkeeper to prepare some food for their early departure. The long day on the road suddenly caught up with him and he felt the protest of muscles that had not been used in a while. Keeping one’s balance on a moving deck required very different muscles than a jarring carriage ride. But the thought of a good beef steak with potatoes, plum pudding and a hunk of Cheshire cheese revived his spirits and quickened his step. A dinner with Claire would be just what he needed.

  He had just stepped into the entry when he heard a loud commotion coming from the common room off to one side. Striding towards the noise, a foreboding gripped him. What trouble has arisen now? He hoped Nate and Claire were tucked away in the private sitting room.

  The sight that met his eyes in the busy common room had him reaching for the knife in his boot as he stalked toward the object of his ire. On the other side of the room Claire was pressed against the wall by a brigand, filthy from the road, who was running his grubby hand over her soft flesh.

  Struggling against the man’s greater strength for all she was worth, Claire shouted, “Let me go!”

  Simon surged across the room, a primitive rage rising in his chest with each long stride. Reaching the brigand, he forced the edge of his blade against the man’s neck. A trickle of blood ran into his collar. He froze.

  In a too calm voice, Simon said, “Unhand my wife or you’ll not see tomorrow.”

  Behind him, chairs screeched loudly as people rose from the tables and backed away. He could hear their intake of breath as they glimpsed his knife.

  The brigand released Claire, raised his hands in the air, and slowly turned, sidling away. “Meant nothin’ by it guv’ner. Just out for a bit o’ fun. Thought she were a kitchen girl or one o’ the wenches.”

  Claire rushed into Simon’s arms. She was shaking and a sob escaped her throat.

  “I’m sorry sweetheart,” he said, drawing her close with one arm while holding his knife in the other and freezing the brigand with his harsh glare.

  The serving wench, holding a tray of tankards, passed the brigand. “Told ye she were taken, ye dolt. Did ye not see her ring, her clothes or this fine gentleman who brung her in?”

  The brigand slowly lowered his hands, his face pale beneath the dirt. “I see… now.”

  Simon was still deciding what to do with the man when, out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement across the room. There in the corner, Nate struggled in the arms of a rough looking character covered in dust from the road. Likely the partner of the one who’d assaulted Claire.

  “Let go of the lad,” Simon bellowed, “or I’ll be sinking my knife in your gut.”

  The man’s gaze shifted from Nate to the knife still in Simon’s hand. He loosened his hold on the cabin boy just as Nate sank his teeth into the man’s hand. With a curse, the man backhanded the boy, sending him flying across the room where he fell to the floor hitting his head on the edge of the hearth. Blood seeped from beneath his temple to the wooden floor.

  Claire shrieked and ran to kneel by the lad, lifting his bleeding head into her lap.

  Simon shoved his knife in his boot, stomped toward the man who’d hit Nate and sent his fist into the dirty face. The man lumbered away from the punch. His companion, who’d been standing their gaping, grabbed his companion by the jacket and, without a word, hauled him toward the door leading from the common room to the inn’s entry.

  Simon followed, his only thought to punish them for touching Claire and hurting Nate.

  The innkeeper, apparently summoned to the room by the commotion, rushed to Simon’s side, apologizing profusely. It did not slow Simon’s advance on the two brigands who were hastening to the entrance to the inn.

  The innkeeper kept pace with him, urging him to let the miscreants go.

  Reaching the front door just before Simon, the two brigands took one look at Simon and fled.

  The innkeeper shouted after them, “Yer business is no longer welcome! Stick to the highway where ye footpads belong.” Then to Simon, “Sir, they won’t bother ye again.”

  Concerned more with Claire and Nate than the two fleeing cowards, Simon turned from the door and hastened to where Claire knelt at Nate’s side. He watched as she gently wiped the blood from the boy’s temple with a cloth the serving wench handed her.

  “How bad is it?” he asked.

  “I think he’s just knocked out,” she said anxiously. “He’s breathing and the cut is not too bad.”

  Simon knelt and brushed back the hair from Nate’s face to examine the rising lump on his head. She was right; the cut was not deep though he’d have a bad headache from his head hitting the stone. “He’s a good lad, and he’s strong. He’ll recover.” He hoped it was true. The boy was like a younger brother to him.

  “He should not be left on the cold floor,” she said.

  “Aye, you’re right.” Lifting Nate into his arms, Simon rose and carried him through the crowded common room toward the stairs.

  Claire picked up the boy’s hat from the floor and followed.

  The innkeeper stepped into their path. “Sir, ye need not take him to yer room. I’ve a room in the back where ye can lay the lad. ’Tis warm and private. He’ll be comfortable there.”

  The room the innkeeper led them to was just down the corridor from the common room. There, he found a small bed, some crates and sacks of flour. After opening the door for Simon, the innkeeper lit a candle and placed it on the small bedside table. “I’ll see the leech is fetched. We’ve a good ‘un in the village.”

  Claire looked up at Simon from where she had perched on the edge of the bed, holding Nate’s hand. Her caring for the lad touched Simon.

  An hour later the village healer had come and gone and Nate had awakened, his color returning to his cheeks.

  Concern filled the boy’s face as his eyes fixed on his mistress. “Are ye all right?”

  Claire nodded and smiled. “I should be asking you that question, Nate. How do you feel?”

  “There’s a poundin’ in my head, else I’m fine.” Nate’s hand rose to where he now had a large lump on his head and his gaze darted to Simon. “They were waitin’ fer us when we came into the common room, Cap’n. ’Twas my fault. I shoulda seen ’em.”

  “It was no fault of yours, Nate. I should have stayed with you both. But I did not expect such a villainous act in The Rose and Crown.”

  The innkeeper, who’d been hovering outside, had apparently heard the comment. He hastened into the small room. “Yer right, sir. And ’twill not happen again. Why not let the lad rest and ye and yer lady have yer meal? Yer private dinin’ room’s close. Tonight ye’ll eat at me own expense. And I’ll see food is brought to the boy.”

  Simon studied Nate trying to judge for himself how the lad fared.

  “I’ll be fine, Cap’n.”

  “I don’t think we should leave him alone,” said Claire. “I can stay; I’m not very hungry.” Simon was struck by what a good mother she would be, cari
ng and sympathetic. But she needed to eat. His cabin boy would be well-tended while they were in the private room.

  “Truly, mistress,” urged Nate. “I’m all right. I’ll just have me supper here. ’Tis not often I’m the one served.”

  “Are you sure?” Claire asked the boy. “I would be most happy to dine with you.”

  The cabin boy looked at Simon, then back to Claire. “Nay, you go.”

  “All right,” she said with apparent reluctance.

  Simon touched her shoulder and she rose.

  “We won’t be long,” he assured Nate.

  He put his arm around Claire’s shoulder as they walked from the room, only to offer comfort, he told himself, happy she was safe.

  They walked the short distance to the small, but well-appointed private room where he pulled out a chair for her and poured them both some of the red wine delivered by the innkeeper himself.

  Soon after, a servant brought them their long delayed supper.

  Staring into her plate, Claire shuddered at the memory of the horrible man pawing her. She could still feel his rough hands on her breasts and smell his foul breath. Thank God Simon had rescued her. It seemed she was ever running into the captain’s arms—the one place she felt safe.

  Adventure was all very well and good but it had its consequences.

  From the time she was a young girl in Lorient, she had longed for adventure, inspired by stories her mother had read to her of an Englishman shipwrecked and imprisoned in a place called Lilliput, a land of tiny but aggressive people. She wondered now if she hadn’t stumbled on to that very place.

  Perhaps she’d had quite enough adventure. But upon reflection, she admitted to herself her adventures had brought her to Simon, her golden one, to her friends among his crew, and to Cornelia, the baron and Captain Field.

  And her adventures had brought her love.