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

by Walker, Regan

  His eyes focused on the harbor’s cerulean waters where half a dozen ships and smaller boats were taking advantage of the strong onshore breezes. Though the sun was shining in a blue sky in the west, to the north dark clouds were dropping a curtain of rain. Was it raining where Claire was?

  Impatience for her return made him anxious for action. He had waited long enough for this game to end. He must have his daughter back! He hoped she was still the Claire he remembered, the innocent daughter he loved. He had never stopped thinking of her in the time she’d been gone. Now he was desperate to know she was well.

  Grudgingly, he acknowledged a growing respect for the English captain who held her as ransom for his men. Though Powell’s spies sent to Lorient had quickly become known to Jean, and thus easily captured, he had to admire the Englishman’s bold action in pursuing what he wanted. It had become like a game of chess, each stealing the other’s pawns, a few knights captured and the queen threatened, the tension rising with every move. Still the game proceeded apace. What would be the English captain’s next move?

  He’d gained little from Powell’s crewmembers and he would take no harsh measures to pry their story from them. He may have been a pirate but torture was not something he engaged in. He’d seen enough blood from battles at sea to be sickened by gratuitous pain. Besides, he knew why Powell had sent them. The English captain was searching for his men. Each held something the other wanted.

  But was Claire safe in Powell’s hands? Jean’s men sent to Paris to negotiate the exchange had assured Émile she was unharmed and in good health, but the quartermaster had expressed his doubts, mirroring Jean’s own thoughts. A girl as beautiful as Claire, alone with so many men, could hardly be out of danger. He would not turn over Powell’s crew until he assured himself she was unharmed.

  As for Powell’s spies, what should he do with them? He could make a special gift of them to M’sieur Franklin, but perhaps it would be best to wait. After all, Powell had three of Jean’s own crew. He was glad the Englishman had not captured all those Jean had sent to watch the Fairwinds. Those that remained had brought him word when the English captain made ready to sail. Losing Powell’s ship in the congestion on the Thames had been a great disappointment. Had Claire been aboard? So close, yet still out of reach.

  The repairs on la Reine Noire, made necessary by his tangle with Powell in the Channel, were nearly completed. He had been told that he would have his ship to sail to Calais. The sloop he had sailed to London was not the ship he wanted for the exchange. He wanted his own ship. He might need her sixteen guns to redeem his treasure.

  There was still François de Dordogne to see to. Jean had managed to put off the young lawyer with the excuse of having Claire’s wedding gown readied. It was not a lie. In truth, he had commissioned a gown of ivory satin embroidered with flowers from one of the finest modistes in Paris. But when Jean had made the excuse, Dordogne had not argued, saying Vergennes was keeping him busy drafting treaty provisions to be offered up to the British. Jean was glad Claire’s betrothed remained unaware that she was being held prisoner by an English privateer. Her betrothed might reject her if he knew the truth.

  All must believe she was with the good sisters in Saint-Denis.

  Dordogne was young, ambitious and anxious to make a name for himself in serving Vergennes. That suited Jean. He wanted a man of good reputation for his daughter. But until he had Claire back, he could arrange no wedding.

  Behind him his valet, Vernier, spoke. “M’sieur Bequel has arrived.”

  “By all means, show him in.”

  His quartermaster burst into the room with an uncharacteristic smile on his face. “Good news, Capitaine. The repairs on la Reine Noire sont terminées.”

  Jean rose, wiped his mouth on the napkin and set it aside “The guns?”

  “All sixteen blackened and ready.”

  Jean slipped into his coat Vernier held open for him. “The new figurehead?”

  “Très bien. She looks more like the Queen of France than before and she wears the costume of a shepherdess as you requested. All await your inspection.”

  “Bien, let us be at it.” He cast one last glance through the window at the ships in the harbor whose sheets were filled with wind. “It’s a good day to sail.”

  Rye Harbor

  It was the morning of the day they would set sail for Calais. Simon stood at the helm with his first mate, watching vessels moving in and out of the harbor while listening to his men attending their duty stations. The familiar sounds soothed him.

  The anchor detail at the capstan winched in the cable, singing as they heaved against the bars. The sail handlers at their halyards were forming lines to be ready when the orders were given to haul away and set sail.

  The deck had been swabbed, the guns blackened, the lines coiled and ready. And still there was no sign of Amos Busby or the men who had traveled with him to Lorient. Hard though it was, Simon had to face the unpleasant truth that even should they arrive before the Fairwinds sailed, it was too late to have any effect on what must now occur.

  He was out of time.

  With a heavy heart, he shouted, “Put the sails in their gear! Stand by to make sail!”

  Jordan shouted the orders that would see the tasks done. In response, men scrambled aloft, halyard crews hauled their lines, and the Fairwinds slipped out of Rye Harbor heading into the Channel.

  Calais

  Through the window of the captain’s cabin, Claire glimpsed the golden rays of the setting sun reflected on the waters of the harbor as they arrived in Calais. Dozens of ships were tied up to the wharf, their bare masts testimony to the fact they were safely in port. Only one ship slowly sailed toward shore, its topsail unfurled and full of wind.

  Nate had come to tell her of Simon’s request that she wear the gown he had procured for her in London, the one she had yet to wear. She had managed to dress herself, as she had done many times. Anxiously, she smoothed the copper silk of the skirt, then lifted her hand to the pale blue-green satin brocade of the bodice, the same fabric that cascaded in a panel down the front of the copper silk skirt like a waterfall carrying with it small, black embroidered flowers. It was the most beautiful gown she had ever seen, much less ever possessed. And it fit her perfectly.

  She took one last look around the cabin, her gaze pausing on the things she had come to treasure. His books, the ship’s log, his spyglass, his favorite tankard. The things that would forever remind her of their time together. She slipped the wedding ring he had given her from her finger and placed it on his desk.

  A knock sounded on the cabin door. She went to open it, thinking how ironic it was that just when she was leaving, she had finally gained her sea legs. The door opened before she reached it and Simon ducked his head to enter, coming to a sudden halt, his eyes roving over her. Was it regret she saw in his amber gaze?

  “The gown is lovely,” she said, suddenly caring that he liked her in it. “Thank you.”

  His eyes appeared to cloud with emotion. “I would not send you to your father in anything less than the finest silk, mademoiselle.”

  So, it was to be like that. He would put distance between them. A tear escaped her eye to carve a track down her cheek. She brushed it away, embarrassed to have allowed it, knowing the courage she must find to face what lay ahead.

  Their situation was hopeless.

  He had persuaded her that Mother Superior’s words were true. She must live her own life; she could not live another’s. But in changing her life’s course, he had opened her heart and called forth love. His kisses had awakened her to the passion between a man and a woman. The life she now wanted was with him and no other.

  She must tell him before they parted, never to see each other again. “I do not want to go, surely you must know that.”

  He clenched his jaw, a reaction she had seen often enough to know his mind was set on a course he would stubbornly pursue no matter the cost. “I cannot sacrifice my men, and even if their faces we
re not always before me, your father no doubt has in mind a better life for you than one with a bastard sea captain. The convent might be preferable.”

  She stared at him, her love so bittersweet, the urge to run into his arms so strong, she dared not speak lest she lose control and beg him to let her stay. His circumstances of birth mattered naught to her. To share his life was her dream, a dream that could not be.

  “Mr. Landor has made the final arrangements for the exchange. I wish you well, mademoiselle.” He turned to leave. She watched his tall frame step through the cabin door and listened to the sound of his steps, taking with them her heart.

  Alone, she broke down and sobbed.

  Eventually, Nate came for her. “Mistress,” he said with sad inflection, “Mr. Landor awaits ye on deck.”

  She wiped away the remaining tears and raised her head. “The captain?”

  “He asks that ye fergive his absence.”

  She knew why he had given his first mate the task of accompanying her. Simon might not be able to do it himself and in that, she took heart. Though he had never said the words, she knew he loved her. She had seen it in his eyes when he’d left.

  “I will miss you, Nate.”

  “I’m sorry to see ye go, mistress.” He meant it, she knew. They had become good friends in the time they had spent together. And they shared their love for the captain.

  She followed Nate to the companionway and took a deep breath, summoning her resolve for what lay ahead, before carefully ascending the ladder.

  The minute she stepped on deck, her searching gaze found him. He stood at the starboard rail, looking into the sunset, away from his men assembled on deck and away from the wharf where a crowd had gathered. The orange and yellow light from the sun’s rays cast a glow over his face rendering him the golden eagle he would ever be to her, now remote, and soon to be lost forever.

  Her heart torn asunder, she ran to him and reached up to kiss him once more. It was a brief kiss, but in it was her whole heart. “I will never forget you.”

  His eyes were filled with unshed tears as he looked at her. Then he returned his gaze to the setting sun. “Go!”

  She forced herself to leave him, to walk to where the first mate awaited her, his elbow offered in gentlemanly fashion, a kind look of sympathy in his green eyes peering at her from beneath the brim of his tricorne. She took his arm and they walked down the gangplank and across the wharf to where her papa, dressed in black coat, breeches and boots, a sword at his side, stood waiting with an anxious look. Behind him, a half-circle of men stood guard with their legs spread, their hands clasped behind them. Some of them looked familiar. Had they known her before? Had they just witnessed her display?

  “Claire!” her papa exclaimed when she reached him. Taking her into his arms, he warmly embraced her. It was a small comfort and one much needed.

  She smiled up at him. “Hello, Papa.”

  “You are well?” he asked.

  “I am, Papa.” He would note her red eyes and tear-stained cheeks but she would assure him she had been well treated. “They treated me as a guest.” Turing to the Fairwinds’ first mate, she offered her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Landor, for your many kindnesses.” Her voice was stilted as she fought back tears.

  He bowed over her hand. “It was my pleasure, mademoiselle.”

  “Mr. Landor,” said her papa, “there will be a few more men returned to your captain than he might have expected.” Then with a wry smile, he inclined his head. “Am I correct in thinking you sent some of yours ahead to Lorient?”

  “Ah, yes,” Mr. Landor said with apparent reluctance. “Are they here?”

  “Indeed they are, with the others just there.” He looked behind him to a group of assembled men. “And as I recall, you snatched a few of my crew in London.”

  Mr. Landor grinned. “We did. A full exchange, then?”

  “My intent exactly,” said her papa.

  The first mate bowed over her hand before tipping his hat. “I’ll see your men are released immediately, M’sieur Donet.” He turned and joined the line of men now walking past them toward the Fairwinds. Some, she noted, were in a bedraggled state. From the happy words they exchanged in English, it had to be Simon’s crew from the Abundance.

  Shouts from the men lining the rail of the Fairwinds brought wide smiles to the faces of the English crew filing by, their eyes fixed ahead.

  She looked beyond the men ascending the gangplank to the deck of the schooner, seeking the one who held her heart. But Simon was lost in the crowd of cheering men.

  Turning back to her papa, she had to ask, “Why did you never tell me?”

  “I wanted to protect you,” came his reply. Claire could not fault him for that. She knew he loved her. She might have done the same in his place.

  A man wearing a worn military uniform beneath which was a white linen shirt, open at the neck, strode toward them. She recognized Émile Bequel. She had met him years ago, never knowing he sailed on her papa’s ship. Often, when her papa had visited the convent, M’sieur Bequel had been with him, often wearing the same attire. Looking at his harsh features now with fresh eyes, she wondered: had this man, too, been a pirate? He could well have been.

  M’sieur Bequel doffed his tricorne, his rough face breaking into a wide smile, softening his features. “Welcome home, little one.”

  “Thank you, M’sieur Bequel.”

  Her papa reached for her hand and slid a ring on her finger. The feel of the cool metal drew her eyes to her hand. It was her moonstone ring, his birthday gift to her more than a year ago.

  “Sister Augustin gave it to me to return to you.”

  “Thank you, Papa.” There was no reason not to wear it now. She would take no Ursuline vows. And since Simon Powell was lost to her, she would comply with her papa’s wishes. What did it matter who she was to wed if it could not be the one she loved?

  M’sieur Bequel and the men who had stood behind her papa walked away, leaving them alone for the moment. Her papa gave her an assessing look, his dark brows drawn together in a frown. “Are you all right? They assured me you were unharmed, and you assured me you are well, but I must ask again.”

  “I am fine, Papa. Truly.” Tears welled in her eyes as she looked back over her shoulder to try and glimpse the captain for the last time. For a brief moment she thought she saw his golden head but then it was gone from her view.

  When she returned her eyes to her papa, his face was lined with concern. “What is it Claire? Surely you are not sad to be leaving the English ship where you were held prisoner for so long?”

  “And if I were? Would you let me return to Captain Powell?”

  “I cannot believe you would entertain such a preposterous notion.” He let out an exasperated sigh. “I saw your gesture bidding him farewell, the kiss you gave him.” His dark eyes flashed. “Was it merely gratitude at their good treatment or do you have feelings for this man?”

  She looked into the face she had loved all her life. He was a handsome man, her papa. And he had once been her age. Perhaps he, of all men, would understand. “Do we really have a choice in the person to whom we give our heart, Papa? I have thought much about it in recent days. Sometimes, when we least expect it, we catch a glimpse of someone, a face, perhaps only a smile, and our heart latches on and will not let go. It may not be love at first, but soon and for always.” The tears welled in her eyes blurring his image. “Captain Powell is such a one to me, Papa.”

  “He is English, Claire! And no doubt a Protestant.”

  She gazed down at the worn planks beneath her feet, gathering her courage once more. Then she returned her gaze to his fathomless, dark eyes. “I have learned the heart cares nothing for such things. It can give itself away with no consideration for country, religion or wealth.”

  “I would never give your hand to such a man.” His voice sounded like the steel in the sword at his side.

  A small smile came to her lips. “I think he is not unlike you, Papa.”r />
  “You are young,” he said dismissively. “You will forget him.”

  “Did you forget, Papa? When your own father, le comte, forbade you to marry Maman, did you forget?”

  He pressed his lips tightly together and looked away, the wind blowing strands of his long, black hair from its queue to stream across his face.

  She had her answer. But then she hadn’t really needed to ask. He had defied his father, turning his back on his noble heritage, to marry the woman he loved. A woman his family had deemed unsuitable. Claire’s sympathies reached out to him at that moment, as a greater understanding came to her. He had done what Simon’s father had not done. And he had paid a price for it. No doubt, he’d become a pirate to feed his wife and child.

  “Come,” he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulder and drawing her close. “We will have supper and speak no more of this. Your future lies in Paris, Claire, not in England, nor at the convent in Saint-Denis.”

  He paused as if allowing her time to object.

  Nodding her assent, she conceded the truth of his words. “You are right, Papa. My future is not in Saint-Denis, not anymore, nor, it seems, does it lie in England.” Perhaps the will of God might be revealed in the will of her father. Or perhaps the marriage he had planned for her would be her penance, long delayed and now due.

  They started to walk away when a shout was heard above the noise on the wharf and the sounds of the English ship making ready to sail.

  “Une frégate anglaise!” An English frigate!

  Jean’s attention was drawn to the north, his gaze reaching beyond Powell’s schooner to the ship bearing down upon the harbor. “He betrayed us!”

  “No, Papa. Captain Powell would never do that!”

  “We will see.”

  Émile rushed up to them from the edge of the wharf. “You must get away, Capitaine! A carriage awaits.”

  “La Reine Noire?”