To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (8 page)

The cabin door closed with a thump, the sound jarring Claire
back to the present. What had just happened? Her heart still pounding in her
chest, with trembling fingers she explored her pulsing, sensitive lips. A deep
sigh escaped her as she carefully stepped to the bed and collapsed upon its
edge.
Damn the arrogant man! Tame the wind, indeed.

To her shame, she had responded to him like one of the
tavern wenches she’d seen in the village of Saint-Denis.
Sainte Mère!
She had no barrier that was effective against his hot, seeking mouth. Instead,
she had clung to him like the trousered hussar that night in the château’s
gardens. Were all women turned into pudding by his impassioned kisses? Even
now, her body tingled in an unfamiliar way and she felt his absence like a
tangible thing.

Did she now have to fear her own desire for him would put
her virtue in danger?
It cannot be. I cannot want my abductor. I am to be a
nun!

The words floated in her mind like so much chaff on the
wind, making her wonder if she was worthy of the vows she had hoped to one day
take. In some way she did not fully understand, he had marked her, as surely as
he had marked his ship the
Fairwinds
.

She gazed at the objects she’d tossed to the deck in her fit
of pique and froze. To her utter horror, sliding down the pile was a Holy
Bible, some of its pages now torn. Snatching it from the heap, she fell to her
knees and clasped the sacred volume to her breast.
Mon Dieu, forgive me
.

A soft knock snapped her out of her prayer.
Had the
captain returned?
No, he would never knock. It was young Nate who slowly
opened the cabin door, stuck his head in and looked about, his brown tricorne
askew.

“Gads, mistress. Why’d ye do this?”

Guilt assailed her. “I lost my temper.”

The boy smiled encouragingly, as if she could do no wrong,
and stepped into the cabin. “Don’t worry. I’ll soon have the cabin set to
rights.”

“But it’s my fault entirely,” she protested, feeling more
guilty by the moment. The boy was not the one who deserved her anger and she
had been taught to be polite, controlled. “I’m not usually so undisciplined,
but your captain seems to stir my wrath.”

“Aye, I see he has. But I’m here at his command to set all
in order.”

She rose and carefully set the Bible on the table,
regretting the loss of control for which she would surely have to do penance.
“Then I will help you, Nate.” Reaching for an intricate brass pot encrusted
with jewels, she held onto the table and then to the bookcase where she
returned the pot to the shelf where she’d found it.

Together the two of them worked to put all the books and
other things back into their proper places. Claire experienced a pang of
remorse when she realized she had broken one of his fine brandy glasses. She
gathered the pieces into her hand and Nate held out a bucket to catch the glass
shards. “This one is beyond repair, I fear.”

“Not to worry, mistress,” the cabin boy said with a winning
smile. “The cap’n has a hoard of ‘em squirreled away in the hold. ’Twouldn’t be
the first that fell to the deck.”

“You are very kind to me, Nate, and serve your master well.”

The boy beamed and, to Claire, it seemed she had found a
friend.

Saint-Denis

Turning away from the Mother Superior, Jean Donet crumpled
the note in his hands and gritted his teeth, as outrage rose in his chest.
Merde
!
He had expected Powell to strike, but in Lorient, where the
Abundance
was guarded night and day, not in Saint-Denis where he hid his most valuable
treasure. Where he believed Claire was safe with the sisters behind convent
walls. Where his own misdeeds could not touch her. Never had he expected the
English privateer to kidnap Claire. But he’d been wrong. Powell was more wily
than he’d imagined and more well informed.

His dark brows drew together. “I will have my revenge and my
daughter!” he hissed to Émile. The first mate’s dark gaze echoed his own rage.

Jean faced Sister Augustin, who backed away with an anxious
look. “I am most sorry, M’sieur Donet. We had no idea Claire was in danger.”

Coming to his senses, he shot a glance at Émile, who wisely
remained silent in the face of his captain’s anger. “No, of course not. I will
handle this, Reverend Mother. I do not hold you responsible.” The danger to
Claire had always been there but he’d grown complacent after so many years.

From her habit the Mother Superior withdrew an unsealed
letter, which she handed to him. “Claire must have written this the night she
was taken. It concerns her desires for her future. Knowing her wishes, I had
also sent you a letter, but it may not have arrived before you left.”

Something he had heard in the tone of the nun’s voice puzzled
him as he unfolded the letter. “What were her desires? Surely you told her I
wish her to wed, that I’d arranged a marriage?”

“
Oui
, Claire was aware of your plans, but she had
developed a strong commitment to the Order and hoped to one day take vows to join
us. I, for one, did not encourage her, but since I was unable to dissuade her,
I told her I would pass along her request to you, which I did.”

He looked up from the paper. “No, that is not the path I
have in mind for my daughter.”

“I thought as much, m’sieur.”

“Please have her things packed,
s’il vous plaît
,
Reverend Mother. I have a meeting in Paris this afternoon I must attend and I
would take them with me.”

The Reverend Mother nodded, then hesitated. “There is
something I have held for her, knowing it was among the things she prized.” The
nun walked to her desk and opened a drawer. Lifting out an item, she dropped it
into his open palm. He turned it over with his thumb. The blue moonstone
shimmered in the ring he had given Claire for her birthday a year ago.

He studied the stone that he’d purchased because it reminded
him of her eyes… her mother’s eyes. “It was not on her hand when she was
taken?”

“No, she kept it safe among her things. But I am certain she
will be grateful to have it again.”

A short while later, he and his quartermaster departed. The
horses pulled in their traces as the coachman’s whip cracked over their heads.
Jean stared out the window at the ever-changing landscape as the carriage sped
on its way through the city. “If he harms one hair of her head,” he hissed to
his quartermaster sitting across from him, “or fails to return her, I will kill
his crew.” He clenched his teeth. “All of them.”

“
Oui
, I will see to it myself,” came the grim reply
from Émile, his harsh voice sounding as deadly as Jean’s thoughts.

He pulled the crumpled parchment from the pocket of his
waistcoat, flattened it out and handed it across the space. “Send Powell a
message to the address in Dartmouth he gives in the note. Offer to meet with
him in Paris to arrange an exchange—his men for Claire. Warn him if he harms
her, the bodies of his men will soon be washing up on the coast of England.”

Not long after, the carriage pulled up in front of the
imposing gray stone of the Valentinois château in Passy, a village just west of
Paris. Though his thoughts were consumed by Claire and what indignities she
might be enduring at the hands of the English privateer, he would not
disappoint the American commissioner.

M’sieur Franklin was respected by all in Paris, a man wise
in his words. He cared little for the trappings of nobility while careful to
observe its niceties, the importance of which Jean well understood having once
been a part of that world. Beyond that, Franklin had a wit Jean admired.
Aligned as France was with America, Jean had been pleased to accept the letter
of marque Franklin had issued him.

He and Émile arrived at the door and a servant graciously
escorted them into the large sitting room where Franklin greeted his guests.

“It is good to see you, as ever,” said the aging American as
he extended his hand.

“And you, m’sieur,” said Jean. He shook the man’s hand and
re-introduced him to Émile.

“Welcome again,” Franklin said to Émile.

Jean recognized the two men standing behind Franklin. The
one with the prominent nose, gray hair and dark brows, Edward Bancroft, was
secretary to the American mission in Paris. Standing next to him was Charles
Gravier, comte de Vergennes, the French Foreign Minister. Jean was quick to
acknowledge both.

He respected Vergennes, for it was he who had convinced the
king to support America in the hope it would weaken Britain. Having secured the
king’s agreement to aid the young republic, Vergennes then worked tirelessly to
bring the Spanish and Dutch into the fold. But Jean believed the alliance now
in place owed as much to England’s vanity, ignorance and pride as it did to the
efforts of the French minister.

“I have persuaded le comte to stay for tea,” said Franklin.
“He and I have been discussing the American situation and I know he will welcome
any news you have.”

“Of course,” Jean replied. After all, he served both America
and France.

At Franklin’s gesture, the four men took their seats on the
two brocade-covered sofas facing each other over a small oval table, where tea
was served. Jean marveled, as he always did, that the American commissioner
seemed so vital though he was now in his mid-seventies. His hair, which fell
thinly to his shoulders, was more dark brown than gray. The commissioner’s
waist had expanded since the last time Jean had been to Passy, but he was not
surprised. Franklin’s love of French food and wine was well known.

Franklin took a sip of his tea and set down his cup. “I
trust you have brought me good tidings, M’sieur Donet. Something with which to
bargain for my Americans languishing in British prisons? Those who have escaped
tell me horrible stories of their confinements.”

“
Oui
, I bring you an English sloop and her thirty
crew. I had thought to bring you the crew of another ship, but at the moment my
efforts have been thwarted.”

“You would be mysterious, my friend?”

“I have no choice. Something I hold dear to my heart is
involved. But I promise you more British seamen and soon.”

“I suppose I cannot complain,” said Franklin, “you have
brought me hundreds of English seamen and more than twenty prizes in the last
year.”

Bancroft lifted his pen from the tablet on which he’d been
scribbling as if the figure had surprised him. As secretary to the American
mission, he had to know Jean had secured British ships and their crews for Franklin’s
prisoner exchange, but perhaps the secretary had not kept an account of the
number.

Desiring to steer the conversation away from his reasons for
withholding the crew of the second ship, Jean asked, “How go the negotiations
for peace? Is there aught I can do to help?”

Franklin shared a knowing look with Vergennes. “There has
been much talk, but little progress, I’m afraid. The British representative
insists it should be sufficient they give America its independence. I informed
him in no uncertain terms we will not bargain for that which is already ours,
that which we have purchased at the expense of so much blood and treasure.”

Jean nodded. “I believe the English are exhausted by the war
but too proud to make peace.”

Franklin nodded.

Vergennes interjected, “We do not lose hope, however. Paris
is crawling with English emissaries these days, so perhaps an accord will be
reached. France has little interest in prolonging what has become a very
expensive war.”

Franklin gave his colleague a kind look. “We are not
unmindful of the generosity of our French friends.” Then looking at Jean, “And
your efforts, M’sieur Donet.”

Throughout the conversation, Bancroft said nothing but
continued to scratch upon his pad. Jean slipped him a side-glance, recalling
the rumors that spies surrounded Franklin, both British and French. Bancroft
was in a prime position to gather useful information, and while he might be an
American, Jean had heard he once made his home in London.

As such meetings had gone in the past, after Franklin told
Jean of his needs for ships and the numbers of British seamen he hoped to have
with which to bargain, their conversation turned to those men who were helping
or hurting the American cause. Jean wanted to inquire about the man to whom he
had promised his daughter. When he reclaimed her, the marriage would be his
first priority.

“Have you encountered François de Dordogne in the
negotiations?” he asked the two men sitting across from him.

“Ah, the young lawyer,” said Vergennes. “Why, yes. He has
drafted several papers for me. Very good work, too.”

Jean shared a look of understanding with his quartermaster
and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief. He had selected Dordogne for his
well-respected family and his reputation as a rising star in legal circles,
often advocating the ideals of reason and individualism rather than tradition,
which would appeal to Claire. But the lawyer was still in his mid-twenties and,
as yet, untested. It comforted Jean to know that Vergennes was aware of the
young man and had used his services with good results. It was important that
Claire’s husband be respected in society. The dowry Jean would provide her
would set Dordogne on firm ground to care for Claire and their children.

No doubt it was one reason the lawyer had eagerly agreed to
the match and asked no questions asked about Jean’s recent business dealings.

The brief meeting concluded with Jean explaining the
location of the ship and the captured British seamen and promising more bounty
and soon, which put a smile on Franklin’s lined face. Plying the Channel for
English ships had become a profitable pastime and Jean did not intend to
disappoint.

Rye Harbor

Alone in his cabin on the
Fairwinds
, now anchored in
Rye, Simon looked up from the ship’s log to see the man who had been guarding
Claire Donet’s door at night standing before him. “You wanted to see me,
Anderson?”

“Aye, Cap’n. ’Tis the French girl.”

Simon set down his quill and gestured for the man to sit.

The burly Anderson, who often assisted the ship’s carpenter,
dropped into the chair on the other side of the desk.

Seeing the look on his crewmember’s face, he spoke his
thought aloud. “What new mischief has she gotten into now?” To allow her
privacy, Simon had given her his cabin while he shared the first mate’s. Each
night, he posted a guard at her door, often it was Anderson. It wasn’t just to
keep her from trying to escape while they were in port, but to make sure none
of his crew, who might happen to return from the Mermaid Inn with too much ale
in their bellies, disobeyed his orders to leave her alone.

“’Tis no mischief, sir. ’Tis her dreams.”

He sat back and crossed his arms. “Tell me more.”

“Well, at first I thought it were just an odd dream. I’ve
had ’em meself. But this tweren’t no single dream. She’s had more than one in
the nights I’ve stood guard. Some would call ’em night terrors. She moans and
screams in her sleep like she’s bein’ chased by one of McGinnes’ banshees. The
sounds die down after a time.”

“Have you asked her about this?”

“Aye, once. After the first time, the next morn I ask if she
slept well. All she said was ‘Not altogether, Mr. Anderson’. I thought ye
should know, Cap’n.”

“You were right in telling me. I hope she’s not troubled by
her captivity.”

“Don’t think that were it, Cap’n. I heard her call out a
woman’s name… Elsie, Lisee…somethin’ like that. It were slurred, ye see.”

“Thank you, Anderson, that will be all.”

As the big man rose and left, Simon picked up his quill,
dipped it in the ink and then hesitated.
What would cause her to have such
dreams?

He had lingered in Rye, now well over a week, to await a
reply from Donet and to see to the needs of his hostage, her clothes, shoes and
other things a young woman might need. Elijah had taken her to Sally at the
Mermaid Inn who had more knowledge of a young woman’s clothing. All Simon knew
of feminine attire was how to remove it.