To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0)
Read To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) Online
Authors: Regan Walker
To Tame the Wind
Regan Walker
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and
incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used
fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, business
establishments or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
TO TAME THE WIND
Copyright © 2015 Regan Walker
All rights reserved. Unless specifically noted, no part of
this publication may be reproduced, scanned, stored in a retrieval system or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, known or hereinafter invented, without the express
written permission of the author. The scanning, uploading and distribution of
this book via the Internet or by any other means without the permission of the
author is illegal and punishable by law. Participation in the piracy of
copyrighted materials violates the author’s rights.
ISBN: 978-0692401729
Acknowledgements
Many people contribute to bringing a book into the world, but
some make special contributions that must be noted. For
To Tame the Wind
,
this included Kalinya Parker-Pryce, a gifted artist and fellow writer who once
lived in a convent in Italy and nearly took vows. Kalinya helped me to add
realism to my research and to understand the internal workings of a convent.
Then she stayed to give me very helpful comments on the rest of the book. As
with the 3
rd
book in the Agents of the Crown trilogy,
Wind Raven
,
my friend Dr. Chari Wessel, who donates her weekends to serving as a member of
the crew of the schooner
Californian
, a period ship not unlike the
Fairwinds
in my story, made sure my ship descriptions were correct. And lastly, I must
thank my beta readers whose suggestions are always invaluable.
“A sea adventure like no other, a riveting romance!”
–
NY Times Bestselling author Shirlee Busbee
“Ms. Walker has the rare ability to make you forget you are
reading a book…the characters become real, the modern world fades away and all
that is left is the intrigue, drama and romance.” –
Straight from the
Library
YOUR FATHER IS A PIRATE
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
.”
(Both real and fictional)
Simon Powell, captain of the
Fairwinds
Claire Ariane Donet, daughter of Jean Donet
At the Ursuline Convent in Saint-Denis:
Sister Augustin, the
Mère Supérieure
or Mother
Superior or Reverend Mother
Sister Angélique, the Mistress of Novices
Élise
On the
Fairwinds
:
Jordan Landor, first mate
Nathaniel Baker (“Nate”), cabin boy*
Elijah Hawkins, bosun and old salt
Giles Berube, sailmaker
Tom McGinnes, cook*
On the
Abundance
:
John Wingate, captain
Amos Busby, first mate, who will join the crew of the
Fairwinds
Zeb Grant, cabin boy
On
la Reine Noire
and in Lorient:
Jean Donet, captain and younger son of the comte de Saintonge
Émile Bequel, quartermaster
In London:
Cornelia, Lady Danvers*
John Ingram, Baron Danvers, part of the British intelligence
community
Higgins, the Danvers’ butler*
William Eden, British spymaster
Thomas Field, American privateer captain and British prisoner
In Paris:
Dr. Benjamin Franklin, American Minister to France and
Commissioner
Edward Bancroft, secretary to the American diplomatic mission
in Paris
Charles Gravier, comte de Vergennes, Foreign Minister
François de Dordogne, a lawyer and Claire’s betrothed
Characters with an “*” are also characters in WIND RAVEN,
book 3 in the Agents of the Crown trilogy, set in 1817.
Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a
memory no one can steal.
--From a headstone in Ireland
Saint-Denis, a town north of Paris 1780
A small scraping sound exploded in the still night like a
pistol shot setting Claire’s every nerve on end. Flattening herself against the
cold stone wall, she peered back the way she had come, her eyes searching the
darkness. Someone was following her. A small form, instantly recognizable by
its frailty and pale blonde hair, crept from the shadows.
Élise.
Claire bit back a groan. Her friend had followed her once
again. This was not good. Not good at all. She waited until Élise was almost
level with her, and then stepped away from the wall, into the girl’s path.
Élise gasped.
“What are you doing here, Élise? You should be home in bed.
Your family will be worried if they discover you are gone.”
The younger girl seemed torn between triumph and
defensiveness. “I knew it! I knew you would defy Mother Superior and sneak out
again. I have been watching the convent, waiting, and here you are.” She leaned
closer, her excitement almost tangible. “Where are you going? What is your
adventure tonight?”
Claire scowled. “Go home, Élise.”
The girl persisted. “
Non
, I will not. Where are you
going?”
Claire let out a sigh. “To see a masquerade.” The relief she
had felt at being free of the confines of the convent disappeared with the
responsibility for her unwanted companion. Élise might want to be a part of
Claire’s adventures but she really lacked the fortitude.
Élise’s eyes widened. “The one the sisters spoke of?”
“
Oui
, if you must know. But you should not follow me
this night.” Claire lifted her gaze to scan the canopy above her. Dark clouds
marched across the sky, and where they parted, the moon cast its pale rays on
the streets. A cold wind blew her hair across her face. “There is rain in the
air and you will catch a chill.”
“Deny me this and I will tell Mother Superior of your… your
escapade.” Élise’s spurt of defiance was so uncharacteristic it rendered Claire
momentarily speechless.
“Then you had better keep up, for I am in a hurry and will
not slow down for you.” Claire shrugged out of her woolen cloak. “Here.” She
thrust it around the other girl’s shoulders covering her dark blue convent
school dress. “It might help ward off the chill.” The cloak fell to the ground
on the shorter girl, but it could not be helped.
Claire set a brisk pace through the empty streets, hugging
the shadows until she reached the broad expanse of manicured lawn surrounding
the château where the
bal masqué
was being held. Moonlight, thin and
weak, shed light on their path, but not enough to reveal Élise and herself to
those inside the château.
Behind her, Élise’s labored breath had become an audible
rasp. The sound pricked Claire’s scalp. Élise was all but
wheezing
.
Claire paused, worry warring with impatience.
When Élise reached her, Claire caught the younger girl’s
cold hand in her own and drew her close. “Are you certain you do not wish to
return home?”
Élise nodded.
“Then we must hurry for we cannot risk being seen.”
Or
being caught in the rain.
Perhaps they could be gone before it descended.
Hearing a distant rumble of thunder, Claire suffered a pang of guilt, but with
no time to waste and no wish to turn back, she let go of Élise’s hand and
darted toward the terrace. Glancing over her shoulder, she was relieved to see
the frail blonde was keeping up.
Élise should not be out on a night such as this.
Claire
shrugged off the nagging thought, anxious to observe the masquerade she had
looked forward to all day. Her excitement had grown ever since that morning
when she’d heard the younger nuns describing the fête one of the convent’s
benefactors was hosting.
She reached the stone balustrade surrounding the terrace.
Élise joined her scant seconds later, gasping for breath.
Lively music wafting through the tall doors that stood open
to the stone terrace drew Claire’s attention from Élise’s labored breathing to
the colorful characters that populated the magnificent ballroom. Lighted by
ornate crystal chandeliers and candles in gilded sconces, the rich costumes of
red, gold, green and orange silks and satins sparkled on the twirling couples.
The brilliant flashes of color, so different from the black and white of the
nuns’ habits, took her breath away.
The dancing men and women were costumed in what she could
only assume they had a mind to be, and not what they otherwise were. Though she
was certain all were from the aristocracy, they were dressed as milkmaids,
shepherdesses, jesters, pirates and a few Persian kings. It was as if the
characters in the fantastic stories her mother read to her as a child had come
alive.
To one side of the dancers, a devil dressed in black
conversed with a cardinal in scarlet and a woman attired as a trousered hussar.
The red pelisse with its gold braid worn over blue trousers might have been
tailored for the woman’s curves, but Claire recognized the uniform all the
same.
Many wore masks, from simple black to those more elaborate,
some even bejeweled and adorned with feathers.
Her heart raced at the pageantry of it. If only she could
join them. If only she could dance to the wonderful music. “Oh, Élise… is it
not the grandest sight you have ever seen?”
Élise drew the cloak more tightly around her. “It is cold.”
So why did you follow me?
Claire bit back the
question. She had to remember Élise was a day student, one of those to whom the
nuns gave charity, who lived at home and looked to the older Claire for
adventure. But tonight was not a good time for her to do so. “Your parents will
not be pleased you left home without their permission to follow me.”
“If you did not sneak away from the convent, I would have no
cause to be out and about.”
“Oh, pish! So now it is
my
fault you are here?”
Instantly, her traitorous memory reminded her of the scolding she’d received
after her last nocturnal outing.
You, Mademoiselle Donet
, the Reverend
Mother had scolded
, are a trial. A wild child your father expected me to
educate and keep until you marry, a challenge that, on some days, seems beyond
all endurance.
Claire knew her papa did not share that opinion. He was
proud of her and had told her so on his many visits. If only he had not chosen
to send her away to the convent school when Maman had died. Surely a governess
would have sufficed. And their housekeeper in Lorient could have seen to her
needs while he was away on business. But he had insisted she stay with the
sisters even after she was of an age to return home.
She sighed remembering the day her papa had sent her to the
Ursuline Convent. She had just turned seven. She remembered the teary scene as
if it were yesterday. She missed him so. To please him, she had worked hard to
become proficient at her subjects. But now, at sixteen, her restless spirit
drove her to escape the convent walls whenever she could.
And she was determined not to miss the most elegant ball in
Saint-Denis—perhaps in all of Paris!
“Quickly, Élise.” Claire gestured toward the bushy tree, its
branches reaching over one side of the terrace. “We must climb that tree so we
can better see into the ballroom.”
“You go,” said Élise, her huge, brown eyes looked up at the
tree and then back to the stone balustrade. “I can see all I want to from here.
I do not like to climb trees.”
“Oh, all right,” Claire said, annoyed. “I will only be a
moment. Stay close to the balustrade, away from the wind.” Leaving Élise in the
shadows of the terrace, she hurried toward the tree, impatient for a better
look at the dazzling array of costumes.
Using a rock as a stepping-stone, she scaled the lower
limbs.
A hawthorn tree!
Its nasty thorns warned her of the pain they
could inflict, but she was determined. As she ascended higher, a branch with
sharp thorns caught her dark blue dress. She tugged it free and heard the
fabric tear. Sister Angélique would not be pleased, but it was a small price to
pay for a glimpse of Paris’ nobility attired in their costumed finery.
Avoiding the thorns, she balanced on one of the limbs,
holding aside a leafy branch, and turned her attention to the glimmering
ballroom. The music slowed as the dancers assembled for the
Menuet de la
Cour
Papa had described to her, but which she had never seen.
It was then she spotted him.
A flash of shimmering gold cape swirled around broad
shoulders. A gilded mask of an eagle barely concealed long, blond hair tied
back at his nape. At his side hung a sword in a golden sheath. His was the
brilliance of the sun compared to everyone else’s candle, a mythical creature
condescending to join the parade of mortals now moving in slow cadence. Tall
and well-muscled, he moved with sinuous grace through the steps of the dance as
his lips curved in a brilliant smile.
For the first time, her heart sped at the presence of a man,
the sensation so unfamiliar her hand flew to her breast to rub the pounding
spot. Oh, he was handsome, this golden one.
Who could he be?
The minuet ended. The golden one took his partner by the
hand and led her to the terrace. It was then Claire’s gaze shifted to his
partner.
The female hussar!
The woman wore a gilded blue mask over brown
hair swept up into a nest of curls. Not a very good disguise, Claire thought.
Her gaze followed the striking pair as they descended the
terrace steps. Claire released her grip on the branch and shifted slightly
while avoiding the thorns, so she could keep in sight the couple coming closer.
And closer. Her breath froze in her chest when, a moment later, they stopped at
the base of her tree. From where she was perched she had a clear view of them.
Her heart beat so fast she worried it might leap from her chest.
Mon Dieu,
do not let them look up!
The man stood back, his eyes roving over the woman’s
costume, down to her trousers and then back up, pausing at her breasts bulging
into view from the short, red pelisse she wore open at the neck. “So, you would
wear the trousers tonight,
ma petite chérie
?”
The woman inched closer to him, her breasts brushing against
his chest. Slowly she removed her mask. “If you—an English privateer—are brave
enough to risk detection by attending a masquerade in France, I would not
presume to act the man, my eagle.” The woman’s voice was low and husky as if
she had something caught in her throat. The mask slipped from her hand to the
ground.
English? The golden one is English and a privateer?
Claire would never have guessed. His French was impeccable, his speech that of
an aristocrat. The news of his origin took her aback. From the whispered tales
she had heard at the convent, she would have expected an Englishman to have
horns and breathe brimstone, but this one was so handsome she could not tear
her eyes from him.
He smiled at his partner, a long, leisurely smile that
caused Claire’s pulse to speed.
If he smiled at me like that…
He ripped off his mask and flung it to the ground. “I could
hardly resist the opportunity.” Then in a more serious voice, “Besides, I had
business here tonight.”
“Your only business now is me,” said the woman in a sensual
voice.
The golden one smiled, backing her against the tree, then
bent his head to kiss her.
Claire had never seen a man kiss a woman like
that
.
The woman seemed to enjoy his kiss, running her hands through his hair. She
hung on to his shoulders as if to keep from falling. Silly woman. She was
wedged between the man and the tree and in no danger of falling...
Perhaps
the woman was weak?
Transfixed by the couple, Claire’s eyes widened as the man’s
mouth moved to the woman’s neck while his hands were busy elsewhere.
Mon
Dieu! Is he unfastening her trousers?
The woman’s hands moved to assist his
efforts.
Oh my, oh my!
Claire’s heart leaped into her throat.
Sliding down his partner’s trousers, the golden one freed
one of the woman’s legs from her boot and ran his hand up her bare thigh as he
lifted it to his hip. The woman’s moan covered Claire’s gasp. Before Claire
could think what would come next, he lifted the hussar to his waist where she
wrapped her legs around him, encouraging him with whispered words.
Claire’s heart raced. She could only wonder what they would
do. What she was about to witness.
“Oh Simon,” sighed the hussar. “You make me want you so.”
Want him for what?
Claire wondered.
The golden one’s mouth moved to the woman’s neck as he
pressed her more firmly against the tree with his chest while undoing his
breeches.
“Hurry,” the woman urged.
Why is the woman in a hurry?
Their ragged breathing,
the woman’s sighs.
Oh my.
Claire bit down on her knuckles, nearly
drawing blood. She must look away.
If I do not, I will go straight to Hell
when I die
. But her eyes would not oblige.
Another rumble of thunder sounded above her, louder this
time. A streak of lightning coursed through the sky, lighting the grounds
around the château.
Claire lurched back, nearly falling, and felt a thorn pierce
her back. With a gasp, she jerked away as a loud crack sounded and her branch
gave way.
She shrieked as she started to fall, grabbing at branches
whose thorns ripped into her hands and her arms. She landed with a high-pitched
grunt as her breath was knocked out of her.
Not far away, an oath spewed forth in the man’s deep voice.
Struggling to breathe, Claire crawled behind a bush while
looking about for Élise. They must flee!
