To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) (10 page)

The first thing Simon noticed when he returned to his cabin
after conferring with the ship’s carpenter on some needed repairs was the
setting of his table. Typically the table would remain bare, save for his
brandy and glasses, until Nate delivered the meal. Then the stack of pewter
plates would be passed out. But today there was a white linen tablecloth on
which was set blue and white porcelain dishes. In the center was a decanter of
claret wine. All was laid out with careful attention. Scurrying around the
table was Nate, checking the placement of the silver.

“What’s all this?” Simon inquired, baffled.

“Mistress Donet has been teachin’ me how to set a table. I
thought as it’s our last dinner in Rye before we sail for London, I’d show ye
what I’ve learned.”

“And the tableware?”

“Ye probably forgot, sir, but it was the extra we had in the
hold from that time ye bought Lady Danvers all those dishes.”

“Aye, it does look familiar.”

Most days his French captive joined him for dinner along
with his two first mates, Amos Busby from the
Abundance
having joined
the
Fairwinds
’ crew. So he expected she would share the early meal
today. Sure enough, before long the two first mates strolled into his cabin along
with Claire Donet. Her ebony hair was twisted into a knot at her nape, which
was how she often wore it. The blue gown was still lovely on her despite its
daily wear. He reminded himself to ask Nate to fetch the ones she’d ordered in
Rye.

Jordan’s eyes widened when he glimpsed the table. “Ah, what
a difference the lady has made!”

To Simon, she appeared pleased, possibly smug. Shooting him
a glance, she said, “I don’t suppose you like the change, do you?”

“It’s an improvement,” he admitted. She seemed mildly
pleased by his response which after their afternoon, was encouraging. While her
English had improved since she’d been with them, she still had a deep French
accent, which was so sensual it often left him staring at her mouth when he had
no intention of doing so.

In uncharacteristic fashion, Amos Busby pulled out a chair
and gestured her to it. “Well, I like it,” he said. “’Tisn’t often I’ve dined
in so civilized a manner aboard ship.”

“We don’t often have the time or calm waters,” Simon
reminded him.

“I’ll be back with the food,” said Nate as he straightened a
last knife and left.

Simon poured the claret and handed each person a glass of
the dark red wine. He lifted his own in toast. “To a fair sailing to London.”

“To a fair sailing!” the three echoed.

A few moments later, Nate returned with McGinnes and two
trays laden with food.

“I thought to make somethin’ special for ye,” said the Irish
cook in his lilting brogue as he set the dishes on the table.

Inwardly Simon groaned. What new cuisine horror was about to
befall them? It was better when his new cook relegated himself to simple stews.
While in port they always had fresh meat and vegetables. “What is it?” he asked
with dubious interest, peering at the dishes set before them.

“A soup to start, Skipper.” He began ladling out an orange
liquid into small bowls.

“Soup?” They rarely had soup, only stews.

“Gingered carrot, Captain,” Claire Donet said, winking at
the cook. Some collusion was going on, he was now certain. “Perhaps you are new
to the dish?”

“Sure an’ Mistress Donet gave me the idea.”

“I see.” And Simon did.

“And for the main dish?” inquired Jordan.

McGinnes lifted a lid to reveal slices of beef covered in a
dark sauce. “’Tis a bit of beef in red wine. And vegetables.”

“I’m starved,” said Amos.

“I’m overwhelmed,” said Simon. He only hoped the food tasted
better than McGinnes’ last venture into the unknown.

McGinnes stood back, beaming his pleasure at the array of
food he’d set before them. Nate collected the lids and trays. “As I’ve had a
bit of time,” the cook said, “Mistress Donet’s been teachin’ me to plan meals.
Oh an’ before I ferget, dessert will be sugared fruits,” he said pointing to a
plate he had set on the desk.

“Smells wonderful,” said Jordan.

“I’m sure it’s splendid,” said Claire Donet with an
encouraging smile directed at the cook. From McGinnes’ response, Simon was
certain she and the Irishman were now partners in some culinary plot.

Resigned to sample the orange broth set before him, Simon
raised his spoon of steaming liquid to his mouth just as the girl bowed her
head and said a prayer of thanks. Remnants of her convent life, he assumed.
With his spoon suspended in front of his face, he and the two first mates
watched in silence. As soon as she finished, they dove into the food.

His captive shot him a look of disapproval.

Simon ignored her. But he had to admit the soup was quite
tasty and the beef was better than McGinnes’ usual fare. Perhaps the Irishman
was learning to cook. Or God was answering the French girl’s prayers.

She ate with delicacy, her manners those of a lady. The
afternoon sunlight filtering in through the windows cast a warm glow over her
pale skin. He wasn’t the only one who stole glances at her. Jordan and Amos had
taken a new interest in their reluctant guest. He suspected she had no idea of
her effect on men. Half his crew was drooling over her yet she appeared to
remain ignorant of their lustful glances.

When several minutes had gone by and a shadow crossed her
face, he asked, “Why so brooding, mademoiselle?”

“I was just wondering what the sisters and my friends at the
convent were doing. Dinner is the one time when we can gather to share not only
a meal but the events of the day and, oft times, the news of the village.”

Simon had not thought much about her schooling at the
convent. “What did they teach you at the convent besides how to pray?”

“All manner of things,” she replied in a somewhat defensive
tone. “To read and write, of course. But also mathematics, Latin and the things
a lady of society must know, like the planning of meals, needlework, art and
music. Because my papa chose to have me stay longer, I was able to learn things
the younger girls did not.”

Simon
was
impressed.

“I had no idea,” said Jordan.

“I don’t suppose they taught you how to cook?” Simon inquired.
“McGinnes could use some help.”

“No. That was not one of our subjects. It was expected I
would one day take my place as the mistress of my own home where I would have
servants, including a cook. But being French, I know something about food.”
This she said with a superior tone he supposed was the purview of the French
when it came to culinary matters. “And being as I’m your prisoner,” she added
petulantly, “I needed something to do while on your ship.”

Ignoring the question of her status, he said, “Well, you
have my thanks for whatever you have done to inspire McGinnes. The food is a
genuine improvement.”

Between bites of beef, Amos and Jordan chimed in their
agreement.

His captive smiled, seemingly satisfied at what she’d
accomplished.

When dinner was concluded, Claire ascended the ladder to the
deck above, her guard following. But even his presence and the captain’s many
questions could not dampen her spirits. Though she resented the captain’s
thinking he could haul her around like a crate full of goods wherever he
sailed, the more she thought about it, the more she was delighted with the news
they were sailing to London, a city she’d never seen.

London!

A captive she might be but they had not mistreated her and
now she was to see a place she’d never been. Surely she could see it once
before taking her vows?

The captain had told her he would allow her to remain on
deck as they sailed if she stayed out of the way. As if she would be a burden!
Insufferable,
handsome lout
.

Taking care so as not to fall in a crumpled heap to the deck
when they sailed, she accepted the arm of Amos Busby, as he led her to the
rail. Despite who her father was, the first mate from the captain’s other ship
had been kind to her and for that she was grateful.

Shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand, she gripped
the polished wood of the rail with the other in anticipation of the lurch that
would come as the sails filled with wind.

“All hands on deck to weigh anchor!” shouted Mr. Landor. He
stood on the quarterdeck with his hands clasped behind him and his legs planted
firmly on what she knew would soon become a rolling deck.

Some of the crew scurried into the rigging. Nate had told
her all that would take place in preparation to sail, but this was the first
time she’d be experiencing it for herself.

“Hands to the capstan! Set the capstan bars! Heave around
now!" Mr. Busby yelled out.

At his words, a part of the crew hastened to circle a wooden
cylinder with bars pointing out at right angles like spokes of a wheel.
That
must be the capstan.
Each man took hold of one bar, pushing on it as they
circled around. With their effort, a rope as thick as the spread of a man’s
hand was dragged from the water and coiled around the wooden structure.

Suddenly one of the men broke out in song.

Our packet is the Island Lass

The other men, joining him, sang a refrain.

Low lands lowlands lowlands low

And so it continued,

There's a laddie howlin' at the main topmast

Low lands lowlands lowlands low

The old man he's from Barbados

Low lands lowlands lowlands low

He's got the name of Hammer Toes

Low lands lowlands lowlands low

He gives us bread as hard as brass

Low lands lowlands lowlands low

Nate took his place next to her at the rail. “Ye like the
crew’s song, miss?”

“Very much. Seeing them work together like that is
exhilarating.”

The song soon became a loud chorus of deep male voices
singing in perfect harmony. Her foot began tapping in time with their song and
her heart sped as she joined them in spirit. It was exciting to feel the energy
rise as they readied the ship to sail. Their singing was different from the
soft, high voices of the nuns at Saint-Denis and she loved it. There was a
power in the crew’s deep voices she had never experienced before.

“Up and down! Up and down,” bawled Mr. Busby, and the
singing trailed off. “Vast heaving, there!”

Claire had no idea what his words meant, so she watched to
see what the crew did in response. Immediately, the men at the capstan stopped
their work and stood by with sweat running down their faces and their chests
heaving as they shook out their hands and arms.

Mr. Landor moved to the rail, checked the wind and craned
back to look at the thin, red pennant streaming from the top of the mainmast.
He looked toward the helm and with a nod from the captain, shouted, “Hands to
make sail! Man the topsail gear! Man the foresail gear! Man the mainsail gear!
All halyards, haul away! Haul away smartly!”

Crewmembers hauled the heavy lines hand-over-hand. In
response, three tall squares of canvas billowed out above like sheets on a
laundry line caught in the wind. With a sharp tug, like a horse jerking free of
its tether, the ship surged forward. Claire gripped the rail with both hands
and held on.

“Heave away, you men!” cried Mr. Busby. “Stamp and go! Stamp
and go!”

Claire waited, anxious to see what the strange commands
would produce. The men at the capstan leaned in and strained, their muscles
bulging with the effort as they pushed at the bars. There was no singing now,
only low grunts and growls as they slowly, slowly pushed around the capstan,
bringing in the final length of the huge rope and hauling the massive anchor up
to the large wooden beam on the side of the bow.

Quick as a monkey, one of the crew scrambled over the bow to
secure the anchor to the ship.

Mr. Landor turned his gaze toward the stern. Claire’s eyes
followed. The captain stood at the ship’s wheel, smiling with apparent pleasure
at the brisk teamwork of his crew.

Claire couldn’t take her eyes off him.
He was made for
the sea
.
Here he rules as surely as a king on his throne
. Though his
crew had shouted the orders, it had been the captain who had directed all with
a nod of his head, a look in his eye. Subtle commands to his first mate that
were instantly carried out.

He held his head proudly as the wind billowed his white
shirt, his strong hands on the wheel, strands of his golden hair, glistening in
the sun, blowing around his face. He looked every inch the fierce bird of prey
he appeared that night in Saint-Denis…
l’aigle royal
, the golden eagle.
She could not look away from his strong face and his powerful form. He was
magnificent. How she envied him the freedom to chart his own course, to sail
the seas to places she’d never been.
How I would love to sail with him.