To Tame the Wind (Agents of the Crown Book 0) by Regan Walker Page B

comfortable. When Mr. Hawkins escorted her on deck, she could feel
the eyes of the crew ogling her. The only woman on the ship, she stood out like
a raven in a flock of white gulls.
    Nearly all her life she had lived in the world of women. Now
she was immersed in the world of men. Even the ship’s cat, a lean, black feline
that stalked the decks for its dinner, was a male.
    Sometimes the change from the convent to the ship was
jarring. The crude language and ungentlemanly habits of the crew often startled
her. Sister Angélique would have been horrified. But at those times, Claire
would suddenly become interested in the large numbers of beach-nesting terns
flying low over the harbor, their black heads and striking white plumage
catching her eye. When he was on deck, she would beg Mr. Landor to lend her his
spyglass so that she could watch the birds up close. Soon, her feigned
fascination became real as she watched the elegant birds take flight over the
rocky shore. Behind them was the hill town of Rye, a glittering topaz rising
out of a setting of blue-green water.
    After a few days of strolling the deck with Mr. Hawkins,
Claire had noticed a change in the men. They cursed less and smiled more.
    “’Tis yer doin’,” said Mr. Hawkins. “The men know’d ye were
in a convent. They’re not wantin’ to offend a woman who talks to the Almighty.”
    “But Mr. Hawkins, I am no closer to God than is any
God-fearing man on this ship.”
    “But there be few of those, lass.”
    Her memory of her fit of temper in the captain’s cabin
suddenly returned with a pang of remorse. Her actions had hardly seemed godly.
Though she was an unwilling prisoner on the ship, they had treated her as the
guest Captain Powell had claimed she would be. In such circumstances, would not
the Reverend Mother expect her to be civil? If the privateer’s crew could
change, perhaps so could she. “I am grateful for the crew’s courtesy.”
    “Aye, I ’spect they know that, too, mistress.” The old
seaman drew on his pipe sending a puff of smoke into the clear morning air, a
pale cloud against a sky of blue.
    Because she wasn’t so preoccupied with keeping her balance
now that the ship was anchored in calm waters, she noticed more about the
schooner. It was a sleek vessel, black-hulled with two fine masts and a well
maintained deck. Even now the crew was scrubbing it clean as they did most
mornings.
    When she remarked on it, Elijah explained, “’Tis the cap’n’s
baby, this one. He coddles it like a lass. Handpicked the crew, he did, from
those who’d sailed with him fer years.”
    “And you are one of those?”
    “Aye, been with him since he sailed as first mate under
another cap’n. Even then it was clear how good a cap’n he’d make.”
    To her relief, Elijah had assured her that while the crew
might gawk at her and occasionally engage in course talk, she was in no danger
from the captain’s men. None would defy his orders to treat her as the lady she
was. The captain, she feared, was another matter. It was her own weakness for
him that placed her in peril. Even knowing the man was her papa’s enemy did not
nullify the fascination she had for him, one she’d had from that first night
she’d seen him at the masquerade. So she took the coward’s way out and avoided
him as much as she could.
    When she was not with Elijah, a member of the crew dogged
her every step. Captain Powell, it seemed, did not trust her, which was
probably wise on his part, for escape was ever on her mind. But with no coins
and no friend to aid her, she had yet to arrive at a plan.
    She had discovered the ship’s galley was a safe, cozy place
to while away a few hours. There was a stool or two to sit upon and Tom
McGinnes, the Irish cook, working away at his table or stirring something on
the black stove, made her laugh with his stories of the Ursuline sisters in
Cork. His escapades rivaled hers in Saint-Denis and must have caused the nuns
many sleepless