Wind Raven (Agents of the Crown) Page 12

  Mr. Ainsworth had suggested she should be dressed in feminine attire when the captain returned in a few hours’ time so that she would be ready to leave the ship. For the few days they’d be in Bermuda for repairs, fresh water and supplies, she and the captain would be staying at the home of a wealthy merchant, the Honourable Francis Albouy and his wife, Ann. The first mate had explained it was a high honor to be Mr. Albouy’s guest as he was a member of His Majesty’s Privy Council, the leadership of the colony’s government. He was also the supervisor of the marine militia, having sailed during the war with France. When she’d predictably stiffened at his mention of an English naval man, the first mate had assured her Mr. Albouy was a jolly soul and heartily welcomed guests to his home even, he said in laconic manner, Americans.

  In eager anticipation of seeing more of the island, albeit the den of the English lions, Tara had once again donned the frippery of a debutante that would have made Aunt Cornelia proud. She’d managed to pin her hair up in simple fashion, and the gown she wore was the traditional white muslin with a sash the same azure blue as the waters of Hamilton Harbor.

  Once she had put her gown to rights, she went up on deck to stand at the rail, the ribbons from her bonnet blowing in the breeze. It was late afternoon, though the sun was still strong in the sky, when she looked toward Front Street just in time to see a few of the crew from the Wind Raven emerging from the tavern. Mr. Smith and Mr. Wilson were teasing young John Trent as they walked along together. She was happy to see that the young seaman no longer limped. Behind them was Captain Powell, with a rare smile on his face and his arm draped around the shoulder of a raven-haired woman in a crimson satin gown whose arms were wrapped around his waist. They obviously knew each other well, and why that disturbed Tara she didn’t want to consider.

  Tara turned her back on the pair ambling toward the ship. The captain was a man like any other man and had been confined to a ship for many weeks. Of course he’d have a woman in a port he frequented.

  Old Nate sidled up to her as she strolled to the starboard side of the ship. The old salt must have been observing her because as he lit his pipe he said, “Chloe’s been after the captain fer years, lass. Don’t let it bother ye. He don’t take ’er seriously. He’s just being friendly.”

  “If you’re referring to that woman draped over him like a sodden cloak, why should his being friendly with the likes of her bother me?” Tara silently chided herself for sounding like a harpy.

  “I ain’t saying it does, but if’n ye think he’s involved with the girl, he’s not, leastways not so it matters.”

  “I see.” Tara felt embarrassed at the comfort Nate’s words brought her. The old man saw too much, or perhaps, Tara conceded, she revealed too much. Besides, Nate’s statement didn’t mean the captain wasn’t bedding the woman. She did not want to think the English captain had a woman stashed away somewhere. She would prefer to think he had no woman at all, however unrealistic that might be.

  When she heard the captain’s boots step onto the deck of the ship, she turned, relieved to see he was alone. “Ah, Miss McConnell,” he said, striding toward her, “aren’t you a sight! Why, I hardly recognize you without your breeches.”

  Tara couldn’t tell if he was being flattering or insulting, sincere or sarcastic. “Thank you, Captain. I trust that is a compliment.”

  “It most certainly is.” Something about the way his eyes followed the curve of her gown where it was pressed against her body by the breeze made her very aware of the feminine manner in which she was dressed. She looked away.

  “I’ve just ordered the carriage that will take us to Bel Air.”

  “Bel Air?” She returned her gaze to the golden eyes still focused on her.

  Nate explained, “It’s called that on account of the view from the balconies of the harbor and the dockyard, and the fair air that is around the house. They just finished it when we were here last year. It reminded me of some I’ve seen in the West Indies.”

  “That’s because Albouy designed it to look like a West Indian plantation,” said the captain. “Give me a few moments to change, Miss McConnell, and then we can leave. Did you pack some clothes for the next few days?”

  Tara pointed to her small valise sitting near the aft hatch. “Just there.”

  “Good. By the time I return, the carriage should have arrived.”

  The landau carriage that pulled up to the dock was uncovered, though Tara would have welcomed the shade the cover would have provided. She opened her parasol to shelter her skin from the hot tropical sun and allowed Captain Powell to assist her into the vehicle. He wore a tall gentlemen’s hat and a gentleman’s clothing, so unlike the sea captain’s garb he wore on board ship. They might have been on their way to Hyde Park if it weren’t for the tropical setting. Pulled by a pair of grays, the carriage provided a comfortable ride as they traveled to the estate of his merchant friend.

  Tara stole a glance at the captain’s elegant fawn-colored breeches stretched tight across his muscled thighs as he sat next to her. He was so close they were nearly touching. It sent a shiver of excitement through her. His tanned hand with its long fingers rested on his knee. Even at rest, he had the power to intimidate her, and to draw her to him, especially when she was dressed as she was. The frippery made her feel more vulnerable to his virile masculinity.

  “I imagine we’ll have some time before the evening meal to refresh ourselves,” he offered. “They always expect me to arrive coated with salt and in need of a wash.”

  “I am so looking forward to a real bath,” she remarked, for a moment forgetting it was not a topic she should have raised with a man. He laughed and the sound of it was so surprising she turned to him to see the unusual mirth in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you laugh before, Captain.”

  “You’ll hear more of it tonight, I expect,” he said, flashing her a bright smile, his teeth white against the bronze skin of his face. “If Albouy is true to form, it will be a merry group at his table.” Nicholas Powell was a different man off his ship, Tara decided, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from his shoulders. She wondered just how different the captain would be once they arrived at their destination.

  A short while later, the carriage climbed a hill and circled around a wide drive to stop in front of a grand two-story home, a confection of pale pink graced with white shutters and a long gallery with white lattice railings that wrapped around on both floors. Like the other homes she’d seen since they sailed into the harbor, it was crowned with a white stepped roof. “Why do the roofs look like stairs?” she asked.

  “The white limestone roofs are designed to catch water. Have you never seen them before?”

  “No, not that I can recall.”

  “Well, here they are a necessity. There is no fresh supply of water on the island save for rain. The roofs collect rainwater that is then stored in cisterns.”

  “How clever.”

  He offered his hand to help her down from the carriage just as a servant in livery approached and pulled out a step for her foot. “Thank you, Tom,” said the captain.

  The servant returned his smile. “Yes, sir, Cap’n Powell.”

  The captain nodded and continued his explanation. “The islanders are forced to prepare for the weather they face. The roofs are often coated with turtle or whale oil to provide weather-proofing, and the walls are strengthened against the hurricanes that can arrive without warning.”

  A portly man dressed in fine clothing emerged from the door of the large house, and despite his size, he nearly flew down the stairs to arrive at their carriage. Along with his light-blue coat, white silk waistcoat and tan breeches, the well-dressed older man wore a jovial expression as he brushed back his graying brown hair.

  “Welcome to the shores of the Bermudas,” he said, “and to our lovely islands!”

  “Good-day to you, Albouy,” said the captain, reaching out to shake the man’s hand. Then darting a glance at Tara, he said, “Allow me to
present Miss Tara McConnell, my passenger traveling with us to Baltimore.” And to her, “This is our host, Mr. Albouy.”

  The older man took her offered hand and bowed as his girth allowed. “Welcome to my home, Miss McConnell. My wife, Ann, will join me in a moment to greet you.” As if summoned, a small woman with light-blonde hair dressed in pale blue silk glided down the stairs. When she reached them, Tara could see the woman had a dignified air about her despite her diminutive size, in part from the gray that laced her pale hair.

  “Captain Powell! It is so good to see you,” the woman said. “We were delighted when you sent word you’d be able to stay with us a few days.” Then looking at Tara, “Is this lovely young woman the passenger your note spoke of?”

  “She is.” The captain said and introduced Tara to their hostess.

  “Miss McConnell, we are delighted you shall be our guest,” Mrs. Albouy said, a sincere smile on her face. “I expect you will want to freshen up after so many days on a ship; I know I would. But after you do, we’ve a lovely dinner planned.” She took Tara’s arm and guided her up the stairs, and the men followed. “Some of our guests tonight are very familiar with America. I think you will enjoy meeting them.” Tara tensed as the vision of an English naval officer telling stories of the attack on Baltimore swirled in her mind. She was relieved when Mrs. Albouy added, “Justice Esten and his wife, Esther, will be here as well as some other friends. Justice Esten studied law in America.”

  The servant Captain Powell had called Tom opened the door and they stepped over the threshold. A butler, standing just inside, accepted the captain’s hat and her parasol. As she removed her bonnet, Tara noticed circles of thick glass embedded in the polished cedar floor.

  “How interesting,” she observed, looking down.

  “Many of our guests are fascinated with those,” said Mr. Albouy. “The glass tiles allow light into the servants’ quarters and the kitchens below.”

  “We have a similar lighting feature on the Wind Raven’s weather deck,” said the captain.

  “My brothers’ ships all have deck prisms,” offered Tara, “but I’d never considered such glass for the floor of a home.”

  “That is where my husband got the idea,” said the older woman. “It is so practical. The servants working below have the light they need most of the time without having to resort to candles or lanterns, which would make their rooms too warm, especially in the summer months. And if they need more light they can resort to a lantern.”

  The Albouys escorted them into the parlour. It was a bright room with walls the color of goldenrod flowers. Tara was surprised to see the polished dark wood furniture and coral brocade sofas set on a cream-colored carpet edged with pink and green flowers. Unlike the outside of the house, the interior resembled the finest homes in Baltimore. Perhaps, she thought, they had followed the American colonies in their furnishings, being closer to America than London.

  A servant approached with a tray, offering orange-colored drinks in glasses, each containing a long stem from a plant. Gingerly, Tara sipped the drink she’d been handed by Mr. Albouy, not knowing what it might be. Finding it to her liking, she took a large swallow. “This is very refreshing! What is it?”

  “It’s our own version of the swizzle, my dear,” said Ann Albouy, “a local drink and quite a delight in these warm summer months. It’s made with a bit of rum and the juices of limes, pineapples and oranges. The rest is water and sugar. To ‘swizzle’ the drink there’s a stem from the allspice bush.”

  “Swizzle?”

  “Yes, here I’ll show you how it’s done.” She walked to the nearest table and set down her drink. “Just rub the allspice stick between your palms so it spins back and forth. See how it churns the drink?”

  Tara soon followed suit and enjoyed herself immensely swizzling the golden drink till it frothed. “What fun!”

  Captain Powell looked amused. Tara ignored him and happily resumed drinking more of the wonderful concoction. Stepping close, the captain whispered, “Take care, Miss McConnell, or you will soon be floating above us. The drink can get away from you.”

  Annoyed at what she took as a concern she might embarrass herself or him, Tara turned back to her hostess and took another large sip as the men conversed.

  “You have a lovely home, Mrs. Albouy,” Tara said. “It seems so much cooler here than the harbor in Hamilton.”

  “You are right, my dear. Bel Air has a breeze even in the worst days of our oppressive summer. It is why we love it here. Come; let us take our drinks to the veranda. It provides a lovely view.”

  The four of them walked through the opened front door, Tara next to her hostess. “Did Bermuda experience the recent storm?” Tara asked, curious to know, as the island seemed unaffected.

  “We had enough of it to require workers to clean up many downed tree limbs the next day, though the reports suggest the worst of it was elsewhere.”

  Captain Powell must have overheard them because he interjected, “I think the storm might have hugged the coast of America. We only got one side of it where we were.”

  “Summer hurricanes are rare but not unheard of in these parts,” offered Mr. Albouy.

  “It was the worst storm I’ve experienced,” said Tara, thinking of young Billy, “but my oldest brother, George, who sailed with my father years ago, told me of one that was even more frightening.”

  “Ah yes, they can be that,” Mrs. Albouy admitted. Then smiling, she added, “But you are safely arrived and we can be thankful for that.”

  “Yes, well, a young member of the crew was washed overboard when a lightning strike hit the foremast,” said Captain Powell. “All of us were saddened by his loss.”

  “Oh!” exclaimed Mrs. Albouy. “How dreadful.”

  “Yes, dear, but such things happen at sea,” said her husband, patting her arm.

  Still mourning Billy’s death, Tara moved to the white lattice railing of the large covered gallery that ran the entire front of the house and wrapped around both sides. She looked down on a magnificent view below the hill on which the house was situated, and she felt her spirits rise. Green lawns and gardens bounded by trees stretched away from the house, and farther in the distance the entire harbor lay before them, including the small islands, which appeared as green tufts in a sea of blue. It was as if the storm had never happened.

  She felt more that saw Captain Powell approach behind her.

  “Could you have saved him, Captain?” she asked without turning to face him. Tara still felt a tinge of resentment at his having let the seaman slip into the sea.

  “I don’t think so. The crew had to cut the fallen rigging loose for the sake of the ship. In any event, I knew I could not save you both.”

  Tara inhaled deeply and slowly let out the breath. “I am sorry but I had to ask. I keep seeing his pleading eyes.”

  “You know as well as I that the sea claims some nearly each voyage.”

  “Yes, but somehow this time it was more real, more frightening, to lose a lad like Billy.” It was almost like losing Ben again.

  “I’m proud of you, Miss McConnell, for allowing our hosts to see your enjoyment of their home when you are still feeling the loss of the lad.”

  “It would be rude not to do so.” Then, allowing her eyes to scan the harbor, she spotted the ship. “There’s the Wind Raven.” Moored at the dock, gently rocking at anchor was the black-hulled schooner, its sails furled as if tucked in for the night.

  She tried to ignore the heat of the captain’s broad shoulder nearly touching her as he said, “She’s beautiful, even with the beleaguered foremast.” His voice conveyed his adoration for his schooner. If he loved any female, Tara thought, it was likely his ship. He was more tied to her than a wife. He might want Tara’s body, but a man like him wouldn’t give his heart to a mere woman.

  “Yes, she is,” Tara agreed. “Of course, I’m used to seeing the masts more raked and the hull a dark blue, but any schooner is an awesome sight, particularly
when the wind has billowed her sails.”

  “I like that about you, Miss McConnell,” he breathed in her ear. “A woman who understands ships is rare.” Tara felt the tickle of his breath against her ear and shivered. This man, this English captain, was not so easily handled as the other men she had known. He was not father, brother or fellow crew. He was a mystery, and at that moment she wanted nothing more than to lean back into him.

  The Albouys were at the other end of the gallery studying a rose apple tree overlooking the main lawn when she turned to gaze into the captain’s golden eyes. “There are many things about me that are rare for a woman, Captain.” Why she had said that she did not know. Perhaps it was the swizzle she’d hastily consumed—or perhaps it was the man himself. But she so wanted him to see her for herself.

  “Certainly there is more to you than first appeared, Miss McConnell.”

  “Is there?” Tara asked, holding his gaze. She felt a current flowing between them that made the moment seem to last forever.

  “Oh, yes, I think so,” he said, sounding amused. Tara wondered if he’d had more of the drink than she had. Why was he being so nice? Was it being away from his mistress of the heart, his ship? They were so close she had only to tilt her head up to bring her lips to his. She resisted the urge and turned back to the sweeping view.

  “You can see the dockyard from here, Miss McConnell,” Mr. Albouy remarked from far on her left, where he stood gesturing into the distance.

  She went to join the older man and his wife at the railing, searching with her eyes beyond the harbor to the farthest land she could see. She heard the captain’s boots on the wooden porch as he followed. “Are those the masts of the English Navy’s ships?” she asked.

  “Why, yes,” explained Mr. Albouy. “There are several in port now.” He glanced at the captain. “Shall I tell her the history of the island where the dockyard is located?”