Wind Raven (Agents of the Crown) Page 3

  A knock on the door of her cabin interrupted Tara’s silent rumination. Swiftly she opened it, hoping it was the captain. She would have a word.

  A boy of perhaps ten or eleven, with curly brown hair and sparkling brown eyes, greeted her, a tray in his hands.

  “Hullo, miss. I’m Peter, cabin boy to the cap’n. He asked me to bring you some supper. Are you hungry?”

  She smiled, instantly taking a liking to the handsome youth with a dimple that suddenly appeared in his cheek when he smiled. A refreshing change from the captain he served. “I am Tara McConnell, Peter. A pleasure to meet you. And yes, I’m always hungry at sea. Do come in.”

  The boy took two steps inside, set the tray on the chest at the end of her narrow shelf bed and set out a napkin for her. Tara joined him and lifted the cover off the bowl, inhaling the rich scent of lamb stew with vegetables. Her stomach rumbled its approval. “It smells wonderful.”

  “Our cook, old McGinnis, does well enough in the galley,” the boy offered, “especially with stews, though it’ll be pork or beef after today. But his rolls, as you’ll see, are a bit wantin’. He’s a right nice fellow, ’cept’n when he burns his fingers.” The boy’s eyes suddenly brightened as he encouraged, “You’ll like him. He tells wonderful stories of the fairies in Ireland.”

  Tara could feel her mouth curving into a smile. “I see where your mind is roaming, young Peter. You think if I’m looking for something to occupy my time, I can help McGinnis in the galley with his baking. No doubt your captain thinks a woman’s place is in the parlour or perhaps the kitchen. He’s not fond of having a woman on board his ship. Do I have that right?”

  “Well, miss,” the boy drawled, his eyes suddenly taking an interest in his shoes, “the cap’n is awfully strict about some things. There’s only been a few women on the Raven.” He lifted his head and hastened to add, “But they were not like you!”

  Tara wondered just what kind of women the captain entertained on his ship.

  “He is a good captain, he is,” urged the lad. “If it weren’t for him, I’d still be eating out of London’s gutters. He taught me to speak properly, too.”

  “I see. Well perhaps I’ll meet your McGinnis and see what I can do. I have been known to bake tolerable rolls for my father and brothers.” But that is not where I intend to serve.

  The boy wished her well and departed, obviously pleased to think he’d solved a problem for the captain he so admired.

  Tara closed the door and wasted no time sampling the stew. It was good, as good as that made by Maggie O’Flaherty, her family’s Irish housekeeper in Baltimore. But Peter had been right about the rolls. They were hard as rocks, formidable weapons if one had the mind to use them as such. Still, the galley was not her priority. She had work to do on deck. The captain needed a lesson and she was just the one to give it to him.

  Hearing a noise at her door and thinking Peter must have forgotten something, Tara pulled the door wide. She looked both ways but there was no one in the passageway and the captain’s door, adjacent to hers, was closed. A sound drew her attention to the deck at her feet, where a large gray cat with two huge white front paws sat looking up at her with intelligent green eyes.

  “Well, who might you be?”

  The cat sauntered into her cabin as if merely tolerating Tara’s presence.

  “Do come in,” Tara said sarcastically. The cat leaped onto the small bed. “Won’t you make yourself at home and join me for dinner?”

  As if in response, the cat curled up on the bed and began to lick one of its large white paws. Apparently the animal had already dined, no doubt on some fat rodent, as it showed no interest in her stew. Tara had known ship’s cats before but this one seemed unique. It was not just the overlarge white paws, which made it appear the cat wore gloves, but the spark of intelligence gleaming from its green eyes. Tara sat on her bed eating her stew, watching the cat. With her free hand, she reached out to scratch one of its gray ears.

  “You’re a handsome one, I must say. And ’tis obvious you do not lack for food.” Moving her hand to the cat’s back, she stroked the soft fur. “Why you’re as plump as a Christmas pudding!” When the cat purred and rolled onto its back, Tara forgot her stew and scratched its belly, noticing that for all its size the cat was a female.

  “I wonder whose you are?”

  * * *

  The next morning, Nick stepped onto the quarterdeck and took a deep breath of the brisk, salt-laden air, an elixir to his London-weary mind. God he loved the sea and the roll of the deck beneath his feet. The Raven was home, the first ship he owned himself. He was deeply proud of the sleek, black-hulled schooner and the full partnership in Powell and Sons that came with it. In the eight years he’d been sailing her, he’d learned her every sound, every subtle nuance of the way she responded to the sea—like a woman responding to her man.

  He walked to the helm to join his first mate in talking to old Nate Baker at the wheel.

  Russ handed Nick a mug. “Morning, Captain. Peter just brought up the coffee. It’s hot.”

  “Thanks,” he said, and acknowledged Nate with a nod. Taking a swallow of the dark fragrant liquid, Nick quickly surveyed the sails and his crew then turned his attention to Russ. “What’s our course this morning?”

  “Sailing southwest, close-hauled for the most part.”

  “Holdin’ steady at seven knots, Cap’n,” added Nate.

  “Let ’er have all the sail her belly can take. I am anxious to have done with this task in the Caribbean.”

  Russ gave the command to set the last sail. A few minutes later, a man’s cry was heard above them. Nick followed the sound to the main topsail rigging, where a seaman dangled upside down by one leg. He had only escaped a fall to his death because his foot had caught in the sheet, where he now hung suspended far above the deck. His position was precarious, made worse by the sail luffing against him.

  “Well, I’ll be—’tis that same lad who got caught once before,” Nate exclaimed.

  “Young Billy Uppington,” Russ supplied the name. “The one who hired on last voyage.”

  Nick swore under his breath, handed his mug to Russ and strode toward the shrouds nearest the mainmast, intending to climb to the young seaman’s rescue. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d scaled the rigging to pluck one of his men from disaster. Setting his foot on the first ratline, he looked up. A figure was moving swiftly to the footrope for the yard. Realizing he was not needed, Nick stepped back and joined Russ.

  “Who is that monkey in the rigging?” he asked. “A new member of our crew I missed? He has the surest foot of any I’ve seen.”

  “If my eyes do not deceive me, Captain, that is your passenger,” said Russ.

  “What?” Nick’s eyes narrowed in concentration as he watched the movements of the slim figure in dark gray breeches, white shirt and green vest edging along the footrope toward the stranded sailor. It was then he saw the long tawny braid swinging back and forth as the figure danced from one set of rigging to another.

  “I was just about to tell you, Nick,” Russ said, shoving a strand of hair out of his eyes as he handed Nick back his coffee. A grin spread across the first mate’s face. “She was on deck early this morning dressed like that, and has been helping the men with their chores ever since. Smitty wasn’t pleased, of course, but she’s won a few of the others to her cause. It seems she knows something about schooners. I’d swear she has crewed one before. She can tie a bowline knot better than most of the men and, as you see, she is at home in the rigging.”

  “A woman? With my men? All morning doing…chores?” Nick was incredulous.

  “She works hard, odd though it may seem.”

  Nick cursed. “I’m surprised they didn’t have her on her back serving them.”

  “Not likely. Our bos’n, Mr. Johansson, has appointed himself her protector. Seems he has sisters and treats her as one of them. The men won’t touch her, leastways not while Jake’s around.”

  “
No self-respecting Englishwoman would dare wear such garb or attempt such a reckless act,” Nick said under his breath, letting go a few choice oaths about governesses in breeches. He looked into the rigging, continuing to watch the drama unfolding above him.

  “Well then, there’s no problem,” said Russ.

  Puzzled, Nick turned his head to see his first mate grinning.

  “She’s not English.”

  Nick eyes returned to the figure high above them, reaching for the stranded sailor. “Not English? What the hell is she?”

  “Oh, did I forget to say?” Russ smirked. “She’s American.”

  Without thinking, and still pondering what an English baroness was doing with an American niece, Nick took a sip of his coffee and immediately spit it out. Cold. Damn chit robbed him of his morning coffee—again. Stepping to the rail, he tossed the contents over the side and returned his attention to the girl in the rigging. He watched, amazed, as she moved like a circus performer at home on the high wire. Deftly maneuvering sideways, she held on with one arm. The men watching on deck held their breath. Adroitly, she freed the sailor’s trapped leg and helped him to reach the topsail yard. When the rescued sailor began to climb down, a loud cheer went up from the crew.

  The girl looked down at the men gathered far below. Standing on the yard while holding onto the mast with one arm, she bowed deeply and smiled, apparently delighted to have entertained them. Her long tawny plait fell over her shoulder, a saucy addition to her bow.

  Even from the long distance, Nick could see the clothing she wore hid none of her curves. She didn’t look like any governess he’d ever seen. And she certainly did not act like one.

  Nick let out the breath he’d been holding. “Good God.” Turning to Russ, he said, “Send her to my cabin. I want a few words with our…passenger!”

  * * *

  Tara’s foot touched the deck, and the tall, blond first mate handed her the wide-brimmed hat she’d discarded when she’d climbed aloft.

  “Mr. Ainsworth. Good-day to you.”

  “That was quite an impressive accomplishment, miss.”

  Tara couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face as she plopped the hat back on her head. She had been quite pleased at how the morning had gone, especially her effort to rescue the young seaman. “All in a day’s work aboard ship, right, sir?”

  “Ah, yes, well,” the first mate stifled a grin, “the captain would like to speak with you, if you don’t mind. In his cabin.”

  “All right. I expect it’s time I met your scowling leader. Captain Powell, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, miss. And he’ll not be in a good mood to be sure. Try not to rile him. The Raven can be hot tempered at times.”

  “The Raven?”

  “A nickname his father’s crew gave him as a young lad when he sat on the crosstrees. All they could see was his long black hair blowing in the wind. The ship’s actually named for him, you see. But we rarely speak the name to his face, unless in jest.”

  “It fits. Dark and brooding, he is, and looks about to take flight.” Tara remembered the ship’s unusual figurehead she’d seen while standing on the dock—a raven in flight. She had thought it merely reflected the name of the ship; obviously it was also a reflection of her captain, the one who charted her course.

  The first mate chuckled. “You have the right of it, miss. Though the men would follow him anywhere.”

  Knowing schooners as she did, Tara knew well the location of the captain’s cabin. She quickly descended to the lower deck and walked determinedly down the passageway. Removing her hat, she paused at the captain’s door. She experienced a flicker of trepidation remembering that this man was not one of her brothers. For a brief moment she warred with herself as to what to say, then decided not to be cowed. She had done nothing wrong.

  Her resolution firm, she knocked.

  “Come!” a deep voice commanded.

  He was sitting at his desk, his dark head bent over a chart. A quick glance told her it was a map of the Spanish colonies of Santo Domingo and Porto Rico. The cat Tara had already encountered lay asleep in a shaft of sunlight on one corner of the desk. The captain’s shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing bronze, muscled forearms and long-fingered hands. On the little finger of his left hand he wore a ring with an oval blue stone that appeared to shimmer. It was set in a band of gold with carvings on the sides. She wondered at so delicate a piece of jewelry worn by a hardened man of the sea.

  Her gaze moved slowly about the cabin, unsurprised by all she saw. Her brothers’ ships also had well-appointed captain’s cabins with paneled walls of dark wood. The Wind Raven was a larger schooner than those her brothers sailed, allowing this cabin a raised overhead so that there were windows on the sides. Light streamed through the panes of glass framed by azure blue curtains. Against the rear bulkhead, a large mahogany shelf bed with a cover of the same blue as the stone in his ring spoke of comfort. A small Turkey rug in tones of blue and dark rust lay beneath a pedestal table that held a fenced tray, on which sat two glasses and a flat-bottomed decanter of what she assumed was brandy. A small black stove had been centrally placed to warm the cabin.

  In addition to his desk and two chairs, there was a bookcase built into the side of the cabin to the left of the cabin door. It was filled with books secured by wooden strips. Everything had been designed for efficiency and bespoke a man who insisted upon order and discipline. Well, except for the cat, perhaps. Somehow the cat with the huge white paws lazing on his desk seemed an anomaly to Tara.

  Without looking up, the captain spoke. “That was some fancy footwork on the rigging this morning, Miss—”

  “McConnell, Captain Powell. Tara McConnell.” At Tara’s words, the cat raised her head and appeared to study her. Tara forced herself not to twist her hat in her hands. It was not like her to be nervous around men.

  “Oh, yes. I remember the name from the note. Well, Miss McConnell,” he finally looked up, “much as I appreciate your saving young Billy, I’ll not have a passenger in the shrouds or climbing my rig, especially not a woman.”

  The captain’s voice brooked no dissent, but the arrogant look on his face triggered Tara’s temper. He should be grateful! Reminding herself this was not one of her brothers, she tamped down her anger and studied the man glaring at her from behind his desk.

  It was the first time she’d seen him this close. She had noticed his handsome appearance from where she had stood on the dock, and she already knew he was tall, at least six feet, from comparing him to his crew when he first came on deck. But now she took time to study his face. It was the tan face of a ship’s captain in his mid thirties, rugged from years at sea, with strong features and lines at the edges of his eyes. Her father and brothers had the same lines on their faces from squinting into the horizon.

  The captain’s thick ebony locks, as black as the bird whose name he bore, curled about his collar. His lips were well shaped and she wondered if he had kissed many women. Likely the arrogant man had kissed many.

  His eyes held her gaze. Framed by dark lashes, their golden amber color was mesmerizing. His brows rose in impatient manner. Tara realized he was waiting for her to speak.

  “Captain, I am most comfortable working in the rigging. I’ve sailed on my father’s ships since I was a child. And, as you have seen,” she couldn’t help smiling, “I can be helpful.”

  His amber eyes flashed flecks of gold and his jaw tightened in what was obviously an exercise in restraint. “The answer is no,” he said vehemently. Tara almost took a step back at the force with which he’d delivered the words. “You’ve paid for passage and I’ll not have your safety in question. You will stay out of the rigging, Miss McConnell, and that is final.”

  The man was a tyrant! This would be a very long trip if she were to be confined to her cabin with only a brief evening stroll about the deck. But she could see there would be no persuading him. Since he was the captain, she defied him at her peril. “You are not, I assume, ba
nishing me from the decks, are you, sir?” The challenge in her voice was clear. Let him try.

  “I could, and the thought occurs perhaps I should,” he said in a low voice as his eyes slowly raked her body in frank male assessment. “You look like trouble, Miss McConnell, if you don’t mind my saying so. But no, I will allow you free run of the deck…for now.”

  “Thank you for the favor,” she said, unable to control the sarcasm in her voice. Anger rose in her chest at the arrogant liberties his eyes were taking with her person. “I can assure you there will be no trouble.” Before her Irish temper could be further unleashed, Tara turned on her heels and departed.

  As she passed through the cabin door, she heard his soft laughter behind her and his words.

  “Trouble’s already here.”

  Chapter 4

  Nick tried to return to his charts, but his mind refused to focus. Giving up, he reached out his hand to idly stroke the lounging cat. Then, resting his elbows on his desk, his chin on his entwined fingers, he stared at the saber hanging on the far bulkhead. He’d been displeased with this trip from its inception, and now he had to deal with—what? A hoyden with the face of an angel and blue-green eyes that reminded him of a tropical lagoon. Wearing breeches, no less!

  Tara McConnell had entered his well-ordered world like a fast-moving storm and he didn’t like it—not one bit. She didn’t fit into any category he had for the female sex: not exactly a lady, not a whore, and not a shop worker or a servant. Disturbing, that’s what she was. But then, the few Americans he’d known had been a different lot. Perhaps their women were all like this. There was something familiar about the girl, too, though he couldn’t fathom it. He’d never met her before, certainly not in England. He would have remembered that face and that body.

  He was still pondering the arousing picture of his passenger in breeches when three sharp raps at the door sounded the familiar knock of his first mate.