Touch the Wind: Touch the Wind Book 1 Read online

  Touch the Wind

  by

  Erinn Ellender Quinn

  Touch the Wind (Touch the Wind Book 1)

  © 2016 Erinn Ellender Quinn

  Edited by Anita Quick and Anne Bright

  Cover Design and Layout by Crystal Visions

  Stock Photography from bigstockphoto.com

  Interior Layout by Anita Quick

  Length 91,356 words

  All rights reserved on original material, which may not be reproduced or used without the written consent of the author, except for brief quotes in reviews. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or any other means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book. Such action is in violation of the U.S. Copyright Law.

  Unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  First Edition

  ASIN B01MSLMO37

  Long Branch Books

  Shattuc, Illinois

  Historical Romance by Erinn Ellender Quinn:

  RIDE THE WIND

  (TOUCH THE WIND BOOK 2)

  e-book and paperback

  Erotic Romance by Erinn Ellender Quinn

  writing as Nia Farrell:

  THE THREE GRACES SERIES e-books:

  SOMETHING ELSE

  (The Three Graces Book One)

  SOMETHING DIFFERENT

  (The Three Graces Book Two)

  SOMETHING MORE

  (The Three Graces Book Three)

  2016 Golden Flogger Finalist

  THE THREE GRACES TRILOGY paperback

  Contains SOMETHING ELSE, SOMETHING DIFFERENT,

  and SOMETHING MORE

  SOMETHING SPECIAL

  (The Three Graces Book Six – sequel to SOMETHING ELSE)

  e-book and paperback

  DARK MOONS RISING

  e-book and paperback

  REPLAY BOOK 1: VIKING RAID

  e-book and paperback

  AS WICKED AS YOU WANT

  (Forever Ours Book 1)

  e-book and paperback

  REPLAY BOOK 2: TRIPLE PLAY

  e-book and paperback

  REPLAY BOOK 3: HONOUR BOUND

  e-book and paperback

  by Nia Farrell and Jane Austen

  PRIDE AND PUNISHMENT—AN EROTIC RETELLING OF JANE AUSTEN’S BELOVED CLASSIC

  e-book, paperback, and large print

  DEDICATION AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To historical reenactors everywhere who step back in the past and help bring it to life. Much of what I learn in camp at events finds its way into my pages.

  Thank you to my sister-in-law Doris for sharing her first-hand knowledge of sailing. A very special thank you to Emily Maynard, for her help with the French translations. I owe you, girlfriend.

  ~ Erinn

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Dedication and Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Author Bio

  Current Titles

  Touch the Wind Series Future Releases

  Other Titles (written as Nia Farrell)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Charlotte Amalie, Isle of St. Thomas

  April, 1727

  The Cock ‘N’ Bull was doing brisk business tonight. Every upstairs room in the wharfside tavern was rented. Bumboo and rum flowed like the tides, sloshing onto a scarred wooden floor that was sticky enough to rob a loose boot. The window panes glowed with golden light, trapped in layers of grime before it could escape onto the street. As dark as it was, the young woman outside nearly missed the weathered rooster and faded beef on the sign that swung above the door.

  Distracted by the motion, Christiana Delacorte paused in the shadows. The clouds parted and she looked again, this time identifying the sad, misshapen creatures as the mark of the tavern she sought. The night wind nudged the sign in affirmation, then swirled around her, capriciously lifting the hems of her skirts and snagging the corner of her hooded cape. On one level she was aware of the way the scarlet wool caught and billowed—just as she smelled the stench of the harbor and hint of the open sea. But deeper and far more unsettling was the mutiny she felt inside—a nameless fear that threatened to drown her courage, threatened to founder the strange anticipation she’d felt from the start of her quest, so strong tonight that she trembled with it.

  Christiana pulled the cape more tightly about her and stepped into a fractured patch of light. She’d come too far to have second thoughts, she told herself, even as she felt fingers of wind, plucking at her clothes, teasing her face, carrying words from another time, another place that she’d never quite forgotten.

  Blackbeard’s lusty commendation echoed in her head as clearly as if his ghost had whispered it anew. Lowering his normally fearsome voice to a good-natured growl laced with threads of masculine envy, he’d said, “ Mark my words. Men like Justin Vallé are a father’s nightmare and a virgin’s path to ruination. Ah, but the joys to be had along the way…!”

  For a long, long moment, Christiana didn’t—couldn’t—breathe. Heat spiraled upward to collect in her cheeks, sparked by an awareness she hadn’t possessed at the age of eight. The memory was nearly enough to make her smile…except that she was about to face the man against whom she’d been forewarned.

  Before she could reconsider, Christiana reached for the door of the tavern said to be Vallé’s favorite when in Charlotte Amalie, opened it, and slipped inside. A pair of drunkards listed starboard, nearly broadsiding her as she managed to maneuver clear. A miracle, considering she hadn’t gotten back her land legs and her borrowed red-heeled shoes only added to her unsteadiness.

  She raised a gloved hand to her hood, checking to make certain her face was still shadowed, her features concealed. To keep from drawing attention to herself, she’d dressed as poorly as the other women who frequented this place, plying their profession amongst seafaring men who appreciated a berth made softer by female flesh.

  Ignoring the familiar chorus of bawdy chanteys, Christiana narrowed her eyes and scanned the murky depths. In the dim glow of candles and lamp wicks, rum and ale flowed freely. Smoke curled from a dozen clay pipes, contributing a masculine pungency that intermingled with the cloying scents of perfume worn by the belles de nuit wheedling drinks and bargaining for business. In one night-darkened corner, a swallow-cock practiced her specialty while her sisters fondled the buckos placing bets on how many the trull could take. A bounteously endowed serving wench with a food-laden tray hoisted above her head tacked her way through the motley crew and set her course to the farthest table, occupied by a single man. She placed the evening fare on the scarred wooden surface and pressed her ample bosom against this patron’s back to whet his every
appetite.

  Christiana watched it all with a certain degree of detachment, since her childhood had been spent witnessing such displays. Her breath snagged in her throat, however, when the wench removed her customer’s hat, revealing hair so blond that it was nearly white, an unusual color in the Brotherhood but one of the distinguishing features of the man she sought. The other was the scar that she knew he bore on his right cheek.

  Seeing it, Christiana forced herself to remain still, even though her pulse leapt and every instinct urged her to turn on Druscilla’s heels and run. To stay meant risking recognition, something she’d thought herself prepared to chance since O’Malley’s crew—men she’d sailed with off and on for the last nine years—hadn’t known her in borrowed clothing. Now that she was about to face a man from her distant past, she only prayed that time had dimmed Vallé’s memories and he wouldn’t associate the young woman before him with the child who’d marked his face for life.

  Some inner voice demanded that she focus on the scar, one more act of self-imposed penance for her great sin against him, the man she’d loved since childhood, the measure by which she’d judged all others, only to find them lacking. She wished she could tell him how sorry she was, beg his forgiveness, and somehow let him know that the price she’d paid for hurting him was far dearer than any punishment he could have devised for her thwarted attempt at theft.

  The memory of that humiliating experience and the awful aftermath still hurt, but the pang of regret she felt was swept away on another tide, this one unwelcome if not entirely unexpected. Thankful for the concealing hood lest anyone see her face and fathom her tumult of emotions, Christiana chastised herself for being seven times the fool. Hadn’t the nuns in the convent school to which she’d been banished warned her of her weaknesses—her sins of vanity and pride? To think she’d actually believed that she was different from other women where Vallé was concerned! But then why should she be immune to his masculine charms now that she was grown when, as a child, she’d all but worshipped him?

  The scar deepened when Vallé smiled. She’d been so afraid that she had ruined his looks—yet rather than detract, it seemed a sigil that added to his dangerous appeal. The savagery of it contrasted sharply with the civilized lace at his neck and sleeves. These past five years he’d finished filling out to a mature man’s proportions as well, the wide span of his shoulders testing the seams of a finely tailored blue justacorps, worn open to reveal the brocade vest beneath. White teeth flashing and gold earring winking, he tipped the serving wench, dropping a coin in the cleft of her pendulous breasts.

  The wench turned so that his hand brushed one of the rouge-darkened nipples that threatened to pop free of her low-cut bodice. Smiling wickedly, she cupped herself and whispered in his ear. Vallé shook his head regretfully, and pressed another coin into her hand to ease her disappointment.

  Mon Dieu, thought Christiana, shocked that even from this distance, she could feel his physical presence, the sensual playfulness that had always been as much a part of him as his rugged good looks. No less disturbing was the flare of jealous envy towards the tavern wench, who certainly seemed to know how to get a man’s attention, if not his business for the night.

  Perhaps if her upbringing had been different, if her role models had been genteel ladies instead of Ian O’Malley and the Brethren of the Coast, she could have used such feminine wiles to woo Vallé to her cause. In truth, that’s what Druscilla suggested when she told her where to seek him out. She’d reminded her of Vallé’s mercenary ways and intimated that her best hope to persuade him lay in appealing not to his sense of justice but to his masculine senses. But Christiana didn’t have the serving wench’s jugs, let alone Druscilla’s pleasing figure and abundant charms, available to any man willing to pay her price. She’d come instead with Vallé’s price, hoping that gold alone would be enough to hire his services…and trying not to think of what she might do if it weren’t.

  Steeling herself for their encounter, she watched as Vallé withdrew his own knife and stabbed the cheese, carving a wedge and tearing it with his teeth. The sight of the lethal-looking blade made her insides churn, forcing her to quell the mutiny in her stomach. She could not give in to her fear, she told herself firmly, not when O’Malley’s life depended upon the success of her mission.

  Justin Vallé sat as he always did, with his back to the wall and in a commanding view of his surroundings, instincts honed by years of living outside or on the fringes of the law. True, his recent enterprises were more legal than not, but he remained a thorn in the British side, plaguing fat merchant ships and tweaking the noses of British commanders by relieving them of any impressed sailors who wished to serve a master of their choice—and for their own profit rather than for German George, their Hanoverian king. But always, always seeking the one who’d wronged him most.

  Precaution led him to casually reach for his knife as well as a hunk of bread when the scarlet-cloaked girl approached his table, rolling her hips as fetchingly as any practiced whore he’d seen, as if to say that she knew who he was and had heard he favored his chosen wenches most generously. By the looks of her frayed garments, she’d no doubt welcome any benefactor who’d treat her gently and ease her way in her chosen profession, but with a price on his head, he could not be too careful, not in these treacherous times.

  Justin raised his gaze past the coyly clasped gloved hands and the tantalizingly concealing folds, dismissing the tarnished clasp but pausing at a mouth luscious enough, even without the use of artifices, to tempt a more celibate man. Lord knew there was little enough joy in life to be had, and a lusty tumble ranked high on his list of favorite things.

  Maybe he’d ask for Peg later after all.

  Then again, maybe he wouldn’t have to.

  “Captain Vallé?” The wench’s husky greeting was frustratingly compact, as if concealing her face and the contours of her body weren’t intriguing enough.

  “I talk to no one I can’t see,” he told her flatly, wondering what—if anything—she felt she had to hide from him. A gloved hand lifted, easing back the edge of her hood to reveal smooth ivory cheeks unblemished by pox marks and unstained by the paint used by most in her profession. But everyone had their price. He couldn’t help wondering if she hoped that tonight hers would be a bit more than her usual fee—say, the price on his head?

  Fingering his knife, Justin raised his gaze from her pretty mouth to dark fringed lashes shading wide-set eyes of a green so clear they looked like glass, reflecting his own mounting questions.

  Rather than deny his identity, Justin underscored it, stabbing the point of his blade deep into the table and taking satisfaction in the fear that flashed before she hid it again. “Who wants to know?”

  At that, she drew herself up to her full height, a good ten inches below Justin’s six-foot frame, and thrust up her chin with the kind of false bravado that either won the day or got a man killed. “Someone who has business to conduct with you,” she stammered, unhinged enough for her words to be flavored with the sweet, mellifluous lilt of Ireland. “‘Tis of a most urgent nature.”

  “Doubtless,” he said smoothly, allowing himself to relax a bit. “But my first order of business is eating. Anything else comes second, comprenez-vous?”

  Tilting his head, he glanced up and offered her a smile to let her know that he’d make the wait worth her while. But the girl seemed edgier than his cat. Rather than appreciate his unspoken offer, she shifted and looked away uneasily, afraid to look him in the eye, as if he’d read too much there. Gnawing her bottom lip as if she had misgivings…or something to hide. When she brushed a hesitant glance across him and reached for the opening of her sorry cape, Justin instinctively reached too, for the flintlock pistol on the seat beside him.

  He’d never shot a woman. He wasn’t certain that he could—not even if she deserved it—and he’d seen women pirates more vicious than any man, the first to fight and the last to surrender. But life had taught him that women wer
e not to be trusted.

  Reluctantly, Justin brought the pistol up slightly, aiming where a ball would fell a man first and kill him later, days of torment in between. When her gloved fingers slid upward to unhook the tarnished clasp, he lowered it again, releasing his breath in silent thanks that he would not have to learn his limitations this night.

  The frayed scarlet fabric parted, allowing a shadowy glimpse of the charms that lay beneath—a ploy obviously meant to tantalize and hopefully fetch a better price. Absently, he called for Peg to bring two glasses and a bottle of wine.

  “None for me, thank you.” The wench shook her head, and the hood slipped further back, revealing hair as black as ebony, worn in an elaborate coil that made him want to pull free the pins and see how far it fell. “If you’d rather, I can wait for you elsewhere, until you have eaten.”

  “And deprive myself of your company? Mais non, mademoiselle. I invite you to join me. Come now,” he insisted gently when she hesitated, unwilling to seem too eager for his trade. “Sit, sit. We dine, then talk. In private, no?”

  “I can talk while you eat,” she stammered, her gorgeous green eyes as wide as an innocent’s.

  Justin shook his head. His coin, his rules. Even if she were new to this life, she was old enough to know how this worked.

  “And I prefer not to discuss our business over dinner, s’il vois plaît. There will be time enough later, unless you are expected elsewhere tonight…?”

  As if ashamed to admit it, she gave the barest shake of her head and reluctantly took the empty seat across from him. She not only refused the glass of wine he pressed upon her, she firmly declined his offer to partake of the humble but filling repast. Instead, she sat, cloaked in tattered scarlet and stubborn pride, her stomach rumbling and green eyes veering from the bread to the cheese to the meat pie, as if avoiding their temptation would atone for her venial sins and pave her way one step closer to Heaven. Justin ate slowly, to teach her a lesson if nothing else.