Caution to the Wind - Chapter Two

I’m excited to share Chapter Two of Caution to the Wind. If you missed the beginning of the story, you can read Chapter One here and then sail back to this post.

This story is firmly in the “clean, not sweet” camp: it’s closed‑door, and any deeper intimacy will only take place after marriage. That said, in this chapter, we see more of Captain Will—an honorable man with a complicated past when it comes to women. Fear not, as his growing feelings for Amanda will tug him toward something better.

I’d welcome feedback, especially from fans of clean romance, on how this chapter lands—tone, character dynamics, and the edges it skims in the clean genre. Until my official author email is set up, you can send your thoughts on X or Facebook, or through the contact form on my website.

If you’re interested in an ARC of Caution to the Wind, you can also sign up through the form on the bottom of my home page. My plan is to finish revisions by mid-autumn and release before the end of the year.

Chapter Two

“Well, it is your choice,” Will held up his glass in a half-hearted toast, “and therefore, I wish you every happiness.”

“Oh, come on, Will.” Captain James Stoddard raised his voice above the groans of the two officers standing behind his chair and the din of the post-suppertime crowd in the small inn’s cozy taproom. Unlike his lieutenants, he had earned the right to call the dreaded Sea Wolf by his Christian name, and his forthright tone spoke of their long association. “You can do better than that. I’m getting married for Heaven’s sake, not joining the Royal Navy.”

Will opened his mouth to reply, but one of the enthusiastic young officers beat him to it. “I should hope not, sir. Not when we have the advantage.”

“Well said!” The other officer, emboldened by drink, clapped his friend on the shoulder and spoke as though each syllable presented a bit of a challenge. “Our Cont’nental Navy’ll have ’em runnin’ back to ol’ England,” he paused, his blonde brows on a slow march toward the middle of his forehead. Then, slopping ale over the side, he poked his glass in the general direction of England, “tail between their legs.”

He punctuated his point with a sharp nod, spilling more of his drink onto his friend’s polished boot.

Will grunted. “You Navy men are so sure of yourselves. You’ve only been a Navy for what—three years now?” His dismissive shrug pulled at the seams of his blue velvet coat. “Your enemy is the most powerful fleet in the world and has been for nigh on two hundred years.”

“Yeeees!” The flickering light from an oil lamp illuminated a fine spray of spittle. “But you’ve seen how weak they are now. We’ve almost as many ships as they do, and ours are much newer!”

He leaned forward, propped a fist on the table, and brandished the glass in his other hand as though fighting an unseen enemy. Will watched the golden waves slosh from side to side, hoping the young man would find an even keel before he sent their drinks—and the lamp—flying.

“No matter how inelegantly my drunken friend makes his case, Captain Stoakes”—with a warning glance, the lieutenant righted his companion—“I think his point is sound. The British Navy is weak.”

“They are tired,” Will interjected before the upstarts could make complete fools of themselves by defending the Continental Navy’s anemic forces.

“Tired?” James asked.

Will sighed into his glass and took another swallow, then flinched. The ale had gone warm in the crowded taproom—flat, heavy, and every bit as tiresome as the conversation. He and James had been friends since their days in the Royal Navy, before the colonies broke from England. James was the closest thing Will had to a brother. A man of steady faith and duty—a damned fine officer—he’d stayed with the Continental Navy long after Will had quit.

Yet Will was dismayed by how few of its officers, including the best fighting captains, could comprehend the wider canvas of war. They saw their guns, their men’s health, their full stores. Few saw the political and financial tides beneath it all. Beyond the bow of their own ship, most were blind.

Will sighed once more, resigned to explaining what should have been obvious.

“Yes. They have been fighting on two continents.” He twisted his glass, making small wet rings on the worn wood. “In Europe they fought the Seven Years War, and here, in America, they fought the French and Indian War.”

“But they battled the French in both,” the lieutenant argued. “That makes it the same war.”

“A war fought on two fronts is as good as two wars.” Will’s frown deepened at the bemused look on the faces of his audience. “And with the war in America, it might as well have been three.” His gaze roamed from face to face as he waited, hoping for a glimmer of understanding. Only the flame in the oil lamp flickered.

Perhaps he expected too much; James’s lieutenants still wore the open expressions of young men. Could either of them remember the violent conflict between the French, their Indian allies and the British?

He studied their unlined faces, the vibrant enthusiasm in their eyes and the lack of observable scars that marked men tested in battle. They had been too young to fight, but they were old enough to hold at least some memory of the bloody struggle.

Those who had been there told stories of the colonists, many women and children, massacred by the enemy’s warriors with an unimaginable savagery. Those who had not seen the bloodshed themselves had been told about it. Subsequent years and multiple retellings had done nothing to diminish the horror.

“Do you think you’ll join the Navy again, sir?” the sober lieutenant asked with polite deference.

Will knew the man was referring to the Continental Navy, even though the Royal Navy was the only navy he had officially belonged to. He took a final swig from his glass, grimacing at the bitter tang of the foamy remnants. The sour taste in his mouth matched his mood.

This was meant to be a celebration of his friend’s betrothal. With the Amanda not ready to sail until tomorrow, Will chose to accompany James to one of the taverns in the small port town of Baltimore. Though modest, the Horse Head Inn boasted a card room that drew American privateers flush with cash from recent prize auctions. Later, they planned to take seats at the tables and spend the evening risking considerable sums in hopes of even more substantial gains.

Except now, not yet midnight, all Will could think about was how to extricate himself from the betrothal party and return to his ship. He had a new crew waiting for him, and he wanted to get to know them before they got underway. He needed to take their measure; assess their strength—and their heart.

A pair of emerald-green eyes, tilted at the corners and framed by lush lashes, had flashed through his mind all evening. Again, they surfaced, bright and insistent. Whose eyes were they, and why did their owner remain just beyond his grasp? No matter. He shoved the image aside. No doubt, they were the eyes of some long-forgotten paramour, the sort of entangling connection he would be glad to cast off once his Amanda weighed anchor.

Will raised his glass to his lips, then, remembering he had already drained it, set it down with a thud. Looking about for a barmaid, he caught his companions' bemused expressions. They seemed to be anticipating a response.

“No,” Will said, answering the lieutenant’s question—as best he could recall it, “I will not be joining the Navy again.” Continental or Royal.

“Of course not.” The drunken officer teetered, catching himself just in time. “Money’s better as a pirate.”

Will’s jaw tightened. Pirate. As if he were some lawless marauder rather than a commissioned captain of a privateer sailing under a lawful letter of marque. He gave the man a look intended to make it clear to even the most inebriated of the group that he had overstepped his bounds. The young officer flushed to the tips of his ears and took a swig of ale. Foam dripped from the ends of his wiry, blond mustache when he finally pulled his face from his glass.

“Ah, yes, well I think I’ll see what kind of ac—” the lieutenant’s voice broke, and he cleared his throat, “action I can find at the tables.”  

“I’ll join you.” The other officer clasped his friend about the shoulders and ushered him away from the two captains who remained seated.

“Seriously, Will,” James said once they were alone, “we could use a man like you in the Continental Navy. With your skills, your reputation...your luck. Sailors would be signing up in droves.”

Will caught the eye of a girl of no more than seventeen or eighteen. Carrying several pints in her sturdy grip, she wove her way through the crowded taproom until she reached the bench beside them. Flashing him a crooked‑toothed grin over one shoulder, she set her burden down before a group of young merchants as interested in her as in the brew. Whatever she said drew laughter from the group—all but the youngest, whose face burned, crimson as a ripe tomato.

Turning, she wiped wet hands on a stained apron. “Get you another one, Captain?” Her gaze roamed over Will’s well-tailored form with obvious appreciation.

Noting the lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled, Will reassessed his initial impression of the girl’s age. Not so young as he first thought. Old enough to have a woman's experience, yet with a face that still suggested innocence. She leaned forward, far more than necessary, to take his glass.

Well, almost innocent.

“No, but thank you. That will be all. For now.”

The barmaid gave a throaty chuckle and regarded him through her lashes. “Well now, Captain, you just let me know when you might be needin’ something else.” She sashayed toward the taps, holding their empty glasses in her hands, her skirts swishing from the exaggerated sway of her hips.

James rolled his eyes, cleared his throat, and turned back to Will. “Forget the Navy, Will. When will you realize the sea does not offer everything a man needs?”

“I have everything I need.” Will said, staring at the woman’s voluptuous backside even while his mind strayed to thoughts of his ship.

James glanced over his shoulder, then leaned forward. “You know what I mean,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Will turned his full attention to his friend. “Yes, ‘tis unfortunate, but I do.”

Of course, he did. This was not the first time James had lectured him on the need for a wife. The barmaid glanced up from refilling a glass at the tap and caught Will’s gaze. She dipped her eyes until her long lashes brushed her cheeks. A knowing smile touched her lips.

Hell! What had made him say something to give her false hope?

“I am not talking about companionship of that sort,” James protested, bringing Will’s gaze back once again to his friend’s earnest, but annoyed face. James ran his hand through his hair, his fingers leaving furrows in his brown locks. “Look, Will, our work is dangerous. Our lives may be short. I want you to find the same kind of happiness I’ve found with Isabella in whatever time you have left.” He paused, “Isa has a cousin who has come to visit—” 

“Perhaps I will find it tonight,” Will cut his friend off before he launched, yet again, into the many merits of Isabella’s cousins. It seemed the girl had an unending supply, all fresh from Spain and in search of husbands.

He heartily approved of his friend’s choice of bride. Petite, dark‑haired, and strikingly beautiful, she and James had moved past their early clashes—her fiery temper against his cooler English manner—and settled into a peaceful courtship that, in time, claimed Will’s closest friend. Of course, James’s work kept him at sea most days, so he didn’t expect he and his young bride would see much of each other until the war was over.

Will coughed into his fist to hide a cynical chuckle. The end of the war might bring peace to America, but not to his friend.

“Whoring is still more your style, I suppose,” James said, giving the barmaid a disapproving glare.

The girl bent forward to serve another round of ale, the rough fabric of her skirt accentuating her plump, inviting derriere. Will made a show of studying her. “I doubt she is a whore.”

At least she wouldn’t be with him. Women never named a price before they shared his bed, and they never asked for a thing afterward. And Will never offered. He would take what they gave, but he wouldn’t be the one to turn them into whores.

Now, with the passing of the years, this little game of self-absolution had worn thin. Occasionally, he felt guilty about using the women, despite their willingness. It left him disgusted with them—and more so himself.

This time, maybe he would pay her but not bed her. He still wouldn’t be turning her into a whore, and she’d get something out of it. It would be a refreshing change. He tossed a few coins onto the table, said his goodbyes to his friend, and signaled for his coat. On his way out, he caught the girl’s eye with a look that promised he would return. Once outside, he tugged his lapels up against the cold spring drizzle, already knowing he never would.  

****  

“Well, Captain.” A tall man with a refined bearing and a crisp New England accent came to stand beside Will at the ship’s stern. “Our fresh water stores are replenished, we are just about re-supplied, and the men have all reported to duty. We shall be ready to sail on the evening tide.”

“It’s about time, Buck,” Will grumbled.

Loading the stores was always an interminably slow business. He clasped his hands behind his back, one tight fist locked in the palm of his other hand, as two sailors struggled to carry a crate of chickens up the steep gangplank. The birds flapped about with such fury the sailor who had the misfortune of being in the lead and walking backward stumbled and fought to keep his balance.

“Watch it there!” a corpulent man in a white butcher’s apron yelled from behind the men. “You be drownin’ the Captain’s breakfast, my boot will be sending ya in after it.”

He followed them up the walk, his close-set eyes darting back and forth between the crate of chickens and the murky water below.

“Bull hasn’t yet found a real cook, eh?” Buck asked, his voice casual.

Will scowled at the reminder. Cookie’s lack of culinary skills was the one dark cloud hanging over an otherwise promising voyage.

“What duties did you assign to those two?” he asked, changing the subject with a nod toward Neil and Adam.

The boys stood back-to-back, Adam appearing confused and Neil belligerent while the men about them loaded the ship and readied it for sail. If they didn’t move their asses, they were likely to be trampled.

“Hmm...” Buck tapped his chin with one long index finger. “To tell you the truth, I haven’t decided. The taller one goes by the name of Adam. I’ve been thinking of making him your cabin boy as he doesn’t seem cut out for manual labor.” He cocked his head at his captain. “A bit bonny to make it as a sailor, don’t you think?”

Will gave a small snort as Adam flinched and ducked a swinging crate that missed his temple by a hair’s breadth. He’d met tavern wenches with more muscle—and more sense—than the scrawny slip of a lad. What had possessed him to go against Bull’s judgment?

His stomach rumbled; he still hadn’t eaten breakfast. Hunger never improved his temper—“the Captain’s Curse,” one of the ship’s boys had called it, not knowing his captain stood behind him. Luckily for the boy, Will had eaten ashore that morning, and the lad got away with no more than deck-swabbing duties for the whole of the month.

A scuffle by the railing caught Will’s attention. Judging from the scene, young Neil Blakely had taken offense at being jostled by one of the sailors loading supplies. The boy now stood toe to toe with a man a foot taller and at least twice his breadth. Neil’s voice carried on the breeze, sharp and sure, as he hurled oaths at the sailor with a fluency rare in lads still fresh from their mother’s apron strings.

Spurred by his mates’ laughter, Roger—a craggy veteran of more than two decades at sea—shook off his surprise at being dressed down by the scruffy young pup. His neck and ears flushed crimson, and he lurched forward, ready to teach the boy a lesson.

Buck tensed, rocking onto the balls of his feet, ready to step in. He shot his captain a questioning look. Will considered letting him go—experience was worth little if it left a crewman dead—but relaxed when he spotted Bull watching the scuffle from the far rail. The crew master would intervene if needed. Neil was in no real danger, beyond a cuff to the ears for his insolence.

Even so, wedged between Neil and Roger, Adam would be in real danger if he didn’t move. Confusion flickered across Roger’s weather‑beaten face as the lanky boy set one slender hand on his brother’s chest and the other on his. Confusion sharpened into irritation; neither man looked pleased. Their glares pinned Adam between them. He turned his head from one to the other, but the stiff shore wind tore his words away. From the flash in his eyes and the quick movement of his lips, Will would swear he was scolding them.

He laughed and turned toward the open sea. There was something about his two newest recruits. Neither looked fit to be a sailor. Yet when he’d given them an appraisal that would have sent older men staring at their toes, they’d met his gaze without flinching.

The shorter one had deep brown eyes threaded with a strong streak of rebelliousness—good, up to a point. Rebellious independence was the hallmark of a good privateer; if he tempered the boy’s instincts with a little discipline, the lad might stand a chance.

The taller, thinner brother had eyes green as a troubled sea, but instead of defiance they held something Will couldn’t name. That stare met his as he tested the boy’s strength, nearly making him forget his duty. The lad didn’t look as if he’d done a hard day’s labor in his life, and his arms felt thin as twigs in Will’s grasp. Yet that sea‑green gaze held him, threatening to pull him under, to drown him in its depths. When he found his voice again, Will dismissed Bull’s concerns—something he rarely did.

How old was the lad anyway? He was tall, almost statuesque, with a lithe build and narrow shoulders. Dress him in a gown; he could pass for a woman and quite a fetching one at that. Will scowled at the absurd thought.

“Buck, I want you to assign them to the same duties you would any waif who fancies himself a sailor. We need to work them hard to see what they’ve got.”

“You’re the captain.” Buck turned and strode toward the boys who had taken to yelling at each other to the amusement of the crowd of sailors gathering around them. “You there!” he bellowed. “If you don’t have any work to do, I’ll see to it that you do. Don’t let me catch you idling. This isn’t the Royal Navy!”

In time, they would prove his instincts right. He would see to that. As the evening tide crept in and the Amanda strained at her moorings, Will couldn’t shake the sense that he’d just taken on a crewman who might alter the course of his voyage. Whether for good or ill, he had no way of knowing.