Thorn studied her. So she
had
been responsible for Madame's illness. But who could blame her? The woman made Annette's life unbearable. It was justice. It was merited. But not until that moment did Thorn realize how quickly the thirst for revenge could turn on the ones wielding it and end up destroying them instead. He stiffened beneath the revelation but shrugged it away before he was forced to ponder its application to himself.
“There is always a choice. Choose to live, Annette.” He gripped her shoulders. “Promise me you won't try to take your life again.”
She looked down. “You do not know what you ask, monsieur. You do not know the life I face. No one cares about me.”
“I care.” He smiled.
She gazed at him, her eyes a mélange of disbelief and hope. But then she rewarded him with a flutter of lashes and the semblance of a smile upon her lips.
Something caught Thorn's gaze over her shoulder, and he stiffened.
White sails floated like puffs of cotton on the horizon. Annette saw them too and gave him a curious look. Thorn looked aloft at the watchman in the crosstrees. He had not seen the ship yet. Good.
The more time that passed without detection, the faster they would be caught.
Grace pried her eyes open, still heavy with slumber. The creaking and groaning of the brig she'd grown accustomed to tried to lull her back to sleep, but the dusty ray of sunshine streaming through the porthole told her it was well past dawn.
And she needed to speak with Rafe.
After Mr. Thorn's visit, Grace had gathered her blankets and curled up on deck, hoping to get much-needed sleep and make some sense of the discord bristling through her. But slumber had dashed about the cabin most of the night like a child playing tag, outwitting and outmaneuvering her. Finally, some time before dawn she must have drifted into unconsciousness out of sheer exhaustion.
Spyglass leapt from the chair and sauntered toward Grace. Plopping down on her stomach, the cat began kneading Grace's nightdress and saturating the air with the rumble of purrs. “You never seem overwrought, my friend. Would that I could be like you.” Grace scratched Spyglass beneath the chin, and the cat stretched her neck toward the deck above. Closing her eyes, Grace longed to dive back into the ignorance of slumber, but Spyglass resumed her kneading, pricking Grace with one of her claws.
“Ooh!” She grabbed the cat. “Very well, no need to stab me. I shall arise.” Sitting up, Grace kissed the cat on the cheek, then set her down on the deck. She glanced over the cabin. Annette's blankets lay folded in the corner.
“Bonjour,” a voice coming from the cot startled Grace. She rose and sat in the chair, studying the madame. Though it had been little more than a day, color had returned to Claire's cheeks and her eyes regained their luster. “Good morning, Claire. How do you feel?”
“Stronger.” She looked at Grace as if she were an angel. “I owe you my life, mademoiselle.”
“No. You owe God your life.”
Claire drew in a deep breath and struggled to sit. She pushed a curl from her face. “I never believed God cared for me.”
“He does.” Grace retrieved the mug of lemon water from the table and handed it to Claire.
Taking it, Claire took a sip. “I am not so sure.” She shook her head and dropped her gaze to the mug clasped between her hands.
Grace's vision blurred with tears for the sorrow this woman had endured.
Claire pressed her lips together. “Yet no one could have shown me the love you did after I treated you so horribly, unless God helped them.” She chuckled and Grace smiled, unable to respond, her throat closed tight with emotion.
Claire's face reddened. “Forgive me for sharing such personal confidences with you during my illness.”
“'Tis quite all right. I had no idea your life had been so difficult.” “It is no excuse for my behavior.” Claire sighed.
Grace clasped her hands together. Indeed, she used to believe there was no excuse for bad behavior. She had always looked down on those who could not control their passions and who chose evil over good. Then why did she find no disdain for this woman before her, only understanding and concern?
“I love him still,” Claire said without looking up.
The words shot straight to Grace's heart as Rafe's name drifted through the air, unspoken. “I know.”
“But it is too late for us. I see that now.” The sorrow lining Claire's face made Grace's heart crumble even as a twinge of jealousy sprang from among the pieces. She shook it off as Claire continued, “And I am married to a monster.” She trembled.
Grace took the cup from Claire's hands before she dropped it and placed it back atop the table. “You needn't remain so, madame.”
Claire's eyes searched Grace's in confusion.
“Your husband has been unfaithful and continues to flaunt his philandering before you daily.”
Claire shrugged. “What is to be done about it?”
“He has broken his covenant with you, Claire.”
“Vraiment?” A spark of hope lit her eyes, but then her shoulders sank. “But where would I go?”
Grace leaned over and took her hand. “Perhaps 'tis time to start trusting God for your future and not man or money.”
Claire swallowed and her hand trembled. “We shall see.”
“Do you feel up to a stroll on the deck?” Happy that Claire seemed slightly open to the things of God, Grace would put off her talk with Rafe if she could continue the conversation. “The fresh air would do you good.”
“Non. I am still too weak.” She raised a hand to her forehead. “And tired. I believe I shall sleep some more.”
“Very well.” Grace assisted Claire back down onto the cot. “We will talk later.” She brushed the hair from her face.
“Merci.” Claire smiled then closed her eyes.
Rising, Grace splashed water on her face from the basin. She donned her petticoat, stays, and skirts and brushed and pinned her hair up as best as she couldâno longer concerned with a proper, tight coiffure.
Out in the companionway, she headed for Rafe's cabin. Spyglass pranced beside her as if she knew exactly where Grace was going and thought it was about time.
Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, Grace approached the captain's door. She must apologize for their kiss and inform Rafe it could never happen again. She did not want him to get the wrong idea about her affections for him. Whatever they may be.
She squared her shoulders and knocked.
“Entrez-vous,” Rafe's resonant voice bade her entrance, and she opened the door and slipped inside, Spyglass on her heels.
Rafe's gaze swept over her, and his grin reached his eyes in a sparkle that sent a wave of warmth through Grace.
Spyglass leapt upon the captain's desk and began batting the feathers of a quill pen.
The door thudded shut, and suddenly Grace found herself alone with the captain. He leaned against his desk, arms folded across his waistcoat, but the grin that had taken residence on his lips, a grin that contained a mixture of admiration and hunger, caused her heart to flutter.
Grace clasped her hands together and she looked down. The hollow thud of his footfalls pounded over the deck. Black leather boots appeared in her vision. His body heat radiated over her, carrying with it his scent of tobacco and the sea. And her heart felt as though it would crash through her chest. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tipped her head up until their eyes met. “You wish to speak to me, mademoiselle?” His tone was playful, inviting.
“Oui, I mean yes.” Grace pressed her moist palms over her skirts. “But if you please, could you back away a bit? I cannot seem to breathe.”
Chuckling, he took a step back. “Oui, bien sûr. Mais does my presence disturb you?”
Gathering her wits and her resolve, Grace stood and faced him. “Yes.” She might as well be honest. “It does.”
“C'est bon.”
“There is nothing good about it.”
“A matter of perspective.”
Grace sashayed away from the door, putting some distance between them. What was wrong with her? She'd come here to tell Rafe she would not receive his affections again. But instead all she wanted to do was feel his arms around her and his lips upon hers. Her cheeks heated until she had to withdraw a handkerchief from her sleeve and wave it around her face. “It grows warm below deck.”
“Feels quite cool to me.” He raised his brows.
Grace swallowed and looked up at him. He wore his black hair tied behind him, revealing a jaw peppered with stubble that reminded her of crushed charcoal. The fading purple of a bruise circled one eye. He stretched his shoulders back, only a hint of their strength discernable beneath his gray coat. To the left of his long black breeches tucked into his cordovan boots, hung the rapier that rarely left his side. And suddenly as she gazed into his dark, penetrating eyes, all rational thought dashed away in fear, leaving her standing there speechless.
He stepped toward her. “Mademoiselle?”
Grace held up a hand and averted her eyes to the contents of his desk. A full bottle of brandy glittered amber in the morning sun. “I do not believe I've ever seen an untouched bottle in your cabin, Captain. Have you given up your drink?” She hoped her playful tone would douse the heat that rose between them.
“I have, but I will pour one for you if you wish.” His gaze brushed over Grace, and she thought she detected a slight grin on his lips.
“I would never touch such a vile drink.”
“Ah, mademoiselle, vile it is not. Mais that it offends you has become the bane of my existence.”
“I am pleased to hear it, Captain.”
He bowed. “I live for your approval, mademoiselle.”
Spyglass jumped to the deck and began to circle her skirts.
“You mock me, Captain.”
He cocked his head. “Never.”
She turned her back to him. “Will you return me to my home?”
“As I have said.”
Grace grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled out her cross, then moved toward the cannon in the corner.
“What of your hospital?”
“I will find another way.”
“What changed your mind?” The words were out before she realized the implication of what she asked. The only thing that mattered was that he
had
changed his mind. Then why did her heart cinch within her chest awaiting his answer? She must be truly daft. For if he spoke the words she yearned to hear, she feared it would be the end of her.
Rafe rubbed his jaw and stomped back to his desk, the bottle of brandy luring him like glittering gold. Memories of their kiss last night warmed his body. Even though she'd fled with a look of horror on her face, Rafe had kissed enough women to know that Grace had enjoyed every moment of their embrace. And that thought alone had caused a spark to ignite in his heartâin a place long cold and dead.
Turning, he stared at the mademoiselle's back, green skirts flowing around her, trimmed in gold lace at the hem and waist. Coils of loose raven curls danced over her neck, taunting him like bait.
Why had he changed his mind? He shook his head, unable to deceive himself any longer. He knew why. He should tell her how he felt. Fear began a frantic pounding within him, erecting barricades, reminding him of the pain of rejection. It was bad enough he had allowed himself to fall in love again. But he would be a bigger fool to allow another woman to break his heart.
He straightened his shoulders. “I decided the don would most likely return you. Such a shrewish tongue would never survive a Spanish overlord.”
She whirled around in a cloud of green silk, disappointment tugging down the corners of her mouth. “Shrewish?” Her face paled. “Of all the...”
Rafe's heart sank as the ardor, the affection, drained from her eyes, replaced by fury and pain.
“Very well. That makes what I have to say much easier.” She lifted her chin, clutched her skirts, and headed toward the door, where she halted and drew a deep breath. “I came to inform you that I was remiss in accepting your ... your”âshe looked awayâ“kiss. And that it must never happen again.” She gave him a venomous look, and he instantly longed to make things right.
Rafe moved toward her, his voice low. “I heard no objection while your lips were on mine.”
She fanned her red face with her handkerchief. Tiny scratches lined one cheek and Rafe swallowed, longing to kiss them away.
“I am voicing them now.” She took a step back. “Promise me you will not take advantage of me again, Captain.”
“Take advantage, sacre mer.” Rafe ran a hand through his hair, feeling his ire rising. “Mademoiselle, you have my word that I will take no further liberties with you.”
Her lip trembled. “I shall hold you to that, Captain.” She swerved about and opened the door. “Come, Spyglass,” she called over her shoulder, and the cat promptly obeyed, stopping to hiss at Rafe on her way out.
He slammed the door shut after them and leaned back against it. The woman had not only stolen his heart but his cat as well.
Grace leaned on the railing amidships and gazed as the setting sun spread a plethora of brilliant colors: persimmon, violet, saffron, and coral across the horizon. Yet the beauty was lost on her. For clearly she had gone mad. After her encounter with the captain, she had been unable to stop crying. For what reason her mind could not fathom. Finally this harrowing adventure would be over. She would be safe in her home in Charles Towne. She should be the happiest woman alive. Then why did tears continually spring from her eyes and her heart feel as though it had been mauled by a grappling hook?
A light breeze wafted over her, cooling the perspiration on her arms and fluttering her curls about her neck. Perhaps the fresh air was all she needed to clear her head and heal whatever ailed her heart. Soon the darkness would drive her back to her cabin. She drew a deep breath of the tropical air, allowing it to fill her lungs with its spicy aroma. She would miss it. The sea held a different scent than the harbor in Charles Towne.
Charles Towne. Where she would no longer have to deal with the French rogue Captain Dubois. The captain had not only called her a shrew, but he had claimed it was the reason he refused to sell her to the don. That she had been hoping for another reason, a more personal reason, brought her shame. That he seemed equally anxious to return her home and be rid of her himself caused her heart to shrivel.
Am I a shrew?
Grace's eyes burned. What did she expect? Did she expect this Frenchman, this mercenary, this man who kidnapped her, to declare his love for her?
I am a silly woman, Lord. A silly woman who has been no good to anyone. Done nothing right except perhaps step out of the way so You could save Claire. At least I can go home with some dignity.
Footfalls sounded and Grace turned to see Annette inching across deck, a bundle in her hands. Behind the mulatto, the crew's eyes brushed over her, then swept away. In one corner, Monsieur Weylan, Mr. Fisk, Mr. Holtâthe three sailors who had assaulted Grace belowâand one other man huddled together as they often did when on deck.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” Annette moved beside her. The setting sunlight cast a rainbow of colors over her tawny skin, making her look far more innocent than Grace knew her to be. Yet Grace no longer felt angry with the lady.
“Good evening, Annette. How is Madame Dubois?” Grace asked.
Annette flattened her lips. “Madame rests. She will recover.” The sting of hatred so oft in her voice when she spoke of her mistress had lost its potency. “You did not tell her what I did?” She gazed down at the choppy waves pounding against the hull.
Grace shook her head. “No need, since you promised not to harm her again.”
“You are very kind, mademoiselle.” Annette unwrapped the bundle in her hands, revealing the stones, beads, rattle, and amulet she used in the rituals of her religion.
The hairs on Grace's arms bristled, but she resisted the urge to leave. She needn't be afraid of such things. She only hoped the girl didn't intend to use them againâespecially right here in front of her.
With a flick of the cloth, Annette tossed them all into the sea. They splashed one by one into the dark waters and disappeared from sight. Then she uttered a sigh of resignation, folded the cloth, and slipped it into a pocket in her skirt.
Grace tipped her head curiously. “Why did you do that?”
“I have been thinking. Compared to your God, the religion of my ancestors is weak and harms others. I no longer wish to pray to my ancestors.”
Grace nearly leapt out of her shoes. “I'm very happy to hear that, Annette.” She stared out to sea again, where the sun sank further behind the horizon, and pondered what to say next, not wanting to fail again. “Perhaps you would like to pray to my God?”
“Non.” Annette's reply disappointed Grace. “I do not, mademoiselle. If He is the one true God, then I want nothing to do with a God who enslaves my people.”
“But you are mistaken, Annette.” Grace laid a hand on hers. “He isâ”
A deep, buoyant chuckle drew Annette's attention behind them to where Mr. Thorn had joined Weylan and his friends. The mulatto's dark eyes latched upon the first mate, and Grace nearly gasped at the ardor she saw within them. Turning, she studied the odd group curiously. They spoke in whispered tones and bore a camaraderie that could only be fostered by long acquaintance or a bond of common goals. Yet, how often had Mr. Thorn scorned these very men.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” Annette scurried away, dropping below deck before Grace could continue their conversation. Frustration joined her already troublesome thoughts and she turned back around.
The sun disappeared behind the sea, dragging with it the last traces of its brilliant glory and leaving the world in a shroud of gray that soon faded to black. Yet Grace could not pull herself from the railing. She did not want to face the captain. She did not want to spend hours in idle chatter with Madame Dubois. In truth, she wanted to be alone to sort out the chaotic emotions whirling within her.
An hour later, the tread of boots and bare feet sounded, followed by hushed voices. Familiar voices that caused her to slink further into the shadows beneath the railing. A group of sailors made their way to the capstan amidships, their dark gazes scouring the deck for any intruders. They didn't seem to see her.
Grace held her breath and craned her ear toward the group, trying to make out the words over the slap of waves against the hull. “So, we are in agreement?” Weylan said.
“Aye.”
“Oui, I have informed the others.” A third voice.
“When?”
“The ship should arrive tomorrow at sunrise.” Weylan again.
“The captain will not go down easily.”
At the sound of Mr. Thorn's voice, Grace tossed her hand to cover her mouth.
“He will have no choice.”
The men grunted their approval and then dispersed across the deck, some heading up to the quarterdeck, others to join sailors lumbering by the larboard railing. The rest dropped below hatches. Grace clutched her throat and released her breath. Her thoughts whirled with the content of the men's conversation. Though her mind refused to accept it, she knew what she had heard. Plans for a mutiny.
But Mr. Thorn, of all people?
Grace trembled.
She must warn Rafe. She dared not move for several more minutes, at least until her heart no longer pounded in her ears. Then slowly, she tiptoed out from her hiding spot and slipped down the companionway.
And barreled right into Mr. Thorn.
Wearing the grin of a panther who had just caught his prey. “What do we have here, a little ship mouse?”
Grace tossed a hand to her throat. “Mr. Thorn, you gave me such a fright. I was just going to my cabin.” She heard the tremor in her voice and tried to skirt around him, but he blocked her way.
“Indeed? And where have you come from?”
“I was ... I was up on deck getting some air.” She tried to shove him aside. “Now if you please, sir.”
He grabbed her arm. His tight grip pinched her skin and sent pain down to her fingers. “I cannot let you warn him, miss. You know that.”
Grace lifted her gaze to his. Determined brown eyes with a hint of sorrow met hers. Her heart thrashed in her chest. She kicked him in the leg. He let out a moan and bent over to rub the wound. Grace gathered her strength to shoulder him aside when something hard hit her head with a
thunk.
A burning pain seared down her neck and back. The companionway spun in her vision and the last thing she remembered was Mr. Thorn's contorted expression before everything went black.
Rafe sat up in bed and rubbed his aching eyes. Sunlight poured in through the stern window setting everything aglow in its path. Rising, he tossed a shirt over his head, feeling more hopeful than he had in years, despite his lack of sleep. During the wee hours of the night Rafe had paced across his cabinâhad suffered beneath the pain that, upon delivering Grace to Charles Towne, he would never see her again. And he had concluded that it would be worth the risk of confessing his love to her, if there was but the slightest chance she might love him in return.
Which was why Rafe must seek out Mademoiselle Grace straightaway. It was time to risk his heart again. He had been betrayed by everyone he'd loved, but maybe, just maybe, Grace would be different. Perhaps her God truly did exist and by following Him, she had become incapable of dishonesty and betrayal.
Donning his waistcoat, boots, and baldric, he strapped on his weapons and headed out the door when Monsieur Fletcher nearly barreled into him. “A ship, Capitaine!” the man said in an urgent tone. Setting aside his task for now, Rafe followed him above.
“Where away?” Rafe shouted as he burst forth upon the deck.
“Two points off the starboard stern!” brayed a sailor.
Plucking out his spyglass as he went, Rafe leapt upon the quarterdeck and drew it to his eye before reaching the helm. Only a hint of the cool night remained in the morning wind that whipped through his hair. He focused the glass on a trio of sails, their bellies gorged with wind, not more than a league off their stern.
Monsieur Thorn appeared beside him.
“What do you make of her?” Rafe handed him the glass and braced himself on the deck as the ship pitched over a swell. Still angry at his first mate for offering to help Grace escape at the deserted island, Rafe decided to let the matter go and relieve the man of his duties the next time they weighed anchor at some port. Sans doute the man suffered from a concern for Mademoiselle Grace's welfare. How could Rafe blame him for that?
Thorn pressed the spyglass to his eye and shrugged. “A merchant, perhaps? She flies the ensign of France.” He lowered the glass and squinted into the rising sun. “Nothing to cause alarm, I am sure.”
Rafe eyed him curiously. “Then why does she give chase?”
“Perhaps she needs our help.”
“I see no
signal de détresse.”
Rafe snatched the glass back, examining the narrow lines of the hull, the shape and position of her sails. At least she was not one of Woodes's two ships that had pursued them earlier. Sacre mer, was every ship in the Caribbean after him?
Lowering the glass, he turned to Thorn, surprised by the grin tugging at his first mate's lips. “All hands aloft. Loose topgallants. Clear away the jib.”
“But our main-topmast, Captain.” Thorn seemed in no hurry to obey.
“I am aware of the damage, Monsieur Thorn. Raise what sails we have left.” Rafe ground his teeth together and gripped the hilt of his rapier. “And have Monsieur Porter clear the tackles and load the guns.”
“Zooks, Captain, is that quite necessary?” Thorn chuckled and brushed specks of dried salt from his coat.
Scowling, Rafe turned a cold eye upon his first mate, a man who had never hesitated to obey him. “Do as I say, Thorn, or I'll find someone who will.”
The first mate touched his hat, gave Rafe a grin laced with indignation and turned to bellow orders to the crew. Ignoring Thorn's impertinence, Rafe narrowed his eyes upon the ship that dared to intrude upon his waters.
Spyglass leapt into his arms and draped herself over his right shoulder. Purring filled his ears, and Rafe stroked her fur, releasing a familiar scent that delighted him. “So you have been with the mademoiselle.” He grinned. “I do not blame you.” His thoughts shot to the look of pain on Grace's face when he had called her a shrew. He had not meant to cause her any suffering, but only to cloak his true feelings. But he must not think of that now. For now he must shake this snake from his legâthis ship that dared to pursue him.
An hour crept by, and Rafe still was unable to determine either the ship's identity or her purpose.
The sun climbed midway between wave and topmast, and already the heat sent streams of sweat down his neck and back. The thunderous snap of sails glutting with wind sounded above. Shielding his eyes, he glanced at the line of men balancing across the foretop yard, as they adjusted sails to catch the shifting trade winds. At Rafe's direction, Monsieur Atton altered course repeatedly in an attempt shake off the nagging ship. But to no avail. “Zut alors, what does le irksome mongrel want?”
Rafe shrugged off his coat and tossed it to the deck by the railing, allowing the salty breeze to cool him. He stormed toward the taffrail and raised his spyglass again.
“She gains on us,” Thorn shouted from behind him.
“Je sais!” Rafe wondered at the lack of concern in this first mate's voice.
Father Alers approached and squinted in the sunlight. The wrinkles around his eyes folded like the threads of an old rope.
Rafe adjusted the glass, bringing the ship into clearer view. A bark. Three-masted, fore- and aft-rigged. The French flag flapped lazily upon her bowsprit.
Shifting the telescope aft, Rafe focused on the ensign upon the mainmast. His heart leapt in his throat.
The figure of two black lions battling against the backdrop of a red coat of arms. The Dubois crest. Rafe lowered the glass and slammed it shut. “Sacre mer, my father's ship.”
“Votre père?” Standing at the quarterdeck railing beside Rafe, Father Alers flinched, his gray hair puffing around his head like a turkey displaying its feathers.
“Oui.” Rafe's blood boiled.
Father Alers grabbed the glass and examined the ship himself. Lowering it, he scratched his gray beard. “I suppose he wants his wife back.”
“He can have her,” Rafe spat; then he marched to the quarterdeck railing.
“Egad, your father. How on earth did he find you?” Thorn appeared beside him.
“I wonder.” Rafe shot an accusing glare at his first mate. In light of his impudent behavior toward Rafe, Thorn's recent deception regarding Grace began to reek of treachery rather than mere concern for the mademoiselle.
Rafe turned to the helmsman. “Hard to larboard, Monsieur Atton. Let 's keep aweather of him. Perhaps he'll grow bored as he does with most of his intrigues.”