“Hard to larboard, Capitaine,” Monsieur Atton replied and adjusted the wheel.
Le Champion
swept over the rolling waves under a full press of sails, at least the sails that remained. Rafe cursed. With his main-topmast damaged, he'd have trouble outrunning his father's ship.
“Perhaps you should see what he wants?” Monsieur Thorn lifted one brow.
“If he has come for his wife, I am happy to hand her over. Otherwise, I have nothing to say to him.”
Rafe marched to the bulwarks, annoyed with his first mate's cavalier attitude. A gust of wind struck him, yanking strands of his hair from his tie. The ship bucked, and he gripped the railing until the wood bit into his fingers. Rafe had spent a childhood buried beneath his father's shadow, and the next several years of his life digging out from under it. Aside from his last unavoidable visit, he had vowed never to see the man againâthe man who ruled the Dubois estate and most of Port-de-Paix with the iron scepter of cruelty.
But the sea was Rafe's territory. Was it not enough the man had stolen Rafe's childhood? Was it not enough he had stolen his fiancée? Did he want the sea as well?
Rafe grunted and gripped the pommel of his rapier. Whatever mischief his father was about, it would only end in disaster. Of that he was sure.
As the minutes passed, Rafe grew more agitated. His father's ship furled tops and mainsails, stripped to mizzen and sprit, and was now within one half mile of
Le Champion,
so close Rafe could make out her crew, as well as the yellow plume fluttering atop his father's cocked hat. Yet still Rafe waited. Waited for a signal to parley, a salute of the flag, anything to announce the man's intentions.
Finally, when the ship sailed just a quarter mile off their starboard stern, the flag atop her foremast dipped in a signal requesting a parley. Rafe narrowed his eyes, his gut churning with distrust. “Return the signal, but ensure our guns are loaded and ready. And man the swivels,” Rafe ordered Mr. Thorn.
“But 'tis obvious he means us no harm,” the first mate replied.
Rafe's jaw hardened, and blood surged to his fists. “Do as I say!”
“As you wish, Captain.” Thorn's voice carried a sneering bite as he touched his hat and left.
Rafe shook his head. What was wrong with the man today?
Father Alers grunted and laid a hand on Rafe's arm. “Be patient, my boy.”
“Never fear.” Rafe sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “Regardless that my father has never given me a reason to trust him, I will not fire upon him without cause. I shall wait to see what he wants.”
His father's ship plunged through the turquoise sea, sending a foamy squall over her bow as she tacked alee then came even on
Le Champion'
s keel. Without warning, her larboard gun ports popped open one by one and the charred muzzles of ten guns spewed out from them like ravenous black tongues.
Father Alers gave a sordid chuckle. “Your wait is over, Capitaine.”
“Zut alors.” Rafe swerved on his heels. A string of rapid orders exploded from his lips, sending his men flying across the deck. “Helm's lee!
Adieu-va!”
he bellowed. Above him the sailors scrambled to let go the foresheets.
“Rise tacks and sheets!” Rafe braced himself on the deck as
Le Champion,
with straining cordage and creaking blocks, swung to larboard. She pitched over a swell, and foamy spray swept over the deck, slapping Rafe's boots. Lugsails flapped thunderously until the sails caught the wind in an ominous snap.
Le Champion
veered promptly about on an eastern tack, flashing the pursuing ship her rudder.
Boom!
A volcano of hot metal fired from his father's ship, sending the air aquiver.
“All hands down!” Rafe dove to the deck. The crunch and snap of wood grated over his ears, and he looked up to see a gaping hole of jagged shards marring the taffrail. Rafe jumped to his feet. The other shots plunged harmlessly into the churning wake off their stern. He released a sigh and lifted a contemptuous gaze toward his father's ship.
Ten puffs of gray smoke curled upward from her hull like snakes beneath a charmer's flute. His father had fired upon him. After requesting a parley. Had the man no decency?
“Bring her about!” Rafe shouted to Monsieur Thorn, who was struggling to rise. “And ready the larboard guns.”
The ship yawed widely to port as Rafe leapt down the quarterdeck ladder and marched across the main deck. Fury fanned his hatred into a roaring flame. His father may have oppressed him in his youth. He may have belittled him and defeated him, but Rafe was no longer a little boy, and he'd be keelhauled and strung from the yardarm before he'd allow his father to best him upon the seas.
Bracing his boots upon the slanted deck, Rafe glanced aloft as his crew worked furiously to complete another tack. Pride swelled within him at their skill and efficiency. He had taught them well. In a few minutes they'd be in position to deliver a well-deserved broadside to his father's ship.
A ship that now floundered in an effort to veer away from
Le Champion
as the crew no doubt sensed their imminent danger. Rafe grinned. He glanced over his shoulder. From the quarterdeck, Monsieur Thorn gazed at their enemy with the look of expectancy, rather than anger. Father Alers made his way over the teetering deck to Rafe.
Le Champion
rose and swooped over the turquoise swells. The creak of her blocks and the rattle of flapping sails filled the air along with the silken rustle of the sea along the hull. The sting of gunpowder tainted the morning breeze. Rafe ordered top and studding sails reefed as they swung around and hove to, athwart the ship's bow.
His father's crew darted frantically across the deck and up into the ratlines, attempting to find the wind and turn their ship. Amidst the chaos, her larboard guns had not been reloaded and still hung from their ports in impotence.
Rafe had them. “Monsieur Thorn!” he bellowed.
“Yes, Captain.”
“On my order.”
“On your order, Captain.” Thorn shifted his stance, not meeting Rafe's gaze.
Facing forward, Rafe studied his prey. Within seconds, they'd be in perfect position to loose a broadside. Within seconds, he would finally beat his father, sink his ship, and take the man prisoner. A tingle of elation ran through him at the prospect.
He opened his mouth to give the order.
“Wait, Captain. They raise a white flag,” Monsieur Thorn said
Rafe glanced at the white cloth climbing toward the blue sky.
Father Alers turned to him with a look of censure. “They surrender, Rafe.”
“He surrenders because he knows I have the advantage and could blast him from the water.” Rafe grabbed his baldric. Yet a thread of relief wove through his knotted insides. No matter what his father had done to him, no matter the beatings, the humiliation, the belittling, the hatred, no matter the way he treated Rafe's mother, it was wrong to fire upon one's father.
Besides, Grace would not approve. Scanning the deck, he searched for a glimpse of her, but she was nowhere to be seen. She had admonished him to be a better man than he was. And right now, he wanted more than anything to prove to her that he could be. He turned around. Off their larboard side, his father's ship slipped through the sea, already positioned board by board. On her foredeck, the man who sired him stood awaiting his fate. If Rafe intended to loose a broadside, he must do so immediately or forfeit the chance to prove that his father had been wrong about him.
To prove that Rafe was not a failure.
Rafe clenched his fists until they hurt. “Stand down.”
Mr. Thorn smiled. “Very well, Captain.”
Shoving aside the angst churning in his gut, Rafe released a ragged sigh. “Arm the men and then signal my father to come aboard.”
Grace woke with a start. Pain burned through her head. Her lips ached. The taste of sweat-laden cloth filled her mouth. Why couldn't she move her hands and legs? She sprang up, and her head crashed into something hard. A crate? A barrel? Hard to tell in the darkness. Panic took over. She wrestled to free her hands, but the more she struggled the more her wrists stung until something warm seeped from them. Blood. She tried to scream, but her voice came out a muffled groan from behind the cloth stuffed in her mouth.
Lord?
As her mind cleared, she tried to recall how she ended up in this dark prison.
Mr. Thorn. The last thing she remembered was bouncing off his thick chest and the furtive look of treachery on his face.
The mutiny! They planned to mutiny!
Inching her backside over the rough planks of the deck, Grace used her bound hands to locate the door. She must be in some kind of storage room. She must get to Rafe. She must warn him. She had no idea how long she'd been in here. Lifting her legs, she kicked the door.
Pound. Pound. Pound.
She groaned a muted call for help. For several minutes, she repeated the process until her legs ached and her throat swelled.
Boom! Boom!
Cannon blasts fired in the distance. Grace's breathing took on a frenzied pace. Who was firing at them? Footsteps sounded on the deck above her like methodical drums. Muffled shouts and curses trickled down to taunt her ears. Grace screamed again and thumped her feet against the door. Nothing.
She would not give up. She must warn Rafe before it was too late.
Within minutes, Monsieur Dubois and several of his crew had boarded a cockboat and with oars to water, made quick work of the distance between the two ships. Rafe's father stood at the bow with arms at his hips and yellow feather fluttering from his hat as if he were the conqueror of the world.
Familiar with his father's ostentatious display, Rafe ignored him, though he could not deny the fury that pulsed through every vein. “Steady, men.” His piercing gaze scoured his crew as they stood armed with rapiers, pistols, and axes.
The cockboat thumped against the hull, and two of Monsieur Dubois's crew climbed over the bulwarks. Each gripped a pistol in one hand and drew their sword with the other. Three of Rafe's crew took a step forward, taunting the men with their blades and angry curses. Rafe stayed them with a lift of his hand.
Finally, his father clambered aboard, his face plump and red. “Infernal ladder,” he grunted; then glancing at Rafe's crew, he lengthened his stance, adjusted his velvet waistcoat, and replaced his look of frustration with a veneer of confident insolence. He turned cold eyes toward his son. “No stomach for a fight, Rafe?” He waved a ruffled handkerchief in the breeze. “So much like your mother.”
“If it's a fight you want, Père, it's a fight I'll give you. My men are well trained,” Rafe replied, his statement confirmed by thunderous grunts behind him.
Monsieur Dubois shot his beady gaze across the deck as the remainder of his men jumped over the bulwarks and joined him. That made twelve men to Rafe's thirty.
“Have your men stand down, Father. I seek no battle between us.” And that was no lie. He wanted his father to state his business, take his wife, and be gone. Rafe glanced across the deck, wondering why Grace had not come above but was thankful when he did not see her.
Monsieur Dubois tugged on the white swath of silk at his neck and directed his gaze to Mr. Thorn. The first mate shook his head and looked down.
“Very well, Rafe.” Monsieur Dubois gestured for his men to lower their weapons.
Rafe glared at his father, questioning his decision to allow him aboard. “You should thank me for sparing your life, Father. For it was only our relation and our common bond to ma mère which stood between me and the cannons that would have sunk you to the depths.”
“C'est vrai? I am more inclined to believe it was your cowardice that failed you.” His father laid a hand on his hip and took a turn about the deck. “How you have succeeded as a mercenary I shall never know. Well, perhaps that is why you saw fit to steal my wife from me. Intending to sell her as well?”
Monsieur Thorn slipped from beside Rafe and disappeared behind him. Was the man so much a coward that he could not stand beside his captain in time of need?
“I did not kidnap Claire,” Rafe shot back as he slid his fingers over the warm pommel of his rapier. One false move and he would silence his father's insolent tongue.
“Non? Is she not on your brig?” Monsieur Dubois's tone rose in sarcasm.
Rafe flexed his jaw. “Oui, but not by my doing.”
“Then by whose? I suppose she stole away in the night and hired a boatman to bring her aboard?” He chuckled. “She has neither the brains nor the bravery for such an act.”
A moan sounded from the companionway, and all eyes shot in the direction of the woman emerging from below.
“Ah there you are, ma chérie.” Monsieur Dubois's features sharpened, but he made no move to aid his wife.
Claire walked across the deck, her blond hair shimmering in the noontime sun. The color had returned to her skin though her chest rose and fell from the exertion of climbing abovedecks.
Claire reached his side. “Henri. What are you doing here?” Disbelief and anger rang in her tone.
“I came to rescue you, ma chérie.” His smile sent ice through Rafe.
Claire's face scrunched, and she eyed him with disbelief.
“What has Rafe done to you, ma chérie?” he went on. “Are you injured?”
“She has been ill,” Rafe said. A gust of hot wind tainted with human sweat tore over the deck, tossing his hair.
Monsieur Dubois took Claire's arm and tried to draw the woman into an embrace. She stiffened, but he forced her against him. “Are you so inept, my son, that you cannot take care of one woman?”
Rafe snorted. “No more inept than a man who cannot hold on to his own wife.”
Father Alers coughed.
Monsieur Dubois huffed and directed his gaze behind Rafe where Rafe heard the thudding of bare feet on the deck. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder but only Monsieur Thorn and a band of Rafe's men met his gaze. He faced forward. “How did you find me?”
“You are not the only one with skills upon the sea.”
“Which is why your broadside splashed impotently into the water.”
A vein pulsed on his father's sweaty neck. “Yet I believe it is I and my men who have boarded your ship.”
“Only by my leave.” Rafe groaned and stomped his boot on the deck. “Assez! If you have come for your wife, take her and go.” He waved a hand in dismissal.
“No, please, Rafe,” Claire cried. Fear and desperation scampered across her blue eyes.
“Silence, woman!” Rafe's father put his arm around Claire's shoulders, forcing her against him. Her face pinched. He glared at Rafe. “And leave her kidnapper unpunished?” Monsieur Dubois's eyes searched the deck. “And where is your other victim? I assume you stole Mademoiselle Grace as well?”
“Rafe did not kidnap me, Henri.” Claire swallowed and stared at the deck. “I came of my own will.”
Henri's face mottled in blotches of red and white. The veins in his neck pulsed. Rafe feared he would explode, but then a flash of anguish peeked out from behind the anger in his eyes. He shoved Claire to the side. “It matters not.”
“Of course it matters, Father.” Rafe shook his head. “We have no quarrel now.” At least none Rafe cared to address. Then why did the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end?
Footfalls pounded on the deck behind him. Muffled voices bounced through the air.
The
ching
of sword against sheath. The cock of pistols. Rafe froze. The taste of metal filled his mouth.
Slowly he turned around. The tips of ten rapiers shot toward him. Sunlight glared from their blades and bounced over the deck like grapeshot. Toward the forefront of the mob of Rafe's own men stood Monsieur Thorn, wearing a look of haughty disdain. Beyond them, the remainder of Rafe's crew halted beneath the leveled aim of blades and pistols.
Rafe threw back his shoulders and lengthened his stance to cover up the fear tying his stomach into knots. He swung back to his father, whose blue eyes glowed with cruel deception. “What is this about?”
His father grinned. “This is what I believe you call a mutiny.”