Raven Saint (31 page)

But he could not reach out to touch her.

Would probably never touch her again.

He had finally seen a gleam of ardor in her eyes. But now they would be separated forever. He would lose Grace, lose his ship, and possibly his life. And his father—or rather this brute who had pretended to be his father—would once again win. Forcing his anger aside, he turned toward Henri. “Promise me you will take Mademoiselle Grace back to her home.”

“I fear I cannot do that.” His lips writhed in a crooked smile. “How do you think I arranged this mutiny?” He waved at the men in dismissal as he did all his slaves. “Non, I will sell her to the don and divide the money among the crew.”

To which a cheer arose from the men.

He leaned toward Rafe, a maniacal spark in his eyes. “And then I will take you to Roger Woodes in Nassau. Where I am sure you will be tried and hanged, as the son of a pirate deserves.”

“My father was no pirate.” Rafe found a moment 's joy in associating the word
father
with someone other than the man who stood before him now.

“Hmm. But you are kidnapper, non?” “And you are a mutineer.”

“Moi? Non.” Henri laughed. “Monsieur Thorn and I have merely rescued these ladies from your brutal hands and relieved a criminal of his ship.”

“Some of my crew know differently. You cannot kill them all.”

Henri grinned. “A pocket full of gold does much to temper one's tongue. Non. They will not speak on your behalf. And those few who do will not be believed.”

Grace clung to the side of the cockboat and swallowed a knot of fear. A sliver of a moon frowned at her from above the gray horizon that wreathed a sea of ebony. The small boat crested a wave and water sloshed over the side. It soaked her slippers and sent a chill through her, despite the air thick with heat and moisture. The salt stung her raw ankle, and she tugged at the rope that bound her.

Monsieur Dubois perched at the bow, lantern in hand and face to the wind. His chest swelled as he peered through the darkness toward a shadowy mound up ahead. Behind him, two of his men grunted as they shoved oars through the churning water, sending the boat gliding toward its destination.

The coast of Colombia.

Where Grace would be sold to Don Miguel de Salazar.

She took a deep breath of the night air. The smell of earth and sea mingled in a fragrant symphony that would have otherwise soothed her nerves. But instead, her stomach coiled like a bundle of rope and her mind reeled with terror.

What would become of her? She could hardly consider it without breaking into a violent tremble.

For two days she'd been locked within her cabin. Twice a day, one of Monsieur Dubois's men had brought her food and changed her chamber pot, offering her only grunts and leers in response to her pleading questions. Then torn from her cabin in the middle of the night, she'd been lowered into this boat and shoved off without explanation.

But she knew where she was going.

Even in the gloom of the night, she could make out the pyramid of land looming ahead.

Oh Lord, how did it come to this? Please help me.

Amidst the fear, her thoughts veered to Rafe, as they often had during the past few days. The look on his face as he had been dragged away to the hold would forever be carved in her memory. His dark eyes had locked upon hers, gulping her in as if she were a dying man's last drink. And though she tried to do the same, tears had filled her eyes and the vision of him had grown blurry. Just like her hope.

Would Henri turn over the man he'd raised as his own son to be hanged?

Grace drew out her cross and rubbed it as a blast of night wind tore over her. The splash of the oars and purling of water against the hull increased in both pace and ferocity. Moonlight glittered off the waves' rising crests as they crashed ashore in bands of light that marched ahead of her, leading her to her doom.

“Hold on, mademoiselle,” Henri shot over his shoulder.

Grace lifted her slippers and placed them on the thwarts as they crested another swell. The wet rope chafed against the raw skin of her ankle, and she winced. The other end was tied to one of the oarlocks to prevent her escape over the side. Not that she would dare attempt it since she couldn't swim. Although drowning was beginning to seem preferable to the fate that awaited her at the hands of the Spanish.

How did I get here, Lord?
She tightened her lips.
Whatever reason You had for sending me on this harrowing journey, I was open to Your will. I wanted to be used for Your glory.

The croak of tree frogs and the call of the night heron met her ears. They were close now.

Grace's throat burned. She had done no good at all. She had not saved one soul, nor brought one person closer to God, save perhaps Father Alers. And even though Claire had been delivered of the curse Annette had cast upon her, she wavered in softening her heart toward God. Now Rafe would be hanged, Annette would remain a slave, Claire would go back to Monsieur Dubois, and Thorn would have his revenge.

The boat pitched over a wave then plunged down the other side. Seawater splashed over her, and she shook it off as tears filled her eyes.
I have done nothing good, Lord. Nothing. In fact, I have done worse.
She had stolen, lied, judged, broken a vow, faltered in her faith, and not only felt desire for Rafe but allowed him to kiss her. Some godly woman she was. How she had boasted back in Charles Towne of her righteous ways. How she had wagged her finger and flapped her tongue at others, so quick to point out their faults and failings and weaknesses.

Yet when faced with the same temptations, she had failed. She had sinned. She was no better than anyone else. She had judged people by their actions alone when she had no idea the path their lives had taken, the struggles and heartaches they'd suffered.

Nicole filled her thoughts. A trollop. A woman Grace would never have spoken to before. Yet she had been naught but kind to Grace. And Mr. Thorn, ever the presentation of propriety. Monsieur Henri, a godly man, a leader in his community—a man who spoke all the right words, who knew his scriptures. Both these men Grace would have gladly befriended a month ago. Yet inside, they were not godly men at all, but filled with hatred, jealousy, and revenge. And then there was Rafe. The ruffian, the rogue, but deep within, despite his cruel childhood, he possessed the heart of a saint.

How quick she was to judge others when it was her own heart that needed scrutiny.

Lowering her chin, she allowed her tears to fall. The boat canted over another wave, and she gripped the side, wishing they would capsize. She deserved nothing more than to drown beneath these foaming black waves.

The sailors adjusted their oars against the raging swells that came faster and more furious as they approached shore. Salty water crashed over her. She shivered as the boat struck land with a jolt. Splinters jammed in her fingers, and her knee struck a thwart. Pain etched up her thigh.

The sailors hopped out on either side. Waist deep in water, they dragged the bow of the boat onto the sand. Grace's breath heaved. Terror stiffened every nerve, every fiber.

Monsieur Dubois stepped onto the shore, fisted his hands at his waist and glanced about as if he were king. One of the crew untied the rope around Grace's ankle and offered her his hand.

Clutching her skirts, she splashed into the cool water. Her slippers sank into the sand as another wave crashed over the back of her legs, nearly toppling her. Grace froze as if the wave carried a serum of revelation. All through this harrowing journey, she had assumed that God had sent her to help someone else. She had assumed that once she had completed that task, she could go home. But now as she stood on the shores of Colombia, the jagged cliffs rising from the beach like ominous judges on a bench, the realization struck her just like the waves at her back. She hadn't been sent to help anyone else see the light. She'd been sent so that she would see the light. The light of her judgmental, prudish ways. The light that revealed deep down she was no better than anyone else.

“Come, come.
Dépêchez-vous.”
Henri held the lantern aloft and motioned for the men to bring her along.

Each sailor grabbed one of her arms. They dragged her out of the water and up the beach.

In the distance, beyond the rhythmic crash of waves, horses snorted and three men emerged from the dark forest.

“Captain Dubois.” One of them approached Henri. The high-crested Spanish morion atop his head glimmered in the lantern light.

“Oui.” Henri assumed Rafe's role with the ease of a man practiced at trickery.

“Is this Admiral Westcott's daughter?” the man said in a perfect Castilian accent.

“Oui, bien sûr.” Henri laid a hand upon the hilt of his rapier. “As promised.”

The other man approached Grace. He wore a suit of black taffeta with silver lace over which hung a corselet of black steel beautifully damascened with golden arabesques. A Spanish musket hung over his shoulder. He swept a contentious gaze over Grace and snorted before turning toward Monsieur Dubois.

“Then let us be about our business.”

Thorn leaned on the starboard railing and clasped his hands together. Beneath him, the sea lapped against the hull, pointing foam-laced fingers toward him—accusing fingers. In the past few days, instead of celebrating his victory with the crew, Thorn had sunk into a mire of despair, barely able to arise from his hammock each day. Wasn't this what he wanted? What he had worked for, for so long?

“Bonsoir,” Annette said as she slipped beside him.

“Good evening.” Thorn could not look at her—had been avoiding her for two days, too afraid to discover that she hated him for what he had done.

“Are you well?” She pointed toward the bloodstain on his right shoulder.

Her concern sparked hope within him. “Yes. It is not deep.” Not as deep as Rafe could have made it if he had truly wanted to hurt Thorn. The thought chafed Thorn's conscience.

“Revenge is not so sweet, non?”

Thorn met her gaze, those dark, clear eyes that spoke more of understanding than condemnation. “No, it is not.”

“Not for me either.” She attempted a smile.

“I wanted to kill him for what he did to my sister. Can you understand?”

“Oui.” She laid a hand on his. He squeezed it and held it tightly within his own.

“You do not fault me then?” he asked.

“How can I after what I did?” She gazed over the onyx sea then shrugged. “Perhaps it is not up to us to set things right in this world.”

Thorn clenched his jaw. “My sister is still ruined.”

“But the captain has changed, non?” Annette rubbed her thumb over his hand. “He is not the same man who did such atrocious things to your sister.”

“People don't change.”

“The captain did not kill you when he had a chance.”

That fact had haunted him day and night for the past two days. Releasing her hand, Thorn gripped the railing until the wood bit into his fingers.

“Ever since Mademoiselle and her God have come on board.” Annette shook her head and gave him a bewildered look. “I've seen many things I would not have believed before.”

Thorn swallowed. “Indeed.” He followed her gaze to the dark mound of Colombia in the distance.

“I miss her.” Annette whispered then her voice grew hard. “You should not have let him take her.”

Thorn shoved aside the agony he had endured since Monsieur Dubois had rowed away with Grace. “She was part of the bargain. I had no choice.” He knew it was an excuse, but it was a good one.

But instead of agreeing with him, Annette gave him a look of censure that cut through his excuses straight into his heart.

“How am I to fight an entire crew?” he snapped.

She narrowed her eyes upon him, studied him for a moment, then shook her head and walked away.

Thorn leaned his elbows on the railing and dropped his head into his hands. Before the mutiny, he thought he knew exactly what he wanted—knew exactly what was the right thing to do. Now, nothing made any sense anymore.

Rafe yanked once again on the iron manacles clamped around his ankles. But he received the same result as he had the last time. And the time before that. Cramping pain searing over his feet and clawing up his legs. Blood dripped from his scraped ankles. The patter of tiny feet filled his ears, and he swatted away the rats.

He'd lost track of time. Two days? Four days? He had no idea how long he'd been chained in the hold. With nothing to gaze at but a darkness so thick it seeped into his soul, he'd begun to lose all hope.

That the ship had sailed for a few days, he could tell by the roar of the sea against the hull and the undulating roll that had tied his stomach in knots. But the thunderous sound had softened to the gentle slap of waves, and the grating of the anchor chain and ominous splash of iron had told him they had arrived at their destination.

Had his father truly sailed to Colombia to deliver Grace? Rafe ground his teeth together and grabbed the chain again. Groaning, he yanked upon it, straining the muscles in his arms. With nothing but putrid water, unfit to drink, for two days, Rafe could feel his body weakening. Soon, he would be unable to keep the rats at bay. He lay down on the damp planks of the hold, hoping for a moment's rest before the ravenous creatures crowded in on him, but the tap of a multitude of little feet drummed over his ears in warning. He sat back up and swatted them away.

Stripped down to his breeches, Rafe stood and fisted his hands, digging his nails into his palms. The stench of human waste and mold and decay clung to him like a garment. He tried to pace, but the chains forbade him. His swollen ankles cried out in pain. Bien. The pain kept him awake. He yanked his hands through his hair and thought of Grace. Sold to a Spanish don. A life unimaginable. Yet hadn't it been his fault, his doing, his idea?

What an imbécile Rafe had been. Fooled his entire life by a man claiming to be his father. Rafe didn't even look like Henri. Now this man, this imposter, who had ruined Rafe, and probably his mother...

Would finally win in the end.

Rafe shouted into the darkness, scattering the approaching rats and shaking the timbers of the hull.

When he had spent himself, he sank to the deck and lowered his head. Thoughts of the past month flooded his mind. Grace, sweet Grace. Even chained in the hold, he smiled at the thought of her. How she had changed him. How she had opened his heart again. Though her tongue was quick to judge, she'd had the best intentions—to love and care for others. If there was a heaven, Rafe suddenly wished to go there so he would see her again.

God, if You are there, save me.

Rafe surprised himself at his prayer. He heard the rats circling him. One of them chomped upon his toe. Pain spiked through his foot, but Rafe hadn't the energy to brush the rodent away. Then a hiss, scampering of paws, and the rats retreated. Something furry landed in his lap and began purring. Spyglass. Rafe drew the feline to his chest and scratched beneath her chin. “So you have come to my rescue, petit chat.”

Or God had answered his prayer.

He set Spyglass down by his legs, and the cat stood guard, hissing and pouncing upon the rats who dared draw near.

A breeze blew over Rafe, and he rubbed the sweat from the back of his neck even as the hairs stood at attention. A breeze? In the hold? He peered into the darkness.