Raven Saint (7 page)

Monsieur Thorn finished the food in his mouth and took a sip of his wine. “I do.”

“Mais oui,” Monsieur Legard grunted.

“Haven't really taken much thought of it.” Monsieur Atton shoveled a spoonful of peas into his mouth, sending one shooting across the table like a miniature cannonball.

Monsieur Maddock shrugged while Father Alers focused a convicting gaze upon Rafe.

“God is real.” The pitch of her sweet voice rose. “He created this world, and He created you. He does not approve of such licentious living, wasting your talents on dissipation and thievery. There will come a judgment one day, gentlemen, and my hope, my desperate prayer, is that you will not be found wanting.” Her eyes flamed with sincerity and true concern.

And Rafe knew she meant every word she said.

But he didn't have the heart to tell her she was a fool for putting her hopes in such nonsense.

Monsieur Legard took another swig of ale. A trickle ran down his bearded chin, and he wiped it with his sleeve. “You are fair to look at, mademoiselle, but you should pray the don is deaf. Your religious jabbering will drive a man
fou—
even a devout Spaniard.”

Chuckles of agreement spanned over the table.

Rafe winced beneath Monsieur Legard's insult, and he opened his mouth to reprimand the man, but then he hesitated, his gaze shifting to Mademoiselle Grace, curious to see her response to the injurious affront.

Her cheeks reddened, and she glared at the man as if she would shoot him where he sat. But then her features softened like the settling of waves upon the sea, and she gave him a sweet smile. “I have been told I talk overmuch, Monsieur Legard. Please forgive me if I have offended you.”

The man blinked then shook his head. “No offense, mademoiselle.”

Rafe sipped his brandy, trying to quell the unease gripping his belly. Such charity in the face of insult and hostility.
Incroyable.

Spyglass jumped into her lap, and she ran her fingers over the cat 's fur. She met Rafe's gaze but quickly lowered her lashes. This evening could not be easy for her. Yet she'd accepted his invitation, and not only that, she had engaged the men in a discussion of what was important to her, no matter the cost to her dignity.

“D'ye think we'll see more of Captain Howell?” Monsieur Maddock shifted uncomfortably in his seat and faced Rafe.

“Non. I'd say he's been sufficiently humbled.” Rafe chuckled, eager to follow the conversation on its new tack.

“He'll have to assemble a fleet next time to catch you, Captain.” Monsieur Thorn lifted his mug in salute.

Monsieur Atton scratched his head. “I still can't figure out what sent 'im after us.”

Monsieur Thorn coughed and poured himself more wine.

Rafe couldn't make sense of it either. He'd never committed piracy, and his reputation as a mercenary was well known throughout the West Indies. That Capitaine Howell sailed the Caribbean in search of him only made Rafe's job more difficult. As soon as possible, he would send a dispatch to Governor Woodes to inquire after the matter.

“How long will we anchor at Port-de-Paix, Capitaine?” Monsieur Legard scooped another helping of pork onto his plate.

“Je ne sais pas.”
Rafe shook his head. Mademoiselle Grace continued to pet Spyglass, the cat's purrs filtering over the table. The woman had not eaten much of her food. Her shoulders slumped, and she seemed to have detached herself from the conversation. Rafe felt the loss immediately.

“Long enough for me to visit Mademoiselle Bertille?” Monsieur Legard asked, his eyes aglow.

“That trollop.” Monsieur Weylan snickered.

“She's no more trollop than the women ye frequent.”

Mademoiselle Grace cringed.

“Jealous?” Weylan grinned.

“Assez!”
Rafe slammed down his mug. “Hardly proper conversation with a lady present.”

“If you'll excuse me, gentlemen.” Mademoiselle Grace rose from her chair, cuddling Spyglass in her arms. “My absence will surely allow you to continue your engaging discourse without censure.” She offered the men a weak smile.

Father Alers pushed his seat back, its legs scraping over the wooden deck. “I will escort you back to your cabin.”

“Non. Allow me.” Rafe stood, feeling the brandy swirl in his head. Steadying himself, he wove around the table and held out his arm while Father Alers gave him a curious look and resumed his seat.

Fear dashed across Mademoiselle Grace's eyes. She hesitated then set Spyglass down, nodding her assent but refusing to take his arm.

“C'est-ça.” Rafe hid his disappointment beneath a shrug.

With a swish of her skirts, she followed him out the door and into the dark companionway.

“My men have not had opportunities to polish their social graces. My apologies if they offended you.”

“They did not offend, Captain. I merely wished them to see the peril of their souls so they can choose God's love rather than continue in a life of sin.” They passed beneath a lantern hanging on the bulkhead. Rafe noticed how its light sought her out and showered over her as if she were the only thing worthy on board the vessel.

“I would leave the fate of their souls up to them, mademoiselle, if I were you. They do not take kindly to religious reprimands. En effet, most left their homes to avoid such castigation.”

He rounded the corner, opened the door, and ushered her inside.

She turned to face him. “I fear for your soul as well, Captain. I urge you to flee from this sordid life you have chosen before it is too late.” Yet no urgency or concern could be found in either her tone or in her expression.

Rafe cocked his head. “Before I sell you to the don, you mean?”

She looked down. “If that is my destiny, I accept it. But that is not why I warned you.”

“I do not believe you care for my soul, mademoiselle. In fact, I think you despise me. Am I right?” Rafe laid a finger beneath her chin and tipped her head up to face him, longing to see a glimpse of emotion, a spark of feeling, anything that would prove him wrong.

But her eyes were as hard as glass. She stepped back, breaking their contact and sending a chill through him. “What do you expect?”

Rafe studied her. What
did
he expect? Nothing but the hatred he received. Why then, did he long for something else? Longing made him weak. And weakness was not to be tolerated. So, he attacked her where he knew it would hurt. “Are not Christians supposed to love everyone? Even your enemies?”

Sighing, she clasped her hands together and hung her head. “I love you as a fellow human being and a lost soul in need of God.” She lifted narrow, spiteful eyes upon him. “But in truth, I loathe you and what you've done to me.”

He tore his gaze from her hatred and feigned a chuckle. “Ah ha, mademoiselle has a crack in her holy armor. But at least you speak the truth and not lies.”

She flattened her lips. “I am only human.” Stuffing a loose strand of hair into her tight bun, she shifted her gaze to his, then away, then back again. “Why do you stare at me like that?” She retreated a step. “ 'Tis impertinent and rude.”

“What do you expect from a French rogue? Is that not what you called me?” He leaned on the door frame and folded his arms over his chest. “I stare at you because you are beautiful.” She was
la belle femme,
but in truth he did not stare at her for her comeliness. He stared at her because she hated him and he wanted to make her uncomfortable for it. He stared at her because a devilish idea began to hatch in his brandy-drenched brain.

“Outward beauty is fleeting, Captain.”

“Perhaps. But while it is here, I will admire it if I please.” He lifted his brows and tossed any propriety he still possessed to the wind. “Most women would offer themselves to me in the hope of buying their freedom.”

The mademoiselle's face flushed to a deep shade of burgundy. Her chest rose and fell. She retreated even further and raised her chin. “I am not most women, Captain Dubois.”

“But you do want to go home?”

“Of course.” Her bottom lip trembled. “But not at the cost of compromising everything I hold dear.”

Rafe studied her, desire and admiration warring within him. He nodded, conceding to admiration, then walked out and shut the door behind him before he gave in to the stronger emotion.

Suddenly five hundred pounds didn't seem a large enough sum for such an exquisite treasure. En fait, he wasn't sure any amount would be.

Grace crept down the lower deck ladder, cringing with every creak of the wooden steps. She didn't know whether to hold her free hand to her nose to block the stench of rot, mold, and waste or to cover her mouth to stifle her nervous breathing that seemed as loud as the sea purling against the hull. She had hoped that perhaps her second trip to the hold wouldn't be as horrifying as the first, but as her heart cinched in her chest and her feet rebelled with each shuffle forward, she realized she'd probably never possess the courage of her sister Faith.

She took another step, and her shoes met the layer of muddy rocks covering the bottom of the ship. In the hold, heat seemed to take on its own persona and cling to whoever dared venture below as if in hope of escaping with them when they ascended. With the sleeve of her gown, she dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead, surprised at the damp chill seeping from the rocks through her shoes.

Lifting her lantern, she allowed its glowing circle to create a barricade of light around her. Perhaps a false barricade, for she knew not what crept beyond its borders, save for the rats she heard pattering away. But within its lighted walls sat an assortment of crates, barrels, and sacks broken from their bindings and scattered haphazardly wherever the sea had tossed them. She moved forward. More pattering caused her to shudder. At least the tiny beasts were afraid of the light. She'd have no such luck if she happened upon a sailor. Since it was well past midnight, most of them should be asleep, an assumption she confirmed by the barrage of snores that had assaulted her as she descended past the crew's berth.

All she needed was one more slab of wood to match the one she'd retrieved the night before. Just one piece of wood and she could return to her cabin.

She coughed and bent over, trying not to breathe too much of the foul air, focusing her thoughts on something else, anything else besides the stench suffocating her and the roast pork now roiling in her stomach. After the captain had deposited her in her cabin, she'd waited for hours as the ship drifted into slumber, pondering the sanity of her plan. But the captain's mention of bartering her purity for freedom only increased the urgency of her escape.

Standing tall, she threw back her shoulders.
Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest,
she thought, quoting from Joshua. But the bold words sank to the deck beneath the dank, weighted air. Did she believe them anymore? Truth be told, she did not feel God's presence at all. Which is why she must take measures into her own hands. She took a step forward and scanned the cargo for the broken crate she'd stumbled upon—or stumbled over—the night before.

A gray streak flashed across her vision, and before she could swerve the lantern to see what it was, it sprang at her and landed on her chest. Sharp claws and soft fur scrambled over her skin.
A rat! A
large
rat!
She screamed. Stumbling backward, she tried to swat the beast away. The lantern slipped from her hand, struck a crate, and hit the deck with a clank. The flame flared, sputtered ... then went out. Thick, inky darkness molded over her. The eerie creak and groan of the ship grew louder as if it were laughing at her misfortune. Her feet went numb.

The furry animal clinging to Grace's chest began to purr.

“Spyglass, is that you?” The cat nestled beneath her chin, her pleasing rumble soothing Grace's nerves. Releasing a sigh, she ran her fingers through the cat's fur and waited for the thumping of her own heart to slow and her feet to regain their feeling. “You frightened me, little one.”

The ship pitched, and Grace braced her shoes on the uneven pebbles to keep from falling. She peered into the darkness. Not a speck of light. Not a glimmer. Nothing but charcoal black met her gaze. The hair bristled on her arms.

“Now look what you've done,” she whispered to the cat. “Hold on, let me find the ladder, and I'll take you up to my cabin.” Where she'd have to grab another lantern and come back down again.

A thump sounded. Her ears perked. Was that a boot step? Another thud. She turned toward the sound. A glimmer of light appeared from above, streaming down the ladder. Grace slunk backward, petting Spyglass, more to comfort herself than the cat. Her stomach tightened.
Lord, please help me.

Spyglass continued to purr. “Shhh.” Grace ceased stroking the cat, but the rebellious feline only rumbled her approval louder.

A man descended the ladder. Handsomely dressed in a laced waistcoat, gray sash, and trousers, with silver-plated pistols and a dagger in his belt, he raised his lantern above his head and squinted into the darkness.

Mr. Weylan.

A scrawny man in a checkered shirt and torn breeches slinked behind him, casting his gaze this way and that. A third man wobbled down the ladder after them, the wooden steps bowing to near breaking beneath his considerable weight.

The three men who had leered so blatantly at her on deck two days ago.

“We know yer down here, mademoiselle,” Mr. Weylan said with a sneer.

Grace's knees quivered. How did they know where she was? She backed up and hit a stack of crates. One of them toppled to the deck with a bang. The men jerked their gazes her way, and all three grinned simultaneously. “There she be.”

Mr. Weylan started toward her, his eyes gleaming with malice. He reminded her of her sister Hope's latest beau, Lord Falkland—the one she'd run away with. The same striking features, same debonair mannerisms, yet for those with discernment a facade covering the corruption within. The other two men came alongside her, the third one holding his lantern up to her face. Brown sweat streamed from the folds of his neck. Two yellow teeth perched along his bottom gums, like sentinels guarding an empty cave.

Spyglass leapt from Grace's embrace and darted up the ladder.
Traitor.
Grace swallowed and gathered her resolve. “What is it you want?”

Mr. Weylan chuckled and raised his brows at his friends. He reached out to touch her cheek. She jolted away.

He frowned. “We thought ye might want to accommodate us lonely sailors who've been out to sea far too long. We don't often come across
une femme si belle.”

A sickening wave of terror washed over Grace. “I don't know what you mean by accommodate, sir.” Her voice came out in a rasping squeak. “But I seem to have lost my lantern and would appreciate an escort back to my cabin.” Perhaps if she appealed to their male instinct of chivalry, they'd rise to the occasion.

Again she seemed to have said something amusing.

“We'd love to escort you, mademoiselle, wouldn't we,
messieurs?
That is, after you do us a favor.” Mr. Weylan fingered the lace atop her neckline then dropped his hand to the ties of her bodice.

Grace slapped the offending appendage. “Shame on you, sir.” Anger burned hot, snuffing out her fear. She eyed each one in turn. “On all of you! To take advantage of an innocent lady. The Bible says, ‘As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.' Would you like someone to accost you?”

Again their chuckles filled the room. The man who was beginning to look more like the huge barrel he stood beside leaned toward her and drew a deep breath of her hair. “I'd love to be accosted, miss, if ye'd oblige me.”

Grace's mind reeled. She must get through to these men. Were they so depraved that no goodness could be found in them? “Look inside of you, gentlemen. You are better men than this.” She gave them an affirming nod. “God has made you to be better men than this.”

Mr. Weylan cocked his head and studied her while the other two snickered beside him. For a moment, Grace thought she had pierced the evil crust around his soul.

“God has nothin' to do with this,” he scoffed.

Grace's hopes plummeted to the sharp pebbles beneath her feet. “On that I will agree.” The metallic taste of horror filled her mouth. Her heart felt as though it would crash through her chest. “Do you wish to spend eternity in hell?”

“Hell don't scare me, miss. I'm livin' in it already.” Setting down his lantern, Mr. Weylan approached her, devouring her with his gaze.

“I assure you, sir, you know nothing of hell.” A chill bristled over her at the memory of her vision—a vision that if these men caught even a glimpse, they'd fall to their knees and repent right here. But at the moment, with their wicked intent toward her screaming from their eyes and dripping from their salivating lips, she wished them all the eternity they deserved.

Grace squeezed her eyes shut and screamed, but Mr. Weylan's hand smothered the sound. She tasted dirt and sweat and fish on his rough skin and braced herself for the assault. Seconds passed. The creaks and moans of the ship taunted her from all around. And something else. The thud of boot steps reached her ears, then gasps and curses. Weylan's hand left her mouth.

Slam. Thud. Crash.

The sounds of a brawl pounded in her ears, and she pried her eyes open to see Captain Dubois dragging Mr. Weylan through a pile of sacks. The captain slammed him against the hull then gripped the man's throat until his eyes bulged and his face purpled. The other men struggled to rise from the deck, where they'd obviously been tossed, and rushed to the aid of their friend.

Grace shrieked, and Captain Dubois released Mr. Weylan, swung about, kicked the scrawny man in the stomach, sending him crashing backward into a stack of barrels, while he drew his rapier and leveled the tip upon the other. Fury stormed from the captain's dark eyes. His hair hung in black strands about his face. “You dare attack your capitaine, Holt?”

Mr. Weylan groaned from his spot on the deck, gripping his throat and gasping for breath.
“Et vous,
Monsieur Weylan?” Rafe shot over his shoulder.

“We jest wanted some female companionship, Cap'n.” The portly man that Dubois held at the tip of his rapier offered a conciliatory grin and shrugged. “We's lonely men.”

“You'll be even lonelier when I toss you overboard.” Captain Dubois pressed the blade upon Holt's chest, drawing a drop of blood that stained his brown shirt.

The lanky man emerged from the barrels, pressing a hand against his back.

Grace's fear resurged. Could the captain handle all three?

“Ye shared the last woman on board.” Mr. Weylan rose to his feet, still clutching his neck.

“You
shared the last trollop, not lady, and she came aboard willingly. I never touched her.” The captain lowered his blade and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“What do it matter?” Holt jerked a thumb in Grace's direction. “This one's ending up a Spanish whore anyway.”

Without hesitation, the captain slammed his fist across the man's jaw. Holt spun around beneath the blow and stumbled backward, crashing to the deck. Grace threw a hand to her mouth, both in shock at the violence she witnessed and the speed with which the captain came to her honor. But why would he? When he was the one leading her straight into dishonor?

The captain turned on Mr. Weylan, who fingered the handle of a knife stuffed in his belt.

“Make sure you know what you are doing, mon ami, before you draw that.” Captain Dubois snapped his hair from his face. Behind his back, the skinny man shook his head at Weylan, his eyes wide.

Mr. Weylan released the handle with a huff. “This isn't a British warship, nor even a pirate ship, and we have signed no articles.” His jaw tightened beneath eyes alight with fury. “Someday you'll regret this, Captain.”

“I never regret,” came the captain's sharp reply. “Now off with you. And if I see you so much as glancing at the lady, I'll string you up on the yardarm.”

Amidst a cacophony of grunts and curses, the men eased by Captain Dubois, Mr. Weylan rubbing his neck, the skinny man his back, and Holt his jaw. They disappeared up the ladder.

Sheathing his rapier, Captain Dubois ran a hand through his hair and faced her.
“Allez-vous bien?
Are you all right?”

Grace tried to find her voice, but her heart still hung in her throat. The harsh lines on the captain's face softened, and she found herself mesmerized by the way the lantern light flickered across his dark eyes. It was the concern burning within them that set her aback. Could the man actually have some goodness in his heart? She rubbed her own eyes. Perhaps she was too tired or the light too dim. He had saved her for no other reason than the protection of his property. Hadn't he?

He took a step closer, so close she could smell the brandy on his breath. “Did they hurt you?” He eyed her from head to toe.

Grace lowered her gaze. “No. I am fine.”

His countenance stiffened. “Sacre mer, what were you doing down here, mademoiselle?” He backed up and snorted. “If you wish to be ravaged, then by all means, let me know and next time I shall remain in my bed.”

In his bed.
Now that her mind no longer reeled in fear, she noticed he wore no boots and his shirt hung loose instead of being tucked into his breeches. Even the belt housing his blade hung haphazardly about his hips. “How did you know I was down here?”

“Answer my question first.” He cocked his head.

“I was looking for something.” Grace bit her lip, not wanting to lie.

“Qu'est-ce que vous recherchez?”

Grace squared her jaw.
“You
must answer
my
question now.”

A hint of a smile lifted his lips. “Spyglass woke me. She clawed into my cabin and would not stop meowing. The last time she did that, a thief snuck on board and had captured one of my crew. So I thought I should
enquêter sur”—
he paused and flattened his lips—“how do you say, investigate.”

Grace blinked and let out a tiny chuckle, amazed she found anything amusing amidst her subsiding terror.

Captain Dubois swept a hand toward the ladder. “May I escort you back to your cabin, mademoiselle, or do you prefer to spend the night in the hold?”