Raven Saint (8 page)

Grace allowed him to lead her up the two decks to her cabin, reluctantly taking his proffered arm lest she collapse beneath her still-trembling legs.

Sweeping open her door, he ushered her inside, and then he set down his lantern. Spyglass slipped in after them, perched upon the table, and began licking her paws then wiping them over her face as if pleased with a job well done.

The corner of the slab of wood Grace had retrieved the night before stuck out of the open armoire. She hastened to stand in front of it and whirled around, her stomach tightening. If the captain saw it, he'd no doubt remove it from her cabin, and with it, her last hope of escape.

Rafe studied the baffling woman. She possessed an intriguing mixture of courage, purity, and strength in the midst of delicacy he had not seen in any lady he had encountered. And he had encountered quite a few ladies in his day. Such pluck, such bravado in the face of certain assault. He could still hear the admonition she'd expounded to the trio of brigands as they were about to ravage her. He'd been barreling down the ladder, following Spyglass, when those words drifted up to him, halting him in his tracks, jarring him to his soul—that God had made them to be better men—that they
could
be better men. Even now, he couldn't shake the words from his mind. But then she had spewed her pious condemnations upon the men, jolting Rafe back to reality—people who professed to follow God sat in judgment on others.

Mademoiselle Grace splayed her fingers over the skin above her gown and looked away. “You are staring at me again.”

Rafe's heart leapt at her innocence. “Next time you find yourself in such a precarious situation, mademoiselle, might I suggest you avoid the moral censure. Men who would accost a lady have no care for what the Bible says. You will only infuriate them. Your God will not save you upon your insult to others.”

“I was not insulting them. I was telling the truth. And God did save me. He brought me you.” She swept her green eyes back to him—sharp, clear, convicting.

“I accept your gratitude.” He bowed, longing to see some spark of appreciation for him on her face.

“You do not have it, Captain,” she snapped. “Why should I thank you? You deliver me from the wolves only to feed me to a lion.”

He winced inwardly, unable to deny that truth. Yet at the moment, deep down, he wished he had met this lady in a different time, in a different place, and that she was not the daughter of Admiral Henry Westcott. He ground his teeth together. What was wrong with him?

She seemed to sense his conflict, and the haughty veneer fell from her face. “Captain, return me to my home. I beg you.” Her eyes moistened. “There are so many who depend on me. Not the least of whom are my sisters. Faith is so new to her beliefs, and Hope, my other sister.” The mademoiselle sighed and wrung her hands together. “She ran away and we do not know where she is, but she will need me when she returns.” She clasped the chain around her neck and stepped toward him. The vulnerability, the desperation, the appeal in her eyes softened the shield around his heart. “Surely you have family somewhere that you love?”

At the mention of family, Rafe's armor stiffened once again. “I have no family.”

“But I heard Father Alers make mention of your father.”

“My father is a beast.” Rafe's back stiffened. “A man who beats innocent children and preys on young women. To me, he is dead.” Why was he telling her this? he thought. What was it about her that made him want to tell her?

Her forehead wrinkled and she looked at him curiously. Heat stormed through him as he realized the irony of what he had just said. He clenched his fists. “Contrary to what you might think, mademoiselle, I am nothing like him.” He turned to go, displeased with the course of the conversation and the way it made him feel.

She laid a hand on his arm, drawing him back by her touch. “Then behave differently, Captain. Take me home. I promised my mother, don't you see? I promised her I would keep my sisters close to God, that I would keep them on the straight path.”

Rafe knew of promises. Promises that had been nothing but smoke and dust, here one day and then blown away with the trade winds the next. But something in her eyes made him want to believe that some promises could be kept, that some people could be trusted.

And that angered him all the more.

“Stay in your cabin, mademoiselle,” he snapped, “or the next time I may allow the men their play.”

She winced, but Rafe steeled himself against caring. He could not care. Would not care. “I will have Father Alers bolt a lock and chain to this door tomorrow, so that by the time we arrive at Port-de-Paix, you will be unable to cause any further trouble.” He patted his chest, looking for the cheroot he usually kept in his waistcoat pocket, but he had not donned his waistcoat. He needed a smoke. A brandy. Anything. He needed to get away from this woman. “Come, Spyglass.”

The cat shifted her one eye from Rafe to Mademoiselle Grace but did not move.

“Spyglass.” He snapped at the rebellious feline, yet the cat remained. “Zut alors!” Rafe stomped out and slammed the door with a
bang
that echoed down the companionway. Even his cat was under her spell.

Grace jumped as the door slammed. She sank into the chair. Spyglass leapt into her lap and began to purr. Petting the cat, Grace drew a deep breath and then released it, hoping to ease the tightness in her chest. Not just tight from the harrowing events below but from her time in the captain's presence. He befuddled her. She wanted to hate him. Did hate him. But then he had rescued her and the look in his eyes when she pleaded for her freedom ... it was almost as if he cared. Regardless, she did not fear him as she did the men in the hold. Though he was as wild as the sea he sailed upon, she didn't believe he would hurt her. Sell her, but not hurt her himself. Instead she sensed an overwhelming sorrow in the captain, a hopelessness, and a passion so deep it seemed fathomless.

“I suppose I should thank you, little one, for saving me.” She snuggled the purring feline against her chest. “A smart one, aren't you? Leading the captain to my rescue.” She scratched beneath the feline's chin, and Spyglass nestled against Grace's cheek. “But I would go with the captain next time he summons, if I were you. From what I've seen, his temper is not to be trifled with.”

A temper that flared at a moment's notice. Every time Grace saw a softening in his eyes, every time a hint of goodness crossed his face, he'd stiffen, as if being held at musket point. And he became hard as stone, unfeeling, uncaring, volatile—like a ship bracing for an enemy attack.

The chipped corner of the slab of wood peeked at her from the open armoire. She didn't dare risk another trip below tonight. Not with Mr. Weylan and his minions on the prowl.

She gulped at the fear clawing at her throat. “Lord, why have You thwarted my last hope for escape?” Releasing Spyglass, Grace rose and crossed to the tiny window. Darkness as black as coal blanketed the sky and sea so thick it seeped into her soul. But she couldn't let it. Grace must continue forward with her plan to escape—a plan made all the more pressing by the captain's threat to lock her in her cabin, and all the more harrowing if she couldn't procure another piece of wood. Regardless, she was willing to face anything in order to avoid the fate Captain Dubois had planned for her—even her own death.

Rafe stood at the quarterdeck rail and watched as the island of Hispaniola blossomed on the horizon.
Home.
At least the only home he knew. Though a foreigner by descent, Rafe had been born on this island. His family had hailed from Bordeaux, France, but Rafe possessed no memory of the land of his heritage, and from what he'd heard of her atrocities, he was glad for it.

He gritted his teeth, still enraged at Mademoiselle Grace for putting herself in such a precarious position last night, and equally enraged at Weylan, Holt, and Fisk for daring to assault her, but most of all enraged at himself for allowing the woman to affect him so.

“You care for her.” The words startled Rafe as Father Alers slipped beside him, two mugs in his hand. Rafe shook his head. The priest's uncanny ability to read Rafe's mind had, of late, become more of a nuisance than a wonder.

The smell of coffee rose and swirled beneath Rafe's nose. “C'est absurde. You've grown blind as well as deaf, old man. Is that for me?”

Father Alers handed him the cup. “Yet you knew exactly to whom I was referring.”

“There is only one woman on board the ship.” Rafe gave his friend a look of dismissal.

The priest huffed. “Drink it. It will dull the effects of the brandy you have been drowning yourself with.”

Embracing the cup, Rafe allowed its warmth to penetrate his hands. “And why would I want to do that?”

“Because the liquor transforms your few redeeming qualities into demons. Because it hides what you truly feel inside.”

The snap of canvas above Rafe muffled his chuckle. “I feel nothing inside but a desire to assist those who cannot provide for themselves.”

“Ah.” Father Alers sipped his coffee and stared across a rippling sea transformed into ribbons of diamonds by the rising sun. “The grand Captain Dubois, champion of the poor and downtrodden.”

Rafe gripped the baldric strapped over his chest, wondering why he tolerated his friend. “Be careful, mon vieux. Your taunting words may be the death of you.”

Father Alers grinned, revealing a bottom row of crooked teeth.

Rafe shook his head and glanced aloft. “Furl topsails, Monsieur Thorn!” He bellowed over the deck, and his first mate echoed his command, sending sailors scampering. They should make port in a few hours, and Rafe found himself unusually anxious to get off the brig.

“But what of Mademoiselle Grace? Is she not one of the downtrodden aussi?” A gust of wind lifted the father's gray hair until it circled him like a halo.

Rafe clenched his jaw, no longer wishing to speak of the lady below deck. “She is Admiral Westcott's daughter.”

“Guilty by birth?” the man raised an eyebrow.

“Précisément.
You know what His Majesty's Navy did to my mother. Do you think I would have accepted this job if the mademoiselle were an innocent?”

“On the contrary, she seems to be more innocent than you expected. Besides”—Father Alers waved a bony hand through the air—“you cannot punish the entire British navy for the actions of one commander.”

Rafe grunted. “And why not? How many innocent people have they slaughtered?”

“How many of theirs have we?” Luis shrugged. “It is the way of war.”

“My mother was at war with no one.”

“Many suffer who are not soldiers during war.”

Rafe slid a finger over his mustache. The brig crested a wave and spray came sweeping over her bow. He drew in a deep breath of the salty wind, seeking the sweet scent of earth and hibiscus that reminded him of home. Anything to assuage the anger, the bitterness, the guilt warring within him.

“You care for Mademoiselle Grace.” The priest repeated the words that sliced through the air like a sharp blade.

“So you have said.” Rafe feigned a nonchalant response.

“Then deny it.”

Rafe took a swig of coffee, its soothing elixir sliding down his throat and warming his belly. “Care? I hardly know her, but I will admit she is a surprise. She intrigues me.” He snorted. “The sentiment will pass.”

“What will you do?” Father Alers rubbed his back and turned toward him.

Rafe narrowed his eyes against the glitter of the sun that reflected off the turquoise sea, then he glanced over his shoulder at the helmsman. “Veer three points to starboard, Monsieur Atton. Keep your luff.”

Ile de la Tortue rose off their larboard bow like a giant sea turtle as its name denoted. Across from the once famous pirate haven, distanced by the Canal de la Tortue, the lush green mountains and white sands of Saint Dominique came into focus.

Father Alers cleared his throat and raised a gray brow, reminding Rafe of his question, though he needed no reminding; it had haunted him ever since he had brought Mademoiselle Grace on board.

What
would
he do?

Grace pressed her face against the porthole glass and peered at the harbor. The commands to bring the brig about and shorten sail blaring from above alerted her that they had reached Port-de-Paix. That and the splash of the anchor as it plunged into the shallow bay and the thud of boots and the clamor of excitement as the crew amassed on deck for their journey to shore. Ships of all sizes and shapes rocked idly in the sapphire water of the harbor. Grace squinted against the glare of the sun as she made out merchant brigs, slavers, barques, schooners, an East Indiaman, and other vessels she didn't recognize. Beyond them, docks jutted into the water, peppered with dark-skinned slaves carrying the goods from ships to warehouses and shops. Blue-green mountains loomed in the distance while the leaves of a multitude of trees glinted myriad variations of green in the noonday sun.

Grace rubbed the blurry glass but could get no clearer view. A knot formed in her belly. She'd heard Port-de-Paix had once been a notorious pirate haven. And although most of the seafaring brigands had moved their home base across the narrow channel to Tortuga and then to Petit Goave, she wondered what remnant of debauchery had been left behind. Whatever villainous activities remained, Captain Dubois would no doubt be an avid participant. Though a small part of her doubted that assessment.

Early that morning, before they had sailed into the harbor, Mr. Maddock, the carpenter, had strung a chain through the latch on her door and clanked it shut with a padlock. True to his word, Captain Dubois had imprisoned her in this muggy fortress. For how long, she couldn't know. For as long as it took the crew to commit as many wicked acts on land as their depraved minds could conjure up, she supposed.

Stepping away from the porthole, she blew out a sigh. That was as close a look as she'd get at Port-de-Paix. Perhaps it was for the better. Even if she made it to the port floating on her broken crates without drowning—or worse, being picked up by some sailors—what would she do once she got there?

Hugging herself despite the heat, Grace began to pace across her tiny cabin. She reached the bulkhead in three steps and swerved about. A million fearful questions assailed her. Had Captain Dubois joined his men ashore? And who would keep his remaining crew at bay? Her heart took up a frenzied pace as the cabin closed in on her. She gasped for a breath in the stagnant air and perspiration streamed down her back.

“Oh, Lord.” She sank onto the bed and dropped her head into her hands. “Please help me.” Prayer was such a habit with her that she momentarily forgot God wasn't answering her pleas as of late.

“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”

Grace looked up and batted the tears from her face. It was the first time she'd heard the Lord's voice since her capture. “Where have You been, Lord?”

“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”
The words repeated, and Grace bowed her head.

“I know Your Word says that, but I've had such a hard time believing it, Lord.” Grace tucked a loose strand of hair back into her bun and gripped her stomach. Fleeting memories dashed through her thoughts—memories of the time when she brought medicine to the Jacobs family on the edge of the frontier and the Yamassee Indians attacked, memories of her father taken ill with smallpox, of her sister Faith in the Watch House dungeon about to be hanged for piracy. And all those times, God had answered her prayers and delivered her and those she loved.

“Forgive me, Lord, for doubting You. You have always been with me before. I just don't understand. Why is this happening to me? Why am I here? I have done no good. No one listens to me, especially the captain. They all continue in their wicked ways. They deserve their fate, but I have done nothing to deserve mine.”

She glanced over the cabin. “Please help me understand.” Her thoughts drifted to Hope, her sister who had run off with Lord Falkland over a month ago, much to their family's shame and disgrace. Too angry at her sister's foolish and licentious behavior, Grace had given up praying for her, for she had believed Hope also deserved whatever fate she received. Year after year, Grace had tried to instruct Hope in righteous living and turn her sister away from the path of sinfulness she'd so ardently chosen to follow. But to no avail. The silly girl would not listen. Yet, why was the vision of her sweet face ever before Grace? Haunting her, just as another vision haunted her. A vision of fire and a barren land and an unrelenting hot wind that brought no relief.

Shame pulled her to her knees beside the cot. She would use this time to pray. Not only for herself, but for Hope, for Faith and Dajon, for her other sister, Charity, and her father. And for Captain Dubois. Leaning her forehead against the scratchy counterpane, she poured her heart out to God.

Hours later, the chain upon her door clanked against the wood. Lifting her head, Grace tensed as the door opened, and Mr. Thorn entered with a tray of food.

He smiled. “It isn't much. Some dried beef and a hard biscuit. And the rum-sweetened lemon juice Father Alers insisted I give you.” He set the food down onto the table as Spyglass pranced inside and darted to Grace. The scent of meat and butter jolted her stomach awake, and it began to growl.

“Looks like you've made a friend.” Mr. Thorn nodded toward the cat and straightened his freshly pressed dark blue waistcoat, looking more like a gentleman about town than a sailor.

“Where is Father Alers?” Grace nestled Spyglass beneath her chin and slowly rose.

“He went ashore with the captain and most of the crew.”

“And why have you not joined them, Mr. Thorn?” Spyglass nudged her chin, begging for more caresses.

He shifted his polished boots over the deck planks and shrugged. “I take no pleasure in the nefarious diversions the port has to offer.”

She studied him, noting that the frequent smile he offered her rarely reached his eyes. “And yet you do not swear allegiance to God?” The ship creaked over a tiny roller, sending a splash of waves against the hull.

“I do not believe He requires it.” Mr. Thorn stuffed a lock of his brown hair behind his ear and rubbed the scar on his neck with his thumb. “I fear, Miss Grace, He has left us to our own devices.”

“I am sorry you believe so.” Grace nuzzled her nose into the cat's furry neck.

“Your own situation is a testament to my belief, is it not?”

Grace set Spyglass down on her cot and crossed her arms over her waist, unable to find a suitable answer to the question she'd wrestled with for days. That God was with her, she now believed, but that He was not helping her as she wished was only too plain.

“Humph. I thought so.” Mr. Thorn glanced over the cabin. His brows rose at the sight of her open armoire. “Ah, what is this?” He pulled out the piece of broken crate and a coil of rope and examined them.

Grace's heart clenched. “'Tis nothing.”

He arched a brow and gave her a devious look. “Methinks the lady has a plan.”

Grace huffed. What did it matter if she told Mr. Thorn of her foolish scheme? “I did, but it was ruined when the captain put a lock on my door.”

“And what precisely were you planning on doing with this?” He set the crate down with a thump. “Hitting the captain over the head?” He chuckled.

“Nay.” Grace stifled a laugh. “But I wish I had thought of that.”

He smiled, revealing a set of unusually straight, white teeth, and fingered the whiskers on his chin. “Zooks, quite bewildering. I don't believe the captain expected to find such a wildcat in an admiral's daughter.”

“I don't know what being an admiral's daughter has to do with anything.”

Mr. Thorn lowered himself into the only chair in the room, adding to Grace's uneasiness. Did he intend to keep her company all day? She eyed the open door and wondered how many crewmen were on board.

He seemed to notice the direction of her gaze. “I have a better idea, Miss Grace.”

“Than what, Mr. Thorn?”

“Than your swimming ashore. I doubt you'd have made it to land without being picked up by even more unsavory sorts than you'll find on this brig.”

A flicker of playfulness sparked in his brown eyes, and Grace wondered if his proposal involved the same thing the captain had in mind last night. But no, there was no desire in his expression—at least not for her. “What are you proposing, Mr. Thorn?”

“I am proposing to grant you your freedom.”