Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  He nodded. “You spoke of God often in your dreams these past few days.”

  Grace’s cheeks heated at the intimacies this stranger must have heard her utter in her delirium. She was afraid to ask what she’d said, but he continued nonetheless.

  “Oui, something about the Catawbas and Alice and a boy named Frederick and the Hendricks.” Father Alers scratched his beard and smiled. “Ah, and always a praise to God. That is how I knew of your faith.”

  The sound of familiar names washed over Grace like a refreshing mist, bringing with them memories of a time when God walked with her daily. “ ’Tis what I do back in Charles Towne. Alice”—pain sank into Grace’s heart as she remembered the girl’s betrayal—“my lady’s maid and I often visit the Catawbas, a local Indian tribe, to bring them blankets and kettles and other cooking utensils, and to tell them about God. And little Frederick.” Grace smiled as she remembered the ragged, starving orphan boy she had found on the streets of Charles Towne. “He’s an orphan I placed with a couple who couldn’t have children. And the Hendricks are a poor family who live on the edge of town. I take food and medicine to them when their children are sick.” Relaying the stories out loud brought memories of God’s faithfulness to the forefront of her mind, chipping away at the despondency she had built up over the past days.

  Father Alers cocked his head and gave her a knowing grin. “And why would a young lady do these things when you could be attending les soirées and be courted by beaus?”

  “To share God’s love and truth with others and help those in need. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do?” Unlike her sisters, parties and courtship had never appealed to Grace overmuch.

  A beam of admiration glimmered in the father’s golden-brown eyes. “A worthy goal, mademoiselle. Your faith is admirable, and the many prayers you offer during your maladie have, sans doute, risen straight to heaven.”

  Horrified that this man had also overheard her intimate conversations with God, Grace fought the tears that filled her eyes. “Yet He does not answer them. Can you explain to me why?”

  Father Alers shook his head. “If I could, mademoiselle, than peutêtre, I would still be a priest.”

  Grace swallowed against the anger and fear clogging her throat. “Why are you with Captain Dubois? You are nothing like him.”

  “Le capitaine and I ... have a long histoire together.”

  “That still doesn’t explain why a man of God would lower himself to partake of such iniquity.”

  Father Alers pressed down the coils of his silver hair and glanced out the window. He hesitated and seemed to drift to another place and time. “I had a nephew, Armonde.” He shifted in his seat. “A bright boy, full of life and love. A bit of a rebel at times, like any boy his age.” A slight smile alighted upon his lips but then disappeared. “He was a Huguenot.”

  The word struck a chord of sorrow within Grace, for she had heard that the Huguenots had undergone horrific persecution in France.

  “When Louis XIV issued the Edict of Fountainebleau, Armonde was captured, tortured, and put to death.” Father Alers’s jaw tightened and he glanced down at the deck.

  Grace reached out, but he made no move to accept her hand. “I am so sorry, Father.”

  He shrugged. “After that I gave up on all religion. It causes men to fight and kill each other. It causes death. I want no part of it. So, I sailed to Saint Dominique where I met Rafe, I mean Captain Dubois.” He grinned and finally took her hand. “He reminds me of Armonde.”

  Her heart filled with compassion, and she placed her hand atop his knobby fingers. “Do not give up on God, Father.” Yet her words seemed to drift away for lack of true conviction in her voice. For it appeared God had, indeed, given up on her as well.

  The door burst open and in stomped Captain Dubois bringing with him a gust of wind, laden with the smell of salt and damp wood. His dark eyes latched upon her and then shifted to Father Alers, and then to their clasped hands. His jaw stiffened, and he gripped the hilt of his rapier.

  ***

  Rafe grimaced at the stupidity of his friend and took a step forward. He had told the father not to get too close to the mademoiselle during her maladie. He knew the man’s heart and how easy it would be for him to take pity on her.

  But Rafe certainly did not expect to find their hands clasped together. L’idiot. Sans doute la femme attempted to charm Father Alers into helping her escape. “I see the mademoiselle is recovering. There is no further need for your ministrations, Father.”

  Father Alers lifted one defiant gray brow his way then gently placed the mademoiselle’s hand back on the cot.

  Grace flattened her lips. “Father Alers was just informing me why he sails with a man such as you.” Though weak, her voice spiked with disdain.

  “Vraiment?” Rafe shifted his stance and jerked his head toward the door in an attempt to get Father Alers to leave.

  Rising, the father pressed a hand over his back. “Mademoiselle Grace was also informing me how she spends her time in Charles Towne helping to feed and clothe the poor and take care of the sick.” He faced Rafe and gave him a taunting look. “Who does that sound like?”

  Rafe huffed. The daughter of a British admiral feeding the poor. Not likely. “It sounds like la femme has poisoned your mind, mon vieux. Now, attend to your duties.”

  The mademoiselle shook her head and took a labored breath as Father Alers brushed by Rafe, gave him a grunt in passing, and headed out the door.

  Coughing, Mademoiselle Grace lifted her emerald eyes to his. Gone was the glassy shield of courage and defiance he had seen five days ago. In its stead, a pleading innocence stared at him and seeped through the cracks in his armor headed straight toward his heart. But he wouldn’t allow it entrance. Not again. Was it true she cared for those less fortunate than her? Was it true she spent her life caring for others? Non. He would not believe it.

  He could not believe it.

  A drop of sweat slid down the back of his neck, and he wiped it away as he stared at the deck and conjured up a vision of what the British navy had done to his mother. It was the only way to combat the rising guilt those green eyes stirred within him.

  He found the anger. He welcomed it and allowed it to burn away any tender spots on his heart, crusting them over until they were once again hard.

  Mademoiselle Grace must have sensed his fury, for when he lifted his gaze to hers, she flinched and her face drained of color.

  So she was afraid of him. When he had first brought her on board, he had expected either a swooning female, begging for her life, or a ferocious wildcat, clawing and hissing at him. What he had not expected was a woman with the courage of a soldier and the heart of an angel.

  She struggled to get up on one arm, her chest rising and falling, either from the exertion or from her fear, he didn’t know. “Why are you doing this?” she said. Her bottom lip trembled, and Rafe felt that tremble down to his soul.

  He planted his fists upon his waist and tore his gaze from her. “As I have said, for the money.”

  “What will the don do with me?”

  Rafe shook his head. His anger began to retreat again. He must get away from her before it left him defenseless. “You can ask him when you see him.” Turning, Rafe stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.

  CHAPTER 4

  Rafe burst into his cabin. Grabbing the decanter of brandy from his desk, he poured himself a swig and snapped it toward the back of his throat. The sharp liquor burned a soothing trail down to his belly and radiated a numbing heat through his body. Just what he needed. He poured himself another and strode to the stern window, watching as the sun’s orange glow slipped behind the horizon, tugging a curtain of black in its wake. He felt like kicking something—or someone—and what bothered him the most was that he didn’t know why.

  A tap sounded on his door and at his entrez, Father Alers ambled in with a tray. “I thought you would want to eat in your cabin tonight.” The old man’s eyes took in th
e empty glass in Rafe’s hand.

  “And why do you assume that?”

  “The crew says you are in a foul mood, Capitaine.”

  Rafe emitted a sinister chuckle.

  The man set the tray on Rafe’s desk. “And they know you well enough to leave you alone.” The plate of salt pork, beans, and a hard biscuit stared back at Rafe, taunting him with the scent of spice and molasses, though he could find no yearning for the food in his belly.

  He huffed. “What, no drink to accompany this savory mélange?”

  “What need? You have supplied your own.” Father Alers glanced at the decanter of brandy and raised a haughty brow.

  Rafe turned on his heel and stared into the growing darkness outside. The ship groaned beneath a swell and a bell rang above deck, announcing a new watch.

  Father Alers grunted, and Rafe heard the shuffle of his shoes retreating over the wooden planks.

  “Asseyez-vous, Father. I wish to speak to you.” Turning, Rafe gestured toward one of the high-backed fauteuils in front of his desk and set his empty glass down.

  The cook scratched his beard as if contemplating whether or not to obey, then he dropped into the chair. “What has soured your humeur, Capitaine? Seeing me holding hands with the mademoiselle?” He chuckled.

  Ignoring him, Rafe opened a desk drawer and chose a French cheroot from within a lined case. Then lighting it from the lantern, he inhaled a draft, allowing the pungent smoke to fill his lungs and calm his fury. He would not give his friend the pleasure of seeing his inner turmoil. “She has no affect on me, mon vieux. I simply want her well.” Rafe circled the desk.

  Father Alers leaned back and clasped his hands together over his portly belly. “She will survive. Since that is all you care about, non?”

  “Oui. I mean, non. I do not want her emaciated.” Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. “Does she take in fluids?” He’d seen many a stout sailor die from fever and nausea aboard a ship, especially if they refused to drink.

  “She will not partake of the lemon juice—it contains liquor, she says—so I have brought her the water we collected in the last rain storm.”

  “She will not?” Rafe gave a humorless snarl.

  “Quite politely refuses.” Father Alers crossed his buckled shoes at the ankles and smirked. “With sincere apologies. En fait, she treats me more as a friend than a captor.”

  “As I saw.” Rafe puffed on his cheroot, masking the annoyance bristling his nerves.

  Father Alers shook his head. “I admire the woman. Despite her malaise, she spends hours in prayer. A true testimony to her faith.” He chuckled. “Be careful, Rafe, you may find that God answers her supplications.”

  Rafe snorted. “Strong words coming from a man who has spent the last four years hiding from God.” He poured himself another swig of brandy.

  “If I am hiding from Him, then you are surely running.”

  “You cannot run from someone who does not exist, Father. I run from no god and no man.” He downed the liquor.

  “Perhaps not. Yet you have proclaimed war upon both.” Father Alers’s golden eyes sparkled with playful humor. “And if you would, please abstain from addressing me as Father. I am no longer of the order.”

  “From Jesuit priest to ship’s cook.” Rafe smirked. “How far you have fallen.”

  “And you. From wealthy planter’s son to abductor of virtuous ladies.”

  Rafe puffed upon his cheroot, more annoyed at his friend’s continual approbation of Mademoiselle Westcott than the insult. “That you find the lady agréable, you have made quite clear.”

  “She has a humble, kind spirit and her mood is always pleasant—which is more than I can say of you.”

  “You live and die by my grace, mon vieux.” Rafe waved a hand through the air. “Why should I be pleasant?”

  Father Alers leaned forward in his chair and directed a patronizing gaze at Rafe. “Because it is in you to do so, Capitaine. You can call me old man, but I have known you since you were a boy, and the only reason I remain in your service is the charitable acts you perform.” He sighed. “Now what of la dame? Surely you do not intend to deliver her to this don.”

  “Mais oui. That is my exact intention.” Rafe poured another swig into his glass.

  Father Alers shook his head, his chin sinking to his chest. “It is not like you. Never have you dealt in innocent human flesh. You’ve escorted prisoners, dealt in espionage, battled enemies in time of war, even thievery, but never this.”

  Guilt assailed Rafe’s already bruised conscience, and he downed the brandy. That was the problem. He had grown soft over the years. “Innocent? A lady?” He snickered. “None in her gender can claim such a state.”

  “They are not all like Claire.”

  Rafe slammed his fist on the desk, unsettling its contents. “I told you never to speak her name.”

  Unmoved by Rafe’s outburst, Father Alers held up a wrinkled hand in acquiescence.

  Rafe ground his teeth together. “Besides, Grace is the daughter of Admiral Henry Westcott. Eye for an eye. Does it not say that in your Holy Book?”

  Father Alers rose. Muffling a moan, he placed a hand on his back. “It is not my Holy Book, and what would you know of it anyway?”

  “I know more than I care to.” Rafe took another puff of his cheroot, hoping the tobacco would calm his temper. “But to appease your sense of righteous mercy, the price I get for her will save many lives.”

  Father Alers flapped his hand through the air as if arguing with Rafe was a waste of his time. “And put out that cheroot. You will light the ship aflame.”

  Rafe scowled. Why did he allow this old man to play the father to him? He only taunted him with his inadequacies. “I am the capitaine of this ship, and I’ll do as I please!” he shouted in a tone that sent most men cowering.

  Father Alers guffawed. “What has pricked your nerves tonight if not la dame Westcott?”

  “C’est absurde.” Rafe sat back against his desk and rubbed his chin. “But I will not have her waste away and lower my profits. Force her to eat, if you must, and inform me when she fully recovers.”

  Father Alers turned and waved a hand through the air. “Force her yourself, Capitaine. You forbade me to attend to her further, did you not?” And with that, he hobbled out and closed the door.

  Rafe put out the cheroot in the empty brandy glass and avoided the temptation to toss the glass across the cabin. They’d been at sea barely a week, and Mademoiselle Westcott was already proving to be more of a problem than he expected.

  ***

  Grace climbed the companionway, her legs trembling with each step. Whether from weakness or fear, she didn’t know, and she no longer cared. After doing naught but retch and pray for days—she’d lost count of how many—all she had to show for it were a pair of bruised and scraped knees. Not to mention her spinning head which continually induced her to lose the contents of said stomach—which of course was already empty, making the action all the more painful.

  To make matters worse, nightmares from long ago attacked her feverish mind with ferocity. One nightmare in particular—a nightmare that had been so terrifying, she’d never spoken of it to anyone. A nightmare that had changed the course of her life forever. The night she had seen a vision of hell.

  Even now she couldn’t bring herself to think of it, but its memory always lingered at the edge of her thoughts, prompting her with greater and greater urgency to save those who were heading down a path that led to the horrifying place. Finally, pushing aside the hellish vision, she decided to venture on deck for some fresh air and to see if perhaps God could hear her pleas more clearly out in the open. Perchance this ship and its occupants were so evil that they blocked her prayers from rising to heaven. But now as she rose above hatches and slid her shaky foot across the deck, she questioned the wisdom of her actions. Instantly, a dozen pairs of eyes fastened upon her as tightly as the hooks on the bodice she’d been forced to squeeze into.

  Her sis
ter Faith had always told her never to cower before bullies, so she lifted her chin to meet their gazes. A cacophony of whistles flew her way.

  “Shiver me soul, if it ain’t the captain’s piece,” one portly sailor in a red shirt said.

  “An’ a handsome petticoat she be.” The man next to him elbowed his friend and grinned.

  A lanky man with a pointy chin licked his oversized lips. “Don’t she look as tasty as a sweet berry pie.”

  “Come join us, mademoiselle,” another sailor gestured toward her. “We haven’t had our dessert yet.” The men all joined in an ear-piercing chortle.

  Grace lowered her chin, flung a hand to cover her bare neck, and made her way to the railing, hoping not to topple to the deck from weakness and humiliation. Perhaps this had not been a good idea, after all.

  Trying to erase the vision of the ribald men behind her, she gripped the railing and gazed across the sparkling turquoise sea. She drew in a deep breath of the heavy salt-laden air, hoping it would chase from her lungs the moldy staleness that had taken residence there from her confinement below.

  Movement caught her eye, and she turned to see three sailors peering at her from the bulwarks on her left. One of them, a tall man attired in a modish style that belied the crude look in his eyes, spoke passionately to the man beside him. His companion, a rotund fellow made all the more large by the third man’s wiry frame beside him, chuckled and raised an inviting brow her way. His wide mouth stretched into a wet smile.

  Grace’s stomach lurched.

  A deep voice she recognized as the captain’s bellowed over the ship, immediately sending the men scampering and silencing the salacious onslaught. “Back to work, crapaud stupides!” The stout man did indeed look like a toad.

  Grace glanced over her shoulder to see Captain Dubois standing by the companionway, fists on his waist. His unfettered black hair blew behind him in the hot ocean breeze, and his dark smoky eyes latched upon her, an inscrutable emotion brewing within them.

  Grace faced forward and tugged upon the chain at her neck, pulling out the gold cross tucked within her bodice. Gripping it with both hands, she slid her fingers over the jewels. She wanted to pray, to plead with God for help, but she had no words left. Why wasn’t God answering her? She had spent her life serving Him, and now when she needed Him the most, He seemed to have disappeared.