“Both.”
“Yet you are the one who has fallen.”
“I have not fallen,” Grace snapped. “I am here for a reason.”
“Oui, to line my pockets with gold.” He smiled.
Grace’s stomach knotted. She hated this man. She knew hatred was wrong. She knew it was as bad as murder, but at this moment, if she had a pistol, she would probably shoot him where he stood. “You are naught but a French rogue.” She struggled to her feet. “I will leave now.”
Captain Dubois blocked her exit. “This French rogue demands you eat something first, mademoiselle.” He advanced toward her.
Grace sucked in her breath and retreated. Her foot struck the bed, and she collapsed back onto it.
Placing one hand on the edge of the mattress, he leaned toward her and laid the other upon her forehead. She flinched. “C’est bon. No fever.” His warm breath wafted over her, bringing with it the smell of brandy. He righted himself. “Never fear, I have no interest in you, mademoiselle. My tastes lie in women plus agréables.”
Grace tore her gaze from his and stared at the gold and purple sash tied around his waist and the leather baldric cutting across his chest. “I have no doubt in what direction your tastes lie.”
“I have every doubt that you do, mademoiselle.” He retrieved the bowl and handed it to her. “Now will you drink this, or shall I continue to pour it down your throat?”
“If I drink it, I fear it may end its journey upon your boots.” Grace took the bowl and offered him a cautious smile.
The taut lines on his face faded. “I shall take that chance.”
A tap on the door sounded, but the captain did not break the lock his gaze had upon her—an admiring, hungry gaze that set her nerves on edge.
The door creaked open and footsteps sounded. A man cleared his throat. “Capitaine, s’il vous plaît.”
Captain Dubois’s features instantly stiffened, and he turned to face the cook. “Father.” He cleared his throat and stepped back from Grace. “See to it that the mademoiselle drinks all of the broth, then escort her back to her cabin.”
The captain grabbed his rapier from the desk, slid it into his sheath with a metallic chink, and stormed out the door.
Father Alers shifted sympathetic eyes her way. A stained red shirt hung loosely over his corpulent frame, dangling below his waist where it met black breeches that spanned down to sturdy buckled shoes. He huffed out a sigh of impatience but finally took a seat and scratched his thick beard. “Come along, mademoiselle, finish your broth.”
With the captain’s exit, Grace’s heart returned to a normal beat. She sipped the meaty soup. The warm broth slid down her throat like an elixir and plunged into her ravenous stomach.
“His methods may be a bit severe, mademoiselle,” Father Alers said. “He only wishes you to keep your strength so you do not fall ill again.”
Grace took the last sip and then tested her legs. Though still shaky, she felt her strength returning. “You have been too long at sea, Father, if you think there is an ounce of kindness in that man.”
Father Alers chuckled and stood with a moan, then offered her his arm.
She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “He only wishes to fatten me up for the slaughter.”
Father Alers’s only reply was a grunt as he escorted her out the door and into the dimly lit companionway.
The ship canted, and Grace was thankful for Father Alers’s support as they made their way down the hallway and around a corner to her cabin—especially when they were forced to squeeze past several crewmen who ogled Grace as if she were the evening meal.
“I will bring you some more food soon. Pour maintenant, you should rest.” He turned to leave and Grace, feeling light-headed again, sank into the only chair in her small cabin.
Halting, Father Alers faced her, a pensive look on his aged face. “The capitaine is not as bad as he seems.”
Grace blinked. “He is selling me as if I were cargo to an enemy who will subject me to a life of pain. How much more evil can he get?”
Father Alers rubbed the back of his thick neck. Compassion softened the lines on his face.
Struggling to her feet, Grace took a step toward him. “You are not like him. You don’t agree with what he’s doing. I can see it in your eyes. Will you help me, Father? Will you help me escape?”
Golden eyes snapped to hers, hesitant, sympathetic, but then they froze like two ponds beneath a winter’s frost. “Non, I could never deceive him. He has seen too much betrayal in his life.” His curt tone slammed a heavy door on her hope. He shrugged. “I am hoping he will figure this out on his own.”
“You cling to a hope of the captain’s redemption while my life is being destroyed.” The blood rushed from Grace’s head, and she crumpled into her seat. “ ’Tis a sin to know the right thing to do and not do it, Father.”
“Peut-être, mademoiselle,but I’ve seen greater sins perpetrated every day in the Church.”With a jerk of his head, he waddled out and closed the door.
Dropping to her knees, Grace leaned over the chair. “Why do You close all the doors to my rescue, Lord? If it is indeed my task to bring these nefarious men to redemption, please show me how. Give me the words to say. Please do not let me be handed over to this Don Miguel.” Yet no answer came, no feeling of peace, no assurance of God’s presence. Tears slid down her cheeks onto the chair just as droplets of her hope continued to seep from her heart with each passing day.
***
Rafe stood at the bow of Le Champion and closed his eyes against the hot, raging wind, allowing it to blast away the memory of Mademoiselle Grace: her scent that reminded him of the sweet pastries his mother used to bake, the silky feel of the mademoiselle’s skin beneath his fingers, and those sharp green eyes that sliced right through his soul into his heart. Femme exaspérante!
He had barely slept two minutes all night. It wasn’t the hard floor that kept him awake. He had slept on far worse in his day. It was the sound of her deep, restless breathing, her occasional quiet moans, and his concern that she would fade into a perilous fever and die during the night.
Finally, before dawn, he had risen, lit a lantern, and watched her as she slept. The way her lips twitched and her eyelids fluttered as if she were dreaming, the strands of raven hair curling across her cheek like feathers spanning a creamy river. Her delicate fingers coiled around her arms in a protective embrace. She appeared as fragile as a tender flower in the field, yet possessing enough tenacity to push above the others in her quest for the sun. Honesty coated her lips like honey. He doubted a lie would survive among its sweetness. And in a world where lies were commonplace, her candid jabs brought him more amusement than insult.
That she was innocent, he could tell from her reaction to him. That she possessed a gracious heart was evident from the errand in which he found her engaged when he’d captured her. That she nudged awake a long-dormant spirit of protectiveness within him caused his blood to boil.
He did not want to protect her. He did not want to admire her. He wanted to hand her to the don as planned and get his money. Why could she not have been pompous, churlish, and deceitful like the women to whom Rafe had grown accustomed among high society?
The ship rose and plunged over a wave, drenching him with salty spray. He opened his eyes and shook it from his face. Spyglass pressed against his boots. He picked her up and laid the damp cat across one shoulder. She purred her approval, and he ran his fingers through her fur.
Zut alors, why was the mademoiselle always in his thoughts? He flexed his muscles as if strengthening his defenses. He must. He must hand her over. The money she would bring would save hundreds of lives. What was the fate of one pretentious girl compared to that? And pretentious she was, full of the same religious banalities he had been beaten with all his life. She was more like his father than he realized. He must look beyond his reaction to her, beyond her admirable qualities, and remember that fact.
A slap on his ba
ck startled him from his thoughts. “What brings you here to the fo’c’sle, Captain?”
Rafe turned to see his friend, Monsieur Thorn, smiling at him. He had been a good friend, Rafe’s only friend this past year. “Clearing my head.”
“Ah, the lady is quite enchanting.”
“My thoughts were not directed toward her.” Rafe grimaced at his friend’s discernment.
“Indeed?” A coy grin lifted the lad’s thin lips. “Has she recovered from her illness?”
“Oui.” Rafe laid a hand on Spyglass and braced his boots on the deck as the ship plunged over another swell.
“Captain.” Thorn cleared his throat and adjusted his hat. “Has the lady’s family laid some unpardonable insult upon you? For I’ve yet to see you barter in human flesh.”
A spark of shame seared Rafe, but he drowned it under his rising ire. Had his whole crew gone soft? “She is a woman, and her father is an admiral in the British navy. Need I say more?”
“I was in His Majesty’s service, Captain, as were several of your crew. And yet you do not despise us.”
Spyglass ceased her purring, and Rafe began caressing her again, resurging her soothing tones. “You quit the navy, as did they, because your conscience could not bear their cruelty. How can I fault you for that? Instead, I applaud you.”
Monsieur Thorn rubbed the scar on his neck and gazed across the choppy sea. “We should be coming alongside Inagua Island soon.”
“Bien. Only a few more days to Port-de-Paix. I could use some time ashore.” Where he could seek comfort in the arms of one of the town’s many willing females. And distance himself from Mademoiselle Grace.
“What of the men? They haven’t been paid since we sank the Dutch merchantman and delivered her crew and cargo to Monsieur Franco.” Thorn fingered the feathery whiskers on his chin. “We wouldn’t want a mutiny on our hands.”
The sprinkle of glee in Thorn’s tone bristled over Rafe’s nerves, but he shrugged it off. They had all been on board this ship far too long. “The crew never complains about enjoying les plaisirs de Port-de-Paix. Besides, we will be there only a few days.”
Dropping his hands to his sides, Thorn began clenching and unclenching his fists. He shifted his stance then gripped the railing.
Rafe frowned at his friend. Thorn was usually the essence of unruffled composure. “What has you so skittish, mon ami?”
His first mate’s gaze darted over the horizon as if searching for something. He gripped the hilt of his sword, then scratched his chin before dropping his hands again. He shook his head and turned to Rafe. “What did you say?”
“You are jumpier than a cat on hot coals.”
“Me? No. Just anxious to get to port.” Thorn rubbed his hands together.
Rafe shook his head. As long as he had known Mr. Thorn, the man had never enjoyed the amenities of port, had often opted to stay on board when the rest of the crew went ashore. Especially in Port-de-Paix. No matter. Perhaps the man’s long days at sea had changed his appetites.
Sunlight set the peaks of waves aglow in silvery strips that glittered as far as his eye could see. The smell of oakum, pitch, and salt filled his nostrils, and Rafe took a deep breath. He loved the sea. The ultimate playing field for those who craved danger, excitement, and freedom. They were the outcasts of society—those who did as they pleased and answered to no man.
A speck appeared on the horizon just as “A sail, a sail!” bellowed from the masthead. Setting Spyglass upon the deck, Rafe plucked the telescope from his belt and leveled it upon the intruder, wondering if perhaps the mademoiselle’s family had pursued them. Thorn coughed beside him. Two red sails glutted with wind filled his vision, and from the white foam clawing the bow of the ship beneath them, she appeared to be rushing straight for them.
“Who is she?” Thorn asked as Rafe handed him the glass.
“Have a look.”
Mr. Thorn peered toward the ship. “I can’t make her out yet, Captain.”
“Only one ship I know of has crimson sails.”
“Captain Howell.” The first mate lowered the glass. “Isn’t he one of Roger Woodes’s men? I wonder what he’s doing out here.”
“Oui, one of his laquais, and he searches for pirates is my guess. Those who did not accept the king’s pardon or who have since broken the accord.”
“Then we have nothing to fear from him.” Thorn slammed the glass shut and handed it to Rafe, but not before Rafe heard the slight tremble in his voice.
“I trust no one.” Rafe crammed the spyglass into his baldric. “Ready the guns, but do not run them out. And send the men aloft in case we need to unfurl topsail.”
“Aye, Captain.” The first mate touched his hat, spun on his heel, and marched away.
Within an hour, Rafe could easily make out the schooner Avenger crowding every stitch of her red canvas and housing a full tier of guns fore and aft. Captain George Howell stood regally at her helm.
Rafe’s gut churned. What did Howell want with him? He glanced upward where the flag of France flapped regally from LeChampion’s foremast. There were no hostilities between France and Britain, unless some war had broken out of which he was unaware.
But he didn’t have to wait long for an answer as the Avenger veered to larboard and ranged up alongside Le Champion. One by one gun ports popped open, and the charred muzzles of twelve guns bade him welcome.
A thunderous boom roared across the sky and shook the sea.
CHAPTER 6
Boom! Grace jerked awake. A colorful pattern blurred in her vision he rubbed her eyes. The pattern came into focus, and she realized it was the upholstered back of the chair she knelt beside. The bulkhead quivered. The planks shook beneath her legs. Her heart seized. She sprang to her feet. Ignoring her dizziness, she bolted for the door. A gun had been fired. That meant an enemy was in sight. And that carried the possibility of her rescue. She darted down the companionway and up the ladder, praying that perhaps her sister Faith had somehow found her. Oh, Lord, let it be so!
Pushing aside her fear, she rushed across the deck, weaving among the sailors dashing here and there as they obeyed their captain’s orders. Gripping the railing, she batted away the smoke and peered toward a two-masted ship bearing down upon them off their larboard bow. Red sails, stark against the blue sky, gorged with wind as they pushed the vessel onward. Her heart sank. ’Twas not her sister Faith’s ship, the Red Siren. But perhaps the ship’s captain might still be noble enough to save her from these villains. She coughed as the dissipating smoke stung her nose.
“Sacre mer, what are you doing? Get below, mademoiselle!” Captain Dubois clutched her arm and dragged her to the companionway hatch.
“Who are they?” Grace could not keep the hope from her voice.
“Ah, you think they are your sauveteurs, your champions, eh, mademoiselle?” He raised a brow then released her arm. “Je t’assure, they will not save you. Now get below. I have no time for this.”
“The Avenger wishes a parley, Captain,” Mr. Thorn shouted from the quarterdeck.
Swerving away from Grace, Captain Dubois darted to the bulwarks. His men ceased their frantic activities and formed an audience upon the main deck. Grace slunk into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck. She would not allow her fear to send her below when a possible rescue was at hand.
The schooner ranged up alongside them keel to keel within twenty yards, and her captain, a brawny man with a full beard and plumed tricorne hailed them in a powerful voice. “I am Captain Howell of the Avenger.”
Captain Dubois leapt upon the gunwale and grabbed a backstay for support. “I know who you are, monsieur.” His deep tone full of cheerful insolence held not an ounce of fear. With his tricorne atop his head, his gray coat flapping in the breeze behind him, and the sun glinting off the long rapier at his side, he appeared every bit the pirate he claimed he was not.
“We come with the compliments of Captain Roger Woodes,” the man bellowed, waving his plumed hat through the a
ir, “who bids you to haul down your colors and surrender your ship.”
Coarse chuckles bounded over the sailors, and Grace wondered what they found so amusing. She had heard of Roger Woodes, the ex-pirate turned governor of New Providence—a man who thought nothing of rounding up his one-time colleagues and stringing them upon the scaffold.
“For what reason, monsieur?” Captain Dubois asked.
“For the crime of piracy,” boomed the captain of the Avenger, who replaced his hat atop his head and began fingering the hilt of his sword.
Snorts of derision replaced the laughter among the crew, and Mr. Thorn broke away from the agitated mob and retreated toward the starboard side of the ship as if frightened of the altercation. But when his eyes met Grace’s, only malevolence brewed within them.
“With my compliments,” Captain Dubois shouted, “you may tell Governor Woodes that I am no pirate and as such, am in no position to surrender anything.” He turned and whispered something to a sailor behind him, sending the man scampering below.
“Most unfortunate, Captain, for I have been instructed to blast you from the sea should you resist.” Howell’s laughter bounced over the sapphire waves between them, silencing all within its hearing upon the deck of Le Champion.
All save Captain Dubois.
“By all means, I beg you to try, monsieur.” Captain Dubois swept his hat out before him, hand on his heart.
Seeing that she only had a few moments before the battle began, Grace rushed to the railing, waving her hands through the air. “Captain Howell! Captain Howell!”
The man halted and squinted in her direction. She continued, “I am a prisoner aboard this ship. I am the daughter of Admiral Westcott. Please save me!”
Instead of the expected look of horror on the captain’s face, followed by his quick action to save her from these scoundrels, the man chuckled, put his hands on his waist, and replied, “What is that to me, miss?”
The crews on both ships broke into coarse laughter as Grace’s heart sank to the deck. One of the sailors fired a pistol into the air, initiating the battle, and Grace attempted to go below but found her feet would not move—no longer from curiosity, but from pure terror. Instead she uttered a prayer for the souls on both ships, herself included.
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