Captain Dubois, on the other hand, stormed the deck with all the confidence and courage of a man born to lead, his crew close on his heels awaiting his commands.
“Haul foresheets to the wind!” he bellowed, and seconds later the ship lurched and sped on its way.
A gust of hot air struck Grace, bringing with it the smell of salt and wood and the sweat of the crew as they readied for battle. Managing to pry her shoes loose from the deck, she crept toward the companionway just as the air reverberated with the thunder of guns. Streams of dark gray smoke spurted from the Avenger’s hull as the ship sped by their larboard quarter. Grace braced herself for the impact of their broadside. But instead of the jarring crunch of wood, the snap of coiled lines, and the screams of the injured, only hollow splashes met her ears.
“Bring her about, Mr. Thorn!” the captain shouted, planting his hands upon his waist and staring at the enemy as if they were naught but a temporary annoyance.
The ship yawed widely to starboard, and Grace flung herself against the mainmast to keep from tumbling across the deck. She gripped the rough wood. Splinters jabbed her tender skin. Above her, the sails clapped as loud as a cannon blast. Sailors darted around her, some jumping into the ratlines with muskets in hand, others hauling shot to the various guns positioned about the deck. Curses filled the air and took flight on the wind, burning her ears, but the men took no notice of her.
As Le Champion veered on her tack, the Avenger slipped from Grace’s sight. She lifted a silent prayer that the ship had slunk away in cowardice. But no such luck. The threatening red sails appeared again on the horizon like bloated demons flying through the sky. In minutes, the ravenous schooner swooped down upon Le Champion’s lee quarter with her rigging full of men and white foam salivating over her bow.
“They hope to board us.” Captain Rafe chuckled. Doffing his coat, he laid it over the capstan and rolled up his sleeves as if he were commencing a day’s work. The sash strapped about his waist whipped upon the gleaming metal of his rapier, whose pommel he now gripped with a tight fist.
“Load the swivels,” he shouted. “And arm yourselves with hand grenades, men.”
A furious rumble filled the air, and Grace clapped her hands over her ears. Small shot from the Avenger’s swivel guns whistled through Le Champion’s shrouds, ripping holes in her canvas and sending the sailors into a frenzy.
Grace threw a hand to her throat to still her chaotic breathing then swept a gaze over the deck for injured men. But she saw none. Thank You, Lord.
“Strike their rigging only,” the captain ordered.
Before her eyes could locate him, Mr. Thorn shouted, “Fire!” and the air was set aquiver with the roar of guns.
Sooty smoke blasted over Grace, stinging her eyes and nose. She gasped for air, then peered through the haze. The men aboard the Avenger staggered back beneath the onslaught and made haste for the stern of their ship. Their captain stood by the helm, spewing a string of unending commands.
The Avenger continued on its tack, cruising by Le Champion, its occupants scurrying back and forth across the deck like ants upon an upturned anthill.
Rafe nodded to Mr. Thorn, who in turn yelled to a man standing at the entrance to the companionway. “Fire the crossbar!” A second later, a gun exploded in a thunderous boom that shook Le Champion from truck to keelson. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, fearing the ship would be rent apart by the force.
A massive crunch filled the air, followed by the eerie snap of wood.
A shout of victory ensued, and Grace opened her eyes to see the rigging upon the main and top mizzen sails of the Avenger fold into a tangled mass of rope and spar. Without their mainsail, the Avenger groped listlessly through the sea. Their captain charged toward the stern as if he would jump the distance between the ships and pummel Captain Dubois to the deck. Instead, all he could do was raise his fist in the air and assault them with his foul mouth. Captain Dubois leapt upon the gunwale and gave a mock bow. “Another time, perhaps, Capitaine. Mes compliments à Woodes.” Chuckling, Captain Dubois slipped down to the deck where he was engulfed with cheers from his men.
His white shirt flapped in the breeze. The tanned skin on his chest and neck glistened with sweat in the noonday sun. He ran a hand through his coal-black hair, and his eyes latched upon Grace—dark eyes, flashing from the heat of battle. A shiver ran through her, the cause of which she could not explain. Fear, perhaps? More likely disgust at how easily he resorted to violence.
Tearing her gaze from him, Grace released the mast, ignoring the pain in her hands, and took a tentative step with her trembling legs. Her stomach lurched, and she was thankful the broth had long since digested, or she feared she’d lose it upon the deck. She’d never been in a gun battle. Everything had happened so fast, she hadn’t time to consider that she could have been torn to pieces by a twelve-pound ball of metal. But now as relief flooded through her, she began to shake uncontrollably. She made her way to the companionway, hoping to manage a quiet exit, when she saw a gray mound rising out of the sea off their larboard side.
“Sir,” she called to one of the crewmen who was passing by—a young, lanky lad with a braid of brown hair hanging halfway down his back. He turned to her, surprise and delight brightening his sun-baked face.
“What land is that?” She pointed to the sight on the horizon.
“’Tis the island they call Inagua, miss.”
“It appears so close.”
“A mile or two, aye.” He started to leave.
Grace grabbed his shirt, but quickly released it, not wanting him to think her wanton.
“What is your name?” She attempted a coy smile as a sour taste filled her mouth. How did her sisters feign such coquettish mannerisms?
“Andrew Fletcher, miss.”
Grace leaned closer to him. “Mr. Fletcher, may I ask where we are heading?”
Huzzahs and hurrahs blared from the crew. The young sailor glanced nervously across the deck as if seeking his captain’s permission.
Grace wondered if he or any of the crew were aware of the reason she’d been brought on board. “I am a prisoner, Mr. Fletcher. What harm would it do to tell me?”
He faced her and nodded. “We should arrive at Port-de-Paix in two days’ time, miss. I’m told we’ll anchor there for only a short while before setting sail again.”
“Thank you.” Grace smiled.
He gave her a curious look before being whisked away by his companions who passed around bottles of some vile alcohol in celebration of their victory.
Port-de-Paix? That would mean they’d be anchored close to land. Close enough to swim—or float—to shore. A daring idea began to form in her head.
CHAPTER 7
Grace released Father Alers’s arm and entered the captain’s cabin. The desk and chairs had been pushed aside, the Persian rug rolled up, and in its place sat a long wooden table laden with steaming platters of food, mugs filled to the brim, decanters of wine, and brass candlesticks. Pewter plates shimmered in the flickering candlelight, and the spicy scent of pork and the pungent smell of cheese swirled about her. At the head of the table sat Captain Dubois and lining each side were members of his crew, some of whom Grace recognized, and all of whom jumped to their feet at her entrance. Including Captain Dubois, looking rather dashing in his black silver-embroidered coat and gold and purple sash tied about his waist. He had tamed his unruly mane into a slick style which he tied behind him, revealing a strong jaw which flexed beneath a sprinkle of black stubble. His white shirt, devoid of its normal stains and wrinkles, appeared oddly out of place upon his broad chest. And without his pistols and knives draped across it, he could almost pass for a gentleman attending a soirée.
Almost.
Behind him, through the stern windows, the sea and sky melded into a smoldering curtain as dark as the captain’s gaze.
Father Alers gestured to an empty seat at the opposite end of the table. All eyes remained fixed upon Grace as if the men had never
seen a woman before, and she began to regret accepting the captain’s invitation to dine with him and his officers.
She stepped forward and raised her chin. “Have I been invited to partake of a meal, or am I to be the meal itself?”
Chuckles rumbled around the table. Mr. Thorn coughed, and one side of Captain Dubois’s lips lifted in a sly grin that sent an uncomfortable quiver through her belly.
“Whichever you prefer, mademoiselle.”
“I prefer that you turn this brig around and take me back to Charles Towne at once.”
“That is not one of your choices.” He raised a brow.
“Then what exactly are my choices?”
“To dine with us or return to your cabin hungry.” Cocking his head, he sent her a lazy grin.
Grace bit her lip and scanned the men. A chill pricked her skin. She’d never envisioned herself dining with such depraved characters without benefit of chaperone, without a proper escort—without protection. And though she’d love nothing more than to turn and make a mad dash down the companionway, if God had placed her aboard this ship to convert these men, she couldn’t accomplish that task alone in her cabin. Which was why she’d accepted the captain’s invitation. And why she must now stay.
“I will remain, but not because it pleases you.” She didn’t want to inflate the captain’s already billowing pomposity. Nor did she want to hide her loathing for him, God forgive her.
Captain Dubois rubbed his chin and gave her a haughty look. “Mademoiselle, I find no pleasure in your company. En fait, it was Father Alers who suggested you join us.”
Heat flushed up her neck at his insult. Insolent cad! She’d like to tell him that she found no pleasure in his company either, but she knew that wouldn’t be a very prudent thing to say.
Nor a very Christian thing to say.
“Our food grows cold.” He waved a hand as if brushing her away. Father Alers gestured again toward her chair. “S’il vous plaît, mademoiselle?”
Gathering her courage along with her skirts, Grace slid onto the wooden seat. Without hesitation, the men sat down and began piling food onto their plates as if it were their last meal.
“Please, gentlemen. Shouldn’t we ask God’s blessing first?” Grace raised her voice over the clank and clatter of silverware and plates.
Groans filled the room. Hands halted in midair. Looks of derision shot her way as one by one, the men lowered themselves back in their chairs and dipped their chins.
Grace sought some measure of support from Father Alers but found only a hint of surprise mixed with curiosity lifting the lines on his face.
Captain Dubois, on the other hand, shifted his jaw in impatience and nodded for her to continue.
Grace bowed her head. “Father, we thank You for the bounty that You have provided this night. Please bless it, and may we always be thankful for Your goodness.”
The clank of spoons resurged like a rising swell before a storm.
“And Lord,” she shouted. “I ask You...” Huffs and moans rippled across the cabin, ending in silence. “To open the eyes of these men so that they may see You and know You. Amen.” Grace lifted her face.
The men stared at her, their mouths agape as if she’d asked for lightning to strike them.
Ignoring them, she swallowed a lump of fear and nodded toward a steaming platter in the center of the table. “The pork, if you please, Mr. Alers.”
He smiled and handed her the tray as the men resumed their feast, rudely grabbing platters and bowls without discretion and shoveling food onto overstuffed plates, reminding Grace of pigs before their slop.
She took a bite of the meat and though it was tough, the spicy, rich taste burst in her mouth and was welcomed gladly by her stomach. Having consumed three meals yesterday, she found her strength returning in full force. “Did you prepare this feast, Father?”
Captain Dubois chuckled and poured amber liquid into his glass from a flagon.
“Address me as Monsieur Alers, s’il vous plaît,” Father Alers said. “Mais oui, mademoiselle. I did.”
“It is quite good.” Grace grabbed a biscuit from a platter in front of her. “Thank you for all your hard work.”
Again the men stared her way, and Father Alers smiled. “Finally I receive some recognition for my hard work.” He glanced across the table. “You could all learn manners from this lady.”
The man to Grace’s left belched in reply and poured himself another mug of what Grace assumed was ale. The bitter, grainy smell rose to join the fruity scent of wine, overpowering the savory aromas that filled the cabin. Grace lifted her own cup and found Mr. Alers had provided her with lemon-flavored water to drink.
Spyglass leapt onto the captain’s lap, but instead of pushing her aside, Captain Dubois set down his glass and offered the feline a morsel of his food. His expression softened as he coddled the animal, and Grace found his affection for the cat curious. She scanned her other dinner companions, who were too busy scooping pork and peas into their mouths to converse with one another. Captain Dubois took a bite of a biscuit and leaned back in his chair.
Grace shifted in her seat. “Captain, would you introduce me to your men, please?”
He narrowed his eyes and lifted his lips in pretense of a smile that seemed to hurt his face. “Mais oui.” He flung out his arm and beginning with the man seated to her left, he introduced each sailor in turn: the ship’s bosun, the carpenter, Mr. Thorn, then to her right, the helmsman, the second mate, and finally Father Alers.
Grace nodded at each man, her stomach tightening when her gaze landed upon the second mate, Mr. Weylan. She recognized him as the foppish man she’d seen on deck with two other sailors—the ones who had gawked at her with such alarming bawdiness. Even now, in front of his captain, Mr. Weylan took such brazen liberties with his gaze that Grace felt soiled by proximity.
She looked to the captain for assistance, but he busied himself refilling his glass. Why should she assume the captain could control his men’s passions any more than he could his own?
***
Heat stormed through Rafe, and he poured himself another drink. Why was Mademoiselle Grace being so courteous? One would assume she was attending a soirée at a friend’s estate rather than eating alongside dissolute, reckless sailors who held her captive. And now, those green eyes bored into him, condemning, slicing through him like emerald ice. He wouldn’t have invited her at all, save to answer Father Alers’s challenge that Rafe was somehow uneasy in the girl’s presence. But in truth, his gut had been in a knot since she entered the room.
“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.” Mademoiselle Grace smiled, but the slight tremor in her bottom lip gave her unease away. She wasn’t at all pleased to meet them. Then why ask for introductions?
She took a bite of cheese then washed it down with the lemon juice Father Alers had provided. Her rosy lips puckered, and Rafe had trouble keeping his eyes off them. Setting down her glass, she met his gaze briefly, then she gripped a chain that hung around her neck and glanced over the men. “May I inquire, gentlemen, what brings you into the captain’s service?”
Monsieur Atton thought for a moment then raised a glass toward Rafe. “The captain’s a fair man, a good seaman, and he’s lined me pockets wit’ many coins.”
Rafe returned his helmsman’s salute.
“Yet I have seen none of those coins in quite a while,” Monsieur Weylan grumbled beneath his breath, and exchanged a quick glance with Thorn.
Rafe eyed the two with suspicion, hearing only pieces of the exchange.
Monsieur Maddock halted his spoon, overloaded with potatoes, halfway to his mouth, “Aye, ’tis been some time, now that I think about it.” He tossed the mound into his mouth, dropping some onto his lap.
Rafe continued petting Spyglass, but his insides tightened like a sail beneath a hard wind. “You were all paid handsomely for our last job. I heard no complaints.” He eyed each of the men but none would meet his gaze. “And we stand to make a fortune
on our current mis—” He froze and glanced at Mademoiselle Grace.
Her face blanched and she bit her bottom lip. “Mission, as in me.” Simmering green eyes rose to meet his. “No need to mince words, Captain. Everyone at this table knows what heinous future awaits me so that all of you can—how did you say it, Mr. Atton—line your pockets?”
Spyglass leapt from Rafe’s arms to the deck, sans doute to escape the hatred firing from her eyes. Brushing away the twinge of pain caused by her scorn, Rafe preferred to focus on her courage and forthrightness, qualities he had not expected in a British admiral’s daughter.
“Regardless.” She squared her shoulders and glanced over the men. “You all should be ashamed of yourselves. Surely there are far more worthy and honorable ways to make a living!”
Rafe chomped on his biscuit, knowing he should be angry at her insult, but instead found himself amused by her audacity. His crew was not in agreement.
Monsieur Maddock, the carpenter, choked on his food. “Honorable, lud.” He set down his spoon with a clank. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but what does honor have to do wit’ anything?”
She leaned forward, spreading her fingers over the bare skin above her bodice. “Honor, sir, is doing the right thing, living the right way. Obeying God and those He places in authority over you. Honor has to do with everything.”
“Honor never did me no good.” Monsieur Atton, the helmsman sitting to Rafe’s left, spewed crumbs over his plate.
The bosun, Monsieur Legard, pointed his spoon at her. “Honor is for the weak minded.”
Her face crumpled. “But what does a man have, what can he acquire that can truly satisfy? ’Tis only what he does in the name of goodness, what he does for God that counts in the end.”
“I quite agree, Miss Grace.” Monsieur Thorn dropped a slice of cheese into his mouth and gave her a nod that grated over Rafe. His friend’s pious prattle had become quite bothersome lately. And now, with the encouragement of a like-minded zealot, no doubt it would become far worse.
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