“Then pray tell, Mr. Thorn.” Mademoiselle Grace’s reprimanding tone rang through the cabin. “Why do you partake of such wickedness?”
Monsieur Thorn faced his captain, a supercilious smirk on his face, and Rafe leaned his elbows on the table. “Do enlighten us, Monsieur Thorn. Why do you keep such nefarious company?”
Monsieur Thorn hesitated and his face paled, but then he winked at his captain. “Perhaps to shine as a beacon of sanity amidst this treacherous mob. Or”—he shrugged—“perhaps I was in need of a holiday from the rigidness of society.”
Rafe settled back in his chair, relieved that the brandy began to spread its numbing fingers through his senses. “Then you and Father Alers have that in common. He, too, feels the need to take a répit from the shackles of religious obligations.”
“They are not shackles, Captain.” Mademoiselle Grace shifted a gaze to Father Alers as if seeking an ally, but the father’s focus remained on his food. “In truth, the love of God will set you free.”
“Yet you are not free now, mademoiselle. Neither physically nor, it appears, in any other way.” Rafe moved his chair back from the table, his stomach disinterested in the food he’d heaped upon his plate. “You do nothing but point a finger of condemnation on everyone around you. If this is freedom, you may keep your religion, mademoiselle.”
“You mock me, Captain.” Mademoiselle Grace hung her head, one delicate strand of ebony hair feathering over her cheek. “God is but a joke to you.”
“That there is a God who created this world of pain and injustice would indeed be a joke—a joke upon us,” Rafe shot back. When Mademoiselle Grace lifted her head and he saw the moisture that filled her eyes, he instantly regretted his tone.
“Such strong faith is quite admirable, mademoiselle.” Monsieur Weylan said, drawing her gaze to him. He steepled his fingers together.
“Ye don’t believe in God, ye cockerel.” Monsieur Maddock chortled. “Don’t listen to Weylan, miss. He’d say anything to win a lady’s affections.”
Rafe studied Weylan and the way he ogled Mademoiselle Grace as if she were a morsel of food on his plate. The vain peacock had a reputation with the ladies. His good looks, fashionable dress, and cultured tone deceived them into believing he was a gentleman, when nothing could be further from the truth.
Yet, much to her credit, Mademoiselle Grace seemed undaunted by his flirtations; en effet, she seemed more repulsed than enamored.
Turning from him, she faced the men and spoke in a voice urgent with sincerity, “Mercy me, don’t any of you believe in God?”
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.
CHAPTER 8
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?”
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