Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Again their chuckles filled the room. The man who was beginning to look more like the huge barrel he stood beside leaned toward her and drew a deep breath of her hair. “I’d love to be accosted, miss, if ye’d oblige me.”

  Grace’s mind reeled. She must get through to these men. Were they so depraved that no goodness could be found in them? “Look inside of you, gentlemen. You are better men than this.” She gave them an affirming nod. “God has made you to be better men than this.”

  Mr. Weylan cocked his head and studied her while the other two snickered beside him. For a moment, Grace thought she had pierced the evil crust around his soul.

  “God has nothin’ to do with this,” he scoffed.

  Grace’s hopes plummeted to the sharp pebbles beneath her feet. “On that I will agree.” The metallic taste of horror filled her mouth. Her heart felt as though it would crash through her chest. “Do you wish to spend eternity in hell?”

  “Hell don’t scare me, miss. I’m livin’ in it already.” Setting down his lantern, Mr. Weylan approached her, devouring her with his gaze.

  “I assure you, sir, you know nothing of hell.” A chill bristled over her at the memory of her vision—a vision that if these men caught even a glimpse, they’d fall to their knees and repent right here. But at the moment, with their wicked intent toward her screaming from their eyes and dripping from their salivating lips, she wished them all the eternity they deserved.

  Grace squeezed her eyes shut and screamed, but Mr. Weylan’s hand smothered the sound. She tasted dirt and sweat and fish on his rough skin and braced herself for the assault. Seconds passed. The creaks and moans of the ship taunted her from all around. And something else. The thud of boot steps reached her ears, then gasps and curses. Weylan’s hand left her mouth.

  Slam. Thud. Crash.

  The sounds of a brawl pounded in her ears, and she pried her eyes open to see Captain Dubois dragging Mr. Weylan through a pile of sacks. The captain slammed him against the hull then gripped the man’s throat until his eyes bulged and his face purpled. The other men struggled to rise from the deck, where they’d obviously been tossed, and rushed to the aid of their friend.

  Grace shrieked, and Captain Dubois released Mr. Weylan, swung about, kicked the scrawny man in the stomach, sending him crashing backward into a stack of barrels, while he drew his rapier and leveled the tip upon the other. Fury stormed from the captain’s dark eyes. His hair hung in black strands about his face. “You dare attack your capitaine, Holt?”

  Mr. Weylan groaned from his spot on the deck, gripping his throat and gasping for breath. “Et vous, Monsieur Weylan?” Rafe shot over his shoulder.

  “We jest wanted some female companionship, Cap’n.” The portly man that Dubois held at the tip of his rapier offered a conciliatory grin and shrugged. “We’s lonely men.”

  “You’ll be even lonelier when I toss you overboard.” Captain Dubois pressed the blade upon Holt’s chest, drawing a drop of blood that stained his brown shirt.

  The lanky man emerged from the barrels, pressing a hand against his back.

  Grace’s fear resurged. Could the captain handle all three?

  “Ye shared the last woman on board.” Mr. Weylan rose to his feet, still clutching his neck.

  “You shared the last trollop, not lady, and she came aboard willingly. I never touched her.” The captain lowered his blade and wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “What do it matter?” Holt jerked a thumb in Grace’s direction. “This one’s ending up a Spanish whore anyway.”

  Without hesitation, the captain slammed his fist across the man’s jaw. Holt spun around beneath the blow and stumbled backward, crashing to the deck. Grace threw a hand to her mouth, both in shock at the violence she witnessed and the speed with which the captain came to her honor. But why would he? When he was the one leading her straight into dishonor?

  The captain turned on Mr. Weylan, who fingered the handle of a knife stuffed in his belt.

  “Make sure you know what you are doing, mon ami, before you draw that.” Captain Dubois snapped his hair from his face. Behind his back, the skinny man shook his head at Weylan, his eyes wide.

  Mr. Weylan released the handle with a huff. “This isn’t a British warship, nor even a pirate ship, and we have signed no articles.” His jaw tightened beneath eyes alight with fury. “Someday you’ll regret this, Captain.”

  “I never regret,” came the captain’s sharp reply. “Now off with you. And if I see you so much as glancing at the lady, I’ll string you up on the yardarm.”

  Amidst a cacophony of grunts and curses, the men eased by Captain Dubois, Mr. Weylan rubbing his neck, the skinny man his back, and Holt his jaw. They disappeared up the ladder.

  Sheathing his rapier, Captain Dubois ran a hand through his hair and faced her. “Allez-vous bien? Are you all right?”

  Grace tried to find her voice, but her heart still hung in her throat. The harsh lines on the captain’s face softened, and she found herself mesmerized by the way the lantern light flickered across his dark eyes. It was the concern burning within them that set her aback. Could the man actually have some goodness in his heart? She rubbed her own eyes. Perhaps she was too tired or the light too dim. He had saved her for no other reason than the protection of his property. Hadn’t he?

  He took a step closer, so close she could smell the brandy on his breath. “Did they hurt you?” He eyed her from head to toe.

  Grace lowered her gaze. “No. I am fine.”

  His countenance stiffened. “Sacre mer, what were you doing down here, mademoiselle?” He backed up and snorted. “If you wish to be ravaged, then by all means, let me know and next time I shall remain in my bed.”

  In his bed. Now that her mind no longer reeled in fear, she noticed he wore no boots and his shirt hung loose instead of being tucked into his breeches. Even the belt housing his blade hung haphazardly about his hips. “How did you know I was down here?”

  “Answer my question first.” He cocked his head.

  “I was looking for something.” Grace bit her lip, not wanting to lie.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous recherchez?”

  Grace squared her jaw. “You must answer my question now.”

  A hint of a smile lifted his lips. “Spyglass woke me. She clawed into my cabin and would not stop meowing. The last time she did that, a thief snuck on board and had captured one of my crew. So I thought I should enquêter sur”—he paused and flattened his lips—“how do you say, investigate.”

  Grace blinked and let out a tiny chuckle, amazed she found anything amusing amidst her subsiding terror.

  Captain Dubois swept a hand toward the ladder. “May I escort you back to your cabin, mademoiselle, or do you prefer to spend the night in the hold?”

  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 m
en. 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.

  CHAPTER 9

  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 bald
ric 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.”