Rafe took a swig of coffee, its soothing elixir sliding down his throat and warming his belly. “Care? I hardly know her, but I will admit she is a surprise. She intrigues me.” He snorted. “The sentiment will pass.”
“What will you do?” Father Alers rubbed his back and turned toward him.
Rafe narrowed his eyes against the glitter of the sun that reflected off the turquoise sea, then he glanced over his shoulder at the helmsman. “Veer three points to starboard, Monsieur Atton. Keep your luff.”
Ile de la Tortue rose off their larboard bow like a giant sea turtle as its name denoted. Across from the once famous pirate haven, distanced by the Canal de la Tortue, the lush green mountains and white sands of Saint Dominique came into focus.
Father Alers cleared his throat and raised a gray brow, reminding Rafe of his question, though he needed no reminding; it had haunted him ever since he had brought Mademoiselle Grace on board.
What would he do?
***
Grace pressed her face against the porthole glass and peered at the harbor. The commands to bring the brig about and shorten sail blaring from above alerted her that they had reached Port-de-Paix. That and the splash of the anchor as it plunged into the shallow bay and the thud of boots and the clamor of excitement as the crew amassed on deck for their journey to shore. Ships of all sizes and shapes rocked idly in the sapphire water of the harbor. Grace squinted against the glare of the sun as she made out merchant brigs, slavers, barques, schooners, an East Indiaman, and other vessels she didn’t recognize. Beyond them, docks jutted into the water, peppered with dark-skinned slaves carrying the goods from ships to warehouses and shops. Blue-green mountains loomed in the distance while the leaves of a multitude of trees glinted myriad variations of green in the noonday sun.
Grace rubbed the blurry glass but could get no clearer view. A knot formed in her belly. She’d heard Port-de-Paix had once been a notorious pirate haven. And although most of the seafaring brigands had moved their home base across the narrow channel to Tortuga and then to Petit Goave, she wondered what remnant of debauchery had been left behind. Whatever villainous activities remained, Captain Dubois would no doubt be an avid participant. Though a small part of her doubted that assessment.
Early that morning, before they had sailed into the harbor, Mr. Maddock, the carpenter, had strung a chain through the latch on her door and clanked it shut with a padlock. True to his word, Captain Dubois had imprisoned her in this muggy fortress. For how long, she couldn’t know. For as long as it took the crew to commit as many wicked acts on land as their depraved minds could conjure up, she supposed.
Stepping away from the porthole, she blew out a sigh. That was as close a look as she’d get at Port-de-Paix. Perhaps it was for the better. Even if she made it to the port floating on her broken crates without drowning—or worse, being picked up by some sailors—what would she do once she got there?
Hugging herself despite the heat, Grace began to pace across her tiny cabin. She reached the bulkhead in three steps and swerved about. A million fearful questions assailed her. Had Captain Dubois joined his men ashore? And who would keep his remaining crew at bay? Her heart took up a frenzied pace as the cabin closed in on her. She gasped for a breath in the stagnant air and perspiration streamed down her back.
“Oh, Lord.” She sank onto the bed and dropped her head into her hands. “Please help me.” Prayer was such a habit with her that she momentarily forgot God wasn’t answering her pleas as of late.
“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”
Grace looked up and batted the tears from her face. It was the first time she’d heard the Lord’s voice since her capture. “Where have You been, Lord?”
“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.” The words repeated, and Grace bowed her head.
“I know Your Word says that, but I’ve had such a hard time believing it, Lord.” Grace tucked a loose strand of hair back into her bun and gripped her stomach. Fleeting memories dashed through her thoughts—memories of the time when she brought medicine to the Jacobs family on the edge of the frontier and the Yamassee Indians attacked, memories of her father taken ill with smallpox, of her sister Faith in the Watch House dungeon about to be hanged for piracy. And all those times, God had answered her prayers and delivered her and those she loved.
“Forgive me, Lord, for doubting You. You have always been with me before. I just don’t understand. Why is this happening to me? Why am I here? I have done no good. No one listens to me, especially the captain. They all continue in their wicked ways. They deserve their fate, but I have done nothing to deserve mine.”
She glanced over the cabin. “Please help me understand.” Her thoughts drifted to Hope, her sister who had run off with Lord Falkland over a month ago, much to their family’s shame and disgrace. Too angry at her sister’s foolish and licentious behavior, Grace had given up praying for her, for she had believed Hope also deserved whatever fate she received. Year after year, Grace had tried to instruct Hope in righteous living and turn her sister away from the path of sinfulness she’d so ardently chosen to follow. But to no avail. The silly girl would not listen. Yet, why was the vision of her sweet face ever before Grace? Haunting her, just as another vision haunted her. A vision of fire and a barren land and an unrelenting hot wind that brought no relief.
Shame pulled her to her knees beside the cot. She would use this time to pray. Not only for herself, but for Hope, for Faith and Dajon, for her other sister, Charity, and her father. And for Captain Dubois. Leaning her forehead against the scratchy counterpane, she poured her heart out to God.
Hours later, the chain upon her door clanked against the wood. Lifting her head, Grace tensed as the door opened, and Mr. Thorn entered with a tray of food.
He smiled. “It isn’t much. Some dried beef and a hard biscuit. And the rum-sweetened lemon juice Father Alers insisted I give you.” He set the food down onto the table as Spyglass pranced inside and darted to Grace. The scent of meat and butter jolted her stomach awake, and it began to growl.
“Looks like you’ve made a friend.” Mr. Thorn nodded toward the cat and straightened his freshly pressed dark blue waistcoat, looking more like a gentleman about town than a sailor.
“Where is Father Alers?” Grace nestled Spyglass beneath her chin and slowly rose.
“He went ashore with the captain and most of the crew.”
“And why have you not joined them, Mr. Thorn?” Spyglass nudged her chin, begging for more caresses.
He shifted his polished boots over the deck planks and shrugged. “I take no pleasure in the nefarious diversions the port has to offer.”
She studied him, noting that the frequent smile he offered her rarely reached his eyes. “And yet you do not swear allegiance to God?” The ship creaked over a tiny roller, sending a splash of waves against the hull.
“I do not believe He requires it.” Mr. Thorn stuffed a lock of his brown hair behind his ear and rubbed the scar on his neck with his thumb. “I fear, Miss Grace, He has left us to our own devices.”
“I am sorry you believe so.” Grace nuzzled her nose into the cat’s furry neck.
“Your own situation is a testament to my belief, is it not?”
Grace set Spyglass down on her cot and crossed her arms over her waist, unable to find a suitable answer to the question she’d wrestled with for days. That God was with her, she now believed, but that He was not helping her as she wished was only too plain.
“Humph. I thought so.” Mr. Thorn glanced over the cabin. His brows rose at the sight of her open armoire. “Ah, what is this?” He pulled out the piece of broken crate and a coil of rope and examined them.
Grace’s heart clenched. “’Tis nothing.”
He arched a brow and gave her a devious look. “Methinks the lady has a plan.”
Grace huffed. What did it matter if she told Mr. Thorn of her foolish scheme? “I did, but it was ruined when the captain put a lock on my door.”
“And wh
at precisely were you planning on doing with this?” He set the crate down with a thump. “Hitting the captain over the head?” He chuckled.
“Nay.” Grace stifled a laugh. “But I wish I had thought of that.”
He smiled, revealing a set of unusually straight, white teeth, and fingered the whiskers on his chin. “Zooks, quite bewildering. I don’t believe the captain expected to find such a wildcat in an admiral’s daughter.”
“I don’t know what being an admiral’s daughter has to do with anything.”
Mr. Thorn lowered himself into the only chair in the room, adding to Grace’s uneasiness. Did he intend to keep her company all day? She eyed the open door and wondered how many crewmen were on board.
He seemed to notice the direction of her gaze. “I have a better idea, Miss Grace.”
“Than what, Mr. Thorn?”
“Than your swimming ashore. I doubt you’d have made it to land without being picked up by even more unsavory sorts than you’ll find on this brig.”
A flicker of playfulness sparked in his brown eyes, and Grace wondered if his proposal involved the same thing the captain had in mind last night. But no, there was no desire in his expression—at least not for her. “What are you proposing, Mr. Thorn?”
“I am proposing to grant you your freedom.”
CHAPTER 10
Rafe leapt from the longboat onto the quay and ordered his men to shoulder the crates and follow him. He strode down the wobbling dock onto sturdy ground, bracing himself as he switched from sea legs to land legs. Doffing his hat, he wiped the sweat from his brow.
“Monsieur Dubois!” A familiar voice hailed him, and Rafe turned to see his old friend Armonde waving and heading his way. “We did not expect you so soon.”
“Bonjour, mon ami. I did not expect to be here either.” Rafe met his embrace. “But I needed some time ashore”—Mademoiselle Grace invaded his thoughts once again, but he shook them away—“and I have brought some goods for Abbé Villion. Have you seen him?”
“Oui, this morning at the church.” Armonde dabbed at the sweat on his neck with his cravat. “How long will you stay? Let us have a drink together before you sail again?”
“Absolument. I’ll speak with you later.” Rafe watched his friend saunter away. Turning, he snapped at his crew to hurry behind him as the other longboat made dock, and Weylan led the men and the crates down the wharf.
Cheerful hails and greetings swarmed over Rafe as word spread of his arrival and people ran out to greet him. Smiling faces bobbed all around like waves lapping against a buoy, assailing him with their admiration and approval. Precisely what he needed to erase the memory of a pair of convicting emerald eyes and the shame that sliced through him in their wake. He was doing something good here, something worthwhile. His life had meaning, purpose, unlike so many who squandered their time, wealth, and energy on pleasing themselves.
His father, for one.
The thought of the man who’d sired him put a sour taste in Rafe’s mouth. He hoped to avoid him during his stay at port. But then again, his father rarely tainted himself with the stench of poverty that lingered down by the docks.
“God bless you, Captain Dubois!” one old man yelled.
A haggard woman pushed through the crowd. “What have you brought for us this time, Monsieur Rafe?”
“Many good things.” Rafe ordered his men to set down one of the chests. “Take the rest of the cargo to Abbé Villion, Monsieur Weylan, and tell him I’ll be along shortly.”
“Aye, Capitaine,” Weylan snarled, obviously still angry over their altercation the night before. Turning, he barked orders to the men behind him who hoisted the remaining crates, chests, and barrels onto their backs and followed him down the muddy street.
***
Shoving the tip of the oar against the hull of Le Champion, Thorn pushed the tiny cockboat away from the ship. A roller struck the bow and splashed over him, and he glanced at Miss Grace sitting among the thwarts behind him. “Hold on.”
The lady, appearing much smaller in her new attire, smiled at him from beneath the floppy hat that perched atop her head as she gripped the sides of the small boat.
Thorn faced forward and continued rowing toward shore. This would trouble the captain sorely. Losing his precious cargo and the fortune that went with her. No doubt the crew would be furious, perhaps even mutinous when they discovered they were not to be paid anytime soon. He grinned and shoved the paddle through the swirling turquoise water, urging the craft onward.
The sun beat down upon him, and sweat began to trickle beneath his waistcoat. But nothing could sour his humor today. Finally something was going his way. A seagull cawed overhead and then dove toward the water, spreading its wings across the surface to scan for a delectable morsel.
Bells rang and voices brayed from the port as they drew near. Making his way around an anchored schooner, Thorn plunged his oar on the other side and pushed the water back. His muscles ached from the strain.
After spending a year with Rafe, Thorn had concluded that the only thing the man cared about was his precious ship and his ability to make money for the poor. Thorn hoped the captain had developed affection for his prisoner. It would make his revenge all the sweeter. Though Thorn wondered if Captain Dubois was capable of caring for anyone.
It was better this way. Miss Grace did not deserve the fate which the captain planned for her. Now she could return home. Tugging his hat down further on his forehead against the bright rays, Thorn thrust the oar through the choppy water. The sounds of splashing and gurgling rose like the guilt bubbling in his stomach for leaving her alone in Port-de-Paix. Wasn’t he using her as a pawn to further his own agenda just as the captain was? No. He would give her enough money to convey her safely home. And since Rafe would be spending his days and nights in town in his usual manner—saturating himself with alcohol and women—and Thorn had volunteered to attend to Miss Grace’s needs himself, no one would be the wiser. Thorn felt the heavy pouch hanging from his belt and smiled. If Rafe only knew that he was the one funding the mademoiselle’s journey, no doubt he would be even further enraged.
Hot wind blasted over Thorn, cooling the sweat on his neck and forehead, and taking his guilt with it. There was no other way. When Thorn took Rafe’s ship from him, everything that was important to the captain would go with it. Having Rafe arrested for piracy would have proved simpler, but Woodes had sent that imbecile Howell to do the job. The only other option was mutiny, but most of the men were loyal to the captain. Even so, Thorn had heard mumblings of discontent recently that gave him hope. Without the mademoiselle to sell, Rafe’s position would become precarious.
Quite precarious indeed.
***
Grace braced her oversized boots against the thwart in the wobbling boat and stared at Mr. Thorn’s outstretched hand. “ ’Tis best if I do not accept your assistance, Mr. Thorn.” She gave him a playful glance. “If I am to pass myself off as a boy, I must behave accordingly.”
“Indeed.” He withdrew his hand, his face reddening, and busied himself tying the bowline onto a piling. Gripping the rough wood of the dock, Grace struggled to hoist herself upon it but instead tumbled back into the boat. On her second attempt, she managed to extract herself from the rocking vessel but paid for her clumsy efforts with splinters in her hands, adding to the collection already planted there when she’d clung to the mainmast.
Mr. Thorn flipped the dock master a coin and led the way toward the main street as Grace did her best to strut behind him. Yanking upon the waist of her baggy breeches, she hoisted them so the hems wouldn’t drag through the dirt. But her cumbersome clothes, coupled with the muddy street that seemed to wobble up and down as if the whole island were afloat, sent Grace nearly tumbling to the ground. Which she would have done if not for Mr. Thorn’s quick reach and firm grip.
“It takes a while to get used to solid land again, miss.” He quickly let go of her.
“Thank you, Mr. Thorn.” She stopped t
o catch her breath. Tugging the brim of her hat lower over her forehead both to shield her eyes from the blazing sun and to hide her gender, she surveyed the port town.
The scene that met her gaze made her stomach fold in on itself. Worse than anything she’d seen in Charles Towne or Portsmouth. On a platform to her right, Africans—including small children—were being auctioned off. The obnoxious voice of the auctioneer spouted their strength and breeding capability as if they were naught but animals, while a bevy of boisterous planters vied for their bids to be heard above the uproar. Open taverns lined the street, filled to the brim with men laughing and sloshing their drink and half-naked women sprawled over their laps.
In broad daylight!
A mob of people in tattered clothes swarmed around something in the center of town. Somewhere in the distance a musket fired, and a scream pierced the air. Yet no one seemed to notice. An African woman with a basket of fruit atop her head sauntered by. Pigs and chickens ran freely through the streets. Grace’s nose stung with the fetor of animal dung, human sweat, and rotten fish.
She was struck by an overwhelming urge to dash back to the boat and return to the ship at once. But no. God had finally heard her prayers and had offered her a way of escape. She would not turn her back on His gift of freedom simply because of her fears.
Mr. Thorn gave her a sorrowful look. “Sorry, miss. I know these sights must shock you.”
She pursed her lips and shifted her shoulders beneath the overcoat. Perspiration trickled down her back, but she dare not remove the heavy wrap lest the curves of her figure betray her gender. And from the looks of things, enduring discomfort would be preferable to being discovered as a lady alone in such a place as this. “ ’Tis not your fault, Mr. Thorn.”
“I’ll take you as far as the port master, miss.” He handed her a pouch that jingled in her hand. “This should be enough to procure passage back home on one of the merchant brigs.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck and gazed nervously about the street.
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