Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  But she knew what hell was like. And the memory of her vision never ceased to send her heart racing and her skin crawling in terror. If only these people could witness it as well, if only for a second. Surely, they would fall on their knees and never commit another shameless act. Grace spent her days seeking either a friendly face among the crowd or a morsel of food—both of which rarely appeared. Even the scraps tossed from the taprooms and boardinghouses were quickly gobbled up by dogs roaming the street. Grace was beginning to feel like one of the hairy beasts and could soon envision herself on all fours, growling and fighting for a bone alongside the pack of mongrels.

  Winding her way through the crowded street, she searched the passing faces for any sign of compassion, any flicker of kindness. Yet most of them looked beyond her as if she didn’t exist. Some of the ladies pressed a handkerchief to their noses and glanced back over their shoulders in disgust. Grace dropped her chin and sniffed her clothing. Damp linen and an odd sour odor met her nose. Certainly not offensive enough to garner such a snobbish reaction. Yet perhaps Grace had simply grown accustomed to the smell.

  Lifting her chin, she met the gaze of a haggard man sitting in the shade of a tree beside the road, and she recognized him as the beggar she and Mr. Thorn had seen when they first arrived in Port-de-Paix. But this time, she did not shift her gaze away as she had done then. This time, she did not cover her nose from the smell, nor send him a look of disdain. This time she knew exactly what he suffered day after day, and a sudden remorse for her judgmental attitude consumed her. She nodded her greeting and offered him an understanding smile as she passed, and he tipped his floppy hat at her in return.

  The scent of fish swirled around her, taunting her and sending her belly into a ravenous growl. Pressing a hand against it, she allowed her nose to lead her down the street to a cart laden with fresh fish and mangos. The owner, a woman with spiny hair and a flat face that seemed in a perpetual frown, stood braying out the value and price of her wares. “Poissons frais, mangues pour la vente, deux denier.”

  Grace ambled up to the cart and offered the woman all that she had—a kind smile.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” The lady ceased her calling and laid a knotted hand on her wide hip.

  Pointing toward the mangos, Grace gave the woman a pleading look.

  “Deux denier.” The woman produced an open palm, but Grace shrugged and held out her own empty hands.

  The woman’s mouth puckered into a dark hole that reminded Grace of a cannon. “Allez-vous-en!”

  Grace shrank back even as her stomach shriveled at this latest denial. Turning, she gazed out over the glittering bay, watching the ships swaying with the incoming waves. A blast of wind struck her, tearing away the putrid stench of the port and replacing it for a moment with the fresh smell of the sea—the vast, deep, magnificent sea, and all that stood between her and her home. She sighed. It might as well be a bottomless pit, for she had no way to cross it. Her gaze landed on Le Champion, and she was surprised to see Captain Dubois had not set sail. Had he discovered her missing? If he had, she’d seen no evidence that he had made any effort to find her.

  Loud French words shot over her, and she swung around to find the cart lady in a heated argument with a man and his small son. The woman circled around her cart and with a pointed finger, spit a string of harsh words toward the man, who returned them with equal fervor. Numb and weak from hunger, Grace eyed the altercation as if in a dream. Her eyes finally latched upon the mound of mangos in the cart.

  And not a soul around to guard them.

  She glanced over the crowd and found everyone’s eyes focused on the ensuing argument.

  Just one mango. Would it matter if she took just one mango? She could almost taste the sweet, pulpy fruit. Her stomach lurched at the thought, and before she could ponder it another second, she dashed toward the cart, plucked a mango from the pile, slid it beneath her shirt, and sped away.

  “Voleur! Voleur! Ce garçon a volé mes mangues!” came the condemning shout behind her. Followed by the thudding and squishing of shoes on the muddy ground. Grace clutched her treasure as if it were gold and wove through the startled crowd with more speed and agility than she’d have thought possible in her weakened condition. A whistle blew. Behind her, boot steps drummed a guilty sentence like the pounding of a judge’s gavel. A man reached out to clutch her as she passed, but she pushed him aside and barreled forward.

  Her eyes darted up and down the street as she went, seeking a hiding place. Heart pounding, she leapt up a span of stairs, barreled through an open door, and dashed across a dim room before she realized she’d entered a tavern. The stench of rum and moist wood assailed her as she sped past a group of men, tripped over a chair, and landed face-first in a sticky puddle on the floor. As if in final salute to her stupidity, her hat tumbled off and landed beside her head, spilling her matted hair into the slop.

  “Où est le garçon?” A booming voice shouted behind her.

  Grace’s head began to spin. The putrid smell of whatever she’d fallen into saturated her hair and shirt, and she coughed, unable to rise, unable to even consider what the punishment was for thievery in this horrifying town.

  Gentle hands gripped her arm and dragged her to her feet then wiped Grace’s hair from her face. A lady with eyes the color of the sky and hair as light as honey stared at her with concern. Then gasping, she threw a hand to her mouth and bent over to retrieve Grace’s hat from the floor. She shoved it atop Grace’s head and tugged it down around her eyes and cheeks. “Keep your face hidden,” she whispered. Boot steps thundered their way, and the lady whirled around to face the oncoming men, nudging Grace behind her.

  “What’s all this fuss over one young lad, gentlemen?” She placed her hands upon her hips.

  “Step aside, Nicole. The boy stole a mango,” the taller of the two men growled.

  “A mango, is it? Sacre bleu, what a beastly crime.” Sweet sarcasm chimed in her voice. “Why, most of the men in here have stolen far more than that, and you know it.” She opened her palm behind her back, and Grace plucked the mango from within her shirt and gave it to her. All the while lifting a prayer of thanks heavenward for this unexpected protector.

  The woman thrust the mango toward the men. “Here, take it and leave the poor lad alone.” She sashayed toward the obvious leader, a man who looked more like a pirate than a magistrate. “Surely you have more important villains to catch, Pierre.” She kissed him on the cheek, and a hint of a smile broke on his lips before he grunted and took a step back.

  “Très bien. I suppose no harm was done,” he muttered. “But only for you, Nicole.” He winked at the lady, sent a harsh glare toward Grace, then turned and stomped out, the other man following him close behind.

  As soon as the men left, the tense silence that had descended upon the place dissipated, and the patrons returned to their drink and cards with groans of disappointment. No doubt a hanging would have provided a pleasant diversion. Thankful she’d not become the afternoon’s amusement, Grace took a deep breath as her heart settled to a steady beat.

  The lady swerved around. Mounds of creamy skin burst from within a low-cut bodice that was far too tight for her voluptuous figure. Gaudy beads jangled from her ears and hung around her neck, but beneath the paint adorning her face beamed a caring smile. Taking Grace by the arm, she led her toward a stairway at the back of the tavern.

  Tugging from her grasp, Grace halted, worried she’d escaped one danger only to find herself in another. “Where are we going?”

  “Shhh ... someplace safe.” Lifting her skirts, she escorted Grace up a narrow set of creaking stairs, down a hall, and into a room not much bigger than Grace’s cabin aboard Le Champion.

  “I thank you for saving me from those men, mademoiselle.” Grace shook the terror from her arms and neck where it stubbornly clung as if portending new dangers within this room. “But I ... but I cannot impose upon your kindness, Miss, Miss—”

  “Nicole.
You may call me Nicole.” She closed the door and bid Grace sit upon the bed at the room’s center. “You are not imposing.”

  Though kindness sparked in the woman’s gaze, Grace had learned these past four days to trust no one. Especially not someone with questionable morals. “I offer you my thanks, for I can offer you no more than that, but I shall take my leave now, if you please.”

  “Sit down, and I will bring you something to eat,” Nicole commanded in a maternal tone, although from the looks of her she could not be much older than Grace.

  Although Grace knew she should remove herself from this woman’s presence as soon as possible, her stomach leapt at the mention of food, keeping her feet in place.

  Approaching her, Nicole placed a finger beneath Grace’s chin and lifted her face to examine it. “How long did you think this charade would last? You are très belle to be a boy.”

  Grace sighed and removed her hat, freeing her hair from its stale, matted confinement. The raven locks matted with dirt and slime fell to her shoulders like a rock, and she took a step back. “It has kept me unscathed until now.”

  Nicole ran a glance over her and chuckled, and Grace looked down at her torn, muddy breeches, her soiled, damp coat, and dirt-smudged hands and face.

  “Unscathed? Perhaps. But you could use a bath.” Nicole sniffed and raised the back of her hand to her nose. “What happened to you?”

  Grace knew it was true, but the insult jarred her nonetheless. “I’ve been on the streets for four days,” she said. “And how do you come to speak English so well?” Though the woman’s French accent was strong, her words told of an education that defied her profession.

  “I spent a few years in the acquaintance of a British sailor.” She looked away for a moment, her expression drawn. But when she snapped her gaze back to Grace, her face pinked. Only for a second. “What is your name?”

  “Grace Westcott.”

  “From where do you come, ma chérie?” Nicole batted the air. “Oh, never mind. Let me go get you some food.” She swept a gaze through the room. “Madeline, viens ici.”

  A shuffling sounded in the corner behind the dressing screen and out crept a little girl, no more than seven, with long, curly blond hair like Nicole’s and large brown eyes. Grace smiled at such innocence amidst such wickedness, and the girl beamed at her in return.

  “Keep our guest company until I return with your dinner,” Nicole said.

  Madeline nodded and trustingly took hold of Grace’s hand while Nicole swept out the door, leaving Grace in a state of confusion, not only at the presence of the girl but at the ease with which Nicole entrusted her to Grace.

  “Why are you dressed like a boy?” Madeline eyed Grace’s clothing and wrinkled her nose.

  “Because I don’t want anyone to know I’m a girl.” The shock at seeing such a small child in a tavern subsided, immediately replaced by fear for the little girl’s safety.

  “I like being a girl.” Madeline plopped onto the bed.

  “I usually do, too.” Grace sat down beside her.

  Grace glanced across the tiny room, which contained only the bed she sat upon, a wooden engraved chest, a dressing screen, and a small vanity upon which sat a bottle of perfume, a mirror, comb, hair pins, and jars of what Grace assumed to be face paint. A tiny open window—too high to peer out of—allowed a faint breeze to enter the room, not enough to cool the sultry air or to sweep away the putrid smells drifting in.

  Madeline swung her legs back and forth over the side of the bed and began humming a tune, still holding onto Grace. Grace squeezed the girl’s hand. She knew she should probably leave, should not remain in this woman’s room, should not even be in this tavern, but the temptation of a meal was too much for her to resist.

  Perhaps God had sent her here to help this little girl. “Is Miss Nicole your mother?”

  The little girl nodded.

  “And you live here? In this room?”

  Releasing Grace’s hand, Madeline lifted the coverlet on the bed and pulled out a straw doll. She held it to her chest. “Oui.”

  Grace cringed. “Do you stay here all alone?”

  “Only when Mama works.” Madeline’s brown eyes lit up. “But when she does not work, she takes me outside to play, and to the market, and sometimes we walk along the shore.”

  Grace eased a wayward curl behind Madeline’s ear as she remembered her own childhood and the many hours she had spent without her father and mother. But of course, there had always been a governess or a servant or her sisters around to look after her.

  Nicole soon returned with two plates of fried fish, baked sugared plantains, and corn. After handing them to Grace and her daughter, she sat at her vanity for a moment to squeeze color onto her cheeks, pin up a loose strand of her hair, and dab perfume on her neck.

  Then kneeling beside her daughter, she kissed her on the forehead. “Mother won’t return until late. Be a good girl and keep Mademoiselle Grace company and go to sleep when you get tired.”

  “I will, Mama.” The sweet obedience nipped at Grace’s heart.

  Nicole rose and gestured toward the bed. “You may stay here tonight if you wish.”

  Grace hadn’t the strength to decline the invitation. “Thank you ... merci. You’ve been so kind.”

  Nicole smiled then turned and flounced out the door.

  Grace took to her meal with such desperation and lack of propriety, she nearly laughed at herself. Never had food tasted so good. Finishing her plate, she longed to lick it but resisted the urge, lest she appear rude.

  Madeline also made good work of her dinner and afterward, Grace, stomach bursting, lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, unable to hold them open another minute. Sometime later, she jolted when Madeline crawled into bed and snuggled against her. Wrapping an arm around the little girl, Grace drew her close and faded back to sleep to a discordant French ballad meandering over them from below.

  Sometime in the middle of the night, a lurid thought seeped into Grace’s mind, jarring her consciousness. A picture of a ripe yellow mango danced through her mind. Lifting her hand to her throat, she gasped as tears of shame burned behind her eyes.

  I am a thief.

  CHAPTER 12

  Rafe leaned back in the wooden chair and inhaled a deep breath, trying to still the spinning in his head. He immediately regretted doing so as a vile brew of malodorous fumes stung his nose and throat. Flanked at the table by Monsieur Atton and Monsieur Legard, Rafe cast his dizzy gaze around the tavern as curses, threats, and ribald laughter blended in a devil’s chant that further goaded his ill humor. The throng of humanity twisted in odd shapes before him, even as it seemed to retreat to the long end of a tunnel.

  Monsieur Legard grabbed a passing woman and pulled her onto his lap. Disgusted by the display and confused by his disgust—since he’d done the same thing a hundred times—Rafe grimaced and looked away.

  He’d been in Port-de-Paix four days now, but it had not provided the diversion he hoped it would. Even Abbé Villion’s deep appreciation for what he was doing for the hospital and the praises the people continually cast his way as Rafe strode through town had not provided him with the satisfaction and pleasure they normally did. Even spending every night in his favorite taverns, enjoying his brandy and an occasional game of faro, had not lifted the burden weighing upon his humors. En fait, his mood had grown fouler, and he found himself snapping at his men for no reason.

  Mais, he knew the reason. The same reason that kept barging unbidden into his mind—and his heart. The lovely Mademoiselle Grace Westcott. The captive aboard his ship. Yet why did it seem as though he were the one being held captive? For no sooner did he begin to enjoy himself than a vision of those convicting green eyes appeared before him and stole all his pleasure like a schoolmaster with a ruler.

  He poured himself a sip of brandy and tossed it to the back of his throat then drew a puff of his cheroot, allowing the spicy smoke to fill his lungs. He had no choice. He would return Mademoisel
le Grace to her home. Admiral’s daughter or not, he could not sacrifice such an innocent, kindhearted, brave lady to the wolves, or the lion, as she had put it. He smiled as he remembered how her bottom lip quivered when she was nervous and the way her raven hair made her skin look like porcelain.

  But lives will be lost.

  Rafe winced. He must find another way to procure the fortune he needed. He could not let Abbé Villion down. He could not allow more people to die when it was within his power to prevent it. Sacre mer, why couldn’t the woman have been a shrew?

  “What’s wrong, Capitaine? You look as though someone died.” Monsieur Atton leaned toward him, his wiry, spiky hair reminding Rafe of a sea urchin.

  Rafe snorted. He felt as though someone had died—or something—some part of him that had the courage to do the sensible thing even if it meant doing the wrong thing.

  The blurry shape of a man sauntering up to their table drew Rafe’s gaze, and he ground his teeth together, hoping the haze of brandy deceived him. Unfortunately it hadn’t.

  Monsieur Gihon halted before the table like a king before his subjects. One hand pressed firmly upon the pommel of his rapier, he fingered his pointed, brown beard and shifted eyes as cold as steel onto Rafe.

  “If it isn’t Monsieur Dubois, the paladin of the poor. Come to receive the praises of your admirers?” He waved his hand through the air, the lace adorning his sleeve flapping in equal alacrity with his lips.

  Monsieur Legard’s wench abandoned his lap and melted into the crowd that settled into an unusual hush. Like pigs to slop, they no doubt smelled an altercation as their hungry eyes darted toward the men.