Rafe poured himself another drink, raised his glass in mock salute, then gulped the burning liquid. “Monsieur Gihon.” The man had been a nuisance since Rafe’s childhood. The bully who because of his unusually large size and position in society had hounded the other children. But he’d never been able to bring Rafe into subjection, for even before Rafe grew to his present size, he’d used his wits to defeat the half-masted brute.
Monsieur Gihon flung curled strands of his periwig over his shoulder. “Perhaps you should appoint yourself governor, or better yet, king, and set up a throne where you can receive a continual stream of your adoring masses.”
“Thank you for the suggestion, monsieur. I may do that.” Rafe grinned and took a puff of his cheroot.
Laughter rumbled across the mob.
Rafe leaned back in his chair. “What do you want?”
“You know, monsieur.”
Messieurs Legard and Atton pushed their chairs back and stood, the smirks upon their lips evidence of their confidence in their capitaine. They backed away from the table to join the growing throng of bodies that undulated like waves upon the sea.
Frustration boiled within Rafe. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. “How many times must you come for retribution only to depart in humiliation?”
“I will have my revenge, monsieur.” The ogre of a man narrowed his slit-like eyes upon Rafe.
“All you will have is a headache in the morning from your overindulgence in drink and a wound in your arm where my rapier will make its signature.” Rafe batted him away. “Now, go and leave me be.”
A fly landed on the rim of Rafe’s glass and he swatted it, wishing he could rid himself of this man as easily. It was then that he noticed from whence the fly had come as the insect buzzed to join his companions in a swarm about Monsieur Gihon’s wig.
Quelling a chuckle, Rafe downed his drink, resigned himself to trouncing this boor yet again, and studied his opponent: the way his beefy fingers twitched upon his sword’s pommel, the apprehension flickering across his glassy eyes, the swagger of his massive frame caused by either an excess of alcohol or his overinflated pride.
Rafe yawned, patting his hand over his mouth, confident in the knowledge that his display of boredom would spark his longtime nemesis’s capricious temper. As expected, Monsieur Gihon drew his rapier in one sweep and leveled its tip upon Rafe’s gray waistcoat.
Cheers and howls surrounded them like a pack of hungry wolves while his own men stood to the side wearing expressions of abject tedium as if watching a play to which they knew the ending.
Rafe lowered his chin to examine the sharp point denting his fine cambric. “Tear this waistcoat and you shall pay, monsieur.”
“It is you who shall pay. For ruining Mademoiselle Rachelle.” The man’s nostrils flared like those of a horse that had been run too hard.
“Mademoiselle Rachelle.” Rafe scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Do remind me. Who is she again?”
The raucous mob brayed in laughter.
“The woman I was to marry, you scoundrel!” Monsieur Gihon’s rapier point pressed deeper into Rafe’s waistcoat.
“Ah, oui, I do recall her now.” Rafe nodded and gazed off in pretense of remembering the lady. “Hair the color of mahogany and skin the color of fresh cream.” He snapped his gaze back to Monsieur Gihon, whose face resembled an inflated pig skin. “Mais I also recall the betrothal of which you speak was only in your mind. The lady denied even knowing you.”
Chortles sped through the rabble, and several women pushed their way through the crowd toward the front to watch the impending battle.
Monsieur Gihon’s jaw expanded until Rafe thought it would explode. Something besides fury appeared in the man’s eyes that set Rafe aback. Pain, real pain and sorrow. And the glimpse he caught of it sobered him instantly. The insolence that had taken over Rafe at the man’s presence faded beneath a rising burst of sympathy. For Rafe understood well the agony of losing someone he loved.
He puffed upon his cheroot. “She came to me willingly, monsieur. How was I to know the depth of your interest in her?” When he had discovered Gihon’s affections for the lady, Rafe had truly felt bad about the incident. He was not a man to meddle with another man’s woman, not even Gihon’s. “I offered you my sincerest apology at the time, non? And if I remember correctly, I returned her to you, mon ami.”
“Soiled.” Gihon spat and then slid his hand within the flap of his coat. “And I take no man’s castoffs.”
Rafe let out a ragged sigh. “Oui, neither do I.” A pinch of pain stabbed his heart as a memory resurged from long ago—a memory of a lady he had hoped to marry who had been stolen by another. Shrugging it off, he faced his adversary, searching for the anger he knew he would need for a fight. “But can I help it if the ladies find me irrésistible?”
At this remark, one of the women batted her lashes and cooed at him, igniting more laughter from the mob.
“Will they find you so with my rapier through your heart?” Monsieur Gihon seethed.
Rafe cocked his head. “Even then I believe they would prefer me over you.”
The man’s hand trembled with rage. His face grew a deep shade of purple and he began sputtering nonsense. The tip of his rapier tore through Rafe’s waistcoat, and Rafe heaved a sigh. He had no desire to fight Gihon. There was nothing to be done about the past—for either of them. But to back down in front of this crowd would be a death sentence. “Now you have angered me, monsieur.” He stamped out his cheroot upon the wooden table.
A hush consumed the crowd.
Rafe inched his boot to the leg centering the table and gave Monsieur Gihon his most sardonic, confident stare—the one that had melted many men’s resolve—hoping he would forsake this foolish squabble. Beads of sweat sprang upon the man’s forehead, and he lunged at Rafe.
Rafe kicked the leg. The table slammed into Gihon. He stumbled backward, dropped his rapier, waved his arms through the air, then tumbled into the crowd. They caught him and threw him back toward Rafe. Booting the table aside, Rafe stormed toward the man, shaking the spin of brandy from his head and allowing all of his frustration and anger of the past weeks to flood into his clenched fists.
Monsieur Gihon recovered, eyed his rapier on the floor, and slid his hand into his waistcoat, no doubt in search of a pistol.
Rafe slammed his fist across the giant man’s jaw, sending him reeling to the left. He didn’t want to hurt him, just make him stop his foolish quest for revenge.
Turning, Rafe bent over to retrieve the man’s blade. A punch to his back forced him to the floor. Burning pain seared across his shoulders. He gasped for breath.
“Get up, Monsieur Dubois,” one man shouted.
“Can’t let ’im beat ye,” another chimed in.
“Rafe, Rafe.” Female voices chanted his name.
Rising, Rafe whipped around to see a hairy fist fill his vision and flatten against his eye. He bolted backward. His anger boiled and his eye began to throb. The man’s skill at fighting had improved.
While Monsieur Gihon lifted his arms to encourage the cheers of the crowd, Rafe charged toward him, barreling into his waist. Together they plunged into the agitated mob. The stench of sweat showered over Rafe as hurrahs filled his ears.
Grabbing the man’s coat with both hands, Rafe lifted him off the floor then slammed him down. Before Gihon could recover, Rafe leveled a punch into his stomach followed by another across his jaw, snapping the man’s head to the side and sending his periwig flying through the air. The giant toppled over like a felled tree and landed in a heap on the crusty floor. His moan echoed throughout the tavern.
Rafe plucked Gihon’s rapier from the floor and tossed it at the man. It landed beside him with a clank.
The mob roared their approval, fists in the air, but Rafe felt no relief from the burden weighing upon him. He waved away the crowd, righted his chair, and dropped into it as his men picked up the table and snapped their fingers
for more drink.
“Bravo, Capitaine!” Monsieur Atton slapped Rafe on the back. “Though ye had me scared for a moment.”
Monsieur Legard took his seat and the trollop who had occupied his lap last slid back into place as if nothing had happened. “Moi non. I never seen the capitaine lose a fight.”
Rafe touched the swollen tissue around his right eye. “He’s a clod. I merely toyed with him.”
A blond woman emerged from the throng and headed his way, carrying a bottle of brandy and a cloth. The brandy she set upon the table, the cloth she dabbed upon his eye. He brushed her hand aside. “Nicole. What are you doing here? I thought you worked at Le Cochon Doux.”
“I missed you, too, Rafe.” Perching on his lap, she continued her ministrations. “Quit behaving the imp and allow me to attend to you.”
Though Rafe hated being coddled, he didn’t mind the close view of her curvaceous figure nor the sweet smell of her lilac perfume that helped to drown the reek of the men beside him. “I heard you saved a boy today from the noose.”
She flattened her lips. “He stole a mango. Poor thing was starving to death.” She dipped some brandy onto the cloth, then continued dabbing around his eye.
Rafe winced as the alcohol stung his wound. “Quit wasting good brandy.” He pushed her hand away. “You are a good woman to help the lad.”
She dropped her hand into her lap. “Can I tell you a secret?” Before he could answer, she leaned toward his ear, her honey curls tickling his cheek. “The lad turned out to be a lady.”
“Vraiment?” Rafe’s brows shot up. Pain etched across his forehead.
Nicole put a finger to her lips. “You mustn’t tell anyone.”
“Dressed as a boy?”
“Oui, and she had not eaten for days, by the looks of her. I have her upstairs in my room now.”
As long as Rafe had known Nicole, she was always taking in strays. Once, she’d even forfeited some of her earnings to help Rafe feed a hungry family. “You amaze me, Nicole. Are you sure you are not an angel in disguise?”
Her blue eyes the color of the sky glistened beneath his praise, and he thought he detected a slight blush coloring her cheeks. She giggled. “Sacre bleu. An angel? Far from it, I am afraid.” Despite her profession, Rafe had once considered pursuing something permanent between them. If not for one tiny obstacle.
“Has my father visited you lately?” His tone edged with more anger than he wanted.
She gave him a sideways glance. “Do you wish to know or are you just expressing your disapproval?”
“Neither.” Rafe reached for the bottle of brandy. “Never mind.”
She clicked her tongue. “So much anger, Rafe. You are just like one of your cannons about to explode.”
“Yet you do not keep your distance, as wisdom would dictate.”
“You would never do me harm.” Nicole kissed his bruised eye then ran a finger over his stubbled jaw. “I can make it all feel better, Rafe.” Her voice grew heavy with the sultry invitation.
Rafe grimaced. “You know I cannot.” He gently nudged her from his lap, amazed her closeness evoked no reaction from him. In fact he had no appetite for any woman since he’d landed at port, much to the dismay of his usual flock of jeunes femmes.
Nicole huffed and planted her hands upon her waist. Her comely face lined in disappointment. “I have not seen your father in months.”
“It matters not.” Rafe tipped the bottle to his lips and allowed the spicy liquor to slide down his throat. Leaning the flagon atop his thigh, he raised his gaze to hers. “It only matters that you have been with him at all.” A wounded look crossed her expression, and Rafe stood, set the bottle onto the table, took her hand in his, and kissed it. “I thank you for your care, mademoiselle.”
Nicole smiled so sweetly, it seemed to wipe the stain of her profession from her face. Then turning with a swash of skirts, she sashayed away to the next customer.
Rafe faced his men. “Gather the crew. We set sail tonight.”
“Mais,Capitaine,” Legard complained, pulling back from the woman nibbling on his neck.
“One more night?” Monsieur Atton pleaded.
“I said tonight!” Rafe barked, and the men jumped to their feet. Monsieur Legard’s woman nearly fell to the floor.
Rafe could no longer remain in this port. His life would never return to normal again until he returned Mademoiselle Grace safely to her home. Then he could get back to his mercenary work without her convicting presence dangling over him like a hangman’s noose over a criminal’s neck.
CHAPTER 13
A stream of light danced across Grace’s eyelids and scattered into tiny diamonds. She stretched and savored the soft feel of a dry coverlet beneath her instead of cold, wet mud. Quiet, steady breathing filled the air, and the tiny warm body molding against Grace reminded her of the odd predicament in which she found herself.
On the bed of a trollop, snuggling beside the woman’s illegitimate child.
Movement in the distance brought Grace to full attention. Slipping her arm from beneath Madeline, she rose on one elbow and glanced across the room, smoky in the dust-laden rays of the sun streaming through the window. In the far corner, with woolen shawl about her shoulders, lay Nicole, whose open eyes met Grace’s.
She smiled. “How did you sleep?”
Grace blinked. “You slept on the floor? Why did you not come to bed?”
Nicole pushed herself to a sitting position and brushed the hair from her face. “I did not wish to disturb you. You and Madeline slept so soundly.”
“When did you come in?” Grace swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
“Late,” Nicole replied with a smile that seemed to carry a trace of shame. Then Grace lowered her gaze to Nicole’s wrinkled gown, her disheveled coiffure, and the smeared paint on her face. A sudden embarrassment flooded Grace at the realization of what the woman had undoubtedly subjected herself to during the long night.
Grace clutched the top of her shirt and held it tight over her chest in fear that the condition might be contagious. She gazed down at the sleeping child, a beacon of innocence amidst this haven of debauchery. “Madeline is a lovely girl.”
Nicole’s eyes moistened, and she crawled over to sit beside the bed, gazing at her child. “She is my life.” She took the sleeping girl’s hand in hers, and from the look in her eyes, Grace knew she meant it.
Grace bit her lip, wanting to ask the woman why she subjected her daughter to this sordid existence, but feared to insult someone who’d been naught but kind to her.
Lifting her gaze to Grace, Nicole brushed a curl of her golden hair aside, and sighed, her blue eyes stinging with pain. “You look at me with such reproach.”
Grace looked down, regretting that she wore her opinions so blatantly on her face. Or so her sisters had told her. “Forgive me. I mean no offense.”
Rising, Nicole trudged to her vanity and sat down. “You forget, I am accustomed to the looks of disdain I receive from proper ladies. And even some men.” She grabbed a cloth, dipped it in a basin of water, and attempted to wipe the paint from her cheeks. But after a few seconds, she faced Grace again, a grin forming on her lips. “But I didn’t expect it from”—she chuckled—“a woman who dresses like a man and steals mangos.”
Grace smiled at the ease with which this woman cast offense aside. Her sweet spirit transformed their conversation from one of strain to one of enjoyment as if they’d been friends for years. Which gave Grace the encouragement to ask the question that had burned on her tongue ever since she’d met Nicole. “Why do you ... why do you—?”
“Sell myself for money?” Nicole raised her brows. “For her.” She gestured toward the still-sleeping child. “To feed her. Keep her warm and off the street.” She tugged the lace bounding from her bodice in an attempt to straighten it. “Otherwise we would both be wandering the alleys as you were yesterday and would probably die, hungry and alone.”
“Surely there is another w
ay.” Grace thought of her sister Faith who had resorted to pirating to garner much-needed wealth. A shudder ran through her, and she thanked God that situation had turned out well in the end.
“What would you suggest?” Nicole snickered as she faced the mirror again.
“A trade of some sort, perhaps?”
“A woman in business on her own? Here in Port-de-Paix?” Her laughter bubbled through the room, and she waved away the thought. “Besides, I have no skills.”
Grace clutched the chain around her neck. What did a woman do if she had no family, no husband, no money? In Charles Towne, some women had been permitted to run millinery shops as long as they were widowed or deeded the right to do so by their husbands. But apparently here in Saint Dominique that was not the case. “How did you come to this town? Where is your family?”
Nicole set down the cloth, shook her head at her appearance in the mirror, then swerved in her chair to face Grace. “I grew up an orphan on the streets of Creteil. At seventeen, I was rounded up by King Louis XIV ’s men and sent here to be a wife to one of the local planters.” Her nonchalance gave no indication of the horror she must have endured. She chuckled. “ ‘Daughters of the King,’ they called us. Simply a polite way to say prostituées.”
Grace’s heart sank. How atrocious. How could any woman have endured such a thing? She glanced at Madeline, and Nicole seemed to read her silent question.
“I was ravished by one of the sailors on the crossing, and when I arrived with my belly full of a child, no one wanted me for a wife.” Nicole pressed a hand over her stomach as if remembering the incident; then she released a heavy sigh.
A sour taste filled Grace’s mouth. “I am sorry.”
“C’est la vie.” Nicole shrugged. “That sailor left me with two precious things: the ability to speak English and ma Madeline chérie. Besides, we have done well. Madeline lacks for nothing. And”—Nicole’s blue eyes sparkled with hope—“I am saving money so that she and I can escape this place and sail for the British colonies in America. I hear they accept everyone, and there are opportunities for women that are not found here.”
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