Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  As Mr. Thorn was doing now. With a shrug, he continued eating, obviously willing to endure insults in order to fill his belly.

  The captain huffed out a sigh of impatience. “And I do not approve of your life, Père. So here we are.”

  “Ha! How can I expect you to approve of the honorable life I lead?” Monsieur Dubois plucked a silk handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at the sweat on his brow. “Why is it so hot in here? Monsieur Ballin!” he barked at the servant standing at the door. “Douse those coals immediately.” The man scurried to do his master’s bidding while Monsieur Dubois turned steely eyes upon his son. “You were always rebellious. So much like ta mère.”

  Stunned by Monsieur Dubois’s cruelty, Grace raised a hand to her mouth to stifle a gasp and then shifted her gaze to the captain, her heart aching for the pain he must feel.

  But, instead of sorrow, his face reddened in anger. He slowly rose to his feet. “You may call me what you will, but you will not malign my mother’s good name.”

  His father stood, his chair scraping over the tiles behind him. “Do you dare challenge me in my own home, boy? I should have silenced your impudence the last time we dueled.”

  “I was but sixteen, Père.” That slow grin that so often graced the captain’s lips now rose again. “I have learned much since then. And as I recall, it was I who would have bested you, if not for ma mère’s intervention.”

  The food in Grace’s stomach soured. She’d never witnessed such hatred in a family. A father and son dueling? Unheard of. She glanced at Madame Dubois, hoping to find a voice of reason, someone to step between these two, but the woman stared numbly down at her lap.

  Mr. Thorn grabbed his glass and leaned back in his chair as if ready for the night’s entertainment.

  Gathering her courage, Grace stood. “Gentlemen, please.”

  Finally, Madame Dubois struggled to her feet as if weak from some disease and shifted pleading eyes to her husband. “Henri, s’il vous plaît. Do not.”

  He waved at her as if dismissing a servant. “Sit down and have some more wine. It is what you do best.”

  The food in Grace’s stomach soured at the man’s treatment of his wife.

  Madame Dubois’s shoulders slumped, and she collapsed into her chair in a shroud of despair.

  Grace gripped the chain around her neck and said a silent prayer, shifting her gaze between the two men. Monsieur Dubois, her would-be rescuer—the man who only moments ago had proclaimed a devotion to spread the love of God—glared at his son, while the captain’s dark eyes brewed with more anger and hatred than Grace had ever seen from a son toward his father.

  Mr. Thorn finally spoke. “If I may, Monsieur Dubois, might we put the hostilities aside? Your son and I shall be gone soon enough.”

  “Back to the trade, eh?” Monsieur Dubois sneered, grabbed his glass, and took a swig.

  The captain narrowed his eyes. “I have reasons for what I do. What are yours?”

  “Ah, oui. The great Rafe Dubois, champion of those in need. I’ve heard enough of your praises throughout the city.” Monsieur Dubois sank to his chair.

  “Perhaps you should heed them and garner some praises of your own. There are many who would benefit from the riches you lavish upon yourself.” The captain gestured toward their luxurious surroundings, and Grace heard naught but sincerity in his tone, and perhaps a speck of pleading, ever so slight, as if he truly cared for the poor and wished his father would do likewise.

  His father guffawed. “I have no need of the praises of commoners. Besides, it is foolish to help people who by misfortune of birth, circumstance, and a propensity to slothfulness will not fend for themselves. It is the way of the world.”

  Madame Dubois groaned and took another drink.

  Grace eyed the haughty disregard marring Monsieur Dubois’s expression and could keep her tongue no longer. “But surely you understand that is not the way of God.”

  He gave her a cursory glance. “There is much about laziness and hard work in the Bible, mademoiselle.”

  “There is also much said about caring for those in need.”

  Monsieur Dubois’s face soured, but he made no reply.

  Grace could not comprehend how a man who professed faith in Jesus could be so callous. Her glance met Captain Dubois’s, and he smiled at her. The smile of a friend.

  She lowered her gaze, disturbed by the turn of events that had placed her on the same side as this villain.

  “You will never reach my father’s heart with your platitudes, mademoiselle.” Captain Dubois sighed. “The man possesses no heart.”

  “Spoken by a man who, no doubt, has a heart.” Grace said, hearing the sarcastic bite in her voice. “A heart that thinks nothing of kidnapping innocent women? Is that the type of heart my platitudes would reach, Captain”

  Without looking at her, the captain downed his brandy, rose, and headed for the vaisselier.

  Monsieur Dubois grimaced and set down his fork with a clank, All emotion drained from his face as if a curtain had fallen upon it. “Mademoiselle Grace,” he began in a tone of formality. “Forgive us for exposing our family contentions in front of you and Monsieur Thorn. I love my son, but as you can see, we do not agree on many things.”

  Madame Dubois leaned an elbow on the table. “Henri, I am not feeling very well.”

  The elder Dubois cast his wife a look of scorn and stood. “Pardon me, but my wife seems to have had too much to drink—yet again.” He bowed to his guests then glanced at his son as Rafe returned to his seat with more brandy. “You and Monsieur Thorn may stay the night if you wish, but I want you both gone in the morning. Grielle!” He snapped his fingers, and a tall, dark man entered the room. “Escort the mademoiselle to her chamber.” He inclined his head toward Grace. “For your own protection, mademoiselle. There are villains afoot.” He swept a narrowed gaze over the captain and Mr. Thorn.

  Then he assisted Madame Dubois from her chair and led her from the room. After their departure, a shadow fled from Captain Dubois’s features. He sipped his brandy and eyed Grace as Grielle came and stood by her side.

  She rose. “If I do not see you again, Captain, please know I shall be praying for you.” She faced Mr. Thorn. “And you as well.”

  Mr. Thorn nodded. The captain stood but made no comment. Yet as Grace left the room, she felt his gaze searing her back. Resisting the urge to glance at him, she continued down the hall. She should be happy to be free of Captain Dubois, free from his plans to sell her as a slave, free to return home to Charles Towne. Then why, with each step away from him, did she feel as though she walked out of a prison only to step into a fiery furnace?

  CHAPTER 17

  Bong. Bong. The clock’s chimes echoed through the dark halls of the Dubois home. Two in the morning. Rafe ran a hand over the back of his neck and took up his pace again over the silk-embroidered rug centering the library. Unable to sleep, he’d gone to the only room in the mansion that held more good memories than bad. A place where he and his mother had spent hours reading and playing her favorite game of vingt-et-un. His father detested this room. Said the flowery patterns on the chairs and walls made him squirm and softened his manliness. So it had become a ladies’ parlor as well as the library, and as Rafe glanced over it now, even in the shadows, he could tell little had changed.

  He ground his fists together, thinking that Claire must be using the room now for the same purpose his mother had. But he preferred to dwell on only the pleasant memories invading his mind. Breathing deeply, he could almost smell the rose de mai of his mother’s parfum, which she imported from Grasse each year. Though he knew that would be impossible. She’d been dead these six years. But the pain was all too fresh.

  He patted his coat pocket for a cheroot, took one out, and lit it from the embers in the fire then stood and took a puff. He glanced above the mantel where the massive emblem of the Dubois crest hung—two black lions battling against the backdrop of a red coat of arms. Rafe should have felt pride
at the family insignia, yet only shame assaulted him.

  His thoughts drifted to Mademoiselle Grace. When he had first seen her in his father’s foyer, her raven hair wound in her usual tight bun, adorned in that satin gown that gave her an air to match her name, an unexpected thrill had sped through him. At that moment, he had been glad he had broken his vow never to return to this horrid place.

  Then the meeting in her chamber. He grinned as he remembered the flush creeping up her face at his close perusal, and the petulant lift of her nose as she stood her ground against him. It had taken every ounce of his strength not to take her in his arms. He was, after all, alone with her in her chamber. But for once in Rafe’s life, he cared more about not frightening a lady than he did for his own pleasure—an odd sensation that settled on him like an ill-fitting garment.

  And he wasn’t sure he liked it one bit.

  Then after he’d restrained himself on her behalf, she had refused to listen to him; sacre mer, femme exaspérante! Rafe took another puff of his cheroot and tucked a lock of his hair behind his ear. He had given her another chance at dinner. A chance to see the true caractère of his father. And the man had not disappointed Rafe in his performance. Rafe shook his head. Where most women would have cowered before his father’s commanding opinions, Mademoiselle Grace had expressed her own with polite bravado. The sanctimonious woman was no weakling. Yet despite the disgust Rafe had seen on her face at his father’s boorish behavior, she still intended to accept his offer to return her home.

  Rafe must convince her otherwise. She had no idea the danger she was in. Oui, his father may return her to Charles Towne, but it was in what condition that worried Rafe. For his father never met a person or object that he did not try to either possess or destroy.

  “Rafe.” His Christian name spoken in a desperate female tone swerved him about. Claire stood in the doorway in a white nightdress, her golden hair spiraling around her like a fallen halo. She floated toward him, a haunting apparition from his past.

  He took a puff of his cheroot and looked away. “What do you want?”

  “So sévère, so unfeeling. After all this time.” Her voice was both melodious and melancholy like a sorrowful ballad. She halted beside him. Moonlight floating in from the tall French windows accentuated the sorrow etched upon her face.

  Rafe let out a sarcastic chuckle. “Moi, sévère?” Drawing another puff, he slowly exhaled the pungent smoke, making no attempt to avoid her with the fumes.

  She coughed and batted it away. “Since when do you smoke?”

  “Many things have changed.” He placed his boot on the fireplace.

  “All things?” She stepped toward him.

  Her scent of lavender swirled around him like an intoxicating elixir. “Oui.” He pushed from the mantel and walked toward the window, his boots thumping his annoyance over the floor.

  “I see you have recovered from your wine,” he snorted.

  “And you, your brandy.” She paused. “It is difficult seeing you again, Rafe. Having you so close. I thought perhaps it was difficult for you, also.”

  Her words knifed toward Rafe, trying to slice through his heart, but he threw up his shield—the hard crust he had built bit by bit over the past five years. He turned to face her. “Je suis désolé for causing you distress, madame, but you are mistaken. You made your choice.”

  She approached him, her blue eyes brimming with hopeful tears. “A decision I have regretted.” The moonlight shimmered over her creamy skin. She eased beside him in that alluring, feminine way, like a cat snuggling up to its owner, trusting, begging to be coddled and loved.

  Rafe swallowed, his body reacting to her closeness. He had missed her. He could not deny it. “We all live with regrets.”

  She laid a hand on his arm, and a spark shot through Rafe. “But must we live with this one?” Then planting a kiss on her finger, she dabbed it on his bruised eye.

  Her touch, her scent, the sweet sound of her voice combined in a swirling pool of memories that played havoc with his senses. For a moment, he felt like a young man again, newly in love with the most beautiful woman in the world. Mais non. Too much had happened since that mystical time. He grabbed her hand and jerked it from him. “Sacre mer. You are my father’s wife.”

  She lowered her gaze. “If that is what you call me.”

  “Oui, that is what I call you, madame. It is a truth that has invaded my worst nightmares these long years.”

  “Then you do still care?” Her voice cracked as she raised her chin.

  Rafe clenched his jaw and averted his gaze from her pleading eyes. A battle brewed within him—a battle filled with desire, love, betrayal, and hatred, each emotion struggling for dominance.

  “He is cruel to me, Rafe.”

  “You knew what he was like.”

  Rafe took a final puff of his cheroot, walked to the fireplace, and flicked it into the coals. He must leave before he gave in to every base impulse within him. “I suggest you return to your bed before my father wakes and finds you missing.” He turned and stomped out.

  ***

  Grace rose from the dining table and pushed back her chair. “Merci.” She nodded her thanks to the servant manning the buffet laden with croissants, orange marmalade, and coffee. More exhausted than she realized, she had overslept and missed breaking her fast with Monsieur Dubois and his wife. An event she was not at all unhappy to have escaped.

  She’d learned from the butler that Monsieur Dubois had business to attend to and Madame Dubois had taken to her chamber with a headache. Passing through the dining room out into the hallway, Grace couldn’t shake the overwhelming cloud of despair that permeated the walls of the Dubois home. Rather than succumb to the weighty oppression, she headed out the front door for some fresh air. Making her way down the stairs, she squinted against the sun hovering above the eastern hills, not yet high enough to inflict its searing rays upon the inhabitants of the island.

  Movement caught her eye, and she glanced to her right where Monsieur Dubois stood with his back to her, speaking with another man beneath a ficus tree. They huddled together as if exchanging a grand secret, only whispers of which drifted past her ears. She started off in the other direction, not wanting to intrude, when Monsieur Dubois chuckled. It was a maniacal chuckle that sent a shudder through her and drew her gaze back to the men. Monsieur Dubois slapped the other man on the back and stepped aside, giving Grace a view of his identity.

  It was Mr. Thorn.

  Slipping behind a hedgerow, she inched her way closer to the men.

  “So everything is in order, then?” Monsieur Dubois said.

  “Yes, I will meet you as planned.”

  The sound of hands slapping against each other filled the air. “Finally I will put Rafe in his place.” Monsieur Dubois chuckled.

  “And I will have my revenge,” Thorn growled. “But what of Miss Grace?”

  “What of her?” Monsieur Dubois’s voice held a nonchalant lilt.

  Grace couldn’t help the gasp that escaped her lips. The men grew silent, and she could see through the leaves of the bush that their gazes had shot in her direction. Covering her mouth, she inched her way along the hedgerow away from them. Boot steps thudded toward her. In a frenzy, she plucked her handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown and tossed it to the ground just as Mr. Thorn and Monsieur Dubois cornered the bush.

  Mr. Thorn’s frown darkened. “What on earth are you doing, Miss Grace?” He studied her face, no doubt searching for evidence that she had heard their conversation.

  “Mr. Thorn. Monsieur Dubois.” Grace forced a smile to her lips and then lowered her gaze. “Oh, there it is.” Bending down, she picked up her handkerchief. “This silly thing blew away from me in the breeze and I was just retrieving it.”

  Monsieur Dubois narrowed his eyes upon her. “I was on my way into town to arrange your passage back home, mademoiselle, when I ran into Monsieur Thorn. He has some amusing stories of his time in the British navy.”


  “No doubt he does.” Grace smiled again. “Though I daresay I wasn’t close enough to hear them.” With her statement, both men’s shoulders seemed to lower in relief. “I cannot thank you enough for procuring me a ship home, Monsieur,” she added.

  “My pleasure, mademoiselle.” Monsieur Dubois nodded.

  “Good day to you both.” Grace excused herself and started on her way.

  “Good day, mademoiselle.”

  It wasn’t until she turned down a narrow pathway that Grace realized her heart was in her throat. What plans had the men been discussing? From the sounds of it, they were up to no good. Stuffing the handkerchief back into her sleeve, she hugged herself as a chill struck her. Her name had been mentioned and then batted away as if she were of no consequence. Did Monsieur Dubois still intend to escort her home?

  Weaving around the corner of the house, Grace drew in a deep breath of air laden with moist earth, tropical flowers, a hint of the sea, and the sharp scent of sugar cane. She halted for a moment and watched as a group of slender white birds with long tail feathers and black markings on their heads flitted from tree to tree above her, their joyful warble helping to ease her tension. Perhaps she was making too much of a conversation she had heard only parts of. Careful to avoid the puddles formed from last night’s storm, she silently gave thanks to God for bringing her to safety and for being faithful when her own faith had waned. She thought of Monsieur and Madame Dubois and sent up a petition for them as well, for it was obvious they were unhappy together. “They need You, Lord. They need Your forgiveness and love.”

  To her left, a vine of red and pink flowers spread over the side of the house as if trying to mask the misery within. How could she help this family? Monsieur Dubois had voiced his intent to serve God, although Grace had seen little to validate that claim. Perhaps all the man required was a bit of guidance on the scriptures, and in particular instruction on how to love his wife as the Bible commanded. Grace could certainly provide that.

  Continuing on her way, she clutched her skirts to avoid another puddle and gazed out into the distant fields where the dark shapes of slaves tending the sugar cane bowed and rose in the rising sun. The crack of a whip sliced the air. She shuddered. She’d seen mistreated slaves back in Charles Towne, but the sight never failed to send a ripple of revulsion through her.