Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Grace’s head swam beneath the woman’s suggestion—a suggestion that if Grace followed would change everything.

  “I would not dare escape on my own,” she continued. “For I have nowhere to go, no money. But perhaps your family could grant me lodging until I contact my mother’s brother in Virginia.”

  The desperation flaming in Madame Dubois’s eyes burned through Grace’s resolve. She could not reject this poor woman’s plea for help. Hadn’t Grace prayed for someone to come alongside Charity should her sister ever decide to leave her husband? Someone who would help her get away to safety? How could she do any less for this pitiable lady?

  But she’d given her word to Captain Dubois.

  Madame Dubois awaited her answer, her eyes pooling with pleading tears that tore at Grace’s heart.

  “But I promised Captain Du—”

  “Of what value is a promise made to a liar and a thief?” she snapped.

  “A promise is a promise, madame.” Grace lowered her chin, wondering at the woman’s sudden disdain for her stepson when she seemed quite enamored with him last evening.

  Madame Dubois patted Grace’s hand as one would a little child. “Do you think he intends to honor his promise to take you to Charles Towne? Silly girl.”

  Grace stood. “Yes, I do.” She surprised herself with the confidence of her tone.

  Madame Dubois began sobbing again. “Then I am lost.” She dropped her head into her hands. “Monsieur Thorn told me you were a kind woman.”

  “Mr. Thorn? What has he to do with this?”

  “It was his idea that I come to you.” She lifted her swollen, puffy face to Grace. “For both our well-beings, he said.”

  “But I am to meet the captain soon.” Grace glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past seven. No doubt he was already waiting for her. She bit her lip. “Why do you not come with us?”

  “With Rafe?” Madame Dubois’s eyes widened as if Grace had asked her to jump out the window. “Even if he plans on taking you to Charles Towne, he would never allow me on his ship. He hates me.”

  “I doubt that, madame.” Although as Grace recalled, the captain had been less than cordial to his stepmother.

  Madame Dubois gripped Grace’s hand again. “Please do not abandon me, mademoiselle. You are my only hope.” The despair in her voice sent a shiver through Grace and drew her down beside the woman, where she wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Rafe had said his father was not to be trusted. This woman’s tale only further endorsed that report, so how could Grace leave her in the hands of a monster? “What happened between Rafe and his father?” She could not help the question for she had to know the truth.

  Madame Dubois glanced toward the window. “There has always been competition between them. From when Rafe was very little. Henri challenged him constantly. Everything was a contest. Then he would lash and humiliate Rafe afterward—especially if he won. Vraiment, I do not believe he loves his son. He treats him as if Rafe were not his own flesh and blood.” She dabbed at her tears. “At least that is what Rafe has told me, and I have not seen evidence to the contrary.”

  A sudden pain gripped Grace’s stomach, and she pressed a hand upon it. The sorrow of such a childhood was beyond her comprehension. But even more confusing was Madame Dubois’s actions. “If you knew this, why did you marry Monsieur Dubois?”

  “I was a foolish young girl who thought wealth would solve all my problems.” She waved her handkerchief through the air, then turned anxious eyes to Grace. “Please do not leave me with him.”

  Grace felt as if a war raged within her members. Break a vow or save a life. Which was more important? Which one would God have her choose? She squeezed the madame’s hand. “I will not abandon you, madame.”

  “Merci. Merci,” the woman sobbed. “You are too kind.”

  Maybe, Lord, this is the reason You have brought me all this way. To save this poor girl from the horrors of her marriage.

  “I must tell the captain of my change of plans.” Grace rose and turned toward the door.

  “Non. Mademoiselle.” Madame Dubois grabbed her arm. “If you go to him now, he will kidnap you again. You do not know him as I do.” She gave Grace a look that intimated she too had affections for Rafe, and the sight of it took Grace aback.

  “Monsieur Thorn said he would inform him if you agreed,” she continued and dabbed the handkerchief beneath her puffy eyes. “And Captain Dubois must never know why you changed your mind.”

  “Why not?”

  Madame Dubois’s blue eyes turned to ice. “Because if he knew what his father had done to me he would kill him.”

  ***

  Every step Rafe took over the muddy street sent a thunderous ache through his head. Doffing his cocked hat, he wiped the sweat from his brow and trudged forward. Irksome noises assailed him from all directions. Bells chiming, people screaming, horses clomping, the grating crank of carriage wheels, the lap of waves, and the incessant chatter of the mob, all increased in a cacophony of clatter in his pounding head.

  Greetings and hails shot his way, but he dismissed them, in no mood for talking today. The fetor of manure, stale fish, and rotten fruit curled beneath his nose, causing his stomach to heave and nearly spew its contents—if there had been any.

  Last night was a dismal, nightmarish blur. But beside his aching head and a knife wound on his arm, Rafe suffered no permanent damage.

  When Monsieur Thorn had met him at the graveyard and informed him that Mademoiselle Grace had changed her mind and would be leaving with his father on the morrow, Rafe had ordered him to make ready the ship, then he leapt upon his horse and galloped to his favorite tavern at the edge of town. After he had downed the first several drinks, the rest of the evening transformed into broken memories floating in his mind, none of which fit into any sensible pattern.

  Femme exaspérante. Non. Liar, deceiver, traître. Just like all women. Why had he been foolish enough to expect this one to keep her promise? Why had he not known she would run into his father’s arms just as Claire had done? Rafe clenched his fists as he sidestepped a passing horse and rider. He heard his name called from a shop to his left, followed by another shout, but he ignored them.

  Such intimacies he had shared about his mother with the mademoiselle at the graveyard; his face heated. And the way she had cried for him. A ploy? Another feminine trick to soften a man’s heart into mush? He spit onto the ground and shoved his way through a mob of fishermen, ignoring their protests. Like her father, like all British, she wore a cloak of honor and kindness that did not exist once circumstances tore it from her.

  Rafe had been duped again.

  After he had vowed never to allow another woman access to his heart. The lovely raven-haired mademoiselle had pretended to care about Rafe only so he wouldn’t kidnap her on the spot. Rafe kicked a rock across the road. Je suis un imbécile!

  But it wasn’t too late. If the mademoiselle could toss her vows so quickly to the wind, why couldn’t he?

  His father had won again. He had stolen another woman from Rafe. The thought sent waves of searing fury through him. He needed to leave this place as soon as possible. He must bid adieu to Abbé Villion, wipe the mud of Port-de-Paix from his boots, and head out to sea where he belonged—away from devious women and his depraved father.

  Edging around the stone church, Rafe headed toward an oblong brick building. He shoved open the heavy door; its slam against the stones echoed through the building. Rafe stomped inside, squinting as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.

  Then it hit him. A blast of hot, fetid air that smelled of human waste and mold.

  And death.

  His anger fell from him like an overused cloak.

  Boxes, barrels, and crates flanked him, lit by four small windows, two on each side of the oblong structure. He recognized some of the goods he had recently delivered and began weaving his way down a narrow path between them toward a lighted area at the far end. Moans of pain slinked their way toward him
as Abbé Villion appeared from amidst the clutter.

  Despite the bloody rag in his hand, the abbé smiled. “Rafe. How are you?”

  “Très bien,” he lied, scanning the area behind the abbé where the sick lay on cots lined against the wall. An African woman dabbed a cloth on a young mulatto’s forehead. “I have come to bid you au revoir. I set sail today.”

  “I am sorry to hear it, my friend.” Abbé Villion’s eyebrows pulled into a frown. “When will you return?”

  A rat scrambled across the dirt floor by Rafe’s boots while another moan sounded from the cots, drawing his gaze back to the sick child. “Who is that?”

  Abbé Villion’s face seemed to sag. He sighed and turned around, gesturing toward the cot where the woman tended the young boy. “Young Corbin, an orphan. He has the ague, I believe.”

  Rafe glanced from the boy to the other patients, noting how young they were, all except one giant African man curled up in a ball like a baby. “And the others?”

  “Different ailments.” Abbé Villion shrugged. “I am no physician.”

  “This is no place for the ill, in this squalor.” Rafe’s heart shrank, even as his frustration rose.

  “At least here they are safe from the rain.”

  Brushing past the abbé, Rafe gazed at the sick, his already ailing stomach curdling within him.

  From one of the cots, the dark brown eyes of a boy who looked to be no more than six years old stared blankly up at Rafe. In the child’s vacant eyes, he saw a hopelessness so intense it made him shiver.

  And in that instant, no matter the cost, Rafe felt a renewed sense of urgency. He could not delay his promise to the abbé any longer.

  CHAPTER 19

  Yellow and orange flames thrust their bony fingers toward the black sky, lunging, leaping, as if trying to escape their dark prison. Grace’s heart seized and she whirled about. More flames shot up around her like blasts from a cannon. The heat scorched her gown, her skin, her hair. Pain seared through her. Pain that never ended. Pain that was never satisfied.

  Because nothing ever burned.

  She peered beyond the circle of flames. More fires flared, illuminating the massive jagged rocks strewn across the barren landscape. Balls of burning pitch and ear-piercing wails shot from black craters. Grace darted in the direction of one of them and peered over the side. Naught but molten blazing rock met her gaze. Yet the screams continued. Nothing had changed.

  Always hearing, but never seeing anyone.

  No, Lord, not again. Grace collapsed to the sharp rocks that made up the floor of the hideous place and she dropped her head into her hands. A soft voice slid over her. Wiping the tears from her face, she looked up. Not five paces from where she sat stood her sister Hope, her honey blond hair tossing this way and that in the hot blasts coming from the crater. Hope reached out her hand toward Grace and smiled.

  Jumping to her feet, Grace darted toward her. “Hope! Hope!” But just as their fingertips grazed, Hope disappeared. “No! Come back! Hope!”

  Grace’s chest heaved, and she opened her eyes. Darkness everywhere. No flames, no moans, no screams. In place of the heat, a chill swept over her. She rubbed her eyes and saw the curtains fluttering at the window of her chamber.

  Her chamber at Monsieur Dubois’s house.

  She released a deep breath. Another nightmare. Shivering, she hugged herself, dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead, then swung her legs over the side of the bed. Had she left the window open?

  A form emerged from the shadows. A man’s form. Grace tried to scream, but he grabbed her arm, twisted her around, and flattened his palm over her mouth.

  The smell of tobacco and leather swirled beneath her nose. Captain Dubois. She struggled, but this time he didn’t release her, didn’t remove his hand, didn’t allow her to speak. And though he didn’t hurt her, his touch was firm, determined.

  He turned her so she could see him in the mirror and motioned for her silence. His hand fell away. Grace opened her mouth to ask him what he was doing but before she could utter a sound, he shoved a handkerchief into it and tied it behind her head.

  Terror consumed her. Why was he so angry? Mr. Thorn had told her that the captain had accepted her decision and had ordered him to prepare the ship to sail. He had reassured her all was well as he bade her farewell.

  Grace groaned as loudly as the cloth in her mouth allowed and reached up to loosen it. But the captain grabbed her hands and tied her wrists behind her. Then hoisting her over his shoulder, he sat on the window ledge, grasped a rope he must have tied to her bedpost during her dream, and flung them both out the window.

  “Stay still.” His voice was stern, emotionless. Grace’s head dangled against his back. The ground loomed in the shadows some thirty feet below her. He released his grip about her legs. Her heart froze as she realized she could fall if she moved the wrong way.

  Bracing his boots against the side of the house, he grasped the rope with both hands and inched his way down. Grace squeezed her eyes shut, trying to keep her balance over his shoulder. The muscles in his shoulders and back flexed and strained as he ambled down the siding. Then he clutched her legs again and jumped to the ground with a thud that slapped her cheek against his back.

  Grace’s head gorged with blood, blurring her vision and making her upside-down world seem more like a dream than reality. Or rather, a reoccurring nightmare as the musky smell of his waistcoat brought back memories of the first time this man had stolen her from her home.

  Taking her by the waist, he lifted her up to sit sideways on a horse then leapt behind her. Tugging the reins, he nudged the beast, and they dashed into the darkness.

  Wind, heavy with moisture and the scents of forest and flowers, swept over her, flinging the loose wisps of her hair back over the captain. The heat from his body and the touch of his arms as he manipulated the reins alarmed her to the realization that she wore only a thin nightdress. An ache tugged at her throat. Her mouth parched until she could hardly breathe as once again all her hopes were obliterated beneath this brigand’s volatile moods. And what would happen to Madame Dubois? Who would come to her rescue now?

  The next hour passed in such stunning familiarity that if not for the gag in her mouth, Grace would have thought she only dreamed about the journey to Port-de-Paix, her frightening time alone in town, and finding freedom with Monsieur Dubois.

  At the docks, Captain Dubois led her into a small boat, manned by two of his men, and in minutes Grace found herself once again staring at the dark hull of Le Champion. The captain pulled her to her feet. Grace tried to meet his gaze, desperate to discover his intent, desperate to find some shred of the concern she’d grown accustomed to seeing in his eyes of late. But he kept his face averted, refusing her a glimpse of his thoughts.

  Up the rope ladder and down the companionway he carried her. Then, lowering her to the deck, he shoved her into her cabin. Grace’s eyes filled with tears as he untied the gag and tore it from her mouth then freed her hands.

  Slowly she turned to face him. His dark eyes blazed like the fires she’d witnessed in her nightmare. She swallowed. A tear escaped her lashes and slid down her cheek.

  His chest heaved beneath his white buccaneer shirt, whether from exertion or anger, she couldn’t tell. Strands of his ebony hair had loosened from their tie and wandered over his cheek as if seeking an anchor in this madness.

  Grace shivered beneath his perusal and wrapped her arms over her nightdress.

  His breathing slowed, and he shifted his jaw. “Who is Hope?”

  “Why have you taken me again? Let me go!” She stormed toward him and tried to squeeze past him out the door, but his body might as well have been one of the ship’s masts as strong and sturdy as it was. Sobbing, she retreated.

  “Who is Hope?” he asked again.

  “My sister.” Her voice came out as if her mouth were stuffed with cotton. “I had a nightmare about her. She was in hell.”

  He stared at her, his eyes a g
lass wall, the twitch in his eyelid the only indication of any emotion.

  The captain’s bold gaze refused to leave her. Grace’s face heated. “Now I’m wondering if I am not there as well,” she added, trying to cover more of her nightdress.

  The captain shrugged off his gray coat and handed it to her. As she reached out for it, a flicker of concern softened his eyes, giving Grace a moment of hope.

  But then it was gone.

  She held his coat up to cover her chest. “Why?”

  He grabbed his baldric. “I thought you were something you are not.”

  “What am I, then?”

  “You are the price of a hospital.” Then he stepped out and slammed the door, leaving Grace alone in the darkness.

  ***

  Rafe bunched his arms over his chest and gazed across the indigo sea. A half-moon sitting a handbreadth over the horizon flung bands of glittering silver upon the waves, lending a dreamlike appearance to the scene. He inhaled a deep breath of the salty air, the smell of fish and life and freedom. Beneath him, milky foam bubbled off the stern of the ship before vanishing into the dark waters beyond—like everything beautiful, everything good. Anything worthwhile in this life turned out to be but a dream, a vapor; if one dared try to grab hold of it, it simply vanished.

  The ship pitched over a swell, and Rafe braced his boots against the deck. He plucked a flask from his pocket and took a gulp of brandy before replacing the cork and slipping the container back into his coat. The liquor took a warm stroll down his throat as the sound of a fiddle and the voices of men playing cards blared from behind him. His crew seemed happy to be at sea once again and on their way to procure a fortune.

  Rafe wished he could share their mirth.

  But the vision of Mademoiselle Grace shivering in her cabin would not obey his order to vacate his thoughts: the braids of her long raven hair swinging over her white nightdress like liquid obsidian on cream; her emerald eyes moist with tears; her bottom lip trembling. And all he had wanted to do was take her in his arms and comfort her. Sacre mer, what spell had la femme cast upon him? Even after her betrayal, even after a day out at sea, he still couldn’t get her out of his mind. He shook his head, scattering his thoughts of her. This time he must not allow himself to become attached to her. This time he would keep his distance.