Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Shoes scuffed over the deck behind him, and Rafe flattened his lips. He craved no company on this dark night, preferring to torment himself with the shame and guilt that had become his friends since he had stolen Mademoiselle Grace from his father’s house.

  “Mon ami.” Father Alers eased beside him and folded his hands over his prominent belly. “You have been hiding from me.”

  “Apparently not well enough.”

  Father Alers chuckled. “The crew told me you were in a foul humor. And no wonder after what you have done.”

  “And what is that, mon vieux?”

  His friend gave Rafe a reprimanding look but said nothing, only gazed over the dark waters.

  “I had no choice.”

  “We all have a choice.”

  “She chose my father over me. She broke her vow.”

  “Vraiment?”

  “I would have returned her home.” Rafe fingered his mustache.

  “And for one lie, you send her to her death instead?”

  “Not her death.”

  “Ah, but a fate worse than death.” Father Alers’s tone carried the convicting ring of truth.

  “She betrayed me. She intended to go with my father to Charles Towne.”

  “Oui, I heard votre père was involved. That explains much.” Father Alers scratched his wiry gray beard.

  “What do you mean?” Rafe reached for his flask, uncorked it, and took another sip.

  “Only that I fear you are more angry at your father than at the mademoiselle.”

  “Absurde. I know what to expect from my father. But the mademoiselle ... I thought she was different.”

  “I see nothing changed in her.” Father Alers shrugged.

  “She deceives you with her saintly behavior, but inside she is a snake like my father, like Claire.” The thunderous clap of a sail sounded above him, and Rafe took another swig of brandy. “Not to be trusted.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Lives will be spared from the doubloons she will bring me.” Rafe bristled as the words sounded more like an excuse than a reason. “Besides, the men haven’t been paid in over a month and they start to complain.”

  “Is that how you justify your actions?” Father Alers coughed his disapproval and glanced into the dark sky above them. “The sacrifice of one for the many?”

  Rafe scowled. “What do you want, mon vieux?” he barked. “Does the mademoiselle require something?”

  “Non. She is well.” Father Alers fixed Rafe with a withering stare. “More kind and accommodating than one would expect in her situation.”

  Rafe corked his flask and returned it to his coat. “Then excuse me.” Turning on his heel, he marched across the quarterdeck, bunching his fists together—angry at Father Alers, angry at himself, angry at the world.

  Not even the brandy seemed to numb his fury this night as he leapt down the companionway. Nor as he stormed down the narrow hall to his cabin and blasted through the door. He slammed it and stomped to his desk. Striking flint to steel, he lit a lantern and rummaged through the closet for another bottle of the brandy.

  A soft scraping sound met his ears. Rafe froze. Slowly tugging his pistol from his baldric, he cocked it, then he spun around, pointing it toward the source. Out of the shadows drifted a lady in an azure gown.

  “It is me, Rafe.” Her soothing voice penetrated the haze that covered his mind.

  She took another step, and the lantern light shifted across her face. Rafe lowered his pistol and rubbed his eyes as her form swirled in his vision. It could not be. I have had too much brandy. He opened his eyes expecting the apparition to have vanished. But she remained. A sweet smile lifted her lips, and she reached out for him.

  Claire.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Claire, sacre mer, what are you doing here?” Rafe tucked his pistol back into its brace and narrowed his eyes upon the last person he expected to see aboard his ship.

  She sashayed toward him, the swish of her blue gown setting his nerves on edge. Lifting her thick lashes, she gazed at him with all the love and adoration he remembered. “Are you not happy to see me?” She placed a hand on his arm.

  Rafe jerked from her touch, turned around, and grabbed the bottle of brandy he’d been searching for. “I asked you a question.” A question to which his alcohol-hazed mind could not fathom any rational answer.

  “I could stand it no longer.”

  Rafe circled her, opened the bottle, and searched for a glass, not wanting to look into those crisp blue eyes. Spyglass leapt from the window ledge and landed on a chart stretched across his desk. Where had le chat come from? Ignoring the feline’s nudge on his arm, Rafe found a glass, poured himself a drink, and faced Claire.

  “What could you not stand, Madame Dubois?”

  She drew her lips together in a pout. “I liked it better when you called me Claire.”

  He cocked a brow. “That was a mistake. Like many things between us.”

  “Oh, Rafe, must it always be so?” She fingered the lace atop her bodice. Her golden curls bounced around her neck with her every movement.

  “What are you doing here?” He tipped back the brandy; if he drank enough, it would render him unconscious and put an end to this miserable night.

  Inching toward him, she grabbed the edge of his desk, her delicate fingers kneading the rough wood as they had oft rubbed the stiff muscles in his neck. He swallowed.

  “I ran away from your father.”

  Rafe jerked. Though her presence here had precluded any doubt of that fact, hearing the words aloud caused his blood to boil.

  She reached out to him. When Rafe lurched away, she clasped her hands together and looked down. “He is a monster, Rafe. I could tolerate his abuses no longer.”

  “What business is that of mine?” Rafe slammed the liquor to the back of his throat.

  Her eyes glistened. “I thought you might still care.”

  Spyglass rubbed against Rafe’s back, vying for his attention.

  He snorted. “How did you get on board?”

  “I hired a man to row me out to your ship.” She shrugged, sending her gold jeweled earrings shimmering in the lantern light. “I have no one else to turn to.”

  “I am the last person to whom you should run, madame.” He clanked the glass atop his desk as his muscles tensed in anger. “Your presence here is unwelcome. Do you know what I do with stowaways?”

  She eased beside him. Her lavender scent rose to tantalize his nose. “Help me, Rafe. I beg you. Help me escape him.”

  Rafe stepped back, his stomach knotting. “I toss them overboard.”

  “You would never harm me, Rafe.” Tears pooled in her thick lashes and a shudder swept through her.

  “And yet you had no qualms about harming me.”

  “I was young and foolish.”

  “And you are so much wiser now, I see.”

  “Let us forget the past.” She toyed with a curl dangling about her cheek and pouted her lips. “Can I please stay? I will be no trouble. I’ve brought my lady’s maid to attend to me.”

  Rafe’s throat went suddenly dry and he cleared it. “I see you have planned well. I seem to have no choice. For now.”

  She gave him one of those sweet, seductive smiles that in times past melted his resolve. Rafe fought against the haze in his mind that prompted him to take what she so freely offered.

  He licked his lips.

  Spyglass batted Rafe’s glass off the desk. The shrill crash jarred him from the woman’s trance, and he glanced down at the glittering shards strewn across the deck. Spyglass pressed her head against his arm and he hoisted the cat onto his shoulder, thankful for the interruption.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  “Entrez-vous.”

  Rafe’s helmsman entered, his eyes alighting upon Claire and widening in admiration.

  “What is it, Monsieur Atton?” Rafe ground his teeth together. What fools men became in the presence of a beautiful woman.

  The
helmsman jerked from his trance. “Capitaine, Monsieur Thorn wishes to inform ye that the brig is sailing trim, the horizon is clear, and he’s putting Weylan on watch.”

  “Très bien.” Rafe nodded. “Tell Monsieur Thorn to come to my cabin before he retires.”

  Claire flinched at the mention of his first mate’s name, and Rafe looked at her curiously. “You do not approve of Monsieur Thorn?”

  She looked away. “I hardly know him.”

  Monsieur Atton turned to leave.

  “Leave the door open, monsieur,” Rafe ordered. Better not to be alone with this vixen.

  “Aye, Capitaine.” Atton’s boot steps faded down the companionway.

  Rafe patted his pocket for a cheroot. “You have placed me in a precarious situation, Madame Dubois.”

  She frowned.

  “Sans doute, my father will come looking for you. And he will believe I stole you away.”

  “I wish that you had.” Her voice was laden with sorrow, but instead of invoking Rafe’s sympathies, it had the opposite effect. He picked up the lantern, lit his cheroot in its flame, then inhaled the pungent smoke, allowing it to filter into his lungs.

  Turning, he glared at her, searching her eyes for a hint of the real reason for her sneaking aboard his ship. Whatever it was, she was up to no good. And now, on top of everything else, he must deal with this spoiled, self-centered woman.

  She swallowed and flitted her gaze about nervously. “Why call Monsieur Thorn?”

  “To escort you to your quarters.” Rafe swung about and stared out the stern windows at the star-studded sky bobbing up and down beyond the panes.

  “But I thought ... I thought I could stay in here with you.” The swish of her gown followed him.

  She eased beside him. Feigned innocence beamed from her blue eyes as her lips once again drew together into that pleading pout. Rafe’s blood heated at her salacious offer as memories swirled in his mind—pleasurable memories of their past together.

  Spyglass leapt back on the window ledge, and Claire jumped, wrinkling her nose in disgust.

  “You wished to see me, Captain?” Monsieur Thorn’s voice rescued Rafe from his thoughts.

  Claire stiffened beside him and looked down.

  “Oui, Madame Dubois will tell you where her lady’s maid is hiding. Then please escort them both to Mademoiselle Grace’s cabin.”

  Monsieur Thorn nodded but oddly withheld his glance from Claire.

  “Mademoiselle Grace?” Claire’s normally soft tone ascended to a screech. Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared.

  “Quel est le problème?” Rafe asked.

  Claire planted her hands upon her hips. “What is she doing here? I thought she was leaving on Henri’s ship tomorrow.”

  “There has been a change of plans.” Rafe eyed Claire curiously, wondering what difference the mademoiselle’s presence made to her.

  Madame Dubois stared at Monsieur Thorn as if he had the answer, but he shifted nervously and gazed into the dark sky beyond the window.

  She swept seething eyes to Rafe. “I will not share a cabin with that woman.”

  ***

  Grace rose from kneeling beside her bed and rubbed her aching knees. The brig creaked and moaned as it navigated another wave—sounds that had become her constant companions since Captain Dubois had kidnapped her the night before. With the exception of brief visits by Father Alers, she’d not spoken to a soul, especially not the captain, though she’d heard him storming through the companionway outside her door often enough. She knew it was him because his thick jackboots made a distinctive angry th-ump when he marched about.

  Grace moved to the porthole. Stars winked at her from their posts positioned across the dark shroud covering the earth. Perhaps they guarded more than the night sky. Perhaps they were God’s army of angels watching over her. It brought her comfort to think so.

  She wove around her cot and glanced over the cabin. The lone lantern perched upon the table cast eerie shadows across the bulkhead, shadows that hovered over her heart and brought her to her knees in prayer. All day she’d been asking God why—when she had been so close to rescue—He had brought her back into captivity. When she received no answer, she prayed for Hope instead. The vision of her sister in hell had jarred Grace to her very soul and reminded her of the brevity of life here on earth and the urgency of bringing others to Christ.

  Grace lowered her chin, ashamed that her anger and judgment at Hope’s willful rebellion had caused her to cease praying for her sister. But from now on, she promised to pray for Hope every day. She’d also said a prayer for Madame Dubois—that God would heal her heart and her marriage, and only as a last resort, provide an escape from the brutality of her husband. And for her sister Charity and her marriage as well.

  Yet heaven remained silent.

  Grace sank to her bed and removed her shoes, then she began loosening the ties of her bodice on yet another borrowed gown that Father Alers had provided for her. Where he procured all these gowns, she didn’t want to know. She did want to know, however, why she was here on this brig. Every time she thought she knew what God’s plan was for her, every time she thought she knew who she’d been sent to help, everything changed.

  The door crashed open, slamming against the bulkhead with a jarring crunch. Grace splayed her fingers over her loosened ties and slowly rose as none other than Madame Dubois entered the cabin. A mulatto woman, her face lowered, followed on her heels, and Monsieur Thorn completed the entourage, a trunk hoisted over his shoulder.

  “Madame Dubois.” Grace darted toward her, thinking that the captain must have kidnapped her as well.

  But the woman ignored her to swing about and face Mr. Thorn. “This is all your fault,” she snapped.

  Mr. Thorn chuckled. “Zooks, madame. I do not see how.” He lowered the trunk to the floor then shot a quick smile Grace’s way. “Have a pleasant evening.” Then looking as if he couldn’t escape quickly enough, he left and closed the door.

  A chill filtered through the stifling hot room, lifting the hairs on Grace’s neck and arms.

  Madame Dubois faced her. Gone were the soft tranquil lines of innocence and humility Grace had witnessed in Port-de-Paix, and in their place marched an army of defiance, petulance, and perturbation.

  Grace blinked at the drastic transformation. Perhaps the woman was angry that Grace had failed to keep her promise to help her. “Madame Dubois. I was quite worried about you.” Grace stepped toward her. “I fully intended to help you, but as you can see Captain Dubois stole me against my will.”

  “Of course I can see that.” She waved toward the mulatto woman. “Annette, stop cowering in the corner, unpack my things, and hang them up.” Then shifting her glance over the cabin, she thrust out her chin. “How are we all to fit in here? C’est impossible.” Her eyes landed on Grace’s cot. “And there is only one bed.” Her face drained of all color.

  “Madame Dubois, sit down. You don’t look well.” Grace led her to the chair, and she flounced into it with a huff.

  “Would you like some lemon juice?” Grace poured some of the sour liquid from her pitcher into a mug and handed it to Madame Dubois, but she batted it away.

  Taking no offense, Grace set the glass down and gazed at the mulatto opening Madame Dubois’s trunk. Tall, slender, with ebony hair and skin the color of bronze, her dark exotic eyes shifted toward Grace before she snapped them away.

  Grace smiled. “I am Grace Westcott. And you are?”

  “She is nobody,” Madame Dubois barked from her chair.

  The mulatto woman backed away from Grace. She glanced at Madame Dubois. “I am Annette.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Annette.” Grace shivered beneath another chill, still baffled at its source, as a heaviness settled on her.

  Madame Dubois turned in her chair to look at them. “Annette is my husband’s child.”

  Grace blinked. “Your daughter?” She studied Annette, whose gaze had lowered once again to the
deck. The young lady looked nothing like Madame Dubois.

  “Non, vous imbécile. My husband’s and one of our slave’s,” Madame Dubois shot back, her voice firing with spite.

  Grace gulped. The more she discovered about Monsieur Dubois, the more his claim to be a man of God shriveled.

  Madame Dubois clicked her tongue. “My husband, along with many of the grand blancs on Saint Dominique, is attempting to create a race of exotic beautiful woman by breeding with the African slaves.” She gestured toward Annette. “They are called les Sirènes.”

  Grace clutched her throat, abhorring what she heard. “I cannot believe it.”

  “It is an acceptable practice among the grand blancs, mademoiselle, one which I despise.”

  “But why is she your slave? And what of her mother?”

  “Annette is free, but at her father’s request, she serves me. As for her mother”—Madame Dubois looked down—“Monsieur Dubois maintains a relationship with her.” A vacant glaze covered her blue eyes then sharpened when she looked at Grace. “Now do you see why I must leave him?”

  Grace’s heart melted. She had heard of such practices in Charles Towne but had hoped they were rumors. How could any woman endure such infidelity? She rushed to Madame Dubois’s side and knelt before her. “Of course. I understand. But how did you come to this ship?”

  Madame Dubois took a deep breath but did not take Grace’s outstretched hand. “I climbed aboard. How else?”

  “But I understood you to say that Rafe hated you and would never allow you aboard.”

  “He had no say in it.” Madame Dubois’s tone sank.

  Annette began unfolding her mistress’s skirts, bodices, and petticoats and hanging them on knobs in the open armoire.

  Grace rose and sat on her bed. “I don’t understand.”

  “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” Madame Dubois straightened the lace at her sleeves. “When I found you missing, I had no other option but to appeal to my stepson for help.”