Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Grace thought back to the events of the prior night. “But how could you know I was missing when I was taken in the middle of the night?”

  Madame Dubois’s face flushed, and she stood, waving a hand through the air. “I could not sleep and went to your chamber to speak with you and found you gone.”

  “But we set sail as soon as the captain came on board. There would have been no time.” Grace furrowed her brow and wondered why Madame Dubois would not meet her gaze.

  The mulatto continued her work, but Grace did not miss the furtive glance she cast her way.

  “Oh, what does it matter?” Madame Dubois’s voice sharpened and she huffed out a sigh. “I am here now.”

  Grace grasped her chain. “Then you should be happy, madame. You are free from your husband.”

  “Except Rafe is angry and refuses to listen to me.” Madame Dubois began to pace, the swish of her gown slicing through the cabin.

  “We have that in common, madame.”

  Madame Dubois halted and raised a curious eye to Grace. “Why did he kidnap you again?”

  “I betrayed him. I didn’t keep my promise to return. You should have allowed me to speak to him about our plans.”

  Madame Dubois cocked her head, sending her golden curls bobbing. “What does he intend to do with you?”

  “I don’t know.” Grace’s stomach tightened. “Perhaps sell me to the don as he originally planned.”

  A hint of a smile appeared on Madame Dubois’s lips as if the information pleased her.

  Grace could make no sense of the woman. She seemed as volatile and unsettled as the captain. Perhaps the abuse she had endured at the hand of her husband made her that way. Could she be the one Grace had been sent to help? “Perchance if we explain to Captain Dubois our plans, he will understand your desperation to come aboard since he kidnapped your only means of escape. Surely then he would forfeit his anger against you.”

  The woman stormed toward Grace as if she’d asked her to jump overboard. She grabbed Grace’s hands and shook them. “Non. You must promise never to tell Rafe of our prior plans. Remember what I said?”

  Grace remembered. Madame Dubois said he would kill his father. Perhaps he would. Perhaps he wouldn’t. Nevertheless, she had made a vow once to this woman, and she intended to keep it. “I promise.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Rafe marched toward the door, intending to storm into the cabin, give his instructions, and leave as soon as possible. And he would have done just that, save for Father Alers’s staying hand on his arm and the look of reprimand the former priest shot his way. “A gentleman does not enter a lady’s chamber without knocking, Rafe.”

  “I am no gentleman. And this is a cabin aboard my ship, not a lady’s boudoir.” Rafe jerked from his grasp, but the old man forced himself in front of Rafe and tapped on the oak door. “Mademoiselle Grace, Madame Dubois, pouvons-nous entrer?”

  Rafe folded his arms over his chest and shook his head while Father Alers waited for a reply.

  “Une minute, s’il vous plaît,” came a soft response.

  Rafe stomped his boot and huffed in impatience as Spyglass scurried down the hallway and began scratching the door for entrance. “Le chat does not wait for permission.” He smirked.

  The door opened, and Claire’s gaze passed over Father Alers and landed upon Rafe. She smiled and gestured them inside.

  Stepping around the father, Rafe brushed past Claire, trying to avoid any contact with the woman, but she laid a hand on his arm in passing. Instead of his normal heated response to her touch, he felt nothing.

  Putting distance between them, he glanced across the cabin. Claire’s maid, Annette, stood, head lowered in the corner. On the other side of the room beneath the porthole, Mademoiselle Grace clung to a bundle of blankets as if she had just picked them off the floor. Her eyes met his, convicting green eyes tinted with anger and fear that bristled over his conscience.

  Spyglass scampered inside and leapt onto the table beside a lantern set aglow by rays of morning sun beaming in through the porthole. The cat nibbled upon the few crumbs strewn over the plates that had held the ladies’ breakfast.

  Claire leapt back in disgust. “Take that filthy beast away!” She waved her hand toward Spyglass as if she could brush the cat from the scene.

  “She is my pet, madame, and as such, you will not address her as a filthy beast.”

  Mademoiselle Grace giggled, drawing Rafe’s gaze to her, to her wrinkled gown and disheveled hair. “Did you sleep on the floor, mademoiselle?” He inclined his head toward the blankets bundled in her arms.

  She scrunched them closer to her chest then curled a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. “Madame Dubois was quite distraught last night.”

  “So you abandoned your bed to her?” Rafe did not like the odd sensation that welled within him at the revelation.

  “Why shouldn’t she?” Claire snapped. “She is your prisoner while I am your guest.”

  Rafe faced the woman, radiant as always in the morning light, her golden curls spiraling like gentle waves over her neck, lace abounding from her tight silk bodice that flowed down to an azure skirt. No doubt Annette had already spent hours fussing over her mistress. “You are many things, madame, but my guest is not one of them.”

  Claire drew her lips into a pout as Spyglass jumped into the chair beside her, giving her a start. The lines of her face folded in repugnance.

  “I have brought two hammocks.” Rafe retrieved the brown bundles from Father Alers, who remained in the doorway, and handed them to Claire.

  She held them out from her body as if they were covered with mud then shoved them back at him. “You cannot be serious. This cabin is far too small for all of us.” She threw a hand in the air. “It is stifling in here and it smells as if something has died. And I ache from that infernal thing you call a bed.” She pressed her delicate fingers on her back.

  A lump of disdain balled in Rafe’s throat. “The other ladies slept on the deck, and yet, I do not hear them complaining.”

  “Humph,” she snorted. “No doubt they are used to such conditions, while I am not.” Claire laid the back of her hand to her forehead. “I am feeling faint.” She attempted to bat Spyglass from the chair, but the cat hissed at her, sending her reeling backward.

  A giggle escaped Mademoiselle’s lips again, as one did Annette’s. Claire glared at her maid. Tossing a hand to her throat, she threw back her shoulders. “Please, Rafe.” She sidled up to him and fingered the lace atop her bodice, drawing his attention to the low neckline. “Surely you can find more suitable accommodations for me.”

  And by the seductive lilt to her voice, Rafe knew exactly to which accommodations she referred.

  “Why, there is not enough room for my trousseau.” Claire glanced at the armoire from which a multitude of colorful gowns overflowed.

  “In fact, I can barely move in these cramped quarters.” She continued her performance, and Rafe released a heavy sigh. Like a bad play, her theatrics became irksome.

  He cocked a brow, wondering if Claire had always been this peevish, or had she been polluted by spending too many hours with his father? “And yet this is the only cabin I have to offer you.”

  “Not all.” She gave him a pleading look that fell short of its intended mark on his heart.

  Father Alers coughed.

  “I am famished.” She pressed a hand over her stomach. “Do you intend to starve me as well?”

  “Father Alers brought you food this morning.” Rafe gestured toward the empty tray atop the table.

  Claire turned up her nose. “You cannot expect me to eat such slop.”

  Father Alers coughed again and shuffled his boots over the deck.

  Rafe turned to his friend. “Would you show Madame Dubois and her maid to the galley? Perhaps she can find something more to her liking there.” Although he knew she would not, knew that nothing aboard this ship would be to her liking, he longed to relieve himself of her company and speak
with Mademoiselle Grace in private.

  Father Alers gave him a look that said he’d rather be boiled in oil, but he nodded and gestured for Claire to follow him.

  “Very well.” She gathered her skirts and sauntered past him, brushing against his arm, and leaving her scent of lavender behind—a scent that used to delight him, but now turned stale in his nostrils. En fait, with her exit, fresh air filled the cabin, and a heaviness lifted from his heart.

  He exhaled a ragged breath, set the hammocks on the chair, and turned toward Mademoiselle Grace. “You should not be so kind to her,” he said, pointing to the blankets still in her arms. “She will not return the favor.”

  “I seek no reward.” She placed the blankets on the bed and pressed the wrinkles out of a gown she had obviously slept in. Yet regardless of the creases in her skirts, regardless of the strands of raven hair that had escaped her pins and the shadows beneath her eyes, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

  She splayed her fingers in modesty over the skin above her gown, so different from Claire who so blatantly tried to attract him by her physical charms. “Do you intend to sell me to the Spanish don, Captain?” Her bottom lip quivered as she leaned toward Spyglass. The cat willingly leapt into her arms, and Mademoiselle Grace stroked the gray fur atop her head.

  Rafe clenched his jaw and rubbed the stubble upon it. Everything within him screamed non. He could never do such a thing. But then he remembered her lies, her betrayal, and the faces of the sick children in Port-de-Paix that constantly haunted his nightmares. “You betrayed me.”

  “How?” A delicate line formed between her brows—a tiny wrinkle in her otherwise lustrous skin.

  “You did not meet me. You broke your vow.” Rafe must always remember that, especially now when she looked at him with such sorrow and naïveté.

  “But I sent Mr. Thorn—”

  “Sacre mer. I heard what he had to say.” Rafe held a hand up to stop her. He remembered it all too clearly. The mademoiselle sends her apologies, Thorn had said with a bit of scorn in his tone, but she prefers the comforts which your father can offer her on the journey home rather than the inhospitality of your brig. Rafe clenched his jaw. “Can you deny that you lied to me—that you dishonored your oath?”

  She bowed her head, and Spyglass nuzzled beneath her chin. “I had good reason.”

  Rafe thumped his boot on the hard deck. “What reason?” If she would but give him an explanation, any explanation that made sense, any explanation that would appease the throbbing wound that had reopened in his heart. If she would do that, he might forgive her, he might take her in his arms as he longed to do, he might return her home safely, or take her anywhere she wanted to go.

  If she would but speak the right words.

  “I am not at liberty to say.” She swallowed, and her hands began to tremble.

  Rafe bunched his fists. “Not at liberty, or do not wish to admit that you received a better offer?” Just as Claire had done to him so many years ago.

  Mademoiselle Grace lifted her chin, her eyes filling. “I am sorry.” And in those eyes he saw no reason to believe otherwise.

  “It is not enough.” He grabbed the pommel of his rapier, rubbing his thumb over the silver until it ached.

  “For now, it is all I can give you,” she said softly.

  “Then I fear it is all I can give you as well. I am sorry, mademoiselle, but oui, I must sell you to the don as planned.”

  “I break one vow and my sentence is to be a lifetime of slavery?”

  Rafe ground his teeth together. “It is more than a broken promise, mademoiselle. All my life, not one person has kept their word to me. Not ma mère, not mon père, and not Claire.”

  Her eyes widened at the mention of Claire, but he continued, “Does a person’s word mean nothing anymore?” He stormed toward her and she flinched at his anger. But he could not stop. “I will tell you what a broken promise means. It means there is no honor within, no decency. It indicates a heart filled with selfishness and deceit.” He gripped the pommel of his rapier and tried to collect his emotions as her eyes grew moist. “You had me fooled, mademoiselle, with your pious act. But no more.” He shook his head. “No more. And I, too, will keep my word—the vow I spoke to Abbé Villion.”

  Tears spilled from her lashes down her cheeks as she continued scratching Spyglass. Rafe knew he had better leave before he changed his mind.

  “I bid you adieu.” He nodded, stomped out, and slammed the door behind him. Then leaning back against the oak slab, he slammed his fists against it, trying to collect his raging emotions. Even in her betrayal, the woman still bewitched him.

  ***

  Grace clung to the railing amidships and gazed over the rippling turquoise sea. The afternoon sun cast bands of glittering diamonds atop the waves as they frolicked on their course without a care in the world. She envied them. White billowing clouds cluttered the horizon but rarely passed over the broiling orb to offer the ship’s inhabitants any respite from the heat. Perspiration trickled down her neck and back and beaded on her forehead, relieved only by the continual salt-laden breeze wafting in off the sea.

  Grace closed her eyes as the brig rose and plunged over another swell. A burst of wind clawed at her hair, freeing a strand from her tight coiffure as she listened to the swish of the foamy waters against the hull and the thunderous flap of sails above her. Not to mention the ever-present creak and groan of the planks and the shouts of the crew as they went about their tasks. All familiar sounds to her now, replacing the pleasant music of home: the chirp of birds outside her window, the laughter of her sisters, Molly singing hymns as she prepared supper, the swish of the angel oak leaves dancing in the breeze in front of their home. Every place created its own unique music, and though the music aboard this ship carried a pleasant tune, the place to which it carried her would not be so pleasant.

  Opening her eyes, she stared at the foam purling off the ship, and her thoughts drifted to Madame Dubois and her spiteful, curt behavior. Not at all like the charming hostess who had befriended Grace at the Dubois estate. The change in her demeanor had completely baffled Grace—that was until Captain Dubois entered the cabin and the lady transformed into an amorous coquette before Grace’s eyes.

  Mercy me. The captain was her stepson. Grace rubbed her eyes and dabbed at the perspiration on her neck. Apparently Madame Dubois was much more than his stepmother. Or had been at one time. Now Grace understood the hatred spilling from Madame Dubois’s eyes. Jealousy. She was jealous of Grace. Though Grace could not imagine why. The captain intended to sell her to the don and be done with her. He had reassured her of that fact in the cabin that morning.

  Yet right before he had declared her doom so vehemently, she had glimpsed a softening in his otherwise hard gaze, as if he wished their journey could take another course. And she longed to tell him the truth, the real reason she had broken her vow to him, if only to erase the anguish from his eyes. But she couldn’t. If only she could go back in time and do things differently. But it was too late for that. She had wanted so much to help him—to help everyone, but instead, she had made a mess of things.

  “Good day to you, Miss Grace.” Mr. Thorn slipped beside her and tipped his hat.

  Grace forced a smile despite her dismal thoughts. “Good day, Mr. Thorn.” With his pristine blue waistcoat, white breeches, boots, and tricorne, the young first mate reminded Grace of a painting of a young British seaman hanging in her father’s study—quite in contrast to the rest of the bawdy crew.

  “I’ve been meaning to thank you again, Mr. Thorn, for helping me escape at Port-de-Paix.”

  He flattened his lips. “A lot of good it did, eh?”

  Grace drew a deep breath. “It would seem God wishes me to remain on this ship for some reason.”

  He snorted. “I believe that is the captain’s wish, not God’s, Miss Grace.”

  A heaviness settled on her at the man’s lack of faith. But how to reach him? Mr. Thorn behaved e
very bit the godly man: honorable, moral, kind. Yet without faith, where could it lead? “I suffered greatly while in town. I lost the money you so generously gave me, and I nearly starved to death. If not for God’s help, I would have surely died.”

  “And yet, it would appear that He saved you only to imprison you again.” Mr. Thorn brushed dirt from his waistcoat.

  “We do not always understand the ways of God.”

  “I would say we never can and never will.” He gripped the railing as the brig canted over another wave.

  Two sailors passed behind them, laughing and cursing as they leapt up the foredeck ladder. Grace recognized them as Mr. Legard, the bosun, and Mr. Weylan, the man who had accosted her below deck. She shuddered, but could not miss the knowing glance they exchanged with Mr. Thorn. When she looked at the first mate in confusion, his face mottled. “Forgive their blasphemy, miss. I grow so tired of the crass language aboard.” He glared after them as they continued across the foredeck. “Scoundrels, profligates all.”

  Grace examined him, curious at his extreme censure of his fellow sailors—men he must work and live with in such close quarters.

  “And the captain is no better,” he added. “You are fortunate he curbs his tongue in front of the ladies.”

  Grace raised her brows, surprised that Captain Dubois possessed the manners to restrain himself at all. “Aren’t you and the captain friends?”

  “Friends? I work for him, ’tis all.”

  “And yet he speaks much more fondly of you than you do of him.”

  “Can you blame him?” He chuckled.

  Shielding her eyes from the sun, Grace studied the baffling man and wondered where his true loyalties lay. If not with the captain, and not his own countrymen, then where? “Do you have family somewhere, Mr. Thorn?”

  “Yes, on Nassau. A mother, father, and younger sister.” He clenched the railing.

  “A sister? How nice.” Grace had always wanted an older brother—someone to stand up for and protect her and her sisters when their father was out to sea, as he so often was.