Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Zut alors!” Madame Dubois shot up in bed. “Are we under attack?”

  “Stay here,” Grace ordered, rushing out the door and slamming it behind her without awaiting a response. Clutching her skirts, she bolted up the ladder and sprang onto the deck. If they were to be involved in another battle, she intended to face it head-on and not risk being blown to bits below deck without a moment’s warning.

  Sailors scrambled across the brig, some carrying cannonballs and others muskets, pistols, and axes. Men hauled ropes or flung themselves aloft—all of them mumbling curses as they went. Scanning the raucous mob, Grace’s eyes found Captain Dubois. He stood with boots planted firmly apart on the quarterdeck, flanked by Mr. Thorn and Father Alers. His gray waistcoat and purple sash flapped in the breeze behind him. Beneath his hat, black hair streamed like liquid coal. With a spyglass pressed to his eye, he surveyed something off their stern as he bellowed orders to his first mate.

  The brig crested a wave, and Grace stumbled but managed to make her way to the larboard railing. Wind too hot for so early in the morning struck her like the opening of an oven. The acrid scent of gunpowder stung her nose. The sun peeked over the horizon, transforming the crest of each wave into sparkling silver. Squinting against the brightness, Grace leaned over and glanced astern. In the distance, the curve of two red sails flamed in the rising sun. White foam swept over the oncoming ship’s bow as she closed the distance between them.

  Captain Howell’s ship, the Avenger.

  Grace rubbed her eyes as the sun glinted off a slight movement beyond the pursuing ship. Suddenly a pyramid of brimming white sails slipped into view.

  “Two sails! Two sails!” A man yelled from aloft.

  Grace swallowed, wondering if the other ship could be her sister’s. But she knew her hope was in vain. Even if the sailor had kept his word to deliver her post to Charles Towne, Faith would not have had time to catch up with them yet. She gazed at the two ships swooping through the azure waters, fast on Le Champion’s stern. Oh Lord, please be with us. The brig rose and plunged over a wave, showering her with a spray of seawater and sending foamy water onto the deck, soaking her shoes.

  The captain leaned toward Mr. Thorn and said something that sent the first mate leaping down the quarterdeck ladder, Father Alers on his heels. Surprise widened the first mate’s eyes as he passed Grace, but he tipped his hat and continued on his way, dropping below deck. Father Alers halted beside her.

  “You should go below, mademoiselle.” He grabbed her arm, but Grace resisted and shook her head. “Did we fire a cannon?”

  “Oui. A warning shot only. Maintenant.” He gestured toward the companionway.

  “Please let me stay, Father.” Grace gave him a pleading look. “I promise I won’t cause any trouble.”

  His shoulders slumped and he quirked a brow. “Only if you stop calling me Father.”

  Grace smiled. “Forgive me, but the title sits so well upon you.”

  He snorted and folded his hands over his prominent belly. A hint of a smile slanted his lips. “Très bien. Mais, I will stay with you. Non?”

  “Didn’t the captain give you some task to do?”

  “Oui.” He smiled. “To watch over you.” The older man took a position beside her.

  Mr. Thorn soon returned with a rolled-up chart in hand and rejoined his captain. Together, they spread it atop the binnacle, held it down against the buffeting wind, and examined it for several minutes. Finally, the captain rolled it up and handed it to Mr. Thorn with a nod. He glanced across the main deck, and his gaze found hers.

  Delight brightened his eyes for a moment but quickly faded into annoyance. He gripped the hilt of his rapier and turned to face Mr. Atton at the helm. “Set a course west by south, Monsieur Atton.” Then shifting to Mr. Thorn, “All hands aloft, Monsieur Thorn!” he bellowed. “Let fall the topsails and gallants!” Mr. Thorn repeated the commands, sending sailors leaping into the ratlines.

  With straining cordage and creaking blocks, the ship swung slowly to starboard, and Grace clutched the railing to keep from falling. Above her, men who looked more like monkeys balanced on ropes no thicker than her wrists as they unfurled the white canvas to catch the swift Caribbean breeze. Sails flapped and thundered hungrily but soon found their satisfaction when an influx of wind filled their white bellies. Grace lowered her gaze to Captain Dubois. With Mr. Thorn beside him, he pointed to something off their starboard bow. She glanced in that direction and saw naught but an eternity of turquoise waves.

  When she turned back around, the captain stood before her. She let out a gasp and clutched her throat as his dark gaze drank her in. She lowered her chin. Placing a finger beneath it, he raised her face until she was forced to look at him.

  “I found Annette. She is safe.” Grace winced at the stutter in her voice.

  “I am happy to hear it.”

  His touch brought back memories of their time in his cabin, and shame struck her. Shame she had allowed him such intimacies, shame she had enjoyed the way his touch made her feel. And now as he stood so close to her, strands of his black hair grazing his stubbled jaw, all those feelings came flooding back.

  What was happening to her? She should not be feeling such wanton sensations. Sensations that clouded her judgment and befogged her mind so that she did not remember why she’d gone to the captain’s cabin in the first place. Not until she had slapped the captain and he’d stepped away from her.

  Yet regardless of her inner turmoil, she had not deserved his salacious invitation. She called her anger forward, hoping the force of it would dissolve her shame and confusion.

  He released her chin. “Go below, mademoiselle.”

  “Please, Captain, I do not wish to die in that tiny cabin.”

  “No one dies today. There will be no battle.”

  Father Alers shifted his amber eyes between them curiously then scratched his thick beard. “No battle? I have never seen you run, Rafe.”

  Captain Dubois huffed out a sigh and gazed at the ships bearing down on them. “I have already bested this buffoon in a challenge once. But we are no match for two ships. I know of an island to the southwest with many shallow inlets where we will be able to hide.”

  Grace followed his gaze to where the ships, though not advancing, had certainly not slackened in their pursuit. “But won’t they see where we have gone?”

  “Le Champion is shallow on the draft, mademoiselle. She can sail places other ships cannot.” He doffed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Besides”—one side of his mouth lifted in that grin of his that sent her heart racing—“I have precious cargo aboard that I do not wish harmed.”

  “Yes, we wouldn’t want your valuable cargo destroyed,” she retorted.

  “Non. We would not.” He lifted a brow and replaced his hat.

  “Captain, a moment, please.” Mr. Thorn hailed him from the quarterdeck and after inclining his head toward her, Captain Dubois joined his first mate.

  Thankful he seemed to have forgotten he’d ordered her below, Grace whirled around, gripped the railing, and closed her eyes. The hot wind, tainted with brine and fish and wood, whipped over her, loosening her hair from its pins. But she no longer cared, having grown long since weary of the battle to keep it properly pinned in place. Besides, she could not deny how free she felt as the wind spread its whispery fingers through her curls. Mercy me, how I have changed. But was it for the best?

  Father Alers cleared his throat. “Le capitaine est bien épris avec vous, mademoiselle.”

  Grace snapped her eyes open and stared at him aghast, amazed at both his statement and that she had understood it. “He is taken with any female, Fa ... Mr. Alers.”

  He smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Oui, that is true. But not in the same way, je vous assure.”

  Grace shook her head. “He intends to sell me. Forgive me if I do not believe any interest he has in me goes beyond his own needs or those of his precious hospital.” Her words swirled around
her, taunting her with their duplicity, and she attempted to bat them away into the rising breeze. But she could not deny the goodness, the deep affection she had seen in Rafe’s eyes—beyond all the anger, beyond the pain. Nor could she deny her own growing feelings for him, conflicted as they were.

  Father Alers brushed gray spikes of hair from his face and gave her a knowing look. “It is a sin to tell a fib, mademoiselle.”

  Angry that the man read her thoughts so easily, Grace folded her arms over her chest. “He kidnapped me—twice. What more is there to say?” Yet truth be told, his capture of her this time seemed to spring from some deep pain within him rather than any desire to harm her.

  Father Alers raised a sardonic brow. Ignoring him, Grace pursed her lips and glanced behind at the two ships that were fast on their heels. A sudden fear clamped her heart. From what she’d seen of Governor Woodes’s men, they were no better than pirates. Glad for a chance to change the subject, she faced Father Alers. “Will they catch us?”

  “Non.” He laid his hand upon hers on the railing. His warm fingers scratched her skin like rough rope. But she found it oddly soothing. “Rafe is the best capitaine I have seen,” he added.

  Grace chuckled. “I do not know whether that should make me happy or sad.”

  Father Alers’s golden eyes twinkled in the rising sun as the light cast shadows over the crevices in his face. Yet nothing but warmth beamed from his expression.

  “Land ho!” a booming voice echoed from the crosstrees. Grace scanned the horizon, and minutes later a gray mound rose from the azure water like the back of a crocodile. The captain barked a series of orders, sending his men scurrying across deck. Off their stern, the two ships maintained a fast pursuit, and Grace could not imagine how the captain expected to hide from them.

  Flying through the water with every inch of canvas set to the breeze,Le Champion sped toward the burgeoning mass of land.

  “Watch your luff, Monsieur Atton!” Captain Dubois barked, stomping across the deck. Though Grace tried to avoid looking at him, she found her gaze drawn to the captain as if a spell had been cast upon her that only the sight of him could appease. Never once did his voice wobble in fear, never once did he seem confused, unsure, or hesitant. He commanded his men with naught but confidence and authority. Grace faced the sea again, chiding herself for admiring anything about the rogue.

  Within minutes, the small island loomed large before them, and Captain Dubois brayed a string of orders that brought the brig on a sharp tack around the western peninsula.

  “Trice up, men,” the captain bellowed. “Shorten sail!”

  Shielding her eyes from the sun high in the sky, Grace watched as the men, dangling in the shrouds, hauled in the canvas on fore- and mainmasts. With only her topsails fluttering in the light breeze, the brig slowed, and without hesitation, the captain sailed her into the entrance of an oblong harbor riddled with sandbars and reefs.

  Grace followed the captain’s gaze off their stern, but the pursuing ships were nowhere in sight.

  “She’s shoaling fast, Captain,” Mr. Thorn shouted, examining the lead and line that one of the crewmen had just pulled up from the water.

  “Keep me informed.” Captain Dubois jumped onto the quarterdeck and relieved Mr. Atton of his duty at the helm.

  The captain stood at the wheel while his men hung over the bow, directing him which way to steer the brig. Another man tossed the lead and line repeatedly over the side, shouting out the dwindling depths of the sea. Grace leaned over the railing. She could make out the dim bottom of the sandy bay beneath the brig. Sharp, jagged reefs rose from the depths like sharp talons searching for a victim. One slip and their hull would be penetrated and all would be lost.

  She raised her gaze to the pristine white shores of the island that framed the small harbor. Sand, sparkling like white jewels in the sunlight, fanned up to a lush web of greens and browns, making up the forest. The scent of tropical flowers and fruit wafted over Grace and she drew a deep breath. The smell of land—land where she was not to be sold. Not yet.

  Hushed whistles alerted Grace to another female on deck, and she turned to see Annette dashing toward her. Fear flashed from her brown eyes.

  “What is it, Annette?” Grace grabbed her hands.

  “Madame Dubois. She is ill. You must come at once.”

  ***

  After Mademoiselle Grace disappeared below, the deck of Le Champion groaned as if lamenting her absence. As did Rafe—an internal, silent groan. He had allowed her to remain above for the sole purpose of enjoying the occasional glances he stole of her when she was not looking. Her presence had a calming influence on him that he could not explain.

  “Weigh anchor!” Mr. Thorn shouted, and the massive iron hook struck the water with a resounding splash. Within seconds the thick rope snapped taut and the brig jerked to a stop. Captain Dubois jumped down to the main deck, peering over both sides to ensure their safe distance from the reefs. Then raising the spyglass, he studied the wide mouth of the harbor.

  “Any sign of them, Captain?” Monsieur Thorn asked.

  “Non.” He lowered the glass. “If luck is with us, they did not see which inlet we slipped into.”

  Mr. Weylan approached, a group of sailors following him like a foaming wake. “Capitaine, what is your plan?” The second mate adjusted his feathered hat and put his hands upon his waist. “We cannot stay here forever.”

  Ayes and grunts tumbled from behind him.

  Rafe flattened his lips, feeling his ire rise at this new provocation. “We will wait for an opportunity to slip by them.” He forced confidence into his voice then studied his crew. The men’s loyalties shifted like waves tossed in a storm, the respect he usually found in their eyes in short supply.

  “What if they trap us?” Monsieur Legard asked, peering from behind Weylan.

  “They cannot see us from the entrance to the harbor.” Rafe pressed a finger over his mustache. “We will leave under cover of darkness.”

  The lines on Monsieur Weylan’s face folded, and he scratched his matted hair.

  “What else, Monsieur?” Rafe sighed in frustration.

  “The men are unhappy, Capitaine. We have not been paid in over two months.”

  Rafe gripped the hilt of his rapier, his muscles tensing for a fight. He felt Monsieur Thorn stiffen beside him, but when Rafe glanced his way, a slight smile sat smugly upon his first mate’s lips.

  “And now we are delayed again,” another sailor shouted. “When do we sell the woman?”

  Rafe ground his teeth together. “I am to meet the don in seven days.” Yet the thought of making that appointment ate away at Rafe’s gut.

  He eyed his men in turn. “With me as your capitaine, have you not lined your pockets with more coins than you could spend? Où est votre confiance?” Rafe frowned. How could he blame them? He was not sure he trusted himself anymore. But to let them see his hesitation, his doubt, would be certain death.

  “I am still the capitaine of this brig. Unless one of you wishes to challenge me?” Rafe leveled a stern gaze at each man and then glanced over the sailors on the quarter and foredecks who’d gathered at the first sign of an altercation. “Personne?”

  Some of his men stared blankly back at him; others shook their heads.

  “Non. Of course not, Capitaine.” Weylan smiled, but in that slick smile Rafe saw the makings of a mutiny.

  Rafe narrowed a gaze upon him then glanced over the men. “Get back to work or I’ll slice all of you through myself!” he barked, and the men scattered like flies before the whip of a horse’s tail.

  Then fisting his hands, Rafe spun around and stomped toward the companionway. In seven days’ time he must either hand Mademoiselle Grace over to the Spanish don or face a mutiny—a mutiny he was sure would result in his death.

  CHAPTER 25

  Grace dabbed the moist cloth over Madame Dubois’s forehead and cheeks. Heat radiated from the woman’s skin as if it were a searing griddle. A l
ump formed in Grace’s throat. She harbored no deep affection for the woman but certainly did not wish her any harm.

  A soft moan slipped from Madame Dubois’s lips, and she tossed her head across the pillow. Red blotches marred Claire’s normally creamy skin, and dark circles hung beneath crystal blue eyes that were glazed with fever. Grace swallowed against her rising fear, laid the cloth down, and stood. Across the cabin, Annette rested on her bedding as if she hadn’t a care in the world.

  Making her way to the window, Grace peered out at the black sky, dusted with a myriad of twinkling stars. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep. She rubbed them and whispered a prayer. Lord, please help me. Please help Madame Dubois. As usual, God’s voice was silent. Where are You, Lord? She scanned the endless expanse of night sky, remembering a time when her prayers were filled with faith. Now she couldn’t affirm that God even heard her pleas, though certainly He had kept her alive to this point. But for what purpose?

  Gentle waves licked the brig’s hull. Somewhere up on deck, a fiddle moaned a sad tune, even as laughter bubbled up from the sailors’ berth at the forecastle. Everything seemed so peaceful. Yet it was a delusory peace. For not far away lurked two fully armed ships ready to pound Le Champion into splinters and sink her into the sea. And within this tiny cabin one woman fought for her life, another lived as a slave, while the third would soon become one.

  “Annette.” The desperation in Madame Dubois’s voice tugged at Grace’s heart.

  Annette glanced at her mistress, then closed her eyes, feigning sleep.

  Grace moved to the cot. “’Tis me, Grace, madame.” Retrieving the cloth, she patted it over her forehead. “How do you feel?”

  Madame Dubois’s lashes fluttered open. Blue eyes, sparkling in the lantern light, alighted upon Grace. “Where is Annette?”

  “She is sleeping. But I am here, madame.” Grace took the woman’s hand in hers, wincing at the heat emanating from her skin, and surprised when the woman received her embrace without recoiling.

  Madame Dubois’s chest rose and fell, and she lifted a hand to her head. “What is wrong with me? Am I dying?”