Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Claire moaned again and clamped her lips together. Spyglass finished lapping up the broth and begin licking her paws and washing her face.

  A deep sorrow fell upon Rafe like the weight of an anchor, even as his anger burned. Why now? Why did Claire want so desperately to win back his heart now? When he no longer felt anything but pity for the woman. When his thoughts were constantly on another.

  “Do you think Annette poisoned her?”

  “Qui sait?” Father Alers quirked a brow. “For now, we must get Madame Dubois to an apothecary.”

  Claire’s lashes fluttered, and she groaned. Father Alers wrung out a cloth and laid it atop her forehead.

  Rafe stomped to the porthole. “We cannot. Woodes’s ships cruise outside the harbor waiting to strike us as soon as we set sail.”

  Claire’s eyes opened to tiny slits, and Father Alers removed the cloth. “We are trapped?”

  “Non, I will think of something.” Rafe flattened his lips and made his way to the cot.

  “Rafe.” Claire lifted a shaky hand toward him, and he knelt beside her, taking it in his. Whatever animosity he harbored against this woman, however much she had ripped out his heart and trampled upon it, he did not wish her dead.

  Father Alers stood and pressed a hand on Rafe’s back, then he stepped toward the door. “Can you sit with her for a minute? I need to make sure Yanez is attending his duties in the galley in my absence.”

  Rafe shook his head. What did he know about tending the sick?

  But Father Alers waved him off. “I’ll return straightaway.” And then he was gone.

  Rafe released Claire’s hand, removed his rapier, and laid it on the table. Taking the chair Father Alers had vacated, he grabbed his baldric and began toying with the rough leather at its edge. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he glanced over the cabin, careful to avoid looking at the sick woman on the cot—the woman he had once loved, the woman he had intended to make his wife. Thunder rumbled outside, emulating the storm that raged within him. Fear, love, desire, hatred—all churned in a massive dark cloud hovering over his heart. A cloud that threatened to unleash a torrent on him at any moment.

  Spyglass jumped into his lap, and he caressed her fur, thankful the cat had not completely abandoned her affections for him as everyone else seemed to have done.

  “Rafe.” Claire breathed his name on a sigh and turned her eyes upon him, once so clear, but now covered with a feverish haze. “You came to see me.”

  Rafe nodded and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and forcing Spyglass from his lap.

  Her breathing took on a rapid pace. “I fear I am dying.”

  Still Rafe said nothing, for he hated offering people vain hope only to ease their discomfort. And honestly, from the heat he’d felt sizzling from her skin, he could not deny that she spoke the truth.

  “Do not look so pleased.” She tried to laugh but coughed instead.

  Thunder growled, and Spyglass meowed in reply then leapt to the foot of the cot and sprawled across the coverlet.

  Rafe looked down at the tiny divots marring the deck. The brig rolled over a wave, its planks creaking and groaning. “I do not wish you to die, Claire.”

  “Then why can you not look at me?”

  Rafe raised his gaze to hers only to see her eyes pool with tears. Sweat glistened on her forehead and neck, and the silky hair he had once adored lay matted in sweaty tangles around her face.

  “I wanted you to love me.” She swallowed. Rafe closed his eyes. “I did.”

  “Did.” She said the word with the finality of a judge’s mallet.

  “What do you expect?” Rafe snorted and sat back in his chair.

  She licked her chapped lips. “Something to drink, s’il vous plaît?”

  Rafe grabbed a mug from the table, lifted her shoulders, and raised it to her mouth. She took a sip then collapsed back onto the cot.

  “Merci.” The word escaped her lips as if the effort exhausted her.

  Thunder bellowed, echoing through the ship like a mighty gong.

  He returned the mug to the table but before he could get away, she grabbed his arm with more strength than he would have assumed remained within her.

  “I did this all for you, Rafe.”

  “Did what?” He knelt on one knee, wanting to tear from her grasp, but the desperation in her eyes stayed him. Raindrops tapped on the windowpane.

  “Came aboard your ship. Left your father.”

  “I did not ask you to come.”

  “I thought I could change your mind. I thought you may still love me.” She gasped, unable to catch her breath.

  Rafe shook his head, rummaging through the dunnage in his heart for any remaining feelings for this woman who had betrayed him so mercilessly.

  Claire’s brow furrowed. “It is Mademoiselle Grace, is it not? You love her.”

  Rafe plucked the cloth from the bucket and squeezed the water from it as if he were trying to squeeze the truth from Claire’s words. “She has nothing to do with this.”

  Claire raised her hand to her forehead. “I tried to send her home.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I told her I needed her help to escape from your father’s abuse. I begged her”—she drew a shallow breath—“to accept his offer to go to Charles Towne ... where I would secretly get off the ship with her.”

  “You what?” Rafe dropped the cloth into the bucket and stood.

  “Please don’t be angry with me, Rafe.” Claire coughed, her eyes flashing with fear. “I saw the way you looked at her. But I knew with her gone, you could still love me.”

  Rafe grabbed his baldric and paced before the cot. So that was the reason Mademoiselle Grace had not met him that night. It wasn’t his father who had persuaded her to go with him, who had lured her away with his riches. It was Claire. And instead of riches, Claire had lured the mademoiselle with the only thing irresistible to her—the prospect of helping someone in need.

  “But you stole her back.” Claire laughed then clutched her throat. “I did not expect that.”

  Rafe hung his head and halted before the cot. Shame tugged upon him. He had believed the worst of Mademoiselle Grace and had stolen her from her bedchamber without giving her a chance to explain.

  “Rafe.” Claire held out her hand. “Please do not be angry with me.”

  Kneeling, Rafe took her hand in his. Staring into her blue eyes, he felt no love, no remorse, nor even anger—only pity.

  “I am not angry.” Rafe sighed and squeezed her hand. “Maintenant, you must get some rest.”

  And as if his hint of regard was all she needed to usher her into a moment’s repose, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

  The door creaked open, and Mademoiselle Grace stepped in, her raven hair hanging in damp tendrils about her face. Her emerald eyes alighted upon him and widened in surprise. She gazed at his hand holding Claire’s. “Forgive me.” She started to leave.

  “Non.” Rafe shot to his feet. “Do not go, s’il vous plaît.”

  She faced him, then swept the cabin with her gaze, carefully avoiding his eyes. Spyglass aroused from her nap and began to stretch. “Where is Father Alers?” she asked.

  “In the galley.”

  “I did not mean to intrude.”

  “There is nothing to intrude upon.”

  “It is none of my business if there is.” She swallowed and glanced at Claire with concern.

  “She just fell back asleep. Will you sit, mademoiselle?”

  Grace glared at him as if he were the devil himself. He winced beneath the pain it caused him. “I do not bite, mademoiselle.” He attempted a grin.

  She cocked a brow. “I am not so sure.”

  That he frightened her was obvious. That he disgusted her made his heart sink like a lead line. That he should leave her alone and offer her some peace, he knew was the right thing to do. He gestured toward the chair. “I will not torture you with my presence, mademoiselle.”
r />   With a hesitant swoosh of her damp skirts, she moved to the chair and sat down. No sooner had she alighted upon it than Spyglass leapt from the cot and jumped into her lap.

  Rafe could not help but smile. “You have made a friend, I see.”

  “Yes, one friend aboard this ship, it would seem.” Her voice was laden with sorrow as she caressed the cat’s fur, and Rafe swallowed.

  Retrieving his rapier, he sheathed it with a metallic chink and started toward the door. He gripped the handle, stopped and rubbed his thumb over the cool silver. He could not leave Grace, not with the judgment, the disdain for him, pouring from her eyes.

  He swung about.

  She swallowed but did not look at him. “I thought you were leaving.”

  “So did I.”

  “Claire needs medical assistance, Captain.”

  Raindrops pounded on the deck above like bullets assailing his guilt. “I am doing all that I can.”

  He gripped his baldric and cleared his throat. He wanted to tell her about Claire, wanted Mademoiselle Grace to understand why her betrayal had struck him so hard. “Did you know that Claire and I were betrothed?”

  She twitched and her chest rose and fell, but she did not look at him. “It is none of my business, Captain.”

  “Perhaps not. But I want you to know.”

  She looked at him. “There is no need.”

  Rafe shifted his boots and glanced at Claire. “We had such great plans. She shared my dreams of helping the poor. We cared about the same things. Or so I thought.” He walked to the porthole. Rain dashed and splattered against the panes just like the dreams he and Claire shared so long ago. “When I found her on the street, she was poor and in rags. We were young and innocent and full of hopes and ambitions.” He turned around. Mademoiselle sat quietly petting Spyglass. Only her rapid breathing gave away her emotions.

  “Turns out all she wanted was my money.” Rafe chuckled. “And when she discovered my father had disowned me and I had forfeited my inheritance, she left me a week before our wedding. And ran straight into my father’s bed.”

  Mademoiselle Grace flinched and pushed a damp curl behind her ear. When she raised her eyes, they glistened with tears.

  A wave of heat stormed up Rafe’s neck and onto his face, and he felt instantly ashamed. Why had he shared such intimacies with her? He adjusted his coat and strode toward the door.

  “Wait.” Mademoiselle Grace set Spyglass on the deck and stood. She bit her lip and faced him. “I am sorry.”

  “I do not want your pity.”

  “Then what do you want?” she snapped.

  Rafe approached her. He didn’t know what he wanted anymore. He wanted to tell her he knew why she had betrayed him. He wanted to tell her he understood how convincing Claire could be. He wanted her to not look at him with such condemnation. But right now, all he wanted to do was kiss her.

  He raised a hand to caress her cheek and grabbed a lock of her wet hair instead. “I like your hair unbound.” He played with the soft, moist tendril.

  She swung around, jerking it from between his fingers. “You should leave.”

  Perhaps he should. Perhaps he should walk out that door and never allow himself to be alone with this precious creature again. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he slowly turned her around. “It is my brig, mademoiselle.”

  “And I am your property.” The sharp tone faded from her voice.

  “You are so much more than that.” His gaze took in her lips, her flushed cheeks, and those emerald eyes shimmering with tears—and something else. An invitation? He leaned closer until their lips were but an inch apart. The sweet smell of rain mixed with her feminine scent and swirled about his nose. She did not back away, did not slap him.

  Instead she breathlessly awaited his kiss.

  CHAPTER 27

  Grace closed her eyes. Her heart thumped. She could feel the captain’s warm breath wafting over her face. His lips hovered over hers.

  The door crashed open. Grace opened her eyes and jumped backward, her heart in her throat. Father Alers strode into the room, his curious gaze shifting between her and Rafe. The captain huffed and shook his head.

  Clutching her skirts with one hand and covering her mouth with the other, Grace dashed up the companionway ladder and bolted onto the deck. Slipping across the slick planks, she rushed to her favorite spot beside the foredeck where the bulkhead offered some protection from the buffeting winds. The rain had ceased again, but its spicy scent still stung in the breeze that now cooled the tears flowing down her cheeks.

  What had she done?

  She’d nearly kissed the captain.

  She would have kissed the captain if Father Alers had not interrupted them.

  She touched her lips where she could still feel Rafe’s warm breath, could still smell his scent of tobacco and leather. What had come over her? Not only had she nearly allowed his kiss, she’d wanted him to kiss her. Horrified, she quickly bowed her head and gripped the railing. Lord, please forgive me.

  Never in her life had she felt such an overwhelming attraction. Mercy me, she had never even kissed a man before. And there she was like a common hussy, accepting this rogue’s advances. And with him on his way to sell her into slavery. Had all reason, all piety fled her mind and her soul when she needed them the most?

  She lifted her face to the breeze and gazed at the island. The leaves of palms and banyans whipped this way and that in the wind as if waving to her, beckoning her to come and join them on land. And oh how she wanted to. If only to get away from the captain and the spell he had cast upon her. Perhaps Annette had slipped some of her love potion into Grace’s food. She laughed at the thought but could find no other explanation for her unchaste behavior.

  Black clouds hung like vultures overhead, making the afternoon look more like night. How long would they be cornered in this bay? How long would she be trapped with the captain, unable to escape? She drew a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. She must not think of herself. She must think of Claire. The woman needed medical attention. Without it, she would most likely die.

  Perhaps that was the reason Grace had been sent on this journey—to help Madame Dubois get well, to befriend the woman, to help her know God’s love.

  Grace bit her lip, remembering the look on the captain’s face when he had shared what had happened between him and Claire. Despair had dragged his features down, dissolving the arrogant shield he sometimes wore until he looked more like a lost little boy instead of a vicious mercenary. Grace hugged herself as the wind whipped over her rain-dampened gown. She trembled beneath the chill. From what she could gather, Rafe had spent his entire childhood beneath the thumb of an unloving and cruel father. Then when he had finally found someone with whom to share his life and dreams, she had betrayed him.

  And in the worst possible way.

  How did one ever recover from such heartache—when everyone they had ever loved and trusted turned against them?

  Grace’s heart shriveled. No wonder the captain had reacted so violently to her betrayal. No wonder he had been so angry when he stole her from his father’s house. He had assumed she was no better than Claire and his father. Gripping the railing, she closed her eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

  Then what had changed the captain’s mind? What had calmed his fury? For in that tiny cabin, his dark eyes had burned with such ardor, such warmth, it frightened Grace. Not the kind of fear she had for her life, but a different kind of fear—a fear of the desires that lay hidden in her own heart.

  ***

  Spotting Grace by the railing beneath the foredeck, Rafe headed toward her. He needed to speak with her. He needed to talk about their near kiss. And why she was so distraught when she rushed from the cabin. Was it possible she held some affection for him? He dared not hope.

  He approached slowly so as not to frighten her, but she did not turn around. Her eyes were closed and she seemed in deep thought—or prayer. Not wanting to disturb her, he climbed up
the foredeck ladder and found a spot nearby to wait until she finished. A few minutes passed and Rafe was about to peer over the side to check on her when Monsieur Thorn’s voice blared up from the spot where Grace stood. Easing toward the edge of the foredeck railing, Rafe listened as he kept himself from their view.

  ***

  “Miss Grace?” Mr. Thorn’s voice startled her, and she flung a hand to her chest as she tucked her private thoughts regarding the captain behind a closed door in her mind. Too late. Her cheeks heated beneath a blush.

  “Good day, Mr. Thorn.” Her voice sounded husky.

  Mr. Thorn slipped beside her and glanced over the choppy waters of the bay. “So you decided to brave the storm as well, I see.”

  Grace thought of the devilish look on the captain’s face when she had leapt out of his arms. “ ’Tis too hot below.” She flustered at the insinuation of her statement. “I mean, ’tis crowded.” Any room was crowded with the captain in it. “I mean—” She sighed in resignation of her befuddling verbiage. “Yes, I am braving the storm.”

  Mr. Thorn gazed at her curiously. “Are you well, Miss Grace?”

  She gave him a flat smile. “As well as I can be, Mr. Thorn.”

  He leaned on the railing and glanced at the island, battered by the gusty wind, but still beautiful in the ashen light. “How is Madame Dubois?” His tone held no concern.

  Grace shook her head. “Not well.”

  “Hmm.” He doffed his hat. Shaking the dampness from it onto his knee, he ran a hand through his hair then snapped the tricorne back atop his head. “It must be quite daunting to be so close to land, miss, and have no way to escape.”

  The lift of his cultured brow and the hint of playfulness in his brown eyes sent a spark of hope through Grace. She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Thorn?”

  He smiled and fingered his chin then glanced at the island. “I believe I recognize this island. Yes. I know I have anchored here before. Careened our ship here once, I believe. Plenty of fruit and water for the taking to last someone several months, or at least until another ship arrived—or say someone sent another ship.” He gave her a sly wink.