Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Grace eyed him with suspicion. That Mr. Thorn’s last attempt to help her escape had not worked out well was no reflection on him or his kindness. But something about the man set her nerves on edge. Though he appeared a just man, his critical attitude toward others gave her pause. And then there was the odd conversation she’d overheard between him and Monsieur Dubois. The two of them had been up to something, but what? Grace grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled out her cross, rubbing it between her fingers. “You would attempt helping me again?”

  “Why not?”

  “Why risk invoking the anger of your captain should he discover your treachery?”

  “For the same reason I aided you before, mademoiselle. I do not wish to see an innocent woman sold into slavery.”

  ***

  Fury clawed up Rafe’s spine, stiffening it and sending a flash of heat to his chest. Liar, traître. He had trusted Thorn—had called him friend. Rafe gripped the hilt of his rapier, holding back his urge to call the man to swords right then and there, but wanting first to hear the mademoiselle’s answer.

  ***

  Grace gazed across the deck toward the larboard railing where a group of sailors huddled beside the quarterdeck, rolling dice. “But with so many men on board, how could we escape their detection?”

  “Leave that up to me.” Mr. Thorn tugged upon his coat.

  Grace rubbed her cross and gazed at the inviting shores. To remain on board would leave her at the mercy of the captain, not to mention her own unexpected passions. To leave would at least provide her a chance to live, to be free once again. Didn’t the Bible say to flee temptation and wickedness? She gazed up at Mr. Thorn, unable to discern whether the warmth in his eyes sprang from sincerity or cunning—eyes that carried none of the innocence of his twenty years. Regardless, what choice did she have?

  “When?”

  “Tonight.”

  ***

  Later, back in his cabin, Rafe ground his fists together and stomped with the ebb and tide of a restless pace across the Persian rug centering the floor. Finding the silken threads sufficiently humbled, he stormed toward the stern windows and crossed his arms over his chest. Nothing but a black wall met his gaze, mirroring his mood. Well past midnight, the thick clouds had captured all traces of the moon, casting the earth’s inhabitants in complete darkness—or at least his corner of the earth. Dark and barren—like Rafe’s heart.

  Thorn’s betrayal blazed through Rafe like lightning. Was there no one in his life who would not stab him in the back? Rafe plucked a cheroot from his desk drawer and lit it from a candle. Drawing a puff of the pungent smoke, he hoped the tobacco would loosen his stiff nerves and numb the pain in his heart.

  Grace was gone. He knew it. Nothing would have prevented her escape. The night was dark. Most of the crew remained below deck sheltered from the rain. No one would have stood in their way. Not even Rafe. For as much as he wanted to keep her with him and lock up his traitorous first mate, Rafe had realized their plan would serve his own purposes quite well. Thorn wasn’t the only one betraying Rafe. He had been trompé by his own feelings. For the more time he spent with the mademoiselle, the more conflicted he became. He doubted he could sell her to the don or to anyone for that matter. This way, at least he would not have to face a mutiny when his crew discovered their pockets would not be lined with gold anytime soon.

  Oui, Grace was gone, and the brig seemed nothing more than a hollow shell without her.

  Rafe drew in another drag of sweet tobacco then blew out a cloud of smoke above him. It dissipated into the darkness as the mademoiselle had. He should be thankful to be rid of her.

  Then why did his heart crumble within him? He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the shelf, opened it, and took a long draught. A rank of numbing fire marched down his throat. Mademoiselle Grace had told him the liquor turned him into a brute. Did it? The taste of it soured in his mouth, and he slammed the bottle down and wiped his lips.

  Rap rap rap.

  “Entrez-vous,” Rafe barked; then he turned to see Monsieur Thorn stride in, wearing a confident grin of a snake.

  “The sails have all been painted black, Captain.”

  “Très bien.” Rafe’s stomach clenched. He wanted to inquire whether Thorn had delivered Mademoiselle Grace safely to the island, but now was not the time. He would find out soon enough, and then as soon as they were free of Woodes’s ships, Rafe would deal with this betrayer. In the meantime, Grace would be quite safe and well fed on the island until he could send a ship to rescue her and deliver her safely home. “Douse all lights, weigh anchor, and hoist away topgallants and jib.”

  “A very good plan, Captain, if I do say so.” Thorn’s eyes held an admiration that Rafe no longer believed existed in the man. “Under these clouds, ’twould be a miracle if we were spotted.”

  Rafe grunted in response, and Monsieur Thorn touched his hat and backed out the door.

  After taking one last puff of his cheroot, Rafe extinguished it on a tray. He blew out the candle, sheathed his rapier, shoved his pistols into his baldric, and followed his first mate up on deck. The night would bring many challenges, not the least of which would be navigating the ship through the reefs of the harbor in the dark. For that he needed a sharp mind and quick reflexes. So he shoved all thoughts of Mademoiselle Grace from his mind—and his heart.

  Two hours later, guided by four lanterns hanging over the sides of the ship, two at the bow and two amidships over larboard and starboard rails, Rafe had maneuvered the brig to the mouth of the harbor. “Hoist up and douse the lanterns. Lay aloft and loose topsails,” he whispered to Thorn, who then marched across deck to deliver his orders to the men. Voices traveled far at night, especially in the oppressive dank air beneath the cloud-covered sky.

  A thunderous snap sounded from above, and Rafe glanced up and peered into the darkness but could not make out the black sails that had just been raised to the wind. Planting his boots on the deck, he folded his arms across his chest and allowed the breeze to whip through his hair and bring with it the scent of brine and freedom. He shot one last glance over his shoulder at the bulky shadow of the island, and his chest grew heavy.

  Mademoiselle Grace was there somewhere. Was she afraid? Was she lonely? Or was she glad to be rid of him? That she suffered under any one of those emotions saddened him. Turning back around, he thrust his face into the wind, trying to shake her from his thoughts. He must focus on their escape. Up ahead, lanterns blinked from the two ships that guarded the harbor, one to the north and one to the south. Le Champion would have to slip through the half-mile gap between them—barely enough breathing room. Was he le fou to attempt such a feat? One shift of the clouds, one beam of errant moonlight, one slip of a word from his crew, and all would be lost.

  The mademoiselle’s scent tickled his nose. Sacre mer, did her fragrance remain to taunt him?

  “Do we have a chance, Captain?” Her soft voice floated on the wind.

  Rafe jumped and snapped his gaze toward the source. Grace’s outline shadowed beside him. He rubbed his eyes.

  She released a sigh. “Your silence speaks volumes, Captain.”

  “You are here,” was all he could think to say as his heart swelled.

  “Where else would I be?”

  “On the island.”

  He saw her flinch.

  “I overheard Monsieur Thorn’s offer,” he admitted.

  She said nothing.

  Rafe scratched the stubble on his jaw. “Why did you not go? Why did you not escape when you had the chance?”

  She was silent for a moment. “I could not leave Madame Claire so ill. No one else, besides Father Alers, seems to care about her, and she is in need of a woman to attend her.”

  Rafe gazed over the inky expanse, unable to discern sea from sky—just as he was unable to comprehend her words. “You refused a chance at freedom for her?”

  “I may be a pious prude as you say, but I am not cruel, Captain.” Her voice stung with offen
se, but also with a strength that pleased him.

  Prude pieuse. Had he called her that? More than once, if he remembered correctly. Sans doute, she could behave like one, but at the moment all he saw was her heart of gold.

  Thorn’s tall figure emerged from the darkness. “Captain? The men await your orders.”

  Rafe turned to Grace, unsure what to say. He started to leave, then touched her arm. “A prayer to that God of yours for our success could not hurt.”

  “Of course.” He felt her smile, though he could not see it.

  ***

  Grace inched her way to the starboard bow and gripped the railing. She’d never been in such oppressive darkness. Behind her, she heard the captain whisper orders to Monsieur Atton. Only the soft flap of sails and purl of water against the hull graced her ears as the ship slipped through the sea. Up ahead, their two pursuers guarded the harbor like sentinels. One lantern hung from the foremast of each ship, illuminating the pathway to freedom between them—much like the narrow gate to salvation. Grace bowed her head. Lord, grant us safe passage through our enemies. Make us invisible to them and to all forces of evil.

  Raising her head, she nearly chuckled at the irony of her prayer. The shuffling of feet sounded behind her as the crew attended to their captain’s orders. Invisible black sails filled with wind overhead. Ingenious. Her admiration of the captain’s skills rose along with her conflicting sensations whenever he was near. Why would he have allowed her escape? It made no sense. Could he be having second thoughts about selling her into slavery? Or was he just testing Monsieur Thorn’s loyalty? Betrayal was something she had learned did not sit well with the captain.

  “You should go below.” His deep voice startled her.

  “I am praying as instructed.” She noted the humor in her own voice.

  “Très bien.” He leaned on the rail beside her and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “It will not matter should they detect us. A broadside from both sides would sink us within minutes.”

  Grace swallowed. Sink? A lump formed in her throat as Le Champion glided between her pursuers. Silence consumed the ship as if the angel of death floated across the decks, quieting everything with a touch of his scythe: the tongues of the sailors, the creaks and groans of the planks, and the flap of sails. Only the ripple of water against the hull gave any evidence of their passage.

  As if sensing her fear, the captain placed a hand on her arm. She jolted but dared not move. The lanterns of the pursuing ships winked at her from her right and her left. They were so close, she heard voices from their decks: laughter, song, and a heated argument.

  Minutes passed like hours until finally the lanterns and voices were behind her. Facing the wind, she released a tiny breath.

  Rafe tiptoed toward the helm, where Mr. Thorn stood beside Mr. Atton. Whispers echoed back and forth, and several sailors leapt into the ratlines and scrambled above, their dark shadows like evil specters attempting to creep into heaven.

  In the distance, the lanterns of the ships faded. They were safe!

  A yellow burst of light lit the sea off their stern. Grace stared at it curiously, unsure of its source.

  “All hands down!” Captain Dubois yelled and leapt on top of her, forcing her to the deck.

  A thunderous boom racked the sea and air.

  CHAPTER 28

  The captain flung one arm around Grace’s waist as he shoved her to the deck before covering her body with his own. The ominous whoosh of the shot heading their way filled Grace’s ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut. The crunch and snap of severed wood crackled in the air, followed by a massive splash. Grace gasped to fill her lungs with air. A tingling sensation whirled through her. Rafe lifted his head, but inches from her own, and gazed at her as if he too experienced the odd feeling. Curses and shouts saturated the air.

  “Capitaine?” someone shouted.

  “Oui.” He leapt off her and helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?” His voice rang with concern.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  He shifted his attention to the ship that had fired upon them and instantly stiffened. “Monsieur Legard, take the mademoiselle below.” Then he turned and began braying orders to his crew.

  Weaving amongst the frantic sailors that scampered across the deck, Mr. Legard escorted Grace below and ushered her into her cabin, closing the door with a thud.

  Dropping to her knees beside the cot, Grace held Claire’s feverish hand in hers and closed her eyes. Deafening blasts exploded all around her, sending a tremble through the brig that matched the tremble already coursing through her body. Boot steps hammered overhead, accompanied by shouts and curses—all in French. Yet amidst the clamor, Grace could still make out the captain’s deep timbre as he ordered his crew about.

  The sting of gunpowder seeped through the planks of the cabin to join the fetor of death and disease within. Claire groaned, and Grace peered through the darkness where the woman lay. “Lord, please save us,” she prayed as another cannon thundered. Her heart stopped. The blast came from Le Champion’s guns as the captain no doubt attempted to stave off their pursuers.

  Weaving around Claire on the cot, Spyglass snuggled up to Grace, nudging her hand for a pet. Grace obliged the cat, then pressed her fingers over her right cheek and winced where a bruise formed from her tumble onto the deck. She might have been able to protect her face from the splinters if she’d known the captain intended to pounce on her. She hadn’t felt any pain at the time. She hadn’t felt anything but Captain Dubois’s warm body atop hers and the tingles that rippled through her at such close intimacy.

  Sobs filled the air, reminding Grace she was not alone. She scanned the dark cabin but couldn’t make out Annette’s slight form. “Annette, all will be well.” Grace shoved aside her anger at the mulatto. “Come here.” Shuffling sounded and Annette emerged from the shadows and knelt beside Grace. Grace put an arm around her, noting her sweet citrus scent and the quiver that sped through her. “I am frightened as well, but Captain Dubois is a skilled captain.” She offered the lady a smile that was no doubt lost in the darkness even as she wondered where her confidence in Rafe came from.

  Boom! A loud roar threatened to split the timbers of the brig.

  Shouts and curses filled the air above them.

  The crack of wood. Then a crunch. A snap. More shouting shot down from above, “Prenez garde en bas!”

  Bam! The ship canted to larboard. Flakes of dirt showered on them from above.

  Grace glanced aloft. Coughing, she batted away the dust. Silence consumed the brig. Only the mad dash of water against the hull reassured Grace that they still lived. But what of everyone else? Had they all died?

  Annette whimpered and Grace drew her closer, embracing her. “Shhh. It will be all right.” But would it? She had no idea. Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she knew much of anything anymore.

  They huddled together in the dark for what seemed an eternity. Madame Dubois’s breathing grew ragged, and Grace took her hand again then released Annette and groped around for the bucket. Upon finding it, she wrung out the cloth and laid it atop the dying woman’s forehead. How long could she survive? How long would any of them survive with two ships in fast pursuit and hard intent on sinking them to the depths of the sea?

  Yet, Grace had not heard a gun fire for quite a while. In fact, she’d not heard anything.

  A thin line of light appeared beneath the door and Grace took Annette’s hand. A thousand terrifying thoughts rampaged through her mind. Had they been boarded by the enemy? Had the captain been killed?

  The latch clicked and the door creaked open to reveal Mr. Thorn, his features distorted in the glow of the lantern he held. His eyes landed upon Annette and remained there for longer than seemed proper before he shifted them to Grace. “The captain wishes me to inform you that we are safe now.” He placed the lantern atop the table.

  “So he is well?” Grace pressed a hand over her pounding heart.

  “Quite,” Mr. Thor
n replied. His answer sent an awkward rush of joy through Grace.

  Annette stood, fidgeted with the trim on the neckline of her gown, and slunk out of the light.

  Thorn’s gaze followed her. “Are you ladies unharmed?”

  “We are fine.” Grace rose and brushed the dust from her skirts. “I heard a loud crash. What happened?”

  Tearing his eyes from the mulatto, Mr. Thorn straightened his coat. “Our main-topmast was damaged.”

  Grace clutched her throat. “Isn’t that bad?”

  “It can be, but no one was injured.”

  “What of the two ships?”

  “We lost them in the darkness.” He gave a half smile.

  Claire groaned, and Grace dropped to her knees beside the woman. Now doused in light, Claire’s sunken cheeks bore the color of sunbaked sand and were just as hot to the touch. Her gray lips smacked in agony, and beads of sweat marched across her face and neck. Grabbing the cloth, Grace dabbed it over the woman’s skin. She sighed. “Mr. Thorn, can you please summon Father Alers?”

  “Will she die?” His voice was emotionless.

  “Please get the father.” Grace’s exhausted tone bespoke her internal agony. Claire was dying. Grace was all too familiar with the merciless fiend called death—an ugly beast who delighted in torturing his victims, leaving behind a trail of hopelessness and pain. During her mother’s tumultuous death, Grace had felt the monster’s breath upon her neck, his laughter beating like demon wings against her skin.

  She shuddered, and all hope drained from her. The only thing left to do was to ensure the woman’s salvation. If Claire regained consciousness Grace hoped she’d at least be willing to speak to the former priest.

  With Mr. Thorn’s departure, the room chilled. Grace hugged herself and lifted her gaze to Annette who stood beneath the porthole. The mulatto immediately lowered her chin. “Annette, did you poison your mistress?”

  Her eyes filled with tears and she lifted a hand to her nose. “It was not only un philtre d’amour.”