Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  “Stronger.” She looked at Grace as if she were an angel. “I owe you my life, mademoiselle.”

  “No. You owe God your life.”

  Claire drew in a deep breath and struggled to sit. She pushed a curl from her face. “I never believed God cared for me.”

  “He does.” Grace retrieved the mug of lemon water from the table and handed it to Claire.

  Taking it, Claire took a sip. “I am not so sure.” She shook her head and dropped her gaze to the mug clasped between her hands.

  Grace’s vision blurred with tears for the sorrow this woman had endured.

  Claire pressed her lips together. “Yet no one could have shown me the love you did after I treated you so horribly, unless God helped them.” She chuckled and Grace smiled, unable to respond, her throat closed tight with emotion.

  Claire’s face reddened. “Forgive me for sharing such personal confidences with you during my illness.”

  “’Tis quite all right. I had no idea your life had been so difficult.” “It is no excuse for my behavior.” Claire sighed.

  Grace clasped her hands together. Indeed, she used to believe there was no excuse for bad behavior. She had always looked down on those who could not control their passions and who chose evil over good. Then why did she find no disdain for this woman before her, only understanding and concern?

  “I love him still,” Claire said without looking up.

  The words shot straight to Grace’s heart as Rafe’s name drifted through the air, unspoken. “I know.”

  “But it is too late for us. I see that now.” The sorrow lining Claire’s face made Grace’s heart crumble even as a twinge of jealousy sprang from among the pieces. She shook it off as Claire continued, “And I am married to a monster.” She trembled.

  Grace took the cup from Claire’s hands before she dropped it and placed it back atop the table. “You needn’t remain so, madame.”

  Claire’s eyes searched Grace’s in confusion.

  “Your husband has been unfaithful and continues to flaunt his philandering before you daily.”

  Claire shrugged. “What is to be done about it?”

  “He has broken his covenant with you, Claire.”

  “Vraiment?” A spark of hope lit her eyes, but then her shoulders sank. “But where would I go?”

  Grace leaned over and took her hand. “Perhaps ’tis time to start trusting God for your future and not man or money.”

  Claire swallowed and her hand trembled. “We shall see.”

  “Do you feel up to a stroll on the deck?” Happy that Claire seemed slightly open to the things of God, Grace would put off her talk with Rafe if she could continue the conversation. “The fresh air would do you good.”

  “Non. I am still too weak.” She raised a hand to her forehead. “And tired. I believe I shall sleep some more.”

  “Very well.” Grace assisted Claire back down onto the cot. “We will talk later.” She brushed the hair from her face.

  “Merci.” Claire smiled then closed her eyes.

  Rising, Grace splashed water on her face from the basin. She donned her petticoat, stays, and skirts and brushed and pinned her hair up as best as she could—no longer concerned with a proper, tight coiffure.

  Out in the companionway, she headed for Rafe’s cabin. Spyglass pranced beside her as if she knew exactly where Grace was going and thought it was about time.

  Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, Grace approached the captain’s door. She must apologize for their kiss and inform Rafe it could never happen again. She did not want him to get the wrong idea about her affections for him. Whatever they may be.

  She squared her shoulders and knocked.

  “Entrez-vous,” Rafe’s resonant voice bade her entrance, and she opened the door and slipped inside, Spyglass on her heels.

  Rafe’s gaze swept over her, and his grin reached his eyes in a sparkle that sent a wave of warmth through Grace.

  Spyglass leapt upon the captain’s desk and began batting the feathers of a quill pen.

  The door thudded shut, and suddenly Grace found herself alone with the captain. He leaned against his desk, arms folded across his waistcoat, but the grin that had taken residence on his lips, a grin that contained a mixture of admiration and hunger, caused her heart to flutter.

  Grace clasped her hands together and she looked down. The hollow thud of his footfalls pounded over the deck. Black leather boots appeared in her vision. His body heat radiated over her, carrying with it his scent of tobacco and the sea. And her heart felt as though it would crash through her chest. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tipped her head up until their eyes met. “You wish to speak to me, mademoiselle?” His tone was playful, inviting.

  “Oui, I mean yes.” Grace pressed her moist palms over her skirts. “But if you please, could you back away a bit? I cannot seem to breathe.”

  Chuckling, he took a step back. “Oui, bien sûr. Mais does my presence disturb you?”

  Gathering her wits and her resolve, Grace stood and faced him. “Yes.” She might as well be honest. “It does.”

  “C’est bon.”

  “There is nothing good about it.”

  “A matter of perspective.”

  Grace sashayed away from the door, putting some distance between them. What was wrong with her? She’d come here to tell Rafe she would not receive his affections again. But instead all she wanted to do was feel his arms around her and his lips upon hers. Her cheeks heated until she had to withdraw a handkerchief from her sleeve and wave it around her face. “It grows warm below deck.”

  “Feels quite cool to me.” He raised his brows.

  Grace swallowed and looked up at him. He wore his black hair tied behind him, revealing a jaw peppered with stubble that reminded her of crushed charcoal. The fading purple of a bruise circled one eye. He stretched his shoulders back, only a hint of their strength discernable beneath his gray coat. To the left of his long black breeches tucked into his cordovan boots, hung the rapier that rarely left his side. And suddenly as she gazed into his dark, penetrating eyes, all rational thought dashed away in fear, leaving her standing there speechless.

  He stepped toward her. “Mademoiselle?”

  Grace held up a hand and averted her eyes to the contents of his desk. A full bottle of brandy glittered amber in the morning sun. “I do not believe I’ve ever seen an untouched bottle in your cabin, Captain. Have you given up your drink?” She hoped her playful tone would douse the heat that rose between them.

  “I have, but I will pour one for you if you wish.” His gaze brushed over Grace, and she thought she detected a slight grin on his lips.

  “I would never touch such a vile drink.”

  “Ah, mademoiselle, vile it is not. Mais that it offends you has become the bane of my existence.”

  “I am pleased to hear it, Captain.”

  He bowed. “I live for your approval, mademoiselle.”

  Spyglass jumped to the deck and began to circle her skirts.

  “You mock me, Captain.”

  He cocked his head. “Never.”

  She turned her back to him. “Will you return me to my home?”

  “As I have said.”

  Grace grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled out her cross, then moved toward the cannon in the corner.

  “What of your hospital?”

  “I will find another way.”

  “What changed your mind?” The words were out before she realized the implication of what she asked. The only thing that mattered was that he had changed his mind. Then why did her heart cinch within her chest awaiting his answer? She must be truly daft. For if he spoke the words she yearned to hear, she feared it would be the end of her.

  ***

  Rafe rubbed his jaw and stomped back to his desk, the bottle of brandy luring him like glittering gold. Memories of their kiss last night warmed his body. Even though she’d fled with a look of horror on her face, Rafe had kissed enough women to know that
Grace had enjoyed every moment of their embrace. And that thought alone had caused a spark to ignite in his heart—in a place long cold and dead.

  Turning, he stared at the mademoiselle’s back, green skirts flowing around her, trimmed in gold lace at the hem and waist. Coils of loose raven curls danced over her neck, taunting him like bait.

  Why had he changed his mind? He shook his head, unable to deceive himself any longer. He knew why. He should tell her how he felt. Fear began a frantic pounding within him, erecting barricades, reminding him of the pain of rejection. It was bad enough he had allowed himself to fall in love again. But he would be a bigger fool to allow another woman to break his heart.

  He straightened his shoulders. “I decided the don would most likely return you. Such a shrewish tongue would never survive a Spanish overlord.”

  She whirled around in a cloud of green silk, disappointment tugging down the corners of her mouth. “Shrewish?” Her face paled. “Of all the...”

  Rafe’s heart sank as the ardor, the affection, drained from her eyes, replaced by fury and pain.

  “Very well. That makes what I have to say much easier.” She lifted her chin, clutched her skirts, and headed toward the door, where she halted and drew a deep breath. “I came to inform you that I was remiss in accepting your ... your”—she looked away—“kiss. And that it must never happen again.” She gave him a venomous look, and he instantly longed to make things right.

  Rafe moved toward her, his voice low. “I heard no objection while your lips were on mine.”

  She fanned her red face with her handkerchief. Tiny scratches lined one cheek and Rafe swallowed, longing to kiss them away.

  “I am voicing them now.” She took a step back. “Promise me you will not take advantage of me again, Captain.”

  “Take advantage, sacre mer.” Rafe ran a hand through his hair, feeling his ire rising. “Mademoiselle, you have my word that I will take no further liberties with you.”

  Her lip trembled. “I shall hold you to that, Captain.” She swerved about and opened the door. “Come, Spyglass,” she called over her shoulder, and the cat promptly obeyed, stopping to hiss at Rafe on her way out.

  He slammed the door shut after them and leaned back against it. The woman had not only stolen his heart but his cat as well.

  CHAPTER 32

  Grace leaned on the railing amidships and gazed as the setting sun spread a plethora of brilliant colors: persimmon, violet, saffron, and coral across the horizon. Yet the beauty was lost on her. For clearly she had gone mad. After her encounter with the captain, she had been unable to stop crying. For what reason her mind could not fathom. Finally this harrowing adventure would be over. She would be safe in her home in Charles Towne. She should be the happiest woman alive. Then why did tears continually spring from her eyes and her heart feel as though it had been mauled by a grappling hook?

  A light breeze wafted over her, cooling the perspiration on her arms and fluttering her curls about her neck. Perhaps the fresh air was all she needed to clear her head and heal whatever ailed her heart. Soon the darkness would drive her back to her cabin. She drew a deep breath of the tropical air, allowing it to fill her lungs with its spicy aroma. She would miss it. The sea held a different scent than the harbor in Charles Towne.

  Charles Towne. Where she would no longer have to deal with the French rogue Captain Dubois. The captain had not only called her a shrew, but he had claimed it was the reason he refused to sell her to the don. That she had been hoping for another reason, a more personal reason, brought her shame. That he seemed equally anxious to return her home and be rid of her himself caused her heart to shrivel.

  Am I a shrew? Grace’s eyes burned. What did she expect? Did she expect this Frenchman, this mercenary, this man who kidnapped her, to declare his love for her?

  I am a silly woman, Lord. A silly woman who has been no good to anyone. Done nothing right except perhaps step out of the way so You could save Claire. At least I can go home with some dignity.

  Footfalls sounded and Grace turned to see Annette inching across deck, a bundle in her hands. Behind the mulatto, the crew’s eyes brushed over her, then swept away. In one corner, Monsieur Weylan, Mr. Fisk, Mr. Holt—the three sailors who had assaulted Grace below—and one other man huddled together as they often did when on deck.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” Annette moved beside her. The setting sunlight cast a rainbow of colors over her tawny skin, making her look far more innocent than Grace knew her to be. Yet Grace no longer felt angry with the lady.

  “Good evening, Annette. How is Madame Dubois?” Grace asked.

  Annette flattened her lips. “Madame rests. She will recover.” The sting of hatred so oft in her voice when she spoke of her mistress had lost its potency. “You did not tell her what I did?” She gazed down at the choppy waves pounding against the hull.

  Grace shook her head. “No need, since you promised not to harm her again.”

  “You are very kind, mademoiselle.” Annette unwrapped the bundle in her hands, revealing the stones, beads, rattle, and amulet she used in the rituals of her religion.

  The hairs on Grace’s arms bristled, but she resisted the urge to leave. She needn’t be afraid of such things. She only hoped the girl didn’t intend to use them again—especially right here in front of her.

  With a flick of the cloth, Annette tossed them all into the sea. They splashed one by one into the dark waters and disappeared from sight. Then she uttered a sigh of resignation, folded the cloth, and slipped it into a pocket in her skirt.

  Grace tipped her head curiously. “Why did you do that?”

  “I have been thinking. Compared to your God, the religion of my ancestors is weak and harms others. I no longer wish to pray to my ancestors.”

  Grace nearly leapt out of her shoes. “I’m very happy to hear that, Annette.” She stared out to sea again, where the sun sank further behind the horizon, and pondered what to say next, not wanting to fail again. “Perhaps you would like to pray to my God?”

  “Non.” Annette’s reply disappointed Grace. “I do not, mademoiselle. If He is the one true God, then I want nothing to do with a God who enslaves my people.”

  “But you are mistaken, Annette.” Grace laid a hand on hers. “He is—”

  A deep, buoyant chuckle drew Annette’s attention behind them to where Mr. Thorn had joined Weylan and his friends. The mulatto’s dark eyes latched upon the first mate, and Grace nearly gasped at the ardor she saw within them. Turning, she studied the odd group curiously. They spoke in whispered tones and bore a camaraderie that could only be fostered by long acquaintance or a bond of common goals. Yet, how often had Mr. Thorn scorned these very men.

  “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.” Annette scurried away, dropping below deck before Grace could continue their conversation. Frustration joined her already troublesome thoughts and she turned back around.

  The sun disappeared behind the sea, dragging with it the last traces of its brilliant glory and leaving the world in a shroud of gray that soon faded to black. Yet Grace could not pull herself from the railing. She did not want to face the captain. She did not want to spend hours in idle chatter with Madame Dubois. In truth, she wanted to be alone to sort out the chaotic emotions whirling within her.

  An hour later, the tread of boots and bare feet sounded, followed by hushed voices. Familiar voices that caused her to slink further into the shadows beneath the railing. A group of sailors made their way to the capstan amidships, their dark gazes scouring the deck for any intruders. They didn’t seem to see her.

  Grace held her breath and craned her ear toward the group, trying to make out the words over the slap of waves against the hull. “So, we are in agreement?” Weylan said.

  “Aye.”

  “Oui, I have informed the others.” A third voice.

  “When?”

  “The ship should arrive tomorrow at sunrise.” Weylan again.

  “The captain will not go down easily.”
r />   At the sound of Mr. Thorn’s voice, Grace tossed her hand to cover her mouth.

  “He will have no choice.”

  The men grunted their approval and then dispersed across the deck, some heading up to the quarterdeck, others to join sailors lumbering by the larboard railing. The rest dropped below hatches. Grace clutched her throat and released her breath. Her thoughts whirled with the content of the men’s conversation. Though her mind refused to accept it, she knew what she had heard. Plans for a mutiny.

  But Mr. Thorn, of all people?

  Grace trembled.

  She must warn Rafe. She dared not move for several more minutes, at least until her heart no longer pounded in her ears. Then slowly, she tiptoed out from her hiding spot and slipped down the companionway.

  And barreled right into Mr. Thorn.

  Wearing the grin of a panther who had just caught his prey. “What do we have here, a little ship mouse?”

  Grace tossed a hand to her throat. “Mr. Thorn, you gave me such a fright. I was just going to my cabin.” She heard the tremor in her voice and tried to skirt around him, but he blocked her way.

  “Indeed? And where have you come from?”

  “I was ... I was up on deck getting some air.” She tried to shove him aside. “Now if you please, sir.”

  He grabbed her arm. His tight grip pinched her skin and sent pain down to her fingers. “I cannot let you warn him, miss. You know that.”

  Grace lifted her gaze to his. Determined brown eyes with a hint of sorrow met hers. Her heart thrashed in her chest. She kicked him in the leg. He let out a moan and bent over to rub the wound. Grace gathered her strength to shoulder him aside when something hard hit her head with a thunk.A burning pain seared down her neck and back. The companionway spun in her vision and the last thing she remembered was Mr. Thorn’s contorted expression before everything went black.

  ***

  Rafe sat up in bed and rubbed his aching eyes. Sunlight poured in through the stern window setting everything aglow in its path. Rising, he tossed a shirt over his head, feeling more hopeful than he had in years, despite his lack of sleep. During the wee hours of the night Rafe had paced across his cabin—had suffered beneath the pain that, upon delivering Grace to Charles Towne, he would never see her again. And he had concluded that it would be worth the risk of confessing his love to her, if there was but the slightest chance she might love him in return.