Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Monsieur Thorn slipped from beside Rafe and disappeared behind him. Was the man so much a coward that he could not stand beside his captain in time of need?

  “I did not kidnap Claire,” Rafe shot back as he slid his fingers over the warm pommel of his rapier. One false move and he would silence his father’s insolent tongue.

  “Non? Is she not on your brig?” Monsieur Dubois’s tone rose in sarcasm.

  Rafe flexed his jaw. “Oui, but not by my doing.”

  “Then by whose? I suppose she stole away in the night and hired a boatman to bring her aboard?” He chuckled. “She has neither the brains nor the bravery for such an act.”

  A moan sounded from the companionway, and all eyes shot in the direction of the woman emerging from below.

  “Ah there you are, ma chérie.” Monsieur Dubois’s features sharpened, but he made no move to aid his wife.

  Claire walked across the deck, her blond hair shimmering in the noontime sun. The color had returned to her skin though her chest rose and fell from the exertion of climbing abovedecks.

  Claire reached his side. “Henri. What are you doing here?” Disbelief and anger rang in her tone.

  “I came to rescue you, ma chérie.” His smile sent ice through Rafe.

  Claire’s face scrunched, and she eyed him with disbelief.

  “What has Rafe done to you, ma chérie?” he went on. “Are you injured?”

  “She has been ill,” Rafe said. A gust of hot wind tainted with human sweat tore over the deck, tossing his hair.

  Monsieur Dubois took Claire’s arm and tried to draw the woman into an embrace. She stiffened, but he forced her against him. “Are you so inept, my son, that you cannot take care of one woman?”

  Rafe snorted. “No more inept than a man who cannot hold on to his own wife.”

  Father Alers coughed.

  Monsieur Dubois huffed and directed his gaze behind Rafe where Rafe heard the thudding of bare feet on the deck. He stole a quick glance over his shoulder but only Monsieur Thorn and a band of Rafe’s men met his gaze. He faced forward. “How did you find me?”

  “You are not the only one with skills upon the sea.”

  “Which is why your broadside splashed impotently into the water.”

  A vein pulsed on his father’s sweaty neck. “Yet I believe it is I and my men who have boarded your ship.”

  “Only by my leave.” Rafe groaned and stomped his boot on the deck. “Assez! If you have come for your wife, take her and go.” He waved a hand in dismissal.

  “No, please, Rafe,” Claire cried. Fear and desperation scampered across her blue eyes.

  “Silence, woman!” Rafe’s father put his arm around Claire’s shoulders, forcing her against him. Her face pinched. He glared at Rafe. “And leave her kidnapper unpunished?” Monsieur Dubois’s eyes searched the deck. “And where is your other victim? I assume you stole Mademoiselle Grace as well?”

  “Rafe did not kidnap me, Henri.” Claire swallowed and stared at the deck. “I came of my own will.”

  Henri’s face mottled in blotches of red and white. The veins in his neck pulsed. Rafe feared he would explode, but then a flash of anguish peeked out from behind the anger in his eyes. He shoved Claire to the side. “It matters not.”

  “Of course it matters, Father.” Rafe shook his head. “We have no quarrel now.” At least none Rafe cared to address. Then why did the hairs on the back of his neck suddenly stand on end?

  Footfalls pounded on the deck behind him. Muffled voices bounced through the air.

  The ching of sword against sheath. The cock of pistols. Rafe froze. The taste of metal filled his mouth.

  Slowly he turned around. The tips of ten rapiers shot toward him. Sunlight glared from their blades and bounced over the deck like grapeshot. Toward the forefront of the mob of Rafe’s own men stood Monsieur Thorn, wearing a look of haughty disdain. Beyond them, the remainder of Rafe’s crew halted beneath the leveled aim of blades and pistols.

  Rafe threw back his shoulders and lengthened his stance to cover up the fear tying his stomach into knots. He swung back to his father, whose blue eyes glowed with cruel deception. “What is this about?”

  His father grinned. “This is what I believe you call a mutiny.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Grace stopped pounding the door to catch her breath. Perspiration streamed down her face and neck. Her head ached. Blood dripped from her wrists, and her mouth was stuffed with cotton. But at least the cannons had ceased and the ship had slowed to a near halt. In light of what she’d overheard, however, that might not have been a good sign at all.

  She continued battering the door with her feet and groaning through the saturated cloth in her mouth.

  Finally, she heard shuffling in the hall. “Mademoiselle?” Annette’s sheepish voice squeaked through the oak.

  Grace groaned and kicked the door again. The latch clicked, and light spilled in around the mulatto’s thin form.

  “Mademoiselle!” Annette dropped to the deck and plucked the handkerchief from Grace’s mouth. “Who did this to you?”

  Grace coughed and tried to speak but her words emerged in a grating rasp.

  Annette battled the ropes around Grace’s wrists and feet. “When you not come back to the cabin last night, I worry, and come looking for you.”

  “Thank you, Annette,” Grace managed to say. Tearing the loosened ropes from her ankles, she rose. A wave of dizziness swirled her vision, and she leaned on the bulkhead.

  “Are you all right, mademoiselle?”

  Grace gripped Annette’s shoulders. “Where is Rafe?”

  “Captain Dubois is on deck, mademoiselle.” Annette’s brows drew together.

  “Come, we must hurry.” Grace swept past her.

  “It is not good.” The tap tap of Annette’s shoes behind Grace only added to her rising fear. “You should not go above, mademoiselle.”

  Ignoring the lady and the sinking feeling in her gut, Grace navigated the narrow hallways and companionway. Then clutching her skirts, she climbed up the ladder and emerged into the sunlight, Annette fast on her heels.

  A growling mob undulated over the main deck, and Grace ducked into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck. She strained to see through the horde of cursing sailors. Drawing Annette to her side, she circled around the mob until she spotted the yellow feather fluttering atop Monsieur Dubois’s hat. Bright flashes caused her to squint and focus on their source.

  Swords. Drawn swords. All pointed at Rafe. She was too late.

  ***

  Rafe cursed himself as every muscle within him grew taut. How could he have been such a fool? He eyed his father, longing to draw his rapier and etch a permanent frown over his caustic grin. Stupide. Rafe shifted his gaze from his father to Monsieur Thorn. Despite the anger boiling in Rafe’s gut, a sharp twang struck his heart. “So you joined mon père against me?” He formed the words his mind still refused to believe. That the man who had sailed with him for a year, the man he considered his friend, had committed the ultimate betrayal. But why not? Everyone betrayed Rafe in the end.

  Thorn raised one shoulder. “So it would seem.”

  “And all of you!” Rafe yelled over their shoulders to those of his men who had joined the traitorous mob. “Have I not served you well?” He scanned their faces. Weylan, Holt, Fisk, Porter, Maddock, and a dozen other men who had been his companions. Some lowered their gazes, others gave him a sheepish look of apology, while others twitched their fingers over their weapons as if anxious to be done with him.

  He turned back to Thorn. “Why involve my father in this?”

  Thorn cocked a brow. “In the event there were not enough men willing to turn against you, Captain. And as it turned out, I needed his crew.” He shook his head. “Even when I informed the men that you reneged on your promise to sell the mademoiselle and line their pockets, most still would not join us. A testament to you, I suppose. Though for the life of me, I find their loyalty confounding.”

&n
bsp; Movement on the fore- and quarterdecks drew Rafe’s attention to groups of sailors who gathered at each railing, shock and fear tightening their features as some of their own companions held them at gunpoint. Even Monsieur Atton, normally a solid rock of composure, stared at Rafe with a look of horror.

  Weylan stepped forward, tugging upon the lace at his cuffs. “It’s about her.” He wagged a thumb toward his left, and Rafe glanced to see Mademoiselle Grace huddling in the corner beside Annette, her eyes wide, and her bottom lip quivering.

  Zut alors, the woman always chose the most inopportune time to come on deck. His stomach tightened. What would happen to Grace now? “We heard you had grown soft on the woman,” Weylan added with a sneer.

  Rafe faced him. “What is that to you?” He gripped the hilt of his rapier, causing the swords pointed his way to jerk to attention. Grace gasped.

  “Easy, messieurs.” Rafe released the weapon and narrowed his eyes upon his father. “This has nothing to do with your wife.” Rafe huffed as understanding dawned. “You planned this mutiny all along.”

  “Ah, gentlemen.” His father glanced over the mob. “At last my son has regaled us with a smidgen of his acclaimed wisdom.” His blue eyes flashed. “I had begun to doubt you possessed it.”

  Ignoring him, Rafe directed his attention to Thorn. “And you told him where to find us.”

  Thorn grinned.

  Rafe nodded toward Claire who leaned against the foredeck, her eyes laced with horror. “Was she also a part of this?”

  “My faithless wife?” Henri chuckled. “Non, she is merely a pawn. En fait, she believed she was running away to be with you. Had I known I was marrying a souillon, I would have allowed you to keep her.”

  Rafe gripped his baldric as a blast of wind tore over him. “But you did marry her. You won, Father. Why come after me?”

  “Because I could not stand that she still wanted you, still loved you.” Rafe’s father shot a look toward Claire that burned more with pain than hatred, then he stomped toward Rafe, his eyes bulging. “Just like your mother. It was always about you. Smart, quick-witted, capable Rafe. Stronger, wiser, better.” He spat to the side.

  Rafe winced beneath the man’s fury. He could find no cause for it. Nothing he had done in his childhood except succeed at all he did. Shouldn’t a father be proud of such a son? “I was never in competition with you.”

  Henri snorted, his face reddening. “Oh, but you were. Every time you succeeded. Every time you won the affections of a lady I coveted, every time Claire’s eyes lit up at the mention of your name. Every time I heard of your grand successes upon the sea and was bombarded by the people’s praise for you in town.” He snorted. “Assez!”

  The loathing that twisted his father’s features stunned Rafe. “So you devise a plan for me to appear to kidnap your wife so you can come after me and kill me?”

  “How else to be rid of you within the bounds of the law? I am not a murderer.” Henri lifted his shoulders as if shrugging off his anger, shrugging away his son.

  “My crew will testify otherwise.” Rafe said.

  “Who would believe them over me?”

  Rafe’s heart collapsed into a ball of lead. His father was right. “I did not realize your hatred of me ran so deep.”

  Henri glared at Rafe for a moment. He licked his lips and looked away. “You are not my son.”

  A drop of sweat slid down Rafe’s back. The sun fired hot arrows upon him. Waves slapped against the hull. Claire gasped.

  Rafe’s fingers went numb. “What did you say?”

  Henri gazed over the sea, his stony face holding a trace of sorrow. “I said you are not my son.”

  “Then whose son am I?”

  His father met his gaze. His eyes glinted like steel. “You are the son of the pirate Jean du Casse.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Jean du Casse? Blood dashed from Rafe’s head. Blinking, he caught himself before he stumbled backward. Jean du Casse, the admiral of the French navy? The man knighted by Louis XIV, the governor of Saint Dominique? The buccaneer who led the raid on Spanish forces at Cartagena? That Jean du Casse? The incredulous possibility swirled in Rafe’s mind. Could it be true? Could he be the son of such a great man? Rafe raised a furrowed brow to Henri as his jumbled thoughts fled to his mother.

  “I see where your mind takes you, Rafe.” Monsieur Dubois stroked his pointed beard. “Straight to the source. En fait, I only discovered the truth after your mother died. Evidence of her duplicity in a letter I found stuffed in a drawer. I regret to dash your virginal memory of her, but she was nothing more than a souillon, a prostituée.”

  In a flash, Rafe drew his rapier and leveled its tip upon Henri’s throat. “You will take that back, monsieur. If my mother found love in the arms of another it was because you drove her to it.”

  Blades flashed his way. A sharp tip pressed against his side. Rafe glanced in the direction to see Thorn’s furious face at the end of the gleaming hilt.

  “Stand down,” Thorn ordered. “Or I’ll run you through.”

  “Not before I slit his throat.” Rafe pressed the point harder, and blood blossomed on Henri’s white cravat as his eyes became transfixed in horror.

  Thorn chuckled. “Go ahead. It matters not to me. You may fall atop his dead body if that is what you wish.”

  Silence swallowed all sound aboard the ship except Henri’s hurried breathing. Rafe’s hand began to shake. Not from fear or even rage, but from the overwhelming desire to destroy this man who had destroyed Rafe’s life.

  “No, Rafe.” Mademoiselle’s quivering voice spilled over him from behind, followed by Claire’s sobbing, “S’il vous plaît.”

  Lowering his blade, Rafe stepped back. Though he cared nothing for his own life, or for the life of Henri Dubois, he had Grace to consider. And as long as he lived, he would do his best to protect her. But he must live. He glanced her way. Green eyes, pooling with fear, met his. Claire, her face red and puffy, clung to Grace’s left arm, while Annette stood as rigid as a mast off her right.

  Father Alers’s gray hair flared about him. He gripped the pommel of his blade and stepped forward from beside the three women. “Say the word, Capitaine, and I will fight by your side.”

  Henri chuckled. “How noble. Can you invoke no more loyalty than that of one old man?” He grinned, and the sailors joined his laughter.

  “Non, mon ami,” Rafe spoke to the former priest as he inclined his head toward Grace. “Stay with her. Keep her safe.”

  Father Alers nodded his understanding and took a step back.

  Tears spilled from Grace’s eyes.

  Wrenching his gaze from her, Rafe thrust the tip of his rapier into the deck and leaned on the handle. “So, Henri, what will it be? Keelhaul? Hanging from the yardarm, or will you toss me to the sharks?”

  “Such imagination!” Henri laid a finger on his chin. “Non, nothing so colorful. Monsieur Thorn has requested the honor of a duel to the death.”

  Rafe couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped his lips. “To the death?” He directed a challenging gaze toward Thorn. “And what happens when I win?”

  Henri smirked. “It depends on how long you can swim.”

  Rafe narrowed his eyes upon Henri, then plucked his sword from the deck and faced Thorn. “If you dare to challenge me, Thorn, you are a bigger fool than I thought.”

  But his words did not have the intended effect on Thorn. Instead, his first mate returned his gaze with hauteur. “You forget, Captain, I learned swordsmanship in His Majesty’s Navy. And I have kept my skills sharp. Have you?”

  Rafe grinned. “We shall see.”

  ***

  A duel to the death.

  Grace’s stomach lurched, and she realized if she’d had anything to eat in the past twelve hours, it would now be upon the rolling planks beneath her feet.

  One hand on his hip, Thorn raised his blade and twirled it around Rafe’s chest, taunting him. The captain stood his ground, a smug look on his face tha
t was surprisingly devoid of fear.

  Claire threw a hand to her chest and began wheezing then melted into Grace’s arms. Father Alers helped lead Claire to a nearby barrel in the shade before he took a stance beside the women.

  Rafe doffed his hat and flung it to the deck. “Are you going to fight or twirl your blade through the air like a woman?”

  Thorn squinted, tightened his lips, then lunged toward Rafe. The captain leapt to the side and lifted his own blade to strike Thorn. Thorn recovered and met his thrust hilt to hilt. The chink of metal sliced over the ship.

  Monsieur Dubois retreated to the railing as the crowd withdrew, allowing the combatants room. Shouts and jeers trumpeted through the air heavy with heat and sweat.

  Grace’s throat went dry. What if Rafe lost? What if he died? Horror stiffened her back. She could not imagine a world without Captain Rafe Dubois. She could not imagine this ship without him. And she could not imagine her life without him. The last realization stunned her the most. That, along with the awareness that her own welfare had not been foremost in her thoughts.

  Rafe swung aside and drove his rapier in from the right. “We were friends once.”

  “We were never friends.” Thorn dipped to the left and brought his blade up to strike the captain in the leg.

  Rafe swerved about to avoid the thrust and circled his opponent. “Then you are a good liar.”

  Above them, loose sails flapped beneath a blast of wind as the brig rolled over a swell.

  Thorn matched Rafe’s stride until the two rotated over the deck like the spokes of a wheel. “Indeed I am a liar, but you are a murderer.”

  Rafe cocked his head, wiped the sleeve over his moist brow. “I am. But who do you say I murdered?”

  Thorn charged him, his face a jumbled mass of red. “My sister.”

  Grace’s breath halted in her throat.

  Rafe met his attack and the clank of swords filled the air. “I have never killed a woman,” he ground out with exertion.

  The two men grunted, their swords slammed together. Rafe freed his blade and swept down on Thorn, nicking his right shoulder.