Raven Saint

by Marylu Tyndall

  Thorn winced, a slice of purple forming on his blue waistcoat. He stared at it as if it were some strange occurrence, then his face grew hard and stiff.

  “Who is your sister?” Rafe charged him again.

  Thorn met his attack and gave Rafe a venomous look. “You do not remember her, then?” He pulled back. His lips curled in disgust and he charged Rafe like a mad bull, but his effort spent itself idly against the captain’s skill. Rafe met each blow, each strike, with a calm defensive maneuver. Thorn stumbled, panting heavily, his mounting frustration evident on his face.

  “You can take ’im, Thorn,” one man yelled.

  “Don’t let that cochon lâche get the best of you!” another brayed.

  “Finish ’im off, Capitaine!” Mr. Atton bellowed from the quarterdeck, echoed by several cheers, and Grace was thankful at least some of Rafe’s men remained loyal.

  Her eyes slipped to Monsieur Dubois. One of his hands clutched the larboard railing, the other was stuffed within his coat, as he watched the duel as if it were an afternoon’s entertainment.

  Even so, a measure of ease settled upon Grace’s nerves. Rafe was indeed well skilled with the sword. Truth be told, in all her years of watching her father’s swordplay with his friends in Portsmouth, she’d seen none to compare. But now her fear shifted to Mr. Thorn. For even though he had betrayed his captain—and her—she did not wish for him to die.

  ***

  Rafe eyed his opponent, noting that the look of insolence had spilled from his face along with the sweat that now ran like streams over his cheeks. “I know nothing of your sister.”

  Thorn stormed toward Rafe, brandishing his blade high.

  Rafe met his thrust with a counter-parry, then he danced to the side and came in from the right. Their swords crashed, steel on steel, the sun glinting off their blades.

  Pushing back, Thorn spit to the side and shook the sweat from his face. “Remember when you frequented Nassau upon your father’s merchantman?”

  Rafe kept his rapier aimed upon the rogue as his thoughts sped back in time. “Oui, I remember Nassau.” A time long ago when his mother still lived. A time when Rafe believed that if he worked hard enough he might make his father proud.

  “Elizabeth. Elizabeth Grayson,” Thorn growled.

  Rafe halted, his chest heaving. A vision of a young woman with eyes the color of lilacs rose from his memories. “Oui, Elizabeth.” He furrowed his brow. “Your sister? Thorn is not your real name?”

  “Does that surprise you?” Thorn lunged at Rafe, but Rafe batted his sword aside.

  “I did not kill her.” He’d had enough of this foolishness.

  “Perhaps not her body.” Thorn raged, his brown eyes flashing. “But her life, her future.”

  With a shake of his head, Rafe allowed his gaze to drop. All this had been caused by a woman’s broken heart?

  “Allow me to extend to you her compliments.” Thorn swept down upon Rafe, and before Rafe could react, his arm exploded in searing pain.

  At the sight of blood, the horde of sailors pressed in on them, assailing them with the stench of sweat and the clamor of shouts and curses.

  Rafe pressed his hand over the wound and leveled his rapier at Thorn. “That is what this is about? Your sister?”

  “You used her. You told her you loved her.” He leapt toward Rafe and met his sword hilt to hilt. Pulling back he swung at him again. They inched over the deck, parrying back and forth. “Then you left her.” Thorn heaved out in between breaths. “And destroyed her.”

  Suddenly the rapier felt as heavy as an anchor in Rafe’s hand, as heavy as his heart. “I was but twenty. A foolish young man. I never meant any harm to her.”

  “Harm?” Thorn twisted, then came about and sliced his blade across Rafe’s leg.

  The sailors crowed in delight.

  A thousand hot needles stabbed Rafe’s thigh, and he stumbled back.

  Grace screamed.

  Thorn grinned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and halted to catch his breath. “You ruined her so no one else would have her.”

  Tightening his grip on his rapier, Rafe shoved aside the pain in his leg, the pain in his heart. He could not allow his emotions to weaken him now. Not when Grace needed him the most. “Enough of your games, monsieur.” Rafe clenched his jaw and set his mind on the task at hand. “Let us finish this.”

  Thorn rubbed a thumb down the red scar on his face and neck. “You don’t remember me either?” He lunged toward Rafe.

  Lifting his blade, Rafe met his parry with equal intensity. “Should I?”

  “Do you remember the boy you fought after you left Elizabeth sobbing in the parlor? The boy who challenged you as you headed out to your ship to leave her forever?” In one swift move, Thorn dove at Rafe from the left. The chime of their blades rang over the deck.

  Rafe halted. He swallowed. “Vous? That boy was but eleven or twelve. He drew a sword on me.”

  “I was thirteen.”

  Rafe shook his head, his frustration rising with the heat of the day. “I was defending myself.”

  “Now the boy has grown and you defend yourself again. Only this time you will not be so lucky.”

  Rafe fought off his advance. “I do not wish to fight you, Thorn. What I did to your sister was wrong. And for that, je suis désolé. Let us end this now.”

  “As you wish.” Thorn charged him in a ball of red fury.

  Rafe swept his blade up to receive him. Their swords clanked. Rafe slashed back and forth. Thorn stumbled, warding off each blow with difficulty. The sailors parted as Rafe forced Thorn backward through their ranks.

  They shoved their fists in the air, cheering Thorn and cursing Rafe.

  With one final blow, Rafe struck Thorn’s blade, flinging it from his hand and sending it clanging to the deck. A look of horror branded the first mate’s reddened face. He gasped for air.

  Rafe leveled the tip of his rapier over Thorn’s chest.

  Monsieur Dubois appeared beside him, hands on his hips, and glared at Monsieur Thorn. “I thought you said you could beat him, monsieur.” He huffed. Then turned to Rafe. “Well, be done with it. Kill him.”

  Thorn gulped. Rafe was baffled at the cruelty of the man he’d called Father.

  The crowd parted, a flash of green crossed Rafe’s vision, and Grace dashed to his side, Father Alers on her heels. She grabbed his arm and shook her head.

  “Kill him. Kill him,” the men began a new chant.

  Thorn closed his eyes.

  Henri adjusted his neckerchief and sighed in impatience. “Do you intend to kill him or not?”

  Rafe eyed his trembling first mate. The man he’d considered his friend. The man who had betrayed him—like everyone else. For that, he deserved to die. Rafe blinked sweat from his eyes and gripped his hilt tighter as every ounce of him twitched to do the deed—to gain some recompense for the all the treachery Rafe had endured.

  But then he glanced at Grace’s pleading face. She did not approve. Her God would not approve. Perhaps there was a better way to live.

  Rafe dropped the tip of his blade to the deck. “I do not.”

  Thorn’s eyes popped open.

  Henri snorted in disgust. “Très bien.” He snapped his jeweled fingers. “Take le capitaine below.”

  Two sailors shoved Grace out of the way and grabbed Rafe’s arms, twisting the rapier from his grasp.

  Tossing one of the men off, Rafe drove his fist into the other’s jaw and sent him reeling backward. But more hands latched onto him. He struggled, but to no avail.

  Henri waved a hand. “Lock him in irons.”

  “No! Rafe!” Grace pushed her way back through the crowd. Her delicate hand stretched toward him from amidst the filthy mob.

  But he could not reach out to touch her.

  Would probably never touch her again.

  He had finally seen a gleam of ardor in her eyes. But now they would be separated forever. He would lose Grace, lose his ship, and possibly his life. An
d his father—or rather this brute who had pretended to be his father—would once again win. Forcing his anger aside, he turned toward Henri. “Promise me you will take Mademoiselle Grace back to her home.”

  “I fear I cannot do that.” His lips writhed in a crooked smile. “How do you think I arranged this mutiny?” He waved at the men in dismissal as he did all his slaves. “Non, I will sell her to the don and divide the money among the crew.”

  To which a cheer arose from the men.

  He leaned toward Rafe, a maniacal spark in his eyes. “And then I will take you to Roger Woodes in Nassau. Where I am sure you will be tried and hanged, as the son of a pirate deserves.”

  “My father was no pirate.” Rafe found a moment ’s joy in associating the word father with someone other than the man who stood before him now.

  “Hmm. But you are kidnapper, non?” “And you are a mutineer.”

  “Moi? Non.” Henri laughed. “Monsieur Thorn and I have merely rescued these ladies from your brutal hands and relieved a criminal of his ship.”

  “Some of my crew know differently. You cannot kill them all.”

  Henri grinned. “A pocket full of gold does much to temper one’s tongue. Non. They will not speak on your behalf. And those few who do will not be believed.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Grace clung to the side of the cockboat and swallowed a knot of fear. A sliver of a moon frowned at her from above the gray horizon that wreathed a sea of ebony. The small boat crested a wave and water sloshed over the side. It soaked her slippers and sent a chill through her, despite the air thick with heat and moisture. The salt stung her raw ankle, and she tugged at the rope that bound her.

  Monsieur Dubois perched at the bow, lantern in hand and face to the wind. His chest swelled as he peered through the darkness toward a shadowy mound up ahead. Behind him, two of his men grunted as they shoved oars through the churning water, sending the boat gliding toward its destination.

  The coast of Colombia.

  Where Grace would be sold to Don Miguel de Salazar.

  She took a deep breath of the night air. The smell of earth and sea mingled in a fragrant symphony that would have otherwise soothed her nerves. But instead, her stomach coiled like a bundle of rope and her mind reeled with terror.

  What would become of her? She could hardly consider it without breaking into a violent tremble.

  For two days she’d been locked within her cabin. Twice a day, one of Monsieur Dubois’s men had brought her food and changed her chamber pot, offering her only grunts and leers in response to her pleading questions. Then torn from her cabin in the middle of the night, she’d been lowered into this boat and shoved off without explanation.

  But she knew where she was going.

  Even in the gloom of the night, she could make out the pyramid of land looming ahead.

  Oh Lord, how did it come to this? Please help me.

  Amidst the fear, her thoughts veered to Rafe, as they often had during the past few days. The look on his face as he had been dragged away to the hold would forever be carved in her memory. His dark eyes had locked upon hers, gulping her in as if she were a dying man’s last drink. And though she tried to do the same, tears had filled her eyes and the vision of him had grown blurry. Just like her hope.

  Would Henri turn over the man he’d raised as his own son to be hanged?

  Grace drew out her cross and rubbed it as a blast of night wind tore over her. The splash of the oars and purling of water against the hull increased in both pace and ferocity. Moonlight glittered off the waves’ rising crests as they crashed ashore in bands of light that marched ahead of her, leading her to her doom.

  “Hold on, mademoiselle,” Henri shot over his shoulder.

  Grace lifted her slippers and placed them on the thwarts as they crested another swell. The wet rope chafed against the raw skin of her ankle, and she winced. The other end was tied to one of the oarlocks to prevent her escape over the side. Not that she would dare attempt it since she couldn’t swim. Although drowning was beginning to seem preferable to the fate that awaited her at the hands of the Spanish.

  How did I get here, Lord? She tightened her lips. Whatever reason You had for sending me on this harrowing journey, I was open to Your will. I wanted to be used for Your glory.

  The croak of tree frogs and the call of the night heron met her ears. They were close now.

  Grace’s throat burned. She had done no good at all. She had not saved one soul, nor brought one person closer to God, save perhaps Father Alers. And even though Claire had been delivered of the curse Annette had cast upon her, she wavered in softening her heart toward God. Now Rafe would be hanged, Annette would remain a slave, Claire would go back to Monsieur Dubois, and Thorn would have his revenge.

  The boat pitched over a wave then plunged down the other side. Seawater splashed over her, and she shook it off as tears filled her eyes. I have done nothing good, Lord. Nothing. In fact, I have done worse. She had stolen, lied, judged, broken a vow, faltered in her faith, and not only felt desire for Rafe but allowed him to kiss her. Some godly woman she was. How she had boasted back in Charles Towne of her righteous ways. How she had wagged her finger and flapped her tongue at others, so quick to point out their faults and failings and weaknesses.

  Yet when faced with the same temptations, she had failed. She had sinned. She was no better than anyone else. She had judged people by their actions alone when she had no idea the path their lives had taken, the struggles and heartaches they’d suffered.

  Nicole filled her thoughts. A trollop. A woman Grace would never have spoken to before. Yet she had been naught but kind to Grace. And Mr. Thorn, ever the presentation of propriety. Monsieur Henri, a godly man, a leader in his community—a man who spoke all the right words, who knew his scriptures. Both these men Grace would have gladly befriended a month ago. Yet inside, they were not godly men at all, but filled with hatred, jealousy, and revenge. And then there was Rafe. The ruffian, the rogue, but deep within, despite his cruel childhood, he possessed the heart of a saint.

  How quick she was to judge others when it was her own heart that needed scrutiny.

  Lowering her chin, she allowed her tears to fall. The boat canted over another wave, and she gripped the side, wishing they would capsize. She deserved nothing more than to drown beneath these foaming black waves.

  The sailors adjusted their oars against the raging swells that came faster and more furious as they approached shore. Salty water crashed over her. She shivered as the boat struck land with a jolt. Splinters jammed in her fingers, and her knee struck a thwart. Pain etched up her thigh.

  The sailors hopped out on either side. Waist deep in water, they dragged the bow of the boat onto the sand. Grace’s breath heaved. Terror stiffened every nerve, every fiber.

  Monsieur Dubois stepped onto the shore, fisted his hands at his waist and glanced about as if he were king. One of the crew untied the rope around Grace’s ankle and offered her his hand.

  Clutching her skirts, she splashed into the cool water. Her slippers sank into the sand as another wave crashed over the back of her legs, nearly toppling her. Grace froze as if the wave carried a serum of revelation. All through this harrowing journey, she had assumed that God had sent her to help someone else. She had assumed that once she had completed that task, she could go home. But now as she stood on the shores of Colombia, the jagged cliffs rising from the beach like ominous judges on a bench, the realization struck her just like the waves at her back. She hadn’t been sent to help anyone else see the light. She’d been sent so that she would see the light. The light of her judgmental, prudish ways. The light that revealed deep down she was no better than anyone else.

  “Come, come. Dépêchez-vous.” Henri held the lantern aloft and motioned for the men to bring her along.

  Each sailor grabbed one of her arms. They dragged her out of the water and up the beach.

  In the distance, beyond the rhythmic crash of waves, horses snorted and thre
e men emerged from the dark forest.

  “Captain Dubois.” One of them approached Henri. The high-crested Spanish morion atop his head glimmered in the lantern light.

  “Oui.” Henri assumed Rafe’s role with the ease of a man practiced at trickery.

  “Is this Admiral Westcott’s daughter?” the man said in a perfect Castilian accent.

  “Oui, bien sûr.” Henri laid a hand upon the hilt of his rapier. “As promised.”

  The other man approached Grace. He wore a suit of black taffeta with silver lace over which hung a corselet of black steel beautifully damascened with golden arabesques. A Spanish musket hung over his shoulder. He swept a contentious gaze over Grace and snorted before turning toward Monsieur Dubois.

  “Then let us be about our business.”

  ***

  Thorn leaned on the starboard railing and clasped his hands together. Beneath him, the sea lapped against the hull, pointing foam-laced fingers toward him—accusing fingers. In the past few days, instead of celebrating his victory with the crew, Thorn had sunk into a mire of despair, barely able to arise from his hammock each day. Wasn’t this what he wanted? What he had worked for, for so long?

  “Bonsoir,” Annette said as she slipped beside him.

  “Good evening.” Thorn could not look at her—had been avoiding her for two days, too afraid to discover that she hated him for what he had done.

  “Are you well?” She pointed toward the bloodstain on his right shoulder.

  Her concern sparked hope within him. “Yes. It is not deep.” Not as deep as Rafe could have made it if he had truly wanted to hurt Thorn. The thought chafed Thorn’s conscience.

  “Revenge is not so sweet, non?”

  Thorn met her gaze, those dark, clear eyes that spoke more of understanding than condemnation. “No, it is not.”

  “Not for me either.” She attempted a smile.

  “I wanted to kill him for what he did to my sister. Can you understand?”

  “Oui.” She laid a hand on his. He squeezed it and held it tightly within his own.

  “You do not fault me then?” he asked.