Raven Saint (11 page)

Her eyes darted up and down the street as she went, seeking a hiding place. Heart pounding, she leapt up a span of stairs, barreled through an open door, and dashed across a dim room before she realized she'd entered a tavern. The stench of rum and moist wood assailed her as she sped past a group of men, tripped over a chair, and landed face-first in a sticky puddle on the floor. As if in final salute to her stupidity, her hat tumbled off and landed beside her head, spilling her matted hair into the slop.

“Où est le garçon?”
A booming voice shouted behind her.

Grace's head began to spin. The putrid smell of whatever she'd fallen into saturated her hair and shirt, and she coughed, unable to rise, unable to even consider what the punishment was for thievery in this horrifying town.

Gentle hands gripped her arm and dragged her to her feet then wiped Grace's hair from her face. A lady with eyes the color of the sky and hair as light as honey stared at her with concern. Then gasping, she threw a hand to her mouth and bent over to retrieve Grace's hat from the floor. She shoved it atop Grace's head and tugged it down around her eyes and cheeks. “Keep your face hidden,” she whispered. Boot steps thundered their way, and the lady whirled around to face the oncoming men, nudging Grace behind her.

“What's all this fuss over one young lad, gentlemen?” She placed her hands upon her hips.

“Step aside, Nicole. The boy stole a mango,” the taller of the two men growled.

“A mango, is it? Sacre bleu, what a beastly crime.” Sweet sarcasm chimed in her voice. “Why, most of the men in here have stolen far more than that, and you know it.” She opened her palm behind her back, and Grace plucked the mango from within her shirt and gave it to her. All the while lifting a prayer of thanks heavenward for this unexpected protector.

The woman thrust the mango toward the men. “Here, take it and leave the poor lad alone.” She sashayed toward the obvious leader, a man who looked more like a pirate than a magistrate. “Surely you have more important villains to catch, Pierre.” She kissed him on the cheek, and a hint of a smile broke on his lips before he grunted and took a step back.

“Très bien.
I suppose no harm was done,” he muttered. “But only for you, Nicole.” He winked at the lady, sent a harsh glare toward Grace, then turned and stomped out, the other man following him close behind.

As soon as the men left, the tense silence that had descended upon the place dissipated, and the patrons returned to their drink and cards with groans of disappointment. No doubt a hanging would have provided a pleasant diversion. Thankful she'd not become the afternoon's amusement, Grace took a deep breath as her heart settled to a steady beat.

The lady swerved around. Mounds of creamy skin burst from within a low-cut bodice that was far too tight for her voluptuous figure. Gaudy beads jangled from her ears and hung around her neck, but beneath the paint adorning her face beamed a caring smile. Taking Grace by the arm, she led her toward a stairway at the back of the tavern.

Tugging from her grasp, Grace halted, worried she'd escaped one danger only to find herself in another. “Where are we going?”

“Shhh ... someplace safe.” Lifting her skirts, she escorted Grace up a narrow set of creaking stairs, down a hall, and into a room not much bigger than Grace's cabin aboard
Le Champion.

“I thank you for saving me from those men, mademoiselle.” Grace shook the terror from her arms and neck where it stubbornly clung as if portending new dangers within this room. “But I ... but I cannot impose upon your kindness, Miss, Miss—”

“Nicole. You may call me Nicole.” She closed the door and bid Grace sit upon the bed at the room's center. “You are not imposing.”

Though kindness sparked in the woman's gaze, Grace had learned these past four days to trust no one. Especially not someone with questionable morals. “I offer you my thanks, for I can offer you no more than that, but I shall take my leave now, if you please.”

“Sit down, and I will bring you something to eat,” Nicole commanded in a maternal tone, although from the looks of her she could not be much older than Grace.

Although Grace knew she should remove herself from this woman's presence as soon as possible, her stomach leapt at the mention of food, keeping her feet in place.

Approaching her, Nicole placed a finger beneath Grace's chin and lifted her face to examine it. “How long did you think this charade would last? You are très belle to be a boy.”

Grace sighed and removed her hat, freeing her hair from its stale, matted confinement. The raven locks matted with dirt and slime fell to her shoulders like a rock, and she took a step back. “It has kept me unscathed until now.”

Nicole ran a glance over her and chuckled, and Grace looked down at her torn, muddy breeches, her soiled, damp coat, and dirt-smudged hands and face.

“Unscathed? Perhaps. But you could use a bath.” Nicole sniffed and raised the back of her hand to her nose. “What happened to you?”

Grace knew it was true, but the insult jarred her nonetheless. “I've been on the streets for four days,” she said. “And how do you come to speak English so well?” Though the woman's French accent was strong, her words told of an education that defied her profession.

“I spent a few years in the acquaintance of a British sailor.” She looked away for a moment, her expression drawn. But when she snapped her gaze back to Grace, her face pinked. Only for a second. “What is your name?”

“Grace Westcott.”

“From where do you come,
ma chérie?”
Nicole batted the air. “Oh, never mind. Let me go get you some food.” She swept a gaze through the room. “Madeline
, viens ici.”

A shuffling sounded in the corner behind the dressing screen and out crept a little girl, no more than seven, with long, curly blond hair like Nicole's and large brown eyes. Grace smiled at such innocence amidst such wickedness, and the girl beamed at her in return.

“Keep our guest company until I return with your dinner,” Nicole said.

Madeline nodded and trustingly took hold of Grace's hand while Nicole swept out the door, leaving Grace in a state of confusion, not only at the presence of the girl but at the ease with which Nicole entrusted her to Grace.

“Why are you dressed like a boy?” Madeline eyed Grace's clothing and wrinkled her nose.

“Because I don't want anyone to know I'm a girl.” The shock at seeing such a small child in a tavern subsided, immediately replaced by fear for the little girl's safety.

“I like being a girl.” Madeline plopped onto the bed.

“I usually do, too.” Grace sat down beside her.

Grace glanced across the tiny room, which contained only the bed she sat upon, a wooden engraved chest, a dressing screen, and a small vanity upon which sat a bottle of perfume, a mirror, comb, hair pins, and jars of what Grace assumed to be face paint. A tiny open window—too high to peer out of—allowed a faint breeze to enter the room, not enough to cool the sultry air or to sweep away the putrid smells drifting in.

Madeline swung her legs back and forth over the side of the bed and began humming a tune, still holding onto Grace. Grace squeezed the girl's hand. She knew she should probably leave, should not remain in this woman's room, should not even be in this tavern, but the temptation of a meal was too much for her to resist.

Perhaps God had sent her here to help this little girl. “Is Miss Nicole your mother?”

The little girl nodded.

“And you live here? In this room?”

Releasing Grace's hand, Madeline lifted the coverlet on the bed and pulled out a straw doll. She held it to her chest. “Oui.”

Grace cringed. “Do you stay here all alone?”

“Only when Mama works.” Madeline's brown eyes lit up. “But when she does not work, she takes me outside to play, and to the market, and sometimes we walk along the shore.”

Grace eased a wayward curl behind Madeline's ear as she remembered her own childhood and the many hours she had spent without her father and mother. But of course, there had always been a governess or a servant or her sisters around to look after her.

Nicole soon returned with two plates of fried fish, baked sugared plantains, and corn. After handing them to Grace and her daughter, she sat at her vanity for a moment to squeeze color onto her cheeks, pin up a loose strand of her hair, and dab perfume on her neck.

Then kneeling beside her daughter, she kissed her on the forehead. “Mother won't return until late. Be a good girl and keep Mademoiselle Grace company and go to sleep when you get tired.”

“I will, Mama.” The sweet obedience nipped at Grace's heart.

Nicole rose and gestured toward the bed. “You may stay here tonight if you wish.”

Grace hadn't the strength to decline the invitation. “Thank you ...
merci.
You've been so kind.”

Nicole smiled then turned and flounced out the door.

Grace took to her meal with such desperation and lack of propriety, she nearly laughed at herself. Never had food tasted so good. Finishing her plate, she longed to lick it but resisted the urge, lest she appear rude.

Madeline also made good work of her dinner and afterward, Grace, stomach bursting, lay back on the bed and closed her eyes, unable to hold them open another minute. Sometime later, she jolted when Madeline crawled into bed and snuggled against her. Wrapping an arm around the little girl, Grace drew her close and faded back to sleep to a discordant French ballad meandering over them from below.

Sometime in the middle of the night, a lurid thought seeped into Grace's mind, jarring her consciousness. A picture of a ripe yellow mango danced through her mind. Lifting her hand to her throat, she gasped as tears of shame burned behind her eyes.

I am a thief.

Rafe leaned back in the wooden chair and inhaled a deep breath, trying to still the spinning in his head. He immediately regretted doing so as a vile brew of malodorous fumes stung his nose and throat. Flanked at the table by Monsieur Atton and Monsieur Legard, Rafe cast his dizzy gaze around the tavern as curses, threats, and ribald laughter blended in a devil's chant that further goaded his ill humor. The throng of humanity twisted in odd shapes before him, even as it seemed to retreat to the long end of a tunnel.

Monsieur Legard grabbed a passing woman and pulled her onto his lap. Disgusted by the display and confused by his disgust—since he'd done the same thing a hundred times—Rafe grimaced and looked away.

He'd been in Port-de-Paix four days now, but it had not provided the diversion he hoped it would. Even Abbé Villion's deep appreciation for what he was doing for the hospital and the praises the people continually cast his way as Rafe strode through town had not provided him with the satisfaction and pleasure they normally did. Even spending every night in his favorite taverns, enjoying his brandy and an occasional game of faro, had not lifted the burden weighing upon his humors. En fait, his mood had grown fouler, and he found himself snapping at his men for no reason.

Mais, he knew the reason. The same reason that kept barging unbidden into his mind—and his heart. The lovely Mademoiselle Grace Westcott. The captive aboard his ship. Yet why did it seem as though he were the one being held captive? For no sooner did he begin to enjoy himself than a vision of those convicting green eyes appeared before him and stole all his pleasure like a schoolmaster with a ruler.

He poured himself a sip of brandy and tossed it to the back of his throat then drew a puff of his cheroot, allowing the spicy smoke to fill his lungs. He had no choice. He would return Mademoiselle Grace to her home. Admiral's daughter or not, he could not sacrifice such an innocent, kindhearted, brave lady to the wolves, or the lion, as she had put it. He smiled as he remembered how her bottom lip quivered when she was nervous and the way her raven hair made her skin look like porcelain.

But lives will be lost.

Rafe winced. He must find another way to procure the fortune he needed. He could not let Abbé Villion down. He could not allow more people to die when it was within his power to prevent it. Sacre mer, why couldn't the woman have been a shrew?

“What's wrong, Capitaine? You look as though someone died.” Monsieur Atton leaned toward him, his wiry, spiky hair reminding Rafe of a sea urchin.

Rafe snorted. He felt as though someone had died—or something—some part of him that had the courage to do the sensible thing even if it meant doing the wrong thing.

The blurry shape of a man sauntering up to their table drew Rafe's gaze, and he ground his teeth together, hoping the haze of brandy deceived him. Unfortunately it hadn't.

Monsieur Gihon halted before the table like a king before his subjects. One hand pressed firmly upon the pommel of his rapier, he fingered his pointed, brown beard and shifted eyes as cold as steel onto Rafe.

“If it isn't Monsieur Dubois, the paladin of the poor. Come to receive the praises of your admirers?” He waved his hand through the air, the lace adorning his sleeve flapping in equal alacrity with his lips.

Monsieur Legard's wench abandoned his lap and melted into the crowd that settled into an unusual hush. Like pigs to slop, they no doubt smelled an altercation as their hungry eyes darted toward the men.

Rafe poured himself another drink, raised his glass in mock salute, then gulped the burning liquid. “Monsieur Gihon.” The man had been a nuisance since Rafe's childhood. The bully who because of his unusually large size and position in society had hounded the other children. But he'd never been able to bring Rafe into subjection, for even before Rafe grew to his present size, he'd used his wits to defeat the half-masted brute.

Monsieur Gihon flung curled strands of his periwig over his shoulder. “Perhaps you should appoint yourself governor, or better yet, king, and set up a throne where you can receive a continual stream of your adoring masses.”

“Thank you for the suggestion, monsieur. I may do that.” Rafe grinned and took a puff of his cheroot.

Laughter rumbled across the mob.

Rafe leaned back in his chair. “What do you want?”

“You know, monsieur.”

Messieurs Legard and Atton pushed their chairs back and stood, the smirks upon their lips evidence of their confidence in their capitaine. They backed away from the table to join the growing throng of bodies that undulated like waves upon the sea.

Frustration boiled within Rafe. He squeezed the bridge of his nose, trying to clear his head. “How many times must you come for retribution only to depart in humiliation?”

“I will have my revenge, monsieur.” The ogre of a man narrowed his slit-like eyes upon Rafe.

“All you will have is a headache in the morning from your overindulgence in drink and a wound in your arm where my rapier will make its signature.” Rafe batted him away. “Now, go and leave me be.”

A fly landed on the rim of Rafe's glass and he swatted it, wishing he could rid himself of this man as easily. It was then that he noticed from whence the fly had come as the insect buzzed to join his companions in a swarm about Monsieur Gihon's wig.

Quelling a chuckle, Rafe downed his drink, resigned himself to trouncing this boor yet again, and studied his opponent: the way his beefy fingers twitched upon his sword's pommel, the apprehension flickering across his glassy eyes, the swagger of his massive frame caused by either an excess of alcohol or his overinflated pride.

Rafe yawned, patting his hand over his mouth, confident in the knowledge that his display of boredom would spark his longtime nemesis's capricious temper. As expected, Monsieur Gihon drew his rapier in one sweep and leveled its tip upon Rafe's gray waistcoat.

Cheers and howls surrounded them like a pack of hungry wolves while his own men stood to the side wearing expressions of abject tedium as if watching a play to which they knew the ending.

Rafe lowered his chin to examine the sharp point denting his fine cambric. “Tear this waistcoat and you shall pay, monsieur.”

“It is you who shall pay. For ruining Mademoiselle Rachelle.” The man's nostrils flared like those of a horse that had been run too hard.

“Mademoiselle Rachelle.” Rafe scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Do remind me. Who is she again?”

The raucous mob brayed in laughter.

“The woman I was to marry, you scoundrel!” Monsieur Gihon's rapier point pressed deeper into Rafe's waistcoat.

“Ah, oui, I do recall her now.” Rafe nodded and gazed off in pretense of remembering the lady. “Hair the color of mahogany and skin the color of fresh cream.” He snapped his gaze back to Monsieur Gihon, whose face resembled an inflated pig skin. “Mais I also recall the betrothal of which you speak was only in your mind. The lady denied even knowing you.”

Chortles sped through the rabble, and several women pushed their way through the crowd toward the front to watch the impending battle.

Monsieur Gihon's jaw expanded until Rafe thought it would explode. Something besides fury appeared in the man's eyes that set Rafe aback. Pain, real pain and sorrow. And the glimpse he caught of it sobered him instantly. The insolence that had taken over Rafe at the man's presence faded beneath a rising burst of sympathy. For Rafe understood well the agony of losing someone he loved.

He puffed upon his cheroot. “She came to me willingly, monsieur. How was I to know the depth of your interest in her?” When he had discovered Gihon's affections for the lady, Rafe had truly felt bad about the incident. He was not a man to meddle with another man's woman, not even Gihon's. “I offered you my sincerest apology at the time, non? And if I remember correctly, I returned her to you, mon ami.”

“Soiled.” Gihon spat and then slid his hand within the flap of his coat. “And I take no man's castoffs.”

Rafe let out a ragged sigh. “Oui, neither do I.” A pinch of pain stabbed his heart as a memory resurged from long ago—a memory of a lady he had hoped to marry who had been stolen by another. Shrugging it off, he faced his adversary, searching for the anger he knew he would need for a fight. “But can I help it if the ladies find me
irrésistible?”

At this remark, one of the women batted her lashes and cooed at him, igniting more laughter from the mob.

“Will they find you so with my rapier through your heart?” Monsieur Gihon seethed.

Rafe cocked his head. “Even then I believe they would prefer me over you.”

The man's hand trembled with rage. His face grew a deep shade of purple and he began sputtering nonsense. The tip of his rapier tore through Rafe's waistcoat, and Rafe heaved a sigh. He had no desire to fight Gihon. There was nothing to be done about the past—for either of them. But to back down in front of this crowd would be a death sentence. “Now you have angered me, monsieur.” He stamped out his cheroot upon the wooden table.

A hush consumed the crowd.

Rafe inched his boot to the leg centering the table and gave Monsieur Gihon his most sardonic, confident stare—the one that had melted many men's resolve—hoping he would forsake this foolish squabble. Beads of sweat sprang upon the man's forehead, and he lunged at Rafe.

Rafe kicked the leg. The table slammed into Gihon. He stumbled backward, dropped his rapier, waved his arms through the air, then tumbled into the crowd. They caught him and threw him back toward Rafe. Booting the table aside, Rafe stormed toward the man, shaking the spin of brandy from his head and allowing all of his frustration and anger of the past weeks to flood into his clenched fists.

Monsieur Gihon recovered, eyed his rapier on the floor, and slid his hand into his waistcoat, no doubt in search of a pistol.

Rafe slammed his fist across the giant man's jaw, sending him reeling to the left. He didn't want to hurt him, just make him stop his foolish quest for revenge.

Turning, Rafe bent over to retrieve the man's blade. A punch to his back forced him to the floor. Burning pain seared across his shoulders. He gasped for breath.

“Get up, Monsieur Dubois,” one man shouted.

“Can't let 'im beat ye,” another chimed in.

“Rafe, Rafe.” Female voices chanted his name.

Rising, Rafe whipped around to see a hairy fist fill his vision and flatten against his eye. He bolted backward. His anger boiled and his eye began to throb. The man's skill at fighting had improved.

While Monsieur Gihon lifted his arms to encourage the cheers of the crowd, Rafe charged toward him, barreling into his waist. Together they plunged into the agitated mob. The stench of sweat showered over Rafe as hurrahs filled his ears.

Grabbing the man's coat with both hands, Rafe lifted him off the floor then slammed him down. Before Gihon could recover, Rafe leveled a punch into his stomach followed by another across his jaw, snapping the man's head to the side and sending his periwig flying through the air. The giant toppled over like a felled tree and landed in a heap on the crusty floor. His moan echoed throughout the tavern.

Rafe plucked Gihon's rapier from the floor and tossed it at the man. It landed beside him with a
clank.

The mob roared their approval, fists in the air, but Rafe felt no relief from the burden weighing upon him. He waved away the crowd, righted his chair, and dropped into it as his men picked up the table and snapped their fingers for more drink.

“Bravo, Capitaine!” Monsieur Atton slapped Rafe on the back. “Though ye had me scared for a moment.”

Monsieur Legard took his seat and the trollop who had occupied his lap last slid back into place as if nothing had happened.
“Moi non.
I never seen the capitaine lose a fight.”

Rafe touched the swollen tissue around his right eye. “He's a clod. I merely toyed with him.”

A blond woman emerged from the throng and headed his way, carrying a bottle of brandy and a cloth. The brandy she set upon the table, the cloth she dabbed upon his eye. He brushed her hand aside. “Nicole. What are you doing here? I thought you worked at
Le Cochon Doux.”

“I missed you, too, Rafe.” Perching on his lap, she continued her ministrations. “Quit behaving the imp and allow me to attend to you.”

Though Rafe hated being coddled, he didn't mind the close view of her curvaceous figure nor the sweet smell of her lilac perfume that helped to drown the reek of the men beside him. “I heard you saved a boy today from the noose.”

She flattened her lips. “He stole a mango. Poor thing was starving to death.” She dipped some brandy onto the cloth, then continued dabbing around his eye.

Rafe winced as the alcohol stung his wound. “Quit wasting good brandy.” He pushed her hand away. “You are a good woman to help the lad.”

She dropped her hand into her lap. “Can I tell you a secret?” Before he could answer, she leaned toward his ear, her honey curls tickling his cheek. “The lad turned out to be a lady.”

“Vraiment?” Rafe's brows shot up. Pain etched across his forehead.

Nicole put a finger to her lips. “You mustn't tell anyone.”

“Dressed as a boy?”

“Oui, and she had not eaten for days, by the looks of her. I have her upstairs in my room now.”

As long as Rafe had known Nicole, she was always taking in strays. Once, she'd even forfeited some of her earnings to help Rafe feed a hungry family. “You amaze me, Nicole. Are you sure you are not an angel in disguise?”

Her blue eyes the color of the sky glistened beneath his praise, and he thought he detected a slight blush coloring her cheeks. She giggled. “Sacre bleu. An angel? Far from it, I am afraid.” Despite her profession, Rafe had once considered pursuing something permanent between them. If not for one tiny obstacle.