Raven Saint (12 page)

“Has my father visited you lately?” His tone edged with more anger than he wanted.

She gave him a sideways glance. “Do you wish to know or are you just expressing your disapproval?”

“Neither.” Rafe reached for the bottle of brandy. “Never mind.”

She clicked her tongue. “So much anger, Rafe. You are just like one of your cannons about to explode.”

“Yet you do not keep your distance, as wisdom would dictate.”

“You would never do me harm.” Nicole kissed his bruised eye then ran a finger over his stubbled jaw. “I can make it all feel better, Rafe.” Her voice grew heavy with the sultry invitation.

Rafe grimaced. “You know I cannot.” He gently nudged her from his lap, amazed her closeness evoked no reaction from him. In fact he had no appetite for any woman since he'd landed at port, much to the dismay of his usual flock of
jeunes femmes.

Nicole huffed and planted her hands upon her waist. Her comely face lined in disappointment. “I have not seen your father in months.”

“It matters not.” Rafe tipped the bottle to his lips and allowed the spicy liquor to slide down his throat. Leaning the flagon atop his thigh, he raised his gaze to hers. “It only matters that you have been with him at all.” A wounded look crossed her expression, and Rafe stood, set the bottle onto the table, took her hand in his, and kissed it. “I thank you for your care, mademoiselle.”

Nicole smiled so sweetly, it seemed to wipe the stain of her profession from her face. Then turning with a swash of skirts, she sashayed away to the next customer.

Rafe faced his men. “Gather the crew. We set sail tonight.”

“Mais
,
Capitaine,” Legard complained, pulling back from the woman nibbling on his neck.

“One more night?” Monsieur Atton pleaded.

“I said tonight!” Rafe barked, and the men jumped to their feet. Monsieur Legard's woman nearly fell to the floor.

Rafe could no longer remain in this port. His life would never return to normal again until he returned Mademoiselle Grace safely to her home. Then he could get back to his mercenary work without her convicting presence dangling over him like a hangman's noose over a criminal's neck.

A stream of light danced across Grace's eyelids and scattered into tiny diamonds. She stretched and savored the soft feel of a dry coverlet beneath her instead of cold, wet mud. Quiet, steady breathing filled the air, and the tiny warm body molding against Grace reminded her of the odd predicament in which she found herself.

On the bed of a trollop, snuggling beside the woman's illegitimate child.

Movement in the distance brought Grace to full attention. Slipping her arm from beneath Madeline, she rose on one elbow and glanced across the room, smoky in the dust-laden rays of the sun streaming through the window. In the far corner, with woolen shawl about her shoulders, lay Nicole, whose open eyes met Grace's.

She smiled. “How did you sleep?”

Grace blinked. “You slept on the floor? Why did you not come to bed?”

Nicole pushed herself to a sitting position and brushed the hair from her face. “I did not wish to disturb you. You and Madeline slept so soundly.”

“When did you come in?” Grace swung her legs over the edge of the bed.

“Late,” Nicole replied with a smile that seemed to carry a trace of shame. Then Grace lowered her gaze to Nicole's wrinkled gown, her disheveled coiffure, and the smeared paint on her face. A sudden embarrassment flooded Grace at the realization of what the woman had undoubtedly subjected herself to during the long night.

Grace clutched the top of her shirt and held it tight over her chest in fear that the condition might be contagious. She gazed down at the sleeping child, a beacon of innocence amidst this haven of debauchery. “Madeline is a lovely girl.”

Nicole's eyes moistened, and she crawled over to sit beside the bed, gazing at her child. “She is my life.” She took the sleeping girl's hand in hers, and from the look in her eyes, Grace knew she meant it.

Grace bit her lip, wanting to ask the woman why she subjected her daughter to this sordid existence, but feared to insult someone who'd been naught but kind to her.

Lifting her gaze to Grace, Nicole brushed a curl of her golden hair aside, and sighed, her blue eyes stinging with pain. “You look at me with such reproach.”

Grace looked down, regretting that she wore her opinions so blatantly on her face. Or so her sisters had told her. “Forgive me. I mean no offense.”

Rising, Nicole trudged to her vanity and sat down. “You forget, I am accustomed to the looks of disdain I receive from proper ladies. And even some men.” She grabbed a cloth, dipped it in a basin of water, and attempted to wipe the paint from her cheeks. But after a few seconds, she faced Grace again, a grin forming on her lips. “But I didn't expect it from”—she chuckled—“a woman who dresses like a man and steals mangos.”

Grace smiled at the ease with which this woman cast offense aside. Her sweet spirit transformed their conversation from one of strain to one of enjoyment as if they'd been friends for years. Which gave Grace the encouragement to ask the question that had burned on her tongue ever since she'd met Nicole. “Why do you ... why do you—?”

“Sell myself for money?” Nicole raised her brows. “For her.” She gestured toward the still-sleeping child. “To feed her. Keep her warm and off the street.” She tugged the lace bounding from her bodice in an attempt to straighten it. “Otherwise we would both be wandering the alleys as you were yesterday and would probably die, hungry and alone.”

“Surely there is another way.” Grace thought of her sister Faith who had resorted to pirating to garner much-needed wealth. A shudder ran through her, and she thanked God that situation had turned out well in the end.

“What would you suggest?” Nicole snickered as she faced the mirror again.

“A trade of some sort, perhaps?”

“A woman in business on her own? Here in Port-de-Paix?” Her laughter bubbled through the room, and she waved away the thought. “Besides, I have no skills.”

Grace clutched the chain around her neck. What did a woman do if she had no family, no husband, no money? In Charles Towne, some women had been permitted to run millinery shops as long as they were widowed or deeded the right to do so by their husbands. But apparently here in Saint Dominique that was not the case. “How did you come to this town? Where is your family?”

Nicole set down the cloth, shook her head at her appearance in the mirror, then swerved in her chair to face Grace. “I grew up an orphan on the streets of Creteil. At seventeen, I was rounded up by King Louis XIV 's men and sent here to be a wife to one of the local planters.” Her nonchalance gave no indication of the horror she must have endured. She chuckled. “ ‘Daughters of the King,' they called us. Simply a polite way to say
prostituées.”

Grace's heart sank. How atrocious. How could any woman have endured such a thing? She glanced at Madeline, and Nicole seemed to read her silent question.

“I was ravished by one of the sailors on the crossing, and when I arrived with my belly full of a child, no one wanted me for a wife.” Nicole pressed a hand over her stomach as if remembering the incident; then she released a heavy sigh.

A sour taste filled Grace's mouth. “I am sorry.”

“C'est la vie.”
Nicole shrugged. “That sailor left me with two precious things: the ability to speak English and ma Madeline chérie. Besides, we have done well. Madeline lacks for nothing. And”—Nicole's blue eyes sparkled with hope—“I am saving money so that she and I can escape this place and sail for the British colonies in America. I hear they accept everyone, and there are opportunities for women that are not found here.”

“'Tis true. There are some.” Swiping away a tear, Grace fingered the little girl's curls as shame sank into her chest. Grace had judged this woman—had spent a lifetime judging all women like her. And she'd never once considered the path that led them to such a life. She'd never considered the situations forced upon them by the world and its kings and its men, and the difficult choices they had to make. And as she stared at the little girl, she wondered for the first time if she wouldn't have chosen to do exactly the same thing Nicole had done. Anything to protect and provide for this precious child sleeping so peacefully. “Forgive me, Nicole, I have judged you unfairly.”

Nicole tilted her head and smiled. “I may be a trollop, but you are a thief, remember?” She laughed and Grace joined her.

“Indeed.”

When their laughter died down, Grace studied her new friend. This woman did what she had to in order to survive. Just as Grace had done when she had stolen the mango. It didn't make either action right. They were both sins. But for some reason, understanding the cause removed the guilt just a bit.

“I will go get us some breakfast.” Nicole rose and patted down her wrinkled skirts. She opened the door then swung her gaze back to Grace. “And then you shall tell me all about how you came to Port-de-Paix and why a lady like yourself was running around town half starved and dressed like a boy.” She gave Grace a look that said she wouldn't take no for an answer. “And I have a feeling it will be quite an interesting tale.” She winked then stepped into the hallway and closed the door.

Interesting, indeed.
Grace took a deep breath of the room's stale air as shouts and bells and the sound of horses' hooves drifted in through the open window. The port awoke to another day. Only this day, Grace would have a belly full of food and the strength of a good night's sleep.

Thank You, Lord.

Laying a hand upon Madeline's head, Grace said a prayer for the girl's life, her safety, her future, hoping that if God answered any of Grace's recent prayers, it would be this one.

Minutes later, as promised, Nicole returned bearing buttery biscuits and jam, along with hot steaming coffee and plantains. Grace's stomach leapt at the rich savory scents, and when Madeline awoke, the three of them gobbled up the food as if they were old friends sitting around a breakfast table.

Afterward, while Nicole brushed Madeline's hair, Grace stood over the washbowl and attempted to wipe the mud from her face and arms as she regaled them with the story of her capture, and her time aboard
Le Champion.

“Did you say Capitaine Rafe Dubois?” Nicole's voice rose in surprise.

“Yes. Do you know him?”

Nicole laughed and nodded. “He was here in the tavern last night. Got into one of his scraps with Monsieur Gihon.”

Grace halted her toilet and faced her, her blood racing. “You didn't tell him I was here?”

“I didn't know who you were.” Nicole scrunched her nose as she battled a particularly stubborn knot in Madeline's hair.

“Aïe, Maman.”
Madeline cried, her face twisted in a pout.

“Je suis désolée,
ma chérie.” Nicole kissed her daughter on the cheek and continued brushing. “I am almost done.” She glanced at Grace. “And now that I know what he has done, I most certainly will keep your secret.”

Grace released a sigh.

“I cannot believe Rafe, I mean Capitaine Dubois, would lower himself to commit such a vile task such as kidnapping an innocent lady. So unlike him.”

Grace winced at Nicole's use of the captain's Christian name. No doubt they had done business together. Pushing the thought aside as well as the odd feeling of discomfort it caused, she set down the cloth and rolled down her sleeves. “On the contrary, I have spent enough time with him to know he is quite capable.”

Nicole stared at her curiously, and Grace continued the story of how one of the crew brought her ashore, and then how all her money was stolen, and how she wandered around town until she was so hungry and desperate that she stole the mango. In a way, hearing the desperation in her own voice as she told the sordid tale aloud assuaged her guilt over the thievery. Almost.

“You poor thing.” Nicole let Madeline slip from her lap. The girl grabbed her doll off the bed and approached Grace. “Do you like my doll? Her name is Joli.”

Grace bent over and tapped the doll on the head. “Yes, I do very much. She is quite beautiful. Just like you.”

Madeline beamed, then she jumped on the bed and began playing.

“What will you do now?” Nicole asked. “You could work here. I do detect a remarkable beauty beneath all that dirt.”

Grace's face heated. “Mercy me. No. I could never do—” She caught herself and realized the haughty disdain in her voice had cast a sullen cloud over Nicole's expression. “Forgive me. Again I have offended you. But I have no child to provide for as you do.”

Nicole attempted a smile and rose from her chair as someone below began pounding out a tune on the harpsichord.

“You have been so kind to feed me.” Grace closed the gap between them and took Nicole's hands in hers. “You are an answer to prayer.”

“I don't believe I've ever been anyone's answer to prayer.” With the paint removed, Nicole's beauty beamed from her face, and Grace could almost see the innocent little girl she once was peering from behind her blue eyes.

“Well, now you have.” Grace squeezed her hands. “And I shall pray for you. That God will deliver you from this life and grant you the money you need to sail to the colonies.”

“I fear God will not listen to the prayers of a prostitute.” Nicole released Grace's hands and strode to the window.

“I used to believe that, too,” Grace said. “But I'm not so sure anymore.”

Nicole flipped up the hem of her skirt and snapped open a hidden pocket. Pulling some coins from within it, she offered three to Grace. “Please take these. It won't buy you passage home, but it is a start.”

Tears burned behind Grace's eyes and she turned around.

“What is the matter?” Nicole's skirts swished toward her.

“Your generosity overwhelms me.” Grace swallowed. This woman, this trollop, had shown her more kindness and mercy than all of the so-called Christian ladies back in Charles Towne. She turned around to see Nicole still handing her the money, a questioning look on her face.

Grace pushed her hands away. “I could never accept that.” She wiped a tear sliding down her cheek. “You need that for Madeline.”

Nicole flattened her lips in disappointment and studied Grace for a moment before her eyes flashed. “I know what to do.”

Grace shook her head.

“I know someone who will gladly help you.”

At Grace's inquisitive look, Nicole continued, “A man, a prominent man here in Port-de-Paix.”

“I told you I cannot—”

“Non, you misunderstand. A respectable, godly man.” Nicole smiled and tapped a finger on her chin. “And someone who would love nothing more than to assist a victim of Captain Rafe Dubois.”