Raven Saint (15 page)

The sincerity in his eyes sent a jolt through Grace, and she turned her back to him, not wanting to see this side of him, not wanting to believe the words he spoke. “You know nothing of me.”

She heard his boots thud over the carpet toward her. “I know you are kind, generous, and courageous, that you stand true to your convictions, that you forgive those who insult you, that—”

“Stop.” She held up a hand, unable to listen to the praises that slithered like lies around her ears. Was she any of those things? How could she claim such piety when she'd done naught but doubt God's love for her?

He placed his hand on her shoulder, and she spun around and stared into his dark eyes, longing to know what had caused this villain to drop his guard, to lower his devil-may-care facade. Yet all the while chastising herself for being enamored by what she saw behind them.

Rafe's hungry gaze swept over her, and Grace splayed her fingers over the bare skin beneath her neck. The maid had given her Madame Dubois's most modest gown, but still she felt exposed within its silken folds—especially when the captain's smoky eyes took her in so ardently.

As if sensing her discomfort, he took a step back. “My father has no intention of returning you to Charles Towne, mademoiselle.”

“Mercy me. You expect me to take the word of a rake, a scoundrel, over that of an obvious gentleman, a man of rank and wealth.”

His jaw stiffened and his right brow began to twitch. The glass wall dropped over his gaze again. Perhaps nothing had changed at all. Yet when she thought of his charitable acts in town, a spark of hope ignited. “There is good within you, Captain Dubois, I know it.” Grace smiled and took another step toward him. “Your father is a Christian man. If you but follow God as he does, you can have joy and peace in your life again.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes and turned away. “You do not know what you are saying.”

“I know he is kind and lives an honest, respectable life, and has the blessings of God that come with it.”

The captain snapped stormy eyes her way. “How do you know that? When you have just met him?”

“I am a good discerner of people.” Grace raised her chin.

Rafe snorted. “Do you know what I think, mademoiselle? I think you know nothing of people, except for the religious imposters who, in the name of God, flap their tongues in judgment on everyone around them, but cannot see the darkness of their own souls.”

Grace's cheeks flamed. “I know that you are a French rogue.”

“And you are a prude pieuse,” he spat.

“What did you call me?”

“It means pious prude.”

“I know what it means.” Grace's eyes burned, and she hated herself for it.

The captain released a sigh. “You will come with me now.” He closed the distance between them and grabbed her arm. Pain burned across her shoulder.

She whimpered. His face softened.

“Please, mademoiselle.” He loosened his grip. “I do not wish to hurt you.”

A knock on the door startled Grace. “Mademoiselle
, le diner est prêt.”

“I must go.” Grace tugged on her arm, but he did not release it, nor did he release the lock his eyes had upon hers. A strand of black hair grazed over his stiff, stubbled jaw. His dark eyes perused her face, drifting over her cheeks, lingering at her mouth, then meeting her gaze with such intensity it stunned her. Lowering her lashes, Grace watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath his coat and felt his hot breath on her skin even as her own breath took on a rapid pace. The scent of tobacco and leather swirled around her. Blood rushed to her head.

Tap tap tap.
“Mademoiselle?”

Grace shook her head, trying to break free from the spell he had cast upon her. She jerked from his grasp. Throwing a hand to her chest, she looked away, her cheeks flaming. Had he noticed her reaction to him?
Oh Lord, forgive me. I do not know what is wrong with me.

“Une minute,
s'il vous plaît.” Her voice emerged breathless.

He leaned toward her ear. “Your French improves, mademoiselle.” He gave her a grin of defeat before retreating into the darkness behind the door.

A cold breeze swept over Grace as the shadows took him from her view.

“Mademoiselle?” The maid's voice rose in concern.

“Oui.” Grace grabbed the door latch and turned to peer into the gloom behind the door, but she no longer saw his dark shape. He had left.

Thunder roared outside her window, echoing the silent roar inside her heart at the thought she might never see him again.

Grace entered the dining hall, her shoes clicking on the Spanish tile. Oil paintings of ships at sea and the French countryside, along with wood-framed, hand-beveled mirrors, decorated the walls. A white marble fireplace spanned the wall to her right. The heat emanating from its smoldering red embers swirled around Grace even from across the room. Two candlelit chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, setting the long dining table aglitter in silver and gold. Swirls of steam rose from platters, spreading their aromas throughout the room. Grace's stomach leapt at the savory scents of cheese, fish, coriander, and cayenne.

In the center of the room Monsieur Dubois and a lady in a blue camlet gown conversed with none other than Mr. Thorn.

“Ah, Mademoiselle Grace.” Monsieur Dubois broke away from the first mate and approached Grace, leading the lady on his arm. “May I introduce you to my wife, Madame Claire Dubois.” Not much older than Grace, the petite woman with hair the color of candlelight and stark blue eyes dipped her head then rose to display a smile on her lips so tight, Grace feared it might crack her porcelain skin.

“A pleasure, mademoiselle.” Her voice sang like the soft music of a harp.

“Thank you for having me in your home, Madame Dubois,” Grace said. “Your husband has been most generous.”

“That is Henri's way.” Insincerity rang in her laughter, but Monsieur Dubois seemed to take no note of it. Behind them, Mr. Thorn nodded a greeting in Grace's direction.

“And you know Monsieur Thorn, I believe.” Monsieur Dubois gestured toward the first mate, who looked quite dapper in his damask waistcoat.

“Yes.” Relief swept over Grace at the sight of a friend. After her unsettling encounter with the captain in her chamber, coupled with her own forebodings of her future course, her nerves had snarled into tight knots. But surely, the presence of an honorable man such as Mr. Thorn spoke of Monsieur Dubois's sincerity to help her. Though she longed to cross the room and relay to the first mate all the escapades of the past five days and to thank him again for risking the captain's wrath to help her, propriety demanded she merely smile instead.

Madame Dubois stiffened, and Grace heard boots thumping on the floor behind her. She recognized the reaction in the lady, and knew Captain Dubois had entered the room.

“Bonsoir.”
His voice, heavy with confidence, eased over Grace. “Père.” A pause and then “Claire” spewed from his lips like venom.

Grace flinched at the curt tone he took with his stepmother, but the woman made no reply. Rafe slipped beside Grace and gave her a coy look as if they shared a secret. Her heart skipped a beat, and she clenched her fists, wondering why she felt relieved that he had not returned to his ship.
Why am I reacting like a common hussy, Lord? Please forgive me.

Madame Dubois raised her thick lashes and gazed up at the captain as if he were a priceless statue. “Rafe.” His Christian name floated from her pink lips, but the captain offered only a curt nod. He turned to acknowledge Mr. Thorn instead. Madame Dubois lowered her chin, and Grace thought she saw her shoulders quiver.

The hair on Grace's arms bristled at the odd relationship between stepmother and son as the tension stretched like a taut line between them.

“What happened to your face?” Monsieur Dubois pointed toward the purple, puffy skin circling the captain's right eye.

“It had an encounter with a man's fist, if you must know.”

Monsieur Dubois snorted. “Brawling amongst the ignorant rabble again, Rafe? I thought you would have outgrown such childish behavior by now.”

“What do you have to drink, Père?” Captain Dubois headed toward a teakwood
vaisselier
laden with bottles of all sizes and shapes.

“Same old Rafe, I see,” his father mumbled.

“And you expected me to change?” The captain snorted and halted before the vaisselier. “Have
you
changed, Père?” His sarcastic tone lit the air like a fuse between them.

Monsieur Dubois frowned. “Your brandy is in its usual spot. But let us put aside our differences for one night, shall we? We have guests.” The captain smirked and poured himself a drink, and Grace felt like scolding him for being so flippant to his father when the man made every attempt to be kind.

“Shall we sit?” Monsieur Dubois led his wife to her place beside his at the head of the table.

The captain returned, a glass of brandy in his hand, and sank into a chair across from Grace but deliberately leaving an empty chair between himself and his stepmother. Madame Dubois frowned.

After they were all seated, and much to Grace's pleasant surprise, Monsieur Dubois inclined his head and led them in a prayer to bless the food. When Grace opened her eyes it was to the captain staring at her, drink already raised to his lips.

Averting her gaze, she stiffened her resolve to not allow his intimidating glances to ruin a much-needed meal or the generosity of his father.

Platters were passed and food dispensed in a much more orderly manner than on board Captain Dubois's brig. Blocks of cheddar cheese, sweet rolls, pea soup, red beans and rice, and some kind of fried shellfish passed beneath Grace's nose. She spooned a portion of each onto her plate.

“Mr. Thorn, how long have you served on my son's ship?” Monsieur Dubois asked.

“One year, monsieur.”

“You are British, are you not?” Monsieur Dubois cocked his head, then at Mr. Thorn's hesitancy he added, “Ah, do not worry on my behalf. Madame Dubois has British blood in her. That is why Rafe and I are so proficient in your language.”

Mr. Thorn nodded and tossed a bite of fish into his mouth, avoiding the older man's gaze. “Aye, sir. I am.”

“And do you agree with my son's chosen profession?” The elder Dubois lifted a spoon of soup to his lips, which rose in a superior grin before he slurped the broth.

Mr. Thorn glanced at the captain, then back at Monsieur Dubois. “I need the work, monsieur, and your son is a good captain. I don't give much thought to how we acquire our profit.”

“Profit, ha! A man can only claim a profit from honest, hard work.” Monsieur Dubois tugged upon the foam of Mechlin around his neck. “And your lack of conscience in the matter only proves you have spent far too much time in the company of my son.”

“As I have spent in yours, Père.” The captain sipped his brandy through clenched teeth.

She gazed between father and son, expecting a fight to break out at any moment. A chunk of cheese lodged in Grace's throat before dropping into her stomach like a rock. Madame Dubois's eyes grew wide and her face paled. Setting down her spoon, she retrieved her crystal glass and took a large gulp of burgundy wine.

“And yet”—Monsieur Dubois pointed his spoon at his son—“when I brought you and your mother here from France, I had barely two livres in my pocket. Now I own one of the grandest sugar plantations on Saint Dominique as well as two merchant ships. All acquired by honesty and the sweat of my brow. Not thievery and murder.” His blue eyes turned cold.

Captain Dubois's lips slanted. “Greed and malice hidden behind your so-called respectable business is still greed and malice, mon Père. Just like wickedness cloaked beneath a shroud of piety is still wickedness. What did your Jesus call your type, ‘whited sepulchres'?”

Monsieur Dubois coughed, nearly choking on his food. “You go too far, Rafe.” His voice rasped even as his face turned a bright shade of red.

Grace flinched and longed to kick the captain beneath the table the way she used to do with her sisters when they misbehaved. Instead, she gathered her wits and spoke in a calm voice. “He addressed the Pharisees as such, to be sure, Captain. But to call someone else that name is to say his faith is in vain, and certainly that is not the case with your father. Besides, he is not a religious leader.”

The captain chuckled and raised a brow. “I believe he would question your assessment, mademoiselle.”

“I try to be an example among the community.” Monsieur Dubois, having regained his breath, toyed with the fish upon his plate.

“These beans and rice are delicious.” Mr. Thorn made an obvious attempt to ease the rising hostility. “My compliments to the chef.”

“The Africans introduced the dish, monsieur.” Madame Dubois spoke her first words since they had sat down, and Grace hoped her soothing tone would cool the men's humors. But she ceased the explanation and instead poured herself more wine as her eyes gravitated to the captain like flowers toward the sun.

But Captain Dubois kept his gaze on the brandy swirling in his glass.

Monsieur Dubois stroked his beard. “It is my duty as a
grand blanc
and a Huguenot to ensure the truth of our Lord is held in high esteem in these savage lands.”

Grace faced the elder Dubois and smiled, happy to hear his priorities were in line with scripture. “I agree, monsieur. It is important to use your position to glorify God. 'Tis what I have been attempting to do in Charles Towne.”

“Before my rogue son tore you from your home.” Monsieur Dubois snorted and plucked a sweet roll from the tray. And for a second, Grace thought he intended to toss it at the captain.

“What is a grand blanc?” Grace asked, hoping to allay that action.

“It means
big white
or
powerful white,”
the captain's voice pitched in disdain, his jaw so stiff, Grace thought it would explode. “As opposed to
petits blancs,
the merchants and tradesmen, and then the
gens de couleur,
mulattos and freed slaves, and of course, the African slaves at the bottom. You know how the civilized have need to group people according to wealth and position in order to feed their pride.” His dark eyes flashed toward the elder Dubois. “And my father finds himself on top, as usual.” The captain took a swig of his brandy.

Grace shook her head at him, hoping he'd see her admonition at his overindulgence in drink.

But he took no notice of her warning. “How is business, mon Père?”

“Très bien. Très bien. I've expanded the plantation lands, acquired another twenty Africans, and should produce the largest sugar crop in Port-de-Paix this year.” His face grew troubled. “The only problem I have is with the maroons.”

“Maroons?” Grace took a bite of the rice and beans, savoring the unusual spicy, sharp flavors.

Mr. Thorn leaned toward her. “Runaway slaves, miss. Troublemakers and rebels.”

“Oui,” Monsieur Dubois added. “They raid my barns and steal my livestock and crops.”

“No doubt they are hungry,” the captain offered with a sneer.

“Then they shouldn't have left their masters,” the elder Dubois retorted.

The captain's sharp eyes swerved to his father. “No man should have a master.”

Grace gave the captain a venomous look, incredulous at his statement. “And yet you intended to enslave me.”

Monsieur Dubois lifted his glass, a triumphant grin on his lips. “Touché, my dear, touché.”

But Rafe ignored him and kept his gaze upon Grace.

“That was different.” He scowled.

“I do not see how,” she retorted, returning his stare with equal intensity.

A shadow of remorse passed over his gaze as seconds of tension ticked between them. All eyes shot to the captain, awaiting his response, but it was Mr. Thorn who broke the silence.

“If they were unhappy as slaves, I do not fault them for leaving.” He sipped his wine and rubbed the scar on his neck. “We must do what we can in this world to provide our own justice.”

“There are some ordained by God to rule, and some meant to be slaves.” Monsieur Dubois wiped the crumbs from his cultured beard. “You both would understand that if you read your Bible.”

“If it says that, I want no part of this God of yours,” Captain Dubois shot back.

Grace's heart shriveled, both at the misunderstanding of God's Word and the captain's declaration. “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Dubois, but the Bible does not condone slavery. It merely mentions it as part of the culture at the time and suggests to those caught in its trap to rejoice that they are free in Christ.”

“Exactement.
These rebellious slaves should have rejoiced in their state and not abandoned it.” The elder Dubois said this with such finality as to close the argument, and then offered Grace a spurious smile.

She took a bite of fish, deciding not to press the point, and noticing no one else enjoyed the food besides her and Mr. Thorn.

Madame Dubois passed the captain a platter of fried seafood. “Please eat, Rafe.”

He pushed her hand away and held up his glass. “I am eating.”

She cleared her throat and seemed to be having trouble speaking then laid a hand on his arm. “You look well. How are you faring in your life upon the sea?”

The captain stiffened. He moved his arm away and stared at his plate of uneaten food but offered her no reply.

“You are no better than a pirate, a brigand,” his father muttered peevishly under his breath. “Just like that scoundrel, Jean du Casse.”

The captain grimaced and leaned forward on the table. “Jean Baptiste du Casse was a hero. Governor of our island and an admiral in the French navy. If you compare me to him, I accept the compliment.” He raised his glass.

Monsieur Dubois scowled. His brow grew dark. “He pillaged and plundered like any pirate, without a care for which nation he served.” He snapped his drink to the back of his mouth then slammed the glass on the table. “Regardless, I do not approve of your life, boy, nor your part in it, Monsieur Thorn.”

On that point, Grace found herself in agreement, yet she cringed at the harsh tone in the man's reprimand. Had she sounded equally as unforgiving when she chastised her sisters' sinful behavior? No wonder they paid her no mind.

As Mr. Thorn was doing now. With a shrug, he continued eating, obviously willing to endure insults in order to fill his belly.