Raven Saint (17 page)

“You haven't been home in six years?”

“Five, but the year after her death, I could not bring myself to see her—not like this.” He shifted his stance and stomped his boot atop a rock as if trying to crush it. “She was a good woman. Kind, generous, a lady of great honor.”

A sudden breeze blew in from the cane fields, stirring a pile of leaves beside the grave into a frenzy and loosening a coil of hair from Grace's bun. She hugged herself, unsure how to respond to this side of the captain that seemed so vulnerable, so troubled—a side that touched her heart in a way she had never thought possible. A villain, a thief, yet giving his wealth to the poor. Rebellious, disrespectful to his father, yet possessing such honor and love for his mother. His grief reopened an old wound in Grace's heart at the loss of her own mother some seven years ago.

“She was murdered,” Rafe said, answering the question burning in Grace's mind.

“Mercy me.” She clasped her chain, tears bidding entrance into her eyes.

“In a British raid.”

Grace felt as if she'd swallowed a stone that now sank to the bottom of her stomach.

The captain gripped the pommel of his rapier. “In retaliation for Jean du Casse's raid upon Cartagena in ninety-seven, the British and Spanish raided Cap-Francais and Port-de-Paix, burning our homes, stealing our produce, slaves, and women. My father was away and I was”—he grimaced—“occupied in town. By the time I arrived home, she was dead.”

“You found her?”

“Oui.” His lips tightened. “She suffered greatly before she died.”

The agony he'd endured made Grace long to reach out to him. But then something cold gripped her heart. “What year was it?”

“1712.”

Tears blurred Grace's vision. Her father had been in command of a fleet in the Caribbean at that time. She remembered it clearly because her mother had been dead less than a year and she had been angry at her father for leaving her and her sisters alone so soon. Her head began to spin. Dare she ask? Did she want to know? She threw a hand to her throat to ease the fear and agony burning within it. “Was my father involved?” Agony garbled her voice.

The captain drew in a ragged breath, but he did not look at her.

“Tell me it isn't true?” Grace laid a hand on his arm, drawing his tortured gaze to hers.

“He was in command of the fleet.” Rafe's brow darkened. “The captain who attacked Port-de-Paix reported to your father, but I do not know whether he followed your father's orders or not.”

All the air escaped from Grace's lungs and she hung her head. Now she understood why Captain Dubois had no qualms about kidnapping her. She was the daughter of Admiral Henry Westcott. The blood of his worst enemies, the people who ravished and murdered his mother, flowed in Grace's veins. She longed to apologize but knew the words would fall meaningless into the mud at her feet.

“So that is why, then,” she said as more of a statement than a question.

He shook his head and his shoulders sank. “It was the encouragement I needed to perform a task I normally would not have undertaken.”

Her heart jumped. “So you don't normally kidnap innocent women?” She attempted a weak smile and was rewarded with the slight lift of his lips in return.

“The money would have provided a hospital for the poor.” He shrugged, then his eyes grew serious. “There are many sick on this island. Many die each day.” He swept his pained gaze toward the sugar fields. “I made a promise to a good man.”

Grace's mind swirled in confusion. “One good deed is not enough to negate a wicked act.”

“Perhaps.” He gripped the pommel of his rapier. “But at the time I did not consider selling you to the don to be wicked, only recompense for the actions of your father.”

“And now?” Grace's breath quickened.

He looked at her. “As I have said. Things have changed. You are not what I expected.”

His words sang sweetly in her ears. She had misjudged him. He was not the rogue he often pretended to be.

Bending over, the captain plucked a small purple flower from a bush and laid it gently on his mother's grave.
“Reposez-vous en paix,
Maman.”

A tear slid down Grace's cheek. Captain Dubois faced her, his stormy gaze filled with pain, not the anger she expected. His brow wrinkled, and he raised a hand to wipe her tear away then allowed his thumb to caress her cheek. “Do not cry for me.”

Grace closed her eyes beneath his touch. Her breath lodged in her throat. She heard him move closer, and she stepped back.

He dropped his hand, the features of his face hardening. “You must come to the brig with me.”

Only then did Grace realize her precarious position. With no servants around and Monsieur Dubois away from the house, the captain could easily capture her again.

“Your father has promised to deliver me to Charles Towne,” she muttered a bit too fast.

“The price will be too high.”

“He charges me nothing, Captain.”

He huffed and ran a hand through his hair. “Not yet.” He rubbed the purple and black bruise around his eye, and a strange desire overcame her to plant a tender kiss upon it. Pushing the thought away, she turned aside.

“I can see that there is bad blood between you. It saddens me to see a father and son fight so viciously.” The shrill voice of a taskmaster and the snap of a whip in the distance only accentuated her statement. “Regardless of what your father has done to you, Captain, you have a Father in heaven. He is the Father of all—especially those whose earthly fathers have disappointed them.” But the scowl on his face told Grace that her words bounced off his hard heart and disappeared into the air. “Perhaps I can help you reconcile your differences.”

Captain Dubois gazed over the cane fields. “There is no reconciliation, mademoiselle, with or without God's love.”

Grace swallowed at the finality of his tone. Yet by his father's words and actions the night before, she believed the elder Dubois suffered from the same hopelessness. “I must admit I feel a sense of unease in your father's presence.” Truth be told, Monsieur Dubois's behavior toward his wife, his son, and his general attitudes about position and wealth did not indicate a changed heart within. “And I did not care for his behavior last night.”

“Then come back to
Le Champion
with me.”

His urgent tone startled Grace. She wanted to believe him—to believe he wasn't a villain, a scoundrel. But perhaps he was only toying with her.

He grabbed her arm. “If you come with me now, I promise to take you home.”

Grace searched his dark eyes for some shred of truth. He had kidnapped her, insulted her, held her captive, and intended to sell her as a slave, yet naught but sincerity burned in his gaze now. “What is the promise of a rogue worth?”

“At the moment?” He raised a brow and grinned. “Everything.”

“What of your hospital?”

He shrugged. “I will find another way.”

Grace studied him. The wind whipped a strand of his dark hair across his jaw, yet the firm press of his fingers on her arm offered her more comfort than threat.
Lord, what do I do?

He reached up and fingered the curl that had loosened from her bun. “Why do you hide this
beaux cheveux
in such a tight knot?”

Grace's breath escaped her. “To keep myself from vanity,” she managed to mutter.

He leaned and whispered in her ear, “I doubt you could ever be vain, mademoiselle.” His warm breath sent a shiver down her back. “But why deprive others of your beauty?”

Tugging from his grip, Grace threw a hand to her throat and stepped back. Her thoughts and emotions spun in a whirlpool of confusion that left her numb.

The captain gripped his baldric. “I know you have no reason to trust me. But I am begging you to believe what I say.”

Gathering her wits, Grace snapped her eyes to his. “What concern is it of yours what your father does with me?”

“Because you have fallen into his hands on my account.”

Grace frowned. Was Monsieur Dubois truly that dangerous? Or was the captain only playing a game? She gazed at him, enjoying the way the soft lines of concern had replaced the hard arrogance on his face. If he was lying to her, he was a master at deception, for Grace had always been good at discerning the intentions of others. Rafe made no pretensions about his lifestyle and seemed to exhibit shame at his mistakes. But Monsieur Dubois's actions defied his proclamation of Christian love. Not to mention the odd exchange she had heard between him and Mr. Thorn. Perhaps he did intend to do Grace harm. She closed her eyes for a second to drown out the sights around her—especially Rafe—and decide what to do. Neither man invoked her trust, but if she had to choose based on the leaning of her heart, she would choose the captain.

Perhaps it was Captain Dubois she was supposed to help after all. During their journey home, Grace would have time to recite scripture and expound to him the goodness of God. Yes, surely that was her mission. Elation surged through her at the thought of bringing this man to redemption.

“Very well. I will go with you.” She gave him a weak smile as her stomach folded in on itself. Why was she putting herself back into this rogue's hands? Had she gone mad?

“I have your word, then?” He took a step toward her and looked down at her with more intensity than she had ever seen in his eyes. “Your promise. A promise that will not be broken.”

“You have my word.” She nodded. “I am not one to break a vow, Captain.”

“Non. I would not expect so.” He smiled.

“But please allow me to express my gratitude to your father and stepmother for their kindness and bid them farewell.”

Disapproval shadowed his face. He scratched the stubble on his jaw. “Not a good idea.”

“It is the right thing to do, Captain.”

He grinned. “You realize I could kidnap you right here if I so desired.”

“It has crossed my mind, Captain, and the fact that you haven't has convinced me of your sincerity.”

He grunted in disappointment. “Très bien. But I will not set foot in that house again.”

“I will meet you here, in this same spot, at seven tonight.” A bead of perspiration slid down her back.

He cocked his head and examined her. “I will be here, mademoiselle.” Then he bowed, donned his plumed hat, and strode away.

Grace's legs would not move. Her skin tingled where the captain's fingers had touched her arms. Glancing down at Madame Dubois's grave, she longed to ask the woman about her son. Could he be trusted? Should Grace go with him?

But it was too late for that. The woman was not here, and Grace had already given her word. She had willingly submitted herself back into the hands of a man who had given her no reason to trust him. Either this was truly God's will or she had gone completely mad.

Grace swept a final gaze over her chamber and wondered why. She had no belongings to take with her, save the gown on her back. And even that didn't belong to her. Though a trifle low in the neckline, it was a far more beautiful gown than any of her own back in Charles Towne. And somehow the shimmering green satin embroidered with silver braided ribbons that laced across her ruffled bodice made her feel beautiful. Besides, she liked the way it sounded when she strolled across the room. Mercy me, what was wrong with her? She'd never cared about such fripperies before. Regardless, she'd promised to return the gown as soon as she arrived home.

If she arrived home.

Her discussion with Monsieur Dubois and his wife had gone better than expected. Though the captain's father could not understand Grace's decision to trust his son and not accept his free offer of transport to Charles Towne, he finally acquiesced to her wishes. But only after pleading with her most adamantly to change her mind.

Which she nearly had.

Especially when Monsieur Dubois kept referring to his son as a liar and a blackguard.

Yet after thanking the couple for their kindness, Grace had withdrawn to her chamber to await the appointed time she had agreed to meet the captain. Now, as the hands on the clock sitting atop the mantel inched toward seven, her heart cinched. Her stomach soured, and she found herself regretting her decision.

Lord, am I doing the right thing?

No answer came. No noise, save the swaying of the wind outside the window and soft footfalls outside her door. The oak panel creaked on its hinges, and Madame Dubois peered around the edge. Tearstains marred her pink face. “Bien, you are still here. May I speak with you a moment, Mademoiselle Grace?”

“Of course.” Grace gestured her inside.

After slipping through the opening, Madame Dubois closed the door then leaned her ear against it as if listening to see if she had been followed.

“Whatever is the matter, Madame Dubois?” Unease rumbled over Grace's already agitated nerves.

The elegant woman lifted a finger to her lips, waited a moment, then released a deep sigh. Crossing the room, she eased onto the bed and dropped her head into her hands. Her golden curls bobbed as a sob racked through her.

Grace sat beside her, her heart breaking as it always did in light of someone else's anguish. “Is there something I can do?”

Lifting her head, Madame Dubois raised a handkerchief to her nose as tears rolled one after the other down her cheeks. “I cannot bear it another minute.”

“Bear what, madame?” Grace longed to grasp her hand but didn't dare.

“My husband.” She sobbed. “He is a cruel man.
Certainement,
you can see that.”

Grace stiffened at the woman's confession. Did all French women speak with such alarming honesty—especially to a stranger? Yet Grace could not deny what she had witnessed. “He possesses a quick temper. I have noticed as much.”

“It is far worse than that.” Madame Dubois hesitated then squeezed her eyes shut against another wave of tears. “He beats me. He has many mistresses, many of whom he parades daily before my face.”

The announcement struck Grace like a cold slap in the face. This man who declared that his purpose on the island was to glorify God. Could it be true? But why would Madame Dubois lie? Despite Grace's attempt to think well of her benefactor, she had witnessed his callous behavior firsthand.

“I'm so sorry, madame.” Against propriety, Grace took the woman's delicate, soft hand and gave it a squeeze. Minutes passed as they sat in silence, and Grace wondered what to say to comfort the lady. “I have a sister, Charity, who married a beast of a man,” she finally said. “She lives in agony every day of her life. But I cannot help her. I can only pray for her. As you must do, madame.” Grace knelt before the woman and peered up into her swollen face. “Pray for God to change your husband's heart, to convict him of his sin. If he would but repent and turn back to God, his heart would change.”

A look of disbelief crossed Madame Dubois's delicate features. Outrage followed it. “I have prayed, Mademoiselle Grace. For many years. And I believe God has answered by sending you to me.”

“Me? What can I do but pray for you?”

“You can help me leave him.” Madame Dubois leaned forward and enfolded Grace's hands with her own. “If you go to him and tell him you've changed your mind and wish to take him up on his offer, I will convince him that we should accompany you to Charles Towne.”

“Accompany me?” Grace blinked. “But why would he agree?”

“He has been meaning to see to some business dealings he has in New France.” Madame Dubois's blue eyes sparkled like the sea in bright sunlight. “Then when we reach Charles Towne, I will get off the ship with you.”

Grace's head swam beneath the woman's suggestion—a suggestion that if Grace followed would change everything.

“I would not dare escape on my own,” she continued. “For I have nowhere to go, no money. But perhaps your family could grant me lodging until I contact my mother's brother in Virginia.”

The desperation flaming in Madame Dubois's eyes burned through Grace's resolve. She could not reject this poor woman's plea for help. Hadn't Grace prayed for someone to come alongside Charity should her sister ever decide to leave her husband? Someone who would help her get away to safety? How could she do any less for this pitiable lady?

But she'd given her word to Captain Dubois.

Madame Dubois awaited her answer, her eyes pooling with pleading tears that tore at Grace's heart.

“But I promised Captain Du—”

“Of what value is a promise made to a liar and a thief?” she snapped.

“A promise is a promise, madame.” Grace lowered her chin, wondering at the woman's sudden disdain for her stepson when she seemed quite enamored with him last evening.

Madame Dubois patted Grace's hand as one would a little child. “Do you think he intends to honor his promise to take you to Charles Towne? Silly girl.”

Grace stood. “Yes, I do.” She surprised herself with the confidence of her tone.

Madame Dubois began sobbing again. “Then I am lost.” She dropped her head into her hands. “Monsieur Thorn told me you were a kind woman.”

“Mr. Thorn? What has he to do with this?”

“It was his idea that I come to you.” She lifted her swollen, puffy face to Grace. “For both our well-beings, he said.”

“But I am to meet the captain soon.” Grace glanced at the clock. Ten minutes past seven. No doubt he was already waiting for her. She bit her lip. “Why do you not come with us?”

“With Rafe?” Madame Dubois's eyes widened as if Grace had asked her to jump out the window. “Even if he plans on taking you to Charles Towne, he would never allow me on his ship. He hates me.”

“I doubt that, madame.” Although as Grace recalled, the captain had been less than cordial to his stepmother.

Madame Dubois gripped Grace's hand again. “Please do not abandon me, mademoiselle. You are my only hope.” The despair in her voice sent a shiver through Grace and drew her down beside the woman, where she wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Rafe had said his father was not to be trusted. This woman's tale only further endorsed that report, so how could Grace leave her in the hands of a monster? “What happened between Rafe and his father?” She could not help the question for she had to know the truth.

Madame Dubois glanced toward the window. “There has always been competition between them. From when Rafe was very little. Henri challenged him constantly. Everything was a contest. Then he would lash and humiliate Rafe afterward—especially if he won. Vraiment, I do not believe he loves his son. He treats him as if Rafe were not his own flesh and blood.” She dabbed at her tears. “At least that is what Rafe has told me, and I have not seen evidence to the contrary.”

A sudden pain gripped Grace's stomach, and she pressed a hand upon it. The sorrow of such a childhood was beyond her comprehension. But even more confusing was Madame Dubois's actions. “If you knew this, why did you marry Monsieur Dubois?”

“I was a foolish young girl who thought wealth would solve all my problems.” She waved her handkerchief through the air, then turned anxious eyes to Grace. “Please do not leave me with him.”

Grace felt as if a war raged within her members. Break a vow or save a life. Which was more important? Which one would God have her choose? She squeezed the madame's hand. “I will not abandon you, madame.”

“Merci. Merci,” the woman sobbed. “You are too kind.”

Maybe, Lord, this is the reason You have brought me all this way. To save this poor girl from the horrors of her marriage.

“I must tell the captain of my change of plans.” Grace rose and turned toward the door.

“Non. Mademoiselle.” Madame Dubois grabbed her arm. “If you go to him now, he will kidnap you again. You do not know him as I do.” She gave Grace a look that intimated she too had affections for Rafe, and the sight of it took Grace aback.

“Monsieur Thorn said he would inform him if you agreed,” she continued and dabbed the handkerchief beneath her puffy eyes. “And Captain Dubois must never know why you changed your mind.”

“Why not?”

Madame Dubois's blue eyes turned to ice. “Because if he knew what his father had done to me he would kill him.”

Every step Rafe took over the muddy street sent a thunderous ache through his head. Doffing his cocked hat, he wiped the sweat from his brow and trudged forward. Irksome noises assailed him from all directions. Bells chiming, people screaming, horses clomping, the grating crank of carriage wheels, the lap of waves, and the incessant chatter of the mob, all increased in a cacophony of clatter in his pounding head.

Greetings and hails shot his way, but he dismissed them, in no mood for talking today. The fetor of manure, stale fish, and rotten fruit curled beneath his nose, causing his stomach to heave and nearly spew its contents—if there had been any.

Last night was a dismal, nightmarish blur. But beside his aching head and a knife wound on his arm, Rafe suffered no permanent damage.

When Monsieur Thorn had met him at the graveyard and informed him that Mademoiselle Grace had changed her mind and would be leaving with his father on the morrow, Rafe had ordered him to make ready the ship, then he leapt upon his horse and galloped to his favorite tavern at the edge of town. After he had downed the first several drinks, the rest of the evening transformed into broken memories floating in his mind, none of which fit into any sensible pattern.

Femme exaspérante. Non. Liar, deceiver,
traître.
Just like all women. Why had he been foolish enough to expect this one to keep her promise? Why had he not known she would run into his father's arms just as Claire had done? Rafe clenched his fists as he sidestepped a passing horse and rider. He heard his name called from a shop to his left, followed by another shout, but he ignored them.

Such intimacies he had shared about his mother with the mademoiselle at the graveyard; his face heated. And the way she had cried for him. A ploy? Another feminine trick to soften a man's heart into mush? He spit onto the ground and shoved his way through a mob of fishermen, ignoring their protests. Like her father, like all British, she wore a cloak of honor and kindness that did not exist once circumstances tore it from her.

Rafe had been duped again.

After he had vowed never to allow another woman access to his heart. The lovely raven-haired mademoiselle had pretended to care about Rafe only so he wouldn't kidnap her on the spot. Rafe kicked a rock across the road.
Je suis un imbécile!

But it wasn't too late. If the mademoiselle could toss her vows so quickly to the wind, why couldn't he?

His father had won again. He had stolen another woman from Rafe. The thought sent waves of searing fury through him. He needed to leave this place as soon as possible. He must bid
adieu
to Abbé Villion, wipe the mud of Port-de-Paix from his boots, and head out to sea where he belonged—away from devious women and his depraved father.

Edging around the stone church, Rafe headed toward an oblong brick building. He shoved open the heavy door; its slam against the stones echoed through the building. Rafe stomped inside, squinting as his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.

Then it hit him. A blast of hot, fetid air that smelled of human waste and mold.

And death.

His anger fell from him like an overused cloak.

Boxes, barrels, and crates flanked him, lit by four small windows, two on each side of the oblong structure. He recognized some of the goods he had recently delivered and began weaving his way down a narrow path between them toward a lighted area at the far end. Moans of pain slinked their way toward him as Abbé Villion appeared from amidst the clutter.

Despite the bloody rag in his hand, the abbé smiled. “Rafe. How are you?”

“Très bien,” he lied, scanning the area behind the abbé where the sick lay on cots lined against the wall. An African woman dabbed a cloth on a young mulatto's forehead. “I have come to bid you
au revoir.
I set sail today.”

“I am sorry to hear it, my friend.” Abbé Villion's eyebrows pulled into a frown. “When will you return?”

A rat scrambled across the dirt floor by Rafe's boots while another moan sounded from the cots, drawing his gaze back to the sick child. “Who is that?”

Abbé Villion's face seemed to sag. He sighed and turned around, gesturing toward the cot where the woman tended the young boy. “Young Corbin, an orphan. He has the ague, I believe.”

Rafe glanced from the boy to the other patients, noting how young they were, all except one giant African man curled up in a ball like a baby. “And the others?”

“Different ailments.” Abbé Villion shrugged. “I am no physician.”