Raven Saint (20 page)

“And yet, it would appear that He saved you only to imprison you again.” Mr. Thorn brushed dirt from his waistcoat.

“We do not always understand the ways of God.”

“I would say we never can and never will.” He gripped the railing as the brig canted over another wave.

Two sailors passed behind them, laughing and cursing as they leapt up the foredeck ladder. Grace recognized them as Mr. Legard, the bosun, and Mr. Weylan, the man who had accosted her below deck. She shuddered, but could not miss the knowing glance they exchanged with Mr. Thorn. When she looked at the first mate in confusion, his face mottled. “Forgive their blasphemy, miss. I grow so tired of the crass language aboard.” He glared after them as they continued across the foredeck. “Scoundrels, profligates all.”

Grace examined him, curious at his extreme censure of his fellow sailors—men he must work and live with in such close quarters.

“And the captain is no better,” he added. “You are fortunate he curbs his tongue in front of the ladies.”

Grace raised her brows, surprised that Captain Dubois possessed the manners to restrain himself at all. “Aren't you and the captain friends?”

“Friends? I work for him, 'tis all.”

“And yet he speaks much more fondly of you than you do of him.”

“Can you blame him?” He chuckled.

Shielding her eyes from the sun, Grace studied the baffling man and wondered where his true loyalties lay. If not with the captain, and not his own countrymen, then where? “Do you have family somewhere, Mr. Thorn?”

“Yes, on Nassau. A mother, father, and younger sister.” He clenched the railing.

“A sister? How nice.” Grace had always wanted an older brother—someone to stand up for and protect her and her sisters when their father was out to sea, as he so often was.

Mr. Thorn took a deep breath and gazed out over the glistening water. “Yes. Her name is Elizabeth.” The tone of his voice carried fervent love along with deep sorrow, giving Grace pause.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Is she well?”

He shifted his brown eyes to her, and the anguish she saw in them took her aback.

“As well as can be expected,” he said. His gaze hardened into stone, and he swept it over the deck as if in search of some remedy.

Grace didn't know what to make of it. No doubt something horrible had happened to his sister. “What does she suffer from?”

Withdrawing his arm from beneath her hand, Mr. Thorn threw back his shoulders as if tossing aside some cumbrous memory. “Forgive me, miss. I misspoke.” Then, he directed his gaze at a sailor sitting atop a barrel. “Bear a hand aloft, Mr. Fletcher!” he bellowed and watched as the man grunted then flung himself into the ratlines. Plucking a handkerchief from his pocket, Mr. Thorn dabbed the perspiration on the back of his neck. “Abominable heat. What brings you on deck, miss?”

Truth be told, when Madame Dubois and Annette returned, Grace found she couldn't escape their company fast enough. Between Madame Dubois's barbed looks of disdain and Annette's skittish demeanor, the atmosphere had become intolerable. Grace liked the mulatto woman, but could not shake the unease that slid over her in the maid's presence. Just that morning, Grace could have sworn she heard the woman chanting something in her dark corner before sunrise. “My cabin has become quite crowded as of late.”

“Ah yes, the resplendent Madame Claire Dubois.” He swirled his hand in the air like a courtier's bow.

Grace found his reaction odd. “You do not approve of her?”

“Do you? Vainglorious peacock, ill-tempered shrew,” he spat in contempt. “She and her husband are suitably matched. Yet here she is seeking the affections of the captain.”

“So my assumption is correct.” Grace shook her head even as the man's words grated over her. Was she so quick to label others in such cruel terms? Though the accusations may be true, and she could not deny thinking them herself, hearing the acrid criticisms on another person's lips sliced deep into Grace's conscience.

Mr. Thorn leaned toward her as if he shared a juicy secret. “Aye, apparently they have quite a past.”

The brig lurched, sending a cool spray over Grace, jarring her from participating in the man's gossip, though she longed to know the story. “But didn't you befriend her at the Dubois estate? Were you not involved in convincing her to elicit my help to escape to Charles Towne?” Though Grace had promised Claire she would not tell Rafe of their plans to escape to Charles Towne, surely it was safe to discuss the matter with Mr. Thorn since he was involved in the scheme. Besides, Grace wished to gain an understanding of the connection between Madame Dubois and Mr. Thorn.

His face reddened, and he drew out his handkerchief again and dabbed the sweat on his brow. “She sought my help, to be sure. Like you, she had me fooled into believing she truly wished your assistance to get to Charles Towne.” He shrugged and gazed off to his right. “Apparently she had other plans.”

Grace eyed him, sensing he knew much more than he was saying. She remembered the conversation she'd overheard between Mr. Thorn and Monsieur Dubois—something about revenge. “Mr. Thorn, may I ask you a personal question?”

He nodded, though hesitancy shadowed his expression.

“I still do not understand why you sail with Captain Dubois. You don't approve nor associate with the crew. And you have not hid your disdain for the captain, at least not from me.”

He laughed. “Can you blame me? Sailing with such miscreants? I am indeed as out of place as a nobleman in a brothel.”

His chuckle faded as his eyes focused on something behind Grace. Silence invaded the ship. Grace turned to see Madame Dubois emerge from the companionway, Annette on her heels. Shielding her eyes from the sun, the woman gave Grace a cursory glance before heading toward the other side of the ship, barking at Annette to follow her. The crew quit their ogling and returned to their duties.

“She is quite beautiful,” Grace admitted.

“Yes, she is.” Mr. Thorn's eyes remained locked upon the ladies as they took up their spot on the larboard railing. Then he jerked. “Oh, you mean Madame Dubois?” He snorted. “She is tolerable, I suppose.”

Grace blinked. “Do you speak of Annette, then?”

“She is exquisite.” His tone sang with admiration as his eyes never left the young mulatto.

Grace bit her lip, not wanting to disclose that Annette was Rafe's half sister. “Yes, she is.”

Annette opened a parasol and held it over her mistress to shield her skin from the searing rays of the sun. Grace touched her own cheek and felt the heat emanating from it. In no time she'd be as tan as these sailors. Most unappealing. But then again, when had she cared for her appearance? Movement caught her eye and she swept her gaze to the companionway where Captain Dubois emerged. Their eyes met and he halted, his white buccaneer shirt flapping in the wind beneath his gray coat. Unsettled by his perusal, she faced the sea again.

Boots thumped toward her. “Monsieur Thorn, do you not have something better to do?” His deep voice tumbled over them.

“Nay. Not at the moment.” Mr. Thorn raised an eyebrow that did not have the intended effect as Captain Dubois's expression remained as hard as stone.

Grace gazed between the two men. Captain Dubois fingered the hilt of his rapier, yet said nothing.

“Very well, then.” Mr. Thorn ran a thumb along the scar on his neck. “I am sure I can find some of the crew to order about.” He touched the tip of his hat and nodded to Grace. “Good day to you, miss.” Then he left.

Silence spread between them.

“Why must you be such a bully?” The words came out of her mouth before she considered their content.

Instead of anger, his lips curved into a grin. “A bully? Moi? I am so much more than that.”

“Yes you are. Kidnapper, rogue, and scoundrel are a few other titles that come to mind.”

He chuckled. “The pious prude has acquired some pluck. But we have already discovered a few flaws hidden behind your proper facade, have we not, thief?”

Horrified, Grace turned away from him as a blast of wind raked over her hair, her gown, as if trying to peel back her saintly layers in order to reveal the darkness of her heart.

A scream from across the deck brought their gazes to Madame Dubois, who was swatting at Spyglass with her parasol. “Infernal beast!” she shouted, but the cat was far too swift, darting across the bulwarks back and forth as if taunting the lady.

Captain Dubois chuckled and leaned his elbows on the railing.

“Aren't you going to rescue your pet?” Grace asked as laughter erupted from the crew.

“Non. Spyglass does quite well on her own.” His eyes met hers, playful mirth dancing across them, and again Grace thought she saw a hint of kindness lurking behind the hard shield. He took one last look at Claire and his features stiffened.

He faced Grace, studying her with that intensity that seemed to peer into her soul. He fingered a lock of her wayward hair.

She slapped his hand away. “You may be selling me as if I were cargo, but I do not belong to you, Captain.”

“Do you not?” He gave her a rakish grin.

Grace attempted to stuff the loose curls back into her bun, but the traitorous strands refused to be pinned. She knew he could play with her hair if he wanted. Truth be told, he could do whatever he wanted with her.

Thunder bellowed in the distance, drawing the captain's gaze to the horizon.

“A storm approaches, mademoiselle.”

She eyed him. “Yes, Captain, I fear it does.”

The brig rolled. Grace stumbled and raised her hand to the bulkhead to keep from falling. Rain pounded on the deck above her, sounding more like grapeshot than drops of water. Clutching the chain around her neck, she withdrew her cross and wobbled toward the porthole. Through the glass, lightning wove a smoky trail across the darkened sky. “Just a tiny squall,” Father Alers had reassured her. “Nothing to worry about. This brig has been through much worse.” Grace rubbed her fingers over the cross. Thunder growled. “Protect us, Lord,” she whispered. A moan sounded from the other side of the cabin, reminding her she was not alone.

Turning around, Grace held her arms out in an effort to keep her balance over the teetering deck and ambled toward the mulatto woman who sat on the floor in the corner by the armoire—where she had been for the past two hours. Grabbing the table, Grace sank into the chair beside her.

Annette smiled but continued her work. In the light of a lantern she had tied to the armoire, Annette arranged a series of articles across a multicolored flag: an amulet, a string of beads, a rattle, and various polished stones.

The hairs on Grace's arm bristled. “May I ask what you are doing?”

The lady frowned but said nothing, as she had every time Grace had attempted conversation with her during the long night.

“There is no need to be frightened of me,” Grace assured.

Annette's dark eyes lifted to hers as if searching the validity of her statement.

Grace forced a smile to her lips and wondered why the lady, who must be near her own age, held such a timid manner toward her. The brig pitched over a swell and Grace gripped the arms of the chair. Thunder hammered overhead, drowning out the sound of her nervous breathing, but only increasing the weight of heaviness that had fallen on her since the storm began.

“Living aboard this brig is quite a change from living at the Dubois estate.” Grace once again attempted a light tête-à-tête with the woman. So often maligned by Madame Dubois and ignored by everyone else, Annette appeared lonely, withdrawn, in need of love and encouragement. And to think she was Captain Dubois's half sister. Did the captain know of the relation? If he did, he certainly made no attempt to acknowledge Annette.

The lady nodded and completed her arrangement. Black hair the color of coal tumbled over her left shoulder onto her plain cotton gown. With full lips, an aquiline French nose, and dark, mysterious eyes, the woman's beauty was unquestionable. The fact that she had been bred for that very quality made Grace's stomach sour. Yet, she reminded herself, regardless of the nefarious purposes for which man chose to bring life into the world, God had His own glorious plan for each precious soul. And this woman was as much a child of His as anyone else.

The sea roared against the hull. The deck rose and plunged, and Annette laid her hands over her trinkets, keeping them in place. Then staring at her display, she muttered words in a language Grace could not understand.

Words that sent a chill coursing through her.

Grace hugged herself as another blast of thunder rumbled through the planks of the brig.

“I cause the storm to cease,” Annette said.

Grace eyed the lady, waiting for the smile, the laugh that would accompany such an astonishing statement, but with her lips in a firm line and her eyes staunch with sincerity, Annette remained unmoved.

“What do you mean?” Grace finally said. “How can you stop the storm?”

“With these charms.” Annette waved a hand over her treasures. “And my prayers to the spirits of my ancestors.”

Grace's stomach shriveled. The lady engaged in some kind of primitive religious ritual. No wonder Grace had felt a darkness, an oppression whenever she'd been in her presence, for she had learned from Reverend Anthony, her pastor in Charles Towne, that many of these ancient religions were mere covers for the worship of demons. An urge to rise and dash from the cabin surged within her, but she willed her breathing to steady and her face to remain placid.

Lightning flickered a deathly pale over the scene. Perhaps this was why the Lord brought Grace all this way—to deliver this girl from spiritual bondage. Grace's heart thumped wildly in her chest.

“Annette, I serve a God more powerful than the spirits of our ancestors.”

The woman stared blankly at Grace. “I know. I felt His power when I met you.”

Grace flinched even as a thrill went through her. “You did?”

“Why do you not pray and sacrifice to Him to stop the storm?”

Grace fingered her cross, appealing to God for the right words to say to this girl. “I have been praying. But there is no longer a need to offer sacrifices to God, because He offered His own Son as a final sacrifice for all people everywhere.”

“He sacrifice His Son?” She shook her head, her brow pinching. “Why would He do that? C'est fou.”

“He did it because He loves us all so much.” Grace reached out her hand to Annette. “He loves you, Annette.”

Refusing Grace's hand, Annette lowered her gaze. “No one loves me. I am a possession: one of Monsieur Dubois's prize mares. I am caught between two worlds, the ones of my ancestors and the world of the whites.”

She said the last word with such hatred, it made Grace jump. “God loves you, Annette. Of that I am sure. He wants you to become part of His family. And if you do, you'll never feel lost again.”

Annette tossed her long hair over her shoulder and sighed as if considering Grace's words. She lifted her chin, and her eyes glistened with tears.

The door crashed open and in flounced Madame Dubois. Turning, she slammed the oak slab in the face of whoever had escorted her to the cabin and then flung herself onto the bed.

Grace slouched in her chair at the woman's poor timing. A few more minutes and she may have been able to lead Annette down the path to a new life.

Instead, Annette's eyes widened as she shoved her trinkets into a burlap sack and jumped to her feet, no doubt in expectation of her mistress's command.

Which came within seconds. “Annette, come here. Help me undress. These bindings are squeezing the breath from me.”

Grace cringed at the fear on the mulatto's face. “How was your dinner?” She turned to face Madame Dubois, who stood and clung to the bulkhead while Annette began untying the laces of her bodice. “Horrible. Simply horrible,” she sobbed. “Rafe was in such a foul humor, and he barely spoke to me at all.” Annette removed the ties from Madame Dubois's skirt and began unlacing the stomacher as the woman continued her groaning, only exacerbated by the rise and swoop of the brig that nearly sent her tumbling to the plank floor.

After regaining her stance, Madame Dubois shot a fiery gaze at Grace. “It was as if he blamed me for your not attending.”

Grace laughed. “I am his prisoner. What does he expect?”

“That is exactly what I told him.” Madame Dubois batted Annette away and sank onto the bed. “He barely touched his food—which was the same vicious sludge they serve us here, je vous assure—and his crew was quite
désagréable.”

Grace could well attest to that. “At least you are free from your husband's brutality, madame. Isn't that what you wished?”

She dabbed at her tears. “Oui.”

Thunder roared from a distance, and the rain faded to a light tapping. Grace leaned toward Madame Dubois, trying to squelch her anger at the woman's selfishness. “Captain Dubois will not allow you to go back to such suffering, I am sure of it.”

Madame Dubois nodded, her curls bobbing. “He intends to put me on a ship to Virginia when he makes anchor at Kingston.”

“That is good news, is it not? Then you can live safely with your relatives.”

“Non!” she shouted, causing Annette to jump. “I do not want to live with them.” Her blue eyes turned to icy daggers. She waved Grace away. “Zut alors, what do you know?”

Grace closed her eyes beneath the woman's scorn as the depth of her deception became all too clear. “Then your plan was never to go to Charles Towne with me.” She muttered the words without question.

In reply, Madame Dubois lay back upon her bed and resumed her sobbing.

Forcing down her rising fury, Grace stood, grabbed her blankets, and began arranging them into a makeshift bed on the floor beneath the porthole. Though she had tried to sleep in the hammocks the captain had provided, she'd been unable to get comfortable, preferring the hard deck to the swaying confinement of the tight bands of cloth. Finally she lay down, ignoring her stiff back, and soon drifted to sleep to the rumbling sound of receding thunder, the pitter-patter of rain, and Madame Dubois's incessant whimpering.

Hours later, Grace stirred, alerted by whispers across the room. Recognizing the voices as those of Madame Dubois and Annette, Grace's heart settled to a normal beat, and she attempted to fall back asleep, but the content of those words kept her awake.

“Do you promise me this will work?” Madame Dubois asked.

“Oui, madame. It works for many generations.”

Silence for a minute. “Uhh, it tastes terrible.”

“Oui, what is that compare to love?” Annette said.

“How long before it begins to take effect?”

“It work right away, but you must also give this to the captain.”

A sigh. “I do not see how, but I will find a way.”

Shuffling, swishing of a nightdress, and Grace heard the creak of Madame Dubois's bed as she crawled beneath her coverlet. Within minutes the sound of her deep breaths filled the room. Grace had just begun to ponder the meaning of what she had heard when footsteps tapped over the deck. The door creaked open and then thumped closed. Annette had left.

Grace sat up and braced her back against the bulkhead, gathering her blankets to her chest. Fear gripped her for the woman's safety. Perhaps Annette had never been on a ship before. Perhaps she didn't realize the dangers lurking among the less-than-scrupulous crew. Grace prayed for her. Minutes passed, and she stood and began to pace. But when Annette didn't return after an hour, Grace donned her bodice and skirts, checked to ensure Madame Dubois slept peacefully, and slipped into the companionway.

Though the storm had long since passed, the lanterns in the hallway had not been relit, and Grace chided herself for not bringing one of her own. Groping her way along the bulkhead toward Captain Dubois's cabin, she drew a shaky breath of the stale air. The scents of moist wood, tar, and a hint of tobacco filled her nose. Thunder growled in the distance, and Grace halted and hugged herself. A thick blackness crowded around her. Up ahead, a blade of light sliced the darkness beneath the captain's cabin door. He was awake. A knot formed in her throat. She knew it was not only improper but dangerous to go to his cabin alone late at night, but she didn't dare search the ship on her own, and she feared something terrible had befallen Annette.