Raven Saint (21 page)

Rafe propped his boot on the ledge of the stern windows and stared at the retreating storm, barely visible in the predawn gloom. Yet as each cloud rolled from the sky, one by one the stars appeared, clear and sparkling against the ebony backdrop. He wished for the same clarity in his thoughts. Yet they remained as cloudy and turbulent as the storm that had just passed.

He took a swig from his bottle, the taste of brandy souring in his mouth. He set it down and pressed a palm against his forehead, trying to stop the incessant droning in his head. Too much liquor again. When Mademoiselle Grace had not appeared at dinner, his mood had grown peevish. He could not explain it. Perhaps it was because her absence had left him at the mercy of Claire's attentions. Attentions that had only further soured his mood. Attentions that had become nauseating to him. Six months ago—non, even two months ago—he would have sold all he had to win back Claire's love. Now, he was not so sure. He was not sure about anything.

Rafe began to pace. Yet Claire's obvious pursuit of him presented him with the perfect opportunity—an opportunity for
la vengeance.
He could steal Claire back from his father and cause the man as much suffering as he had caused Rafe. The impending victory—so close he could taste it—turned to ash in his mouth when he thought of Mademoiselle Grace.

Next to her, Claire was a spoiled schoolgirl with her vain mannerisms and constant bickering. Had she always been that way? Or perhaps Mademoiselle Grace made Claire seem abhorrent by comparison. Everyone paled in comparison to the mademoiselle.

But she betrayed you.
The icy voice chanted in Rafe's head, stabbing his heart.

Oui, she did. Just like Claire. Rafe rubbed his temples. Maybe she was no different after all.

Then why did Mademoiselle Grace's actions and her words lead him to the opposite conclusion? The conclusion that she was an angel—a pure, kindhearted angel sent by God.

Wolves appear in sheep's clothing.

Rafe plucked a cheroot from his pocket and lit it in the lantern. He took a puff and plopped down on the ledge. But he was no imbecile. And he would not allow himself to be fooled by her charms.

Spyglass jumped onto the ledge and swung her one eye upon him—a reprimanding eye, a condemning eye. Rafe winced beneath a stab of unfamiliar conviction, and he waved the cat away. “She has you fooled, le chat stupide.”

The cat yawned and licked her paws, unmoved by his accusations. Then, slinking by his leg, she crawled into his lap. With his free hand, Rafe caressed her. “So you wish to make friends again, non?” The fresh scent of the mademoiselle filled his nostrils, sealing the cat 's betrayal even as the smell brought visions of her flooding into his mind.

“You have been with her!” He pushed the cat away. “Traître.”

Spyglass gave him a cursory glance then leapt onto his desk and turned the other way.

But too late; Rafe could not force the mademoiselle from his mind. He took a draught of his cheroot and stared out the window, wondering what it would be like to be loved by such a woman.

Tap tap tap.

Rafe groaned, not wishing to leave his dream world just yet. “Entrezvous.”

The door squeaked open and light footsteps sounded, but Rafe continued staring out the window, hoping whoever it was would see he was occupied and go away. When no voice beckoned him, he swung around, ready to spew a string of blasphemies at the sailor who dared disturb him.

It was no filthy sailor who met his blurry gaze, no unkempt man, but a lady dressed in shimmering silk with skin the color of pearls and hair the color of the night—a glowing vision of the woman who hounded his dreams.

She jerked back at what must have been a look of desire on his face.

“Mademoiselle Grace.” The words slid like silk off his brandy-drenched lips. He rose from the ledge and stamped his cheroot onto a tray.

“Captain.” She clasped her hands together and took a step toward him.

Her shapely form spiraled in his gaze like smoke from a fire, and he inhaled a deep breath, hoping her scent would find its way to his nose. But all he could smell was the sting of his own tobacco and brandy.

“I came to...” Her bottom lip quivered. “I mean to say...” Fear skittered across her green eyes. “Forgive me. I shouldn't have come.” She whirled about.

“Non. Please do not leave.” He took no care to remove the pleading from his voice.

She slowly turned to face him. “You have been drinking.”

Rafe wove around his desk, approaching her slowly so as not to frighten her off. “When am I not drinking?” He grinned.

She frowned as Spyglass jumped from the desk and began slinking around the lacy hem of her skirts.

Rafe continued toward the apparition, wondering if his brandy-hazed mind had only conjured up the focus of his recent thoughts. Where was his anger when he needed it? She had lied to him, betrayed him, and with the worst possible person—his father. But right now he could think of nothing else but that he must touch her. He must discover if she was real. And if she was, what other reason could she have for coming to his cabin at this hour of night besides the one that heated his blood?

He halted before her. She lowered her chin, and he allowed his gaze to soak her in from head to toe.

She cleared her throat and shifted nervously, then started to take a step away from him. Rafe touched her arm. The warmth of her soft flesh rose from beneath her sleeve to his fingertips.

Oui. She was real.

In that moment, he would forgive her betrayal, would forgive her deception, if only ... if only she would love him. If only she would take away the emptiness in his soul.

Rafe ran his thumb over her cheek. Breath escaped her parted lips, but she did not retreat. Lifting her thick black lashes, she gazed at him with those emerald eyes, searching his face for something—if he knew what it was, he would gladly give it to her.

“Please do not sell me to the don, Captain,” she whispered in a pleading tone, perhaps sensing his weakened condition.

Rafe ground his teeth together to keep from proclaiming what his heart longed to shout—that he would never do anything to harm her.

She lowered her gaze. “Is there naught I can do to persuade you to change your course?”

“Perhaps.” He grinned, allowing his thoughts the freedom to roam into dangerous seas. Had she come to offer herself to him? Though every ounce of his flesh yearned for it to be true, a part of him would die of disappointment if it were. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his swirling head, and cursed himself for drinking so much brandy. Her womanly scent tickled his nose, and his body warmed at her closeness. He reached toward her. She flinched but did not back away. He fingered a lock of her raven hair, relishing the silky feel.

“You wear your hair loose for me, non?”

“No.” She started to retreat, but Rafe touched her arm again, halting her.

He swept the back of his fingers over her neck, her jaw, her chin, lifting it. The look in her eyes nearly sent him reeling backward. Where was the hatred that had burned within them the last time they were on this brig? He would have expected it to have returned in full force after he kidnapped her again. But all he saw in its place was concern, admiration, and dare he hope, a shred of ardor.

“You have not answered my question,” she said.

“En fait, I have had my doubts as to my present course.” It was true enough, although he had not changed his mind about selling her. His fury had continued to fuel his resolve to do so, but at the moment he felt both weakening.

She placed a hand on his arm but immediately lowered it. “Perhaps God is convicting you of your wrongdoing.”

Spyglass meowed as if in agreement.

“Oui.” Rafe continued caressing her chin, wondering why she allowed him such liberties. Peut-être he had been wrong about her innocence. As he had been wrong about Claire's. “Or perhaps I can be persuaded to choose the right course.” He swallowed against a burst of desire.

She regarded him with cynicism and a flicker of hope. “How so?”

He brushed a curl from her face. “Stay with me tonight.”

A tiny line formed between Mademoiselle Grace's brows. It deepened. Her chest heaved, and she took a step back. Anger flashed across her eyes.

“How dare you suggest such a thing?” She raised her hand and slapped him across his cheek.

Rafe could have stopped her, but somewhere deep down inside, he knew he deserved her scorn. The sting radiated across his jaw and over his face, but it did nothing to ease his roaring conscience. He rubbed his cheek and grinned. If she had been any other woman, he would have dismissed her immediately, angry that his passions had been aroused for no reason. But not this woman. Delight surged within him at her rejection, for he would not have expected any other reaction.

Rafe stomped to his desk and took a swig from an open bottle. “Do you find me so repulsive that you would rather become a slave than spend an evening with me?” The thin gray line of dawn spread across the horizon. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he turned to face her. “I thought I saw some attraction, even longing in your eyes, non?”

“No.” She snapped. “ 'Tis the drink that clouds your mind.” She hugged herself. “You are naught but a French rogue. And you will not add me to your list of conquests.”

He shrugged. “You may regret that decision someday.”

“You flatter yourself, Captain.”

“There are many women who would count themselves fortunate to receive my affections.”

“Then they may have you.”

“And yet you came crawling to my cabin late at night. What am I to think?”

Spyglass meowed, and Mademoiselle Grace scooped her up and held her against her chest.

Rafe leaned back onto his desk. “Sacre mer, you give more affection to my cat than to me.”

“Spyglass isn't going to sell me to a don.”

“Peut-être, if you give me the same attention, I will not either.”

“'Tis not the same affection you seek.”

“Oui, mais a much more enjoyable one.” Rafe grinned at the way his words made her squirm.

She stiffened her jaw and met his gaze. “The affections of which you speak are sacred and meant only for marriage, not as a bargaining tool.” She set Spyglass onto the floor. “I have never even kissed a man and do not intend to do so until I am betrothed.”

Never kissed a man. Sacre mer. Her innocence stunned Rafe. “How difficult it must be to keep such strong passions contained.”

“Strong?” She huffed. “You fool yourself, Captain. And it is not difficult to do the will of God.”

“For la prude pieuse as you are, perhaps, mon petit chou.”

She stiffened her lips. “So now I am a pious prude and a cabbage?”

He grinned and stroked his mustache.

“You are a brute when you drink.” She swept her sharp eyes to his.

A twinge grated over Rafe's conscience.

“It does not become you, or any man, to benumb himself with alcohol. How can you behave like a gentleman when your senses, your very soul is thus bewitched?” The haughty reprimand faded from her gaze, replaced by one of appeal.

Grabbing the half-empty bottle of brandy, Rafe studied the amber liquid. It had always brought him relief from the pains of life. It had always been his friend when no one else cared. Yet at that moment he would gladly abandon it to see the approval swim back into Mademoiselle Grace's green eyes.

He made his way toward his bed and poured the contents of the bottle into his chamber pot. “Anything for you, mademoiselle.”

She blinked and clutched the chain around her neck.

He started toward her, but she held up a hand. “Enough of this. Captain, I have forgotten myself. I came to tell you that Annette has disappeared.”

Rafe halted. “Annette? Claire's lady's maid?”

Mademoiselle Grace nodded. “She left the cabin more than an hour ago and has not returned. I thought you should know.”

Rafe sighed. This lady cared for everyone, regardless of status. “You were right to tell me.” He grabbed his rapier, slung it into his sheath, and then added his pistols. “I will escort you back to your cabin.” Rafe held out his arm, hoping she'd take it, but not expecting her to after his performance.

She hesitated, then started to raise her hand, giving him a flicker of hope.

Monsieur Thorn barreled into the room. His wild gaze shifted curiously between them before he inclined his head toward Rafe.

Mademoiselle Grace lowered her hand.

Rafe ground his teeth together. “Sacre mer. What is it, Monsieur Thorn?”

“A ship, Captain, a mile astern and bearing down upon us fast. And from the looks of her, 'tis Captain Howell again.”

Rafe shook his head and ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake away the alcoholic daze. “How did he find me again so soon?”

“Bad luck, perhaps, Captain?” Monsieur Thorn's grin sent a sliver of unease through Rafe that he had no time to question. While in Portde-Paix, Rafe had sent a post to Governor Woodes in New Providence, demanding an explanation for the misunderstanding, but of course he wouldn't have received it yet.

In the meantime, Rafe would have to deal with this imbecile Howell or any other captain, who dared try and sink him for piracy.

Slowly closing the door so as not to awaken Madame Dubois, Grace crept across the squeaky deck toward her bedding. The faint glow of dawn filtered in through the tiny window and alighted upon Annette, who was sitting on the edge of Madame Dubois's cot.

Grace jumped, not expecting to find anyone stirring at this hour, least of all Annette, who she supposed was still wandering about the brig. Taking a breath to still the rapid thumping of her heart, Grace opened her mouth to question the mulatto, but Madame Dubois's shrill voice from the bed interrupted her.

“There you are. Where have you been?” Her tone lacked the usual sharpness, almost as if the energy required to speak the words stole her breath away.

Ignoring her, Grace moved to the chair and took a seat. “Annette, you are safe! I was so worried.”

“Worried? About me?” Annette circled her fingers around a small vial in her hand.

“I heard you leave last night.” Grace tried to rub the heaviness from her eyes. “And when you didn't return, I went to beg the captain's assistance to find you.” Grace gestured toward the door where she'd parted ways with Captain Dubois, the warmth of his touch still lingering on her fingertips.

“You were with Rafe?” Madame Dubois struggled to rise, but sank back onto her pillows with a moan.

Shouts blared from above, followed by the booming snap of sails catching the wind. The brig canted, and Grace clasped the arms of the chair.

“I was not
with
the captain.” Grace's harsh tone surprised her as did the unusual guilt grinding over her conscience. She had done nothing wrong. Except be alone with the captain in his cabin. Except allow him to caress her cheek and glide his fingers through her hair.

Annette stared aghast at Grace as the same oppressive heaviness that always surrounded the mulatto woman filled the cabin and clung to Grace like a dense fog. She hugged herself and ran a wary gaze over the shadowy bulkheads, expecting to find the source of the eerie feeling in the form of a hovering specter.

Madame Dubois laid a hand on her forehead and moaned. “Why worry about Annette? I am the one who needs
l 'assistance.”

Grace sank to her knees beside the cot, chiding herself for not noticing the woman's distress. “Are you ill?” She lifted her hand to lay it upon Madame Dubois's cheek, but the woman swatted it away.

“Non, je suis
affligée.”

“Madame suffers from a broken heart,” Annette offered, shoving the vial into the sleeve of her cotton gown.

A broken heart?
The captain's history with Madame Dubois became all the more obvious as time went on. Grace's stomach curled at the thought of what must have occurred between them, before or after her marriage to his father. She didn't want to know. She bit her lip, shifting her thoughts back to the present and the suspicious vial stashed in Annette's sleeve.

She looked at Annette. “And you have the cure?”

The woman made no reply. She gazed at her mistress, then grabbed a damp cloth from the table and dabbed it on Madame Dubois's forehead.

Grace rose from her chair and went to gather her bedding. The ship pitched, and she threw a hand against the bulkhead to keep from falling. The mad gurgle of the Caribbean dashing past the hull filled the room, unsettling her nerves. Setting her blankets atop the chair, Grace faced Annette. “Where were you last night?”

The mulatto raised her dark eyes to Grace's, then lowered them again, but not before Grace caught a flicker of fear crossing them. “I stopped the storm.”

The hairs on Grace's arm bristled. Indeed the storm had ceased, but whether it had anything to do with Annette's prayers, Grace could not say—did not want to even consider. Though she knew the forces of darkness were powerful, she shuddered to think they could be acting within such close range.

Madame Dubois groaned. “Oh, who cares about Annette! Go get Rafe. I need to see him.” She waved a hand toward her maid. “Help me up, Annette. I want to look
présentable.”

BOOM!
Cannon shot rumbled through the brig, shaking the timbers and echoing like the voice of God off the bulkheads. Grace dashed to the window. Black smoke curled past the salt-streaked panes.

“Zut alors!” Madame Dubois shot up in bed. “Are we under attack?”

“Stay here,” Grace ordered, rushing out the door and slamming it behind her without awaiting a response. Clutching her skirts, she bolted up the ladder and sprang onto the deck. If they were to be involved in another battle, she intended to face it head-on and not risk being blown to bits below deck without a moment's warning.

Sailors scrambled across the brig, some carrying cannonballs and others muskets, pistols, and axes. Men hauled ropes or flung themselves aloft—all of them mumbling curses as they went. Scanning the raucous mob, Grace's eyes found Captain Dubois. He stood with boots planted firmly apart on the quarterdeck, flanked by Mr. Thorn and Father Alers. His gray waistcoat and purple sash flapped in the breeze behind him. Beneath his hat, black hair streamed like liquid coal. With a spyglass pressed to his eye, he surveyed something off their stern as he bellowed orders to his first mate.

The brig crested a wave, and Grace stumbled but managed to make her way to the larboard railing. Wind too hot for so early in the morning struck her like the opening of an oven. The acrid scent of gunpowder stung her nose. The sun peeked over the horizon, transforming the crest of each wave into sparkling silver. Squinting against the brightness, Grace leaned over and glanced astern. In the distance, the curve of two red sails flamed in the rising sun. White foam swept over the oncoming ship's bow as she closed the distance between them.

Captain Howell's ship, the
Avenger.

Grace rubbed her eyes as the sun glinted off a slight movement beyond the pursuing ship. Suddenly a pyramid of brimming white sails slipped into view.

“Two sails! Two sails!” A man yelled from aloft.

Grace swallowed, wondering if the other ship could be her sister's. But she knew her hope was in vain. Even if the sailor had kept his word to deliver her post to Charles Towne, Faith would not have had time to catch up with them yet. She gazed at the two ships swooping through the azure waters, fast on
Le Champion'
s stern.
Oh Lord, please be with us.
The brig rose and plunged over a wave, showering her with a spray of seawater and sending foamy water onto the deck, soaking her shoes.

The captain leaned toward Mr. Thorn and said something that sent the first mate leaping down the quarterdeck ladder, Father Alers on his heels. Surprise widened the first mate's eyes as he passed Grace, but he tipped his hat and continued on his way, dropping below deck. Father Alers halted beside her.

“You should go below, mademoiselle.” He grabbed her arm, but Grace resisted and shook her head. “Did we fire a cannon?”

“Oui. A warning shot only. Maintenant.” He gestured toward the companionway.

“Please let me stay, Father.” Grace gave him a pleading look. “I promise I won't cause any trouble.”

His shoulders slumped and he quirked a brow. “Only if you stop calling me Father.”

Grace smiled. “Forgive me, but the title sits so well upon you.”

He snorted and folded his hands over his prominent belly. A hint of a smile slanted his lips. “Très bien. Mais, I will stay with you. Non?”

“Didn't the captain give you some task to do?”

“Oui.” He smiled. “To watch over you.” The older man took a position beside her.

Mr. Thorn soon returned with a rolled-up chart in hand and rejoined his captain. Together, they spread it atop the binnacle, held it down against the buffeting wind, and examined it for several minutes. Finally, the captain rolled it up and handed it to Mr. Thorn with a nod. He glanced across the main deck, and his gaze found hers.

Delight brightened his eyes for a moment but quickly faded into annoyance. He gripped the hilt of his rapier and turned to face Mr. Atton at the helm. “Set a course west by south, Monsieur Atton.” Then shifting to Mr. Thorn, “All hands aloft, Monsieur Thorn!” he bellowed. “Let fall the topsails and gallants!” Mr. Thorn repeated the commands, sending sailors leaping into the ratlines.

With straining cordage and creaking blocks, the ship swung slowly to starboard, and Grace clutched the railing to keep from falling. Above her, men who looked more like monkeys balanced on ropes no thicker than her wrists as they unfurled the white canvas to catch the swift Caribbean breeze. Sails flapped and thundered hungrily but soon found their satisfaction when an influx of wind filled their white bellies. Grace lowered her gaze to Captain Dubois. With Mr. Thorn beside him, he pointed to something off their starboard bow. She glanced in that direction and saw naught but an eternity of turquoise waves.

When she turned back around, the captain stood before her. She let out a gasp and clutched her throat as his dark gaze drank her in. She lowered her chin. Placing a finger beneath it, he raised her face until she was forced to look at him.

“I found Annette. She is safe.” Grace winced at the stutter in her voice.

“I am happy to hear it.”

His touch brought back memories of their time in his cabin, and shame struck her. Shame she had allowed him such intimacies, shame she had enjoyed the way his touch made her feel. And now as he stood so close to her, strands of his black hair grazing his stubbled jaw, all those feelings came flooding back.

What was happening to her? She should not be feeling such wanton sensations. Sensations that clouded her judgment and befogged her mind so that she did not remember why she'd gone to the captain's cabin in the first place. Not until she had slapped the captain and he'd stepped away from her.

Yet regardless of her inner turmoil, she had not deserved his salacious invitation. She called her anger forward, hoping the force of it would dissolve her shame and confusion.

He released her chin. “Go below, mademoiselle.”

“Please, Captain, I do not wish to die in that tiny cabin.”

“No one dies today. There will be no battle.”

Father Alers shifted his amber eyes between them curiously then scratched his thick beard. “No battle? I have never seen you run, Rafe.”

Captain Dubois huffed out a sigh and gazed at the ships bearing down on them. “I have already bested this buffoon in a challenge once. But we are no match for two ships. I know of an island to the southwest with many shallow inlets where we will be able to hide.”

Grace followed his gaze to where the ships, though not advancing, had certainly not slackened in their pursuit. “But won't they see where we have gone?”

“Le Champion
is shallow on the draft, mademoiselle. She can sail places other ships cannot.” He doffed his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Besides”—one side of his mouth lifted in that grin of his that sent her heart racing—“I have precious cargo aboard that I do not wish harmed.”

“Yes, we wouldn't want your valuable
cargo
destroyed,” she retorted.

“Non. We would not.” He lifted a brow and replaced his hat.

“Captain, a moment, please.” Mr. Thorn hailed him from the quarterdeck and after inclining his head toward her, Captain Dubois joined his first mate.

Thankful he seemed to have forgotten he'd ordered her below, Grace whirled around, gripped the railing, and closed her eyes. The hot wind, tainted with brine and fish and wood, whipped over her, loosening her hair from its pins. But she no longer cared, having grown long since weary of the battle to keep it properly pinned in place. Besides, she could not deny how free she felt as the wind spread its whispery fingers through her curls.
Mercy me, how I have changed.
But was it for the best?

Father Alers cleared his throat. “Le capitaine
est bien épris avec vous,
mademoiselle.”

Grace snapped her eyes open and stared at him aghast, amazed at both his statement and that she had understood it. “He is taken with any female, Fa ... Mr. Alers.”

He smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Oui, that is true. But not in the same way, je vous assure.”

Grace shook her head. “He intends to sell me. Forgive me if I do not believe any interest he has in me goes beyond his own needs or those of his precious hospital.” Her words swirled around her, taunting her with their duplicity, and she attempted to bat them away into the rising breeze. But she could not deny the goodness, the deep affection she had seen in Rafe's eyes—beyond all the anger, beyond the pain. Nor could she deny her own growing feelings for him, conflicted as they were.

Father Alers brushed gray spikes of hair from his face and gave her a knowing look. “It is a sin to tell a fib, mademoiselle.”

Angry that the man read her thoughts so easily, Grace folded her arms over her chest. “He kidnapped me—twice. What more is there to say?” Yet truth be told, his capture of her this time seemed to spring from some deep pain within him rather than any desire to harm her.

Father Alers raised a sardonic brow. Ignoring him, Grace pursed her lips and glanced behind at the two ships that were fast on their heels. A sudden fear clamped her heart. From what she'd seen of Governor Woodes's men, they were no better than pirates. Glad for a chance to change the subject, she faced Father Alers. “Will they catch us?”

“Non.” He laid his hand upon hers on the railing. His warm fingers scratched her skin like rough rope. But she found it oddly soothing. “Rafe is the best capitaine I have seen,” he added.

Grace chuckled. “I do not know whether that should make me happy or sad.”

Father Alers's golden eyes twinkled in the rising sun as the light cast shadows over the crevices in his face. Yet nothing but warmth beamed from his expression.

“Land ho!” a booming voice echoed from the crosstrees. Grace scanned the horizon, and minutes later a gray mound rose from the azure water like the back of a crocodile. The captain barked a series of orders, sending his men scurrying across deck. Off their stern, the two ships maintained a fast pursuit, and Grace could not imagine how the captain expected to hide from them.