Raven Saint (22 page)

Flying through the water with every inch of canvas set to the breeze,
Le Champion
sped toward the burgeoning mass of land.

“Watch your luff, Monsieur Atton!” Captain Dubois barked, stomping across the deck. Though Grace tried to avoid looking at him, she found her gaze drawn to the captain as if a spell had been cast upon her that only the sight of him could appease. Never once did his voice wobble in fear, never once did he seem confused, unsure, or hesitant. He commanded his men with naught but confidence and authority. Grace faced the sea again, chiding herself for admiring anything about the rogue.

Within minutes, the small island loomed large before them, and Captain Dubois brayed a string of orders that brought the brig on a sharp tack around the western peninsula.

“Trice up, men,” the captain bellowed. “Shorten sail!”

Shielding her eyes from the sun high in the sky, Grace watched as the men, dangling in the shrouds, hauled in the canvas on fore- and mainmasts. With only her topsails fluttering in the light breeze, the brig slowed, and without hesitation, the captain sailed her into the entrance of an oblong harbor riddled with sandbars and reefs.

Grace followed the captain's gaze off their stern, but the pursuing ships were nowhere in sight.

“She's shoaling fast, Captain,” Mr. Thorn shouted, examining the lead and line that one of the crewmen had just pulled up from the water.

“Keep me informed.” Captain Dubois jumped onto the quarterdeck and relieved Mr. Atton of his duty at the helm.

The captain stood at the wheel while his men hung over the bow, directing him which way to steer the brig. Another man tossed the lead and line repeatedly over the side, shouting out the dwindling depths of the sea. Grace leaned over the railing. She could make out the dim bottom of the sandy bay beneath the brig. Sharp, jagged reefs rose from the depths like sharp talons searching for a victim. One slip and their hull would be penetrated and all would be lost.

She raised her gaze to the pristine white shores of the island that framed the small harbor. Sand, sparkling like white jewels in the sunlight, fanned up to a lush web of greens and browns, making up the forest. The scent of tropical flowers and fruit wafted over Grace and she drew a deep breath. The smell of land—land where she was not to be sold. Not yet.

Hushed whistles alerted Grace to another female on deck, and she turned to see Annette dashing toward her. Fear flashed from her brown eyes.

“What is it, Annette?” Grace grabbed her hands.

“Madame Dubois. She is ill. You must come at once.”

After Mademoiselle Grace disappeared below, the deck of
Le Champion
groaned as if lamenting her absence. As did Rafe—an internal, silent groan. He had allowed her to remain above for the sole purpose of enjoying the occasional glances he stole of her when she was not looking. Her presence had a calming influence on him that he could not explain.

“Weigh anchor!” Mr. Thorn shouted, and the massive iron hook struck the water with a resounding splash. Within seconds the thick rope snapped taut and the brig jerked to a stop. Captain Dubois jumped down to the main deck, peering over both sides to ensure their safe distance from the reefs. Then raising the spyglass, he studied the wide mouth of the harbor.

“Any sign of them, Captain?” Monsieur Thorn asked.

“Non.” He lowered the glass. “If luck is with us, they did not see which inlet we slipped into.”

Mr. Weylan approached, a group of sailors following him like a foaming wake. “Capitaine, what is your plan?” The second mate adjusted his feathered hat and put his hands upon his waist. “We cannot stay here forever.”

Ayes and grunts tumbled from behind him.

Rafe flattened his lips, feeling his ire rise at this new provocation. “We will wait for an opportunity to slip by them.” He forced confidence into his voice then studied his crew. The men's loyalties shifted like waves tossed in a storm, the respect he usually found in their eyes in short supply.

“What if they trap us?” Monsieur Legard asked, peering from behind Weylan.

“They cannot see us from the entrance to the harbor.” Rafe pressed a finger over his mustache. “We will leave under cover of darkness.”

The lines on Monsieur Weylan's face folded, and he scratched his matted hair.

“What else, Monsieur?” Rafe sighed in frustration.

“The men are unhappy, Capitaine. We have not been paid in over two months.”

Rafe gripped the hilt of his rapier, his muscles tensing for a fight. He felt Monsieur Thorn stiffen beside him, but when Rafe glanced his way, a slight smile sat smugly upon his first mate's lips.

“And now we are delayed again,” another sailor shouted. “When do we sell the woman?”

Rafe ground his teeth together. “I am to meet the don in seven days.” Yet the thought of making that appointment ate away at Rafe's gut.

He eyed his men in turn. “With me as your capitaine, have you not lined your pockets with more coins than you could spend?
Où est votre confiance?”
Rafe frowned. How could he blame them? He was not sure he trusted himself anymore. But to let them see his hesitation, his doubt, would be certain death.

“I am still the capitaine of this brig. Unless one of you wishes to challenge me?” Rafe leveled a stern gaze at each man and then glanced over the sailors on the quarter and foredecks who'd gathered at the first sign of an altercation.
“Personne?”

Some of his men stared blankly back at him; others shook their heads.

“Non. Of course not, Capitaine.” Weylan smiled, but in that slick smile Rafe saw the makings of a mutiny.

Rafe narrowed a gaze upon him then glanced over the men. “Get back to work or I'll slice all of you through myself!” he barked, and the men scattered like flies before the whip of a horse's tail.

Then fisting his hands, Rafe spun around and stomped toward the companionway. In seven days' time he must either hand Mademoiselle Grace over to the Spanish don or face a mutiny—a mutiny he was sure would result in his death.

Grace dabbed the moist cloth over Madame Dubois's forehead and cheeks. Heat radiated from the woman's skin as if it were a searing griddle. A lump formed in Grace's throat. She harbored no deep affection for the woman but certainly did not wish her any harm.

A soft moan slipped from Madame Dubois's lips, and she tossed her head across the pillow. Red blotches marred Claire's normally creamy skin, and dark circles hung beneath crystal blue eyes that were glazed with fever. Grace swallowed against her rising fear, laid the cloth down, and stood. Across the cabin, Annette rested on her bedding as if she hadn't a care in the world.

Making her way to the window, Grace peered out at the black sky, dusted with a myriad of twinkling stars. Her eyes ached from lack of sleep. She rubbed them and whispered a prayer.
Lord, please help me. Please help Madame Dubois.
As usual, God's voice was silent.
Where are You, Lord?
She scanned the endless expanse of night sky, remembering a time when her prayers were filled with faith. Now she couldn't affirm that God even heard her pleas, though certainly He had kept her alive to this point. But for what purpose?

Gentle waves licked the brig's hull. Somewhere up on deck, a fiddle moaned a sad tune, even as laughter bubbled up from the sailors' berth at the forecastle. Everything seemed so peaceful. Yet it was a delusory peace. For not far away lurked two fully armed ships ready to pound
Le Champion
into splinters and sink her into the sea. And within this tiny cabin one woman fought for her life, another lived as a slave, while the third would soon become one.

“Annette.” The desperation in Madame Dubois's voice tugged at Grace's heart.

Annette glanced at her mistress, then closed her eyes, feigning sleep.

Grace moved to the cot. “'Tis me, Grace, madame.” Retrieving the cloth, she patted it over her forehead. “How do you feel?”

Madame Dubois's lashes fluttered open. Blue eyes, sparkling in the lantern light, alighted upon Grace. “Where is Annette?”

“She is sleeping. But I am here, madame.” Grace took the woman's hand in hers, wincing at the heat emanating from her skin, and surprised when the woman received her embrace without recoiling.

Madame Dubois's chest rose and fell, and she lifted a hand to her head. “What is wrong with me? Am I dying?”

“No, of course not.” Grace attempted a comforting smile.

Rustling sounds rose from the corner, and Annette appeared beside them. Spyglass ceased her purring. Grace gave the mulatto a cursory glance before returning her gaze to Madame Dubois. “Can you eat something, madame?” The poor woman had not partaken of any food since last night.

“Je ne sais pas.” Madame Dubois breathed out words barely above a whisper. “Perhaps.”

“Annette,” Grace said. “Would you please tell Father Alers to bring up some broth for Madame.”

Annette blinked and gazed at her mistress as if she were an apparition before darting out the door.

Spyglass stretched on the table where she lay and began purring.

“My head hurts.” Madame Dubois pressed her temples and turned toward Grace. “Where are we? Where is Rafe?”

“We are safe.” Grace didn't want to add to the woman's stress by informing her of the two ships following them. “And Rafe, I mean Captain Dubois, is no doubt up on deck.” Though Grace had not seen him for several hours.

Madame Dubois stared at Grace as if seeing her for the first time. The haughty sheen had dissipated from her eyes, along with the animosity that always fired from within them. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

Grace squeezed her hand. “Because you are ill. Surely you would do the same for me should I become waylaid by some malady.”

Madame Dubois shook her head, a slight smirk upon her lips. “I do not think so.”

Grace chuckled, knowing that in her delirium, the woman had spoken the truth. She released her hand and dipped the cloth back into a basin of water. Then wringing it out, she laid it over Madame Dubois's forehead. “It does not matter. I will care for you anyway.”

“I do not deserve it,” she muttered, her confession shocking Grace.

“None of us deserve anything good, madame.” Grace flinched at her own words, wondering where they had come from. Yet tears filled her eyes as she realized how true they were.
For all have sinned, and come short of the glory of God. There is none righteous, no not one.

The door creaked, and Annette entered, followed by Father Alers, a tray in hand. He ambled in and set it down on the table then eyed Madame Dubois with concern. The scent of lemons and beef broth swirled about the cabin. Annette closed the door and slunk into the shadows against the bulkhead.

Spyglass sat up, her ears perked.

“How is she?” Father Alers sank into the chair.

Grace shook her head. “I cannot cool her fever.”

The old priest leaned forward in the chair and scratched his beard as if trying to conjure up a solution.

Grace stood. “It came upon her so suddenly. I've never seen such a thing.”

A gasp came from the shadows, and Grace snapped her gaze toward Annette's dark form, wondering at the woman's odd behavior and then remembering the potion she had given Madame Dubois. “Do you know what happened to your mistress, Annette?” Her voice carried more accusation then she intended, and Annette cowered further into the shadows—so far Grace could not see her eyes.

“Non, mademoiselle,” came her sheepish voice.

Father Alers gestured toward the tray. “Perhaps the broth will strengthen her.”

“Do you have any herbs aboard, any feverfew, peppermint, or elderflower?” Grace clasped her hands together.

“Non.”

“No one with medical knowledge?”

“Non.” Father Alers shook his head.

A groan sounded from the cot. “Mademoiselle.” Madame Dubois reached out her hand, and Grace fell to her knees and took it in her own.

“Yes, I am here, madame.” She laid the back of her hand on Madame Dubois's cheek, then flinched at the heat radiating off her skin.

“I am dying.” Her voice wobbled, and her chest rose and fell rapidly.

Visions of Grace's mother on her deathbed crept out from hiding and dashed tauntingly across Grace's mind. Madame Dubois looked so much like her: same blond hair, same striking blue eyes, and now the same feverish skin, same raspy voice, same delirium. Grace would not watch another woman die. “No, you will not die.”

Father Alers handed Grace the bowl. “Help her drink this.”

Gently placing her arm beneath Madame Dubois, Grace tried to lift her. “Madame, please drink this broth.”

“Non. Non.” She waved it away. “I cannot.”

With a huff of defeat, Grace handed the bowl back to Father Alers, her heart sinking lower in her chest.

“Mademoiselle,” the woman panted. “I must tell you something.”

“You should rest, madame. Regain your strength.” Grace wiped a saturated curl from her face.

“Non, s´il vous plaît. I must.” She stopped to catch her breath. She peered at Grace below heavy lids and shook her head. “What you must think of me.”

“It does not matter.”

“I was not always like I am now.” Madame Dubois swallowed and tried to gather her breath. “I grew up in France, in the small port town of La Havre. Mon père worked on the docks and ma mère washed clothes to make extra money. She was British like you.”

“Shhh.” Grace dabbed the cloth on her head, wondering why the woman cared to disclose her childhood now of all times.

“Mon père died in an accident. Ma mère died of the sickness two months later,” she rasped.

Grace halted her ministrations. She had lost only one parent. She could not imagine the horror of losing both.

“I exist on the streets for many years.” Madame Dubois coughed, and her face pinched in pain. “Then at sixteen I accept the King's offer to come to Saint Dominique to become wife to a planter.”

Grace thought of Nicole. It would seem many of the women at Port-de-Paix shared the same past.

Madame Dubois squeezed her hand. “I never had enough
nourriture.
I never had
des belles robes.
I never had someone to love me. Comprenezvous?” She lifted sincere eyes to Grace, and in that look, Grace no longer saw a vain, pretentious woman. She no longer saw a jealous shrew. She saw a frightened, innocent little girl.

Drawing Claire's hand to her lips, Grace kissed it and smiled. Her eyes moistened at the thought of what this woman had endured. “I cannot say that I completely understand, but I do empathize with your pain, for I too, have suffered loss.” Grace wiped a tear pooling at the corner of Madame Dubois's eye. “Now you must rest and get well.” Though by the rising heat on the woman's cheeks, Grace began to doubt that would happen.

Madame Dubois's breathing grew ragged and her lids closed. She turned her head and fell asleep. When Grace tried to wake her there was no response, not even a whimper. Leaning her head on the cot, Grace allowed her tears to fall. “Please, Lord, heal this woman. Please.”

“She will not live.” Annette's words pierced the air like a rapier.

Grace snapped her gaze toward the mulatto. “How can you say such a thing?”

Annette stepped out of the gloom into the lantern light. Malevolence, but also a spark of dread, burned in her brown eyes as she gazed at her mistress. Grace shivered.

Father Alers stood, the legs of his chair scraping over the planks of the deck.

“What have you done?” Grace asked as she rose and took a step toward her. Spyglass darted to the edge of the table, and shifted her one eye onto Annette.

The mulatto swallowed, her wide eyes sparking in the lantern light. “I gave her what she want, what she beg for.”

Father Alers glanced over the cabin as if he, too, felt the darkening presence within, then he narrowed his eyes upon Annette. “And what did she ask for?”

“Un philtre d 'amour.”
She laughed. “To make her irrésistible to Captain Dubois.”

Grace grabbed her arm. “A love potion? What was in it?”

“Nothing that would do any harm.” Annette trembled, her gaze skittering to her mistress. “Except to one who has no heart.”

If Annette had poisoned Madame Dubois, what hope did they have to save her? She thought to insist the mulatto give her an antidote, but from the look in her eyes, Grace didn't dare allow the woman to administer any further potions to her mistress. Blood surged to Grace's head even as her stomach knotted. “If Madame Dubois dies, her death is on your hands.”

Tears swarmed into Annette's eyes, and she drew a ragged breath. “I gave her what she asked for,” she repeated, her voice raised in fear. “It is the gods who decide if she deserves to live.” She shuddered, tore her arm from Grace's hand, and dashed from the cabin, sobbing.

Grace started after her, but Father Alers held her in place. “Let her go. Our concern must be for Madame Dubois.”

Spyglass curled into a ball again on the table.

Grace eyed the cat curiously then clutched the chain around her neck. “Yes. We must get her to port. We must find an apothecary.”

“We cannot. Le Capitaine spotted one of Woodes's ships just outside the harbor entrance. Until they are gone or we have a moonless night, we are trapped in this cove.” Father Alers pressed down the coils of his gray hair, but they sprang back into their chaotic web as soon as he withdrew his hand.

“So there is naught we can do for her.” Grace glanced at Madame Dubois.

Father Alers crossed himself. “Nothing but pray.”

Thorn rubbed the back of his neck and took another turn across the foredeck. Unable to sleep, he'd dismissed the sailor on watch and took his place. He squeezed the muscles in his arms and stretched his back. Why was he so tense? Everything was going according to plan.

He slid his thumb over the scar stretching down his cheek and neck, a constant reminder to stay the course—to forge ahead until the vengeance that gnawed hungrily in his gut was satisfied. Glancing over the ebony waters of the bay, her shallow waves christened in silver moonlight, he smiled at the fortunate turn of events. Movement on the deck below caught his eye. A dark form ducked within the shadows by the starboard railing. One of the crew? No, the shape was far too small. Muffled sobs filled the air.

Thorn made his way down the foredeck ladder then crept across the main deck, trying not to alert whoever it was. But as he grew near, her sobs grew louder—for he could now tell it was a woman—a woman with hair the color of the night tumbling down her back. His heart leapt.

Annette.

He took another step toward her. His boot thumped. She whirled around to face him and let out a gasp, backing away.

He lifted a hand. “Don't be afraid. I heard you crying.”

She glanced toward the companionway hatch then back at him, swiping the moisture from her cheeks.

“May I?” Thorn motioned to the spot beside her, hoping she would accept his company.

She said nothing. He slipped next to her and grabbed the railing. Trying to appear nonchalant, he glanced over the dark waters. “Beautiful night.”

She sniffed and faced the harbor. “Oui.”

Thorn took a deep breath, trying to still the thumping of his heart. He'd wanted nothing more than to speak to this dark beauty ever since she had boarded the brig, but her position and color created societal obstacles that had prevented him. Now, as she stood beside him, smelling of citrus and cedar, his senses inflamed. And all he wanted to do was discover the cause of her distress and stop her from crying. “Are you ill, mademoiselle?” He dared a glance at her. Her dark, thick lashes lowered to her cheeks that looked more like creamy
café
in the moonlight.

She shook her head. “My mistress is ill.”

He nodded and leaned his elbow on the railing, trying to make out more of her exquisite features in the shadows. “I am sorry.”