Raven Saint (23 page)

“Pas moi. I am not.” Her French accent sharpened.

Thorn chuckled. She clicked her tongue and started to leave, but he grabbed her arm. “Please forgive me. I was not laughing at you. It is just that, well...” He released her, thankful when she stayed even though her suspicious gaze signaled she could bolt at any minute. “Your mistress is not a person to evoke much sympathy, non?” He mimicked her French, hoping it would please her and was rewarded with a tiny smile that set his heart soaring.

“Why do you, a white man, speak to me?” she asked, her sweet voice barely audible over the creaking of the ship.

Realizing he must look a fright, Thorn adjusted his coat and brushed dirt from his sleeve. “I have wanted to speak to you ever since you came aboard.”

Her delicate brow folded.
“Pourquoi?”
She took a step back as if suddenly afraid of him.

He lifted a hand in an effort to assuage her fear but it only sent her farther away. “You misunderstand, mademoiselle. I have no untoward intentions. I only wish to get to know you.”

“To know me?” She shook her head as if he'd said the moon were made of flour and milk.

“Yes. That is all.” Thorn opened his palms in a gesture of innocence.

She faced the bay, the breeze dancing through her hair that reminded him of black silk. He longed to sift his fingers through it. “You are very beautiful.”

She huffed in disgust. “Oui. It is what I was made for.”

“Not all you were created for.” Thorn laid a hand on her arm, but she snapped from his touch and shot fiery eyes his way. A cloud strayed over the moon, stealing Annette from his sight.

“Non? Mon père treats me as a slave. Ma mère is his mistress. And Madame Dubois despises me. I am half black, half white. The blancs shun me. The Africans are repulsed by the white blood in my veins. I live
suspendue
between two worlds, and I belong to none. I am nothing without my beauty. And if that is all you want from me, you must speak to Monsieur Dubois. I am sure you and he can make a good deal.” Turning, she started to walk away, but Thorn jumped in her path, blocking her. He hoped she couldn't see the grin on his lips at her spirited oration. The woman was not only beautiful but full of pluck as well.

She tried to weave around him, but he grabbed her arm.

“Do not leave, Annette.” His throat constricted beneath a sudden sorrow. Sorrow at a life so enshrouded with misery and rejection. “I assure you, I want nothing from you but your friendship.” He peered in the darkness, longing to see her face. “I, too, find myself between two worlds. I am an Englishman on a French brig. I am a man of education and honor among a bevy of crude, ill-mannered sailors.” He leaned toward her. The cloud abandoned its post, allowing the moon to bathe her in milky light. “We have much in common, mademoiselle.”

She lifted her moist brown eyes to his. And in them he saw a spark of hope.

But then she looked away. “I must go,” she said.

Thorn released her, and she dashed to the companionway ladder. Then casting one last glance his way, she disappeared below.

Thorn smiled and gazed up at the half-moon. If God listened to prayers, Thorn would thank Him for the moon tonight that kept them imprisoned within this cove. For if the white orb had not made an appearance, they would have attempted an escape in the darkness, and he may not have had the chance to become better acquainted with the alluring Annette.

In fact, each day they remained in this cove provided an opportunity for their refuge to be discovered.

Which could only bode well for Mr. Thorn.

And very badly for Rafe.

At Father Alers's gruff “entrez-vous,” Rafe entered the small cabin, Spyglass bounding in on his heels. The putrid stench of
infirmité
assaulted him and drew his eyes to the lithe, ghostly form lying on the cot amidst a tangle of blankets and golden hair. Thunder clapped outside, sending the brig aquiver with a sense of impending doom. Although storm clouds covered the tiny island, a few resolute rays of sunlight pierced the porthole into the tiny cabin.

Father Alers gazed at Rafe with those intense golden eyes, now filled with concern.

“Comment va-t-elle?”
Rafe asked. When he had heard of Claire's illness, he assumed it was just another one of her tricks to get his attention.

Claire moaned and shifted on her coverlet.

Apparently, this time, Rafe had been wrong. He glanced across the cabin. Spyglass lapped broth from a bowl on the table. A jumble of blankets lay stuffed in one corner by the armoire alongside a candle, a necklace, and some stones.

“Where is Mademoiselle Grace?”

Father Alers stretched his legs out before him and folded his hands over his belly. “The mademoiselle went above for some air.”

“Grace went above?
Sous la pluie?”
Rafe glanced at the porthole, where streaks of rain flattened beneath the prevailing wind.

Father Alers shrugged. “It stopped raining, and the poor mademoiselle has been attending Madame Claire throughout the night.”

“Vraiment?” Though Rafe knew of the mademoiselle's charitable heart, he felt a twinge of shock that she would care for a woman who had done nothing but reproach her.

“Oui, the mademoiselle has been most
aimable
to Madame Dubois.” Father Alers shook his head. “She returns each of Madame's insults with kindness.”

Rafe scratched his jaw as his muscles stiffened in defiance of Grace's forgiving heart. Yet for as long as Rafe had known Father Alers, the man had dispensed his approbation of others as sparsely as he did the prize claret hidden in his trunk.

Claire moaned, and he stared at the red blotches marring her sweat-laden face. She had always been so beautiful. Even now, consumed with sickness, she still displayed the feminine charm he had once been unable to resist. Yet lately her beauty seemed more akin to a lovely gown of silk and lace—a garment one put on and took off and that faded and stained and wrinkled over time.

Rafe shifted his stance and spotted a cockroach scampering away. He smashed it with his boot, hoping to alleviate his aggravation.

“Where is Annette? She should be attending her mistress.”

Father Alers's eyes took on a haunted look. “She ran out after Mademoiselle accused her of poisoning her mistress.”

“Poisoning?” The word rebounded through Rafe's mind like round shot but found no place to land.

“Oui, un philtre d'amour.” Father Alers snorted. “A potion to win your heart.”

Claire moaned again and clamped her lips together. Spyglass finished lapping up the broth and begin licking her paws and washing her face.

A deep sorrow fell upon Rafe like the weight of an anchor, even as his anger burned. Why now? Why did Claire want so desperately to win back his heart now? When he no longer felt anything but pity for the woman. When his thoughts were constantly on another.

“Do you think Annette poisoned her?”

“Qui sait?”
Father Alers quirked a brow. “For now, we must get Madame Dubois to an apothecary.”

Claire's lashes fluttered, and she groaned. Father Alers wrung out a cloth and laid it atop her forehead.

Rafe stomped to the porthole. “We cannot. Woodes's ships cruise outside the harbor waiting to strike us as soon as we set sail.”

Claire's eyes opened to tiny slits, and Father Alers removed the cloth. “We are trapped?”

“Non, I will think of something.” Rafe flattened his lips and made his way to the cot.

“Rafe.” Claire lifted a shaky hand toward him, and he knelt beside her, taking it in his. Whatever animosity he harbored against this woman, however much she had ripped out his heart and trampled upon it, he did not wish her dead.

Father Alers stood and pressed a hand on Rafe's back, then he stepped toward the door. “Can you sit with her for a minute? I need to make sure Yanez is attending his duties in the galley in my absence.”

Rafe shook his head. What did he know about tending the sick?

But Father Alers waved him off. “I'll return straightaway.” And then he was gone.

Rafe released Claire's hand, removed his rapier, and laid it on the table. Taking the chair Father Alers had vacated, he grabbed his baldric and began toying with the rough leather at its edge. Sweat beaded on the back of his neck as he glanced over the cabin, careful to avoid looking at the sick woman on the cot—the woman he had once loved, the woman he had intended to make his wife. Thunder rumbled outside, emulating the storm that raged within him. Fear, love, desire, hatred—all churned in a massive dark cloud hovering over his heart. A cloud that threatened to unleash a torrent on him at any moment.

Spyglass jumped into his lap, and he caressed her fur, thankful the cat had not completely abandoned her affections for him as everyone else seemed to have done.

“Rafe.” Claire breathed his name on a sigh and turned her eyes upon him, once so clear, but now covered with a feverish haze. “You came to see me.”

Rafe nodded and leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees and forcing Spyglass from his lap.

Her breathing took on a rapid pace. “I fear I am dying.”

Still Rafe said nothing, for he hated offering people vain hope only to ease their discomfort. And honestly, from the heat he'd felt sizzling from her skin, he could not deny that she spoke the truth.

“Do not look so pleased.” She tried to laugh but coughed instead.

Thunder growled, and Spyglass meowed in reply then leapt to the foot of the cot and sprawled across the coverlet.

Rafe looked down at the tiny divots marring the deck. The brig rolled over a wave, its planks creaking and groaning. “I do not wish you to die, Claire.”

“Then why can you not look at me?”

Rafe raised his gaze to hers only to see her eyes pool with tears. Sweat glistened on her forehead and neck, and the silky hair he had once adored lay matted in sweaty tangles around her face.

“I wanted you to love me.” She swallowed. Rafe closed his eyes. “I did.”

“Did.” She said the word with the finality of a judge's mallet.

“What do you expect?” Rafe snorted and sat back in his chair.

She licked her chapped lips. “Something to drink, s'il vous plaît?”

Rafe grabbed a mug from the table, lifted her shoulders, and raised it to her mouth. She took a sip then collapsed back onto the cot.

“Merci.” The word escaped her lips as if the effort exhausted her.

Thunder bellowed, echoing through the ship like a mighty gong.

He returned the mug to the table but before he could get away, she grabbed his arm with more strength than he would have assumed remained within her.

“I did this all for you, Rafe.”

“Did what?” He knelt on one knee, wanting to tear from her grasp, but the desperation in her eyes stayed him. Raindrops tapped on the windowpane.

“Came aboard your ship. Left your father.”

“I did not ask you to come.”

“I thought I could change your mind. I thought you may still love me.” She gasped, unable to catch her breath.

Rafe shook his head, rummaging through the dunnage in his heart for any remaining feelings for this woman who had betrayed him so mercilessly.

Claire's brow furrowed. “It is Mademoiselle Grace, is it not? You love her.”

Rafe plucked the cloth from the bucket and squeezed the water from it as if he were trying to squeeze the truth from Claire's words. “She has nothing to do with this.”

Claire raised her hand to her forehead. “I tried to send her home.”

“What do you mean?”

“I told her I needed her help to escape from your father's abuse. I begged her”—she drew a shallow breath—“to accept his offer to go to Charles Towne ... where I would secretly get off the ship with her.”

“You what?” Rafe dropped the cloth into the bucket and stood.

“Please don't be angry with me, Rafe.” Claire coughed, her eyes flashing with fear. “I saw the way you looked at her. But I knew with her gone, you could still love me.”

Rafe grabbed his baldric and paced before the cot. So that was the reason Mademoiselle Grace had not met him that night. It wasn't his father who had persuaded her to go with him, who had lured her away with his riches. It was Claire. And instead of riches, Claire had lured the mademoiselle with the only thing irresistible to her—the prospect of helping someone in need.

“But you stole her back.” Claire laughed then clutched her throat. “I did not expect that.”

Rafe hung his head and halted before the cot. Shame tugged upon him. He had believed the worst of Mademoiselle Grace and had stolen her from her bedchamber without giving her a chance to explain.

“Rafe.” Claire held out her hand. “Please do not be angry with me.”

Kneeling, Rafe took her hand in his. Staring into her blue eyes, he felt no love, no remorse, nor even anger—only pity.

“I am not angry.” Rafe sighed and squeezed her hand. “Maintenant, you must get some rest.”

And as if his hint of regard was all she needed to usher her into a moment's repose, she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep.

The door creaked open, and Mademoiselle Grace stepped in, her raven hair hanging in damp tendrils about her face. Her emerald eyes alighted upon him and widened in surprise. She gazed at his hand holding Claire's. “Forgive me.” She started to leave.

“Non.” Rafe shot to his feet. “Do not go, s'il vous plaît.”

She faced him, then swept the cabin with her gaze, carefully avoiding his eyes. Spyglass aroused from her nap and began to stretch. “Where is Father Alers?” she asked.

“In the galley.”

“I did not mean to intrude.”

“There is nothing to intrude upon.”

“It is none of my business if there is.” She swallowed and glanced at Claire with concern.

“She just fell back asleep. Will you sit, mademoiselle?”

Grace glared at him as if he were the devil himself. He winced beneath the pain it caused him. “I do not bite, mademoiselle.” He attempted a grin.

She cocked a brow. “I am not so sure.”

That he frightened her was obvious. That he disgusted her made his heart sink like a lead line. That he should leave her alone and offer her some peace, he knew was the right thing to do. He gestured toward the chair. “I will not torture you with my presence, mademoiselle.”

With a hesitant swoosh of her damp skirts, she moved to the chair and sat down. No sooner had she alighted upon it than Spyglass leapt from the cot and jumped into her lap.

Rafe could not help but smile. “You have made a friend, I see.”

“Yes, one friend aboard this ship, it would seem.” Her voice was laden with sorrow as she caressed the cat's fur, and Rafe swallowed.

Retrieving his rapier, he sheathed it with a metallic
chink
and started toward the door. He gripped the handle, stopped and rubbed his thumb over the cool silver. He could not leave Grace, not with the judgment, the disdain for him, pouring from her eyes.

He swung about.

She swallowed but did not look at him. “I thought you were leaving.”

“So did I.”

“Claire needs medical assistance, Captain.”

Raindrops pounded on the deck above like bullets assailing his guilt. “I am doing all that I can.”

He gripped his baldric and cleared his throat. He wanted to tell her about Claire, wanted Mademoiselle Grace to understand why her betrayal had struck him so hard. “Did you know that Claire and I were betrothed?”

She twitched and her chest rose and fell, but she did not look at him. “It is none of my business, Captain.”

“Perhaps not. But I want you to know.”

She looked at him. “There is no need.”

Rafe shifted his boots and glanced at Claire. “We had such great plans. She shared my dreams of helping the poor. We cared about the same things. Or so I thought.” He walked to the porthole. Rain dashed and splattered against the panes just like the dreams he and Claire shared so long ago. “When I found her on the street, she was poor and in rags. We were young and innocent and full of hopes and ambitions.” He turned around. Mademoiselle sat quietly petting Spyglass. Only her rapid breathing gave away her emotions.

“Turns out all she wanted was my money.” Rafe chuckled. “And when she discovered my father had disowned me and I had forfeited my inheritance, she left me a week before our wedding. And ran straight into my father's bed.”

Mademoiselle Grace flinched and pushed a damp curl behind her ear. When she raised her eyes, they glistened with tears.

A wave of heat stormed up Rafe's neck and onto his face, and he felt instantly ashamed. Why had he shared such intimacies with her? He adjusted his coat and strode toward the door.

“Wait.” Mademoiselle Grace set Spyglass on the deck and stood. She bit her lip and faced him. “I am sorry.”

“I do not want your pity.”

“Then what do you want?” she snapped.

Rafe approached her. He didn't know what he wanted anymore. He wanted to tell her he knew why she had betrayed him. He wanted to tell her he understood how convincing Claire could be. He wanted her to not look at him with such condemnation. But right now, all he wanted to do was kiss her.

He raised a hand to caress her cheek and grabbed a lock of her wet hair instead. “I like your hair unbound.” He played with the soft, moist tendril.

She swung around, jerking it from between his fingers. “You should leave.”