Raven Saint (24 page)

Perhaps he should. Perhaps he should walk out that door and never allow himself to be alone with this precious creature again. Laying a hand on her shoulder, he slowly turned her around. “It is my brig, mademoiselle.”

“And I am your property.” The sharp tone faded from her voice.

“You are so much more than that.” His gaze took in her lips, her flushed cheeks, and those emerald eyes shimmering with tears—and something else. An invitation? He leaned closer until their lips were but an inch apart. The sweet smell of rain mixed with her feminine scent and swirled about his nose. She did not back away, did not slap him.

Instead she breathlessly awaited his kiss.

Grace closed her eyes. Her heart thumped. She could feel the captain's warm breath wafting over her face. His lips hovered over hers.

The door crashed open. Grace opened her eyes and jumped backward, her heart in her throat. Father Alers strode into the room, his curious gaze shifting between her and Rafe. The captain huffed and shook his head.

Clutching her skirts with one hand and covering her mouth with the other, Grace dashed up the companionway ladder and bolted onto the deck. Slipping across the slick planks, she rushed to her favorite spot beside the foredeck where the bulkhead offered some protection from the buffeting winds. The rain had ceased again, but its spicy scent still stung in the breeze that now cooled the tears flowing down her cheeks.

What had she done?

She'd nearly kissed the captain.

She
would
have kissed the captain if Father Alers had not interrupted them.

She touched her lips where she could still feel Rafe's warm breath, could still smell his scent of tobacco and leather. What had come over her? Not only had she nearly allowed his kiss, she'd
wanted
him to kiss her. Horrified, she quickly bowed her head and gripped the railing.
Lord, please forgive me.

Never in her life had she felt such an overwhelming attraction. Mercy me, she had never even kissed a man before. And there she was like a common hussy, accepting this rogue's advances. And with him on his way to sell her into slavery. Had all reason, all piety fled her mind and her soul when she needed them the most?

She lifted her face to the breeze and gazed at the island. The leaves of palms and banyans whipped this way and that in the wind as if waving to her, beckoning her to come and join them on land. And oh how she wanted to. If only to get away from the captain and the spell he had cast upon her. Perhaps Annette had slipped some of her love potion into Grace's food. She laughed at the thought but could find no other explanation for her unchaste behavior.

Black clouds hung like vultures overhead, making the afternoon look more like night. How long would they be cornered in this bay? How long would she be trapped with the captain, unable to escape? She drew a deep breath and tried to calm her nerves. She must not think of herself. She must think of Claire. The woman needed medical attention. Without it, she would most likely die.

Perhaps that was the reason Grace had been sent on this journey—to help Madame Dubois get well, to befriend the woman, to help her know God's love.

Grace bit her lip, remembering the look on the captain's face when he had shared what had happened between him and Claire. Despair had dragged his features down, dissolving the arrogant shield he sometimes wore until he looked more like a lost little boy instead of a vicious mercenary. Grace hugged herself as the wind whipped over her rain-dampened gown. She trembled beneath the chill. From what she could gather, Rafe had spent his entire childhood beneath the thumb of an unloving and cruel father. Then when he had finally found someone with whom to share his life and dreams, she had betrayed him.

And in the worst possible way.

How did one ever recover from such heartache—when everyone they had ever loved and trusted turned against them?

Grace's heart shriveled. No wonder the captain had reacted so violently to her betrayal. No wonder he had been so angry when he stole her from his father's house. He had assumed she was no better than Claire and his father. Gripping the railing, she closed her eyes, trying to make sense of it all.

Then what had changed the captain's mind? What had calmed his fury? For in that tiny cabin, his dark eyes had burned with such ardor, such warmth, it frightened Grace. Not the kind of fear she had for her life, but a different kind of fear—a fear of the desires that lay hidden in her own heart.

Spotting Grace by the railing beneath the foredeck, Rafe headed toward her. He needed to speak with her. He needed to talk about their near kiss. And why she was so distraught when she rushed from the cabin. Was it possible she held some affection for him? He dared not hope.

He approached slowly so as not to frighten her, but she did not turn around. Her eyes were closed and she seemed in deep thought—or prayer. Not wanting to disturb her, he climbed up the foredeck ladder and found a spot nearby to wait until she finished. A few minutes passed and Rafe was about to peer over the side to check on her when Monsieur Thorn's voice blared up from the spot where Grace stood. Easing toward the edge of the foredeck railing, Rafe listened as he kept himself from their view.

“Miss Grace?” Mr. Thorn's voice startled her, and she flung a hand to her chest as she tucked her private thoughts regarding the captain behind a closed door in her mind. Too late. Her cheeks heated beneath a blush.

“Good day, Mr. Thorn.” Her voice sounded husky.

Mr. Thorn slipped beside her and glanced over the choppy waters of the bay. “So you decided to brave the storm as well, I see.”

Grace thought of the devilish look on the captain's face when she had leapt out of his arms. “ 'Tis too hot below.” She flustered at the insinuation of her statement. “I mean, 'tis crowded.” Any room was crowded with the captain in it. “I mean—” She sighed in resignation of her befuddling verbiage. “Yes, I am braving the storm.”

Mr. Thorn gazed at her curiously. “Are you well, Miss Grace?”

She gave him a flat smile. “As well as I can be, Mr. Thorn.”

He leaned on the railing and glanced at the island, battered by the gusty wind, but still beautiful in the ashen light. “How is Madame Dubois?” His tone held no concern.

Grace shook her head. “Not well.”

“Hmm.” He doffed his hat. Shaking the dampness from it onto his knee, he ran a hand through his hair then snapped the tricorne back atop his head. “It must be quite daunting to be so close to land, miss, and have no way to escape.”

The lift of his cultured brow and the hint of playfulness in his brown eyes sent a spark of hope through Grace. She narrowed her eyes. “Whatever do you mean, Mr. Thorn?”

He smiled and fingered his chin then glanced at the island. “I believe I recognize this island. Yes. I know I have anchored here before. Careened our ship here once, I believe. Plenty of fruit and water for the taking to last someone several months, or at least until another ship arrived—or say someone
sent
another ship.” He gave her a sly wink.

Grace eyed him with suspicion. That Mr. Thorn's last attempt to help her escape had not worked out well was no reflection on him or his kindness. But something about the man set her nerves on edge. Though he appeared a just man, his critical attitude toward others gave her pause. And then there was the odd conversation she'd overheard between him and Monsieur Dubois. The two of them had been up to something, but what? Grace grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled out her cross, rubbing it between her fingers. “You would attempt helping me again?”

“Why not?”

“Why risk invoking the anger of your captain should he discover your treachery?”

“For the same reason I aided you before, mademoiselle. I do not wish to see an innocent woman sold into slavery.”

Fury clawed up Rafe's spine, stiffening it and sending a flash of heat to his chest. Liar, traître. He had trusted Thorn—had called him friend. Rafe gripped the hilt of his rapier, holding back his urge to call the man to swords right then and there, but wanting first to hear the mademoiselle's answer.

Grace gazed across the deck toward the larboard railing where a group of sailors huddled beside the quarterdeck, rolling dice. “But with so many men on board, how could we escape their detection?”

“Leave that up to me.” Mr. Thorn tugged upon his coat.

Grace rubbed her cross and gazed at the inviting shores. To remain on board would leave her at the mercy of the captain, not to mention her own unexpected passions. To leave would at least provide her a chance to live, to be free once again. Didn't the Bible say to flee temptation and wickedness? She gazed up at Mr. Thorn, unable to discern whether the warmth in his eyes sprang from sincerity or cunning—eyes that carried none of the innocence of his twenty years. Regardless, what choice did she have?

“When?”

“Tonight.”

Later, back in his cabin, Rafe ground his fists together and stomped with the ebb and tide of a restless pace across the Persian rug centering the floor. Finding the silken threads sufficiently humbled, he stormed toward the stern windows and crossed his arms over his chest. Nothing but a black wall met his gaze, mirroring his mood. Well past midnight, the thick clouds had captured all traces of the moon, casting the earth's inhabitants in complete darkness—or at least his corner of the earth. Dark and barren—like Rafe's heart.

Thorn's betrayal blazed through Rafe like lightning. Was there no one in his life who would not stab him in the back? Rafe plucked a cheroot from his desk drawer and lit it from a candle. Drawing a puff of the pungent smoke, he hoped the tobacco would loosen his stiff nerves and numb the pain in his heart.

Grace was gone. He knew it. Nothing would have prevented her escape. The night was dark. Most of the crew remained below deck sheltered from the rain. No one would have stood in their way. Not even Rafe. For as much as he wanted to keep her with him and lock up his traitorous first mate, Rafe had realized their plan would serve his own purposes quite well. Thorn wasn't the only one betraying Rafe. He had been
trompé
by his own feelings. For the more time he spent with the mademoiselle, the more conflicted he became. He doubted he could sell her to the don or to anyone for that matter. This way, at least he would not have to face a mutiny when his crew discovered their pockets would not be lined with gold anytime soon.

Oui, Grace was gone, and the brig seemed nothing more than a hollow shell without her.

Rafe drew in another drag of sweet tobacco then blew out a cloud of smoke above him. It dissipated into the darkness as the mademoiselle had. He should be thankful to be rid of her.

Then why did his heart crumble within him? He grabbed a bottle of brandy from the shelf, opened it, and took a long draught. A rank of numbing fire marched down his throat. Mademoiselle Grace had told him the liquor turned him into a brute. Did it? The taste of it soured in his mouth, and he slammed the bottle down and wiped his lips.

Rap rap rap.

“Entrez-vous,” Rafe barked; then he turned to see Monsieur Thorn stride in, wearing a confident grin of a snake.

“The sails have all been painted black, Captain.”

“Très bien.” Rafe's stomach clenched. He wanted to inquire whether Thorn had delivered Mademoiselle Grace safely to the island, but now was not the time. He would find out soon enough, and then as soon as they were free of Woodes's ships, Rafe would deal with this betrayer. In the meantime, Grace would be quite safe and well fed on the island until he could send a ship to rescue her and deliver her safely home. “Douse all lights, weigh anchor, and hoist away topgallants and jib.”

“A very good plan, Captain, if I do say so.” Thorn's eyes held an admiration that Rafe no longer believed existed in the man. “Under these clouds, 'twould be a miracle if we were spotted.”

Rafe grunted in response, and Monsieur Thorn touched his hat and backed out the door.

After taking one last puff of his cheroot, Rafe extinguished it on a tray. He blew out the candle, sheathed his rapier, shoved his pistols into his baldric, and followed his first mate up on deck. The night would bring many challenges, not the least of which would be navigating the ship through the reefs of the harbor in the dark. For that he needed a sharp mind and quick reflexes. So he shoved all thoughts of Mademoiselle Grace from his mind—and his heart.

Two hours later, guided by four lanterns hanging over the sides of the ship, two at the bow and two amidships over larboard and starboard rails, Rafe had maneuvered the brig to the mouth of the harbor. “Hoist up and douse the lanterns. Lay aloft and loose topsails,” he whispered to Thorn, who then marched across deck to deliver his orders to the men. Voices traveled far at night, especially in the oppressive dank air beneath the cloud-covered sky.

A thunderous
snap
sounded from above, and Rafe glanced up and peered into the darkness but could not make out the black sails that had just been raised to the wind. Planting his boots on the deck, he folded his arms across his chest and allowed the breeze to whip through his hair and bring with it the scent of brine and freedom. He shot one last glance over his shoulder at the bulky shadow of the island, and his chest grew heavy.

Mademoiselle Grace was there somewhere. Was she afraid? Was she lonely? Or was she glad to be rid of him? That she suffered under any one of those emotions saddened him. Turning back around, he thrust his face into the wind, trying to shake her from his thoughts. He must focus on their escape. Up ahead, lanterns blinked from the two ships that guarded the harbor, one to the north and one to the south.
Le Champion
would have to slip through the half-mile gap between them—barely enough breathing room. Was he le fou to attempt such a feat? One shift of the clouds, one beam of errant moonlight, one slip of a word from his crew, and all would be lost.

The mademoiselle's scent tickled his nose. Sacre mer, did her fragrance remain to taunt him?

“Do we have a chance, Captain?” Her soft voice floated on the wind.

Rafe jumped and snapped his gaze toward the source. Grace's outline shadowed beside him. He rubbed his eyes.

She released a sigh. “Your silence speaks volumes, Captain.”

“You are here,” was all he could think to say as his heart swelled.

“Where else would I be?”

“On the island.”

He saw her flinch.

“I overheard Monsieur Thorn's offer,” he admitted.