Raven Saint (25 page)

She said nothing.

Rafe scratched the stubble on his jaw. “Why did you not go? Why did you not escape when you had the chance?”

She was silent for a moment. “I could not leave Madame Claire so ill. No one else, besides Father Alers, seems to care about her, and she is in need of a woman to attend her.”

Rafe gazed over the inky expanse, unable to discern sea from sky—just as he was unable to comprehend her words. “You refused a chance at freedom for
her?”

“I may be a pious prude as you say, but I am not cruel, Captain.” Her voice stung with offense, but also with a strength that pleased him.

Prude pieuse. Had he called her that? More than once, if he remembered correctly. Sans doute, she could behave like one, but at the moment all he saw was her heart of gold.

Thorn's tall figure emerged from the darkness. “Captain? The men await your orders.”

Rafe turned to Grace, unsure what to say. He started to leave, then touched her arm. “A prayer to that God of yours for our success could not hurt.”

“Of course.” He felt her smile, though he could not see it.

Grace inched her way to the starboard bow and gripped the railing. She'd never been in such oppressive darkness. Behind her, she heard the captain whisper orders to Monsieur Atton. Only the soft flap of sails and purl of water against the hull graced her ears as the ship slipped through the sea. Up ahead, their two pursuers guarded the harbor like sentinels. One lantern hung from the foremast of each ship, illuminating the pathway to freedom between them—much like the narrow gate to salvation. Grace bowed her head.
Lord, grant us safe passage through our enemies. Make us invisible to them and to all forces of evil.

Raising her head, she nearly chuckled at the irony of her prayer. The shuffling of feet sounded behind her as the crew attended to their captain's orders. Invisible black sails filled with wind overhead. Ingenious. Her admiration of the captain's skills rose along with her conflicting sensations whenever he was near. Why would he have allowed her escape? It made no sense. Could he be having second thoughts about selling her into slavery? Or was he just testing Monsieur Thorn's loyalty? Betrayal was something she had learned did not sit well with the captain.

“You should go below.” His deep voice startled her.

“I am praying as instructed.” She noted the humor in her own voice.

“Très bien.” He leaned on the rail beside her and brushed a strand of hair from her face. “It will not matter should they detect us. A broadside from both sides would sink us within minutes.”

Grace swallowed. Sink? A lump formed in her throat as
Le Champion
glided between her pursuers. Silence consumed the ship as if the angel of death floated across the decks, quieting everything with a touch of his scythe: the tongues of the sailors, the creaks and groans of the planks, and the flap of sails. Only the ripple of water against the hull gave any evidence of their passage.

As if sensing her fear, the captain placed a hand on her arm. She jolted but dared not move. The lanterns of the pursuing ships winked at her from her right and her left. They were so close, she heard voices from their decks: laughter, song, and a heated argument.

Minutes passed like hours until finally the lanterns and voices were behind her. Facing the wind, she released a tiny breath.

Rafe tiptoed toward the helm, where Mr. Thorn stood beside Mr. Atton. Whispers echoed back and forth, and several sailors leapt into the ratlines and scrambled above, their dark shadows like evil specters attempting to creep into heaven.

In the distance, the lanterns of the ships faded. They were safe!

A yellow burst of light lit the sea off their stern. Grace stared at it curiously, unsure of its source.

“All hands down!” Captain Dubois yelled and leapt on top of her, forcing her to the deck.

A thunderous boom racked the sea and air.

The captain flung one arm around Grace's waist as he shoved her to the deck before covering her body with his own. The ominous whoosh of the shot heading their way filled Grace's ears, and she squeezed her eyes shut. The crunch and snap of severed wood crackled in the air, followed by a massive splash. Grace gasped to fill her lungs with air. A tingling sensation whirled through her. Rafe lifted his head, but inches from her own, and gazed at her as if he too experienced the odd feeling. Curses and shouts saturated the air.

“Capitaine?” someone shouted.

“Oui.” He leapt off her and helped her to her feet. “Are you all right?” His voice rang with concern.

“Yes, thank you.”

He shifted his attention to the ship that had fired upon them and instantly stiffened. “Monsieur Legard, take the mademoiselle below.” Then he turned and began braying orders to his crew.

Weaving amongst the frantic sailors that scampered across the deck, Mr. Legard escorted Grace below and ushered her into her cabin, closing the door with a thud.

Dropping to her knees beside the cot, Grace held Claire's feverish hand in hers and closed her eyes. Deafening blasts exploded all around her, sending a tremble through the brig that matched the tremble already coursing through her body. Boot steps hammered overhead, accompanied by shouts and curses—all in French. Yet amidst the clamor, Grace could still make out the captain's deep timbre as he ordered his crew about.

The sting of gunpowder seeped through the planks of the cabin to join the fetor of death and disease within. Claire groaned, and Grace peered through the darkness where the woman lay. “Lord, please save us,” she prayed as another cannon thundered. Her heart stopped. The blast came from
Le Champion'
s guns as the captain no doubt attempted to stave off their pursuers.

Weaving around Claire on the cot, Spyglass snuggled up to Grace, nudging her hand for a pet. Grace obliged the cat, then pressed her fingers over her right cheek and winced where a bruise formed from her tumble onto the deck. She might have been able to protect her face from the splinters if she'd known the captain intended to pounce on her. She hadn't felt any pain at the time. She hadn't felt anything but Captain Dubois's warm body atop hers and the tingles that rippled through her at such close intimacy.

Sobs filled the air, reminding Grace she was not alone. She scanned the dark cabin but couldn't make out Annette's slight form. “Annette, all will be well.” Grace shoved aside her anger at the mulatto. “Come here.” Shuffling sounded and Annette emerged from the shadows and knelt beside Grace. Grace put an arm around her, noting her sweet citrus scent and the quiver that sped through her. “I am frightened as well, but Captain Dubois is a skilled captain.” She offered the lady a smile that was no doubt lost in the darkness even as she wondered where her confidence in Rafe came from.

Boom!
A loud roar threatened to split the timbers of the brig.

Shouts and curses filled the air above them.

The
crack
of wood. Then a crunch. A snap. More shouting shot down from above,
“Prenez garde en bas!”

Bam!
The ship canted to larboard. Flakes of dirt showered on them from above.

Grace glanced aloft. Coughing, she batted away the dust. Silence consumed the brig. Only the mad dash of water against the hull reassured Grace that they still lived. But what of everyone else? Had they all died?

Annette whimpered and Grace drew her closer, embracing her. “Shhh. It will be all right.” But would it? She had no idea. Truth be told, she wasn't sure she knew much of anything anymore.

They huddled together in the dark for what seemed an eternity. Madame Dubois's breathing grew ragged, and Grace took her hand again then released Annette and groped around for the bucket. Upon finding it, she wrung out the cloth and laid it atop the dying woman's forehead. How long could she survive? How long would any of them survive with two ships in fast pursuit and hard intent on sinking them to the depths of the sea?

Yet, Grace had not heard a gun fire for quite a while. In fact, she'd not heard anything.

A thin line of light appeared beneath the door and Grace took Annette's hand. A thousand terrifying thoughts rampaged through her mind. Had they been boarded by the enemy? Had the captain been killed?

The latch clicked and the door creaked open to reveal Mr. Thorn, his features distorted in the glow of the lantern he held. His eyes landed upon Annette and remained there for longer than seemed proper before he shifted them to Grace. “The captain wishes me to inform you that we are safe now.” He placed the lantern atop the table.

“So he is well?” Grace pressed a hand over her pounding heart.

“Quite,” Mr. Thorn replied. His answer sent an awkward rush of joy through Grace.

Annette stood, fidgeted with the trim on the neckline of her gown, and slunk out of the light.

Thorn's gaze followed her. “Are you ladies unharmed?”

“We are fine.” Grace rose and brushed the dust from her skirts. “I heard a loud crash. What happened?”

Tearing his eyes from the mulatto, Mr. Thorn straightened his coat. “Our main-topmast was damaged.”

Grace clutched her throat. “Isn't that bad?”

“It can be, but no one was injured.”

“What of the two ships?”

“We lost them in the darkness.” He gave a half smile.

Claire groaned, and Grace dropped to her knees beside the woman. Now doused in light, Claire's sunken cheeks bore the color of sunbaked sand and were just as hot to the touch. Her gray lips smacked in agony, and beads of sweat marched across her face and neck. Grabbing the cloth, Grace dabbed it over the woman's skin. She sighed. “Mr. Thorn, can you please summon Father Alers?”

“Will she die?” His voice was emotionless.

“Please get the father.” Grace's exhausted tone bespoke her internal agony. Claire was dying. Grace was all too familiar with the merciless fiend called death—an ugly beast who delighted in torturing his victims, leaving behind a trail of hopelessness and pain. During her mother's tumultuous death, Grace had felt the monster's breath upon her neck, his laughter beating like demon wings against her skin.

She shuddered, and all hope drained from her. The only thing left to do was to ensure the woman's salvation. If Claire regained consciousness Grace hoped she'd at least be willing to speak to the former priest.

With Mr. Thorn's departure, the room chilled. Grace hugged herself and lifted her gaze to Annette who stood beneath the porthole. The mulatto immediately lowered her chin. “Annette, did you poison your mistress?”

Her eyes filled with tears and she lifted a hand to her nose. “It was not only un philtre d'amour.”

“What, then?”

The woman squeezed her eyes shut as tears sped down her cheeks. Spyglass ambled to the foot of the cot and directed her one eye upon the maid.

Grace rubbed her forehead. “Then at least tell me if there is some way to save her.”

“There is nothing you can do.” Annette met her eyes then, and the fear and hopelessness that burned within them frightened Grace. “What will become of me?” she asked.

“I do not know. You have done a terrible thing, Annette.”

Claire's troubled cough brought Grace's attention back to her. A heaviness fell upon the cabin as if one of the storm clouds had infiltrated the tiny space. Grace gasped for a breath. Spyglass hissed—at what, Grace couldn't see.

Boot steps thundered in the companionway, and in marched Captain Dubois. His dark hair fell in disarray across the gray coat that spanned his broad shoulders. Black soot smudged his face. His buccaneer shirt was torn at the collar. But other than that, he seemed in one piece. Relief eased over Grace at the sight.

He glanced at Annette before focusing on Grace and narrowed his eyes as if sensing her discomfiture. “How is Claire?”

“Worse, I'm afraid.”

He glanced over the cabin as if he, too, felt the dark presence. Father Alers and Mr. Thorn entered behind him.

The priest dashed toward the cot while Mr. Thorn took up a position beside his captain.

“Will she die?” The emotion in Captain Dubois's voice surprised her. Was it possible he still harbored some sentiment for Claire?

Father Alers stooped and laid a hand on Claire's cheek. He swallowed and in his golden eyes, Grace saw that he had reached the same conclusion she had.

She dabbed the cloth over Claire's moist neck. So young, so full of life. Too young. It felt wrong for her to die. An unconscionable betrayal.

“No.” Grace spoke the word that was screaming within her. She would not watch another woman die.

Father Alers pressed down his coiled gray hair and shook his head. “Je suis désolé.”

“No,” Grace moaned and leaned on the cot. Spyglass pressed against her head, her soft purrs rumbling in her ears.
Lord, what do I do? Tell me what to do!

For we wrestle not against flesh and blood.
The verse from Ephesians drifted through her mind. For a moment, she did not know why. But then...

She sat up. “This is no sickness.”

The wrinkles on Father Alers's face folded.

“At least not a natural one.” She glanced over at the captain and then Mr. Thorn—who returned her stare with one of bewilderment. And finally Annette. The guilt pouring from the mulatto's face confirmed Grace's suspicions.

Claire coughed and began to heave as if frantically searching for air. There wasn't much time.

Laying a hand over Claire's forehead, Grace drew in a deep breath. “Father, in Your Son's precious name, the name of Jesus, I bind and cast out from this woman and from this cabin and from this ship, the evil forces that have made Claire ill.” The words that slipped from Grace's lips sounded so weak, so human, so powerless. She studied Claire, but the woman groaned and her breathing grew even more ragged. Perhaps Grace should have yelled the words. Maybe she didn't have enough faith. She searched her heart for that mustard seed of faith God said was all that was needed to do anything in His name.

Claire's hand hung limp and cold in Grace's. Grace's stomach soured and she bowed her head.

“Do you believe I am who I say I am?”

The words flowed over her like a gushing waterfall.
Yes, I do, Lord.
Tears burned in Grace's eyes. She stiffened her jaw as anger now welled within her—anger at the wickedness trying to steal this woman's life. She lifted her chin. “Be gone, in the name of Jesus.”

Mr. Thorn chuckled, and the captain shifted his boots over the deck. Father Alers met Grace's gaze with one of pity. He laid a hand on her shoulder as if to say, “A noble attempt.”

Grace bowed her head and allowed her tears to fall. She had failed. Or maybe it wasn't God's will at all that Claire live. Lifting Claire's hand to her mouth, Grace laid a kiss upon it.

And the woman's fingers squeezed hers in return.

Grace popped open her eyes and stared aghast at Claire. Her breathing had calmed. Her eyelids fluttered.

Annette gasped, and Grace heard the tap of her slippers as she approached the cot.

“Claire?” Grace pushed damp hair from the woman's cheek.

Claire moaned and pried her eyes open.

Grace giggled between sobs of joy. It was only then that she realized the heaviness in the room had left.

Father Alers stumbled backward and plopped into the chair.

A faint smile lifted Claire's lips where a hint of pink peeked from behind the gray. “Grace,” she whispered.

Annette backed against the bulkhead, her mouth hanging slack.

“Zooks,” Mr. Thorn declared. “I cannot believe it.”

Grace gazed at the men over her shoulder. The captain's dark eyes widened and he shook his head.

She smiled. “Thanks be to God, she will live.”