Raven Saint (26 page)

Standing at the stern of the brig, Grace drew in a deep breath of the night air, laden with salt and fish and a hint of flowers—the latter of which she must only be imagining. For they had not seen land since they left the island two days prior—in a frenzied dash to escape their pursuers. And she had not seen the captain, save in passing, since God had delivered Claire of the evil forces causing her illness. Grace longed to know what he thought about the incident. Had it convinced him of God's existence? Or did he merely think it coincidental, a bizarre accident, an act of black magic as she'd heard some of the crew declare. Perhaps witnessing the power of God had frightened Captain Dubois. But no, that didn't seem like him at all. Then why did he avoid her?

Due to the southern course the ship maintained, she assumed they were still heading toward Colombia. Yet the captain had known about Thorn's plans to help her escape and he had made no moves to stop them. Why? It didn't make any sense.

The ship bucked over a wave, then creaked and groaned in complaint. But Grace wasn't complaining anymore. She was convinced the purpose of her entire harrowing escapade had been for God to deliver Claire from the forces of death. She had stayed on board for that very reason. And now with that task completed, surely the Lord would rescue Grace. She must only wait and believe.

For two days Grace had stayed by Claire's side, and with Father Alers, had nursed some strength back into the woman, though she still had not risen from her bed. Father Alers was overwrought about the miracle, saying that in all his time as a Jesuit priest, he'd not seen the likes of it. He had told Grace that he'd begun to read the Holy Scriptures again. Grace smiled at the thought. Finally she had done some good.

She gazed out over the ebony sea, lit in glittering ribbons of silver by the light of a half-moon, and released a contented sigh. Nights upon the Caribbean held a mysterious beauty all their own. During the day Grace must not only endure extreme temperatures but also the incessant hammering of the crew as they repaired the mainmast. So she had waited until nightfall to emerge from below, no longer fearing the crew. Aside from a few ribald comments tossed her way—which unfortunately she'd grown accustomed to—they left her alone.

The ship pitched over a wave, and Grace gripped the railing as a spray of seawater showered over her. She shook it off and smiled as the curls that had loosened from her pins tickled her neck. She liked the way they felt. In fact, she relished the absence of the continual headache caused by her tight coiffure.

Annette appeared beside Grace. “Bonsoir, mademoiselle.”

Grace caught her breath at the woman's sudden presence. “Bonsoir, Annette.” She had hardly seen the mulatto during the past few days. The maid had darted in and out of the cabin, bringing stew and lemon water for her mistress, but never staying long enough to talk. Her actions and attitude seemed to indicate that she felt remorse for what she had done, but Grace needed to ensure that Annette had no intention of harming Claire again. “Where have you been?”

Annette shrugged. The moonlight transformed her skin into dark cream. “Are you angry with me, mademoiselle?”

Grace bit her lip. She had been angry. But she could not find her fury anymore. It had softened into pity and fear—fear for the girl's eternity. “No. I am not angry, Annette. I have been praying for you.”

“Praying?” Annette fidgeted with the lace at the cuff of her gown. “My mistress recovers.”

“Yes.” Grace eyed the lady. “Does that make you sad?”

A moment passed as Annette scanned the dark horizon. “Oui.”

As Grace suspected. At least the girl had not lied. “Thank you for being honest, Annette.” Grace bit her lip, wondering how to ask her next question, but knowing she must regardless of how audacious it sounded. “Do you plan to hurt her again?”

The mulatto flashed her dark eyes at Grace. “Non. Though she deserves it.”

Grace pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and sighed. “I know Madame Dubois is not often kind to you.”

Annette gave her a sideways glance.

Grace squeezed the railing, the damp wood still warm from the sun. She longed to know what Annette had done to Claire, to know exactly what Grace had been dealing with. “May I inquire ... may I ask what you did to cause Madame Dubois's illness?”

“I cast
un maléfice
on her, a hex.”

Grace's breath held tight in her throat.

“A curse from my ancestors,” Annette continued in a matter-of-fact tone that sent a chill through Grace.

“Is that who you pray to? Your ancestors?”

“Oui.” Annette wrapped her arms around her tiny waist. “My ancestors were strong warriors before my people were stolen from our land.”

Grace flattened her lips. An urgency rose within her to help Annette see the dangerous path she was on. But how could she help this girl without offending her? “Your ancestors are dead, Annette. ‘And as it is appointed unto men once to die, but after this the judgment,'” Grace quoted from Hebrews. “You are not praying to them, but to demons, to the evil forces that rule this world.”

Annette's chest rose and fell rapidly as she stared out upon the sea. Her jaw stiffened, but she said nothing.

A blast of wind whipped over them, and Grace leaned toward Annette. “You cannot deny what you saw.”

“Oui. I been thinking of that. Your ancestors are more powerful than mine.”

“No, Annette. That power came from God—the one and only God. He is nobody's ancestor. He's the Creator of all. He's
your
Creator.”

“If He is the only God, and my Creator, why does He allow my people to be
les esclaves?”
Her words came out in strangled tones.

Grace laid a hand on her arm. “I do not know. But I do know that this world is ruled by God's enemy. Much of the evil we experience is his doing. If you want to blame someone, blame him.”

Guttural laugher bellowed from the main deck as if in derision of her statement.

From Annette's expression, Grace gathered she agreed with the sentiment. “I blame the blancs,” she snapped. “They have caused my people to suffer. People like Monsieur Dubois and my mistress. They must pay.”

“But you are half white, are you not?”

“Monsieur Dubois sired me, but he is not my father.” She whipped her hair behind her, giving Grace a venomous look.

Grace's heart shrank beneath the girl's misery. Slavery was a wretched enough institution without enduring the stigma of being bred for beauty and strength like a prize horse. “If you are unhappy, why not run away?”

Annette snorted. “Where do I go? I drift in empty space between my two peoples. Neither wants me.”

“God wants you.”

Annette snatched her arm from beneath Grace's hand and she backed away, her chest heaving. “He is the God of the whites.”

Grace reached out her hand, wanting so badly to help this poor woman. “No. He is the God of all and shows no partiality toward one race or another.”

“I do not wish to hear it!” Annette's dark eyes simmered as she swatted tears from her cheeks. “Leave me be!” Then hoisting her shirts, she darted across the deck.

Grace lowered her gaze, her heart sinking.
Lord, where did I go astray? Why wouldn't she listen to me?

Lifting her face to the humid breeze, she allowed the wind to dry her tears. Then whirling around, she scanned the deck for Annette. Perhaps Grace had been too bold, too forceful in her efforts to turn the woman to God. Determined to comfort her and offer an apology, Grace headed across the quarterdeck to find the mulatto. Passing by the helm, she nodded at Mr. Atton, then carefully made her way down the ladder. She scanned the shadowy deck, lit only by the circle of light coming from the lantern hanging at the mainmast, and spotted a cluster of sailors by the starboard rail passing a bottle. She wanted to ask them where Annette had gone but thought better of it. Averting her gaze, she felt their eyes follow her across deck. Then clutching her skirts, she climbed the foredeck ladder. Perhaps the girl had gone to the bow. She was rewarded when she saw a dark figure standing by the cathead.

Rafe took a sip of brandy then closed the flask. Why did he no longer find pleasure in the pungent liquor? Why did it sour upon his lips when he needed the numbing elixir so badly?

It was the mademoiselle.

Sacre mer, her disapproval of it had tainted it for him. As she had tainted all the pleasures he used to enjoy: his sanity, his reason, his indulgence in other women. Zut alors, even his food had become tasteless. Reaching back, he tossed the flask into the raging sea and watched it sink in the black waters—along with all the passing pleasures that had provided diversions from the futility of his life.

He had avoided Grace, hoping some of those old plaisirs would return. Hoping he wouldn't have to face the evidence of what he had seen in the cabin below. The miracle, as Father Alers kept proclaiming; the battle between good and evil; the way Grace's words, empowered by the name of Jesus, had snatched Claire from death's door. There must be another explanation. And until Rafe could figure out just what it was, he preferred not to speak to Mademoiselle Grace. It was bad enough he had to listen to Father Alers's incessant babbling about God and His power and His presence. Rafe's heart and mind chafed beneath the onslaught of their religious nonsense.

And to compound his angst, Rafe still had to deal with a possible mutiny when his crew discovered that he no longer intended to sell Mademoiselle Grace to the don. Oui, he had finally decided what his heart had known long ago—that he could never harm such a precious angel. Besides, after he had discovered the reason for her betrayal, his anger had swept away like seawater through scuppers. He would find another way to procure the money he needed for the hospital—even if he had to resort to piracy.

Rafe gripped the railing. He remained on course for Rio de la Hacha to keep the crew's suspicions at bay and to give him time to formulate a plan that would assuage their anger and appease their greedy hearts. Yet no brilliant scheme had forged in his mind.

Which was why he desperately needed to drown himself with brandy. His sudden distaste for it only further exacerbated the suffering in which he found himself.

Femme exaspérante!

Shuffling sounded behind him. Rafe's mood soured further at the prospect of company. He wanted no more of Father Alers's religious lectures, nor Monsieur Thorn's placating grins. “Allez-vous-en! Go away!” Rafe bellowed.

“Very well,” the soft voice replied.

Rafe swerved about. Mademoiselle Grace's slight figure retreated. “Non. I did not know it was you.”

She slowly turned around. “My mistake, Captain. I was looking for Annette.” The moonlight sent shimmering waves of silver upon her, transforming her raven curls into glistening onyx.

Rafe swallowed.

She cocked her head. “Have you seen her?”

Gathering his wits, Rafe shook his head.

She nodded and started to leave.

“Do not go.”

“Do you wish something, Captain?” A question as loaded as one of his twelve-pounders below. He smiled.

She looked down as if his perusal frightened her. “I have no time for your games, Captain.”

“I fear I am done playing games, mademoiselle.” He started to reach for her but gripped his baldric instead.

She turned to leave again, but Rafe closed the gap between them in one step and grabbed her arm. Her eyes shot to his as if he'd stabbed her. She jerked from his grasp.

“If there are no more games, then I must assume you still intend to sell me.” She took a breath and gazed over the turbulent dark sea. “I cannot say I know much about navigation, but I can tell in which direction you have set your sails.”

Rafe could not deny her words, nor could he for some reason find his voice. Her sweet scent swirled beneath his nose as his gaze was drawn to the silken curls of raven dancing over her graceful neck. He could no more hurt this woman than he could pluck out his own eyes. He hesitated.

“Have you been drinking?” She arched one beautiful eyebrow.

“Unfortunately, non.” He grinned.

“Then why not answer my question?” A discordant fiddle chimed a sailor's ballad from the main deck, drawing her gaze over her shoulder.

Then facing forward, she released a sigh. “If you'll excuse me.” She started to turn.

Rafe grabbed her arm again, rewarded by those emerald eyes shifting to his, searching his face for the answer to her question.

Rafe softened his grip. “I could never sell you, mademoiselle.”

She wrinkled her nose. “What did you say?”

He released her and took a deep breath, then dug his thumbs inside the sash strapped at his waist—if only to keep his hands off her. “You heard me.”

“I don't believe I did.”

“I am not going to sell you.” Rafe had expected a bit more appreciation.
“Est-ce que je me fais compris?”

“I understand your words.” She clasped her hands together and stepped toward the railing as if searching for the answer upon the seas. The ship pitched, and Rafe placed a hand on the small of her back to steady her. A spray showered over them, crystallizing into tiny diamonds on her cheeks and neck. She looked at him. Disbelief and a glimmer of hope battled in her eyes.

“What has changed your mind?”

“Do you need to ask?” Raising his hand, he cupped her chin and rubbed his thumb over her cheek, pressing lightly over the red abrasion. She winced.

“Je suis désolé. I did not mean to hurt you.”

She swallowed. Fear dashed across her eyes. She lowered her chin. Rafe gently raised it and allowed his gaze to wander over her face: those sparkling emerald eyes, the tiny ringlets dancing over her forehead, and those moist lips. Her breathing grew rapid, and Rafe could stand it no longer. He lowered his mouth to hers.