Raven Saint (27 page)

Ah such sweetness, so soft, so willing. She received his kiss and returned it with a passion he would not have suspected existed within her. Never before had a simple kiss consumed so much of him, making him long to protect and cherish this woman forever.

He withdrew and leaned his forehead against hers. Her warm breath intermingled with his and filled the air between them for one treasured moment.

Before she pushed away from him and dashed across the deck, disappearing into the darkness.

Grace halted before her cabin, wiped her tears, and slowly opened the door. Darkness spilled over her. Stepping inside, she clicked the latch shut and waited until her eyes could make out the contents of the tiny space. Deep, steady breathing coming from the direction of the cot reassured her that Claire was still asleep. Annette, however, was nowhere to be seen.

Assured of her privacy, Grace flung a hand to her mouth and sank to the deck in a flutter of billowing skirts. Tears poured from her eyes so fast she could not wipe them away before they slid from her jaw onto her lap. How could she have allowed such a thing to happen? With trembling fingers, she touched her mouth where the press of the captain's lips still lingered, where she still tingled from the passion in his kiss.

Where she had welcomed his advance without inhibition! Even worse, she had enjoyed it—every second of it.

What was wrong with her?

And her suspicion that the captain's promise not to sell her was only a trick to solicit her kiss only increased her guilt. She was smarter than that.

Plucking a handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown, Grace dabbed her cheeks and blew her nose. She hung her head.

I am a trollop. I am a woman of the lowest of morals.

Scenes from her recent past rose like specters to haunt her conscience. The lies she had told in Port-de-Paix, the mango she had stolen, the vow she had broken, the hatred in her own heart for Rafe and the members of his crew who had attacked her, her continual doubts and wavering faith, and now, her immorality. When she had always prided herself on following all of God's laws so faithfully, these infractions had begun to dissolve the very essence of who she believed herself to be. Now she wasn't sure who she truly was anymore.

Grace's tears wove a crooked path down her cheeks. Something furry brushed against her, and she jumped. “Spyglass, how did you get in here?” She lifted the cat into her lap and scratched her head.

“I am a liar, a thief, a murderer, and a trollop, Spyglass,” she wailed upon a whisper. “I am undone.”

The cat only purred in return.

The darkness of the room closed in on Grace. Claire's rhythmic breathing drummed out the sentence of her guilt. The creak and groans of the brig rose to scold Grace for her fallen state. And the snap of the sails pounded like the judge's mallet, condemning her.

Please forgive me, Lord. Please do not abandon me.

Drawing her knees up to her chest, Grace leaned her head on Spyglass and wept into her fur.

“Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.”

Grace peered into the shadowy room. “I do not deserve it, Lord.”

“As far as the east is from the west, so far hath I removed your transgressions from you.”

Grace took a deep breath to quiet the sobs still rippling through her. Setting the cat onto the deck, she gathered her skirts, struggled to her feet, and made her way to the window. As the moon washed its milky light over her, she prayed it would wash away her guilt as well, prayed she could accept the mercy so freely offered.
Lord, I do not understand why all this is happening, but I am still Yours if You will have me.

The door creaked open and a footstep sounded, not the light step of Annette, but the hollow thud of a boot. Grace's chest tightened, and she turned to see Mr. Thorn's dark outline framed by the doorway. Spyglass leapt onto the chair between them.

“Forgive me, Miss Grace, I mean...” he stuttered as he glanced over the cabin. “I thought I heard crying ... I thought perhaps, well, never mind. It was most improper of me to enter without permission.”

Yet he didn't leave.

Grace dabbed at her tears and drew herself up. “ 'Tis quite all right, Mr. Thorn. 'Twas me you heard.”

He withdrew his hat and took a step toward her. “Are you hurt?”

Grace put a finger to her lips and glanced at the cot. “Madame Dubois sleeps.”

And when he still remained, she added, “I am fine, Mr. Thorn,” hoping he would leave her to her misery.

“I see you are distraught, miss,” he whispered.

“It is nothing.”

“Has Captain Dubois harmed you?”

Grace touched her lips as renewed tears burned behind her eyes. Quite the contrary. “No more than I have allowed him.”

The brig canted, and a beam of moonlight sliced across Mr. Thorn, accentuating the warm sparkle in his brown eyes and the red scar angling down his face and neck.

“You should have escaped to the island.” He fingered his chin.

“Then Madame ubois would not have survived.”

“Humph.” He gazed at the sleeping woman.

“You do not believe, Mr. Thorn?” Of all the people, besides Father Alers, Grace would have thought the scrupulous first mate would be the first to embrace the miraculous intervention of God.

He shifted his stance. “I heard your prayer. I saw the woman recover, but I cannot connect the two without reservation.”

“But you
do
believe in God?” Grace's heart skipped a beat.

“Most certainly, miss. I simply do not believe He takes much care of the happenings on earth.” Mr. Thorn fumbled with his hat.

“Yet when presented with proof that He is very much aware and involved, you refuse to believe.” Grace instantly regretted her churlish tone, but she was tired, emotionally spent, and suddenly unsure of her ability to do any further good for God.

Mr. Thorn leaned on the door frame. “If what you say is true, why would He waste time on ... on someone like Madame Dubois, an insolent mean-spirited shrew?” His voice hardened like steel.

Grace winced at his harsh censure of Claire. “None of us are without fault, Mr. Thorn.” The truth spilled from her lips before she realized they were meant as much for her as for the first mate.

“Some are far better than others,” he replied.

Grace flattened her lips. If Mr. Thorn would give no credence to her opinions, perhaps he would believe the testimony of a priest. “Father Alers confirms the event as an act of God.”

Mr. Thorn snorted. “Begging your pardon, miss, but Father Alers is a silly old fool who turned his back on his true faith and now seeks a sign to confirm what he once believed. He is what your Bible describes as a wave of the sea being driven and tossed to and fro.”

Grace grabbed her chain, appalled at the man's assessment. “Is there no one on board who meets with your approval, Mr. Thorn?”

“You may call me Justus, miss. And yes. I find you to be above reproach, which is why I have done all in my power to aid in your escape.”

Justus. Grace stifled a chuckle. And like a judge, he wielded his sword of justice on everyone he met.

Like me.

The words stabbed her conscience. Was she like Mr. Thorn? Did she pass such quick and merciless judgments on all those around her?

Thorn glanced over his shoulder. “And Annette, despite her circumstances, appears to be principled and virtuous.”

Grace shook her head. Annette, principled? Had the man gone daft?

“Do you happen to know where she is?”

“No. I saw her above earlier.” The last thing Grace had seen of Annette was the flash of blue cotton as she ran away after their conversation—a conversation that mimicked the failings of the present one. “What is your business with her?”

“Merely concerned for her safety. Nothing unscrupulous, I assure you.” Then bowing, he donned his hat. “I beg leave of you, miss.”

“Good evening to you, Mr. Thorn ... I mean Justus.”

After he left, Grace turned to gaze out the window, where the stars began to fade beneath the approach of dawn. Though she hadn't slept, she was thankful for the close of this peculiar night. It was as if the air had been tainted with some maddening elixir, or perhaps they sailed through an aberrant patch of sea where reality became warped.

For the world no longer made any sense.

Annette gripped the backstay and stepped onto the gunwale. Her bare feet slipped on the polished brass, and she clutched the rope tighter until the rough threads burned her tender skin. A gust of wind raked over her, trying to tear her from her perch, but she would not let it.

Not yet.

The fresh scent of dawn approaching filled her nostrils, and she dared a glance some twenty feet below where black waters churned like a malevolent brew. Their foamy fingers clawed at the hull as if trying to grab her. Swallowing, she closed her eyes and prayed for her ancestors to receive her into their arms.

At last she would finally be home. With the people to whom she belonged. Finally she would be at peace. Finally she would be at rest.

All she had lived for these past years, her only purpose, had been to rid herself of Madame Dubois, to send the woman into the underworld and appease the revenge that gnawed daily at Annette's soul. Rochelle Dubois, the master's last wife, whom Annette had served one year prior to her death, had been nothing like Claire. Though the lady had known Annette was the result of her husband's philandering, Madame Rochelle had treated her with kindness. Annette had truly grieved her passing, but no more than when she'd been introduced to her new mistress. Since then, Madame Claire's spiteful insults, self-centered demands, and malicious reprimands had eaten away at Annette until she could stand it no longer.

She had attempted once to run away and join the maroons, a group of Africans who had escaped their masters and lived free and wild in the forests of Saint Dominique. But they would not have her. They treated her no better than they treated the grand blancs, even making the abhorrent assumption that she was one of them because of the white blood flowing in her veins. Beaten, bruised, and heartbroken, she had dragged herself home.

Because she had nowhere else to go.

That was when she dove into the religion of her ancestors, seeking answers. And the answer she kept hearing over and over again was that the woman must die. It was the only way to be free.

But Mademoiselle Grace's God had ruined Annette's plans. A loving God would not do such a thing. A loving God would have allowed Madame Dubois to die as she deserved. A loving God would have granted Annette her freedom. She wanted nothing to do with this cruel God of the blancs. Now all that faced Annette was a future of abuse and hatred—a future of slavery. And she could not bear the thought.

A ribbon of gray settled on the horizon, pushing back the shroud of night. She didn't have much time before the crew arose and the helmsman and night watchman spotted her.

“Receive my spirit, oh great
Loa.
I am coming home.” Annette released the rope. Her heart crashed in her chest. Her sweat-laden feet began to slip on the gunwale. The ship pitched and plunged over a wave, and Annette released herself from all fetters of this world.

She fell through the air. Free at last.

Until rough hands grabbed her waist.

She crashed against a warm, hard body, then landed on the deck with a thud. Pain shot up her back. She opened her eyes. A man's dark face filled her spinning vision. “Are you all right, mademoiselle?” Monsieur Thorn's voice.

Annette raised a hand to rub her aching forehead. “What have you done?”

“I have saved you,” he said, sitting beside her and taking her hand. “Can you sit up?”

Annette shook off her dizziness and welcomed the anger brewing in her belly. “What have you done?” she repeated and swatted his hand away. Scrambling to her feet—a bit too fast—she wobbled on the shifting deck. “Imbécile.”

The gray ribbon expanded over the horizon, taking on a ruddy hue—the same hue that now blossomed upon Mr. Thorn's face. “I save your life and you call me a fool?” He retrieved his tricorne from the deck.

“I did not wish to be saved.”

His head jerked as if she'd slapped him. The angry flush faded from his features, replaced by concern. “You did not slip?”

Annette twirled around, not willing to face him, not wanting to see the care burning in his gaze, not wanting to believe it existed. She felt him move behind her. Placing his hands upon her shoulders, he turned her around. “Why?”

The tears she'd successfully kept at bay filled her eyes. “Because my mistress lives to torture me. My father ignores me. My people despise me, and the whites use me. I belong nowhere but with my ancestors in the afterworld.”

Monsieur Thorn's jaw stiffened, and the green flecks in his brown eyes brightened. The look within them startled her. A look of admiration, of concern. A look she had never seen directed toward her. He drew her against his chest and wrapped his arms around her. Strong arms that locked her in a cocoon of warmth and protection.

No one had ever hugged her before.

Thorn held his breath. He didn't want to frighten away the woman who stood stiff as a bowline in his arms. But at least she had allowed him to embrace her. Slowly, her body softened, and she snuggled into him and released a shuddering sigh. The fear that had surged within him at her mention of jumping overboard now subsided to a tiny squall. Why would such a precious creature wish to deny the world her presence? And why did he feel like he'd died and gone to heaven with her in his arms?

“No matter what, there is always hope, mademoiselle,” he whispered in her ear. “Do not give up.”

The sun shot golden arrows over the indigo sea and across Thorn's face, announcing the new day. He squinted and tightened his embrace on Annette, not wanting these precious moments to end.

But like all good things in his life, it did end, as she pushed away from him and took a step back. Wiping her damp face, she looked down as if embarrassed. “You must think me
une sotte.”

Thorn shook his head.

She lifted her gaze to his, her dark eyes hardened with bitterness. “Before, I want Madame Dubois dead. I want my revenge. But when it is stolen from me, I believe I have no choice but to die.”