Raven Saint (3 page)

Soiled.
The word sent a flood of horrifying visions into Grace's mind. She cringed.

Captain Dubois leaned toward Grace until she could smell the brandy on his breath and the sea in his hair. “I will not have you ill when you arrive in Colombia. You will take off your wet gown and put on this dry one by the time I return, or I will do it for you.” A lewd flicker crossed his eyes, and she knew he meant it. He turned to leave, gesturing for Father Alers to follow him.

Anger seared through Grace, stealing the chill from her bones. “You're naught but a pirate.”

He halted. The skin on his face grew taut. “You are mistaken, mademoiselle. I am a mercenary.”

Grace's stomach tightened. A soldier for hire. “Which nation do you serve?”

“Whichever one pays the most.” He grinned.

“Then you are a pirate, indeed.”

His brooding eyes narrowed. “Take care, mademoiselle.
Gardez vos lèvres.
I give no quarter to the weaker sex.”

Grace swallowed and raised a hand to her chest.

“Come, Spyglass.” He swerved about and the gray cat leapt into his arms. “There is no way off this ship, mademoiselle. If you behave yourself, things will go pleasant for you. If not, well.” He shrugged, a twinkle of deviant mirth in his expression. “The gentleman in me will not permit the utterance of such atrocities.”

The door to her cabin creaked open, and Grace turned her aching head to see who had entered. Father Alers offered her a smile from the entrance before he shut the door and set the tray he carried atop the table. “How are you feeling, mademoiselle?”

Grace rubbed her forehead and winced at pain that pounded beneath her fingers. “Not well, I'm afraid.” Blurred images drifted through her feverish mind. Images floating on the shadows of night and the glare of day as they passed like specters through the cabin, images of Father Alers and the captain entering and leaving, their whispers lingering in the stale air. The last thing she remembered with any clarity was the captain's threats before he had stomped out, leaving her to face the night alone. She had cried herself to sleep that night and awoken to a body in complete rebellion, expressing its dissent at her predicament with a fever and a seething stomach. Why did she have to get sick at a time like this, when she needed all her strength to plan an escape? She forced back her hatred toward this unknown don and the scoundrel who had kidnapped her, knowing it was wrong. “How long have I been ill?”

“Five days, mademoiselle.” Father Alers lifted a bowl from the tray and sat in the chair beside her cot. “You must eat something.” The rank odor of some type of fish caused her nose to wrinkle and her stomach to convulse.

She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Forgive me, Father, I cannot,” she mumbled. “But I thank you for the food. You have been most kind.”

He returned the bowl to the tray with a huff then faced her, leaning back into the chair. “The fever has lessened, mademoiselle. You should feel better soon.” A look of concern softened the lines at the corners of his eyes. He started to rise.

“Father.” Grace held out her hand. “Please stay a moment. I feel as though I shall go mad all alone in this cabin.” She moaned. “Especially not knowing what is to become of me.”

He settled back into the chair but averted his eyes from hers.

The momentary glimpse of shame she saw in them emboldened her to ask the question that had been burning on her lips ever since she had discovered kindness in Father Alers. “Father, why do you sail with such a villain?”

Father Alers shifted in the seat and folded his hands over his belly.
“Le
capitaine has some villain in him, I admit, but he does much good
aussi.”

Grace's head pounded as she tried to make sense of his words. “I do not understand. He has kidnapped me. How is that good?”

Releasing a deep breath, he glanced toward the window but said nothing.

“Why do they call you Father?” Grace remembered praying for an ally aboard this ship, a friend, someone who would help her. Truth be told, she remembered praying for many things. None of which had been answered.

Father Alers grimaced. “I used to be of the Jesuit order.”

“Used to be?”

“I am no longer a priest, mademoiselle.” Anger pierced his tone.

“But surely you still have faith.” Grace struggled to rise. How could anyone turn away from God? “My faith is all I have,” she said. Although even as she said the words, she wondered at their truth.

He nodded. “You spoke of God often in your dreams these past few days.”

Grace's cheeks heated at the intimacies this stranger must have heard her utter in her delirium. She was afraid to ask what she'd said, but he continued nonetheless.

“Oui, something about the Catawbas and Alice and a boy named Frederick and the Hendricks.” Father Alers scratched his beard and smiled. “Ah, and always a praise to God. That is how I knew of your faith.”

The sound of familiar names washed over Grace like a refreshing mist, bringing with them memories of a time when God walked with her daily. “ 'Tis what I do back in Charles Towne. Alice”—pain sank into Grace's heart as she remembered the girl's betrayal—“my lady's maid and I often visit the Catawbas, a local Indian tribe, to bring them blankets and kettles and other cooking utensils, and to tell them about God. And little Frederick.” Grace smiled as she remembered the ragged, starving orphan boy she had found on the streets of Charles Towne. “He's an orphan I placed with a couple who couldn't have children. And the Hendricks are a poor family who live on the edge of town. I take food and medicine to them when their children are sick.” Relaying the stories out loud brought memories of God's faithfulness to the forefront of her mind, chipping away at the despondency she had built up over the past days.

Father Alers cocked his head and gave her a knowing grin. “And why would a young lady do these things when you could be attending
les soirées
and be courted by beaus?”

“To share God's love and truth with others and help those in need. Isn't that what we are supposed to do?” Unlike her sisters, parties and courtship had never appealed to Grace overmuch.

A beam of admiration glimmered in the father's golden-brown eyes. “A worthy goal, mademoiselle. Your faith is admirable, and the many prayers you offer during your
maladie
have, sans doute, risen straight to heaven.”

Horrified that this man had also overheard her intimate conversations with God, Grace fought the tears that filled her eyes. “Yet He does not answer them. Can you explain to me why?”

Father Alers shook his head. “If I could, mademoiselle, than peutêtre, I would still be a priest.”

Grace swallowed against the anger and fear clogging her throat. “Why are you with Captain Dubois? You are nothing like him.”

“Le capitaine and I ... have a long
histoire
together.”

“That still doesn't explain why a man of God would lower himself to partake of such iniquity.”

Father Alers pressed down the coils of his silver hair and glanced out the window. He hesitated and seemed to drift to another place and time. “I had a nephew, Armonde.” He shifted in his seat. “A bright boy, full of life and love. A bit of a rebel at times, like any boy his age.” A slight smile alighted upon his lips but then disappeared. “He was a Huguenot.”

The word struck a chord of sorrow within Grace, for she had heard that the Huguenots had undergone horrific persecution in France.

“When Louis XIV issued the Edict of Fountainebleau, Armonde was captured, tortured, and put to death.” Father Alers's jaw tightened and he glanced down at the deck.

Grace reached out, but he made no move to accept her hand. “I am so sorry, Father.”

He shrugged. “After that I gave up on all religion. It causes men to fight and kill each other. It causes death. I want no part of it. So, I sailed to Saint Dominique where I met Rafe, I mean Captain Dubois.” He grinned and finally took her hand. “He reminds me of Armonde.”

Her heart filled with compassion, and she placed her hand atop his knobby fingers. “Do not give up on God, Father.” Yet her words seemed to drift away for lack of true conviction in her voice. For it appeared God had, indeed, given up on her as well.

The door burst open and in stomped Captain Dubois bringing with him a gust of wind, laden with the smell of salt and damp wood. His dark eyes latched upon her and then shifted to Father Alers, and then to their clasped hands. His jaw stiffened, and he gripped the hilt of his rapier.

Rafe grimaced at the stupidity of his friend and took a step forward. He had told the father not to get too close to the mademoiselle during her maladie. He knew the man's heart and how easy it would be for him to take pity on her.

But Rafe certainly did not expect to find their hands clasped together.
L'idiot.
Sans doute
la femme
attempted to charm Father Alers into helping her escape. “I see the mademoiselle is recovering. There is no further need for your ministrations, Father.”

Father Alers lifted one defiant gray brow his way then gently placed the mademoiselle's hand back on the cot.

Grace flattened her lips. “Father Alers was just informing me why he sails with a man such as you.” Though weak, her voice spiked with disdain.

“Vraiment?”
Rafe shifted his stance and jerked his head toward the door in an attempt to get Father Alers to leave.

Rising, the father pressed a hand over his back. “Mademoiselle Grace was also informing me how she spends her time in Charles Towne helping to feed and clothe the poor and take care of the sick.” He faced Rafe and gave him a taunting look. “Who does that sound like?”

Rafe huffed. The daughter of a British admiral feeding the poor. Not likely. “It sounds like la femme has poisoned your mind,
mon vieux.
Now, attend to your duties.”

The mademoiselle shook her head and took a labored breath as Father Alers brushed by Rafe, gave him a grunt in passing, and headed out the door.

Coughing, Mademoiselle Grace lifted her emerald eyes to his. Gone was the glassy shield of courage and defiance he had seen five days ago. In its stead, a pleading innocence stared at him and seeped through the cracks in his armor headed straight toward his heart. But he wouldn't allow it entrance. Not again. Was it true she cared for those less fortunate than her? Was it true she spent her life caring for others?
Non.
He would not believe it.

He could not believe it.

A drop of sweat slid down the back of his neck, and he wiped it away as he stared at the deck and conjured up a vision of what the British navy had done to his mother. It was the only way to combat the rising guilt those green eyes stirred within him.

He found the anger. He welcomed it and allowed it to burn away any tender spots on his heart, crusting them over until they were once again hard.

Mademoiselle Grace must have sensed his fury, for when he lifted his gaze to hers, she flinched and her face drained of color.

So she
was
afraid of him. When he had first brought her on board, he had expected either a swooning female, begging for her life, or a ferocious wildcat, clawing and hissing at him. What he had not expected was a woman with the courage of a soldier and the heart of an angel.

She struggled to get up on one arm, her chest rising and falling, either from the exertion or from her fear, he didn't know. “Why are you doing this?” she said. Her bottom lip trembled, and Rafe felt that tremble down to his soul.

He planted his fists upon his waist and tore his gaze from her. “As I have said, for the money.”

“What will the don do with me?”

Rafe shook his head. His anger began to retreat again. He must get away from her before it left him defenseless. “You can ask him when you see him.” Turning, Rafe stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.

Rafe burst into his cabin. Grabbing the decanter of brandy from his desk, he poured himself a swig and snapped it toward the back of his throat. The sharp liquor burned a soothing trail down to his belly and radiated a numbing heat through his body. Just what he needed. He poured himself another and strode to the stern window, watching as the sun's orange glow slipped behind the horizon, tugging a curtain of black in its wake. He felt like kicking something—or someone—and what bothered him the most was that he didn't know why.

A
tap
sounded on his door and at his
entrez,
Father Alers ambled in with a tray. “I thought you would want to eat in your cabin tonight.” The old man's eyes took in the empty glass in Rafe's hand.

“And why do you assume that?”

“The crew says you are in a foul mood, Capitaine.”

Rafe emitted a sinister chuckle.

The man set the tray on Rafe's desk. “And they know you well enough to leave you alone.” The plate of salt pork, beans, and a hard biscuit stared back at Rafe, taunting him with the scent of spice and molasses, though he could find no yearning for the food in his belly.

He huffed. “What, no drink to accompany this savory
mélange?”

“What need? You have supplied your own.” Father Alers glanced at the decanter of brandy and raised a haughty brow.

Rafe turned on his heel and stared into the growing darkness outside. The ship groaned beneath a swell and a bell rang above deck, announcing a new watch.

Father Alers grunted, and Rafe heard the shuffle of his shoes retreating over the wooden planks.

“Asseyez-vous,
Father. I wish to speak to you.” Turning, Rafe gestured toward one of the high-backed
fauteuils
in front of his desk and set his empty glass down.

The cook scratched his beard as if contemplating whether or not to obey, then he dropped into the chair. “What has soured your
humeur,
Capitaine? Seeing me holding hands with the mademoiselle?” He chuckled.

Ignoring him, Rafe opened a desk drawer and chose a French cheroot from within a lined case. Then lighting it from the lantern, he inhaled a draft, allowing the pungent smoke to fill his lungs and calm his fury. He would not give his friend the pleasure of seeing his inner turmoil. “She has no affect on me, mon vieux. I simply want her well.” Rafe circled the desk.

Father Alers leaned back and clasped his hands together over his portly belly. “She will survive. Since that is all you care about, non?”

“Oui. I mean, non. I do not want her emaciated.” Rafe crossed his arms over his chest. “Does she take in fluids?” He'd seen many a stout sailor die from fever and nausea aboard a ship, especially if they refused to drink.

“She will not partake of the lemon juice—it contains liquor, she says—so I have brought her the water we collected in the last rain storm.”

“She
will not?”
Rafe gave a humorless snarl.

“Quite politely refuses.” Father Alers crossed his buckled shoes at the ankles and smirked. “With sincere apologies.
En fait,
she treats me more as a friend than a captor.”

“As I saw.” Rafe puffed on his cheroot, masking the annoyance bristling his nerves.

Father Alers shook his head. “I admire the woman. Despite her malaise, she spends hours in prayer. A true testimony to her faith.” He chuckled. “Be careful, Rafe, you may find that God answers her supplications.”

Rafe snorted. “Strong words coming from a man who has spent the last four years hiding from God.” He poured himself another swig of brandy.

“If I am hiding from Him, then you are surely running.”

“You cannot run from someone who does not exist, Father. I run from no god and no man.” He downed the liquor.

“Perhaps not. Yet you have proclaimed war upon both.” Father Alers's golden eyes sparkled with playful humor. “And if you would, please abstain from addressing me as Father. I am no longer of the order.”

“From Jesuit priest to ship's cook.” Rafe smirked. “How far you have fallen.”

“And you. From wealthy planter's son to abductor of virtuous ladies.”

Rafe puffed upon his cheroot, more annoyed at his friend's continual approbation of Mademoiselle Westcott than the insult. “That you find the lady
agréable,
you have made quite clear.”

“She has a humble, kind spirit and her mood is always pleasant—which is more than I can say of you.”

“You live and die by my grace, mon vieux.” Rafe waved a hand through the air. “Why should I be pleasant?”

Father Alers leaned forward in his chair and directed a patronizing gaze at Rafe. “Because it is in you to do so, Capitaine. You can call me
old man,
but I have known you since you were a boy, and the only reason I remain in your service is the charitable acts you perform.” He sighed. “Now what of
la dame?
Surely you do not intend to deliver her to this don.”

“Mais oui. That is my exact intention.” Rafe poured another swig into his glass.

Father Alers shook his head, his chin sinking to his chest. “It is not like you. Never have you dealt in innocent human flesh. You've escorted prisoners, dealt in espionage, battled enemies in time of war, even thievery, but never this.”

Guilt assailed Rafe's already bruised conscience, and he downed the brandy. That was the problem. He had grown soft over the years. “Innocent? A lady?” He snickered. “None in her gender can claim such a state.”

“They are not all like Claire.”

Rafe slammed his fist on the desk, unsettling its contents. “I told you never to speak her name.”

Unmoved by Rafe's outburst, Father Alers held up a wrinkled hand in acquiescence.

Rafe ground his teeth together. “Besides, Grace is the daughter of Admiral Henry Westcott. Eye for an eye. Does it not say that in your Holy Book?”

Father Alers rose. Muffling a moan, he placed a hand on his back. “It is not
my
Holy Book, and what would you know of it anyway?”

“I know more than I care to.” Rafe took another puff of his cheroot, hoping the tobacco would calm his temper. “But to appease your sense of righteous mercy, the price I get for her will save many lives.”

Father Alers flapped his hand through the air as if arguing with Rafe was a waste of his time. “And put out that cheroot. You will light the ship aflame.”

Rafe scowled. Why did he allow this old man to play the father to him? He only taunted him with his inadequacies. “I am the capitaine of this ship, and I'll do as I please!” he shouted in a tone that sent most men cowering.

Father Alers guffawed. “What has pricked your nerves tonight if not la dame Westcott?”

“C'est absurde.”
Rafe sat back against his desk and rubbed his chin. “But I will not have her waste away and lower my profits. Force her to eat, if you must, and inform me when she fully recovers.”

Father Alers turned and waved a hand through the air. “Force her yourself, Capitaine. You forbade me to attend to her further, did you not?” And with that, he hobbled out and closed the door.

Rafe put out the cheroot in the empty brandy glass and avoided the temptation to toss the glass across the cabin. They'd been at sea barely a week, and Mademoiselle Westcott was already proving to be more of a problem than he expected.

Grace climbed the companionway, her legs trembling with each step. Whether from weakness or fear, she didn't know, and she no longer cared. After doing naught but retch and pray for days—she'd lost count of how many—all she had to show for it were a pair of bruised and scraped knees. Not to mention her spinning head which continually induced her to lose the contents of said stomach—which of course was already empty, making the action all the more painful.

To make matters worse, nightmares from long ago attacked her feverish mind with ferocity. One nightmare in particular—a nightmare that had been so terrifying, she'd never spoken of it to anyone. A nightmare that had changed the course of her life forever. The night she had seen a vision of hell.

Even now she couldn't bring herself to think of it, but its memory always lingered at the edge of her thoughts, prompting her with greater and greater urgency to save those who were heading down a path that led to the horrifying place. Finally, pushing aside the hellish vision, she decided to venture on deck for some fresh air and to see if perhaps God could hear her pleas more clearly out in the open. Perchance this ship and its occupants were so evil that they blocked her prayers from rising to heaven. But now as she rose above hatches and slid her shaky foot across the deck, she questioned the wisdom of her actions. Instantly, a dozen pairs of eyes fastened upon her as tightly as the hooks on the bodice she'd been forced to squeeze into.

Her sister Faith had always told her never to cower before bullies, so she lifted her chin to meet their gazes. A cacophony of whistles flew her way.

“Shiver me soul, if it ain't the captain's piece,” one portly sailor in a red shirt said.

“An' a handsome petticoat she be.” The man next to him elbowed his friend and grinned.

A lanky man with a pointy chin licked his oversized lips. “Don't she look as tasty as a sweet berry pie.”

“Come join us, mademoiselle,” another sailor gestured toward her. “We haven't had our dessert yet.” The men all joined in an ear-piercing chortle.

Grace lowered her chin, flung a hand to cover her bare neck, and made her way to the railing, hoping not to topple to the deck from weakness and humiliation. Perhaps this had not been a good idea, after all.

Trying to erase the vision of the ribald men behind her, she gripped the railing and gazed across the sparkling turquoise sea. She drew in a deep breath of the heavy salt-laden air, hoping it would chase from her lungs the moldy staleness that had taken residence there from her confinement below.

Movement caught her eye, and she turned to see three sailors peering at her from the bulwarks on her left. One of them, a tall man attired in a modish style that belied the crude look in his eyes, spoke passionately to the man beside him. His companion, a rotund fellow made all the more large by the third man's wiry frame beside him, chuckled and raised an inviting brow her way. His wide mouth stretched into a wet smile.

Grace's stomach lurched.

A deep voice she recognized as the captain's bellowed over the ship, immediately sending the men scampering and silencing the salacious onslaught. “Back to work,
crapaud stupides!”
The stout man did indeed look like a toad.

Grace glanced over her shoulder to see Captain Dubois standing by the companionway, fists on his waist. His unfettered black hair blew behind him in the hot ocean breeze, and his dark smoky eyes latched upon her, an inscrutable emotion brewing within them.

Grace faced forward and tugged upon the chain at her neck, pulling out the gold cross tucked within her bodice. Gripping it with both hands, she slid her fingers over the jewels. She wanted to pray, to plead with God for help, but she had no words left. Why wasn't God answering her? She had spent her life serving Him, and now when she needed Him the most, He seemed to have disappeared.

The thump of the captain's boots faded across the deck, and she released a deep sigh. At least for the time being, it appeared that he would leave her be and keep his men away from her as well. She had come up here to spend time with God, but as she gazed over the huge expanse of blue, she felt more alone than ever. The ship bucked, and she released the cross to grab the railing. The ornament struck the wood with a clank, and she stuffed it down her bodice again. A gift from Reverend Anthony at St. Philips for her exemplary charity work in and around Charles Towne. It was all she had left to remind her of God's love and faithfulness.

Closing her eyes, she gripped the ship's railing lest she collapse from the lightness of her head and weakness of her knees. She must regain her strength. She must plan her escape. If she could discover what this don planned to do with her, perhaps she could convince the captain to appease him in some other way. Her heart pounded slow and heavy in her chest as if it pushed through molasses, reminding Grace that she needed sustenance.

Something furry tickled her arm. Grace shrieked, jumping back, and opened her eyes to find the gray cat balancing on the railing. The feline stared at Grace curiously through one eye. Laughter tumbled over her from behind.

A man approached, retrieved the beast, and held it in one hand. “Now, Spyglass, don't go scaring the lady.” He scratched the cat behind the ears. The feline's loud purrs could be heard even over the purl of the waves against the hull. The man bowed. “Justus Thorn, miss.”

“You are British.” Grace studied him. He could be no older than her own twenty years. Brown hair the color of almonds danced wildly in the wind and brushed the top of his pristine gray doublet. A swath of white lace bounding from his neck matched the lace at the cuffs of his white shirt. A bulbous nose and a thin red scar that ran from his left cheek to the middle of his neck were the only deterrents to an otherwise flawless countenance.

“Born in Wellingborough, Northamptonshire.” Mr. Thorn set the cat onto the deck. “Have no fear. Spyglass may look fierce, but she is harmless.”

“'Tis not the cat that worries me, Mr. Thorn.”

His gaze rose to Captain Dubois standing on the quarterdeck amidst a group of crewmen, and for a moment Grace thought she saw a spark of bitterness cross his hazel eyes. “Aye, 'tis a most perilous situation in which you find yourself.” He said the words as if remarking about a rainy day or a pair of lost tickets to a play.

“Most perilous, sir, when you consider what my future holds.” Grace reached up to clasp the buttons at the top of her gown, but her fingers met bare skin instead. She'd forgotten about the low-necked bodice and spread her hand across her naked flesh in horror. “But then, why do I complain to you? You are an accomplice in the captain's nefarious scheme.”