Raven Saint (30 page)

Grace stopped pounding the door to catch her breath. Perspiration streamed down her face and neck. Her head ached. Blood dripped from her wrists, and her mouth was stuffed with cotton. But at least the cannons had ceased and the ship had slowed to a near halt. In light of what she'd overheard, however, that might not have been a good sign at all.

She continued battering the door with her feet and groaning through the saturated cloth in her mouth.

Finally, she heard shuffling in the hall. “Mademoiselle?” Annette's sheepish voice squeaked through the oak.

Grace groaned and kicked the door again. The latch clicked, and light spilled in around the mulatto's thin form.

“Mademoiselle!” Annette dropped to the deck and plucked the handkerchief from Grace's mouth. “Who did this to you?”

Grace coughed and tried to speak but her words emerged in a grating rasp.

Annette battled the ropes around Grace's wrists and feet. “When you not come back to the cabin last night, I worry, and come looking for you.”

“Thank you, Annette,” Grace managed to say. Tearing the loosened ropes from her ankles, she rose. A wave of dizziness swirled her vision, and she leaned on the bulkhead.

“Are you all right, mademoiselle?”

Grace gripped Annette's shoulders. “Where is Rafe?”

“Captain Dubois is on deck, mademoiselle.” Annette's brows drew together.

“Come, we must hurry.” Grace swept past her.

“It is not good.” The
tap tap
of Annette's shoes behind Grace only added to her rising fear. “You should not go above, mademoiselle.”

Ignoring the lady and the sinking feeling in her gut, Grace navigated the narrow hallways and companionway. Then clutching her skirts, she climbed up the ladder and emerged into the sunlight, Annette fast on her heels.

A growling mob undulated over the main deck, and Grace ducked into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck. She strained to see through the horde of cursing sailors. Drawing Annette to her side, she circled around the mob until she spotted the yellow feather fluttering atop Monsieur Dubois's hat. Bright flashes caused her to squint and focus on their source.

Swords. Drawn swords. All pointed at Rafe. She was too late.

Rafe cursed himself as every muscle within him grew taut. How could he have been such a fool? He eyed his father, longing to draw his rapier and etch a permanent frown over his caustic grin. Stupide. Rafe shifted his gaze from his father to Monsieur Thorn. Despite the anger boiling in Rafe's gut, a sharp twang struck his heart. “So you joined mon père against me?” He formed the words his mind still refused to believe. That the man who had sailed with him for a year, the man he considered his friend, had committed the ultimate betrayal. But why not? Everyone betrayed Rafe in the end.

Thorn raised one shoulder. “So it would seem.”

“And all of you!” Rafe yelled over their shoulders to those of his men who had joined the traitorous mob. “Have I not served you well?” He scanned their faces. Weylan, Holt, Fisk, Porter, Maddock, and a dozen other men who had been his companions. Some lowered their gazes, others gave him a sheepish look of apology, while others twitched their fingers over their weapons as if anxious to be done with him.

He turned back to Thorn. “Why involve my father in this?”

Thorn cocked a brow. “In the event there were not enough men willing to turn against you, Captain. And as it turned out, I needed his crew.” He shook his head. “Even when I informed the men that you reneged on your promise to sell the mademoiselle and line their pockets, most still would not join us. A testament to you, I suppose. Though for the life of me, I find their loyalty confounding.”

Movement on the fore- and quarterdecks drew Rafe's attention to groups of sailors who gathered at each railing, shock and fear tightening their features as some of their own companions held them at gunpoint. Even Monsieur Atton, normally a solid rock of composure, stared at Rafe with a look of horror.

Weylan stepped forward, tugging upon the lace at his cuffs. “It's about her.” He wagged a thumb toward his left, and Rafe glanced to see Mademoiselle Grace huddling in the corner beside Annette, her eyes wide, and her bottom lip quivering.

Zut alors, the woman always chose the most inopportune time to come on deck. His stomach tightened. What would happen to Grace now? “We heard you had grown soft on the woman,” Weylan added with a sneer.

Rafe faced him. “What is that to you?” He gripped the hilt of his rapier, causing the swords pointed his way to jerk to attention. Grace gasped.

“Easy, messieurs.” Rafe released the weapon and narrowed his eyes upon his father. “This has nothing to do with your wife.” Rafe huffed as understanding dawned. “You planned this mutiny all along.”

“Ah, gentlemen.” His father glanced over the mob. “At last my son has regaled us with a smidgen of his acclaimed wisdom.” His blue eyes flashed. “I had begun to doubt you possessed it.”

Ignoring him, Rafe directed his attention to Thorn. “And you told him where to find us.”

Thorn grinned.

Rafe nodded toward Claire who leaned against the foredeck, her eyes laced with horror. “Was she also a part of this?”

“My faithless wife?” Henri chuckled. “Non, she is merely a pawn. En fait, she believed she was running away to be with you. Had I known I was marrying a
souillon,
I would have allowed you to keep her.”

Rafe gripped his baldric as a blast of wind tore over him. “But you did marry her. You won, Father. Why come after me?”

“Because I could not stand that she still wanted you, still loved you.” Rafe's father shot a look toward Claire that burned more with pain than hatred, then he stomped toward Rafe, his eyes bulging. “Just like your mother. It was always about you. Smart, quick-witted, capable Rafe. Stronger, wiser, better.” He spat to the side.

Rafe winced beneath the man's fury. He could find no cause for it. Nothing he had done in his childhood except succeed at all he did. Shouldn't a father be proud of such a son? “I was never in competition with you.”

Henri snorted, his face reddening. “Oh, but you were. Every time you succeeded. Every time you won the affections of a lady I coveted, every time Claire's eyes lit up at the mention of your name. Every time I heard of your grand successes upon the sea and was bombarded by the people's praise for you in town.” He snorted. “Assez!”

The loathing that twisted his father's features stunned Rafe. “So you devise a plan for me to appear to kidnap your wife so you can come after me and kill me?”

“How else to be rid of you within the bounds of the law? I am not a murderer.” Henri lifted his shoulders as if shrugging off his anger, shrugging away his son.

“My crew will testify otherwise.” Rafe said.

“Who would believe them over me?”

Rafe's heart collapsed into a ball of lead. His father was right. “I did not realize your hatred of me ran so deep.”

Henri glared at Rafe for a moment. He licked his lips and looked away. “You are not my son.”

A drop of sweat slid down Rafe's back. The sun fired hot arrows upon him. Waves slapped against the hull. Claire gasped.

Rafe's fingers went numb. “What did you say?”

Henri gazed over the sea, his stony face holding a trace of sorrow. “I said you are not my son.”

“Then whose son am I?”

His father met his gaze. His eyes glinted like steel. “You are the son of the pirate Jean du Casse.”

Jean du Casse? Blood dashed from Rafe's head. Blinking, he caught himself before he stumbled backward. Jean du Casse, the admiral of the French navy? The man knighted by Louis XIV, the governor of Saint Dominique? The buccaneer who led the raid on Spanish forces at Cartagena? That Jean du Casse? The incredulous possibility swirled in Rafe's mind. Could it be true? Could he be the son of such a great man? Rafe raised a furrowed brow to Henri as his jumbled thoughts fled to his mother.

“I see where your mind takes you, Rafe.” Monsieur Dubois stroked his pointed beard. “Straight to the source. En fait, I only discovered the truth after your mother died. Evidence of her duplicity in a letter I found stuffed in a drawer. I regret to dash your virginal memory of her, but she was nothing more than a souillon, a prostituée.”

In a flash, Rafe drew his rapier and leveled its tip upon Henri's throat. “You will take that back, monsieur. If my mother found love in the arms of another it was because you drove her to it.”

Blades flashed his way. A sharp tip pressed against his side. Rafe glanced in the direction to see Thorn's furious face at the end of the gleaming hilt.

“Stand down,” Thorn ordered. “Or I'll run you through.”

“Not before I slit his throat.” Rafe pressed the point harder, and blood blossomed on Henri's white cravat as his eyes became transfixed in horror.

Thorn chuckled. “Go ahead. It matters not to me. You may fall atop his dead body if that is what you wish.”

Silence swallowed all sound aboard the ship except Henri's hurried breathing. Rafe's hand began to shake. Not from fear or even rage, but from the overwhelming desire to destroy this man who had destroyed Rafe's life.

“No, Rafe.” Mademoiselle's quivering voice spilled over him from behind, followed by Claire's sobbing, “S'il vous plaît.”

Lowering his blade, Rafe stepped back. Though he cared nothing for his own life, or for the life of Henri Dubois, he had Grace to consider. And as long as he lived, he would do his best to protect her. But he must live. He glanced her way. Green eyes, pooling with fear, met his. Claire, her face red and puffy, clung to Grace's left arm, while Annette stood as rigid as a mast off her right.

Father Alers's gray hair flared about him. He gripped the pommel of his blade and stepped forward from beside the three women. “Say the word, Capitaine, and I will fight by your side.”

Henri chuckled. “How noble. Can you invoke no more loyalty than that of one old man?” He grinned, and the sailors joined his laughter.

“Non, mon ami,” Rafe spoke to the former priest as he inclined his head toward Grace. “Stay with her. Keep her safe.”

Father Alers nodded his understanding and took a step back.

Tears spilled from Grace's eyes.

Wrenching his gaze from her, Rafe thrust the tip of his rapier into the deck and leaned on the handle. “So, Henri, what will it be? Keelhaul? Hanging from the yardarm, or will you toss me to the sharks?”

“Such imagination!” Henri laid a finger on his chin. “Non, nothing so colorful. Monsieur Thorn has requested the honor of a duel to the death.”

Rafe couldn't help the chuckle that escaped his lips. “To the death?” He directed a challenging gaze toward Thorn. “And what happens when I win?”

Henri smirked. “It depends on how long you can swim.”

Rafe narrowed his eyes upon Henri, then plucked his sword from the deck and faced Thorn. “If you dare to challenge me, Thorn, you are a bigger fool than I thought.”

But his words did not have the intended effect on Thorn. Instead, his first mate returned his gaze with hauteur. “You forget, Captain, I learned swordsmanship in His Majesty's Navy. And I have kept my skills sharp. Have you?”

Rafe grinned. “We shall see.”

A duel to the death.

Grace's stomach lurched, and she realized if she'd had anything to eat in the past twelve hours, it would now be upon the rolling planks beneath her feet.

One hand on his hip, Thorn raised his blade and twirled it around Rafe's chest, taunting him. The captain stood his ground, a smug look on his face that was surprisingly devoid of fear.

Claire threw a hand to her chest and began wheezing then melted into Grace's arms. Father Alers helped lead Claire to a nearby barrel in the shade before he took a stance beside the women.

Rafe doffed his hat and flung it to the deck. “Are you going to fight or twirl your blade through the air like a woman?”

Thorn squinted, tightened his lips, then lunged toward Rafe. The captain leapt to the side and lifted his own blade to strike Thorn. Thorn recovered and met his thrust hilt to hilt. The
chink
of metal sliced over the ship.

Monsieur Dubois retreated to the railing as the crowd withdrew, allowing the combatants room. Shouts and jeers trumpeted through the air heavy with heat and sweat.

Grace's throat went dry. What if Rafe lost? What if he died? Horror stiffened her back. She could not imagine a world without Captain Rafe Dubois. She could not imagine this ship without him. And she could not imagine her life without him. The last realization stunned her the most. That, along with the awareness that her own welfare had not been foremost in her thoughts.

Rafe swung aside and drove his rapier in from the right. “We were friends once.”

“We were never friends.” Thorn dipped to the left and brought his blade up to strike the captain in the leg.

Rafe swerved about to avoid the thrust and circled his opponent. “Then you are a good liar.”

Above them, loose sails flapped beneath a blast of wind as the brig rolled over a swell.

Thorn matched Rafe's stride until the two rotated over the deck like the spokes of a wheel. “Indeed I am a liar, but you are a murderer.”

Rafe cocked his head, wiped the sleeve over his moist brow. “I am. But who do you say I murdered?”

Thorn charged him, his face a jumbled mass of red. “My sister.”

Grace's breath halted in her throat.

Rafe met his attack and the clank of swords filled the air. “I have never killed a woman,” he ground out with exertion.

The two men grunted, their swords slammed together. Rafe freed his blade and swept down on Thorn, nicking his right shoulder.

Thorn winced, a slice of purple forming on his blue waistcoat. He stared at it as if it were some strange occurrence, then his face grew hard and stiff.

“Who is your sister?” Rafe charged him again.

Thorn met his attack and gave Rafe a venomous look. “You do not remember her, then?” He pulled back. His lips curled in disgust and he charged Rafe like a mad bull, but his effort spent itself idly against the captain's skill. Rafe met each blow, each strike, with a calm defensive maneuver. Thorn stumbled, panting heavily, his mounting frustration evident on his face.

“You can take 'im, Thorn,” one man yelled.

“Don't let that
cochon lâche
get the best of you!” another brayed.

“Finish 'im off, Capitaine!” Mr. Atton bellowed from the quarterdeck, echoed by several cheers, and Grace was thankful at least some of Rafe's men remained loyal.

Her eyes slipped to Monsieur Dubois. One of his hands clutched the larboard railing, the other was stuffed within his coat, as he watched the duel as if it were an afternoon's entertainment.

Even so, a measure of ease settled upon Grace's nerves. Rafe was indeed well skilled with the sword. Truth be told, in all her years of watching her father's swordplay with his friends in Portsmouth, she'd seen none to compare. But now her fear shifted to Mr. Thorn. For even though he had betrayed his captain—and her—she did not wish for him to die.

Rafe eyed his opponent, noting that the look of insolence had spilled from his face along with the sweat that now ran like streams over his cheeks. “I know nothing of your sister.”

Thorn stormed toward Rafe, brandishing his blade high.

Rafe met his thrust with a counter-parry, then he danced to the side and came in from the right. Their swords crashed, steel on steel, the sun glinting off their blades.

Pushing back, Thorn spit to the side and shook the sweat from his face. “Remember when you frequented Nassau upon your father's merchantman?”

Rafe kept his rapier aimed upon the rogue as his thoughts sped back in time. “Oui, I remember Nassau.” A time long ago when his mother still lived. A time when Rafe believed that if he worked hard enough he might make his father proud.

“Elizabeth. Elizabeth Grayson,” Thorn growled.

Rafe halted, his chest heaving. A vision of a young woman with eyes the color of lilacs rose from his memories. “Oui, Elizabeth.” He furrowed his brow. “Your sister? Thorn is not your real name?”

“Does that surprise you?” Thorn lunged at Rafe, but Rafe batted his sword aside.

“I did not kill her.” He'd had enough of this foolishness.

“Perhaps not her body.” Thorn raged, his brown eyes flashing. “But her life, her future.”

With a shake of his head, Rafe allowed his gaze to drop. All this had been caused by a woman's broken heart?

“Allow me to extend to you her compliments.” Thorn swept down upon Rafe, and before Rafe could react, his arm exploded in searing pain.

At the sight of blood, the horde of sailors pressed in on them, assailing them with the stench of sweat and the clamor of shouts and curses.

Rafe pressed his hand over the wound and leveled his rapier at Thorn. “That is what this is about? Your sister?”

“You used her. You told her you loved her.” He leapt toward Rafe and met his sword hilt to hilt. Pulling back he swung at him again. They inched over the deck, parrying back and forth. “Then you left her.” Thorn heaved out in between breaths. “And destroyed her.”

Suddenly the rapier felt as heavy as an anchor in Rafe's hand, as heavy as his heart. “I was but twenty. A foolish young man. I never meant any harm to her.”

“Harm?” Thorn twisted, then came about and sliced his blade across Rafe's leg.

The sailors crowed in delight.

A thousand hot needles stabbed Rafe's thigh, and he stumbled back.

Grace screamed.

Thorn grinned, wiped the sweat from his brow, and halted to catch his breath. “You ruined her so no one else would have her.”

Tightening his grip on his rapier, Rafe shoved aside the pain in his leg, the pain in his heart. He could not allow his emotions to weaken him now. Not when Grace needed him the most. “Enough of your games, monsieur.” Rafe clenched his jaw and set his mind on the task at hand. “Let us finish this.”

Thorn rubbed a thumb down the red scar on his face and neck. “You don't remember me either?” He lunged toward Rafe.

Lifting his blade, Rafe met his parry with equal intensity. “Should I?”

“Do you remember the boy you fought after you left Elizabeth sobbing in the parlor? The boy who challenged you as you headed out to your ship to leave her forever?” In one swift move, Thorn dove at Rafe from the left. The chime of their blades rang over the deck.

Rafe halted. He swallowed. “Vous? That boy was but eleven or twelve. He drew a sword on me.”

“I was thirteen.”

Rafe shook his head, his frustration rising with the heat of the day. “I was defending myself.”

“Now the boy has grown and you defend yourself again. Only this time you will not be so lucky.”

Rafe fought off his advance. “I do not wish to fight you, Thorn. What I did to your sister was wrong. And for that, je suis désolé. Let us end this now.”

“As you wish.” Thorn charged him in a ball of red fury.

Rafe swept his blade up to receive him. Their swords clanked. Rafe slashed back and forth. Thorn stumbled, warding off each blow with difficulty. The sailors parted as Rafe forced Thorn backward through their ranks.

They shoved their fists in the air, cheering Thorn and cursing Rafe.

With one final blow, Rafe struck Thorn's blade, flinging it from his hand and sending it clanging to the deck. A look of horror branded the first mate's reddened face. He gasped for air.

Rafe leveled the tip of his rapier over Thorn's chest.

Monsieur Dubois appeared beside him, hands on his hips, and glared at Monsieur Thorn. “I thought you said you could beat him, monsieur.” He huffed. Then turned to Rafe. “Well, be done with it. Kill him.”

Thorn gulped. Rafe was baffled at the cruelty of the man he'd called Father.

The crowd parted, a flash of green crossed Rafe's vision, and Grace dashed to his side, Father Alers on her heels. She grabbed his arm and shook her head.

“Kill him. Kill him,” the men began a new chant.

Thorn closed his eyes.

Henri adjusted his neckerchief and sighed in impatience. “Do you intend to kill him or not?”

Rafe eyed his trembling first mate. The man he'd considered his friend. The man who had betrayed him—like everyone else. For that, he deserved to die. Rafe blinked sweat from his eyes and gripped his hilt tighter as every ounce of him twitched to do the deed—to gain some recompense for the all the treachery Rafe had endured.

But then he glanced at Grace's pleading face. She did not approve. Her God would not approve. Perhaps there was a better way to live.

Rafe dropped the tip of his blade to the deck. “I do not.”

Thorn's eyes popped open.

Henri snorted in disgust. “Très bien.” He snapped his jeweled fingers. “Take le capitaine below.”

Two sailors shoved Grace out of the way and grabbed Rafe's arms, twisting the rapier from his grasp.

Tossing one of the men off, Rafe drove his fist into the other's jaw and sent him reeling backward. But more hands latched onto him. He struggled, but to no avail.

Henri waved a hand. “Lock him in irons.”

“No! Rafe!” Grace pushed her way back through the crowd. Her delicate hand stretched toward him from amidst the filthy mob.