Raven Saint (32 page)

“I am here, son.”

Rafe jumped at the silent voice. His heart hammered a frenzied beat. He shook his head. “I must be going mad.”

He had wanted nothing to do with God. Not the God his father worshiped. Not the God whose rules his father had strapped to Rafe's back ever since he could walk. Not the God who blessed men like Henri with wealth and power and left good people poor, helpless, and starving.

Yet hadn't he seen Claire delivered from her illness? And what of Grace? She worshiped this same God. Through her eyes, this God was love and joy and light and goodness. Through her eyes, Rafe found himself yearning to know Him.

If only...

“God, are you there?” Rafe whispered then suddenly felt foolish.

Nothing.

Spyglass meowed.

Rafe caressed the cat's fur.

“I am here, son.”

Rafe swallowed. Either God spoke to him, or he had become fou. Perhaps he was already dead. If so, Rafe had some questions for the Almighty. “Why has this happened?”

“I love you, son.”

“Then why did You allow Henri to torture me all those years?”

“I love you, son.”

“Why did You allow my mother to die?”

“I love you, son.”

“Why did You allow Claire to betray me? And Thorn?”

“I love you.”

Where frustration should have risen within Rafe at each repetitive answer, instead he found comfort in the words.

“Son.”

Rafe scanned the darkness.
Son.
Did that mean God was his father? His real father? Hadn't Grace told him that God was the Father of all, especially those whose earthy fathers had failed them?

“Father?”

A presence descended on him. It swirled around him. It filled him. Joy and love as he'd never known. Rafe's throat burned. He rubbed his eyes. And in that moment, he knew that all his searching, all his yearning, had been in vain. This was what he wanted. No praise of man or praise of a father could surpass this feeling—this Presence. But then he saw himself as he was. Selfish and greedy and filthy. Even his charity toward the poor, if he admitted the truth, was done more to receive the praise of the people than for their ultimate good. To prove to everyone that his life had value, that he was not a failure.

“Leave me,” Rafe cried out. “I have done so much wickedness.”

“I love you, son.”

A squeaking. A pinprick of light appeared above him. It blossomed, and footfalls sounded on the ladder. Spyglass nudged Rafe's side as if urging him to rise.

A circle of light advanced down the ladder, scattering rats in its path. Then a pair of brown boots followed. Not the boots of Weylan, who had been bringing Rafe his daily water.

Rafe stood.

And stared straight into the face of Monsieur Thorn.

Thorn approached him, holding a finger to his lips. His eyes landed on Spyglass, and he smiled then lifted his gaze to Rafe. An emotion flickered within his brown eyes that Rafe could not determine.

“Come to gloat?” Rafe hissed.

“No, Captain.” He set down the lantern and clipped a set of keys from his belt; then he knelt and unlocked the irons around Rafe's bare feet.

Rafe tossed the white buccaneer shirt over his head and thrust his arms into the sleeves, all the while keeping a wary eye on Thorn, who stood penitently beside Rafe's desk.

“Why are you helping me?”

Thorn released a heavy sigh and shrugged. “You did not kill me when you had the chance.”

But Rafe had wanted to kill him. Even when Thorn had released him down in the hold, Rafe had wanted to throttle the man and lock him in the irons that had held Rafe captive.

But he didn't. Something had changed within him. He couldn't describe what it was. But he no longer harbored the same fury, the same hatred, toward those who had betrayed him. He donned the waistcoat, fastened the silver buttons, and shifted his shoulders. A weight had been lifted from them, a weight he'd been carrying around for years.

“Yet you betrayed me, lied to me all this time.” Rafe strapped on his baldric and pistols while studying Thorn's expression.

Thorn scraped one boot across the deck planks and looked down. “I did.”

Rafe buckled his belt about his waist. “I ruined your sister and scarred your face.”

“You did.”

“Then what has changed?”

Thorn fingered his chin and raised his gaze. “I have discovered revenge does not taste as sweet as I first assumed.” He glanced out the stern windows into the darkness beyond. “You are a good man, Rafe. I saw true remorse in your eyes when you discovered what you had done.”

Plucking his rapier off his desk, Rafe sheathed it with a metallic
ching.
Finally, he felt safe. If Thorn intended any
traîtrise,
he would not have allowed Rafe his weapons.

“Besides”—Thorn tugged at his once-white cuffs, now dirtied from their journey—“in the past few days, I have come to realize that what Miss Grace said was true. It is not for me to seek revenge. As with Annette's attempt to enact retribution upon her mistress, we only make things worse. I must trust in God's justice.”

When Thorn faced Rafe, only sincerity burned in his eyes.

“Can you forgive me, Captain?”

Rafe stared at the bottle of brandy on his desk, his throat longing for a sip, yet his soul cringing at the thought. Forgive Thorn? For the lies, the betrayal, the intent to kill Rafe? Could he? Yet how couldn't he, after God had forgiven Rafe of things equally repugnant.

“I should ask your forgiveness for my beastly behavior toward your sister.” Rafe sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “It was horrible of me.” He gestured toward Thorn's face. “And to be so careless with a young boy.”

Thorn rubbed his scar, and a spark of malice flashed in his eyes. But then it was gone. “I hope we can once again be friends.”

Rafe cleared the emotion from his throat and spotted his boots perched in the corner. In one stride, he picked them up and took a seat. He did not have time to ponder Thorn's request. “I must rescue Grace. How long ago did Henri take her ashore?”

“Over an hour.” Thorn's tone dove in despair, but Rafe would not allow his own hopes to follow. Cringing in pain, he tugged his boots over the raw scrapes on his ankles then stood. He glanced out the stern windows. Still black, but dawn would be here soon. It was a three-hour ride by horse to Don Miguel's mansion in Rio de la Hacha. But the horses would move slowly due to the darkness and the thick vegetation. Rafe would not. He pressed the wound on his thigh and winced. He must not let it hold him up. “You told Henri the signal?”

“Weylan did.” Thorn pressed his lips together, his eyes heavy with guilt. “Don Miguel's men were waiting, just as you said.”

A rap sounded on the door, and it creaked open to reveal Father Alers, tray of food and drink in hand. The old man gave Rafe a wide smile, revealing a full row of crooked teeth, and Rafe thought it the most pleasant sight he had seen in days. Father Alers set the tray down on the desk, and Rafe grabbed his arms and shook him. “It is good to see you unharmed, mon vieux. Monsieur Thorn informed me that my father ... I mean Henri had chained you to one of the guns.”

“It was nothing.” He chuckled. “Besides, who would harm an old priest like me?”

“And the rest of the crew?” Rafe asked Thorn.

“Those loyal to you were forced to swear allegiance to me and Monsieur Dubois or be tossed in the hold.” He waved a hand through the air. “An act of preservation. They are still with you, I am sure.”

“Bien.” Grabbing one of the mugs from the tray, Rafe gulped down the rum-flavored water until it ran down his chin onto his shirt. The liquid, though warm and bitter, filled his mouth and trickled down his parched throat as if it were from a bubbling spring.

“Easy, my boy,” Father Alers said. “You will make yourself ill.”

Rafe smiled and wiped his sleeve over his mouth. “Merci.” Then he chomped down on a hard biscuit. Normally he hated the crusty, bland flavor, but after not eating for days, it melted like butter in his mouth. “Are you sure my father will not return to the brig tonight?” Crumbs shot from his lips.

“Yes,” Thorn replied. “As soon as he came back from shore, he gathered two of his men and rowed back to
Le Vainqueur.
To ready her for sailing at first light.”

“What did he order you to do?”

“To sail with him back to Port-de-Paix.” Thorn lifted his brow.

“He trusts you with
Le Champion?”

“Why wouldn't he? I am his ally. Besides, he left five of his crew here, plus the men from your crew who joined him.”

“Scalawags!” Father Alers spat then gave an apologetic look upward. “Forgive me, Lord.”

Rafe drained the second mug of water and set it down with a
clank
on the tray. He flexed the muscles in his arms and back, allowing the nourishment to settle in and bring back his strength.

Swishing sounded and Claire flounced into the room, Annette following behind her. “You are well, Rafe. I was so worried....” She grabbed his arm and squeezed him as if to make sure he was real.

Rafe stiffened as Claire's familiar scent of lavender filled his nose.

“I feared Henri would kill you.” She lifted moist eyes to his.

“I believe that is still his intent, madame.” Rafe pushed her back, noting that her close presence no longer affected him. Behind Claire, Annette and Thorn exchanged a glance of affection that startled Rafe.

He faced Claire. “Why did Henri not take you with him?”

“He is a proud man. Do you think he wants a wife who would betray him as I have?” She sighed. “No. Better for his reputation if he can say that he cast me aside.”

Thorn stepped forward. “Monsieur Dubois will expect us to set sail with him. He has claimed this ship as his own.”

Rafe studied his first mate, noting the gleam in his eye. “Mais, I suspect you have another plan?” He raised a brow.

Thorn exchanged a furtive glance with Father Alers. “Yes. Once out at sea, we fire upon your father's ship and take him by surprise.”

Father Alers punched the air with his fist in excitement. “Then we board him and take both his ship and the doubloons he received for the mademoiselle.”

Claire sank into a chair. “You will not harm my husband.”

Thorn bowed toward her. “No, madame. Our only intent is to make him pay for what he has done.”

Rafe eyed Thorn and Father Alers curiously. Perhaps he wasn't the only one who had gone mad. “The crew will never allow it.”

“We have promised them double what Henri intended to pay them out of the money he received from the mademoiselle's sale.” A pleased look overtook Thorn's features.

Grabbing a silk ribbon, Rafe tied his hair behind him and grinned. “I thought you were going to allow God's justice to prevail?”

Father Alers leaned toward him with a sly look. “Sometimes God uses men to enact His judgment.”

Rafe chuckled. “And what will you do with all that wealth?”

Father Alers folded his aged hands over his belly. “I will give it to Abbé Villion in Port-de-Paix. I believe there's a hospital that needs building.” His golden eyes sparkled with satisfaction. “En fait, I may join him in the effort. I feel God tugging me back into His service.”

Rafe blinked. “When did this happen?”

“Mademoiselle Grace has opened my eyes. I no longer wish to run from God.”

The ship creaked beneath a wave, and Rafe glanced out the window. A hint of gray spread across the horizon. He could afford no further delay.

Rafe started for the door and stopped to place a hand on Claire's shoulder. “When you reach Port-de-Paix, if Henri changes his mind and insists you come home, you do not have to obey him.”

She nodded. “I do not intend to.”

“A good decision.” Rafe looked at Monsieur Thorn, hoping to elicit his help in settling Claire somewhere safe, but the man's eyes were riveted onto Annette.

Thorn cleared his throat. “Since you no longer need a maid—”

“She is free to go.” Claire waved a hand toward Annette. “I cannot take care of her.”

Annette's eyes widened, and she exchanged a glance with Thorn.

Rafe leaned toward Claire. “But who will take care of you, madame?”

She let out a tiny laugh. “Go save Mademoiselle Grace.” Pain darkened her blue eyes. “We can talk about this when you return.”

Rafe shifted his gaze over his friends, allowing the change in Claire, in Thorn, in everyone, to sink into him. What had happened during the two days he had been below? Had something been added to the water to make everyone so amiable? Or was it his sweet Grace and her God—his God now—who had changed them?

Thorn stepped forward, his brown eyes troubled. “Captain, we need you here. I need your expertise in sailing and in battle.” His face grew tight. “This is your chance to beat your fa—Henri—to finally win.”

Rafe hooked his fingers onto his baldric.
To finally win.
To finally best the man who had spent a lifetime battling Rafe—torturing Rafe, beating Rafe. The urge to stay and fight mounted within him, setting his senses aflame. A chance like this would never come again. And if things went wrong without him, Rafe could lose his brig, his livelihood, his means with which to provide for the poor. And with that, his purpose to live.

Mais non. What would any of that mean without Grace?

“I will not leave her.” Rafe's tone conveyed the conviction of his heart.

“She is already in the hands of the Spanish, Rafe.” The sorrow dragging upon Father Alers's face threatened to destroy Rafe's remaining hope.

“If you go ashore, we cannot wait.” Thorn tightened his lips. “If we do not sail with your father, he will become suspicious.”

Rafe gripped the hilt of his rapier. “Then go.”

Father Alers gave him a sympathetic look. “Je suis désolé, Capitaine, but it is too late. If you attempt to rescue her, you will die.”