Raven Saint (33 page)

Grace shifted her legs over the leather saddle, trying to relieve the ache in her right thigh from sitting astride the horse for hours. In front of her, two Spaniards led their thickly muscled steeds down the narrow trail, chattering in Castilian as if they were on a Sunday outing. Behind her, the third rode quietly, save for the squeak of his armor and the clank of the metals adorning his horse.

With naught but a lantern to guide their way, they had forged through the thick undergrowth, following a path that wound deeper into the green mesh of vegetation. For hours, Grace had fought off vines and branches that struck her face as well as the insects that bit her tender skin. All around her, life teemed and buzzed. Frogs croaked and katydids droned. At one point during the night a deep, guttural roar sounded in the distance, raising the hair on her arms.

Quite possibly, she may not survive to meet her new Spanish lord.

The thought, though alarming, did not distress her overmuch.

Slowly, the hulking shadows around her—that she'd imagined to be monsters in the darkness—formed into trees, vines, and shrubs as dawn lifted its curtain over the Colombian forest.

Grace pressed her fingers over the scratches marring her face and ducked just in time to avoid another assault from a low-hanging vine. At least now she could see the attacking plants coming at her.

A myriad of birds took up a chorus of praise, ushering in the new day as if they didn't realize the horror that transpired beneath them. Grace glanced up to see patches of gray sky appear amidst the tangled mass of the canopy.

Her mouth went dry, and she gulped. She'd kept her fear at bay during the night by praying. Somehow it was easier to believe God was with her in the darkness, easier to imagine Him walking beside her, leading her horse, whispering comforting words into her ears.

But in the daylight, the reality of her situation struck her like the ray of sun gleaming off the morion of the Spaniard in front of her.

She drew a deep breath. Earth and life and air, perfumed with spice and flowers, filled her lungs, mocking the shroud of death that hung heavy over her heart.
Lord, where are You?

One of the Spaniards cast a glance at her over his shoulder. His eyes were as hard as the steel breastplate he wore. He said something to his companion and they shared a chuckle. No doubt at her expense.

Something stung her neck, and Grace slapped the insect breakfasting on her flesh. Wiping away a trickle of sweat from her forehead, she tried to force her thoughts to good things. At least these men seemed disinterested in her. That was something to be thankful for. But then her thoughts sprang to Rafe, as they had often done during the night. And she took up her pleas to heaven for the French captain again.

Please, Lord, do not let him die. Help him to come to You. And forgive Thorn and Henri. Help Claire and Annette. And Lord, please save my sister Hope and bring her home. And help my sisters and my father to follow You always.
Since Grace did not know how long she would live, she thought it best to cover all her loved ones with God's blessing before she passed from this world.

She also added a plea that her passing would occur soon. For the Spanish were notorious for their cruelty. Especially toward those they deemed infidels, heretics to Catholic Spain. Add to that whatever grudge this Don Miguel de Salazar had against her father, and her future appeared bleak.

Perspiration streamed down her back, and she gasped for air amidst the rising humidity.
Lord, forgive me for being such a Pharisee. Please grant me the strength to accept whatever consequence You send my way.
For she knew she deserved it. And much worse.

Thud.

A scream of pain.

The Spaniard who led the way toppled from his horse. With a snort, the steed bolted down the trail. The other horse reared and clawed at the air, screeching. The man on its back held on to the pommel of his saddle, trying to control the beast. He yanked on the reins and cursed. Finally calming the horse, he grabbed his musket and dismounted. A string of Castilian spewed from his mouth to the man behind Grace.

Grace's heart thundered. Her mind reeled. What was happening? Her horse started prancing about nervously.

The man behind her grabbed her reins. With one quick motion, he yanked her from the animal and tossed her to the ground. Pain shot up her back. She glanced at the Spaniard who had fallen from his horse. Blood oozed from an ugly wound on his head.

He wasn't moving.

More Castilian shot through the air. The man who'd knocked her down drew his pistol and sword, dragged Grace behind him, and crouched among the leaves. His comrade dove into a shrub on the other side of the trail.

The crack of a pistol sounded.

Two of the horses spooked and bolted down the trail.

Grace's heart bolted off with them. Her head spun. Who attacked them? Spain had many enemies. The French, the British, natives—a shiver ran through her at that final thought. Whoever they were, she wouldn't allow herself to hope that they were there to rescue her.

One of the men shouted something into the forest.

Grace scanned the mass of tangled green. No movement. Nothing.

“We travel on the order of Don Miguel de Salazar. Show yourself.” The Spaniard attempted the command in English.

A flash of gray and black. Something pounced on the man across the path.

Grace shrieked and peered through the underbrush.
Rafe! It was Rafe!

Grunts and curses flew through the air along with flailing limbs. The man beside Grace stood, pointed, and cocked his pistol upon the tumbling men.

Rafe clutched the man by the collar of his ruffled shirt. With his face red, his veins pulsing, his black hair flying about his face, the captain looked more like a wild animal than a man. He flatted his fist on the man's jaw then tossed him against a tree trunk. The Spaniard's eyes rolled up in his head, and he slid down the bark and landed on the damp ground with a
thump.

The man beside Grace halted in fear at this unearthly apparition. Recovering himself, he pointed his quivering pistol at Rafe.

“Rafe!” Grace screamed and barreled into the man's legs. He stumbled to the side. The pistol fired. The blast echoed through the forest.

Wiping the sweat from his brow, Rafe met her gaze briefly and smiled.

The Spaniard tossed his smoking pistol to the ground, and drew his sword. But before he could point it at his assailant, Rafe had drawn his own rapier. With one swift strike, he sent the man's blade twirling through the air. The polished steel glittered in the rays of sunlight that had made their way to the forest floor before the tangled forest swallowed it up.

The Spaniard stood aghast as if he could not process how one man could have defeated three of Spain's finest soldiers. His chest began to heave beneath the decorated steel breastplate.

Rafe leveled the tip of his rapier at his neck. “Go tell Don Miguel de Salazar that I have changed my mind. Mademoiselle Grace Westcott is not for sale.”

The man's dark eyes skittered about as if he were deciding whether it would be preferable to die at his attacker's sword or face the wrath of his master.

“Allez-vous-en!” Rafe barked.

At which the man turned and fled down the trail.

Grace tried to move but found her limbs had frozen. From fear, from shock, she didn't know. Perhaps she was afraid that if she moved, if she entered this vision, it would dissipate, and she would be back on her horse heading toward Rio de la Hacha.

Rafe sheathed his rapier. His dark eyes found hers.

“Are you real?” Grace asked.

“Come and see.” He gave her a rakish grin.

Struggling to her feet, Grace rushed toward him. She fell against him and was comforted by firm, strong arms and his scent of tobacco and leather. She trembled.

“Shhh ... You are safe now.” He caressed her hair. Then holding her face between his hands, he brought her eyes to his.

The ardor, the affection, she saw within them both frightened and delighted her. “You came for me.”

“Of course.” He kissed her forehead.

“But you were locked in the hold.”

“Oui, I seem to recall that.”

A slight giggle escaped her lips, at odds with the tension of only a moment ago. Then as if a spigot had been opened, tears spilled down her cheeks.

Rafe wiped them away with a gentle thumb, and he gazed at her as if she were the most precious thing in the world.

Grace's belly fluttered. She knew she should back away from him. She knew she should resist the intense feelings bursting within her. For she had no idea where his intentions lay. Rafe was a man accustomed to the lavish affections of women. His charm, his virility, drew them to him like ships to a protective harbor. She would not become another one of his conquests. This ruffian, this French rogue. The man who had stolen her from her home.

But not until that moment did she realize he had also stolen her heart.

He ran his finger along her cheek and dropped his gaze to her lips. Yearning tingled across her own and she closed her eyes, wanting nothing more than for him to kiss her.

But no. Grace shot backward, tripping over a root. He grabbed her arm to steady her, and she lowered her chin, not wanting to be mesmerized by those dark eyes again.

She crossed her arms over her stomach and glanced down the trail. “You have no horse. How did you catch us?”

“I am a fast runner.” He smiled. “Especially when there's something worth running to catch.”

Grace was alive. Rafe's heart soared. He silently thanked God for helping him deliver her from the Spanish soldiers. Now all he wanted to do was kiss her. He sensed her longing, but she had demanded he refrain from kissing her ever again. Though every fiber of him longed to do so, by the grace and strength of God, Rafe would honor her request.

He studied her, wondering whether the ardor brimming in those lustrous green eyes was because she was grateful for her rescue or because she loved him. He supposed it didn't matter. As long as she was safe.

He grabbed her shoulders, noting they still trembled slightly. “Did they hurt you?”

She shook her head. Rafe drew her close again. He must get her out of here as soon as possible. These were Spanish lands—enemy lands. He must get her back to shore where they had a better chance of escape. Perhaps Thorn would win his battle with Henri and come back for them. If not, Rafe would do what he could to keep them hidden and alive until he could figure out a way to get off the coast.

Or God would provide. Surely the Almighty hadn't gotten them this far to have them die. Rafe smiled. He could get used to depending on an all-powerful God. He had always believed such subservience would weaken a man. Now he discovered the opposite to be true.

After lifting Grace atop the remaining horse, Rafe leapt behind her and took the reins. She leaned back onto his chest. Her scent soothed his nerves. During the ride back to shore, Rafe regaled her with the tale of what had occurred in her absence: how Monsieur Thorn had delivered him from the hold, how he had changed his ways, how Madame Claire was finally free of Henri, how Father Alers planned on returning to God's service, and the strange love that had sprouted between Monsieur Thorn and Annette.

Grace smiled. “And I thought God had not used me at all.”

“Mademoiselle, God has done more good through you than you know.”

She sat up and stretched away from him, meeting his gaze. “Did you say God?”

Rafe smiled as he nudged the horse onward. “Hmm. Did I leave out the part about my conversation with God in the hold?”

“Why yes, monsieur, I believe you did.” Delight sparkled in her green eyes. A lock of raven hair danced over her face, and Rafe brushed it aside.

“Let us just say, He and I have made our peace.”

She nearly leapt from the saddle, and Rafe had to grab her waist to keep her from falling.

“I am most pleased.” She kissed him on the cheek, sending a spark of warmth through him. He wrapped one arm around her, reveling in the feel of her in front of him.

Several minutes passed in silence, except for the thump of the horse's hooves and the buzz and chirp of insect and birds. Despite the sweltering heat, despite the danger, with Grace in his arms, Rafe wished this journey would never end.

Grace strolled along the beach. She dipped her bare feet into the cool waves, allowing the bubbles to wash over her legs. A gust of salty wind wafted over her from the sea, twirling her loose hair about her waist. Relishing the feel of it, she glanced over her shoulder at Rafe. He had spent the day building a makeshift shelter with banana leaves, and now he assembled logs for a fire to protect and warm them through the night. Beside him lay the cockboat he had dragged up on shore and the kegs of water he'd brought with him. Stripped down to his white shirt and breeches, his black hair grazing his shoulders, he looked every bit the dangerous mercenary he claimed to be, and Grace's heart swelled with love for him.

She shook her head, still having trouble believing all Rafe had given up for her. He had risked his life to rescue her, had forfeited an opportunity to beat Henri Dubois and retrieve the money for his hospital. He had abandoned himself on the shores of enemy territory, and quite possibly lost his ship, along with his livelihood. But was he prompted more out of guilt for his own duplicity in her situation or from his love for her? Rafe was a man of strong desires, to be sure. But Grace had no experience distinguishing fleshly longings from true love.

He raised a hand to shield the glare from his eyes and glanced at the sun sinking below the western horizon. His eyes met hers. He smiled, dropped the log he'd been using to prod the flames, and trudged through the sand in her direction.

Grace's breath caught in her throat, and she faced the sea again, dropping her skirts to cover her bare legs. She tried to focus on the ribbons of violet, gold, and crimson that spiraled over the horizon and not allow Rafe's presence to affect her. But to no avail. Her stomach tightened as he took a spot beside her and folded his arms over his chest.