Raven Saint (4 page)

“I am a member of his crew only.”

“Then you disagree with his plans?”

He swerved his gaze to the sea and clenched his fingers around the railing. “Often.”

The spite ringing in his tone ignited a spark of hope within Grace. Had she found an ally? Or like Father Alers, did this man hold some affection for the French captain? “Perhaps the captain reminds you of some fond relation?” She could not help the sarcasm in her voice.

Mr. Thorn's brows shot up and he gave a humorless laugh. “I have no affection for the captain, I assure you.”

“Then why do you remain in his service?”

“It serves my purpose for the time being.”

Grace shook her head, as confused with Mr. Thorn's excuses for wickedness as she was the father's. “A grand purpose it must be to implicate yourself with such atrocious deeds.”

Mr. Thorn drew in a deep breath. He swallowed hard, and Grace sensed her accusation had struck a nerve of shame within him. The man appeared to possess some measure of honor. But could she trust him? “Do you not care that an innocent woman is being led to the slaughter?”

He faced her, and she detected a hint of moisture in his eyes. “I am not a man without a heart, miss.”

Desperation tossed propriety to the wind, and Grace laid a hand on his arm. “Then save me, sir, by all that is good and holy.”

“I cannot.” He turned away. “There are bigger forces at work here than you realize, miss.”

Grace's head began to spin, and she felt as though it would dislodge from her body and float into the cloudless sky. “Then you are equally duplicitous in this heinous act and will be punished accordingly.” She regretted her harsh tone, but how could anyone choose to join the side of evil with such deliberation?

He chuckled, all traces of concern fleeing from his tone. “And who, might I ask, will execute the sentence?”

“God's justice will suffice.” Grace rubbed the perspiration from the back of her neck.

“God's justice is too long delayed. Therefore I fear it not.” Mr. Thorn stiffened his jaw, and he slid a finger over the scar lining his neck.

“‘Vengeance is mine; I will repay, saith the Lord.'” Grace quoted from Romans, hoping the word of God would soften this man's heart.

Mr. Thorn snorted. “Begging your pardon, but I have yet to see that promise fulfilled. Not in this life, anyway.”

Dismayed by his lack of faith, Grace closed her eyes to a blast of hot wind. She was surrounded by miscreants and unbelievers. Yet as she allowed the muggy air to swirl around her, a glorious idea began to form in her mind. Perhaps she had been sent here by God to convert the poor souls on this ship? Perhaps the Almighty could find no other dedicated servant willing to do the task, so He had allowed Grace to be kidnapped in order to bring her on board.

The ship rose and plunged over a swell, showering Grace with a salty mist. Thankful for the momentary reprieve from the heat, she dared a glance over the deck and found most of the crew hard at their tasks. A menacing band of men, if ever she saw one. Composed of all ages and sizes, most wore faded checkered shirts and stained breeches, while others attempted—but fell woefully short of—a semblance of nobility with their gold-trimmed waistcoats and frayed satin neckerchiefs. All were armed with pistols slung about their chests as if they didn't trust the man beside them.

She felt Captain Dubois's gaze upon her from his position upon the quarterdeck. A shiver ran through her, and she turned around. Doubts assailed her, drifting atop her fears.

How, Lord, will I ever be able to reach such miscreants?

She grew dizzy, and her knees buckled. Mr. Thorn reached out for her, but she latched onto the railing instead.

“Are you ill, Miss Grace?” Mr. Thorn asked.

“Oui.” The captain's heavy voice filled her ears as his massive frame filled her vision. “She has been indisposed below with a stomach ailment and has not eaten much in six days.”

“Zooks. Six days? No wonder she's weak,” Mr. Thorn exclaimed.

“I am feeling better today.” Grace managed to sputter out the words as she caught her breath. But in truth, her nausea was returning.

“Get back to work,” Captain Dubois ordered Mr. Thorn. The man bowed toward Grace, cast a look of scorn at his captain, and stomped away.

The wind whipped the captain's ebony hair about his shoulders, bringing with it the scent of brandy and tobacco. Cocking his head, he narrowed his gaze upon Grace. Her throat went dry. That the man invoked fear in those around him was evident. That he invoked it in her, she would not give him the satisfaction of knowing.

“You must eat something, mademoiselle, or you will never get well.” Rafe crossed his arms over his chest to stop the urge burning in them to hold her, lest she fall.

Her brilliant green eyes stared at him from beneath a fan of dark lashes. An innocence beamed from them, a purity, coupled with a strength he had rarely seen in a woman.

“And why, pray tell, do you concern yourself with my health, Captain?” she asked.

He offered her a playful grin. “You know why.”

“I know you are a thief, a kidnapper, and only God knows what else.” A sail snapped above them as if sealing her words. Her raven hair glistened like onyx in the sunlight, though not a strand could escape the tight bun she had formed at the back of her head.

“The Bible says that neither thieves, nor the covetous, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners will inherit the kingdom of God.” Mademoiselle Grace lifted her chin; then her eyes softened. “But that does not have to be your fate, Captain.”

“My fate is not your concern.” Rafe flexed his jaw in irritation and leaned his elbow on the railing. “I may be a thief, mademoiselle, but I am also a man of my word, and I promised to deliver you to Rio de la Hacha, Colombia, in one piece.” He said the words as much to remind himself of his task as to inform her of it.

“A man cannot be held to a promise of evil.”

“I make no such distinctions.”

“That much you have spoken in truth.” She released a sigh of disappointment that jabbed his conscience. “But please be warned, Capitaine”—her attempt at the French pronunciation sent a shiver of delight through him—“evil begets evil.”

“Is that so? Then you must have done something quite wicked to deserve such a fate as this”—he grinned and slid a finger over his mustache—“while I on the other hand must have done something admirable to have fallen into the fortune you will surely bring me.”

Mademoiselle Grace's bottom lip began to quiver, and she looked away, but not before he saw tears fill her eyes. An unexpected pinch of remorse caused him to shift his stance and clear his throat.

“What does this don want with me?” she asked, still staring out to sea.

Rafe allowed his gaze to wander to the swell of her bosom above the lace of her bodice. “I suppose what all men want with beautiful women.”

A noticeable shiver passed through her, and Rafe forced down another wave of regret. Sacre mer, what was wrong with him? She was merely a woman, a spoiled, wealthy woman encased in a pretense of saintly propriety and feminine beauty that would suck the life out of a man's soul if given the chance.

She splayed her fingers across the bare skin above her bodice as if she knew where his gaze wandered. “Men and their wars. What care have they for their innocent pawns?” she said to no one in particular as she gazed across the sea.

Disgust and hatred stole the sparkle from her eyes and left him cold. The ship pitched over a wave, and she staggered but quickly righted herself.

Another urge to place a hand on her back to steady her overcame Rafe, and he fisted his hands and folded them across his chest. The blood of a certain British admiral flowed in her veins. That alone had been enough to persuade him to accept the don's proposal. That and fulfilling a promise to Abbé Villion that would save hundreds of lives.

“How can you do something so cruel?” The look in her eyes cut into his heart.

Rafe stiffened his back. “For a greater cause, mademoiselle.”

“Everyone has a choice, Captain.”

“Not everyone, mademoiselle. Choices are often stolen from us. As, unfortunately, yours has been.”

“I have no choice in my current situation, 'tis true, but I can choose the direction my heart takes, and I choose to continue to pray for God to deliver me. And I will pray for you, Captain. That you will repent of your evil ways and seek life in the arms of the Almighty.”

Rafe ground his teeth together. Did these religious zealots follow him everywhere? “You have been praying for six days, mademoiselle. Perhaps God is too busy.” Sarcasm filled his tone.

She glared at him below heavy lids. “Be on your guard, Captain Dubois. God is on my side.”

Rafe opened his mouth to tell the exasperating woman that God was on no one's side, but her eyes fluttered shut, and she collapsed.

Hot fluid seeped into her mouth. Spicy, bitter. It slid down her throat, stealing her breath. Grace jerked her head away. Her cheek brushed against something soft. The pungent scent of meat intermingled with the sting of brandy that bit her nose. Vague, nightmarish memories lurked like shadows in her mind, taunting her. Memories of her capture and a tall Frenchman with a heart of stone.

A hand gripped her chin and forced her face forward. Fingers that felt like rough rope and tasted of salt pried her lips apart. More hot liquid burned her tongue, poured down her throat, and she gagged. Raising a hand to her mouth, she sprang up, coughing. Dark eyes peered down at her, the spark of concern in them instantly hardening.

“Drink this, mademoiselle.” Captain Dubois inched the bowl toward her mouth.

She pushed it away, shaking the fog from her head. “Can you not wait until I am conscious?”

“When you are conscious, you do not eat.” A shadow of a smile played around his mouth. He rose from the bed and set the bowl atop a table.

Only then did Grace realize she lay upon a real bed. She scanned her surroundings. Two massive wooden chests ornamented in gold and bolted shut with iron locks guarded the wall opposite her. Upon the plush Persian rug at the room's center sat three colorfully upholstered armchairs. Beyond them, a cabinet housed a haphazard assortment of books, swords, pistols, and bottles. A large carved mahogany desk perched before a span of windows that stretched across the stern of the ship. Two guns, perched in their wheeled carriages, flanked either side, ready to be shoved through portholes should an enemy dare to approach from behind.

She was in the captain's cabin.

In the captain's bed.

With the captain looming over her, wearing that sardonic smirk upon his lips.

Her chest tightened. “Why am I in your bed? What day is it? How long have I been here? And why are you feeding me instead of Father Alers?” She glanced down at the loosened ties of her bodice, and a flush of horror heated her face. “How dare you?” She cowered away from him.

Captain Dubois raised his brows. “Which question would you like me to answer first, mademoiselle?”

“None.” Grace swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I wish to leave this instant.” But her body would not cooperate. Her breath caught in her throat. Her head spun like a waterspout upon the sea, and her legs quivered like pudding. She lifted a hand to her forehead.

A warm hand gripped her arm. “I suggest you lie back down, mademoiselle, and eat something. It has now been seven days since you have partaken of a full meal.”

Grace shifted from beneath his touch and gazed out the windows where the rays of the morning sun angled across the captain's desk, setting the brass lantern aglitter. The glow lit the quadrant, backstaff, charts, and quill pen and beamed off a rapier, setting aglow the amber liquid in a half-empty bottle.

“Mercy me, I slept here all night?” She snapped her gaze to Captain Dubois. The possibility sped through her mind, seeking an alternative, any alternative besides the one that her purity could never consider.

He grinned, yet a spark of playfulness flitted across his dark eyes. Remembering the loose bindings of her bodice, Grace threw a hand to her chest. “What have you done?” Terror crowded in her throat.

He gave a derisive snort then shook his head and gripped the baldric strung over his white shirt. “Never fear, mademoiselle. I prefer
mes conquêtes
to be awake.” He sauntered to his desk.

Conquests.
Grace swallowed, praying he told the truth, praying she had not become one of his conquests during her unconscious stupor.

He picked up a chart, examined it, then tossed it back to the desk, sending dust particles floating within a ray of sunshine into a frenzy that reflected on his face. Danger hung on his broad shoulders like a well-fitted cloak, but there was a depth to this man that went beyond the baseness of a common brigand, a depth that lurked behind those dark, smoky eyes. He spoke of a greater cause—what had he meant by that?

“You should not treat women as property to be conquered or sold to the highest bidder,” she finally said. Grace clasped her moist hands in her lap, trying to stop them from trembling. “Intimacies”—her voice squeaked and she cleared her throat—“between a man and a woman should remain within the sanctity of marriage.”

He turned, crossed his arms over his chest, and chuckled as if she'd told a joke. “Do spare me your proverbs,
mon petit chou pieuse.”
“Did you just call me a shoe?”

A smile broke across his lips and widened. He chuckled. “Non. A little pious cabbage.”

“A cabbage? Of all the...”

“It is a term of endearment.” He waved a hand through the air, then settled his gaze upon her.

Endearment, indeed. More likely an insult to her intelligence. Fidgeting, she looked away beneath the warmth in his eyes. She'd never been alone in a room with a man other than her father. And Father Alers. What would Reverend Anthony say? Her reputation would be besmirched beyond repair. But what did it matter? Where she was going, she would not require a reputation.

He approached her. “You slept here because I feared your fever would return, and I loosened your bindings to allow you to breathe.”

Graced fiddled with the ties. “Though I am appreciative of the clothes, Captain, the bodice is far too tight.”

“Perhaps you are too fat.” He grinned.

“Fat?” She jumped to her feet. The cabin spun around her. “You are no gentleman.”

“And it took you only seven days to reach that conclusion?”

Grace sank back down to the bed, studying his cavalier attitude with curiosity.

“You seem proud of your boorish behavior.” “I am proud of many things that would not engender your good opinion.”

“Of that we are in agreement, Captain. But as I am sure you know, ‘Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall.'”

He chuckled. “So, do you chastise me for being proud or being a boor?”

“Both.”

“Yet you are the one who has fallen.”

“I have not fallen,” Grace snapped. “I am here for a reason.”

“Oui, to line my pockets with gold.” He smiled.

Grace's stomach knotted. She hated this man. She knew hatred was wrong. She knew it was as bad as murder, but at this moment, if she had a pistol, she would probably shoot him where he stood. “You are naught but a French rogue.” She struggled to her feet. “I will leave now.”

Captain Dubois blocked her exit. “This French rogue demands you eat something first, mademoiselle.” He advanced toward her.

Grace sucked in her breath and retreated. Her foot struck the bed, and she collapsed back onto it.

Placing one hand on the edge of the mattress, he leaned toward her and laid the other upon her forehead. She flinched. “C'est bon. No fever.” His warm breath wafted over her, bringing with it the smell of brandy. He righted himself. “Never fear, I have no interest in you, mademoiselle. My tastes lie in women
plus
agréables.”

Grace tore her gaze from his and stared at the gold and purple sash tied around his waist and the leather baldric cutting across his chest. “I have no doubt in what direction your tastes lie.”

“I have every doubt that you do, mademoiselle.” He retrieved the bowl and handed it to her. “Now will you drink this, or shall I continue to pour it down your throat?”

“If I drink it, I fear it may end its journey upon your boots.” Grace took the bowl and offered him a cautious smile.

The taut lines on his face faded. “I shall take that chance.”

A tap on the door sounded, but the captain did not break the lock his gaze had upon her—an admiring, hungry gaze that set her nerves on edge.

The door creaked open and footsteps sounded. A man cleared his throat. “Capitaine,
s'il vous plaît.”

Captain Dubois's features instantly stiffened, and he turned to face the cook. “Father.” He cleared his throat and stepped back from Grace. “See to it that the mademoiselle drinks all of the broth, then escort her back to her cabin.”

The captain grabbed his rapier from the desk, slid it into his sheath with a metallic
chink,
and stormed out the door.

Father Alers shifted sympathetic eyes her way. A stained red shirt hung loosely over his corpulent frame, dangling below his waist where it met black breeches that spanned down to sturdy buckled shoes. He huffed out a sigh of impatience but finally took a seat and scratched his thick beard. “Come along, mademoiselle, finish your broth.”

With the captain's exit, Grace's heart returned to a normal beat. She sipped the meaty soup. The warm broth slid down her throat like an elixir and plunged into her ravenous stomach.

“His methods may be a bit severe, mademoiselle,” Father Alers said. “He only wishes you to keep your strength so you do not fall ill again.”

Grace took the last sip and then tested her legs. Though still shaky, she felt her strength returning. “You have been too long at sea, Father, if you think there is an ounce of kindness in that man.”

Father Alers chuckled and stood with a moan, then offered her his arm.

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “He only wishes to fatten me up for the slaughter.”

Father Alers's only reply was a grunt as he escorted her out the door and into the dimly lit companionway.

The ship canted, and Grace was thankful for Father Alers's support as they made their way down the hallway and around a corner to her cabin—especially when they were forced to squeeze past several crewmen who ogled Grace as if she were the evening meal.

“I will bring you some more food soon.
Pour maintenant,
you should rest.” He turned to leave and Grace, feeling light-headed again, sank into the only chair in her small cabin.

Halting, Father Alers faced her, a pensive look on his aged face. “The capitaine is not as bad as he seems.”

Grace blinked. “He is selling me as if I were cargo to an enemy who will subject me to a life of pain. How much more evil can he get?”

Father Alers rubbed the back of his thick neck. Compassion softened the lines on his face.

Struggling to her feet, Grace took a step toward him. “You are not like him. You don't agree with what he's doing. I can see it in your eyes. Will you help me, Father? Will you help me escape?”

Golden eyes snapped to hers, hesitant, sympathetic, but then they froze like two ponds beneath a winter's frost. “Non, I could never deceive him. He has seen too much betrayal in his life.” His curt tone slammed a heavy door on her hope. He shrugged. “I am hoping he will figure this out on his own.”

“You cling to a hope of the captain's redemption while my life is being destroyed.” The blood rushed from Grace's head, and she crumpled into her seat. “ 'Tis a sin to know the right thing to do and not do it, Father.”

“Peut-être, mademoiselle
,
but I've seen greater sins perpetrated every day in the Church.
”
With a jerk of his head, he waddled out and closed the door.

Dropping to her knees, Grace leaned over the chair. “Why do You close all the doors to my rescue, Lord? If it is indeed my task to bring these nefarious men to redemption, please show me how. Give me the words to say. Please do not let me be handed over to this Don Miguel.” Yet no answer came, no feeling of peace, no assurance of God's presence. Tears slid down her cheeks onto the chair just as droplets of her hope continued to seep from her heart with each passing day.

Rafe stood at the bow of
Le Champion
and closed his eyes against the hot, raging wind, allowing it to blast away the memory of Mademoiselle Grace: her scent that reminded him of the sweet pastries his mother used to bake, the silky feel of the mademoiselle's skin beneath his fingers, and those sharp green eyes that sliced right through his soul into his heart. Femme
exaspérante!

He had barely slept two minutes all night. It wasn't the hard floor that kept him awake. He had slept on far worse in his day. It was the sound of her deep, restless breathing, her occasional quiet moans, and his concern that she would fade into a perilous fever and die during the night.

Finally, before dawn, he had risen, lit a lantern, and watched her as she slept. The way her lips twitched and her eyelids fluttered as if she were dreaming, the strands of raven hair curling across her cheek like feathers spanning a creamy river. Her delicate fingers coiled around her arms in a protective embrace. She appeared as fragile as a tender flower in the field, yet possessing enough tenacity to push above the others in her quest for the sun. Honesty coated her lips like honey. He doubted a lie would survive among its sweetness. And in a world where lies were commonplace, her candid jabs brought him more amusement than insult.

That she was innocent, he could tell from her reaction to him. That she possessed a gracious heart was evident from the errand in which he found her engaged when he'd captured her. That she nudged awake a long-dormant spirit of protectiveness within him caused his blood to boil.

He did not want to protect her. He did not want to admire her. He wanted to hand her to the don as planned and get his money. Why could she not have been pompous, churlish, and deceitful like the women to whom Rafe had grown accustomed among high society?

The ship rose and plunged over a wave, drenching him with salty spray. He opened his eyes and shook it from his face. Spyglass pressed against his boots. He picked her up and laid the damp cat across one shoulder. She purred her approval, and he ran his fingers through her fur.

Zut alors,
why was the mademoiselle always in his thoughts? He flexed his muscles as if strengthening his defenses. He must. He must hand her over. The money she would bring would save hundreds of lives. What was the fate of one pretentious girl compared to that? And pretentious she was, full of the same religious banalities he had been beaten with all his life. She was more like his father than he realized. He must look beyond his reaction to her, beyond her admirable qualities, and remember that fact.