Raven Saint (9 page)

Rafe leapt from the longboat onto the quay and ordered his men to shoulder the crates and follow him. He strode down the wobbling dock onto sturdy ground, bracing himself as he switched from sea legs to land legs. Doffing his hat, he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“Monsieur Dubois!” A familiar voice hailed him, and Rafe turned to see his old friend Armonde waving and heading his way. “We did not expect you so soon.”

“Bonjour,
mon ami. I did not expect to be here either.” Rafe met his embrace. “But I needed some time ashore”—Mademoiselle Grace invaded his thoughts once again, but he shook them away—“and I have brought some goods for Abbé Villion. Have you seen him?”

“Oui, this morning at the church.” Armonde dabbed at the sweat on his neck with his cravat. “How long will you stay? Let us have a drink together before you sail again?”

“Absolument.
I'll speak with you later.” Rafe watched his friend saunter away. Turning, he snapped at his crew to hurry behind him as the other longboat made dock, and Weylan led the men and the crates down the wharf.

Cheerful hails and greetings swarmed over Rafe as word spread of his arrival and people ran out to greet him. Smiling faces bobbed all around like waves lapping against a buoy, assailing him with their admiration and approval. Precisely what he needed to erase the memory of a pair of convicting emerald eyes and the shame that sliced through him in their wake. He was doing something good here, something worthwhile. His life had meaning, purpose, unlike so many who squandered their time, wealth, and energy on pleasing themselves.

His father, for one.

The thought of the man who'd sired him put a sour taste in Rafe's mouth. He hoped to avoid him during his stay at port. But then again, his father rarely tainted himself with the stench of poverty that lingered down by the docks.

“God bless you, Captain Dubois!” one old man yelled.

A haggard woman pushed through the crowd. “What have you brought for us this time, Monsieur Rafe?”

“Many good things.” Rafe ordered his men to set down one of the chests. “Take the rest of the cargo to Abbé Villion, Monsieur Weylan, and tell him I'll be along shortly.”

“Aye, Capitaine,” Weylan snarled, obviously still angry over their altercation the night before. Turning, he barked orders to the men behind him who hoisted the remaining crates, chests, and barrels onto their backs and followed him down the muddy street.

Shoving the tip of the oar against the hull of
Le Champion,
Thorn pushed the tiny cockboat away from the ship. A roller struck the bow and splashed over him, and he glanced at Miss Grace sitting among the thwarts behind him. “Hold on.”

The lady, appearing much smaller in her new attire, smiled at him from beneath the floppy hat that perched atop her head as she gripped the sides of the small boat.

Thorn faced forward and continued rowing toward shore. This would trouble the captain sorely. Losing his precious cargo and the fortune that went with her. No doubt the crew would be furious, perhaps even mutinous when they discovered they were not to be paid anytime soon. He grinned and shoved the paddle through the swirling turquoise water, urging the craft onward.

The sun beat down upon him, and sweat began to trickle beneath his waistcoat. But nothing could sour his humor today. Finally something was going his way. A seagull cawed overhead and then dove toward the water, spreading its wings across the surface to scan for a delectable morsel.

Bells rang and voices brayed from the port as they drew near. Making his way around an anchored schooner, Thorn plunged his oar on the other side and pushed the water back. His muscles ached from the strain.

After spending a year with Rafe, Thorn had concluded that the only thing the man cared about was his precious ship and his ability to make money for the poor. Thorn hoped the captain had developed affection for his prisoner. It would make his revenge all the sweeter. Though Thorn wondered if Captain Dubois was capable of caring for anyone.

It was better this way. Miss Grace did not deserve the fate which the captain planned for her. Now she could return home. Tugging his hat down further on his forehead against the bright rays, Thorn thrust the oar through the choppy water. The sounds of splashing and gurgling rose like the guilt bubbling in his stomach for leaving her alone in Port-de-Paix. Wasn't he using her as a pawn to further his own agenda just as the captain was? No. He would give her enough money to convey her safely home. And since Rafe would be spending his days and nights in town in his usual manner—saturating himself with alcohol and women—and Thorn had volunteered to attend to Miss Grace's needs himself, no one would be the wiser. Thorn felt the heavy pouch hanging from his belt and smiled. If Rafe only knew that he was the one funding the mademoiselle's journey, no doubt he would be even further enraged.

Hot wind blasted over Thorn, cooling the sweat on his neck and forehead, and taking his guilt with it. There was no other way. When Thorn took Rafe's ship from him, everything that was important to the captain would go with it. Having Rafe arrested for piracy would have proved simpler, but Woodes had sent that imbecile Howell to do the job. The only other option was mutiny, but most of the men were loyal to the captain. Even so, Thorn had heard mumblings of discontent recently that gave him hope. Without the mademoiselle to sell, Rafe's position would become precarious.

Quite precarious indeed.

Grace braced her oversized boots against the thwart in the wobbling boat and stared at Mr. Thorn's outstretched hand. “ 'Tis best if I do not accept your assistance, Mr. Thorn.” She gave him a playful glance. “If I am to pass myself off as a boy, I must behave accordingly.”

“Indeed.” He withdrew his hand, his face reddening, and busied himself tying the bowline onto a piling. Gripping the rough wood of the dock, Grace struggled to hoist herself upon it but instead tumbled back into the boat. On her second attempt, she managed to extract herself from the rocking vessel but paid for her clumsy efforts with splinters in her hands, adding to the collection already planted there when she'd clung to the mainmast.

Mr. Thorn flipped the dock master a coin and led the way toward the main street as Grace did her best to strut behind him. Yanking upon the waist of her baggy breeches, she hoisted them so the hems wouldn't drag through the dirt. But her cumbersome clothes, coupled with the muddy street that seemed to wobble up and down as if the whole island were afloat, sent Grace nearly tumbling to the ground. Which she would have done if not for Mr. Thorn's quick reach and firm grip.

“It takes a while to get used to solid land again, miss.” He quickly let go of her.

“Thank you, Mr. Thorn.” She stopped to catch her breath. Tugging the brim of her hat lower over her forehead both to shield her eyes from the blazing sun and to hide her gender, she surveyed the port town.

The scene that met her gaze made her stomach fold in on itself. Worse than anything she'd seen in Charles Towne or Portsmouth. On a platform to her right, Africans—including small children—were being auctioned off. The obnoxious voice of the auctioneer spouted their strength and breeding capability as if they were naught but animals, while a bevy of boisterous planters vied for their bids to be heard above the uproar. Open taverns lined the street, filled to the brim with men laughing and sloshing their drink and half-naked women sprawled over their laps.

In broad daylight!

A mob of people in tattered clothes swarmed around something in the center of town. Somewhere in the distance a musket fired, and a scream pierced the air. Yet no one seemed to notice. An African woman with a basket of fruit atop her head sauntered by. Pigs and chickens ran freely through the streets. Grace's nose stung with the fetor of animal dung, human sweat, and rotten fish.

She was struck by an overwhelming urge to dash back to the boat and return to the ship at once. But no. God had finally heard her prayers and had offered her a way of escape. She would not turn her back on His gift of freedom simply because of her fears.

Mr. Thorn gave her a sorrowful look. “Sorry, miss. I know these sights must shock you.”

She pursed her lips and shifted her shoulders beneath the overcoat. Perspiration trickled down her back, but she dare not remove the heavy wrap lest the curves of her figure betray her gender. And from the looks of things, enduring discomfort would be preferable to being discovered as a lady alone in such a place as this. “ 'Tis not your fault, Mr. Thorn.”

“I'll take you as far as the port master, miss.” He handed her a pouch that jingled in her hand. “This should be enough to procure passage back home on one of the merchant brigs.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck and gazed nervously about the street.

“Why are you doing this, Mr. Thorn? I sense it is not purely out of kindness for me.”

“I'll admit it serves more than one purpose, miss.” Tiny green flecks burned in his brown eyes, and he brushed a speck of dirt from his otherwise clean coat as if somehow his kind deed was ridding him of something troublesome.

Grace didn't want to know what. “Regardless, I thank you. I know you risk the wrath of Captain Dubois.”

They headed down the street, weaving among the crowd of sweaty humanity and repugnant farm animals. “I can handle his wrath, Miss Grace,” Mr. Thorn said. “What I fear is being left in some port with no job and no prospects.”

As if offering them a vision of such a future, a man appeared on their left, slouching beneath a huge calabash tree. Before Grace drew within three yards of him, his fetid smell nearly stole her breath away, and she covered her nose. His scraggly beard hung down to his belly, and the dirt smudging his face made it difficult to ascertain his age. She started toward him, intending to see if there was something she could do for him, but Mr. Thorn nudged her in the other direction. “What are you doing, miss?”

“Who is that man?” she whispered.

“Naught but a lazy beggar, a thief.”

Grace glanced over her shoulder in disdain as Mr. Thorn ushered her past him.

“Nay, he's young and fit enough to work. He prefers to steal his food.” Disgust stained Mr. Thorn's tone. “There are many like him in town.”

They had no sooner made it to the fringe of shops and taverns edging the road when Mr. Thorn halted, then slipped behind a horse tethered to a post.

“What is it, Mr. Thorn?” Grace stared at him wide-eyed.

“'Tis Captain Dubois.” He inclined his head toward the center of town where there was a crush of people.

Ducking behind the horse, she crept along its side then peered around its neck. The captain conversed with a woman and her child. He leaned over, retrieved articles of clothing from an open chest, and handed them to her. The woman kissed his hand and bowed to him as if he were royalty before grabbing her child and dashing away. Grace shook her head to jar the perplexing vision from her mind. An old man shuffled forward, and the captain dipped into the chest and pulled out two bags, which the man immediately received with a gap-toothed grin.

Grace slunk behind the horse. “What is he doing?”

“He gives gifts to his adoring masses.” Mr. Thorn's tone hissed with disgust.

“What do you mean?”

Mr. Thorn huffed out a sigh of exasperation. “After the captain pays the crew their allotment, he distributes the rest of his plunder to the poor here at Port-de-Paix.”

Grace lifted a hand to her brow to quell the shock reeling through her head. She peeked back at Captain Dubois as he embraced an older woman, then back at Mr. Thorn. “Are you telling me that he doesn't pocket the money he receives for his nefarious deeds?”

Mr. Thorn flattened his lips and nodded. “Odd, isn't it?”

“Then he is some sort of Robin Hood of the seas?” Grace could not believe it. Every word the captain had spoken, every threat, every evil glint in his dark eyes, all led to the conclusion that he was as greedy as he was heartless and wicked. But this ... this changed everything.

“Sickening, isn't it?” Mr. Thorn rubbed his bulbous nose and snorted.

Grace flinched at the man's disdain. “Why do you find it so?”

“The act is kind. The motivation may not be, miss.” Mr. Thorn took one last peek at his captain, then glanced toward the brig. “But I fear I must leave you before he sees me.”

Grace's heart clenched. Alone? In this riotous bedlam?

He pointed past the grappling mob. “See that building by the docks?”

Grace nodded as her gaze found the clapboard shanty surrounded by sailors.

“You should have no trouble bartering there for passage on the next ship leaving port.” He gave her a reassuring nod. “There are always ships heading to the colonies loaded with sugar and coffee. I'm sorry I cannot help you any further. The captain hates nothing worse than betrayal and surely would toss me from his ship should he discover I have done this much.”

Grace bit her lip. Her palms began to sweat. “But I do not speak French.”

“Most merchantmen know a pinch of English, miss. Never fear. You shall be well.” He tipped his hat and abandoned her to her spot behind the horse.

The horse's tail whipped through the air and struck Grace in the face. Jumping back, she coughed and swiped at her cheeks as laughter tumbled over her from the storefront to her left. Three men and one lady, who'd just exited the store, enjoyed the moment at her expense. The man spewed a few sentences in French, which caused more laughter.

Face hot, Grace tugged her hat farther down on her head. Then skirting the horse, she made her way across the street. At least they had not seen past her disguise. All she had to do was procure passage on a ship, and if it didn't leave right away, purchase a room in a tavern and hide away until it did. How hard could that be? But with each step, her boots sank deeper into the mud—a sticky black ooze that made it as difficult to move forward as it did to have faith that all would be well, as Mr. Thorn had said. Her chest tightened, and she plucked one boot from the sludge and forged ahead.