Raven Saint (13 page)

Grace leaned out the window of the landau and clasped Nicole's hand. “How can I ever repay your kindness? You saved me from certain death.”

“Anyone would have done as much.” Nicole squeezed her hand and then released it and bent down to pick up Madeline.

“Yet no one else did.” Grace's eyes burned. She felt as though she were abandoning her only friend in the world.

“Be good for your mama, Madeline. She loves you very much.” Grace slid a finger over the child's soft cheek.

Madeline giggled and leaned her head on Nicole's shoulder.
“Je l 'aime aussi.”

Thunder rumbled and Grace gazed up at the darkening sky, praying the incoming storm was not a portent of bad things to come. Black, swirling clouds swallowed up the afternoon sun, and Grace offered Nicole a weak smile. “I will pray for you. God is the only One who can truly deliver you from this life.”

“You are kind to give me hope.” Nicole smiled—a sad, desperate smile that bespoke a wounded heart too familiar with pain and disappointment.

A blast of wind blew in from the harbor where a bell tolled. The breeze danced among Nicole's golden curls, and Grace shook her head at the vision of this woman, this trollop, who was the epitome of humility and kindness.

“Êtes-vous prête,
mademoiselle?” The footman snapped in disdain as he leaned over from his perch atop the carriage seat above her. His obvious disapproval of her filthy attire had been evident by his twisted features and the lift of his nose when he had opened the carriage door for her. Which only added to Grace's uneasiness about her destination. Would her benefactors be equally repulsed? But what did it matter? She had no other choice but to accept their hospitality.

“Oui,” she replied with reluctance. And with a snap of reins, the carriage lurched and lumbered on its way. Grace waved out the window at Nicole and Madeline who were standing in front of the tavern until a curve in the road stole them from her sight.

As she sat back against the cushioned seats, loneliness fell upon her as thick and dark as the clouds overhead. Who was this Monsieur Henri, to whom Nicole referred? That he was an honorable man, Nicole had assured Grace. That he had sent his landau as soon as Nicole's note had arrived in his hands was indisputable, but it still did little to stop Grace's nerves from tightening into knots at the thought of going to an unknown man's home. Yet, this must be God's answer to her prayer for rescue. Mustn't it?

The carriage careened and jolted over the rocky path, twisting and turning around bend and over stream. Tall cedars, lush rosewoods, and the biggest ferns Grace had ever seen passed her window in a pageant of stunning greens and browns. Air fragrant with the sweet perfume of logwood flowers and pimento filled her nostrils. Normally, Grace would have enjoyed such natural beauty, but in her present state of mind, the shadows of the forest seemed like dark and nefarious creatures reaching out for her, trying to pull her into their wooded labyrinth to be lost forever.

“Oh, Lord, let this man be friend and not foe,” she whispered as thunder growled in the distance.

Soon the greenery parted to reveal a vast parcel of cultivated land. Rows and rows of sugar cane extended as far as the eye could see. The heads of African slaves working the fields barely poked above the tall, spindly plants. Palm trees lined a gravel road that extended to a large house beyond the fields. Their fronds swayed in the heavy wind like foppish courtiers, gesturing Grace onward to the palace. And a palace it was. The massive structure perched upon a hill lording over its subjects below.

As the landau rumbled down the path, Grace couldn't keep her eyes off the house, or her heart from feeling a deep sense of dread that mounted with each turn of the carriage's wheels. Eight white columns guarded the front of the house, which boasted a full-length porch on both first and second floors before extending up to a steep hipped roof. French doors opened onto the upper porch where urns filled with orchids, lilies, and begonias bounded in a colorful display.

The carriage halted before a wide span of stairs leading to an ornately carved wooden door. Slipping from his seat, the footman snapped open the door and stood at attention but did not place a step down for her. Grace stumbled from the carriage and, avoiding his gaze, began inching her way up the stairs. She grabbed the chain around her neck, seeking its comfort and questioning the wisdom of putting her trust in Nicole. She halted, her throat closing. Hot wind tore at her muddy shirt and matted hair, bringing with it the sting of rain and the sweat of the oppressed. Perhaps she could convince the driver to return her to town. She started to turn around when the heavy door swung open and a man in a green waistcoat appeared in the doorway. “Mademoiselle Grace?”

Grace nodded, and he gestured for her to enter, but he kept his distance as if she had leprosy. Then with a
humph
he abandoned her to stand in a massive foyer that reminded Grace of Lord Somerset, Earl of Herrick's estate she'd visited once in London. An enormous chandelier hanging over Grace's head chimed in the rain-scented breeze that had forced its way in through the open door. Afraid to move lest she muddy the pristine marble floor, Grace glanced over the room, admiring the marble-topped salon table; butler bench, above which hung a gilt cameo mirror; the tall case clock; and console table flanked by two matching oil paintings of the same woman. A wide staircase led up to the second floor then split in two, ascending up either side of the house.

Shoes clipped on the marble, and Grace looked up to see an older gentleman, perhaps in his early fifties, heading her way. He marched with a pompous authority that grated over her, yet his initial look of repulsion quickly faded beneath the veneer of a smile. Stylishly dressed in a suit of black camlet with buttonholes richly bound in silver and his neck swathed in white silk, he halted before her and hesitated as if awaiting homage. His blue eyes glittered in the candlelight, but their lack of warmth caused Grace to shudder.

“Mademoiselle Grace Westcott.” He bowed. “Nicole was not exaggerating about your appearance. Non?” He scanned her from head to toe and chuckled.

Grace drew a shaky breath and dipped the curtsy his comportment seemed to demand. “I thank you for your offer to help me, Monsieur...” Grace looked up into those cold eyes, not wanting to use his Christian name but knowing no other.

“Monsieur Dubois. Monsieur Henri Dubois.”

Rafe pressed the heels of his boots to the steed's flanks and leaned forward in the saddle, prodding the horse to as fast a canter as possible around the twists and turns leading to the Dubois plantation. Behind him, Monsieur Thorn's horse pounded an ominous cadence in the mud as the night wind laden with the spice of impending rain blasted over them. Rafe's hair loosened from its tie and whipped on his shoulders. Lightning sliced the dark sky, flinging a grayish hue upon the forest and granting Rafe his bearings. In his haste, he'd forgotten a lantern, but he knew this path—every bend and turn—as well as he knew the Caribbean currents. Like a long, spiraling fuse, the trail seemed harmless in its appearance and windings. That was until a man reached the end and found himself in the presence of a deadly explosive.

Thunder growled and it began to rain. Rafe urged more speed from his mount, every muscle within him drawn as tight as the halyard of a full sail. When he had returned to his brig the night before, he had taken to his bed, too exhausted and too inebriated to either set sail or deal with the mademoiselle. It wasn't until he finally woke the next morning, near midday, that he discovered her missing. What was the foolish girl thinking? Wandering the streets of one of the most dangerous port towns in the Caribbean, surpassed only by Tortuga and Petit Goave. And for five days! Zut alors, it was a miracle she had survived unscathed.

If he believed in miracles anymore.

Of course his men had claimed ignorance in her escape. All except Monsieur Thorn, who'd said he discovered her missing four days ago and for fear of invoking his captain's wrath had not told Rafe, but had instead been searching for her frantically on his own.
Les ruses, les déceptions.
Which was why Rafe insisted his first mate accompany him. If Rafe couldn't trust him, it would be best to keep him close.

As soon as he had left the ship, Rafe remembered Nicole's story of harboring a lady dressed as a boy, so he had made haste directly to the tavern, his fears temporarily subsiding—until he'd discovered where Nicole had sent her. Now they resurged all the more, for it would be better for Mademoiselle Grace to be on the streets than in the clutches of his father.

Nudging the horse onward, Rafe ignored the rain stinging his face. He swerved around another bend in a path that was fast becoming a muddy stream and emerged from the thicket onto the wide expanse of the Dubois estate, made all the more hideous by the gray shroud cast upon it from the storm. Pulling the horse to a stop, he wiped the rain from his eyes and stared at the eerie mansion he had called home for one and twenty years, a place he'd sworn he would never set eyes on again.

Monsieur Thorn reined in beside him and tugged his hat down on his forehead. The rain pounded over the trees, the sugar cane, the mud, its cadence sounding like the taunting laughter of a dissident mob.

Thunder rumbled a warning for the men to retreat while they could. Rafe's horse stomped in the mud and snorted, then it pranced sideways as if spooked by some unseen malevolent force. And though every ounce of Rafe longed to turn around and flee back to his ship, he steadied his mount, staring at the house in the distance, the white vision blurred by the constant stream of rain. Within the walls of that mausoleum, a treasure existed—a lady who had become Rafe's responsibility by his own foolish actions. And he could not abandon her to the fiendish devices of this plantation's master.

With a jab of his heels to the horse's flanks, Rafe brought the beast to a gallop over the muddy path, making quick work of the remaining distance. As he approached the front of the house, he shook off his apprehension, reined in the steed, and slid off the animal before it came to a halt. Taking the ostentatious stairs in two leaps, he gripped the pommel of his rapier and pounded on the door before he changed his mind.

Grace sipped the hot tea, savoring its sweet lemony flavor, and set the cup down with a clank that rang through the room. “Forgive me.” She clasped her trembling hands together, still finding it hard to believe she sat in the same room with Rafe's father—the man Rafe had called a monster. “I can't seem to stop shaking.”

“Understandable, Mademoiselle Grace.” Monsieur Dubois smiled from the cream-colored Louis XIV settee centering the parlor. “You have been through more than a lady should endure.” Lightly powdered chestnut curls streaked with silver hung well past his jaw. He shifted his broad shoulders and examined her with dark blue eyes that carried no trace of Rafe within them.

Lowering her gaze beneath his perusal, Grace pressed the folds of her gown—borrowed from Madame Dubois's wardrobe. “I am indebted to you for your kindness, monsieur.”

Though shocked at meeting Rafe's father, Grace had found the man to be none of the vile things his son had indicated. He had accepted her into his home with open arms, provided a private bedchamber and a hot bath for her, and given her a lady's maid in attendance. Though she felt a bit uncomfortable sitting alone with him in his parlor, they were not entirely on their own as a footman stood at the door, awaiting his master's command. Besides, Monsieur Dubois had given her no indication his intentions were anything but pure.

So unlike his son.

“Ah, it is my pleasure to help a lady in need, especially one who has suffered beneath my son's bitter hand.” He sipped his port. “I feel a sense of obligation to correct the ills which have come about by my offspring.”

“That must keep you quite busy.” The words flew from Grace's mouth before she realized the insult they contained. And although she meant the statement quite seriously, it drew a chuckle from the elder Dubois.

“I see you have become well acquainted with Rafe.”

Grace blushed. “Only enough to observe that he holds to no moral code in his affairs, nor does he speak fondly of you, monsieur.”

Monsieur Dubois stood, his imposing frame towering over her, and sauntered to the mantel, gazing up at a painting of a beautiful young woman. “Why would he? My son has abandoned the morality, the honor, the godliness with which I attempted to raise him.”

Grace stared into the crackling flames of the fire as the rain tapped on the roof. She thought of her own mother's admonition on her deathbed, entrusting Grace with the responsibility of ensuring the salvation of her sisters. And what a task that had proved to be. She could well relate to Monsieur Dubois's anguish over his son's sinful behavior.

“Mais, let us not think on such things, mademoiselle.” Monsieur Dubois sighed and straightened his black waistcoat. “Dinner shall be served shortly. I'm sure you're famished, and tomorrow I shall place you upon one of my merchant ships. I believe Captain Christoff will be traveling north up the coast with a hold full of sugar and coffee and can deliver you safely to Charles Towne.”

Hope flooded Grace. She would finally be safe at home and could put the nightmare of Captain Rafe Dubois behind her. She shifted in her seat. Then why did she still feel so unnerved? “I don't know what to say, monsieur. You are too kind. I'm sure my father, Admiral Westcott, will reward you handsomely.”

He waved a jeweled hand through the air and threw back his shoulders. “There is no need. Consider it a favor from one Christian to another.”

Grace snapped her gaze to his, her heart leaping in her chest. “Then you follow the Savior, Jesus?”

“Oui.” He clutched the lapels of his camlet waistcoat. “I and my family are Huguenots. We fled the persecution in France twenty-eight years ago.”