Raven Saint (14 page)

Grace's heart soared. The Lord had brought her another Christian. “Did your tribulation not follow you here to the French colonies?”

“Non. Far from the mainland where many struggle simply to survive, not many care which faith one clings to.” His mustached lip lifted in a smile devoid of warmth.

Pound. Pound. Pound.
A loud banging filled the room from the foyer.

Pound. Pound. Pound.

Monsieur Dubois's curious gaze shifted to the door. “Who could that be this time of night?”

Footsteps sounded. A door opened. Shouting in French that Grace couldn't understand. She didn't have to. She knew that voice.

Monsieur Dubois excused himself and exited the room. Unable to remain seated, Grace followed him out the door, down a short hallway, and into the vestibule.

She halted. There, just inside the open door, wind howling in protest around him and water dripping from his waistcoat and sash, stood Captain Dubois. He shook his head, spraying droplets over the marble floor, then ran a hand through his hair and met her gaze. Intense emotion flashed within his eyes before he shifted them to the elder Dubois.

“Bonjour,
Père.”
One corner of his mouth lifted in a grin, but his voice carried the sting of spite.

Bile rose in Rafe's throat at the sight of his father. The dried beef he had consumed on the ship rebelled in his gut.

“Je suis désolé, Monsieur Dubois.” The butler's voice took on a fear-laced apologetic tone. “He forced his way inside.”

Footsteps splashed behind him, and Rafe turned to see Monsieur Thorn stop just outside the door. Doffing his hat, the first mate shook the water from it before entering.

“Très bien, Francois.” Monsieur Dubois dismissed the butler with a wave, and the man shut the door, raised his aquiline nose at Rafe and Monsieur Thorn, and left the room.

Rafe's father approached him, a carping smile on his lips and his arms extended. “Rafe. How good to see you. How long has it been? Years.”

Rafe tightened the corners of his mouth. “Not long enough.” He held up a hand to stop his father's advance. “Spare me the pleasantries, Père. I have come for the girl.” The sight of Mademoiselle Grace in that exquisite jade gown, her raven hair pinned tightly atop her head, delighted him more than he wanted to admit. And helped soften the blow of seeing his father again.

“You mean Mademoiselle Westcott?” his father said innocently and gestured behind him at Grace. “I don't believe she wishes to accompany you.” He turned toward Monsieur Thorn. “Forgive my son's ill manners, monsieur, I am Henri Dubois. Et vous?”

“Justus Thorn, monsieur.” Thorn bowed slightly. “You son's first mate.”

“Ah, you've brought your nefarious crew along.” Rafe's father raised a graying brow.

“This is none of your affair.” Rafe stroked the hilt of his rapier, his fingers itching to draw it.

“C'estmon
affaire
when I discover you have kidnapped an innocent lady from her home and intend to sell her to a Spanish don.” Monsieur Dubois shook his head and stroked his pointed beard. “To what depths have you sunk, mon
fils?
Do you try to break an old man's heart?”

Ignoring his father and the sharp barb twisting in his gut, Rafe marched to Mademoiselle Grace and took her by the arm. “I see you've already bribed her with fripperies, Père.”

“She came to us wearing a torn, filthy shirt and breeches of all things—a product of your hospitality, I believe?” His voice sharpened in sarcasm.

Rafe pulled on her arm, but Grace yanked from his grasp and shot a fiery glare his way. “I will not go with you.”

Rafe ground his teeth together. “Believe me when I say you are in far more danger here than with me.”

His father laughed. “Yes, choose, mademoiselle. A warm home, clothing, hot food, and a chance to go home to the safety of your loved ones, or”—he gestured toward Rafe and shook his head in disgust—“back to the hold of my son's brig.”

Rafe glared at Mademoiselle Grace. Her fresh scent swirled about him, setting aflame his senses and igniting an urgency within him to protect her—to keep her safe from men like his father. Little did she know that here in this house she was but an innocent lamb among the wolves. How could Rafe make her understand? “You will come with me now,” he ordered her as if she were one of his crew. He grabbed her arm and tightened his grip, resorting to the only method he knew to ensure his will was accomplished. He felt a rush of heat to his head when instead of obeying she winced and widened her eyes in horror.

He loosened his grip and softened his tone, forcing his features into what he hoped was a pleading look—a look that sat most uncomfortably upon his face. “S'il vous plaît, mademoiselle. You are not safe here.”

Confusion rumbled across her features. “And I am safe with you?” She backed away from him, clutching the chain around her neck as if terrified by his very presence. Rafe cringed beneath the sudden ache in his heart.

“I will not allow you to take her, Rafe.” His father's sanctimonious voice stabbed him.

Fury gripped Rafe as he swerved about and stared at his father's arrogant stance: one jeweled hand on his hip, the other fingering his beard, his broad figure standing guard over the closest avenue of escape. And history replayed itself in Rafe's mind. Suddenly, he was a young man again, standing before his father—his hero—trying to come to grips with why his own flesh and blood had committed the ultimate betrayal against him.

But Rafe was older now, stronger, and he would not allow his father access to his heart, nor would he allow him to tarnish another innocent woman. Rafe squeezed the hilt of his rapier and took a step toward the man who had sired him.

Henri Dubois crossed his arms over his chest and smirked. “Will you draw a sword on your own father?”

Rafe would love nothing more. The man hadn't changed one bit in the past five years. The same pretension, the same arrogance, the same evil he remembered burned within his father's gaze. But he saw something else in those malicious blue eyes. Rafe saw his mother. And that one vision of her soft, loving face caused him to release his grip on the weapon. She wouldn't want him to harm his father.

“I didn't think so.” His father gave him a condescending smile then he looked to Monsieur Thorn as if for approval, but Rafe's first mate maintained his stoic stance.

“I have an idea.” A smile curved his father's lips. “Rafe, why not stay with us for a few days? Go upstairs. Your old chamber is still available. Change into some dry and”—he wrinkled his nose—“more appropriate attire, cool your temper, and we can discuss this over dinner. Your stepmother would love to see you again.”

Stepmother.
Rafe's gut curdled.

His father gloated in the victory of that one word, but Rafe only stared at him unflinching as he pondered his next course of action. He had three choices. Murder his own father—extremely tempting—abandon the foolish Mademoiselle Grace to the fate she had chosen, or accept the invitation to dine with them and await an opportunity to convince the lady to trust him.

Rafe clenched his fists. He could not allow another woman to be trapped in his father's web. Especially since she would not be here but for Rafe. “Très bien. I will stay.” The words stung his lips as they flung from his mouth.

“I protest!” Mademoiselle Grace shouted from behind Rafe, and he turned to see her storming forward, her face flush. No doubt realizing the impropriety of her outburst, she halted and softened her tone. “Forgive me, Monsieur Dubois, but if the captain resides here, surely he will attempt to kidnap me again.” The fear on her face sliced through Rafe's conscience, but how could he blame her?

“Never fear, mademoiselle.” His father's voice boomed through the foyer as if he were giving a speech. “I shall hold myself personally responsible for your safety while you are under my roof.” He hesitated and glanced over them all. “Well, that settles things.” He rubbed his hands together as if he were anticipating a good meal. No doubt he hoped Rafe would be the main course.

Grace stood at the window of her chamber and stared into the darkness. Raindrops splattered against the panes of glass and slid down in random paths, some twisting and turning, some going straight, others gliding alongside other drops and collecting in a pool at the bottom. Much like people wandering through life. She pondered the odd path her own life had taken of late and the other drops she'd been forced to slide beside. Drops she would have never associated with just a month ago. Drops like Father Alers, Monsieur Weylan, Nicole, Madeline, and of course, Captain Dubois. Yet she knew God had a plan for each person, each path, no matter how chaotic it all seemed. A plan to touch their lives for His glory. A plan of which Grace seemed lately to fall so short.

She sighed and rubbed the jeweled cross in her hand. “Am I bringing You glory, Lord? Have I led anyone to You since this whole horrid venture began? No one seems to listen to me. And now I find myself with an opportunity to go home, but what have I accomplished? What has all this misery produced?”

She thought of Captain Dubois, how his volatile presence had filled the foyer. He had come for her. But the burning flash in his eyes carried no wicked intent, no anger, no malice, but simply concern. She could make no sense of it, nor of the way her heart had leapt at the sight of him. Her cheeks burned in shame. The man was a rogue, a villain. Why did he affect her so? Up until this night, she had felt naught but repulsion, pity, and righteous anger toward him. Yet there was something behind those dark eyes, something that made her think there was much more to this man than his actions toward her intimated.

“Father, I'm sorry for this strange feeling that comes over me in his presence.”

A firm hand covered her mouth. Grace's blood froze in terror.

A strong arm grabbed her waist. She struggled against the iron grip, but to no avail. The man forced her back against his muscled torso. “I hope it is a pleasurable feeling, mademoiselle.” The deep voice flowed like warm silk over her ear.

Captain Dubois.

Heat stormed through Grace, the heat of embarrassment, the heat of anger. She tried to free her elbows to jab them into his stomach, but his strength forbade her.

“If you promise not to scream, I shall release you. I wish only to talk.” His warm breath, edged with brandy and tobacco, tickled her neck.

Grace nodded and his hand fell away from her mouth. “How dare you sneak into my chamber and listen to my personal petitions.” She jerked from his grasp, veered around, and raised her hand to slap the grin off his face.

He caught her arm in midair and his smile widened, reaching his eyes in a twinkle of playfulness.

Tugging away from him, Grace retreated into the shadows, praying the captain could not see the blossom of red creeping up her neck.

But by the mischievous look on his face, she knew he had. Not only seen, but he seemed to enjoy her discomfort. With his hair combed and slicked back, and wearing a black silver-embroidered velvet coat and breeches, he appeared more a French gentleman than a rogue. Almost. For a dark purple shadow circled one eye, no doubt from a recent brawl.

“This feeling you speak of, I hope you find it pleasing.” He grinned.

“I was not speaking of you.” Grace tucked the cross back into her gown and looked away, wincing at her lie.

“Of course not.” The lilt in his voice spoke of his disbelief.

Grace stormed away, desperate to put enough distance between them to quell the odd stirring in her belly. “What do you want? To kidnap me again?”

He shrugged. “The idea has, how do you say, crossed my mind.”

“I will scream.”

“And my father will come to your rescue like the hero he is,” he said nonchalantly as he circled the bed and made his way toward her, his boots thumping on the wooden floor. “But beware, mademoiselle, of wolves in sheep's clothing.”

Thunder boomed overhead then drifted into a rumble, and Grace backed away from him, her chest tightening. “You are the only wolf I see in this house.”

He halted and raised a brow, but she saw no anger in his eyes, only hesitancy, as if he cared that he had frightened her.

“You should not be here alone in my chamber.” Grace filled the uncomfortable silence. “ 'Tis most improper.”

At that he chuckled and stepped toward the fireplace. “I believe we are past such formalities, oui?” He laid a hand on the mantel, stomped his jackboot atop the footing, and stared at the burning embers. “I hear you spent five days on the streets of Port-de-Paix. Foolish.”

Grace slid behind a settee, effectively using the sofa as a barrier between them. “What did you expect? For me to sit aboard your ship and await your return?”

He smiled. “Oui. Most women would not have the courage to leave.” He stepped toward her and his brow furrowed. “Were you harmed?”

Grace swallowed, her stomach constricting at the look of concern in his expression. “I survived, as you can see. God took care of me.”

“God?” He snickered. “It was a trollop, I believe, who rescued you.”

“God can use whomever He wishes,” Grace shot back, realizing Nicole had betrayed her confidence. “You didn't harm Nicole, did you?”

For a second, he seemed genuinely pained that she considered such a thing. “Non. I would never harm her. We are friends.” Captain Dubois frowned then looked down at the silk Persian rug beneath his boots. He pressed a finger over his mustache as he took up a pace across the chamber. “Ah, the opulence of my father. What do you think of it?” He gestured toward the walnut bed frame, the pair of matching mahogany nightstands, the oak dressing table with three beveled mirrors, the French tapestries lining the wall.

Baffled by the captain's fluctuating moods, Grace eyed him curiously. “What do you have against him? He seems an honorable man to me.”

The captain snorted. “You do not know him.” He stopped his pacing and studied her, an odd mixture of frustration and hunger in his expression. “You must leave with me tonight.”

Grace opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her. “I will take you back to Charles Towne.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “Surely you don't expect me to believe you?”

“Non. I do not expect you to, but I would like you to.” The hard sheen over his eyes softened.

“Why?” she stuttered and shook her head. “Why return me now after all this time? After all you have put me through? And what of the fortune you stand to make from my sale?”

“Things have changed.”

“What has changed?” Grace dared to take a step toward him.

He swallowed and looked down, his jaw stiffening. “I was wrong to take you, mademoiselle. I thought you were someone you are not. I thought you deserved the fate I led you to.”

Grace tried to make sense of his words, but they clattered around in her mind like pieces of broken china. “But you didn't know me. How could you know—”

“I know you, now.” He lifted his gaze to hers.