Raven Saint (2 page)

Rafe stormed up on deck, struck by both the rain in his face and the vision of the lovely Mademoiselle Westcott staring incredulously at him as he slammed the door of her cabin. He took the quarterdeck ladder in two vaults and positioned himself by the helm. Arms across his chest, he surveyed his crew as some of them climbed aloft to loosen sail, while others hauled in the cock boat. Monsieur Thorn stormed the planks, braying orders to keep the men at task. Soon fore- and mainsails were lowered and drawn taut, catching the wind in deafening claps.

“Take her out, Mr. Atton,” Rafe shot over his shoulder at the helmsman.

“Oui,
Capitaine,”
came the quick reply.

The ship bucked, and Rafe braced his feet against the deck and doffed his hat, allowing the rain to pound down upon him. Closing his eyes to the pellets, he hoped their crisp sting would douse the heat that had taken over his senses after his encounter with Mademoiselle Grace Westcott. He could not keep his eyes off her. No matter where he tried to focus them, they always landed back on her as if drawn by some invisible bowline. It was not so much her
beauté,
although she possessed a comeliness ranked above most women. There was an aura about her, a presence that reached out through those emerald green eyes and grabbed hold of his senses, his reason. He rubbed his belly. Perhaps it was the weevil-infested biscuit he'd eaten for breakfast that morning. Just a case of indigestion,
sans doute.
Oui, that must be it. Once out upon the open sea and in possession of an empty stomach, he'd be his normal dispassionate self again.

“Let fall,” Mr. Thorn bellowed from the main deck. “Hoist storm staysails and main topsail!”

The ship picked up speed as the thunder of the sails accompanied the roar of the skies. The bow rose and plunged over a swell, sending foam upon its deck. Before long, they rounded the tip of the peninsula and Rafe spotted O'Sullivan's Island.

“Hard alee, Monsieur Atton,” he ordered.

“Hard alee, Capitaine.”

Once free of the Charles Towne harbor, Rafe had only to deliver the girl unscathed to Colombia. Although Don Miguel had never met Mademoiselle Grace, Rafe was confident he would be pleased with his purchase. The mademoiselle was well worth the five hundred pounds in gold the loathsome Spaniard had offered for her.
Peut-être,
Rafe could bargain for more doubloons for such a valuable prize.

His first mate appeared beside him and gripped the railing. Doffing his hat, he shook the water from it then plopped it back atop his head. The rain had lessened to a sprinkle. Releasing a sigh, Thorn grinned at Rafe. “Quite an alluring woman Grace Westcott turned out to be, eh?” he remarked as if reading Rafe's thoughts.

Rafe shrugged. “I take no notice. She is cargo to me.”

“Cargo, eh?” Monsieur Thorn chuckled. “Much more appealing than those crates in the hold, I'd say.”

A vision of the mademoiselle stretched across Rafe's mind. Rain dripping from her skirts, her black hair clinging in saturated strands to her face, her shoulders arched back in a regal stance of superiority. The way her bottom lip quivered, belying the imperious defiance burning in her eyes. She'd handled herself with more bravery than he would have expected from a lady born to comfort. An admiral's daughter. Perhaps she'd gotten her stout heart from her father.
Sacre mer,
why was he thinking of her again? He shook his head, sending droplets flying, then ran a hand through his wet hair.

“More appealing only in the gold she'll bring me.”

Monsieur Thorn fingered the whiskers sprouting on his chin and gave Rafe a look of censure. “I trust this particular cargo is not to be handled? You may want to remind the crew—and yourself—of that. 'Tis been awhile since we anchored at port.”

Rafe nodded and lifted his gaze to the angry clouds. “She will not be touched,
je t'assure,
but not due to any of your lofty principles,
mon ami.”

“You should try living by some of my lofty principles, Captain. You may find them agreeable.” Instead of the expected lift of sarcasm in his first mate's voice, the clamor of disdain rang loud and clear. Thorn's jaw tightened and a look of spite flared across his eyes that set Rafe aback. Rafe returned the look with one of his own, hoping to remind the man that he rarely suffered impertinence, even among those close to him.

Thorn raised his hands in surrender and looked away. But the man had given Rafe an idea. It had been a long time since he'd felt the warmth of a woman beside him. Perhaps that was what ailed him, what caused his strong reaction in Miss Westcott's presence. Though he knew better than to allow his mind to wander in her direction again, not if he was to deliver her to the don unspoiled.

Mr. Atton navigated the shoals of the bay with expertise, and soon
Le Champion
plunged from the narrow Charles Towne harbor onto the open sea. The dark clouds lifted from the horizon, allowing the setting sun to spread its bright wings of crimson and gold across the western tree line.
C'est bon.
It would be a clear day tomorrow.

Thorn tugged his cocked hat further upon his head. “Where should I point her, Captain? Colombia?”

Rafe flattened his lips. “Perhaps a side trip to Port-de-Paix is in order, Monsieur Thorn. I need to offload the cargo in the hold, and the men could use some diversion.”

“Aye, Captain.” Thorn winked, touched his hat—a habit he picked up during his two years serving in His Majesty's Navy—and sped off, barking orders as he went.

Rafe smiled. Oui, a quick stop in Port-de-Paix would do everyone good. And he would welcome a chance to see his old friend Armonde again. Afterward, all he had to do was deliver the lady to the don in Rio de la Hacha, and his pockets would be lined with enough gold so that finally, after all these years, he could keep his promise to Abbé Villion—a promise that would save many lives. A promise that was worth the kidnapping of one insignificant lady. Rafe winced beneath a pang of guilt that was quickly assuaged when he brought to remembrance the lady's heritage. She was British and therefore his enemy.

He shoved his hat back onto his head and thrust his face into the wind. What could be so hard about delivering one small woman to Colombia?

Creak, creak, slosh, slosh.
The sounds of strained wood and rushing water crept uninvited into Grace's consciousness. She pushed them back, preferring the ignorant repose she'd fallen into during the night. A chill ran across her back. Her legs trembled. Where was her goose-feather coverlet? Had she kicked it off in the night?

“Oh, mercy me.” She reached down, groping for the warm covering but found only a stiff counterpane beneath her hand instead of her feather bed. She rolled on her side. A splinter stabbed her arm. Grace bolted up and she opened her eyes, her heart crashing into her ribs. The room that met her gaze was not her bedchamber at home but a ship's tiny cabin. A bowl, mug, and lantern perched upon a small table that was bolted to the wall. Beside it, a green gown draped over a stuffed leather chair. A large ornamented chest guarded one corner while an empty armoire with open doors filled the other.

Throwing a hand to her throat, Grace squeezed her eyes shut as memories of yesterday flooded her wakening mind.
Lord, make it go away.
But when she opened her eyes, the same sordid scene filled her vision.

Don Miguel de Salazar. The name slunk around the cabin. Her throat tightened. She could not go to Colombia. Her life was in Charles Towne. Her work was in Charles Towne. People depended on her for food, for clothing, for medicine. God depended on her to share His love and truth with those who would listen.

She sprang from the bed. Rays of sun spiked through a tiny porthole like daggers. Trembling, she hugged her gown, still damp from yesterday's storm, then eyed the dry one strewn over the chair. Sometime in the night, an old man had ambled in with a bowl of stew, a mug of rum-infused lemon juice, and a gown he tossed over the chair. He'd stared at her for a minute, grunted, and then stormed out. The meaty odor of the food still permeated the cabin, but her churning stomach could not accept the sustenance any more than her propriety could accept the unseemly gown. After the man had left, Grace had spent most of the night upon her knees, begging God to rescue her, begging Him to protect and save her, but the Almighty had been silent.

Finally, when her eyes had swelled from crying and her knees ached from the hard wood floor, she had dropped onto the narrow cot attached to the bulkhead and was finally lulled to sleep by some ribald ballad slinking through the planks from below.

Grace covered her mouth with her hands as tears burned behind her eyes. She thought of her sister Faith and her brother-in-law Dajon. They would be so worried about her, along with the household servants, Lucas, Molly, and Edwin. And what of her other sister, Hope? They still had no idea where she was after she'd run way with Lord Falkland. How could Grace honor the promise she made on her mother's deathbed to ensure the salvation and spiritual well-being of her sisters if she were lost to them forever?
Oh, what am I to do? Where are You, Lord?

Boot steps thumped outside the door. The latch lifted. Grace swiped the tears from her cheeks and she took a step back. The thick oak slab crashed open against the bulkhead, and in stomped Captain Rafe Dubois with all the authority of a king and the swagger of a brigand. Behind him, the old man who'd brought her food the night before entered, followed by a gray cat, which bounded in and leapt upon the table.

Captain Dubois's presence filled the room, shrinking its size and draining it of air. Dressed in a loose-fitting white buccaneer shirt, with a gold and purple sash strung about the waist of his black breeches, and heavy jackboots, he approached her, the silver hilt of his rapier gleaming in a ray of sun.

He raised a brow. “Do you shiver from fear, mademoiselle, or is it because you prefer your wet attire?”

Grace drew a deep breath to steady her nerves. “A bit of both, I believe.”

The captain cocked his head and studied her. “Honesty.
Comme c'est rafraîchissant.
Do the garments Father Alers provided not meet with your satisfaction?”

“They dip far too low in the collar.” Grace felt a blush rising on her cheeks. “Only a woman of questionable morals would wear them.”

Captain Dubois' jaw tightened, and the mirth slipped from his gaze. “They belonged to my sister.”

Grace gulped. The old man who'd entered behind the captain chuckled and took a seat in the chair.

“I thank you for the dry attire, Captain, but I cannot in good conscience wear that gown.”

The captain snorted in disdain. “Of all the women to kidnap, I get a
prude pieuse.
Fortune has fled me once again.”

Wincing beneath his insult, Grace lifted her chin. “I believe 'tis I whom fortune has deserted.”

“Hmm,” was the captain's only reply, but a glimmer of appreciation for her honesty shone from his eyes.

The sound of lapping drew his gaze to the gray cat, partaking of Grace's dinner. Raising her head, the feline licked her whiskers and stared at Grace with one eye. Naught but fur covered the spot where the other eye should have been, and Grace wondered what had happened to the poor creature.

Sails flapped above as the ship careened. Grace stumbled backward. Captain Dubois reached out for her, but she jumped out of his reach and laid a hand on the bulkhead to steady herself.

He frowned. “You will eat what is provided for you. Unlike
l 'excès
you are accustomed to, we cannot afford the luxury of wasting food.”

“I am not accustomed to excess, Captain.” Grace's anger rose up. “ 'Tis but my stomach which protests at the moment. Surely you can understand that?”

The captain's eyebrows arched, and he gave a quick snort of unbelief.
“C'est-ça.”
He gestured toward the old man still sitting in the chair. “Nonetheless. This is Father Alers. He will bring you food and whatever you need.”

Grace blinked. A father? Or was it just some odd pirate name? Father Alers nodded, briefly meeting her gaze, as he pressed down a mass of gray hair coiling around his head like a silver spiderweb. Years of hard work lined his ruddy skin, but Grace found naught to fear from his amiable expression.

“He is the ship's cook. You can trust him,” the captain said.

“Trust?” Grace snapped. “How can I trust anyone aboard this ship? Are you all not complicit in my abduction?”

He grinned and slid the back of his finger over her cheek before she could stop him.

She jerked away from him. “I am the daughter of Admiral Henry Westcott. And I assure you, sir, he will come looking for me.”

“I know who you are, mademoiselle.”

“If you do, then you know I speak the truth.” Grace squared her shoulders even as her insides began to crumble beneath his haughty disregard. “And you are as good as dead for kidnapping me.”

Not a speck of fear crossed the captain's features. Instead, he broke into a chuckle, soon joined by Father Alers. “We shall see, mademoiselle.”

Anger dried the tears burning behind her eyes, anger at this beast before her, anger at his arrogance, his audacity. “I insist you release me at once!”

He cocked his head and studied her, and she thought she saw a flash of admiration cross in his gaze, but then the hard sheen returned. “But of course.” He waved a hand toward the entranceway. “The door remains unlocked. You may wander freely through the brig, though I must warn you, avoid going below deck. My crew may not be as, shall we say,
courtois
as I.”

“Courteous, faugh, I've been treated better by savages.”

Father Alers coughed a laugh into his hand.

Captain Dubois gripped his baldric. “If it is savages you want, mademoiselle, there are plenty aboard.” He smiled. “Regardless, I encourage you to stay above deck. The don will not accept soiled goods.”