Raven Saint (6 page)

Grace released Father Alers's arm and entered the captain's cabin. The desk and chairs had been pushed aside, the Persian rug rolled up, and in its place sat a long wooden table laden with steaming platters of food, mugs filled to the brim, decanters of wine, and brass candlesticks. Pewter plates shimmered in the flickering candlelight, and the spicy scent of pork and the pungent smell of cheese swirled about her. At the head of the table sat Captain Dubois and lining each side were members of his crew, some of whom Grace recognized, and all of whom jumped to their feet at her entrance. Including Captain Dubois, looking rather dashing in his black silver-embroidered coat and gold and purple sash tied about his waist. He had tamed his unruly mane into a slick style which he tied behind him, revealing a strong jaw which flexed beneath a sprinkle of black stubble. His white shirt, devoid of its normal stains and wrinkles, appeared oddly out of place upon his broad chest. And without his pistols and knives draped across it, he could almost pass for a gentleman attending a soirée.

Almost.

Behind him, through the stern windows, the sea and sky melded into a smoldering curtain as dark as the captain's gaze.

Father Alers gestured to an empty seat at the opposite end of the table. All eyes remained fixed upon Grace as if the men had never seen a woman before, and she began to regret accepting the captain's invitation to dine with him and his officers.

She stepped forward and raised her chin. “Have I been invited to partake of a meal, or am I to be the meal itself?”

Chuckles rumbled around the table. Mr. Thorn coughed, and one side of Captain Dubois's lips lifted in a sly grin that sent an uncomfortable quiver through her belly.

“Whichever you prefer, mademoiselle.”

“I prefer that you turn this brig around and take me back to Charles Towne at once.”

“That is not one of your choices.” He raised a brow.

“Then what exactly are my choices?”

“To dine with us or return to your cabin hungry.” Cocking his head, he sent her a lazy grin.

Grace bit her lip and scanned the men. A chill pricked her skin. She'd never envisioned herself dining with such depraved characters without benefit of chaperone, without a proper escort—without protection. And though she'd love nothing more than to turn and make a mad dash down the companionway, if God had placed her aboard this ship to convert these men, she couldn't accomplish that task alone in her cabin. Which was why she'd accepted the captain's invitation. And why she must now stay.

“I will remain, but not because it pleases you.” She didn't want to inflate the captain's already billowing pomposity. Nor did she want to hide her loathing for him, God forgive her.

Captain Dubois rubbed his chin and gave her a haughty look. “Mademoiselle, I find no pleasure in your company. En fait, it was Father Alers who suggested you join us.”

Heat flushed up her neck at his insult.
Insolent cad!
She'd like to tell him that she found no pleasure in his company either, but she knew that wouldn't be a very prudent thing to say.

Nor a very Christian thing to say.

“Our food grows cold.” He waved a hand as if brushing her away. Father Alers gestured again toward her chair. “S'il vous plaît, mademoiselle?”

Gathering her courage along with her skirts, Grace slid onto the wooden seat. Without hesitation, the men sat down and began piling food onto their plates as if it were their last meal.

“Please, gentlemen. Shouldn't we ask God's blessing first?” Grace raised her voice over the clank and clatter of silverware and plates.

Groans filled the room. Hands halted in midair. Looks of derision shot her way as one by one, the men lowered themselves back in their chairs and dipped their chins.

Grace sought some measure of support from Father Alers but found only a hint of surprise mixed with curiosity lifting the lines on his face.

Captain Dubois, on the other hand, shifted his jaw in impatience and nodded for her to continue.

Grace bowed her head. “Father, we thank You for the bounty that You have provided this night. Please bless it, and may we always be thankful for Your goodness.”

The clank of spoons resurged like a rising swell before a storm.

“And Lord,” she shouted. “I ask You...” Huffs and moans rippled across the cabin, ending in silence. “To open the eyes of these men so that they may see You and know You. Amen.” Grace lifted her face.

The men stared at her, their mouths agape as if she'd asked for lightning to strike them.

Ignoring them, she swallowed a lump of fear and nodded toward a steaming platter in the center of the table. “The pork, if you please, Mr. Alers.”

He smiled and handed her the tray as the men resumed their feast, rudely grabbing platters and bowls without discretion and shoveling food onto overstuffed plates, reminding Grace of pigs before their slop.

She took a bite of the meat and though it was tough, the spicy, rich taste burst in her mouth and was welcomed gladly by her stomach. Having consumed three meals yesterday, she found her strength returning in full force. “Did you prepare this feast, Father?”

Captain Dubois chuckled and poured amber liquid into his glass from a flagon.

“Address me as Monsieur Alers, s'il vous plaît,” Father Alers said. “Mais oui, mademoiselle. I did.”

“It is quite good.” Grace grabbed a biscuit from a platter in front of her. “Thank you for all your hard work.”

Again the men stared her way, and Father Alers smiled. “Finally I receive some recognition for my hard work.” He glanced across the table. “You could all learn manners from this lady.”

The man to Grace's left belched in reply and poured himself another mug of what Grace assumed was ale. The bitter, grainy smell rose to join the fruity scent of wine, overpowering the savory aromas that filled the cabin. Grace lifted her own cup and found Mr. Alers had provided her with lemon-flavored water to drink.

Spyglass leapt onto the captain's lap, but instead of pushing her aside, Captain Dubois set down his glass and offered the feline a morsel of his food. His expression softened as he coddled the animal, and Grace found his affection for the cat curious. She scanned her other dinner companions, who were too busy scooping pork and peas into their mouths to converse with one another. Captain Dubois took a bite of a biscuit and leaned back in his chair.

Grace shifted in her seat. “Captain, would you introduce me to your men, please?”

He narrowed his eyes and lifted his lips in pretense of a smile that seemed to hurt his face. “Mais oui.” He flung out his arm and beginning with the man seated to her left, he introduced each sailor in turn: the ship's bosun, the carpenter, Mr. Thorn, then to her right, the helmsman, the second mate, and finally Father Alers.

Grace nodded at each man, her stomach tightening when her gaze landed upon the second mate, Mr. Weylan. She recognized him as the foppish man she'd seen on deck with two other sailors—the ones who had gawked at her with such alarming bawdiness. Even now, in front of his captain, Mr. Weylan took such brazen liberties with his gaze that Grace felt soiled by proximity.

She looked to the captain for assistance, but he busied himself refilling his glass. Why should she assume the captain could control his men's passions any more than he could his own?

Heat stormed through Rafe, and he poured himself another drink. Why was Mademoiselle Grace being so courteous? One would assume she was attending a soirée at a friend's estate rather than eating alongside dissolute, reckless sailors who held her captive. And now, those green eyes bored into him, condemning, slicing through him like emerald ice. He wouldn't have invited her at all, save to answer Father Alers's challenge that Rafe was somehow uneasy in the girl's presence. But in truth, his gut had been in a knot since she entered the room.

“Pleased to meet you, gentlemen.” Mademoiselle Grace smiled, but the slight tremor in her bottom lip gave her unease away. She wasn't at all pleased to meet them. Then why ask for introductions?

She took a bite of cheese then washed it down with the lemon juice Father Alers had provided. Her rosy lips puckered, and Rafe had trouble keeping his eyes off them. Setting down her glass, she met his gaze briefly, then she gripped a chain that hung around her neck and glanced over the men. “May I inquire, gentlemen, what brings you into the captain's service?”

Monsieur Atton thought for a moment then raised a glass toward Rafe. “The captain's a fair man, a good seaman, and he's lined me pockets wit' many coins.”

Rafe returned his helmsman's salute.

“Yet I have seen none of those coins in quite a while,” Monsieur Weylan grumbled beneath his breath, and exchanged a quick glance with Thorn.

Rafe eyed the two with suspicion, hearing only pieces of the exchange.

Monsieur Maddock halted his spoon, overloaded with potatoes, halfway to his mouth, “Aye, 'tis been some time, now that I think about it.” He tossed the mound into his mouth, dropping some onto his lap.

Rafe continued petting Spyglass, but his insides tightened like a sail beneath a hard wind. “You were all paid handsomely for our last job. I heard no complaints.” He eyed each of the men but none would meet his gaze. “And we stand to make a fortune on our current mis—” He froze and glanced at Mademoiselle Grace.

Her face blanched and she bit her bottom lip. “Mission, as in me.” Simmering green eyes rose to meet his. “No need to mince words, Captain. Everyone at this table knows what heinous future awaits me so that all of you can—how did you say it, Mr. Atton—line your pockets?”

Spyglass leapt from Rafe's arms to the deck, sans doute to escape the hatred firing from her eyes. Brushing away the twinge of pain caused by her scorn, Rafe preferred to focus on her courage and forthrightness, qualities he had not expected in a British admiral's daughter.

“Regardless.” She squared her shoulders and glanced over the men. “You all should be ashamed of yourselves. Surely there are far more worthy and honorable ways to make a living!”

Rafe chomped on his biscuit, knowing he should be angry at her insult, but instead found himself amused by her audacity. His crew was not in agreement.

Monsieur Maddock, the carpenter, choked on his food. “Honorable, lud.” He set down his spoon with a clank. “Beggin' yer pardon, miss, but what does honor have to do wit' anything?”

She leaned forward, spreading her fingers over the bare skin above her bodice. “Honor, sir, is doing the right thing, living the right way. Obeying God and those He places in authority over you. Honor has to do with everything.”

“Honor never did me no good.” Monsieur Atton, the helmsman sitting to Rafe's left, spewed crumbs over his plate.

The bosun, Monsieur Legard, pointed his spoon at her. “Honor is for the weak minded.”

Her face crumpled. “But what does a man have, what can he acquire that can truly satisfy? 'Tis only what he does in the name of goodness, what he does for God that counts in the end.”

“I quite agree, Miss Grace.” Monsieur Thorn dropped a slice of cheese into his mouth and gave her a nod that grated over Rafe. His friend's pious prattle had become quite bothersome lately. And now, with the encouragement of a like-minded zealot, no doubt it would become far worse.

“Then pray tell, Mr. Thorn.” Mademoiselle Grace's reprimanding tone rang through the cabin. “Why do you partake of such wickedness?”

Monsieur Thorn faced his captain, a supercilious smirk on his face, and Rafe leaned his elbows on the table. “Do enlighten us, Monsieur Thorn. Why
do
you keep such nefarious company?”

Monsieur Thorn hesitated and his face paled, but then he winked at his captain. “Perhaps to shine as a beacon of sanity amidst this treacherous mob. Or”—he shrugged—“perhaps I was in need of a holiday from the rigidness of society.”

Rafe settled back in his chair, relieved that the brandy began to spread its numbing fingers through his senses. “Then you and Father Alers have that in common. He, too, feels the need to take a
répit
from the shackles of religious obligations.”

“They are not shackles, Captain.” Mademoiselle Grace shifted a gaze to Father Alers as if seeking an ally, but the father's focus remained on his food. “In truth, the love of God will set you free.”

“Yet you are not free now, mademoiselle. Neither physically nor, it appears, in any other way.” Rafe moved his chair back from the table, his stomach disinterested in the food he'd heaped upon his plate. “You do nothing but point a finger of condemnation on everyone around you. If this is freedom, you may keep your religion, mademoiselle.”

“You mock me, Captain.” Mademoiselle Grace hung her head, one delicate strand of ebony hair feathering over her cheek. “God is but a joke to you.”

“That there is a God who created this world of pain and injustice would indeed be a joke—a joke upon us,” Rafe shot back. When Mademoiselle Grace lifted her head and he saw the moisture that filled her eyes, he instantly regretted his tone.

“Such strong faith is quite admirable, mademoiselle.” Monsieur Weylan said, drawing her gaze to him. He steepled his fingers together.

“Ye don't believe in God, ye cockerel.” Monsieur Maddock chortled. “Don't listen to Weylan, miss. He'd say anything to win a lady's affections.”

Rafe studied Weylan and the way he ogled Mademoiselle Grace as if she were a morsel of food on his plate. The vain peacock had a reputation with the ladies. His good looks, fashionable dress, and cultured tone deceived them into believing he was a gentleman, when nothing could be further from the truth.

Yet, much to her credit, Mademoiselle Grace seemed undaunted by his flirtations;
en effet,
she seemed more repulsed than enamored.

Turning from him, she faced the men and spoke in a voice urgent with sincerity, “Mercy me, don't any of you believe in God?”