Grace pried her eyes open, still heavy with slumber. The creaking and groaning of the brig she’d grown accustomed to tried to lull her back to sleep, but the dusty ray of sunshine streaming through the porthole told her it was well past dawn.
And she needed to speak with Rafe.
After Mr. Thorn’s visit, Grace had gathered her blankets and curled up on deck, hoping to get much-needed sleep and make some sense of the discord bristling through her. But slumber had dashed about the cabin most of the night like a child playing tag, outwitting and outmaneuvering her. Finally, some time before dawn she must have drifted into unconsciousness out of sheer exhaustion.
Spyglass leapt from the chair and sauntered toward Grace. Plopping down on her stomach, the cat began kneading Grace’s nightdress and saturating the air with the rumble of purrs. “You never seem overwrought, my friend. Would that I could be like you.” Grace scratched Spyglass beneath the chin, and the cat stretched her neck toward the deck above. Closing her eyes, Grace longed to dive back into the ignorance of slumber, but Spyglass resumed her kneading, pricking Grace with one of her claws.
“Ooh!” She grabbed the cat. “Very well, no need to stab me. I shall arise.” Sitting up, Grace kissed the cat on the cheek, then set her down on the deck. She glanced over the cabin. Annette’s blankets lay folded in the corner.
“Bonjour,” a voice coming from the cot startled Grace. She rose and sat in the chair, studying the madame. Though it had been little more than a day, color had returned to Claire’s cheeks and her eyes regained their luster. “Good morning, Claire. How do you feel?”
“Stronger.” She looked at Grace as if she were an angel. “I owe you my life, mademoiselle.”
“No. You owe God your life.”
Claire drew in a deep breath and struggled to sit. She pushed a curl from her face. “I never believed God cared for me.”
“He does.” Grace retrieved the mug of lemon water from the table and handed it to Claire.
Taking it, Claire took a sip. “I am not so sure.” She shook her head and dropped her gaze to the mug clasped between her hands.
Grace’s vision blurred with tears for the sorrow this woman had endured.
Claire pressed her lips together. “Yet no one could have shown me the love you did after I treated you so horribly, unless God helped them.” She chuckled and Grace smiled, unable to respond, her throat closed tight with emotion.
Claire’s face reddened. “Forgive me for sharing such personal confidences with you during my illness.”
“’Tis quite all right. I had no idea your life had been so difficult.”
“It is no excuse for my behavior.” Claire sighed.
Grace clasped her hands together. Indeed, she used to believe there was no excuse for bad behavior. She had always looked down on those who could not control their passions and who chose evil over good. Then why did she find no disdain for this woman before her, only understanding and concern?
“I love him still,” Claire said without looking up.
The words shot straight to Grace’s heart as Rafe’s name drifted through the air, unspoken. “I know.”
“But it is too late for us. I see that now.” The sorrow lining Claire’s face made Grace’s heart crumble even as a twinge of jealousy sprang from among the pieces. She shook it off as Claire continued, “And I am married to a monster.” She trembled.
Grace took the cup from Claire’s hands before she dropped it and placed it back atop the table. “You needn’t remain so, madame.”
Claire’s eyes searched Grace’s in confusion.
“Your husband has been unfaithful and continues to flaunt his philandering before you daily.”
Claire shrugged. “What is to be done about it?”
“He has broken his covenant with you, Claire.”
“Vraiment?” A spark of hope lit her eyes, but then her shoulders sank. “But where would I go?”
Grace leaned over and took her hand. “Perhaps ’Tis time to start trusting God for your future and not man or money.”
Claire swallowed and her hand trembled. “We shall see.”
“Do you feel up to a stroll on the deck?” Happy that Claire seemed slightly open to the things of God, Grace would put off her talk with Rafe if she could continue the conversation. “The fresh air would do you good.”
“Non. I am still too weak.” She raised a hand to her forehead. “And tired. I believe I shall sleep some more.”
“Very well.” Grace assisted Claire back down onto the cot. “We will talk later.” She brushed the hair from her face.
“Merci.” Claire smiled then closed her eyes.
Rising, Grace splashed water on her face from the basin. She donned her petticoat, stays, and skirts and brushed and pinned her hair up as best as she could—no longer concerned with a proper, tight coiffure.
Out in the companionway, she headed for Rafe’s cabin. Spyglass pranced beside her as if she knew exactly where Grace was going and thought it was about time.
Ignoring the fluttering in her stomach, Grace approached the captain’s door. She must apologize for their kiss and inform Rafe it could never happen again. She did not want him to get the wrong idea about her affections for him. Whatever they may be.
She squared her shoulders and knocked.
“Entrez-vous,” Rafe’s resonant voice bade her entrance, and she opened the door and slipped inside, Spyglass on her heels.
Rafe’s gaze swept over her, and his grin reached his eyes in a sparkle that sent a wave of warmth through Grace.
Spyglass leapt upon the captain’s desk and began batting the feathers of a quill pen.
The door thudded shut, and suddenly Grace found herself alone with the captain. He leaned against his desk, arms folded across his waistcoat, but the grin that had taken residence on his lips, a grin that contained a mixture of admiration and hunger, caused her heart to flutter.
Grace clasped her hands together and she looked down. The hollow thud of his footfalls pounded over the deck. Black leather boots appeared in her vision. His body heat radiated over her, carrying with it his scent of tobacco and the sea. And her heart felt as though it would crash through her chest. Placing a finger beneath her chin, he tipped her head up until their eyes met. “You wish to speak to me, mademoiselle?” His tone was playful, inviting.
“Oui, I mean yes.” Grace pressed her moist palms over her skirts. “But if you please, could you back away a bit? I cannot seem to breathe.”
Chuckling, he took a step back. “Oui, bien sûr. Mais does my presence disturb you?”
Gathering her wits and her resolve, Grace stood and faced him. “Yes.” She might as well be honest. “It does.”
“C’est bon.”
“There is nothing good about it.”
“A matter of perspective.”
Grace sashayed away from the door, putting some distance between them. What was wrong with her? She’d come here to tell Rafe she would not receive his affections again. But instead all she wanted to do was feel his arms around her and his lips upon hers. Her cheeks heated until she had to withdraw a handkerchief from her sleeve and wave it around her face. “It grows warm below deck.”
“Feels quite cool to me.” He raised his brows.
Grace swallowed and looked up at him. He wore his black hair tied behind him, revealing a jaw peppered with stubble that reminded her of crushed charcoal. The fading purple of a bruise circled one eye. He stretched his shoulders back, only a hint of their strength discernable beneath his gray coat. To the left of his long black breeches tucked into his cordovan boots, hung the rapier that rarely left his side. And suddenly as she gazed into his dark, penetrating eyes, all rational thought dashed away in fear, leaving her standing there speechless.
He stepped toward her. “Mademoiselle?”
Grace held up a hand and averted her eyes to the contents of his desk. A full bottle of brandy glittered amber in the morning sun. “I do not believe I’ve ever seen an untouched bottle in your cabin, Captain. Have you given up your drink?” She hoped her playful tone would douse the heat that rose between them.
“I have, but I will pour one for you if you wish.” His gaze brushed over Grace, and she thought she detected a slight grin on his lips.
“I would never touch such a vile drink.”
“Ah, mademoiselle, vile it is not. Mais that it offends you has become the bane of my existence.”
“I am pleased to hear it, Captain.”
He bowed. “I live for your approval, mademoiselle.”
Spyglass jumped to the deck and began to circle her skirts.
“You mock me, Captain.”
He cocked his head. “Never.”
She turned her back to him. “Will you return me to my home?”
“As I have said.”
Grace grabbed the chain around her neck and pulled out her cross, then moved toward the cannon in the corner. “What of your hospital?”
“I will find another way.”
“What changed your mind?” The words were out before she realized the implication of what she asked. The only thing that mattered was that he had changed his mind. Then why did her heart cinch within her chest awaiting his answer? She must be truly daft. For if he spoke the words she yearned to hear, she feared it would be the end of her.
Rafe rubbed his jaw and stomped back to his desk, the bottle of brandy luring him like glittering gold. Memories of their kiss last night warmed his body. Even though she’d fled with a look of horror on her face, Rafe had kissed enough women to know that Grace had enjoyed every moment of their embrace. And that thought alone had caused a spark to ignite in his heart—in a place long cold and dead.
Turning, he stared at the mademoiselle’s back, green skirts flowing around her, trimmed in gold lace at the hem and waist. Coils of loose raven curls danced over her neck, taunting him like bait.
Why had he changed his mind? He shook his head, unable to deceive himself any longer. He knew why. He should tell her how he felt. Fear began a frantic pounding within him, erecting barricades, reminding him of the pain of rejection. It was bad enough he had allowed himself to fall in love again. But he would be a bigger fool to allow another woman to break his heart.
He straightened his shoulders. “I decided the don would most likely return you. Such a shrewish tongue would never survive a Spanish overlord.”
She whirled around in a cloud of green silk, disappointment tugging down the corners of her mouth. “Shrewish?” Her face paled. “Of all the …”
Rafe’s heart sank as the ardor, the affection, drained from her eyes, replaced by fury and pain.
“Very well. That makes what I have to say much easier.” She lifted her chin, clutched her skirts, and headed toward the door, where she halted and drew a deep breath. “I came to inform you that I was remiss in accepting your … your”—she looked away—“kiss. And that it must never happen again.” She gave him a venomous look, and he instantly longed to make things right.
Rafe moved toward her, his voice low. “I heard no objection while your lips were on mine.”
She fanned her red face with her handkerchief. Tiny scratches lined one cheek and Rafe swallowed, longing to kiss them away.
“I am voicing them now.” She took a step back. “Promise me you will not take advantage of me again, Captain.”
“Take advantage, sacre mer.” Rafe ran a hand through his hair, feeling his ire rising. “Mademoiselle, you have my word that I will take no further liberties with you.”
Her lip trembled. “I shall hold you to that, Captain.” She swerved about and opened the door. “Come, Spyglass,” she called over her shoulder, and the cat promptly obeyed, stopping to hiss at Rafe on her way out.
He slammed the door shut after them and leaned back against it. The woman had not only stolen his heart but his cat as well.