Grace stopped pounding the door to catch her breath. Perspiration streamed down her face and neck. Her head ached. Blood dripped from her wrists, and her mouth was stuffed with cotton. But at least the cannons had ceased and the ship had slowed to a near halt. In light of what she’d overheard, however, that might not have been a good sign at all.
She continued battering the door with her feet and groaning through the saturated cloth in her mouth.
Finally, she heard shuffling in the hall. “Mademoiselle?” Annette’s sheepish voice squeaked through the oak.
Grace groaned and kicked the door again. The latch clicked, and light spilled in around the mulatto’s thin form.
“Mademoiselle!” Annette dropped to the deck and plucked the handkerchief from Grace’s mouth. “Who did this to you?”
Grace coughed and tried to speak but her words emerged in a grating rasp.
Annette battled the ropes around Grace’s wrists and feet. “When you not come back to the cabin last night, I worry, and come looking for you.”
“Thank you, Annette,” Grace managed to say. Tearing the loosened ropes from her ankles, she rose. A wave of dizziness swirled her vision, and she leaned on the bulkhead.
“Are you all right, mademoiselle?”
Grace gripped Annette’s shoulders. “Where is Rafe?”
“Captain Dubois is on deck, mademoiselle.” Annette’s brows drew together.
“Come, we must hurry.” Grace swept past her.
“It is not good.” The tap tap of Annette’s shoes behind Grace only added to her rising fear. “You should not go above, mademoiselle.”
Ignoring the lady and the sinking feeling in her gut, Grace navigated the narrow hallways and companionway. Then clutching her skirts, she climbed up the ladder and emerged into the sunlight, Annette fast on her heels.
A growling mob undulated over the main deck, and Grace ducked into the shadows beneath the quarterdeck. She strained to see through the horde of cursing sailors. Drawing Annette to her side, she circled around the mob until she spotted the yellow feather fluttering atop Monsieur Dubois’s hat. Bright flashes caused her to squint and focus on their source.
Swords. Drawn swords. All pointed at Rafe. She was too late.
Rafe cursed himself as every muscle within him grew taut. How could he have been such a fool? He eyed his father, longing to draw his rapier and etch a permanent frown over his caustic grin. Stupide. Rafe shifted his gaze from his father to Monsieur Thorn. Despite the anger boiling in Rafe’s gut, a sharp twang struck his heart. “So you joined mon père against me?” He formed the words his mind still refused to believe. That the man who had sailed with him for a year, the man he considered his friend, had committed the ultimate betrayal. But why not? Everyone betrayed Rafe in the end.
Thorn raised one shoulder. “So it would seem.”
“And all of you!” Rafe yelled over their shoulders to those of his men who had joined the traitorous mob. “Have I not served you well?” He scanned their faces. Weylan, Holt, Fisk, Porter, Maddock, and a dozen other men who had been his companions. Some lowered their gazes, others gave him a sheepish look of apology, while others twitched their fingers over their weapons as if anxious to be done with him.
He turned back to Thorn. “Why involve my father in this?”
Thorn cocked a brow. “In the event there were not enough men willing to turn against you, Captain. And as it turned out, I needed his crew.” He shook his head. “Even when I informed the men that you reneged on your promise to sell the mademoiselle and line their pockets, most still would not join us. A testament to you, I suppose. Though for the life of me, I find their loyalty confounding.”
Movement on the fore- and quarterdecks drew Rafe’s attention to groups of sailors who gathered at each railing, shock and fear tightening their features as some of their own companions held them at gunpoint.
Even Monsieur Atton, normally a solid rock of composure, stared at Rafe with a look of horror.
Weylan stepped forward, tugging upon the lace at his cuffs. “It’s about her.” He wagged a thumb toward his left, and Rafe glanced to see Mademoiselle Grace huddling in the corner beside Annette, her eyes wide, and her bottom lip quivering.
Zut alors, the woman always chose the most inopportune time to come on deck. His stomach tightened. What would happen to Grace now? “We heard you had grown soft on the woman,” Weylan added with a sneer.
Rafe faced him. “What is that to you?” He gripped the hilt of his rapier, causing the swords pointed his way to jerk to attention. Grace gasped.
“Easy, messieurs.” Rafe released the weapon and narrowed his eyes upon his father. “This has nothing to do with your wife.” Rafe huffed as understanding dawned. “You planned this mutiny all along.”
“Ah, gentlemen.” His father glanced over the mob. “At last my son has regaled us with a smidgen of his acclaimed wisdom.” His blue eyes flashed. “I had begun to doubt you possessed it.”
Ignoring him, Rafe directed his attention to Thorn. “And you told him where to find us.”
Thorn grinned.
Rafe nodded toward Claire who leaned against the foredeck, her eyes laced with horror. “Was she also a part of this?”
“My faithless wife?” Henri chuckled. “Non, she is merely a pawn. En fait, she believed she was running away to be with you. Had I known I was marrying a souillon, I would have allowed you to keep her.”
Rafe gripped his baldric as a blast of wind tore over him. “But you did marry her. You won, Father. Why come after me?”
“Because I could not stand that she still wanted you, still loved you.” Rafe’s father shot a look toward Claire that burned more with pain than hatred, then he stomped toward Rafe, his eyes bulging. “Just like your mother. It was always about you. Smart, quick-witted, capable Rafe. Stronger, wiser, better.” He spat to the side.
Rafe winced beneath the man’s fury. He could find no cause for it. Nothing he had done in his childhood except succeed at all he did. Shouldn’t a father be proud of such a son? “I was never in competition with you.”
Henri snorted, his face reddening. “Oh, but you were. Every time you succeeded. Every time you won the affections of a lady I coveted, every time Claire’s eyes lit up at the mention of your name. Every time I heard of your grand successes upon the sea and was bombarded by the people’s praise for you in town.” He snorted. “Assez!”
The loathing that twisted his father’s features stunned Rafe. “So you devise a plan for me to appear to kidnap your wife so you can come after me and kill me?”
“How else to be rid of you within the bounds of the law? I am not a murderer.” Henri lifted his shoulders as if shrugging off his anger, shrugging away his son.
“My crew will testify otherwise.” Rafe said.
“Who would believe them over me?”
Rafe’s heart collapsed into a ball of lead. His father was right. “I did not realize your hatred of me ran so deep.”
Henri glared at Rafe for a moment. He licked his lips and looked away. “You are not my son.”
A drop of sweat slid down Rafe’s back. The sun fired hot arrows upon him. Waves slapped against the hull. Claire gasped.
Rafe’s fingers went numb. “What did you say?”
Henri gazed over the sea, his stony face holding a trace of sorrow. “I said you are not my son.”
“Then whose son am I?”
His father met his gaze. His eyes glinted like steel. “You are the son of the pirate Jean du Casse.”