The door to her cabin creaked open, and Grace turned her aching head to see who had entered. Father Alers offered her a smile from the entrance before he shut the door and set the tray he carried atop the table. “How are you feeling, mademoiselle?”
Grace rubbed her forehead and winced at pain that pounded beneath her fingers. “Not well, I’m afraid.” Blurred images drifted through her feverish mind. Images floating on the shadows of night and the glare of day as they passed like specters through the cabin, images of Father Alers and the captain entering and leaving, their whispers lingering in the stale air. The last thing she remembered with any clarity was the captain’s threats before he had stomped out, leaving her to face the night alone. She had cried herself to sleep that night and awoken to a body in complete rebellion, expressing its dissent at her predicament with a fever and a seething stomach. Why did she have to get sick at a time like this, when she needed all her strength to plan an escape? She forced back her hatred toward this unknown don and the scoundrel who had kidnapped her, knowing it was wrong. “How long have I been ill?”
“Five days, mademoiselle.” Father Alers lifted a bowl from the tray and sat in the chair beside her cot. “You must eat something.” The rank odor of some type of fish caused her nose to wrinkle and her stomach to convulse.
She pressed a hand to her mouth. “Forgive me, Father, I cannot,” she mumbled. “But I thank you for the food. You have been most kind.”
He returned the bowl to the tray with a huff then faced her, leaning back into the chair. “The fever has lessened, mademoiselle. You should feel better soon.” A look of concern softened the lines at the corners of his eyes. He started to rise.
“Father.” Grace held out her hand. “Please stay a moment. I feel as though I shall go mad all alone in this cabin.” She moaned. “Especially not knowing what is to become of me.”
He settled back into the chair but averted his eyes from hers.
The momentary glimpse of shame she saw in them emboldened her to ask the question that had been burning on her lips ever since she had discovered kindness in Father Alers. “Father, why do you sail with such a villain?”
Father Alers shifted in the seat and folded his hands over his belly. “Le capitaine has some villain in him, I admit, but he does much good aussi.”
Grace’s head pounded as she tried to make sense of his words. “I do not understand. He has kidnapped me. How is that good?”
Releasing a deep breath, he glanced toward the window but said nothing.
“Why do they call you Father?” Grace remembered praying for an ally aboard this ship, a friend, someone who would help her. Truth be told, she remembered praying for many things. None of which had been answered.
Father Alers grimaced. “I used to be of the Jesuit order.”
“Used to be?”
“I am no longer a priest, mademoiselle.” Anger pierced his tone.
“But surely you still have faith.” Grace struggled to rise. How could anyone turn away from God? “My faith is all I have,” she said. Although even as she said the words, she wondered at their truth.
He nodded. “You spoke of God often in your dreams these past few days.”
Grace’s cheeks heated at the intimacies this stranger must have heard her utter in her delirium. She was afraid to ask what she’d said, but he continued nonetheless.
“Oui, something about the Catawbas and Alice and a boy named Frederick and the Hendricks.” Father Alers scratched his beard and smiled. “Ah, and always a praise to God. That is how I knew of your faith.”
The sound of familiar names washed over Grace like a refreshing mist, bringing with them memories of a time when God walked with her daily. “’Tis what I do back in Charles Towne. Alice”—pain sank into Grace’s heart as she remembered the girl’s betrayal—“my lady’s maid and I often visit the Catawbas, a local Indian tribe, to bring them blankets and kettles and other cooking utensils, and to tell them about God. And little Frederick.” Grace smiled as she remembered the ragged, starving orphan boy she had found on the streets of Charles Towne. “He’s an orphan I placed with a couple who couldn’t have children. And the Hendricks are a poor family who live on the edge of town. I take food and medicine to them when their children are sick.” Relaying the stories out loud brought memories of God’s faithfulness to the forefront of her mind, chipping away at the despondency she had built up over the past days.
Father Alers cocked his head and gave her a knowing grin. “And why would a young lady do these things when you could be attending les soirées and be courted by beaus?”
“To share God’s love and truth with others and help those in need. Isn’t that what we are supposed to do?” Unlike her sisters, parties and courtship had never appealed to Grace overmuch.
A beam of admiration glimmered in the father’s golden-brown eyes. “A worthy goal, mademoiselle. Your faith is admirable, and the many prayers you offer during your maladie have, sans doute, risen straight to heaven.”
Horrified that this man had also overheard her intimate conversations with God, Grace fought the tears that filled her eyes. “Yet He does not answer them. Can you explain to me why?”
Father Alers shook his head. “If I could, mademoiselle, than peut-être, I would still be a priest.”
Grace swallowed against the anger and fear clogging her throat. “Why are you with Captain Dubois? You are nothing like him.”
“Le capitaine and I … have a long histoire together.”
“That still doesn’t explain why a man of God would lower himself to partake of such iniquity.”
Father Alers pressed down the coils of his silver hair and glanced out the window. He hesitated and seemed to drift to another place and time. “I had a nephew, Armonde.” He shifted in his seat. “A bright boy, full of life and love. A bit of a rebel at times, like any boy his age.” A slight smile alighted upon his lips but then disappeared. “He was a Huguenot.”
The word struck a chord of sorrow within Grace, for she had heard that the Huguenots had undergone horrific persecution in France.
“When Louis XIV issued the Edict of Fountainebleau, Armonde was captured, tortured, and put to death.” Father Alers’s jaw tightened and he glanced down at the deck.
Grace reached out, but he made no move to accept her hand. “I am so sorry, Father.”
He shrugged. “After that I gave up on all religion. It causes men to fight and kill each other. It causes death. I want no part of it. So, I sailed to Saint Dominique where I met Rafe, I mean Captain Dubois.” He grinned and finally took her hand. “He reminds me of Armonde.”
Her heart filled with compassion, and she placed her hand atop his knobby fingers. “Do not give up on God, Father.” Yet her words seemed to drift away for lack of true conviction in her voice. For it appeared God had, indeed, given up on her as well.
The door burst open and in stomped Captain Dubois bringing with him a gust of wind, laden with the smell of salt and damp wood. His dark eyes latched upon her and then shifted to Father Alers, and then to their clasped hands. His jaw stiffened, and he gripped the hilt of his rapier.
Rafe grimaced at the stupidity of his friend and took a step forward. He had told the father not to get too close to the mademoiselle during her maladie. He knew the man’s heart and how easy it would be for him to take pity on her.
But Rafe certainly did not expect to find their hands clasped together. L’idiot. Sans doute la femme attempted to charm Father Alers into helping her escape. “I see the mademoiselle is recovering. There is no further need for your ministrations, Father.”
Father Alers lifted one defiant gray brow his way then gently placed the mademoiselle’s hand back on the cot.
Grace flattened her lips. “Father Alers was just informing me why he sails with a man such as you.” Though weak, her voice spiked with disdain.
“Vraiment?” Rafe shifted his stance and jerked his head toward the door in an attempt to get Father Alers to leave.
Rising, the father pressed a hand over his back. “Mademoiselle Grace was also informing me how she spends her time in Charles Towne helping to feed and clothe the poor and take care of the sick.” He faced Rafe and gave him a taunting look. “Who does that sound like?”
Rafe huffed. The daughter of a British admiral feeding the poor. Not likely. “It sounds like la femme has poisoned your mind, mon vieux. Now, attend to your duties.”
The mademoiselle shook her head and took a labored breath as Father Alers brushed by Rafe, gave him a grunt in passing, and headed out the door.
Coughing, Mademoiselle Grace lifted her emerald eyes to his. Gone was the glassy shield of courage and defiance he had seen five days ago.
In its stead, a pleading innocence stared at him and seeped through the cracks in his armor headed straight toward his heart. But he wouldn’t allow it entrance. Not again. Was it true she cared for those less fortunate than her? Was it true she spent her life caring for others? Non. He would not believe it.
He could not believe it.
A drop of sweat slid down the back of his neck, and he wiped it away as he stared at the deck and conjured up a vision of what the British navy had done to his mother. It was the only way to combat the rising guilt those green eyes stirred within him.
He found the anger. He welcomed it and allowed it to burn away any tender spots on his heart, crusting them over until they were once again hard.
Mademoiselle Grace must have sensed his fury, for when he lifted his gaze to hers, she flinched and her face drained of color.
So she was afraid of him. When he had first brought her on board, he had expected either a swooning female, begging for her life, or a ferocious wildcat, clawing and hissing at him. What he had not expected was a woman with the courage of a soldier and the heart of an angel.
She struggled to get up on one arm, her chest rising and falling, either from the exertion or from her fear, he didn’t know. “Why are you doing this?” she said. Her bottom lip trembled, and Rafe felt that tremble down to his soul.
He planted his fists upon his waist and tore his gaze from her. “As I have said, for the money.”
“What will the don do with me?”
Rafe shook his head. His anger began to retreat again. He must get away from her before it left him defenseless. “You can ask him when you see him.” Turning, Rafe stormed out the door and slammed it behind him.