Grace crept down the lower deck ladder, cringing with every creak of the wooden steps. She didn’t know whether to hold her free hand to her nose to block the stench of rot, mold, and waste or to cover her mouth to stifle her nervous breathing that seemed as loud as the sea purling against the hull. She had hoped that perhaps her second trip to the hold wouldn’t be as horrifying as the first, but as her heart cinched in her chest and her feet rebelled with each shuffle forward, she realized she’d probably never possess the courage of her sister Faith.
She took another step, and her shoes met the layer of muddy rocks covering the bottom of the ship. In the hold, heat seemed to take on its own persona and cling to whoever dared venture below as if in hope of escaping with them when they ascended. With the sleeve of her gown, she dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead, surprised at the damp chill seeping from the rocks through her shoes.
Lifting her lantern, she allowed its glowing circle to create a barricade of light around her. Perhaps a false barricade, for she knew not what crept beyond its borders, save for the rats she heard pattering away. But within its lighted walls sat an assortment of crates, barrels, and sacks broken from their bindings and scattered haphazardly wherever the sea had tossed them. She moved forward. More pattering caused her to shudder. At least the tiny beasts were afraid of the light. She’d have no such luck if she happened upon a sailor. Since it was well past midnight, most of them should be asleep, an assumption she confirmed by the barrage of snores that had assaulted her as she descended past the crew’s berth.
All she needed was one more slab of wood to match the one she’d retrieved the night before. Just one piece of wood and she could return to her cabin.
She coughed and bent over, trying not to breathe too much of the foul air, focusing her thoughts on something else, anything else besides the stench suffocating her and the roast pork now roiling in her stomach.
After the captain had deposited her in her cabin, she’d waited for hours as the ship drifted into slumber, pondering the sanity of her plan. But the captain’s mention of bartering her purity for freedom only increased the urgency of her escape.
Standing tall, she threw back her shoulders. Be strong and of a good courage; be not afraid, neither be thou dismayed: for the Lord thy God is with thee withersoever thou goest, she thought, quoting from Joshua. But the bold words sank to the deck beneath the dank, weighted air. Did she believe them anymore? Truth be told, she did not feel God’s presence at all. Which is why she must take measures into her own hands. She took a step forward and scanned the cargo for the broken crate she’d stumbled upon—or stumbled over—the night before.
A gray streak flashed across her vision, and before she could swerve the lantern to see what it was, it sprang at her and landed on her chest. Sharp claws and soft fur scrambled over her skin. A rat! A large rat! She screamed. Stumbling backward, she tried to swat the beast away. The lantern slipped from her hand, struck a crate, and hit the deck with a clank. The flame flared, sputtered … then went out. Thick, inky darkness molded over her. The eerie creak and groan of the ship grew louder as if it were laughing at her misfortune. Her feet went numb.
The furry animal clinging to Grace’s chest began to purr.
“Spyglass, is that you?” The cat nestled beneath her chin, her pleasing rumble soothing Grace’s nerves. Releasing a sigh, she ran her fingers through the cat’s fur and waited for the thumping of her own heart to slow and her feet to regain their feeling. “You frightened me, little one.”
The ship pitched, and Grace braced her shoes on the uneven pebbles to keep from falling. She peered into the darkness. Not a speck of light. Not a glimmer. Nothing but charcoal black met her gaze. The hair bristled on her arms.
“Now look what you’ve done,” she whispered to the cat. “Hold on, let me find the ladder, and I’ll take you up to my cabin.” Where she’d have to grab another lantern and come back down again.
A thump sounded. Her ears perked. Was that a boot step? Another thud. She turned toward the sound. A glimmer of light appeared from above, streaming down the ladder. Grace slunk backward, petting Spyglass, more to comfort herself than the cat. Her stomach tightened. Lord, please help me.
Spyglass continued to purr. “Shhh.” Grace ceased stroking the cat, but the rebellious feline only rumbled her approval louder.
A man descended the ladder. Handsomely dressed in a laced waistcoat, gray sash, and trousers, with silver-plated pistols and a dagger in his belt, he raised his lantern above his head and squinted into the darkness.
Mr. Weylan.
A scrawny man in a checkered shirt and torn breeches slinked behind him, casting his gaze this way and that. A third man wobbled down the ladder after them, the wooden steps bowing to near breaking beneath his considerable weight.
The three men who had leered so blatantly at her on deck two days ago.
“We know yer down here, mademoiselle,” Mr. Weylan said with a sneer.
Grace’s knees quivered. How did they know where she was? She backed up and hit a stack of crates. One of them toppled to the deck with a bang. The men jerked their gazes her way, and all three grinned simultaneously. “There she be.”
Mr. Weylan started toward her, his eyes gleaming with malice. He reminded her of her sister Hope’s latest beau, Lord Falkland—the one she’d run away with. The same striking features, same debonair mannerisms, yet for those with discernment a facade covering the corruption within. The other two men came alongside her, the third one holding his lantern up to her face. Brown sweat streamed from the folds of his neck. Two yellow teeth perched along his bottom gums, like sentinels guarding an empty cave.
Spyglass leapt from Grace’s embrace and darted up the ladder. Traitor. Grace swallowed and gathered her resolve. “What is it you want?”
Mr. Weylan chuckled and raised his brows at his friends. He reached out to touch her cheek. She jolted away.
He frowned. “We thought ye might want to accommodate us lonely sailors who’ve been out to sea far too long. We don’t often come across une femme si belle.”
A sickening wave of terror washed over Grace. “I don’t know what you mean by accommodate, sir.” Her voice came out in a rasping squeak. “But I seem to have lost my lantern and would appreciate an escort back to my cabin.” Perhaps if she appealed to their male instinct of chivalry, they’d rise to the occasion.
Again she seemed to have said something amusing.
“We’d love to escort you, mademoiselle, wouldn’t we, messieurs? That is, after you do us a favor.” Mr. Weylan fingered the lace atop her neckline then dropped his hand to the ties of her bodice.
Grace slapped the offending appendage. “Shame on you, sir.” Anger burned hot, snuffing out her fear. She eyed each one in turn. “On all of you! To take advantage of an innocent lady. The Bible says, ‘As ye would that men should do to you, do ye also to them likewise.’ Would you like someone to accost you?”
Again their chuckles filled the room. The man who was beginning to look more like the huge barrel he stood beside leaned toward her and drew a deep breath of her hair. “I’d love to be accosted, miss, if ye’d oblige me.”
Grace’s mind reeled. She must get through to these men. Were they so depraved that no goodness could be found in them? “Look inside of you, gentlemen. You are better men than this.” She gave them an affirming nod. “God has made you to be better men than this.”
Mr. Weylan cocked his head and studied her while the other two snickered beside him. For a moment, Grace thought she had pierced the evil crust around his soul.
“God has nothin’ to do with this,” he scoffed.
Grace’s hopes plummeted to the sharp pebbles beneath her feet. “On that I will agree.” The metallic taste of horror filled her mouth. Her heart felt as though it would crash through her chest. “Do you wish to spend eternity in hell?”
“Hell don’t scare me, miss. I’m livin’ in it already.” Setting down his lantern, Mr. Weylan approached her, devouring her with his gaze.
“I assure you, sir, you know nothing of hell.” A chill bristled over her at the memory of her vision—a vision that if these men caught even a glimpse, they’d fall to their knees and repent right here. But at the moment, with their wicked intent toward her screaming from their eyes and dripping from their salivating lips, she wished them all the eternity they deserved.
Grace squeezed her eyes shut and screamed, but Mr. Weylan’s hand smothered the sound. She tasted dirt and sweat and fish on his rough skin and braced herself for the assault. Seconds passed. The creaks and moans of the ship taunted her from all around. And something else. The thud of boot steps reached her ears, then gasps and curses. Weylan’s hand left her mouth.
Slam. Thud. Crash.
The sounds of a brawl pounded in her ears, and she pried her eyes open to see Captain Dubois dragging Mr. Weylan through a pile of sacks. The captain slammed him against the hull then gripped the man’s throat until his eyes bulged and his face purpled. The other men struggled to rise from the deck, where they’d obviously been tossed, and rushed to the aid of their friend.
Grace shrieked, and Captain Dubois released Mr. Weylan, swung about, kicked the scrawny man in the stomach, sending him crashing backward into a stack of barrels, while he drew his rapier and leveled the tip upon the other. Fury stormed from the captain’s dark eyes. His hair hung in black strands about his face. “You dare attack your capitaine, Holt?”
Mr. Weylan groaned from his spot on the deck, gripping his throat and gasping for breath. “Et vous, Monsieur Weylan?” Rafe shot over his shoulder.
“We jest wanted some female companionship, Cap’n.” The portly man that Dubois held at the tip of his rapier offered a conciliatory grin and shrugged. “We’s lonely men.”
“You’ll be even lonelier when I toss you overboard.” Captain Dubois pressed the blade upon Holt’s chest, drawing a drop of blood that stained his brown shirt.
The lanky man emerged from the barrels, pressing a hand against his back.
Grace’s fear resurged. Could the captain handle all three?
“Ye shared the last woman on board.” Mr. Weylan rose to his feet, still clutching his neck.
“You shared the last trollop, not lady, and she came aboard willingly. I never touched her.” The captain lowered his blade and wiped the sweat from his brow.
“What do it matter?” Holt jerked a thumb in Grace’s direction. “This one’s ending up a Spanish whore anyway.”
Without hesitation, the captain slammed his fist across the man’s jaw. Holt spun around beneath the blow and stumbled backward, crashing to the deck. Grace threw a hand to her mouth, both in shock at the violence she witnessed and the speed with which the captain came to her honor. But why would he? When he was the one leading her straight into dishonor?
The captain turned on Mr. Weylan, who fingered the handle of a knife stuffed in his belt.
“Make sure you know what you are doing, mon ami, before you draw that.” Captain Dubois snapped his hair from his face. Behind his back, the skinny man shook his head at Weylan, his eyes wide.
Mr. Weylan released the handle with a huff. “This isn’t a British warship, nor even a pirate ship, and we have signed no articles.” His jaw tightened beneath eyes alight with fury. “Someday you’ll regret this, Captain.”
“I never regret,” came the captain’s sharp reply. “Now off with you. And if I see you so much as glancing at the lady, I’ll string you up on the yardarm.”
Amidst a cacophony of grunts and curses, the men eased by Captain Dubois, Mr. Weylan rubbing his neck, the skinny man his back, and Holt his jaw. They disappeared up the ladder.
Sheathing his rapier, Captain Dubois ran a hand through his hair and faced her. “Allez-vous bien? Are you all right?”
Grace tried to find her voice, but her heart still hung in her throat. The harsh lines on the captain’s face softened, and she found herself mesmerized by the way the lantern light flickered across his dark eyes. It was the concern burning within them that set her aback. Could the man actually have some goodness in his heart? She rubbed her own eyes. Perhaps she was too tired or the light too dim. He had saved her for no other reason than the protection of his property. Hadn’t he?
He took a step closer, so close she could smell the brandy on his breath. “Did they hurt you?” He eyed her from head to toe.
Grace lowered her gaze. “No. I am fine.”
His countenance stiffened. “Sacre mer, what were you doing down here, mademoiselle?” He backed up and snorted. “If you wish to be ravaged, then by all means, let me know and next time I shall remain in my bed.”
In his bed. Now that her mind no longer reeled in fear, she noticed he wore no boots and his shirt hung loose instead of being tucked into his breeches. Even the belt housing his blade hung haphazardly about his hips. “How did you know I was down here?”
“Answer my question first.” He cocked his head.
“I was looking for something.” Grace bit her lip, not wanting to lie.
“Qu’est-ce que vous recherchez?”
Grace squared her jaw. “You must answer my question now.”
A hint of a smile lifted his lips. “Spyglass woke me. She clawed into my cabin and would not stop meowing. The last time she did that, a thief snuck on board and had captured one of my crew. So I thought I should enquêter sur”—he paused and flattened his lips—“how do you say, investigate.”
Grace blinked and let out a tiny chuckle, amazed she found anything amusing amidst her subsiding terror.
Captain Dubois swept a hand toward the ladder. “May I escort you back to your cabin, mademoiselle, or do you prefer to spend the night in the hold?”
Grace allowed him to lead her up the two decks to her cabin, reluctantly taking his proffered arm lest she collapse beneath her still-trembling legs.
Sweeping open her door, he ushered her inside, and then he set down his lantern. Spyglass slipped in after them, perched upon the table, and began licking her paws then wiping them over her face as if pleased with a job well done.
The corner of the slab of wood Grace had retrieved the night before stuck out of the open armoire. She hastened to stand in front of it and whirled around, her stomach tightening. If the captain saw it, he’d no doubt remove it from her cabin, and with it, her last hope of escape.
Rafe studied the baffling woman. She possessed an intriguing mixture of courage, purity, and strength in the midst of delicacy he had not seen in any lady he had encountered. And he had encountered quite a few ladies in his day. Such pluck, such bravado in the face of certain assault. He could still hear the admonition she’d expounded to the trio of brigands as they were about to ravage her. He’d been barreling down the ladder, following Spyglass, when those words drifted up to him, halting him in his tracks, jarring him to his soul—that God had made them to be better men—that they could be better men. Even now, he couldn’t shake the words from his mind. But then she had spewed her pious condemnations upon the men, jolting Rafe back to reality—people who professed to follow God sat in judgment on others.
Mademoiselle Grace splayed her fingers over the skin above her gown and looked away. “You are staring at me again.”
Rafe’s heart leapt at her innocence. “Next time you find yourself in such a precarious situation, mademoiselle, might I suggest you avoid the moral censure. Men who would accost a lady have no care for what the Bible says. You will only infuriate them. Your God will not save you upon your insult to others.”
“I was not insulting them. I was telling the truth. And God did save me. He brought me you.” She swept her green eyes back to him—sharp, clear, convicting.
“I accept your gratitude.” He bowed, longing to see some spark of appreciation for him on her face.
“You do not have it, Captain,” she snapped. “Why should I thank you? You deliver me from the wolves only to feed me to a lion.”
He winced inwardly, unable to deny that truth. Yet at the moment, deep down, he wished he had met this lady in a different time, in a different place, and that she was not the daughter of Admiral Henry Westcott. He ground his teeth together. What was wrong with him?
She seemed to sense his conflict, and the haughty veneer fell from her face. “Captain, return me to my home. I beg you.” Her eyes moistened. “There are so many who depend on me. Not the least of whom are my sisters. Faith is so new to her beliefs, and Hope, my other sister.” The mademoiselle sighed and wrung her hands together. “She ran away and we do not know where she is, but she will need me when she returns.” She clasped the chain around her neck and stepped toward him. The vulnerability, the desperation, the appeal in her eyes softened the shield around his heart. “Surely you have family somewhere that you love?”
At the mention of family, Rafe’s armor stiffened once again. “I have no family.”
“But I heard Father Alers make mention of your father.”
“My father is a beast.” Rafe’s back stiffened. “A man who beats innocent children and preys on young women. To me, he is dead.” Why was he telling her this? he thought. What was it about her that made him want to tell her?
Her forehead wrinkled and she looked at him curiously. Heat stormed through him as he realized the irony of what he had just said. He clenched his fists. “Contrary to what you might think, mademoiselle, I am nothing like him.” He turned to go, displeased with the course of the conversation and the way it made him feel.
She laid a hand on his arm, drawing him back by her touch. “Then behave differently, Captain. Take me home. I promised my mother, don’t you see? I promised her I would keep my sisters close to God, that I would keep them on the straight path.”
Rafe knew of promises. Promises that had been nothing but smoke and dust, here one day and then blown away with the trade winds the next. But something in her eyes made him want to believe that some promises could be kept, that some people could be trusted.
And that angered him all the more.
“Stay in your cabin, mademoiselle,” he snapped, “or the next time I may allow the men their play.”
She winced, but Rafe steeled himself against caring. He could not care. Would not care. “I will have Father Alers bolt a lock and chain to this door tomorrow, so that by the time we arrive at Port-de-Paix, you will be unable to cause any further trouble.” He patted his chest, looking for the cheroot he usually kept in his waistcoat pocket, but he had not donned his waistcoat. He needed a smoke. A brandy. Anything. He needed to get away from this woman. “Come, Spyglass.”
The cat shifted her one eye from Rafe to Mademoiselle Grace but did not move.
“Spyglass.” He snapped at the rebellious feline, yet the cat remained. “Zut alors!” Rafe stomped out and slammed the door with a bang that echoed down the companionway. Even his cat was under her spell.
Grace jumped as the door slammed. She sank into the chair. Spyglass leapt into her lap and began to purr. Petting the cat, Grace drew a deep breath and then released it, hoping to ease the tightness in her chest. Not just tight from the harrowing events below but from her time in the captain’s presence. He befuddled her. She wanted to hate him. Did hate him. But then he had rescued her and the look in his eyes when she pleaded for her freedom … it was almost as if he cared. Regardless, she did not fear him as she did the men in the hold. Though he was as wild as the sea he sailed upon, she didn’t believe he would hurt her. Sell her, but not hurt her himself. Instead she sensed an overwhelming sorrow in the captain, a hopelessness, and a passion so deep it seemed fathomless.
“I suppose I should thank you, little one, for saving me.” She snuggled the purring feline against her chest. “A smart one, aren’t you? Leading the captain to my rescue.” She scratched beneath the feline’s chin, and Spyglass nestled against Grace’s cheek. “But I would go with the captain next time he summons, if I were you. From what I’ve seen, his temper is not to be trifled with.”
A temper that flared at a moment’s notice. Every time Grace saw a softening in his eyes, every time a hint of goodness crossed his face, he’d stiffen, as if being held at musket point. And he became hard as stone, unfeeling, uncaring, volatile—like a ship bracing for an enemy attack.
The chipped corner of the slab of wood peeked at her from the open armoire. She didn’t dare risk another trip below tonight. Not with Mr. Weylan and his minions on the prowl.
She gulped at the fear clawing at her throat. “Lord, why have You thwarted my last hope for escape?” Releasing Spyglass, Grace rose and crossed to the tiny window. Darkness as black as coal blanketed the sky and sea so thick it seeped into her soul. But she couldn’t let it. Grace must continue forward with her plan to escape—a plan made all the more pressing by the captain’s threat to lock her in her cabin, and all the more harrowing if she couldn’t procure another piece of wood. Regardless, she was willing to face anything in order to avoid the fate Captain Dubois had planned for her—even her own death.