Rafe stood at the quarterdeck rail and watched as the island of Hispaniola blossomed on the horizon. Home. At least the only home he knew. Though a foreigner by descent, Rafe had been born on this island. His family had hailed from Bordeaux, France, but Rafe possessed no memory of the land of his heritage, and from what he’d heard of her atrocities, he was glad for it.
He gritted his teeth, still enraged at Mademoiselle Grace for putting herself in such a precarious position last night, and equally enraged at Weylan, Holt, and Fisk for daring to assault her, but most of all enraged at himself for allowing the woman to affect him so.
“You care for her.” The words startled Rafe as Father Alers slipped beside him, two mugs in his hand. Rafe shook his head. The priest’s uncanny ability to read Rafe’s mind had, of late, become more of a nuisance than a wonder.
The smell of coffee rose and swirled beneath Rafe’s nose. “C’est absurde. You’ve grown blind as well as deaf, old man. Is that for me?”
Father Alers handed him the cup. “Yet you knew exactly to whom I was referring.”
“There is only one woman on board the ship.” Rafe gave his friend a look of dismissal.
The priest huffed. “Drink it. It will dull the effects of the brandy you have been drowning yourself with.”
Embracing the cup, Rafe allowed its warmth to penetrate his hands. “And why would I want to do that?”
“Because the liquor transforms your few redeeming qualities into demons. Because it hides what you truly feel inside.”
The snap of canvas above Rafe muffled his chuckle. “I feel nothing inside but a desire to assist those who cannot provide for themselves.”
“Ah.” Father Alers sipped his coffee and stared across a rippling sea transformed into ribbons of diamonds by the rising sun. “The grand Captain Dubois, champion of the poor and downtrodden.”
Rafe gripped the baldric strapped over his chest, wondering why he tolerated his friend. “Be careful, mon vieux. Your taunting words may be the death of you.”
Father Alers grinned, revealing a bottom row of crooked teeth.
Rafe shook his head and glanced aloft. “Furl topsails, Monsieur Thorn!” He bellowed over the deck, and his first mate echoed his command, sending sailors scampering. They should make port in a few hours, and Rafe found himself unusually anxious to get off the brig.
“But what of Mademoiselle Grace? Is she not one of the downtrodden aussi?” A gust of wind lifted the father’s gray hair until it circled him like a halo.
Rafe clenched his jaw, no longer wishing to speak of the lady below deck. “She is Admiral Westcott’s daughter.”
“Guilty by birth?” the man raised an eyebrow.
“Précisément. You know what His Majesty’s Navy did to my mother. Do you think I would have accepted this job if the mademoiselle were an innocent?”
“On the contrary, she seems to be more innocent than you expected. Besides”—Father Alers waved a bony hand through the air—“you cannot punish the entire British navy for the actions of one commander.”
Rafe grunted. “And why not? How many innocent people have they slaughtered?”
“How many of theirs have we?” Luis shrugged. “It is the way of war.”
“My mother was at war with no one.”
“Many suffer who are not soldiers during war.”
Rafe slid a finger over his mustache. The brig crested a wave and spray came sweeping over her bow. He drew in a deep breath of the salty wind, seeking the sweet scent of earth and hibiscus that reminded him of home. Anything to assuage the anger, the bitterness, the guilt warring within him.
“You care for Mademoiselle Grace.” The priest repeated the words that sliced through the air like a sharp blade.
“So you have said.” Rafe feigned a nonchalant response. “Then deny it.”
Rafe took a swig of coffee, its soothing elixir sliding down his throat and warming his belly. “Care? I hardly know her, but I will admit she is a surprise. She intrigues me.” He snorted. “The sentiment will pass.”
“What will you do?” Father Alers rubbed his back and turned toward him.
Rafe narrowed his eyes against the glitter of the sun that reflected off the turquoise sea, then he glanced over his shoulder at the helmsman. “Veer three points to starboard, Monsieur Atton. Keep your luff.”
Ile de la Tortue rose off their larboard bow like a giant sea turtle as its name denoted. Across from the once famous pirate haven, distanced by the Canal de la Tortue, the lush green mountains and white sands of Saint Dominique came into focus.
Father Alers cleared his throat and raised a gray brow, reminding Rafe of his question, though he needed no reminding; it had haunted him ever since he had brought Mademoiselle Grace on board.
What would he do?
Grace pressed her face against the porthole glass and peered at the harbor. The commands to bring the brig about and shorten sail blaring from above alerted her that they had reached Port-de-Paix. That and the splash of the anchor as it plunged into the shallow bay and the thud of boots and the clamor of excitement as the crew amassed on deck for their journey to shore. Ships of all sizes and shapes rocked idly in the sapphire water of the harbor. Grace squinted against the glare of the sun as she made out merchant brigs, slavers, barques, schooners, an East Indiaman, and other vessels she didn’t recognize. Beyond them, docks jutted into the water, peppered with dark-skinned slaves carrying the goods from ships to warehouses and shops. Blue-green mountains loomed in the distance while the leaves of a multitude of trees glinted myriad variations of green in the noonday sun.
Grace rubbed the blurry glass but could get no clearer view. A knot formed in her belly. She’d heard Port-de-Paix had once been a notorious pirate haven. And although most of the seafaring brigands had moved their home base across the narrow channel to Tortuga and then to Petit Goave, she wondered what remnant of debauchery had been left behind. Whatever villainous activities remained, Captain Dubois would no doubt be an avid participant. Though a small part of her doubted that assessment.
Early that morning, before they had sailed into the harbor, Mr. Maddock, the carpenter, had strung a chain through the latch on her door and clanked it shut with a padlock. True to his word, Captain Dubois had imprisoned her in this muggy fortress. For how long, she couldn’t know. For as long as it took the crew to commit as many wicked acts on land as their depraved minds could conjure up, she supposed.
Stepping away from the porthole, she blew out a sigh. That was as close a look as she’d get at Port-de-Paix. Perhaps it was for the better. Even if she made it to the port floating on her broken crates without drowning—or worse, being picked up by some sailors—what would she do once she got there?
Hugging herself despite the heat, Grace began to pace across her tiny cabin. She reached the bulkhead in three steps and swerved about. A million fearful questions assailed her. Had Captain Dubois joined his men ashore? And who would keep his remaining crew at bay? Her heart took up a frenzied pace as the cabin closed in on her. She gasped for a breath in the stagnant air and perspiration streamed down her back.
“Oh, Lord.” She sank onto the bed and dropped her head into her hands. “Please help me.” Prayer was such a habit with her that she momentarily forgot God wasn’t answering her pleas as of late.
“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee.”
Grace looked up and batted the tears from her face. It was the first time she’d heard the Lord’s voice since her capture. “Where have You been, Lord?”
“I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee. “The words repeated, and Grace bowed her head.
“I know Your Word says that, but I’ve had such a hard time believing it, Lord.” Grace tucked a loose strand of hair back into her bun and gripped her stomach. Fleeting memories dashed through her thoughts—memories of the time when she brought medicine to the Jacobs family on the edge of the frontier and the Yamassee Indians attacked, memories of her father taken ill with smallpox, of her sister Faith in the Watch House dungeon about to be hanged for piracy. And all those times, God had answered her prayers and delivered her and those she loved.
“Forgive me, Lord, for doubting You. You have always been with me before. I just don’t understand. Why is this happening to me? Why am I here? I have done no good. No one listens to me, especially the captain. They all continue in their wicked ways. They deserve their fate, but I have done nothing to deserve mine.”
She glanced over the cabin. “Please help me understand.” Her thoughts drifted to Hope, her sister who had run off with Lord Falkland over a month ago, much to their family’s shame and disgrace. Too angry at her sister’s foolish and licentious behavior, Grace had given up praying for her, for she had believed Hope also deserved whatever fate she received. Year after year, Grace had tried to instruct Hope in righteous living and turn her sister away from the path of sinfulness she’d so ardently chosen to follow. But to no avail. The silly girl would not listen. Yet, why was the vision of her sweet face ever before Grace? Haunting her, just as another vision haunted her. A vision of fire and a barren land and an unrelenting hot wind that brought no relief.
Shame pulled her to her knees beside the cot. She would use this time to pray. Not only for herself, but for Hope, for Faith and Dajon, for her other sister, Charity, and her father. And for Captain Dubois. Leaning her forehead against the scratchy counterpane, she poured her heart out to God.
Hours later, the chain upon her door clanked against the wood. Lifting her head, Grace tensed as the door opened, and Mr. Thorn entered with a tray of food.
He smiled. “It isn’t much. Some dried beef and a hard biscuit. And the rum-sweetened lemon juice Father Alers insisted I give you.” He set the food down onto the table as Spyglass pranced inside and darted to Grace. The scent of meat and butter jolted her stomach awake, and it began to growl.
“Looks like you’ve made a friend.” Mr. Thorn nodded toward the cat and straightened his freshly pressed dark blue waistcoat, looking more like a gentleman about town than a sailor.
“Where is Father Alers?” Grace nestled Spyglass beneath her chin and slowly rose.
“He went ashore with the captain and most of the crew.”
“And why have you not joined them, Mr. Thorn?” Spyglass nudged her chin, begging for more caresses.
He shifted his polished boots over the deck planks and shrugged. “I take no pleasure in the nefarious diversions the port has to offer.”
She studied him, noting that the frequent smile he offered her rarely reached his eyes. “And yet you do not swear allegiance to God?” The ship creaked over a tiny roller, sending a splash of waves against the hull.
“I do not believe He requires it.” Mr. Thorn stuffed a lock of his brown hair behind his ear and rubbed the scar on his neck with his thumb. “I fear, Miss Grace, He has left us to our own devices.”
“I am sorry you believe so.” Grace nuzzled her nose into the cat’s furry neck.
“Your own situation is a testament to my belief, is it not?”
Grace set Spyglass down on her cot and crossed her arms over her waist, unable to find a suitable answer to the question she’d wrestled with for days. That God was with her, she now believed, but that He was not helping her as she wished was only too plain.
“Humph. I thought so.” Mr. Thorn glanced over the cabin. His brows rose at the sight of her open armoire. “Ah, what is this?” He pulled out the piece of broken crate and a coil of rope and examined them.
Grace’s heart clenched. “’Tis nothing.”
He arched a brow and gave her a devious look. “Methinks the lady has a plan.”
Grace huffed. What did it matter if she told Mr. Thorn of her foolish scheme? “I did, but it was ruined when the captain put a lock on my door.”
“And what precisely were you planning on doing with this?” He set the crate down with a thump. “Hitting the captain over the head?” He chuckled.
“Nay.” Grace stifled a laugh. “But I wish I had thought of that.”
He smiled, revealing a set of unusually straight, white teeth, and fingered the whiskers on his chin. “Zooks, quite bewildering. I don’t believe the captain expected to find such a wildcat in an admiral’s daughter.”
“I don’t know what being an admiral’s daughter has to do with anything.”
Mr. Thorn lowered himself into the only chair in the room, adding to Grace’s uneasiness. Did he intend to keep her company all day? She eyed the open door and wondered how many crewmen were on board.
He seemed to notice the direction of her gaze. “I have a better idea, Miss Grace.”
“Than what, Mr. Thorn?”
“Than your swimming ashore. I doubt you’d have made it to land without being picked up by even more unsavory sorts than you’ll find on this brig.”
A flicker of playfulness sparked in his brown eyes, and Grace wondered if his proposal involved the same thing the captain had in mind last night. But no, there was no desire in his expression—at least not for her. “What are you proposing, Mr. Thorn?”
“I am proposing to grant you your freedom.”