Raven Saint by MaryLu Tyndall Page B

a passion so deep it seemed fathomless.
    â€œI 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.

CHAPTER 9
    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.
    â€œYou 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.”
    â€œThere 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?”
    â€œBecause 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.”
    â€œAh.” 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