Raven Saint by MaryLu Tyndall

escorted her out the door and into the dimly lit companionway.
    The ship canted, and Grace was thankful for Father Alers’s support as they made their way down the hallway and around a corner to her cabin—especially when they were forced to squeeze past several crewmen who ogled Grace as if she were the evening meal.
    â€œI will bring you some more food soon. Pour maintenant, you should rest.” He turned to leave and Grace, feeling light-headed again, sank into the only chair in her small cabin.
    Halting, Father Alers faced her, a pensive look on his aged face. “The capitaine is not as bad as he seems.”
    Grace blinked. “He is selling me as if I were cargo to an enemy who will subject me to a life of pain. How much more evil can he get?”
    Father Alers rubbed the back of his thick neck. Compassion softened the lines on his face.
    Struggling to her feet, Grace took a step toward him. “You are not like him. You don’t agree with what he’s doing. I can see it in your eyes. Will you help me, Father? Will you help me escape?”
    Golden eyes snapped to hers, hesitant, sympathetic, but then they froze like two ponds beneath a winter’s frost. “Non, I could never deceive him. He has seen too much betrayal in his life.” His curt tone slammed a heavy door on her hope. He shrugged. “I am hoping he will figure this out on his own.”
    â€œYou cling to a hope of the captain’s redemption while my life is being destroyed.” The blood rushed from Grace’s head, and she crumpled into her seat. “ ’Tis a sin to know the right thing to do and not do it, Father.”
    â€œPeut-être, mademoiselle , but I’ve seen greater sins perpetrated every day in the Church. ” With a jerk of his head, he waddled out and closed the door.
    Dropping to her knees, Grace leaned over the chair. “Why do You close all the doors to my rescue, Lord? If it is indeed my task to bring these nefarious men to redemption, please show me how. Give me the words to say. Please do not let me be handed over to this Don Miguel.” Yet no answer came, no feeling of peace, no assurance of God’s presence. Tears slid down her cheeks onto the chair just as droplets of her hope continued to seep from her heart with each passing day.
    ***
    Rafe stood at the bow of Le Champion and closed his eyes against the hot, raging wind, allowing it to blast away the memory of Mademoiselle Grace: her scent that reminded him of the sweet pastries his mother used to bake, the silky feel of the mademoiselle’s skin beneath his fingers, and those sharp green eyes that sliced right through his soul into his heart. Femme exaspérante!
    He had barely slept two minutes all night. It wasn’t the hard floor that kept him awake. He had slept on far worse in his day. It was the sound of her deep, restless breathing, her occasional quiet moans, and his concern that she would fade into a perilous fever and die during the night.
    Finally, before dawn, he had risen, lit a lantern, and watched her as she slept. The way her lips twitched and her eyelids fluttered as if she were dreaming, the strands of raven hair curling across her cheek like feathers spanning a creamy river. Her delicate fingers coiled around her arms in a protective embrace. She appeared as fragile as a tender flower in the field, yet possessing enough tenacity to push above the others in her quest for the sun. Honesty coated her lips like honey. He doubted a lie would survive among its sweetness. And in a world where lies were commonplace, her candid jabs brought him more amusement than insult.
    That she was innocent, he could tell from her reaction to him. That she possessed a gracious heart was evident from the errand in which he found her engaged when he’d captured her. That she nudged awake a long-dormant spirit of protectiveness within him caused his blood to boil.
    He did not want to protect her. He did not