Free Raven Saint by MaryLu Tyndall Page B

captain’s service?”
    Monsieur Atton thought for a moment then raised a glass toward Rafe. “The captain’s a fair man, a good seaman, and he’s lined me pockets wit’ many coins.”
    Rafe returned his helmsman’s salute.
    â€œYet I have seen none of those coins in quite a while,” Monsieur Weylan grumbled beneath his breath, and exchanged a quick glance with Thorn.
    Rafe eyed the two with suspicion, hearing only pieces of the exchange.
    Monsieur Maddock halted his spoon, overloaded with potatoes, halfway to his mouth, “Aye, ’tis been some time, now that I think about it.” He tossed the mound into his mouth, dropping some onto his lap.
    Rafe continued petting Spyglass, but his insides tightened like a sail beneath a hard wind. “You were all paid handsomely for our last job. I heard no complaints.” He eyed each of the men but none would meet his gaze. “And we stand to make a fortune on our current mis—” He froze and glanced at Mademoiselle Grace.
    Her face blanched and she bit her bottom lip. “Mission, as in me.” Simmering green eyes rose to meet his. “No need to mince words, Captain. Everyone at this table knows what heinous future awaits me so that all of you can—how did you say it, Mr. Atton—line your pockets?”
    Spyglass leapt from Rafe’s arms to the deck, sans doute to escape the hatred firing from her eyes. Brushing away the twinge of pain caused by her scorn, Rafe preferred to focus on her courage and forthrightness, qualities he had not expected in a British admiral’s daughter.
    â€œRegardless.” She squared her shoulders and glanced over the men. “You all should be ashamed of yourselves. Surely there are far more worthy and honorable ways to make a living!”
    Rafe chomped on his biscuit, knowing he should be angry at her insult, but instead found himself amused by her audacity. His crew was not in agreement.
    Monsieur Maddock, the carpenter, choked on his food. “Honorable, lud.” He set down his spoon with a clank. “Beggin’ yer pardon, miss, but what does honor have to do wit’ anything?”
    She leaned forward, spreading her fingers over the bare skin above her bodice. “Honor, sir, is doing the right thing, living the right way. Obeying God and those He places in authority over you. Honor has to do with everything.”
    â€œHonor never did me no good.” Monsieur Atton, the helmsman sitting to Rafe’s left, spewed crumbs over his plate.
    The bosun, Monsieur Legard, pointed his spoon at her. “Honor is for the weak minded.”
    Her face crumpled. “But what does a man have, what can he acquire that can truly satisfy? ’Tis only what he does in the name of goodness, what he does for God that counts in the end.”
    â€œI quite agree, Miss Grace.” Monsieur Thorn dropped a slice of cheese into his mouth and gave her a nod that grated over Rafe. His friend’s pious prattle had become quite bothersome lately. And now, with the encouragement of a like-minded zealot, no doubt it would become far worse.
    â€œThen pray tell, Mr. Thorn.” Mademoiselle Grace’s reprimanding tone rang through the cabin. “Why do you partake of such wickedness?”
    Monsieur Thorn faced his captain, a supercilious smirk on his face, and Rafe leaned his elbows on the table. “Do enlighten us, Monsieur Thorn. Why do you keep such nefarious company?”
    Monsieur Thorn hesitated and his face paled, but then he winked at his captain. “Perhaps to shine as a beacon of sanity amidst this treacherous mob. Or”—he shrugged—“perhaps I was in need of a holiday from the rigidness of society.”
    Rafe settled back in his chair, relieved that the brandy began to spread its numbing fingers through his senses. “Then you and Father Alers have that in common. He, too, feels the need to take a répit from the