Raven Saint by MaryLu Tyndall

shackles of religious obligations.”
    â€œThey are not shackles, Captain.” Mademoiselle Grace shifted a gaze to Father Alers as if seeking an ally, but the father’s focus remained on his food. “In truth, the love of God will set you free.”
    â€œYet you are not free now, mademoiselle. Neither physically nor, it appears, in any other way.” Rafe moved his chair back from the table, his stomach disinterested in the food he’d heaped upon his plate. “You do nothing but point a finger of condemnation on everyone around you. If this is freedom, you may keep your religion, mademoiselle.”
    â€œYou mock me, Captain.” Mademoiselle Grace hung her head, one delicate strand of ebony hair feathering over her cheek. “God is but a joke to you.”
    â€œThat there is a God who created this world of pain and injustice would indeed be a joke—a joke upon us,” Rafe shot back. When Mademoiselle Grace lifted her head and he saw the moisture that filled her eyes, he instantly regretted his tone.
    â€œSuch strong faith is quite admirable, mademoiselle.” Monsieur Weylan said, drawing her gaze to him. He steepled his fingers together.
    â€œYe don’t believe in God, ye cockerel.” Monsieur Maddock chortled. “Don’t listen to Weylan, miss. He’d say anything to win a lady’s affections.”
    Rafe studied Weylan and the way he ogled Mademoiselle Grace as if she were a morsel of food on his plate. The vain peacock had a reputation with the ladies. His good looks, fashionable dress, and cultured tone deceived them into believing he was a gentleman, when nothing could be further from the truth.
    Yet, much to her credit, Mademoiselle Grace seemed undaunted by his flirtations; en effet, she seemed more repulsed than enamored.
    Turning from him, she faced the men and spoke in a voice urgent with sincerity, “Mercy me, don’t any of you believe in God?”
    Monsieur Thorn finished the food in his mouth and took a sip of his wine. “I do.”
    â€œMais oui,” Monsieur Legard grunted.
    â€œHaven’t really taken much thought of it.” Monsieur Atton shoveled a spoonful of peas into his mouth, sending one shooting across the table like a miniature cannonball.
    Monsieur Maddock shrugged while Father Alers focused a convicting gaze upon Rafe.
    â€œGod is real.” The pitch of her sweet voice rose. “He created this world, and He created you. He does not approve of such licentious living, wasting your talents on dissipation and thievery. There will come a judgment one day, gentlemen, and my hope, my desperate prayer, is that you will not be found wanting.” Her eyes flamed with sincerity and true concern.
    And Rafe knew she meant every word she said.
    But he didn’t have the heart to tell her she was a fool for putting her hopes in such nonsense.
    Monsieur Legard took another swig of ale. A trickle ran down his bearded chin, and he wiped it with his sleeve. “You are fair to look at, mademoiselle, but you should pray the don is deaf. Your religious jabbering will drive a man fou— even a devout Spaniard.”
    Chuckles of agreement spanned over the table.
    Rafe winced beneath Monsieur Legard’s insult, and he opened his mouth to reprimand the man, but then he hesitated, his gaze shifting to Mademoiselle Grace, curious to see her response to the injurious affront.
    Her cheeks reddened, and she glared at the man as if she would shoot him where he sat. But then her features softened like the settling of waves upon the sea, and she gave him a sweet smile. “I have been told I talk overmuch, Monsieur Legard. Please forgive me if I have offended you.”
    The man blinked then shook his head. “No offense, mademoiselle.”
    Rafe sipped his brandy, trying to quell the unease gripping his belly. Such charity in the face of insult and hostility. Incroyable.
    Spyglass jumped into her lap, and she ran