Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

"Devon, unless you would prefer to remain locked in the brig with Jackson, I suggest you come with me."

  Caleb said nothing, but narrowed his eyes icily. Devon wavered. If her erstwhile friend had not behaved so badly, she would have stayed with him just to spite Raveneau, but she knew what would happen to her if they were locked in together. No amount of pride could bring her to suffer that. Lifting her chin, she walked haughtily across the planked floor. When she was only a few steps from Raveneau, the Black Eagle suddenly lurched to one side and Devon lost her balance. She fell against him and he caught her arm with painful force. Looking into his angry gray eyes, Devon forgot her frosty pose. "I suppose one prison is very like another," she choked.

  Raveneau arched an eyebrow, but there was no humor in his smile. Thrusting her out into the gangway, he stepped outside and locked the brig. As they walked away, Devon could feel Caleb's eyes burning through the grating, staring at her and Raveneau.

  Chapter 7

  ***~~~***

  September 8, 1781

  Devon stood on the Bank, facing the wall of fire that had been the Linen and Pewter Shop only moments before. There were British soldiers standing all around, leering as they slowly tore off her yellow dress. She was screaming and crying "Mama!" over and over.

  Deborah appeared at the upstairs window, naked, haloed by orange flames. She screamed, "Devon, I'm going to die!"

  Behind Devon, the redcoats had begun to point across to Fort Griswold, which had magically moved toward New London. The Thames had shrunk to a narrow ribbon of water, and the battle that was in progress could be viewed easily. The gates to the fort were open. Devon could see the redcoats that swarmed inside, could watch them murder the captured patriots. Suddenly Nick appeared at the gates. He killed two men with his sword before he was stabbed in the back. He staggered to the crest of the hill, sobbing, "Devon, take care!"

  She tried to break through the lines of men behind her, but they only caught her in their arms, pawing her, ripping away her clothing.

  "Mama! Nick! Mama!" Over and over she screamed their names.

  Hard, bare arms enfolded her, cradling her head against a muscular shoulder. She opened her eyes to inky darkness and clung to the warm body, weeping hysterically. A low voice whispered beautiful French words in her ear while a hand stroked her back and hair. Finally, like a child, she quieted, lulled into forgetfulness. Nestled against a strong chest, she rocked gently with her comforter.

  "Petite chatte?"

  Devon heard the whispered words, felt his breath on her ear. She resisted reality, knowing only that she felt more content than at any moment in her life.

  "Devon, if you are listening, I have something to say. I wish that you had presented your plight more sympathetically to me in the beginning. You were so hostile that I scarcely listened when I heard what you had suffered in New London. I apologize if I have been callous."

  Devon couldn't believe her ears. Was this Andre Raveneau speaking? "It is as much my fault," she whispered.

  "Pardon?" He gave it the French pronunciation.

  Reluctantly, Devon lifted her head from his chest and looked up. His handsome face was etched as a black silhouette against the indigo darkness. She could see his lips and yearned to be kissed. "I said, I am as much to blame as you are."

  "That is true," he agreed. "You have behaved this past day like a foolish child."

  A spark of outrage flared in Devon. These were the first words they had exchanged since that afternoon. In fact, it was the first she had seen of him since he had locked her in his cabin. A wary-looking Minter had brought her supper, explaining that the captain would be busy above deck. It had been a miserably restless evening, and Devon had retired early.

  Now she met his silver gaze in the early morning darkness until her anger subsided. He was right, but she would die before admitting it.

  "I would not put it quite so strongly, sir. And while we are on the subject, let me say that your behavior has been less than ideal."

  "I did not ask your opinion." His tone was dry, amused.

  "I did not ask yours! And I don't care if you are the captain!"

  "You would be wiser if you did care, mademoiselle."

  Devon put out her tongue, thinking he would not see it in the darkness, but a long finger appeared to push it back into her mouth.

  "Childish," he admonished.

  "Oh, be quiet!"

  "Marcus will have his hands full with you!"

  Devon didn't bother to correct him. "It so happens that Morgan and I get along perfectly. We have never quarreled."

  "Oh, no," Raveneau groaned. "A henpecked fiancé. I was afraid of that."

  "He is not henpecked!"

  "If you never quarrel, it must be because you are leading him around by the nose."

  "That's not true!" Her guilty flush was, mercifully, unobserved. "He is very manly! He's at war, isn't he?"

  Raveneau chuckled. "You probably pushed him into the army, poor boy. Besides, how strong can your attachment be, when you turn to the first man who comes along?"

  "What do you mean?" she cried.

  "Shh. You'll wake the crew. I mean Caleb Jackson, of course. Your new love."

  She bit her tongue. "I don't want to talk about that. You misunderstood."

  Raveneau stiffened. "Are you saying that he was forcing you?" When she did not reply immediately, he prompted, "I demand an answer!"

  "You may demand all night, sir, but I needn't give you one," said Devon, nettled. "What happened is none of your affair. I can handle Caleb."

  A cold silence fell between them. Unaccountably, Devon felt like crying again. Raveneau softened. "I should not press you now. Again, you have pushed me to forget what you have so recently suffered."

  "I am so tired," she whispered. "So tired of quarreling. I am not used to this. I never know what anyone will say or do."

  His arms tightened around her. She settled back into the warmth of his chest, pressing her ear against his heartbeat. "Please hold me," she said. "I don't want to fall asleep alone.."

  * * *

  When Devon awoke the next morning, she felt warm and happy. Raveneau had already risen. Rolling onto her stomach, she propped up her chin with both pillows and watched him eat breakfast.

  Several minutes passed before he noticed her. As usual, he was reading, and the book seemed to take priority over the eggs and scones on his plate. Devon looked him over, critically eyeing the cut of his breeches, the shine of his boots, and the whiteness of the linen shirt he wore. All were as flawless as Raveneau himself.

  To get his attention, Devon finally gave in and coughed. Absently, he glanced over his shoulder and discovered her grinning happily.

  "Good morning!" she greeted.

  "I must say I'm surprised to find you awake. It is barely six o'clock! I'm sorry if I disturbed you. You had better go back to sleep now." Raveneau turned back to his book.

  "No, wait! I went to bed early last night, so I am quite rested." Wasn't he going to mention the closeness they had shared so early that morning? Hadn't she slept in his arms?

  "That's fine, but I don't know what you will do all morning." He drank the last of his coffee, then stood up. "I've got to go above now. I will tell Minter to bring you some hot water and breakfast."

  "Wait, Captain..." That title sounded too formal now, but he didn't protest. Devon swung the covers back, revealing bare legs beneath her loose shirt. "Please, I wanted to ask you..."

  Raveneau was removing his compass and quadrant from the bittacle. "Yes? What is it?" Vaguely irritated, he looked up expectantly and felt an unfamiliar twinge at the sight of her. In spite of her bare legs and drowsy appeal, this was not simple desire. A strange current of warmth possessed him.

  "Please... would it be all right if I came up today? I would love to see the ocean and taste the salt air, and since you will be there..."

  "I am flattered that you ask my permission for once. Dare I hope that you are tamed?"

  Devon co
uld not ignore so ironic a challenge. "That is not quite the way I would word it. Let us say that I am wiser today, but not vanquished by any means!"

  "Well, I am heartened to find you making progress. Yes, you may come above today, if you give me your word that you will behave. And no stops or detours on the way up, particularly in the brig!"

  "Believe me, that is the last place I would go. However, I will say that I think it was bad of you to confine Caleb. You've only compounded your error."

  "Mademoiselle, your outlook is highly biased. Nor am I interested in any opinion you might offer on the subject of Jackson, or on any other matter relating to the Black Eagle. Do you understand?"

  "Yes." Her pout was half playful, just as she could sense that his sternness was, in part, an act. There was a visible crack in the icy wall that surrounded him; it was almost wide enough for Devon to reach inside and touch the real man that was kept so carefully protected. Was it possible that she might come to know the gentle, sympathetic person who had cradled her in the middle of the night?

  Devon grinned. Raveneau's mouth twitched in response. "You are looking very pleased," he said. "Why so meek and sweet-tempered today?"

  "Because you are not yelling at me. Because I will be in the sunlight and wind today. Or maybe because I am too drowsy to be disagreeable."

  "That sounds more like it," Raveneau muttered. "Enjoy your breakfast. I will see you later, and remember your promise!"

  * * *

  Minter brought Devon a huge, steaming breakfast of eggs, scones, sweet butter, and coffee. She wondered skeptically what the crew ate, then scolded herself. Andre Raveneau was not the sort of man who would run a beautiful, clean ship and then feed his men like animals, no matter what Caleb said. It would be interesting to talk to some of the other men on board.

  Between bites of breakfast, she peeked at the book Raveneau had left on the table. To her dismay, she discovered that it was Voltaire's Merope in French. She had been on the verge of asking permission to use his library, which was displayed along the far wall behind iron-braced shelves. Were all the books in French? Devon knew enough to get by in a pinch, but could read nothing difficult. Just as she was ready to examine the bookshelves, Minter knocked. At her call, he entered bearing a sea-green frock, white stockings, and feminine, silk slippers.

  "Minter!" Devon exclaimed. "Where on earth—"

  "That is my secret, Miss Lindsay." He flushed and glanced instinctively toward the captain's bed. Devon's stomach hurt. So she had not been the first female in this cabin. She eyed the green dress critically, comparing the waist to her own, the length of the skirt to her height. It would fit, she thought.

  "It was kind of you to find these for me," she gulped. "I really do appreciate it."

  "I only wanted to help. I did take in the waist a bit."

  Devon took the gown, then turned back on a wild impulse. "Who was she? Please tell me, Minter!"

  He grinned. "Just someone from the past, Miss Lindsay. It was never serious for the captain."

  Devon was delighted by his soft accent and his candor. "Minter, where are you from?"

  "Virginia. A few miles south of Williamsburg. Maybe I'll get to see my mama in a few days."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "Oh, no reason!" Flustered again, he backed up toward the doorway. "I hope the slippers fit. Here!" He thrust them toward her, then disappeared.

  Devon wished that she could have asked him more questions. Obviously, Minter knew everything worth knowing!

  * * *

  By the time she went on deck, Devon was in high spirits. The stab of jealousy she had suffered at the first sight of the frock was soothed when she tried it on. Thanks to Minter's alteration, it fit as though it had been made for her, and it was still in excellent condition. Her breasts swelled above the frothy cream- colored lace edging the square neckline, while the snug bodice set off her waist to its best advantage. Even the slippers fit perfectly. As she was leaving the cabin, Minter appeared with a lace shawl and draped it around her shoulders.

  On the gun deck, the men worked with quiet efficiency, and this time they barely glanced at Devon. Not one of them forgot Captain Raveneau's presence on the quarter-deck. He and Mr. Lane stood side by side, a striking study of opposites. The Black Eagle's captain was dressed in casual garb: boots, snug tan breeches, a loose, frilled shirt. His raven hair was unpowdered, and the only signs of his rank were the brass quadrant in his hand and his presence on the quarter-deck. Mr. Lane was far more the man of fashion in his silk stockings and carefully curled white wig. He tilted his nose when he spied Devon crossing the gun deck.

  She ignored him. Lifting her skirts, she ascended to the quarter-deck and walked forward to stand beside Raveneau. He was staring at the sky, which was slightly overcast. Devon watched him, waiting to be acknowledged. Raveneau was poised like a wild animal, all his senses alert, and Devon could see him listening, smelling, scrutinizing the air and the sea. She thought him beautiful, like a sculpture.

  At length, he noticed her. "Good morning, again."

  "Good morning. Is something wrong?"

  "I hope not." Glancing back at her, his gray eyes finally registered the change in her clothing. "Where did you get those things?"

  Was he angry? "Why, Minter gave them to me. I was as surprised as you seem to be."

  A long moment passed, then his expression softened. "You look lovely, Devon. Minter is talented with a needle and thread."

  A crisp, salty breeze caught her titian curls. One wrapped itself around her neck and Raveneau unwound it, his long, dark fingers heating her bare flesh.

  "Thank you. I hope you don't mind... the clothes, I mean. They feel wonderful."

  He returned his attention to the sky. "No. I don't mind."

  Ill at ease, Devon turned to survey the quarter-deck. Above the stern flew the American and French flags, both of which would be lowered and replaced by a Dutch flag if enemy sails were sighted. The sailing master and his mate were at the wheel, with Mr. Lane hovering officiously nearby. Devon was certain that he smirked at her. She frowned at him, then turned back to Raveneau.

  "Captain, excuse me—"

  "Hmm?"

  "If it's not too much trouble, I was hoping you might tell me about the Black Eagle. You see, my father was a sea captain, and I've wondered how this ship would compare to his."

  She already knew much of what he told her, but she reveled in his attention. "A privateer is a very special ship," he explained, "designed for great speed and for an appearance of military strength. But the Black Eagle is lighter than she looks. We don't carry cargo, or anything else that will add unnecessary weight, though we do have a large crew, since we must man and sail any prize that is captured.”

  “Is it true that not all the cannon are real?”

  “Quite true. It appears that we have sixteen guns, but that is only an illusion of strength; the weight would slow us too much. Half are 'quakers'—fakes made of light wood. We rarely engage in battle because we avoid British naval vessels. Their holds are empty, but their guns are all too real. The merchantmen are our targets, with their small crews and valuable cargoes. They are easily frightened by our speed and 'guns'." Raveneau grinned wickedly.

  Devon shivered with excitement. The numerous, billowing sails were spread before them, carrying the Black Eagle through the churning, slate-colored ocean with piercing grace. She could smell the canvas, the damp wood, the hemp, and feel the deck swell then dip beneath her slippered feet.

  Raveneau's grin had faded. He was staring at the sky again, his jaw set in concentration. Devon could not understand his gloomy preoccupation.

  "Captain... please tell me what is wrong."

  "There's a storm ahead. I can smell it. The question is—do we raise sail and hope to outrun the storm, or lower the sails and hope to ride it out?"

  Devon knew that the question was purely academic, considering Andre Raveneau's personality. The Black Eagle was as bold as its captain. They would
sail, meeting head-on whatever weather lay waiting for them.

  Minutes grew to an hour. Raveneau scarcely spoke, and the rest of the crew carefully ignored Devon. She was reluctant to return to the cabin, although it was obvious that Raveneau expected her to do so. Mr. Lane's disapproving gaze seemed to burn holes in her back.

  The seamen grew quieter as the sky darkened. Every now and then the captain would shout an order through his speaking trumpet and there would be a general scramble up and down the ratlines to reef the sails one by one as the wind increased. At last Raveneau seemed to remember Devon. When he turned to address her, she felt a twinge of alarm at the sight of his furrowed brow. She hadn't imagined that he was subject to such a human emotion as worry or fright.

  "You'd better go below."

  Devon sighed, pushing windblown curls out of her eyes. She was cold and more than a little scared; this was not the time to argue with Captain Raveneau. "All right, but I want to be kept informed. Don't you dare leave me below to sink with the ship!"

  Raveneau's grin was involuntary. "Devon, I do not think we shall sink. But, to put your mind at ease, you may tell Minter I want to see him. I shall have him bring news to you for the next few hours."

  "Thank you." The Black Eagle had begun to rock violently. Devon put a hand on Raveneau's arm. "Do take care. I shall have Minter bring up your peacoat."

  "Fine."

  With that, he walked over to converse with the sailing master and Devon turned to leave. A voice from high on the mast stopped her.

  "Sail ho!"

  The strange ship bobbed on the far horizon; if the Black Eagle's sails were spread, she could reach it easily. Devon was unable to turn her back on such excitement.

  "We will not give chase," Raveneau said quietly, and the boatswain passed the order.

  Without pausing to think, Devon ran back to Raveneau's side and pulled at his sleeve. "Why aren't we going after it? Perhaps it's one of those merchantmen you spoke of. You can't just let it sail away like this!"

  "Young lady!" Lane attempted to step between them, but Devon angrily bumped him aside.

  "Devon, there is a reason why I have made this choice. As captain, I may or may not choose to explain it to you later." Raveneau's eyes were as forbidding and stormy as the skies overhead. "I have asked you to return to my cabin. Do so now!"