Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  A dozen tart rejoinders hovered on Devon's tongue, but the look on his face made her think twice. There was no telling what this Frenchman might do if truly provoked, and this would not be the first time she had tested his patience. So, instead of shouting, she merely scowled angrily and stamped off across the quarter-deck. Before climbing through the hatch, she looked back at Raveneau. He was huddled with the boatswain and the sailing master, his back to her. How maddening to be ignored! The only person watching her was a red-faced Mr. Lane.

  Still, she sent Minter up with the peacoat. The steward soon returned to report that the weather was worsening and the Black Eagle was swinging to the starboard side in an effort to avoid the heart of the storm. "It's a squall left from that hurricane that's been plaguing the islands," Minter explained. "We should be able to maneuver through it, but on the other hand..."

  He left her alone then, promising to return every quarter hour with a report. When he had gone, Devon sat on the bed, clutching the sides, and let her imagination run wild. The Black Eagle swayed and dipped more and more erratically. Waves pounded the hull with increasing violence, until it seemed that the ocean would smash the privateer like a paper toy. Footsteps thundered down the gangway, though they didn't come as far aft as the captain's cabin. In the distance the boatswain's pipe sounded a series of shrill, urgent calls. Devon was chilled with terror as she realized that the pumps were being manned at a frenetic pace.

  Shrouded in an eerie green haze, the cabin pitched chaotically as the pounding of the waves grew louder and louder. Devon found herself thinking of Andre Raveneau. What was it like up on deck? Could anyone be left alive in such a storm? Her heart thudded painfully at the thought that Raveneau might be dead, swallowed by the greedy, rampaging sea.

  More than an hour had passed since Minter's last visit. Was he dead, too? In desperation, Devon threw open the cabin door and started into the gangway just as the Black Eagle fell sideways. She lurched, crashing into a bulkhead. When she opened her eyes, Minter's face was above her, pale and young.

  "What—" Devon managed.

  "It's bad, but the captain will see us through. He is charmed, and so is this privateer." Minter spoke as much for his own comfort as for Devon's.

  "He's not hurt, then...?"

  Minter imitated Raveneau's sarcastic snort. "Don't be silly. He is indestructible!"

  Devon smiled weakly and Minter helped her struggle to her feet. She was weak with relief to hear that Andre Raveneau was alive and working to save his ship and crew, but there was no chance to examine her feelings now.

  "Minter, don't you think Caleb Jackson should be let out of the brig? I've been worried in case anything should happen."

  Minter nodded and hurried toward the hatch. Devon thought, He has them all well trained. They can't make a move without his approval, even during a crisis!

  Minutes later, a wet and bedraggled Minter was on his way down to the brig, and Devon watched as Caleb followed him back to the gun deck and the chaos of the storm. She wondered if she had done Caleb a favor, after all.

  For what seemed like hours, Devon stood in the gangway and fell back and forth with the savage motion of the Black Eagle. When she couldn't stand another moment of waiting, she worked her way over to the main hatch. It was open, and wet spray blasted Devon's face as she started up the ladder. No sooner had her head appeared above the deck than she heard a loud, splintering crack.

  One of the middle yardarms had broken off and Devon watched, horrified, as a man fell helplessly through the storm-swept air into the sea. It was Caleb.

  Without a second thought, she climbed onto the gun deck, hair whipping across her face, and staggered toward Andre Raveneau at the rail. Black hair sleek and unbound, he pulled off his knee boots and peacoat and dove into the angry green and white sea. The wind pushed Devon back with the force of two men, but she crawled forward toward the rail with panic-fueled strength. Almost immediately, she spotted Raveneau's black head bobbing among the choppy waves. One arm was hooked around Caleb's neck.

  Devon looked wildly about the deck. Mr. Lane was clutching the foremast, oblivious to all except his own survival, and everyone else was in the rigging. She found a line that had been secured with a deadeye, the excess looped around the bottom. She unwound it rapidly and flung it over the side toward Raveneau. But before she could see if the line had reached him, a mighty blast of wind knocked her backward. For one moment she felt a consuming panic, then her head struck the deck and there was nothing but wet, salty blackness.

  * * *

  It was the strangest of sensations, to feel a man's head on her breast. Devon knew what it was even before she opened her eyes to look. She felt the contours of the brow, cheekbones, and jaw. Her own head hurt badly, and opening her eyes required a huge effort.

  Curiosity won. A warm glow settled in her belly when she opened her eyes to find Raveneau sitting on the floor with his head resting back on the bed. She was his pillow.

  It all came back to Devon then. The storm, the raging seas, Caleb falling when the yardarm broke... and Andre Raveneau's suicidal rescue attempt. She could remember tossing the line out, then falling, but nothing more. Was it possible that her action had saved them? Or was it true that Raveneau was simply charmed and indestructible? Dreamily, she admired him as he slept. He wore a clean, heavy shirt that emphasized his swarthy tan. His hair was still damp, curling slightly against his neck as it dried.

  As though sensing the change in Devon's breathing, he opened his eyes and turned his face against her breast. Devon's heart beat a wild tattoo. Raveneau's smile lit the room.

  "You are awake!" he murmured, obviously pleased. "How do you feel?"

  "My head..." she whispered. Her mouth was like sandpaper. Raveneau was up in one movement, lifting the bottle of cognac and one snifter from their special, padded case.

  He splashed some cognac in the snifter and held it to her lips. Devon felt the warm strength of his fingers bracing her neck; it was astonishing that she should be so poignantly conscious of the man's touch!

  The cognac helped, wetting her mouth and spreading its heat through her stiff body. "Thank you. I seem to be all right, except for my head. It hurts."

  "We shall keep you quiet for the next day, to be safe."

  "Please tell me..."

  "I caught the line you threw." He grinned, white teeth flashing. "So, you see, I owe you my life!"

  Devon was skeptical. "I think you could have managed without me, but I'm glad I could help. Is the storm over?" She realized that the cabin wasn't pitching as before.

  "We've run out the worst of it. This craft is tenuous."

  "I was terrified. I thought we'd all be killed!"

  "Petite chatte, if you had been that afraid, you'd have been cowering under this table rather than sliding across the gun deck!"

  "Where is Caleb?"

  Raveneau's sharp eyes monitored her expression. "He fell a long way and apparently swallowed a good deal of water. When I got him onto the deck, I thought he was dead, but Mr. Lane managed to revive him. He's in the surgeon's cubicle now."

  "Mr. Lane?" Devon queried, perplexed.

  "I was looking after you."

  Their eyes locked for a long moment. Devon was seeing a new side to the man. She would have thought Caleb's death would be a relief to him, yet he had risked his own life to save a man he despised. And he had been concerned about her...

  As though reading her mind, Raveneau said laconically, "I haven't put up with all this bother to see you killed. I've promised to reunite you and Maxwell, and so I shall. I consider the trials of Devon Lindsay to be my one great contribution to the cause of true love."

  Chapter 8

  ***~~~***

  September 9, 1781

  Devon lay awake all night. Raveneau's sarcastic references to Devon and Morgan's engagement had rebuilt the wall of tension between them. To make matters worse, they had visited Caleb in the surgeon's cubicle and Raveneau had scrutinized her face wh
enever the injured man moaned, his eyes letting her know that he was fully aware of her affection for the injured man. Finally, Devon had called him on it, demanding that he stop leering, insisting that he was all wrong about Caleb, that they were just friends. Raveneau's only response had been a sharply raised black eyebrow.

  A moonbeam slanted in through the transom, pouring silver over the bed and its occupants. Devon turned on her side, toward Raveneau. His harsh, lean beauty was mesmerizing, but more fascinating was the puzzle of his personality, principles, emotions, if he possessed such mortal qualities. He lay with one arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his chest, so strangely peaceful that Devon found herself smiling languidly.

  She next awoke to late morning sunlight and the sound of Minter's voice.

  "Miss Lindsay? Can you hear me?" He smiled with delight when she opened her eyes. "I've brought your breakfast!"

  Gingerly, Devon propped herself on an elbow. Her headache had diminished. "I don't know if I am hungry."

  "Don't try to get up! You'll eat right there. The captain doesn't want you to move about. He was very upset when you insisted on seeing Mr. Jackson last night, feared you might make your own injury worse."

  Devon mulled over this news as she watched Minter assemble her meal. She could see that it had been carefully prepared; the dishes were fit for an elderly invalid.

  "You seem in fine spirits today, Minter."

  "We all are! We're thankful to be alive and dry this morning. It is a blessing! And from the sound of it, Captain Raveneau should be most grateful. If not for you, he'd have been drowned!"

  "I doubt that. Didn't you tell me he leads a charmed life?"

  Minter laughed, his red hair agleam in the sunlight. "So far, that seems to be true!" Spreading a linen towel over Devon's lap, he presented her with a warm dish of custard, then stood and watched until she had taken the first bite.

  "How's Jackson doing?" he asked.

  "I don't know. He certainly looked ill last night. I do wish Captain Raveneau would let me out of this bed!"

  "Eat that custard!" Minter scolded. "As for you and this bed, it's my opinion that the captain believes you fancy Jackson. He seems to think you want to be near him."

  "Rubbish! Where would he get such an idea?"

  "That I don't know. I will say that he thinks it was Jackson you were out to rescue yesterday. And once he decides something, there's no changing his mind."

  Devon fell back against the pillows, wide-eyed with disbelief. Then she became angry, and, deciding that she couldn't just lie in bed knowing nothing, she begged Minter to ask the surgeon about Caleb's condition and report back to her.

  "Well, what did Treasel say?" Devon demanded impatiently when Minter returned.

  "Miss Lindsay, he's not really what you would call a physician. He just matches up medicines and cures from his books. He can take off arms or legs, remove bullets, and do a fair job of healing festering wounds, but this sort of thing..."

  "You mean there is nothing he can do?"

  Minter squirmed. "It's really just one of those things. Men drown at sea. Jackson had a second chance... You don't know that he won't make it yet! Please, you haven't eaten your breakfast—"

  "Take this food away!" Devon cried. The dagger had renewed its attack on the back of her head. "You are as coldblooded as your captain! Doesn't anyone care that Caleb is dying?"

  A maddeningly familiar voice answered from the doorway. "Perhaps we all realized that you are concerned enough for at least ten men, so we don't worry that Jackson is deprived in that respect." Raveneau crossed to the bed and stood looking down at Devon, the coldness of his expression belying his light tone.

  "You appear better, mademoiselle," he commented. "How is your head?"

  "Worse, since you came in!" Devon shot back. She could have bitten off her tongue, but the beast deserved it. Her eyes misted in frustration and she failed to see Raveneau's jaw tighten.

  "How inconsiderate of me to enter my own cabin. Perhaps you would rather be in the surgeon's cubicle, where you and your sweetheart could nurse each other!"

  Devon had finally had enough of his sarcasm. "Sir, I will thank you to stop twisting everything I do or say. Do you believe that I give my heart to every man I meet?"

  Raveneau had started to turn away, but froze at her words, looking back with a small, wicked smile. "Perhaps not your heart, Mademoiselle Lindsay..."

  After Raveneau left, Devon settled in for a day of rest. She was oppressively tired. Treasel paid a noontime call and assured her that such fatigue was normal after a head injury, but he had no hopeful news to give her about Caleb Jackson.

  Minter brought food, but she pretended to be asleep. It was Andre Raveneau's step that Devon listened for all day but never heard. Finally, at sundown, she came fully awake. A dinner tray rested nearby on the floor; the small pitcher of cream had toppled over with the motion of the Black Eagle, soaking the beefsteak, roll, and squash on her plate.

  Where was Raveneau? Would his contempt for her keep him from taking the evening meal in his own cabin? Devon felt cold, nauseous, and miserable. She wrapped herself into a protective ball. Bitter pain built inside, burning her heart.

  Out on deck, Minter urged his captain to go below and share a warm meal with Devon, but Raveneau could not be distracted until all the storm's damage had been seen to.

  "Miss Lindsay is a human being!" Minter cried, following him across the gun deck. "This can wait! She needs you!"

  "You talk as if there were a romance between us!" Raveneau thundered as he surveyed the progress being made on the broken yardarm.

  "Captain, I know you won't like this, but I happen to like this girl and I think it is unfair for you to judge her as you judge all other females. Simply because you have been disillusioned..."

  "Minter! I am at least a dozen years older than you and I have observed enough women to know that they mean deceit and trouble!" He saw the stricken expression on Minter's face. "I don't intend to toss the girl overboard, but please remember that she is here because of my charity! I am not the villain!"

  * * *

  It was dark when she heard Raveneau approach. Devon hurt inside. Her stomach ached with loneliness as she thought of her mother, Nick, Benedict Arnold, Caleb...

  And then Raveneau opened the door. His wonderful male scent wafted over her; the pain ebbed. Somehow the mere sight of him made the black gloom worthwhile.

  Raveneau returned her smile. "Bon soir, petite chatte," he whispered.

  "Bon soir." Why was he smiling? Wasn't he supposed to be angry?

  "I am famished." He sat beside her on the bed. "I could eat a whale!"

  Devon raised her head. "You haven't had supper?"

  "No! I've been busy as hell all day. The yardarm had to be repaired, plus all the other more trivial damage, and matters were complicated by the number of injured men. Most will be good as new tomorrow, but there were several sprains and bruises."

  Devon felt a dizzying elation: he had been busy! "That's terrible!"

  He peered sideways in the darkness, quirking a brow at the cheerful tone of her voice. "Your concern is commendable."

  Blushing, Devon dropped back into the bed and grinned into the moonlit transom. "I suppose I am pleased to find you in such good humor."

  "Well, there's a reason. In spite of the havoc wrought by that squall, it could have been worse. We might have been blown days off course, but as luck would have it, the storm sent us in the right direction."

  "Oh, really? How close to Yorktown are we, then?" Inexplicably, Devon's chest tightened.

  "A day away. With the right wind, we might arrive tomorrow night."

  "Oh... that's wonderful."

  Raveneau stood up and stretched, his powerful body silhouetted against the moonlight. "I thought you would be pleased. I know how you burn to be reunited with Milton."

  Minter arrived with the captain's supper and lit the candles, while Devon hesitantly reflected on Morgan, her supp
osed reason for this perilous voyage. His existence seemed so remote that she experienced a twinge of panic.

  "Worrying about Jackson?" Raveneau inquired abruptly.

  Devon looked up to find him seated at the table, cutting into a fragrant beefsteak.

  "Someone has to," she replied.

  "Devon, come over here."

  She wore only one of his linen shirts. When she stood up the banded cuffs fell past her fingers, but the hem barely touched her knees.

  "I should... put my breeches on..."

  "What a horrifying thought! Please, do not cover such enchanting legs."

  Delighted by this flattery, Devon joined Raveneau at the table. He casually offered her a bit of this or that dish, until she had consumed as much food as he. It was obvious that he wanted to smooth things over between them; Devon thought that he was probably too exhausted to quarrel. She could see signs of fatigue in his lean face.

  They spoke little, yet the silence was not strained. Devon felt peaceful.

  After Minter had removed the dishes, the two of them leaned back and sipped cognac. The Black Eagle cut smoothly through the dark sea, rocking gently, and Devon persuaded Raveneau to tell her about some of his more famous captures. They were tales she had heard a dozen times from Nick and the men of New London; they were threads in the fabric of Raveneau's legend. Yet when he spoke of his exploits, he rarely mentioned himself, detailing instead the maneuvers of the ship, the daring of his crew. Pride softened the hard lines of his face.

  "Captain?" she inquired hesitantly.

  "Devon, I think that you should call me Andre." His grin was teasing.

  "Fine. Thank you... Andre." Devon blushed. "I was wondering if you might explain to me now why we didn't chase that ship yesterday."

  There was a slight flicker of irritation in his eyes before he answered. "You may assume that any decision I make is the correct one. I ought to leave it at that, but this time I'll explain. This is no ordinary cruise we are making, no circle from New London to Yorktown and back again. We will stay in Yorktown for an indefinite period, and I cannot spare even one man to take a captured ship back to Connecticut."