Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  "Do you mean that you'll be fighting in Yorktown? Will there be a battle?"

  "I dearly hope so, petite chatte. If all goes well, there will be a battle that will never be forgotten."

  * * *

  Something was wrong. Devon awoke, chilled, opening her eyes to moonlight. Next to her, Raveneau slept deeply, his brown chest rising and falling. The Black Eagle swayed like a cradle; the night was still.

  What was wrong? Devon wondered. Something clutched her heart with icy claws. Caleb? She wanted to bury her face in the pillow and be covered by sleep, but her legs carried her up out of the cabin, and all the way to the surgeon's cubicle.

  Caleb looked worse. He could have been a ghost, staring up at Devon with glassy, unseeing eyes that made her want to scream. His mouth was open between hollow, ghoulish cheeks. She would never have recognized him. This was not the Caleb she had allowed to charm her.

  Helplessly, Devon knelt and laid her ear against his chest. There was no heartbeat. She was paralyzed, staring at this unfamiliar face as images of a different Caleb flickered crazily through her mind. There had been a time when she believed him to be fine, boyishly charming, and unselfish, when she had defended him to Raveneau and agonized over his torn back. Perhaps those qualities had been real, coexisting with irresponsibility, impulsiveness, and the cancer of his hatred for Andre Raveneau.

  If not for Caleb, she might have gone quietly insane beside the British soldier in New London. Whatever his motives, he had given her a second chance at life, and Devon would always be grateful. Tears burned her eyes, trickling down to drop onto Caleb's ghostly face. She wept and rocked back and forth on her heels until she felt sick. Then Raveneau was beside her, lifting her up into his arms, carrying her back to his cabin, where he sat in the leather wing chair with Devon huddled on his lap. She sobbed uncontrollably, clutching his warm chest and shoulders. Gently he caressed her hair and whispered softly against her wet cheek until she began to quiet. Eventually she retreated into the safe haven of dreamless sleep, but Raveneau remained awake, watching Devon's tear- streaked face, his eyes like splintered steel.

  Chapter 9

  ***~~~***

  September 10, 1781

  Devon awoke at dawn, alone in the bed. Raveneau was shaving. "Feeling better?" he asked coldly.

  "I feel terrible. As though I'm dying myself. Please, may I come above with you today?" To her dismay, Devon heard her voice crack.

  Raveneau glanced at her in a way that drove her insane—cynical, cold, knowing. "You may do whatever you like as long as it does not interfere with the Black Eagle's speedy passage to Chesapeake Bay." He paused while buttoning a fresh shirt over his hard, tanned chest. "However, if you are planning to weep and moan all day, stay down here. I can't have the entire crew comforting you."

  He pulled on his boots and walked out the door. Devon wanted to throw something at him, but instead, she ran behind, calling out the door, "Arrogant French beast! Coldblooded pirate! I hate you!"

  Raveneau paused at the hatch. "Do you expect me to care?" he inquired emotionlessly, then disappeared from view.

  Devon was wounded, but only momentarily. She was angry at herself for being hurt by anything he said or did, and stamped across the cabin, muttering between clenched teeth, "I hate him!" over and over.

  Yet even as she dressed, she found herself going back over all their conversations, remembering the various expressions on his face, the few real smiles. He was a true enigma. Deciding that she would never be able to dissect the man, Devon left the cabin, telling herself that she despised him all the same.

  It was a strange day. The Black Eagle strained to reach Chesapeake Bay before nightfall, but it soon became obvious that the wind would not cooperate. Raveneau's mood was one of tightly strung irritability; soon the crew began to snap at one another as well.

  Devon stayed close to Treasel, who had come above to get a bit of sun. When Caleb's body was committed to the sea, it was Treasel who held Devon's hand. The crew gathered, heads bowed, while Mr. Lane said a few trivial words. Raveneau had disappeared below. Someone said he was eating a midday meal, adding the hope that food would improve his temper.

  After Caleb's body, wrapped and weighted, had disappeared between the waves, the surgeon chatted on briskly, hoping to clear the dazed look in Devon's sapphire-blue eyes. The crew scattered and they were left alone at the rail.

  "Did you care so much for Jackson?" asked Treasel.

  "No... and I feel worse for that—guilty. It was so awful to see him dead."

  "That's odd! The rumor is that you two were sweethearts—that you risked your life on deck during the storm to save him!"

  Devon stared at him, her forehead puckering as he spoke. "Why would anyone leap to such conclusions?" she gasped.

  "Because Jackson said as much the day your presence was made known! Everyone said you had followed him to the Black Eagle and begged him to hide you. As far as I know, he never denied it." Treasel vigorously scratched his silvery hair, remembering.

  "The men thought it was wrong of the captain, locking you in his cabin and refusing to let you see Jackson! But then, there are the rules... and, of course, the two of them never did get along."

  "I don't understand!" Devon exclaimed. "This is ludicrous. It was nothing like that!"

  "No? Why, Jackson even complained to me when I was dressing his wounds, about how mad he was! Said it would be just like Captain Raveneau to soil his woman for him, just for spite. So, then, it was no surprise to me when you turned up down in the cockpit, all tears and worry." He gave her a sharp sidelong glance. "How do you explain that, if you didn't care?"

  "I felt responsible!" she shrilled. She wondered if Caleb had spread such stories in order to turn the crew against Raveneau. Her head began to pound. "I do not want to talk about this anymore," she groaned. "Oh, Treasel, how I wish we were in Yorktown!"

  Just then Andre Raveneau appeared at her side, and Devon realized with a pang that the end of this voyage would mean the end of their association. Looking up into his flinty, smoldering eyes, she tried to imagine life without him.

  "I trust you have recovered your composure, Mademoiselle Lindsay?" he inquired coolly.

  "Why, I never lost it, Captain," Devon replied.

  "What? Do you mean to say that you have not been washing down the deck with tears and yanking out clumps of hair in your grief?"

  "You are insufferable." She averted her face.

  "I am devastated to hear you say so. Allow me to remove myself from your sight." Smiling ironically, he went on to the quarter-deck, while Devon seethed.

  "Sail ho!" came the shout from high on the mainmast. The seaman paused for only a moment before scurrying down the ratlines and racing toward the quarter-deck. Captain Raveneau met him halfway.

  "There's a whole fleet due south, Cap'n!" the man cried breathlessly. "Damned if they aren't British! Over a dozen ships!"

  Raveneau's eyes lit up. He smiled briefly to himself, then gave the order for the flags to be changed.

  "We'll stay on course," he announced. "I have to find out what has happened!"

  Before long, the fleet loomed ahead on their starboard side. The huge frigates dwarfed the Black Eagle, but their sails were torn and powder-stained, their bulwarks splintered. One ship had lost its mainmast.

  Devon edged her way toward the quarter-deck, consumed by curiosity. The captain and his first lieutenant stood side by side at the rail, which Raveneau was gripping with tense delight.

  "Mon Dieu!" he hissed. "It is the combined forces of Admirals Hood and Graves! Regardez! Just look at the condition of those ships! I'm afraid we have missed the battle, but if this was the outcome, then I am sufficiently pleased. Oh, to have been there! De Grasse must be ecstatic!"

  Devon stared at Raveneau, hypnotized by his energy. He was the embodiment of lean, carefully leashed power; he shone in the sunlight.

  The battered British fleet sailed past, barely acknowledging the presence of the Black E
agle. The nearest ship saluted halfheartedly when it came alongside. It seemed to Devon that the crew looked weary and downcast.

  When they were long clear and the flags had been replaced, the wind suddenly improved as though prompted by Raveneau's good spirits. Snowy sails billowed above the sharp-hulled privateer, sending it slicing effortlessly through the aquamarine waves.

  Treasel had gone below to change the dressings of some of the men injured during the storm, and Devon decided to approach the captain. She boldly ascended to the hallowed area of the quarter-deck, ignoring Mr. Lane's icy stare.

  "Excuse me."

  Raveneau had just unfurled a chart, which he studied with narrowed eyes. Without looking up, he murmured dryly, "You wish a word with this insufferable, beastly, arrogant, coldblooded French pirate?"

  Devon blushed from the roots of her hair to the bodice of the sea-green gown. "Captain, it is your own fault that I say such horrid things," she countered lamely.

  "Oh, really?" Raveneau raised his head, eyes sparkling silver, teeth gleaming in a wicked smile. "I cannot wait to hear the reasoning behind that statement."

  "You provoke me."

  "But, petite chatte, you provoke me as well, and I have yet to speak aloud all the names I have called you in my mind."

  Anger deepened Devon's blush. Raveneau felt his heart soften as he gazed at her. He thought that it was a crime for such loveliness to go untasted. But, of course, her perfect Morgan would have that pleasure soon enough.

  She was a vision. The sun struck sparks on her strawberry-blond curls, which blew softly around the oval of her face. Such luminous, deep blue eyes, tempting lips, and soft, peach-cream skin. The chit had no idea how intensely he desired her, and Raveneau couldn't let her know as long as she was betrothed to another man. If he could not have her, admitting his weakness would be fatal.

  "I did not come up here to trade insults with you, Captain," Devon said slowly. She wished she could hit him squarely on the jaw. "I was hoping you might tell me about the British fleet we just passed."

  Raveneau looked out to sea or at his chart as he spoke; anywhere but at Devon. "I am not certain, but I think that I know what happened. Admiral de Grasse, who is one of my countrymen, took a fleet into Chesapeake Bay to fight the British navy and prevent any ships from coming to the rescue of General Cornwallis and his army on the mainland. I had hoped to do what I could to help the blockade, but from the looks of those British warships, it would seem that the confrontation is over."

  "And the British were the losers?" Devon prompted.

  "I think that is a safe deduction." Raveneau smiled, "I am anxious to reach the bay and learn all the details!"

  Mr. Lane cleared his throat to capture the captain's attention. Devon slipped away, retreating to the cabin for a light meal and some rest. She still felt very weak.

  Minter brought a delicious-smelling tray and was so meticulously cheerful that Devon wondered if he believed the story that she had been in love with Caleb. Part of her wanted to discuss it with him again, but she was just too tired.

  Returning in midafternoon to retrieve the tray and dishes, Minter found Devon lying on her back on the bed. Her blue eyes were open, staring at a point in space.

  "Miss Lindsay?"

  "Hmm? Oh, Minter, hello. How is everything?"

  "Fine. And you?"

  "Tired. Apprehensive."

  "I'll wager you are happy to know you'll be with your fiancé soon."

  "Oh, of course. If he is in Virginia, if I can find him... and if he's still alive."

  "I'm certain things will work out for you. You deserve it." He smiled with real affection. "Do you suppose you might miss the Black Eagle a bit?"

  Devon's eyes clouded. "This is the finest craft I have ever seen. Of course I shall miss it—and you, too!"

  Minter crouched beside the bed. "The crew hoped you'd feel that way, Miss Lindsay. They asked me to invite you to share some grog with us tonight. It's a custom to have a party on the last night before we reach port. Captain Raveneau gives every man a double ration."

  "But why would they want me there?"

  "The men feel sorry for you. They think you've had a rough time of it, and they just want to cheer you up and let you know they care."

  "In that case, Minter, I would love to go. Will you escort me?"

  * * *

  Raveneau returned to the cabin that evening to find Devon sitting at his desk, peering into the mirror from his shaving stand while brushing her red-gold hair.

  "Hello," she greeted him absently.

  "Hello." He was curious, but tried not to let it show. She still wore the sea-green gown, which looked as if it had been ironed. Her skin was pink and gold and satiny in the lantern light; her lips were moist and lush.

  No sooner had Raveneau poured himself a portion of cognac than Minter arrived with his supper.

  "That was quick," he commented suspiciously. "Where is Devon's plate?"

  "I've already eaten," she explained.

  Minter wore clean clothes and had combed his bright red hair. "Are you ready, Miss Lindsay?"

  "I certainly am! I don't mind saying that I'm excited!" She stood up, smoothing her skirts. "Thank you for asking me, Minter."

  He flushed happily, but Raveneau's face was stormy. "Will someone tell me what the hell is going on around here?" he asked.

  "Why, Captain, your crew has invited me to share a cup of grog with them to celebrate the last night at sea. Isn't that nice?"

  "Oh, yes! They are a thoughtful group," he said caustically.

  "I hope you don't mind, Captain," Minter interjected anxiously.

  "As a matter of fact—"

  "Of course he doesn't mind." Devon was standing beside Minter, but her eyes were locked with Raveneau's. "Your captain has assured me that I may do whatever I like until we reach Yorktown. Isn't that right, Captain Raveneau?"

  "That wicked tongue will get you in trouble one day," he warned, his voice deadly even. "Minter, you are responsible for this little vixen. See to it that she stays out of mischief and is treated with respect by those brutes."

  "Oh, yes, sir, I will!"

  * * *

  Devon had a fine time in the crew's quarters. The hammocks were stowed out of sight, replaced by the hinged tables which were secured against the walls at night.

  The men were freshly shaved, hair plastered down flat and wet, with clean kerchiefs tied around their necks. All the still-damp, musty-smelling clothing left from the storm had been hung to dry elsewhere, and the hatch was wide open to let in the cool evening air.

  Every man wanted Devon at his table, yet for all the enthusiasm displayed, she was treated with deference and courtesy. After a half cup of grog, she joined in the festive spirit, moving from table to table with each new toast. Minter was careful to stay by her side. He glared at any man who ogled Devon, but couldn't help feeling that his expression could never match Captain Raveneau's for sheer menace.

  Devon regaled the sailing master and the boatswain with stories of her father and his exploits at sea. Wheaton, the boatswain, professed to remember Hugh Lindsay, which won Devon's heart. The crusty old man recounted their last meeting, his wording suspiciously ambiguous, while Devon helpfully supplied details.

  "Aye, there's no doubt that Hugh Lindsay was as fine a sea captain as any," Wheaton declared at last. "Exceptin' Captain Raveneau, o' course."

  Devon's face fell, while every man raised his mug and shouted, "Hear, hear!"

  "You can't mean that!" she cried to the old man. "I know that he puts on a good show, but I thought that you would have been perceptive enough to realize—"

  Wheaton's eyes were like blue ice in his leathery face. "Miss Lindsay, Raveneau is the finest captain I have ever known, and that's plain truth. I don't happen to believe in lucky ships. Such good fortune is the captain's doing, and for my money, Captain Raveneau makes bloody miracles happen!"

  Glancing around the quiet room, Devon found every man's eyes fastened
on her. It galled her to give in, but she realized that these men were stubbornly, blindly, loyal to their captain. "You are right, of course," she said. "I cannot imagine what came over me."

  * * *

  Minter held Devon's arm on the way back to the captain's cabin, for she was woozy.

  "Oh, Minter, I ruined it all!" she wailed. "The men hate me now, don't they!"

  "For goodness' sake, Miss Lindsay, don't cry. They don't hate you. They like you a great deal, but everyone is fiercely loyal to Captain Raveneau."

  "I thought Caleb had turned them against him."

  Minter understood what she meant. "The men knew Jackson for what he was, and they worship Captain Raveneau. They trust him. Even if he did do something morally wrong keeping you from Jackson, it would seem permissible since he did it. To tell you the truth, we all rather hoped for a romance between you and the captain. Certainly none of us wanted Jackson to have you!"

  Devon blushed and giggled, pausing to hug Minter right there. "You are adorable, do you know that?"

  "Thank you." He ducked his head. "Miss Lindsay, I'm afraid you've had too much grog. It’s deceptively powerful! Try not to fall over a chair, all right? The captain will have my head!"

  The cabin was dark, except for one lone lantern that flickered on Raveneau's desk. He was in bed sleeping, his chest and arms nut-brown against the snowy sheets.

  Devon put out the candle and stripped to her chemise. She lay her gown over the wing chair and padded softly to the bed. Her heart jumped into her throat as she looked down at Andre and contemplated sliding between the sheets, her body touching his. Even in sleep he appeared incredibly strong and magnificent, but above all, appealing.

  It is like an enchantment, Devon thought helplessly. She lifted the sheet and lay down. She inched closer to him and brushed her fingertips over the black hair on his chest, trailing them across his collarbone and down a lean, muscular shoulder.

  Raveneau stirred and rolled onto his side, toward Devon. One long arm hooked her waist, drawing her against the warm, hard length of his body. Then his mouth closed over hers. "You reek of rum," he murmured huskily, then recaptured her lips.