Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  Devon swallowed the lump in her throat and followed the tavernkeeper. Raveneau continued to hold her elbow, bending and whispering in her ear, "How long we have both waited for this moment, petite chatte!"

  She made a face at him and tried to pull her arm away just as Maupin slowed and stood to one side. Flustered, Devon looked up, feeling Raveneau's hand drop away, and immediately saw Morgan.

  The room was spacious, wainscoted in natural pine, with a large Queen Anne table at its center. Around the table, a dozen bow-back Windsor chairs were occupied by high-spirited young men, more than half of them clad in uniforms. The air smelled of smoke and ale.

  Morgan seemed like a stranger. She had never seen him with an ale mug in his hand, let alone slack-jawed and blurry-eyed. His hair was raggedly queued, his shirt soiled and unbuttoned to reveal a thin, pale chest.

  "D—Devon?" he quavered. His voice sounded high. She could sense the expression on Raveneau's face.

  "Yes, Morgan." Even she could scarcely hear her voice. Morgan's drinking companions were leering at her, laughing and reaching over to hit him on the arms and back. After a long moment he struggled to his feet and came toward her.

  "Oh, God, Devon!" Tears filled his eyes, but the effect was spoiled by an ill-timed belch. "How—"

  He grabbed her clumsily, and she was nauseated by the smell of ale. When his arms relaxed and he drew back, her eyes were also sparkling with tears.

  Gabriel Maupin saw to it that the parlor was quickly emptied of its occupants so that the young lovers might have a few moments alone. As the men filed out, Raveneau made a move to follow them, but Devon frantically reached for his coat sleeve.

  "No! Please stay! I mean—I want Morgan to meet you. After all..."

  Morgan blinked, glancing from Devon to the tall, black-haired, dangerous-looking stranger. The man smiled, as though amused, and replied in a deep voice with a faint French accent, "As you wish, petite chatte."

  Little cat? thought Morgan foggily. "Who are you?" he asked aloud.

  "My name is Andre Raveneau," the Frenchman said, showing a flash of white teeth when he smiled.

  Devon walked toward the table, explaining nervously, "You remember, Morgan! He is captain of the Black Eagle, the most notorious privateer that ever sailed up the Thames."

  The men took chairs on either side of Devon, and Morgan replied dully, "Yes, I remember. I am honored to meet you, Captain. But I don't understand."

  "Please!" Raveneau protested. "Andre. I feel as if we are old friends. Devon has talked of nothing but you these past weeks."

  "Weeks?" echoed Morgan.

  "Andre brought me from New London!" Devon exclaimed. "Actually, I sneaked on board, but he was kind enough to allow me to stay."

  "I am very soft-hearted when it comes to true love," Raveneau explained gently.

  Morgan's head began to hurt. He looked around for his mug. It was empty, so he picked up the next one and took several long swallows. "I still don't understand." He wished the Frenchman would go away so that he might lay his hands on Devon. How delicious she looked, her strawberry-blond curls tumbling about her face, her breasts peeping teasingly above the bodice of a sea-green gown!

  Maupin appeared with glasses and a decanter of claret, then made a hasty retreat. As Raveneau poured the wine, Devon explained what had happened in New London the month before, from the cannon shots before dawn to her recognition of Benedict Arnold. It was the first time Raveneau had heard the entire tale, and it seemed to Devon that his eyes were more intense than Morgan's.

  "I don't know what became of your parents," she said at length, "but I am certain they were sensible enough to flee." She didn't mention that Mr. Gadwin might have been at the massacre at Fort Griswold.

  "I have seen so much death and destruction," Morgan said brokenly, "so many battles, that it is hard to absorb this."

  Raveneau wanted to say that perhaps he had absorbed too much ale of late, but managed to hold his tongue. He already loathed the boy, and he fought protective instincts toward Devon. How did I know, he wondered, that he would be such a worm? Of course, he had sensed it long ago, perhaps because it was she who took the risks to find Morgan and not the other way around. If the boy had been a man, would she have responded so intensely to the "pirate" whom she professed to despise?

  "At least you were spared Yorktown," Raveneau said tensely.

  "Unhappily, I became ill during the march south."

  "It is fortunate that you made such a miraculous recovery." Devon looked at him sharply, but Raveneau gave her an innocent smile.

  Morgan coughed dramatically. "I am not quite well yet, but I feared that someone might need my bed at the hospital. But please, enough about me. I am waiting to hear the rest of your story, darling."

  "Well, to spare you tedious details, I was able to get away from New London, and Andre was kind enough to allow me on board the Black Eagle. After we reached Chesapeake Bay, I went on to stay with the family of Andre's steward until two days ago, when Andre returned to take me in search of you. It hasn't been easy—but here we are at last!"

  "Yes, here we are," Raveneau echoed ironically.

  Morgan, sharp-shouldered and glassy-eyed, looked back and forth in confusion. "It is rather a miracle, then, isn't it?"

  This was Devon's cue to throw her arms around him and sob, "Yes, yes!" but instead, she only managed to smile and nod.

  "We owe you a large debt of gratitude," Morgan went on, looking uneasily into Raveneau's steely eyes.

  "Not at all. I am pleased to see two people in love reunited. The war has been hard on all of us."

  "Yes." Morgan nodded gravely.

  "I know Williamsburg as well as Paris, and I cannot leave matters as they stand now. Please, allow me the privilege of arranging your wedding. I know a fine parson. Unless you are Catholic—?"

  Stunned into silence, Devon shook her head.

  "No? Good. You will both like Parson Hume enormously. I know that you must be in dire financial straits, Morgan, so I insist that you allow me to pay for a proper wedding." He glanced at Devon, smiling wickedly. "Let us call it a dowry."

  Devon thought that perhaps she was going mad. Raveneau finished his wine and rose to leave, and she wanted fiercely to throw herself into his arms.

  She and Morgan alone? She remembered the last time they had been alone, when his clammy hands had fumbled inside her bodice, then traveled up her legs...

  Pride won out. After all, Raveneau wanted only to be rid of her so that he might return to his privateer. She couldn't scream, "I was wrong!" after all she had forced him to do on her behalf. And Morgan was the boy she had loved for years. They had been happy once, not long ago, and now Devon must adjust herself to that state of mind again.

  So she smiled sweetly, extending her hand, and said all the proper things. Raveneau managed to shatter her composure, though, by leaning over and pressing his mouth to her hand, scorching the soft skin and sending a tingling heat up her arm. To her chagrin, both nipples tightened against her chemise.

  When they were alone, Morgan squirmed uneasily. "Well. He certainly lives up to his reputation!"

  Devon blushed. "I don't know. He has his share of flaws."

  "Do you think so?" Morgan was inching his chair closer to hers. "I am glad to know you weren't swept off your feet. Only a girl like you could stand firm and continue to search for me with a rogue like that by your side."

  His arms snaked around her waist and he stared greedily at her rosy lips. "I have missed you so, Devon. I was afraid that you might have stopped caring."

  She closed her eyes as his face drew near. Lips flattened over hers, a tongue pushed between her teeth, and she remembered Raveneau's long-ago, magical kisses, and the fiery one she had shared with the spy, Jay. Why couldn't Morgan kiss like they did? Why did she shiver with passion in their embraces, when his inspired only revulsion?

  She suffered the kiss obediently. Then his lips nibbled her ear, neck, then the exposed curves of her br
easts. However, when he moved to unfasten her bodice, Devon drew back abruptly. "No! I mean—Please, someone could walk in. We will be married soon. There is time enough—"

  Morgan's chin quivered. "Oh, Devon, if only you knew how much I want you! To think that in a few short days we will be man and wife... oh, Lord, I wish the wedding could be tomorrow!"

  * * *

  Two excruciating days passed. Devon remained in her room at the Raleigh Tavern, for propriety's sake, but Raveneau seemed to take diabolical pleasure in depositing her with Morgan each morning. He made a great show of leaving to make wedding arrangements and deflected all of Devon's questions by insisting that it was to be a surprise.

  So she and Morgan passed the time together, but the intense experiences of the past weeks had changed Devon. She felt much older, and less a prisoner of her dreams now that she had tasted their reality.

  Morgan had changed, too, but for the worse. Hardship had exposed his weaknesses, rather than unearthing hidden strengths. He drank far too much and held his spirits poorly, but what really worried Devon was his apparent need for his ale. Whenever Raveneau was near, Morgan began to perspire and look for his mug, and the same held true for any situation that required forcefulness or quickness of wit. After two days Devon was horrified to realize that she could scarcely bear to be near him. Even her old protective instincts toward Morgan had evaporated.

  The afternoon of the second day, Devon persuaded Morgan to take her for a walk on Duke of Gloucester Street, to the College of William and Mary and back again. She was trying to separate him from his ale, but their solitude only seemed to emphasize the distance between them. New London was a painful subject, Devon was uncomfortable discussing her time at sea with Andre, and Morgan was equally nervous when she questioned him about his year in the army. So they talked about Williamsburg, the surrender, and the likely future of the war. In the past, Devon had endlessly daydreamed out loud about their future, but now she avoided his every attempt to discuss it. The plans to sail around the world in their own ship seemed, at best, a cruel joke. She began to feel half alive, trapped into a fate that she dreaded.

  And then there was Raveneau. She might have crazily abandoned the proposed wedding to Morgan if not for Raveneau's involvement. His smile mocked her each time they met; his supposed concern for the wedding plans grated on her nerves. Yet in the face of all he had done to get her to Morgan, it seemed unthinkable that she change her mind.

  Now, Morgan held tightly to her arm as they strolled down Williamsburg's wide thoroughfare, past a colorful parade of shops, houses, and taverns. The fire-colored trees stood like torches against the vivid blue sky.

  "It's pretty here," Morgan remarked, "but I've never been to a place that could match autumn in Connecticut. Gardens or no gardens."

  Devon nodded sadly.

  "Well, what do you know!" Morgan exclaimed suddenly. "There's Captain Raveneau now. Shall we hail him?"

  "No!" Devon commanded, freezing in her tracks, her nails digging into Morgan's arm.

  Raveneau was across the street, emerging from a shop which boasted a sign in the shape of a large pink bonnet above its door. He was not alone. Clinging to his arm and gazing into his eyes was a beautiful black-haired girl with a pale magnolia-blossom complexion. She carried a fancy hatbox, and to Devon's dismay, Raveneau held one as well. He looked dark and dashing as he laughed at some sally made by his companion.

  Jealousy ate at Devon's already tortured heart, and she fought back tears as she begged Morgan to take her back to her room.

  He complied, and they walked in silence to the Raleigh Tavern, each alone with private thoughts. When they arrived, Devon went upstairs and Morgan headed for the taproom. He drank two large cups of rum punch, his mind whirling madly. He wanted Devon. His desire kept him up at night and made him sweat whenever she was near. The fact that the wedding would take place so soon only heated him further.

  Wiping his mouth, Morgan put down a coin to pay for the rum punch, then stood up. He felt confident and strong. Unsteadily, he mounted the stairs and by a stroke of luck found the door open to her chamber. Devon had just set out her water from that morning and gone back to separate her soiled towels when she heard footsteps stop in her doorway.

  "Morgan! Is something amiss?"

  He drank in the sight of her, outlined by the soft afternoon sunlight that poured through the dormer windows. Golden lights gleamed in her curls, and her blue eyes were wide with—was it apprehension?

  "No, no, my darling. I simply could not bear to be away from you." To his own ears he sounded roguish. He slammed the door shut. "It has occurred to me that I haven't been forceful enough in our relationship. I know that women often enjoy that."

  Devon, sick at heart, watched him approach and repressed a wild urge to scream her frustration. Morgan, pale and sharp-chinned, looked ludicrous as he attempted to swagger toward her.

  "Please... you are being silly. I like you just as you have always been, and you should know me well enough by now to realize that I don't want to be forced! Please, I am tired—"

  Devon recoiled as a gust of rum-drenched breath assailed her nostrils. Abruptly, he wrapped his arms around her, pressing her near, so that she could feel the revolting hardness—like a sausage—in his breeches. Devon twisted her head wildly. "Let me go! I mean it! If you do not release me, I shall scream!"

  Morgan's arms went limp and he stepped back, staring in confusion. "I... but..."

  "I'm sorry, but I simply will not stand for that. If you love me, you will respect my wishes and keep your distance!"

  * * *

  Raveneau strode down the paneled hallway, candlelit in the evening darkness. He started to open his own door but turned instead toward Devon's. It was unlikely that she had already returned from the Market Square Tavern and her supper with that sallow-faced pup, yet there was always a chance. It seemed an eternity since he had been alone with her in this chamber.

  He knocked. Sensing a presence behind the door, he knocked again. "Devon? Are you there?"

  Raveneau opened the door and peered inside. Someone lay on the bed, and for one terrible moment he imagined that it might be Devon and Morgan. Reaching into the hallway, he pulled a candle from its holder and held it aloft, its flickering light revealing only one figure on the bed. It was Devon, fully dressed.

  "What is it?" he queried. "Are you ill?"

  Crossing the room, he inserted the candle into a brass holder beside the bed, where it danced eerily over Devon's tear-stained face.

  "I am fine," she choked. "You should not have come in."

  "But why are you here, petite chatte? It is barely seven o'clock. Have you quarreled with Morgan?"

  "No." She turned away and lay stiffly, her face shrouded by darkness.

  Raveneau stood beside the bed for a minute or two, staring down at her pensively. Finally he spoke, his voice harsh. "I have some news that should help to cheer you up. The wedding is arranged. It will take place here, in the Apollo Room, tomorrow at two o'clock."

  Devon sat up. In the candlelight her face looked stricken, almost fearful. Blue eyes locked with gray, then Devon whispered, "Fine."

  * * *

  Raveneau changed his clothes before leaving the tavern again. He had arranged to dine with Rebecca, a girl with whom he had been involved off and on during the past year, but now he had second thoughts. He wanted to talk to Morgan.

  Arriving at the Market Square Tavern, he gave a stableboy a shilling to take his regrets to Pamela, then went inside. It was a rowdy establishment, especially since the surrender at Yorktown, ablaze with light and filled with noisy, hard-drinking soldiers. Raveneau paused in the taproom, his slate-colored eyes flicking over the crowd. Smoke hung in the air. Gabriel Maupin approached with a pewter mug of cold ale, but Raveneau shook his head.

  "You've got your share of women here tonight," he remarked.

  Maupin smiled and winked. "They attract the soldiers from other taverns. There are one or two real beau
ties, if you're of a mind."

  "God, no!"

  "I thought only to ask! No offense, Captain, but it seems that even a man like you could have an occasional unlucky night."

  One of Raveneau's black brows slashed down at an angle, but he said nothing.

  "Is there something else you wanted, then?"

  "As a matter of fact, yes. I crave a word with M'sieur Gadwin. Is he in?"

  "Yes, but..."

  "Merci."

  In a few seconds Raveneau had reached Morgan's door. He lifted his hand to knock but stopped short. Someone was laughing softly inside. A female. A surge of pure rage swept over his body and he whispered a string of French epithets.

  Behind the door, Morgan was saying, "Dolly, you are beautiful! You'll never know how much I need you. Oh... yes..."

  Raveneau knocked sharply. "Gadwin, I would like a word with you!"

  "Who is it?"

  "Andre Raveneau." It was all he could do to refrain from shouting.

  "Oh! Wait! I will be right out."

  There was a mad scuffling, then the door opened a few inches to reveal Morgan's chalky face. "A friend of mine—wounded—is sleeping here tonight. I don't want to disturb him." He squeezed himself through the opening and into the hall.

  "Perish the thought," Raveneau said. His eyes traveled over Morgan's half-buttoned breeches and inside-out shirt.

  "I was just—ah—preparing myself for bed."

  "I can imagine. However, I have not come here to discuss your sleeping habits. The wedding plans are firm. The happy event will take place tomorrow at the Raleigh Tavern, in the Apollo Room at two o'clock. I will obtain a suit of clothes for you to wear and will bring it by in the morning. Shall we say nine o'clock? Perhaps you might spare a moment to take tea with me." His face darkened dangerously. "There is a matter that I wish to discuss, but I would not keep you from your bed now."

  "Of course," Morgan replied, open-mouthed with surprise. "Yes. Tea."

  "Good evening, then. I am certain you are anxious to return to your dreams of Devon."