Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  Halsey Minter calmly took Devon's arm and led her toward the hatch. "You must be yearning for a bit of rest," he suggested.

  Devon sighed. "It is hard to say just what I yearn for right now."

  "Well, I'll get you settled in and then you can think it over. Perhaps a hot meal might help."

  "Perhaps." The familiar gangway warmed her heart. It was good to be back.

  Minter opened the door to the captain's cabin and carried her things inside. Devon stopped short. "Wait. Just wait! You can't mean to put me here? Have you spoken to Captain Raveneau today?"

  Blushing, Minter said, "Yes. In fact, he made a special point of telling me that these would be your quarters."

  "Oh! That overbearing, uncivilized—"

  Devon broke off at the sight of Raveneau filling the doorway with his forbidding presence. Minter glanced nervously from one to the other, but his dilemma was solved when his captain said, "That will be all, Minter. I would like a bath, a mug of cold ale, and the best beefsteak on board in half an hour."

  Minter nodded and dashed out gratefully, pulling the door shut.

  "You arrogant tyrant! What is the meaning of this?" Devon demanded. "If you imagine that I will share your bed now, either you are a fool or you believe that I am—and I assure you that the latter is not the case!"

  "Devon, my spoiled vixen, you flatter yourself. You are more than free to retire to the crew's quarters at any time. Or you may sleep here on the floor." He sat down on the bed and proceeded to pull off his boots. "Or you may jump overboard. Or you may leave the boat and go to Yorktown. I really don't care." Unbuttoning his shirt, he glanced up and added, "Or you can stop pouting like a child and allow yourself to enjoy the warmth of my bed. We both know you want to."

  Devon's heart was pounding, but she managed to curl her lip disdainfully. "Your conceit is unparalleled, Captain. I would sooner sleep with a snake!"

  He put his dark head back and laughed. "Mademoiselle, that is without a doubt the most ridiculous pronouncement you have made yet!"

  * * *

  Raveneau paid no further attention to Devon during their first day at sea. He appeared in the cabin only long enough to remove something from his desk or bittacle, or to quickly eat a portion of the meal Minter had laid out for him.

  Devon lay down on a pile of blankets on the hard cabin floor early that evening. However, sleep was as elusive as it had been the night before at the inn. Moonlight streamed through the transom, lazy waves slapped the hull, and Raveneau was shouting impatiently on deck. Finally she jumped up irritably and stalked over to the neatly made bed on which Raveneau had ended her girlhood only a few weeks before. The tick was cool and deep; the soft pillows retained his arousing scent.

  Devon stretched elaborately, yawning, and snuggled down.

  An hour later, she was still awake. Something was amiss. There were muted voices above, mingling with a flurry of footsteps. Devon quickly slipped out of bed and drew on a pair of breeches over her bedgown, tucking the cambric garment into the waistband.

  The gangway was eerily quiet, its polished lanterns bobbing, sending dancing orbs of light along the bulkheads. She padded toward the hatch and ascended to the gun deck. The gun crews were in position, standing by their cannon. Devon flattened herself against the dark curve of the mainmast.

  On the quarter-deck, Andre Raveneau tensed, peering into the pale mist that hung from the night sky like a curtain. Minter stood beside him, the captain's heavy peacoat in his hands.

  "Do you see anything, sir?" Minter inquired hesitantly.

  "No, damn it, but I don't need to. It's too late to switch flags. They've seen us and are in pursuit."

  Minter helped Raveneau into the coat. "Sir, I cannot even hear anything!"

  "Look, the damned ship is there and I don't wish to argue the point!"

  The two men stood together uneasily. When Raveneau moved at last, rubbing the back of his neck, Minter said, "Well, I'll leave you alone, then, sir. If there is—"

  "No, wait." He glanced down with studied detachment, but his steward recognized the silver flame in his eyes. "Ah... I've been wondering about Devon. Do you think she is well?"

  Minter was hard pressed to hide his astonishment. What could this mean? "As a matter of fact, Captain, I do not think Devon is well."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I think she is hurting."

  Now he wished he had never begun this conversation. "Oh? What ails her?"

  "If you'll pardon me for saying so—you, sir. You've hurt her deeply and I think it's a terrible thing. Devon's young and eager, and if you don't stop you'll kill all that fresh sweetness. Glare at me if you like, Captain, but I'm determined to speak. I say that you should treat Devon properly or let her go to someone who will!" Minter drew himself up to his full height. "Good night, sir. Call if you need me. I am going below."

  The ship bustled with quiet activity. All hands had been called on deck and excitement charged the air. Across the deck, Devon heard one lusty-looking seaman chortle, "Aye, it's been too long! We all need a bloody good fight!"

  She crept behind a heavy coil of rope in an out- of-the-way corner. She waited, listening, determined not to miss the action this time. Part of her welcomed the prospect of reckless danger, a dramatic distraction for her aching heart.

  Time passed slowly, then all at once there was a great deal of noise. On the quarter-deck, Raveneau shouted, "Lane! See to the boarding nets! Now!" He turned to Wheaton, and his face could have been the devil's own. "Ha! Do you see her? The monster is a first-rate frigate! Perfect! She thinks to snap us up like a fish for dinner!" He laughed harshly. "I love surprises, don't you, Wheaton?"

  The old man grinned in response, caught up by Raveneau's fire. A night to remember, by God! If anyone could do it, this was the man!

  Raveneau snapped orders like gunshots. The Black Eagle paced herself gracefully, moving to leeward as she sailed. He watched the approaching enemy with sharp silver eyes that seemed to cut through the night fog. When the Black Eagle was exactly two ship-lengths ahead, he gave the order to shiver the sails, and instantly the sheets of white canvas were laid flat against the masts, spilling the wind.

  The Black Eagle swerved abruptly to starboard, directly in the path of the British frigate. The two ships collided, wood splintered, and the Black Eagle shuddered violently.

  The frigate found her bowsprit and jib gear hopelessly tangled in the privateer's foremast and in the shrouds which ran from the masthead to the Black Eagle's sides. It was impossible for the British to board over their own bowsprit and through the nets which Raveneau had ordered put up.

  The Black Eagle fired her starboard guns, raking the length of the frigate's decks. The British armed their swivel guns and fought back, but sharp-shooting riflemen aboard the privateer were able to pick off the gun crews.

  The privateer's crew was amazingly well trained. Even in her heart-stopping fear Devon noticed the expert, unwasted movements of the men. They seemed to enjoy themselves, whooping when a particularly fine shot found its mark.

  No one noticed Devon. Even Raveneau, springing across the deck, shouting staccato orders, failed to see her. Treasel appeared with Minter by his side and combed the deck for wounded men. When they approached the hatch carrying the first casualty, Devon took one look at the young seaman's bloody leg and shook off her panic. "Minter! Let me help!"

  There was no time for surprise at her presence, or for scolding. "Stay low and scout around for the worst hurt," Treasel ordered.

  Devon lost herself in the pandemonium. Between searches for wounded men, she helped to hand stinkpots up to the main tree on the mast, where they were lit and hurled down to the enemy's decks. She unpacked rifles from the arms chest and passed them out to men with empty hands. All around, shots passed her in the night.

  Then Mr. Lane began to scream hysterically that there was no more ammunition. Devon, crouching beside an injured gunner's mate with Minter, cried, "Did you hear? Does this mean we
're beaten?"

  "Captain Raveneau'd never allow it," the gunner's mate answered, gritting his teeth against the pain of his shattered shoulder.

  "All hands collect every crowbar, bayonet, any metal!" Raveneau bellowed. "Pack those gun muzzles—now!"

  Devon leaped to her feet to join in and collided head-on with Raveneau as he strode toward her. Rough hands caught her forearms and steely eyes cut through the darkness.

  "—Mon Dieu! You lunatic! What the hell are you up to now?"

  Devon tried to shake free. Her bedgown, so hastily stuffed into the breeches, was streaked with powder and spattered with blood. Her face was smudged, framed by tangled curls and highlighted by glowing, sapphire-blue eyes. "Captain, if you want to save your ship, kindly unhand me so that we both can join in the effort!"

  Astounded, he let her go, watching as she dashed across the deck toward the hatch where crowbars were being passed up from the hold.

  Then one of the enemy succeeded in hitting the man who had been hurling the stinkpots from the platform above. He toppled forward and fell to the deck only a few feet away from Devon. Horrified, she nevertheless saw what needed to be done. She instantly started for the mast and clambered up the ratlines. A ball whistled by a short distance away, but she kept on going until she reached the platform.

  There were only three stinkpots left beside a tarnished, flickering lantern.

  "Devon!" a familiar voice thundered. "I could strangle you! Lie down and don't move!"

  But Devon lit the stinkpot, held it over her head, and threw it toward the frigate with every ounce of her strength. "Leave me alone!" she called down to the furious Raveneau.

  A string of evil-sounding French words met her; then, as Devon lit the second stinkpot, she saw him start up the ratlines.

  "If you must come, bring some more of these!" she shouted.

  In moments, Raveneau was on the platform, dropping his armload of stinkpots before pulling Devon flat against the planks. "For Christ's sake, will you stay down?!"

  Splintery wood scraped her cheek and she felt Raveneau's hand on her neck like a steel band. "Unhand me!" she ground out, eyes flashing. "I can fight just like the rest of your crew. I want to help!" Pinned to the platform, she could see nothing but the corner of the lantern and Raveneau's dark, cut-stone visage. Abruptly, he released her and reached for a stinkpot Devon scrambled up to grab the lantern and bring it over to light the noxious missile. By the time he had thrown the last one, all the crowbars and other sundry weapons had been thrust into the cannons.

  "We are ready, Captain!" shouted Mr. Lane.

  "Fire!" was Raveneau's reply. He held Devon down again, but the two of them peered over the edge of the platform, watching as the metal exploded from the cannons, sweeping the frigate's decks dear, making hash of anyone who stood in the way. Even the men on the Black Eagle seemed stunned by their success. They stood staring, mouths agape, then turned in unison to seek out their captain.

  "Nothin' for it," declared a burly boatswain's mate. "'E's bloody charmed!"

  "Devil's fortune," muttered another in disbelief.

  Grasping Devon's elbow, Raveneau thrust her forward. "Go on!" The ratlines burned her bare feet, but she descended as nimbly as a cat, landing on the deck only an instant before Raveneau.

  Wheaton shouted, loud enough to be heard over the rumbling voices, "Men! I give you the finest captain on any sea!"

  Devon, dazed and ebullient all at once, looked up into Raveneau's chiseled face. He regarded his worshipful men with a flickering smile, and his eyes crinkled at the corners before he glanced down and saw Devon, dirty and bloody and brave.

  As Raveneau's arms caught her up and locked her body against his own, she felt her heart swell and ache with bittersweet love.

  Chapter 19

  ***~~~***

  October 29-November 4, 1781

  Dawn was breaking by the time Raveneau finished his work. Despite his urging, Devon could not bring herself to leave him. The two ships had been separated and most of the Black Eagle's huge crew transferred to the frigate. The captain and top officers had been hustled on board the privateer and locked in the gloomy brig. The frigate had carried no cargo, but such a fine warship was prize enough.

  The cook appeared with breakfast, and before taking Devon below, Raveneau drank a mug of strong, rich coffee, sharing it with the tattered, flame-haired waif at his side. Then he held her close as they descended to the berth deck.

  "Your feet!" Raveneau exclaimed, noticing her shoeless state for the first time as he helped her climb through the hatch. Her tiny feet were filthy, badly cut, and spattered with the blood of dozens of men.

  Devon looked down, surprised. "Do you know that I'd forgotten? Hmmm. Do you suppose we shall ever be clean again?"

  Raveneau rubbed his eyes with long, blackened fingers and smiled. "Perhaps if we endeavor to help each other, a memorable bath might be effected."

  Devon saw the wicked gleam in his eyes and laughed with uninhibited joy.

  * * *

  The rest of their week at sea was tranquil. Raveneau, after taking such a magnificent prize, was more relaxed than Devon had ever seen him. She asked only once where they were bound. Raveneau mysteriously declined to answer and she was not particularly curious. She almost wished they could stay at sea forever. She and Raveneau spent long, luxurious hours in bed together. Devon learned to respond to a man's caress with such heightened sensation that it approached pain. Total ecstasy. Sweet, sweet love. And in the night, Andre held her close while he slept, her face burrowed in the warm, brown expanse of his chest, her delicate legs entwined with his long, muscular ones. Happiness threatened to burst her heart.

  It was true that he never spoke of love or what lay ahead for them, but Devon couldn't let that upset her contentment. She was beginning to believe that tomorrow would take care of itself if she made the most of today.

  On the seventh morning, Devon woke and reached for Andre, only to find him gone. She sat up in bed. Only the barest smoky-pink glow tinted the sky; Andre had not risen so early in all their days at sea. She had lacked appetite for days, but now a sickening vise of nausea squeezed inside her. Somehow she knew that the idyll had ended.

  Woodenly, Devon rose. Her cheeks were pale when she looked in Raveneau's shaving mirror. She put on her sea-green gown and sat down in the red wing chair to brush her curls with special care.

  Finally satisfied, she left the cabin and made her way to the open deck above. The privateer was still quiet; snores rumbled down the gangway from the crew's quarters. The captain was on the quarter-deck, leaning on the rail, watching the sun rise over the ocean. The sight of Andre could still stop her heart, Devon thought, as surely as when she had been a child, colliding with him on New London's waterfront.

  She went up to him, smiling when he turned, his eyes registering only momentary surprise. "Bon matin, petite chatte," he said in a low voice. He took off his peacoat and put it around her, then pulled her against his body. They kissed, leisurely. Devon tried to keep the flame from igniting, but it was no use, and the fire of happy desire burned away her discontent.

  "I am surprised to see you up so early," he murmured, kissing her ear.

  "I woke to find you gone," Devon admitted as she leaned back to study his face. He was in good spirits; his next words came as no surprise.

  "We are nearly there."

  "Where?"

  "My home." He smiled at her widening blue eyes and shrugged. "Well, as near a home on land as I can claim. It is an island."

  "Andre, won't you tell me what your plans are? You have kept me docile these past days—using quite underhanded tactics, I might add—but it can't go on forever. I am not a prize from your cargo to be stored in a warehouse. I have feelings.” She paused for emphasis. “And opinions."

  Raveneau gazed down at her earnest face, memorizing it with the coral-hued sea as its backdrop. Her blue eyes with their sooty lashes were so expressive, and he had come to realize how strongly
his own heart responded to the emotions mirrored in them. Lovely red-gold cloud of curls, delicate nose, willful, kissable mouth, pert, rose-tipped breasts...

  "You are telling me that you have opinions?" He laughed gently. "Sweet Devon, I know that better than anyone. Do you imagine that I thought to transform you with my lovemaking?" He framed her face with his sun-browned hands and bent to kiss her.

  "You are sounding like a typical Frenchman!"

  "I see! You prefer me as a wicked pirate?" He raised an eyebrow and grinned devilishly, drawing her laughter.

  "You are in a fine mood today, Captain."

  "True. I am. It is always a pleasure for me to come home."

  "Which is?" Devon nudged him with an elbow.

  "All right! You needn't resort to physical force. My home is a tiny island east of Virginia, nearly one-third of the way to Bermuda. It is seldom encountered by other ships, since it is not located on any commonly used trade routes. My father came here over forty years ago and claimed it; it has been ours ever since. When he died in 1775, it became mine."

  "Please, do tell me the entire story. I really am curious."

  "No doubt!" His mouth quirked in the way she loved. "There is not much to tell. My father was a French nobleman, but he loved the sea. My mother quarreled with him but found it difficult to resist him when he returned to France, for all her protestations of hatred. Three times he took me with him to this island where he had built his home. It took ten years to complete; he had to import a huge crew of workmen and all the building materials."

  Devon was thinking of his mother—suffering as Deborah had, unable to compete with so alluring a mistress as the sea. She watched Raveneau as he looked out at the indigo-blue waves, and her heart ached unbearably.

  "At any rate, I've kept the island and staffed the house, and now I come back whenever time permits... though that is not often."

  "And when you are home?" Devon managed to get out.

  "I can read your thoughts, my dear. You are right. When I am home I enjoy it for a short while, then I long for the sea. I love my ship the best... it is impossible to explain."