Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1)

by Cynthia Wright

  "Devon!" Louisa implored. "Here! I've brought the book."

  Opening her eyes, Devon faced the reality sharing this bed in Raveneau's place. A sweet, bewildered little girl who needed a father... and an innocent baby not yet born.

  * * *

  One sunny morning, still early in April, a bold little sloop skimmed over the horizon and headed straight for the island. Elsa, her children, Louisa, and Devon watched from one of the turrets, beaming with pleasure as the craft approached. Mild, perfumed breezes blew up from the trees.

  Devon and Elsa decided to take the children down to the beach when it became clear that the sloop was anchoring in the cove. "It will probably be another of Andre's mistresses," Devon remarked with wry humor. "Perhaps an entire boatload!"

  Elsa gave a snort of laughter.

  Suddenly Devon gasped in astonishment. A woman had appeared at the rail, and she was waving and screaming something unintelligible. "It's Azalea!" Devon explained as a jolly boat was lowered. "She is Halsey Minter's sister."

  "Who?"

  "Minter! Andre's steward."

  "Hmmm." Elsa narrowed her eyes at the boat. "She has been here before, I think."

  Devon laughed, glad that she was able to. "Now that you mention it, I suppose I was right about the visitor being one of Andre's mistresses! He may very well have brought her here a few years ago. But now she is married... to the fair-haired man beside her in the boat. She is no threat, Elsa, but in truth a dear friend!"

  As the jolly boat skidded onto the beach, Devon was there to embrace an excited Azalea. She gave Isaac a hug and somehow managed to introduce the hopping children, while Azalea talked without a moment's pause. Arm in arm, the two women started up the path to the house, and as soon as they had put some distance between themselves and the others, Azalea demanded, "What is this!? I am speechless, Devon!"

  "You? Indeed?"

  "Don't tease! It must be Andre's child—?"

  "Yes. Yes, of course it is! The only other man who ever tempted me was the Blue Jay, but I resisted, and of course I was already pregnant when I met him."

  Azalea coughed nervously. "Devon, are you all right? I'll wager you are frantic! Andre—"

  "Andre doesn't know. I wasn't aware myself until the Black Eagle left. And I am fine. Blooming, as they say. I have my share of worries, but I am trying to focus my attention on the baby." Devon's smile was eloquent. "But wait! You breeze in here as though we lived just around the corner! What has brought you and Isaac all this way?"

  Azalea put her off until they were able to retreat to Devon's bedchamber. Eugenie and Souchet were standing in the entryway, but Devon made casual introductions and led her friend up the stairs. Elsa was promising to find something for Isaac to eat and drink, and he smiled indulgently at his wife, waving to her as she bustled off with Devon.

  It was obvious that Azalea had been here before. She didn't bat an eye when Devon opened the door to her bedchamber, but went right on chattering.

  "Andre brought you here, didn't he?" Devon accused with mock outrage.

  "Oh, yes. After we first met—you know, when he rescued me from that British warship. I can't say I am particularly thrilled to return."

  Devon settled down beside her on the sofa. "Do you know, I was so overwhelmed when we first arrived... it seemed like a castle out of a fairy tale. But all the gold and velvet and beautiful paintings in the world can't begin to substitute for love. This house has begun to seem almost evil—"

  There was a gleam in Azalea's doe eyes. "You know what they say about Andre..."

  "Oh, stop. Besides, he doesn't like this house at all. I think he avoids it."

  "That's right, I remember now. Something about his father and a mistress."

  Devon thought about asking Azalea what she knew about Veronique's death, but before she could speak, her friend exclaimed, "I am dying to know who that stunning woman downstairs is! A new housekeeper?"

  "I wish that she were." Briefly, Devon related the events of the winter, including her suspicions about Louisa and her uneasiness concerning Eugenie and Souchet. Finally, they turned the conversation back to the reason for Azalea and Isaac's sea voyage.

  "Isaac's grandfather died a year ago, in England," Azalea said. But because of the war, nothing has been done about his estate. My father-in-law is the sole heir, and he received another letter last month from the executor, urging him to come and hinting at a surprisingly large estate. So he asked if Isaac could do this errand. Isaac is his father's heir, of course."

  Devon knew what a windfall could mean to their farm and she hugged Azalea excitedly. "Oh, how wonderful for you! Such an adventure—sailing to England—and a chance to fulfill your dreams for the farm when you return."

  "And, best of all, I am happier with Isaac than I ever thought I could be."

  "You've given up pining for Andre?"

  "As a matter of fact, I believe I have!"

  Devon let out an exaggerated sigh. "Whew! There's one rival I can cross off the list!"

  They giggled and chatted about the war, the Minters, Devon's pregnancy, her sewing projects, and Elsa. Finally, as their stomachs began to cry for luncheon, they leaned back against the sofa and looked at each other.

  "It is so good to be with you." Devon smiled warmly. "You have cheered me greatly."

  "Wonderful. I could ask nothing more. I only wish we could remain longer than one day."

  "I am glad for that much. And... Andre will be here very soon. The suspense will be over."

  Azalea dropped her eyes, plucking nervously at her muslin skirt. "Devon, hasn't it occurred to you that I might have word from the Black Eagle?"

  "Yes. It has."

  "The ship was in South Carolina last month, and Halsey managed to visit the farm for a few hours on the way back. He had some news for you."

  "Yes?"

  "Well, the Black Eagle was to sail to the Indies next, hoping to take a good prize, then return to New London. Do you know, they have taken four ships this winter! At any rate, there have been terrible stories circulating, about one of the largest British prison ships anchored off Long Island. Beatings, starvation..."

  "Yes?"

  "Halsey told me that Raveneau means to attack it when they get back to New London. It's a very dangerous proposition, and it will also delay their return to the island by a fortnight or more. Halsey said you should not look for them until May... or later."

  "Andre could be killed," Devon whispered hollowly.

  "Well, you know he takes those risks every day."

  "It’s not the same..." Blankly, she looked into Azalea's wary eyes. "Tell me the truth. Did Andre come with Minter to the farm?"

  "Actually... yes. He wanted to see Mama and Pa."

  "He knew you would be coming to see me?"

  Azalea could only nod reluctantly.

  "He sent no letter? No message at all?"

  For a brief moment Azalea considered lying, but Devon's gaze was too penetrating. She dropped her eyes and muttered, "No... nothing."

  * * *

  Raveneau sat down on the Queen Anne four-poster to pull on his boots and Isabelle was behind him in an instant, her soft, pale arms wrapped around his chest. He could feel the pressure of firm breasts against his back, but continued to dress.

  "Andre!" she implored. "Why do you rush away from me? Did I disappoint you?"

  Groaning, Raveneau turned to face her and tried to resist her golden-haired charms. "I have other matters to attend to." She was rubbing against him, smiling wickedly into his flinty eyes. "You know that you did not disappoint me. Stop that! I must go."

  "One more kiss, Andre. Please! I have missed you so. I have been so hungry and I am not yet satisfied."

  She nibbled at his stubborn mouth until he relented and opened it to her kiss. Her passion was almost cloying, though, and he finally took her arms and roughly disengaged.

  “No more, I said. I must go.” Standing up, he buttoned his shirt.

  “But, when will I
see you again?”

  He sighed. “Frankly, I have no idea.”

  Moments later, Raveneau emerged from the small house to find that dusk was upon the town of New London. He thought of all he had meant to do this day and cursed his own weakness. What he hated most was a nagging prod of guilt in the recesses of his mind. There was no good cause for it! That cursed Minter had put it into his mind. Raveneau started to walk toward the Beach, inspiring caution and fear from the passersby who encountered his stormy-looking eyes.

  It was impossible to dismiss the argument he and Minter had had that morning. Minter, his damned steward, daring to offer advice–and not for the first time! It was intolerable!

  That morning, a gloomy Minter had watched him dress while assembling the breakfast dishes to return them to the galley. Finally he’d said, "Excuse me, sir, but I think it is wrong for you to go to that woman."

  How the hell had he known? And Raveneau gave himself away by retorting, "When I want your advice, I'll ask for it."

  "I am Devon's friend, as well as your steward," Minter had replied, offended.

  "Devon!" Raveneau had shouted irritably. "Are we married? Did I miss something? And even if we were, that chit is hundreds of miles away."

  "I suppose I am rather old-fashioned, sir. I believe in commitments and trust when two people are in love."

  "Damn! You speak as if you were my maman!" Raveneau had blazed. "And all that is beside the point. I sure as hell am not in love with your wondrous Devon!"

  "If you say so, sir."

  "Minter, you have been with me for more than six years. What is the reason for this sudden attack of morals?"

  "Sir, to be honest, I believe that you love Devon Lindsay very much, and I know that she loves you. I think you would rest easier tonight if you could admit this and remain faithful to her. If you sleep with another woman, it will tarnish what Devon has given to you as her gift of love."

  "Arretez!" Raveneau had roared. "This gift of love, as you so charmingly term it, may well have come to me secondhand, and as for trust! You are a fool, Minter. Women are useful in many ways, but I trust no one but myself, and thus am never disillusioned. The women who seem most vulnerable and innocent are the worst kind. If you relinquish even a portion of yourself to such a female, you are destined to be hurt."

  "Captain, I hesitate to say this... but I feel that you are the fool in this case."

  Stalking now through the cool spring twilight, Raveneau seethed at the memory. The insolent pup! Part of him still wished he had tossed the boy into the Thames and ordered him never to show his face again.

  He had enough problems. His mind had no business straying from the plan to attack the prison ship. It had to succeed; failure might well cost him his life.

  Turning the corner of Union Street, Raveneau experienced an unsettling feeling. As he walked, he stared hard at the cobblestones and burned buildings and houses, trying to piece together an elusive memory, trying to put both Devon and Minter out of his mind.

  Yet... this ash-pink light lent itself to remembered visions, and there had been many nights disturbed by vivid dreams these past months. Dreams of silky, flame-gold hair coiled around his neck, of sapphire eyes that drew him in no matter how he resisted, of enchanting, mischievous laughter.

  A man on horseback trotted by and Raveneau stepped aside. Alert again, he looked around at the houses and shops; the horse's hooves had touched off another spark of memory.

  What could it be? Frustrated, he concentrated harder. He walked on, following the curve of the lane that led toward the Beach, his eyes drinking in the scene as he struggled to call forth the face that tugged at his mind. A girl—young, guileless, candid. Seventeen? Eighteen? Red hair... auburn? Self-conscious.

  Ah, yes! The girl he had met at Nicholson's house and accompanied back to the Bank. A carriage ride along this same route in the midst of just such a sunset. She had been a minx! Raveneau recalled that she had spoken of reading Joseph Andrews, or perhaps Tom Jones. He squinted now, trying to conjure up a clear image of her face, but remembered instead the dried leaf caught in her tousled curls, the impudent breasts outlined by a faded blue gown, and the most captivating manner and smile. It had been wrong of him to kiss so young a girl, but her nearness in the carriage had been bewitching. Those deep blue eyes, dusky cheeks, and lips that intoxicated with their sweetness...

  Raveneau froze in the middle of Church Street. People and horses passed on either side, but he stared into the dipping coral sun in dazed disbelief.

  "Devon. Devon."

  "Say what?" an old man inquired helpfully.

  Raveneau clenched his fists, unaware of the voice or of the confusion that swirled around him as people hurried home at the end of the working day. It seemed inconceivable that he could have failed to remember Devon when they had met on the Black Eagle. Had the hectic tension of the day been to blame? The fact that she had worn breeches? Over and over, he recalled how she had been that day and the heady innocence of her kiss. Mon Dieu! The little chit even slapped me! Smiling, he put a hand to his jaw.

  Suddenly Raveneau was seized by a violent desire to consume an indecent quantity of cognac. Dusk was deepening to indigo night as he quickened his step along John Street, anxious to feel the reassuring sway of the Black Eagle under his legs.

  * * *

  Everyone told Devon that the oppressively warm weather was highly unusual, especially for April. Unusual or not, she wasn't sure if she could stand another day. Her back had begun to ache and the baby seemed restless, often waking her repeatedly through the night with a series of acrobatics.

  "Just another month," she whispered aloud. She lay on her bed, fully dressed. Uneaten food and clean dishes were neatly arranged on the table.

  Hermann Kass had returned from his travels, closed-mouthed and suffering with a fatigued cough. Elsa had spent the day with him, and a young maid named Jeanette had taken over her duties. The girl was nice enough, but so obsequious that Devon felt uncomfortable and had dismissed her when supper was served. It was barely seven o'clock, but Devon felt drained and let her eyes close.

  The dream was disturbingly vivid. In it, she was standing on the beach where Veronique had died and she and Raveneau had made love. A delicate white skiff emerged out of the starless night, and she watched it approach until it came up onto the beach. The Blue Jay stepped out, garbed in his usual cape and mask, sending a burst of joy through Devon. When she attempted an embrace, however, Jay held her off, whispering, "Later."

  "Have you brought me a message?"

  "No, I have come to take you away. When you leave this island, your troubles will be over."

  Mesmerized by the intensity of his gaze, Devon allowed Jay to take her hand. Slowly, they moved toward the boat, but before she could step in, she woke up. A warm breeze billowed the edges of the brocade draperies and cooled the tears on Devon's cheeks. Lying in the darkness, she put her hands on her awkwardly round belly. The baby had begun to kick again and she tried to sooth it and herself with a rhythmic massage, while her mind drifted back to the Blue Jay. His appeal was potent even in a dream, and she wondered what it meant. What had become of Jay? Did he ever think of her?

  Sighing, she closed her eyes and allowed her thoughts to turn to Raveneau. Where was he tonight? Had he attacked the prison ship yet? Perhaps he was already dead.

  Devon struggled up from the bed and went to the dumbwaiter in the hallway, opening the door to see if the stand was there so that she could clear the dishes from the table. The contraption was at the bottom of the shaft, level with the kitchen, and Devon was pulling the rope to raise it when she heard a shrill, all-too-familiar voice rising up the dark well from the library or dining room.

  "Mais, Papa, ce n'est pas beaucoup de temps jusqu'd I'arrivee d'Andre!"

  "Oui, je le sais, cherie." Souchet's voice dropped. There were footsteps, a strangled sob, and the conversation continued in whispers. Devon recognized only one other phrase—"avant la naissance de ce batard
-la!"

  Devon closed the door and put her warm cheek against it. Was it true? Was Souchet Eugenie's father? If so, what were they after, and how did her unborn child fit in?

  Devon bolted from the hallway like a prisoner escaping from a cage—she had to get away from this house. A balmy breeze sifted over the island and the perfume of flowers rose out of the trees. Devon folded her arms over her belly and began to walk, her thoughts chaotic. Breathing hard, she headed straight for the secluded beach at the other end of the island, but when she was about to emerge from the concealment of the overgrown, vine-draped trees, she stopped short.

  On the cliff, the black silhouette of a man stood out against the inky-blue, star-strewn sky. There was no mistaking the full coat, the stockinged calves, or the outline of side curls on his wig.

  Souchet! To keep from gasping aloud, Devon pressed a hand to her mouth. What on earth was he doing here, of all places? She had thought to escape from him and Eugenie, to ponder what she had overheard and to attempt to unravel the tangled questions in her head, but now she was more confused than ever.

  "Veronique..." Souchet implored in French. "What am I to do? I have tried to direct Eugenie, but it is difficult. If only you were here!" Tears glittered in the starlight as he shook a fist at the moon. "It was your own fault, Veronique. I loved you! I watched you and Eugenie for five years, waiting for you to tell him. You promised me!"

  Caught in the emotion of his tirade, Souchet stumbled slightly and turned as he tried to regain his balance. His wild eyes fell on Devon, who stood rooted to the ground, pale and wide-eyed with shock. Her French was not perfect, but after nearly six months of living with a largely French staff, she had absorbed enough to translate Souchet's rantings.

  "You followed me!" he shouted.

  "No—no—I just came here for a walk. Truly—"