Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (10 page)

On the ladder which led to the berth deck,
Devon paused and heard Raveneau speaking to Caleb, his voice
dangerously cold. A strange chill ran down Devon's spine. She had
known evil men in her lifetime—had encountered many of them
yesterday—but this captain was of a breed she did not recognize. He
frightened her, yet fascinated her. She found she could not despise
him.

She wondered why Raveneau had awakened. Had
Mr. Lane called him? Devon dropped into the captain's wing chair
and noticed that the cabin was neater and that the clutter of
charts and instruments had disappeared into a handsome mahogany
"bittacle," or cupboardlike box. Who had put it all away so
quickly?

Then the answer to her questions walked in,
in the form of a young red-haired steward carrying a fresh supply
of monogrammed towels. He smiled at Devon with no noticeable
surprise. "Hello! You must be the little cat!" he greeted her. "My
name is Minter. I'm the captain's steward."

Devon's answering smile faded. "Little cat?
Why do you call me that? My name is Devon Lindsay!"

"Captain Raveneau doesn't know your name, or
he's forgotten it. He calls you
petite chatte,
but not, I
must admit, in the most complimentary tone of voice!"

"I can imagine!" Devon smiled wryly. "Are you
feeling better, Minter?"

"Much, thank you." Picking up the pitcher, he
started off for fresh water but paused long enough to murmur
conspiratorially, "I appreciate your stepping in for me last night!
That is one scene I would have enjoyed witnessing!"

Devon blushed, but laughed. She liked Minter.
He passed Raveneau in the cabin doorway, silently, but they
exchanged smiles and Devon was pleased to know that Raveneau did
not growl at every member of his crew.

"I hope that you have prepared a good
explanation for your conduct this morning!" Raveneau stood over
Devon, his harsh, handsome face as hard as a statue's. Devon
scrambled up and stood on the seat of her chair to put them nearly
eye to eye. Embarrassed but angry, she thrust her chin at him.
"Well?" Raveneau demanded.

"I don't know what you mean,
sir.
I
went up for some air. And I wanted to see the
Black Eagle
in
full sail."

"Ah, yes. Air..." His eyes narrowed. "A
promenade on deck! Charming group up there today,
n'est-ce
pas?
I'm surprised they aren't lined up outside my door panting
with lust!"

Devon half wanted to sit down again. He was
only inches away; their eyes were locked. Her heart thundered. He
grasped her arm, and she thought her knees would buckle.

"You didn't tell me to remain here," she
finally said.

"You little fool! I assumed, after last
night, that you would have the normal good sense—"

"Listen, M'sieur Captain!" Devon heard
herself shout. "It just so happens that I grew up on the Beach in
New London. I am used to ships, and I am used to their crews. Those
men on deck didn't frighten me! There is a great difference between
an abduction in a dark galley and being seen by a few dozen seamen
in broad daylight!"

His long, dark fingers tightened on her arm.
"I realize that this may be a difficult concept for you to grasp,
but do make an effort. There is a very real possibility that any
one of those men could be hiding in a deserted corner tonight, or
tomorrow night, or several days from now. Even Greenbriar had more
sense than to toss you to the deck when he first saw you, didn't
he?"

"Are all your men barbarians?"

"As long as they do their jobs on board, I
haven't the slightest interest in their lives ashore. But many a
normal man can turn barbaric if he's deprived of a woman long
enough. You may be quite...
resistable,
but there is no
accounting for some people's tastes. Particularly when their need
is great enough... if you take my meaning."

This speech was delivered in a tone of voice
that reminded Devon of a knife being inserted repeatedly, each time
deeper and more painfully. For a long moment she gaped at him in
shock, then hissed, "You are utterly hateful!"

"True enough, but I've made my point, I
trust."

* * *

The spirited wind died away that afternoon.
The stillness intensified the foreboding atmosphere. Raveneau had
not returned to bed and was in a vile temper. He worked on his
charts, conferred at intervals with Mr. Lane, and cursed the ebbing
wind.

Devon lay on the bed, alternately watching
Raveneau and the ceiling. She had decided that she truly despised
the man and berated herself for wasting so many thoughts and dreams
on him. She felt hemmed in, and ached with the need to run. Every
time Raveneau got up to pace and curse, her own nerves grew more
taut. She wished she had stayed in New London... yet she longed for
Morgan, her touchstone of sanity.

During the afternoon Minter brought food. It
smelled wonderful, but she remained stubbornly on the bed, silent.
Raveneau divided the portions and sat down to eat, a thick book
open beside his plate. When Devon finally realized that he was not
going to beseech her to join him, she rose and did so. There was
boiled beef, gravy, biscuits, and an apple. Raveneau poured red
wine into her cup and watched with detached amusement as she drank
it thirstily.

The wine smoothed Devon's frazzled nerves.
She ate slowly, stealing an occasional glance at her companion,
helplessly admiring the rugged lines of his profile. His forehead
was perfect, she decided, and his black hair grew away from it with
casual elegance. He probably just ran a hand through it; other men
labored long before their mirrors to achieve that smooth sweep of
hair. Studying him, Devon bit into her apple and wondered why one
man should possess every masculine trait while others—like
Morgan—merely fumbled and groped after manhood.

She sighed, and felt her face heat up at such
traitorous thoughts of Morgan. I do love him! she reminded herself,
remembering the blissful, uncomplicated days they had spent
together on the banks of the Thames. She had been safe, cheerful,
in control...

"Was that sigh for your absent lover, or are
you hinting for more wine?" Raveneau inquired.

Devon looked at him triumphantly. "As a
matter of fact. I
was
daydreaming about Morgan."

Raveneau shrugged.

"But that does not mean I won't have more
wine." She poured it herself, watching him challengingly. "By the
way, Captain, Morgan is not my
lover.
We are
betrothed."

"Petite chatte,
frequently the two
terms are interchangeable."

"That may be true among the females of your
acquaintance, but I assure you it is not true for me."

"A pity for what's-his-name. I hope there was
no problem."

Devon saw the silver sparkle in his eyes, but
rose to the bait all the same.
"Morgan
is the name of my
fiancé, Morgan Gadwin. And I resent your implication, sir! Morgan
exercised discipline for my sake, because he loves me!"

Raveneau listened and smiled. He thought that
Devon looked quite ravishing and passionate. Either Morgan was a
fool, or the girl was a convincing liar.
"Mon Dieu,
I am
glad that I decided to deliver you to Yorktown, so that I may have
a look at this paragon of self-restraint!"

There was a sharp knock at the door then and
Mr. Lane appeared. "It is time, Captain."

Raveneau's devilish grin vanished, replaced
by the more familiar expression of tense fatigue. Above them, the
boatswain's pipe shrilled the call for all hands on deck.

Devon paled, an icy chill rippling from her
scalp to the small of her back. "Please, please reconsider!" she
begged. "Caleb doesn't deserve to be punished! I'm at fault if
anyone is! He only tried to help me—"

"Silence!"
Raveneau thundered. "I will
not tolerate interference from anyone on my ship, least of all
you,
who are here simply on my sufferance. If you attempt to
meddle again, it will be the last time!"

Devon glared at him as he started for the
door. "Wait! I am going—"

"No!" He turned back only briefly, his harsh
face satanically angry. "Do not dare to leave this cabin until I
have returned, or you'll find yourself under the lash as well.
Comprenez?"

He was gone. Devon clenched her fists. She
longed to throw something; to break his dishes, destroy his charts,
smash his furniture. But she was too much of a coward to face his
anger, and that realization only enraged her further. Defiantly she
gulped her wine, and his, too.

The
Black Eagle
was eerily quiet, but
when she pushed the door ajar, she could hear each lash stroke
clearly. Her heart burned as she imagined Caleb's quivering back
under the knotted cat-o'-nine-tails. It seemed an eternity before
she heard the captain's command to halt, followed by the sound of
scattering footsteps. She wanted to rush up to Caleb and could not
have felt more responsible for his wounds had she wielded the cat
herself.

Recognizing Raveneau's step in the gangway,
Devon let the door close and moved away. The first thing he saw
upon entering was her trim, rigid back, partially hidden under the
mass of apricot-gold hair that curled past her shoulders. She stood
in the middle of the cabin, still and ominously silent.

Raveneau headed for the table and reached for
his glass. "You drank my wine?" he inquired coldly.

"Yes." She turned her head slowly, gazing at
him from under the fringe of her lashes. Her arms were crossed
tightly over her breasts; her stockinged feet were spread
defiantly.

"Do not do so again. The supply of wine is
limited; it belongs to me personally. God only knows why I shared
it with you at all."

"In that case, I could not be persuaded at
gunpoint to taste your wine again."

"That is reassuring. Since you have consumed
three portions in less than an hour, I was beginning to worry that
my entire stock might be gone before sunset."

Devon fought a wild urge to attack him like a
cat and claw his cynical face. Instead, she merely turned her head
away, wondering what to do next. Raveneau poured the remaining wine
from the bottle into his glass, then sat down and crossed his
booted feet atop the table.

Devon realized that her own consumption of
spirits had emboldened her, but suddenly she didn't care.

"So you have finished your afternoon's
entertainment?" she asked. "The whipping of defenseless men is
ended?"

"Your tongue is dangerously sharp." Raveneau
said in a low, even tone. "It needs blunting."

"It is not as sharp as your lash,
Captain."

"I hope that you are a proficient swimmer,
mademoiselle, because I am sorely tempted to test your skills."

"Ah, so your appetite for sadistic amusement
has not been satisfied!" As she spoke, Devon could see his jaw
tightening with real anger, but the words continued to pour out.
"Have you keelhauled anyone lately?"

His dark hand moved with the speed of a
striking snake. He caught and twisted her hair until she fell to
her knees before his chair, her neck arched.

"You are a nasty little wench, do you know
that? No wonder your chaste fiancé hasn't managed to bed you. You
probably destroy his passion with your malicious tongue."

Devon thought about putting up a fight, but a
portion of her brain was tantalized by the notion that he might
cover her open mouth with his hard, warm lips. Her back was arched,
her breasts pushing against the linen shirt she wore, and she could
feel his eyes upon her. He released her hair abruptly and Devon
fell backward, bumping her head on the floor. She felt like a fool.
Face burning, she scrambled up and hissed, "I hate you. I truly do.
You are the most uncivilized beast I have ever encountered."

"Vraiment?"
Raveneau pretended
surprise.

"Yes,
vraiment,"
she mimicked.
“Truly!”

"But Jackson...
he
is the soul of
goodness and respectability. True?"

"Yes!" If Andre Raveneau thought otherwise,
then it
must
be true.

"Petite chatte,
you have a great deal
to learn about men."

"Don't take that superior tone with me,
Captain! And my name is Devon!"

"Devon?"
He made a face of mild
distaste. "What sort of name is that?"

"I am named for the English birthplace of my
father!"

"Devon," Raveneau repeated experimentally.
Pronounced with a French accent, it sounded beautiful.

"Now that you have altered my name to suit
yourself, I wish you would tell me how Caleb is. Is he
conscious?"

The concern in her blue eyes irritated him.
"Unfortunately, yes. You needn't worry. The surgeon is tending to
him."

Devon glared at him, but her features
softened in relief. "You're certain that he is all right?"

"Yes, damn it! What reason have you for such
concern?"

"Caleb has been very kind to me. He has lost
everything because of me. Did you expect me not to care?"

She was pacing the cabin, and now Raveneau
stared into his wine. There were a dozen things he could say at
this point concerning Jackson's character and the nature of
discipline aboard a ship. But why should I explain myself? he
thought. "If you care so much for dear
Caleb,"
he said,
"then why bother to seek out Mandrake—"

"Morgan!"

"—at all? I would be excessively happy to put
you and Jackson out in a small boat and be well rid of the two
sharpest thorns in my side." He nonchalantly drained his glass,
then looked around for a cigar.

"Beast! Cad! Base, uncivilized—" If she had
searched deep inside herself, Devon might have realized that she
hoped Raveneau would react to her with a passion equal to her
own.

Slowly, deliberately, he stood up; only a few
inches separated their bodies. Devon was breathing hard, breasts
quivering beneath her linen shirt, but Raveneau was maddeningly
still.