Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (11 page)

"In America, your behavior would be called
'biting the hand that feeds you,'" he said. "Don't you agree? I
think that you must have acquired your manners in a farmyard,
except that I do not know any animals whose language would match
yours."

"I am not some mush-brained female to blush
and tremble in your presence, Captain!"

"It seems to me that you are doing both at
this moment," he observed dryly. "As to your right to argue with my
orders, I think you know my feelings. Each insult that escapes from
your lovely mouth could be the last. I am captain here. No man on
board the
Black Eagle
would dare to raise his voice to me,
no matter how justified he might be. What makes you think that you
are an exception to the rules?"

Devon, trembling at his nearness, realized
that her behavior truly mystified him. A dozen biting rejoinders
jumped into her mind, but she rejected them all. She was
speechless, blushing, gazing up into silver-gray eyes that drew her
helplessly.

When Raveneau finally touched her, his hands
were rough, gripping her shoulders and sliding over her arms. "If
you do not curb your spoiled vixen's tongue, Devon, I fear that you
will not last as far as Yorktown. I have enough problems without
you adding to them."

Devon returned his gaze, wanting to submit to
his strength and to promise to behave herself. However, this was
easier thought than spoken. "Captain, I am not spoiled, but I am
used to doing and saying what I please," she said. "No man has ever
dominated me, not even my father or my fiancé, so why should I
change for you? Perhaps it's time someone spoke up to you!"

Raveneau's eyes registered astonishment,
irritation, even a flicker of amusement. Then they narrowed like
the eyes of a bird of prey preparing to capture a delicious prize.
Devon shivered in anticipation. "Mademoiselle," he said, "perhaps
it is time that
you
were silenced! Now that you are
venturing into the world, you must learn that frank and outspoken
females are not widely tolerated. I shall be pleased to instruct
you in the fine art of submission."

His dark hands encircled her waist with
practiced skill, and Devon melted like butter. The pleasure was too
intensely glorious to be denied; it surpassed everything, save
their first kiss in Nick's carriage. She reveled in his touch,
molded herself to it, and suspended all thoughts and feelings that
threatened to interfere.

Raveneau's mouth was firm against hers,
demanding that her lips yield. He kissed her deftly, tenderly,
gauging her response intuitively. She moaned as he progressed from
the first soft touch to a deep kiss, then she went faint and limp.
Her arms embraced his wide shoulders, her fingers touching his
crisp hair, his smooth neck and collarbone. She pressed him
closer.

In a distant corner of his mind Raveneau
realized with a twinge of alarm that he was losing control. His
detachment was vaporizing, but he found, oddly, that he was
enjoying the sensations of pure passion and desire. The question
was, why should this little hoyden affect him so? He had intended
to teach her a lesson, but perhaps she was in control after all.
The fire rose in his loins and an ache spread over his body as he
held her and kissed the sweetness of her mouth. He slid his hands
inside her shirt, felt her satiny skin quiver where he touched it,
and knew that the girl was caught in the same web of pleasure.

Devon felt as if she were falling slowly
through a delicious cloud. She was so hungry for this man; his body
was a powerful magnet drawing her to him. He eased her shirt off
and lay her down on the bed, kissing her neck, shoulders, then,
tentatively, her eager breasts. Devon was on fire. She clung to
him, clenching her teeth, caressing his powerful neck. Raveneau
moved so that she could feel the hard length of his maleness
against her leg. Oddly, she recalled her total revulsion when
Morgan had lain atop her, also rigid with desire. Now, with
Raveneau, she yearned to touch him intimately.

He was kissing her again. Their tongues
touched and danced, teasingly, then eagerly. Devon ran her
fingertips under his shirt to trace his broad chest, the texture of
hair that covered it, and the ridges of muscle that skipped down
his belly to the wild, mysterious staff hidden under snug
breeches.

The questing touch of her fingers brought him
a flash of reality. Reluctantly, he remembered that the girl was
betrothed to another.

Her tiny fingers brushed the fastenings on
his breeches; her mouth searched hungrily for his. Raveneau put his
hand between her legs and felt the heat of her desire.
"Petite
chatte,"
he whispered with husky regret, "I do not deflower
innocents. I will ask you this only once. Have you saved yourself
for your perfect fiancé?"

Devon dropped out of her cloud and fell with
terrifying speed the rest of the way to earth. The irony in his
voice humiliated her. Pulling away from him, she crossed both arms
over her naked breasts. "What do you care?" she retorted.

Raveneau looked at her flashing eyes and
burning cheeks, then sat up. "I do not care. I thought that
you
might—or perhaps Merlin might," he said sarcastically.
The ache in his groin did little to cheer him.

"His name is Morgan!" Devon cried. She
reached for her shirt and whipped it on.

"My dear, you must at least give me credit
for remembering the fellow when you could not. Or perhaps you
forgot his existence by choice?"

"No!" She was furious. "It was all your
fault!"

Raveneau stood. His face was a mask of
cynicism, one brow arched over flinty eyes. "Mademoiselle, I think
we both know better. However, I have no wish to tempt you beyond
your power to resist. After all, I know how much you love Malcolm.
So if you can restrain yourself in my presence, I shall do
likewise." He started to walk away, then turned back, a devilish
smile playing about his mouth. "By the way, I trust that our
argument about domination has been settled? You would do well not
to press the issue."

Watching Raveneau exit, Devon thought that
she might explode. After fastening her clothing, she left the
cabin. Damn him! The man was utterly unbearable. Devon clenched her
fists and gritted her teeth, hesitating in the gangway. Caleb! That
was it. She would find him and tend the wounds inflicted by order
of the devil-captain. Caleb was a fellow victim of his cruelty;
only he could help her now.

As a sea captain's daughter, Devon could
guess where she might find the surgeon. Heedless of her stockinged
feet, she descended into the hold, where the cockpit was located. A
series of pitiful moans pinpointed the curtained cubicle. In spite
of its meager size and depressing location, the surgeon's space was
as unusually clean as the rest of the
Black Eagle.
Ordinarily, one could retch from the stench in a ship's hold, but
here the air was only mildly disagreeable.

"Excuse me!" Devon called, stopping outside
the canvas hangings. Immediately a thin, angular face appeared.

"Hello! I'm Treasel, the surgeon! You must be
the chit who caused all this trouble! And for a moment there, I
hoped I was going to have an assistant. Instead, you turn out to be
a girl and have only brought me more work. Well, come on in! Maybe
you can calm these two down."

Devon stared at Treasel. He looked like a
human greyhound, and she expected him to race off in a blur of
speed at any moment. Pewter-haired and blue-eyed, the surgeon spoke
so quickly and emphatically that Devon wearied just listening to
him. Even his gestures were like exclamation points.

"Ohh!" came a dramatic moan from a few feet
away. Devon looked around to find Caleb lying across a table, while
Greenbriar was sprawled on the floor, groaning with each roll of
the ship. Caleb smiled wanly.

"Oh, thank God you are all right!" Devon
exclaimed, rushing to his side. She stared at his back, which had
been badly slashed. The wounds were not deep, however, and had been
cleaned and carefully daubed with salve to ease the sting; they
would be healed soon. Caleb would not be disfigured by his harsh
punishment. "Oh, my friend," Devon cried, mustering up the full
strength of her temper, "just look what that monster has done to
you! Is the pain unbearable?"

"No. I try not to think of it." His boyish
grin twisted her heart with guilt. She smoothed his damp, straw-
colored hair and returned his smile.

"Now, Devon, don't you feel bad about this,"
he admonished, pleased by her tender gesture.

"How can I help it? It is my fault, isn't it?
Yes, it is! Though I'll lay a share of blame on that villainous
captain."

Devon's tone was so venomous that Caleb
pricked his ears with interest. If she had come to hate the
captain, he might have a chance with her. He mustn't let it slip
away. Clenching his teeth, he managed to sit up. Treasel had said
that his wounds looked worse than they were. Caleb experimented by
moving his solid, freckled arms, watching the muscles flex. He
glanced craftily at Devon and was delighted to find her enchanting
face puckered with concern.

"I don't think you should be moving!" She
looked back at Treasel for confirmation. "Should he be moving? Tell
him to lie down, Doctor!"

Treasel crossed quickly to his patient,
raised and lowered his brows a few times, then shrugged. "He'll be
fine! Hope he's got sense enough to move only as much as comfort
allows. Right, Jackson?"

Caleb flashed a brave grin. "Devon, you could
cure anyone. The sight of you helped me more than all of Treasel's
potions."

"Well, I'd do anything to ease your pain, you
know that. I feel so responsible! I swear, I could
kick
that
devil-pirate!"

Watching her, he suddenly understood the
nature of her flushed energy. There was more to this than anger or
guilt... the energy was sexual; lush, glowing, frustrated.

Caleb was flooded with desire. He forgot his
wounded back, forgot everything but Devon with her flushed skin,
luxuriant hair, sapphire eyes that sparkled with needs that he
would be happy to satisfy. "Do you know what I would like best?" he
asked softly. Treasel took his cue, lifted the canvas, and stepped
out into the gangway. Only the moaning Greenbriar was left with
them in the cubicle.

"What?" Devon asked.

"I would like to get out of here. Will you
help me? Nothing would please me more than a few private moments
with you, to rest and talk. If you don't mind my saying so, you
look as if you could use someone to confide in."

"All of that sounds like heaven except the
last part. I don't have anything to confide, and I'll talk only of
you. Right now my problems cry to be forgotten."

"A splendid notion!" Caleb approved. He was
ecstatic. The situation was ideal; he would gain revenge on the
Frenchman and a huge measure of physical pleasure for himself at
the same time. He would take her to the empty brig.

Shakily, Caleb wobbled to his feet. Devon did
not disappoint him, insisting on putting an arm around his waist;
the soft, red-gold hair that touched his cheek smelled of Raveneau.
Caleb's grin hardened with cold resolve.

The brig was located just forward of the
cockpit, heavily grated like a gloomy cage. It would eventually be
filled by unlucky British seamen, but for now it stood empty. He
headed for one of the benches that lined the walls. Sitting down
beside him, Devon wrinkled her nose. The entire brig had been
scrubbed recently with strong-smelling soap, but it could not
disguise the foul stench left by the prisoners who had been
enclosed here for weeks on end. She shivered a little.

"I don't like this place."

"Ah, Devon, don't think about it. Think about
me. Enjoy your freedom from Captain Raveneau's heavy hand."

"Yes... I do. That beast. He is a
tyrant!"

"So you have actually decided you do not like
him?"

"Definitely!" Her voice echoed in the dismal
brig, though she could not meet his eyes.

"Are you certain?" Caleb pressed. "The man is
notorious for his effect on women, you know. I have worried that
you also might fall under his spell."

"Me? Ha! Never!" Her cheeks flamed.
Agitatedly, she twisted a button on her shirt. "I'll have you know
that I have a mind of my own."

"You certainly do." Caleb grinned. "May I ask
your opinion of me?"

"I think you are wonderful! You have done so
much to help me and I deeply appreciate that. You've been so
brave."

"Do I deserve a reward?"

Devon looked at him. His square face with its
open grin seemed so boyish and carefree. If Raveneau was the enemy,
then Caleb must be her champion. "Yes, of course you do."

"Would you give me a kiss?"

Kisses had proved dangerous so far, Devon
thought. Morgan, Smythe, Greenbriar, Andre Raveneau... Yet it
sounded so simple when Caleb said it. A kiss. It was the least she
could do. Smiling, she put a hand on his cheek and leaned
forward.

Caleb moved quickly. His arms caught her,
pressed her to his chest. He saw the panic that flared in her eyes
before he kissed her. So sweet! Her mouth was soft and moist; he
crushed it, forced his tongue inside. Devon was fighting him now
and he loved it. It seemed years, rather than one day, since he had
had a woman, and he’d never held one as lovely as Devon. He fumbled
for the buttons on her shirt.

Devon felt smothered. His arms were like
iron. How could she escape? What about his back? How could he—

"Excuse me. I
do
hate to interrupt,
but this sort of behavior is not permitted." It was Raveneau. Dark
and sardonic, he watched them from the doorway. "I would have sworn
you knew the rules by now, Jackson."

Caleb's face was expressionless. He released
Devon and stared back at the captain. Devon instantly jumped to her
feet, burning with shame. How had he found them? She didn't know
what to do. Raveneau's cynical mouth told her that he thought her a
willing participant. Was she to run to him and blurt the truth,
tell him that he was right about Caleb and she had behaved like a
fool? Would he even believe her?