Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (13 page)

At length, he noticed her. "Good morning,
again."

"Good morning. Is something wrong?"

"I hope not." Glancing back at her, his gray
eyes finally registered the change in her clothing. "Where did you
get those things?"

Was he angry? "Why, Minter gave them to me. I
was as surprised as you seem to be."

A long moment passed, then his expression
softened. "You look lovely, Devon. Minter is talented with a needle
and thread."

A crisp, salty breeze caught her titian
curls. One wrapped itself around her neck and Raveneau unwound it,
his long, dark fingers heating her bare flesh.

"Thank you. I hope you don't mind... the
clothes, I mean. They feel wonderful."

He returned his attention to the sky. "No. I
don't mind."

Ill at ease, Devon turned to survey the
quarter-deck. Above the stern flew the American and French flags,
both of which would be lowered and replaced by a Dutch flag if
enemy sails were sighted. The sailing master and his mate were at
the wheel, with Mr. Lane hovering officiously nearby. Devon was
certain that he smirked at her. She frowned at him, then turned
back to Raveneau.

"Captain, excuse me—"

"Hmm?"

"If it's not too much trouble, I was hoping
you might tell me about the
Black Eagle.
You see, my father
was a sea captain, and I've wondered how this ship would compare to
his."

She already knew much of what he told her,
but she reveled in his attention. "A privateer is a very special
ship," he explained, "designed for great speed and for an
appearance of military strength. But the
Black Eagle
is
lighter than she looks. We don't carry cargo, or anything else that
will add unnecessary weight, though we do have a large crew, since
we must man and sail any prize that is captured.”

“Is it true that not all the cannon are
real?”

“Quite true. It appears that we have sixteen
guns, but that is only an illusion of strength; the weight would
slow us too much. Half are 'quakers'—fakes made of light wood. We
rarely engage in battle because we avoid British naval vessels.
Their holds are empty, but their guns are all too real. The
merchantmen are our targets, with their small crews and valuable
cargoes. They are easily frightened by our speed and 'guns'."
Raveneau grinned wickedly.

Devon shivered with excitement. The numerous,
billowing sails were spread before them, carrying the
Black
Eagle
through the churning, slate-colored ocean with piercing
grace. She could smell the canvas, the damp wood, the hemp, and
feel the deck swell then dip beneath her slippered feet.

Raveneau's grin had faded. He was staring at
the sky again, his jaw set in concentration. Devon could not
understand his gloomy preoccupation.

"Captain... please tell me what is
wrong."

"There's a storm ahead. I can smell it. The
question is—do we raise sail and hope to outrun the storm, or lower
the sails and hope to ride it out?"

Devon knew that the question was purely
academic, considering Andre Raveneau's personality. The
Black
Eagle
was as bold as its captain. They would sail, meeting
head-on whatever weather lay waiting for them.

Minutes grew to an hour. Raveneau scarcely
spoke, and the rest of the crew carefully ignored Devon. She was
reluctant to return to the cabin, although it was obvious that
Raveneau expected her to do so. Mr. Lane's disapproving gaze seemed
to burn holes in her back.

The seamen grew quieter as the sky darkened.
Every now and then the captain would shout an order through his
speaking trumpet and there would be a general scramble up and down
the ratlines to reef the sails one by one as the wind increased. At
last Raveneau seemed to remember Devon. When he turned to address
her, she felt a twinge of alarm at the sight of his furrowed brow.
She hadn't imagined that he was subject to such a human emotion as
worry or fright.

"You'd better go below."

Devon sighed, pushing windblown curls out of
her eyes. She was cold and more than a little scared; this was not
the time to argue with Captain Raveneau. "All right, but I want to
be kept informed. Don't you dare leave me below to sink with the
ship!"

Raveneau's grin was involuntary. "Devon, I do
not think we shall sink. But, to put your mind at ease, you may
tell Minter I want to see him. I shall have him bring news to you
for the next few hours."

"Thank you." The
Black Eagle
had begun
to rock violently. Devon put a hand on Raveneau's arm. "Do take
care. I shall have Minter bring up your peacoat."

"Fine."

With that, he walked over to converse with
the sailing master and Devon turned to leave. A voice from high on
the mast stopped her.

"Sail ho!"

The strange ship bobbed on the far horizon;
if the
Black Eagle's
sails were spread, she could reach it
easily. Devon was unable to turn her back on such excitement.

"We will not give chase," Raveneau said
quietly, and the boatswain passed the order.

Without pausing to think, Devon ran back to
Raveneau's side and pulled at his sleeve. "Why aren't we going
after it? Perhaps it's one of those merchantmen you spoke of. You
can't just let it sail away like this!"

"Young lady!" Lane attempted to step between
them, but Devon angrily bumped him aside.

"Devon, there is a reason why I have made
this choice. As captain, I may or may not choose to explain it to
you later." Raveneau's eyes were as forbidding and stormy as the
skies overhead. "I have asked you to return to my cabin. Do so
now!"

A dozen tart rejoinders hovered on Devon's
tongue, but the look on his face made her think twice. There was no
telling what this Frenchman might do if truly provoked, and this
would not be the first time she had tested his patience. So,
instead of shouting, she merely scowled angrily and stamped off
across the quarter-deck. Before climbing through the hatch, she
looked back at Raveneau. He was huddled with the boatswain and the
sailing master, his back to her. How maddening to be ignored! The
only person watching her was a red-faced Mr. Lane.

Still, she sent Minter up with the peacoat.
The steward soon returned to report that the weather was worsening
and the
Black Eagle
was swinging to the starboard side in an
effort to avoid the heart of the storm. "It's a squall left from
that hurricane that's been plaguing the islands," Minter explained.
"We should be able to maneuver through it, but on the other
hand..."

He left her alone then, promising to return
every quarter hour with a report. When he had gone, Devon sat on
the bed, clutching the sides, and let her imagination run wild. The
Black Eagle
swayed and dipped more and more erratically.
Waves pounded the hull with increasing violence, until it seemed
that the ocean would smash the privateer like a paper toy.
Footsteps thundered down the gangway, though they didn't come as
far aft as the captain's cabin. In the distance the boatswain's
pipe sounded a series of shrill, urgent calls. Devon was chilled
with terror as she realized that the pumps were being manned at a
frenetic pace.

Shrouded in an eerie green haze, the cabin
pitched chaotically as the pounding of the waves grew louder and
louder. Devon found herself thinking of Andre Raveneau. What was it
like up on deck? Could anyone be left alive in such a storm? Her
heart thudded painfully at the thought that Raveneau might be dead,
swallowed by the greedy, rampaging sea.

More than an hour had passed since Minter's
last visit. Was he dead, too? In desperation, Devon threw open the
cabin door and started into the gangway just as the
Black
Eagle
fell sideways. She lurched, crashing into a bulkhead.
When she opened her eyes, Minter's face was above her, pale and
young.

"What—" Devon managed.

"It's bad, but the captain will see us
through. He is charmed, and so is this privateer." Minter spoke as
much for his own comfort as for Devon's.

"He's not hurt, then...?"

Minter imitated Raveneau's sarcastic snort.
"Don't be silly. He is indestructible!"

Devon smiled weakly and Minter helped her
struggle to her feet. She was weak with relief to hear that Andre
Raveneau was alive and working to save his ship and crew, but there
was no chance to examine her feelings now.

"Minter, don't you think Caleb Jackson should
be let out of the brig? I've been worried in case anything should
happen."

Minter nodded and hurried toward the hatch.
Devon thought, He has them all well trained. They can't make a move
without his approval, even during a crisis!

Minutes later, a wet and bedraggled Minter
was on his way down to the brig, and Devon watched as Caleb
followed him back to the gun deck and the chaos of the storm. She
wondered if she had done Caleb a favor, after all.

For what seemed like hours, Devon stood in
the gangway and fell back and forth with the savage motion of the
Black Eagle.
When she couldn't stand another moment of
waiting, she worked her way over to the main hatch. It was open,
and wet spray blasted Devon's face as she started up the ladder. No
sooner had her head appeared above the deck than she heard a loud,
splintering crack.

One of the middle yardarms had broken off and
Devon watched, horrified, as a man fell helplessly through the
storm-swept air into the sea. It was Caleb.

Without a second thought, she climbed onto
the gun deck, hair whipping across her face, and staggered toward
Andre Raveneau at the rail. Black hair sleek and unbound, he pulled
off his knee boots and peacoat and dove into the angry green and
white sea. The wind pushed Devon back with the force of two men,
but she crawled forward toward the rail with panic-fueled strength.
Almost immediately, she spotted Raveneau's black head bobbing among
the choppy waves. One arm was hooked around Caleb's neck.

Devon looked wildly about the deck. Mr. Lane
was clutching the foremast, oblivious to all except his own
survival, and everyone else was in the rigging. She found a line
that had been secured with a deadeye, the excess looped around the
bottom. She unwound it rapidly and flung it over the side toward
Raveneau. But before she could see if the line had reached him, a
mighty blast of wind knocked her backward. For one moment she felt
a consuming panic, then her head struck the deck and there was
nothing but wet, salty blackness.

* * *

It was the strangest of sensations, to feel a
man's head on her breast. Devon knew what it was even before she
opened her eyes to look. She felt the contours of the brow,
cheekbones, and jaw. Her own head hurt badly, and opening her eyes
required a huge effort.

Curiosity won. A warm glow settled in her
belly when she opened her eyes to find Raveneau sitting on the
floor with his head resting back on the bed. She was his
pillow.

It all came back to Devon then. The storm,
the raging seas, Caleb falling when the yardarm broke... and Andre
Raveneau's suicidal rescue attempt. She could remember tossing the
line out, then falling, but nothing more. Was it possible that her
action had saved them? Or was it true that Raveneau was simply
charmed and indestructible? Dreamily, she admired him as he slept.
He wore a clean, heavy shirt that emphasized his swarthy tan. His
hair was still damp, curling slightly against his neck as it
dried.

As though sensing the change in Devon's
breathing, he opened his eyes and turned his face against her
breast. Devon's heart beat a wild tattoo. Raveneau's smile lit the
room.

"You are awake!" he murmured, obviously
pleased. "How do you feel?"

"My head..." she whispered. Her mouth was
like sandpaper. Raveneau was up in one movement, lifting the bottle
of cognac and one snifter from their special, padded case.

He splashed some cognac in the snifter and
held it to her lips. Devon felt the warm strength of his fingers
bracing her neck; it was astonishing that she should be so
poignantly conscious of the man's touch!

The cognac helped, wetting her mouth and
spreading its heat through her stiff body. "Thank you. I seem to be
all right, except for my head. It hurts."

"We shall keep you quiet for the next day, to
be safe."

"Please tell me..."

"I caught the line you threw." He grinned,
white teeth flashing. "So, you see, I owe you my life!"

Devon was skeptical. "I think you could have
managed without me, but I'm glad I could help. Is the storm over?"
She realized that the cabin wasn't pitching as before.

"We've run out the worst of it. This craft is
tenuous."

"I was terrified. I thought we'd all be
killed!"

"Petite chatte,
if you had been that
afraid, you'd have been cowering under this table rather than
sliding across the gun deck!"

"Where is Caleb?"

Raveneau's sharp eyes monitored her
expression. "He fell a long way and apparently swallowed a good
deal of water. When I got him onto the deck, I thought he was dead,
but Mr. Lane managed to revive him. He's in the surgeon's cubicle
now."

"Mr. Lane?" Devon queried, perplexed.

"I was looking after you."

Their eyes locked for a long moment. Devon
was seeing a new side to the man. She would have thought Caleb's
death would be a relief to him, yet he had risked his own life to
save a man he despised. And he had been concerned about her...

As though reading her mind, Raveneau said
laconically, "I haven't put up with all this bother to see you
killed. I've promised to reunite you and Maxwell, and so I shall. I
consider the trials of Devon Lindsay to be my one great
contribution to the cause of true love."