Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (14 page)

***~~~***

September 9, 1781

Devon lay awake all night. Raveneau's
sarcastic references to Devon and Morgan's engagement had rebuilt
the wall of tension between them. To make matters worse, they had
visited Caleb in the surgeon's cubicle and Raveneau had scrutinized
her face whenever the injured man moaned, his eyes letting her know
that he was fully aware of her affection for the injured man.
Finally, Devon had called him on it, demanding that he stop
leering, insisting that he was all wrong about Caleb, that they
were just friends. Raveneau's only response had been a sharply
raised black eyebrow.

A moonbeam slanted in through the transom,
pouring silver over the bed and its occupants. Devon turned on her
side, toward Raveneau. His harsh, lean beauty was mesmerizing, but
more fascinating was the puzzle of his personality, principles,
emotions, if he possessed such mortal qualities. He lay with one
arm thrown over his head, the other resting on his chest, so
strangely peaceful that Devon found herself smiling languidly.

She next awoke to late morning sunlight and
the sound of Minter's voice.

"Miss Lindsay? Can you hear me?" He smiled
with delight when she opened her eyes. "I've brought your
breakfast!"

Gingerly, Devon propped herself on an elbow.
Her headache had diminished. "I don't know if I am hungry."

"Don't try to get up! You'll eat right there.
The captain doesn't want you to move about. He was very upset when
you insisted on seeing Mr. Jackson last night, feared you might
make your own injury worse."

Devon mulled over this news as she watched
Minter assemble her meal. She could see that it had been carefully
prepared; the dishes were fit for an elderly invalid.

"You seem in fine spirits today, Minter."

"We all are! We're thankful to be alive and
dry this morning. It is a blessing! And from the sound of it,
Captain Raveneau should be most grateful. If not for you, he'd have
been drowned!"

"I doubt that. Didn't you tell me he leads a
charmed life?"

Minter laughed, his red hair agleam in the
sunlight. "So far, that seems to be true!" Spreading a linen towel
over Devon's lap, he presented her with a warm dish of custard,
then stood and watched until she had taken the first bite.

"How's Jackson doing?" he asked.

"I don't know. He certainly looked ill last
night. I do wish Captain Raveneau would let me out of this
bed!"

"Eat that custard!" Minter scolded. "As for
you and this bed, it's my opinion that the captain believes you
fancy Jackson. He seems to think you want to be near him."

"Rubbish! Where would he get such an
idea?"

"That I don't know. I will say that he thinks
it was Jackson you were out to rescue yesterday. And once he
decides something, there's no changing his mind."

Devon fell back against the pillows,
wide-eyed with disbelief. Then she became angry, and, deciding that
she couldn't just lie in bed knowing nothing, she begged Minter to
ask the surgeon about Caleb's condition and report back to her.

"Well, what did Treasel say?" Devon demanded
impatiently when Minter returned.

"Miss Lindsay, he's not really what you would
call a physician. He just matches up medicines and cures from his
books. He can take off arms or legs, remove bullets, and do a fair
job of healing festering wounds, but this sort of thing..."

"You mean there is nothing he can do?"

Minter squirmed. "It's really just one of
those things. Men drown at sea. Jackson had a second chance... You
don't know that he won't make it yet! Please, you haven't eaten
your breakfast—"

"Take this food away!" Devon cried. The
dagger had renewed its attack on the back of her head. "You are as
coldblooded as your captain! Doesn't anyone care that Caleb is
dying?"

A maddeningly familiar voice answered from
the doorway. "Perhaps we all realized that you are concerned enough
for at least ten men, so we don't worry that Jackson is deprived in
that respect." Raveneau crossed to the bed and stood looking down
at Devon, the coldness of his expression belying his light
tone.

"You appear better, mademoiselle," he
commented. "How is your head?"

"Worse, since you came in!" Devon shot back.
She could have bitten off her tongue, but the beast deserved it.
Her eyes misted in frustration and she failed to see Raveneau's jaw
tighten.

"How inconsiderate of me to enter my own
cabin. Perhaps you would rather be in the surgeon's cubicle, where
you and your sweetheart could nurse each other!"

Devon had finally had enough of his sarcasm.
"Sir, I will thank you to stop twisting everything I do or say. Do
you believe that I give my heart to every man I meet?"

Raveneau had started to turn away, but froze
at her words, looking back with a small, wicked smile. "Perhaps not
your
heart,
Mademoiselle Lindsay..."

After Raveneau left, Devon settled in for a
day of rest. She was oppressively tired. Treasel paid a noontime
call and assured her that such fatigue was normal after a head
injury, but he had no hopeful news to give her about Caleb
Jackson.

Minter brought food, but she pretended to be
asleep. It was Andre Raveneau's step that Devon listened for all
day but never heard. Finally, at sundown, she came fully awake. A
dinner tray rested nearby on the floor; the small pitcher of cream
had toppled over with the motion of the
Black Eagle,
soaking
the beefsteak, roll, and squash on her plate.

Where was Raveneau? Would his contempt for
her keep him from taking the evening meal in his own cabin? Devon
felt cold, nauseous, and miserable. She wrapped herself into a
protective ball. Bitter pain built inside, burning her heart.

Out on deck, Minter urged his captain to go
below and share a warm meal with Devon, but Raveneau could not be
distracted until all the storm's damage had been seen to.

"Miss Lindsay is a human being!" Minter
cried, following him across the gun deck. "This can wait! She needs
you!"

"You talk as if there were a romance between
us!" Raveneau thundered as he surveyed the progress being made on
the broken yardarm.

"Captain, I know you won't like this, but I
happen to like this girl and I think it is unfair for you to judge
her as you judge all other females. Simply because you have been
disillusioned..."

"Minter! I am at least a dozen years older
than you and I have observed enough women to know that they mean
deceit and trouble!" He saw the stricken expression on Minter's
face. "I don't intend to toss the girl overboard, but please
remember that she is here because of my charity! I am not the
villain!"

* * *

It was dark when she heard Raveneau approach.
Devon hurt inside. Her stomach ached with loneliness as she thought
of her mother, Nick, Benedict Arnold, Caleb...

And then Raveneau opened the door. His
wonderful male scent wafted over her; the pain ebbed. Somehow the
mere sight of him made the black gloom worthwhile.

Raveneau returned her smile.
"Bon soir,
petite chatte,"
he whispered.

"Bon soir."
Why was he smiling? Wasn't
he supposed to be angry?

"I am famished." He sat beside her on the
bed. "I could eat a whale!"

Devon raised her head. "You haven't had
supper?"

"No! I've been busy as hell all day. The
yardarm had to be repaired, plus all the other more trivial damage,
and matters were complicated by the number of injured men. Most
will be good as new tomorrow, but there were several sprains and
bruises."

Devon felt a dizzying elation: he had been
busy! "That's terrible!"

He peered sideways in the darkness, quirking
a brow at the cheerful tone of her voice. "Your concern is
commendable."

Blushing, Devon dropped back into the bed and
grinned into the moonlit transom. "I suppose I am pleased to find
you in such good humor."

"Well, there's a reason. In spite of the
havoc wrought by that squall, it could have been worse. We might
have been blown days off course, but as luck would have it, the
storm sent us in the right direction."

"Oh, really? How close to Yorktown are we,
then?" Inexplicably, Devon's chest tightened.

"A day away. With the right wind, we might
arrive tomorrow night."

"Oh... that's wonderful."

Raveneau stood up and stretched, his powerful
body silhouetted against the moonlight. "I thought you would be
pleased. I know how you burn to be reunited with Milton."

Minter arrived with the captain's supper and
lit the candles, while Devon hesitantly reflected on Morgan, her
supposed reason for this perilous voyage. His existence seemed so
remote that she experienced a twinge of panic.

"Worrying about Jackson?" Raveneau inquired
abruptly.

Devon looked up to find him seated at the
table, cutting into a fragrant beefsteak.

"Someone has to," she replied.

"Devon, come over here."

She wore only one of his linen shirts. When
she stood up the banded cuffs fell past her fingers, but the hem
barely touched her knees.

"I should... put my breeches on..."

"What a horrifying thought! Please, do not
cover such enchanting legs."

Delighted by this flattery, Devon joined
Raveneau at the table. He casually offered her a bit of this or
that dish, until she had consumed as much food as he. It was
obvious that he wanted to smooth things over between them; Devon
thought that he was probably too exhausted to quarrel. She could
see signs of fatigue in his lean face.

They spoke little, yet the silence was not
strained. Devon felt peaceful.

After Minter had removed the dishes, the two
of them leaned back and sipped cognac. The
Black Eagle
cut
smoothly through the dark sea, rocking gently, and Devon persuaded
Raveneau to tell her about some of his more famous captures. They
were tales she had heard a dozen times from Nick and the men of New
London; they were threads in the fabric of Raveneau's legend. Yet
when he spoke of his exploits, he rarely mentioned himself,
detailing instead the maneuvers of the ship, the daring of his
crew. Pride softened the hard lines of his face.

"Captain?" she inquired hesitantly.

"Devon, I think that you should call me
Andre." His grin was teasing.

"Fine. Thank you... Andre." Devon blushed. "I
was wondering if you might explain to me now why we didn't chase
that ship yesterday."

There was a slight flicker of irritation in
his eyes before he answered. "You may assume that any decision I
make is the correct one. I ought to leave it at that, but this time
I'll explain. This is no ordinary cruise we are making, no circle
from New London to Yorktown and back again. We will stay in
Yorktown for an indefinite period, and I cannot spare even one man
to take a captured ship back to Connecticut."

"Do you mean that you'll be fighting in
Yorktown? Will there be a battle?"

"I dearly hope so,
petite chatte.
If
all goes well, there will be a battle that will never be
forgotten."

* * *

Something was wrong. Devon awoke, chilled,
opening her eyes to moonlight. Next to her, Raveneau slept deeply,
his brown chest rising and falling. The
Black Eagle
swayed
like a cradle; the night was still.

What was wrong? Devon wondered. Something
clutched her heart with icy claws. Caleb? She wanted to bury her
face in the pillow and be covered by sleep, but her legs carried
her up out of the cabin, and all the way to the surgeon's
cubicle.

Caleb looked worse. He could have been a
ghost, staring up at Devon with glassy, unseeing eyes that made her
want to scream. His mouth was open between hollow, ghoulish cheeks.
She would never have recognized him. This was not the Caleb she had
allowed to charm her.

Helplessly, Devon knelt and laid her ear
against his chest. There was no heartbeat. She was paralyzed,
staring at this unfamiliar face as images of a different Caleb
flickered crazily through her mind. There had been a time when she
believed him to be fine, boyishly charming, and unselfish, when she
had defended him to Raveneau and agonized over his torn back.
Perhaps those qualities had been real, coexisting with
irresponsibility, impulsiveness, and the cancer of his hatred for
Andre Raveneau.

If not for Caleb, she might have gone quietly
insane beside the British soldier in New London. Whatever his
motives, he had given her a second chance at life, and Devon would
always be grateful. Tears burned her eyes, trickling down to drop
onto Caleb's ghostly face. She wept and rocked back and forth on
her heels until she felt sick. Then Raveneau was beside her,
lifting her up into his arms, carrying her back to his cabin, where
he sat in the leather wing chair with Devon huddled on his lap. She
sobbed uncontrollably, clutching his warm chest and shoulders.
Gently he caressed her hair and whispered softly against her wet
cheek until she began to quiet. Eventually she retreated into the
safe haven of dreamless sleep, but Raveneau remained awake,
watching Devon's tear- streaked face, his eyes like splintered
steel.

***~~~***

September 10, 1781

Devon awoke at dawn, alone in the bed.
Raveneau was shaving. "Feeling better?" he asked coldly.

"I feel terrible. As though I'm dying myself.
Please, may I come above with you today?" To her dismay, Devon
heard her voice crack.

Raveneau glanced at her in a way that drove
her insane—cynical, cold, knowing. "You may do whatever you like as
long as it does not interfere with the
Black Eagle's
speedy
passage to Chesapeake Bay." He paused while buttoning a fresh shirt
over his hard, tanned chest. "However, if you are planning to weep
and moan all day, stay down here. I can't have the entire crew
comforting you."