Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (15 page)

He pulled on his boots and walked out the
door. Devon wanted to throw something at him, but instead, she ran
behind, calling out the door, "Arrogant French beast! Coldblooded
pirate! I hate you!"

Raveneau paused at the hatch. "Do you expect
me to care?" he inquired emotionlessly, then disappeared from
view.

Devon was wounded, but only momentarily. She
was angry at herself for being hurt by anything he said or did, and
stamped across the cabin, muttering between clenched teeth, "I hate
him!" over and over.

Yet even as she dressed, she found herself
going back over all their conversations, remembering the various
expressions on his face, the few real smiles. He was a true enigma.
Deciding that she would never be able to dissect the man, Devon
left the cabin, telling herself that she despised him all the
same.

It was a strange day. The
Black Eagle
strained to reach Chesapeake Bay before nightfall, but it soon
became obvious that the wind would not cooperate. Raveneau's mood
was one of tightly strung irritability; soon the crew began to snap
at one another as well.

Devon stayed close to Treasel, who had come
above to get a bit of sun. When Caleb's body was committed to the
sea, it was Treasel who held Devon's hand. The crew gathered, heads
bowed, while Mr. Lane said a few trivial words. Raveneau had
disappeared below. Someone said he was eating a midday meal, adding
the hope that food would improve his temper.

After Caleb's body, wrapped and weighted, had
disappeared between the waves, the surgeon chatted on briskly,
hoping to clear the dazed look in Devon's sapphire-blue eyes. The
crew scattered and they were left alone at the rail.

"Did you care so much for Jackson?" asked
Treasel.

"No... and I feel worse for that—guilty. It
was so awful to see him dead."

"That's odd! The rumor is that you two were
sweethearts—that you risked your life on deck during the storm to
save him!"

Devon stared at him, her forehead puckering
as he spoke. "Why would anyone leap to such conclusions?" she
gasped.

"Because Jackson said as much the day your
presence was made known! Everyone said you had followed him to the
Black Eagle
and begged him to hide you. As far as I know, he
never denied it." Treasel vigorously scratched his silvery hair,
remembering.

"The men thought it was wrong of the captain,
locking you in his cabin and refusing to let you see Jackson! But
then, there are the rules... and, of course, the two of them never
did get along."

"I don't understand!" Devon exclaimed. "This
is ludicrous. It was nothing like that!"

"No? Why, Jackson even complained to me when
I was dressing his wounds, about how mad he was! Said it would be
just like Captain Raveneau to soil his woman for him, just for
spite. So, then, it was no surprise to me when you turned up down
in the cockpit, all tears and worry." He gave her a sharp sidelong
glance. "How do you explain that, if you didn't care?"

"I felt responsible!" she shrilled. She
wondered if Caleb had spread such stories in order to turn the crew
against Raveneau. Her head began to pound. "I do not want to talk
about this anymore," she groaned. "Oh, Treasel, how I wish we were
in Yorktown!"

Just then Andre Raveneau appeared at her
side, and Devon realized with a pang that the end of this voyage
would mean the end of their association. Looking up into his
flinty, smoldering eyes, she tried to imagine life without him.

"I trust you have recovered your composure,
Mademoiselle Lindsay?" he inquired coolly.

"Why, I never lost it, Captain," Devon
replied.

"What? Do you mean to say that you have not
been washing down the deck with tears and yanking out clumps of
hair in your grief?"

"You are insufferable." She averted her
face.

"I am devastated to hear you say so. Allow me
to remove myself from your sight." Smiling ironically, he went on
to the quarter-deck, while Devon seethed.

"Sail ho!" came the shout from high on the
mainmast. The seaman paused for only a moment before scurrying down
the ratlines and racing toward the quarter-deck. Captain Raveneau
met him halfway.

"There's a whole fleet due south, Cap'n!" the
man cried breathlessly. "Damned if they aren't British! Over a
dozen ships!"

Raveneau's eyes lit up. He smiled briefly to
himself, then gave the order for the flags to be changed.

"We'll stay on course," he announced. "I have
to find out what has happened!"

Before long, the fleet loomed ahead on their
starboard side. The huge frigates dwarfed the
Black Eagle,
but their sails were torn and powder-stained, their bulwarks
splintered. One ship had lost its mainmast.

Devon edged her way toward the quarter-deck,
consumed by curiosity. The captain and his first lieutenant stood
side by side at the rail, which Raveneau was gripping with tense
delight.

"Mon Dieu!"
he hissed. "It is the
combined forces of Admirals Hood and Graves!
Regardez!
Just
look at the condition of those ships! I'm afraid we have missed the
battle, but if this was the outcome, then I am sufficiently
pleased. Oh, to have been there! De Grasse must be ecstatic!"

Devon stared at Raveneau, hypnotized by his
energy. He was the embodiment of lean, carefully leashed power; he
shone in the sunlight.

The battered British fleet sailed past,
barely acknowledging the presence of the
Black Eagle.
The
nearest ship saluted halfheartedly when it came alongside. It
seemed to Devon that the crew looked weary and downcast.

When they were long clear and the flags had
been replaced, the wind suddenly improved as though prompted by
Raveneau's good spirits. Snowy sails billowed above the
sharp-hulled privateer, sending it slicing effortlessly through the
aquamarine waves.

Treasel had gone below to change the
dressings of some of the men injured during the storm, and Devon
decided to approach the captain. She boldly ascended to the
hallowed area of the quarter-deck, ignoring Mr. Lane's icy
stare.

"Excuse me."

Raveneau had just unfurled a chart, which he
studied with narrowed eyes. Without looking up, he murmured dryly,
"You wish a word with this insufferable, beastly, arrogant,
coldblooded French pirate?"

Devon blushed from the roots of her hair to
the bodice of the sea-green gown. "Captain, it is your own fault
that I say such horrid things," she countered lamely.

"Oh, really?" Raveneau raised his head, eyes
sparkling silver, teeth gleaming in a wicked smile. "I cannot wait
to hear the reasoning behind
that
statement."

"You provoke me."

"But,
petite chatte,
you provoke me as
well, and I have yet to speak aloud all the names I have called you
in my mind."

Anger deepened Devon's blush. Raveneau felt
his heart soften as he gazed at her. He thought that it was a crime
for such loveliness to go untasted. But, of course, her perfect
Morgan would have that pleasure soon enough.

She was a vision. The sun struck sparks on
her strawberry-blond curls, which blew softly around the oval of
her face. Such luminous, deep blue eyes, tempting lips, and soft,
peach-cream skin. The chit had no idea how intensely he desired
her, and Raveneau couldn't let her know as long as she was
betrothed to another man. If he could not have her, admitting his
weakness would be fatal.

"I did not come up here to trade insults with
you, Captain," Devon said slowly. She wished she could hit him
squarely on the jaw. "I was hoping you might tell me about the
British fleet we just passed."

Raveneau looked out to sea or at his chart as
he spoke; anywhere but at Devon. "I am not certain, but I think
that I know what happened. Admiral de Grasse, who is one of my
countrymen, took a fleet into Chesapeake Bay to fight the British
navy and prevent any ships from coming to the rescue of General
Cornwallis and his army on the mainland. I had hoped to do what I
could to help the blockade, but from the looks of those British
warships, it would seem that the confrontation is over."

"And the British were the losers?" Devon
prompted.

"I think that is a safe deduction." Raveneau
smiled, "I am anxious to reach the bay and learn all the
details!"

Mr. Lane cleared his throat to capture the
captain's attention. Devon slipped away, retreating to the cabin
for a light meal and some rest. She still felt very weak.

Minter brought a delicious-smelling tray and
was so meticulously cheerful that Devon wondered if he believed the
story that she had been in love with Caleb. Part of her wanted to
discuss it with him again, but she was just too tired.

Returning in midafternoon to retrieve the
tray and dishes, Minter found Devon lying on her back on the bed.
Her blue eyes were open, staring at a point in space.

"Miss Lindsay?"

"Hmm? Oh, Minter, hello. How is
everything?"

"Fine. And you?"

"Tired. Apprehensive."

"I'll wager you are happy to know you'll be
with your fiancé soon."

"Oh, of course. If he is in Virginia, if I
can find him... and if he's still alive."

"I'm certain things will work out for you.
You deserve it." He smiled with real affection. "Do you suppose you
might miss the
Black Eagle
a bit?"

Devon's eyes clouded. "This is the finest
craft I have ever seen. Of course I shall miss it—and you,
too!"

Minter crouched beside the bed. "The crew
hoped you'd feel that way, Miss Lindsay. They asked me to invite
you to share some grog with us tonight. It's a custom to have a
party on the last night before we reach port. Captain Raveneau
gives every man a double ration."

"But why would they want me there?"

"The men feel sorry for you. They think
you've had a rough time of it, and they just want to cheer you up
and let you know they care."

"In that case, Minter, I would love to go.
Will you escort me?"

* * *

Raveneau returned to the cabin that evening
to find Devon sitting at his desk, peering into the mirror from his
shaving stand while brushing her red-gold hair.

"Hello," she greeted him absently.

"Hello." He was curious, but tried not to let
it show. She still wore the sea-green gown, which looked as if it
had been ironed. Her skin was pink and gold and satiny in the
lantern light; her lips were moist and lush.

No sooner had Raveneau poured himself a
portion of cognac than Minter arrived with his supper.

"That was quick," he commented suspiciously.
"Where is Devon's plate?"

"I've already eaten," she explained.

Minter wore clean clothes and had combed his
bright red hair. "Are you ready, Miss Lindsay?"

"I certainly am! I don't mind saying that I'm
excited!" She stood up, smoothing her skirts. "Thank you for asking
me, Minter."

He flushed happily, but Raveneau's face was
stormy. "Will someone tell me what the hell is going on around
here?" he asked.

"Why, Captain, your crew has invited me to
share a cup of grog with them to celebrate the last night at sea.
Isn't that nice?"

"Oh, yes! They are a thoughtful group," he
said caustically.

"I hope you don't mind, Captain," Minter
interjected anxiously.

"As a matter of fact—"

"Of course he doesn't mind." Devon was
standing beside Minter, but her eyes were locked with Raveneau's.
"Your captain has assured me that I may do whatever I like until we
reach Yorktown. Isn't that right, Captain Raveneau?"

"That wicked tongue will get you in trouble
one day," he warned, his voice deadly even. "Minter, you are
responsible for this little vixen. See to it that she stays out of
mischief and is treated with respect by those brutes."

"Oh, yes, sir, I will!"

* * *

Devon had a fine time in the crew's quarters.
The hammocks were stowed out of sight, replaced by the hinged
tables which were secured against the walls at night.

The men were freshly shaved, hair plastered
down flat and wet, with clean kerchiefs tied around their necks.
All the still-damp, musty-smelling clothing left from the storm had
been hung to dry elsewhere, and the hatch was wide open to let in
the cool evening air.

Every man wanted Devon at his table, yet for
all the enthusiasm displayed, she was treated with deference and
courtesy. After a half cup of grog, she joined in the festive
spirit, moving from table to table with each new toast. Minter was
careful to stay by her side. He glared at any man who ogled Devon,
but couldn't help feeling that his expression could never match
Captain Raveneau's for sheer menace.

Devon regaled the sailing master and the
boatswain with stories of her father and his exploits at sea.
Wheaton, the boatswain, professed to remember Hugh Lindsay, which
won Devon's heart. The crusty old man recounted their last meeting,
his wording suspiciously ambiguous, while Devon helpfully supplied
details.

"Aye, there's no doubt that Hugh Lindsay was
as fine a sea captain as any," Wheaton declared at last. "Exceptin'
Captain Raveneau, o' course."

Devon's face fell, while every man raised his
mug and shouted, "Hear, hear!"

"You can't mean that!" she cried to the old
man. "I know that he puts on a good show, but I thought that you
would have been perceptive enough to realize—"

Wheaton's eyes were like blue ice in his
leathery face. "Miss Lindsay, Raveneau is the finest captain I have
ever known, and that's plain truth. I don't happen to believe in
lucky ships. Such good fortune is the captain's doing, and for my
money, Captain Raveneau makes bloody miracles happen!"

Glancing around the quiet room, Devon found
every man's eyes fastened on her. It galled her to give in, but she
realized that these men were stubbornly, blindly, loyal to their
captain. "You are right, of course," she said. "I cannot imagine
what came over me."