Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (29 page)

The
Black Eagle
fired her starboard
guns, raking the length of the frigate's decks. The British armed
their swivel guns and fought back, but sharp-shooting riflemen
aboard the privateer were able to pick off the gun crews.

The privateer's crew was amazingly well
trained. Even in her heart-stopping fear Devon noticed the expert,
unwasted movements of the men. They seemed to enjoy themselves,
whooping when a particularly fine shot found its mark.

No one noticed Devon. Even Raveneau,
springing across the deck, shouting staccato orders, failed to see
her. Treasel appeared with Minter by his side and combed the deck
for wounded men. When they approached the hatch carrying the first
casualty, Devon took one look at the young seaman's bloody leg and
shook off her panic. "Minter! Let me help!"

There was no time for surprise at her
presence, or for scolding. "Stay low and scout around for the worst
hurt," Treasel ordered.

Devon lost herself in the pandemonium.
Between searches for wounded men, she helped to hand stinkpots up
to the main tree on the mast, where they were lit and hurled down
to the enemy's decks. She unpacked rifles from the arms chest and
passed them out to men with empty hands. All around, shots passed
her in the night.

Then Mr. Lane began to scream hysterically
that there was no more ammunition. Devon, crouching beside an
injured gunner's mate with Minter, cried, "Did you hear? Does this
mean we're beaten?"

"Captain Raveneau'd never allow it," the
gunner's mate answered, gritting his teeth against the pain of his
shattered shoulder.

"All hands collect every crowbar, bayonet,
any metal!" Raveneau bellowed. "Pack those gun
muzzles—
now!"

Devon leaped to her feet to join in and
collided head-on with Raveneau as he strode toward her. Rough hands
caught her forearms and steely eyes cut through the darkness.

"—Mon Dieu!
You lunatic! What the hell
are you up to now?"

Devon tried to shake free. Her bedgown, so
hastily stuffed into the breeches, was streaked with powder and
spattered with blood. Her face was smudged, framed by tangled curls
and highlighted by glowing, sapphire-blue eyes. "Captain, if you
want to save your ship, kindly unhand me so that we both can join
in the effort!"

Astounded, he let her go, watching as she
dashed across the deck toward the hatch where crowbars were being
passed up from the hold.

Then one of the enemy succeeded in hitting
the man who had been hurling the stinkpots from the platform above.
He toppled forward and fell to the deck only a few feet away from
Devon. Horrified, she nevertheless saw what needed to be done. She
instantly started for the mast and clambered up the ratlines. A
ball whistled by a short distance away, but she kept on going until
she reached the platform.

There were only three stinkpots left beside a
tarnished, flickering lantern.

"Devon!"
a familiar voice thundered.
"I could strangle you! Lie down and don't move!"

But Devon lit the stinkpot, held it over her
head, and threw it toward the frigate with every ounce of her
strength. "Leave me alone!" she called down to the furious
Raveneau.

A string of evil-sounding French words met
her; then, as Devon lit the second stinkpot, she saw him start up
the ratlines.

"If you must come, bring some more of these!"
she shouted.

In moments, Raveneau was on the platform,
dropping his armload of stinkpots before pulling Devon flat against
the planks. "For Christ's sake, will you stay
down?!"

Splintery wood scraped her cheek and she felt
Raveneau's hand on her neck like a steel band. "Unhand me!" she
ground out, eyes flashing. "I can fight just like the rest of your
crew. I want to help!" Pinned to the platform, she could see
nothing but the corner of the lantern and Raveneau's dark,
cut-stone visage. Abruptly, he released her and reached for a
stinkpot Devon scrambled up to grab the lantern and bring it over
to light the noxious missile. By the time he had thrown the last
one, all the crowbars and other sundry weapons had been thrust into
the cannons.

"We are ready, Captain!" shouted Mr.
Lane.

"Fire!"
was Raveneau's reply. He held
Devon down again, but the two of them peered over the edge of the
platform, watching as the metal exploded from the cannons, sweeping
the frigate's decks dear, making hash of anyone who stood in the
way. Even the men on the
Black Eagle
seemed stunned by their
success. They stood staring, mouths agape, then turned in unison to
seek out their captain.

"Nothin' for it," declared a burly
boatswain's mate. "'E's bloody charmed!"

"Devil's fortune," muttered another in
disbelief.

Grasping Devon's elbow, Raveneau thrust her
forward. "Go on!" The ratlines burned her bare feet, but she
descended as nimbly as a cat, landing on the deck only an instant
before Raveneau.

Wheaton shouted, loud enough to be heard over
the rumbling voices, "Men! I give you the finest captain on any
sea!"

Devon, dazed and ebullient all at once,
looked up into Raveneau's chiseled face. He regarded his worshipful
men with a flickering smile, and his eyes crinkled at the corners
before he glanced down and saw Devon, dirty and bloody and
brave.

As Raveneau's arms caught her up and locked
her body against his own, she felt her heart swell and ache with
bittersweet love.

***~~~***

October 29-November 4, 1781

Dawn was breaking by the time Raveneau
finished his work. Despite his urging, Devon could not bring
herself to leave him. The two ships had been separated and most of
the
Black Eagle's
huge crew transferred to the frigate. The
captain and top officers had been hustled on board the privateer
and locked in the gloomy brig. The frigate had carried no cargo,
but such a fine warship was prize enough.

The cook appeared with breakfast, and before
taking Devon below, Raveneau drank a mug of strong, rich coffee,
sharing it with the tattered, flame-haired waif at his side. Then
he held her close as they descended to the berth deck.

"Your feet!" Raveneau exclaimed, noticing her
shoeless state for the first time as he helped her climb through
the hatch. Her tiny feet were filthy, badly cut, and spattered with
the blood of dozens of men.

Devon looked down, surprised. "Do you know
that I'd forgotten? Hmmm. Do you suppose we shall ever be clean
again?"

Raveneau rubbed his eyes with long, blackened
fingers and smiled. "Perhaps if we endeavor to help each other, a
memorable bath might be effected."

Devon saw the wicked gleam in his eyes and
laughed with uninhibited joy.

* * *

The rest of their week at sea was tranquil.
Raveneau, after taking such a magnificent prize, was more relaxed
than Devon had ever seen him. She asked only once where they were
bound. Raveneau mysteriously declined to answer and she was not
particularly curious. She almost wished they could stay at sea
forever. She and Raveneau spent long, luxurious hours in bed
together. Devon learned to respond to a man's caress with such
heightened sensation that it approached pain. Total ecstasy. Sweet,
sweet love. And in the night, Andre held her close while he slept,
her face burrowed in the warm, brown expanse of his chest, her
delicate legs entwined with his long, muscular ones. Happiness
threatened to burst her heart.

It was true that he never spoke of love or
what lay ahead for them, but Devon couldn't let that upset her
contentment. She was beginning to believe that tomorrow would take
care of itself if she made the most of today.

On the seventh morning, Devon woke and
reached for Andre, only to find him gone. She sat up in bed. Only
the barest smoky-pink glow tinted the sky; Andre had not risen so
early in all their days at sea. She had lacked appetite for days,
but now a sickening vise of nausea squeezed inside her. Somehow she
knew that the idyll had ended.

Woodenly, Devon rose. Her cheeks were pale
when she looked in Raveneau's shaving mirror. She put on her
sea-green gown and sat down in the red wing chair to brush her
curls with special care.

Finally satisfied, she left the cabin and
made her way to the open deck above. The privateer was still quiet;
snores rumbled down the gangway from the crew's quarters. The
captain was on the quarter-deck, leaning on the rail, watching the
sun rise over the ocean. The sight of Andre could still stop her
heart, Devon thought, as surely as when she had been a child,
colliding with him on New London's waterfront.

She went up to him, smiling when he turned,
his eyes registering only momentary surprise.
"Bon matin, petite
chatte,"
he said in a low voice. He took off his peacoat and
put it around her, then pulled her against his body. They kissed,
leisurely. Devon tried to keep the flame from igniting, but it was
no use, and the fire of happy desire burned away her
discontent.

"I am surprised to see you up so early," he
murmured, kissing her ear.

"I woke to find you gone," Devon admitted as
she leaned back to study his face. He was in good spirits; his next
words came as no surprise.

"We are nearly there."

"Where?"

"My home." He smiled at her widening blue
eyes and shrugged. "Well, as near a home on land as I can claim. It
is an island."

"Andre, won't you tell me what your plans
are? You have kept me docile these past days—using quite
underhanded tactics, I might add—but it can't go on forever. I am
not a prize from your cargo to be stored in a warehouse. I have
feelings.” She paused for emphasis. “And opinions."

Raveneau gazed down at her earnest face,
memorizing it with the coral-hued sea as its backdrop. Her blue
eyes with their sooty lashes were so expressive, and he had come to
realize how strongly his own heart responded to the emotions
mirrored in them. Lovely red-gold cloud of curls, delicate nose,
willful, kissable mouth, pert, rose-tipped breasts...

"You are telling
me
that you have
opinions?" He laughed gently. "Sweet Devon, I know that better than
anyone. Do you imagine that I thought to transform you with my
lovemaking?" He framed her face with his sun-browned hands and bent
to kiss her.

"You are sounding like a typical
Frenchman!"

"I see! You prefer me as a wicked pirate?" He
raised an eyebrow and grinned devilishly, drawing her laughter.

"You are in a fine mood today, Captain."

"True. I am. It is always a pleasure for me
to come home."

"Which is?" Devon nudged him with an
elbow.

"All right! You needn't resort to physical
force. My home is a tiny island east of Virginia, nearly one-third
of the way to Bermuda. It is seldom encountered by other ships,
since it is not located on any commonly used trade routes. My
father came here over forty years ago and claimed it; it has been
ours ever since. When he died in 1775, it became mine."

"Please, do tell me the entire story. I
really am curious."

"No doubt!" His mouth quirked in the way she
loved. "There is not much to tell. My father was a French nobleman,
but he loved the sea. My mother quarreled with him but found it
difficult to resist him when he returned to France, for all her
protestations of hatred. Three times he took me with him to this
island where he had built his home. It took ten years to complete;
he had to import a huge crew of workmen and all the building
materials."

Devon was thinking of his mother—suffering as
Deborah had, unable to compete with so alluring a mistress as the
sea. She watched Raveneau as he looked out at the indigo-blue
waves, and her heart ached unbearably.

"At any rate, I've kept the island and
staffed the house, and now I come back whenever time permits...
though that is not often."

"And when you
are
home?" Devon managed
to get out.

"I can read your thoughts, my dear. You are
right. When I am home I enjoy it for a short while, then I long for
the sea. I love my ship the best... it is impossible to
explain."

Devon tried to swallow the lump in her
throat. "I understand."

She prayed for an end to the conversation,
leaning into his chest with its familiar warmth and scent and hard
planes. Safety... contentment... for how long?

* * *

At midmorning, when the
Black Eagle
reached Secret Island, as Devon had silently dubbed it, the truth
came out.

"You'll stay here, Devon, until I can
return," Andre said. "As you know, the frigate has been taken
ahead, so I can only stay long enough to complete repairs on the
Black Eagle.
Winters are severe at sea... you'll be safe
here until spring."

Wheaton and his boatswain's mate were at the
wheel, Lane was examining the charts, while the rigging was alive
with men. It wouldn't be long now.

Devon stood near the bow with Raveneau,
fighting tears, away from most of the chaos.
Safe!
That was
the word he had used. Didn't he know that she felt safest with him?
He must be aware that I love the sea, too, she thought. But to say
these things aloud would sound like pleading, and she couldn't bear
that.

"Fine!" Devon heard her voice, brittle and
cheerful, from a distance. "When spring comes, we'll find a real
solution."

Raveneau looked down at her sharply,
scrutinizing her profile as she pretended to study the sea. Their
minds and hearts suddenly were farther apart than ever.

* * *

The island was incredible. Almost against her
will, Devon warmed to it, to the lush jungle that crowded twisted
pathways, to the wild, isolated beaches, but most of all to the
huge, ornate house that Raveneau's father had built.