Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (9 page)

The corner of her mouth had been itching
torturously for minutes, and now she lifted a hand to scratch it.
Lean fingers appeared out of nowhere to grasp her own.

"How long have you been awake?" Raveneau
demanded.

Devon craned her neck and found him towering
over her head, his gray eyes steely. She scrambled to her knees,
ready to do verbal battle, and was horrified to see her torn shirt
come open, exposing impudent breasts. Blushing, she pulled it
together and retorted, "I was only hoping to avoid being put
ashore!"

"I suppose you never fainted at all."

"That is not so!"

"Sit down. You look ridiculous."

"How dare you say that? You look quite
ridiculous yourself with your legs showing!"

Raveneau blinked as though unable to believe
his ears; then the barest suggestion of a smile bent one side of
his mouth. "You are the first female who has ever mocked my legs.
In fact—"

"Oh, yes, Sir Privateer, no doubt all women
praise you endlessly, but not, I hope, after you have described
them as ridiculous!"

He perched on the edge of his table, handsome
calves dangling, and smoked for a moment in silence. Devon sat, and
drew the linen sheet and silk comforter up to cover as much of her
body as possible. Her strawberry-blond curls had been freed, but
she was beginning to suspect that Andre Raveneau didn't recognize
her. He seemed to have no memory of their earlier meeting, or of
the enchanting kiss they had shared in Nick's carriage. This
realization hurt her more than she could admit, even to herself.
Those few minutes they had spent alone together, when he had
awakened her deepest passions with one kiss, had filled her dreams
and fantasies for a year.

She glowered at him. Raveneau's own anger was
being replaced by puzzled curiosity. He had expected the girl to
weep and plead, perhaps pretend to faint again or even offer him
her body in an effort to persuade him to let her stay. Instead, she
glared at him with what appeared to be undisguised hatred!

"I find I am confused; perhaps you can
enlighten me. Didn't you want to remain on the
Black
Eagle?"

"Yes!" she spat.

"Then why are you insulting me and behaving
as if you would like to murder me?" His tone was
conversational.

"I dislike your intimidating manner... sir."
Desperately Devon tried to stifle some of her rage. He was right;
she would find herself in Norwich if she didn't change her
tactics.

"I am the captain, mademoiselle. It is my
prerogative to be intimidating." He was half amused by now.

Devon sighed loudly. It helped. "I am sorry.
I do have an excuse, of sorts. You see, I've been attacked
twice
today, and I am not feeling very charitable toward men
in general."

Raveneau's eyes narrowed. "This happened in
New London?"

"Yes." She stared down at her hands, which
were twisted tightly together. "Two... two redcoats came. One took
my mother upstairs, the other kept me on the first floor. He...
tore my gown. The army wanted to burn our store. A lieutenant
stopped the soldier before he could... finish with me."

"Your mother?" Raveneau asked softly.

"They never came out. The shop was
burned."

"I’m sorry...for your loss, mademoiselle. And
it was after that that Jackson found you?"

"I got away from the redcoat and then hid in
a tree for hours. The British had gone when I encountered Caleb."
She looked up angrily. "Do you know who I saw when I was in the
tree? The mastermind of the entire plot! Benedict Arnold! If I
could, I would kill that man!"

Raveneau seemed unsurprised by this
information. He dropped lightly to the floor and walked over to sit
near Devon on the bed. "Don't brood about Arnold now; you've got to
think of yourself. Haven't you anyone to whom you might go?"

"I... I had a friend who was like a father to
me, but he was killed in the battle." Bitter tears came to Devon's
eyes for all the death and destruction of that day. She sobbed and
shook, unaware of Andre Raveneau's strong arms enfolding her,
pulling her onto his lap, cradling her head against the gray velvet
robe and his warm, tanned chest. At last, when her tears were
spent, she felt a numbness spread where the agony had been.

Awareness returned. To Devon's horror, a
tingle ran down her spine at the realization that she was in his
arms. He smelled clean, intoxicating; a wild urge possessed her to
nuzzle the soft black hair covering his chest. But her mind
stubbornly reminded her that this was the conceited beast who had
kissed her and forgotten. Reluctantly she lifted her head from his
shoulder.

"I am fine now. You may release me." Her
voice sounded cold and distant. When his arms fell away, she wanted
to beg for his embrace again. Instead, she shifted herself back
onto the bed and hoped her face did not look as hot as it felt.

"Do you feel better?" he inquired, reaching
for the cigar which burned in a bedside dish. "You have been
through a great deal... but I cannot believe that coming on the
Black Eagle
will help you. There is no reason—"

"But there is! You asked if I had someone to
care for me. There is one person. You are going to Yorktown, and I
am certain that Morgan will be there as well. He is my fiancé, and
we have been apart for nearly a year. We love and need each other
so very much. Only he can help me now. Please, say that you will
take me to Morgan!"

***~~~***

September 7, 1781

The
Black Eagle
was slicing rapidly
through Fisher Island Sound by daybreak. All was well. A healthy
wind filled the snow-white sails, speeding the privateer toward the
open sea, while the morning promised to be sunny and cool.

Andre Raveneau stood on the quarter-deck
beside Mr. Lane, his first lieutenant. The crewmen appeared
topside, having stowed their hammocks and eaten breakfast. Wheaton,
the old, crusty boatswain, piped various orders, and the crew
rushed to carry them out. The captain had spent the night awake on
the quarter-deck and was exhausted. Now, seeing how smoothly things
were going, he decided to go below and get some sleep.

"Mr. Lane?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I will have you roused if we spot
any likely-looking sails."

Raveneau smiled. Personally, he could barely
tolerate Lawrence Lane, but professionally, the man was
indispensable. He would never leave him in command, but Lane's
tireless attention to detail, discipline, and duty was a tremendous
help.

As Raveneau turned toward the ladder, Lane
murmured, "May I ask, sir... is it true that you have kept the, ah,
young lady on board?"

"Yes!" Raveneau ground out. "And if anyone
mentions her, I want it understood that she is
not
available
to the men. Is that clear?"

Despite Lane's serious expression, his eyes
leered. "Oh, yes, sir!"

Below deck, Raveneau found himself hurrying
toward his cabin. Now that the
Black Eagle
was safely out of
the Thames River and on her way, he had a moment to think of the
girl, and suddenly found himself worried that she might be attacked
again.

He threw open the cabin door and looked
around. Devon was sprawled across the bed on her back, arms
outstretched like a trusting child. He had given her a fresh shirt
to wear, and it seemed to float over the outline of her firm,
delicate body, framing the perfection of her face and the abundant
cloud of bright hair.

She was appealing. But she was also a girl on
a mission—to be reunited with a fiancé who sounded as though he had
been created in heaven. Andre Raveneau would be the last man on
earth to take someone else's woman. He would never be that
desperate!

Nor was he about to let this girl disrupt his
life. An act of gallantry was one thing, undue sacrifice quite
another. In the light of day he had trouble believing that he had
actually agreed to take her to this Morgan fellow. Yet how could he
have put her ashore at Norwich? Damn Jackson for beginning this
mess! The devil of it was that he could not allow the girl to sleep
anywhere but in his cabin, for her own safety. She had insisted
that she would cheerfully sleep on the deck to get to Morgan. The
way Raveneau felt at the moment, she might have to.

Without hesitation, he stripped off his
clothes. The hell with her! Let her look if she pleased! The
education would do her good.

"Hey!" Raveneau stood beside the bed and
realized again that he didn't know her name. It seemed to him,
however, that she had occupied the bed long enough. It was his
turn. "Mademoiselle. Wake up! I need this space."

Obligingly, Devon rolled over to one side and
burrowed her head into the pillow. Raveneau debated momentarily,
then shrugged as he slid beneath the silk comforter. She looked so
soft and vulnerable beside him that he relented and reached out to
trace her fragile jawline with one dark finger.

"Sleep well,
petite."

* * *

Devon slept past nine o'clock and awoke to
the sight of Andre Raveneau's chiseled, handsome face beside her.
Even in repose it was harshly masculine, the mouth firm above the
rakishly scarred jaw, the nose aquiline and noble. The thought of
his naked, warm flesh so close to her own made her blush and shiver
all at once.

Sunlight poured through the transom; the
sight of it drew Devon out of bed. She used Raveneau's fresh water
to wash and wished his breeches would fit her half as well as those
Caleb had donated. She would simply have to acquire another pair
for washing days.

After locating the captain's comb, Devon used
it on her own hair until the golden-rose curls crackled.

She didn't think twice about leaving the
cabin. Actually, she was glad that the captain had discovered her
identity, since he had grudgingly agreed to deliver her to Yorktown
and now she could walk about undisguised. Further, she would not be
forced to endure a crew member's hard existence. Raveneau had
declared that it would be impossible for her to sleep anywhere else
but in his cabin.

Emerging on the gun deck, Devon hung back and
observed the spectacle around her. The
Black Eagle
glided
across the water like a great white-winged bird. Loving ships as
she did, Devon recognized a truly beautiful, efficiently designed
vessel. There were at least sixteen cannon lined up behind their
gun ports. There were special sails for speed: a ringtail on the
driver, spritsails, studdingsails, and royals on the very tops of
the masts. Most warships had red or brown bulwarks, but the
Black Eagle's
were painted the same cool gray as the stripe
which bisected the black hull. All around her, privateersmen
cleaned and polished the decks, rails, and brass fittings. They
wore the seaman's usual assortment of clothing: a flat- brimmed hat
or knit cap, neckerchief, peacoat, and loose, bell-bottomed
trousers.

The privateer sailed with amazing speed and
style, and the men worked with disciplined efficiency. What
statement did this make about the captain? Devon wondered. Was he a
tyrannical, unfeeling slave driver as Caleb had suggested?

She could feel someone staring at her. The
seamen had glanced only briefly at her, for they guessed she must
belong to the captain. Devon sought her observer and found him
standing on the quarter-deck, his brass telescope caught between
arm and body at a smart angle. The sun was in Devon's eyes, but the
man's silk stockings betrayed his identity as well as a clear view
of his face would have. It was Mr. Lane.

Despite the sun, Devon returned his stare for
a long minute until at last he averted his face to display a
haughty profile. She longed to make a rude gesture in return.

Someone touched her arm and she spun around,
panicked.

"Hello, Devon!" Caleb's easygoing smile made
her laugh with relief. She reacted to him the way she once had to
Morgan. It was wonderful to know that there was one safe person,
like an amiable brother, to whom she could turn in the rocky
moments of confusion. Suddenly Devon remembered what Caleb's good
nature had cost him. Five lashes, his shares lost, and dismissal
from the crew, all because he had befriended her at her worst
moment. Impulsively she gave him a hug. "Good morning! It's good to
see you!"

"Beautiful lady, you are just the medicine I
need. A kind word and pretty smile mean more than I can say."

Devon perceived the melancholy in Caleb's
green eyes, though he continued to grin. "Caleb, I... I heard what
happened. I am so sorry to be the cause of such misfortune for you!
It doesn't seem fair—"

His smile vanished abruptly. "That's true. It
is
not
fair, but typical of our dear captain."

"I believe you are right!" she exclaimed.
"Why should it be such a terrible offense to help a lady in
distress? Why, you'd think that fraternizing with me was as bad as
spying for the British or sabotaging the ship!"

There was a step on the hatch behind her. "On
the contrary, mademoiselle... either of those crimes would be
punishable by death."

Devon froze and Caleb paled. Hesitantly,
Devon looked over her shoulder, into the slate-colored eyes of
Andre Raveneau.

"I... thought you were asleep..." she
stammered.

His grin flashed white in the sunshine. "The
devil never sleeps. Remember that." The next moment his expression
was harsh and forbidding. "Return to my cabin and do not
leave."

Devon's mouth fell open. "How dare you? Of
all the—"

"You dislike my attitude? The way I stand or
smile or swear, perhaps? Do feel free to leave the ship at any
time. I would be the last person to insist that you remain where
your sensibilities are offended."

Devon had never heard such caustic sarcasm in
her life. Momentarily, she expected Caleb to come to her rescue,
but he had shrunk back against the mainmast while Raveneau's eyes
pierced them both like splintered silver. Devon could not speak,
but she presented a haughty profile, as she had seen Mr. Lane do,
then swept away toward the hatch. This last gesture was difficult
to carry off, since she was wearing breeches, but she did her
best.