Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (12 page)

I will not give him the satisfaction, she
thought crazily. Let the conceited beast think what he will. Let
him think that I left his arms to seek out Caleb—it might teach him
humility!

"Devon, unless you would prefer to remain
locked in the brig with Jackson, I suggest you come with me."

Caleb said nothing, but narrowed his eyes
icily. Devon wavered. If her erstwhile friend had not behaved so
badly, she would have stayed with him just to spite Raveneau, but
she knew what would happen to her if they were locked in together.
No amount of pride could bring her to suffer that. Lifting her
chin, she walked haughtily across the planked floor. When she was
only a few steps from Raveneau, the
Black Eagle
suddenly
lurched to one side and Devon lost her balance. She fell against
him and he caught her arm with painful force. Looking into his
angry gray eyes, Devon forgot her frosty pose. "I suppose one
prison is very like another," she choked.

Raveneau arched an eyebrow, but there was no
humor in his smile. Thrusting her out into the gangway, he stepped
outside and locked the brig. As they walked away, Devon could feel
Caleb's eyes burning through the grating, staring at her and
Raveneau.

***~~~***

September 8, 1781

Devon stood on the Bank, facing the wall of
fire that had been the Linen and Pewter Shop only moments before.
There were British soldiers standing all around, leering as they
slowly tore off her yellow dress. She was screaming and crying
"Mama!" over and over.

Deborah appeared at the upstairs window,
naked, haloed by orange flames. She screamed, "Devon, I'm going to
die!"

Behind Devon, the redcoats had begun to point
across to Fort Griswold, which had magically moved toward New
London. The Thames had shrunk to a narrow ribbon of water, and the
battle that was in progress could be viewed easily. The gates to
the fort were open. Devon could see the redcoats that swarmed
inside, could watch them murder the captured patriots. Suddenly
Nick appeared at the gates. He killed two men with his sword before
he was stabbed in the back. He staggered to the crest of the hill,
sobbing, "Devon, take care!"

She tried to break through the lines of men
behind her, but they only caught her in their arms, pawing her,
ripping away her clothing.

"Mama! Nick! Mama!" Over and over she
screamed their names.

Hard, bare arms enfolded her, cradling her
head against a muscular shoulder. She opened her eyes to inky
darkness and clung to the warm body, weeping hysterically. A low
voice whispered beautiful French words in her ear while a hand
stroked her back and hair. Finally, like a child, she quieted,
lulled into forgetfulness. Nestled against a strong chest, she
rocked gently with her comforter.

"Petite chatte?"

Devon heard the whispered words, felt his
breath on her ear. She resisted reality, knowing only that she felt
more content than at any moment in her life.

"Devon, if you are listening, I have
something to say. I wish that you had presented your plight more
sympathetically to me in the beginning. You were so hostile that I
scarcely listened when I heard what you had suffered in New London.
I apologize if I have been callous."

Devon couldn't believe her ears. Was this
Andre Raveneau speaking? "It is as much my fault," she
whispered.

"Pardon?"
He gave it the French
pronunciation.

Reluctantly, Devon lifted her head from his
chest and looked up. His handsome face was etched as a black
silhouette against the indigo darkness. She could see his lips and
yearned to be kissed. "I said, I am as much to blame as you
are."

"That is true," he agreed. "You have behaved
this past day like a foolish child."

A spark of outrage flared in Devon. These
were the first words they had exchanged since that afternoon. In
fact, it was the first she had seen of him since he had locked her
in his cabin. A wary-looking Minter had brought her supper,
explaining that the captain would be busy above deck. It had been a
miserably restless evening, and Devon had retired early.

Now she met his silver gaze in the early
morning darkness until her anger subsided. He was right, but she
would die before admitting it.

"I would not put it quite so strongly, sir.
And while we are on the subject, let me say that your behavior has
been less than ideal."

"I did not ask your opinion." His tone was
dry, amused.

"I did not ask
yours!
And I don't care
if you
are
the captain!"

"You would be wiser if you did care,
mademoiselle."

Devon put out her tongue, thinking he would
not see it in the darkness, but a long finger appeared to push it
back into her mouth.

"Childish," he admonished.

"Oh, be quiet!"

"Marcus will have his hands full with
you!"

Devon didn't bother to correct him. "It so
happens that Morgan and I get along perfectly. We have never
quarreled."

"Oh, no," Raveneau groaned. "A henpecked
fiancé. I was afraid of that."

"He is not henpecked!"

"If you never quarrel, it must be because you
are leading him around by the nose."

"That's not true!" Her guilty flush was,
mercifully, unobserved. "He is very manly! He's at war, isn't
he?"

Raveneau chuckled. "You probably pushed him
into the army, poor boy. Besides, how strong can your attachment
be, when you turn to the first man who comes along?"

"What do you mean?" she cried.

"Shh. You'll wake the crew. I mean Caleb
Jackson, of course. Your new love."

She bit her tongue. "I don't want to talk
about that. You misunderstood."

Raveneau stiffened. "Are you saying that he
was forcing you?" When she did not reply immediately, he prompted,
"I demand an answer!"

"You may demand all night, sir, but I needn't
give you one," said Devon, nettled. "What happened is none of your
affair. I can handle Caleb."

A cold silence fell between them.
Unaccountably, Devon felt like crying again. Raveneau softened. "I
should not press you now. Again, you have pushed me to forget what
you have so recently suffered."

"I am so tired," she whispered. "So tired of
quarreling. I am not used to this. I never know what anyone will
say or do."

His arms tightened around her. She settled
back into the warmth of his chest, pressing her ear against his
heartbeat. "Please hold me," she said. "I don't want to fall asleep
alone.."

* * *

When Devon awoke the next morning, she felt
warm and happy. Raveneau had already risen. Rolling onto her
stomach, she propped up her chin with both pillows and watched him
eat breakfast.

Several minutes passed before he noticed her.
As usual, he was reading, and the book seemed to take priority over
the eggs and scones on his plate. Devon looked him over, critically
eyeing the cut of his breeches, the shine of his boots, and the
whiteness of the linen shirt he wore. All were as flawless as
Raveneau himself.

To get his attention, Devon finally gave in
and coughed. Absently, he glanced over his shoulder and discovered
her grinning happily.

"Good morning!" she greeted.

"I must say I'm surprised to find you awake.
It is barely six o'clock! I'm sorry if I disturbed you. You had
better go back to sleep now." Raveneau turned back to his book.

"No, wait! I went to bed early last night, so
I am quite rested." Wasn't he going to mention the closeness they
had shared so early that morning? Hadn't she slept in his arms?

"That's fine, but I don't know what you will
do all morning." He drank the last of his coffee, then stood up.
"I've got to go above now. I will tell Minter to bring you some hot
water and breakfast."

"Wait, Captain..." That title sounded too
formal now, but he didn't protest. Devon swung the covers back,
revealing bare legs beneath her loose shirt. "Please, I wanted to
ask you..."

Raveneau was removing his compass and
quadrant from the bittacle. "Yes? What is it?" Vaguely irritated,
he looked up expectantly and felt an unfamiliar twinge at the sight
of her. In spite of her bare legs and drowsy appeal, this was not
simple desire. A strange current of warmth possessed him.

"Please... would it be all right if I came up
today? I would love to see the ocean and taste the salt air, and
since you will be there..."

"I am flattered that you ask my permission
for once. Dare I hope that you are tamed?"

Devon could not ignore so ironic a challenge.
"That is not quite the way I would word it. Let us say that I am
wiser today, but not vanquished by any means!"

"Well, I am heartened to find you making
progress. Yes, you may come above today, if you give me your word
that you will behave. And no stops or detours on the way up,
particularly in the brig!"

"Believe me, that is the last place I would
go. However, I will say that I think it was bad of you to confine
Caleb. You've only compounded your error."

"Mademoiselle, your outlook is highly biased.
Nor am I interested in any opinion you might offer on the subject
of Jackson, or on any other matter relating to the
Black
Eagle.
Do you understand?"

"Yes." Her pout was half playful, just as she
could sense that his sternness was, in part, an act. There was a
visible crack in the icy wall that surrounded him; it was almost
wide enough for Devon to reach inside and touch the real man that
was kept so carefully protected. Was it possible that she might
come to know the gentle, sympathetic person who had cradled her in
the middle of the night?

Devon grinned. Raveneau's mouth twitched in
response. "You are looking very pleased," he said. "Why so meek and
sweet-tempered today?"

"Because you are not yelling at me. Because I
will be in the sunlight and wind today. Or maybe because I am too
drowsy to be disagreeable."

"That sounds more like it," Raveneau
muttered. "Enjoy your breakfast. I will see you later, and remember
your promise!"

* * *

Minter brought Devon a huge, steaming
breakfast of eggs, scones, sweet butter, and coffee. She wondered
skeptically what the crew ate, then scolded herself. Andre Raveneau
was not the sort of man who would run a beautiful, clean ship and
then feed his men like animals, no matter what Caleb said. It would
be interesting to talk to some of the other men on board.

Between bites of breakfast, she peeked at the
book Raveneau had left on the table. To her dismay, she discovered
that it was Voltaire's
Merope
in French. She had been on the
verge of asking permission to use his library, which was displayed
along the far wall behind iron-braced shelves. Were all the books
in French? Devon knew enough to get by in a pinch, but could read
nothing difficult. Just as she was ready to examine the
bookshelves, Minter knocked. At her call, he entered bearing a
sea-green frock, white stockings, and feminine, silk slippers.

"Minter!" Devon exclaimed. "Where on
earth—"

"That is my secret, Miss Lindsay." He flushed
and glanced instinctively toward the captain's bed. Devon's stomach
hurt. So she had not been the first female in this cabin. She eyed
the green dress critically, comparing the waist to her own, the
length of the skirt to her height. It would fit, she thought.

"It was kind of you to find these for me,"
she gulped. "I really do appreciate it."

"I only wanted to help. I did take in the
waist a bit."

Devon took the gown, then turned back on a
wild impulse. "Who was she? Please tell me, Minter!"

He grinned. "Just someone from the past, Miss
Lindsay. It was never serious for the captain."

Devon was delighted by his soft accent and
his candor. "Minter, where are you from?"

"Virginia. A few miles south of Williamsburg.
Maybe I'll get to see my mama in a few days."

"Why do you say that?"

"Oh, no reason!" Flustered again, he backed
up toward the doorway. "I hope the slippers fit. Here!" He thrust
them toward her, then disappeared.

Devon wished that she could have asked him
more questions. Obviously, Minter knew everything worth
knowing!

* * *

By the time she went on deck, Devon was in
high spirits. The stab of jealousy she had suffered at the first
sight of the frock was soothed when she tried it on. Thanks to
Minter's alteration, it fit as though it had been made for her, and
it was still in excellent condition. Her breasts swelled above the
frothy cream- colored lace edging the square neckline, while the
snug bodice set off her waist to its best advantage. Even the
slippers fit perfectly. As she was leaving the cabin, Minter
appeared with a lace shawl and draped it around her shoulders.

On the gun deck, the men worked with quiet
efficiency, and this time they barely glanced at Devon. Not one of
them forgot Captain Raveneau's presence on the quarter-deck. He and
Mr. Lane stood side by side, a striking study of opposites. The
Black Eagle's
captain was dressed in casual garb: boots,
snug tan breeches, a loose, frilled shirt. His raven hair was
unpowdered, and the only signs of his rank were the brass quadrant
in his hand and his presence on the quarter-deck. Mr. Lane was far
more the man of fashion in his silk stockings and carefully curled
white wig. He tilted his nose when he spied Devon crossing the gun
deck.

She ignored him. Lifting her skirts, she
ascended to the quarter-deck and walked forward to stand beside
Raveneau. He was staring at the sky, which was slightly overcast.
Devon watched him, waiting to be acknowledged. Raveneau was poised
like a wild animal, all his senses alert, and Devon could see him
listening, smelling, scrutinizing the air and the sea. She thought
him beautiful, like a sculpture.