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!"
Chapter 6
***~~~***
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.
On the ladder which led to the berth deck, Devon paused and heard Raveneau speaking to Caleb, his voice dangerously cold. A strange chill ran down Devon's spine. She had known evil men in her lifetime—had encountered many of them yesterday—but this captain was of a breed she did not recognize. He frightened her, yet fascinated her. She found she could not despise him.
She wondered why Raveneau had awakened. Had Mr. Lane called him? Devon dropped into the captain's wing chair and noticed that the cabin was neater and that the clutter of charts and instruments had disappeared into a handsome mahogany "bittacle," or cupboardlike box. Who had put it all away so quickly?
Then the answer to her questions walked in, in the form of a young red-haired steward carrying a fresh supply of monogrammed towels. He smiled at Devon with no noticeable surprise. "Hello! You must be the little cat!" he greeted her. "My name is Minter. I'm the captain's steward."
Devon's answering smile faded. "Little cat? Why do you call me that? My name is Devon Lindsay!"
"Captain Raveneau doesn't know your name, or he's forgotten it. He calls you petite chatte, but not, I must admit, in the most complimentary tone of voice!"
"I can imagine!" Devon smiled wryly. "Are you feeling better, Minter?"
"Much, thank you." Picking up the pitcher, he started off for fresh water but paused long enough to murmur conspiratorially, "I appreciate your stepping in for me last night! That is one scene I would have enjoyed witnessing!"
Devon blushed, but laughed. She liked Minter. He passed Raveneau in the cabin doorway, silently, but they exchanged smiles and Devon was pleased to know that Raveneau did not growl at every member of his crew.
"I hope that you have prepared a good explanation for your conduct this morning!" Raveneau stood over Devon, his harsh, handsome face as hard as a statue's. Devon scrambled up and stood on the seat of her chair to put them nearly eye to eye. Embarrassed but angry, she thrust her chin at him. "Well?" Raveneau demanded.
"I don't know what you mean, sir. I went up for some air. And I wanted to see the Black Eagle in full sail."
"Ah, yes. Air..." His eyes narrowed. "A promenade on deck! Charming group up there today, n'est-ce pas? I'm surprised they aren't lined up outside my door panting with lust!"
Devon half wanted to sit down again. He was only inches away; their eyes were locked. Her heart thundered. He grasped her arm, and she thought her knees would buckle.
"You didn't tell me to remain here," she finally said.
"You little fool! I assumed, after last night, that you would have the normal good sense—"
"Listen, M'sieur Captain!" Devon heard herself shout. "It just so happens that I grew up on the Beach in New London. I am used to ships, and I am used to their crews. Those men on deck didn't frighten me! There is a great difference between an abduction in a dark galley and being seen by a few dozen seamen in broad daylight!"
His long, dark fingers tightened on her arm. "I realize that this may be a difficult concept for you to grasp, but do make an effort. There is a very real possibility that any one of those men could be hiding in a deserted corner tonight, or tomorrow night, or several days from now. Even Greenbriar had more sense than to toss you to the deck when he first saw you, didn't he?"
"Are all your men barbarians?"
"As long as they do their jobs on board, I haven't the slightest interest in their lives ashore. But many a normal man can turn barbaric if he's deprived of a woman long enough. You may be quite... resistable, but there is no accounting for some people's tastes. Particularly when their need is great enough... if you take my meaning."
This speech was delivered in a tone of voice that reminded Devon of a knife being inserted repeatedly, each time deeper and more painfully. For a long moment she gaped at him in shock, then hissed, "You are utterly hateful!"
"True enough, but I've made my point, I trust."
* * *
The spirited wind died away that afternoon. The stillness intensified the foreboding atmosphere. Raveneau had not returned to bed and was in a vile temper. He worked on his charts, conferred at intervals with Mr. Lane, and cursed the ebbing wind.
Devon lay on the bed, alternately watching Raveneau and the ceiling. She had decided that she truly despised the man and berated herself for wasting so many thoughts and dreams on him. She felt hemmed in, and ached with the need to run. Every time Raveneau got up to pace and curse, her own nerves grew more taut. She wished she had stayed in New London... yet she longed for Morgan, her touchstone of sanity.
During the afternoon Minter brought food. It smelled wonderful, but she remained stubbornly on the bed, silent. Raveneau divided the portions and sat down to eat, a thick book open beside his plate. When Devon finally realized that he was not going to beseech her to join him, she rose and did so. There was boiled beef, gravy, biscuits, and an apple. Raveneau poured red wine into her cup and watched with detached amusement as she drank it thirstily.
The wine smoothed Devon's frazzled nerves. She ate slowly, stealing an occasional glance at her companion, helplessly admiring the rugged lines of his profile. His forehead was perfect, she decided, and his black hair grew away from it with casual elegance. He probably just ran a hand through it; other men labored long before their mirrors to achieve that smooth sweep of hair. Studying him, Devon bit into her apple and wondered why one man should possess every masculine trait while others—like Morgan—merely fumbled and groped after manhood.
She sighed, and felt her face heat up at such traitorous thoughts of Morgan. I do love him! she reminded herself, remembering the blissful, uncomplicated days they had spent together on the banks of the Thames. She had been safe, cheerful, in control...
"Was that sigh for your absent lover, or are you hinting for more wine?" Raveneau inquired.
Devon looked at him triumphantly. "As a matter of fact. I was daydreaming about Morgan."
Raveneau shrugged.
"But that does not mean I won't have more wine." She poured it herself, watching him challengingly. "By the way, Captain, Morgan is not my lover. We are betrothed."
"Petite chatte, frequently the two terms are interchangeable."
"That may be true among the females of your acquaintance, but I assure you it is not true for me."
"A pity for what's-his-name. I hope there was no problem."
Devon saw the silver sparkle in his eyes, but rose to the bait all the same. "Morgan is the name of my fiancé, Morgan Gadwin. And I resent your implication, sir! Morgan exercised discipline for my sake, because he loves me!"
Raveneau listened and smiled. He thought that Devon looked quite ravishing and passionate. Either Morgan was a fool, or the girl was a convi
ncing liar. "Mon Dieu, I am glad that I decided to deliver you to Yorktown, so that I may have a look at this paragon of self-restraint!"
There was a sharp knock at the door then and Mr. Lane appeared. "It is time, Captain."
Raveneau's devilish grin vanished, replaced by the more familiar expression of tense fatigue. Above them, the boatswain's pipe shrilled the call for all hands on deck.
Devon paled, an icy chill rippling from her scalp to the small of her back. "Please, please reconsider!" she begged. "Caleb doesn't deserve to be punished! I'm at fault if anyone is! He only tried to help me—"
"Silence!" Raveneau thundered. "I will not tolerate interference from anyone on my ship, least of all you, who are here simply on my sufferance. If you attempt to meddle again, it will be the last time!"
Devon glared at him as he started for the door. "Wait! I am going—"
"No!" He turned back only briefly, his harsh face satanically angry. "Do not dare to leave this cabin until I have returned, or you'll find yourself under the lash as well. Comprenez?"
He was gone. Devon clenched her fists. She longed to throw something; to break his dishes, destroy his charts, smash his furniture. But she was too much of a coward to face his anger, and that realization only enraged her further. Defiantly she gulped her wine, and his, too.
The Black Eagle was eerily quiet, but when she pushed the door ajar, she could hear each lash stroke clearly. Her heart burned as she imagined Caleb's quivering back under the knotted cat-o'-nine-tails. It seemed an eternity before she heard the captain's command to halt, followed by the sound of scattering footsteps. She wanted to rush up to Caleb and could not have felt more responsible for his wounds had she wielded the cat herself.
Recognizing Raveneau's step in the gangway, Devon let the door close and moved away. The first thing he saw upon entering was her trim, rigid back, partially hidden under the mass of apricot-gold hair that curled past her shoulders. She stood in the middle of the cabin, still and ominously silent.
Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) Page 7