Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (5 page)

Devon felt a stab of panic when he bunched up
her skirt and caressed her leg. Her mind and heart were a jumble of
warring emotions: guilt, affection, revulsion, forbidden desire for
another man. Reminding herself that Morgan loved her and was going
to war, she managed to endure his fumbling. Labored breathing was
loud in her ear, and she could see the drops of perspiration
beading on his forehead. She felt so sorry for him, but as his
fingers groped upward, her control began to dissolve. Morgan pushed
her back against the bench, panting and clutching at her until it
seemed that she was covered by wet lips and hands.

She had to free herself, or go mad. "Morgan,
Morgan, please, let me up," she cried. "Morgan!" She pushed his
face away with all her might.

Clutching at thin air, he toppled sideways to
the wooden floor and Devon jumped to her feet. "I am truly sorry,
but I just cannot. I am frightened. Please, don't look at me that
way."

Thoroughly humiliated, Morgan crawled back
onto the bench and crouched there, afraid to meet her eyes. It was
bad enough to lose all control with a female, but to do it so
clumsily and then be rejected... The shame was too great to be
borne.

Devon's heart was torn with pity. Feeling
safe now, she hurried to comfort him.

"I don't understand!" he cried, blinking back
tears. "Why don't you feel what I feel? When I am with you, I can't
think clearly. I can only think of you, your touch, your scent and
softness...how much I want you! Why isn't it the same for you?"

They were sitting side by side, Devon holding
tight to his hand. He stared at the summerhouse wall as he spoke,
which was a great relief to her, since she was blushing profusely
at his words. Morgan was describing exactly her feelings of less
than a day before, when Andre Raveneau had kissed her.

"I don't know what to say, Morgan," she
blurted. "I'm
sorry!
I wish—Maybe it just takes time. I have
heard that it's different for boys..."

"Do you think that could be the answer?"

"Oh, yes! It's not your fault! It's me, I am
sure of it. Listen, by the time you come home, I will be older.
More prepared."

Morgan brightened considerably. "Will you
wait for me? Truly?"

"Of course I will!" They hugged, Devon
overflowing with love. "We'll be married the day you return. Then
we'll save for our ship, unless we can somehow get the money while
you are away! We'll sail to the West Indies and run on the beaches
and swim in the ocean!"

Morgan cut off her bright dreams with eager
lips that sent chills of revulsion rather than passion down her
spine. When the kiss ended at last, he moved to nuzzle one of her
ears, and she struggled to ignore the awful sensation of his steamy
breath.

"I love you, Morgan," Devon said loudly, as
if to convince herself. "I promise you!"

***~~~***

September 6, 1781

Devon awoke before dawn, opening her eyes to
darkness. Rolling onto one hip in her narrow rope bed, she
scrutinized the stripe of sky that was visible where the curtains
parted. Five o'clock, at least. It wouldn't be long until her
mother called her.

Time had passed slowly, and this new autumn
found Devon restless and uncharacteristically unhappy. It had been
only ten months since Morgan's departure to fight in Tyler's
militia. Devon had clung to her guilt and her promise, reinforced
by each glimpse of the feared Captain Raveneau. Whenever she heard
that the
Black Eagle
was in port, she wandered the twisting
lanes helplessly until she caught heart-pounding sight of the man
who seemed to be her weakness. Yet she invariably stepped into an
alley or doorway rather than face him. Each time, she returned to
the shop more determined than ever to be true to her vow to Morgan.
Raveneau was dangerous. Hadn't he kissed her and then never sought
her out to apologize or even say good day? But Morgan was real and
honest, and through the long, dull days working beside her mother,
she forced herself to think of security and sincerity.

Curiously tense, Devon pulled back her quilts
and swung her feet onto the wide-planked floor. She poured water
from the pitcher into the ewer and splashed her face.

"Devon? Are you awake?" Deborah called from
the next room.

She made a face. There would be no chance to
read the next scene of
The Taming of the Shrew
this
morning.

"Yes, Mother."

"I think I heard a noise a few minutes ago.
Did you hear it?"

"No, but perhaps that's what woke me."

"We will get an early start," Deborah
decided. "You can churn the butter before we open the shop."

Devon was pulling a clean yellow cotton dress
over her head and was glad that her reply would be muffled in the
material. "I can scarcely wait."

"What's that?"

"Nothing." Quickly she fastened up the front
and reached for her hairbrush. Her mother was stirring in her room,
and they emerged into the kitchen almost simultaneously. Devon
started a fire and greased the griddle while Deborah stirred the
batter for buckwheat cakes that had been rising during the night.
While Devon put the kettle on over the fire, Deborah produced a
small amount of butter along with a pitcher of maple syrup, payment
from one of their customers for a bolt of linen.

"I wonder what Morgan is doing this morning?"
Devon mused aloud while they were eating. "I'll wager he has had
some wonderful adventures this past year."

"I'll
wager he wishes he were back in
Gadwin's Drug Shop where he belongs!" Deborah replied
sarcastically. "When will you learn that that boy doesn't have your
wild nature? I wish that
he
were my daughter and you were
Gadwin's son!"

"If that means I would be off fighting for
independence in his place, then thank you very much!"

Deborah stared at her coldly, and she felt a
twinge of sadness to see how shadowed her mother's blue eyes had
become. She could still be pretty! she thought, taking in the pale
hair drawn severely back from Deborah's face. If she would only
smile
now and then!

"Get on with your breakfast. There's butter
to be churned."

* * *

Less than a half hour later, Devon began the
tedious job, having first moved the churn to the window so that she
might watch the street below and the river beyond. The sunrise was
spellbinding, and she lost herself in the growing beauty of the
eastern sky and thought idly about her life.

In normal times, there was little doubt that
she would have been married by now. Was it possible that she was
nineteen years old? Devon sighed, wondering where the future would
take her. She had received a letter from Morgan a few days ago—the
third communication since his departure. His regiment was preparing
to march to Virginia. "It seems that everyone is going to
Yorktown," he wrote. "Something big is in the air, but no one is
quite sure what it is." He went on at length about the weather and
his passion for Devon. She yearned to hear stories of the war,
tales of Morgan's thrilling adventures and narrow escapes. Still,
it was wonderful to read his thoughts and to know he was well.
Perhaps the war would toughen him.

Devon sorely missed Morgan, yet this last
solitary year had changed her. Their daydreams in the meadow and
his urgent kisses seemed part of a long-ago past. She was anxious
for him to return to New London so that they might renew their
bonds before time dissolved them entirely. The future they had
planned was the only ray of hope that she could cling to during the
long days in the shop. It was increasingly difficult to escape
Deborah's watchful eye.

Cannon shots suddenly echoed from Fort
Griswold. Devon listened—three shots, the signal for a returning
privateer. A few minutes later there were three more shots, which
was curious, especially since no vessels could be seen approaching.
Her stomach tightened in alarm. She had noticed men riding south
along the Bank, and now another group went galloping past the
shop.

Devon raced downstairs, nearly colliding with
her mother.

"You can't be finished yet!" Deborah
accused.

"Something is wrong. I can feel it! I knew it
when I woke up this morning!" With that, she ran outside, just as
Nick came thundering down Bank Street on his best horse. She could
read his face even before he dismounted.

"It's the British, isn't it?"

"Yes, child, it is. There's a whole fleet—two
dozen vessels or more—at the mouth of the harbor."

"But the signal—"

"They must have added the third shot to fool
us, though God only knows how they learned our signals. It may only
be a plundering party, after stock, but I doubt it."

"Nick, where are you going?"

"To Fort Trumbull, of course! To meet those
damned lobsterbacks head-on!"

He gave her a hug, then was off. Devon lifted
her skirts and raced to the river to get a better view. A cold
chill ran down her spine at the sight of the imposing British ships
bearing down on New London, and she immediately returned to the
shop to warn her mother.

"I am not going anywhere," Deborah stated
flatly.

* * *

Minutes stretched into hours as New London
frantically tried to evacuate. All around the Linen and Pewter Shop
townspeople harnessed horses and hurriedly loaded valuables into
wagons. Devon, unable to reason with her mother, retreated to the
top floor to watch the chaos on the Beach as the privateers hoisted
sail in a wild effort to escape before the British fleet could trap
them. Devon was not surprised to see the
Black Eagle
sailing
upriver first.

Several neighbors took a moment to run to the
Linen and Pewter Shop to make certain that the Widow Lindsay
intended to leave. Devon watched hopefully as first Dr. Wolcott,
then Jonathan Starr, and finally Titus Hurlbutt entered the door,
but she expected no miracle. Deborah had been pulled along during
the false-alarm evacuations, but now, as the enemy landed only a
few miles away, she had no intention of turning her back on her
shop. She seemed to feel that her cold stare would chase any
intruders away.

News spread rapidly. By nine o'clock Devon
had heard that half the British had landed at White Beach, just
below the lighthouse, while the rest had reached Groton Point,
south of Fort Griswold across the river. She could see the shots
coming from the Groton fort, aimed at the enemy vessels. Was there
a chance that they might be frightened off?

Then she spotted the boatloads of men from
Fort Trumbull crossing the Thames to join forces with the soldiers
at Fort Griswold. So quickly! They must have been hopelessly
outnumbered, Devon thought, feeling ill. She ran downstairs to
relay these facts to her mother but was immediately distracted by a
familiar figure on horseback. It was Jonathan Brooks, a boy from
nearby Bradley Street whom she knew and liked well.

Dashing outside, Devon shouted, “Wait!”

"I can't stop! Father has ordered me to hurry
home and put the horse in the barn."

"Jonathan, you must tell me what you know.
Mother won't leave! Did you see them? How many are there?"

"Yes, I saw them. Jenny here got caught in a
mire while I was trying for the heights. A shot passed right over
my head as I got down to free her! There are
hundreds
of
redcoats, Devon, and they've split up. Half of those landing at
White Beach made for the fort, but the rest are on their way to
town. Father and about a hundred others have hidden along Town Hill
Road and have managed to hit a few of them, but it looks bad. I've
really got to be off now. I'm to wait for word from Father at home.
You should get away! The redcoats will be upon New London
soon!"

"Thank you, Jonathan. Good luck!"

Jenny galloped off in a cloud of dust,
leaving Devon standing on a nearly deserted Bank Street.

Back in the shop, Deborah stood firm. "I will
not leave my life's work to be plundered by those mad British. Let
them ransack the other shops, but I will stay here to protect what
is mine."

Devon wanted to wail, What about me? Does my
life mean less to you than this pitiful shop?

At that moment they both heard a loud
commotion outside. Devon ran to the window just in time to see a
few dozen redcoats round the turn. They were laughing, several
carrying bottles and drinking from them.

As she watched, the group split up, kicking
in locked doors. Crashing glass and heavy thumps sounded from the
invaded houses. Devon went sick with panic as two of the soldiers,
each carrying a bottle of gin, started toward the Linen and Pewter
Shop. She turned to her mother with wild fear in her eyes.

"They are coming, Mother! Two drunken
redcoats with guns! Let us go out the back. There's still
time!"

"No." Deborah stood next to a neat display of
her handmade canopies, her hands spread protectively over the white
net.

"Well, we can hide, then! Hurry!"

Devon was looking around frantically when the
door flew open and the two British soldiers staggered across the
threshold.

"Blimey, what a surprise! Looks like we
picked the right address, Smythe!" one of them shouted, giving his
companion an elbow in the ribs. Smythe seemed not to hear; he
stared at Devon. Her red-gold hair haloed a face flushed and
wide-eyed with fear, and her body was frozen but for the agitated
heaving of her lovely bosom.

"I want that one, Dobbs," he declared,
pointing.

Dobbs stuck out his chin. "Hardly fair, old
boy. Didn't give me a chance to discuss it!" Smythe was a surly
sort, however, and Dobbs had no wish to provoke him. The other
female was older, but rather good-looking and clean enough, he
thought.