Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (7 page)

***~~~***

The Evening of September 6, 1781

Norwich, Connecticut, lay on the west bank of
the Thames, ten miles north of New London. Near the town was a
secluded cove where the
Black Eagle
swayed peacefully at
anchor. Andre Raveneau had sent all but three of his crew below so
that the privateer might remain as inconspicuous as possible, while
he stood silently on the quarter-deck and sipped his evening's inch
of cognac.

Part of him wished that he had stayed to
fight the British in New London, but he knew the
Black Eagle
wouldn't have stood a chance against twenty-four well-armed ships.
Two or three he could handle perhaps, but...

The Thames was like ebony glass tonight,
under a lavishly star-strewn sky. It was so quiet. Raveneau guessed
that Norwich must be holding its breath in fear that the enemy
would strike here next.

The underbrush was dry and brittle this late
in the year, making stealth on shore next to impossible. Raveneau
discerned the first heavy crunch of leaves and twigs and lost no
time in crossing the upper deck, one hand on the pistol hooked over
his belt.

"Come forward and be seen!"

The bushes rustled. Voices? He narrowed
steel-gray eyes, unhooked his pistol. A man emerged into the open,
a horse close behind.

"Jackson!" Raveneau hissed.
"Dieu!
What do you think you are doing?"

When the captain was upset, his English
became almost unintelligible. He frequently abandoned it completely
to curse at an offender in French. Caleb understood his name, but
little of what followed. This time he didn't need a
translation.

"Captain, may I board?"

"No! Knowing you, you've British currency in
one pocket and a knife with my name on it in the other. Explain
yourself now."

Caleb was embarrassed to realize that Devon,
who crouched behind him in the bushes, was listening to this
unfavorable description of his character. Until now, he'd had her
believing he was a knight errant who specialized in rescuing
females in peril.

"Unfair, Captain! It happens that I have a
very acceptable explanation for my absence this morning. Won't you
allow me to give it privately?"

"Is your mother eavesdropping? For God's
sake, Jackson, this
is
private! You waste my time. Get on
with it."

"All right." Caleb thrust out his chin like a
stubborn child. "I was with... a woman last night. I fell asleep.
By the time I awoke, the
Black Eagle
was only a speck
upriver."

Raveneau continued to glare at him. Caleb
couldn't understand why the captain disliked him so, even after
three years. Granted, he had moments of unreliability, but that was
no reason to be treated so harshly.

Andre Raveneau wanted to tell Jackson to
slink back to his whore, but common sense won out. The man was an
accomplished sailmaker; his contribution was important. Still...
there were so many qualities of Jackson's that Raveneau detested.
He was lazy, never pulling his weight, and was the sort of man who
would smile angelically while betraying his best friend. Anyone who
smiled as much as Jackson made him suspicious.

"This time I will let it pass, but not
another. Is that clear? You know my rules, and you are the last man
who deserves to bend them."

Caleb splashed into the water and swam to the
rope ladder that Raveneau tossed over the side.

Crouched behind a tangle of branches, Devon
shivered with excitement as Andre Raveneau turned again to scan the
dark shoreline. What if he saw her? Would he come and capture
her?

During their ride to Norwich, Devon had
quizzed Caleb about his captain. Ever amiable, he had stiffened
slightly at Raveneau's name. Yes, of course, the captain was truly
a man of legendary qualities. Brave and lucky beyond human limits.
Brilliant without a doubt.

But, Caleb had told Devon, there was more.
Raveneau was reckless to a fault, overconfident of his ability to
outwit his adversaries. The man was unbending. He demanded more
from his crew than normal men could give, stringent standards that
were never relaxed. Madness! The men were certain to revolt one
day.

Devon pondered Caleb's words. So, Raveneau
was flawed after all. Or could it be a simple case of the perfect
man demanding excellence from his subordinates?

* * *

Caleb began to think that Captain Raveneau
was watching him. The stocky seaman had waited three hours for a
chance to slip the girl on board, but Raveneau kept appearing. Now,
Caleb lay in his hammock in the midst of his seventy-odd smelly,
snoring shipmates, waiting and listening to the watch walking the
deck overhead. Caleb was certain he would have no problem bribing
them to ignore Devon. A female on board was just what they
all
needed, and Caleb fully intended to be the prime
beneficiary. Raveneau would be furious, but even he was known for
his rakish streak. The girl would charm him. The worst that could
happen would be Devon being put ashore along the way. At least she
wouldn't be able to say it was Caleb's fault, and in the meantime,
they would all have some fun.

Caleb eased out of his hammock and stepped
into the gangway, listening. The captain had retired to his cabin,
and there was no law against walking around, after all, so he tried
to relax. A bundle of clothes wadded under one arm, he climbed to
the gun deck, then the quarter-deck. The two bored young sailors
standing the night watch were delighted by the news Caleb brought
them. One of them stood by the ladder, listening for the captain,
while the other helped Caleb over the side.

Devon watched the action through a veil of
leaves. She was cold and tired, but seeing the bundle that Caleb
held aloft while wading in, she knew she would soon be able to go
aboard.

"Hello, Devon!" he exclaimed, wearing the
same casually cheerful smile as ever.

"Have you really come for me? Are you certain
it is all right? Captain Raveneau doesn't mind?"

"Of course it's all right, sweetheart. As for
Captain Raveneau, what he doesn't know won't hurt him. Now, hurry
up and put these on." His grin widened, but he turned away.

Devon peeled off her torn yellow gown and
ragged chemise, then bound her breasts again with the ruffle from
her petticoat. While donning the rest of the clothing, she glanced
hesitantly in his direction from time to time, but he did not turn
back until she was dressed. There had been only the pair of loose,
wide-legged sailor's breeches, a rough, light-colored shirt, and a
ragged red knit cap, which Caleb helped her pull over her mass of
strawberry-blond curls.

"I will hunt up some shoes and a jacket for
you later tonight," he assured her. "You look quite charming!"

"I don't know if this is a good idea," Devon
moaned, feeling foolish.

"Maybe it's not, but seems to me it's the
only idea we've got! Don't worry. Nobody on this ship would hurt
you, Devon."

He gallantly carried her through the water,
back to the privateer. She got almost as wet as he did, but
appreciated the gesture.

A leering teen-aged sailor helped her over
the side and Devon found herself standing on the gun-deck of the
Black Eagle.
In the moonlight, she could see the glow of
rubbed mahogany and teak, the gleam of polished brass. The canvas
sails were starkly white against the black sky.

"Hurry!" the sailor urged Caleb. "The captain
could be up any minute!"

Caleb was beginning to feel a bit panicky
himself, especially at the thought of Raveneau appearing, but his
smile barely faltered. Devon saw this with relief.

"Forward?" she asked.

"Yes. Greenbriar is right. We must
hurry."

They climbed down the ladder and entered
lantern-lit darkness. Devon expected the usual suffocating odors of
bilge water, pitch, and unwashed bodies, but what she smelled was
only a fraction as strong as that in most ships. The berth deck was
lined with lanterns, all spotless and burning brightly. As Caleb
guided her urgently toward the crew's quarters, she could not
resist whispering, "Your captain keeps a clean ship!"

Caleb shrugged. "It is a simple thing to make
rules for others to do the work."

Devon glanced at him curiously.

"Here we are. Shh! They're asleep!"

A lantern flickered on the far wall, offering
the barest illumination. Devon peered at the rank, snoring sailors
who lay head to toe in their hammocks like six dozen sardines. A
few stirred when Caleb led her into the cabin, but none troubled to
wake up.

Guiding her to his own hammock, he whispered,
"You sleep here. I'll find another." He took off his jacket and
held it out. "Put this on for now. Lie down, get some rest, while I
think of a plan for tomorrow."

Devon climbed into the hammock without a
word, drained of energy and anxious for an hour or two of deep
sleep. It seemed years since she had awakened in her bed above the
Linen and Pewter Shop.

At that moment yellow light flared in the
doorway. Startled, Devon turned her head and saw a candle in a
chamberstick held aloft by a dark, masculine hand. Her eyes
widened, shifting to broad shoulders, then meeting the steely gaze
of Captain Andre Raveneau.

Devon automatically looked down to make
certain her jacket was closed, then returned her eyes to the
shadow-shrouded figure across the cabin, praying that the gloom
would hide her burning flush.

Raveneau wore his usual loose white shirt,
carelessly buttoned only halfway up his chest, fawn breeches, and
black knee boots. Devon thought him stunningly handsome, yet
terrifying. Did he know who she was? Could he see? Her heart raced
anxiously.

"Jackson, who the hell is this?" he demanded
abruptly.

Caleb could be heard clambering over
hammocks, then he was standing at Devon's shoulder. "I'm not
certain, Captain, but I think I heard Mr. Lane say he's a new...
ah... surgeon's mate. Came on yesterday while you were ashore."

Raveneau lifted an interested brow at these
words as Devon turned to Caleb, staring incredulously.

"I can scarcely believe anyone would sign him
on without my knowledge, but they must have known I'd welcome a
surgeon's mate." Raveneau looked at Devon. "Christ, but you look
young! Is your father a physician?"

"Yes, sir," Devon agreed, trying to speak in
a deeper, boyish voice.

"What's your name?"

"James, sir." Her brother's name.

"All of it, sailor." Raveneau was looking
skeptical.

"Uh... Hugh James."

"All right, James, I'll give you a try.
Whatever skills you possess may be greatly appreciated in the weeks
to come. For now, though, I have other tasks to occupy you until a
bit of surgery comes along. Come with me." As Devon left her
hammock, he said, "Jackson, you're excused. I'll let you sleep
tonight so that we may preserve your eyes for the sails awaiting
your attention tomorrow. They have missed you!"

Caleb winced at the sarcasm, but also at the
sight of Devon following Andre Raveneau out the door. It would take
a miracle to carry her undetected through a private encounter with
that man. Caleb had planned to keep her so well hidden among the
seamen that Raveneau would never have noticed her. He groaned aloud
and muttered, "Perhaps my luck will hold until we're at sea. I
can't afford to be tossed off the ship for that child!"

* * *

Devon felt paralyzed, yet her legs were
moving. How should she act as Hugh James, surgeon's mate? she
wondered. And what could Raveneau need at this hour?

She scrambled along behind the captain, who
moved down the narrow gangway with practiced ease. She watched the
back of his head, noting the texture of his clean black hair, and
remembered with poignant clarity the kiss they had shared almost a
year ago. A rush of excitement swept through her. After all, this
was
the
Black Eagle
and she was traversing the berth
deck alone with the legendary Andre Raveneau. The possibilities
were staggering! Wasn't this the very situation she had dreamed of
for years? She was going to sea, aboard the most notorious
privateer of them all!

The captain's cabin was the farthest aft.
They passed the officers' quarters and the wardroom before reaching
it, and Devon was conscious of a progressive improvement in the
accommodations. In this self-contained world where a man could
never be alone, even when he went to bed, only the captain
possessed a haven of privacy. Raveneau's was singularly
comforting.

There was a roomy built-in bed of polished
mahogany, sturdily built but inviting, a matching drop-front desk,
and a simple table. A wing chair, upholstered in glove- soft red
leather, stood near the desk. All the furniture was attached to
either the bulkhead or the deck to keep it in place. A collection
of charts, instruments, and almanacs lay on the table, flanked by a
brandy snifter and a bottle of French cognac. Candles burned in
lanterns and wrought-iron holders, lending a cozy glow to the
cabin. The scents of tobacco, fine leather, and Raveneau himself
mingled in the air.

He poured some cognac for himself, then
turned to look her up and down. Devon pretended shyness, hunching
her shoulders and surveying her stockinged feet.

"Shoes?" Raveneau asked, as though wishing he
could ignore their absence.

"I forgot." Devon strove for a masculine
voice.

"In the future, I think you should
remember."

"Yes, sir."

"Now then, James, let me explain what I
require of you. My steward is ill—tonight's cooking, I fear—and to
avoid utter chaos in my cabin, I would like to employ you until he
is well. I do not foresee any sea battles or injuries for a few
days, so it would seem that you are the perfect choice."