Caroline (50 page)

The Author's Cut Edition

Raveneau Novel #1

by

Cynthia Wright

SILVER STORM is the story of Devon Lindsay, a high-spirited girl who lives in New London, CT during the Revolutionary War. Since the death of her father and brother at sea, Devon and her mother have run a small shop, struggling to make ends meet. She dreams of growing up and going to sea herself, longing to see the world, and spins dreams and plans with her childhood friend, Morgan Gadwin. During Chapter One, 13-year-old Devon is captivated by her first sight of the legendary privateer captain Andre Raveneau. Word reaches New London that war has broken out between England and the Colonies, and Devon's schoolmaster, Nathan Hale leaves to join the militia. Chapter Two begins five years later, when Devon is 18.

From Chapter Two.

October 20, 1780

New London glowed with autumn's deepest colors. Leaves of crimson, gold, rust, and saffron blanketed the stone walls that bordered every road; pumpkins lay fat and orange on their vines; bright red apples dripped from orchard branches.

Devon, at eighteen, seemed an additional gift of the season. Her cloud of strawberry-blond curls and her soft creamy skin were more beautiful than ever against the fiery leaves, and the sight of her on the street lightened the hearts of the war-weary citizens.

On this October afternoon she strolled toward the Beach, a faded hatbox swinging on her arm. Deborah had labored for hours over the bonnet that Nick had ordered for his wife's birthday, a perfect copy of a European original. Devon had stern instructions to deliver it directly to the Nicholson home, yet she could not resist the urge to make a detour along the waterfront. Pausing in the shadow of a Shaw warehouse, she surveyed the activity on the docks. True to her mother's prediction, war had changed New London. The past five years seemed like a dark eternity.

The town itself harbored nearly sixty successful privateers, and the anchorage was used by vessels from all over America, even Europe. Many New London men had chosen to join the army, and ships had been built for the State and Continental navies, but privateering was supreme. Privately owned vessels had been armed and fitted out at their owners' expense for the purpose of capturing enemy craft, and everyone—owners, crew, and the government—divided the booty. Five years ago it had all seemed a great romantic adventure.

Devon thought sadly of the night she had said goodbye to Nathan Hale. Eighteen months later the young captain she had so admired had disguised himself as a Dutch schoolmaster to spy on the British who occupied Long Island. He was discovered and hanged on September 22, 1776. Too many men, men she had known since birth, were now dead like Mr. Hale, or imprisoned.

New London lived under a cloud of fear; even now Devon could see a great British ship anchored to the south in Long Island Sound. The townspeople expected to be attacked at any moment and there had been countless false alarms, leading to the evacuation of all women, children, the ill, and the elderly. Devon's heart tightened at the remembered nightmares: screaming, sobbing, praying all around her as wagons rumbled out of town in the middle of the night.

Less than a month ago General Benedict Arnold had conspired to surrender West Point to the British. Though his plot had been discovered, he had escaped, and New London continued to reel under the shocking blow, for Arnold had grown up just ten miles north, in Norwich. Until now, his exploits had been a source of deep pride to everyone from the area. Disillusionment and mistrust abounded. Neighbors and lifelong friends suspected one another of being Tories; several had actually admitted their loyalties and left for British-occupied New York town, including the local Anglican minister.

Despite the dark days and harsh realities that had been thrust on Devon, she still passionately wished that she were a boy so that she might sail off to fight for America's independence. No one cheered more loudly than Devon when Fort Griswold's cannon fired the three-shot signal to greet the latest privateer returning with its prize. Her heart would swell with joy and pride at the sight of the rakish craft sailing up the Thames, laden with cargo from British ships. Devon knew that New London was truly hurting the British, and she was convinced that the hardships of the past five years had not been suffered in vain.

A chilly breeze swept off the Thames and Devon stepped into the sunlight. Approaching the docks, she scanned the sleek, lightweight vessels at anchor and strove to appear nonchalant in her search for the
Black Eagle.

She saw
him
first, shouting orders on the deck of his ship.

Many of the captains and officers who sailed privateers had achieved glamorous reputations, but none could match Andre Raveneau, who at thirty-two had become a legend. Men thought him the most daring, successful, and charmed of captains; women knew only that they went weak in his devastatingly handsome presence. Raveneau had given his time, his expertise, and his beautiful privateer
Black Eagle
to the American cause for reasons he chose not to discuss. Of course, averaging a dozen prizes a year, he had become abundantly wealthy, but there were plenty of less hazardous ways to pursue riches. Because of Raveneau's fearlessness and his ability to succeed in the face of seemingly impossible odds, townspeople whispered that he was allied with the devil.

Devon watched as he jumped lightly to the wharf, her heart racing and palms icy. Raveneau had fascinated her for five years, though he was dangerous-looking, his dark face chiseled and unsmiling. He strode past Devon, but she might as well have been a barrel of molasses for all the notice he paid her.

As he disappeared around the corner, Devon wondered why he didn't look at her the way other men did. In the past two years strangers had begun to stare openly at her blossoming figure and exquisite face. However, since most healthy eligible males had gone to war, most of these admirers were either old men or adolescent boys...

"Good day to you, miss!" a husky voice called. Startled, Devon spun around to face a stocky, genial-looking young man whose sandy hair was queued neatly at his neck. "Have you business on the
Black Eagle?
Perhaps I might help?" A square hand reached out, but Devon eluded it. She was beginning to regret coming down here, for no decent girl would wander the docks alone.

"No... I—"

"Devon!"

She gasped with relief at the sound of Morgan's voice, and took his arm enthusiastically. "I'm so glad to see you! You can walk me to Nick's. I have this hat to deliver to Temperance, and Mother will thrash me if I'm not back soon." As they started off, she nodded to the sandy-haired privateersman, who shrugged good-naturedly.

Morgan was delighted by Devon's attention, for he still adored her. The years had added a few inches to his height, but he fell far short of six feet, and his shoulders remained narrow. To his chagrin, Devon continued to treat him as an affectionate friend.

"I heard today that we won a great victory at King's Mountain," Morgan said, conscious of her arm linked through his.

"Oh, that's splendid news," Devon said awkwardly.

Morgan's face burned, for he knew what was on her mind. For two years she had been urging him to sign on with a privateer or even join the army and had been confused and disappointed by his refusal. His excuse was that his father needed him, for both his brothers were gone, one at sea, the other a soldier. Morgan could never admit that he was simply afraid. The thought of battle made him nauseous; he even had nightmares about it.

"My brother Tyler's company may have been engaged in the battle," he said hastily, thinking to absorb a bit of family glory. "Last we heard, they were nearby."

"I am certain he was the hero of the hour." Devon couldn't help the accusing note that crept into her voice.

They walked in silence for several minutes. Morgan wished that he could calm the fever in his body. It seemed to intensify each time he was near Devon, and he feared that only she could cure it. Other boys his age—the few who remained in town—had found relief with the easy women who haunted the docks. One evening, after hours spent lying innocently in the grass with Devon, he had taken his aching groin down to the Beach and had stood and watched the painted harlots. One had actually approached him, but her brazen manner had scared him to death.

I want Devon and only Devon, he thought now, and the words seemed to sear his brain. She still talked of their future together... surely she would not reject the advances of her husband-to-be? If not for the chaos of the war, they probably would have been married already! Impulsively, he put an arm around her slender waist. She glanced up in surprise, then smiled. Morgan's heart began to pound.

Devon was feeling sorry that she had spoken to him so impatiently. She must not press him to do her will, she thought. Morgan was Morgan, and she of all people should be able to accept the fact that he was not a warrior at heart. Still...

Unbidden, the dark image of Andre Raveneau filled Devon's mind and a chill ran down her spine. She could not understand the madness that swept her at the mere thought of him! Still painfully innocent, Devon was curious, yet fearful, about these feelings she had. The fact that they were confined to a rakish privateer captain who did not know she existed was bewildering.

Feeling her shiver, Morgan tightened his hold. Devon, guilty, leaned against him. Her face flushed self-consciously. Morgan took that as a good sign. She's shy but willing! he thought. His fingers fanned out from her waist to touch the soft curving hip. He felt a hot pressure spread down his belly.

"Devon..." he gulped. "Look at those apple trees! I am famished. Have you have time to stop?"

"Well..." she murmured doubtfully.

"Come on!"

Morgan led her past dozens of beckoning branches to the tree farthest from the road. Plucking an apple for each of them, he persuaded her to sit down.

"Captain Clark made it back safely from the West Indies today," Devon commented. "I heard his tales of Jamaica in the shop today, and I simply ached to see what he has seen. Such adventures! When we sail, Morgan, the West Indies must be our first stop. I want to run barefoot on the white beaches, and—"

"Devon!" Morgan rasped. He suddenly lunged forward and enfolded her in a clumsy embrace. Shocked at first, Devon soon allowed her curiosity to take hold. So this was to be her first kiss! Rather excited, she relaxed and waited for Morgan to proceed.

Briefly he froze, then Devon felt wet, trembling lips press against hers. Revolted, she started to pull away, but Morgan shoved her backward into the grass and fell on top of her. His tongue invaded her mouth; he rubbed his body against hers, flattening her breasts. A bulge under his breeches pressed into her belly, edged lower. Devon reacted violently. She pushed at him with all her might and yanked the hair fastened at his neck until he screeched and rolled away from her.

"Morgan Gadwin, have you gone mad? Are you possessed? What lunacy was that?" Devon scrambled to her feet, rearranging her faded blue gown, eyes blazing at the mortified Morgan. "You scared me half to death!"

He sat with knees drawn up to hide his shame. "I thought you loved me!" he mumbled at last, looking up with stricken eyes. "I'm... sorry. I didn't mean to... I just
need
you so much!"