Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) Read online

  Silver Storm

  The Author's Cut Edition

  Raveneau Novel #1

  by

  Cynthia Wright

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  Without limiting the rights under copyright(s) reserved above and below, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior permission of the copyright owner.

  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The scanning, uploading, and distributing of this book via the internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  Copyright © 1979, 2011 by Cynthia Challed Wright

  Cover by Kim Killion

  eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Smashwords Edition

  ***~~~***

  Novels by Cynthia Wright

  (many now available as

  Special Author's Cut Editions

  in eBook format)

  ***~~~***

  CAROLINE

  Beauvisage Novel #1

  ~

  TOUCH THE SUN

  A Beauvisage/Hampshire Novel

  ~

  SILVER STORM

  Raveneau Novel #1

  ~

  SPRING FIRES

  Beauvisage Novel #2

  (A Beauvisage/Hampshire/Raveneau Novel)

  ~

  SURRENDER THE STARS

  Raveneau Novel #2

  ~

  NATALYA

  Beauvisage Novel #3

  ~

  SILVER SEA

  (previously published as BARBADOS)

  Raveneau Novel #3

  ~

  YOU AND NO OTHER

  St. Briac Novel #1

  ~

  A BATTLE FOR LOVE

  St. Briac Novel #2

  ~

  FIREBLOSSOM

  Matthews Novel #1

  ~

  WILDBLOSSOM

  Matthews Novel #2

  ~

  BRIGHTER THAN GOLD

  ~

  CRIMSON INTRIGUE

  ~

  coming in 2012: TEMPEST - Raveneau Novel #4

  Table of Contents

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  SILVER STORM - AUTHORS CUT EDITION

  Excerpt from: SURENDER THE STARS

  Excerpt from: SILVER SEA

  Excerpt from: SPRING FIRES

  Excerpt from: CAROLINE

  Meet Cynthia Wright

  Dedication

  ***~~~***

  For Star Helmer, friend

  and editor extraordinaire.

  Chapter 1

  ***~~~***

  New London, Connecticut

  April 20, 177

  The afternoon sun hung high above the tiny Linen and Pewter Shop, hinting at the summer to come, while inside the narrow building the heat was exaggerated by quiet. There had been only two customers all day.

  Deborah Lindsay sat in a worn ladder-back chair near the doorway in a wide beam of sunlight. Her fingers, rough but still delicately shaped, worked quickly at the large piece of white netting spread across her lap. When completed, the embroidered canopy would bring a fine price, but Deborah's face was pinched with worry all the same; anxiety had pressed tiny creases into her thin countenance. No one would describe her as pretty now, though not so long ago her fair-haired beauty had turned heads on every street.

  Her eyes burned. Blinking, she glanced up at Devon, her thirteen-year-old daughter. Typical! The girl stood at the other end of the shop, polishing-cloth and pewter bowl in her motionless hands, gazing out the small window toward the Thames River.

  Just like her father! Deborah seethed, blaming Hugh more than Devon, though she felt guilty about harboring such bitter feelings for a dead man. Had it been only sixteen years ago that Hugh Lindsay had turned her world upside down? Daughter of one of the wealthiest merchants in Boston, Deborah could have married any man. Hugh, a successful young sea captain, had dined at her family's home and captivated her with tales of adventure and far-off places. They were married within a month, then he kissed her goodbye and sailed off to the West Indies.

  It wasn't long before the stars in Deborah's eyes began to dim. Hugh was a handsome, magnetic man, but his first love was the sea and she could never hope to compete with it. They settled in New London, and within five years she gave birth to two beautiful children.

  Jamie was her delight. He was blond, sweet-tempered, considerate of her feelings, and he comforted her during the lonely years when Hugh was only an occasional visitor in his own home.

  Devon, the younger child, brought Deborah aggravation and little else. Her red-gold hair didn't quite match the darker fire of Hugh's, but even as an infant her eyes had sparkled like his, and the girl was happiest when running free along the banks of the Thames.

  Deborah's life had splintered one sunny day in 1772 when Jamie announced that he was going to be a cabin boy on Hugh’s next voyage to the West Indies. He was only twelve years old, but Deborah's heart sank as she recognized the eager gleam in his eyes. For the first time her resentment toward Hugh flared into hatred.

  Three months later, Hugh and Jamie were killed in a hurricane off Trinidad.

  Deborah became the bitterest sort of survivor. Hugh had been in debt, due partly to the import duties imposed on the West Indies trade by the Townshed Acts. Their fine house was sold and she and Devon moved to the upper floor of the Linen and Pewter Shop, owned by Zedidiah Nicholson. "Nick," though two decades older, had been Hugh's closest friend. After amassing a small fortune as a sea captain, he’d become a merchant, eventually building several stores, a warehouse, a wharf, and sending out his own ships. Deborah worked feverishly in his Linen and Pewter Shop, hoping to save enough money to buy the shop from the wages she was left after rent and food, and from the handmade goods and bonnets she included in the stock. It was a dim prospect, but one that gave her life its only purpose.

  "Mother?"

  Deborah finished knotting the white net before looking up. She knew what the girl would say, and her face tightened.

  "Mother?" Devon repeated hopefully. "I thought that since it is such a quiet day, I might go out and pick berries. I saw some lovely ones yesterday above Winthrop's Cove..."

  Her eyes, so wide and blue, were pleasing. Hovering on the brink of girlhood, Devon was already a glowing promise of beauty. Her strawberry-blond hair shimmered in the square shaft of sunlight that slanted through the window, curling against her face and down her back. Spring had barely arrived, but already her skin was peach-gold, her small body lithe from exercise.

  Deborah frowned. The girl was undisciplined, useless. It was impossible to get any work out of her. Mother and daughter stared at each other across bolts of linen.

  "Go on," Deborah said, her voice brittle. "Go! You aren't worth anything to me here. I don't know why I put up with your laziness. I'd be better off alone." Devon was already running for her basket. "I expect you to return with that basket full. Do you hear me? No excuses! And stay away from Nick! I won't have him poisoning your mind with those sea tales of his!"

  "Yes, Mother!" Devon sang as she dashed
out the door.

  Outside on Bank Street, which was commonly called "the Bank," the air was mild, fragrant with new flowers and grass. The Thames River lay before her to the east, flowing into Long Island Sound to the south of New London. Water was as familiar to Devon as land, for her town depended on its ideal harbor, one of the longest and deepest on the Atlantic coast.

  Breaking into an exuberant run, she rounded the corner of State Street and peered through the window of Gadwin's Drug Shop. George Gadwin, framed by shelves of apothecary bottles, spotted her impish face and grinned.

  He opened the front door and said, "Morgan hasn't returned home from school yet, Devon. Shall I give him a message?"

  "Yes, Mr. Gadwin! Tell Morgan I'll be at the cove. He knows where."

  With a smile and a wave, she was off again, running straight toward the Thames, basket swinging and curls flying. She turned the corner of the waterfront street known as "the Beach" and collided with something, head-on. Her calico skirts billowed as she sat down hard on the cobblestones. Feminine laughter rang nearby, then lean, dark hands lifted Devon effortlessly and dusted her off. Shielding her eyes in the sunlight, she squinted up into a face that made her heart skip. She was used to hardy seamen—had grown up surrounded by them—but this man was in a different class altogether. Cool gray eyes met hers briefly before shifting to the chestnut-haired girl who held his arm so tightly. Devon had an impression of strength, magnetism, and dangerous good looks that surpassed those of any man she had ever seen. His eyes were nearly silver-colored, his hair raven-black, and a thin white scar traced his brown jaw.

  "Ex... excuse me..." she stuttered.

  "Excuse me," he replied in a low, wry voice. With a French accent, thought Devon. "You are not hurt? Good." A fleeting bow, then the man and his lushly beautiful companion passed Devon and continued around the corner. She followed, watching his broad shoulders and narrow hips in fascination.

  A horse stopped beside her, but she did not notice.

  "Devon? Devon!"

  Finally she heard and looked up. A well-loved face smiled down from the open chaise. "Nick!" she exclaimed, immediately climbing up beside him.

  "Where were you, child?" he inquired affectionately.

  "I was looking at that man, Nick. Do you see him?" She leaned over the side, pointing at the distant shoulders.

  Nick pulled her back in, bushy gray eyebrows raised in surprise. Was it already beginning for her? He sighed, remembering that she’d just had her thirteenth birthday. Was it only a year ago that she’d furiously wiped her mouth when kissed by a neighbor boy?

  "Yes, yes, I know the man. Don't fall out of the carriage, Devon!" He snapped the reins and they clattered off down the street. "It's Andre Raveneau. He's a French sea captain and a good one at that; full owner of a newly built privateer called the Black Eagle, and quite famous for escaping at the crucial moment from the most impossible situations. Never lost a ship, they say, and not yet thirty years of age."

  "Goodness!" Devon breathed. "What is he doing here?"

  "He's just arrived with a ship full of European goods, but it is my opinion that there's more to it."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It's none of your affair, child. And you shouldn't be staring at men yet! You are not old enough."

  Devon surprised him by blushing, and he asked quickly, "What did you learn at school this morning?"

  Devon forgot Andre Raveneau as she recounted the morning's lesson. She never missed a day at school, though the hours for girls were from five to seven in the morning, and she adored Nathan Hale, her young teacher. He was strict yet fair, idealistic and patient, and Devon drank in every word he spoke.

  By the time she finished speaking, the chaise had passed the procession of handsome vessels anchored along the Thames, and Nick said, "Well, Devon, this is where I turn. I gather you are bound for the cove?"

  "Yes!" she laughed. "I have to fill this basket with berries, or Mother won't let me out again in the afternoon."

  "You're a scamp," he said fondly.

  Hopping down to the grass, Devon turned back to ask, "Where are you going?"

  "I've a meeting with Nathaniel Shaw and a few other men. It seems that a post rider's brought Shaw important news."

  "Well, I hope it's exciting! Thank you for the ride, Nick."

  Zedidiah Nicholson paused, the reins slack in his hands, watching her small figure scamper up the green hill. His face, still handsome after nearly sixty years, puckered in a sigh. Devon was leaving childhood behind, and he prayed she would learn caution as she matured.

  * * *

  Arms outstretched, Devon stood on the crest of the hill overlooking the wide blue river, taking deep breaths. Across the cove, on the finger of land known as Winthrop Neck, new ships were being built, while to the south, tall-masted vessels lined the bustling waterfront that was the hub of crescent-shaped New London. The Thames was a beautiful river, and trustworthy rather than treacherous. All manner of craft dotted it, including the ferry that was making its way across from Groton Bank. Devon shaded her eyes against the sun, counting the well-dressed men on board. Could they all be coming to Nathaniel Shaw's meeting?

  A dull boom echoed from the hills below New London, followed by a puff of smoke outside Fort Trumbull. A cannon had been fired to herald the arrival of a large, cargo-laden brigantine, sailing up from the seemingly endless expanse of Long Island Sound. Devon watched it approach, white canvas sails billowing in the sunlight. She wondered where it had been and what tales of adventure would spill from its crew that night as they sat drinking rum or ale in the taverns.

  Suddenly, damp hands covered her eyes. Startled, she tried to wriggle free. Her basket tangled in her assailant's arms and she pushed it between them, sending him sprawling in the grass.

  "Morgan!" Devon exclaimed.

  "Devon, do you have to be so violent? I was only having a joke." The boy got up, picking bits of grass from his coat.

  "I'm sorry." An irrepressible giggle belied her words. "A girl can't be too careful, you know. You might have been some wild-eyed sailor after a lone female."

  Morgan snorted. "Why would he be grabbing you, then? You're only twelve, just a child."

  Devon frowned. “Have you already forgotten? I’m thirteen, just like you!” The budding mounds concealed beneath her bodice were her dearest secret. Perhaps she wasn't grown up yet, but neither was she a child!

  "You think you're so important because you’re a few months older, Morgan Gadwin," she said hotly. "There isn't one thing you can do better than I can, and until there is, you just watch your tongue!" Devon turned away, adding over one shoulder, "I have to pick berries today. You can help or not." With that, she zigzagged down the grassy slope toward the nearest thicket.

  "Blast you, Devon!" Morgan yelled at her back. "Don't go off mad! I don't know what I did, but whatever it was, I'm sorry!"

  She skidded to a stop, turned with a grin, and put out her tongue. Typically, her irritation was over as quickly as it had begun; she and Morgan had a dozen minor tiffs each day.

  Girls her age were too prim and well-behaved to suit Devon, but Morgan was the perfect comrade. A quiet, rather dull boy by nature, he was enchanted by Devon's tales of the Caribbean and Europe, of life aboard ships, which she had heard from her father and Nick. She spun vivid dreams of the adventures that lay in her future, always including Morgan in the scenarios. Until he had met Devon, he had supposed he would someday own his father's drug shop. Those plans seemed impossibly drab now that he knew he would grow up to explore the world with this bold, magical creature.

  He followed her now, his own descent slower, more careful. He could never understand how she was able to charge through the tallest, most tangled grass without falling.

  "Devon!" he called breathlessly. "Wait! I almost forgot! There is news—tremendous news!"

  Morgan's frantic tone intrigued her and she paused near the trees, watching him stumble across the meadow. The sallowness of Morgan
's narrow face emphasized his great brown eyes and dark, wavy hair, which was coming loose from its ribbon. His shoulders seemed so small, his body so uncoordinated, and Devon remembered the splendidly made man she had crashed into on the Beach. Could Morgan possibly grow up to be such a man?

  "Devon!" he exclaimed, panting. "It's war! The British struck at Lexington, but we were prepared. We fought them to Concord. The word is that the Minutemen were one thousand strong! The redcoats were finally forced to retreat. Master Hale told us they lost three times more men than we—"

  Devon stared, open-mouthed. "Morgan! Is it truly war? Where did you hear this?"

  "Of course it's true!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "A post rider brought the news to the Shaw mansion, and soon afterward one of their stableboys came running to the schoolhouse. All the militiamen around Boston are being called. Everyone is going! By the time I started up here, the word was spreading across town; I've never seen such excitement! Just think, Devon, the colonies are going to be independent at last!"

  * * *

  "Come inside, child!" Deborah scolded from the doorway. "It's nearly dark."

  Devon sat on the stoop, yearning to be at Miner's Tavern to hear her schoolmaster speak. She had watched the men of New London pass on their way to the town square and had called out questions to old friends of her father. The news was that Nathan Hale had closed the school and was joining a corps of Rangers who were bound for Boston.

  The New London militia unit was also meeting tonight. In fact, it seemed that every male citizen was out in the gathering darkness, for the excitement was fiercely contagious. Important plans had to be made and each man wanted his voice to be heard. New London had suffered the heavy-handed authority of English law these past years, and the townspeople were eager to join in this real, potent revolution against the Crown. New London, with its superb harbor and sleek ships, could make a valuable contribution.