Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (27 page)

"Good morning," she whispered.

"Is it?"

Devon went cold as she recognized the
enigmatic mask he wore. Abruptly, he pulled free of her and swung
his long legs over the side of the bed.

"I suppose you are wondering what has become
of dear Mervin," he remarked, crossing naked to the washstand.

Devon fought the flame of desire that kindled
at the sight of his magnificent body. "I have wondered, yes."

"The wedding was a sham. The parson was a
cooper who occasionally acts in plays. His talent is limited, as
you may have noticed. As for Morgan—he was persuaded to cooperate
for a price." Coolly, he lathered his face and neck and took out
his razor. "Your erstwhile fiancé has borne out my suspicions about
the authenticity of romantic love. For all his supposed desire to
make you his wife, it would seem that he desired money more."

Devon convulsively reached for the quilts
that had been pushed away hours ago. "But... why?" she choked.

Raveneau flicked a glance over one broad
shoulder as he shaved. "If you imagine that my motive was jealousy
or—God forbid!—love, then you may as well revise your thinking. Let
us call it an experiment. You both failed—though, of course, the
outcome was as I suspected."

Despair, anger, humiliation, burned in
Devon's heart. "You devil! How dare you tamper with other people's
lives, just to prove your own bitter opinions of love! Maybe I
wasn't physically attracted to Morgan, but at least he cared about
me and wanted to marry me!"

"True. However, you ran a poor second to one
hundred pounds sterling." Raveneau splashed water over his face and
neck, then blotted it with a towel.

He returned leisurely to the bed and ripped
back the quilts with one swift movement. "And your love for
Malcolm, it seems, ran a poor second to your carnal appetites.
N'est-ce pas,
mademoiselle?"

"His name is Mor—" Devon's hoarse protest was
lost as Raveneau reached out to pull her roughly to her knees, his
hard mouth capturing her own.

* * *

After breakfast, Raveneau left the tavern
and, to Devon's horror, locked the door to his bedchamber,
imprisoning her there. Furious and frustrated, Devon spent the long
hours napping and reading the three old copies of the
Virginia
Gazette
that lay on the table. Raveneau returned after dark,
accompanied by two serving girls carrying steaming, covered
dishes.

In spite of everything that he had done,
Devon could not repress the thrill that ran through her when he
appeared. It did no good to tell herself that she hated him; hate
or love, she was caught in a spell of fiery splendor.

Raveneau silently stripped off a fawn jacket
and buff waistcoat, watching as the supper was laid out and the
wine poured. When the girls were finished, he gave them each a
shilling, then reached for his wine. As soon as the door had
closed, Devon was on her feet, sapphire eyes flashing. All day long
she had rehearsed the things she would say to him, and the speech
had swelled to a veritable tirade.

"I would have a word with you, Captain
Raveneau!"

He glanced up with exaggerated weariness.
"Save it, Devon. I am hungry and my patience is minimal. You may
eat or sulk, as you choose, but do not yell at me. I will have you
put in the stable with the horses."

Devon stiffened from head to toe, seething.
Finally she gave in to her own hunger pangs and sat down across
from him. "Someday you'll be sorry for the overbearing way you have
treated me," she hissed.

"Please! You'll frighten away my
appetite!"

Furious, Devon turned her attention to the
meal laid out before them. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, and
the array of aromatic dishes caused her stomach to rumble audibly.
They ate without exchanging another word, Devon taking every care
to pretend he did not exist.

When the last bites of apple tapioca had been
eaten, Raveneau poured himself an inch of cognac and sat back in
his chair. "Well?"

Meeting his cool, half-amused gaze, Devon
felt her temper gather steam and jumped to her feet.
"Well!?
Is that all you can say? You act as if I am slightly mad to take
offense after you have rearranged my entire life. I have a perfect
right to be angry and to despise you!"

"Absolutely." A hint of a smile flickered at
the corner of his mouth and fanned the flame of Devon's
outrage.

"Look at you! So smug and confident—and
odious! Do I amuse you? Am I your plaything?"

"I do not choose to give the reasons for what
I have done. I know that you are relieved to have escaped marriage
to Morgan, so this pose of the mistreated victim does little
besides bore me."

Devon longed to pummel him, to scratch his
face and tear his hair. "I hate you!" she shouted, near tears. "How
dare you presume to know what I want or how I feel? Do you suppose
that I am such an imbecile that I cannot manage my own life?"

"Not an imbecile, but a female. As for the
other...Do you wish that yesterday had ended differently, with
Morgan in your bed?" He perceived her involuntary shudder. "Do you
yearn to be sharing this evening's supper with him, as his
wife?"

"That is not the point! You don't want me!
What am I supposed to do now? Beg Mr. Hay to hire me as a serving
girl?"

Raveneau rose soundlessly and crossed to
where she leaned weakly against a bedpost, choking back sobs. He
reached out to catch her trembling chin and turned it up; their
faces were inches apart. Devon shivered at the angry set of his
scarred jaw and the icy gleam in his eyes.

"You are wrong,
petite chatte.
I want
you very much."

* * *

Two days later, Devon accompanied Raveneau
when he returned to Yorktown.

She was confused, resentful of him and of
herself for responding so helplessly to his touch. They rarely
spoke, but at night Raveneau came to bed and reached for her
urgently. At first Devon would attempt to lie coldly in his arms,
but soon she would be twisting passionately, meeting his kisses
with demanding, fiery lips. They slipped outside of time, leaving
behind the coolness that existed during the day. Raveneau's
hostility would temper to hot-blooded tenderness; Devon could hear
the French words of love that he whispered huskily into the cloud
of her hair. But when morning came, she could not believe that this
heartless, devil could have possibly said such things.

Never had he seemed so enigmatic, so much a
stranger. Devon's secret heart, beating under the mask of her
pride, was thrilled to accompany Raveneau. She knew that he
couldn't really hate her, or he would have gladly married her off
to Morgan. For all his cruel, unfeeling demeanor, he wanted her,
and it had to be more than a physical attraction.

At night it was impossible to resist him, but
during the day she pretended to despise him. He made it easy,
acting so abominably that she felt constantly angry. They never
laughed together any more. In fact, Raveneau didn't laugh at
all.

They arrived outside Yorktown in
midafternoon. The sky was overcast, the air bitingly cold,
intensified by a stiff wind that reddened Devon's cheeks and tore
any remaining leaves from the trees. October was nearly gone,
giving them a preview of the weeks ahead, the bleak limbo between
autumn and winter.

Devon sat wearily on her horse while Raveneau
made repeated stops to inquire after his crew. She remained
stoically silent, determined not to complain or give him the
satisfaction of knowing she was miserably uncomfortable.

Eventually they drew up before a huge white
house located east of Yorktown, within sight of the water. Raveneau
dismounted and handed his horse over to a boy before seeming to
recall Devon’s presence.

"This house has recently been converted into
an inn," he said. "I understand Mrs. Strivingham's husband was
killed in the battle at Guilford Court House. Apparently the
remaining members of my crew are here, awaiting my arrival, and I'm
told that Minter rode in last night, accompanied by Isaac and
Azalea."

The prospect of seeing Azalea brought a
brilliant smile to Devon's face. Warmth and affection! How she
needed a friend...

Mrs. Strivingham, a plump, nervous,
suspicious-looking woman, gave Raveneau and Devon separate rooms as
soon as she determined that they were not married. Devon was
relieved to be spared the ordeal of explaining, and Raveneau seemed
not to care.

The inn still felt like a home. The parlor
had been converted into a genteel taproom and the dining room was
crowded with extra chairs, but there remained a profusion of family
knickknacks wherever one looked.

Most of the
Black Eagle's
crew had
returned to the privateer, but Mr. Lane, Wheaton, and Treasel had
stayed behind to await their captain, and they had been joined last
night by Minter. The reunion now was a noisy one, aided by frosty
jugs of ale.

Everyone seemed surprised to see Devon, but
all were happy to know she would be accompanying the ship except
for a disgusted-looking Mr. Lane. Devon gave Minter a kiss and
greeted Isaac cheerfully, but reserved her real enthusiasm for
Azalea. The two girls hugged, regarded each other, then hugged
again. Leaving Isaac to fraternize with the men, they went up to
Devon's chamber and chatted while she unpacked and washed away the
grime of the road.

"You look wonderful!" Devon exclaimed.
"Married life must agree with you. How are your parents?"

"Devon, you goose, it has only been a week
since you've seen them! Of course they are fine, and as a bride of
two days, I am naturally in heaven. But what I want to know is—what
has happened with
you?"

Cringing, Devon told her everything. The
false wedding and the past three days were painfully difficult to
explain, but Azalea urged her on.

"Have you been sleeping with Andre?" she
demanded.

Devon hesitated, then nodded. "He tricked me,
you see. I thought it was Morgan until I opened my eyes—"

"Oh, Lord, what a splendid surprise! I would
give anything to open
my
eyes some evening and find Andre on
top of
me!"

"Azalea! You don't mean that!"

"Not really.. though a part of me does! I
love Isaac, but truth is truth, and to my mind, Andre in bed is a
dream come true. Don't tell me you don't think so!"

"Good grief! The words that come out of your
mouth—"

"Well?" she pressed.

"All right—yes. I love the nights. I've never
felt this way in my life or known such excitement was
possible."

She nodded triumphantly, dropping into a
bow-back chair. "And Andre? What are his intentions? Is he going to
make an honest woman of you?"

"No. Are you joking? You said yourself he
would never pin himself down." Devon's voice rose bitterly. "He
behaves as if I am some curse. He won't tell me why he botched my
wedding to Morgan. He just uses me at night and behaves as though
I'm a leper during the day. As for the future—I'm as much in the
dark as you are."

* * *

Exhausted after the trip, Devon lay down on
her pencil-post bed and immediately fell asleep. When she awoke,
the room was dark. Her stomach protested hungrily, and she slipped
into the newly washed sea-green frock and went downstairs.

Supper had already been served. The
dining-room table was now covered with cards and coins, ringed by
laughing men. Halsey Minter sat beside Isaac Smith, who seemed to
be winning and was very pleased about it. There was no sign of
Raveneau or Azalea.

"Azalea went up to look for you a few minutes
ago," Minter said. "Strange you didn't see her."

"Where is Andre?" Devon asked in a small
voice.

"He went up after supper to look at the
charts Mr. Lane brought."

Filled with dread, Devon hesitated on the
stairs but finally forced her legs to move upward. Azalea
wouldn't—would she?

Meanwhile, Raveneau and Azalea stood a few
feet inside the door to his bedchamber. He poured a glass of claret
and handed it to her.

"It's difficult to tell one door from the
next," she said. "Mrs. Strivingham really must light the hallway. I
hope I didn't disturb you."

"Not at all. You say you were looking for
Devon's chamber?"

"Yes. Mmmm... this wine is wonderful!"

"Hers is the next one, toward the
stairs."

"Oh." Azalea didn't move, but stared
longingly at Raveneau over her wine glass.

"You have beautiful eyes,
cherie.
I
had almost forgotten."

Azalea swayed a bit, faint with desire for
him. He was so near, staring at her with the seductive silver eyes
she knew only too well. His shirt was open; she yearned to touch
the warm, muscular brown.

"Oh, Andre... I feel so odd."

"Really?" He smiled slightly, one brow
arching.

"I... will you tell me how you feel about
Devon? I do wonder, for her sake—"

A cloud passed over Raveneau's face.
Abruptly, he took the wine glass from Azalea and drew her into his
arms, her lush curves melting into his taut, lean body. She thought
she would collapse; her heart raced frighteningly, loudly. Raveneau
pulled her head back and crushed her lips with his own. It was a
burning, demanding, angry kiss, and it left her breathless and
trembling.

"Andre. Oh, Andre. Please—" It had been so
long.

He kissed her again, harder, and one hand
closed over one of her aching breasts. His raven head bent and his
mouth burned a trail down her throat as he deftly unfastened her
bodice.

"Oh..." She began to weep convulsively, “I
can't. No." Shaking, she tried to push him away and stumbled
backward against his bed.

Raveneau's face was tense, menacing. "What
the hell is wrong with you?"

Sobbing, Azalea fumbled to adjust her bodice
over her lush, breasts. "I mustn't. I thought I could, but I cannot
betray Isaac. I must be growing up! It would be wrong.” She gazed
at him soberly. “And... Andre, we'd
both
be betraying
Devon!"