Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (39 page)

"Andre! No! Oh, you have me in such a state.
I don't know what I'm saying!"

"Petite chatte,
as long as you can say
'I do,' I will be satisfied."

Captain Longheart was grinning toothily. "I
say!" he hooted. "Let's get on with it, then!"

The sun was just beginning to slide downward,
streaking the sky and ocean with a soft apricot glow. A gentle,
warm breeze caressed the
Black Eagle
and wrapped itself
around Andre, Devon, and Mouette as they became a family in name as
well as in spirit.

When the ceremony was over, Wheaton and
Treasel volunteered to watch the napping Mouette for a little
while, promising to keep her safe. Raveneau wrapped an arm around
his bride, marveling, "I never would have believed I could feel so
incredibly pleased about being someone's
husband!
Never!"

Minter, Louisa, and Captain Longheart were
persuaded to join the Raveneaus in the cabin to share a glass of
champagne and sign the ship's log.

Inside the cozy, lantern-lit cabin, the cook
brought champagne, and after the first toast and a sizzling round
of kisses for the bride, the log book was produced. There were few
entries in it; it would seem that the captain was not a man much
concerned with records. Devon signed with a flourish, followed by
Raveneau and the English captain.

She gazed at the inscriptions dreamily. There
it was, in black ink... "Wedded this sixteenth day of May, 1782."
Raveneau's hand was confident, the unembellished signature of a man
who didn't need to impress others.
Andri Geai Raveneau.

Devon looked up. "I never knew your second
name! What does Geai mean?"

Minter flinched, but Raveneau flashed a
casual smile. "Who knows? What does Andre mean?"

"But I never heard this name before." She
glanced at Minter, who threw up his hands and shrugged
excessively.

Captain Longheart laughed. "I don't know a
bloody word of French, madam!"

Louisa had been staring at the bubbles in her
tiny portion of champagne, but now she looked up. "Uncle Andre, if
you are from France, why don't you know that
geai
means
jay?"

Devon whirled on Raveneau, murder in her
eyes. "You!
You!
How could you? You made a fool of me!
Azalea, Minter"—she spared a fiery glare for Halsey—"all of you
must have been laughing up your sleeves while I mooned over the
Blue Jay!"

"Mooned?" Raveneau echoed. "Really?"

"Don't tease me! I could kill you right now!"
Her nostrils flared; bright spots of color showed on her
cheeks.

"I
say!"
ejaculated Captain Longheart.
"I'm not anxious to return to that brig, but I do suddenly feel in
the way!"

Raveneau caught Devon's arm and pulled her against
the length of his body. "My wife is fine now, Captain. She
apologizes for creating a scene, don't you, Devon? I know that you
will hold the rest of your threats and insults and physical
violence for when we are alone. Yes?"

Conversation resumed, more champagne was
opened, and Louisa eventually drifted off to sleep in her father's
lap. Devon pouted, sitting next to Halsey on the bed, avoiding
Raveneau's flinty gaze. When goodnights were exchanged at last and
the newlyweds were alone, Raveneau returned to his wing chair and
stared at his wife.

Silence was thick in the air before Devon
finally burst out, "You deceived me! You have been laughing at my
foolish infatuation with the Blue Jay—all of you! How can you look
at me like that, as if I am in the wrong?"

"You are, my dear," he said evenly. "This is
our wedding night. I thought we had agreed to put past
understandings in their proper place."

Suddenly, seeing her childish behavior in
this new light, she felt wretched. Chin trembling, she went to
Raveneau, waiting until his arms opened to her, then wrapped her in
comforting strength.

"Devon, I love you."

"I love you!" Turning her face into his hard,
warm chest, she let the tears come. "I should have known. The Blue
Jay had to be you. I've never wanted anyone else in my entire
life... and I never will."

***~~~***

May 23, 1782

Shortly before noon on Mouette Raveneau's
one-month birthday, the
Black Eagle
sailed into the harbor
of New London. The weather was dazzling; cool and crisp. The sun
was a ball of gold fire against a brilliant blue sky, transforming
the water into a wide ribbon of glittering sapphires.

They had dropped a very happy Halsey and
Louisa Minter at their Virginia farm, but Devon missed Minter now.
He had always known just what to say to her, his manner a perfect
blend of compassion and common sense.

Devon had passed the morning on deck, pacing
in agitation as the privateer skimmed along Fisher's Island Sound
in sight of the Connecticut coastline. The view was wrenchingly
familiar: the village of Stonington, Mason's Island, and the
smaller islands below it, Noank, Groton Long Point, and Mumford's
Cove. Beyond Pine Island, Devon could see the Thames, and she
recognized White Beach and the lighthouse on the far side. Benedict
Arnold's British fleet had landed there... could it have been less
than nine months ago? Her stomach was in knots, her palms were icy.
She hadn't slept at all the night before, plagued by nerves and a
fear that the nightmare would return. Raveneau had held her in the
moonlight, listening for hours as she relived her childhood and
adolescence, and finally the last day she had spent in New London.
Coming back to face the consequences of that day took all the
courage she had, and still it was not enough. If not for
Raveneau...

Devon had turned away from her first view of
the Thames and had run for the cabin, nearly falling through the
hatch in her desperation.

Raveneau was shaving, a wide towel wrapped
and knotted around his waist. He had propped two plump pillows on
his desk so that Mouette lay at a slant, gurgling and smiling at
her father's performance.

“Don’t you think that our daughter is very
advanced for her age?” he asked.

Devon flung herself on the bed. "I want to
stay right here. I'm very tired. Let me just sleep today."

Raveneau put down his razor, sighing as he
flexed his shoulders. "Devon. Are you going to make me suffer
through an entire day of this? I understand how you feel, but I
don't have the patience to cajole you until you finally give up and
do what you know damn well you must. Why not spare us both these
exhausting dramatics and show me your mettle instead?" His dark,
chiseled face betrayed no hint of sympathy, but this was the result
of a lifetime of hiding his feelings. "I am certain you can manage,
petite, and you must believe, this time, that I know you best."

She was shaken by the cool sharpness of his
voice. Tears pooled in her eyes, but Raveneau's expression did not
soften. He gave her one last rapier-sharp look, lifted a brow
almost imperceptibly, then returned to his shaving-stand.

"You don't understand," she whimpered after a
long minute. "I have been through so much..."

He didn't answer, didn't miss a stroke with
his razor. Devon's chin quivered and tears spilled onto her cheeks,
while Mouette continued to coo and swing her hand at a sunbeam. Not
until he had finished shaving and had rinsed and dried his face and
neck did Raveneau turn back to his wife. She saw him through her
tears, looming over her, his body taut with anger. She cringed.

He caught her arms roughly and pulled her to
him. "Don't you ever shrink from me again! Dry your eyes and get
dressed, Devon. You only hurt yourself with this self-pity, and I
will not have it. You have suffered much, but you have also
survived much and your blessings are many. You are not alone, as
you were a year ago, before all this madness began. You have a
husband and a daughter who love and need you, and you owe it to all
three of us to face the past and put it to rest. All the tears in
the world can't bring back the dead or wash away your fears and
grief. I want you to put up your chin and tell yourself you are
strong. And if you begin to weaken, hold on to me. That's what I am
here for."

One arm encircled her slim back, while his
other hand caught her chin, holding it as he covered her wet,
trembling lips with his hard mouth. It was a potent kiss that
burned a path to her heart and fired her with his strength. "You
can lean on me, Devon, but I'll be damned if I'll carry you and do
your walking. Do you understand?”

Her cheeks were flushed. In spite of
Raveneau's stern manner, she felt the ridge of desire concealed by
his towel—a reminder of his celibate frustration. No words would
come, so she nodded, again and again.

* * *

They stood together on the deck as the
Black Eagle
docked. "Let's go ashore," Raveneau said gently,
after all was made secure. He carried Mouette as they descended the
gangplank.

The Beach, once Devon’s playground, was
nearly destroyed. Most of the storehouses were burned to the
ground, the Customs House was a charred shell, and the courthouse
and other buildings which had comprised the Parade were gone. The
once-crowded waterfront looked forlorn; there were huge gaps
between the ships.

Raveneau's arm hugged her waist. "At least
the war is as good as over, and the triumph of freedom is certain.
All of this can be restored."

Devon looked around the Bank as she walked.
Andre had already told her that this was the most damaged area, and
there was nothing else to say now. She looked beautiful; her head
was erect, her back straight. She wore an elegant gown of
cream-colored muslin striped in soft peach, its long-waisted boned
bodice and square neckline flattering the high curve of her
breasts. A wide-brimmed straw hat was tied around her throat with
silk ribbons, a few bright curls falling loose down her back, and
she carried a sunshade of striped peach silk.

"There it is." Devon stopped and whispered
the words.

Raveneau rearranged a squirming Mouette and
looked at the charred building where Devon and her mother had lived
and worked. The top story was entirely destroyed, but part of the
ground floor survived, and enough of the hanging sign remained for
him to make out the words: "Linen and Pewter Shop."

"Devon, I think we should go to Nicholson's
house. You may find that he survived the battle, and his wife's
company should be reassuring for you. No doubt she can answer most
of your questions."

They set out then, retracing in reverse the
route they had followed in the carnage so long ago. Devon pointed
out every home or shop that held meaning for her. They passed
Gadwin's Drug Shop, but she had no wish to see Morgan's parents
yet.

There was the gambrel-roofed schoolhouse
where Nathan Hale had awakened her mind long years ago. It sat away
from the footpath, surrounded by a stone wall, and Devon touched
the stones musingly.

"Do you know I turned twenty last month?" she
asked. "I'd forgotten... it was two weeks before Mouette was
born."

"What made you think of it now?"

"Because I had had my thirteenth birthday
shortly before Master Hale went to war. He gave me
Common
Sense
as a gift, and I was absolutely thrilled by the gesture.
He always encouraged me to study, but after he left, there was
never a schoolmaster who had a moment to spare for a female."

"I cannot believe you let that stop you!"

Seeing the gleam in his eye, Devon smiled.
"Master Hale laid a good foundation. The rest I could do on my own,
with the help of Nick's library."

They were approaching the handsome dark blue
Nicholson home. It had survived the fire perfectly, looking exactly
the same as when Devon was growing up.

"Don't panic," Raveneau said. "There is bound
to be at least one familiar face here, yes? Look, Mouette is
scowling, too!"

Raveneau went forward to lift the familiar
brass knocker. Just the sight of him warmed Devon's blood and made
her feel more secure. He had never looked more irresistibly
disreputable, clad in a frock coat of soft dove-gray velvet that
only served to emphasize the steel-flint of his eyes and jet-black
sweep of hair queued at his neck. The lean brown line of his jaw
showed above a white shirt and cravat, while a waistcoat of slate
silk fitted neatly against his tapering chest and narrow waist.
Finally, biscuit breeches and gleaming black knee boots completed
the picture of dangerous, masculine elegance.

Devon allowed herself a sigh. She had waited
these past days for him to ask eagerly if she was able to make love
yet, but after the first day he hadn't said a word. His eyes had
let her know what he wanted, but it was obvious now that he
expected her to come to him.

Dreamily, she shivered.

"You certainly look pleased for someone who
is suffering," he murmured sarcastically, and Devon met his knowing
eyes with a guilty blush.

"I—I—"

"I am glad to hear it." White teeth flashed
in a wicked grin.

The door swung open then, revealing a tall
Negro butler Devon had never seen before.

"Is your mistress at home?" Raveneau
inquired.

"Yes, sir," the butler replied in melodious
tones. "Who is calling?"

"Andre Raveneau—and family."

The butler turned to hurry up to the second
floor.

Devon's heart was beating like a wild drum
when Raveneau took her arm and drew her into the stairhall. She
gazed around, curiously dazed. The cream walls had been repainted
pale green, and there was a new tall-case clock beside the parlor
door. Uneasily, Devon peeked around the corner. Most of the
furniture was different, one entire wall was papered in a pastel
French pattern, and a huge painting hung over the mantel that she
had never—