Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (4 page)

Raveneau lifted a dark brow, but his only
reply was, "You are too kind, M'sieur Nicholson."

"Nonsense! Wouldn't want anything to happen
to America's most valued privateersman!"

"What about
me?"
Devon demanded,
feigning outrage.

"Well, now, that's another story!" Nick
laughed, ducking her effort to cuff his arm. They left the library
and were walking toward the door when Nick inquired
conversationally, "Still reading
Gulliver's Travels,
Devon?"

She laughed. "You underestimate me! That was
last week! I've finished
Candide
and that tiresome
Vicar
of Wakefield
since then."

"And now?"

"I don't think I should tell you."

Raveneau looked on with interest as Nick's
bristling gray eyebrows came together. "Devon—"

"Tom Jones!"
was her cheerful
reply.

"Good Lord! Where on earth did you get a copy
of that?"

Rebecca opened the front door and Devon
scampered outside before calling back, "From your library, of
course!"

Nick clapped a hand to his head and was
shaking it hopelessly from side to side as Andre Raveneau bade him
farewell. "An interesting visit!" he commented, unable to repress a
smile. "I will see you in a few weeks, M'sieur Nicholson."

Nick recovered enough to grasp the
Frenchman's hand and wish him luck with the voyage he would
undertake on the morrow.

A handsome carriage was brought around, the
horses tossing their heads at the sight of Devon, who greeted them
and the young driver by name. A bemused Andre Raveneau helped her
up, and after a last wave at Nick they started off down Union
Street.

Suddenly Devon felt a choking shyness close
around her. Gazing at her lap, she was able to view Raveneau's legs
as well, only a few inches from her own. The long muscles of his
thighs were outlined against the fawn breeches he wore; she yearned
to touch him, to find out if his leg could actually be as hard as
it looked.

Raveneau could feel her scrutiny. It was
unsettling. What was the girl looking at? "I was quite impressed to
hear of all the books you read this week," he said at last, hoping
to halt her gaze before it continued any farther up his legs.

Startled, Devon looked up. Outside, dusk was
deepening into a blue-gray mist, and she had the impression that
this entire experience was not real, but one of her recurring
dreams.

"Were you really?" she asked. Perhaps he was
laughing at her again.

"Of course! I do not know many literary
females, especially of your age."

"I am not so young!" Devon retorted
hotly.

Raveneau could not help glancing at the soft
curves displayed by her too-small dress. "No, of course not,
mademoiselle. Not a child, by any means!"

Devon thought she detected a glint of silver
in his penetrating gray eyes. Oh, he was so handsome! Even in her
dreams he had not looked so devastatingly attractive. Her eyes
moved over him in the dimming twilight, memorizing the gleam of his
black hair, the hard lines of his scarred jaw, mouth, cheekbones,
the strength of his neck, the width of his shoulders...

Raveneau managed to meet her dreamy eyes.
"Mademoiselle, you seem to be greatly preoccupied with my looks!
Perhaps you’d like a closer view?"

He brought a dark hand up to her chin. Devon
shivered at his touch. Her heart pounded in her ears and he moved
nearer, then slowly lowered his head until their lips brushed.
Raveneau meant to give her the briefest of kisses, just something
to dream about, but her lips were so soft, as sweet and moist as
crushed berries. Hesitantly, they moved against his harder mouth,
and he slid his fingers around her neck, into the cloud of her
hair. She smelled of sunshine and fresh air...

Devon was sailing through a sea of stars; she
tingled from head to toe. Tentatively, remembering the way Morgan
had kissed her, she parted her lips. Raveneau was lost. His tongue
touched even white teeth, then the soft, sweet tip of her tongue
and he was shot through with the fierce sort of desire he hadn't
experienced in years.

Abruptly he broke away, forcing himself to
remember that he was kissing an innocent girl who looked to be
nearly half his age. He slid his hand from her hair reluctantly,
saw huge blue eyes staring up in confusion. He stared back,
astounded.

"Good God!" was all he could say, and each
word was like a gunshot.

Devon's entire body blushed crimson with
shame. As the carriage drew to a halt before the Linen and Pewter
Shop, she rallied and delivered a stinging slap to Raveneau's dark,
harshly cut cheek.

***~~~***

October 21, 1780

Devon tossed in her narrow bed, her mind
spinning. For the first time she regretted that she had no close
female friends to turn to for advice. This was certainly not a
matter she could take to Morgan or to her forbidding mother, and
there was no doubt in Devon's mind that nearly every other girl her
age in New London must know more about men than she did.

She thought that the sheer wonder of
Raveneau's kiss might have been enough to combat shame, were it not
for Morgan. What was wrong with her? How could she claim to love
Morgan, plan to marry him, yet be so utterly repulsed by his
kisses, his touch? As if that were not bad enough, she had allowed
another man to kiss her the very same day! And Andre Raveneau had
lit a fire in her. All night long her breasts seemed swollen, her
nipples taut against the cotton bedgown she wore. And the hidden
place between her legs ached alarmingly. She wondered if it were
some physical punishment for the terrible thing she had done. Yet
it was not really pain, but more of a throb that seemed to reach
for something. During the long, dark hours she spent restlessly in
bed, Devon wondered if perhaps Raveneau really
was
an agent
of the devil and had put some curse on her.

When dawn broke at last, Devon rose, pulled
off her bedgown, and paused to glance furtively at her body, which
was beginning to seem quite foreign. Hesitantly she touched her
breasts and was shocked when they tingled in response. Her hand
moved to the red-gold triangle, toward the source of that pain
which had subsided. When her forefinger brushed the hidden bud of
desire, Devon gasped as the ache returned in a burst of fire.

Sick at heart, she pulled on her clothes,
anxious to cover herself.

I must be ill! she thought wildly.

Deborah slept on in the next room; it would
not be long before she would also awaken. Desperate for some air,
Devon crept downstairs and headed for the shop door. At this hour
it would be possible to run for as long as she pleased and feel
alone in the world. Perhaps the cold chill of dawn would cure her
affliction.

The sun had barely begun its ascent, and New
London was bathed in an ash-rose light that softened the bright
hues of autumn. Once on the Bank, Devon ran until her throat burned
and her legs buckled. Finally she was forced to stop. She leaned,
panting, against a building.

She was on the waterfront, directly across
from the privateer with a figurehead of a magnificent black and
silver eagle. There was little activity on the rest of the ships,
but the decks and the masts of the
Black Eagle
were crowded
with men. Devon remembered that it was leaving today. What am I
doing here? she demanded of her traitorous legs. The sound of a
familiar, French-accented voice brought her up sharply.

"Damn you, Carson, I told you to secure that
line!"

Devon spotted Raveneau standing on the
quarterdeck and shouting at one of the men in the rigging. Other
voices drowned his out, but the sight of him was mesmerizing. After
admiring the sheen of his black hair in the sunlight and the broad
chest revealed by his open white shirt, Devon noticed a girl
standing on deck. Although she wore a dark pelisse with the hood
up, Devon could see a few blond curls surrounding a pretty face.
After a few moments the girl walked over and caught Raveneau's
loose white sleeve. They embraced. A sour lump formed in Devon's
throat.

When it became clear that the girl was
leaving the
Black Eagle,
Devon stumbled back between the
warehouses and kept on going. Humiliation, guilt, and undefined
jealousy tortured her as she ran back to the Bank. It seemed that
the whole of her simple existence had been turned inside out.

The Gadwins' home was located on Bank Street,
just around the corner from their drug shop. Morgan had not slept
well that night, either, and he was in the dining room when Devon
went dashing by. By the time he reached the front door and shouted
to her, she was halfway home, but she stopped and waited for him.
Morgan ran to meet her.

Devon burned with guilt as she watched him
approach, looking so young, his warm brown eyes so earnest.
Remembering the things she had thought and said under the apple
tree, she resolved to make it up to him. Perhaps that would cleanse
her conscience all around.

"Devon, I am so glad to see you! I've been
wondering when we would be able to talk. There's time yet before
the shops open. Will you come with me?"

"Of course I'll come with you," she told him
hastily. "I want to apologize for the way I behaved yesterday. I
was quite callous... you didn't deserve it."

Morgan's drawn face relaxed as he looked down
at her in surprise. Leading the way back to his house, he could
feel his pulse quicken. They walked hand in hand through the yard
to the little summerhouse where they had played as children. Devon
perched on the edge of the built-in bench, facing the glorious
sunrise. Morgan joined her. He felt awkward and nervous, yet
encouraged by her unexpected apology.

"Devon... I'm so sorry about yesterday. I
behaved like an animal. I never meant to frighten you!"

She turned to him anxiously, eyes wide.
"Don't be sorry. You love me and I love you. I know you couldn't
help it. I should have been more understanding."

"Oh, Devon!" Morgan choked, throwing his arms
around her. She endured a smothering kiss and willed herself to
think only of their childhood friendship and lifelong love. If a
French privateersman could awaken her, then surely dear Morgan
could, too. It just might take more time...

"I couldn't sleep last night," he whispered
against her ear. His hot breath bothered her.

"Neither could I. I was simply
miserable."

"Sweetheart!" His damp hands caressed her
neck, then moved to her shoulders and removed the shawl she wore.
Frantically, he touched her bare forearms and lifted her hands to
kiss each finger. Devon fought the nausea that swept over her and
managed to smile when Morgan raised his eyes.

"I have something to tell you," he said.
"I've been waiting for hours. I almost came to the shop and woke
you. Devon, we received word last night that Tyler was killed at
King's Mountain. I have decided to fill his place in his
militia."

Her mouth dropped. She could scarcely
remember Morgan's brother, for he had been nineteen when he left
New London five years ago, but the news of his death came as a
blow. It didn't make sense, any more than her father's and Jamie's
deaths, or Nathan Hale's. For a moment she wanted to beg Morgan to
stay. What if he were killed? The thought left an acid taste in her
mouth, and she selfishly realized that she would lose her best
friend.

"Oh... Morgan. Your poor parents!" she cried,
thinking of those quiet, kindly people.

"It is hard on them, of course, but I think
they expected it. The odds were against both Tyler and Joshua
surviving, I suppose."

"But how can they let you go? I don't think
it is a good idea, Morgan. They will need you now more than
ever!"

"No. Father agrees it is the right thing to
do. I imagine he thinks I should have joined before now. I'm
nineteen, after all, and healthy." He looked at her in surprise.
"Just a minute, Devon! You of all people should be proud of me! You
have badgered me for two years to fight for America's
independence."

"But, don't you see? Tyler's death changes
all that! I never thought anything could happen to you. But now you
seem so vulnerable."

"Please, I wish you wouldn't remind me."

He looked so sad and frightened that Devon
threw her arms around his neck. Burying his face in her fragrant
hair, Morgan choked, "I have to go! If I don't, people will think
me a coward and laugh behind my back—and my father's. I cannot
humiliate him. Tyler may be dead, but my parents are proud of him.
Do you think I can go on any longer hiding behind the counter in
the drug shop? I may not be the bravest person, but I do have some
pride!"

Devon was swept by a warm tide of affection.
Her arms tightened around him and her breasts pushed against his
chest. "Oh, Morgan, what will I do when you are gone?"

"My darling, please don't cry. I'll be back.
The fighting will be over soon, everyone says so."

"Will you be careful?"

"I promise."

Devon's lips were only inches away and Morgan
found them easily. Desperately she fought to remain still as his
tongue thrust into her mouth. If only I hadn't kissed that
Frenchman, I wouldn't realize how horrid this is! she thought
wildly.

Morgan's hands fumbled at her bodice. Devon
realized that any eager lover would show him the way, but she could
not. In desperation he forced his fingers under the low neckline of
her gown. He gasped when his hand closed over her breast, but she
was only conscious of a chafing discomfort. After poking her two or
three times, Morgan pulled the offending hand free.

"You are so beautiful!" he breathed. "You
will never know how much I love you. I would face a thousand
redcoats by myself just to—"