Spring Fires (60 page)

"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.

Excerpt from

Natalya

Special Author's Cut Edition

Beauvisage Novel #2

by

Cynthia Wright

The year is 1814. Natalya Beauvisage, daughter of Caroline & Alec, is in France at her ancestral chateau in the Loire Valley. She is 26, an independent author, and she now longs to return home to America in spite of the war that makes travel dangerous...

"I'll find a way," Natalya insisted. "And I'm not motivated by stubbornness, or a whim. Something inside"—she pressed a hand over her heart—"tells me it's time to go home. It's the same inner voice that bade me leave Philadelphia and travel to Europe after my twentieth birthday. Whether it is God or my own best instincts, I trust it enough to do my utmost to obey."

Everything Natalya did and felt seemed to be
bigger
than normal, Lisette thought as she formulated a tactful reply. However, before she could speak, Marie-Helene appeared in the doorway.

"Madame, there is a stranger outside, insisting that he speak to M'sieur Nicholai." The little maid's eyes were wide with trepidation.

"M'sieur Nicholai and James have not yet returned from their ride to Saumur?"

"No, madame."

"Well, I'm sure that they'll be back momentarily. It's started to rain, hasn't it? You must ask our visitor in, give him a drink, and assure him that M'sieur Beauvisage should arrive home within minutes."

Marie-Helene looked pained. "Madame, this man is... a
stranger."

"Whatever do you mean by that?" Lisette was losing patience. "If he is a friend of my husband's—"

"He does not look like any friend of M'sieur Beauvisage's that I have seen before. He looks almost—dangerous...." The maid began to wring her hands nervously.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," Natalya exclaimed, "I'll go down and deal with the man!"

Standing, she drew her shawl close around her slim shoulders and hurried out of the room. Marie-Helene scuttled along behind, head down. They descended the curving, white marble stairway, Natalya's fingers skimming the rail of the intricately carved, black wrought-iron balustrade. At the bottom stretched the chateau's long gallery, magnificent with its floor of black-and-white marble squares and its renaissance tapestries. Through the gallery's long windows, which overlooked terraced gardens, Natalya could see the stranger who struck such fear into Marie-Helene. Clad all in black, he stood inside the arched doorway to the chateau's east wing. A slight breeze billowed his cape and caused him to lift his head, giving Natalya a glimpse of a rakish, dark, bearded face.

Baby hairs prickled along the back of her neck, a novel sensation that startled her.

"Voila!"
hissed Marie-Helene. "You see? He is a devil!"

Natalya blinked. "I see nothing of the kind. Your imagination is driven wild by this ferocious weather."

"Je t'implore,
do not open the door to him!" the maid cried.

As she crossed the stone entry hall, Natalya realized that Marie-Helene was scurrying in her wake like a child trying to hide behind her mother. She put her hand on the latch and warned, "You needn't cling to me if you're so terrified of this person. I can deal with him on my own."

"Mais, non!
I cannot leave you, mam'selle. I am here to serve you with my very life, if need be!"

Natalya stole a brief glance heavenward and tried not to smile. "I'm sure I don't deserve such blind devotion. You'd better brace yourself, then. I'm going to open the door... now!" She was nearly laughing as she pushed back the bolt, lifted the latch, and dragged open the heavy door. Her eyes were sparkling with merriment, and a silken honey-gold curl came loose to brush the side of her cheek.

Then, Natalya focused on the stranger. Her body stilled and her smile faded, while the pounding of her heart grew deafening. Never before had she seen so striking a man. The effect was intensified by the angry twilight, which hurled raindrops, faster and faster, at the black-clad giant.

Perhaps he wasn't really a giant, Natalya amended, ever aware of her tendency to embellish reality; but he was bigger than her father or Uncle Nicky, both of whom were tall and broad-shouldered. The stranger's size was made more menacing by his black cape, which swirled out over worn trousers stuffed into muddy black boots. Most arresting of all, though, was his proud head, with a profile that bespoke arrogance and danger, and a keen intelligence. Natalya was struck by his wild, wet black hair, which was laced with silver, and by his pale face with its sculpted bone structure and steely eyes. He wore a trim beard, and his mouth looked sensual and hard all at once.

"Bonsoir, madame,"
the stranger said in a voice that sounded hoarse and tired. "I beg your pardon for this intrusion, but I have come a very long way to speak to your husband."

Startled, Natalya exclaimed, "You're English!"

"I'm afraid so," he admitted. "And you are... American?"

"Yes. Monsieur Beauvisage is my uncle. My aunt is upstairs at the moment, but my uncle will be back directly. Would you care to come in and—" She heard Marie-Helene gasp and felt her tug urgently at the back of her shawl. Natalya gave her a quelling glance. "You must excuse our maid. She has taken it into her head that you are a dangerous character and—"

The man turned his head sharply, as if he had heard an expected but unwelcome noise. "If you don't mind, I'll accept your invitation and come in now," he said hurriedly. "This weather is devilish."

Before Natalya could step out of the way, he pushed past her, causing Marie-Helene to cry out. Natalya herself was beset by a sudden wave of apprehension as she realized that he knew her uncle was not present. In the interest of fairness and good manners, she had written off his appearance to the rain, wind, and duration of his ride, but now she could see that beneath the cape his clothing was frayed, his hair and beard were overdue for grooming, and there was an evil-looking scar across the hand that reached out to push the door closed. When he turned again to look at her, she immediately recognized the threat in his gleaming gray eyes. She wasn't surprised when he put his hand under his cape and drew out a long, sharpened dirk. At the same time, she became aware of the clatter of hoofbeats entering the courtyard of the chateau.

"Do as I say," the man said curtly, "and neither of you will be hurt." He stared hard at the trembling Marie-Helene. "Compose yourself! When the two men who have just ridden up come to the door, they'll describe me, and you must tell them that you have not seen me, do you understand? You must be calm and convincing, little girl, else your beautiful mistress will feel my blade." He waited for the maid's crazed, wild-eyed nod, then lifted Natalya off the floor and carried her into a tower alcove just a few feet from the door. "Don't fight me," he ground out. "Be silent!"