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!"
&nbs
p; "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!"
"For Christ's sake, what does Devon have to do with this?"
In the hallway, Devon leaned weakly against the doorframe. The door was ajar only a crack, but it had been enough for her to hear and see all. Feeling soiled and despicable and sneaky, she walked blindly back to the haven of her own bedchamber, tears rolling down her face.
Azalea was regaining her composure, meeting Raveneau's steely gaze as she refastened her gown. "Devon has a great deal to do with this. You would never have wanted me if I hadn't mentioned her name, so you needn't tell me you don't care. You may not be able to admit your feelings to her or even to me, but the day will come when you must face them yourself." She rose and put a hand up to his dark, chiseled face. "For your sake as well as Devon's, try to overcome your stubborn pride. Darling Andre, I wish you only the best."
Chapter 18
***~~~***
October 28, 1781
"I'm in love with Andre," Devon said softly. She lay in bed, wide awake and curled into a tense ball of pain. It was long after midnight, and moonlight streamed in, turning the white sheets and spread to pale blue.
Only love could cause her such deep, paralyzing pain. Only love could make her abandon all pride to be near him and suffer his moodiness. Love forced her to return his kisses in the darkness and lit her up with a golden glow when he came to her. Raveneau was the center of her existence, and the reason was nothing so trivial as physical attraction. I love him, her heart said, and sent a fresh stream of hot, acid tears.
The door opened. Without a word, Raveneau set the candle on a table and sat down on the bed, bending to pull off his boots.
Devon lunged. She pulled his gleaming hair and pummeled his wide back ferociously. Raveneau put out an arm, shaking her off as though she were an overplayful kitten. "Dieu! What has gotten into you?" He peered closer in the shadows and saw the fury in her great sapphire eyes. A twinge of guilt in his gut suggested the reason.
"Get away from me." Devon's voice was poisonously even. "If you touch me, I will kill you."
Raveneau blinked. "I believe you would try at any rate. Women! You're all lunatics. Is it jealousy that's eating at you?"
"Leave my room!" she cried.
"Now, Devon, be reasonable—"
She threw herself at him again, clawing at his chest and face until he caught her wrists and pulled her to him. He kissed her, and for one dangerous moment Devon felt herself soften in response. Then she summoned every ounce of strength and bit his tongue, savagely. An astonished Raveneau released her and she slapped him full across the face with all her might. "Bastard! Get out of my room!"
His own eyes now flashed silver. He lightly returned her slap, just enough to knock a bit of steam out of her, and stalked toward the door. Devon tumbled backward on the bed, but managed to scramble up. Before he reached the door, she seized the pitcher from her washstand and flung it after him. Raveneau deftly sidestepped, and it crashed loudly against the wall.
"I ought to put you over my knee, you murderous little bitch!" He paused, listening with satisfaction to the sudden patter of footsteps downstairs. "I have a feeling that Mrs. Strivingham may be just angry enough to save me the trouble."
"Get out!" Devon screamed. She picked up the washstand basin and brandished it at him, but Raveneau ducked out the doorway before she could throw it. He slammed the door shut behind him.
* * *
The privateersmen assembled and breakfasted at dawn. Hearing the commotion, Azalea slipped on her dressing gown and padded out to the hall. Raveneau was at Devon's door, knocking, and she paused, watching curiously.
"We are departing," he said tonelessly to the closed door. "I trust you are ready."
Raveneau turned away and saw Azalea. "Au revoir, Madame Smith," he murmured, meeting her as she came forward.
Azalea could see the tension in his jaw, the odd, frosty pain in his gray eyes. She had been right last night, she thought. Somehow Andre had changed. "How are you today?" she asked gently.
"I am choking on the morality forced down my throat, that's how the hell I am! Any more questions, virtuous lady?"
Azalea stepped backward, her doe eyes wide. "Goodness!" she whispered.
At that moment Devon's door opened and the younger girl a
ppeared, looking pale and worn. She saw Raveneau standing with Azalea, and a sizzling fire lit her blue eyes. She did not speak, but started toward the stairway, shoulders squared.
"Wait, Devon!" Azalea called, and hurried after her. Raveneau brushed by both of them and descended the stairs.
"Please! I—" Azalea began. Then their eyes met straight-on and her heart wrenched. "Oh. I'm so sorry. Oh, my dear friend."
Devon could not resist the stricken expression on Azalea's face. After all, she had never hidden her feelings for Andre or her views on physical love. And Devon had heard Azalea stop Andre. She was really only angry at him, and it suddenly seemed foolish to turn away from the only person of whose love she could be certain. The two girls embraced fervently.
"I—I'm so sorry," Azalea faltered. "I could never intentionally hurt you!"
"I know. It's all right. I'm not angry with you."
"And... Andre?"
Devon drew back, her delicate face hardening. "He doesn't matter." Seeing Treasel looking up expectantly from the entryway, she said hurriedly, "I must go, though God only knows why. I wish I had another choice."
Azalea almost invited Devon to return with her and Isaac, but then she said, "I have a feeling that your fate lies with him, Devon. Take care. I love you."
"I love you, too. Thank you—and good fortune to you and Isaac."
They hugged again, and Azalea watched her friend quickly descend the stairs and draw up the hood of her pelisse. "Good fortune to you, too, Devon!" she called as Raveneau opened the front door, letting in a blast of frosty mist to greet the band of privateersmen.
* * *
The Black Eagle felt like an old friend. Devon was happy to see it, and somehow she felt that the privateer returned her affection. The crewmen cheered when they sighted Raveneau's party on the shore. They were as eager to set sail after weeks away from the ocean as their captain. He boarded and greeted his men, a brilliant smile transforming his dangerous-looking face. He walked about and surveyed his ship, stroking the sleek wood, the mahogany masts, the gleaming brass fittings. He had returned to his private kingdom.
Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) Page 20
