Silver Sea

by Wright, Cynthia

  "How do you do, mademoiselle?" Raveneau said, his voice deep, charmingly accented, and faintly amused.

  When Nick pinched her, Devon blurted, "Oh, I am fine! And you?"

  "I am also... fine." A fleeting grin revealed teeth which seemed startlingly white against his tanned face.

  Rebecca arrived with the "tea" tray, which held three glasses, a decanter of brandy, and a small goblet of red wine. Devon always had wine at Nick's, one delightfully forbidden glassful. The distraction enabled her to find a chair and sit down. Nick returned to his desk, Raveneau to the red leather wing chair, and the tray was passed.

  "How is your mother?" Nick inquired, adding to the visitor, "Devon's father, my good friend, was lost at sea some years ago. Tragically, her brother was on board as well."

  Raveneau turned steel-gray eyes on Devon and she felt her heart thud alarmingly. "I am sorry," he said.

  "Oh... I appreciate..." Flustered, she looked at Nick. "Mother is worse than ever, I think. She's totally absorbed in the shop, working every minute. There must be two dozen quilts and as many net canopies, all unsold, and still she makes more. She never mentions Papa or Jamie any more and hardly speaks to me. Doesn't even bother to nag about my behavior..." Devon broke off, blushing.

  Raveneau had been watching her with detached interest. She was the prettiest girl he had seen in months, though sadly in need of grooming. Her cloud of burnished-rose hair was loose and windblown, boasting a dried leaf on one side. The plain blue dress she wore was too small, though it did outline the high curve of her breasts well. But her face was simply enchanting. It had been a while since he had observed such fresh beauty: sparkling blue eyes, dusky cheeks, and a mouth that enjoyed laughter. Ah, innocence! he thought, and allowed himself a lazy, cynical grin.

  His expression deepened Devon's blush. She retreated into the safety of her wing chair, listening to the conversation. Apparently, whatever business was between the two men had already been discussed, for now they only exchanged news of the war.

  Raveneau had been at sea until two days ago, and was interested in the details of Benedict Arnold's treason and the execution of the British officer who had acted as go-between. Devon found the Frenchman's cool attitude toward Arnold quite surprising. It had been nearly a month since General Arnold had scurried down the Hudson to New York town, leaving the popular British Major Andre to be hanged as a spy, but everyone in the area continued to talk of the traitor daily. Anger, shame, and bewilderment were emotions that ran high, yet here sat this nonchalant Frenchman, asking questions as though he were discussing the price of rum.

  "I understand that Major Andre requested a military execution by firing squad," he remarked.

  "Yes. General Washington wished to grant him that much, but since Andre was found guilty of spying, Washington was forced to have him hanged."

  "He was a brave man, unlike that toad Arnold!" Devon exclaimed. "He put the rope around his own neck, and do you know what his last words were?"

  "No, but I trust you will enlighten me," Raveneau murmured, amused.

  "He said, 'My only wish is that you all bear witness that I die like a soldier and a brave man.' "

  Nick coughed with embarrassment. In desperation, he drew out his watch and examined it at length, at which point Andre Raveneau stood up. Devon gazed at his tall, hard physique until she heard Nick cough once more. Both men were watching her, and she was conscious of the deep flush that spread over her face.

  Nick rushed around his desk. "Devon, child, what's this box you have?"

  "Oh, I nearly forgot. It's the bonnet you ordered for Temperance's birthday. Mother did lovely work on it. It hardly seems fair that you should buy it, since you own the shop, but times being what they are—"

  "Hush, minx! I may own the shop, but I don't have a talent for making bonnets! Leave me the bill, now. Stay awake in church this week and perhaps you'll see the thing modeled." His eyes danced.

  "Nick, you are too bad."

  "And you, miss, are an authority on making mischief! Which reminds me—Shaw mentioned today that he's seen you wandering about the docks! That's got to stop, Devon. You'll find yourself with more trouble than even you can handle." He looked at the Frenchman. "Isn't that so?"

  "Unquestionably," Raveneau confirmed.

  "You'd better be off as well, Devon. Your mother will give me the devil for keeping you all afternoon. Knowing you, you took the longest route getting here." Nick put an arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss to her tumbled hair. "Can't you find a comb in that shop?"

  "Must you scold me? I can see that this is not the place to come for a good laugh any longer!"

  Nick chuckled and gave her an affectionate wink. "Say, I've an idea! Perhaps Captain Raveneau would see you home. What do you say?"

  "Sir, you have read my mind," he said. Devon doubted it but was thrilled all the same, until he added, "The only drawback is that I came on foot."

  He's laughing at us! Devon thought, humiliated. The man is a cad!

  "Oh, that's no problem," said Nick. "It is getting dark; no time of day to be wandering the streets. I insist that you take my carriage. I'll have a boy drive you."

  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.

  Excerpt from

  Spring Fires

  Special Author's Cut Edition

  Beauvisage Novel #2

  (A Beauvisage/Hampshire/Raveneau Novel)

  by

  Cynthia Wright

  Spring Fires brings back beloved couples from CAROLINE, TOUCH THE SUN, and SILVER STORM! The story centers around the indepedent beauty, Lisette Hahn, who owns a CoffeeHouse in 1793 Philadelphia with her ailing father, and dashing Nicholai Beauvisage, who has lived in France for a decade and lately has been embroiled in the bloody revolution in Paris. This excerpt opens with a party being given by Alec and Caro Beauvisage in honor of the newly-elected Senator Lion Hampshire. Lisette has agreed to provide desserts for the party and has come to Belle Maison's kitchen in spite of her father's worsening health.

  March 25, 1793

  It was a beautiful, clear starlit evening at Belle Maison. Caro and Meagan dressed for the party upstairs before joining their husbands in the library. The strains of music drifted up to greet them as the two couples descended the wide staircase together.

  Caro, lovely in cream satin embroidered with seed pearls, was relieved to see Pierre DuBois hurrying toward them from the dining room.

  "Madame, I have delivered Lisette Hahn to the kitchen building," he informed her, "And—"

  "Oh, thank goodness! I'd begun to fear that you'd had a carriage accident."

  "There is a reason we were late. Her father has taken a turn for the worse and she was reluctant to leave him. But, because she had given you her word, she did come, and she is making the tortes. I promised to bring them over to the main house when they are done."

  "I am so sorry to hear about Mr. Hahn! Lisette really didn't need to come; we certainly would have understood. Pierre, you'll tell her, won't you? I was going to invite her to join us, but I can't imagine that she would care to do so..."

  Alec wandered closer to capture his wife. "Caro, are you ready?"

  Servants were posted in Belle Maison's entryway to greet the guests and take their wraps before they proceeded into the stairhall to greet the host, hostess, and the guests of honor.

  Among the first to arrive were Alec's parents. The dashing Frenchman's Russian bride had come to him as pirate's plunder over forty years ago. Although their love remained deep, their life was quieter now. With the latest dark developments in France, both Jean-Philippe and Antonia seemed to move under a cloud of worry.

  Caro kissed them and asked, "Is there news?"

  "We have no word of Nicky," her mother-in-law replied. "I can think of little else."

  They went on into the brightly lit parlor just as William Bingham entered with his beautiful wife Anne, who was known as "Queen of the Republican Court" now that Philadelphia was America's capital.

  "I hope you do not mind that I brought a guest?" Anne inquired a trifle haughtily, pulling forward a pale, birdlike girl. "This is my cousin, Ophelia Corkstall, who is visiting us from England. Ophelia, may I present Mr. and Mrs. Beauvisage and Senator and Mrs. Hampshire."

  The girl tittered nervously before offering her hand. She stared, first at the dark, rakish Alec and then at the dazzling new senator.

  "Ah, here is Samuel Powel," murmured Alec with relief, turning to greet Philadelphia's mayor and his wife. The Powels were followed by President and Mrs. Washington, a fact duly noted by Meagan and Caro. Gossip was thick concerning the close friendship between the coquettish Eliza Powel and the aging president. No one cared to suggest they were lovers, but they enjoyed each other's company to an unseemly degree.

  Musicians were tuning up and people milled about, spilling into the south parlor and the huge dining room where food was already being arranged. As the late arrivals tapered off, Alec and Caro took the Hampshires to join the party. When they appeared in the parlor, the musicians began to play and the harmonious mixture of harpsichord, violins, flute, and harp set the tone for the lighthearted evening ahead.

  * * *

  Belle Maison's kitchen was large, occupying its own building behind the main house. All evening, the wooden floor had been tapped like a drum by the feet of dozens of servants who carried the meticulously prepared dishes over to the house. A mammoth fieldstone hearth spanned one wall and Lisette sat at a nearby table to do her work.

  Surveying the seemingly endless cake layers and filling bowls, she sighed heavily and pushed back her unbound golden hair. Mixing and baking the tortes had taken hours and now she struggled to assemble them into beautiful desserts. She was exhausted and sick with worry for her father. What a terrible night it was!

  The last of the servants had disappeared into the house. Lisette sat alone in the kitchen, suffused with a melancholy that stole through her body in uneasy waves.

  Music and laughter drifted back from the house and each window was ablaze with candlelight. Looking down at her simple sky-blue frock and the full-length white apron that covered it, Lisette wondered what the elegant women guests were wearing tonight. Were their upswept curls studded with jewels? Did they smell of jasmine or gardenias?

  Wearily, Lisette pushed loose tendrils from her brow, set down the wooden frosting spoon, and closed her eyes. Images flickered through her mind of the richly garbed people dancing, laughing, and chatting with witty sophistication.

  I don't envy them, she reminded herself, but tonight... it would be nice to feel beautiful, to be free of worry and responsibility, to feel alive... even to be in love.

  The last thought was so out of character that Lisette smiled at herself and what she decided must be utter fatigue. She opened her eyes, blinked in disbelief, then took a second look.

  A strange man stood in the doorway. Actually, he leaned indolently against the frame, regarding her with emerald eyes that sparkled like real jewels.

  Lisette's heart quickened. The man could not be a guest, for he wore a soft leather coat over a casual dirt-streaked shirt, fawn breeches, and riding boots that were mud-spattered. His face and hands were deeply tanned, dark hair curled where his shirt was open at the neck, and his flashing smile was as rakish as a pirate's.

  "Bonsoir, mademoiselle," he said in a husky voice that unaccountably sent a delicious shiver down her back.

  "Are you employed here, sir?"

  He seemed to find this question highly amusing. "No, I am not."

  Lisette wondered with a start if he was a highwayman or a criminal of some sort. Perhaps he meant to rob the guests a
t Belle Maison of their valuables—he might even do her physical harm.

  "I must insist that you tell me who you are," she commanded, "and why you are here!"

  Slowly, with graceful strength, he crossed the kitchen's planked floor. In the firelight, Lisette could see that his hair was a dark chestnut color. It was not queued, but cut into ruffled layers that grew away from his face and curled negligently over his collar. There was a long fresh gash across one dark cheek. In spite of the dusty condition of his clothing, Lisette realized that the man beneath was quite clean. Tall, lean, and muscular, he smelled pleasantly of salt water, horses, and night air. To her surprise, the stranger reached out to catch her flour-smudged hand, lifting it to his lips for a kiss that startled her by its sensuousness.

  "Nicholai Beauvisage, at your service, mademoiselle," he said with wry jauntiness.

  Lisette was stunned as she tried to absorb this news. "Nicholai Beauvisage?" she echoed. "I—but—why, I don't believe you!"

  "You don't?" Both eyebrows flew up. "I am devastated to hear you say so. And, now that we have that matter settled, I believe it is my turn to insist that you identify yourself."

  Seated, Lisette felt at a disadvantage. The man towered over her, seeming to mock her somehow, so she wiped her hands on her apron and stood up. It was disconcerting to find herself only even with his wide shoulders, for Lisette was taller than most women.

  "My name is Lisette Hahn."

  "Hmmm... that seems to—" He broke off, snapping his fingers in amusement. "I have it! Hahn's CoffeeHouse. I was there tonight for a jug of ale and I was surprised to learn that I could get supper as well. The stew was like ambrosia after the food I ate at sea. Are you one of those Hahns?"

  "As a matter of fact, I am. I am pleased that you enjoyed my stew, sir."

  "Why the devil are you here?"