Surrender the Stars

by Wright, Cynthia

  "Shhh! It's supposed to be a surprise. Miss Temperance is abed again today, but you know that she has keen hearing! Why don't you just take that into the library? Oh, no! Wait—there's a visitor. Let me ask the master."

  Rebecca lumbered off, leaving Devon to gaze around the cozy, cream-colored stairhall. Temperance Nicholson, though sweet and gentle, was forever imagining herself stricken by some terrible illness. Devon was of the opinion that she simply enjoyed a life of leisure, tucked into bed with a novel and a tray of imported sweetmeats. Somehow she always managed a recovery in time for Sunday church, only to develop a new malady on Monday.

  Rebecca returned, and said, "You can go in, lass. You're just in time for tea."

  Devon grinned, picked up the hatbox, and sauntered down the hall to the library, only to stand paralyzed on the threshold. Two men stood up, and Nick came forward to take her hand, which had gone cold as ice.

  "Devon! Do get hold of yourself," he whispered, chuckling. With a flourish, he turned back to his guest and pulled Devon to the center of the room. "My dear, I would like you to meet Captain Andre Raveneau. Andre, this is Devon Lindsay, my goddaughter. She is fascinated by the sea, so I knew she would enjoy a chance to converse with you!"

  "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.

&
nbsp; 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

  Touch The Sun

  Special Author's Cut Edition

  A Beauvisage/Hampshire Novel

  by

  Cynthia Wright

  Chapter 1

  January, 1789

  Winter sunlight glanced off the last bits of melting ice that hung on the pecan trees like diamonds. Meagan Sayers, astride her horse Laughter, rode under the dripping branches and on into the open fields beyond.

  The ground was muddy but Meagan rode every day unless the weather threatened the footing of her horse. She insisted that it was for Laughter's sake, but in truth, she grew more restless than the dappled gray gelding when forced to stay indoors, and these past weeks had yielded an unbroken procession of rain and snowstorms.

  Pecan Grove was one of the largest Tidewater plantations in Virginia and boasted the area's finest mansion, next to Mount Vernon. However, by no stretch of imagination could Meagan fit anyone's conception of a Southern belle. The picture she made now, galloping across the soggy meadow astride Laughter, was typical. Since childhood, she had kept in the stable a cache of boys' clothing that she had begged from the young grooms and which she had changed into whenever she had an opportunity to ride.

  Meagan's parents had always reveled in a world of foxhunts, horsebreeding, dancing, card-playing, and travel. She had seldom seen them, and when she did, they merely patted her on the head while passing in the hall. Early on she had put their inattention to good use, growing up a free spirit who rode with the skill and daring of any man, her raven hair flying freely like a banner. She eluded her governesses, choosing to take books from the library, and spent her afternoons reading under a pecan tree in the meadow.

  The summer of 1788 had been like all the rest. Russell and Melanie Sayers had sailed to France to cavort at Versailles and Paris, but their daughter had pleaded to remain at home. With guilty sighs of relief, they agreed, for Meagan fought them every step of the way in their intermittent efforts to civilize her.

  Now, galloping out into the waterlogged meadow, Meagan's mind returned to the October afternoon when she had learned of the shipwreck. James Wade, a lifelong neighbor, had ridden over to break the news of her parents' deaths and she had found herself reacting more strongly to his repellent, "brotherly" embraces than to the tragedy of losing both mother and father in one blow. Since then, she'd waited for the grief process to begin, but to no avail. Meagan felt a tightness in her breast at the realization that she had not loved her parents enough to mourn their deaths. And yet, her intuitive common sense told her that affection must be earned, and it was not for her to feel guilty because they had not known how to love anyone but themselves.

  A voice was calling from the shelter of the pecan trees, and reluctantly Meagan reined in Laughter, turning him back toward the house. She found one of the stable boys waiting for her.

  "Mr. Wade and his sister are in the big house, ma'am."

  Meagan made a face, but knowing they would sit and drink tea until she arrived, decided to get it over with. Sliding from Laughter's back, she handed the reins to the stable boy and ran off toward the imposing Georgian brick house.

  Flora, the large black cook, frowned as Meagan came into the kitchen but refrained from scolding. The girl was disheveled, her breeches grimy and her hair loose and windblown. Yet, who could resist her? Petite in stature, Meagan exuded energy and good health with glowing cheeks, an impudent, winning smile, and sparkling eyes of deep violet. She marched right through the kitchen, down the hall into the parlor where four generations of Wades and Sayerses had shared tea.

  Priscilla and James were beyond surprise at the sight of Meagan's scuffed figure in the doorway. They had known her all their lives, and despite the efforts of her mother, she had rarely been seen in a proper gown in all her eighteen years.

  "Well! I see you are taken care of!" Meagan exclaimed, noting James's generous portion of brandy.

  The Wade siblings, ever proper, smiled at their hostess, who dropped into a wing chair.

  Slinging a slim booted leg over the rose velvet arm, she grinned. "To what do I owe this honor?"

  James, dark-haired and pudgy, squirmed slightly. "Meagan, you act as if nothing has changed. We have been worried about you and only wish to be reassured concerning your state of mind..."

  She softened somewhat; her gaze traveled from the lecherous James to his willowy, auburn-haired sister. The two girls had been incompatible friends since infancy, yet Meagan's heart warmed maternally toward Priscilla.

  "I don't mean to seem flippant, but you two certainly are aware that my existence doesn't depend on Mother and Father! After all—"

  "Meagan!" warned Priscilla. "You must learn to show respect—"

  "Oh, pooh!" she broke in, resisting the desire to use a stronger word. "I happen to feel that honesty is a better virtue. Priscilla, you know perfectly well that you and I have never agreed on anything. I cannot believe that you continue to preach to me now! I have thought at length about Mother and Father, and I feel satisfied with the answers I have reached. I need no advice from you!" Meagan had lifted herself partway out of the chair and James watched her breasts strain against the boy's jacket she wore.<
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  A servant appeared with the teapot and a fresh cup and saucer for Meagan, giving the room's occupants a chance to cool down.

  "Have you heard any news concerning your father's estate?" asked James when the girl had gone.

  "Nothing very encouraging. Mr. Bumpstock, Father's solicitor, has written to me saying that my father appears to have been in debt. Of course, he insists on keeping me in suspense. The final word will hopefully arrive before the end of the month, but knowing Mr. Bumpstock's tendency to putter..."

  James was downing his brandy—rather piggishly, Meagan thought—and licked his lips, savoring the last drop.

  "My dear, I do hate to rush off, but there are some matters I should attend to. I am traveling to Philadelphia tomorrow, but I simply could not depart without seeing you again to be certain you are well." He stood up and crossed to her side, bringing his face so close that Meagan wrinkled her nose at the odor of brandy that enveloped her when he spoke. "If you should need me before tomorrow, I would gladly rush to your side at any hour."

  "I will keep that in mind, James dear, but don't lose sleep waiting for my summons." These words were delivered with her sweetest smile, a tactic that never failed to confuse the recipients of her sarcasm.

  "I'll be going then. I am sure you two have a great deal to chat about, so I'll send the carriages back later. Good day!"

  When he was gone, Meagan looked curiously in Priscilla's direction. "Philadelphia! What takes your charming brother there?"

  "In truth, he's going on my behalf. He hopes to arrange a match for me."

  "Oh? Do go on. The suspense is excruciating!"

  Priscilla preened. "If all goes well, I should be the wife of a wealthy man by spring. Isn't it exciting? I shall be one of Philadelphia's social leaders!"

  "For heaven's sake, you goose, James hasn't even left yet! Do you imagine he can simply go into a shop and pick out a wealthy husband for you?" Meagan's voice sharpened with irritation as she jumped up to pace the Oriental rug. She fumed silently at James Wade. Priscilla was too frivolous to realize it, but Meagan knew that James had been squandering the Wade fortune ever since their own father died. He had drunk and gambled and traveled to excess, somehow believing that West Hills could run itself. And now, Meagan could clearly see that he intended to sell his sister the way he had already sold paintings, horses, and precious land.