"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.
Chapter 3
***~~~***
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 th
rob 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—"
Devon felt a stab of panic when he bunched up her skirt and caressed her leg. Her mind and heart were a jumble of warring emotions: guilt, affection, revulsion, forbidden desire for another man. Reminding herself that Morgan loved her and was going to war, she managed to endure his fumbling. Labored breathing was loud in her ear, and she could see the drops of perspiration beading on his forehead. She felt so sorry for him, but
as his fingers groped upward, her control began to dissolve. Morgan pushed her back against the bench, panting and clutching at her until it seemed that she was covered by wet lips and hands.
She had to free herself, or go mad. "Morgan, Morgan, please, let me up," she cried. "Morgan!" She pushed his face away with all her might.
Clutching at thin air, he toppled sideways to the wooden floor and Devon jumped to her feet. "I am truly sorry, but I just cannot. I am frightened. Please, don't look at me that way."
Thoroughly humiliated, Morgan crawled back onto the bench and crouched there, afraid to meet her eyes. It was bad enough to lose all control with a female, but to do it so clumsily and then be rejected... The shame was too great to be borne.
Devon's heart was torn with pity. Feeling safe now, she hurried to comfort him.
"I don't understand!" he cried, blinking back tears. "Why don't you feel what I feel? When I am with you, I can't think clearly. I can only think of you, your touch, your scent and softness...how much I want you! Why isn't it the same for you?"
They were sitting side by side, Devon holding tight to his hand. He stared at the summerhouse wall as he spoke, which was a great relief to her, since she was blushing profusely at his words. Morgan was describing exactly her feelings of less than a day before, when Andre Raveneau had kissed her.
"I don't know what to say, Morgan," she blurted. "I'm sorry! I wish—Maybe it just takes time. I have heard that it's different for boys..."
"Do you think that could be the answer?"
"Oh, yes! It's not your fault! It's me, I am sure of it. Listen, by the time you come home, I will be older. More prepared."
Morgan brightened considerably. "Will you wait for me? Truly?"
"Of course I will!" They hugged, Devon overflowing with love. "We'll be married the day you return. Then we'll save for our ship, unless we can somehow get the money while you are away! We'll sail to the West Indies and run on the beaches and swim in the ocean!"
Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) Page 3