Raveneau headed for the table and reached for his glass. "You drank my wine?" he inquired coldly.
"Yes." She turned her head slowly, gazing at him from under the fringe of her lashes. Her arms were crossed tightly over her breasts; her stockinged feet were spread defiantly.
"Do not do so again. The supply of wine is limited; it belongs to me personally. God only knows why I shared it with you at all."
"In that case, I could not be persuaded at gunpoint to taste your wine again."
"That is reassuring. Since you have consumed three portions in less than an hour, I was beginning to worry that my entire stock might be gone before sunset."
Devon fought a wild urge to attack him like a cat and claw his cynical face. Instead, she merely turned her head away, wondering what to do next. Raveneau poured the remaining wine from the bottle into his glass, then sat down and crossed his booted feet atop the table.
Devon realized that her own consumption of spirits had emboldened her, but suddenly she didn't care.
"So you have finished your afternoon's entertainment?" she asked. "The whipping of defenseless men is ended?"
"Your tongue is dangerously sharp." Raveneau said in a low, even tone. "It needs blunting."
"It is not as sharp as your lash, Captain."
"I hope that you are a proficient swimmer, mademoiselle, because I am sorely tempted to test your skills."
"Ah, so your appetite for sadistic amusement has not been satisfied!" As she spoke, Devon could see his jaw tightening with real anger, but the words continued to pour out. "Have you keelhauled anyone lately?"
His dark hand moved with the speed of a striking snake. He caught and twisted her hair until she fell to her knees before his chair, her neck arched.
"You are a nasty little wench, do you know that? No wonder your chaste fiancé hasn't managed to bed you. You probably destroy his passion with your malicious tongue."
Devon thought about putting up a fight, but a portion of her brain was tantalized by the notion that he might cover her open mouth with his hard, warm lips. Her back was arched, her breasts pushing against the linen shirt she wore, and she could feel his eyes upon her. He released her hair abruptly and Devon fell backward, bumping her head on the floor. She felt like a fool. Face burning, she scrambled up and hissed, "I hate you. I truly do. You are the most uncivilized beast I have ever encountered."
"Vraiment?" Raveneau pretended surprise.
"Yes, vraiment," she mimicked. “Truly!”
"But Jackson... he is the soul of goodness and respectability. True?"
"Yes!" If Andre Raveneau thought otherwise, then it must be true.
"Petite chatte, you have a great deal to learn about men."
"Don't take that superior tone with me, Captain! And my name is Devon!"
"Devon?" He made a face of mild distaste. "What sort of name is that?"
"I am named for the English birthplace of my father!"
"Devon," Raveneau repeated experimentally. Pronounced with a French accent, it sounded beautiful.
"Now that you have altered my name to suit yourself, I wish you would tell me how Caleb is. Is he conscious?"
The concern in her blue eyes irritated him. "Unfortunately, yes. You needn't worry. The surgeon is tending to him."
Devon glared at him, but her features softened in relief. "You're certain that he is all right?"
"Yes, damn it! What reason have you for such concern?"
"Caleb has been very kind to me. He has lost everything because of me. Did you expect me not to care?"
She was pacing the cabin, and now Raveneau stared into his wine. There were a dozen things he could say at this point concerning Jackson's character and the nature of discipline aboard a ship. But why should I explain myself? he thought. "If you care so much for dear Caleb," he said, "then why bother to seek out Mandrake—"
"Morgan!"
"—at all? I would be excessively happy to put you and Jackson out in a small boat and be well rid of the two sharpest thorns in my side." He nonchalantly drained his glass, then looked around for a cigar.
"Beast! Cad! Base, uncivilized—" If she had searched deep inside herself, Devon might have realized that she hoped Raveneau would react to her with a passion equal to her own.
Slowly, deliberately, he stood up; only a few inches separated their bodies. Devon was breathing hard, breasts quivering beneath her linen shirt, but Raveneau was maddeningly still.
"In America, your behavior would be called 'biting the hand that feeds you,'" he said. "Don't you agree? I think that you must have acquired your manners in a farmyard, except that I do not know any animals whose language would match yours."
"I am not some mush-brained female to blush and tremble in your presence, Captain!"
"It seems to me that you are doing both at this moment," he observed dryly. "As to your right to argue with my orders, I think you know my feelings. Each insult that escapes from your lovely mouth could be the last. I am captain here. No man on board the Black Eagle would dare to raise his voice to me, no matter how justified he might be. What makes you think that you are an exception to the rules?"
Devon, trembling at his nearness, realized that her behavior truly mystified him. A dozen biting rejoinders jumped into her mind, but she rejected them all. She was speechless, blushing, gazing up into silver-gray eyes that drew her helplessly.
When Raveneau finally touched her, his hands were rough, gripping her shoulders and sliding over her arms. "If you do not curb your spoiled vixen's tongue, Devon, I fear that you will not last as far as Yorktown. I have enough problems without you adding to them."
Devon returned his gaze, wanting to submit to his strength and to promise to behave herself. However, this was easier thought than spoken. "Captain, I am not spoiled, but I am used to doing and saying what I please," she said. "No man has ever dominated me, not even my father or my fiancé, so why should I change for you? Perhaps it's time someone spoke up to you!"
Raveneau's eyes registered astonishment, irritation, even a flicker of amusement. Then they narrowed like the eyes of a bird of prey preparing to capture a delicious prize. Devon shivered in anticipation. "Mademoiselle," he said, "perhaps it is time that you were silenced! Now that you are venturing into the world, you must learn that frank and outspoken females are not widely tolerated. I shall be pleased to instruct you in the fine art of submission."
His dark hands encircled her waist with practiced skill, and Devon melted like butter. The pleasure was too intensely glorious to be denied; it surpassed everything, save their first kiss in Nick's carriage. She reveled in his touch, molded herself to it, and suspended all thoughts and feelings that threatened to interfere.
Raveneau's mouth was firm against hers, demanding that her lips yield. He kissed her deftly, tenderly, gauging her response intuitively. She moaned as he progressed from the first soft touch to a deep kiss, then she went faint and limp. Her arms embraced his wide shoulders, her fingers touching his crisp hair, his smooth neck and collarbone. She pressed him closer.
In a distant corner of his mind Raveneau realized with a twinge of alarm that he was losing control. His detachment was vaporizing, but he found, oddly, that he was enjoying the sensations of pure passion and desire. The question was, why should this little hoyden affect him so? He had intended to teach her a lesson, but perhaps she was in control after all. The fire rose in his loins and an ache spread over his body as he held her and kissed the sweetness of her mouth. He slid his hands inside her shirt, felt her satiny skin quiver where he touched it, and knew that the girl was caught in the same web of pleasure.
Devon felt as if she were falling slowly through a delicious cloud. She was so hungry for this man; his body was a powerful magnet drawing her to him. He eased her shirt off and lay her down on the bed, kissing her neck, shoulders, then, tentatively, her eager breasts. Devon was on fire. She clung to him, clenching her teeth, caressing his powerful neck. Raveneau moved so that she could feel the h
ard length of his maleness against her leg. Oddly, she recalled her total revulsion when Morgan had lain atop her, also rigid with desire. Now, with Raveneau, she yearned to touch him intimately.
He was kissing her again. Their tongues touched and danced, teasingly, then eagerly. Devon ran her fingertips under his shirt to trace his broad chest, the texture of hair that covered it, and the ridges of muscle that skipped down his belly to the wild, mysterious staff hidden under snug breeches.
The questing touch of her fingers brought him a flash of reality. Reluctantly, he remembered that the girl was betrothed to another.
Her tiny fingers brushed the fastenings on his breeches; her mouth searched hungrily for his. Raveneau put his hand between her legs and felt the heat of her desire. "Petite chatte," he whispered with husky regret, "I do not deflower innocents. I will ask you this only once. Have you saved yourself for your perfect fiancé?"
Devon dropped out of her cloud and fell with terrifying speed the rest of the way to earth. The irony in his voice humiliated her. Pulling away from him, she crossed both arms over her naked breasts. "What do you care?" she retorted.
Raveneau looked at her flashing eyes and burning cheeks, then sat up. "I do not care. I thought that you might—or perhaps Merlin might," he said sarcastically. The ache in his groin did little to cheer him.
"His name is Morgan!" Devon cried. She reached for her shirt and whipped it on.
"My dear, you must at least give me credit for remembering the fellow when you could not. Or perhaps you forgot his existence by choice?"
"No!" She was furious. "It was all your fault!"
Raveneau stood. His face was a mask of cynicism, one brow arched over flinty eyes. "Mademoiselle, I think we both know better. However, I have no wish to tempt you beyond your power to resist. After all, I know how much you love Malcolm. So if you can restrain yourself in my presence, I shall do likewise." He started to walk away, then turned back, a devilish smile playing about his mouth. "By the way, I trust that our argument about domination has been settled? You would do well not to press the issue."
Watching Raveneau exit, Devon thought that she might explode. After fastening her clothing, she left the cabin. Damn him! The man was utterly unbearable. Devon clenched her fists and gritted her teeth, hesitating in the gangway. Caleb! That was it. She would find him and tend the wounds inflicted by order of the devil-captain. Caleb was a fellow victim of his cruelty; only he could help her now.
As a sea captain's daughter, Devon could guess where she might find the surgeon. Heedless of her stockinged feet, she descended into the hold, where the cockpit was located. A series of pitiful moans pinpointed the curtained cubicle. In spite of its meager size and depressing location, the surgeon's space was as unusually clean as the rest of the Black Eagle. Ordinarily, one could retch from the stench in a ship's hold, but here the air was only mildly disagreeable.
"Excuse me!" Devon called, stopping outside the canvas hangings. Immediately a thin, angular face appeared.
"Hello! I'm Treasel, the surgeon! You must be the chit who caused all this trouble! And for a moment there, I hoped I was going to have an assistant. Instead, you turn out to be a girl and have only brought me more work. Well, come on in! Maybe you can calm these two down."
Devon stared at Treasel. He looked like a human greyhound, and she expected him to race off in a blur of speed at any moment. Pewter-haired and blue-eyed, the surgeon spoke so quickly and emphatically that Devon wearied just listening to him. Even his gestures were like exclamation points.
"Ohh!" came a dramatic moan from a few feet away. Devon looked around to find Caleb lying across a table, while Greenbriar was sprawled on the floor, groaning with each roll of the ship. Caleb smiled wanly.
"Oh, thank God you are all right!" Devon exclaimed, rushing to his side. She stared at his back, which had been badly slashed. The wounds were not deep, however, and had been cleaned and carefully daubed with salve to ease the sting; they would be healed soon. Caleb would not be disfigured by his harsh punishment. "Oh, my friend," Devon cried, mustering up the full strength of her temper, "just look what that monster has done to you! Is the pain unbearable?"
"No. I try not to think of it." His boyish grin twisted her heart with guilt. She smoothed his damp, straw- colored hair and returned his smile.
"Now, Devon, don't you feel bad about this," he admonished, pleased by her tender gesture.
"How can I help it? It is my fault, isn't it? Yes, it is! Though I'll lay a share of blame on that villainous captain."
Devon's tone was so venomous that Caleb pricked his ears with interest. If she had come to hate the captain, he might have a chance with her. He mustn't let it slip away. Clenching his teeth, he managed to sit up. Treasel had said that his wounds looked worse than they were. Caleb experimented by moving his solid, freckled arms, watching the muscles flex. He glanced craftily at Devon and was delighted to find her enchanting face puckered with concern.
"I don't think you should be moving!" She looked back at Treasel for confirmation. "Should he be moving? Tell him to lie down, Doctor!"
Treasel crossed quickly to his patient, raised and lowered his brows a few times, then shrugged. "He'll be fine! Hope he's got sense enough to move only as much as comfort allows. Right, Jackson?"
Caleb flashed a brave grin. "Devon, you could cure anyone. The sight of you helped me more than all of Treasel's potions."
"Well, I'd do anything to ease your pain, you know that. I feel so responsible! I swear, I could kick that devil-pirate!"
Watching her, he suddenly understood the nature of her flushed energy. There was more to this than anger or guilt... the energy was sexual; lush, glowing, frustrated.
Caleb was flooded with desire. He forgot his wounded back, forgot everything but Devon with her flushed skin, luxuriant hair, sapphire eyes that sparkled with needs that he would be happy to satisfy. "Do you know what I would like best?" he asked softly. Treasel took his cue, lifted the canvas, and stepped out into the gangway. Only the moaning Greenbriar was left with them in the cubicle.
"What?" Devon asked.
"I would like to get out of here. Will you help me? Nothing would please me more than a few private moments with you, to rest and talk. If you don't mind my saying so, you look as if you could use someone to confide in."
"All of that sounds like heaven except the last part. I don't have anything to confide, and I'll talk only of you. Right now my problems cry to be forgotten."
"A splendid notion!" Caleb approved. He was ecstatic. The situation was ideal; he would gain revenge on the Frenchman and a huge measure of physical pleasure for himself at the same time. He would take her to the empty brig.
Shakily, Caleb wobbled to his feet. Devon did not disappoint him, insisting on putting an arm around his waist; the soft, red-gold hair that touched his cheek smelled of Raveneau. Caleb's grin hardened with cold resolve.
The brig was located just forward of the cockpit, heavily grated like a gloomy cage. It would eventually be filled by unlucky British seamen, but for now it stood empty. He headed for one of the benches that lined the walls. Sitting down beside him, Devon wrinkled her nose. The entire brig had been scrubbed recently with strong-smelling soap, but it could not disguise the foul stench left by the prisoners who had been enclosed here for weeks on end. She shivered a little.
"I don't like this place."
"Ah, Devon, don't think about it. Think about me. Enjoy your freedom from Captain Raveneau's heavy hand."
"Yes... I do. That beast. He is a tyrant!"
"So you have actually decided you do not like him?"
"Definitely!" Her voice echoed in the dismal brig, though she could not meet his eyes.
"Are you certain?" Caleb pressed. "The man is notorious for his effect on women, you know. I have worried that you also might fall under his spell."
"Me? Ha! Never!" Her cheeks flamed. Agitatedly, she twisted a button on her shirt. "I'll have you know that I have a mind of my own.
"
"You certainly do." Caleb grinned. "May I ask your opinion of me?"
"I think you are wonderful! You have done so much to help me and I deeply appreciate that. You've been so brave."
"Do I deserve a reward?"
Devon looked at him. His square face with its open grin seemed so boyish and carefree. If Raveneau was the enemy, then Caleb must be her champion. "Yes, of course you do."
"Would you give me a kiss?"
Kisses had proved dangerous so far, Devon thought. Morgan, Smythe, Greenbriar, Andre Raveneau... Yet it sounded so simple when Caleb said it. A kiss. It was the least she could do. Smiling, she put a hand on his cheek and leaned forward.
Caleb moved quickly. His arms caught her, pressed her to his chest. He saw the panic that flared in her eyes before he kissed her. So sweet! Her mouth was soft and moist; he crushed it, forced his tongue inside. Devon was fighting him now and he loved it. It seemed years, rather than one day, since he had had a woman, and he’d never held one as lovely as Devon. He fumbled for the buttons on her shirt.
Devon felt smothered. His arms were like iron. How could she escape? What about his back? How could he—
"Excuse me. I do hate to interrupt, but this sort of behavior is not permitted." It was Raveneau. Dark and sardonic, he watched them from the doorway. "I would have sworn you knew the rules by now, Jackson."
Caleb's face was expressionless. He released Devon and stared back at the captain. Devon instantly jumped to her feet, burning with shame. How had he found them? She didn't know what to do. Raveneau's cynical mouth told her that he thought her a willing participant. Was she to run to him and blurt the truth, tell him that he was right about Caleb and she had behaved like a fool? Would he even believe her?
I will not give him the satisfaction, she thought crazily. Let the conceited beast think what he will. Let him think that I left his arms to seek out Caleb—it might teach him humility!
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