Devon was swept by a dizzying tide of desire. She responded instantly to his kiss, while her hands traced the planes of his broad back and narrow hips. He was naked, but that didn't shock or surprise her; she boldly pressed herself closer to him. Raveneau's kisses were slow, sleepy, and tantalizing. Tingling currents of pleasure ran over Devon as he brushed his lips over her throat and the soft curve of her shoulder. He drew the sheet away, then deftly unfastened and removed her chemise. Moonlight silvered her trim, eager body as he explored and teased every inch with skillful fingers and mouth.
Despite the last shreds of Devon's pride, she writhed with ecstasy and longing. Her hips sought his, driven by primitive instinct. Raveneau's mouth was on hers again, one hard-muscled arm clasping her back as his passion mounted, his other hand cupping her buttocks, pressing her to his flat, hard belly and his maleness. It felt warm, smooth, and immense against Devon's soft skin. There was a sweet, wild throb in her hidden female place; it did not pass, but grew ever more intense.
"Oh!" she gasped. "I want... I want..."
Raveneau sighed into her fragrant hair. "Ah, petite chatte, it is bad of me to do this, to take advantage of you when you have had too much rum."
"I want you to!" Devon implored. "I demand it!"
Raveneau chuckled softly. "I've warned you that your willfulness would get you into trouble."
"Yes! Yes!" she groaned, touching him anxiously. "Oh, I cannot bear another moment!"
"It is your own fault, for getting so tipsy. Remember that."
Then he moved over her, kissing her lips, neck, nuzzling her tender breasts with tantalizing skill. Every nerve seemed exposed and Devon shivered in exquisite torment, caressing her lover as he worked his magic on her. At last, gently, Raveneau's fingers touched her aching desire. He stroked her leisurely, again and again, until she opened slim legs to him. After one last, searing kiss, Raveneau knelt to enter her. Devon, feeling tiny and fragile beneath him, panicked momentarily, but the instant he touched her she was lost. Now she knew what she had yearned for since the first time this dangerously irresistible Frenchman had kissed her in Nick's carriage. Clinging to him, her nails digging into his back, she let him take her. The one stab of pain was meaningless; it seemed an intrinsic part of the ecstasy. Devon wrapped her legs around Andre's body, as they fused and teasingly drew back, over and over, Raveneau's breath harsh against her ear.
They shuddered together and Devon wondered at the tremors that shook her. She floated, searched Raveneau's face with her lips and kissed him, wanting never to let him go. They lay entwined, blissfully spent.
Chapter 10
***~~~***
September 11 and 12, 1781
The sheets were soft and warm, Andre's scent mingling with her own. Devon burrowed into her pillow, luxuriating in the sensation of smooth linen against bare skin. Half awake, she put out a hand and was startled into alertness when her fingers failed to encounter Raveneau.
He was gone. Frantic, Devon sat up, eyes open wide. Her head hurt and she felt ill. The cabin was empty.
The grog. Devon was flooded with sickening memories of all she had said and done the night before. And Andre... was that a dream, or had it truly happened? The ache between her legs confirmed her worst fears, and she heard his voice again, warning:
"It is your own fault, for getting so tipsy. Remember that."
Falling back against the pillow, she pressed her palms to her throbbing head. She could close her eyes and see him again and remember every touch, each word he had spoken. And a voice in the farthest corner of her heart whispered, It was wonderful, it was worth it, even if you never see him again!
See him! Devon opened her eyes, stricken. How could she ever face Raveneau again? She had insisted that he make love to her, had reached out to touch him intimately with no word of encouragement, and had responded wildly to his every kiss and touch. She had behaved brazenly, shamelessly. But the very scent of him in the bed ignited her desire: even in her shame, she craved him helplessly.
I will never drink another drop of that evil grog again! Devon vowed. She tried to sit up on the edge of the bed but felt strangely disembodied and off balance. Her shirt and breeches were neatly folded on Raveneau's trunk, so she put them on, pulled up the sheets to cover the smudges of dried blood, and gratefully lay down again.
There was a familiar knock at the door.
"Come in, Minter." The words sounded garbled to her own ears, but apparently they were clear enough, for the door opened and Minter entered the cabin.
"Miss Lindsay? Are you feeling the aftereffects of the grog?"
"I'm afraid so. It must be that, for I've never been sick like this before."
"Yes. I should have warned you; it’s stronger than it seems. I knew you shouldn’t have had that second portion!"
"I wish you could have convinced me last night, Minter." Gingerly, she sat up again and accepted the mug of coffee he had brought.
"Well, I tried, but you kept shouting that you were a sea captain's daughter and born to drink grog. The crew was cheering you on—they thought you were wonderful!"
"Certainly. I was the most entertainment they've had for weeks, I'll wager."
Minter smiled ruefully. "You know, Miss Lindsay, we've reached Chesapeake Bay. We're anchored beside the French fleet."
"Oh?" Devon's stomach knotted with apprehension.
"The captain wants me to take you ashore in case we have to fight."
"Oh." She swallowed a lump of misery. "And where is the captain now?"
"He was rowed over to the Ville de Paris more than two hours ago. That's Admiral de Grasse's ship. Did you know that it's the biggest in the world?"
"No, I didn't."
"At any rate, the captain has known the admiral since he was a boy. His father was the admiral's friend."
"It must have been a very moving reunion." Devon had never felt worse.
"No doubt. Captain Raveneau hopes to be of some help. You see, the French fleet is here to blockade Chesapeake Bay and prevent General Cornwallis from escaping General Washington and Rochambeau, who are marching to Yorktown with their armies. So the big battle is yet to come. And although the British navy has been beaten off for now, Captain Raveneau says that another fleet could be sent down from New York at any time to rescue Cornwallis. He wants you removed to a safe place before it is too late."
Minter sat down in the leather wing chair, oblivious to the torment Devon was suffering. "I see," she said flatly. "Am I to be put off on a raft and left to my own devices?"
"Oh, no!" Minter laughed. "I'm to take you to a small farm up the James River. It's on the other side of the Yorktown peninsula, not far from Williamsburg." He flushed self-consciously. "As a matter of fact, it's my home. You'll stay with my parents and sister. Then when the fighting is over, you can look for your fiancé."
Who? Devon almost blurted. Then she asked softly, "Are we to go now?"
"Yes. Captain Raveneau asked me to bid you farewell for him. He said to wish you much happiness with your future husband."
Devon's insides cramped. She could just imagine the expression on Andre's face when he uttered those sentiments!
* * *
The Yorktown peninsula was shaped like a thumb, pointing downward into Chesapeake Bay. Yorktown itself perched near the tip of the peninsula and Williamsburg stood at the junction of the peninsula with mainland Virginia, on the opposite coast from Yorktown. Two rivers flowed down the peninsula into Chesapeake Bay; the York River skirted Yorktown, while the James ran through Williamsburg.
Minter and Devon set out from the Black Eagle that morning in a neat thirty-foot cutter with lugsails. It took them a full day to sail up the James and reach the Minter farm. They encountered dozens of other boats with passengers who frequently recognized Minter and shouted greetings to him but he concentrated on sailing the cutter while Devon sat glumly in the bow, staring at the water before them.
They reached their destination shortly after dawn the n
ext day. Devon had tried to sleep with little success. As Minter navigated their cutter up the narrow inlet that led to his farm, she was overcome by anxiety. Why did I ever leave New London? she asked herself. I could have lived with Temperance and Rebecca, or even with the Gadwins, until Morgan returned. Instead, I am in the middle of a swamp on my way to stay with a family I don't even know! Suppose Morgan is dead or I cannot find him? What will become of me?
She put a hand up to her tangled curls. A pasty film coated the inside of her mouth and she felt dirty all over.
Minter held out his canvas ditty bag. "There's a comb inside," he offered, "and a bit of cloth you might wet to wipe your face."
Devon smiled her thanks and opened it expertly, rummaging through the razor, wooden shaving dish and brush, jackknife, scissors, and wooden ditty box, which contained Minter's sewing gear. At the bottom were the comb and square of flannel. She did what she could to improve her appearance and was particularly refreshed by the cool, wet cloth on her face.
"Feel better?" Minter asked gently.
"Yes. Thank you. And, Minter, I'm sorry if I've been a terrible shrew."
"I've been worried, is all. I'm used to seeing you a good deal more lively." He brought the cutter alongside a small dock and furled the sails. "If you are worried about living here," he said, "you needn't be. My family will take to you, I am certain of it, and I have an older sister who is only twenty-three. Her fiancé is fighting, too, and she's been waiting for him for five years, so she’ll welcome your company."
"Thank you for telling me. That does help."
Minter tied the cutter up, scrambled onto the narrow, makeshift dock, and put a hand out to help Devon. They walked through a thick grove of hickory and chestnut trees and came upon a small frame house with a catslide roof. In the distance Devon could see fields, a tobacco barn, and two other buildings.
"It's not very much," Minter apologized, "but my people have lived here for over a century, so it is home. After this war ends, we have many plans..."
The farmhouse door swung open and a tiny, thin woman stepped onto the walk. "Halsey?" she called. "Is that really you?"
"Mama, you know it is!" He trotted forward and embraced his mother. Devon thought that the woman looked more like his grandmother. Lank gray hair was twisted into a severe coil at her neck, accentuating her haggard face.
"Mama, this is Devon Lindsay. She came from New London, Connecticut, to look for her man, and I know you'll be glad to share our home with her 'til the fighting is over at Yorktown. Her own family is dead."
"Good morning." Mrs. Minter put out a wizened hand, which Devon stepped forward to shake. "My name's Constance Minter. Welcome."
"I don't want to impose..."
"Nonsense. Perhaps the day will come when you can do us a good turn." The words were kind, yet she didn't smile.
"It was Captain Raveneau's idea that she come here, Mama," Minter explained. "He brought her south on the Black Eagle after there was a battle in New London. The British burned the town and her mama died."
Raveneau's name seemed to set Mrs. Minter's mind at ease. "You poor child... I expect you've been suffering," she said. "Come on inside. After you two have eaten, I'll have Azalea heat up some washing water."
Devon found the main room cozy and surprisingly well furnished. The cherry drop-leaf table and matching chairs were as fine as she had ever seen, while the oak cupboard boasted rows of hand-painted china. The windows were glass, and a large Oriental rug covered the brick floor. There was a long sofa, upholstered in green brocade, and two threadbare wing chairs.
"Why, this is lovely!" Devon exclaimed.
"Captain Raveneau brought us every piece of furniture you see in this room, except for the wing chairs," Mrs. Minter replied. "He's the finest man..."
"Where's Pa?" her son broke in. "And Azalea?"
"Your pa's outside, having a look at the tobacco curing in the barn. Azalea's getting dressed." She turned to Devon. "You'll sleep upstairs with her."
"Fine. I would like that."
"I think I'll go and greet Pa," Minter said. "Do you mind, Devon?"
"No, please go ahead. I'll be fine."
Mrs. Minter crossed to the huge brick fireplace which formed the east wall. There was a baking oven on one side, and a kettle of water boiled over the low flames in the hearth. "I was just about to make some tea. Would you like a cup?" she asked.
"Yes. That would be very nice." Devon was so tired that her own voice sounded flat and unfamiliar.
Footsteps tapped down the narrow stairway and Devon looked up to see an attractive, deep-rose gown appear, and finally a face. Azalea Minter was a lush, beautiful girl with curves in all the right places. Her thick chestnut hair, dark doe eyes, and pink cheeks shone with good health.
"Hello! I must confess that I've been listening to this conversation!" she said, reaching the bottom step and hurrying over to clasp Devon's hands. "I am so happy to meet you! My name's Azalea Minter and I just know you and I will be good friends!"
"You’re very kind. I’m Devon Lindsay, and I would like nothing better than to be your friend. I'm so glad you don't mind my intrusion—"
"Good heavens, no! Why, we all have to help each other during this war. Besides, I've been aching for a friend!" She looked around to find her mother pouring the hot water into a Queensware teapot. "Mama, please do keep our tea hot. I'll take Devon upstairs so she can start to get settled."
Devon picked up the tiny cowhide trunk Minter had packed for her and cheerfully followed Azalea upstairs.
The roof came to a point over the long, slanted bedroom. It was cheerfully furnished with an unmade low-post bed, a slant-top desk, an armoire, and two Windsor chairs. A worn Turkish rug covered the floor, and the bedspread and curtains were made of the same blue and white fabric. There was a small washstand next to the bed, with a miniature painting of a young man balanced on its far corner.
"This must be your fiancé!" Devon exclaimed.
"Yes. It is." Azalea smiled adoringly at the likeness of a blond, rather heavy set man with a florid complexion.
Devon noticed a sword hanging on the wall. It was a rakish-looking weapon, highly polished, with a length of pearl-gray satin tied around the handle. "I suppose this is his?" she asked. "I'm sorry, but Minter—that is, Halsey—didn't mention his name."
"It is Isaac. Isaac Smith. But, to answer your other question, the sword isn't his. It was a gift from Andre."
Devon nearly choked. "Andre?"
"Yes. Andre Raveneau. You've met him, haven't you? I assumed that he must have told Halsey to bring you here."
"Why, yes... I know him. I came here from Connecticut on the Black Eagle after the British attacked my town and my mother died."
"Oh, I'm so sorry. But if one must escape, I can't imagine a more exciting way!" Azalea turned away to lift Devon's small trunk onto the bed. "Are you Andre's mistress?"
Stunned, Devon put a hand on the washstand for balance. "Of course not! No!"
Azalea looked back, smiling archly. "That's a shame. I'm so sorry."
Blushing furiously, Devon opened the trunk. She pulled out an extra shirt and pair of breeches, and as she reached for the folded sea-green dress, Azalea exclaimed, "For goodness' sakes! That's my gown! I'll own I never thought I'd lay eyes on it again!"
Chapter 11
***~~~***
Late September, 1781
Devon adapted quickly to life on the farm after Halsey Minter returned to the Black Eagle.
Jud Minter was tall and lanky like his son, but his skin was brown and weather-beaten. Unlike Constance Minter, who complained of every ache, her husband never talked about himself, yet his fatigue and pain showed in his eyes and every labored movement.
Azalea was as young and vital as her parents were old and bitter. She worked on the farm with the endurance of a man, and Devon was caught up in her whirlwind of energy. At night, when the younger girl lay utterly exhausted on her side of the bed, Azalea would talk on i
n the darkness.
Azalea's connection with Andre Raveneau had been explained the first night. Years ago, she’d recounted, before her betrothal to Isaac, she had been restless and quarrelsome during the long, dull winter of 1775. Just before the war erupted, she had run away from home, searching for adventure.
"I know it was foolish, but many good things came from that escapade," she said, smiling. "I was kidnapped by a horrible British seaman who used me badly and took me aboard his ship. Once we were at sea, the Black Eagle swooped in like a bird of prey, captured the British ship, and Andre stole me away. What an adventure! I lived and breathed for that man all that spring."
Remembering the first time she had seen Raveneau—in April of 1775—and the female companion who had clutched his arm while they strolled along the Beach, Devon smiled feebly. "Were you in New London?"
"Goodness, I think so! I paid little mind to anything but Andre. We were very close, if you take my meaning."
Devon, sick at heart, imagined Azalea's wink in the darkness. "What happened?" she asked. "Did you quarrel? Was this before you knew Isaac?"
"Oh, I knew Isaac and I was quite certain I'd marry him one day! As for Andre, there was no quarrel. He simply brought me home when the war began in earnest and he was ready to sail south." Azalea managed a stiff laugh. "I was prepared. I'm no fool! Opportunities like Andre come as seldom as falling stars, and they are as impossible to grasp. I knew he would never marry me, but I couldn't refuse him. I have always loved Isaac—I've waited years for him! But Andre is special. He's magic." There was a heavy pause. "Didn't you feel it? Didn't it make you tingle just being near him?"
"No! And it's not a subject we should be discussing."
"Hmmm. You say no so loudly, I think you might mean yes." Azalea rushed to soothe Devon's temper by finishing the story. It seemed that Raveneau had met her brother, Halsey, when he brought Azalea home. The boy had signed on as the captain's steward and had been there ever since. The Frenchman's friendship with the entire Minter family had endured.
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