"Halsey!" Mrs. Minter gasped. "That is a terrible thing to say, even if you meant it in jest!"
Raveneau's steward grinned, his mouth full of pie, and his mother was hard put to retain her scowl.
* * *
As Halsey told his tale in the farmhouse on the peninsula's south side just before midnight, Cornwallis attempted to escape across the York River. The first division ferried safely across, but no sooner had the second wave of troops set out in the boats than a severe storm swept over them.
"It was an act of God," beamed Washington several hours later. The storm had scattered the British boats and foiled any plans of escape. A joyful messenger had brought the general the news: Cornwallis himself was still trapped in Yorktown.
Unable to sleep, the principal officers gathered at Washington's headquarters to share a cask of wine and discuss this newest development. Washington himself sat at the small desk, his tired face softened by the golden light of two candles burning on either side of him. The field tent was even more crowded than usual, with Rochambeau, Lafayette, and Lincoln occupying the chairs, and other officers, including Captain Andre Raveneau, seated on the ground wherever they could find room. The front of the spacious, square tent was open, letting in the cold, misty night breeze and allowing the weary soldiers a view of the luminous moon.
Raveneau sipped his wine and listened to Washington and Rochambeau outline the plans for the next flurry of fighting; a series of blows designed to bring Cornwallis to his knees once and for all. Soon he found his mind wandering. How strange and unlikely this autumn had become, he thought. He was not used to fighting with an organized army, and while he believed in the American cause and was glad to help in any way he could, he yearned to stand on the quarter-deck of the Black Eagle, breathing salt air and sailing into the expansive Atlantic. He was a man of the sea and had chosen the sea for his home because it offered the ultimate freedom. Aboard his ship, he was the master of all he could see and never had to bend to another man's rules.
Devon.
As the chorus of voices rose around him, Raveneau tasted her name in his mind and on his tongue. He had thought of her often since he had sent her away. It was a sweet, addictive habit, and one he longed to break.
* * *
Devon sat beside the four-poster bed, reading aloud from Poor Richard's Almanac and being rewarded by an occasional chuckle from Halsey Minter. The selection of books at the farmhouse was limited; there were none of the latest novels that Devon longed to sample, nor even a volume of Voltaire or Shakespeare to improve her mind. Poor Richard was the best of the lot.
"I do not intend to offend your reading, Devon." Halsey yawned. "But I do feel in need of a nap."
"I must confess I understand," she laughed. "And I did promise to start your mother's stew!" His parents and Azalea were paying a visit to a newly widowed cousin of Jud's.
"Will they be back in time for supper, then?"
"They expect to be home by sunset," Devon replied, closing the book and standing up. "That leaves at least two hours. Perhaps if I hurry with the stew, I might be able to take a nap myself." The silence from the bed made her look around. Minter was sound asleep, his mouth open.
Smiling to herself, Devon went down to the kitchen. The vegetables were laid out neatly in a row on the worktable, while a tough piece of beef bubbled in a pot over the fire. She tied a voluminous apron over her dress. The gown was newly made from fabric donated by Azalea, and Devon knew the reason for her friend's generosity. The heavy wool made her skin itch, and the color, a dark taupe, was singularly unattractive. Sitting down to work, Devon took up a paring knife and set to work.
No sooner had she begun to slice the carrots than the front door opened, letting in a flurry of autumn leaves and sunshine. "So you're back early," Devon said. When there was no response from the Minters, she lifted her head.
Her heart lurched. There, leaning indolently against the doorframe, was Andre Raveneau. Clad in an elegant white uniform with red facings, he looked indecently handsome and his gray eyes sparkled wickedly. Devon's bones seemed to melt.
"Bonjour, petite chatte. I am glad to be early if that means we shall be alone together."
"Oh, I didn't mean—That is, I thought you were the Minters. They are in Williamsburg today."
"Really?" White teeth flashed against his sun-darkened face.
Devon blushed maddeningly. "Stop this, now," she declared, striving to sound firm and controlled. "Please sit down and tell me why you are here."
Raveneau arched an amused eyebrow but did as she asked, taking the chair beside her own. Why is he here? she wondered frantically, trying to contain the wild excitement that coursed through her body. She could see the fine lines in his face and each shining black hair on his head. Dropping her eyes, she stared at his familiar hands with their long, deft fingers and square-cut nails.
"Can I get you some refreshment?" she asked abruptly, jumping to her feet with such haste that Raveneau had to catch her chair to save it from toppling over.
"If you insist." He laughed softly. "I must say, your attire is very becoming. I have always admired that... color."
"It is bad of you to tease me. I made this dress myself. It is better than wearing breeches!"
"I might take issue with that. I rather like you in breeches." He watched as she shakily poured wine into a glass, and held up his hand. "That will be fine. Perhaps you should have a glass, too? You appear to be rather overwrought."
"I am not!" she cried.
"If you insist, Devon. Why don't you bring me a knife and I'll help with these vegetables. In your state, you might take off a finger or two."
By now she was thoroughly unstrung. She put the wine and a knife beside him, then seated herself and silently attacked the vegetables.
"Aren't you going to ask me how the battle went?" Raveneau inquired casually.
"Why, yes. Obviously, I want to know."
"Obviously." His mouth bent in a rakish smile. "We have won. Cornwallis surrendered this morning and only the discussion of terms remains."
"Oh, Andre, that is splendid news!" Elated, Devon automatically moved to embrace him but froze, one hand holding her knife, the other a potato.
Raveneau pretended not to notice. "Yes, it is splendid. The war isn't over by any means, but I would say the enemy has sustained a mortal wound. Cornwallis's army made up a quarter of the British forces in America, so it seems unlikely that the fighting will go on much longer."
"Oh, heaven," Devon said happily.
Raveneau gazed at her, thinking that she had never looked more radiant and bewitching. Her red-gold hair was illuminated by the dusky light, baby-soft tendrils framing her face from brow to chin. Was she thinking of Morgan? he wondered. It seemed likely, but why was she so tongue-tied around him? Perhaps she was plagued by embarrassing memories of the night they had spent together on the Black Eagle.
Another in a long line of guilt pangs visited itself on Raveneau. Guilt! he thought despairingly. At my age!
Deliberately, he cut himself with the knife—nothing too deep, just enough to draw a sufficient amount of blood. He cursed.
"Oh, dear! What happened?" Devon rushed to wash and bandage the injured finger, her eyes full of concern until she looked up to find Raveneau watching her, his expression both tender and amused.
"Are you angry with me?" he asked.
"Why would I be angry?"
"Because I made love to you."
"Why... I..." Flushing, Devon looked away, but Raveneau caught her chin and turned it back.
"I shall be very uncomfortable if you continue to blush and stammer and fall over chairs while I am here. The Minters will think it very strange! Can you not forgive me? I should like to resume our friendship."
Breathing unevenly, Devon stared at his lean, tanned face, wanting to say that she was to blame for that entire episode. But of course he knew that. He had told her so that night.
"Well, I suppose if Azalea can be so casual
about her past with you, I should be able to follow her example."
Raveneau, lips twitching, was not about to mention the fact that Devon and Azalea were total emotional opposites. "I think that is a very healthy attitude, petite chatte. After all, these things do happen, and considering my legendary good looks, your weakness is understandable."
On cue, Devon tensed angrily. "What? I cannot believe my ears! Legendary conceit would be a more accurate description!" She assaulted a huge onion with vigor.
"Careful, careful," Raveneau admonished. Smothering laughter and a fierce desire to take her in his arms and kiss her until she fainted, he finished slicing up the vegetables at a leisurely pace.
When Azalea opened the door, the scene that met her eyes was one of cozy domestic bliss. A pot of stew bubbled fragrantly over a perfect fire. Halsey lay on the sofa, where he had insisted on moving, looking happy and warm under a pile of blankets. A dreamy-eyed Devon occupied one wing chair, while Andre reclined in the other, more tanned and magnificent than ever.
"Azalea!" her brother exclaimed. "Look who is here!"
"I see," she murmured.
Raveneau got up, smiling, and came forward to embrace her affectionately. "It's good to see you. I trust you are well?"
"Y—yes!" She felt the shock wearing off and took advantage of the opportunity to throw her arms about his neck. Nothing had ever made her feel so good as the sensation of Andre's hard body against her own. "This is a wonderful surprise! Just what we needed. Isn't that so, Devon?"
"Well..." Devon allowed carefully.
Jud and Constance Minter came in then and lit up at the sight of Raveneau. Obviously he was a hero in this house, but Devon couldn't help rebelling against the prevailing mood of adoration. All the Minters hung on the Frenchman's every word and smile, so Devon took it upon herself to keep him humble.
Still, there was an odd ache in her breast whenever he paid attention to Azalea. Her friend had no qualms about following him around, sitting beside him, and touching him whenever she could. Raveneau seemed to enjoy this, which rankled Devon. Further, she believed that he was actually amused by her irritation.
The next morning Devon couldn't decide what was more important—looking her best or getting downstairs as quickly as possible. Azalea and Mrs. Minter had risen at dawn, anxious to prepare a sumptuous breakfast for their honored guest.
What could she wear? Devon worried. The sea-green gown that Minter had given her was the most attractive, but it had once belonged to Azalea. The taupe dress was out of the question. That left the one other gown that she had made. The fabric Azalea had donated was white muslin, which was more suited to midsummer. Devon had made a simple gown, embellishing it with eyelet lace salvaged from the ripped yellow dress. She donned it now and surveyed her reflection in the small mirror, moving up, down, and sideways in an effort to see the full effect.
I look like a child, she thought in exasperation. Even though the bodice was cut low enough to display her breasts, they could not compete with Azalea's lush curves. With a sigh, she brushed her hair until the fiery highlights gleamed in the sun. It was the best she could do.
So absorbed had Devon been in her appearance, she had failed to notice the splashing noises coming from downstairs. She paused on the top step and listened curiously. Hurrying below, she discovered a giggling Azalea in the kitchen.
"Look! Here's Andre in the bath!"
"What?" Devon wondered incredulously. A few more steps and she saw a bathtub set up before the huge fireplace. Raveneau reclined against the curved back, leisurely smoking a thin cigar. At the sight of Devon's startled face, he smiled with wry amusement.
"Good morning! Why so shocked, mademoiselle? This is not the first time you have seen me in my bath."
"What does that mean?" Azalea demanded.
"Never you mind," said Halsey from the sofa. "It's none of your affair."
Devon felt herself turning pink all the way down to her breasts. "I for one would like to know what is going on. Azalea, where are your parents?"
"Milking the cow. They believe that Andre won't seduce me." She smiled coyly, then shrugged. "Unfortunately, they are right."
"I fear Devon has a point," Raveneau remarked, reaching for his sponge. "You two had better find me some towels before they walk in and see you ogling me."
His gray eyes danced as they looked up at Devon. Almost against her will, she had been staring at him, mesmerized. The bronzed skin, the width of his shoulders over well-muscled arms, and a chest covered with just the right amount of soft black hair. She bit her lip. The mere sight of him heated her blood.
That afternoon the quartet assembled around the bed. Azalea sat beside Halsey's legs, Raveneau and Devon took chairs, and a lively round of card games began.
Devon's spirits began to plummet, however, when she realized that Azalea and Raveneau had passed the time together this way on many other occasions.
In the middle of a game of whist, while waiting for her turn, Devon imagined them in the cabin on board the Black Eagle, sitting on the bed where she had slept. In her fantasy, he reached for Azalea, laughing.
"Devon? Devon! It's your turn!" Azalea cried irritably.
Flustered, she glanced over to find Raveneau watching her, his eyes gleaming in a way that made her angry. She picked a card at random and tossed it on the bed. Everyone stared in surprise.
"Well, I am already losing, so what does it matter?" she said.
Raveneau's face was inscrutable as he sat forward in the chair and gathered the cards already played into a neat pile. "I think that is enough," he said evenly, then slanted a smile at Azalea. "I'm going for a walk. Would you care to join me?"
Eyes alight, she was on her feet. "That's the best invitation I've had in ages!"
Devon felt ill.
* * *
Raveneau and Azalea wandered through the fields, pausing in the tobacco barn to inspect the crop of curing leaves. Afterward, they headed toward the water and sat under a dogwood tree that would be pink the next May.
"I wanted to talk to you," Raveneau said.
"Oh?" Azalea's heart leaped, but she could sense that his mind was not on her. For all her giddy pleasure in his company, he continued to treat her like an irrepressible sister. It was as if they had never been lovers at all.
He caught her hand and held it absently. "How would you like to go to Yorktown with me? The ceremony of surrender will likely be tomorrow, and I thought we might be able to locate your fiancé."
"Oh, Andre! I would adore it!" Suddenly her thoughts were full of Isaac.
"Good. I was planning to take Devon along as well. Do you think she would agree?"
Azalea peered at Raveneau's chiseled face, searching for a clue to his feelings. "Well, certainly she would agree. I don't know why not. What did you have in mind for her in Yorktown?"
Raveneau glanced at her sharply. "I have not forgotten that she has a fiancé in Virginia. Has she?"
"Forgotten? Her darling Morgan? Heavens, no."
"Good. I would not want to have brought her all this way for nothing."
"I may be mad, but I have this suspicion that you may care for her yourself."
"You're right. You are mad." His eyes were stormy. "I feel a certain responsibility, that's all. I promised to bring her to Virginia and help her find this paragon of manhood."
"You're jealous! Listen to you!" Azalea stared for a moment in shock, then began to laugh.
"Jealous? Why in God's name should I be? It's not as if I couldn't have her if I wanted her. Devon's not like you, though. She takes everything too seriously."
Azalea heard the anger in his voice, but went on, anyway. "I think you are upset because she doesn't care for you. You cannot conceive of any girl not falling all over you the way I do."
"That is not so! You're beginning to irritate me, Azalea! Besides, what makes you so certain she doesn't care for me?"
She smiled slyly. "Oh, Andre, you can't fool me!"
"Just
answer the question, wench!"
"Well, I only know what she says to me, and we are very close. She almost never mentions your name. As far as I can tell, she isn't interested in the least. Perhaps you're not her type."
Raveneau narrowed his flinty eyes at her. "I ought to strangle you. You are doing this purposely."
Azalea giggled. "Let's go home and tell Devon the news. The sooner she and I reach Yorktown, the sooner we will be reunited with our true loves. And you, sir, will be able to return to your single great passion—that privateer!"
Chapter 13
***~~~***
October 19, 1781
Shortly after dawn, Devon said her goodbyes to the Minters. Halsey would be remaining behind, though he hoped to join the Black Eagle before its departure. Devon wept as she kissed his cheek in parting, thinking that they would never meet again. It was just as unlikely that she would ever see Mr. and Mrs. Minter after today, and in their final moments together she realized how fond she had become of them, despite their failings.
"My parents are both gone," she whispered to Mrs. Minter, "and I couldn't have come to your home at a better time. I needed you. I haven't felt alone..."
Constance Minter blinked back tears of her own and told Devon that she hoped she would find happiness with her fiancé. Jud got up to give her a hug, and the old couple stood in the doorway, watching the carriage until Devon lost sight of them.
The Minters had insisted that the trio use the team and open carriage, and Raveneau tied his saddle horse to run along behind. Azalea sat beside Andre, and Devon felt silly perched all alone on the other seat, as though she were a little sister or chaperone.
Azalea could never have dreamed what thoughts were whirling in Devon's mind. Ever since Raveneau had taken Azalea out for the solitary walk the day before, Devon had been convinced that they had resumed their affair—even if it would last only until Isaac was found. Considering Azalea's frivolous views on love and adventure, no behavior seemed too outrageous for her.
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