Chapter 16
***~~~***
October 24, 1781
Devon had never undressed the night before. Sitting wide-eyed in the darkness, she had made a clear decision about her future. Some other girl might be too cowardly to strike out for herself, she thought repeatedly, but I have never been a coward. How could I have tortured myself for so long? There is a simple solution. I will leave this place, and, with luck, I'll never see Morgan or Andre again.
Watching the moon out her dormer window, she waited for the dawn to come. Her clothes were assembled, rolled into a bundle and tied with a strip of lace from an old chemise. The plan was simple, but it would separate her from Williamsburg and this horrible coil, and tomorrow's problems of survival seemed trivial.
Her conscience stung at the thought of taking the horse Raveneau had purchased in Yorktown, but there was no other solution. Doubtless he would be furious. And Morgan... Morgan would be crushed.
There is no other way! her heart cried out, and, as always, she would follow where it led.
I will go to a new town, she thought, a new colony, and begin life all over again. I can sew, or work in a shop, or perhaps I could teach–like Master Hale...
Lulled by the comfort of her dreams, she tilted her head back against the wing chair and allowed her eyes to close for a moment. When they opened next, the sun had begun to rise.
Devon jumped up, but soon realized that only a miracle would find Raveneau awake at this hour. The past three mornings had not seen him emerge from his chamber until eight o'clock. Wearing breeches under her gown so that she might ride astride if necessary, Devon gathered her lace-bound bundle, slipped into her pelisse, and propped her farewell letter on the bed.
The hall was cool and still, fragrant with aromas of the breakfasts being prepared in the huge kitchen. Devon paused at Raveneau's door only long enough to assure herself that he was not astir, then tiptoed toward the stairway. From the landing she could see that the taproom was deserted except for a flock of servants. Feeling like a criminal, Devon stole down the stairs, smiling stiffly at the young girls who looked up in surprise from their cleaning chores.
Just a few more steps, she assured herself. Holding her bundle under her pelisse, she passed the doorway that led to the dining room when a familiar voice called out and paralyzed her legs.
"Well, well! It's Devon! Ah, you young brides are all alike. Couldn't sleep, eh?"
Sick at heart, she turned her head to find Raveneau smiling casually at her from a table in the otherwise empty dining room. He sat with a cup of coffee and the Virginia Gazette, totally at ease, as though it were his custom to take breakfast at six o’clock in the morning.
"Eh bien, come and sit down. We will share the muffins that I smell baking in the kitchen."
Mesmerized by his silvery eyes, she crossed the room and sat down in the chair that he held out for her. When she extracted the bundle of clothing, he set it aside as though it were a loaf of bread, and conversed about her wedding that would take place that afternoon.
Devon felt nauseous, her senses blunted, yet when Raveneau put out a bronzed hand to smooth her uncombed curls, the usual crazy fire shot sparks across her brow.
* * *
By one o'clock, the Apollo Room had been cleared. Servants bustled about, cleaning the oak and cherry tables, sweeping the floor, and filling the two huge bowls with Anthony Hay's tastiest punch. Tantalizing aromas suffused the entire building as the food which Raveneau himself had chosen was prepared for the wedding supper.
Clad in a chemise and petticoats, Devon sat upstairs on the edge of her bed, feeling like a rabbit in a trap. She was doomed to endure the torturous day that lay ahead. As for tomorrow... that was too much to contemplate.
The same serving girl who had dressed her hair the night of the ball arrived, brandishing the white muslin gown that made Devon look so young. The girl brushed her flame-gold hair while she sat motionless, pale and tense. Step by step, her toilette was effected, until the young girl moved back and let out a pleased sigh.
"Ma'am, you are truly beautiful!"
Devon turned mechanically toward the mirror. Her reflection was lovely. Curls gleamed traitorously against soft and creamy skin. The gown was appropriately simple. Virginal, Devon thought bitterly.
As the servant opened the door to leave, Raveneau stepped in. Devon's heart twisted sharply at the sight of him. He wore a coat of indigo-blue over a white and blue patterned waistcoat and a spotless white shirt and cravat. The devil himself could not have possessed eyes that glinted quite as wickedly.
"Ravissante!" he proclaimed after a brief, critical appraisal. "As pure as winter's first snow."
Devon's nostrils flared as her apathy gave way to burning hatred. "Don't be so smug about what you've done to me." She was thinking of many crimes... the foremost of which was this dreaded wedding.
"Smug? I? The truth is, I am extremely penitent about our brief liaison."
"Truth! You wouldn't know truth if it assaulted you!"
Raveneau put a hand to his brow in mock hurt. "You have the tongue of a viper, ma petite. It is a relief to turn you over to the care of a man who is obviously better able to cope with you than I. No, no, save your expressions of gratitude for this." He reached inside his coat to produce a small box which he put into her reluctant hands.
Devon lifted the lid suspiciously. There, nestled in a bed of white velvet, was a wide, sparkling collarette of sapphires and tiny diamonds. It was the most beautiful piece of jewelry she had ever seen.
"I... I—" She raised wide, shocked eyes but couldn't coordinate her mouth.
"You approve? Bon. Do you know that your eyes are exactly the color of the sapphires? Here, let me fasten it for you."
His warm fingers sent chills down Devon's back as he worked the clasp; then his hands dropped to her shoulders and steered her over to the mirror. She gasped at her reflection. The simple gown had become a backdrop for the beautiful sapphires that encircled her slender neck, emphasizing the color of her eyes and the unique rose fire of her upswept curls.
"I don't know what to say," she whispered.
"Say that you are pleased."
"Of course I am. But I don't see how I can accept this..." She wanted to weep. Why had he done this now, just when she was learning to hate him?
"Think of it as a souvenir from your days as the only woman on the Black Eagle. It may comfort you to know that it was purchased with ill-gotten gains."
* * *
Morgan was paler than Devon and refused to meet her eyes from the moment she entered the Apollo Room. In the brief space of time before the ceremony commenced, Devon looked at his stricken, averted face and remembered their shared childhood with a pang. That is what we were, she thought... children. Those dreams and plans we made were too innocent to be taken seriously. So much has happened to both of us since then... too much.
Only Raveneau's cool gray eyes kept her from calling a halt to the entire charade. His determination to see her married was a stronger consideration in Devon's mind than any fear of hurting Morgan. What on earth could that mean? Guiltily, she surveyed her nervous-looking husband-to-be, searching her heart for the lost glow of love.
Only Raveneau, Anthony Hay, and Morgan's three favorite drinking companions were present during the ceremony. The parson, who seemed ill at ease and smelled faintly of liquor, read the service in a booming voice, never looking up and barely pausing long enough for Devon and Morgan to make their responses.
Devon didn't care. Somehow the lack of emotion displayed by everyone present helped sustain her. No sooner had the parson intoned, "I now pronounce you husband and wife," than he seemed to disappear into thin air, not even bothering to say goodbye or wish them a happy life.
Well enough, Devon decided, and turned her attention to the steaming, fragrant foods that were assembled on the center table. Morgan stood tensely at her side as Raveneau uncorked a frothy bottle of champagne and filled the crystal goblets provided by Mr. Hay.
"To Devon and Morgan, and their futures." Raveneau smiled.
Devon lifted her glass along with the others and gulped the champagne.
The wedding supper was a meal to remember. There were scalloped oysters and baked halibut topped with tomato slices. A delicious Virginia ham was the centerpiece, surrounded by corn bread, potato rolls, Jerusalem artichokes, bourbon sweet potatoes, greens, and rice. Devon ate with the fervor of someone condemned to hang at dawn, chatting sociably with her new husband and meeting Raveneau's laughing gaze with fiery, challenging eyes. Now that the deed was done, it seemed best to adapt with all the good spirits she could muster. The champagne was an enormous help.
Morgan was spending more time talking to his friends than hovering over her, but after all, there would be more than enough time for hovering later. Devon held out her glass to be refilled twice before the last bite of cheesecake was devoured. While the serving girls were clearing away the dishes, Raveneau stood up, lit a cigar against one long candle, and walked over to a window.
One of Morgan's friends pulled a bundle of cards from his pocket and dealt them. Devon stared in surprise. Morgan hitched his chair closer, smiling nervously at her, then began to assemble the cards that dropped before him.
She rose from the table, carrying her glass. "Where is the champagne?" she asked Raveneau.
He obliged by pouring a small amount into her glass, which she drank in one long swallow. She gave him a bright, flirtatious smile. "I've never tasted this before today. I like it immensely!"
"So I've noticed," he replied dryly, then stepped over to speak to Morgan. "There has been a grave omission from these festivities. The bride has not been kissed! May I do the honors?"
Morgan flushed guiltily and nodded. "By all means."
"But—" gulped Devon. Still, she had no desire to deny Raveneau's insolent request.
Smiling, he slipped lean, familiar arms around her and drew her slight body nearer until it was pressed to his. One hand came up her back to hold her head, curls and all, tipping it to the proper angle.
Devon stared into flinty eyes until her heartbeat betrayed her excitement. Slowly his face moved downward until warm lips touched her own, gently at first, then more demandingly. Lightheaded with champagne, Devon let her mouth part and gave herself to the splendor of his kiss. Just as her arms fluttered at his shoulders, she remembered Morgan and his friends and stiffened. Raveneau lifted his head and released her from his arms.
Devon's face flamed. She wanted to give herself to mindless sobbing. Unable to look at Morgan, she looked instead at the floor. Raveneau said softly, from far away, "You must be tired. It has been a long day, of course. I have arranged for you and Morgan to use my chamber since it is larger, so why don't you go on to bed? I'll order a bath brought to you."
* * *
Devon bathed with nervous haste, certain that Morgan would decide to burst in at any moment. Raveneau's spacious bedchamber was candlelit. The soft sheets and quilts had been neatly turned back on the bed, which loomed ominously in front of Devon's narrow bathtub.
Climbing hurriedly out onto the hooked rug, she rubbed her body with a soft towel and reached for the gown that lay across a chair. Devon had never seen it before. Fashioned of filmy, lace-trimmed peach batiste, it floated sensuously against her naked body.
After blowing out the candles, Devon sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the pins from her hair. She set them in a pile on the night table, then ran a brush through her curls, anxious to be safely ensconced between the sheets.
In the silent darkness, Devon grew cold with dread, while a hard knot of nausea formed in her belly. It was impossible to think of anything but Morgan; her mind grew dizzy with a kaleidoscope of memories, lingering torturously over past kisses and caresses. She remembered the time in the summerhouse when Morgan's hand had found its way under her skirt and up her thigh. She had thrown him off onto the floor... but that would be impossible tonight. This time, thought Devon, I must welcome his touch and allow him to do—all the things that Raveneau had done that night on board the Black Eagle.
She shivered with revulsion. The warm glow from the champagne was gone, replaced by a dull ache in her head and joints.
Nearly an hour passed as Devon waited. After sitting up most of the night before, she found herself growing heavy-lidded with fatigue and gratefully let sleep overtake her. Perhaps, she thought drowsily, he won't have the nerve to wake me.
Sometime later, Devon opened her eyes in the darkness. The door had clicked shut. Someone had come into the room. She heard boots drop like gunshots to the floor; panic flooded her heart. She could dimly see a shadowy figure disrobing. As soft footsteps approached the bed, Devon lay rigid, her eyes squeezed shut.
The soft feather tick sagged beside her. She could feel his eyes on her; then a hand slid beneath the covers to touch her hip. It was a whisper-soft caress; the silky fabric of her bedgown moved sensuously under Morgan's fingers. The hand drew the quilts away and returned to explore her batiste-covered breasts leisurely until the nipples tingled. This was a far cry from Morgan's clumsy, overeager technique of the past. Devon could scarcely believe that a hot glow had begun to spread through her loins.
As if sensing this, the astonishingly skillful hand slipped downward, across her belly, blazing a fiery trail over her thigh. The hem located, Devon felt her bedgown lifted and gently removed. She could hear her own labored breathing which seemed to fill the room, but she couldn't bring herself to open her eyes. Surely the sight of Morgan's ghostly, fervent face would break the spell.
Deft fingers caressed the soft triangle where her thighs joined, then gently probed farther, finding the pulsing bud. Devon's hands clenched; she let her legs part and then gasped when firm lips scorched her swelling breasts. His mouth teased each nipple in turn, gently sucking until Devon felt the heat build and explode deep in her belly as he touched her with magical perception.
She was gasping helplessly when his mouth left her breasts and moved lower, his hands spreading her thighs. Her mind recoiled from what was happening, but her body greedily welcomed his audacity.
Over and over again, Morgan brought her to the fever pitch of desire and sent her plummeting over the edge, shuddering with the searing waves of ecstasy. By the time he moved silently upward, planting burning kisses on her belly and breasts, Devon was weak and shivering. Surrendering, she encircled his back with her arms, surprised to feel how muscular he seemed. Slowly, she opened her eyes.
"Bon soir, petite chatte." Raveneau's silver gaze glinted in the moonlight; white teeth shone when he smiled.
Utterly stupefied, Devon opened her mouth to speak, but no words would come out. Raveneau solved the problem by covering her parted lips with his own. He turned her easily on her side, pressing her naked body intimately to his hard, warm manhood.
When his mouth left hers to explore the curve of her throat, she managed to gasp, "What... how... you must be mad!"
"Au contraire," he whispered huskily against her ear. His teeth nibbled slowly, gently, at Devon's shoulder, sending goose bumps down her entire arm. "You are glad that it is I who holds you now, rather than Morgan, aren't you?"
Devon searched for his mouth, but he drew back.
"Say it."
"Yes. Yes, I'm glad it's you! Glad! Very—" His mouth closed over hers, crushing it pleasurably, demanding a response that she joyfully gave.
Chapter 17
***~~~***
October 25-27, 1781
A rosy glow filtered through the draperies and fell upon the canopy bed where Devon lay in Andre's arms. She opened her eyes slowly. His face was just inches away, but she fought the impulse to touch the wicked scar on his jaw with her lips.
Her body was tender, almost bruised, after a night of passion that seemed unreal. They had devoured each other with a hunger that had remained unsatisfied for hours. Devon blushed, remembering the brazen things she had done and had allowed, even urged, Andre to do.
Yet
she was content. Her emotions defied logic, but somehow it seemed right that she had spent the night struggling rapturously in Andre's arms rather than shrinking from Morgan's touch.
But what had happened? What of her marriage to Morgan? Where was he? How could he have allowed Raveneau to usurp his rights as her husband? Could he have drunk too much in his nervousness and fallen unconscious?
Muscles flexed against her back as Raveneau stretched handsome brown arms. Devon watched his face tenderly as he yawned and his eyes slowly opened. She gave him a smile, but he didn't return it.
"Good morning," she whispered.
"Is it?"
Devon went cold as she recognized the enigmatic mask he wore. Abruptly, he pulled free of her and swung his long legs over the side of the bed.
"I suppose you are wondering what has become of dear Mervin," he remarked, crossing naked to the washstand.
Devon fought the flame of desire that kindled at the sight of his magnificent body. "I have wondered, yes."
"The wedding was a sham. The parson was a cooper who occasionally acts in plays. His talent is limited, as you may have noticed. As for Morgan—he was persuaded to cooperate for a price." Coolly, he lathered his face and neck and took out his razor. "Your erstwhile fiancé has borne out my suspicions about the authenticity of romantic love. For all his supposed desire to make you his wife, it would seem that he desired money more."
Devon convulsively reached for the quilts that had been pushed away hours ago. "But... why?" she choked.
Raveneau flicked a glance over one broad shoulder as he shaved. "If you imagine that my motive was jealousy or—God forbid!—love, then you may as well revise your thinking. Let us call it an experiment. You both failed—though, of course, the outcome was as I suspected."
Despair, anger, humiliation, burned in Devon's heart. "You devil! How dare you tamper with other people's lives, just to prove your own bitter opinions of love! Maybe I wasn't physically attracted to Morgan, but at least he cared about me and wanted to marry me!"
"True. However, you ran a poor second to one hundred pounds sterling." Raveneau splashed water over his face and neck, then blotted it with a towel.
Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) Page 19