Natalya (54 page)

Raveneau turned steel-gray eyes on Devon and she felt her heart thud alarmingly. "I am sorry," he said.

"Oh... I appreciate..." Flustered, she looked at Nick. "Mother is worse than ever, I think. She's totally absorbed in the shop, working every minute. There must be two dozen quilts and as many net canopies, all unsold, and still she makes more. She never mentions Papa or Jamie any more and hardly speaks to me. Doesn't even bother to nag about my behavior..." Devon broke off, blushing.

Raveneau had been watching her with detached interest. She was the prettiest girl he had seen in months, though sadly in need of grooming. Her cloud of burnished-rose hair was loose and windblown, boasting a dried leaf on one side. The plain blue dress she wore was too small, though it did outline the high curve of her breasts well. But her face was simply enchanting. It had been a while since he had observed such fresh beauty: sparkling blue eyes, dusky cheeks, and a mouth that enjoyed laughter. Ah, innocence! he thought, and allowed himself a lazy, cynical grin.

His expression deepened Devon's blush. She retreated into the safety of her wing chair, listening to the conversation. Apparently, whatever business was between the two men had already been discussed, for now they only exchanged news of the war.

Raveneau had been at sea until two days ago, and was interested in the details of Benedict Arnold's treason and the execution of the British officer who had acted as go-between. Devon found the Frenchman's cool attitude toward Arnold quite surprising. It had been nearly a month since General Arnold had scurried down the Hudson to New York town, leaving the popular British Major Andre to be hanged as a spy, but everyone in the area continued to talk of the traitor daily. Anger, shame, and bewilderment were emotions that ran high, yet here sat this nonchalant Frenchman, asking questions as though he were discussing the price of rum.

"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.

Excerpt from

Touch The Sun

Special Author's Cut Edition

A Beauvisage/Hampshire Novel

by

Cynthia Wright

Chapter 1

January, 1789

Winter sunlight glanced off the last bits of melting ice that hung on the pecan trees like diamonds. Meagan Sayers, astride her horse Laughter, rode under the dripping branches and on into the open fields beyond.

The ground was muddy but Meagan rode every day unless the weather threatened the footing of her horse. She insisted that it was for Laughter's sake, but in truth, she grew more restless than the dappled gray gelding when forced to stay indoors, and these past weeks had yielded an unbroken procession of rain and snowstorms.

Pecan Grove was one of the largest Tidewater plantations in Virginia and boasted the area's finest mansion, next to Mount Vernon. However, by no stretch of imagination could Meagan fit anyone's conception of a Southern belle. The picture she made now, galloping across the soggy meadow astride Laughter, was typical. Since childhood, she had kept in the stable a cache of boys' clothing that she had begged from the young grooms and which she had changed into whenever she had an opportunity to ride.

Meagan's parents had always reveled in a world of foxhunts, horsebreeding, dancing, card-playing, and travel. She had seldom seen them, and when she did, they merely patted her on the head while passing in the hall. Early on she had put their inattention to good use, growing up a free spirit who rode with the skill and daring of any man, her raven hair flying freely like a banner. She eluded her governesses, choosing to take books from the library, and spent her afternoons reading under a pecan tree in the meadow.

The summer of 1788 had been like all the rest. Russell and Melanie Sayers had sailed to France to cavort at Versailles and Paris, but their daughter had pleaded to remain at home. With guilty sighs of relief, they agreed, for Meagan fought them every step of the way in their intermittent efforts to civilize her.