Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (20 page)

He smiled. Devon watched him, full of real
affection for this boy who had befriended her when she had felt so
alone.

"It's so good to be home," he murmured.
"Devon, how have you been getting along? Has it been a tedious
month?"

"No, of course not. Everyone has been
wonderful to me, and there's been a bit of excitement as well."

"Oh?"

"The Blue Jay has kept us busy," Azalea
explained, raising first one eyebrow and then the other.

"You don't say!" Halsey exclaimed. "Was Devon
involved, then?"

"I fell the first night out—stepped in a rut
and twisted my ankle. Devon found me and carried on in my
place."

"Well! How did you like playing spy,
Devon?"

She had watched the brother-sister exchange
with interest. There was something odd about the tone of their
voices. "I rather enjoyed it. It was diverting," she replied
carefully.

"And Jay?"

"So you know him, too?"

"By reputation," Halsey said hastily. "How
did you find him?"

"Diverting," Devon repeated, striving to keep
her voice disinterested. A traitorous blush crept up her cheeks,
prompting her to turn away and mumble something about helping Mrs.
Minter with supper.

Halsey alternated between eating and sleeping
through the evening, while revealing, piece by piece, the story of
the Battle of Yorktown. It seemed that the siege was progressing
well; there was no doubt of the outcome. The first shots had been
fired on October ninth. The Americans and the French had bombarded
the British works around Yorktown, working their way closer day by
day, trench by trench. The night of October tenth, French gunners
had sent red-hot balls into the harbor, firing the British ships,
and during the next day nearly four thousand shots had fallen on
the town and harbor.

The next two days had been spent storming two
large British redoubts near Yorktown. Halsey fought with Alexander
Hamilton and his detachment of four hundred Americans. Raveneau
fought with the French, he said. He told Devon and his family how
General Washington had delivered a simple speech of encouragement
before the battle.

"It was dusk when we all gathered to hear him
speak. I don't mind saying that I was frightened, particularly when
they began passing out axes and bayonets. I thought that I'd grown
used to fighting after so many sea battles, but this was different.
The waiting was horrible. I looked around me while General
Washington was urging us to be brave and wondered how many of those
faces would be gone the next sunset."

"Nine of us died," he continued, "and I was
one of the two dozen or so wounded. Those redcoats made it easy on
us. They acted brave for only a moment or two, to save face, then
ran like rabbits or gave themselves up. The entire conflict lasted
a bare quarter-hour, and the French were nearly as quick with their
mission."

Devon wanted to ask again about Raveneau, but
Mrs. Minter, presenting Halsey with a piece of warm pie, saved her
from that.

"And Andre? You say he fought with the
French?"

"Yes." Halsey paused to savor his first bite
of pie. "This is better than I remember, Mama. Let's see... Oh,
yes, Captain Raveneau. Well, as I said earlier, he took care of my
little bayonet wound. You all should know better than to ask after
him. That man has more lives than a cat and more luck than any
human. The longer I know him, the more tempted I am to believe that
legend about him being the devil's son—"

"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.