Silver Storm (The Raveneau Novels #1) (26 page)

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.

***~~~***

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.