Touch the Sun (55 page)

"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

Surrender the Stars

Special Author's Cut Edition

Raveneau Novel #2

by

Cynthia Wright

Descending the
Chimera's
gangplank, Ryan Coleraine set foot on American soil for the first time in one hundred days and smiled. Behind him, the privateer he commanded swayed at anchor alongside other proud ships lining the Point. Painted pale yellow, with a blue stripe between the wales, the sleek brigantine basked in the spring sunlight as sailors scurried over her decks and up the ratlines, unloading cargo and securing the lines.

"Are you off to the Griswold Inn for a drink, Captain?" inquired Drew, the
Chimera'
s
first mate, as he set a crate of rum on the wharf.

Coleraine gazed distractedly out over the glittering Connecticut River. "Not just yet. I have to report to Captain Raveneau first on the success of our voyage." He gave the young man a smile then. "When you and the others are finished here, come along to the Gris and I'll buy you all a round."

"Thank you, sir! I can taste it already!"

Ryan's progress up Main Street was slow as various residents of Pettipauge stopped to welcome him home. The greeting jarred a bit, for Coleraine was there so little that he'd never felt that this was his home. He was more at ease on board the
Chimera
, surrounded by a sweep of ocean, than here on this street lined with clean white houses and shops, budding oaks and rows of sunny daffodils.

Young women turned to stare as the privateer captain passed by, but he was too preoccupied to notice. At thirty-one, Ryan Coleraine was shockingly attractive. Tall, lean, and strong, he was blessed with shining, crisp black hair that curled against the back of his neck, brilliant blue eyes, chiseled features that were somehow accentuated by his closely trimmed beard, and a devastating smile. Today he wore a white shirt, a simple, snowy cravat, a blue-gray waistcoat with a thin charcoal stripe, gray breeches that skimmed his long, hard thighs, and black knee boots. In his left hand, he casually held a midnight-blue coat.

Approaching the Raveneau house, he considered what he wished to say to the man who had been his mentor since his arrival in Pettipauge nine years ago. Ryan had worked long and hard, earning Raveneau's trust and saving his money. Now he was ready to strike out on his own. He wanted to buy the
Chimera,
which he had designed and christened himself. How would Raveneau react?

The large Georgian house owned by the Raveneau family had been built on the right side of Main Street within sight of the ship-lined Point. Painted a warm, light yellow, in contrast to its white neighbors, the home seemed to exude contentment. Square boxwood hedges marked the boundaries of the corner yard, while budding elms arched before beds of jewel like crocus and narcissus. Ryan thought that the house's windows made the inviting picture complete: green shutters framed open sashes and clean, fluttering curtains. It was hard for him to believe that when Raveneau was Coleraine's age, he, too, had called the sea his home and had been a confirmed rogue and womanizer.

Able Barker, the family's tall, rawboned butler, answered Ryan's knock at the door and informed him that the Raveneaus were away in Philadelphia and that he wasn't certain when they'd return. Then, seeing the younger man's disappointment, he added, "I'll wager that Miss Lindsay would know. Why don't you stop by the schoolhouse and ask her?"

"Miss Lindsay?"

"Captain Raveneau's daughter. She's been schoolmistress since Ethan Painter went off to war. Doing a fine job of it, too. The schoolhouse is up on Pound Hill. Think you can find it?"

"I'll manage. Thank you, Able."

"Captain, how did you fare at sea?"

Coleraine's grin flashed white. "I'd say we did rather well. We took eleven prizes and our hold is well packed with rum, sugar, brandy, wine, dry goods, iron, fish, and fruit. Best of all, we lost not one man."

"Congratulations, sir! Just the sort of news Pettipauge needs to hear."

Back on Main Street, Ryan searched his memory. He couldn't recall ever meeting this mysterious daughter, but then he usually saw Andre Raveneau in the latter's office on the Point. Ryan vaguely remembered hearing that the attractive, adventurous Raveneaus had somehow produced a serious, bookish daughter, but he'd laughed at the time, dismissing the idea.

The handsome, three-story, green-shuttered Griswold Inn loomed up to his right, its open doors beckoning him to enter. Ryan longed to relax inside with his friends, to prop his booted feet on a scarred table and drink a tankard of ale, but first he had to pay a tiresome visit to Pettipauge's schoolhouse.

* * *

"I wish you would let me finish this tonight," complained Betsy Urquhart. She sat alone, surrounded by empty desks, and gazed mournfully at the figure sorting papers at the front of the schoolroom.

"If you had written your theme last night, as instructed, you wouldn't be here now," her teacher replied without looking up.

"King Lear
is so tedious." She pouted. "Besides, I thought you were my friend, Lindsay!"

"When we are in this room, I am your teacher and you must address me accordingly. Now, finish your theme so that we may both go home!"

Betsy wrote laboriously for several minutes, then said, "One would never guess that you are just two years older than I am—or that you come from such an adventurous family. I don't understand how you can be so dull—"