Love Not a Rebel (2 page)

Robert dragged her along to his horse. The sun was shining high overhead and a multitude of birds were singing. The grassy slope had never appeared more green. But the fresh river air was polluted already by the acrid smell of smoke. Amanda could see far down the hill that Lord Dunmore had come in, that his men were rowing from his ships to the
Lady Jane
, at berth on the dock.

“Mount with me, lady. We will ride,” Robert whispered in her ear. Her stomach roiled. That she had loved him once she could scarcely believe. She shoved away from him and leapt upon his mottled gray stallion. He followed behind her. In seconds they were racing down to the dock. Her hands were cold, but no colder than her heart. She had gone numb.

They came to a halt. Robert reached for her, lifted her down.

Suddenly a cannon boomed out on the river. The men in British navy uniforms who were milling about the
Lady Jane
, preparing her for sail, twirled around to see the new angle of attack.

“God’s blood!” Robert swore. Dazed, Amanda stared out to the river. Ships were appearing. Ships that did not fly the colors of the British Crown.

“He’s come!” Amanda gasped. He should have been in New York, or in New Jersey. Far, far away.

“Aye, he’s come. And what will he do if he finds you? Hang you? Highness, you’d best pray that we are victorious! Now come!”

Robert set his arm about her, practically lifting her from her feet. Amanda seemed to skim the ground until they reached the
Lady Jane
, ready now to sail. They raced up the gangplank and aboard.

Captain Jannings, one of Lord Dunmore’s men, bowed to her regretfully. “Highness! We are under attack. Fear not, I will see you into Lord Dunmore’s hands, and then you shall be safely whisked away to England!”

Tears stung her eyes. Once she would have begged to hear those words. Now she had no choice. Her dreams had burned away in the fires that had raged on land.

Cameron Hall would remain standing. Yet from the moment the British had come for the arms stored in warehouses along the docks, she herself had been doomed. The truth would not matter now.

A cannon exploded near the ship. A man screamed as a shard of steel cut into his flesh. Battle was engaged, and they weren’t even out into the open water.

The young captain raced to the fore, putting his glass to his eye. “Be damned, but it is
Cameron
riding the ship! Gunners, to your weapons. Sergeant, call the orders to fire!”

Robert grabbed her hand and hurried her toward the aft of the ship where the captain’s large cabin commanded a fine view of the sea. He threw open the door and shoved her inside.

Then he followed her, closing the door behind him. His eyes were bright with the excitement of battle, with the pleasure of winning. “He will die, Amanda. I swear it.”

She felt as if she would faint. Cannon boomed again, and even as they stood there, the room seemed to fill with
the black soot of powder and fire. “You’ll never kill him!” she vowed.

“I’ll kill him, I swear it.” Two steps brought Robert to her. She struggled as he swept her into his arms. “I’ll kill him, and I’ll have you naked beneath me while the blood still runs warm from his body.”

She lashed out at him, and he started to laugh. “Pray to the saints that it is so, lady, for he knows of this treachery, and
he
will kill
you!”

She shoved her knee into his groin with all of her strength. He staggered back. Amanda gripped the wall, ready to do battle again. But the door was thrown open and a uniformed Highlander stepped in. “Lord Tarryton! You are needed, your Grace. Milady! I am here to die for your protection! Lieutenant Padraic McDougal at your service.”

Robert gritted his teeth against the pain and cast her a glance that promised sure revenge. Then he straightened, ever the military man, and exited the cabin. The Highlander nodded to her, closing the door and standing guard beyond it. Amanda clamped her hands over her ears as the cannon boomed again.

They would all die.

She raced to the velvet-draped windows and looked out to the water. A ship called the
Good Earth
was almost upon them, coming about with grappling irons. Men were leaping from the rigging to come aboard the
Lady Jane
.

Eric’s ship.

His ship, which the British had taken …

And now she was on board. He would never believe her innocent!

With a cry of anguish she rose, determined to have none of it. They could not have traveled too far from shore yet. She needed to reach the deck and be quit of them all. Robert would betray her. He would never take her to Lord Dunmore, never see her safely to England.

And Eric would …

Kill her.

She hurried to the cabin door. Beyond it she could hear
the sound of clashing steel. Still she threw the door wide open, but then she halted in horror at all that she saw.

Battle had come hand to hand, and to the death. Even as she stood there, the captain fell dead, skewered by a blade in the hands of a mountain man. Amanda stepped aside as two boys, fighting with ropes and fists, crashed down before her. She nearly slipped in a pool of blood that oozed from the throat of a bearded redcoat. She looked forward, and her heart caught in her throat.

Eric was there.

On the bow of the
Lady Jane
, his rapier drawn, he and Robert were cast heavily into the fray. Both men knew their swordplay, yet no man was so subtle, so swift, as Eric Cameron. He moved forward suddenly, pushing Robert back, his black crackling silver beneath the sun despite the mist and smoke that hung over the deck. He was talented and dramatic, provoking Robert to angry lashes, taunting him then as he flecked his sword against his opponent’s chin. His left hand remained behind his back as he moved again with speed and grace, demanding that Lord Tarryton cast down his sword.

“God’s blood, someone take this man!” Robert screamed.

Five of Dunmore’s finest navy men turned at Tarryton’s call for help, daring opponents as they sprang forward.

She heard Eric’s reckless laughter. He lived on the edge now, and enjoyed it. He cared nothing for danger for they had attacked his very home. They had attacked her! Amanda thought.

But he would not see it that way.

Her hand fluttered to her throat as she watched him fight. Silently she screamed as men thrust and parried. Not knowing what she did, she dipped low to the deck, grabbing up a sword.

Robert Tarryton had turned. Amanda watched as he leapt to the rigging by the mainmast, then catapulted into the sea.

“So you’d give fight, eh?”

A cheerful young man in West County buckskins and a bloody shoulder stood before her. She looked down at the
sword in her arm. It was covered with blood too. She wanted to scream. She wanted to cast the sword down and back away screaming. She’d never seen bloodshed like this before. War had always been distant; battle something one heard of in glorious accounts that didn’t mention the cries of the dying. She shook her head, but the lad had grown serious. “Milady, if you must give battle, then I shall engage you so!”

“Highness!” someone yelled out. “The woman must be Highness!”

Amanda held up her weapon in terror. She didn’t want to kill the man, nor did she want to die in a pool of blood, there upon the
Lady Jane
. “No, I shall not fight or surrender!” she claimed, thrusting the sword forward in warning so that the lad fell back. Then she turned and raced blindly back toward the captain’s cabin. Men streamed after her.

She raced through the door, breathless, slamming it closed behind her. Her Highlander was there, rushing forward to meet the enemy, carrying his loaded Brown Bess. He never lifted the weapon. A sword was thrust through his heart, and he came crashing down at Amanda’s feet. “Dear God, no!” she cried, falling to his side, trying to staunch his wound.

It was over, she realized. There was silence on the deck.

But the echo of the shots had barely ceased, the ring of steel had just gone silent, when the door to the captain’s cabin burst open, the wood shuddering as if it would splinter into a million fragments. A man stood there, towering in the doorway, framed by the combination of sea mist and black powder that swirled upon the deck. He was exceedingly tall, broad shouldered, lean in the hips, legs firm upon the deck. He stood silent and still, and yet from her distance, Amanda felt the menace of his presence, felt the tension hot upon the air.

Amanda’s mouth went dry. She didn’t know whether to exult in his surviving, or damn him for not dying.

She did not scream, nor even whisper a word. She looked up quickly from where she knelt at Lieutenant McDougal’s side, still trying in vain to staunch the flow of
blood that poured forth from his chest. McDougal was dead. There was really no more that she could do for him.

And she had to face the man in the doorway.

Amanda grabbed the lieutenant’s Brown Bess, staggering up with the heavy and awkward five-foot gun. McDougal could help her no more, and she had never needed protection so desperately. She stared at the doorway, at the man who had come for her. Although she was determined to fight, still she trembled, for the look in his eyes made her heart shudder, as if a blade had cut cruelly into the very depths of her.

Cameron. Lord Eric Cameron. Or Major General Lord Cameron now, she thought, near hysteria.

“Eric!” she whispered his name.

“
Highness
,” he said. His voice was deep and husky, sending shivers down her spine. Watching her, he removed a handkerchief from his frock coat and wiped clean the blade of his sword. She braced herself as he kept his eyes upon her and sheathed his sword at his side.

“How intriguing to see you,” he murmured. “You, milady, should be tending the home fires. And as I am a special adjutant to General Washington, I should be with him. But how could I be when I received an urgent request from Brigadier General Lewis, commander of the Virginia militia, warning me that our arms and my very home were in danger. That we had all been betrayed.”

“Eric—”

“Lord Dunmore, Virginia’s gallant royal governor—who now decimates her coast—was driven from Williamsburg in the summer of 1775, but as you know so well, Highness, he took to the sea, and from H.M.S.
Fowey
, he descended upon the towns, harrying them in the name of the king. He always seemed to know so much of what was going on! Then on New Year’s Day this year he burned Norfolk to the ground with the seventy big guns of his fleet, and he continued to haunt the Tidewater, attacking my very home, milady.”

“If you would listen to me—”

“No, Amanda. I listened to you for too long. I kept believing that some sense of honor would keep you silent,
even if we did not gain your loyalty. And now, well I know the full truth of it.” Eric spoke so softly. Still she felt the sizzling heat and tension behind his words, the energy behind his quiet stance. “Put down the gun,” he warned her.

Dread filled her. She had chosen her course. If she was not guilty now of the treachery he suspected, she had still chosen her own side in the conflict. She held her head high, trying not to show her fear. Once it might have been a game. Like chess. Check, and check again. But even when they had played and he had allowed her to seek certain advantages, the warning had been there. Nay, the threat, for he had told her that she would pay if he ever caught her betraying him.

And now that she was innocent at long last, she’d been caught!

He stood there so tall and unyielding. As the powder and mist faded, she saw him so much more clearly. His taut white breeches defined the rugged muscle and sinew of his thighs and the navy frock coat with the epaulets upon the shoulders emphasized the breadth of them. His hands were gloved, but she knew them well. Knew their tenderness, and their strength.

It was the power of his eyes that held her now. Those startling, compelling eyes. Silver and indigo steel, they stared at her with such fury that she nearly forgot that she held the loaded gun. Amanda could barely hold the unwieldy weapon, but she couldn’t let him see that. She couldn’t falter; she could never surrender.

She wanted to cry out. She wanted desperately to remind him that she had never turned her back on England, that she had always been a loyalist, and could only follow her heart, as he had followed his. But he was not angry because of her beliefs. He was angry because of all that he believed she had done.

“I am innocent of this!” she told him heatedly.

His brow arched with polite interest. “You are innocent—Highness?”

“I tell you—”

“And I tell you, milady, that I know full well you are a British spy and the notorious ‘Highness,’ for I oft fed you
misinformation that found its way to Dunmore’s hands. You betrayed me—again and again.”

She shook her head, swallowing against the fear that closed about her throat. He spoke with dispassion, but a fire burning beneath his words brought terror to her heart. She had never seen him like this. When she had despised him, he had been determined and patient. When she had been cold, he had been an inferno. He had been there for her, always, no matter what scandalous truth he discerned, he was ever there, a ferocious warrior to wage her battles. She had known how to take care; she had feared for her heart should she lose it to him.

And now that she was cast into that desperate swirl of love and abandon, she was lost indeed. All that was left was the tenacious grip with which she tried to cling to some semblance of dignity and pride. She had to be strong; she needed to remember how to fight.

Yet it was terrible to think that she must find the wit and reason to battle him now. Never had he seemed more a pillar of strength, filling the doorway, taller than all other men in his boots and cockaded hat, striking with his hard handsome features, his dark hair queued but unpowdered, his stance so confident yet so fierce. And so determined.

“Give it to me, Amanda,” he repeated. Low and husky and deep, his voice seemed to touch her. To sweep over her flesh. Assured, commanding, touched by the rawness of the colonial man, yet with a trace of his Oxford education, he was a contradiction. In a land the British often considered to be peopled by criminals, Eric Cameron was one of their own, but with all the strengths and rugged power of the colonial. He knew the strategy of war, and he knew, too, the skill of hand-to-hand combat. He had learned how to fight from master generals—and from the blood-thirsty Iroquois and Shawnee. He was like the country, made of muscle and sinew, wild and untamed, no matter how civil his manner, no matter that they called him “lord.”