Love Not a Rebel (32 page)

Amanda expected Geneva to lift her delicate chin with scorn at Damien’s appearance, but the woman did just the opposite. She came up on her toes, caught his hands, and kissed his cheek. “Damien. You’re with us again. Thank God. We were on our way to the coffeehouse. Will you join us?”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving a Tory like Amanda on her own, Lady Geneva. I fear that trouble might find her.”

“Trouble! These people are acting like rabble! And they pride themselves so fiercely on being Virginians, the descendants of free enterprise rather than the cast-off dregs of society or poor religious dissenters!” Amanda cried.

Damien laughed. “That’s true, love, we Virginians do keep our noses in the air. But we’re sniffing rebellion these days, and that’s the way that it is. Come, let’s have that coffee, shall we?”

He slipped an arm within each of theirs and they hurried on down to the side street and then to the coffeehouse. The place was filled, but the harried owner still came forward quickly and politely, eager to serve. Even as he brought them steaming cups of coffee and morning pastries, conversation rose around them. Then one young man was up—a student at William and Mary, Amanda was certain—and began to weave an eloquent tale of the trouble in the colonies. “We are, by the grace of God, free Englishmen! And we shall have the rights of free Englishmen, we will not grant Parliament the right to take men from our colony to England to stand trial for the crime of treason, or for any crime!”

“Here, here!” Boisterous shouts rang out. Amanda felt a chill settle upon her.

“You would think that we were at war!” she whispered.

She did not like the look that Damien gave her. Then he excused himself to speak with some men behind them. A tall, bulky fellow from the cabinet maker’s shop approached Amanda, rubbing the rim of his hat nervously.

“You’re Lady Cameron, eh, mum?”

“I am, yes.”

“I just wanted to tell you that I served under your husband at Point Pleasant. I never served beneath a finer commander nor a braver man. I’m pleased to be his servant, should he ever require.”

“Thank you,” Amanda murmured, moving forward anxiously. “Can you tell me more?”

The room had fallen strangely silent, and it seemed that the men and the women in the coffeehouse had all turned to look at her. A cup was raised and the young man who had spoken insurrection shouted out. “ ’Tis Lady Cameron! A toast to our hero’s wife. Madame, you should have been there, and yet you should not, for the blood did run deep.”

Suddenly everyone wanted to talk to her. Many of the men there had served in Dunmore’s Indian campaign. One young fellow came before her to give a description of her husband in battle. “Why, one of those Shawnees a-come straight at him, leaping down from his horse. I was certain that our Lord Cameron had seen his last blessed light of day, but suddenly he throws off the savage, and God bless me, but if he didn’t slice the fellow faster than a cow could sneeze!

“And he was upon his feet again in an instant, never used a musket at all, did he, but fought hand to hand with savages, and shouting orders all the time, even when we came up knee deep in our own dead. He wouldn’t allow no scalpin’ though, and when we moved north, he wouldn’t allow no killing of squaws or chillun, even if we did try to tell him that little savages grew up to big ’uns.”

Amanda smiled. “My husband has many relatives with Pamunkee blood. Maybe that ruled his thinking.”

“Maybe it did! How is his lordship?”

She tightened her smile but managed to maintain it. “I believe him well.”

“Ah, well, no message, but I expect as you’ll hear from him any day now.”

Another toast was raised to her. Geneva seemed to love all of it. Her eyes sparkled and she clapped with delight. Amanda had been so eager for news, but knowing that
despite the bloody battles he had fought, Eric was alive, and heedless of her feelings, a simmering fury brewed within her. She ceased to listen to the men as Geneva flirted and laughed and chatted. Then she realized that she could hear the muted voices of the men behind her—and Damien.

“I have managed … a cache of a hundred … fine French rifles, I managed to trade soon after Point Pleasant with some Delaware.”

Someone said something and Damien’s voice lowered. There was an argument over price. Amanda felt her face burn as she listened. “Fine. We shall secrete them in the Johnsboro warehouse after dark. The place is abandoned. If there is trouble, no man shall have property confiscated or face the threat of removal to England.”

Damien! she wanted to shout. She had to tell him that Dunmore knew him to be an arms smuggler. Perhaps then he would cease his foolish and dangerous activities.

She rose suddenly, startling Geneva. “I wish to leave. Excuse me.”

She brushed past the men who had surrounded her and hurried out to the street, trying to breathe deeply. Damien came upon her quickly. “Amanda—”

“Damien! You are an idiot!”

He twisted his jaw. “Amanda,
you
are the fool,” he said irritably. “All of America is up at arms—”

“But they do not practice treason!”

“What is treasonous here? To want to protect oneself?”

“They are on to you, Damien!”

He backed away from her. “Who?”

She did not answer for Geneva appeared suddenly before them, laughing indignantly. “Fine friends! Leave me to the rabble.”

“Geneva, never.” Damien bowed deeply over her hand. “I shall consider it my first duty and greatest pleasure to see you both home.”

They walked back to the Cameron town house first. Amanda kissed Damien and gave him a fierce glance, and she thought that he would come back.

But as night fell he did not return. Anxious, she paced
the downstairs. Then she tried to read, and when she did she found the book on botany that Eric had lent to Damien that summer. A gasp escaped her when a small map fell from the book. She stared at it for a long while, thinking it was merely a pattern for planting boxwoods. Yet there were curious symbols on it. Then her blood ran very cold, for she realized that some of the curious markings referred to money and some of them referred to powder and arms.

She sat back, shaking. Eric was a traitor beyond a shadow of doubt. He was involved more deeply than she had ever imagined.

The map was exactly the proof that her father had demanded she find.

She held the map, then thoughtfully went upstairs and slipped it down into the bottom of one of her jewel cases. Then she went downstairs, put the book back into the shelf, and returned to her room, to curl up beneath the covers of her bed.

Two days later her father appeared at the town house. She was in the parlor, poring over the
Virginia Gazette
and trying to assimilate everything that had occurred since the Continental Congress. Reading between the lines, she was certain that Governor Dunmore had to be grateful that he had disbanded the Virginia Assembly, for it seemed that the members of the convention had come back breathing the fire of insurrection. Thankfully they would have to let some of the fires die down before they came together to meet again. It was frightening.

And, she thought, every man who had attended the convention and set his signature to many of the agreements had to be aware that he courted the charge of treason. But still, she had seen what had happened in the streets of Williamsburg. It might very well be the loyalists who were in danger if all of the colony began to rise in this rebellion. That is … until English troops arrived. British troops were admired the world over for their discipline and ability. Once troops descended down upon the colony …

She shivered, sipped some of the berry tea, winced, then realized that the taste of it was actually growing palatable to her.

Then Lord Sterling arrived.

It was Danielle who opened the door. From the parlor, Amanda heard her father enter, and she rose, planning to go to the entry to meet him. But he did not give her the chance. He stormed into the parlor. Danielle followed him, announcing him softly.

“Go. I’ll speak with my daughter alone!” Nigel snapped.

She hadn’t seen him in quite some time, yet even as the door closed quietly behind Danielle, they made no pretense of greeting one another with warmth. Amanda watched him with open hostility.

“Good morning, Father. If you’ve come for my husband—the suspected traitor—he has not yet returned from the western front where he fought for the governor.” She smiled sweetly. “Would you have some tea, father? Something stronger? Tell me, to just what do I owe this … pleasure?”

“Damien Roswell,” Sterling answered flatly, tossing his tricorn down upon the sofa. He walked over to the fire to warm his hands, smiling as he watched her face. “Ah, you’re not so cocky now, girl.”

She knew that she had paled. She raised her head, eyeing him coldly. “You wouldn’t dare see that an arrest warrant was served upon him now. The colony would be up in arms. If he was transported to England for some trial—”

“If he disappeared in the night none would be the wiser, eh?”

“Dunmore would never condone this.”

“You’re mistaken. Dunmore is a nervous man, with Peyton Randolph spouting off about natural law and seeking elections for the Virginia Conclave. Aye, who would notice the disappearance of one eager young lad?” Her father lost his pretense of a smile. He stared at her hard. “I’d do him in myself easily enough. I’ve killed before, girl, don’t you doubt it. I’ll kill again if need be. This is my path to royal favor, and I will have it!”

Chills riddled Amanda and she longed to go to the fire,
just to feel some warmth. But Nigel Sterling was by the fire, and she would not take a step near him.

“My husband would kill you.”

“So—you’ve turned on England, joined the rabble.”

“I am loyal to the Crown.”

“Then give me something—or else I swear that Damien Roswell will not live to see the morning sun. One way or other, lady, I will see that he dies. And don’t deceive yourself about the state of this colony. Prompt and forceful action from London will quell this rebellion before it begins.”

She paused, staring at him. She believed him. He would kill Damien, or seize him and see him transported to Newgate. It might not be legal, but her father still had the power to see it done.

He started moving toward her. “Don’t come near me!” she warned, and he stood still, smiling again.

“Give me something! If you love the Crown, serve it!”

She thought quickly, her heart seeming to fall. She remembered the conversation in the coffeehouse, and it occurred to her that she could save Damien, serve the Crown indeed, and be sure, too, that no foolish young swain died in the serving. “There is a cache of arms,” she blurted out.

Sterling’s eyes glistened with pleasure. “Where?”

“On—on the river. At the Johnsboro warehouse.”

Sterling smiled, collecting his hat. “If you’ve told me the truth, girl, you’ve bought yourself Christmas. Good day, daughter.”

He left. For an endless moment Amanda could not move. She was so cold that she didn’t think that even the warmth of the fire could help her now. She didn’t feel that she had helped the cause of England. She felt as if she had betrayed not just the patriots …

But Eric.

She moved across the room to the brandy decanter, poured herself a liberal portion, and swallowed it down quickly. Then she repeated the action, and at long last some semblance of warmth, of life, poured back into her.

But that night when she slept she was haunted by the faces of the young men in the coffeehouse. They marched
on her with fixed bayonets upon their muskets, with eyes of condemning fire, with features frozen into cold masks. They marched upon her and she backed away with a silent scream. And then they stopped, breaking apart, for a new man to make his way among them. She heard the sure purpose of his boots ringing as they fell against the ground, and then she saw his face, and it was Eric’s, and it was as cold as a winter’s wind, as devoid of love or passion. Like shimmering steel his eyes gazed upon her, and then he reached out to touch her, his fingers winding tightly about her.…

She screamed, thrashing about, for the dream was so real. Then she realized that it was no dream, she fought a real man, and that Eric was above her, truly with her, his eyes a curious glistening silver but his lip curled into a smile.

“Shush! My God, lady, what is this greeting? I reach to touch you, ready to die for the time and distance between us, and you treat me like a monster!”

She went still, the fear subsiding, yet remaining to haunt her, as it would forever. “Eric!” She gasped. And she reached up to touch his face. His hair was damp, he was naked as he sprawled atop her, and she realized that he must have come home, found her there, bathed elsewhere, and come to her. He was no dream, nor did he look upon her coldly or with disdain. His eyes were alight with fire, his body was hotter than flame, the length of him seemed to tremble against her with startling fervor. She moistened her lips, gazing at him, and she cried out, forgetting anger, forgetting everything. “Eric!” she cried his name again. She placed her hands on the clean-shaven sides of his face and pulled him to her, almost swooning as she tasted the warmth and hunger of his kiss. She drew away from him then, trying to speak, trying to recall her anger and not her fear.

“You did not write!”

“I had little time.”

“I worried—”

“Did you?” He paused, staring down at her, his eyes alight against the dim glow of the fire, a dark brow arched
in a satyr’s mask against rugged angles of his face. Then he lay low against her and whispered with searing desire against her lips. “Forgive me this night, for I can bear the distance no more!”

His hands closed upon her gown, material ripped, and she felt the startling deliciousness of his body against hers. His hands, his teeth, his lips were everywhere. They moved upon her with wanton abandon, with wild demand. Soft moans escaped her as she discovered her body caught by his heat, alive in every way, her flesh begging to be touched, and the spiral of desire within her soaring. She arched her breasts to his lips, dug her fingers into his hair, and gasped and writhed as his fingers delved within the woman’s core of her, teasing the sable-red triangle at the juncture of her thighs, mercilessly finding the tiny bud of deepest sensation. Where he stroked and teased with his touch he followed with his tongue’s bold caress, sweeping the nectar from her until she surged against him, begging senselessly for she knew not what. He towered above her full of laughter, but she pushed him from her, crawling atop him, lashing him with the soft stroke of her hair as she rubbed the length of her body low over his. She kissed his chest and stroked his buttocks and thighs, nipping his flesh, lapping it with tiny kisses, and moving upward again. Gently, tenderly, wickedly, she stroked and teased him, then went on with her hair a shower about them both to lap and stroke and lick and tease the very shaft of him, so softly that it was torment, then with a sizzling force that brought forth a torrent of shudders and groans from his lips. Then the very force of his hands was upon her as he lifted her, catching her eyes, meeting them, then thrusting into her with deep, shocking passion that still seemed to burn her from the inside out, impale her until she was fused with him. His eyes held hers as he thrust, and thrust again, and sobs of sweet hunger and desperation fell from her lips. He held her steady and they rode the night and the stars and the painful distance between them and the shimmering passion that was explosive and primitive and so very undeniable.