Love Not a Rebel (43 page)

She blocked his path. Her eyes were liquid with appeal
and misery. “Oh, Eric!” she murmured again, and she came up on tiptoe to kiss him.

He didn’t know what overcame him. Maybe it was just the bitter pain of betrayal, but when her lips touched his, he seized upon her. He did not give her the sisterly kiss she had offered but parted her lips and delved deep within her mouth, as a lover might. And she responded. Just as a lover might. Her lips parted sweetly, she welcomed him, her arms wrapped around him. Moments passed in blindness, and then he realized that he could not take from Anne Marie what he was seeking in another. He could not use Anne Marie, because she was too good a woman. And she had always cared for him; he had known that. She was his friend, and the daughter of one his best friends. Shamed, he drew his lips from hers and slowly released her from the band of his arms. He wanted to apologize. Her eyes were upon his, and they both knew his mistake.

Before he could utter a word, a furious sound at the door interrupted them. Startled, Eric looked to the door to see that Damien Roswell was there, tall, straight, outraged.

“My lord Cameron, I came to see if you needed any assistance, but I see that you are well tended.”

He didn’t owe Damien any explanations. His young friend was rash and hot blooded, and he’d nearly spent years as a British prisoner because of it.

“I am on my way now,” Eric said curtly.

“Damien, you must understand—” Anne Marie began.

“Oh, I understand!” Damien said with a dry laugh. “He’s still a Brit in his own way, still ‘Lord’ Cameron. Just like Henry the Eighth! Down with the one, up with the next! Were you planning on killing Amanda, or just divorcing her, Lord Cameron?”

“Whatever I did, Damien, she would deserve,” Eric said smoothly.

“I’m going to sail with you.”

“No, you are not.”

“You might—”

“Damien, for the love of God! Washington will not let
you go! Can’t you understand how serious a situation this has become?”

“If you hurt her, Cameron,” Damien swore, raising a tightly clenched fist, “revolution be damned! I will kill you, I swear it!” It looked as if there were tears in his eyes. Eric’s heart seemed to tighten with agony. He did not want to do battle with Damien. Again he damned Amanda with all of his heart.

“Damien—” he began.

But Damien was gone. Eric stood alone in the rough little room with Anne Marie.

“It’s all right. I’ll explain to him,” Anne Marie promised.

“It isn’t all right, and it never shall be,” Eric muttered. He swept up his hat, and bowed low to Anne Marie. “Take care.”

“Eric, go gently!” she cried.

But he did not reply. He felt as if he were a tempest of seething emotions, and he did not trust himself to speak.

On the morning of the twenty-fifth, Eric and his crew met one of Dunmore’s fleet, a small warship called the
Cynthia
. Because the Continental forces were desperate for ships, they took care not to sink her. They suffered damage to the
Good Earth’s
mainmast, but nothing major, and they managed to take the
Cynthia
with little effort. Her crew were sent to the brig, and a skeletal crew of colonials was left to sail her into a patriot port where she could be reoutfitted and sent into colonial service.

On the morning of the twenty-eighth they sailed the James. Through the glass Eric could see that fires burned at Cameron Hall. The
Lady Jane
was just leaving her berth.

Was his wife aboard her? Eric wondered.

He shouted orders to the gunners. The cannons were aimed and loaded by their gun crews, and he held his hand high. “Fire!” he commanded, bringing his hand down. It was his own damn ship he was bombarding!

And it might be his own wife he was about to kill! Would she be aboard? Aye, he thought bitterly, she would! The house was still standing, he could see it upon the far distant
lawn. The warehouses were ablaze. Nothing could be salvaged from them.

And the ship, his ship, the
Lady Jane
. She was coming about, ready to fire in turn.

“Gunners, we’ll take it again. They weren’t prepared for us—they were barely into the river. One more strike and we come along broadside. We’ll grapple her and board!”

Powder filled the air, and already visibility grew bad. He shouted his order to fire once again. The
Good Earth
vibrated and trembled, and the balls shuddered into the water, and into the wood and canvas and decking of the
Lady Jane
.

The water between them seemed to froth in shades of gray. They came closer and closer, the wheel ably handled by a West County captain. There was a massive shuddering as the ships came together.

Eric raised his sword, let out a battle cry, and leapt from the one deck to the other. Swinging from the rigging, leaping from the railing, his men followed suit.

They met the British at close combat, hand-to-hand fighting, swords and dirks drawn, their long rifles used perhaps once or twice. Fury guided Eric. It was his ship. By God, he would reclaim her!

He had just dispatched a young, talented Highlander when he saw Robert Tarryton across the ship, by the bow. Dodging and avoiding the others, he grinned with reckless abandon at this new opponent, his mortal enemy.

“Cameron, you bastard!” Tarryton charged him, parrying his first thrusts easily enough.

Their swords met high and clashed, and came low and clashed, and they were cast tightly together.

“She’s with me, you bastard!” Tarryton whispered heatedly. “You thought to make a fool of me and take her from me time and again, but she’s with me. I’ve got your ship, and I’ve got your wife, and I intend to make good use of both!”

Anger caused a shudder to wrack the whole of his body. Robert Tarryton made a lunge that nearly skewered him. Fool! Eric charged himself in silence, aware that the man meant to unnerve him in any way that he could. With
cunning, sweeping strokes of his sword, he began to move forward, quickly. Tarryton parried his thrusts, but Eric saw the fear that slipped into his features. He was the better swordsman, and he knew it.

And he was going to kill Tarryton.

“You’ve nothing, Tarryton, nothing at all,” he replied, and proved it with a quick slash that caught the man in the chin, humiliating, damning.

Tarryton backed quickly away and Eric discovered that he could follow at his leisure. Tarryton was now the one unnerved. He touched his chin and felt the blood.

Eric grabbed hold of the rigging and leapt upon the foreward rail for a new assault. And it was then that he saw Amanda.

She had come from the captain’s cabin, and she stood among a sea of men, exquisite in green, her hair caught by the sun, a burning cascade that rippled and fell down the length of her back. She seemed both alien and natural to the deck and the turmoil that abounded upon it, tall, proud, and beautiful, her head lifted to the wind, her eyes seeking those around her. His wife. The traitor.

She was there, undeniably, she was there. She has cast her fate with Tarryton at long last. He was probably taking her on to London, now that her usefulness at Cameron Hall had come to an end.

Never, my love, he vowed silently. Unless I am dead and buried in this sea, you will never be with Tarryton, I will see to that!

But just at that moment, Tarryton made another lunge toward him. Eric parried the blow swiftly and retaliated with fury and vengeance. His temper was under control now, cold and lethal. Tarryton seemed to realize that.

“Lay down your sword, Tarryton!” he demanded.

“God’s blood! Someone take this man!” Tarryton cried.

It was more than he should have expected, Eric thought dryly, for Lord Robert Tarryton, His Grace the Duke of Owenfield, to fight his own battle. At his call, five navy men sprang forward, their rapiers raised.

“I will kill you one day, Tarryton,” Eric vowed pleasantly.

But Tarryton had already turned away, and Eric couldn’t give him much attention, for his opponents were able. Frederick sprang forward, taking on one of the men. Eric dispatched one eager lad with a lightning thrust to the abdomen. The next he caught in the chest, and the last two disappeared into the fray.

He heard a loud splash, and he realized that Tarryton was lost to him now. The
Lady Jane
was coming under the control of the patriots, and Tarryton was not going to stay to assist his failing men.

“Highness!”

The cry was going up, Eric realized. The ship was being won, and the men were becoming aware of Amanda—and that she must be the notorious “Highness” who had betrayed Virginia again and again.

He had to reach her himself first. Frederick knew her identity, as did other friends. But not the others. And he meant for no other man to take her or touch her. She was his.

There was a sword in her hand! he realized with both fear and fury. Damned fool, would she fight them even unto death? Was she so reckless and so determined that she would kill men that she would risk her own life?

“By God, love, I will throttle you!” he vowed to himself.

She thrust her sword forward in warning, and turned to run. Eric gave chase, shouting to his men to secure the deck.

Would she throw herself into the sea? No, in panic she was running back to the captain’s cabin, so it seemed. Some engagement was taking place there, a Highlander gave battle to his one of his men, and was duly silenced, falling back into the cabin. “I shall take this!” Eric called to his men.

She was within that cabin.

He reached the cabin door and burst it open with a powerful slam of his boot.

And he saw her there, cradling the fallen Highlander in her arms. Her eyes rose to his, ever emerald. Defiant … maybe just a little fearful. His name left her lips on a
whisper, and then she staggered to her feet, dragging the Highlander’s heavy Brown Bess along with her.

“Highness,” he muttered in return, cleaning his sword to keep his hands steady, fitting it back into his scabbard. He didn’t know what he said to her then, something that meant nothing, something about the state of the war. And something about his fury to be here now, because his wife was a traitor.

She tried to interrupt him—he would not allow her to do so. He tried so desperately to keep control of his temper. He didn’t want to touch her. He would kill her … or he would rape her, there aboard the ship with all his men about.

“I am innocent of this!” she cried at last. The denial tore into his heart. By God, she had been there—with Tarryton.

Control, he thought! And he arched a brow politely. “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 was holding the Brown Bess on him. Her eyes were in tempest, her hair was a beautiful fall about her. She was his wife, and he had lain with her night upon night, and she was holding the lethal weapon on him. “Give it to me, Amanda!” he demanded furiously. “Amanda!”

“Get away from me, Eric!”

Fury filled him and threatened to burst. “Now, Amanda! I warn you that my temper is brittle indeed. I almost fear to touch you, lest I strangle the light from those glorious eyes. I’ll take the gun!”

“No! Let me by you. Let me go. I swear that I am innocent—”

“Let ‘Highness’ go? Why, milady! They would hang me for the very act.” Now! He had to take the weapon from her now! Fiercely he strode to her. She moved away as he lunged.

“No! I’ll shoot you, Eric, I swear it—”

“And I do believe you, milady!” he retorted bitterly. Aye, she would shoot him! And be free …

“Shoot me, then, if you dare, milady!” he challenged her. “But take heed, madame, that your weapon be loaded.”

“Aye, ’tis loaded, Eric!” Was she trying to warn him? God! He wanted to believe in the tears that stung her eyes, in the warnings she tried to issue. He could not!

He caught the gun by the barrel and sent it flying across the room. The damned thing exploded. He spun around, staring at her coldly. “It
was
loaded, milady. And aimed upon
my heart!”
She would have killed him. His own wife, she would have killed him. “And now, Highness …”

“Wait!”

“Wait for what, milady? Salvation? You shall not find any.”

She stared at him a long moment, her green eyes still liquid, as if she would shed tears. Lying tears. And still, she was so beautiful, her breasts heaving, the pulse ticking at her throat. Her face so very fine that he longed to feel the lines beneath the stroke of his fingers.…

Suddenly, like a doe, she leapt into action, trying to sweep past him. He took a step and seized her, catching her hair. She screamed out in pain and he swirled her back into his arms. She pummeled, kicked and fought wildly, and he felt the warmth of her against him, felt the rise of her breasts, the span of her hips, and so help him, all that he could remember for a fleeting moment was the laughter they had shared. Laughter, and sweet tender moments by the slow-moving river.

She nearly caught his chin with her flailing fists. He caught her wrists savagely and wound them back together at the small of her back. She tossed back her head to meet his eyes. “So beautiful,” he told her. “So treacherous. But it is over now. Surrender, milady.”

She smiled suddenly, and it was a smile that caught his heart, slow and nearly tender, and oh so wistful. She brought back all the years that gone between them, all the tempest, and all the precious moments of peace. “No surrender,
my lord,” she said softly. “No retreat, and no surrender.”

It was then that they were interrupted by one of the young Carolina lieutenants. The man came to a halt behind Eric and excitedly spouted, “We’ve found her! Highness! She gave the ship and the intelligence to the British.”

His eyes remained locked with hers. “Aye, we’ve found her.” Fury gripped him. He no longer dared touch her. With an oath he cast her from him. She nearly fell against the back paneling and steadied herself there, ever tall and ever proud, and so damned dignified and beautiful despite it all!