Love Not a Rebel (5 page)

“Let him finish his whiskey, daughter!” Sir Thomas commanded.

“I shall do so quickly,” he promised Anne Marie. He swallowed down the amber liquid, smiling as she pouted.

Suddenly his smile faded as his gaze was caught by a flash of color beyond the open door. A strange sense of the French déjà-vu seemed to seize him as he caught first an impression, nothing more. Then the dancers in the hall swept by again. As a gentleman shifted to the left, he saw the girl who had so thoroughly caught his attention. Her gown was blue, deep, striking blue, with a full sweeping skirt and a daring décolletage trimmed with red ribbons and creamy lace. Against that blue, tendrils of her hair streamed down in a rich and elegant display of sable ringlets. They curved about her naked shoulders and over the
rise of her breasts, enhancing her every breath and movement. Her hair was so very dark … and then, with a shift of light, it wasn’t dark at all, but red as only the deepest sunset could be red.

His gaze traveled at last from her breast to her face, and his breath caught and held. Her eyes were the most startling, purest emerald he had ever seen, fringed by dark lashes. Her features were stunning, perfectly molded, lean and delicate, with a long aquiline and entirely patrician nose, high-set cheekbones, slim, arched brows. All that hinted of something less than absolute perfection was the wideness of her mouth, not that her lips were not rose, were not formed and defined beautifully, but they held something that cold marble perfection could not, for the lower lip was very full, the top curved, and the whole of it so sensual that even within the innocent smile she offered her partner, there could be found a wealth of sensuality. She wore a tiny black velvet beauty patch at the side of her cheek, very near her ear, and that, too, seemed to enhance her perfection, for her ears were small and prettily shaped.

There was something familiar about her. Had he seen her before? He would have remembered a meeting with her. From this moment onward he would never forget her. He had not moved since he had seen her, had not spoken, yet he had never felt more startlingly alive. He had lived a reckless life, mindful of his inheritance, but fiercely aware of his independence, and women—virtuous and not so virtuous—had always played a part within it.

He had never known anyone to affect him so. To render him so mesmerized, and so very hot and tense and … hungry, all at once.

“Eric? Are you with us?” Anne Marie said, annoyed.

Thomas Mabry laughed. “I believe he’s just seen a friend, my dear.”

“A friend?” Eric managed to query Thomas politely.

“Lady Amanda Sterling. A Virginian, such as yourself, Eric.
Ah
, but she has spent most of the past years at a school for young ladies in London. And perhaps you have
been at sea on those ships of yours when the young lady has been in residence.”

“Ah, yes, perhaps,” Eric replied to his host. So the woman was Lady Amanda Sterling. They had met, but it had been years before. Still, it was an occasion that neither of them should have forgotten. There had been a hunt. She had been a mere child of eight upon a pony and he had been longing for the very mature and beautiful upstairs maid at their host’s manor. Young Lady Amanda had jostled her pony ahead of his and the result had been disaster with both of them being thrown from their mounts. And when he had chastised her, she had bitten him. He hadn’t given a fig about Lord Sterling and had paddled her there and then. She had raged like a little demon, the child had.

The child had grown.

“Eric, may we dance?” Anne Marie prodded sweetly. “I promise an introduction. Father, do remind me from now on not to have parties when Mandy is our guest, will you?”

Thomas laughed. Eric joined in, and Anne Marie grinned prettily. Eric gathered his wits about him and reached politely for her arm. “Anne Marie, I am honored.”

He led her out to the floor, and they began to dance. Anne Marie gave him a lazy smile as he swept her expertly about the floor, seeking out the woman who had seized his attention. He saw her again. Saw her laugh for her partner, saw the devil’s own sizzle in her eyes. He thought that he recognized something of himself within that look. She would not be governed by convention, she would demand her own way, and fight for it fiercely.

The sound of her laughter came to him again and he felt a reckless fever stir within him. Come hell itself, and time be damned, he would have to have that woman.

Who was the man who caused her laughter, he wondered.

Anne Marie, watching him indulgently, answered the question that he did not ask. “That’s Damien Roswell—her cousin,” she said sweetly.

“Cousin?” He smiled. His hand tightened upon hers.

Anne Marie nodded sagely. “But—and this is a grave ‘but,’ I must warn you!—the lady is in love.”

“Oh?”

Love so often meant nothing. Girls of Amanda Sterling’s tender young age were in and out of love daily. Their fathers seldom let the affairs go past fluttering hearts and dreams.

Yet her eyes were wild, deep with laughter and secrets and passion. He smiled, thinking she was one lass who should probably be wed and quickly—to an appropriate person, of course.

“And he loves her,” Anne Marie warned.

“Who is ‘he’?”

“Why, Lord Tarryton. Robert Tarryton. ‘Tis said that he has adored her for years, as she has adored him. She will become eighteen in March, and it is believed that he will ask Lord Sterling for her hand then. It is a perfect match. They are all loyal Tories, landed and wealthy. You’re frowning, Eric,” Anne Marie warned him.

“Am I?” Tarryton. He knew the man, if vaguely. The old Lord Tarryton had been a good Indian fighter, but Eric didn’t think that this young Tarryton could hold a candle to his lamented father. Their properties were not so far apart that they had not met upon occasion, nor did the social organization of Virginia allow for much secrecy in private life.

There were rumors in very high places that Lord Tarryton was seeking a union with the widowed Duchess of Owenfield. As the lady was young and childless, dispensations could be made to give the title to Lord Tarryton.

“Aye, you’re frowning! And you’re very fierce when you do so. You take my breath away, you cause me quite to shiver and make me wonder what woman would dare to wish that you might court her!”

He grinned at Anne Marie’s sweet dramatics and thought that they would always be the very best of friends. He started to assure her that she would dare anything she chose when he found himself staring over her shoulder instead.

Amanda Sterling had ceased to dance. Her young escort
was whispering earnestly to her near the door. She kissed his cheek, then watched as he retrieved his cloak and hat and discreetly disappeared into the night.

She stood still a minute. Then she, too, hurried toward the door, procuring a huge black hooded cape from the halltree, and then rushed out into the night.

“What the—”

“What’s the matter?”

“Why, she’s just departed.”

“Amanda!” Anne Marie cried in distress. “Oh, how could she! If Lord Sterling returns …”

Eric glanced at her sharply. She was very pale, not acting at all. “He is about on business this night. Perhaps he will not come back—he sometimes stays gone.” She paused, her eyes wide. Eric realized that Anne Marie was trying to tell him that Lord Sterling frequented the area brothels and left his daughter in Sir Thomas’s care.

“If he comes back?”

“It is just that he is so …”

“I know Sterling,” Eric said, waiting for more.

“I’m just always afraid that he shall—hurt her.”

“Has he ever?”

“Not that I know of. But the way he looks at her sometimes … his own daughter. I do not envy her, no matter what her wealth or title. I pray that Robert marries her soon!”

Eric kissed her cheek. “I’m going out. I’ll find her,” he assured Anne Marie. She still gazed at him anxiously. “Wait up for me,” he advised her softly. “I’ll come back, I promise.”

He offered her an encouraging smile and swept by her. He, too, went to the door after retrieving his cloak and his hat. He turned to Anne Marie and waved, and exited the house.

As soon as he was on the streets, he could almost feel the tension on the air and beneath his feet. This night, Boston was alive. He wondered just what was going on.

He called to the Mabry groom, and his horse was quickly brought to him. “Do you know anything about what is going on?”

Dark eyes rolled his way. “They say it’s a tea party. A tempest in tea, Lord Cameron. Dark days is a-comin’, milord! You mark my words, dark days is a-comin’!”

“Perhaps,” Eric agreed. He nudged his mount forward. It was true, something was afoot tonight. He could hear men walking, men calling out.

Damien Roswell had gone into the night. And Lady Amanda Sterling had followed. Just what route might she have taken in these dangerous times? He nudged his mount on, determined to find her.

Frederick Bartholomew shivered as he hurried along the street. The night was cold, and a mist fringed the harbor, floating about the city lanterns, making the ships that sat in the harbor and at dock look ghostly.

It had been a quiet night … but now it was about to explode.

Frederick could see the great masts of the proud sailing ships that ventured forth from England to her colonies rise high against the night sky, seeming to disappear into the darkness and the clouds. The cold winter’s water lapped softly against the sides of the ships. A breeze stirred, lifting the mist of winter, swirling about cold and certain, and still so quiet.

Then the peace of the night was broken. A shout rang out.

“Boston Harbor’s a teapot tonight!” a fellow shouted.

Then their footsteps began to thunder. Dozens of footsteps, and the night came alive.

We must be a curious sight, he thought. There were fifty or so of them, streaming out of the mist and out of the darkness and through the cold of winter, toward the harbor ships. At first glance they would appear to be Indians, for they were half naked, bronzed, darkly bewigged, and painted, as if in warpaint.

They were at war, in a way, but they were not Indians, and it was not death they sought to bring to the ships, unless it was the death of tyranny.

They rowed out to the three British ships riding in the harbor and streamed upon them.

Frederick stood in the background then.

The head “Indians” were polite as they demanded the keys to the tea chests from the captains.

“All right, men!” came the command.

Frederick still remained in the distance, watching as his friends apologized when they knocked out the guards. Then he joined in; they all set to their tasks, dumping the contents of 340 chests of tea into the sea. Fires burned high against the darkness and the mist. The men went about their task with efficiency, unmolested, for it was unexpected by the British and condoned by the multitude of the citizens of Boston.

Frederick Bartholomew, printer by trade, quietly watched the tea fall into the sea. Beside him, one of his friends, Jeremy Duggin, chortled. “A fine brew we’re making, strong and potent!”

“And sure to bring about reprisals,” Frederick reminded him.

Jeremy was silent for a moment. “We’d no choice, man. We’d no choice at all. Not if we intended to keep the British out of our pockets.”

“Lads! Hurry now. Swab down the decks, see that all is left shipshape! We’ve not come to cause real injury to the captains or the men—the tea has been our business, and that is all. Now hurry!”

The older men in the crowd had planned the action. The younger ones had carried it out with glee. Many of the boys were college students from Harvard. For some it was a prank, a lark.

Others saw what the future might bring, but all carried out the work, and to a man, they cleaned the ships when they were done.

The keys were politely returned to the captains.

“Away!” someone called. “Our deed is done. Let’s flee! The troops will be out soon enough.”

“Come then, Jeremy!” Frederick called. They were both oiled and slick, wearing buckskin breeches and vests. Frederick was starting to shiver violently. Out on the water, it was viciously cold.

“Aye, and hurry, man!” Jeremy said.

They climbed down to the small boats that would bring them to the dock. “A teapot she is! The harbor is a teapot tonight! She steams, she brews! And what comes, soon, all men will soon see.”

It was one of their leaders shouting then, passionately, heartfully.

The British fighting force was estimated to be one of the finest in the world. If it came to war … Frederick thought.

If they were caught …

There were so many of them. The entire port of Boston had been with them, except for the British troops and the minority of loyalists.

The Indians reached dry land again. They were making little secret of their actions, marching to the grand old elm, the Liberty Tree. They would not hang for their deeds this night. The governor could not see that they all hanged! If the king had thought that Boston rebelled before, let him see the people after a heinous act like that!

“Back home, me lads! And a deed well done!” one of the leaders called.

Frederick tensed, for he was not done with his night’s work. As the others began to drift away, returning to their homes or heading for their chosen taverns, Frederick stood waiting by the tree.

Two men soon appeared before him, one another printer, a man named Paul Revere, and one the wealthy and admired John Hancock. Hancock was a cousin of the well-known patriot Samuel Adams, but it was the seizure of his ship
Liberty
by the British that had turned him so intensely toward the cause of the patriots. He was a handsome man, richly dressed in gold brocade and matching breeches. “Have you come by the arms, Frederick?” Hancock asked him.

Frederick nodded.

“We still hope it’ll not come to conflict, but the Sons of Liberty must now begin to take precautions,” Revere warned him. Frederick himself had become involved because of Paul Revere. He had begun as an apprentice in
the older man’s employ. Now they were both kept busy printing pamphlets and flyers for the cause of freedom.