Love Not a Rebel (54 page)

Now he was too proud to go back. “Damn her!” he whispered. And then he sobered. She thought that he had been cold. That he hadn’t wanted her, that he had, perhaps, been having an affair with Anne Marie.

She didn’t understand. There were many men who still did not trust her. Rumor from Virginia had reached the whole of the army, and Nigel Sterling’s daughter was still known as a Tory—whether she had truly changed her coat or not.

And that he did not know if he could believe himself.

He grated his teeth hard and swore out loud, his breath creating a mist upon the night. He wasn’t going back. Not until she asked him.

Or not until his slender hold upon sanity did break, and he swept her heedlessly into his arms.

A week later Amanda was working in the huge sickbay, bringing water to the countless men down with smallpox. It was terrifying just to see the men stretched out before her—there were so many men ill, thousands of them.

She wiped her brow, offered a Connecticut rifleman an encouraging smile, and moved on to the next bed. Hands suddenly slipped about her waist and a whisper touched her ear. “Well, cousin, he is not sleeping with the illustrious Anne Marie. Her father came home from his foraging expedition the same night that you arrived, and I know Sir
Thomas Mabry very well. Nothing illicit is taking place in that hut!”

Amanda swung around in dismay. “Damien, I did not ask you—”

“Oh? You’re not curious as to where your husband is sleeping?”

“No, I’m not!” Amanda lied.

Damien made a
tsking
noise at her. She sighed impatiently, noted that one of her patients was burning up, and hurried back to the barrel to moisten a towel for his forehead. “Damien, I’m busy here.”

Damien leaned against a support pole. “Well, the last three days he has been out foraging. And I think that I know where he was before then.”

“Oh?”

“But then, you’re not interested.”

She kicked him as hard as she could in the shin. “Damien—”

“With Von Steuben. Von Steuben is brilliant—I think that he might whip us into a viable fighting force after all. Well, if enough of us live. But Eric knows Indians—and the Brits have half the Mohawk tribes on our tails. So they’ve much to talk about, you see.”

“I see,” she said, then she paused, because she knew where her husband was at that moment—standing just inside the doorway, watching her with Damien.

“Ah, Major General Lord Cameron!” Damien said quickly. He saluted sharply and disappeared through the sickbay. Amanda watched him, winding his way through the endless makeshift cots and the various women and doctors who moved about the room. Then she felt a rough hand upon her arm. She swung around once more to find that Eric had come to her, his expression was grim.

“What are you doing in here?”

“Why, I’m trying to help—” she began.

“These men have smallpox!” he reminded her.

She smiled. “I had it. Damien and I both had it as children, and they say that if you survive—” She paused. “What are you doing in here?”

“Trying to get you out.”

A man groaned on his pallet. “Lord Cameron! Eh, sir, we’re about ready to ride again, eh?”

The man was feverish; his eyes were bleary, but they had touched upon Eric with something like adoration. And Eric patted the man’s shoulder, heedless of disease, and assured him with a smile. “No, Roger, we’re not ready to ride. Not until spring. But Von Steuben is waiting for you, have no fear. He’ll drill you to the ground once you’re up and about. I promise you, lad.”

The sick man laughed. His eyes rolled, then fell shut. “My God, I think he’s died!” Amanda said miserably.

Eric felt the man’s heart, then touched his forehead. “No, he’s just breathing easy again. Von Steuben may get his hands on the boy yet.”

He straightened, staring at Amanda. She wanted to say something to him, anything to bring him back. But words would not come. She couldn’t apologize—he owed her the apologies, and he would never see it, and never admit it.

And he was standing in the smallpox ward!

“Get out of here, Eric!”

“Come with me. I want to talk to you.”

She sighed and looked around. There were many women in the room. Wives, sisters, daughters—and lovers and whores. The officers’ ladies, the poor privates’ women, some in velvet and lace, and some in homespun. Tears suddenly stung her eyes, and she realized that in a way, that was what it was all about. The colonies had joined, and the people had joined. If the war was won, it would be a new land indeed, with a new society and new look at life. Here a man could aspire to greatness no matter his birth. A blacksmith could fight alongside the landed gentry. The country would belong to all of them, the wives, the sisters, the daughters, the lovers and the whores.

“Amanda?”

“I’m coming.” She untied her apron and hurried out of the sickbay with Eric. The weather had not improved. The wind came scurrying furiously about her and she shivered. Eric quickly swept his greatcoat about her and headed her toward the open stables. She felt his arm about her, her heart quickening as she walked.

He drew her into the stable. Not far from them a smithy’s fire burned and hammering could be heard as a harness was repaired. Amanda leaned against the rough wooden wall, watching Eric, waiting.

“What?” she demanded.

He smiled. “Do you know where Howe’s men are spending their winter?”

She stiffened. “In Philadelphia.”

“Mmm. Twenty-eight miles from here. Some of our men were discovered foraging and taken prisoner. God knows, maybe they’ll fare better with the Brits than they do here, but most men still count the cost of freedom high.”

“Why are you telling me this!” she exclaimed.

“Because someone is getting information through to the British.”

She gasped, astounded. She’d barely been away from the place, except to ride out with Damien one afternoon. Her voice was low and trembling with fury when she spoke. “I do not believe that you would dare to accuse me again!”

“Amanda—”

She shoved at his chest as hard as she could, feeling tears well behind her eyes. “Don’t! Don’t speak to me, don’t come near me, don’t you throw your foul accusation at me anymore! Damn you!”

She ran away from him, ignoring his voice as he shouted to her to come back. She didn’t care who saw them, she didn’t care who heard. She was certain that most of the camp knew that he spent his nights away from his wife anyway.

Gasping, she tore back to their hut. Jacques was within, sitting on a bench, cleaning muskets. He looked up sharply when she entered.

“What is it, milady?”

She shook her head. The tears spilled onto her cheeks anyway. “Oh, Jacques! How can he be so blind! I have done everything that I can and still …”

She rushed to the bench, glad of the arm he set about her to comfort her. He had been with her so long. Always so quiet, and always there. No matter what the tempest of
her life, she felt that she had a defender. He whispered gentle words in French to her, soothing words. Suddenly the door burst open. Eric had followed her home.

And there she was, in Jacques’s arms. She wondered if he wouldn’t fly into a rage at that and accuse her of more awful things.

But to her amazement, he was absolutely silent. Jacques didn’t even pretend to move away from her—he stared at Eric over her head.

And Eric didn’t say a word. He closed the door and left.

That night she lay awake in bed, cold despite her flannel gown and the rough blanket and the fire. Her teeth chattered miserably. Suddenly she heard a commotion in the outer room, the door bursting open, voices rising, then falling.

Then there was silence.

And then the door to the bedroom seemed to shatter open upon its hinges. Eric stood in the doorway in his high boots and heavy cloak and plumed hat. She sat up instantly, afraid and wary. He was drunk! she thought. But he was not. “Tell me that you are innocent,” he said, his voice low and husky.

“I am innocent,” she replied, her eyes wide and challenging and level upon his.

He smiled and strode firmly into the room. She leapt from the bed, backing away to the fire. “Eric! Damn you! Don’t you think that you can come swaggering in here—”

“I do not swagger, my love. I stride.”

“Well, you cannot stride—”

“Ah, my love, but I can!”

And he could. He was before her, catching her wrist, spinning her into his arms. She protested, crying out, swearing as the best of the soldiers might, and pummeling his chest. He laughed, ignoring her efforts, and swept her up into his arms. Her fight, however, off-balanced him, and they crashed heavily down upon the bed together. “Eric Cameron—”

“Shush up and pay attention, Amanda.” She had no choice. His sinewed thigh was cast heavily over her hips
and his hands were taut upon her wrists. His words touched her lips, warm, soft, beguiling. The tone of his voice was deep and quiet and richly masculine, reaching deep inside of her. “I believe you. I believe that you are innocent. Now, listen to me, love, and listen this once, for I shall not make a habit of explaining. I am innocent, too, of all charges. I admit, there were times when I would have bedded another woman if I could have for the sheer loneliness of this life. Yet I could not, you see. There is no other woman with a cascade of rich silken hair the color of fire, and no other woman anywhere to charm the soul with the steady gaze of emerald eyes, the velvet caress of her voice. I have never faltered once, Amanda. From the night that I first saw you, I wanted you and no other. It shall never change. No matter what I have believed, I have wanted you. And I have loved you. Now, lady, if you would, cast me out again. Into the snow.”

A slow, sensual smile curved lazily into her lips. “If I cast you out, will you go?”

“No.”

She sighed extravagantly. “I did not think so.”

“So?”

“Let go of my wrists.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot touch you this way.”

His hold upon her eased. Her fingers trembled as she rubbed her knuckles against his cheek, then arched high against him, winding her arms about him as she found his lips with her own. She hungered for his kiss, playing with his tongue, bringing it deeper and deeper into her mouth, as if she drew upon other sexual parts of his body, intimating all that she would do. A dry, hoarse sound tore from him, and he returned the kiss aggressively, his lips caressing and consuming hers, his tongue demanding hers hotly within his mouth, his hands feverishly upon her face and within her hair. Then he tore away from her, casting aside his cape and his boots. He all but tore his frock coat away, and stumbled from his breeches to descend heavily upon her again, his hands feverish as they immediately set upon her calves and then her naked thighs, shoving the gown up
high on her. She laughed, delighted at his eagerness, but when his lips touched hers again, she was determined to arouse him even as he stirred the most frantic and glorious yearnings within her. She stroked the magnificent muscled breadth of his back, and she brought her hands low against his ribs, and over the tightness of his buttocks. She teased his abdomen with the stroke of her fingers, and then she closed her fingers around his shaft, trembling with sweet pleasure at his cry and mammoth shudder at her evocative touch. She stroked and teased, gently caressed, and brought about a rougher rhythm, and then caressed with the greatest tenderness again. But then she found her fingers entwined with his and the length of his body was thrust between her thighs. His mouth formed over her breast, and all of the heat and hardness was thrust within her, and ecstasy seemed to flourish and grow and to boundless heights.

Snow fell outside; the wind was bitter, and its cry was harsh upon the winter’s night. But none of it mattered to her that night. He rose high above her, his face contorted with his passion, his eyes a deep blazing blue upon hers. She did not allow her lashes to flutter, but as the sensations swept through her with chaotic abandon, she moistened her lips and dared to whisper to him again.

“I love you, Eric. I love you.”

He fell against her, cradling her head, his fingers and palms upon her hair, her cheeks. His lips found hers and whispered above them, “Say it again.”

“I love you.” Tears stung her eyes. “I love you, I swear it, with all of my heart, I love you.”

He groaned, and he whispered again that he loved her. And when everything exploded between them, he whispered it again, and then he held her in his arms and they both watched the fire, and she told him that she had loved him for a very long time—even when she had hated him—and he laughed, and they made love again, and she didn’t think that anything, ever, had been as good.

It was very late when she finally slept.

Somewhere, in the middle of the night, she awoke. Puzzled, she wondered why. The fire still burned. Their door
lay slightly ajar, and the outer room appeared to be empty, despite the shadows. Some noise had disturbed her, she thought. She didn’t move. They slept naked and entwined. Her husband’s broad shoulders were slightly bared, and she drew the blanket more tightly about him. Then she slept again.

Later, much, much later, she awoke. She had been dreaming, she realized, and she had been soundly asleep. It was late, for the sun was out and almost brightly so, especially for winter. She had slept the morning away, she thought, and she had awakened now only because someone was frantically calling her name.

“Amanda! Amanda, for the love of God, wake up!”

Her eyes focused at last. It was Geneva, her beautiful eyes wide and frightened, her hair tumbling down about her shoulders. “Amanda, come on, wake up. You must come with me right away. Eric has been hurt.”

“What!”

Stunned, stricken, Amanda sat up. The covers began to fall and she caught them to hide her nakedness.

“Eric has been hurt. He went out with a foraging party and he was hit by mistake. I think that his leg is broken. Damien is arranging for a conveyance to bring him back. But he wants you. Now. Oh, Amanda, come on!”

“Oh, dear God!” Terrified, Amanda sprang from the bed and hurriedly searched for her clothing. Her trembling caused her trouble as she tried to pull on her hose, but at last she managed. She forced herself to be calm enough to dress. She ignored her hair, letting it fall down her back in tangles.