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.”
“Amanda!” He moved toward her.
“Get away from me, Eric!” she warned him.
He shook his head, and in his eyes she saw the depth of his anger. She wanted to throw down the gun, to back away. All was lost this day.
“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!” Her voice was barely a whisper. “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!”
His words were light; they were followed by a long determined stride in her direction. She backed away as he lunged for her with the finesse of the fencer. “No!” she cried. “I’ll shoot you, Eric, I swear it—”
“And I do believe you, milady!” he countered, approaching her nonetheless, a mocking light of challenge in his eyes. “Shoot me, then, if you dare, milady! But take heed that your weapon be loaded!” He moved like lightning, catching the gun by the barrel, sending it flying across the room. The firing mechanism snapped; the gun went off, sending the bullet into the wall.
He stared at her, hard. And then he smiled slowly, bitterly. “It was loaded, milady. And aimed upon my heart.”
She had never seen his eyes colder. Never seen his lip curl with such disdain.
She faced him, thinking frantically. She needed to turn, to run. There had to be somewhere else to go. If she could reach the door, she could escape the ship. No other man would seek to stop her. She could cast herself into the Chesapeake Bay. Eventually she could reach the shore. Dunmore’s ships were lost to her, Robert had kidnapped her just to desert her to her fate, but if she could swim to the shore, she could eventually make it north and find General Howe’s troops. If she could just escape Eric this night! He would offer her no mercy, not this time. She knew that as she saw the cold and wary eyes.
br />
“And now, Highness …”
“Wait!” Amanda swallowed hard. She feared that she would faint as a rush of memory swept over her, leaving her hot and trembling. She knew so much about him. She knew the searing hellfire of his passion, and she knew the ice of his fury. Just as she knew the gentle sweep of his fingers … and the relentless power of his will and determination. He could step forward now and break her neck and be done with it, and by silver-blue rapier blades of his eyes that struck upon her now, it seemed that that was what he longed to do.
God! Deliver me from this man I love! she prayed in silence.
“Wait for what, milady? Salvation? You shall not find any!”
She stared at the gun, broken upon the floor. He had seized it with such power that the heavy stock had shattered. She glanced at him one more moment, then she burst into motion, determined to run, to risk any factor, just to escape him.
She was not quick enough. His arm grabbed her, his fingers winding into her hair. She screamed with the pain of it and panicked as she was brought swirling back into his arms. She fought his hold, squeezing her arms between them, pummeling his chest. Tears of desperation stung her eyes. She tried to kick him and quickly earned his wrath. He caught her wrists and wrenched them hard behind her back, and through it all she felt the simmering liquid heat of his body, bold and vibrant and recalling echoes of the past. She cried out as he pulled upon her wrists, and went still at last, pressed against him, tossing back her head to meet his eyes.
With one hand he held her wrists at the small of her back while he placed his left palm against her cheek and slowly stroked it. “So beautiful. So treacherous. But it is over now. Surrender, milady.”
She met his gaze. Something of all that had lain between them touched her heart and seemed to skyrocket. Just the touch of his strength against her seemed explosive. Once love had flamed so fiercely and so strong! But their battles had been as passionate, and now she did not know what tempest ruled the blood that flowed within them and the air that churned about them. Her eyes burned with tears, but she could not give in now. Be it love, be it hate, what burned between them demanded that she not falter now. She shook her head and dared to offer him a rueful, wistful smile. “No surrender, my lord. No retreat, and no surrender.”
Footsteps echoed upon a stairway and a second man came to a halt behind him. He was young, barely beginning to grow whiskers, and his eyes widened at the sight of her. “We’ve found her! Highness! She gave the ship and the intelligence to the British.”
“Aye, we’ve found her,” Eric said softly, and still his eyes bored into hers, with what thoughts she could not fathom. She did not look away, even with the young officer watching them. Then Eric muttered an oath and cast her from him. She nearly fell, but caught herself, and stood tall, backed against the paneling. She braced herself with her hands, and thought, How peculiar. The sea was so very calm she could scarcely feel the ship rock, and the room was alive with storms.
The young man suddenly let out a soft whistle as he watched her. “No wonder she played our men so false so easily!” he murmured.
Eric Cameron felt everything inside of him tighten like a vise at the man’s words. She was still beautiful. More beautiful than ever. She was flush against the wall, cornered, yet still defiant. She was a perfect picture of femininity, of grace. So delicate and glorious as she stood, her breasts rising from her bodice with each breath, her flesh pale, as perfect as marble. She wore green silk with an overskirt and bodice of golden brocade. Her throat and shoulders were bare, and her hair was worn in soft ringlets that curled just over her shoulders. She was as cool and smooth as alabaster as she returned his stare, her eyes as green as the gown, her hair a startling and beautiful contrast with the shades of the silk and brocade. It was deep, deep red, sometimes sable, sometimes the color of the sunset, depending on the light.
He wanted to wrench her hair from the pins, he wanted to see it tumble down. He did not want to see her so silent, so beautiful, so still, so regal. Damn her. Her eyes defying him, even now.
“Aye,” he said quietly. “It was easy for her to play men falsely.”
“I wonder if they will hang her,” the soldier said. “Would we hang a woman, General?”
Amanda felt a chill of fear sweep over her, and she swallowed hard to keep tears from rising to her eyes. She could see it. She would hear the drums beat. Hanging. It was a just punishment for treason. They would lead her along. They would set the rope around her neck, and she would feel the bristle of the hemp against her flesh.
Dunmore had sworn that he would have Eric hanged, were he ever to get his hands upon him. But Eric had never cared. Amanda wondered what fever it was that could fill a man with such haunting loyalty to a desperate cause. It was a passion that made him turn his back on his estates in England, risk his wealth and title and prestige and even his life. He had everything, and he was willing to cast it aside for this rebel cause of his.
She had risked her life upon occasion for her cause. Indeed, her very life might well stand on the line now.
The young officer stared at her still. He sighed softly again. “Milord, surely you cannot have her hanged!”
“Nay, I cannot,” Eric agreed ironically, the silver and steel of his eyes upon her, “for she is, you see, my wife.”
The man gasped. Eric turned to him impatiently. “Tell Daniel to set a course for Cameron Hall. Have someone come for this lieutenant. The Brits must be buried at sea; our own will find rest at home.” He turned back to Amanda. “My love, I shall see you later.” He bowed deeply to her, and then he was gone, the young officer on his heels. Two men quickly appeared, nodding her way in silence, and carefully picked up the body of the slain Highland lieutenant.
Then the door closed. Sharply.
He was gone. Eric was gone. The tempest had left the room, and still she was trembling, still she was in fear, and still she didn’t know whether to thank God or to damn him. They had been apart so long, and now the war had come to them, and the battle was raging in her very soul.
Amanda cast herself upon the captain’s bunk, her heart racing. Through the sloop’s handsome draperies and the fine paned windows she could see the distant shore, the land they approached.
Cameron Hall. Rising white and beautiful upon the hill, the elegant manor house itself seemed to reproach her. It looked so very peaceful! The British had set their fires, but Robert had spoken the truth about the blazes. Obviously those fires had been put out with very little difficulty.
No dark billow of smoke marred the house or the outbuildings. Only the warehouses on the dock seemed to have burned with a vengeance. They were not so important. It was the house that mattered, she thought. She loved the house, more than Eric himself did, perhaps. It had been her haven in need. And in the turbulent months that had passed, she had strode the portrait gallery, and she had imagined the lives of those women who had come before her. She had seen to the polishing of their silver, she had taken tender care of the bedding and furnishings they had left behind.
A chill swept through her suddenly.
He wasn’t going to hang her. What was he going to do with her? Could she vow that she would not leave the house, that she would take no more part in the war? She could never, never have set fire to the house. But he would never believe that now.
She closed her eyes and heard the orders to dock. She imagined the men, pulling in the Lady Jane’s sails, furling them tightly as the ship found her deep-water berth. She heard the fall of the plank, and the call of victory as men walked ashore.
The patriots had needed that victory! The British were heading toward New York, and Washington hadn’t enough troops to meet them properly. The colonials were up against one of the finest fighting forces in the world.
Oh, couldn’t he see! she thought in anguish. The British would win in the end, and they would hang Eric! They would hang him and George Washington and Patrick Henry and the Adamses and Hancock and all those foolish,
foolish men!
The door opened again. Amanda sprang up. Her heart seemed to sink low in her chest. Frederick had come for her, the printer from Boston. Eric had saved his life once, and she knew Frederick would gladly die for him now.
“Where is Eric?” she demanded.
“Your husband will be with you soon enough, milady,” Frederick said. “He has asked me to escort you to the house.”
“Escort me?”
“Milady, none of us would seek to harm you.” He was quiet for a moment. “Even if you are a spy.”
“Frederick, please, I—”
His anguished eyes fell upon hers. “Oh, milady! Cameron Hall! How could you have betrayed his very home?”
“I did not, Frederick,” she said wearily.
“Then—”
“I have no defense,” she told him.
“Milady, I will take your word.”
“Thank you.” She did not tell him that her husband would not do so. She lowered her eyes quickly, feeling that tears sprang to them. If he had condemned her, if he had spoken with fury or wrath, it would have been easier.
“Come now,” he said.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked him.
“Nowhere but to your own home, milady.”
Amanda nodded to Frederick and swept through the cabin’s narrow doorway. She climbed the ladder to the deck. As she came topside to the early-evening air, the chatter of the men died down, and one and all, they stared at her. They paused in their motions of cleaning the Lady Jane’s guns or in tying her sails. They were not navy but a ragtag outfit of militia men. She knew the men from the western counties by their buckskin fringed jackets, and she knew some of the old soldiers by the blue coats they wore, leftovers of the French and Indian Wars. Still others were clad differently, and she knew that they were the uniforms of the counties they had come from. Some were friends, and others were strangers.