Love Not a Rebel

  “You’ll not turn me in now, will you?” Frederick whispered. Lord Cameron looked his way, and the printer realized that the man was not ten years his senior, he was hardly thirty, if he was that.

  “I’d hardly bring you here, act out such outrageous performances, and lie to a soldier to turn you in,” he said.

  “What of—what of the lady who saved my arm?”

  He shook his head slowly, his eyes clouding over. “No. You have nothing to fear from the lady. Not for this night’s work.”

  “She is so kind—”

  “She is not so kind, my friend. But though she refuses to face it, she has a stake in all that has occurred. You will be safe from all that she knows.”

  Frederick nodded, then spoke to him in blunt amazement. “You’re a lord, sir. You’ve a great deal at stake here.”

  “I have promised you that I will not turn you in. And my word is seldom doubted, sir!”

  “Oh, bless you, milord! Again and again!” Elizabeth cried passionately, and she fell to her knees.

  Eric smiled, touched her hair, and looked at Frederick. “You’ve far more at stake than I have, lad. You have this lovely woman, and you have her love, and you have your son. What you possess now is precious. You must take care with your decisions in the future.”

  “My son is the future, sir, and it is for him that I make my decisions. I am not a lord, I have no memory of a motherland, nor did my father, or his father.”

  Eric laughed, rising. “Dear sir! I’ll have you know that my ancestors settled the Hundred when Jamestown was still in its infancy.” He was silent for a moment. “Our blood has been shed for this land, my father and my father’s father and his before him, all lie cradled in Virginia earth.” He shrugged, and Frederick saw more than the strength and severity of the man, he saw his humor and his youth and all that was charismatic and powerful in his lazy smile. “Perhaps I do have much at stake, for I do love my land, and I would fight, and die gladly, to hold it.”

  “Who would you fight, milord?” Frederick asked.

  “God knows, lad. God alone knows. Perhaps we should all pray for peace. Elizabeth, may I have my greatcoat, please?”

  Elizabeth brought his coat and set it over his shoulders. He started for the doorway.

  “Milord!” Frederick said, imploring him back.

  Eric turned. Frederick offered him his hand. “I thank you, Lord Cameron. I am your servant, for all of my life.”

  Cameron shook his hand. “My name is Eric. And it is good to have friends, Frederick. I shall remember that I have friends here.”

  “Aye, milord—Eric. And that you do. The very best of friends.”

  With a smile, Eric turned and strode out of the house and into the night. Elizabeth sank down by her husband’s side, and together they watched as he closed the door. She trembled slightly, but he said no word to her, and they both knew that their lives had been strangely touched. Greatness had descended upon them, and had done so with mercy.

  Eric mounted Joshua, his great stallion, but pulled in on the reins.

  The last of the soldiers’ footsteps had gone still, and the night was coming quiet again. Cold and quiet and touched with mist. The spires of the churches rose high against mist and darkness to touch the heavens, and the city lamps were burning low. There was quiet all about.

  There would never be quiet again, Eric thought. This particular tea party would be known about from the length and the breadth of the country, and its cry of rebellion would stretch across the Atlantic Ocean. In his pursuit of Lady Sterling he had seen the tea floating in the harbor, and he felt both a horrible, wrenching pain and a startling excitement. They were a new people. A new breed of men. They would be given the rights and liberties of English men by the English government, or, by God, they would forge their own liberties.

  I have become a dissident this night! he thought. But maybe he had not, maybe the seeds of dissatisfaction had been sown in him long ago, perhaps during the French and Indian Wars, or the Seven Years War, as it was known on the Continent.

  War. It could come to war again.…

  No one wanted to speak of war. Even the worst of the radicals were careful not to speak of it.

  Eric sighed deeply. It didn’t matter. The whisper was on the wind, and it was growing louder and louder. Virginia’s ties to England were firm and fast. The Virginian Patrick Henry spoke passionately about reform and against illegal representation. But not even he spoke aloud about war.

  Eric glanced toward the printer’s house and smiled ruefully to himself. The lad and his young bride were so in love, and so passionate, and so ready to die for a cause. He knew their feelings, though, for he would die, and gladly, for his land. Frederick’s question was a good one.

  Just who would he battle?

  He thought of Lady Sterling, of the passion in her eyes when she warned Elizabeth that her husband was a traitor. Her mind was set! She was loyal to the Crown. Still, Eric knew instinctively that Frederick was in no danger from her. She did not know that her cousin Damien was procuring arms for the Sons of Liberty, but she suspected something. And because fear for him lurked within her breast, she would keep quiet, no matter what her loyalties. Poor lass! Her heart was due to be shattered. That fool Tarryton was destined to betray her, and her own kin was already embroiled in rebellion!

  There was nothing more for him to do that night.

  Eric rode back to Thomas Mabry’s. The house was very quiet, but he knocked softly upon the door. Anne Marie opened it quickly, her eyes wide and brilliant. She had been awaiting him, it was obvious.

  “Lady Amanda returned safely?”

  Anne Marie nodded, catching his arm and pulling him inside. “She is sleeping, and thank God! Lord Sterling did return; he is anxious to get home tomorrow. And Amanda is expected by her aunt in South Carolina within the next few weeks. If she had not been here, God knows what would have happened! He wouldn’t have let her go, and I fear for her when she is at home.”

  Eric frowned. “But why? What would he do to her? The girl is his child, his own blood.”

  Anne Marie poured him a whiskey. “Eric, something about it chills me! She does not see the danger. She tosses her head in the air and ignores it all.” She hesitated. “Just as she ignores trouble. With—with Damien.” Anne Marie cast him a quick glance. “She loves him, passionately, you see. And that is her way, her nature. When she loves like that, she is reckless and daring and so defiant! Oh! How I do go on! But I wanted to thank you, Eric, with all of my heart.”

  He kissed her cheek tenderly. “It is ever a pleasure to serve you, Anne Marie,” he told her.

  She smiled. “I just wish that you could love me!”

  He started to speak, to protest. She smiled and placed a finger against his lip. “You do not, so don’t deny it! And I would settle for no less than a man who did love me, milord, so there!” Her smile was only slightly saddened by the mist in her eyes.

  “Anne Marie, you are a priceless treasure, and I will never allow you to settle for less than a man who adores you and will know all that he holds.” He finished the drink and handed her the glass, then started for the door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked him.

  “Back to my lodgings. Then—home.”

  “Home! But it is so late. You mustn’t start to Virginia now!”

  “Nay, lass! ’Tis morning. A new day. A very new day,” he added reflectively.

  “You should stay—”

  “I must go.”

  She walked him out. He took his reins from the post and mounted his horse and smiled down to her, saluting. “I shall see you soon. Give your father my regards!”

  “Yes, Eric! And—thank you. Thank you, so much!”

  He waved and started to ride. The light was coming. Boston was about to burst into activity.

  It suddenly seemed urgent that he head for home as quickly as he could.

  He wanted to stand upon his own acres, feel the breeze from the Jame
s River. God, how he loved that land. The land had always been his mistress, his heart’s desire. He smiled ruefully, though, thinking that he envied Frederick his son. Perhaps it was time that he married, for Cameron Hall needed heirs. And he craved a son who would learn to love the land as he did.

  Maybe it was not his sudden interest in an heir that led his thoughts, he warned himself ruefully. Maybe it was the memory of Lady Sterling. She, who carried within her soul the passion of this very night, all the fire and the tempest and the spark of raw excitement that seemed so very necessary to him.

  Pausing beneath a streetlamp, he smiled. He remembered the girl she had been. Passionate, aristocratic, haunting even then. She had been so young, but already those emerald eyes had carried a dazzle and a fury to match. She’d had a soft, vixen’s laughter, and a will of steel. It had been years since he had first seen her, but tonight he could remember the encounter vividly. He’d been so furious, and she’d been so very indignant, calling him boy, and assuring him after his first warning that she was Lady Amanda Sterling, and that no one ever spanked her.

  No one had previously, he told her, but the situation was about to be rectified. She had warned him imperiously that her father would have him lashed, but he didn’t care. She had so very nearly killed them both, he had still been tense and frightened because she had so nearly been crushed.

  He had paddled her good and hard, but she had cried out only once, and when he had released her, she had promised him that he would die very slowly and rot, she would see to it. He had offered to tell her father about the entire event himself, and she walked off furiously, her eyes flashing, her chin in the air.

  But she had never told her father about the occasion. She would have gotten into trouble as well as he, Eric was certain.

  She had changed. The lady had definitely grown.

  Take care, friend, he warned himself. She was becoming a fascination. And this was a dangerous time to find oneself falling beneath the spell of Lady Sterling. Very soon it could come to war.

  No. It would not come to war. No one wanted war.

  It did not matter. For the time he was going home. He would make inquiries about Lord Sterling’s daughter—she had not seen the last of him. If Tarryton meant to marry the Duchess of Owenfield, he had best forget his interest in Amanda Sterling. And if it were all bald rumor, then Tarryton had best be prepared to fight for the lady, for Eric did indeed plan to have her.

  Tension filled him as he nudged the stallion back into motion. Repercussions were sure to come, swift and serious. There had been a tea party that night, and the guests were destined to pay. Where were men of good reason? There was an answer to this new trauma, surely, there must be an answer.

  And yet, as he rode toward his room by the common to gather his things for the long ride home to Virginia, Eric felt a new rustle upon the winter wind.

  As he reined in on the stallion, he felt it all around him. He knew that the events of the night had forever changed him, and that there were things he could not deny.

  There was that movement, a whisper on the wind. And the whisper grew louder … the whisper of war.

  Eric rode on, unaware that his next meeting with Lord Sterling’s daughter would indeed cause him as much turbulence as the dangerous deeds of the night.

  III

  Tidewater Virginia

  June 1774

  There had never been a more beautiful summer’s night, Amanda was convinced of it. Oriental lanterns had been lavishly strewn about the estate in all shades of soft colors. The breeze was soft and cool for the season, the flowers were all in full bloom, and the magnolias were casting their delightful scent upon the air. Summer was hot, but not tonight. Tonight everything was peaceful and beautiful and the sea breeze whispered gently.

  There was no hint of dissent or trouble to mar the night, she thought, and then she was annoyed with the very thought, just as she was nearly sick to death of the continual talk of separation from the Crown. Had the men of Virginia, of the colonies, forgotten that the dear motherland had come to their defense against the French and Indians in the horrible war? Taxes had paid for that defense. They could not expect the Englishmen at home to cover their expenses here! The people of the colonies had opposed the Stamp Act, and that had been repealed.

  Now they were fighting over tea. Ever since that night when the Bostonians had decided to dump endless chests of English tea into Boston Harbor, people talked of nothing but tea. And to punish the citizens for the act, the British had closed the port of Boston. And Virginia—so far away from Boston—was becoming embroiled in the whole matter. Tension was a constant emotion among the people, something almost tangible in the air.

  Amanda did not want to be interested in politics, but she had a keen, sharp mind and she knew all the basics of the current problem simply because it seemed that everyone was beginning to speak of it. And of course, she had been in Boston on the very night when the tea had been dumped, and everyone always wanted to know her opinion of what had happened. She could never say that she didn’t give a damn about the tea—Damien’s involvement in the matter worried her. When she thought of her cousin, it was with irritation for the trouble he seemed bent on causing her. And when she became irritated with Damien, she became further irritated because she was forced to remember Lord Cameron. The audacity of the man! He had involved her in something that smelled despicably of treason, and he had never given her a chance to protest. He had set his hands upon her and ordered her about, and despite her outrage, she’d had to go along with him because of Damien. She didn’t know what he was involved in, but she was afraid.

  She shivered and looked down at her hands. Cameron could have turned Damien in as well as the young printer. But he hadn’t. And so they all shared a filthy little secret. The thought of it made her grow warm and tremble, but she inhaled quickly and gained control of herself. She hadn’t seen the man in these many months. Pray God, she would never see him again. And when Damien came tonight, she would warn her foolish cousin to keep his nose clean—and out of politics. She would take care to keep silent on the subject tonight. Her father disapproved of her knowledge of it, and tonight she would strive to please him with her silence—except when she spoke discreetly with Damien!

  Nigel Sterling had taught her often enough that a woman’s place was to be beautiful and soothing, a wife of virtue would be a notable woman adept at the finer arts who was also able to manage her husband’s estates.

  But he was wrong, in a way. For men all about, in all phases of life, were appealing to their wives and sisters and mothers to help boycott tea. Ladies were forming societies where they worked on homespun materials and garments and where they drank home-grown herbal teas. Their opinions and assistance were proving frightfully important.

  “No more tea!” she whispered aloud. On this night, this magic night, when the future might well dangle before her in glazed and golden magnificence, she would curb her thoughts. This was her night. Robert had said that he needed to talk to her, that he needed to see her alone when they had met so briefly at tea earlier in the week—with her father present.

  It was her night, a beautiful night, and she didn’t want to think about politics, or the frightfully willful Bostonians, or even the foolish things being done by the Virginia House of Burgesses—and she especially did not want to worry about Damien or the dark and fierce Lord Cameron who had been so terribly rude and outrageous.

  From the second-floor balcony of Sterling Hall she gazed down on the drive. She felt the kiss of the soft breeze and inhaled the subtle scent of the flowers. She was delighted. It was a perfect night. The musicians would soon be warming up in the gallery above the dance hall, the guests would arrive, and men and women in the height of elegance would swirl to the dances. Beautiful women would arrive in velvets and silks and satins and brocades, their hair powdered, their faces, perhaps, adorned with tiny hearts or moons, drawn in with a kohl pencil or made of velvet or silk patches. Their hair would be hig
h, their bodices would be daringly low, and their conversation would be light and musical. Handsome men would arrive too. And they, too, would be dressed in the height of fashion. They would wear silk or satin knee breeches, fine hose, silver-buckled shoes, and elegant shirts all cuffed and collared in lace. It was her first week home from visiting her aunt in South Carolina, her first party of the summer season, and it was going to be a magical night.

  Fine carriages, all marked with prestigious family coats-of-arms, were beginning to arrive. They moved down the oak-shaded drive in the moonlight. Lord Hastings was first, she saw, her father’s old friend. She knew his carriage, even in the shadows, for it was drawn by four white stallions with braided tails and manes.

  Everyone would arrive soon.

  Lord Robert Tarryton would arrive.

  At the thought of his name, Amanda sucked in her breath and fought a wave of dizzying sensation. Yes, Lord Robert Tarryton would arrive. He would find her on the dance floor …

  No, no, no. She would let him arrive first, and then she would go down. She would make a grand entrance on the broad curving stairway that led to the entry. She would walk slowly and innocently, but she would pause in the middle of the stairway, and she would look out across the sea of faces, and she would find that he was looking for her, only for her. Perhaps she would allow her hand to flutter to her throat, and, of course, her heart would be pounding mercilessly.

  He would be the most elegant man present. Tall, and with his soft blue eyes and near-platinum hair. Lean and nonchalant, he would wear mustard brocade, she was nearly certain, for the color so enhanced his masculine beauty.