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IX

S he felt as if she were immersed within lightness and magic and clouds, and yet at the same time Amanda keenly felt everything about her. She felt the rush of the river wind and the warmth and flicker of the candles and the fire. And she felt the hard-muscled body and heat of the man on top of her, barely clad in the robe, and nearly naked against her. But even as she brought her arms against his chest, she felt the simple fascination of touching him there, of feeling the dark, crisp hair with her fingertips, of knowing the ripple of sinew and muscle beneath it. When she looked up she saw that he was smiling, no, laughing.

“Don’t you dare gloat and laugh at me!” she cried, but his smile deepened and his laughter was haunting, as was the silver-blue decadence in his eyes. He planted a kiss upon her forehead, for she was powerless to move, and then his lips brushed her cheeks and her mouth, causing her to ache for more. His words fell softly against her flesh, and they, too, were a curious caress. “I’m not laughing at you, my love, and if I gloat, well, then you will have to forgive me.”

“I forgive you nothing!” she retorted, meeting his eyes in the candlelight that made a devil’s flame of them. It was best to meet his eyes. She did not dare look upon him. It was enough that she felt him.

“No, you would not!” he whispered. “Nor would you give up any fight, and yet you are, my little hawk, suddenly a sparrow in this bed.”

“Sparrow!” She surged hard against his chest. A gasp escaped her as she saw that he had purposely goaded her to action, that pressing against him only served to accent all that was male and relentless, all that was hard and unyielding about him. Her fingers closed over his arms. As she felt the tension and size of the muscle there, she knew that she would never dislodge him. Despite herself she began to tremble. She moistened her lips to speak, but that was when he chose to kiss her at last. His tongue penetrated into the far recesses of her mouth, touching her as if he entered into her soul. Each movement was so slow, and so filling, and each robbed her of more breath, each made her tremble with a greater fever. His face rose above hers in the darkness, and he smiled, tracing his finger over the wetness of her lips. “So the hawk returns. You are never afraid, Amanda. Why fear me now?”

“I do not fear you,” she whispered.

“And you must not,” he told her. “I have not lied to you. Life is meant to be lived, to be enjoyed, my love, aye, even here! And I promise you, I will teach you that it is so.”

“If you would do this tonight, it will be rape, and I swear that I will never forgive you.”

“It will not be rape.”

“It will!” she cried in sudden panic, slamming a fist between them, seeking any way to fight his weight and strength. In a burst of desperate new energy she thrust against him with all her strength, her knee connecting with his masculine anatomy.

At first she didn’t comprehend what she had done.

He was suddenly still and taut, his features harsh, pained. At first all she realized was that he had eased his hold upon her. She slammed hard against him again, managing to escape his hold.

Before she could roll off the bed, she felt a hard tug upon her gown. The material ripped down her side as she cried out and tried to rise. She rolled and fell to the floor.

His foot landed hard upon her gown and she looked up into his face. He was furious. And he was reaching down for her. “Amanda, my love, you are a true bitch.”

“No,” she whispered. She didn’t know if she denied his words, or the things yet to come between them that night. “No!” she breathed again, frantically trying to tug her gown free. She could not endure him towering over her so, and she couldn’t cease her trembling. She realized then that she had really hurt him and she was suddenly afraid. She had been a fool. She should have continued to try to reason with him.

“I did not mean to hurt you!” she cried.

“Oh? Was that your idea of a gentle, wifely caress? Then, my dear, you are sorely in need of instruction.”

She did not like the look upon his face at all, he had not forgiven her. “Eric—”

“Get up, Amanda!” He reached down a hand to her.

She stared at it, and knew that she could never take it.

She ripped free from the patch of gown beneath his foot, rose, and tore across the room. She spun around to face him again with her back to the wall. With almost casual strides he pursued her, pausing there, not touching her, but imprisoning her by placing his hands upon the wall on either side of her head. He smiled. “We spoke of this. Nothing, nothing, my love, will change the course of this night. Be it whatever it shall be.”

She gasped, startled, and tried to strike out as he swiftly pulled her into his arms. She kicked and writhed, but he carried her back to the bed and cast her down upon it. She tried to rise, but he was on top of her, catching her wrists and holding them high above her head with one hand.

“We will be man and wife this night,” he promised her savagely.

Then he captured her cheek with his free hand, and he kissed her. Kissed her thoroughly, passionately, open-mouthed, stealing her breath and strength and reason, and shattering her will with the reckless plunder of his tongue. She did not know how long the kiss went on between them. When he took his lips from hers, his eyes were passionate, his words were harsh. “You’re my wife, Amanda. Your commitment to lie with me in this bed was made when you spoke your vows to me, and, lady, you may not now change your mind!”

She stared at him, knowing that she would fight him no matter what his words, yet wondering at the fierce new pounding in her heart. She hated him.

Yet…she might even want him.

He released her wrists, placed his palms over hers, and threaded her fingers with his own, holding them steady by the sides of her head. Her hair flamed out over their entwined fingers, radiantly red in the firelight. He smiled again as she stared at him, her eyes wide and emerald in that same haunting light.

He had never wanted her more, never needed her with such a frightening urgency. He had sworn to himself that he would go gently; he had not expected her to fight so viciously, nor had he expected the anger that would cause him to treat her so. Nor had he expected to feel a surge so strong within himself that it could not be denied. She had said that it would be rape.

Grimly he determined that it would not be so, and yet he knew that one way or another, he would have her. There was no way that he would let her go this night. No way that she would not sleep beside him, his wife in fact, his marriage consummated.

He spoke to her on a tense breath of air. “I will not take you, madame, until you give me leave. But you will not stop me from seeking that permission.”

Her fingers curled tightly against his. “I will never give my leave to you.”

“Be still, you are not to deny my kiss, my touch…”

A denial did form on her lips, but it never found voice. His mouth touched down upon hers, then wandered with abandon, effortlessly, slowly. His lips teased her flesh and her earlobes. She stared at the ceiling as his kisses covered her throat, hovering ever closer to the lace and gossamer of her gown where it fell low against her breasts. She felt his sex, engorged and hot against her thighs, and she ignored the heat and trembling within her own body and hoped that, pray God, it would be over swiftly.

But it was not. His own desires did not seem to affect his easy leisure, and as his hot breath swirled against the lobe of her ear, some sweet stirring took root and found life within her. She closed her eyes and gasped, for his hands were moving with the same lazy purpose as his lips. He lay his palm against her breast and his fingers closed over the mound, his thumb playing against the nipple. She twisted with the startling sensation, burying her face against his throat, a choking sound escaping her as his lips followed the movement of his hand upon her right breast, closing hotly about her nipple, teasing the swollen bud mercilessly. He repeated the evocative act upon her left breast, as if he would not leave that mound cold and forsaken. When he was done with the taunting play she was nearly limp against him, determined never to see his face again, for she was aware of the surge of her body against his. She felt his fingers upon her naked thigh, drawing her gown high above her hip. She twisted against him, trying to capture his hand, to prevent its wandering over her. The tear in the gown gave him such easy access to her flesh, and she felt the rough stroke of his palm so acutely upon her naked hip and belly. She writhed to free herself from him, but he did not seem to notice.

Impatience seized him when the gown caught beneath his own weight and he swore, destroying the rest of the garment as he rended the delicate fabric to pieces in a single movement. “Damn you!” Amanda swore, her eyes upon his, wide with anger and alarm, her protest frantic. “You’ve ruined the gown—”

“My love, God rot the gown!” he said flatly, pulling the remnants of silk from her body and the bed. Amanda grasped for the disappearing fabric, then found herself entirely naked and captured by his arm and his thigh. She was amazed at the emotion that welled within her, the fury, the fear…and the tense excitement. “You’d said you’d not take me until I gave you leave!”

“You, love, have not held to your part of the bargain.”

“My part! I want no part of this!”

“You do, Amanda. You are flesh and blood, lady. You are ripe and I shall prove to you that married life is no hardship. Lie still, lady, and let me touch you. Better yet, do not lie still, but twist and writhe beneath me, press yourself against me,” he ordered her, his eyes hard and demanding upon hers.

She felt what his words implied. Felt his body with the length of her own. Completely naked beneath him, she tried to whisper words to disavow him. She wanted to fight him so badly, and yet she was so suddenly still. His leg was cast upon hers, powerful, muscular, she could not escape him if she chose. She did not know if she chose. There was a rushing all about her, a startling fire within her. She felt it as she saw his naked thigh draped upon her own beneath the rising hem of his robe. She felt it deep within her stomach, and deeper still, at the juncture of her thighs. Hot and frantic, it coiled tighter and tighter and she both dreaded and eagerly anticipated his touch.

She swallowed sharply and he watched the length of her throat, watched where her heart showed its frantic beat against the swan’s column.

“Eric—”

“Be still!” he commanded her. He pressed his lips against the pulse at her throat, moving his hands upon her, his fingers stroking the length of her with a hunger he could not deny. He touched her thighs and allowing his touch to brush the striking red triangle at the apex of her thighs, and he went onward to explore her belly and waist, the deep valley between her breasts. Her fingers curled over his shoulders, her nails digging heedlessly into his flesh.

Suddenly he drew up, casting his robe aside.

When he stared down upon his wife, her eyes were closed, her lush lashes dark above her cheeks, her lips parted, her breath rushing from them. Her breasts rose in swift and beautiful agitation. He found himself pausing for the simple pleasure of seeing her body before he lowered himself to touch it again. The tendrils of her hair lay like laps of flame upon the pillow, like liquid fire, spilling into him, haunting him. The fever that had seized him the first time he had seen her in Damien’s arms came home to him then, causing him to tremble with the prospect of his longing. He hurriedly sank back down, afraid of breaking the spell that lay upon her, so fragile was her consent to his will. She was his wife; he could have her as he pleased, and no man could gainsay him. He wanted more.

He caught her shapely limbs, parting them and lying between them so that her eyes opened with alarm. A gasp escaped her and her eyes closed as a word of protest tore from her. With a wicked smile he cast his hands beneath her buttocks, lifting her hips. He buried his face within the fascinating texture of the tempting sable-red triangle, his tongue ravaging her with a shocking, seductive invasion. Her fingers tore into his hair, she writhed, she cried out.

“Nay …!”

“Aye, my love,” he murmured, his breath hot against her delicate flesh. She could not fight the weight of his shoulders, nor would he show mercy now.

“My God, ’tis wicked—”

“God, madame, has blessed our union. And love, lady, is wicked and beautiful, as it will be between us.”

She gasped again, but the sound of it was lost in a cry, for he curled his fingers within those that tugged upon his hair, and he had his way with leisure and purpose, finding the sweet bud wherein her own desire lay, touching upon her very innocence. She thrashed upon the bed, seeking to escape him, seeking then to know more of him. He felt the change within her as he ruthlessly captured her sensuality, felt the surge of her body, tasted the nectar of her warmth as she writhed against him, seeking release from all that he had nurtured within her. Frantic whimpers fell from her lips, and her hips undulated in an ever-growing rhythm. Then she stiffened, straining, crying out, and the sweetness of climax exploded from within her. He lost no time but rose above her, the full weight of his body wedged between lovely length of her thighs. “Madame, would you stop me?” he demanded.

She lay silent, her eyes closed. He leaned low against her, demanding more emphatically, “Amanda! Shall I have my wife this night?”

Her lips parted just slightly. He lay his palm against her breast, bringing his words to the hollow of her throat. “Amanda—”

“Yes!” It was a pained whisper that tore from her throat. Then she cried out, her eyes opening for a moment of emerald anguish, then closing again as her arms wound around him. She could not meet his gaze, he knew, and he did not care, not at that moment. He gritted his teeth, his muscles clenching, demanding that despite his state of desperation, he take his wife with care. He moved against her, the tip of his shaft coming into the contact with the barrier of innocence. A cry of pain and protest rose to her lips no matter how he had prepared her; he closed over that cry with his kiss and entered into her like silk and steel. Her nails dug into his flesh again, her head fell back. He moved slowly, so slowly, until she had taken all of him into her, whispering assurances all the while. Her eyes remained closed, her face pale, but once she had accepted him, he began to move. He fought the wave of stark dark desire that seized him and brought his rhythm to her slowly. He had proven that passion dwelled within her, he need only ignite it again.

He touched her as he moved, stroking her breasts, her cheeks, her breasts again. He touched her lips with his own and seared her with his kiss. Her lips parted, a soft moan escaped her, and then triumph seized him, for she was moving again. Moving with his thrust and surge, undulating, like a wave of fire, beneath him.

Somewhere in the tempest that followed he allowed himself the sheer pleasure of having her at last, of burying himself within the beauty of her molten sheath. All the reckless abandon that he had denied himself burst forth, and he took her in raw, blinding desire, his tension and energy relentless, then finding fruition in a volatile combustion that cast him shuddering deep, deep within her time and time again. The pleasure was so great that he saw blackness as the veil of release first lifted from him, then, in alarm, he stiffened against her. He exhaled, feeling the trickle of sweat seep down his chest, and then he exhaled again, feeling that she still lay, wracked with tremors, beneath him. He held her tight, kissing her forehead, then pulling back to see how the moon and the firelight fell over her sleek body.

Her hair was entwined about them both. She did not open her eyes until he touched her cheek, then they came wide upon him, and she groaned, trying to twist away in some new horror. Alarmed and impatient, he dragged her back. “Madame, what—”

She bent her head against him, whispering fervently, “It is not right! Oh, God, what you have done to me—”

“I am baffled, love. What have I done that no other husband, young Tarryton or multichinned Hastings, would not?”

“It isn’t that!” she whispered.

“Is it me? Forgive me, milady, but I thought that I caused you as little pain as possible. Nay, call me an egotist as you are so wont to do, and yet still, I would swear I caused pleasure.”

“Oh!”

She almost turned from him. He caught her shoulders and lay her back, crawling above her and demanding now that she meet his eyes. “What is it?”

She moistened her lips. “It is not you. It is me!”

He sank back, careful to keep his weight upon his haunches. “You…”

She closed her eyes. He had never imagined such a look of bleak misery. “Milord,” she said hollowly, “only a woman of a different variety should…feel so.”

The last he did not even hear, for the whisper had grown so soft upon her lips. “Who told you that?” he demanded so harshly that her eyes flew open again.

“It’s the way—you must be horrified.”

“No, milady, it is not the way of anything, and I am not horrified but delighted. You are my wife. Warm and fascinating in my bed, and I confess, I am evermore enchanted. If I am horrified, it is because I must leave you so soon.”

Her eyes were so wide, so very vulnerable then. What was it that she had feared so greatly? He wanted then to protect her so fiercely from all the hurts of the world. He swept her into his arms, whispering to her fervently, “Tell me! What has done this to you!”

“I cannot tell you!” she whispered, but she did not press away from him. Rather she curled close, her small hands knotted but against his chest, her head bowed beneath his chin. He inhaled the fragrance of her hair, and he swore then, to himself alone, that he would love her until the day that he died, defend her against all odds.

He stroked back her hair. “Shh…I will not ask you again. When you can trust me, tell me. Until then, believe me when I say that you are more exquisite than I dared dream, that I am well pleased.” He hesitated a moment. “I did promise that it would be enjoyable.”

She shuddered suddenly and he laughed, running his finger around her ear. “Well, madame, is it not enjoyable?”

“That’s a terrible thing to ask me, sir!”

“Then I will show you again!” he swore, and swept her beneath him. Her eyes went very wide, but then a smile curved her lips. He kissed her.

And he loved her again, bringing her once more to an exquisite peak of pleasure and finding that agony and ecstasy again himself. Exhausted and spent, she lay against him, and he held her tight, his hand below the sweet curve of her breast. He thought that she slept when she whispered to him.

“Milord?” Her voice was soft and pale and lazy.

“Aye, love?”

“Indeed…I do suppose that one might call this…enjoyable.”

He smiled, and he allowed his eyes to close. He did not think that he had ever slept so deeply, or so well.

In the days that followed Amanda came to wonder that she had ever thought to refuse Eric. He was demanding, voracious, unexpected, and always exciting, and most of all, he lived up to his promise that life should be lived and that it could be enjoyable. There was an exceptional energy about him in those days when he knew he would leave so soon. Awaking to discover that he was down with the troops, she would take great care with her dress, and start down the stairs only to discover that he had finished with drilling for the day and was running up the stairs even as she began to descend them. No protest stilled him then, and she would be swept into his arms, laughing, and all her careful detail to her appearance would be for naught since it seemed to take him less than seconds to disrobe her.

They rode over his acreage and the land of the original Hundred and she met many of the landowners and planters, artisans and merchants who made their homes near Eric’s. They were always welcomed warmly and, though tea was no longer served and more and more women were dressing in homespun, there seemed to be little talk of politics then, and much more discussion of homes and estates and repair and planting. Many men were eagerly working their prize horses, for racing was a prime diversion of the Tidewater aristocrats, and nothing ceased their talk of good horseflesh.

Despite the seemingly endless troops camped out on the lawns of Cameron Hall, Eric saw to it that he showed Amanda their immediate realm. As they walked down to the cemetery one afternoon, he told her tales of a great-great-aunt who had married a Pamunkee Indian and whose several times great-grandchildren were the half-dozen blue-eyed, blond Clark children they had met on a nearby estate the day before. They left the cemetery and he walked her on toward the river until she found herself in a pine-arbored copse. She could feel the river’s breeze there, and distantly she could hear the fife and bugle of the men who marched and drilled upon the hill. Eric drew her into his arms, and before she could protest the wicked determination in his arms, she found herself lain upon the soft pine-strewn earth, looking up into a dazzle of sunlight that wavered with the motion of the tree branches. He laid his hands upon the laces of her gown and she gasped, protesting with outrage that they could not. She continued to protest, but his arguments were fast, his hands faster still, and before she knew it she was naked upon the raw, sweet-smelling earth, laughing and arguing in one, and then unable to laugh or argue for the passion that blazed there between them was shocking and intense, bursting upon them like the radiance of the dappled sun rays. And when they lay still the river breeze swept sensually over their dampened bodies, adding something of the feel of an intimate Eden to the place. She shivered, and he warmed her with his body. She stroked his cheek and he caught her hand, bringing it down against him, teaching her to hold and stroke the bold arousal the breeze and her nearness had wrought. She did not think to argue then, for his kisses filled her as deeply as the shaft of his body, and the warmth and liquid fire that burned into her mingled from the force of his mouth and that of his loins. Twilight came, and with it the cool of the night, before they roused themselves at last, dressed, and returned to the house.

That night they had their first argument as man and wife, yet there was nothing new in the gist of it.

Damien arrived to serve with Eric, commissioned a captain to command one of the companies he himself had raised. Amanda, delighted to see him, greeted him in the parlor. He was all enthusiasm for the cause, but he was even more enthusiastic about the events taking place in Williamsburg and beyond. Washington had returned to Mount Vernon, so Damien said, and Patrick Henry and Edmund Pendleton had stopped there before all three men headed for the Philadelphia Continental Congress. Rumors were running rampant that no gentle words for the Crown would be spoken.

Eric stood by the mantel as Damien spoke, lighting his pipe from the fire with a wick. He was silent as Damien went on. “Things are about to change. Mark my words, milord, I daresay that the very men who govern our colonies will all be looking over their shoulders to see to the sheriffs with arrest warrants!”

“I daresay that it would be quite difficult for a handful of soldiers to arrest the whole congress,” Eric told him.

“It will depend on which way many hearts lie, won’t it, sir? It will depend on where the power lies. If the militia leaders side with the Crown—or the patriots.”

“Stop it, Damien!” Amanda commanded him. “You are talking about treason.”

“Mandy, Mandy, do stop with this treason nonsense! The will of the people must prevail.” Damien leaned forward on his seat. “Lord Cameron, it will be interesting indeed to travel west once again. When the Shawnee are subdued, treaties might be made that could be of grave importance later. And the French arms to be purchased on the coast are often in abundance—”

“Damien!” she snapped, rising from her chair and staring at Eric. “Make him stop this, Eric.”

Eric’s dark brows shot up. “Amanda, I cannot make him stop his mind from working—”

“You are his commander, Eric! I demand that you stop this talk of arms and war this very second.”

“Amanda, this is my home,” Eric reminded her, “and though I would do my utmost to give you any request, milady, I will not accept a demand.”

She twirled about in a fury and exited the room, slamming the door with a vehemence that the servants could not miss. When Danielle came to her, saying that dinner was being served, she refused to dine and asked for a tray. She ordered a bath be brought up but not to the master bedchamber, rather to the one that adjoined it, the one with the locking door. Fuming and incensed, she locked herself in with a cup of warmed Madeira and the steaming water. She settled back, swearing that her husband would find himself duly chastised when he thought to be so crude to her.

Yet that was not to be the case. She had barely adjusted her long hair and lain back, the steam delightfully easing the pain from her, when the locked connecting door shattered and banged open upon its sagging hinges. His eyes dark and furious, his features those of a stranger’s, Eric stood there. She gaped, then hastily closed her mouth in a fury of her own. “The lock meant that I did not wish you to enter!” she warned him heatedly.

“You married me, milady. I will enter where I wish.”

His strides brought him quickly to her. In panic she rose, wet and streaming, ready to fight him with all of the fire of the worry and fear within her. “Stop it, Eric, don’t you dare come near me, I am telling you—”

Her breath was swept from her as his arms came about her. He lifted her from the water, giving no thought to his fine brocade waistcoat and silk shirt. She struggled against him, wanting to hurt him, then suddenly wanting to escape him as she saw the light that her fight had brought to his eyes. “No!” she breathed, slamming hard upon his chest, yet he bore her down anyway, lying over her as he brought her atop the bed where she had thought to find her privacy. “I shall claw you to ribbons!” she warned him desperately.

“If you do so, Amanda, make sure it is with wifely passion, with cries of ecstasy upon your lips.”

“Oh!” she cried, and tried to slam her knee against him, but he shifted his weight, and the gaze he gave her then shot daggers into her heart. “You fool, you will get Damien hanged and yourself hanged and I will not let you do this to me!”

He held her head between his hands and looked angrily into her eyes. “Politics will not enter into the bedroom,” he told her firmly.

“I am a loyalist and you knew it when you married me, and you said that you’d not deny me my beliefs!”

“I do not deny you your beliefs, but I swear, lady, by all that is holy, you will not bring them to bed, and you will not slam doors or think to make a stricken, gelded fool of me because of them. Do you understand me?”

She thought for a moment, straining against him, her teeth gritted. Then she shouted out a vehement “No!”

His eyes darkened. She thought that he meant to strike her, his teeth were so tightly clenched. “Let me up!” she demanded in fear and fury.

“Madame, I will not!”

He dragged her hands up high over her head and held them easily despite her struggles and curses. His lips covered hers, trailed the valley between her breasts, then fondled the rouge crests, watching her eyes as he did so. She found that gaze upon her and knew that he read more within their depths than she wanted him to know. Suddenly, savagely, she twisted free from his hold, slamming her fists against his chest. She sought to roll free from him, but he threaded his fingers through her hair, dragging her back beneath him. His eyes sought hers again with war within them. He held her still, and his mouth captured hers. She thumped her fists against his shoulders, but he ignored the pain, demanding more and more with his lips and tongue. His hands stroked her sides and buttocks, and thighs, and his knee wedged them apart. He kissed her, and touched her, his kiss consuming, his touch ever more evocative. His lips parted from hers and she spoke his name, desperately trying to remember her argument. His kiss moved over her throat, to her collarbone, to her breast, and the passion of her fight became a flame of desire deep within her. Perhaps the need was even heightened by the torment of emotion. He did not disrobe, but adjusted his breeches and had her there with a startling fever and vengeance, and as he spent himself within her, she thought that she had passed over some strange line between what she had been before…and what she would be as his wife. Something indelible poured into her along with his seed that evening. She did not understand it. She whispered that she hated him even as her arms wound around him, she cried against him even as her body was wracked with the sweet shudders of ecstasy. The battle had receded between them, she thought. But it was far from over.

She felt his fingers upon her cheeks and only then did she realize that tears had escaped her. He was quickly up, guarded and hard, but anxious too. “Did I hurt you?”

She shook her head, trying not to meet his eyes.

“Amanda!”

“No! No, you did not hurt me.”

He rolled from her, his back to her, then stood, adjusting his clothing. “Come down to the meal. There will be no talk of arms, and I swear that I will keep my eye upon your cousin.”

“And smuggle arms yourself!” she whispered.

“What?”

“Nothing! Please, leave it be, nothing!”

“Come down then, and we shall close the subject.”

“I—I cannot!” she whispered. “My God, all of the house will have heard that door shatter.”

He reached for her hands, pulling her tight against him. His smile was suddenly wicked and taunting and challenging. “I did not suggest that you should slink down in shame, milady. Rather, my love, you should do so with laughter on your lips, your chin as high as ever, your glance one of the greatest disdain.”

She pulled away from him. “The meal will be quite cold, I am certain.”

“Dress, or I shall dress you myself.”

She swore, she called him every name that would come to her tongue, but when he moved toward her, she determined that she would choose her gown, and do as he suggested. He helped her with corset and with her hooks despite the stiffness of her back, and when she was duly clad, he insisted that she sit so that he could comb out her hair. His fingers lingered on her shoulders as her hair fell down upon them. In the mirror she saw his hands upon her flesh, bare for the gown lay low upon her bosom, and she saw how very dark and masculine and large they were, and yet felt how very tender their brush upon her could be. She shivered, meeting his eyes in the mirror, and he smiled, with what emotion she did not know. “Lady, none could deny your beauty, nor the boldness of your spirit. Come, take my hand. You do grace this ancient hall and will, I expect, continue to do so. Even if they do decide to hang me.”

She stood, shivers upon her heart, for even in the very depth of this battle, she knew then that she could not bear to see him hanged.

They started down the stairway together. Thom and Cassidy met them at the doors of the dining room. As they neared the pair, Eric suddenly laughed, as if he and Amanda shared some great joke, and he whispered against her ear. She turned to him, and a smile formed upon her lips, and she knew that the act had been very well executed. No one would wonder at the goings-on of the master and mistress, they were newlyweds, and prone to take their time.

She did not forgive Damien though. Not until the hour grew late, and she rose, begging that they continue to talk, but forgive her, for she was exhausted. Then she hugged her cousin fiercely, because she was afraid for him.

“Forgive me!” he whispered to her sorrowfully. “We have chosen different paths.” He had never seemed older to her, or more serious or grave.

She said nothing, but turned away, not offering her cheek to her husband. There were no servants about to witness the act.

But when she went upstairs, she did not seek out a separate bed. She lay within the one they shared, and for a long while she remained awake, tormented by all that lay between them. Her eyes closed, and the hour grew very late. The fire dimmed, and she slept.

She awoke slowly, with the feel of his lips against her spine. She did not think at first but rather felt the delicious slow motion of his hands over her hip, stroking down upon her buttocks. His lips and tongue moved with rich and languorous ease over the silky flesh of her shoulders and back. Then she felt his body, bare and heated and rigid, thrust against her own. She started to twist, but he whispered against her ear, “Amanda. I leave with the morning light.”

He drew her against him, kissing her nape, her throat, her shoulders. His hands fondled her breasts while he thrust into her from behind. The urgency touched her. Love was bittersweet, but something she would not deny. She did not want to think of the nights ahead.

“I do not retreat—”

“Nor surrender!” he agreed, but the words were meaningless, for she had given in to him that night, though his fervent words and his fierce cries of pleasure gave her some sense that perhaps she had not lost at all, that indeed perhaps he held the strength, but she held her own curious power.

***

The next morning when Amanda awoke she saw Eric standing before the window while the draperies rustled in the wind. Her muscles constricted tightly for she saw that he was dressed in a buckskin jacket with fringe and rugged leather leggings and high boots. She looked at him with confusion. It was so very early. But then she remembered that it had to be early, he was riding out this morning. He knew that she had awakened; he turned to her and walked back to the bed where she lay, sitting beside her. His gaze fell over her where she lay, and he reached out to touch her cheek. Cascades of her hair fell wildly over his fingers, and he smiled with a touch of bitter irony. “How very hard it is to leave you so. I sit here about to cast all honor and right to the wind and tell Dunmore that I cannot risk my neck for my soul is in chains.”

She flushed, listening to his words. His thumb moved over her cheek and she was tempted to grab hold of his hand and beg him not to leave her, not when he had just taught her so very much about life and…was it love? she wondered. She had hated him so fiercely, feared him, needed him, and now she did not dare judge the seed of emotion that stirred so desperately in her heart. They had lived the days since their marriage in a fantasy, and now the world was intruding upon them. But in those days she had come to find an ever greater fascination in the strong planes and angles of his face, in the curve of his lip, in the light of his eyes. She had lain upon the bed with her lashes low, her eyes half closed, and she had watched the effortless grace of his body as he had dressed or undressed. She had touched the scars upon his shoulders and she had learned which he had sustained in the closing days of the French and Indian Wars, and which he had obtained as a child playing recklessly upon the docks. He did not love her, he had told her once, and she had labeled the emotion as lust. Were that what it was, then the same spellbound fever held her. She wanted to touch him, and so she reached out and laid her palm against his freshly shaven cheek. Then she dropped her covers, rising to kiss him, to breathe into that kiss the truth that she would miss him with all of her heart, that she would pray until the day that he returned that God keep him safe.

His lips parted from hers and he caught her palm, kissing it softly. His brow arched with humor but with tenderness too. “Dare I take this to mean that you will not be too disappointed if the Shawnee leave my scalp intact, despite all that occurred last night?”

She nodded, suddenly afraid to speak. She had loved once and had discovered then that love brought betrayal. Her own father had turned from her.

“Take care, my love. Take the greatest care,” he told her.

“God watch you, Eric,” she whispered.

“Tell me, what are your feelings of this marriage into which you so desperately plunged? Is it better to endure my temper than Lord Hastings’s chins?” he asked, his lips still moving just above her own, the warmth of his words entering into her.

“I am not…displeased,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. “Except upon occasion. What of you?” she demanded, looking at him at last.

“I knew what I wanted, madame, from the very moment that I saw your face,” he told her.

His lips brushed hers. “Betray not my heart, Amanda, that is all that I ask.” He rose and then was gone.

For long moments she lay in the bed, feeling the tingle of his kiss upon her lips. Then she cried out and leapt to her feet, throwing open her armoire to find a heavy white velvet dressing gown. She quickly hooked the garment about her and tore down the stairs. Thom stood in the hallway with a silver tray and a very traditional stirrup cup upon it. “May I?” she begged him, awaiting no answer but running out to the porch steps in her bare feet.

Eric was mounted upon his huge black stallion at the front of a disciplined line of troops. Amanda, her hair like a stream of wildfire against the white velvet, ran down the steps to her husband’s side. The officers who had been shouting out orders fell silent, and Eric turned from his study of the men behind him to see her before him.

That was how he would remember her in the long nights to come. Proud and wild with tousled flaming hair, a soaring spirit with her emerald eyes, pagan with her bare toes showing upon the earth, exquisite as the white velvet outlined her body. She handed him the cup, and a cheer went up that warmed his soul and tore upon his heart.

He drank the whiskey and set the cup upon the tray. “Godspeed to all of you!” she cried, and again a chant rose, a cheer for the lady of Cameron Hall.

And he thought that he just possibly detected tears within the emerald beauty of her eyes.

Eric leaned down and kissed his wife’s lips. Then he rode forward, toward the west.