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October 1774

T wo divisions came against the Shawnee that fall, marching toward the Ohio River. Lord Dunmore led his men from the northern part of the valley. Eric was not with him. It had been decided that he would take a number of his old Indian fighters and accompany General Andrew Lewis, a man Eric highly respected, one of Washington’s stalwart colleagues from the campaign against the Frenchman Duquesne. Lewis led his men by way of Fort Pitt while the governor’s men came through the Great Kanawha Valley.

The Western militia were an interesting breed of men. The majority of the men were clad in doeskin, and many of them had taken or displayed an Indian scalp upon occasion. In the Virginia Valley, life was still raw, and men eked out their livings. The Indians had a name for Lewis’s men; they called them the Long Knives, an acknowledgment of their prowess with the weapons.

But they weren’t after just any Indians. As Eric rode with Lewis, the general explained much of a situation that had not changed. “We encroach upon the land. Hostiles kill white settlers, then the settlers turn around and they don’t seem to know if they’re after a Delaware, or Cherokee, a Shawnee, or another. Inevitably they kill an Indian from a friendly tribe and then that tribe isn’t so friendly anymore. A lot of trouble started with the establishment of trading posts out here—greedy men selling so much liquor that they create a savage out of any man. But now we’re going after Cornstalk, and there ain’t any man alive could call that man anything but a savage when he fights. You mark my words. The Delaware and Cherokees themselves, they tremble at the name Cornstalk.”

“So I have heard,” Eric agreed. Cornstalk was a powerful voice among the Indians. He was trying to form a confederacy of all the Ohio tribes.

Lewis looked up at the sky. “Dunmore could be in some difficulty for this one,” he advised Eric. “The territory might well be Canada—according to the Quebec Act. If not, it’s still disputed between Virginia and Pennsylvania.”

“He is determined to fight the Shawnee, and that is that.”

“Didn’t you get enough of Indian fighting back when the wars were going on?”

“I was asked to raise men.”

“There ain’t been a war whoop heard in the Tidewater region, not in a long, long time. Well, if we meet up with Cornstalk, we’ll hear plenty.”

Eric learned the truth of that statement at Point Pleasant where they found the Shawnee under Cornstalk. Tension raced high throughout the forces as the commanders conferred, but the Shawnee were the first to attack.

And Eric heard the war whoops, blood-curdling, savage, just as Lewis had said. The Indians appeared like painted devils, glistening in the sunlight, attacking with their cries. Yet above the roar of those cries and above the roar of his own orders, Eric heard Cornstalk. The Shawnee warrior, painted generously himself, cast his voice out over his people like that of God—or Satan. His men spurred forward, unafraid of steel or bullets, unafraid of death itself.

The militia fought well. Men stood their ground, and did not falter or fall back against the onslaught of the savage fighters. War whoops rose from the white men, and hand-to-hand combat came quickly. Eric was unhorsed when a Shawnee warrior fell atop him from a tree. As he rolled in the mud, he saw the brave raise his knife against him. Eric latched his wrist about the warrior’s, aware that his life lay at stake. He strained against the Indian’s slick muscles, and just as the blade neared his throat, Eric found the burst of energy to send the Indian flying. He did not waste time, but leapt upon the Indian, bringing his own blade swiftly home within his enemy’s chest. A gurgle of blood rose on the brave’s mouth, then his dark eyes glazed over and Eric was quickly up on his feet again, wary for his next opponent. One of his men, a distant Cameron cousin, hurried his horse to him. “Down the lines, sir, we have to hold here!”

They did hold, but Eric fought even as he shouted new orders, and the hours passed by slowly and painfully. Still he heard the haunting shouts of Cornstalk, and he realized that the Shawnee were still coming.

Then darkness came at last, and the Shawnee slipped away across the Ohio, shadowy silhouettes in the night. The militia had taken the day. But even as he realized that there were no more opponents to fight, Eric looked about the darkened field before him. Men lay everywhere.

“All right! We’ve got to tend to our wounded,” he called sharply. Then it all came home to him, the horrible cries of the dying, the screams of pain that had not ceased. He began to hurry, hearing from one sergeant that two hundred of their own number lay dead, entwined with the glistening bodies of their enemies.

It took well into the night to sort the living from the dead, to bring what aid they could to the wounded and the dying. He was anxious to find Damien, whom he hadn’t seen since very early in the day. He did not want to return home without his wife’s cousin. Amanda had, he thought, very specifically entrusted his life to Eric, and she would expect the young man to survive.

Dismay and despair claimed him as he searched the men. At last he found Damien on a stretcher with a surgeon examining a bloody head wound. He grinned at Eric. “Knocked me for a loop, it did! I thought I was dead. But it’s hard to keep a good man down, eh, sir?”

“Aye, Damien, it’s hard to keep a good man down,” he agreed.

He went past the tents of the men, conferred with Lewis who wanted to start building a fort the next morning, then hurried onward to his own canvas shelter. He had a bottle of good Caribbean rum with him and as he cast himself down upon his pallet, he was glad of the liquor. Home seemed a distant place now. All that danced before his eyes were the bodies of the Shawnee. He saw red, the color of blood, and it colored everything.

A chill shook him. He had come very close to death himself. Once he had fought so haphazardly and with undauntable courage. He had been a lad then. He had not seen himself as being mortal. Age had taught him that all men die, and age had even allowed him to accept the prospect of his own death. Now he was fiercely determined not to die.

He smiled, because even here, even in this wilderness with the stench of oil and blood so strongly with him, he could close his eyes and see her face. “I will not die, madame, to thwart you, love, if for no other reason!” His hands shook, and so he drank more deeply from the rum bottle. His marriage had brought more to him than he had dared hope, but the idyll of their days had been rudely marred by the quarrel before he left. There was more going on than he could see, though he could not pinpoint what. She despised him for being a “traitor,” yet she laughed in his arms and she came alive when he reached for her. The line between love and hate was thin indeed. He wondered on what side of the line her true emotions lay. He had taken her from her father—and from Lord Hastings—and for that she seemed pleased enough. But still there was something there, something that he did not trust. He almost imagined that Sterling held something over his daughter, but he did not know what it could be.

He shrugged, tossing over, praying that he could sleep. He did not. He tossed again and wondered what went on back in the Tidewater. He did not want to stay in the west any longer. Men were meeting in Philadelphia, things were happening, his wife was home—alone—and he was caught up in this wretched battle against the redskins. Robert Tarryton would have married his duchess by now. He wondered if Amanda had attended the wedding, and he wondered how she fared at Cameron Hall.

His heart quickened suddenly. Maybe she had conceived an heir for him. A son…a daughter. A child to teach to love the land, to ride, to plant, to stand by the river and learn to read the wind.

She did not love him, he thought, and he wondered if she still carried any feelings for Robert Tarryton. The thought angered him, and he breathed deeply, tossing again. She did not need to love him to conceive an heir. And if she ever went near Tarryton…

She would not. She had a fierce pride and would surely keep her distance—if only to make Tarryton pay.

Then he wondered if Tarryton was haunted at night like this, lying awake, wondering about Amanda. No, he could not wonder so fiercely, for he had never known the explosion of heaven that it was to possess her. To touch her and fall…in love.

He smiled bitterly in the darkness. Love would be a very dangerous weapon in her hands. He had to take care that he not give her the chance to use it.

He tossed again, and remembered her eyes, then the rise of her breasts, the rose color of her nipples, the fragile ivory beauty of her skin. He wanted to go home.

It simply wasn’t to be. In the morning they started a crude fort. When the fort was done they rode north again against the Shawnee across the Ohio. They met with Dunmore’s forces.

There, finally, the governor announced that they should disperse and return to their homes

The militia were angry, for they were so close to ending more of the fray. General Lewis was in sympathy with his men, Eric thought, but he was a commander, and a Virginian, and his opinions were certainly not clear to those around him.

He asked Eric to accompany him as they backtracked home. Eric bit down hard upon his desire to return as rapidly as possible to Cameron Hall and agreed that he would do so.

She should have been delirious with joy, Amanda chastised herself as she sat in the arbor by the river, her shoes and stockings cast aside, her bare toes wiggling in the cool grass. Above her the trees danced and swayed and the sun fell down upon her with the same curious dappled light that had touched them both when she had come here with Eric. It seemed so long ago. The weeks had become months, and summer had given way to fall, and now it was November.

She had everything that she had wanted. She had her freedom, she had the run of this magnificent estate, and in Eric’s absence, her every wish was considered to be law. It had not been difficult to slip into the role of mistress here for there was not much that differed from Sterling Hall. Though the estate would have run quite competently in Eric’s absence with or without her, she loved involving herself and she had tried to enter into the management of the hall unobtrusively. She had earned Thom’s mistrust when he had discovered her assiduously going over the books, but then she had been careful to praise him lavishly with her very best smile, and then point out where they could perhaps reduce an expenditure here or there and use the savings to improve upon the house.

She had been shocked to learn from Danielle that she had an enemy within the house. Young Margaret whispered in the servants’ quarters that the lady of Cameron Hall was looking to its future because she was looking forward to its master’s demise. Amanda was horrified and longed to either slap Margaret’s round little cheeks or send her packing. She did neither, determined that she would not betray her fury. A servant’s sly whisperings should not distress her, and she determined that no one would ever see her upset.

When one of the mares went into labor for a late foal, she heard the news and instantly headed down to the stables. The dark-haired Frenchman who had whispered with Danielle was there. His name was Jacques Bisset. An Acadian, he was the estate manager, responsible for the running of the acreage and the groves and the stables just as Thom was responsible for the running of the house and Cassidy was responsible for everything regarding Eric’s personal needs.

She did not have much occasion to come across him, and at the stables he did not seem pleased to see her, though he treated her with courtesy. She ignored his manner and spoke to him in French, asking after the mare, demanding to know if he thought that they would lose the horse or not.

He informed her curtly that the birth was breech, and that so far he had not managed to turn the foal.

“Well, sir, my hands are much smaller than yours. Perhaps I shall have better luck,” she informed him.

Aghast, he stood blocking her way to the stall. “ Mais, non , Lady Cameron, you must not come in here at this time—”

“I must do as I choose, Monsieur Bisset,” she told him, but at his look she could not resist a wicked smile, then she laughed and tried to ease his tormented soul. “Really. We had fine Arabs and bred many racehorses at Sterling Hall. And my father was never about and seldom cared about what I did—” She paused, dismayed at her own words. She ignored him and moved past him, heedless of her gown, of her safety, of anything. She spoke softly to the troubled mare, then plunged in. To her delight she was able to shift the foal about, and though the birth still took several long hours and she was exhausted and a mess when it was over, Amanda was delighted. The beautiful little filly with a blaze upon her forehead had a fine broad chest and stupendous long legs. She and Jacques laughed with delight as the filly tried to stand, then managed to teeter up. When she smiled at Jacques she saw that the laughter faded from his eyes and that he gazed at her with sorrow and remorse. Her own laughter faded, and a ripple of unease washed over her. She was not afraid of him, rather he fascinated her. And she was determined to discover why he had argued with Danielle. Perhaps the two were falling in love, she thought. The idea dazzled her. She would be delighted if this curious marriage of hers brought happiness to Danielle.

She teased Danielle about it from her bath, but to her surprise, the woman quickly lost her temper, emphatically denying a love interest.

“Come now! He has the most gorgeous eyes, Danielle,” Amanda said. “Huge and green and rimmed by those dark, dark lashes. And his features are so fine and fair. It looks as if he were sculpted by a master artist, planes and coloring all put together so beautifully. You should marry, Dani! You should.”

“Cease to taunt me, ma petite ! There can be no marriage, ever!”

“But, Danielle—”

“He is my brother!”

“Brother!” Amanda gasped, astounded. “But—but you told me that your brother was dead!”

“I thought that he was dead,” Danielle said, folding and refolding Amanda’s towel in her agitation. “I did not know that he lived until I came here.”

“Then we must—”

“We must do nothing! Amanda, I beg of you, never mention it. Never, never mention that my brother lives.”

Startled, Amanda stared at her maid. Danielle dropped the towel and came to kneel by the tub. “Please—”

“Danielle, calm down. I would never do anything to hurt you, you know that. I don’t understand your distress, but—oh, no, Danielle, he wasn’t a criminal, was he?”

“I swear, no. Yet you must keep the secret. He did not know these many years himself who he was—”

“What?”

“He nearly died. He very nearly died. But Lord Cameron’s father found him and kept him alive, and he never did know from whence he came, nor could he remember his circumstances.”

“Until—he saw you?” Amanda said.

“ Oui, oui . You must keep his secret safe. He has been Jacques Bisset these many years, and he must stay so, please!”

“Tell me—”

“I can tell you no more! If you bear me any love at all—”

“You know that I love you dearly and that if you wish it, your secret is safe.”

Danielle hugged her, soaking herself. Amanda fell silent but her curiosity was definitely piqued. She was determined to discover the truth.

Lying in the grass and feeling the breeze upon her, she reflected that she should be very happy. She had never, never been so free. She had done very well for the estate; her time and her life were her own. She had come to Cameron Hall just for this freedom, then she had married Eric to achieve it. But curiously, it did not taste so sweet as she had imagined. She could not believe that there had ever been a time when she had hoped that Eric Cameron might fall before the Shawnee. She did not want to miss him, but she did. She remembered all that he had done to her there in the grass, and she colored feverishly with the explicit memories. She was anxious about his return and prayed each night that God would keep him safe.

She was falling in love with him, she realized, and then she rose, fiercely annoyed with herself. Last month she had dressed in her finest to attend Robert Tarryton’s wedding to his duchess, and she had smiled and offered him best wishes without a flutter of emotion. It helped that the Duchess of Owenfield was lank and skinny with horrible jutting teeth and limp brown hair. Amanda had felt fiercely sorry for the young woman, but she was still not certain that she could befriend her. She was just glad to realize that her heart had grown cold, that watching Robert marry meant nothing, and that feeling him kiss her cheek meant even less. And still, she did not want to love again. Love was a wretched emotion that left one vulnerable and weak and entirely miserable. She wanted no part of it. But there was more to love. It came whether asked or nay, and she had fallen beneath her husband’s spell.

Sudden agitation came to her as she watched the river. She reached for her hose, pulling them on too quickly, snagging one. News had reached her that the parties had split, that Eric was traveling with General Lewis. She had even received a letter after they had fought a battle on the Ohio. Pierre, who had ridden into Williamsburg for a copy of the Virginia Gazette , had told her that the governor was back. That had quickened her heart, but then her hopes sank for she learned that Eric was not with the governor.

She turned and raced back to the house, suddenly hungry for more information. Running inside, she shouted for Thom. When the butler came to her, she smiled winningly. “Thom, please call Pierre and tell him that I’ll have the carriage and that we’ll go to Williamsburg tonight. I’ll have my trunks ready within the hour. Have you seen Danielle?”

“Aye, she’s gone to the laundry. I’ll send her to you immediately, Lady Cameron.”

He didn’t seem to approve of her trip, she knew from his deep frown, but he had no power to stop her. She smiled radiantly. “I won’t be gone long. I—I’d like to know more about my husband’s whereabouts, if I can discover some news.”

He nodded, but she still didn’t think that he was pleased. She tossed her hair back. She had married for this freedom, and it was hers and not to be denied her. “Thank you, Thom,” she told him brightly, and turned to hurry upstairs to pack.

Danielle did not seem any happier about her proposed trip, but Amanda ignored her as well. It would be fun to stay at the town house, to walk the streets, to visit the shops.

“And see your father!” Danielle warned her.

Folding a shift, Amanda paused, her heart fluttering. No. She had still not obtained freedom. She was still afraid of the power he held over Damien’s life, and therefore over her.

“I hate him!” she whispered.

Danielle did not chastise her. She merely closed a trunk, opened the door, and called down to Thom, asking for help.

By nightfall Amanda had reached the town house. Though she was certainly surprised, Mathilda quickly made her welcome, asking her into the parlor while a room was freshened for her.

“The city is wild these days, milady! Every corner has an orator, every coffeehouse is full of conversation.”

“What has happened?” Amanda asked.

“Why, ‘tis the men back from the Continental Congress. Now they have formed an association. Measures are not so voluntary now. We are to strictly boycott British goods, to band together to do so. And there will be committees to see that the rules of the association are carried out. We are even to call off the Dumfries races, if you can imagine the good men of Virginia doing so!”

Amanda could not, but she was careful of what she said before her husband’s housekeeper. “Whatever shall come of it?”

“Well, ’tis rumored that the governor is quite irate, and that he is. Him with his grand Scots temper! He’s holding quiet, but you know that the assembly is prorogued until spring, I think that he is quite distressed that the burgesses would come in spouting all this rebellion and that there could be war on the very streets!”

A small black woman came to the doorway, bobbing toward Amanda and informing her that her room was ready. Exhausted, Amanda rose, determined to get a good night’s sleep, then explore the mood of the city herself in the morning. “Have you heard anything of Lord Cameron?” she asked his housekeeper.

“Why, yes, I have. You needn’t fret any longer, child, for they say that the fighting is all over. And he handled himself splendidly, riding at the front of his troops and meeting those red devils without so much as a blink. He’s heading back, taking a route through Richmond. He’ll be here soon enough, even if he is waylaid. By Christmas.”

Christmas still seemed a long, long way off. Amanda thanked the woman, then hurried upstairs. She realized that it was Eric’s room that had been prepared for her. She ran her fingers over his desk, tempted to delve within the drawers. That’s what she was supposed to be doing, searching his belongings. But she had no heart for it. She was haunted by the presence of him that seemed to live in the room. When she disrobed and stretched out on the bed, she moved her hands over the coolness of the sheets, and her body burned and she tossed about with a certain shame. She wanted him there. She even knew exactly what she wanted him to be doing.

She lay awake at least an hour before she sat up suddenly, furious. He hadn’t written to tell her that he was well; his one missive had been while he was traveling. The servants knew more than she did.

Fuming, she tossed and turned, the slow burn of anger simmering within her. But it wasn’t the anger that kept her awake, she realized. It was the longing.

She had barely come downstairs in the morning when she heard the cheerful tones of Lady Geneva Norman’s voice. She stiffened, remembering that she was certain that Geneva and Eric had been lovers at some time, then she gave the matter no more thought. When she reached the landing, Geneva, splendid in silk and brocade, hugged her tightly. “Marriage does become you, Mandy, darling, even if you stole away the inestimable Lord Cameron!” She lowered her voice. “Father told me that you had come in last night. Do let’s get out on the streets and see what is happening today!”

Intrigued to see what was happening, Amanda hugged Geneva in return, wondering if she wasn’t a terrible hypocrite. “Fine, let’s head out.”

“There’s a wonderful new little coffee house off of Duke of Gloucester Street. Come, we’ll see the rabble!”

“I’d love to see the…rabble,” Amanda agreed, and so they were off.

It was fun just to be back in Williamsburg, to feel as light and free as she did, to look in the shop windows and study the fashions and hats and jewelry.

“Homespun is the rage,” Geneva said, wrinkling her nose.

And it was.

They stopped to buy a copy of the Virginia Gazette . As they did so, there was a sudden commotion ahead of them. Amanda rushed forward as she heard a woman scream, then she saw that a crowd had formed around the steps to a shop door. A man had apparently walked into the store, removed bolt after bolt of fabric, and tossed them into the center of the road. He stamped on them and the material sank into the road, soaked by mud and excrement.

“Stop him!” Amanda cried, rushing forward. She was accustomed to people giving way for her; but now no one moved. The restless mob of people ringing the shop held tight.

“Ye’ll find no peace in this town, Mrs. Barclay, you’ll not, not with English goods in your store!” someone called out.

The shopkeeper backed away. Pushing against the crowd, Amanda shouted in fury. “That is destruction of private property! Would you be a people ruled by the force of a mob!”

A few people turned to her, shamefaced. More and more of them looked at her defiantly.

“Dear girl, committees keep an eye upon the articles of the association, but then this type of thing will happen. I find it entirely exciting myself!”

Amanda, hearing the voice, swung around with pleasure despite the words. “Damien!” she cried. She almost hugged him, then backed away laughing as she looked him up and down. He was clad in the buckskins of the West County men, and he looked very provincial and entirely fierce. She had never imagined it of her cousin who did so love his finery. “Damien! You are home, alive and well!”

“I am. A slight gash to the temple, but I’m quite fine now.”

“Oh, Damien! Poor dear! Is—is Eric with you?”

“Oh. No, I’m sorry. I, er, traveled ahead of him. He has been held up on General Lewis’s request. He will come soon enough, though.” Smiling, Damien bowed to his cousin’s companion. “Lady Geneva. This is indeed a pleasure.”

Amanda expected Geneva to lift her delicate chin with scorn at Damien’s appearance, but the woman did just the opposite. She came up on her toes, caught his hands, and kissed his cheek. “Damien. You’re with us again. Thank God. We were on our way to the coffeehouse. Will you join us?”

“I wouldn’t dream of leaving a Tory like Amanda on her own, Lady Geneva. I fear that trouble might find her.”

“Trouble! These people are acting like rabble! And they pride themselves so fiercely on being Virginians, the descendants of free enterprise rather than the cast-off dregs of society or poor religious dissenters!” Amanda cried.

Damien laughed. “That’s true, love, we Virginians do keep our noses in the air. But we’re sniffing rebellion these days, and that’s the way that it is. Come, let’s have that coffee, shall we?”

He slipped an arm within each of theirs and they hurried on down to the side street and then to the coffeehouse. The place was filled, but the harried owner still came forward quickly and politely, eager to serve. Even as he brought them steaming cups of coffee and morning pastries, conversation rose around them. Then one young man was up—a student at William and Mary, Amanda was certain—and began to weave an eloquent tale of the trouble in the colonies. “We are, by the grace of God, free Englishmen! And we shall have the rights of free Englishmen, we will not grant Parliament the right to take men from our colony to England to stand trial for the crime of treason, or for any crime!”

“Here, here!” Boisterous shouts rang out. Amanda felt a chill settle upon her.

“You would think that we were at war!” she whispered.

She did not like the look that Damien gave her. Then he excused himself to speak with some men behind them. A tall, bulky fellow from the cabinet maker’s shop approached Amanda, rubbing the rim of his hat nervously.

“You’re Lady Cameron, eh, mum?”

“I am, yes.”

“I just wanted to tell you that I served under your husband at Point Pleasant. I never served beneath a finer commander nor a braver man. I’m pleased to be his servant, should he ever require.”

“Thank you,” Amanda murmured, moving forward anxiously. “Can you tell me more?”

The room had fallen strangely silent, and it seemed that the men and the women in the coffeehouse had all turned to look at her. A cup was raised and the young man who had spoken insurrection shouted out. “’Tis Lady Cameron! A toast to our hero’s wife. Madame, you should have been there, and yet you should not, for the blood did run deep.”

Suddenly everyone wanted to talk to her. Many of the men there had served in Dunmore’s Indian campaign. One young fellow came before her to give a description of her husband in battle. “Why, one of those Shawnees a-come straight at him, leaping down from his horse. I was certain that our Lord Cameron had seen his last blessed light of day, but suddenly he throws off the savage, and God bless me, but if he didn’t slice the fellow faster than a cow could sneeze!

“And he was upon his feet again in an instant, never used a musket at all, did he, but fought hand to hand with savages, and shouting orders all the time, even when we came up knee deep in our own dead. He wouldn’t allow no scalpin’ though, and when we moved north, he wouldn’t allow no killing of squaws or chillun, even if we did try to tell him that little savages grew up to big ’uns.”

Amanda smiled. “My husband has many relatives with Pamunkee blood. Maybe that ruled his thinking.”

“Maybe it did! How is his lordship?”

She tightened her smile but managed to maintain it. “I believe him well.”

“Ah, well, no message, but I expect as you’ll hear from him any day now.”

Another toast was raised to her. Geneva seemed to love all of it. Her eyes sparkled and she clapped with delight. Amanda had been so eager for news, but knowing that despite the bloody battles he had fought, Eric was alive, and heedless of her feelings, a simmering fury brewed within her. She ceased to listen to the men as Geneva flirted and laughed and chatted. Then she realized that she could hear the muted voices of the men behind her—and Damien.

“I have managed…a cache of a hundred…fine French rifles, I managed to trade soon after Point Pleasant with some Delaware.”

Someone said something and Damien’s voice lowered. There was an argument over price. Amanda felt her face burn as she listened. “Fine. We shall secrete them in the Johnsboro warehouse after dark. The place is abandoned. If there is trouble, no man shall have property confiscated or face the threat of removal to England.”

Damien! she wanted to shout. She had to tell him that Dunmore knew him to be an arms smuggler. Perhaps then he would cease his foolish and dangerous activities.

She rose suddenly, startling Geneva. “I wish to leave. Excuse me.”

She brushed past the men who had surrounded her and hurried out to the street, trying to breathe deeply. Damien came upon her quickly. “Amanda—”

“Damien! You are an idiot!”

He twisted his jaw. “Amanda, you are the fool,” he said irritably. “All of America is up at arms—”

“But they do not practice treason!”

“What is treasonous here? To want to protect oneself?”

“They are on to you, Damien!”

He backed away from her. “Who?”

She did not answer for Geneva appeared suddenly before them, laughing indignantly. “Fine friends! Leave me to the rabble.”

“Geneva, never.” Damien bowed deeply over her hand. “I shall consider it my first duty and greatest pleasure to see you both home.”

They walked back to the Cameron town house first. Amanda kissed Damien and gave him a fierce glance, and she thought that he would come back.

But as night fell he did not return. Anxious, she paced the downstairs. Then she tried to read, and when she did she found the book on botany that Eric had lent to Damien that summer. A gasp escaped her when a small map fell from the book. She stared at it for a long while, thinking it was merely a pattern for planting boxwoods. Yet there were curious symbols on it. Then her blood ran very cold, for she realized that some of the curious markings referred to money and some of them referred to powder and arms.

She sat back, shaking. Eric was a traitor beyond a shadow of doubt. He was involved more deeply than she had ever imagined.

The map was exactly the proof that her father had demanded she find.

She held the map, then thoughtfully went upstairs and slipped it down into the bottom of one of her jewel cases. Then she went downstairs, put the book back into the shelf, and returned to her room, to curl up beneath the covers of her bed.

Two days later her father appeared at the town house. She was in the parlor, poring over the Virginia Gazette and trying to assimilate everything that had occurred since the Continental Congress. Reading between the lines, she was certain that Governor Dunmore had to be grateful that he had disbanded the Virginia Assembly, for it seemed that the members of the convention had come back breathing the fire of insurrection. Thankfully they would have to let some of the fires die down before they came together to meet again. It was frightening.

And, she thought, every man who had attended the convention and set his signature to many of the agreements had to be aware that he courted the charge of treason. But still, she had seen what had happened in the streets of Williamsburg. It might very well be the loyalists who were in danger if all of the colony began to rise in this rebellion. That is…until English troops arrived. British troops were admired the world over for their discipline and ability. Once troops descended down upon the colony…

She shivered, sipped some of the berry tea, winced, then realized that the taste of it was actually growing palatable to her.

Then Lord Sterling arrived.

It was Danielle who opened the door. From the parlor, Amanda heard her father enter, and she rose, planning to go to the entry to meet him. But he did not give her the chance. He stormed into the parlor. Danielle followed him, announcing him softly.

“Go. I’ll speak with my daughter alone!” Nigel snapped.

She hadn’t seen him in quite some time, yet even as the door closed quietly behind Danielle, they made no pretense of greeting one another with warmth. Amanda watched him with open hostility.

“Good morning, Father. If you’ve come for my husband—the suspected traitor—he has not yet returned from the western front where he fought for the governor.” She smiled sweetly. “Would you have some tea, father? Something stronger? Tell me, to just what do I owe this…pleasure?”

“Damien Roswell,” Sterling answered flatly, tossing his tricorn down upon the sofa. He walked over to the fire to warm his hands, smiling as he watched her face. “Ah, you’re not so cocky now, girl.”

She knew that she had paled. She raised her head, eyeing him coldly. “You wouldn’t dare see that an arrest warrant was served upon him now. The colony would be up in arms. If he was transported to England for some trial—”

“If he disappeared in the night none would be the wiser, eh?”

“Dunmore would never condone this.”

“You’re mistaken. Dunmore is a nervous man, with Peyton Randolph spouting off about natural law and seeking elections for the Virginia Conclave. Aye, who would notice the disappearance of one eager young lad?” Her father lost his pretense of a smile. He stared at her hard. “I’d do him in myself easily enough. I’ve killed before, girl, don’t you doubt it. I’ll kill again if need be. This is my path to royal favor, and I will have it!”

Chills riddled Amanda and she longed to go to the fire, just to feel some warmth. But Nigel Sterling was by the fire, and she would not take a step near him.

“My husband would kill you.”

“So—you’ve turned on England, joined the rabble.”

“I am loyal to the Crown.”

“Then give me something—or else I swear that Damien Roswell will not live to see the morning sun. One way or other, lady, I will see that he dies. And don’t deceive yourself about the state of this colony. Prompt and forceful action from London will quell this rebellion before it begins.”

She paused, staring at him. She believed him. He would kill Damien, or seize him and see him transported to Newgate. It might not be legal, but her father still had the power to see it done.

He started moving toward her. “Don’t come near me!” she warned, and he stood still, smiling again.

“Give me something! If you love the Crown, serve it!”

She thought quickly, her heart seeming to fall. She remembered the conversation in the coffeehouse, and it occurred to her that she could save Damien, serve the Crown indeed, and be sure, too, that no foolish young swain died in the serving. “There is a cache of arms,” she blurted out.

Sterling’s eyes glistened with pleasure. “Where?”

“On—on the river. At the Johnsboro warehouse.”

Sterling smiled, collecting his hat. “If you’ve told me the truth, girl, you’ve bought yourself Christmas. Good day, daughter.”

He left. For an endless moment Amanda could not move. She was so cold that she didn’t think that even the warmth of the fire could help her now. She didn’t feel that she had helped the cause of England. She felt as if she had betrayed not just the patriots…

But Eric.

She moved across the room to the brandy decanter, poured herself a liberal portion, and swallowed it down quickly. Then she repeated the action, and at long last some semblance of warmth, of life, poured back into her.

But that night when she slept she was haunted by the faces of the young men in the coffeehouse. They marched on her with fixed bayonets upon their muskets, with eyes of condemning fire, with features frozen into cold masks. They marched upon her and she backed away with a silent scream. And then they stopped, breaking apart, for a new man to make his way among them. She heard the sure purpose of his boots ringing as they fell against the ground, and then she saw his face, and it was Eric’s, and it was as cold as a winter’s wind, as devoid of love or passion. Like shimmering steel his eyes gazed upon her, and then he reached out to touch her, his fingers winding tightly about her.…

She screamed, thrashing about, for the dream was so real. Then she realized that it was no dream, she fought a real man, and that Eric was above her, truly with her, his eyes a curious glistening silver but his lip curled into a smile.

“Shush! My God, lady, what is this greeting? I reach to touch you, ready to die for the time and distance between us, and you treat me like a monster!”

She went still, the fear subsiding, yet remaining to haunt her, as it would forever. “Eric!” She gasped. And she reached up to touch his face. His hair was damp, he was naked as he sprawled atop her, and she realized that he must have come home, found her there, bathed elsewhere, and come to her. He was no dream, nor did he look upon her coldly or with disdain. His eyes were alight with fire, his body was hotter than flame, the length of him seemed to tremble against her with startling fervor. She moistened her lips, gazing at him, and she cried out, forgetting anger, forgetting everything. “Eric!” she cried his name again. She placed her hands on the clean-shaven sides of his face and pulled him to her, almost swooning as she tasted the warmth and hunger of his kiss. She drew away from him then, trying to speak, trying to recall her anger and not her fear.

“You did not write!”

“I had little time.”

“I worried—”

“Did you?” He paused, staring down at her, his eyes alight against the dim glow of the fire, a dark brow arched in a satyr’s mask against rugged angles of his face. Then he lay low against her and whispered with searing desire against her lips. “Forgive me this night, for I can bear the distance no more!”

His hands closed upon her gown, material ripped, and she felt the startling deliciousness of his body against hers. His hands, his teeth, his lips were everywhere. They moved upon her with wanton abandon, with wild demand. Soft moans escaped her as she discovered her body caught by his heat, alive in every way, her flesh begging to be touched, and the spiral of desire within her soaring. She arched her breasts to his lips, dug her fingers into his hair, and gasped and writhed as his fingers delved within the woman’s core of her, teasing the sable-red triangle at the juncture of her thighs, mercilessly finding the tiny bud of deepest sensation. Where he stroked and teased with his touch he followed with his tongue’s bold caress, sweeping the nectar from her until she surged against him, begging senselessly for she knew not what. He towered above her full of laughter, but she pushed him from her, crawling atop him, lashing him with the soft stroke of her hair as she rubbed the length of her body low over his. She kissed his chest and stroked his buttocks and thighs, nipping his flesh, lapping it with tiny kisses, and moving upward again. Gently, tenderly, wickedly, she stroked and teased him, then went on with her hair a shower about them both to lap and stroke and lick and tease the very shaft of him, so softly that it was torment, then with a sizzling force that brought forth a torrent of shudders and groans from his lips. Then the very force of his hands was upon her as he lifted her, catching her eyes, meeting them, then thrusting into her with deep, shocking passion that still seemed to burn her from the inside out, impale her until she was fused with him. His eyes held hers as he thrust, and thrust again, and sobs of sweet hunger and desperation fell from her lips. He held her steady and they rode the night and the stars and the painful distance between them and the shimmering passion that was explosive and primitive and so very undeniable.

She thought that she had died when she fell against him at last. Though she gasped for breath and lay slick and spent and awed and exhausted, his touch was upon her again, his fingers idly upon her breasts, her buttocks; his lips seared her shoulders, his hands stroked the slope of her buttocks.

“Eric…” she whispered his name, and she twisted, thinking that there were things to say. But even as she gazed at him the heat went cool within her. Even now her father was seeing that the rebels’ arms were seized. And that the man who touched her so fervently now might well wind his fingers about her throat if he only knew. She reached out to touch his damp, dark-haired chest, and she felt the shudder and violent ripple of muscle there and her throat constricted. “Eric—”

He rolled over, sweeping her beneath him with a sudden savage movement. His eyes touched deep into hers, dark and tempestuous, relentless. A hoarse cry escaped him and he buried his face against the fiery cascade of her hair and her throat. “Love me tonight!” he demanded of her raggedly. “Do nothing but love me this night!” he repeated, and his lips found hers, moving against them voraciously, then finding the sensitive spots at her ear, coming to the pulse as her throat, sweeping to secure the hardened bud of her breast with hunger and magic. She exhaled on a gasp, feeling the excitement rise in her again, the promise of the exquisite peaks of ecstasy.

There was nothing that she could say to him, and in moments she did not remember that there were things that she wanted to say to him.

He demanded that she love him; that night, she did.