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XI

T hat Christmas season was one of the happiest times of Amanda’s life, or would have been, had the threat of what was to come not hung over them so surely. For the first few days of her husband’s return, Amanda waited anxiously for what would happen. But Virginia itself seemed quiet then.

They stayed in Williamsburg long enough for a round of parties, many in celebration of Lord Dunmore’s newborn baby daughter. The Virginia Gazette wrote of the blessed event. Throughout the coffeehouses where the students were still preaching sedition, cups were still raised to the countess and her baby.

Snow began to fall toward the end of the month, and that was when Eric determined that it was time to return home. Amanda was glad to go; she missed Cameron Hall.

Their homecoming was wonderful. Amanda and Eric sat together in the coach, bundled beneath a blanket, while Pierre drove. Eric taught her a few of the bawdier tunes he had learned traveling with the western militia, and she blushed and laughed, accused him of making up things as he went along, and he assured her that he did not, and held her closer in the warmth of the blanket. All along the road the snow fell in soft, delicate flakes. The forests were frosted with it, the trees glistened, and when the snow had stopped falling, the sky was not wintry gray but crystal blue, and the sun melted the very top layer of snow to ice, and the world about them seemed to be a dazzling, crystal palace.

At Cameron Hall they were greeted warmly by the servants. Danielle, who had gone ahead, stood beside Jacques Bisset on the steps as they arrived. Thom had come down with a silver welcoming tray full of wassail drinks, and Cassidy stood beside him, ready to serve. Margaret and the cook and several grooms stood by, and when Pierre opened the carriage door there was a cheer to greet them. Amanda drank deeply of the warm, sweet wine, and when it came time to face her husband at the table for their evening meal, her eyes were softly glazed, her lips curved, her manner most gentle and bemused.

Watching his wife, Eric became sorely frightened, for it shook him to the bone to realize how much he loved her. So much about her had changed since they’d met. She laughed so easily, her emerald eyes bore for him the sparkle that he had once so envied when she cast it upon another man. This night she wore velvet, deep forest-green velvet, the fur-trimmed bodice falling very low off her shoulders and molding handsomely over her breasts. Delicate flame-deep curls curved in fascinating tendrils over the alabaster crescents of her breasts as they rose almost indecently high against the gown. She barely touched her food, but smiled throughout the evening. They ate by candlelight, and he noted things he might not notice otherwise. The crystal of the candle holders seemed to shimmer with greater colors, the silver of their goblets was dazzling, the white linen laid out upon the table was impeccable, soft as the snowdrifts that had followed them home. But nothing was more outstanding than the color of her eyes, nor the sweep of her lashes, nor the curve of her smile, the sound of her laughter. When they had finished with the meal he swept her from her chair, mindless of the green velvet dress, mindless of the servants who discreetly disappeared, and with drama and finesse he walked her up the stairs. And all the while her arms curled around his neck, her eyes met his with a fascinating radiance. When he came to their room he sat her down upon the fine bed they shared, and he knelt down before her, slipping off her black satin pumps. He looked up and saw something in her eyes that he had not caught before, as if the moon had cast strange shadows upon them, and in that moment he shuddered suddenly. She had married him under duress; they had never once exchanged words of love, though they whispered often and fervently enough of passion.

She reached out, touching his face, a cry upon her lips. “What is it?” she whispered.

He shook his head, searching out her eyes still, then setting his fingers upon the laces to her bodice. The sweet, fascinating scent of her rose to sweep around him like a haunting caress. Her breasts spilled forward and he rested his cheek against them, then found her eyes again. “I just wonder, lady, will you always be so gentle, so tender, with your love?”

“Always!” she whispered, stroking his dark hair and holding him close to her.

He rose with her, bearing her downward, velvet, fur, and all. The dress fell away from the perfection of her upper body and her hair streamed free and wild upon her nakedness. He pressed his lips to hers and wondered at the curious fever and fear that gripped him that night. “You have spun magic webs upon me, Amanda. Webs of silk and steel, so soft and yet so strong. With a word from your lips, I would long for death; for the brush of your fingers upon me, love, I would move mountains. Forever, lady, I am yours.”

She returned his stare, curious at his whimsy, of which he was capable, but not so often given. He was customarily a man who took what he wanted, even when what he wanted was his wife. But this night the words played easily upon his lips, just as his fingers stroked her slowly, without the demand, without the solicitation. It was her eyes he delved now, raking and searching, and still the easy mist and magic of his words lay with them, and the soft mood that had come from the wassail drinks wrapped sweetly about her. She touched him and vowed to him, “I will love you sweet and tender always, my lord.”

He stroked her cheek with his forefinger, tracing the pattern of her lips. “Betray not the heart, Amanda. Of all in life, that is the greatest sin.”

She parted her lips to protest, but that was when she lost her easy lover, when he seized her with passion and demand. The words were lost to her as the mist swirled away and the startling reality of sensation touched and ravaged her. Through it all he was ruthless in what he would take from her, and yet he was also a tender lover. No hands more gentle could ever touch a woman, no fingers could stroke upon her or touch her most intimate secrets with greater sensitivity. No whispers more driving could caress her ears; no lips could touch the whole of her with greater thoroughness or greater determination to elicit and evoke sensation. They rode the wind, and the wind danced within them, bringing them to erotic peak upon peak, and in the end she was sated, sleeping upon crystal snowdrifts of the mind, cocooned in both beauty and warmth.

In the morning Amanda discovered him at the small table within their room, sipping coffee as he read the latest issue of the Virginia Gazette . He was fully attired in plain clothing, navy breeches, a white cotton shirt with no lace or frills, a wool surcoat, and his high boots. His greatcoat lay over a chair by the door, and she knew that he meant to travel over his land. He would spend time with Jacques, and he would see each and every one of his tenants, and she knew that if any one of them was in need, he would see to it that they ate well for Christmas. The holiday was upon them; there would be a great party here for landowners and tenants and servants alike. It was tradition. He had told her about it earlier.

He sensed that she was awake and he looked at her, smiling though his eyes were grave. Amanda smiled in return, rising, sweeping the sheet about her as she came to stand behind him. He swallowed more coffee, indicating an article. “Some of Dunmore’s navy men raided a warehouse on the coast. The Johnsboro warehouse. There were all manner of French weapons being stored there.”

She was glad that she stood behind him. Her fingers clenched and she shivered painfully. Her eyes would have given her away, for they widened in fear and dismay. She could not speak.

But her husband did not suspect her. He shook his head. “At least no one was killed or injured. No one knows where the guns came from—’tis an abandoned place. Thank God. I am sick to death of seeing men die.”

He set his cup down and rose and kissed her absently. “I am off. Perhaps you would like to ride with us tomorrow.”

She nodded, unable to find her voice. He was watching her again. “There is no reason that you should not, is there?” he asked her.

“I—I don’t know what you mean,” she managed to gasp.

He looked her carefully up and down. “I mean,” he said softly, “there is no sign of a child for us as yet, is there?”

“Oh!” Relief flooded through her. She shook her head, blushing. “No…no.”

He kissed her again and turned away, picking up his civilian tricorn. Then he turned back with a wicked smile and he drew her into his arms, and kissed her with the fever and shockingly intimate surge and sizzle that had first taught her the stirrings of desire. Her knees went weak and her heart came to thunder against her ears, and fear and unease were gone. She fell against him, and when he raised his lips, she met his eyes with an emerald smile that was secure and dazzling…and ever tender.

He smiled. “I am about to forget the day.”

“There is always the night.”

“There is nothing like the moment.”

“My lord, how could I dare to argue with you?”

He started to laugh, and she did not know where the breathlessness would lead, but there was a discreet tap on the door and Eric broke from her regretfully.

The next day she did ride with him, plowing through the snow when they were inland, shivering against the breeze when they came upon the river. Winter was coming upon them full force, but despite the cold and the harshness, she enjoyed herself tremendously. She loved the tenant farms with their thatched roofs and wattle-and-daub walls, their central rooms with spinning wheels and hearths and kitchens all in one. They were, above all, homes of warmth and laughter, filled with the melody of the voices of children. Jacques accompanied them wherever they visited. Amanda found him more curious each time she saw him. He was so strikingly good-looking with his dark-fringed light eyes and fine features. Every bit the Frenchman in dress and manner, but an Acadian still, and wary of both the peoples who turned from him. He watched her too, she thought. But it did not distress her. It warmed her.

Christmas came. Religious services were humbly observed, then it was time for the people to celebrate, and they all drew to Cameron Hall. There was mistletoe to dangle from the doorways, and the house was decorated with holly and wreaths and ribbons. Fires crackled brilliantly, musicians played the old European tunes and the livelier colonial music too. The lord and lady of the house took part in all the festivities. Amanda danced with the very prop Thom, with the round little cook, with a very shy and blushing groom. She was laughing, delighted to catch her husband’s approving eye across the room, when suddenly there was a pounding on the door. Eric, leaning against the bannister in the hallway, waved away Thom and Cassidy and started for the door himself. He opened it and stepped back, welcoming their new guests.

“Well, well!” boomed her father’s voice. “Daughter!”

Nigel Sterling walked into the room, Lord Hastings and Lord Tarryton, the Duke of Owenfield, with his new lady duchess following behind him.

The music died, the servants ceased to shriek with laughter, and a curious quiet fell upon the room.

“Hello, Father,” Amanda greeted him coolly. Her fingers were trembling. She could not forget that the weapons had been seized, that she was lying to the man with whom she had fallen in love. Dear God, why on this day! she prayed in silence, but he was already upon her, taking her hands, brushing her cheek with his cold kiss. Thom was quickly there to take coats and hats; she greeted Lord Hastings and Robert and his duchess, and quickly suggested that they retire to the dining room where there was still warm food and a blazing fire. She saw that Eric watched her, carefully, and she wondered at his thoughts.

There was a scuffle as she led their new guests toward the dining room. Startled, Amanda twirled around. She was shocked to see Eric standing there with his arm locked about Jacques Bisset’s throat, holding him despite the fact that the muscled Frenchman was straining to break free. Eric smiled despite his determined fight. “Do go on, my love. I’ll be right with you.”

“But, Eric—”

“Our guests, Amanda.”

Confused, she nevertheless hurried forward to escort their new guests to the dining room. As she closed the doors, she could see that Danielle had come over to talk swiftly to the man she had claimed as her brother. Amanda could not catch the words. With a sigh, she gave up. She turned about, facing those who had come. Her father watched her with his ever-calculating eyes; Lord Hastings with his ever-lecherous eyes; Robert with a startling lust; and Anne, the Duchess of Owenfield, with her soft brown doe’s eyes, ever frightened and timid.

“Anne, you must have some of our Christmas grog!” Amanda said cheerfully. “And the rest of you must try this too. Father, I know you prefer your whiskey, but this is a wonderful concoction with a trace of whiskey in it.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but played the grand hostess, pouring from a silver decanter that sat atop a small pot of burning oil to keep the contents warm. She placed a stick of cinnamon in each drink. By then Eric had come into the room, looking only slightly worse for the curious tussle.

“Welcome,” he said to the group, taking Anne’s hand in the best manner of the Virginia aristocrat. He kissed her fingers and smiled at the young woman—a trifle more gently than he smiled at her, Amanda thought, but then she realized that he was very sorry for the timid woman married to Robert. “Duchess, it is indeed a pleasure to have you here. I’m so sorry I missed your wedding. I understand it was quite the occasion of the decade.” His eyes sparkled. “Tell me, do I detect something special here already?”

“Quite.” Robert had the grace to hold his wife’s shoulders and pull her against him. “We are expecting our first child.”

“Oh! How wonderful!” Amanda said, raising her glass to the pair. “A toast to the two of you, and to a healthy, happy babe.”

“Here, here!” Eric agreed, and he lifted his glass to the pair. “To a healthy, happy babe! Come, lady, be warmed by the fire.”

Eric was wonderful with Anne, light and warm, making her feel very much at home. But the conversation did not stay light long; Nigel Sterling brought up the fact that Williamsburg was alive with gossip about the conclave that was already being planned. “The time is coming, and coming fast, when a man will have to make up his mind! He will either be the king’s servant or his enemy.”

Eric waved a hand in the air, but Amanda noted that her husband’s eyes were glittering with tension. She knew to beware of him in such moods; she doubted if her father would see the danger or heed it. “Nigel, I have just recently returned from service at Dunmore’s request,” Eric stated. “I met the Indians upon our borders while politicians argued. Why do you tell me this?”

“Because, sir, you should abhor these proceedings! You, with your strength and power and your influence, you should be out there fighting the hotheads, not joining them!”

“Or leading them!” Robert suggested sharply.

It was out—it was almost an accusation of treason.

Amanda stood, bursting in between them. “I’ll not have it!” she announced, lifting her chin imperiously. “This is my house, and it is Christmas, and every man here shall behave with propriety for the occasion, or leave. This is not a tavern, and you’ll not act like it! Are we all understood? Nigel, you are my father, and as such you are welcome here, but not to reap discord!”

There was silence for several long seconds. Amanda realized that Eric was looking at her and that his temper had faded. His eyes were glistening with laughter.

“Amanda—” Sterling began.

Eric rose. “You heard my wife. We’ve quite a traditional Christmas here and we are delighted to have you, but only in the Christmas spirit. Come along. We’ve excellent musicians, quite in the spirit of the holiday. Come, Lady Anne, ’tis a slow tune. If your husband will allow, I will gladly lead you gently to it.” The group returned to the party.

Robert nodded distractedly. As soon as Eric had taken Anne to the dance floor, he swept his arms about Amanda. He held her too close. Trying to ignore him and the pressure of his arms, she danced focusing her attention on the music and the movement of her feet. The fiddler was wonderful and the plaintive tunes of the instrument, joined by the soft strains of flute and harp, were haunting. Or they could be…if she did not feel Robert’s arms about her.

“Marriage becomes you, Amanda. You are more beautiful than ever.”

“Thank you. And congratulations. You are to be a father.”

“No child yet, eh? Tell me, do you sleep with the bastard?”

“With the greatest pleasure,” she replied sweetly. She felt his hands quicken upon her so that she was in pain; he nearly snapped her fingers.

“You’re lying,” he told her.

“No woman could find a more exciting lover.”

“You have not forgiven me yet. But you love me still, and I can warn you now, the time is coming when you will run to me.”

“Oh? Is it?”

“The British soldiers will descend upon this town very soon, and men the likes of your husband will be burned in the wake.”

She wanted to retort something horrible to him, but she did not have the chance. Her father touched his shoulder, and despite Robert’s irritated expression, he was forced to relinquish his hold upon her. She was no more pleased to be held by her father, but she had little choice.

“You did good work, daughter,” he told her softly. Her heart leapt uneasily. “The arms were stashed where you said.”

“Then we are even.”

“There is no such thing as even. You will serve me when I demand that you do.”

“You’re a fool, Father. It will not be so easy! Haven’t you begun to understand anything yet? There are arrest warrants abounding in Boston—and no one to see them carried out. The people are turning away from this mess that men like you are causing!”

He smiled. “Don’t forget, daughter, that I do not make idle threats. When I need you again, you will obey me.”

He halted, turning her over to Lord Hastings. Amanda, wretchedly miserable from her father’s words, tried to smile and bear the man. She was certain that he drooled upon her breast, and by the time the music came to a halt at last she was ready to scream and go racing out into the snow. She excused herself and raced outside to the back porch, desperate for fresh air, be it frigidly cold.

The river breeze rushed in upon her. She touched the snow on the railing and rubbed it against her cheeks and the rise of her breasts, and then she shivered, staring out at the day. It was gray now, and bleak. And it had been such a beautiful, shimmering Christmas.

“Amanda.”

She turned around, startled. Eric had come outside. His arms were covered in naught but the silk of his shirt, but he didn’t seem to notice the cold. The wind lifted a dark lock of his hair and sent it lashing back against his forehead. He walked toward her, pulling her into his arms. “What is going on here?”

“What?” she cried.

“Why has he come?”

“Father? Because it is Christmas.”

He kept staring into her eyes, and as he did so, the biting cold seemed to seep into her, wrapping around her very heart. Now was the time. She should throw her arms around him; she should admit to everything.

She could not. For one, there was England. Above everything, she could not turn upon her own beliefs.

And there was Damien. She could not risk his life.

She moistened her lips and wondered desperately what would happen if it did come to war. She was Eric Cameron’s wife; and she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that he would cast aside everything for his own beliefs. Would he so easily cast her aside? And what of her? Perhaps she dared not utter the words, for they were painful ones, but she did love him. Deeply. More desperately than she had ever imagined.

It was terrifying.

“He has come,” she whispered, “to make me wretched.”

Eric’s arms tightened upon her. “And Tarryton?”

“Robert?” she said, startled.

“I saw the heat and the passion in your eyes when you spoke with him. Tell me, was it anger, or something else?”

“Anger only. I swear it.”

“Would God that I could believe you.”

She pulled away from him, hating him at that moment.

“You never pretended to love me,” he reminded her. He kept walking toward her, and he was a stranger to her then. He caught her arm and pulled her back to him.

“He is a married man expecting a child!” Amanda lashed out.

“And you are a married woman.”

“That you could think—” she began, then she exploded with a violent oath and escaped him, running past him and back into the house. The party was dying down. The servants were no longer guests, but they hurried about to pick up glasses and platters and silver mugs that had been filled with Christmas cheer. Amanda had assumed that her father and the others were staying; they were not. They took their leave soon after, telling her they meant to make Williamsburg before nightfall. Eric had come in quietly behind Amanda. He bid them all farewell cordially, ever the lord of his castle.

Amanda escaped him, rushing up to bed. She dressed in a warm flannel gown and sat angrily before her dressing table, brushing her hair.

A few minutes later the door burst open. Eric, who obviously had imbibed more than was customary, stood there for a moment, then came in and dropped down upon their bed. He tore off his boots, his surcoat, and his shirt, letting them fall where they would. Amanda felt his eyes upon her. He watched her every movement even as she tried to ignore him.

“Why is it, Amanda, that we are not expecting a child?” he asked at last.

Her brush went still as the tense and brooding question startled her motionless. Then she began to sweep the brush through the dark red tresses again. “God must know, for I do not.”

He leapt up, coming behind her. He took the brush from her fingers and began to work it through her hair. The tendrils waved softly against his naked chest as he worked. She sat very still, waiting.

“You do not do anything to keep us from having a child, do you?” he asked.

“Of course not!” She gasped, trembling. Then she rose and spun around on him. “How can you suggest such a thing! ’Tis you—you marry me, and then leave me!”

His eyes softened instantly and he drew her against him. “Then you do not covet him, do not lie awake dreaming that the duchess should die, that perhaps…”

“My God! How could you think such a heinous thing of me!” she cried, outraged. She tried to jump to her feet and leap by him. He caught her and shoved her back to the chair, and suddenly she discovered that she was not just furious, but hungry for the man. She teased her hair against his bare midriff, soft sounds forming in her throat. She touched him with just the tip of her tongue, lathing his hard-muscled flesh until she felt the muscles ripple and tremble. She loosened his breeches and made love to him there until he shouted out hoarsely, wrenching her up and into his arms. He entered into her like fire, and the passion blazed steep and heady and wild. Crying, throbbing, sobbing, she reached a shattering climax. She felt the volatile shuddering of his body atop her own, and she shoved him from her, curling away, ashamed. He tried to draw her back. She stared into the night, amazed that she could be so angry, hate him so fiercely, and be so desperate for his touch.

“Amanda—”

“No!”

“Yes,” he said simply. He drew her back and kissed her forehead. His soft husky laughter touched her cheek. “Perhaps you will better understand me after this night,” he murmured. “Anger, passion, love, and pain. Sometimes they are so very close that it is torment. I have wanted you in fury, in deepest despair, when wondering if I am a fool, when despising myself for the very weakness of it. That is the nature of man.”

She curled against him, glad that he did not laugh at her. He sighed softly, his breath rustling her hair. “If the world could just stay as it is.…”

His words faded away. For the first time since he had come home she guiltily remembered the map she held in the bottom of one of her jewelry cases. A shudder ripped through her. His arms tightened about her. “Are you cold?” he asked.

“No,” she lied. She was suddenly colder than she had ever been, even with his arms about her.

She determined to change the subject of their changing world. “What was that with Jacques today? You never told me; what a very curious incident.”

“Oh. Well, he wanted to kill your father. I stopped him.”

Amanda wrenched around, certain that he was fooling her. She glanced at his handsome features in the darkness, and she saw that though he smiled, he was very serious. The firelight played upon his bronze and muscled chest as he lay with his fingers laced behind his head. “Why does he want to kill my father?”

“Heaven knows. Or, perhaps, everyone knows,” he said quietly. He reached out and touched her chin very gently. “I have wanted to kill him upon occasion. He is not a very nice man.”

Amanda flushed and her lashes fluttered above her cheeks. Eric reached out for her, pulling her back into the snug warmth of his arms. “You are not responsible for your father,” he said briefly, dismissing the entire situation.

“You did not punish Jacques?”

“Punish Jacques? Of course not. He is a very proud man. He is not a slave or an indentured servant of any type—he could up and leave at a second’s notice. And I need him.”

She smiled in the darkness, thinking that he did tease her then. “How did you calm Jacques, then?”

He was quiet for a long time. “I told him that I wanted to kill Nigel myself,” he said at last. His arm held heavily around her when she tried to rise. “Go to sleep, Amanda. It has been a long day.”

She lay still beside him, but she did not sleep.

They traveled into Williamsburg to welcome in the New Year of 1775. The governor hosted a party, and despite the political climate, it was attended by all important men, be they leaning toward the loyalist side or the patriot. Watching the illustrious crowd that had come for the festivities, Amanda felt a tightening in her breast. It was, she thought, the last time that she should see all these people so, Damien laughing and sweeping Geneva about the floor, then bowing very low to the governor and his lady. The music was good, the company was sweet, but the mood was such that she clung to her husband’s arm and remained exceptionally silent. Damien brought her to the floor and she chastised him for not appearing for Christmas. But the young man was very grave, almost cold. She wanted to box his ears, for she wouldn’t be in her present predicament at all if it weren’t for him. I should have let them hang you! she nearly shouted, but then her father appeared, asking for the dance, and Damien demurely handed her over to her father.

“I need something more,” Sterling told her.

“What?”

“British troops are moving with greater frequency into Boston, and I suspect help here. There isn’t going to be any help for Virginia if I can’t get more information.”

“I haven’t any more! Eric has just come home; it has been winter.”

“Find something.”

“I won’t do it.”

“We shall see,” he told her softly, and left her standing alone on the dance floor. She quickly fled over to the punch bowl, but the sweet-flavored drink was not spiked. Robert Tarryton found her there.

“Looking for something stronger, love?”

“I’m not your love.”

He sipped the punch himself, assessing her over the rim of his glass. Her hair was piled into curls on top of her head, her shoulders were just barely covered with the fringe of the mink that trimmed her gown. “The time is coming. There’s to be a Virginia Convention in March. In Richmond. The delegates are hiding from the governor.”

“They can hardly be hiding when Mr. Randolph approached the governor himself about the elections.”

He smiled. “Your husband has been asked to be there.”

“What? But it will be closed sessions, surely—”

“Nevertheless, madame, I have it from the most reputable sources that he has agreed to be there.” He bowed, smiling deeply. “The time is coming, Amanda…” he whispered. Then he, too, slipped away into the crowd.

Glancing across the room, Amanda saw that Eric was heavily involved in conversation with a man she knew to be a member of the House of Burgesses. Feeling doubly betrayed, Amanda retrieved her coat and headed for the gardens. A tall handsome black man in impeccable livery opened the door for her, and she fled out into the night. She wandered aimlessly, for the flowers were dead, and the garden was barren and as wintry as her heart. She had never deceived herself, she tried to reason. Eric was a traitor, she had known it. She had despised him for it. She had never thought that she could learn to love a traitor so dearly.

But what would she do while the world crumbled?

As she came around to the stables, she suddenly heard a strange commotion among the horses and grooms. For a moment she was still, and then she hurried over to see what was happening. An older man with naturally whitened hair was instructing a few boys on how to make a fallen, saddled mount stand. The horse was down, sprawled upon the ground in a grotesque parody of sleep.

“What has happened?” Amanda cried.

The older man, wiping a sheen of sweat from his face despite the winter’s cold, looked her way quickly, offering her a courteous bow. “Milady, we’re losing the bay, I’m afraid. And I canna tell ye why! ’Tis a fine young gelding belonging to Mr. Damien Roswell, and of a sudden, the horse is taken sick as death!”

The boys had just about gotten the mount to its feet. Beautiful dark brown eyes rolled suddenly. They seemed to stare right at Amanda with agony and reproach. Then the horse’s legs started to give again. The eyes glazed over, and despite the best efforts of the grooms, the beautiful animal crashed down dead upon the hard, cold ground.

Amanda started to back away. A scream rose in her throat. It was Damien’s horse. Dead upon the ground. It was a warning of what might soon befall Damien if she did not obey her father.

“Milady—” someone called.

She heard no more. Just as the horse had done, she crashed to the ground, oblivious to the world around her.

When she came to, she was being lifted in her husband’s arms. His silver blue eyes were dark as cobalt then, upon her hard with suspicious anxiety. She closed her eyes against him, but held tight to him. “I’ll take you inside—”

“No, please, take me home.”

There was a crowd around them, Damien among them. She did not want to see her cousin’s concerned face, and so she kept her eyes closed. Eric announced that she just wanted to go home, and then he was carrying her to their carriage. Inside he was quiet, and he did not whisper a word. When they reached the town house he carried her upstairs, asking that his housekeeper make tea, the real tea that had come from China aboard his own ship. Danielle came to help Amanda from her gown and into a warm nightdress, clucking with concern over her. Amanda kept saying dully that she was all right. But when she was dressed and in bed Eric himself came with the tea. She did not like the very suspicious and brooding cast to his eyes, so she kept her own closed. But he made her sit up, made her sip the tea, and then demanded to know what had happened.

“The horse. It—it died.”

“There’s more to it than that.”

Amanda flashed him an angry glare. “If Geneva or Anne or the governor’s lady had passed out so, you and every man there would have assumed it was no sight for a lady to see!”

“But you are a lady created of stronger stuff. You are not so sweet—or so insipid—a woman, and hardly such a delicate…lady.”

She lunged at him in a flash of temper, very nearly upsetting the whole tea tray. He rescued it just in time, his eyes narrowing upon her dangerously.

After setting the tray upon the dresser, he turned to her. “Amanda—”

She came up upon her knees, challenging him. “What of you, milord?” she demanded heatedly. “I was fascinated to hear that you were traveling to Richmond!”

She had taken him by surprise; he seemed very displeased by it, and wary. “I see. You managed to slip away with your old lover long enough to discern that information. You are a wonderful spy.”

“I am not a spy at all!” she insisted, beating upon his chest. “While you, milord, are a—”

He caught her wrists and his eyes sizzled as he stared down at her. “Yes, yes, I know. I am a traitor. What happened with Damien’s horse, Amanda?”

She lowered her eyes quickly, tugging to free her wrists. She did not want to tell him that Damien, and he himself, stood in line to die in the same agonizing manner as the horse.

“I’m tired, Eric.”

“Amanda—”

A lie came to her lips, one she would live to regret, one she abhorred even as she whispered it. “I’m not feeling well. I think that I might—that I might be with child.”

His fingers instantly eased their hold upon her. He lay her back upon the bed, his eyes glowing, his features suddenly young and more striking than ever. His whispers were tender, his touch so gentle she could barely stand it.

“You think—”

“I don’t know as yet. Just please…please, I am so very tired tonight!”

“I shall sleep across the hall,” he said instantly. He touched her forehead with his kiss, then her lips, and the touch was barely a breath of the sweetest tenderness. He rose, and her heart suddenly ached with a greater potency than it thundered as she watched him walk across the hall.

She lay there for long hours in wretched misery, then she rose, and quickly dressed. With trembling fingers she reached for her jewelry case and found the map that had been in the botany book. She needn’t tell anyone where she had found it. On the floor of some tavern, perhaps.

Silently she crept from the room and down the stairs, and then out into the night.

She brought her hand to her lips, nearly screaming aloud, when a shadow stepped from behind a tree, not a half block from the house. Nigel Sterling his arms crossed over his chest, blocked her way.

“You have something for me, daughter? I was quite sure that you would.”

She thrust the map toward him. “There will be no more, do you hear me? No more!”

“What is it?”

“I believe that it points out stashes of weapons about the Tidewater area. Did you hear me? I have done this. I will do no more.”

“What if it comes to war?”

“Leave me alone!”

She turned to flee.

Sterling started to laugh. Even as she ran back toward the town house, she heard him wheezing with the force of his laughter.

She didn’t care right then. She had appeased him for the next few months at least. And God alone knew what would happen then.

She hurried back up the steps of the town house, opened the door, and closed it behind her. Her lashes fell wearily over her eyes with relief, then she pushed away from the door, ready to start up the stairs.

She paused, her throat closing, her limbs freezing, the very night seeming to spin before her. But blackness did not descend upon her now. She could see too clearly, she was too acutely aware of the man who stood on the stairs, awaiting her. He wore a robe that hung loosely open to his waist, his sleekly muscled chest with its flurry of dark hair naked to her view and strikingly virile. His fingers curled about the bannister as if they would like to wind so about her throat. His eyes were like the night, black with fury, and his words, when he spoke, were furiously clipped.

“Where were you?”

“I—I needed air.”

“You needed rest before.”

“I needed air now.”

“Where were you?”

“A gentleman, even a husband, has no right to question his lady that way!”

“It has been established that I am no gentleman, you are no lady. Where were you?”

“Out!”

His steps were menacing as he came toward hers. She backed into the hallway, trying to escape his wrath. “You can’t force me to tell you!” she cried out. “You cannot force me…” Her words trailed away as he neared her. Blindly she struck out, afraid to trust his rage. He ignored her flailing hands and ducked low, sweeping her over his shoulder.

“No! You cannot make me—stop this instantly! One of the servants will hear us…will come…stop!”

His hand landed forcefully upon her derrière. “I don’t give a pig’s arse if the servants do come, and perhaps I cannot force you to tell me why you prowl the streets. But while you do so, madame, I shall be doubly damned if I shall be cast from my own bedroom!”

She pounded against his shoulder to no avail. A quick and vicious fight followed when they reached their chamber, but then his lips touched hers, and she remembered his words. Anger…it was so close to passion, so close to need. She wanted to keep fighting. She could not. The fire was lit, in moments it blazed. She never did betray her mission, nor did it matter. Despite all that soared between them, she lost something that night.

By morning Eric was gone. He left a letter telling her that he was headed for the convention and that she was to go home. She would do so with little fuss, he suggested, because certain of the servants would see that she did so by her own power or theirs.

The note was not signed “Your loving husband,” “Love, Eric,” or even “Eric.” Warning words were all that were given to her. “Behave, Madame, or else!”

With a wretched cry she threw her pillow across the room and then she lay back, sobbing. All that she had discovered, she realized, was lost. Love had been born, it had flourished…and then it had foundered upon the rocky shores of revolution.