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XII

St John’s Episcopal Church Across Shockoe Creek Outside Richmond, Virginia March 1775

T he debate had been endless, hot and heavy and passionate, and then, curiously, the delegates fell silent again. There was resistance, Eric thought, quietly watching the men around him, but something was taking form here today that was destined to cast the course of a nation.

Richmond, the little town founded by Colonel William Byrd II in 1733, did not boast the fine accommodations of Williamsburg. There were not so many taverns, and certainly the inns were far less numerous, and far less elegant. Yet it seemed much better to be here, at the falls of the James River, than in Williamsburg, beneath the governor’s nose.

The town itself hadn’t had a place large enough for the conclave to convene, so the delegates were meeting in the church. To the loyalists among the populace—who sensed the depth of the rebellion going on within hallowed halls —the fact that they met in the church made the assembly an obscene one.

And despite the warnings of caution, Patrick Henry had the floor again, the West County giant, the rough but eloquent speaker who seemed to possess the ability to move mountains with the power of his words.

“It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry Peace! Peace! But there is no peace. The war is actually begun. The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”

The tenor of his voice, the sound, the substance of words, rang and rang against the day, with startling, dizzying, almost blinding passion. Eric thought that men would leap to their feet, that they would scream and cry from the force of the emotion.

But there was silence. Men appeared stunned by the boldness and the honesty of the words.

Henry looked around the assembly, then sat.

And still his words were met by silence as they seemed to echo and echo through the church. Then slowly a few delegates rose to oppose him, but then Richard Henry Lee was on his feet, speaking up for Henry’s resolution, and then Thomas Jefferson asked for recognition. Jefferson was a damned good writer but not much of an orator. Still, when he rose, and spoke for Patrick Henry’s resolves, a peculiar eloquence touched him. Tall, with his flaming red hair neatly queued, he gestured awkwardly, but still, his words, his manner, touched many men. Eric could feel it in his own heart; he could see it in other men’s eyes.

When the gentlemen at last broke for the day, it was resolved that they would form committees.

It was resolved that troops would be raised for Virginia’s defense.

And it was known that within the next few days, the vote would be cast for the delegates to travel to Philadelphia a second time.

Eric, leaving the church at Washington’s side, was quiet as he heard the words spoken by Patrick Henry repeated again and again. They were whispered at first, but then the whispers rose.

Two years ago they would have all claimed his words treason. But now only the staunch loyalists thought so.

“He shall go down in history,” Washington commented.

Eric grinned as they carefully moved through the early-spring muck, heading for one of the local taverns.

“I imagine he shall,” Eric agreed.

Washington stopped suddenly, leaning against a tree that had just sprouted soft green leaves. He turned and looked at Eric intently. “It will be war, you know.”

“Yes, I think it shall.”

“What will you do?”

Eric twisted his jaw, watching his own friend levelly. “I think, George, that over the years I have more than proven my loyalty to Virginia.”

“Your loyalty is not in question. But you have grave interests. I’ve spoken with many dear friends who are planning to return to England. Fairfax and Sally…they are going soon. Many friends.”

Eric nodded grimly. “I’ve spoken with a few cousins who are leaving. I’ve an appointment tonight with a distant Cameron relation. I’m selling him property I have in England and I’m buying up the land that he has bordering my own.”

“You are lucky to be able to make such arrangements.” Washington watched him intently. “What of your wife?”

Eric did not mean to stiffen so abruptly and so completely, and give away so much of himself. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said too quickly. Life had moved fast and furiously in the last few months. Momentous things were happening. He was caught in the wild winds of change, and he was eager to ride them. He had steered his mind from thoughts of Amanda by day, but she had haunted him every night, and along with the pain and the longing had come bitterness. He would never be able to trust her. What in God’s name had she been doing, running into the night? Meeting with an influential Tory—or with a lover? Or perhaps the lover and the Tory were one and the same. His anger at her had been so great he hadn’t dared to stay with her.

She had lied about the child. She had known something about the death of Damien’s horse. She was betraying him with every breath she took.

“What do you mean, ‘What of my wife’?” he queried coldly.

“Eric, I’m your friend. It’s just that it is well known that Lady Cameron’s sympathies have not changed—”

“She is suspected of something?” Eric asked flatly.

“Eric, I do not try to offend you—”

“George, you do not offend me. But Amanda is my wife. She will support me.”

“But—”

“Or else,” Eric said, squaring his jaw stubbornly. “I will take care of her.”

“What if—”

“I will take care of her, George. You’ve my solemn vow on that. If it becomes necessary, I will see that she is removed.”

Washington looked at him, then sighed softly. “I pray, my friend, that you can. I for one could not. But come, let’s have a drink together, while we still can. I’ve a feeling that things that have so far crawled will take off with a mad gallop soon.”

Twenty minutes later they were all within the tavern at a table, he and George, Richard Henry Lee, Patrick Henry, and a few others. An elderly gentleman, Pierre Dupree, from north of the Richmond area, had joined them. And yet, as the men drank and laughed and teased and tried to take harbor from the growing sense of tension they themselves were creating, Eric noted that Dupree was watching him and paying little attention to the true firebrands who were the root of revolution.

Dupree, white-haired, impeccably dressed in mustard breeches and crimson coat, could down his fair share of whiskey. As the others flagged and begged leave to retire for the night, Dupree remained. Finally Washington rose, and all that remained in the dimly lit place at the table were Eric—and Dupree.

“Well, my young ami ,” Dupree murmured, “perhaps another drink?”

The candle burned low upon their table. Slumped back in his chair, Eric grinned, feeling lighter than he had for some time. “Monsieur Dupree, you have studied me so seriously. You have waited for so long. Why?”

The old man offered him a Gaelic shrug. “Curious, monsieur. And with no right to be so.”

“Curious?” Surprised, Eric raised his pewter tankard and downed a long swallow of whiskey. “I admit to being baffled, monsieur. Tell me, what is it you wish to know?”

“I don’t wish to offend you.”

Eric smiled. “Don’t offend me, sir, merely speak.”

Dupree inhaled deeply. “Perhaps I can be of service to you, and that is what really draws me.”

“Then I am grateful. Please, tell me what this is all about.”

Dupree plunged in then, quickly and somberly, his words so soft that they did not carry in the empty room. “I understand that Amanda Sterling is now Lady Cameron.”

Eric’s reaction was instantaneous. Again he felt the stiffening of his muscles, the razor pain that touched him. The loneliness, the bitterness. He wanted his wife. He wanted her with him, beneath him, crying out softly in hunger and need. He wanted to strike her and walk away from her.

“She is my wife.” He did not realize that his eyes had narrowed darkly, that any semblance of a smile had fled his features, that his words came out in a growl. “If you’ve something to say, then do so, for I tire and I lose my patience quickly!”

“It is a delicate matter—”

“Delicate be damned. If you would speak, do so. If not, leave me in peace!”

“There is a story—”

“Then tell it!”

Dupree had hesitated, but the man was no coward. He did not balk at Eric’s anger, but plunged in quickly. “Years and years ago I knew her mother.”

“My wife’s mother?”

“Yes. She was beautiful. So beautiful. Light and elegant, with the sun in her eyes, in her words, in her every movement. She was passion, she was energy, she was vitality! Remembering her gives me back my youth. She was so alive.”

Like Amanda, Eric thought. Always the flames in her eyes, the heat in her soul, the passion for life itself.

“Go on.” Again, the short words came as a growl.

Pierre Dupree moved closer. “I came to Williamsburg often in those days. I was a Frenchman born on Virginia soil, loyal to the King of England. But when I knew that Acadians were arriving in Williamsburg, desperate for homes, I had to come. I had to help those men who spoke my language. You understand?”

Eric merely nodded. Dupree went on. “I was Lenore’s friend. She trusted me. She—she came to me for advice.”

“About what?” Eric demanded.

“Well, she was kindness itself, you must remember. She saw the suffering; she saw the loss and confusion of the people. When the ships came laden with the exiled Acadians, Lenore demanded that her husband take some of them on. Perhaps it was not so great a kindness. I’m assuming you know Nigel Sterling.”

Again Eric nodded gravely, saying nothing, giving nothing. Dupree did not need his approval. He continued. “She never should have married him. Never. Sterling was always everything pompous and cruel in a man, despite his property, despite his title, despite his claim to wealth. He coveted glory, and greater titles, at the expense of all else. He did not deserve a woman like Lenore.”

“Pray, sir! The good woman is long dead and buried. And freed from Nigel Sterling. So of what do you prattle?”

“She came to me, sir, because she was going to bear a child. A child who did not belong to Nigel Sterling, but to a handsome young Frenchman. To an Acadian, that is, sir. To the man Sterling had taken on as hired help.”

Eric inhaled sharply, watching the man ever more intently.

Dupree saw that his words had sunk home. “She was in love. Deeply in love. Oh, it is easy to imagine. There was Sterling, hard, unbending—cruel. And there was the handsome Frenchman with light eyes and ebony hair and the kindest touch upon her! He loved her, I am certain. Who could not love Lenore? And yet when she came to me, I saw nothing of love and everything of scandal. I told her that she must not sin again, that she must give Sterling the child as his very own son or daughter, that for her sake—and for the very life of her lover!—she must never let Sterling know.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I was so very wrong! She should have fled with the Frenchman, she should have run to New Orleans with him. She might have found happiness. Instead…”

“Instead! What the hell happened, Dupree? Damn you, man, finish this thing now that you have started!”

“I know nothing for fact,” Dupree said regretfully, looking into his whiskey. “All I know is what was whispered of the Acadians. Sterling discovered her. He damned her, he fought with her. She tumbled down the stairway and was delivered too soon of her daughter. And as she lay abed, dying, bleeding to death, he swore to her that he would kill her lover. And he promised her that he would use her daughter and see that she paid for every sin her mother had ever committed. And when Lenore lay dead at last, he found the young Frenchman and beat him to death and buried him in some unmarked grave.”

“My God,” Eric breathed at last. He didn’t want to believe the man’s words. The accusations were too horrid.

But he could not disbelieve him. He had seen Nigel Sterling with his daughter. He had seen how he had treated her.

Did that mean that he had committed murder, though? Would he sink so very low?

His heart lurched suddenly, seeming to tear, to split as-sunder. God! He wanted to believe in her. He wanted to love her, to give her everything. What hold did Sterling have upon her?

He wanted her. He wanted her then to hold and cradle and keep and assure. He wanted to make certain that no one could hurt her again. That Nigel Sterling could never again reach her.

He jolted up suddenly, thinking of his own man, Jacques Bisset.

Jacques—who had seen Nigel and who had flown into a raving fury, determined to kill the man.…

Jacques, who had been found when Eric had been just a boy. Found on the roadside, barely alive, unconscious, barely breathing. Jacques, who had never known who he was, or from where he had come. All that he had known was that he was a Frenchman. Striking, with laughing dark eyes, fine features, full, sensual lips…

“Her father.”

“Your pardon, my lord?”

Eric shook his head vehemently. “Nothing—”

Suddenly Dupree’s light eyes clouded over and he looked very grave. “Lord Cameron! You must not believe that you have been tricked or defrauded! No one knows of this…oh, I am so distressed now. I had not realized that you might now despise your wife for being the love child of her mother and not the legitimate issue of Lord Sterling. Oh, please, you mustn’t despise her for this—”

“I assure you, sir, that I will never despise her for this.” He might be furious with her for any number of other reasons, but for being Jacques’s daughter rather than Sterling’s, he could only applaud her.

“Sir! I brought you this secret because I owed the girl’s mother. I have been plagued with guilt for years; I have worried about la belle jeune fille , and I beseech you—”

“And I assure you, Monsieur Dupree, that your secret about my wife’s birth shall remain my secret now. I do ask your permission, though, to tell the truth to Amanda, if I ever feel that it will be to her benefit to know.”

“Tell a lady that she is a love child? I cannot see where this would please one raised as she!”

“Bastard, actually,” Eric suggested with a trace of humor. “Still, Monsieur Dupree, the news might please her. At some later date. If that time comes …?”

Dupree lifted his hands in a typical French gesture. “She is your wife, Lord Cameron. You must know her very well.”

Not half as well as I would like, Eric thought. “Thank you, merci ,” he said aloud. Dupree rose then and left him at the round oak table. Eric downed the rest of his whiskey and sat there as the candle died, pensively watching the dying flicker of the flame.

Then he rose quickly, called for writing materials, and set about carefully to write to his wife.

He had not forgiven her; he did not know if he could. But he loved her, and he wanted her. Jacques and the servants had been keeping a steady eye upon her, but she was his responsibility. His temper had somewhat cooled. It was time to see her again.

He never knew quite what she would do.

The convention ended on March 27; Eric had returned to Williamsburg, where he had bade Amanda to meet him.

He did not go immediately to his town house, but stopped by the Raleigh for ale to cool his parched throat—and for a hot bath out in the privacy of one of the storerooms with only a lad who couldn’t begin to comprehend Eric’s determination to totally immerse himself more than necessary. He could have gone home and enjoyed bathing in far more luxury, but didn’t want to greet Amanda with the dust and mud of travel upon him. There was too much between them now, far too great a gulf. And he was far too eager to see her.

“Damn her!” he muttered aloud, through the steaming bath cloth that lay over his face.

“Your pardon, my lord?” the serving boy said with confusion.

He laughed softly, a dry sound, and removed the cloth. He grinned to the boy. “Nothing, lad. Just take your time before you marry, son, and even then, take more time!”

The boy grinned. Eric popped the cloth back upon his face, and she was there again before him. Amanda.

Many times he lay awake at night and cursed himself. The world was exploding, he was living in a time of drastic revolution and change. He was central to many of the things happening, and despite that, he spent his nights and often his days in anguished thought and dream and nightmare regarding his wife. He did love her so much. And that was the rub. It was bitter, bitter gall to wonder at the emotion she bore him, to never know for certain what was hidden beneath the sweep of her lashes, within the beautiful color of her eyes. There was always that which she held away from him, always that which she seemed to deny him with thought and stoic determination. He had walked away from her in anger, but he had been the one to pay the price. Now, knowing more about her, he wanted to try to find the truth within her heart and mind once more.

And still, he reflected, there was the matter of a man’s pride. He had, upon occasion, betrayed himself for her. He swore silently that he would never betray Virginia, or the colonies, or his men for her.

The steam had grown cold. He called for a towel and his clothes, dressed quickly, tipped the serving lad, and headed for the street and his horse. He was but minutes from the town house.

And when he arrived, he sat on his horse for several long moments. He wondered if she had even obeyed his summons to come here. His words had been curt, demanding her appearance. His pride had forged his words.

The moon, soft and glowing, rose high over him. The first of the spring roses were just beginning to blossom in the garden, and vines were curling around the latticed trellises upon the porch. The light of a gas lamp glowed softly from within the parlor, and suddenly, even as he watched, even as his heart and body quickened, he saw her silhouette. Slim, graceful, she moved across the room, leaving it. And then, seconds later, she was at the front door, opening it.

“Eric?”

He dismounted from his horse, patted its rump, and let the animal amble forward to graze on the small stretch of lawn before the house. The horse would make it to the stables by itself. He watched her where she stood upon the porch, awaiting him. It was spring, and a soft breeze rose, and her gown looked like spring, soft white and lace with delicate blue flowers upon it. Her hair was swept up demurely, but strands escaped it, like drifting curls of flame, touching her cheek, dusting across her shoulders. He could not see her eyes for the shadow, but he prayed that there had been a welcome in her voice.

He did not respond to her; he did not need to. The streets were lit with gas lamps and the moon itself was giving off a majestic glow. He started slowly along the path, seeking her eyes. She did not move. He came to the steps, and still she did not move, and then he stood before her, and he smelled the lush sweet scent of her hair and of her flesh. And he felt the racing tenor of her heart, saw the pulse thump erratically against her throat, and he wanted to sweep her into his arms and up the stairway right then. But then he forced himself to wonder if she trembled with pleasure at his return, or if she trembled with some secret fear or excitement due to some new espionage. Her beautiful eyes were so very wide, so anxious, almost as if she loved him, welcomed him.…

He allowed his eyes to travel over her and touch her, though he forced his itching fingers to remain still. “You are here,” he said simply.

She stepped back, her shoulders squared, her eyes suddenly as hard as diamonds. “You commanded that I come, my lord. You commanded that I retire to Cameron Hall, and so I did. Then you commanded that I come back here, and so I have.”

He caught her chin, lifting it, and his lip curled into a slow, cynical smile. “I commanded you to tell me what you did running about in the middle of the night too, and you defied me in every way imaginable.”

She snatched her chin from his grip, attempting to turn about. “If you have ordered me here simply to argue—”

“I have not, madame,” he said sharply, catching her arm, spinning her back about so that she faced him again. Her breasts rose provocatively with her agitation. A silken skein of hair fell like a burning cascade over her shoulder, loosened by the force of his touch. He clamped down hard upon his teeth, grateful that his breeches were tight, hating the fever that rushed through him, the desire that seemed to override both common sense and pride every time he touched her.

“Listen to me, my love!” he commanded her heatedly, coming closer against her, feeling the startling warmth of her body touch and inflame his. “There will be no argument. You’re my wife. You will not disappear by night again, or by day, for that matter. There are men out there who might gladly hang you—”

“And there are men out there who might gladly hang you!” she retorted, her eyes flashing. She tugged her arm away from him. “Must we squabble in the very street?” she demanded in a tense whisper.

He laughed, startled by her hauteur. “No! By all means, let’s do go in. I’d much rather squabble in our own bedchamber!”

A bright flush covered her cheeks but she did not reply to that, and he wondered if she hadn’t missed him in some small way. She opened the door, entering before him. She headed for the parlor, but he caught hold of her hand, pulling her back. Her eyes came wide upon his as he indicated the stairway. “I said that I’d rather squabble within my own bedchamber. That way, madame.”

She clenched her teeth. Her eyes snapped beautifully and he did not think that he could stand much more. She was going to defy him and deny him, he thought, but then she spun about in a regal fury and began to take the stairs swiftly. She burst into the bedroom. The door started to slam on him as he arrived behind her, but he caught it with his hand before it could do so and followed her in, then closing the door tightly behind him, and leaning against it. She stared at him for a moment, then spun around again to sit at her dressing table, removing the pins from her disheveled hair, brushing it with a high level of energy.

There was a sudden rapping upon the door. Eric turned impatiently and opened it. Mathilda stood there anxiously. “Oh! Lord Cameron! I hadn’t realized that you had come home. I heard the commotion and I was worried about my lady—”

“Ah, Mathilda! Thank you for your concern, but as you see, it is unnecessary. I am home and all is well.”

“And glad to see you, I am, my lord—”

“Thank you, Mathilda.” He quickly steered her around, away from the door. “Perhaps we’ll dine later.”

“Oh!” Mathilda flushed crimson, realizing that her master wanted to be alone with his wife. “Oh, of course!”

Eric closed the door once again to discover Amanda staring at him with a flush nearly as bright as Mathilda’s and the fire of battle naked in her eyes. “How could you be so crude!” she accused him.

“Crude? Lover, I have not yet begun.”

She spun back to her mirror, and her brush tore through her hair. “Spoken like a true patriot!” she hissed.

Swift steps brought him behind her. She leapt to her feet, spinning about to face him. “Don’t you dare come home like a strutting cock!” she warned him, her eyes ablaze with fury and passion. “I am tired of being ordered about and dragged here and there at your whim. Don’t you dare touch me!”

“Dare touch you!” he exclaimed, his fingers gripping tightly into the back of the chair she had so recently vacated. “Madame, I shall do far more than dare to touch you. And if you keep up with your present attitude toward my return, I shall be sorely tempted to deal with you as I did when you were a child.”

Her eyes widened and he could almost see her temper soar as she remembered that time when they had first met, when Eric had dragged her over his knee in the midst of the fox hunt. He took a step toward her and she seized her brush from her dressing table, hurtling it toward him. Eric ducked just in time.

Amanda knew she had gone too far when she saw the dark cast to his expression as his eyes met hers again. She hadn’t meant this, this awful fight, it was just that she was always afraid, it seemed. And he goaded her so.

What she had wanted was him, but she had gone too far now to admit that. She straightened her shoulders. She needed time. “Eric, let’s leave this be. I’ve things to do, we can cool down, we can talk later—”

“I don’t want to talk, Amanda,” he snapped.

“You’re being crude again!” she charged him.

“And I don’t want to cool down.”

“Don’t you take another step toward me.”

He did, and she looked quickly for a second object to throw. She found a book set upon the chair by the fire and hurled it so quickly that she found her mark, catching him right in the temple.

He swore furiously. Even as she cried out, he had grasped her wrist. “No, Eric, no!” she gasped, but he was not to be waylaid. Within seconds he was in the chair, and she was strung over his lap, and his palm was descending deftly upon her posterior. Outraged, she cried out. Desperately she freed herself from his hold, falling to the floor at his feet and staring at him with wrath nearly choking away her words.

“Now, madame—” he began.

“You must be insane. After what you’ve done! This is neither the time nor the place—”

“It is precisely the place, and the time,” he stated flatly.

It was not. She was quickly on her feet. Her eyes met his and she realized that he was still every bit as furious as she was. She decided on a hasty retreat, streaking toward the bedroom door. He was there beside her, slamming it closed. She stepped quickly away as he remained there, his back to the door. “The time, and the place, love. You’ll note, our bed lies there, my love, awaiting us.”

“I’ve no intention of joining you in bed. No intention, do you understand me?”

“Then the floor shall be just fine.”

He was already in motion. Even as she turned to flee a second time, his hands were upon her arm, jerking her around and into his arms. Gasping, she tried to kick him. She was off balance so, and he quickly swept her up, bearing her down to the floor. She found herself staring into his eyes, startled by the depth of the passion within them. “I have missed you deeply,” he breathed to her.

“Bastard!” she snapped back with soft venom. “I will not—” she paused, moistening her lips. “I will not make love with you here on the floor.” His lips were above hers. He smiled slowly. Her heart was thundering. He would surely strike her, or kiss her. He did not. Instead, he straddled her, and began to untie the ribbons to her bodice. She lay still, feeling his fingers move upon her, knowing how deeply she had missed him.

“I think that you’ll make love anywhere I demand,” he said.

“Oh!” Furious, she slapped his hands away. He laughed dangerously and warned her, “Make love, my lady, or take the risk of further interrogations!”

“Eric Cameron—” she began.

But then he did kiss her, and in moments she didn’t feel the floor, she felt the warmth and heat of the man and fire escalating between them. His hands were upon her, beneath her shirt and petticoats, finding naked flesh. She did not know what seized her there, she knew only that the flames of anger and passion were combining with her and that she could no longer fight him. He was quickly wedged between her thighs. His hand cupped her mound, his fingers stroked into the moist heat of her body even as his lips caught hers, searing her with another kiss. She felt him wrestle with his breeches, and then it was the steel shaft of his masculinity within her, and fevered winds quickly rose to rock the world between them. Desperately she rocked with him and clung to him, felt the pounding, pulsing rhythm, the need rising so high and sweet that it was nearly anguish. And then it burst upon her, so shattering, so strong, and filled with honeyed sweetness, that the world itself swung to darkness for long, long moments.

Then she kept her eyes closed as she tried to breathe slowly once again. She felt Eric shift from her, and she felt his eyes upon her. Then she felt his lips touching hers. Softly. So softly. She opened her eyes and met his. There was a certain sorrow within them.

He rose, lifting her up into his arms, and setting her down at the dressing table. She met his eyes in the mirror. He found her brush on the floor and stroked it through the sable strands of her hair.

“Why do we fight so?” he asked her.

She shook her head, unable to answer.

“Let me be tender,” he whispered softly.

He was going to make love to her again, she realized.

And she wanted him to do so. She still hungered for him. Hungered for him greatly.

He stroked his knuckles over her cheeks, then over her shoulders where they were bared. So gently now. His fingers stroked softly lower to the ribbons of her bodice, and those he finished untying. He slipped the straps of her shift from her shoulders, and pressed down upon the mounds of cotton and muslin until the gown and garment fell to her waist, baring her breasts to him in the mirror. She did not move, but continued to meet his gaze. His fingers closed over her breasts, molding them, cupping them. Then he flicked his thumbs upon her nipples, stroked around the aureoles, and delicately, softly, caressed the pebbled crests again. She moaned low and softly and with just a touch of desperation. Her eyes closed at last and her head fell back against his torso. And still, he saw, in the shimmering image of the mirror, the beauty of her. The fullness, the lushness of her breasts beneath his hands, the ivory gleam and perfection of her flesh, the startling fall of her hair against the slender column of her throat. He bent down, finding her lips, and kissed her. She tasted of everything sweet and intoxicating in life. Her lips trembled beneath his and parted.

He straightened and came around before her upon one knee. Her eyes wide and dilated, she looked down upon him.

“I’ll never ask you again where you went from the town house, Amanda,” he told her. “But I’ll never let you leave again. Do you understand me?” She nodded very slowly. Something about the way she looked at him swept the last of the anger from his being. He cried out in sudden frustration, rose, and pulled her to her feet against him. “You needn’t fear him, Amanda, do you understand me? You needn’t fear Nigel Sterling!”

Dismay filled her eyes. Her head fell back. Eric rushed on. “Dammit, don’t you understand me? You can never go to him again, never go near Tarryton again, or I shall be forced to kill one of them, can’t you understand that? Amanda! I am your husband, I will protect you. You needn’t fear Sterling or Tarryton!”

A soft sob escaped her and she tried to bury her face against him, but he could not allow her to do so. He caught her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Do you understand me, Amanda?”

“Yes! Yes!” she cried out, and tried to jerk free. He held her tight and his lips descended upon hers. They were bruising and forceful and even cruel to hold on to hers…but then she went still in his arms, soft and warm and giving, and his tongue bathed her mouth where he had offered force, and his lips became gentle and coercive, and then so soft that she was hungrily pressing against him for more.

And her fingers were upon his frock coat, shoving it from his shoulders. And soft and subtle, they were upon the buttons of his shirt, and then the stroke of her nails was delicate and exquisite upon his naked flesh.

He brought his hands against her flesh, shoving her gown and garments to the floor. He plucked her up and lay her upon the bed in her stockings and garters. She watched him in the soft candle glow as he divested himself of his clothing. When he came down beside her, she wrapped him in her arms.

They made love slowly that second time. So slowly. Exchanging sultry kisses and soft caresses, and then urgent whispers. She made love to him sweetly, and more savagely, and Eric reveled in her every touch. Desire, volatile and explosive, rose high within him. He thrust into her with his very being, so it seemed.

It was exquisite, it was a tempest. It drew everything from him and returned everything to him. But when it was over and he held her naked form close to him while the candle upon the dressing table faded out, he again decried himself for loving her so deeply. No matter how sweetly, how wantonly she made love to him, she held something back. He had yet to touch her soul.

Yet to touch the truth.

She moved slightly against him. He held her closer. “Are you cold?”

“No.”

“Hungry?”

“No,” she replied again.

He rose slightly upon an elbow, enjoying the beautiful slope and angle and shadow of her back and derriere in the near-total darkness.

He watched her in the darkness, then came back beside her. Her eyes were more than half closed as exhaustion claimed her. He softly stroked the flesh of her arm, then lay down beside her again and very gently took her into his arms. He wanted to apologize again; he could not. He held her for a long while, then whispered to her softly, “Amanda, trust in me. Dear God, trust in me, please.”

She did not reply. He didn’t know if she truly slept, or if she simply didn’t have an answer for him.

In the days that followed Eric gave Amanda news about the convention, warning her that the time was coming close when they might be facing armed conflict. A summons came from the governor, which Eric quickly answered. Lord Dunmore was fuming. He had been furious that he had been ignored when he had issued a proclamation that all magistrates—and others—should use their utmost endeavors to prevent the election of delegates to the Second Continental Congress.

Amanda was sure that Dunmore would be furious with Eric, but he did not balk from the summons. What went on in the interview, she did not know, but she was certain that the total rift between them was begun that day.

When he returned to the town house, she ran down the stairs to the parlor to meet him. “What happened?” she asked anxiously.

He set his gloves and plumed tricorn upon the table, and looked her way. “It will come to war, Amanda. I wonder, will you be with me, or against me?”

“I—I can’t deny my loyalties!” she told him, begging him with her eyes to understand. She was grasping at straws, she thought. He had caught her slipping from the house. He knew that she had lied about thinking she might be with child.

She had betrayed him, and he knew it, and he would not trust her, or love her, again.

He nodded, looking at her, looking past her. “Let your heart lie where it will. But follow my commands, my love!” he warned softly.

She did not answer, but fled up the stairs.

Several nights later, just as dawn came on April 20, Amanda lay beside him, naked, content, secure within his arms. She had not known until he had returned just how bitterly she had missed him. She loved just being held, just sleeping with the fall of his bronze arm upon her. She liked to awaken and see the angle of his jaw; she thrilled to the striking planes of his face, to the crisp mat of dark hair upon his chest, to the rugged texture of his hard-muscled and masculine thighs entangled with her own.

Shouts in the street suddenly startled her. She started to rise, half asleep, confused. Beside her, Eric bolted up and strode quickly to the window.

“What is it?” she asked.

“I don’t know. A crowd. A huge crowd.” He found his breeches and stumbled into them. He threw open the window and shouted down to the street. “My good man! What goes on down there.”

“The powder! The arms. The bloody redcoats marines came in off the Fowey in the James and stole our supplies from the magazine! We’re not a-goin’ to take it, Lord Cameron! We can’t!”

“Son of a bitch!” Eric muttered. He grabbed his shirt and boots. Clutching the sheet, Amanda stared at him.

“They’ll march on the palace!” she said.

He cast her a quick glance. “Bloodshed here and now must be avoided!” he said, but she didn’t think that he was really talking to her, but rather thinking aloud. He reached for his frock coat and she leapt from the bed at last.

“Eric—”

“Amanda, go back to sleep.”

“Go back to sleep!” she wailed, but he was already leaving her, closing the door behind him.

She watched him go, then quickly dressed and followed him out.

When she left the house, she knew that she was followed. Jacques Bisset had followed her every move since Eric had left her in January. She didn’t mind. She was fascinated by the man, and she always felt safe with him behind her.

And she’d had no more demands from her father since she had given him the map.

It was not difficult to follow Eric. The roar and pulse of the crowd could be heard and felt from afar. Amanda hurried toward the Capitol. It seemed that the whole population of Williamsburg had turned out in a fury.

Someone shouted, “To the palace!”

Stepping back against a building, Amanda inhaled sharply. The cry was going up on the air. The mob seemed to seethe, the people within it angry, impassioned, ugly in their reckless force.

“Stop, stop!” a voice called out.

Amanda climbed upon shop steps to see. It was Peyton Randolph. Carter Nicholas was at his side, Eric was behind him.

The noise from the crowd dimmed. Randolph began to speak, advising the people that they might defeat their own purpose. They needed to issue a protest drafted in the Common Hall.

Carter Nicholas echoed the warnings, and then Eric spoke, urging everyone to caution.

Slowly the crowd dispersed.

Jostled in the sudden stream of humanity, Amanda was startled when she was suddenly clutched from behind and turned around to meet her husband’s angry eyes. “I told you to go back to sleep!”

“But, Eric—”

“Damn you, Amanda, I am trying to avoid the shedding of your dear Tory Dunmore’s blood. Jacques is taking you back to Cameron Hall. Today. I want you out of this!”

She tried to protest, he wasn’t about to allow it.

And by noon she was on her way home.

News trickled to her slowly at Cameron Hall. She listened avidly to the servants, and she eagerly awaited the news in the Virginia Gazette .

The people drafted a demand to know why the governor had taken their weapons. Dunmore replied that he had been concerned about a slave insurrection and had removed the powder for safety’s sake.

Eric arrived exhausted one evening to tell her that meetings had been taking place elsewhere. Randolph and Nicholas had managed to keep the people of Williamsburg under control, but the people of Caroline County had authorized the release of gunpowder to the volunteers gathered at Bowling Green. Edmund Pendleton, however, chairman of that committee, would not allow action until he heard from Peyton Randolph.

Fourteen companies of light horse had gathered in Fredericksburg, and they were ready to ride on the capital. On April 28 the reply from Randolph reached those ready to fight—he requested caution. While there was any hope of reconcilation, it was necessary to avoid violence.

The people had ridden home. The message had been tactfully written, and men such as the Long Knives were quieted.

“Thank God!” Sitting in the elegant parlor at Cameron Hall, Amanda turned anguished eyes on her husband and fervently whispered the sentiment.

Eric, worn and dusty from riding, stared at her with a curious look in his eyes.

“There is more,” he told her.

She rose, her hands clenched in her lap. “What? You—you’ve been in Fredericksburg. You would have ridden on the capital!”

He did not answer the question. “Amanda, shots were fired in Massachusetts. At Lexington and at Concord. The British went after the arms stored there, and the colonists—the ‘minutemen’—fought them every step of the way back to Boston.”

“Oh, no!” So blood had been shed after all, not in Virginia, but in Massachusetts.

“Patrick Henry marched with forces toward Williamsburg, but Dunmore added sailors and marines to the palace, and dragged cannon out upon the lawn. An emissary came out on May second to pay for the powder that had been taken.”

“You were with Patrick Henry!” she gasped.

“I was a messenger, Amanda—”

“How could you—”

“I can caution reason on both sides, my lady!” he snapped, and she fell silent.

“That is not all.”

She stared at him, extremely worried by his tone of voice.

“Amanda, Patrick Henry has been branded a rebel.” He hesitated briefly. “And so have I,” he continued very quietly. “I suspect that within a number of days there might well be an arrest warrant out for me.”

“Oh, no!” Amanda gasped. She stared at him, her husband, tall, dark, striking and ever commanding, and in that moment she didn’t care about the world. England could rot, and Virginia could melt into the sea, she did not care. “Oh, Eric!” she cried his name, and flew across the room, hurtling herself against him. He caught her in his arms and held her tight.

There were no more words between them. He carried her upstairs, and he made love to her gently and with tenderness. With that same tenderness he held her against the night, brushing a kiss against her forehead as the dawn broke.

His eyes were dark and serious as they searched hers. He lay half atop her, smoothing her hair from her forehead.

“Men are already beginning to return to England. Loyalists who believe that this breech cannot possibly be closed again. I ask you, Amanda, do you stay with me of your own accord?”

“Yes! Yes!” she told him, burying her face against his throat. “Yes, I will stay with you.”

He held her in silence. “Do you stay for me, or for England?”

“What?”

He shook his head. “Never mind. I am a man labeled rebel for a moment, not that I think that Dunmore has the power to do anything about it. There are very long days ahead of us.” He was silent again. “Long years,” he whispered. “Come, love. A rebel dare not lie about too long. I’ve much I would get done about here in case—”

“In case?” she demanded anxiously.

His eyes found hers again. “In case I should have to leave quickly.”