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XIII

B y the end of the week, Eric and Amanda stood on the dock and waved good-bye as some of their friends and neighbors—some of them bearing the Cameron name—set sail for England. Amanda cried softly, but though Eric said nothing, he felt the sense of loss keenly himself.

He did not have to worry about Governor Dunmore’s branding of him as a rebel. Dunmore had fled the governor’s palace and was trying to administer the government of Virginia from the decks of the naval ship Fowey , out in the James River.

Lord Tarryton, Anne, and their newborn daughter went with him. Amanda heard nothing from her father, and so she assumed that he, too, had fled.

Amanda worried endlessly, because Eric discovered that Damien was in Massachusetts, and he had been there at Concord and at Lexington. The Massachusetts men had played a cunning game with the British. In Boston, they had arranged a signal to warn the people when the British tried to come inland to seize their arms. Lanterns were hung in the Old North Church:—“one if by land, two if by sea.” The printer Paul Revere had ridden hard into the night to give the warning. Midway through the journey, he had been stopped by soldiers, but the cry was taken up by a friend and the men were forewarned. Shots were fired on April 19, 1775, and many felt the revolution was thus engaged.

In the days that followed, Eric was seldom with Amanda. He had been asked to raise militia troops, and he was doing so. News trickled back to the colonials from Philadelphia where the Continental Congress sat. George Washington had been appointed general of the Continental forces, and he had been sent to Massachusetts to take charge of the American troops surrounding the city of Boston. It was rumored that British troops were about to march on New York City. Most members of Congress had been escorted by large parties of armed men—to protect them from the possibility of arrest. Ethan Allen, commissioned by Connecticut, and Benedict Arnold, authorized by Massachusetts, had marched on Fort Ticonderoga. The British garrison, caught by surprise, had capitulated immediately. Congress had been elated to hear tales that the Brits had been so surprised that they had not had time to don their breeches.

The fort was very important, Eric explained to Amanda, because it commanded the gateway from Canada. It was vital to the control of Lake Champlain and Lake George, principal routes to the thirteen colonies.

In June a battle was fought at Bunker Hill. The people were vastly cheered, it was rumored, because the colonial forces had met the British—and they had held their own. Defeated only because they had run out of ammunition, they had fought bravely and gallantly, even if they were rough and ragtag.

On July 3, on Cambridge Common, George Washington took command of the forces, and the Continental Army was born.

By the end of August Virginia’s leaders had returned from Philadelphia. Patrick Henry appeared at Cameron Hall, and when Amanda saw him, she knew that things had really come to a head. Henry had been commissioned the colonel of the of the first Virginia regiment, and as such, he was commander-in-chief of the colony’s forces.

He met with Eric alone in the parlor. When Amanda saw him leave the house, she tore down the stairs. She found Eric standing before the fire, his hands folded behind his back, his expression grave as he watched the flames.

He did not turn around, but he knew that she was there. “George has asked that I come to Boston. Congress has offered me a commission, and I am afraid that I must go.”

No…

The word formed in her heart but did not come to Amanda’s lips. He was going to accept the commission and go, and she knew it.

She turned around and fled up the stairway, then threw herself on the bed. She didn’t want him to go. She was afraid as she had never been afraid before.

She had not realized that he had followed her until she felt his hands upon her shoulders, turning her to him. He touched the dampness that lay upon her cheek, and he rubbed his finger and thumb together, as if awed by the feel of her tears.

“Can this be for me?” he asked her.

“Oh, stop it, Eric! Please, for the love of God!” she begged him.

He smiled, handsomely, ruefully, and he lay beside her, wrapping her within his arms.

“Perhaps I shall not be gone so very long,” he told her.

She inhaled and exhaled in a shudder against his chest, breathing in his scent, feeling the rough texture of his shirt against her cheeks. She hated it when he was gone. She had yet to learn to tell him of her feelings, she could only show them, letting the fires rise and the passion ignite between them. But not even the intensity of that heat had dissolved the barriers that had lain between them since he had caught her returning to the town house that night in Williamsburg. She did not have his trust. She felt him watch her often, and she knew that he wondered just how seriously she had betrayed him in the past and just how far she might go in the future. She could not let down the wall of her pride and beg him to forgive—it would do no good, she knew. He would still look at her the same way. And yet, when they were together at Cameron Hall, life was good, despite the tempest of the world. There was planting to be done, meat to be smoked, a household and estate to run. There were intimate dinners together, evenings when she sat quietly with a book or embroidery while he pored over maps and his correspondence. There were times when he talked to her, when his eyes glowed so fiercely and his words came so eloquently that she was nearly swept into the storm of revolution herself.

And yet she had not lied to him, ever. Her loyalty had always lain with the Crown. She had never wanted to betray him, and she did not want to turn from him now. She was afraid for him. Dunmore might be attempting to rule from a ship now, but the British fighting force was considered the finest in the world. More troops would arrive. They would cut down the men outside Boston, they would take New York.

“They will hang you if they get their hands upon you!” she told him, swallowing back a sob.

He shrugged. “They must get their hands upon me first, you know.” He stroked her cheek and her throat. “There are some, you know, my love, who think that—were you a man—you might be a prime prospect for a hanging yourself.”

She said nothing, aware that she was safe among any of the rebels because of their respect for Eric. Suddenly she felt a rise of chills, wondering what might become of her if he ever withdrew his protection.

“Aren’t you ever afraid?” she whispered.

“I am more afraid of leaving you than I am of arriving at a battlefront,” he told her. But he was smiling, and his smile seemed tender. She thought that in that moment, he believed in her. Perhaps he even loved her.

She searched out his eyes anxiously. “You mustn’t worry about me at all. You must give all of your attention to staying alive!”

He laughed softly, ruffling her hair, catching a long strand between his fingers. “One might almost think that you care,” he said.

She could not answer him. She wrapped her arms around him, and kissed him, teasing his lips with her tongue, taking his into her mouth, touching him again provocatively with her own. A soft low groan escaped him, and he rose, meeting her eyes, his own afire. “This is what it should be, always then. There’s so little time. So let’s be decadent with it, my love. Let’s stay here, locked within our tower, and die la petite mort again and again in one another’s arms.”

She smiled, arrested and aroused by his charm. Then they both started at some sound by the door. Eric frowned and rose, and strode quickly to the door, throwing it open.

There was no one there. He closed the door and slid the bolt. Then he turned to her. He pulled his shirt from his breeches, slowly unbuttoned the buttons, and cast the white-laced garment to the floor. Propped on an elbow, Amanda watched him. Eric pulled off a boot, then another, then faced her, his hands on his hips. “Well, wife, you could be accommodating me, you know.”

She laughed, so pained that he was leaving, so determined to hold tight to the moments they had left. Her lashes fell in a sultry crescent over her cheeks and she stared at him with lazy sensuality. “My dear lord Cameron, but I am too thoroughly enjoying this curious show! Why, ’tis scarce midday, and you seem to think—” She broke off, gasping, for he had taken a smooth running leap onto the bed, pinning her down with a mock growl.

“Conniving wench!” he accused her. His fingers curled into hers, his lips locked upon them. When the kiss was ended she no longer felt like laughing, but met his eyes with the hunger and the wonder fierce within her own. He rolled to shed his breeches, her gown was quickly cast aside, and they were then upon their knees together, eyes still meeting, a leisure seizing them again. They stroked one another softly, their knuckles upon naked flesh, running the gamut from shoulders to thighs. It was she who cried out first, and he who swept her down. But the day was long, and there was not to be a minute of it in which they were not touching in some manner. Hunger seized them, slow, sweet need. They each teased and taunted with lazy abandon, and each was caught in the tempest when the taunt and fever swept from one form to the other.

Morning did come. Amanda awoke to find her husband’s eyes upon her. For a moment she thought that she saw an anguish in their depths, but then the look was gone, and he was nothing but very grave as he stared at her. He touched her cheek and warned her, “Amanda, take care in my absence. Do not betray me again. Betray not the heart, my love. For I could not forgive you again.”

She pulled the covers closely about her. “How would I betray you!” she cried. “Patriots hold Virginia now!”

“But Governor Dunmore is in a ship out upon the James, not so very far at all, my love. Not so very far.” He sighed, curling a lock of her hair with his finger. “Amanda, I have claimed that I am your husband, that you will go where I beckon. But I am telling you now, if you would leave me, do so. Do so now with my blessing. I can set you on a ship out to meet the governor today, before I ride myself.”

“No!” she cried quickly.

“Can this mean that you have taken on the patriots’ cause?” he asked her.

She colored and shook her head. “No, Eric. I cannot lie to you. But…neither would I leave you.”

“Then dare I take this to mean that you offer me some small affection at last?”

She cast him a quick glance and she thought that he teased her, his eyes seemed so aflame with mischief. She flushed furiously. “You know that I…”

“Mmm,” he murmured, and it sounded hard. “I know that you are probably glad to be with me—the rebel—rather than within your father’s care. I can hardly take that as a compliment, madame.”

“Eric, my God, don’t be so cruel at a time such as this—”

“I am sorry, love. Truly, I am sorry,” he muttered. She seemed so earnest. Her hair spilled in a rich river of dark flame all about her. The white sheet was pulled high upon her breast and the eyes that beheld his were dazzling with emotion, perhaps even the promise of tears.

He pulled the sheet from her and crawled over her. “One more time, my love. Pour yourself upon me, let your sweetness seep into me, one more time. For the cold northern nights ahead, breathe fire into my soul. Wife, give yourself to me.”

Her arms wrapped around him. She gave herself to him as she never had before, and indeed, he felt as if he left something of himself within her, and took from her a flame, a light, that might rise in memory to still the tremors of many a night ahead.

And yet that, too, came to an end, and he was forced to realize that he must rise.

She remained abed, cocooned within the covers, as he called for a bath. When he was done, she bathed herself, and then she helped him to dress. She helped to buckle his scabbard, and when that was done she closed his heavy cloak warmly about him. He caught her to him, and as the seconds ticked by he pressed his lips to her forehead.

Then he broke away and left the room. She followed him slowly down the stairs and out to the porch where he was mounting his horse, a party of five of his volunteers ready to accompany him. She offered him the stirrup cup.

“Will you pray for me?” he asked her curiously.

“Yes, with every fiber of my being!” she whispered.

He smiled. “I will find Damien for you. And I will correspond as regularly as I can. Take care, my love,” he told her. He bent and kissed her. She closed her eyes and felt his lips upon her own, and then she felt the coldness when his touch was gone.

At last he rode away, and she stood on the porch and waved until she could see him no more. Then she turned and fled up the stairs and back to her room.

But the room, too, had grown cold. She started to cry, and then she found that she was besieged by sobs. They seemed to go on and on forever. But then her tears dried, and she told herself with annoyance that she must pull herself together. Her fears were irrational. Eric would come home, and nothing would go wrong. They would ride out the storm; they would survive.

He would come home…

And when he did, she would find a way to earn his trust again. She would find a way to tell him that she loved him.

Eric had been gone two weeks when Cassidy came to her in the parlor to tell her that she had a visitor. Cassidy’s manner made her frown and demand, “Who is it?”

He bowed to her deeply. “Your father, my lady.”

“My father!” Stunned, she stood, knocking over the inkwell she had been using as she worked on household accounts. Neither she nor Cassidy really noted the spill of ink.

“Has he come—alone?” she asked. The coast was dangerous for Nigel Sterling now. He had been out on the river, the last she heard, with Lord Dunmore—and Robert Tarryton.

“His ship rests at the Cameron docks. A warship.”

She understood why Sterling hadn’t been molested upon his arrival. Biting nervously into her lower lip, she shrugged and sank slowly back to her chair. She had no choice but to see her father. She wondered if Cassidy realized it.

“Show him in,” she told Cassidy.

He cast her a quick, condemning glance. He didn’t understand.

Anger rose quickly within her. Couldn’t Cassidy, and the others, understand that she simply wanted to save the house?

They hadn’t managed to fight Sterling and his warship!

She wasn’t going to beg Cassidy to believe in her or understand her. She stared at him and waited. He turned sharply on his heel and left the room. A few moments later her father entered. He came into the room alone, but even as he stepped in, she heard a commotion beyond the windows. Amanda hurried to one of the windows and looked out. A troop of royal navy men were assembling on the yard.

She turned around to stare at her father.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ever the princess, eh, daughter? The supreme lady. Not “Welcome, Father,” or ‘How are you, Father?’ but ‘What are you doing here!’ Well, your highness, first I shall have some of your husband’s fine brandy.” He walked to a cherrywood table to help himself from the decanter. Then he sat comfortably across the desk from her. “I want more information.”

“You must be mad—”

“I could burn this place to the ground.”

“Burn it!”

“Your husband’s precious Cameron Hall?” Sterling taunted.

“He’d rather that it burned than that I give anything to you.”

“Why, daughter! You’ve fallen in love with the rogue.” Sterling set his glass sharply upon the desk, eyeing her more closely. “Then let’s up the stakes here, Highness. I have Damien. I’ll torture him slowly before I slit his throat if you don’t cooperate.”

She felt the blood rush from her face. The pounding of her heart became so loud that it seemed to engulf her. “You’re lying,” she accused him. But it had to be true. It had been so long since she had heard from her cousin.

Sterling sat back confidently. “The fool boy was in Massachusetts, harrying the soldiers straight back into the city of Boston. He was captured—he was recognized as kin of mine. Out of consideration for my service to the Crown, the officer in charge thought that the dear boy—my kin, you realize—should be given over to me. I greeted him like a long-lost brother—before tossing him into the brig.” Sterling stared at her, smiling, for a long while.

“How—how do I know that you really have him?” Amanda managed to ask at last.

Sterling tossed her a small signet ring across the desk. She picked it up and pretended to study it, but she knew the ring. And she knew her father.

“What do you want out of me?” she demanded harshly.

“Information. About troop movements. About arms.”

“But I don’t know—”

“You could find out. Go into Williamsburg. Sit about the taverns. Listen. Write to your dear husband, and bring me his letters.”

“You’re a fool, Father. Even if I wanted to spy for you, I could not. The servants suspect me to begin with. They follow me everywhere.”

“Then you had best become very clever. And you needn’t worry. I will find you. Or Robert will find you.”

“Robert!”

“Yes, he’s with me, of course. He’s very anxious to see you. The duchess has returned to England with her child, and he is a lonely man. Anxious for a tender mistress.”

“You are disgusting. You thrust me to my husband against my will, and now you would cast me—despising him!—back to Robert. What manner of monster are you, Father?”

He rose, his smile never faltering. “Highness, I would hand you over to all the troops from England and beyond, and gladly.”

She stood, wishing she dared to spit in his face. “When do I get Damien?”

“You don’t get him! You merely keep him alive.”

“No! That is no bargain. I will not be blackmailed forever.”

“Why, daughter! I thought that you were loyal to the Crown!”

“I am! I was! I can no longer betray my husband—”

“Your husband!” Sterling laughed, then shook his head. “Why, daughter, you are a whore. Just like your dear mother. Lord Cameron keeps you pleased ’twixt the thighs, and so you would suddenly be loyal to a new cause!”

She slapped him as hard as she could. He sobered quickly, catching her wrist, squeezing it hard. “Pray that if your fine, rebel-stud Cameron catches you at this, daughter, I will take you away. Despise Tarryton if you would now, Amanda, but you’d be better off in his hands than in Cameron’s once he discovers you!”

She jerked her hand free. “If I ever leave Virginia, I will go to Dunmore—”

He knew that she would do anything to save Damien. “Daughter—Highness!—I shall see you again soon. Very soon.”

He smiled, and turned around and left her. She heard new orders shouted outside, and the sounds of the men and their armament as they marched back down to the docks. Amanda sank back into her chair and she closed her eyes. She didn’t hear the door open, but she sensed that she wasn’t alone. She opened her eyes and discovered that Cassidy was standing before her. Pierre, Richard, Margaret, and Remy all stood silently behind him.

“What?” Amanda cried, startled and alarmed. They stared at her so accusingly!

“They left,” Cassidy said. “They didn’t burn us or threaten us.”

“Of—of course,” Amanda said. She let her face fall into her hands. “It was my father. He—he just wanted to see if I wanted to leave with him, that is all.”

Five pairs of eyes stared at her. She didn’t like the defiance in young Margaret’s. Or was she imagining the look? The blue-eyed, dark-haired Irish maid looked as if she were about to pick up a musket and go to war herself. And Remy, older, dark as the satin night, with Cameron Hall as long as anyone could remember, staring at her with such naked suspicion!

She wanted to scream at them all. She was mistress here in Eric’s absence. They were the servants!

But they were right. She was about to betray them all.

“Have you all nothing to do!” she charged them wearily. “If you are at leisure, I am not. I have accounts!”

Slowly their lashes flickered downward. One by one they turned to leave her. When the door closed, she rested her face on her arms and damned her cousin Damien a thousand times over. She damned him for being a patriot, then she damned him for being brave, for being a fool—and then she damned him for being the one person who had always loved her unquestioningly and who had made her love him so fiercely in return.

Then her heart began to thunder anew, and she wondered what she could discover that she could give to her father that would cause the least peril among all men, the patriots and the redcoats.

And to her husband.

Perched atop Joshua on the heights overlooking the city of Boston, Eric was cold, bitterly cold. It was winter, and there was a very sharp bite to the wind, a dampness that seemed to sink into the bones and settle there.

Sieges were long and tedious, but Eric had come to admire the men of New England who ringed the city. They had already met the gunfire and the bloodshed of the war, but they held strong, despite the hardships, the cold, the monotony. It had been feared by some that the northern men might not take to the idea of their commander being a Virginian, a southerner, but not many people had questioned his military experience, and it seemed now that the colonies had really banded together at last to stand against a common tyranny.

“Major Lord Cameron!”

Eric turned, lifting a hand in a salute and smiling as he saw Frederick Bartholomew hurrying toward him. The young printer had come a long way since the day he had run through the streets, wounded and desperate. He had been commissioned a lieutenant. Just as Washington had found certain men indispensable to him, Eric had discovered quickly that Frederick was a man he could not do without. Though the siege itself was tedious, military life was often hectic for him. There were the endless meetings with Washington and Hamilton and the others, the continuous necessity of communications, the need to gather information about his ships, and his desperate need to know at all times what was happening in his native Virginia.

Frederick waved an envelope in his hand. “A letter from your wife, my lord!”

Eric leapt off Joshua’s back, grinning good-naturedly as a chant went up from the men ringed about him. “Thank you, Frederick,” he told the young printer, taking the letter. He didn’t mind the camaraderie of the men, but he did want to be alone with the correspondence.

His nights were miserable. He lay awake and worried, and he slept and dreamed. He dreamed of Amanda with her fiery hair wrapped about his flesh, her eyes liquid as they met his, her kiss a fountain of warmth that aroused and enwrapped him. But then his dreams would fade and he would hold her no more, she would be dancing away in the arms of another man, and her eyes would catch his again, and the laughter within them would tell him clearly that she had played him for a fool all along.

Eric led Joshua away from the siege line, back to an empty supply tent. He sat at the planked table there with his back against the canvas and ripped open the letter. His heart quickened as she wrote that her father had come to Cameron Hall with a warship, but that he had simply left and gone back to join Dunmore when she had told him that she was going to stay.

Her letter went on, but she wrote no more of her father. Instead she wrote about the military state of Virginia, the fish being brought in and the smoking going on, about the repairs done to the mansion, about the cold. It could have been a warm letter. Yet it was stilted somehow, as if there were something she wasn’t saying.

As if she were lying to him…

Eric cursed softly. If only he could trust her!

“Trouble, my friend?”

He started, looking to the entrance to the tent. George Washington had come upon him. As he entered the tent, he swept off his plumed and cockaded hat and dusted the snow from his cloak. Then he sat across from Eric. Alone together, neither man bothered with military protocol.

“You’ve a letter, I understand.”

“A personal letter.”

George hesitated. “There’s a rumor, Eric, that someone in Virginia is supplying the British with helpful information. Areas to raid for salt and produce. Information that has helped Dunmore create such fear all along the coast.”

Eric shrugged. “We all know of his burning Norfolk. That could not possibly have been caused by a spy!”

Washington was quiet for a long time. Then he leaned across the desk. “I trust your judgment, my friend. I trust your judgment.”

He left without saying any more. Eric sat back, then rose and called for Frederick. He asked for writing supplies to form his reply to his wife. When the printer returned, Eric sat to his task.

He closed his eyes for a moment, shivering. He had wanted her to come to Boston for Christmas. Washington, however, had specifically requested that he not do so, promising that he could return home in the spring.

Eric exhaled, then he began to write. Very carefully. False information that might look like it could be invaluable to the British.

He finished the letter and sealed it with his signet. Then he called to Frederick again to see that his correspondence moved south as quickly as possible.

When the letter was gone he stared out at the snows of winter, feeling as if they swirled about his heart and soul. “Damn you, Amanda!” he said softly.

As soon as winter turned to spring, Amanda decided on another trip into Williamsburg. She announced her intentions to travel with just Pierre and Danielle, but when she came downstairs on the morning when she was to leave, she wasn’t surprised to discover that Jacques Bisset was dressed and mounted and ready to ride behind her coach.

“Jacques! I did not ask you to accompany me,” she told him.

He looked at her strangely, and replied as he had every time Amanda had left Cameron Hall after Eric had departed in the fall. “ Pardonnez-moi , but Lord Cameron has charged me to guard you, and that I will.”

To guard her. It was a lie. He was to watch her and discover if she betrayed her husband or his cause, Amanda knew. It didn’t matter. There was really no way for him to discover anything of what she was doing, and she liked Jacques, liked him very much. She nodded slowly. “Fine,” she said softly. “I will feel ever so much safer if you are along.”

Danielle stepped into the coach and sat across from her. Amanda smiled wearily. The coach jolted, and they were on their way. The road was slushy with spring rains, and the day was still chill. Amanda shivered again as she looked out the window, back to the house.

She loved Cameron Hall even more fiercely than Eric, she thought, for she spent so much time there. Her portrait and his had now joined the others in the gallery. It was her home.

“You’re thinking that you should take care, eh?” Danielle questioned her.

Amanda cast her a quick glance. “Danielle, I do not know what you’re talking about.”

Danielle exhaled impatiently. Amanda ignored her. She swallowed tightly, closing her eyes. It seemed that so very much distance lay between her and Eric now. Miles…and time. She had missed him so much when he had first gone. In the days that followed, she had tossed and turned through the cold lonely nights. But then her father had come, over six months ago now, it was then that the distance had settled in, then that she had grown cold, then that she had begun to feel that things were so very horrible they might never be righted.

Amanda opened her eyes and saw that Danielle was still staring at her reproachfully. The Acadian woman started to speak.

“I’m very tired,” Amanda said quietly, and the other woman remained silent. Leaning back against the coach, Amanda realized that she was very afraid of Eric now. She would never be able to make him understand. She wasn’t always sure she understood herself. In her desire to give information that would keep Damien alive and avoid bloodshed at the same time, she had resorted to using information from Eric’s letters to her. Small things. Casual paragraphs on supplies of salt, herbs, fruits that the navy needed to avoid the plaguing diseases on the ships. She had only discovered major troop movements once, and then, it seemed, her information coincided with something the governor had learned himself. She tried not to think about battles, but she knew that it was war. Men were going to die.

Eric would never forgive her.

Somewhere during the journey she must have slept. She awoke to discover that they had come to the town house, that it was night. The door to the coach opened, starting her awake.

“We’re here, Amanda,” Danielle said to her.

Amanda hurried toward the house. She walked up the steps, pulling off her gloves, calling to the housekeeper at the same time. “Mathilda, I’ve come!” She twisted the knob, found that the door was open, and walked on into the house. “Mathilda!” she called again, walking on through to the parlor. She tossed her gloves absently upon the desk, thinking idly of that first night here when she had begun her game of chess with Eric. He had been right. She had been in check all the time.

A sound suddenly startled her and she looked across the room. Her heart leapt to her throat and caught there, and she had to clutch the desk to steady herself.

Eric was there, an elbow leaned upon the mantel, a snifter of brandy in his hand. He looked wonderful in his tight white breeches, deep-blue frock coat, white laced shirt, and high boots, his lips curved in a slowly lazy smile as she realized his presence at last.

“Eric!” Her hand fluttered to her throat.

“Amanda!” He tossed his snifter into the fire, heedless of the cracking of the glass, of the hiss and steam and ripple as the alcohol sent the flames rising high. In seconds he was across the room, and she was in his arms. In seconds she was achingly aware of him, of the scent of him, of the texture of his face, the ripple of his muscles, the rough feel of his fabric, the intoxicating feel of his lips. She felt as if she were sinking into clouds, rising into acres of heaven. It had been so long since he had touched her.…

She was going to fall. It didn’t matter. Not at that moment. He was kissing too hungrily. When her trembling caused her to slip, he lifted her into his arms. Then she forgot her fears again as his fingers moved through her hair, and she found a simple fascination in the way that it sprang beneath her fingers. She was barely aware that they moved upstairs, she was desperate to touch more of him, to feel more of his kiss. And then, in the darkness, there was nothing but the feel and the warmth and the sex of the man, and the throbbing pulse of an ancient music, wrapping them in a world where words meant nothing. She tried to speak, whispering his name with wonder. She didn’t know how he was there, but he was, glistening muscle rippling beneath her fingers, his lips feverishly upon her, upon her body, upon her breasts. The night seemed to come alive with the ragged harmony of their heartbeats, with the pulse that pounded between them, with the fever and flames that leapt and crackled and caused beautiful colors to explode even within the darkness.…

The night…

It remained alive with the beauty, and the hunger, and when passion was sated, it was still not time for words, for they needed just to touch, to hold one another, to relish something that had become exceedingly precious just to be wrenched away.

It was morning before they talked. Before Amanda worried again. Before Eric was able to explain his presence. He was still in bed, leaning against the frame, his fingers laced behind his head. Amanda had risen at last and sat before the dressing table, trying to detangle the wild mass of her hair.

“It ended. The siege ended. St. Patrick’s Day brought an Irish surprise. The Brits had evacuated Boston.”

Amanda met his eyes in the mirror. “I’m glad for you, Eric.”

“But not for the Brits, eh?”

She shrugged.

“Well, Amanda?”

“Eric, I am trying very hard to be a neutral.”

He leapt up from the bed. She felt as if she were being stalked by a tiger as he walked up behind her. “Are you, Amanda? Are you really?”

His hands were upon her shoulders. She prayed that he would not feel the way that she shook, and yet she was not lying when she spoke. “Yes! I swear that I would be neutral now, if I could.”

Some passion must have touched her voice, for though he still seemed frustrated, he seemed to believe her too. He stalked back to the bed, then stretched out upon its length, casual, bold, and brazen, and catching her heart all over again. “I have heard that some of the things I told you in my letters came to be discovered.”

Fear clutched her heart like an icy hand. “Much of what you have told me has been common knowledge!”

“Aye, that it has. But since I have come home, I have realized that many a good Virginian politician and military man is alarmed by the rumor that a spy rests closely among us. A woman spy, my love. They are calling her ‘Highness.’ Actually, her fame had even reached Boston. Washington thinks that it might be you.”

His voice was cool, ironic. Her heart thundered drastically and she could scarcely breathe. She shook her head. “Eric—”

“You have never denied being a Tory, my love.”

He sprang to his feet and moved up behind her. He set his hands on either side of her head and stroked her cheeks and her throat. How easily his fingers could wind about her throat!

“I am your wife,” she reminded him, her eyes falling.

“But are you innocent?”

She met his eyes again in the mirror. “Eric!” she told him passionately and sincerely, “By God, I swear that in any matter of choice, I would never seek to hurt you!”

“Or my cause?”

“Or—or your cause!” she swore softly.

“Am I a fool to believe in you, Amanda?”

She shook her head, unable to speak. Her hair moved against his naked belly and he bent over her, finding her lips. He spoke just above them in a whisper. “Don’t ever let me catch you, lady!” he warned huskily, then kissed her. He pulled away.

“Oh! God!” he said suddenly. “How could I have forgotten, when it is so very important! I have seen Damien!”

“What?”

She nearly screamed the word, spinning around. Eric grinned, pleased. “Yes, well the Brits had him, but he managed to escape. He had some friendly guards and they shared some ale. He managed to swim his way to some flotsam, and then he was picked up by a colonial ship. He was delivered to Baltimore and hurried back to Boston. I was able to see him just before I left.”

“He’s—free?” Amanda asked.

“Yes—free as a bird.”

She screamed out something incomprehensible, then jumped to her feet and hurtled herself upon his naked form, bearing them both back down to the bed. He grunted and groaned, and then laughed. She showered him with kisses that caused his groaning to take on a different timbre. Laughter faded and they made love again, desperately again, until they were exhausted and glistening and unable to find words for they could not find breath. And yet finally Amanda managed to speak again. “Eric, how long do you have?”

He exhaled unhappily. “Less than a week. And so much is happening here! I’ve already heard that when the Virginians meet again, they plan to declare the land a commonwealth—to vote for independence! Before it is even done in the Continental Congress! History, my love, in the making, and I shall be back in New York, for that is where Washington believes they will attack next. We must plan a defense for the city.”

Less than a week. So little time between them. So much that might be discovered.…

But Damien was free.

She twisted in his arms suddenly, smiling. “I shall never betray you, Eric!” she promised him. She almost continued. She almost told him that she loved him, but some dark shadow in his eyes held her back. He did not really believe her. He did not trust her. He was not saying as much, but it was true. He was watching her, and now she was going to have to prove that she was loyal to him, if a Tory still at heart.

“See that you don’t,” he warned her. She lay still against him. In a while, she realized that he slept. There were new lines about his eyes, about his mouth. Battle was taking its toll upon him.

She rose, needing to leave him to sleep, and reflect upon her new good fortune.

She dressed quickly and hurried out of the room. A pair of boots rested before one of the bedroom doors. Someone had traveled with Eric, she realized. One of his men. More danger, she thought, her heart beating fiercely.

She hurried on down the stairs and slipped into the parlor. There she knelt down before the desk and drew open the door.

And then she felt the knife against her throat, brought around her from behind. She froze.

“Good day, Lady Cameron” came a husky voice. It was the tall black man. Her father’s emissary.

She forced herself to speak. “You’re a fool. My husband is home. Williamsburg is run by colonials. All I need do is scream, and they will hang you—”

“Ah, but your blood will rise in a pool long before that moment, and as I’m quite sure Lord Cameron might be surprised, there is a chance that his blood might also stain the floor. Think carefully, Lady Cameron…” The knife came so tightly against her throat she could barely speak.

And still, she was determined on her own freedom. “Damien is free, and I am done, ‘Highness’ no more! Kill me if you will, but tell my father he will get nothing more from me!”

“We were afraid that you had heard of your cousin’s escape, my lady. Your father sends this message—if he comes to Cameron Hall again, it will be to burn the wretched mansion to the ground. And Lord Tarryton wants you to know that if he comes, you will be his prisoner, his mistress. He is most anxious.”

“If they come anywhere near Cameron Hall,” she said, “they will die!”

He did not reply. A second later she no longer felt the knife against her throat. With a soft rasping cry she leapt to her feet, spinning around.

He was gone. The man was gone. The window was open, the spring breeze was rushing in. She ran to it but could see nothing.

She sank into a chair and sat there, motionless, feeling the breeze. She should tell Eric. She should admit everything that had happened, she should explain that it was all because of Damien.

She should, if she could just find the courage!

But it was over now. All over. She never had to play the spy again. Never. Eric need never know. And if she told him, he might despise her, he might never forgive her.…

Later Mathilda came and served her breakfast. She discovered that the boots belonged to Frederick, who had accompanied Eric, and she sat and drank coffee with him.

Eric slept most of the day. And when he came down, and his eyes fell dark and brooding, upon her, she knew that she could say nothing. It was finished. It had to be. She prayed with all her heart that it should be so.

Unless…unless the British did come to Cameron Hall.

They did not stay in Williamsburg long. General Charles Lee, a highly respected military man and an Englishman who had cast his lot with the colonies, was in Virginia to oversee militia troops. He was learning that the Virginia political machine was very competent and that he would do best to work with the local leaders. Eric was interested in seeing Lee and other of his friends and acquaintances, but he was most interested in returning home to Cameron Hall.

They rode the estate there, and Amanda was delighted when he applauded her various efforts to keep things moving smoothly. It was still spring, and cool, but they came to the little cover by the river, and they laid their cloaks there and made love beneath the rippling branches of the trees overhead.

Amanda still agonized over telling him the truth of what she had done, yet she was not sure that she could make him understand, and since Damien was free, no one could coerce her again.

And Eric watched her. When she would move about the house; she would catch his eyes upon her. When they rode, when they lay down to sleep together, and sometimes even when he held her. If she awakened with her back to him, she would sense that he leaned upon an elbow, watching the length of her, and she would turn and would discover it to be true, and the shadows would fall over his eyes again.

On his fifth day home the Lady Jane sailed brilliantly past Dunmore’s ships and came in to her home berth. She had just returned from Italy, so Eric told Amanda. But when she awoke that night, Eric was not beside her. She caught a sheet about her and hurried to the window to see the activity down by the docks.

“Spying, my love?”

The question startled her. She spun around to find Eric in a simple white shirt, tight breeches and boots, his hands on his hips, framed in the doorway of her room. He strode over to stand beside her. She tried not to allow her pulse to leap. “I was looking for you. I awoke, and you were gone.”

He nodded, his eyes heavy-lidded and half shielded beneath his lashes. His hands rested on her shoulders and he pulled her against him.

“The real cargo was arms, wasn’t it?” she whispered.

“And powder,” he agreed.

She spun around to face him, her head tilted back. “If you so mistrust me, why on earth tell me the truth?”

“You are hardly a fool. I could not convince you that I unloaded leather goods and wine by night, could I?”

He turned away, sitting at the foot of the bed, stripping off his boots, shirt, and breeches. He glanced around to see her still standing by the window, hurt by his tone of voice.

Even if she was still a spy, she would never betray Cameron Hall. He had to know that.

“Come to bed, Amanda. There is something left of the night,” he told her.

She walked slowly back to the bed. She sat upon her own side, still swathed in sheets, and she watched how the moonlight played upon his shoulders and chest. He was more bronzed than ever, more tightly muscled. He stretched out beside her, and despite her anger with him, she wanted to touch him. But she didn’t want to make a first move.

She didn’t have to.

He emitted some impatient sound and reached for her. She cried out softly, allowing the sunset and fire of her hair to sweep over the naked length of him, and then she nipped delicately upon the flesh of his chest, at his nipples, his throat. He caught her tightly to him, sweeping her beneath him, and they made love as if in a tempest, as if a storm guided them, and perhaps it was true. Time was their enemy; they had so little of it. They were strangers in the long months between his visits, and in this maelstrom they thought, perhaps, to find one another again.

And still, when they lay spent and quiet, she knew that he watched her. His fingers moved slowly off the slope of her shoulder to her hip, and he watched her, pensive, distant.

“Lord Dunmore is dangerous,” he said at last. “Some men are afraid that he intends to sail to Mount Vernon and kidnap Martha Washington.”

“Surely he wouldn’t dare!” she murmured.

She felt him shrug. “I am afraid, too, that he might come here.”

“Because of the arms?”

Eric was silent for just the beat of a second. “But the governor knows of no arms, my love.”

She swung around, facing him. “I would never betray this hall, Eric, never!”

“But who, then, is ‘Highness’?” he asked her.

She shook her head, lowering it against his chest. “I would never betray my very home!” she promised him.

“Pray, lady, that you do not,” he whispered, and he held her close. She said nothing, and she luxuriated in his warmth. But it wasn’t enough. She was shivering, and she was afraid.

When he left, he was gone so very long. Days passed and the weeks passed and then months.

“You tremble,” he told her.

“With the cold.”

“But I am holding you.”

“But you will leave,” she told him desolately.

She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness. He stared down at her, and the depths of his feelings for her were on the tip of his tongue. He loved her so deeply. Her beauty, her fire. He loved the way that she came to him now, so naturally, so givingly. She made love with passion and with laughter, and in the midst of it, her eyes were ever more beautiful. And yet…

They could be ever treacherous.

She held so much in her hands now. She knew about the arms and weaponry stored at the docks. If she betrayed them now…

She would not! he thought with anguish. She would not!