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XVI

D uring the first few days of July, Andrew Lewis took command of the troops gathered on the mainland elevation that fronted Gwynn’s Island, where Dunmore had brought his fleet. Charles Lee had reported him as living caterpillarlike off of the land, stripping it bare, taking everything.

Lewis fired the first shot himself.

It was later reported that the first cannon shot ripped into the governor’s cabin, the second killed three of his crew, and the third wounded Dunmore in the leg and brought his china crashing down upon him.

It was a complete rout. Those who could do so fled. Eric wondered briefly if either Nigel Sterling or Robert Tarryton had been killed or wounded in the fray, but there was no way of knowing. Nor did it matter, he tried to tell himself. The threat was gone.

Or was it?

By night he often lay awake, and when he slept, he kept remembering Amanda’s face and her eyes, and her whispered, desperate words of innocence. She entered into his dreams, and she tortured him. His anger had kept him from listening to her, but now, with Dunmore far from Virginia shores, he wondered if he shouldn’t have listened.

News arrived from South Carolina that was exciting and uplifting to the colonial soldiers—Admiral Sir Peter Parker’s squadron had attacked the palmetto-log fortification on Sullivan’s Island, the key to the harbor defenses at Charleston. Under Colonel William Moultrie, amazing damage was done to the British fleet. The ships limped away, with British general Sir Henry Clinton determined to rejoin Howe at New York.

With Dunmore bested, Eric was due to return to Washington’s side, but he decided to return home instead. There was a slight possibility that Amanda had not sailed as yet. And he was suddenly eager to listen to her again. Desperate. He had said horrible things to her, made horrible accusations, and many had been driven by simple fear and fury.

He rode hard, leaving Frederick in the dust. But when he reached the long drive to the house, his heart sank. Beyond the rise he could see that the Good Earth was no longer at her berth; Amanda had indeed sailed.

He reached the house and threw open the door anyway, but only Richard and the maids were there to greet him. The house seemed cold and empty in the dead heat of July. He slowly climbed the steps to the gallery, and he felt the emptiness close around him. She had come to be so much a part of the house. The scent of her perfume remained to haunt him, almost like an echo of her voice, a sweet and feminine whisper that taunted and teased. It was best! In France she would be safe—and the colonies would be safe from her!

No words, no logic, mattered. His world was cold, his house was nothing but masonry and brick and wood without her.

“Lord Cameron!”

He swung around and looked down the stairs. Frederick had come bursting into the room. “Lord Cameron! Independence! The Congress has called for independence! A declaration was read in Philadelphia on the sixth day of July, and it’s beginning to appear in the newspapers all over the country! Lord Cameron, we’ve done it! We’ve all done it! We’re free and independent men!”

Aye, they had done it. Eric’s fingers wound around the railing of the gallery balcony as he stared down at the printer. They’d already been fighting over a year, but now it was official. They could never go back now. Never.

They were free.

A fierce trembling shook through him. He was suddenly glad that he had heard it here, in Cameron Hall. Despite the emptiness. He knew again what was so worth fighting for, worth dying for.

He hurried down the stairs. “Richard! Brandy, man, the best in the house! The Congress has acted at last! My God, get the servants, get everyone. A toast! To…freedom!”

Worth fighting for…

By the time Eric returned to New York and Washington’s side, he had come to realize just what the words meant. The British commander Howe had already landed 32,000 troops on Staten Island. Half of the Continental Army of 13,000, under General Putnam, was sent across Long Island. The remaining half remained on Manhattan.

The Battle of Long Island took place on August 27. Howe landed 20,000 of his troops on Long Island between the twenty-second and twenty-fifth of the month, then turned Putnam’s left flank.

Eric rode back and forth between the divisions with intelligence and information. He had never so admired Washington as he did when the general determined to evacuate Long Island. The brilliant operation took place between the twenty-ninth and thirtieth.

It was a bitter fall. In early September, Sergeant Ezra Lee attacked the British fleet in the American Turtle —a one-man submarine created by David Bushnell. The operation was mainly unsuccessful, but the Turtle created tremendous alarm and gave a burst of amusement and renewed vigor to the American forces.

But from there, things became ever more grim. On September 12 the Americans decided to abandon New York. On the fifteenth, American troops fled as the British assaulted them across the East River from Brooklyn. On the sixteenth, at the Battle of Harlem Heights, although Washington managed to slow Howe, Washington’s communications were threatened, and he was forced to pull back.

Eric was in George’s tent at the end of the month poring over maps of New York and New Jersey when a message arrived. He watched the general’s face, then he saw the shoulders of his giant friend slump and his face turn ashen. “They have caught my young spy,” he said.

Eric thought back quickly. Washington had asked a highly respected group from Connecticut, the Rangers, to supply a man to stay in New York to obtain information on the Brits’ position. A young man named Nathan Hale had volunteered on the second call, and he had gone in pretending to be a Dutch schoolmaster.

Washington rubbed his temple fiercely. “He couldn’t have been more than twenty-one. He was betrayed. Howe condemned him to hang.” He exhaled on a long note, looking at his sheet of correspondence again. “He gave a speech that impressed them all, ending it like this—listen, Eric, it’s amazing—‘I only regret that I have but one life to give for my country.’ One life. My God.”

“It is war,” Eric said quietly after a moment.

“It is war. We will lose many more,” Washington admitted. “But this young Hale…that such courage should be cruelly snuffed from life!”

Cruel, yes, Eric thought, riding with his troops the next day. Cruel, but something more. Nathan Hale’s words were being whispered and shouted by all men. In death Nathan Hale had given an army an inspiration. He had gained immortality.

By night the smell of powder seemed to penetrate Eric’s dreams. With his eyes opened or closed, he saw lines and lines of men, heard the screams of men and horses alike, saw the burst of cannon and heard its terrible roar. But sometimes, when the black powder faded, he would see Amanda. And she would be walking toward him through the mist and death and carnage, and her eyes would be liquid with recrimination.

They had hanged Hale, the British. Traitors are usually hanged, and that is the way that war goes.

But what if she hadn’t lied? What if her days as spy had ended? What if someone else played them all false?

Groaning, he would awaken. And with his eyes open to the dawn, he knew that he would ride and fight again—and lead men unto death.

On October 28 they fought the Battle of White Plains. The Americans fought bravely and valiantly, and with a startling skill and determination. Eventually the British regulars drove them off the field. Waving his blood-soaked sword in the air, Eric shouted the order to retreat to the men under his command.

Anne Marie and Sir Thomas were often his consolation then. Anne Marie continued to follow her father to war. On the field she loaded weapons, supplied water, and tended to the wounded. When conditions permitted, Eric ate with the two, and when the meal was over, he would often sit with Anne Marie. One night, as they walked beneath the trees, she turned into his arms. She rose up on her toes and kissed him. He responded, as he had before, his heart hammering, his body quickening. She drew his hand to her breast, and he touched her softness, but then he folded her hands together, drew away from her her, and gently touched her cheek. “I’m a married man, Anne Marie. And you are too fine a woman to be any man’s mistress.”

“What if I do not care?” she whispered.

He exhaled slowly and felt her eyes upon him in the darkness.

She smiled. “I am too late, Lord Cameron, so it seems.” She teased him, her smile gentle. “When you were wild and reckless and seemed to collect women, I was seeking a ring about my finger. And now I would have nothing more but a few nights with a hero in my bed, and it really wouldn’t matter if I were the most practiced whore on the continent. Eric, go after your wife. Bring her home. I do not believe that she would have betrayed you so completely.”

He folded her hands together. “Anne Marie, I cannot. Perhaps I should not come anymore—”

She pressed her fìnger to his lips. “No. Don’t take away your friendship. I need you and Damien.”

“Ah! My bloodthirsty young cousin-in-law. He is still scarcely speaking to me; he does so under orders only. But he is a fine young man—”

“And in love, didn’t you know?”

“No, I did not,” Eric told her.

Anne Marie dimpled prettily. “With Lady Geneva. I suppose it began long ago in Williamsburg. Now he pines for her when he cannot travel south. I believe she will come north to be with him.”

“Really? Geneva does love her comforts.”

“You know her so well?”

“I did,” he murmured. “Well, perhaps she has caught patriot’s fever herself. Only time will tell.”

“Only time.” Anne Marie kissed him chastely upon the cheek. “Go for your wife, Eric.”

“I cannot,” he said, and in such a manner that she knew their talk had come to the end. She saw the twist of his jaw and the ice in his eyes, and she fell silent.

In November Fort Washington, on northern Manhattan overlooking the Hudson, fell. Twenty-eight hundred Americans were captured. And the Americans were forced to evacuate Fort Lee, in New Jersey, with the loss of much badly needed material.

The Americans began their retreat into New Jersey, southward. Charles Lee was left behind to cover the retreat. He and four thousand men were captured near Morristown.

Washington paled at the news. Furious, he refrained from swearing. He led the remaining three thousand men of the Continental Army southward and crossed the Delaware into Pennsylvania. Congress fled from Philadelphia to Baltimore, and Washington was given dictatorial powers.

Eric changed into buckskins and slipped behind the lines to discover the British position. He kept remembering Nathan Hale, and he prayed that he could be as heroic as the younger man should he be captured. The British would dance at his hanging, he was certain.

But he was able to gain information easily enough. Howe, confident of a quick final victory in the spring, had gone into winter quarters, the bulk of his men in New York and southern New Jersey.

As Christmas neared, Eric sat with other commanders and watched as Washington paced the ground and pointed at the maps. “We are desperate, gentlemen. Desperate. Our army has been sheared to threads, those men who remain with me talk constantly of the fact that their enlistment periods are up. Now, I have a plan…”

His plan was risky, desperate, dangerous—and brilliant, Eric thought. On Christmas night they recrossed the Delaware, nine miles north of Trenton, with 2,400 men, during a snowstorm. The cold was bitter, the wind was horrid, the water was ice. Eric felt his face chafed, he felt the numbing sting as the water rose from the tempest-tossed river in a spray to strike him. But in the pale light ahead he saw Washington standing at the bow of his boat. All of the men saw him. They crossed in safely.

At dawn they fell on the Hessian garrison at Trenton.

Victory was complete. Drunk, stunned, and hungover, the mercenaries fighting for the British tried to rise from their beds, but the colonials were all over them. Eric had little need to shout orders, for his troops moved with swift efficiency, and the attack was a complete surprise. When it was all over, of fourteen hundred Hessians, a thousand had been captured, thirty had been killed, and the Americans had lost only two men frozen to death and five wounded. Most important, perhaps, was the booty they captured, a good supply of small arms, cannon, and other munitions.

That night the small band celebrated. Within twenty-four hours, however, danger threatened again. The British general, Lord Cornwallis, was moving quickly. By January 2, he faced the American position with 5,000 men while another 2,500 awaited an order join him from Princeton.

“There is no way to fight this battle,” Washington said. “Campfires…” he muttered.

“We leave them burning?”

“We leave them burning.”

They slipped away by night. On January 3, battle cries went up as they came upon the British regulars who were marching to join Cornwallis. The battle was fierce, and furious, and when it was over, the Americans were victorious. They hurried on to Princeton and captured vast supplies of military equipment, then hastened away to Morristown.

That night they again celebrated.

“They will tout you as one of the most brilliant commanders ever,” Eric told Washington.

“Unless I lose a few battles. Then I shall be crucified.”

“My God, no man can do more than you have done!”

The general smiled, stretching out his feet. “Then until the spring, I shall be a hero. Cornwallis is abandoning his positions in western New Jersey because we have cut his communications. It is time we dig in for winter ourselves.” He hesitated. “I have some letters for you.”

Eric was a mature man, a major general, a man who commanded hundreds of men, who shouted orders in the field, who never flinched beneath powder or sword. He was, in fact, growing old with the damned war. And yet now he felt his fingers tremor, his palms go damp. “From my wife?”

Washington shook his head. “No, but from France. One from your man, Cassidy. Another from Mr. Franklin.”

“Franklin!”

“Mmm. Poor Ben. He’s been sent there by Congress to woo the French into assisting our cause. Seventy years old is Ben. And quite the rage of Paris, they are saying. A good choice by Congress, so it seems. The ladies are all charmed by his sayings and his wit and even his spectacles. Even the young queen is impressed by him.”

“He is an impressive man,” Eric muttered as he ripped open the letter from Cassidy and scanned it quickly. Things were well, the voyage had been smooth, they were living in the shadow of the royal party at Versailles. Everything was wonderful, so it seemed, and yet Cassidy urged him to come. He looked at the letter and realized that it had been written in September. He frowned at Washington.

“The letter went to Virginia before it reached me,” Washington said.

Eric nodded, then ripped open the second letter. Worded in the most polite and discreet tones, Benjamin Franklin informed him that he was about to become a father. “’Seems a pity that the child cannot be born upon American soil as you are so firm and kind and staunch a father of our land, but nevertheless, sir, I thought that the news would delight you and as it seems from her conversation your lady is not disposed to write, I have taken this upon myself…”

The letter went on. Eric didn’t see the words. He was standing, and he didn’t realized it.

All the months, all of the longing, all of the wonder. And now Amanda was going to have a child and she was all the way across the Atlantic Ocean. And Franklin was right. There was no way that the child could be born on American soil. He tried to count, and he couldn’t even manage to do that properly. He had last seen her in June. He had seen her in March…but no, he would have known by June. What was nine months from June?

“Eric?” Washington inquired.

“She’s…she’s having a child. At last,” Eric said, choking on the words.

“At last?” Washington’s brows shot up. “My dear fellow, you were married what—two years?”

“Three now,” Eric corrected him. “I had thought that we could not, I…” His voice trailed away. He knew that no matter how dearly Washington had loved his adopted stepchildren and stepgrandchildren, he had wanted his own child. Washington bore no grudge against other men and loved Martha dearly, yet Eric felt suddenly awkward. It was the surprise, the shock. He sank back to his chair and he remembered that he had accused her of being Tarryton’s mistress. And he had sent her away in raw fury, God alone knew what she would feel for him, if she wouldn’t have rejoiced in betraying him in France. No! he assured himself in anguish. She was not alone. Jacques Bisset was with her, Jacques who surely knew that no matter what he had said or done, he loved her.…

“God!” he said aloud.

Washington sat back, studying him. “It is winter. I can foresee no action for some time to come. Perhaps I can send you with letters for the French to Paris myself. If…if you can find a ship that will sail.”

Eric grinned suddenly. “I can find a ship to sail. My own, George. I shall take the Lady Jane . And I will make it up to you. I will capture a British ship with a multitude of arms, I swear it.”

Washington leaned over his desk. “I will start on the necessary papers.”

“Lady Cameron!”

Amanda was seated in one of the small gardens off the tapis vert , or “green carpet,” the broad walk in the center of the gardens at the Palace of Versailles. She had gone there to be alone, but she knew the low, well-modulated voice very well now, and as was usual, she felt a smile curve her lip. It was Ben Franklin, and he was huffing a bit with the exertion of walking. He wasn’t a young man, of course, but he didn’t really act like an old man at all. His eyes were young, she decided, as young as his thoughts and ideas and dreams.

“I’m here, Mr. Franklin!” she called, and he came around a newly planted rose bush to meet her.

“Ah, there you are, my dear!”

“Sit—if there is room!” Amanda encouraged him. She was so very large now, she felt as if she were taking up the entire garden seat with her bulk. He smiled brightly and did so.

“How are things going?” she asked him.

“Ah, pas mal !” he said, “Not bad, not bad. And yet not so good either. I think that the French are our friends. Individual counts and barons support me, and I believe that eventually the king and his ministers will fall in for us. I believe the queen is all for me.”

“Marie Antoinette? She is quite smitten, sir, I would say!” Amanda teased him. Of course, it was true. The queen was as taken with Benjamin Franklin as all the other ladies seemed to be.

Franklin sighed. “Not that I’m at all sure she even knows what I’m asking for! Alas, they’re just children, you see. The king is scarce a boy of twenty-three, and the queen—oh! But then you are barely that yourself, milady! My apologies. It’s just that when you reach my age, well…”

“There was no offense at all taken, Mr. Franklin. Besides, they say that Louis tries very hard, that he is thoughtful and considerate, but not a very talented ruler as yet. Perhaps he will become so in time. My goodness, I should hope so. This palace itself is so magnificent—and so huge!”

Versailles was huge and beautiful, and under other circumstances, Amanda might have loved it. But she lived with too much bitterness inside of her to truly enjoy the magnificence with which she lived.

She had not believed that Eric should be able to ride away from her so easily—and yet he had. She had watched him from their window when he had ridden, and he had not so much as looked back.

And even then she had thought that he would turn around. That he would come back to her. But he did not. As soon as the necessary repairs had been done to the ship, Cassidy had told her that they would be leaving on the Good Earth . She had been delighted to discover that Danielle had recovered fully from her injury at Tarryton’s hands, and would accompany her, but she still could not believe that she was being escorted off her own property.

She shivered suddenly. The story of the valiant Nathan Hale had reached France, and she could not forget that had she been a man and captured by some man other than her husband, she might well have swung from a rope herself. Except that she was innocent!

Innocent…

She had remembered her innocence during the whole long ocean voyage. She had remembered it when she had first started to get sick upon the open sea, and she had been so wretchedly sick that she had thought it a pity Eric wasn’t there. He would have thought her duly punished if he could have just seen the green shade of her face. She didn’t normally react so to ships, perhaps it was a just punishment for trying to save her cousin’s ungrateful throat!

But then, slowly, she had begun to realize that it was not the sea making her so wretched. It probably took her longer to discover than it should have, but her mind was ever active, and she felt as if her heart bled daily. Sometimes she was furious with a raw, scarce-controlled passion; sometimes her anger was cold, something that made her numb. She swore that she would never forgive Eric, never. Then she missed him all over again and wondered if he lived and if he was well. Then she thought that he deserved to rot for what he had done to her, but then that thought would flee her mind, and she would pray quickly that God would not let him die because of her careless thoughts.

They had nearly reached France by the time she realized, with some definite shock, that she was going to have a child. Joy filled her. No amount of anger or hatred could stop the absolute delight that filled her body, heart, and soul. She had been so afraid that they never would have a child. Eric had even accused her of trying not to have one. And now, when all between them seemed severed forever…

She was going to have a child. An heir for Cameron Hall.

Should the hall survive the war. For it was war now. The colonies were thirteen united states, and it was full-scale war.

And in the midst of their own personal warfare and battle, a child had at last been conceived. She hugged the knowledge to herself at first, but by the time they at last stepped from the Good Earth to French soil, Danielle had guessed her secret. Danielle wanted her to write to Eric immediately, but Amanda could not do so. She was thrilled with the child and determined that she would do nothing to risk the babe’s health whatsoever, but the bitterness was alive within her, and she would not write. She would not have him send for the child. He could not have their babe so easily. When he determined to sail for her, then he would find out about the child.

Perhaps there was more, too, she realized, trembling. He had accused her of adultery with Robert. She could not believe that he meant his words, but then she had never seen Eric so angry, so cold, as he had been that last time. She could not forgive him. She swore to herself that she hated him.

But it was, of course, a lie, and she prayed nightly that he had not been killed. News came daily to the French court. Even if it was old by the time that it reached there, Amanda thrived on all that she heard. Virginia, Manhattan, Long Island, New Jersey, Pennsylvania—and Trenton. She heard about them all. General Washington’s maneuvers of the last days of December and early January were being characterized as some of the most brilliant in military history. And Eric was always with Washington, so it was always possible to know how he fared. Fine, and well, she was always told. A Virginia horseman to match any, he was usually seen mounted atop his beautiful black horse, Joshua, and always at the forefront of action. He had survived every confrontation.

So far.

It was nearly spring. The first days of March were upon them. Snows would be thawing in Pennsylvania and New York, and it would be time for men to go to war again.

He could die, she thought. He could die without ever knowing that he had a child. And he would have one soon. Any day, perhaps any hour.

“You look cold,” Franklin chastised beside her. “You should not be out here, Lady Cameron, and certainly not alone.”

“Oh, I’m not alone, Mr. Franklin. A man of your acute vision must have observed that I am never alone! No, sir, my husband’s man, Cassidy, is with me now. And if you will note later, sir, there will be a handsome Acadian man near me, and there is my maid, of course, and my sponsor here, the Comte de la Rochelle.”

Franklin nodded and patted her hand. “Well, my dear, there was a rumor, you know, that you were sympathetic to the British.”

Her eyes widened. A sudden burst of emotion hurtled past her walls of cool defense. “Rumors! Sir, shall I admit all to you now?” He was her friend, she realized. One of the best friends she had ever had. She knew why he was loved. It wasn’t for the things he said, though they were charming—it was the way that he listened, the way he really heard what she had said. The elderly Comte de la Rochelle was very kind, and it was in his apartments in the far wing of the palace where she stayed, but it had not been until Ben Franklin arrived that she had felt comfortable. From the start he had sought to meet with her, he had come to her after his appointments with the ministers, and she had discovered in him a new meaning to revolutionary fever. Until the middle of 1775 he had been eager for reconciliation with Britain, but then he had seen that the desire for independence lay deep in the very hearts of the people. “Once the tide reaches the heart, milady, then no man can change that tide!” he had told her. She had believed him, and she quickly came to see through his eyes. By New Year’s day she had realized that she was not just a Virginian but an American . She might have been a loyal British subject once, but she was an American now. What that truly meant, she knew, she had yet to discover.

“Amanda, admit to me—”

“Well, sir, there was some truth to rumor,” Amanda said softly. Agitated, she rose. She stared back at the palace and caught her breath. Versailles. It was more than half a mile long, she had been told, with two enormous side wings. Once it had been the sight of a small hunting lodge, but Louis XIV had planned a very grand palace, and begun work upon it in 1661. He had hired the best architects, sculptors, and landscape gardeners. His successors had added to it, and now the palace boasted hundreds of rooms, marble floors, hand-painted ceilings, and the most beautiful gardens and landscaping that could be imagined. The king and queen and their retainers lived in such splendor and opulence that it was hard to imagine. They were like children, masters of this fairyland.

She looked from the beauty of the palace, rising against the sun, to Mr. Franklin, and she smiled. He was so plain and simple beside it all, his hose a dull mustard, his breeches blue, his surcoat a dark maroon, and his heavy cloak black. A civilian tricorn sat over the bald spot atop his head, and his hair, snowy white and gray, tufted out from either side. His face was wrinkled and jowled and reddened from cold and wind, but within were those eyes of his, soft blue beneath his spectacles, seeing and knowing all. And he was so much more impressive than the men of the court in their silks and satins and ungodly laces. And the women! Some wore their hair teased and knotted a good foot atop their heads. They called much of it Italian fashion—the most outlandish of it. Thus the term “macaroni.” It was used in the song that was becoming very popular called “Yankee Doodle.” This impressive fellow was far from “macaroni” fashion! Her smile slowly faded. Neither could they ever accuse her husband of being so. He had never even bent to fashion so far as to powder his hair. His shirts were laced, but never ostentatiously so. And when he moved about the estate he usually wore plain wool hose and dark breeches and a shirt that opened at his throat to display the bronze flesh of his throat and chest and the profusion of dark hair that grew short and crisp upon it…

“I was not guilty!” she swore suddenly. “Would God, sir, that you at least would believe me! I was free, can you understand? They had blackmailed me with my cousin, but once I knew he was free, they had nothing else to use against me. I gave away nothing!”

“There, there, now!” Franklin was on his feet. He caught her hands and brought her back to the bench, sitting again. “You must be careful. Mustn’t upset the babe! Why, I remember my own dear children’s birth…I’ve a son who is still with the British, my dear, so trust me, I do understand. Most men understand. This war is a fragile thing! If you say you are innocent, then I believe you.”

“That simply?”

“Well, of course. I do believe that I know you rather well.”

She started to laugh. “My husband should have known me well.”

Franklin sighed. “He is a good man, Lady Cameron. I’ve known him long and well too, and you must see things as he did. His name is an old and respected one. It was risked, and he believed that it was by your hand. He fights a war, he marches to battle daily. You have mentioned to me that you do not correspond. I implore you, madame, when the babe is born, you must write to him.”

She withdrew her hands quickly. Eric could die! He could ride into battle with his musket and his sword, and he could falter and fail. Exhaustion could overtake him, and his great heart could stop. She could not bear it if he were to perish!

But he had exiled her, cast her away. God knew, he was probably planning divorce proceedings this very moment. She had sworn that she would not forgive him. Her heart had grown cold.

But he could die.…

The thought was suddenly so painful that she doubled over. She couldn’t breathe.

“Lady Cameron?” Franklin said anxiously.

She shook her head. “It’s all right. It’s all right. It’s quite faded now.”

He nodded, watching her anxiously still. When she seemed to have recovered, he smiled. “I’ve a confession of my own, dear. The moment I arrived here, I wrote to your husband.”

“What?” She gasped in dismay.

“I had to, my dear. Lady Cameron, I was sent to England last, and while I waited there at the order of my country, my own dear wife departed this world. Life is short, and wisdom ever so hard to gain, and too oft gained to late. Forgive me—”

“Oh!” Amanda interrupted him. The sharp, blinding pain had seized her again. It was not worry, she realized then. She had gone into labor.

She rose, gasping. “Mr. Franklin—”

“It’s all right!” he assured her, on her feet. “A first labor takes hours and hours, Amanda. Hours and hours—”

“Oh! But the pains are coming so quickly.”

“Well, then maybe this labor will not be hours and hours! Oh, dear, this is not my forte—”

“Lady Cameron!”

She swung around. Both Cassidy and Jacques were hurrying up to her. She smiled. “See,” she told Franklin. “I never am alone.”

But she was glad that she was not alone, for the next pain doubled her over. She thought that she would fall, but, she was scooped up into strong arms. She looked up and she saw Jacques’s dear face, and she smiled and touched his cheek. “Thank you,” she murmured.

He did not smile, but searched out her eyes. She was glad of his strength, for the palace was so very big, and her chambers were at the far end of it. They left the gardens and traveled long hallways. Finally Jacques burst open a set of molded double doors; they had reached the apartments of the Comte de la Rochelle. The elderly French statesman was sitting before the fire, warming his toes, when they entered.

“My dear—” he began, but he saw Jacques’s face and moved quickly instead. “Danielle! The lady’s time has come! Be quick, I shall send for the physician!”

Jacques carried her into the beautiful room that had been assigned her. Danielle was already running in before him, sweeping back the fine damask bedcurtains and the spread. Jacques set Amanda down. Suddenly she did not want him to go. She squeezed his hand. He touched her forehead and smiled to her, and in softly spoken French he promised her a beautiful son. Then he left. Danielle urged her to sit up and started tugging on her silk and velvet gown.

“I can help—” Amanda assured her, but the pain attacked her savagely again, and this time, it was so sudden that she could not help but cry out.

“Hold to the bed frame!” Danielle advised her. “Ah, ma petite ! It will be much worse before it will be better!”

Danielle was so very right. For hours the pain came at short intervals. At first Amanda felt that she could bear it—the result would be her child, the babe she so desperately craved. Someone to hold and to love and to need her.

Then the pain became intense, and so frequent that she began to long for death. She swore, and she cried, and some point she didn’t know what she was saying. Exhausted, she drifted to a semisleep in the few minutes between the pains. She dreamed of Eric Cameron, coming toward her in his boots and breeches and open shirt. He had loved her once, she thought. His eyes had danced upon her with silver and blue desire, and his mouth had turned into a sensual curl when he had touched her. He had held her against so much danger, but she hadn’t trusted in the strength of his arms. He was speaking to her, accusing her of things.

“You have done something. You have done something to deny me a child.” She protested. She promised that she had not. But he accused her anew, the silver lights of laughter and desire gone from his gaze. “Betraying bitch!” But there is a child now! she tried to tell him. He already had the baby; he held it high and away from her. “My son returns with me, my son returns with me—”

A savage pain, just like the thrust of a knife, cut across her lower back and wound around to her front.

“Easy, ma petite , easy!” It was Danielle who spoke, Amanda realized dimly.

Amanda screamed, trying to rise to consciousness. Her eyes were wild, her hair was soaked and lay plastered about her head. A cool cloth fell upon her forehead, smoothing back her hair. “No!” she screamed the word. “He cannot have my baby, the lying, treacherous bastard shall not take the baby away—”

“Amanda, if you mean me, my love, I’ve no intention of taking the babe away. If you’ll only be so good as to deliver him to us.”

Her eyes flew wide. She had to be dreaming still. He was there, standing above her. It was Eric with the damp sponge, cooling her brow, smoothing back her hair. She stared at him in distress and amazement. He could not be there. He despised her so, and now he was seeing her thus! Wretched and in anguish and so much pain. And though he spoke softly, she thought that there was bitterness in his voice. And coldness, like an arctic frost.

“No,” she whispered, staring at him.

“Aye, my love,” he retorted, his devil’s grin in place, silver and indigo glittering in his gaze. He was nearly dressed as in her dream, wearing ivory hose and navy breeches, his frock coat and surcoat both shed, the laced sleeves of his shirt shoved high upon his muscled arms, his hair neatly queued back from his face.

“Please, don’t be!” she hissed, and she did not know if she wanted him gone because she was angry still, or because she was so afraid that she could never attract him again.

His glance moved toward the foot of the bed, and she realized that, of course, they were not alone. She followed his gaze and saw Danielle and the French physician. She swallowed tightly. Again a pain seized, swift and sure and barely a minute from the one before it. She cried out pitifully, unable to hold back. Danielle whispered feverishly to Eric.

“It’s over twenty-four hours. I do not see how she bears it.”

“It is time now,” the French physician said. “She must find the strength to bear down.”

Eric’s arms came around her. “Go away!” she begged him.

“He has said that you must push, Amanda. I’ll help you.”

“I do not want your help—”

“But you shall have it! Now do as you are told.”

It was not so hard, for an overwhelming desire to do so came to her. Nor would Eric let her quit. When she would have fallen back he pressed her forward, his voice full of command. “Push, madame!”

“I am not among your troops, Major General!” she retorted, and then she was gasping and unable to say more, and they let her fall back at last.

“Come, come! A little Cameron head has nearly entered into the world!”

“Again, Amanda—”

“Eric, please—”

“Push!”

She did so, and that time she was rewarded with the sweetest sense of relief. The child emerged from her body and the physician exclaimed with delight, slapping the tiny form. A lusty cry was heard, and Danielle called out, “A girl! Une petite jeune fille, une belle petite jeune fille— ”

“Oh!” Amanda gasped. She had been so very happy, so thrilled and excited. But then pain had seized her again, and she was suddenly terrified that she was going to die.

“What is it?” Eric demanded harshly.

“The pain—”

The Frenchman severed the birth cord, Danielle took the squalling baby girl. Eric gripped her hand, staring at her. “You are not going to die, my love. I have not finished with you,” he promised her.

She wanted to answer him, but she could not. The urge to push had come upon her again.

“ Alors! There are two!” The doctor laughed.

“Push!” Eric commanded her again. She could not. She was so exhausted she might well have been dead. He lifted her up, forced her to press forward.

“Bon! Bon!” the doctor exclaimed, nodding to Eric. Eric let her fall back, cradling her shoulders. She closed her eyes. She could remember the security of those arms. Once he had held her against the world. And now they were very much strangers. They were enemies to a greater extent than they had ever been. But he was there, holding her. Because he wanted their child.…

But she had a daughter, and she was so grateful! The baby was alive and well and—

“A boy, Lord Cameron!” The doctor laughed. “A boy, small, a twin, but all his fingers and toes are there! He will grow! His color is good. He is fine.”

A son. She had a daughter and a son. Her eyes closed. They had said that they were healthy. Twins. Two…and both alive and well and with good color. She wanted to see them so badly. She couldn’t begin to open her eyes.

“Amanda?”

She heard Eric’s voice. She felt his arms, but she could not open her eyes.

“My lord Cameron, you have gotten her through, but she has lost much blood, and the time, you see. I still have work to do with her, and then she must sleep. My lord, Danielle has the girl. If you insist upon helping, take your son.”

“My son. Aye, gladly, sir! I will take my son!”

She heard Eric say the words, and then she heard no more.

She must have slept a very long time, and very deeply, for when she awoke she was bathed and clean and wearing a soft white nightgown and her hair was dried and tied back from her face with a long blue ribbon. She awoke hearing a fretful crying. She opened her eyes, a smile on her face as she reached out for her infants.

Danielle was with her, she saw, smiling grandly as she walked over to the huge draped bed with the two bundles. “Your daughter, milady, or your son?” Danielle teased affectionately.

“I don’t know!” Amanda laughed, delighted. They were both screaming away. She decided to let them scream for a moment, removing their bundling, checking out the tiny bodies. “Oh, how extraordinary!” She laughed, for her baby daughter had a thatch of bright red hair and the little boy was very dark. Both had bright blue eyes at the moment. She checked them both swiftly, counting fingers and toes. “Oh, they are perfect!”

“A little small, so we must take care. Lord Cameron was anxious to leave, but the size of these two has slowed even him down.”

“Leave!” Amanda gasped.

“We’re going home,” Danielle said.

“We—all of us?”

“ Mais oui! What else?”

Amanda exhaled slowly, afraid to speak her fears. No husband would have taken his infants—and not his wife. Not even Eric.

Yet that did not heal the distance between them.

“You must try to feed both. Jeannette Lisbeth—the queen’s woman—says that you can hold both.…” Danielle came to her and adjusted the babies in her arms and her gowns. Amanda cried out with a little squeal of delight as her twins latched upon her breasts, tugging, creating a glowing sensation within her.

“They are so very small, however shall I manage?” She rested her chin atop one downy head, and touched a little cheek with her finger. “Oh, Danielle! Now I am so afraid. There are so many awful diseases—”

“Shush, and enjoy your children, ma petite . God will look after us all!”

Amanda smiled at Danielle’s statement. She took delight in the infants, touching them, smiling. But then she stiffened, startled and wary, when the door suddenly opened without a knock. She would have quickly drawn her gown together except that she could not.

Eric had come. He was really there. Tall, elegant this morning in dark brocade and snow-white hose and silver-buckled shoes. She wanted to tell him that she was glad he was alive; glad he had come. But she could not. The breach between them was too great. She had told him that she loved him once, and he had called her a liar. She would not make the mistake again.

And yet his eyes fell instantly to her breasts where the babies feasted noisily. He seemed to drag them back to hers.

“You might have knocked,” she told him coolly.

“I might have,” he agreed smoothly, “except that a man should not be required to knock upon his wife’s door.” He glanced at Danielle. “Mam’selle, if you would …?”

“Danielle!” Amanda wailed.

But Danielle was gone. Eric approached the bed. The little girl’s mouth had gone slack. Her eyes were closed. Eric reached for her, swathing her in the blanket, setting her with care and skill upon his shoulder. His large bronzed hand looked mammoth against the child.

He glanced her way. “I do believe that they are supposed to burp this way.”

Amanda nervously closed her gown, setting her infant son upon her own shoulder, patting the little back. She kept watching Eric, but he paid her little heed, giving his attention to their daughter. He did not look at her when he spoke at last. “I should like to call her Lenore.”

“That was—”

“Your mother’s name, yes. Does that suit you?”

“Yes,” she said softly. “And—our son?”

“Jamie,” he said huskily. “A Jamie Cameron began life in a new land. This Jamie Cameron will begin life in a new country.”

“The war has not been won,” Amanda observed.

His eyes fell upon her coldly. She lifted her chin, not wanting to fight, not knowing how not to do so. “And with what you said to me when we last met, I had doubts you would claim them as your own,” she murmured.

She held her breath, awaiting his answer. She so desperately wanted him to disclaim his words, to vow some small word of love to her.

His eyes stayed upon her. “As this is March eleventh, I daresay the timing is quite right since our last—encounter.”

Tears stung her eyes. She refused to shed them. “I wish that they were not yours!” she lied softly.

He stiffened, his back to her. “Ah, my dear wife! And you claimed to love me so the last time that we met!” She was silent. He turned to her. He set the baby down carefully in one of the cradles that had been brought and came to stand beside her. She nearly flinched when he reached down to touch her hair. He did not miss her reaction. He picked up his son even though a sound of protest escaped her. “The lad sleeps,” he said. With Jamie Cameron set in his cradle, Eric came back to her again.

He reached into his frock coat and produced a small velvet box. He withdrew a ring from it and took her hand. She tugged upon her fingers but he held fast. A second later a stunning emerald surrounded by diamond chips was set upon her third finger. “Thank you,” he said very softly, and it was the tone of voice that could set her heart to shivering, her very soul to trembling. She wanted so badly to reach out and stroke his face. No matter how tender his words, she dared not. “I did not mean to be so crude. I do, however, live sometimes for the day when I might meet Lord Tarryton once again. You forget, I discovered you once within his arms.”

A smile escaped her. “And rescued me from them, if I recall.”

“Yes, but I admit, I cannot forget that you loved him, and fears have often tormented my dreams. But I thank you for my children—healthy twins were far more than I dared dream. I would that they had been born at home—”

“You sent me here.”

“Aye, and I would bring you home now. But, Amanda, you must swear to me that you will no longer betray my cause.”

“I did not betray your cause—”

“I ask you for the future.”

She lowered her head, feeling the urge to burst into” tears. He still did not believe her. He had always been there for her, even in the midst of childbirth! But he did not believe her, and she knew of no way to heal their breach.

“I will not betray you, I swear it,” she said softly.

His knuckles rested upon her cheek. He opened his mouth as if to speak. She turned her head aside. “This is a travesty of a marriage, is it not? When you loved me, I did not love you. Then I loved you—and you did not love me. There is nothing now, is there?”

His hand fell and he walked away from the bed. She heard the door open, and yet he hesitated. “Aye, there is something,” he said. Her eyes rose to his. Cobalt fire, they fell upon her, and touched her flesh and blood and entered deeply inside of her. “For you are mistaken. I have loved you since I first laid eyes upon you, milady, and I have never ceased to love you.”

The door closed. She was alone.