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He shook his head, and in his eyes she saw the depth of his anger. She wanted to throw down the gun, to back away. All was lost this day.

“Now, Amanda! I warn you that my temper is brittle indeed. I almost fear to touch you, lest I strangle the light from those glorious eyes! I’ll take the gun.”

“No!” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Let me by you. Let me go. I swear that I am innocent—”

“Let ‘Highness’ go? Why, milady! They would hang me for the very act!”

His words were light; they were followed by a long determined stride in her direction. She backed away as he lunged for her with the finesse of the fencer. “No!” she cried. “I’ll shoot you, Eric, I swear it—”

“And I do believe you, milady!” he countered, approaching her nonetheless, a mocking light of challenge in his eyes. “Shoot me, then, if you dare, milady! But take heed that your weapon be loaded!” He moved like lightning, catching the gun by the barrel, sending it flying across the room. The firing mechanism snapped; the gun went off, sending the bullet into the wall.

He stared at her, hard. And then he smiled slowly, bitterly. “It was loaded, milady. And aimed upon my heart.”

She had never seen his eyes colder. Never seen his lip curl with such disdain.

She faced him, thinking frantically. She needed to turn, to run. There had to be somewhere else to go. If she could reach the door, she could escape the ship. No other man would seek to stop her. She could cast herself into the Chesapeake Bay. Eventually she could reach the shore. Dunmore’s ships were lost to her, Robert had kidnapped her just to desert her to her fate, but if she could swim to the shore, she could eventually make it north and find General Howe’s troops. If she could just escape Eric this night! He would offer her no mercy, not this time. She knew that as she saw the cold and wary eyes.

“And now, Highness…”

“Wait!” Amanda swallowed hard. She feared that she would faint as a rush of memory swept over her, leaving her hot and trembling. She knew so much about him. She knew the searing hellfire of his passion, and she knew the ice of his fury. Just as she knew the gentle sweep of his fingers…and the relentless power of his will and determination. He could step forward now and break her neck and be done with it, and by silver-blue rapier blades of his eyes that struck upon her now, it seemed that that was what he longed to do.

God! Deliver me from this man I love! she prayed in silence.

“Wait for what, milady? Salvation? You shall not find any!”

She stared at the gun, broken upon the floor. He had seized it with such power that the heavy stock had shattered. She glanced at him one more moment, then she burst into motion, determined to run, to risk any factor, just to escape him.

She was not quick enough. His arm grabbed her, his fingers winding into her hair. She screamed with the pain of it and panicked as she was brought swirling back into his arms. She fought his hold, squeezing her arms between them, pummeling his chest. Tears of desperation stung her eyes. She tried to kick him and quickly earned his wrath. He caught her wrists and wrenched them hard behind her back, and through it all she felt the simmering liquid heat of his body, bold and vibrant and recalling echoes of the past. She cried out as he pulled upon her wrists, and went still at last, pressed against him, tossing back her head to meet his eyes.

With one hand he held her wrists at the small of her back while he placed his left palm against her cheek and slowly stroked it. “So beautiful. So treacherous. But it is over now. Surrender, milady.”

She met his gaze. Something of all that had lain between them touched her heart and seemed to skyrocket. Just the touch of his strength against her seemed explosive. Once love had flamed so fiercely and so strong! But their battles had been as passionate, and now she did not know what tempest ruled the blood that flowed within them and the air that churned about them. Her eyes burned with tears, but she could not give in now. Be it love, be it hate, what burned between them demanded that she not falter now. She shook her head and dared to offer him a rueful, wistful smile. “No surrender, my lord. No retreat, and no surrender.”

Footsteps echoed upon a stairway and a second man came to a halt behind him. He was young, barely beginning to grow whiskers, and his eyes widened at the sight of her. “We’ve found her! Highness! She gave the ship and the intelligence to the British.”

“Aye, we’ve found her,” Eric said softly, and still his eyes bored into hers, with what thoughts she could not fathom. She did not look away, even with the young officer watching them. Then Eric muttered an oath and cast her from him. She nearly fell, but caught herself, and stood tall, backed against the paneling. She braced herself with her hands, and thought, How peculiar. The sea was so very calm she could scarcely feel the ship rock, and the room was alive with storms.

The young man suddenly let out a soft whistle as he watched her. “No wonder she played our men so false so easily!” he murmured.

Eric Cameron felt everything inside of him tighten like a vise at the man’s words. She was still beautiful. More beautiful than ever. She was flush against the wall, cornered, yet still defiant. She was a perfect picture of femininity, of grace. So delicate and glorious as she stood, her breasts rising from her bodice with each breath, her flesh pale, as perfect as marble. She wore green silk with an overskirt and bodice of golden brocade. Her throat and shoulders were bare, and her hair was worn in soft ringlets that curled just over her shoulders. She was as cool and smooth as alabaster as she returned his stare, her eyes as green as the gown, her hair a startling and beautiful contrast with the shades of the silk and brocade. It was deep, deep red, sometimes sable, sometimes the color of the sunset, depending on the light.

He wanted to wrench her hair from the pins, he wanted to see it tumble down. He did not want to see her so silent, so beautiful, so still, so regal. Damn her. Her eyes defying him, even now.

“Aye,” he said quietly. “It was easy for her to play men falsely.”

“I wonder if they will hang her,” the soldier said. “Would we hang a woman, General?”

Amanda felt a chill of fear sweep over her, and she swallowed hard to keep tears from rising to her eyes. She could see it. She would hear the drums beat. Hanging. It was a just punishment for treason. They would lead her along. They would set the rope around her neck, and she would feel the bristle of the hemp against her flesh.

Dunmore had sworn that he would have Eric hanged, were he ever to get his hands upon him. But Eric had never cared. Amanda wondered what fever it was that could fill a man with such haunting loyalty to a desperate cause. It was a passion that made him turn his back on his estates in England, risk his wealth and title and prestige and even his life. He had everything, and he was willing to cast it aside for this rebel cause of his.

She had risked her life upon occasion for her cause. Indeed, her very life might well stand on the line now.

The young officer stared at her still. He sighed softly again. “Milord, surely you cannot have her hanged!”

“Nay, I cannot,” Eric agreed ironically, the silver and steel of his eyes upon her, “for she is, you see, my wife.”

The man gasped. Eric turned to him impatiently. “Tell Daniel to set a course for Cameron Hall. Have someone come for this lieutenant. The Brits must be buried at sea; our own will find rest at home.” He turned back to Amanda. “My love, I shall see you later.” He bowed deeply to her, and then he was gone, the young officer on his heels. Two men quickly appeared, nodding her way in silence, and carefully picked up the body of the slain Highland lieutenant.

Then the door closed. Sharply.

He was gone. Eric was gone. The tempest had left the room, and still she was trembling, still she was in fear, and still she didn’t know whether to thank God or to damn him. They had been apart so long, and now the war had come to them, and the battle was raging in her very soul.

Amanda cast herself upon the captain’s bunk, her heart racing. Through the sloop’s handsome draperies and the fine paned windows she could see the distant shore, the land they approached.

Cameron Hall. Rising white and beautiful upon the hill, the elegant manor house itself seemed to reproach her. It looked so very peaceful! The British had set their fires, but Robert had spoken the truth about the blazes. Obviously those fires had been put out with very little difficulty.

No dark billow of smoke marred the house or the outbuildings. Only the warehouses on the dock seemed to have burned with a vengeance. They were not so important. It was the house that mattered, she thought. She loved the house, more than Eric himself did, perhaps. It had been her haven in need. And in the turbulent months that had passed, she had strode the portrait gallery, and she had imagined the lives of those women who had come before her. She had seen to the polishing of their silver, she had taken tender care of the bedding and furnishings they had left behind.

A chill swept through her suddenly.

He wasn’t going to hang her. What was he going to do with her? Could she vow that she would not leave the house, that she would take no more part in the war? She could never, never have set fire to the house. But he would never believe that now.

She closed her eyes and heard the orders to dock. She imagined the men, pulling in the Lady Jane ’s sails, furling them tightly as the ship found her deep-water berth. She heard the fall of the plank, and the call of victory as men walked ashore.

The patriots had needed that victory! The British were heading toward New York, and Washington hadn’t enough troops to meet them properly. The colonials were up against one of the finest fighting forces in the world.

Oh, couldn’t he see! she thought in anguish. The British would win in the end, and they would hang Eric! They would hang him and George Washington and Patrick Henry and the Adamses and Hancock and all those foolish, foolish men!

The door opened again. Amanda sprang up. Her heart seemed to sink low in her chest. Frederick had come for her, the printer from Boston. Eric had saved his life once, and she knew Frederick would gladly die for him now.

“Where is Eric?” she demanded.

“Your husband will be with you soon enough, milady,” Frederick said. “He has asked me to escort you to the house.”

“Escort me?”

“Milady, none of us would seek to harm you.” He was quiet for a moment. “Even if you are a spy.”

“Frederick, please, I—”

His anguished eyes fell upon hers. “Oh, milady! Cameron Hall! How could you have betrayed his very home?”

“I did not, Frederick,” she said wearily.

“Then—”

“I have no defense,” she told him.

“Milady, I will take your word.”

“Thank you.” She did not tell him that her husband would not do so. She lowered her eyes quickly, feeling that tears sprang to them. If he had condemned her, if he had spoken with fury or wrath, it would have been easier.

“Come now,” he said.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked him.

“Nowhere but to your own home, milady.”

Amanda nodded to Frederick and swept through the cabin’s narrow doorway. She climbed the ladder to the deck. As she came topside to the early-evening air, the chatter of the men died down, and one and all, they stared at her. They paused in their motions of cleaning the Lady Jane’s guns or in tying her sails. They were not navy but a ragtag outfit of militia men. She knew the men from the western counties by their buckskin fringed jackets, and she knew some of the old soldiers by the blue coats they wore, leftovers of the French and Indian Wars. Still others were clad differently, and she knew that they were the uniforms of the counties they had come from. Some were friends, and others were strangers.

She tried to steady herself to walk before them, and yet it did not seem that they condemned her too harshly. Someone began to whistle an old Scottish ballad. Then one by one they all began to bow to her. Confused, she nodded her head in turn as Frederick led her from the ship. She walked the plank to the dock.

The small coach awaited them. Pierre was driving. He did not look her way. Amanda walked to the coach and hoisted herself up, Frederick close behind her. She looked back to the ship. The old captain in a green rifleman’s outfit saluted her.

She glanced quickly to Frederick. “I don’t understand,” she murmured.

Seating himself beside her, Frederick smiled. “All men salute a brave enemy in defeat.”

“But they must hate me.”

“Yes, some of them. But most men respect a fallen enemy who fights true to his or her heart. And those who do know the secret of ‘Highness’ might well wish that you had chosen your husband’s side.”

“I cannot help where my heart lies!”

“Neither can any man, milady,” Frederick said. He was silent then. Pierre cracked the whip over the horse’s head, and the wheels jolted over the rough path.

Amanda pulled back the curtain and stared up the expanse of verdant sloping ground to the mansion.

From the large paned windows to the broad porches, the house exuded the charm of the Tidewater. Amanda loved it; she had loved it from the moment she had first seen it. From the sweeping, polished mahogany stairway to the gallery with its fascinating portraits of the Camerons, she loved every brick and stone within the place.

The coach came to an abrupt halt. Pierre opened the door, still refusing to look at her. She wanted to strike him. She wanted to scream that none of it had been her fault.

He would not understand. She had left with Robert.

Amanda leapt from the carriage and started for the house, ignoring the servant. Frederick was quickly beside her, walking with her up the steps. He wasn’t merely delivering her to the front door, she realized.

Frederick cleared his throat. “Lord Cameron will come to his chambers, milady.”

Amanda looked at him and nodded. She thought about attempting to fly past him, to race into the woods that fringed the fields. She would never make it, she knew. Some of these people might still believe in her, and some of them loved her. But they loved her husband more.

And their cause was the cause of liberty, and not her own.

“Thank you, Frederick,” she said, sweeping up her skirts and heading for the stairway. As she walked she heard his footsteps behind her.

She looked down and saw that the silk was stained with the Highland lieutenant’s blood. She smelled of cannon fire and black powder.

She passed by the portraits in the gallery and felt as if they all, the Camerons who had come before her, stared down at her with damning reproach. I did not do this thing! she longed to cry out. But it was senseless. She was damned. She saw her own portrait and wondered if Eric would not quickly strike it from the wall. What other Cameron bride had ever betrayed her own house?

Finally Amanda stepped into the master chamber. Frederick closed the doors, and she was alone.

A rise of panic swelled within her breast. It hadn’t been long ago that she had lain in the bed, dreaming. Spinning fantasies of the time when her husband would return.

Now she knew that he would return very soon, and she hadn’t a fantasy left to believe in.

A soft cry of misery escaped her. She couldn’t bear waiting for him, not here. Too many memories rested here. Memories of storms and fire and passionate upheaval, memories of laughter.

She had come here, determined to despise him. But from the first, her eyes had fallen upon his every movement. In the deepest anger she had watched him rise, watched him dress, or stand bare-chested before the windows, and even then, in the very beginning, some sweet secret thrill had touched her heart when she looked upon him, for he had been so fiercely fine, and he had wanted her with such blind, near-ruthless determination. He had wanted her so…

Once upon a time.

But now…

Her gaze fell upon the handsome bed that sat atop a dais. Beautifully carved of dark wood, draped in silk and brocade, it had always seemed a place of the greatest intimacy and privacy. She drew her eyes from the bed and looked up at the Queen Anne clock upon her dressing table. Nearly six. Night was coming at last.

But not Eric.

Amanda began to pace the room, too nervous to dwell on the future, too frightened to recall the past.

Darkness came.

Cassidy, Eric’s ebony-black valet, came to the room, knocking before entering. He looked at her sadly.

“What? Have you come to hang me too, Cassidy?”

He shook his head. “No, Lady Cameron. Perhaps there was more than the eyes could see.” He was her friend—but Eric’s first.

Still, she smiled. “Thank you.”

“I’ve brought wine and roasted wild turkey,” he told her. He moved back into the hallway and returned, bearing with him a heavy silver tray. “And Cato and Jack are bringing up water for the hip bath.”

“Thank you, Cassidy,” she told him. She smiled awkwardly at him. His accent was wonderful, with traces of Eric’s own enunciation, as acquired at Oxford. He was in white and black, very much a lord’s gentleman. He was born a slave and had become a free man here.

She was no longer free, she realized.

She was a prisoner in her own room in her own house. More than any slave the Camerons had ever owned, she was a prisoner here. The slaves were allowed to earn their freedom if they chose. She would not have that luxury.

Cassidy said no more to her, but set the tray down upon the table. Jack and Cato, in the red, white, and green Cameron livery, came with water, and the bath was dragged out. She waited until the hip bath was halfway filled with the steaming water and then thanked the men. Her fight was not with them. Margaret might well call her a Tory bitch, but perhaps the others understood that life was far more complex than any neat little label.

“Where is Lord Cameron?” she asked Cassidy.

“Involved with affairs, milady. They plan to follow on the heels of Lord Dunmore and see that he is pushed from our coast once and for all.”

Affairs…so he might not come back to her at all. She might spend day after day in this room, awaiting her sentence. She cleared her throat. “Is he…is he coming back, do you know? Or am I perhaps to be turned over to some Continental official?”

“Oh, no. Lord Cameron will come.”

His words were not reassuring.

She wished that she had been dragged before some Continental court. Any man would deal with her more gently than her husband, she thought.

“May I see Danielle?”

“I am sorry, milady.”

“Is she all right?”

“Yes, she is well.”

Cassidy bowed to her and left with the others. The door closed. She heard a key twist, locking her in, and she sank down at the table and tried to eat. The food was delicious but she had no appetite so she sipped wine and stared at the darkness beyond the windows.

At length she realized that the bath water was growing cold and that the charred smell of her clothing and hair was distasteful. Glancing at the door, she felt her numbness leaving her as she wondered if her husband would return.

He could be gone for days, she reminded herself.

She finished the wine for courage, then shed her rich gown, hose, corset, and petticoats and stepped into the water. The warmth was delicious. She sank beneath the water to soak her hair, and scrubbed it thoroughly, as she scrubbed her flesh.

She could not wash away her fear or her thoughts. What would Eric think if he knew that she had bargained with Robert Tarryton to save the house? He would not believe it, or worse. He would think that she had sought to leave with Tarryton.

The evening was cool. Rising from the tub, Amanda folded a huge linen towel about herself and shivered, wishing that she had asked Cassidy for a fire. She walked to the window and pulled back the drapes. Down the slope by the docks she could see tremendous activity. Half the militia was camped out on their property, so it seemed.

God, give me courage! she prayed. And if you cannot, please let me disappear into the floorboards.

God did not answer her prayer.

She started, hearing a sound, and whirled around. Eric was there. He had come, opening the door in silence, standing there now in silence, watching her. Their eyes met. He turned and closed and locked the door, then leaned against it, his eyes fixed on hers once again. His tone was soft, its menace unmistakable.

“Well, Highness, it has come. Our time of reckoning.”

Amanda’s heart slammed against her breast. She wanted to speak but words failed her.

He awaited her reply, and when there was none, a crooked mocking smile curled his lip, and he walked toward her, dark, towering, and determined.

“Aye, milady, our time of reckoning at last.”

A time of reckoning.

It had been coming a long while. A long, long while. Ever since he had first set eyes upon her that long-ago night in the city of Boston.

It had all begun then. The tempest of war.

And the tempest that lay between them.…