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I

Boston, Massachusetts December 16, 1773

“W hiskey, Eric?” Sir Thomas suggested.

Eric Cameron stood by the den window in Sir Thomas Mabry’s handsome town house. Something had drawn him there as soon as the contracts had been signed. He stared out at the night. An occasional coach clattered by on the cobbled streets, but for the most part, the night was very quiet. The steeples of the old churches shone beneath the moonlight, and from his vantage point, high atop a hill, Eric could see down to the common. The expanse of green was dark with night, cast in the shadow of the street lamps, and as peaceful as all else seemed.

Yet there seemed to be a tension about the city. Some restlessness. Eric couldn’t quite describe it, not even to himself, but he felt it.

“Eric?”

“Oh, sorry.” He turned to his host, accepting the glass that was offered to him. “Thank you, Thomas.”

Thomas Mabry clicked his glass to Eric’s. “Milord Cameron! A toast to you, sir. And to our joint venture with your Bonnie Sue . May she sail to distant shores—and make us both rich.”

“To the Bonnie Sue !” Eric agreed, and swallowed the whiskey. He and Sir Thomas had just invested in a new ship to sail to far-distant ports. Eric’s stores of tobacco and cotton went straight to England, but with some of the recent trouble and his own feelings regarding a number of the taxes, he had wanted to experiment and send his own ships to southern Europe and even to the Pacific to acquire tea and some of the luxuries he had once imported from London.

“Interesting night,” Thomas said, looking to the window as Eric had done. “They say that there’s to be a mass meeting of citizens. Seven thousand, or so they say.”

“But why?”

“This tea thing,” Thomas said irritably. “And I tell you, Parliament couldn’t be behaving more stupidly over this than if foolishness had been a requisite for representatives!”

Amused and interested, Eric swallowed most of his drink. “You’re on the side of the rebels?”

“Me? Well, that hints of treason, eh?” He made a snorting sound, then laughed. “I tell you this. No good will come of it all. The British government gave the British East India Company a substantial rebate on tea shipped here. It’s consigned to certain individuals—which will shove any good number of local merchants right out of business. Something will happen. In this city! With agitators like the Adamses and that John Hancock…well, trouble is due, that it is!”

“This makes our private venture all the more interesting,” Eric pointed out.

“That it does!” Thomas agreed, laughing. “Well, we shall get rich or hang together then, my friend, and that is a fact.”

“Perhaps.” Eric grinned.

“Well, now that we’ve discussed business and the state of the colony,” Sir Thomas said, “perhaps we should rejoin the party in the ballroom. Anne Marie will be quite heartbroken if you do not share a dance.”

“Ah, Sir Thomas, I would not think to break the lady’s heart,” Eric said. He had promised his old friend’s daughter that they would not tarry on business all night, that he would come back to the ballroom and join her. “Of course, her dance card is always filled so quickly.”

Sir Thomas laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “But she has eyes only for you, my friend.”

Eric smiled politely, disagreeing. Anne Marie had eyes that danced along with her feet. She was ambitious, and a flirt, but a sweet and honest one. Eric was wryly aware of his worth on the marriage mart. His vast wealth would have made him highly eligible even if he had been eighty, his family pedigree would have stood him well had he rickets, black teeth, and a balding pate. He was not yet thirty, he had all his teeth, and his legs were strong and very straight.

Perhaps Anne Marie would catch him one day. He simply was not of a mind to be caught at the moment.

A tapping on the door was quickly followed by an appearance by the lady herself. Anne Marie was a soft blonde with huge blue eyes and a coquette’s way with a fan. She smiled her delight at him and slipped her hand through his arm. “Eric! You are coming now, aren’t you?”

“Let him finish his whiskey, daughter!” Sir Thomas commanded.

“I shall do so quickly,” he promised Anne Marie. He swallowed down the amber liquid, smiling as she pouted.

Suddenly his smile faded as his gaze was caught by a flash of color beyond the open door. A strange sense of the French déjà-vu seemed to seize him as he caught first an impression, nothing more. Then the dancers in the hall swept by again. As a gentleman shifted to the left, he saw the girl who had so thoroughly caught his attention. Her gown was blue, deep, striking blue, with a full sweeping skirt and a daring décolletage trimmed with red ribbons and creamy lace. Against that blue, tendrils of her hair streamed down in a rich and elegant display of sable ringlets. They curved about her naked shoulders and over the rise of her breasts, enhancing her every breath and movement. Her hair was so very dark…and then, with a shift of light, it wasn’t dark at all, but red as only the deepest sunset could be red.

His gaze traveled at last from her breast to her face, and his breath caught and held. Her eyes were the most startling, purest emerald he had ever seen, fringed by dark lashes. Her features were stunning, perfectly molded, lean and delicate, with a long aquiline and entirely patrician nose, high-set cheekbones, slim, arched brows. All that hinted of something less than absolute perfection was the wideness of her mouth, not that her lips were not rose, were not formed and defined beautifully, but they held something that cold marble perfection could not, for the lower lip was very full, the top curved, and the whole of it so sensual that even within the innocent smile she offered her partner, there could be found a wealth of sensuality. She wore a tiny black velvet beauty patch at the side of her cheek, very near her ear, and that, too, seemed to enhance her perfection, for her ears were small and prettily shaped.

There was something familiar about her. Had he seen her before? He would have remembered a meeting with her. From this moment onward he would never forget her. He had not moved since he had seen her, had not spoken, yet he had never felt more startlingly alive. He had lived a reckless life, mindful of his inheritance, but fiercely aware of his independence, and women—virtuous and not so virtuous—had always played a part within it.

He had never known anyone to affect him so. To render him so mesmerized, and so very hot and tense and…hungry, all at once.

“Eric? Are you with us?” Anne Marie said, annoyed.

Thomas Mabry laughed. “I believe he’s just seen a friend, my dear.”

“A friend?” Eric managed to query Thomas politely.

“Lady Amanda Sterling. A Virginian, such as yourself, Eric. Ah , but she has spent most of the past years at a school for young ladies in London. And perhaps you have been at sea on those ships of yours when the young lady has been in residence.”

“Ah, yes, perhaps,” Eric replied to his host. So the woman was Lady Amanda Sterling. They had met, but it had been years before. Still, it was an occasion that neither of them should have forgotten. There had been a hunt. She had been a mere child of eight upon a pony and he had been longing for the very mature and beautiful upstairs maid at their host’s manor. Young Lady Amanda had jostled her pony ahead of his and the result had been disaster with both of them being thrown from their mounts. And when he had chastised her, she had bitten him. He hadn’t given a fig about Lord Sterling and had paddled her there and then. She had raged like a little demon, the child had.

The child had grown.

“Eric, may we dance?” Anne Marie prodded sweetly. “I promise an introduction. Father, do remind me from now on not to have parties when Mandy is our guest, will you?”

Thomas laughed. Eric joined in, and Anne Marie grinned prettily. Eric gathered his wits about him and reached politely for her arm. “Anne Marie, I am honored.”

He led her out to the floor, and they began to dance. Anne Marie gave him a lazy smile as he swept her expertly about the floor, seeking out the woman who had seized his attention. He saw her again. Saw her laugh for her partner, saw the devil’s own sizzle in her eyes. He thought that he recognized something of himself within that look. She would not be governed by convention, she would demand her own way, and fight for it fiercely.

The sound of her laughter came to him again and he felt a reckless fever stir within him. Come hell itself, and time be damned, he would have to have that woman.

Who was the man who caused her laughter, he wondered.

Anne Marie, watching him indulgently, answered the question that he did not ask. “That’s Damien Roswell—her cousin,” she said sweetly.

“Cousin?” He smiled. His hand tightened upon hers.

Anne Marie nodded sagely. “But—and this is a grave ‘but,’ I must warn you!—the lady is in love.”

“Oh?”

Love so often meant nothing. Girls of Amanda Sterling’s tender young age were in and out of love daily. Their fathers seldom let the affairs go past fluttering hearts and dreams.

Yet her eyes were wild, deep with laughter and secrets and passion. He smiled, thinking she was one lass who should probably be wed and quickly—to an appropriate person, of course.

“And he loves her,” Anne Marie warned.

“Who is ‘he’?”

“Why, Lord Tarryton. Robert Tarryton. ‘Tis said that he has adored her for years, as she has adored him. She will become eighteen in March, and it is believed that he will ask Lord Sterling for her hand then. It is a perfect match. They are all loyal Tories, landed and wealthy. You’re frowning, Eric,” Anne Marie warned him.

“Am I?” Tarryton. He knew the man, if vaguely. The old Lord Tarryton had been a good Indian fighter, but Eric didn’t think that this young Tarryton could hold a candle to his lamented father. Their properties were not so far apart that they had not met upon occasion, nor did the social organization of Virginia allow for much secrecy in private life.

There were rumors in very high places that Lord Tarryton was seeking a union with the widowed Duchess of Owenfield. As the lady was young and childless, dispensations could be made to give the title to Lord Tarryton.

“Aye, you’re frowning! And you’re very fierce when you do so. You take my breath away, you cause me quite to shiver and make me wonder what woman would dare to wish that you might court her!”

He grinned at Anne Marie’s sweet dramatics and thought that they would always be the very best of friends. He started to assure her that she would dare anything she chose when he found himself staring over her shoulder instead.

Amanda Sterling had ceased to dance. Her young escort was whispering earnestly to her near the door. She kissed his cheek, then watched as he retrieved his cloak and hat and discreetly disappeared into the night.

She stood still a minute. Then she, too, hurried toward the door, procuring a huge black hooded cape from the halltree, and then rushed out into the night.

“What the—”

“What’s the matter?”

“Why, she’s just departed.”

“Amanda!” Anne Marie cried in distress. “Oh, how could she! If Lord Sterling returns…”

Eric glanced at her sharply. She was very pale, not acting at all. “He is about on business this night. Perhaps he will not come back—he sometimes stays gone.” She paused, her eyes wide. Eric realized that Anne Marie was trying to tell him that Lord Sterling frequented the area brothels and left his daughter in Sir Thomas’s care.

“If he comes back?”

“It is just that he is so…”

“I know Sterling,” Eric said, waiting for more.

“I’m just always afraid that he shall—hurt her.”

“Has he ever?”

“Not that I know of. But the way he looks at her sometimes…his own daughter. I do not envy her, no matter what her wealth or title. I pray that Robert marries her soon!”

Eric kissed her cheek. “I’m going out. I’ll find her,” he assured Anne Marie. She still gazed at him anxiously. “Wait up for me,” he advised her softly. “I’ll come back, I promise.”

He offered her an encouraging smile and swept by her. He, too, went to the door after retrieving his cloak and his hat. He turned to Anne Marie and waved, and exited the house.

As soon as he was on the streets, he could almost feel the tension on the air and beneath his feet. This night, Boston was alive. He wondered just what was going on.

He called to the Mabry groom, and his horse was quickly brought to him. “Do you know anything about what is going on?”

Dark eyes rolled his way. “They say it’s a tea party. A tempest in tea, Lord Cameron. Dark days is a-comin’, milord! You mark my words, dark days is a-comin’!”

“Perhaps,” Eric agreed. He nudged his mount forward. It was true, something was afoot tonight. He could hear men walking, men calling out.

Damien Roswell had gone into the night. And Lady Amanda Sterling had followed. Just what route might she have taken in these dangerous times? He nudged his mount on, determined to find her.

Frederick Bartholomew shivered as he hurried along the street. The night was cold, and a mist fringed the harbor, floating about the city lanterns, making the ships that sat in the harbor and at dock look ghostly.

It had been a quiet night…but now it was about to explode.

Frederick could see the great masts of the proud sailing ships that ventured forth from England to her colonies rise high against the night sky, seeming to disappear into the darkness and the clouds. The cold winter’s water lapped softly against the sides of the ships. A breeze stirred, lifting the mist of winter, swirling about cold and certain, and still so quiet.

Then the peace of the night was broken. A shout rang out.

“Boston Harbor’s a teapot tonight!” a fellow shouted.

Then their footsteps began to thunder. Dozens of footsteps, and the night came alive.

We must be a curious sight, he thought. There were fifty or so of them, streaming out of the mist and out of the darkness and through the cold of winter, toward the harbor ships. At first glance they would appear to be Indians, for they were half naked, bronzed, darkly bewigged, and painted, as if in warpaint.

They were at war, in a way, but they were not Indians, and it was not death they sought to bring to the ships, unless it was the death of tyranny.

They rowed out to the three British ships riding in the harbor and streamed upon them.

Frederick stood in the background then.

The head “Indians” were polite as they demanded the keys to the tea chests from the captains.

“All right, men!” came the command.

Frederick still remained in the distance, watching as his friends apologized when they knocked out the guards. Then he joined in; they all set to their tasks, dumping the contents of 340 chests of tea into the sea. Fires burned high against the darkness and the mist. The men went about their task with efficiency, unmolested, for it was unexpected by the British and condoned by the multitude of the citizens of Boston.

Frederick Bartholomew, printer by trade, quietly watched the tea fall into the sea. Beside him, one of his friends, Jeremy Duggin, chortled. “A fine brew we’re making, strong and potent!”

“And sure to bring about reprisals,” Frederick reminded him.

Jeremy was silent for a moment. “We’d no choice, man. We’d no choice at all. Not if we intended to keep the British out of our pockets.”

“Lads! Hurry now. Swab down the decks, see that all is left shipshape! We’ve not come to cause real injury to the captains or the men—the tea has been our business, and that is all. Now hurry!”

The older men in the crowd had planned the action. The younger ones had carried it out with glee. Many of the boys were college students from Harvard. For some it was a prank, a lark.

Others saw what the future might bring, but all carried out the work, and to a man, they cleaned the ships when they were done.

The keys were politely returned to the captains.

“Away!” someone called. “Our deed is done. Let’s flee! The troops will be out soon enough.”

“Come then, Jeremy!” Frederick called. They were both oiled and slick, wearing buckskin breeches and vests. Frederick was starting to shiver violently. Out on the water, it was viciously cold.

“Aye, and hurry, man!” Jeremy said.

They climbed down to the small boats that would bring them to the dock. “A teapot she is! The harbor is a teapot tonight! She steams, she brews! And what comes, soon, all men will soon see.”

It was one of their leaders shouting then, passionately, heartfully.

The British fighting force was estimated to be one of the finest in the world. If it came to war…Frederick thought.

If they were caught…

There were so many of them. The entire port of Boston had been with them, except for the British troops and the minority of loyalists.

The Indians reached dry land again. They were making little secret of their actions, marching to the grand old elm, the Liberty Tree. They would not hang for their deeds this night. The governor could not see that they all hanged! If the king had thought that Boston rebelled before, let him see the people after a heinous act like that!

“Back home, me lads! And a deed well done!” one of the leaders called.

Frederick tensed, for he was not done with his night’s work. As the others began to drift away, returning to their homes or heading for their chosen taverns, Frederick stood waiting by the tree.

Two men soon appeared before him, one another printer, a man named Paul Revere, and one the wealthy and admired John Hancock. Hancock was a cousin of the well-known patriot Samuel Adams, but it was the seizure of his ship Liberty by the British that had turned him so intensely toward the cause of the patriots. He was a handsome man, richly dressed in gold brocade and matching breeches. “Have you come by the arms, Frederick?” Hancock asked him.

Frederick nodded.

“We still hope it’ll not come to conflict, but the Sons of Liberty must now begin to take precautions,” Revere warned him. Frederick himself had become involved because of Paul Revere. He had begun as an apprentice in the older man’s employ. Now they were both kept busy printing pamphlets and flyers for the cause of freedom.

“They come from Virginia, sir. A good friend travels to the western counties and gets French weapons from the Indians there,” Frederick said nervously. This was not like their tea party—this could be construed as high treason. “The wagon is down the street, near the cemetery.”

“Good work, Frederick. And your Virginian is a good friend, indeed. Go ahead now, and the West County men will follow quietly behind you. If you see a redcoat anywhere, take flight. Sam has said that we’ve had a leak and that the Brit captain Davis knows we’re acquiring arms. Go quickly, and take care.”

Frederick nodded. He was anxious to return home. He believed passionately in his cause, but he believed, too, in the love he shared with his young wife and in the future he sought for his infant son. He’d tried to explain to Elizabeth that it was for the future that he had come out this night. They were a free people. They had won the right to representation in 1215 when the barons had forced King John of England to sign the Magna Carta. They were good Englishmen, even if they were colonists. It was not the idea of taxes they minded so much—it was the idea of taxation without representation.

No one really thought that it might come to war.

And yet, already, there were whispers of bloody, horrible conflict, of American fields strewn with blood…

He didn’t dare think of blood, not now. He still had to make it to the wagon, and then home.

He hurried along the street, turning corners, moving in silence. He knew that he was followed, and he took care to allow the West County Sons of Liberty easily keep tempo with his gait and yet keep hidden.

At last he passed the cemetery. In the cold mist of the night, the sight of the weathered tombstones made him shiver. He was almost upon the simple wagon that held the French armaments. His breath came quickly. Before him he could see the shadowed figure of his contact. The figure saluted sharply, then hurried away to disappear into the cemetery.

Frederick’s feet seemed to slap against the cobblestones.

He passed the wagon by and exhaled heavily. He was almost home. Suddenly he heard a flurry of footsteps. He turned about. There was a woman running down the street in a huge sweeping cape.

“Damien?” a female voice called.

Frederick’s heart began to pound. She was not following anyone named Damien, she was following him! He ducked around a corner into a lamplit street and started to run across it, then he paused. There was a sentry out. A sentry in a red coat.

“Halt!” the soldier cried.

Never—come death or all of hell’s revenge, he could not halt.

He streaked across the road. Then he heard the woman calling out. “No! Oh, no!”

A Brown Bess was fired, but though he did not pause to look, Frederick was certain that the woman had caused the sentry to lose the precision of his aim. He was struck, but in the shoulder. He barely suppressed a scream as the bullet tore into him.

He clasped the injury with his good hand and sagged against a brick building. He could hear the sentry arguing with the woman, and he could hear the delicate tones of the woman’s voice. Who was she, and why was she saving him?

He closed his eyes and thanked God for that small favor, but when he tried to open his eyes again, he discovered that he could barely see. He was falling, falling against the building and toward the mud beneath him.

He heard the sound of hoofbeats.

There was a horse pounding down the street. Frederick tried to push away from the wall. He had to find a place to hide, and quickly.

He staggered into the road. Looking up, he could see the spire of the Old North Church rising out of the mist. Or was the mist in his eyes? He was falling.

He would never see Elizabeth again. He would never cradle his infant son in his arms again. Was this, then, the price of liberty? Death and bloodshed? He would never see her face again. He would never see her smile, he would never feel the tender caress of her lips against the heat of his skin.

The rider was upon him. Frederick threw up his arms as a great black stallion reared before him. “Whoa, boy, whoa!” a man called out, and Frederick staggered back. The massive animal came to a rigid halt, and the rider leapt from his back.

Frederick fought to stand but slumped to the ground instead. The man coming toward him was tall and towering, and wearing a fine black greatcoat trimmed with warm fur. He wore fine boots over impeccable white breeches and a crimson frock coat. His shirt was smocked and laced. Dimly Frederick realized that he was not just a man of means, but a man with an aura of confidence and the assured and supple movement of a well-trained fencer or fighter. Dressed in his buckskin and paint, he had come across a member of the nobility.

Now he would not even die in peace. He would be dragged into prison, tried by a puppet jury, condemned by the king to be shot or hanged by the neck until dead.

“What in God’s name—” the stranger began.

“Aye, in God’s name, milord, for the love of God, kill me quick!” Frederick cried.

As he reached out, trying to ward off an expected blow, he saw the stranger’s face. It was a striking face, composed of steel-fire eyes, a hard jaw, and strong cheekbones. He was dark-haired and wore no wig. His very presence was menacing, for he was not just tall but extremely well muscled for all that he gave the appearance of a certain leanness.

“Hold, boy, I’ve no mind for murder in the streets!” the stranger said, a touch of humor upon his lips. “You’re no Indian, and that’s a fact. I can only determine that you were in on the trouble at the harbor. Is that it?”

Frederick remained stubbornly silent. He was doomed anyway.

“Ah…perhaps there is even something worse,” the stranger murmured.

“Search this way!” came a shout from the street. “I’m sure I’ve seen one of them!”

“Wait!” Frederick could hear the woman’s frantic voice. The stranger stiffened, hearing it too. He seemed puzzled.

“Redcoat coming,” the man murmured. “We’d best get you out of here, boy. I’ve business to attend to, but still…I’m wondering how badly you’ve been hurt. Now first…” He took off his cloak and wrapped it around Frederick.

“I’m not a boy. I’m married and I’ve got a child.”

“Well, you’re one up on me then, lad. Come on, then, take my shoulder, we’ll have to move quick.”

“You’ll turn me in—”

“And leave your wee babe an orphan? No, man, the British will have their revenge for this night—a blind man would know that. But I can’t see why your life should be forfeit.”

Frederick was not a small man, but his strange deliverer swept him up into his arms and quickly slung him over saddle on the flanks of the black stallion. He mounted the horse behind Frederick and then paused briefly again. “I dare not go back by Faneuil Hall. We’ll have to move westward.”

Breathing desperately against the pain in his shoulder, Frederick swallowed hard. “My house, milord, is just down the street.”

There. He had done it. He had told this man where he lived. He might be bringing danger down upon Elizabeth and the baby. He might have sealed their fate.

“Point me onward, and I will see you home.”

But before Frederick could do so, the sentry rounded the corner with the woman in the cloak following close beside him. “Sir! A man is lost, I tell you, and you must give up this ridiculous manhunt to help me!” the feminine voice cried.

The sentry stood dead still staring down the cobbled street to where Frederick sagged atop the horse. Frederick’s rescuer stepped forward. “Amanda!”

Frederick could see that she stared at him blankly, but perhaps the sentry did not fathom the look. The man stepped forward, drawing her toward him. “My betrothed, Officer. Her father would be horribly distressed if he knew that she was roaming the streets. He would charge me with negligence, and…well…My friend, have a heart. Were you to report this, my lovely prize might well be snatched from my very hands.”

“What? Your betrothed—” she began in protest.

“Yes!” he snapped, narrowing his eyes. “She has lapses!” the man said quickly, and he caught hold of her with force, pulling her against him in a fine semblance of desperate affection. Frederick heard his urgent and commanding whisper. “If you wish your Damien well, you will shut your mouth now!”

She went stiff, but still. “Take the lady, milord, and save me some time and strength!” the soldier complained. “I’m looking for a dangerous, armed rebel. I followed his trail—who is that up on your horse?” he said with sudden sharp suspicion.

“My friend has partied too heartily this night. We’ve been at the home of Sir Thomas Mabry, and well…young fellows do imbibe too freely upon occasion. Isn’t that right, Mandy?”

She went very stiff, but agreed. As she smiled to the sentry, Frederick saw that she was very beautiful. “It was quite a party, Officer,” she murmured.

“There’s parties all about tonight, so it seems!” The sentry saluted the man. “Milord, then, if you’ve things in hand, I’ll be on my way.”

“Quite right! Thank you.”

The sentry moved on. His footsteps fell upon the cobblestones, then faded away.

“Who are you, sir, and what do you think you’re doing?” the woman hissed. “Where’s Damien? And what do you know about him?”

“I only know, mam’selle, that you were about to lead the king’s men straight to him.”

“And what difference would that make?” she demanded heatedly.

“I don’t know, nor can I care. This man needs help.”

“Help! He’s been shot! Oh, my God! He’s one of the rabble, one of the dissidents—”

“He’s a bleeding human being, milady, and you’ll help him since you’re here! Then I’ll see you home!”

“I don’t need you to see me anywhere—”

“You do need me, milady. And I need you at the moment. Come, let me put my arm about your shoulder and sing. That should see us as far as this poor man’s place. Frederick! You must lead us, for I don’t know where we’re going.”

There was no choice. Frederick told him the number of his house, and they hurried onward. They could still hear the soldiers running blindly about the streets. The night was coming more and more alive as news of the night’s deed spread quickly from house to house.

Soldiers passed them again. The man cast his head against the woman’s shoulder and stumbled, singing. “Stop it, you lout!” the woman cried.

“Ah, Mandy, love, drunken lout—it’s a drunken lout I am. ’Scuse me, Officer!” He stumbled, looked about sheepishly, and pulled the woman against him again, but led the horse along with perfect direction. The soldiers snickered—and left them alone.

Frederick could almost hear the woman’s teeth grate, and if he didn’t hurt so badly, he’d be laughing. What were they doing with him, he wondered, for they were aristocrats, the two of them. Alive in a sea of the Sons of Liberty.

It was a patriot’s city! Frederick thought proudly, and then he wondered again at the man who carried him homeward. He winced. This man was a lord.

But his accent sounded a bit…colonial. It was cultured, it wasn’t a northern accent, it had a softer slur to it. Maybe there was hope. Why, George Washington, a growing power in Virginia, was friends with Lord Fairfax, a man of importance very loyal to the crown. The time would come when a man had to choose sides. It would come soon.

The man reined in on the horse quickly as they stopped before the house. Frederick didn’t realize how weak he was until he was lifted bodily from the black stallion. “Help me!” the man demanded quickly of the girl. She complied, seething, helping as Frederick fell from the horse into the man’s arms.

Quickly, competently, the man brought him to his door and knocked upon it.

Elizabeth came and opened the door. Frederick tried to rise against the stranger’s shoulder. He saw her face, saw her soft gray eyes widen with alarm, but then she responded ably, drawing them into the small but comfortable home where they lived.

“Frederick!” she cried when the door was closed against the night.

“He’s taken a shot in the shoulder, and he drifts in and out of consciousness,” the stranger was explaining. His voice quickened. “We need to pluck the bullet out—he’s probably got a broken arm and collar bone, but ma’am, first, we need to wash away the paint, in case of a visitor.”

“The paint!” The girl gasped.

Elizabeth gaped at the strangers for a moment. The girl was stunning, well dressed, beautiful. There was no doubt of the man’s prestige and power, for though his clothing was not overly elegant, the cut and quality were unmistakable.

“Let’s lay him down, shall we?” the man said softly.

“Oh, oh! Of course!” Elizabeth agreed.

Frederick drifted in and out of reality as they laid him out and bathed him. He was offered a bottle of home-distilled whiskey, and he drank it deeply. Then the man was digging into his shoulder for the bullet and Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, was clamping her hand over his mouth and begging him to silence.

“Let me,” the girl said suddenly. Elizabeth and the man stared at her. She shrugged. “I’ve some skill.”

“How?” the man asked her.

She shrugged dispassionately. “My father has been shot upon occasion,” she said. She smiled at Frederick and brought the blade of a knife against his flesh.

Frederick passed out cold.

Eric watched with a cool assessing gaze as Lady Amanda Sterling removed the bullet from the young man’s shoulder. Her touch was both gentle and expert, and she murmured that it was best that he had lost consciousness, for he would feel no pain. “There’s no break in the shoulder, I’m quite certain.” She glanced at Elizabeth who stood by, wringing her hands upon her apron, tears in her eyes. “Cleanse the wound with alcohol, and I’m sure that all will be well.”

Elizabeth Bartholomew fell down upon her knees, grasping Lady Sterling’s hands. “Thank you! Oh, thank you—”

“Please!” Amanda Sterling’s beautiful face flushed to a soft rose. “Don’t thank me! God alone knows how I have come here, and I intend to leave now. This is a bed of traitors—”

“You are good, lady! So kind—”

Amanda Sterling, her hood fallen back, her hair glistening a glorious red in the firelight, pulled Elizabeth to her feet. “Please don’t. I’m leaving, and I—”

“Lady Sterling would not dream of betraying you,” Eric said firmly. Amanda glanced at him quickly. He saw the fury and defiance in her startling emerald eyes, but she did not deny his words.

“Warn your husband that he is a traitor against the king,” she said to the woman.

“But you will not turn us in.”

“No.” She hesitated a moment. “No, you’ve my word, I shall not turn you in.”

Eric stepped forward, taking her arm. “I’ll be back,” he told Elizabeth. “I shall return Lady Amanda—”

“I can return well enough on my own—”

“The Sons of Liberty are on the streets, milady, as well as British soldiers—as well as some common rapists and thieves ready to take advantage of the situation. I promised Anne Marie that I would find you, and for her, I shall return you.”

He set his hand upon her with a force she could not deny. She seemed to sense the implacable determination in his words, so she merely stared at his hand, gritted her teeth, and agreed. “Fine.”

She swept around, then paused, looking back to Elizabeth. The young wife now knelt by her husband with such a look of love and anxiety in her eyes that even Lady Sterling seemed to soften. “Keep him well,” she murmured, and exited quickly to the streets.

Eric followed her, catching her arm when she would have walked ahead. She spun about, staring at him with her chin and nose regally high. He smiled. “Did you ride?”

“No, I—”

His voice deepened harshly. “You have been walking all this distance on a night like this? What an idiot! You could have been robbed of that splendor, stripped naked, raped, killed!”

“You are crude!”

“You are a fool.”

She tried to wrench her hand from his hold. He had already released her to set his hands about her waist and throw her up atop his horse. Before she could protest he was mounted behind her. Her back went very stiff. “How do I know that you are not about to rob, rape, or knife me, sir?” she demanded coolly.

“Because I am worth far more than you are, I prefer my women warm, willing, and talented, and murder simply isn’t among my decadent hobbies.” He nudged his horse into a canter. She twisted her face against the chill of the night, shivering as she raised her voice so that he might hear her.

“You may take me back to the Sir Thomas’s, milord, but it will do you no good. I must find Damien.”

Eric hesitated. He had an idea where young Roswell might be, if he was in any way involved with the dissidents. He reined in so sharply that she crashed back against him. The sweet scent of her hair teased his nostrils and the shocking warmth of her body lay flush against his.

“Milord—” She gasped, but he ignored her, nudging his heels against his mount’s flanks and leading the animal toward the left.

“We’ll find Damien then,” he said.

They rode through the streets until they came to a tavern. The street was very quiet there, the light within was dim. Eric dismounted. “Don’t move!” he ordered her. Then he turned and entered the tavern.

A multitude of men were there, engaged in soft and quiet conversation. There were no drunks about, just working men in their coarse coats and capes and tricorns, huddled about the meager warmth of the fire. At his entrance, all eyes turned to him. Several faces went pale as the quality of his clothing was taken into account.

Someone rushed forward—the barkeeper, he thought. “Milord, what is it that we can do—”

“I need a word with Mr. Damien Roswell.”

“Milord, he is not—”

“I am here, Camy.” The handsome young man who had partnered Amanda in the dance stepped forward. He stretched out his hand. “You’re Lord Cameron. I’ve heard much about you.”

Eric arched a brow. “Have you?”

“Why were you looking for me?” Damien asked carefully.

Eric cleared his throat. “I am not. A lady is.”

“Amanda!” He gasped. “Then she knows…”

“She knows nothing. But perhaps you should come along.”

Damien nodded instantly. He and Eric exited the tavern together without a backward glance.

From atop Eric’s horse, the girl cried out. “Damien! You had me so worried!” She leapt down gracefully and ran forward.

“Amanda! You shouldn’t have followed me.”

“You are in trouble, off on your own,” she said worriedly.

Eric stepped back on the porch of the tavern, watching the two together. Damien turned to him. “Thank you, milord. Thank you most fervently. If I can ever be of assistance to your—”

“I’ll let you know,” Eric drawled calmly. He tipped his hat to Lady Amanda. “Good evening, milady.”

“Milord,” she said stiffly. Had she been a cat, he thought, her back would have been arched, her claws unsheathed. He had not made much of an impression. He smiled deeply anyway, feeling as if he burned deep inside. He did not mind her manner, and he was willing to wait. She did not know it as yet, but she would see him again. And again. And in the end, he would have his way.

He swept his hat from his head and bowed low, then mounted his horse.

“Who was that arrogant…bastard?” he heard her demand of her cousin.

“Mandy! I’m shocked. What language!” Damien taunted.

“Who was he?”

“Lord Cameron. Lord Eric Cameron, of Cameron Hall.”

“Oh!” She gasped. “Him!”

So she, too, had remembered their meeting long ago. Eric smiled and led his mount into the darkness of the streets. They would meet again.