Page 7

V

F or several weeks Amanda managed to stay clear of her father, just as he stayed far away from her. It helped that he was gone on business for a time, but even when he returned, she had no difficulty avoiding him. He dined in his room; she dined in her own.

It was a miserable time for her as she accepted the fact that not only had she been betrayed by the man she had so foolishly loved, but her own father did not care for her at all. All of her life she had thought he was being stern for her own good, but now she realized he hated the very sight of her.

Then she was plagued by thoughts of Eric Cameron. Despite her rude refusal of his proposal, he had willingly allowed her to use him to taunt Robert when she’d had an opportunity to salvage some of her pride. She had not heard a word from him since the party, and as the days passed, she realized that she would not. His promise that he would come by to discuss the wedding had been for Robert’s sake.

Yet she had expected him. He was not a man to give up what he wanted, and he had said that he wanted her. Maybe he hadn’t wanted her badly enough. She told herself that it was definitely well and good, but when she lay awake at night, flushed and tossing, it was Eric Cameron she was remembering, the audacity of his touch and laughter, the bold command of his eyes. He knew too much, she thought, and she tried to tell herself that she referred to Boston—and to Damien. But it wasn’t true. He knew too much about her. He knew her far too well.

Her days passed easily enough despite her expectation and dread that Eric would come—and her startling disappointment that he did not. Her pride was doubly wounded, nothing more. She just wished that she did not feel such peculiar flashes of heat and unease when she thought of his eyes upon her, when she remembered the force of his hold, the caress of his lips.

Still, her father’s cruelty ravaged her soul. If home had not been such a pleasant place to be, she would have thought about running away. She did start wondering where she could go if she ever felt desperate enough to leave. She could go back to Boston and stay with Anne Marie, but if her father wished to wed her to some distasteful stranger, he would come for her, and Sir Thomas would dutifully hand her over. She had just returned from her father’s sister’s plantation in South Carolina. And while she loved her aunt and her cousins, she knew that if her Aunt Clarissa were pressed to side with either her or her father, she would choose her father.

Then there was Philadelphia, where Damien’s brother Michael lived, but both Philadelphia and Boston seemed to be such hotbeds of rebellion right now that they did not seem to be safe places to visit. Thinking over her own position, she realized that she was very strongly a loyalist herself and that she did not want to live among rebels.

Then, too, she loved her home. She loved Virginia, she loved the soft flowing river. She loved the summer warmth and the flowers and the beauty of the land, and she loved the accents of the people. She loved Sterling Hall, the singsong of the slaves in the field, the melodic murmurs of the Acadians on the household staff and in the laundry.

Walking out beyond the oaks that lined the walkway before the house, Amanda suddenly panicked, remembering that her father had mentioned sending her to England when she had first returned from South Carolina. She hadn’t protested emphatically then, for she had thought that he meant to protect her because he loved her. Now she knew that he merely wanted her out of the way, set upon a shelf until he was able to use her as pawn to his advantage. Her heart quickened. She would not go to England. She would weather the storms of discontent until reason prevailed.

She stared down the slope of ground in the back of the house, leading toward the river. Sterling Hall was self-sufficient. There was a huge smokehouse, the laundry, the stables, the barn, the carriage house, the cooper’s, the blacksmith’s, and the shoemaker. Beyond those buildings lay the slave quarters, and the larger houses for the free servants, and far beyond those lay the lands and the homes of the tenant farmers. Her father did very well here. The land was rich, and the fields were filled with the very best tobacco. Her father gave it no thought himself; he never dirtied his hands, nor did he keep his own books. He hunted, danced, and indulged in politics, drank hard, and played hard. Amanda knew that he had a mistress in Williamsburg, and she had also heard that he slept with one of their young mulatto slaves.

On her fifteenth birthday she had struck Damien in a fury when he had told her about it. But then, when she had asked Danielle if it was true, she had been appalled, for Danielle had not been able to deny the accusations.

She had known that her father was not a terribly nice man. She had just never realized how he really felt about her. Maybe she had always sensed it, though. And maybe that was why she had fallen so desperately in love with Robert.

Robert. At the thought of him, she felt the same gnawing pain in her middle. She had been so desperately in love. She had imagined a life with Robert, waking beside him, laughing in his arms, taking great pride in the fact that their home was known far and wide in all the colonies for its grace and beauty. She had never dreamed of a different house—it had always been Sterling Hall. She had never imagined her father’s death—he had just been gone, and Robert had been lord of Sterling. They had laughed and played by the river, and she had even indulged in fantasies about making love. The water would ripple by them and the moon would be full up above, or else the sun would beat down upon their daringly naked flesh, but it would be all right, because they would love one another so deeply. She had never really thought too terribly much about the act of making love, not until…

Her thought trailed away, and then she flushed furiously, grateful that she was alone with her awful realization.

She had never, never thought about the act itself until she had been with Eric Cameron in the maze. Never, never before that night had she felt anything like that physical excitement, like a hot river sweeping through her, awakening her flesh.

“Oh! Will he forever plague me?” she whispered aloud, and pressed her hands against her cheeks. They were flaming. He had sworn that he would plague her, she recalled, but she had not thought that it could be in this manner! She didn’t want to think about Eric Cameron, she hated him almost as much as she hated her father this morning. She wanted to hate Robert, but love died a very hard death, and so she hated Eric all the more venomously. For all that he had witnessed, for all that he had caused—and for the horribly shameful way that he made her feel.

She wasn’t going to think about him, that was all. Not now, not ever again. And as much as she loved Sterling Hall, maybe it was time to leave for an extended vacation. Then she wouldn’t have to hear the rumors and whispers when Robert married his duchess.

“Amanda! Amanda!”

She swung around. Danielle was on the porch steps, wiping her hands on her apron, waving to her. Frowning, Amanda waved in return and then hurried toward the house. Danielle’s dark eyes were anxious. “Ma petite , your father is looking for you. He is in his study. You must go now.”

Amanda stiffened. She had no desire to see her father, but such a summons would be difficult to ignore. He had total power over her; he could beat her if he chose, he could send her away. And her only recourse would be to run away.

She squared her shoulders. “Thank you, Danielle. I will see Father now.”

She smoothed down her cotton skirt and composed herself as she walked down the hallway to his office. She knocked on the door, then waited for him to bid her to enter. When he did, she came in and stood before his desk in silence, waiting. An open ledger book lay before him, and he finished with a group of sums before looking up. When he did, his eyes were as cold as lead. He looked her up and down distastefully.

“Make ready for a trip.”

“What?” she said. “I don’t wish to leave—”

“I care nothing for your wishes. I am going to Williamsburg. The governor has asked that I come. And he has especially asked that you come too. You will do so.”

Her heart took flight. He was not attempting to send her out of the country. She just wished that they would not be traveling together.

“Fine. When do we leave?”

“This afternoon. Be ready by three.”

That was it. He turned his attention back to his ledger. Amanda turned around and left his office. Danielle was out in the hall, her deep, beautiful dark eyes full of anxiety again.

“It’s all right,” Amanda told her. “We are leaving this afternoon. For Williamsburg.”

“Am I going with you?”

“I didn’t think to ask. Yes, you must come. It’s the only way I shall be able to—”

“To what?” Danielle prompted her.

“To bear being near him,” Amanda said quietly, then she turned around and hurried for the stairs.

At three she was waiting in the hallway. Timothy and Remy, two of the house slaves, had carried down her trunks. She was dressed in white muslin with a tiny print of maroon flowers and an overcoat of the same color in velvet. The overcoat fell in fashionable loops over her wide-hipped petticoats, then fell gracefully in a short train down the back of her skirt. She wore her delicate pearled pumps and a wide-brimmed straw hat decorated with sweeping plumes. Danielle, behind her, wore a smaller hat and a soft gray cotton dress, but even she had given way to fashion in her choice of petticoat. She was still very beautiful, Amanda thought of Danielle. After all these years.

Her father appeared, looked her over curtly, gave the servants last-minute instructions, and then ordered her into the carriage. He looked at Danielle for a long moment and then shrugged. “No French,” he told her as she climbed up into the carriage. “I won’t hear any of that gibberish, do you hear me?”

“Yes, milord,” Danielle said simply. Her eyes were lowered as they entered the carriage, and a chill shot through the Amanda as she watched the exchange. She was suddenly certain that her father had used Danielle, just as he had used his mistress in Williamsburg, and just as he used the mulatto slave girl. She felt hot and ill, and wished desperately that she would not have to face him for the next several hours as they traveled.

It was a miserable journey, the whole of it passing in near silence. Her father read his paper, scowling constantly. Danielle stared out the window. There had been rain, and the road was pockmarked and heavily grooved. Like the others, Amanda sat in silence. She stared out the window, eager to arrive, eager to be rid of her father’s presence. Not until they neared Williamsburg and passed the College of William and Mary to come down Duke of Gloucester Street and turn onto Market Green did she begin to feel the least bit pleased to have come. Then she leaned back, thinking that her father would be completely occupied, she would be free to shop, to visit friends, to forget some of what happened, and to plan for her own future.

They halted before the governor’s palace. Servants were quick to help them from the carriage and to attend to their luggage. Amanda and her father were ushered into the entrance hallway while Danielle was taken to the servants’ quarters on the third floor. Amanda did not look at her father while they waited, but stared at the impressive weaponry displayed with artistic grandeur upon the walls.

“Ah, Lord Sterling!”

She turned around as John Murray, Earl of Dunmore and the governor of Virginia, came toward them. Lord Dunmore was a tall, striking man with red hair and amber brown eyes and a fiery temperament to match his coloring. Amanda had always liked him. He was imperious but vivid and energetic, and generally kind and most often wise in his dealings with his elected government officials. It was only recently that he seemed to have completely lost his temper with the officials.

He was impeccably dressed in yellow breeches, fawn hose, and a mustard frock coat. His hair was powdered and queued, and his hand, when he took Amanda’s, was as soft as pigskin. He smiled at her as he kissed her hand. “Lady Amanda, but you have grown to be a true beauty! You grace our very presence. The countess will be so sorry that she missed you!”

“Thank you, milord,” she murmured, retrieving her hand. “Is your wife not here?”

“She is not feeling well this afternoon.” He smiled with pleasure. “We are expecting a child, as you might have heard.”

“I had not, milord, but I am delighted, of course.”

She stepped back, aware that his true interest was in her father, which was fine. She wanted to escape them both.

“Nigel, you old goat, you’re looking fit.”

“And so are you, John.”

“Come along. I’ve had tea served in the garden.”

John Murray took Amanda’s hand, slipping it through his arm. He chatted about the summer roses and about the weather as they walked through the vast and expansive ballroom to reach the gardens out in the rear. They walked along a path of beautiful hedges, and came at last to a manicured garden. At a table places were set with huge linen napkins and silver plates. Lord Dunmore’s butler waited to serve them.

Amanda sat, and thanked the man when her tea was poured. She nibbled at a meat pie and realized she could barely eat when her father was near.

“Isn’t it a glorious day?” John Murray demanded, and she agreed. She listened and responded politely, and wondered when they would clear their throats and indicate that their coming conversation might be lengthy and of little interest to a young lady.

They never came to that point. She was sipping a second cup of tea and watching a bluebird, wishing that she could fly away as easily as it could, when she realized that both men were silent and staring at her. She flushed and set down her teacup. “I’m so sorry. I was wandering.”

“Ah, milady, it’s quite all right. It is a beautiful day. And a young woman’s fancy must not be confined to a garden with two older men, eh? I’ve heard that Lord Cameron asked for your hand in marriage, young lady,” Dunmore said.

She flushed again and lifted her chin without glancing her father’s way. “I believe he asked Father permission to court me, milord.”

“You turned him down.”

“I—” She hesitated a minute, feeling her father’s eyes boring into her. She smiled sweetly. “Milord, I hear that he is in sympathy with certain men of whom I do not approve. His politics are quite different from my own.”

“His politics! Nigel, do you hear that!” Dunmore laughed. “Why, young lady, you mustn’t worry yourself with politics!”

She smiled. He was still chuckling, but the men exchanged glances again and again. A prickling of unease crept along her spine. Dunmore moved toward her. “Did you know, Amanda, that he is one of the wealthiest men in Virginia? He owns endless acres. He is titled, he is deeply respected. He is young, striking, and known for his courage, honesty, and valor. Perhaps he is noted for a certain hardness, determination, and temper, but his anger is aroused, they say, only under the greatest duress. He is considered a most illustrious marriage prospect and has been approached by nobility and royalty, as well as by the most affluent of private citizens. He has politely eluded all of these offers—then shocks us all with a proposal for you. Not that you are wanting in any physical way, indeed, my dear, you are surely one of the loveliest creatures in all of his Majesty’s realm. But you are not royalty. Your father’s holdings in Europe are meager. Therefore one would think that Lord Cameron is quite enchanted by your beauty and your beauty alone. You should feel quite honored, milady.”

Honored. She remembered the way he had taken her into his arms, the way she had felt. And she remembered the way Robert had seemed to cower before him, and she felt ill.

She remained silent, and Lord Dunmore spoke again. “His teeth are excellent, and one of my maids told me the other day that he had the most manly handsome face and fascinating eyes she had ever seen. Would you mind explaining to me, milady, your aversion to the man?”

“I—” She paused, completely unprepared for the intimate conversation. This should be between her father and her, and no one else. She couldn’t have even told her father, though, that her aversion was her love for another. She could have also told them both that Lord Cameron did not want her anymore, that he manipulated her like a puppet on a string, and that she would never be able to endure his laughter or the mocking knowledge in his eyes.

“I cannot say, milord,” she answered at last, smiling. “What is there in one that we do or do not love? Who can say?”

Dunmore leaned back, nodding. “Your father has the right to say, child,” he reminded her. “And at the moment…” His voice trailed for a moment. “Eric Cameron is one of my most able commanders. I will lead men out west to fight a Shawnee uprising very soon, and Eric will be my right hand. He can summon more men for a fighting force in less time than it takes to gather the militia. He is a very important man to me.”

“I imagine that he is, milord,” Amanda agreed carefully. She cast her lashes down and gazed toward her father, wondering where the conversation was leading. John Murray did not play idle games. He was a powerful man who spent his time wisely and well.

Her father remained silent. He just watched her, his eyes very small and narrow and speculative.

“Do you love England, my dear? Do you honor your king?” Lord Dunmore asked suddenly, staring at her as if she were a culprit.

“Of course!” She gasped, startled by the turn of conversation.

“So I thought!” he said proudly. He leaned toward her again. “Lady Amanda, I have a task to ask of you.”

Her fingers started to shake. Dread filled her.

“As I’ve said, Lord Cameron is to leave very soon for the west. The Indians are giving our people severe trouble, and they must be stopped. Cameron and I will be together in this venture, I know—he has given me his word.”

Eric Cameron was leaving. That was wonderful. But what on earth could they want of her then?

“Until such a time, I would like you to see him.”

“I beg your pardon, milord?”

“For me, for England, Lady Amanda. It is also your father’s will. See him. Become his friend. Pretend that you might consider his proposal.”

She didn’t realize that she was standing until she heard her teacup shatter upon the ground. “Oh, no! I can’t. I really can’t. I’m sorry, I do love England, milord, and I will be loyal to the death if need be, but I cannot—”

“He spends his time at a tavern with a number of hotheads. Men who might be arrested soon enough for their politics. I want to know if he is still loyal to the Crown. And I want to know what plans are being made by these so-called patriots.”

“But milord! Men speak openly of their opinions. I believe Lord Cameron is a traitor, but then, by the law, so are hundreds of men. Lord Dunmore—”

“Please. Other men may have opinions. Not Lord Cameron. Too many men will follow him blindly, and, my dear, if he is guilty of stockpiling arms against the king, then he is a traitor in black and white, and must be stopped.”

“But…I—I can’t stop him!”

Dunmore leaned back. It was her father’s turn to speak at last. He stood up, facing her coldly. “You can, Amanda. And you will.”

“Father—”

“You see, Lord Dunmore has on his person an arrest warrant for your cousin Damien.”

“What?” She gasped. He stared at her, smiling. He was enjoying himself, she realized. He really enjoyed seeing her hurt and shocked, and he enjoyed using her. Her ears seemed to roar. She could smell the flowers, and she could hear the chatter of birds on the air. The day was so very beautiful.

And so awful.

She looked at the governor, and she knew that it was true. “What crime has Damien committed?” she asked hollowly. She tried very hard not to scream in panic, for they didn’t need to tell her much. She had suspected him of foolish deeds for a long, long time. She had followed him in Boston because she had been so afraid of his activities. She didn’t think that he had dumped tea into the harbor, but he had left the party so determinedly.…

“Damien Roswell is guilty of a number of crimes, dear. We know that he has smuggled arms and armaments and that he has possessed and propagated numerous pieces of seditious literature.”

“Seditious literature! Why, Lord Dunmore. You would have to hang half of the colony—”

“I can prove that he has been smuggling arms, Amanda,” Dunmore said softly. His tone was truly unhappy. Then he fell silent, and in those seconds Amanda felt her blood run cold. She could not bear it if harm were to come to her cousin, no matter how foolish his behavior. “His crime,” Dunmore continued softly, “is treason, we have him dead to rights. But Damien is a small fish, and knowing how dear he is to you, we are loath to make him a scapegoat for the sharks.”

She sank back to her seat again. They couldn’t be serious, but they were. She lifted her chin, determined that she could be as cold as her father. She would never forgive him now. She hated him with all her heart.

“What do you want?”

“The truth about Cameron. What he intends to do, what he has done. I have to know if he will turn his back on me if the trouble with the radicals becomes too serious.”

“If I get you the information you want—”

“Then I destroy the warrant for your cousin.”

“I don’t mind—I don’t mind being a spy, milord. I don’t mind serving England, and I am a loyal Tory. But milord, if you’ll just ask something else of me—”

“I need you, Lady Amanda.”

“But Lord Cameron is no fool!” she said uneasily.

“Yes, I realize that. The man is my friend, even if we are destined to be enemies. You’ll have to be convincing. Tarnation, girl! I must know if he is loyal to me or not!”

“You—you are both blackmailing me!” she cried.

Lord Dunmore rose. He was not happy with the situation, she knew. He didn’t like what he was asking her to do.

But her father was delighted with it. She knew then that it had all been her father’s doing.

“Think about it. Your service would be greatly appreciated,” Dunmore said. He rested his hand upon her shoulder. “The decision is still yours, my dear. I’ll leave you to think.” He walked away, and she was alone with her father. She stared at him for several long moments, listening to the chirp of the birds, feeling the sun and the breeze against her cheeks. Then she spoke with softly yet with venom.

“I hate you. I will never forgive you for this,” she told him.

He rose, coming so close to her that she nearly leapt to her feet to run. He caught her chin and held it in a painful grip. “You’ll do as you’re told. I have waited all these years for you to be of some use, I have let you live the life of a lady, and now you will obey me. You will give me a place of prominence with the king. And if you do not, Damien will hang. Do you understand?”

She jerked free of his touch, trying to hide the tears that burned behind her eyes. “As I told Lord Dunmore, Eric Cameron is no fool! He knows that I despise him!”

“You must change his mind.”

“He will not trust me.”

“Convince him.”

“What would you have me do, prostitute myself?”

Nigel Sterling curled his lip into a smile. “If necessary, my dear, yes.”

She gasped, leaping up again, clutching her skirts. “You’re a monster!” she told him. “No father would ask this of a child!”

His smile tightened. “I am a monster, but you are the spawn of a whore,” he told her softly. “Use your heritage.”

She gasped aloud, stunned. Then she cried, “No! How dare you! You cannot say that about my mother!” Furious, she leapt toward him.

He was no small man. He caught her in a cruel grip and held her very tight. She felt ill. His breath touched her face, his eyes raked over her, and that hateful smile remained.

“It would delight me to take a bullwhip against you. I can do that, as well as see that Damien hangs.” He paused, staring into her eyes with an assurance that he did not threaten her idly. “Perhaps you should get ready for an evening out. Damien is here, in Williamsburg. I’ve told him that we are coming, and I’ve assured him he has my permission to take you for a ride this evening. You should get dressed. I expect him by seven. Such a young lad. Many will cry to see him hang, I am certain. Don’t make the mistake of warning him. He is a dead man if you do.”

Nigel released her and walked away, leaving her alone in the garden.

The scent of the summer flowers rose high all around her. The birds continued to chirp, the breeze to flutter the foliage. She sank down on the garden seat, her fists clenched in her lap, and feared that she would be sick.

Somewhere inside the mansion the countess was lying back on her bed with a smile upon her lips. She probably dreamed of her child, and when that child was born, both she and Lord Dunmore would cherish it, and plan a future for the babe with love and care.

What had gone so horribly awry in her life that her own father could despise her so? Label her mother a whore, and send her out to play a harlot’s game?

She brought her knuckles to her mouth and bit down hard upon them, silently damning Damien for his foolish ways. But Damien loved her, honestly, with his soul and his heart. She had so little of value in life, of love sincere and untainted.

They were casting her to Lord Cameron. Casting her to the very wolf. Wolf? Aye, he was that! But if he had wanted her—even to devour her!—he would have come to her to do so. What could she do? Her father could not know how crude or harsh the words had been between them. He could not understand that it would be dangerous indeed for her to suddenly appear to have a change of heart.

She rose slowly and turned back toward the mansion. It had to be nearly seven now.

She did not mind serving England, there was so much that she would have done gladly for Lord Dunmore!

But this…

She started to shake, and so she walked faster. She was still shaking when she entered the mansion and hurried up the stairs to the guest room she had been given. She knew she had to wash and dress, but she threw herself on the bed, still shaking.

She remembered Eric Cameron’s face, the strength of his features, the laughter in his eyes and then the hardness.

And then she knew why she shook so badly. She had said it, and it was the truth. The man was no fool. And if he suspected her of betraying him, if he caught her…

She swallowed hard, and she knew that she was afraid. Very, very afraid.

***

A hush fell over the crowd as Eric entered the public room of the Raleigh Tavern. It was known to be a place where men of different minds gathered, and Eric was looked upon with a certain distrust, for he was a lord, and it was expected that his allegiance was with the king. After all, he had great estates in England to consider.

Men, mostly planters and farmers, some merchants and shopkeepers, looked about, nodded his way respectfully, then looked nervously back to their meals or their ale. In turn he bowed, then ignored their suspicious gazes. He strode in, doffing his tricorn and cape and taking a table near the rear door.

The owner rushed forward to greet him. “Lord Cameron, come to visit with us for a spell, eh? Well, it’s honored we be, and that’s a fact.”

“Is it? Tell me, is Colonel Washington about?”

The man went red in the face. “Well, now, I don’t know—”

“It’s all right” came a laughing voice. Washington himself was looking in from the hallway that led to the private rooms. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, with dark hair—graying now—neatly queued at his nape. “He’s my friend, and he’s come to see me. Eric! Come along, will you? I’ve some people eager to meet you.”

Eric rose, nodded to the innkeeper, and followed the colonel down along the hallway. Washington was a good many years his senior, a man hailing from the Fredericksburg area and now living closer to the coast at Mount Vernon, when he managed to be home these days. Mount Vernon was a beautiful plantation, and much like his own, Cameron Hall. Both homes had large main hallways and graceful porches with a multitude of windows facing the water in order to take advantage of the river breezes. Washington loved his estate, his lands, his horses, everything about home. But he had always been an ambitious man as well as a smart one. Eric shared his love of botany and respected his business sense. They were both heavily invested in the Ohio and Chesapeake Canal, and eager to see more westward expansion across the mountains. Washington had married a very prosperous Williamsburg widow, Martha Custis, and though it had been whispered at the time that she was a somewhat dowdy little thing, she apparently offered him the warmth and domesticity that he needed. Eric knew Martha well and liked her very much. She had the touching ability to listen, to weigh a man’s words carefully, and to respond with a gentle intelligence.

Following his friend down the hallway, Eric thought that George had aged rapidly in the last year. He and Martha had had no children of their own, but he had doted on his stepchildren, and last year his stepdaughter, Patsy, had died. The loss had taken its toll upon the man.

Perhaps all these whispers about war were good after all. They kept George’s mind busy.

But then so did his estate. He had inherited Mount Vernon, his brother’s property, after his sister-in-law and niece had both passed away. The property was his passion, as Eric could well understand. He felt that way about Cameron Hall. He never tired of studying the house, of adding on, or improving, just as he never tired of the land, moving crops, studying the growth of his vegetables, experimenting with growth cycles. The men had met in Williamsburg a few years after the French and Indian Wars. As they discussed the differences between the colonial and British soldiers, they had both reached the sad conclusion that the Crown did not treat the colonials at all well. Ever since his adventures in Boston on the eve of the tea party, Eric had joined Washington and members of the House of Burgesses more frequently in their conversations. Many men did not trust him as yet. Many others did.

In 1769 Lord Botetourt, then governor of Virginia and a popular and well-liked man, had made enemies when he dismissed the Virginia legislature because of the representatives’ protest of the Stamp Act. Eric had been young then, a new member of the Upper House, and his voice had had little effect upon the decision. Eric had maintained his position—and his opinion, and eventually, the situation had evened out. The Stamp Act had been repealed.

Now the legislature had been dissolved again. During the first dissolution there had been a strained period between Eric and many of his more radical friends, but this time, he had offered to resign from the Governor’s Council—an unprecedented event. Eric was walking a dangerous fence, and he was well aware of it. His ancestor Jamie Cameron had carried over a title, and because of that, Eric should be a staunch loyalist, a Tory to the core. But something about his meeting with young Frederick Bartholomew that night in Boston had changed him. There was danger in the air, but there was excitement as well. It seemed to Eric that it was becoming a time of great men and a time of change. He had heard Patrick Henry speak on several occasions, and though many people considered him a brash and foolish rabble-rouser, Eric found him to be amazingly eloquent, and more. Henry believed in his principles, and he was not afraid to risk his life or material possessions or position to speak out.

This was the New World. Cameron’s own family had been living in Virginia since the early 1600s. But that was less than a score of decades. When compared with the age of the mother country, Virginia and the other colonies were young, raw, and exciting. Eric had attended Oxford; he had seen the Cameron estates in England, he had traveled to France and Italy and many of the German principalities, and he had learned that he loved no land as much as he did his own. Because of the very rawness, the newness, the excitement. Men and women traveled ever westward, seeking expansion, seeking a dream.

He didn’t even like to think it, and yet Eric was convinced that the time was coming when the colonies would break away from England. And though even the supposed hotheads who met at the taverns decried the possibility of war, it was becoming increasingly evident that a split was looming before them.

“Come on in here,” Washington said, opening the door to one of the smaller parlors. “It is just Thomas, Patrick, and myself tonight. I’m preparing to leave.”

“Leave?”

“Our First Continental Congress meets in September.”

“Oh. Of course. There are seven of us representing Virginia. Peyton Randolph, Richard Henry Lee, Patrick Henry, Richard Bland, Benjamin Harrison, Edmund Pendleton, and myself.”

“A noble assembly,” Eric complimented.

Washington grinned. “Thank you.”

They entered the private room. Patrick Henry and Thomas Jefferson were both sitting before the fire. Henry leapt to his feet first. “Ah, Lord Cameron. Welcome!”

Eric walked across the room and shook his hand. He admired the man. His speeches were incredible, his energy was undauntable, and his passion for his cause was contagious. Henry, opposing the Stamp Act, had spoken openly about the severity of the friction between the king and the colonies a very dangerous time. “Caesar had his Brutus, Charles the First his Cromwell, and George the Third—”

He’d been forced to pause, for there had been such staunch cries of “Treason!” But then he had gone on.

“George the Third may profit by their example. If this be treason, make the most of it!”

He was from the western counties, and to many he was a crude man, rough and rugged. His clothing was not cut to eastern standards. He was intriguing, Eric thought, capable at times of a brooding temperament, but still possessed of a fascinating fire that brought men rallying to his cause.

Jefferson was a quieter man, calmer, far more elegant in his dress and manner. But as time passed, he was becoming every bit as passionate.

“Eric, sit, have a brandy,” Jefferson encouraged him. There seemed to be a twinkle in his eye. He looked older too, Eric thought. As the political situation grew more and more grave, they were all aging rapidly.

“Thank you. I shall be delighted,” Eric said. He drew his chair to the fire with them, accepting a glass from Washington. “How are you, gentlemen?”

“Well enough,” Jefferson said. “I have heard that you are about to leave with Governor Lord Dunmore’s militia for the west to suppress the Shawnee uprising.”

Eric nodded. It hadn’t really been decided until tonight, but it seemed like the proper move for him. “It’s an easy decision, isn’t it?” he inquired softly. “I was asked to lead some men against a common enemy. Here it’s difficult to decide.”

Washington stared at him hard. “My friend Lord Fairfax is preparing to return to England. Perhaps you should do the same.”

Eric smiled slowly and shook his head. “No. I cannot ‘return’ to England, sir, for I did not come from England. I am a Virginian.”

The three exchanged glances. Jefferson smiled again. “I’ve heard rumors that a certain brash lord arrived in the nick of time to save an injured, er—Indian—in Boston. Have you heard this rumor?”

“Shades of it, yes,” Eric said.

“Take heed, my friend,” Washington warned him.

“Tell me—was there proof of the rumor?”

“Not a whit of it!” Henry replied, pleased.

Eric leaned forward, feeling the warmth of the fire, hearing the snap and crackle of it. “I tell you, the three of you, that you must take heed. There are more rumors about. Thomas Gage has been sent as governor of Massachusetts, and the king has ordered him to arrest Sam Adams and John Hancock.”

“They shall have to find them to arrest them, right?” Henry said. He rose and walked to the fire, tense with energy. He leaned against the mantel, then swung around to look at Eric. “God knows the future now, for none of us can read it, Lord Cameron. Yet if—”

“When,” Jefferson said softly.

“If it comes to that point, Lord Cameron, I shall hope that a man of your wit and wisdom chooses to cast his lot with us. Yet even I would have difficulty in your position. I have watched the members of our house weigh their thoughts, and it is a difficult process indeed.”

“Perhaps war will still be averted,” Eric said.

Washington, who was careful with his language, swore beneath his breath. “Every man among us has hoped that a force of arms be our last resort! And so we continue to pray. But, Eric! Think back on the war. I resigned my commission because they demoted me—for being a colonial. This has long simmered and brewed.”

“They repealed the Stamp Act and came back at us with the Townshend Acts, further restricting our freedoms. We thought of ourselves as Englishmen—but those thoughts faded as we were denied the rights of Englishmen,” Jefferson said.

“The Townshend Acts were repealed—” Eric said.

“Except for a tea tax,” Jefferson reminded him complacently.

“And they were repealed,” Henry said vehemently, “merely because Lord North discovered that it cost more to collect the taxes than they were worth!”

They all laughed, and then their laughter ceased abruptly as there was a rap upon the door. Washington quickly rose to answer it. The innkeeper stood there.

“There’s a woman here,” he said.

“A woman?”

“Lady Sterling. She is looking for Lord Cameron.”

“Cameron!” Washington swirled around, looking at Eric who was about to light his pipe. He arched his brow and shrugged. A slow, curious and rueful smile appeared on Washington’s face.

“Truly one of Virginia’s great treasures,” Jefferson said.

“The daughter of Lord Sterling,” Patrick said, his tone indicating the care one should take with such a man.

“Mmm, yes,” Eric murmured. “You see, gentlemen, I did ask Lord Sterling’s permission to court the young lady, but alas, her heart lay elsewhere and she rather adamantly turned me down.”

“But she is here now. A young lady in a tavern—her reputation shall be forever tarnished!” Washington mused.

“Alone?” Eric asked the innkeeper. “Surely not!” He flashed Washington a wicked smile. “I rather like a slightly tarnished reputation, sir.”

“She is escorted by her cousin, Mr. Damien Roswell,” the innkeeper said.

The men all exchanged sharp glances. Eric shrugged and looked pleasantly at the innkeeper. “Then tell her that I shall be with her immediately. My every wish is to serve her.”

The door closed and the innkeeper left them.

“Damien Roswell is an ardent patriot,” Henry said. “One who moves in ways that may well be more practical than the rest of us, at the moment.”

“More treasonous ways, the king might well say. I hope the young man has the good sense to take care with his cousin,” Jefferson agreed.

Watching Eric, Washington shrugged. “Perhaps she is fond of him and fond of his policies after all.”

Eric remembered her expertise in removing the bullet from the young printer’s shoulder in Boston. He remembered, too, her fury at her position—following his lead because she was afraid. For Damien.

She was not seeing things their way. Not at all. “Perhaps she is after something,” Eric said.

“Well, you’ll have to see the young lady to find out, won’t you?” Henry suggested.

“Spy upon the spy?” Jefferson laughed, but his eyes were grave.

“There’s nothing for her to discover,” Eric said.

“Is that true?” Washington asked him. “There are some who believe, Lord Cameron, that you are more deeply involved than anyone.”

“Men believe almost anything these days,” Eric said evenly.

“Still, take care,” Washington warned him. “I speak as your friend, Eric, and a man who would see you well.”

Eric sat, drumming his fingers against the wooden arm of his chair. “Perhaps you are right. Thank you for the warning, but I always take care. Perhaps I can discover certain truths about the lady—with certain lies of my own.” He stood again and bowed. “And, gentlemen, it will be fascinating, this road of discovery. I am looking forward to it immensely.”

They laughed. “I bid you good luck at the Congress,” he added.

“And we bid you Godspeed against the Indians,” Jefferson said.

Eric grinned and left them. Outside the door, he paused for a moment before heading toward the public room and his unexpected meeting with Lady Sterling.

His smile faded, his eyes went hard. He remembered her hatred for him, and he knew that nothing had changed between them. She thought to use him.

Well, she was welcome to try.

Then he remembered the way that she had looked when he had seen her upon the stairs, and he recalled the way that she had felt in his arms. He tasted anew the nectar of her lips, saw the fire of her eyes, and felt the perfection of her body pressed to his. He had meant to have her, in his own time, in his own way. He had not forgotten for a single moment the excitement of wanting her, the ache she had created within him, nor the raw and relentless determination he would use in his careful pursuit…

But now she was there. And not because of any ardent desire, he was certain. She was playing with fire.

Aye, she played with fire, he thought. But it was her choice, and her game, and by God, he would play it.

And win.