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 boa
ts 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 t
ook 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!”
Love Not a Rebel Page 4