Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  “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.

  Part II

  The Reluctant Spy

  VI

  Amanda was very beautiful that night. Eric saw her long before she saw him, for she was seated at a table with Damien and she was speaking earnestly with her cousin. Her eyes betrayed some deep emotion that was soft and spellbinding. Watching her, Eric realized that he envied her cousin. She loved Damien. And in that moment, as she sat in the flickering firelight, he thought that he would gladly sell his soul and be damned if she would just gaze upon him once so warmly.

  He knew he was being a fool and reminded himself that he barely knew the little hellion, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t needed to know much once he had seen her, once he had touched her.

  He was in lust, so he had said. Perhaps that, too, was true. He had been careful to wait, biding his time. He had not expected her to seek him out, and yet here she was. With Damien. He wondered what she knew of her cousin’s activities. No matter how her heart bled for England, she would never endanger young Roswell.

  She had turned down his proposal of marriage, but now she was back. Deviously. What a pity. Her soft smile for him would be a lie. She had come to wage battle, else she never would have stepped foot inside this tavern.

  Her beauty was her weapon, and she was not averse to using it, nor did she lack the confidence, he thought, to know the very power of it.

  She wore green, a fetchingly casual gown with a heavier brocade bodice that tied with delicate ribbons over her breasts. It was a color that highlighted the evocative depths of her eyes, emphasizing the emerald dazzle of them. The night was warm, but she carried a light shawl, and it draped about her elbows, exposing her upper arms. Her hair had been swept up high in ringlets, and the sleek length of her neck was bare and inviting.

  Every eye in the tavern was on her, of course. She looked like a thread of gold in a coat of coarse linen. There weren’t many women in the place, and not one of them could hold a candle to her striking splendor.

  He felt himself grown warm, watching he
r, and it occurred to him that many a man was drooling in his beer. Eric quickly grew annoyed. She shouldn’t be here. Even escorted by her cousin, she should not be out as she was now. She was an innocent, yet there was something about her that was more than evocative. He thought of Helen of Troy and of a face that could launch a thousand ships. Amanda Sterling had that same kind of power; she created tension and emotion. Lust, perhaps, but longing and a haunting yearning too. With a smile she could tempt a man to any act; with a promise she could be deadly trouble.

  Be forewarned, my friend, he told himself. And yet still his own confidence was great. He was older. Wiser, he assured himself. He saw the danger and therefore could elude it.

  “Lady Sterling, Damien,” he said, moving forward. Damien rose, Amanda remained seated. She offered Eric her hand and one of those smiles for which a man could be led to kill. He kissed her gloved fingers, glanced Damien’s way, and took a seat beside Amanda.

  “ ’Tis good to see you, lad,” he told Damien.

  “And you, sir.”

  “And your fair cousin, of course,” he said, looking at Amanda. “And yet, milady, I’m very curious. What has brought you here? I had the distinct impression that you did not wish to see me again.”

  “Did you?” she said, her voice distant and soft. “You were mistaken.” She seemed to shudder slightly, then her smile returned to her features, and she grew animated and her eyes glowed like jewels. Her cheeks were just touched with the rose of a flush, her lips seemed as red as wine, and at that moment Eric did not think that he had ever seen a woman more alluring. He did not just yearn for her with his loins—though that urge lay very strong within him—but he ached to possess her in all ways, to run his fingers through her hair, to feel those eyes upon him with trust and innocence and their touch of the siren too. He wanted to hold her against him, to watch the rise and fall of her breast, to feel the whisper of her words against his cheek.

  “Was I mistaken?” he asked her.