The boy grinned. Eric popped the cloth back upon his face, and she was there again before him. Amanda.
Many times he lay awake at night and cursed himself. The world was exploding, he was living in a time of drastic revolution and change. He was central to many of the things happening, and despite that, he spent his nights and often his days in anguished thought and dream and nightmare regarding his wife. He did love her so much. And that was the rub. It was bitter, bitter gall to wonder at the emotion she bore him, to never know for certain what was hidden beneath the sweep of her lashes, within the beautiful color of her eyes. There was always that which she held away from him, always that which she seemed to deny him with thought and stoic determination. He had walked away from her in anger, but he had been the one to pay the price. Now, knowing more about her, he wanted to try to find the truth within her heart and mind once more.
And still, he reflected, there was the matter of a man’s pride. He had, upon occasion, betrayed himself for her. He swore silently that he would never betray Virginia, or the colonies, or his men for her.
The steam had grown cold. He called for a towel and his clothes, dressed quickly, tipped the serving lad, and headed for the street and his horse. He was but minutes from the town house.
And when he arrived, he sat on his horse for several long moments. He wondered if she had even obeyed his summons to come here. His words had been curt, demanding her appearance. His pride had forged his words.
The moon, soft and glowing, rose high over him. The first of the spring roses were just beginning to blossom in the garden, and vines were curling around the latticed trellises upon the porch. The light of a gas lamp glowed softly from within the parlor, and suddenly, even as he watched, even as his heart and body quickened, he saw her silhouette. Slim, graceful, she moved across the room, leaving it. And then, seconds later, she was at the front door, opening it.
“Eric?”
He dismounted from his horse, patted its rump, and let the animal amble forward to graze on the small stretch of lawn before the house. The horse would make it to the stables by itself. He watched her where she stood upon the porch, awaiting him. It was spring, and a soft breeze rose, and her gown looked like spring, soft white and lace with delicate blue flowers upon it. Her hair was swept up demurely, but strands escaped it, like drifting curls of flame, touching her cheek, dusting across her shoulders. He could not see her eyes for the shadow, but he prayed that there had been a welcome in her voice.
He did not respond to her; he did not need to. The streets were lit with gas lamps and the moon itself was giving off a majestic glow. He started slowly along the path, seeking her eyes. She did not move. He came to the steps, and still she did not move, and then he stood before her, and he smelled the lush sweet scent of her hair and of her flesh. And he felt the racing tenor of her heart, saw the pulse thump erratically against her throat, and he wanted to sweep her into his arms and up the stairway right then. But then he forced himself to wonder if she trembled with pleasure at his return, or if she trembled with some secret fear or excitement due to some new espionage. Her beautiful eyes were so very wide, so anxious, almost as if she loved him, welcomed him.…
He allowed his eyes to travel over her and touch her, though he forced his itching fingers to remain still. “You are here,” he said simply.
She stepped back, her shoulders squared, her eyes suddenly as hard as diamonds. “You commanded that I come, my lord. You commanded that I retire to Cameron Hall, and so I did. Then you commanded that I come back here, and so I have.”
He caught her chin, lifting it, and his lip curled into a slow, cynical smile. “I commanded you to tell me what you did running about in the middle of the night too, and you defied me in every way imaginable.”
She snatched her chin from his grip, attempting to turn about. “If you have ordered me here simply to argue—”
“I have not, madame,” he said sharply, catching her arm, spinning her back about so that she faced him again. Her breasts rose provocatively with her agitation. A silken skein of hair fell like a burning cascade over her shoulder, loosened by the force of his touch. He clamped down hard upon his teeth, grateful that his breeches were tight, hating the fever that rushed through him, the desire that seemed to override both common sense and pride every time he touched her.
“Listen to me, my love!” he commanded her heatedly, coming closer against her, feeling the startling warmth of her body touch and inflame his. “There will be no argument. You’re my wife. You will not disappear by night again, or by day, for that matter. There are men out there who might gladly hang you—”
“And there are men out there who might gladly hang you!” she retorted, her eyes flashing. She tugged her arm away from him. “Must we squabble in the very street?” she demanded in a tense whisper.
He laughed, startled by her hauteur. “No! By all means, let’s do go in. I’d much rather squabble in our own bedchamber!”
A bright flush covered her cheeks but she did not reply to that, and he wondered if she hadn’t missed him in some small way. She opened the door, entering before him. She headed for the parlor, but he caught hold of her hand, pulling her back. Her eyes came wide upon his as he indicated the stairway. “I said that I’d rather squabble within my own bedchamber. That way, madame.”
She clenched her teeth. Her eyes snapped beautifully and he did not think that he could stand much more. She was going to defy him and deny him, he thought, but then she spun about in a regal fury and began to take the stairs swiftly. She burst into the bedroom. The door started to slam on him as he arrived behind her, but he caught it with his hand before it could do so and followed her in, then closing the door tightly behind him, and leaning against it. She stared at him for a moment, then spun around again to sit at her dressing table, removing the pins from her disheveled hair, brushing it with a high level of energy.
There was a sudden rapping upon the door. Eric turned impatiently and opened it. Mathilda stood there anxiously. “Oh! Lord Cameron! I hadn’t realized that you had come home. I heard the commotion and I was worried about my lady—”
“Ah, Mathilda! Thank you for your concern, but as you see, it is unnecessary. I am home and all is well.”
“And glad to see you, I am, my lord—”
“Thank you, Mathilda.” He quickly steered her around, away from the door. “Perhaps we’ll dine later.”
“Oh!” Mathilda flushed crimson, realizing that her master wanted to be alone with his wife. “Oh, of course!”
Eric closed the door once again to discover Amanda staring at him with a flush nearly as bright as Mathilda’s and the fire of battle naked in her eyes. “How could you be so crude!” she accused him.
“Crude? Lover, I have not yet begun.”
She spun back to her mirror, and her brush tore through her hair. “Spoken like a true patriot!” she hissed.
Swift steps brought him behind her. She leapt to her feet, spinning about to face him. “Don’t you dare come home like a strutting cock!” she warned him, her eyes ablaze with fury and passion. “I am tired of being ordered about and dragged here and there at your whim. Don’t you dare touch me!”
“Dare touch you!” he exclaimed, his fingers gripping tightly into the back of the chair she had so recently vacated. “Madame, I shall do far more than dare to touch you. And if you keep up with your present attitude toward my return, I shall be sorely tempted to deal with you as I did when you were a child.”
Her eyes widened and he could almost see her temper soar as she remembered that time when they had first met, when Eric had dragged her over his knee in the midst of the fox hunt. He took a step toward her and she seized her brush from her dressing table, hurtling it toward him. Eric ducked just in time.
Amanda knew she had gone too far when she saw the dark cast to his expression as his eyes met hers again. She hadn’t meant this, this awful fight, it was just that she was always afraid, it seemed. And he goaded he
r so.
What she had wanted was him, but she had gone too far now to admit that. She straightened her shoulders. She needed time. “Eric, let’s leave this be. I’ve things to do, we can cool down, we can talk later—”
“I don’t want to talk, Amanda,” he snapped.
“You’re being crude again!” she charged him.
“And I don’t want to cool down.”
“Don’t you take another step toward me.”
He did, and she looked quickly for a second object to throw. She found a book set upon the chair by the fire and hurled it so quickly that she found her mark, catching him right in the temple.
He swore furiously. Even as she cried out, he had grasped her wrist. “No, Eric, no!” she gasped, but he was not to be waylaid. Within seconds he was in the chair, and she was strung over his lap, and his palm was descending deftly upon her posterior. Outraged, she cried out. Desperately she freed herself from his hold, falling to the floor at his feet and staring at him with wrath nearly choking away her words.
“Now, madame—” he began.
“You must be insane. After what you’ve done! This is neither the time nor the place—”
“It is precisely the place, and the time,” he stated flatly.
It was not. She was quickly on her feet. Her eyes met his and she realized that he was still every bit as furious as she was. She decided on a hasty retreat, streaking toward the bedroom door. He was there beside her, slamming it closed. She stepped quickly away as he remained there, his back to the door. “The time, and the place, love. You’ll note, our bed lies there, my love, awaiting us.”
“I’ve no intention of joining you in bed. No intention, do you understand me?”
“Then the floor shall be just fine.”
He was already in motion. Even as she turned to flee a second time, his hands were upon her arm, jerking her around and into his arms. Gasping, she tried to kick him. She was off balance so, and he quickly swept her up, bearing her down to the floor. She found herself staring into his eyes, startled by the depth of the passion within them. “I have missed you deeply,” he breathed to her.
“Bastard!” she snapped back with soft venom. “I will not—” she paused, moistening her lips. “I will not make love with you here on the floor.” His lips were above hers. He smiled slowly. Her heart was thundering. He would surely strike her, or kiss her. He did not. Instead, he straddled her, and began to untie the ribbons to her bodice. She lay still, feeling his fingers move upon her, knowing how deeply she had missed him.
“I think that you’ll make love anywhere I demand,” he said.
“Oh!” Furious, she slapped his hands away. He laughed dangerously and warned her, “Make love, my lady, or take the risk of further interrogations!”
“Eric Cameron—” she began.
But then he did kiss her, and in moments she didn’t feel the floor, she felt the warmth and heat of the man and fire escalating between them. His hands were upon her, beneath her shirt and petticoats, finding naked flesh. She did not know what seized her there, she knew only that the flames of anger and passion were combining with her and that she could no longer fight him. He was quickly wedged between her thighs. His hand cupped her mound, his fingers stroked into the moist heat of her body even as his lips caught hers, searing her with another kiss. She felt him wrestle with his breeches, and then it was the steel shaft of his masculinity within her, and fevered winds quickly rose to rock the world between them. Desperately she rocked with him and clung to him, felt the pounding, pulsing rhythm, the need rising so high and sweet that it was nearly anguish. And then it burst upon her, so shattering, so strong, and filled with honeyed sweetness, that the world itself swung to darkness for long, long moments.
Then she kept her eyes closed as she tried to breathe slowly once again. She felt Eric shift from her, and she felt his eyes upon her. Then she felt his lips touching hers. Softly. So softly. She opened her eyes and met his. There was a certain sorrow within them.
He rose, lifting her up into his arms, and setting her down at the dressing table. She met his eyes in the mirror. He found her brush on the floor and stroked it through the sable strands of her hair.
“Why do we fight so?” he asked her.
She shook her head, unable to answer.
“Let me be tender,” he whispered softly.
He was going to make love to her again, she realized.
And she wanted him to do so. She still hungered for him. Hungered for him greatly.
He stroked his knuckles over her cheeks, then over her shoulders where they were bared. So gently now. His fingers stroked softly lower to the ribbons of her bodice, and those he finished untying. He slipped the straps of her shift from her shoulders, and pressed down upon the mounds of cotton and muslin until the gown and garment fell to her waist, baring her breasts to him in the mirror. She did not move, but continued to meet his gaze. His fingers closed over her breasts, molding them, cupping them. Then he flicked his thumbs upon her nipples, stroked around the aureoles, and delicately, softly, caressed the pebbled crests again. She moaned low and softly and with just a touch of desperation. Her eyes closed at last and her head fell back against his torso. And still, he saw, in the shimmering image of the mirror, the beauty of her. The fullness, the lushness of her breasts beneath his hands, the ivory gleam and perfection of her flesh, the startling fall of her hair against the slender column of her throat. He bent down, finding her lips, and kissed her. She tasted of everything sweet and intoxicating in life. Her lips trembled beneath his and parted.
He straightened and came around before her upon one knee. Her eyes wide and dilated, she looked down upon him.
“I’ll never ask you again where you went from the town house, Amanda,” he told her. “But I’ll never let you leave again. Do you understand me?” She nodded very slowly. Something about the way she looked at him swept the last of the anger from his being. He cried out in sudden frustration, rose, and pulled her to her feet against him. “You needn’t fear him, Amanda, do you understand me? You needn’t fear Nigel Sterling!”
Dismay filled her eyes. Her head fell back. Eric rushed on. “Dammit, don’t you understand me? You can never go to him again, never go near Tarryton again, or I shall be forced to kill one of them, can’t you understand that? Amanda! I am your husband, I will protect you. You needn’t fear Sterling or Tarryton!”
A soft sob escaped her and she tried to bury her face against him, but he could not allow her to do so. He caught her shoulders and shook her slightly. “Do you understand me, Amanda?”
“Yes! Yes!” she cried out, and tried to jerk free. He held her tight and his lips descended upon hers. They were bruising and forceful and even cruel to hold on to hers … but then she went still in his arms, soft and warm and giving, and his tongue bathed her mouth where he had offered force, and his lips became gentle and coercive, and then so soft that she was hungrily pressing against him for more.
And her fingers were upon his frock coat, shoving it from his shoulders. And soft and subtle, they were upon the buttons of his shirt, and then the stroke of her nails was delicate and exquisite upon his naked flesh.
He brought his hands against her flesh, shoving her gown and garments to the floor. He plucked her up and lay her upon the bed in her stockings and garters. She watched him in the soft candle glow as he divested himself of his clothing. When he came down beside her, she wrapped him in her arms.
They made love slowly that second time. So slowly. Exchanging sultry kisses and soft caresses, and then urgent whispers. She made love to him sweetly, and more savagely, and Eric reveled in her every touch. Desire, volatile and explosive, rose high within him. He thrust into her with his very being, so it seemed.
It was exquisite, it was a tempest. It drew everything from him and returned everything to him. But when it was over and he held her naked form close to him while the candle upon the dressing table faded out, he again decried himself for loving her so deepl
y. No matter how sweetly, how wantonly she made love to him, she held something back. He had yet to touch her soul.
Yet to touch the truth.
She moved slightly against him. He held her closer. “Are you cold?”
“No.”
“Hungry?”
“No,” she replied again.
He rose slightly upon an elbow, enjoying the beautiful slope and angle and shadow of her back and derriere in the near-total darkness.
He watched her in the darkness, then came back beside her. Her eyes were more than half closed as exhaustion claimed her. He softly stroked the flesh of her arm, then lay down beside her again and very gently took her into his arms. He wanted to apologize again; he could not. He held her for a long while, then whispered to her softly, “Amanda, trust in me. Dear God, trust in me, please.”
She did not reply. He didn’t know if she truly slept, or if she simply didn’t have an answer for him.
In the days that followed Eric gave Amanda news about the convention, warning her that the time was coming close when they might be facing armed conflict. A summons came from the governor, which Eric quickly answered. Lord Dunmore was fuming. He had been furious that he had been ignored when he had issued a proclamation that all magistrates—and others—should use their utmost endeavors to prevent the election of delegates to the Second Continental Congress.
Amanda was sure that Dunmore would be furious with Eric, but he did not balk from the summons. What went on in the interview, she did not know, but she was certain that the total rift between them was begun that day.
When he returned to the town house, she ran down the stairs to the parlor to meet him. “What happened?” she asked anxiously.
He set his gloves and plumed tricorn upon the table, and looked her way. “It will come to war, Amanda. I wonder, will you be with me, or against me?”
“I—I can’t deny my loyalties!” she told him, begging him with her eyes to understand. She was grasping at straws, she thought. He had caught her slipping from the house. He knew that she had lied about thinking she might be with child.
Love Not a Rebel Page 28