Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  He was alone with Washington. The general watched him sadly, reaching into his private stock of whiskey to offer Eric a drink.

  “You were last home at the end of March?”

  Eric nodded. He pulled the confiscated correspondence—signed “Highness”—toward him, then he swore violently.

  “Perhaps you judge too quickly,” Washington warned him.

  Eric shook his head. His next words were harsh, and as cold and ruthless as he felt. “On the contrary, General, I have dragged my feet, and I may cost us much because of it!”

  He stood, swallowing down the last of his whiskey, then saluted sharply. “With your leave, then, I will sail south.”

  “What will you do?”

  “Thrash Dunmore, Sterling, and Tarryton!”

  Washington stood, offering his outstretched hand. “Take care, Eric. I’m afraid that you must look for the worst. The attack isn’t expected for a few days, but Dunmore is in Virginia waters. Eric, I’m trying to tell you that you may reach your home to find it burned to the ground.”

  “I may.”

  “And your wife—”

  “I swear, I shall see to her.”

  “Eric—”

  “I know that she is dangerous. I will see to her. I intend to send her to France under heavy guard.”

  Washington shook his head. “Perhaps she is not guilty.”

  “You are the one always warning me about her! The evidence points cleanly to her!”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Perhaps she deserves a fair trial.”

  Eric stood, ready to exit, ready to sail. “Sir, she has already received her fair trial!” he said angrily.

  He took his orders and left Washington, promising to return at the earliest possible moment. After returning to the headquarters house he had chosen in lower Manhattan, he summoned Frederick and asked for a sound crew for the ship. “Virginians, West County men, if you can. I don’t care if they’ve ever sailed before. No one on earth is more accurate with a long rifle than a West County Virginian.”

  “You’ll need swordsmen for hand-to-hand combat,” Frederick warned him.

  “Give me some men from the Carolina regiment. They’re seamen, and they’ve all learned their swordplay well.”

  When Frederick left him Eric nearly bent over double, ready to scream. With all his will he tried to cast a dark shield of control over his temper, and yet he could not get her out of his mind for a moment. “I would never betray this hall, Eric. Never!” The passion of her words returned to haunt him again and again. Sweet, sweet mockery that he could not bear. How had he believed her? He knew her!

  He wanted to curl his fingers around her throat and throttle her. He wanted to tear her limb from limb. He wanted to rip that glorious hair from her head.…

  And he wanted to take her into his arms, brutally, perhaps, but he wanted her, beneath him, to shake her, to have her, until she realized at long last that her battle was over, that she could never defy him again.

  As he gathered the last of his personal belongings for the trip, there was a soft rapping upon his door. He strode across the room with its rough wood table and simple cot and threw open the door, his features surely displaying the tension of his mood. To his surprise it was Anne Marie Mabry, Sir Thomas’s daughter, who stood there.

  Anne Marie had come a long way from that night in Boston. She had organized many of the women’s protests, the boycotting of British goods, and she had been engaged to marry a young man who had lost his life in Boston. She was no longer the coquette but a beautiful, mature young woman with a soft smile and a winning way. She had followed her father to war and was considered quite an angel by the men.

  And I could not have chosen her for a wife! Eric charged himself bitterly. A woman sworn to the same cause as I, and one who is gentle, with guileless blue eyes and a tender smile.

  Yet even with the thought, he knew that he could not have turned back and he knew, too, in that moment, that whatever came, he loved Amanda still. If he caught her, he would deal with her as was necessary, but he would not cease to love her. He had been ignited by the magic in emerald eyes and flame-dark hair, and no one else could ever touch him so deeply again.

  “Anne Marie, come in,” he said stiffly. “There’s little here to offer you, though there is coffee in the pot. A fire can heat it quick enough. Or there is brandy—”

  “Eric, please, I haven’t come for coffee or brandy.” She hesitated. “I’ve come to ask you to think slowly and carefully before you do irreparable harm!”

  He paused, staring at her with surprise and a certain amount of amusement. “Anne Marie, they are planning on burning down my home, a house with a cornerstone set in the late 1620s! They will seize weapons and arms meant for the use of the Virginia militia and this very army. And, Anne Marie, they know that the weapons are there because my wife—the very mistress of that hall!—has told them!” His temper rose as he spoke. Too late he realized that his long strides were bearing him harshly down upon her and that he nearly had her cornered.

  “By God!” he roared, casting his hands into the air. “I’m sorry, Anne Marie. But leave this be.”

  He walked to the side table and poured himself a brandy. Undaunted, Anne Marie hurried to his side. “Eric, I have heard rumors about all this too! Servants’ gossip, but often the truest source. Amanda has not been away from Cameron Hall since you left her.”

  “Then someone else there is her accomplice.”

  “Eric, she is my friend. I know her well—”

  “Anne Marie, I caught her red-handed one night. And I let it go. That was my mistake. I should have beaten her with a horse crop that night and sent her to France!”

  “Eric!” Anne Marie cried. “I know you too. You could have done no such thing—”

  “It might have been the right thing,” he said coolly. “Anne Marie, I have to leave. I want to catch the tide.”

  “Oh, Eric,” she said miserably, “I’ve done nothing useful here at all. Listen to me, please. Perhaps she was a spy. But she wouldn’t have turned against her own home! Someone else is using her past against her, can’t you see that?”

  “I can see, Anne Marie, that Amanda has always had every opportunity to talk to me. If she was threatened, I would have defended her. I would have protected her and fought for her against any man, or any menace. She chose another course. Now, if you’ll be so good as to excuse me—”

  She blocked his path. Her eyes were liquid with appeal and misery. “Oh, Eric!” she murmured again, and she came up on tiptoe to kiss him.

  He didn’t know what overcame him. Maybe it was just the bitter pain of betrayal, but when her lips touched his, he seized upon her. He did not give her the sisterly kiss she had offered but parted her lips and delved deep within her mouth, as a lover might. And she responded. Just as a lover might. Her lips parted sweetly, she welcomed him, her arms wrapped around him. Moments passed in blindness, and then he realized that he could not take from Anne Marie what he was seeking in another. He could not use Anne Marie, because she was too good a woman. And she had always cared for him; he had known that. She was his friend, and the daughter of one his best friends. Shamed, he drew his lips from hers and slowly released her from the band of his arms. He wanted to apologize. Her eyes were upon his, and they both knew his mistake.

  Before he could utter a word, a furious sound at the door interrupted them. Startled, Eric looked to the door to see that Damien Roswell was there, tall, straight, outraged.

  “My lord Cameron, I came to see if you needed any assistance, but I see that you are well tended.”

  He didn’t owe Damien any explanations. His young friend was rash and hot blooded, and he’d nearly spent years as a British prisoner because of it.

  “I am on my way now,” Eric said curtly.

  “Damien, you must understand—” Anne Marie began.

  “Oh, I understand!” Damien said with a dry laugh. “He’s still a Brit in his own way, still ‘Lord’ Camero
n. Just like Henry the Eighth! Down with the one, up with the next! Were you planning on killing Amanda, or just divorcing her, Lord Cameron?”

  “Whatever I did, Damien, she would deserve,” Eric said smoothly.

  “I’m going to sail with you.”

  “No, you are not.”

  “You might—”

  “Damien, for the love of God! Washington will not let you go! Can’t you understand how serious a situation this has become?”

  “If you hurt her, Cameron,” Damien swore, raising a tightly clenched fist, “revolution be damned! I will kill you, I swear it!” It looked as if there were tears in his eyes. Eric’s heart seemed to tighten with agony. He did not want to do battle with Damien. Again he damned Amanda with all of his heart.

  “Damien—” he began.

  But Damien was gone. Eric stood alone in the rough little room with Anne Marie.

  “It’s all right. I’ll explain to him,” Anne Marie promised.

  “It isn’t all right, and it never shall be,” Eric muttered. He swept up his hat, and bowed low to Anne Marie. “Take care.”

  “Eric, go gently!” she cried.

  But he did not reply. He felt as if he were a tempest of seething emotions, and he did not trust himself to speak.

  On the morning of the twenty-fifth, Eric and his crew met one of Dunmore’s fleet, a small warship called the Cynthia. Because the Continental forces were desperate for ships, they took care not to sink her. They suffered damage to the Good Earth’s mainmast, but nothing major, and they managed to take the Cynthia with little effort. Her crew were sent to the brig, and a skeletal crew of colonials was left to sail her into a patriot port where she could be reoutfitted and sent into colonial service.

  On the morning of the twenty-eighth they sailed the James. Through the glass Eric could see that fires burned at Cameron Hall. The Lady Jane was just leaving her berth.

  Was his wife aboard her? Eric wondered.

  He shouted orders to the gunners. The cannons were aimed and loaded by their gun crews, and he held his hand high. “Fire!” he commanded, bringing his hand down. It was his own damn ship he was bombarding!

  And it might be his own wife he was about to kill! Would she be aboard? Aye, he thought bitterly, she would! The house was still standing, he could see it upon the far distant lawn. The warehouses were ablaze. Nothing could be salvaged from them.

  And the ship, his ship, the Lady Jane. She was coming about, ready to fire in turn.

  “Gunners, we’ll take it again. They weren’t prepared for us—they were barely into the river. One more strike and we come along broadside. We’ll grapple her and board!”

  Powder filled the air, and already visibility grew bad. He shouted his order to fire once again. The Good Earth vibrated and trembled, and the balls shuddered into the water, and into the wood and canvas and decking of the Lady Jane.

  The water between them seemed to froth in shades of gray. They came closer and closer, the wheel ably handled by a West County captain. There was a massive shuddering as the ships came together.

  Eric raised his sword, let out a battle cry, and leapt from the one deck to the other. Swinging from the rigging, leaping from the railing, his men followed suit.

  They met the British at close combat, hand-to-hand fighting, swords and dirks drawn, their long rifles used perhaps once or twice. Fury guided Eric. It was his ship. By God, he would reclaim her!

  He had just dispatched a young, talented Highlander when he saw Robert Tarryton across the ship, by the bow. Dodging and avoiding the others, he grinned with reckless abandon at this new opponent, his mortal enemy.

  “Cameron, you bastard!” Tarryton charged him, parrying his first thrusts easily enough.

  Their swords met high and clashed, and came low and clashed, and they were cast tightly together.

  “She’s with me, you bastard!” Tarryton whispered heatedly. “You thought to make a fool of me and take her from me time and again, but she’s with me. I’ve got your ship, and I’ve got your wife, and I intend to make good use of both!”

  Anger caused a shudder to wrack the whole of his body. Robert Tarryton made a lunge that nearly skewered him. Fool! Eric charged himself in silence, aware that the man meant to unnerve him in any way that he could. With cunning, sweeping strokes of his sword, he began to move forward, quickly. Tarryton parried his thrusts, but Eric saw the fear that slipped into his features. He was the better swordsman, and he knew it.

  And he was going to kill Tarryton.

  “You’ve nothing, Tarryton, nothing at all,” he replied, and proved it with a quick slash that caught the man in the chin, humiliating, damning.

  Tarryton backed quickly away and Eric discovered that he could follow at his leisure. Tarryton was now the one unnerved. He touched his chin and felt the blood.

  Eric grabbed hold of the rigging and leapt upon the foreward rail for a new assault. And it was then that he saw Amanda.

  She had come from the captain’s cabin, and she stood among a sea of men, exquisite in green, her hair caught by the sun, a burning cascade that rippled and fell down the length of her back. She seemed both alien and natural to the deck and the turmoil that abounded upon it, tall, proud, and beautiful, her head lifted to the wind, her eyes seeking those around her. His wife. The traitor.

  She was there, undeniably, she was there. She has cast her fate with Tarryton at long last. He was probably taking her on to London, now that her usefulness at Cameron Hall had come to an end.

  Never, my love, he vowed silently. Unless I am dead and buried in this sea, you will never be with Tarryton, I will see to that!

  But just at that moment, Tarryton made another lunge toward him. Eric parried the blow swiftly and retaliated with fury and vengeance. His temper was under control now, cold and lethal. Tarryton seemed to realize that.

  “Lay down your sword, Tarryton!” he demanded.

  “God’s blood! Someone take this man!” Tarryton cried.

  It was more than he should have expected, Eric thought dryly, for Lord Robert Tarryton, His Grace the Duke of Owenfield, to fight his own battle. At his call, five navy men sprang forward, their rapiers raised.

  “I will kill you one day, Tarryton,” Eric vowed pleasantly.

  But Tarryton had already turned away, and Eric couldn’t give him much attention, for his opponents were able. Frederick sprang forward, taking on one of the men. Eric dispatched one eager lad with a lightning thrust to the abdomen. The next he caught in the chest, and the last two disappeared into the fray.

  He heard a loud splash, and he realized that Tarryton was lost to him now. The Lady Jane was coming under the control of the patriots, and Tarryton was not going to stay to assist his failing men.

  “Highness!”

  The cry was going up, Eric realized. The ship was being won, and the men were becoming aware of Amanda—and that she must be the notorious “Highness” who had betrayed Virginia again and again.

  He had to reach her himself first. Frederick knew her identity, as did other friends. But not the others. And he meant for no other man to take her or touch her. She was his.

  There was a sword in her hand! he realized with both fear and fury. Damned fool, would she fight them even unto death? Was she so reckless and so determined that she would kill men that she would risk her own life?

  “By God, love, I will throttle you!” he vowed to himself.

  She thrust her sword forward in warning, and turned to run. Eric gave chase, shouting to his men to secure the deck.

  Would she throw herself into the sea? No, in panic she was running back to the captain’s cabin, so it seemed. Some engagement was taking place there, a Highlander gave battle to his one of his men, and was duly silenced, falling back into the cabin. “I shall take this!” Eric called to his men.

  She was within that cabin.

  He reached the cabin door and burst it open with a powerful slam of his boot.

  And he saw her there, cradling the
fallen Highlander in her arms. Her eyes rose to his, ever emerald. Defiant … maybe just a little fearful. His name left her lips on a whisper, and then she staggered to her feet, dragging the Highlander’s heavy Brown Bess along with her.

  “Highness,” he muttered in return, cleaning his sword to keep his hands steady, fitting it back into his scabbard. He didn’t know what he said to her then, something that meant nothing, something about the state of the war. And something about his fury to be here now, because his wife was a traitor.

  She tried to interrupt him—he would not allow her to do so. He tried so desperately to keep control of his temper. He didn’t want to touch her. He would kill her … or he would rape her, there aboard the ship with all his men about.

  “I am innocent of this!” she cried at last. The denial tore into his heart. By God, she had been there—with Tarryton.

  Control, he thought! And he arched a brow politely. “You are innocent—Highness?”

  “I tell you—”

  “And I tell you, milady, that I know full well you are a British spy and the notorious ‘Highness,’ for I oft fed you misinformation that found its way to Dunmore’s hands. You betrayed me—again and again!”

  She was holding the Brown Bess on him. Her eyes were in tempest, her hair was a beautiful fall about her. She was his wife, and he had lain with her night upon night, and she was holding the lethal weapon on him. “Give it to me, Amanda!” he demanded furiously. “Amanda!”

  “Get away from me, Eric!”

  Fury filled him and threatened to burst. “Now, Amanda! I warn you that my temper is brittle indeed. I almost fear to touch you, lest I strangle the light from those glorious eyes. I’ll take the gun!”

  “No! Let me by you. Let me go. I swear that I am innocent—”

  “Let ‘Highness’ go? Why, milady! They would hang me for the very act.” Now! He had to take the weapon from her now! Fiercely he strode to her. She moved away as he lunged.