Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  “What is it, milady?”

  She shook her head. The tears spilled onto her cheeks anyway. “Oh, Jacques! How can he be so blind! I have done everything that I can and still …”

  She rushed to the bench, glad of the arm he set about her to comfort her. He had been with her so long. Always so quiet, and always there. No matter what the tempest of her life, she felt that she had a defender. He whispered gentle words in French to her, soothing words. Suddenly the door burst open. Eric had followed her home.

  And there she was, in Jacques’s arms. She wondered if he wouldn’t fly into a rage at that and accuse her of more awful things.

  But to her amazement, he was absolutely silent. Jacques didn’t even pretend to move away from her—he stared at Eric over her head.

  And Eric didn’t say a word. He closed the door and left.

  That night she lay awake in bed, cold despite her flannel gown and the rough blanket and the fire. Her teeth chattered miserably. Suddenly she heard a commotion in the outer room, the door bursting open, voices rising, then falling.

  Then there was silence.

  And then the door to the bedroom seemed to shatter open upon its hinges. Eric stood in the doorway in his high boots and heavy cloak and plumed hat. She sat up instantly, afraid and wary. He was drunk! she thought. But he was not. “Tell me that you are innocent,” he said, his voice low and husky.

  “I am innocent,” she replied, her eyes wide and challenging and level upon his.

  He smiled and strode firmly into the room. She leapt from the bed, backing away to the fire. “Eric! Damn you! Don’t you think that you can come swaggering in here—”

  “I do not swagger, my love. I stride.”

  “Well, you cannot stride—”

  “Ah, my love, but I can!”

  And he could. He was before her, catching her wrist, spinning her into his arms. She protested, crying out, swearing as the best of the soldiers might, and pummeling his chest. He laughed, ignoring her efforts, and swept her up into his arms. Her fight, however, off-balanced him, and they crashed heavily down upon the bed together. “Eric Cameron—”

  “Shush up and pay attention, Amanda.” She had no choice. His sinewed thigh was cast heavily over her hips and his hands were taut upon her wrists. His words touched her lips, warm, soft, beguiling. The tone of his voice was deep and quiet and richly masculine, reaching deep inside of her. “I believe you. I believe that you are innocent. Now, listen to me, love, and listen this once, for I shall not make a habit of explaining. I am innocent, too, of all charges. I admit, there were times when I would have bedded another woman if I could have for the sheer loneliness of this life. Yet I could not, you see. There is no other woman with a cascade of rich silken hair the color of fire, and no other woman anywhere to charm the soul with the steady gaze of emerald eyes, the velvet caress of her voice. I have never faltered once, Amanda. From the night that I first saw you, I wanted you and no other. It shall never change. No matter what I have believed, I have wanted you. And I have loved you. Now, lady, if you would, cast me out again. Into the snow.”

  A slow, sensual smile curved lazily into her lips. “If I cast you out, will you go?”

  “No.”

  She sighed extravagantly. “I did not think so.”

  “So?”

  “Let go of my wrists.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I cannot touch you this way.”

  His hold upon her eased. Her fingers trembled as she rubbed her knuckles against his cheek, then arched high against him, winding her arms about him as she found his lips with her own. She hungered for his kiss, playing with his tongue, bringing it deeper and deeper into her mouth, as if she drew upon other sexual parts of his body, intimating all that she would do. A dry, hoarse sound tore from him, and he returned the kiss aggressively, his lips caressing and consuming hers, his tongue demanding hers hotly within his mouth, his hands feverishly upon her face and within her hair. Then he tore away from her, casting aside his cape and his boots. He all but tore his frock coat away, and stumbled from his breeches to descend heavily upon her again, his hands feverish as they immediately set upon her calves and then her naked thighs, shoving the gown up high on her. She laughed, delighted at his eagerness, but when his lips touched hers again, she was determined to arouse him even as he stirred the most frantic and glorious yearnings within her. She stroked the magnificent muscled breadth of his back, and she brought her hands low against his ribs, and over the tightness of his buttocks. She teased his abdomen with the stroke of her fingers, and then she closed her fingers around his shaft, trembling with sweet pleasure at his cry and mammoth shudder at her evocative touch. She stroked and teased, gently caressed, and brought about a rougher rhythm, and then caressed with the greatest tenderness again. But then she found her fingers entwined with his and the length of his body was thrust between her thighs. His mouth formed over her breast, and all of the heat and hardness was thrust within her, and ecstasy seemed to flourish and grow and to boundless heights.

  Snow fell outside; the wind was bitter, and its cry was harsh upon the winter’s night. But none of it mattered to her that night. He rose high above her, his face contorted with his passion, his eyes a deep blazing blue upon hers. She did not allow her lashes to flutter, but as the sensations swept through her with chaotic abandon, she moistened her lips and dared to whisper to him again.

  “I love you, Eric. I love you.”

  He fell against her, cradling her head, his fingers and palms upon her hair, her cheeks. His lips found hers and whispered above them, “Say it again.”

  “I love you.” Tears stung her eyes. “I love you, I swear it, with all of my heart, I love you.”

  He groaned, and he whispered again that he loved her. And when everything exploded between them, he whispered it again, and then he held her in his arms and they both watched the fire, and she told him that she had loved him for a very long time—even when she had hated him—and he laughed, and they made love again, and she didn’t think that anything, ever, had been as good.

  It was very late when she finally slept.

  Somewhere, in the middle of the night, she awoke. Puzzled, she wondered why. The fire still burned. Their door lay slightly ajar, and the outer room appeared to be empty, despite the shadows. Some noise had disturbed her, she thought. She didn’t move. They slept naked and entwined. Her husband’s broad shoulders were slightly bared, and she drew the blanket more tightly about him. Then she slept again.

  Later, much, much later, she awoke. She had been dreaming, she realized, and she had been soundly asleep. It was late, for the sun was out and almost brightly so, especially for winter. She had slept the morning away, she thought, and she had awakened now only because someone was frantically calling her name.

  “Amanda! Amanda, for the love of God, wake up!”

  Her eyes focused at last. It was Geneva, her beautiful eyes wide and frightened, her hair tumbling down about her shoulders. “Amanda, come on, wake up. You must come with me right away. Eric has been hurt.”

  “What!”

  Stunned, stricken, Amanda sat up. The covers began to fall and she caught them to hide her nakedness.

  “Eric has been hurt. He went out with a foraging party and he was hit by mistake. I think that his leg is broken. Damien is arranging for a conveyance to bring him back. But he wants you. Now. Oh, Amanda, come on!”

  “Oh, dear God!” Terrified, Amanda sprang from the bed and hurriedly searched for her clothing. Her trembling caused her trouble as she tried to pull on her hose, but at last she managed. She forced herself to be calm enough to dress. She ignored her hair, letting it fall down her back in tangles.

  Hurt … hurt. He had been wounded. Men died when they were wounded. Men died when they were wounded because infection and disease spread so rapidly. No! No, God, please, no, after all of their years together they had finally come to really love one another, to trust one another, to need one another. She could not
lose him now. He had fought in endless battles, and always with courage, and always so selflessly. He could not die.

  “Geneva, how bad is he?” she asked anxiously, reaching for her cloak.

  “I don’t know yet. I just know that he wants you. Come on now, hurry!”

  They ran out to the snow. Two horses were waiting. “Where’s Damien?” Amanda asked anxiously.

  “Getting a wagon. Amanda, let’s go. Before it’s too—”

  “Oh!” Amanda cried out. She wondered if Washington knew, or Frederick, or any other of his close friends or fellow officers. They wouldn’t let him die if they knew. They would not let him die, she was certain!

  “Geneva, perhaps I should get someone else!”

  “Damien is doing that! Amanda, there is no one else about now. We have to hurry!”

  “Oh, God, yes!”

  She leapt upon the scrawny horse Geneva had brought for her even as Geneva gracefully catapulted upon her own mount. In seconds they were racing through the camp.

  “Hey!” someone called. “Wait! Where—”

  “We haven’t time!” Geneva responded.

  She whipped her horse into a mad gallop. Amanda followed suit, and they were quickly beyond the gates and frantically plowing through the snow. Geneva managed to find something of a trail that had been trampled down, and the floundering horses found their footing again. Amanda was glad, for it seemed that they raced forever. The wind whipped her cheeks and the cold was so bitter that she could no longer feel her fingers about the reins, or her toes in the stirrups. Her heart thundered with fear.

  Away from the camp, they slowed for a while. “We need to hurry!” Amanda cried then.

  “It’s far. The horses won’t make it. We’ll let them rest a bit, then race them again.”

  And so they plodded along. Anxiety grew and swelled within Amanda’s heart. She did not move a foot that she did not pray again, pray for her husband’s life.

  They began to race again. There seemed to be nothing, nothing before them, just the endless white of the snowdrifts, just the skeletal leaves of the barren trees. The camp even seemed far behind them. Very far. So far that it seemed like a miniature village, a child’s toy, and not a place where grown-up men suffered and died.

  “Geneva, how far? Where is he? Have we missed him.”

  “No, no!” Geneva shouted back.

  They kept racing. Suddenly, ahead, Amanda saw an embankment of fir trees. Rich and green, they covered the landscape.

  “Just ahead!” Geneva called.

  “Thank God!” Amanda shouted in reply. She forced her tired horse to draw close beside Geneva’s. “There? In the woods?”

  Geneva nodded, her lashes falling over her beautiful eyes to form crescents on her cheeks. “Yes, Amanda, in the woods.”

  The woods …

  The thicket of green pines suddenly came alive. Horsemen came bounding out from both directions, horsemen wearing the bright red colors of a British cavalry unit.

  Amanda drew her horse quickly to a halt, determined to turn back and flee as quickly as possible. “Geneva, the British! We’ve got to escape! It’s the damned redcoats—”

  “There is no escape! Look around. We’re surrounded.”

  They were surrounded. There was no direction in which she could escape.

  “The British—”

  “I know,” Geneva said quietly.

  Stunned, Amanda stared at her friend. Then she understood. “It’s you. You’re Highness—I never really was! You called Robert and Father to Cameron Hall, you’ve been sleeping with my cousin for whatever information you could gain. You—you whore!”

  “Tsk, tsk, Lady Cameron!”

  Amanda swung her nag of a horse around as a rider approached her. Well clad, well fed, sitting his horse very well, it was Robert Tarryton. “What a horrid thing to say to an old friend!” he taunted Amanda.

  “Traitor!” Amanda snapped to Geneva, spitting toward the ground.

  “Traitor! Ah, no, milady. Geneva is not the traitor—you are. You should be frightened. We hang traitors, you know. Ah, but a lovely lady? Maybe not. You’re much too useful. You see, my love, with you my prisoner, I just might get your husband at last. And maybe a few more of your illustrious patriots. Eh, love? I might even manage to pick off the entire Continental Army.”

  “Never. You’ll never beat them, Robert. Never.”

  “They are dying. They are beating themselves.”

  “No. You don’t understand, do you? It isn’t guns—it isn’t even in battles. The revolution is in the heart of the people, and you can never take the heart, Robert. Not you, not Howe, not Cornwallis, not King George.”

  “Brave words, Amanda. Let’s go. I’m willing to bet that I can nab a victim or two for the hangman. Hurry back, Geneva. It’s time now to bring Lord Cameron for his lady.”

  They had led her here with lies. They would bring Eric out in the same manner.

  She couldn’t let it happen.

  She dug hard into the flanks of her horse, wrenching the reins around. The animal shrieked out and reared up. Amanda slashed the reins about, catching Robert across the face with length of them as he tried to lunge for her. He faltered as leather stips whipped his face and Amanda’s horse bolted, then lunged forward.

  “Get her!” Tarryton commanded.

  She tried. The valiant little horse tried. But ten horsemen were bearing down on her. A red-coated rider suddenly jumped forward. Caught in his arms, she was brought down, down into the snow with the soldier firmly upon her. Flakes were in her mouth and nose and eyes. Coughing, she fought for breath.

  Then rough hands were upon her as Robert Tarryton dragged her to her feet. When she stood he slapped her hard. “Bitch!” he accused her with a quiet smile. Then he wrenched her forward to where his own mount waited. He set her swiftly upon it and mounted in a leap behind her.

  His whisper was chilling against her. “I’m just wondering, Amanda, whether to settle my score first with your husband—or with you. We do have a score to settle, milady, and I’ve imagined endless ways of just how it will be settled!”

  “He’ll kill you!” Amanda promised on a whisper.

  Tarryton broke into dry laughter. He lashed his horse’s haunches pitilessly. “No, he’ll kill you. You’ve always been a traitor to him. And here’s just another occasion of your treachery. Before I hang him, Amanda, love, I will be sure to let him know that you have been very cleverly planning his demise for the longest time!”

  XIX

  Eric had just returned to the hut after extensive drilling of the troops with Von Steuben when he heard his name called hysterically from outside. That the place seemed very empty and cold without Amanda about added to his feeling of icy anxiety as he hurried to open the door.

  Geneva was practically falling from one of the broken-down old nags that had toughly survived the winter. Damien was rushing over from the blacksmith’s to catch her as she fell.

  “Damien, oh, thank God! And Eric!”

  “What’s happened?” Damien demanded.

  “Bring her in,” Eric urged. “Out of the cold.”

  In seconds Geneva was inside, sipping brandy, a blanket wrapped about her shoulders. “She insisted that we search for food. Amanda. She thought that we could contribute to the men by scouring the country ourselves. Then she fell … Eric, she’s alive but I think that her leg is broken. She needs you desperately.”

  Cold … she was lying out in the cold, shivering, hurt, probably in horrid pain. There was a storm coming too. If the snows came on too densely, they might never find her, she might perish in her attempts to prove herself a loyal patriot …

  “Dear God!” he whispered aloud, and then he was in motion. “Damien, tell Frederick to arrange for a wagon. Geneva, can you tell me where she is? How to reach her? Frederick will need you to guide him, and I must get to her with blankets and brandy. The cold is so very bitter!”

  “Of course, of course—” Geneva said, rising.r />
  But then the door swung open. Jacques Bisset stood in the doorway, towering and dark, a mask of fury upon his face as he stared at Geneva.

  “The woman is lying,” he said flatly.

  “What?” Eric demanded sharply.

  “The woman is lying.”

  “How dare you!” Geneva gasped. “Eric! Damien! You are not going to listen this—this—frog servant! And take his word over mine?”

  There was something in her tone of voice that Eric didn’t like at all. He smiled slowly, leaning back against the wall. “I have known Jacques most of my life, Geneva. He has never lied to me. Jacques, tell me quickly, what is the truth of this?”

  “I followed them. Lady Geneva came here and urged Amanda with her. I followed them when they rode out into the snow. I kept my eye upon it all when they were ambushed by a troop of redcoats. It was planned, Lord Cameron. It was a planned kidnapping.”

  Eric felt as if his heart were catapulting to his gut and there lay bleeding. His mouth dry, he demanded, “Who, Jacques? Who has taken her?”

  “Tarryton. Lord Robert Tarryton. She was lured to your side, and now you are being lured to hers. I didn’t know what to do! I could not bear to leave her with them, alone in the snow, yet I could not help her unless I came back to warn you. She is the bait, Lord Cameron. The bait to lure you to your death.” He hesitated, staring at Geneva. If eyes could kill, Eric thought, Geneva would have been lying in blood, slain with daggers through the core of her heart.

  Damien backed away from the woman. The fire burned low in the little hut, smoke and soot seemed heavy on the air. Then he took a step toward her. She backed away from him, toward the wall.

  “It’s a lie!” she cried out. “He’s lying and I don’t know why! I can’t begin to understand—”

  “I can!” Eric interrupted harshly. He strode past Damien, wrenching Geneva around by the shoulders. “It was you. You were the one to see to it that Nigel Sterling and Robert Tarryton knew about the arms kept at Cameron Hall. It was you.”