Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  She went stiff, but still. “Take the lady, milord, and save me some time and strength!” the soldier complained. “I’m looking for a dangerous, armed rebel. I followed his trail—who is that up on your horse?” he said with sudden sharp suspicion.

  “My friend has partied too heartily this night. We’ve been at the home of Sir Thomas Mabry, and well … young fellows do imbibe too freely upon occasion. Isn’t that right, Mandy?”

  She went very stiff, but agreed. As she smiled to the sentry, Frederick saw that she was very beautiful. “It was quite a party, Officer,” she murmured.

  “There’s parties all about tonight, so it seems!” The sentry saluted the man. “Milord, then, if you’ve things in hand, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Quite right! Thank you.”

  The sentry moved on. His footsteps fell upon the cobblestones, then faded away.

  “Who are you, sir, and what do you think you’re doing?” the woman hissed. “Where’s Damien? And what do you know about him?”

  “I only know, mam’selle, that you were about to lead the king’s men straight to him.”

  “And what difference would that make?” she demanded heatedly.

  “I don’t know, nor can I care. This man needs help.”

  “Help! He’s been shot! Oh, my God! He’s one of the rabble, one of the dissidents—”

  “He’s a bleeding human being, milady, and you’ll help him since you’re here! Then I’ll see you home!”

  “I don’t need you to see me anywhere—”

  “You do need me, milady. And I need you at the moment. Come, let me put my arm about your shoulder and sing. That should see us as far as this poor man’s place. Frederick! You must lead us, for I don’t know where we’re going.”

  There was no choice. Frederick told him the number of his house, and they hurried onward. They could still hear the soldiers running blindly about the streets. The night was coming more and more alive as news of the night’s deed spread quickly from house to house.

  Soldiers passed them again. The man cast his head against the woman’s shoulder and stumbled, singing. “Stop it, you lout!” the woman cried.

  “Ah, Mandy, love, drunken lout—it’s a drunken lout I am. ’Scuse me, Officer!” He stumbled, looked about sheepishly, and pulled the woman against him again, but led the horse along with perfect direction. The soldiers snickered—and left them alone.

  Frederick could almost hear the woman’s teeth grate, and if he didn’t hurt so badly, he’d be laughing. What were they doing with him, he wondered, for they were aristocrats, the two of them. Alive in a sea of the Sons of Liberty.

  It was a patriot’s city! Frederick thought proudly, and then he wondered again at the man who carried him homeward. He winced. This man was a lord.

  But his accent sounded a bit … colonial. It was cultured, it wasn’t a northern accent, it had a softer slur to it. Maybe there was hope. Why, George Washington, a growing power in Virginia, was friends with Lord Fairfax, a man of importance very loyal to the crown. The time would come when a man had to choose sides. It would come soon.

  The man reined in on the horse quickly as they stopped before the house. Frederick didn’t realize how weak he was until he was lifted bodily from the black stallion. “Help me!” the man demanded quickly of the girl. She complied, seething, helping as Frederick fell from the horse into the man’s arms.

  Quickly, competently, the man brought him to his door and knocked upon it.

  Elizabeth came and opened the door. Frederick tried to rise against the stranger’s shoulder. He saw her face, saw her soft gray eyes widen with alarm, but then she responded ably, drawing them into the small but comfortable home where they lived.

  “Frederick!” she cried when the door was closed against the night.

  “He’s taken a shot in the shoulder, and he drifts in and out of consciousness,” the stranger was explaining. His voice quickened. “We need to pluck the bullet out—he’s probably got a broken arm and collar bone, but ma’am, first, we need to wash away the paint, in case of a visitor.”

  “The paint!” The girl gasped.

  Elizabeth gaped at the strangers for a moment. The girl was stunning, well dressed, beautiful. There was no doubt of the man’s prestige and power, for though his clothing was not overly elegant, the cut and quality were unmistakable.

  “Let’s lay him down, shall we?” the man said softly.

  “Oh, oh! Of course!” Elizabeth agreed.

  Frederick drifted in and out of reality as they laid him out and bathed him. He was offered a bottle of home-distilled whiskey, and he drank it deeply. Then the man was digging into his shoulder for the bullet and Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, was clamping her hand over his mouth and begging him to silence.

  “Let me,” the girl said suddenly. Elizabeth and the man stared at her. She shrugged. “I’ve some skill.”

  “How?” the man asked her.

  She shrugged dispassionately. “My father has been shot upon occasion,” she said. She smiled at Frederick and brought the blade of a knife against his flesh.

  Frederick passed out cold.

  Eric watched with a cool assessing gaze as Lady Amanda Sterling removed the bullet from the young man’s shoulder. Her touch was both gentle and expert, and she murmured that it was best that he had lost consciousness, for he would feel no pain. “There’s no break in the shoulder, I’m quite certain.” She glanced at Elizabeth who stood by, wringing her hands upon her apron, tears in her eyes. “Cleanse the wound with alcohol, and I’m sure that all will be well.”

  Elizabeth Bartholomew fell down upon her knees, grasping Lady Sterling’s hands. “Thank you! Oh, thank you—”

  “Please!” Amanda Sterling’s beautiful face flushed to a soft rose. “Don’t thank me! God alone knows how I have come here, and I intend to leave now. This is a bed of traitors—”

  “You are good, lady! So kind—”

  Amanda Sterling, her hood fallen back, her hair glistening a glorious red in the firelight, pulled Elizabeth to her feet. “Please don’t. I’m leaving, and I—”

  “Lady Sterling would not dream of betraying you,” Eric said firmly. Amanda glanced at him quickly. He saw the fury and defiance in her startling emerald eyes, but she did not deny his words.

  “Warn your husband that he is a traitor against the king,” she said to the woman.

  “But you will not turn us in.”

  “No.” She hesitated a moment. “No, you’ve my word, I shall not turn you in.”

  Eric stepped forward, taking her arm. “I’ll be back,” he told Elizabeth. “I shall return Lady Amanda—”

  “I can return well enough on my own—”

  “The Sons of Liberty are on the streets, milady, as well as British soldiers—as well as some common rapists and thieves ready to take advantage of the situation. I promised Anne Marie that I would find you, and for her, I shall return you.”

  He set his hand upon her with a force she could not deny. She seemed to sense the implacable determination in his words, so she merely stared at his hand, gritted her teeth, and agreed. “Fine.”

  She swept around, then paused, looking back to Elizabeth. The young wife now knelt by her husband with such a look of love and anxiety in her eyes that even Lady Sterling seemed to soften. “Keep him well,” she murmured, and exited quickly to the streets.

  Eric followed her, catching her arm when she would have walked ahead. She spun about, staring at him with her chin and nose regally high. He smiled. “Did you ride?”

  “No, I—”

  His voice deepened harshly. “You have been walking all this distance on a night like this? What an idiot! You could have been robbed of that splendor, stripped naked, raped, killed!”

  “You are crude!”

  “You are a fool.”

  She tried to wrench her hand from his hold. He had already released her to set his hands about her waist and throw her up atop his horse. Before she could protest he was
mounted behind her. Her back went very stiff. “How do I know that you are not about to rob, rape, or knife me, sir?” she demanded coolly.

  “Because I am worth far more than you are, I prefer my women warm, willing, and talented, and murder simply isn’t among my decadent hobbies.” He nudged his horse into a canter. She twisted her face against the chill of the night, shivering as she raised her voice so that he might hear her.

  “You may take me back to the Sir Thomas’s, milord, but it will do you no good. I must find Damien.”

  Eric hesitated. He had an idea where young Roswell might be, if he was in any way involved with the dissidents. He reined in so sharply that she crashed back against him. The sweet scent of her hair teased his nostrils and the shocking warmth of her body lay flush against his.

  “Milord—” She gasped, but he ignored her, nudging his heels against his mount’s flanks and leading the animal toward the left.

  “We’ll find Damien then,” he said.

  They rode through the streets until they came to a tavern. The street was very quiet there, the light within was dim. Eric dismounted. “Don’t move!” he ordered her. Then he turned and entered the tavern.

  A multitude of men were there, engaged in soft and quiet conversation. There were no drunks about, just working men in their coarse coats and capes and tricorns, huddled about the meager warmth of the fire. At his entrance, all eyes turned to him. Several faces went pale as the quality of his clothing was taken into account.

  Someone rushed forward—the barkeeper, he thought. “Milord, what is it that we can do—”

  “I need a word with Mr. Damien Roswell.”

  “Milord, he is not—”

  “I am here, Camy.” The handsome young man who had partnered Amanda in the dance stepped forward. He stretched out his hand. “You’re Lord Cameron. I’ve heard much about you.”

  Eric arched a brow. “Have you?”

  “Why were you looking for me?” Damien asked carefully.

  Eric cleared his throat. “I am not. A lady is.”

  “Amanda!” He gasped. “Then she knows …”

  “She knows nothing. But perhaps you should come along.”

  Damien nodded instantly. He and Eric exited the tavern together without a backward glance.

  From atop Eric’s horse, the girl cried out. “Damien! You had me so worried!” She leapt down gracefully and ran forward.

  “Amanda! You shouldn’t have followed me.”

  “You are in trouble, off on your own,” she said worriedly.

  Eric stepped back on the porch of the tavern, watching the two together. Damien turned to him. “Thank you, milord. Thank you most fervently. If I can ever be of assistance to your—”

  “I’ll let you know,” Eric drawled calmly. He tipped his hat to Lady Amanda. “Good evening, milady.”

  “Milord,” she said stiffly. Had she been a cat, he thought, her back would have been arched, her claws unsheathed. He had not made much of an impression. He smiled deeply anyway, feeling as if he burned deep inside. He did not mind her manner, and he was willing to wait. She did not know it as yet, but she would see him again. And again. And in the end, he would have his way.

  He swept his hat from his head and bowed low, then mounted his horse.

  “Who was that arrogant … bastard?” he heard her demand of her cousin.

  “Mandy! I’m shocked. What language!” Damien taunted.

  “Who was he?”

  “Lord Cameron. Lord Eric Cameron, of Cameron Hall.”

  “Oh!” She gasped. “Him!”

  So she, too, had remembered their meeting long ago. Eric smiled and led his mount into the darkness of the streets. They would meet again.

  II

  When Frederick came to, he was still on the sofa, he could hear the fire crackling and burning in the hearth, and he could feel its warmth.

  There was a certain commotion at the door. Elizabeth and the man were both standing there, talking to the redcoat before them.

  “I assure you, Sergeant,” the man was saying, “that I know nothing about any tea party at the harbor, nor do I know anything about any smuggled and hidden arms. And I assure you that this young lady knows nothing of it either. Indeed, I would appreciate some discretion here. I visited here earlier with a lady friend. You know how difficult a certain privacy can be. Then I returned, for I’d hoped to convince the Bartholomews to move down to Virginia to take positions at Cameron Hall, but Frederick’s printing business has been quite a success.”

  “He prints traitorous garbage!” the sergeant insisted, then he added quickly, “Lord Cameron, sir, that is.”

  “What? Is the man not still a free Englishman with rights! Come on, man, what has this to do with anything? I’m telling you, Sergeant, yes, we’ve been having a tea party. Elizabeth and I were sipping a warm berry brew when you so rudely interrupted us. I wish privacy now. I have been harassed quite enough for the night, as have these good people, I am quite sure. Am I understood?”

  “Oh, quite, milord, yes!” The sergeant snapped to a salute. “Yes, milord. Good night, milord.”

  Milord. Milord Cameron. Frederick smiled. He had heard of the man. He had fought, leading a band of Virginians, in the French and Indian Wars. He sat on the Governor’s Council in Virginia. He was immensely wealthy, with estates in the colonies, the islands, and in England. But he had stood in the line of battle again and again, defying bullets, so they claimed. He could do more than shoot Indians, he could speak their language. He was powerful, yes, and by God, he was a member of an elite peerage, but he was an American, too, so it was sworn. Virginia was not Massachusetts, the seeds of discontent were not so fully sown there as here, but she was a great colony, creating great statesmen.

  This man sat on the Governor’s Council instead of in the House of Burgesses. The Councilmen were appointed for life, a great honor. He should be loyal to the Crown. And still, Frederick realized, Lord Cameron had saved his life.

  The door was shut and bolted. Elizabeth fell against the door, trembling. “I shall faint—”

  “You mustn’t madam, I beg of you!” he said, and drew her up.

  “You’ve saved us once again. Oh, milord, our lives are yours! Whatever you wish—”

  “I wish a long, potent drink!” Eric laughed. “And a word with your husband.”

  Elizabeth nodded and glanced worriedly toward Frederick. Then she hurried toward the kitchen, and Eric approached Frederick. He pulled up a chair and straddled it, and stared at the printer. “I want to know about it. I want to know about tonight.”

  “But you must know—”

  “I know nothing. I’m a Virginian. I’m here on business, and I stumbled upon you.”

  Frederick inhaled and exhaled. The man was tough, and he wanted answers.

  “We didn’t want it to happen—”

  “Don’t tell me that. The trouble has been brewing here since the Boston ‘Massacre’ in 1770.”

  Frederick exhaled. The Boston Massacre had actually been a street fight. About fifty citizens, infuriated by the soldiers within the city, had attacked a British sentinel. Captain Preston, the British officer in charge, had brought more soldiers, and they had fired into the crowd. Three people were killed, eight were wounded, and two of the wounded later died. A town meeting had been called, and the British had agreed to let the captain stand trial for murder. John Adams and Josiah Quincy had been his defense counselors, and he had been acquitted of murder—it couldn’t be proven that he had ordered his men to fire into the crowd. Two soldiers were found guilty of manslaughter, and they were branded on their hands and dismissed from the service. Speechmakers and politicians, eager to keep sentiment high against the British, had termed the event the Boston Massacre.

  “We did not intend this!” Frederick insisted. “Milord,” he added quietly. Then he lifted his chin. “Ask around, among your friends, and you will discover the truth. The British offered the British East India Company a rebate for tea sold i
n America. The tea was to be consigned to certain individuals. There would have been a monopoly on the tea, and our local merchants would have been put out of business. It was a government move to enforce the tea tax, milord, can you understand? The Committee of Correspondence refused to permit these tea-laden ships to land, and we appealed to Governor Hutchinson to let the loaded ships return to England. The governor refused. There was a meeting, a huge meeting at the Old South Meeting House. We went to the governor again, and again he refused to receive the mass of people.” Frederick lowered his head. “At a signal from Sam Adams, we hoarded the ships and dumped the tea.”

  Eric was silent for several long seconds. “There are going to be repercussions, you know.”

  “Of course.”

  “We move ever farther and farther away,” Eric murmured. “God, how it hurts. But of course, they don’t want to hang you for your part in this tea party. They want to hang you for smuggling arms to use against the Crown. So—tell me. What of these arms?”

  Frederick started. “Arms?”

  “You are guilty. Of storing arms.”

  Frederick wet his lips nervously with his tongue. He knew all about the arms. There was no sense denying it. “We are not planning anything. The arms are not to be kept in Boston. I should not tell you more.”

  “You’re right—you should not. Not now.”

  Frederick looked at the man, and he tried to rise. But Eric wasn’t looking his way, he was staring into the flames. The fire caught the curious color of his eyes. They had seemed dark, indigo. Now they looked like steel. They burned with startling, silver flames. He was lost in thought, but Frederick could not read those thoughts.

  “Tell me, is a man—a Virginian—named Damien Roswell involved in any of this?”

  Frederick inhaled sharply. “Milord, turn me in if you would, but I will not give you names—”

  “Never mind. You have given me what I want.”

  Elizabeth came, and offered Lord Cameron a glass of whiskey. Lord Cameron flashed her a quick smile, and Frederick was somewhat startled by his wife’s reaction. She flushed deeply, and her eyes fell over the length of him as he straddled his chair. Even at rest he was laden with energy. There was a pulse about him. In silence he spoke of tempest and passion. His eyes portrayed intelligence, fire, and wisdom; his mouth betrayed a great sensuality and an undaunted love of life.