Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  Danielle opened her mouth to say something, but then she closed it and helped Amanda out of her gown. Left in her stockings and corset and petticoats, Amanda hugged her arms about herself. “What was my mother like, Danielle?”

  “Beautiful,” Danielle said softly. “Her eyes were the color of the sea, her hair was as radiant as a sunset. Her smile made others smile, and she was both gentle and passionate. And beautiful.” She hesitated, taking a petticoat as Amanda stepped from it. “You are her very image, Amanda. And that is why …”

  “Why what?”

  Danielle shook her head. “She was so very kind to me, and to Paul.”

  “Paul?”

  “My brother. He died before you were born.” Danielle untied the ribbons of Amanda’s corset, then slipped the nightgown over her head. Amanda murmured her thanks, then sat on the bed to remove her shoes and stockings and garters from beneath the gown, watching Danielle as she returned her things to the wardrobe and trunks.

  “I can never forget,” Danielle continued. “It was so horrible. We Acadians, we were farmers in Nova Scotia. When the British took over the French rule, we vowed to serve the English king. But then war broke out again, and the French feared that we would fight with the British, while the British feared that we would take up arms with the French. And so they simply stole our land and exiled us from the place of our birth. We lived in a little town called Port Henri. It had been named for our great-grandfather. We reclaimed the marshland, we had many cattle, we fished the Bay of Fundy. Then the British gathered us at Port Royal and told us that we must leave. We were huddled into ships like slaves, and the captains made money on the misery they inflicted upon us. They made their coin, whether we lived or died. Mon Dieu! Day after day, the human waste and sickness gathered upon us. They would not let us out of the hold … except for Marie d’Estaing, for the captain raped her again and again. She began to look forward to his violence, for she told me that it was better than smothering in the hold with the smell and the worms. She died before we came to port. I was barely alive when our ship came to Williamsburg. Your mother demanded that your father take some of us in, and he was forced to oblige her. So Paul and I had a home.”

  Amanda rolled up one of her stockings, her fingers clenching against the pain and injustice done to Danielle’s people. Many who had lived had not been accepted upon the colonial shores, and they had left again, searching for a homeland with the French, to the west.

  Danielle exhaled slowly, then sucked in her breath. “I’m sorry. This is long ago. In 1754. Before you were born.”

  “But my mother was there. And she was kind. She was good then, Danielle. She was good and kind and beautiful.”

  Danielle nodded. “She was very good. Has someone told you otherwise?”

  Amanda shook her head hastily. She knew that the pain her father caused her would hurt Danielle even worse. “I just wanted to hear about her from you, that is all.”

  “Then good night, ma belle jeune fille,” Danielle said softly. She kissed Amanda’s head and hurried to the door. Then she swung back suddenly. “How long are we staying?”

  “I—I don’t know,” Amanda replied. “Maybe not long. We have been invited to see Lord Cameron’s estate on the James. Perhaps we shall do so.”

  Danielle’s eyes widened with pleasure. “We may go there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Away from your father?”

  “Yes.”

  Danielle nodded, pleased. “Lord Cameron is a far better man than the other you loved, Amanda.”

  Robert. His memory tugged at her heart, even if she had forced it to grow cold. She had dreamed too often of his golden head beside her own upon a pillow. She still had visions of little children, their little children, laughing and running about the house on Christmas day.

  “Goodnight, Danielle,” she said, more abruptly than she had intended. The woman stiffened, and Amanda immediately regretted her harsh tone. She raced over and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Dani. It’s just that—I loved him, you see. And Lord Cameron—” She paused, shivering. “He might well be a traitor.”

  “Tell me, petite, what is a traitor but a man with a different cause? The British exiled me from my homeland. They took everything. The French were not there for me. I was Acadian, lost. And now I listen to the people on the streets and I know.”

  “You are a Virginian.”

  “I am an American,” Danielle said with quiet dignity, and she smiled. “Who can ever say? If one wages war and is victorious, he is a hero, c’est vrai? If he wages war and loses, then he is a traitor, it is so simple.”

  Danielle pulled away from Amanda for a moment, studying her eyes. “Whatever else Lord Cameron may be, Amanda, he is a man who would be true to his own honor, and if he loved you, he would never betray you, as others have done.” Danielle smiled, and then left.

  Amanda watched after her, then she locked the door with the key and went back to the bed. She stared at the candle on the bedside, then snuffed out the flame, swearing. “Damn! He is a traitor, and a rogue, and so help me, I will use him as is necessary!”

  She crawled beneath the covers, still shivering. It was not so cold a night, but the fire in the hearth was very low, and there was an autumn snap in the air. It was definitely the cold, she assured herself, that brought about her shivers, and nothing else.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep to ease her soul. No matter how she tried, though, she could not drift into slumber. She was haunted by visions of the day, of her father in the governor’s delightful rose garden, calling her mother a whore. Calling her a whore. Threatening her. And then her father’s face faded away, and she saw Eric Cameron before her with his steely eyes, watching her, knowing … something. Chess pieces moved before her. Gravely he leaned toward her. “Checkmate, milady. Checkmate.”

  She jerked up suddenly. She must have dozed, because she had now awakened. She didn’t know why; she didn’t know what she had felt.

  The fire had gone down to almost nothing, and the window was open—she could see the drapes flowing soft and white into the room. She could have sworn that the window had been closed when she had lain down.

  She tossed her covers aside and set her bare feet upon the floor, then hurried to the window. The moon was sending down shafts of light and the breeze was picking up. The drapes swirled, and the soft silk of her gown rose against her legs, rippling around her.

  She sensed a shadow in the room. She turned about, but the moonlight had blinded her, and now she could not see. But she wasn’t alone; she could feel someone else there.

  “Who—who is it!” She gasped. She wanted to scream, but the words came out in a whisper.

  There was a sudden motion. She saw the dark silhouette as it approached her, and she inhaled to scream. A hand fell across her lips. She kicked viciously and contacted human flesh, but then she was swept up high and tossed down hard upon the bed. Dazed, she tried to roll away, and she was wrenched back as the dark shadow fell upon her. She twisted, freeing her knee and her mouth. She gasped, but again no sound managed to escape, for a hand fell back down upon her, firmly clamping down upon her jaw and mouth, and she felt forceful arms lock tight around her. Wildly she clutched at the fingers that held her, raking them with her nails. Her hands were quickly caught and she was pushed down deeply into the bed. The attacker was still behind her, a leg cast over her, his one arm beneath her as his fingers stifled her breath and words, his other arm around her like an iron band, his hand beneath her breast, holding her taut and hard against his body.

  “Shush,” he whispered. Warm breath, scented with a pleasant masculine combination of brandy and good pipe tobacco, swirled against her cheek. She tried to bite, but she could not, she was held too tightly. She tried to squirm away, and she realized with horror that her movement brought the hem of her gown high up, baring her legs, and tugged the bodice of her gown even lower. She could feel his fingers upon the fullness of her breasts through the flimsy lace of the
gown. “Lady, I mean it, not a whisper. And be still.” She went dead still, not to be obedient, but with shock. It was Lord Cameron!

  With the realization she panicked. She tried to kick and thrash again. He swore with no heed for her fair sex, then wrested her beneath him, his thighs taut about hers, his hand now a brutal clamp upon her mouth, and the length of him leaned low and close to her. She had no breath; she feared that she would faint. She could see his eyes flashing in the curious combination of the dying fire’s glow and the moonlight, and there was no love, and no humor, within them now.

  “Be still,” he warned her again, staring into her eyes, daring her to defy him. Slowly he moved his hand.

  “Get off me! I shall scream to high heaven!” she warned him.

  “Yes, that’s quite what I’m afraid of,” he told her. She gasped then, for she realized that he now had a knife in his hand. He had slipped it from a sheath at his calf while he spoke. He lay the blade low between the valley of her breasts. She inhaled raggedly, fought for courage, then stared into his eyes again.

  “You wouldn’t do it. You wouldn’t take a knife against an innocent woman.”

  “But you’re not an innocent woman,” he told her.

  He knew. He had seen her take the envelope. Fear rushed through her. “You would not slay me, I know it. And I will scream. I find you despicable! How dare you come in here. I will scream, and my father will see that you hang—”

  “Your father very well may wish to see me hang at some point, but I’d wager it would not be now. And what happened to the sweet apology you offered me earlier this very eve?” he demanded. “I warn you again, lady—” He paused, letting her feel the cold blade of the knife. “You shall be greatly distressed.”

  “You’ve broken into my room—into the governor’s palace!” She smiled suddenly, lifting her chin. He wouldn’t hurt her, and she knew it. She opened her mouth to scream, heedless of the consequences.

  His fingers slapped back over her mouth. The blade of the knife moved swiftly in seconds, and she discovered that although her flesh remained unharmed, her garment was in shreds, and her breasts were spilling free from the silk and lace bodice. “Lady, I will wrest you from this place stark naked if you are not silent, and that is a promise. I will parade you down the streets of Williamsburg, and there are enough people here to enjoy it, for Tories such as yourself are not gaining much popularity these days.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “Don’t ever tempt me too far. There are many things that I would like to do.”

  “You bas—” she began.

  “No, no, milady. You are forewarned. Take care.”

  “I’ll not—”

  “You will!” His hand clamped hard upon her again, but she gave it no heed. She wasn’t about to take care. She surged against him with all of her strength, seeking to kick him. She thrashed violently against him, flailing and twisting in a fury.

  Eric didn’t fight back. He just held her, letting her arch, writhe, and twist. Her efforts were almost amusing to him, she realized. He had only to maintain his grasp upon her wrists, and the power of his body hold did the rest.

  While she …

  She had managed only to wrest herself closely against him, leaving her legs as naked as her breasts.

  “Be still!” he warned again.

  Amanda fell silent, a blush scorching all of her flesh, for she was already half naked and he was studying her at his leisure. She tried to twist away from him, but his hold upon her wrists was firm. She went still at last, aware that the ruffles of his shirt hung down upon the bareness of her nipples and breasts, and that her position was precarious indeed. Always with him she was wrested and beaten, so it seemed. She moistened her lips, horrified to realize their position. She thought of his hands, should they move. Should they touch her. She thought of the feel of his lips upon hers, and she wondered what the sensation would be if they moved lower against her, brushing her shoulder blades, closing upon her breasts. She felt the hardness of his thighs against her hips, the pressure of his manhood against the near-naked territory at the apex of her thighs, and suddenly she was truly silent, no longer wishing to defy him, desperate only that he should move away from her.

  She shook her head. His fingers eased from her swollen lips. “I shall not scream! I shall not. I swear it.”

  He watched her for a long, hard moment. Then he sat back. She was still his prisoner, still captive between his muscular thighs.

  “What do you want?” she whispered.

  “Many things,” he told her casually, “but at the moment, I want my letter returned.”

  Amanda stiffened, then forced herself to relax, offering him a wide-eyed smile. “Why ever would you think—”

  “I don’t think, I know. And by God’s blood, lady, cease the dramatics with me, for though you do bat your lashes prettily, you are a liar and we both know it. I want my letter now. Or you shall forfeit something else.”

  She was seething with fury, hating him for his crude and quick ability to see through her. She gritted her teeth. “Truly, Lord Cameron, your behavior is not civilized!”

  “If it was civilized, I would not be here. I am pretending nothing, Amanda. I am no gentleman, and no fool, so do be warned and take heed for the future. I want my letter.”

  “I—I don’t have it anymore.”

  His fingers closed harshly upon her shoulders, wrenching her up against him with such violence that she cried out in pain. He thrust her back down again, heedless of the pain, his lips very near to hers as he spoke. “I may well lose my own neck over you one day, Lady Sterling, but I’ll not have other men endangered because of your treachery. Where is the envelope?”

  “I gave it to my father.”

  “You’re lying!” he snapped so quickly that she gasped and trembled and bit her lip in an effort to stay still. She had forgotten his knife. It lay against her cheek now. He stroked her face with it.

  “You would not use that,” she challenged him.

  “Perhaps not.” His eyes were very dark but glittering still in the night. “Perhaps I would use other means to reach my end.”

  She didn’t know what he meant, only that the warning was very real. She didn’t want to discover what lay beneath it. “It’s—it’s in the pocket of my gown.”

  If he was dying with desire for her, he certainly betrayed no emotion then. He was off her in a second, dragging her from the bed. His hat had fallen to the floor in their scuffle and now he swept it up atop his head. Stumbling, she tried to draw her gown together. She hurried to the wardrobe with him two steps behind her. She could barely open the door, and when she found the dress, he pushed her aside, reaching into the fashionable pocket hidden within the skirt. He found the envelope and thrust the dress back inside, and closed the door.

  “Why did you take it?”

  “Because—because you’re a traitor. And you have to get out of here. Now.”

  “Oh? And you intend to prove that I’m a traitor?”

  “No!” she cried with horror. “I just … I …”

  “Pray, do go on.”

  “You get out of here! Before I do choose to scream!”

  But he didn’t move. He was watching her very closely. She clasped the gown closely about her, backing away. Something about him was exceptionally fierce in the strange shadowland of the bedroom, and yet she no longer felt the explosion of anger about him. He stepped toward her, towering in his tricorn and cape.

  “Why didn’t you give this to your father?” he demanded.

  “I—I never had a chance.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “All right. I wanted to read it myself. But as you see, there is no letter. If fact … why are you here, if there is no letter?”

  He turned around, striding across the room to her bed. He sat on it, watching her carefully. “There is a name upon it,” he told her. She shivered, feeling the silver touch of his eyes, even in the shadows.

  “Frederic
k’s name. The printer from Boston. The Indian tea-ditcher, right?” She swallowed quickly, not liking his eyes as they fell upon her. “You’ve got the envelope. Now go.”

  He shook his head. “I haven’t quite decided what to do about you.”

  “About me?” she exclaimed. She tilted her head back, defying him.

  “You went through my personal belongings; you stole my property.”

  “If you’re not out of here in two seconds, I promise that I will scream until the entire British army is in here.”

  He leaned back more comfortably. “Nice lads. Some of them are my friends.” He shrugged, then rose up from the bed and approached her with slow, menacing steps. She was nearly against the door. She had nowhere else to run. And yet she had not managed to scream.

  “If you do scream,” he promised her softly, “I shall offer your father my gravest apologies, but I shall tell him that you seduced and coerced me to this room, and then I shall be broken-hearted, of course, wondering just how many men you have led astray.” He set a hand against the wall, his teeth flashing whitely as he smiled.

  Amanda stared at him, furious and appalled.

  “He knows I—”

  “Despise me? Ah, but Lady Sterling! You came after me this evening! With apologies sweeter than wine tripping off your fair tongue.”

  “Yet—” She broke off. Both were silent as they heard footsteps coming down the hallway outside.

  His knife flashed suddenly before her face. “Behave!” he warned her. “A word, and someone will die!”

  He turned and seemed to disappear. Amanda stared into the shadows after him, uncertain as to whether he had slipped out the window or perhaps into the dressing room beyond her own.

  There was a sharp pounding on her door. She stood behind it, her mouth dry. “Who is it?”

  “Your father. Open the door.”

  She hesitated, then threw open the door. She stayed there, blocking his entry to the room. “What is it?” she asked quietly.

  He pushed past her and went on in, lighting a candle with a wick from the fire, then looking about. He went over to her, staring at her intently. “I heard voices.”