Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  Lord Cameron led them on up the wide and graceful stairway. At the landing they came upon a portrait gallery. Amanda found herself stopping before the first portrait, startled. A dark-haired man in seventeenth-century dress stared out at her with Eric Cameron’s silver-blue eyes. Beside him was the portrait of a beautiful blond woman with crystal eyes.

  “Jamie and Jasmine,” Lord Cameron told her. “Rumor has it that she was a tavern wench, but he was so enamored of her that he would have her no matter what her birth.”

  Amanda stared at him and flushed, feeling the piercing power of his eyes. “Are all Cameron men so determined?”

  “Yes,” he said flatly. “Ah, here, Jamie’s grandson, another Jamie. And his Gwendolyn. They sheltered numerous Roundheads when Cromwell ruled and King Charles the First lay headless in his grave. Virginia has always been a loyalist colony.”

  “So what has happened?” Amanda asked him.

  “Time changes eternally, Lady Sterling. Seeds, once sown, often flourish, and the seed of liberty has fallen here.”

  “So you are a traitor.”

  “What words, lady! I am about to travel with Lord Dunmore to face the West County savages! What traitorous work is that?”

  She smiled serenely, and he laughed huskily. “Alas, I can imagine your very thoughts. You see a Shawnee hatchet riding high upon my temple. Mam’selle, that you could be so cruel!”

  He mocked her, she knew, but his fingers felt like steel about her own, tense and powerful. He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. Just the very light brush of the hot moisture of his lips made her blood seem to sizzle and flow, her knees grow weak. A flush came to her features because she knew that he evoked forbidden things within her, and it should not be. And still she stood, captured in a curious hold as he turned her hand, touching his kiss against her palm. A pulse leapt through her. His eyes rose to hers and she felt suddenly dizzy. “Please …” she whispered, dismayed by the note of desperation in her voice.

  He let go of her hand and moved down the gallery to another portrait. He was, she thought, well versed in this game they were playing. He was making the rules. She could not allow him to do so. “Here, my lady! This is a favorite portrait of mine. Petroc Cameron, and here, his wife. Roc was rumored to be a pirate, and to have captured and seduced his own bride.”

  “A Cameron tradition?” Amanda inquired pleasantly.

  He paused, looking into her eyes. “He pirated for the Crown.”

  “So ’tis rumored.”

  “He was my grandfather, and he raised me, for my father was killed fighting the French. I know the truth about him and his beloved, for I heard it from their very lips. They aged in beauty and in love, and never seemed to change to one another. He was the pirate; I daresay that she did the taming. But they taught me much of the true values in life, and I am grateful.”

  He turned away from her, walking on with Danielle at his heels. Amanda paused, suddenly aching. She’d never known what it was like to watch someone age with love, to learn any of life’s true values. She’d known coldness, betrayal, and brutality.

  She looked again at the portraits, and wished that these people had been her own family. She wanted this background, she wanted the very beautiful people to look down upon her, with love.

  Amanda trembled and feared that she would cry. It was so very senseless. She was there to escape her father. Bless the warring Shawnees, they would take Lord Cameron away, and she would have peace.

  “Milady?”

  He was politely waiting for her now.

  She hurried along. He threw open a door on the southern side of the passage. She stepped into a huge room with a mahogany sleigh bed and Persian carpets on the polished wood floor. Huge grand windows opened to a river view, and there was a massive fireplace to warm one, a fine carved table with two elegant French brocade chairs to face the windows. It was a room fit for a princess, finer than the governor’s room at the palace.

  “Will this suffice?” he asked her.

  She nodded, then lowered her head. He had turned to speak with Danielle. “Mam’selle, you are just down the hall, there.”

  The open door awaited her and Danielle smiled, thanked him, and hurried forward with delight. Amanda still had her head down but she could feel him near her, the very crisp clean fabric of his clothing, the pleasant scent of good tobacco and brandy and leather, and something subtle, something with which he apparently bathed. And there was his own scent, vibrantly masculine. She moistened her lips and turned to him. He was watching her, his hands folded behind his back, his eyes unreadable.

  “Where is your room, Lord Cameron?” she asked him.

  He arched a brow politely, then smiled. “Through the wardrobe, Lady Sterling.” He watched with amusement as she paled, then added, “You have a key, of course.”

  “Of—course.”

  “But then, one wonders why you are so interested. Are you concerned about my whereabouts, or my belongings?”

  “I’m not concerned—”

  “You are, so please, spare us both, and quit lying. Search to your heart’s content, but take care. If I find you too close to my bed, I might be tempted to believe that you wish to lie upon it. Pride, my love, dies hard.”

  “I imagine, for yours is monstrously large.”

  “Perhaps with just cause.”

  “You do flatter yourself.”

  “Do I? I think not. I do believe that I know you better than you know yourself, and therefore I am at an advantage.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he gave her no chance. He bowed and turned away, then paused at the door.

  “Richard will come to escort you to tea. You’ll need to meet Cassidy, my valet, and let’s see, Margaret will furnish you and Danielle with anything you need. From then on, milady, you shall be on your own. And, my lovely little spy, it will be quite fascinating to see where your—delicate—steps do lead you.”

  “Never too close!” she called after him. “Never so close as to be …”

  “Caught?” he inquired pleasantly. His eyes leisurely drifted to her, and he smiled. “You are in check already.”

  “I do not concede the game!”

  “Ah, trust me. You will.”

  He turned then and was gone.

  VIII

  Amanda did not take long to inspect her room, though a high excitement had risen in her, just being there. She loved the gracious manor, the view of the river beyond her windows, the exquisite sense of freedom. She didn’t understand it. She was there under false pretenses, playing a dangerous game with a dangerous man. But she was far away from Nigel Sterling, and at the moment that seemed enough.

  A pitcher had been filled with clean fresh water and a bowl and towel and sponge had been left for her arrival. She washed quickly, smoothed her hair with the silver-handled brush upon the dressing table, and quickly turned for the door. She hesitated just a moment. There was a door at the far rear of the room. She couldn’t resist it.

  A key was set within the lock. She had the ability to lock him out of the room. She smiled and then twisted the key. Then she pushed open the door and entered his room.

  Here, too, long windows looked out on the sloping lawn and down to the river and the docks and warehouses. The sun streamed in beautifully, the river breeze lifted the light curtains under their heavier velvet backers. His bed seemed huge; it was four-postered, and hewn of a wood as dark as the man. But the room was not at all dark. It was exceptionally large and, though masculine by nature, it also had a sweeping elegance, as if it would welcome the partnership of a woman. The mantel was large also, with fine molded woodwork. Candles in elegant silver holders awaited the fall of night as did beautiful glass lamps. A small cherrywood table sat before the windows, catching the fall of the sun. A large braided rug added warmth to the polished wood floor, and the armoires and dressing tables that rimmed the walls were even finer than the furnishings she had seen in his Williamsburg town house. There also seemed to be a sc
ent on the air. A scent of fine Virginia tobacco, rich leather, and a touch of men’s cologne. It was a haunting scent, arresting.

  Like the man.

  Amanda felt color rise to her cheeks and she quickly exited the room, forgetting that she was supposed to be a spy of sorts and that spies do not flush and retreat when they fall upon the very core of their search. Still, she hurried into her own room and closed the connecting door between the rooms, breathing deeply. Irritation rose high within her. Her father was such a fool! Damn his fascination with Cameron. What man these days did not wonder what the next years would bring? But, of course, it was true, she knew. Cameron was in sympathy with the rogues, saving the fellow in Boston, meeting with the burgesses in the Apollo Room at the Raleigh Tavern. But she had heard that Colonel Washington himself had been dismayed at the events in Boston, saying that the destruction of property could not be justified. But even with the House dissolved Washington was still engaged in meetings, and he had been elected to attend the Continental Congress. And Lord Fairfax, loyalist to the core, called Washington a great man, a pride of the Crown. Life was in a whirlwind. Nothing was as simple as black and white anymore.

  She pushed away from the door, wondering if she was trying to excuse Eric Cameron within her own mind. She told herself that it could not be true, yet she was suddenly running away from herself and toward her next meeting with the man.

  She did literally run, past the pictures in the wide gallery and to the sweeping stairway. Once she reached the upper bannister she paused, for a man was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. He was as tall as Cameron and so black as to be ebony. He stood as straight as an arrow, and he was dressed in a handsome uniform that enhanced his startling color. He was regal, she thought, and wondered that such a word could come to her in reference to a slave.

  She struggled for breath as he bowed deeply. “Lady Sterling, I am Cassidy, Lord Cameron’s valet. I shall take you to him now, and if ever I can be of assistance, you must let me know.”

  Amanda nodded, startled by the man’s exquisite speech. She held herself with dignity as she descended the stairs. He said no more but walked along the large main hall until he came to a set of double doors. He opened them and moved discreetly to the side. “Lady Sterling, Lord Cameron.”

  Amanda entered the handsome parlor. Eric was waiting for her by the mantel, this one made of fine smoke-gray marble. Persian rugs lay scattered over the floorboards, the walls were covered in a fine silk cloth, and there were deep window seats toward the rear of the room. A tea cart with a silver server and delicate porcelain cups was parked before a richly upholstered French sofa.

  “Do sit down, Amanda,” he welcomed her, nodding to the black man. “I see you’ve met Cassidy.”

  “Yes,” Amanda said, nervously taking a seat near the edge of the sofa. She smiled at Cassidy. He reminded her of his master. He appeared to be exceptionally strong, a man who could be of great value in the fields. Her father would never have had him as a house servant.

  Cassidy bowed deeply and left them.

  Amanda turned back to Eric to find that he was studying her intently, his silver-blue eyes brooding. She wondered if she hadn’t been a fool to come. She loved the house, she loved the excitement, she loved the freedom. But she didn’t know at all what she felt for the man anymore. He tempted her like the original sin of Eden, and that temptation burned into her, for her father’s words were never far away. She could not believe that her beautiful mother had been a whore, but when Eric Cameron came near her, she was forced to wonder at the blood that simmered within her.

  “So that is Cassidy,” she murmured. “He looks more like a prince than a house slave.”

  “I believe he would have stood in line to be a Nubian prince. And he is not a slave. He earned his freedom. He remains with me by choice, and earns wages.”

  “How … interesting,” she murmured. She had difficulty meeting his gaze so she lowered her eyes quickly, wondering what he read within them. “So this is berry tea, milord? How intriguing.”

  “No. It is horrible. But one gets used to it.”

  “Shall I pour?”

  “Please do.”

  Her hands were shaking. She gritted her teeth and willed her fingers to cease their trembling. She lowered her head to her task, but when the curious berry tea was within a cup, she almost cried out, for when she raised her lashes he was before her, hunched down upon the balls of his feet and looking at her. He wasn’t a foot away. She hadn’t heard him move, hadn’t realized he was so near.

  His teacup clattered within its saucer. She swallowed, noting his remarkable eyes and the pulse that beat a wicked rhythm against his throat.

  “You startled me.” She gasped.

  He rescued his cup, setting it down, his eyes never leaving hers.

  “Marry me,” he told her.

  “I cannot!” she whispered desperately.

  He caught her hands and came up beside her on the sofa. A rueful smile curled his lip even as the tension remained in his eyes. “There is no reason that you cannot. There is every reason that you should.”

  “I do not love you!”

  “Ah, so you are still in love with that fop.”

  “Fop! Robert Tarryton—”

  “Is a fop, by God’s body, I swear it. Still, no man but Robert Tarryton will ever convince you of that. He is due to wed within the week. And your father is a dangerous man.”

  “My father!” She flushed, fully aware that he was telling the truth and fully aware of him as he sat beside her. She had never felt more alive, she thought, more attuned to every fiber of feeling within herself. Her flesh burned with greater sensitivity, her heart beat as if it were touched. She was drawn … she frightened. His very passion on her behalf could well stand against her. He excited her beyond reason, he scared her to the depths of her soul. A pact with him would be like a pact with the very devil.

  She shook her head, losing both breath and reason. She didn’t want tea or sustenance of any kind. She discovered that she was fascinated only with the long dark fingers that curled over hers. His thumb brushed again and again over her flesh, stirring strange fires and causing truth and wisdom to sweep away.

  “Your father will not let you play this game long, though I am not certain of what game he plays himself. If you do not set a date to wed me, he will seek another for you. There was talk, you are aware, of betrothing you to Lord Hastings, a man almost thrice your age and—I’ve got it from very reputable sources—a man who snores with the vehemence of the west wind.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh at Eric’s bold description of the man. He moved closer to her, drawing a finger provocatively over her cheek, then defining the breadth of her lower lip with the same sensual touch, his eyes following his movement. “I am not as young as Tarryton, and I admit to a scar or two upon my back and at my side, but I swear that my teeth are all mine and quite good, I’ve kept to one chin, and I do bathe with frequency. I am wealthy, landed, and I come with this house, a stable full of horses, and fields full of tobacco and grain. Marry me. And—I have it from very reputable sources—I do not snore.” She laughed again, but his eyes grew darker as they seemed to possess her own. “I promise to be an excellent lover.”

  “Oh!” She gasped, but laughter still mingled with her indignity. He had broken into her very bedroom and forced her down upon her bed. What brazen words he offered now could not cause her more outrage. “You, sir, are the most egotistical man I have ever met! Tell me, sir, does that piece of information come from reputable sources too?”

  “I’m sure I can arrange for references, milady, should you require them.”

  “Lady Geneva?” she inquired sharply.

  “I do believe you’re jealous. Marry me,” he insisted. “And do so quickly. Before I leave. Then, if the Shawnee split my head, you shall have safety and peace.”

  “I cannot marry you so fast—”

  “Ah! You will consider it then.”

  Sh
e couldn’t help smiling again. The world faded away when he was before her so vehemently, so adamantly. And she did feel safe. As if no man—not even her father—would dare to come against her. “You’re forgetting something.”

  “What?”

  “I am a loyalist. That is not my father’s voice, nor Lord Dunmore’s, but my own. I fear the radicals and what is to come. And you, sir, are a patriot.”

  “You are welcome to be a loyalist.”

  “And your wife?”

  “Yes. You may follow your convictions, just so long as you take no steps to betray me.”

  Amanda inhaled sharply. How could she make such a promise when she had been cast into his arms for that very purpose? She looked down to where his hands lay over hers. His palms were rough from work he must have chosen to take on himself. Perhaps they were a soldier’s hands, roughened by his hold upon his horse’s reins. She didn’t know. She only knew that the roughness against the soft flesh of her hand was somehow good. She drew her eyes back to his, and she was suddenly very frightened, and not so much of the man as by the depths of the feelings that stirred within her. If he kissed her now, she would want to explore that touch.

  Like a whore … like the whore her father claimed her to be. Her mother’s daughter.

  Some darkness must have fallen over her eyes for Eric frowned, watching her. “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing. Nothing!” she cried. She leapt to her feet, shaking her head. “I can’t marry you. I can’t. We—we’re on different sides. It’s impossible. If you want me to leave—”

  “Leave!” He stood, watching the sudden torment that constricted her features. “Leave?” He smiled slowly. “Why, of course not. I should not want to cast you to Lord Hastings with his four-score chins. My God, what a travesty that would be!”

  Amanda almost smiled; she could not. She turned around and fled the room, to race up the stairs. She entered her room. Her trunks had arrived, and a servant would come to hang her clothing on the hooks in the armoire and to set her hose and undergarments into the drawers of the dresser. But no one was there now. Night had come. A fire had been lit in the hearth to burn away the dampness. The windows were open to the river. She walked toward them and looked out on the night. Slowly her heart ceased to beat its rampant rhythm. As she stared at the James, a sense of peace settled over her. She was safe here. Eric Cameron might taunt and tease her and discard propriety, break into the governor’s palace and perhaps even manhandle her. But he would never force her to do anything against her own will. He would not strike her in anger, and he would not use her for his own cause. It was almost like being loved. She smiled to the night, then changed into a cool cotton nightgown. So mellow had she become that she dropped her stockings, garters, shoes, corset, shift, and gown upon the floor with no thought and curled into the comfortable bed to sleep. She did not dream, and she did not hear the knocking upon her door later when Danielle came to see if she would have supper.