Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  There was nothing that she could say to him, and in moments she did not remember that there were things that she wanted to say to him.

  He demanded that she love him; that night, she did.

  XI

  That Christmas season was one of the happiest times of Amanda’s life, or would have been, had the threat of what was to come not hung over them so surely. For the first few days of her husband’s return, Amanda waited anxiously for what would happen. But Virginia itself seemed quiet then.

  They stayed in Williamsburg long enough for a round of parties, many in celebration of Lord Dunmore’s newborn baby daughter. The Virginia Gazette wrote of the blessed event. Throughout the coffeehouses where the students were still preaching sedition, cups were still raised to the countess and her baby.

  Snow began to fall toward the end of the month, and that was when Eric determined that it was time to return home. Amanda was glad to go; she missed Cameron Hall.

  Their homecoming was wonderful. Amanda and Eric sat together in the coach, bundled beneath a blanket, while Pierre drove. Eric taught her a few of the bawdier tunes he had learned traveling with the western militia, and she blushed and laughed, accused him of making up things as he went along, and he assured her that he did not, and held her closer in the warmth of the blanket. All along the road the snow fell in soft, delicate flakes. The forests were frosted with it, the trees glistened, and when the snow had stopped falling, the sky was not wintry gray but crystal blue, and the sun melted the very top layer of snow to ice, and the world about them seemed to be a dazzling, crystal palace.

  At Cameron Hall they were greeted warmly by the servants. Danielle, who had gone ahead, stood beside Jacques Bisset on the steps as they arrived. Thom had come down with a silver welcoming tray full of wassail drinks, and Cassidy stood beside him, ready to serve. Margaret and the cook and several grooms stood by, and when Pierre opened the carriage door there was a cheer to greet them. Amanda drank deeply of the warm, sweet wine, and when it came time to face her husband at the table for their evening meal, her eyes were softly glazed, her lips curved, her manner most gentle and bemused.

  Watching his wife, Eric became sorely frightened, for it shook him to the bone to realize how much he loved her. So much about her had changed since they’d met. She laughed so easily, her emerald eyes bore for him the sparkle that he had once so envied when she cast it upon another man. This night she wore velvet, deep forest-green velvet, the fur-trimmed bodice falling very low off her shoulders and molding handsomely over her breasts. Delicate flame-deep curls curved in fascinating tendrils over the alabaster crescents of her breasts as they rose almost indecently high against the gown. She barely touched her food, but smiled throughout the evening. They ate by candlelight, and he noted things he might not notice otherwise. The crystal of the candle holders seemed to shimmer with greater colors, the silver of their goblets was dazzling, the white linen laid out upon the table was impeccable, soft as the snowdrifts that had followed them home. But nothing was more outstanding than the color of her eyes, nor the sweep of her lashes, nor the curve of her smile, the sound of her laughter. When they had finished with the meal he swept her from her chair, mindless of the green velvet dress, mindless of the servants who discreetly disappeared, and with drama and finesse he walked her up the stairs. And all the while her arms curled around his neck, her eyes met his with a fascinating radiance. When he came to their room he sat her down upon the fine bed they shared, and he knelt down before her, slipping off her black satin pumps. He looked up and saw something in her eyes that he had not caught before, as if the moon had cast strange shadows upon them, and in that moment he shuddered suddenly. She had married him under duress; they had never once exchanged words of love, though they whispered often and fervently enough of passion.

  She reached out, touching his face, a cry upon her lips. “What is it?” she whispered.

  He shook his head, searching out her eyes still, then setting his fingers upon the laces to her bodice. The sweet, fascinating scent of her rose to sweep around him like a haunting caress. Her breasts spilled forward and he rested his cheek against them, then found her eyes again. “I just wonder, lady, will you always be so gentle, so tender, with your love?”

  “Always!” she whispered, stroking his dark hair and holding him close to her.

  He rose with her, bearing her downward, velvet, fur, and all. The dress fell away from the perfection of her upper body and her hair streamed free and wild upon her nakedness. He pressed his lips to hers and wondered at the curious fever and fear that gripped him that night. “You have spun magic webs upon me, Amanda. Webs of silk and steel, so soft and yet so strong. With a word from your lips, I would long for death; for the brush of your fingers upon me, love, I would move mountains. Forever, lady, I am yours.”

  She returned his stare, curious at his whimsy, of which he was capable, but not so often given. He was customarily a man who took what he wanted, even when what he wanted was his wife. But this night the words played easily upon his lips, just as his fingers stroked her slowly, without the demand, without the solicitation. It was her eyes he delved now, raking and searching, and still the easy mist and magic of his words lay with them, and the soft mood that had come from the wassail drinks wrapped sweetly about her. She touched him and vowed to him, “I will love you sweet and tender always, my lord.”

  He stroked her cheek with his forefinger, tracing the pattern of her lips. “Betray not the heart, Amanda. Of all in life, that is the greatest sin.”

  She parted her lips to protest, but that was when she lost her easy lover, when he seized her with passion and demand. The words were lost to her as the mist swirled away and the startling reality of sensation touched and ravaged her. Through it all he was ruthless in what he would take from her, and yet he was also a tender lover. No hands more gentle could ever touch a woman, no fingers could stroke upon her or touch her most intimate secrets with greater sensitivity. No whispers more driving could caress her ears; no lips could touch the whole of her with greater thoroughness or greater determination to elicit and evoke sensation. They rode the wind, and the wind danced within them, bringing them to erotic peak upon peak, and in the end she was sated, sleeping upon crystal snowdrifts of the mind, cocooned in both beauty and warmth.

  In the morning Amanda discovered him at the small table within their room, sipping coffee as he read the latest issue of the Virginia Gazette. He was fully attired in plain clothing, navy breeches, a white cotton shirt with no lace or frills, a wool surcoat, and his high boots. His greatcoat lay over a chair by the door, and she knew that he meant to travel over his land. He would spend time with Jacques, and he would see each and every one of his tenants, and she knew that if any one of them was in need, he would see to it that they ate well for Christmas. The holiday was upon them; there would be a great party here for landowners and tenants and servants alike. It was tradition. He had told her about it earlier.

  He sensed that she was awake and he looked at her, smiling though his eyes were grave. Amanda smiled in return, rising, sweeping the sheet about her as she came to stand behind him. He swallowed more coffee, indicating an article. “Some of Dunmore’s navy men raided a warehouse on the coast. The Johnsboro warehouse. There were all manner of French weapons being stored there.”

  She was glad that she stood behind him. Her fingers clenched and she shivered painfully. Her eyes would have given her away, for they widened in fear and dismay. She could not speak.

  But her husband did not suspect her. He shook his head. “At least no one was killed or injured. No one knows where the guns came from—’tis an abandoned place. Thank God. I am sick to death of seeing men die.”

  He set his cup down and rose and kissed her absently. “I am off. Perhaps you would like to ride with us tomorrow.”

  She nodded, unable to find her voice. He was watching her again. “There is no reason that you should not, is there?” he asked her.

  “I—I don’t
know what you mean,” she managed to gasp.

  He looked her carefully up and down. “I mean,” he said softly, “there is no sign of a child for us as yet, is there?”

  “Oh!” Relief flooded through her. She shook her head, blushing. “No … no.”

  He kissed her again and turned away, picking up his civilian tricorn. Then he turned back with a wicked smile and he drew her into his arms, and kissed her with the fever and shockingly intimate surge and sizzle that had first taught her the stirrings of desire. Her knees went weak and her heart came to thunder against her ears, and fear and unease were gone. She fell against him, and when he raised his lips, she met his eyes with an emerald smile that was secure and dazzling … and ever tender.

  He smiled. “I am about to forget the day.”

  “There is always the night.”

  “There is nothing like the moment.”

  “My lord, how could I dare to argue with you?”

  He started to laugh, and she did not know where the breathlessness would lead, but there was a discreet tap on the door and Eric broke from her regretfully.

  The next day she did ride with him, plowing through the snow when they were inland, shivering against the breeze when they came upon the river. Winter was coming upon them full force, but despite the cold and the harshness, she enjoyed herself tremendously. She loved the tenant farms with their thatched roofs and wattle-and-daub walls, their central rooms with spinning wheels and hearths and kitchens all in one. They were, above all, homes of warmth and laughter, filled with the melody of the voices of children. Jacques accompanied them wherever they visited. Amanda found him more curious each time she saw him. He was so strikingly good-looking with his dark-fringed light eyes and fine features. Every bit the Frenchman in dress and manner, but an Acadian still, and wary of both the peoples who turned from him. He watched her too, she thought. But it did not distress her. It warmed her.

  Christmas came. Religious services were humbly observed, then it was time for the people to celebrate, and they all drew to Cameron Hall. There was mistletoe to dangle from the doorways, and the house was decorated with holly and wreaths and ribbons. Fires crackled brilliantly, musicians played the old European tunes and the livelier colonial music too. The lord and lady of the house took part in all the festivities. Amanda danced with the very prop Thom, with the round little cook, with a very shy and blushing groom. She was laughing, delighted to catch her husband’s approving eye across the room, when suddenly there was a pounding on the door. Eric, leaning against the bannister in the hallway, waved away Thom and Cassidy and started for the door himself. He opened it and stepped back, welcoming their new guests.

  “Well, well!” boomed her father’s voice. “Daughter!”

  Nigel Sterling walked into the room, Lord Hastings and Lord Tarryton, the Duke of Owenfield, with his new lady duchess following behind him.

  The music died, the servants ceased to shriek with laughter, and a curious quiet fell upon the room.

  “Hello, Father,” Amanda greeted him coolly. Her fingers were trembling. She could not forget that the weapons had been seized, that she was lying to the man with whom she had fallen in love. Dear God, why on this day! she prayed in silence, but he was already upon her, taking her hands, brushing her cheek with his cold kiss. Thom was quickly there to take coats and hats; she greeted Lord Hastings and Robert and his duchess, and quickly suggested that they retire to the dining room where there was still warm food and a blazing fire. She saw that Eric watched her, carefully, and she wondered at his thoughts.

  There was a scuffle as she led their new guests toward the dining room. Startled, Amanda twirled around. She was shocked to see Eric standing there with his arm locked about Jacques Bisset’s throat, holding him despite the fact that the muscled Frenchman was straining to break free. Eric smiled despite his determined fight. “Do go on, my love. I’ll be right with you.”

  “But, Eric—”

  “Our guests, Amanda.”

  Confused, she nevertheless hurried forward to escort their new guests to the dining room. As she closed the doors, she could see that Danielle had come over to talk swiftly to the man she had claimed as her brother. Amanda could not catch the words. With a sigh, she gave up. She turned about, facing those who had come. Her father watched her with his ever-calculating eyes; Lord Hastings with his ever-lecherous eyes; Robert with a startling lust; and Anne, the Duchess of Owenfield, with her soft brown doe’s eyes, ever frightened and timid.

  “Anne, you must have some of our Christmas grog!” Amanda said cheerfully. “And the rest of you must try this too. Father, I know you prefer your whiskey, but this is a wonderful concoction with a trace of whiskey in it.” She didn’t wait for a reply, but played the grand hostess, pouring from a silver decanter that sat atop a small pot of burning oil to keep the contents warm. She placed a stick of cinnamon in each drink. By then Eric had come into the room, looking only slightly worse for the curious tussle.

  “Welcome,” he said to the group, taking Anne’s hand in the best manner of the Virginia aristocrat. He kissed her fingers and smiled at the young woman—a trifle more gently than he smiled at her, Amanda thought, but then she realized that he was very sorry for the timid woman married to Robert. “Duchess, it is indeed a pleasure to have you here. I’m so sorry I missed your wedding. I understand it was quite the occasion of the decade.” His eyes sparkled. “Tell me, do I detect something special here already?”

  “Quite.” Robert had the grace to hold his wife’s shoulders and pull her against him. “We are expecting our first child.”

  “Oh! How wonderful!” Amanda said, raising her glass to the pair. “A toast to the two of you, and to a healthy, happy babe.”

  “Here, here!” Eric agreed, and he lifted his glass to the pair. “To a healthy, happy babe! Come, lady, be warmed by the fire.”

  Eric was wonderful with Anne, light and warm, making her feel very much at home. But the conversation did not stay light long; Nigel Sterling brought up the fact that Williamsburg was alive with gossip about the conclave that was already being planned. “The time is coming, and coming fast, when a man will have to make up his mind! He will either be the king’s servant or his enemy.”

  Eric waved a hand in the air, but Amanda noted that her husband’s eyes were glittering with tension. She knew to beware of him in such moods; she doubted if her father would see the danger or heed it. “Nigel, I have just recently returned from service at Dunmore’s request,” Eric stated. “I met the Indians upon our borders while politicians argued. Why do you tell me this?”

  “Because, sir, you should abhor these proceedings! You, with your strength and power and your influence, you should be out there fighting the hotheads, not joining them!”

  “Or leading them!” Robert suggested sharply.

  It was out—it was almost an accusation of treason.

  Amanda stood, bursting in between them. “I’ll not have it!” she announced, lifting her chin imperiously. “This is my house, and it is Christmas, and every man here shall behave with propriety for the occasion, or leave. This is not a tavern, and you’ll not act like it! Are we all understood? Nigel, you are my father, and as such you are welcome here, but not to reap discord!”

  There was silence for several long seconds. Amanda realized that Eric was looking at her and that his temper had faded. His eyes were glistening with laughter.

  “Amanda—” Sterling began.

  Eric rose. “You heard my wife. We’ve quite a traditional Christmas here and we are delighted to have you, but only in the Christmas spirit. Come along. We’ve excellent musicians, quite in the spirit of the holiday. Come, Lady Anne, ’tis a slow tune. If your husband will allow, I will gladly lead you gently to it.” The group returned to the party.

  Robert nodded distractedly. As soon as Eric had taken Anne to the dance floor, he swept his arms about Amanda. He held her too close. Trying to ignore him and the pressure of his arms, she danced focusing her attenti
on on the music and the movement of her feet. The fiddler was wonderful and the plaintive tunes of the instrument, joined by the soft strains of flute and harp, were haunting. Or they could be … if she did not feel Robert’s arms about her.

  “Marriage becomes you, Amanda. You are more beautiful than ever.”

  “Thank you. And congratulations. You are to be a father.”

  “No child yet, eh? Tell me, do you sleep with the bastard?”

  “With the greatest pleasure,” she replied sweetly. She felt his hands quicken upon her so that she was in pain; he nearly snapped her fingers.

  “You’re lying,” he told her.

  “No woman could find a more exciting lover.”

  “You have not forgiven me yet. But you love me still, and I can warn you now, the time is coming when you will run to me.”

  “Oh? Is it?”

  “The British soldiers will descend upon this town very soon, and men the likes of your husband will be burned in the wake.”

  She wanted to retort something horrible to him, but she did not have the chance. Her father touched his shoulder, and despite Robert’s irritated expression, he was forced to relinquish his hold upon her. She was no more pleased to be held by her father, but she had little choice.

  “You did good work, daughter,” he told her softly. Her heart leapt uneasily. “The arms were stashed where you said.”

  “Then we are even.”

  “There is no such thing as even. You will serve me when I demand that you do.”

  “You’re a fool, Father. It will not be so easy! Haven’t you begun to understand anything yet? There are arrest warrants abounding in Boston—and no one to see them carried out. The people are turning away from this mess that men like you are causing!”

  He smiled. “Don’t forget, daughter, that I do not make idle threats. When I need you again, you will obey me.”