Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  “No! You cannot make me—stop this instantly! One of the servants will hear us … will come … stop!”

  His hand landed forcefully upon her derrière. “I don’t give a pig’s arse if the servants do come, and perhaps I cannot force you to tell me why you prowl the streets. But while you do so, madame, I shall be doubly damned if I shall be cast from my own bedroom!”

  She pounded against his shoulder to no avail. A quick and vicious fight followed when they reached their chamber, but then his lips touched hers, and she remembered his words. Anger … it was so close to passion, so close to need. She wanted to keep fighting. She could not. The fire was lit, in moments it blazed. She never did betray her mission, nor did it matter. Despite all that soared between them, she lost something that night.

  By morning Eric was gone. He left a letter telling her that he was headed for the convention and that she was to go home. She would do so with little fuss, he suggested, because certain of the servants would see that she did so by her own power or theirs.

  The note was not signed “Your loving husband,” “Love, Eric,” or even “Eric.” Warning words were all that were given to her. “Behave, Madame, or else!”

  With a wretched cry she threw her pillow across the room and then she lay back, sobbing. All that she had discovered, she realized, was lost. Love had been born, it had flourished … and then it had foundered upon the rocky shores of revolution.

  Part III

  Liberty or Death

  XII

  St John’s Episcopal Church

  Across Shockoe Creek

  Outside Richmond, Virginia

  March 1775

  The debate had been endless, hot and heavy and passionate, and then, curiously, the delegates fell silent again. There was resistance, Eric thought, quietly watching the men around him, but something was taking form here today that was destined to cast the course of a nation.

  Richmond, the little town founded by Colonel William Byrd II in 1733, did not boast the fine accommodations of Williamsburg. There were not so many taverns, and certainly the inns were far less numerous, and far less elegant. Yet it seemed much better to be here, at the falls of the James River, than in Williamsburg, beneath the governor’s nose.

  The town itself hadn’t had a place large enough for the conclave to convene, so the delegates were meeting in the church. To the loyalists among the populace—who sensed the depth of the rebellion going on within hallowed halls —the fact that they met in the church made the assembly an obscene one.

  And despite the warnings of caution, Patrick Henry had the floor again, the West County giant, the rough but eloquent speaker who seemed to possess the ability to move mountains with the power of his words.

  “It is in vain, sir, to extenuate the matter. Gentlemen may cry Peace! Peace! But there is no peace. The war is actually begun. The next gale that sweeps from the north will bring to our ears the clash of resounding arms! Is life so dear, or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty, or give me death!”

  The tenor of his voice, the sound, the substance of words, rang and rang against the day, with startling, dizzying, almost blinding passion. Eric thought that men would leap to their feet, that they would scream and cry from the force of the emotion.

  But there was silence. Men appeared stunned by the boldness and the honesty of the words.

  Henry looked around the assembly, then sat.

  And still his words were met by silence as they seemed to echo and echo through the church. Then slowly a few delegates rose to oppose him, but then Richard Henry Lee was on his feet, speaking up for Henry’s resolution, and then Thomas Jefferson asked for recognition. Jefferson was a damned good writer but not much of an orator. Still, when he rose, and spoke for Patrick Henry’s resolves, a peculiar eloquence touched him. Tall, with his flaming red hair neatly queued, he gestured awkwardly, but still, his words, his manner, touched many men. Eric could feel it in his own heart; he could see it in other men’s eyes.

  When the gentlemen at last broke for the day, it was resolved that they would form committees.

  It was resolved that troops would be raised for Virginia’s defense.

  And it was known that within the next few days, the vote would be cast for the delegates to travel to Philadelphia a second time.

  Eric, leaving the church at Washington’s side, was quiet as he heard the words spoken by Patrick Henry repeated again and again. They were whispered at first, but then the whispers rose.

  Two years ago they would have all claimed his words treason. But now only the staunch loyalists thought so.

  “He shall go down in history,” Washington commented.

  Eric grinned as they carefully moved through the early-spring muck, heading for one of the local taverns.

  “I imagine he shall,” Eric agreed.

  Washington stopped suddenly, leaning against a tree that had just sprouted soft green leaves. He turned and looked at Eric intently. “It will be war, you know.”

  “Yes, I think it shall.”

  “What will you do?”

  Eric twisted his jaw, watching his own friend levelly. “I think, George, that over the years I have more than proven my loyalty to Virginia.”

  “Your loyalty is not in question. But you have grave interests. I’ve spoken with many dear friends who are planning to return to England. Fairfax and Sally … they are going soon. Many friends.”

  Eric nodded grimly. “I’ve spoken with a few cousins who are leaving. I’ve an appointment tonight with a distant Cameron relation. I’m selling him property I have in England and I’m buying up the land that he has bordering my own.”

  “You are lucky to be able to make such arrangements.” Washington watched him intently. “What of your wife?”

  Eric did not mean to stiffen so abruptly and so completely, and give away so much of himself. “I don’t know what you mean,” he said too quickly. Life had moved fast and furiously in the last few months. Momentous things were happening. He was caught in the wild winds of change, and he was eager to ride them. He had steered his mind from thoughts of Amanda by day, but she had haunted him every night, and along with the pain and the longing had come bitterness. He would never be able to trust her. What in God’s name had she been doing, running into the night? Meeting with an influential Tory—or with a lover? Or perhaps the lover and the Tory were one and the same. His anger at her had been so great he hadn’t dared to stay with her.

  She had lied about the child. She had known something about the death of Damien’s horse. She was betraying him with every breath she took.

  “What do you mean, ‘What of my wife’?” he queried coldly.

  “Eric, I’m your friend. It’s just that it is well known that Lady Cameron’s sympathies have not changed—”

  “She is suspected of something?” Eric asked flatly.

  “Eric, I do not try to offend you—”

  “George, you do not offend me. But Amanda is my wife. She will support me.”

  “But—”

  “Or else,” Eric said, squaring his jaw stubbornly. “I will take care of her.”

  “What if—”

  “I will take care of her, George. You’ve my solemn vow on that. If it becomes necessary, I will see that she is removed.”

  Washington looked at him, then sighed softly. “I pray, my friend, that you can. I for one could not. But come, let’s have a drink together, while we still can. I’ve a feeling that things that have so far crawled will take off with a mad gallop soon.”

  Twenty minutes later they were all within the tavern at a table, he and George, Richard Henry Lee, Patrick Henry, and a few others. An elderly gentleman, Pierre Dupree, from north of the Richmond area, had joined them. And yet, as the men drank and laughed and teased and tried to take harbor from the growing sense of tension they themselves were creating, Eric noted that Dupree
was watching him and paying little attention to the true firebrands who were the root of revolution.

  Dupree, white-haired, impeccably dressed in mustard breeches and crimson coat, could down his fair share of whiskey. As the others flagged and begged leave to retire for the night, Dupree remained. Finally Washington rose, and all that remained in the dimly lit place at the table were Eric—and Dupree.

  “Well, my young ami,” Dupree murmured, “perhaps another drink?”

  The candle burned low upon their table. Slumped back in his chair, Eric grinned, feeling lighter than he had for some time. “Monsieur Dupree, you have studied me so seriously. You have waited for so long. Why?”

  The old man offered him a Gaelic shrug. “Curious, monsieur. And with no right to be so.”

  “Curious?” Surprised, Eric raised his pewter tankard and downed a long swallow of whiskey. “I admit to being baffled, monsieur. Tell me, what is it you wish to know?”

  “I don’t wish to offend you.”

  Eric smiled. “Don’t offend me, sir, merely speak.”

  Dupree inhaled deeply. “Perhaps I can be of service to you, and that is what really draws me.”

  “Then I am grateful. Please, tell me what this is all about.”

  Dupree plunged in then, quickly and somberly, his words so soft that they did not carry in the empty room. “I understand that Amanda Sterling is now Lady Cameron.”

  Eric’s reaction was instantaneous. Again he felt the stiffening of his muscles, the razor pain that touched him. The loneliness, the bitterness. He wanted his wife. He wanted her with him, beneath him, crying out softly in hunger and need. He wanted to strike her and walk away from her.

  “She is my wife.” He did not realize that his eyes had narrowed darkly, that any semblance of a smile had fled his features, that his words came out in a growl. “If you’ve something to say, then do so, for I tire and I lose my patience quickly!”

  “It is a delicate matter—”

  “Delicate be damned. If you would speak, do so. If not, leave me in peace!”

  “There is a story—”

  “Then tell it!”

  Dupree had hesitated, but the man was no coward. He did not balk at Eric’s anger, but plunged in quickly. “Years and years ago I knew her mother.”

  “My wife’s mother?”

  “Yes. She was beautiful. So beautiful. Light and elegant, with the sun in her eyes, in her words, in her every movement. She was passion, she was energy, she was vitality! Remembering her gives me back my youth. She was so alive.”

  Like Amanda, Eric thought. Always the flames in her eyes, the heat in her soul, the passion for life itself.

  “Go on.” Again, the short words came as a growl.

  Pierre Dupree moved closer. “I came to Williamsburg often in those days. I was a Frenchman born on Virginia soil, loyal to the King of England. But when I knew that Acadians were arriving in Williamsburg, desperate for homes, I had to come. I had to help those men who spoke my language. You understand?”

  Eric merely nodded. Dupree went on. “I was Lenore’s friend. She trusted me. She—she came to me for advice.”

  “About what?” Eric demanded.

  “Well, she was kindness itself, you must remember. She saw the suffering; she saw the loss and confusion of the people. When the ships came laden with the exiled Acadians, Lenore demanded that her husband take some of them on. Perhaps it was not so great a kindness. I’m assuming you know Nigel Sterling.”

  Again Eric nodded gravely, saying nothing, giving nothing. Dupree did not need his approval. He continued. “She never should have married him. Never. Sterling was always everything pompous and cruel in a man, despite his property, despite his title, despite his claim to wealth. He coveted glory, and greater titles, at the expense of all else. He did not deserve a woman like Lenore.”

  “Pray, sir! The good woman is long dead and buried. And freed from Nigel Sterling. So of what do you prattle?”

  “She came to me, sir, because she was going to bear a child. A child who did not belong to Nigel Sterling, but to a handsome young Frenchman. To an Acadian, that is, sir. To the man Sterling had taken on as hired help.”

  Eric inhaled sharply, watching the man ever more intently.

  Dupree saw that his words had sunk home. “She was in love. Deeply in love. Oh, it is easy to imagine. There was Sterling, hard, unbending—cruel. And there was the handsome Frenchman with light eyes and ebony hair and the kindest touch upon her! He loved her, I am certain. Who could not love Lenore? And yet when she came to me, I saw nothing of love and everything of scandal. I told her that she must not sin again, that she must give Sterling the child as his very own son or daughter, that for her sake—and for the very life of her lover!—she must never let Sterling know.” He sighed, shaking his head. “I was so very wrong! She should have fled with the Frenchman, she should have run to New Orleans with him. She might have found happiness. Instead …”

  “Instead! What the hell happened, Dupree? Damn you, man, finish this thing now that you have started!”

  “I know nothing for fact,” Dupree said regretfully, looking into his whiskey. “All I know is what was whispered of the Acadians. Sterling discovered her. He damned her, he fought with her. She tumbled down the stairway and was delivered too soon of her daughter. And as she lay abed, dying, bleeding to death, he swore to her that he would kill her lover. And he promised her that he would use her daughter and see that she paid for every sin her mother had ever committed. And when Lenore lay dead at last, he found the young Frenchman and beat him to death and buried him in some unmarked grave.”

  “My God,” Eric breathed at last. He didn’t want to believe the man’s words. The accusations were too horrid.

  But he could not disbelieve him. He had seen Nigel Sterling with his daughter. He had seen how he had treated her.

  Did that mean that he had committed murder, though? Would he sink so very low?

  His heart lurched suddenly, seeming to tear, to split as-sunder. God! He wanted to believe in her. He wanted to love her, to give her everything. What hold did Sterling have upon her?

  He wanted her. He wanted her then to hold and cradle and keep and assure. He wanted to make certain that no one could hurt her again. That Nigel Sterling could never again reach her.

  He jolted up suddenly, thinking of his own man, Jacques Bisset.

  Jacques—who had seen Nigel and who had flown into a raving fury, determined to kill the man.…

  Jacques, who had been found when Eric had been just a boy. Found on the roadside, barely alive, unconscious, barely breathing. Jacques, who had never known who he was, or from where he had come. All that he had known was that he was a Frenchman. Striking, with laughing dark eyes, fine features, full, sensual lips …

  “Her father.”

  “Your pardon, my lord?”

  Eric shook his head vehemently. “Nothing—”

  Suddenly Dupree’s light eyes clouded over and he looked very grave. “Lord Cameron! You must not believe that you have been tricked or defrauded! No one knows of this … oh, I am so distressed now. I had not realized that you might now despise your wife for being the love child of her mother and not the legitimate issue of Lord Sterling. Oh, please, you mustn’t despise her for this—”

  “I assure you, sir, that I will never despise her for this.” He might be furious with her for any number of other reasons, but for being Jacques’s daughter rather than Sterling’s, he could only applaud her.

  “Sir! I brought you this secret because I owed the girl’s mother. I have been plagued with guilt for years; I have worried about la belle jeune fille, and I beseech you—”

  “And I assure you, Monsieur Dupree, that your secret about my wife’s birth shall remain my secret now. I do ask your permission, though, to tell the truth to Amanda, if I ever feel that it will be to her benefit to know.”

  “Tell a lady that she is a love child? I cannot see where this would please one raised as she!”r />
  “Bastard, actually,” Eric suggested with a trace of humor. “Still, Monsieur Dupree, the news might please her. At some later date. If that time comes …?”

  Dupree lifted his hands in a typical French gesture. “She is your wife, Lord Cameron. You must know her very well.”

  Not half as well as I would like, Eric thought. “Thank you, merci,” he said aloud. Dupree rose then and left him at the round oak table. Eric downed the rest of his whiskey and sat there as the candle died, pensively watching the dying flicker of the flame.

  Then he rose quickly, called for writing materials, and set about carefully to write to his wife.

  He had not forgiven her; he did not know if he could. But he loved her, and he wanted her. Jacques and the servants had been keeping a steady eye upon her, but she was his responsibility. His temper had somewhat cooled. It was time to see her again.

  He never knew quite what she would do.

  The convention ended on March 27; Eric had returned to Williamsburg, where he had bade Amanda to meet him.

  He did not go immediately to his town house, but stopped by the Raleigh for ale to cool his parched throat—and for a hot bath out in the privacy of one of the storerooms with only a lad who couldn’t begin to comprehend Eric’s determination to totally immerse himself more than necessary. He could have gone home and enjoyed bathing in far more luxury, but didn’t want to greet Amanda with the dust and mud of travel upon him. There was too much between them now, far too great a gulf. And he was far too eager to see her.

  “Damn her!” he muttered aloud, through the steaming bath cloth that lay over his face.

  “Your pardon, my lord?” the serving boy said with confusion.

  He laughed softly, a dry sound, and removed the cloth. He grinned to the boy. “Nothing, lad. Just take your time before you marry, son, and even then, take more time!”