Love Not a Rebel

by Heather Graham

  “No!”

  “Yes,” Damien said softly. “I told her. I told her while we lay in bed. The bloody whore!” he exclaimed.

  Geneva spat at Damien. He cracked her furiously across the cheek with his open palm. Screaming, she cowered on the floor. “Eric, make him stop—”

  “What do we do with her, Eric?” Damien asked, his jaw still twisted savagely, his fingers knotting into fists. “God forgive me, and Eric, would that you could forgive me too! The grief that this woman has caused us all with her treachery, and the fool that I was to believe in her!”

  Eric caught hold of Geneva’s wrists and dragged her back to her feet. “How many men has Tarryton got with him?”

  “Twenty thousand,” she said defiantly.

  He smiled. “Lie like that again, Geneva, and I will give you far greater injury than Damien has managed thus far. In fact …”

  He paused, smiling at Damien. “Did you ever realize just how vain our dear Lady Geneva is? Her face is her life. Jacques—I know that this will give you great pleasure. Bring the fire poker. We wouldn’t be so heathen as to threaten the lady’s life—just her beauty.”

  Geneva’s eyes grew wide with disbelief. Damien grabbed her shoulders, turning her toward Jacques. The tall Acadian approached her smiling, the poker in his hand, the end of it burning red from its recent thrust into the fire. He drew it closer and closer to her cheek, just below her eyes. She fought Damien’s hold furiously. “Eric, you’re bluffing! I know that you are bluffing! You will not—” She broke off, screaming, as the heat nearly singed her lashes. “You would not do this!” she cried.

  “Well, not usually, no,” Eric agreed. “But I love my wife, Geneva, and by heaven and hell, I will have the truth from you now to get her back!”

  The poker moved closer. “All right! All right!” Geneva cried out. “They’ve barely a hundred. General Howe is enjoying his winter in Philadelphia, there are countless balls and teas and he is living quite well. This was Sterling’s idea. He wants you—and Robert wants Amanda. They’ve taken Robert’s company and no more. They knew that you would run recklessly to her aid, and they would take whoever accompanied you, a minor coup. Yet a major blow to the Americans and a warning to would-be patriots when the noble Lord Cameron was hanged!”

  Eric ignored her biting sarcasm. “What is he planning? Where does he have my wife?”

  “There’s … there’s a house. Ten miles from here. It’s surrounded by pines. I was supposed to bring you to the pines. The British cavalry were to take you there.”

  “Jacques, take her to General Washington. He must decide her fate. Damien, call Frederick, have him rouse company A of my Virginia troops. Then come back, and I’ll explain my plan.”

  “Company A!” Geneva laughed. “You’re talking about twenty men. They’ll all die, you fool.”

  “Dear Geneva, I did not ask for your opinion! Jacques, for the love of God, get her out of here!”

  He wondered if he should have spoken. Jacques wrenched hard on her arm, practically throwing her out into the snow. He heard Geneva exclaim in pain and outrage, but then she was silent, and he was certain that she dared speak no more. She couldn’t understand Jacques’s absolute fury; she was only aware that the Acadian would just as soon kill her as look at her.

  “I caused it, Eric. I caused it all,” Damien said, ashamed. “Can you forgive me?”

  “I was the one who was blind,” Eric said harshly. “I refused to see until it was too late. Let’s get Amanda back. That is all that matters.”

  “They won’t hang her, I don’t believe that they’ll hurt her. Although Tarryton …” Damien’s voice trailed away. They both knew what Tarryton would do.

  “I’ve always risked the hangman’s noose,” Eric reminded him. “And she is my life. Without her, not even the future has meaning. Now listen, I think I know how to do this without losing a single man.”

  To Amanda, the house seemed almost obscenely elegant after the time she’d spent in the wretched hovels at Valley Forge. The fireplace was marble, the ceilings were elegantly molded, and the walls were covered with handsome leather. A rich carpet covered highly polished floorboards, and she sat in a plush wingback chair, a snifter of brandy in her fingers.

  Night was coming. Shadows fell upon the snow beyond the windows. Amanda’s fingers curved so tightly around her glass that the fragile stem nearly broke.

  Robert Tarryton was returning. She heard his footsteps on the floorboards outside the door.

  He threw the door open and swaggered in, pausing at the desk to pour himself a shot of whiskey. He smiled pleasantly to her as he took a seat on the edge of it. “I’m so sorry to have neglected you.”

  Amanda ignored him, staring out the window. How long would it have taken Geneva to have ridden back? How long until Eric came riding for her? Any time now. He would come at any time. And he would be either shot down by the troops surrounding the house, or captured to swing from the rope already tossed over a tree out back. The rope had been the first torture Robert had used against her. He had dragged her out back and rubbed it against her cheek, and he had told her what happened to a man’s body functions when the rope tightens about his throat.

  Then he brought her here, thrust her into the chair, and left her to arrange his murderous trap. She hadn’t been alone long. Her father had appeared to offer her brandy. He had assured her that he would listen to delight to every one of her screams when Tarryton returned. “With pleasure, with delight! I had imagined that you would have suffered with Cameron. I intended that you should, but then, like a fool, you fell in love with the bastard. It doesn’t matter. You will suffer now.”

  “Why!” she had demanded furiously. “Why? What in God’s name did I ever do to you?”

  “You were born, girl. Born of a whore whom I will never forget. This is my revenge. I pray that there is a god, and that there is an afterlife, so that she can look down and see you suffer!”

  Then Sterling had left her too. When she had tried to escape through the window, she had discovered it nailed shut. And beyond it walked a sentry, watching her every move.

  Now Robert moved across the room, glancing out the window. He ran his hand over the handsome mahogany of the window seat. “They’ll have him any minute. They’ll have your husband any minute now. I’ve ordered that he should be brought here first. I want him to see you before he dies.”

  “You cannot just hang him so! You must have a trial. You—”

  “Want to bargain for his life, Amanda?”

  She caught her breath, afraid to hear more, desperate to do so. “You haven’t got him yet.”

  “Ah, but I will.” He left the window and walked toward her, smiling as she shrank back in the chair. He grabbed hold of her bodice and wrenched it, tearing fabric. She caught his hand, screaming, clawing at his flesh. He drew her up, laughing as her gown gaped open, laughing still as she wildly clawed for his face. Her nails gouged him and the laughter left his face. “When I have him, bitch, he’s going to suffer a long, long time before he dies. I can have the rope set so that he dangles and dangles and slowly chokes to death!” He caught hold of her hands, forcing her back toward the fire, nearly snapping her fingers with the force of his hold. When he pressed her against the wall he smiled again. “Nice house, eh? Of course, your Continentals had pretty well stripped it of food and supplies before we came. Seems the owners must have deserted some time ago. You should see the bedroom. There are silk sheets on a huge bed with the softest mattress you’ve ever touched. You’re used to luxury, though. That’s why I thought maybe it should be right here. On the floor, against the wall. You shouldn’t be taken in luxury like a lover—no, because you turned on me. You teased and taunted and beckoned—and then you turned on me. So I’m going to have you like a whore. Just like a whore. Right here, and right in front of your husband.”

  She screamed, twisting her face, praying for death as he reached into her torn bodice and wrapped her fingers around her breast. �
��I’m going to do this right in front of him—”

  Tarryton broke off at a knock on the door. He did not take his hands off of Amanda but called sharply, “Come in!”

  She tried to fight him again, kicking, twisting, shoving. But then the fight left her, and she went numb with fear and horror.

  Two men with hats low upon their brows dragged Eric into the room. His shirt was bloodied, his hat was gone, his frock coat torn from him. He stood before her, tall and defiant, his eyes deadly, his arms locked behind his back by the men who held him.

  “Eric! Welcome!” Robert said. “I was just talking with your wife. No, let’s be honest here, we’re among old friends. I was just enjoying your wife.”

  Eric swore violently.

  “You’re going to hang, Cameron. Within seconds. You’re going to hang, and I’m going to watch you, and I’m going to make Mandy watch too.”

  “You’re a dead man, Tarryton.”

  “No, sir. You’re a dead man.”

  “No!” Amanda cried out. She looked from Eric’s passionate, hate-filled gaze to Robert. “Don’t kill him. I’ll do anything. Anything at all. Please—”

  “Amanda!” Eric roared.

  “I’ll trade my life for his, anything!”

  “You won’t have that opportunity. How much of your wife do you want to see, Cameron? One last glance of at her throat, at her breast? At my hand upon her—”

  “You are dead, Tarryton! Now!” Eric thundered.

  Eric shook off the arms holding him and slipped a sword from the scabbard of one of the men beside him. When the redcoat raised his head, Amanda gasped. He was no enemy, but Frederick.

  Tarryton dropped hold of Amanda, screaming for his guards. Instantly men flooded along the hallways. Something hurtled through the window, rolling upon the floor. It was Damien. He leapt to his feet, sword in his hand, his knees bent, ready for the fight.

  Men flooded in. Amanda stood flat against the wall, holding her dress together at the bodice, still stunned as Robert and Eric set to deadly combat before her. They parried with a clash of steel, they backed away, they met as tight as dancers again, steel clenched together in a battle of strength and wills. Robert fell back, tossing a chair into Eric’s path. Eric leapt over the obstacle. His fury led him. Coming before Robert, he thrust toward him with a shuddering blow. Robert’s sword flew high in the air, landing at Amanda’s feet. She knelt down and grabbed it. Eric held the tip of his sword against Robert’s throat. “How dearly I would love to run you through! But what a prize you would be for General Washington!”

  “Amanda, get their small arms!” Damien called to her suddenly. Damien, Frederick, and the young captain with them had bested the British guards. Two men lay dead, and two stood still and silent while Damien and Frederick held their swords upon them. Amanda ran to do as she had been beckoned. With her back to the empty doorway, she suddenly felt cold steel against her own neck.

  “My, my, gentlemen! What a ruckus over naught!” came a pleasant voice.

  Nigel. Nigel Sterling. Her father was behind her again, his arm wrapped about her, his small dagger digging into her throat. Damien looked to Eric, who stared cold and frozen at Sterling.

  Robert Tarryton laughed and shoved the sword from his throat, rubbing the sore spot where the tip had dug into his flesh. “Cameron, you will hang! Unless I can find a way to crucify you!”

  “But one life to give for your country, eh, Cameron? And one life to give for your wife,” Sterling said pleasantly. “No swordsman could take you, Cameron. Seems it was only love and beauty needed to down you all the while. Eh, my dear daughter? Well, perhaps we shouldn’t play around here any longer. Lord Cameron must be hanged and quickly, and, my dear daughter, I intend to see that you thoroughly enjoy the spectacle—”

  Suddenly Sterling went silent. Amanda could not turn to see behind him, but she heard the strong voice with the deep tenor that spoke next, the voice with the trace of French within it, cool and furious and ruthless. “Take your hands off of her, you filthy pig!”

  It was Jacques Bisset.

  “I’ll kill her. I’ll rip open her throat without a thought,” Sterling ground out. And he would. Amanda could feel the chill of the steel, closer and closer against her throat, so sharp, so cold, cold like death.…

  “Pig!” Jacques swore in French. Then, to Amanda’s amazement, the grip on her went lax. She stepped forward, desperately rubbing her throat, then crying out as she watched her father fall. His eyes were wide—his arms, at the last, reached out to her. Blood-soaked, he fell against her. Horrified, she moved away. She saw Jacques then, standing behind Sterling’s fallen body. Tall and immobile, his dark eyes devoid of emotion. He looked at her. Emotion returned to him. “He had to die.”

  “Bloody bastard—” Tarryton suddenly roared. He lunged forward, trying to capture Eric’s sword. Eric barely flicked his wrist, and then Robert had fallen too. He had thrust himself upon the blade.

  “It was your choice to die!” Eric murmured, drawing back his sword. He looked to Amanda, reaching out a hand to her with an awkward smile. “We’ve got to go, we’ve got to hurry—”

  A new thunder of footsteps on the hallway floor alerted everyone to his meaning. The troops from the pines were coming back, trying to ascertain what had happened.

  “Amanda! Out the window!” Eric urged her. She ran to him. He caught hold of her waist and lifted her through the shattered pane. He paused upon the windowsill, then together they fell into the deep snow below them, rolling and rolling. She heard Damien behind them, and then Frederick and the captain. “Run!” Eric urged her, dragging her to her feet. “Run!” He held her hand. The snowdrifts were so high! The British were behind them, and he was pulling her onward and onward. Bitter cold assailed her, the snow rose to her waist, and walking, much less running, was nearly impossible.

  “Eric!” she screamed, falling. He fell down with her. They had hit an embankment again, and they were rolling and rolling. Tears stung her eyes and fell icily to her cheeks as they ceased to roll at last, as he rose over her, meeting her eyes. She clutched his shoulders, and she returned his anguished stare. “Oh, Eric! There is but one life! And if it is over, dear God, I would have you know, my one life I would gladly give for you—”

  “For you,” he agreed, smiling, “and this country.”

  She kissed him fervently. If the British were about to come, she would seize this last sweet taste of his lips.

  “One life … to spend with you. No matter how brief, no matter how long, it has been a fire of warmth and splendor.”

  “Amanda, I love you.”

  “I love you!”

  “Amanda, it isn’t over.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve troops waiting in the forest. I wanted the men to follow us. Indeed, my love, we’ve got to walk again. We’ve got to reach the men.”

  “Oh! You made me say all of those things—”

  He smiled, tenderly, handsomely. The rogue, the gentleman, his eyes touched her with a love she could not deny. “But weren’t they true? But one life, my love, and freely, eagerly, would I give it to you!”

  She laughed. She wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Eric! It was Geneva—”

  “I know.”

  “Poor Damien!”

  “He is a rugged lad. He will survive.”

  “My father is dead.”

  Eric hesitated, then he stood, dragging her to her feet. Up the ledge, they could hear the clash of steel. A musket exploded in a volley, then several others answered as if in reply. Eric grasped Amanda’s hand. “Come on, I’m getting you up on a horse and out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving without you!” She panted, following him up the snow-covered decline.

  “You’ll do what—”

  He broke off. They had reached the top of the crest just in time to see that it was over. At least twenty of the redcoats lay dead in the snow. Others were disappearing behind the trees, running. Damien was letting loose with
a wild Virginia battle cry.

  Eric walked out into the snow and surveyed the scene. “The boots, lads. We need their boots for our own. Then, if we can break through the ground, we’ll bury the dead. Frederick! Take my lady back to camp, please.”

  “But, Eric—” she started.

  He caught her shoulders and kissed her lips. “Please, Amanda. If you wait, Damien, Jacques, and I will be back as soon as possible. It’s time we all had a talk.”

  Her eyes widened. He was very serious. Her curiosity and wonder were so great that she could not think to argue any longer.

  “All right,” she agreed. “But you all hurry!”

  She turned about, thanking Frederick for his coat as he slipped it around her shoulder and then taking his arm.

  “I didn’t think that she’d ever leave!” Damien said. “Feisty little wench, eh?”

  Amanda was about to swirl around to tell her cousin what she thought of him, but her husband was answering him already.

  “Patriots are like that,” Eric said casually.

  “Aye, you’re right, my lord! Aye, you are right!” Damien agreed. They laughed together. Amanda did not look back. When Frederick set her up atop a horse, he was smiling, and she smiled in return.

  The men returned to Valley Forge within a few hours. Amanda sat at the table in the hut and stared at the three of them, Eric, Damien, and Jacques, as they stood before her, something like errant schoolboys.

  Eric cleared his voice to speak, but then Jacques stepped forward. “I killed your father, Amanda.”

  “He meant to kill me, Jacques,” she said quietly. “He—he meant it. He always despised me.”

  Then Jacques went silent. Eric cleared his throat again. “Amanda, Nigel wasn’t your father.”

  “What?” Astonished, she leapt to her feet.

  “But—”

  Damien slipped an arm about her, coming down upon his haunches by her side as he led her to sit again. “Didn’t you ever wonder that a man could be so cold to his own flesh and blood? I had heard the rumors, of course, but—I remember your mother, Amanda. Just vaguely. She was always so kind and so sweet, and so—”