Love Not a Rebel (46 page)

The threat of war receded, and battle was forgotten. The night breeze rushed in with its scent of river salt, caressing her flesh where he did not, but nothing else of the world could touch her. It had been too long since they had lain like this, lovers entwined. She closed her eyes, and he moved against her. He shifted his weight and stroked her abdomen and her hip and the flame trail of his kiss followed along. The stroke of his lips and teeth and tongue fell again and again upon her. She tried to thread her fingers into his hair, to somehow capture the heat and flow of passion, but it was far beyond her. She trembled at his touch, she moved as he manipulated her, feathering his fingers down the length of her spine, gently nipping against the rise of her buttocks, lying her back down again to bathe her breasts anew with the hot liquid tempest of his mouth. He rose then, and she watched him with half-slit eyes, certain that he would cast aside his uniform and come to her. And she would watch him as he shed his clothing, and came back to her, walking with his particular grace and determination, almost like a wildcat assured of his every movement.

He did not cast aside his clothing then, but caught her foot and delicately teased the arch and heel and toes. Then his tongue ran a straight trail down her calf and along her inner thigh, and even as she gasped he wedged the hardness of his shoulders there and delved his kiss into the very center and secret place of her most haunting desire. She bit her lip, longing to cry out. She tugged upon his hair and her head began to thrash. Sweet waves of ecstasy wracked her, sweeping through her body like waves upon the shore. She fought him, yet her head tossed upon the
pillow and wild cries escaped her as her body surged of its own accord against her. He led her on and on, and when she thought that she could stand no more, he was gone again.

And this time it was to shed his clothing.

Naked, he came back to her. His shaft as hard as steel, he thrust within her, and was welcomed by the warm encompassing sheath of her body. The waves began again, they came to crest and build and crest again with each stroke of his body. He rose high above her and his eyes met hers, dark with passion, or with anger, she knew not which. Did he make love … or hate? She did not know. But the passion could not be denied. It stormed upon them, and music of their every breath and whisper and cry. It made the air a silken cloud, it made the night a bit of magic in a world gone destitute of fantasy. Still his eyes held her, and still he stroked within her, urgency filling him. The waves coming upon her seemed to rise and shatter and sprinkle down again in tiny flakes of silver rapture. Again and again climax seized her, and she shuddered and trembled and shook in his arms. He thrust again with vehemence, and she felt the startling heat and liquid as his seed rushed into her, filling her.

He touched her cheek and tenderly kissed her lips, then he fell from her, coming to her side.

Moments of silence passed. Then she started to speak, and he touched his finger to her lips. “No. Not now. Not tonight.”

“Eric!” she cried. “Please listen. I—I love you!”

Tension filled him, the muscles of his arms tightened and bulged and his features constricted until they were taut and anguished. She thought that he would strike her then, or that his fingers would wind around her throat and crush away her air.

“By all the saints, madame, play your games no more this night!” he swore violently.

“But it is no game, no ploy, no taunt!” she insisted, challenging his anger. “Eric!” She choked upon his name, tears rising to her eyes.

He exhaled, forcing his body to ease, and he shook with
a sudden venom. “Would God that I could believe you!” he said, his voice low, harsh.

“Please …”

“No! No more tonight! If you would give love, lady, then prove love.”

And so she fell silent, and in seconds he let out a hoarse cry, pulling her close once again. And after the breeze had come in to gently cool the heat that had remained so slick and damp upon their flesh, he kissed her upper arm and then began to make love to her again. This time she touched him in turn. Freely. Allowed herself to stroke the hard muscles of his arms and chest, the lean sinew of his hips, the tightness of his buttocks. She teased and seduced, taking him into her hands, sweeping her hair over his naked flesh and touching him with the tip of her tongue, with her kiss, the lash and lave of her tongue.…

When the tremors of ecstasy faded next, he held her. And in the darkness and quiet of the night, sleep, deep and dreamless, came to them both.

When she awoke, he was dressed again. A new white shirt, clean white breeches, his doublet and his frock coat in blue and red, his cockaded military hat upon his head. He stood by the window, as if he waited for her to awake.

She knew instantly that things had changed, that the night was over. She drew the covers against her breasts, and she stared at him. He turned slowly toward her. The eyes that fell upon her were the eyes of a stranger, deep, dark, and distant.

“You’re leaving,” she said.

“We’re going after Lord Dunmore. You knew that.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Am I—am I to be a prisoner here?”

He shook his head. For a moment the beginnings of elation filled her. If they had time … if they just had time, perhaps there could be a separate peace between them. Perhaps she could explain that her heart had not changed, but that she was no longer fighting. She was his wife and would take his side. She could even learn to be a patriot.

“Then I am free,” she said.

“No.”

“What?”

He moved across the room, picking up his saber, his musket and dirk. “You are going to France.”

“France! No, Eric, I will not—”

“You will.”

Stunned, she swept the covers around her and tried to leap from the bed. She stumbled within her swath of sheets. He caught her, and her eyes, in tempest, met his. “Eric, I beg of you, leave me here. I did not betray you and I’ll not—”

“Alas, I cannot believe you,” he told her softly.

“But you said that I—” She broke off, and his brows raised expectantly. His lip curled as he awaited her words.

She flushed furiously. “You said—”

“You have my forgiveness. Just not my trust.”

“I will not go to France, I’ll escape to England!” she threatened, afraid of the tears that burned behind her lids. He was casting her away, she realized.

“No, you will not. You will not be alone,” he promised her.

“Eric—”

“No! Don’t beg, plead, or threaten! This once, my love, you will obey me.” He hesitated, and his words were bitter when he spoke again. “In France, my love, you can cause us no more harm. I suggest that you dress. Your escort will be here any minute.”

“My escort?”

“Cassidy, Pierre—Jacques Bisset.”

Bisset. She would never escape him to run to England. She knew that. Jacques had never forgotten what the English had done to the Acadians. Nor did he forgive. He was a better guardian than a father might be.

“You cannot do this!” she charged him. Her fingers curled about his arms and she shouted with fear and fury. “Eric, please! Listen to me. I did not do this! You are a fool if you will not believe me. You will be hurt, because the person who did give out this information will betray you again.” He ignored her, moving about. Fear rose, and desperation, and before she knew it, she was shouting in fury,
severing anything that remained between them. “Oh, you bastard! I will hate you, I will never forgive you!”

“Cheer up. Dunmore may reach me yet.”

“You should die by the hangman’s rope!”

“Should I? Will you cry—since you do love me so much?”

“Oh, Eric! Please! Don’t send me away!”

He swept her up into his arms and redeposited her upon the bed. He looked into the tearful liquid emerald of her eyes, and for the life of him, he wanted to recant.

His heart hardened. Cameron Hall could have burned to the ground. She had gone with Tarryton. By her own admission, she had gone with the man. More than anything in the world, he wanted to believe that she loved him. He wanted to believe her innocent.

But he could not trust her. He had done so before, and he had been betrayed. Time and time again she had betrayed him. Other lives were at stake.

He smiled, then bent down and kissed her lips. He had to leave, but he could not resist. He cupped her breast with his fingers and felt the anguish of longing burst upon him. He kissed her long and slowly, and stroked her flesh as if he could memorize with his hands as well as his mind.

Then he rose and gazed down upon her ruefully. “
Au revoir
, my love.”

He turned and walked to the door. She was on her feet again, flying after him. “Eric!”

He closed the door. He heard the thud of her hands against it and then he heard her curses. He stiffened as he listened to the words upon her lips. Then he heard her fall against the door. And he heard the anguish of her tears.

He squared his shoulders and wondered how he would bear it, knowing that she was in France. At least she would be far away from Tarryton. And she would be safe. Bisset would see to that. He leaned against the wall in anguish.

He straightened at last, breathing deeply. Then he walked down the hallway, down the long portrait gallery. He paused, looking up at his ancestors, at the men and women who had carved out this Eden from the raw wilderness.

The fires of war were burning brightly in his Eden.

He turned and walked again. Lewis would be awaiting him and his men. They had to break the British menace, and he had to return to Washington soon. The Congress was meeting; any day the colonies would declare for freedom.

And he would risk all in that struggle.

But he would not lose! he swore, and he paused, looking back to the bedroom. Poignant, wistful pain swept into his heart. If only she were with them!

If only she did love him.

In the gallery he stared at the portraits. Theirs were the last ones. Her hair was swept up in ringlets and fashionable curls, her beautiful eyes had been caught in all the majesty of their color. Her smile was one that could make a man willing to die in any manner for a mere whisper from her lips.

He was beside her, in the very uniform he wore now.

Lord and Lady Cameron of Cameron Hall, one of the finest properties in Tidewater Virginia! he thought with some bitter irony. They graced the gallery as finely as any of his illustrious ancestors, when they might well be the very fall of the house. Was he the first Cameron to sell his soul for love, his birthright for some vague dream of new country?

Amanda …

He had not left the house, and already his blood warmed and his muscles tensed and tightened when he thought her name and conjured before his eyes a vision of the woman he had left behind. He was tempted to turn back, but he could not. There were battles to be waged. In Philadelphia men were busy writing the words for the Declaration of Independence. Thomas Jefferson was drafting the document, he had heard. The Virginians were very proud of that fact, just as they were proud that many of the ideas were coming from words penned for Virginia by George Mason.

The British would hang him, he thought, if they ever got their hands upon him. Dunmore, his old friend, would hang him higher than any other.

He looked up at the portraits again and smiled wryly. “What do you say, monsieurs? Am I a fool? Casting this heritage to the winds of war?” Perhaps not, he thought, his smile deepening. His forebears had left behind a safe and guarded world to strike out into a wilderness. They would understand that he gambled all in a dream of liberty and honor. Even if his wife did not.

He turned, fighting the urge to go back to touch her just once again. He left the portraits behind and hurried down the stairs. Cassidy waited for him at the front door, holding his mount.

“There’s a flagon of whiskey in your saddlebag,” Cassidy told him.

“For breakfast, eh, Cassidy?”

Cassidy grinned. “Thought you might be needing it.”

Eric agreed. “Aye, that I might. But I’ll have to get the troops moving first. Wouldn’t do to show them a drunken example, eh, Cassidy?”

“No, sir, it wouldn’t do at all.”

Eric mounted upon his horse and looked down to Cassidy. “You’ll go with her to France?”

“Wherever you send me, milord, I will go.”

Eric stretched out his hand and took Cassidy’s dark one. “Thank you. And Pierre. And see that Jacques sails with her too; that is very important. He will let no harm come to her.”

Cassidy nodded. “Jacques will guard her with his life. His loyalty to her is deep seated.”

“It should be,” Eric murmured.

“Milord?”

He hesitated, looking down at Cassidy. “I believe that she is his daughter,” he said quietly, then grinned at Cassidy’s dumbfounded expression. “Say nothing.”

“No!” Cassidy agreed. “You mean Lord Sterling—”

“Is a monster,” Eric agreed, but said nothing more on the subject. If there was a God, and if there were a multitude of battles, surely Sterling would be taken home to his eternal rest before it was all over. “I will come as soon as I can. God alone knows when that will be. If I am killed—”

“Lord Cameron, please!”

He waved a hand impatiently in the air. “It is only a matter of time before independence and war are proclaimed. Virginia will set herself free before the others, I believe. Death is a fact of life, and very much one of war. If I am killed, care for my lady still, Cassidy, for I love her.”

“Always, milord,” Cassidy assured him, his dark eyes grave and misted.

Eric saluted quickly and rode away toward the fields where the troops were encamped.

He did not turn to look back at the house.

He did not dare. If he saw her face in the window, he would not be able to ride away.

XVI