Eric arched a brow politely. “Is there?”
“Yes. I’ve heard tell that he was a rogue, spying on the very likes of Blackbeard for the governor. Tell me, do you know anything about the treasure?”
Eric laughed. “I’m afraid not, Damien. He did play a pirate, but he pirated only his own ships. Any gold he claimed was his own, and to the best of my knowledge, he knew nothing about any of Blackbeard’s treasure.”
“Blackbeard’s head was severed,” Damien told Amanda excitedly, “and set upon a spike as a warning to all pirates. Then the men of his crew who had been taken were tried here, and all but one was hanged.”
“Perhaps you should look to your own neck, cousin!” she warned again, then paled, seeing Eric’s eyes upon her. She inhaled and exhaled quickly, and Eric smiled, seeing her discomfort. He didn’t know quite what was going on, but she hadn’t planned on going to his town house.
Soon the carriage drew to a halt. Pierre hopped down and opened the door, and Eric quickly climbed down then reached up for Amanda. His hands slipped around her waist, and he set her down slowly, loath to let her go. Her eyes were on his, very wide, and dusky green in the moonlight. He almost felt sorry for her then. Except that he longed for her, more deeply each time he saw her, and he knew that she was using him. It was a good thing that his ego was substantial, he thought. Her disdain was sometimes so apparent in her gaze.
“Do you like the boxwoods?” he asked her, leading her along the walk as Damien followed. “My housekeeper grows them. I’m afraid that I’m not in residence often enough to do the plants here justice.”
“And where are you?” she asked.
“Why, at Cameron Hall, of course,” he said, opening the door. As they entered, a tall lean woman with her hair knotted beneath a mob cap came hurrying into the hallway.
“Lord Cameron, I was not expecting you so early,” she said, taking his hat and cape.
“Mathilda! I promised that I should be home nice and early!” he said quickly. “This is Lady Sterling, Mathilda, and her cousin, Damien Roswell.”
Mathilda bobbed quickly to them both. Amanda murmured a greeting, looking about the hall. The Cameron wealth was evident in the fine wall covering, in the display of weapons, in the polished furniture. There was a maple cabinet in the hallway that had to be worth an apprentice artisan’s entire first year of pay. There were silver candlesticks set about, and, looking up the stairway, she noted that the upper hallway was lined with oil paintings.
“This way, Lady Sterling,” Eric murmured.
She was led into his study, a warm room with claw-footed, brocade upholstered chairs, a massive oak desk, a standing globe of the world, endless bookshelves, and a marble mantel. She felt his hand at the small of her back, and she longed to scream out. His touch could not be forgotten. Although he was perfectly polite, the lordly gentleman to the core, she felt that he was watching her with sizzling curiosity. He knew, she thought, and the very idea made her shiver. He was leading her along, waiting to pounce upon her like a wildcat.
She had no choice. Damien was her cousin, her friend. If he had gone astray, she had to help him. There was nothing that Lord Cameron could know. She was befriending him, and that was all. There was nothing that she could learn from him. They had not joined his friends—they had left the tavern. And now she was in his home.
“Sit, milady!” he said cordially, inviting her into one of the beautifully upholstered chairs. She did so and tried to smile again. The effort was weak.
“It’s a wonderful house,” Damien said admiringly.
“Thank you. Damien, a brandy? Lady Sterling, I would offer you tea, except that I have chosen to boycott its usage.”
“I’d love a brandy,” she said sweetly. “Would you!” Damien laughed.
“Yes,” she said, maintaining her smile but warning him with her eyes. She wanted twenty brandies. She wanted to pretend that she was far, far away and that she hadn’t been blackmailed into this trickery.
Lord Cameron had one dark brow arched as he looked her way. He didn’t say a word though, but poured out three brandies from a snifter on his desk. He brought her a delicate glass, setting it into her fingers. His eyes touched hers, and when their fingers met, she was suddenly beset with shivers again. He was clad darkly this evening. His breeches and his frock were navy, as was his surcoat, and only the white lace of his shirt showed at his throat to lighten the effect. It was somewhat somber garb, and it became him well, with his hair so very dark and his eyes so hauntingly silver-blue. They probed the soul, she thought, and she tried to look away. He seemed to tower over her as he stood by her chair, not releasing the brandy but watching her endlessly, seeking some answer.
“Thank you,” she said, taking the glass. He smiled and moved away, offering Damien his brandy. Damien thanked him quickly and studied the books that lined the cases. He strode to the globe and spun it around, fascinated.
“You are quite blessed, Lord Cameron,” Damien said. This beautiful town house, and I understand that Cameron Hall is magnificent.”
“Thank you, I think it is.” Eric told him as he watched Amanda steadily. She wanted to look away from him, and she discovered that she could not. He was darkly satyrish this evening, and it was almost as if he had some mysterious power over her.
It was nonsense, she convinced herself.
“Do you play chess, Lady Sterling?”
“Yes.”
“Play me.”
Was it the game he referred to? It was difficult to tell when he stared at her with such probing eyes. She shrugged. “If you wish.”
He rose and went over to a small table with the board built onto it. The fine ivory pieces were kept in little pockets at the side.
