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 aboutla 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!”
“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!”
The boy grinned. Eric popped the cloth back upon his face, and she was there again before him. Amanda.
Many times he lay awake at night and cursed himself. The world was exploding, he was living in a time of drastic revolution and change. He was central to many of the things happening, and despite that, he spent his nights and often his days in anguished thought and dream and nightmare regarding his wife. He did love her so much. And that was the rub. It was bitter, bitter gall to wonder at the emotion she bore him, to never know for certain what was hidden beneath the sweep of her lashes, within the beautiful color of her eyes. There was always that which she held away from him, always that which she seemed to deny him with thought and stoic determination. He had walked away from her in anger, but he had been the one to pay the price. Now, knowing more about her, he wanted to try to find the truth within her heart and mind once more.
And still, he reflected, there was the matter of a man’s pride. He had, upon occasion, betrayed himself for her. He swore silently that he would never betray Virginia, or the colonies, or his men for her.
The steam had grown cold. He called for a towel and his clothes, dressed quickly, tipped the serving lad, and headed for the street and his horse. He was but minutes from the town house.
And when he arrived, he sat on his horse for several long moments. He wondered if she had even obeyed his summons to come here. His words had been curt, demanding her appearance. His pride had forged his words.
The moon, soft and glowing, rose high over him. The first of the spring roses were just beginning to blossom in the garden, and vines were curling around the latticed trellises upon the porch. The light of a gas lamp glowed softly from within the parlor, and suddenly, even as he watched, even as his heart and body quickened, he saw her silhouette. Slim, graceful, she moved across the room, leaving it. And then, seconds later, she was at the front door, opening it.
“Eric?”
He dismounted from his horse, patted its rump, and let the animal amble forward to graze on the small stretch of lawn before the house. The horse would make it to the stables by itself. He watched her where she stood upon the porch, awaiting him. It was spring, and a soft breeze rose, and her gown looked like spring, soft white and lace with delicate blue flowers upon it. Her hair was swept up demurely, but strands escaped it, like drifting curls of flame, touching her cheek, dusting across her shoulders. He could not see her eyes for the shadow, but he prayed that there had been a welcome in her voice.
