She loved Cameron Hall even more fiercely than Eric, she thought, for she spent so much time there. Her portrait and his had now joined the others in the gallery. It was her home.
“You’re thinking that you should take care, eh?” Danielle questioned her.
Amanda cast her a quick glance. “Danielle, I do not know what you’re talking about.”
Danielle exhaled impatiently. Amanda ignored her. She swallowed tightly, closing her eyes. It seemed that so very much distance lay between her and Eric now. Miles…and time. She had missed him so much when he had first gone. In the days that followed, she had tossed and turned through the cold lonely nights. But then her father had come, over six months ago now, it was then that the distance had settled in, then that she had grown cold, then that she had begun to feel that things were so very horrible they might never be righted.
Amanda opened her eyes and saw that Danielle was still staring at her reproachfully. The Acadian woman started to speak.
“I’m very tired,” Amanda said quietly, and the other woman remained silent. Leaning back against the coach, Amanda realized that she was very afraid of Eric now. She would never be able to make him understand. She wasn’t always sure she understood herself. In her desire to give information that would keep Damien alive and avoid bloodshed at the same time, she had resorted to using information from Eric’s letters to her. Small things. Casual paragraphs on supplies of salt, herbs, fruits that the navy needed to avoid the plaguing diseases on the ships. She had only discovered major troop movements once, and then, it seemed, her information coincided with something the governor had learned himself. She tried not to think about battles, but she knew that it was war. Men were going to die.
Eric would never forgive her.
Somewhere during the journey she must have slept. She awoke to discover that they had come to the town house, that it was night. The door to the coach opened, starting her awake.
“We’re here, Amanda,” Danielle said to her.
Amanda hurried toward the house. She walked up the steps, pulling off her gloves, calling to the housekeeper at the same time. “Mathilda, I’ve come!” She twisted the knob, found that the door was open, and walked on into the house. “Mathilda!” she called again, walking on through to the parlor. She tossed her gloves absently upon the desk, thinking idly of that first night here when she had begun her game of chess with Eric. He had been right. She had been in check all the time.
A sound suddenly startled her and she looked across the room. Her heart leapt to her throat and caught there, and she had to clutch the desk to steady herself.
Eric was there, an elbow leaned upon the mantel, a snifter of brandy in his hand. He looked wonderful in his tight white breeches, deep-blue frock coat, white laced shirt, and high boots, his lips curved in a slowly lazy smile as she realized his presence at last.
“Eric!” Her hand fluttered to her throat.
“Amanda!” He tossed his snifter into the fire, heedless of the cracking of the glass, of the hiss and steam and ripple as the alcohol sent the flames rising high. In seconds he was across the room, and she was in his arms. In seconds she was achingly aware of him, of the scent of him, of the texture of his face, the ripple of his muscles, the rough feel of his fabric, the intoxicating feel of his lips. She felt as if she were sinking into clouds, rising into acres of heaven. It had been so long since he had touched her.…
She was going to fall. It didn’t matter. Not at that moment. He was kissing too hungrily. When her trembling caused her to slip, he lifted her into his arms. Then she forgot her fears again as his fingers moved through her hair, and she found a simple fascination in the way that it sprang beneath her fingers. She was barely aware that they moved upstairs, she was desperate to touch more of him, to feel more of his kiss. And then, in the darkness, there was nothing but the feel and the warmth and the sex of the man, and the throbbing pulse of an ancient music, wrapping them in a world where words meant nothing. She tried to speak, whispering his name with wonder. She didn’t know how he was there, but he was, glistening muscle rippling beneath her fingers, his lips feverishly upon her, upon her body, upon her breasts. The night seemed to come alive with the ragged harmony of their heartbeats, with the pulse that pounded between them, with the fever and flames that leapt and crackled and caused beautiful colors to explode even within the darkness.…
The night…
It remained alive with the beauty, and the hunger, and when passion was sated, it was still not time for words, for they needed just to touch, to hold one another, to relish something that had become exceedingly precious just to be wrenched away.
It was morning before they talked. Before Amanda worried again. Before Eric was able to explain his presence. He was still in bed, leaning against the frame, his fingers laced behind his head. Amanda had risen at last and sat before the dressing table, trying to detangle the wild mass of her hair.
“It ended. The siege ended. St. Patrick’s Day brought an Irish surprise. The Brits had evacuated Boston.”
Amanda met his eyes in the mirror. “I’m glad for you, Eric.”
“But not for the Brits, eh?”
She shrugged.
“Well, Amanda?”
“Eric, I am trying very hard to be a neutral.”
He leapt up from the bed. She felt as if she were being stalked by a tiger as he walked up behind her. “Are you, Amanda? Are you really?”
His hands were upon her shoulders. She prayed that he would not feel the way that she shook, and yet she was not lying when she spoke. “Yes! I swear that I would be neutral now, if I could.”
Some passion must have touched her voice, for though he still seemed frustrated, he seemed to believe her too. He stalked back to the bed, then stretched out upon its length, casual, bold, and brazen, and catching her heart all over again. “I have heard that some of the things I told you in my letters came to be discovered.”
Fear clutched her heart like an icy hand. “Much of what you have told me has been common knowledge!”
“Aye, that it has. But since I have come home, I have realized that many a good Virginian politician and military man is alarmed by the rumor that a spy rests closely among us. A woman spy, my love. They are calling her ‘Highness.’ Actually, her fame had even reached Boston. Washington thinks that it might be you.”
His voice was cool, ironic. Her heart thundered drastically and she could scarcely breathe. She shook her head. “Eric—”
