back to the Sir Thomas’s, milord, but it will do you no good. I must find Damien.”
Eric hesitated. He had an idea where young Roswell might be, if he was in any way involved with the dissidents. He reined in so sharply that she crashed back against him. The sweet scent of her hair teased his nostrils and the shocking warmth of her body lay flush against his.
“Milord—” She gasped, but he ignored her, nudging his heels against his mount’s flanks and leading the animal toward the left.
“We’ll find Damien then,” he said.
They rode through the streets until they came to a tavern. The street was very quiet there, the light within wasdim. Eric dismounted. “Don’t move!” he ordered her. Then he turned and entered the tavern.
A multitude of men were there, engaged in soft and quiet conversation. There were no drunks about, just working men in their coarse coats and capes and tricorns, huddled about the meager warmth of the fire. At his entrance, all eyes turned to him. Several faces went pale as the quality of his clothing was taken into account.
Someone rushed forward—the barkeeper, he thought. “Milord, what is it that we can do—”
“I need a word with Mr. Damien Roswell.”
“Milord, he is not—”
“I am here, Camy.” The handsome young man who had partnered Amanda in the dance stepped forward. He stretched out his hand. “You’re Lord Cameron. I’ve heard much about you.”
Eric arched a brow. “Have you?”
“Why were you looking for me?” Damien asked carefully.
Eric cleared his throat. “I am not. A lady is.”
“Amanda!” He gasped. “Then she knows …”
“She knows nothing. But perhaps you should come along.”
Damien nodded instantly. He and Eric exited the tavern together without a backward glance.
From atop Eric’s horse, the girl cried out. “Damien! You had me so worried!” She leapt down gracefully and ran forward.
“Amanda! You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“You are in trouble, off on your own,” she said worriedly.
Eric stepped back on the porch of the tavern, watching the two together. Damien turned to him. “Thank you, milord. Thank you most fervently. If I can ever be of assistance to your—”
“I’ll let you know,” Eric drawled calmly. He tipped his hat to Lady Amanda. “Good evening, milady.”
“Milord,” she said stiffly. Had she been a cat, he thought, her back would have been arched, her claws unsheathed. He had not made much of an impression. He smileddeeply anyway, feeling as if he burned deep inside. He did not mind her manner, and he was willing to wait. She did not know it as yet, but she would see him again. And again. And in the end, he would have his way.
He swept his hat from his head and bowed low, then mounted his horse.
“Who was that arrogant … bastard?” he heard her demand of her cousin.
“Mandy! I’m shocked. What language!” Damien taunted.
“Who was he?”
“Lord Cameron. Lord Eric Cameron, of Cameron Hall.”
“Oh!” She gasped. “Him!”
So she, too, had remembered their meeting long ago. Eric smiled and led his mount into the darkness of the streets. They would meet again.
II
W hen Frederick came to, he was still on the sofa, he could hear the fire crackling and burning in the hearth, and he could feel its warmth.
There was a certain commotion at the door. Elizabeth and the man were both standing there, talking to the redcoat before them.
“I assure you, Sergeant,” the man was saying, “that I know nothing about any tea party at the harbor, nor do I know anything about any smuggled and hidden arms. And I assure you that this young lady knows nothing of it either. Indeed, I would appreciate some discretion here. I visited here earlier with a lady friend. You know how difficult a certain privacy can be. Then I returned, for I’d hoped to convince the Bartholomews to move down to Virginia to take positions at Cameron Hall, but Frederick’s printing business has been
Eric hesitated. He had an idea where young Roswell might be, if he was in any way involved with the dissidents. He reined in so sharply that she crashed back against him. The sweet scent of her hair teased his nostrils and the shocking warmth of her body lay flush against his.
“Milord—” She gasped, but he ignored her, nudging his heels against his mount’s flanks and leading the animal toward the left.
“We’ll find Damien then,” he said.
They rode through the streets until they came to a tavern. The street was very quiet there, the light within wasdim. Eric dismounted. “Don’t move!” he ordered her. Then he turned and entered the tavern.
A multitude of men were there, engaged in soft and quiet conversation. There were no drunks about, just working men in their coarse coats and capes and tricorns, huddled about the meager warmth of the fire. At his entrance, all eyes turned to him. Several faces went pale as the quality of his clothing was taken into account.
Someone rushed forward—the barkeeper, he thought. “Milord, what is it that we can do—”
“I need a word with Mr. Damien Roswell.”
“Milord, he is not—”
“I am here, Camy.” The handsome young man who had partnered Amanda in the dance stepped forward. He stretched out his hand. “You’re Lord Cameron. I’ve heard much about you.”
Eric arched a brow. “Have you?”
“Why were you looking for me?” Damien asked carefully.
Eric cleared his throat. “I am not. A lady is.”
“Amanda!” He gasped. “Then she knows …”
“She knows nothing. But perhaps you should come along.”
Damien nodded instantly. He and Eric exited the tavern together without a backward glance.
From atop Eric’s horse, the girl cried out. “Damien! You had me so worried!” She leapt down gracefully and ran forward.
“Amanda! You shouldn’t have followed me.”
“You are in trouble, off on your own,” she said worriedly.
Eric stepped back on the porch of the tavern, watching the two together. Damien turned to him. “Thank you, milord. Thank you most fervently. If I can ever be of assistance to your—”
“I’ll let you know,” Eric drawled calmly. He tipped his hat to Lady Amanda. “Good evening, milady.”
“Milord,” she said stiffly. Had she been a cat, he thought, her back would have been arched, her claws unsheathed. He had not made much of an impression. He smileddeeply anyway, feeling as if he burned deep inside. He did not mind her manner, and he was willing to wait. She did not know it as yet, but she would see him again. And again. And in the end, he would have his way.
He swept his hat from his head and bowed low, then mounted his horse.
“Who was that arrogant … bastard?” he heard her demand of her cousin.
“Mandy! I’m shocked. What language!” Damien taunted.
“Who was he?”
“Lord Cameron. Lord Eric Cameron, of Cameron Hall.”
“Oh!” She gasped. “Him!”
So she, too, had remembered their meeting long ago. Eric smiled and led his mount into the darkness of the streets. They would meet again.
II
W hen Frederick came to, he was still on the sofa, he could hear the fire crackling and burning in the hearth, and he could feel its warmth.
There was a certain commotion at the door. Elizabeth and the man were both standing there, talking to the redcoat before them.
“I assure you, Sergeant,” the man was saying, “that I know nothing about any tea party at the harbor, nor do I know anything about any smuggled and hidden arms. And I assure you that this young lady knows nothing of it either. Indeed, I would appreciate some discretion here. I visited here earlier with a lady friend. You know how difficult a certain privacy can be. Then I returned, for I’d hoped to convince the Bartholomews to move down to Virginia to take positions at Cameron Hall, but Frederick’s printing business has been
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