Read Love Not a Rebel for Free Online Page A

trying to tell him that Lord Sterling frequented the area brothels and left his daughter in Sir Thomas’s care.
    “If he comes back?”
    “It is just that he is so …”
    “I know Sterling,” Eric said, waiting for more.
    “I’m just always afraid that he shall—hurt her.”
    “Has he ever?”
    “Not that I know of. But the way he looks at her sometimes … his own daughter. I do not envy her, no matter what her wealth or title. I pray that Robert marries her soon!”
    Eric kissed her cheek. “I’m going out. I’ll find her,” he assured Anne Marie. She still gazed at him anxiously. “Wait up for me,” he advised her softly. “I’ll come back, I promise.”
    He offered her an encouraging smile and swept by her. He, too, went to the door after retrieving his cloak and his hat. He turned to Anne Marie and waved, and exited the house.
    As soon as he was on the streets, he could almost feel the tension on the air and beneath his feet. This night, Boston was alive. He wondered just what was going on.
    He called to the Mabry groom, and his horse was quickly brought to him. “Do you know anything about what is going on?”
    Dark eyes rolled his way. “They say it’s a tea party. A tempest in tea, Lord Cameron. Dark days is a-comin’, milord! You mark my words, dark days is a-comin’!”
    “Perhaps,” Eric agreed. He nudged his mount forward. It was true, something was afoot tonight. He could hear men walking, men calling out.
    Damien Roswell had gone into the night. And Lady Amanda Sterling had followed. Just what route might she have taken in these dangerous times? He nudged his mount on, determined to find her.
    Frederick Bartholomew shivered as he hurried along the street. The night was cold, and a mist fringed the harbor, floating about the city lanterns, making the ships that sat in the harbor and at dock look ghostly.
    It had been a quiet night … but now it was about to explode.
    Frederick could see the great masts of the proud sailing ships that ventured forth from England to her colonies rise high against the night sky, seeming to disappear into the darkness and the clouds. The cold winter’s water lapped softly against the sides of the ships. A breeze stirred, lifting the mist of winter, swirling about cold and certain, and still so quiet.
    Then the peace of the night was broken. A shout rang out.
    “Boston Harbor’s a teapot tonight!” a fellow shouted.
    Then their footsteps began to thunder. Dozens of footsteps, and the night came alive.
    We must be a curious sight, he thought. There were fifty or so of them, streaming out of the mist and out of the darkness and through the cold of winter, toward the harbor ships. At first glance they would appear to be Indians, for they were half naked, bronzed, darkly bewigged, and painted, as if in warpaint.
    They were at war, in a way, but they were not Indians, and it was not death they sought to bring to the ships, unless it was the death of tyranny.
    They rowed out to the three British ships riding in the harbor and streamed upon them.
    Frederick stood in the background then.
    The head “Indians” were polite as they demanded the keys to the tea chests from the captains.
    “All right, men!” came the command.
    Frederick still remained in the distance, watching as his friends apologized when they knocked out the guards. Then he joined in; they all set to their tasks, dumping the contents of 340 chests of tea into the sea. Fires burned high against the darkness and the mist. The men went about their task with efficiency, unmolested, for it was unexpected by the British and condoned by the multitude of the citizens of Boston.
    Frederick Bartholomew, printer by trade, quietly watched the tea fall into the sea. Beside him, one of his friends, Jeremy Duggin, chortled. “A fine brew we’re making, strong and potent!”
    “And sure to bring about reprisals,” Frederick reminded him.
    Jeremy was silent for a moment. “We’d no choice, man.