Fires of Delight Read Free Page A

dislodge us from New York. But that would be but a partial victory. Our main battle force, under General Cornwallis, is in Yorktown, Virginia, along the Chesapeake—”
    Selena nodded. She knew all this. Royce had told her.
    “—and defeating Cornwallis,” Oakley continued, “would in effect bring an end to the war. But to attack Yorktown, Washington must cover a great distance. Besides which Cornwallis has a fleet in the Chesapeake Bay to support him. It would be stupid, even suicidal, for Washington to attack Yorktown without naval support of his own, and we have learned the hard way that the Virginian is neither stupid nor self-destructive.”
    “At least you have learned something,” replied Selena, managing a show of bravery.
    “Why did your renegade lover journey to Haiti earlier this year?” Oakley pressed, leaning forward and glowering.
    He’s guessed! Selena realized frantically. Royce had gone to Haiti as a messenger from George Washington to the French Comte de Grasse, who had anchored his fleet there awaiting instructions. France, even though under the burden of a monarchy that was in many ways even more oppressive than that of Great Britain, was striking at the English by supporting the colonial upstarts. And at this very moment, Selena knew, de Grasse was sailing northward to aid Washington in what was hoped would be the final battle in the war for American independence.
    At Yorktown!
    “Royce Campbell is a sailor,” said Selena. “That’s all.”
    “Hah! He is a gunrunner, a smuggler, a complete opportunist—”
    “He is not!” Selena cried.
    Yet once—it was true—he had been. Selena admitted it to herself. The Royce Campbell she had first known would not have troubled himself for one second over the outcome of a political struggle, let alone an enterprise without the two elements he cherished most: high adventure and monetary gain, not necessarily in that order.
    She believed that her dedication, her conviction, her own unyielding spirit had changed and gentled him.
    She remembered the Christmas ball in Edinburgh at which they had first met, Selena just seventeen. He had stepped out of the shadows at the edges of the vast ballroom and asked to be her partner in the Highland fling, a tall, lean, broad-shouldered animal of a man whose black-velvet dress coat and diamond-pinned cravat seemed out of place beneath a rugged visage and peremptory eyes. The fling was wild, as always, and the ever-strange, haunting whine of the bagpipes underscored the pace of the dance. About them, dancers shouted and leaped, whirled and spun. Selena had never felt as free, nor danced as well. All around the ballroom, dancers flashed and twirled, and when it came time for her and Royce to take their places in the circle, they had already become strangely mesmerized by motion and music, caught up in a dark attraction that was more than dance, more even than the physical magnet of their opposite natures.
    “Look at them,” someone shouted, as she and Royce Campbell danced toward then away from each other in the leaping steps of the fling. Selena felt the blood pumping from her heart, her lungsaching for air, but it was glorious. Her golden hair was flying, her body too, and her very soul screamed for joy.
    Royce had danced wonderfully too, with never a wasted motion, all economy and grace and style. And all about him, like an aura, was the glitter of the Campbell legend, of men who were more than mere men, of the timeless, moody penumbra of the Highlands. The Campbells were ready in the day, ready in the night, always ready for love or gold or glory. And if the wildest of them all had chosen her for this dance, what else might he have in mind?
    The music pounded on and finally dancers began to drop out from exhaustion, but she and Royce kept on, the audience shouting encouragement, clapping time. Her lungs were shrieking now, and every muscle in her legs begged for mercy. But if he could go on,, so could she. That