He must have felt it, too, because his mouth closed over mine with such hunger it nearly frightened me. Or maybe the hunger that frightened me was my own. I realized my compromised state, only my nightclothes between us. But as his hands slid down my back with carnal intimacy, and his mouth went to my face, my neck, and my hair, there was no liberty I would not have allowed him.
“Betsy,” he said, hoarsely, stroking my hair. “You deserve better. With me, your future rank in life would be a perfect lottery. You might move in exalted company or a very humble sphere.”
“I don’t care.” All I heard was that he was speaking about a life with me. A future with me. “I love you.” I said it like an incantation.
“Could you truly be an Aquileia and cheerfully plant turnips with me?”
“Yes,” I whispered, smiling as I clutched at him.
“Even if America were lost?”
I knew how desperate the circumstances were but could not bear to think of the war being lost. Not after all the suffering and sacrifice. That was the only reason I hesitated to answer.
Alexander swallowed. “I was once determined to let my existence and American liberty end together. But you give me a reason to outlive my pride. If the war is lost, could you live as the wife of a fugitive, leaving behind your home and everything you know?”
“I’m already the proud daughter of a rebel, sir.”
He smiled at that. “What think you of Geneva as a retreat? I’m told it is a charming place, favorable to human rights. Would you go with me?”
This time I didn’t hesitate. Not even long enough to think. “I would go anywhere with you.”
He pressed his forehead to mine. “Then, Elizabeth Schuyler, will you consent to have me for a husband?”
“Yes.” Yes to anything. Yes to everything. Perhaps my parents wouldn’t approve. But I wouldn’t let them stop me. I felt certain that I could never be happy again without this man. I wasn’t even sure I was myself—or who I’d been before. Every plan, every desire, every hope was lost to all-consuming passion. “I want to be yours this very night.”
“Temptress.” Hamilton groaned and pressed against me, giving me evidence of his desire. And I desired him, too. So much so that the only thing that seemed right was for us to come together, skin to skin. But at length, he held me away and took a steadying gulp of air before we lost our heads completely. “It must all be done right between us. I must write for your father’s blessing.”
“He might not give it,” I admitted.
But Hamilton replied, “I am told I am very persuasive with a pen. Especially when I want something. And I want you.”
My breath caught to hear it. I knew he was persuasive with a pen; his beautiful sonnet was proof of that. But with my blood afire, I wanted it all to be done now. “It will take too long to wait for permission. Papa will forgive us.” After all, he’d forgiven Angelica. “Go wake the reverend.”
Hamilton groaned again. This time, with more pain. “Betsy, I can’t. I can’t. What would people say if I were to run off with the daughter of General Schuyler? They would say I’m a self-seeking, fortune-hunting seducer, angling for advantage.”
I realized that I would have loved Alexander Hamilton even if he were all those things. Even if he loved me only for the advantage I could bring him. “Let them say it.”
“You know what I am.” A whore-child, he meant, as if it was a crack in his soul that threatened to break my heart, too. “I cannot risk even a spot upon the reputation of any child we might have.”
A self-seeking seducer angling for advantage would not pass up an opportunity to elope with the daughter of Philip Schuyler. Nor would he worry for the reputation of his child.
Only a man of honor would do that.
He might not be descended of a Scottish nobleman, I thought. But, he had something more important than a noble title. Like my father, he had nobility of character. And though I knew it was madness that two people should come to love one another so passionately in such a short space of time, I wanted nothing more than to be his wife. Even if it meant I had to wait.
Chapter Nine
December 1, 1780
Albany
AM I MAKING a mistake?
I had been so certain of Alexander Hamilton. Ready to run away and elope with him if he had allowed it. But now Benedict Arnold was a traitor, and I wondered how anyone could be certain of anything or anyone.
Benedict Arnold, the Hero of Saratoga.
The man who’d lost much of the use of his leg in service to this country. A man I’d admired. A man who’d eaten at our table and flirted with my sister. A man who’d used Papa’s long friendship to secure a posting at West Point, all while scheming to turn it over to the British, apparently believing my father would go along with his treachery.
Never!
But just as Papa’s reputation had recovered, his friendship with Arnold now tainted him again. At the very least, it put his judgment into question. The betrayal was a blow both personal and symbolic, and Arnold’s attempt to sacrifice West Point and the men inside it was a treason of the darkest dye.
Despite Lafayette having suspected a traitor long ago, Arnold’s treason was discovered only by some miracle of coincidence, in the nick of time, and Alexander had been there.
Arnold immediately fled to the enemy. I went in pursuit of him but was much too late, my betrothed wrote from the field.
Arnold had gotten away. But they’d captured his British spymaster instead.
John André.
The injustice of it! That good, honorable officer—even if he was an enemy—would now hang
