Bligh grumbled to himself as his horse picked its way through the mud of the swamp. Peccavi Patrol indeed—only he hadn't done anything, just followed Lawrence's lead. Though, of course, that was worthy of punishment in itself. Rubbing his eyes, he squinted through the haze that permeated the swamp. This patrol was the worst punishment conceivable: not only did it mean waking up before dawn, but it was also a full day of swatting away mosquitoes, sweating profusely in the swamp's intense humidity, and getting so muddy Bligh felt he'd never be clean again. And the horses kept getting stuck, to boot. The worst part was that this swamp was always devoid of any sign of the rebels, rendering the patrol pointless. Bligh felt, self-righteously, that his manifold talents were being squandered.

Over to his left, even Lawrence had lost his usual optimistic outlook on life. Yawning profusely, he squinted through the trees, his vision obscured by the morning sun. He guessed it was about nine in the morning now, and though it was already unbearably hot, he knew it would only get worse. Sighing, he removed his scarf and tied it securely about the gleaming white neck of his horse. Patting the horse's neck, he murmured, "Sorry about this, Daniel, old boy."

Hearing him, Bligh shifted uncomfortably in his seat, but refrained from commenting. Actually, he wasn't talking to Lawrence at all at the moment; rehashed Prussian jokes were probably the only thing that could make this experience any worse. Bligh urged his horse further to the right, to a semi-dry patch of marshy land, and dismounted. Looking around, he thought he heard something moving through the trees in front of him. He sighed. There was no choice but to alert Lawrence; on the off-chance there was something coming, he'd need back-up. He whistled softly and motioned Lawrence over. The other lieutenant made his way over and dismounted.

"I say, do you see something over there?" Lawrence indicated a shadow that seemed to be moving toward them through the mist.

"Yes," said Bligh testily. "That's why I called you over. I think someone's coming." He pulled out his pistol and poured powder into the barrel. Lawrence did likewise, still squinting through the haze.

Suddenly, there came the sound of several guns cocking from behind them. The lieutenants whirled around to find four guns trained on them. Rebels. One man stepped forward slightly, smiling nastily, pistol pointing at Bligh. "Well, well," he smirked. "A pair of Fat George's lieutenants, in my swamp? This doesn't look very good for you, fellows."

Lawrence fixed the man with what he clearly believed was a winning smile and emitted a nervous laugh. Bligh merely straightened up, a surly expression on his face, and lowered his pistol. If they got out of this alive, he would strangle Lawrence with his own scarf.

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Sleeping in the same room as Tavington had indeed been trying on my nerves, and I tossed and turned for what felt like several hours before I finally fell asleep. The rings, one on each of my hands, seemed somehow to be weighing me down: the one on my left binding me irrevocably to Tavington, the one on my right reminding me continually of the promise I had made to Paris. All of my reservations about Tavington as a person aside, I owed it to Paris to push any thoughts of attraction I had to the Colonel out of my head. I still loved Paris, and I always would; but I still had no plan as to how I was going to find my way back to him. And try as I might to fight it, that fascination I had felt the first time I had met Tavington was still very much present.

The sun was showing signs of wanting to rise by the time I finally fell asleep, and it was high in the sky when I woke up. I made my way downstairs to find the house, unsurprisingly, empty; I made an attempt to chat with the sentries at the front door, but they were nowhere as friendly as Bligh and Lawrence. I realized, abruptly, that I considered the lieutenants my friends—they were the only ones I had here, really, unless you counted General Cornwallis. I adored the General, but at the moment, he was incapable of talking to me about anything other than my married life. Sighing, I resigned myself to spending the day alone and wandered upstairs to where I'd left my sewing materials. I brought them into my new sitting room and set about trying to figure out how to sew myself an appropriate dress.

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Anyone seeing Tavington striding through camp just before afternoon formation would have thought that the Colonel was absorbed, as usual, in whatever unpleasant thoughts generally made him appear capable of attacking anyone that happened to be in his way; but, truth be told, his mind was occupied by thoughts of his wife and how she had responded to his questions last night. His inquiries the previous afternoon had turned up the Dragoon who had first found her the day she turned up in the fields. According to Turner, she'd been in a state of disarray and confusion. "She were in a right state, sir," he'd said with an unpleasant smirk. "Feisty one, she is." Tavington had to resist the temptation to dock the man for his impertinence; after all, he hadn't said anything untrue. But Tavington had always disliked Turner—he would have been out of the Dragoons long ago had it not been for his consummate riding skill.

No one had been able to offer him any more information than that, and Tavington had decided, in the absence of conclusive incriminating evidence, to question the girl himself about her loyalties. Whatever she might be hiding, she was a horrid liar; and Tavington had had far too much experience discerning when someone was lying to his face not to recognize the truth in her eyes when she had told him about her parents last night. And, quite honestly, he was intrigued by her answer. Perhaps he would even ask her more about her views later; understanding the motivation of the enemy was vital to any successful military operation.

Tavington shook himself mentally and focused on the task at hand. His Dragoons were lined up, ready for inspection, swords shining and boots freshly polished. As Tavington's eyes swept down the lines, he noticed a lack of the telltale bright red that indicated Lawrence's presence—unless the twiddlepoop had actually remembered to remove the scarf this time. Scanning the ranks, he realized that there was no sign of the towering presence of Bligh either. "Captain Schoen!" barked Tavington at the soldier directly in front of him. "Where are Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence?"

"I don't know, sir," Schoen replied. "I haven't seen them since they left for patrol this morning, sir."

"Has anyone seen them?" said Tavington, now addressing the entire platoon. Silence greeted him. Tavington sighed heavily. Whatever ineffectual wags Lawrence and Bligh might be, they were always punctual; and if they weren't back yet, chances were that something had gone wrong. If the fools had gotten themselves captured….

Tavington turned back to the Captain. "Gather a squadron. We shall go after them." Turning on his heel, he went to ready his horse.

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From my vantage point in my sewing room, I saw a solitary rider galloping toward the house just before dinnertime. I had seen Cornwallis arrive with his escort about an hour before; this looked like a messenger. As he dismounted and ran toward the house, curiosity got the better of me, and I hurried downstairs to see if anything was amiss.

I found Cornwallis in the parlor, deep in whispered conversation with O'Hara. They stopped talking when I entered the room. "Is everything all right, General?" I asked, noticing that he looked decidedly graver than usual.

"Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence failed to return from patrol this morning, Mrs. Tavington," he said. "Your husband is leading a mission to see if anything can be learned about their disappearance."

My satisfaction at having started on my new dress immediately vanished, to be replaced by a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. I had just realized that the lieutenants were my only friends here; I couldn't bear to lose the only people around whom I felt remotely comfortable.

I must have looked worried, because the General smiled at me and patted my cheek reassuringly. "Not to worry, my dear, the Colonel knows better than to get himself captured. He should return before nightfall."

I had suddenly lost my appetite completely. I made a weak attempt at a smile for the General's sake and went back upstairs to the sitting room to stare out at the darkening sky.

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As dusk fell, Lawrence and Bligh found themselves tied to the trunk of a massive tree, the muzzle of a rebel's gun pointed at each of them. Bligh scowled as he altered his position slightly; the fresh round of bruises he had acquired through the course of the day had done nothing to improve his mood. The rebels had commandeered their horses and taken them deeper into the swamp until they reached a sort of marshy clearing. They had been held there for what felt like hours, and quite aside from his distaste at the thought of being interrogated or executed, Bligh was damned uncomfortable, what with the mosquitoes and the humidity.

Just as he was wondering how long it would be until their interrogation commenced and what information the rebels were likely to want, Bligh felt Lawrence nudge him. "How're you holding up, old chap?" he whispered, under the cover of an increasingly rowdy conversation taking place on the other side of the clearing.

"I'm all right, no thanks to you," replied Bligh, very much wishing he had a hand free with which to throttle Lawrence.

"Whatever do you mean?" Lawrence seemed genuinely confused at Bligh's hostility.

"It's your fault we're here, mate!" growled Bligh. "If you hadn't taken the initiative to appeal to Cornwallis, we wouldn't have gotten on the Colonel's bad side, and we wouldn't have had patrol this morning."

Lawrence snorted. "Begging your pardon, my dear fellow, but we were already on his bad side. And anyway," he continued, suddenly on the defensive, "you can't tell me he didn't appreciate it."

Bligh's eyes widened incredulously. Was Lawrence mentally impaired? "Yes, I believe I can. Have you ever seen even Tavington that angry?"

Lawrence thought for a moment. "Well, there was the time we—" Whatever he was about to say was cut off by a commotion on the other side of the clearing. The rebels had evidently heard something; they were all taking cover, muskets pointing into the woods, from whence came the sound of galloping hooves. Even their captors had abandoned them and were now racing across to back up the rest of their company. Seizing the opportunity, Lawrence struggled against the ropes, but was unable to free himself. Meanwhile, Bligh had managed to free his hands, but couldn't slip out of the ropes binding him to the tree. Lawrence thought for a moment. The rebels had taken their swords, of course, but… "Say, Bligh, can you reach my knife?"

Bligh eyed him dubiously. "I can try. Where is it?"

Lawrence looked slightly abashed and nodded toward a bulge in his trousers.

Bligh rolled his eyes and, after an awkward moment, pulled out the weapon. He sawed quickly through the ropes and the lieutenants slipped behind the tree to observe the scene unfolding before them.

The rebels had fired several shots haphazardly into the gathering dark among the trees, but the sounds from around the clearing had ceased, to be replaced by an ominous silence. Abruptly, fire erupted around them, and a dozen Dragoons rushed into the clearing, Tavington leading the way. He slashed his way through several rebels and engaged himself in swordplay with the one who appeared to be their leader.

Bligh looked over at Lawrence and was astonished to see that his friend had snuck out from behind the tree and was approaching the nearest rebel, who was crouched behind a bush. In one fell swoop, Lawrence removed the man's sword from its sheath, shoved him to the ground, and slammed the hilt into the rebel's head. Making sure the man wasn't likely to move anytime soon, Lawrence reached down, pulled the rebel's pistol from its holster and, grinning, tossed it back to Bligh. "Still going to blame me, mate?"

"Yes," said Bligh, a surly look on his face.

"Well, you can shove it, then, you short-heeled wench," said Lawrence, and rushed forward into the battle, Bligh just behind him.

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It was completely dark outside when I heard the first hint of hooves on the drive toward the house. I stood up, peering intently out. Gradually, I discerned a dozen or so figures on horseback. Not pausing to see who was with them, I ran downstairs and out onto the veranda, where I found Cornwallis, O'Hara, and several other officers assembled. "General—" I said breathlessly. "What—"

He held up a hand to silence me and gestured toward the Dragoons who were now dismounting and walking toward us, Tavington in front. His eyes swept briefly over to meet mine as he strode toward Cornwallis; I felt an unaccountable wave of relief wash over me and realized that, though I hadn't known it, I had been worried—about Tavington. As he began to speak to the General, I spotted Bligh and Lawrence standing together a few yards away. Not pausing to consider propriety, nor the fact that they were covered in mud and what looked unpleasantly like blood, I ran over to them and threw my arms around first Lawrence, then Bligh. The latter seemed rather uncomfortable, but I didn't care. "I'm so glad you're all right!"

"Thank you, ma'am," said Lawrence, smiling at me. "Your concern is much appreciated."

"What happened?" I said quickly. "General Cornwallis wouldn't give me any details."

Bligh glared at Lawrence. "Well, ma'am, Lieutenant Lawrence—"

"We were on patrol this morning," Lawrence interrupted smoothly, "and were captured by a group of rebel militia. Colonel Tavington led a squadron to locate us this evening once he realized we were missing."

I was astonished. "Tavington? Went to rescue you?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Bligh. "We defeated the rebels and rode straight back here on General Cornwallis's orders."

I couldn't believe Tavington had risked his own life to recover the lieutenants he so clearly considered useless. "I'm so glad you're safe," I said again. "If you'll pardon me, Lieutenants…"

I turned around and walked back to the veranda. The Dragoons were all milling about, talking or attempting to rid their uniforms of mud; and Tavington had just turned away from the General and was heading for his horse. I stopped him after he stepped off of the veranda. "Thank you," I said, looking him in the eye.

"For?" he said, returning my gaze.

"For rescuing the lieutenants. It was very…honorable of you," I said.

He gave me an inscrutable glance and made to turn away. "It is nothing, madam. I was merely doing my duty."

I grabbed his arm, noting as I did so that his uniform was stained with dirt and blood, and made him turn back toward me. "Well, thank you, anyway," I said, and without pausing to consider what I was doing, stood on my tiptoes and kissed his cheek. I noticed, as I swept past him to go back into the house, that he looked rather shell-shocked. Once I stepped back inside, I realized that I was, too.

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"Did you see that?!" Lawrence whispered excitedly to Bligh. "Our plan's working!"

Bligh refused to answer on principle. He saw that Tavington was approaching and turned quickly back toward his horse. Lawrence, on the other hand, shot Tavington a happy smile, which faded abruptly when he noticed the look on Tavington's face.

"I found this in the swamp, Lieutenant," said Tavington, brandishing his sword, on the end of which was draped a bright length of material, stained with mud. Lawrence reached happily for his scarf, but Tavington drew it back. "I'm afraid, Lieutenant, that this scarf is not within uniform regulation, as you well know. And I shall keep it for the time being." He walked back over to his horse and leapt on.

Bligh, who had been listening, sighed to himself. If the scarf was off-limits, he would have to rethink his plan—or perhaps even let the little bugger live.

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AN: Thanks to TTT for fantabulous beta-ing and planning the batt-les.