Hi all. As usual, sorry it took so long to post this update. Wendy is back in school now, however overtime at work continues. I edited/proofread this quickly, so let me apologize now for missed errors…I'll get them corrected sometime soon! Thanks for staying with the story and suffering thru long times between updates. I appreciate you all!

Enjoy

Author

Chapter 25: Avoiding the Inevitable

Autumn of 1777 passed into winter more quickly than Betsy Burwell liked. And though the South Carolina winters were mild, the cold seemed to chill the girl to the bone, making her feel as if it would take nearly all of the next summer for her to warm up again. Having the enemy living near her in her home left her feeling almost as cool as the season did.

The turn of the year from 1777 into 1778 was uneventful, thankfully for all the residents on the Burwell plantation. The dragoons had been ensconced there for six months. It had been decided that they would keep the billet at the Burwell's throughout the cold season, effectively making that their winter quarters and saving them a move elsewhere.

As usual, the servants and slaves talked and grumbled amongst themselves daily, wondering when the lobsters were going to leave or if they were going to stay there for the rest of the war. They desired to hide all shovels, hammers, saws and other tools, afraid that at any minute they would be asked to start digging redoubts and building wooden fortifications around the farm, making it an official British stockade. They jokingly called it Fort Tavington, knowing that the colonel would never abide Fort Burwell, or Burwell's Station.

While the other residents on the farm worked, jested, and worried, Betsy had grown depressed. She grieved her late mother and dead brother, missing them in earnest. The girl tended their graves regularly. Everyone left her alone when she was in the cemetery, and she was grateful for it. It gave her moments to cry quietly, pouring her woes out to whatever familial spirits happened to linger nearby.

Her father, Colonel Harry Burwell, remained in a camp with his men somewhere in one of the Carolinas. Betsy had received no letters or word from him. The girl needed him and missed him worse. She wanted his love; needed his protection. Her heart hurt, for she had convinced herself that his actions, or lack of, to contact her or try to visit under a white flag, meant that he loved his men and duty more than her. To her, it was glaringly apparent that she was not important enough for him to bother with.

It was the same with her fiancé, George Rogers Clark, who had been given the command of an army to be raised by him, and was bestowed the rank of Colonel. The young officer had his hands full managing the western front of the war out on the frontier. It seemed that whenever Miss Burwell picked up Rivington's Gazette, or one of the other newspapers, she read about Clark's success over the British and Indians in the hinterland of the colonies. Unfortunately, the broadsheets also reported the women he squired about or hinted at rumors of his supposed heavy drinking, depending on what publication she read. Again, she grappled with feeling rejected by her fiance, convincing herself that George probably found it more exhilarating to be fighting a war than to be home with a wife.

The young lady also missed the social life of the village. She missed seeing the local merchants and villagers—at least the sympathetic ones that understood her plight with the British. In particular, she longed to spend time with her friends, even for something as mundane as giggling over something silly. More and more of her friends and the locals were moving away, trying to find a safe haven from the war, or following a soldier that had joined the fight.

Some of her friends were getting married. Mostly, she missed her newly married friend, Hannah. And though the new Mrs. Day came to visit, and Miss Burwell was allowed to visit the newlyweds at their farm—with a dragoon guard—things had changed. After all, Hannah was a wife now, being not so free anymore, having quit her parents' home to live with her husband and keep house there. She didn't have the leisure time she had before marriage.

The Burwell servants and slaves were always loyal; always taking care of and watching over her. But they knew the boundary, never forgetting that the young lady who was mistress of the farm was also a part of South Carolina gentry. That buffer often kept them from enjoying any closer confidence with the young woman.

It seemed that the closest person of all to Betsy was an enemy officer. Indeed Captain Hugh Bordon was her confidant and protector. He was the only redcoat that was truly nice to her. She often sought his advice as well as his help with problems. She welcomed his efforts to try to keep her spirits up when she lamented to him. And sometimes while on duty or off, they spent an increasing amount of time together. The captain shared board with her when he didn't eat with the officers. He sometimes accompanied her when she rode about the plantation, inspecting the grounds. An unlikely friendship and trust had developed between them. Sometimes, Betsy found herself wanting more.

The girl was painfully aware of how handsome she found the captain. And, in her heart, she carefully guarded a secret. She harbored a growing attraction to the redcoat leader that she could do nothing about. Sometimes, she thought she could see a sparkle in his eye, and dared to hope that maybe he held affection for her as well. However, knowledge of how duty driven the man was, coupled with his honor demonstrated to her that he was far too disciplined and gentlemanly to act upon it. So she kept her feelings under wraps, and reminded herself that she was to marry George.

Miss Burwell also prayed and wished that the war would end soon, not caring who the victor would be. The sooner it was over, the sooner Major Clark would come here and take her as his wife. The sooner it ended, the sooner her father would return home to the farm. The sooner it would end, the quicker these lobsters would be on their way—although she had to admit that she would miss Captain Bordon.

And so the girl pined away the winter, keeping her secrets and longings hidden deep within her soul.

To the billeted cavalry, the cold season meant something entirely different. It meant winter quarters and a degree of boredom. The cooler weather and lack of fighting and raiding brought a sense of dread, especially the officers. It now meant they had more time on their hands to do nothing.

Winter quarters, to Hugh Bordon, meant dread over the lack of fighting and raiding which meant more time in his room to think about and miss his wife and son. Cholera had taken Robbie and Sarah so suddenly. He mourned for them still after 2 ½ years. And he grieved the unborn child that Sarah carried within her, taking the babe to the grave with her. He often wondered about the child. Was it a girl? Was it a boy? Could it be twins? He thought the baby lucky to forego burial in a cold pine box for the soft confines of a mother's womb. All his family did was love him and keep the home fires burning. What had they done to deserve early deaths, he often agonized. After all, he was the one killing soldiers, stringing up rebellious colonists, making underhanded deals for information, confiscating property, burning buildings, and occasionally forcing himself on women. And all he ever received were survivable wounds. The captain felt certain that had Sarah lived, she would have borne him many more children. The officer had wanted more sons, but he had wanted at least one girl to spoil and find a good society husband for.

The grief luckily, did not consume him totally. Often he played his fiddle. Bordon finally received not a violin, but money from his parents instead, which he used to purchase a fine instrument in Charles Towne and some new music to go with it during a visit there before the autumn ended. He practiced often, happy to have music for an occasional companion, and glad for the challenge of learning some new tunes.

The captain missed his family and friends in England. For all the winters he had spent in the colonies, he had missed having a fine English Christmas and celebration of the New Year in London. Yet, strangely, he wasn't eager to go back to Britain, knowing that the quiet of the English countryside could never match the excitement of war.

Captain Bordon did indeed miss the fighting. He fully intended to reenlist his commission when it was up. Being quartered so much in the cold weather meant that he spent much time catching up on the brigade paperwork—a boring but necessary 'hazard' of being second in command.

The captain gambled occasionally with the officers and enlisted men. He drank some, and whored when he had the manly need to. Sometimes, his mind turned to a certain young girl, whose nearness rattled him.

His growing affection for Miss Burwell never ceased to surprise him. He wondered what kind of a woman she would become. What kind of wife and mother she would make.

Tavington's words uttered to him months ago were never far out of his thoughts. "Bordon, if you want to fuck the Burwell girl, just cease the slow seduction and have at it!" He could have the young woman in his bed. He knew that she trusted him that much that he could help himself to her virtue. But it would be fleeting. And, he would lose the trust she had given him.

For certain, Hugh could not start a romance with her; it was a breach of officer's decorum to have a love relationship with an enemy prisoner. The other officers would look down on him if he openly courted her. Society or not: she was a colonial rebel. He dismissed her as a babe in the woods. Besides, the captain needed her confidence in him for his intelligence purposes.

Bordon's superior officer, Colonel William Tavington spent time at winter quarters wishing it away, as well.

He, as most of his men, wanted more action.

The colonel was thankful that the brutal summer heat was now gone. Other than the resolve of the insolent colonists, the hot Carolina weather had been the hardest thing to get used to after having grown up in the cool climate of Britain. He was pleasantly surprised to find the southern colonies' winters were mild. They could be cold, but there was nearly no snow. It seemed to rain more in this season which hindered the passing of horses and wagons with supplies. All in all, he and his men were happy not to have to ride that much in great coat and heavy clothing, without which made life in the cavalry easier during that cold.

William Tavington kept himself busy as best he could. He did his duty. He caught up his correspondence. He questioned detainees, drilled his soldiers on nicer days and interviewed recruits. He studied maps when he could get his hands on them. Read what broadsheets he could get hold of. Rode patrols and conducted searches and raids, though there wasn't much property destruction or skirmishes. It had seemed that either the rebels had disbanded temporarily and were keeping to their homes, or had marched northward to join any winter battles there.

The dragoon commander had conferred closely and frequently with the Generals through the winter, assessing the situation. They made the decision to keep the Green Dragoons here, just to have some show of force and not look as if they had abandoned the Carolinas to the rabble. The choice had also been made, for the time being, to confine the war to the Northern colonies as they were having a good run of success there quelling the revolution. They needed to concentrate men there in case they needed to make a sudden march to the Northwest Territory, where Colonel George Rogers Clark's men were wreaking havoc and turning the Indians from the redcoat cause. The most obvious reason for keeping the war confined to the northern colonies was due to the mounting bills the British government had incurred during the fighting. War was a costly business.

Gambling and drinking helped the colonel ease the burden of excess time during these weeks. He spent time wrapped in the embrace of his favorite whore of the moment, Minnie. And sometimes he found occasion to sneak away to a town brothel just to spend time with some different strumpets since the choice in camp was limited. William managed upon occasion to get away to the widow Selton's farm, usually coming up with some viable military excuse to travel there. He found Charlotte all too willing to please him; her arms, bed, and between her legs a warm place to wrap himself in.

The officer's mind kept busy mulling over different ways in which to obtain rebel officers or officials—even their family members would do, the same as them imprisoning Miss Burwell. Tavington wanted to crush the rebels and steal their hope for he had had seen time and time again that eliminating their leadership worked well. Working from the top down was always a plan favored by him. His adjutant, Bordon, seemed to take a more optimistic look at the situation. Though thrilled to capture an officer, the captain was happy to imprison some low colonial, an enlisted man, sympathizer, or even a by proxy relative. To him, he was content to win the war from the bottom up one colonial at a time. A rebel imprisoned, turned, or executed was one step closer to colonial capitulation. William differed, always wanting the glory of catching some top official or officer, thinking it would bring the rebels to their knees faster.

Tavington had grown more irritated by the day, then the week, then the month, that Colonel Burwell and Colonel Clark had done seemingly nothing to rescue their beloved Betsy. With the winter season slow and rebel officials huddled in their homes and winter quarters, it seemed his only chance remaining in the lingering cold was to try somehow to lure Harry Burwell and Colonel Clark to him, and that was something he intended to rectify soon.

So, Colonel Tavington decided to play an old card with a bit more fervor.

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

February 1778….

Having been summoned to Colonel Tavington's office this morning, Miss Burwell walked pensively through the door. Her wrists, bound together in front of her, made the girl even more apprehensive, wondering what capitol offense she had committed. As Private Kelly tied her wrists a moment ago, she protested, knowing she could question an enlisted man without being accused of insolence. All Kelly could tell her was that it was Colonel Tavington's orders. And although the dragoons had been in residence there now for months, Betsy and her servants were always cautious and on edge around the dragoon leader, whose lack of patience was well known to all around him. Time in one place had not served to dissolve that any. The girl took a seat and swallowed hard when the colonel shut the door. Then, hearing the lock click, she shivered in fear, always afraid to be alone with this particular redcoat.

Betsy had always felt a sort of dismay in this one room of the house. She had grown up with it as her father's office; Harry's domain. The girl, as a child, had been afraid to enter the office, usually only at her father's behest, and usually only for a stern scolding or appropriate punishment. Then it had been hers temporarily, before the Green Horse had shown up. She had overcome her childish fear of the room out of necessity to run the day to day operations of the plantation. But now, she found herself frightened again to be sitting in the room, alone with a brutal enemy who had hurt her twice in this very room: once slicing both palms open, and once to whip her when she had refused to sign treacherous papers.

The young woman dared not look at the colonel. Instead, she fixed her gaze on the massive old desk before her. The papers and books upon it, which had always been familiarly sloppy, a welcome disarray of the Burwell's books and farm papers, was now cold and organized into precise piles of dragoon paperwork and reports.

Her mind didn't stay focused on the cold, hard desktop for long. Betsy's mind soon went back to wondering what she had—or had not—done to land her in front of the commander in chains. She strained to remember, quickly processing scenes in her mind of her life in the last hours and days. What had she done? What didn't she do? Had she said something coarse? Perhaps someone had lied about her to get her into trouble? Whatever her trouble, the lass wished that Captain Bordon, the voice of reason, was here, for he had a gift of controlling some of the whims of his superior. Bad treatment seemed to happen when Bordon was not about. And at this moment, he was out at the end of the field, drilling with the men. He may as well have been a million miles away.

The colonel did not take a seat. Instead, he turned and looked out the window of the office, noting the activity that went on outside. After a moment passed, he clasped his hands behind his back and spun slowly back around. Still standing, he stared down hard at the girl.

Tavington broke the intense silence. "Your father is no easy man," the officer commented.

"He is dedicated to the matter at hand," Betsy replied.

"His dedication is misplaced." Tavington expressed his opinion freely, manipulating the captive.

"Sir?" She kept her words short, trying to remember not to give too much away.

"He seems Hell bent on continuing his treason," William explained. "He has no concern for the welfare of his daughter."

Betsy swallowed hard and said nothing, wondering where this was leading. She needed to stay as quiet, or as vague as possible. She reminded herself that the dragoon leaders were adept at gleaning shards of information out of the smallest of answers.

"Your fiancée is rather busy to give a care, it would seem," Colonel Tavington teased. "You would think that he would grow bored with the barren frontier."

"Both are men sworn to the fighting," she answered, a trace of defiance in her voice.

"And when your fiancé isn't fighting, he's occupied elsewhere," the dragoon commander jeered with a smirk. "I hear he is quite handy with the women." The colonel looked down at the desk. He pinched a bit of fine sand out of the container next to the inkwell. He rubbed it between his thumb and pointer, then let it snow back into the jar. "I wonder whose bed he shared last night?"

Betsy did not dignify the remark with a response. She wanted to. She wanted to tell the colonel to go to Hell. But she didn't, keeping silent and chafing under the redcoat commander's scrutiny and teasing.

Then her mind began to wander. The girl wondered again if George and her father cared for the welfare of their men more than her. She wondered why they could spare no men, even a small contingent, to rescue her. Finally, she cringed inside, indeed wondering where—and with what woman—her fiancé spent his nights.

The sound of Colonel Tavington hitting his fist against his desk in exasperation drew her from her musings. His words echoed her own thoughts. "Why won't either of them trade themselves for you?" he queried of her, as if she knew the answer. "Why not rescue you? I wouldn't leave my pretty, young, virtuous daughter with the enemy. The men here are a pack of hungry wolves."

"They can't leave their men," were the only defensive words Miss Burwell could find.

"Which makes them traitors and leaves you vulnerable," he proclaimed as he eyed the prisoner.

"I know you are afraid," Tavington said in all frankness. "Perhaps…..for once….I will allow you to write to your father or Colonel Clark, without my censor. You can tell them of your fear."

The colonel seldom allowed Miss Burwell to write to anyone. When she did, the letters could not go out without his approval for fear of her revealing something to someone in some kind of code. The girl couldn't even send a dinner invitation to her best friend Hannah Lansing Day without it having to go through a dragoon censor.

The notion made Betsy let her guard down. She had hope now, that if she could write letters to her father or George that truly conveyed her fright, and they could feel her emotion as they read them, then maybe it would stir them to some kind of action to help her. Betsy did not even entertain the thought that maybe the two officers' hands were tied, and were helpless with a war on, to alleviate the young lady's situation.

"You would?" she asked cautiously.

"Perhaps," he replied with a sinister smile. "Maybe I'll send him a message of my own. I'm sure that a lock of your hair or a drop of your blood on a strip of material from your undergarment might get their attention."

Panic flowed in Betsy's veins, warming her to a flush. The girl knew instantly what he meant. She hadn't forgotten the threat that Tavington had made to her father in person last summer.

"No! Please!" the girl beseeched. "Please be reasonable, sir. I'm sure that another bargain can be arranged!"

"Miss Burwell, I have no patience where traitors are concerned," he began menacingly. "And it is beyond reason to me why a band of unorganized rag tags would want to challenge the most powerful nation on this Earth! I'm tired of waiting!"

Colonel Tavington stomped around the desk, undoing the buttons on his red and green jacket as he did. "Your father should have traded himself when he had the chance," growled the officer as he took off his coat. "He could have had an easy imprisonment," William informed as he tossed his jacket onto a chair. His frustration poured out in breathy words though his gritted teeth. "Bloody Hell! He's an officer. He would probably be given parole."

Forgetting herself in the heat of the moment, Betsy jumped to her feet, speaking back to the officer. She was tired of the colonel's accusations against her father and desired to defend him. "He'd never surrender! He knows you'd hang him. He'd rather die honorably, fighting with his men. That goes as well for Colonel Clark!"

"I have not been deputized to execute," the commander lied as he rolled up the sleeves of his white linen shirt. The generals actually had given Tavington's legion free rein to conduct business in the area, as long as rebellion was quelled.

"I don't believe you!" she shot back. "You burn houses; seize property; kidnap; rape!"

The sound of the word 'rape' in her young girl voice, such a raw accusation, stopped the officer momentarily. They had been in the area now for months and rumors about how they conducted duty had run rampant, instead of the horrid crime staying as just a dirty little secret way of imposing intimidation. Tavington raised his eyebrows and smiled like some mad genius. "Ah, yes. Assault. It can be very effective."

Suddenly, ice cold terror flooded over Betsy, realizing now why she was bound. Speechless, the young lady's countenance twisted into evident fright and incredulity. Inside her head, her mind seemed to trip over flashes of thoughts, unable to organize them enough to be able to stay calm and think of a way out of this situation.

"Maybe it is time for your father and your fiancé to be punished for their treason," the colonel warned ominously. "I think I shall make good on my threat to take your virginity."

Betsy gulped, though her throat suddenly felt so tight as to nearly cut off her breathing. "No, colonel, please don't!" she begged, shaking her head in disbelief. She had to save herself somehow. At the moment, bargaining with what little she had left seemed to be the only option. "You could send me to the prison," she began, "or the dungeon in Charles Towne." She hoped that offering the loss of her freedom and subsequent absence from the plantation would interest him instead.

The officer did not bite. "No! I think I will release you to your father instead….. with a dragoon bastard in your belly," the dragoon leader taunted. "Do you think Colonel Clark will see fit to raise a redcoat by blow as his own?"

In an instant, Betsy tore from her seat and ran to the door, where her bound hands reached for the doorknob. Equally as fast, Colonel Tavington kicked the chair over and out of the way as he raced to meet the girl there. She fumbled with the knob, unable to get a good grasp of the damned thing. As she raised her hands to pound on the wood, hoping to get the attention of anyone near, the officer's hand clamped firmly over her mouth. He grabbed her about the waist firmly with his other arm and hustled the fighting girl away from the door. She struggled with her might to get out of his grasp.

The dragoon commander dragged the squirming girl to the divan, and threw her on to it. He landed on top of her hard, pinning her down. Tavington wrestled her bound arms to above her head, holding them there with one of his hands. "I swear to Christ if you scream, I'll hurt you worse than a simple fuck will hurt!" he threatened.

"No. Don't," Betsy begged, her voice no more than a whisper. The girl knew he would make good on it. He had hurt her before.

Colonel Tavington tossed the girl's skirts out of the way then roughly kneed her legs apart. The man then pushed her dress up the rest of the way to her hips, where it lay askew in bunches and rolls at the top of her thighs.

All poor Betsy could do was shake her head in disbelief at how fast everything was happening. Tears blurred her vision as she squirmed and whimpered, trying to get out from under the man. She continued her struggle even as she watched the colonel undoing the placket of his breeches.

Tired of the girl fighting, he slapped her face as he scolded her. "Lay still, missy! It will be over before you know it!"

The hot sting in her left cheek seemed to stun her, effectively stopping her tears and sobs. Her scared, saucer eyes beheld the man in fright as he freed his hardened manhood from his pants. She glimpsed his erection for only an instant before she closed her eyes hard.

The officer still had a restraint on Miss Burwell's hands, having them pinned down still above her head. Gripping his stiffened cock, he positioned himself between her legs, ready to skewer the young miss' virtue.

A knock at the door stopped him before he could enter the girl. "Colonel?" a voice called through.

Tavington glared silently down at the girl, his eyes warning her to remain silent. He recognized the voice as belonging to one of his cavalrymen. "This had better be good, Donovan."

"You have a message from Mrs. Selton," the private answered.

"I'm busy now," the officer growled. "Come back with it later."

Betsy lay still beneath his weight, scared even to breathe. She silently prayed that the dragoon private was stupid or audacious enough to enter without permission.

"It may be urgent sir," Donovan countered. "A rider from her farm just rode up with it."

Now, having been told that the message was brought by one of the widow's own servants, he was no longer interested in the thin, young, virgin on the couch beneath him. Instead his interest wandered to his mistress from the next county over. The blonde, beautiful, curvy, and experienced-in-the-matters-of-the-bedroom woman always grabbed his attention. Mrs. Selton was more than eager to satisfy the dragoon commander, and he was more than happy to let her do that, always enjoying her attentions.

William rocked himself backwards to a sitting position and tugged his breeches back up. Betsy stayed on the couch a moment, gasping for breath as the colonel rose from her body. The girl did not move, unsure what the man's intentions were. For the moment, she was grateful for the letter from the widow Selton.

"You may go, little girl," he advised with a sneer.

Betsy pushed her skirts down and rose slowly, cautious not to make any sudden moves. She nearly tiptoed toward the door. Before she could turn the doorknob, she jumped back with a start, finding Tavington in front of her again. He had purposely put himself between the girl and her way out, looking menacingly down at her. His ice blue eyes staring that cold hard gaze of his was enough to make anyone freeze in place.

"You have a reprieve," he informed. "Temporarily."

Betsy said nothing, too afraid to speak. Her rounded eyes gave away the fear within.

"You can count on my words, girl," he warned. "I do intend to help myself to your virtue. You may as well square with that. You will find me between your legs again. And who knows? Maybe I will share you with the other officers. Your father and Colonel Clark will not be able to deny that His Majesty's Dragoons claimed your innocence."

Holding her breath as she watched Colonel Tavington turn the doorknob, she gathered her courage and bolted through the door. She ran down the hall, up the stairs, and into her room, where she closed the door, locked it, and even tilted a chair up under the knob for good measure, stupidly thinking she could keep the world out of her domain.

Betsy sat on the bed, panting and out of breath. Then, her head dropped down, landing in her hands into which she sobbed pitifully. After a moment of free falling tears and woe-is-me sobs, she stopped, took a breath and composed herself. She willed herself to try to think clearly about if and how she could combat the colonel's advances.

The girl stayed calm and quiet for a moment as she tried to come up with some options. She thought she could write to her father or fiancé, desperately describing her fright. Most likely they couldn't spare the men or their own time away, and would have to hope that the colonel was only bluffing. If they did answer and perchance came with a bargain trade, she knew that the dragoons would hang them for perceived treachery.

Speaking of this matter to Captain Bordon was out of the question—she knew he wouldn't believe her. He had nearly succeeded in making her doubt her own eyesight when she revealed that she had seen Colonel Tarleton assault the blacksmith's daughter. It was a hard fact understood by all who knew the Green Dragoons, that they were a brotherhood. They quickly closed ranks on outsiders and defended each other tooth and nail. If by some slim chance the second in command did believe her, he had already warned her that he could not protect her from his superior.

Betsy could tell Mr. Hantz or Mr. Waldron, her loyal farmhands and friends to her father who had protected the girl in the past. However, she knew that any attempt they made to try to aid her would be rewarded with some sort of punishment from the dragoons, if not execution.

No. None of the options she could think of would work. Betsy was truly on her own with this dilemma.

It seemed as if the colonel's threat would come to fruition, just as it nearly did moments ago save for an interruption. She couldn't bear the thought of THAT man stealing her virginity. Yet she couldn't give in and resign herself to the fact that he, not George, would spoil her. How could she defend herself against the officer? How could she keep her maidenhead intact for George Clark, as her husband, to have the honor to break it?

Flustered and unable to think straight, Miss Burwell collapsed onto her bed. She curled her body tightly into a fetal position, holding her knees firmly against her trunk trying to quell the sobs that shook through her core. And as she wept, she pondered the fate of her innocence, little faith that she would remain unstained for long.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

For Betsy, the day following Tavington's advance had been an easy one for the man was gone. She had heard a couple of the privates talking, saying that Mrs. Selton was visiting a nearby town, and Colonel Tavington had ridden out to meet her, anxious to spend time with his mistress. Indeed the dragoon commander was good at combining official duty with a visit to see Charlotte at home or wherever she was. No one could accuse him of shirking his responsibilities in favor of a mistress.

Miss Burwell hoped that Tavington's jaunt to visit his mistress left him satisfactorily sated. Still, she knew she would have to be ever vigilant and looking over her shoulder upon his return. The girl even dared to hope that the officer would be captured by provincials on his way back.

This morning, even amidst Colonel Tavington's absence, Betsy's nerves were frayed. She seemed to be a bundle of jitters as she traversed the hallway to the plantation's office. It grew worse the closer she got to the door. And upon arrival there, she shivered as torrents of memory from the day before washed through her mind. She hesitated in the doorway, not wanting to enter the office.

Instead, she stood there quietly, trying to push the thoughts of Colonel Tavington's misdeed from her mind as she stared absently at Captain Bordon. It was benign and safe for he sat in the chair at the desk attending to the administrative duties of the legion. The officer dropped a bit of melted wax on an envelope, sealing a letter. He looked up and noticed Miss Burwell standing silently, looking lost, leaning against the doorjamb.

He cocked his head, looking quizzically at the girl. Then he spoke. "It's alright. You may enter."

The officer's deep voice pulled the girl from her thoughts. "Yes, sir," she mumbled as she bobbled into a clumsy curtsy, then entered the room. She made her way to the chair situated in front of the desk. She was still firmly in the grip of apprehension as she sat down. A chill came over her, recalling what nearly happened in this room the day before.

Finally, Betsy forced herself to push the dreaded recollections from her mind. She focused on Captain Bordon, sitting before her at the desk, attending to the mundane duties of administration.

The officer pushed the sealer into the wax then set the envelope aside. He smiled quietly as the young lady as he moved some papers about on the desk. Again, he noticed that the girl was acting odd. She sat ramrod straight in her seat on the edge of it, to him, looking as if she was ready to jump from it and run away at any instant.

"Is something wrong, Miss Burwell?" he inquired.

Betsy realized that her actions were giving her away. She knew damned well, yet always seemed to forget that Captain Bordon knew her well and could nearly guess her thoughts and guage her emotions. She took a deep breath and relaxed back in her chair, trying to look as if nothing was out of the ordinary. "Oh, no," she answered, trying to sound confident. "Nothing."

Bordon nodded then spoke. "The generals have asked Colonel Tavington to host a party here for some important visitors from England. This is the guest list," he informed as he handed the paper over the desk to Betsy.

"Please see that they are all invited," the captain directed. The youth nodded as she looked over the list silently.

"There is someone who isn't on the list," Bordon said in a measured tone.

"Oh?" Betsy looked up from the paper, ready to receive more instruction.

"Colonel Tavington would like Mrs. Selton to be invited."

Miss Burwell frowned. While she was thankful when Tavington was gone to see her, she wasn't particularly thrilled to have that woman here for the two of them to carry on in her home. "Haven't you heard the talk about her? Do you think it is wise to include her?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," Hugh Bordon replied. Then he stared squarely at the girl, his eyes full of stern rebuke. "We have spoken about gossip before," he reprimanded. "I seem to recall that you don't like being the subject of it."

"You're right," she answered. "But I am innocent of what is said of me. She is not. She is a lobster kettle!"

"Watch your mouth, lassie!" he scolded.

"But she is!" Betsy countered. "Everyone knows that she is Colonel Tavington's mistress. There are those who say that she beds him just to keep him from burning her house down."

"Miss Burwell, you will cease your accusations this instant," warned the captain. "He wants her invited and that is final!"

"Yes sir," she replied. "Will she be spending the night? Do I need to have a room ready for her?"

"No need," Bordon answered.

"I see," Betsy said. "She will be spending the night in Colonel Tavington's quarters."

"What do you think, lassie?!" he shot back sarcastically. He took a breath, getting control of his ire and frustration with the willful girl. She was always questioning decision. "Miss Burwell, I can't very well tell my superior how to act."

"You told me that the officers wouldn't bring women to their rooms!" she reminded, frustrated that Colonel Tavington would have that woman spend the night in his chamber. Betsy knew that word of that would eventually make its way around.

"No," Bordon answered firmly. "I said that the officers would not bring whores into the house."

"Mrs. Selton is a trollop!" argued Betsy.

"No. She is a proper lady of class and distinction," the officer countered sternly.

"Well then," Betsy commented, "She is a strumpet with money and class, which is still a strumpet."

"I will argue this issue with you no further, missy! Just see that she is invited." Bordon's harsh tone and hard look told her that he was finished with this matter, and she knew better than to keep on with it.

"Yes sir."

"It is to be formal," he advised. "You will dress your best that evening. You are also expected to be a kind and gracious hostess since you are mistress of this farm."

"Yes," she answered with a distracted nod. The girl was dismayed at having been told to invite the widow Selton. The rumors flying around about herself were enough to damage the Burwell name—they did not need the presence of the dragoon commander's mistress to add to it. Betsy knew how society worked. If she welcomed Mrs. Selton into their house, it would look as if they condone the conduct of the widow and her illicit affair with a hated redcoat officer. She did not want the widow's bold and disgraceful behavior reflecting on the Burwell's good name, but what could she do?

The girl rose slowly from her chair, then bowed her head and dipped into a curtsy before the captain. The girl walked to the door with the dreaded guest list in her hand, knowing that further argument with the captain was futile.

"Miss Burwell," Bordon called from his desk.

"Yes?" she answered as she looked back at the man from the doorway.

"You may invite Mr. and Mrs. Day."

Her lips parted in question as her eyes sparkled with wonder….and hope. "Truly? I can?"

"Of course," the officer replied warmly. "I've not forgotten the kindness they extended to us last autumn at their wedding. I rather enjoyed conversing with them."

A smile crooked her mouth as her face lit up with joy. "Thank you." She curtsied again, then disappeared quickly down the hall, her heart just a bit lighter about hosting a ball for the enemy.