The brush running through Margaret's hair lulled her. Relaxing into the cushioned chair back, she closed her eyes as Sarah continued her work, combing the wealth of golden locks until they shone brightly in the candle light. As wonderful as the day had been, it felt good to be back home, in her own chamber. Off her poor, tired feet. So much dancing! Even with the guests numbering only twenty in total, they had managed to dance much of the afternoon, and half the evening away. The wedding banquet was extravagant, Margaret found it difficult to comprehend how Lucy Simms could organise such a feast in so little time. But she had and it had been exquisite. The entire day and evening had been exquisite.
There had been a melancholy moment when Mary Thompson had excused herself early on, shortly after William and Margaret exchanged vows. Margaret understood why her friend was unable to stay, it had been too hard for Mary, to be so near the man she loved, without being aloud to speak to him. Captain Stephen Evans had stayed, putting on a brave face and dancing with the ladies, doing his best to try and enjoy William's wedding.
Margaret sighed drowsily.
"No yawning," William said ominously, shooting a glance her way with a quirked brow. Margaret smiled lazily as she gazed at her husband in the candlelight. He sat on the wooden chest at the foot of their bed, waiting for Sarah to finish her work. The maid had already helped Margaret to undress, she was down to her shift now and her hair was almost combed through to Sarah's exacting standards. William had resisted the urge to shoo the maid away, instead preferring to recline back against the bed on one elbow as he watched Margaret go through her nightly routine. He had never been able to do so before - each night that he came to her room, he did so only after Sarah departed. By then, Margaret was always waiting for him in her bed, reclined against the pillows, a vision of beauty.
He much preferred it this way, to be in her room openly - no more sneaking about. And he would finally get to be with her more fully, no more fumbling at one another to bring pleasure and climax - tonight, he would be embedded as deeply inside the woman he loved - as deep as he could possibly go. For she was his wife now, and tonight he could claim what all new husbands desired to claim. Their wife's innocence - the sweet gift of her virginity.
With Caroline Tennant, the act would have been perfunctory. Enjoyable, certainly, but it would have been for the sake of consummating their marriage and in the hope of producing an heir. With Margaret, it would be so much more than that - far more fulfilling. If he still harboured doubts over his decision to take a Colonial bride, they fled now. For theirs was not just a joining of two people for their mutual benefit, their joining was based on love. And with love as a foundation, nothing could possibly go wrong between them. Neither would stray from the other, for neither would want to be with anyone else. He finally understood Adam Mason and his determination to be faithful to his wife Claire. He understood now that it required no determination on Mr. Mason's part - it was an easy thing not to bed other women, for he simply wanted no one else. Even when they were parted, Adam had only desired Claire and Tavington felt much the same way now, with his Margie. None could measure up to her, in his thinking.
"Miss Sarah," he said now, with his hooded eyes fixed on Margaret. "I'm certain my wife is more than ready for bed by now."
"Yes, sir," Sarah said immediately and placed the brush on the table. "Mrs. Tavington does look rather sleepy."
Tavington saw the small smirk, quickly stifled. The maid understood well that Margaret would not be getting much sleep, if any.
"That will be all, Sarah," Margaret tried for a stern voice, having seen Sarah's small smirk also. The young girl curtsied politely to both, then withdrew quietly from the room, closing the door behind her. "She's showing a mischievous streak, isn't she? She probably got it from Maisy."
"Perhaps," William pushed himself up to his feet. In only his light cotton drawers and loose shirt, he crossed the room, closing the distance between them. Margaret craned her head back to stare up at him and he reached out to run his fingers carefully through her long, shining locks. "Are you ready, my darling?" He asked her seriously.
Margaret swallowed, understanding the question. He was not asking if she was ready for sleep, but for their first real coupling. For the loss of her virginity.
"Honestly? No, William. I'm not."
"You trust me, don't you?" He bent his head and brushed his lips across hers. This small action set his heart to pounding. Her small, soft sigh and closed eyes stirring him.
"I do trust you," she said quietly. She reached between them to stroke his face, so close to her own. "But I know how…" She gulped. "Large you are, too…"
William smiled as he hovered over her. Such an innocent, did she truly not know how much a man loved to hear those words from a woman? Now was not the time for a quip at her expense, however. Not when her large blue eyes held such fear. Fear of the pain of coupling. He had to make her relax, and laughing at her was not the way. Instead he placed his broad hands on her small shoulders, and kissed her gently. His lips caught her top lip and he nibbled, then he moved to her bottom lip and she sighed, melting as he knew she would. Margaret wrapped her arms over William's shoulders loosely, her fingers combing his long hair. His lips drifted along her jaw and she dropped her head to one side, baring her neck to him. He nuzzled her there, then caressed higher to her ear.
"When you're ready for me," he murmured against the shell of her ear. "You won't care how large I am."
"Ohh," Margaret sighed, her breath catching as that familiar ache bloomed between her legs. "Perhaps you are right…"
He drew back and smiled down at her, then straightened and held his hand out to her.
"Shall we?"
"Yes," she said, still nervous but excited now also. So many times he had been above her, running his length across her folds, nudging against that hard bundle of nerves until she thought she would die. So many times the tip of him had caught her entrance and each time, she had surged her hips up, trying to take him inside her even as he pulled away. Why was she nervous now, she wondered, when she had been so willing before? Perhaps it was because she had known he would pull away, had known he would not plunge deep inside her. That had all changed now, however. He would not pull away - not this time. He would plunge downward, impale her, her virginity and innocence would be gone forever.
Given to her husband.
She smiled up at him, her bright eyes dazzling him as she placed her long fingers in his outstretched hand. His eyes were on her as they crossed the room to stand at the edge of the bed. Without a word, he released her hand and took her silk shift in his fingers, bunching it and pulling it up over her head. This was not the nerve wracking part - not any more. She had been naked before him too many nights to count now. Still, Tavington took the time to take in the sight of her, as he did every evening. It was different for him, this time. As he gazed down at her breasts, as he reached between them to take their full weight in his hands, he decided it was definitely different this time. For she was entirely his now - not his mistress. Not just his lover, but his wife, also. Before, when she was his mistress, he was always under threat that she would marry elsewhere, that another man would hold her, would knead her beautiful breasts as he was doing now. That worry was gone now - for she was his entirely and would never betray him. He knew it in his bones as leaned down to twirl his tongue around her nipple, feeling her shiver against him. She was his, and no other man would ever have carnal knowledge of her, his wife.
Margaret licked her lips as she stared down at the top of William's head. Her hand moved over his hair, keeping it from falling into his face and mouth as he continued to tease first one nipple, then moving on to the other. Small flips began in her stomach, spreading out, causing her breath to come in ragged bursts. Her hands moved down his back to grip and pull his shirt, he stopped his ministrations only long enough for her to pull the shirt free of his body, he was already latched to her again before she dropped his shirt to the floor. His lips and tongue left a moist trail on her breasts and in the valley between them. Then he was moving down and Margaret drew a sharp breath, parting her legs, feeling her moisture build in anticipation.
"William," she whispered, her voice catching - and he was not even there yet. Only at her belly button. But he lowered himself to the floor, kneeling before her, his hands wrapping around her to cup her fleshy half globes. Lower he kissed as he eased her to sit on the edge of the bed. His hands were still beneath her as she sat, kneading her buttocks as she opened her legs wide.
With a deep groan of a starving man, William buried his head between her legs, his tongue parting her folds, tasting her sweetness.
"Hmmm," Margaret sighed and closed her eyes, dropping her head back, her hair tickling and caressing her bare back. His fingers continued to knead her buttocks even as they supported her. And his tongue parted her lips, caressing her gently, tickling her folds as he searched for her pearl. When he found it, when the tip of his tongue began to flick and circle her hardened nub, Margaret shuddered and swayed. She gripped his shoulders for support, her fingers digging in as her hips undulated of their own accord. His fingers beneath her encouraged her movements, lifting her to him and aiding her surging motion. Sweat began to bead her brow and it had nothing to do with the too warm Autumn night. Her heart pounded and she began to pant as his tongue bought her closer to climax. His deep groans as he pleasured her stirred her, causing her entire body to tremble. A fluttering in her stomach spread through her body as her aching pearl strove for sweet release.
"William, oh William!" Margaret began to gasp his name, whispering it over as she quickened the undulations of her hips and wound her fingers through his hair, pushing him into her. He slipped one hand out from beneath her, gliding his thick middle finger up to dip into her cream, sliding it deeply into her entrance. Margaret cried out and arched like a bow, pumping her hips forward as quickly as possible as she panted and clutched his hair. William groaned, a deeply animalistic sound as he embedded his finger to his knuckle inside her. He stiffened his tongue and licked frantically at her engorged clit, relishing her gasps. She pressed her thighs tightly together against the sides of his head, then when she was almost there, she planted her feet to the floor and pushed up against him with all her might, rocking frantically against his tongue and bearing down on his finger as her body exploded with warmth and sensation. She squeezed her eyes shut and grit her teeth - even still, though she tried to hold her breath, small gasps escaped her, puffing from her lips. She broke free then, a long wail escaping her as she came and she lost the strength in her legs to hold her. Margaret collapsed to the bed, her legs dangling over the sides to the floor.
William lifted his head and knelt back on his heels to study her. She lay before him, her legs akimbo, on her back with her hair fanned out in a messy array. Her eyes were closed and she struggled to catch her breath, the rise and fall of her bare breasts deep and quick. He shifted his gaze from her flushed and sweaty face, lowering his eyes to her womanhood before him. He pulled his finger out slowly and as he did, her cream dripped from her entrance.
"Now you won't care how large I am," he whispered, his eyes fixed on her virginal entrance as he raised his finger to his lips and cleaned off her sweet tasting juices.
"Hmmmm," came her lazy, languid reply.
As she lay prone before him, he rose to his feet and lowered his hands to begin to work the knot holding up his cotton pants. His cock gave a lurch as he stared at her - his wife laying akimbo and senseless before him. His eyes raked her body as he shoved his drawers down and free of his legs, freeing his aching erection. Sense began to return to her and she opened her eyes, meeting his gaze. Margaret smiled at him and that smile almost set off an animalistic urge to mount her and plunge deep, regardless of this being her first time. It was all he could do to control himself not to thrust hard inside of her, shunting her in a quick cadence that she was not ready for yet.
Seeing his eyes darken with lust and need, she pushed herself up to sit before him. Her eyes fixed on his, she wrapped her fingers around his phallus as she had so many times before, her fist pumping quickly. William groaned and dropped his head back, the tips of his hair caressing his bare back. All of his senses were alive, he could feel the slightest breeze caress his skin, he could smell the wild flowers just outside the window, he could hear someone coupling further down the hall in one of the other chambers. He wondered briefly who it was, for he had already told his Dragoons that they were not to bring women back to Margaret's house - his house. Nor were they allowed to couple with her maids. But then Margaret's lips touched the tip of his cock and all thought fled.
Her tongue burned him as it swirled around his helmet and when she took him deeply into the scolding wetness of her mouth, his knees damn near buckled. With a deep groan, he snatched his hand out and wound his fingers around the bedpost. Words would not come, he could not form them to exclaim his appreciation but Margaret knew - she was well used to his reaction by now. Smiling around his phallus, she glanced upward and met his eyes, held his gaze as she drew back and licked around his crown. His knees did buckle then. He pulled back free of her mouth and pushed her down to the bed even as weak knees threatened to drop him to the floor. With a tortured, animalistic grunt he climbed quickly to the bed, his knees between her splayed legs. Taking a hold of his cock, his face set in a rictus snarl, he almost - almost - thrust into her in one plunge.
He stopped himself at the last moment, the tip of his cock poised at her entrance, twitching as it dipped in her cream.
Tavington shuddered. He closed his eyes and strove for calm, strove for the control not to simply fuck her, to rut her virginity away like a wild beast. When he felt her fingers stroking his face, he opened his eyes and gazed down at her concerned face.
"What's wrong, darling?" She frowned.
"I asked you to trust me and I almost lost control," he admitted softly. Bracing himself on his elbows to either side of her head, he lowered his body to hers, resting his head in the nook of her neck. Still his aching cock, dripping with is seed now, was poised at her entrance, waiting to be scalded by her sweet, virginal heat.
"You don't need to worry about control any more, remember?" She asked softly, her voice amused as she stroked his hair, trying to comfort him. "We're married now, my virtue is yours. You're supposed to take it, now."
"Not like that," he said, his muffled voice harsh. "If I'm careful you won't feel the slightest pain. If I'm reckless however, you won't have fond memories of this night, my love."
"I do want fond memories," she smiled, turning her face to kiss what she could reach of his cheek, buried against her neck as he was. He shifted his weight to one elbow and lifted his head to gaze down at her.
"Are you ready?" He asked, his eyes bright and lusting, his lips curved in a small smile.
"No," she quipped. She laughed at his expression, then amended, "yes, my darling. I'm ready." She rocked her hips up to emphasise her words, causing his cock to dip into her entrance. His blue eyes darkened with lust, his smile slipped and his expression became serious as he pressed into her slowly, carefully, his eyes fixed on her face, studying her for the slightest sign of distress.
"I love you, Margie," his voice was pure heat now, fevered and passionate even as he felt her maidenhead stretch and tear around his crown. She winced slightly and gave a soft gasp and he stilled his advance. Margaret reached up to caress his face, her wince shifting to a smile.
"I love you too, William," she whispered and undulated her hips again, encouraging him deeper. Her hot velvet walls were slick with cream and she stretched around him, accommodating his girth as he impaled her slowly, the tip of his shaft halfway along her canal, moving deeper until he felt the roof of her and his pelvis was mashed against hers. There he stayed, his lower half frozen as his lips moving over hers, kissing away her discomfort. There was no pain, just as he'd promised - not after the initial scratching sensation of her maiden head tearing. But it was strange and uncomfortable, to be stretched so wide, with this alien object inside of her.
"You fit me perfectly," he groaned against her lips. "Like a hot, silk glove." He murmured between kisses as he began to move his stiffness in small, almost imperceptible thrusts. "Like molten heat…" this came out as a sobbed gasp and his hard cock began to move in ever deeper thrusts inside her willing body. "Ah, Margie," he murmured, kissing her brow, her cheeks, her jaw, her neck, her lips. He kissed her all over and she returned his kisses, wrapping her arms around his neck and when she began to meet his thrusts - her pelvis undulating and rocking in time with him, he almost died from ecstasy. She knew how to move, he had taught her well.
"William…" She panted against his lips. The discomfort was fading and in its place, pleasure began to build. "Oh, Lord, William… Feels so… So much more…"
He understood her panted meaning, for it was the same for him. Even with all the pleasure they had given one another - despite how wonderful it had been, this was what they had striven for, what they had both wanted all along - the penultimate. He nodded, she needn't explain further and she fell silent except for her quiet gasps.
Lifting his buttocks high, he pulled almost free of her, hovering at her entrance before plunging deep, gasping in profound pleasure as his hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt. His cock twitched inside of her and she writhed beneath him when he remained frozen on top of her. Small grunts escaped her lips, indelicate and animalistic, as tortured as he felt. Throwing caution to the wind, he pulled up again, his hips snapping forward, plunging back and forth in a steady, quick drive. He set a fast cadence, and Margaret grasped at his shoulders, holding on for dear life as she surged up beneath him. The heat of their bodies, pressed so close and tight, with sweat slicking their skin, making them slip and slide against one another.
Pushing off his elbows, he lifted his body from hers and braced himself on his palms. Blessed cool air offered some relief from the heat between them. He lowered his head to hers, his hair draping his face as she lifted her head from the mattress to meet him half way. They gasped into one another's mouths as they surged together, fire coursing their bodies, making them grit their teeth and sweat and pant and groan. Margaret dropped back to the mattress and pumped her pelvis up quickly, her fingers drifting down his hard back to clutch his buttocks where she could guide his movements to take her faster and deeper. He complied, setting a quicker beat than before, a coarser, rougher drive that caused Margaret to arch her back and cry out as her body climaxed around his shaft. William clenched his jaw and tried to hold on but her velvet walls were rippling around his shaft, clenching him tight and he could do nothing but hiss as his climax began, her walls massaging him, milking his seed from him in spurts.
Margaret melted into the coverlet then, her body lazy in the aftermath of heat and pleasure. Her fingers unclenched his buttocks and her arms dropped away, she rested them above her head and closed her eyes. Her breathing began to slow from her pants, her heartbeat began to return to normal. William pushed off his hands and knelt above her, his head dropped back, his hands now on her stomach as he continued to drive inside her, his rhythm slow and lazy, moving back and forth languidly as he began to calm.
She opened her eyes and turned her head to stare up at him.
"Definitely will have fond memories," she murmured, placing her palms against his hard chest, feeling his heartbeat slow beneath her fingers. He opened his eyes and gazed down at her.
"As will I," he promised. "Lord, I love being inside you. So snug and warm…"
Despite this declaration, he began to withdraw from her - slowly, carefully, until his semi hard phallus was pulled from her body. Pink glistened along his shaft, her virgin blood mingling with her cream and his seed. His knees felt weak as he edged back on the bed and placed his feet on the carpet. Margaret pushed herself up to her elbows to admire him as he moved about the room, gathering the wash basin and a cloth. She stared at his lithe body, the ripples of his stomach and muscles of his back, his muscled thighs, the silvered scars slashing and crisscrossing his body, now covered in a sheen of sweat. And then he returned to her and she winced to feel the warm cloth press against her womanhood. He cleaned her himself, taking solicitous care and she relaxed under his cautious ministrations.
"So," he said, his voice returned to his usual drawl as he replaced the wash basin and cloth back on the table. "What will you tell your friends, when they ask about this night?"
"That it's none of their damned business?" Margaret asked, scandalised that he would think she would discuss it with anyone.
"Come now, I know women speak of these things," he said, amused as he lay down beside her. He propped himself on one arm, his eyes bright as he took in the sight of her.
"Not me," she said firmly. "This is our business only."
"You won't tell them what a wonderful lover I am?" He affected a hard done by expression of disappointment. "How will they know you've married a demigod?"
Margaret threw back her head and laughed, slapping his shoulders to push him backward.
"Demigod," she chortled as he grinned at her. "Of all the arrogant..! Oh, my God!"
"Yes, my child?" He chuckled, answering her as though she had addressed him as 'God' personally.
She laughed again and reached for him, kissing him deeply.
"I like this side to you," she whispered against his lips. "I don't get to see it very often."
"You will now," he murmured as he wound his arms beneath her. "You're my wife, after all. You're deserving of it."
He moved off her then and lay back against the pillows, then held his arms out to her to join him there.
"Our first sleep together as husband and wife," she whispered, her voice thick with contentment as she settled alongside him, caged securely in his arms.
"And for the entire night too," he said. "No more sneaking back before dawn. I wasn't sure how I'd be able to force myself to leave your bed on the cold mornings in Winter."
"It's a good thing you married me then," she said drowsily. "You can stay right here, at my side, when Winter comes."
Tavington ran his fingers along Margaret's spine as she snuggled in closer, her head nestled into his chest. Though he said nothing now, he knew well before Winter rolled around, he would be back in the field, a Colonel once more. Cornwallis would return in only a few scant weeks, and he would most likely be back in the saddle, leading his Dragoons where ever his Lordship directed him. That would occur even before Autumn ended, let alone Winter. They had a month perhaps, to enjoy their newly wedded life, before he would leave her again. What he needed to decide was, if he should take her with him, or leave her in Charleston. He was still undecided on that score until well after Margaret began snoring softly in a deep, contented sleep.
::::::
"So…" Maisy ventured. "How was it?"
Margaret smirked up at her friend as Maisy lowered herself to the chaise beside her. They were not alone - Bordon, Binnings and other Dragoons, including Tavington, were in the large parlor also. And so the two women bent their heads together, whispering furiously.
"He is a demigod," Margaret said softly and Maisy threw back her head and chortled, drawing the attention of the men. "Nothing," she waved them off, but held William's gaze with a mischievous glint in her eyes as she bent her head to Margaret's again for more details.
"A demigod, hmm?" Came her whispered taunt. She was aware of Tavington's suspicious gaze but she ignored it.
It was early in the morning, most of the Dragoons had business to be about but General Tavington was juggling his 'honeymoon' such as it was, with his administrative duties. He planned to spend as much time with Margaret as his duties would allow, delegating his work load to his adjutants as much as he could and dealing with emergencies and other dire situations himself. They would not have a proper honeymoon as such but he was determined to take his wife places, the theatre, on picnics, out of town to visit plantations - especially one he had a particular eye on, a large rice and indigo plantation that would suit the couple nicely and make an excellent wedding gift for his bride. Though she was in the upper reaches of Colonial Society, owning their own plantation would see them elevated that much higher again. Though he said nothing - for it was meant to be a surprise - he intended on making a visit to Margaret's lawyer to peruse her accounts, and determine just how affluent his young bride was. How affluent he was now, for with the exchange of their vows, her wealth had become his. But he could not make an offer from the plantation until he knew exactly what their circumstances were. He lifted his gaze from the Charleston Gazette and eyed Margaret, who giggled with Maisy on the settee.
'Our business only', my backside, he scoffed to himself, knowing full well by Margaret's blushes that she was telling Maisy all about her wedding night, right there in the parlor. And judging by Maisy's giggles, the girl considered the entire affair hilarious. He flicked the newspaper to straighten it, trying to concentrate enough to read from the pages, but Margaret's presence was quite a distraction. He could see her from the corner of his eye. He could smell her scent on his body, for they had coupled only a short while ago. He could hear her laughter, hers and Maisy's both. He was about to give up trying to read as a bad job when a word caught his eye. Not a word - a name. His name.
"Margaret - did you put the announcement in the paper?" He asked, surprised. He hadn't thought she wanted their marriage announced too widely, preferring to keep it silent in case they incurred her cousin's wrath and enmity. Peter Chamber's anger was a given - a certainty that simply had not occurred yet, but William knew Margaret had wanted to avoid it for as long as possible.
"No," she said slowly, rising from the settee and approaching him where he sat on a chair. She perched on the chair arm and he draped his arm around her waist as she took the paper in her hand to read the announcement of their wedding. "No, I didn't. Oh - I wonder… It must have been my Reverend! He is responsible for posting the banns - and the wedding announcements… Oh…" She dropped the paper to her lap and stared down at him.
"We couldn't keep it secret for long, darling," he shrugged.
"Peter is going to kill me," she lamented.
"He'll do no such thing," William scowled. "I'll have him shipped from Charleston if he makes the slightest squeak. Don't worry so."
"It's hard. You're not the one faced with your families disapproval, William," she said in a forlorn voice as she sidled into his lap and rested her head on his chest. William frowned, trying to imagine how his family would react when they received his letter informing them of his nuptials. The letter would be away that afternoon, but would not reach England for another eight or nine weeks. Another eight or nine weeks after that, he was sure to receive a very stern reply. He could almost picture his mother, with her blue eyes blazing fury that he had married far beneath his station. He had received fury filled letters from her before. Her usually neat, flowing script would be cramped and small, as she wrote the words of her displeasure quickly across the page, her lips tight and the skin around her eyes lined and creased. A small jolt of apprehension shot through him - General William Tavington of His Majesty's British Legion - felt apprehensive of facing his mother's wrath. If he could feel that, what must Margaret be feeling? How would she react when faced with her enraged cousin?
Unfortunately, they did not have long to wait. As if thinking of Peter Chambers had summoned him instantly to their side, they heard the clamour of a horse galloping up the lane, kicking up the gravel outside. And then Mr. Jonah Sampson was bellowing at someone to stop, but that someone thumped up the stairs, their boots loud and drawing closer. William had guards and pickets at various points through out the property, but as a Lieutenant himself - one of Tarleton's own Dragoons, Chambers was able to ride straight through, unchallenged.
I'll have to remedy that, he thought as he lurched to his feet, depositing Margaret in the chair he had just vacated. He knew before the parlor door slammed open who was approaching, before Peter even appeared. On edge because of Tavington's stiff stance, the other Dragoons in the parlor began to rise, ready to face the coming threat.
Bordon moved swiftly to Maisy's side, meeting Binnings there. She stood between them, glancing back and forth in confusion for a moment, before settling her gaze on the door. Harford and Evans moved to flank Margaret, while Robertson moved to stand behind Tavington. This arrangement took only moments to decide, a second after everyone was in position, the parlor door crashed open and slammed into the wall where it rebounded, almost whacking into Peter who now filled the doorway. His face was twisted with fury, rage, a terrible darkness surrounded him as he clutched the ruins of a broadsheet in his clenched fist. His blazing eyes fell first on Tavington and he could barely utter a word, such was his madness. He shifted his gaze to Margaret, who was holding her breath, her eyes wide and fearful.
"You!" He shook the paper at her in accusation. "You!"
He seemed incapable of anything else at the moment but it was enough. Margaret's face blanched and Evans took a step closer to her, placing his hand on her shoulder as she lowered her gaze to the floor.
"Can I help you, Lieutenant?" Tavington drawled in an ominously quiet voice as he took a step to his right, cutting off Peter's view of Margaret. Chambers had no choice now but to meet Tavington's eyes. It was either that or push past the General to get to Margaret.
The General.
The thought sobered him somewhat, as he remembered exactly who Tavington was, what rank he held. Even as a Colonel, Tavington outranked him and if he wasn't careful, he could wind up in Provost Dungeon, chained to the bloody wall.
"You do not have my permission to speak to my wife," Tavington said then, noticing how Peter tried to look past him to see Margaret. He saw the spike of fury flare over Peter's face, he did not like being told he could not speak to Margaret without Tavington's permission. He didn't like that one bit.
"This was your idea, wasn't it?" He accused, his voice thick and harsh. "Eloping!"
"It was my idea," Margaret said softly before William could answer. He had been about to lie and tell Peter that yes, it was entirely his idea, in an effort to take the blame from Margaret. He swallowed hard, stifling his annoyance as Margaret continued. Leaning around William, she met Peter's eyes. "It was my idea, Peter. I know you're angry.
"Angry?" Peter spat. "That's putting it rather mildly, Margaret!"
"Careful of your tone, Lieutenant," Tavington drawled softly, breathing deeply to control his rage. "You will address my wife with respect."
Peter quivered - his entire body trembling as a wave of fury flooded through him. He locked eyes with Tavington and did not back down, though he did snap his mouth shut.
"Peter, please try to understand," Margaret implored from where she sat between the silent Dragoons on either side of her. "I love you dearly, you are my cousin. I know I've hurt you deeply by choosing to marry William, but one day you might forgive me. One day. If you had been left to your own devices, to stand up in church and denounce my engagement, you would have shamed me so utterly - there could have been no going back from that."
"No going back from that?" Peter ground out. Politely. "There is no going back from this, Margaret! You married him - eloped!"
"I was going to marry him either way!" Margaret cried. "Even if you had managed to go through with your fool plan. William and I would have approached an army Reverend, if none of our own Colonial Reverend's agreed to marry us!" William nodded firmly, agreeing with Margaret. "We would have married, despite your best efforts to stop us. I know I've thwarted you, but it was better this way. You would have regretted causing me such pain, I'm sure! You would have Peter - I know you! You're not so cruel!"
"I was not going to stop you from marrying out of some petty need for vengeance, Margie!" Peter cried. "I was doing it out of serious concern for you! He will stray. He will hurt you! He will bring you shame - he will be unfaithful!"
"No. I won't," William said seriously, holding Peter's gaze intently. "I love Margaret and will do nothing to hurt her. Your predicted accusations will never come to pass, Chambers."
"No?" Peter searched William's eyes, searched for an evasion, tried to discern the lie in the General's vow. He found only honesty, a certainty that he would hold to his promise. This rankled Peter even further. Panting, he shifted his gaze back to Margaret. "And if the child is his?" He spat. "Will you raise it - his bastard, coming from my wife?"
"It's not his," Margaret said. "Catherine is showing already, she is at least five months pregnant, Peter. This baby was conceived two months before William arrived in Charleston. Well before she even bedded James. It's either yours or that Colleton or Fairfield's. I'll leave you do work out the dates, cousin. You ask Catherine when she bedded those two others, for the baby was conceived in April, as near as I can tell."
Maisy was nodding, the two had spoken of this at length.
"She screwed Colleton last December," Peter muttered. "And Fairfield before that."
"Then it's yours, Peter," Margaret said, hoping the knowledge would work as a balm and help to soothe her cousin's fury. "Your wife is pregnant with your child."
Peter took several deep breaths, his features shifting from fury to confusion. It was somewhat soothing, this confirmation that the baby was, in all probability, his own child. But he still couldn't stop the tide of fury, that Margaret had married one of the men who had shamed him so utterly, by fucking his wife.
"Either way, it's not mine," William said firmly. "My wife will not be forced to raise my bastard, Chambers."
"How do you know?" Peter said snidely. "You've been fucking your way across the Colonies, Tavington. How many bastards have you sired in your lifetime?"
The General shrugged. "I've bedded many women, it's true. And if any come forward claiming their child as mine, I'll not own to it. For none of those women have been chaste, none of them could be certain who sired their child. Hell, women I'd never touched could claim their child is mine! No, it is not a future Margaret needs to fear − she will be confronted with no bastard of mine."
"It changes nothing," Peter said to Margaret, ignoring Tavington's declaration. "You have married a man who cuckolded me - you have no idea how you've hurt me, Margaret."
"I'm sorry," Margaret said, blinking tears from her eyelashes. "I love him."
"Very well, you've made your choice. You and I are done - you are my cousin no longer. I hope he proves worthy of you, worthy of sacrificing our bond for, but I doubt it."
With that, he whirled and strode for the door. Margaret's grief-stricken sob halted him in his tracks and he stopped short, glancing back at her with his hand on the door knob. Maisy was at her side now, soothing her, and Margaret wept into her friends bodice and clung to her waist, her body shaking from the storm of weeping. He felt his resolve falter for he did indeed love Margaret dearly and bearing witness to her obvious distress affected him deeply. Tavington had remained where he was, standing with his back ramrod straight, his chin raised high, staring down his nose at Peter. Their eyes met and Peter hardened his jaw, hardened his heart and soul. Jerking the door open, he marched through. Perhaps he could forgive Margaret one day, he thought as he strode from her house and mounted his horse. But Tavington? Never. Even if he did forgive Margaret, her husband would never be welcomed in Peter's home ever again. Which meant he would need to keep his distance from Margaret also, for he could not see her without seeing him.
He could not make any decisions regarding his future with Margaret just then. Just then, all Peter wanted was to be away, far far away. He galloped his horse for all she was worth, out of the carriage way and down the road, avoiding wagons and other riders and pedestrians with practiced ease. He needed to be away from Wilkins also. Away from General fucking Tavington. Away from the damned Green Dragoons. Away from Charleston itself.
That's what he needed.
To be back in camp, with Tarleton's Legion. He picked up the pace, deciding that he would pack up and go, he and Betty would be on the road, on their way to join with Tarleton before the lunch hour.
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For the last few days, large crags and other land formations had broken up the constant, unrelenting blue. Maggie spent as much time on deck as she could now, enjoying the sight of land as she never had before. Just then, the HMS Prince was sailing with her sister ships through an inlet, which was comprised of hundreds of steep, rocky pillars jutting up out of the sea. The waves surged and crashed against these weather and sea worn pillars, and the many Man o' War's of his Majesty's fleet had to negotiate carefully between them. It was quite exciting to Maggie, the element of danger, which came from the knowledge that if a ship drew too close, the strong waves could pick up the ship and smash it against one of those pillars.
She stood on deck now, with Orwell to one side of her, and Sophia to the other. Little Gilbert sat on the rail, held securely there by Orwell.
"How much longer do you think, Sam?" Maggie asked.
"A week at most," Orwell replied. "A week until we reach Charleston. I know you're looking forward to it, but don't you find it at least a little sad? We'll be parting ways then, I might never see you again."
Maggie glanced at him, expecting to see his lips quirked in a teasing smile. Instead, she saw he was quite serious, he was forlorn that they would have to bid one another farewell.
"I'll miss you," she said, gazing at his lips as she wished they were alone. She had stolen away with him many a time, finding a secluded place - which was no easy feat in such a crowded place as ship. They had spent their time alone together, lost in the enjoyment of sweet, wonderful kissing. Sam Orwell never took it further than that, for which Maggie was grateful, for kissing alone was enough to mar her virtue.
"You will?" He asked hopefully.
"Of course I will, you block head," Maggie laughed. "But I have to say, I can't wait to be off this ship. I've grown used to it, but Sam - I need to put my feet on land again!"
"You might not like that so much when you do step off the ship," Sophia said wisely. "It's difficult to adjust to, trying to walk on unmoving ground after being on a ship for so long. You keep expecting the ground to move beneath your feet and you end up looking quite ridiculous really."
"I can hardly wait!" Maggie said with longing. "I don't care how silly I look either - I'll just take each step carefully. Oh, look at those cliffs!" She pointed beyond the rock pillars to the cliff face beyond and the four of them craned their heads to stare up. The side of the cliff was imposing, towering over them, making the youths feel small.
In companionable silence, they continued to watch the scenery pass them by. Sam, wanting to touch Maggie in some small way, unwound one of his arms from Bertie's waist. The boy was still held quite securely with his legs dangling over the rail and Sam's left arm tight about his small waist. With his right hand, he trailed his fingers along Maggie's arm softly, causing the girl to startle. She glanced up at Orwell and blushed, then smiled and stepped closer to him, encouraging the contact. He would have kissed her then, if they'd been alone on deck, but it was not to be. They wouldn't be alone together at least until Bertie was put down for his nap, and only if Maggie could slip out from her mother's eagle eye.
He would have to settle for later, when they could find a secluded corner, where he could kiss her full lips, relish in her soft sighs, and drown in her beautiful blue eyes.
"Enemy ahead!" Came the scream and with a curse, Orwell dragged Bertie from the rail and deposited the boy safely on his feet on deck. As the ship surged on ahead, rounding a particularly large, clustered group of rocky pillars, they sighted the French ships which had been laying in wait, concealed and unseen. The entire fleet entered the ambush and were suddenly amidst the enemy, completely surrounded, without a hope of turning aside.
Explosives 'BOOMS' sounded, coming from every direction, and then the ships were raked with a deadly cannonade. Metal shells, chains, balls, anything that could fit into the cannons rained down, splintering wood, smashing barrels and men alike. Maggie and Sophia's screams were drowned by the continual blasts and the screaming of the soldiers rushing past, trying in vain to dodge the deadly projectiles in order to rally and mount an offensive attack. Grabbing Bertie's hand, Maggie dragged the boy after Sophia, who was running through the deadly storm for the relative safety of below decks. Sophia made it, launching herself through the door and disappearing. But before Maggie could follow, another rain of fire was descending and Orwell grabbed her hand, jerking her back and in doing so, saving hers and Bertie's lives. He shoved Maggie and the screaming boy down amidst some barrels, and was frantically covering them with more.
"You stay right there!" He panted as he worked. "Do you hear me? You stay right there until this is over - just don't move!"
The enemies' volley would cease and he would have a few precious moments then, to get Maggie and Bertie belowdecks before the next rain of fire began. Clutching Bertie to her, Maggie stared up at Orwell wide eyed, her lips parted, stunned by terror.
"It'll only be for a moment!" He bellowed at her, to be heard over the cannonade. "I'll get you below as soon as -"
His words were cut dead. Maggie screamed - screamed - as she watch Orwell twist to the side, blood bursting from the ruin of his skull. He dropped heavily to the deck on the other side of the barrels. Maggie could only see his legs through the cracks between the barrels but she knew - she knew - he was dead. Clutching the howling boy to her body, Maggie wailed in grief and shock and terror, the screams burst from her chest, she was incapable of stopping them. Other sailors rushed past, some stopping for a moment to continue the job of hauling barrels around Maggie and Bertie, creating a barrier to provide some small protection.
The sheer sound was phenomenal. Even when the volley ceased for a few moments, even then the sheer noise was astounding. Through all the frantic cacophony came Commodore Rossier's calm voice, calling out commands smoothly despite the bedlam all around him. Maggie stopped screaming, her voice had quickly become hoarse, her throat dry. She stared through blindly through the cracks between the barrels, her blue eyes haunted. When the next volley began anew, Bertie started to scream again, but not Maggie. She clutched the boy to her, holding the nape of his neck and burying his face in her neck. No shells rained down on them this time - the HMS Prince was returning fire.
"Aim for the main shaft!" Commodore Rossier called serenely. "That's it, my boys!"
A distant splintered crack sounded, Rossier's men had hit its mark. But there were so many more ships - at least double that of the British Fleet, which numbered sixty. When another volley fired, this time it was from the enemy and Maggie squeezed her eyes tight and prayed as the hail of deadly fire rained down on them once more. The bellows of the men calling instructions to one another became screams of pain, some cutting off altogether - those that were killed instantly. Hugging Bertie tight, Maggie prayed and begged the Lord to spare the boy, at the very least, spare the little boy. A crack just above her head and then a thud at her side made her cringe and when the volley ceased, she risked glancing upward and saw where the projectile had hit - only inches above her head. She glanced down then, and what had almost struck her. Two inches lower, and her head would have been caved, by the heavy metal chain - with a thick metal ball connected to either end, now laying safely at her side. She swallowed hard and stared at it, then with a shudder of revulsion as though it were a live snake, she grabbed it and threw it back over the barrels.
The heavy hailstorm was stopped for the moment, toward their ship in any case. Other explosions still sounded, not far off and Maggie knew the fleet was still under attack. She closed her eyes, her heart pounding, willing for it to be over. Commodore Rossier continued calling his instructions - at least he was still alive.
"Are we taking water?" Came a call.
"No!" Came the reply. Many more questions were called and answered. Men groaned on the deck, those who were in agony after being wounded. The explosions continued, the ship jerked and swayed dangerously as it was manoeuvred in an effort to escape the enemy ships. Suddenly there was an almighty crash - and Maggie hauled forward, with Bertie in her arms, with barrels toppling all around them. This could not have been caused by the cannonade - they must have struck another ship!
She risked a glance over her shoulder in time to see a swarm of Frenchmen rushing from their ship to hers. They were being boarded - suddenly the fighting was hand to hand, sword to sword. With a hoarse scream, Maggie scrambled back with Bertie and huddled into the overturned barrels, trying to make herself small amidst the fighting men. Muskets and pistols were fired, more sailors toppled and dropped. Panting and panicked, Maggie turned around with Bertie, to shove him into the barrels - she huddled over him, protecting him with her body. Unfortunately, this move put her in such a vantage that she was able to see Orwell, who had been covered by the barrels. His skull was a ruin, his eyes open and staring blindly. His hair was matted with blood and gore, making her gag. She twisted around from the gruesome sight and squeezed her eyes shut, her body heaving in convulsions.
A touch on her arm caused her to shriek. She turned and then shrieked again, for the man who stood over her was no Red-Coat. He was a French man, an enemy. She tried to scramble away but he gripped her arm and spoke to her urgently, tugging, trying to pull her up.
"Venez avec moi!" He shouted at her and Maggie shook her head furiously - she was not going to go anywhere with him!
"Il nest pas sur!" He bellowed, pulling her up.
"It's not safe with you, either!" She screamed her reply, trying futilely to pull from his grasp. Bertie still clung to her, a barnacle wrapped around her waist.
"Descendre!" The Frenchman pointed to the opening that would take Maggie and Bertie below and finally Maggie understood his intentions. Despite him being the enemy, despite being in the thick of battle, with men fighting for their lives all around them, he had seen her and Bertie and was playing the gentleman by helping a lady in distress.
"Merci," Maggie managed to breathe, before grabbing Bertie's hand and flying for the open doors that would lead her below. She kept her gaze purposefully averted from Orwell's body as she dodged the fighting men. Her French saviour was hot on her heels, he darted before her and even shoved aside one of his own countrymen who was barring her way. Then she was down, and running, pulling Bertie along behind her. The fighting had not made it below, but there the corridors were not empty. She flattened herself to the wall as Red-coats raced down the aisle, and then she was off again, searching for the cabins that belonged to her family. Mr. Dawson - the families servant, stood sentry outside one of the doors, holding a thick cudgel in one hand, his eyes dark and furious, his face set and implacable. If anyone dared to threaten the family within the cabin, they'd have to answer to him first. His expression shifted to relief when his eyes fell on Maggie.
"Ah thank the Lord above," he whispered breathlessly. "We were all worried about you, lass. And about little Bertie."
"I'm sorry," she said stupidly.
"None of that," he said, his eyes flicking to Bertie and then to Maggie again. "Have you been harmed - are you well?"
"We're both well," she said. "Just... Terrified."
"As am I," he admitted, then glanced upward as the unceasing sounds of explosions blasted in the distance. "Go in, you better let them know you're alright. I had to stop your mother from going after you herself - she could've died."
He shook his head as he said this, as though lamenting the folly of women, as he pushed the door open wide. Maggie stepped into the doorway, then stopped dead, panting, frantic and wild eyed.
With a shriek, Jane launched off the berth and threw herself at her daughter, bawling in relief and terror.
"Maggie, oh sweet Maggie!" She howled, wrapping the girl in her arms and holding her tight, with Bertie between them. Rose was at their side a moment later, as was Eleanor. Lynnie huddled on a berth, Sophia, sitting on the floor lifted her head from Lynnie's lap. Her face was streaked with tears, for while all of the women had feared for Maggie's life, Sophia felt wretched grief, for she felt as though she had abandoned Maggie and Bertie, when they became separated above deck.
Rose extricated Bertie from Maggie's waist and pulled him to her. The boy was shaking, his shrieks those of sheer, inconsolable terror.
Maggie was calmer now, though her hands shook as her weeping mother drew her into the cabin.
"Sophia," Maggie whispered, her eyes haunted. "Your father is well but - Orwell - he's dead. He saved our lives, and then was killed!"
With a wail of grief, Sophia's tears began anew and Lynnie pulled the girl against her bosom again. The maid stared over the weeping girls head, waiting for more news from Maggie.
"We've been boarded," came Maggie's whisper as she collapsed beside Lynnie. The women listened gravely as Maggie spoke haltingly of what had taken place above, then she screamed in horror as yet another explosion blasted through the ship.
"Shhh," Jane crooned, sitting beside Maggie despite the cramped confines, and pulling the girl against her breast.
"There, there, it will be over soon," Jane whispered, hoping she was correct. The battle had been blazing for so long already and now Maggie had told them they had been boarded by the enemy. Jane had no clue what would come next, but just now, there was nothing but noise and fear, the shouts of the crew, the alarming creaking of the ships and the terrible blasts as cannons shot their projectiles, the resulting crashes as the ships struck one another. And the screams of dying men.
Gilbert was now wrapped bodily around Rose, who had resumed her seat opposite Jane on her own berth. With his legs wrapped around her waist and his arms clutching her shoulders, his head buried in her neck, he shuddered and cried out in fear with each explosion. Eleanor sat beside Rose, their fingers entwined, apprehension lining Eleanor's pretty face. Sophia continued to cry in Lynnie's lap - while Lynnie sat huddled and terrified, trying her best to be brave.
The ship lurched and swayed with the waves but the surge was not so strong that the women were unable to maintain their seats. They moved and swayed with the movement of the ship, as they had grown accustomed to over the last few weeks. No - it was the constant blasts and the sensation of the ship quivering around them, the timbers screaming in protest, that caused such distress.
Jane met Rose's gaze over Maggie's head, piercing blue eyes boring into piercing blue. They wore mirror expressions of terror - fear for their children and grandchild, fear of drowning. Of the ship taking water and sinking. Of sharks.
Of capture - now that they had enemy aboard with them.
Curiously, after not much longer, the constant blasts began to sound further away. As though the HMS Prince was escaping from the battle. There were no more blasts directed at their ship, but they could still hear the explosions. Those booms grew quieter by the moment until all they could hear was the usual, normal sounds of their own ship. Men were still screaming with pain - those screams were growing closer as they were dragged below decks where they could be tended by physicians.
Suddenly the door burst open and Commodore Rossier filled the empty space. Sophia screamed with joy and grief. She hurtled herself at him, threw her arms around his shoulders and buried her face in his neck as she sobbed and shuddered against him.
"Are you well?" He gasped out, moving his hands over her back, checking for wounds. His frantic eyes darted at all of the women, taking them in in one sweep.
"We're well," Rose said, her voice shaky. "Frightened witless but unharmed. Are we captured, Commodore? Maggie said we had been boarded."
Bertie did not move from her embrace, he clutched her tight but Maggie pulled away from her mother's embrace to listen.
"They did, but my decks have been cleaned of them. The French who dared to board my ship are all dead - their bodies thrown over the side," he replied, his voice stern and sharp. Maggie shuddered as she imagined her French saviour - the Gentleman who had tried to help her was now dead.
"We've broken free - only us and ten more," Rossier stated then, adjusting his gait continually to account for the surging of the fleeing ship. "I've left fifty ships to the French. Fifty ships!"
Jane, who sat closest to him just then, rose to pat his shoulder in commiseration.
"Damage to the ship?" Rose asked and Rossier shook his head.
"Nothing we can't sustain," he said. "We are not at risk of sinking. I have seventy dead. Seventy. On this ship alone."
The women closed their eyes as one, and began to pray. Maggie hung her head as tears stung her eyes, her mind on Orwell. There would be no more kissing games for Maggie and Sophia. No more sneaking off for a few stolen moments of pleasurable petting. No more smiling at 'his two girls' - as he had come to call them - and sharing his clever stories and humour. There would be no more of Sam Orwell.
And many other sailors had died, had perished during the battle.
"It will be slow going," Rossier warned now. "I have less crew to man this ship. I need to take stock of the other ships but this can not be accomplished until we are all a safe distance away. Hopefully the others have not suffered as many losses. Once that is done, and we've borrowed men from the ships that can spare them, we will continue on. For our safety the fleet will need to remain tightly together and we'll go only as fast as the slowest ship can go. This could add a week - perhaps three weeks - to our journey."
"Do we have enough supplies?" Rose asked, fearing they could be faced with starvation.
"We'll be living off mouldy food at the end," Rossier admitted. "But we've enough."
The women could not help grimace in distaste, but not even the prospect of mouldy bread could take away their relief. They had their lives, and would hopefully escape the French entirely, and gain the Americas safely still.
"I'm going to help with the wounded," Rose announced. She had to disentangle Bertie from her embrace - her grandson was reluctant to let her go. But he loved and trusted Eleanor, and so wrapped himself around her instead.
"I'll come too," Jane said softly, following Rose. Rossier thanked them both as he moved out of the way, then led the women to the wounded.
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A/N - if my French was wrong - grammatically or out of context, please let me know. I don't know French at all and - I'm embarrassed to say - I used a Google translator. So please do tell me if you know French and if it does not read correctly, for I honestly would not know.
:-)