Chapter 107 - The Colonels Have a Chat:

"There are rules!" Brownlow said, frustrated. Standing by Tavington's bed, he tossed his head in disgust and threw a glare over his shoulder at Colonel Martin, who was leaning back against the wall, entirely at his ease. "This was against the law! You say you follow the rules of war but this was… I've never seen such an abuse of authority! This is an outrage unprecedented!"

"Unprecedented?" Benjamin arched an amused eyebrow. He looked at his sons. "A Redcoat, seeking to preach to me about what constitutes an outrage. A Redcoat!"

Gabriel laughed under his breath, Nathan and Thomas nodded agreement.

"Cornet Brownlow is absolutely correct," Ensign Dalton declared.

"Cornet Brownlow should be thankful that he wasn't strung up to the whipping post himself!"

"Me!" Brownlow gasped.

Benjamin pushed himself from where he'd been leaning again the wall and strode over to Brownlow. He stopped shy of walking straight over him. Brownlow held his ground, he lifted his chin and glared up into Benjamin's angry blue depths.

"You," Martin snapped. "If it's not enough that I've got that damned lobster back sniffing about one of my daughters," he pointed at Tavington. "There's you sniffing about yet another! Margaret is only fifteen, Brownlow!"

Brownlow took a full step back, his face draining of colour.

"Surprised that I know, are you?" Benjamin barked. "She wrote all about it in her diary, you damned fool! She fancies herself in love! And you want to preach to me about what constitutes an outrage?" He shouted and Brownlow lowered his eyes, feeling wretched.

"What's this?" Dalton asked. Brownlow refused to look at him.

"He went slinking off with my daughter on her damned birthday," Benjamin ground out. "Gave her her first kiss. I vow, if you gave her any more than that -"

"No, Sir, I vow I did not," Brownlow said.

"Patrick!" Dalton hissed. Brownlow shot his friend a quick, embarrassed glance, then turned back to the enraged father.

"It was innocent; just a kiss," he said, knowing how empty his words were.

"A kiss is enough to get a couple engaged!" Benjamin shot back. "Is that what you want? Do you seek to force marriage on my daughter, the way that bastard did?"

"No -" Brownlow began but was cut off.

"You want her inheritance, the same as the Butcher wanted Beth's?" Benjamin asked, challenging.

"What inheritance?" Brownlow cried, throwing his arms wide. "I don't know anything about an inheritance! No, Sir, I do not!"

"Her land? It's not for you anymore than Beth's land was for him! I didn't fucking spend hundreds of pounds securing my daughter's future, for the likes of either of you!" Benjamin's flailing arm took in Brownlow and Tavington at once.

"For the likes of me?" Brownlow shouted, suddenly furious. "And what would be so bad about me being your daughter's husband? There's nothing wrong with me, I'm a gentleman, I have honour -"

"But no money, I'd wager, just like him! Besides, you are British and that's enough for me. So you just keep your Goddamned hands to yourself!"

"No money, hmm? You believe whatever you shall!" Brownlow drew a deep breath, struggling to keep himself under control. The father was enraged, and he had every right to be. "I should not have done it. I showed Miss Margaret disrespect and I apologise."

Martin appeared taken aback. "Well. You damned well should be," he spat.

"At least he did apologise," Thomas said. "That's more than Tavington's ever done."

"And Tavington has done so much more," Martin said, glaring past Brownlow at the prone Officer on the cot.

Dalton stood at Tavington's feet, allowing enough room for the so called militia surgeon to work on the Colonel's torn flesh by the dim glow of candlelight. The fellow looked as shabby as the rest of the rebel rabble; his hands and fingernails were filthy, his instruments looked dubious at best. He was as like to kill the Colonel, as he was to heal him. Yet Martin had called him a very skilled doctor… That remained to be seen - Dalton and Brownlow highly doubted the claim. After shooting a furious glance at Brownlow - Gods, he'd kissed Margaret Martin?! - He shifted the subject back to Tavington's whipping. He jerked a finger at Martin. "This will not go unanswered. A captured Officer of Tavington's rank, whipped like a common criminal! You just wait until one of your own is captured, Sir. Or perhaps O'Hara will take this extreme outrage out on one of your higher ranked Officers who are already in our custody. I assure you, you've made the life of one of your own comrades a living hell. He will be whipped, to make an example."

"I have said it once and I shall say it again. This had nothing to do with the war, boy," Benjamin said, as stoically as the first several times saying it. "This is a family matter."

"You used your Regiment to capture an enemy Colonel, in order to settle a family matter? You are splitting hairs, Sir," Dalton snapped. "O'Hara shall not see this as you do. There will be a reckoning, of that I vow."

William groaned on the cot. He lay on his stomach, his ruined back in full view of all in the cabin. His fingers dug into the mattress, his teeth clenched down into the pillow.

"Why won't he faint?" Brownlow whispered as the surgeon continued to work; dressing the deep cuts. The sight made Brownlow gag. "It would be so much better for him, if he would just faint."

"Water," William whispered and Brownlow quickly fetched some, he attempted to spoon it into the Colonel's mouth. Sweat slicked William's face, his pale eyes were glazed, as though he were not entirely cognisant.

"This is outrageous," Brownlow whispered, the heat draining from his voice. He glanced over at Benjamin again. "You should be ashamed, Sir."

"I should be ashamed? I should be ashamed. That man steals my daughter from me. He marries her against my wishes and then he enters into an affair with another woman! Some doxy he bought up from Charlestown! And if that is not bad enough, when my daughter - who must finally see the light by now - tries to leave, he beats her for it!"

"…Was not… having an… affair!" William managed to grind out. So. He was aware after all. Brownlow was regretful of it, he'd hoped that the Colonel's mind was someplace else, someplace he would not feel the pain of the surgeons ministrations.

"Lord, listen to it would you?" Benjamin barked at Gabriel. "Damned lying bastard. Should hitch him to the post again."

"You'll have to kill me," Brownlow said, voice grim. "And me," Dalton agreed. Both Officers stepped closer, side by side, a human barrier with the doctor and Tavington at their backs. They would not be able to do much if Benjamin called the other men in, but they were fairly certain they could hold Benjamin and his sons off.

"No one is hitching anyone to anything," Gabriel said, shooting a glance at his father. "He belted Beth and he's been punished for it. It's done. We do not recognise this marriage - none of us do -"

"Don't speak for me! I recognised it when it was Bordon who married them and since then, a proper clergyman's done the job too," Thomas said. "It's beyond foolish to deny it now."

"Shut it, Tommy!" Gabriel snapped. "Tavington hurt our sister when he had no right. With the authority of a husband, he took his belt to Beth, but he never had such authority. She is not his wife," Gabriel looked Brownlow in the eye. "Even if we did acknowledge this marriage; if he thought she was unprotected, he was greatly mistaken. We will always be there, always looking over his shoulder and if he ever thinks to beat her again, he'll suffer tenfold worse than he did this today."

"What my son is trying to say, Cornet, is that as Tavington has received his chastisement, there will be no further reprisal from us," Benjamin paused for a moment, then added, "until the next time."

The doctor continued to work on Tavington's wounds, the Colonel was forced to lay on his newly dressed back while the doctor worked at the bullet wound with a crude looking implement that had even Tavington screaming in pain.

The hour was late when Thomas and Nathan sought their blankets, the youths laid themselves out on the wooden floorboards in front of the fire. Gabriel kept the water over the fire burning, at the doctors orders. Dalton and Brownlow assisted the doctor; by keeping the candles lit, ensuring there was clean, boiled water in the basin, and even helping to hold Tavington while the doctor worked at the bullet hole to dig out the ball.

Tavington did faint several times, no man could stand up to such pain without losing consciousness. He continued to rouse, however, and after the third time, Brownlow begged Benjamin Martin for laudanum.

To his great shock, his request was granted and Benjamin Martin handed him a bottle. Brownlow took it from the Colonel's fingers and stared at it suspiciously, laudanum was not so easy to come by that soldiers would be found carrying bottles of it in their saddle bags. This was loot from one of the British supply trains Martin had attacked. He met the enemy Colonels arch gaze and after a moments silence, decided to say nothing of it. If he was entirely honest with himself, he had to admit he was just grateful he had something powerful to take the Colonel's pain away. And it was going to be used on a British Officer, after all.

At long last, the doctor finally finished his grisly task. The bullet in his shoulder had been dug out - thank the sweet Lord Tavington had been unconscious for that. It was stitched closed. Brownlow and Dalton helped the unconscious man to sit for the doctor needed to bandage his torso, which required William to be in an upright position. When this was accomplished, Brownlow and Dalton lowered him back to the cot, on his side. Wrapped all around with bandages, William lay unconscious, with Brownlow and Dalton sitting on the floor against the wall. At some stage, even they succumbed. Although they had been determined to stand sentry over their fallen commander, both Officer's surrendered to fatigue, their chins dropping to their chests as they began to snore.

"You're quiet this morning," Banastre observed as he rubbed Beth's shoulders. She sat at the small table, staring over the cup of tea held clutched in her hands. He stood behind her, his fingers working at her shoulder muscles beneath her shift. He knew how good it felt to be massaged, he knew she must be enjoying it. She should have been rewarding him with relaxed, breezy sighs. Instead, she was utterly silent. He kissed the top of her hair. "You don't regret last night, do you?"

For he surely didn't. What bliss it had been, to join with her properly again. She certainly had not seemed to regret it at the time, but then again, she had enjoyed quite a few wines with him earlier in the evening. Perhaps this morning, as the cold light of day stole over their fifth night in camp, waking them to throbbing, wine soaked headaches, she had come to remember she was a married woman. She might feel ashamed of her actions, he worried. He was certain that was why she had refused him every evening when he tried to seduce her. Almost a week of resisting him, she'd finally succumbed and was now feeling somewhat ashamed. She was a good lass, he knew, a virtuous one. It would cause quite a conflict within her, this backtracking of her oaths.

"No, of course not," she said softly, lifting her head up and back to gaze up at him. She wore a weak smile, a mere shadow of her usually joyful grin.

"You're certain?" He asked, fretting. She nodded, and he leaned down to brush his lips across hers. "I love you," he said. Her smile deepened somewhat and she nodded, murmuring something that he took as a reply in kind. "Until tonight, my love," he whispered against her lips. She nodded again. After fixing his sword to his hip, he left her there in their joined tents alone.

He strode out into the cold winter air, the rushing waters of the Wateree River to his right. His men fell in beside him, the Dragoons began mounting up to ride out. The bulk of the Legion were to remain encamped, while Banastre took out his Dragoons and an infantry company to scout the area and to recruit from the local populace, for the British Army were in a sorry state. The Lord General himself was sick - Banastre had been shocked to see with his own eyes, how ill Cornwallis was, lying in his sick bed as though he might die. Command of the army had fallen to Lord Balfour. All was in chaos, the Royal army had contracted her lines, with so many of their number still suffering yellow fever, the army had settled into a defensive position at Winnsboro. It was imperative that Tarleton keep up these daily scouting missions - not only to rout the enemy, but to deter them. To make the British Army appear stronger than it actually was. They could not risk having Burwell and Gates suddenly decide to descend upon them, as they had tried at Camden. This time, they might bring the Over Mountain men who defeated Ferguson at Kings Mountain. Martin might join them again. With such a large force attacking, the British could be decimated.

Hence the daily rides from camp, Tarleton trying to give a show of strength. It was most unpleasant work and all Banastre wanted to think about was his warm tent, and his even warmer mistress awaiting him. And after last night, he had even more enticement to return to her. However, he managed to keep his attention mostly on the task at hand, though he did let a part of his mind wander to Beth as he rode.

Perhaps he should not have given her the wine - he felt a pang of guilt, for knew that she was susceptible when inebriated. Wasn't that the reason she had offered her virginity to him that night so long ago? For her inhibitions had been swept away on a tide of alcohol. His feelings of guilt increased, for he'd deliberately acquired the wine, with the hopes that Beth would be more easily seduced. He'd been trying to coax her to bed him and after nearly a week of her resisting, he'd become desperate. But, he argued with himself, he'd done it for her own good. She had been holding herself back from him; she was confused, conflicted, unsure. But in the end, she had enjoyed his touch as much as he had. Her back arching as he plunged inside of her, softly crying out as she dug her fingers into his arms, her body writhing beneath his, her orgasm sweeping through her. And not just once, either. They'd spent many hours between the blankets, exploring one another, renewing their intimacy.

Now that the ice was broken between them, there would be no more lamenting, no confusion, no fears. With the foundation laid last night, she would accept him again tonight. He would not ply her with spirits or wine, for there would be no further reason for her to refuse him. Which was a good thing, for his pockets were empty, he could barely afford to purchase himself new shirts, let alone more bottles of wine. He cringed as his mind turned to his debts, most of which he had acquired through gaming. The damned cards called to him, they sung his name with the sweetest of tunes… How many times had he written to his family, begging for loans to cover his debts? He had lost count long since. His mother was heartily tired of it, it seemed, for in the last packet he received, he had found only a keg of ale - and a chastisement - lovingly written - but a chastisement all the same. His beloved mother implored him to mend his ways, to cease his vices. He could not hope for more financial assistance from that quarter, not now. How would he continue on, on his small pay? And he had a mistress to care for now, and they were expensive to keep…

Beth did not demand silks and other trappings, however. She would be able to subsist on the pay she would receive as a camp follower. She was not like other mistresses, who held out their hands and only smiled when silk scarves or gold chains were draped over across their palms. Still, it was worrying. He would need to provide for her above and beyond what she would receive from the Paymaster General… Especially if the Paymaster discovered that Beth did not lift a finger to assist with any of the duties, not even the sewing. Perhaps he should speak to her about it later, he mused.

If only his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel would be made official, he could sorely use the pay increase. But being a field assignation only, he received only half the pay that rank was entitled. It still heated his blood whenever he thought of Tavington being promoted and in a formal capacity, while he was left to languish. How galling! After everything he'd done for the Crown - how difficult would it be, to just make it official? So that he might return to England with full honours, and not to a damned demotion. For when his brevet appointment was revoked, Banastre would have to fall back on his official rank - that of Captain.

While William Tavington was a Colonel.

Drawing a shuddering breath, Banastre struggled to control his bitterness. Now was not the time to think of such things. He had Beth again, fully and completely. He would not let anything gloomy dull the joy. His bitter expression shifted to a smile of pleasure as he imagined returning to her that night, of holding her in his arms and slipping inside her soft and willing body. Now there was a joy to make the very cold day seem warm indeed.

With a soft groan, Cilla awoke and blinked up at the dark figure climbing into bed beside her.

"Sorry I woke you," Bordon said quietly as he slipped beneath the blankets. "Christ, it's cold out there."

"Mnnn," she managed to reply. "What time?"

"Just after four," he replied into her.

"Richard! Oh my God!" She gasped, jerking away from him. "You're cold as ice!"

Richard dropped back onto the pillow, howling with laughter. "I told you it was."

"Go warm up by the fire before you get into bed!" She said, drawing away from him. She was sitting up now and she stared down at him in the candlelight, watching him laugh. It was strange - she went through the motions of their marriage every day, taking each day as it came. Yet Richard, he seemed far more invested, as if he saw her as his wife in truth. For weren't these the sort of moments true husbands shared with true wives? His laughing slowly to chuckles and she shook her head, a soft laugh passing her lips.

"Did you just laugh?" He teased her, sitting up beside her. "Did you, Cilla Bordon? Did you just share a moment of hilarity with your husband? Hmm?"

"Hardly that," she said, denying it. "It was a cough, that's all."

With a chortle, he dropped back against the headboard. He began blowing on his hands and she knew he was trying to warm them so as not to give her such a sudden jolt of cold when they settle back down again.

"Where have you been? You've been gone for days," she asked..

"It took some time to find our quarry," he replied, speaking of the rebels he'd gone in search of after an attack was reported to the west. He'd discovered the men only yesterday, miles from Fresh Water. He'd wasted no time in executing each one of them - their bodies hanging them from the nearest trees, but the journey back had taken some time. "What news here?" He asked her as Cilla shoved back the blankets. She shivered, then forced herself to get out of bed. It became clear why a few moments later when she disappeared behind the screen, and he heard a liquid tinkling sound. She returned after relieving herself and climbed back into bed. He was still blowing on his cold fingers and shifting his legs beneath the blankets to work warmth into them.

"Major Fallows, from next door?" Cilla began reluctantly. As much as she'd rather keep this secret for poor Farshaw's sake, the fact was, it was the talk of the camp. There were not many who had not heard the tale, and Bordon would find out soon enough. She might as well tell him honestly from the start. "He was found dead in Corporal Farshaw's bed, naked as the day he was born. There were stab wounds in his neck."

"Oh my God!" Bordon gasped, his attempts at warming himself forgotten.

"I know. It's quite a scandal. There was evidence of coupling," she said, a little squeamish. Everyone appeared to believe that Farshaw had killed his lover for not advancing him to the upper ranks, Cilla felt certain it had been for an entirely different motive. She remembered the haunted look on Farshaw's face when he spoke of Fallows.

Richard screwed up his whole face and shuddered with disgust. "It doesn't even bear thinking about!" He said, trying to push the vision of two men in a passionate embrace. And Harmony's husband! Who would have thought it? "Christ above; all this time, Farshaw is nothing more than a ganymede!"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," Cilla said primly.

"It must be so! It explains much - his treatment of Harm… ah… that is… his wife. Mrs. Farshaw, that is," he said, covering himself quickly. She gave him a knowing look, then laughed.

"Oh, that Mrs. Farshaw," she sniggered. "Not your mistress, Harmony Farshaw. Wait, are they… No, it can't be - they're not…" she gasped theatrically, her hand over her mouth and everything. "The same woman? Richard, are they?" He tightened his lips, but the look he gave her was rueful. "You know that I know you're sharing her bed," she scoffed. "I don't know why you keep tiptoeing around it, as if you think that maybe I don't know after all and am too stupid to puzzle it out."

"I don't think you're stupid," he said. "I'm the stupid one. Anyway - he was a real bastard to her and maybe that was why. He never had a fondness for women, it was men he liked all along!"

"He can't have liked Fallows all that much to kill him," Cilla said tartly, reclining back against the headboard at his side.

"After coupling with him, by the sound of it," Bordon snorted.

"Oh God, I shouldn't have raised it," she despaired, for she now had images in her head that she did not want there.

"Well you did and now I won't be able to stop thinking about it. Why couple, and then kill him? You say Farshaw was upset because he wasn't being promoted?"

"I didn't say that," Cilla replied hotly. "I'm merely repeating what others are saying. That he'd wanted Fallows to advance him. No one knows for certain, Richard."

"It makes sense though, doesn't it?" He asked, excited by the puzzle. "That's why he screwed Fallows first -"

"Oh, Richard," Cilla winced, turning her head away.

"Well, it's what happened, isn't it? And then he would've asked Fallows, afterward, if he was to be promoted. When Fallows admitted it was not to be, Farshaw flew into a rage -"

"You weren't even there!" She gasped.

"No, thank the great Lord above - that's not a sight I wish to see!" Bordon chuckled darkly. "So Farshaw flew into a rage, and slit Fallows' throat!"

"Or perhaps Fallows was forcing himself on Farshaw. Did you think of that?" Cilla asked, voice hot. Bordon shied away from such talk, it was not a thing he wished to discuss with Cilla, a woman he had forced himself on. "No, I'll wager you haven't. But I think it's far more likely. Farshaw was married! He had an affair with Emily Wilkins - as you very well know! Clearly, he preferred women. What if Fallows was forcing Farshaw, who had no way of fighting back? The only way out was to kill Fallows!"

Bordon arched an eyebrow. He lay back on the pillows and stared at the canopy over head. Finally, he said, "perhaps…"

"Questions should be asked," Cilla said. "Talk to the other men, those favoured and put forward for promotion by Fallows. You might find a very different story emerges, if you do."

"No one will admit to being buggered, Cilla," he replied.

"I did," she shot back and Bordon recoiled, as if slapped. "When push came to shove, I admitted it," she ploughed on despite his discomfort.

"You've always been forthright, though," he said softly, not quite meeting her eyes. "There's not many people like you, Cilla."

Was that a compliment? Cilla frowned, caught off guard. He finally met her eyes; she drew a sharp breath, hoping he did not start in on his apologies again - she did not want to hear them.

"Besides, you had reason to admit it," he said. "Your uncle and aunt sitting there saying you bedded me willingly and your virtue was destroyed through your own doing. Nothing that happened that day was your fault; it must have been galling, to be looked down upon by them, after suffering that attack from me."

"It was," she said, sudden tears springing her eyes.

"Cilla, your situation…" he paused, closed his eyes, then added more strongly, "our situation, it's completely different. You were pregnant and being accused of low virtue. Therefore, you had no choice but to admit to the thing that I did to you. You needed for them to know that it was my fault, not yours, and that you were still as virtuous as you always were. The men you think might come forward to speak against Fallows? Why would they? If that were happening, I'm sure none of them would come forward and admit it, just as you would not have done, if you hadn't had to." Cilla had become so quiet, so completely withdrawn. He placed his hand on her shoulder and was relieved when she did not recoil.

"You're right, I would not have admitted to any of it, if I hadn't been forced to. And I would not have been forced to, if I hadn't fallen pregnant."

"Cilla, I -"

"I think Fallows was forcing himself on Farshaw," she said, to stop him from apologising and to steer the subject away from what had occurred between them in the dungeon. "Anyway, Farshaw has escaped the Ferguson's and -"

"Escaped!" Richard gasped. "I'd have thought he'd be in irons!"

"No, he fled. Tavington went after him. That was late last night," she frowned. "Not tonight just gone, I mean the night before. A whole day has passed since and most of tonight."

"Christ. No word from Tavington since?" Richard asked.

"None," Cilla replied. Richard frowned. "It's been more than twenty-four hours since anyone has heard from him. Unless O'Hara received a message after he left me yesterday."

"O'Hara came by in person?" Richard asked, surprised. She nodded. "To visit you."

"Yes," she nodded again. Richard looked impressed, and then thoughtful by turn.

"I should go and speak with him," he said after a moment. "Find out if Tavington has sent a messenger."

"Good Lord, you can't mean now! Let the poor fellow sleep!" Cilla admonished. "This has been a very trying time for General O'Hara. I don't think he got a wink last night. I mean that night before. His eyes were dropping from his head. Surely the morning will do… If it's anything pressing, you'll be sent for."

"Perhaps you're right," he replied. The General probably would not appreciate being woken at that hour, merely to answer Richard's curiosity.

"I'm going back to sleep," Cilla yawned. She slid down the bed, turning over onto her side beneath the blankets.

Richard did likewise, he slid down the bed, turned toward her onto his side. He usually put his arm out and she would lift her head and push back into him, for warmth. They'd been making great strides - in his opinion anyway. But now he held back, unsure.

"Cill," he said. "Can I come closer? Or would you rather..?" would she rather he keep that one foot between them again, as she had in their early days together.

"Well, are you warm?" She said, lifting her head to glance back at him and he gave her a great smile of relief.

"I'll let you be the judge," he put his arm beneath her head and pressed his body up alongside hers. "No hisses and chastisement," he quipped. "I must be warm enough."

"Go to sleep, Richard," she said but he heard that soft laugh again and it made his heart soar.

He draped his arm over her waist and it suddenly occurred to him that her bleeding would be well and truly over by now. And it had been some days since he'd been with Harmony.

Harmony. Gods, what would she say if he did begin bedding Cilla, to get a child on her?

Besides, would Cilla welcome his advances?

Five minutes after touching upon his attack of her in the dungeons… Richard heaved a breath and decided to let sleeping dogs lie. He settled for holding her close, though this time he did do something new. He nudged her leg with his until his was in between hers, their legs intertwined. He could feel her sudden but slight tension, but then she eased back down and did not pull her legs away.

As Cilla slipped back into sleep, Richard's thoughts soon shifted from his wife, to the problem of Farshaw. What would it mean for Harmony, was she in danger, would he need to move her? No, he thought. She was safe where she was; not only did she have guards on her at all times, Pembroke was under the control of the British, there were pickets where people needed to prove who they were to enter the village. Farshaw - a deserter and murderer - would not dare show his face within a hundred miles of the place.

Harmony was safe - finally safe! He exulted, what he wouldn't give to jump in the saddle right at that moment and rush to tell her. But no, he could not. It was freezing out there and the Turnbull's would be less than impressed, should he show up banging on their door an hour before dawn… And he was so tired. He began to ponder Cilla's theory - that perhaps Farshaw had been forced by Fallows, as sleep washed over him, pulling him under.

Some hours later, he and Cilla were awoken once more. A young Corporal who Bordon had noticed was showing some promise in the field, stood over them hesitantly; he'd been cautiously, gently, shaking Bordon awake, while trying not to wake Mrs. Bordon. Who was still asleep in Major Bordon's arms. As he awoke, Richard was suddenly grateful that he'd cozied up beside Cilla, if the shared intimacy was to be witnessed by Corporal Carr. He and Cilla both wanted people to believe that theirs was a true and proper marriage, and accidental moments like that would go a long way to bolster that image.

"I'm sorry for waking you, Sir," Carr began, then he saw that Cilla was awake also, blinking up at him drowsily, "and Mrs. Bordon. Forgive me. Sir, O'Hara has summoned you, you're to report to him immediately."

"What's happened?" Bordon asked, thoughts of keeping up appearances with his wife fleeing. He threw back the blankets and jumped from the bed.

"Ah… I do not think anything has happened, Sir," Carr replied. "I believe he merely wishes for you to attend him."

There was something in the way Carr said this that sent prickles down Bordon's neck. "Is there something you're not telling me, Corporal?" He asked and Carr's face exploded with a flare of red.

"I… ah… that is… the Corporal he sent over with this message is quite officious, Sir, and a bit full of himself, I think. He is somewhat of a favourite of O'Hara's - I've dealt with him before and I know he thinks he is in line for advancement. The way he talks and struts, you'd think he'd already been promoted. Anyway, he said…" Carr paused and Bordon lifted an eyebrow. "Sir, he was quite smug; he told me that O'Hara didn't have anything nice to say about you. He spoke to me like I'm rubbish and never mind we're of the same rank. I think he feels free to strut with the Officers under your command, because of O'Hara's attitude."

"Attitude toward me?" Bordon asked and Carr nodded. "When you say that O'Hara doesn't have anything nice to say about me - did this Corporal elaborate?"

Carr lowered his eyes, clearly embarrassed as he shuffled his feet. "Yes, Sir. He was only too eager to," his eyes flickered toward Cilla. "I can repeat the entire conversation if you like - in Colonel Tavington's office, perhaps?"

"Yes, please wait for me there," Bordon said darkly. Carr bowed and left the room. Bordon dropped back onto the pillows, his heart pounding wildly. "Two months, we've been married," he said too Cilla. He shifted his head on the pillow to look at her. "Two months. Can he not see that I am doing my best by you, Cilla?"

"I'll talk to him," Cilla said. He blinked at her, surprised. "Well, I'm your wife now. I rise with you, and I fall with you. I've been faced with the threat of falling, and didn't much like it. I'd rather rise, if I can help it."

"That's just it - that's what I'm surprised about. I know you'll defend our marriage, Cilla - you being one half of it. It's the idea that you can help it. You say it like it's nothing, you'll just 'talk to O'Hara'. Is your acquaintance so easy - do you have such influence over him?"

"I think so," she said. "He despises you for what you did to me, Richard."

Richard snapped his mouth shut, then he broached carefully. "And you? Do you despise me?"

"I try not to think about it," she replied honestly. "But those times that I do…"

"You despise me," he sighed. "We've been making strides though, haven't we?" He asked and she nodded.

"We have. I'm more comfortable with you now. Like I said, I try not to think about it," she said and he lowered his eyes. "But perhaps O'Hara will start being more amiable with you, if he takes into account how you've been treating me."

"Is that what you have done? Taken in to account how I've been treating you?"

"What else can I do?" She shrugged and he heaved a sigh.

"Oh, well. Thank you," he said. "The things he's been saying to this Corporal… Does he say those things to you too? About me?"

"All the time, Richard," she said, meeting his eyes. Richard drew in a shuddering breath and dropped back onto the pillows.