Chapter 123 - Life Without Cilla:
End November, 1780
Harmony rested her head against Richard's back, her chest to his back, her arms holding tight around his waist. It was an awkward position in the saddle, with her stomach growing by the day. But it was a short and gentle ride, she was not uncomfortable for long. Richard's strong fingers wrapped around both of hers on his stomach and he whistled happily as he guided his horse. Only a short ride. So short, they could still see Martin's great house amidst the smaller outhouses, but they were were far enough that they were blessedly alone. Beneath a large apple tree, with its spindly empty branches stretching out in all directions, Richard dismounted, then helped Harmony down. He pulled her close and kissed her, right there in the open. For joy! It was wondrous, kissing him right there in the middle of the orchard. It was horrid, keeping their lovemaking to the confines of her chamber, as if they were doing something shameful and wrong.
Not that there was anyone to see them here, either. It was not as though he were squiring her about in public like he would have done, had they been able to marry. This was still as furtive a meeting as it was when he slunk into her room in the dead of night. Still, it would have to suffice. A few Dragoons Richard trusted had dogged their heels in case of need, but they were out of sight now and were just beginning a game of cricket. Harmony could hear them, she could hear the thwack of the ball hitting the bat, and their clapping and shouting. But she could not see them, nor could they see her and Richard.
"It's a bit cold for a picnic," Richard fetched a basket and an old blanket from his horse.
"Yes, I was wondering what ever gave you the idea, to have a picnic on a day like today," Harmony took the blanket with a smile and shook it out, then laid it on the cold ground.
"Cilla did, actually," he replied as they both stretched out on the blanket. Harmony immediately scowled.
"Did she indeed?"
"Don't take that tone," Richard settled in to soothing her spiked irritation with gentle kisses. His lips were cold on her cheek and she laughed, pulling away. "That's better," he grinned at her. "I prefer the smiles far more than the scowls, though you're beautiful when you do either."
"Flirt," she stuck her tongue out at him.
"I always have been and you know, I probably always will be," he lamented. Harmony snorted, she stuck her tongue out again. "Most unladylike," he admonished. "Give me that," in one swoop, he tackled her back onto the blanket, trying with his fingers to open her mouth. She giggled and thrashed beneath him. "Give me that tongue," he demanded, pinching his finger and thumb together as though he'd seize it. "I know how to get it," he seized her wrists as she tried to bat at him, pulled them gently above her head. Being careful of her stomach and his baby within, he straddled her hips and bent his head to her. "This is how," his voice changed, it deepened, thickened; he began to kiss her. Harmony relaxed under him, not at all bothered by her pinned wrists. His tongue, much warmer than his lips, slid into her mouth and began to tease hers.
"Got it," he grinned. She laughed.
"I miss this," there was so much emotion in her trembling voice, but overriding it all, was simple longing. "I miss you, so much."
"You have me, Harm," he nudged his nose against hers. "I'm right here."
"You know what I mean," her blue eyes narrowed, fixed on his.
"I do," he agreed, his thumbs stroking the insides of her wrists. "And you know I love you, more than anything else in this world."
"I do," she gazed up into his blue eyes. "It's just so hard. You promised you would never bed another woman."
"I'm not bedding her -"
"I know," she overrode his protest. "That's not what I mean, anyway. I'm trying to say," she frowned, searching for the right words. "That promise isn't worth anything. Not when I still feel as though I'm sharing you with another woman."
Richard expelled a breath. He released her wrists and eased his body off from hers. Harmony sat up beside him, studying his face. Cilla was gone to Pembroke, to visit the mercantile for shopping and for lunch with Mrs. Campbell and Mrs. Reynolds and her daughters. And here was Richard who, despite the obligations he was neglecting, was dedicating his time to Harmony. He had organised a picnic, the basket was filled to bursting with enough to feed four grown men. He'd gone to so much trouble… She heaved a sigh, and let go her anger.
He was as caught as Harmony was, both enmeshed in a web of Cilla's making. Peculiarly, Harmony actually found herself liking Cilla at times. Cilla had a quick wit and a quick fire temper. She was brave, too. Like Beth. Harmony was drawn to women like Beth, women with no pretences, women who accepted others as they were. Women who helped other women to rise, instead of stomping all over them. Cilla was not quite as accepting as Beth, she remembered her station and only kept company with others of her rank. She was not rude or aloof to those below her. Emily always looked down on people lower than her. Always walking around with her nose in the air, but for all her airs and graces, she'd been spreading her legs for half the men in camp, Calvin included. Mage Putman and Charlotte Selton, they were no better as well. Both had lifted their expensive silk skirts and petticoats for Richard, both wrapping their silk stockinged legs around his waist. Yet both acted the same as Emily, as though they were somehow better. They tried to stomp on women lower than themselves, to keep them low. Cilla was not like that. She tried to help women in need; Harmony included. She helped Harmony back in Pembroke when she could have left her high and dry. She had many good qualities and was an easy person to like. She was a decent person, once you got to know her.
Yet Cilla had seduced Richard to her bed. And what had Cilla - good, decent, moralistic, virtuous Cilla, been doing, spying on the Dragoons anyway? And why did she need to screw Richard, when her mother was doing just that, squeezing him for every last drop of information?
That was why it was so confusing for Harmony. And to bed a man at all, especially one quartered in her home; after complaining about how debauched the Officers were. What sinners. Cilla did come across as virtuous, with morals and high standards, yet without the snooty 'better than you' attitude of Emily Wilkins. Yet, she'd screwed Richard that one night...
Cilla's goodness was all an act. It had to be. Cilla was a consummate actress. How else could the woman Cilla presented to the world every day, be the same woman to spread her legs for Richard? Cilla's virtue was an act, she had proved herself to be an excellent actress - Harmony had seen her in action, that day in the mercantile. Harmony made herself remember that every time she found herself liking Cilla, every time she began to fall for Cilla's act. It was all a cover. Cilla had probably kept up that facade for so long, she didn't even have to think twice about it. Cilla was no better than Emily, Mage and Charlotte and Harmony could NEVER bring herself to like any of them.
She tried not to blame Richard - he was a man, his blood had always been hot and his thinking compromised when soused and she was almost certain that alcohol would have been a driving factor in his bedding of Cilla. Harmony would not spoil their morning with a needless fight over something he was helpless to change.
"Did you bring glasses?" She asked, eyebrow arched. She kept her voice light, and smiled warmly. "Or will we be drinking from the bottle like a couple of drunkards?"
"I bought glasses," he perked up immediately and reached into the basket. "William keeps a few bottles in his office, I managed to procure one for us."
"With his knowledge?" She asked, eyes twinkling. "Or without?"
"Oh, he'll know soon enough," Bordon laughed. "When he goes to pour himself and notices one of the bottles is gone." He unstoppered the bottle. "Everything is becoming so scarce now, he would not give up such a luxury willingly."
"You stole from your friend!" Harmony threw her head back and laughed, imagining William's face when he noticed a bottle was missing.
"Eh. Let's not call it stealing. Let us call it… Sharing without prior knowledge."
"Such a fine distinction! Yes, I am certain he will see it that way," she giggled. Richard poured red wine into her glass. "He might blame a junior. He will have the great house searched and then he'll whip a poor soldier bloody."
"I will admit my theft before it comes to that," Richard promised. He took a sip and sighed with pleasure. "And I'll show my gratitude by telling him how absolutely delightful it tasted."
"I'm not surprised you've run clear out of wine," Harmony said, testing hers and finding it to be as delightful as Richard described. "With all of the parties O'Hara has been hosting. He seems determined to thoroughly deplete Fresh Water and the Ferguson's place before he leaves."
"Which is why William hid these last," Richard hefted the bottle. "One of O'Hara's adjutants came sniffing about for wine for the leaving feast."
"Which is tonight?" Harmony asked, having heard the whispers.
"It is," Richard said. Expecting an explosion, or at least some cutting remarks, he was suddenly wary. Cilla would be on his arm, looking every inch the great lady, while Harmony waited alone in her chamber. It was a sore point for her, the woman who should have been his wife by now. If not for Calvin. And if not for Cilla. She should be the one he squired about in public and to formal dinners. Any moment now, she would have some awful thing to say about Cilla.
"Well, he'll be gone tomorrow," Harmony held the glass of wine balanced on her thigh. "And William's bottles will be safe. Except from you," she nudged him with her shoulder. Richard laughed. It sounded relieved. He tipped her head back and, pleased she was not going to fight with him, he kissed her lips gently.
A muffled thwack and men bellowing interrupted them momentarily. Unconcerned, Harmony gazed through the trees as if she could see the Dragoons beyond, playing cricket. Richard's guard, needed even here on the Plantation, were a call away if he needed them. Any one of them might come trotting over with a missive or suchlike, which meant that Harmony and Richard were not truly alone. As much as he wished to lay her back on the picnic blanket and couple with her under the sparse branches of the apple tree, he knew he could not. That kind of sport would have to wait for tonight. After O'Hara's final party, after spending the night at Cilla's side, before leaving her for Harmony's chamber.
Besides, at the moment, Harmony needed to know she was much more to him than a rump in the hay. She was feeling second best to Cilla, because a wife always comes first. Not in a man's heart, perhaps, but in his life, a wife must be first. Harmony was feeling ignored. She despised that he could not show his great love for her in public. It made her feel dirty, that it all needed to be kept hidden. And she felt jealous; of Cilla, which Richard could completely understand. The terrible argument of the day before had left Richard trying to navigate the most treacherous waters. On a cloudy night. Without a helm or a compass. But how their situation affected him was far from his thoughts. It was how Harmony felt that most concerned him. For her, it was slow torture, and yesterday had been the worst agony of all. The culmination of weeks of frustration, anger, jealousy and heart ache. Lord, he was a very lucky man, that she would sit beside him, sharing a wine and luncheon, and not mention the confrontation. It was a good thing that Cilla was away to Pembroke for the next few hours, it gave him the time he needed, to mend his relationship with Harmony. He gazed at her fondly and settled in to making it up to her. He began with gentle kisses, stroking her hair, the backs of his fingers brushing her cheek. She melted into him, one hand holding the glass, the other around his back, her head on his shoulder. They settled into companionable conversation.
"Have you seen Linda when you go down to visit Mrs. Andrews?" He asked, believing she was a safe topic to discuss.
"No, I don't go near her. But I did see the clump of guards on her tent. And every single person down there knows she is not allowed leave. Mrs. Andrews has the women attending Linda on rotation, she's never allowed to be alone except when she is in the tent with her husband."
Thoughtful, Richard stared up at the spindly branches overhead as they moved gently in the breeze. "She can't like it. That he's taking the child away."
"I'd imagine not," Harmony replied. "Linda has been heard weeping in her tent. It's a hard punishment…"
"Will you do as he asked?" He placed his wine down and began pulling items from the basket one handed, his other arm still wrapped around Harmony.
"Well, I suppose it makes sense for me to," she lifted her head and met his eyes, her chin resting on his shoulder. "But what if Linda gives birth before me? He needs to find another wet nurse, just in case."
"But you'll feed the babe, if it comes to it?"
"If it comes to it," she agreed. "I don't mind, as long as I have enough milk." A pained expression crossed her face. "Beth is not going to like it…"
"You feeding William's bastard?" Richard asked, startled. She gave him a flat look. "Oh. William raising the child. I don't think William cares overly much what Beth will make of anything just now. I do not believe he will be tolerating any complaints from her, on any part of their lives. She's going to have to put up with it, I'm afraid. That's if she ever come back, or if he allows her to come back."
"Hmm…"
"I really don't like his chances of having her extricated from Banastre," Richard continued. "And if he does, it'll be for her to go to live with her aunt's, wherever they are."
"We do not care where they are," Harmony said, lip curled.
"No, we certainly don't. Pickle?" Richard opened the jar. He popped one into her mouth and heard the crunch as her teeth bit into it.
"Has Benjamin Martin sent any word at all?" Harmony asked after swallowing.
"Not that I know of," Bordon shook his head.
Harmony opened her mouth for the next morsel. She smiled around it - Richard would feed the entire meal to her with his fingers, it seemed. "I can't imagine Banastre having a sudden change of heart. He won't let her go, not willingly."
"Well, a problem for another day," he said. "And not my problem besides." I've enough of my own, thank you very much.
"Richard," Harmony said softly, eyes fixed on the corn cake he had handed to her. "I wanted to ask you…"
She seemed hesitant, nervous. Which from her was most unsettling. She was usually outspoken, she never hesitated to tell him or ask him anything at all. He cocked his head to one side.
"What, exactly, do you feel for Cilla?" Harmony asked tremulously, eyes still on her corncake.
His stomach twisted, he felt as though he'd been kicked. Christ, his mistress was asking him this?
He sighed, sullen. After the discussion yesterday, he should have been expecting it. He had taken Cilla's side against Harmony. He had chastised her, in front of Cilla. Had called her to account, for not showing gratitude and for her uncivil tongue. She had seen him shower Cilla with affection, she must be wondering how much of it was feigned on his part. And how much of it had been real. His mistress was asking him if he was in love with his wife.
Now that he was forced to confront the question, he began to examine his feelings. He was already lying to Harmony about the way he had come to be married to Cilla. He would not continue to lie. Not about this.
"What do I feel for her?" He asked, staring off into the distance. Freed black men appeared like dots on the horizon, as they worked the surrounding fields. Closer to the house, the place resembled the fort it was meant to be, with stakes and cannons and its multitudes of tents, stretching away across the road. A bird trilled its song overhead, Richard glanced up and watched the budgerigar fluff its wings and flutter from branch to branch. What did he feel for Cilla? He met Harmony's eyes. "I am not in love with her," he said solemnly, holding her gaze. "But I do have love for her."
Harmony stared, large blue eyes wide, her lips parted ever so slightly. "Oh," she breathed. He saw it when her eyes filled, though she quickly averted her gaze, hoping he would not notice.
"We were thrown together," he began, voice grave but determined. He could not reveal all, he could not bare all and risk losing Harmony. But he would reveal this. He was being unfair to Cilla as it was. "She did not trap me, as you accused her yesterday." He saw her cheeks flush with shame at the reminder of her cutting remarks. "She was no more willing to marry me, than I was her. Initially, neither of us wanted to be in the others company at all. But it's a little hard to avoid one another in such a small house. Why Martin would build it like this when he could have built it twice the size…" He trailed off, staring at the too small house, with only six sleeping quarters. Madness. "I wasn't even able to take a room of my own, with so many others of rank needing accommodation. It was especially bad when Banastre came here with his entourage. I spent as much time as I was able on patrol, and Cilla spent as much as she could in the company of the other women. Then we both sickened and… I don't know, Harm. Things began to change between us, as we grew to know one another. And as we grew to know one another, a connection formed between us. A… Bond… if you will. A strong one," he admitted. He took hold of her fingers, hers trembled in his. She was weeping quietly now, sniffling and wiping at her eyes and nose. Softly, he said, "you did ask…"
"I wanted… You to… Tell me something different…" A ghost of a smile touched her lips and was gone. "I didn't want to hear all this about a bond. And that you love her."
"I did not say I love her," he corrected, reaching up to brush her hair away from her face. "I said I have love for her."
"What does that even mean?" She asked, some fire returning, along with frustration.
"I don't know," he shrugged. "I don't know what it means. I love you, Harm. It's fierce, it's so strong, like a beast living in here," he closed his fist over his heart. "I guess I'm trying to say that I care for Cilla. But it goes deeper than that, too. I'm not in love with her. I don't burn for her the way I do you. But when I'm away from here, I find I think of her as often as I do you," this was a blow to her, he could see it. Why couldn't she understand what he was trying to say? He wasn't explaining himself very well, he realised. "I mean… I yearn for you. I miss you when I'm gone, but I miss her too. In another way. She's my wife," he shrugged. "She's become a part of my life. You can't live in the same chamber with another person, for months and months, to become so terribly ill and nurse one another, without some connection forming. And then she miscarried my child and we shared such a deep sorrow. It bound us, that loss. You can't go through all of that and not grow to have some attachment to each other. I've become close to her," he shrugged, as if hoping that would sum it up. "I have love for her."
"Oh," she said, crestfallen.
"You felt it too, I suspect," he reminded her. "You were cooped up in this house with her for days and somehow, the two of you made it work. Do you remember the day I returned, that night when she led me to your chamber and then the two of you proceeded to regale me with the amazing tale of how you came to be here? I noticed some tension between you but that night, I had wondered if there was a friendship growing. You and she even ganged up together, that day."
"We did not," she protested.
"You pulled my hair, Harm," he shot back, grinning. "You gripped my queue and you pulled it, and then you looked at Cilla and she laughed. The two of you felt it also, at the least, a growing companionship. What happened to that, Harm?"
"You happened," she replied, meeting his gaze. "You came back."
"Perhaps I should leave," he laughed down at her.
"Only if you take me with you."
He kissed her brow. "You know I will."
She was quiet for a moment, pondering what he had told her. He loved her, Harmony. But he had love for Cilla. Even now she didn't know what that meant and she didn't like it very much either. "You're wrong, you know."
"About what?"
"You can live in the same chamber with a person, for months and months, you can go through terrible times together and at the end of it, feel absolutely no attachment to one another whatsoever. Believe me, I know."
Richard heaved a sigh. "Eh. You and Farshaw are a different case entirely. Farshaw is a prick. He has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. He never tried to atone for anything, he never tried to make amends. He never tried to make it work. He was abusive to you, he would have killed our child if he'd ever discovered it wasn't his. Harm, you can not compare your months of living with Farshaw, to my months of living with Cilla. Cilla and I…" He trailed off, thinking. "We're making the most of a troublesome situation. At first, we were just trying to make it work, for both our sakes and for the child we thought was coming. But, as I said, somewhere along the way, a closeness developed between us," he paused and gnawed at his lip, worrying. They had indeed become close, so much so that Cilla was ready to bed him, and she was now demanding a child. Which would require for him to bed her. Or she would lay with some other man to have the job done.
No, she was not serious. She had been angry, is all. But she would never break her marriage vows. She would never shame herself by taking a lover. She had come a long way in the last few months, to the point where she no longer felt threatened by him, and was willing to lay with him, to get the child she wanted so badly. He was the unwilling one now… The argument was over for now, Cilla had made no mention of it earlier that morning before leaving for Pembroke. But he fretted that it would rise again. Nothing was settled. What would he do, the next time she suggested it?
A problem for another day. He could not plan for all eventualities. He pinned Harmony with a stare, and asked pointedly, "is this closeness something you can accept?"
"Another thing I have no choice on, I suspect," Harmony drew her knees to her chest. "You say it's only a matter of time before Cornwallis summons the British Legion to help him take North Carolina. Is she is coming with us when we set out?"
"No, I will leave her here at Fresh Water," he promised, hoping she would not ask what would happen, after. Richard could not leave his wife at Fresh Water forever. The time would come when he would have to return for Cilla, they would live together as husband and wife, and Harmony would be close by. The problems between them, the conflicts, would surface all over again, then. It would only get worse, he suspected, when Harmony bore his child. No, leaving Cilla at Fresh Water was not the end of things; they were taking a reprieve only. He hoped Harmony did not continue with her 'what if's', because they would only land Richard in deeper, hotter water.
"I look forward to that," Harmony said, settling in beside him again."It'll be nice, just the two of us." She met his gaze, stared into his eyes. "What do you think our lives would have been like, if Calvin hadn't come back and if you'd never been made to marry Cilla? What would our lives be like now?"
"With no Cilla?" He asked, guessing that was the crux of her question, seeing that Farshaw was gone. He pondered this for several moments. "Far less complicated," he replied.
"Far less complicated!" She gasped. She took a mock swipe at his arm. "Far less complicated. That's not quite the answer I was expecting."
"Well, what do you think our lives would have been like? With no Farshaw and no Cilla."
"Richard, without them, you and I would be married by now. So frankly, I think my life would have been utter and complete bliss, and I can't believe you didn't answer the same. 'Far less complicated', indeed," she huffed. He grinned at her.
"I agree, our lives would be utter and complete bliss," his fingers toyed with her hair. "Mrs. Harmony Bordon..."
She melted, her breath hitched, her eyes became very soft. A sad smile tugged the corners of her mouth. He leaned closer, kissed the sadness away. At length, she drew back and began to nibble on her corncake. "Will I have a carriage, Major? Or am I to be carried on the back of a wagon?"
"I'm certain my funds can stretch to the purchase of a carriage," he draped his arm around her again. "And I'll purchase every single cushion I can find on the Santee, to keep your bottom comfortable. Nothing is too good for my Harmony."
"Ah, you're so good to me, my Major Dick."
"Oh, back to that again, is it?" He laughed, tickling her sides, easily finding her most sensitive places. She giggled and tried to fend him off. "You haven't called me that in an age!"
"I'll bet you missed it," she did her best to ignore his attack, baring her teeth as he reached her most ticklish places, in order to deploy an attack of her own. He was soon squirming away from her fingers, his bellows far louder than her giggles. She gasped as his finger struck a particularly tender spot. In her moment of weakness and inattention, he seized her wrists to prevent further attack. Harmony did nothing to release herself, instead, she began to lay back on the blanket, pulling him down with her.
"You've instructed the Dragoons not to interrupt you, haven't you?" Her voice was breathless, her cheeks flushed.
"I have," a smirk crossed his face.
"Then what are you waiting for? An invitation?" She laughed. She guided her legs around his waist, opening herself to him. "If so, will this suffice?"
"As good an invitation as any," he replied, barely managing the words around the thickness in his throat. Her skirt and petticoat slipped down her thighs past her garters, she had bared her quim to him. Lord, his Dragoons were separated only by a few trees… If anyone of them came with a missive… They would have to be quick, is all. Besides, it would be a foolish Dragoon indeed, who would approach without calling out a warning. Unwilling to waste a moment, he released her wrists, his hands flew to his belt, fingers swiftly released the clasp. He pushed his breeches down as far as was needful to free his phallus, and he settled back between her legs, entering her beloved quim slowly. Biting her lip with pleasure, she stroked his face gently.
"Richard," she lifted her own arms up and over her head and waggled her fingers at him. "Hold me down."
"Vixen," he laughed, plunging in deep even as he seized her wrists again, pinning them back to the blanket. His waist coat drooped down, getting in his way, but he did not release her arms to shift it, not when she wore such a look of ecstasy on her beautiful face. She met him thrust for thrust, and gasped with each deep plunge.
"Next thing," he gasped as he drew his phallus back. "You'll be," he pushed in deeply, "begging me to slap you," he drew back again, plunged deliciously forward. "Do you remember?"
Harmony could not help but laugh, even as sweat coated her forehead, even as she strove with him toward climax. Linda, squealing with pleasure, with each of William's slaps.
"Never," she panted. She crossed her ankles behind his back. "Never that. But this… Oh, this is bliss." To be held down by her lover as he took her, right there under the apple tree. Lord, he still even had his boots on, he had not waited a single moment to sport with her from the moment she suggested it. He was always so full of fire, of passion! Lord, it made her want to… A moan escaped her, she was so close, she wanted to feel it, wanted that ecstasy filling her… Hips in rapid motion, her pelvis meeting his, she angled herself upward to feel him deeper; she rasped out his name, her fingers curled into fists above his fingers as warmth swelled, then burst through her body. Her eyes were not closed, but still it took a while for her vision to clear. Richard writhed above her, his fingers closing hard on her wrists, she watched his face, marvelling at seeing his expression alter from determination, to pure joy as he reached climax.
Spent, he collapsed on top of her, his fingers loosening, as if all strength had seeped from his body with the pulsing of his seed.
He did not stay in such a compromising position for long. As he jerked his breeches up, Richard peered through the trees in the direction of the cricket game to ensure the Dragoons were still beyond sight. With a pleased, fulfilled groan, he dropped back onto the blanket, sated.
"You're a damned vixen," he said, holding his arms out to Harmony. "Getting me to hold you down. Linda has put some strange ideas in your head."
"Hmm," Harmony snugged in, draping an arm over his chest and a leg over his hips.
"Are you still hungry?" He asked. She had eaten only one small corncake and two pickles.
"No my love," she tapped his nose, her smile was teasing. "You have completely filled me up. For now."
"Sounds like I'll be needing my rest then," he clutched her to him and closed his eyes, feeling quite sleepy in the cool afternoon air. He felt he might very well fall asleep, right there beneath the tree, with Harmony in his arms.
"Alligators prefer the night," Cilla whispered, staring outward at the surrounding swampland. Shadows lengthened, long dark shapes stretching from the cypress trees. It was becoming dark and fairly soon, she and Morgan would not be able to see at all.
"Eh. But they don't climb, lass. Ye can sleep easy enough on the wagon bed, they canna get ye there," came his unconcerned reply, lips moving around the stem of his pipe.
Wonderful. Cilla shuddered. She imagined laying in a bundle of blankets on the wagon bed, with alligators shuffling about, snouts filled with those awful long teeth reaching upward toward the wagon, sniffing up at her, watching her with their horrible beady eyes, licking their lips in anticipation of tasting her flesh. Morgan was not ruffled by the prospect at all. The man had proved to be a stalwart companion, nothing seemed to shake him. Avoiding British and Loyalist militia patrols, those had been nothing to him. Cilla died each time each time she realised they were heading toward one. Morgan was unflappable, saying that two people travelling the roads should not attract attention, a British detachment might stop to ask Morgan what business he had on the road, but they'd be waved on soon enough.
Unless someone recognised Cilla Bordon, the Major's wife.
That threat was enough to keep even the stalwart Morgan to the back trails as much as he could, which he knew like the back of his hand. Only twice were they stopped by the British. Cilla had hidden as far back in her hood as she could, both times. Then she worried that the Redcoats might find that suspicious, her hiding within her cowl. But it'd begun raining, and the soldiers appeared to assume that she was trying to keep her face dry, not concealed from their view. Both times, they were sent on their way unmolested. Finding her father was not proving easy. They occasionally encountered men Morgan trusted, but those knew little enough. One lead, they had. One lead only, given to them by some old hunter of Morgan's acquaintance, who knew where Mark had been camping the last couple nights. Cilla had demanded the fellow describe the other men in the possible Mark Putman's company, she exulted when he described a few young men matching Calvin Farshaw's description, and her own cousins, Gabriel and Thomas Martin. It had to be them, didn't it? Black hair and green eyes, tall. That could only be Farshaw. Brown eyes, blonde hair, tall. That must have been Gabriel. Blue eyes, brown hair, tall, young, no older than eighteen. Thomas. It had to be. Which meant that the tall blonde fellow with blue eyes must have been Mark Putman. She and Morgan were on the right track. She knew it in her bones.
The place in which her father was camping was less than half a mile off. Excitement burned through Cilla's veins. In less than half an hour, she would be with him again.
"We'll be there soon, lass," Morgan said, sensing her excitement. It was hard to miss, with her bouncing on the seat, rocking back and forth as if she could will the horses to go faster.
"I think he'll have a cabin," Cilla said and Morgan gave her a look. They were in the swamplands, houses were few and far between. They were heading to a part so isolated and hidden, a place that would keep Mark and his Company unseen from British eyes. There would not be a house there, Morgan had said. Cilla chose to believe otherwise.
"I've got a tarp to cover the wagon. If there's no grand house where we're going - and I'll wager you there won't be, then you can sleep comfortably enough on the wagon bed…" He trailed off. Unconcerned. Always bloody unconcerned. Cilla resisted the urge to kick him. Just to get some response other than that stalwart, unflappable un-bloody-concern! She was unused to sleeping rough and had no desire to sleep on the back of a wagon! She heaved a sigh, feeling utterly miserable. She had not figured any of this into her plans. When she first set out with Morgan, she'd imagined that finding her father would be a simple thing, accomplished within an hour at most. She'd thought she would be with him before midday, but here they were, still travelling the awful, tiny, treacherous trails, and it was coming on to night. And it was cold. Chilled wind sliced through her. She clutched her damp cape around her shoulders, wondering if now was a good time to reach for one of the blankets Morgan had bought along. But she might need them for later, to keep dry and warm during the night. If they were going to spend the night on the wagon, did that mean…
"There won't be a fire," she finished her thought out loud. Her fingers cramped in her deerskin gloves, her toes turned to ice in her silk hose. Silk stockings. Christ, what was the matter with her? She should have worn wool!
"Eh?" Morgan cast her a quizzical glance.
"If I am to sleep out here on the wagon bed, then I can't have a fire… Not on the cart…"
"I'll make ye a fire for a little bit, and we'll douse it before bedding down. Ye'll go to sleep with a warm meal in ye, lass."
"Sleep?" She slapped at an insect on her sleeve, another mosquito. Damned little blood suckers. They had plagued her for hours. "I doubt I'll get any sleep." She gazed up at the grey sky and bit the inside of her lip. It was so strange. All the noises. Birds trilling their tunes. A squirrel had dashed into the brush a short while earlier. The sounds of wildlife - it was a far cry different to the sounds she was used to. There were no other people here, and she was used to there always being other people. The sound of their footsteps in the corridors, of their laughter and chatter, playing music, all of those usual sounds… It was all absent here. Here, there was only Morgan and Cilla. And squirrels and birds.
And blood sucking mosquitoes. And flesh eating alligators.
She closed her eyes, stomach churning. She didn't care what Morgan thought - those damned brutes were large enough to swallow a man whole. She'd seen one earlier, floating at the waters edge, its long nose peeking out, teeth jagged in all directions and those awful beady eyes. It had been so big too. And long. The body itself had been beneath the surface. The tip of a tail broke the water too many yards from that mean snout, making Cilla believe there were two alligators. For surely the beast could not have grown so long for that to have been its own tail? The illusion was shattered when it moved - dashing back into the water as the wagon approached. To her horror, she realised that it was all the one creature. Big enough to swallow her in one, small gulp, those large teeth crunching her bones to shards. She shivered again and this time, it had nothing to do with the cold.
"Is it really necessary that we sleep on the wagon?" Cilla asked, stubbornly hopeful. Papa will find me a place to stay, he won't let me sleep under the sky.
"Nothing that would suit a lass of your breeding," Morgan laughed. "We're in the hinterlands now, only crofters cabins likely filled to bursting with children and no space on the floor for a blanket. You'll be comfortable enough on the wagon, I'll make sure of it. Safe, too."
"Except for those horrible beasts," she said softly.
"They're shy enough of humans and they don't like our flesh anyway. They're more interested in marsh hens and whatever other small creatures they can snag from the banks. Don't worry about it."
She could hear amusement in his voice. Well, it was all well and good enough for him, she supposed. He was accustomed to camping at the roadside at night with nothing more than a fire and a blanket to keep him warm, and his firearm and a tomahawk to keep him safe. It was a far cry from what she was used to, however.
"Do you think my father will still be there?" She asked, unable to give up hope.
"That fellow back aways said he was," Morgan said gently. Stalwart. Unflappable. Unconcerned. And patient. "So it's worth checking, aye?" He'd said as much earlier. He said the same thing over and over, each time Cilla broached it.
"Yes," she agreed. "It's worth checking."
The wagon ambled along the road, Morgan clucked at the horses occasionally, but they plodded along with little guidance from him, for the most part. He lit a lantern and set it on a pole, though it did not light the road ahead very far. It was more for her comfort than anything, she suspected. It was soon surrounded by mosquitoes and other insects.
They reached the campsite before it became fully dark.
The empty campsite.
Cilla's heart dropped to her feet.
That there had been people here previously was without doubt, even Cilla could see where sleeping places had been cleared on the ground, and the charred remains of a cook fire. A small cabin, more of a shed really, but with a brazier and enough room inside for two men to sleep. Her father's campsite, but it made no difference that they'd found it at last, for he was not there. She felt like weeping. Morgan handed her down from the wagon. He was cheerful, declaring she would have a roof over her head after all, albeit a small and shabby one. He was jovial, told her not to despair, that her father might be off hounding British baggage trains or somewhat, and might return to the campsite yet. Then be began whistling some tuneless tune while getting a fire established outside. She disappeared behind a tree for a short while to attend the call of nature, then rushed back to Morgan, trembling, panting, forehead covered with sweat. While she had squatted there, one hand against a tree for balance, the other keeping her skirts away from the water she was passing, she had begun imagining an alligator launching from the swampland to seize her ankle. She imagined being dragged into the murky water and drowning, while the beast was already tearing at her flesh. She'd barely finished when she shoved her skirts down and began rushing back toward the camp, having worked herself into such a state.
"Can ye fetch the pot lass? And me bag as well. I'll light the brazier in the cabin soon. For now, some dinner."
Hands trembling, weak kneed, she made her way to the wagon. She knew which bag he meant, he'd gone into it several times that day for bread and cheese and dried meat. They'd be eating the same again for supper, she suspected, but at least they'd do it by a warm fire and perhaps with a cup of hot, spiced water to wash it down. Or at least she supposed that was why he asked for the pot.
It was not long before Cilla was sitting before the blaze, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, and her fingers wrapped around a steaming tin mug. Her stomach was full of the bread, cheese and meat. Morgan sat beside her on the log, telling her a tale. He'd been telling her tales all day long, of recent times and times long gone. Back to fifteen years earlier, when the call to march to the frontier to settle for the 'damned injuns', as Morgan called them. The Cherokee War. She'd been listening to such tales her entire life, her own uncle had received wounds in that war. And she did find them intriguing; especially since the entire affair sparked because some Indians in Virginia stole horses from a Planter Grandee, as payment for their assistance in fighting the French. The French war had already been raging, and the British had promised that if the Indians assisted, they would be rewarded. The Indians must have considered the white folk to be one complete entity, for they had had no problem with taking their payment from this one particular Planter. Who refused to pay for their services from his own pockets. He had called them thieves, for taking what belonged to him.
A small skirmish, men died on both sides. And all of South and North Carolina rose up and marched to war against the Indians. That's what fascinated Cilla. It was quite remarkable, really. That a war could begin over what was, really, a misunderstanding.
As Morgan spoke of creeping through the woods toward unsuspecting savages, Cilla let her mind wander. The fire blazed before her, the cup was hot in her hands. But neither gave her any warmth. Miserable, she stared into the dancing flames; and brooded.
Was she doing the right thing, leaving Richard? His face rose in her mind. His ready smile, blue eyes bright and merry, his deep laughter. Her heart twisted. She felt like weeping. How did he feel about her leaving? Shocked at first. And then relieved. That he was free now, to be with Mrs. Farshaw. Cilla's departure would not break his heart. He would be giddy, happy and would embrace his future with Harmony and not even look back. It was evening now, everything would have played out at Fresh Water already. Around lunch time, the Dragoons and Mila would have returned without her. The letter would have been found. Richard would have read Cilla's instructions, and acted on them quickly, swiftly, confidently. She imagined Richard's voice, deep with horror and concern, as he stood before O'Hara and described Cilla's fear and the family emergency which had her dashing away from Fresh Water with the rising sun. Afterward, he returned to Fresh Water from Colin Ferguson's plantation, where he told Harmony they were free, finally free of Cilla. Cilla imagined how joyous they would have felt. In his excitement, Richard hoisted Harmony into the air, laughing, twirling her about in a full circle. Harmony cried tears of joy. Somehow, Cilla knew it was all true. As if she'd been there to see it with her own two eyes. That's how events would have played out at Fresh Water Plantation while all through the day, she'd been miserable and travelling further and further away.
He would have set Harmony back on her feet after twirling her. Harmony would have been breathless and he would have kissed her. Deep, certain, possessive, as they celebrated this new and abrupt turn that had bought them back together finally, with neither Calvin Farshaw or Cilla to interfere further. Burning jealousy rose like bile in Cilla's mouth. Such bitterness, surprising even her with its intensity. She shied away from those feeling, not yet ready to examine her roiling emotions.
There were other instructions in her letter but some time needed to pass before Richard could act on them. If he followed them well, he would escape unscathed, his honour and his standing with his superiors intact. But the first instruction... An iron ball flying from the cannon. That's how swiftly he'd have rushed to O'Hara's. He would have had his horse streaking across the fields.
She was setting them both free. Cilla should have been as excited as she knew Richard must be. She had her whole life to live, now. Her life was hers again, as it had not been since that day in the city, when the soldiers had come for her and had taken her to the dungeon. Everything had altered from that point, a thread had been jerked from the weft and weave that made up her past, her present and her future. All had changed, from that one snipped thread. But she was re-weaving her future now, and setting things to rights.
So. Why that bitter tang of jealousy? Cilla dwelled on that now, forcing herself to confront her emotions. Why was she feeling so miserable? Why did her throat constrict, why did she feel like weeping? Sitting there by the fire as Morgan continued his tales, oblivious to his distracted audience, she tried fiercely to think of the good side. Her whole future was hers again. To enjoy the thrill of being courted. To fall in love. Become engaged. To marry a man and every evening thereafter feel that exhilaration, the desire, the pleasures Banastre had shown her. To bear that man his children. It shocked her, that she had to force herself to consider all of the advantages to her. She should not have to force herself to consider the wonders of what might lay before her, to take away the heartache over what she had left behind.
She should not be feeling heartache over Richard. That was what it came down to, she realised. She was heart sore over Richard. It was killing her. She was in agony, when she should be relieved. She should be happy about this! About all it meant for her. Shouldn't she? She just didn't know! She drew a shuddering breath. Confused and miserable, she struggled to make sense of her thoughts, and of her heart.
It seemed far too simple a way to explain it to herself - that Bordon had snipped a thread that made the weaving of her future. It was far too tame a way to describe what he had done. He brutalised her that day. He murdered her virtue. Stripped her of her innocence, of her integrity, leaving nothing but a ruined shell of agony and despair. He had taken away her ability to protect herself, she had been helpless against his strength. A silk ribbon caught up by a hurricane.
She wrapped her arms around her body, tears ran unchecked down her cheeks. Morgan was oblivious. Morgan threw his arm out, showing her how he had held his dagger, words tumbling from him as fast as a horse could run, the story of when he faced down three savages at once. Cilla barely heard him. She stared vacantly at the fire. Her chest felt so tight.
I do care for him… she conceded. She'd cared for him for some time now. But surely that was not enough to make her heart constrict, to tighten, to seize her as it was doing right then? As it had since she'd conceived of this plan to leave. Am I… infatuated with him? She thought reluctantly, biting her lip to choke back a sob. Oh sweet Lord, what is wrong with me?
He has made you trust him, the thought raged through her mind, an accusation speared at Richard. She shook her head, argued with herself. No, he has not made you do anything of the sort. He has proven to you that he can be trusted. He has shown you remorse and you know that remorse is true. He is sorry for what he did to you. It kills him. But is that enough? Is it enough to be remorseful? What he did to me… She shook her head, if she bit her lip any harder, she'd likely draw blood. What he did… I could never forgive him. I could never forget what he did to me. But that's just it, isn't it? That was not Richard. Well, it was, of course, but… Her mind whirled as she grappled with her thoughts and raging emotions. He is not the same man, not anymore. Not now. He would never do such a thing again.
Would he?
The question froze her as the night never could, and the one that came hot on the heels of the first was even more chilling. How on earth could she even consider… How could she ever entertain the idea…
Oh, Lord, is Harmony right? Have I fallen in love with him? This time, she tasted blood. Has that damned bastard made me love him? After everything else he's done to me. He took it all from me and now he's taken that to? Her teeth had cut through the skin, the iron tang of blood coated her tongue. The sting of pain helped to clear her mind.
Perhaps I am in love with him, she thought, unable to fully admit to that truth even if it was staring her in the face. But whether I love him or not, it makes not a jot of difference. I have left him, the dye has been cast. My feet are on this road now, the damaged thread has been mended. I will go to my father, he will know what to do. He will agree with me. With the coming time of change, I could marry again and no one would think twice about it. She closed her eyes, her heart ached, twisted until she felt like choking. You will find happiness, Cilla. She soothed herself, as if she were her own mother. She knew those were the words her mother would say. And she knew they were right. Given enough time, her broken heart would mend. Hadn't she proved it was true already? She had come far in her healing since that day in the dungeon. What was a broken heart, to that?
"Ho the camp!" The shout sliced through the air like a scythe, cutting short Morgan's tirade, stilling Cilla's raging thoughts.
"Papa?" Cilla was on her feet and whirling, searching the darkness for her father. But then she tensed, because Morgan tensed. Why was he reaching for his rifle? "Surely it's my father?" She whispered, her voice trembled.
"Let's be sure first, aye?" He said, fingers curling around the trigger, his other hand supporting the barrel as he pulled the weapon up. "Who'd be there, then?" He called back, aiming the firearm in the direction the shout had come.
"No need for the musket, grey beard," the voice said from the trees. A man - not Mark Putman. Not Gabriel or Thomas either. Not Calvin Farshaw. The stranger was dressed in soiled buckskin breeches and a fringed hunting shirt, he came closer toward the fire, into the light. He had his arms spread wide to show he was no threat, but still Morgan did not lower his rifle. "Me name is Eddie. Eddie Rousin."
"I don't care what yer name is. Be ye British, tory, or rebel?" Morgan asked. Cilla shot him a startled glance. Rebel? Only Tory's called Patriots rebels. Oh. She settled back down again. He was not giving his own allegiance away, not until he knew Eddie Rousin's.
"Neither," came the reply. The man, Eddie, grinned and Cilla shivered. It had a feral look to it, that grin. "I ain't neither. You're a pretty lass. What's your name?"
"I'll be asking the questions," Morgan snapped. "And don't be sitting neither, not until I know whose ye are." The fellow, who had been about to sit across from them, stopped his crouch midway. He straightened, his smile slipping from his face. Cilla's heart began to pound. "Are ye alone?" Morgan asked, voice harder than she'd ever heard him speak, and he'd been speaking all day long.
"No, Sir, I ain't," Eddie said, voice soft. Deadly.
Other figures began to move in from the darkness. Cilla jumped to her feet, the blanket fell from her shoulders. With wide eyes, she counted. Three, four, five... men. Five against one. If they were enemies...
"Brigands," Morgan breathed. Cilla gasped, her hands flew to her stomach. Eddie smiled at her, she was sure it was meant to be soothing.
"Nah, old grey beard. We ain't so bad. Just a few like minded fellows who've fallen on hard times. Your wagon's looking awful heavy for those old nags to pull. I'd be happy to lighten yer load for you."
"You could say we was doing you a favour," another fellow laughed.
"I'm sure you would," Morgan curled his lip. "There's not much of worth on there."
"By the looks of you, I'd say not," Eddie said, looking at Morgan's clothes. Eddie eyed Cilla up and down, raked over her silk skirts and embroidered bodice. "But by the looks of her…"
She could not tell if it was her clothes he was admiring, or… All thoughts of Richard flew from her mind. All that was left was terror.
"Take what ye must," Morgan still had the firearm up. He began to edge toward Cilla, to stand between her and the men, to cover her with his body. There were at least five of brigands, however, and more were spilling through the trees. "Take it and go."
"Go look, Dwight," Eddie Rousin commanded. Dwight, and several others, began peering into the wagon bed, reaching in to rifle through the bags. "So," Eddie said to Cilla. "What're you carrying on your person? Anything of worth?"
"I…" She licked her lips. Lord, she could say no, but would he believe her? Would he search her? Once his hands were on her, would he stop at a simple search for riches? "A p-purse. A few s-sovereigns. You c-can have them."
"Just leave her be," Morgan said, rifle still at the ready. His voice however… no longer stalwart. No longer unflappable. He was downright scared, as scared for her as she was. And that increased her own terror tenfold. It told her that what she was worried about was a real and genuine concern, that Eddie might hurt her…
"Your shoes," Eddie said. "Lift yer skirt a bit, let me see them."
"My… M-my shoes?" Cilla's voice quavered. "You… want m-my shoes?"
"And your skirt… So much silk. You know how much it'll fetch me?" He began to stride toward her, face grim in the firelight. At a gesture from Eddie, two men darted forward, boots stamping in the mud, both reached Morgan and restrained him before he could pull the trigger. Cilla had no doubt he'd spoken truthfully earlier, he would have been a force to reckon with, back in the war. But he was old now. And the men who seized him, were in their prime.
"Please, spare her," Morgan begged, pulling against the hands that had him pinned. Cilla burst into tears.
"Hold her," Eddie barked and two more of his men seized her arms. Morgan thrashed, bellowing, panicking. Cilla sobbed. Eddie began tearing at her clothes and she was helpless to stop him. A silk ribbon in a hurricane. Oh God, not again. He stood before her as she struggled against her capture's hold, his face a nightmare in the firelight. She tried to thrash as Morgan was but she was slight, so much weaker than the old man. She was nothing to her captors. Eddie reached up with groping hands. He tore at the ribbons of her cape, jerked it from her shoulders. He took a moment to appreciate her bodice - or her bosom, she had no idea which. Then he worked the first two buttons loose. Her bodice was pulled up and over her head, jerked from her arms all at once. One of the men laughed. "Don't drop it in the mud, Eddie. Or it will have to be washed before it's any good for selling."
"Very fine," Eddie held the garment up to the firelight, examined it appreciatively. He folded it carefully, handed it to one of his men, then turned back to Cilla. Despite her weeping, despite Morgan's begging, the man reached around her to untie her skirts. He smelled rank. His nearness made her gag. The burning look in his eyes, the leer, it left her with no doubt what would happen once she was disrobed. Her clothes would be placed carefully aside to keep them from being sullied. But he would show no such consideration for her body. He would sully her. Would he do it right there in the mud? Or would he take her, screaming, to the cabin? Rather than pull them down and have them touch the mud, the skirt and petticoats were pulled up over her head, leaving her weeping in only her stays, short shift and stockings. Sweet Lord, would he take those too? She hung her head, feeling very exposed. She couldn't even cover herself for there was a man on either side of her, pinning her arms.
"Nice legs," Eddie grinned. "Nice everything," with both hands, he groped her breasts, he stared avidly as he moulded them with his fingers. Any doubt as to his intention was gone.
Kick him. Kick him, kick him! Cilla braced herself. If she was to be ravished by this man, then by God, why shouldn't she at least fight? A silk ribbon in a hurricane. Why couldn't she be the hurricane? Just for once! With a scream of defiance, she bought up her knee, gaining leverage from her captor's hold, she put as much strength into the blow as her slight body was able. It was enough. The genitals were such sensitive things. Eddie's eyes bulged, an explosive breath burst across her cheek. He began to topple downward, knees together, his hands cupping his groin now.
"Christ, she got ye good. Ye right, Eddie?" The man to Cilla's right laughed. It sounded like a braying donkey.
"Damned bitch," the man to her left spun her, she had a moment of panic, a moment of looking into sheer fury, the fury's hand raised back. Pain exploded across her cheek, stars burst before her eyes.
"Curse you, God curse you!" Morgan shouted, becoming the hurricane. A shot exploded in the night. The man's head punched forward into Cilla's nose. A sickening crunch, stunning her.
"Ye killed him!"
No one was holding her now. She clutched her nose, howling, howling. God, the pain. Shouting. So much shouting. Finally one shout penetrated the fog.
"Run, lass! Don't just stand there, run!"
Cilla focused her eyes through the blurry stream. The fellow, the one who'd butted her head. She stared downward, shocked to see him laying at her feet. Half the back of his head torn apart by Morgan's bullet. He hadn't head butted her, it had been the force of the short from Morgan's rifle that'd caused him to smash his face into her nose. Her eyes grew wider, wider, she stared at the ever expanding circle of blood pouring from the man's head. She took a step backward so it would not touch her shoes. Her shoes, which Eddie had coveted. Eddie was rising, a look of death on his face, eyes on her. She'd pay for dropping him. Oh, she'd pay.
"Run!" Morgan shrieked again. A rifle clapped, light flared, and Morgan dropped. She met his eyes as he toppled to his knees. Whispering now. "Run."
Someone reached for her. The man who'd been holding her right arm, the one who'd laughed at his boss being kicked in the groin. He was not laughing now. She whirled as his hand tried to close on her wrist, fingers brushed her arm but she was too quick for him. She leaped for the darkness, let it close in on her, heard Eddie shout for his men to pursue her in a voice still hoarse with pain. Of course, he could not have come after him herself. He would not be moving for sometime yet. Cilla however ran as swiftly as a deer from the hunter, unencumbered, no skirts to tangle around her legs. There had to be some advantage to her clothes being torn from her. Cold air rushed past her, she had no idea she could run so fast. Her nose was killing her, blood seeped into her mouth. Her chest was on fire, she was barely able to breathe, but she pushed herself onward. Something snagged her glove, she bit back a shriek, thinking it was one of the men. It was a branch, and she was stuck. Men shouting behind her. She ripped off the glove, kept running. No light to see by. She couldn't have seen in any case. Her nose afire with pain, her eyes stinging, streaming. Branches sliced her cheeks, her foot caught a hole and turned. Sobbing wretchedly, she dropped to her knees and crawled. Her stockings were soon soaked, muddied. They'll catch you if you crawl, a sane, rational voice said at the back of her mind, loud even above the panic of her thoughts. They'll catch you. They'll punish you. For kicking him. And for the other - the dead one. His head, a massive hole in the back, all that blood. Who knew there was so much blood in your head? She gave a great shudder. Pushed herself back to her feet. Heard boot-falls behind her. Going in the wrong direction, thankfully. Still, with a wild gasp, she ignored the blasting pain in her ankle as she dodged trees and ran, ran, ran.