Chapter 124 - Jaded and Reckless:

"Shouldn't you be getting ready?" William asked. The Colonel stood before his stand mirror. Mila's husband Zeke fluffed about him, helping him to dress. "I thought you'd be in your suit by now," William shot a glance at Richard, who was in his Green Dragoon uniform. He looked very much like a man ready to ride, he even had a small ruck over his shoulder, his pistol on his belt, sabre at his side and riding crop in his hand. "Not the sort of attire one would wear to a formal dinner…"

"Cilla did not return," Richard said, voice hard.

"Of course she did, I saw the carriage myself." Zeke held up two cravats, William pointed to the one with more lace.

"The carriage returned, and with it the Dragoons and Mila. But there is no Cilla," the words were said from between clenched teeth. Richard glared at William's manservant. "Zeke, leave us."

Zeke hesitated only a moment; he glanced at the Colonel, who nodded, before finally retreating. Richard waited until the door closed behind him.

"She has left me," he announced, vigorously waving what looked to be a letter. "Damn and blast the little minx! She was never going to look at bloody lawn for a new shirt or silks for a dress! She was never going to meet the other women for lunch at Mrs. Campbell's! She went in to Pembroke, she dismissed the Dragoons to the tavern. And when they finally came looking for her at Mrs. Campbell's mercantile, she was no where to be found. She - was - not - there. She - was - gone!"

"Christ," the blood drained from William's face, leaving him feeling cold all over. "She left."

"The Dragoons questioned the guards at Pembroke. They recalled seeing a young woman who matched Cilla's description, leaving on a bloody buckboard with some old grey beard, who claimed she was his niece! She arranged it all! Christ, she could be anywhere by now."

"The Dragoons are terrified," a woman's quiet voice said at the door. William glanced over at Harmony, standing nervously by the window. He had not even heard her come in. "They think they're going to be whipped."

"And so they should be," Richard bellowed. Harmony winced as the shout bounced from the walls. "They had charge of my wife's escort. They dare to return here, without her!"

"How did she manage to leave the town?" William asked, voice calm. "This fellow - did he have a pass?"

"His name is Morgan," Richard ground out, twisting the letter in his hands. "And yes, he came and went as he pleased. He was not under suspicion."

"I see. Where is Mila?" William asked. Harmony reached for the door, her hand was momentarily out of sight, then she was dragging a reluctant Mila into the room. Beth's maid had been standing just outside.

"Mrs. Bordon told me to stay in the carriage," Mila said before she could be asked. She cast worried eyes to the infuriated Major, hands wringing. "She knew I've been ill. I thought she was just being kind. It was the sort of thing Beth would have done," she paused, realised she'd dared to mention Beth in William's presence, then hurried on hoping he would forget the slip. "I had no idea she was plotting anything... Mrs. Bordon said I was not needed and could sleep there. And so… I did…"

Her eyes were on the floorboards at her feet.

"You slept!" Bordon shouted, again the bellow cut through their ears. William tightened his lips. "While my wife was leaving, you were sleeping! I'll have you bloody whipped too!"

Mila burst into tears.

"She needs to stop that damned weeping, William. My bloody God, she needs to stop it now," Richard raged, fists clenched. He needed answers, not a bloody sobbing maid.

"Calm yourself Richard," William momentarily met Zeke's terrified eyes, the former slave rushed to his wife's side, holding her, his gaze on William, beseeching. "No one is going to whip Mila," William said and Zeke expelled a relieved breath. William stepped forward, placing himself between Richard and Mila, and began making shushing noises. Eventually the girl calmed enough to answer his questions.

"What do you know of this?" He asked the terrified maid.

"N-nothing," Mila shook her head, she met his gaze, too terrified to look at Richard. The Colonel could be formidable, but just then, he was the safer of the pair. "I vow, I know nothing. I don't know how long I was asleep for but when I woke, Mrs. Bordon was still not back. I thought it had only been half an hour, perhaps, so I wasn't concerned. I waited and waited. Then I went to the mercantile. Mrs. Campbell was surprised that I'd ask. She said she had not seen Mrs. Bordon at all that day and that there was no arrangement to have lunch with Mrs. Reynolds and her daughters. I went to tell the Dragoons but by then, Mrs. Bordon had been gone for hours."

William asked several more questions, giving Richard a chance to calm himself. The Major went to stand before a window, staring outward toward the setting sun. When he turned, Mila and Zeke were gone.

"Well then. What does she say in her letter?" William asked.

"Oh she goes on about pulled threads and that she is fixing the weave as though she's making a bloody quilt or something. And that she's setting us all free," the words were hissed; when he turned to face William, his face was dead white. He was filled with fury, but his next words came out panicked. "Lord, William. It's cold out. It looks like rain, too. She'll freeze out there!"

"Richard, she's probably sitting in front of a fire with a hot cider in her hands," William shook his head. "She won't be out of doors, not in this."

"He wants to go after her," Harmony hugged herself, her arms across her stomach, looking vulnerable and hurt.

"She's my wife," Richard replied, voice hard. "I can not let her just up and leave!"

"Why not?" Harmony cried, holding herself in a death grip. "She said she's setting us all free! Why not let her?"

"Let her…" Richard stared hard at her.

"It's what we talked about just yesterday!"

Talked? There'd been a lot of yelling, not much talking… Harmony had suggested it be her and Richard who left, they could have gone to live with her parents up in Grindal Shoals. And later Cilla had suggested that she leave. It had been discussed but Richard had refused both women. Judging by Cilla's actions, she had decided to take control of the situation.

Why not simply let her? Harmony had sowed the seed, and Richard considered it. He blinked at her, unable to speak. It was what Cilla wanted. What would she do, if he came after her? If he found her? Would she refuse to return with him? What would his men think, watching such a public fight? It would be easier, and quieter, to let her leave. To follow her instructions, to tell O'Hara her mother was ill. And then later, to tell them all she was dead.

That his wife was dead. Cilla... His stomach twisted. He shook his head.

"Just let her go!" Harmony threw her arms up, distraught. She'd seen the indecision on his face, knew that he'd been considering it. But just as quickly, he tossed it aside, shaking his head, refusing to allow it. What was the matter with him? "This is the best thing for us all!" She cried, tears filling her eyes. "It's what she wants, otherwise she wouldn't have gone!"

"Well it's not what I bloody want!" He bellowed, face crimson.

"Why? Because you're worried about what O'Hara and everyone will think about your marriage, with her leaving like this?" Harmony shot back. "Cilla has given you a way out of that, too!"

"To tell them all she's dead?" He asked, aghast. "I don't even want to say such a thing! And what O'Hara and every other person alive thinks about my marriage is not my only concern!" He bared his teeth, offended and frustrated and just damned scared.

"Then what is?" Harmony shot back.

"Her safety! What if she did not make it to a safe location before nightfall? It's the middle of bloody winter! And who is this Morgan anyhow? How does Cilla know him? She has few acquaintances up this way and I will wager my damned horse that he was never one of them! If she dies of exposure before morning, or if she's murdered by this Morgan, would that be the best for us all then?"

"No, I don't mean that!" Harmony cried, shocked he would accuse her of such a lack of empathy. "I do not wish for anything bad to happen to her! I just don't think she's in any danger! And this is clearly what she wants, she wants to leave, to start again! To meet someone and marry him, you said so! Just let her go, Richard."

"You can't know that she's safe," he snapped, tossing his head. He'd read parts of his letter out loud. He'd been so shocked that she might look for marriage elsewhere, that he'd read that part to Harmony.

"Even William thinks so!" Harmony threw her hand toward William, who was keeping silent throughout the argument. "She's probably tucked up with blankets before a fire!"

"Probably is not good enough!" Richard roared, cheeks turning purple. "Has it occurred to you, Harmony, that perhaps I don't want her gone?"

"Because you have love for her?" She shouted back, challenging, clearly still stung by his earlier profession. He hesitated, saying nothing. Her face turned white, taking his silence for confirmation.

"You are both a part of my life now," he said quietly. "Two halves that make my life whole. I will not do without either of you. I thought you understood this." He had explained it to her earlier, both women were a part of his life now. It did not feel right to him, he did not feel whole, having one and not the other.

"What a selfish man you are," she whispered and her words cut him like a scythe. Her lips were bloodless in a too pale face. She looked on the verge of fainting. "With her leaving, we are all free. Will you force Cilla to return when she clearly wants to start anew? Just so you can be whole. Will you force me to continue as your whore, when with her leaving, I could be so much more? Just so you can be whole."

"You forget Farshaw is still alive. You and I can never marry, Harmony," he said, almost gently, but his face and voice hardened. "And what is all that about forcing you? I have never forced you to do a damned thing. You are my mistress because you want to be."

She grunted as if he'd punched her.

"I do not pursue her out of selfishness, Harmony, but to protect her. You and William both think she's safe." He barked a contemptuous laugh. "That doesn't mean she actually is. It is opinion only and I will not leave the safety of my wife to chance." Richard swung his gaze to William, daring the Colonel to defy him. "Sir, I am going after my wife. I have gathered the Dragoons. Two score of them. Will you give my excuses to O'Hara?"

"I will tell him that Cilla's escort was attacked on the road and she has been taken," William said. "And that you have gone to find her."

Nodding sharply, Richard whirled, his boots struck the floorboards with each determined step toward the door. When it shut behind him, Harmony burst into tears and rushed into William's outstretched arms.

Patrick Brownlow stared daggers at the back of Major Bordon's head. The Major had noticed long since, Patrick was certain of it. There would likely be repercussions for it. The Major would declare the Cornet insubordinate. Belligerent. Contentious. An arsehole. Patrick was too angry to care. If either of them was an arsehole, it was most definitely Major Richard Bordon. What a prick. It was the dead of night, just after midnight, it had just started raining and it was cold. So fucking cold. The chill lanced through to his skin despite the layers of wool. Water dripped from his helmet onto his face. When the rain wasn't slanting sideways, cutting into his cheeks. Every part of him stunk; of horse, of wet wool, sweat, every smell imaginable. As if he hadn't been exhausted enough from their previous days scouting. Christ, he should be tucked up in his bed right now. After having a long soak in a bath.

Oh joy, bliss, to slide his exhausted body into a hot bath. When was the last time he'd done that? He'd been settling for quick splashes of cold water from a basin for so long, he couldn't remember. He'd intended to have one, as soon as he returned from the Dragoons raid of Mrs. Rutledge's plantation. There were rebels there, that was what some Loyalist had reported. And it was true. There had been. Had. By the time the Dragoons had reached there, the rebels were scattering like the wind, into the marshes and out of sight. How many hours chasing them down, through the cold winter day and night?

After going through all that, was a bath really too much to ask for?

How weary had he been, riding into Fresh Water the following evening? How weary had they all been? And disillusioned, at yet another nest of rebels escaping. A bath… A nice long, warm, soapy soak… It would have been a balm to his very tired soul. Was it really so much to fucking ask? Patrick had intended to request one be drawn for him. He'd been looking forward to it every moment on the long ride home. But by the time they'd reached Fresh Water, it was far too late and he'd been far too tired. Instead, he'd stumbled to his bed, too tired to even think of visiting the camp followers who welcomed Officers to their tent at night. First thing in the morning, he'd promised himself. He'd speak to Zeke, and a bath would be drawn. He'd actually gone to bed with those thoughts on his mind. Trying to warm himself in the blankets, he'd thought of how wonderful it would be, when he finally slid himself into that piping hot water, hot enough to draw away the days of chill from his bones.

But had he had the opportunity? Patrick's eyes bore into Bordon's head. No. He had not. Because Major fucking arsehole Bordon had decided to go on a picnic. Before his wife's carriage could even reach the post road, Bordon was already gathering his Dragoons. Brownlow, standing before Zeke, about to give the command to have a bath drawn. A Private, trotting toward him along the hallway, panting for breath he'd run so fast, as if for some grand emergency. Orders delivered. Brownlow was needed in the stables. All thoughts of the bath flew from his head.

There must be trouble, he'd thought. The rebels from Mrs. Rutledge's Plantation had been sighted, he'd thought.

Or another band in need of being dealt to. Either way. Trouble.

Yeah. There was fucking trouble alright. Patrick realised it as soon as he raced into the stables, only to stop dead at the sight of a smiling Major Prick Bordon, helping his very pregnant mistress into the saddle. Harmony had smiled and waved at Patrick. Cheerful. Like there'd been absolutely fucking nothing wrong. Patrick liked Mrs. Farshaw. He did. But in that moment, he'd hated her. Despised her… He'd wanted to just… Not spit in her face - never that. He didn't know what. Shake his fist under her nose. Or under Bordon's nose. Or smash it into Bordon's nose.

Oh what a proud and glorious mission that'd taken him away from his much needed soak. Being escort for Bordon and his mistress on their picnic. He simply must write home to mother about it. She'd be delighted that her son was being made such good use of.

It was the same, again and again and a-fucking-gain. Honestly. It had been going on for months and months. Being sent to camp to fetch Mrs. Farshaw from her husband, informing her husband that Mrs. Tavington summoned her. Only to deliver her to Bordon who was waiting in that damned cabin. And then to stand there - fucking stand there - on sentry duty - in the cold and blistering rain, for the hours it took for Bordon to rut with the woman. To actually have to listen to it all, because he and Dalton could not close their ears and the cabin walls were thin. Yet the lovers hadn't cared. They had comported themselves as though they were in a chamber with stone walls five inches thick.

And it was happening all over again. Patrick had thought those days were behind him. Dalton had too. Patrick glanced over at his friend, visible by the firebrand he carried. Dalton's face was livid, his eyes boring into the back of Bordon's head. Shouldn't have told him, Patrick thought. Nah, screw that. He's got every right to know. His fingers tightened on the reins, his eyes were sabres now.

They'd been playing cricket - mostly to keep warm but because it was a glorious day; or had been earlier - cold but insanely sunny. Where had the sun gone? Stupid question, Patty. It's nighttime, that's where the sun went, he scowled to himself. You know what I mean, he argued, as though he were speaking to another person entirely. In his head, though. It was not only the night that had chased away the sun, but the damned thick clouds, black clouds, filled with portentous rain, blocking out the stars and the moon. But earlier, it had been glorious. Dalton had smashed the ball high, and he'd started running, he and the other batter. Running back and forth, their long legs eating the cricket pitch to each others wickets, touching the edge of their bats to the ground before running back to their own wicket, the number of their runs counting by the moment. Brownlow, as a fielder, had run. Oh, how he'd run, to catch the ball or at least to find it as quickly as possible and return it before Dalton and the other got too good a count.

He'd burst through some trees, well away from the other players, not even watching where he was going. His eyes followed the ball as it lanced down in the low part of its arc. He reached his hand out, ready to catch it. Only to stop dead at the sight before him. Well, not directly before him. It was not like he was so close he was about to trip over them. Thirty paces away, perhaps. Or a little less. Close enough that he could make them out clearly. Bordon on his knees, his pale arse peeking from beneath the bottom of his green jacket, humping up and down, breeches around the tops of his Dragoon boots. Right there in the apple orchard, in front of who knew who? In front of Patrick, though they must have felt certain no Dragoon would dare interrupt them. Right there, in the orchard, Mrs. Farshaw's long legs wrapped around the Major's waist. Her face had been turned toward Patrick but her eyes had been closed. Or so Patrick had assumed. It was hard to tell at that distance. But she hadn't raised the alarm at his sudden appearance, so it must have been so. Her hips, bucking frantically, her skirts a puddle around her body.

The ball slapped into the dirt amidst wet leaves.

This. This was what he'd signed on for, when joining the Green Dragoons. Of course it was. To be escort for Bordon's constant liaisons. For fuck sake. The adulterous pair waited perhaps thirty minutes. Patrick doubted Mrs. Bordon had even reached Pembroke before Bordon's cock was saturated by his mistresses quim. Red faced and furious, Patrick had scooped up the cricket ball, turned his back on the rutting pair in utter disgust, then loped back through to trees to the game. He hadn't said a word of what he'd seen to Dalton. Not until much later. When Bordon marched in and declared they were to gather the Dragoons, that they needed to be ready to ride in fifteen minutes. Oh, how Patrick had had to control himself. His fingers had balled into fists, his face dark with fury he had barely been able to control. He'd just, not five minutes before, finally given the order to Zeke to have that bath drawn. NOT FIVE MINUTES BEFORE!

But he'd un-balled his fists. He was a Green Dragoon. No matter what he'd signed on for, the point was, he had signed on. He was an Officer. He was subordinate to this man standing before him, whose face was livid and worried all at once. Rebels then, Patrick had thought. It must have been. At least this time, Patrick was being put to good use - the use he had joined the military for. To fight enemies of Britain. Rebels had been sighted. They must have been. What else would have Bordon in such a fury? What else could have him so unsettled?

His wife fleeing from Pembroke and from her marriage.

Oh God. When Patrick discovered that… And what the Dragoons - including himself and Dalton - were to do about it… Oh, he'd been hard pressed not to start laying fists into Bordon's face, when he was told of their mission. He wanted to scream, with each meaty punch, that of course Cilla has left you, you damned idiot! Why wouldn't she, when you keep rutting Mrs. Farshaw behind her back? Even in the same house, you're doing it! The words punctuated with each punch. It wasn't worth the whipping. Officers didn't usually get flogged, they had to do something pretty bad to be flogged. Smashing your fists into the Major was pretty bad. Brownlow was certain he'd receive at least fifty, for even one punch. Instead, he'd waited for Bordon to leave, and then he'd punched the wall. Three times. A damned stupid thing to do. His hand was killing him now. And he'd left a dent in the wall. Mrs. Beth Martin - Tavington would kill him for that. She was so careful of everything in her father's house.

Dalton's jaw had dropped, watching Patrick in his temper tantrum. So Patrick had had no choice but to relay what he'd seen earlier, when he'd gone to fetch the cricket ball. Dalton had wanted to punch the wall too. Patrick was certain of it. How much longer could they be put to such use? It'd been going on for so long… Before Charlestown, even. It'd been a bit of a lark back then, not something to think of much, seeing that Dalton and Patrick were visiting doxies and whores themselves. What did it matter if they were made to deliver one to the Colonel or the Major? And occasionally, they were sent to deliver love notes and the like. It'd been alright back then, it hadn't been the constant thing it would become later. But it'd been changing, very quickly. From a silly, harmless game, to something much more serious. Patrick liked Beth Martin. He liked Cilla Putman, though she had wronged him at the beginning, with all that spying. But both women were wives of his Colonel and Major, now. Therefore, both women were deserving of his protection. And Dalton's. From everyone else. But from their powerful husbands? Patrick wanted to, even knowing he was stepping on seriously shaky ground.

The question was, if Tavington could behave himself so well in his marriage when he'd been such a scoundrel previously, why the devil couldn't Bordon? What was Bordon going to do? Chase down his wife, have a massive argument with her before all of the Dragoons, and then drag her back to Fresh Water? Make her stay in a marriage where he continues to screw his mistress under his wife's nose.

And why rouse the Dragoons, yet again, when they've barely had a spot of rest? After they'd ridden across the countryside looking for rebels, Bordon forces them to be his escort all day while he screwed his mistress, why drag them out again, after Cilla Bordon? Patrick liked Cilla. He really did. But Bordon clearly couldn't have cared less about her. So why call the Dragoons out? Again?

They'd been pushing their horses too. So damned hard. Even in this awful chill, as much sweat as rain slicked Crimson's ruddy coat. Patrick had lost horses before, in his duty to the Crown. But losing Crimson after having her for so long would be like losing his arm. It'd break his heart. Losing her for Bordon's pride…

Patrick's lips were a tight line.

Crimson was faltering. Her breathing laboured. Patrick raised his hand, signalling the halt. The other men didn't know the order hadn't come from Bordon himself. Only Dalton and a few others closest could see that the Major hadn't spoken, hadn't gestured, hadn't called the halt. They shot Patrick a strange look, Dalton a worried one. But they said nothing. They must have been feeling it too, then. The rest of the line slowed behind them. Bordon charged on ahead several paces, before he realised he was outdistancing his slowing troupe. He whirled back, looking shocked and angry.

"Rest the horses," Patrick snapped at a Dragoon before Bordon could open his mouth to ask the obvious question, or bellow a furious demand. Patrick barked another order. "Get them down to the river. Water them. Rub down their legs. Give them fodder. Now."

The man shot a look to Bordon, who was racing back, face like thunder. Clearly, he didn't want to be anywhere that the infuriated Major was, so he scarpered away and repeated Patrick's order down the line. Bordon's eyes bulged to hear the man yelling out the commands.

"What do you think you are doing, Cornet?" The Major asked, livid. And rightly so. Dalton shifted at Brownlow's side, fearful for his friend.

Reckless, Patty. And Dangerous.

"Crimson threw a show, Sir," Patrick lied, straight faced, deadpan. "I need to see to her. I can't ride much further if she comes up lame."

The Major's lips were tight, his blue eyes boring into Patrick's. At length, he nodded. Once. "Next time," he said in a voice like thunder. "You will inform me. I give the command to halt, Cornet. Understood?"

Patrick could almost feel the whip slashing into his flesh. He needed to get control of his rage, or he'd feel it for true. Insubordination… But Crimson… She was panting heavily, nostrils flaring, head down, her strength waning. He would not lose her, not his Crimson, not for Bordon's fucking pride. In battle, yes. She might get shot out from under him. She might be killed at any moment. And Patrick would live with it. He'd mourn her as he'd done other horses before her. but he'd accept it, if she was taken in battle. But for this? To race after Cilla, who clearly wished to be free of her unfaithful husband and her loveless marriage? She must have known her husband was still comporting himself with his mistress. Under her very nose. In the same goddamned house! It was despicable. Disgusting. No wonder she'd tried to run. He hoped she got clean away… He hoped she was safe, but he also hoped they did not find her. Bordon didn't deserve her.

"Yes, Sir. Understood," Patrick said, keeping his voice calm with massive effort. The Major twisted his horse and began bellowing orders, thankfully orders that supported Patrick's. Then he settled a few yards away with the guide he'd coaxed into leading them, to discuss how much farther the camp site might be.

"Jesus, Patty," Dalton said under his breath. He wiped at his brow. Wiping at sweat, not rain. All around them, the Dragoons followed Patrick's orders. Patrick did also. He climbed down from Crimson's back and began leading her, coaxing her with pretty words and gentle strokes, down to the river. "You've got some stones, doing that."

"I can't bring myself to care anymore," Patrick pulled Crimson through the marsh, boots sinking into the slop. They reached the rivers edge and kept a very keen eye out for alligators. Dalton held the firebrand out over the water. Apparently their eyes glowed red in the dark. Patrick didn't know if that were true, he'd never seen it himself. They weren't sure if the fire would attract the beasts, but at least they'd have visibility of them. The Officers hoped. Those damned oversized lizards could move with lightning swiftness. Patrick stared hard at the water, looking for the slightest disturbance, as Crimson began to slake her thirst. "Can you?"

"Hell, Patrick. I'm as peeved about this as you are. But not so much that I'd invite a whipping. Bordon's going to ask you about Crimson's thrown shoe. What are you going to say then?"

"That I was mistaken, but that it's a good thing we stopped, because the horses were in dire need of a rest."

"So you'll add insult to injury then? He will be angry enough with you for being wrong, adding a rebuke won't soften him."

"As I said. I just can't care anymore. Did you know that he threatened the Dragoons?" He asked. He saw surprise cross Dalton's face in the firelight. Brownlow nodded. He found a brush in his bag and started brushing Crimson's coat. His beloved horse quivered, the barrel of her chest heaved. Her nose drooped to the ground. Her eyes rolled accusingly. Patrick felt like crying. So tired, they were all so tired. The horses were exhausted. Would Major Bordon run the beasts to death?

"He threatened to have them whipped - for failing to protect his wife."

"Another abuse of authority," Dalton ground out, striking right to the heart of Patrick's complaint.

"That was my first thought also. I do not believe that they should be threatened, when she told them to go to the tavern. They could not have known Mrs. Bordon's mind, nor could they have anticipated her intentions. If Bordon'd treated his wife better, she never would have left. How is that their fault? They had no idea about Bordon and Mrs. Farshaw. Those men would have been whipped, because of Bordon's anger. Bordon's frustration. Not because they did something wrong. Because they have done nothing wrong. I am heartily sick of Bordon abusing his authority. It's been happening too long. In Charlestown. Instead of being sent out to field work, to scour the countryside, to subdue the enemy, we were set to the grand duty of entertaining his lady love. I had to keep her at the tavern, until he had time to finish with whatever bawd he was rutting, so she wouldn't go back to the Putman's and discover him. He sent me to deliver letters to her. He had me doing all sorts of things that had nothing to do with my duty, and everything to do with helping him get his damned dick wet!"

Brownlow drew rein on his temper. Tried to, in any case. Resorting to such coarse speech would get him nowhere. "Having us escort Mrs. Farshaw to his cabin and getting us to stand sentry in the cold until all hours. Having us lie for him. I am telling you now, this is the last straw. He'll kill my Crimson with the pace he is setting." He was repeating himself. It was the same old arguments, fired up again, finding new purpose with this latest injury. The two Officers had discussed this very subject to no end, quietly, when they were in private. Dalton felt just as strongly. Not enough to invite a flogging, however.

"And then today," Dalton said under his breath, after casting a quick glance to ensure Bordon was still speaking to the guide. "Why is it always you and me, Brownlow? Are we so worthless to him that he can't think of any more important duties to set us to? We aren't Green Dragoons. We are the 'Guardians of Major Bordon and the Keepers of his Secrets'."

Patrick gave a snort at the all too accurate description. "Yes, why us? That's what I'd like to know, as well. I've had enough, Dalton. I will help him find Mrs. Bordon, but I'm asking for a transfer. I'm not tolerating another moment of this, I swear."

"I don't even know why he's bothering," Dalton said. "He's acting all worried. But you saw what you saw."

"Yes, I saw it," Brownlow said, voice grim. "As for why, well, he can't have people gossiping now can he? That's why he's trying to retrieve her as quickly as possible, before it's discovered she left him. That'd spread like wildfire, if we can't get her back."

Dalton thought about it. He nodded, believing that it might be true. "Too late for that. Every single man in this detachment knows his wife tried to leave him," Dalton ground out. He glanced at the other men, all of them were mounted now. He couldn't see Bordon in that press, but he could hear him, bellowing orders, declaring their rest was over. None of mounts were ready to be ridden, but that didn't matter one jot to Bordon.

"This is getting ridiculous," Brownlow muttered, eyes still staring at the river, thoughts far from Bordon's yelling.

"I couldn't agree more, Patrick. But will you really ask for a transfer? Now, at all times? You're up for promotion… We both are."

"So I should just shut it, then?" Patrick asked, sneering. "In case harsh words ruin it all? Why should speaking the truth ruin my advancement, after everything I've done to deserve it? I've done so much for them. I should have been raised long since. But now I have to tow the line, in order to get a promotion I already bloody deserve?"

"Tell that to Tavington," Dalton shrugged. "In those exact words, with that exact look on your face. Off you go." It was a taunt and a dare all at once.

"Shut it," Patrick jerked his gaze away.

"Look, it won't be for much longer. Lieutenant, Brownlow. It's so close, I can taste it. We won't be the lowest ranking Officers in the troupe. Not anymore. We'll have more say then, even more when we keep rising. We need to just… Go along for now. Obey orders like we've always done. Now is the worst time for defiance."

"And yet now is when I feel so angry I can barely control it," Patrick muttered, admitting that he might ruin himself, he might be his own undoing if he didn't gain control of himself.

"You don't have to like him," Dalton said. "You don't have to like what he's done or what he's doing. But you do have to obey him, Patrick."

"You're right," Brownlow nodded. He eased away from the river, eased away from his fury and his possible destruction. Crimson had her fill, she was sniffing Patrick's coat pocket now. He reached in and handed her an old apple. She crunched it noisily. When she was done, he guided her back from the river and joined the rest of the mounted Dragoons.

"Your horse?" Richard asked, chin raised, voice snapping.

"I was mistaken, Sir," Brownlow began. Dalton drew a massive breath and held it, certain of how Brownlow would finish the rest of this statement and how poorly it would go for him. Instead of digging a grave, Patrick said, "I am sorry, Sir."

Richard stared hard at Patrick, who held himself ramrod straight in the saddle. "Well," the Major said. "I've pushed the horses hard tonight. Likely they needed the rest."

Patrick wanted to strangle him.

"Mr. Lewis said the camp is just ahead," Richard said, fingers clutching the reins, gloves straining. "Half hour at most," he said, turning his horse and continuing on the trail. They'd been following the tracks since discovering them hours ago. Hoof-prints and two narrow lines caused by two horses and the wheels of Mr. Morgan's cart. They knew the name of the fellow who had taken Cilla out of Pembroke. Fat lot of good it did any of them. The Dragoons were closing in on them, they knew that much. They were behind Cilla by seven hours when they started out. But horses travelled much faster when not encumbered by a cart, especially one lumbering along a muddied road. And Cilla would have bedded down for the night by now. At this camp, perhaps. The guide said there was a simple lean to there, a rude cabin, simple but it had a brazier for a fire. Morgan would not have passed up such a perfect place to stop and care for his ward. They had closed the distance, the Dragoons and were now bearing down on a sleeping Cilla Putman - Bordon.

What would her reaction be, when the Dragoons came thundering in? Brownlow pondered this as they continued along the trail, drawing closer to the camp, closer to Bordon's sleeping wife. What would she say? After all her efforts to try to flee her husband. Would she scream at Bordon, would she humiliate him in front of his men? Cilla had a sharp tongue when she chose to use it. And she had her cousin's temper. What would Bordon say, for that matter? What would he do to her? A wife, escaping her husband. Cilla was no meek little lamb. She had tried to leave Bordon and would find no joy in his finding her. It was certain to be very spectacular, whatever was to come. And very public, in front of the Dragoons and the guide... Patrick worried. Feared the Major would use his belt on Cilla as Tavington had done on Beth. There would be no privacy in the swamps. Even if Bordon conducted his beating of her in the small cabin, her cries would be heard by every Dragoon there.

Were he and Dalton correct? Was Bordon hell bent on retrieving his wife merely to avoid unpleasant gossip? If so, he was going about it the wrong way. There was absolutely no possible way of making this reunion a quiet one. The Dragoons would hear all. The Dragoons would see all. Cilla, screaming defiance at the husband she tried to flee. Bordon, punishing her for it. And the Dragoons, all watching from the saddles, weighing Bordon and judging him. Surely the Major understood this? Patrick shook his head, bewildered.

If he wants to avoid gossip about his disastrous marriage, why bring forty witnesses along?

It made no sense. Bordon should have handled this discreetly. They reached the campsite shortly after midnight.

The empty campsite.

It was devoid of life. There were a hell of a lot of tracks, though. The tracks they were following - two horses and two long lines, ended abruptly, mashing into one big mess. Horses. Lots of horses had been here. Richard drew rein. There were enough firebrands, Patrick could see the commanders stark face. Richard's stricken face. Panicked eyes, darting across the empty wagon bed. The horses were gone. No light emanated from the darker shape that was the small cabin. It was too cold not to have the stove in there burning all night long, yet it was not lit. Which meant it was not occupied. There was no Mrs. Bordon suddenly appearing at the door, awoken by the noise. No Mrs. Bordon ready to decry her husband, to confront him for all his sins against her.

No Mrs. Bordon.

Where was she?

"Where is she? Oh my Lord, what has happened to her?" Richard breathed. Patrick shot him a sharp glance. Was that real concern in the Major's voice? Was that real grief? He almost sounded as distraught as the time Mrs. Farshaw had gone missing from Fresh Water. Stunned, Brownlow watched as Bordon jumped from his mount, gestured at Brownlow and Dalton to join him. They did. They followed Bordon into the cabin, Dalton's firebrand lit up the log walls. It was empty. No belongings piled in one corner, no blankets on the floor. A fire had been lit on the grate. Bordon stooped, ripped off a glove, placed his fingers on the cold logs to judge how much time had passed since it had died. Hours. Richard met Brownlow's gaze, lips tight. He marched out into the night. Dalton chased after him, keeping the firebrand handy for Richard to study the churned mud, trying to read the mashed tracks.

"What has happened here?" He asked, voice becoming desperate. Patrick stared at him, grave astonishment. "Well?" Richard snapped at him, head flying up and seeing that Patrick was not studying the tracks. "Don't stare at me like a simpleton! Tell me what you think has happened here!"

"Horsemen," Patrick replied instantly.

"I can see that!" Richard bellowed. Then he drew a shuddering breath, trying to calm. Hands balled into fists. Fingers released, relaxed slowly. Another breath. An easier voice. "They met someone here. She arranged to meet someone..." he began and with each word following came the feeling that Richard truly was devastated. Patrick shared a shocked glance with Dalton. If he'd come after his wife merely to avoid gossip about their marriage, would he be this distraught? His affliction was unfeigned. "I can see what's happened," he whispered, swallowing hard, jaw working. The Major stared at the tracks, kept his voice low, pitched for Dalton and Patrick alone. "Martin. It must be. Benjamin Martin was here. She arranged this. Cilla… Lord, she worked it all out so well," he shook his head slowly. "Every detail, down to exactly what I should say to O'Hara to explain her absence. What I should say later, when others begin to ask why she still hasn't returned. That I'm too far away to summon her now. And then, in a year, I'm to tell them all that she's died," his head came up and indeed, his face looked as though someone he cared for had died. "She was even going to make certain a death certificate was provided, so no one would suspect the lie, and that I might marry again." He buried his face in his hands, scrubbed his cheeks briskly, returned his hands to his sides. Patrick was utterly astounded. By what he was being told, and by Bordon's reaction. If Cilla had provided Bordon with an out, why would Bordon throw it all aside to chase after her? She'd given him the means to protect his name and future, there'd been no need to bring her back to save himself from gossip. "I should have known," Richard rasped. "She was so damned meticulous with her instructions. She's clearly not incapable of plotting. She had it all worked out, every part of her escape. She made contact with Martin somehow." He paused, a cloud passed over his face. He groaned as if realising something else in all of this, "Martin, who is supposed to be working on bringing Beth away from Banastre and returning her to William."

"I don't see how -"

"They are connected, I assure you," Richard pressed his lips together, visibly reeling. "Does this mean that Martin has betrayed William?" He barked a bitter laugh. "Of course it does. Why the devil William would trust a man who whipped him, I don't know. I never did understand it. But it's the case, is it not? Martin probably had Beth extricated from Banastre's camp weeks ago, and all this time he's been telling William that he can't get close. And now he's got…" Richard clenched his jaw. Finally, Patrick understood. He gaped like a fool, mouth open wide, jaw on the ground. He and Dalton knew of William's whipping, they'd been there, they'd cared for the Colonel afterward. And they knew what all other Dragoons did not. That Mrs. Tavington had not gone to her sick sister, she had fled with Banastre Tarleton. Which was why Richard was whispering now. To protect that secret, to protect the Colonel. Tavington had since struck an accord with Martin, who appeared to agree wholeheartedly that for the sake of them all, Beth must be returned to him. But Martin, it seemed, was playing a deeper game. Richard was saying that not only had Martin retrieved Beth by now, he had no intention of giving her back, and worse yet, he had now colluded with Cilla and he had her, too.

It made sense. Utter sense. And Richard seemed devastated by it. Patrick felt his fury ease to pity. The man had lost his wife - and he cared about the loss. He hadn't come after her to save his name from gossip, he'd come for her because he cared for her. Patrick averted his gaze. Why continue on with Mrs. Farshaw, if he did care for Cilla Bordon? It made no sense to Patrick, but it appeared to be the case, all the same.

"That's it then," Richard whispered, raising his head. Meeting Dalton and Brownlow's eyes in turn. "She really has left me."

"I'm sorry, Sir," Patrick said, uncertain what else to say. Uncertain what to feel now. Bordon would return to Fresh Water empty handed, he would slip into his mistresses bed. He'd soon forget his wife or his current distress. Brownlow felt himself harden again. "What will you do now?"

"Should I petition Martin for Cilla's return?" Bordon appeared to be asking himself, the question seemed rhetorical, he was not expecting an answer from Dalton or Brownlow. "If she wanted to leave so badly that she would plot with her uncle, then should I bother? She wants to be free, she said," he glanced downward and patted the front of his jacket. Cilla's letter must lay within.

"I can not answer you, Sir," Patrick said honestly.

"Of course not," Richard glanced around, seemingly at a loss. "So. I just go back then," he said, talking his way through it softly. Suddenly it struck Patrick why it's always them. Always him and Dalton. It wasn't because they were useless, but because they were trusted. Implicitly. Another chip to Patrick's defences. "Do as she instructed," he looked lost, not happy, to be saying this. "I guess I will improvise. I'll head to the North eventually. As she said, I'll tell anyone whom asks that she is too far for me to fetch easily. And one day a letter will come," he stopped dead, lips parted, eyes wide. He was breathing heavily. Patrick wasn't certain if he was reading the Major well, but he thought that Bordon did not relish dealing out the news of Cilla's death - even a false one. The Major swallowed hard. He was not happy about this, not by a long stretch.

A cry went up, not a minute later. Several Dragoons called to Bordon, gesturing excitedly, their torches bobbing as they waved their arms. Patrick and Dalton followed Bordon to discover what had the Dragoons so excited. All three stopped and stared at the dead man sprawled on the ground. The man's eyes were wide and staring, his body stiff. Bordon stared at the dead man's gaping chest, at the blood.

"Morgan?" Patrick whispered, aghast.

"Matches the description," Dalton replied uneasily.

"But why?" Richard shook his head, trying to make sense of it. Patrick glanced at him, met his eyes. "Why would Martin kill Morgan? Why would Martin kill Cilla's only chaperone, her driver, her protector?"

Morgan had a bullet in his chest. And there were the tracks, all mashed and churned by hooves... There had been horsemen here, many of them. And they'd shot Morgan. But if it was Martin, then why? Patrick could not say, he had no idea.

"Unless Morgan was hurting her..." Richard began, face bloodless.

"That doesn't make sense," Dalton said, squatting at the dead man's side.

"Sir!" Another Dragoon called, voice solemn, serious, intent. "There's another." Bordon stormed over, saw the second body. Another dead man, this one with half the back of his head blown in. What the devil had happened here? Who was the second dead man? By all accounts, from the many Bordon had questioned along the way, Morgan and Cilla had been travelling alone. Had they picked up someone else? And now both were dead? There were signs of a scuffle, scraping of boots in the mud, trampling of tree roots and branches. Had both men been hurting Cilla? Or had one man tried and the other defended? If so, where was Cilla?

Safely with Martin? Or -

"Were they hurting Cilla?" Richard's voice sounded terrified. "Is that why Martin killed them?"

"Sir," Dalton broached carefully. "I am not convinced this was done by Martin at all."

"Excuse me?" Richard seemed to snap out of some confused state, as if he'd been spiraling into panic only to be gripped by the arm and jerked back out.

"The cart, Sir," Dalton prompted. "It was left behind. Mrs. Bordon is not a proficient rider, is she?"

Richard frowned. "No, she most certainly is not. She rides in a carriage or she does not ride. If she can help it, that is."

"It's bothering me, Sir. If Martin met Mrs. Bordon here, if he was going to spirit her off someplace, why would he leave the cart behind? It's sound enough to have carried her this far. It doesn't look any worse for wear; no turned wheels, no broken axle, no reason to leave it. Why would they abandon it when Mrs. Bordon still had need of it?"

"If there was unpleasantness between him and Morgan and this other, he'd want to put distance between himself and the bodies, surely?" Patrick said. "That'd be one reason to leave the cart behind."

"Patty, why would Morgan bring Mrs. Bordon all this way, if he had mischief on his mind? He'd been travelling with her for hours and had ample opportunity," Dalton shook his head. "And why would Martin need to rush away from dead men? They're dead - they can't hurt anyone. Something is not right. I don't believe Martin was ever here."

"Which would mean Martin does not have my wife," Richard breathed. "Which would mean -"

"Morgan was picked over, there was nothing in his pockets, I checked just now," Dalton said, holding Richard's gaze. "I don't have many fine words for Martin, but he doesn't strike me as the type of man who would stoop to stealing from the dead. Martin was never here. With respect, Sir, that was just an assumption you made when you saw Mrs. Bordon was missing. A good guess, that she might have arranged to meet with him. But now there's two bodies, one with half the back of his head blown in. The cart is abandoned, the campsite picked over so well that not a scrap is left behind. The horses, taken. This wasn't Martin, this was -"

"Brigands," Richard trembled from head to foot. Fear lanced up Patrick's spine. "Christ. Brigands! They have done murder, and they have taken my wife!" Bordon yelled, his shout splitting the air. Several birds woke with a start, chirped furiously and took flight. "Follow those tracks. Make sense of them, discover which way they go!" He roared at the men. "We will give chase! We will pursue them to their nest, we must find where they have taken my wife!"

On exhausted horses. Brownlow could not bring himself to care, not now. Even for Crimson. Everything had changed now. He was no longer following Cilla to bring her back to her husband. He would be chasing after her to save her. From men who were willing to commit murder. What would they do to Cilla? What if they were too late? Lord, why had he called the halt earlier? How much time had he wasted, because he'd been irritated with Bordon?

"Sir, tracks!" A dragoon called.

"Which way!" Bordon was already running toward the man. "Tell me a direction! Which way did they go?!"

"Not a horse, Sir," the fellow replied, pointing. "Footfalls," he held his firebrand above the ground, swept it in a line across the footprints leading away from the camp, the Dragoon had picked them up not far from the second body. Small feet, the steps far apart. Like the person was running.

"She tried to escape," Richard breathed, seeing what Brownlow saw. "Scour the woods!" He bellowed, "follow the steps!"

It'd been raining. It still was. Most of the footfalls had been washed away. The Dragoons spread out, slowly scanning the ground as they moved, hoping to discover a foot print here or there to keep them on the trail. There were many routes the deserter might have taken through the trees from those first steps. Brownlow and Dalton followed Richard while other pairs of Dragoons took different courses.

"Jesus," Richard whispered as he desperately searched the ground for signs of Cilla. "What if she was pursued? What if she's been caught? What will they be doing with her?" His voice was so wretched, Brownlow felt pity stirring. "How much time did I waste, thinking it was Martin?"

I am fault there too, Brownlow thought miserably. How much time had he wasted earlier?

"We'll find her, Sir," he said softly. "She will be well."

"You can't know that," Richard said, unable to be placated. "You don't know. Oh dear Lord, why did she leave?"

If you can't answer that, then there's no redeeming you, Patrick thought.

"She was safe at home. Safe! A roof over her head, food on the table, she could have any trifle she wished; a silk ribbon, a silk dress!" Richard gasped out. "She had everything she could wish for! She left it all behind, for this?"

Patrick kept his thoughts to himself. What more could she have wished for? He did not know Cilla Bordon very well, but even he knew the answer to that. Happiness. It can't be bought with silk dresses. Well, for some women it could be. But not all.

"She must be terrified," the Major spoke tightly, as if around a limp in his throat. "She must be so scared. She must be -"

"Major, a shoe!"

Bordon was off at a sprint. All throughout the marsh, firebrands paused, turned inward and began bobbing back toward the Dragoon who'd shouted. Bordon came to a halt, breathing laboured. The Dragoon handed him the shoe. Clearly a woman's; small, slightly heeled, covered with embroidery and mud.

"Mrs. Bordon's?" Patrick asked the Major. Richard nodded.

"It's hers," his voice was death. "She did try to escape. Spread out. Find her. She can't have gotten far with only one shoe."

If the brigands found her, she could've gotten very far, Patrick imagined them seizing her, throwing her on the back of a horse and making off with her. Another thought he kept to himself.

"Cilla!" Bordon's voice boomed through the night. There were several steps in the mud where the shoe was found, but again, they disappeared, the trail washed away by the rain.

"Mrs. Bordon!" The Dragoons took up the call, spreading out, again searching for signs of Cilla's path. A glove was discovered, a small victory. Several more steps, keeping the Dragoons on the right path. Right, always right. Another shoe. She'd gotten quite far from the camp. No horse tracks here, no heavier footfalls caused by men's boots. Richard took some heart from that, that they could see no tracks that would indicate the brigands had pursued her. Still, he boomed and bellowed her name into the night. Richard had moved several yards from Dalton and Brownlow. Thank the Lord the rain had eased a little. Otherwise, they wouldn't even have the firebrands to see by. Dalton continued to wave his torch low, hoping to catch sight of something, anything. A flare of white on the ground caught Brownlow's eyes. He caught it just as Dalton waved the firebrand away, taking its light with it.

"Robbie, back here!" Brownlow gasped and Dalton swung back with the torch. Cilla was flooded with light, the snatch of white Brownlow had seen was her shift. Dear Lord, she was only wearing her shift, stays and stockings. Those men had torn her clothes from her body, which could only mean... It meant... Brownlow didn't want to think it. It left him feeling sick, his stomach churning. She huddled against a tree, her knees drawn to her chest, shivering like mad, damned near senseless. Blood covered her face. Brownlow was shoved over onto his knees as Richard pushed past him, falling to his knees before Cilla.

"Cill, Cill, Cill," the Major cried softly, cupping her face, turning her to face him. His eyes roved her body from head to toe, seeing her clothes gone, and knowing what it meant, he keened. She stared blindly, blinking at the many torches rushing toward her. She gave a small groan, shrank in on herself, terrified, not recognising them. "Oh, Cill," Richard's fingers moved over her face, fingered the massive bruise on her cheek. She whimpered when he touched her nose. A light touch, it should not have hurt. But her lips and chin were covered in blood; cold, dried blood, and it was clear by the slight angle that her nose was broken. "Oh dear Lord." Richard. Cilla tried weakly to push his hands away, still mostly dazed, but fearing an attack. He pulled his hands away. "Cill, it's alright. It's me. Cill, you're ice," he was ripping his redcoat from his body. It was the best thing for her, Brownlow knew. To cover her near nudity and give her warmth. Should have thought of it himself. Warmed by Richard's body, it would give her immediate relief. "Don't be frightened," Richard pitched his voice higher, to get through to her above her whimpering. She fought weakly, barely able to move at all, slaps that would not disturb a fly, but she was fighting all the same. The way she shrank back from them all, as if she didn't recognise them, as if she didn't know them. "Get those torches out of her eyes!" Bordon snapped, seeing what Brownlow had not. That Cilla was dazed, confused, blinded by the torches, sensing only that there were men near. She must have been terrified of men just then, having been stripped, beaten and terrorised by brigands.

Brownlow lowered his head, closed his eyes. She wore only her shift and stays and stockings. What had they done to her, those men? There was only one answer to that. Why else would they have removed her clothes? Brownlow's heart seized, he felt like keening too. They'd beaten when she'd tried to resist them.

The same thoughts were raging through Richard's mind, Brownlow could read them as though he were speaking them out loud. His face was bloodless, lips bloodless. His mouth worked, he blinked back tears. Brownlow fought the same. Richard pulled Cilla forward, still saying her name, calling to her gently, crooning, even as he pulled her arm through one sleeve, draped the coat over her back and then seized her other wrist, gently pushing it through the second sleeve. When it was around her, he pulled the front panels closed and tucked them under her chin. All the while, Richard stared into her eyes, his tear filled gaze unblinking, as he spoke gently, trying to reach her.

"You're safe now," he was saying, his voice catching, like he might burst out sobbing. He did not, he had a job to do. Whatever had been done to Cilla was something to be dealt with later. For now, he addressed the more immediate danger. Men could die of cold, if not dressed appropriately. And Cilla was most certainly not dressed appropriately. Brownlow tore off his Dragoon coat, draped it over Cilla's bare legs, adding to her warmth, he hoped, and helping to hide her nudity. Bordon flashed him a grateful look. "Go back, get a fire burning in the cabin," he commanded a Dragoon, who took off into the night to see the job done. Cilla was no longer fighting, no longer trying to fend Richard off. It had been a weak protest at best, but she'd been trying. And now, she wasn't. Her gaze was focusing, like one waking from a long sleep. No longer whimpering. Her teeth chattered and clashed so bad, Brownlow could hear it from a yard away. Chills racked her body, she shivered convulsively. She lifted her gloveless hand, Bordon's sleeve almost coming down to the tips of her fingers, and she placed her icy hand on Bordon's cheek, exploring with a wondering look on her face. As if she was checking to see if Richard were real or an apparition. Brownlow knew her fingers would have been ice, not only because she was barely dressed and it was so very cold, but by the flinch that crossed Richard's face at her touch. He didn't pull away, however. He looked absurdly grateful to be recognised, grateful that her fear was receding.

"Rich-ed," a bare whisper, slurred, she was unable to form words properly. "S-S-So... cold..."

"Oh, my love," Richard thrust one arm around her back, the other beneath her legs. He braced himself on bent knees, then lifted her effortlessly. Brownlow's jacket began to fall from her legs. Patrick fussed with it, pulled it over her legs and down past her feet as best he could. Dalton held the torch as close as he dared, hoping some of its warmth would pass into Cilla.

"Shh," Richard crooned, he began walking back the way they'd come, his face like death. Relieved to have found her. Wretched over the state she was in. Over what they were all certain had been done to her. Raped and left for dead. They all felt it, like a weight on their chests. The Dragoons followed, a solemn procession, as if they were mourning the death of a loved one. In this case, the death of a shattered virtue.

"H-hurt-t," she stammered. She shivered, even now. "H-hurts. S-so much."

Her nose? Or the other thing? Brownlow fretted. He'd suffered a broken nose before, it had hurt like hell. But he'd never suffered the torture, the torment, of the other. He stumbled, almost tripping over a root in the marsh.

"I'll take the pain away," Richard kissed her brow desperately. "I have laudanum. It'll help. I think it'll help. Lord, I'm so angry with you right now," Richard said, squeezing his eyes shut, on the brink. "But I'm so... Damned... thankful we found you."

"I-I'm s-sorry," she managed to say. "Mor-Mor-Morgan, ki-kill-ed," she stuttered, her face twisting, eyes closing, a sob burst from her lips. "My-my fa-fault!"

Brownlow wanted to kick Richard. For telling her he was angry. Now was not the time for such words, no matter how gently spoken. Cilla was taking the blame for that man's death onto herself now. As if she didn't have enough to contend with, after what the brigands had done to her. He wanted to kick the man and he would have done, Major or not, repercussions or not, if Richard hadn't looked as though he might burst into tears at any moment. Brownlow shared a concerned look with Dalton.

"No one's fault," Richard was saying, bending his cheek to Cilla's. "That's not what I meant. I mean I'm... Just so glad to have you back. I was so angry with you earlier, for leaving. But I was so scared just now, Cill. When I realised you'd been attacked. Lord," he reeled. "We'll get through it. I know what they did to you, those damned bastards," he said under his breath, but the words carried to Patrick.

Cilla shook her head vehemently. She'd lifted her arms around Richard's broad shoulders, clasped her fingers behind his neck. Her expression had cleared from that dazed look of earlier, she seemed very intent now. Determined. Her body was not recovered, however, she still shook and her voice still came out in trembling, stammered bursts.

"Th-they d-din't... N-not that," her teeth clattered, her eyes were fixed on Bordon's face as he carried her carefully over tree roots and through the mud.

"What do you mean?" Richard was frowning down at her.

"N-not. I r-ran. K-kicked Eddie. He d-drop-ped. O-other, shot. M-Morgan shot h-him-m. Y-yel-led at-t me to r-run," it was difficult to understand, with her teeth chattering, but she was unable to speak any more clearly, she was cold to her core. "I-I r-ran. G-got away. They n-never found m-me."

"Do you mean..?" Richard stopped dead, he stared down at her, incredulous. Filled with dawning hope. "You weren't..?"

Raped? The word hung in the air between them, unspoken.

"Ed-die wouldd 'ave," she said. None bothered to ask who Eddie was. It didn't matter. The one who beat her, likely. He would die for that. If he'd done what they all suspected, he would die slowly. But from what Cilla was saying... "He w-was g-goin' t-to. K-kicked 'im Rich-ed. B-Bet-weenn legs. R-ran."

"Do you mean in the groin, Cill? Did you kick him in the groin and then you ran away?" He asked, desperately hopeful. She gazed up at him gravely, traced his cheek with one finger. Nodded. An inhuman noise burst from Richard's lungs, it took a moment for Brownlow to recognise it. A sob. He crushed Cilla so closely that Brownlow was briefly worried he might hurt her. Then Richard was sitting, dropping to his rump, right there in the mud. He rocked Cilla back and forth, holding her wrapped so tightly, that inhuman noise still bursting from his lips. His face was buried in her neck, hers in his. But Brownlow did not have to see either to know they were weeping. Bordon's shoulders shook, he pulled her ever closer, as if he could not hold her close enough. Patrick dashed at his own eyes with the back of his hand. Dalton too. Word spread among the Dragoons, that the Major's wife had been roughed a bit, but had escaped the worst of it. Not raped, then. She'd run away, she'd saved herself. Patrick glanced back down at Richard, and was stunned to see Richard was kissing Cilla. Richard's hands on either side of her face, he kissed her so hard, it was as though he were breathing life and warmth into her. Into them both. She clung to him, kissed him with as much fervor. They were whispering between, the words discernible only to them, they did not carry to Patrick, who stood above them both. He covered them with his body, shielding them from the sight of others, though he doubted any of the Dragoons would think anything poorly of them kissing so publicly, considering the circumstances.

It confused the hell out of Patrick, seeing the affection usually reserved only for Mrs. Farshaw now bestowed onto Mrs. Bordon.

Indifferent to his own wet cheeks, Richard continued to hold her, rocking, kissing, touching her, celebrating her small victory. She did the same, she broke away momentarily and stared into his eyes. It was an intensely private moment, Patrick felt wretched to be witnessing it. Guilty, as though he were some dirty interloper. All he could do was stand guard, ensuring as much privacy as he could. Even Dalton had his back turned, and he held the torch away so it would not light the pair so much.

"You c-came for me," she said, her voice finally sounding more normal. A little shaky still, a little slow. But she was warming now, from the warm jackets covering her, from being held so close to the warmth of her husband's body, and, no doubt, by the kisses. Patrick glanced at Dalton, both feeling like intruders. At a gesture from Patrick, the rest of the Dragoons began to walk past, making their way back to the wagon and their horses. Brownlow glanced in that direction, through the trees, he could see a large fire starting to roar back where the wagon had been left. The Dragoons who'd gone on ahead earlier had not been idle.

"Of course I did, you silly Cill," Richard replied, his hand cupping the whole of one side of her face gently. He hadn't even cared about the blood on her face when he'd started kissing her. Much of it was wiped away now.

"You're so w-warm," she sighed, leaning in to him again, shuffling closer as if that were possible. As if she could climb into his shirt. Her fingers wound their way inside his shirt, he gave a great gasp, recoiling slightly, as if blocks of ice had been shoved up against his skin. Richard said nothing, however, and did not remove her hand, despite the discomfort it must have been causing him. The very sight made Patrick shiver, as if it was his chest those icicles were touching. If anything, Richard laughed. Softly, a joyous gasp of relief, of released terror, of celebration.

"Little heat thief," he murmured against her lips, kissing her again. He staggered to his feet, still holding her all the while. Brownlow reached out to steady Richard's arm when he looked ready to falter. He regained his balance and the three began walking toward the fire again. "Tell me what happened," Patrick heard Richard say, but again his voice was pitched low and Cilla's even lower. Not wanting to eavesdrop, Patrick fell in behind them, leaving the narrow trail with more room for Richard to carry Cilla, he walked behind Dalton, he kept his firebrand close to the Major to light the way. A snatched word came to Patrick here and there, 'my fault', Cilla said again, and 'died for me', before she burst into tears again. Richard crooned to her. He did not begin weeping again, though he did comfort her while she succumbed to tears.

When they reached the campsite, Richard skirted around the bodies, which were laid together now. Patrick was still uncertain as to exactly what had occurred, though he'd managed to piece together the bits he'd heard from Cilla. He was still unaware of the identity of the second body, but Brownlow commanded that a grave be dug for them both, just the same. Richard carried Cilla into the cabin. Light flared within, the fire was roaring on the grate, Brownlow saw before Richard kicked the door shut behind him. He could only imagine what it meant for the two of them, that Cilla had run from would have been brutal torture. And she was not running from Bordon, another shock to Brownlow, who had been expecting a spectacular fight between the pair.

Food, Brownlow thought, heading toward the horses. It was none of his business, what was taking place in the cabin. Except that Mrs. Bordon could certainly do with a warm meal. He had a quiet word with one of the Dragoons, commanded that rations and water be heated over the fire. They could all do with warm meal. Brownlow found Crimson, rifled though his saddle bags, found a flask and, casting a glance about to ensure no one was looking, took a very long, much needed pull, to warm his stomach and his soul.