Chapter 125 - Compassion in Forgiveness:

Richard kicked the door closed behind them. Cilla was so light in his arms, it surprised him that she could weigh not much more than a child. The fire burned on the grate, the cabin was starting to warm, it was not the dark and frozen place it was earlier. Still a hovel, but it was all he had, and he used it gladly. He placed Cilla down on a pile of blankets laid out on the floor below the brazier. The Dragoons thought of everything; a small basin filled with water from a canteen and several cloths. Their saddlebags had been raided to provide the blankets for Cilla's bed. He hadn't asked that food be bought but he was certain that would be coming soon, too.

Cilla leaned toward brazier, it began to dry the tears on her cheeks. She had stopped weeping, but she still felt wretched. She stared into the fire, haunted. Morgan was dead, because of her. She should have made out from Pembroke alone, rather than involving that dear old man. He'd given such a good fight, had protected her to the end. He'd faced Indians and who knew what else in his long life, and yet it was brigands that got him in the end. Because of her. That should not have been his fate. He should never have been there. She closed her eyes and mourned. "Run!" He'd screamed. "Don't just stand there!" And then he shot that awful brigand, even knowing it would mean his own death. And it was. A moment later, those bastards shot him. Even with his dying breath, he'd urged her onward to safety. Her eyes snapped open, she shook, eyes burning. God, it hurt, that dear man's death… She would carry the guilt and pain to her grave, with no hope of atonement or forgiveness, for he was dead and unable to give it to her. Her fault. Should have left Pembroke alone…

Richard moved about the chamber, from the corner of her eyes she saw him dipping a cloth in a basin, then he wrung it out. Water, gathered from the swamp, no doubt. She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapped her arms around her ankles, and sighed as heat seeped into her flesh. Morgan would never feel warmth again. Cilla had begun warming from Richard's and Brownlow's coats, and from the heat of Richard's body, but the heat from the fire now was so much more. And far less confusing. He'd kissed her. So deeply, so desperately, like a drowning man reaching for air. Or a man starving, reaching for a loaf of bread. It had not been friendly or fatherly. It'd been a lovers kiss, there was no mistaking it. As deep and desperate as any kiss Banastre had ever given her.

Why? Why had he kissed her so thoroughly? Because she'd just let him know that she'd escaped Eddie before he could do worse to her? If Eddie had managed to rape her as he'd so clearly intended, Richard would have stood by her. He would have carried his grief, guilt, remorse, futility, emotions as heavy as a mountain. He was strong, he would have borne them all - he would have done everything within his power to help her through it, together. But learning that none of it was necessary… That they needn't climb some unimaginable height toward healing... Learning that she had not been forced to endure such torment a second time…

That was what broke him down.

He'd begun to sob. Simply sat in the mud and sobbed. She'd never seen or heard anything like it. She'd tasted the salt of his tears on her tongue. Cilla had known that Richard was deeply sorry for what he'd done to her, but now she finally understood the extent of his remorse. She watched Richard walk toward her, cloth in hand. It was an act of compassion, to forgive. Her heart swelled. Richard had tried so hard to make amends, but that was not why she could forgive him, now. It was because of the pain he was in. It was because she needed it. She needed to leave the dungeon, and not forgiving was keeping her trapped there.

He would try to make it up to her if it took the rest of his life. Deed after deed after deed, but it would all be for nothing, if she did not set them both free. They were both still trapped in the dungeon, and no matter how many deeds Richard performed, they would remain there. Unless. It's not for him, she thought. It's for me. Only she could set them free. Her, free of the pain, bitterness, anger, helplessness. Him, free of self-loathing. He couldn't set them free, when he was the one who put them there. It was up to her. She had made peace with the pain. Forgive and forget, they say. But that was wrong. Forgiving didn't mean forgetting, never for something like this. It meant letting go all the bitterness, pain, anger, anguish. It should be 'forgive and release', for that's how it felt to her. Letting go of her past was like the dungeon door swinging open, she was released.

He squatted before her, his eyes roving her face, his lips thin and bloodless. The water was chilled, there had not been enough time to it to be warmed. Careful of her broken nose, he dabbed her chin gently, washing away the last vestiges of blood. She stared into his eyes, firelight and shadows flickering over his grave face. His were puffy and red-rimmed, tears from earlier left clean tracks on his dirt smeared face. She smiled at him, lifted her hand, laid her palm on his cheek. His eyebrows arched, startled.

"I forgive you, Richard," she said.

She'd never thought she'd ever say them, she never thought she'd ever feel it. Even up until yesterday, when she'd been nursing her pain and anger and heartache, she'd thought she could never forgive him. But now… How could so much change, in the course of one day? Richard's fingers stopped their dabbing. His lips parted, his eyes widened. He stared at her, utterly speechless. The look he gave her almost made her laugh. Who knew there could be so much joy in forgiveness? Such a release, it left her feeling giddy and weightless. He gaped at her like a fish out of water, panting for air. "I never thought I would," she said. "I felt as though I never should, as if I was betraying myself, if I ever did. That doesn't make sense, I know. But I feel it here, now," she touched her breast, her eyes filled. "And I think you should know it. I think it'll help you, knowing it."

"I…" He was at a loss for words, unable to speak. He dropped the washcloth to the floor, seized her shoulders and pulled her against him. He did not sob, though she sensed he was at the edge and might. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, buried her head in his neck, mindful of her broken nose. She sighed as his fingers wound through her tangle of hair. She felt his lips on the top of her head, kissing her. If she tilted her head back, would he begin kissing her again? She'd liked it very much, when he'd done it earlier. A lovers kiss, from the man she loved. She could admit it that to herself now. She was in love with him. Stupid woman that she was. She wasn't even certain she would stay with him. He'd come for her, would take her back to Fresh Water, back to the same dismal marriage as before. No, she would not stay. Not unless some very large changes were made. But she could admit to loving him, if only to herself. And she could declare she'd forgiven him; for both their sakes. "I thought you already had," he said, finding his voice. She jerked her head up, stared at him, incredulous.

"You… You thought I already had?" She gasped. He nodded. "Why in the world would you think I already had?"

"Things have been so well with us," he said, looking lost, confused, yet absurdly, deeply pleased. Like a small child, trying to work through a complex concept.

"You're a blockhead," she sat back on her heels, kept her arms around his shoulders. With him now seated cross legged, and her squatting before him, they were level, eye to eye.

"You didn't forgive me, before?" He asked, still puzzled. She shook her head. "Then… Is it because I came for you? Is that why you're ready to, now?"

"No," she said gravely, "it's because we both need it."

"I've needed it for a long time," he kissed her temple. "Thank you, Cilla," he said, such simple words but he'd poured his heart into them. He pulled her against him again, his fingers moving up and down her back. She felt the trembling in his warm body. "Thank you," he whispered again. She bent her forehead to his, relishing the moment, relishing the closeness being borne between them.

"You have to promise me, Richard," she murmured, suddenly tense, walls rearing, holding that closeness back. "You have to vow to never, ever, do such a thing again. You will never use such a tactic again. You must not."

"I vow it on my honour as a gentleman," colour flooded his cheeks, his voice a mere rasp. "I swear it on my death, to the last drop of my blood. I've broken oaths before, Cilla. But not this one. Never this one. I could never do it again. The harm I caused you... The damage I did. My soul has been bleeding, Cilla. You have to believe me." He sounded so desperate at the end. She cupped his face.

"I know it, and I do believe you," she smiled weakly. The feeling that he was a completely different man now to the man from the dungeon struck her tenfold. She leaned in and kissed him; not a sisterly or motherly kiss. A lovers kiss. And it was answered. His lips moved over hers, he caught her at her back and pulled her hard up against him. A knock on the door broke into the moment. Cilla drew back from Richard, breathless. It was probably a good thing because it hurt her nose to kiss, but at the same time, it made her heart soar.

A Dragoon entered at Richard's call. By then, Richard was fussing with pulling blankets up and around Cilla's shoulders, burying her to her neck. He met her gaze, she wished she could read his thoughts in those moments.

"Cornet Brownlow asked that I bring you this, Major Bordon," the Dragoon said, carrying two bowls of steaming stew. Cilla's stomach growled, she let the blankets fall from her shoulders, holding her hands out for the bowl. There was a spoon, but she was so hungry that if there hadn't been, she would have used her fingers. The Dragoon had two stale heels of bread, also. Another Dragoon followed with two mugs of steaming water. Brownlow was determined her insides be warmed, it seemed. The Dragoons withdrew. Cilla and Richard ate in silence. It was becoming awkward, that silence, and by the time she finished her bowl, the bread, and the hot water, Cilla was feeling quite tense. She wished he'd spit it out, whatever it was he wanted to say. Clearly, there was something on his mind. The way he was staring at her, so gravely.

"How did your nose get broken?" He asked. Somehow, she knew this was not the question he wished to ask. This was a delay only, something he needed to know, but was not what caused his tension.

"You mentioned the dead body out there?" She asked him. "Not Morgan. The other one." She was speaking nasally, the way one does when their nose is blocked. Or broken. He nodded. "When that brigand, Eddie, let it be known what he intended to do to me, Morgan went sort of wild," she said, hanging her head, guilt surging up to the fore. "Morgan was being held back by those… awful men… But he managed to get hold of his rifle. I don't know how, I couldn't see him well. But he fired, and struck that other one you found. He was standing too close to me at the time, so when the ball hit, his head sort of snapped forward. I thought he did it on purpose at first, to hurt me. Pain - oh, it hurt so much. My nose is killing me and I have a blinding headache…" She touched her head, was silent a moment, wincing. "I realised when he was on the ground that it was the force of the ball that had pushed his head into my face. Morgan," she sighed, her heart filling despair. "He fought to the end. Screamed at me to run, run. Then they shot him." The words came out an awful rasp, tears blinded, stung.

"It wasn't your fault," he said. He took her bowl and cup out of her hands, placed them with his on the ground a few yards away. He turned back to her.

"I should never have involved him," she shook her head, refusing to believe she was blameless. She met his eyes. "He survived the Cherokee War, Richard. And who knows what else he survived since then, to get to his age? And he dies now, tonight, because I had him take me from Pembroke. I should have gone alone. He'd be alive now, if not for that. Sitting by his fire, in his small house… smoking a pipe. He liked his pipe… He's gone now. And I can't even beg his forgiveness. I can never make amends. I can't bring him back," she shook her head, blew out a breath. "I should never have asked him to take me away from Pembroke."

"It was not your fault," Richard repeated. "He would not blame you, I'm certain. He did what he could to protect you, and I don't doubt that he's well pleased, knowing that you are safe."

"You can't fix this, Richard," she said. "You can't ease my guilt. I will take this to my grave."

"Hmm," he murmured, seeing that it was true. It was writ all over her face, her misery. She'd blame herself, no matter what he said to her. It was something she would have to live with, to work through on her own. "If I could take your pain from you, I would."

"You can have my broken nose," she sighed. "That, I'd give you gladly."

She didn't mean it the way it came out. His lips quirked, as if unsure if he should laugh or take her seriously.

"It seems you are angry, if you'd gladly break my nose."

"That's not what I meant -" she began, but he cut her off.

"Angry enough to write that letter and dupe me into believing you were visiting friends for lunch. All the while, Morgan was taking you miles and miles away… Cilla, why did you leave me?"

This was the question he'd wanted to ask, the one causing all the awkwardness, the tension. Why did you leave me. Was he serious? Was he really such a blind, fool, blockhead?

She gaped at him, stunned. "What in the world do you mean, 'why did you leave me'," she shot, incredulous. In the recesses of her heart, she had admitted to herself that she was in love with him. To him, she had declared her forgiveness. Neither profession, made to herself or out loud, made her incapable of feeling anger toward him. Especially after a question as daft as this one. Her voice was loaded with that anger. "Lord, Richard. We had this discussion just yesterday! You know all the reasons why I left! I am not going to sit here explaining myself all over again. You can not be that daft!"

"I know," he agreed.

So why bloody ask me to repeat it all? She wanted to yell at him.

"When we return to Fresh Water, should I be on my guard, that you might try again?"

"If there are not some very spectacular changes, almost certainly!" She said emphatically. He was quiet a moment.

"Then I had better be on my guard," he replied softly. Good Lord, was he testing her? Feeling the waters, waiting to see if she would demand he give up Harmony Farshaw? Cilla knew better than to try. She had no intention of even mentioning that woman's name. She addressed her other concerns instead, those she'd confronted him with the other night.

"Or you could give me a child. You could be a proper husband to me, instead of the pretend one you show the public," she folded her arms across her chest. God, it hurt her nose to glare but she was incapable of easing her expression, even to give herself relief. "Unless you can't bring yourself to. If you don't actually want me in your life at all. But if you do want me to be, then changes must be made. Only then will I stay."

He waited for more, a dreadful look on his face. Waited for him to demand he send Harmony away, as she had the other night. She would not. She had her pride.

"Are those the only changes you'd like to see made?" He asked gravely, as if prompting her to lay it all out on the table. Harmony Farshaw. Always Harmony bloody Farshaw. But this does not concern her. I know better than to try, where she is concerned. She's nothing to do with this.

"This is between you and I only, and the sort of marriage we shall have when we are alone together," spots of red spreading across her cheeks. That was as close as she was willing to get to the subject of his mistress. She would not make an utter fool of herself by begging for something he could never give her. She would leave him again before stooping so low. She drew him further away from any discussion regarding Harmony. "I will not spend another minute, being lonely. At the moment, the way we are in public is far more intimate to how we are in private. It needs to be the other way around. What we show to the world will be a mere reflection of what we are in private," she said. "If you care for me even slightly -"

"I care for you very deeply," he interrupted, disarming her utterly. She paused, her breath hitching. She coughed, embarrassed by her reaction. Heat spread through her body, it had nothing to do with the blankets or the brazier.

"Yes, well. If that is the case, it should not be so very hard for you, should it?" She asked primly.

A cloud passed over his face. Harmony again. Always Harmony. Yes, it would be hard for him, for he'd feel as though he were being unfaithful. To his mistress. Cilla felt like slapping him. For the ridiculous promise he'd made to Harmony, that he would never bed his own wife.

"You have kissed me, Richard," Cilla's voice was low and dangerous. "Twice now. A lovers kiss. Now that you have given me that hint of intimacy, I will not be denied it."

He smiled, "I am good at kissing -"

"Don't you make light of this, don't you dare!" She said harshly. He shut his mouth, the flare of amusement vanished in the flare of her anger. "I will not beg you. I can't believe I have to beg you now," frustrated, she gave up. "Just forget it," she spat. She began to rise, furious, filled with pride. She felt as though he had all the power. As if she had to resort to begging to have him do some difficult and distasteful task, as though he would take no joy whatsoever in being intimate with her. It was an attack against her dignity and it infuriated her. "Take me back to Fresh Water if you must. And be on your guard once there. For I will not stay with you."

"Cilla," he seized her wrists and bought her hurtling back down. Mid crouch when he pulled her, she toppled forward, off balance. "I'm sorry," he said, holding her in place in case she tried to jerk away. "I don't mean to make you beg for anything. I am whole when I have -" he cut short, as if suddenly fearing he was on dangerous ground. "I am whole when I have you," he said and she felt herself melting. Until, "it's complicated -"

Because Harmony will be cross? Stuff that. "Not that complicated! A beautiful woman - your own wife - wishes to share intimacies with you, and considering our beginning, you should be overjoyed she does! Your wife wishes to bed you and to bear your children. I see no complications in that," she hissed, jerking against his hold. "I will not ask it again," she vowed. "That is my oath to you, here and now. I'd spill my blood to make the oath stronger, if you gave me a knife. Never again. You can come after me, if you wish. You can come after me, and bring me back, ten times. Fifty times! I will never ask you this again. I will not beg you!"

"You have your pride," he said gently, ignoring her fury. "And I'm sorry for hurting it. You're correct. A beautiful woman - I agree with you on that score, by the by," he smiled, again trying to disarm her. The damned bastard. It was working, too. She began to soften. "A beautiful woman, my own wife, wishes to bed me. Wishes to bear my children. And yes, considering what I did to you, that is more than I ever could have hoped for. I am grateful that you would allow us to become close enough. I will be a proper husband to you, Cilla," he released her wrist, keeping hold of the other. His fingers traced up her arm, a lazy caress that left her shivering. Over the turn of her shoulder, his fingers drifting along her neck, finally tangling in her hair. The hand cupping her nape pulled her closer as he leaned in. His lips began moving over hers. Her heart filled, lighting a furnace in her body. He kissed her until she floated in a blaze. His softly spoke words somehow broke into her awareness. "I will give you a child."

"What..? Now?" She asked, breathless. He laughed down at her, and her face blazed crimson. Wanton. She'd sounded wanton. Needy. Eager. Good God, how eager.

"In this hovel? With my Dragoons outside? And you with your broken nose and blinding headache?" He was still laughing, as he said it. "No, Cill."

"I don't care about any of those things," she said, staring at the brazier, trying to hide her embarrassment. Lord, she was being more forward than a doxy on Broad Street! He laughed again.

"You'd care soon enough should a Dragoon walk in, during. You need rest, Cilla. Soon, I promise."

"You won't… renege, will you?" She asked worriedly, again embarrassed by her obvious eagerness. "When we get home, you won't avoid me and -"

"And risk you leaving again?" He asked, eyebrows arched. "No, I will not renege. I told you months ago, when you miscarried, that we should try again. It became complicated since then; even before then, if the truth be told. No, don't become angry again. I am just trying to say that I've wanted this too, since the miscarriage. A child. More than one. And to be a proper husband to you… I don't want you to feel as though with, being forced to marry me, you're missing out on anything. I'm sorry that you had to go to such lengths to make me see it," he hung his head. "I've been an ass."

"You have," she agreed, refusing to pull the punch. "The biggest, most arrogant, self-centred, selfish ass in the world."

"Don't hold back now, wife," he laughed.

"I don't intend to. You know, all I really want is that you treat me better. You've done an appalling job of us so far." His breath arrested in his throat.

"I have?" He whispered. He sighed. Deflated. Knew it was true. "Yes, I suppose I have."

"You know it, do you?" Finally, she began to feel amused. Began to feel as though she held at least half the power, now. Felt good enough about it, to do a little teasing herself. "Tell me, then."

"You want me to list my crimes?" He asked, shocked. Aghast.

"I want to see if you leave anything off the list I've been keeping," she quirked a brow at his expression. "I want to make sure you really do understand. Tell me how you think you know you've been treating me poorly." She frowned. Did that question make sense? It must have done, for he answered her correctly, though with a voice heavy with reluctance.

"I've led you to believe I care more about keeping up the facade of the perfect marriage, than I do about you."

"Don't you?" She cut in, one cool brow raised.

"I care deeply for you, Cilla," he nudged his nose against her cheek. His lips were so damned close. She began to smile, beginning to feel charmed. It only got worse from there. "I have love for you."

"You… You have love for me?" She whispered, feeling she might die. "What does that… What does that mean?"

"That I would not be without you. I am not whole, without you. You have become my protector -"

"I have?" She whispered.

"Are you so daft, that I have to explain how?" He teased. She remembered calling him daft earlier, and she smiled a little shyly. "You protect me, all the time. Even to the last, with that letter you left. You've become my sword." He was trying to think of the right words to explain. She did not think he meant that she was his sword in the sense that she was a weapon, to use in fighting. But as he used his sabre to protect his body… "I'd never be without my sword…"

"Oh," she breathed, absurdly touched.

"Now, to list my crimes. To make sure my list matches yours," he grinned, teasing. "I understand what you mean now, those things you said in your letter. About pulled threads and fixing the weave, about the paths and roads of fate and destiny and yours being disrupted because of me. I took away your chance to be courted by some lad, who might have bought you flowers and love letters…" He paused, he sounded terribly unhappy now. Miserable. She offered no comfort, not yet. She needed to hear the words from his own lips, to know for certain he truly understood. "I've ruined your chance for courtship. For love and a proper marriage, and the fruits that come of both. I did give you a child, but even that's gone now too…" She sniffed, turned her face away, the loss of the child still stung, after all these months. "I know that the only chance you have at any sort of happiness, is for you to leave and find it with someone else, or to stay and salvage our marriage."

He understood. She exulted. He finally understood.

"I'd much prefer the latter," he said, studying her carefully. "And I know you would prefer that too, rather than trying to start all over again with some stranger. I know it's what you want. I know you care for me. You might even be…" Richard hesitated, as if not quite sure he should dare finish. He kissed her ear, then whispered, "in love with me. Are you, Cil?"

She said nothing. Again, her pride got in the way. And why wouldn't it? She had her dignity. How could she admit to such a thing, when he had not? When he would not. Because he didn't love her. Cared for her, yes. He had love for her… Wasn't that what he'd said to her?

"I have love for you," she murmured, deciding she would not give him a single inch more than he'd give to her. She'd given so much of herself to this man over the months already. She would not give him a jot more than he did her. Not anymore. Those days were done. His hand, on her shoulder. Guiding her down into the blankets. She moved with him, un-resisting, until they were lying, her on her back, him on his side and slightly above her.

"Words to ease a man's soul," he whispered, stroking her hair back from her brow. Then he was leaning down and kissing her, his way of proving that the changes she desired had begun to be made and that he would not renege. What Harmony Farshaw would say of it, Cilla did not know. Nor did she care. As long as he did not go back on his word. She pushed that thought from her mind, refused to linger on Harmony Farshaw, when it was she - Cilla - in Richard's arms. The kissing came to an end all too soon.

"Christ, I was worried. I was wretched with it, when I realised you were gone," he said, drawing back, his lips tightening.

"Are you still angry with me for leaving?"

"Terribly," he shot her a vexed look, but his lips quirked. "And I'm angry with myself. I wish I'd listened the other day, when you tried to tell me…"

"I wish you had too," she said, "you were like a stubborn mule, unwilling to see how awful you were being to me."

"An ass, and now a stubborn mule…" He scoffed softly. "You think so well of me. Cilla, the other night, you said… Would you really have taken a lover? Would you have presented me with some other man's bastard to raise?"

I already have, she thought of Banastre. That affair had not resulted in a child, but it could have. She wondered for a moment, what he would say if she admitted to that now. Nothing good, she suspected. With a twinge of guilt, she decided some secrets needed to be kept, for now. Shame welled up inside her, she would have looked down on anyone else who made that same decision… She would not consider that person to be very virtuous. It was humbling, the discovery that she was not above lying and evading, or holding to downright silence, to protect her own secrets.

"I would have done whatever I felt I needed to do," she said, a far more round-a-bout way of saying 'yes'. "In fact, I did do what I needed to do. I left. If I'd stayed; feeling as lonely and empty as I'd been made to feel, then yes, I believe I would have presented you with a bastard to raise as your heir."

He stared at her gravely. "Who would it have been with? Dalton?"

Cilla laughed despite herself. "Why not? We've had ample opportunity."

"Cilla!" He gasped. He saw she was teasing, however, and he smiled with her. "Not Dalton. His nose is too big. Brownlow?"

"Dalton's nose is just fine. Besides, who am I to complain about noses? Mine is going to be crooked now, for the rest of my life. As for Brownlow - well, he is handsome enough."

"He was very worried for you just now. Perhaps he is in love with you?"

"It wouldn't surprise me in the slightest," she giggled. "But no, I'm not too sure I would have chosen among your officers. Not with those living in the house. It'd make our affair easier, I suppose, but it would increase the risk of being discovered."

"Oh, is that right?" He threw his head back and laughed. "I find it very disturbing, how much thought you've put in to this." He wound his arm beneath her head, giving her a pillow to rest on. It was time to sleep, it seemed. Every few moments, a chuckle would escape his lips. It was nice, his amusement, the way he was holding her, to be cradled so close after the kissing. She found he'd been correct after all, as soon as she was snuggled into him, she began to dose. Had something been put in the water? For her nose was not hurting as much now and her headache was receding. She began to float in dreamy bliss, as soon as she closed her eyes. She would have fallen asleep during, if they had decided to start trying for a baby tonight. He could be very wise sometimes, for a dolt.

"Cilla, promise me something," she jerked awake to feel his fingers stroking her jaw. She blinked up at him.

"What?" She asked thickly, groggily.

"If you are ever so unhappy again that you feel the need to leave me, or to stray to another man's bed, will you please talk to me about it first?"

"Only if you promise to listen," the words just came out, sleepiness making her honest. She saw the flare of pain cross his face.

"I deserved that," he sighed, utterly defeated. "And I do promise."

"Good. We're off to a good start then, don't you think?"

"I do," he agreed.

"Better late than never," she said, rolling over onto her side away from him. To take the sting from her words, she pushed herself back into him, snuggling her back to his front. She reached behind herself, grabbed hold of his arm, and wrapped it around herself like a blanket. She laced her fingers through his, encouraging closeness. His leg draped over both of hers, she could feel his hot breath against her neck. Snuggled within the layers of blankets, she felt warm and secure and safe.

It is a good start, she thought as sleep rolled over her.

By dawn, Cilla was no longer warm. She was roasting. It had crept up so quickly, Richard hadn't even realised it was happening. He'd been comfortable, catching snatches of sleep throughout the night, Cilla sleeping far more soundly in his arms. With the dawn, he woke to the sound of the Dragoons decamping. He could hear Brownlow and Dalton just outside, talking quietly, though he could not make out their words. Within the cabin, Richard pulled his arm out gently from beneath Cilla's head, laying her head gently on the blankets. She did not rouse. He thought nothing of it, he stretched, blinked his eyes against the sunlight streaming into the rude house, mouthed at the horrible taste in his mouth - he needed some water. He rose, scratched his thigh up near his groin, and stumbled to the jug on the floor. He drank his full, then turned to Cilla. She was still sleeping. He put the jug down, returned to her side and gazed down at her.

Harmony was going to give him fits and he was not looking forward to telling her. But the promises made to Cilla had been necessary, not only for her, but for him, also. More importantly, they had felt right, those promises. He found he was looking forward to the beginning of their new life together, their new start. Better late than never… it still stung, those words. But they were truthful all the same. At times, he wished Cilla could be a little less… direct… A little less sharp with her tongue… He reached out, stroked her face tenderly. Nearly snatched his hand back when her skin scorched the backs of his fingers.

"Damn and blast it! Brownlow, get in here!"

"What is it, Sir?" Brownlow threw open the door and rushed in.

"She's not waking," Richard muttered. He laid his fingers on her forehead - felt the burning. Reached into her shift, felt under her arm. Burning there too. A furnace. "And she's too hot. She's sick, Cornet."

"Not surprised," Brownlow muttered, standing over Cilla, concerned. "I'd have been more surprised if she hadn't fallen ill."

"Not helping, Cornet," Richard growled from between clenched teeth.

"We should take Mrs. Bordon to the nearest village, enquire after a doctor."

"Are you joking?" Bordon asked. He gestured for the ewer. Brownlow fetched it. Richard dipped the blood smeared cloth - the same one he'd used to wipe her chin with - and laid it out on her brow. Cilla barely stirred. His heart began to pound. "This isn't home, Dalton. We aren't in England, where there's a doctor in every village. The next settlement in this God's cursed country large enough to have its own doctor is Pembroke, and we might as well go directly to the fort as stop there. At least I trust the surgeons there. Have the men returned?"

The previous night, at Richard's command, half the Dragoons had been sent out to follow the tracks and find the brigands.

"No, Sir," Brownlow replied. "Would you like me to send a messenger to them, to call off the search?"

So that Richard could begin the trek back to Fresh Water with the full detachment in safety. With his force split, he only had a score of men, only twenty Dragoons, to protect the wagon and Cilla. He was squatted at her side, thinking. If he sent after the detachment, then the brigands would not be found, would not be bought to justice. And he very dearly wished to see they paid for what they'd done to Cilla. What they'd intended to do to her. He could not stay at the cabin and wait for them as he'd intended. Not now with Cilla being so sick. But if he left with the smaller amount of men, he would be exposed to larger forces of rebels…

"No, they are to continue their search, I want those bastards found," he said. It did leave him with a problem however. With his detachment still out searching, they did not have a high enough officer in their ranks within easy distance to report back to. He turned to the Ensign who'd shown such promise lately. Dalton would definitely be put forward for a promotion, very shortly. Brownlow, also. "Dalton, you will find the detachment and take command. As soon as you've found the brigands, capture them and bring them directly to Fresh Water for trial."

"Yes, Sir," Dalton glanced at Brownlow, who was waiting expectantly. The two always worked in concert, they even shared their quarters and just about everything else. Brownlow was waiting to be sent off with Dalton. Not this time.

"Cornet, you will remain with me," he said, startling the pair. They exchanged glances, but accepted the command. "Have the Dragoons remove their uniforms, plain clothes only. Are they almost ready to ride?"

"Almost Sir, they will be ready before you are, I believe."

"Would you like to place a wager on that?" Richard asked grimly. "Dalton, take two men to ride with you. Oh," he added as an after thought, "when you take the brigands in hand, there is no need to be gentle with them, understood?"

"Yes, Sir," Dalton said warily.

With that, Richard picked Cilla up, one arm under her shoulders, the other under her knees, and he carried her from the cabin, blankets and all. Brownlow hurried after him, helped to arrange the blankets into a bed as Richard laid Cilla down on the wagon. One was folded and placed under her head as a pillow. Her eyes opened, she whispered something insensible, and then she was gone again. "We have to get her to Fresh Water, as quickly as possible. Pack up, pack up! We're moving out!"

It was not as quick as he'd have liked. Horses had to be hitched to the wagon. Brownlow's Crimson, for Brownlow was driving the cart. And Richard's horse also, for the Major was riding on the wagon bed with his wife. There were pots, pans, blanket rolls and other belongings. Those would normally be stowed away in saddle bags with careful precision. Instead, they were thrown on the rear of the wagon-bed, at Cilla's feet. Fires were doused, muskets and pistols checked and primed, ready for firing at need. And the Dragoons themselves changed attire, exchanging their uniforms for plain clothes, so that they would not be so easily identifiable. The Green Dragoons were despised by many in this part of the country. If they ran into trouble, hopefully they would be able to talk themselves out of it, by not revealing who they truly were.

Richard climbed up onto the wagon bed. He lifted Cilla carefully, shoved the pillow blanket aside, and settled back with Cilla in his arms. It was a nice thought, a decent gesture from Brownlow - that blanket. But Richard intended to be her pillow, to soften her body from the worst of the jarring the wagon was sure to take along those rutted roads. He intended to set a hard pace, no dawdling. Traveling fast came with risks, there could be damage to the wagon, damage Richard was ill equipped to repair. But he was desperate to reach Fresh Water, to get care for Cilla, and was willing to take such risks. He leaned back against the end board, his bum cushioned by Brownlow's blanket, Cilla's blanket wrapped body in his arms. She reclined against him, head lolling.

"Is it wise, Sir?" Brownlow asked, trotting along side him for the moment. "To keep her covered when she's already so hot? My mama always said that when you've got a fever, you need to strip down, or the heat has no place to go."

"Won't that make it worse?" Richard fretted. "It's too cold for her to be exposed for long." Fog puffed from his lips with every breath, his face was red where the chill morning touched his bare skin. He could feel snow in the air and he shivered at the very thought.

"Maybe just keep her arms out? She's wearing sleeves, that should be enough, surely?"

It made sense, what Brownlow was suggesting. Richard pulled Cilla's arms free of the blankets. She was no longer wearing his Dragoon coat, only her silk shift and stays. He kept her close, trying to keep himself in tune with her body, trying to determine if he was doing more harm than good.

They'd been travelling for sometime without seeing a single soul, when the guide, Mr. Lewis, parted from them. Dalton had long since left them with two men extra, to find the detachment, and the brigands. Now, Richard stopped the column, to pay and thank the guide, and to rest the horses. He climbed out from under Cilla, to relieve himself in the bushes, but was back at her side a few minutes later.

"We should reach Kingstree by midday, Sir," Brownlow reported. Richard tightened his lips. It was only ten o'clock. "Still miles from Fresh Water, Sir. Hours away."

Richard nodded. There was nothing more to be done, there was no possible way he could go faster. If they could be rid of the cart, they'd travel double time. But Cilla was in no condition to ride on horseback. Richard came to the end of the wagon, as he climbed on-board, the bed dipped, jolting Cilla awake. She blinked up at Richard, now kneeling over her.

"Not feeling well," she murmured.

"You're as hot as a blacksmiths forge," he said, wondering if he should push the blankets all the way off of her as Brownlow had suggested earlier. "Do you need to pass water?" He asked. She blinked her eyes open. Managed a weak nod. He removed her stockings - she would go barefoot and he would clean her feet dry, before putting those back on again. He helped a blanket wrapped Cilla down, his worry peaked when she had to cling to him, her legs too weak to carry her. In the end, he carried her into the trees, squatted in front of her as she squatted. If he had not been holding her beneath her arms to keep her upright, she would have collapsed onto the ground. Her legs were as weak as those of a newborn colt. It proved how ill she was, that she didn't even look embarrassed. She was too damned sick to worry about him helping her pass water. His worry increased. He carried her back to the cart, past the eyes of concerned Dragoons. They moved off again.

Perhaps he should have stopped. Inquired after a doctor, at least. For by the time they reached Fresh Water, Cilla was thrashing and groaning, flailing her arms weakly, sweat pouring from her brow. Brownlow turned into the driveway, he had sent on ahead for a surgeon, who had better be waiting on the steps as Richard Bordon commanded, or there would be hell to pay. To Richard's relief, the doctor was not the only one waiting. Tavington and Mila, both on the bottom step of the porch. And Harmony, waiting at the top. She stood watching him approach, leaning bodily against a post as if her legs could not hold her, one arm across her stomach, looking so very vulnerable.

Wonderful. He had both women to worry about now. It would be his bane forevermore, this worrying over what one woman felt and thought over something the other did. Over something he did. For when the cart pulled to a stop, Richard did not hesitate to carry Cilla off, even knowing that it might make Harmony feel hurt and wretched. He wasn't going to have someone else carry Cilla inside merely to soothe Harmony's bruised feelings. He met her gaze, she lowered hers.

"What happened?" The Colonel asked, glancing at the blanket wrapped bundle.

"Brigands," Richard replied sharply, accusing. So much for Cilla sitting by a fire, safe and sound, huh? He thought it, but didn't say it. William's shocked face was apology enough. Richard could not be bothered with any of that now, he fixed his eyes on the doctor, who needed the information more than William, so he could choose how best to help Cilla.

"I found her in the woods at midnight. Mrs. Bordon was exposed to the cold for hours. She was frozen by the time I found her."

The doctor whistled. "Why didn't she seek cover?"

"She couldn't. Brigands murdered her driver," Richard said, voice desperate. Mila and Harmony gasped. "Mrs. Bordon ran from them, she turned her ankle. Oh, before she could get away, her nose was broken," that might be important, he thought. Anything that would help the doctor heal her. "When I found her, she was barely responsive, like she was in a daze or…" He shrugged. Hefted Cilla in his arms and braced his legs, getting a more comfortable position. "I warmed her as best I could, with wool jackets at first, until I could get her to a fire. There was a cabin with a brazier, we slept close to it, Mrs. Bordon had layers of blankets and the heat of my body to keep her warm. Still, when she woke this morning, she was boiling. What did I do wrong?" He asked wretchedly, feeling there must have been something he'd forgotten. "She was warm through the night, I made sure of it. Why has she taken ill?"

"You did everything you could, I am certain," the surgeon shrugged. "Mrs. Bordon was in the cold for too long before you found her, that's all."

"That's all?" Richard shot back, temper spiking. "That's all. Well, you need to help her. You have to make her better, now!"

"Doctors are not magicians, Sir," the surgeon said primly. "I will do all I can. Her bed is ready for her."

Richard fell in behind the doctor, everyone else fell in behind Richard. "Should I have stopped at a settlement?" He asked the doctors back. "Have I waited too long to get her aid?"

The doctor snorted. "The so-called doctors this colony has to offer are little more than hedge doctors, Major. You have done the right thing, bringing her to me."

"She could not even stand to pass water, she's so weak I had to hold her. And she's so sick, she didn't even care that I did," there was panic in his voice, even he could hear it. "She was comfortable for most of the ride down, I had her sleeping against my chest so she wouldn't feel the jolts of the wagon as much," they climbed the stairs, turned the landing, kept climbing up and into the corridor. "But an hour or so ago, she started shivering. By the time we got here, she was thrashing and groaning and nothing I said to her would stop it."

They reached his chamber, the doctor held the door open, the yellow haired pretty chamber maid, Vickie, stood by the inglenook, poker in hand. She'd been stoking the fire to a blaze. Richard gestured to the bed, he lay Cilla down on the top covers. He pulled the blankets away from her body. The room was soon filled with people, William, Mila, Harmony who hung back in a far corner, Brownlow, Vickie and the surgeon. Who made a strange sound. Richard glanced up, saw that the doctor was staring at Cilla, who lay only in her stays, shift and stockings. Richard pulled her shift down past her knees to give her some modesty.

"Where are her clothes?" The doctor asked in a strangled voice. Richard understood. All his talk of brigands and now it's revealed that his wife is half naked... He'd thought the same too, hadn't he?

Richard looked to the maid. Wanting no gossip to spread about his wife, he said firmly, "leave us." She fled from the chamber. Mila was allowed to remain. Despite his frustration with her the previous day, Mila was trusted. Richard met the doctor's eyes. "The brigands tore them from her body," he said, voice firm. Gasps filled the chamber. Harmony covered her mouth with both hands, eyes horrified over her fingertips. "They were going to ravish her," Richard said, voice thick and low, murderous. "Two men were holding her, one standing in front of her, stripping her down. They wanted her clothes so they could sell them. When she was disrobed, they were going to…" He cut short, lips tight. The others in the chamber understood. William watched, gravely silent. "She was terrified, but she couldn't stand to be ravished ag-" he stopped, on the verge of saying 'again'. William heard the slip, his eyes were as large as they could go, pale blue gaze burning. Being more careful of his tongue, Richard said, "she could not go such a thing, she knew she had to do something to get away. She kicked one of them - Eddie, the one removing her clothes. She kicked him in the stones. Her driver - Morgan, his name is. Or was. He got a shot off. The bastard he shot was standing too close to Cilla. His head snapped forward from the force, crashed into Cilla's nose. That's how it got broken. They shot Morgan then. Eddie was on his knees, bawling with pain. Cilla said it was all confusion, then. She managed to loose herself. Morgan was screaming at her to run, with his dying breath, he screamed it. And Cilla did. She ran. It was dark, she's all over with scratches from twigs and branches, you see there?" He pointed at her bruised and marred legs. "She turned her ankle. They gave some pursuit, she told me, but she got away from them. At some point, she couldn't go any further and she dropped behind a tree, did her best to work her way into the bowl of it. That's how we found her. Dressed like this," he pointed at her. She'd drawn her knees up, her shift with it, and was tossing and turning.

"Everybody out," the doctor commanded, and never mind two of them were his superiors. William made no rebuke. The doctor opened his bag, began pulling items he required. A sharp blade, a small bowl. He lifted Cilla's arm, placed it beneath her elbow. Richard sat heavily to the armchair, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He hated this part, the bleeding. He'd had his own veins opened to rid his blood of impurities, it was in no way a pleasant experience. Cilla gasped as the blade sliced her flesh. She thrashed but the doctor held her arm fast, over the bowl, catching the blood. Mila stayed, in case she was needed. Richard had no intention of going anywhere, despite the doctors command. The door began to close on the others. Richard glanced up, saw Harmony standing there, her hand on the door. She was waiting for him to leave with her. He shook his head, indicating she should leave without him. A look past between them, he could not tell if she was angry with him or concerned for Cilla. Then the door closed.

Cilla looked awful. Her face white, lips bloodless, sweat dripping. She thrashed again, a pain filled groan, eyes squeezed tight. Her breathing was laboured now, a rattling in her chest. She coughed convulsively. Lord, it was as bad as last time, Richard worried she might die, she looked so very sick.

No, it's not like last time. That was yellow fever, he thought desperately, wringing his hands. This is an ague. A common flux. She'll be well.

For the rest of the afternoon, Harmony kept clear. In her own chamber, perhaps. Richard did not move from Cilla's bedside to check. Mila took the bowl away. The bleeding was stopped, Cilla's arm bandaged. She was given a draft of laudanum and finally, her thrashing stopped. Her breathing still came in that awful rasp with that rattling, and her fever still raged, but the laudanum kept her quiet and still. She did turn once, she tossed, whispered, sweat dripping down her temples, soaking her shift. Mila and Vickie changed Cilla's shift twice before dark. Candles were lit. A tray bought for Bordon. He ate, because he had to, but Cook's usually delicious fare tasted like ashes in his mouth.

He remained there, alternating between dozing and wakeful. At eight o'clock the following morning, O'Hara stopped by the house to bid them farewell. He did not come into the sickroom for he could not afford to catch an ague, but he sent word up with his best wishes for a quick recovery. Richard watched from the window, staring across the fields, past Fresh Water to the Ferguson plantation, as the multitudes of tents were struck down. They were only specks in the distance from his vantage, but very quickly, those specks disappeared. A long line, a massive procession, began to file out along the post road, with O'Hara and his Generals riding at the head. By one o'clock in the afternoon, the last of O'Hara's force, the rear guard, was passing out of sight. It took a long time to move such a massive force. Within the hour, Ferguson's house would be filled with Tavington's officers, those who were forced to sleep in tents, because Fresh Water was so small.

Cilla's fever persisted. The few times she was lucid, she was forced to drink some water, but could take no food. For most of the time, she was dosed with laudanum. Finally, around mid afternoon, Bordon left the chamber. To stretch his legs. To get some air. His bed chamber had become a sick room, it was close and hot and stale in there. He went downstairs, answered questions from the Dragoons asking after Cilla. Yes, she still had a fever. No, he did not know if she was alright yet. Mrs. Andrews and Miss Cordell came up from the tents, and he was grateful for it. He wondered who had sent for them, but dismissed it as unimportant. They were there, they went upstairs almost immediately; he hoped Mrs. Andrews would be able to help Cilla as she helped the other women in camp. He went outside, splashed his face in the water from a rain filled trough. Harmony handed him a towel.

He gave a start of surprise, he hadn't heard her approach. He took the towel. "Thank you."

"How is she?" She asked. She placed her hands on her swollen stomach, as if to protect the child within. She was anxious, he saw, and nervous. She and Cilla were at odds, but Harmony was still worried for her.

"You sent for Mrs. Andrews," he said, realising it now. She nodded, unsmiling. "Thank you, Harm."

"Hedge doctors," she sniffed disdainfully. "That doctor is full of himself. My people can be every bit as intelligent as yours. Cilla knows that too, I think. I don't think you should have carried her all the way back here. I don't have any faith in his abilities, myself. I've lost count of the amount of people he's tended, who show no improvement at all, until Mrs. Andrews gets to them."

"Well, either way, Cilla is in good hands then. I hope. As for how she is - she's unchanged from yesterday."

"She has survived yellow fever and a miscarriage, and one can be as dangerous as the other. Believe me, I know," she said, and he remembered she was speaking from experience of both. "Cilla is strong, Richard. She will be well."

"Not if it gets into her lungs," he shook his head, refusing to be pacified. "You can't know, Harm. Not for sure. She might…"

"She will not succumb," Harmony cocked her head. "Richard, did you bed her?"

The question was such a shock, all he could do was gape at her. Cold sunlight made her golden hair shine. It could do nothing for her eyes, however. They were dull, red-rimmed he saw now, and puffy. Had she spent the night and day crying? Because she thought he'd bedded Cilla. He recalled all he'd said the previous day, all he'd told the doctor, about warming Cilla with his own body, and sleeping beside her during the night. What else was Harmony to think? Pity stirred his breast. He should have discussed it with her last night, he could have relieved the worst of her fears. It twisted his gut, that she'd spent the night and day thinking it and worrying that he'd been unfaithful.

He opened his mouth to tell her he hadn't, but the words that would offer her comfort dried on his tongue. He hadn't coupled with Cilla, which would be a grand relief to Harmony. But that relief would be short lived, for he intended to exactly that. He intended to get a child on his wife… What was the point of her being relieved now, only to have her world torn apart later?

"I shared blankets with her," he said truthfully, because it was the truth. "Just as I do when we're here," he jutted his chin toward the house, toward his chamber. An explosive breath puffed from her lips. Relief. It would be short lived, however. He wondered if he was doing more harm than good, even though he was being truthful. Perhaps it was better this way. Now was not the time to tell her the whole of it, he wanted to get back to his chamber. He glanced out across the fields. It seemed empty now, with O'Hara's forces gone. Only Tavington's seven hundred left. He wondered how long it would before they were summoned to Cornwallis also. Hopefully not before Cilla recovered. How was he going to do this? To be a husband in truth to one, and a loving lover to the other. As soon as he was alone with one, the other would be desperately lonely and unhappy… This was not going to be easy.

We'll find a way, he thought. Neither is protesting the others place in my life now. I need to show them both how grateful I am for that. I won't give either any reason to complain. Proper, doting husband to Cilla when we're alone. Loving, lover to Harmony when we are. I just have to tell Harmony that I'll be having relations with my wife in future. Nothing easier, he sighed, closed his eyes, not relishing the talk to come. Not when she was looking so absurdly relieved to hear he had not strayed from her. Would there be anger? Or hurt? Both, perhaps? Would she try to convince him to break this latest promise?

Richard wanted to pull Harmony into his arms, he yearned to be with her, to kiss her, to hold her. But there were too many people about. Soldiers, servants, freedmen, the yard was not empty. None were near enough to hear the conversation, but all would see it, if he tried to embrace his mistress here. Perhaps he should tell her the truth now. It wasn't fair on her to drag it out, was it? It was that relief that decided him - that misplaced relief that nothing had changed, when everything had. It wasn't fair on her. They were both silent so long. It was a surprise to both when they spoke up at once.

"Harm, Cilla wants me to give her a child." That, from Richard, at exactly the same time as Harmony asked, "Richard, has Cilla been raped?"

They gaped at one another, both shocked by the other.

"She wants what?" Harmony asked, voice shrill, her question forgotten.

"Why would you ask such a thing?" That from Richard. "What have you heard?"

"She wants you to give her a child? Richard," she said, eyes blazing. "You made a promise to me."

"Harm -"

"That you would never bed her," Harmony hissed. She kept her voice low so no-one passing by would hear. "You swore this would always be a name only marriage. I've had to sit by and watch you growing closer to her by the day, so close that what was entirely mine now has to be shared equally with Cilla. You have love for her, you said. I don't even have your whole heart, not anymore. It takes both of us to make you whole, you said. But I took solace in the knowledge that there was one place I would have all of you, wholly and completely, all to myself. You promised me, Richard!"

They were getting some strange looks. Their words could not be heard, for no one dared venture close enough. Which was precisely the point. No one dared to venture closer. Because no one could miss Harmony's fury, no one could mistake that the two were having some sort of disagreement. It was in her eyes, blazing like the sun, it was in every line of her very stiff body, her beautiful face, twisted, accusing.

"And when I made that promise," he began softly, knowing the discussion had to be had now. It had been foolish of him, to think he could delay it. "I had meant to keep it. I love you, Harmony. You know I do. But everything has changed now."

"Because she threw a tantrum and left?" Harmony folded her arms across her chest. At least she wasn't screaming.

"It wasn't like that."

"Lord, she's demanded so much from you, from the very beginning. And like a quim-whipped fool, you give it. Every time you give in, she asks for a little bit more, and you give that to her as well. Now, she is asking for a child. Soon, she will ask that you be rid of me. Will you accede then, too?"

"I would never be rid of you," he said gently. "I love you."

"You do realise the only reason she wants a child is because she wants you to bed her?" Harmony curled her lip. "I am a woman, Richard. And I know women. This is a ploy, only. Because she's discovered you made that promise to me, and now she's trying to find a way to take more of you than she is entitled to."

"That is not the reason," he sighed, closing his eyes, shaking his head.

"She has taken and taken from you, from the first night you bedded her. She thought you'd marry her, because she spread her legs for you. That's how these noblewomen think. But because you were only interested in a one night affair, she became bitter toward you. She discovered she was pregnant, forced you to marry her," Harmony's voice was bitter now, bitter and scathing. "And you did it. You married her. And you promised me it'd be nothing, a sham, an empty thing, name only. But she's been working on you, from the start, she has been. Now, you dine out with her, you live in the same room with her. You have love for her. She leaves and you worry enough to chase after her. And now she's demanded you screw her, probably using the threat that she'll leave again, if you don't," Harmony tossed her head like an angry horse. "Oh, she's snared you good and proper, hasn't she?"

It was true, in a manner of speaking. Richard would concede to Cilla's wishes in the fear that she would leave again or have an affair, if he didn't. But he would also give in to her demands because he knew she was right. They should have children together. They needed the closeness of a more intimate marriage. They both did, for his sake and hers. But the rest… All of it was rot. Rubbish borne from the assumptions Harmony had about his first coupling with Cilla. He stared gravely at his mistress, his lover, the woman he adored, the woman he cherished. For the longest time, he stared at her. And she glared right back.

It wasn't going to work. He could not bed Cilla and get children on her, and expect Harmony simply to accept it. To fall in meekly, and give him his other half of the whole submissively. That was not Harmony's way. She would fight this tooth and nail. He'd promised to be faithful to her even while married to Cilla. And she expected him to keep that promise. If he did not, he would get a small measure of blame, but Cilla would the rest. As soon as Cilla was well enough, Harmony would give Cilla the tongue lashing she thought Cilla deserved.

Richard heaved a breath. He'd started this, he had to continue now. He drew on his courage, delved deep, and still wished he could have a bottle of whiskey before facing it. Somehow, even knowing that he might be on the verge of losing one of his cherished halves, he forced himself onward. It was the only way. His heart tore from his chest.

"You asked me if Cilla has been raped," he began, his tongue drying, fingers trembling. How could telling a woman the truth unman him so? Well, because there were women and then there was this woman, the one he loved. And there were some truths and then there was this one, this awful, crippling, debilitating, prostrating truth. His blood slowly began to grow cold. The question caught her entirely off guard. She gasped in a breath, her eyes widening. The fury faded from them, drained from her body. She lowered her arms to her sides, her face turning white. She barely seemed able to breathe. A woman who had been raped herself, sympathising with another who had endured that heinous, brutal attack.

"I heard you yesterday," her voice was breathy, her face earnest, silently begging to be confided in, silently pleading to understand Cilla better, now that she suspected they had something this deep, this terrible, to unite them. "You were about to say 'again'. I heard you. You said she was terrified and she couldn't stand to be ravished - you began to say again." On the verge of tears, she wrung her hands. "Is that… Am I right, Richard? Was Cilla raped? Is that why you married her? Have you been protecting her, was the child even yours?"

So quick to think the best of me. His eyes burned, the sudden lump in his throat choking him. She wanted to believe it. It would make his marriage to Cilla so much easier for her to bear. It would make Cilla herself so much easier for Harmony to understand. It's not that she'd be pleased that Cilla had been raped - Harmony would not wish such a heinous thing on anyone. But it'd explain so much. And to see Richard as a knight in shining armour, when she'd been thinking all along, that he'd bedded Cilla one drunken night. To see him as the protector of women so tortured… He could see it on her face, shining with love for him. Confidence. Trust. Like daggers in his chest.

"Is this what you've been keeping from me?" She asked, holding her hands out, stopping just shy of touching his. They were still in public. They could not be demonstrative here. "There's been so many things you said, things that she said too, that didn't… Make sense. But they do now. Oh Lord, Richard… I feel so awful. I never should have said those awful things to her. I called her a doxy! I told her she was nothing more than a whore for the way she snagged you! And here, all along..!" She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. Her sobbing crushed him.

"You're not awful," he whispered, caught between wanting to comfort her and fighting himself, forcing himself, to tell the truth. "You weren't to know. Harm, we need -"

"It's t-true then?" She stammered through tears, aghast at hearing her suspicions confirmed. "Oh, God. Oh, God!"

"It's true."

She lowered her hands. Her stricken, tear streaked face caught his heart and squeezed. In an awful whisper, she asked, "who would do such a thing?"

Me… "Harm, we need to talk. This is not a conversation to be had here. Can we go to your chamber?"

"Of course, of course," she nodded, turned, stumbled because her legs were suddenly unsteady. She was grieving - for her rival. It astounded him. She righted herself, and walked at his side. Her hands trembled, her jaw worked. They climbed the porch, entered the foyer. Richard stopped at the bottom of the stairs, stared upward. Harmony had begun to climb. He closed his eyes, fighting off a wave of nausea. How was he going to do this? Lord, he didn't know. He stood there, eyes closed, breathing in and out slowly, steadily. He felt her hand on his arm, pulling.

This was the end. It was about to be the end. His legs felt weak, his knees shook. His boots turned to lead as he forced himself to take one slow step after another.