Chapter 134 - Unhappy Reunions:

When Richard entered the chamber, he saw Cilla standing at the window, fingers toying with Nathan's lucky rabbit foot that hung about her neck from a raggedy strip of twine. He'd tried to suggest that - if she must wear the ghastly thing - that she at least put it on a silk ribbon. But she'd refused, telling him that the luck might be spoiled if she tried to change a single thing about it. Superstitious nonsense, as far as he was concerned. But she was determined. She glanced over her shoulder, looking thoughtful at first, and then she smiled weakly. Lost in thoughts of her father, perhaps? That was a subject better left avoided. He'd told Cilla of her cousins visit and relayed the news they'd bought; that her father was alive; she had been unable to hide her pleasure. Until he'd informed her of Dalton's death. That'd wiped the smile from her face. He almost wished he hadn't told her that part - Dalton's murder and the murders of a score of Dragoons. She blamed herself for their deaths. She had a long list of men who had died, in her attempt to escape Richard. She was barely managing to deal with her guilt over Old Morgan's death, and now she had twenty more names to put on the list of men killed during her flight from Fresh Water.

They'd discussed her father only that once and never again since. Mark Putman was a touchy topic between them. She'd forgiven Richard for the barbarity inflicted upon her, but he knew she'd never forgive him for the torture of her father. Yet he could see the conflict within her, knew her confusion. For Mark Putman had killed twenty men in cold blood. He'd killed Ensign Dalton, a man Cilla had come to like and respect. Her faith in her father was being put to the test, Richard sensed. It was best to leave it be for now, not to discuss him. They'd finally found happiness - of sorts - as much and more than he could have hoped for, considering. There would always be Cilla's love and loyalty to her father between them. And there'd always be Richard's love for Harmony. So yes, happiness - of sorts. A melancholy sort of happiness, if such a thing could be said to exist. Avoiding the half packed and still open chests and portmanteaus, he stepped more deeply into the chamber, but left the door open, for he would be carrying out his stack of files.

"Did you see her this morning?" He asked without preamble. Cilla understood precisely who he was speaking of.

"Yes, of course," she replied softly, not without sympathy. Lord, he'd been a damned fool to treat Cilla so awfully these last months. A damned blind dolt. She was extraordinary, worth more than all of the jewels in His Majesties crown. Richard doubted he'd ever heard of a single incident of a wife helping her husband recover from the heart wrenching loss of losing his mistress. Yet Cilla was doing exactly that. She'd acknowledged his love for Harmony, and had become his rock to cling to, as the roaring flood of heartbreak tried to sweep him away.

"Did you give her the money?"

"Yes, Richard, I gave her the money."

"Does she know it came from me?"

"Good God, no," she laughed, though it sounded sad at the same time. "She'd never have accepted it, if I did. Last week, she gave me her purse - it was filled with coins; sovereigns, Spanish pieces, pennies, all the different types of coin you could think of. I told her it was too heavy for her to carry in her pocket and she let me take it so I could change it for notes. When I returned the money this morning, I slipped your notes in there. She likely won't know she's been given extra at all."

It wrung his heart to hear her speak so pointedly. Harmony would never have accepted it - if she'd known it'd come from him. He heaved a sullen sigh. As long as she was provided for, did it matter if she knew where the money had come from?

"She isn't too happy about her guard dogs," Cilla said. "It's making her feel like Mrs. Cox - like a prisoner."

"That is not my intention."

"No, your intention is to make certain she is kept near, where you can ensure she is safe and protected from her husband, to ensure she and the baby are provided for. I know that, Richard. And she knows it also. But it still makes her feel like a criminal."

"I'm not letting her leave with my child," he said - stubborn to a fault. Cilla nodded, agreeing completely.

"I told her much the same," she replied.

He thought for a moment, of asking if Harmony was well. If she was getting enough to eat. If she was being looked after. But it was a foolish question - Mrs. Andrews could be trusted to see to every single one of Harmony's needs. And besides, if anything untoward were happening, Cilla would have told him so. Enough of Harmony. He loved her and by Christ he missed her; but he would not allow his longing to come between him and his wife. Not again. He tried to brighten, he even managed a smile.

"Here we are, on the verge of leaving this place and you've finally - finally - decided where you like best for that plant to sit," he joked. For quite a while she'd been shifting it, from the far left of the sill to the far right and back again. Probably to get the most of the sun as it made its daily arc overhead. But she hadn't moved it for some days now; it was the best attempt at lightheartedness that he could come up with just then. For some reason, a full flush suffused Cilla's face, turning her beet red.

"Ah, yes, it's perfect there," she waved airily toward the plant that she hadn't moved for the past week, and turned her back on him. He cocked his head, bemused.

"Is somewhat amiss?" He asked, coming to stand behind her. She wasn't angry that he'd asked after Harmony, was she? No, she'd have known he would ask, just as he did every single day, when she returned from the camp. Cilla had shown no anger whatsoever, no jealousy. Only sympathy as she past along her most recent report of his former mistress. He placed his hand on her small waist, just above the place where her skirts flared out from her hips. He wrapped his other arm around her fully, laid his fingers across her stomach, and nuzzled his face into her neck. So much shorter than Harmony, he had to bend further down to kiss and nuzzle Cilla's neck, but the same feeling of warmth and pleasure spread outward from his stomach. "My pretty little wife," he teased, brushing the shell of her ear with his nose. "If something is amiss, speak it now, and I shall enter the pits of hell if need be, to fix it."

She turned in the circle of his arms. Such a pretty creature. Why hadn't he been able to see that, before? Not that he'd ever considered her to be unappealing. He'd simply never considered her at all. He smiled a crooked smile; what a damned fool he'd been. He hadn't been able to see past her Patriot allegiance, her rebellion back in Charlestown, and her sharp tongue. Her eyes were so dark, he could barely see where the pupil ended and the brown began. They were narrowed now, and she began squirming in his embrace.

"Uh-uh," he said, tightening his hold. "You're not going anywhere until you tell me all your woes," he quipped. He'd never expected to get along so well with her - he'd never expected to be grateful to Cornwallis, for forcing him to this marriage. They worked so well together, like two halves of a whole. No, that wasn't quite right, for there was a piece of him still missing. They were two thirds of a whole, the third of which would likely never return and make him complete. But it was not fair to dwell on that now. Not while he held Cilla in his arms. Lords, their nights together… Their bodies and limbs, divinely entangled, slicked with sweat and hot with pleasure. He knew he had Banastre to thank for part of her ardour - though he did not feel inclined toward gratitude. He could not think of Banastre Tarleton now, without an intense desire to punch something. Hard. Preferably Tarleton's face. He'd cuckolded Richard; a man who he'd professed friendship for, had bedded his wife! When Cilla clawed his back and arched hers, whispering frantically for him to not stop, while her legs wrapped over his hips, her pelvis in rapid movement as she strove toward orgasm, it was hard to not think of the man who'd inducted her to these delights. Still, he managed to, for it was him who was bringing her those delights now. Her body responded to his like a wolf responded to its mates long and mournful midnight howls. His eyes hooded over as he thought of the wolves coming together. He'd taken her that way, many a time now. Perhaps he should shut the door and -

"Don't," she said, sounding almost nervous.

Richard forced away his lascivious smile, adopting a look of innocence. "Don't what?" Her squirms grew stronger, they both knew damned well what..

"Oh, don't look at me like that," she groaned, trying to push at him. When he did not release her, she averted her gaze and bit at her lips. Nervous. His grin broadened. "You're trying to charm me," she accused.

"Am not," he lied, unable to stop the soft laugh. He turned her from the window and began edging her backward toward the wall, one slow step after another

"You are," she said, unable to stop him from advancing her backward toward the wall. Once she was pinned there, with him towering over her, she gave one last valiant effort hold him off. "Go charm someone else. I've got packing to do."

"Can't I charm my own wife?" He asked lightly. "Oh hold a moment, I already have," he said, as if this was a grand triumph.

"You're a lech. The door is open."

"Easily fixed, my love." He finally lowered his arms from her waist. With two fingers, he lifted her chin and brushed a light kiss on her lips. He made no move to hold her there, not now. She was taken in by him, he held her there by will alone, towering above her, his very presence strong and imposing. She was spell bound, blinking up at him, unthinking. Banastre could never have achieved this! Holding a woman by will alone. "I can not think of a single woman I'd like to charm more than you, sweet Cilla," he said, carefully easing Harmony from where she constantly resided in his thoughts.

"None?" She managed, arching an eyebrow. Her breath quickened, sweat was beading her lip. He could see right through her.

"None."

"Not even that pretty little maid, Miss Vickie?" She lifted her chin, prideful and arrogant. And slightly worried. He was so astonished by the question, he threw back his head and laughed.

"My dear wife, it seems I already have," he said. Unwisely, it seemed. For pure fury flared over Cilla's face and she bristled like an angry cat.

"Then it's true?" She hissed. "You bedded her while I lay here, sick and almost dying! Of all the -"

"No, Cilla!" To silence her, Richard did the only thing he could think to do, he clamped his very large hand over her mouth. She glared at him above his fingers. "I did not bed her, for all her trying. I vow it on my honour." He watched her face carefully - her eyes, rather, for the rest was hidden beneath his hand. Hers widened, her brows lifted from being drawn down and angry. He felt a puff of relieved air against his palm.

"Truly?" The word was muffled by his hand, her voice no longer intensely furious. Such was the trust that had grown between them. Clearly she'd heard a version of the story, but she would believe him above all others. He removed his hand, preparing to explain.

"She's quite hot to trot," he said contemptuously. Contemptuously… it was really rather strange that he'd feel that way now, when up until recently, being a hot to trot was a trait he'd have admired in any maid as pretty as Vickie. But he felt nothing but contempt for the lass. "She's a bawdy woman, Cil. Harmony," - it hurt to say her name out loud, but he did so now, and Cilla - to her credit - didn't bat an eyelid. - "wasn't gone five minutes before Miss Vickie started in, thinking to replace her. I've been so distracted by the two of you," - meaning Cilla and Harmony - "that I realise now that Miss Vickie has been trying to get my attention for some time. Even when… Harmony… left, it still took a massive effort on Miss Vickie's part before I noticed her. She had to resort to removing all of her clothes, when I finally realised what she was about."

"That would do it," Cilla breathed, stunned.

"I was in William's office," he said, telling her what had happened. "Doing some work. I didn't want to interrupt you when you were finally beginning to sleep a bit more peacefully. Private Hall was on the door that night. She told him she had something pressing to tell me, so she was allowed in. As soon as the door was shut and we were alone, she started undressing herself. She was just removing her shift from over her head when I finally looked up and noticed what she was doing."

"That brazen little harpy!" Cilla folded her arms across her chest, the frown returned.

"I'll say. She does have some nice curves, though."

"Richard!" She cried, unable to stop the laugh that followed. She slapped his arm and he laughed again also.

"So there you have it. Brazen harpy is quite right; I was quite angry with her, if the truth be told," he sobered. "With you in your sickbed and Harmony… well… with her leaving, in comes this little doxy, thinking to earn herself a bit of extra gold on the side, by sliding into my bed. I was having none of it. I commanded that she dress herself at once or else be pushed out into the hallway for all of the soldiers to see her. She scrambled back into her shift and night robe with alacrity, she almost ripped her sleeve trying to punch her arm back through." He sniffed, twisted his lips, recalling the incident with a swell of anger. Vickie could never take his wife's place, but seeing a vacancy, she'd thought to become his mistress. It'd been utterly disrespectful; Harmony's bed was still warm for goodness sake, and that little whore had thought she could slide in without any problems at all. Just take Harmony's place, as though Harmony had been nothing. While Cilla was laid up in bed, near to death. That'd made him doubly furious.

"Six months ago, you'd have taken her right there on the desk," Cilla said softly, eyeing him thoughtfully. He glanced down at her, surprised. Then a lopsided grin tugged at his lips.

"Yes, I would have at that," he chuckled.

"You're insufferable," she swatted at his arm again. "Go and shut the door, Richard."

"With me on this side, or the other?" He asked.

"This side," she lifted onto the tips of her toes and brushed a kiss across his lips that left him light headed. "Definitely this side."

"Your wish, my lady," he swept her a bow, then strode quickly for the door.

Harmony knelt on the ground. Her knees quickly became sodden from the wet straw beneath. Awkwardly, she leaned over as far as she could before toppling, to reach for her pocket book. It was getting harder to move now, harder to rise, harder to walk, harder to do anything with her stomach becoming heavier with child. Her fingers touched the purse, the pads gripped and she pulled, until it was close enough for her to pick it up. She straightened, grateful that she hadn't had to get up and go and get it. Flipping it open, she counted her money. Notes now, instead of coins. Thanks to Cilla, who had exchanged them for her so she could carry the money easily in her pocket. Her purse had been heavy, bulging, and it'd jiggled with every step. Cocking her head, she counted the money again. Surely she hadn't had this much before giving Cilla the heavy purse? She dropped her hand and the book to her lap. At least fifty pounds more than she'd had. She heaved a breath. Had Cilla truly thought she wouldn't notice an extra fifty pounds? She wondered briefly if she should return to the house and give the money back, then decided against it. She had stopped visiting when Cilla had been well enough to start visiting her, and she would not step foot in it now.

Not when she might risk seeing Richard. And William. But Richard more so. She would keep the money for now and give it back to Cilla in the morning. Cilla would likely argue, or deny it entirely. How things had changed between them in the last weeks. Before, they hadn't been able to stand the sight of each other. Now, Cilla's visits were a balm to Harmony's soul. She was trying to protect her, Harmony knew. Trying to make certain Harmony had enough money to get by.

There were others who would wish to protect her, and she thought of them now. How long had it been since she'd seen her family? Far too long. Years. They were all the way up near the border, in Grindal Shoals. Hundreds of miles from Fresh Water and Pembroke on the Santee. With her clothes all over the tent, waiting to be packed, she sat back on her heels and thought of her parents, her brother and her sister. They must be so worried. They hadn't heard from her in a desperately long time, and God knows that Calvin had never wrote home. What could she have said, if she had written?

"Calvin has taken up quarters here in Charlestown and to ingratiate himself to his Commander, to make him exceptionally happy, Calvin has made him a very generous gift of… well, of me. It's worked quite grandly. The Colonel took quite a like to me and I'm doing my duty by my husband rather well, if I don't say myself. I was pregnant for a time but as Calvin could not have known which of them had had the siring of it, he decided to kick me until it was driven from my stomach. Apart from that, barracks life is simply wonderful." She thought, thinking of what had taken place back then. That had been the reason she'd stopped writing to her family. What sort of news was that, to deliver to her mother and father? To Calvin's parents as well? It had only gotten worse from there, when Colonel Clement had sent Calvin off because he hadn't wanted to share her any longer, and he'd forced her to live in his house while Calvin went off to die at Savannah. Or so she'd thought back then. Would that he had. How different would her life had been, if he'd never returned?

She sighed and shook her head. Calvin could not be blamed for her current dilemma. Not wholly, anyway. If she'd returned home after finally being free of Colonel Clement, then she'd have spent these last few years safely snuggled up in her father's small cabin, surrounded by love and warmth. It was shame that had stopped her. Shame of having been forced to bed a man not her husband, by her own husband. Calvin was to blame for that, but it had been her choice to not return. She'd been unable to face the shame of her compromised virtue. And so she wallowed even deeper in deprivation.

It was strange, the turn her thoughts were taking. She hadn't even opened a Holy Book for years, but here she was, remembering the moral lessons she'd learned sitting on the floor by her father's chair. If she'd returned home, they would have forgiven her. They would not have found fault in her, they would have sympathised. They might have even found her another husband, likely long before Calvin showed up to claim his right of her. How different would her life have been, if she hadn't wallowed in sin and spread her legs as soon as Richard came along?

She'd not be kneeling on the floor of her tent, her belly swollen with a bastard got on a man she never wished to speak to or even look at, ever again. A movement outside the open flap had her glancing up and she saw - much to her irritation - her two watch dogs. They chatted quietly, one of them laughed at some jest. There were four pairs of them, on a twenty-four hour rotation. Mere boys, neither could have been older than fifteen years. But if she tried to leave, they'd do their duty and prevent her, just the same. Linda had them as well, these watch dogs.

How long had it been, since she and Linda so stupidly agreed to leave Charlestown with their new gallants? Sweet Lord Above, it'd only been seven months but Harmony felt like it was thrice that. It felt like years since that fateful day that she'd agreed to Richard's proposal and she left the snug security of her little room above that little shop, to traipse the countryside with Richard. A man she'd known for little more than a month. A man she'd never known at all. Though she'd thought she knew him well, he'd been nothing but a stranger to her, all along. He'd committed that vile act against Cilla at almost the same time he'd asked her - Harmony - to leave with him. It was like he was two men, living two completely different lives. If she'd known of his other life back then, she never would have left with him.

And she would not be in the pickle she was in now.

She reached for a shift and began folding. A pickle. What a simple way of putting it; after everything that'd happened, after everything Richard had done. How could Cilla forgive him? Cilla was lying to herself, she must be - Harmony was certain of it. Cilla was deluded. Forced to remain in her marriage, she decided to embrace it instead, and had convinced herself that she forgave Richard. There was no other explanation; no one could forgive the unforgivable. Harmony shoved the shift into the portmanteaus and reached for a jacket. Perhaps she should try to hunt down Calvin and suggest they just go home. Surely he'd want that as much as she did, and he could help her to get there. He was an absolute bastard, to be sure. But he was her husband. He was out there, on the run, deserted from the army and wanted for murder. Surely he was as exhausted of it all as she was. Perhaps if she found Calvin - her husband - then she could finally go home.

Or perhaps he'd kill her as soon as look at her… Or if he did agree, he'd only use her to ingratiate himself on some wealthy planter when they got back home. He'd sell her to the highest bidder, his little whore wife.

She almost dropped the jacket; her hand had never healed properly things often slipped from her fingers. She glanced at her hand, at the deep slash across the palm that prevented her from opening her hand to its fullest, and she recalled why she'd cut herself in the first place. Once, when she was younger, one of the families cats had a litter of kittens. Beautiful, sweet creatures, golden fur marbled with white. Seven of them, if she remembered correctly now. The cat left them for a time, to have a bite to eat, and an awful tom slinked into where the cat had concealed her babies, and the tom killed them. Each and every single one. It'd been such an awful sight, Harmony's father hadn't allowed her near the barn until the ugliness was cleaned away. All because the tom wanted the cat to come into heat quicker, so he could fill her stomach with a brood of his own. That was Calvin. It wasn't just herself she needed to protect now. He might know by now, that her baby wasn't his and she already knew he was quite capable of killing what he thought was a bastard.

"I had no intention of going to him anyway," she whispered, putting the jacket in the portmanteaus. "Not really. But Gods, I wish I could just go home," she glanced out the tent again, her watch dogs were still there, as she'd known they would be. She wasn't allowed to leave. Still, she could write to her parents; and have Cilla send the letter for her. She straightened, brightening somewhat. It was so obvious she could hardly believe she hadn't thought of it before! She could send for her father - let Richard just try to stop her leaving then. Her father would raise merry hell, until she was released, and as she had committed no crime - she had not done anything illegal, Richard had no legal right to detain her. Glancing at the purse, she smiled for the first time in days. She even had the money to send, to pay for his travel! He'd come for her, she just knew he would. All that was left was for her to write the letter and include some money, and as soon as he received both, he would set out on his way. The Legion would be easy to find, she would be travelling north while he was travelling south, and although it was likely weeks away, they would be able to meet halfway when the Legion reached Cornwallis.

Seizing up her pocket book, she pushed herself up heavily, determined to write the letter now while her writing implements were as yet unpacked. Cilla would return tomorrow morning at the latest, or that afternoon if Harmony was lucky, and she was determined now to have her letter written and on its way as soon as every she could.

They'd only been on the road a day, but already it was tedious. Rain and more rain lashed the carriage roof. And mud. There was plenty of that. Luckily it was not enough to stop the procession of the carriage and wagons and horses and men, but it did slow it down considerably. Whenever they stopped, Cilla did not even bother climbing out unless it was absolutely imperative that she did so. For the call of nature, for instance. To climb out from the dry cabin into a quagmire was not an enjoyable experience. And to climb back in again, with mud coated shoes mucking up the floor… Travelling in winter was most definitely not to Cilla's liking. She and the other women were laden with blankets, covering their legs, pulled up to their chests. Gloves on their fingers, wool capes. It was so damned cold, their mist puffed with every breath. How wonderful would it be if someone could invent a means of warming the carriage interior? A small brazier, perhaps. It would be absolute bliss.

Someone really aught to invent a decent means of passing the time, that did not require stiff, frozen fingers. Reading, knitting, sewing all needed fingers but Cilla wasn't taking her hands out of the folds of blankets for any of that. There was so little to discuss, for they'd spent so much time in one another's company and nothing much had happened to excite them to conversation. Mrs. Andrews. Miss Cordell. Harmony - after Cilla browbeat her and begged and pleaded. And Cilla herself. Richard never rode down to check on her, because Harmony was there. Cilla regretted that, but she could not have the pregnant woman sitting on the back of a cart, even one covered with canvas. The carriage was more comfortable. Not by far, perhaps, but enough. They hadn't gotten far, thanks to the deluge. Why the skies suddenly decided to open up as soon as the Legion began the laborious task of moving out, was the question on everyone's lips. An ill fated journey perhaps? A bad omen? She fingered Nathan's lucky foot and tried not to think about it. What will be, will be.

Besides, perhaps it was the Almighty Himself, taking a hand in the war and favouring the Patriots, by slowing the Legion down. That would be a fine thing!

At that moment, she was seated by the fire, in a parlour she'd never seen before, in a house she'd never set foot in, belonging to a planter she did not know. William Tavington had commandeered the Planter's house, taking over it completely, with the arrogant authority she'd come to expect from him. And every other Commander in His Majesty's army who thought themselves superior. This was why Patriots were so set against the British, she thought as a slave bought her a platter of sweetmeats. Because the British swooped in, not caring if the people they descended upon were friends - or if they were foes. Friends would not baulk at giving assistance, and foes - well, everybody knew how the British treated those. She leaned in closer to the fire, letting it unthaw her. Gods, she didn't think she would ever get warm again. She couldn't understand how Harmony could endure it with so much ease, and that poor soul was in a tent again! A nice hot bath. That might help the heat to steal back into Cilla's bones.

She pulled her eyes from the fire, blinked away the image of dancing flames imprinted on her pupils and fixed her gaze on Arthur Simms. He caught her eyes; he smiled and bowed, she inclined her head and - somehow - managed to hide her intense desire for gossip. It was all she could do not to rush over to him, grab his arm and drag him away from what was - she supposed - a very important meeting. He was courting Sarah, had been for months now! Had he proposed yet? Had she said yes? Stupid question, of course she would. Where did he intend for them to live? Would he build her a massive double house - she knew the Simms could well afford it. And what of Michael and Marcus? Her eyes fell on them and again, she resisted the urge to ask them a slew of questions. Did they have their eyes on a sweetheart? It was likely they did. Her eyes fell on Patrick Brownlow and her heart gave a lurch. He was standing alone against a wall, the space beside him where Dalton should have been standing was glaringly empty. Brownlow looked so rigid, like marble statue, unbending, no emotion showing on his face. It shone from his eyes, however, and Cilla worried that the Cornet might begin to weep. Tavington sat in a chair and spoke of Dalton's death, the deaths of a score of Dragoons, and the capture of fifty more. James Wilkins, who had been standing stiffly on the far side of the inglenook, his back to Tavington and to Richard, had long since turned to listen gravely. He'd been very cool to his Commanders ever since entering, yet while their personal conflict was far from resolved, the gravity of their situation was such that James Wilkins was willing to set it aside for now. There was no time to dwell on soured friendships; they were at war, their own troubles were nothing to that. Cilla returned her gaze to the fire, thinking of the reason for James' summons, and the twenty Dragoons that were killed.

And who had killed them.

Her own father. And his men. Calvin Farshaw, the lad who'd looked so vulnerable when she'd first met him. But worst of all was her own father. She loved him dearly, she understood he would do as he must to win their victory and free their country. But every time Dalton's face rose in her mind's eye, great guilt seized her, grief and sadness and she wished - fruitlessly wished - that her father had made a different decision that day.

"Ensign Dalton was one of my best," Colonel Tavington said gravely in that drawling, hard as granite voice she despised. She doubted she ever would warm to the man. "His absence has left a gaping hole in my Legion. Now, I have set this before you, Captain Wilkins, not only so that you are apprised personally of the death of a comrade, but to invite you and your men to rejoin the Legion, to fill the void Dalton's death has created. I understand Major Wymmes has need of you, but my need is the greater." He spoke without pause, as if he did not want to give James time enough to think, time to remember their recent, personal past. "I recently received word that General Burwell is about to be joined by one General Greene, who has a vast number of Virginian's accompanying him. Colonel Tarleton -" if anything, Tavington's voice hardened even more, though Cilla hadn't thought that was possible. Even her own Richard drew himself up and was now looking rather grim. He avoided her gaze - he did not wish to look at her while Banastre was being spoken of. - "I am not going to lie. Our situation is grim. We had a large force of Loyalist militia protecting Fort Williams, barring Burwell's passage. However, when they learned of General Greene's advance, they abandoned the fort entirely, which has given the enemy free rein to pass on through."

"Damned cowards," Marcus muttered. "They didn't get our training, aye?"

"No, they did not," Tavington agreed. Cilla cocked her head. He said it without batting an eyelid, taking the comment as a compliment to himself. As if to say 'well of course, I am the greatest mentor in all the world, what did you expect but excellence?' She felt like reminding him that Richard had had a hand in Marcus' training every bit as much Tavington had. "They have fled and now the way is open to Fort Ninety Six. And let us not forget the Kings Mountain battle. When Patrick Ferguson's force was attacked…" He shook his head as if lamenting the losses. Not because of the lives themselves, she thought, but because of the numbers of men that were no longer at the Britisher's disposal. "Our Loyalist militia is all but spent. Colonel Tarleton," again, his voice sounded strained when saying that name. As though he wanted to strangle it. As though he was resisting the urge to smash every single piece of furniture in the chamber. "Is en-route now, to reinforce our position there. I have been advised that I may need to move into a position of support," he ground out. Cilla's heart flew right up into her throat. She'd already been told this of course, but she could not hear it without feeling such intense trepidation. What was going to happen when Banastre and Tavington were face to face with one another again? When Beth and Tavington were face to face… that had her even more worried. She thought of his belt and gave a great shudder. "Which will require me to cross the Wateree. I plan to recruit to the Legion as we move through the area, in an attempt to replace those who have deserted Fort William's and those lost at Kings Mountain. As it is, this will be no easy feat. It is my hope that you will rejoin us, to replace the score of men murdered by Mr. Putman's militia."

Murdered. That word was bandied about often, when one side attacked the other and men died. Almost always, one side or the other would cry foul, in order to inspire men to join their ranks, to right the wrongs done by the evil ones. Patriots did it, when their forces were attacked by the British. The British did it, when their's was attacked by the Patriots. It was usually lies, propaganda to help increase their ranks. This was war, there were rules to follow but at the end of the day, when soldiers go into battle, soldiers die.

Only Cilla's father had not followed any rules of war. He'd had no authority to perform executions. And the process he should have followed was absolutely clear - Dalton's force should have been made prisoner and escorted to the nearest prison camp. He'd ignored all of this and he'd had each one of them killed.

Mark Putman had done murder. Cilla's mouth went dry. Her father killed Dalton and his men. Lord, how could he do such a thing? He must have been provoked… She wanted to believe that he was not at fault, that the story Richard had told her was fabricated to ensure sympathy for the British while making her father the villain. But it was her own cousins who delivered the tale, and they had been there to witness it. Her fingers were a tight grip on the rabbit's foot. No one was looking at her. She wondered what they were even doing there - there were plenty of other rooms in the plantation house, why had they barged in to conduct their meeting where she was trying to warm her bones? Tavington's doing, she supposed. Perhaps he somehow blamed her for her father's actions. Or perhaps he just wanted to make certain she was constantly reminded, to make certain she never forgot her part in Dalton's death. If she hadn't run away, Richard would not have had to come after her, Dalton and those others might still be alive.

James was staring hard at Tavington. Silence and tension grew until Cilla hoped James would punch him. Cilla was not a violent person but she would have loved to see Tavington head snapped back by a good jab to the chin. Did he truly believe she'd ever forget her own accountability? She'd take those deaths - and Old Morgan's - to her grave.

"I am still under your command, Colonel Tavington," James said, voice crisp and sure. "You outrank Major Whymmes. You don't have to ask me for anything. Why are you doing so now?"

Why not just command me to return? He was asking.

"I could do so," Tavington admitted. He steepled his fingers. "We parted on… unpleasant terms… enough time has passed that perhaps tempers have cooled. Perhaps not. I'd rather have you return willingly, so that I will know that I can be certain of you."

Unpleasant terms. That was an understatement! Tavington - and Richard - had given James' wife over to the camp women to face punishment, she'd been stripped down to her waist and birched! It was clear by the look on James' face that his temper had most certainly not cooled.

"We are at war," James said. "His Majesty's country is at risk of being overrun by insurgents. This revolt needs to be quashed and those who began it, hung. You can be certain of me, of my Loyalty, to see this matter ended. I will return to the Legion to fill the gap left by Ensign Dalton, until it is done."

And when it is done, so shall you and I be done.

The unspoken words hung in the air, like smoke rising up to the ceiling. Tavington nodded, as if he'd expected no less.

"I shall have Mr. Davis make up rooms for you and your officers," he said, rising from the desk. "We will stay here one night, weather permitting we shall continue on the morrow. Speak with Quartermaster Sanders to discuss your needs." That was it. Tavington strode out of the chamber, without even thanking James Wilkins for making the decision he had. Richard followed Tavington, though he gave Cilla a slow wink and a quick smile the others did not see, before the door closed behind them. Wilkins had returned to the Legion. Her hand was already reaching for her lap desk sitting on top of her work basket, but she snatched it back again. Old habits died hard, it seemed, but she'd given her word - if only to herself - that she would not go against Richard by spying for her father again. An oath she would not break, no matter how massive the news. Besides, if she reported it to her father, would he then murder James and the others too? She gazed at the men, boys she'd known since she was a small girl. She would not have their blood on her hands too. No. She'd whispered her oath in the dark, to ease her conscience for the spying she'd done already, and she would not break it. She intended to stay out of the war now, as much as she was able. Her only betrayal now was the occasional prayer she sent heavenward, that the Legion and the British would fail. Without too many lives lost, of course.

Brownlow clapped Arthur on the back. "Welcome home," he said it to all of them.

"Yes, well…" James scowled, then he smoothed his expression. Brownlow had never done him a bad turn, after all. "How desperate is the situation really?"

"Let's go for a walk," the Cornet said. "I think we've disturbed Mrs. Bordon's solitude for long enough."

Nooooo! She wanted to seize Arthur's arm as he began to file out after the others. Or Michael's or Marcus'. They had news of her friends, they had news of the world outside, and she wanted to know every bit of it! Arthur was the last to leave, he closed the door behind him, she let the request die on her lips. He had more important things to discuss, he could not sit there gossiping with her when he, too, would need to know what their situation was. There was no point in Brownlow telling James, Michael and Marcus, only to have to repeat it all for Arthur later. And she could not be seen to be sitting in the parlour all by herself with a gentleman. Richard certainly wouldn't appreciate it, especially now that he knew about her and Banastre…

Besides, there was always dinner. The men would be much more open to the idea of discussing the weighty issues that Cilla had in mind, when they were relaxed and fed and filled with wine. The clock in the hall chimed four times and Cilla brightened. Only another hour or so and she would know absolutely everything she wished to know, if she had to drag out every single tidbit.