Author's notes: Yes, yet another Magua + OC story, something to tide you over whilst I edit and update my other stories. This story was kind of stewing in the back of my mind for a while, so we'll see where this little adventure takes us. I am trying to pace my stories, layer them with intrigue. But really, I just want to give our antagonist as much love as possible. Everybody deserves somebody.

The water was divine. Utterly blissful on the skin; hot to the touch, but not to the point of boiling. Steam visibly rose from the tub, the vapors wafting upwards into the brisk Autumn air. The Americas' climate was certainly more temperate, even now, remnants of Spring could be found all over the encampment. Daisies and daffodils bloomed in folly, their petals making a nice flourish for the baths. But nothing could compare to the lavish oils of France. Jasmine. Rose. Lavender. How Esther missed those luxurious aromas! Even now, she'd sell her silks for such treasures, even for a couple of drops. But war allowed little comfort and Esther had to make do with what little she had. Jean-Tristan promised he'd make it up to her, someday, in the future. And every day, Esther was quick to remind him of this promise.

But for now, in lonely solitude, she was content with soaking in her cooper tub; it was styled just like that of the royals, the craftsmen taking every effort to ensure its quality. Whilst one set of fingers skimmed the surface of the water, the other languished on the edge, tracing the fine art carvings on its outer side. These stolen moments gave Esther more peace than anything else; at her leisure, she could splash at her water, caress at her skin, even titter a talented tune, and nothing could disturb her. She was as nature intended; bare and beautiful. Ripe with life. The petals that clung to her skin only complimented her tawny complexion, the humidity dampening her otherwise unruly locks. In a few short moments, she felt rejuvenated. Renewed. As clean and pristine as the lacey garment awaiting her exit.

Cannon fire, far to the west, disturbed the peace. Once again, Esther's peace was ruined.

Bang. Bang. Boom. The roar of arms was as maddening as it was incessant. Downwind of it all, the pungent smell of smoke and powder invaded the once refined air.

Esther balked, ready to strop. "One night! Is one night of peace too much to ask?!"

A volley of musket fire gave its mocking answer. Apparently, it was.

Exasperated, with her hands thrown up in surrender, Esther descended further into the depths of the water. She submerged herself, hoping to drown out all other noise except that of her own heart. Its tempo was gentle, its beat thudding absently within Esther's own ears. She had succeeded; the weapons of war were silent now, so far away, even their sound was unable to reach her. Esther relaxed, allowing herself the savour the momentary peace. For now, she just listened to her own noise, the natural drum buried in the heart of her chest. Reflection set in and yet again, she asked herself the same thing she always did.

How had it come to this? Bathing in an officer's tent, whilst on campaign no less. Far from France and close to the battle. To say the least, not an ideal situation. But, as always, it was out of Esther's control. Just like everything else.

Feeling her lungs beginning to burn, Esther broke the surface of the water, breathing deep the air whilst her eyes adjusted to the light of the candles surrounding her. Annoyingly, the gunfire was even more audible than before, now utterly ruining the ambiance Esther had tried so hard to foster. Ready to abandon it all, with a less than graceful huff, she prepared to hoist herself out.

But then Esther stopped.

A cool draft of air had entered the tent, sending shivers up her spine. There was no heavy wind, no traveling gust, so no reason for the temperature to drop itself so abruptly. That meant only one thing; someone had entered, passed the protection of canvas. Sitting up from the tub, Esther listened, tentatively at first, straining for any sort of sound. There was none. Had she been wrong?

With bated breath, she called out to her surroundings. "Tristan?" Had he returned from the meeting early? Perhaps he had come to romance her; two to a tub was certainly possible.

Yet no one answered. There was only silence; even the guns had gone quiet.

"Beloved?" Tristan wasn't one for games, he lacked the constitution for them. Could someone else have entered? Perhaps it was a servant, come to top up the tub? Worse, it could be a lecherous soldier, trying his luck.

In the nude, and undaunted by it, Esther dared to harden her tone. "Whoever you are, you'd best show yourself. I'm in a foul enough mood as it is."

A shuffle finally confirmed it. Someone was inside the tent, and to her bemusement, they were blatantly peeping. Under such circumstances, Esther would berate the intruder, possibly even throw a projectile. But not this time. This was different. He was different.

At the mouth of the tent, the flap securely closed, stood a scout. A native, no less. Darkness all but engulfed him, making it hard to garner anything specific. He was dressed like a red man, meaning he was actually wearing very little; most of the upper body was left unclothed, whilst wiry legs were wrapped in a sort of buckskin. Whoever he was, he was older than Tristan. Significantly older, judging from the weathered leather that was his exposed skin. As expected of any warrior, the man was armed. A rifle was slung over his shoulder, all whilst a hatchet and blade sat on his belt. They looked in pristine condition, unlike their master. In the limited light, scars gleamed like badges of honour, littering his figure like some macabre map of battle.

Annoyingly enough, Esther couldn't see the man's face. The French had numerous natives in their service, distinguishing between them was hard enough, but for the moment, this one seemed determined to remain anonymous. This made Esther uneasy. The heart of man could be found in his eyes; without a good look, it made gauging their intent all the more difficult.

In a split-second decision, deciding to try and make light of the situation, Esther was quick to cast a less than humourous quib, "Well, it seems you have caught me at quite a disadvantage."

Reclining back within the confines of the water, she waited for a response. A reply. Anything.

And the native gave her nothing. He just stood there, as still as a statue. He showed no physical interest in her, and if anything, that slighted Esther. She was a beautiful woman, yet to this savage, she might as well be part of her furniture. That is how little he acknowledged her.

Rather than showing her growing frustration, Esther opted for a more sultry approach. She beamed at him, with an almost toothy grin. "Well, don't just stand there." With a little coax of the finger, she was so bold as to beckon him, "Come closer. Introduce yourself."

Unsurprisingly, he did no such thing and his failure to respond was quickly becoming boring. Now it was Esther's turn to simply stare. She couldn't help but wonder, did the native even understand her? Maybe he was soft in the head, made stupid from injury. The thought was greatly disappointing. There wasn't much point baiting someone if they didn't get a rise out of it.

Still, Esther couldn't help but carry on the conservation. Even if it was only one-sided. "How rude. Where are your manners? Don't you know who I am?"

The baritone voice came next was just as surprising as the response. "Magua knows who you are, woman. He has been told. You belong to the son of Montcalm." With that, the scout stepped out from the shadows, his face revealed and his eyes ablaze. "You are his whore."