Greetings readers!

This is one of those chapters that inspired the rating change to M all those many months ago. I'm not going to spell anything out for you (and don't get too excited because the tags still apply) but this chapter will be on the intense side...and so will the next one. Some you may not be phased at all by this chapter...but I've seen enough people complain in comments about things and situations that make this disclaimer necessary:

Read at your own discretion. If you can't handle violence in all of its many forms you shouldn't be reading an M fic - that's why the rating system exists. For those of you reading on - they don't really allow tags on here, so you have no idea what I'm talking about maybe...and yes, I know it's only a T on this site. Just consider yourself warned.

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

"Two natives and one Frenchman, I'd wager."

Wyatt crouched on the ground next to Daniel Boone who had stopped him in his tracks just moments before and began studying the ground with a keen eye. The frontiersman may have been young, but Wyatt could see, even now, that despite his youth, Daniel Boone was in fact, a seasoned tracker and scout. Hardly making a sound as he slinked his way a little further along the trail, the man who would one day become a legendary American folk hero, seemed to almost melt into the surrounding forest. Rubbing his chin with one hand while hovering his other hand over a set of jumbled footprints, Daniel Boone nodded, "Yes. Most definitely. Two natives and one Frenchman."

With the ruined pages of Tom Jones still clenched in his grip, Wyatt could hardly help asking the hopeful question weighing heavily on his mind, "And Lucy?"

With another frown, Daniel Boone nodded pointing to a few muddy streaks on the small forest path. "Aye, she's with them…though I daresay she's having a rough go of it. There," he said jutting his chin out, "you see these marks here? It looks to me like she's not going quietly…they're dragging her."

The thought of Lucy being dragged away by the French simultaneously filled Wyatt with a sense of pride and an overwhelming sensation of anger. Pride – because she was fighting back. Anger – because those assholes had kidnapped her and were dragging her through the damn woods.

"They wouldn't risk coming all this way without support." John Fraser reminded Boone tersely. "It may have only been the three to take her, but I guarantee you there's a larger force close by…natives, French…maybe a combination of the two," he mused, "after last night, I can't imagine they would send another raiding party with only three. No," he said with a shake of his head, "this was reconnaissance…and your wife, I'm afraid, was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Wyatt rubbed a rough hand across his face, inwardly kicking himself for not charging into the woods earlier when Tom pointed out that someone had been slinking in the woods after them. Hell, he should have scoured through these trees last night. He had wanted to, dammit. He had wanted to do a full sweep of these woods to make sure they wouldn't come back…but the rain. "I should have done more." he groaned, his head in his hands. "I should have…"

"What?" John asked incredulously, "Gone after an entire French force on your own? Need I remind you," he added with a scoff, "that you were nearly killed last night as it was." Shaking his head, he soothed, "There's nothing more you could have done, lad."

"Aye," Daniel Boone piped up, "It would have only served to get you killed." Pointing at the ground, "These tracks will be easy enough to follow…and these woods? Well, no one knows them better than John or myself…except, of course, for the natives…but who do you think taught us the ins and outs of these parts?"

While Wyatt was, at first, impatient to tear after Lucy in the wilderness, he was now grateful for the support and expertise of John Fraser, Daniel Boone and Daniel Morgan. He may have been trained in rescue and recovery operations with Delta Force…but that training was designed for the modern era. He was out of his element here. Granted, he could navigate these woods with little problem…but he didn't know them like these men did. And in finding Lucy, he knew, he was going to need all the help he could get. "So," he began quietly, dreading the answer "what are the chances of finding her alive?"

"We can only hope, son." John Fraser replied bracingly. "It is a good sign," he offered, "that they didn't kill her immediately. What concerns me though is this trail she has left you…" he said with a frown.

"Aye," Daniel Morgan agreed, "it can't have gone unnoticed by her captors."

Wyatt narrowed his eyes at him, "Are you saying that Lucy is intentionally…"

"No, no my boy," John Fraser assured kindly, "but we must be wary. They may have overlooked her breadcrumbs in light of the fact that they wantyou to pursue her. You were the one who fought off the raid last night. You were also the one responsible for destroying the wall of Fort Duquesne…"

"So they took her to get to me." Wyatt muttered. It wasn't a question. His guilt had already convinced him that Lucy's disappearance was his fault…this just confirmed it.

John Fraser eyed him with a heavy sigh before admitting with a nod, "I imagine there are those within the French camp that wouldn't mind seeing you dead."

"It's not like they haven't tried" Wyatt quipped with a scoff, "haven't killed me yet."

"Yes…you've been most fortunate in that respect…you both have." John replied, "But I would urge caution. We don't know what their plans are for your dear wife, but I would bet my entire farm that they mean to lure you to her…and that, is where the danger lies."

"I'm not going to sit back and do nothing while those assholes have Lucy." Wyatt snarled.

"No one is expecting you to do that son." John Fraser assured him, "We have every intention of seeking her out…"

"But," Rufus interrupted "won't we be...I mean, if they are laying a trap for us…won't that just be playing into their hands?"

"Your man is right." Morgan remarked with a nod, "they might be counting on you pursuing her in a fit of desperation." As John said," he added with a nod to his friend, "they no doubt have a larger group lying in wait somewhere…just waiting to ambush the rescue party."

"You think I give a damn about that?" Wyatt asked, impatiently. "I'm gonna do whatever I need to do to get Lucy back." he promised, "I can't do anything less than that."

"Boone is an excellent scout." John Fraser mused thoughtfully, "he could sneak up on the entire French army without causing the slightest bit of alarm."

"I have done." Boone stated proudly, arming himself with an extra pistol. "Someone's got to keep an eye on their movements, haven't they?"

"Aye." John muttered thoughtfully, before turning to Wyatt and suggesting, "If you're willing to trust my friends here…"

"I can't ask them to risk their life for…"

"You're not asking." John corrected him, "We're offering" he said with a meaningful nod to his friends, who like John were wordlessly expressing their willingness to help. "Remember son," John added, "I know what this feels like."

Wyatt swallowed hard. Of course, John understood, but he also knew that he and his companions had other things they needed to be doing that didn't involve this. Not that he had the slightest clue of what those things were – that was Lucy's department. "Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do," Wyatt dismissed, "but you have your own problems to worry about."

"The way I see it," Daniel Morgan piped up, "our problems are one in the same. We came out here to take care of a French problem…and you have a French problem. One," he added with a nod of his head, "that will most likely lead us to the same place we were headed in the first place."

"So, we're agreed then?" John offered, handing over a few muskets and pistols, "We do this together?"

Wyatt wanted to refuse…hell, he knew he should. This wasn't the way history was supposed to go, he knew that…but he was also desperate. Sure, he might be able to track Lucy down on his own…but what then? He had been lucky at Duquesne…he hardly believed he would have the same luck twice. Nodding despite himself, Wyatt gritted out, "Okay…yeah, sure. Let's do it."

As John began handing out more weapons, Rufus nervously made his way over to Wyatt and yanked on his arm, "Can I talk to you for one second, please?" he hissed with a meaningful glare. Confused, Wyatt obliged, stepping off to the side of the group as Rufus rounded on him with a hoarse whisper, "There's more at stake here than just our lives, Wyatt. You know what's about to happen here…"

"Yeah," he replied, pushing away from Rufus, "all the more reason to get Lucy the hell out of harm's way." Turning towards him, he offered, "You don't have to come along if you don't want to. I'll understand if you'd rather not…"

For a moment, it looked as though Rufus would rather not. His courage, Wyatt could see, was faltering in the face of the terrible odds staked against them. They were only a few against…who knew how many? John was right – they were probably headed towards a damn ambush. To purposefully seek out the French, after everything they had witnessed and been subjected to in their time here, was insanity…it was suicide…even if it was to save Lucy.

Still, it was Lucy…something that Rufus seemed to remember as he swallowed hard and nodded his head, "I'll go." he said, his quaking voice betraying his fears.

"Then you'll need this." Tom said quietly from behind him. Turning, Rufus was presented with a musket rifle held out to him by his friend. "It won't do you no good to go out there unarmed."

Taking the rifle in his shaking hands, Rufus nodded as Tom handed over a rucksack, "You might as well take this with you, too." he said with a sigh. Peering inside, Rufus found the patch and the bundle of wire they had been working on. At his confused expression, Tom explained, "If you get the chance to leave…take it. Don't come back here looking to say goodbye."

"Tom…"

"You've been a good friend, Rufus." he said before nodding to acknowledge Wyatt as well. "Don't get caught up in a war you's not supposed to be involved in," he whispered meaningfully. Rufus nodded as he shook Tom's hand, his throat feeling oddly confined as tears burned his eyes. "If we don't ever see each other again," Tom said softly, "you take care of yourself, you hear me?"

"You too." Rufus acknowledged, his voice thick with emotion. He wanted to say so much more to the man who had become more than just a friend to him…but a brother. "You know," he offered, "it's not too late…you can…" but Tom shook his head at him sadly.

"I tol ya…I don't want nothing to do with your time meddlin' and if you was as smart as you say you are…you wouldn't be meddlin' with it either." Shaking his head, Tom swore, "No sir, you wouldn't." He nodded at him, "You go on now and git yourselves home. Don't worry about us…the Good Lord will see that all is made right in His own good time." With that Tom nodded and backed away, lifting his hand in a wave as he went.

Rufus watched as his friend made his way back up the hill to the road above them, barely able to contain the tears that were now pooling in his eyes when Wyatt placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, "You ready?"

Nodding Rufus turned and ventured back to the group sighing, "Ready as I'll ever be."

"Well then," Daniel Morgan remarked as he adjusted his hat with a smirk, "what are we waiting for?"

Clutching a woolen cloak around her shoulders, Lucy shivered as she tripped over rogue roots and fallen limbs littering the forest floor. Sandwiched between a French force and a fair few of their Native allies, Lucy sought to keep herself from attracting too much unwanted attention even as she stumbled along on her aching leg.

The short respite she had at the Gibb's home had been just that…short. While she would not complain about any rest, considering how hungry, tired and cold she was, Lucy was hardly sorry when the order came to move again. Despite that moving kept her from freezing solid, the blank stares of the Gibbs' corpses, their bloodied heads devoid of their scalps, had been a horrific sight she was happy to leave behind.

Though she was sure the memory of their lifeless bodies would haunt her the rest of her life.

She took some solace in the fact that in her suffering she was now no longer alone. Trudging along beside her were two men and a young woman…undoubtedly the Gibbs' servants who also looked like they too were more than a little hungry and cold. The woman, especially, looked gaunt, thin, and a bit sickly. Even so, they all seem to managing the trek better than Lucy was, seemingly able to avoid every slick piece of ground and hidden tree root that seemed to hamper her every step.

The sun was sinking lower in the horizon and Lucy knew that before long it would be dark…and undoubtedly colder than it already was. Even now, she could see little swirls of her breath as she huffed along the trail which was growing increasingly more difficult and treacherous. Clambering up the side of a steep grade, Lucy's painfully cold fingers numbly gripped at trees and roots as she desperately sought to keep her footing. Between the mud, the loose rocks and her injured leg, however, she found herself falling more often than not…and as a result drew the unwanted attention of Francois Coulon de Villers.

"Quel est le problème?" Francois Coulon grumbled as he urged his horse over to where Lucy lay, sprawled out on the ground, shakily attempting to get back on her feet. "Ah," he chuckled as she struggled, "I should have known. You!" he shouted to the frail woman beside her,"help her up." Obediently the woman quickly stooped beside Lucy and with more strength than she appeared to have, deftly hoisted her up to stand.

"You alright then, miss?" she asked, looking at Lucy as if she knew she didn't belong out in this wilderness. Self-conscious and embarrassed, Lucy nodded as she brushed the excess mud from her skirts.

"It appears you continue to be a problem." Francois observed before rubbing a hand on his chin, considering. "Major Toussaint!" he suddenly ordered causing Marcel to sidle up beside him on his own horse, "Je me demande si je peux te confier pour garder un œil sur cette fille ici ? Veiller à ce qu'elle ne nous ralentisse pas plus qu'elle ne l'a déjà fait?"

"Bien sûr Monsieur." Marcel replied with a sneer as he offered his commander a salute, "Que voudriez-vous que je fasse?"

Offering the junior officer a meaningful smirk, he shrugged, "Tout ce qui est nécessaire pour... euh... l'encourager à se conformer. "Je comprends" he added with a sneer, "que vous avez un moyen avec les femmes."

A devilish gleam appeared in Marcel's eye as he nodded, "Effectivement, monsieur."

"Bon." Francois Coulon remarked with a nod as he reared his horse, "Alors je vous laisse cette femme sous votre responsabilité... et Marcel," he called over his shoulder as he trotted away, "veillez à ce que vous ne la perdiez pas de vue... même un instant.

In an attempt to make her situation even more of a waking nightmare than it already was, Francois Coulon de Villiers had just called upon Major Marcel Toussaint, Wyatt's would be assassin and her principal assaulter, to "keep an eye on her" as they made their treacherous journey away from the Gibbs' home. It wasn't for her benefit. No. She'd as soon believe that Francois Coulon de Villers cared about her safety as much as she believed he had given her Mrs. Gibbs' cloak – the one she currently had gripped around her shoulders – out of the kindness of his heart.

"She won't be needing it anymore" Francis Coulon had sneered, seeming to delight in the fact that an innocent woman was dead….and even more gratified to see that her death had affected Lucy so much. The constant reminder of her death in the form of that cloak, even if it was something Lucy was grateful for against the bitter cold, was not something that was given with kindness in mind.

It, like assigning her to Marcel's ever watchful attentions, had been done as a torment.

"Viens ma chérie, pas besoin de marcher." Marcel called to her from his horse. "Asseyez-vous ici avec moi. Je te garderai en sécurité." Flushing, Lucy ignored him, gritting her teeth as she marched determinedly away from him. "Ne vous éloignez pas trop." he called after her, laughing, "Rappelez-vous, vous êtes ma responsabilité."

Yes, she was now…his responsibility…and somehow, she saw that more as a threat than an assurance. She had no doubt whatsoever that he would keep her in his sights, hell, every time she saw him he was staring at her with a lecherous grin on his face. And now? Well now he had permission to keep on doing just that.

Great. Just great.

She was practically jogging along the trail now, weaving her way through the line to put as much distance between herself and her guardian as possible when a hand tapped her shoulder. Wheeling around angrily, Lucy snapped, "What?!"

It wasn't Marcel, however, who had accosted her this time. No. Standing behind her was the same woman who had helped her to her feet, looking completely non-plussed by Lucy's outburst. "You ought not step there," she replied with a lazy, yet meaningful nod to the forest floor, "or you're liable to fall again."

Though the light was dim, Lucy could see upon looking down, a gopher hole…or what she hoped was a gopher hole, almost completely hidden from view, yawning open in the ground directly in front of her. "Oh." she startled, stepping back, "I…I didn't…th…thank you." Lucy nodded sheepishly, "I…appreciate your help."

The woman offered Lucy a slight nod before asking quietly, "You hungry?"

Sniffing, Lucy shrugged. She hadn't eaten all day, but her nerves, at the moment, had replaced hunger with queasiness.

"Here," the woman offered, handing her a bit of something white and somewhat rubbery from her apron.

Lucy reluctantly reached out and took it, "What…what is it?"

"Pine wood." she replied simply. "Chew on it, love. The bark will sustain you in a pinch."

" Just about every evergreen has an inner bark that is full of starches and sugars…"

Lucy held the sliver of bark in her hand, her heart catching in her throat as a distant memory replayed in her mind. "Wyatt" she whispered as tears sprang to her eyes. It hadn't been long after they had landed in this century that he had tried to educate both her and Rufus on the ways they could survive in the wilderness. It seemed like so long ago when he had offered them an impromptu lesson on the berries they could eat, the berries they should avoid, cattails, dandelions…and tree bark. Of course, he had made sure they didn't have to resort to such drastic measures…because unlike Marcel, Wyatt actually cared about and watched over her.

"Go on, dear…it won't sicken you." the woman pressed gently, "I've eaten more pine wood than I ever care to and here I am."

"Oh, it's…it's not that." Lucy assured, offering the woman a grateful smile, "it's just…this just reminded me of my…" she sighed heavily, unable to quite articulate what Wyatt was to her anymore, "He's probably wondering what's happened to me by now."

"Mmm…" the woman mused in agreement, "Your man wouldn't be the first man to have lost someone in these woods, you can be sure of that." Lucy swallowed hard, but said nothing. The thought of Wyatt coming home to find her missing had created too large a lump in her throat to make articulating anything pretty much impossible. Nodding towards Francois Coulon, the woman added in a whisper, "That Frenchman's got a vicious streak a mile wide. You would have thought the Devil himself had a hold of him last night." Crossing herself, she muttered, "God rest Henry and Martha – Lord knows they didn't deserve what they got."

Lucy wanted to offer her condolences, but her guilt and anxiety superseded her ability to do more than just nod in silent agreement. She didn't know the Gibbs' that well, certainly, not as well as their servants, but she knew enough to know that they were good and kind people. They had held out until the threat of death before they betrayed them to the French…and then they were killed anyway…in retribution for the five lives Wyatt took the night before.

Lives he only took to protect her. Them.

She wondered if the woman blamed her for the Gibbs' death…or if she even knew that she had been the reason they had been killed. As a servant, Lucy mused, she might not have been wholly aware of what was happening when the French came barreling down on their property, but their deaths were just more evidence that their presence here, in this time, was having a disastrous effect on more than just their own lives.

"I think it's horrible." Lucy whispered, her voice wavering with emotion.

"Aye, that it is." the woman agreed, "but such are the times we live in. Savages in a savage land."

Lucy, however, couldn't so easily dismiss their deaths as just an indication of the time in which they were living. The Gibbs' had been innocent victims of Francois Coulon de Villers quest for vengeance…and they were just the first.

Francois Coulon, Lucy knew, was not a man who shied away from danger. He may have been a few years too early, but Francois Coulon had the distinction of being the only brother of the three to survive the French and Indian war. Joseph, of course, had met his demise at Jumonville Glen. Louis, Lucy knew, would meet his end via smallpox in 1757 – but Francois? He would spend the entirety of the war seeking revenge. If he wasn't overthrowing garrisons at forts even with inferior numbers, he was ravaging the countryside , raiding homes, villages…in short, terrorizing the settlers with war parties, burning their supplies and ambushing unsuspecting travelers. Even after the war, he made it a point to name his son, Jumonville, a living aide-mémoire of the brother he absolutely believed was murdered by George Washington – a man he hated above all else.

A man who would be sick with dysentery and no doubt fighting with the British against the Coulon brothers' combined forces in just a few days…

"Oh my God." Lucy gasped, suddenly hit with the horrifying revelation of what Francois' unexpected and too early presence could mean for the impending battle. This campaign, while disastrous for the British, was supposed to be Washington's moment of glory. One of the only officers left standing after the ambush, Washington was supposed to be the man left leading the rest of the soldiers to safety, thereby earning him a great deal of respect and confidence among his fellow soldiers. Twenty years later, that reputation earned from that moment would make him the obvious choice to lead the American Continental Army in the Revolution.

Now with not one, but two brothers seeking vengeance against him? One, especially, who was not only determined to get even, but had proved, in the history books, that he was more than capable of doing so? One who wanted nothing more than to see George Washington's head on a proverbial platter? "Oh my God." Lucy cried out again, her knees buckling at the thought of what could happen if Washington was killed in this campaign. She stumbled to the ground, practically hyperventilating as panic overtook her.

"Come on, miss…get up" the woman beside her urged, but Lucy couldn't.

"I don't know how to fix it" she squeaked as she gasped for air, "I don't know how to fix it."

"If you don't get up that Frenchman is going to come around again and Lord knows what he's bound to do," the woman hissed, gripping Lucy by the arm. "Come on, you can't…"

But no sooner had the woman hissed out her warning than Lucy felt herself roughly seized by the waist and hoisted up onto a horse. "Je t'ai, mon cher. Vous n'avez pas besoin de lutter ainsi - vous êtes en sécurité avec moi." Marcel's voice panted in her ear.

"Get off of me!" Lucy gritted out through panicked tears, attempting but failing to elbow him as he situated her in front of him in the saddle.

Laughing he tutted at her futile attempts at freedom, spurring his horse slightly so that its quicker pace would force her to grip onto him for balance rather than fight against him. "C'est ça. Accroche-toi bien à moi." Draping his arm tightly around her waist as his mouth planted kisses on the shell of her ear, he whispered lewdly, "Ne t'inquiète pas mon amour, bientôt nous serons seuls." Lucy jerked her head away from him, upset and angered by his continued insinuations, but it did not deter him. On the contrary, he merely gripped her tighter and pulled her even closer, as he spat out, "Tu oublies. Nicolas n'est plus là pour protéger ta vertu."

As much as Lucy wanted to retort, she did not. Marcel was right. Nicholas might have protected her from his advances last time, but now? Now she was completely at his mercy. It should have made her feel helpless and vulnerable…all too willing to just accept the inevitable fate that no doubt awaited her whenever they got to where it was they were going.

But it didn't.

Though there had been no sign, Lucy was certain that Wyatt would come to save her and it was that thought more than anything that kept her tears at bay as Marcel continued to murmur lascivious threats in her ear. Knowing Wyatt as she did, she knew that if he even had an inkling of what was being suggested, he would, as Rufus so often put it, "go full Delta force on Major Toussaint's ass." Hell, she had already been kidnapped and she knew that in and of itself had probably already worked him into a frenzy of fury. Feeling somewhat courageous, Lucy gritted out meaningfully, "Touche-moi et mon mari te tuera."

Marcel chuckled as he nestled his face into the curve of her neck murmuring, Peut-être que votre mari aurait dû mieux prendre soin de vous. Je n'aurai qu'à faire les honneurs, n'est-ce pas?"

The insinuation that Wyatt was in any way to blame for her current predicament, infuriated Lucy more so than the assault she was currently experiencing. It was uncomfortable, demeaning and yes, nauseating to be groped as she was, but something within her snapped when he insulted Wyatt. He wasn't really her husband, she knew that…she did…but the idea that he hadn't taken care of her was so unjust it was all she could do not to turn in the saddle and punch Marcel right in the mouth. If she had been a better horsewoman, she might have even attempted it, but she was about as comfortable on a horse as she was cooking in the kitchen…and okay, she couldn't punch worth a damn either.

But Wyatt could.

Every whispered innuendo, every brush of his lips against her ear, had her hoping against all hope that when Wyatt did find her, he would waste no time in beating the hell out of the sonofabitch who currently had his free hand planted roughly on her thigh. Yes. Wyatt would come. He had saved her from Duquesne, hadn't he? Married her to keep her safe. Provided for her, protected her…and besides being one hundred times the soldier Marcel was, Wyatt had a .45. Marcel, she thought with a huff, would be dead before he even saw Wyatt Logan.

"Well, that can't be good."

Wyatt clenched his jaw at Rufus' remark, looking on in grim understanding as he stood, rooted to the spot at the open gate of the Gibbs' homestead.

John had rushed forward immediately, followed closely by Daniel Boone and Daniel Morgan, but Wyatt could not seem to bring himself to investigate the horrifying scene before them. No. Not when he could plainly see two mangled corpses lying prostrate on the ground just outside the front door of the open cabin.

"You don't think…" Rufus began tentatively, but one sidelong look at Wyatt had him switching gears, "I mean, this could have happened before…John did say there was probably more French soldiers nearby. This…this could just be…" his voice trailed off, not quite able to muster up even the remotest hope in the face of so much devastation. Laying a comforting hand on Wyatt's back, Rufus wordlessly stepped forward into the yard, determined to do what his friend could not…and look to see if Lucy was among the dead.

Wyatt hardly noticed as Rufus left his side and made his way across the expansive yard. His eyes might have been fixed on the lifeless bodies before him, but in his mind, he was standing in a small morgue, just outside of San Diego in 2012. He was living his worst nightmare all over again…and this time, he wasn't sure if he would ever be able to recover.

Losing Jessica had almost destroyed him. It was bad enough that she was murdered and that her killer had never been brought to justice…but knowing that he had left her there, let her get out of the damn car…that had been the millstone around his neck threatening to drown him in a sea of self-loathing and regret for five damn years.

Until Lucy.

Tears stung his eyes as he considered what losing her would mean. He never thought he could ever move on after Jessica, but being married to Lucy these past few months…even if it was fake…had given him hope that maybe…maybe he could. She had taught him what it was to care again…and she in turn, had cared for him…and dammit, he hadn't had that for so long…he had forgotten how nice it was to have…someone.

To lose her in the same way he lost Jessica?

There would be no bouncing back from that. Hell, he doubted he could ever go home - because really, what would be the point? To lose so much in two different lifetimes? To leave 1754 without her only to be forced to live out his days in 2016 with the knowledge that in two different centuries he had failed in the most devastating of ways? Maybe, he thought as he sank to his knees, Lucy was right…maybe fate did exist…and he was just destined to be miserable the rest of his damn life.

He was just about to give way to his panic and misery when the sound of Rufus' voice split the air, buoying up with the first bit of hope he had since they started on this quest. "She's not here!"

Hardly daring to move or even breathe, Wyatt's eyes darted up at Rufus' figure racing towards him across the yard. "Wyatt…" he gasped as he leaned against the gate post, "she's not here. The French sure as hell were though."

Feeling braver, Wyatt scrambled to his feet and clasped Rufus' arm in thanks before racing towards the house himself as if to verify Rufus' news. The grisly scene before him, however, seemed dangerously close to refuting it…the cabin door hanging off of its hinges, blood splattered all over the floor, and the tell-tale smell of burning flesh.

"They branded them." John Fraser remarked softly, pointing to the Gibbs' corpses. "Branded them before they killed them."

Wyatt balked as he turned from the cabin and stood next to his friend. "Why?"

"Information, most like." Daniel Morgan replied with a shrug as he stepped away from the body of Mrs. Gibbs. "No need to torture them otherwise…be easier and a hell of a lot faster to just kill them. No," he mused, "they wanted something and I don't think it was an engraved invitation to bivouac on their lawn."

"Aye, but you forget," John debated, "it is the way of some of the tribes here to deal with prisoners. Firebrandings, scalpings…"

"It's the truth," Daniel Boone agreed, "You remember that Jesuit priest we met in Frederick? He told me the tale of a woman whose newborn babe was taken from her arms, roasted alive on a spit in front of her…and then if that weren't awful enough, the demons devoured the child there…right there in front of the mother."

"But the French?" Morgan countered with a shake of his head, "Looking at these tracks, there's 10 Frenchman to every one native. I can't believe they would have stood by and allowed something such as this to go on without reason…every finger broken? Firebrands on their chests? Henry aside, who among us would stand by and watch that happen to a woman?"

"And what does that mean for Lucy?" Wyatt couldn't help but point out, his concern evident. Turning to John, he pleaded, "You don't think they…"

"She's not here, lad." John reminded him. "If they had killed her they wouldn't have taken her along."

"And branding her like this?" Boone added with a nod, "It would make for too much trouble on their trek. Injured folks slow you down…and I think it's clear they are in a hurry to go somewhere."

"What makes you say that?' Rufus asked.

Pointing to the fields beyond, he replied, "They left quite a few supplies back there and well, it's plain uncivilized to leave the dead out like this…not giving them a proper burial? Not even covering their faces? Even if the French were the ones who murdered the Gibbs', I can't believe that they would just leave them to the elements like this."

"Believe it." Wyatt gruffed. "When they thought they had killed me they just left me lying out there in the damn woods." Shaking his head, Wyatt sighed, "So they killed the Gibbs' for information. What kind of information?"

John raised his eyebrows and sighed heavily, "Well, that's the question, isn't it? I don't think that raid last night was an accident, lad. They set off from here, I think that much is clear."

"But why?"

"Could be they wanted revenge on your raid at Duquesne." Daniel Morgan piped up. "Or they just wanted to knock over another homestead and yours was the closest…either way, the Gibb's – God rest 'em – can't have been dead more than a day."

Wyatt bit his lip in thought as he considered everything that had passed since the previous night. Lucy had been worked up about something that morning…something that had to do with those damn letters. We're in trouble…that's what she had said, but dammit he hadn't given her a chance to explain. "Lucy knew something." he admitted gruffly. "She tried to tell me this morning…but we heard Mrs. Poe and…"

"And you hid away in my pantry." John finished for him in understanding. Nodding, he frowned, "She's a sharp one, your wife. Let's hope that whatever she discovered works to her benefit."

Wyatt had no idea what that could be, especially when whatever that something was Lucy had defined as "trouble," but then again, he thought, maybe John was right. Maybe whatever it was Lucy knew would actually help her…or at least buy her some time.

After a hasty prayer over the bodies of his former friends and neighbors, John Fraser sighed heavily as Daniel Boone located the trail the French had taken, "This route will be difficult," he murmured. "This pass is treacherous in the daytime… but at night?"

"Ah, John," Daniel Morgan remarked with a bracing pat on his back, "that is good news for us."

"Why…is that…exactly?" Rufus asked in confusion as he blew into his freezing hands.

"Because," Daniel Boone remarked as he twirled his knife in his hands, "this is where we catch up."

"You alright?"

Lucy sat huddled next to a tree in a small clearing, favoring her sore leg and her wounded pride. It had only been a few minutes since the call came to rest, but she wasted no time getting as far away from Marcel as she possibly could without being apprehended and subjected to even more harassment. Sniffing as she looked up at the small woman standing before her, she shrugged, "No…but I'm still alive. That's got to count for something, right?" Frowning the woman wordlessly took a seat beside her as Lucy sighed heavily, "I just thought he'd be here by now."

She had no idea how far they had traveled…for her, it felt like an eternity. Between being groped by Marcel and nearly freezing to death, every step might as well have been a mile. The only thing that had sustained her was the hope that Wyatt would somehow find her and get her out of this mess. Now, however, that hope was waning.

"In these woods," the woman sighed, "you can't depend on anyone but yourself. The dangers aren't just real enough for the likes of you or me...look at the Gibbs' – Henry was a strong, capable woodsman, but even he couldn't survive…"

"Not Wyatt." Lucy interrupted, her voice cracking with emotion. "He…he's…"

"He's not invincible, dear," the woman countered gently. "I'm afraid none of us are…though," she added with a slight smirk as she handed Lucy another strip of tree bark, "some of us are a might tougher than we look." Offering Lucy an encouraging nod, she continued, "Not many women would have stood up to those Frenchmen as you have done, you remember that next time you feel like you need some man to come barreling down to rescue you."

"It's not that." Lucy replied, a slight smile forming on her lips. Pursing her lips together she mused, "Wyatt isn't someone who will just give up," she explained. "He…I know he won't rest until he finds me…I'm just…I'm just afraid it will be too late."

"You think they aim to kill you?"

Lucy couldn't help but let out a laugh, "Yeah," she admitted, turning morose again. "I know they will…the question is just when." She eyed Marcel and Francois Coulon chatting a few yards away and confessed quietly, "They think I killed Louis Coulon's son."

"Why would they think something like that?"

Sighing heavily, Lucy began, "I was taken by the French before…and Nicholas he was…he looked out for me…not like," she gestured roughly towards Marcel and sighed, "If it hadn't been for Nicolas, who knows what would have happened to me in that fort. He gave me his coat to wear, he fought off that Major …and others," Lucy explained before adding sadly, "He treated me with respect…he was so different from the others.

"Sounds as if he cared for you a good deal," the woman supplied quietly.

"He did," Lucy admitted, flushing. "I…didn't know…I just…he was kind," she explained, "and I was grateful."

"So why do they think you killed him?"

"When Wyatt came to get me from Ft. Duquesne…Nicolas was…he tried to stop us," Lucy admitted before explaining, "but he was going to let us go…he was going to let us go and then…" Lucy threw up her hands, feeling helpless, "That bullet was meant for us…not him. Not him."

"You might as well have pulled the trigger," the woman observed glumly. "For all the French care, you as good as killed him just by trying to escape. Shaking her head she tutted, "I wish I could offer you some words of comfort…but they're failing me at the moment."

"It's okay." Lucy nodded as tears sprang to her eyes, "I shouldn't have survived this long out here…I would have been dead months ago if it hadn't been for…for Wyatt."

"Aye, but you've survived this long without him, haven't you? And who's to say you won't survive longer…" she added meaningfully with a nod towards Marcel, "given that you're somewhat of a favorite of his."

Confusion first, and then horror descended upon Lucy as she caught the woman's meaning. "No," she blanched, "I…no. I'd rather die."

"Just stating a fact," the woman shrugged. "We woman have a strange power over men like that," she added wryly. "Their lust blinds them to everything but their carnal desires."

An involuntary shudder stole through Lucy at the very thought of even feigning interest in the handsy French soldier whose brandy-laden breath still burned her nostrils. She had no doubt what his intentions were for her…having threatened her repeatedly as he pressed himself against her in that saddle…and yes, she was desperate to survive…but that? That was a bridge too far. She was serious…she would rather die. "He's horrible." Lucy muttered, hugging her arms around her.

"Men like that," the woman observed, "who force themselves on women? They think that by lying with us they have defeated us…but in truth, it only makes them weaker - easier to manipulate, easier to kill…" she said with another meaningful nod.

Lucy eyed her uncomfortably before noting with some hesitation, "You sound as though you have…experience in that sort of thing."

Shrugging, the woman sighed as she cast her eyes down to her hands, "The good Lord gifted me with a pretty face," she said quietly, before adding with a sniff, "it preserved me a fair few times these past few months.

"I'm…I'm sorry…" Lucy began, unsure of what else to say.

Frowning the woman continued, "The sin is theirs…not mine. I'm alive…which is more than I can say for others. I should have been killed," she admitted, "but instead, I was treated with…well…let's just say I was a favorite myself." Patting Lucy on the knee she encouraged, "I learned very quickly to trust in God…even when Hell seemed to be all around me. Focusing on Him, rather than what was happening to me, preserved me more than once."

"What did happen to you?" Lucy asked, before apologizing awkwardly, "I'm…I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry…if you'd rather not…"

"I was taken…just as you were," the woman said simply. Fighting back tears, her voice wavered as she admitted quietly, "I lost more than my virtue out in these woods…my husband, my child…"

"Voilà, mon cher." Marcel's unwelcome voice jolted through Lucy like an electric shock, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin even as he roughly hoisted her to her feet, "Je dois aller patrouiller le fleuve."

Wrenching her elbow out of his grip, Lucy shook her head, "Alors? Pourquoi as tu besoin de moi?"

At first, it looked as though he might strike her, but in the next moment he appeared to think better of it, though answering her question with fair amount of frustration, "Parce que," he gritted out, "tu es sous ma responsabilité." Lucy huffed out an exasperated breath, remembering Fracois Coulon's order as Marcel drew her nearer and added as he caressed her face, "D'ailleurs…ne t'avais-je pas promis que nous aurions du temps seuls?"

A cold dread washed over Lucy as Marcel's grip on her waist tightened and he began to lead her away. "No," she fought, "No!" but Marcel's grip only tightened all the more as he practically dragged her away from her new friend who was watching Lucy's struggle with a knowing look of sympathy. As if in an attempt to comfort her, the woman called out, "Remember, trust in God. He will deliver you…one way or t'other."

The French soldiers were less supportive of her, however. Roars of laughter and whistles pierced the night as she struggled against Marcel as he dragged her down the sloping hill towards the swampy ground near the river. There would be no Nicolas to come to protect her virtue this time…and as much as she hoped Wyatt would…there had been no sign, no indication that he had even found her trail.

No, if she was going to get out of this, she was going to have to save herself.

In a move that surprised even her, she dove for Marcel's holstered pistol, determined to defend herself and her honor to the last. "Ah!' he exclaimed, gripping her wrist as he tried to wrench the pistol from her hand. "Donne moi le pistolet" he gritted out as Lucy fought against him. Throwing her entire weight against the French soldier, Lucy yanked against the hold Marcel had on her wrist…but it was no good…she could feel her grip slipping from her numb fingers. In one last desperate attempt she shifted her hands and pulled the trigger, hoping that if she couldn't take the gun from him…maybe she could startle it out of his hands. Her effort was in vain, however. As the crack of the pistol rent the night, it was Marcel who gained the upper hand, finally snatching the gun away as she tumbled to the ground and tossing it to the side. "Qu'est ce que tu crois faire? Hein?" he breathed out heavily, staring hard at her, "Vous êtes susceptible de tuer quelqu'un comme ça."

Lucy wanted to retort that that had been her plan, but her courage was failing her at the moment. Scrambling back to her feet, Lucy tried to run, but her injured leg and the patches of boggy ground made her attempt at escape, futile. Marcel merely laughed at her efforts, casually walking in pursuit of her even as she stumbled her way towards the river.

He was jeering after her, but she couldn't make out what he was saying over her own sobs as she cursed her clumsy feet and the God-forsaken swamp she was literally stuck in…but there was another sound too…something coming from across the river…

She had barely registered what it was or what was happening when the French soldier ran up beside her, clamping his hand over her mouth as he dragged her behind a small pile of boulders. She struggled against him as he was practically lying right on top of her, but his focus was steadfastly anchored on whatever was occurring on the opposite shore. She could hear voices…many of them…but who they belonged to or what they wanted, she had no idea.

Turning over onto his back, the soldier seemed to communicate something to someone hiding in the trees on the ledge above him. Lucy craned her neck backwards in an attempt to see what…or rather who they were hiding from when she felt the sharp blade of a knife against her throat as a calloused hand clamped tighter over her mouth. "Pas un bruit de ta part, compris?" Cursing as he cast a concerned gaze across the river, Marcel muttered angrily, "Ils ont dû entendre mon pistolet..."

She could see them now in the faint light of dusk…British soldiers – cautiously scanning the riverbank just opposite them. She eyed the soldier sprawled on top of her, watching his every reaction as he surveryed the situation across from them. She could see him wordlessly counting, his eyes darting back and forth…he was outnumbered and obviously concerned. She closed her eyes and wondered if there was any way she could make a break for it, if maybe she could somehow overpower him and scream for help…but no sooner had she begun to shift her legs in anticipation of kneeing the bastard above her than his attention shifted from the soldiers across the river to her. As if just realizing their suggestive positions, he writhed above her lewdly, that horrible grin returning as he nuzzled his head down to hers and whispered in her ear, "Patience ma chère, je vais m'occuper de toi dans un instant."

Lucy attempted to push him away, furious at his insinuation, when he gripped at her hands and twisted them down away from his chest, "Get off of me." she gritted out, trying once again to overthrow him with her legs.

A mere shift of his weight and he had her pinned even harder than he had before, this time taking care to truly writhe against her as he muttered in her ear, "Vous êtes fougueux n'est-ce pas?" Groaning as Lucy attempted to squirm out from underneath him, he sighed, "D'accord ma chérie, si tu insistes."

She could hear the sounds of voices getting closer, the sound of water splashing made it clear to her that somebody was coming to investigate this side of the river. With his allies gone, the French soldier was completely and totally alone…all she had to do was scream. Taking a deep breath, Lucy made to do just that when she found herself silenced by the French soldier's mouth fused firmly onto hers. A cry of indignation rose from her throat, but it was swallowed up in the kiss that she did not want, a tongue now swirling around the inside of her mouth further guaranteeing that her attempt to cry for help could not even be sought. She squirmed and pushed against the soldier on top of her, but the feel of a knife point piercing through her corset and pressing slightly into her skin forced her into reluctant compliance.

With his free hand, he groped her down her torso and thigh, until he reached the peak of where her skirt had ripped. With purpose, he worked his hand under the ripped portion of her petticoat and pushed it away, bunching the remains of her skirt up around her waist before he quickly began working the buttons on his trousers. Lucy struggled frantically against him now, but the knife point dug deeper into her skin, causing her to whimper in pain. "Tu t'en sors si bien" the French soldier murmured loudly against her lips as he ground mercilessly against her, "... juste..." he gasped out lewdly, now groaning in her ear, "un pu pleus."

"Oy!" came a voice above them, the sweetest voice Lucy had ever heard as far as she was concerned, "What's this?"

Jabbing the knife deeper into her skin, Marcel slightly pulled away from her with a meaningful look of warning and sneered at the British soldier now nervously standing by the river with his musket pointed directly at them, "Vous n'avez peut-être pas remarqué, mais nous étions fiancés..."

"I…I don't speak French." the British soldier replied, nervously motioning now for a few of his fellow soldiers to join him.

Sighing in exasperation the French soldier, motioned to Lucy still sprawled underneath him, " "Vous avez interrompu…"

"He says you interrupted them," a fellow British soldier called out, eyeing the situation warily. He slowly approached his friend and pointed his own musket at the French soldier as his eyes fell upon an obviously distraught Lucy, "But I'd say we got here just in time." Nodding towards her, he asked, "Vous allez bien, mademoiselle?"

"Elle va bien." Marcel sneered angrily, "Elle est juste contrariée que vous ayez gâché notre soirée ensemble." Twisting the knife point into Lucy's skin as she whimpered in pain, he asked, "N'est-ce pas, mon cher?"

"Je ne te parlais pas, Frenchy," the British soldier retorted, "je parlais à la dame." The nervous solider beside him made to argue, obviously concerned about escalating the situation, but his friend dismissed him with a shake of his head, "No, this bastard is lying…and he's going to be let that woman go," he said as he raised his musket higher, "or I'm going to splatter his brains all over this damn swamp." Nodding towards the French soldier, he shouted, "Lève-toi, Roméo."

Sneering Marcel did as he was ordered, yanking Lucy up with him and pinning her to his side, even as she fought against him, "Get off me!" she gritted out, desperately trying to yank her arm from his grip.

Hearing her speak English, the British soldiers all raised the muskets towards the French soldier, demanding that she be let free, but Marcel feigned ignorance. "Je suis désolé, j'ai peur de ne pas vous comprendre..."

"Do you understand this?" the British soldier snarled as he cocked his musket, "Let her go, monsieur…or "vous ne comprendrez plus jamais rien."

With fifteen British soldiers and a few natives now pointing their weapons directly at him, Marcel conceded, lifting his hands in surrender as Lucy stumbled away from him, sobbing and clutching her side. The British soldiers beckoned to her to come with them, but a rustling sound behind her and a chuckling Marcel had her, instead, turning to the British soldiers in fright.

The warning hadn't even left her lips, it was still stuck in the confines of her throat, when the trees above her seemed to come alive, pelting a furious maelstrom of bullets into the unsuspecting British soldiers before them. Lucy screamed and ducked her head down, but not before she saw the grotesque devastation wrought by the unseen assailants behind her. Entire limbs were blown off of bodies, gaping holes torn through torsos, the stream before them littered with bodies and swirls of blood. Cowering behind the small series of boulders, Lucy held her head in her hands as the screams and wails of dying men reached her ears…something Marcel found quite amusing, "Il semble que ce soit sa cervelle qui a éclaboussé tout ce marais."

Roughly grabbing her wrist, he pulled Lucy to her feet, just as an arrow whizzed by their heads and embedded into the tree root beside them. Taking aim with his own pistol, Marcel fired at their assailant while dragging Lucy up the wooded bank and into the shelter of the trees where she saw, to her horror, the entire host of French troops crouched behind the trees and brush, readying their muskets for the next deadly offensive.

There was nothing she could do but watch as more and more British soldiers fell victim to the French guns as more soldiers came to assist their comrades desperately attempting to reach safety back across the river. Even there, however they weren't safe. With a bloodcurdling cry, the French allied tribesman came hurtling out of the woods, cutting and hacking their way into the British forces across the river. The horrifying sights and sounds of metal on bone, the crunching wet noise of a skull being hacked open only served to turn Lucy's stomach even more than it already was.

A sudden volley from the British, however, had her ducking for cover while a few French soldiers fell dead and injured around her. In the confusion that followed, she attempted to crawl away from the battle, unable to stomach the horrifying sights and sounds anymore when a pair of rough hands gripped her hair and pulled her upright, "Où pensez-vous que vous allez?" Marcel breathed in her ear, his arm wrapping around her waist, "Je n'en ai pas encore fini avec toi."

Adrenaline rushing, Lucy yanked herself free of his lecherous grip and took off running towards the river. It was a longshot, but risking everything to escape with the help of the British was a far more worthy alternative to what was being suggested. She hadn't gotten far, however, when Marcel's arms were wrapped around her waist once more and she found herself being hauled into the air, "Oh non, ma chère... tu n'iras nulle part." he gritted out in her ear, "Tu restes ici avec moi. Ne vous inquiétez pas, je vais vous protéger."

Half-carrying her, half dragging her away from the fray, Lucy struggled against him, punching and kicking out until she found herself being thrown to the ground behind a small copse of trees that sheltered them somewhat from the battle. As Marcel lunged for her, Lucy scrambled to her feet, unwilling to allow him another opportunity to attempt an assault upon her. With as much force as she could muster, she drove her knee into his crotch, inwardly delighting when he immediately doubled over in pain.

With a satisfied huff, she made to run away from him, but no sooner had she turned on her heel, then Marcel grabbed at her injured leg a pulled her back down to the ground. She landed hard, knocking the wind completely out of her as Marcel took the opportunity to crawl on top of her once more. "Vous le paierez cher," he gritted out as he gripped her wrists roughly with one hand and made to ready himself with the other.

Lucy grunted out a protest as she desperately attempted to kick him off of her when suddenly his grip on her wrists went slack and his whole body teetered for a moment before falling heavily off to the side. Confused, Lucy pushed him the rest of the way off of her only to find herself face to face with the young woman who had befriended her earlier, "You?" she gasped out in surprise, "How did you…"

Brandishing a frying pan, she shrugged, "I told you, men like that are blind to everything but their own carnal desires. With all hell breaking loose, he didn't stop to notice that no one was watching us prisoners." she explained with a smile. "The two missionaries already scampered off, scared as all get out…"

"But you stayed?" Lucy asked incredulously.

"Aye," the woman replied with a smile, "Like I said, we women can't depend on the men to save us now, can we?" Nodding towards the unconscious French soldier she quipped, "We best be getting a move on…when he comes to, he's going to be mighty cross."

Hardly needing to be asked twice, Lucy staggered to her feet, "Thank you," she breathed out as the woman held her steady. "I…I honestly don't know what I would have done without you."

"Not at all." the woman remarked, as she ushered Lucy through the trees, "We must be quiet now, them natives will be guarding the French flank."

Lucy nodded in understanding and whispered, "I'm Lucy, by the way."

Taking her hand and giving it a small shake the woman nodded, "Pleased to know you Lucy, I'm Jane. Jane Fraser."

Notes:

Where to begin?

I suppose I should apologize for the delay. I had this 99% done right before Christmas and then I rewrote some of the action scenes because they didn't quite capture what I had in my head...and then I rewrote them again...and then I rewrote them again...and then I just said "screw it" and moved a good portion of them to the next chapter because it was getting so long. So I then I had to go back and rewrite a few things and shift a bit of the narrative so that this one could end on that lovely little cliffhanger.

Good news is that I finally got the action scenes the way I want them and so much of it is written..and I no longer have an international move to prepare for - just a good old fashioned domestic one - so it really shouldn't take long for the next chapter to appear. I say that warily because just when I think I am getting a break, life will throw another curve ball my way...LOL.

Now for the chapter - Marcel is a horrible horrible jackass...and no, we're not quite done with him yet...or shall I say, Wyatt isn't done with him yet (Spoiler alert: he's going to kick his ass). Jane Fraser saved Lucy...and yes, maybe some of you sleuths figured out who she was before the reveal - kudos if you did.

The story about the Jesuit priest and the mother/baby is TRUE, sadly. I found it in a book of journal entries from the time period. It was actually an enemy tribe. I think (don't quote me on on this) it was an Algonquin mother and baby who were captured by the Mohawks...again, don't quote me on it, I don't have time to check the reference...but that seems right. The Mohawks were notoriously cruel...burned people alive just for the hell of it, cruel. Here's another reference that spells out some of their antics. .

Brandings were also common in this era - it was just a really really wild time in 1754, let me tell ya.

For those of you on Fanfiction who are guests - I cannot respond to you, but I do read your comments and they are appreciated. Someone wrote last time about being from around the Ohiopyle area in PA...and I just have to say as a fellow Pennsylvanian...I love OHIOPYLE. And yes, the area around there is absolutely beautiful, but holy goodness very very hilly...and seriously folks these are not "hills" - they are mountainous hills with jagged rocks sticking out of the sides and covered with thick forests. It's just amazing to me that Braddock thought he could make the trek from Cumberland to Duquesne in just a matter of days. Not long after I started this fic, we took a family trip to Ft Necessity and Jumonville Glen and there, right on the side of the road was Braddock's grave and remnants of the old road, including the grave they had originally put Braddock in, right there in the middle of the old trail. It was surreal to think that this was the road Washington had traversed, the trail that Daniel Boone and Daniel Morgan had helped cut as they made their way to Duquesne...sitting right there beside a bustling street filled with hotels and restaurants. If you ever get the chance to visit the area - I highly recommend it, but then again, I'm a history nerd and biased. LOL.

Anyway, I think that's all the notes I have for this one. Like I said, next chapter we're going to see some more action and we will start getting back into things that are familiar.

That said, I hope you enjoyed this read...sorry I didn't get it out before Christmas.