Chapter Four
Disclaimer: I don't own nuthin'.
A/N: ...
Tavington stared at her crumpled figure.
Everyone was silent.
"Patricia..." he murmured, his eyes wide in shock and disbelieving. He knew well from experience to be hit with the butt or the barrel of a gun could, and would, break bones. He stared at her, looking for a movement. All he saw was her chest rise and fall, but that was good enough for him.
He, still being on his stomach, ignored his wounded arm and crawled over to her. Lark and O'Hara were standing, looking at Patricia with horror reflecting in their faces, a trickle of blood dripping down Lark's cheek where she had been slashed at.
Neither the rebels nor the British moved, the rebels were too horrified and disgusted with their own actions and afraid Tavington would saw their heads off, and all the British men, dead. They had not been prepared for an attack and carried no weapons.
Tavington took Patricia's head in his arms, looking at it, saying nothing. The rebels lowered their guns, sadness overcoming them. They had killed a woman... Even if she had tried to kill them, she was a Patriot (once), and was only defending her husband.
Lark, finally grasping the situation for what it was, ran over to the unconscious woman and took her pulse. Good. She also rubbed the back of her head and neck gently, feeling for any shattered bone fragments or cracks. Nothing.
All that would bother her when she was awake was a massive headache and a swollen bump.
But Tavington didn't know that.
Springing to his feet in a sudden rage, like he'd never had before, he started slashing at throats. He reached into his boot and found the knife he had put in there. Popping it out, all he had to do was back-kick someone and they'd fall, dead.
All rifles and muskets were now aimed at him, but he moved with such an angry passion, no one shot because they couldn't focus on him. To miss would be to shoot another one of their own.
Finally, Tavington's fury died. He dropped his knife and ran to Patricia, to check on her. Lark whispered to him,"She'll be alright."
Tavington stared at her. "I need you to do me a favor... For Patricia's sake."
Lark nodded.
"Bring her into the woods. Leave her there. Don't come back to her. She'll be safer there... Because it looks like my time on Earth is pretty much up now."
Lark glared at him. "Don't talk like- "
"Don't tell me how to talk!" He yelled, face red. He paused, reminding himself to cool off. "Do as I say, NOW. Take her to the woods. Leave her there. If they see you near her, they'll kill you."
He looked at her sternly. "If no word is heard from me, take her under your wing. I won't be coming back."
There was another silence, and Lark accepted the responsibility. Nodding, she held Patricia's shoulder, ready to pull her out of harm's way.
O'Hara stood next to the colonel, staring at the twenty-or-so rebels that faced them, fully armed, ready to fight until his death. He gave Lark a kiss, and said, "I'll be back."
Tavington motioned with his head for Lark to get Patricia away. As the girl dragged her best friend out of the church, he slowly bent over and pulled out his razor. He pushed up a knob and the blade popped out.
"Well, gentlemen, who's first?"