Chapter Eight

Disclaimer: I own nuthin'.

A/N: Yeah... This'll be the last chapter for a while, because I've been taking time off from this to write my other fanfics, if you haven't noticed. About the Tavy book (which I do not own), it's called 'Beyond All Reason.' I won't say anymore on here for fear of being kicked off, my screen name is BellaLuna129.

O'Hara was having a lovely dream... He was dreaming about Lark, and how sweet she would look if she was pregnant. He imagined her smiling and laughing, nibbling his ear playfully, hugging him. The perfect world... that he didn't have.

"O'Hara."

The sound of his name snapped him from his dream.

He sat up quietly, remembering that if he woke the girls, Tavington would have his ass. Keeping quiet, he got up and brushed himself off.

"O'Hara!"

Morning in the forest was beautiful. The clearing, although small, was shrouded in mist, which made it seem long and big and going on forever. Birds chirped, for they were always up early. The first rays of the sun shone through the trees, creating shadows. The air was moist and cold, and even taking a step meant you were getting your boots wet.

As beautiful as it was, it was also eerie. Anyone who had the option to stay in the campsite if given would've taken it, praying to god as they lay that nothing would come into the camp and kill them, praying that they would fall asleep again and wake up.

"O'Hara, get up!"

The Lord's aid moaned silently and pulled himself up.

Tavington looked down at the sleeping women and the drowsy lapdog. He was dressed and ready to go, but O'Hara felt like being slow and wasn't making any progress.

He latched up his boot. Pulling a burned branch from last night's fire, he scraped it against a rock, sharpening it. It made a louder Eeek than he had thought it would. He stopped.

Patricia moaned in her sleep and rolled over, oblivious to the noise.

O'Hara, finally dressed, took a razor from his pocket and sharped the tip of the branch to a point, without making a sound.

But Tavington only realized how painful this would be as it was happening.

Leaning the branch against a tree, he looked at his wife, who meant everything to him. Everything.

She was his life.

Kneeling down gently next to her, he picked up her head and kissed her. She didn't wake.

O'Hara was staring at Lark with sadness, before both the men stood up and began their trip.

It was about two hours later when Lark and Patricia woke up, and to their surprise, but not worry, Tavington and O'Hara were gone.

"They've probably gone off hunting," Patricia reassured herself. Although she was smart enough to know that she would've woken up if there had been a skirmish in the camp, the rebels were too close for comfort.

But that night , she was panicked.

"Lark"

"I know, Patricia. Let's just calm down and-"

Patricia screamed. "We're not going to get anything done just by sitting here waiting for them to come back! We're not! I'll go after them if I have to!"

Lark sat, saying nothing, poking the fire with a stick. It sent ashes billowing up.

"Listen to yourself," she said, serenely, "That much stress will hurt your baby."

Patricia stood, looking down at her friend, before realizing she was doing the wrong thing. She took some deep breaths and closed her eyes.

The baby kicked her.

"Do you honestly think we'd wake up unharmed if a reb had gotten in here and killed Charles and William?" Lark asked her, slurping up some of the wild broth they were cooking.

"It's not that, that I'm worried about," she said, "I'm afraid that he might've..."

Lark waited for her to go on, but Patricia said nothing more. She looked over at her friend.

She was crying.

'Patricia...?" Lark asked cautiously. Patricia need stroking right now, but only William had the right to give it. Nothing else would make her feel better.

There was a heavy silence, cut only by the crackling of the fire and of the crickets chirping.

"What if he left me? He might not want this baby at all," Patricia whispered, silent tears streaming down her face. Her face was puffy and wet, and her beautiful brown eyes were swollen red.

Although it was late at night and she knew wild animals lurked in the forest unseen, Lark took her hand and held it.

"Come on," she said.

Patricia stood. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere."

They took some foot-long sticks and smeared the tips with the wild broth. Then, lighting them and using them as torches, they went off.

They hiked through the woods, listening to the crickets chirp and the mysterious Crack! of leaves and branches around them. The night air was warm and dry. Lark, who led the way, would occasionally hear the rustling of a bush next to her and the sniffling of Patricia as she wiped away her tears.

Finally, Lark saw the marker she had seen quite a few times before.

"Hurry!" she whispered to Patricia as she ducked a branch, "We're almost there."

Pulling her through the dense brush was a back-breaker, but the next thing they saw was amazing.

Lark had pulled her to the end of the forest, but not the other side which Patricia had expected to go. No, they had come out the side of the forest.

There was a clearing, and right after that, there was a rocky cliff and a steep drop below. They sat down, and Patricia accidently put her hand in some mud, which told her she was sitting next to the same stream that was in their campsite.

They looked up at the stars. The cool night air blew around them, chilling them in a refreshing way. Lark tore of a large strip of her dress, folded it, and gave it to Patricia as a pillow.

"If you're still afraid, just know that if anything tried to get us her, all you'd have to do is kick them in the spot and give them a push off that rock. They won't be coming back," she said, and they both laughed.

Underneath the stars, two colonial women fell asleep.