Love and War

Chapter VII - Born to Run

Yeah, totally just bought The Patriot on DVD. Squee, just wonderful. Oh, Tavvy, how have I survived without thee. And basically every other male character in the movie, come to think of it ('cept for the ones that are old or look like they have scurvy. eww)

The pair rode in silence, the Carolina countryside rolling by them in the cold light of the morning. Despite her uncomfortable position (due both to the company and the sidesaddle), Marion found that she was enjoying herself. It was the riding; it made her feel free and unfettered of any bounds that kept her. Tavington was an observative man, he didn't miss the small smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. He spurred his horse onward, and Marion followed, her every touched heeded by the mare. The woman was a good rider, an expert, Tavington hated to admit. Better even than some of the lower Dragoons.

Sideways glances became the language of the two, and they both did their share of ogling. Marion couldn't understand how a man with such a reputation could seem so very decent. Tavington couldn't understand just what was making her fear him, making her run. At the back of his mind, he couldn't help but find her pretty.

She had hair that, while it wasn't extraordinary, had hair that looked a dark blonde in the sun and golden brown by candlelight. And her face was not that of a classic painted beauty, indeed he doubted she ever wore less than half the makeup most women of the time did, but she had full lips and a pleasantly round face, with the slightest sprinkling of freckles across her nose. But her eyes were what drew him in. Her gray eyes could be cold as stone, or sparkle like foggy diamonds. They mirrored her emotions, every little detail of what she was feeling. Hell, if all women were as easily readas that, many, many a battle would not have been fought.

The countryside turned from the plains stretching from Fort Carolina to the beaten road in the woods where Marion had been found. Tavington felt the words rising in his throat, but he pushed them back. A real interrogation would be in order, but now was not the time.

Woods became broken and scattered, giving way to a wide sweep of green lawns and acres of plantation. Charles Town could be seen on the horizon, and past it the ocean. Tavington slowed his horse for a minute, taking in the view. Ever since he stepped foot off the ship, he was in love with every breath of the Americas; the country was just so pure, untouched, free of anything that could spoil it. A man could be a man here.

Marion spurred her horse onward, leaving Tavington sputtering in the dust, to some extent. Her home was not far; they were past the cotton fields already and the stark white of the plantation home could be seen in the late morning sun. Tavington started, seeing her far ahead of him, and he kicked his horse, the creature galloping after her. The house rose before them like a wall of limestone on the edge of the sea. White pillars marched the length of the front veranda and the gravel drive was lined by carefully pruned trees.

It had been little more than a day since the owners of the plantation had been gone, but the place looked like it had been deserted for years. There were no slaves bustling about the fields, no servants vigorously scrubbing the white porch to make it gleam. Marion felt the breath catch in her throat as she realized how truly alone she was, and she looked down painfully, her horse slowing to an easy, quick walk.

Tavington pulled up alongside her, matching her pace, and couldn't help looking at her curiously. He had sensed some vibrant, calculating energy oozing from her every pore, but the second they had come close to the house, she became docile and quiet as a dove. "Your home, I presume?" he mused, more to break the stony silence than to start a conversation.

She pursed her lips and looked up, "You presume correctly, Colonel." Her eyes flashed and she glanced towards the balcony she had escaped from only two nights prior, having no idea she would be returning. She could see her ladder of linen, flapping in the breeze, and she stifled a gasp. The girl would need to think up a good story for that one too; no doubt the colonel was planning on interrogating her on all and everything that he saw.

The pair halted in front of the steps, and Tavington dismounted fluidly. He walked briskly around Marion's horse, meaning to help her down, but instead found her dismounting without him, her eyes hard and determined. She met his gaze, and forced her eyes to soften. Nothing so grand as a man off guard, she thought.

"Follow me, Colonel," she said, walking up the steps. "I expect my things are all packed upstairs and-," but she stopped herself, whirling around. "Exactly how much can I bring?" Her voice was shrill, like a startled bird.

Tavington smirked, "Well, how much do you think you can carry comfortably?" he replied, putting the emphasis on you. Marion narrowed her eyes, turning in a huff.

"I expect you can drive a wagon, sir," she continued, wrenching open the doors of the plantation. The slaves had left it unlocked in hope of her return. "For we shall sorely need it."

-

The interior was as grand as the outside of the house, thought just as deserted. The foyer was lined by portraits in gilded frames and the familycrest hung above the arched doorway that lead into the next room, filled with the golden light of the sun. Double oak staircases wound upwards, complete with shining banisters, coming together over the crest. Tavington found himself looking upwards and saw an unlit chandelier (undoubtedly crystal) and he snorted. "Someone must be coming to pack up the furnishes," he mused, clasping his hands behind his back and clicking his heels together.

"Oh, yes," Marion replied halfheartedly, her eyes resting on a particularly large portrait of a pale but beautiful woman.

Tavington followed her gaze and knew immediately this was her late mother. Marion had her eyes and nose, but luckily had not inheirited the woman's sickly pallor.

"I suppose within the week. I expect the cargo ships leaving after they may be accosted by the French." Inside, she prayed they would. She would rather see her mother's fine things paying for muskets and support for the Continentals then comforting Elizabeth.

She broke her stare at the portrait and walked calmly towards the stairs, which had begun to collect the thinnest sheen of dust. "This way, Colonel," she said, climbing the stairs.

Tavington hesitated. Propriety dictated he not follow her, unchaperoned or no, into her bedchamber. Marion paused at the top of the stairs and looked down on him; she saw his thoughts etched in his face and stifled a laugh. She did, however, smile for a moment. "Surely you do not expect me to carry it all myself?" she called, leaning onto the banister. Truly, however, she couldn't have him by the door; her plan wouldn't work if he was.

Again, he hesitated, but followed her, grumbling somethign inaudible. Marion thought she caught "manipulative" and "minx" and few times. She muffled her laughter with her itchy cotton sleeve. Once he had caught up, she turned to the right, heading down a green corridor lined with ornate chairs and a few sculptures. Behind her, the click of Tavington's boots melted away as they walked onto the plush carpet laid on the wood flooring. She found she did not like not knowing he was there, but dismissed it quickly.

Marion turned sharply, opening a set of oak double doors wide. Sunlight streamed through the windows, which looked over her balcony and the woods beyond. Tavington halted in the doorway, planning on going no further, his gentleman's sense screaming at him for coming this far.

"Let me change into some decent clothes," she muttered, looking around for any sign of what had been packed and taken (Elizabeth always had liked Marion's dresses, though they fit her poorly). "Then we'll take the trunks," she pointed to a pile of leather trunks and a few wooden chests piled by the foot of her four-poster bed.

Tavington didn't answer, only nodding, having never seen the inside of a young woman's room before. He had, of course, seen inside his mother's room, but that wasn't quite the same. "Yes, of course," he replied, his voice sounding a bit strangled.

Marion glanced curiously at him over her shoulder before walking into an immense closet. He heard the click of a lock as she closed the door and found himself blushing. Do I really seem like that kind of man to her?

Marion, however, had locked the door fora much different reason.

-

Fast as she could, Marion ripped the horridly itchy dress off herself along with her corset. Finally, she could breath properly. The closet bathed her in semi-darkness, the only light coming from a small window set high in the wall and made with thick, pittled glass. But the window didn't concern her much. She moved, instead, towards the uncovered brick wall, moving aside the tall beaureau as quietly as she could, revealing a gap between the brick and the inside wall. Marion couldn't help but smirk as she removed a cold pair of breeches and cotton shirt she had stolen from one of the manservants, donning them quickly.

She glanced back, expecting to see Tavington breathing down her neck. The door was still locked, and she thought she heard him humming on the other side. She smiled to herself before slipping into the passage behind the gap. Her footsteps were muffled by the walls as she descended the secret set of stairs to the first floor.

Ooh, she's on the run! Give me reviews and you might find out what happens next a bit quicker! lol luv ya guys!