Title: Circle of Revenger

Sequel to "His Father's Son"

Rating: M (So go away kidlets!)

Summary: The deed is done, satisfaction has been had. The war is over but the unrest is not. William Tavington the second continues his life, his father's memory the driving force in his life. What happens when the unthinkable happens and he falls for someone he's most definitely not supposed to even care about?

A/N: This story is like one of those boils you get on your chin, you know? You know you're not supposed to pick at it cause it'll scar, but it's just so bloody annoying! It has to be done!

Disclaimer: Dunnae own nuffink but the OC's you see. I don't really want to own "The Patriot", after all, Mel Gibson has turned into a bit of a… well… we won't get into that. Needless to say the only characters in Patriot I like are Tavvy and Margaret.

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Chapter Two

"Slow Burn"

I again awoke to daylight. Emma was sitting beside my bed with a book on her lap and a cup of tea next to her. She yet hadn't seen that I had awoken so I watched her silently. Her lips moved ever so slightly as she read, she brushed back errant curls from her face. One hand strayed across to cover her heart.

"What are you reading?" I asked, breaking the silence.

She jumped slightly.

"Shakespeare." she said, her voice shaking slightly.

"Any Shakespeare in particular?"

"Sonnets."

"Ahh."

"I'm sorry I woke you." she said, looking abashed.

"You didn't wake me. Besides, I've been asleep far too long anyway." I smiled, for the first time in a long while.

She gave me a hesitant smile. This was odd. When I had first met Emma she had babbled almost incessantly. Now I was struggling to get her to speak.

"Did you have a good shopping excursion?" I asked tentatively. "I'm a little disoriented. Was it yesterday or today...?"

"It was yesterday. And yes, I did. Father allowed me some new dresses and things."

"That's… good."

"How are you feeling?"

I dare not voice my true feelings. That I would rather stay in this bed and waste away to nothing, just to be with my father. Instead I spoke out, saying I was ready to get out of bed and 'seize the day'.

"Carpe diem…" I murmured at the end of my outburst.

"Are you quite sure?" she asked worriedly.

"Yes ma'am, I'm quite sure. If you'll hand me my clothing…"

She blushed, handing me my trousers and shirt. Emma afforded me a few moments alone to dress. I winced slightly as I stretched the healing skin of my side. I slid on my breeches and shirt, Emma knocked hesitantly on the door.

"May I come in?" she asked.

"Yes. I'm… decent."

The heavy wooden door creaked open and Emma slipped in.

"Father says you may join us for dinner, if it pleases you."

I bit my lip and stared at her. I hadn't intended on staying such a long time but if the old man would allow me to stay… I wasn't fully healed and I shuddered to think what would happen if I were identified by Martin's eldest daughter.

"Erm… Very well."

I reached toward my father's jacket, her eyes darted to the garment and she seemed a little disappointed. I ignored her obvious disapproval, easing myself into the jacket and straightening it self-consciously.

"I have a little money. I can repay your father for the room and board. Even for your care. Is there anything you want or need? Something I can get for you?" I asked uncertainly as I stepped into my worn, leather, riding boots.

Emma ducked her head demurely, nothing like the spirited girl I had grown accustomed to.

"I…" she started, then she blushed furiously red. "There's nothing I want that my father cannot get for me."

She turned and led me down a dimly lit passage to the stairs, the old wooden steps creaked as I leaned on the railing. The yellow candlelight flickered, casting a golden hue onto Emma's face and throat. I stared, almost hungrily, at the young woman in front of me. She caught me staring and I could see her face flush.

"Dinner is in an hour. My father wished to speak with you…"

My face fell and she noticed it.

"Don't worry," she said. "he just wants to ask you about how you came to us."

I nodded solemnly as Emma opened the door to the study.

"Father," she called softly in. "Col. Tavington to see you."

There was a muffled reply and Emma nodded at me. Hesitantly, I walked through the door and into the dimly lit study.

"Come closer, my boy." a voice spoke from a chair beside the fire.

I obeyed and went to stand in front of the wing-tipped chair.

"Ahhh… so it's true. William did have a son…"

"Yes sir." I replied coldly but politely.

Mr Mitchell was an elderly man, much older than my father had been. His face was leathery and wrinkled and coloured like parchment. The old man stood, leaning heavily on an oak cane. He gazed into my face, as if searching for something.

"You look very much like him." he murmured. "Yes… the resemblance is almost… unnerving."

I stayed silent, not trusting myself to speak.

"I have asked you here to find out why, exactly, you are on the run. Do not lie to me, boy. I will know."

"I killed a man, sir." I replied flatly, not even blinking.

He paused, squinting at me in the firelight.

"Under what circumstances? Were you protecting yourself?"

"No sir."

"Whom did you kill?"

"Benjamin Martin."

Realization flooded Mitchell's face.

"Oh my dear boy…" he breathed. "The rumours of your father's death-"

"Were true. And I have avenged his death." I interrupted.

He stared at me, it was becoming unsettling to have him scrutinizing me this way.

"I cannot say that I approve, but I can understand… Your father was not a particularly kind man, you understand that, don't you?"

"Yes sir. But he was still my father."

He sat down heavily in his chair, then motioned for me to sit down on the footstool. I did so, staring blindly into the scarlet flames in the stone fireplace.

"If they come for you again… I do not know if I can protect you."

I didn't answer. The fire danced like a gypsy, swirling and bending in a sensual ballet. I suddenly felt very tired and my side ached, though it was mostly healed by now. My hand traveled under my jacket to my wound, fingering it gingerly.

"My daughter… She cares for you." Mr Mitchell said uneasily.

"Does she?" I replied offhandedly.

"I will not see her harmed. Your father's reputation precedes you. I know what was said of him-"

I leapt to my feet, anger coursing through my veins.

"My father never had extramarital relations! Never! My parents loved one another!"

Breathing heavily, I began to pace.

"A-alright, son. Alright. I believe you. But all the same, I will not see my daughter harmed."

"What are you asking of me?" I demanded.

"I only ask that you… do not hurt her. She has good prospects for marriage. She comes from a good family and she will have some money. She must marry someone…"

"Worthy." I finished bitterly. "And I am not."

"Well yes…"

"Fear not, sir. I will be out of your house within the week. Your daughter's virtues are safe from me."

Mr Mitchell heaved himself to his feet. He hobbled over to me and placed a callused hand on my shoulder.

"It is not you I worry about, my boy. It is her I am concerned about."

I sighed heavily, my shoulder slumped.

"Sir, I have successfully completed the task I set for myself. Were I to die now, I would die happy.

He frowned at me, another disapproving look on another face. I ran a hand through my greasy hair in irritation and disgust.

"I'll go. I'll leave this evening. Just give me time to pack my bags and-"

"Don't be foolish boy! They'd capture you in an instant! This town is crawling in militia, and Martin was a well loved hero." the old man interrupted. "Besides. My two other daughters will be here in a few days and they are both eager to meet you. Lucy and Phillipa are most eager."

I gave the elderly man a frown, but nodded slightly.

"Very well, if that is what you order me to do. I shall obey."

He chuckled.

"You can take the boy out of the army, but you can't take the army out of the boy." He said with a genuine smile on his wrinkled face.

I looked enraged. Boy? I'd killed my share of men towards the end of the war. Hadn't I killed Benjamin Martin in cold blood! Surely I had earned the right to be called "man".

Mr Mitchell seemed to sense my rage but merely grinned at me. He clapped an old weathered hand on my shoulder and steered me from the room.

"Come on, young Tavington. Dinner awaits us, as does my daughter."

I scowled in return.

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