DISCLAIMER I don't own The Patriot or any of its characters…though I wouldn't mind having my own Tavvie.
A/N: As this is my first attempt at TavFic, please be as nice as you can manage – constructive criticism is very much welcome. Poor Tavvie…it seems as if he's doomed to be beset by Mary Sues for eternity. The only other viable female character would be whatsherface played by Joely Richardson, but I still haven't forgiven her for getting to do all those love scenes with Sean Bean in Lady Chatterley. It may be petty, but I've never claimed to be reasonable.
Georgia Lee Hampstead wanted out. A somewhat steady job as an art gallery attendant was all fine and well, if one could stand the innate snobbery of the clientele, but it was incredibly monotonous. She was currently overseeing the placement of several paintings in a small gallery in the heart of Charleston, as a favor to her employer. Favor was just putting a good face on 'Do it and don't argue, or you're fired' – Arnold Hollings had just wanted to go traipsing off to the Caribbean with his latest mistress. Of course, this meant that, not only did she have to hang about the gallery every day until it closed, she had to field phone calls from Mrs. Hollings as well. She hoped Arnie got third degree burns on his bald spot, the sleaze.
The workers finished hanging the paintings and left with a "See ya, George!" She glanced around to look for any potential customers before perching on the stool behind the counter and pulling her bag up from underneath the display case. She selected her sketchbook and started the shading on her latest portrait, which was Sean Bean from the Sharpe series. She finished quickly and glanced at her watch – one more hour. Sighing and pulling her long hair back into a messy ponytail, George hopped off of the stool and began wandering through the gallery to look at the paintings for the umpteenth time and wishing she were able to lock the place up and go across the way to the large indoor market. She supposed that only one or two vendors would be left by the time she could lock up and turned her mind away from this when she stopped in front of her favorite painting of a man in uniform. This was different from the other styles, more lifelike somehow…and it didn't hurt at all that the man in the painting was extremely good looking. No one could have ever looked like that, she thought with a smile. She ran her fingers lightly over the brass plate with the engraving English Dragoon by Unknown Artist, 1780.
George walked on after a final admiring glance at the blue-eyed officer. She always enjoyed visiting Charleston and walking the historic district, but she hadn't been able to find time to do so in this trip. Hollings strikes again, Georgia Lee. She paused at a large mirror to examine her teeth disinterestedly. "Nope, it's not spinach," she informed her reflection seriously, then laughed at the absurdity of talking to herself. She quickly sobered at the sight and she tugged her pink tank-top down over – Good Lord! Where those actually love handles? "Exercise time, girl," she muttered. All that made her think of was how Eric had deserted her for that co-worker of his…what had she been, a size -3? Of course, this was just after he had "borrowed" nearly all the money in their joint checking account – he had considerately left her fifty cents. She should have never let him con her into that one, but her mother had always told her that trust was the key in any relationship…ironically, her mother had been first to say "I told you so."
So now she spent practically every waking moment working for that slime Hollings, as well as taking odd jobs on the side – last week she had been cleaning houses – just to make enough money for her rent. Art school was out of the question now. The bell on the door chimed as someone entered the gallery and she broke off her disgusted perusal of her excess cushioning and flipped her long black hair over one shoulder as she trotted to the front. "Hey!" she yelled happily as she recognized her sister Cassandra.
"Are you almost done? You did say there was some good stuff to be found in the market," her sister teased, embracing her fondly.
"Only one more hour…oh, it's thirty minutes now…" They spent the remaining time discussing their respective jobs – Cassandra Peyton worked as a traveling nurse, mostly focusing on training others. She entertained George with stories of her ex-husband Greg, who worked in the local sheriff's department. Then it was time to lock up and they ran across the street…and were disappointed to find that the majority of vendors had gone home for the day. They received disapproving looks from the remaining sellers who were slowly closing down their stalls when the sisters stopped to look.
"You'd think that they'd be happy to have a customer," Cassandra quipped. George's eyes were drawn to a corner stall where a wizened old woman sat in a rocking chair and was clearly in no hurry to leave. They went over to admire the vintage jewelry and try some on, laughing at some of the flashier pieces.
" I like this one," George breathed admiringly as she noticed, stuck in a corner of the display case and half-covered by a draping of velvet, a somewhat tarnished silver ring made up of smaller bands, like a puzzle ring. It looked as if each piece had a tiny jewel embedded in it so that, when worn separately, it would match any outfit. "How much for this?" she asked, pointing to the case.
"That ring, miss? Wouldn't advise buyin' that one – too much trouble, it is," the old woman said. "Got a nice pretty one over here," and she tapped another case.
No, I want this one," George maintained. How much did you say it was?"
The old woman frowned at her. "You'll pay more than you've ever thought to forfeit, missy." When George insisted on buying it, the old woman threw up her hands with a hint of a smile on her wrinkled face. "Two hundred."
Two hundred dollars? Her face fell. She really couldn't afford to spare two hundred, and from the look on the woman's face, she knew it. This angered her for some reason, and she pulled out her wallet from her pack before she had time to think about what she was doing. "I'll take it." Cassandra had a coughing fit.
"I can't believe you did that," Cass laughed as they walked down the sidewalk outside.
"Neither can I," George admitted ruefully. "For some reason, I just didn't want her to think she could walk all over me…hey, ice cream!" she tugged on her sister's arm, pointing to the Häagen Dazs store.
Cass looked at her loftily. "Since I suppose I'm buying, can I at least take a look at your $200 ring? It looked like a piece of crap…" George dug out the carefully wrapped box – apparently the old lady had been so offended at her presumption, she had wrapped the ring's box up as tightly as she could, with paper and then wound an entire roll of tape around it. She tore into it with a vengeance until she could actually see the lid, and lifted it off just as a group of boys on skateboards went past, knocking against her elbow and sending the box flying. The ring hit the sidewalk and separated into segments. "Oh, shit!" They knelt and reached to scoop up two rings apiece when George felt a decidedly odd pull on the hand that was touching the rings.
"What was that?" She asked just as it came again, stronger this time. Cass frowned at her just as the pull intensified and suddenly they were falling…
Falling….
Falling…
And landing…somewhere. They seemed to be in a forest. "What the hell was that?" her sister demanded.
"I don't know…but I think I'm gonna be sick," George moaned, clutching her stomach – she had never been good friends with vertigo. The sound of a gun shot nearby startled both women, who jumped and huddled down against a fallen tree trunk as they glimpsed movement in the trees.
"Sir! Over here, I see something!" came the yell from the foliage – the underbrush shook as, from the sound of it, several men drew close.
"Oh, shit – run!" Cassandra yelled and leapt up to follow her own advice.
As they ran and tried to keep from tripping on vines and branches, they got separated (Cass just had to be wearing green today) when George's pack got caught on a low hanging branch and she went down into the mud swearing – wrenching herself back to her feet, she called out to her sister unthinkingly, and heard her pursuers gain ground as they followed the sound of her voice. Slipping and falling yet again, she didn't notice when her pack slid off her shoulders and into the leaves. Hands grabbed at her and she screamed, striking out at her attackers and receiving a stunning blow to the face that sent her spinning to the ground. "Help," she yelled as loudly as she could, and got another back-handed slap. Boots surrounded her in a tight circle and she held one hand to her rapidly swelling cheek as she looked up at some very oddly-dressed men who looked as if they hadn't bathed in five years.
They demanded to know her name and her business, and some of her courage came back. "W-who am I? Who are you, and why were you chasing me?" she demanded, trying to put up as brave a front as she could – she remembered from an article that it was never good to show too much fear when you were attacked. But then, false bravado could get you raped and killed faster…it all depended on the person doing the attacking…Shit. Shit. Shit.
"She's a spy, kill her!"
"We can have some fun first, though…"
She closed her eyes tight, willing away tears. Be brave, Georgia Lee. George could smell the rankness of them as they drew closer, and a grimy hand grasped her hair, when…
"Redcoats! Two scouts!" she heard, and opened her eyes to see her chance and grasp it when the men looked the other way, reaching for their guns. Lunging to her feet, she evaded the grasping arms of a tall man with stringy hair and took off with her fear fueling her flight. She ran as hard as she could until she finally saw what seemed to be a trail – George could see shapes on horseback trotting parallel to her and sped up, her lungs ready to burst. She flew out of the trees and fetched up before the leading horse and its surprised rider. "Help me," she gasped, clutching at the bridle in desperation. Shots rang out and the man reached down to grasp her by the back of her top and lifting her so that she was tossed across his lap. Not again, George thought wearily as she tried to keep from falling back down onto the trail when her newest captor flicked the reins and the horse began to trot.
When she had regained enough of her breath to expel it in a scream, she did so as she struggled violently…and was surprised when a gloved hand came cracking down on her upturned bottom censoriously. "Be still or I shall tie you," Came the calm command delivered in a crisp English accent. She gasped in shock, twisting to look up at him and almost biting her tongue as the horse jumped a fallen tree. Her newest assailant (she couldn't believe that he had actually spanked her) was dressed in a red and green uniform jacket and some sort of ornate belt that her cheek was currently mashed against as she was jounced along on his lap. What was going on here? "I want my sister," she insisted loudly. He ignored her and when her insides had been turned thoroughly inside out from all the bouncing, other riders came up around them to report to Thighs of Steel, as she privately named him – she would have rested better on a bed of spikes. Worry for herself as well as Cassandra overwhelmed her so she didn't notice at first when they arrived in an encampment.
Thighs of Steel dismounted and pulled her off of the horse – she had to cling to him to remain upright and finally got her first look at her rescuer/abductor. He was tall, made even taller by his odd helmet, black with what looked like feathers on it. Great, I've been kidnapped by a good-looking ostrich. "Who are you?" he demanded in a voice that made her knees instantly turn to goo. Fantastic – tall, gorgeous, and British…a lethal combination in Georgia's books. He reminded her of someone, but how could she forget another man who looked like this one? Beautiful was the only word good enough for him, and she suddenly realized that he now looked very annoyed at having had to repeat his question – what was it, at least three times now? He definitely looked like the kind of man who expected instant obedience from others…if they could stop from wallowing in those blue eyes for half a second.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that? You people need to just go back to playing 'North and South' and leave me out of it – I certainly never asked to be chased by the Renaissance Faire," she griped, crossing her arms across her breasts defensively as she saw his eyes drift down to her chest. Can't I just start today over again? I'd put a more sensible bra on, for starters.
Thighs of Steel looked at her as if she'd grown two heads – at least now he had returned his gaze back to her face, but she strongly suspected that she was regaining the "deer in headlights" look as his eyes met hers. "North and…?" he sighed and shook his head, indicating that he didn't want to know anything else. "You do realize that I can hang you as a spy," he went on, studying her face intently before resuming his inspection of her now-muddy pink tank top, khaki shorts, and hiking boots.
George groaned and brought up a hand to her sore cheek to touch it gingerly. "Hang me? I'm not anyone's spy! Okay, this role-playing shit has gone on long enough, and I-"
"If you're not a spy, then why were you running straight towards us?" he asked quickly.
"Um – acting out 'Chariots of Fire'?"
"What?"
"Look, just let me go – I'm cold, tired, my feet hurt, my face hurts, and I need a shower. I would add that I need to pee, but I'm afraid that the other group of guys scared it right out of me."
His eyebrows arched at this pronouncement and she heard him mutter something about "vulgar colonials" before raising his voice and calling another man over to watch her just as another group of horsemen rode up with some of her original assailants. "If she tries to run, shoot her," he said evenly. George gaped at him as he turned to stride away, calling out orders that the others sprang to obey.
"Who does he think he is, God?" she said angrily. "I want to go back to Charleston; I've had enough of this crap."
"Charleston, miss? You mean, Charles Town," her guard, a big heavily built man with dark hair and a strong jaw, corrected her.
George sighed. "You know what? Just stop playing your little role. When I get back, I'll have every one of you morons thrown in jail so fast your heads will spin – my sister's ex-husband is a Deputy. Get a bunch of men together in their costumes and they'll play it to the hilt…I'm sure I'll be able to get on the phone and make sure your reenactment company is disbanded." She was on a roll and continued her rant to her hapless guardian, who looked completely bewildered. Glancing around as she maintained her tirade, she saw that Thighs of Steel was now standing with another older man in an absurd powdered wig and gesturing towards her then to her attackers, who were arranged in a phony 'firing line.' "Now they're going to pretend to shoot them," she snorted in disgust. "Watch this."
And she watched as the men in red and green lifted their rifles - "loaded with blanks," she said wisely – and fired. And stared as red blossomed on the trees behind the men before they toppled over, clearly dead. "Oh. My. GOD," she gasped, her hands coming up to cover her mouth in horror. "They're really dead – they just…they…oh my god…" Over by the largest tent, the two men looked back over at her – Powdered Wig turned and walked back inside the tent and left Thighs of Steel to remove his helmet as he sauntered over to nudge the fallen bodies with a boot. "This isn't a Civil War reenactment troop, is it?" she asked shakily.
"Civil War? No ma'am…"
Georgia Lee Hampstead strongly suspected that she wasn't in Kansas anymore.
