DISCLAIMERSNot mine, unfortunately.

A/N: Here goes another chapter of mindlessness...

Colonel William Tavington nudged the bodies with a boot as he lifted his hands to remove his helmet, and then glanced back over to where the woman was sitting under the watchful eye of Wilkins – she seemed to be having some sort of fit. Women. They saw a dead body and immediately became useless for anything other than being bedded…he snorted in disgust. It had been quite a surprise to see a half-nude woman running from the trees and up to him, though – most women stayed as far away from him as they could manage. Cornwallis had told him to get information from the silly bint, so he tucked his helmet underneath his arm and started towards her, one hand idly caressing the hilt of his sword – he couldn't keep from feeling a cruel satisfaction when her eyes widened apprehensively. "Bring her," he said disinterestedly to no one in particular, waving a hand towards a nearby tent, and Wilkins directed the startled woman inside.

"What are you going to do to me?" she asked warily.

In response, he merely rested his eyes on her until she looked away in confusion…for a colonial, she really wasn't all that bad, he thought. A scandalous choice of clothing to be sure, but it suited her. She had long black hair, tangled with bits of twigs in it, and extremely pale skin that obviously bruised easily – her cheek was turning a deep shade of violet, and he wondered if she had a bruise from when...he jerked his mind away from the contemplation of her bottom (she had been a pleasant lapful, all things considered) and returned his attention to questioning her. "Name?" he asked. She mumbled something. "Pardon?" He leaned forward just as she launched herself at him, hissing and clawing like an oversized cat. He caught her easily and flipped her against the table, pressing against her to hold her down – it had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he simply wanted to be close to her again – while she wriggled against him and demanded her release. "Stop now," he sighed. "Just tell me your name, and what you're doing here."

The fight slowly ebbed from her small frame and she pushed at his chest. "Fine. Let me up – you weigh about 10 tons," she complained. Grudgingly beginning to talk, she crossed her arms over her chest again and stared at his sword. "My name is George Hampstead. And I am not a spy."

His eyebrows rose. "George. No woman gives her daughter a man's name-"

"It's short for Georgia, okay? I don't like that name, so people call me George."

"Fine…Georgia. What are you doing here?" He found that he rather enjoyed the sound of her name; the fact that it was irritating her was just a bonus.

Her shoulder slumped as she continued. "I was shopping with Cass- that's my sister – and I bought this ring. When I opened the box, some kids ran into me and I dropped it…it used to have four pieces to it" she lifted her hand to show him two small bands of silver fitted together on one of her fingers "and when we picked them up, somehow we were dumped into that forest and men were chasing us – we got separated," she ended in a whisper, her green eyes rapidly filling with tears. This greatly alarmed him…after all her shows of spirit, Tavington felt decidedly odd witnessing her despair and he covered it by lifting her hand in his on the pretense of studying the ring. "What's your name?" she asked hesitantly and he looked back up at her, still holding her hand.

"Colonel Tavington, His Majesty's Green Dragoons," he said formally, his thumb moving idly over her knuckles.

For some reason, she looked as if she might faint. "Does 'Colonel Tavington, His Majesty's Green Dragoons' have a first name?"

"No."

"Well. Can I…ask you a question?" she asked almost timidly – he dropped her hand in disgust. And so she turns out to be yet another shrinking female…lovely. "What year is it?" Fantastic - not shrinking, but mad as a loon. He told her, and watched her clap her hands over her mouth in horror…really; this one belonged in a play house in London. Her next words confirmed it. "I'm from the twenty-first century."

He sighed in exasperation. "Yes, I suppose you are. And I also suppose that, in your 'time,' men can fly and have been to the moon," he said derisively.

Georgia had an odd look on her face, almost as if she were trying not to laugh. "Well…yes."

Tavington stared at her as Bordon ducked into the tent. "Enough; I don't have time for this. If you wanted to be a part of the baggage train, you might've just said as much and saved me from having to listen to this ludicrous flight of fancy."

"I can prove it!"

"And how, pray tell, can you do that?"

"My pack! I have things from my time in my bag."

"And where is this bag of yours?" he inquired archly. Her face fell as she admitted that she had lost it. "Fancy that." She responded with a word he'd never heard before, but if he wasn't familiar with the word itself, he understood the spirit behind it all too well. At least she's no longer about to burst into tears, he thought with relief as he motioned Bordon over. His captain murmured that another young woman had been found and was currently being questioned by Wilkins. They left the woman to be supervised by two privates who were doing their best not to stare at her bare limbs, and walked over to where a tall woman wearing the same sort of scandalous attire was talking anxiously to Captain Wilkins. This must be her sister, Tavington thought – they didn't look much alike. This one was much taller, had extremely short brown hair, brown eyes, and was very thin, a stark contrast to her sister's lush curves. Aaaaand that's enough of that. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts – it was high time he visited the local 'den of iniquity' if this is what resulted in a comely woman's sudden appearance in the camp.

Intense questioning yielded the same answers Georgia Hampstead had given, and Cassandra was a great deal more forthcoming and pleasant, though no less shocked than her sister at finding that she was in the "past." Of a certainty, the two had planned this so that they would have corroborating stories. Tavington had to speak sharply to Wilkins, for the man was too busy staring at the new arrival to pay attention to him, to take both women to the others in the baggage train and leave guards with them.

He smoothed back a strand of hair that had come loose from his queue and left to report his findings to Cornwallis – he found the general eating while O'Hara fluttered around behind him with a supercilious expression on his face. "My lord," he greeted, inclining his head respectfully. "I have questioned the women – both maintain that they are from…from the future," he finished lamely, seeing his leader sigh heavily and set down his spoon while O'Hara smirked. "I've found no evidence that they are, in fact, spies…I questioned them thoroughly, and-"

O'Hara cut him off with a conceited smile. "Thoroughly, Colonel? I do hope they've not been irreparably harmed, since we all know of your…thoroughness." Cornwallis looked up in apparent agreement, frowning.

"My lord, they've not been harmed," he protested indignantly. The two officers looked at him, disbelief etched plainly upon their faces. When he told them that the women were being taken to the baggage train and placed under guard, O'Hara slyly suggested that they might visit the women to investigate this claim. "As you will, General." More officers were filing into the tent; they gave him looks full of disdain as they passed him, obviously hoping he was there for another public dressing-down. After being told that his "normal" conduct would not be tolerated (he bit the inside of his cheek in anger when one of the newly arrived officers, a lieutenant by the look of him, tittered without reprisal) he was dismissed. Bordon fell in step with him while he was angrily thinking of some way to teach the young snot a lesson he'd not soon forget and the captain, always eager to keep his leader's honor intact, happily began suggesting ideas when asked about the aide.

After being escorted to another section of the camp, George embraced her sister happily, relieved that Cass seemed to be unharmed. The sisters swapped stories; when they had been separated, Cassandra had hidden from the searchers until she had felt safe enough to come out of the tree she had climbed up in. "Luckily, I was found by some very courteous soldiers – are we really in the 1770s?" Cass asked plaintively.

George looked around at the other women who were gathering into groups to whisper and point to them. "Yeah, I think we really are… did you just say, 'courteous'? Oh, that's right; Colonel Hot Pants was already here in camp with me."

Cass stared. "Who?"

"Tall, dark and arrogant – didn't he question you?"

Her sister laughed, running her fingers through her short hair. "Colonel…Tavington, I think his name was? Yes, he thought I was a spy or something. Good looking enough, I suppose… nice ass. You gonna go for him? I like that Captain Wilkins, myself." She stretched her arms above her head, making their guards' eyes almost pop out of their heads when her midriff was revealed. The watching women gasped in shock and drew closer together, whispering fiercely.

"Wilkins? When there are so many British boys running around everywhere? You're insane…and I'm not 'going' for Col. Whatshisface – too pompous." But he does have a nice ass, and is gorgeous as all get-out. "Let's go introduce ourselves; I'm going to get really tired of those women gossiping about us." They walked over and began talking to the incredulous women while the two Privates glanced at each other uneasily and shuffled their feet, but allowed the conversation as they had just been charged with making sure that the women didn't escape. Shortly the genuinely friendly and easygoing sisters had struck up several friendships and while some of the women were naturally skeptical about their claim to being from the future, others of a more superstitious nature believed them. "I don't suppose we can convince any of the men to go looking for my pack?" George asked wistfully as one of their new friends brought them "decent" clothing – if they thought for one minute she was going to wear a bonnet, they were sadly mistaken.

Cassandra laughed as she pulled on a skirt over her shorts, admiring the look in a mirror. "Probably not, though I could ask Michael…Captain Wilkins," she explained to her sister's quizzical look.

"Oh, that's nice. Two seconds after being thrown in the past and almost killed by hillbillies, you've progressed to a first name basis with one of our captors." I wonder what Tavington's first name is. "And speaking of them, look." George pointed past the young men guarding them (they were obviously delighted to be privy to some "girl talk" as well as the illicit thrill of watching them try on outfits) to a line of horsemen approaching rapidly.

Irma, one of their new acquaintances, stood hastily and smoothed her skirts with a nervous motion and called out a low-voiced warning to the other women. "Dragoons!" The sisters were surprised to see the others hurriedly fixing their hair and scrubbing at their faces before lining up with anxious expressions. "What are they doing over here?" George heard another woman ask. "We've done with laundry already. It's not even dusk..!"

The horses thundered up and she looked up with no real surprise to see Colonel Tavington heading the column and looking down at her in apparent disapproval. "I see that you haven't been provided with decent clothing yet." His cold eyes flashed over to Irma, who swallowed hard. "You will stay here with the other women; you will, under no circumstances, attempt to escape or mix with the other officers. I trust I have made myself clear."

George just couldn't help herself from answering, "Decent clothing? Well, I asked for a spiffy little uniform just like yours, but they didn't have one ready…" she saw anger beginning to replace disdain on his face and continued when she noticed the other Dragoons behind him grinning and nudging each other at her impudence. "And as much as I adore being stuck among the 'womenfolk,' I was actually planning on playing cards, drinking and swearing with the other men. But, since the Almighty Captain Tarleton says that I can't, I don't have much choice but to obey."

Suppressed gasps swept the line of women, and she thought that if he hadn't had gloves on, she would have seen his knuckles turn white as he gripped the reins. "That's Colonel Tavington, you impudent, ill-mannered-"

"Ah, I'm immune to flattery," she said quickly, with a wink to the astonished Bordon who wasn't sure whether to frown or smile back at her – he settled for looking disapproving when Tavington swung around in his saddle to glare at him. George frowned in surprise when the Colonel's eyes narrowed calculatingly and reached into his uniform jacket for something…when he pulled out a coin and flipped it to her, she caught it and frowned at it. "What's this for?" she asked.

His lips curved in a callous smile and snickers sounded from the other Dragoons. "Do be sure to show her the way," he told Irma before wheeling his horse and motioning the others to follow him. The Dragoons trotted off after each had surveyed her with laughter in their eyes – well, Michael Wilkins was busily staring at Cassandra so he was the only one who didn't look at her.

"What was that all about?" she demanded as they rode off, looking at the coin. The women shuffled their feet and looked anywhere but at her. Irma reluctantly told her that it was 'pre-payment' for an 'assignation' and her resultant screech of indignation and rage nearly caused the guards to misfire their rifles in surprise. The shifting wind brought the sound of male laughter to their ears. "How dare he? I can't believe him,' she fumed. "I'll fix him so he can't flip a coin at anyone."

The other women looked at her in shock. "Miss Hampstead… you don' want to make him angry with you," Nancy Travis said anxiously. "He's…he…no, you don' want to make him angered."

"And why not? Has it ever occurred to anyone that he needs to be put in his place?" George demanded. "Oh, shut up, Cass." Her sister was laughing so hard, she was clutching her stomach.

Nancy leaned forward conspiratorially. "His name the colonials gave him, miss. He's earned it ten times over, has he, The Butcher."

George felt the first stirrings of unease. "That's…that's his nickname? I don't suppose it's because he likes a good side of beef. No? Didn't think so. Does…does he really expect me to go to his tent?" she finished in a whisper.

Irma stepped in at this, shooing the guards out officiously. "Mayhap he does, mayhap not – if I were you, I'd be there right about now. He's not the worst sort, really…just a bit frightenin', is all." She hushed another woman who called out a suggestion as to what made him so frightening when she saw George pale slightly. "Seems to me, he likes you; usually doesn't come over here with his men at all. None ever speak back to him as you've done…but be careful how much sass you give, Georgia," the other woman begged. After giving the Privates directions on how to find Tavington's tent, they led her off to it.

She stared at the ground, scenarios running through her head – would he beat her, then rape her? Or would it be the other way 'round? George drug her feet but was hustled onward by the two privates who were clearly anxious to get her there so they could leave as soon as possible – Tavington inspired terror in the least of His Majesty's soldiers, and they had heard of several Generals who were made uneasy by his presence. Captain Bordon had a strange look on his face as she came up to the tent, and he motioned for her to enter. "Colonel Tavington is away, Miss, but he left word that you were to…tidy up." George ducked into the tent to see a first-class mess – was she really expected to organize all this? Items were strewn all over the place; it looked as if a bomb had gone off.

She angrily rounded on Bordon. "I'm supposed to clean up after him? You've got to be kidding!" The captain sighed and left her to it, shaking his head. Why his commander had suddenly turned his normally neat and clean tent upside down and inside out earlier made a lot more sense, now.

George echoed Bordon's parting sigh, albeit with a more disgusted flavor to it, and began to pick up after Tavington. It would figure that he would turn out to be an untidy psychopath. She organized the papers, put the books back in their places and began to dust idly before spotting the white undershirt and picking it up to inhale his scent (she looked around before doing so, of course – it wouldn't be good for her image to be seen sniffing his clothing) deeply. He smelled…good. Psycopath or not, she wouldn't mind sniffing the original, instead of huffing his shirt. She raised her head at this thought, coming to a realization.

Somewhere, the most beautiful bastard she'd ever met…didn't have his shirt on.