A/N: Oh, wow! It's been SIX years - yes, SIX - since I last updated this story. But like many people, I have a LOT of time on my hands these days. So, I started tinkering with this story, and, well, this chapter happened. I'm hoping to get more written...Hopefully, though, it won't take six years.

Anyway...I hope you enjoy this.

CHAPTER THREE

SETTING BOUNDARIES

If your eyes could talk, they'd say they just don't care

Hours later, Grace was rudely awakened by gruff orders being barked outside the medical tent. She sat up in on the crude bed as soldiers ploughed into the tent; some were carrying wounded soldiers on stretchers, others were supporting those too weak to walk on their own. The regimental surgeon, whose name she had learnt was Peter Marlow, sprung into action. She watched as he made a quick, rudimentary check of each wounded man who was brought in; he reminded her of sparrow flitting from one branch to another. She knew what he was doing, though – the worst of the wounded would be treated; first, the others could wait.

"Get out of the way, woman," a seasoned sergeant growled, his arms straining under the weight of a wounded private.

She saw that the throes of battle still silently raged in his iron-grey eyes, so she slid off the bed without a word, and the sergeant dumped the blood-soaked private unceremoniously onto the bed. The young soldier's face was pale, his breathing laboured. He moaned weakly, blood bubbling from the corners of his mouth. She backed away from him, not because she horror-struck by the sight; instead, she was unnerved her by the compassion stirring within her. He was her enemy. Why should she care if he lived or not?

Soon the tent was filled with agonised groans. The stench of blood and sweat that hung in the air was so thick and oppressive she could almost taste it. There was a muffled scream on the other side of the tent, and she instantly wished she had not looked in the direction it had come from. The teeth of the surgeons saw bit into the bone of the wounded soldier's leg, while two other privates held him down.

Her stomach heaved.

She needed fresh air.

At that moment, Captain Bordon entered the medical tent. He cast his glance around it, and when his gaze fell on her, he gave a slight jerk of his head, signalling that he wanted her to join him outside. Earlier on in the evening, she probably would have stood her ground, but she could not spend another minute inside the tent. However, determined not to show any sign of weakness, she straightened to her full height, tilted her chin, and walked across the tent without flinching at the gore and groans all around her.

As she stepped outside the tent, she breathed deeply, allowing the cool night air to fill her lungs. It felt like freedom. The thought snapped her back to reality when she remembered she was anything but free; the broad-shouldered captain looming over her was a solid reminder of that. His hand rested casually on the hilt of his sword, no doubt a warning that should she try to run that he was not afraid to use force to stop her. There was nowhere to run to anyway. She did not even know what direction her father's camp was in or how far she was from it, and without a horse, she had little chance of finding it.

"Come with me," Bordon said.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Up to the house."

"What for?"

Bordon continued to look ahead. "You are to stay there until General Cornwallis arrives."

She said nothing in response but kept her gaze fixed on the path in front of her. As she followed him through the rows of white tents, she ignored the leering glances of the soldiers gathered around campfires, who, she imagined, would also have pelted her with obscenities had the captain not been escorting her. Soon the large, whitewashed plantation house that had been billeted to the British army came into view. Several officers stood on the porch, all of them with a glass of some sort of spirit in their hands, but they quickly straightened to attention as Bordon approached the wooden steps leading up to the house. She saw their gazes slide in her direction; one of them appraising her like she was a prized mare. She merely regarded them with a bored expression.

Bordon acknowledged the men with a nod, then said, "As you were, gentlemen."

The officers relaxed, a few of them even raising their glasses to the captain. Bordon, however, did not seem impressed - it always amazed her at the differences between the British and the Continental armies. She once overheard her father tell Colonel Burwell he was surprised the Redcoats had taken so much ground, considering they preferred drinking, partying and whoring to winning battles. Nevertheless, she regarded Bordon curiously, wondering if he, too, had purchased his commission like most of the British officers did or had he somehow managed to achieve his rank through merit. She did not know, but something in her suspected it might have been due to the latter.

She followed him up the steps and through a black, panelled front door. Crossing the threshold, she glanced around the large foyer and noted how similar it was to the one in her own house, the polished wooden floors even creaked under her feet. Bordon then led her down a long hallway lined with portraits, some of which predated the discovery of the Americas. She was familiar with British history, which, ironically, was her history too. She still had relatives living in England, although she had never met them and most likely never would.

Bordon came to an abrupt halt halfway down the hallway. She almost bumped into him, but he did not seem to notice. He then knocked on the door that was ajar.

"Enter," said Colonel Tavington in a clipped tone.

The mild curiosity she'd experienced while looking at the portraits dissipated, replaced instead with an air of detachment. Bordon opened the door and motioned for her to go in first. Entering the room, she glanced around her, noting that the owner of the house was clearly a man of intellect. Three walls were lined with bookcases, groaning under the weight of the volumes that had been crammed into them. Two sash windows broke up the fourth wall, giving her a clear view of the front lawn and the white tents beyond it. The colonel himself sat at a large oak desk in front of the windows. He did not look up as she entered; rather, he was poring over several letters spread out on the desk in front of him.

"Wait in the hallway, Bordon," Tavington said, finally looking up, his blue eyes cold and piercing. "And close the door on your way out."

Bordon nodded and left the room, the door softly clicking as he closed it.

Tavington slowly gathered up the letters, tapping the bottom of the pages on the desktop, ensuring they were lined up perfectly before setting them to one side. Grace watched him as he pushed his chair back and stood up, knowing that a man like him did not give up easily. Even though she had chosen to place her fate into the hands of Lord Cornwallis, she knew the colonel would try to squeeze every bit of information about the militia as he could from her before his superior arrived. He would most likely attempt to intimidate her, but it would take more than empty threats to loosen her tongue. After all, she had remained silent under worse circumstances - far worse.

"I trust Bordon has already conveyed to you the reason you are here?" Tavington said, stepping out from behind the desk. "You are free to move about the house, and you may take the air out on the porch."

She was somewhat taken aback by his words, but she did not let it show on her face.

He then slowly stalked towards her. "But be warned, if you attempt to escape, my men have orders to bring you back by any means necessary."

Grace smiled innocently at him. "Surely you and your men do not need to resort to such drastic measures to capture one woman."

His lips thinned. "Perhaps you would prefer to spend the next fortnight locked in the cellar."

"Only if you promise that I don't have to see you or any other Redcoat."

A low growl rumbled in his throat. "I will not tolerate this insolence for very much longer, Miss Cartwright."

Her brow rose a fraction. "My insolence? You, Colonel, are the one threatening me with violence and dark cellars."

He moved within striking distance of her. "I should have left you a tent with the men; I am certain they would put that mouth of yours to good use."

Grace continued to stare at him definitely. He would do no such thing; Lord Cornwallis would have his commission if he allowed her to be ravished by a pack of filth-encrusted men.

Tavington's jaw clenched, clearly irritated that his threat did not have the desired effect.

A tense silence filled the room, until finally, he said, "Why were you masquerading as a boy?"

She folded her arms. "I am not obligated to tell you anything, Colonel."

His eyes grew harder, and she thought he would threaten her again, perhaps with a beating this time.

To her surprise, though, he called for Bordon to come into the room.

After a moment, the door to the study open and the captain entered. "Yes, Colonel?"

"Escort Miss Cartwright to her room."

"Yes, sir."

Grace did not wait for Bordon to usher her out but turned and left the room on her accord. She doubted that would be the first and last time Tavington called her to the study, and she knew the next time he would question her about the militia. She would have to guard herself well; his cunningness earlier had led to her betray her identity to him. And she would not allow herself to be responsible for the capture and execution of Benjamin and his men.

"This way, Miss Cartwright," Bordon said as he strode past her down the hallway.

Without a backward glance at the study, she followed him, welcoming the thought of privacy and a warm bed.

...

William poured himself another brandy, draining the glass in one mouthful. That woman was beyond infuriating. He was tempted to believe she wasn't a woman at all, but some sort of harpy sent to torment him. No woman had ever defied him like that - at least, no gentlewoman. She was entirely unafraid of him...But then, he recalled the quiet defiance her in her dark eyes when faced with the hangman's noose. He had seen grown men piss themselves in fear over less. What had made her so cold and unfeeling?

His mouth tightened at the thought. Why did he even care about that? All he was interested in is what she could tell him about Benjamin Martin and his militia. But how was he to extract that information from her when his threats simply rebounded off her; she had not even reacted when he threatened to throw her into a tent full of men who hadn't touched anything but a trollop in months – maybe years. You could use more...persuasive means. William's head jerked at the thought, but then his lip curled in a sneer. No, he would not go down that path; he was not his father.

He sat back in his chair, and his countenance darkened as he remembered the bruises on his mother's face the day he visited her to inform of his intention to purchase a commission. When he questioned her about it, she told him she had fallen, but he hadn't believed her. Only after speaking with his youngest sister had he learned that their father was responsible. But it was not the first time he had struck her; according to his sister, he had been drunker than usual when he aimed for their mother's face. Typically, he went for a part of her where the evidence of his violent rages could be hidden under layers of clothing. William's anger towards him was made all the worse when, after his father died and it was revealed how much debt he had incurred, he learned the elder Tavington had taken his losses at the card table out on his wife.

His father's actions had left its mark on him, and he swore to himself he would never strike a woman, no matter how angry he was.

A knock on the door drew him from his brooding.

"Come in."

Bordon entered.

"Well?" William asked impatiently.

"She is in her room, the door is locked, and I have posted a guard."

"Make certain there is one below her window too."

A rare smirk tugged on Bordon's mouth. "I had the same thought; two men are guarding the lawn below her window."

William motioned for Bordon to sit then set a glass in front of him. "Drink?"

"Yes, thank you, sir."

After pouring Bordon and then himself a drink, William said, "How do I get her to talk, Bordon?"

"Sir?"

"Miss Cartwright; I need to find a way to loosen her tongue."

Bordon took a slow sip of his brandy. "I take it she was not very forthcoming?"

"A dead sheep would have been more forthcoming," William ground out.

Setting his glass onto the table, Bordon said, "Perhaps, sir, you might consider using a different approach with her."

William threw a sharp look at the other man. "Such as?"

"Not treating her as a prisoner but as a gentleman's daughter, which, by all rights, she is."

Taking another drink, William considered Bordon's words. "So, you are suggesting that I gain her trust?"

The captain nodded.

He frowned as he took another drink. "I doubt such a thing is possible with a woman like that."

"I have broken in numerous horses over the years, sir, and I have always found that the wildest ones require the gentlest hand."

William snorted as he tapped a finger on the side of his glass, but he turned Bordon's analogy over in his mind. Was two weeks enough time to gain her trust and extract information from her? Had she been any other woman, he would have said yes. However, tonight's encounter had shown him that she would not break easily; in fact, he imagined she would only grow more difficult the harder he pressed her. Perhaps Bordon was right. Maybe a gentle hand was required.

"Very well, Bordon," William finally said, "I will put this plan of yours into motion tomorrow."