(This fanfic is about the film The Patriot, but for this fanfic to work I have changed a few facts. Firstly, Colonel William Tavington does not die. Secondly, Ben Martin does. Thirdly, and this is the largest difference, the Americans do not win the way and so their country remains in England's clutches of control. So, if you're going to read this fanfic bear in mind these three facts. Now, I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. It's not very good though as unfortunately the plot is mine.

Also I do not own The Patriot or the characters within it, just so y'all know.)

Chapter Eight

They rode for an hour or so and eventually got to Tavington Manor. Susan had cried the entire way and said nothing. She had clung to Tavington as she cried, sobbing into his jacket, as it was the closest thing of comfort. The softness of his red coat helped soothe her pain. She hated the fact she was relying on him though.

Tavington and his men had conversed the entire way. He had allowed her to cry into his coat. He didn't mind the damp patch, and he knew he'd be able to wash it. After all, he did have a heart, and he couldn't expect her not to cry after hearing the news.

After all, she had no-one left in the world now. No-one. Except him.

Tavington smiled. She'd be a lot easier to break in now she had no-one left. She'd grow to respect him, to obey him, possibly to love him. He'd just need patience.

They reached the gates to the grounds of Tavington's large home. Once they reached the Manor gates, Tavington's men said their goodbyes. There was no need for them to stay; he'd only enlisted their help for finding her. He could handle it from now on.

Tavington rode his horse into the grounds and up to the house. A servant-girl and butler came out as he did so.

"My lord." They both greeted him; the butler bowed and the girl curtsied. Tavington nodded his head in recognition. He climbed down off the horse, leaving Susan on it. Then he grabbed her hips and slid her off, taking her crying for in his arms. He turned to his servants.

"Girl - take the horse to the stables." He ordered. "Butler, take us to Miss Martin's room which I hope has been prepared by now."

Both went off to do as they were told. The girl meekly led the horse away and Tavington followed his butler into his home. He carried Susan up the stairs, along a corridor and into a large, expansive room that was expensively furnished.

Tavington walked over to the large bed and lay her down on it. He looked at Susan, who lay on the bed in a foetal position. She was hugging herself and crying. Tavington looked at her before speaking to her softly.

"I am going to leave you here to mourn. Dinner will be brought to you later. I shall not bother you for the rest of this evening. I shall see you tomorrow morning. Goodnight." He bent down and kissed her cheek, which was wet with tears. Then he and the butler exited the room, locking it behind them. He didn't want her to escape, again.

"Butler. Get the cook to prepare a large meal for Miss Martin, and have it taken to her in two hours time. Make sure she eats something; I like my women curvy." Tavington ordered.

"Yes sir." The butler replied, bowing, before walking away.

Tavington walked along the corridor, up another set of stairs and into his own bedroom. He walked over to his desk and sat down. He placed his head in his hands and thought to himself about what had occurred over the last few days.

He could hear the young men's shouts. He could taste the metallic taste of their blood. He could smell their sweaty bodies. He could still feel their hair in between his fingers from when he'd gripped their hair tightly and smashed their head into walls and tables. He could see their bruised and battered bodies.

He kept hearing Susan's sister and aunt's screams over and over inside his head. He could see their faces; their expressions of pain. He could still smell their stench on himself. He could taste the lips of Margaret and Charlotte; the lips he'd kissed so brutally as he raped them over and over out of anger and spite. He could still feel them. He could still feel the warmth of their bodies, which left them quickly after he had slit their throats; causing their blood to spurt across his face.

He could see it all, hear it all…remember it all.

He and his men spent almost an entire day torturing the Martin family. And he remembered it all.

Then he thought of Susan and the grief she was going through, the grief he had caused because he had murdered her loved ones.

For one of only a few times in his entire life, Colonel William Tavington felt guilty.