Author's note: I am so sorry that it has taken me 4 months to get this posted. Wendy just finished 3rd grade and working full time has worn on me. In just a couple of weeks Wendy starts school again. I quickly proofed this, but know I have probably missed some stuff which I will fix tomorrow when I am more awake! Thanks again for sticking with this story and reading anything I put up. I apologize again that it took me so long. Thanks.

JScorpio

Indianapolis, Indiana USA

Chapter 32: Want And Err

June 1778...

Virginia

"Halt!" the young soldier shouted, dropping his musket, bayonet fixed, into a stance warning.

Young Johnny Bernard dropped his fishing gear and bent over, trying to gather his breath. He wasn't sure how many miles he had both walked and ran on foot, but he was tired. He stood up and in a winded voice, answered the colonial private. "I have an urgent message... for Colonel Burwell...from Devington...near his own farm."

"I'll take him," Collins, another young private stepped up and answered.

The boy followed Private Collins, winding their way through a labyrinth of dingy, white canvas and dirty uniformed men sitting and standing. As Johnny passed the cooking fires, the smell of freshly cooked meat and hoecakes made his stomach growl.

A large tent with two blue coated guards posted on both sides of the door finally came into view. They ducked under the marquee to find Colonel Burwell seated at a table, reading missives. His Aide-de-camp, Major Zeller, was equally engaged, sorting the paperwork. A third man, Colonel Martin of the militia, his hair askew and looking tired, was seated at a small desk scrawling something in a quick manner on some paper. The three officers did not look up, pressed by their tasks at hand and not wanting interruption or more work.

"Colonel Burwell, sir," began Collins, "the boy carries an urgent message from Devington." This got the attention of all three colonial leaders, who all stopped what they were doing to look up with concerned expressions knotting their eyebrows.

Harry stood up and walked around the table. When he reached the boy, he ruffled his hair. "Master Bernard, you are a long way from home."

The young teen smiled. "I had to finish my journey on foot. The lobsters confiscated my horse at a checkpoint."

"At least they let you through," Zeller piped up.

"They took my two rabbits, the ones that I shot along the way, as well," he informed. The British army always thought it judicious to deprive the enemy, and even seemingly innocent civilians, of food whenever they could; it was one of their tactics. "They saw my pole and told me to get my food from the water instead."

"You do put on a good ruse, Johnny," Burwell complimented.

The youth ripped at the patch on the front of his pants, sewn on sloppily and in haste by his mother. He always hid his messages beneath a patch sewn somewhere on his clothing. Paper was foldable, thin, and easy to conceal.

"Thank you," Burwell said as he took the message from the boy's hands.

"When can I join up?"

"You never leave without asking me that," Harry joked, "and my answer has not changed: when you are fifteen."

Bernard frowned in response, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket in disappointment. Truth was, he was a good messenger, and would make a Hell of a scout when he could join, but Harry refused to use children save for musicians and the ferrying of occasional messages when proper couriers weren't available. Children and women weren't suspected by the British, though they were stopped regularly at cordon points.

"Private, get the boy here some food to take back with him," Harry said, walking the boy to the door of the tent. He put his arm over the lad's shoulders. "I can't spare a mount for you," he apologized, his division hurting for horses, mules, oxen, and now relegated to any nag it could find. "But you can ride pillion with one of our patrols as far as it goes in your direction. You'll have to foot it home from there."

"I may be able to catch a ride along the way. I'll be fine sir."

"I know you will. Thanks for the messages and give my regards to your mother."

"I will." With that, Johnny and young Private Collins ducked out of the tent, leaving the three officers alone again. Martin, who had said nothing, put his quill into the inkwell and blew on his note to dry the ink. Benjamin watched with the sharp eye of a hawk, wanting to know what was contained in the emergency missive. His eyes darted to Zeller, across the tent, who was trying to look busy reading reports, but Ben caught him stealing a glance at his commander.

Harry unfolded the report. Benjamin Martin watched his commander keenly and covertly. From his vantage point, he could see that it was brief, maybe three paragraphs.

"No!" Colonel Burwell heaved in anguish as he collapsed into his chair. The man shook his head, then rested his forehead in his palm, his elbow on the table. He moaned quietly under his breath, in obvious agony.

Both Zeller and Martin got up from their chairs. They knew that whatever the word from home was that he had just received was not good.

Always ready to assist and spring into action for her superior, Zeller spoke as he approached. "What can I do, sir?"

The militia colonel and the major both knew of the horrid news that came from his farm just days ago. Harry Burwell had kept the contents of the disturbing message quiet, preferring to stew and grieve over it alone. When he could take no more, he had given it to Zeller and Ben Martin to read. Both were surprised to find a scathing letter written in the fine penmanship of Lieutenant Colonel William Tavington of His Majesty's Green Horse. They knew that the legion had confiscated the Burwell homestead and were now using it as a billet and supply depot for royal troops.

The message from the redcoat colonel was alarming and taunting, informing Harry that he had forced Burwell's teenaged daughter into his bed and stolen her virginity. "What a fresh fruit she was to have picked. Indeed, her pulp is so sweet that I have decided to share her amongst my officers. No doubt her womb shall be filled with a dragoon bastard, and the traitor Clark won't want her anymore. Perhaps she will discover the enjoyment of the act, and willingly spread her legs for the entire legion. She could very well become the favored camp follower of the redcoat cavalry!"

The two couldn't blame Harry for keeping the embarrassing letter to himself. He only let them read it after swearing an oath to never divulge what was in it to anyone, for if the terrible news was to reach the locals, it would be only by the British planting the gossip, and hopefully it would be unbelievable and confused. He would be damned if his own men would contribute to spreading such a rumor.

Martin and Zeller had consoled their aggrieved commander as best they could, beseeching him to have hope; that it was only a propagandic lie spun to threaten him as a leader. Tavington surely would not have assaulted her under threat of court martial. But why shouldn't Colonel Burwell believe it? The dragoons had the worst reputation in all of King George's army, seemingly being allowed to pillage, rape, burn, murder, ignore flags and truce, abuse parole and prisoners. "Le vert calaverie," as the colonial French citizens smattered throughout the ranks called them. And as it looked to outsiders, Tavington's raiders went unpunished for their atrocities.

"She was flogged," Harry announced, disheartened. "Only six lashes, but still..."

Martin took the letter from Harry and read it, with Zeller peering over his shoulder doing the same. This latest message was penned by Atterson, of the mercantile in town, as told to him by Johnny Lander, who had witnessed it. Devington's esteemed shopkeeper noted in the letter how shaken young Lander was, and became ill to his stomach at just the retelling of the incident.

Harry buried his face in his hands. "For old, unusable weapons, it seems," he groaned, voice muffled by his palms. "It was contraband, probably hidden by me years ago, yet she suffered for it!"

"It's clear that he wanted to make an example of her," Zeller said, re-reading the letter now in his hands, "to frighten the locals."

"We should send the butcher's notes to General Cornwallis," Martin stated, "then he will see, in Tavington's own handwriting, the acts that he admits to."

"No, that would take too much time," Burwell bemoaned.

"Time?" Zeller queried.

"Think about it, Harry," Benjamin coaxed.

"No," the colonel refused. "I don't have to. I've already come to a decision of what to do."

"That is?" Zeller asked.

"I want her out of there," Harry answered simply. He turned to look at his two aides, and his eyes were dark with determination and hatred. "I want her some place safe, away from that monster!"

"What can we do to help?" Ben said, his voice low and calm.

"Help me weed through these reports and missives to get them done and off my desk," he said of all the paper spread out over the table. "Then we will meet later and come up with some kind of plan to rescue Betsy that won't disrupt the daily runnings of this regiment and pull too many men away."

The two men pulled up chairs, one on each side of their leader around the table and began to wade through the paperwork. But the first letter that Benjamin reached for, was politely scooped up by Burwell.

"You don't have to check this one," he said. "It's only a letter from General Washington."

"What does it say?" they were always curious as to what the supreme commander had to say in his letters.

"That I have been promoted to Major General."

Benjamin relaxed back in his chair and gave a smug look to his friend and fellow military leader. "When were you going to tell us?"

"When it sank in and I could believe it myself," replied Burwell, his voice weary.

"Well done, sir," Zeller smiled congenially across the tabletop.

"Congratulations, Harry, or should I say, General Burwell," Colonel Martin saluted. "You have earned it."

Zeller looked up and smiled at his trusted superior. "Huzzah, General," the aide de camp said with a nod.

"Thanks," Harry simply replied. He was still burning inside from the humiliating abuse his daughter was forced to endure, and now his heart ached at the fact that with his wife and son, recently dead, and Betsy, in British custody, could not be there to celebrate an achievement he thought he would never live to attain.

/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/

July 1778

South Carolina...

The oppressive heat of the South Carolina summer was in full swing and Captain Bordon's patrol had been out in it since early morning. Riding, checking passes, asking questions, surveying the area, keeping their frightening presence in the county ever alive had left the officer and his score of men under a layer of sweat and red dust kicked up from their horses. They were thankful to finally be riding up the long driveway of the Burwell plantation.

Though tired, Hugh Bordon kept his professional countenance and dismissed the men with his compliments and thanks before parting ways. He looked back only once to see the soldiers scattering in different directions toward their modest tents, and caught sight of his second for the patrol today, Lieutenant Kidwell, at the well, drawing water and conversing with the pretty housemaid named Myriam. He continued on wearily, leaving his duties of late behind.

Hugh trudged slowly up the sidewalk to the main house, the muscles of his legs in full revolt from being in the saddle for so long. One more spasm in his thigh would drop him to the ground, he knew it.

Within a moment, he crossed the threshold into the back of the house, where the voices of the servants in the preparation kitchen met him in the back hallway. The two maids within, busy with rolling out pie dough, did not call a greeting to him and he did not acknowledge them. That was fine with officer; he was exhausted and preferred to be left to himself anyway.

The captain came to the foyer of the center hall, where he rounded the corner and set a tired foot on the wooden steps. He climbed the stairway, which seemed longer than usual to his sore body. When he reached the second floor landing he sighed, relieved to be within sight of his quarters. As he made his way to his room, he took note of the closed door of Miss Burwell's chambers.

Once at his own bedroom, he hesitated a moment, staring blindly at the wood of the girl's door. In a flash, he recalled the pitiful state she was in when he examined the angry red slices that criss crossed her back, nearly two weeks since the flogging. He remembered the maid, Miss Pansy, and how she'd glared at him, spewing that the girl would never trust, nor ever want to see again, another redcoat after the unfairness of the incident. And indeed, most of the servants had regarded all of them with a frozen coolness, not doing absolutely any more than they had to just to get by. Hugh knew that William Tavington could care less, but Bordon felt it deeply. He had worked hard to get the trust of all the residents, for to him, they could all potentially be turned.

The captain could only assume that the Burwell girl felt the same. He wondered how he could face her now, knowing she must harbor the same distrust and rancor for him as she must have for all of King George's soldiers. It left him sour inside that all the months he had spent building a rapport with the young lady and her staff was torn asunder in a matter of moments.

Since the whipping, the girl spent most of her days in her room, humiliated at what had happened, and sore and recovering from the physical injury of it. The captain had left her alone, to heal from the pain and the shame. He had only seen her occasionally when she left to go to the necessary or some other small task.

The officer had missed seeing Miss Burwell, and did indeed wonder how she was doing. As he entered his room, he resolved to pay her a short visit.

Once inside, he glanced at a couple of letters and a Pennsylvania Gazette laying on the bedspread of his neatly made bed. His eyes crossed the small room to his desk, which he had taken the time to straighten up and organize before he left, now had a pile of reports and missives waiting for his perusal and signature.

He quickly shed his clothes, careful not to shake too much dust and dirt from his uniform onto the floor of his clean quarters. He laid a towel on the floor in front of his wash stand and looked at as much of his body as he could see in the small mirror. His face was dirty and tanned, and his chest and arms were white and grimy. He chuckled at his reflection, surprised at just how the Carolina dirt could make its way under his clothes and settle onto the skin beneath.

Bordon unwrapped the thong from about his plait of red hair, then undid the braid. His locks fell in waves about his broad shoulders. He ran a brush through it trying to calm the unruly cinnamon mane. After a moment of grooming, he saw that the brush had done the trick of taming his hair and didn't feel the need to dampen it for further smoothing. It would be fine for no more than a brief appearance before his commander and casual evening meal.

He didn't call for hot water, knowing it would take too long to get it. Instead he poured a bit of the crystal liquid from the porcelain pitcher into the bowl, and dipped a flannel in it. The water wasn't ice cold, but not quite up to room temperature either, thanks to the crock it had languished in all day. Hugh wet his hands, rubbed the cake of soap between them and onto the rag, making enough lather to clean. He then ran the soapy rag over his body, taking a quick standing bath, needing to be rid of the red dust and sweat that covered him and made him itchy and miserable.

With the water in the porcelain basin now dingy and soapy, he grabbed another rag and poured some fresh water from the pitcher over it. He rinsed and wiped the remaining soap from his body, and sighed at how good the cool water felt.

Instead of drying off with his towel, he stood there nude, in the privacy of his own room. The curtain was fluttering lazily at the window, a fine warm breeze blowing into his quarters. The officer let his body dry in the gentle moving air of his chambers, cooling his hot skin as it did.

Afterward he bent down and retrieved the wet towel he had stood on, wiping up the water spilled on the floor about the area. After hanging the towel over the washstand to dry, he padded across the room to his bureau. He pulled a clean pair of doe colored trousers and a white shirt from the chest drawer and quickly donned them.

Spying his watch on the bed, the captain flipped it open and grimaced at the time. It was after 6 pm and dinner hour was quickly approaching. Bordon also knew that his commander would most likely want to talk with him about the time spent at the fort. He sighed, unhappy that he couldn't just lounge casually the rest of his evening in his room, staying cool in only a shirt and breeches. The dragoon adjutant consoled himself with the fact that he wouldn't have to be in full uniform to take dinner at table with the other officers; just pull on his waistcoat, tie his neck stock and slip into his boots would make him presentable enough. He could even get away with his hair pulled back into a loose pony tail without the tight braid of daily legion wear.

Bordon put his vest on, buttoning it up fast. Then he pushed a comb through his hair, pulling his ginger mane back with a red ribbon. Last, he wrapped an ivory cravat about his neck and tied it into a casual knot. He finished by looking in the mirror where he assessed himself as dressed up enough for dinner and a meeting with his superior.

The officer headed out of his room and once again hesitated in the hallway. He stood there just staring again at the wood of Miss Burwell's closed door. None of the other dragoons had her ear and trust, nor shared the closeness that the two of them did, so he assumed that no one had bothered to come and speak with her while he was gone or try to assuage her fears. It irked him that she was thought of as little more than a captive by the redcoats around him. It had troubled his heart as well, that he had to leave so soon after her flogging, sure that she had been left to languish in festering fear and distrust.

He felt the burning need to set that right straight away.

With confidence, he knocked firmly on the closed door of her chamber. "It's Captain Bordon. May I come in?"

"Yes", was the lackluster toned answer he heard through the door.

Betsy Burwell had spent the better part of the last 10 days cloistered behind the closed door of her room. She felt protected there, away from the prying eyes and hushed whispers and downright embarrassment her flogging had brought with it. She had no one to face there; nobody to explain her side of the story to; no persons watching her-pitying her.

The girl knew that she had been made an example of by the Colonel. Being flogged in front of everyone had left her humiliated. The pain of her mortification hurt worse than the actual sting of the lash. She felt no dignity left to preserve, so like a frightened child, she hid in her room, the seemingly only safe place for her.

So she shuddered in fear when she heard the knock on her door and Bordon's voice. He had been the only redcoat she trusted; now she wasn't sure. Miss Burwell had doubted that the dragoon second in command would challenge his superior officer on her punishment; he couldn't under threat of loss of his rank. And the man had been in no physical shape at the time to even try to prevent it, a fact she could not fault him for.

Dressed only in her nightgown and housecoat, she pulled the robe tightly about her and tried to find some strength to face the redcoat officer as he walked through her door.

"Good day, Miss Burwell," he began softly. She merely nodded.

"I've been gone at the fort for so many days," Bordon informed, already feeling the awkwardness of this situation, "and I wanted to inquire after your recovery."

"I'm well," Betsy said hoarsely. She looked at the floor, avoiding his curious eyes. The girl had experienced his excellent deference and she knew that if she looked into his eyes, that she would be drawn in and ensnared in diplomacy, when all she wanted to do was cloak herself in anger and distrust; it was her only defense.

"That's good to hear." The captain kept his eyes on the girl, knowing she felt ashamed. He, too, had known the burning pain of the whip. As a young recruit in England eight years earlier, he'd received 20 lashes for breaking curfew. He had been on an evening's leave to see Sarah, his future wife, who he had been wooing at the time, and didn't make it back before eleven bells. As usual for men in the army, he had been stripped to his bareback and flogged in front of his entire brigade. For men, the humiliation of it seemed to wear off faster, as most of the recruits had been punished by the whip, time in the stocks, or confinement to quarters at one time or another. They all had empathy for one another.

But Miss Burwell was a young girl; fragile, and for a female to be stripped to her nightgown for all to see was humiliating enough. But to suffer punishment in front of all, then know that the rumors would travel the countryside, was more than she could take. Captain Bordon could only assume that her trust with the British, including him, was probably on shaky ground.

He pressed on, wanting her to know that he cared for her welfare. And needing to know where he stood with her.

"I've been thinking," he started, his words cautious and measured, "that it would be fine for you to call me by my Christian name when it is just the two of us in company."

The girl glanced up at him just long enough to search his face for jest. Satisfied that his invitation was no joke, she sighed and cast her eyes downward again. "Of course," she answered, less than excited.

After a jagged silence cut between them, she spoke to dissipate it, speaking the only response that came into her mind. "Then you must call me as such."

"Certainly," he replied, smiling cordially despite the fact that she still hadn't held his gaze. He felt some hope in knowing that she would allow such an informality between them.

More silence, permeating the air and hanging low, seemed to be the buffer that held the captain back. How could he break the stubborn ice surrounding the girl, he wondered. The redcoat officer, always a master at interrogations of prisoners, was falling short here. He needed her to open up and talk. Any words would do; he knew how to wade through them to find conversation.

Bordon swallowed then continued on. "Um...may I check your wounds, Betsy? I've been concerned with how you are healing," the officer explained gently; honestly.

"Yes," she responded with a sniffle, fighting a sudden lump in her throat and teary eyes. Without thinking, she let her loose robe fall down her arms, stopping at her elbows, then she pushed the camisole top of her shift off her shoulders. The garments bundled around her waist, exposing both back and bare chest.

Hugh Bordon, eight feet behind her and just to the side, gulped hard and groaned under his breath when he saw a glimpse of her bare left breast from the side. The officer wasn't even aware that his mouth had dropped open and gave him the appearance of a gawking young schoolboy. Still the man looked on dreamily and in disbelief. He couldn't take his eyes off the pert, young teat, standing noble away from her chest with absolutely no sag to it. It wasn't as buxom as some of the whores' breasts he'd had the pleasure of seeing, but was no small bud either. It was firm and high of a girl just getting the first curves. The skin was milky white, and the nipple so very pink and smooth, the tip barely jutting out, teasing him and making him want to see it at full stiffness.

Betsy turned her head to catch the officer gaping transfixed at her bit of nudity. She had been so used to letting her servants doctor her back this last week that dropping the top of her chemise was nothing to her now. The girl realized her error: that he wasn't one of her female housemaids there to slather butter and herbs on her wounds.

She looked ahead again, rolling her eyes at her own lack of thought and sighed. "Sorry," she murmured as she nonchalantly covered her front.

With her modesty restored, Bordon, still unable to speak due to his own shock, stayed in place, not wanting to move. His cock had twitched within his woolen pants at the sight, and now a semi erection had formed, and he was trying hard within his mind to calm his body.

The redcoat officer took a deep breath and composed himself. Feeling a little easier now, he padded quietly to her side, hoping his manhood wasn't apparent through his trousers.

Regaining composure, he acted every bit the restraint of his profession and looked her wounds over as a doctor would.

There was only a little redness and swelling. Mostly, the six vivid pink, raised lines on her back were apparent. He thought that she may have scars, but faint at that.

With a quiet thanks, he backed up and turned away as the girl pulled her robe back over her shoulders, making herself decent.

He spoke carefully again, testing her trust, hoping it had not gone. "How long have you been in here?"

"Days," she answered in a small voice, turning away from him.

"I, too, know the sting of the whip," he imparted.

She didn't want to hear it for she was too lost in wallowing in her own sorrow and humiliation. Miss Burwell mumbled a "hmm" and listened shallowly to his story.

As he retold it, and how it was more of a rite of initiation for young redcoats and how they rallied about each other afterwards, it only deepened her contemptive feeling that they were indeed a brotherhood, closed off to any outsiders. Then she questioned her own self, and how she could have put so much trust in this one enemy officer. What she now thought of as her own stupidity sickened her. She had to find some strength within her soul somewhere in order to steel herself against the British invaders.

She soon realized that the captain was no longer speaking, and another heavy silence passed between them. Betsy turned away and spoke.

"Hugh, I appreciate your concern," she admitted, "but I'm tired and I no longer wish to speak of this. Please just leave me be."

"Yes," he answered with disappointment. The officer turned and headed toward the door. He paused there, his hand resting on the doorknob. He still had an unresolved issue that he needed the answer to. Immediately.

"I need to know something," he began plaintively.

Miss Burwell, who had turned back to gaze blindly out the window, closed her eyes and sighed. She didn't want to answer any more questions from him.

"What?" The girl continued to look out the window, not bothering to face the captain.

"Do you trust me still?" He stepped toward her from the door.

"I don't trust ANY redcoat!" she snapped out, more than irritated.

"You can trust me," he defended himself.

She whirled around quickly, nearly knocking the brawny officer down with the breeze about her movements. "Why should I?! You're the same as all the rest! A member of your brotherhood!"

"I am not like the rest!" he appealed.

"Yes you are! All of you!" she growled. "You are a brotherhood. You defend each other and cover one another's misdeeds-"

"I am not like that," he said just as the image of his own rape of Mrs. Selton's houseservant flashed across the back of his mind. "Your flogging...I protested it to Colonel Tavington. I said that it was too much."

That did nothing to sway her. She heard his words, but they barely registered. She turned away.

"It is part of my duty to protect you," he argued.

"I don't see how you have the time with all of your other duties," she spat sarcastically,

"You must trust me," he beseeched, reaching for her elbow. "I am doing my best to protect you."

"I don't want your protection!" cried the girl. "I just want you all to leave!"

"That isn't going to happen," Bordon informed.

She turned and scowled at him. "Then send me away...somewhere away from your leader."

"That isn't possible either," the officer advised.

Would they never leave? Would her life ever get back to where it was before the war, despite the deaths of her mother and Stephen? Couldn't they move someplace else. She turned back to the window and dissolved into tears, helpless to guide her life in any direction.

"I need you to trust me," Hugh begged, sounding nearly broken.

"No," she blubbered in a muffled voice as she cried into her hands.

The redcoat captain could take no more of her tears. He turned her about gently and pulled her to him, though she fought weakly to stay away from him. Once in his arms, she sobbed into his chest, leaving tracks of tears on his waistcoat.

The officer breathed a sigh of relief to be comforting her. He loved her body against his the scant times he had been lucky enough to console her. The man relished holding her firmly within he circle of his arms.

After a moment more of her weeping, he took her chin between his fingers and lifted her head. He gazed down at her tearful eyes and red cheeks. His member was nearly erect and his groin ached for her. The officer found himself nearly breathless.

"Don't you know what I feel for you, Betsy?"

The sniffling girl closed her eyes when she felt his lips gently on hers. She didn't resist him. Bordon was surprised when she didn't fight him. In fact, she melted against his body and into the kiss.

His tongue coaxed her lips softly apart. It snaked cautiously and slowly into her mouth, which she let him have his leisure to explore. As he did, she reached upward and slid her arms about his broad shoulders, not wanting to let go of him. The couple's lips tussled silkenly against each other, lingering softly as they toyed and played.

After another moment, her lips left his to trail feathery kisses along his jaw bone, ending at his ear, when she nuzzled his ear lobe. "Hugh," she whispered into it.

The murmuring of his name fired yet more boldness into his soul. He coaxed her arms down as she breathed lightly on his neck. His hands gently moved under the shoulders of her robe and eased it down her arms until it was free from her body and slid to the floor in a silken heap.

Captain Bordon's wet mouth took Betsy's willing one in another deep kiss, slow and sensual. As it did, the young lady slid her arms back around the shoulders of her lover. Her heart raced, making her feel that each breath was an effort. Her pulse thrummed in her ears like a drum.

This what she had wanted for so many months; an intimacy between them.

His hands soon found her youthful, apple sized breasts, of which the nipples poked the gossamer material over them into small triangles. The captain groaned as he palmed the twin, high orbs through her night gown.

"Oh," Betsy breathed at his boldness. Her head swirled at the feeling of his hands on her chest, and her lips departed his as her head dropped back in ecstacy.

She thought she would swoon when his finger tips pinched her nipples, even through the flimsy material. She felt an undescribeable thickness pushing through her body, which soon manifested into a pressure between her legs; an incredible longing. The girl wanted more but for the moment, was too caught up in the feeling to ask, as well as too timid.

The officer's penis was now fully erect and constricted in his breeches. The warmth in his groin drove him into a frenzy. He had to soothe his manly ache quickly.

Their lips were again together, their mouths open and hungry. The couple's tongues touched for an instant, enough to tease a forced breath into each of their throats. His mouth left hers, and she murmured a groan in protest. The captain's mouth placed a trail of soft, airy kisses along her cheek, ending at her ear where his breath upon the shell of it made her sex clinch tighly between her legs.

His lips trailed light kisses down her neck, and paused at where it met the junction of her right shoulder. Bordon lingered there, mouthing and licking the skin as his hands moved upward. Soon his fingers hooked the sleeveless top of her chemise and pushed it down her arms. It caught between her elbows and wrists, holding her there as if a prisoner to his whim. She didn't fight; somehow she liked the gentle restraint; she relished that he commanded her body and would give and take enough for both of them to enjoy.

The sight of her now bared, supple young breasts drove him mad with desire. His stiffened manhood ached with longing, wanting to get inside her tightness. He let a breath escape his lips as he adored and gazed at her youthful bosom, high, young, ripe for him to partake of. His hands gently palmed her breasts as his mouth found her mouth again. The captain took his time, kissing her lips and fondling her dugs. Betsy moaned into his mouth, loving the first time feeling of a man carressing her naked tits.

His mouth departed hers, making her groan in disappointment. She watched his head curiously as it dipped. Indeed the man could not wait to taste her rosy, youthful nipples. His lips soon caught one of the hardened, innocent pink rosebuds between them. But instead of sucking, he spent a moment teasing her with his lips whisping over it, and his tongue whisking around and over it.

"Oh...ah", Betsy whimpered in longing as her head dropped back. This was the first time ever for a man's mouth to cherish her breasts, and she loved it. Yet it already tormented her, his teasing actions on her aching, stiffened buds leaving her wanting...needing more.

And then his mouth clamped securely onto the nipple, sucking and pulling on it. Betsy arched even more into him, her knees going weak. "Ah...ah...yes," she murmured, her eyes closed.

His hand kept her other breast entertained and aching as he brushed his palm teasingly and quickly back and forth across that nipple. The girl looked down to watch his actions, cooing again as she saw his tongue snake out from between his lips to circle the nipple.

The girl softly pushed her hands into her loosely queued hair, as if keeping his head at her bosom. "Oh..Hugh," she whispered lustily as he suckled hard on her left nipple.

After a moment of patience of sucking her left bosom, his mouth left it and kissed fiery kisses across her chest to the right one. Bordon's mouth latched securely onto the puckered peak. He sucked it gently, then ran his tongue over it, and slowly around it, coaxing it to harden just a bit more. He smiled as she mewled, then nuzzled it with his lips, teasing her, making the girl want him to take it into his mouth again.

His suckling of her virgin, hardened nipples sent sparks through her bloodstream, and they all seemed to pool between her legs. She was left aching there, knowing she needed more. Her anxious sex tightened instinctively, which only seemed to heighten the longing in her womanhood.

His other hand went back to carressing her left breast. His fingers stroked and kneaded, then rolled the nipple between them. His thumb pad brushed over the stiffened point, teasing it with a lightness that made her breasts throb and ache, wanting more. Her mouth was dry and she struggled to breathe.

"Hugh...please," she pleaded breathlessly.

The redcoat officer smiled, pleased that he was awakening her sexual urges. He wanted her to need him.

Betsy, her fingers still entwined in his hair, slipped them out gently. A few auburn strands escaped, now loose outside of the ribbon. She put her hands under his chin and raised his head, stopping him from his pleasurable task.

As his face came to hers, she kissed him hungrily, surprising him yet again with her boldness. The young lady's tongue stroked slowly in his mouth, and he could still sense her shyness as this. She wisped kisses along his face to his ear, which she kissed and sucked ravenously, making his stomach fill with anticipation.

"Ah...God," he ground out as she did.

"You can have me," she whispered against his ear, which was all the permission he needed.

His lips took hers in a grateful kiss as he eased her backwards toward her bed. Once there, her shift still around her waist, she laid down with him atop the coverlet.

Captain Bordon turned onto his side to face her, kissing her neck and shoulders. With his lips soon back on her earlobe, which made her shiver, he murmured his desire.

"Spread your legs," he instructed.

She didn't answer but complied, panting heartily as she opened her legs for him. Betsy jumped, startled when she felt his hand first on her knee, then beginning to push her skirt upward. Once her chemise was bunched up at the top of her thigh, his hand moved upward, slowly, on the inside of it.

Betsy felt as though she would faint while awaiting his touch. "Oh," she cried when she finally felt his fingers glide over her sex.

Hugh was pleased to find her youthful cunt wet and sticky, ready for his cock. His fingers moved over the outer skin, as if committing to memory the feel of the folds. Betsy's middle seemed to somersault and spark with each touch.

His finger soon parted the lips and moved into her soaked womanhood, which he trailed his fingers around and through with such gentleness that it nearly brought the girl to tears. She moved her hips tentatively under his hand, then pushed them up a bit. She needed more; she needed him to touch her more deeply.

The officer's fingertips circled her engorged cleft slowly, which sent a jolt of electricity through her body. "Oh...ah...," Betsy moaned. The double assault of Bordon's lips enclosed firmly around her nipple, sucking it heartily, in union with his fingers massaging her swollen nub, made her wince and writhe beneath his touch. It was as if her body no longer belonged to her; he commanded it, demanding her to relinquish it to him to work a spell of pleasure on it.

Her hips seemed to move on their own, in tandem with his fingers, heightening the sensations. The girl's head sunk back into the pillow and she panted. She closed her eyes and begged again, unsure what she was pleading for. She just needed to feel more. "Oh my God, Hugh, please!"

The officer's lips curled into a smile against her puckered nipple. His mouth grazed her skin with quick, feathery kisses as it moved up her chest to her neck again. And as he nuzzled her ear, his hand left the folds of her quim to move only an inch lower. Once there, he gently pushed his thick index finger up into her tight, wet velvet.

"Oh," she whimpered, feeling his digit snaking its way deep into her. "Ah...yes...mmmmm", she groaned.

"Christ...your tight," he murmured as her slick vaginal walls hugged his finger snugly. He began to slowly slide it in and out of her, probing her young passage, getting to know its curves and depth.

She turned her head suddenly to find his mouth, where her lips took his in a deep kiss rent with her longing. She needed his mouth on hers. The girl wanted to feel his tongue searching her mouth, entangling with her tongue, just as his finger was searching within her satin cave.

After a moment of this pleasure, he withdrew his digit from her, making her pull back from him mid kiss. Never taking his eyes from hers, he pressed two large fingers up into her vagina, a bit more insistently than gently as he did initially.

Betsy's eyes widened in shock. Instantly she cried out in discomfort, his fingers stretching her. "Shhhhh," he quieted her.

He was in disbelief himself at how her wetness stretched at his invasion, yet welcomed and encompassed his questing fingers within. Hugh was amazed at just how tight her youthful pussy was after having been penetrated twice before...but months ago.

"Relax," he whispered against her lips. HIs mouth left hers, where he dragged it softly against her skin back down to her chest. His lips clamped onto her nipple and sucked as he left his fingers resting deep inside her wetness.

After a moment of suckling, he stopped, then teased her stiffened nipple with his tongue. He circled it slowly, then lapped at it with fast strokes. The captain paused again, slowing down, licking at the taut peak leisurely, then agonizingly slow, as if drawing out her tension.

It worked, for his mouth on her chest caused a pooling of heaviness between her legs, making her want him so. Again, her body seemed not her own and she found her hips moving and urging her lover's fingers to probe her again.

Bordon then eased his two digits out slowly, teasingly so, to where the tips of his fingers hung just inside the opening, threatening to pull free from her cave with just a breath. "No," the girl gasped at his teasing, not wanting his fingers to come out of her. With that, he shoved his fingers hard back up into her, making her gasp. And when his fingers found resistance within her, he plunged just a tick further, finding her cervix, and grazing the tips over it.

In a moment, his fingers within her wetness found a rhythm with her gently swaying hips, the movements by each goading the other one on. Her fingers worked into his tied back hair again, and she eased his head from her chest back upwards.

His lips crashed into hers, and the two hungrily licked and probed each other's mouths. All the while, his fingers plunged quietly and deeply within her, stroking her satin walls with patience. The gentle, short probing of his two thick digits within her was driving her insane. Her hips, which she felt surely had separated themselves from her body for they had a mind of their own, were urgently meeting the strokes of his fingers, matching the rhythm.

Betsy slowed the pace of their kisses, the two of them savoring one another's lips, playing gently up each other's mouths. By this time, Hugh's erection was hard as a stone and he knew he needed relief soon. Her silky tightness was so wet and inviting, as if beseeching for his hardness to invade.

With his manhood aching and throbbing, Bordon rolled himself to where he lay in between the young lady's legs. They continued to kiss languidly, though he was frantic to get his eager cock inside her wetness.

As he reached down to his pants, he heard footsteps and muffled female voices in the hallway. They passed just as quickly, and he was sure they belonged to servants doing their chores. The quick distraction was enough to pull him back to his senses.

The officer pulled away from his lover, looking with concern over his shoulder at the doorway. "What's wrong," Betsy asked in a murmur.

"The door is unlocked," he breathed.

"We will be fine," the girl assured in a whisper. She kissed his neck, trying to comfort him. She was aching to have him. And at this moment, she was so very wet and on fire for the officer that she cared not if anyone should enter.

"No," he insisted, pushing himself to sit up between her legs still. " We can't! We will be discovered."

Betsy felt like she wanted to cry. She didn't understand. He was all over her only a moment ago, poised and ready to plunder her, and she just as eager to receive him there.

She propped herself up on her elbows. "Don't you want me?" Her eyes were misted, and her heart hurt with the sudden rejection.

He looked down at her, sincerity and truth coloring his blue eyes. "Yes, very much so."

"Then why can't we do this? We both want it," Betsy pointed out as she sat up and pulled her shift back over her shoulders, covering her breasts. "I have wanted you for months."

"And I you," he admitted as he moved to sit at the edge of her bed. "But we can not."

An unwieldy silence passed between them, both unable to speak of the moment they had just lost.

Hugh turned to her. "This is my fault," he said, squarely taking the blame. "I seduced you in a moment of your weakness."

She reached out to touch him."But I wanted-"

He jumped from the bed, leaving her reaching out for him, just missing her fingertips. "No. We can't ever do this. I will lose my commission."

As the captain paced her floor, she sat up and scowled, a cloud of anger moving over her. She hated seeing a bit of selfishness come out in him after he had just given her so much pleasure.

"No, of course not! Your ambition comes first!" she sneered.

"Betsy, it is not just that," argued Hugh, "You wouldn't trust me either."

"What?!" she retorted. None of this seemed to be making sense. She trusted him enough to have let him under her skirt just a moment ago, only to have him stop at the slightest noise.

"You would think I was just another redcoat officer taking advantage of a prisoner," he pointed out.

"We both want this," she shot back.

"Yes, so I must be the voice of reason here," said Bordon. "If we are caught together, both our reputations would be in jeopardy."

Miss Burwell, now off the bed and fuming, turned away from him. She was discovering just how much pent up angst a woman could suffer just a few moments after her sexual awakening.

"I am an officer, and I have worked hard," he pressed. "I don't want to lose my commission. And you are betrothed to another man. You and your family's reputation will suffer should you be discovered with me."

Hugh, in anguish, held his tongue for another moment as he paced. He heaved a hard breath, then sidled up behind the young woman. Cautiously he touched her shoulders, and rubbed them for a moment in a gesture of comfort.

Betsy closed her eyes. She was near tears with exasperation for the aborted experience.

"I need you to trust me," he whispered, his lips near her left ear. "I don't want just to get between your legs."

Of course he did want to bed the girl, but he desired more to keep her trust; to keep his hand in the pot of information. He needed to be able to turn the girl in the future, and maybe her servants. He still believed that the war could be won in little steps, one person at a time.

"This cannot happen between us," the captain declared as he turned the hapless girl about to face him. "In the future, if I cannot control my desires in your presence," he warned, "then I will have to avoid you." With that, he turned and quickly exited the room, leaving Betsy there alone, shaken up and confused.

Once in his room, he closed the door and collapsed back against it, needing something to hold him up. In his frustration, he reached for the linen on the basin stand. Then he urged his breeches down, freeing his aching cock from his pants. He covered the head of it with the towel and quickly gripped the root of it with his right hand.

He tightened his fist about it as hard as he could, wanting to allay the pain of his hardness caused from his botched attempt at intimacy. He moved his hand from root to tip in a fast, brutal way, urging himself to an orgasm faster than he had ever. And in just a few strokes, he came with a forcefulness that left him panting for breath as his semen stream shot thickly into the cloth.

"Damn," he swore as he wiped the tip of his penis clean and threw the soiled towel onto his bureau. With his knees still shaking, he made his way to the basin stand, where he dipped his hands into the room temperature water.

He bent over and splashed his face. As he rose, he pulled the ribbon from the back of his hair and tossed it onto the bed. The officer dipped his hands again then ran them through his red waves of hair. Lastly, he washed his penis off and rinsed his hands, hoping to have washed her scent from his fingers.

Hugh pulled his breeches back up as he turned away from the stand, then grabbed the ribbon from his bed as he strolled to his bureau. He brushed his hair quickly then tied the ribbon back into a long, auburn ponytail. The officer finished by pushing his shirt down into his trousers, straightening his vest and cravat.

"There now," he commented quietly to his reflection. "The picture of a gentleman."

Then he frowned in disdain at his own image in the mirror. "Who am I teasing? I am a complete scoundrel."

After his lament, the captain inhaled a breath of courage and relief, then exited the room to find his commander.