Hi readers. Again and as usual, let me apologize for not posting any recent chapters. I swear I haven't forgotten this story and am very much still emotionally involved in it. Real life just pulls me away. Last summer, I went on to our overtime crew at work as the money is just too good to turn down and much needed by my family. And, on July 31, I dislocated a finger, and although the doc got it back into the socket, the tendon pulled off of the bone during the dislocation and so, the finger didn't move. (excuses, excuses right?) Wore a splint for nearly 5 months in an attempt by hand surgeon to get the tendon to reattach to the bone and start to work it again. I only just got out of the splint a couple of weeks ago. (thank God!). Couldn't type very well with a splinted finger and considered getting that Dragon voice software, but saw that even after a few years of it being out, that it still makes mistakes. I made enough mistakes typing with a finger splinted so didn't think I needed to invest in more software and make more mistakes! I never imagined it would take so much effort for a silly finger to heal, and just how much you miss the digit when it is needed in not only typing, but every day chores and things about your house and in life!
So, I am still working overtime at work but finger is better, so hopefully I can get to more regular updates. Thanks for your patience and I appreciate you keeping with the story!
JScorpio
Chapter 38 : Aftermath
He lifted his body up from the bed slightly as he took another drink of whiskey. It was Thursday, he recalled through the haze and muddle in his mind, and one evening after Miss Burwell's unfortunate incident.
Captain Hugh Bordon hardly knew what to make of the whole situation with Betsy and in its wake, what to do with himself. Usually, if he had come in late with a patrol, as in this instance, the middle of the night, Tavington would assign another officer to any riding and patrol duties that next day. The colonel would give the courtesy to his second to sleep in a bit, then he would shove some paperwork in Bordon's direction to fill out the day's duty, making for an easy day behind a desk. In this case, the morning after this horrid affair with his lover and her father's rebel cronies, Tavington's adjutant had proclaimed himself fit and ready to ride, assigning himself to patrol again.
All he wanted was to get away from the Burwell farm and occupy his mind elsewhere.
The captain got his wish. He'd been given a patrol, much to Tavington's disinclination. Bordon led the men, riding miles away from the farm and staying away until after dark.
And now, Thursday evening, he was home from that patrol, off duty and laying on a pallet with a whore. The doxy's tent wasn't far enough from the main house, he lamented. The officer had left the mansion with a bottle of alcohol in hand and the intention of drowning his emotions in liquor and quim.
Dinah was a pretty little bawd, working hard and enthusiastically atop him as she plied her trade. He watched her riding on his cock as he drank his whiskey. And although the liquid was warm going down his throat and calming his body, it did no good to quell the bitterness that choked his soul.
Bordon willed himself to concentrate on Dinah as she bobbed and swerved on his manhood. It felt good despite the whiskey working a dullness through his body. Try as he may, he couldn't keep his mind from straying elsewhere.
Amazement. Anger. Jealousy. Heartbreak. All this clashed together in his head, leaving his emotions in tatters and his mind unable to reason its way through the tangled mess.
He recollected his last time alone with Betsy, Wednesday, just yesterday morning, as he said a private goodbye to her in the drawing room. And just two nights ago, Tuesday evening, they had made love in her bed, and he had noticed that she was no longer shy, readily shedding her clothes in front of him to couple.
He knew that she felt something akin to love for him, and she had declared as much, but Hugh always thought her too young, at just 16, to know what love was. Bordon certainly did not love her. He knew it and told himself that, but he did have some feelings for her. He cared for her; wanted to be near her; longed for her when he was away; and he wanted to protect her. The captain could only explain it as a deep fondness and affection for her in his soul.
And he had given her his trust...as much as he could..to a point. The Captain never forgot his position, that he was an officer for the Crown and that she was a rebel chit-the daughter of a traitor General. He hadn't given his full self over to her, but he gave as much as he could. Bordon could not allow himself love for her. He knew where the line of prudency was drawn and his heart did not cross it.
Yet, her fleeing the farm had hurt him deeply. Though it was a military matter as she was an official prisoner, it was personal to Captain Bordon. And in this affair, though he would not cross the border into love, he couldn't seem to draw that proverbial line in the sand that reminded him that he was a redcoat and that Miss Burwell was his captive. It all ran together and he just could not seem to deal with it.
To Captain Bordon, it was a personal betrayal. Betsy chose the rebel cause in this instance. She chose to go with the traitors; to fall into her father's arms. She chose her father over him, plain and simple, and he was jealous and hurt. In his eyes, he perceived that Betsy would rather be with her traitor papa instead of him. That she loved Harry Burwell more.
Still, more conflict gripped him. He worried for her now that she was maimed and laid up with delirium and fever in her bed. Hugh had checked in on her a few times, her faithful servants hovered over her, taking care of the girl. The officer had worked up his own fury of what she had done that he couldn't find it within himself to take time to sit at her bedside. But feeling for her precarious situation did brood within him, as his own heart sank with the fear that she may never walk again, or at least, be a cripple forever. How could she have even chanced doing something like that, he wondered?
The heavy sigh that escaped Bordon's lips did not go unnoticed by the prostitute. Dinah had watched her customer's drinking as she fucked him, and even before she had mounted him, she kept her frustration over this bottled inside her. It wasn't the first time she had seen this from one of her patrons and wouldn't be the last. It was a hazard of her business: men drinking and wanting a quick, unencumbered screw. The liquor meant a loss in revenue for her as she had to spend more time with the drunken man either exhausting herself trying to get a limp prick hard or the soused man to finally shoot his wad. The captain's yard was going down, and she tried not to roll her eyes at the fact.
She reached forward and caught the redcoat officer's arm as he tried to take another swig. "Um...sir, "she whispered, "no more of this until we finish. It's making you soft."
She shifted her body off of his, hoping a change of position might arouse him again. The whore moved away from him and raised her skirt to give him a view of her bare ass as she repositioned herself. When she was on her her hands and knees, his voice stopped her.
"Finish me off with your mouth," Hugh stammered, tipsy and warm with the amber liquid.
"You're limp, captain," she protested softly.
The man reached into the pocket of his vest, which lay askew on the bed beside him. He tossed a guinea to the doxy. "I have all faith in you that your skill and prowess will raise it again."
Dinah quickly put the coin on the simple stool she used as a night table, then shimmied into position between his legs. Though warm and numb, Bordon felt her hand caressing his balls and felt her breath on his cock. He closed his eyes and let a breathy groan escape through pursed lips.
After only a moment of this, a knock on the tent pole broke the spell. Dinah ceased her ministrations as Bordon lifted his head from his pillow. "Piss off," he warned in a growl. "She's got an officer's cock in her mouth right now!" On any other day Bordon wouldn't have dared be so indiscreet and crude, but the muddle of emotions coupled with the warmth of whiskey made his usually quicksilver mind blurry and his normally disciplined mouth slack.
The two of them heard boots turn in the grass and quickly pad away. Bordon looked up at the prostitute and found her glaring down at him.
"What?" he asked.
"This is my tent, sir," she reprimanded sorely, unafraid of his wrath, "and I am accustomed to answering my callers myself!"
"Your mouth was full at the time," Bordon sneered. "I merely told the person all they needed to know."
"Yes, you certainly did, sir, and probably scared off a customer," she complained. "That is lost revenue for me this evening."
"Stop your nagging," Bordon groaned. "I gave you another guinea!"
"I would have politely asked them to come back later," she informed, not through scolding him yet for his impropriety.
"That is essentially what I told them."
"Oh, damn you, Captain," she huffed as she repositioned herself on her knees.
"Shut up and finish what you started," Hugh demanded.
A moment later, he was in ecstasy again when he felt the heat of her mouth encompass his aching prick.
Bordon closed his eyes and his mind wandered...to Betsy.
He saw her in his arms and felt a pang of longing in his stomach. Though they had made love only a few times, the memory of how her lithe body, inexperienced but willing, felt against him was imprinted in his mind forever. He ached for that now. The things he had paid the doxy to do to him tonight, he and Betsy had not yet done. The captain had been careful to take things slow and not make Miss Burwell do anything she wasn't ready for or uncomfortable with. She had not been atop him; she hadn't sucked his cock. He had longed for her to do that. The officer wanted to taste her nearly pure cunt, innocent in the ways of cunnilingus, but Hugh had held off on this as well. Just being naked in bed with her and having gentle, albeit rudimentary relations, had been enough to keep him satisfied. The man knew there was time.
For now, imagining that his prick was warm and wet in Betsy's mouth was enough to bring him to the edge. A quick rush of heat in his groin brought him from his reverie. He felt a tingling in his scrotum and his thighs tightened involuntarily. Then, an instant later, he exploded into the prostitute Dinah's mouth with a groan.
Captain Bordon had no idea if the doxy swallowed his semen or spit it out. He cared not and didn't ask. His urge was satisfied which was exactly what he paid for.
The redcoat officer pulled his breeches and boots on without a word or a thank you for the whore's services. And with his shirt hanging long and out of his pants, his cravat, waistcoat and jacket hanging over his arm, he exited her tent with his bottle of whiskey in hand. Hugh headed straight to the main house, though he stumbled drunkenly a bit on the path there. All he wanted was to lay down in his own bed and pass out drunk.
/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/
It had been a week since General Burwell's rebels were caught on the farm with young Miss Burwell escaping with them. The poor girl had spent those days bedridden and delirious with fever as her faithful servants attended her. Captain Bordon, still so angry and hurt, had spent that week immersed in dragoon duty by his choice, trying to keep his mind off Betsy. The man had only stuck his head in the doorway a scant few times to check on her. He knew she was well cared for by the corps surgeon and her servants.
Those few days of work-and sulking-had calmed his anger some and he now felt he could visit properly with Betsy and hear her side of the story without him raging at her. The officer entered her bedchamber, making Miss Myriam and Mrs. Leyanova bristle perceptively.
"I will see the prisoner alone," he demanded, his low voice full of military authority.
The two ladies, each servant sitting on opposite sides of the girl's bed, immediately thought the same thing. They both thought it unusual for him to refer to her as a captive. The women knew the captain had grown fond, in a platonic way, of their young mistress and always referred to her on a more informal basis. They had witnessed her to have developed an easy relationship with him, which was more than they could say for Colonel Tavington, who seemed Hell bent on victimizing the girl.
The head of the household staff stood up and crossed her arms. The Russian blood was immediately pumping fiercely through her body. "No. She is not well enough to be interrogated by you." She spoke English well, but that Cossack accent was still heavy and always made Captain Bordon fearful that he would miss some of her words. He liked to think that his high education and well bred worldliness would always catch him during life in a sort of safety net.
The quadroon maid, with beautiful dark olive skin, objected as well. "Yes. Your men questioned her that night," she protested. "Surely they reported her interview to you."
In this last week, it was apparent to Bordon and every other redcoat billeted there that the farm's servants and slaves were outraged at Miss Burwell's treatment. The officers and their men had endured the hard stares, short sharp answers and sometimes heavy silence from those people with mere rolling of their eyes. As long as they weren't in open rebellion or disobeying requests from their redcoat 'guests', the Crown's soldiers cared naught about their feelings.
And it was this known point exactly that confused these two women now. Captain Bordon, by far, was the most understanding and approachable officer in residence, and the servants had seen that he did seem to have a care for them and how they and the farm were treated. In particular, the dragoon captain had always been very kind and friendly with Betsy. And now, in her time of sickness and need, he appeared cold as metal to them.
"I will speak to her alone," Captain Bordon insisted, his voice menacing now.
Myriam wasn't afraid to speak up. Being of quadroon ancestry, she had learned to defend herself. She also knew that her somewhat exotic beauty could capture men's eyes, so she often used her charm and looks. The servant rose from her seat to challenge the officer. "She is too sick, sir."
Her actions didn't faze the man. Hugh didn't even roll his eyes or huff a sigh, which would have been his usual reaction. Instead, he stayed quiet and kept a stony, unflinching countenance. Another case of insolent colonials. Being so far away from His Majesty, many of them lacked manners, he gathered. Hugh Bordon often tired of them, challenging anything and everything, even if approached in a kind and courteous manner. He remembered the Generals' requests to approach as gentlemen, yet not be afraid to be firm and conduct authority. Having lived on this farm for nearly a year, he had learned how to corral the servants' occasional waywardness.
"Clear out now, or I will have both of you whipped!" HIs warning was stern and his blue eyes flashed anger. The hard look on his face let the women know right away that there would not be a second warning.
With an audible rustle of skirts, the women scurried to leave the room. Bordon followed behind them and locked the door.
From her bed where she had watched the short exchange, Betsy was dismayed at his treatment of her servants, but happy to finally see her lover. Yet, she was apprehensive, not knowing what he thought now after all that transpired that evening had been revealed. The only thing she knew was his reaction to her punishment. She knew that redcoat officer had tried to save her from the harshness of Colonel Tavington.
Bordon said nothing as he moved to her bedside, where he pulled the chair out of the way. He preferred to remain standing. It wasn't to be a leisurely visit and intended only to be a few moments. And though this was personal to him, he acted authoritative and cool, as if it was Legion business. He had built a sort of imaginary wall of duty and authority around him in the days following the incident. The officer felt protected within it, sort of guarded from outside influences and oddly enough, from some of his own feelings. He did not want to admit that her actions had hurt him, and he certainly would not expose that to anyone around him.
"How are you feeling, Miss Burwell?" he queried flatly, looking down at her. "How is your foot?"
The icy tone made Betsy cringe inwardly. He was just as cold and official as he was upon their first meeting over a year ago. She assumed the worst: that Hugh had no desire to continue their affair. The girl had imagined him as falling at her bedside and gushing with comfort and protection, which he was so obviously not doing. That was painful to the poor girl, having hoped for some kind of understanding and kindness.
Very well, she thought to herself after the shock of his lack of compassion passed. She would play at his game.
The answer she had to force out was stilted. "Poorly still." She was now trembling visibly and trying not to weep. "Your surgeon says the wound is healing well, but he cannot say if I will ever be able to walk again. Or to dance, to jump, to run..." Her voice trailed off and she looked away, toward the window, trying to hold back tears at her unfortunate circumstances.
The Captain had been informed that the bayonet blade had luckily penetrated her foot between the many bones, cutting through the sinew only. The surgeon, upon digital inspection into the injury, felt that although a ligament and muscle had been torn through, that most of it remained intact and he felt strongly that the fibers would mend together. He had no forecast as to whether she had lost any use of the foot, if she might suffer a permanent limp or have no use of it whatsoever.
Instead of comforting the poor girl, whose eyes were tearful, anger rose quickly within him and burst. With no shred of sympathy in his voice, he scolded her. "You have brought this upon yourself with that damned fool stunt you pulled!"
She reacted trying to defend herself. The young lady inched up on to her elbows. Even that slight movement in bed hurt her foot and made her wince aloud. "But...I—"
He interrupted her in a gruff tone. The officer didn't want her to have any chance to defend herself against his declaration of guilt. To him, it was a bad choice and absolutely her fault. "Tell me, Betsy. Were you in on their little plan to spring you to freedom?" If she was, then he was determined to find and break whatever line of communication she had to her father's camp.
"Hugh, please," she begged, but he cut her off immediately again.
The officer's words were rapid fire now. "Or did you really know nothing of it, which I find hard to believe," he growled back at her, on the offensive, "Or were your father's men just being gallant in taking the blame to exonerate you?" The last of his words were sarcastic.
Miss Burwell lay there, scared and taken aback at his behavior. No. This was an attack on her. She found her mind whirling and struck mute. She could see Hugh's face turning red as he spit the words out with nary a breath between them.
He leaned in over her, menacingly. "I want the truth." He watched her tremble as she pulled her sheet up around her neck, looking as though she would pull it over her head to hide. The girl was still dumb with shock.
"My questions here... now... are not dragoon business. The official interrogation is finished," he declared as his rich voice became less urgent. "THIS... is between you and I," he said in a subdued voice, sounding as if he had all the time in the world now to listen to her. His voice dropped again, to nearly a whisper, as his hard gaze held hers. "I need to hear it from your mouth."
A moment of silence passed with the girl still unable to speak. She tensed as she looked up at the officer, who had continued to stare down at her, his eyebrows raised in query. She was relieved that he was no longer barking admonishment at her.
Another moment passed. Then Betsy huffed a couple of breaths, which seemed to free her mind and voice. "I knew nothing of it!" she blurted out.
"I find that hard to believe," he scoffed.
"I didn't!" she defended. The teenager beseeched him. "You know me, Hugh. You would have felt that I had planned something. "
And with his knowledge of intelligence and being able to read prisoners, he knew she was right. A girl that young could hide nothing. "Yes, I would." The redcoat lowered himself onto the chair beside her bed and relaxed a bit.
"Truly. They made their way onto the farm somehow," she relented. "They just appeared in the house and presented their intentions. I had merely a minute to make a decision."
She paused, closing her eyes to recall that moment. Hugh said nothing as she did, understanding her need to reflect on the incident. The man had learned from interrogation of captives and spies that the mind often needed to stop the flow of a conversation to remember a decision; to play the scene again as if it could be changed.
"I left with them hoping—," she continued in a lost voice, which Bordon interrupted.
"Well, it was a foolish thing to do," he admonished. "You acted like a child. You need to grow up!"
"I grew up the minute you took me into your bed," she whispered.
Her comment stung him. Maybe it was the fact that he'd been billeted there for so long, or the fact that the two of them had smoothly and secretly evolved from friendship to romance. He had to remember that she was innocent when they met. He corrupted her. And through that action yes, she became a woman, having grown in that aspect. He was responsible for it and could not forget that. But at present, her defiled body now lagged behind an immature mind. Hugh couldn't seem to remember that she was not worldly; she had spent most of her 15 years sheltered on the farm with only little exposure to things cosmopolitan.
"Yes," the captain responded painfully. He sighed heavily, finally letting down his official stance, allowing his hurt to show through.
"Please let me explain, Hugh," she pleaded, looking sorrowfully up into his stormy blue eyes. "I had to decide quickly. I went because I wanted to see my father."
Her answer made him mad again, and made Betsy long for those two minutes of his sympathy which had just passed and were seemingly now gone forever.
Captain Bordon snorted in derision as he popped up from his chair. "You made a poor decision, and look what it brought upon you," he accused, his hands punctuating his words. Instead of continuing on, as Betsy thought she was in for a tirade, the man clammed up and turned away. He began pacing back and forth in frustration, angry at Betsy, and not knowing how to put his own feelings into words or where to find some magical balm to heal them.
Betsy sighed and laid back in bed, wishing he would leave. Her explanation seemed to be doing nothing to quell his anger, and the whole moment seemed futile. She was nearly as vexed as Hugh, knowing that no answer she could give him would ever be good enough. She knew him too well.
The officer stopped pacing and turned back to face the girl. His face was drawn tight with derision as he scolded her. "I have told you time and time again not to cross the Colonel, but still you insist on trying his patience!"
"You don't understand!" she shot back, near to bursting into tears.
Knowing that at any moment Betsy would start weeping, he took a breath to calm himself down. He didn't want to scare her, he merely wanted the truth from her; as she saw it.
He eased back into the wooden chair that sat next to the bed. The captain sighed again as he looked down, still wrestling with his own feelings. He needed to touch her, and before he realized it, his hand stroked some stray hairs off her forehead, then his fingers dropped to caress her cheek. "Then make me understand," he requested with the first sign of civility he had shown since entering the room moments ago.
His voice was subdued. Betsy heard a tincher of pain within it that made her own heart ache.
The girl breathed in, held the breath, then let it go. She spoke softly. "I miss Papa, and the Colonel won't let me go to him without it being made into a wartime trade to his advantage. You all won't even give us the courtesy of a brief visit under a temporary amnesty. "
Those words made the Captain think sarcastically that General Burwell would never return his daughter to British custody, as the rebels were no gentlemen in this war, fighting dirty at every turn. The officer held his tongue to listen to her explanation.
"I left with the full intention that I would get word to you of where I was, when I reached father," she confessed.
"I planned to speak to Father alone," she explained. "I was going to tell him that I don't want to marry Colonel Clark and ask him to break our engagement." She paused a moment as she shifted positions to sit up. She grimaced and winced as her heels made purchase within the sheets to push her upward. "I was going to tell him about us...how I feel about you. I would persuade him of the advantage of our courtship." Betsy stopped a moment, looking for a clue on Bordon's face as to what he was feeling. His countenance was that, she guessed, of his best bluffing-at-cards face. Betsy hoped that her clarification of the event met with his approval.
Since he said nothing and instead listened intently, she continued on. With no idea how he felt, she spoke cautiously, measuring every word. "After I notified you and you knew I was safe, I was hoping that the Colonel would give you furlough to come visit me and speak to my father about a cour—"
"Courtship?! " he interrupted with an incredulous tone. And then he let out a laugh of disbelief. "Betsy, we are at war. What would make you think that Colonel Tavington would afford me the luxury of a few days furlough to visit you, especially after you had escaped from here? Moreover, why would you think I would even trot my horse through the gates of an enemy fort?"
Miss Burwell was not ready to give in to his thinking. "White flag? Parley? A signed pass from my father to pass through—"
"No, Betsy!" he cut in again. "I would not, by myself on furlough or any time, put my person in danger of being captured."
"They cannot detain you under a white flag," she insisted.
The officer could not believe her thinking. The wishful and fancy of her thoughts was her romance. The insolence of her presuming to know military etiquette was her youth. And at this point, Hugh was not willing to overlook either. HIs temper breeched the surface again. "You colonials ignore white flags and abuse parole frequently! That is a fact!"
"Just as you redcoats inflict injury all over the countryside," she shot back. "Don't think I haven't heard rumors of dragoon brutality. And I have certainly been on the receiving end of it!"
"I won't deny any of that," Bordon admitted haughtily. The officer didn't feel the need to apologize for his actions or those of his fellow soldiers. "Let me remind you that this is a time of war."
Captain Bordon paced three steps, then turned back to look at the bedridden girl. Bordon stared down at Betsy, summarily pinning her down with his slate blue eyes. "Very well. Consider if I did make it in safely to your father's camp and was let to leave later," he conceded momentarily, just ruminating aloud, "what makes you think that your father would let you marry a redcoat?"
Miss Burwell paused, still held captive by the officer's stony eyes. HIs tone of voice made her feel suddenly foolish that she had mentioned that. But it was part of the truth of her explanation. Why do I have to explain my feelings, she wondered.
"It wouldn't matter to him," she answered. "I know my own father. He would look past the uniform to see the man."
"Hmph," he smirked. "He may be your father but he is also a rebel general—a traitor—busy with running a war. He would not allow you to court an enemy officer."
"He would indeed!" she shot back. "He would understand that I love you and want to marry you!"
"We have never once discussed marriage or courtship!" Bordon reminded her. His harsh words stung Betsy's heart. She had assumed all along during their affair that he felt and had been thinking exactly as she had; wanting a formal courtship, and more.
Hugh was panicked inside. He was amazed at how things had gotten out of hand. Their little affair, the stolen kisses, the embraces in dark corners, the comfort of making love in each other's beds, had gone too far. The officer had gone into the tryst with affection for the girl and wanting to spend some time alone with her for however long the secret romance should last. He was fully aware that she was another man's fiance.
He decided right then and there to set things straight and would not let the romantic musings of the young girl continue on. That would do them both no good. He put his foot down.
"Betsy, I was a father once as well," he reminded her, "And I can tell you that if I had a daughter, I would never break a betrothal to her from a fellow countryman of good breeding and class in favor of an enemy officer, no matter how rich or well connected to society he might be. Absolutely not!"
The young girl broke down, sobbing aloud as she thought that in all likelihood, her own father would do the same. In a few words, he had dashed her silly dreams of a courtship and marriage to Captain Hugh Bordon.
The officer stood there, offering no consolation as the girl wept into her bunched up sheets. He was bound and determined not to let her tears affect his heart. This was dragoon business, after all, and she had broken rules. Now was a good time for him to remind her that she was a colonial. And these days, all colonials seemed to misbehave.
After enduring a moment of her weeping, he spoke. "Judging by your recent actions, you are no better than your traitor father. A typical colonial behaving like a brat. Behavior such as that doesn't help you while in our custody."
Sniffing and wiping her tears, anger came over her face. It squeezed her mouth and eyes into a scowl. It had been the word he used: custody. He made it out as if it was a courtesy to be under the guard of His Royal Majesty's elite Green Dragoons. She was their prisoner, plain and simple, and she woke up to that fact every day for over a year.
"I haven't forgotten that I am imprisoned here," she snarled back in a low voice.
The redcoat wasn't about to give in to her. "Yes. And a captive in your own home with your servants and slaves about you. You are warm, fed, protected, and given a fair amount of privileges. You always forget that for a prisoner, that you have it better than most prisoners, that you could be languishing away, hungry and cold in some disease infested dungeon!"
"You redcoats invaded my home and took my freedom!" She was trying to sit up again, and her own anger making the pain in her foot ache even harder. "No matter how you choose to call—"
"Just who is your allegiance to?" the captain asked simply, no emotions in his voice.
The question immediately disarmed the girl. Why would he ask me such a thing, she wondered. I've been naked and lain against him in his bed. I've bared my soul to him. He knows how I feel about him as a man. I have cooperated with him and the colonel's requests. He has commented that I was a mere innocent that was caught up in a war raging about me. Why ask me this?
"You seem to have rebel leanings," he added.
"I may have sympathy for them," she defended herself calmly, "Good Lord, my father is one and I love him. But I am still an English citizen."
"Oh? Really?" he scoffed.
"Yes!" Her ire rose again. "I sign my name on your official vouchers right beside the words 'true and faithful subject of the crown.' Doesn't that say as much?"
"Your actions tell otherwise," stated the captain. "And during this time of unrest, you must declare your loyalty." Again he crossed back again over the line of politics and made it personal, reflecting his own pain into the conversation again. "You chose your father over me."
The girl didn't see it that way. "No, I didn't. I love you both. Why must I choose?"
The captain's face darkened as the seriousness and relevancy of this issue to him. The stare he gave Betsy made her shudder with the fear that whatever he might say next, would be final and not repeated. She hated feeling the dread of words that could pierce a soul as bullets would a body.
"We are at war," he reminded her again, his voice near to a whisper. His words were slow and measured. Deliberate. "Your father and I are enemies. You can't have us both."
The girl panicked inside as she tried to defend her feelings; defend her actions; allay her lover's hurt. "Isn't it enough that I want to leave my fiancee, a traitor in your eyes, for a loyal redcoat soldier?"
"No," Hugh answered firmly.
Miss Burwell was crying again. In reality, she did not feel that she had to declare allegiance to anything. She just wanted to continue living life as close to what she had before the war started when her mother and father were home. Youthful naiveté kept her in the past, not allowing her to think logically and understand that the world had changed.
She stood her ground, whether her decision was right or wrong, not wanting to consider that the world as she knew it was gone. "I won't choose."
Well, that's it, Hugh thought. I've lost. The dragoon commander was disappointed that she didn't forsake her traitor father and cling to him instead, proclaiming loyalty to him as a redcoat and to the cause of the Realm. Of all the people on this plantation that he thought he could turn, it was her. He showed no outward emotion at her words deciding it was best to leave and lick his wounds in private elsewhere. "I have no further questions. There is nothing else left to say." He nodded his head in valediction and turned toward the door.
It's over, her mind screamed inside. He has just ended things between us. She had to stop him. In her alarm, a sudden burst of adrenaline coursed through her body, trumping any pain she felt. And with her foot no longer throbbing, her irrational and panicked mind temporarily forgot her injury and the severity of it.
"No Hugh, wait, please!," she beseeched as she ripped the bedspread back. In one motion she bolted out of her bed without thinking about taking a moment to try to stand and steady herself. Her legs had been moving before her feet touched the floor. Unable to walk, she fell flat on her face on the rug. Her body, now a limp pile of limbs splayed out and oddly bent into every direction, she looked up to see her lover at the door, his hand on the doorknob. She immediately regained her wits and began to pull herself weakly with her arms toward the door, blubbering in her shame and pleading with Hugh not to leave.
At the door, Captain Bordon cast a look back at her, and instead of helping her, he left her there on the floor, prostrate and crying. The officer went through the doorway and into the hall, closing the door behind him as he took his leave of the whimpering and helpless girl.
Once in the hallway, Hugh tried to move away from the door. It had been his plan to leave immediately; to be done with all this. But he couldn't seem to move away. He knew he had to go right then, before he had second thoughts. Before he felt regret.
And again, his head and heart fought within him. The struggle within him wore him out instantly and made him lean against the door momentarily for support. Her noggin spun, dizzy with the speed and immensity of thoughts crashing about within.
Through the door, he heard his mistress' cries, thankfully muffled by the wood. Those faint sounds tested him; putting him on trial. He was the accused and he would have to explain himself.
Did I really just make her choose between men, he questioned silently. That is something that lovers would do during a spat. And he was not in love with her. But he DID have every right to make her declare an allegiance. He was a British officer, after all, and in charge of spies and the movement of sensitive information. HE couldn't have a woman with loyalty to the rebellion in his bed. No.
He did right, he affirmed quietly. She would have to choose.
But the sound of her sorrow soon convicted him. And the regret spilled into his soul as fast as he could bail it out with buckets of denial. Internally, he fought a good fight to keep the anguish at bay.
What kind of a man am I, he questioned himself. You left a child, barely a lady, lying on the floor. How unseemly is that? You are supposed to be a gentleman! If this had been in public, he would be among the first to help a lady in distress. He closed his eyes and sighed, still not willing to admit defeat to his own emotions. In refusal, he shook his head, trying to keep the demons of shame away.
Thump!
That loud noise startled him out of the cacophony in his mind. He heard it through the door. Good Lord, she will hurt herself more!
The thud and his sudden emotion ended thefight that had been raging within him. Neither contestant won. Neither Bordon the unfeeling captain nor Bordon the society gentleman. Instead, a compassionate Bordon claimed victory as it trampled down the other feelings for the moment.
Hugh twisted the doorknob furiously and tore open the door. Once inside, he stayed calm enough to close and lock the door behind him. Then, he quietly and quickly surveyed the situation.
Betsy still lay in the middle of the rug, her face tear stained and twisted with effort and sorrow.
The redcoat officer had been through situations like this before and seeing her lying there struggling and scared provoked his memory. He recalled his fall from a horse when he was a child, a very young boy. Indeed Bordon had labeled this incident as his first lesson in riding. He couldn't remember if it was a jump or a faster speed that caused him to fall from the saddle. He only recalled being on the beast one minute and on the hard ground the next. And although young Hugh was crying and scared, his father made him get up and mount the horse again quickly, not even giving the boy a chance to lay there and cry. And young Bordon fell twice more from his horse before he finally could hold on successfully. His own father had taught him a lesson that Bordon would take with him throughout his life. When you fall, if you were able, get up and try again quickly so that the fright doesn't take hold in you. If you didn't do this, then one might carry unfounded fear for life. This made Bordon unafraid of risks, though leery to calculate them out, and it made him a stronger soldier. A few times when his dragoons were injured, he himself had to help them to their feet to make them walk and in some cases, ride again, knowing he had to get them away from their fear. He had to nurture his own soldiers to work through the pain and have hope for normality again.
"Hugh...Hugh..., " Betsy sobbed, reaching out for him from where she lay prostrate.
"Get up, Betsy," he said. Seeing her there invoked a very real fright inside him she would subconsciously inhibit herself from walking again...ever.
"I can't," she cried.
"Get up." There was an urgency and desperation in his voice that had not been there moments ago.
Through her blubbering on the floor, she was glad to hear this from him, but she was too wrapped up in her own grief and self pity to dwell on it. "The doctor was right," she wept, burying her face in her arm, giving up. "I will never walk again."
"Betsy! Stand up!" he said, strictly, as if barking an order to one of his soldiers.
"I fell," she cried. "I can't stand or walk."
"Yes you can," he insisted. He moved closer to her and knelt down. "I'll help you."
With his help, but being mindful to let her do most of the work, she slowly moved up to stand, though weaving as she did. Hugh pulled the chair over to her, still holding her as he did, then put her hand on the back of it. He carefully let go or her as he transferred her other hand to the doorknob.
"Stay there a moment and steady yourself," he advised.
The girl as she stood there, had not even put any weight on her injured foot and her ankle and leg were throbbing with pain already. She closed her eyes, trying to will away the vertigo. "I'm dizzy," she told him, looking sickly and unsteady. "I am going to throw up."
"And if you do, it will be from a standing position," he said in a voice that implied that she should try hard to remain standing . "Clothes can be changed and vomit cleaned up. But you must walk again."
After letting her stand another moment, he walked away from her and stood near the head of her bed. "Now, walk to me," he requested.
"I can't," she replied. "I'll fall."
"And I will catch you," he assured. "But you have to walk... to fall."
He watched her fearful hesitation. "Come on, missy," Bordon coaxed, calling her by the beloved nickname her family and servants had bestowed upon her, "It is but a few steps."
"I hate that name," she stated, wiping her tears from her face with a brave hand. "And now, you're saying it!"
"Yes, I know," he answered, having learned from her months ago that she had wondered if she would ever 'grow out' of that name by everyone on her farm. or if they would always see her as a child. "Walk to me. You can do it."
She let go of the chair back and took a step on her good foot, then the step on her injured foot barely putting any weight on it, drew a grimace and wince from her. Then a third cautious step made her bobble like a toddler learning to walk. And the fourth step, again on her hurt foot, finally made her topple.
As promised, Captain Bordon lunged forward and caught the lass in his arms. She was sobbing again, in relief and pain, and he sighed in his own relief, at her walking. His breath hitched in his belly for a moment at having his arms about her again.
"See! You can walk! You will walk again!" The Captain exclaimed as he brought his body erect again and deftly scooped her legs up and over his other arm. He turned and took a step to the bed, where he intended to place the girl. As he bent down, she refused to let go.
She cried as she clung tightly to his neck. The girl was panting still from her effort to walk and the exhilaration of having done it. How long had it been since she had been in his arms; kissed him; felt his body. Days—too many days. She was not going to let him go.
"Bets," he protested, trying to untangle her arms wrapped tightly about his neck and chest. When he couldn't, he gave up and collapsed onto the bed beside her, having the chance now to hold her tender, lithe body, and breathe in her scent again.
Soon they were lying facing each other, with the officer minding his legs not to touch her injured foot. With his arms about her middle and shoulders, he pulled her body against his. He closed his eyes as her fingers first caressed his cheeks, then settled on his braid of ginger hair. She pulled his head to hers and looked at him for a moment. And he looked into her eyes, still watery with tears. "Hugh," she whispered, her voice breaking.
Before she could say anymore, they kissed. Slowly, gently, taking their time to linger at the taste of each other's lips and mouth. Her fingers toyed with the stiff plait of red hair, and she wanted badly to free it from its queue as she often did in their evenings together. When they parted, he pulled her even closer, and she laid her head on his chest. He kissed first her forehead, then the top of her head, pausing to take in the scent and softness of her sandy colored hair.
"Betsy," he murmured against her hair. He rested his chin on the top of her head protectively. His right hand absently stroked her long hair.
Bordon knew this moment wouldn't last forever. The door was locked but he knew the servants would soon be standing outside of it, wondering what was going on within. But she lay safe and snuggled against him, and he would savor those few stolen moments.
"I'm sorry," whispered Miss Burwell against his chest. Neither one said anything after that, languishing silently, cuddled up and loving the closeness, until the officer left a few moments later.