A/N: For the last year or so, I've been bemoaning the fact that Liberty's Kids fanfiction is practically nonexistent. Then one day I thought to myself, welp, there's nothing stopping me from writing some. So here we are.

James and Sarah were my OTP before I even knew what an OTP was. Add to this my lifelong love for the Colonial Period/American Revolution and this love story just had to be written. Many of these will be based off of events that happen in the show, and some will include actual written scenes from it, so it may be pertinent to watch the relevant episodes beforehand (they're all on YouTube!). I'll include the relevant episodes at the beginning of each chapter. On occasion I'll change a few details (which I've done in this chapter) or switch up the dialogue when it doesn't seem to "fit," but the overall goal was to weave their love story into the show's canon.

I will also be aging the characters normally as the years pass.

So if anyone's out there: this one is based around the pilot, The Boston Tea Party. Per the show's creators, Sarah is 15 here and James is 14.

November 10, 1773

Stomach churning, Sarah clung onto the framework below deck as the ship beneath her feet bucked and rolled. The woodwork was slick with seawater, and the feel of it sent a spiral of dread down her spine. Only moments ago, a crewman had rushed down to assure her that the gale was nothing to worry about; that they would travel safely through, if not a bit roughly. But as the ship tossed her back and forth like a doll, she grew increasingly fearful that her venture to America would stop before it even started. Trying to calm her breathing, she moved her hand across the locket her father had given her and prayed for safe passage, and that the storm would soon pass over. The entreaty had only just left her lips when the ship tossed, knocking the candle off the crate beside her.

Casting her into total darkness.

She slid down the wall, tears threatening, and wrapped her arms around her legs. It was hardly ladylike, but did such a thing matter in the face of impending doom? Please, she thought, perhaps to herself, perhaps to her father, perhaps to God. Do not let it end here. Not in this way.

Not for the first time, she questioned the wisdom of her choice to travel across the sea to find her father. Though raised in the throngs of London's high society, she had inherited her father's love - passion, really - for adventure. Her mother had always told her that she possessed a dual nature; one in which she could sip tea, engage in polite conversation, and wow their dinner guests with her piano forte while also thrilling in a jaunt to the countryside to run wild through the woods and catch frogs along the riverbank. I do not know what I am to do with you, Sarah, her mother had laughed every time she returned with skirts muddied and hair askew. I sometimes feel as if I have both a daughter and a son in you alike.

She had loved her life, honestly. Loved that her mother had taught her the finer points of being a lady, while her father had encouraged her to explore, to run, to enjoy all that the natural world had to offer - as he did. Often he had gone exploring alongside her, identifying the plants in the field, showing and teaching her what they could be used for. I had a thirst for exploration my life entire, he had told her once. She was ten years old and he had taken her and her mother up north to summer in the countryside, as they did every year. I had dreamed of one day being like Sir Walter Raleigh, John Cabot, Sir Francis Drake. His eyes had taken on a faraway look as the memories played out in his mind's eye. She had watched as his mouth had curved into a smile, then as his gaze moved to her mother who was moving around the garden looking at the flowers. Then I met your mother.

And there was a war, papa? she had asked. She had always heard him speak of it.

Aye. There was a war. He had looked at her then, his eyes warm, though his smile had dimmed. The likes of which I hope you will never have to see in the course of your life.

No, papa. He had taken her in his arms, though it had become apparent in the last few months that she was growing too big to do so.

You will forever be my little explorer, Sarah. She had smiled at the familiar moniker, wrapping her arms around his neck. My brave, sweet girl.

Three years later, he had left. And it had nearly broken her heart.

Both she and her mother had understood just how important the venture into the American frontier had been for him. Having completed his term of military service, it was clear he felt anxious - unfulfilled. He spoke of reenlisting, or perhaps moving the family elsewhere - as long as it's out of London. Her father hated London. Hated the stench of it, the crowds, the grim grays of ancient city blocks. He wanted green, he had said. Open sky and flowering fields, a home he had built with his own hands, for them to sup on the meats of a fresh kill, paired with produce they themselves had grown. Her mother wasn't too keen on the idea, still assuredly preferring the comforts of the city; but she had offered her quiet support once her father had found the advertisement calling for a "few, brave souls" to journey into the unmapped wilds of the Ohio Frontier. To stake a claim, her father had exclaimed, thrilled beyond measure. In the name of King George the third.

Neither she nor her mother had had the heart to deny him the chance at a lifelong dream and along with it, the opportunity for a new life in the colonies. Go and stake your claim, her mother had said, the ghost of a smile on her lips. And where you go, I will follow. It hadn't been until later that she'd confessed to her her secret desire that father would instead choose a more "civilized" city in the colonies to settle down in - can you imagine me in the wilderness, Sarah? I surely cannot!

And so he had left, in the late fall of '71, promising to send them for them within a year. But by the time she had stepped aboard the Dartmouth, he had been gone for over two.

And neither she nor her mother had heard from him since the beginning of the year.

It had truly been Dr. Franklin who had succeeded in persuading her mother to allow her to make the journey across the ocean. Sarah holds within her the same thirst for the unknown as her father, he had said, smiling warmly at her as they sat in the family's parlor room. And America is a land worth exploring, Lady Phillips. Allow her passage.

I cannot abide by sending my fourteen year old daughter across the Atlantic alone, Dr. Franklin. Her mother's face had paled at the prospect. Nor into the wilds of the Ohio Frontier, in which my husband has all but disappeared.

She can stay in Philadelphia. Sarah's heart had leapt at the possibility - she had heard him speak of the city with fondness. In my home, 'neath the protection of my associates. They will welcome her with open arms and happy hearts. And it is there she may remain until word of her plans reaches her father, and it is there he may meet her. It is closer than England, at any rate. He had fixed his gaze upon her then. Does that sound a fair compromise, young Sarah?

And it had. It most certainly had.

So here she was, heart in her throat, pressing her back firmly into the frame of the ship that she half expected to tear asunder at any moment. She missed her mother. But she also missed her father. The possibility of not seeing him again made her feel ill, but it also grounded her, reminded her of why she was doing this in the first place. Her father certainly must have braved similar conditions and she too would face the challenge of the journey ahead. He would want her to.

Breathing deeply, she made to stand with a newfound resolve. America was a land unlike England, and she yearned for the chance to make a final claim on all it had to offer before society's expectations - and her advancing years - would dictate she settle down and start a family of her own. She would be fifteen in a few weeks time, and was no longer a child. The concept of now or never had struck her most profoundly, and she had impressed upon her mother that she did not want to end up like her father: missing the chance to see more of the world before domesticity beckoned with its powerful arms. Please mother, she had begged. I hope for only this one chance. And once you join us in the colonies, I am certain there will be ample opportunity for social etiquettes to prevail, and for me to find a suitable husband. It was of the utmost importance to her mother, just as it was for all mothers, for her to foster the appropriate connections as she would in London. I ask only you do not entertain the attentions of those colonial men, her mother had laughed. Lest you be tempted to marry below your station. The notion was ridiculous, and so it was an easy promise to make. And so her mother had allowed her to go, albeit a bit reluctantly, with the promise of their trusted Dr. Franklin's hospitality and the certainty she too would join them within two years' time at most.

Thinking on it now, she could only hope that the colleagues Dr. Franklin had spoken of were of decent character, most notably the apprentice he had mentioned was around her age - try as she might, she could not remember his name. The young men she had spent her days with were of the proper type: educated and gentlemanly, sophisticated and refined. Prevail upon your better senses, Sarah her cousin Tom had advised. I hear the colonists are a rowdy bunch, coarse and vulgar and irreverent. Not many in her circle thought very highly of the colonists, and thought she was mad for daring this venture at all. But she was not worried in the slightest; anyone Dr. Franklin employed could be trusted, she was sure of it. And if her father had developed a love for it all, she was certain she would too.

Clutching her necklace again, she braced herself and waited for the storm to pass.

December 16, 1773

"This is absurd." James gripped the edge of the wagon as they moved over the cobblestones, squinting into the darkness before casting his gaze to Moses. "What will she even do? Sew embroidery while we print the paper?"

"James, we have talked about this already." Moses pulled on the reins a bit, still wary about their broken axle. "Dr. Franklin wants her to stay with us until her father comes to meet her."

"It just seems a bit pointless to me." He chewed on his thumbnail, sighing through his nose. "The shop is a place of business. Man's business." He paused, waiting for Moses' agreement, but the man said nothing. "She will have nothing to do there. And I am there to work, Moses. Not entertain some stranger simply because we've a common acquaintance."

"There is no need for you to be so concerned." Moses fixed him with a hard stare, the one he usually felt quite small beneath. "Ms. Phillips is to be a guest in our home for however long she needs to be. And I will expect you to be a gentleman toward her, James. Is that understood?"

"I never said I wouldn't be. I only said that I -"

"Is that understood?" Henri chuckled from behind them as James' face pulled into a scowl. None of this made much sense to him. He had been at the Gazette for a little over three years now, and had toiled endlessly in that time to earn his keep, as well as impress his gracious employer. He had not minded when little Henri had joined their band of outcasts, but something about the impending presence of a young woman made him... well, it made him nervous. In the last year or so he had begun to take notice of the fairer sex, enraptured by their beauty as they moved past him on the street. He had spent his life in the company of males and knew next to nothing of women, save that he suddenly found them to be quite interesting and notably pleasant to look at.

They, however, did not appear to share in his interest.

He knew he was not appealing, at least not by society's standards. Any attempt he had made to speak with the young women of Philadelphia had left him feeling rather embarrassed, almost to the point of shame. The baker's daughter had ignored him entirely when he'd asked her if their pastries were as sweet as she was; and that young woman at church had scoffed at him when she'd overheard his conversation about the unjust passing of the Stamp Act. Then there was that girl who had come into the shop alongside her father, a notable shopkeeper in the city who'd wanted to place an employment advertisement. She had been lovely, perhaps a year or two older than he was, dressed in a comely turquoise gown that he'd been unable to take his eyes off of. Her dark brown hair had been done up in soft curls beneath a straw sunhat as she had fanned herself, moving her bright blue eyes around the shop. The sight of her had struck him with a sudden bout of shyness; all he had managed to do was smile at her as Moses and her father discussed business.

And she had laughed. Laughed, and shook her head, her disgust toward him as evident as the ink staining his shirtsleeves.

He should have known better, truly. Any young woman with even a modicum of wealth would find him lowly, pitiful, not even remotely worthy of her time or respect. And once he had found out that this Sarah Phillips came from significant means, he knew exactly who they would be greeting on the docks: a snobby, well-dressed English girl who would take one look at him and turn up her nose. Probably at Moses and Henri too. She could look down on him all she wanted, he had decided, but he would be damned if any high society type expected him to cater to her every whim or treat her differently than he would anyone else. No way. Not in this life. Not in the place he worked, that he called home.

Truth be told, he was dreading this with all his heart.

"I said, am I understood?" Moses was still staring him down, his dark eyes intense beneath the December moonlight. James nodded quickly, crossing his arms over his chest. This man had been his best friend these last few years, and had taught him how to act more like a functioning member of society instead of the street urchin he had been when he'd first showed up at the shop. He had far too much respect for Moses to reply sarcastically, but he also knew his friend would not understand his apprehension. More than that, he didn't want to share anyway. It made him feel stupid. "I would like to hear you say it, please."

"I understand," James bit out, fixing his mouth in a firm line. "I will be a gentleman to Ms. Phillips." Maybe.

"I will too!" Henri chimed in, ever-eager to be involved. He stood up and tapped Moses on the arm. "And I will let you know if James acts like a boor."

"I'll be acting like a boor alright," James snapped, turning to fix him with what he hoped was an angry look. "But only towards tattlers."

"Alright," Moses said with a laugh in his voice. "That's enough." He pointed ahead of him with one hand. "We are nearly to the docks."

James set his gaze forward with him, his stomach twisting. Right then and there he decided that no matter what this girl said or did, he would remain impervious to it.

And with any luck, her father would come to fetch her quickly and that would be the end of it.

What a story! James' heart thrummed with delighted thrill as he surveyed the scene in front of him: somewhat controlled chaos, but chaos nonetheless, as the Sons of Liberty continued to toss the tea into the harbor. It was almost too much to try to take it in and write at the same time; he motioned to Henri, letting him know he was headed below deck. "Stay out of trouble," he said, and the young boy offered him a cheeky smile in reply. Rushing toward the entryway, he ducked below and made his way down the rickety steps.

A sole candle lit the passageway and he grabbed it to light his path. He hadn't seen any of the men make their way down here, but he was sure they would eventually - there was bound to be more tea below deck. And here it would be easier to speak with someone to get more information on this most splendid protest. Finally, he thought as he descended the staircase. We are fighting back! It's about time we -

"Take that!' He had barely registered the sound of a decidedly female voice when something hard and heavy collided with his face. The blow landed across the bridge of his nose, and with enough force to knock him backwards. Falling on his back with a grunted oof, he lay there dazed for a moment; then slowly sat up, pain surging through his forehead, across his cheeks.

"What hit me?" he muttered, running a quick hand beneath his nose only to find a bright smear of blood. A shadow passed over his body and he looked up to meet the eyes of a young woman who was holding a pillow in her hands.

"You'll never take me alive," she said briskly. His brow furrowed in confusion.

"Take you? Where?"

"Wherever Indians take people," she said matter-of-factly, as if it made all the sense in the world. He stood slowly, rubbing the back of his head, trying to sort out why a pillow had hurt so damn much.

"I'm not no Indian," he muttered, turning to face her fully. For a brief, fleeting moment, he didn't know what to say as he took in the whole of her appearance: astonishing green eyes, wide and dancing in the candlelight; long red hair, falling in unkempt waves around her face; a travel dress that must have been tidy at journey's beginning but was now dirt-smudged and tattered. Her full lips were pulled into an unhappy line, and though it was dark, he could make out the smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. She was - well, she was rather pretty despite her bristly demeanor. Was she a servant here? He cleared his throat, suddenly uneasy. "None of us are."

"You're not an Indian," she corrected and he balked at her. "Who taught you grammar?" Alright, maybe a snotty servant. His disquiet evaporated instantly.

"Who taught you to whack people in the head?" he snapped back, pressing the back of his hand to his nose. She eyed his bloodied hand for a moment and had the decency to look contrite.

"My apologies," she said stiffly. He watched as she pulled a few books from the pillow. Ah - so that was why. "I thought you were here to kidnap me."

"Kidnap?" The thought itself was so ludicrous, he couldn't help but smile. "I'm a journalist for the Pennsylvania Gazette." He bent down to scoop up his candle, which amazingly was still alight, before he faced her again. Though a bit rude, he reckoned she was as good as anyone for an interview. "Now what do you have to say about the tax protest?"

"Is that what this is about? Disgraceful." It was only then he noted her English accent and inwardly, he rolled his eyes. "The tea is private property. This is so uncivilized." She fixed him with a stern look. "If you were any kind of Englishman, you'd drop that pencil and put a stop to it." Indignation flared in his chest as he set the candle down on a nearby table, pointing at her.

"So you think it's okay to impose taxes on the colonies, even though colonies don't have a vote in Parliament?" She let out a derisive chuckle.

"I think loyal subjects of the King should obey the laws of their country," she retorted, pointing right back at him. "And you can quote me on that, Mr..." Her brow furrowed as her voice trailed off. "What is your name?"

"Hiller. James Hiller." He fixed her with a smug smile. "And who would I be quoting?"

"Whom may I be quoting. If you are going to write for a newspaper, you really should treat words with more care." Good God, what a snob! Digging around in his coat, he made a show of rolling his eyes at her as he pulled out his pencil.

"Just tell me your name, will you?" He made no effort to hide his annoyance. "I have work to do."

"Phillips," she bit out, turning her back on him as his eyes widened. "Miss Sarah Phillips of London, England."

"Sarah Phillips?" He stared at her backside for a moment, his pencil freezing in place on his notebook. "You're Sarah Phillips?" She looked over her shoulder at him, a question in her eyes. He gaped at her, incredulous.

"Is that a common name here in the colonies?" She turned to face him, sarcasm punctuating her every word. "If so, I cannot understand your surprise. After all, I have met many men named James in my time."

"I can't believe you're Sarah Phillips," he said again, voice raised in dismay. How could this be? She looked as common as he did - surely this was not the girl Dr. Franklin had wrote them about, the one who came from the upper crust of London society. Where were her fancy clothes? She made a face at him.

"I am. And I'll thank you to stop shouting, Mr. Hiller. I've had a very rude welcome to America, and you're not making things any better."

Sarah stared at the young man before her, thoroughly put off by his most crude manner. He could not be much older than she was - how on earth was he already a journalist? Is this how things went in the colonies?

"We've been looking for you," he said quickly, fixing her with a self-assured smile. She stiffened.

"Have you?" He nodded, his eyebrows raising as if it was obvious. "And why is that?"

"Benjamin Franklin sent us." Her heart stopped in her chest. No. Surely not. There was no way this gangly, impatient, rude boy could possibly be in the employ of Dr. Franklin. The man she knew would never abide by such behavior, especially towards a lady. The thought alone was so ridiculous, she did not even think before she burst out with,

"Dr. Franklin sent you?"

"Now who's yelling?" His grin widened as he crossed his arms over his chest, eyes alight with glee. "Who were you expecting? A member of the Royal Guard?"

"No," she snapped back, lowering the pillow still clutched in her hands. "I - I don't know who I was expecting exactly. But I certainly did not anticipate being met with such hostility from one of his associates."

"So says the girl who just hit me in the face before words were even exchanged." He looked at her smugly. "Tell me, is that a standard greeting in London? I've never been."

"I already apologized for that," she grit out. He laughed as he wiped the last of the blood from his nose, smearing some of it across his cheek. This boy was nothing like the young gentlemen she was used to. Any proper Englishman would have apologized profusely to her by now, after graciously accepting her own, and offered to escort her off of the ship. Then again, it was abundantly clear that this young man was not a gentleman of any sort: he looked wild, ragged even, with his muddy shoes and torn jacket, the blond tendrils that had loosened from his ponytail hanging limply around his face. She stood as tall as he was, but his frame was wiry, thin, as if he'd never eaten a full meal in all his life. Truth be told, he looked somewhat feral in the dim light below deck, with facial features sharpened by the high cut of his cheekbones and an angular jaw and chin. Yet despite the pimples that dotted his chin and forehead, his face looked older somehow - more world-weary. There was something about his eyes that struck her...a startling cornflower blue, they held a fervor within them as if he had already seen all that the world had to offer and found it lacking. Almost haunted, in a way. If he weren't being so rude, she would think them as beautiful as they were piercing. As it stood, she just wanted to get away from him.

"Right. Last I checked, apologies don't mend wounds." He sighed, taking a quick look around the place. "I suppose I should take you up though. Do you have anything with you?" She resisted the urge to drop her jaw at his brazenness - who did he think he was? She was about to say as much when a man's voice rang out overhead - muffled, but clear.

"Redcoats! Abandon ship! Abandon ship!" Relief swept over her despite the disparagement toward the King's soldiers. Taking one look at James, she could see the color draining from his face at the announcement and she offered him a smug smile of her own.

"I will wait for the soldiers, thank you. I'm sure they will help sort this whole mess out." He scoffed, followed by a sarcastic laugh.

"Right, just like they did here a few years ago." She shrugged, having no idea what he was talking about. He looked at her in disbelief. "Really? Did that news not make it across the ocean? Your soldiers opened fire on innocent colonists not four years ago, killing five of them. And I'd rather not add to the number, so..." He swept behind him with his arm. "Let's go."

"Certainly not."

"We have to go now. If we wait much longer, we'll be arrested. Both of us."

"There must be some kind of mistake." She stepped away from him as clambering footsteps sounded overhead. "There is no way Dr. Franklin - "

"Look, it is not a mistake," he snapped, advancing towards her with a sudden fire in his eyes. She was readying a reply when the footsteps moved closer, down the stairs and towards them. She gasped at the sight of a young boy, then a black man, appearing suddenly at the bottom of the stairwell.

"James," the man said, urgency in his voice. "Come on. The Redcoats are on their way." Much to her shock and horror, James grabbed her by the hand and began pulling her towards the stairs.

"Come on!" he shouted as she resisted, and the sound of it sent a flare of indignation throughout her entire body.

"Unhand me!" she yelled right back at him, yanking her arm from his touch as she rushed away from him. What a brute! How dare he grab her like that -

"Ms. Phillips, I presume." The other man smiled at her, his eyes exuding warmth - a far cry from the frustration in James' eyes. "Thank goodness we found you."

"If we're caught by those soldiers," James cut in, grabbing her by the shoulder, "we'll be thrown in jail." Once more she pulled from his touch, whirling on him angrily.

"Which in my opinion is exactly where traitors belong," she said, poking him in the chest. His face twisted into an enraged scowl, but it fell quickly as the ruckus ahead grew louder. Resolve descended upon his features.

"Sorry Ms. Phillips," he said, quickly moving behind her to grab her wrists. "But I can't print my story from jail."

"Let me go!" she cried out, pulling viciously against his hold. They struggled for a moment but it was no use - despite his thin frame, he was stronger than he looked and near-effortlessly hauled her up the stairs in the black man's wake. This was unbelievable. She was going to write to Dr. Franklin and tell him all about this - surely if he knew it was this sort of person he employed, he would never let it stand. This boy acted more like a vagabond than a journalist.

By the time they crested the stairs, she had conceded and hissed out, "I will come with you, just let me go!" and James had all too willingly dropped her wrists. But as soon as they took in the sight of what was happening above deck - soldiers running everywhere, in hot pursuit of the trespassing vandals - James grabbed her hand again and pulled her toward the gangplank, nearly wrenching her shoulder from its socket.

"I said let me go!" she cried out, pulling away from him as hard as she could. She did not care if they were caught - he was hurting her, and scaring her, and she did not trust him at all. They skidded to a stop at the top of the gangplank as they struggled again, and he turned to fix her with a deadly stare.

"I'd love to," he said, his tone clipped, "but Dr. Franklin told us to take care of you!" Tears pricked her eyes and once he noticed them, he paused, loosening his grip; then a voice of warning rang out from the dock.

"James! Look out!" Sarah whirled around to catch sight of a British officer running right for them. Springing to action, James released her hand and moved her out of the way, blocking the man's path; and before she could even scream, he punched the officer in the face, sending him careening backwards. In a maneuver she had never seen before, James then swept his foot behind the man's ankle to trip him. The man flailed wildly for purchase, nearly catching the front of her dress as she pulled back, before he finally crashed to the boat deck. Panicked at James' overt violence, she turned and fled, rushing down the wharf until she spotted the black man anxiously beckoning her to join them behind a stack of barrels. Afforded no other choice, she obeyed and fell hard to the earth, chest heaving.

What had just happened here?

"Are you alright?" The man asked her, crouching down at her side. She nodded, breathing heavy, quickly looking towards the small boy who was staring at her with concern. "I'm Moses. This here is Henri." He paused a moment. "Where's James?"

"He was right behind me," she wheezed. As if on cue, frantic footsteps sounded and Moses stood quickly, reaching out to haul James to their hiding place. Shaking, she eyed the two of them from where she sat as James excitedly bellowed about the happenings as "headline news." Moses shushed him.

"Lower your voices," he hissed. "We're not out of the woods yet." No. This wasn't what she wanted - she wasn't a criminal and didn't want to be in the company of any either, hiding behind dirty, sooty barrels. Scrambling to her feet, she shoved past James and back to the wharf, a scream already forming on her lips.

"Hel -" A hand suddenly clamped down on her shoulder and mouth, effectively silencing her.

"Are you crazy?" James whisper-shouted from behind her, right into her ear. "Do you want the British to catch us?" Now furious, she elbowed him hard in the belly and shoved him away, taking some satisfaction at the sight of him doubling over in pain.

"I am British," she snapped, quickly backing away from him. She turned her gaze to Henri, then Moses, who were both looking at her as if she were crazy. She threw her hands up in the air. "We're all British!"

"And we're about to be arrested if we don't get out of here." Moses looked over at James, then to her. "I am sorry for this unfortunate means of introduction, but we have to leave. Now."

"She can stay here and be arrested for all I care." Both she and Moses looked over at James, who was slowly straightening. He grimaced as he walked past them.

"James." Moses' voice held a warning in it.

"She's hit me twice Moses!" James kept his voice quiet, but the sound of it was angry, hurt. His tone nearly succeeded in making her feel guilty, but she forced it back down. He had started this.

"We will deal with that later. Everyone come with me. Wagon is that way." Moses took off running and, having no other choice, she followed with the others in tow. As soon as they reached the wagon, Moses jumped inside and helped her in as the boys scrambled in behind her. "Stay down. All of you," Moses urged. "And keep quiet." He threw a blanket on top of them and Sarah pressed herself against the wagon, shivering.

Not for the first time, she found herself wondering just what she had gotten herself into.

A/N: This ended up as a behemoth of a chapter, so I've split it into two parts for better readability.