A/N: 11/15/2020 Over a month since I've updated. How freaking sad is that?

Disclaimer: I do not own The Patriot.

Oh, you're gonna lose your soul

(I get up every morning to the beat of the drum)

Tonight you're gonna lose your soul

(I get up to this feeling keeps me on the run)

You're gonna lose your soul tonight

(I get up in the morning, put my dreams away)

Tonight

(I get up, I get up, I get up again)

Lose Your Soul - Dead Man's Bones~

Chapter seven: You and God~

Supper time came with the falling of the sun, and William was glad to have the day over with.

He was very hungry, and secretly hoped that pork would be the main dish tonight. He went inside, leaving the slaves to put the farming equipment away and finish whatever they were doing before going to join the rest in preparing dinner. His back was drenched with sweat, and his hair was stringy, and stuck in his eyes. Perhaps he should bathe before dining; after all, women - even kind, unassuming women such as Margaret - did not tend to favor men who appeared unseemly. Best do all he could to boost his chances.

He slicked his hair back and strolled down the hall to the staircase leading to his room, at the same time passing a female slave (Aaliyah, as Margaret insisted on calling her) carrying a basket of freshly picked peaches. He stopped to address her.

"I would like to take a bath. Please ensure that Miss O'Neil is made aware that I will be late to supper."

Aaliyah nodded timidly, sparsely making eye contact before she went on her way with her cargo of fruit to let the others know to prepare his bath and to tell Margaret. She was one of the more manageable slaves on the plantation, and though they all filled him with disdain, he could readily admit to himself that life would be ideal if every one of them would simply follow suit in her behavior. Perhaps that was something to be exploited at a later time.

Tavington disappeared to his room, unbuttoning his shirt once the water and towels had been brought up, leaving his suspenders in place. He rinsed his face in the basin, scrubbing away the day's sweat and grime. He grabbed the hand towel and dried his forehead, nose, and cheeks, patting himself down all the way to the neck. He then took the bar of soap at the edge of the basin and worked a lather into his scalp, scrubbing away the grease. He hadn't recalled having so much hair to clean. It must have grown considerably during his time here without him noticing.

Once finished, he stared at his reflection in the mirror, turning slightly. His dark locks reached all the way past his shoulder blades, far longer than he last remembered leaving them. He made a mental note to give himself a trim, and continued to observe his image. The lines in his face had truly aged more prominently, his eyes a tad more sunken, his skin more weathered than it had been. He thought back to when he had been a dragoon, when he had taken so much pride and care in his appearance. How far away those days now seemed.

But his eyes. His eyes still held the same icy shade of blue that contrasted the rest of him so perfectly, and were still capable of striking fear into the hearts of those that met his gaze. All except Margaret. A tiny slip of a woman whose good grace and kind nature somehow overpowered the ability he once thought so special. How ever was he to compete with such a creature?

"My, my, William..." he whispered at his reflection. "What have you let yourself become?"

He slid off one of his suspenders and let one side of his shirt drop below his waist as he continued bathing, splashing water along his arm, chest, and abdomen. Scars marked his body in various places, some from his childhood, others from battle. Though none of them caused him pain or permanent damage, he still would rather the luxury of forgetting his past mistakes every time he washed or readied for bed.

He continued to clean himself, disappointed that the water was not colder; it seemed even the river waned in the summer of South Carolina. He could remember a time when he had once used a wealthy heiress's full-sized tub back in Britain, and oh, had it been luxurious. Hot water, enough room to fully submerge himself in, servants at every beck and call with towels, soaps, and food. How times had changed.

It was Saturday, he realized, the day before church. Though he knew it was common to bathe oneself on weekend nights such as these, Tavington did not attend church. Margaret had invited him to come along with her many times, but he simply had no desire to set foot inside a mediocre place of worship built by colonials and sit amongst Protestants. England was loyal to the Roman Catholic Church, and though he had never been overly religious for the entirety of his life, he was unwilling to stray from the most basic beliefs and principles that he had been raised upon. God forbid if he communed inside a church that he otherwise would have burnt to the ground.

He recalled one church in particular he had thrown a torch to, when he had been investing nearly all of his energies and resources into finding and snuffing out the Ghost, Benjamin Martin. He remembered every one of their faces so clearly. The man, who swore he knew nothing of what he had inquired, the reverend, who tossed them all to the wolves, dooming them...the woman, who cried with her mother. He never did quite understand why he could see their faces as though it were yesterday, why his chest burned with an unsettling feeling when he remembered taking the torch from Wilkins and doing what he had not the loyalty or wherewithal to do. Perhaps if one of the others had committed the act, had thrown it upon their conscience, it would not have floated to his mind so readily when nightfall came.

A creak in the wood jolted him from his thoughts, and he looked to see Margaret standing in the doorway. He began to fumble, unsure if he should shoo her away or attempt to dress, and accidentally dropped the rag he'd been holding.

He apologized as he bent to pick it up, and Margaret waved a hand. "There is no need. I simply wished to know why you thought you could forego supper. Am I truly such terrible company?"

He stuttered at her laugh, truly flustered. "For- forgive me. I had specifically instructed the servant to inform you that I would merely be late to supper, not that I was forgoing it."

Her smile turned gentle, then fell slightly as she caught sight of his chest. Finally remembering his scars, William immediately began to dress himself, not wanting her to question him about the various old wounds that marred his skin.

"Stop, let me see."

His fingers paused at her gentle command, and his mind became blank as she slowly entered the room and stepped toward him. Her fingers reached him first, and she carefully soothed his hands away from the buttons of his shirt as she brought his scars back into view. It was extremely unnerving for him to be put on display such as he was, to be at the judgment and mercy of a human being who might as well have been fodder to him and his country. Even if her already pleasing features proved to be more so up close.

"How did you receive these?" she asked quietly.

Her brow was knit in concentration as she analyzed his chest and collarbone, and he realized she was looking at him with a medical eye. How often he had to remind himself she had been a nurse.

He swallowed, and her eyes darted momentarily to his Adam's apple. He could lie. But then would she be smart enough to realize such a thing were not true? He had absolutely no desire for her to learn of the origins of his wounds, but clearly the evidence was right before her. Perhaps a half-truth would suffice.

"I don't recall half of them."

The tips of her fingers glided over a particularly long and jagged scar across his right pectoral, stretching all the way to his shoulder.

"Do you recall this one?"

His gaze followed her hand, and he once again attempted a half-truth.

"A puncture wound. I was sliced by a soldier's sword."

It had actually been a bayonet from a now dead rebel militia member, a completely preventable accident that could have been avoided had it not been for his strict orders from Cornwallis to behave as a gentleman on the battlefield, but she was in no way required to know such intimate details about his history.

Margaret's gaze shot up to meet his, and he could tell that his explanation was not wholeheartedly believed. But she said nothing, and moved on to the next point of interest to her.

"And this one?"

His breathing became somewhat shallow as her hand slid lower, to the bullet wound near his left hip. That one, he would never forget. He had received that scar from Benjamin Martin's son, the spy. Had the boy's aim been any better, it would have hit an organ, and he would not have survived.

Unable to stand it any longer, he seized her wrists. "Miss O'Neil, I do not think it prudent to-"

"William, how many times have I implored you to call me Margaret?"

"...Many, ma'am. But I cannot allow you to-"

"To what? Observe your wounds? I am a nurse. These things concern me."

He tensed his jaw, the full brunt of her proximity affecting his countenance. "I am in a state of undress, your mistress."

"And as I said before, I was previously occupied as a nurse. Believe me when I say that I have seen plenty of men in a state of undress."

He grit his teeth, frustrated. "That is not the point, Margaret. It is improper for a woman of your status to be seen with another man who is neither your relation nor your husband."

She cocked her brow at his increasingly aggressive tone. "Truly? And do you see anyone that could possibly witness such an exchange and run crying all throughout the town to declare it?"

He could not argue; there were none others present but them.

Margaret's gaze softened. "What people do not know will not hurt them. And it is none of their affairs, regardless."

She stared up at him with a look of firm determination, and it was then that he became momentarily lost in her blue irises. God, she was beautiful. Truly a creature of Divine making. But she was a colonial. And deep down, an enemy. And if things were different, she would spit upon his very bones just like the rest. He could not allow himself to think of her in any other way if his plans of marrying into her fortune were to succeed.

"Perhaps not," he surmised, his own gaze hardening. "But I am above situations such as this. And I will not sully myself nor you with the implications."

He removed her hands from his person, pushing her back so as to divide them. His wet hair fell into his face, and he angrily pushed it back.

"If being perfectly clothed in a room with a respectable man is an implication, I shiver to think what your standards for other aspects of life are."

They stood in silence, Margaret waiting patiently for him to respond when he had no intention of doing so.

"You need a trim," she remarked, reaching out to tuck yet another damned loose strand behind his ear as she'd done the day he'd arrived. Tavington, however, did not respond kindly to the gesture, ignoring her observation completely as he none too gently grabbed hold of the offending hand and looked sternly at her.

"I must ask your mistress to leave."

Margaret breathed a deep, displeased sigh, expression somber. His grip was still present on her wrists, but she did not struggle. "Might I ask why you so vehemently resist aid from others? What have you done that is so terrible to have forced you to come upon the conclusion that you cannot afford yourself the luxury of happiness?"

Tavington's eyes flashed. As though happiness were something to be afforded. How dare she imply that he himself was to blame for his own predicament. If he had any control over his life whatsoever, he'd be back in England right this very moment, not discussing moral dilemmas with a widowed planter in South Carolina. Yes, he would most willingly give himself over to happiness if he were truly in charge of himself, but God and the world had other plans.

Taking the opportunity to further drive his point, he took her wrists and slowly began to push back, matching every step of hers with one of his own.

"You know nothing of me," he said lowly, eyes boring into hers. "You know neither of my origins nor my principles-" Her eyes flashed with panic, but still he drove her back. "-You merely came upon a drunken vagabond and took it in your heart to nurse him back to health like a common stray."

Her back finally hit the wall and she became flush with William, who angled his head down towards hers until they were mere inches apart. "I am not. A respectable. Man."

Her eyes suddenly held a quality akin to steel, and she did not hesitate to combat him. "If you were not respectable, you would not have shown restraint thus far."

He laughed silently, and without humor.

"How bold of your mistress to assume I must exercise restraint in your company."

Though her lips parted, she spoke no words, and upon observing her features for a few moments more, Tavington released her and stepped away. He heard Margaret's footsteps creak toward the door, but she did not exit just yet, instead attempting to further a point of her own.

"I see potential in you, William."

He scoffed, turning to face her. "Potential? What in God's name for? Labor?"

"For redemption." she answered. "I believe you have been searching - for a long time - for an opportunity to better yourself. And let go of..." she trailed off, choosing her words carefully. "Whatever it is that is keeping you from being the man you wish to be."

He swallowed back the desire to spit in her face. The man he wished to be. The absurdity of it made him want to laugh, but the reality of it provoked him to violence, tempted him to wring her pretty neck until she could speak no more blatant truths. And though he no longer knew who the man was that he wished to be, he did know that he was in no need of an American widow to tell him what he himself already knew, had no wish to take sage advice from a woman nearly half his age. She could live five lifetimes and never have experienced the hardships he'd faced in his one.

"Being and wishing to be are two separate things, Miss O'Neil."

Slowly, she shook her head. She clasped her hands in front of her, as she so often did when she was displeased. "You are wrong. It's as simple as making a choice."

"And if I choose?" he asked. "What then? Will I be forgiven and all be well and right with the world?"

"You may," she challenged. "But that is between you and God."

The hairs on his nape stood on end as she spoke the words, and whatever retaliatory comment he'd had on his tongue vanished as his expression took on one of a man witnessing an apparition. He stumbled back to leaning against the wash basin for support, nearly tripping over himself as he did so.

Margaret gently kneaded her wrists, looking them over for bruises or marks. "I will have Kitch bring you your supper so you may eat upstairs. Goodnight, mister Tarleton."

But you said...we'd be forgiven!

"Leave," he breathed shakily, feeling as though the air had been sucked from his lungs.

And indeed you may!

She smiled disdainfully and turned and left the room, closing the door behind her but not latching it. Tavington stared after her through the thin crack, watching as she descended the staircase to dine alone.

But that is between you and God.

William composed himself and sat on his bed, trying to make sense of what had just occurred.

Those words...how could she...

No, he reasoned. It had to be coincidence. There was no possible way she knew; of the church, the brutality he'd demonstrated, of him. He thought back to that day, to the people present and the ones who'd burned. He was certain no one had escaped that church, that only he and his dragoons had witnessed the events of that day.

It must have been a coincidence.

That was all.

For if she had known of his identity from the beginning, and still taken it upon herself to give him shelter, willingly, then...what did that make him? If she were truly a good and righteous person, what was he in comparison? It could not be true. He could not accept the notion that he and everything he had fought for were anything less than right, anything other than the straight and true way.

Margaret seemed to have no comprehension of what she'd been saying, unaware of the impact of her words. Perhaps it was Divine intervention, God's way of sending him a message. But of what? To go through with his plan, and return home? Or to attempt to change himself, to attain the redemption he'd so desperately wanted since losing his honor to his late father? Or something else entirely?

His bedroom door opened and Kitch appeared with a tray of food, which he wordlessly laid next to him before leaving without so much as a backwards glance. Under any other circumstance, he would have called out his insubordination, but the shock of the events from moments prior still held a firm grip on him.

What did this mean? And what did it mean for his chances with Margaret and her fortune, for returning home?

He sat down on his bed and ate his dinner, willing himself to be happy though he was not.

Fife had prepared pork.