Late February, 1778

Dawn had barely begun to spread its light over the horizon when the rumbling of horses' hooves signaled the approach of the British Green Dragoons. Lydia's first thought upon waking was regret that she had locked away her husband's pistol in a trunk the night before.

Frantically, she stumbled out of bed and pulled on a petticoat, then snatched her corset from a chair back and laced it over her sleeveless muslin nightshift with shaking hands. She had no time to look for her stockings or shoes under the bed. The rumbling already grew louder.

"Mama?"

Lydia gathered two-year-old Celia in her arms, murmuring comfort to the sleepy child. She hesitated near the locked trunk and quickly decided there was no find the key, then hurried from the room into the hallway, unlatched the back door of the small farmhouse and ran toward the woods.

She cursed under her breath for hiding the pistol from herself last night, one of many bad nights she'd had since her husband Daniel had been killed last month while fighting with the Patriots to defend Charles Town from the invading troops of General Cornwallis. She'd promised herself not to leave Celia alone in this world. Now, she had no way to protect either of them, although she had to admit to herself that she stood little chance of escaping the Dragoons anyway.

"Halt! You there!"

The horsemen had seen them and were almost instantly upon them, their horses galloping around the house. In the faint light of dawn, the high plumed helmets of the Dragoons made them appear as monsters atop rampaging beasts, and Celia started to scream before Lydia could clamp a hand over her mouth. Now the men were close enough that their faces were visible in the growing light, then the distinctive hunter green of their uniforms and the glinting gold of the emblazoned buckles. She realized with horror that the increasingly strong light was cast not only from the rising sun but also from the flames that had begun to consume the little wooden house and the small nearby fields of corn and barley.

"Oh God, our house," she moaned in despair.

She'd only had time to run out with Celia and the tiny wooden doll the child clutched; now it was the only object from the house to survive the fire. Even now she was still trying to reach the edge of the woods, but the sight of the blaze had slowed her a few moments too long, and two horsemen trapped her between them, swords drawn.

"Halt!" one of them shouted again.

Lydia sunk to her knees and wrapped her arms more tightly around Celia as she cringed away from the swords held above her.

More horsemen rode towards them and quickly surrounded them. In the distance she saw one of them untying Daniel's horse, no doubt to take it for the Dragoons.

Smoke stinging her eyes and nose, fear twisting her insides, she bent her head over Celia's and closed her eyes as the sounds of crackling wood, horses' hooves and men's voices rang in her ears. The geese called out harshly above the din as they took flight over the farm, while the chickens and hens tried to flee across the yard, squawking in terror as the horses rode through them and trampled many of them into the red Carolina dirt.

Then, gradually, only the steady roar of the flames remained, and she heard only one voice.

"You, girl! Are you Lydia Malloy, widow of the traitor Daniel Malloy?"

At first, her mind overwhelmed with terror, she recognized only that a man's deep, imperious voice was calling her by name, but she could not comprehend the words. Something about Daniel, too... so this was a punishment, an example to her neighbors. Perhaps it would be an execution as well. She wanted to remain as she was, huddled over her daughter with her eyes closed, but she forced herself to raise her head and look up.

"I asked you a question, girl, and I advise you to answer without delay," the commanding voice above her repeated with some impatience. "Are you Lydia Malloy, widow of the traitor Daniel Malloy?"

Lydia's light auburn hair obscured part of her face, but she could see well enough to make out the source of the voice, and she knew who he must be... Colonel William Tavington, commander of the Green Dragoons.

Daniel had once told her that Tavington had a reputation for being a pitiless and brutal man. He certainly looked it now as he sat with rigid arrogance atop his horse, his well-built form held in perfect military posture. The features of his face looked as strong and forbidding as the rest of him: strong, straight nose, square jaw and cleft chin, sensual mouth slightly upturned in contempt, cold eyes of an unusually light and beautiful shade of hazel. The colonel looked every inch the powerful monster that the colonists portrayed him to be, with one exception. The man was also extremely handsome. Lydia had somehow expected him to be as unattractive as his image, and the surprising contrast flustered and intimidated her as much as his reputation and appearance.

Her lips parted to speak, but her voice felt trapped in her dry throat. She swallowed hard, tasting smoke, and nodded mutely instead in answer to the question.

The colonel's faint, condescending smile broadened into a smirk as his eyes traveled languidly over his captive, from her tousled, thick, nearly waist-length curls to her bare shoulders, arms and feet. Until then she'd forgotten, in her fear, that she was dressed in little more than she would have once worn to bed with her husband. The muslin petticoat she wore over her short nightshift was only just thick enough to obscure her legs from clear view, but not to hide the silhouette of their slender curves.

"Well," Tavington said slowly, his low, resonant voice at once derisive and suggestive, "pity your husband didn't leave you much to wear before he marched off to die."

A few of the men laughed. Feeling all eyes upon her, she quickly looked away from him and lowered her own to the ground. The back of her neck grew prickly hot with shame and anger. The last time a man had looked her over so disrespectfully was long before her marriage, and she'd lost her temper and slapped a drunken James Wilkins across the face at a holiday ball at Middleton Place. Her uncle had been unsympathetic, since Wilkins was a neighbor and fellow plantation owner, and his preferred suitor for Lydia.

This morning was far worse, however. The colonel had to know that he'd caught her by surprise, that she had no choice but to try to escape in the undergarments she'd worn to bed, but he went out of his way to demean her and make light of her husband's death as well. As if it were not enough that her house and fields were burning to the ground, that she was a widow and had nothing left but her child and the injured pride that began to swell into rage at the cruel injustice of the situation...

She looked up again and met Tavington's eyes. The leering contempt she saw in them hit her like a blow in the stomach, almost taking her breath away. Lydia's temper flared. She jumped to her feet as if propelled, leaving Celia huddled on the ground behind her with her eyes covered, and strode angrily towards the colonel. She stopped directly in front of him and stood with her hands on her hips, her petite frame held straight and chin raised defiantly.

"You ask me who I am now, as my house burns to the ground?"

The words seemed to fly from her mouth before she even thought of them, each one annunciated clearly with her fury and outraged sense of justice.

The other Dragoons fell silent with shock. Tavington raised an eyebrow in an expression of surprise that slowly became amusement mixed with irritation. He was obviously unaccustomed to being challenged, especially not by a young woman.

Irritation won out. He drew his pistol quickly and pointed it to her head. Lydia's heart leaped. She drew in her breath sharply, eyes widened in anxiety. He smiled faintly, coldy.

"I know who you are, Miss Malloy."

Then, she surprised herself and Tavington still more by standing her ground without flinching, head held high and eyes narrowed. The colonel and his men could not know that only last night she had almost taken the step that he did now. She'd almost been willing to leave her daughter to Daniel's sister to raise so she could find an escape from her grief and see him in heaven... and her mother and father, after so many years.

Lydia knew she could not bring herself to beg this heartless officer for her life when she no longer cared to live it. She had long willed herself to go on for Celia's sake, but the realization that she now had no means to provide for her left her hopeless and confused. At least the little girl was young enough to forget, as Lydia had forgotten her own mother. Her father's passing had come later and left her scarred and mourning still.

She turned her eyes away from the colonel's only once, long enough to be sure that Celia still covered hers. She felt strangely calm, resigned to death, detached from herself.

God forgive me. Let him shoot.

Tavington watched her with evident disbelief, consternation and growing annoyance as he continued to aim the pistol between Lydia's steady blue-green eyes.

Then, he remembered the little girl.

Slowly, with a faint, grim smile, he turned the pistol on Celia.

"No, don't! Please!" Lydia gasped.

He smiled in satisfaction as her impassive expression instantly melted into submissive terror.

"Colonel..." the Dragoon nearest him began, but Tavington cut him short with an impatient gesture of his gloved hand.

He turned his attention back to Lydia, who had darted back to Celia and dropped to her knees in front of her. The little girl hid behind her mother, too young to understand the danger of the pistol pointed at them but still frightened by her mother's obvious distress and the crackling of the flames that continued to burn the house behind them.

Tavington observed them both without any sign of pity; in fact, his chiseled countenance revealed no sign of any emotion whatsoever, but his pale eyes held a wicked glimmer as he watched Lydia kneeling in the dirt. She realized that he expected her to beg for his mercy -- if he had any. Despite the flicker of anger that resurfaced inside her, she knew she would easily sacrifice her dignity to plead for Celia whether she was likely to be successful or not. Slowly, she stretched out one slender, bare arm toward him, her palm turned upward in a sign of supplication.

"Colonel, I ask you..." Lydia began, her slightly throaty voice even lower than usual, and then paused. She took a deep breath, wincing, and forced herself to go on.

"I beg you, please, spare my child."

Tavington's lips curled into a sadistic smirk. He waited.

She tried to continue, her cheeks flushing as his gaze traveled over the expanse of rosy skin that her low-cut corset exposed at her neck, and the swell of her breasts as she leaned forward.

"Shoot me if you will, but let her live," Lydia went on, struggling to keep her voice from wavering. 'She is hardly more than a baby and cannot be responsible for the actions of her father or mother."

The colonel's arrogant smile faded suddenly. As her heart pounded and her mind raced, wondering if she had said something to make him angry, he abruptly dropped his arm to his knee. He did not put away the pistol, but he turned his hand so it no longer pointed at her. Once more, his face appeared expressionless, but his eyes seemed to burn into her and look beyond her, as if he remembered something from the past instead. When he looked back to Lydia and spoke, his voice was again calm and cool.

"And what would I do with a baby if I let her live?"

Her hands flew to her heart in impulsive gratitude.

"Only take her up the road with you a little further, sir, and you will find my uncle's plantation. He's a Loyalist."

He raised an eyebrow, regarding Lydia with surprise.

"How strange, my dear, that you decline to plead for your own life, because I could really spare you both, and take her to your uncle... if you come with me and consent to my conditions."

As he spoke the words in a smooth, almost purring tone, the glint returned to his eyes and a sly smile played at the corners of his mouth. Her stomach turned and fell in sickening fear as she knew in her gut what her mind denied in hopeful confusion.

"Think of it as a trade of sorts," he continued in his silky voice. "Her life for your... virtue."

The manner in which he pronounced the last word, almost as a softly whispered obscenity, left no doubt of his meaning.

Lydia caught her breath. Her eyes widened in despairing comprehension.

Tavington laughed shortly at her reaction, low and deep in his throat. He sheathed the pistol with a grin, apparently confident that its power of intimidation was no longer needed.

Feeling tears well up behind her lashes, she turned her head away so quickly that her long curls swung in front of her face and hid it from his view. Celia pressed closer against her, whimpering again, and Lydia embraced her tightly, kissing the top of her auburn head.

"Well?" The colonel and his men waited. One of the horses neighed and shifted impatiently.

She knew she had no choice, in reality, but he would force her to make it just the same. Her throat choked with familiar fury, helplessness and humiliation as she clutched Celia.

"Damn you to hell," she whispered forcefully, head lowered.

"What was that, my darling?" He'd heard her anyway, or at least he had heard that she'd spoken.

Lydia raised her head, blinking back angry tears and stiffening her lower lip against its trembling. She spoke clearly and slowly.

"I said, damn you to hell, Colonel."

He smiled.

Then she added, quietly, "I will go with you."

"Horsie, mama."

"Yes, baby," Lydia murmured, moving her bound hands so she could stroke Celia's hair. The little girl still remembered riding with her father, his arms around her as he would trot his horse around the yard, letting her hold the reins.

Only now, it was a British officer whose left arm wrapped around the mother and child as he held the reins in his right. The man was the colonel's second in command, a Dragoon named Borden. Lydia remembered that he was the one who had spoken up when the colonel turned his pistol on Celia. Otherwise, he showed no emotion and did not speak as they rode behind Tavington in single file down the narrow dirt road. Still, she was grateful that he held her firmly enough for safety's sake, but curled his hand into itself instead of taking advantage of her by resting it on her hip or thigh as she imagined the colonel would have done.

"King's horsies, King's horsies," Celia sang off-key. "Horsie fun, mama?"

Lydia smiled ruefully at her daughter's innocence. Now that the burning farmhouse was out of sight, Celia seemed to have forgotten it all already and was simply enchanted by the Dragoon's horse. She wiggled in excitement as she sat inside her mother's bound arms.

"Oh, yes, fun." Lydia's low answer dripped with bitter sarcasm, more for the release of her own frustration than for her daughter's edification. "This day is a terrible lot of fun, is it not? Almost as charming as that man up in front of us."

She felt Borden's chest press against her back with the effort of his suppressed laugh. Lost in her own misery, she'd actually forgotten that he could hear everything she said, and she was strangely comforted that she was apparently not alone in her opinion of Tavington. Still, she reminded herself that she should be more careful of her words.

"Borden! Ask that girl where to turn."

Speak of the devil, she thought. Tavington had stopped just in front of them, where the small dirt road joined a wider one. Before Borden could speak, Lydia turned her head slightly toward him and simply said, "Right."

"Sir, she says to turn to the right."

Tavington motioned impatiently with his head. To Lydia's dismay, Borden rode up beside his commander and the Dragoons continued on in twos. She was grateful that her uncle's plantation would soon be within sight, because she could somehow feel that the colonel's eyes rested on her even without looking toward him.

The sun grew warmer now, heating the red earth beneath it and releasing the musky scents of dirt and damp foliage into the air to mix with the odor of horses' sweat.

Then they turned the bend and she saw her uncle's house behind his rice fields. Her heart sank as she realized that she was minutes away from giving up Celia, and she didn't even know when she would see her again or if she even would. She desperately wanted to ask the questions that tormented her, but she feared breaking down in the face of the colonel's response, which would most likely be deliberately cruel regardless of whatever his true intentions might be.

"Could this be it, Miss Malloy?"

Lydia started at Tavington's question, spoken with mocking politeness and the implication that he already knew that it was. She realized that he had surmised this from watching her expression and cursed herself for being such an open book with her emotions. All her life she'd had trouble holding back feelings and biting her tongue.

"Yes," she said simply, looking straight ahead.

She wondered why he kept calling her Miss instead of Mrs. Perhaps he referred to her as he would an unmarried girl because she was such a young widow. In any case, she supposed that he meant to be disrespectful.

Now they passed the rice fields where some of her uncle's slaves were already laboring. Celia turned to look and suddenly called out to one of them as they looked up to see the Dragoons approaching.

"Daisy, Daisy!"

The young black woman waved to her, straightening and moving quickly toward the road, but she did not share Celia's smile. Daisy could see that Lydia was bound and half-dressed, and her face reflected her confusion and fear for her master's niece and the child.

Daisy reached the gate and waited for an explanation, too fearful to ask. Tavington ignored her and turned to Borden.

"Hand the child over to her now, Captain."

Lydia panicked, tightening her hold. Even though she was relieved not to be seen by her uncle like this, she was still unprepared to give up Celia so quickly. She turned around to look into Borden's face, something she'd been too embarrassed to do so far.

"Please, Captain Borden, let me say good-bye to my child for just a moment." She stared pleadingly into his blue eyes, scanning his boyish face for compassion as Tavington watched silently.

Borden's countenance remained without expression, but his eyes warmed and he nodded curtly, adding "quickly" under his breath. He reached forward and gently turned the little girl toward Lydia, who held the child's face between her bound hands while she ached to have her arms free to hold her.

"Celia," Lydia said softly, as calmly as she could manage, "I brought you to play with Daisy and Abigail. I will be back... soon."

The little girl smiled, dimples appearing in each cheek. She did not really understand. Lydia kissed her once, then again almost fiercely, and allowed Borden to shift Celia into his right arm and carefully lower her into Daisy's open arms. Celia flung her arms around Daisy's neck.

"Mama down now," the child insisted.

Lydia bit her lip.

"Not now, baby," she said gently. "I have to go."

Daisy tried to comfort her, looking with concern at Lydia all the while.

"Mama will be back, little Celia. Hush, now."

"No! Mama down, too."

Tavington cut them off with impatience, seemingly disturbed by something more than the delay.

"Borden, we continue on," he said abruptly, and called a signal to the rest. Lydia forced herself to smile as she looked over her shoulder at Celia's confused face and Daisy's frightened one. Then she turned back and looked straight ahead at the road, at nothing in particular, trying to hold back all emotion as Borden held her and rode next to Tavington. She could feel the colonel's eyes on her once more and she was determined not to give the man the satisfaction of almost bringing her to tears again.

"Mama!"

It was Celia's voice, small and forlorn.

"Mama back! Mama back, please!"

Lydia clenched her jaw, blinking, and kept her eyes on the road. She knew if she turned around now and saw Celia's distress that she would lose all control and weep openly.

"Mama!" The last cry was louder than the rest, rising almost to a shriek, and punctuated by comprehending sobs.

Lydia bit her lips together, narrowing her eyes to hold in the tears that started to form. Soon they would be too far away to hear Celia's broken-hearted wails, she told herself. But what if she never saw her child again? Lydia had to look at her face one more time...

She whipped her head around so suddenly that her long reddish curls lashed across Borden's face as she leaned around him and glimpsed the faraway figures of Daisy and Celia.

"Celia!" Her anguished cry echoed in the heavy, humid air. "I will come back to you!"

Then she forced herself to turn away and not look back. She hung her head down so her thick hair would shield her like a curtain from Tavington's sight, while her throat, chest and ribs ached with pain as she fought to hold back sobs.

Borden cleared his throat.

"Well, that's taken care of," Tavington remarked with rather deliberate indifference. "Captain, I will take half the men with me and ride on ahead."

"Sir?"

"You may need to ride more slowly," the colonel continued blandly, motioning to Lydia. She had slumped forward over the horse's neck, almost sliding off, and Borden had to pull her back toward him and hold her firmly in the crook of his arm.

Lydia still struggled not to cry out loud, even as she heard the impatient colonel and some of his men gallop past them. She did not want to fall apart in front of Captain Borden either, even if he was a kinder man than Tavington -- after all, almost any man would be in comparison. Borden was still a British officer, and as such an enemy of the husband she'd lost.

Now she had lost Celia, too, whether for a while or forever. Her arms already ached to hold the child and to feel someone holding her. For the first time in her life, she was truly alone and absolutely helpless. The thought overwhelmed her with as much panic as grief, and she could no longer hold back the flood of tears.

Deep sobs wrenched her body, shaking her so violently that her shoulder blades thrust backwards into Borden's chest. She held her bound hands to her mouth to quiet her crying but could not completely muffle the low, mournful sounds of her grief as she remembered again the pain of losing Daniel. The thought of being trapped into giving to a British officer -- an uncaring, sadistic one at that -- what she used to share lovingly with her husband pushed her sanity to the brink. Daniel would turn over in his grave if he knew the deal she'd had to make. She felt awash in shame.

For one wild moment, she thought of wrenching free from Borden's arm and flinging herself to the ground, lying there as the horses' hooves shattered her head and body.

Hold on for Celia, pray to God for strength. You must protect her somehow.

She whispered to herself between sobs, barely intelligible to herself or to the horsemen closest around her, many of whom pretended not to notice but cast her pitying glances she could not see.

Then she felt Borden lean forward, his broad chest pressing against her quaking shoulders and steadying them. His strong arm tightened around her.

"Miss Malloy," he said gently in his deep, rich voice, "you will most likely return to your daughter soon, if you cooperate with the colonel."

She was not sure if he was cautioning her or comforting her or both, but his words and touch soothed her aching soul. It took her several tries to still her sobs enough to answer him.

"Thank... thank you, Captain Borden."

Night fell before Lydia saw Colonel Tavington again. His unexpected summons to see General Cornwallis took him away from the encampment for many hours, bringing her relief at the delay and yet prolonging the torture of awaiting his return. While two soldiers guarded the entrance to his tent, she spent her time alternating between resting uneasily on his cot, pacing the ground and even sitting at his desk. Trying to distract herself, she looked over the few items she saw in the open: a well-made white dress shirt hanging on a stand, a pewter mug on the desktop and a worn, folded map. At times, boredom almost eclipsed her anxiety, but it always returned.

All the while, she twisted her hands against the heavy rope that bound them, trying to gradually loosen the bonds and fray one piece of rope against another until her skin grew red from the chafing. Still, the constant, repetitive movement kept her from feeling quite so helpless, and it lulled her senses until she no longer heard the voices of the men outside or the quiet, steady rush of the small creek beyond the colonel's tent.

Tavington startled her badly when he strode into the tent without a word around nightfall.

Lydia's whole body flinched visibly in surprise and her eyes rounded, then darted back down to her hands. He smiled as he walked to the desk, set down a bottle and lantern and removed his tall black helmet without taking his eyes off of her. She quickly resumed twisting her hands against the ropes without raising her eyes to him.

"You have little chance against such sturdy rope, my dear."

He sounded amused as he slowly removed his elegant black leather riding gloves, one finger at a time, then set them down on the desk and opened the bottle.

"I know," she said bitterly, still looking down at her hands and turning them slowly against the heavy bonds. After a pause, she added, "You shouldn't waste good rope on me. You might need it to hang a small child."

Tavington laughed outright and poured himself a mug from the bottle. He took a long drink from it before walking across the tent to stand in front of his prisoner.

"Your daughter, perhaps?"

Lydia bit her lip and reminded herself that his reply was only an offhand and provocative retort to her own jab. Her uncle was on the British side in this war, after all, and surely he would not allow his niece's child to be hanged.

The colonel took another drink before continuing.

"You overestimate me, my dear girl. I may have killed many rebel soldiers, but no women or children."

"Not yet," she snapped, then caught the implication behind his words and looked up at him. His mouth curved into a sly smile.

"Are you saying you would not have shot me or my daughter?" she asked him slowly.

"I had no need to do so," he said. "You believed I would, which was enough to convince you."

Lydia looked away and focused on the ground, struggling to suppress the sudden urge to fly at him and claw the colonel's smug face with her nails.

"Still," he went on in a tone of mock reassurance, "you needn't reproach yourself. I would have brought you with me in any case."

She'd already guessed that he was manipulating her, and his confirmation only stirred her growing anger and resentment without assuaging her shame. She remained silent. He walked back to the table and set down the mug, unbuckled his sword, and laid it across the desk, followed by the pistol he'd turned on her that morning. She wondered whether he was tempting her to try something foolish or merely confident that she was completely helpless.

Tavington removed his uniform jacket and hung it on the stand, then untied the collar of his shirt as he turned back toward her. Her stomach clenched tightly in fear, then gradually relaxed as he did not proceed to remove his shirt, but instead drew a water flask from the pocket of his uniform and took a long, slow drink.

It was not until then that Lydia forgot the day's emotional turmoil and realized how desperately thirsty she was, even though she felt too upset to be hungry. She became aware of the creek's trickling flow in the distance, a sound that had faded into the background until now. Her throat ached and her mouth felt dry as cotton as she watched him drink.

"Are you thirsty, Miss Malloy?" He paused and looked over at her, raising an eyebrow.

Of course he could guess that she was, and the question was too studiously casual, too polite for her to believe it was sincere. She was beginning to think that the man's capacity for emotional cruelty might surpass his well-known potential for physical damage on the battlefield.

"You must be terribly thirsty by now," he continued in his low, smooth voice. He walked toward her as she sat silently on the edge of the cot, then stopped in front of her and waited patiently for his prisoner's thirst to overtake her pride. After a moment she nodded, still looking down at her hands. He held the flask in front of him, tipped slightly toward her.

Then, instead of holding it to her lips to drink, he cupped one of his large hands and poured some of the water into his palm instead.

Lydia looked up at him in disbelief.

He smirked and waited, hand outstretched as his pale, cold eyes taunted her.

"Am I a dog or a horse that you expect me to drink out of your hand?" she finally asked in a voice quivering with outrage.

"How thirsty are you?"

She glared at him with narrowed eyes, wanting to refuse for pride's sake but craving liquid so badly that the inside of her mouth almost hurt from the need.

Lydia drew in her breath sharply. She bowed her head, leaned forward and drank quickly, closing her eyes as she felt her skin flush from her neck to the roots of her hair. Although she tried to touch her lips only to the liquid in his palm and not to his hand, he lifted it up toward her face as she sucked in the water, then laid his fingers against her cheek and stroked the curve of her jawline and neck. As she swallowed and licked the droplets from her lips, he brushed his fingertips lightly over her full mouth before dropping his hand to his thigh.

At last, she opened her eyes and mouth and broke the tense, erotic silence.

"Don't you have any women here that you can use and humiliate? Camp followers?" she asked bitterly.

Tavington gave her a salacious, self-satisfied smile. He pulled up his chair and sank back into it with an air of arrogant ease, assured of his own power and control and evidently enjoying it greatly.

"Of course," he replied in a slightly husky voice, eyes glinting. "But why pay for something that can be enjoyed at no cost?"

Something inside her snapped.

In one swift motion, she whipped her right leg upward and kicked the flask out of his hand, sending it flying through the air and crashing into the lantern on his desk, which fell noisily to its side and sputtered. Tavington's jaw dropped in shock. As he regained his balance on the chair and tried to rise to his feet, she leaped to hers and slammed her bound fists together into the side of his head, knocking him off balance and to the floor.

For a brief moment she was seized with the fierce joy of victory. Fear quickly replaced it as she glimpsed his furious expression and she bolted toward the opening of the tent. Lydia was quick on her feet, but he was faster and far more powerful. He seized her by the hair and yanked her back toward him, bringing his other hand around and smacking her hard across her face.

She gasped in pain. He held her tightly, glaring at her in a cold rage as he appeared to consider what he should do with her. Abruptly, he pulled her head down to his shoulder with the hand that still held her hair.

Then, he brought the heel of his riding boot down on the bare toes of her right foot with all the force of his weight.

Lydia screamed, an agonized, piercing shriek that felt as if it were ripped from her insides. As her body contracted in pain, she pressed her face against his shoulder and chest. He continued to grind down on her toes and she continued to scream until he finally lifted his boot and she slid toward the floor, moaning. He dropped his hold on her hair and grasped her around her small waist, then tossed her backwards onto the cot. She curled up on her side. Her hair, still smelling of smoke, hid the tears that streamed down her cheeks and muffled her whimpers of pain.

"Sir?"

A shadow appeared near the tent entrance, joined by two more. The anxious voice belonged to a soldier who stood guard outside and had obviously heard the fight. Even though her head spun with pain, Lydia still had enough presence of mind to wonder if one of the shadows was Borden's. The men probably feared that Tavington had killed her. At the moment, she wished he had; the blood had begun to rush back into her foot and the pain was excruciating. She tried to stifle her moans of pain.

"Go away," he snarled, then added in a calmer voice, "Everything is fine. Stay at your post, soldier."

Lydia heard the faint murmur of soldiers' voices outside, then quiet again. The colonel's footsteps fell heavily on the ground as he strode toward the desk. She thought of the sword and pistol lying there and jerked her head up to look.

He stood with his hand resting on the bottle, breathing as heavily as she was. Strands of dark hair had fallen loose from his tight military queue. The look in his eyes sent shivers up her spine; it was the hard, angry gaze of a fighter assessing his enemy. Gradually, the violent gleam faded from his eyes as they stared at each other in silence. As much as she already despised that arrogant half-smile of his that quickly replaced it, she was almost relieved to see an expression that was more familiar and less terrifying than blind rage.

"Well," he finally said, "Your strength and wits are rather impressive, but I'm afraid I hold a number of advantages over you. Are you through fighting me now?"

Despite his cool, controlled tone, she could not miss the undertone of anger in his voice. Clearly, any further resistance would be foolish. She nodded her head in frightened submission, her hair falling over one damp eye as she did so, and gulped down a sob between ragged breaths.

"Good girl."

He spoke the words in a voice that was vaguely taunting, his expression smug with victory, and for a moment he reminded her of an older, more familiar man -- one she despised even more. Her heart swelled with desperate, frustrated, hate-filled anger.

"You're just like my uncle! A bully with a bottle in his hand!"

She heard herself spit out the words at him as her fury overcame her fear and she lost control of her tongue once again. She wanted to insult him, even if it angered him and brought her further punishment. It was foolish, she knew, but words were her only weapon against men like her uncle and this brutal British officer.

Spiteful joy leapt inside her as she saw Tavington flinch and then freeze where he stood, hand still upon the bottle. Perhaps in a moment he would beat her with it, but for the moment she didn't care. She returned his enraged glare with her own.

Then he turned his back, took several steps away and stopped, head lowered and hands clasped behind his neck. He stood there motionless for so long that she began to wonder again if he might kill her, and the thought filled her with surprising regret. If only for Celia's sake, she had to endure and survive this imprisonment. Still, his inaction confused her.

At last he turned back around, pausing to pick up the overturned lamp and a mug from the table before walking slowly towards her and sitting down at her feet on the edge of the cot. He reached one hand toward her injured foot. She tried to pull it up and under her petticoat, but his hand shot out further and gripped her ankle tightly.

"No, don't," she started to plead.

"Are you through fighting me or not?" he demanded in a rough voice, but he did not look at her.

She forced herself to hold still as he slid his other hand slowly under her foot and held it in his palm. Tavington was a large, athletic man, and his size made her small foot look like a child's in his hand.

Despite his harsh tone and frowning countenance, his touch was startlingly gentle as he ran his fingers over and under her red, swollen toes, slowly lifting and moving each one. Lydia gasped and whimpered involuntarily in pain.

To her further surprise, he did not smirk or look up at her as she had expected. Perhaps it was the diminished flame of the lamp or the dark hair against his face, but his chiseled features had lost their hardness. If she were seeing him now for the first time, not knowing his cruel nature, she would have found him stunningly handsome. She could hardly believe this was the same man who had brutalized her minutes before, and the transition unnerved her. Perhaps he was only toying with her, lulling her senses and then seizing the moment and attacking like a mountain lion might first play with its prey before turning deadly.

The moment came. He'd lifted her smallest toe slightly; it remained stiff. Without warning, he pressed his fingers down forcefully from above and below it at once. The snap of the tiny bones sent blinding pain shooting up her leg and ripped a sob from her throat. She covered her face in her hands and burst into fresh tears.

His hand released her foot. After a moment, the cot creaked as he slid closer to her and reached down to the floor. As he pulled her hands away from her wet face, she looked down and saw he held the mug up to her lips.

"Drink this," he commanded. Then he hesitated and added, gruffly and somewhat awkwardly, "The bones are back in place. It will heal."

Lydia hesitated in confusion. She realized with shock that he had actually been helping her rather than torturing her, and that he now offered the drink to soothe her pain. He was angry, not at her, but at himself. Her words had somehow stirred remorse in him, and evidently this man with a professional reputation for brutality was unaccustomed to the feeling. She wondered how long his mercy would last.

"Drink," he repeated firmly, placing the mug in her hands and tilting it to her mouth.

She did, and almost immediately she wondered if he planned to drug her or poison her. The liquid was thick and potent, stirring her stomach in revolt as she forced herself to swallow it. She could not help screwing up her face in an expression of distaste and disgust, like a child forced to take bitter medicine, and prayed he would not be angry.

Tavington laughed, surprising her again, and she dared to look up at him. Instead of the hard, derisive laugh she'd heard before, this was one of genuine humor and amusement. His twinkling hazel eyes held no contempt this time.

"What is this? You drink this?" she dared to ask.

"Why, this is the finest port from the table of Lord General Cornwallis himself." He spoke the last few words with subtle but unmistakable hostility. It occurred to her that he seemed pleased that she would dislike something favored by the general.

"I hardly care if it comes from the King of England," Lydia added, emboldened by his good humor and grimacing after he'd made her take another drink. "It's still godawful bad."

His smile broadened. "You have a rather sharp tongue, Miss Malloy."

"I've heard that before," she murmured, swallowing one last mouthful of the port before he set the mug down on the floor and eased her back to recline on the cot.

"From your uncle?"

His tone startled her; it no longer sounded lighthearted. She looked up at him and saw he was frowning, although not at her.

Lydia could guess what had provoked his comment without even following his gaze, and she tried to grasp her petticoat hem to cover more of her legs. Again, he was faster and stronger, and he held her bound hands in one of his while the other pushed the hem up to her thighs.

He'd seen the scars.

She had known he would, and knew as well that she should be grateful for them in her unenviable situation. With any luck, the British officer's obvious carnal interest in her would vanish with the sight of the thick, long purple scars that crisscrossed her legs. Still, she could not help but feel overwhelming shame. Her bound hands rose to her face and covered her eyes so she would not have to see his inevitable expression of disgust.

She heard Tavington draw in a deep breath. Then she shivered as his fingers traced along the darkened ridges of years-old lacerations.

"Hideous," he finally said quietly.

Lydia winced visibly.

"Thank you," she said, trying to force a flippant tone, but her voice betrayed her emotions with its quivering.

He was silent for a moment, but his hand continued to brush across the scars lightly, almost tenderly.

"No man could call you hideous," he said in a husky voice that managed to comfort and unnerve her at the same time. "And I would think that no man, not even one with a temper such as mine, would do you such lasting damage..."

His admission surprised her, since he had until now been so coldly guarded and infuriatingly manipulative. Somehow, his sudden honesty prompted her own.

"My uncle did do it, ten years ago, with a horse whip. I rode one of his horses without asking, and he was waiting for me in the barn when I came back -- "

Lydia stopped herself. She did not want to say any more, and she wondered why she had said even this much to a British officer who'd burned her house down, threatened and hurt her, all in one day. How different was he from her uncle? Yet for some reason, the proof of her brutal abuse seemed to have resonated somewhere in the heart that still existed in the hardened, ruthless soldier that was Colonel William Tavington. He was endlessly complex, frightening and fascinating.

"Hush. Close your eyes, darling."

His voice was soft and seductive. She was unsure if he felt tenderness, pity or only desire, but his touch on her scars was consistently gentle. Still, his broad hand had drifted between the ridges, caressing the smooth skin of her bare upper thighs, then her hip and her stomach through her petticoat. He stroked slowly across her belly, which felt increasingly warm inside from the port and from something else as well.

Her toes ached only vaguely now. Instead, the ache seemed to have spread deep into her stomach and thighs. As his hand moved across her belly, Lydia told herself that she was only grateful that his touch further distracted her from the pain in her foot and cheek. She had to remind herself that her injuries were his doing.

"I need another drink," she blurted out, knowing her request was transparent.

"No, you most certainly do not," he said. She could hear the smile in his voice.

Lydia sighed. His fingers traced along the corset strings from her stomach to her low neckline and now across the swell of her breasts to her neck. She could not keep her breathing steady, to her shame, nor could she continue to deny to herself how much she desperately missed the comfort and intimacy of a man's touch despite the anxiety and guilt this caused her. She knew her self-control was slipping.

"Oh for God's sake," she snapped at him breathlessly. "Will you just hurry up and be done with it?"

Tavington burst out laughing.

"Would you rather I be rough with you instead?"

She did not answer or look at him.

He untied her corset strings with practiced hands, pausing only a moment as he pulled his shirt over his head and tossed it aside.

"I don't know," Lydia said finally, her low voice resonating with frustration and confusion. A second later, she wanted to bite her tongue. Had she lost her mind? After all, roughness was exactly what she had feared during the hours she'd had to wait for the colonel's return, but at least she wouldn't be suffering from the guilt of enjoying what reminded her too much of the lovemaking she'd once shared with her husband.

"I mean... "she said, then broke off with a sigh.

"No need to explain, darling," Tavington murmured as he leaned over her and kissed her forehead, hair and fingertips as she still hid her face with her bound hands. Lydia could tell that his sensual mouth formed a smile as he pressed it into her upturned palms and then to her own mouth. He seemed to understand what she meant perfectly.

A moment later, his hand slid over her full, bare breasts. She gasped despite herself. He pressed his mouth against hers again, more firmly. He tasted like port and smelled vaguely of leather, smoke and horses. She could feel warmth radiating from his well-muscled chest and arms as he kept his hand cupped around one breast. The other hand reached under her skirt and caressed the bare skin of her hip and stomach under her loosened corset. Lydia caught her breath and barely suppressed a moan as a violent shudder shot through her from her belly to her neck, which she realized was flushed even though the February evening was growing cool. His hand stroked the inside of her thigh. Like most colonial women, she wore no undergarments, and it unnerved how close he was to touching her intimately.

"You did ask me to hurry, didn't you?" he whispered huskily into her ear, moving his other hand from her breast to raise her hands above her head and look into her face.

She turned away and kept her eyes closed, saying nothing in reply. Tavington bent closer and pressed his lips against the curve of her cheek, then kissed her neck and collarbone, then her bare breasts and taut nipples, while all the while his other hand caressed the length of one thigh and then the other. She tried to steady her breathing, silently counting to three as she inhaled and exhaled.

Then his fingers slipped between her thighs as his other hand stroked her breast, and she could not help tensing her body and moaning into his mouth when he raised his head and kissed her roughly. Strands of his long dark hair fell over her face.

His hand left her breast for a moment to unbutton his riding breeches. Breathing heavily, he quickly straddled her and lowered his body onto hers. She became instantly aware of his hardness pressing against her inner thigh, and how much larger he was -- everywhere -- than Daniel, who had last been with her almost six months ago now. Even Daniel had hurt her the first time, since she was a small woman and narrow in the hips.

Her eyes flew open in sudden panic and looked directly into Tavington's light hazel eyes, which were clouded with desire and looked almost blue in the soft glow of the lantern.

"I made up my mind," she whispered urgently. "I don't want you to be rough."

He raised an eyebrow and gave her a devilish grin as he leaned on his right forearm, and for a moment her fear increased until he leaned down and kissed her gently in reply. Then he reached his left hand down and pushed up on his right arm all in one smooth motion, centering his body over hers and entering her quickly, but not forcefully. It hurt her anyway. He covered her mouth with his as she gasped and her body went rigid in pain. She closed her eyes tightly as he kissed her, feeling tears stinging behind her eyelids.

He quickly slid a hand to her belly and soothingly caressed her bare skin with firm strokes until her body lost its tension. All the while, he moved in and out of her with increasing urgency, and his broad hands now moved to grip her shoulders as he quickened his pace and began to thrust harder. She caught her breath and tried not to cry out, unsure if pain or pleasure was winning the battle. For Tavington, the outcome was more evident as he suddenly squeezed her shoulders tightly and pushed into her so deeply that she whimpered against his chest. He gave a throaty groan of satisfaction and dropped his head upon her breast.

For a minute or more, the only sound was their ragged breathing, then the deep and uncharacteristically content voice of Colonel William Tavington.

"Ah, Lydia," he murmured into her neck. "If we all had women like you back in England, none of us would have come here to fight this bloody war."

Lydia's head ached as soon as she opened her eyes. She squeezed them shut with a groan, then tried again.

"Good morning, Miss Malloy."

She became dimly aware of Tavington standing at his desk, fully dressed in his Dragoon uniform except for the collar of his shirt, which was still untied. His dark hair hung loose around his shoulders, softening his strong features, but his eyes as they caught hers were as cold and detached as they had appeared yesterday morning when she had first met him.

As he looked her over in her state of disarray, his lips curved into an arrogant smirk. The look made her flinch with twice the depth of shame that it had the day before, because of what had taken place between them since then and because she had thought him a different man only hours ago. He had been a different man, for only a short time, and now the one she despised had returned in his handsome form.

Her heart sank in her chest as she quickly closed her eyes shut again, wishing him away like a nightmare or a demon. She rolled onto her stomach and dropped face down on the cot with a deep sigh that ended in another groan as she remembered how much her head ached.

"Too much port last night, darling?" His smooth voice conveyed amusement and contempt combined.

"You made me drink it," Lydia snapped, recalling that she'd had several mugs full without any food. "After you injured me, if you recall."

"And if you recall, Miss Malloy, you gave me something of a headache."

His tone remained cool, calm.

"Good," she said bitterly.

He did not answer, but chuckled instead. She heard his spurs clink as he strode toward the opening of the tent.

"You'll need something to drink and eat, I suppose. I'll send Borden." Then he walked out.

Lydia had no desire for food; her stomach felt sick with shame, hurt, anger and fear. The thought of repeating the last day made her feel like crying again, but she had no tears left and she knew her headache would grow worse.

Borden... she couldn't remember at first why Tavington had said the name. When she did, relief at the prospect of seeing his much kinder second-in-command gave way to a new wave of shame at the thought of being seen half-undressed and red-eyed.

She sat up, nervously listening for approaching footsteps, and began to retie her corset. Moving her bound hands as one made the task slower, but at last she was done. Then she ran her fingers through her tangled curls, wincing as she pulled against snarls, and tried to hold a blanket around herself as she stood up slowly.

The room began to spin. She'd never been drunk before, although she'd seen Daniel in this state a few times after late nights at the tavern with other farmers. She rarely even took a drink, until the night she learned of Daniel's death.

Lydia took a few steps and quickly forgot the pain in her head and cheek. The toes of her right foot were swollen and bruised, the discolored skin turning more purplish than red. She tried turning her foot to the inside and walked a few more painful steps. As much as she wished she could hide in the tent all day, avoiding the colonel and the knowing stares of the other Dragoons, she knew that a long cold soak in the creek would help relieve the pain.

She stepped out of the tent and stopped.

Tavington knelt by the creek, straight ahead of her. His hair hung loose around his broad shoulders, blowing slightly in the breeze as he carefully drew the edge of a razor along his face. With his other hand, he held a small, polished mirror of silver and gazed into it as he shaved his skin to perfect smoothness.

Lydia drew in a deep breath. Her stomach suddenly clenched and ached as if from a blow, while her head spun with a storm of emotion from anger and shame to fear and something else she felt too guilty to acknowledge. She noticed several rings on his hands; none were wedding rings, at least. The hand that held the razor moved with graceful precision and deliberation. Everything with this man was skillful and deliberate. The thought made the back of her neck flush with shame, and her anger stirred inside her again.

"Good God, what a vain man."

"That he is, Miss Malloy, but none of the Tory ladies around here think any worse of him for it."

She started and spun around to see Captain Borden beside her. His smile faded quickly, replaced with a look of shock and then pity.

Lydia turned away and lowered her head so her long hair covered her face, knowing from experience with her uncle's blows that her cheek must be swollen and discolored by now, probably around her eyes as well.

"I imagine that he treats Tory ladies far differently than the widows of rebel soldiers," she answered with quiet bitterness.

Captain Borden remained silent for a while, then stepped toward her and lifted her chin to look into her face. She closed her eyes. She knew her appearance was not her fault, but still experienced the same shame as when neighbors noticed the bruises her uncle had given her.

"Poor girl," he finally murmured. "Was that your punishment for striking out at him? I didn't hear you scream again, at least..."

So he had been among the three men whose shadows she saw outside the tent. Her spirits lifted slightly. Then her clouded mind slowly perceived what he meant by the next comment, that it contained a question he was too polite too ask.

"I didn't," she said, opening her eyes and looking into his warm blue eyes. They both looked away in discomfort and stood in awkward silence, until the pain in her foot reminded her of why she'd left Tavington's tent in the first place.

"My cheek wasn't the only punishment, though," she added, speaking to the ground as she lifted her right foot. "I need to let my foot soak in the creek, I think. At least one of the toes is broken, although the colonel did set it back later -- "

"Bloody hell," Borden interrupted, sounding angry, then glanced anxiously toward the creek. His commander was still preoccupied with his morning shave and took no notice of either of the two of them.

"The colonel can be quite brutal when he loses his temper. Still..." Borden shook his head. "I've never known him to turn violent toward a girl, especially one so much smaller and younger than himself. You said he set the toe back?"

"Yes. At first I thought he was only torturing me, but it did hurt much less, and he gave me port to drink."

"Well, remorse is rare for him, but deserved for you," Borden frowned, looking across the creek at Tavington. "Look, I'll help you down to the creek, and I have some bread for you to soak up all that port swimming in your stomach."

She laughed unexpectedly, surprising herself and him as well. For some reason, Borden's kindness filled her with a surge of hope and relief. He smiled down at her almost affectionately, then reached an arm around her waist and started slowly down the small hill leading to the water's edge.

Tavington looked up only briefly at their arrival.

"Borden, Miss Malloy," he nodded without emotion.

"Good morning, sir," Borden replied with dutiful respect.

Lydia said nothing at all, but knelt on a large rock slightly downstream and across the creek from Tavington and scooped up as much water as her hands could hold, grateful for relief of her thirst. When she no longer felt thirsty, she settled down with one leg bent underneath her, pulled up her petticoat slightly and slipped her right foot into the water.

The water stung at first, and she suppressed a gasp, but then the skin began to grow numb and the flow of the water soothed her mind and body. She shifted and slid her left foot into the creek as well, then bent forward and scooped up more water to spread on her bare, dusty arms and neck.

"Are you hungry, Miss Malloy?" Borden knelt down beside her, holding the bread in his hand.

Lydia shook her head. She ought to be by now, but she often lost her appetite when deeply upset. Since Daniel's death, she'd had to pull her corset increasingly tighter to keep it from falling off her body. Now, looking at her arms in the bright morning light, she could tell they'd grown thinner as well; her wrists looked as tiny as a child's. She was almost surprised they hadn't snapped in Tavington's grip.

She continued to avoid looking across at him, unable to endure seeing the detached, contemptuous look he'd given her this morning. She didn't want to look over at Borden at the moment either, because the compassion in his eyes made her feel dangerously close to tears again. So, she gazed into the rippling stream instead, watching the water flow over and around the rocks until she forgot that either man was there. Slowly, she ran her damp hands over her face and wiped away the dust and the dried salt of her tears. Then she ran her fingers through her hair as well as she could with her hands still bound and began to work it into a long, loose braid over one shoulder.

Tavington's boots made a sudden splash in the water as he crossed and stopped in front of her. Lydia looked up in confusion and fear at his chiseled, expressionless features framed by unruly dark hair. The morning sun seemed to light his eyes, though, and they almost glowed with some intense, unnamed emotion.

"Take your hair back down."

"What?"

He repeated, slowly and almost through his teeth, "Take your hair back down, Lydia. Cover your face."

Anger boiled in her stomach, where she should have felt hunger, and she had to look back to the creek to control herself. She wanted to shout at him for making her feel disfigured and ashamed of it when he bore the blame for her injuries.

Then the thought suddenly occurred to her: Perhaps he was the one who felt ashamed, who could not stand to look at the face of the girl he had abused because the darkness that hid behind his gentleman's countenance was what disturbed him more than the bruises on hers. Perhaps the ruthless colonel still had some remnants of a conscience.

Emboldened by the insight, she chose not to unbraid her hair or look back up at him. Instead, she bent forward to gather more water in her hands and held them to her face, washing her tear-ravaged eyes again, her neck and shoulders. Her skin tingled from the cool water and the fear that he might become enraged, but she did not move a finger toward her braided hair.

He laid a hand on her head. She froze and braced herself. She heard Borden draw in his breath and step towards them, ready to intercede if his commanding officer became violent.

Instead, Tavington lightly slid his hand down the braid and parted the strands gently in his fingers, stepping closer to her and raising his other hand to shake her light auburn hair loose. Then he ran both his hands through her hair slowly and lifted it high on her head before letting it fall down around her shoulders in its thick, wavy tresses and curls.

"Beautiful," he said so quietly that only she could hear him. He stepped back abruptly.

"Borden."

"Yes, sir?"

"Take her back to my tent after I prepare to leave. Leave a guard. We ride this morning."

"Yes, sir."

With that, Tavington walked away.

Lydia sat still, imagining she still felt his hands in her hair, so adrift with confusion that she was unaware of the tears slipping down her face.

Borden noticed.

"Miss Malloy?"

His voice was even lower, deeper than usual. When he reached his arm around her and grasped her hip to raise her up, she pressed her hand over his and clung to it.

Tavington rested against the trunk of an old moss-covered tree, water flask in hand as he stood watching one of his men attempting to shoot down one of the geese flying overhead. The Dragoons always had rations to eat, but the last of each delivery was often stale enough that some of the men would hunt game in the woods in the late afternoon to supplement their meals.

This day's ride had been particularly tiring, he thought. They had found no rebel deserters, unfortunately, but had burned several of the traitors' homes as an example to any neighbors who might harbor disloyal thoughts against their king.

His eyes wandered to Lydia, who was perched on a fallen log across the clearing from him, next to a very young soldier whose idea of guarding her seemed to consist of staring at her constantly. The girl watched the geese above, oblivious to the guard's rapt attention.

Tavington smiled as he watched them. The late afternoon sun through the trees fell on her upturned face, illuminating her large eyes as she looked skyward. Her eyes had appeared blue to him last night, but now they looked green or perhaps aqua in the sun's rays.

Beautiful eyes, he thought to himself, changing like her moods. A moment ago she'd gazed upward with the wondrous look of a little girl, eyes wide and lips parted slightly as she'd watched the geese flying. Then, a few moments later, her mouth pinched together and her eyes seemed to darken as she fell into her own thoughts, and her expression changed again. As a man who controlled his own emotions as tightly as he controlled his Dragoons, he found it fascinating how one emotion after another displayed itself openly in her face, flowing as constantly as the nearby creek.

The blast of the Dragoon's musket startled her and redirected her gaze as he tried and missed. To Tavington's amusement, Lydia impulsively rolled her eyes heavenward and grimaced like a disrespectful schoolboy.

"Not impressed by the lieutenant's aim, Miss Malloy?" he asked, loud enough that the man could hear.

She shot him a venomous look. He noticed that her eyes appeared to be a darker green when she was angry. As the lieutenant turned around, she turned her face back up to the sky, biting the corner of her lip and folding her bound hands innocently in her lap.

Tavington grinned. His gaze returned to her full, bow-shaped mouth, and in seconds he was considering walking over to her and ordering her into his tent now instead of waiting for dinner. She'd be mortified and angry, of course, especially since a number of the other Dragoons including Borden had just walked into the clearing.

To his surprise, imagining her reaction did not give him the satisfaction it had the previous morning, the way it always did when he wielded his control over others. In fact, what he did feel was a twinge of unfamiliar sympathy, and its presence annoyed and unsettled him. It was bad enough that the feeling had stirred last night for the first time in many years, when she'd called him a bully.

Tavington had been called much worse, of course, and such words always left him unaffected or even perversely pleased, but that particular word had flown from his own lips long ago in describing another man... his own abusive, alcoholic father. His best defense against that man had been emotional detachment, and it alarmed him to realize that he was not entirely indifferent to this young colonial widow after all.

Surely she had some flaw on which he could focus his ready contempt. He looked intently into Lydia's upturned face. Her eyes were almost too large for her face, partly because she was slim almost to the point of being waifish, except for her curvaceous upper body. Still, he had to admit that this made her all the more striking, and the admission further irritated him.

His eyes finally rested on the only flaw he could find: a small, vertical crease between her eyes. The narrow scar, visible only if one looked for it, reminded him of the one on his own temple. He wondered if she'd come by hers the way he had -- the jagged edge of a wine bottle.

The tiny scar furrowed deeper as she frowned at another missed musket shot.

"Couldn't hit one with a cannonball," she said under her breath as she looked up at the flock of geese scattering in the air.

Tavington laughed out loud this time. The lieutenant with the musket, who'd also heard her, did not. Pride ruffled, he strode over to Lydia, who pretended to take a sudden interest in her fingernails.

"I suppose you think you could do better?" he asked with a sneer, holding out the musket.

The other Dragoons nearby had also overheard and wandered closer out of curiosity. Lydia sighed.

"Not with a musket," she tried to explain politely. "It's far too inaccurate."

The lieutenant acknowledged the truth of her statement with an irate nod.

"What then, a pistol?"

She ignored the sarcasm and looked up. Some of the geese were still circling low just beyond the clearing, ready to fly.

Lydia suddenly leaped to her feet and held out her right hand palm up, even though it was still bound to the other. The lieutenant stared at her in disbelief.

"Well, give it over," she snapped at him, keeping an eye on the geese. "You know I'd be a fool to shoot you with it. Hurry!"

He hesitated a moment and glanced at his commanding officer, who smirked and shrugged his acquiescence. The other Dragoons watched with varying expressions of skepticism, interest and amusement as the lieutenant handed his pistol over to the girl.

The skeptical looks quickly disappeared as Lydia cocked the weapon expertly without even looking at it, turned her determined gaze skyward and extended her bound hands in one fluid, graceful movement.

The pistol fired. The nearest goose seemed too far away, but a moment later it squawked and fell into the nearby field. Several of the Dragoons whistled in surprise and applauded, laughing.

"Bloody good shot!" Borden called out, grinning broadly. "You forgot she was the wife of a farmer and a soldier, lieutenant."

Tavington raised his eyebrows and slowly smiled. He'd already thought of what Borden had observed, but he was still just as impressed by her aim, and even more by her nerve. For a young woman who looked small and fragile, her spirit was surprisingly tough.

Lydia looked back through the pistol's smoke at the lieutenant. The sly smile on her face and mischievous sparkle in her blue-green eyes was so disarming that the disgruntled young officer found himself smiling back.

Then, still holding the pistol pointed skyward, she drew her lips together in a provocative pucker, blew the smoke off the barrel and flipped the pistol through the air towards him.

He caught it as she turned and headed toward the creek with shoulders held back and head high, her slight limp giving her a jaunty walk that made her long curls bounce against her back and shoulders. Her guard hurried to catch up with her.

"Where did you learn to shoot like that?" he asked in awe.

She turned and gave him a sudden, beautiful smile.

Tavington wondered whether the young soldier was more taken by her skill with a pistol or by the way the wind wound her long curls around her slender bare arms, or the way the sun made them shine like copper and gold melted and spun together. It disturbed him to admit that he himself was taken by everything about her, and that wasn't the worst of it.

He was jealous.

Lydia held the paper scroll by its ribbon, humming to herself as she walked back up the hill from the creek.

"Letter for you from my uncle, Colonel Tavington."

Tavington and Borden looked at each other in surprise.

Her guard quickly explained.

"Rider came up to the edge of the camp, sir. She said it was one of her uncle's slaves, so the soldiers let him come forward and she talked to the man and took this..."

She held out the scroll to Tavington, who took it as he gave her a hard, scrutinizing look. Borden could tell that the colonel noticed what he had observed: a vaguely secretive smile on her face, a mysterious sweetness in her tone. She knew what the message was, and it wasn't good news for the Dragoon's commander.

Tavington yanked the ribbon off and unfurled it with a frown. Borden read over his shoulder.

To Colonel William Tavington,

Commander, Green Dragoons

 
Dear Sir:

I have learned of your actions regarding my niece Lydia Malloy, and although I certainly understand the burning of the house due to her late husband's traitorous activities, I must protest against her captivity and demand her release. Surely there can be no tactical reason for holding her prisoner, and you should be aware that my family name is an esteemed one in this region.

In fact, I have recently made the acquaintance of your commander, Lord General Cornwallis, and his lordship desires our family's presence at the upcoming ball at Middleton in two days' time. It occurs to me that it would be most awkward for you to explain to your commander that Miss Lydia Malloy's absence is due to her captivity in, may I hazard to guess, your tent?

I look forward to meeting you at my plantation in the very near future.

Yours, Mr. James Hartford

Tavington drew in a deep breath, rolled the paper and jammed it into his uniform pocket.

"Borden, place Captain Jenkins in command for the next few hours. You and I are returning Miss Malloy as soon as possible."

###

Borden's emotions battled within him as they rode up the long driveway to Hartford's plantation. His sympathy and respect for Lydia made his heart glad for her and eager to see her reunited with her little daughter, but he was aware at the same time that his commander's foul mood could very well be visited on himself sooner or later.

"I see her! Celia!"

Lydia's joyful exclamation drew him out of his thoughts. He almost had to restrain her from leaping from his horse before they had stopped at the steps of the house.

"Mama!"

Daisy, who had been holding her, set the little girl down with a smile. Celia bounded across the grass and into her the arms of her mother, who held her so tightly that she eventually started to squirm. Borden watched them with a smile as well as another of Hartford's slaves came forward to take care of the horses. Tavington's expression was inscrutable.

Both men took off their riding helmets and gloves as they walked forward to meet the plantation's owner, who frowned down at them from the top of the porch. Lydia had come up the steps towards him holding Celia, and surely he had seen the bruise on her face and wondered at her limp and her scant apparel.

"Colonel Tavington, I must say that my niece does not look as if she has been treated very well by you," he growled.

Borden glanced at Tavington, who grimaced and glanced down quickly, and wondered how his commanding officer would handle the situation.

"Mr. Hartford, sir, I do indeed owe you an apology," Tavington began in an uncharacteristically deferential tone of voice, bowing formally to the man. "I had no intentions of harming Miss Malloy, but I had no choice when she attacked me."

"She what?" Mr. Hartford repeated.

"I attacked him."

Lydia stated this calmly, unemotionally, and Borden sensed that she did not expect her uncle's wholehearted support even though she added, "He had me brought to his tent with my hands bound."

"Colonel?"

Mr. Hartford looked from Lydia to Tavington as if he were not sure which one he disapproved of the most.

Tavington sighed.

"I did not harm her any further after that, sir, aside from defending myself," he said carefully.

Borden looked at Lydia, who averted her eyes and winced visibly. The captain knew that she and his commander had been awake for some time after their altercation. He also knew that while Tavington's statement might be technically true, it skirted the truth of a reality that was not difficult to surmise and sure to outrage her uncle.

A glance at Hartford confirmed Borden's guess.

"Colonel, would you please come into my study and share a drink?" Hartford's tone was polite but tense and suspicious.

Tavington nodded and followed him. Borden pretended not to listen from the hallway.

"Now, Colonel, we are both men, so let us speak plainly. I know that young men consider my niece very attractive, and I surmise that her virtue has been... compromised? How do you plan to remedy the damage to my name?"

Borden glanced across the hallway into the opposite room, where Lydia sat with Celia and a younger, blond girl who had brought her water to drink and wash her face. Hartford had begun to speak in the other room as the girl sat with Lydia and started to untangle her hair with a brush, and the captain noticed that they both turned at his mention of the family name. Lydia caught Borden's eye, raised her eyebrows and shrugged as if to say that she expected no more or less from her uncle than such blatant self-concern.

She looked away quickly and turned back to the younger girl.

"Is he actually worse than usual, Abigail, or am I just short on patience lately?"

The blond girl giggled and then sighed as she gently pulled the comb through Lydia's curls.

"At least he is not your father... although... I mean..." Abigail trailed off awkwardly.

"I know," Lydia said calmly. "Perhaps it is better not to have one at all."

Borden walked into the room slowly, hands clasped behind his back, and nodded to them both politely as he set his riding helmet and gloves on a small table and smoothed down his reddish hair.

"Miss Hartford, pleased to make your acquaintance. I am Captain John Borden of the Green Dragoons. Excuse me, Miss Malloy, but may I inquire about your own parents? Are they deceased?"

He tried to ask this as gently as possible.

"Yes. Mamma died in childbirth and Papa died of an awful cough when I was about nine years old."

Lydia's voice was matter-of-fact, almost detached, but the sadness Borden saw in her large eyes further stirred his sympathy and his irritation with Hartford.

"Pity poor Abigail rather than me," she continued, seeming to read his mind. The thought occurred to Borden that she was as intelligent and perceptive as his commander, but lacked Tavington's tendency toward manipulation and malice.

"Oh, no, Lydia," Abigail said in her soft, shy voice, seemingly intimidated by Borden's presence in the room. "Father has always treated me more fairly, I think."

"Relatively speaking," Lydia said with a wry half-smile. "But your mother has gone, too, and you have to live with the man."

"So do you, now," said her cousin with a sympathetic pat on her hand. "But at least we will be together again, and with Celia, now."

"Auntie 'Gail," said Celia suddenly, lifting her head from Lydia's shoulder to smile at Abigail. Borden thought she was almost a tiny replica of her beautiful mother, except that her eyes were a warm shade of brown like her father's must have been.

"Captain Borden," Abigail dared to ask, "Will you be going to the Middleton ball two days hence? Father says we will all go."

"Father is mistaken," Lydia said immediately, pinning her hair up under a fresh muslin cap.

Borden grinned. "I will, Miss Hartford. Perhaps Miss Malloy would rather not see my commander again, though."

"Oh, but Lydia, if you just stay with me?" Abigail pleaded in a quiet but urgent voice. "Middleton is such a huge place that we could surely avoid the colonel, if he is as awful as you think... forgive me, Captain, but is he really..."

She trailed off, embarrassed again.

Borden smiled slightly and chose his reply carefully.

"Colonel Tavington is a very fine soldier. His... ferocity tends to be intimidating."

Lydia raised her eyebrows as she finished devouring a biscuit and took a long drink of water.

"Brute," she said finally. "But he can pretend to be a gentleman if he likes, as he must be doing with Uncle right now."

Borden looked away with another suppressed smile. He agreed with her but knew he should not express the thought in front of anyone else.

"Lydia! Come in here."

Both girls stiffened immediately and fell silent at the sound of Hartford's bellowing call from the study across the hall. Lydia got up slowly, holding Celia in her arms. She limped toward the door, taking even more time than her injured foot required.

"Lydia!" Hartford grew louder.

"Coming, Uncle."

Borden stepped forward and took her arm, helping but not hurrying her.

"Thank you, Captain," she said quietly, glancing up at him.

Borden opened his mouth to speak and promptly forgot what he was going to say. Her hair almost shone like copper in contrast to the lacy white cap from which it peeked out in curling tendrils and stray long curls over her shoulders. As a captain, he was entirely at ease commanding soldiers and taking charge, and yet in her presence he kept feeling suddenly awkward, even more so because he sensed the affection and gratitude in her warm, lovely eyes. What color were they, anyway? He'd thought they looked green in the afternoon sun, and now in the dim hallway they seemed as intensely blue as a deep ocean.

"Come in, Captain," Hartford said impatiently as they entered the dark, tastefully decorated study. "Lydia, sit down. Tell Celia to go in the other room with Abigail."

"She wants to stay with me," she said. Her voice was outwardly polite, but like her uncle's, tinged with a certain hardness and tension.

She sat down in a stuffed chair across the room from Tavington, who sat comfortably drinking sherry, legs crossed elegantly. He turned his penetrating eyes toward Lydia and fastened his gaze on her, but she refused to look at him at all, smiling down at Celia instead. Borden sat down in the remaining chair, on the other side of Lydia.

Hartford poured himself a glass of sherry and cleared his throat, glancing at his niece as if he anticipated an argument with her.

"You realize, Lydia, that you are expected as a guest at Middleton?"

She took a deep breath and answered calmly but firmly.

"Yes, and I do appreciate the invitation from his lordship General Cornwallis, but I must decline."

"Why?" Hartford demanded shortly, voice rising. "Because of that rebel husband? Time has past."

Lydia winced and looked down at Celia, stroking her daughter's hair for a moment before answering.

"I suppose time has passed rather more slowly for me since Christmastide than for you or for the General. Besides, I have had enough redcoat company in the past two days to last me for a month."

"Be careful not to be disrespectful," Hartford warned.

"I think," Lydia said slowly, "you should speak to the colonel about disrespect."

Hartford coughed and took another drink of sherry.

"Yes, well, the colonel has apologized to me about that."

"To you," said Lydia pointedly.

"That should suffice for both of us, since I am your guardian at the moment," Hartford said with authority, then seemed to lose his confidence for a moment before continuing, without looking at his niece. "So, I have a suggestion for the colonel, about how to make good on his apology, since he will also be at Middleton on Thursday... I, ah, think it would be quite fitting if you were to meet the general as the colonel's guest for the evening."

The room fell silent.

Borden glanced from Hartford's nervous face to his commander's surprised one to Lydia's expression of confusion, followed quickly by one of outraged disbelief. She opened and closed her mouth without saying a word.

Hartford took another sip of sherry.

"What?" Lydia finally managed to say.

"Well, I believe that Tavington's escorting you would, ah, atone in a sense for... and would certainly dispel any gossip that might circulate -- before the ball." Hartford's words spilled from his mouth as if they were oiled. "Not to mention that it would do some good, for, ah, pride's sake, you might say."

"Whose pride?" Lydia's voice was icy with rage.

"What do you mean by that?" Hartford bristled, but Borden could tell that he understood what his niece implied.

Lydia edged forward in her seat as Celia burrowed into her, sensing the tension.

"You want to make a wartime... kidnapping and imprisonment into a... a façade of a courtship for the sake of your pride, not mine."

Her fury was evident in her biting tone and occasional struggle for words as she pointed accusingly at Hartford, who managed to avoid looking her directly in the eye.

Instead, he glanced at Tavington, who had recovered from his initial shock and now watched uncle and niece with interest and a faint, sly smile.

"Façade or not, I would certainly be willing to make amends, Mr. Hartford," he said in his low, smooth voice.

Lydia glared at him with narrowed eyes. Celia started at his voice, looked up at him quickly and then whimpered and buried her face in her mother's breast.

"Ah, look, Celia recognizes you," she whispered to Tavington. "Amazing how children can sense evil, is it not?"

Borden tried not to smile. To his surprise, Tavington did, then looked down into his sherry in mock innocence. She turned back to her uncle and spoke through her teeth in a voice drenched in bitter sarcasm.

"I am sure that the colonel is merely being polite, as he must know a number of Loyalist ladies he would rather escort. I can also imagine they would enjoy his company far more than I would, not to mention the convenience of not having to cover up any black eyes with their face powder. Oh, and Uncle, how exactly am I supposed to dance with a broken toe? Very carefully? "

Borden couldn't help but smile at Lydia's contemptuous wit and eloquence, even though he found no humor in her situation. Tavington's own smile broadened into a smirk as he pretended to be interested in the color of the sherry.

Hartford, greatly annoyed but still encouraged by Tavington's agreement, decided to take command of the situation.

"Lydia," he said with a warning in his flinty black eyes, "I advise you to agree to this solution and plan to meet the colonel at Middleton on Thursday. Agreed?"

A long, awkward silence ensued.

"Are you advising me, Uncle, or are you threatening me?"

Her choice of words and the depth of rage in her voice startled Borden, who had so far thought of Hartford as merely intimidating and unsympathetic rather than dangerous.

Hartford froze and gripped his sherry glass so hard that Borden wondered if he would break it.

"I am ordering you, as your guardian," he finally replied in the same icy tone as his niece. "Or..."

Lydia leaned forward and raised her chin to meet her uncle's angry gaze.

"Or what, Uncle? The horse whip again?"

"Shush!" He hissed at her, eyes darting in panic from Borden to Tavington. Borden also looked at Tavington, who showed no surprise or, indeed, any emotion, as he looked absently into his glass. Though Borden's shock muddled his mind, he quickly figured that his commander might know of this horrendous abuse from scars on the girl's body. For a moment, he didn't know whether Tavington or Hartford was the greater monster.

"Oh, what does it matter who knows?"

Lydia suddenly seemed more weary than angry as she settled back into her chair. "Those who knew or saw always pretended not to anyway, did they not? Why not pretend again?"

She looked down at Celia and held her tightly.

"I will go to the ball at Middleton because Abigail needs me with her there," she said quietly, without looking up. "Not for your damned pride."

Hartford was apparently too shaken to gloat in victory or chastise his niece for swearing. Gulping down the rest of the sherry in his glass, he rose hurriedly and sought a distraction.

"Well, that's settled... Colonel Tavington and Captain Borden, would you gentlemen like to come with me and see the stable of fine horses I keep here at the plantation?"

Borden rose reluctantly. Usually, he would have been more enthusiastic, since he truly loved horses and riding. He hesitated as he looked at Lydia, who sat with a stony expression as she stared ahead at nothing in particular and rested her cheek on Celia's head. As he walked to the door to follow Hartford, who was already in the hallway, he looked back at Tavington and was surprised to see him stop and rest his hand on the arm of her chair.

She ignored him, or perhaps did not even notice him. After a moment she turned her head slightly.

"What?" Her voice was cold, but devoid of the angry energy that had flowed through minutes before. She sounded and looked weary beyond her young age.

Tavington actually seemed to hesitate. Borden had never seen his commander hesitate to do or say anything, even when he ought to do so. Had the man a shred of conscience after all?

"Lydia," Tavington said quietly. "Suffering makes one strong."

She looked up with a start, wary and unsure of whether he was mocking or comforting her. Looking into his pale eyes, now alight with a storm of emotions, her lips parted and her own eyes widened in astute comprehension of previous mysteries.

"Your father," she said softly. It was more of a conclusion than a question.

Tavington paused, then turned away and walked past Borden, his face tight and inscrutable once more.

###

The Dragoons mounted their horses and prepared to leave after their tour of the barns. The sun had already set, bathing the white plantation house and its fields in a golden afterglow, and hunger gnawed in both men's stomachs. As they put on their riding gloves and helmets, voices drifted across the yard from under a large magnolia tree.

"King's horsies! Sing, Mama!"

Borden smiled and peered through the tree's branches to see Lydia holding Celia on a wooden swing suspended by cords of rope. She wore a woolen shawl draped around her bare shoulders, but the child kept pulling it to one side and yanking on the fringe.

"Sing, Mama," said Celia insistently.

Lydia glanced over her shoulder, clearly uncomfortable with the men's presence.

"Later, love," she said.

Celia frowned at her.

"Sing horsies!"

"All right, fine, you stubborn child... I've no idea where you get that trait..."

Borden smiled fondly as he watched them.

Lydia sang quietly, her voice as low and clear as when she spoke, but with a slightly sultry quality that was evident even when singing an old English nursery rhyme.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King's horses
And all the King's men
Could not put Humpty together again.

Celia clapped her hands together and grinned widely.

"Now I Humpty!" she said.

"No, you are Celia," said Lydia, apparently playing a familiar game with her. She leaned forward and touched her nose to the little girl's playfully.

"I Humpty!"

"All right, then. Listen."

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall
Humpty Dumpty had a great fall
All the King's horses
And all the King's men
Could not put her together again.

Lydia leaned forward with Celia in one arm, pretending to let her fall and then pulling her close again. The little girl squealed with laughter and wrapped her arms around her mother's neck.

Borden turned to Tavington, who watched Lydia intently.

"She's a good mother, is she not?"

"Yes," Tavington said after a moment, quiet and preoccupied. "Although, she's barely more than a girl herself..."

Borden looked back at Lydia, who had glanced toward the house to make sure her sour uncle was out of sight before tossing her frilly cap onto the grass and rebelliously pulling the pins out of her hair. She stepped back into the swing until she was on tiptoe, then swung forward and pushed back again until mother and daughter were high in the air, both giggling and holding onto each other.

As the swing descended, Lydia leaned back and let Celia lie flat against her breast. She tilted her head back so far that her long reddish-gold curls flew in the breeze like a ship's sail before brushing against the blades of grass beneath her. Her face expressed pure and simple joy as she gazed skyward, unaware of herself or her effect on the two officers who watched her from their horses. She had forgotten about them completely. For the moment, her world consisted only of the child, the swing and the evening sky.

Tavington took a deep breath.

Borden turned to look at him. The expression on his commander's face was one of longing, not surprisingly, but it passed beyond desire into a look of envy and fleeting sadness. Borden experienced the same longing, but watching Lydia's contentment with her daughter filled him with a sense of his own. Such a happy domestic scene was a welcome change from the more familiar brutality of war with which Tavington actually seemed more comfortable.

"Let us return to camp now, Borden."

The order was crisp and detached. Tavington turned his head and pulled on his reins, and the two men rode away with the sound of the girls' laughter echoing behind them in the cool evening air.

Continue...