Author's note: If you happen to read a novel someday with many of the same non-Patriot characters and events from this and other fanfics of mine, it means either 1) hell has frozen over, or 2) I finally got published and paid, and I will definitely let everyone and their dog know about it. I am currently working on a young adult historical fiction that pulls together a number of storylines, minus the spicy love scenes of course. No Tavington or Borden, but they have inspired other characters. It's been a lot of fun writing about them.

Autumn of 1780, South Carolina

"Which of you is Ayita Sullivan?"

Colonel William Tavington grew increasingly impatient as he waited for someone to answer his question.

The gape-mouthed reactions of these simple colonials never failed to give him some satisfaction and amusement, but inevitably he became irritated when their fear of the Green Dragoons seemed to turn them into mutes. His presence as commander they found particularly intimidating, perhaps because of his size and deep voice, or perhaps because of his harsh reputation. Women, he knew, were nearly riveted in place by the cold gaze of his light blue eyes and handsome countenance.

"I say again, which of you is Ayita Sullivan? I haven't all day."

The colonel's horse began to step restlessly, mirroring his own mood.

Clustered on the steps of the dressmaker's shop, the group of five women glanced at each other and whispered, then fell silent.

Tavington pulled his pistol and cocked it.

"No!"

A girl's voice rose above the simultaneous shrieks and pleas of the women.

She emerged a moment later, nearly pushing aside the older girl who had sought to hide her behind the doorway, and walked quickly down the steps to stand in front of the group of Dragoons.

"I am Ayita," she said in a low, clear voice. "What do you want of me, sir?"

Tavington looked down at her with a faint smirk as he sheathed his pistol.

He could hear the anxiety in her voice, steady though it was, and he could see it in her widened eyes and the way her hands clenched the leather work apron tied over her skirts. Still, she made an effort to hold her back and shoulders straight as she stood there in front of him. She lifted her chin and looked him directly in the eyes.

Her courage amused the colonel, but it also impressed him -- though not nearly as much as her looks. Captain Wilkins had neglected to mention that Miss Sullivan was remarkably and uncommonly attractive. He had, at least, explained that she was part Irish as well as Cherokee; that would account for her eyes, which were a beautiful and unusually light shade of green. The long lashes that fringed them were as dark as her eyebrows and the wisps of hair that escaped her muslin cap, but her bronzed skin was somewhat lighter and more golden than Tavington might have expected.

His gaze returned to her eyes, which now flickered with embarrassment and resentment at the insolent manner in which he openly looked her over.

"My father was Irish, sir." She volunteered the information with a faint sigh of frustration, apparently accustomed to curious stares and questions provoked by her peculiar beauty. "My mother was -- "

"Cherokee, I know." Tavington interrupted her with an impatient wave of his hand. "Which makes you a half-breed, does it not?"

The girl's eyes narrowed as she returned the colonel's contemptuous look.

His second in command, an athletically built captain at his side, winced at the slur. She, however, did not, as if she frequently heard such comments and had come to expect them.

"You ask what I want of you," Tavington continued in his deep, arrogant voice, resonant with condescension. "I am Colonel William Tavington, commander of His Majesty's Green Dragoons, and you are needed for your knowledge of the Cherokee language, especially of its place names for the nearby countryside. I believe Captain Wilkins told me that your mother grew up in one of the tribes in this area, did she not?"

Miss Sullivan nodded. She appeared greatly relieved by his explanation, making him wonder what she had feared. Perhaps, he thought with an inward smile, she thought he had asked someone where he might find the prettiest girl in the village to bring back to camp with him. Not a half-bad idea, he thought.

A confused and suspicious look suddenly replaced her expression of relief.

"Captain Wilkins, sir?" she repeated.

Tavington raised an eyebrow and jerked his head toward one of the officers behind him.

"Captain James Wilkins, formerly of the Loyalist militia, now of the Dragoons."

Her face reflected comprehension followed quickly by irritation, although she feigned a polite half-smile in the officer's direction. He, in turn, appeared smug and much more pleased to see her than she was to see him.

Tavington, cynically amused, observed the tension between them. This could be an interesting ride, he thought. Clearly, there was more to this than met the eye.

"Very well then," he said aloud. "You will ride with Captain Wilkins."

Miss Sullivan started and looked back up at him with rising anxiety.

"Now? Where? For how long?"

"Yes, now, and quickly. Where and how long are none of your concern," he said in the cold, stern tone that tended to intimidate questioners into silence.

Her eyes rounded before she dropped her gaze to the ground.

"Yes, sir," she said quietly, reaching behind her to untie her apron strings.

Satisfied, he nodded and waited.

She turned to the older girl who'd protected her earlier and embraced her before handing over the apron and the muslin cap, from which tumbled a long, thick, nearly waist-length braid of dark hair.

Miss Sullivan tossed the braid over one shoulder, almost in a defiant gesture, as she turned around and glanced back up at Tavington.

"Ready, sir."

Captain Wilkins tightened his arms around the girl in front of him as the Dragoons began to trot along the dirt road that led out of the village.

Ayita squirmed against him and tried to edge forward in the saddle.

"Come now, darling," he said with a smile in his voice. "You can't remain silent all day."

She was determined to try.

He sighed and loosened his hold slightly.

"I know you're upset over this, I understand. But really, you must realize what an honor it is to be needed by His Majesty, to serve the crown."

It occurred to her that he must also benefit from the honor of discovering such an asset, and James Wilkins had never been averse to the praise of others. There might be another reason as well... She gritted her teeth and pressed her lips together angrily.

He went on, undeterred by her hostile silence.

"Your brother would be proud of you, certainly."

Her older brother Adahy would indeed be proud of her if she used this opportunity well, but not for the reasons that Wilkins believed. Ayita had, upon questioning, once given the man the impression that her brother served the redcoats, as did many other native guides, but she knew that Adahy traveled instead with several other young Cherokee men among various rebel militia groups in the area. She had only seen him a few times in the months since he'd joined up with them, since the fall of Charles Town in the winter. However, if she managed to learn something helpful from the Dragoons on this journey...

"...concerned, naturally, but he need not worry for your safety."

The officer's words startled her into speaking to him despite her intentions.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't be too alarmed, darling. His Majesty's Green Dragoons are gentlemen, of course. Still, many of them have been apart from women for some time, and you are such a lovely girl..."

Wilkins moved one hand to stroke her side. She tried to wiggle away, her stomach clenching like a fist. His words and bold touch evoked an unpleasant memory from an evening weeks ago, when he'd cornered her alone in the dress shop at dusk.

"I am only suggesting that you reconsider my offer," he went on his smooth, self-assured voice, continuing to caress her hip and stomach despite her resistance. "The other officers would likely leave you alone if they know you belong to me. You could certainly use the protection from Colonel Tavington, I imagine, after the way he looked you over outside the shop. You must have heard of his brutal reputation, and I doubt he's much gentler with women, particularly those of your social station --"

"So, who would protect me from you, Mr. Wilkins?" Ayita glared at him over her shoulder.

He merely laughed, even though she deliberately refused to address him as a captain. Apparently, he considered her decision as good as made, given the precarious situation in which he himself had conveniently placed her.

Ayita was beginning to feel nauseous, and not only from the continuous jolting of the horse's trotting along the rough dirt road. She wished she could talk to Dolly now. Dolly would be furious, of course, blue eyes flashing and hands gesturing as she would spill out words of outrage and sympathy. The daughter of the dressmaker and her only friend in their tiny village of Hartsford, she and Ayita were so close that she referred to the younger girl as her little sister, even though she was as fair-skinned and blond as Ayita was bronzed.

Dolly was still angry about the offer had Wilkins had made her, even more than Ayita herself. It was not a marriage proposal, of course. Wealthy planters like Wilkins, who was also a civic leader, did not marry poor half-breed girls who worked in shops. They did, however, take mistresses. But Ayita had turned him down flat. He was not unattractive; in fact, he was considered fairly handsome, with his tall frame, curly brown hair and hazel eyes. She was repulsed by the combination of the sordid offer and the arrogance with which he made it, as if she ought to be honored rather than insulted.

"Halt!"

Tavington's harshly barked command jerked her out of her thoughts. The Dragoons pulled on their reins and slowed their horses at the edge of the meadow.

Wilkins leaned forward as he did so, pressing against her as he whispered into her ear.

"Consider what I've said to you, Ayita."

She became aware that Tavington was watching her with a faint, chilling smile on his lips. Her neck grew warm.

"I have," she said, quietly but with an edge to her voice. "I have not changed my mind."

"You may." Wilkins's reply was soft but slightly taunting.

She twisted and flung her left leg over the saddle, grabbing her skirts and sliding to the ground before he could help her down.

Colonel Tavington sipped slowly from his water flask as he leaned against a tree trunk near a small creek. The late afternoon sun shining down on the broad green leaves made them appear illuminated from below, a sight he might normally have noticed and admired as he did many scenes in this new world.

At this moment, however, his eyes were fixed upon the young half-breed girl from the dress shop, who was herself leaning back against the trunk of another tree with her arms folded. Her eyes, in turn, watched every move of Captain Wilkins as he watered his horse at a distance, near the creek's edge.

A casual observer would have considered her still profile hard to read, but Tavington was a keen observer of the emotions of others, even though life had long ago hardened him to the point that he rarely ever felt any sympathy for them. He could read anger in every line of her body, from her tightly folded arms to her ramrod-straight back, set jaw and slightly pinched mouth.

"You cannot kill a man with a look, Miss Sullivan."

A knowing smile played around his own mouth as he took another sip of water.

She turned and looked at him briefly. Her eyes almost seemed to glow with her slow-burning rage. Then she quickly looked away toward Wilkins and spoke after a small pause.

"Pity."

All of her malevolent frustration funneled into that one word, delivered with biting clarity, like a bullet flying from a weapon.

She did not speak loudly. Still, her low voice had a melodic, resonant quality that carried easily to the officers nearby, and they chuckled at her quick, succinct response. Even Tavington, who rarely laughed, could not help himself for a moment. The smile that lingered on his face was a rare one, a smile of genuine appreciation rather than his customary condescending smirk.

He studied her more intently. As a light breeze stirred the trees and filtered light between the leaves, a beam fell across her face and lit her pale green eyes from the side, making the contrast against her dusky skin even more dramatic.

"Look at her," the colonel said in a murmur to Captain Borden, his second in command. "One of the natural wonders of the New World, eh?"

"Yes, sir." Borden's response was dutiful but sincere, and slightly wistful. The captain knew better than to look too long at a woman his commander found attractive.

She was not beautiful by the porcelain-skinned ideal of the day. Instead of a small, slightly upturned nose, hers was the high, long nose of a chiseled Roman goddess. Still, it was as narrow and perfectly proportioned as her slender wrists and hands and her long, graceful neck, around which she wore a leather cord of wooden and glass beads. Her cheekbones, higher and more pronounced than those of other women, imparted strength and dignity to her features and made her look almost fierce in her anger.

Tavington was undeterred, being fiercer in anger than anyone and having already speculated why hers was directed at Captain Wilkins. He walked toward her slowly, flask in one hand, until he stood close in front of her.

She did not turn her head.

"It appears to me," he said in mock innocence, "that Captain Wilkins has offered you his protection, Miss Sullivan. Surely there is no harm in that."

Her jaw tightened, but she did not answer. She drew her folded arms more closely against her body, causing one of the sleeves of her dress to slip slightly. Her partially bare shoulder did not escape his notice, nor did the ill fit of her unbleached muslin dress. It was far too loose for her slender frame and almost indecently short, its rough, letdown hem showing her boot-clad ankles. For a moment, he thought it odd that a dressmaker's assistant would wear such a garment. Then he realized that the dress had probably been another girl's, given to her out of charity, and that the shop owner did not consider its alteration a worthy use of a young assistant's time.

She looked up at him suddenly.

"Captain Wilkins offers protection from a predicament of his own creation."

Tavington raised an eyebrow and smirked in acknowledgment. For a girl of humble means, presumably uneducated, she expressed herself very well and wasted no words in doing so. He'd met numerous society women who could not do so half as well and took twice the time.

"Protection at a price, I presume?" he asked softly.

She looked away again quickly.

"Naturally."

Beneath the anger and bitterness in her voice, he could hear the undercurrent of fear. He moved in closer and leaned his free hand against the tree trunk, just above her shoulder, thereby blocking the creek and Wilkins from her view. Her eyes fell to the ground between them.

"Captain Wilkins is right, you know. This is no place for an unprotected young woman, especially one so beautiful."

She actually squirmed, which amused him. Or perhaps she shivered; the motion was like a quick spasm through her back and long, slender arms. He moved his hand from the tree trunk and reached out to touch the curve of her half-bared shoulder, marveling at the rich, warm color of her smooth skin in the slivers of sunlight that fell through the tree branches. Her muscles tensed beneath the skin he caressed, but she did not dare to pull away from him.

"Lovely... like a woman dipped in bronze," he said in a husky, quiet voice.

He had never seen one of these savages up close before, and he found the girl's exotic beauty fascinating as well as arousing. No wonder Wilkins wanted her, especially with those striking green eyes of hers -- like a kitten or, better yet, a wildcat. His competitive nature stirred as well as his desire.

"I do believe that, as commander, it should be my duty to protect you from any misbehavior of my officers. Do you not think so, Borden?"

Captain Borden, who had stood watching them in silence, cleared his throat.

"Perhaps so, sir. But perhaps we should continue up the hill to the point you mentioned..."

"Ah, yes." Tavington straightened and dropped his hand from the girl's shoulder as he stepped back from her, still looking into her downcast face. "We do need a scout's assistance."

Then he turned away abruptly and shouted an order to the Dragoons.

"To horse!"

The view from the hilltop was a breathtaking one. The Santee River branched in two directions at this point, both leading into thick forests. From above, the setting sun's deep golden rays glimmered so fiercely on the river's surface that the water appeared like the liquid bronze the colonel had evoked earlier.

Tavington admired the view only briefly, however. His interest lay elsewhere.

"Look there, where the river splits."

"Yes, sir," the girl answered him. He held her in front of him on his horse, pretending to be oblivious to the frequent, resentful glances of Captain Wilkins.

"Which forest is the one that the Cherokee call Dark Woods? Left or right?"

She hesitated for a moment, glancing around the hilltop and then down into the valley with a faint sigh.

"Left, sir."

"Are you certain?" Tavington's voice turned hard and cold.

"Yes, sir." Hers was low and suddenly shaky.

He gripped her shoulders tightly.

"Understand this, Miss Sullivan. If I ever discover that you have intentionally given me the wrong answer or held back any information, I will consider you a potential spy for the rebels and deal with you as such. Is that clear?"

She nodded vigorously and he loosened his hold on her.

"I... I only had to think for a moment to be sure of it, because I have not... I have not come to this hilltop for many years."

Her reason was believable enough, but he could tell she was still distressed.

"You're upset, Miss Sullivan. Do not attempt to hide anything from me."

She took a deep breath and drew her shoulders up under his hands.

"My father. He was killed here."

"Ah. Perhaps in the French and Indian War, fighting His Majesty's soldiers?" Tavington's tone was callous, unsympathetic.

"No," she said quickly, anger in her voice, then added more calmly, "No, sir. My father was murdered, long after the war ended. A common thief killed him when he stole the horses my father raised. I came looking for him and found him there, in that spot."

Her voice broke off as she pointed to an outcropping of rocks, then dropped her hand to her skirt and clenched the fabric in her fist as she turned her head away.

No one spoke in the silence that followed.

Tavington looked down at her hand and slipped his beneath her wrist, almost gently. He raised it slightly to examine the bracelet she wore: leather cord much like her necklace, except that the beads surrounded a small wooden carving of a horse.

"Your father made this, I suppose."

"Yes, sir... when I was a little girl." Her voice was a tremulous whisper.

The colonel was quiet, unreadable. He continued to hold her wrist in his gloved hand, which was nearly half again the size and width of hers.

"Ayita. What does your name mean in Cherokee?"

She turned impulsively and looked over her shoulder at him, surprised by the question. Then, just as quickly, she looked away and into the valley below them, but not before Tavington saw the glimmer of unshed tears in her eyes.

"It means 'first to dance.' "

He looked down at the small, laced ankle boots dangling above his riding boots.

"Very well, then." His voice regained its distance and sly contempt. "You shall be the first young lady to dance with me when we return to camp this evening."

She cringed and moved forward in the saddle even as she half-turned toward him in alarm.

"Are you not taking me home now?"

She sounded so forlorn and frightened that Captain Borden leaned toward the colonel and spoke in a low voice. "Sir, surely the girl could return --"

Tavington cut him off without even acknowledging him.

"Certainly I am taking you home, darling," he said to her. "Just not to yours."

As the distant hills began to turn lavender-blue in the fading light of dusk, Captain John Borden's thoughts turned to his own home. As different as this colony of South Carolina was from his family's farm in rural England, at times like these he could almost see familiar silhouettes in the rolling hills. He missed England, but never spoke of it to his commanding officer, who had once made a brief, bitter comment about leaving the past behind and never returning.

Tavington's profile was typically hard and expressionless as Borden stole a sidelong glance at him. The Dragoons rode side by side in pairs along the road at a slow trot, their horses weary.

The colonel's hand suddenly sprang back, signaling them to stop.

"Silence," he hissed, turning to Borden. "Did you hear that?"

Borden shook his head and scanned the bushes along the road.

The men drew their pistols.

Tavington dismounted quickly, grasping his young Cherokee guide around her small waist and setting her roughly on the ground before stepping away and cocking his pistol. He stalked slowly toward the nearby bushes.

"Who is there?"

The others waited in tense silence. The only audible noise was the rippling of a creek in the distance.

Then, almost imperceptibly, one branch of a thick bush moved upward as if it had been released. A twig snapped behind it.

Tavington fired his pistol into the bush.

The muffled pounding of feet followed the weapon's sharp crack as someone began to run through the forest.

"Open fire, there, into the forest!" Tavington shouted.

The forest echoed with the musket blasts of the Dragoons. The sound of someone running was more distant, but still audible as Tavington slowly stalked forward and looked into the bushes, quickly reloading his pistol. Borden's eyes swept through the woods but found no one.

A soft voice called up to him from below.

"Captain Borden, sir? What is happening?"

He looked down and into the girl's confused and frightened face. She leaned against the colonel's horse, nervously stroking its coat.

"Enemy scout, I believe," he said to her in a low whisper. "He appears to have escaped."

After a few minutes, Tavington returned to his horse, weapon still drawn. Now it was Borden's turn for anxiety as he noticed the hard set of his commander's jaw and the steely glint in his pale eyes. Borden had learned to recognize the warning signs of the colonel's frightening bouts of rage, and for some reason, this incident had provoked one.

Tavington stopped in front of the girl, who kept her eyes on the ground. For a moment he stood motionless as his cold, angry gaze fixed on her. Then, he raised his pistol and cocked it as he stepped forward and grasped her long braid with the other hand, jerking it back roughly to force her head up.

She gave a little cry of fear and pain.

"So, Miss Sullivan. I suppose you had nothing to do with that rebel spy who just escaped?"

The girl blinked at him in shock and then shook her head vehemently.

"Really?" His voice was soft but edged with anger as he stepped closer to her. "Because you might have given them some sort of signal, back on the hilltop. You would not have been that foolish, would you, my darling?"

He smiled faintly, chillingly, without a trace of humor or pity. Standing so close to her that their bodies nearly touched, he brought the pistol forward until its barrel rested lightly in the hollow of her slender throat.

The girl's lips parted as if to speak, but she could not make a sound. She stared at Tavington in abject terror as the delicate skin of her neck rose and fell against the pistol's hot barrel.

"Colonel, sir."

Borden cleared his throat and spoke in a low, calming voice.

"What is it, captain?"

Tavington did not look away from her as he barked out the words.

"Sir, I believe the girl is telling the truth. She seemed quite confused and surprised a few minutes ago. The scout could have spotted us from below the hilltop."

Tavington considered this in silence, his gaze shifting to Borden and then back to the girl, who was now trembling and breathing raggedly. Still holding her braid in one hand, he absently stroked the dark, heavy plaits with his thumb as he looked off into the distance.

Then, quite abruptly, he lowered the pistol, released her hair and stepped back.

"Very well," he said in a clipped voice, glancing at Borden and then walking to the edge of the road again to look into the forest one last time.

Borden breathed a sigh of relief, both for himself and for the girl. He had diffused another explosion.

"Captain Borden, sir."

She whispered to him urgently and rapidly as she stood next to his horse with her fingers twined nervously in its mane. Her vulnerable expression and widened eyes reminded him that she was still more a girl than a woman. He guessed that she was younger than she looked, perhaps no more than half his own age or Tavington's.

"Captain Borden, please take me back to the village. Please."

Borden's heart went out to her, but he knew what his answer had to be.

"Miss Sullivan, I am sorry, but I must follow my commander's wishes."

Her beautiful eyes pleaded wordlessly. She glanced over her shoulder at Tavington, who had started to turn back, and then she surprised Borden by seizing his nearest hand in both of hers and clinging to it desperately, as if she were hanging from the edge of a cliff.

"Captain, please, I beg you, he'll kill me..."

Her hands shook as badly as her voice.

Borden sighed heavily and leaned forward, resting his reins on the saddle and clasping her white-knuckled hands in both of his. He noticed that the hollow of her throat was reddened, perhaps burned, from the heat of the pistol barrel against it, and had to choke back a rush of indignant, protective anger on her behalf. He wanted nothing more at the moment than to lift her up onto his horse and hold her tightly in his arms as he rode back to Hartsford.

"Hush, hush now," he soothed her in a low voice as his commander walked back toward them. "He needs you too much to kill you. He only threatened you to test you."

Tavington gave them both a grim smile as he overheard the last statement.

"Fortunately for Miss Sullivan, she passed the test," he said. "This time."

It was dark when the Dragoons approached the British army encampment near Fort Carolina.

Ayita held herself upright in the saddle, trying not to lean back against Colonel Tavington despite her weariness. One of his broad hands rested on her hip with arrogant familiarity as the other held the reins. She dreaded what the evening ahead held in store, even as she reflected with bitter irony that many Tory ladies would consider her fortunate to be captive to such a remarkably handsome British gentleman.

Still, the man who held her on his horse was hardly a gentleman, she knew that. There was something so compelling and fascinating about him, and at the same time, disturbing. She had seen his capacity for anger, his rapid mood changes, and she could sense that his officers were only somewhat less afraid of him than she was. Perhaps that was why Captain Wilkins had not said a word when the colonel had held a pistol to her throat. She was not overly surprised, but still hurt by Wilkins's silence. Apparently, only Captain Borden had the privilege and the courage to speak up to the fierce commander of the Dragoons.

She cast a sidelong glance at Borden's serious profile. Like Tavington, he had a strong nose and jaw, but his hair and skin was much fairer. He was equally as tall and even more powerfully built, almost stocky, a fearsome opponent in battle.

Yet she had seen decency and compassion in his face when she begged him for help, she was sure of it. He had calmed her in such a surprisingly gentle voice. Such a tone she could hardly imagine coming from Tavington; the colonel had spoken to her in a soft voice several times, but it was always laced with menace, like a cat casually toying with a mouse.

"Ah, here we are." That same voice cut into her thoughts now.

Ayita shivered slightly. They rode into the camp now, past tents and groups of soldiers who fell back as they passed but watched with interest. She knew some of their glances were for her, although they dared not say anything as Tavington rode through like a king entering his castle grounds. She held her head up and stared over the tents, avoiding their eyes.

"Why, Colonel Tavington, who is this lovely young prisoner of yours?"

Ayita started and looked straight ahead into the haughty face of an older officer. The man wore a meticulously styled and powdered wig and a bemused, suspicious expression as he sat ramrod straight upon his horse.

She thought she heard Tavington mutter a curse word before he replied.

"Good evening, General O'Hara."

General! Ayita thought gleefully, her heart leaping with the hope that she might escape the colonel's grasp after all.

"She is a guide, a Cherokee who grew up here," Tavington went on in a cool, forcedly polite tone. "One of my officers, a captain formerly in the Loyalist militia, knew her from a nearby village and suggested that she could be of great use."

"Indeed," the general said in reply as he raised his arched eyebrows and began to smile. "I imagine that a resourceful commander such as yourself could think of any number of ways in which such a very attractive young woman could be of great use."

Ayita heard Tavington draw in a sharp breath, but he restrained himself with effort from making a hostile reply.

The general continued, almost openly smirking.

"Might I suggest, colonel, that it would be in order for you to meet with Lord General Cornwallis to discuss this matter further. Follow me, then."

Tavington turned to Borden and spoke through his teeth.

"Captain, I will return shortly."

O'Hara turned and rode ahead of the colonel's horse as the three continued through the camp in tense silence and proceeded into the huge fort ahead of them.

The minutes passed by as slowly as hours to Ayita as she sat on the edge of a plushly upholstered chair in the study of Lord General Charles Cornwallis. At first she had gazed in awe at the huge mahogany desk, the gilded paintings and cut crystal chandelier, but eventually she found the surroundings heightened her anxiety so much that she preferred to stare down at her feet.

Looking at her scuffed boots and the frayed hem of her plain dress made her feel even more awkward, but she realized that she could do nothing about her attire. Instead, she sat nervously fidgeting as she smoothed back the loose strands of hair from her face.

Tavington stood silently by her side as they waited. He had removed his black leather riding gloves and tucked them into the belt of his uniform, then rested his hand on the arm of her chair. Ayita studied it without moving her head so he would not notice her observing him. His hand looked more like an aristocrat's than a soldier's, she thought as she noticed several finely carved rings on the long, graceful fingers. The nails appeared well manicured, like that of a noble. Still, the hand was broad and strong. With an inward shudder, she remembered his rough grasp on her as he had questioned her loyalty.

Then she thought of the brush of his callused fingertips on her shoulder before his angry outburst, a light caress that was not unpleasant despite the fear and embarrassment his touch stirred in her. The memory of it distracted her enough that she barely heard the approaching footsteps in the hallway outside.

Then the great doors swung open.

"His Lordship, General Charles Cornwallis..."

Tavington turned and bowed as Ayita jumped to her feet.

General Cornwallis favored them both with a frown and a dark-eyed gaze that seemed to bore into them as he crossed the room and stopped in front of Ayita. The general was not quite as tall as Tavington, but he was a large man, and his white powdered wig only made him appear more intimidating.

Ayita had rehearsed greetings in her head as she'd waited, but now all words vanished from her mind as she stood before the famous general, who seemed to glitter in gold epaulets, buttons and embroidery.

Curtsy, you idiot, she told herself, remembering how she'd seen the fine ladies do it with one foot bent behind the other. She bowed her head and sank into the deep, court curtsy reserved for aristocrats and other persons of great importance. The tip of her long braid brushed the floor. Looking down at it, she was relieved to notice that her shabby shoes and torn hem were both hidden as she nearly knelt upon the floor and waited with her hands gracefully turned palm down against her skirt.

Cornwallis extended one large, ring-bedecked hand. Ayita reached out with one of hers, remembering to bend her wrist elegantly as he grasped her small hand and raised her to her feet. Only when she felt the general lightly kiss her hand did she raise her eyes cautiously, fearful that his expression would bear the disdain that a man of his position might show toward a girl in hers.

Instead, he smiled at her almost warmly, clearly surprised and pleased by her formal response. O'Hara must have relayed his knowledge and observations of her to his superior, who had apparently expected her to look and behave as a savage.

"What a very well-mannered young lady you are, Miss Sullivan," the general said, and he glanced meaningfully at Tavington before he added, "not to mention lovely. How is it, I must ask, that you have eyes of such a color?"

Ayita swallowed and finally found her voice, although it was softer and lower than usual and trembled faintly. She clasped her hands together demurely.

"My mother was Cherokee and my father was Irish, your lordship."

"Was? Do you mean to say you are an orphan?"

She was surprised by his perceptive observation, but even more by the paternal sympathy that prompted the question.

"Yes, sir, I am. I live with a dressmaker and her daughter and I work in their shop."

"Have you no brothers or sisters, then? No relations?"

Ayita hesitated briefly before realizing she would have to repeat the same lie she had told Captain Wilkins. She could not let them know that they held the sister of an enemy soldier.

"I have only a brother, sir, and he is away fighting with His Majesty's forces."

Cornwallis nodded his approval. "And how old are you, Miss Sullivan?"

"Sixteen years old, sir."

The general gave the colonel a meaningful look.

"I do hope you see what concerns me here, Colonel Tavington. Lovely young lady, sixteen years old, without family members to look after her, among men in the encampment or in the remote countryside... quite improper at best, and could lead to her harm, at worst, not to mention conflict within the ranks."

"Of course I understand, your lordship," Tavington began to reply. "But --"

"We're agreed, then," Cornwallis went on with the presumptiveness of a man born into great wealth and social position. "She stays here. The girl can translate messages and provide geographical information and such. Fine, fine. Besides, her sewing skills would be quite useful here as well."

Tavington sucked in his breath in obvious frustration as he took a step forward and tried to speak in an even voice. Ayita lowered her eyes and turned away slightly so the colonel could not see what would otherwise be obvious enjoyment of his dominance by the imperious general.

"My lord, there may yet be times I will need Miss Sullivan with the Dragoons to guide us in unfamiliar terrain. I do request --"

Cornwallis cut him off again, rolling his eyes slightly.

"Yes, well, perhaps. In that case, I may have her accompanied by one of my aides to ensure her protection. Now, Miss Sullivan, if you will proceed to the hallway, a servant will show you to a room. Colonel, you will remain to discuss strategy before retiring to your quarters."

"Thank you so very much, Lord General." Ayita's voice was breathy with relief and giddy triumph as Cornwallis nodded and dismissed her.

Tavington stopped her with sly discretion as she walked past him, knowing that his palm pressed boldly against the lower curve of her stomach was hidden from the general's view by her back and the wide peplum of her skirt.

"Take your hand off me," she said under her breath, teeth gritted as she looked down at her waist.

"Very well -- for now." His low, taunting whisper was barely audible.

As he dropped his hand and let her by, she lifted her chin and looked him straight in the eyes.

"Good evening, colonel," she said in a clear, loud voice, dropping a quick curtsy and flashing Tavington a sweetly insincere, saucy smile and a flutter of eyelashes. She turned away toward the door and whispered just loud enough that only he could hear her words.

"And good riddance."

Ayita soon discovered that she was not rid of Colonel Tavington after all. She had hoped to deal only with the general and his aides when her help was needed, but the aggressive colonel managed to ensure his presence whenever Cornwallis called upon her.

Mostly she would provide Cherokee names for various places on the maps, which she hoped would not help overly much. She hated to think of giving the British any information that might endanger Adahy and his fellow rebels, but she knew she had to offer something or become suspect herself.

She spent the rest of her time at work with a needle and thread on curtains, waistcoat buttons, shirt cuffs, and whatever else was needed. She worked quickly but carefully, paying close attention to detail while still allowing her mind to wander into her favorite daydream.

Adahy had returned at last, the war ended and the British in retreat. With the roads now safe, he could take Ayita with him and journey to a new place to start their new lives. They would live on their own, perhaps in a mountain cabin away from the light-skinned society that excluded them, or perhaps near the Gullah villages of freed slaves. No slurs, no snubs, no insults. Brother and sister would raise and sell horses as their father had, and when their day's work was done, they would race across a meadow as they used to in childhood, laughing in the breeze...

Ayita smiled in serene contentment as she gazed off in the distance, needle suspended in mid-air as she forgot her work and lost herself in the daydream.

"You are even prettier with a smile on your face, Miss Sullivan."

She gasped and gave a little cry of shock as she jerked up straight in her chair.

Colonel Tavington stood in front of her, wineglass in hand. One corner of his mouth pulled up in a smirk that was as sensual as it was unsettling.

"You know, I don't believe I have seen you smile until now," he went on smoothly. "Not a truly joyful smile, at least."

It took her a moment to find her voice and regain her composure.

"Well, at least I am capable of a true smile, sir, on the rare occasion that I am actually happy," she said, trying to slow her breathing.

Tavington's smirk faded, and his eyes glinted with irritation and resentment.

"I assure you, Miss Sullivan, that I can be charming if need be."

"I am sure, Colonel Tavington. But charm is a skill. Happiness... is."

The colonel's light blue eyes now seemed to bore into hers as he regarded her with a strange expression of surprise, fascination and anger. His gaze still riveted upon her, he walked slowly to a chair across from her, sat down and leaned back into it.

"And what have you to be happy about, Miss Sullivan?"

She thought for a moment. She wanted to say that she was happy to sleep in a room far away from him, but she was afraid of provoking him into a rage.

"Well, sir... I now have a dress that fits me, for the first time in my life. See?"

She cocked her head to the side and smiled cautiously to appease him. To her relief, the anger in his eyes quickly faded and he smiled more naturally than before. If it was not a smile of joy, it was least one of amusement at her girlish enthusiasm.

"I see. Stand up and show me."

She did. One of the general's servants, a maid about her age, had given her a yellow dress trimmed with white lace at its moderately low neckline. It had been too large, but at least she had the opportunity to alter it to a perfect fit without Dolly's mother snapping at her about wasting time on herself. The dress was not new, but it did not look old and worn, either.

Tavington's blue eyes glinted in appreciation.

"Very pretty. And the dress looks quite well on you, too."

To her own surprise, Ayita actually laughed, something she had rarely done outside of the dress shop working with Dolly. The two of them would imitate pretentious customers, and Ayita's melodic, infectious laugh would always send Dolly into giggles.

She realized that Tavington was regarding with an expression that was almost admiring. Still smiling, her eyebrows knit together in confusion and suspicion.

"So, colonel, why are you so... not unkind to me today?"

This time it was Tavington who laughed, then took a long sip of wine as he continued to look at her over the rim of the glass. He really is quite handsome, she thought with a start, quickly reminding herself that his charming exterior hid a rough, frightening warrior.

"You are most distrustful, Ayita."

"Why should I not be?" His use of her first name had not escaped her.

"Ah, good point. Still, you should be more... charitable."

She bristled somewhat. "I am charitable. But I cannot afford to be trusting."

"Neither can I."

The colonel's smile faded. His expression and tone of voice indicated that he considered the discussion closed, so Ayita bowed her head and continued her sewing. After a full minute of unnerving silence, she glanced up at him again and found his gaze still locked upon her. Flustered, she looked down again and pretended to inspect a stitch.

"Are you waiting for the general, sir?"

"Are you hoping he will arrive any minute?"

Tavington sounded amused. He had an uncanny ability to perceive thoughts through movements, tone of voice and facial expressions. Ayita was frustrated with herself; she was usually better able to hide her emotions when necessary, but this man had a way of seeing into others, making them vulnerable.

It occurred to her then what his purpose might be in visiting with her. The general's decision to keep her nearby inside the fort prevented the colonel from forcing her into the sordid sort of affair that Wilkins had wanted, but Tavington still had weapons to use: good looks, smooth charm and unrelenting persistence. His behavior this afternoon was so much more polite and pleasant than before that she could almost forget her terror as she had looked into his hard, angry face and felt the barrel of his pistol against her throat.

To forget such moments would be a grave mistake, she knew. He might have only been testing her, as Borden had said, but she also had no doubt that Tavington was capable of taking her life if he became convinced that she was an enemy and a threat to his potential victories. She'd heard that the Dragoon commander had ordered the execution of rebel soldiers after their surrender, and it was not difficult to believe the stories.

The faint sound of the general's voice in the hallway made her heart pound with relief. Tavington stood up and set his wineglass on a nearby table.

"Good afternoon, Miss Sullivan."

He reached out and grasped her free hand lightly but firmly, and before she could pull it back, pressed a slow, lingering kiss against the back of it. Although he bent his head down slightly over her hand, his piercing blue eyes still looked deeply into hers without wavering.

Her lips parted in surprise and her eyelashes fluttered. She ought to withdraw her hand now, she knew, since he made no move to release it. Still, she could not move or speak for many long seconds. Only the sly smirk playing around the corners of his mouth could stir her pride enough to bring words to her lips.

"Good afternoon, Colonel Tavington."

To her dismay, her voice sounded soft and hoarse. Even through her bronzed skin, a blush as deep as the one that rushed through her veins could still show through in her face. She cringed and dropped her eyes, unable to face his arrogant smile. He released her hand slowly.

She heard his riding boots click against the wood floor as he crossed the small sitting room and entered the hallway to join the general in the study.

Ayita tried to steady her breathing, unsure if she was more mortified or angry. There was no doubt the man was attempting to seduce her, and so far he was easily succeeding in manipulating her emotions. She had almost no experience in dealing with either boys or men, secluded as she usually was by her own pride and fear and by the frequent exclusion she met with among the light-skinned villagers.

She decided that she would have to find a better way to avoid the colonel, whose subtle flirtation now frightened her as much as his anger had before. Still, she kept looking at the back of her hand and remembering the warm, firm sensation of his mouth upon her skin.

The Dragoons rode the next day, and Ayita was glad of it. She did not know where they went or why. When their commander returned, he strode straight into the general's study and left immediately upon emerging from it. She could not see him from the sitting room corner she'd chosen to hide in, but she could tell from his quick pace and the heavy footsteps of his boots that he was not in a pleasant mood.

"Oh, Ghost, Ghost..." she heard Cornwallis say at one point, his voice almost rising to a shout.

Frustration was evident in Tavington's voice as well, but he wisely kept his voice as calm and quiet as possible as he spoke with his commander, and she could hear only a few of his words. One time he mentioned her name, most likely in a request to take her out as a guide, and she gasped in dread.

"Colonel, how do you expect a girl to find this Ghost when the commander of the Green Dragoons cannot do so?"

Ayita smiled in secret relief. She also knew that the apparent safety of the rebel militia leader, known as "the Ghost" for his elusiveness, meant that Adahy was more likely to be safe as well.

It also gave her a wicked twinge of pleasure inside to know that Colonel Tavington, a man who seemed to control everything and everyone around him, was not invincible after all. Overheard gossip of the other servants had contained some disturbing rumors about the colonel. They said the rebel leader had entered the conflict because Tavington had shot and killed one of the man's sons when he foolishly tried to rush some Redcoats who had seized his older brother as a spy. She had not heard how old the younger son was, or whether he was armed, but she had heard one servant refer to the slain son as a "poor boy."

Ayita could believe that Tavington would not hesitate to kill an enemy soldier, but a boy...

If only she could ask Captain Borden, she thought with a wistful ache of loneliness, and she realized that she missed him and his deep, reassuring voice. Borden surely knew the truth, but he also knew better than to tell her something his commander would not want him to discuss.

She was unsure what to think. Part of her wanted to hear Tavington's explanation, even though she feared he would become livid, and she realized with dismay that she did not necessarily want to hear the truth. She wanted to hear that he was really the man she had thought was a façade the day before, the witty, charming and magnetically handsome gentleman who had replaced the cold, fierce colonel. Perhaps, she thought, he was both men at once -- or he was neither one at all.

Two days passed in the same manner. The colonel would stride angrily to and from the general's office without even pausing at the sitting room. Several times, Cornwallis called her into his study and questioned her about maps, but she saw no sign of Tavington.

Ayita could not decide whether she was relieved or disappointed.

Then, as she sat in her favorite chair mending one of the general's ruffled shirts, she heard slow footsteps in the hall and a woman's voice before Tavington entered the room with a finely dressed older lady.

At first, the woman did not even notice her presence, and he only glanced in her direction out of the corner of an eye. Ayita wondered if this might be the visitor she'd heard a servant complaining of earlier, a Loyalist socialite from Charles Town whose wealthy husband the British were courting for support in the war.

"Ah, wonderful what the general has done here," she said, smoothing her tightly curled wig as she walked through the room with her hand on the colonel's arm. "Such a lovely sitting room to rest and enjoy the view."

With these words, she stopped at a chair near the long French windows and slowly settled herself into it, turning this way and that to adjust her voluminous petticoats. As she did, she finally saw Ayita in the corner and started, then stared at her in undisguised disdain.

"My goodness, is that girl a slave or a savage? She doesn't look like our Africans."

Ayita looked down at her lap and continued her sewing, knowing it was not necessary or even appropriate to respond. The woman had not addressed her, but instead spoke about her as if she were a stupid creature who could not understand what was said anyway. The scene was a familiar one to Ayita, having endured it many times in the dress shop from other upper-class colonists, but somehow Tavington's presence made it more humiliating. An angry blush spread through her skin from her hairline to the neckline of her plain but pretty dress.

"Neither, madam. She is the daughter of a Cherokee mother and an Irish father," said Tavington in explanation.

His matter-of-fact tone, devoid of contempt, surprised Ayita. She would have expected him to refer to her as a half-breed, as he had upon meeting her.

The woman's response contained enough contempt for the two of them as she turned her back on Ayita and spoke to Tavington.

"My goodness, Cherokee and Irish? I hardly know which is less refined."

"I must warn you, madam, not to let General O'Hara hear those words," Tavington said coolly. "After all, you would not know this, but the girl is his niece."

Ayita almost stabbed her hand with the needle.

The woman turned back toward her quickly, and Ayita wisely kept her face expressionless as she pretended to examine the shirt.

"Good Lord!" the woman exclaimed in a loud stage whisper. "How is that?"

"Well, I believe that General O'Hara's brother married a Cherokee woman," the colonel replied in a tone laced with sarcasm that the woman appeared not to notice. "I have no idea whether the O'Hara family accepts her, but General O'Hara does and would not tolerate such a remark. In fact, I would advise that you not mention her at all to the general, as his family affairs are quite a sore subject."

"Oh, of course, of course," the woman gushed. "The poor man. I do apologize. How terrible of me."

Ayita could hardly keep from laughing at the lie Tavington was spinning any more than she could understand why he was doing it.

"Very well then. If you would like to meet Lord General Cornwallis now, madam, he is in his study now and would be honored to speak with you."

Tavington walked her to the door, the very model of a gracious gentleman.

"Yes, of course, colonel. Ah, but tell me first, does his lordship have any relations I should not speak of?"

"None that I know of, madam. It was a pleasure meeting you."

With that, Tavington bowed elegantly, kissed the woman's bejeweled hand, and closed the door behind her.

Ayita waited a few seconds before abandoning control and dissolving into giggles. He turned around to face her with a wicked, self-satisfied smile.

"Colonel, what in God's name made you say those things?"

"Quite honestly, Miss Sullivan, I had tired of her company." Tavington walked to a chair and sat down, stretching out his legs with a sigh and resting his polished boots on the footrest.

Ayita gave him a curious look, cocking her head to one side. She didn't doubt that this could be true, but it could not be the only reason. After all, he could more easily have made an excuse to take his leave of both women.

Tavington still smiled at her like a mischievous boy as he folded his arms behind his head. She had been thinking of how to question him, but he now appeared so seductively good-looking that all intelligent thought seemed to drain from her mind. The sun streaming in from the long windows made his blue eyes look as light and clear as a mountain spring. She could not take her eyes off of him.

"Thank you," she said at last, quietly.

He smiled more broadly, and for once it was not a smirk.

"You are not a woman who is easily fooled, are you?"

"No, sir," she said, then added, "I hope not, at least. But... why would you bother to defend me when you look down on me as well?"

The colonel's smile faded, and to her surprise, he actually winced at the remark as he turned away and gazed out the windows at the view of the surrounding hills. He remained silent for a full minute or more before turning back to her as he sat up and braced his arms across his knees.

"Miss Sullivan," he said slowly, "You are not the only one to encounter those who look down on your parentage."

Ayita stared at him in confusion.

"But you seem... I had supposed you were an aristocrat."

"Ah, I am, but a fallen one, a former one." His voice took on a bitter tone. "My late father wasted the entire family fortune, along with what was to be my inheritance. Of course, he destroyed the family reputation in the process."

He rose and stood at the windows looking out.

"I left England behind," he went on after a moment without turning. "But I have found that one cannot leave one's reputation behind so easily."

Tavington did not elaborate, but Ayita remembered the disdainful way that General O'Hara had addressed him and the sharp glances of General Cornwallis. She had supposed such looks to be deserved by his rough reputation as a warrior, but perhaps they reflected class prejudice as well.

He suddenly looked so lonely to her, so unlike himself, that she was nearly seized by the urge to rise and put her arms around him. She hesitated, gripping the arms of her chair as her sewing lay forgotten in her lap, and in that moment Tavington turned abruptly and strode across the room. He stopped briefly in front of her and made a quick bow, his eyes distant.

"Excuse me, Miss Sullivan."

And with that he left her.

For almost an hour, Ayita sat motionless, gazing thoughtfully out the windows.

The next day, Ayita opened the door to the sitting room to find General Cornwallis standing by the far windows with a small group of army officers. She tried to step backwards and close the door before being noticed, but the general saw her and beckoned to her with one hand and a warm smile.

"Come in, dear," he said. "Go on with your work."

She curtsied toward him and walked quickly to her corner to begin sewing, trying to ignore the curious glances of the group of officers. Her curiosity was aroused in turn when the men sat down, began to open cases lying about on the floor and brought forth two violins, a viola and a cello.

"I will return later to listen," Cornwallis told them as he turned to leave the room. "Remember, the ball at Middleton Plantation is only three days off."

For the next hour, Ayita enjoyed the quartet's practice as she sewed. There in the sun-drenched sitting room, surrounded by beautiful music from Bach concertos to Handel's "Messiah" and looking out over the Carolina hillside, she could almost imagine herself as one of the fine society ladies who would come into the dress shop and look down their noses at her. If only she were General O'Hara's niece after all, she thought with a smile.

When one of the men stood to sing a passage of music, her heart stirred with a bittersweet memory that brought a lump to her throat. She could remember her father singing the same notes, the same words, as vividly as if he were still alive and standing there at the windows. Mostly he used to sing Irish lullabies and pub songs in his rich tenor voice, but sometimes he would stand up before their tiny cabin's fireplace and pretend he was performing classical solos before the king, making them all dissolve into laughter at his expressions and antics.

He'd taught her mother some of his favorite music, selections for a female voice that he loved to hear her sing even in her broken English. Her mother's voice lacked his pure strength and clarity, but it had a sweet quality that blended well with his. Ayita's voice combined the strengths of both.

She began to softly hum a harmony as the officer sang across the room from her. Knowing she was too far away in her corner to be heard by the group, she grew bolder and sang a little louder as she worked on her sewing. When the man sat back down and the quartet began to practice the next piece, she smiled in instant recognition of the Handel piece her mother used to sing as a lullaby. Ayita sang along softly.

"He shall feed his flock like a shepherd..."

Her voice grew gradually stronger, lilting over the trills and resonating on the sustained, tremulous notes. At first she glanced frequently at the quartet, but apparently they still could not hear her. After a while, she lost herself in the beauty of the music, the happy memory of her mother's lullaby and the pure joy of singing, letting the melody flow through her soul and over her lips like a rushing stream.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed the brilliant red of an army uniform and the forest green of a Dragoon jacket.

Startled instantly out of her reverie, Ayita dropped the shirt she was mending as the notes died in her throat. The back of her neck began to burn as she looked up at General Cornwallis and Colonel Tavington standing inside the nearby doorway. She'd forgotten that the general had said he would return to listen to his musicians.

The expressions of the two officers facing her, however, made her embarrassment slowly wane. She would have expected amused condescension from Tavington and possibly even from the general, but instead they both regarded her with surprise and admiration bordering on awe. Her parents and brother had often complimented her on the beauty of her singing voice, and so had her friend Dolly, but she had usually attributed this to their kindness and love for her. She could not imagine that a girl as lowly as she was in the society of her little world could possess anything of envy to anyone else.

"Go on, go on, please," Cornwallis said at last, almost deferentially.

Too self-conscious to oblige him, Ayita dropped her eyes and bent forward to pick up the shirt instead. Her neck still felt warm, but this time from the unfamiliar sensation of pride.

"I am sorry, your lordship," she said without looking up. "I am not accustomed to singing for anyone."

"Ah, but what a terrible shame that is not to share such a talent. I was hoping that you might be willing to sing that passage with the quartet at the ball. Does she not have an exceptionally lovely voice, colonel?"

"Yes, your lordship. Quite beautiful." Tavington's own voice sounded sincere for once, and, to her discomfort, somewhat lower and more throaty than usual. She had never thought of her singing having such an effect on listeners, but then she had never sung before anyone but her own family and Dolly. Perhaps that was why the young officers in the quartet had long since stopped playing and were looking at her with identical, rather dim-witted expressions on their faces.

She looked up at the general, avoiding Tavington's gaze.

"If you would like me to sing at the ball, sir, then I shall."

Cornwallis smiled and beamed with genuine pleasure and excitement, a look nothing like the formal and sometimes grim smile he usually wore in his study.

"Ah, very well, wonderful."

What had made her agree to such a thing? She wondered a moment later. Even though she had long ago learned to ignore the frequent, curious stares provoked by her unusual looks, they never ceased to make her at least somewhat uncomfortable. Surely standing in a room full of fine ladies and gentlemen, all staring at her, would make her wish the earth would open up and swallow her whole.

"Oh, but your lordship, I... I forgot that I have no dresses fine enough to wear to a ball."

"Ah, well, that is nothing," said Cornwallis with a wave of his hand. "You have worked so quickly and diligently on your mending that you surely have time to make one for yourself."

"Oh." She tried not to sound disappointed that her objection had not dissuaded the general, who appeared not to notice her deflated tone or expression. A quick glance at Tavington's sly smile confirmed that the ever-perceptive colonel did, however.

Cornwallis reached into his pocket and produced a handful of coins, which he dropped into her lap as he turned to leave the room.

"There, my dear, that should be enough to purchase the material you need from your shop. Give this to the lad downstairs with your instructions straight away."

Ayita stared down at the coins lying upon her skirts. Her mouth dropped open.

Tavington gave a brief, quiet chuckle at her obvious shock. Surely he realized that she had never had so much money of her own in her entire life as the general had just casually tossed to her as if the coins were halfpennies instead of crowns.

She found her voice at last as she looked up at Cornwallis in shocked gratitude.

"Thank you so very, very much, your lordship," she said softly.

"You are quite welcome."

The general's smile was for once more paternal than patronizing as he bowed slightly and left the room. The colonel followed with a quick glance at her over his shoulder, and the twinkling glint in his eyes made her feel even more flustered.

Then she slowly looked back down at the pile of coins in her lap, as if it might have been an apparition that would disappear on closer inspection. It was still there, gleaming and winking up at her.

The quartet began to practice another passage from "Messiah." One of the officers stood to sing in a high, strong tenor.

"Rejoice greatly, O Daughter of Zion..."

Ayita began to laugh, covering her mouth with her hand and turning away in the chair so the musicians would not notice or hear her. She laughed until tears ran down her face and dropped onto the shirt she had been mending when her world was turned on end.

The other guests had begun to arrive at Middleton Plantation for the ball, but Ayita could not yet pull herself away from the gilded silver mirror atop a vanity in one of the bedrooms. She must have looked at herself from a thousand different angles, she thought as she chided herself for vanity, but still she kept examining her hair and dress and readjusting the way the delicate crystal necklace rested upon her collarbone. Dolly had sent it to her, along with her matching drop earrings and a pair of dressy satin-bowed shoes that were slightly too large for Ayita's feet but still quite small and dainty.

Ayita had pulled the laces as tightly as she could to make sure she could walk gracefully, without tripping. She turned from the mirror and practiced again, taking slow steps across the room before returning to the mirror and checking the pins in her hair. It had taken some time to hold the long braided coil in place, and she'd had to wet her fingers in the washing bowl to dampen her hair into the smoothly elegant style now reflected in the mirror.

She smiled at herself, hardly believing what she saw. A beautiful, luminous woman looked back at her instead of the shy, half-breed orphan girl she had been when she'd last dared to look at herself in a mirror in the dress shop.

"If only mama could see me," she said to herself with a soft sigh as she smoothed the peplum and skirt over her petticoats. "And if only Dolly could see me, and I could see her..."

Ever since her arrival at the fort, she had not been allowed to see anyone as a precaution against the possibility of her passing information. The general and the colonel had both read the note Dolly had sent her with the dress material, making Ayita glad that her friend had not elaborated on the message.

Ayita, my dear sister: I pray that you are well and safe, but I must admit that I envy you the chance to go to such a ball! Do spill a drink on the captain for me -- With love, missing you greatly -- Dolly

She giggled as she read the note again. Dolly meant Wilkins, of course.

Then she winced as she realized that Colonel Tavington must have understood that reference as well, and why it was made. She could imagine him reading the note with that frequent smirk of his, his sensual mouth curving up at one corner and creasing the skin above his strong jaw... Her thoughts embarrassed her further. She shook her head away as if to shake his image from her mind.

"Remember what sort of man he is," she said under her breath as she gazed at her reflection. She nudged aside the necklace from her throat and looked more closely. There, in the soft hollow between her collarbones, she could still see the faint red outline of the small burn made by the hot muzzle of his pistol. She took a deep, shaky breath and smoothed the lace at her neckline.

Making and finishing her dress had been no easy task, but she had never enjoyed working on a garment as much as this one. As soon as the general had dropped those coins in her lap, she knew what she wanted. She'd admired the bolt of emerald green satin in the shop's front window, touching the smooth fabric furtively when her mistress wasn't looking. Its rich shade of green complemented her eyes and did not make her skin look as dark as the light shades of blue, pink or yellow girls her age often wore.

The narrow neckline border of delicate cream lace matched the hem, and Ayita had fitted the dress perfectly. For once in her life, she wore a garment that was new and made just for her, neither too large nor too small and exactly the right length as well.

A knock on the door made her jump.

"Miss Sullivan?"

She recognized Captain Borden's deep voice.

"Yes?"

"I believe Lord General Cornwallis would like you to join the musicians in the ballroom now. Are you ready?"

Her newly found confidence wavered a moment as her heart began to beat faster. She paused, hand on the porcelain doorknob, then turned the knob and opened the door slowly.

The captain's expression restored her confidence as quickly as it had wavered.

"You look... greatly changed from a few days ago," he murmured, his dark blue eyes widening in appreciation as his eyebrows raised. Then he hastened to add, with a faint blush, "Of course, beauty does not change, but only takes on different forms."

"Thank you," she said with a small smile, blushing as well. For some reason, she felt an impulse to embrace him as she would her older brother. His presence was somehow comforting. Still, she realized that her feelings toward the captain were not entirely sisterly as she noticed how his close-fitting Dragoon uniform emphasized his athletic build, particularly his broad chest and shoulders. The golden gleam of his polished uniform buckle complemented his reddish-blond hair, which he had pulled back neatly into its military queue and wrapped in black ribbon.

"You look quite... dashing, captain."

"Thank you, Miss Sullivan."

He did look dashing, and now pleased, as well. She looked at the floor, once again shy, but he thoughtfully cut short the uncomfortable pause by gently taking her arm and leading her down the hallway to the ballroom door.

Voices drifted into the hall, laughing and talking, and among all the rest she caught the distinctly smooth, resonant tone of Tavington's low voice. She stopped short, causing Borden to turn and look down at her with a comprehending expression.

"Are you nervous about singing, Miss Sullivan?" he asked instead.

She was, and she nodded mutely, but she was mostly flustered by the nightmare image of meeting the colonel's piercing gaze while standing alone before the crowd and somehow losing her voice, her memory of the words, all rational thought.

Borden led her into the ballroom, past an immaculately dressed valet who held open one of the heavy, ornate doors. Ayita stepped inside and stopped again, head tilted toward the ceiling and lips parted in awe. She had never seen a room so gilded and glittering with huge crystal chandeliers, ornate golden mirrors and portrait frames, and hundreds of tall taper candles bathing the room in soft light.

"Have you ever been to a ball?"

As she turned to answer him, she noticed him smiling at her reaction of childlike amazement, but without a trace of condescension in his voice or expression. He looked down at her with only warmth and amusement in the depths of his blue eyes. She smiled back, still somewhat embarrassed.

"No, sir. Quite obvious, I suppose."

He merely grinned quickly in reply, then hesitated before speaking again.

"If I could, I would ask you to save the last dance of the evening for me, Miss Sullivan, but..."

She followed his glance toward the assembled group of British officers and Loyalist gentlemen and ladies. Almost immediately, she caught sight of General Cornwallis, General O'Hara and Colonel Tavington. If Captain Borden cut a dashing figure, Tavington was a breathtaking one.

Drawing in a deep breath, she was thankful that only Cornwallis noticed her. He smiled and nodded his head for her to join the string quartet near a set of tall, elegant French windows that opened onto the Santee River.

Borden surprised her by giving her hand a quick, comforting squeeze.

"Good luck, Miss Sullivan."

He bowed to her and left to join his commanding officer at the front of the crowd, and Ayita walked to the windows and stood before the small brass music stand, nervously straightening pages. Her throat had become suddenly dry.

"Sip of wine, Miss Sullivan?" a young lieutenant offered, gesturing with his violin bow toward a glass upon a small, carved serving table next to the stand.

"Thank you." Her whispery voice alarmed and irritated her.

She took a long drink of the wine and cleared her throat, then sang a few notes quietly to herself. As she was taking another sip, she started at the rapid clinging of a fork upon a glass. The crowd gradually fell silent.

The quartet began to play the quiet opening bars.

Ayita cleared her throat once more, quietly, then took and deep breath.

"He shall lead his flock like a shepherd..."

Her voice, soft as the violins at first and slightly tremulous, slowly gained strength as she sang clearly and evenly. Although she knew the words and notes by heart, she rested her hands upon the ledge of the music stand and her eyes upon the pages in order to avoid having to look upon the faces in the crowd. She could see, from the corner of her eye, the fine linen and silk shoes of the ladies and the polished leather boots of the men at the front of the crowd, and a wash of bright red and forest green uniforms above the boots.

The images blurred and faded gradually as she began to sing. Her ever-stronger, resonant voice delivered the piece as one fluid melody, the notes pouring forth smoothly from her lips. She forgot the crowd entirely, closing her eyes at times as her voice lilted through quick trills and sweeping phrases.

"And He shall give you rest..."

At last she reached the final note, sustaining it as long as possible before folding her hands and bowing her head as she waited for the quartet's final bars.

Loud clapping followed immediately, interspersed with approving murmurs, and Ayita finally raised her face to the crowd. She curtsied and smiled quickly, her face slightly flushed, and noticed with a stirring of pride that several of the Dragoons regarded her in rapt admiration. Their commander and his second were among them. She met their eyes only briefly, then looked away and pretended to rearrange the music pages.

Thirst and self-consciousness made her throat dry again. She closed her eyes and sipped a little more of the wine from her glass on the serving table.

"May I have the first dance, Miss Sullivan?"

She started as she looked up into Colonel Tavington's riveting light blue eyes.

"I... I did not expect..." Her mind scrambled for words even as her hand raised to meet his outstretched one, as if he were willing her to respond against her will. "I have never danced at a ball. I cannot -- "

The colonel's smile broadened. He held her hand firmly in his, trapping her.

"No matter, my darling. I will simply have to... teach you."

Those last few words, combined with the sly glint in his eye, made her cheeks feel warm. Her eyes dropped to her fingertips as they protruded from within the iron clasp of his large hand. She tried to tug her hand free.

His grip did not loosen. Instead, he pulled her forward, forcing her to follow with a slight stumble. Flustered and suspicious, she braced her legs and stood her ground with her chin raised.

"Why?" She forced herself to look him straight in the eyes.

"Why?" He echoed her with a grin. "You ought to live up to the meaning of your name, Miss Sullivan. I believe you told me that Ayita means 'first to dance,' does it not? I imagine you can dance with as much grace as you sing, darling."

She sighed in frustration, then cocked her head to the side.

"What does your name mean?" she said.

He looked surprised and increasingly amused by her pointed questions.

"Colonel is simply a military rank, my darling," he said, deliberately obtuse.

She glared at him, increasingly irritated by his self-assured condescension, his unnervingly handsome formal appearance and the sense that his motives were more complex than he let on.

"No, no, not your rank, your name. William."

He contemplated the question for a moment, apparently having decided to humor her momentarily.

"If I remember correctly, I believe the name means something like protector. Ah, that's it. 'Resolute protector.' "

She could not resist smiling.

"Well, colonel, you certainly are resolute, at least. It seems that not everyone's name suits one perfectly," she said slyly.

His smile became a smirk. He pulled her closer and caught her wrist in his other hand, feigning an expression of dismay as he drew her hand to his arm.

"You wound me, Miss Sullivan. Do you forget so soon that I am your protector from Captain Wilkins?"

"Ah, Captain Wilkins." She glanced over her shoulder at a group of the Dragoons, noticing that the man in question wore an expression of jealousy and frustration. "So, as my protector you are actually obligated to dance with me?"

Tavington chuckled.

"You are a most suspicious young woman, Miss Sullivan."

"I have every reason to be," she reminded him, to which he raised an eyebrow in acknowledgment.

"Furthermore," he went on, "you have quite a clever mind. For a colonial girl."

She shot him an angry look.

"Especially for a half-breed?"

"Ah, that..."

He winced and looked away with a heavy sigh of exasperation. His apparent irritation at her reminder of his slight in front of the dress shop then gave way to a fleeting expression of pained regret, which surprised her as much as the depth of bitterness and hurt in her own voice.

"Do not think," she went on quietly, "that I am as naïve as my age might lead you to believe. I am well aware that if I were not unknown here, or if this room were not so dimly lit, that neither you nor the captain would want to be seen socially in the company of someone like myself."

Tavington was silent for a long moment, lips pressed together.

"I spoke unkindly when I met you," he said slowly, looking across the room at Wilkins, "and, I confess, with deliberate intent to insult. Yet, your response indicated to me that you were... accustomed to hearing the word."

"I am," she said simply.

He looked into her face again, his gaze devoid of his usual arrogance.

She continued carefully, feeling her chest and throat tighten.

"It is just that some words do not lose their effect with repetition," she said, fighting the tremor in her voice. "I have only learned to -- it is something like wearing a mask, I suppose."

He smiled faintly, almost sadly. With uncharacteristic tenderness, he reached out and caressed her cheek. Unlike the day of their first meeting, this time his touch was meant to comfort rather than to intimidate and control. It was as if an entirely different man stood in front of her now, looking into her eyes with a depth of complex emotion that amazed and baffled her.

"Like a mask," he repeated with a rueful half-smile. "I understand perfectly."

Then his expression changed again as his fingertips brushed across her face.

"If you must know my every last wicked reason, I ask you to dance because I find you very attractive, Miss Sullivan."

His smile broadened into a provocative grin.

Flustered again, she looked down at the hem of her dress and pretended not to notice that his hand now rested against her neck and collarbone, brushing against Dolly's crystal necklace.

"Very pretty," he murmured, his low voice sounding velvety smooth and more than a little seductive. He stood quite close to her now, his tall, muscular frame towering over her and almost pressed against her.

"It's borrowed."

He slipped a finger under the delicate necklace and lifted it casually.

"Ah, yes, the necklace is lovely as well."

"Thank you, sir," she said, barely audible. Her skin flushed across her throat and around to the nape of her neck. Tavington laughed, then drew in a sharp breath.

"What?"

She looked up at him in surprise.

He did not answer. Frowning, his eyes clouded, he slowly slid his finger along her collarbone and into the hollow of her throat. He lightly touched the burn he had left with the muzzle of his pistol days before. She shivered, not from pain or discomfort but from the memory of his cold, distrustful anger.

The string quartet began to play a waltz for the first dance of the ball.

Neither of them spoke for a moment. His hand rested still against her throat.

"Colonel." Her own voice sounded hoarse to her. "I know I do not belong among these ladies here tonight, but I agree to dance with you if you agree to treat me as if I were one of them."

His hand moved and raised her chin.

"If you do not belong," he said softly, "it is only because you are so much more of a natural beauty than any of them, and without pretense..."

Ayita's stomach tightened in an unfamiliar sensation. Her habitual skepticism, until now well deserved by the colonel, began to fade as she recognized sincerity in his voice and expression -- and regret and longing, as well. She took a deep, shaky breath.

He pulled her forward, more gently than before, and this time she followed without resistance. Continuing to hold one of her hands in his, he moved his other hand to rest against her lower back and held her at a close but still respectable distance.

Ayita followed his lead. He moved with the elegance of a well-bred aristocrat, his steps graceful and perfectly in rhythm with the waltz. At first, she lowered her head to watch her shoes, afraid of tripping or moving in the wrong direction or, God forbid, stepping on his foot.

Then, when she realized with relief that she was dancing quite well with his guidance, she continued to look down in order to avoid looking up at him. His broad hand on her lower back and his closeness unnerved her. The scent of apple pomade in his smooth dark hair and heady wine on his breath made her almost dizzy.

Her steps fell into closer synchronization with his. Soon, she forgot to be self-conscious and began to enjoy the sensation of sweeping across the floor and moving in time to the quartet's lovely music. She had almost ceased to become aware of the others on the ballroom floor, even of Tavington, until she heard the jealous complaining of one of the Tory ladies standing nearby.

"... Not only pretty, but obviously dancing all her life as well. Still, I hear her family is Spanish, not English aristocracy like Colonel Tavington's."

Ayita heard a familiar voice reply to the jealous girl.

"Why, I had no idea that O'Hara's niece was Spanish and Irish. The colonel did say Irish and something, I quite forget now..."

Tavington laughed, not in the grim, contemptuous way he usually did, but in genuine amusement. His expression as he gazed down at her, his light blue eyes twinkling, was almost affectionate.

Looking up at him, she could not help but start giggling as if she were back in the shop with Dolly, and she realized that she laughed almost as rarely as the battle-hardened colonel did. Her heart soared with the joy of receiving the admiration of others, if even in the form of jealousy, instead of suffering their avoidance and condescension.

She had never thought of herself as truly beautiful before this evening. As Tavington led her around the ballroom floor again, her eyes met with those of Captain Borden's and she felt a small thrill of pride to be the focus of his admiring gaze. She wished the colonel would let her dance with him, the last dance as Borden had wished, but both she and the captain knew better than to ask.

She passed the older Tory lady once more.

"So, one has to wonder, what other secrets might General O'Hara be hiding?" she was saying to a small group of ladies gathered around her.

Ayita lifted her hand to her mouth to smother a laugh as they swept past.

Tavington continued to smile down at her as he smoothed a stray wisp of dark hair from her forehead in an almost caressing motion.

"I must say," he said, his low voice almost purring with satisfaction, "this could almost be a perfect evening."

Continue...