Disclaimer: I don't own Col. Tavington. The girl and her family is mine.

Thank you Minx, for reading it through before I posted it.

Colonel William Tavington was furious. It was not obvious, though the men who knew him best could feel it like silent waves coming from him. He felt the fury pounding in his veins, it felt like a heat in his eyes and he could hear it roar in his ears. The girl was talking now, her eyes fixed on the bleeding face of her brother. She was talking, but Tavington had troubles hearing what she said as the rage screamed louder and louder in his mind.

Yes, she could read and write. Yes, she had spied, for months. No, she had never been to the Ghost's camp, she had left her notes in a hollow tree by the creek. No she didn't know who picked them up. No, she didn't know were the camp was. She didn't know. She didn't know.

So this was the spy. A girl, not more than seventeen had managed to fool him, William Tavington, for months. A girl! A poor, unimportant laundress had tricked him. Her mother was screaming now, pleading for her life, and for the son. They had known nothing. It was obvious that the older woman had realised what the outcome of the evening would be and her pleading became more and more hysterical. The boy... Well, he was barely conscious and perhaps it was for the better if he never understood that he would never be more than fourteen.

The girl understood, oh yes, she did, but was standing as calm as she had for most of the time. Tavington could feel his anger rise to new levels, she had no reason to be so composed. He had decided to put pressure on her through the boy, a wise move as it made her talk faster than he had expected. It was funny how the concern for a loved one could loosen up tongues. But he wanted to hurt her, make her sorry for her insolence and he knew there was other ways to break a woman, than beating her.

He had seen her before, pretty but modestly dressed with a kerchief covering her bosom and a cap her hair. Here, in the light from the candles she was beautiful. They had been on their way to bed when the soldiers had burst through their door and she was only clad in her shift and stays. The long hair fell straight and dark down to her waist. The low-cut shift revealed her breasts, pressed upwards from the pressure of the stays. Though her skin was tanned it was smooth and free from any blemishes. Her features had not yet been marked from her hard work and the child births that had aged her mother. Only her hands, red and swollen, betrayed her profession.

When the soldiers started to drag the small family out, Tavington stopped the man holding the girl. "Leave her." No one objected. Some of the men looked worried and some smirked, but Tavington paid no attention to any of them. No one would say anything afterwards, no one would have the courage. The girl didn't react when he took hold of her arms and she didn't looked at him. He pushed her towards the room behind the kitchen and she walked without resistance.

The small bedroom she had shared with her mother looked clean, despite it's poverty. A single candle was still burning beside the bed. It would have looked neat, if the soldiers had not strewn the contents from every cupboard and chest all over the floor. If it was shock or fear that was the reason for the girls docility. Tavington neither knew nor cared for. But when the sounds of guns being fired was heard, she woke up from her placidity. Suddenly she started to fight. She fought him with a fierceness that startled him and she managed to scratch him before he got hold of her again. He found a sash in a pile of clothes and used it to tie the girl's hands behind her back.

Tavington pushed her down on the bed, throwing himself on top her. Their combined weight on her bound hands made her cry out in pain, be he paid no heed to it. He buried his hands in her hair, feeling it's softness like silk around his fingers. He kissed her, forcing her to open her lips for him. Her mouth tasted sweet and so did her skin, when he kissed her throat, and her breasts.

So far none of them had said anything, but when Tavington reached under her shift, touching the soft skin on her tights, she spoke. "Please don't. I have never. No man has ever. Please don't." Her voice broke and she started to cry. Tavington stood up. He had been convinced that she had used her female charm and body to get her information, but he suddenly didn't felt so sure. And when he looked at her face his rage died and with it his lust.

She was not much more than a child, really. She cried like a child, sobbing without control. In her eyes he could see it as well, an innocence that had found it all an exciting game. A game that she perhaps never really had realised could turn so nasty. He helped her up, so she could sit on the bedside, wiping her face with his handkerchief. He wanted to say something that comforted her, but there was nothing he could say. What could an executioner say to his victim after all?

"It will be quick", he says as he forces her to kneel on the floor. She swallows and chokes on her tears, trying to meet her last moments with some dignity. Tavington has seen grown men die more cowardly and he admires her for that, but there is no point in dragging it out. His gun is ready and he wraps his hand in her hair again, making her unable to move.

It doesn't take her long to die. She breaths two, three pained breaths and then she is still. He picks her up, she doesn't weigh much and lie her down on the bed. There is no need now for ties and he frees her hands. He closes her eyes and covers her with a blanket. She looks like she is sleeping, a beautiful girl that will never wake up again. He stands at the bed for a while, before putting the curtains around the bed on fire with the candle.

Then he leaves the room.

end

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