The thick folds of soiled fabric felt heavy in the woman's
hands, the dried
bloodied stench of it being routine for a soldier's uniform. She
had only a
short time to repair the angry crimson tear in its left side. Her
reddish
blonde hair was tied tightly away from her round face, except for
an
occasional stray hair, which would taunt an azure eye. Her build
was feminine
and strong, with curves under her once eggshell dress and muscles
taut beneath
her skin. As she worked her thoughts drifted away from the
present encampment,
and to the hellish sights she had witnessed weeks ago.
The battle had been harsh. The British had a strong infantry,
and an even
stronger cavalry unit who horrifyingly finished off the
surrendering troops.
The screams and groans of the doomed men echoed endlessly into
her mind until
they caused her war-hardened jaw to tighten. She had come upon
the scene by
accident, only meaning to pass through on a morning walk.
Aware of the dangers she faced, Sibyl had tried to remain
obstructed from
view. However, her attempt had been made in vain. Several Royal
soldiers had
spotted her female form soon after the Continental soldiers had
run screaming
from the field. Thankfully, instead of the brutal fate she had
expected, they
only demanded she help with the aftermath's cleanup.
Sibyl had realized how temporary and fragile her pardon from a
worse
condition was. Before long she had been shuffled from place to
place, at times
the object of hideous torments. As a result her nerves were well
frayed,
preventing her usual strength of intuition from surfacing. Her
hands shook
ever so slightly as she softly prayed, and her fear was worsened
as she
remembered the jacket, which had accompanied the torn shirt,
albeit in better
condition. It belonged to a Green Dragoon.
###################
On the other side of the British encampment, Colonel Tavington
stood
listening to a lengthy report of their enemy's casualties. His
large ebony
boots were ground firmly into the dirt, as were the speckles of
post-battle
grunge, which saturated his normally impeccable uniform. As he
tried to
distract his mind from the pain radiating from his bullet wound,
he caught
sight of something that made his temperature rise.
"Did I not say to kill all locals?"
"Ye-"
"Well, then. What is your excuse for that?" The
Colonel's blue eyes flashed
in anger as he stared at a large brunette woman scrubbing blood
from a
Captain's uniform.
"We needed the assistance, Sir."
"His Majesty's soldiers do not need assistance from
traitors. Understood?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Now get rid of her."
"But Sir, she's not a-"
"Must I tell you again?" Tavington's face tightened
as he spoke, his tone a
cooled snarl.
Within an instant the man gave a resolute "No, Sir."
"See to it that her body be searched for rebel
correspondence."
Satisfied, Tavington swiftly left the tent. He loved having
authority, and
the only thing he loved more was having the power to make a man
kill another.
At times it amazed him-- how far they would go at the simple
flick of his
tongue. His pride was still weakened from an earlier loss of
Dragoons, the
result of a militia's ambush. However, he felt a hidden smile of
confidence as
the crackle of musket-fire set a heavy silence throughout the
camp.
Tavington could not remember a time when the screams of
anguished persons
had disturbed him. Now, they only served to further excite his
blood thirsty
nature. Earlier that day he had looked into the face of a young
blonde haired
rebel and for an instant thought he felt something alien to him.
Remorse. The
feeling had passed before he took note of its inhabitance, and as
he had
plunged his saber through the boy's torso he thought of nothing
but the
overwhelming adrenaline in his veins.
They were the enemy. A step above the beggars and whores his
father had
associated with. Perhaps that was why he had experienced what he
had; the boy
had reminded him of himself at a younger age. The expression of
the doomed
soldier may have mirrored his own at a time when his father would
come home
late at night with the stench of liquor on his breathe, and sweet
wafts of
perfume on his belt. Tavington's skin prickled with hatred at
remembrance of
his father's last drunken words to him: "Stupid boy. You
possess the savage
ideals of a slain peasant. May God never have mercy on your
ruthless soul."
Tavington had no doubt in his mind of who proved to be the better
man. As he
caught sight of a woman sewing, he felt excitement at having yet
another
chance to prove it.
###################
Sibyl's hand was bleeding as a result of a missed stitch at
the horrendous
scream before the musket-fire. She prayed hard for the sickening
smell of the
smoke not to reach her. She had had enough of that thickness for
a lifetime.
Her eyes still burned from the dryness of the air, and from the
quicksand-like
desperation, which had assaulted her once tender emotions. That
morning she
had awoken with the peculiar feeling of needing to be somewhere,
without
knowing where or why. As she recognized the sight of her fingers
painfully
weaving thread through fabric, she realized she now knew the
where of the
sensation. However, the why was still a mystery.
She stretched, tilting her head to view her surroundings. From
her position
on the cusp of the wooded grove could be seen the center of the
camp, where a
large man was walking briskly. The gold buckle on the front of
his Royal
uniform glistened as the sun fell upon it. He had a black furred
hat in his
grip, and his hair of the same color hung loosely to his
shoulders. The bright
whiteness of his ill fitting shirt collar was in stark contrast
to the
brilliant red and green of his Dragoon jacket even though it was
faintly
tarnished, with wear. As he drew closer she could see the slope
of his nose,
the scowl of his mouth, and the depth of blue in his eyes. She
was transfixed
by the sight in front of her-- it was unlike anything she had
witnessed
before. A Green Dragoon, in a state of after-battle dress, but
not just any
Dragoon. Colonel William Tavington.
"Lieutenant! Take care of this. Or are you not
capable?"
The man's flustered stare from across the camp answered for
him, and
Tavington muttered in disgust.
Sibyl found herself paralyzed by his detection. The heavy
rattle of spurs
announced his now close proximity, and Sibyl felt her arms drench
with
anticipation as she heard bullets being loaded. She slowly raised
her eyes to
meet the glare of the fearless Colonel. He held in his grasp a
pistol, and
there was a murderous spark in his subtly twitching eye. She held
his
captivating gaze until Tavington broke it with a surprised smirk.
"You! Why I must say I never thought I'd have this
opportunity." He lowered
his pistol bearing hand slightly, delighting in the recognition.
"Colonel." She acknowledged him respectfully and
ignored his sneer.
"Sibyl Barclay, is it not?" He rolled the second
syllable of her surname,
and she couldn't help thinking had it been a different situation
she would
have admired his sinuous tone.
"It has been some time now. You have grown--in
intelligence as well as
stature, I presume?" Her voice was calm and collected, but
in her mouth laid
the tangy taste of thick, ashamed terror. It was worsened by the
fact that she
still felt there was something exquisitely bewitching about the
Dragoon before
her.
He bent near, and she could faintly smell leather. Tavington
stared
unrelenting at her for a full moment, aiming to unnerve her.
"Perhaps I have presumed too much."
The pistol's hammer being cocked shattered the air.
"You forget yourself, Madame." His tone was deep
with fury, and something
she identified as hurt.
Sibyl's whole body spun in a bright flash of panic. She
momentarily
revisited their past together, hoping to glean on something,
which would help
her now.
"William, has it really come to this?"
Watching Tavington's face surge with emotion left her
breathless. It did
not last, and within a moment the Colonel was back. He frowned,
most likely
from noting the surprised expressions of nearby Dragoons.
Flitting through
Sibyl's mind was a sad understanding of the answer for her
earlier question.
There had been a time when she had thought she understood the man
behind the
Colonel, but as he calmly raised his pistol into the air she knew
that time
had passed.
###################
The muddled confusion in Tavington's body was slowly driving
him out of it.
This woman had said his name with a binding passion, which
repulsed and
intrigued him. He had lashed onto the smell of bloody revenge
with a hurling
impulse, but now regretted the situation he was in. In his
struggle to remain
efficient he had forgotten about her gift. The ways in which she
could help
him were endless. Her fate was now sealed. Tavington seized her
wrist firmly,
whispering fiercely for her to rise. He felt unruly and
desperate, and he
hated her for it. The shirt she had held in her hands, which he
recognized as
his, dropped between them as he roughly grasped her around the
waist. Her
scent was strong in his nostrils, a mixture of sweat and the
something else he
could not identify. Tavington felt her stride waver against him
as he
half-pulled her with him into the trees. He knew the other
Dragoons would
assume he was going to ravish her privately. He smiled at his
cleverness, his
pistol tight in his palm and taunting its captive.
His voice turned ragged, as he demanded she halt in a
clearing. She had not
spoken a word since he had taken her. He wondered if she were
able to, with
the way her breath was coming in labored pants. Looking at her
now, he
couldn't help feeling stirred at her appearance. Tavington
quickly muffled the
sensation, knowing a loss of control would not benefit him now.
The burning smell of campfires filled the air, alerting him to
the limited
time he had before being expected back. His hand brushed quickly
across his
scalp, sweeping the hair from his eyes. Tavington kept the pistol
steady as he
took several steps back. An intense look in her eye unsettled his
depths, and
in response he smoothly added a demonic curve to his lip.
"Have you no words to say? You who brags of such--
intelligence."
"I should demand an apology of you."
"An apology! I must say I am surprised. Such
ungratefulness, especially of
a woman who has had her life spared."
"If only to be made a prisoner."
Her scowl penetrated his exterior, gnawing far into him. He
lowered the
pistol, but kept the distance between them. Tavington eyed her
coolly,
noticing her dress was torn in some places. Her flesh was
slightly dirtied at
her collar bone, and his eyes traced down to where her dress
began. Her
remembered her as having a beauty mark above her left breast. It
had always
made her complexion seem, in some strange way, perfect.
"And what have you made of yourself?" His tone was
deeper, raspier.
"Not as much as you have, I am sure. Your reputation now
precedes you,
William. Or should I say 'Butcher?'"
"I hardly think a battle worn Colonel deserves a name
such as that. Would
you not agree?" His voice was smug, and his pleasure at the
name was obvious.
"Of course not. You do know I cannot help you unless you
promise to cease
these horrendous murders."
"Murders! You do not know the lies you speak,
Madame." The indignant words
were tinged with venom at her sharp disapproval.
"You and I both know the exact truths I speak. I refuse
to believe
otherwise."
"Very well, then. I do not need your-- help." He
glowered at her, and had a
hidden flush of embarrassment at saying his last word. Colonel
Tavington knew
he was a man who did not need assistance, least of all from a
woman. He
considered finishing her right then and there, but knew it would
have allowed
her to see the raw hole she had left inside him. Tavington was
very careful to
conceal the power she held over him. It was vital she not know of
it. For
reasons he could not explain this woman did not have a normal
effect on him.
Although, his deep fear was he might have proven one thing to her
without
being aware-- William Tavington did need her help.
###################
Sibyl had never seen his hair this long before. It swayed with
each
movement of his head, the sleekness of it inviting attention away
from the
rest of his face. She wondered why he did not inquire as to her
whereabouts.
In the back of her mind she had a wish to be in her real home
once more,
instead of being forced into this new beginning. There were
always new
beginnings. The choice of arriving in this colony had seemed a
good choice for
her and her brother Joseph, after having their name torn long ago
by their
mother's lechery.
Taking in Tavington's perilous stance and narrowed eyes she
thought
carefully, fighting to distance herself from him. She knew he was
thrusting
himself deeper into a dangerous and desperate situation, which
most likely
paralleled into all corners of his life. For reasons she could
not understand
she longed to release him, even at risk of her own life. Quieting
her mind for
a moment she then grimaced at an ironic truth. Perhaps he was
still the sheep
in lion's clothing she had once known, desperate to sheer the
filth of his
father's reputation from his skin.
"You are no longer the better man, William."
Tavington's glance had been bemused before she spoke, with the
look of a
cat beginning to play with its prey. Now his face held an
expression of
extreme anger.
"Enough of your games!" He held the pistol in a
painful grip, his teeth
clenched in a bitter fury.
She straightened her back, feeling the uncertain fear that
came with her
bold words to him.
"I play no games. Perhaps you misinterpreted my
words?"
His eyes sparked with indignant rage and Tavington's tongue
shot out to
wipe across his snarling lips.
"Do you not see what I hold in my hand?"
"Death does not fear me, William. If your memory was as
sharp as your words
you would know that." Sibyl felt a twinge of panic at his
seeing beneath her
lie, but her uneasiness was put to rest as Tavington took a step
closer, his
jaw tight.
"I would think quite the opposite. You, being of a family
of such--
impropriety." He spoke low, his voice threatening.
Sibyl bristled at his attack of her mother's gruesome fate.
"Impropriety!
Is that how you label families who do not associate with whores
and gamblers?"
Tavington lurched upright at the insult and began stalking
toward her. He
did not stop until he hovered inches from her face, with Sibyl
able to feel
his breath against her cheek. He was even close enough for her to
see the
small mark beneath his right eye, and with a flash she remembered
gazing at it
as a young woman.
She had always wondered what was to become of him. Her hidden
talent, which
she had divulged to him, had always amazed him. It started as a
young girl;
she had dreams, which later proved to be true. It had soon spread
to other
areas, with her senses re-affirming their accuracy again and
again.
The taste of salty tears filled her throat as she remembered
her last day
with him. Their childhood had been long spent, and Tavington was
to be on a
boat to America in a matter of days. She had coaxed him into her
darkly lit
room, and made an attempt to seduce him. The moment between them
had been
filled with longing and restraint. Finally, she heard him whisper
two words
which had crushed her: "I cannot."
Sibyl's mind had formulated the reason immediately. Her name
was a
tarnished one in England, and as a result he could never become
publicly
associated with her. In light of her embarrassment, she had felt
a snide joy
in seeing his eyes blaze with hurt at her own rejection of his
explanation. No
one had the effect on her that Tavington did. Now, as she stared
into his
fervid eyes, she only wished she held the same power over him.
###################
Tavington had the smell of vanilla in his nostrils. He had not
noticed it
among her scents earlier, but now it was joining the conflicting
emotions
inside, throttling him to the point of an explosion. As a result
he held
himself rigid, and his eye fought to keep from twitching as he
searched her
face.
She was simply stunning. Tavington would not allow himself to
admire the
curves of her upper half, or the sweep of her hip. Instead his
eyes seared
into hers, at times dangerously close to the point of no return.
The
compassion found within at once infuriated and aroused him. An
almost painful
ache in his groin stirred him to reach out and grasp her neck. He
then
instinctively flung his mouth upon hers, devouring what he found.
He was
surprised when she responded passionately, forcefully pushing
herself into him
as he moved to nip and pull at the flesh along her neck.
Tavington's hair slipped before his eyes, and he jerked his
head away from
her in an effort to sweep it back. A few inches from her face he
caught her
glazed stare and held it, transfixed. He now encircled her back
with one hand,
still clutching the pistol in his other. Tavington's breath was
coming in
heavy gasps, and as he attempted to still himself he remembered
her torturous
refusal of his words so many years ago. It had destroyed him.
From the pit of
his very being he had been desperate to take her, but could not
resign her
from the respectful position of his confident, to being in the
role of just
another whore.
"You are a better man, William. You only must face
it." Sibyl spoke the
words softly, pulling Tavington from his reverie.
He looked at her vehemently, but unconsciously drank from her
wisdom and
strength. Her cheeks were still flushed from his affections, and
her eyes
glistened with empathy. He noticed her dress was pulled down on
one side,
exposing the beauty mark above her breast.
Tavington felt an intense burning inside, and could think of
only one
thing. He hurriedly cemented his lips to hers, as his body
tightened and then
relaxed in surrender to her exploring touch. His thoughts were
clouded as if
in a haze, but unexpectedly something felt very wrong. Vaguely he
heard a
pistol fire. Sibyl shrieked into his mouth, sliding down his body
in pain, and
with confusion he saw blood spilling from her side. Tavington's
left hand was
numb, and as he glanced down he saw it contained a now smoking
pistol.
Then with a besieging terror, he remembered cocking the hammer
on the
pistol earlier. Guilt speared him, as he realized his hand's lust
induced
fumbling had triggered the murderous bullet's release straight
into her body.
Tavington sprang into reckless action, clasping her tightly to
his chest and
brushing the fallen strands of hair from her watery eyes. His
knees bent as he
gently lowered himself to support her body in his lap. Her head
lay in his
crooked arm, her eyes now glazed not from passion, but from
intense
discomfort.
"Sibyl-- Sibyl--" His voice was low and frantic, his
tone searching.
"How?" She whispered the word between slightly
gritted teeth, sucking in
air with a sharp gasp.
"The pistol, I inadvertently triggered its release. I
must go and get
help."
"No." Her chest heaved with difficultly, blood
continuing to spill from her
wound.
"I must, you are going to be fine. Sibyl, do you hear
me?" He bent close to
her ear, his hair drifting protectively across her face.
"Sibyl? Sibyl!" Tavington's voice was heavy with
urgency, and rose in pitch
when he took note of her paling skin. Her breathing, her skin
tone-- in his
heart he knew she was dying. He had seen it so many times before.
Now he was
experiencing it himself through her, and it was excruciating.
Tavington swallowed harshly, and noticed his cheeks were
becoming slick
with tears. "Stay with me, Sibyl. Please-- I love you."
He saw her eyes flutter and expand in width. Tears formed at
their corners,
and her mouth opened, but was not able function amongst the
emotion.
Tavington dipped his head to rain kisses on her face. His
mouth tasted
blood, which had been smeared onto her from his hands. Sibyl's
gaze changed
somehow, becoming more distant as if she were viewing something.
Startled,
Tavington lifted his eyes to watch hers change from fearful to
serene. In an
instant memory came flooding back to him, and he recognized the
expressions on
her face from ones he had seen long ago.
Sibyl's peaceful eyes soon lost their glimmer-- they were
losing the
essence of her. The labored pants of her breathing continued as
his hands
stroked her hair, her face, and her shoulders.
"You cannot leave me, Sybil. You cannot. We must be
together--"
She looked at him, her blue eyes chalky, and parted her lips
weakly in an
attempt to speak. Tavington caressed her jaw and leaned closer as
she
whispered into his ear.
"Soon."
And then she was gone. Within the time of a candle's flicker,
Sibyl's life
was extinguished. Tavington's lips, still sore from her mouth's
kisses, burned
with the madness her courage and vision had produced. Colonel
Tavington fought
to control his body, and cursed softly at the bloodstains he
would have to
explain. All the while William Tavington was left alone and
weeping, haunted,
yet oddly comforted by an emotion he so despised--fear.
end