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kylorengarbagedump · 16 days ago

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Playing Soldier: Chapter 17

Read on AO3. Part 16 here.

Summary: You finally head home to see your sister. Wretchedly, you aren't alone in the desire to see her.

Words: 6800

Warnings: None

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Enter Plot, our beloved <3

While smut is old hat for both of us, I think we both have been really trying to push ourselves with character, dialogue, and plot with this fic. Is it a lot? Is it just enough? Am I asking too many questions?

Thank you so much, all of you, always <3 It's our goal to get a chapter out at least every two weeks - with the complexities that are building in addition to the holidays and all the traveling we seem to do for some god-forsaken reason, we hope that's okay!!

Love y'all so much!! See you soon <3

Beyond the shade of the wagon canvas, the sun reached its zenith. Between the thudding of rocks in your bones, the constant sway from the uncertain trundle of the wheels, and how you'd had to fight for a spot to sleep in the mass of camp followers, the warmth of sun rays was the only reprieve in discomfort you could find. Five days of waking to your body’s complaints, however, had yet to dampen your excitement. Red clay now soaked the dirt roads, cast them in copper. The air smelled like home.

You'd spent most of your journey curled to yourself, attempting to hide your now-fading bruises after Lottie had been generous enough to lend you a neckerchief with a modest silhouette. It had given others the impression of frigidity, but you cared little. You had no interest in speaking with any of the other camp followers and even less interest in speaking with any of the soldiers. In particular, Patrick Ferguson.

Ferguson had explained the day you set out that he would be dropping you off on his way north, and to your recollection, also attempted to explain that he would be calling upon your sister when you arrived. But the moment he had begun to clarify his intentions his words had jumbled to nonsense in your ears. He seemed to believe that the more earnest he appeared, the less he’d repulse you.

On the contrary—-it only made him more insufferable.

The wagon smacked a dip in the road and you yelped, wincing at the impact to your nethers. Though you were in far less pain than you'd been on Sunday evening, there was still a shrinking ball of tenderness clenched between your thighs. If this was what it was like to lose your innocence, you shuddered to imagine the pain of childbirth. Perhaps it was similar to intercourse: painted in fair light in the aftermath of its culmination.

Then again, you were coming to realize that pain was a part of sex you liked.

Heat flushed your cheeks. Much to your great vexation, William had haunted your thoughts since he'd departed the room you had shared in Middleton Place. It wouldn’t concern you if you'd been preoccupied with your physical attraction to him, as you'd been for the past few months. No, instead, these ruminations covered such questions as, what was he doing; what did he feel regarding your time together; was he thinking of you just as you were of him?

It disgusted you. And yet you wondered all the same.

You wanted, in fact, to create a portrait of William Tavington’s emotional landscape—or at least identify which colors to start with. As it stood, he seemed possessed only by a singular drive: ambition. Ambition which would see you and those you loved buried beneath the dirt.

Outside, you heard the shouting of men ripple back through the unit, and your wagon ambled to a stop. You peeked from the front flap of the wagon, and your heart soared. You recognized every branch of every tree.

“Oh, thank the beautiful forgiving and gracious Lord,” you whispered.

Without any other hesitation, you leapt from the back of the wagon and hit the ground so firmly your teeth clacked. The line of soldiers in front of you stared, as though you’d just emerged from an ox’s twat and not a perfectly normal artillery wagon. Irritated, you leered back—what you had to do was far more important than their attention—and made to turn, only to catch a familiar profile passing the corner of your eye. One you hadn’t seen since the beginning of this journey.

“Goddard?” You turned, brow raised, watching him march a column of men past you in the direction of town. “Benedict Goddard, is that you?”

Goddard’s face tightened, his eyes averting your gaze. When he didn’t stop, you trotted up to fall into step with him and he winced. “I’m, ah, not at leisure to speak presently,” he said, straightening. “But it’s good to see you, miss, do enjoy your afternoon.”

“But what brings you…” You glanced around. “Has your unit separated from Colonel Tavington’s legion?”

“Yes,” he said quickly. “A temporary reassignment.” He cleared his throat, looking forward. “My duties bring me under Major Ferguson's command. And that's all I'm at liberty to reveal to you.”

You balked, jaw dropping. A few soldiers in the rear of the column with him glanced at you, as if you were committing a grave sin by daring to even address him. Any other day would see you mocking his behavior and admonishing him for pretending as if you hadn't stayed in his home for weeks. But in this moment, you were a short sprint from your home, from your sister. You didn't have time to mind.

“Good day to you then, Ensign.” With that, you plucked up your skirts and ran towards the farm.

The heat of summer brought no strain to your breath, the weight of your petticoats no hindrance to your legs. You gripped them high in your fists, flying at full speed down the dirt road that led to your home. As you broke from the trees, greeted by your flourished fields and little house, you nearly erupted into a sob—until, of course, you spotted a bay horse hitched at the steps to your porch.

And then Patrick Ferguson at your front door, bowing in half, only to be embraced by your sister.

“Major!” Grace cried, gazing up at him with saucer-sized eyes. “I—my goodness, I'm not prepared at all to receive you.” She released him, adjusting her hair. “I can't believe you're…”

Her eyes drifted, falling onto you. She dropped her arms and burst forward, almost knocking Ferguson to the side as she trampled the steps, shouted your name, and careened toward you.

“Grace!” was all you had the time to say before she was on you.

Like magnets, you collided together, each binding the other in her arms. Laughter and warmth exploded between you, and you whirled in a circle, carried by her momentum. You buried your face in her shoulder, squeezed her tight, forgetting, for a blissful moment, that you'd ever been separated.

“Oh, my darling sister, I have so terribly missed you,” she murmured.

You grinned, rumpling her hair. “Not even half so terribly as I’ve missed you.”

“Oh, don’t be an arse,” Grace laughed, and aimed a noncommittal kick at your ankle.

In evading it, you nearly toppled both of you into a giggling heap in the grass. You stabilized, then held her for another breath before unwrapping her from your arms. Still smiling, tears rimming her eyes, she examined you, brow furrowing as she studied your messy hair, the exhaustion in your gaze.

“What are you…” She looked back between you and Ferguson. “Has he delivered you to me?” she said, a wry smile breaking her face.

You ignored how that made you want to sneer at him. “In a sense,” you said, “though I'm not to stay for long, I'm afraid.”

She frowned. “No? What… why ever not?” Her shoulders fell. “Are you still meant to serve in the field hospital?”

“Yes,” you replied, “but let's discuss it later. I'm here at least for the next few days.”

“Really!” Her face brightened, and she launched into another hug, humming as she held you. You sighed in relief, rubbing her back. “Well,” she said, pulling away, “come inside then.” She grabbed your hand, leading you to the door. “Major Ferguson, please tell me you can join us for tea?”

You grimaced. “Oh, I don't—”

“Certainly,” he said. “I'm sure the men would appreciate the rest before we resume our march.” He stepped toward her, taking her free hand and pressing his lips to it. “And I'm sure I requested you call me Patrick, Miss—”

“Wonderful!” Smiling, she looked between you both, clearly overjoyed to have each of you in arms’ reach. She opened the door, allowed you inside before she looked toward Ferguson. “And please, I'm sure I requested you call me Grace.”

You grumbled at their apparent affinity, then did your best to disregard him as you walked inside. The scent of oak fogged your head, your gaze flicking over every slat of wood composing the walls, ears pricked to receive every creak in rhythm as you made your way toward the kitchen. Motes of dust swirled in the sunlight as you passed. The furniture looked swept clean of even a speck.

Your father had built your house with his bare hands, and as such, it wasn't large—beyond the front door, the stairs split the home in two, one side with the kitchen and dining space, the other a modest room to receive company. The second floor had only two bedrooms, each on one side. And despite its size, for a brief moment, you understood how lonely it could feel to be the only one within it. To be the single resident of a home that no longer housed the family it was built for, to sleep in a room where all you could gaze at was a second, empty bed to remind of their absence.

Swallowing the lead ball lodged in your throat, you entered the kitchen. Almost everything was as you remembered, though the organization had blossomed under Grace’s stewardship. With a near-painful pang of familiarity, you went through the motions of filling the kettle from the water barrel and nestling it into the bed of live embers in the cooking hearth.

“Please, have a seat,” you heard Grace say. “Have they begun issuing your rifle, yet? I’ve so been looking forward to good news.”

“Ah, not yet, I’m afraid. The expense and time of it all has inhibited its production.”

She scoffed. “Expense and time? Are those not investments an army should make? Perhaps especially so for a brilliant innovation?”

“I don’t disagree, but I cannot force—”

“If forcing a thing will break it, then you must bend it, of course,” she said, that devilish lilt in her tone. “Seems to me you should write out a letter—did you not tell me even the most fractious of your generals can be enticed by persuasion? You’re far too clever to not convince them.”

“Perhaps,” Patrick replied, a smile in his voice, “though I recall you to be far more effective with persuasion than I am.”

“Oh, really?” Grace said. “What inspires such a comment?”

“I’ll indict myself no further.”

A giggle. “I'll assist you after tea, then. Where I think we’ll start is…”

You silently retched, distracting yourself from their conversation by sweeping over to examine the tea shelf. Though for as long as you had known it, Papa had always kept it stocked with coffee beans instead. To your surprise, though, his coffee stores were nowhere to be seen, replaced instead by neatly arranged canisters of Bohea and green teas. Lining the rest of the shelf from end to end were jars of dried fruits and herbs.

Just before your eyes could cross themselves at the array of choices, Grace swished to meet you in the kitchen. “Oh,” she said, nodding to the hearth. “Thank you for starting that.” She peeked her head into the dining area. “How do you like your tea?”

“Hot,” he said, and you could practically hear the wink he shot her. “I'm not fussed about the particulars.”

“My speciality, then,” she replied with a grin, and sidled up to you in the kitchen, whispering, “I've never made tea for a man before!” She smothered a giggle beneath her palm. “Pass the green.”

“Not even when he visited you those first few days you were home?” You handed her the canister of green tea leaves. “When did you start keeping tea, anyway?”

“After I got back,” she replied primly as she measured out a portion. “I know Papa feels so strongly about his coffee, but I've always preferred tea.” Then, lowering her voice, “And goodness, no! He would never step foot inside a lady’s home when she's alone. The major is quite the gentleman.”

Eyeing her with half-playful suspicion, you sidled past her to fetch the hot kettle. “Sure he is.”

“I mean it!” she said, moving back to the shelf to pluck a few jars down and balance them in her arms.

You wondered what it would be like if William even approached the definition of gentleman. A small, aggravating part of you opined that you'd find that exceedingly boring.

You crossed back to where Grace had placed the teapot on the counter and poured a small measure of hot water in, swirling it to warm the pot. “You seem quite fond of him.”

Grace straightened, nearly flinging a jar. “Shh!” She tossed a look over her shoulder, then bustled to your side, knocking you with her hip. “You shan't expose me so blatantly!”

You laughed, bumping her back. “As if you aren't plainer than a red rose in a field of dandelions.”

“Perhaps I am,” she replied, glimpsing you with a coy smile, then deposited the tea leaves, plus a handful of dried peach slivers and a sprinkle of rosemary into the pot. “But I think a gentleman would favor the rose, don’t you?”

Rolling your eyes, you poured the rest of the hot water over the tea mixture while Grace loaded a platter with sugar, honey, and cream. The fragrance that bloomed from the pot made your mouth water, but before you could take a deeper whiff, Grace clapped the lid on beneath your nose and swept from the kitchen with the whole spread in hand.

“At your leisure, Patrick.”

“Thank you, Grace.”

You heard her set the platter and cups out on the table. With a final fond shake of your head, you followed.

But the sight when you stepped past the dining room threshold pinned your feet to the floor. Ferguson had decided to take your chair at the dining table. And he sat there, taking a sip of his tea as if he belonged. The back of your neck burned.

“That is outstanding,” he said to Grace, whose attempt at a humble bow of her head in response was overtaken by a beaming smile.

Ferguson’s ever-present, ever-infuriatingly congenial grin faltered as he gazed at you. “Everything well?”

“Oh, yes,” you replied through a jaw locked tighter than a safe. “I'll sit just here.”

In two steps, you cleared the room, pulled out your father's chair, and plopped down in the seat. You fought the instinct to spear him with your stare as you snatched your teacup from the table and slurped from it with such force you inhaled hot tea straight into your lungs.

“D-dammit—” You groaned, coughing up spittle that you then had to swallow with the elegance of a bullfrog. “Excu—” Another hacking fit. “Excuse me—”

Grace grasped your arm. “Are you all right?”

“Goodness,” Ferguson said, leaning forward. “Is there—between the oyster at the party and this, I'm growing concerned.” He looked at Grace as you continued to clear your throat. “Does she have an issue swallowing?”

Blood lit up your cheeks. “No!” You wiped your eyes of the tears brimming there. How dare he suggest you had some sort of incapacity. A memory of William’s cock spending its load down your throat, and you choked again. “I’m very much all right, thank you. No issue swallowing.” Wiggling your shoulders to sit upright, you took your cup again and sipped as daintily as you could, keeping your attention on Grace. “Excellent tea.”

She squeezed your arm before taking a sip herself. “Thank you,” she said. “But what's all this I hear about an oyster? At a party?”

“Your sister and myself had quite the fortuitous encounter at a ball at Middleton Place last week,” Ferguson said as he drank from his cup. “She—”

“I tried to eat an oyster and made a right fool of myself,” you said quickly, since this was your story to tell and not Ferguson's. “Nearly spit up all over the Lord General.”

Grace laughed. “Please tell me you managed to present yourself with a smidgeon of decorum!” Her gaze glittered as if she too were remembering the time you failed to wash your poultice-soaked hands before curtseying to the reverend as a child. You'd stained your skirts green. “She's always been a bit unorthodox,” she said to Ferguson.

He looked at you with something akin to admiration, which irritated you, since you found nothing admirable about him and didn't want to return the favor. “I've observed as much. It must run in the family,” he said, and then glanced at Grace. “It's a quality I think is often undervalued in women.”

Grace pinched her lip between her teeth, hiding a smile you knew wanted to take up her face.

“Yes,” you said, shrugging, “well, our father is an unorthodox man. He raised unorthodox daughters.” You took another slow, calculated sip, gazing at Ferguson over the cup. “Though he still may find the presence of a British officer in his home objectionable.”

Grace kicked you under the table, her face screwing into an expression that seemed as horrified as it was mortified. “Oh, Patrick, she doesn't—”

“Please do not fret,” said Ferguson, his tone soothingly earnest. “I had planned on mentioning it to you. But it was something that became apparent at the party.” He nodded toward you. “Then your sister confirmed it.”

“Oh.” She looked at you, fingers turning pale where she clutched her teacup. “I—I had every intention of telling you, but our father's allegiance hasn't been received kindly by other officers, and—”

“Grace.” He reached across the table and placed a hand on hers. You imagined taking a butter knife and jamming it between his knuckles. “Your father's business is no concern of mine.” He was staring straight at her. She was transfixed. “I seek only your good opinion.”

Grace’s eyes fluttered, and she looked away, hiding her happiness. “You must know you appear far too charming to seem sincere.”

He shrugged. “If that is what damns me, so be it,” he replied with a playful smirk. “I will not regret my attempts to charm you.”

You wanted to groan. Another gooey word and you were certain you'd make good on your stomach’s earlier threat. “All that is well and fine,” you said, “but do you have charm to prevent our father's death should he be captured?” You stared at him. “Does your charm mitigate the losses suffered by our Patriot neighbors as the British Army lays waste to their lands?”

Grace looked at you, hissed your name. You ignored her.

“I've had conversations with more than one British officer, Major,” you said. “And I fear not all of them are as magnanimous as you.”

Ferguson nodded solemnly. “I do not deny your accuracy.” His gaze drifted from Grace to you. “Nor would I deny the difficult position you each occupy as Tories with a rebel father.”

You nodded in return, as if this was completely accurate.

“However,” he said, “it has always been my position that colonials, be they Tory or Patriot, are our brethren. That promoting the benefits of maintaining affiliation with the crown is far more effective than punishing those who seek independence from it.” He frowned. “Though I know you both have unfortunately been acquainted with a certain officer who would disagree in the extreme.”

Grace shrank slightly in her seat, glimpsing you. “Well, unfortunate is putting it lightly.”

A distant twinge in your core. It was unfortunate, wasn't it?

“I am not Colonel Tavington,” Ferguson said. “I have no intention of bringing you harm because of your father's choices, nor would I ask that you disavow him.” His focus returned to Grace, his fingers curled around her wrist. “Allow me to prove it to you.”

Perhaps more unfortunately, Grace did not immediately throw him out of the home as you'd been hoping she would. Her shoulders dropped, and she smiled at him, withdrawing her hand to drink from her teacup, lips tight on the edge.

You knew this look. She was about to erupt with joy.

“Well, if you must insist,” Grace said after swallowing. “Though I shan't make it easy on you.” She placed her cup down, eyebrow raised. “After all, I remember someone offering to write me, and yet I've not received a single letter…”

“Ah.” Ferguson’s gaze found yours. You gave him a blithe smile in return, narrowing your eyes in a dare: assign you blame, or flounder for an excuse.

“Indeed,” he said, flashing Grace a sheepish grin. “Forgive me.” He cleared his throat. He’d chosen to flounder, it seemed. An irritatingly good choice. “I did, ah, encounter a prohibitive factor in that regard—“

“I forbade it,” you announced.

Grace stiffened, strangling her teacup. Slowly, like an aiming cannon, her head swiveled toward you.

“Sister,” she said, and you could hear her rage swarming, a shaken hive beneath the honey of her voice. “Why ever would you do such a thing?”

“I do not find it appropriate,” you answered simply, sipping your tea to avoid her stare.

Grace looked to Ferguson as if for help, but he simply sat back in his—your—chair, yielding the conversation to you with a dip of his head.

You sincerely wished he would stop behaving so damn respectably.

Grace gaped at you, her expression alone demanding an explanation. You thumped your teacup down with a huff.

“It is not appropriate,” you elaborated, “for a man to write a young lady at home whose father is absent and who is unattended by any family at all.” Your shoulders straightened and you swirled your tea, the leaves spinning a tiny vortex. “One might think he means to take advantage.”

With that, you pinned Ferguson with your stare. He met it, earnest and unwavering.

“Never should I wish to give such an impression,” he said, and to your utter annoyance, you believed him. He looked at Grace. “And thus I must stay my pen.”

“You give no such impression and you must do no such thing!” The edge of pain in her plea sawed at your heart.

Ferguson’s brow wrinkled in apology. “I intend to respect your sister’s wishes.”

“And what of my wishes that you not be governed by the labyrinthine principles of my sister’s logic?”

You glared at her. She glared back. Ferguson glanced between you, then knocked the dregs of his tea back and slowly pushed his (your) chair from the table.

“I needn’t intrude on family discussions,” he said. “I should attend to my unit.”

“I’ll walk you out,” you and Grace said in unison.

She glowered at you again. You stood, shooting her a quelling stare. She slumped back in her chair, looking away.

You gave Ferguson a tight grin. “Major?”

He rose and turned to Grace. “Miss—“ He stopped himself, readjusting with a small smile. “Grace,” he said, and bowed, clasping his fist over his heart. “A moment in your company sustains me longer than any fire or feast.”

“Patrick.” Grace shot to her feet, her fingers perched on the table as if she might fling herself across it and into his arms. “Please do not be a stranger.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He gave her a final, gentle smile.

Swallowing the urge to vomit, you opened your arm in an invitation toward the front door. Ferguson ducked out of the dining room, and you followed, attempting to burn a hole through his tall, stupid, handsome, respectful back until you both arrived on the front porch, and you eased the door shut behind you.

The wind rustled the grass, rattled in the leaves. All that was left was to tell Ferguson to leave, to not consider returning. If you opened your mouth, the words would come, but your mind refused to allow them even that far. Grace's hurt tugged at your own soul, soothed even your most basic instinct to bare your teeth. You gazed at him, jaw shifting, and looked away.

“Well,” you said, “I know your men need you. So…”

Ferguson sighed. “I'm aware that you lack trust in me,” he said. “And given what your family has been through, I cannot begrudge you that.”

You glimpsed him, folding your arms over your chest.

“My affections for your sister are sincere. But I would sooner drive a stake through my own chest than seek to drive a wedge in your relationship.”

You chewed your lip.

Ferguson fished a piece of folded parchment from his pocket and held it out to you. On its face was Grace's name in a sharp, pretty script. “I leave you this. You can choose to deliver it. Or not.” His eyes softened. “All of it is in your hands.”

As you studied the letter, your arms fell to your side, frustration hardening in your chest. Guarding Grace's heart and safety was what you thought was most important to you—until that directly gutted her happiness.

Drawing in a deep breath, you snatched the letter from his hand and shoved it into one of your skirt pockets. “Safe travels, Major,” you replied stiffly. “Perhaps I'll see you at Fort Carolina sometime in the future.”

“Miss,” he replied with a bow. He stepped off the porch, untied his horse, and began his journey back to the marching line.

You watched him go, releasing a long exhale. It didn't bring relief.

With that, you spun and entered the house, greeted by the sound of crashing plateware as it was all dumped into the barrel for later washing.

Shutting the door behind you, you sighed, crossing into the dining room. “Grace, I realize I've upset you—”

“Oh, upset doesn't begin to cover it, big sister,” she said, whirling on her heel. “Try outraged. Or humiliated, perhaps.”

“Humiliated?” You stopped a laugh. “Pray, how have I humiliated you?”

“You treated me like a child!” Grace spat. “Like some—some foolish little girl with stars in her eyes!”

“You do have stars in your eyes,” you said, shrugging a shoulder. “All I observed was you blushing and giggling at everything that man said.”

“And so what if I did?” She folded her arms over her chest, scowling at you. “So what if he charms me, so what if he makes me laugh? Am I not entitled to a free heart?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “This is hardly about the freedom of your heart,” you said, gesturing to the door. “This is about your heart's safety. Your safety—”

“Oh, piss on my safety!” she shrieked, advancing on you. “You would've said the same thing of Nathaniel Jones, and he posed all the danger of a rabbit kit.”

“Well,” you said, meeting her toe for toe, “we'll never know, will we? He was killed by redcoats. Just like the one you invited into our home.”

“He was killed by a redcoat,” she whispered through clenched teeth, “a horrible, monster of a man whose character could never approach Patrick’s.”

“You simply cannot know they're that different—”

Grace laughed in a way that sounded familiar. Like an echo of your own indignation. “That man—Tavington—” She sputtered out his name like a curse. “Slapped me. Killed Mary in front of me. Hunted Papa.” The memories made your jaw twitch, made you consider retreating for just an instant. “Patrick has shown me nothing but kindness, understanding, and concern from the moment I met him.”

The reminders of her distaste sullied your own tongue. Had you really slept with a man who’d treated your sister this way? Then again, perhaps what he’d done to you throughout the following days had been worse. Could it even be quantified? Was there a point in recounting his wrongs and comparing them to his very few, very far between rights?

And just as he held the capacity for right, didn't that mean by default that Ferguson held capacity for very, very wrong?

You waved her insistence away. “Grace, he could be—for all you know, this could be an act, he could be—”

“What,” she cried, “do you have against him, exactly? What evidence of wrongdoing do you possess that causes you to be so utterly pigheaded?”

You paused, flabbergasted when the answer did not immediately present itself. Grace took this as an opening.

“Robert was too dull, David too cold, Justin too cowardly, Jonathan too controlling, Peter too lecherous, Nathaniel too dirty—well, I've found a man who is brilliant, warm, brave, considerate, respectful and—God strike me down—clean!” She threw her hands up into the air. “There is nothing about him for you to possibly dislike!”

“You didn’t see him at the ball, Grace, he was surrounded by women, he's entertaining Lord knows how many, ah—” His own acknowledgement of this tripped you, and you grumbled, stumbling over your words. Grace lunged.

“Oh, and he’s traveling a hundred miles to see each of them, is he?”

“Well, n—”

“Are they more deserving of his attentions than I, then? Is that what you mean?”

“No, Grace, of course that’s not what I—”

“What, then? What is it about him that you so disapprove of? Perhaps I’ll next have you find fault in a fine length of silk, seeing as those too are often set upon by ardent women.”

“He—he’s…” You let out a huff, casting about for your next words and finding them sticking like serrated bayonets from your memory. “He's a chimerical, self-serving, aspiring martyr!” You folded your arms. “Every British officer says so.”

Her jaw dropped, and she released a laugh of disbelief. “You're mad,” she said, and shook her head. “But you know what?” She jabbed a finger into your chest. “Even if that were true, it's my decision to make!”

“You just—” You grabbed her hand, pleading. “You’re so young, you don’t realize the consequences of these decisions, and—”

She screamed, ripping her hand away. “Yes, I do!” Growling, she stomped into the kitchen, then turned on you, a tidal storm of rage. “I'm a woman, now! I'm not an infant that requires your coddling, nor am I some ignorant girl that requires your wisdom.” She narrowed her eyes, upper lip snarling. “You cannot deny everyone else a chance at happiness simply because you've decided to make yourself as repulsive as possible to every man alive!”

You stepped back. For a brief moment, you considered tearing your neckerchief free and baring every yellowing shadow still present on your skin. But you didn't. Because despite the imprecision of her arrow, it struck true nonetheless. You feared her independence—not because of a man's opinion of you, but your opinion of yourself.

Who would you be if Grace decided she no longer needed—or even wanted—your love?

Grace stared at you, heaving breath, fury guttering in her gaze. When you didn't sling back a barb as you'd always done before, realization replaced it. She covered her mouth as if she'd just damned you to hell.

“Oh… oh, oh my goodness, I…” Grace stiffened, shrunk away from you. “I'm so sorry, I know that was too far—”

“No.” You shook your head. “No, Grace. You're right.” Shrugging, you held up your hands in surrender. “I'm being a selfish ass.” You approached, stopped just a foot in front of her. “I'm the one who's sorry.”

Grace paused, eyes shimmering, then flung herself into your arms. “You really are being a selfish ass,” she mumbled into your neck.

You laughed and held her tight. “I know.”

You closed your eyes and breathed in the scent of peach and rosemary that still lingered in the air, breathed out your own shame. If only you could melt into this moment and mark yourself as humbled for eternity. But with Grace as your sister, you knew that healthy doses of contrition remained a certainty in your future. And there was no way you'd make it to that future without her.

“I… I have something. For you,” you said.

She eased back from your embrace. “You do?” she asked, with the innocence of the child that you had to admit she no longer was.

“Yes,” you said, and slipped the letter from your pocket. “Major Ferguson entreated me to deliver this to you if I saw fit.” You held it out for her. “And I do. See fit, that is.”

Grace’s expression was the sunrise. Eyes flicking between you and the parchment, she tentatively reached for it. “Really?” she asked. “You're sure?”

You nodded. “I am.”

Squealing, she seized it from your hand, gazing at it like you'd handed her a slip of gold. Excitement lit her face, her fingers crinkled the edges of paper. She sighed, looking back at you.

“Thank you.”

“Please, don't give me gratitude after my behavior,” you said. “This is part of my apology.”

She grinned. “Very well then, I won't.” Giggling, she glanced at the letter a final time before placing it on the dining table. Her eyes widened. “That reminds me,” she said, and darted around you, running upstairs. You blinked, hearing her rummage in your shared bedroom before leaping down the steps, half-breathless. “I have a letter for you, too.”

You stared. “You do?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “It's… it's from Papa.”

Jolting forward, you held out your hand like that would force the letter to appear. All of your worst fears collapsed upon you. “Papa was here? In this house? You saw him?”

“Yes,” Grace winced, “but only briefly, days ago, and only to implore me that you get this letter.” She eased her hand from behind her back, revealing a page of parchment. You clawed at it only for her to yank it from your reach. “Hold on!”

“Grace, I—”

“Listen!” she said, and you straightened. “Let's agree to read them both tomorrow. I'll read my letter. You'll read yours. We'll do whatever needs to be done about them then.” She placed the parchment next to Ferguson's letter. “Today, let's just be… us.” Smiling, she grabbed your hand.

You glimpsed the letter on the table. No name on the paper. Just a wax seal smudged over the wrinkled edges. It could wait until tomorrow. All of it could wait.

“All right,” you said, entwining your fingers in hers. “Just us.”

The rest of the day melted into the evening as if the past three months had been a dream, the each of you tumbling comfortably into your routines. Grace guided you on the improvements she’d made to the organization in the barn, while you provided input on managing the important cultivars she’d need come autumn and winter. Hopefully, I’ll be back home before then, you told her, but the both of you knew that there was no guarantee on the war’s end and left the rest unsaid.

By the time the sun wound its way into the hills, you’d harvested a load of yams and corn, watered the rest, spread seed out for the chickens, and chopped what felt like half a cord of wood (just in case you really didn’t return before winter). Come supper, Grace baked cornbread while you prepared the black-eyed peas and yams, adding salt-pork to round it out. You sat together in contentment and ate, the plump tabby shape of Mr. Mouser slipping between each of your legs in a bid to earn some pork himself.

If you allowed it, the meal could’ve been bitter on your tongue, a poisonous reminder of everything that had been stolen from you in the days since the war. A blessing, you supposed, that your lives had evaded inclusion on the list, but that measure granted, it seemed you’d traded nearly all of your comforts for complications. A warm bed for a cold tent, a safe home for the battlefield, a loving family for the attentions of a barbarian uniformed in the facade of civilization.

Perhaps, you mused, there was some irony to you wishing to deny Grace an affiliation with a man like Ferguson when you so willingly entertained one with a man like William.

But that was for tomorrow.

The washing up done, the nighttime settled, both of you found your way upstairs to clean in the basin before bed. There was no avoiding it at this point—Grace would see your bruises, and she had not been spared your gossip regarding the whisperings of older women at church. Her education on these matters was equivalent to yours.

As you undressed, you remained casual, hoping perhaps if you pretended they weren’t there, she might mistake them for shadows in the candlelight. Your experience wasn’t necessarily something you wanted to hide from your sister, but you certainly wanted to avoid discussion about with whom you’d shared it and your desire to repeat it as soon as possible.

Feeling too exposed in your shift, you padded to your bed, then paused at the sight of the rumpled sheets and the bedside table which held a book and a half-burned candle. You looked at Grace’s bed—inert and cold in comparison.

“Have you been sleeping in my bed, Gracie?” You peered around at her.

She glanced back at you, releasing her hair from its wrapping. “What? It smelled like you.”

“And that’s a good thing?” you scoffed.

“Well, eventually it smelled more like me. A lot more like me.” She wrinkled her nose. “I had to wash the sheets. But by that point I was used to sleeping there.”

She shrugged, turning back to the mirror to tend her hair. Warmth spread through your chest, and you smiled, sinking down onto your mattress and burrowing into the covers. Then a dip in the bed made you look down.

“Make room,” said Grace, clambering over you to the other side.

“Ow! Watch your knee.” You jostled beneath her and she lost her balance, sprawling half on top of you and half onto the other side of the bed, making you both laugh.

As each of you arranged yourselves under your blankets, she slotted herself against you, sighing contentedly. And then you heard her breath catch.

“What—” She gasped your name. “What in the Lord’s good—” She pressed a bruise with her finger, and you squirmed. “What are these!”

You couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. “Nothing interesting,” you said. “But…” You hummed in thought. “Let us just say that perhaps I’m not as repulsive to men as previously assumed.”

Grace snorted. “Oh, surely you don’t expect me to believe that after all of our hand wringing today over letter-writing.” She poked your side. “Out with it. Now.”

Heat flushing your neck, you shook your head. “It’s truly nothing! It was an unexpected and not particularly intelligent decision. I would… not recommend it.” None of these were necessarily lies.

“Recommend it?” She poked you again. “I expect you to recollect it!” Her mouth twisted in a mocking frown. “I see a woman may be made a fool, if she had not the spirit to resist!” she recited. “Didn’t you say that once?”

You rolled your eyes. “Grace—”

“Ah, no, sorry. That’s Katherina from The Taming of the Shrew.” She grinned. “So, nearly there.”

“You’re right!” you said, covering your face with your hand. “You’re right, you’re right. I know.”

But how could you begin to explain the man with whom you’d spent a night was the same man who inhabited her nightmares? This was not a conversation you could imagine yourself having with her even after the war, not something you believed she’d understand. After all, you didn’t understand it yourself.

At least Patrick Ferguson, for all his irritating qualities, had maintained the pretense of humanity. William had long proved himself a beast to the only person whose opinion you cared for.

“It’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

“I’m tired.”

“You didn’t work that hard today—”

“Grace,” you said, sighing. “Listen. If you’re truly interested, we can discuss tomorrow. For now, I’d like to sleep. The ride here was exhausting.”

“But you—”

You clamped your hand over her mouth. “Tomorrow.”

She gave you a playful pout, and you released her. “Fine. If you so choose.” With a grin, she nestled her head against you. “But I shall be cross if you refuse me any insight. I demand a detailed reverie!”

That, you hoped, would never come. “If you so choose.”

You blew out the candle beside you, holding your sister in your arms. At some point before you fell asleep, Mr. Mouser found his way onto the bed, curling like a pillbug between the two of you. The moon was waxing, the air was cooling, and the crickets sang the three of you to sleep.

#william tavington #colonel tavington #colonel william tavington #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier #fanfiction problems #i am surprisingly not as skilled at writing a sister relationship as bastillia is #despite the fact that i'm the one who has a sibling smh

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kylorengarbagedump · 25 days ago

Text

Playing Soldier: Chapter 16 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 15 here. Part 17 here.

Summary: I learned that it is (was?) also called 'morning glory' in the UK. How delightful.

Words: 5700

Warnings: no <3

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia <3

*throws this chapter up before disappearing into Thanksgiving*

HELLO!! Thought we'd give thanks to y'all by getting (read: me forcing Bastillia to stay up late and edit with me) a chapter up before the holiday. So so happy the last couple chapters were well-received, we were both so delighted to hear you enjoy what we're trying to do here <3

We shall sadly take a break from smut for the next couple chapters, but there's much more to come (cum. lol.)!!

We love y'all so much, happy holidays to those who celebrate, and see you soon <3

It was a dream. Or divine intervention. Or perhaps it was your mind, finally untangling the yarn of your thoughts in its half-conscious liberty. Whichever it was, it struck you like an epiphany, throwing your eyes open.

You were the cub. Papa was the bear. Catawba was the bear’s den.

You jolted upright in a triumphant shout. Next to you, William Tavington flew awake, snatching his flintlock from the bedside table and pointing it directly between your eyes.

“What the—” You scowled, backhanding his wrist to shove the gun aside. “Good morning to you as well.”

The man across from you blinked into thought, his hair draped in messy ribbons over his face. His gaze focused, finding you in the bed beside him, and scanned your naked, bewildered figure before his arm relaxed and the pistol fell onto the sheets.

“Christ alive, woman,” he grumbled, rubbing his temple. “I’d pity your other bedfellows had they ever existed.”

You rolled your eyes. “I can’t say I envy any of yours if they received a greeting as welcoming as mine.”

He snorted. Glimpsed you as if about to say something. But instead tossed his hair from his face and sank onto his pillow before replacing the gun where it had been resting.

As of the haze of sleep cleared from your sight, you found yourself unable to look away from him. The morning sun opened like a magnolia flower, petals of light streaming color through the window and highlighting the stubble sprouting on his cheeks, the mahogany branching through his hair, the grey budding in his irises.

You wanted to be closer to him—to press your lips to the underside of his jaw and feel the scrape of beard, to push your hands through his hair and wrap it like thread around your fingers. You wanted to seal yourself against him, soak in the heat of his skin, wanted to whisper his name and hear his breath catch in his chest.

And as you stared, rolling that strange and saccharine fantasy across your palate, you realized that his name now labeled the space he occupied in your mind. No longer could you gaze at him and think Colonel, or Tavington without his name attached, too. The man who laid next to you was William. And you wanted to invoke it like a prayer.

Shifting toward him, you paused. You’d definitely just had a revelation about where your father was headed. Was rolling around in bed with a British colonel the most responsible action for you to take? If anything, you needed to be leaping into your clothes and—

William rolled onto his back, stretching his shoulders. You immediately shelved your scheming.

A tent sprang from the sheets between his legs. And despite the discomfort between your own, your eyes widened, vision tunneling on that silhouette like a fox poised to pounce.

Your throat worked.

“You’re…” You didn’t care how inexperienced it made you appear. You couldn’t not stare at it. “Eager.”

He raised a brow. From the corner of your vision, you saw him seek your gaze only to realize you were far too fixated on his erection. Pausing, he considered you, eased back against his pillow.

“Well,” he murmured, “if you’re so curious…” He pulled the covers back.

Your throat thickened with lust. In the light of day, his cock was even more impressive than the one in your memory. Thick, even girth, a slight curve all the way to its pink head, long enough for you to sob when he bottomed out inside you. Tiny veins pulsed underneath the skin—you wanted to trace them with your fingers, your tongue. Wanted to feel it throb like it had in your palm. Like it had when he’d emptied himself between your thighs.

At some point, your jaw had dropped open. Drool was seeping from the corner of your mouth. William said your name, which you intended to respond to, except you kept thinking about how his seed had tasted and how you wanted more.

Then two of his fingers trailed from the base up the underside of his shaft, making it twitch. You choked, drew in a trembling breath, and finally managed to look him in the eyes.

“Uh,” was the only sound you could make. You wiped your chin free of saliva.

His lip curled in amusement. “Do you want a turn?”

You didn’t know what to say. His fingers slid back down in a slow tease, and he seethed, his stomach tightening with pleasure. Desire shook you, and you squirmed, putting pressure on your clit with your thighs. As he dragged a finger around the root, earning another needy throb from his cock, you shook your head.

Right now, you were fully content to watch and learn.

Encircling the base with his thumb and forefinger, he dragged back up, pushing skin to the tip, then coasted over that sensitive little place where the head met the shaft. He inhaled, his jaw stiffening, then looked at you, studied all the flesh you’d left exposed to the sun. Eyes focused on your breasts, he gripped his cock and led it through a long, firm stroke.

You swallowed again. Your cunt clenched, your clit ached—you shifted your hips, squeezed your thighs, trying in vain to relieve the tension between them. But as he stroked himself again, and again, each movement releasing a quiet breath of relief, your efforts became futile. You needed to touch yourself, too.

William’s attention remained on your breasts until you revealed all of yourself from the sheets, settling onto your pillow and easing your legs apart. The pain from your core was humbling—even as it tightened around nothing, it made you wince—but your clit clamored despite it. Watching as he guided his cock leisurely through his fist, you snuck your hand over your stomach and to the crux of your thighs.

He exhaled, smirking. “You’re eager.”

Your first finger skimmed over the throbbing hill between your folds, and you huffed, shocks of delight darting to your toes. “I…” Speaking like this—naked and unabashed and gazing at one another—felt dirty. Filthy. Made your face burn.

You loved it.

“Perhaps I am,” you admitted, and drew a languid circle around your clit. “Oh…”

His throat bobbed, and his jaw shifted. “I would think better of your innocence had I not been the one to make you bleed.”

“I said I was a virgin,” you replied coyly. “Not innocent.”

“Mhm.” William’s smirk grew wider, and he pinched a drop of fluid from the head of his cock, slicking it around the head and pumping it along his shaft. His eyes fluttered, his breath faltered. “Perhaps we’ll have to explore that more thoroughly.”

Excitement lit your spine, and you gasped, nodding. The thought of it—finding yourself in his bed over and over, of being the object of his desire and the subject of experimentation, of becoming familiar with William—broke a smile across your face. You swirled around your clit, mouth parting with an ecstatic moan.

“Yes,” he said. “You’d like that.” He rolled his wrist, teased himself by sliding his fingers up the underside before thrusting into his fist again. “You’d like to be my very own whore.”

“Hell,” you gasped, the thrill of it ratcheting the tension between your thighs. “I would.” Your finger moved faster, you imagined him finding you in the hospital tent and bending you over one of the tables; imagined the groans grazing your ear while you climbed astride him in his bed; imagined staring into the stars as he fucked you in the field. “A-anywhere you wanted.”

William huffed, his thighs tensing, his cheeks and chest flush. His lust-laced gaze hung on your cunt, his breath picking up. “For anything I wanted,” he muttered. He gripped his cock tighter, his hips bucking now, seeking more and more of his fist. “Hm?”

Anything he wanted could be anything, and if you were of sober mind, you may have hesitated at that. But watching the most beautiful man you’d ever seen stroke his cock to the thought of you; watching the blue in his eyes grow a hunger and depth like the sea as he stared at your cunt, your breasts; watching his cock twitch and pulse with the intensifying need to come… well, the less terrifying that seemed.

In fact, anything sounded like a contract. One to which, in your current state, you’d happily sign your life.

If this was how he would tame you—oh, how desperately did you want to be tamed.

“Perhaps,” you said through your shallow breath, a grin sneaking onto your face. “If you believe you can compel me."

His lip curled in a sneer. “You will come to heel when called,” he said, and his free hand reached to snag your hair at the base of your neck, pulling you close. “After all,” he breathed into your ear, “we both know you cannot resist coming for me.”

Before you could whimper in assent, he captured your mouth with his own.

William—how strange and awful and exhilarating to call him that each time—consumed you, kissed you as if your lips alone could bring him deliverance. You whined, returning his ardor, desire surging you in gooseflesh. Your fingers moved faster, flicked and played at your stiff clit, and you moaned into him, your orgasm burgeoning at your thighs.

You didn’t want to break. Not yet.

Gasping, you released yourself and grasped his cock at the base. William stifled a groan, stuffing it down into his chest and ceding control. You squealed, elated, mimicking his movements until you felt his fingers tighten in your hair and his teeth clamp onto your lower lip.

“Christ,” he muttered, and groped between your legs until he found your heat. “Determined, aren’t you?”

With a nod, you caught his mouth again and slipped your tongue into it, humming in bliss when he caressed your swollen, tender clit. You were so wound, so taut with need already that the friction of his rougher, thicker fingers made you spasm to your shoulders. More fluid leaked from the head of his cock, and you glazed his shaft with it, relishing the way he pulsed in your fist.

A finger moved toward your entrance, making you cry out, a stab of pain locking your joints. If this concerned him, though, you couldn’t tell—he stuffed that single finger inside of your core and growled as you constricted around him.

“That’s it.” His thumb rolled over your clit, sketching fast rings around it. “Do you feel how tightly you grip me when you’re near to breaking?” he said, his breath husky with pleasure, his voice low. “I’d apologize for the pain…” His finger stroked a spot inside of you that made you twist with ecstasy and agony at once. “... but you do so enjoy it.”

Your head fell back as you convulsed with desperate breath. Like a sudden, furious tide, your climax loomed upon you. Your muscles froze. And with a brush of your tender clit, the encouragement of his finger, it crashed into you.

He kissed you as you came, swallowing your wails as his hand followed your jerking body. It came in angry, exhausted swells, as if your nerves were flayed open, and you melted into its dissipation, nipping at his lips before control returned to your limbs.

It was perhaps a miracle of his own that he hadn’t yet covered your hand in his seed. Thank the sweet Lord who you hoped was not looking down upon you at just this moment, though. There was still so much you were curious about. And you were, after all, nothing if not one who learned best by being hands-on.

Or, as appealed to you in particular this morning, mouth-on.

William’s tongue darted across your lower lip one final time before he drew away, easing from the quivering depths of your cunt. He brought his hand up between you, letting the morning light play across the slick sheen of your pleasure coating his finger. In a rush of pure instinct and before you could think too hard about it, you leaned forward and enveloped it with your lips.

He made a soft noise deep in his throat, and when you tentatively suckled at the pad of his finger, his hips flexed into your slackened grip. The taste of your own undoing zipped like lightning across your raw senses, grounded by the earth and salt of his skin. It exhilarated you. You needed more of him.

Flicking your gaze to his from beneath your lashes, you drew his finger in further and dragged your tongue to the tip, this time mirroring the act with a slow stroke of your hand up his shaft. Just as he had done, you lingered at the little valley below the head, teased it with the barest touch.

William seethed, crooked his finger behind your teeth and tugged your jaw open. His eyes stormed with something primal, dancing between your open mouth and the needy cock twitching at your palm.

“One might think you long for your lips to be wrapped around something else,” he growled.

Face hot, you nodded. Even without him prying your mouth apart, you’d hesitate to say it.

He tutted. “Judiciousness doesn’t suit you in this instance.” He released you, and you coughed. “Speak, girl. Tell me exactly what you want.”

You glanced at the shiny head in your hand, his desire dripping from the tip. You’d read enough, overheard enough married women giggling behind their palms to know exactly what you wanted to do, you just hadn’t imagined yourself actually ever wanting a man enough to do it. To your embarrassment, your mouth watered as you envisioned yourself settling between his legs and—yes, dear sweet innocent and hopefully oblivious Christ, yes. That was what you wanted.

“I…” You swallowed, and met his stare. “I want…” You could envision it, and yet the words felt trapped beneath the anvil of your tongue, your cheeks stoked to furnace-heat.

William frowned. “A shame,” he said with affected disappointment. “And your mouth was functioning so adeptly just moments ago.”

“I want,” you spat, fueled by his imperiousness, “... to…” Fire blazed in your face, but you wouldn’t let it stop you now. With a huff, you forced your lips to form the words. “I want to use my mouth.” You circled your thumb slowly over the swollen head of him. “Here.”

His hips bucked. A muscle fluttered in his jaw. His gaze flashed, the fever behind them melting the last links on his restraint.

“Now,” he said, “was that so difficult?”

You rolled your eyes, forgetting yourself. “You're impossible.”

A smirk—like he'd been waiting for you to show just a shred of snark—split his face. “Actually,” he purred, his hand slinking behind your head to nest itself in your hair, “I find myself rather amenable to your request.”

His nails scraped your scalp, and he forced your face toward his cock.

All you could do was loosen your jaw, eyes wide as you took him in your mouth for the first time. Whimpering, your tongue pressed to his shaft, your lips sealing around it, saliva pouring from your cheeks. He was hot, like he’d been kissed by the sun, his taste a mixture of his skin and the brine of his seed. It made you groan, made your vision fuzz with lust.

William held you there, his breath trapped in his chest. But there was no way you were rushing this. You shifted, dragged your fingers over his thighs, making sure you had his attention before sucking softly on the head.

Instantly, his body tensed, a grunt escaping, the grip on your hair tightening. The reaction made you cunt revive itself from stupor—you did it again, and again, holding his stare, humming against him, as if his cock was a delicacy you were delighted to devour.

As he hissed, groaned in bliss, his chest rolling with quickening breath, you thought perhaps there could be an argument made in favor of that thought.

You slid your tongue up and down the tender dip at the head of his cock, suckling at him like he needed savoring. He twitched against your tongue, and you moaned, spurred on, taking him another inch into your mouth.

“That’s it,” he breathed. “More.”

Swallowing against him, you took the barest advance, now aware he wanted to use your mouth just like he used your cunt. But you coughed, halted by reflex, and you eased back, returning to sucking at the head.

His jaw stiff, William gripped your head, pushed you further onto his cock until the tip hit the back of your throat. You choked, gagging spit down his shaft as you lurched away, but he held you there, excitement alive in his gaze as he watched you writhe, watched tears build in your eyes.

“More.”

Lip furling, he snapped his hips into your mouth, and you heaved, helpless against him, groaning pathetically until he finally released you. You wrenched free, spit stringing from your lips as you retched, coughing away the urge to eject the contents of your stomach.

“I thought you wanted to use your mouth.”

Eyes watering, you cleaned your face with the back of your hand. “I did,” you managed to say.

He was unmoved. “Then I suggest you continue.”

You coughed again, glaring at him as he coldly returned your gaze. Taking a breath, you lowered yourself to his cock again, slicking him with your lips. Watching him, you started to bob your head, ignoring each time you wanted to gag, until finally, the instinct subsided. Instead, you whimpered in gratification, saliva soaking his shaft as you stared at him.

You couldn’t imagine what you looked like: naked, your lips wrapped around his cock, your head bouncing like a buoy as you sought to drain him dry. But you didn’t begrudge that, didn’t recoil as you thought you might have every other time you’d heard of women doing this. Instead, you ached for his approval, your heart raced at the thought that he could actually come off in your mouth.

Even suggesting it to yourself made you whine, made your eyelids flutter. You held him in your focus, the heat between your legs burning bright as his breath became rapid, as his jaw began to slacken. You shifted, your hands suddenly so limp, so empty; you curled one around the root of his cock, pumping it in time with your mouth, pulse skipping when he gasped in bliss.

William ran his fingers through your hair again, his head almost falling back. From the pink in his cheeks, his panting in uneven rhythm, you knew he was getting close—he grew harder, more swollen in your mouth, and you squeezed him tighter, swallowing him over and over.

“Yes,” he groaned, “that’s right.” His eyes were slivers of sky, barely able to focus. “So much—so much prettier like this.”

You whimpered, something like joy flooding you, and he grunted, his head falling back, his fist twisting in your hair. His muscles hardened beneath you, his cock throbbed. You held your mouth on him, moaning onto him as he came.

His seed spilled from his cock in warm spurts, filling your mouth and smothering your tongue. It was just how you remembered: the unmistakable essence of him. You swallowed it all, kept your tongue to his shaft and felt it pulse with each release, entranced by the way his brows pinched together, the way his teeth grit out his bliss. His hips rolled with his climax, and you worked his cock gently until he stuttered to a stop, collapsing into heavy, labored breath.

As you eased off of him, you realized you were trembling, your thighs were warm, your belly tight. You swallowed again, falling onto your side, watching as William meandered his way back to reality, his gaze falling on you from under hooded lids. He looked to the ceiling, exhaling through his nose before glancing at you again and wiping the ring of sweat that had begun to bead on his forehead.

“Passable performance,” he said, taking another breath before pushing himself upright and moving to leave the mattress.

“Such eminent praise,” you mumbled, yet unable to stop yourself from grinning.

As you watched him rise from the bed, you rolled onto your back, not content to miss a moment of his body in the daylight. The sun rose over his skin and shimmered where you'd scratched him, where you'd sunk your teeth into him. Between that and the pleasant aches where he'd choked you, bitten you, rended you, you were satisfied that even if you never did this again, the both of you would remember it for some time to come.

Would you do this again? He had said as much, but that was in the throes of passion. You weren't sure how reliable those words were.

"So..." You sat up straighter, eyes following him as he pulled on his stockings. "Did you..."

How did one ask the question? When shall you take me next, William? Shall we meet each morning so you may feed me your seed? Ah, excuse me, but I must needs inquire when I can expect to come off around your cock again.

No, none of those felt right.

"Did I..." William looked at you, brow raised. "Did you have a question, or were you inquiring if I, at one time, sewed?"

"What?" You blinked, shook your head. "No, I—why would I ever care if you sewed?"

He shrugged, eyeing you with a smirk as he stepped into his trousers. "Absurdity has never precluded your inquiries in the past."

You frowned. "Don't be an arse." Shifting on the bed, your attention drifted to the window. "I was pondering if you... If we..." To run outside nude and fall face-first into a pond would feel less humiliating than this. William seemed to know it, too, since he was waiting far too smugly for you to speak. You glared at him and glanced at the ceiling. "Were you sincere?" you asked. "When you implied we should do this again."

"Ah," he replied dryly, a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, "that makes far more sense than an interest in my experience with textiles." Before you could roll your eyes, he started to throw on his shirt. "I see no reason to complicate the situation."

"Ah," you said. That answered exactly zero percent of what you'd asked. "Which means..."

He glanced at you. "Of course.”

You were only a bit surprised when your shoulders unbunched at his response. Of course. You were two adults who enjoyed some level of sexual association. Of course you would do this again.

And, of course, the next question on your mind: when?

If you’d been smart, you would’ve stuck with Lottie and gotten on the carriage to the Goddard home in Charleston (you hoped she wasn’t too worried about you). But now, you weren’t even sure what the rest of the day was going to look like for you, let alone what William’s plans were. Would he return to the field? Would the expectation be that you and Lottie would return with him?

Was it proper to wonder about any of this, or to even ask?

There was still some part of him, you knew, that didn’t trust you, and rightfully so. Because beyond even your worry for the next minute, the next hour, you worried for Grace.

If the bear’s den was indeed Catawba—which you were sure it was—that meant that Papa and the rest of his soldiers were headed in that direction, and that could mean any number of things. The most reassuring thought was that it meant nothing. But given your last conversation with him, how casually he tossed out Grace’s name as a proxy for your correspondence, you were far more convinced it meant something you would very much not like.

Perhaps your father would be disappointed that you hadn’t managed to get any useful information from the British in the meantime, and you certainly wouldn’t if you headed home, but that had long lost its importance to you. His insistence you collect intelligence was his delusion, not yours, and you were clearly incapable of doing it anyway, since your most daring attempt to do anything surreptitious ended with you bleeding and coming on a British officer’s cock.

Your relief for Papa’s well-being was still palpable. But the insinuation that he might bring violence even within a mile of your home made your palms sweat. Plus, there was now the issue of Patrick Ferguson, who appeared genuinely enamored with Grace, and whose proximity to her had the capacity to place her in even greater danger.

More than putting your mouth on William Tavington’s body again, or having a part of his body inside yours, you needed to get to Catawba.

You continued to lie on the bed, watching as William crossed to the bedside table and grabbed the black ribbon he’d unwound from his queue the previous night. Sitting on the bed, he ran his fingers through his hair before separating it into strands.

He felt your eyes on him, obviously, as he turned, brow raised.

"Something the matter?” he asked, voice laden with sarcasm.

“No,” you replied, averting your gaze. But that didn’t feel satisfactory. You realized you wanted to say more. And it wasn’t even for duplicity’s sake. “How well do you know Major Ferguson?”

His brow lowered in irritation. “Only the Lord could grant me insight as to why you’d inquire about that name.” He placed the end of the ribbon at the base of his scalp and started to plait it into his hair.

“I’m just curious about his character.”

“What do you mean, curious?” His gaze flicked over your frame.

You sighed. If Ferguson was already asking to write her, then there was no secret to his affection. “He’s…” The thought alone made you shudder with disgust. “He wants to write my sister,” you said. “He seems quite taken with her.”

William snorted, continuing to wind the ribbon through his braid. “If her familial association hadn't brought me to pity her before, I certainly do now.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“Or perhaps I pity him,” he mused, “if she is as mendacious as her sister.”

You frowned. “You know nothing about her,” you said, your voice low, “so I suggest you stop speaking as if you do.” When he didn't reply, you added, “Besides, he deserves no pity. He’s awful.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say awful,” William replied, with the clear indication that he was indeed saying Ferguson was awful. After tying off the end of the plait, he started to wrap the ribbon around the tips. “Perhaps she maintains a predilection for chimerical, self-serving, aspiring martyrs.” He paused, as if his next words held deep meaning. “May remind her of her father.”

A growl rumbled in your chest. “I don't know if you think you're being amusing,” you said, “but I am not amused.”

“Amusing?” he said, glimpsing you with disdain. He tucked the ends of the ribbon into the queue. “No. Merely stating my observations.”

“There's nothing for you to observe.” You gathered the sheets to cover yourself. “So don't sit there and pretend as if you have insight on my family that you could never claim to have.”

“Far better than your willful ignorance, I'd say.”

About one thousand swords leapt to your tongue, and you imagined yourself wielding all of them at once. One in particular unsheathed itself, ready to plunge—you being undeserving of your parents' love doesn't deem all families devoid of it—

Glaring at him, you opened your mouth. Met his eyes. Remembered what he'd said last night. How he'd said it.

Why apologize for speaking truth?

William spoke his own truth at this moment. He had never, and likely would never know love as you had known it. And for that, your fury collapsed into something with far fewer teeth. You shook your head, chuckling to yourself.

“Something entertaining?”

“No,” you said dismissively. “It’s… I pity you, I suppose.”

His jaw tightened, his shoulders locked. “I don’t deign to presume what a choleric bog woman finds pitiable about me.”

“There is nothing more important to me in this world than my family,” you replied. “Without them, my life would be rather empty.” You glanced at him. “I imagine your life must feel quite the same way.”

“Your imagination deceives you,” he said. “You fail to consider that, perhaps, you'd be at liberty to define your life free from their influence.”

You raised a brow. “As if all influence is uniformly negative.”

“No,” he said, a thin, sardonic smile on his lips, “and clearly the influence you’ve received has molded a most modest, affable, and submissive young lady.”

“And your lack thereof has provided all the favors for your manners and mercy,” you snapped, sitting forward.

William’s mouth quirked, as if you’d proven his point. You glared at him, your hands curling in and out of fists. You were, for some reason, irritated that you'd lashed at him. A part of you had been sincerely perplexed by his perspective, but you’d somehow managed to steer him into bickering with you again. It seemed that every vine of curiosity you extended also had to be tempered with rows of thorns.

Regardless, there was no point in trying to salvage the conversation now as long as he was going to use it as a way to goad you into an argument. You were beginning to suspect he gleaned some demented little thrill from it.

Then again, you may not have been innocent of such an accusation, either.

Grumbling, you relaxed against the headboard. Released your rage in a long exhale.

“I’m going to Catawba.”

For all of the spite in his tone, his brows furrowed in a flash of disappointment. He looked utterly sour. “You what?”

“Not for long.” You shrugged, crossing your arms. Even if you hadn’t already been looking forward to having sex with him again, having knowledge of British movements still gave you the greatest opportunity to keep your family safe. “My sister is there. I haven't seen her in months. I'm worried for her.” Pursing your lips, you sought his gaze. “I want to see her.”

William stood, plucked his waistcoat from the floor. “Allow me to think on it,” he said. “Given your recent—and poor—attempts at subterfuge and a history of collaboration with the Continental army…” He leveled you with his stare. “No.”

“What?” You sat forward, leering. “Surely you don’t believe you can mete out your own form of punishment,” you replied. “I don’t need your permission. My parole has been cleared since before I started serving in the field hospital.”

“Precisely my point,” he said, finishing the buttons on his waistcoat. “You serve the British Army, my cavalry, and, therefore, myself. We depart tomorrow for Fort Carolina. I expect you to be part of the marching order.”

You felt your hackles raise. “Well, firstly, I’m not a soldier,” you said through gritted teeth. “Secondly, I’m asking for a few days. Send me with an escort if you think it’s necessary.” He glanced at you, brow raised. “I just want to see my sister.”

William grabbed his jacket and slipped his arms into it, silent as he adjusted his boots and then glanced at himself in one of the mirrors on the wall, running his hand over the wisps of hair that hadn’t been integrated into the queue. With a sigh, he turned toward a leather satchel that had been placed next to the bedside table and started to rummage through it.

“Major Ferguson is slated to head in that direction from Charleston, I believe,” he said, as if it was the most incredible burden for him to admit it. “You may join his caravan, if you so wish.”

“Ferguson?” You frowned, and he met your gaze with the barest but still infuriating sparkle of glee. It made you want to tackle him to the ground and bite his throat. “You are punishing me. This is punishment.”

He stood, a tin of pomade in his hand. “No,” he said, smirking. “This is serendipity.”

You huffed, knocking your head against the headboard to demonstrate your displeasure. You supposed you couldn’t disagree with that. “Yes,” you admitted. “Fine.”

“You know…” He slicked the pomade over his hair before pocketing it. “You’re far more appealing when you decide to agree with me.”

You rolled your eyes. “I truly, genuinely, positively loathe you.”

“Mm, a mutual agreement then.” William stepped forward and pressed his mouth to yours, biting your lip before pulling away. “I’ll inform the major.”

Just the tease of his attention was enough to revive the warmth in your belly. You screwed your expression into a frown, cocked your head. “What, shall I go like this?” You gestured toward the sheet half-covering your body. “Depart with unlaced stays and a ball gown?”

“Carriages have been arranged for officers and their company,” he said, almost as if he was irritated by the question. “They’re set to leave for Charleston before noon.” He grabbed his satchel and holstered his flintlock. “Ferguson will gather you there tomorrow.”

You studied him for a moment, then nodded. “And where are you going?”

“Meddlesome creature, aren’t you?”

Heat rushed your neck. “No,” you insisted, “I want to know if I need to be leaving this room or if you’re coming back here.”

William stared at you a moment, lingering on your mussed hair, your purpled flesh. “You’ll want to depart soon,” he said, and turned toward the door. “Though it’s not a quality you possess, I expect you to try to be discreet.”

“Oh, yes,” you replied. “So simple when you’ve had the same effect on my torso as a volley of roundshot.”

Sneering, he opened the door and disappeared behind it. The sound of boots marched down the stairs, becoming distant as he met the first floor.

You gazed at the room, taking inventory of your stockings, your shoes, your petticoats and bodice. Your broken stays.

A small, not-insignificant part of you felt almost—to your utter horror—disappointed that he was gone. You glanced between your legs and silently cursed what lived there. Perhaps a break was for the best.

#william tavington #colonel tavington #colonel william tavington #fanfiction problems #the patriot #jason isaacs #playing soldier

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