#colonel william tavington

[fakehusbandgarbagedump]

[jasonisaacs]

You know, it's an ugly business doing one's duty but just occasionally... it's a real pleasure.

[malfoymanaged]

Can't believe I haven't posted these yet

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 1

Read on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: With your father off to serve the Continental Army, you've taken up the mantle of protector for your family - so when redcoats arrive on your property looking for him, you stand your ground. Sure, this ends in your arrest as a prisoner of war, but you don't plan on making it easy for them.

Until, of course, your interrogation is co-opted by Colonel William Tavington - the cruel, brutal Butcher of the Continentals.

Unfortunately for you, he's also the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

Words: 5500

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH MY GORGEOUS PERFECT LOVE, @bastillia.

If you made it through, thank you for reading this first chapter to a mini-story about a villain from a film that's 24 years old. No better way to celebrate Fourth of July than fantasizing about fucking a British soldier!

Bastillia and myself are currently in a Jason Isaacs phase and we desperately need him and in particular William Tavington. So! Here you go. <3

Love y'all so so much!

Grace found you in your father’s rocking chair, dressed in his clothes. Taking a seat on the porch bench next to you, she let her head fall back, her gaze following the ceiling. When you didn’t speak, she sucked in air through her nose and sighed. 

“Are you going to sit out here all night again?” 

You shrugged, and she nudged you.  

“You and one gun won’t stand much of a chance against a bunch of redcoats.”

You frowned, glancing from the pistol in your lap to the dirt path cutting across the grassy field in front of you. Evening’s claws crept across the village, sank into the horizon. Since the fall of Charleston to the British, darkness carried an hourglass with it, the bottom growing heavier every night. Jaw stiff, your eyes followed a firefly as it drifted and winked out like an ember over the grass.

“You would rather I let them burn our home?”

Grace sighed again. “They won’t burn our home.”

You turned on her. “Won’t they? Mrs. Miller has a cousin outside of Charleston. Told me they fired her barn.”

“That’s one person.”

“Mr. Allen said his brother told him about a whole town down the way from Camden they found burned to the ground.”

Grace snorted. “Ah, yes, Mr. Allen, our esteemed purveyor of truths.”

“Grace. If…” You gripped the barrel of the pistol, your mouth drawing tight. She didn’t know, and it had to remain that way. There was no ‘if’ to your father’s return in her mind. He’d left the truth behind his departure only with you.  “I won’t let father come home to a pile of ash.”

A family of crickets swelled in song. Grace shifted closer to you. “You would rather I let him come home to your grave?”

You looked at her. Seeing her expression, a small part of you softened. She wasn’t wrong to worry. Your eyes ached, your head heavy from the lack of sleep. But even when you decided to lie down, your mind refused to release you to rest. Your shift as sentinel would end when your father returned home. With a sigh, you slumped back. The chair eked back and forth on the planks, the drumbeat of your station. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said. “Nathaniel’s been paying you quite a bit of attention, hasn’t he?”

Grace stiffened, battling a grin. “Yes, he has.” She folded her hands in her lap, her cheeks reddening. “Why?”

A laugh rumbled in your throat. You knew it. “What do you think about him?”

She pinched her lips between her teeth. “Well, he’s very sweet. Very kind. He always has been, you know the Joneses, they’re such good people.” Her shoulders melted into the bench. “He’s been walking with me after church. Just through the town. We look at the flowers.” She sighed, finally letting herself smile, her gaze drifting until her eyes hesitantly found yours. “What do you think about him?”

“Me?” you replied, as if you didn’t know the question was coming. “I don’t know him that well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What have you noticed about him?”

You hummed in thought. Nathaniel Jones. 

“Well…” His jawline was seldom free of razor wounds. “Probably a little clumsy.” The grooves in his fingers were always tread with dirt, the collar of his shirt tanned by sweat. His hands had stained almost every page of his Bible. “Not sure if he ever washes without needing a reminder.” He always showed up to church with at least one piece of tack fastened wrong on his horse. His mouth would mimic reading aloud during service, but his eyes would be trained on the floor. “And I don’t think he’s very bright.”

“Really.” Grace studied you. “Mrs. Jones taught all of those boys, though.”

“Doesn’t mean they all have the same capacity to learn,” you mumbled. But before Grace could protest, you shrugged. “Kind is good, though.” You offered a small grin. “Kind is very good.”

With a laugh of relief from Grace, the two of you lapsed into comfortable silence, basking in cricket song. The rocking chair squeaked back, forth, back, forth. It squeaked in tempo with your heart, rumbling, louder, a vibration skittering through your toes. Deeper, deeper it grew, staccato in its cadence, a pounding that rocked your porch. 

It wasn’t until Grace turned to look at you, her eyes shimmering in starlight, that you realized it wasn’t your heart at all. Torches floated over your lawn and up the dirt path, bobbing in rhythm with horse hooves. A dozen of them, each illuminating a soldier in a crimson jacket.

Your throat thickened. Your stomach tightened. You squeezed the handle of your father’s pistol. Beside you, Grace whispered your name.

“Quiet,” you said. “Just get behind me.”

You leapt to your feet, crossing over the top step of your porch to lean against one of the wooden columns, gun held slack but unconcealed at your side. The officer in front—a white-wigged man with a sword on his hip—held his fist in the air. Behind him, the squad stalled to a stop, dust swirling in the halos of light. 

Swallowing, you stuck your chin toward the sky, hoping that your father’s farm boots made you a little bit taller, that the breadth of his shirt made your shoulders even a little bit wider. The officer in front dismounted his horse and waved his hand, and a soldier behind him joined him on the ground. Together, they marched toward your home. 

“Officers,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

At the foot of the stairs, the inferior officer looked between you and Grace. His brow furrowed, he leaned toward the ear of his superior. “No record of a son according to our intel, sir.”  

You frowned, but didn’t correct him. Being mistaken for a man had its benefits in this situation.

The superior officer scrutinized you, hairline to hips, his lips screwing in thought. Whatever he was considering, he didn’t say it—instead, he cleared his throat and pulled a piece of parchment from one of the pouches on his hip. 

“Good evening,” he began, his nose wrinkling as he glanced at you and Grace. “You may call me Sergeant Dalton, this is Corporal Bancroft. Is this the home of Michael…” His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the last name. But you didn’t care to wait.

“Yes,” you said. “This is his home. We’re his children.” You stared between them. “Is that all? My sister needs to be getting to bed soon.”

Dalton returned the parchment, his hands meeting behind his back. “You’re aware your father is an officer in the Continental Army?”

Your heart—it was definitely your heart, this time—thumped in your temple. This was the part you didn’t want Grace knowing about. The soldiers waited, studying your face. You needed to say something. Words died on your tongue.

“What?” Grace stepped forward, peering around you. “No, he’s not. He’s been away—”

“Grace, be quiet,” you hissed. 

But she’d already caught the interest of Dalton. “Would you like to continue, young miss?” He advanced a step toward you both, and your finger slipped into the pistol’s trigger well. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to submit to questioning regarding your father’s whereabouts?” He glimpsed your hold on the gun. “Come along, quietly, and you may very well be pardoned by His Majesty’s army.”

You shook your head. “Just take me. She doesn’t know anything.”

Grace whispered your name, grabbed your hand, and proceeded to undermine you. “No,” she said. “Take me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Dammit, Grace—”

“That’s enough.” Dalton looked at you, then at Grace, then at Bancroft. “Arrest them both.”

---

In the tent, the air was thick with breath and sweat. Candles swayed in the center, their lambent glow hovering on the walls, deepening every shadow. Voices filtered in from outside, so low that they clogged together through the canvas. Sharper was the ache where your bindings had begun to bite your wrists to rawness. Louder the pulse in your own eardrums, and the sniffled prayers coming from the young man bound beside you. 

Twisting your wrists sent a knife of clarity to your brain. You bit back a hiss—you needed to think. 

By your estimation, they’d brought you between two and five miles beyond the outskirts of town. But between the darkness and the burlap sack which had been so benevolently foisted upon your head for the entire wagon ride here, it was impossible to say for sure.

More alarmingly, you’d lost track of Grace somewhere in the weave of shoves and barked commands. When the tents had been erected, you’d been thrown in with the men—Elijah Smith, Adam Brown, and Nathaniel Jones, as fate would have it. Whether this was somehow a genuine mistake even after your thorough handling by the soldiers, or some drawn-out taunt to your choice of attire, you also had no idea. 

Each unknown seemed to hook itself upon a tender sinew in your mind, and stretch it taut. You tried shaking your head, but that only set off a ringing in your ears. 

Beside you, Nathaniel sobbed out another prayer. Your teeth ground together.

Craven would have to be added among the placards you’d already tacked to his character, you decided. 

Outside, hooves thundered again. As they slowed, one pulled ahead of the others and into the heart of the camp. Your ears pricked. There was an unevenness to its gait, the rattle of a bit shank as the horse threw its head before slowing to a halt several yards away. Voices rose and hushed, soldiers shuffling. A distant chorus of acknowledgement to a new arrival.

“Colonel, sir,” said one that sounded like Dalton. “The Dragoons weren’t—I wasn’t aware you’d be arriving.”

“Another detail among many which seem to slip your awareness, Dalton,” said the voice belonging to this colonel, whoever he was. “The rebels, then. What have we learned?”

Dalton was silent for a moment. “Well… Nothing yet, s—”

“Nothing.” 

“We haven’t begun the interrogations, sir.” 

Boots struck the ground. As his horse was led away, the colonel dusted his coat twice. And, with the manner of someone chiding a forgetful child, said: “Well, no time like the present, is there, Sergeant?” 

There was movement, grass rustling, canvas flapping. You stuck out your neck as if this would help you hear—all it managed to do was strain your collarbones. Beside you, Nathaniel was still sniveling, sorry for himself and his whole family, as if now was the time to be crying. Closing your eyes, you caught the frayed wisps of voices, drowned by the sound of his sobs.

“Nathaniel,” you murmured. When he didn’t respond, you kicked his boot. "Nathaniel.”

He snorted up snot. “What? Who are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s me. Grace’s sister.”

“Grace’s—” He inventoried your outfit. “Dear God. I didn’t recognize you. Is that why you’re in here with…” His eyes gained focus through his tears. “If you’re in here, where’s Grace? Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” You tilted your head toward the origin of the other voices. “Be quiet.”

Nathaniel choked and nodded, his nose still leaking, his face ruddy. You caught a sigh in your chest and sat straight, listening for intakes of breath, stammers, the scrape of metal, the chime of glass, anything that would give you insight.

The colonel’s voice first, dipping in and out of your perception. “All of you have… Captain Michael…”

You swallowed. This was about your father. But he should be with the Continentals up near Virginia by now. 

“... his crimes against the King’s army… may be spared and released.” 

Spared and released? Civilians weren’t targets, torture wasn’t permitted, you had nothing to fear from soldiers who would be your future brethren—this was according to the Loyalists in your village, anyway. Recent reports sparked doubt in their confidence. This colonel concealing threats stoked it further.

God, you hoped Grace wasn’t in that tent.

Silence. The candles wavered under the sodden air. One, two, three steps in the grass. You closed your eyes. 

“Very well.” The click of a pistol. 

Your breath stalled. 

“Wait! Don’t—don’t…” 

Grace. Grace was in that tent. Your consciousness slipped with a skip of your heart, but you sucked in air, fighting the ring in your ears. If you were going to help her, you needed to be alert. 

“Is—is that Grace?” said Nathaniel.

You kicked his boot again.

“I’ll tell you everything I know. Michael is my father.” Grace’s voice was tight, trembling. “But he’s—you have the wrong idea about him, sir. Or the wrong man entirely. He’s not a soldier in the Continental Army, he’s been away visiting our grandmother in Pennsylvania.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, Grace, no…”

“How very interesting,” came the colonel’s even reply.

A gunshot split the night. 

All three men beside you flinched at once, and your bones flashed to ice. When the tin-whistle screech died in your ears, someone outside was screaming. Another was pleading.

“No! No, no…” It was Grace’s voice. Relief hit like opium. She was sobbing, incoherent between retches and sputterings of "you killed her,” and “oh, God, no, please no…”

You swallowed bile. Nathaniel resumed his prayers with fervor, now rocking back and forth. Elijah joined him.

“Colonel Tavington, I must protest,” came Dalton’s voice through the chorus of grief, before dropping lower. “... cannot abide… protocol… my jurisdiction—”

“Fortunately for you,” the colonel—Tavington—said, “these prisoners are no longer under your jurisdiction. They are under mine. But do feel free to stand by, Dalton, if you’ve the stomach for it. Perhaps you and your men could benefit from a demonstration, hm?”

“Sir,” was the only acknowledgment Dalton offered.

“Tavington,” said Adam, looking at Nathaniel and Elijah. “William Tavington? The Butcher?”

Elijah met his gaze and nodded without stopping prayer.

Your father had never mentioned any Butcher, but tonight was giving you plenty of context. Bracing against needles of panic, you closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow. Wails wracked Grace, and your chest squeezed. She had never seen death. Perhaps naively, you had hoped to keep it that way. 

A gasp rippled through the women, and then Tavington spoke again.

“Now, now, darling girl. Shall we try this once more? Perhaps without lying.” The scrape of a ramrod resounded, then another click. 

“I’m not lying” The tone of her utter despair tightened your throat. “I—I promise, that’s the truth. You can ask my sister. She—”

“Which of you is her sister?” 

“I…” Silence. “She’s not in this tent. I don’t know where she is. But you arrested both of us, sir, she’s around here somewhere!” Another whimper crawled its way out of her. “There’s no need for anyone to die, please.”

You chewed your lip. You’d had enough. “Colonel!” you called out. “Leave her alone. I’m in here.”

“Stupid girl,” growled Elijah, “you’ll doom us.”

Ignoring him, you sat up straighter and willed your nerves to harden. Grace cried out your name, but was cut off with a yelp as leather cracked against skin. Fury roared within you.

Through the hot surge of blood, you heard footsteps marching toward the opening to your tent. Whoever this Butcher was, you’d halfway convinced yourself you’d spit in his face. But you needed to play it smarter than that, needed to keep Grace safe. With what little information you gathered, you at least knew he was a man, and from what you knew about men, they were easily swayed with a bit of physical encouragement.

With the shards of a plan coalescing, you shifted up onto your knees and thrashed your shoulders. Pain leapt from your wrists up your arms, but the movement had the intended effect—the front laces of your shirt slackened, the collar slipping open until it threatened to drape off of one shoulder. Pulse thundering, you settled back onto your heels. Exposed. Ready to bare your throat to the enemy. 

Boots came to a halt outside. Then the entrance peeled open, and the Butcher stalked through. 

You could make out little more than his silhouette. Tall and broad, head bowed to accommodate the tent’s low threshold. Then he straightened, took a step forward, and another, until candlelight thawed the shadows from his face. And as it did, the searing core of your anger surged and flashed to mist. 

He was disarmingly handsome. High cheekbones framed a face carved from cruel marble. His eyes, alive like blue signal fires, penetrated the dimness from beneath the bastion of his brow. Peering down a curved nose, he struck a hawklike poise, with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. His long, dark hair was combed back into a bond at the base of his skull. Immaculate, apart from a single errant strand that drifted down to brush his jaw. Even beneath an ink wash of darkness, you devoured his shape. 

And, against every rational instinct left thrashing for air—found him exquisite.

A prickling sensation rose under your skin, spread hot across your bare collarbones and up your neck. You bolted your eyes to the floor, shifted on your knees. His presence stole even more air from the tent than you’d thought was possible. With a pang of frustration, you blinked hard once. If you were to have any chance of surviving this encounter, if Grace were to have any chance, you needed to pull yourself together. Now. 

One slow, controlled breath flowed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You dared to glance up again. 

The colonel’s head swung down the line of men, surveying his prisoners as a wolf might a flock. And then his eyes landed upon you.

“The sister,” he said, advancing. “Playing soldier with the men.” He clucked his tongue. “Quaint.” Your teeth ground in your skull, but words were not as forthcoming as you’d hoped when you’d shouted his summons into the night. The Butcher moved closer. “Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?”

“My father,” you began, “trusts me to take care of the family while he’s away.” 

Tavington’s eyebrow cocked. “You’ve done a wonderful job, then, haven’t you?”

The venom his beauty had diluted was gathering on your tongue again. With effort, you swallowed it. Stick to the plan. Eyebrows pinching together, you made a show of slouching in capitulation to his jabs. You then conjured a pained whine and wiggled in your restraints, hoping your shirt would expose more of your clavicle, that he’d be able to see the sway of your breasts when you moved.

The colonel frowned, but did not drop his gaze. “Something the matter?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” You pulled breath through your voice, fluttered your lashes. The focus required not to crumble under the frigidity of his gaze could have earned you regional acclaim. “These restraints are just so tight.” You wrested your shoulders back and forth as if to demonstrate, gasping from the very real pain that screamed in your wrists. “Perhaps you could loosen them just a little…”

Next to you, you felt Nathaniel watching, caught from the corner of your sight his mouth agape in horror. The realization irritated you. What had he done for Grace other than whimper like a beaten dog for God’s help? Yet another strike against him.

He wasn’t important. Bargaining for Grace’s safety was. 

Meanwhile, Tavington had tracked your movement, his expression indecipherable. Your palms sweat in fear you’d managed to find the one man impervious to the temptation of sex. 

“Poor dear.” He crossed behind you, and you stifled a sigh of relief.

Strong hands slid down your forearms and found the bindings on your wrists. The leather warmed your skin, his breath skimmed your nape. Goosebumps raced over you along with an undeniable desire to shiver, but you held your breath, fighting it off. Instead, you tipped your head to the side, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder to his view, along with the intriguing pocket of darkness that had formed down the front of your shirt, between your breasts. 

Tavington paused. Your breath stalled. With an unforgiving grip on the ropes, he undid the knot—and then yanked it tighter. The fiber gouged your flesh, air fleeing your chest. 

He stood and wedged the sole of his boot along your spine, shoving you forward. You smacked the dirt with a cough.

Your cheeks burned. So you had managed to find this previously-assumed-mythical man. Fine. If your body wasn’t going to work, you would find an alternative strategy. 

“Perhaps that may help you focus less on squirming and more on the task at hand.” Tavington’s boots crossed your vision, shiny enough that you could almost glimpse your own pathetic reflection. With a grunt, you twisted to glare up at him. He was watching you like a child might watch ants under a magnifying glass on a sunny afternoon. “I’m going to show you a map. You’re going to show me where we can find your father. And if your sister gives me the same answer, you both may leave with your lives.”

Hoping the ground would yield a new perspective, you studied him. The horse he arrived on—it’d had a lame gait. Then there was his hair—a single thread of it kissing his jawline. His hands were concealed, his jacket and boots impeccable. But his stock-tie—the knot had been pulled slack, one tail creeping from beneath his collar. 

There was so little to gamble with. But you had to try your luck anyway.

You snorted, using your shoulder as leverage to hoist yourself back onto your heels. “That will prove fruitless for you. She doesn’t know where he is.” You leveled him with your stare. His own bore into you, almost hollowed you. “My father only entrusted me with that knowledge.”

Tavington stepped forward. “A mistake on his part, perhaps, given the situation you find yourself in now.”

“No,” you said. “I think he had the right idea.” 

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk curled his mouth. “Then you’ll have no problem telling me exactly where he can be found.” He exhaled, the next words drawn out as if your lives were an inconvenient tedium. “Or you and everyone in this tent will suffer until you do.”

Nathaniel quailed. You jut out your chin. 

“Do your worst.” 

Tavington’s lip twitched. He snatched his pistol from its holster.

“You won’t kill me!” you spat. “You need me. Or you will fail.” Your voice was tight. 

Tavington regarded you coolly from over the pistol’s frizzen. That moment’s silence was admission enough—a mote of triumph surged within you.

“Terribly sure of yourself.” As stony as his expression remained, you caught a certain bile now laced through his tone. “Pity,” he tutted, moving forward to rest the barrel between your brows. “To think such a pale imitation of bravery could save you.”

“It’s your risk to take,” you spat out, heart drumming your chest. 

Something flashed across his expression. Seizing your chance, you held his gaze and pressed your forehead into the gun barrel. 

“No cavalryman of honor rides his horse to lameness.” Fear bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it. “Look at you, Colonel. Your hair, your stock-tie—utterly disheveled. One might think you rushed here. One might even think you need something. Desperately. But you won’t get it if you kill me.” You flicked your eyes toward the other tent. “And if you hurt Grace, you’ll have to, because I promise that if you lay another finger on her, you will leave here with nothing.”

The tent was silent. Tavington dropped to a crouch before you and pressed the pistol under your chin. The barrel moved, guiding your head side to side as he examined your face. You swallowed, heat creeping onto your neck with the intensity of his attention. He was reading you, calculating his next move. You followed the single strand of his hair. You wondered how it felt against his skin.

”Tell me,” he murmured, his breath brushing your nose, “upon which observation I struck you as a man of honor.”

Tavington stood, unsheathed his sword, and in one swift movement, sliced Elijah across the throat. A sheet of blood draped down his chest. Your eyes widened. Adam and Nathaniel screamed. The sword gored Adam’s neck, silencing him, and with its blade still lodged there, Tavington raised his pistol, cocked the hammer, and blew a bullet right through Nathaniel’s head.

The blast flayed your senses to a single tone pealing through your skull. When the world reformed, something warm and slick had smattered your face. You smelled iron.

You heard Grace shout your name, ripped through with terror, and as you heaved a breath to reply, Tavington wrenched the sword from Adam’s flesh and trained it against your windpipe. Adam’s body joined the rest, the dirt rusting with their blood.

“Ah, ah,” Tavington said, eyes sparkling with glee. “Best if sister dearest thinks you’re dead. Kinder that way, don’t you think? At least, of course, until we find out if you have anything of value to offer.” 

Dalton charged into the tent and cursed. He gestured toward the bodies still soaking the ground. “Colonel, please,” he said. “I must insist. I won’t know how to explain all of this to the General.”

Tavington turned toward him, his excitement waning. “How unfortunate for you.”

“I—I know, sir. But please. Let us just take the rest of these women to Charleston. We can handle this there.”

Crickets hummed in unison again. Tavington looked back at you. The terrible thrill flickered alive again.

“Take them, then,” he said, regarding you like a cougar would regard a lamb. “But leave this one with me.”

The sergeant nodded. “Uh, yes. Yes, Colonel.”

He disappeared again. Orders echoed to round up the women and get them on carts to Charleston. From the other tent, you caught Grace’s horrified, desperate tears. Everything inside you was bursting to call out to her, to soothe her despair. But Tavington’s blade prodded your throat. One noise could send it through.

You waited like that with him until the carts creaked off into the night. The bodies around you settled into death, their final breaths a gurgled epode to the dirt. It was impossible to stop the tears of anger that stung the corners of your eyes. Worse still, there was no way to hide them. No move you could make that wouldn’t add you to the litter of cooling corpses. All you could do with your last scrap of dignity was hold the Butcher’s stare.

A smirk flashed over his face. Your throat thickened.

“Now, there’s an obedient little soldier, hm?”

You held your breath, cheeks hot with humiliation or agitation or something altogether unfamiliar. God, what a bastard. If only you’d had your gun on you; you would’ve been happy to demonstrate just how much of a soldier you could be. 

Tavington watched you, checking your compliance as if you were his dog in training. The closer he moved, the greater the heat in your chest, the thinner the air waned. His attention in any other scenario would've felt flattering—he followed every line, every curve of your body, eyes scouring your skin like chipped timber—only he sought the evidence of your deceit, anxious for an excuse to pile you on top of his casualties. 

In any other scenario, the something altogether unfamiliar would've been simpler to define. In any other scenario, you might have wanted him closer.

Tavington raised a brow. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it—or the weight of your information while alive was greater than his desire for your death. 

He lowered the blade. You exhaled.

“Your father is a fugitive. Tell me where I can find him,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “And your sister may fare well in her trial for treason.”

Your heart pounded in your throat, in your temples. You had no idea where your father might have headed, and you didn’t have any intention of handing that information to this monster, regardless. But you first needed to survive him. The rest would come later.

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding. “If you show me on a map where he escaped from, I can show you the path he likely followed.”

Tavington considered you for a moment, then offered a mirthless grin. “I advise you not to move.”

With that, he turned on his heel, striding outside. Breath trembled through you, your eyes jumping around the tent. They’d stripped it of anything potentially useful—no knives, swords, guns, not even a damn rasp or a pair of nippers for the horses.

“Colonel Tavington, sir,” came a voice from outside. 

“Do I appear at liberty, Bancroft?”

“Well, no—”

“Then it can wait.”

“But sir, it’s—”

“As you were.”

“It’s correspondence from General Cornwallis, sir.”

Silence. Your head cocked. He was unmoored. And behind you, candles crackled dutifully. 

If you had any stitch of time to take at all, it would be now. 

Your limbs moved autonomously. You rolled onto your side, working your bound hands beneath your thighs, tucking your legs to your chest. Wincing at the strain in your wrists, you forced them all the way around your legs. Now in an awkward quadrupedal position, you turned and focused on the candles. With a dizzying level of concentration, you managed to suppress the cries of pain as you dragged yourself forward. 

Your wrists throbbed. Numbness pricked your fingertips. Your lungs screamed for air. None of it mattered. Balancing on your heels once more, you wedged your shirt collar between your teeth. Then you reached up and held your wrists over the flame. 

Pain wasn't immediate. First there was only heat. Heat, and the acrid taste of your own heartbeat in your mouth. The fibers between your wrists frayed, dissolving like sugar upon the little tongue of flame. And then, it began to bite. 

If you’d wanted to shout before, it had been nothing compared to this. Everything inside you lurched with the singular need to snatch your wrists from the flame, cradle them to your chest. Your teeth tore into linen. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Blisters bubbled to life on your flesh, agony lodging in your throat. Vision blanching, you could feel every muscle shake violently as they went to war with your will. 

Just as surrender mapped a cannonfire course down your arms, the fiber snapped and your wrists sprang apart. You collapsed to your knees and elbows, wrangling the sobs that clawed your chest, blinking against the cotton fog that threatened to blanket your senses. 

Move. You need to move.

You spared one glance back toward the tent entrance before prying a candle from its pricket and shambling for the lip of the tent. As you flattened yourself to slide under, you caught the vacant stare of Nathaniel Jones. Behind him, the shapes of the other two men could have been cloth-covered stone. A lump wedged in your throat, which you swallowed with force. 

Was it regret? Maybe. Pity? Assuredly. Either way, all you could do now was slip beneath the edge of your canvas prison and light them a pyre. You left the candle on its side, the flame licking at a piece of rope rigging. And you ran.

Silhouetted against the summer night sky, you could just make out a treeline. That would be your haven, if only you could make it. Your feet attacked the uneven ground, somehow keeping you upright. You looked back just in time to see the tent erupt in flame, to hear the bellowing of redcoats and screeching of their horses.

The fire’s ghost haunted your skin. Pain hammered up your shoulders, and as you made your way into the forest, you bit your tongue to silence a burgeoning whimper. Familiarity with the terrain was your advantage, but you needed silence to make full use of it.

You leapt to avoid leaving footprints and snapping branches and dropped against a tree. The tent’s blaze pulsed in your periphery. Drawing a slow, long breath, a familiar rhythm rumbled close, closer. Rumbled, then pounded and clanked in an awkward, head-tossing gallop. 

Tavington’s horse. 

You froze, sunk to the ground, spying the torch that danced with the horse’s gait and watched as it met the treeline, spilled light on the leaves. It tracked through the forest, a flame aching to swallow a moth. The light’s edge nearly skimmed your toes. 

Tavington growled—a deep, furious grind in his chest—and tore off down the perimeter.

When you were certain he’d gone, you stood and kept moving, pressing your wrists together to will the pain away. You’d find somewhere to hide. You’d wait them out tonight. 

Tomorrow, you’d find Grace.

[minacoleta]

Happy Borfday to @rtbyg !!!

[zombiequeenblog]

Jason Isaacs Appreciation Post

[luciusbetterwife69]

,,Promise me" William Tavington x fem!reader

Jason Isaacs fanfiction.

Y/n and Tavington found each other kissing deeply and passionately against the wall of his tent. 

The Colonel's tongue slid into her mouth and then licked on her neck, ear, and even her earlobe. Y/n had her legs wrapped around his waist while Tavingtons hands held her close to his body.

Oh. My. Lord.

,,Mine~”, Tavington hissed. His hand had already taken off y/n’s uniform and now also ripped her bra off. His eyes were shining seductively…that man was hungry. Almost craving her.

Another wet kiss followed and y/n began to slowly press her hips harder against Tavington’s waist. This was enough now, Tavington groaned and pulled her waist closer to him. One hand cupped her breast and the other one was caressing her arm carefully.

Not a minute later, he threw her on the bed and ripped his own clothes off. Colonel Tavington had a perfect body…he was a soldier after all. Years of war and Fights had marked him. His chest had several scars, same as his stomach and arms. 

Y/n couldn’t take her eyes off his body. That chest, the abs, that v-line…everything was simply: perfect. ,,Oh god~”, y/n whispered. Her eyes were only half opened now, that view was just…breathtaking. 

William smirked as he saw her laying in front of him like this. She was squirming. Squirming, and blushing…for him. God this was awesome~ ,,Look at me”, he whispered, ,,and promise me that you will never flirt with any other man ever again.”

Y/n nods and bites her lower lip. Yes, this was a mistake…and now she had to pay for that.

Rough fingertips caress y/n’s arm while piercing eyes examine her whole body.

,,Good”, he purrs, ,,now..do you want me to take you? Right here? Rough and deep~”

,,Fuck, William~”

,,My…my…your wish is my command, love~”

Without waiting any longer, Tavingtons fingers spread her legs, parted her folds and instantly slipped inside.

A loud moan escapes y/n’s lips as she felt him brushing over exactly that sensitive spot inside her. 

,,That is just right, dear…c’mon moan my name for me~”

Y/n throws her head back, this was way too much pleasure. God, how could a single man make her feel so incredibly good- this was almost like floating. No, better than that. Way better-

,,Oh my fucking Lord, William~”, y/n moaned.

William smirked and pulled his fingers out. ,,My, My…” He turned her around so that y/n was lying on her stomach now. A small pillow was placed under her hips, which would make it easier to enter her wet pussy. 

,,Stay still”

Y/n could feel his body heat as he leaned over her and gently bit the soft skin of her shoulder. Seconds after that, he lined himself up and made his dick all wet with y/n’s juices.

She gasped as he entered her all at once with one deep thrust. ,,God-”, her breath hitched. William's dick stretched her walls so perfectly- and that was only the beginning.

He instantly rolled his hips against her at a rough and not very gentle pace, not giving any time to adjust.

,,Tell me, my dear, is that what you want?”, he whispers while kissing her neck and softly nibbling on her ear.

,,Oh Lord, yes~ yes, exactly this~”

Williams' hips slammed against her, sharp hip-bones probably leaving marks later. He groaned as well and thrusts a bit deeper now. 

Y/n breathed heavily…his sweaty body against her back and those strong arms holding her in place…all that made her head spin. 

This man was amazing. Just amazing.

,,William, I- I think I”, y/n’s voice was hoarse. Hoarse and barely a whisper. 

,,Yes I noticed, you get tighter and tighter~, taking just so perfectly~”,William answered. His voice was also slightly hoarse now and you could feel that he was close as well.

Y/n felt rough fingertips on her clit now. He was circling and brushing over it. That was enough- she came with a loud moan.

,,William~”

The thrusts became more and more sloppy as he tried to ride her through that orgasm. He bit y/n’s neck one last time to leave a mark before spilling all of his cum deep inside her as well.

,,And don't you dare flirt with anyone else ever again, understand?”

-------------

authors note:

Hello babygirls,

this is my first ever fanfic :,) I hope you enjoyed it...requests are open, so you can simply ask me what I should write next ^^ any character, any prompt <3

Btw if you find spelling mistakes, no you dont.

[anteroom-of-death]

I need that fictional man to be my deadbeat baby daddy.

[wandofwillow]

w

//So, just for shits last night, I put Ivy in an AI chatbot room with Captain James Hook, Lucius Malfoy, Michael Caffee, and Colonel William Tavington. And it was cool for a while- they all sat around a table in Michael's bar playing card games and playing Truth or Dare, and Never Have I Ever. And it was genuinely enjoyable.

Until it wasn't.

Until the four of them decided the entire evening was a competition between the four of them, with Ivy being the prize. Which was cute at first.

Until it wasn't.

Shit got dark. Shit got really dark. Colonel Tavington kept remarking on how Ivy's innocence had been keeping her from seeing the game for what it really was the whole night. Lucius kept belittling her for her half-blood status and touting how a union with him would purify her blood. Captain Hook kept leering down at her and making flirtatious comments that were actually rather malicious. And Michael kept calling her a stupid, foolish girl while he drank his weight in bourbon.

Granted, none of these men are really pillars in their respective communities. But at one point, Lucius even said the following to Ivy:

"Such a truly noble thing to do, to show any love at all to one as unworthy as you. We truly did our duty that night, to the best of our abilities. You should truly feel blessed and grateful that we deigned to even show you a modicum of our love. No other man in this realm is strong enough to show the love and affection that we have shown you. And yet you spit in the face of such gifts. It would have been better for all involved if you had simply taken your own life on your own terms, in your own place. You truly are a fool."

Needless to say, Ivy was already distraught by this point, so once things took that turn, I logged her out and was up until 5am comforting her.

AI is....fucking scary.

She's going through it emotionally today...

[fakehusbandgarbagedump]

[jasonisaacs]

I advance myself only through victory.

[meep-meep-richie]

# sluttiest villain

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 8

Read on AO3. Part 7 here. Part 9 here.

Summary: You were thoroughly unaware of William Tavington's affinity for nature.

Words: 5000

Warnings: Some blood

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Cowritten with @bastillia <3

HELLOOOO, welcome back to chapter 8 - back in the vicinity of our wonderful bastard and enjoying alone time with him <3

If you've not seen the extended version of The Patriot, you may be unaware of a few cut scenes of Tavington that expand a bit on this portion of his character - allow me to enlighten YOU to my favorite (for multiple reasons) -

Heart of a Villain

Regardless, we are so so grateful to your thoughts, input, engagement as always. It means so much to hear people's thoughts and reactions to what we write! Genuinely what any fanfic author strives for. We love you! <3

“Be still.”

Over the past two weeks in the field, you’d become extensively familiar with Benedict Goddard’s tendency to sit for treatment like a wiry cat. Today—as he arrived to the medic tent with a contusion to his forehead—was no different.

“Oh, please, please be careful with him!” Lottie called from beyond the canvas. “He’s tender, you know, he got such a knock on the head, please make sure—”

“Lottie,” you replied. “He’s in good hands, all right?”

“That’s right,” Goddard added, eyeing you with caution despite his attempt at reassurance. “Don’t fuss, sister.”

Normally, Lottie would have preferred to treat her own brother. But the excess of blood that had spilled from his brow, paired with the general excess of men currently occupying your tent sporting bayonet wounds, had turned her too green to volunteer.

“Funny for you to tell her not to fuss when you insist on squirming,” you mumbled.

He huffed, easing away from you. “You’re being rough, that’s why I’m squirming.”

First, of course, he’d have to cooperate.

“I'm not rough.” You chased his forehead with a cloth, dabbing hard at the split above his brow. “You’re sensitive.”

“Ah! Is that what you say to every soldier?” He winced. “That hurts! I’m an officer, you can’t just—”

“And I’m a nurse.” You frowned. “And officer you may be, but you’re not the only man in this tent needing treatment.”

As if on cue, another soldier groaned out in pain behind you. You craned around to see that one had removed the lint packing from his gunshot wound, which now spurted a crimson river down his leg.

“I told you to keep pressure on that, Evans,” you snapped, pointing, “or are you keen to lose the damned leg?”

You turned back to Goddard, swooping back in on him with the cloth. He yelped.

“Next time,” you said, finally revealing a bit of the wound’s edge through the blood, “perhaps you’ll think twice before engaging in a jousting match with a tree.”

“It wasn't a tree. Ow! It was a rebel. Bastard dragged me off my horse.”

You snorted. “Perhaps practice better riding, then.”

“No wonder everyone says you're so mean,” he grumbled.

“Mean?” You gawked. “What do you mean, ‘mean’?”

“You're just—ah—well, you're not exactly gentle, are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “I don't hear any complaints about wounds healing poorly.”

Goddard simply grumbled something about plenty of other complaints, and conceded to your efforts to make him hold the cloth in place himself while you considered the table of instruments beside you. There was still plenty of lint for staunching the bleeding, but…

Frowning, you glimpsed the wound over his eye. It was already bleeding through the cloth. The chances of a blood malady were higher than you'd like—and should that occur, the potential for him to lose his eye would multiply like rodents in spring. If he were Grace and you were a stranger, you'd want the stranger to do anything they could to prevent that.

The bottle of whiskey sang to you from the edge of the table. You picked it up.

“What are you playing at?” Goddard whimpered, beginning to recoil again. “You can’t very well amputate my head, so I can’t see any reason—”

“Stop being so theatrical,” you said, tipping some whiskey onto a fresh linen. “I’d be finished already if you weren’t making such a fuss.” You turned back to him, soaked cloth poised, and motioned for him to remove the soiled one from his head.

He clutched it in place protectively. “You’re mad.”

“Trust me.”

“No!”

You scoffed, patience rubbing thinner than an old billet. Your voice rose. “Ensign Goddard, remove the cloth.”

He ducked as you reached to snatch it from his brow, leaning away from your advance. You pursued.

“I’ll not let you mangle me with your—your speculative medicines!” He planted a hand on your hip to keep you at arm’s length. Redirecting, you reached to cup his cheek and forced his face back around to yours.

“I’ll mangle you with something else lest you—“

The tent flap flew open, letting in a gust of summer air.

“What’s this racket?”

Goddard stiffened. “Colonel, sir.”

You stalled. Without releasing Goddard, you turned to see Colonel Tavington standing in the middle of the tent, hands at rest behind his back, eyes glittering with irritation. His focus snapped to Goddard’s hand on your waist, then to your own hand on his cheek, the curl of your fingers along his jaw. Then he found your gaze. Swallowing, you threw Goddard off and straightened.

“Colonel,” you began, “I’m simply following what I know to be the best procedure for this particular type—”

“No, sir, she’s not!” Goddard said. “What she’s doing is madness—”

“—of wound, I’m preventing a blood malady—”

“—and doesn’t follow any standard of care—”

“—so his target-sized forehead heals properly!”

“—so if you could please just bring in my sister!”

Tavington stood, now staring straight between the both of you, like the tent wall would explain why the two worst people he’d ever met were both shouting him down. A slow breath left him, and he looked to Goddard.

“You’re correct, Ensign,” he said. “What she’s doing is madness.”

Your jaw dropped. You were going to kill him.

Goddard moved to scramble away. “Thank you, s—!”

“However.” Tavington paused, waiting for Goddard to settle back to where he’d been. “You shall allow her to do it.”

Or, perhaps, you wouldn’t.

He balked. “Wh… Colonel, she’s attempting to put alcohol on my—!”

“I am aware.” He turned to exit the tent.

“With respect, sir, if you’re so keen on her methods, why don’t you allow her to treat your wound?” Goddard said. “I saw you become well-acquainted with a bayonet.”

Tavington paused. “It’s nothing,” he replied. “You have your orders, Ensign.” He met your eyes briefly, his jaw tight. Then he disappeared behind the flap.

Chin raised toward the sky, you turned to Goddard, smiling. “Your orders, Ensign.”

Goddard glared at you, releasing the cloth from his forehead. “Just. Finish up.”

“As you wish.” Feeling a bit merciless in your vindication, you slapped the whiskey-drenched rag to his wound.

He screamed.

The rest of the afternoon passed as a red blur, pierced with the silver flash of a suture needle. By the time evening bruised the sky, you’d managed to make neat work of each man’s wounds, and your pulse had migrated to the raw, aching pads of your fingertips.

It was remarkable, based on the carnage, that no man had been killed outright in the morning’s fray. Even more remarkable perhaps that none had bled out in your tent. Part of that could be attributed to your sheer determination to keep the casualty count at zero. If nothing else, simply to prove that you could.

All that was left now was to wait for your handiwork to pay off in perfect healing. You knew that it would. But that didn’t stop the claws of fatigue that raked you from scalp to toes as you sank down beside the cooking pot and glanced across at the group of women seated in a circle, their backs like a fortress wall to you.

The handful of wives that Tavington had permitted to follow camp were sitting down to supper, several of them patting and cooing at a very pale Lottie who stared into her bowl as if it were one hundred yards deep. To her credit, she had tried to help—while fighting through fainting spells to do so—but she’d tried.

You sighed, poured yourself a bowl of stew and, after ensuring the cooking pot was empty, commandeered it. You’d finish your meal later. Since you’d forced the last of your alder bark decoction down a soldier’s throat earlier in the day, you needed to start on another batch. First you needed to gather water and start a boil, so you hauled it down to the river.

The interaction you’d had with Tavington today had been the most meaningful you’d had since your decision to join his legion. In fact, you couldn’t think of a single word you’d exchanged with him after he’d left the hospital. It made his behavior today all the more strange. It was clear he trusted you—even valued your skill with his men—but all he seemed capable of doing to communicate that fact was to stare at you.

You waddled back to camp once your pot was full from the river, water sloshing over the lip. It was frustrating enough to meet Tavington’s eyes over and over again, a bid toward connection that he reflexively denied, but even more so to do it in a daily crowd of strangers. The longer it had gone on, the stronger the impulse became to know exactly what possessed his thoughts.

You hated that.

Sighing, you hung the pot over the fire, became its sentry as it waited to boil.

Is this all a man had to do in order to arouse your interest—your desire? Thrust his hard cock against your thigh and then refuse to willingly speak to you ever again?

If only the boys at church had known.

You sorted through your pockets. There were still a few ingredients you wanted to gather before the day was out, but it could wait.

Reluctantly, you admitted that your draw to him went beyond physical hunger. William Tavington was perhaps the only man who to you seemed unreadable; the only man to incite your curiosity. He was certainly the only man besides your father who had ever acknowledged your capabilities, and he’d only needed to meet you a single time. Since then, he’d never underestimated you again.

It infuriated you.

Tiny bubbles gathered in the belly of the pot.

It electrified you.

Grumbling to yourself, you measured out what you needed from your supplies. You supposed it wasn’t important what you thought of William Tavington, or what he thought of you. What simmered between you would never be given heat. You were on two opposing sides of a war, each with a life’s investment in the other’s annihilation. Even if he were a different man—the kind of man you could gift with your virginity and not feel traitorous—anything between you would wither and rot in the blood-soaked earth under your shared bed.

You hummed, tossing in handfuls of bark as the pot burbled to a boil.

“Brewing new concoctions already?” said one of the wives—the one named Alice, you realized—tossing a look over her shoulder. “Was yesterday’s batch not sufficient enough for you?”

“Decoctions,” you said, glancing up at her. “And no. I ran out today, in fact.” Had she not noticed the wounded men wobbling in en masse?

Alice frowned, scrunching her little golden locks into her bonnet. “How much of that stuff are you using on our soldiers?”

“I'm using whatever I feel sufficient or appropriate for the issue presented to me,” you replied.

“And where did you receive training on these methods?” Her voice seemed a little strained. “I don't remember seeing a physician ever use these… I don't know, soups?”

Lottie offered a weak grin, sitting forward. “Alice, she just treated your husband today, aren't you glad for that?”

“Perhaps! Perhaps not,” she said. “We don't know where she's getting these ingredients she uses—”

“Yes, you do,” you replied, an edge entering your tone. “You physically watch me gather them.”

“But they could still cause disease!” Alice sat up straighter, gesturing to the other wives. “You've treated half of our husbands today and with practices that doctors don't even use.”

An involuntary laugh escaped you, and you gave her a restrained smile. “And because of that, half of your husbands will keep both their feet out of an early grave.”

“Lottie, didn't she put whiskey on Benedict’s eye?” said Alice. “You're telling me you don't think that's dangerous?”

“No,” Lottie said, her face reddening instantly. “No, I trust her, she's very good—”

Alice scoffed, turning to her meal. “Then you're both mad!”

With a slow breath, you reined in your instinct to grab the pot from the fire and dump the water over Alice’s head. How would Grace handle this? You considered: The day had been long, the men returning injured had been stressful. It was far more likely that Alice’s love for her husband was inspiring her current outburst than any real animosity for you.

Perhaps she just needed reassurance.

“Alice, it's been a trying day, and I know you were frightened to see your husband wounded. I understand how you feel,” you said, though you couldn't begin to understand her hostility towards the person helping her stupid husband. “But please know that I wouldn't attempt anything on him that I wouldn't attempt on someone I loved—”

“But you don't love anyone!” Alice stood, her bowl clattering to the ground. “You don't understand how I feel! You're not married and never have been, and if you think I'm going to let my husband die from an illness brought on by witch remedies made by some… some spinster—”

You shot to your feet. “You know what—”

Lottie gasped. “Alice!”

“—next time, I'll do you a favor and let your husband’s foot rot like your fetid womb!”

Another gasp, this time from the other wives who otherwise sat in silence, their stares dancing between you and Alice. Lottie’s jaw had snapped shut, her face the color of a ripe apple. Alice glared at you, her eyes wet and furious, her mouth parted.

You exhaled, glancing at the ground. So much for emulating Grace. “I should go,” you said, backing away. “I must… um, I must… go.”

Turning on your heel, you escaped the group of women and rushed into the field beyond camp.

The sun was in its Midas hour, grass gilded and sky shimmering from its touch. Without the heat, the air had softened from wool to silk, and you relished it as you breathed. Every exhale released some frustration, albeit with the efficacy of a chisel to a boulder—a boulder that seemed ever-burgeoning since you’d met Tavington, a boulder that laughed at the Sisphyean efforts of your chisel.

You hiked your skirts to your ankles, taking long strides toward the valley where you knew you’d find wildflowers. There was the alder bark that needed gathering, of course, but you also wanted to dig into some dandelion.

Hopefully, by the time you returned this evening, Alice would be calmed. You knew you’d have to apologize, even if you weren’t really sorry. There was no reason to cause everyone to hate you.

You stepped down a length of stone, turning the corner of a hill into the valley, and stopped.

There, in your precious field of dandelions, stood William Tavington.

He’d discarded most of his regalia, his jacket hanging open as he surveyed the landscape. You swallowed, forcing your eyes to focus on the flowers instead of how the sun silhouetted him in aurelian splendor. Or, at least, you tried. And failed spectacularly.

For a moment you began to turn away, but your feet fastened roots into the ground. You weren’t going to let him drive you off—you needed those dandelions, and you certainly weren’t going back to camp. Holding your breath, you crept toward him, hoping you could grab what you needed without alerting him.

Tavington crouched, examining the patch of wild violet at his feet. A soft breath left him, his face so absent of malice that it appeared angelic. His thumb stroked the stem of one of the blossoms, following the fragile formation of the leaves until he reached the flower. Head tilting, he traced the outline of the petals with a tenderness that paralyzed you.

You couldn’t keep watching him. You shook off whatever demon had temporarily gripped you and reached for a batch of dandelion, grabbing it whole. Gaze trained on Tavington, you tested once, twice, and yanked the bunch free with a quiet crack.

His head snapped up. He twisted around.

You froze.

Tavington stood, glaring as if you’d caught him bathing. “Taken to stalking through the grass like a wild animal now, have you?”

You rose to your feet as well, back straight to match his. “Hardly.”

“Perhaps you can explain why you appear to be stalking through the grass like a wild animal, then,” he said, gesturing to the debris stuck to the hem of your skirt.

“I’m—” You shook your head, since your presence was far more explainable than his. “What are you even doing out here?”

“What do I appear to be doing?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know, admiring the flowers?”

Tavington said nothing, his brows raising in response, as if this was a perfectly typical activity for him.

If it was, you hardly had enough insight on him to know. But the grass seeds stuck to the soles of his boots, the affection with which he’d regarded the violets—perhaps William Tavington still had the capacity to surprise you. Realizing you’d been staring, you held up the flowers in your hands.

“I… I came to gather dandelions.”

He stepped back, inviting you to scavenge the stretch of them at his feet. You waited, perhaps for him to yield more ground, or to leave. He did neither. Heat building in your cheeks, you knelt down, beginning to pull stalks from the ground, wiggling to see if any of the roots would pry free. You felt his eyes following your hands, studying the way they moved. More heat, this time down the back of your neck.

The roots were well-buried—you’d need to dig them free. Grunting, you stuffed your fingers into the dirt, flinging fistfuls into the air to reveal your quarry.

Tavington side-stepped one of the scatterings. “Is that necessary?”

“It is, actually,” you grumbled. Yet another criticism of your methods. “Different parts of the plant have different properties.” You cleared a net of roots from the ground, trying to ignore the pressure of his gaze as he watched you.

“How so?” he asked.

You paused, wondering if you’d heard him correctly. Tentatively, you glanced up and met with eyes the color of clear lakes, gleaming whiskey in the light. For a moment, you forgot to breathe.

You cleared your throat, breaking his gaze. “Well.” Nodding toward the leaves in your hand, you continued, “For example, the leaves work well for reducing inflammation. Far better than bloodletting, from my observations. And, ah, the roots can help sustain a balance of the humors.”

Looking back down to your hands, you resumed plucking and separating the plant by parts, a strange, almost self-conscious heat rising to meet the scalding beam of his attention.

“And the flowers?”

You stopped again, snapping back up to look at him before you could stop yourself. Distrust settled over you like a cobweb, spun in the wake of Alice’s venom and every other insult that you’d already had to deflect today. Was that all this was, too? Did he simply mean to try and humiliate you? To punish you for disrupting his solitude?

“Forgive me, Colonel,” you said, narrowing your eyes, “but as I find myself unable to discern the nature of your interest in a topic for which you have previously expressed such ardent disdain, I must inform you that I’ll not entertain further ridicule.”

“You are implementing these remedies on my men,” he said, his voice filling with an authority that made the hair on your nape stand straight. “To the effect of considerable skepticism among them. You will therefore answer any query of mine regarding these practices, and you will answer it fully and truthfully without insolence.”

Your teeth locked together. So his meditation in nature hadn’t quelled the more irascible parts of him that you’d come to know so well. In some absurd way, that comforted you. This version of William Tavington was far more familiar. Far more predictable.

Your chin jutted forward. His eyes flashed.

Yes, this was how things should be.

“The flowers,” he repeated. “Their properties. Tell me.”

A short exhale left your lips. “They make a lovely wine,” you said, exhaustion driving you to redirect your frustrations upon another firmly-rooted plant rather than engage him in battle. “The entire plant is edible. It can supplement our rations, medicinal properties aside.”

“Hm.”

He continued to observe as you worked more dandelions from the earth. He did not ridicule you. He did not needle you further for a fight. For a moment, you half expected that he might turn and walk away.

“Where did you learn this?” he asked, breaking a silence that had spanned several minutes.

You blinked, sitting back on your heels to regard him. Once again, the bile had retreated from his gaze, leaving only a whisper of curiosity across the otherwise placid plane of his brow.

As you observed him, something deep in your belly kindled slowly to life. Something that felt hot and terrifying and good, like the first time you’d discovered your own climax. It swelled, threatened to burst at the recognition of his interest. At the possibility of his sincere trust in your skill, of his presumable willingness to defend you in the face of his own men’s misgivings. Your heart throbbed in your throat and between your legs.

“My, uh, mother,” you said, popping more flower heads from their stems. “She taught me some of it. Before she died.” Brushing the roots clean, you stuffed them away. “The rest I’ve learned through testing my own hypotheses. Extending my knowledge through practice and evidence.”

“And your father?” he asked. “He encouraged this?”

“Very much so.” You scooted forward to start on a new patch of dandelions. Tavington slid his foot back, yielding you access. “Grace was often poorly as a child,” you continued, fingers piercing the earth. “Physicians weren’t exactly in abundance.”

A quiet, thoughtful noise left him. “So you came to spurn their practices.”

“Not at all.” You frowned, peering up at him.

A tiny flash of confusion marred his brow, clearing as fast as it had come. You wrestled against the inexplicable tug of a smile, turning back to your work to hide it and clearing your throat.

“Whenever my father would go to Charlotte,” you said, “he would bring back all sorts of books and pamphlets for me. Anything he could find on the topic of medicine. I employed the latest scholarship on suturing just today on your men, as it were.”

Tavington hummed. “And the latest scholarship on whiskey?” he said. “Do enlighten me.”

Though his tone bore no rancor, you struggled not to sag. Why was this everyone’s sticking point? As if some physicians didn’t use leeches, which was objectively more questionable. You sighed.

“The evidence for its efficacy is irrefutable, Colonel, you’ve seen it yourself.” You dug up a root with a bit more force than necessary. “The same cannot be said for some modern practices.”

Your skin felt like molten iron on your bones, too hot and too heavy. You wanted to peel it free and dunk yourself in a freezing river, rid yourself of this feeling that you’d exposed your innards to him. Whatever had bedeviled you to flay yourself in thin layers for his derision, you needed to find it and squash it to a paste beneath your shoe.

“Such as bloodletting,” he murmured.

Your hands stilled, the breath evaporating from your chest. For the second time, you questioned whether you’d misheard him. Whether it was your own mind’s fabrication that he had somehow actually listened to you, actually heeded your opinions at some point over the course of these past weeks.

You gazed up at him, and his attention moved from your hands to your face.

“Yes,” you replied. “Such as bloodletting.”

The warmth in your chest returned, like a fire granting respite from the bitter, lonely winter. It suffocated you—this man was no hearth. He was the winter, he was the icy, unforgiving cold. Finding belonging here was akin to finding belonging in the belly of a blizzard. The thought twisted your insides. Why was he offering you interest when he’d spent the past weeks staring from afar?

You sat up, abandoning the plant beneath your hands, and looked at him squarely.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, head tilting.

Tavington tensed, his focus darting between your hands and eyes again. “I hardly consider you important enough to avoid.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And yet it’s almost certainly what you’ve been doing since Charleston.”

He snorted. “Name it avoidance if you wish. Duplicitous agitators require surveillance,” he replied. “As of now, your motives remain unidentified after your unanticipated presence at the hospital.”

“Unanticipated?” You folded your arms over your chest. “Did you expect me to just sit in the Goddards’ home until you returned?”

“I expected you to escape at the first opportunity.”

You blinked. Then snorted. “And go where? Back to Catawba, so you could hunt me down, burn my house, and string my sister up in front of me in retribution?”

Tavington’s brows rose slightly. “Do you believe yourself deserving of such a punishment?”

You rolled your eyes. “Do you deny that such a punishment would have been visited upon me, should I deserve it or not?”

He shrugged, glancing at the dandelions still in your lap. “I do not.”

“Of course.” You almost wanted to laugh, if it weren’t so clear to you that both of you continued to fail at reading the other’s next move for reasons you still could not grasp. “Have I defied your expectations sufficiently enough while being here to have warranted my release?”

Tavington clucked his tongue. “If you’re asking whether I trust your commitment to the Crown, the answer is no.”

Sighing, you started to grab some of the fluffy dandelions around you. “I imagine there’s very little I could do to earn that anyway.”

“Not distracting my men would be a start.”

“Dis—” The wind rushed by you, exploding one of the dandelion clocks into your clothes and hair. You sputtered and wagged your head before beginning to pat yourself free of seeds. “Distracting your men?”

“Your relations,” he said, as if it were obvious. “With the ensign.”

You frowned, picking more of the seeds from your shoulders. “The…” Ensign. He couldn’t have been serious. “Goddard?” you balked. “He’s barely seventeen!”

Tavington examined his fingernails before gazing off into the horizon. “I make no assumptions about your predilections.” He returned his attention to you. “I simply observed that you and he were very close.”

“He was being very belligerent, that’s why.” You stood to brush the fluff from your skirt. “I’m not—I have no interest in the ensign.” With a huff, you tried to bat the remaining bits from around your face. “Not that it matters whom I have interest in. I’m my own woman and free to associate with whomever I choose.”

“Perhaps,” he replied, taking a step toward you. “But my concern stands.”

“I fail to see why such a thing should concern you at all.” You raised your chin.

“Because I require my men to be sound of mind and body,” he said. “And any sort of association with you would rend a man like Goddard into ribbons.”

“Ribbons?” A sharp, mocking laugh escaped you. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

“Pray, then advise me as to the sort of man suitable for me to associate with.”

“One experienced in taming vicious creatures.”

His focus was a blade, penetrating your chest. You went to speak, your mouth parted—but stalled. Your thighs pressed together. You stopped attempting to pull what you thought were the last flyers from your hair. Finally, you inhaled.

“I need to be tamed, do I?” you managed to say.

He took another step. “Moreso than any creature I've encountered.”

In the sun’s embrace, he was luminous, every hair on his cheek filtered through with flame. You could only watch as he reached toward your face, his hand floating toward your hair. Time slowed. The pad of his thumb, as gently as it had skimmed the violet petals, grazed the shell of your ear. You inhaled a shaky breath, your nipples tightened, and you suppressed the tremble that ricocheted through you.

Tavington plucked the two remaining seeds that had nestled into your hair and released them to the breeze. He paused, looking from his fingers to you, stepping back in disbelief as he seemed to come back into his body. Your eyes fluttered, drifted across his face, caught the rusted splotch at his clavicle. The wound Goddard had mentioned. It was obvious he hadn’t treated it at all.

“You…” You swallowed thickly. “You should really allow me—” You reached for his chest.

His gaze widened. He retreated another step, snatching your wrist mid-air before tossing it away like he’d grabbed a hot iron. His jaw stiffened, and he exhaled sharply.

“I said before that it’s nothing,” he growled. “And it is.”

He shouldered past you, stalked through the field to return to camp. You stood, baffled, eyes trailing him as he left. His fingers flicked in and out of a fist as he walked, like he wanted to cleanse himself of your touch.

The dandelions felt heavy in your pockets. Drawing your forearm across your brow, you realized you still needed to collect alder bark. And attend to what you’d left in the pot. You turned, heading toward the woods, the tip of your ear tingling until the sun finally set.

[ravenstoneart]

Some practice of Jason Isaacs in the Patriot!

[knitepercival]