#tavington x reader

[lilkrabss]

I made this out of the purest desire to have a cute phone wallpaper of this man, not that he isn’t already cute 🥰 but I figure there just isn’t enough fanart of Jason Isaac’s or Colonel Tavington in general. Tavington is my absolute favorite character that Jason plays and he was my first crush and who I experienced my awakening for 🥺 So I hope y’all like this little bby as much as I do.

[lilkrabss]

I never use coupons bby, I dont wanna fix him, I want him to ruin me.

brother i’m going to be honest with you. i don’t give a fuck if he’s “redeemable” or not. what is this, the checkout counter? he’s not a fucking COUPON!!!!!

[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.

[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.

[archiveofourpwn]

first chapter of a Tavington x Reader fic coming later today because there's no better way to celebrate Fourth of July 😌🙏🏻🩷

[a-pirate-my-hearties]

Hurts too good (Tavington x female reader smut)

So I told you I was planning a smutty little one-shot about our gorgeous Colonel Tavington? Here it is, I’m not sure if it’s what most of you expected, but this fantasy has been living in my head rent free for the past couple of days, so this is what you get, enjoy ;)

Also Tavington is a sadist, yes, and he’s a bit of a sadist in this too, but he knows what consent is ;)

The theme song of the fic is Hurts too good by Ruelle (hence the title, it was just, well, TOO GOOD not to use ;) )

Warnings: Smut, angry sex/make-up sex? who knows, swearing, mild violence, BDSM themes, D/s, spanking/whipping, knife play

Y/n was finally able to rest with a book on her chaise longue. That last mission cost her quite a lot of stress and determination and the men she was working with were not cooperating later on. She let out a sigh of frustration. Being a woman could be such an inconvinience at times. At least to them, it seemed.

It wasn’t long until Colonel Tavington stormed into her room without knocking, riding crop still in his hand. He was obviously furious about something. Y/n got up instantly, eyebrows furrowed at the rude interruption.

‘Colonel! What is this?’

Tavington scoffed. ‘I thought I have made myself rather clear when I told you not to meddle with my affairs!’

Y/n’s jaw dropped. ‘But what are you talking about? I did exactly what you’ve asked of me!’

Tavington approached her slowly, like a predator would approach his pray. ‘No, you did not, and you know it.’ His gaze was steel, just like was his voice.

Y/n threw her hands in the air and then put them on her hips, disgust written all over her face. Tavington was a great leader but she despised him. ‘Well, am I not to make any independent decissions in mission then? You know very well that...’

Tavington cut the distance between them short and suddenly she was pinned to the wall by his firm frame, his fist slammed into the wall inches from her face.

‘You are to obey my orders without a question, you foolish wench.’

Y/n gasped. That was enough. She looked him straight in the eye. ‘You know what, Tavington? Fuck you. You know very well that without my information you would be nowhere near where you are now in mission. You know it very well.’ - she almost spat the last words like an insult.

And then slapped him.

Tavington gasped. He touched his face and his eyes glinted dangerously for a moment. He quickly clasped both her wrists into his hand, the other one went into her hair, tugging forcefully to make Y/n look into his eyes.

‘You insolent, little...’

Y/n whimpered, her body was obviously betraying her. She felt heat building up in her core. Tavington’s eyes were unbereably blue, now darkening with desire, a delicious, sardonic smirk forming on his lips. His closeness was almost painful, and she could feel his hardness already growing. Their eyes met and then...

‘I see you like to play rough.’

Suddenly Tavington’s warm mouth was on hers, kissing her violently, passionately, and she responded with equal fervor. He maneuvered them towards her bed, pushing her down and not just undressing her, but tearing her dress down and trying to undress himself, Y/n trying to help (damn all those buttons!),  it was all a mess but finally they succeeded – and then his lips and hands were all over her, on her neck, her exposed breasts, devouring her hungrily. Y/n was dazed and breathless, but trying to pull him even closer to her, she needed him inside her so badly.

‘Tavington, for God’s sake, please – ‘

He smirked and cocked an eyebrow at her. People begged him for life all the time, he was used to it. But this – this was his favourite kind of begging.

‘Please what?’ – he wasn’t going to make it easy for Y/n.

‘Oh just fuck me, you bastard, will you?’

He simply chuckled and looked at her with fire in his eyes before entering her in one swift movement. Both let out sounds of relief and pleasure, and soon Tavington picked up a rough and quick pace, holding onto Y/n’s thigh so hard she was sure she’ll bruise later but she didn’t care. She dug her nails into his firm back, putting her legs around his hips, moaning loudly. Y/n was starting to feel her pleasure building up with each hard thrust, but then suddenly he started slowing down and she let out a moan of dissapoitment, quite involuntarily.

Y/n felt Tavington’s hot breath in her ear when he whispered: ‘Don’t think I’m already done with you. On all fours, now. And wait for me.’, then he bit her earlobe and pulled out of her.

Y/n was waiting, all aroused and excited. It was only a moment before he came back, finding in his scattered belongings what he was looking for. She did as he ordered, so she was back to him and couldn’t see what was his plan.

She felt his rough fingers caressing her back and she arched under his touch.

‘Beautiful’, he murmured, his voice coarse with desire. Then she felt something other, something thin and leathery with a wider flat end, being moved down from her right shoulder blade and towards her buttocks. She recognized his riding  crop. And then yet something else, cold hard metal, that made her shiver. A dagger. Tavington pulled her closer for a moment and said:

‘All I need from you now is one simple word.’

There was a moment of silence. Y/n should probably be afraid but she wasn’t, her judgement was clouded by desire.  Tavington wasn’t going to hurt her, at least not like that. So she gave him a shaky, barely audible  ‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

He pushed her down to her previous position, enjoying the view in front of him. She was beautiful when she was feisty and she was gorgeous obeying him like that. Tavington caressed her buttock softly before giving it a rather harsh whip with his crop. Y/n cried out and it was music to his ears. He gave her another whip and another before caressing the spot that was already bright red. Y/n’s breathing was heavy and her legs felt weak. She was soaking wet and awaiting impatiently for Tavington to fill her again. But this, oh, this – she wanted more.

Y/n felt his soft caress on her left buttock before he gave it the same treatment as the right one. The mixture of sounds – the riding crop against Y/n’s flesh and her moans – were enough to make Tavington crazy and he was inside her again that very moment. He entered her with a low grunt, his moves slow, deep and sensual this time, one of his hands caressing her breasts.

Y/n took him all in with a loud moan. He felt so good deep inside her she never wanted him to leave. But she wanted more of this sweet torture. She wanted him to hurt her, she realised.

‘Tavington – ‘

‘Yes?’

‘I want more. I want you to hurt me. Crop, dagger, I don’t care.’

‘Oh you don’t want me to hurt you, believe me.’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘Of course I know, my sweet hussy.’

Y/n whimpered when she heard him and felt him kiss her back, as he picked up the dagger while still inside her. She braced herself for the cold touch of metal on her body. Then she felt a sharp sensation between her shoulder blades which made her arch her back and shudder. Tavington stopped moving, still inside her, focusing on teasing and scratching her sensitive skin with the blade. It was enough to made the skin red but not enough to draw blood. He was experienced. He knew.

Soon whole her back was red from the scratches and Tavington decided it was enough. He moved his attention to her clit, circling it with his dexterous fingers and by Y/n’s moans he knew she was close. He smiled, caressing her scratched back and ordered her to lay down and face him.

She flinched a bit when she did, but her eyes were dark from desire as she was close to coming and that mixture of pain and rapture was what Tavington needed to see right now.

He entered her once more and his fingers focused again on her clit, more intensely this time, his eyes never leaving hers, her nails digging into his shoulder.

Parted lips.

Flushed cheeks.

Piercing blue eyes.

‘Oh – Oh, oh my god, William!’ – she came with a cry, clenching around him and that familiarity of his own name on her lips surprised him so, and it was so intoxicating he came right after, spilling deep inside her.

Breathing heavily, Tavington stayed in Y/n just for a moment longer before pulling out and rolling over beside her. They were as surprised as they were exhausted. Y/n looked at Tavington, a sculpture of a man, hair all disheveled out of his usual neat queue, sweat glistening on his broad torso, and thought him very beautiful in this state. When Tavington looked at Y/n, he thought she was exquisite. And when Y/n moved a lock of stray hair away from Tavington’s forehead and met his softer than usual glance, she though that maybe she doesn’t despise him that much.

 @wisp-of-a-spook @foggynemo @xbowe87x @resplendentgoldenwings @bela-leerox @rosesandglitter @thebeautyofdisorder @jason-isaacs-fans @woman-with-no-name (I hope it’s ok I tagged you guys, please tell me if it’s not!!!)

If anyone else wants to get tagged in any future fics of mine related to Jason Isaacs’ characters - feel free to hit me up ;)

[safarigirlsp]

Here There Be Monsters

Here There Be Monsters

Pirate Captain Jacques Le Gris x Reader

Word Count: 51.4k

Warnings: NSFW. Smut. Action. Adventure. Romance. Light Violence. Swords. Guns. Orgies. Bar Fights. Pirate Shenanigans. Old Timey Sexism. 

AO3 Link

Author’s Note: This is the result of my love for Pirates of the Caribbean being rekindled by discussing it with my good friend @mrs-gucci ! I also added one of my favorite villains just for kicks. I hope you enjoy this holiday gift fic to her and all the shameless POTC references! 

In the time of pirates. Port Royal, Jamaica Colony.

Whimpers and sighs filled the thick tropical air, heavy with the salt from the ocean mingled with slick sweat and hot arousal. The stately bedroom was filled with the sticky scents and heady sounds of pleasure as two bodies clawed frantically at each other. White curtains danced on the light breeze that blew in through open windows, doing little to lessen the heat inside.

The mistress of the house was a distinguished woman, freshly imported to Port Royal from England to marry her rich and wrinkled suitor. Disappointed by her husband and ill-suited to her wifely charge, she was rabid for the touch of a livelier man. She was already naked, shedding her dress eagerly at the first sound of Jacques’s heavy bootsteps ascending her stairs for their rendezvous. Hers was a port Jacques tried always to visit when he passed through town.

Buttons flew across the room when the mistress ripped Jacques Le Gris’s white shirt open with a delighted giggle. Pushing his shirt and vest aside, she latched her lips onto his chest once it was revealed to her as she shoved him backward toward her marital bed. Jacques happily complied, pulling the woman down with him as he fell onto his back. Straddling his hips, she raked her nails down his chest. Her blonde hair gleamed like a golden halo around her angelic face and her wedding ring flashed in the morning sunlight as she worked to free his cock from his trousers.

Just as she stroked him to full mast and sank down upon him, the bedroom door burst open, kicked in from the outside in an explosion of splinters.

“There he is!” the short red-faced husband shouted from the doorway, pointing his outstretched arm at Jacques. “He’s in here! He’s trying to force himself upon my wife!”

Despite the woman’s best efforts to keep her seat on Jacques’s cock while she rode astride him, Jacques shot up from the bed beneath her. Holding the woman by the waist so she wasn’t flung backward onto the floor, Jacques jumped to his feet, shoving the woman back in the same motion, into the arms of her husband, their bodies blocking the door in a clumsy tangle as several soldiers clamored up the stairs toward the bedroom.

“It would never have worked between us, cherie,” Jacques said to the woman while smirking at her husband. He shoved his erect cock back into his pants, thankful that the woman had been too hasty to actually remove any of his clothing, only taking the time to rip it open in various strategic areas. He dashed to retrieve his belt and sword from where he had dropped it to the floor by the bed as he quickly assessed his options, the husband and wife having now regained their balance.

Soldiers rushed the bedroom door when they reached the top of the stairs, swords and pistols drawn to greet Jacques. Still in the doorway, the husband, flustered and fumbling, tried to peel his jacket off his sloped shoulders, wanting to wrap it around his naked wife before her nudity became a feast for the eyes of the contingent of soldiers.

Jacques used the spare seconds to dash to the bedroom window and wrench it open. He paused for a heartbeat to look down three stories to the dirt street below, bustling with morning traffic. A troop of soldiers marched down the street toward the house in which Jacques was seemingly trapped. Piracy was a killing offense and taken seriously in Port Royal. And the bounty on the head of Captain Jacques Le Gris was the highest on the Seven Seas.

Craning his head upward, Jacques looked above him, spying the protruding gutter on the roofline. He hoped it could support his weight. Stepping onto the window ledge, Jacques launched himself upward, grabbing the gutter above him just as the soldiers erupted into the room, firing a round of bullets after Jacques just as he jumped clear.

The gutter shuddered and cracked, groaning even louder than Jacques as he hoisted himself up onto the roof. Crouching low to the roof, Jacques looked around to plot his next move. The morning breeze cooled the sweat on his chest, blowing his open white shirt around his sides, and rustling his long inky hair around his face.

The mistress’s house was situated in the elite part of the Port, an area that Jacques did not know well, but his high vantage gave him an overview of his immediate area. Streets snaked away below him, winding between several of the largest estates in the Port. Each manor was ensconced behind tall iron gates, intended to keep the likes of Jacques out and away. The largest estate was only a few homes away, a sprawling white manor reaching four stories high into the azure blue sky, complete with several outbuildings. Beyond it was the untamed jungle, a sea of emerald rolling away over hillsides as far as Jacques could see.

If he could make it to the jungle, he had a good chance of evading his hunters. At least long enough to circle back and steal his ship back from the Crown under the cover of darkness – his real purpose in the Port – and slip clean away. Like he always did. Like he was known throughout the Caribbean for. One of the reasons he was known for, anyway.

Keeping himself low, Jacques shuffled across the rooftop in the direction of the largest house and the jungle beyond. As Jacques crested the peak of the roof, two soldiers managed to clamber up from the same window through which he had escaped. Sliding as they gained their footing on the slanted roof, they clumsily raised their muskets at Jacques.

Jacques pushed to his feet and propelled into a run, sprinting along the spine of the rooftop as fast as he could. His boots were too large to balance on the narrow line and he slipped with every stride, making him weave like a drunkard. Reaching the edge of the roof, Jacques didn’t have time to hesitate as the soldiers trained their sights on his broad back. Jacques launched himself off the roof even before he knew what lay below him.

A single story below the main house was the lower building that housed the servants of the estate. Arms flailing in the air, Jacques dropped the fourteen feet down to the lower roof. Landing heavily with a grunt, Jacques rolled, letting his force and momentum carry him forward instead of crashing down onto his knees. He rolled agility up to his feet without missing a stride and ran hard ahead.

Bullets slammed into the rooftop at Jacques’s feet and all around him as he ran, kicking up splinters and debris, narrowly missing his body. Soldiers shouted stupidly at him to Halt! from their place on the higher roof as they reloaded their muskets.

At the end of the servants’ quarters was a large tree. Its thick tangled branches reached high and extended over the iron fence into the next estate beyond, the largest estate in the upper-class area. Pushing himself faster, Jacques ran as hard as he could to the end of the rooftop, lunging up as high as possible to grab a thick branch above him and swing himself up into its leafy canopy. Scrambling along the branch even as his weight caused it to dip low and sway pendulously, Jacques cleared the tall fence that separated the two estates.

Just as Jacques passed over the fence, his branch broke beneath his heavy weight, sending him tumbling down to the grass below in a heap. Grunting painfully, Jacques staggered to his feet, shaking his head to clear the haze of near unconsciousness his fall knocked into him. At least the soldiers would be forced to take the long way around both estates, buying Jacques significant time to make his escape.

He had landed in an elegant garden. A pristine green lawn stretched away from him, buttressed by neatly trimmed hedges and bushes of flowers in every color, most of which were taller than Jacques himself. He would have thought it beautiful, if he had time to pause and admire it. A fine place to wander away with a woman to steal some forbidden kisses or begin a seduction.

Moving quickly, he rushed through the garden hedges as quietly as he could so as not to draw the attention of the estate’s inhabitants. The hedges and flower bushes were plentiful enough to hide him easily, allowing him to evade the soldiers on his heels. As he ran ahead, he hazarded a glance over his shoulder to confirm that no soldier was paid enough to follow his trail directly. Jacques slowed his pace slightly, breathing deep and catching his heaving breath.

Returning to face forward, Jacques stopped dead in his tracks. The razor point of a sword was leveled squarely at his throat, nearly pricking his skin.

Jacques’s heart jumped and he drew a sharp intake of breath at the sight before him. It was not the blade that was held in an unshaking grip at his neck that commanded his attention, but the woman who held it. She was the most devastatingly beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her composure was steel, and her eyes were diamonds, clear and fiery in the sunlight as they met his in an imperious glare.

Your eyes.

“You’re that pirate who has everyone up in arms this morning?”  you asked rhetorically, keeping your eyes and sword fixed upon the large man. “The pirate they’re hunting?”

“A pirate whose dashing escapades precede him?” Jacques returned teasingly. He flashed you a handsome grin, despite looking down your blade. “Then it can only be me, mademoiselle.”

“They say this pirate is the devil himself. With a king’s ransom for a bounty on his head,” you mused, openly taking in the disheveled sight of him; his wild black mane, his open shirt and vest, the thick muscles of his chest and the black trail of hair that descended from his navel down to his loose trousers, complete with fresh scratches and bruises littering his body. A number of older scars decorated his torso, long slices from cutlass, a round welt from a musket ball, signs of a life hard-lived. “You don’t look as though you’re worth the clothes on your back.”

“You’re right, mademoiselle.” Jacques grinned at you, stepping closer until the point of your sword touched the skin at the base of his throat, just above his magnificent chest. “I am worth much more when I’m out of my clothes entirely. I would love to show you just how much so when I have more time to devote. Regrettably, I must now recover my ship from the Crown’s custody and depart.”

“Your good cheer while I hold a sword to your throat is charming, pirate,” you replied, playing his game. “Nevertheless, I cannot allow you to escape. My father is the Governor, it would reflect poorly on him. Better for you if you surrender to me now. I am a lady of influence, and I can assure that you receive a fair trial.”

“A fair trial is what I’m afraid of,” he replied glibly. In one swift motion, Jacques swatted your blade away with his enormous hand like a cat batting a toy as he tried to push by you, but you parried backward and returned the point of your sword in front of his face. Jacques looked at the blade with irritation as if it were no more than a bee buzzing in front of his nose.

“Do not make me kill you,” you said with conviction. “It will ruin my day to spill blood on my dress.”

“Dulce periculum,” he mused in Latin as if to himself, sunlight gilding his coppery eyes as he admired you afresh. Danger is sweet.

“You shall find me to be much more dangerous than I am sweet, pirate,” you returned with a smirk. His eyes widened for a brief moment, surprised by your own fluency in the dead language.

“’Captain,’ if you please, mademoiselle.” Before the words had passed his lips, faster than you could bat an eye, Jacques shot his right hand out to grip around your sword hand, swallowing the entire hilt and trapping your hand in his. Yanking you toward him, he spun you forcibly so that your back collided with his chest as his powerful arms locked over yours from behind, pinning your arms down to your body.

“Unhand me!” you commanded as you stomped harshly down on the arch of his foot, making him flinch and curse in pain.

“My good lady,” he huffed near your ear, holding you easily as you struggled in his arms. “Take care, lest you arouse my anger. I would hate to cut open the bodice of your pretty dress and feast my eyes upon the lovely cargo that spills from it.” One of his hands snaked up the front of your body, coming to rest on the exposed tops of your breasts in a sultry threat. You stilled at the unexpectedly intimate contact. Goosebumps raced across your skin when he again spoke huskily in your ear, “Under any other circumstance, your eyes are stars that I would let guide me across the seas. The fire in them would enslave me as a moth to their flame.” You could hear the smile on his voice as he teased you with his ridiculous charm. “Regrettably, time is of the essence and the Crown invites me elsewhere, so I must bid you adieu.”

The bastard kissed your neck and released you with a forward shove, sending you stumbling away from him. You recovered just quickly enough to watch him offer you an elegant and flourished bow, gesturing grandly with his hand as he dipped his head. When his eyes met yours again through the tangle of his hair, he launched himself into a sprint, running past you before you could assail him again.

You were not displeased by his escape. It would be a shame to see a man so handsome and vigorous locked in irons, put behind bars, and hanged. Worst of all would be if he was questioned before being executed. The effects of pliers, hot irons, and finally the rack would be heartbreaking on such a fine specimen of masculinity. Furthermore, he surely could have killed you with ease while you held him at sword point and instead he chose only to toy with you.

Perhaps he’s not so bad, you thought to yourself. For a pirate.

Moments later, as you watched his broad back disappear behind a hedge, you realized that he was running in the direction of your stables. The thought spurred you after him, running as fast as you could, sword in hand. Between hedges you sprinted, through your garden to the line of stables on the outer edge of your estate. You burst inside just in time to catch the pirate in the act of bridling your own personal horse, an impressive black stallion, the finest in the stable.

“Now that, I will kill you for!” you shouted to him, panting for breath after your dash. “Unhand my horse at once!”

“If you enjoy having something large and spirited between your legs, we can make a trade.” Jacques addressed you from the opposite side of your horse, looking at you over his back. “Since you are so eager to chase me, mademoiselle, come here and ride away with me to my ship. You look like a lady in need of adventure.”

Ignoring his statement, you stalked angrily down the stable aisle, passing by other horses in their stalls.

“Very well,” Jacques laughed at your anger, lifting his hands in capitulation as he stepped out from behind your horse. “Tell me which horse is your least favorite that I may borrow for a quick ride.”

Only feet remained between you as you closed in on the large man with your sword poised to attack. His gaze had been fixed upon your figure as you approached him, openly enjoying the view, but suddenly his eyes blew wide, darting over your shoulder to something behind you.

Two winded soldiers burst into the stable, their muskets aimed down the aisle toward Jacques. The barrels swayed in the men’s hold as they tried to catch their breath. Before you could register what was happening, Jacques grabbed your sword arm harshly, yanking you roughly to him. Doubling his massive body over yours, he shoved you down to the ground, falling over you and covering you as a volley of bullets shot through the air where you had just stood, splintering the back wall of your stable. Jacques pushed himself up from over you as the soldiers tossed their spent muskets aside, drew their swords, and charged at the pirate. Stepping over your body, Jacques put himself between you and the soldiers as he met their attack.

Fumbling up to your feet, you watched Jacques barrel straight into the closest soldier. Swatting the man’s sword away, Jacques lowered his head like a bull, shouldering into the man’s gut, knocking him fully off his feet and slamming him backward into his compatriot, crashing both smaller men to the ground in a tangled mass of bodies.

As Jacques steadied himself, straightening back to his full height and shaking his hair back from where it had fallen in front of his face, it was your turn to rush ahead, past him toward the stable entrance. A contingent of soldiers in their red and white uniforms appeared at the entrance to the stable, their muskets held at the ready. Only the sight of you placing your body in front of Jacques’s stayed their trigger fingers.

“Hold your fire!” you shouted at the men, firmly standing your ground.

“Move aside,” Jacques growled from behind you, reaching for your back. “This does not concern you. They can arrest you too for merely aiding me.”

“One of you men go fetch my father,” you ordered the soldiers. “I’m sure the Governor will want to meet the man who saved his daughter’s life from your keen trigger fingers.”

“You should listen to the pirate, my dear,” a sinister voice sounded from behind the line of armed men that parted like a curtain to admit their commander. Commodore Tavington stepped between his soldiers into the stable, his face set in his customary sneer. Despite his vile character, the Commodore was endowed with astonishingly handsome features, as near to beautiful as a man could be while still looking decidedly masculine. His eyes were glacial blue and his raven black hair was pulled back from a widow’s peak into a long ponytail. He epitomized the adage pretty is as pretty does. He never addressed another without looking down the bridge of his nose and he spoke with an elite accent, refined to a demeaning edge. “How would it look for the Governor’s daughter to be charged with harboring a fugitive? A pirate, no less? Or perhaps, even worse, you were fornicating with said pirate in the Governor’s stables?”

“Please charge me, Commodore,” you challenged, stepping toward the glowering man. “My father will have you jailed right along with the pirates and the brigands.”

“I wonder if once your reputation is stained by the filth of a pirate, your father would have no other recourse than to encourage you to accept my offer of marriage.” Tavington sneered triumphantly at the thought. “No other man would have a woman after she has been so tainted.”

“Rest assured, Commodore, you would not live to see the dawn after our wedding night,” you hissed viciously, letting the point of your sword drift toward his chest.

“Arrest Captain Jacques Le Gris!” Tavington commanded his men, now ignoring you entirely. “It appears your luck has run out, Le Gris. None of your infamous wiles will save you from a short drop and a sudden stop.”

Turning to look over your shoulder, you saw Jacques’s eyes drop to the ground, chewing his cheek at his misfortune. He knew he was caught. Quickly recovering his composure, his grin returned as he walked forward to the men. As he passed you, he shoved his sword that he had never drawn into your hands.

“A souvenir from Captain Jacques Le Gris, mademoiselle,” he told you with a wink. “From your daring adventure that almost was.”

Walking forward, Jacques extended his long arms, presenting his wrists to be handcuffed. As a young soldier secured iron cuffs to his wrists, tightening them until the metal bit into flesh, Jacques smirked down from his superior height at the officious Commodore. Jacques was a man who would never let an enemy see him bleed.

Your heart sank as you watched the soldiers lead the proud pirate out of your stable at gunpoint to lock him away in a forgotten cell. Never before had a man captivated you so quickly. As if he could hear your very thoughts, Jacques cast a look back over his shoulder at you, grinning with all the mischief in the world shining in his eyes. Then, he was pulled away from your view and out of your life.

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Of course, you had heard of the infamous pirate, Captain Jacques Le Gris. Very few pirates had a more notorious reputation, and those who did were the stuff of legend. Blackbeard, Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, Samuel Bellamy, Calico Jack. The pirates more renowned than Jacques Le Gris could be counted on a single hand. None of them, however, matched his reputation for both the debauched and the debonair. It was said that Jacques could charm his way out of death itself, provided the Grim Reaper wore a lady’s petticoat under her black robes.

One legend told of Captain Jacques being marooned on a lonely island, left for dead. Trapped for weeks and in the throws of desperation, he escaped by the only means available to him. He lured the largest and most ferocious Great White shark to ever swim the Pacific to him using his own blood as bait. Then, he lashed his belt around its head as a bridle and rode the beast across the ocean to freedom. Another tale boasted of the Captain challenging Poseidon, the sea god himself, to a game of Hazard, waging his immortal soul against the god’s enchanted trident. With the trident he won, Jacques could command the seas in his favor and even seduce the mermaids and sirens to obey his whims.

Captain Jacques’s most documented and profitable raid was his interception of an Indian ship whose hull was filled with gold and riches headed through the Arabian Sea, bound for the Sultan of India. For transport, the Nawabs of Bengal used a heavily armed vessel that was perhaps the most formidable ship in the world. On a tempestuous moonless night out in the middle of the Arabian Sea, Jacques’s agile ship, the Belle Dame, silently neared the more powerful vessel. Nearly invisible in the storm, Jacques maneuvered his ship alongside the other. Under the cover of thunderous darkness, he and a handful of trusted men boarded their targeted ship and first unloosed the lifeboats so they would fall over and be torn away from the men who would soon need them. Next, they went undetected down into the hull, rigging fuses running to hidden gunpowder kegs before returning back to the Belle Dame, where Jacques sailed a short distance away before a series of explosions blasted through the hull of the enemy ship. The Indian ship began to rapidly sink when, as if sent by God himself, the Belle Dame appeared, flying deceptively friendly colors, ready to rescue the crew and the gold. Captain Jacques’s charm and good humor assured the bedraggled men that they would be safe in his care, which was true. The ship’s wealth, however, was another matter entirely. When the crew was dropped safely off on the Ethiopian coast at gunpoint, Jacques kept the gold and sailed to the Caribbean on the other side of the world to make his escape. The location of his share of the remarkable treasure remained known to him alone.

That particular legend was the culmination of a rivalry between the Sultan, Captain Jacques, and an illustrious nobleman privateer named Pierre D’Alencon. The feud began when Jacques and his brother in arms saw fit to disguise themselves in flowing robes and sneak into the Sultan’s harem, spending a rather eventful week inside before narrowly escaping with their lives.

Settling into your bed for the night, you allowed yourself to be kept awake by thoughts of the handsome pirate who almost escaped the Crown’s soldiers, and the tales of his infamous adventures. After the events of the day, you thought it would be some time before you had another run-in with a pirate.

Your pleasant fantasies were short-lived.

A concussion of cannon fire blasted in the harbor. The thunderous report rattled your windows and rang in your ears. A volley of gunshots immediately followed as men fired in defense from the garrison and in offense from the enemy. Outside your window the night sky exploded with the fireworks of battle. Rushing to your window, you saw a pirate ship in the bay flying a black Jolly Roger flag. Its cannons fired again into the Port and men on its deck shot their muskets at soldiers who returned fire. Some men shouted enraged battle cries and others screamed in agony when their bodies were torn apart by enemy fire. The waters of the bay roiled around the ship, the white fog of cannon smoke swirled through the air, and the men on land swarmed like angry ants to get into position to return fire. The entire bay was alight with battle and mayhem.

Inside, your household was likewise frantic, everyone running to retrieve guns and other weapons to make ready for potential invaders. Your father burst into your bedroom, still in his dressing gown. He thrust a pistol at you and ensured that you had a gun in your hand and a sword on your hip, telling you to stay locked inside your room. Despite your protests, your father left you to go deal with the pirates directly. It was his duty, both as a former man of arms himself and as the Governor of Port Royal.

“Hold fast and make me proud,” he told you sternly, clasping your shoulder as he would a soldier, before leaving you standing alone in your bedroom.

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Throughout the night, you kept a watchful vigil at your window. Your nerves were on edge, flushing you with fresh trepidation with every fiery explosion that burst in the night. Even when the cacophony of battle died away into intermittent blasts of musket fire and the occasional moan of wounded men that was harrowing enough to reach your ears, your father still had not returned. There was little you could do about it, unfortunately, but wait for news.

Word of his fate came along with the earliest pinks of dawn when a knock sounded on your front door.

Rushing down the stairs from your bedroom, you reached the door just as your butler opened it, revealing the loathsome Commodore Tavington. You noted that his red and white uniform was still pristine and not a hair was loose from his plait, indicating he had successfully avoided all combat. You knew then that his intent was sinister, for Tavington was an exemplary swordsman who lusted for blood and battle, a true killer.

“I’m afraid I come bearing grave news,” he said without even a pretense of sincerity, continuing ahead without waiting for your response as you held your breath to brace yourself for the worst. “Your father was captured last night. Taken aboard the marauder’s ship and hauled away by the pirates. Much to my chagrin, the pirates escaped.”

“What?” you asked incredulously, shaking your head at the news that he was taken instead of killed. “Then why for God’s sake are you standing here?! Why are you not sailing after them at this very moment?!”

The knowledge that the pirates had captured your father instead of killing him made you instantly aware of their reason for doing so. An old skeleton buried deep in your family’s closet, one that if ever came to light would have ruinous consequences for your father and for you. There was no other rational reason, but you certainly could not tell the vile Commodore the truth.

“Now is not the time for rash decisions,” Tavington said with a poisonous smile, all too used to intimidating women into silence. “A course shall be plotted and a rescue vessel sent in pursuit of the pirates by the first of the week.”

“Are you insane? Or merely stupid!” you shouted at the man, losing your composure. “They could escape in any direction, and you will never catch them if they have such a lead. Go after them, you vile coward! Go now!”

“I am neither stupid, insane, nor cowardly.” He displayed his perfect teeth in a predatory smile. “On the contrary, I am clever, lucid, and brazen enough to seize opportunity when it arises. What I am, Miss, is the ranking officer. In your father’s absence, I govern Port Royal and command its military. I am in charge.”

“So, that’s why you sit here on your arrogant ass!” you snarled at the man, wishing you could tear his icy blue eyes out of his skull. “You’re letting them escape because you want my father’s position?!”

“Who’s to say?” Tavington laughed cruelly as he shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot deny there would be many privileges should I be installed as the Governor. Your father’s vacant position may very well come with his daughter as my bride.”

“I’ll see you hanged for this!” you hissed, slamming your door as roughly as you could in the man’s leering face.

Crossing your arms over your chest, you glared at your door, wishing the daggers from your eyes could impale Tavington through the wood. You began to pace across your foyer, huffing in frustration at your predicament. There was so little you could do as a woman by yourself. You certainly couldn’t chase after the pirates singlehandedly. You didn’t have a ship, and despite being familiar with ships and sailing, you could never sail one by yourself. And no man in his right mind would defy Commodore Tavington to help you.

The sound of church bells tolled in the distance. The melodious tones brought with them an idea, illuminating your mind like a divine revelation. There was a single stroke of good fortune on which you could capitalize. You rushed back upstairs to your room, dressing quickly in your Sunday best, as your plan solidified in your mind.

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Stepping out of your carriage, dressed in a lavish dress and carrying an overfull picnic basket, you looked as though you were heading to a fine Sunday luncheon. And it was a beautiful day for it, crystal blue skies and bright sunlight beamed down upon you. If only the Port was not wrought with lingering fires, collapsed buildings, debris, and soldiers running to and fro throughout the town, still on edge from the pirate attack then ended only a few hours before. The public were a mixture of fear at the disturbance in their lives and sorrow at the loss of friends and family. A few opportunistic urchins scurried through the streets, scavenging what they could from the corpses that had yet to be collected and hauled away.

Many eyes on the street turned to look at you as you walked not toward the church, as would have been appropriate, but instead into the garrison. Into the muggy, sweltering stone fortress, dank with mold and the smell of humid filth and pungent unwashed men. It was wholly unfit for a woman of standing, or for any other species of civilized creature with a modicum of decency or self-respect.

The guards were fewer than usual. Most of the soldiers were off putting out literal fires in town or helping people who were newly displaced after the night. Every soldier and guard in sight turned to look at you, jumping to their feet and standing at attention when you entered the garrison. It was a bleak stone cavern, as devoid of hope as it was of sunlight. Your presence was no doubt the brightest light that had ever shone inside its walls.

Three guards occupied the front of the garrison, standing at the mouth of a passage that led back between the single cells that housed the most dangerous criminals. Although the light was dim, you could see inside the cells that lined the corridor. The dirty faces of five men looked out at you from behind bars, hungrily curious. However, you did not see the one pirate for whom you had come looking.

As you walked toward the guards with a shining smile, each man straightened their backs and their clothing. All the soldiers knew who you were, as did most townsfolk. They all knew that you were the Governor’s daughter, the most esteemed and eligible woman in the Port. It helped men’s memories that you were also renowned for your great beauty.

All the better to disarm them with, you thought wickedly, watching the way the men eyed you nervously as you approached.

“You have all had a long night,” you said to them pleasantly by way of greeting, reaching into the large picnic basket you carried in the crook of your arm and retrieving a pastry. “I hope you don’t mind my stopping by with some breakfast for the fine men in the King’s service.”

At the sight of food, the men’s collective guard dropped, all of them rushing toward you eagerly to accept anything you had to offer them. You handed each of them several pastries from your heavily laden basket, waiting for them to begin eating before addressing your business in their garrison.

“You men did good work yesterday, capturing such a dangerous pirate,” you praised the guards, watching them blush and smile awkwardly. As your voice echoed down the cell-lined hallway, you saw another prisoner walk to the bars of his cell at the end of the cellblock. He was tall and very broad, and moved with the slink of a panther. His eyes glinted like gold doubloons as he looked out at you through the square openings between the bars, the curious slant of his lips was framed by his black van dyke.

“When is he to be tried?” you asked, nodding toward the watchful pirate.

“First thing in the morning, Miss,” one man told you, speaking with his mouth full and leaking crumbs. “With any luck at all, he’ll be swinging on the gallows by midday.”

“In that case, I’ve come just in time,” you said with a friendly smile, pulling a bible from your basket and displaying it to the men. “I’d like to read a few passages to the condemned man on this fine Sunday.”

The guards exchanged looks, all wondering how to deny your request while still procuring more food from your basket.

“Surely, you gentlemen will not refuse me administering the Good Word to a prisoner before his execution?” Stepping close to one guard, you pulled a large bottle of rum from your basket. You handed it to the guard as you patted his chest, proceeding to walk right past them without waiting for their assent. “Save the bottle for later, once Commodore Tavington is off duty.”

Prisoners openly ogled you as you passed their bleak cells, which were odiferous and dark, furnished only with damp, moldy straw for bedding and a bucket for relief. Some men leered and others whistled. One bedraggled man dropped to his knees and begged for your attention, seeking absolution for his crimes, while his grungy neighbor profanely grabbed his crotch. You didn’t spare any of them a glance, your eyes fixed ahead on your target – the man who watched you approach with a mischievous grin, Captain Jacques Le Gris.

“Couldn’t stay away from me, eh?” Jacques asked when you stopped in front of his cell. He leaned against the bars with his left shoulder, boots crossed at his ankles, looking at you sideways. He made a show of rubbing his dirty fingers on his stained shirt, like a dandy polishing his nails. “I can’t say as I blame you. Most women cannot.”

Glaring at him as you sat your basket on the floor, you took in the sight of him. Beneath his swagger, he was much worse for wear than when you had seen him in your garden the day prior. His long hair was tangled and hanging lank around his face. His clothes were much bloodier and dirtier than before, and his full lower lip was swollen and bloodied, matching a dark bruise on his left cheekbone and a cut across the bridge of his nose. But his eyes still gleamed with wickedness and his cocky grin still curled his bloody lips.

“Ah yes, the irresistible allure of an unwashed miscreant,” you said haughtily, crinkling your nose for effect. “How could I possibly resist?”

Grinning wider at your remark, Jacques turned to face you squarely. He placed his hands through the squares formed by the bars of the cell, resting them at the level of your shoulders as he leaned in toward you until only inches on either side of the bars separated your bodies.

“And yet, here you are.” Jacques raised his eyebrows as he spoke, mocking you with his faux curiosity. “I can’t say I was expecting to see you ever again. Certainly not under these conditions.”

“Then I am pleased, for I make it a point to never conform to the expectations of men.” You flashed him a sassy smile. “I come with a proposition for you, pirate.”

“A proposition from a lovely lady? I’m enticed.” He leaned closer until his nose nearly touched the bars. “But I shall be enticed no further until you make use of my proper title.”

“If I can save you from the gallows tomorrow, you will owe me your life, Captain,” you spoke low enough that the guards could not hear above their own chewing. “And I shall expect you to repay that debt to me in the manner of my choosing.”

“So, I am to make a deal with the loveliest of devils?” he asked as he openly appraised your figure. “Tell me what services I may offer you, ma belle.”

“Kneel,” you commanded, pointing at the stone floor, pausing for a moment to enjoy the way his eyes widened in surprise and his chest flushed at your order. “And clasp your hands in front of you, that we might pray.”

“As eagerly as I would kneel before you under different circumstances, mademoiselle, I fear that gesture is wasted on such a pious purpose.” Jacques shook his head at you, remaining in place on his feet.

“Kneel,” you ordered through clenched teeth in a lower, more vehement tone. “And put your damned hands together through the bars.”

Jacques raised an eyebrow at you in curious amusement, meeting your eyes and holding your gaze steadily as he slowly dropped to his knees in front of you. Your seriousness had his attention. His hands trailed down the inside of the bars as he sank to the floor. Still watching you, he slowly put his hands through the bars, clasping them together in front of you at the level of your chest, as though he prayed to a goddess.

“Good boy. It appears I’ve taught the hound at least one trick,” you taunted. “Now, let us pray.”

Reaching to his hands, you clapped yours over his, laughably small over his giant paws. With one hand blocking the view from the guards, you pressed a key down between his palms. The key you had deftly lifted from the guard’s pocket with your tacit pat on his chest.

“So, you do offer me salvation after all,” Jacques teased, looking up at you in his attitude of contrition.

Releasing his hands, you stooped to retrieve the bible from your basket. Making a show of shuffling through some pages for the guards, you distracted them from Jacques surreptitiously sliding the key down inside his boot. Once he had the key secured, you passed him the bible. Still kneeling before you, Jacques looked up at you, awaiting your next instruction.

“Lamentations 3:10,” you told him. Waiting for Jacques to find the page, you laced your fingers together in front of your body demurely, keeping in character.

“He is to me like a bear lying in wait. Like a lion in secret places.” Jacques grinned when he read the verse aloud in his mellifluous voice. “How true that is, mademoiselle.”

“I think you’ll find the notes in the margin to be more helpful,” you directed, your mien that of a pious woman instructing a pupil.

Jacques located the handwritten script next to the verse, a note you had written that morning for him alone in a language few in the Port could speak, let alone read. Indeed, the number of people in the island village who could decipher your Latin prose could be counted on a single hand, including you and the astonishingly well-read pirate. Certainly, no soldier had the capacity.

Scanning your note, Jacques pursed his lips in approval as he silently interpreted your words.

Wait until nightfall to escape. Find me in my bedroom, in the highest open window of my home. Then, I will tell you how you are to repay my kindness.

“And you shall bathe,” you said when you saw that he had finished. “I did not anticipate that being such a pressing need.”

“Are you not worried that a man as unscrupulous as myself will just escape with the tide instead of risking life and limb further to serve your beckon call?” he asked, leaning closer to the bars, looking up at you like a dog wanting his ear scratched.

“Rest assured, I can offer you something that no other woman can.” It was the truth, and you held his eyes firmly as you spoke it. “Do not disappoint me.”

“You wish for me to sneak into your bedroom under the cover of darkness?” he asked as lecherously as a man possibly could, making you roll your eyes.

“Do not tell me that you are not well practiced in the pastime of sneaking into women’s bedrooms,” you said as you picked your basket up from the floor.

“That I am. I am simply making damned sure I understand you,” he laughed, standing to his full height and handing your bible back through the bars.

“Understand this, pirate,” you spoke sternly as you stuffed the bible back inside your basket. “My hospitality does not extend as far as you may hope.”

“Perhaps not, mademoiselle.” He winked. “Yet.”

Declining to engage with his debauchery further, you turned on your heel and walked back down the cellblock. You could feel Jacques’s eyes follow after you, a feeling which was oddly not at all unwelcome.

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Throughout the day, Jacques had ample time to let his mind wander. His thoughts were filled with images and even the scent of the vexing woman who had stormed into his life at sword point. He knew that he was being drawn into her silken snare, and he found that he was looking forward to the ride.

Jacques was well accustomed to women fawning over him, chasing him, lusting after him. They all wanted to take everything he could give them. What was an entirely new experience for him was a woman who offered something to him other than her body; a woman who gave of herself to help him instead of merely taking all the coin and carnal pleasure he could give and then demanding more. To say he was intrigued would be to drastically underplay his instinctive response to the Governor’s daughter. Your incendiary beauty didn’t help matters. He was fascinated by you, consumed by an allure, the likes of which he had never felt. You had lit an ember burning in his chest that could easily be stoked into a wildfire. It was thrilling. Like a compass needle seeking truth North, he was drawn to you with a force that felt both unnatural and yet ingrained in the very fiber of the earth. He knew only that he was compelled by primal instinct, powerless against pursuing you.

Ordinarily, he would use the key to release himself and vanish into the night. You would have no recourse, and you would never see him again. And yet, Jacques knew beyond any doubt that he would be unable to do anything other than run to your window, exactly as you had commanded him.

The sun had barely set when the guards popped the cork on the rum bottle you had given them. The three men passed the bottle round and round, matching each other shot for shot as their laughter grew louder. It was not long until the men began to sway on their feet as they tried to maintain their posts. From his cell, Jacques watched the guards closely, waiting for the opportune moment to use the key you had slipped him. He sat in the dank straw, leaning his back against the stone wall pretending to sleep, but his eyes took in every detail and his mind was alert and sharp.

The guards’ laughter first grew boisterous from drink, a misplaced sound in the forlorn prison. When their laughter dwindled into silence as the rum pulled the men under, it was Jacques’s cue to make his escape. Retrieving the key from his boot, he unlocked his cell as quietly as possible. Walking down the cellblock, he held his finger to his lips, shushing the other prisoners as he unlocked their cells as well. They would provide a fine distraction for Jacques when they made their fumbling escape out of the garrison and through the Port. While the soldiers pursued those hapless criminals, Jacques could easily sneak away to you.

Moving swiftly and agilely ahead of the other men, Jacques slipped out of the garrison, keeping to the deepest shadows as he made his way to you like a specter in the darkness. He could hear the other prisoners noisily making their own escape, and quickly thereafter drawing the attention of soldiers.

Shouts and gunshots soon followed, noisome intrusions ricocheting off the surrounding buildings. A perfect ruckus to draw any attention away from Jacques. Enroute to your estate, he had to pass through the richest part of the Port. In contrast to the seedier towns he preferred to frequent, the streets he walked along were largely vacant late in the evening. It was an odd thing for Jacques to stroll down a street and not be cheered by acquaintances or propositioned by whores. There weren’t even any duels in the street or men exchanging blows to settle an argument.

What a boring way to live, he mused internally as he surveyed the closed and darkened shops along his way. The sight of his moonlit reflection in a shop window stopped him. He looked even more wretched than he had assumed, as grungy and bedraggled as any common scoundrel. At the time you had issued it, he thought your command of a bath to be laughable. Seeing himself now, he felt a pang of shame at having a woman like you witness him in such a state of inelegance.

The sight of a haberdashery down the street ahead of him was as welcoming as an oasis in a desert. Cutting down an alley, Jacques jimmied his way in through the shop’s back door. He hastily searched for clothing that looked large enough to fit him, stuffing the articles into a canvas satchel he pulled from a wall. A few crisp white shirts, two sets of matching waistcoats and trousers, and several fresh undergarments. He located the only coat large enough to accommodate him and glared at the garment for several moments, wondering if it was even worth stealing. It was a luxuriously pompous coat in a rich shade of scarlet with gold embroidery at the cuffs, fit for a dandified lord or a welp keeping airs. Sighing in displeasure at his limited options, he stuffed it too into his satchel. On his way back toward the exit, he grabbed a magnificent hat, complete with a buckled hatband and a large feathered plume, securing it over his sable waves.

Making haste through the Port, he found his way back to your estate. Your gate was easy enough for him to scale, allowing him to return to the garden in which he had met you the day prior. He fancied he could still smell your perfume on the breeze.

The grand Governor’s estate was dark, save for a candle burning on the sill of an open window on the third floor, beckoning him to your room. Looking up at the flame, Jacques chewed his lip in thought. He was getting too damned old for this horseshit of climbing into the windows of fair maidens. Such pursuits were best left to randy boys, not men nearing their fourth decade. He now reserved entering and exiting through windows for those special occasions when jealous husbands pulled guns on him, or had soldiers perform that service on their behalf.

Sighing his resignation, he made his way to a lattice that rose the height of your mansion and passed close by your window. As he lifted his boot to the first rung, he hoped to hell the wood wouldn’t break under his heavy weight. Grunting with effort and sweating afresh, he scrambled up the vertical lattice, thinking as he passed the second story that there was perhaps a metaphor here. Scaling a tower to seek the reward of a damsel. Crawling up from the depths to redeem himself of a lifetime of wickedness. Or some such similar romantic drivel. At least the thought made him smile as he strained to reach for your windowsill.

You heard Jacques ascending your wall, a series of grunts, huffs, curses, and scrapes accompanying his approach. Rising from your bed, you quickly pulled on a dressing gown and secured its sash around your waist. You were just quick enough to grab the candle from your windowsill before the large man clamored inside. The square toe of his boot caught on the windowsill and tripped him, falling sprawled on the floor in a tangle of long limbs and annoyed expletives.

“Captain Jacques Le Gris at your service, mademoiselle,” he said mockingly as he pushed himself up from the floor. Pulling his grand hat off as he stood, he gave you a gallant bow before straightening to his full height. He wantonly disregarded propriety as he lavished you with his eyes in the dim candlelight of your room. “How do you bid me repay my great debt to you?”

“Bathe first. Business second. I can hardly concentrate while my eyes water from the smell of you,” you answered, backing away from him to put more fresh air between you. “I hope you don’t mind using my bathwater. I didn’t drain it after I bathed for the evening. Anything else would have drawn suspicion.”

“Ah, to be submerged in your essence,” Jacques purred, leaning in closer to you. “Your benevolence knows no bounds.”

“Do such ridiculous advances work on many women?” you asked dismissively as you turned your back to him, leading him into the bathroom that adjoined your bedroom and the full soapy tub inside.

“A great many indeed,” he told you as he stripped himself of his soiled shirt and vest, dropping them to the floor and disrobing right in front of you with no decorum whatsoever.

You inhaled sharply at the sight of his bare chest, broad and thick, as finely muscled as a sport horse. Raising your eyes from his body up to meet his own, you glared at him heatedly for his transgression before walking back to the bathroom door.

“Care to join me, mademoiselle?” he asked sultrily from behind you, his voice accompanying the sound of him kicking off his boots. “You can have the best seat in the house.”

“You’re despicable,” you chided with no vehemence behind your words. “And furthermore, your despicability is wasting time with.”

Passing through the door, you pulled it partially closed behind you, leaving it open a crack through which to speak. You heard the ripple of bathwater when he lowered himself into it, along with his pleased and oddly seductive groan.

“I can tell you what I need from you as you bathe,” you said, leaning your shoulder against the door frame.

“Rest assured, I will do my best to see to your needs in repayment for my debt to you,” Jacques laughed as he scrubbed the filth from his body. The water was filled with feminine bath salts and oils, perfumed with the scent of roses. Jacques wondered idly if smelling of roses and soap would hamper his authority over a crew of ruffians.

“Do you know the pirates who raided the Port last night after you were jailed?” you asked, ignoring his flirtation.

“It was a bit hard for me to see from my cell, I’m afraid.” He slipped down in the tub to submerge his head and wet his hair.

“They captured my father under the guise of parley and kidnapped him.” You tried to keep emotion from your voice, but it crept in regardless. “The ranking officer here, Commodore Tavington, will do nothing. Even if he makes a rescue attempt, it will be only for appearances and he will ensure that it fails. He wants my father’s position. Furthermore, he knows that without my father, I am bereft of all male heirs and caretakers. He thinks I will then be at his mercy.”

“Do the pirates ask for a ransom?” Jacques asked, lathering a heaping amount of soap into his hair.

“No, it is much more serious than that.” You shook your head, considering how much to reveal to the infamous pirate.

“Why kidnap a Governor if not for a ransom?” Jacques asked before dunking his head again.

“They will force him to lead them to a secret place. Or they will try,” your voice trailed away as you thought what might happen to your father if he refused. “I know where they’re headed. I need your help to take me there and to help me save him.”

“Where is there?” Jacques pressed as he cleaned the grime from under his fingernails.

“If I tell you now, nothing stops you from deserting me to travel there on your own,” you spoke firmly, brokering no argument from the man who was so accustomed to getting his way with women. “I will direct you as we go.”

“I put myself between you and musket fire. I came to answer your call and crawled through your damn window as you commanded. I even come bearing new clothes, and I am bathing so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities.” Jacques laughed again, shaking his head. “Your trust is hard earned, mademoiselle.”

“Anything of value is hard earned.” You looked at the door where Jacques would be on the other side, grinning despite yourself. “Do you not agree?”

“Touché,” he conceded, smiling at your unintended double entendre.

“Are you not going to ask me what’s in this for you?” You expected that to be one of the pirate’s first inquiries.

“I didn’t know I was allowed the luxury of asking you such questions,” he teased, rubbing soap across his chest, over his shoulders, and up his neck.

“Should we succeed,” you continued, rolling your eyes and ignoring his sarcasm. “I can promise you the handsomest reward you could ever imagine.”

“What of a pardon from the Governor?” Jacques asked as he vigorously scrubbed his beard. “Surely his daughter could ask such a favor.”

“Easily done,” you agreed without hesitation. “If we succeed, I doubt I’ll have to ask. A pardon and a Letter of Marque can be all but guaranteed.”

“Do you have a plan to get us out of port?” Jacques grinned to himself, remembering the feeling of your silky skin under his hand when he had rested it on your chest. “Or do you have a rudder and a lot of sails hidden in your exquisite bodice?”

“I presume you would rather steal your ship back than see her in the hands of Commodore Tavington,” you said simply. “You can steal a ship, can you not?”

“With nearly as much ease as I can steal a lady’s heart,” Jacques remarked before scrubbing his face clean a second time, finishing his ablutions.

“Should I worry that you are the sort of man to take advantage of an unaccompanied woman on a ship voyage?” Your tone was light, but it was a concern that should have worried you more than it did. There would be little you could do to fend off such a large man, and nowhere to escape him on a ship.

“Not more so than she wishes me to,” he purred. “Pray you have the fortitude to restrain yourself around me.”

The sound of water sloshing told you Jacques was rising from the tub. Quickly, you stepped behind a dressing screen to change out of your night clothes. You dressed in boots, men’s trousers with a white shirt tucked into them, and an overcoat. It was too hot for the coat, but it was the best article to disguise your shapely figure. You braided your hair and tucked it up under a tricorn hat then belted your father’s sword and pistol around your waist. Both were weapons of war, seasoned and bloodied one hundred times over, not the ornamental accoutrements that most gentlemen sported for show. The rest of your necessities were already packed in a bag. You reclined on a settee as you waited for the pirate.

A caged bird never fluttered harder than your heart when Jacques emerged from your bathroom. Resplendently dressed in his new attire, complete with his scarlet coat and feathered hat, towering tall and broad in his heeled boots, he was the most dashingly handsome man you had ever seen. Only a rare man can entice a woman while wearing both rags and riches. The pompous coat would have looked absurd on a smaller or meeker man, but Jacques had the presence and aplomb to boast such a garment. The self-satisfied grin he flashed told you that he saw clearly the effect his appearance had on you, and that he relished it.

“Those clothes do not flatter you, ma belle,” Jacques remarked of your masculine attire. “A lady should wear a dress or nothing at all. Might I suggest you change once I recapture my ship? I happen to have nothing at all in my cabin.”

“Are you armed?” You ignored him, clearing your throat as you stood.

“Two very fine ones,” he replied, making a show of looking down at his arms as he flexed them beneath the crimson fabric.

“I’ll take that as a no.” Ignoring his swaggering, you retrieved his sword and belt he had gifted you in your stable, tossing them to him. “You may carry my bag as well.”

Without paying Jacques another glance, you walked past him and out of your room. The staff of your household were all asleep at such a late hour, allowing you both to quietly traverse your halls and stairs and make a stealthy exit out into the moonlit night.

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The Belle Dame was as infamous a ship as her captain was a pirate. Together, she and Jacques Le Gris had dominated the oceans, devastating merchants and eluding military, for the last decade. People spoke of her as if she were a mythical beast like Pegasus or Sleipnir with a spirit of her own. She was said to be as graceful and mysterious as her namesake, as is any beautiful woman. Her feminine wiles gave her the ability to elude her pursuers, vanishing from plain sight on the open ocean. It only fostered her captain’s reputation as a seducer extraordinaire that he handled such a comely vessel so masterfully.

She bobbed serenely where she was moored in the most secure area of the bay, surrounded on two sides by towers that were usually manned by armed guards, but were now battered from cannon fire. Moonlight shimmered on her mast and deck, casting a luminous glow over her bows. Her rolled sails were stark white against the starry night sky and her masts speared high into the darkness. She was a marvel of nautical splendor, befitting her name, her lines shapely and elegant as the most alluring courtesan. Carved onto her bow was her hallmark. A beautiful and voluptuous mermaid arched proudly toward the sea, breasts bare and arms clasped behind her head of long flowing red hair as though she were in the throes of ecstasy, her golden tail wrapped around the bow descending toward the ocean.

You and Jacques knelt side by side in the lee of a stand of palm trees, surveying the bay. He whispered so close to your ear that you could feel the heat of his breath, “It’s bad luck to sail with a woman aboard, mademoiselle.”

“I’ll ensure your luck is much worse should you attempt to sail without me,” you quipped, watching the way Jacques’s smile beamed in the dim light in response to your comment.

The task of stealing the Belle Dame proved much easier than either you or Jacques had anticipated. Due to the escape of all the prisoners in the garrison, every available soldier was called to arms to recapture or kill the dangerous criminals, leaving the ship unguarded. Regardless, no man in his right mind would steal a ship by himself, as such a large vessel was nearly impossible to sail by one man. Certainly not out of the secured bay. The guards had grown lazy at their watch, lulled into complacency by years of nonevents.

Easily sneaking aboard the ship unnoticed, Jacques made quick work of raising the anchor as you unfurled the sails. You were no seaman, but your father had taught you the basics of sailing, enough to make you a competent hand on a ship. Captain Jacques took the helm and spun the enormous ship’s wheel to guide the ship out of the bay into the open ocean waters that stretched away until they curved over the horizon. Moonlight sparkled like champagne on every cresting wave and stars glittered like diamonds in the night sky.

“She’s as easy as a wanton woman,” Jacques remarked fondly, feeling the smooth wood of the wheel beneath his hands and the crisp cut of the rudder through the water. He grinned at you as you leaned against the railing beside him.

Elated by your success, you couldn’t help but laugh at his lechery. Jacques was similarly exhilarated, and no doubt happy beyond telling to be free of a cell and the threat of a noose. Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back and faced up at the moon, a grin still on his lips as he reveled in his freedom. You half expected him to howl at the moon like a wolf, but he just sighed in heady pleasure as he shook out his hair and let the salty breeze finger through it. You had never seen a man so uninhibitedly express passion. The sight heated your skin and quickened your pulse.

“I shall be assuming the captain’s cabin,” you informed him as much to restrain your own surging impulses as anything. He replied with a teasing pout and you added, “Alone.”

“You are fortunate that one of us must man the wheel, or I might not acquiesce so easily,” Jacques teased. “Do you have a map by which to navigate?”

“There is no map to where we’re sailing, Captain,” you told him coyly, offering nothing further.

“Off the map, eh?” Jacques flashed you a wickedly handsome grin. “’Here there be monsters’ and all?”

“I fear I may be sailing with the only monster of note,” you teased as he laughed and returned his eyes to face forward. “Set a course due East.”

“That was to be my course regardless, so I’m glad for the convenience,” he replied, spinning the wheel until he had his bearing set. “We need a crew. I have a friend who can facilitate that, I hope.”

“Where shall we find this friend of yours?” you asked, looking out across the black waves.

“Tortuga, ma belle,” Jacques told you, gesturing toward the dark horizon with a flourish. “The pirate’s paradise.”

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A skinny pimpled officer with stringy blonde hair stood tremulously in front of Commodore Tavington’s desk, barely keeping the quaking of his body from being obvious. The Commodore terrified him when in his sunniest mood. The red-faced officer had just informed the Commodore that no sentry could sight the Belle Dame on the ocean and there was no indication in which direction she had escaped. Tavington’s temper was as grim as a building thundercloud, his narrowed frigid eyes flashing like lightning. The young officer had seen the aftermath of the Commodore’s temper many times, as had most of the officers under his command.

Commodore Tavington sought any excuse to duel that could be tenuously construed as honorable. He proclaimed himself the finest swordsman on any continent on which he stood, and none who had seen his aptitude with a blade had any reason to contest his claim. The Commodore found it great sport when a condemned man issued a challenge for his freedom. The Commodore always obliged. He challenged himself by toying with his opponent, trying to cripple the finest swordsmen, thereby winning the duel while still preserving the criminal for the gallows. His favorite ways to cripple a man were to severe the tendons in each wrist and each hamstring, making his prey as immobile as a writhing slug; or to slice open his opponent’s bowels, which would give them a long and lingering death, but long enough to be fitted with a noose.

How badly Tavington wanted to challenge Le Gris to a duel. The pirate’s reputation was formidable, but Tavington had run through a great many formidable men. Pirates were undisciplined, slaves to their desires, and lacking the honed edge of skill and temper than made a truly elite killer. Le Gris would indeed answer Tavington’s challenge, and soon. But he was not here to do so today, only the sweating officer stood before him.

“Get out of my sight, you quivering vermin,” Tavington snarled. His voice was low, almost soft, and all the more menacing for it.

The young officer squeaked something unintelligible with his urgent salute and fled the office, closing the door behind him.

Commodore Tavington paced the room like a caged animal, hands clasped behind his rigid back and posture arrow-straight. As acting Governor, he had assumed the office in what had been the Governor’s home, your home. Taking command of the household had been accomplished before the sun had cleared the Eastern horizon. He had anticipated that the governor’s daughter would still be ensconced in her room when the coup occurred. He seethed at the knowledge that the girl had escaped along with the pirate.

As a man of calculating ambition, Tavington knew there was no finer match for him than the Governor’s daughter. She was accomplished, raised in the barbarous tropical colony and inured to the hardships it presented, and her beauty was unmatched. She would assist greatly in his ascension while being a splendid accessory to flaunt in society. He was very much aware of his own good looks; they were a weapon he used like every other in his arsenal in his attempts to seduce the woman to no avail. The whole endeavor left a bitter taste on his tongue, a poor substitute for the sweet lips he had waited so patiently to taste. It was no matter. Now, he was in a position to command many things, including the fate of the woman who had become his charge and de facto ward. She had no immediate family but the governor. A gentleman could never send a bereaved woman back alone on the perilous journey to England, nor could he kick her out onto the streets of Port Royal. Commodore Tavington was nothing if not a gentleman. He would be eminently gracious and hospitable, even allow her to keep her room, her pets, and tend to the house that had now become his. In the end, it would be she who came to him seeking company and solace.

Yet, the woman had spat on his graciousness and magnanimity, choosing to defile herself by aligning with a pirate and sailing alone with him. Tavington had even saved the ungrateful bitch from the pirate. The degenerate already had his shirt open and trousers undone when Tavington interrupted him in the stables. One would think any decent woman would be indebted to the man who saved her from such a fate. Although her love was not necessary to his conquest, Tavington wanted it. He wanted the woman to love him and, more importantly, to lust for him. His blood boiled at her betrayal, his rage tinged green by jealousy.

Tavington had inspected her room personally and was assured that she had left willingly with the criminal. It defied logic. He knew the woman was headstrong and proud – he would show her the error of these ways once she became his wife. He remembered the fire in her eyes when he had informed her that he would not be pursuing the pirates who had taken the governor, and the answer came to him. She must have hired the pirate to act as her bounty hunter, to track down the other brigands and attempt a foolhardy rescue. She had the gold and the gall to do exactly that.

Such an explanation of events was unfit to go in the official report of the incident. Should he put that the pirate had seduced the governor’s daughter? No, that sullied her as his future wife and made her seem addled of mind and loose of morals. He could never marry a pirate’s whore. However, if he were to save the poor woman from the clutches of the wicked pirate, he would be hailed as a hero. She would also then be prevailed upon to marry him by every person of influence. Even if the truth of it was that the pirate had already plucked the flower of her virtue, he could still find no better wife for his political aspirations. It would save him the burden of affecting a pretense of civility to her in their private household. If she chose to render herself to naught but a mechanism for political gain and a vessel for producing heirs, so be it.

Another version of events must be told officially. The woman and pirate had been considerate enough to supply Tavington with all the elements he needed to paint a convincing picture.

“Yes, it appears that the poor girl was kidnapped by the pirate Le Gris just as her father was taken only hours before,” Tavington murmured to himself. He smiled for the first time that morning, a cruel, scathing smile. “No doubt, the ruffian attacked her first. Forced himself upon her, perhaps.”

That would light a fire under the royal navy to hunt down the pirate and return the woman to the safety of Tavington’s care. He would lead the rescue and take all the glory from its success.

With his plan of action congealing in his mind, he strode out of the office and through the halls of the governor’s mansion. The staff watched him timidly from around corners and through cracked doors, none of them pleased to be beholden to this new master.

Tavington returned to the woman’s bedroom and locked the door behind him. He had forbidden anyone from entering until he had determined that there was no evidence of value, a decision that favored his newly formed plan. The room was feminine and luxurious with bright morning sunlight shining in through large open windows. Nothing appeared out of place. Even the perfumed bathwater still filled the tub from the night before. It suited his purpose well.

Tavington rolled up his sleeve and splashed water out onto the floor until it flooded the bathroom. Then he returned to the bedroom and swiped the dainty feminine effects and curiosities off the top of the dresser and shattered the standalone mirror with a kick of his boot. He pulled the quilt off the bed and mussed the bedsheets. Finally, he pricked his finger with the tip of his dagger and squeezed a few drops of blood out onto the pristine white sheets and then smeared them across it.

It was now quite clear what had happened. The pirate had escaped, a ravenous and desperate man. He had broken into the governor’s mansion to assist his comrades who had come to his rescue in the bay. Instead of finding the governor, he first found the governor’s daughter, alone and vulnerable in her evening bath. The temptation was too great for such a base man to resist. He dragged her from the bath and after a valiant struggle by the woman, the pirate forced himself upon her in her own bed. The pirate then took her as his men had taken the governor, no doubt to seek their ransom.

When Jacques Le Gris hanged for his crimes, he could hardly begrudge the charges of kidnapping and rape being added to the long list of his offenses. Better even than hanging, Tavington would relish running the pirate through with his blade. Tavington’s mind raced with delicious possibilities. Perhaps he would give the pirate a taste of the rack before death came as a mercy. Tavington could take the woman to visit the condemned man, trussed up and extended on the rack to the point of tearing. A fine lesson it would be for her, too. Yes, he would draw out the pirate’s death, savor it as he would a fine wine.

But how to find them? Tavington had hunted many pirates before assuming his post at Port Royal. A hunter of such unseemly quarry must himself have a well of unseemly knowledge. There was one woman who was privy to the comings and goings of many pirates and merchants. Best of all, her loyalty could be purchased.

Tavington didn’t waste another moment. He rushed out to ready his men and his ship. It was an eight day sail to Tortuga on a favorable wind.

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A frigate the size and class of the Belle Dame should have a bare bones crew of twenty-five men just to sail her. Even at that number, a crew could not maneuver her through a storm or in a battle nor man her cannons. A full crew would comprise seventy-five men. With just two hands on her deck, you and Jacques both prayed for clear skies and calm seas because you could never hold her together during a storm nor defend yourselves from an attack. The best the pair of you could do was set her sails and steer her toward Tortuga.

 Eight uninterrupted days was a fair block of time to get to know a man. Pretenses and airs burned away under the punishing sun as you both labored together to man the ship. Jacques barely slept, allowing you the luxury while he manned the wheel for all but two or four scant hours a night. One would never know it by his demeanor. He was in perpetual high spirits and of good cheer. You realized this was his true nature and not merely a way to gain favor with a woman. His conversation was intelligent and witty, his company engaging. He was diligent and attentive to the ship and to you, hardworking even when he ran on meager reserves of sleep and endurance. You were powerless against becoming endeared to him. His impressive physique and dashing features did nothing at all to bolster your restraint.

Up until you set sail, his flirtation and bawdy humor had been pronounced. It surprised you and, if you were being honest, it disappointed you that he did not make any advances toward you on your voyage. You would have denied him, of course, but it was still a bit insulting that he did not appear to have an overly arduous time restraining himself. You had caught him stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention, and he seemed to look at you especially differently in the moonlight. You were certain that one morning he arranged for you to see him shimmy up the mast to adjust the mainsail while shirtless, a sheen of sweat glistening on his enormous chest and muscled arms. When he was turned away from you, you saw the expanse of his broad back was striped with old scars from countless lashings. On occasion, he had taken your hand and casually brushed against you more times than were strictly necessary, but nothing came of any of it. You wondered if such a rogue had the couth to realize he had you at a disadvantage, alone on a ship and veritably trapped with him; that he was being considerate not to frighten or offend you. Then, you felt insulted by him thinking that you were a delicate maiden who could be so easily frightened or offended, and you grew aggravated.

Jacques noticed your building prickliness and attributed it to the unrepentant sun rather than to anything incited by his own behavior, for he had acted as a perfect gentleman.

For his part, Jacques felt as though he were being eaten alive by his mounting desire for you. Yearning crawled through his skin like fire ants over a carcass, making him restless and agitated, unable to focus on any other thought with which he tried to occupy his mind. Sleep eluded him until he fell into the abyss of exhaustion. He would drift off to fantasies of you and be awakened after a few short and fitful hours by a tormenting erection, still exhausted but unable to cure it beyond flogging his cock into submission and facing another day of hard labor aboard his beloved ship. He was a large, powerful man and he threatened women and even other men without intending to. The last thing he wanted was to frighten you, or worse yet, appall you. So, he reined in his urges with a sideways grin and tried to enjoy your company in ways other than ravaging you, and he made a herculean effort to remain affable and see to your comfort above his own.

He decided it was unnatural for a man and an attractive woman to try to coexist in such a plutonic state. It was a special kind of torture to be sequestered alone with the most magnificent woman he had ever known while not being able to slake his desire for her, or even to touch her. Your beauty was remarkable and even your smell was the sweetest he had ever scented. And even those were not your most alluring attributes, for your bravery, wit, and character enchanted him all the more. He had lusted after many women; he had never before truly cared for one nor enjoyed the simple pleasure of a woman’s companionship. Yet, he knew a woman like you, a bonafide lady, would not allow herself to be tarnished by a pirate. It must be penance for all the misdeeds of his life, to look but not touch, to smell but not taste, to know what he wanted but be unable to grasp it. He was now certain that he was living in one of the lower circles of hell, and there was an untouchable Madonna in it.

Jacques was long inured to the slings and arrows of amorous adventures gone awry, but he found that he never wanted to feel the sting of your denial. For the first time in his life, he was reluctant, timid even, to mount a full advance on a woman. The shame of rejection would cut deeper than the dull ache of denying himself the pleasure you could offer. So, he did nothing untoward, nothing to make you recoil. And like a foolish lovesick boy, he longed for you to make an overture, to beckon him in for an innocent kiss. He felt cowardly and disgusted with himself, but even that was a far better feeling than if you thought him monstrous after a failed advance. He dared not even drape his arm around your shoulders in comradery or sate his urge to simply hold you in his arms under the moonlight.

On the eighth night a glowing full moon rose up from the watery horizon. Jacques called to you from the railing near the helm, bidding you come watch the moon rise in blazing silver over the dappled ocean. You joined him at the rail, awed by the remarkable beauty. The optics of the ocean and the unobstructed view made the moon look swollen to three times her usual size, and her glow was as bright as any angelic herald.

Jacques had always heard tales of witches’ powers being enhanced by the full moon and of all women being governed by her phases. On nights like this, when he watched the magnificent full moon rise, or on nights when a sharp crescent cat’s eye moon watched him mysteriously, he believed such things to be as true as if their foundations were in the pillars of the Earth.  The moon was as feminine a heavenly body as there was, changing from one day to the next, commanding the tide of the oceans and the fate of the men who sailed upon them.

Even more captivating than the moonrise was the woman who stood beside him. While you watched the moon, Jacques watched you, taking in the sight of the silvery light shimmering in your eyes and the softness of your smile. There would be other moonrises, but he knew his time with you was finite.

You could feel the heat of his body where he stood close to you. Close, but not touching. His large hands rested on the railing. They were strong and callused, yet handsome as the rest of him. Scars crossed his knuckles and a few dashed the backs of his hands. You wanted to ask the story behind every scar on his body, for they were a map of the man he was and how he came to be. Aware of your scrutiny, his hands tightened on the rail, making your mind race through speculations on how those hands would feel on your body, squeezing and caressing.

“We’ll reach Tortuga tonight,” Jacques told you and cleared his throat. He stood straight and looked out over the ocean. “Catch a few hours’ sleep before we weigh anchor. The night in Tortuga will be long.”

“I’m not tired, and the night is beautiful.” You leaned imperceptibly closer.

“Do you never take orders?” He shook his head warmly.

“I barely take suggestions.” You wanted him to take you in his arms instead of concern himself with your sleeping habits.

“Might I suggest some sleep for the lovely lady before she is encumbered by nigh one hundred more pirates onboard?” Jacques turned to face you fully, using his charm and his smile as weapons to disarm you.

“Aye, Captain,” you acquiesced. It was too beautiful a night to argue. You stood a moment longer, looking into his eyes. You wanted him to lean in and kiss you, but it would be terribly improper for you to initiate it. With a sigh, you retired to the captain’s cabin to steal what sleep you could.

When Jacques stood alone at the wheel of the Belle Dame, looking out over the endless sea, he recalled a line he once read from Sappho. What my frenzy heart craved in utter yearning. The line had never before resonated with him, but now it lodged in his heart like a dagger.

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The darkest hours of the night were upon you, the moon at its apex, when Jacques navigated into the port of Tortuga on your eighth day together. Despite the hour, the town was alight with the glow of hundreds of lanterns and candles, its glow visible from leagues away out to sea. As Jacques guided his ship to a vacant dock, the sounds of town could be heard. Laughter, shouting, and song drowned out the occasional notes from a piano or a violin. Shadowy silhouettes could be seen walking the streets near the docks and along the beach, groups of men together or a single man alone with a woman. You watched them from the helm as they went about their nighttime activities while Jacques moored the ship and secured the sails.

You had dressed for town in the single dress you had brought with you. Its fit and shade of cornflower blue flattered you beautifully, but it was subdued enough in flair and color to be worn by a common woman and not to draw undue attention your way. You had thought initially of keeping to your masculine attire, but then decided it could be enjoyable to remind Jacques how you looked in a dress, let him see the way other men salivated over. Perhaps the reason for his disinterest had been due to your wearing trousers. You had no intention of succumbing to any attempts from Jacques or any other man, but male attention and even a bit of groveling provided fine entertainment. Being pursued was always flattering.

The dress paid dividends immediately. Jacques eyed you longingly when he approached you where you stood at the railing. You couldn’t be sure, but you thought you heard him stifle a groan as his eyes traversed your figure, as though he were trying to hide a painful injury from you.

“It would be best if you stayed here on the ship while I see to business. No place in this town is fit for a lady,” Jacques told you, meeting your eyes seriously without his usual humor. “Not a genuine lady like you who’s accustomed to morals and propriety.”

“I’m not worried.” You dismissed his concern with a wave of your hand. “Am I not already in the company of the most debauched man in the Seven Seas?”

“Perhaps,” he agreed, flattered by the title.

“Yet, I have not risen to the level of an undue temptation,” you sent a small barb his way. “As such, I should have little to fear from men who are less lecherous than you are reputed to be.”

“Lechery takes many forms.” His voice was still stern. Holding your gaze, he extended his large hand to you as though he were asking for a dance. “It will not do for you to venture into Tortuga seemingly unattached and open to be preyed upon by any eager man. Should you wish to join me, you must by all appearances belong to me.”

“I must, must I?” You feigned offense although you were not at all displeased by the prospect.

“It is a rare man who would be foolish enough to try to take liberties with my woman,” Jacques said, taking a step closer, his hand still outstretched, waiting for your answer. “It is the best protection I can offer you. Far better to stave off a confrontation than rely upon winning one.”

“I should think you could easily win any fight or duel,” you challenged. But truly, Jacques was as formidable a man as you had ever seen.

“I should think so too.” Finally, he grinned. “Would you not think me arrogant for it?”

“And are you going to be foolish enough to try to take liberties with me if I play along with your ruse?” You raised an accusatory eyebrow at him, still ignoring his waiting hand.

“But of course, mademoiselle!” Jacques’s voice boomed with his cheery laughter, his eyes shimmering in the moonlight as he teased you. “I have a reputation to uphold, after all. Lecherous and debauched, was it not?” Leaning in closer, he winked at you before adding, “But I shall take no liberties that do not please you.”

Shaking your head, you glared lightly at him as you placed your hand in his, letting him lead you into Tortuga and the devil knew what other decadence the evening would bring. He was careful as he led you off the ship, ensuring you didn’t lose your footing. On the dock, he tucked your hand into the crook of his arm and walked by your side with a proud swagger.

You could easily see why Tortuga was known as the ‘Pirate’s Paradise.’ Sights and sounds flooded your senses. The air was heavy with exotic scents; some pleasant, the smell of spices, rum, and hot meals; others odious, the smell of rot, unwashed humanity, and waste. The boisterous noise of men and women laughing and carousing that you heard from the ship surrounded you on all sides as Jacques led you down a dirt street lined by businesses and markets, bustling with activity despite the late hour. Whores in well-worn dresses called to every man that passed by them, eager to harvest gold in exchange for lifting their skirts for a few minutes; thieves and pickpockets with rotting teeth skulked in the lees of buildings, men made pathetic by rum and bad fortune; and of course, there were pirates. On a lark and a drunk between voyages, their gold teeth gleamed from inebriated smiles and the feathers in their plumed hats bobbed on the breeze.

Pirates and traders were the lifeblood that sustained Tortuga when they passed through to spend their gold and sate their appetites of all natures. Tortuga had no code of morality, nor laws to be upheld. Gambling, whoring, and drinking were done openly and disputes were settled honorably by duels, or less honorably by a surreptitious blade or drop of poison. The law of the jungle governed the town – anything goes, and the strongest and richest man is king. At times, Jacques had been the richest man in town, at times he had been the strongest, but he was always the finest swordsman and deadliest man to be found.

Immediately within view on the street was a gambling parlor, two taverns, and a brothel, all filled with unruly patrons. A chorus of giggles and excited female chatter erupted from several wenches who lounged on the porch of the brothel, bait to lure in lonely men. Several women were in serious negotiations with potential customers. One woman’s pendulous breasts spilled from her open bodice as she taunted a grungy man to pay what she demanded. The whores seemed exceptionally delighted to see Jacques, their interest deeper than merely professional. Some of them called out to him by name, including the bare breasted woman who simpered and waved aggressively, making the finest show she could of her freed breasts. Clearing his throat, Jacques waved off their advances, pointedly focusing his attention ahead and not letting his eyes wander to the whores as he pulled you onward down the street.

“Is that why you wanted me to stay behind on the ship?” you asked accusingly. “So you could pump your regulars for information?”

“I’m glad you’re in good humor, cherie,” Jacques laughed a bit uncomfortably and patted your hand where it rested on his arm. “Steel yourself. The true debauchery is yet to come.”

“You’re passing a brothel in favor of a more lascivious setting?” Your eyebrows shot up your forehead.

“I fear the hour is late enough that my friend has more likely than not settled into an evening that would be the envy of most brothel patrons.” Jacques grinned at the memories his statement evoked before shaking his head to clear it away. “Are you certain there is no way I might entice you to return to the ship while I discuss matters with him?”

“Quite certain,” you said confidently. “You’ve piqued my interest.”

“Be warned, mademoiselle, that Pierre will either harass you for being alone in my company or harass me for having only you in my company,” Jacques said as a subtle blush tinged his cheeks. “A woman possessing of your beauty, he will be unable to ignore. He also likes to gamble and play games of other sorts.”

“Then I shall choose to be flattered by any harassment directed at me,” you said with a laugh of your own. “And I am sure to enjoy his harassment of you.”

Jacques admired you proudly as you walked beside him, considering how much of his inner emotion to reveal in his next statement. He was accustomed to fulfilling all his primal desires in this immoral town. His habit combined with the way you looked at him and the thrill of your light touch on his arm emboldened him. He had to fight against letting the secret desires of his heart pass his lips. He knew you found him novel and amusing, but those shallow sentiments were a far cry from the deeper well of emotion he longed to arouse in you.

The lively ruckus of the tavern clamored as you walked by. Against the side of the building in the shelter of the alley, a man openly fucked a whore against the wall, her dress hiked up around her hips. As you passed in front of it, the tavern doors burst open and two men tumbled outside, falling down the steps as they punched at each other and rolled man over man. Jacques quickly pushed you further away, ensuring he was between you and any danger. You found the sight amusing, looking around Jacques’s body to watch the men brawl in the street.

“Pirates, whores, killers, thieves, and drunks,” Jacques remarked to you, his voice booming loud over the surrounding din. “And that’s just the good church going folks with families.”

The fighting men now wrestled in the dirt, sweating and grunting like pigs. A group of five other men emerged from the bar. Weaving drunkenly on unsteady legs, they wandered out toward you and Jacques. The man in the lead, a skinny and haggard creature, tripped over his own feet when he reached the bottom of the stairs, stumbling forward as he tried to keep from landing face first in the dirt. The man beelined for you and Jacques, his arms flailing as he regained his balance. He came to a lurching stop near you, leered at you openly and gave you a rotten-toothed smile.

“How much, poppet?” the bedraggled man slurred, reaching a hand out in an attempt to grope your chest.

Jacques snatched the man’s scrawny arm out of the air with his left hand, growling angrily. He didn’t waste any breath on a warning. Jacques roughly shoved the drunkard backward and slammed his right fist into the man’s rancid smile. Jacques’s right hook knocked the man out cold on his feet, spinning his body in a clumsy pirouette as he collapsed to the ground.

Behind the now unconscious man who drooled blood into the dirt, his four friends rushed Jacques. Jacques pushed you further away from him, readying himself for a heartier fight. Fists clenched, Jacques fixed the men with his most murderous glare, looking as if it were not a question of whether someone would die tonight, but a question of how brutally and how many. Suddenly, the three men stopped short just within striking distance of Jacques and exchanged bewildered looks amongst themselves.

The roughest of the men looked like he had just escaped the halls of Valhalla. A middle-aged pirate nearly as large as Jacques with a long blonde plait of hair, a likewise braided beard, and a leather eyepatch looked at Jacques incredulously through his remaining bright blue eye. “Le Gris? By God, you’re just as pretty as I remember! And with hair that long, you’re going to make some man a fine wife one day.”

“One-Eyed Bart!” Jacques exclaimed fondly, opening his arms to embrace the bull of a man, both men laughing at the circumstances of their meeting.

Clapping Bart’s shoulder, Jacques looked down at the man on the ground, cocking his head as he pursed his lips. “It’s a shame I didn’t recognize poor ol’ Rob down there sooner.”

“It’s not the first time you’ve knocked him out, and it will be a damn shame if it’s the last!” One-Eyed Bart replied, smiling broadly.

“We heard that you’d been hanged in Port Royal,” another man with an English accent piped up from beside the blonde, a slim lanky redhead whose pale complexion was blistered and flaking from the tropical sun. “We drank a toast to your memory this very night.”

“Alas, they tried, Huxley,” Jacques answered. “Fortunately, I caught the eye of the Governor’s daughter and she saw fit to save my neck.” Reaching his right arm around your waist, he pulled you close to his body, smiling proudly.

Three of the four men burst into another round of laughter, thinking Jacques had told them a tall tale about your status and parentage. The most stoic man looked at Jacques knowingly. Solomon was a Nubian man as tall as Jacques and more heavily muscled. With his square jaw and shaven head, he possessed a fearsome countenance. Along with Jacques and Pierre, the Frenchmen, and Bart, who hailed from the Massachusetts Bay Colony in the New World, they made an unlikely quartet. The four men had sailed together on countless voyages since they had met as young men over two decades ago and had grown as close as brothers.

“Good ol’ Captain Jacques escapes every time,” Solomon said in a deep stern voice, but his eyes glittered with humor when he added, “Just like the time he rode a giant man-eating shark away from the island where he was marooned.”

“Don’t you know that story’s nonsense?” Jacques asked, shaking his head. “The details are never right in the re-telling of it. It wasn’t a shark I rode. It was mermaids, and there were three of them. I gave them each a mighty fine ride, so they gave me one off that island to make us square.”

The four men all laughed along with Jacques. Although judging by the enamored look in their eyes, you got the impression that they believed Jacques’s ridiculous tales of seducing mermaids and riding sharks. While the legend of Jacques and his friend Pierre sneaking into the Sultan’s harem for a week of debauchery rang all too true after getting to know the man, tales of amorous mermaids held less veracity. Regardless, his rumored exploits brought a smile to your lips, as did his outlandish recounting of them.

“Speaking of comely creatures, come now, Captain Jacques,” the remaining man with green eyes, black hair, and a matching beard, intoned in a gruff Scottish accent. He waved a right hook in the air in place of a hand. “How much did you pay for this little siren for the night? Tell me where you found her so I can buy her for myself tomorrow.”

A momentary darkness flashed across Jacques’s handsome features at the man’s remark before his good humor returned, hiding all trace of his reaction. “Once I’ve had a woman, she is ruined for any man thereafter.”

“Besides, I doubt she’d want a man called Crooked James, now would you Miss?” One-Eyed Bart directed at you, eyeing you openly as he did. “And the name ain’t on account of his hook neither.”

“I’m here to drum up a crew to sail the Belle Dame,” Jacques redirected the men, spreading his hands wide. “Are any of you dogs looking for work?”

In unison all four men cheered their hearty agreement to join Jacques’s crew, swaying slightly on their feet in their drunkenness. They smelled of rum and body odor, but their enthusiasm was sincere.

“Very good!” Jacques exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Haul poor Rob off to my ship with you too.” Jacques gestured at the man on the ground before continuing, “Do what you can to get a bully good crew together tonight. We sail at dawn. I haven’t more time to spare. And be warned that any man aboard ship shan’t complain about having a woman aboard. My woman sails with me.”

“She must have rum flavored tits if Captain Jacques is keeping her around for more than a night,” Crooked James joked to Huxley, who smiled nervously at Jacques, not wanting to incur the Captain’s wrath by proxy.

“Do you want to join Rob on the ground, Master James?” Jacques asked with a dangerous smile, an edge of menace in his tone. “Perhaps with even fewer teeth left in your gums?”

“Avast, Captain,” Crooked James said, raising his hands in supplication. “I can wait until your roving eyes have roved on. I’m a patient man. Shouldn’t take more than a few nights.”

Clenching his jaw, Jacques took your hand in his. He raised it to his lips and kissed you deliberately while glaring at the other man, daring him to push the subject further. At his touch, a rush of heat flooded your body, warming your cheeks and places far deeper.

“Dawn, gentlemen. Don’t be late,” Jacques said before leading you away with him down the street.

The noise and spectacle around you ebbed as you passed beyond the center of town, aiming toward some large estates on the outskirts. A cool breeze, fresh off the ocean, tinged with salt and spray, softly blew against your skin and rustled through Jacques’s hair. The men’s comments and ribald attention had affected Jacques exactly how you had wanted. It provoked his possessiveness over you and emboldened him. It was a natural and easy gesture when he wrapped his arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer against his body as you walked, making the most of your moonlit stroll.

Ahead of you at the end of a long driveway was the largest estate on the island, even larger than your own home back in Port Royal. Light shone from inside the windows of Pierre D’Alencon’s mansion, a welcoming glow in the night. Raucous voices and gaiety could be heard within.

“A final attempt to dissuade you, ma belle,” Jacques said, taking your hand as you both ascended the steps of the pillared porch. “It is best if I do this alone. I am Pierre’s festive and loyal comrade whom he loves as a brother, he will be generous to me. You, on the other hand, are trouble.”

“Trouble?” you asked, turning a falsely innocent face to him. “I’m not looking for trouble.”

“What a terrible way to live,” Jacques quipped, grinning at you before continuing. “A belle dame is always trouble. But you are not only beautiful, but bold and fiery as well. A dangerous combination.”

“You seem to be enduring my company tolerably,” you teased, stepping closer to him boldly, just as he had described you.

“Yes, once we got past your penchant for holding a sword to my throat,” Jacques laughed, raising his eyebrows with amusement. “A less delicate way to put it is that I worry your crocodile mouth will outstrip your hummingbird ass.”

“Now, you disparage my ass?” You crossed your arms over your chest, all but daring him.

“I would never commit such a sacrilege.” He took the opening to eye your figure before asking more seriously, “How will you react if Pierre grabs at you? The man may draw back a bloody stump – This would not help our cause.” 

“I’ll behave,” you assured him, only partially convinced of your own statement.

“Sure you will, cherie,” Jacques laughed again, shaking his head. “And I ride on the backs of sharks and seduce mermaids.”

“I’ve dealt with a few ‘Pierre’s’ before,” you said, dismissing any concern with a wave of your hand, adding, “I have maimed very few men.”

“I love him like a brother. But he is an unrepentant lech. Do not take it as a personal affront,” Jacques said, reminiscing on memories of his exploits with Pierre. “He is the richest pirate I’ve ever known, smart enough to turn privateer and then retire while he is still alive to enjoy it. He is safe here from the English, the French, and everyone else. Including the wife he has squirreled away in France.”

“He is safe from everyone, but not from me, you fear?” you asked with a friendly smile. “I’m flattered. A little depravity will not offend me unduly. It could be good fun to observe, as one enjoys watching monkeys carouse in the trees.”   

“What of a lot of depravity?” He grinned mischievously down at you. “Neither Pierre nor I do anything in half measure.”

“If said depravity is with you and only you?” you met his playful tone. “Perhaps.”

“I tease, mademoiselle, but truth be told,” he said, lowering his head, speaking firmly without pretense, looking into your eyes, “And I should say this before we go inside and are faced with more than a little depravity – I have never been so captivated. The first moment I saw you, I was awed by your beauty and your fire. But it was your courage and resourcefulness upon our second meeting, and your wit and spirit thereafter, that pulled me under your spell. A spell that enchants me more every minute I spend in your presence. Journeying with you for a few meager days, you have ensnared me utterly.”

Words failed you at his confession, your breath catching in your chest, and you wondered briefly if this was a ruse or a way to gain favor. You knew in your bones that it was not, and you saw in the consternation that crossed his features at your silence that he had taken a great risk baring his heart to you. Before you could respond, Jacques dropped his eyes from yours, cleared his throat, released your hand, and knocked on the door.

Although sounds could be heard inside the mansion, there was no answer. Jacques knocked again, hard enough to make the door shudder. “Answer your door, damn you! Would you keep Helen of Troy waiting?”

“Jacques is that you?” a cheery male voice sounded from within as footsteps approached the door.

“Do not mistake me for that scurvy libertine!” Jacques bellowed through the door with a laugh.

A flurry of commotion and women’s laughter sounded from inside before the door opened, revealing a tall man with disheveled blonde hair, wearing an exquisite gold vest and finely tailored silk shirt, but wearing neither pants nor shoes. Pierre D’Alencon’s shirt hung low enough that you couldn’t tell if he was completely nude beneath it, but you suspected so.

“Jacques! My friend, it is you!” Pierre exclaimed, spreading his arms wide to welcome his friend. “Come in! Take your pants off.”

Jacques placed his hand on your back, pulling you close to his side possessively as he introduced you to Pierre. Pierre’s smile widened when he turned his attention to you, raking you with his friendly but bloodshot eyes.

“And you, madam, should certainly be wearing less clothing,” he directed at you, waving for you both to step inside, before gesturing downward, indicating his state of undress. “Make yourselves at home and conduct yourselves as I myself would.”

“My apologies for the late hour and inopportune timing, but I must speak to you about an urgent matter,” Jacques said, clasping his hand on his friend’s shoulder once inside.

“My god man, do you dare to inject a serious tone into the evening’s atmosphere?” Pierre replied, only half-teasing, although it seemed as though Jacques’s touch flustered him just enough to get his attention. “Regardless, you are far too sober to discuss anything at all with me. Such solemnity has no place within these walls! House rules, I’m afraid.”

Jacques laughed at Pierre’s insistence, stealing a quick glance at you to gauge your composure.

“Rum! Bring more rum!” Pierre shouted to no one in particular and clapped his hands as he led you both through his foyer and halls back to a cavernous smoking room that had been turned into something of a libidinous playground. Couches, chairs, and settees lined the walls, and a bed sat in the very center of the room. The room’s purpose was easily apparent.

Immediately upon entering the room, Pierre was engulfed by women. Three stark naked girls rushed him, pawing at his shirt and chest as they tried to pull him back to the bed. A fourth naked woman held two hefty bottles of rum. You stood rigid at Jacques’s side. The images of depravity that his warning had conjured in your mind were insufficient to steel you, but you could hardly offend a host in his own home.

“Catch up, my friend,” Pierre said to Jacques, who accepted the bottle the naked girl playfully shoved into his chest. She would have rubbed her naked length against him if Jacques hadn’t taken a step back. “Then you can help me tame these wanton creatures.” Pierre finished by smacking the bare ass of a blonde woman, instructing her to, “Be a good girl and go bend over that couch. Inspire my good friend to break free of this doldrum.”

“The drink is all I’ll be partaking of tonight,” Jacques said, raising the bottle in a cheers before taking a hearty swig. He brought his free hand to rest at the nape of your neck in a gesture that was both reassuring and proprietary, openly staking his claim on you for all to see.

“Just the one woman? I don’t believe it!” Pierre scoffed, wrapping his arms around the shoulders of two girls. The girl who had strutted across the room at Pierre’s instruction now bent over the back of a couch, her pink cunt on full display as she wiggled her hips from side to side invitingly. She was joined by an island beauty who rubbed the proffered girl’s plump ass suggestively. The women stared hungrily at Jacques, licking their lips and rubbing their thighs together. It was obvious they would prefer him to their current partner.

“This one’s a handful,” Jacques said of you, but his voice had grown hoarse as his eyes drifted to the presenting blonde.

“One woman?” Pierre repeated aghast. “This from a man who once singlehandedly deflowered an entire convent? Well, all the pretty penitents, that is.”

Beside Jacques, you tore your eyes away from the spectacle before you long enough to look up at him incredulously, raising your eyebrows.

“I mistook it for a brothel,” Jacques told you with a shrug and a laugh. “Honest mistake.”

Pierre returned his attention to you, appraising you more seriously as the pair of women writhed against his sides like cats in heat. “She is a delicacy for the eyes, I’ll grant you. She puts a bone in one’s britches, doesn’t she? But there must be some spirit hiding inside her too if she has caught your eye. Yet I have not heard a word from her.” He leaned closer to you and addressed you directly, “If I know Jacques, and I assure you I do, he does not fancy wallflowers.”

“Pierre, I’ve asked her – implored her, even – to be demure in your –” Jacques’s fumbled words were cut off by your strident retort.

“Futue te ipsum,” you told Pierre with a wicked smile, meeting his eyes brazenly. At your words, both Jacques and Pierre roared with laughter, Jacques’s hand tightening on your neck proudly.

“She doesn’t want for joie de vivre,” Jacques finished, shaking his head.

“I think I’m in love, too. I’ve never been insulted in Latin by anyone but you, Jacques!” Pierre turned away as he spoke, walking further into the room with the two women under his arms. “’Go fuck yourself!’ Well said for an evening such as this, madam.” Raising his voice, he spoke to you over his shoulder. “My next question to the lady who can curse in Latin is what in the hell do you see in a profligate pirate like old Jacques here? He’s a right salty bastard with no couth at all! Other than his legendary cock, what could he possibly offer a lady after the sun rises?”

“His legendary cock has yet to make an appearance for me,” you remarked, pointedly eyeing Jacques, making a playful show of evaluating him, and watching a pink blush tint his cheeks under your scrutiny. He tried and failed to hide from you the tent that was raised to half-mast in his trousers from the sights of the naked women. “Beyond that, I’m still deciding.”

“Well, in that case, allow me to assist in your evaluation,” Pierre said excitedly, turning back to face you from where he now stood by the bed, all too eager to put his friend through the ringer for your shared amusement. “Let’s play a game!”

Shaking his head, Jacques rolled his eyes as he tipped his head back, downing several large swallows of rum. “No, no,” he coughed out to Pierre, lowering his bottle. “No games. Your games all involve fucking, and I can’t play tonight. Perhaps, I will never be able to play your games again. Christ, you even fuck to celebrate a win and fuck to console yourself after a loss when we play chess! I told you, I won’t be partaking in any women tonight.”

“Tortuga is too small for subterfuge. I know why you’ve come and why you think you’re rushed,” Pierre said, taking a drink himself to keep pace with Jacques. “But, if you indulge me with a game tonight, a bit of sport between old friends, I assure you that by morning, as if by magic, you shall have a full crew. Deal?”

“You always do manage to keep abreast of the happenings around you,” Jacques laughed, shaking his head.

“Yes, I do always like to keep a breast,” Pierre quipped, reaching out to grope one of the woman’s tits beside him. “And yes, my spies are everywhere. Do we have a deal?”

“You have me over a barrel,” Jacques capitulated, holding his arms out in supplication. “But my legendary cock won’t be joining the party this evening. Not unless my lady requests the pleasure of his company.”

“Your lady,” Pierre mused, trying the phrase out on his tongue. By the look on his face, he found the terminology and the sentiment distasteful. “Come now, Jacques, the best games are those to be played with our cocks out.”

Jacques audibly and painfully groaned at the suggestion, knowing the torment that was coming his way. Oddly in your estimation, he looked to you as if silently asking for your guidance. As intriguing and undeniably attractive as he was, Jacques was certainly not your man. He was only, as he stated himself, playing the role for your protection. He had no reason to restrain himself on your account. As such, you refused to meet his eyes, looking instead at Pierre and his naked harem. Jacques was man enough to make his own decisions.

“Not tonight, my friend,” Jacques was adamant. “Not even for the promise of a full crew.”

“Ladies, a week’s wages to any of you who can entice my friend to let his cock join the party!” Pierre said to the gaggle of excited women, earning a round of eager simpers. Pierre stepped to Jacques, pulled his lavish red coat off his broad shoulders, and handed it to you. Jacques glared at him with no real vehemence. He looked terribly dashing in his black waist coat and matching trousers, his white shirt unlaced down his chest, candlelight shimmering on a light sheen of sweat beneath his shirt.

The fair blonde and the glowingly tan Caribbean woman started kissing and caressing each other, putting on a show that would entice the most resolute of men. They were as ardent as sirens in their attempt at seduction. All the women were all too keen to earn a week’s wages while also pleasuring the most handsome man any of them had ever seen.

Jacques stood like a monolith, waiting for Pierre to have his fill of torment and dismiss him. Less resilient was his cock, which was already painfully hard and straining against his trousers. He had given up trying to conceal it. Short of adjusting himself so that his erection was trapped under the waistband of his pants, which would look even lewder, he could not hide his arousal. It was utterly hopeless.

One of the women near Pierre, a redhead, left him and sauntered to the bed. With a coy look over her shoulder, she crawled onto the mattress, arching her back and sticking her ass up in the air, beckoning Jacques to plunge inside her. She whined wantonly, begging him to ease her suffering. Jacques groaned at the sight, but remained rooted to the spot beside you.

“Come now, Jacques! It’s cruel of you to deny these women a turn on that big cock of yours,” Pierre encouraged, moving closer to the bed to get a better view. Pierre always did like to watch Jacques in action. “Give us a show, my friend.”

Jacques was growing dizzy from the sights and sensations around him, or maybe just from the flagons of blood that had drained from his brain to hoist his aching cock so high. He could erupt after only a few quick thrusts into any interchangeable orifice of these disposable whores after all their teasing. He wondered if it was all in his head, his thoughts of you, what he hoped could be with you; if it was all just a fantasy he had conjured. This would surely be a wasted opportunity if he was wrong about you. But if there was a chance that he was right, he knew that touching one of these women would dash that hope forever and he would always be nothing more than a degenerate pirate in your eyes.

“Jacques, you know that a single woman can never please you,” Pierre leered, laughing as he smacked the redhead’s ass, making her body jiggle. “But I must say that I admire your resolve. I would not have expected it from you. Not while looking down the barrel of such temptation,” he petted the woman who was still on all fours displaying her wares for Jacques. “It is a quality that most recommends you.”

“Is it?” Jacques swallowed hard in obvious discomfort. “And here, I thought it was my extraordinary good looks.”

Pierre left the woman and moved uncomfortably close to Jacques, reaching his hand out to massage Jacques’s shoulder, while eyeing his swollen cock as hungrily as any of the women in the room. Leaning closer, he whispered in Jacques’s ear, too low for you to hear, “My friend, I will harass you no more. But tell me true, on your sworn oath, is this woman the treasure you’re seeking?”

“I didn’t know there could be such treasure until I saw her,” Jacques replied, ensuring his voice was loud enough for you to hear. “She’s more of a treasure than any jewels, silver, or gold.”

Pierre regarded his friend a moment longer with a mildly crestfallen lilt to his features before announcing, “Well ladies, it appears as though you have all been bested by a single, fully-clothed woman. Shameful. And she shall no doubt enjoy the fruits of your labor later once my friend has her locked in his cabin.”

Sighing with relief, Jacques ran his hand through his long hair. His chest and neck were flushed with feverish desire, and he tried anew to hide his massive erection from you as he retreated. It was laughably pointless of course, this escapade left little to your imagination. You smirked at him as he returned to you, making his embarrassment even more pronounced when you teasingly eyed him as lasciviously as any man had ever eyed a woman.

“The two of you are free to watch, free to join in, or free to be boring as hell and wait in my sitting room until I am finished,” Pierre called out as he climbed onto the bed, falling into the heap of women. “Then, we can discuss business.”

Jacques took his coat from you, holding it draped over his arm to conceal his tented pants. Taking your hand, he smiled almost bashfully down at you as he led you out of Pierre’s playroom, ensuring he closed the door firmly behind him.

“A lady with any decency to her at all would help ease my suffering,” Jacques leaned close to rumble in your ear, indicating his state of arousal, his eyes glimmering golden with mischief.

“Any decent lady would do no such thing,” you laughed, enjoying the opportunity to poke his disadvantage.

Bookshelves lined the walls in Pierre’s sitting room and comfortable chairs buttressed a long tufted couch in the room’s center. A grand desk made of Brazilian Red Rose sat against a wall near tall bay windows and a well-stocked bar. Jacques laid his jacket over the back of the couch, his erection finally diminishing.

“I wonder how many bare assed whores and prurient men have soiled the furniture,” you mused with a laugh, although you were not entirely joking. “I shall require a bath after sitting on anything in this house.”

“I would never expose you to such indecency, mademoiselle,” Jacques assured you with a mockingly stern expression. Before you could react, he dipped to hook his arm behind your knees and scoop you up into his arms. Laughing now, he spun twice with you, making you dizzy in the best of ways as he carried you like a bride toward a plush chair.

Lowering himself into the chair, he positioned you in his lap, one arm wrapped around your waist, cradling you tenderly, and his other draped over your legs where they hung over the armrest. Beneath your ass, you could still feel what remained of his arousal. It was no longer insistent, but was no doubt eager to grow for you again.

You turned to face him, ready to playfully scold him for his impropriety, but as your lips parted to do so, Jacques captured them in a kiss. Mewing in surprise, your heart raced at the feeling of his lips on yours, at once both soft and exhilarating. You reached to his neck, your nails digging into his skin, asking for more. You twisted your fingers into his long hair that fell around his shoulders and he groaned deliciously into your mouth. Jacques held you tighter, pulling you closer to him as he devoured your lips, kissing you with more passion than you had ever known. Every part of his body you touched was firm as iron, from his magnificent chest to his shoulders and arms. His hands were huge and warm on your body, and you could feel the strength in them, but his touch was a gentle caress. You knew he was tortured with lust for you and realized that even his restraint was a show of affection – he quite obviously wanted to ravage you like a wild animal. You thought how foolish you had been to think him disinterested due to his restraint during your voyage.

“Would you have a pirate, amour?” Jacques asked, breathlessly pulling back from your lips, his chest heaving, his hands tight where they gripped you. “Hear me say I’m in love with you.”

“I was adamantly taught to never look twice at a pirate. That of all the types of men in the world, the worst scoundrels of all to be avoided at all costs were pirates,” you replied quietly as the breath returned to your own lungs. “It is a value my father instilled in me since I was very young. And yet, here I sit in your embrace.”

“I’m afraid your father is right. I have little to recommend me and much to condemn me,” he admitted, chewing his lip. “Perhaps the best course for me is to help you rescue your father and then to sail away and out of your life. I’ve never known heartbreak, but for you I would embrace it as I embrace you now. I would suffer any pain to avoid bringing you shame. To avoid hurting you.”

“My father thought he was protecting me with his advice. He is a very good father to me and husband to my mother,” you continued, watching as Jacques’s features grew more crestfallen with every word you spoke. “He was also, himself, a pirate.”

Jacques’s eyes shot to yours at your statement, searching for any mockery or sign of a ruse. “Your father is the Governor of Port Royal?”

“He is. Now. Under the name he chose when he shaved his beard and retired from his life of piracy on the seas. But I wager you’ve heard of him by another name.” You smiled at the mixture of confusion and elation that passed behind Jacques’s eyes as you ran your fingers through his hair. “You have heard of Captain Samuel Bellamy, I presume? For my mother, he gave up his life of piracy by faking his death in a storm and undertook another course.”

“Surely, you jest, amour?” Jacques asked, shaking his head as your disclosure took root. “You are the daughter of Captain Sam Bellamy? Black Sam?”

“I am. And I thought I was the only person aside from my mother who knew his true identity,” you said, dipping in for another kiss before continuing. “But that must be why he was kidnapped. Another pirate must have found him out. My father knows the location of a treasure of immeasurable wealth. A cave of wonders containing a sea of gold.”

“Is that not just another overblown pirate legend?” Jacques asked before kissing your neck tenderly. “I have acquired many such rumors about myself.”

“I have seen it with my own eyes,” you assured him, smiling at the way his eyes alighted. “That is where I shall direct you when we sail tomorrow.”

“Is there enough treasure for a man to begin a new life with the woman he has searched a lifetime for?” Jacques met your eyes, imploring you to share the same desire that had overtaken his heart.

“I’d wager we can manage.” You smiled broadly, adding, “But I forbid you from cutting your hair or shaving your beard to look like less of a pirate.” You crashed your lips down against his again, kissing him deeply and wrapping your arms around his neck, pulling him tight.

You kissed and kissed until both your lips were swollen and jaws were sore. Jacques regarded you with a love-drunk smile and half-lidded eyes, exhausted from the events of late. He tucked your head under his chin to rest against his chest, allowing sleep to finally wash over both of you for what remained of the short night.

*******************************************************************************************

Pierre roused you both not long after you fell asleep in each other’s embrace. He wore a fine dress coat and had even donned pants, looking as refreshed as a man who had slept a week after entertaining his women for however long had passed. Jacques kissed your neck when he awoke and squeezed you tighter where you reclined in his lap. He stretched himself awake and you could feel every rigid muscle in his body tense and flex. His chest expanded enormously when he leaned back to pop the kinks out of his shoulders, and you noticed Pierre staring at him as hungrily as you.

“Captain Jacques Le Gris, fast asleep like a baby before the witching hour.” Pierre shook his head ruefully as Jacques rubbed the back of his neck. “Had I not seen evidence to the contrary earlier, I would think your new lady has already gelded you.”

“It’s not morning yet,” Jacques grumbled, looking out a darkened window with squinted eyes. “And we’ve established that I cannot galivant tonight. Why in the hell are you waking me before the dawn?”

“Instead of unsheathing that mighty ladykiller of yours, I have another way that you might trade favors with me.” Pierre plucked one of Jacques’s hands off your body and hauled him up to his feet, forcing you to stand also or be deposited onto the floor. “I have a score to settle with an old acquaintance of ours, and I think it might be more easily done with you as my second.”

“What is it? A duel?” Jacques pulled on his red coat, now fully awake. “I’ll happily run a man through so long as it’s only my sword you demand be raised in your service, but aren’t you a bit old and contended to be rousing duels?”

“It’s not a duel, it’s much worse!” Pierre looked genuinely stricken. “I was drunk and I lost a bet with terrible stakes. I lost a bet with her, Jacques.”

Jacques raised his eyebrows in question.

Pierre could barely utter the name that frightened him so. It came out as little more than a whisper, “It’s the Grey Lady, Jacques.”

“Morgan?” Jacques asked with the exact opposite response to Pierre. He clearly thought of the woman fondly whereas Pierre’s fear was apparent. “Why do you quail? Morgan is a lovely girl.”

“A lovely girl?” Pierre laughed sardonically. “She’s the furthest creature from a lovely girl that a man could imagine! She’s a witch, for Christsakes! And she’s over three hundred years old!”

“You can’t believe that rubbish,” Jacques laughed genuinely at his friend’s discomfort. “She may be a witch, but she’s quite a lovely one.”

“I believe she may have been a lovely girl a few centuries ago back in the days when knights jousted over fair maidens, before she began stealing men’s souls to keep herself young,” Pierre said seriously. “You only think well of her because you won her favor in the same way you won over hordes of other women. Isn’t she your longest-running favorite?”

Jacques silenced further inquiry in this vein with a dark glare. Before answering, he made a point of taking your hand, kissing it tenderly, and then keeping it held in a reassuring grip. “What business do you have with Morgan?”

“Well, you see, Jacques, I was drinking and I thought it was all in good fun.” Pierre wiped some nervous sweat off his brow. “But once I sobered, I think she has a rather more sinister intent. No woman can be trusted, but a witch! I think she put a spell on me even then! I am not prone to making such grievous mistakes while drinking.”

“If you drink down a rummy thief to steal your sense, that is hardly her fault,” Jacques laughed. “What is this terrible bet you lost?”

“The foul woman cannot just wager with coin, she always has to raise higher stakes,” Pierre ruminated, clearly disturbed. “We were playing an innocent little game of hazard and she raised me a marvelous potion that makes a man hard for hours – I’ve tried it before, and I can tell you it works like a marvel and you would love it, Jacques! To meet her bet, she demanded that I raise her something so odd that it can only be for witchcraft.”

“Which is?” Jacques prompted, amused.

“I am to report to her tonight, under the full moon, and allow her to pluck a dozen hairs from my nether regions.” Pierre shuddered. “She intends to curse me, I know it!”

Jacques burst into a deep belly laugh.

“It’s not funny, damn you!” Pierre crossed his arms petulantly. “I’ve been thinking that since the potion she wagered would make a man hard as steel, that the opposite would be to curse me to be a limp noodle!”

“To what end? Why would she exert any effort to curse you?” Jacques had tears in his eyes from laughter. “Has it not occurred to you that she knows you’re afraid of her and she is having a grand time toying with you?”

You squeezed Jacques’s hand and gave him a subtle bump. You looked at Pierre, fighting to keep a grave expression when you told him, “If she’s a witch, surely she can be hired to cast spells. How many women have you jilted who would want to hire a witch to curse you?”

Pierre visibly blanched.

Jacques nodded solemnly, pursing his lips. “You don’t suppose Morgan has somehow made contact with your wife?”

“Those sorts of wretched insinuations are not amusing in the slightest.” Pierre shook his head as if to keep any new worries from taking root in his mind. “I want you to accompany me tonight, Jacques. You will be my guard and ambassador. She likes you. If anyone alive can charm that devil’s harlot, it’s you.”

“I would love to meet a genuine witch,” you said to Jacques. It couldn’t be worse than watching an orgy unfold right in front of you.

Jacques now looked uneasy, chewing the inside of his cheek. “She might not love to meet you. Women are jealous creatures and, as my loose-lipped friend so generously informed you, I have a history with Morgan.”

“But you think it will cause no problems for you at all to run along without me to meet with a former lover?” you challenged heatedly. “That kiss we shared will be the last from me, I assure you! I am not a woman to be hidden nor –”

“I surrender, amour,” Jacques interrupted your scolding and kissed your hand again. “Where I go, you go. But please try to keep that tongue of yours from getting us all cursed.”

You glared at him a moment before asking, “Where do we find this Morgan?”

“That’s the good news!” Pierre clapped his hands. “She runs the best brothel in town!”

*******************************************************************************************

Despite the hour, the streets of Tortuga were still teaming with raucous activity that showed no signs of ebbing. Walking beside Pierre as he led you and Jacques back to the bawdiest part of town, it seemed as though every other woman knew one or both of the rogues. Whereas Jacques tried his best to ignore the women’s overtures, Pierre acknowledged each one with a vulgar salute or a profane term of endearment. Jacques’s hand rested on the small of your back as you walked, comfortably possessive. You couldn’t help but notice the way that simple act drew the attention of many onlookers and also of Pierre, who looked as sour over it as though you had stolen his favorite toy.

Loot & Plunder was the most profitable brothel in town. It occupied the grandest building on the street, three stories lined with widow’s walks and filled with prurient delights. Whatever proclivities its patrons may have, the Loot & Plunder could accommodate one and all. Nothing was too deviant nor too exotic for the brothel to service. It had whores of every shape, size, and sex from every corner of the world, including a few men who were every bit as beautiful and effeminate as the women, and a single ruggedly handsome man who was hailed as standing at stud for the ladies. Women came tailored to fit every male fantasy, and each one was instructed to sate every desire. No request would be denied inside the Loot & Plunder, provided a customer paid in advance.

The double entrance doors opened to welcome the three of you as soon as you reached the front porch steps. A spectacle that you were fast becoming accustomed to greeted you inside. Women flocked to Jacques like brightly plumed birds to seed. In various states of dress ranging from elegant to nearly nude, they flitted around him smiling and chirping excitedly. They paid mind to Pierre also, but they lavished Jacques. A very forward whore took your hand and tried to pull you away from Jacques as she reached for the laces on your bodice. You swatted her hand away annoyedly as Jacques snaked his arm around your waist, pulling you close to his side so you were not carried away in a tide of frills and perfume. Pierre had already seized two pretty whores and draped his arms over their shoulders. His choice was simple – the women who already had their dresses rolled down to their waists, exposing their breasts.

“We’re here to see the Madam,” Jacques said as he shrugged away from a few women.

The whores simpered some acknowledgement and one of them scurried away to find the owner. The main room of the brothel looked like a lush parlor outfitted with couches and tables and a bar at the back of the room. The air was redolent with perfume, body odor, incense and fornication. Whores outnumbered the customers three or more to one, and on every couch was splayed a pair or more of writhing bodies in various states of amorous repose. Sounds resonated from the upper story where even more adventurous pursuits were conducted. You spotted what must be the prime male whore – a tall and dashingly handsome man with long black hair, a shadow of stubble covering his strong jaw, and piratical tattoos decorating his powerful body. He leaned against a far wall in that attractively lazy stance that enticed women, his piercing green eyes met yours and his smile gleamed with several gold teeth. He was shirtless, his muscular body on display for potential customers, and his trousers were already unlaced for quick access. You couldn’t help but stare.

Jacques bristled beside you and puffed his chest to seemingly twice its normal size. He glared murderously at the man. His hold around your waist tightened and his free hand clenched into a fist. Jacques was taller and far larger, but the other man brazenly met Jacques’s eyes and then allowed his to roam over your body once again. It was clear that he would not be opposed to entertaining two paying customers at once. There was no doubt a market for lone bored unsatisfied wives, for men who liked to watch their woman with another, and for devil’s threesomes. The man must be well-practiced in all of these and more.

You glanced up at Jacques, who was gritting his teeth, and asked, “Don’t you find it ironic if not downright ridiculous that we’re in a brothel filled with half-naked women presenting for you, on a mission to see one of your former conquests, and it’s you who’s stricken green with jealousy?”

Jacques made only a non-committal grumble in response, his eyes locked furiously on the other man.

“Male whores are unnatural creatures,” Pierre remarked, looking at the vastly more handsome man with resentment. The man winked at Pierre and hooked a thumb in the already low waist of his pants, clearly enjoying the enmity.

A little strawberry blonde with fair skin and rosy cheeks pranced to Jacques and curtseyed awkwardly. “Madam Morgan will see you now in her private quarters.” The girl smiled knowingly. “She says you know the way.” She leaned forward, ensuring Jacques got a quality view of her cleavage. “Do you require anything else, Captain?”

“Yes.” Jacques affected a seductive tone and jerked a thumb in the direction of the man. “Keep that rotten bastard out of my sight.”

“Henry? He stays here in the parlor unless he’s been hired,” the girl simpered. “Helps keep the men in line and makes the women feel welcome, if you take my meaning.”

“I’m sure he does that,” Jacques gritted. He pulled you to the back of the room and up two flights of stairs to the uppermost story. Pierre, who had been distracted by his pair of women, hurried after Jacques. He looked longingly over his shoulder at the girls he left behind as he reluctantly climbed the stairs.

Most of the third story was Morgan’s private domain. As the owner and Madam, she was not for hire and entertained only those men who piqued her interest, who were a rare breed, or touched her heart, who were few enough to be counted on a single hand. Jacques didn’t bother knocking on the closed door to Morgan’s chambers before entering. Her inner sanctum looked like the lair of a refined and feminine witch. It was luxuriously appointed and filled with treasures. A bookcase lined a wall, overfull with leather volumes and scrolls. Set against another wall was a writing desk that had been converted into what could only be an altar, littered with objects and trinkets and shimmering crystals and geodes. A gilded mirror was set above it, reflecting the soft candlelight that danced from a dozen candles throughout the room. The air was filled with spices and a warm sultry breeze wafted in through an open window framed by billowing royal purple drapes. A large and indulgently upholstered bed set near the window. A glossy black cat lay in its center, eyeing you contemptuously through narrowed orange eyes.

The woman who could only be Morgan straightened from lighting a candle on her nightstand and turned to face you with an unhurried feline nonchalance. She was as tall as a tall man, standing nearly as tall as Jacques, and her figure was exquisite with full breasts and a tiny nipped waist. Her thick hair fell to her hips and shimmered in the candlelight in lustrous silvery shades of carbon and charcoal like the coat of a silver fox. Her eyes were such a pale shade of blue-grey as to be nearly crystalline, like spume on an arctic wave, and her skin was pristine ivory. She was beautiful for any woman, but especially so for a woman who had to be in her fifties. Or, if the legends were true, well over three-hundred. She must have been a truly magnificent beauty in her prime, easily the most striking woman you had ever seen. It was no wonder she had been mythologized. Perhaps, she truly was a witch. Seeing her in the flesh, it seemed a far less outlandish claim than you had initially thought.

“Captain Jacques, how I’ve missed you,” she purred in a low and husky voice, sashaying like a panther up to the three of you as the ice in her eyes evaluated you in particular with a harsh glint. She removed her gaze from you and ignored Pierre entirely, beyond a dismissive gesture toward you both. “You know how I detest stowaways.”

“I’m here on business, Morgan.” Jacques cleared his throat uncomfortably. “And Pierre’s business, not mine, at that.”

“How boring of you.” She narrowed her eyes like those of her cat. “You’ve never bored me before.”

Pierre stepped forward. “It’s concerning that usurious ante you forced out of me during our game of late. A game that I thought was between friends.”

Her gaze didn’t so much as flit to Pierre, so intently was she looking into Jacques’s eyes. Then, as though a strange scent had met her nose, her eyes jerked to you. She cocked her head curiously as she took you in fully. Her frosty stare was direct and unnerving. Still looking at you, she spoke to Jacques, “Although you’ve long thought yourself immune to Cupid’s arrow, for years I have foreseen that one day you would be stolen from me by a woman whose beauty surpasses my own. A rarity, indeed. But I wonder if it is her great beauty that has entrapped you, or if you scent the blood of a pirate that flows through her veins.”

Your eyes widened and your mouth opened in outrage at her so flippantly airing your deepest secret. A secret that she couldn’t possibly know. Jacques’s hand tightened on your waist, staying your tongue.

“Oh dear, that wasn’t a secret, was it?” Morgan asked cattily, her eyes flashing like lightning. “No one keeps secrets from the Grey Lady. Not even the coordinates of the island whose cove is shaped like the gaping mouth of a skull, where Black Sam’s treasure cave lies, is secret from me. Captain Bellamy would never have navigated his way through its treacherous reef with shoals like the teeth of a beast without otherworldly help.”

You inhaled sharply and Pierre looked at you with amazement and newfound respect. Jacques alone remained composed, no doubt inured to her unnatural knowledge and unnerving ways.

“You are fortunate that I was fond of your father,” Morgan told you icily. “Nearly as fond as I am of Captain Jacques.”

Jacques wanted to avoid this route of conversation at all costs. He deepened his voice to a commanding tone, “How may I settle Pierre’s debt to you?”

“You cannot,” Morgan dismissed him, her attention remaining focused on you. “Has he seduced you yet? Taken you?” She read the tells on your face with a smirk. “How bizarre that he has not.” She laughed, enjoying your discomfort and Jacques’s rising anger. “When he does, you must insist that he dive for your pearl. It is one of his finer talents, and a rare talent indeed for a man so impressively endowed with such a weighty anchor.”

“Whatever reaction you expect from me,” you told her coolly, “you are poised to be disappointed. I am not prone to fear or embarrassment, nor susceptible to intimidation.”

“I only wish to warn you of the path that lies before you, for it is dark and full of peril,” she replied innocently. “More good women have been lost to unworthy men than to famine and war combined. You have spirit, my dear. Many a man will seek to crush it under his boot, rein you in like a prized horse. And to bear the privilege of childbirth on top of it all! I advise it not! To spawn a brood of whining, snotty vermin to tug on your skirts and squeal for attention. Should you be so lucky as to survive the birth.” She stepped closer to you, her tone serious and her eyes frigid. “You are living the best years of your life. Are you sure you want to squander your youth and beauty on a pirate? Or on any man?”

“I take note that you speak in generalities, Madam. Odd for a witch who claims to see the future.” You smiled just as frostily. “I take from your vagueness that this is not my fate.”

Morgan’s lips twitched in what could have been either a genuine smile or a sneer, and she turned to Jacques. “And you, Captain Jacques, do you wish to play Antony to this Cleopatra, Lancelot to this Guinevere? Lust has been the undoing of the mightiest men, leading to their ruination and despair.”

“I am no Antony or Lancelot.” Jacques ran his hand up your back to rest on the nape of your neck. “I am Hades, a man who has scented the bloom of roses and felt the warmth of sunlight for the first time. A man who has been gifted with a lady he doesn’t deserve. Like Hades, I will revere my Queen.”

“I have witnessed many great tragedies in my long life,” Morgan said and for the first time dropped her eyes to the floor. “The end of such a mythic figure as Captain Jacques Le Gris is certainly one of them. You were to sail free upon the oceans with no mistress but the sea, riding the tide of women’s tears but never being pulled under by any one of them. I never tried to tame you, no more than I would want to domesticate a wolf, for a man such as you should be left as a wild thing. My vision of your future is one I am saddened to see now come to pass. You could have been as glorious as Achilles, as mighty as Alexander. But now, I fear you will fade into the oblivion of contentment.”

“Both of those glorious and mighty men died young,” you accurately observed.

“There is only one way to achieve immortality,” Morgan replied. “And that is through the glory of one’s life being celebrated throughout the ages.”

“What of my future, then? What do you foresee now?” Jacques asked her. It was apparent this had been a topic between them in past discussions. He stroked your neck and modified, “What of our future?”

She shrugged, disheartened. “The choice is still before you. You may choose a life of glory or you may choose a life of contentment. If you choose glory, your story will echo throughout the ages but you will have no lasting love. If you choose contentment, you will have love and happiness in this life, but when you are dead and those who remember you are dead, you will fade into nothingness and your story will be forgotten.”

“Since I’m not making that choice tonight, tell me how I might settle Pierre’s debt,” Jacques asked with an edge of frustration. Dawn approached, and he still had no crew for the Belle Dame.

“I will waive his debt.” Morgan waved her hand contemptuously. “It was not so much a debt as a favor to a mutual friend whose company I find amusing. He comes so often to buy my tumescent potion, I was going to cast a spell on his languid cock so that it might hoist itself more readily. Since he distrusts me so, I won’t bother.”

“What?” Pierre flinched as though he had been slapped and the color drained from his face. “Can you do that? Cast such a spell? Do it, woman! I will pay you anything! I beg you.”

“That opportunity is passed, and my favors are never for sale,” Morgan said with glacial satisfaction. She walked to her witch’s altar and appraised the items set about its surface. Pierre tried to follow, but Jacques elbowed him back behind him, ending any further entreats. Morgan retrieved something and returned to stand before Jacques. But she looked at you.

“Witchcraft sees good deeds rewarded and bad deeds punished, and so I am bound by those natural rules,” she told you with significance. “Many years ago, Black Sam saved me from being burnt at the stake by a mob in Edinburgh. I will call ill fortune down upon myself if I do not repay that kindness.” She handed you an amethyst sphere large enough to fill your palm. “A woman who possesses the sight can recognize it in another. Gaze into this ball and think of any question that vexes you or problem that troubles you and the solution will come into your mind.” She turned to Jacques and held up a gold chain with a large golden medallion hanging from it. The medallion had a skull and crossbones crudely embossed onto its glimmering surface. She looped the chain over his head and put the medallion under his shirt so it rested against the skin of his chest. “Aztec gold from the days of ancient gods and human sacrifices. Spirits cling to it, I can feel them, but they are benevolent. It will bring you luck. Wear it always.”

Morgan looked at Jacques longingly, wanting him to say something else to her. But Jacques merely thanked her graciously and gave her one of his resplendent bows.

“Bonne chance and bon voyage,” Morgan told him stoically and turned her back on your group to walk to her window, dismissing you. Outside, the sky had lightened from black to navy.

*******************************************************************************************

In the last hour before sunrise and after much assurance that a crew was no trouble for him to arrange, Pierre hosted you both for breakfast in his mansion. He saw to it that you and Jacques were both fed to the point of discomfort and joked with you about the extraordinary quantities of food Jacques could consume. After breakfast, Pierre walked with you both back to the Belle Dame. In the early morning when the sky was still swirled in soft blues and pinks, the town was finally becoming subdued. Most of its citizens were now either passed out or feeling the effects of their evening.

Upon reaching the Belle Dame, you found her alive with a full crew of seventy-five men, every hand of which busied himself with the many tasks to complete before setting sail.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Jacques told Pierre with an appreciative whistle.

“My resources are at your disposal, my friend,” Pierre replied, clapping Jacques on the back.

“Join us,” Jacques returned, turning to face him. “I am bringing a woman of my own aboard, so we shall already have the bad luck that comes with her. Bring your selection of women and join me. It has been too long since we sailed together.”

“No, no. Too far. Too hot.” Pierre shook his head dismissively. “I’ll stay here and fuck women of my own. But not to worry, I shall think of you fondly while I am fucking all the women you no longer can.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to soldier on through droves of women without me from here on. Fight the good fight for both of us.” Jacques grinned at you before continuing to address Pierre. “Whereas you are retired from piracy, I am newly retired from whoring.”

“And the angels wept on high,” Pierre said with affected solemnity. “There is another matter before you depart. Do you know the man after whom you’re chasing?”

“No, but I know where he’s headed,” Jacques replied, shaking his head. “The man himself hardly matters. He’ll find my blade in his gullet soon enough.”

“I think it will matter to you.” Pierre paused, fixing Jacques with a serious expression. “It’s your former mutinous first mate, Jean Carroughes.”

At the news, Jacques’s face darkened, his jaw clenched tight and brow knotted.

Pierre turned to you, offering an explanation, “Jacques saved the foul man’s life in battle and was even godfather to his son. But Carroughes is very stupid and driven by instinct alone, like most other forms of livestock. He was jealous of Jacques and the wealth he plundered, and perhaps also of his hair.” Pierre paused to laugh, his humor failing to infect Jacques in this instance. “Carroughes made the mistake of trapping an unfortunate woman into marrying him. When she could no longer stand it, she left him of her own accord, and ran to seek comfort from Captain Jacques here. You have seen the way pretty women flock to him and his weakness for them. Carroughes has sought vengeance ever since and has spread the most malicious lies about Jacques to anyone who will listen to his hokum.”

“His lies are now to be short-lived,” Jacques declared with conviction, standing tall and squaring his shoulders. “I’ll have him run through within a fortnight.”

Pierre took Jacques’s hand and shook it heartily. He gave him the piratical toast they had shared often over the years, “Never shall we die, my friend.”

“Never shall we die,” Jacques echoed.

*******************************************************************************************

Sailing away from Tortuga as the sun rose in a burst of crimson and gold, Jacques stood at the helm, resting one of his large hands on the ship’s wheel. His long hair and open red coat blew in the breeze. The white shirt he wore beneath was partially undone, displaying the cleft of his chest and the shining gold medallion that lay upon it. A rakish grin curled his lips when he caught your eye from where you leaned against the railing, watching him. You knew now that when he pulled you close, kissed your hand, and reached to caress your cheek that it wasn’t merely some cocky flirtation but that his emotions ran as deep as the sea. And just as a compass needle seeks true north, his heart was set on you.

*******************************************************************************************

Had Commodore Tavington’s attention been more keenly focused through the lens of his spyglass, he may have seen the faint outline of the Belle Dame’s sails as she crested the far Eastern horizon. But she was lost from even the sharpest unaided eye in the blinding glare of the mid-morning sun and the mirages that danced on the already rippling ocean at the far reach of sight. Rage narrowed the Commodore’s vision to the ships that filled the bay of Tortuga, scrutinizing each in turn before dismissing them all as merchants or nondescript pirates who, for today only, were beneath his interest.

“Should there be the slightest sign of aggression, or even just bad manners, sink every ship in the harbor and destroy every man and structure on the waterfront,” Tavington commanded his men brusquely when they weighed anchor broadside in the bay. Every culverin was run out, every musket was held at the ready, and the English colors flew high. No man ashore or in any ship within view would mistake the bold show of military aggression. Tavington’s ship, Cerberus, was just as renowned as the Belle Dame and the Commodore as formidable as her Captain. At the sight of Cerberus’s attitude and with no other prompting, two white flags rose up the masts of two small pirate ships in the harbor.

Tavington retied the leather strap that held his thick black ponytail, ensuring no stray strand of hair blew in the salty air, and boarded a long boat with ten of his most imposing men. He stood tall at the prow in his impeccable uniform as he was rowed to shore. His show of confident disdain while vulnerable in an open long boat in the hostile waters of a hostile town served to disarm his enemy onlookers all the more.

The crowded streets parted for the English officers whose foreboding cut through the thickest haze of drunkenness. It had been years since most of the inhabitants of Tortuga had seen a soldier. Avoiding the military was the primary reason most of those who lived in Tortuga did so. It was a town that was seen as not worth the trouble or the manpower to rein in under the Crown’s control.

Tavington snatched a relatively clean and sober looking young man by the collar, shaking him so roughly he nearly yanked him off his feet as he snarled, “Do you know the pirate Jacques Le Gris? When did you last lay eyes on him?”

“He – he went to the Loot & Plunder, sir,” the terrified boy stuttered. “He goes there every time he passes through.”

“I see,” Tavington sneered. “What sort of establishment is this Loot & Plunder?”

“A whorehouse, sir, and owned by a witch.” The boy looked more surprised that the Commodore didn’t know this famous business than he was afraid.

“Charming.” Tavington smiled coldly and shoved the boy away. “And fitting.”

“It’s the witch he sees there, sir. She’s his mistress,” the boy added after regaining his balance, happy to have pleased the Commodore enough to be out of his sights.

“You don’t say?” Tavington’s eyes widened with interest. He straightened his coat and strode on to the Loot & Plunder.

Word of the small regiment of English soldiers spread through the town faster than pox through a brothel and soon the soldiers had acquired a wake of onlookers, eager to be the lucky man or woman to see firsthand whatever havoc they were bound to wreak. In addition to the morbidly curious onlookers, those hostile to the Crown were also drawn out. Numbers breed courage, and before the regiment had reached the doors of the whorehouse, the atmosphere had grown thick with a palpable malice.

When Tavington turned from the street to lead his men into the Loot & Plunder, a welcoming party of fearsome looking men awaited them at the base of the porch steps. Three men stood in guard or ambush, looking belligerently at the soldiers and especially their leader. Two other men guarded the doorway at the top of the short stairs. The foremost man and the clear leader was an enormous brute with the physique of a draft horse and a bald head that would be at home on Easter Island. He held a cudgel as long as a man’s leg with a bulbous knotted end. He thumped it threateningly into the palm of his free hand, smiling with teeth that alternated between gold and black. Two men of regularly large size flanked him, each holding a drawn cutlass at the ready.

“You’d best turn around, laddie,” the brute said to Tavington with a gruff Scottish accent and a mocking smile. He thumped the cudgel in his hand again and stepped forward aggressively, standing a hand taller than the Commodore. “A bonny laddie in a bonny uniform could get himself hurt in a bad place like this with bad men like me.”

“He’s right pretty, he is,” the man on the right added in Cockney, pointing at Tavington with his cutlass. “Maybe he’s just here looking for work inside. Loot & Plunder can always use more pretty whores, it can.”

The opposite man, a gaunt spectral figure, spat a glob of yellow phlegm at the Commodore’s boot.

“Every lot of miscreants needs a conversationalist.” Tavington’s tone was scathingly cordial but his eyes flashed with a deathly chill, signs that should have sent the men fleeing.

While the men had blustered, Tavington assessed them with his sword still sheathed. He instantly deduced the biggest man would be the slowest. Not because of his great and boorish size, which could be deceptive, but because of his ungainly weapon. Hercules himself could not swing a top-heavy cudgel as fast as an average man could slash a sword. The cudgel’s strength was in raw stopping power, even a glancing blow would shatter bone and cripple a man whereas the same from a cutlass would be no more than a scratch.

Without warning, Tavington feinted at the center brute, leaning forward and drawing his sword. The brute took the bait, swinging his cudgel with all his strength, but Tavington bobbed aside like a bird and thrust the point of his sword into the Cockney’s throat, killing him instantly. The tip of his sword wedged in the cervical vertebrae, coming free with a moist crunch when Tavington wrenched it sideways. He followed his momentum, continuing his strike to meet the brute who had reversed his cudgel into a backswing to catch Tavington in the temple. Tavington blocked the brute’s thick hairy arms with his blade above the elbow, slicing through his tricep. He threw his body into his cut and sliced the blade upwards from the man’s mangled arm to his throat. At the last moment, the brute ducked his chin to protect his neck, but it was to no avail. Tavington’s sword caught him on the chin and then hooked in his lip, slashing his face open like a joker’s smile. Tavington followed through and cleaved the top of the brute’s head off, splattering blood and sputum high as though a watermelon had burst on the cobblestones. The third man, the spitter, stood dumbstruck, not even blocking the quick thrust that Tavington plunged into his solar plexus. His last words were in the form of a plume of frothy blood erupting from his mouth when the sword ran through his diaphragm and skewered his lungs.

The three men lay dead and twitching in a growing pool of blood, the final man still gurgled feebly. Tavington’s soldiers had their muskets trained on the remaining two men at the top of the stairs. They thought better of pretending to be brave, dropped their weapons, and scurried away like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Tavington knelt to wipe his bloody sword clean on the dying man, meeting his cloudy eyes with a satisfied smirk. He stood, sheathed his sword, nattily straightened his uniform, and walked calmly and straight into the Loot & Plunder.

There was no hour of the day when the Loot and Plunder was devoid of customers, but mornings were always the slowest. Those whores who were not otherwise engaged were busy cleaning and tidying up before the nocturnal festivities began again. It was the plainer and older women who shouldered most of the cleaning duties, those specimens whose wares were in less demand than their younger and prettier counterparts. Henry often retired to his room after exhausting customers and finishing his nighttime vigil after sunrise. When Tavington entered the front parlor of the whorehouse it was occupied by only three women, armed with dirty cleaning rags. Half of his men remained stationed outside on the porch, ensuring that no do-gooders tried to interfere in the Commodore’s business.

“Who’s the proprietor of this upstanding establishment?” Tavington asked condescendingly, looking down his nose. The women exchanged looks between themselves, but none answered. Tavington walked further inside, his nose wrinkling like he scented carrion. He fixed his ominous gaze on the closest whore and rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “Should you continue to keep me waiting, I’ll pass the time by splitting one of you wide open, and it won’t be my prick that I’ll use.”

Taking another step forward, Tavington began to slowly draw his sword. His eyes immediately caught the movement of the statuesque woman who appeared at the top of the staircase.

“Any man who spills the blood of my girls never again leaves this place,” Morgan told him in a calm low voice that carried easily through the front parlor.

“Confessing to murder in front of an officer, are you?” Tavington sneered.

“Hardly.” Morgan unhurriedly descended the stairs, her long pointed fingernails caressing the banister. “Nor will you find any bodies here. The sharks in these waters are ravenous.”

“Rest assured, madam, the most fearsome monsters here today do not swim in the sea.” Tavington smiled as dangerously as any shark.

“On that, we agree.” Morgan affected just as ominous a demeanor, the air all but crackling around her like lightning around the grey thundercloud of her person. She stopped on the last step above the floor, remaining a full head taller than the Commodore. “Did you earn such a distinguished rank by intimidating unarmed ladies?”

“I see no ladies here. Whores do not warrant that distinction from me,” he replied snidely, letting his eyes linger on all the best parts of her body. It was an unjust travesty that the pirate had laid claim to this magnificent woman too. He affected a sultry, genteel lilt to his voice that was more disturbing than any menace, “But I see you are a queen among whores, madam. I can only assume that means you are the favored whore of the pirate Le Gris.”

“There is less point in debating a swine than there is in reasoning with a drunkard,” Morgan replied, unbothered.

“He has made whores of finer women than yourself,” Tavington continued. The woman’s grey eyes were unblinking upon his, and he found it difficult to hold them. The thought of the Governor’s daughter who was to be his bride bolstered him. The thought of making her watch while he gutted Le Gris, so that she might know the pain of watching the object of her affection die miserably, just as the vision of his future wife had been slain before his eyes. “Wouldn’t you like to see his new whore -- the woman who has no doubt replaced you as his favorite conquest – brought to justice?”

“You mean that all I must do is align myself with you and you will facilitate Jacques’s return to my arms?” Morgan simpered with a sardonic bat of her eyelashes. “Of all the devils with whom I have made pacts, none have been so vapidly transparent.”

“No, I am unlike the other devils you have known.” He smiled handsomely and cruel. “I’m much much worse. Do you care to find out just how much worse, madam?”

“We hold a similar rank, Commodore,” Morgan laughed contemptuously. “My reputation is more illustrious than yours, sir. Do you wish to find out just how terrible a witch is the Grey Lady?”

“I’d wager cold steel against any incantation you may utter.” Tavington drew his sword enough to let its blade glint in the light above the sheath. “Your loyalty is commendable, madam, but misplaced. Loyalty to a man who offered you none? A man who betrays your heart even now with another woman?”

“Let me consider your gracious proposal.” Mogan gave a silted curtsy. “You and your fine gentlemen may sate your appetites in all their forms throughout the day, on the house of course, and you and I shall discuss terms over a private dinner.”

“Your reputation does not disappoint,” he said almost fondly. “Distract my men and I with the delights of the flesh while the pirate lengthens his lead on me. You will not bewitch me into delaying, nor will you find me inclined to bargain. My terms are quite simple. I will reward your assistance and vehemently punish your obstruction.” He paused, seeing the truth of his words resonate with the shrewd woman. “Just as your whores are no ladies, my men and I are no gentlemen. That should worry you.”

“I have seen little in this world that worries me,” Morgan spat, her emotion betraying her weakening resolve. “Little men, drunk on power, secretly afraid the world will find out how small their penises are, have never worried me.”

“Ah, but you are worried, madam.” Tavington saw the chink in her armor and pressed his advantage. “Perhaps not of me, although you should be. But because you are smart enough to know what I represent. I am now only one man with one ship. But as a Commodore and an English officer, you know very well that I could raise a manhunt after the pirate the likes of which he has never known. After all, he has kidnapped and defiled an upstanding lady. I can raise a fleet to scour the oceans for him. You know he cannot escape such a widely flung net without running to the far and uncivilized ends of the earth. Do you think he will take his new lady to such barbaric lands of safe harbor? She makes him weak, and you know it as well as I do.”

Morgan’s shoulders slumped imperceptibly. The vile man was entirely correct and had assessed the situation with a tactician’s eye. Not even Jacques could defeat an armada nor hide from a nation on the hunt. Not without venturing into the far corners of the world outside the reach of the British Empire, and he would not take his woman into such strange tides. The Jacques she knew would fight with the courage and valor of many fallen heroes. He would fight until his last breath, and he would take it in the arms of the woman he had chosen for his own.

At least against one ship, Jacques had a chance. He had triumphed over worse in his day. One ship and one crew, pitted against Jacques and his crew of rough men were fair odds and better than Jacques facing down the full might of the British navy. And there was one unknown variable that worked to Jacques’s advantage, or rather, to the Commodore’s disadvantage. Tavington did not anticipate encountering two pirate ships when he caught up with Jacques. Jacques was in pursuit of the loathsome pirate Carroughes. Although the two pirates were mortal enemies, they were both enemies of the Crown and would both fight Tavington tooth and claw. She also needn’t warn the Commodore of the vicious fanged reef that tore the bellies out of ships who sought the island’s cursed treasure. The best chance for Jacques was to capitalize on the Commodore’s hatred and emotion now while his blood boiled and send him after Jacques and the additional surprise pirate ship. In her sharp mind, Morgan calculated all this in the span of the heavy, resigned sigh she breathed.

“Come with me, Commodore.” Morgan turned to ascend the stairs and return to her private rooms. “I will instruct you on how to find the island to which Captain Jacques sails now.”

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The Governor of Port Royal, the man known in another life as the pirate Captain Samuel Bellamy, knew well the dangers that lurked in the far corners of the world and even in those that were considered the most civilized. He had seen all the ugliness and malice the world had to offer, from humans selling their fellows on the slaver’s block to the raping and mutilating of women to the prolonged torture and dismemberment of condemned men on the gibbet. The world was a terrible place filled with monstrous people, and it did not favor the fragile or the cloistered.

He had no children other than his only daughter, a daughter he did not want to raise to be prone to weakness nor be at the mercy of whatever man happened to be close at hand. He could do nothing to change the limitations placed upon her by society, but he could certainly teach her to handle a sword and a pistol, to think and act with reason, and to be as fine a navigator as any captain at sea.

At an age when most little girls were playing with dolls, you played with whittled toy ships and figurines of horses and a little wooden sword. While other girls spent time doodling with pencils and paints, your father had you tracing trade routes on maps like a game of connect the dots, playing games that taught you the names of all the islands in the Spanish Main, and drawing sea monsters off the Fever Coast of Africa. Every time he took to sea, no matter the length of the voyage, he would take you along. When you were old enough to make navigational calculations yourself, you and he would pit your results against one another with a prize to the winner. A compass was child’s play to you by the time you were a young woman, and you could use an octant, a diptych dial, and an astrolabe, in addition to calculating longitude.

Twice as a child, he made a game of having you navigate your way to a set of fantasy coordinates he had given you. It was made even more fun and memorable when these coordinates led to a tiny island with a jagged crescent-shaped bay that resembled the gaping maw of a skull. The island had two inland craters from ancient long-dead volcanoes that made the eyes of the eerie skull form. The bay was populated with spires of rock like monstrous fangs that protruded from the sea at low tide. Hidden at high tide, they were tantamount to boobytraps waiting to rip the bellies out of ships that dared sail over them. Two towering rock sentries buttressed the only safe harbor, a deep lagoon near the shore. They stood like two tall queens on a chessboard.

It had been a wonderful adventure for a child who thirsted for exactly that, and the memory was branded in your mind. He had made the journey with you once more as a young woman, again making you locate the island from the coordinates you had memorized in years before. It was then he told you of the island’s significance along with his true identity. Then he showed you how to find the cave of wonders that the island held. So much gold and jewels filled the sprawling cavern that the light from a single torch would sparkle and glitter off treasure for as far as the eye could see. That treasure was his legacy to you.

“The queens are the most powerful pieces on the chessboard,” your father told you. His double meaning had only become clear to you in later years. “They will end a man who makes the wrong move.” He had instilled in you that the right move on this watery chessboard was Queen’s bishop to king rook’s eight. It meant that one must steer the wheel not to the center, as would be the natural course, but to sail headlong toward the righthand queen, as if suicide was the best option. The current would seize a ship and throw it against the opposite rocks to burst apart like a child’s toy if the rudder and wheel weren’t already fighting against the current and angling the ship in the opposite direction. With the corrected bearing, a ship would pass safely between the warring queens into the cerulean harbor they guarded.

On a brisk wind with the Belle Dame surging gamely ahead, her sails full and taught, you gave Jacques the bearing on which to set course and the coordinates to the island. Despite his rolling eyes, you made him recite the dangers back to you twice over. Then, you made him swear an oath that he would call you to the helm no matter the hour of the day or night when the island came into view so that you could help navigate the deadly approach into the bay.

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As the sun set fiery orange in the West, Jacques caught your eye and beckoned you over to join him where he stood behind the ship’s wheel. Without waiting for you to close the distance completely, he snatched your hand, yanking you playfully to him. He spun you in his arms so that your back was pressed to his chest, holding you from behind as you faced the ship’s wheel. He guided your hands to take the wheel before dipping his head to place a searing kiss on your neck. His left hand closed over yours on the smooth wooden spoke, completely engulfing your hand in his, while his right splayed across your belly, holding you close. He bent over you so that his beard brushed against your cheek, he inhaled your scent deeply and sighed at the softness of your skin. Deepening his voice with import, he whispered in your ear, “My ship is in your hands, ma belle, as is her Captain. Be warned that neither of us has ever sailed under such a delicate hand as yours.”

Around you, the crew watched, mostly astonished, that Jacques would let any woman handle his ship. With a full crew, you realized that you now would be sharing the captain’s cabin with Jacques instead of having it to yourself in shifts. The thought excited you. You leaned back against him, feeling the strength in his large body where it pressed against yours. You tilted your head back to smile up at him.

“Do you like having a pretty woman to show off?” you asked teasingly, aware that with how close he held you, your ass was rubbing against him in time with the rocking of the ship.

“The way you’re looking at me now with those eyes and that smile is a sight I want to remember forever.” Jacques kissed the shell of your ear. Grinding his hips into you, his goatee scratched your skin when his lips moved to growl deeper, “I want the world to see how I make you smile. And how good I can make you feel in all other ways.”

Droplets of spray from the sea kissed both your faces, the salty breeze fingered through your hair and tossed Jacques’s mane. He drew you impossibly closer, all but enfolding himself around you. There was an unspoken question in his aurous eyes and in the way he held you, with his body pressed hard against you but his hands still positioned chastely. You lay your hand over his that rested on your belly and interlaced your fingers, wordlessly answering his question as he hoped you would. Jacques straightened to stand tall and proud at your back. A pink flush bloomed on his chest and cheeks from a mixture of pride and gratitude, and an almost overwhelming anticipation.

A man pointedly clearing his throat demanded your attention. The short, portly man announced to Jacques, “Dinner is served, Captain.”

Releasing his hold around you, Jacques gave you a flourished bow, removing his hat and dipping low before you, making a grand show for you.

“I hope you’re hungry, mademoiselle,” he told you as he straightened. Taking your hand, Jacques left the helm in One-Eyed Bart’s command and led you down the stairs from the highest deck and into his cabin below it.

Inside the captain’s cabin, the dinner table was laden with delicacies. Pierre had indeed seen that Jacques’s ship was well stocked and victualed. For the few days that the food remained unspoiled, you would eat like royalty, and afterward the ship was well stocked with salted meat and biscuits that would keep for weeks. Looking at the bounty spread across the table, you noticed a theme with the food Pierre had supplied. Amid the customary breads and cheeses were figs, chocolates, pomegranates, and centered in the table was a large silver platter, piled deep with dozens and dozens of fresh oysters – all foods known to bolster romantic inclination. Decadent wine filling two glasses and a tall bottle completed the assortment.

“Do you need the help of oysters and wine to feel amorous around me?” you teased, raising a playfully judgmental eyebrow, as Jacques led you to the table.

“Certainly not, ma belle amour,” he told you, removing his hat and tossing it across the room to land on an armchair. “I am fond of wine and oysters for their own merit. Never trust a man who does not savor the way an oyster’s silky flesh feels on his tongue and the way its juices fill his mouth.”

Before you took your seat, he reached over you, retrieving an oyster from the tray. Locking his eyes on yours, he raised the half-shell to his lips, curling his tongue out to caress the glistening meat before sucking it into his mouth. He closed his eyes at the salty taste, groaning low in pleasure as he relished it before swallowing.

“Exquisite,’ he told you, nodding his head in approval and grinning wickedly. “Although far from the finest delicacy at the table.”

Jacques pulled your chair out for you, immediately to the right of his seat at the head of the table. Like a proper gentleman, he held your chair for you as you took your seat, pushing it back in beneath you. He grabbed two more oysters before lowering himself into his own chair. Leaning toward you over the table, he handed you one of the oysters.

“To an evening of savoring many delights,” he said with a wicked grin, clinking the shell of his oyster to yours like he would a wine glass. He again held your gaze as he made a show of slowly and luxuriously sucking the oyster out of its shell and letting it slip down his throat. After you downed your own oyster and discarded the empty shell, he took your hand. Raising your fingers to his lips, he deliberately kissed the oyster essence off your fingertips, sending a rash of goosebumps down your spine.

“I’m not sure you could ever please me as much as chocolate and wine,” you replied coyly, teasing him further by stealing your hand away to raise your glass for a sip.

“A tough customer, I see.” Jacques took a drink of wine himself, regarding you over the rim of his glass the way a wolf watches a doe before giving chase. “You’ll find that I am game for any challenge, cherie.”

Now that you were both in acknowledgement of your mutual attraction and the desire to pursue that attraction however far it may lead, treating one another fully as a man and woman, Jacques spared no effort in charming you. Now that he did not have to worry about causing you fright or offense, he could show you how he had garnered such a salacious reputation of seducing women.  Although, where before such pursuits had been tantamount to a game for Jacques, with you now, he could imagine no higher stakes.

Throughout dinner, he teased his food just enough to have you thrumming with anticipation. He fed you morsels with his thick fingers and kissed the wine from your lips, all while regaling you with stories of his most outlandish escapades and daring adventures, telling you the truth behind his many legends. When only wine remained of your dinner, Jacques leaned back in his chair and crossed his long legs at the ankles. He gazed at you with something between intoxication, wistfulness, and ravenous desire, his grin wolfish and his eyes glinting with candlelight.

“Would you like to know a secret?” he asked as he drank his wine, his eyes locked on yours over the rim of his glass.

“We ladies know many secrets.” You coyly sipped your wine.

“I have shared some of myself with ladies in the past,” he acknowledged, inclining his head. “Never, have I shared my secrets.”

“Am I expected to keep this secret?” You smiled playfully.

“Before long, I suppose it will be known by all regardless.” He shook his head ruefully but grinned despite the gesture.

“You’re being less secretive than you are confusing,” you laughed. “Give it up, Captain. What is it you wish to tell me?”

“That I never saw you coming. I never dreamed a woman could board and conquer me. That I would forsake Pierre’s offer of a rich, fat, happy life in Tortuga for the hope of winning your heart. And that I would go to my fate willingly, by God!” He laughed low and rich, then met your eyes again. “That I would be stricken with the fever that is my love for you and feel it burn into a fiery madness.”

“If you are aflame, then ignite me also so that we might burn together,” you told him sultrily, reaching to take his hand.

Jacques grinned like the devil himself. Wasting not another moment, he stood and pulled you to your feet. You were pleasantly bubbly from wine and rich food and you swayed against him, into his strong embrace. Turning in his arms, you sauntered toward his bed, the centerpiece of the cabin. Jacques wrapped his arms around you from behind and lifted you off your feet in his ardor, kissing your neck and spinning with you playfully.

“Do you enjoy poetry, amour?” he asked huskily in your ear as he returned you to the floor and kissed and nipped at your neck. “Say her eyes portenders are, of ruin, or some blazing star, else would I feel from that fair fire, some heat to cherish my desire.”

“Poetry?” you laughed before warning him, “You had better please me well, Captain,” before continuing the Henry Lawes poem he cited. “Be kept alive, or murdered quite.”

“I love a smart woman,” Jacques purred, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts through your bodice and where they pillowed above it. You swayed back against him, slightly unsteady from wine. Jacques felt the effects too, or perhaps he was so intoxicated off of you. He had never wanted a woman with such desperation, the need of a starving man to eat. Still, he told you with a pained groan, “There is no need to rush our consummation. We have ages to spend in each other’s arms. Tell me to hold fast, and I shall, amour.”

“I’ve waited all my life for you.” You turned inside his arms to face him, looping your arms around his neck and pressing the length of your body against him. “It’s shameful how long you’ve kept me waiting.”

“I’m here now to atone for it, and I hope my redress takes a lifetime.” Jacques kissed you deeply, growling into your mouth. His hands roved over your body, hot and strong, and you could feel the huge hard length of him eagerly reaching for you. His entire body felt rigid and strained against you, and you marveled that such a powerful man could caress you so delicately and hold you so gently even as his body tremored with lust.

A knock sounded on the cabin door, making you both jolt against each other. Without breaking his kiss, Jacques glared at it sideways and redoubled his efforts on your lips, backing you toward his bed as he slipped a hand beneath your skirts. The knock came again, loud and urgent.

“Go away, damn you!” Jacques roared.

“You’re needed on deck, Captain,” the voice quaked through the door. You recognized it as belonging to the redhead, Huxley. “Bart told me to fetch you, Captain, and not to take no for an answer.”

“Damn it all,” Jacques grumbled. He kissed you again and then straightened. He untucked his shirt in an attempt to cover the obvious bulge in his trousers and then helped you adjust your clothing. Other than your breasts having been toyed free of your bodice, you were otherwise still kempt. He grinned while helping you correct that minor problem.

You took his arm and let him lead you out into the night up to the men on the upper deck by the ship’s wheel. It was a calm, moonlit night, the sky above glittered with diamante stars and the moon was swollen and luminous. The light of the night sky was so bright that you could see for leagues across the water. You craned your head to take in the beautiful sight when Jacques’s arm flexed under your hand. You looked at him with a smile, but it left your lips when you saw the way his brow was furrowed and lips pursed. It was only then that you noticed the ship was completely silent. There was no conversation or footsteps or even the sound of cards being thrown down in a game, all of which were commonplace. The only sounds were the creaks of wood, the rustling of sails, and the waves of the ocean. Every man on deck stood at the rail in tense silence, all looking overboard down into the water that appeared as black and shiny as oil in the moonlight. Instinctively Jacques drew you closer to him.

“It’s the kraken, Captain,” One-Eyed Bart whispered without taking his eyes off the sea.

Jacques looked at the man, then at the nervous men on deck, then at you. He let out a booming laugh that sounded as loud as a bellow across the quiet deck, throwing back his head like a wolf howling at the moon. “What is this, man? A ruse among all of you to spoil my fun for the evening?” Jacques laughed again and slapped Bart on the back, approving of the joke. “The kraken, you raving bastards? You had me fretting for a moment.”

“It’s no joke, Captain,” One-Eyed Bart whispered urgently, his hands shaking on the wheel.

“Well, if the good ol’ kraken boards my ship and wants to parley with me, by all means summon me again,” Jacques said pleasantly. “Until then, I have more important matters to attend.”

Suddenly, the Belle Dame bucked as though she had hit a reef, her stern kicking up from behind like an unruly horse. One-Eyed Bart was thrown hard against the wheel and you and Jacques were both knocked forward off balance. The ship came down with greater force, splashing water high enough to burst over her deck, knocking men down to their knees. Jacques caught you and steadied you, barely keeping you from sprawling on the deck. He ran to the stern rail, looking down into the black waters.

“We’re in open waters?” Jacques asked redundantly, knowing they were leagues from land.

“Aye, Captain,” One-Eyed Bart affirmed grimly. “We didn’t strike nothing. It’s the kraken trying to overturn us from below!”

“Run out the guns!” Jacques roared, but wondering even as he ordered it what good they would do. The cannons could not point straight downward, any craft or beast that kept close to the ship below their line of fire was safe. “Ready your muskets!”

The ship rose again, but not as violently, as though she were cresting a large wave on the calm sea. Or from something very large swimming right under her center and thrusting her up.

“Has anyone seen it?” you asked to anyone who would answer.

“Nary a scale yet,” One-Eyed Bart answered nervously.

Solomon joined you on deck, carrying a heavy iron whaler’s harpoon. He spoke in a deep baritone, “No one sees the kraken until it rises out of the water to make its kill. Those who see the monster don’t live to tell the tale.”

“Go back to my cabin, amour,” Jacques told you. “If you’re thrown overboard with that creature below…”

Ignoring his order, you came to stand beside him at the stern rail. As you both stared down into the inky waters, an enormous form glided just below the surface, disturbing the water. You could see only the vague form of a pale spade-shaped head, thicker in circumference than the ship’s wheel, with long tentacles slithering behind, longer than the entire length of the Belle Dame. As if they had a life of their own, some of these tentacles broke the surface, pearly white in the moonlight, thicker than elephant trunks, and lined with suckers as large as dinner plates. It swam away from the ship, its tentacles trailing behind it.

“Is it a squid?” you asked, staring after the familiar but far too large shape.

“No squid grows that large nor attacks ships,” Jacques replied. He thought if it was a giant squid that may be even worse, because octopi were strange and intelligent creatures. He would even prefer a monstrous shark, for while they were vicious, they were stupid.

A cable’s length out, the kraken turned back again and charged at the Belle Dame, gaining speed and leaving a frothy wake spread wide out behind it, its many tentacles whipping like a cat o’ nine tales.

“Make ready, men!” Jacques shouted. He grabbed your arm and pulled you back with him away from the rail.

There was a moment’s silence and stillness when the beast dove deeper. It shot to the surface under the bow of the Belle Dame, making her rear high out of the water. Before the ship crashed back down, three of the kraken’s tentacles jumped from the water and coiled around her bowsprit, choking the redheaded mermaid figurehead. More tentacles crawled over the rails and across the deck, grasping for purchase on anything they could find. Some tentacles caught men and flung them high into the air. The lucky men landed in the water meters away from the turmoil, unlucky others crashed back to deck and were killed instantly by the impact. The kraken’s tentacles found holds over the deck and around the ship, tightening around her until her wooden bones cracked like a mouse caught in a snake’s coil. The kraken was trying to break the ship apart and pull her under to a watery grave. Gunshots blasted across the deck at the tentacles, but they did as much damage as firing peashooters at a whale.

“Axes!” Jacques bellowed. He ran across the length of the deck to the bow, dodging the grasping tentacles. “Arm yourselves with axes and chop the tentacles apart!”

Solomon had run with Jacques and stood beside him at the bow, still holding the whaling harpoon. Jacques yanked it from his hands and jumped up on the highest part of the bow, leaning out over the bowsprit. The water below churned frothy white as the kraken struggled to break the ship apart, its slimy pale body writhing just beneath the surface. The Belle Dame fought against the leviathan, seeking to right herself with the buoyancy of a fine ship, drawing the kraken closer to the surface. Jacques saw a perfectly round shape rise up from the churning water, as black as obsidian and as glossy as ice. It was one of the kraken’s eyes! The eye stared up at him as emotionless as a black void. Jacques reared back, hefting the harpoon high, his powerful body drawn taught as a longbow. He aimed at the malignant eye and threw the harpoon with all his strength. The iron point flew true, impaling the very center of the bulbous eye, rupturing it like a black boil and spewing murky slime high in the air.

The kraken spasmed and its tentacles loosened their grip, twitching like dying fish on the decks. The men had retrieved axes and were hacking away at the tentacles, chopping pieces off wherever they could and severing a few completely. You grabbed an axe from a fallen man whose body slid across the deck in a wide swatch of his own blood as the ship bucked. Hefting the axe, you ran to the nearest grasping tentacle as thick as your waist that was wrapped around the mainmast. You swung your axe into it again and again like you were trying to fell a rubbery tree until the tentacle severed. The deck was filled with the sound of axes hacking into wet meat while men grunted and shouted. One unfortunate man slipped on the deck mid-swing, missing the tentacle and embedding his axe deep into his own thigh. Blood spurted from his severed femoral artery, pouring his life out in thick rivulets to mingle with the water and slime on the deck. The ocean churned like a boiling cauldron as the kraken flailed in pain, its tentacles retreating from the deck and slithering back into the water. The men cheered their victory, waving their axes and swords in the air.

“We haven’t killed it yet!” Jacques thundered a warning to his men. The Belle Dame rocked ominously as the monster thrashed below her. Jacques grabbed Solomon’s shoulder, drawing him close and barking orders. Solomon ran below deck to follow Jacques’s orders while the men on deck rallied themselves for another attack. Jacques hurried to you, ensuring you were safe before the battle continued, then pulled you with him back to the upper deck.

Minutes later and none too soon, Solomon returned with Crooked James. Solomon carried a fifty-pound keg of gunpowder on his shoulder and Crooked James carried two muskets. The kraken was wounded now and, like most wounded animals, more dangerous for its anger and pain. It attacked the Belle Dame again, this time from the stern, seizing her rudder with its elephantine tentacles. If the monster snapped the rudder, the ship would be useless and unable to be controlled by the wheel.

“Don’t rush yourselves!” Jacques roared to Solomon and Crooked James as he watched the tentacles coil dangerously around the rudder. Again, the kraken’s pale body lingered just below the surface. Jacques could see the spade shape of its head directly below him and the ruptured eye leaking murky fluid into the sea. The men ran up the stairs to the deck and Solomon set the gunpowder keg down between them.

“It is as you ordered, Captain,” he told Jacques, panting. “I stuffed it full of nails and prybars down deep into the gunpowder.”

“Good man,” Jacques said as he took one of the muskets from Crooked James. “Heave it over when I give the order.”

Solomon lifted the keg and stood beside Jacques at the rail, holding the keg at the ready. Crooked James readied his gun and Jacques held his musket at high port across his chest, calculating his shot. He saw the kraken adjust its grip on the rudder, pulling its body closer to the ship, its head coming nearer to the surface.

“Now!” Jacques ordered and Solomon hurled the gunpowder keg down at the crown of the kraken’s head. It hit with a thud on the beast’s skin. Jacques leaned over the rail and aimed his musket, pointing it straight downward. The kraken swiped a tentacle at the keg in irritation, like a man would swat a fly. The tentacle coiled around the keg and drew it underwater to drown the offending object. Jacques fired just as the top of the keg was still visible. The musket ball struck the lid of the keg with only an inch left to spare above water, immediately igniting the gunpowder within. The keg exploded with more force than a cannon just under the surface of the ocean where it was held in the grip of a tentacle next to the kraken’s head. The nails and iron Jacques had instructed the keg be filled with shot out as projectiles into the kraken’s flesh, blowing its tentacle away into nothing but a mist of flesh and impaling its phallic head with dozens of iron lances.

Jacques was quick to duck back from the rail, making sure he was out of the line of fire of any of the projectiles and the explosion. The brunt of the blast was absorbed by the beast and by the water – there is no better stop for a musket ball or projectile than water – and only a few nails flew into the Belle Dame’s hull. The kraken’s head was blown apart, the spade tip nearly severed from the trunk, the two segments held together by only a few heroic strings of tissue. The water settled and the tentacles lost their grip and fell lifelessly away as the monster’s body sank back into the depths of the ocean.

When the creature had vanished, other than the detritus of fleshy particles that floated on the surface like chum, Jacques ordered the ship brought around to collect those men who had been thrown overboard during the melee before sharks were summoned by the kraken carcass.

“How steep is the butcher’s bill, Huxley?” Jacques asked the skittish redhead who served as the ship’s surgeon when he came to make his report. The man’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows and his hands stained with blood.

“Seven dead, four wounded,” Huxley tolled as he wiped his forearm across his sweaty brow, leaving a dark smear of blood on his pale skin. He was very skilled but a morbid little man, and he seemed excited still by the mayhem on deck. “Not a bad toll for vanquishing the kraken! I hope you don’t mind, Captain, that I preserved a few of the beast’s suckers in fluid to take back as a trophy. I’ll be the only man alive with a genuine kraken sucker on his mantle! I saved one for you too, Captain.”

“Your consideration is boundless,” Jacques replied cordially even as he watched men swab pieces of kraken off the deck, his lip curling in distaste at the sight and pungent oily odor.

In such a somber atmosphere and with seven men dead, it was inopportune for Jacques to steal you away back to his cabin and ravage you properly. He settled for kissing you chastely and sending you back alone to his cabin to wash and rest while he stood at the helm in solidarity with his men. He joined you in the hour before dawn, careful not to wake you while he washed away the kraken stink and rummaged for clean clothes. He pulled on trousers only and crawled into his bed beside you, settling for holding you in his arms from behind and burying his face in your hair, inhaling your sweet scent as exhaustion immediately pulled him under.

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For several days, the mood on the Belle Dame was subdued and tense. Pirates and seamen were a superstitious lot, and many of the crew resented the captain bringing a woman aboard, seemingly for his own amusement. It was common knowledge that having a woman aboard ship was bad luck. As if the attack by the kraken wasn’t confirmation enough, the next morning when they committed the bodies of the dead men to the sea, the ocean was besieged by a fog that blotted out all but the faintest haze of sunlight. This was unnatural in tropical waters, and only the seaman who had sailed the frigid oceans where icebergs accompanied them had seen the like. There was a rumor that spread through the men that the fog was an omen signaling the building wrath of Poseidon and the punishment to come for killing his beastly pet. Jacques kept a close watch over the men and he relied mostly on Solomon to be the voice of reason within their ranks, as he was immune to the superstitions of Europeans. Jacques stayed on deck as much as he could, sparing only time to sleep for a few short hours, ensuring he was vigilant and the men were always aware of his presence. He also needed to oversee the repairs to the ship, which slowed their speed to a lazy drift.

When Jacques joined you in his cabin, he came only to write entries into his captain’s log and to sleep. Although he held you as he slept, he otherwise restrained himself while the atmosphere of his ship remained tense. It would not help the morale of his crew if they heard groans of ecstasy or laughs of pleasure coming from his cabin while they mourned their dead friends and dreaded the next beast the sea god might send their way.

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Laying in Jacques’s arms as he slept for the three-hours he had allotted himself, you awoke to the sensation of someone whispering in your ear. Instantly alert, your eyes searched the cabin and your ears strained for clues as to what had awakened you. Jacques lay on his side with a heavy arm slung over the nip in your waist, snoring lightly. He rolled onto his back when you sat up but did not wake, his bare chest rising and falling serenely. Nothing in the cabin was amiss, but still the strange feeling had taken root in your bones. You felt somehow as if you and Jacques were not alone, although you were; that a kind of otherness was in the cabin with you, all around you. Unbidden and apropos of nothing, you thought of the amethyst sphere that Morgan had given you. It called to you from its resting place inside the chest of personal effects under Jacques’s bed.

It was a terribly odd feeling to feel summoned by the amethyst. You crept out of bed, careful not to disturb Jacques, and retrieved the chest out from under the bed. Sitting on the floor, you opened it and found the sphere nestled amid the other effects. It sat dead center in the chest as if it was expecting you. The hairs on your neck prickled when you looked into its mystical gleaming surface. The purple whorls in the amethyst seemed to swirl and churn. Even though it was only in your mind’s eye, the image was as clear to you as a vivid waking dream. The purple darkened and swirled faster and faster until it whipped itself into a grey boiling storm that whorled around a calm central eye. Through the calm center sailed the Belle Dame. Her sails were tattered and hull shot through with ragged splintered holes. Another ship circled around her as did the storm. You recognized it as the Cerberus.

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If Jacques had held the Belle Dame true to the course you had set him, you should be nearing the island. It had been over a week since you set out from Tortuga. The voyage should take six or seven days, but the encounter with the kraken and the fog had delayed you. Your destination was a tiny island, easy to sail past in a fogbank. You went to the deck with Jacques that dawn and stood beside him when he took the helm.

The fog had lifted some, but still lingered low over the water, chilling the air. The sunrise bled along the Eastern horizon like a wound oozing in reverse. The sky where it met the sea was as scarlet as the devil’s hide, the sun glowing like a fiery ruby. The scarlet diluted to carmine red then to pink as it bled up to mingle in the blues of the sky. Crimson glowed on the bellies of low hung clouds, making their mountainous tops appear an even darker shade of grey.

“Storm’s brewing something fierce, Captain,” One-Eyed Bart stated what all the men already knew. “She has the makings of a screaming bitch of a gale, if ever I saw one.”

“Rough seas ahead,” Jacques agreed, chewing his lip. “Bloody skies at dawn mean we’re in for a hell of a storm.” Jacques looked almost straight up at the crow’s nest high above. It was occupied by a skinny boy of sixteen who was nimble and light and foolish enough to enjoy the harrowing climb up the mainmast. He was recommended by Pierre for his strong young eyes. Jacques hailed him in a bellow loud enough to carry across the ship and up to his perch, “Any sight of land yet, boy?”

“None yet, Captain,” the boy answered with the cracking voice of an adolescent.

In the short time it took the sun to fully clear the horizon, the clouds had gathered until they obscured the sun as if it had never risen. Wind whipped across the ocean, kicking up white spume and tearing at the sails. Flying droplets blown up from the sea stung your face and Jacques’s hair blew out like a black flag, his long jacket flapping wildly. Jacques ordered his men to take a quick meal in shifts. He did the same himself and insisted you did as well, telling you, “This could be a long storm to weather.”

Within the hour, the storm had built up into a boiling black anvil-shaped mountain. It stretched across the entire horizon in front of you, ominous and terrible. Lightning flashed inside the storm, some bolts striking straight down to the sea, others bursting within the clouds in white balls. The sea beneath the storm thrashed and wailed in mounting swells that rolled rapidly toward you. The storm was only a few leagues off now, the waves were starting to toss the ship in gut-swooping lurches and the wind tore at the sails. Jacques had waited as long as he could to ready the ship in the hopes of reaching the island before the storm fell upon them. To weather such a storm, the hatches had to be closed, the cargo and cannons secured so they would not roll free and punch through the hull or crush a crewman, and the sails had to be reefed or rolled up so the gale winds would not tear them apart or snap the masts.

“Make ready, boys! You stinking bastards are in for a good soak today!” Jacques’s booming laughter carried over the waves and the thunder that was nearly upon them. He strode from stern to bow, checking for himself that his precious ship was as ready as she could be. Satisfied, he shrugged out of his coat and the wind billowed the open neck of his white shirt; his coat would only hamper him when it became wet and heavy. He grabbed your shoulder and spun you to face him and when his eyes met yours, they were gravely serious. He did not play the part of the cavalier pirate for you as he did for his men, but told you seriously, “It’s been some time since I’ve sailed through such a storm. This is no mere squall. We may find ourselves in the midst of a hurricane before high noon. Pierre once had a frigate – a ship far larger than the Belle Dame – break apart in a storm like this.”

“But you have sailed through storms this severe?” you asked with mounting concern.

“Of course.” He smiled wanly. “And I have done so successfully, or I would not be here to tell the tale.” He paused, considering how much he should worry you. “I will see us through this storm as well, but it will be a miracle if men do not die today. I can’t risk you being among them. If a man goes overboard – and surely some will in this storm – there can be no turning about to rescue them. The wind will tear ropes loose and whip them like a lash and throw anything it can find across the deck. Waves will wash over the deck with the force of a flood, no man can withstand it and hold his ground.”

“Given all that, how do you intend to not get washed away yourself?” You feigned nonchalance, but you were now deeply worried. It started to rain, stinging drops that sliced at you sideways through the air, hurled ahead of the raging storm.

“I’ll lash myself to the wheel, or to the mainmast if it comes to that.” Jacques smiled as though it were nothing.

“That’s absurd!” you huffed, your concern expressed as anger. “You’re the captain! Order an underling to do such a stupid thing.”

“I am the captain,” Jacques agreed, nodding. “And because I am the captain, I cannot order a man to do something that I would not do myself. How long do you think I would remain captain if I hid in my cabin like a wet rat when danger reared its head?”

“But it’s just fine for me to hide like a wet rat, is it?” You now had to shout to make yourself heard above the gale wind, crossing your arms over your chest in frustration. Your shirt was now soaked through from the rain that slashed over you. It was already difficult to keep your balance on the heaving deck, and Jacques steadied you with a hand on your shoulder.

“I do not want to be distracted by my concern for you, and I cannot risk losing you,” Jacques barked loudly with a tone of finality and thrust his coat into your arms. He crashed his lips to yours in a quick but passionate kiss. “Go to my cabin, hold fast to whatever you can. The ship is going to buck harder than you can imagine. Do not come on deck for any reason, it only takes one foul second to be thrown overboard. If the Belle Dame starts to break apart, I will come for you.”

The waves had increased in size as you talked. The crew swarmed frantically over the deck like a colony of angry ants, each man seeing that the ship and himself were as prepared as could be. Many of the men were also performing little rituals for good luck, fondling personal totems in their pockets or around their necks, flicking a button into the ocean as an offering to Poseidon, holding three fingers high like a salute to the sea and muttering a prayer or plea, also a hail to the god of the seas that mimicked his trident. The water began to batter the hull like an enemy siege and splash over the rails.

“Didn’t I hear that you had stolen Poseidon’s trident?” you asked Jacques, clinging to him. “Now would be an opportune moment to wield it.”

“I’ll wield my trident for you alone, amour, but first, we must survive this storm. As much as it pains you, you must do as I command.” He winked at you, turned you toward his cabin and gave you a light shove of encouragement. Then he smacked your ass, exclaiming, “Bonne chance!”

Jacques again projected nothing but confidence as he strode back across the deck. The deep neck of his white shirt whipped open over his chest and he had to lean forward to brace against the wind. Despite the seriousness of your predicament, you lingered at the door to his cabin, which was also at the base of the upper deck stairs, admiring the dashing figure Jacques cut with the storm blustering around him. Solomon and One-Eyed Bart were doing a final check of the preparations. The two large men carried several ropes as thick as their wrists on deck and tied some around each of the three masts and one around the base of the ship’s wheel so that they were ready and waiting for any man who needed to lash himself fast to avoid being swept from the deck. Jacques took the stairs up to the highest deck two at a time, ordering his men, “I’ll keep her aimed dead into the storm.”

The first leads of the storm reached the Belle Dame. The storm devoured the entire sky, looming before you, above you, and all around you, black and boiling like some ravening monster. It fell upon the ship like an avalanche, the rain battering the hull with the force of hail and the wind howling like a creature from the underworld. You lingered outside, captivated by the action around you and the danger to come. Jacques was no longer focused on you, his attention was demanded elsewhere. He wrapped the rope around his waist, across his back and over his shoulders like a harness, tying a secure knot that wouldn’t come undone. He would have to be ripped in two or the ship broken apart for him to go overboard. The bow leaped high like a thoroughbred hunter taking a jump, the force flung you back hard against the door of Jacques’s cabin. Against the cabin door, you were below Jacques’s line of sight and out of his mind, thinking you safe inside his cabin. Over the bow, you saw the waves marching down upon you like titans, some taller than the Belle Dame, with white crests and troughs between them as wide as valleys. By comparison, the ship felt like little more than a toy. It seemed to you that no ship could survive those waves.

“Captain!” the boy in the crow’s nest yelled, his voice barely audible over the storm. He had both arms wrapped around the mainmast in a bear hug, using all his strength to hang on. “Land! I think I saw land when we crested high, Captain, but I can’t be sure it weren’t a dark swell.” The boy released his hold on the mainmast long enough to wipe his face with his sleeve and point quickly in the direction he looked over the starboard side. His arm shook wildly and he nearly lost his grip when a gust of wind rocked the ship. You followed the line of his arm but saw nothing.

“Merde! Get down from there, you damn fool boy!” Jacques roared. Every sailor knew, or should know, to come down from the crow’s nest during a storm. It was the safest place on a ship during a battle, high above the cannon fire and the clash of cutlass, but it was the most dangerous place during a storm, when the mast was whipped above the ship with her wild bucking. It was suicide to remain there during a gale such as this.

Before the boy could act on Jacques’s command, the Belle Dame dove down into the trough on the other side of the wave. It looked as though her bowsprit would impale the dark water thirty feet below at the bottom of the trough, but she didn’t have the chance. The next wave broke over her bows and crashed over the deck, a rush of water two feet deep that knocked the lashed sailors against their posts and slammed you hard again against the cabin door. A man who had not tied himself off was swept overboard, screaming in shrill terror. High above, you saw the skinny body of the boy in the crow’s nest flung from his perch and catapulted far out to sea. He was immediately lost in the storm; you couldn’t follow his path, but survival was impossible. Your mind registered this instantly but before any emotion could take hold, the ship surged up the next wave.

The mermaid figurehead of the Belle Dame looked straight up at the black sky as the ship climbed the towering wave. Lightning rolled overhead, seeming as close above you as a cathedral ceiling, and thunder boomed louder than a barrage of cannons, so loud that your ears rang from it. Holding the spokes of the wheel in a white-knuckled grip, Jacques laughed like a madman. There was no thrill like that of knowing any second could be his last, and his heart raced with exhilaration. Fear served no purpose in such conditions, when a man’s fate was left in the hands of the sea. All a man could do was meet his fate with honor and, in Jacques’s case, laughing like the devil himself.

It took all of Jacques’s great strength to keep the bow pointed into the storm and do all he could to keep her from being swallowed by the waves that battered her relentlessly. He had no attention to spare to look in the direction the boy had pointed, which was off to starboard, and search for land. If anyone was going to watch in that direction, it must be you. When the Belle Dame plunged over the next swell and fell with gut-swooping speed toward the valley of ocean below, you dashed out onto the open deck, running for a rope that had been tied off to the mainmast.

“Damn that woman!” Jacques growled to himself, then roared at you, “Get back in my cabin! We haven’t yet hit the worst of it!” He couldn’t even spare a hand to try to untie the rope around his waist, it took all the strength in both his arms to hold the ship on course. You reached the loose end of the rope and looped it around your body, and Jacques saw what you intended.

The rope was thick and wet, clumsy in your nervous hands. While you fumbled to tie one of the knots your father had taught you, it felt like time had slowed the way it does in nightmares, when your limbs don’t obey your commands and you’re rendered powerless. As you fought with the rope, you noticed the hairs on your arms stood on end, fully erect like little needles. It was so odd that you stopped and simply stared at your own arm. The same feeling crept up your neck and onto the crown of your head, and you became aware that every hair on your body was doing the same, each hair rising up toward the terrible sky. You saw that Jacques’s thick hair was likewise erect, flared out around his face, looking like the black mane of a lion. His eyes met yours as he registered the same phenomenon and for the first time, you saw genuine fear in their honeyed depths.

“Hit the deck!” he shouted desperately to you. “Get clear away from the mast and drop flat onto your belly!”

You obeyed him at once, throwing the rope away and flinging yourself down onto the wet slippery deck. With a sense of dread, you realized that being lashed to the wheel, Jacques could not do the same. He stood higher on deck than any other man, the most exposed. Your individual hairs tingled now and the air sizzled all around you. Suddenly, the stormy gloom burst with blinding white light and the Belle Dame shuddered terribly. The top of her mainmast erupted with sparks when the bolt of lightning struck her at her highest point. A sailor who had been tied to the mainmast blew apart when the lightning followed the rope and burst through him as it sought the ground. Killed instantly, he fell on deck with a plate-sized hole in his chest that smoked around its scorched edges, the meat of his body charred from within. Fiery splinters rained down over the deck from the mast but were doused by the downpour. The mainmast had survived the lightning strike intact, save for some scorches.

The lightning strike soured you on the notion of tying yourself to the mainmast. But still, you had to help Jacques watch for the land that could be your only salvation. The storm howled around you like a hellish summit of demons and the rain stung like bees as you ran up to join Jacques on the upper deck. Another towering wave advanced toward you, measuring the time you had to secure yourself in seconds before you were swept overboard.

Reaching the wheel, you ducked under the ropes that bound Jacques to safety and under his nearest arm. You stood inside the circle of his arms with your back to his chest, pinned in the slight space between his huge body and the ship’s wheel. Standing as you did, you were just as secure as Jacques himself, and you could watch for the hope of land. Jacques was as wet as if he had gone out for a swim, his clothes plastered to his body and his hair hanging in inky tendrils.

“Will you ever do a damn thing I tell you?” Jacques had to shout to be heard above the screaming wind.

“It doesn’t look promising,” you yelled in reply.

“You’re mad, woman,” he rumbled and gave a kiss to your neck that was more of a bite. Then, he laughed, “But they say the mad ones are the wildcats in bed!” He edged closer to you, pressing his body hard against yours from behind, ensuring you were fully trapped between him and the wheel. The next wave bore down upon you, the spume on its crest looking like a snowy mountaintop. “Hold fast, amour!”

The oncoming wave was a monstrous creature, taller than the smoking mainmast of the Belle Dame. Your stomach lurched with dread, it felt as though death itself was charging toward you, the water a sickly black-green with white horns of spume. The wave towered over you, straight above it seemed, and burst over the Belle Dame’s bow. A wall of water rushed at you, boiling over the deck, and the front of the ship was lost in the sea for a harrowing second before she surged upward and climbed the wave. The water on deck washed over the men, knocking them down and sending them rolling, saved from death only by their ties like fleshy yoyos. You felt Jacques’s body tense against you when the water ran at you across the deck. It burst over both of you, slapping you in the face with the force of it, forcing its way into your nose and mouth, threatening to drown you and drenching you both. You coughed seawater when it passed over you, gasping for breath, while Jacques shook his head like a wet dog. There was just enough time to fill your lungs before the ship careened downward into the trough between that wave and the next that came for her. It was a cycle that would last as long as the storm, as long as the endless waves charged toward you like Poseidon’s calvary.

Hours passed as the storm raged unabated. It was impossible to tell the time of day in the gloaming grey that engulfed you, but you felt the strength slowly leaving your body as your endurance waned. Jacques still stood firm and strong behind you, his grip unrelenting on the wheel, but his face was now haggard as he pushed himself as hard as he drove his ship. Through the saltwater that burned your eyes and the torrential rain that stung your skin, you saw a line on the horizon, little more than an errant brushstroke on an elaborate mural, but darker than the sky and sea.

“Land, Jacques,” you croaked, your throat raw from inhaling saltwater, leaning back against Jacques for support and raising your arm to point toward the blur that was now hidden again by the storm. “I think it’s there.”

Jacques fought to spin the wheel, the rudder fighting against the waves. The sails were reefed, leaving the ship’s rudder alone to battle the ocean. Taking the mountainous waves at an angle now instead of straight on, the Belle Dame rolled dangerously as she lurched toward an uncertain harbor. The ship took the next battery of swells like a horse in a steeplechase, then on a high crest, you saw the dark smear again. It was closer now and rich green in color, unmistakably land. Some of the crew spotted it too, shouting with triumph across the deck. Jacques hazarded a celebratory kiss to your neck, although you were still far from safe. It was the island you were searching for. The bay of the island was treacherous even in the most favorable conditions. In a storm it was as deadly as a crouching lion, waiting to rip the belly out of a wayward ship with its jagged fangs and leave its carcass in a watery grave.

With each climb up the next oncoming wave, the island grew in size and details came into focus. You saw the bay shaped like the mouth of a skull with two towering rock spires, each over seventy feet tall, marking the skull’s eyeteeth like vampiric points. These were the rock sentries your father had called the Queens, guarding the entrance into the bay. Beyond them was a deep bay and a cloistered cove where the Belle Dame could lie safe from the storm.

“Make for the righthand queen!” you shouted to Jacques, although he remembered your directions well and was already trying to guide his ship correctly. “The angle has to be just right!”

“Trust me, amour, I know what angle pleases the ladies,” Jacques boasted, but his jaw was set and his lips pressed into a severe line as he focused on the treacherous course ahead.

Closing in upon the island, the waves shoved the Belle Dame sideways, edging her closer to the shallow reef and rocky protrusions that would spell death for any ship that crashed against them. The storm and waves were far more powerful than the ship’s rudder alone.

“Is there anyone among you who is man enough to give me some sail?” Jacques bellowed to his crew. He did not order it, because it was tantamount to a death sentence to send a man climbing up the mast in such a storm to unfurl a sail. And a sail could not hold long in this weather before it snapped the mast in two like a twig, but Jacques hoped it would hold long enough to give him some measure of control over his ship while he made for the bay.

Wordlessly, Solomon drew the dagger from his belt and slashed through the rope that secured him. He ran to the mainmast and began climbing without a second thought, hauling himself upward with the strength of his arms. Several times, his body was shaken free, holding on only by his hands, his body flapping like a flag as he struggled to regain his hold. He climbed higher than Jacques would have asked of any man and unfurled the highest sail he dared. He remained above it, clinging to the mast in a death grip instead of risking the climb down past the whipping sail.

When the sail caught the wind, it snapped full with a crack like a musket shot that you felt in your eardrums, yanking the ship on course with tooth-shattering force. The Belle Dame jerked so violently in the direction of the wind that it felt as if she had hit a reef, her timbers creaking in protest and another torrent of water flooding her deck. Jacques thought the mast must surely break under such strain, but it held firm.

The single sail gave him just enough control to aim his ship at the righthand queen. It took all his strength to fight both the waves and the current that swirled below the surface, naturally bearing ships into the center of the opening between the queens and onto the deadly rock spires hidden shallowly beneath the ocean’s surface. Jacques felt like he was putting his head between the jaws of a shark and praying it didn’t bite when sailed his beloved Belle Dame straight at the rocky queen that towered high above the mainmast.

Pointing out ahead like the lance of a charging knight, the Belle Dame’s bowsprit was within half a cable’s length of the queen and still surging ahead. Jacques braced himself for an impact that would mean death, but he didn’t dare flinch like a coward. He followed your directions to the letter, holding his ship on a collision course with the queen. At the last possible second, the underwater current caught the Belle Dame and pulled her aside, sucking her into the narrow safe passage between the underwater spires and reefs. She passed so close to the rock queen that a man on deck could have thrown a pebble at the rock and hit his mark.

The bay was crescent-shaped, like an open mouth, and once inside, you were quickly surrounded by thickly foliaged land on three sides. The bite of the storm lost its teeth and the Belle Dame’s wheel loosened in Jacques’s hands. He released a heavy breath that he didn’t know he had been holding at the feel of his ship once again responding to him as softly as an eager lover.

“That’s my girl,” he said fondly, his voice hoarse. You didn’t know if he was talking to his ship or to you. He stroked a spoke of the ship’s wheel with his left hand and hooked his right around your waist, holding you with triumphant relief.

It was nearly dark by the time the ship was anchored in the safety of the cove, close to shore. You couldn’t see the position of the sun behind the mask of swirling black clouds overhead and driving rain, but you knew when it set because it seemed only moments passed between the rough seas being lit by the stormy gloaming that had been your atmosphere throughout the day and the pitch blackness of nighttime during a tropical storm. Jacques ordered that the ship remain black-out dark that night, nary a candle lit onboard, lest the enemy pirates be near enough to see the flame in the darkness. His order slapped you with the realization that the Belle Dame was alone in the cove. You had been so distracted by the storm that you hadn’t yet paid that fact any mind.

“The pirates who kidnapped my father are not here,” you said to Jacques with a sinking feeling of hopelessness. They could have already come and gone, or perhaps they had grown tired of your father’s no doubt belligerent attitude and had killed him days ago.

“True, they are not here in this cove, but that does not mean all hope is lost,” Jacques told you softly. He held you close and stroked your cheek. “If I were your father -- I brought an enemy to this place -- would lead them to a less convenient anchorage. On the opposite side of the island, perhaps. I would make the bastards trek through the jungle for days to reach this cove rather than sail them right in.”

“Perhaps,” you agreed wanly, resting your head on his chest. Worrying did no good at all and regardless, you could not leave the safety of the cove so long as the storm raged across the open ocean. Also, you could not lead Jacques into the gilded caves filled with treasure until the seas calmed and the tide was low. Part of its security was that the entrance was flooded at high tide.

Jacques took your hand and led you down from the deck and into his cabin. There was nothing to be done until daybreak or when the storm passed, whichever occurred first. Neither of you had eaten since dawn, nor rested well in days.

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The only light inside the captain’s cabin came from the flashes of lightning outside the large stern window. As with the rest of the ship, Jacques did not allow a single candle to be lit so there was no chance it would betray you to unfriendly eyes. The ship rocked heartily on the waters that were still disturbed by the storm, but it was a lullaby compared to the rough seas you had spent the day fighting. Water ran in rivulets from your and Jacques’s hair and dripped from your clothes onto the floor.

Jacques was ready to collapse when he closed the door to his cabin, running on the last reserves of stamina, his eyes gritty and his muscles sore. But his exhaustion was forgotten when you shed your wet coat and stood before him in your simple white shirt and trousers. The sight of your breasts taught against the wet white cotton and your trousers clinging to the swell of your ass rejuvenated him instantly, purging all weariness from his body. The speed with which his blood flowed south made him lightheaded. He hungered for you far more ravenously than for food and craved you more than sleep.

You faced away from him, aiming for his bed. Jacques placed a gentle hand on your shoulder and turned you to face him. He stepped close to you until you could feel the heat from his body and trailed a thick finger down the exposed skin of your chest above your open neckline, down between your breasts.

“Allow me to help you out of these wet clothes before you catch your death.” He grinned and began to undo the laces of your shirt. Sliding your shirt off your shoulders, he followed its path down your body and pushed your trousers down with it, letting all your garments fall to the floor. His touch on your bare skin was warm and exhilarating as he smoothed his calloused hands along the curves of your figure.

Grinning at you for a moment, Jacques ducked down in front of you and hoisted you up over his shoulder. You laughed when he lifted you effortlessly, twirling with you on his way to his bed. Flipping you back over his shoulder, he dropped you down onto the mattress, your body bouncing slightly on the bedding from your soft impact. Jacques stood at the foot of the bed, still fully clothed, admiring your naked figure for the first time. His ravening eyes trailed over your body, caressing your every curve, as he pulled his shirt off over his head and tossed it aside. If you spent one hundred years with him, you would never tire of the sight of his magnificent chest. You made a point of stretching and arching sultrily for him to watch as he finished undressing, sprawled on your back with flashes of lightning illuminating your damp skin.

“You make me appreciate why poets write sonnets of beauty, amour,” Jacques told you huskily and shoved his pants down. “With a muse such as you, the words would drip from my lips.”

At the sight of his enormous cock, already achingly hard, you understood the shared humor between himself and the men who knew of his remarkable endowment. The sight of it made your pulse quicken in anticipation when you beckoned him down into your open arms. Lowering himself onto the mattress, Jacques crawled up your body, planting his huge hands on either side of your head, caging you beneath him. A dark curtain of hair fell in front of his face when he brought his mouth to your breast, and you gasped when his tongue teased your nipple.

“First, an aperitif, ma amour,” Jacques told you in a rich timbre, gazing down at you rapaciously. “Before I write my poetry inside you.”

Trailing his hot kisses and the tip of his prominent nose down your body, Jacques continued until he kissed and licked in the junction of your hip. He pushed your thighs apart to settle his large body between them as a current of excitement coursed through you. He winked at you before dropping his head to lick a fat stripe between your moist lips. Reaching under your thighs, he lifted them onto his shoulders, clamping his hands down firmly on your hips to hold you in place. You stiffened at first at the unexpected contact, then shuddered lusciously and felt his lips smile against you in response. He purred as he savored your taste and from knowing the pleasure he gave you, the sensation vibrating straight into you. He was so masterful, it was almost painful how his touch made you ache for more. The pleasure he gave you built and built, flooding your body with heat that swirled deep inside you. Like a dam bursting, ecstasy crashed over you in waves and there was nothing in your world but those sensations he gave you and the feeling of his hard body under your hands.

He wore a proud grin and gazed down at you for a moment, branding the sight of you into his memory. You ran your hands up his rigid arms and across his broad shoulders to loop around his neck as he guided himself into you. A heady groan tumbled from his lips as he nudged inside, gritting his teeth in pleasure. You had to bite down on your lip to stifle your own noises from echoing throughout the cabin as he pushed his thick cock inside you, spreading you wider than you had thought possible. He made a firm, quick thrust to force past the resistance in your body, not giving you time to stiffen or quail from the brief but sharp pain. He was patient then, rocking gently into you and whispering adorations until he saw your face relax and felt your body ease around him.

“Am I too much for you?” he asked huskily. His muscles were drawn taught, quivering beneath your hands as he restrained himself.

You knew that you could stop him now, if you wanted, that he was giving you a final warning before he lost himself in you. It made you want him even more. “Nothing about you is too much for me.”

Something between a purr and a growl thrummed deep in his chest and he began to move over you, inside you. Slowly at first, he reveled in the feeling of you melting beneath him and around him. The feeling of your arms tightening around his neck, pulling him closer. The feeling of your hips beginning to roll in time with his. He found euphoria in every part of you.

All you could do was moan Jacques’s name and dig your nails into his muscles when he set a steady pace of thrusting into you. He angled his cock to hit the best places inside you, making your vision blur with stars and lights with every thrust. Gazing down at you, Jacques marveled at the sight of your body moving in time with his rhythm. The feeling of your nails threatening to break his skin was tantamount to spurring a horse. He learned quickly what you enjoyed most, and soon had you whining and moaning and writhing beneath him.

It was intoxicating, being caged beneath such a savage man with his heavy weight pressing down upon you, feeling his powerful body flexing under your hands with his forceful motions, hearing him groan hoarsely almost as if in pain. Where at first, you felt your body loosen to accommodate him, you now felt yourself tighten around him with every thrust as he carried you into far deeper pleasure. A silent scream tore from your throat when he slammed another orgasm out of you, plunging you into fluttering spasms, flooding you with a pleasure unlike any you had felt before. Above you, Jacques bared his teeth wolfishly, intent on carrying you through every pleasurable wave he could give you before surrendering to his own fulfillment.

When he came, he growled bestially then groaned like a man tortured, burying himself deep inside you as his body went rigid. He smiled then and you felt his muscles relax under your touch as he settled more of his weight down upon you. Jacques rubbed his nose along your jaw, peppering you with soft kisses, tendrils of his long hair tickling your skin. He lavished you with kisses for long indulgent minutes, then he laid his head down on the pillow of your breasts over your heart. Your hands soothed him as he lay on you. One hand tangled into his dense hair, the other caressed his jaw softly, earning another deep rumbling purr from the huge man who had surrendered utterly to you.

The storm raged outside, wind howling, thunder booming, lightning flashing. The rocking of the ship in the wind-ruffled cove lulled you both and even the thunder was a soothing cadence. As you fell asleep in Jacques’s powerful embrace, you realized that you never again wanted to sleep outside of it.

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Clouds still greyed the sky and rain drizzled steadily the following morning, but the brunt of the storm had passed. The day was dark and gloomy with no sunlight penetrating the lingering clouds. The weather would give you cover to make a raid on the hidden cave. The storm would cover your sounds and there was no sunlight to glint on swords or musket barrels, should you need to approach with stealth.

Inside Jacques’s cabin, you dressed again in your trousers and coat, buckling your father’s sword and pistol around your hips. Jacques paused in his own dressing to study you. His eyes narrowed when he divined your intention.

“Although you make even trousers look becoming, you must know that you cannot accompany me, amour,” Jacques told you, shaking his head. “It is far too dangerous for a belle dame such as yourself. Even one so heavily armed.”

You couldn’t help but laugh at him outright, standing shirtless with his hair disheveled from the storm and your fingers, his chest puffed and one hand on his hip authoritatively. As if that would affect you.

“Your sense of humor is one of the things I find most endearing about you,” you said, dismissing his comment. “The island is booby tapped. That is my father’s true value – and mine as well – not merely in finding the island but navigating the way to the treasure while still in possession of all of one’s limbs. So, I’m afraid that rather it is far too dangerous for a belle homme such as yourself to venture out alone.”

Sighing with mild displeasure, Jacques accepted the futility of dissuading you and set about readying himself. As he dressed, the man packed more pistols and daggers into his clothing than you would have thought possible, in addition to his sword that hung on his belt.

It will be a miracle if the rogue doesn’t shoot or stab himself before the day is through, you thought to yourself with a smirk as you watched him.

A lewd chorus of cheers and hollers greeted you and Jacques when he led you arm in arm out of his cabin. Your combined noises had apparently been audible to the crew even above the storm. Ever the scoundrel, Jacques gave his men a deep bow and a tip of his hat. He strutted like a show horse when he took his place at the helm. It was as convenient a way as any to demand the crew’s attention as he gave them orders on how they would enter the caves in search of your father and his pirate captors.

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Jacques chose a handful of his most trusted men, only one longboat full, to accompany you both on your rescue mission. He ensured all the pistols and muskets were loaded with fresh powder and balls, and that every man was armed with an arsenal of cutlass, daggers, pistols, and muskets. Jacques’s company included the men you had come to know best, One-Eyed Bart, Crooked James, and Solomon, who carried a long halberd, among a few others. The majority of his crew was left on the Belle Dame with instructions to guard the mouth of the bay and blow any enemy who tried to enter to smithereens. You had informed Jacques of Tavington’s pursuit and Carroughes may also be on the hunt.

Dark clouds, rain, and wind whipping through palm trees shielded your company when you landed on the island and made your way along the shore to the cave. The cave holding the wondrous treasure was in the deepest inland point of the cove in a rocky outcrop, a narrow crevasse that looked like a vertical jagged mouth of a barracuda and just as eager to tear anyone who dared enter to shreds. The caves had no outlet that you or your father had ever found and it was accessible only during low tide. The cave system itself did not flood during high tide due to a slight incline inside, but none could enter or exit when the mouth and many yards inside were flooded with seawater.

Standing tall on the beach with the wind rustling his hair and long coat, Jacques pulled a spyglass from his inner coat pocket, expanded it and held it to his eye to study the entrance. He nodded to himself, chewing his lip, and wordlessly handed the spyglass to you. Through its lens, you saw a spattering of footprints leading out of the forest and toward the mouth of the cave. Jacques had guessed correctly that your father must have told the pirate to dock on the far side of the island and force his men to trek across its interior to reach the cave. That would have significantly reduced their lead on you. Given that their footprints were still visible in the sand and had not yet been washed away by the high tide, Carroughes and his men must have entered the cave sometime during the night or shortly before dawn. Jacques had also been right to keep his ship dark and nearly invisible in the bay during the night. The enemy pirates passed within half a league of his ship and never saw her.

There was no doubt now that Carroughes was inside the cave, searching for the treasure, too stupid and too greedy to wait until the light of dawn. If you were right, Carroughes would have your father with him to guide his men through the traps on the island and inside the caves. You knew that your father would take the pirates the long way to the treasure, if he led them to it at all, through a circuitous route inside the cave system that was riddled with traps. It was an intentional design that would take out a large quantity of one’s captors in just such an eventuality. You also knew the most direct route to the treasure. With Jacques at your side, you led him and his men to the foreboding entrance.

Walking side by side, you and Jacques led the way inside the crevasse. It was only wide enough to accommodate two walking abreast. Jacques lit a cloth-bound torch and the crevasse leapt to life with firelight dancing off its wall, shiny with moss and rivulets of water. A circuitous incline of several meters led to a doorway of sorts that was carved into the rock, crudely fashioned but enough to indicate man’s design as opposed to a natural tunnel. Jacques held the torch aloft to reach aloud a message that was carved into the flattest spot of the rock above the doorway.

“Abandon all hope, Ye who enter here.” Jacques grinned at you. “When I told you I would follow you to the very gates of Hell, I didn’t know I would have to venture there quite so soon,” he mused as he entered the tunnel at your side.

“It’s to keep away the faint of heart,” you returned, glancing at him with a smirk. “Surely, that’s not one of your weaknesses.”

A few meters deeper into the crevasse, you came to a sharp bend before the tunnel snaked away into the darkness. On the rock wall in front of you was another engraving, set above a series of letters on wheels that could be spun and changed to spell any number of words.

“Choose well the guide to see ye through,” Jacques read the riddle, his brows knotting together in confusion.

“Answer correctly, and we disarm the trap beyond and pass through unscathed. Answer incorrectly, and we will be met with a volley of arrows,” you told Jacques, fixing your eyes upon him. You knew the answer, of course, but you asked him anyway, “How would you answer?”

Pursing his lips, Jacques thought for a moment before remembering the inscription on the entrance, answering confidently. “Virgil.”

“I’m impressed,” you said, rolling the appropriate letters into place. “Perhaps you’re not just a pretty face after all.”

Sounds of clicking and rumbling filled the tunnel, echoing like ghosts knocking on the walls, as the first boobytrap was disabled. Leading Jacques ahead, you passed by row after row of thin slots on either side of the rock walls, housing arrows ready to fire.

As you walked deeper into the cave system, other noises began filtering to your ears. Sounds of men grunting and cursing, heavy bootsteps, the rustling of clothing, and jingling of weapons, all weirdly distorted by their echo off the rock walls.

“They must already be in the treasure cave,” you whispered to Jacques, taking his arm and fixing him with a serious expression, full of import. “There are no more boobytraps between here and the treasure, but do not open the largest chest for any reason, nor venture down any tunnel other than this one. This cave is outfitted to prevent looters from ever leaving with their bounty.”

Nodding his understanding, he quietly relayed the message to his men. They drew their swords and readied themselves for a fight.

“Even better than gold is gold caked in the blood of your enemies,” One-Eyed Bart replied, his single blue eye shining eagerly.

Jacques drew his sword and walked ahead of you, keeping his bootsteps silent. When the light from the torches of Carroughes’s men began to illuminate the crevasse, Jacques snuffed out his own torch, using the darkness to sneak closer to his enemy.

The crevasse emptied into a cavernous chamber, a natural underground cave, large enough to house a Vatican cathedral. Its floor was slick with moisture and littered with huge stalagmites that rose as spires from the ground, both providing cover and obscuring a good view of Carroughes’s men. The cavern was filled with golden light flickering from the pirates’ torches and enhanced by the glint of gold that glittered across the cavern floor, growing richer with gold and brighter with torchlight as it stretched to the cave’s center.

Jacques drew one of his pistols with his left hand, holding it at the ready, still gripping his sword with his right, and advanced closer toward the men at the center of the chamber, using the rock formations as cover. The glint of gold grew ever brighter. The increasing quantity of gold coins that littered the stone ground slipped like pebbles beneath your boots with every step. Ahead of you was a raised formation, a natural rock stage, luminous with gold and jewels. An enormous treasure chest sat amid the plunder along with numerous smaller chests and leather satchels, all filled to the brim with golden wealth.

Jean Carroughes was a stocky and swarthy man with greasy hair and belligerent features. He and his few remaining men stood around the largest chest, what was left of the men anyway. Several of the pirates evidenced the pain of narrowly escaping the traps they had clearly sprung enroute. One man had a fresh bandage tied over an eye, stained red with blood that seeped through the cloth and dripped down onto his shirt, his cheek mangled beneath the cloth. Another man leaned against a large stalagmite, slumped and holding the stump of his hand to his chest, a belt wrapped around his forearm in an attempt to staunch the heavy bleeding. A third pirate lay on his back on a pile of gold, several arrows embedded in his torso, his last breaths harrowed.

You spotted your father and pointed him out to Jacques. He was positioned well back from the largest chest. Two men stood on either side of him, pistols trained on the older disheveled man whose eyes burned hot as coals.

Ambivalent to the suffering of his men and the other happenings around him, Carroughes stood at the chest, looking down at it with a confused expression. By the sight of him, he looked like a man who was easily flummoxed by the simpler puzzles in life, let alone sophisticated traps and riddles. His eyes were dull and cow-like, offering scarcely a shine even in the torchlight that illuminated the cavern. His vapid eyes matched the sophistication of his haphazardly chopped mullet.

“Carroughes is mine,” Jacques told his men in a rumbling whisper, all of whom had their weapons drawn. As if of one mind, Jacques and his men emerged from the shadows in a single movement. Without giving warning, Jacques and each of the pirates in his company fired the single shot their pistols held. Each bullet found its mark in the forehead or face of an enemy. Jacques and Solomon each shot one of the men holding your father prisoner, freeing your father to duck out of the way of the deafening volley. Around Carroughes, several of his men dropped to the ground, dead on their feet from their wounds.

Jacques’s men charged forward, meeting Carroughes’s pirates with the sounds of metal ringing on metal as their swords clashed and screams and grunts when a blade found its mark in flesh. Three men ran at Jacques, their blades arching toward him. Jacques didn’t slow, meeting the center man with brutal force, blocking his blade down and shouldering into the man’s chest like a charging bull, sending him flying backward onto his back. The men on each side missed their strikes and took a precious second to recover and turn to face Jacques again. Jacques slashed his blade across the first attacker’s throat, the open wound spraying blood like a geyser as the man dropped to his knees. The second man was mid-strike with an overhead swing aimed at the junction of Jacques’s neck and shoulder. Jacques ducked under the blade and stepped past the man, slicing his sword across the man’s gut as he did and opening him up along his beltline with the same sound and effect of pulling the string on a bag of grain. Ropes of the man’s entrails splattered to the floor and the man stood and stared dumbly at the gruesome sight, too stunned to react. Jacques finished him with an executioner’s chop on the back of his bowed neck, nearly severing his head from his shoulders. The man Jacques had knocked to the ground was pushing up to his feet. Jacques kicked him savagely up under the jaw, snapping his head back with a sickening crunch, shattering his teeth with a sound like breaking a China vase.

Jacques fought his way across the cavern and stalked to the bottom of the natural stage where Carroughes stood near the chests. He leveled his sword right at Carroughes, pointing it ominously and glaring murderously down its blade at his betrayer.

“For far too long, I’ve wanted to rip out your mutinous heart,” Jacques growled, his features darkened with predatory menace. “Fight me like a man. If you have the balls for it.”

“Pretty words as always, Le Gris,” Carroughes grunted disparagingly, drawing his sword and barreling down the mound of treasure toward Jacques. “I look forward to cutting your throat! But first, I’m going to slice up that pretty face of yours. We’ll see how the ladies like you then!”

Jacques lunged to meet Carroughes, easily blocking the smaller man’s swing to the outside and knocking him backward with sheer brute power. Carroughes recovered quickly, a skilled fighter himself, slicing his sword backhanded at Jacques’s gut. Jacques parried the attack by shooting his hips backward while blocking the blade with a downward strike of his own. The ground was slick under Jacques’s boots, gold coins on wet stone, and he slipped. Seeing Jacques was momentarily off balance, Carroughes pressed his advantage. Rushing forward, he shouldered into Jacques, knocking him stumbling backward, nearly to the ground. As Jacques fumbled for balance, Carroughes struck again with a sideways attack aimed at slicing Jacques’s throat. Jacques ducked below the strike, falling to a knee as Carroughes’s blade sailed cleanly over his head.

Carroughes’s men were outnumbered. Accepting their loss in unison, several pirates fled the battle given by Jacques’s men, turning tail and running down a side tunnel that snaked away into the darkness.

“Why do you run?” Carroughes yelled after them. “Cowards! Cowards all!”

Grunting like a sow in heat, Carroughes raised his sword again, swinging it down toward Jacques’s kneeling figure for the death blow. Jacques raised his sword above his head, bolstering the blade with his left hand when it met the enemy blade. Carroughes’s swing cleaved Jacques’s sword in two, breaking Jacques’s blade just above the hilt. Jacques used the remaining hilt of his broken sword as a guard for his knuckles to knock Carroughes’s sword away. Pushing to his feet and shooting forward, Jacques slammed a powerful, tooth-loosening punch into Carroughes’s jaw.

From down the tunnel into which Carroughes’s men had fled in retreat, the sounds of mechanical gears echoed strangely, first high-pitched and screeching with rust, then rumbling more deeply. The sound of grinding gears was met with a chorus of terrible, unhinged screams. Another booby trap had done its job well, sparing you and Jacques the trouble of dispatching Carroughes’s men.

Looking frantically around the cave, you spied another sword as Jacques raised his fists like a boxer to square off with Carroughes. Racing to it, you drew the sword from a pile of gold. It was an enormous broadsword, the kind wielded by valiant knights and great kings in a bygone era, its hilt gilded and jeweled with Latin blessings engraved along its blade.

“Jacques!” you shouted to get his attention as you threw the sword to him, using all your strength to propel the heavy weapon.

Jacques’s right hand shot out to meet the thrown sword, as Carroughes leveled a swing at Jacques’s head. Jacques caught the broadsword by its grip, snatching it right out of the air as it sailed toward him. In the same motion, Jacques ducked below Carroughes’s strike and slashed his new blade across Carroughes’s thigh as he moved, cutting through the fatty meat to the bone.

A feral scream tore from Carroughes’s throat as he buckled to the ground, but it was short-lived. Jacques immediately reversed his sword, raising it above his head before plunging it straight down into the base of Carroughes’s neck, killing him instantly. Jacques stood and staggered on his feet for a moment, panting for breath, leaving his sword embedded in Carroughes like a spit through a swine set to roast.

Nodding to himself that Carroughes was dead, Jacques pulled his sword free from the corpse with his right hand then extended his left hand toward you, beckoning you into his embrace as you rushed to him. He lifted you off the ground, triumphantly swinging you around in a circle, pinned against his powerful body with his left arm alone. Smiles beamed on both your lips with your shared victory and adoration gleamed equally bright in both your eyes. Returning your feet to the ground, Jacques captured your lips in a passionate kiss, pouring all his love and gratitude into your mouth as he held you tight to his body.

Around you, Solomon, One-Eyed Bart, Crooked James, and the other pirates from Jacques’s crew scurried about like children in a candy parlor, stuffing bounty into their pockets with starving urgency as Jacques kissed you. You had to all but force yourself to tear away from Jacques’s arms to see to your father. He had been watching, assessing the relationship between you and the pirate captain with narrowed eyes. You hugged him tightly. Your father was beaten and bruised, but otherwise healthy. Your eyes burned at the knowledge that both of the men who mattered most in your life were now safe and sound.

Jacques cleared his throat and busied himself by looking around the cavern so as not to intrude upon your reunion with your father. He bent to retrieve several shining treasures from the ground and stuffed them into his pockets, along with plenty of large handfuls of gold coins and jewels.

Smiling appreciatively at Jacques, your father approached him with a hand extended, ready to both thank the man who had saved him and to inquire further of the character of this man who had obviously enraptured his daughter. Despite your father’s ragged state, his eyes gleamed shrewdly as he scrutinized Jacques with a father’s critical eye, tempered only slightly by his personal gratitude.

“Father, allow me to present Captain Jacques Le Gris,” you announced, the formality ridiculous for the setting.

Your father’s features instantly hardened, and his eyes narrowed in recognition of the infamous pirate’s name.

“A pirate, huh?” he asked you in lieu of a friendlier greeting. “The pirate Jacques Le Gris, no less?” He looked at Jacques with scathing coldness. “I wish I could say that I have never heard of you, sir.”

Jacques stood taller and set his jaw at the rebuke but said nothing. It would be ill advised to challenge the father of the woman he loved to a duel, and that was his most scrupulous impulse after simply remaining silent.

“I am in your debt for rescuing me,” your father said to Jacques, omitting his title. His voice was stern and accusatory. “But I think that the price for your services is more than I would have been willing to pay were the decision left to me.”

“This is patently absurd!” you scolded both men, looking especially harshly at your father. “You of all men should know that even among pirates, there are a few good men to be found.”

“I of all men know just how dastardly pirates are, my dear,” your father replied, keeping his eyes fixed on Jacques. Despite his haggard and dirty appearance, he managed to affect an air of command.

“I am a pirate no longer, sir, rather, I am now a man of great means,” Jacques asserted, spreading his arms wide to pointedly indicate the room full of treasure, laying an implied claim upon it.

“Spoken like a true pirate.” Your father turned a cold shoulder to Jacques and addressed you. “And spoken like a man who will lay claim to whatever treasure he wants, take his fill, and sail away without a backward glance. If you think you are different than shiny baubles to such a man, you still have much to learn in life.”

“By god, I intend to marry her!” Jacques boomed, truly angry now. He had to fight his temper and voice back to a manageable tenor. “I will marry your daughter, sir, and while I would like to have your blessing for her sake, I damn sure don’t require it. You’re right that I’ll sail away without a backward glance, and I’ll take her with me.”

This was closer to the response your father was looking for, albeit more righteous and flamboyant. Your father didn’t give the pirate the satisfaction of knowing the answer had pleased him and instead cocked a haughty eyebrow at Jacques. More to ruffle Jacques than anything, your father affected a curious tone and asked you, “What of Commodore Tavington? He’s been courting you for months.”

You bristled and felt your own anger rising at the mention of the loathsome man. “There is much you need to be informed of regarding Tavington.” You looked between your father and Jacques mischievously. “After which, I am curious to see which of you will kill him first.”

“Our chance will come soon,” Jacques said darkly. To avoid further confrontation, he left you in the company of your father to explore the wondrous cavern. Despite your warning, he was drawn to the largest central chest and found his feet carrying him there.

After placating your father, you walked to join Jacques at the largest chest, the centerpiece of the treasure laden cave. He draped his arm around your shoulders and tucked you against his side as you both looked down at the chest. Its lid was closed, although it was very clearly over filled with treasure. A Latin inscription was engraved on a metal plate on its lid. Thesaurus optimus non est argentum et aurum.

“This chest is booby trapped. The final trap to catch anyone who escaped all the others,” you explained to Jacques. “Like Pandora’s box, if you open it, you’ll unleash sickness and misery. It’s poisoned.”

“The greatest treasure is not silver and gold,” Jacques translated the Latin inscription, squeezing you tighter. “A truism I never would have believed until recently.”

“Are you telling me you’ve found something that piques your interest more than a cave full of treasure?” you teased, smirking up at him.

“I fear I lost my love for all that glitters with the first taste of your lips,” Jacques told you sincerely. His dark mood forgotten in the warmth of your affection, he lowered his head to rub his large nose against yours. “Unless I count the shine in your eyes that is brighter than any diamond.”

Pulling back from you, Jacques grinned at you mischievously. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket, retrieving one of the artifacts he had pilfered from the cave. An ornate golden tiara encrusted with lavish jewels fit for a queen. Bowing magnanimously before you, Jacques straightened and placed it on your head.

“Perhaps this would be more befitting once you are again wearing a dress, my Queen.” Jacques laughed, dipping to kiss you again. “Regardless, so long as my heart beats, I shall be a loyal knight in your service.”

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The treasure inside the cave was enough to make a man rich for many lifetimes, much more than could be loaded onto the Belle Dame at present while the Commodore hunted them. Jacques allowed the men in his raiding party to take all they could manage, and filled his own pockets with the most remarkable jewelry and gems he could find. Three chests brimming with treasure were packed into the long boat. One chest would be split amongst the crew for their bounty and a portion paid to Pierre. One chest was to divide amongst his officers, One-Eyed Bart, Solomon, Crooked James, and Huxley. One chest was allotted to Jacques himself as the captain. With it, he intended to live the rest of his life as a wealthy man with a wife more beautiful than money could buy.

Back onboard the Belle Dame, as she took once more to the open seas past the treacherous queens, Jacques allowed your father the use of his cabin. It was the only cabin on board with a comfortable bed and the older man was beaten and exhausted, in need of food and rest more than anything else. Inside Jacques’s cabin, your father eyed the bed and the rumpled sheets upon it with the same distaste he would sniff carrion. Confronted with the crude evidence of what he had surmised in the cave, his paternal instincts were ignited.

“Did you seduce her?” he asked darkly, glaring at Jacques with the vehemence that Black Sam Belamy had used to make his enemies wither. The moniker Black Sam had been earned by feats of monstrosity and violence that far bested Jacques’s most gruesome exploits. It was easy to see how he had been a dangerous and formidable man in his prime, and was still more so than most. “I will advise my daughter that succumbing to a rogue’s seduction is a mistake that can be rectified, and that none of polite society need ever know about her lapse in judgment.”

“Seduction implies guile and treachery, of which there were none.” Jacques gritted his teeth, fighting to keep his temper from flaring. Then he flashed an intentionally dashing smile to prod the older man. “If my cabin is not to your liking, there are plenty of hammocks belowdecks. I would be pleased to retain the use of my bed for the duration of our voyage. That would please your daughter too, I wager.”

“You’re a pirate and a ruffian and the basest of scoundrels.” Your father narrowed his eyes, looking as if he had a sword, he would draw it now. “A salty dog.”

“At your service.” Jacques flippantly took off his hat and gave one of his lavish bows.

“You don’t deserve her,” your father said grimly, his eyes burning into Jacques’s.

“You’re right.” Jacques nodded seriously, clenching his jaw. Then he straightened to his full height, standing tall and proud and said solemnly, “And I’ll treat her far better than any better man who thinks he already deserves her now and will take her for granted once she is no longer his newest prize. I’ll spend every day of the rest of my life endeavoring to deserve her.”

“If you want my blessing on this unholy union, you’d best make me believe that, pirate,” your father said with finality. The best way to deal with a rakish pirate is with a firm hand. He knew that well from personal experience.

Jacques stood silent and bristling, his eyes narrowed and it was plain to see that he was fighting the natural male urge to avenge the slights against his character and his intentions toward the woman he loved with his fists. His righteousness pleased your father. Jacques gritted his teeth, thinking of his best remark without responding with undue aggression.

Both men’s nerves were taught. They both startled when you burst through the cabin door.

“When the two of you have finished this ridiculous male ritual, perhaps you’d like to come on deck and see what should be done about Commodore Tavington,” you told them derisively. “Or would you prefer to bicker like ninnies while the Cerberus runs us down?”

Jacques dashed out of his cabin with you and your father following. Pulling his spyglass from his pocket, he took the steps three at a time to the upper deck. Even against the sullen, stormy grey backdrop, the Cerberus’s sails were easy to see, standing tall and pristine white. She was still leagues away, but fast approaching on a favorable wind. Standing at the stern rail, looking through the lens of his spyglass, Jacques chewed his lip as he appraised the enemy ship. She was a royal navy frigate, larger and with twice the men and cannon of the Belle Dame. The Cerberus was a man o’ war built for a singular purpose.

“Do you have a plan?” you asked Jacques, keeping your voice low so the crew didn’t hear. Beside you, your father also looked out across the ocean to the ominous white sails. After hearing your account of Tavington’s conduct, he knew nothing good would come from allowing the Cerberus to catch them.

“I have no doubt a brilliant idea will soon come to me,” Jacques assured you with more confidence than he felt. He turned and bellowed orders to his men, sending them scurrying about the deck to trim the sails and set her bearing. Jacques knew how to coax every bit of speed out of the Belle Dame and she responded like a bounding thoroughbred, her sails snapping taught and coursing away, ocean spray and spume bursting over her bow. Jacques returned to you at the stern and studied the Cerberus again through his spyglass. He fancied that he saw the tall rigid figure of her captain standing on her deck, although it was too far to be sure. The enemy ship had the favor of the wind and would still gain on them, but slowly.

“The Cerberus is one of the greatest ships in the Royal Navy,” your father said to Jacques while staring out at her. “She was built to my personal specifications. Yours is a fine ship, but she cannot win against the Cerberus in a fair fight.”

Jacques scratched his beard as he considered his options and calculated strategy. The storm had begun brewing again, the wind whipping around you on deck and snapping in the sails. Jacques grinned, “Then that’s not much incentive for me to fight fair then, aye?”

Jacques ordered several lanterns to be lit in his cabin. In the stormy gloom, the glow from the lanterns would shine out through the large stern windows, the only spot of orange on the dark sea. When darkness fell, the stern windows would glow like a giant firefly and be visible for many leagues.

“You’re baiting him?” you asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“That I am,” Jacques agreed and winked at you. “Given my reputation, the Commodore should readily believe that I am celebrating my victory with you in my cabin and will continue to do so long into the night.”

“If you’re luring Tavington on, it must be to lead him somewhere treacherous,” your father mused, fishing for more.

“To the most treacherous place of all. I’ll lead the bastard right to the point of my sword,” Jacques said grimly. “Until that happy time, I’ll lead him on a steady baring until darkness falls and the sea grows rough with the storm. He’ll catch up with us sometime in the night.e’Hh Then, at the opportune moment, I’ll launch a long boat filled with lanterns to act as a decoy while I bring the Belle Dame around to catch the Cerberus unawares from behind and have at her stern.”

“That’s your plan?” you asked, letting your tone reflect your lack of faith in it. “Try to sneak up on Tavington from behind and attack his ship’s stern?”

“Surprising a lady unawares in the dark has worked on many a lass far prettier than the fat ol’ Cerberus,” Jacques tried to make light, but fell somber when you didn’t reward his bawdy humor with a smile. “The Commodore strikes me as a man of hubris – an Achilles heel I know well. He will not think himself capable of being outsmarted, and he’ll take the bait.”

“It’s likely the best option,” your father agreed unenthusiastically, his lips forming a thin line. “That doesn’t mean it’s a good one.”

“I think I’d prefer lassoing sharks or having a menage a trois with mermaids,” you groused, crossing your arms over your chest.

“I promise you sharks and mermaids on our next adventure, amour.” Jacques squeezed your hand in a brief affectionate gesture then hurried to relay his plan to his officers.

*******************************************************************************************

Commodore Tavington stood on the deck of the Cerberus, not a strand of his black hair flew free from its plait even in the wind of the building storm. He stared ahead at the distant sails of his prey, unblinking even against the sea spray, as focused as a hunting dog. As he watched, the windows of the captain’s cabin came to life with a fiery glow, alighting nearly the full width of the stern. Tavington frowned. It shouldn’t be this easy. The pirate was reckless and brash, but Tavington had not observed him to be stupid. Then again, Le Gris was a base man, no doubt enslaved by his animal urges. Likely as not, he wanted to get one more good railing in before the imminent battle began.

Still, it nagged at him.

Sighing discontentedly, Tavington decided that it didn’t matter. Even if the pirate was playing a little trick, it would be to no avail. The Cerberus could take everything the smaller ship could throw at her, even a full broadside, and sail gamely on. Whereas, once Tavington had the pirate lined up with his own broadside, it would not be a battle so much as butchery.

Tavington let every nuance and detail of battle play out in his thoughts, all the suffering and cruelty his mind could conjure. He wondered how long he could prolong the pirate’s suffering once captured, for the longer it lingered, the more exquisite it became. Le Gris looked like a strong man and he was certainly a big brute. Tavington was hopeful he could endure for days on end. He imagined also the way your screams would sound and whether he would take more pleasure in their melody or in your pleas for mercy.

I needn’t settle for only one, he mused with a cruel smile.

*******************************************************************************************

The day crept by as slow as a death on the rack. The menacing white flags of the Cerberus were a constant reminder of how quickly the sand was running out of the hourglass as she steadily closed in upon the Belle Dame. You had never suspected the hours leading up to a battle could be so tedious. Your nerves, strung as taught as violin strings, drew out the agony of the tolling seconds.

Jacques came up behind you and started kneading the tension out of your shoulders with his huge hands. “This is how it often is,” he said as he chastely kissed your neck. “Most great adventures and fearsome battles are hours upon hours of waiting and doldrums, interrupted by a few moments of terror for the wise and excitement for the foolish. If you are lucky enough to survive it, men will say you have found glory. If you are unlucky, you find only death.”

“You’d best make sure luck is on your side tonight, Captain,” you told him sternly. “That’s an order.”

“Aye aye, amour.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes; they were focused on Tavington’s sails. Only one of them would live to see the sunrise.

You were tortured with guilt. You and your father should have separated from Jacques, but you couldn’t bear to. Tavington would be forced to rescue you and your father first before pursuing revenge. It would have given Jacques the extra time he needed to make good his escape. So long as you were with Jacques, Tavington was free to chase him to the ends of the earth. The storm had renewed the option to try and run, using the impenetrable darkness and the intended longboat decoy to slip away. Jacques could possibly drop you and your father in a safe port and engineer his own disappearance in the vastness of the oceans.

“I’ve triumphed over odds far worse than these,” Jacques said to reassure you and tightened his arms around you, seeing your thoughts plainly written across your face.

Night fell black as pitch, the darkness complete beneath the gunpowder sky, as if Poseidon had banished all light from his domain. The storm was only a vestige of the gale you sailed through enroute. The rain drizzled, the wind blew, and the waves swelled, but it was not the raging torrent with mountainous waves the previous night had spawned. Still, it was more than enough to blot out all the light from the moon and stars above the clouds. On the black rolling sea, Tavington would not be able to see the Belle Dame from more than a few cable lengths away once her lights were out. The storm was a stroke of luck and Jacques must have thought it so, for he absently caressed the gold medallion that hung around his neck.

“It’s time,” Jacques declared. The crew responded at once to his order and snuffed out the lanterns inside the captain’s cabin. No other light flickered aboard the ship, not even a match or the end of a lit cigarette. They quickly loaded several lit lanterns into a longboat and lowered it down onto the bucking waves. The glow inside the longboat was all that could be seen in the black ocean that was not in the immediate vicinity of the Belle Dame. From the stern, even the Belle Dame’s long bowsprit was lost in darkness. An occasional burst of lightning illuminated her graceful lines, looking as though she was slicked with oil. Tavington had to be drawing very close now, but even his ship and her white sails were invisible in the stormy darkness.

As waves carried away the alighted longboat, Jacques spun his ship’s wheel, bringing her hard about and away from the decoy. He would make a long turn and come up on the Cerberus’s tail to launch his attack. Every man aboard ship was ready for battle, the cannons run out, muskets loaded, hands resting on the hilts of cutlass. Jacques had even planned a special treat for the Commodore. Guiding his ship by feel, Jacques could use only a calculated guess and dead reckoning to set his course. The man was indeed an expert on maneuvering in the dark. Intently focused, his body was rigid, every muscle tense, and his features were stern.

Minutes dragged by as you crested each wave and plunged down into the gulley between one and the next, a process that was endlessly repeated. Salt water stung your eyes, making it even harder to see, but then lightning split the sky above you just as you crested the next high wave. In the brief flash of light, you saw sails at the tops of three tall masts, bright white against the backdrop of the black sea. The Cerberus was in the valley between waves ahead of you, her body concealed by the watery hills between you. She was much closer than you expected, already in range if the sea was calm. You raised an arm to point her out to Jacques, but he had seen her instantly. His narrowed eyes were intently fixed upon her stern and one of his canines was bared in a sideways wolfish grin.

“Make ready, you bloodthirsty curs,” Jacques gritted to his crew, keeping his voice low enough to not carry over the rails of his ship to the ears of the enemy. He hazarded releasing the wheel with his left hand to reach for you and pull you to his side for a bestial kiss. When he drew back, his grin returned as he told you, “Never shall we die, amour.”

It was the same toast he had shared with Pierre, and as Jacques released you and returned his hand and full attention back to the hunt, you realized it must be a toast for good luck among pirates. So far, Lady Luck remained on your side. So far.

Pursuing the far larger and more battleworthy Cerberus in this way was like stalking a lion in the tall grass. Should Tavington think but to turn and look back over his stern, he would see the Belle Dame before she could fire her crippling broadside. Jacques was gambling on the Commodore being focused completely on what he thought was his target. At least until he discovered the ruse. Further out, through the thick humid air, full of rain and sea spray, an orange glow rose and fell with the waves from the light of the longboat decoy.

Mounting the next wave, Jacques spun the wheel, beginning his turn to bring the Belle Dame parallel to the Cerberus’s stern to fire a broadside. The Cerberus came into view as the Belle Dame plunged down the other side of the wave. Only the height of the wave now separated you from the enemy ship, so close that even in the darkness, the white shirts of the crew were visible.

“Fire!” Jacques roared as his ship came fully broadside to the enemy’s stern.

Cannons boomed along the starboard side of the Belle Dame, deafeningly loud, and the deck alighted with the fiery blasts from their muzzles. The shots were true, battering the Cerberus’s stern with devastating effect. Glass exploded from her blow-apart stern window and her stern timbers splintered, blowing out to sea in every direction. Because the Belle Dame was higher on the wave, one lucky cannon ball made it over the Cerberus’s stern rail and blasted lengthwise across her deck from stern to bow, cutting several crewmen in half who stood it in its path. The Cerberus shuddered from the impact, and men ran crazily along her deck, frantically trying to bring her around.

“Reload!” Jacques shouted. It took minutes to reload the cannons, but there was time enough for one more volley before the Cerberus could come around to engage them. Jacques could see Tavington’s silhouette standing by the ship’s wheel. He couldn’t see any of the man’s features, but it had to be him. No other man would be mad enough to stand tall and almost proud in the midst of such destruction.

The crew didn’t need another command to fire their cannons again once reloaded. Each cannon thundered in random order as they were each made ready. Each cannonball found its mark again, blasting the Cerberus’s stern to splinters. Her stern gaped raggedly open from the captain’s cabin down to the rudder, which was only tenuously holding on. Her once shapely rear now looked like a carcass that wolves had torn into. But her cannons were still deadly, and a single broadside could cripple the Belle Dame.

Tavington had begun bringing the Cerberus around to meet Jacques’s attack at the first volley, trying to bring his broadside to bear. The expected maneuver for Jacques would be to continue sailing parallel, reloading his cannons and firing as many volleys as he could. Instead, Jacques aimed the Belle Dame dead on at the Cerberus, using the decline of the wave she rode to propel her on her collision course.

At the last moment before impact, Jacques wrenched the wheel over, bringing the Belle Dame around just enough so that she did not crash head on, but with a glancing three-quarters strike against the larboard hull of the Cerberus, knocking trim from both ships and cracking their hulls Jacques’s crew was ready, prepared to act on the orders he had given them when he had first formed his plan. The crew held rum bottles, some of which were filled with the spirit, others of which had been emptied and their contents replaced with gunpowder. A short lit fuse sparked from the neck of each bottle, making them deadly projectiles. The two ships were touching, the fore deck of the Belle Dame having collided with the Cerberus’s ravaged stern. Jacques’s crew hurled their rum bottles onto the deck of the Cerberus. Their glowing fuses spun through the air like frenzied fireflies, and the men on the enemy deck watched them helplessly. The bottles broke upon the Cerberus’s deck. Those filled with gunpowder exploded like cannon balls and those filled with rum ignited the deck and everything they splashed with liquid fire.

Fire was the biggest hazard onboard a ship. If any flames reached the ship’s powder magazine, it would cause an explosion powerful enough to detonate any ship and obliterate her to nothing but splinters.

Flames licked across the Cerberus’s deck with a life of their own, spreading rampant like the fires of hell. They climbed her masts and caught in her canvas sails, igniting them like funeral pyres. Crewman stared up at the sails in desperation, unable to do anything but watch them burn. Smoke churned over the deck and around the crew, choking them and adding to the confusion. While the enemy were consumed with fighting the growing blaze, Jacques’s crew threw grappling hooks attached to lines over to the Cerberus’s deck. They made quick work of lashing the two ships together until they were as entwined as lovers in tangled bedsheets. In the ships’ positions, the Belle Dame was still far astern enough of the Cerberus to be safe from her broadside cannons.

Jacques’s crew washed over the Cerberus’s rails in waves, meeting the enemy in a chopping, stabbing, slashing, melee. Muskets boomed and swords clashed from Jacques’s crew of seventy against an enemy force of twice their number. Smoke from the fires and the combined musket and cannon blasts swirled over the deck like fog in a haunted graveyard, and you could only see the fighting in patches through the drifting smoke; vignettes of the battle waged between more than two hundred men. Crooked James blocked an enemy blade with his hook, then slashed it backhanded across the other man’s throat, tearing it open, spraying blood like a fountain. Solomon fought three men with his halberd, impaling one, nearly decapitating the second, and slicing open the guts of the third, spilling them across the deck. One-Eyed Bart’s sword was knocked from his hand, skidding away across the deck. Unarmed, he slipped past his opponent’s guard and caught the man’s neck in a rear neck choke, his burly tattooed arms bulging as he broke the man’s neck.

Jacques had reined in his natural urge to charge ahead at the front of his men, lingering behind with you. His eyes strained, searching for Tavington amid the smoke and flames. The only people remaining on the Belle Dame were the pair of you and your father, who now manned the wheel. You spied Tavington first when a gust of wind sent a plume of smoke swirling away. He stood high on the highest point on his deck, likewise looking for Jacques. The two men saw each other at the same time, exchanging murderous glares and locking eyes, one pair a glacial blue, the other burning like embers.

“Is this the great pirate, Jacques Le Gris, I see? Cowering on his ship with the woman?” Tavington sneered, his voice cutting through the sounds of battle. “Pity. There’s little honor in besting a coward!”

Growling deep in his chest, Jacques drew his sword and charged forward. He ran to the rail and jumped the gap between the two ships, making the feat look simple. You moved to follow Jacques, but your father grabbed your arm from behind, stopping you. He was right to do so, but still, you struggled in his hold.

“Keep your wits about you, girl!” your father told you sternly. He nodded toward a small cannon mounted on a swivel on the quarter deck. “Fight smart, not hard.”

The swivel cannon was little longer than your arm, it’s opening the size of your fist. The little cannon wasn’t as powerful as its ponderous brothers that lined the deck, but it had almost three-hundred-sixty degrees of rotation and could be aimed high or low. It was already loaded, ready to fire. You chose as your target the mainmast, intending to cripple the Cerberus completely, and took careful aim. You lit the fuse as Jacques ran across the enemy deck. The cannon fired as Jacques took the steps two at a time on his ascent to meet Tavington. The cannonball struck the mainmast, blowing a chunk out of the wood and making the entire mast shudder like a tree before the axe. You could see Jacques and Tavington above you on the highest deck of the Cerberus, like actors on a deadly stage. You began the process of reloading.

Smoke swirled around Jacques’s legs and hazed his vision. Fires burned in patches across the deck and flickered up the sails. He could feel the heat singeing his skin, and his mouth was instantly dry. Smoke stung his lungs, breathing hard from his charge up the stairs. On the upper deck, Jacques rolled his shoulders and flexed the hand that held his sword when he came face to face with Tavington. Somehow, the malignant man still looked relatively pristine, only a few hairs had escaped his plait and hung around his face.

“You hunted me down, Commodore. Luck be with you, now that you’ve found me, you dandy bastard,” Jacques gritted darkly. He raised his sword in a mocking salute, then aimed it straight at his enemy’s face, glaring down the length of his blade. “You’re off the map now. Come meet the monster.”

With a furious cry, Tavington lunged forward, his sword aimed at Jacques’s chest. The move was telegraphed, easy to defend against, and Jacques parried it easily, shooting his hips back. But it was a feint, Tavington jerked his blade up at the last instant, trying to catch Jacques up under the chin and split his face in two. Jacques only narrowly evaded the full measure of the blade, aided more by his height than his skill, but the razored point caught him on the jaw, leaving a vertical slice from jawline to cheekbone. He had underestimated Tavington, and only luck had saved him. Tavington reversed his sword into a backslash, trying to cut Jacques’s throat before he regained his poise. Ducking to the side, Jacques blocked the strike with his blade, steel ringing and the force of the Commodore’s strike thrumming through his hand. Jacques spun away, buying himself space for a moment; he had the reach on Tavington and distance was to his favor.

“You’ll get no quarter from me, pirate,” Tavington spat and slashed at Jacques’s face. “No mercy.”

“Just the terms I would have proposed.” Jacques grinned ferociously and thrust at Tavington’s gut.

In the light of the flames, Tavington’s eyes glowed like a man possessed. He intended to shout at Jacques, but his voice rose shrilly with his hatred, “You stole her from me, and I’ll send you straight to hell for it!”

“Even I could not steal a heart that belonged to another man.” Jacques took the offensive, thrusting his sword at his opponent’s chest. Tavington parried but conceded a step backward. Jacques slashed low at thigh-level, forcing Tavington to retreat another step. “She was never yours. But you’re right in that now she is all mine.” He emphasized the possessive, knowing it would enrage his opponent. Jacques thrust again.

Tavington wheeled away and the men circled each other menacingly as wolves in a deadly minuet. Their blades flirted and kissed as each looked for an opening, steel brushing and slithering together in a grim susurrus.

The Commodore advanced on Jacques and drove him back with a rapid series of lunges. Jacques was expecting this, checking each thrust. He felt Tavington’s power and let him exhaust it. Tavington was the best swordsman Jacques had ever faced. Strong, quick, and highly skilled. But too aggressive. His rage over you was his only weakness, driving him to madness. His attack was rabid, exerted with too much power and too little forethought. Still, it would have dominated a lesser opponent or even a weaker man, but Jacques was a brilliant swordsman himself, his skill bolstered with agility and power. Jacques blocked and disengaged fluidly, deflecting the man’s berserker force without meeting it directly.

Jacques felt it the moment Tavington’s strength began to fail. Blocking a direct thrust, Jacques felt the quiver in his opponent’s wrist when it carried down the blade, the first sign of muscle fatigue. Jacques allowed Tavington several more strikes, blocking each and noting that Tavington’s speed had almost imperceptibly tapered.

On the Belle Dame, you finished reloading the small swivel cannon. You tried to ignore the sight of the man you loved engaged in a mortal duel as you aimed it again, lit the fuse, and heard the booming concussion of the shot. The ball struck the mainmast again, taking another chunk out of the wood. The mast swayed dangerously, nearly shot through. A hearty gust of wind would snap it in two, as would another well-aimed cannon ball. You reloaded a third time.

The cannon shot distracted Tavington for a precious moment, his cold eyes jerking instinctively to the sight of his swaying mainmast. A skilled swordsman knew when to seize an opening. Jacques lunged at Tavington, for the first time attacking with the full brute strength he had to back his skill. Tavington blocked Jacques’s thrust, but the force knocked him back toward the damaged stern rail. Even so, Tavington regained his footing and finessed a slash across Jacques’s chest, opening a deep horizontal cut over his heart. Scarlet blood bloomed on Jacques’s breast, saturating his white shirt, but it didn’t slow his blade. Jacques attacked mercilessly, advancing upon Tavington until he forced Tavington’s blade up against his own, bringing the two men nearly chest to chest, their blades crossed in front of their faces, their eyes meeting over their swords. Fear shimmered in Tavington’s eyes while Jacques’s glinted with adamantine resolve.

Tavington tried to disengage, forcing his and Jacques’s swords down while pivoting aside – a maneuver that would have caught a less skilled opponent unbalanced, but Jacques was prepared. Jacques moved with Tavington, using the momentum he was given and moving fluidly with it instead of resisting. He drove his crossed blade closer to Tavington with his right hand and caught Tavington’s sword hand with his left, trapping the man’s hand and sword in an iron grip. Jacques slammed a brutal headbutt into Tavington’s nose over the center of their crossed swords, breaking the Commodore’s nose with a rupture of blood. Tavington staggered, on the edge of consciousness, held upright mainly by Jacques’s grip.

While Tavington reeled, Jacques shoved him back hard against the stern rail. With a sharp thrust, he drove his sword into the heart of his nemesis. Though the target must have been small and atrophied, his blade sank in nearly to the hilt. Tavington froze, a shocked look on his face, his mouth gaping open. Slowly thick blood oozed from his mouth and trickled down his chin. Jacques yanked his sword free of the man’s body and watched him sag to the deck. Jacques stepped on Tavington’s sword arm, pinning it to the deck with his boot, and watched Tavington as his life drained away. Jacques had known many men to be killed by enemies they thought were already dead and he had taken the lesson to heart. Tavington’s lips formed words, but only choking gurgles passed them. He turned his head to look out to the Belle Dame and the gloriously beautiful woman standing behind the swivel cannon. When his life drained away and his eyes began to glaze, they were still fixed on you.

Heaving a deep sigh, Jacques turned his attention to the battle raging on the deck of the Cerberus. His own duel had been only one of many that had played out in the minutes since his men boarded the enemy ship. Dozens of men lay dead or dying on the deck, the wood stained red with so much blood that even the storm couldn’t wash it all away. Just as Jacques made for the stairs to join the fighting, another cannon shot thundered from the Belle Dame. Your aim had stayed true and your third shot tore into the mainmast again. It was the last shot the mast could endure. Slowly, the mainmast swayed like a drunkard, first back then forward then back again, each sway gaining momentum. The wind caught the sails and whipped the mainmast forward toward the bow, snapping it like a matchstick.

The mainmast fell, pulling the sails down with it, the lines snapping across the deck with enough force to lacerate any man unlucky enough to get caught by one. Much of the sail canvas was aflame and the men fighting below had to forget their battle for the moment, long enough to scurry away from the falling mast and canvas. A few men were so embroiled in combat that they remained in the center of the deck to be trapped beneath the burning canvas, their screams ringing shrilly to every ear on board.

Your father used the dreadful sounds as an opening. He hurried across the gap between the ships, having a much more difficult time than Jacques. On the deck of the Cerberus, he hailed the navy men, shouting over the screams and groans of the dying. After all, the Cerberus’s crew were enlisted men in the British Navy and your father was the Governor of Port Royal. With Commodore Tavington dead, it was natural for him to command them and he met no resistance. They followed his order to cease all combat with obvious relief.

From the stern rail, Jacques caught your eye and raised his bloody sword to you. He smiled at you triumphantly, with blood trickling from the gash on his right cheek and his once-white shirt soaked with blood all down his left side from the slash across his chest.

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Pinks and oranges streaked across the pastel sky as the sun prepared to rise above the watery horizon, driving the last remnants of the storm away before its golden light. The break of dawn found you back on the Belle Dame, standing inside Jacques’s warm embrace. The breeze was light on your face as you sailed serenely toward Port Royal. The Cerberus was tethered to the Belle Dame, being towed along behind. Your father had taken command of the Cerberus and remained aboard her. You suspected his decision was primarily due to having a bed that he knew had not been sullied by Jacques and his daughter.

Jacques let you man the helm, in a manner. He again stood behind you, his chest pressed to your back and arms secured around your waist, holding you gently.

“What’s the first thing you want to do when we reach port?” you asked dreamily, leaning back against his strong body.

“I have some ideas.” He ground against your ass for emphasis.

“What’s the second thing, then?” you laughed pleasantly at his antics.

“Find a chapel,” he replied without hesitation, smiling down at you over your shoulder.

“A chapel?” you asked, craning your neck to look at him.

“Only if you’ll have me, amour.” He punctuated his statement with a tender lingering kiss to your neck. He lifted your left hand, pulling a ring from his pocket, an astonishing treasure he had taken from the obliging cave. It was the largest, clearest, most piercing sapphire you had ever seen, set in a halo of shining diamonds that slid onto your ring finger as though it had been commissioned for you alone.

“No more of Pierre and his ‘games’?” you asked, gauging Jacques’s reaction, admiring the way the light danced off your sapphire ring the same way it danced on the ocean waves.

“Pierre shall have to persevere without the pleasure of my company during his nocturnal festivities,” Jacques assured you, kissing your neck again, tickling your skin with his beard.

“No more piracy and battles on the high seas?” you teased, leaning back against him further.

“I am confident that taking you as my wife will be a far more dangerous endeavor than any other I can ever hazard,” he replied huskily in your ear. “No doubt, I will still find myself in fear for my life on occasion.”

“Are you sure that your proposal is not a ruse to acquire my share of the treasure?” you laughed and Jacques nipped your skin in response.

“I want the treasure that is priceless, amour,” he said, squeezing you tight.

“No adventures without me, whether they be on land or sea?” you pressed again, tilting your neck to give him better access to kiss you.

“To love you shall be the grandest adventure of all,” Jacques purred, his words rumbling against your skin as you sailed into a golden sunrise.

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© safarigirlsp 2021

Tagging some wenches:

[007swhore]

hello fellow jason isaacs lovers! I noticed that there isn't much content on this app for some of jason's lesser known characters...well in my opinion all of his characters in general need more content on here haha. so if there is a specific craving you have for an x reader fic with one of his characters send them to me! i would love to get back into writing!!

[jokerfic]

hey uh what’s your argument for the joker/harley ship bc there’s a lot of people against it that are coming at me for liking them as a pair + I know that they’re stranger and it literally doesn’t have any impact on me but it’s like people constantly make out that if I ship them I don’t care about Harley lmao

the ship police coming after you in 2019, huh? we’ll get into that in just a minute lol

honestly, the only reasoning you need for shipping a couple is that they’re both adults and they’re both people you find interesting/they’re people whose relationship with one another you find interesting, for whatever reason. that’s it. that’s all. that’s not to say that there’s not nuance in your ship, that there aren’t problematic elements, that it’s a healthy relationship just because you want it to be, but the good news is that a fictional relationship doesn’t have to be ideologically pure or healthy or even not-abusive for you to be interested in reading or writing about it.

with the Joker and Harley, and speaking very generally, I’m personally extremely drawn in by the fact that he’s one of the most terrifying and dangerous men in the world, that few people (especially the people who work with him!) survive being around him for long, but somehow Harley is the one who has staying power, Harley is the one who has made it this long around him. it’s an extraordinary situation between extraordinary people and I’m very interested in the day-to-day of how it works, and I get to explore that in the safe realm of fiction. that’s what stories are for. Harley is a fictional character and her purpose is to play a role in stories, it’s not like you’re condemning a real flesh and blood woman to stay with a monster and a murderer for your personal gratification, to that end the “you don’t care about Harley” argument is absurd lmao

I wouldn’t promote it in real life– partially because it literally could not exist in real life– and it’s not an exclusive ship by any means, I think Joker/Batman is a super interesting ship and obviously I do work pairing Joker with OCs from time to time, and I love Harley/Ivy and actually very much prefer Harlivy in canon bc I love what it does for Harley’s arc and think it’s a better relationship/message to put out into the world as a whole (also I think Harley/Deadshot is cute lol), but fanfiction is for running wild, exploring story options and vibes that don’t exist in canon, and again, it’s a safe place to look into and work through dangerous shit that draws you in.

we’ve been doing this with stories since the beginning of time. there’s a lot of fucked-up shit in classic literature and there will continue to be fucked-up shit in our stories till we’re all gone and we really don’t have to justify it, bc it’s in our nature to say “what if” re: all elements in a story. Lately, there’s been a huge (and may I say outright puritanical) push from certain people among the left to purify our creation and consumption of stories, and while there are certain elements I definitely agree have harmful ramifications in the real world (specifically pedophile shit, normalizing big age gaps between adults and minors, adults writing explicit fic about teenagers or even younger children, adults invading spaces intended for children, things along those lines) and more that could do harm if not handled responsibly (the glorification of abusive relationships, portrayal of abuse as love, etc), I’m concerned that in reaching for ideological purity we’ll burn away all our stories until there’s absolutely nothing we can write without it being deemed “problematic.” Ugliness and horror and people behaving like absolute shithead monsters are part of storytelling the same way that love and family and people being kind and good to one another are. It’s a giant pool and you are absolutely allowed to focus on what you want or need from your stories at the time or always. With very few exceptions (see above re: pedophile shit and things along those same harmful lines) people are not allowed to come in and burn your books (metaphorically speaking about fanfic as well as literally lol) just because they contain elements those people personally find distasteful.

to that end: if people are coming after your ships, sometimes the best thing to do is make liberal use of the block button. I’m not saying you should block everyone asking about it, because some people are probably genuinely asking and honestly don’t understand how you could like a certain pairing, and a conversation could benefit both of you. But honestly, most of the ship police are asking the question “how could you ship them?” in bad faith and they are not interested in anything other than getting you to admit that you’re a bad person for your interest in a fictional couple. Those people aren’t in a place to listen to you or learn anything, and if they’re harassing you then the best course of action is to remove their ability to do so. I advise you to explain your interest in your ship politely, once, then move on.

or don’t! you don’t owe anyone an explanation for your tastes in fanfiction. fandom drama is 100% optional. if you don’t want to engage, don’t, because sometimes even just responding is blood in the water for people whose only goal is to stir up trouble. they’re trying to hide a genuinely ugly motivation to be morally superior to you under a thin veil of concern about the ramifications of certain stories being told, it’s not at all valid and you’re fine to ignore them lol

[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.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 7

Read on AO3. Part 6 here. Part 8 here.

Summary: The longest stay you've ever had from home is about to become much longer.

Words: 5000

Warnings: Medical trauma

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Cowritten with @bastillia <3

Off we go into the field! We are loving your comments, your thoughts, your excitement and engagement in the story - truly, we are so lucky. I hope you continue to enjoy what we have planned for the future!!

Please credit all of Grace's letter to Bastillia and her genius. Also, please thank Bastillia for her newly formed fixation on the American Revolutionary War - it's because of this we can't help but bring in actual historical figures like they're our blorbos as well, HAHAHA. It's been a lot of fun learning about history and integrating it into the fic (even if The Patriot was not always hyper-concerned about this LOL)

Love you so much! <3

The letter was crisp, addressed in handwriting that swirled across the page like fairy dust. Grace’s penmanship, for certain—something you’d always envied when comparing it to yours, which bore more resemblance to cresting waves in a storm than anything meant for man’s eyes. It had been dated for a little over a week prior.

“Thank you,” you said to Goddard. “You said this was given to you by whom?”

“Major Ferguson,” he said, stepping further into the kitchen. Then, upon glimpsing your expression and perhaps realizing you couldn’t have possibly known who in God’s sweet Holiness that was, he continued bashfully, “The Major, er, commands another unit that was deployed into the backcountry. Lord Cornwallis ordered most of us to return here to Charleston about a day ago.”

You nodded, turning the paper over in your hands. “I see.” What you wanted to ask but didn’t: Does that include Colonel Tavington, then?

It’d been about two weeks since you’d last seen him in his office. You supposed he’d made good on his intention and set out from Charleston that evening. But he’d been in the field since then, and the status of your parole hung in the balance. Ghoulishly, a part of you had hoped he’d been killed in action. Perhaps even more ghoulishly, another, hungrier part of you had wished for him to return.

You’d tried to sate that part with nightly hand-feedings proffered between your legs—but still its appetite rose anew and greedy every morning.

“Who is it from?” said Lottie. “Your sister?” She peered over your shoulder, her red curls bouncing into her face.

Goddard gave a playful frown, running his hand through hair that matched his sister’s in color and texture. “I suppose I’m not offered a greeting?”

Lottie laughed, moving around you and throwing herself into his arms. “Welcome home, Benny.”

You grinned. “Yes,” you said. “It’s from Grace.” You peeled open the wax seal and started to read.

June 10 1780

My Dearest Sister,

Though I write this on only the sixth day since I bade you farewell, I feel it has been a lifetime. You will be glad to know that I was yesterday evening delivered home in most agreeable fashion by the company of a Major Ferguson, who attended to my utmost comfort and happiness the whole journey from Charlestown ; a great improvement, I say, upon the accommodations granted to me thence.

It has been made plain to me that the disruptions we endured, Sister, were the most unfortunate results of misunderstanding. A pity that though I beseech God to upend time, He does not heed me. Impossible notions vex and bedevil my sleep night upon night—would that I might stay Death’s hand before he took Mary and Nathaniel and Elijah and Adam. I can hardly bear to think of them, yet it is with shame and difficulty that I place my thoughts anywhere else.

In my most fitful hours on the road—

“I hate to interrupt,” said Goddard, very irritatingly interrupting. “But I fear the hospital may soon be teeming. We skirmished with militia on the road, and our field medic couldn’t attend every man.”

“Oh!” Lottie looked at you, her brown eyes wide with concern. “We should certainly go and help, then.”

You frowned. You were already feeling a little concerned about Grace’s inclination to Loyalist sympathy in the letter. “Can I not have ten more minutes?”

Goddard shook his head. “The colonel already wishes to depart this evening and needs every possible man made fit.”

So Tavington was back in Charleston. For now.

“Out again?” Lottie said. “But you all only just returned.”

“Yes.” Wincing, Goddard stepped past you both to grab a cloth hanging from the stove. As he wiped his face, he sighed. “Lord Cornwallis is holding a council of war. Colonel Tavington is in attendance with the other commanders, but he hopes to gather more cavalry and depart again by nightfall.” He looked apologetic. “You know how he is.”

You pursed your lips, folding the letter and stowing it in one of your skirt pockets. You know how he is, he’d said, as if everyone in the room all had the same experiences with Colonel Tavington, and everyone in the room all held the same opinion about his demeanor, body, face, hair, hands, and eyes.

And mouth.

“A council of war?” you asked, pushing thoughts of all of William Tavington’s body parts to a corner of your mind that you’d revisit in the evening. “What ever for? I thought the Continental army had left South Carolina.”

“Most of them,” said Goddard, plucking a peach from a bowl on the counter. “But they aren’t the problem. Evidently there’s been a disaster involving a group of Loyalists that the General sent north.” He bit into the fruit and sighed, savoring it.

“What sort of disaster?” Lottie asked, her eyes great dark pools of worry.

Goddard shrugged. “Men died,” he said around a mouthful of peach flesh before swallowing. “Lots of them. Don’t know the specifics. I expect we will be receiving new enlistment quotas, though, especially with these militia pestering us now.”

Lottie frowned. “Perhaps we should—”

“Have you had many encounters with militia?” you asked, your pulse picking up. “They seem to have amassed rather quickly.”

“Putting it lightly,” said Goddard, sighing. “Even with Charleston back under the Crown, it seems the rest of the colony remains determined to resist. We even found a small holdout of Continentals up the Santee.”

“Continentals?” you pressed, struggling to maintain a neutral facade. “I query why they would not have rejoined their forces in North Carolina by now.”

“Seems they received a dispatch following the Waxhaws battle, and stayed.” Goddard shrugged and took another bite of peach. “Tenacious, those men, I’ll admit as much.”

“I’m sure it’s all very interesting,” Lottie said, waving you toward her. “But if the hospital—”

“Did your forces engage them? How many were there?” You spoke just a little too quickly, but you were finding it harder to restrain yourself. “What was in the dispatch they received?”

Goddard raised a brow and glanced at Lottie. You consciously corrected your posture so that he might not think you liable to lunge at any moment. He relaxed.

“I, er, I can’t be certain what it said,” he replied. “I never saw the message.”

You exhaled in frustration. “I imagine you were unable to capture the messenger himself, then.”

“Actually, we were able,” Goddard said. Your heart leapt into your mouth. “Colonel Tavington became nigh on feverish in his pursuit.”

Your next question hung like a noose from your tongue, your body rigid as a gallows. “Who…” You swallowed. “Who was the messenger?”

Goddard furrowed his brow and shook his head, like he couldn’t fathom why you were so interested. “Some boy.” He waved his bitten peach through the air. “A… ‘Martin?’”

You nearly sagged in relief, instead bracing a hand against the kitchen table and affixing a passive expression to your face. “Oh.”

“The colonel made a…” Goddard winced, “compelling example of his family.” He paused, grimacing again. “And of their property.”

“I don’t want to hear of such dreadful things,” Lottie interjected. “Anyhow, we really must be off.” She grabbed your wrist. “Let us not stay the King’s men their care.”

“Yes, of course,” you said, forcing a nod. Though your worry was assuaged, your curiosity was very much not. You had, however, pushed both too far. “Let’s be off, then.”

The morning air was already ripening with heat, sticking to your tongue as you breathed it in. You were glad to be rid of your sling, sweltering thing that it was, before the summer’s wrath descended in full. In the smallest of ways, it was freeing. Even if your shoulder did still twinge with pain from time to time, it grew stronger each day. One less restraint upon your body. And one less reason for anyone to insist you couldn’t be of use.

You had welcomed the introduction of hospital labor into your routine. It hadn't been necessary, but staying in the Goddards’ home on your own only chafed your invisible shackles. Without a distraction, you imagined yourself as an anxious dog pacing in a barren cage. Working in the hospital also gave you the opportunity to collect information while wearing one of the most innocuous disguises available.

And besides all of that—you were good at it.

“I hate that the colonel keeps Benedict away so frequently as of late,” Lottie said as you followed her on the cobblestone. “I worry about him.”

You nodded. “I'm sure he worries about you, too.”

“I’m sure he does,” she said, sighing through her lips in a blubbering sound. “He knows I languish in his absence. It’s so difficult. The loneliness, I mean.”

“The loneliness?” You frowned. “You don’t keep busy?”

She laughed. “Of course I do! But it’s no replacement for companionship. Especially of family. You know as much.” With a playful smile, she added, “Benedict tells me it’s all the more reason for me to be married.”

“Is he pushing you to marry?”

“Not in so many words,” she said. “He does seem invested in introducing me to his fellow officers as often as possible.”

You couldn’t imagine doing the same to Grace. She had been your primary companion in life since your mother had passed—in some ways, more your responsibility than your father’s. After all, for those first few years, you were the only one able to tend to the animals or the crops, you were the only one able to make the meals, or sweep the floors. You would climb into bed with her, hours after she’d fallen asleep, after your father had emptied his glass of gin and you’d gotten him to his room.

Thankfully, your father eventually put down the gin. You didn’t think it was possible to put down responsibility. You didn’t even know if you wanted to.

“I see,” you replied. “Are they kind, at least?”

Lottie snorted. “No,” she said. “Most of the Green Dragoons are utter villains.” She folded her arms protectively over her chest. “I’m much more inclined toward Major Ferguson’s corps. He only oversees men of honor.”

There was that name again, said with the same dreamy insistence that Grace had tried and failed to conceal in her writing.

“Major Ferguson,” you said, as if recalling a long-forgotten acquaintance. “I keep hearing that name today. Do you know much about him?”

“Oh, I dream of it.” She giggled with all of the secrecy of a girl with a crush on a church boy. “I think—besides my brother, of course—he might be my favorite officer of all His Majesty’s soldiers.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Truly?”

“I promise you,” she said, “you have never met a man with greater wit, charm, or passion.” She laughed and gave a teasing smirk. “I think he could convince General Washington himself to throw down his arms and pledge allegiance to the King if given half a chance.”

“I will take your impressions under advisement,” you replied, grinning. You suddenly had an idea who was likely responsible for Grace’s shifting sentiments.

When you arrived at the City Hospital, Lottie dipped off to check on the sick she’d tended to the day prior. You, personally, didn’t see the purpose in conversing with those you had no duties to and decided to sit and read through more of Grace’s letter.

In my most fitful hours on the road, when grief seemed to me a dark and terrible ocean without shore, I was sought by the gracious Major Ferguson, who told most diverting stories and drew from me laughter of a mystifying source. I query whether he may be adept with some beguiling magick to have so oft performed a vanishment of my tears. He is a clever and skillful man as well as kind.

You, I am sure, would think more highly of him than you did Nathaniel, though I fear I am now far ahead of myself, Sister, and must stay my pen lest my flights of fancy make off with me, as you know they are apt to do. I am besieged now by shame to even write it, and know that were you here, Sister, you would soothe me by turning my mind to practicalities. As such, and to ease the pain of your absence I feel again coming upon me, I shall address them. I know the welfare of our home indispensable to your peace of mind, so let me assure you of it.

Despite your growing suspicions surrounding Ferguson, a smile crept over your face as you read Grace’s report on the farm. She listed every crop that had needed tending on her return, the condition of each chicken and goat by name, and included an effusive exaltation of your neighbors who had kindly fed them in your absence.

I do not wish to be alone. Major Ferguson is to depart with his men two days hence—

The delicate clearing of a throat resounded from somewhere to your side.

You snapped from the letter, looking up to see a bashfully pleading Lottie leaning around a doorframe. This version of Lottie was becoming all too familiar given the short time you’d worked alongside her. You let out a sigh.

“Now?” you protested, raising the letter to emphasize that you were occupied.

“Please, oh please,” she stepped into full view to clasp her hands in adjuration. “There’s so much blood, it’s horrid, and the bone is broken, and—”

“All right, Lottie.” You couldn’t help yourself. You smiled. “I’ll help.”

Down the hall and into the ward, a dolorous assault slammed your senses. Injured men groaned out in chorus, and the scent of blood hung in the air like coppery vapor. Lottie ducked her head and led you over to the hospital physician—Dr. Moore—who was hovering over a badly wounded man. From what you could tell, he was a young infantry soldier, his coat removed and head wrapped in bandages. Blood smothered his face, dirt smattered his legs, and his right arm was stripped of clothing.

At least, you believed it was his arm. In its current state you couldn’t imagine it being of much use for any purpose other than occupying a dog’s mouth.

“Go on,” Lottie murmured, urging you forward. “I—I’ll be ill.”

Moore caught you both approaching and adjusted the spectacles over his nose. “Charlotte,” he said, testing with his fingers what some might call flesh, but you’d probably call meat. “Where were you? I need your assistance setting the bone.”

“Oh, I’m afraid I, um, I…”

He frowned. “He doesn’t have all day, Miss Goddard.”

She elbowed your ribs, and you hopped forward with a wince. “Actually,” you said, “I’ll assist in her stead, doctor.”

“Hm?” He looked up, squinted at you. “Poultice girl?”

You nodded, even though you'd introduced yourself multiple times. “My name is—”

“Fine, yes. Come now. Hold this for me. Just there above the wrist.”

As you stepped to assist, Lottie quickly backed away, turning pale beneath her freckles as she watched you support the bloodied, blue-mottled limb. “Oh, yes, thank you so much,” she said, turning away, “I’ll be right, ah, right down that way, so, not too far!”

“Hold on, Charlotte,” said Moore. “We still might need you.”

She whinged. You weren’t fully sure how she served in medicine when she halfway lived in fear of it.

Standing by Moore, you propped up the soldier’s wrist and elbow. He stiffened and groaned through his teeth, seeking out reassurance in your eyes. Why yours, you didn’t know—you had no words of wisdom to offer him and didn’t particularly care to think of any, especially when he was impeding the work with his wooden limbs. Lottie swept to his side and patted his other shoulder, keeping her focus on his face.

“It’s all right, sir, we’re going to take care of this quickly, I promise.”

He winced, nodding, and loosened in your grip. You glimpsed her for a moment, her gaze like a deep, warm embrace. This part came as naturally to her as yours did you.

It ached, how much she reminded you of Grace in that moment. The last line you’d read of Grace’s letter—I do not wish to be alone—pricked your heart like a needle. You did not wish for her to be alone, either. You did not wish to be here, in Charleston, spending time gathering scraps of information when you knew she waited as the tender, vulnerable center of your home.

Moore started to work, and you stood still, bracing the soldier’s arm as he wiped away the blood. Even if granted leave, however, you were uncertain if you wanted to return home. The threat of the British grew greater in South Carolina, and under the supposition that both Grace and you were Loyalists, you could maintain a semblance of safety. Especially with your father’s condition still unknown and Tavington still itching for the opportunity to wring all of your necks.

Behind you, the clicking of heels. “And this is our most esteemed physician, Dr. Henry Moore.” It was the matron of the hospital. “Dr. Moore?”

“A bit busy right now,” Dr. Moore said. The soldier groaned as Moore palpated the skin on his forearm, coaxing the severed halves of bone together beneath.

“Can you take a moment?” she asked, before walking toward the other end of the ward. She tossed over her shoulder, “Colonel Tavington wishes to speak with you.”

Your eyes widened. You turned, met Tavington’s gaze and flinched, jerking the soldier’s arm. He howled in pain, and you grumbled, grabbing a wad of unused bandages and stuffing them in his mouth. He whimpered into them. Dr. Moore sighed, manually readjusted your grip, and got back to work on his sabotaged bone setting.

Tavington, meanwhile, regarded you as you imagined he might regard a body climbing to its feet after he’d gutted it. His right hand flexed absently at his side. All you could do was stare at him completely normally and not at all like a bolt of excitement had zipped through you at the sight of him.

He cocked a brow, his focus flicking over you before he turned to Moore. “Dr. Moore—”

“Busy.”

“—the British legion requires your services immediately.”

“I’m sure you believe your needs to be of great importance, Colonel, but—”

“The field medic I’ve currently retained is indisposed.”

“—as you can see, Charleston keeps me preoccupied as is.”

“You should be prepared to depart as early as this evening.”

Moore paused with a sigh, and turned to face Tavington. “Colonel, I make no assumptions regarding the frequency with which you hear this word, but no.”

Tavington’s eyes fluttered as if the doctor had clapped in front of his nose. “Perhaps you believed me to be making a request, doctor,” he replied. “I was not.”

You pinched your lips between your teeth. Moore had stopped his work on the soldier’s arm entirely. Silent, you caught Lottie’s attention from the corner of your sight, and found her face flush with anxious warmth.

“Colonel,” Moore said, with even more exasperation than the previous time, “I am the only physician in Charleston—perhaps all of South Carolina—at present. I cannot abdicate my duties here to ride with cavalry all night.” He stared at Tavington, who did not move or even shift his expression, like Moore was a fussing baby. “But I can—all right. Listen.” Moore looked at Lottie, then back to Tavington. “Miss Goddard here will be able to serve your needs adequately, and she has the added benefit of having no additional responsibilities aside.”

Lottie tensed, her gaze darting between Moore and Tavington. “M-me, doctor?” With a nervous smile, she said, “Of course, it would be my honor, but… would it be possible for my friend here to join me?”

“Your friend?” said you, the doctor, and Tavington at the same time.

“Please,” Lottie whispered, looking at you. She turned to Dr. Moore. “She’ll be a great help to me.”

Moore sighed and grabbed two splints, lining them up along the man’s forearm. You didn’t blame Lottie for wanting you there. But this would mean you wouldn’t return home. It would mean more time Grace would spend alone. You pinched the splints together, and the soldier whined, muffled by the bandages. As he twisted his head, blood trickled down his cheek, right in Lottie’s line of sight. She choked, turning to try and cough away her clear growing nausea.

“If you insist, Charlotte,” Dr. Moore mumbled as he started the bandaging process.

Tavington, who was watching with winnowing patience, looked at you. “Unfortunately,” he said, “your friend’s freedom does not extend beyond the borders of Charleston.”

You frowned. “But my intelligence was valid.”

“Yes,” he said, “but it did not produce the promised results.”

“A dispatch rider was found and detained, was he not?”

Tavington’s brows raised fractionally. “What was not found was a certain Captain Michael—“

“I am not my father’s keeper,” you growled, shifting more to face him. The soldier whined again and you shot a leer at him. “Shall I next beseech the pagan gods to divine his location, Colonel?”

Lottie glanced at you wide-eyed, alarmed at the tone you were using with a colonel of the British army. “She’s overworked from all of the injured we need to treat,” she offered. “She doesn’t mean that, Colonel Tavington.”

“She does,” he said, still focused on you. He stepped forward, voice lowering. “Divine? No. Reveal—given the insight you possess—yes.”

You snorted. Moore grabbed another roll of bandages and started using it to constrict the soldier’s arm. “If you are still unable to locate my father after everything I’ve told you, I hardly—”

The man groaned in agony, and you realized you’d started tightening your grip as you spoke. You relaxed, and he groaned louder.

Tavington sighed. “Do shut up, Private.”

Your face scrunched, almost amused. The man settled, and you took a breath. “I hardly believe that’s an issue with which I need concern myself.”

“I would say your investment in your father’s life concerns you a great deal,” he replied.

“Alas, but I cannot serve as your prophet, though you flatter me with the notion.” You shrugged. “All of those men under your command, and no success. Perhaps there’s a deficiency somewhere you need to address.”

Lottie hissed your name under her breath. “Please don’t make this harder on me.” Then, turning to Tavington, big brown eyes pleading, said, “I beg of you, Colonel. She’s simply tired. I’ll vouch for her myself!”

“Do you want to take them or not, Colonel?” Moore was tying off the second round of bindings. “If not, I’ll ask you to kindly and politely depart the ward so I can continue getting work done. You may have noticed this, but we’ve a couple dozen of your men here who need my assistance.”

Tavington’s tongue rolled in his mouth, and his eyes met yours. There you found the curiosity you’d spied while in his office, familiar glimmers of interest as he studied you. You swallowed, holding his gaze, wondering what exactly was going through his mind, wondering if he could see your speeding pulse. His head tilted, his chest fell in an exhale.

“And you… You wish to come.”

That really was the question. Your participation in this war had already dumped guilt onto your back as you unceremoniously condemned strangers to suffer and die. The thought of going along with Lottie brought a new deluge of emotions, some of which you worried would war fiercer than the soldiers in the field.

A terrible guilt for abandoning Grace. An even more terrible sadness that you wouldn’t know when you next would see her. And perhaps the most terrible excitement at the thought of waking daily and sleeping nightly within the domain of the most despicable bastard you’d ever met.

Despite it all, you knew that if you kept up the Loyalist facade, Grace would remain safe at home. Your father was the one in danger. And if you were out in the country with his primary—and deadliest—pursuer, you had the highest chance of protecting them both.

All you had to do was stay alive.

“I do, Colonel,” you replied.

“Both of you,” he said, with some amount of dread.

That wasn’t a question, but Lottie nodded anyway. “She’ll be an asset to you, Colonel. A great asset. I promise!”

“I somehow doubt that very much,” he mumbled. “Very well.” He turned to Dr. Moore, who still couldn’t be bothered to look at him while he wiped off the remaining blood from the soldier’s hands and face. “Send them along to the barracks at once. They’ll need to be briefed and supplied before we depart.”

Moore nodded. “Right away, Colonel,” he muttered.

Tavington’s eyes found yours a final time. Whether there was want or warning within them, you couldn’t discern. He turned on his heel and left the ward.

Your shoulders sagged, weight dropping to the ground that you hadn’t known you’d been carrying. Lottie provided you an expression you would’ve described as contrite if there wasn’t so much relief hidden behind it.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered. She rubbed the soldier’s back as he stood and swayed, his arm properly stiff at his side. “Off you go, sir. Get yourself a bed.” Turning back to you, she frowned. “I’m not sure if I can put my appreciation into words, really. I know how badly you wished to return home.”

“Thank you, Dr. Moore,” you said as he stood and moved to the next man. As expected, he did not reply. You shook your head and shrugged to Lottie. “It’s better for me to be doing what I can to serve His Majesty.” You hoped that didn’t sound as contrived as it felt leaving your mouth.

She pursed her lips, waiting for when Moore was out of earshot to whisper, “You have a funny way of showing it, the way you speak to Colonel Tavington!” The horror of your conduct had pinkened her cheeks. “Were you trying to get yourself hanged?”

You frowned. “Of course not.”

“Well, be more careful, then!” She huffed, crossing her arms. “I won’t always be around to rescue you.” She shook her head and brushed her hands down her dress like that would shoo the gore from her person. “Or perhaps he just favors you.”

Your next breath lodged in your throat, and you coughed. “I’m sorry—” You coughed again, straightening. “He what?”

She laughed, nudging you gently. “Oh, you are funny. Imagine, Colonel Tavington favoring anyone,” she said through giggles. “If you’d seen your face…”

“Right,” you said, bizarrely disappointed.

With a sigh, Lottie adjusted her sleeves. “I’ll tell Mrs. Smith that we need to be departing. Oh!” She gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth in delight. “This means that I’ll be in the field with Ben!” With a smile, she skittered over to the matron as she attended an ailing woman.

You tried to grin, but strained your cheeks, deciding to settle into the seat where the soldier had been instead. If you were to be departing with Tavington’s legion tonight, you needed to finish Grace’s letter. You pulled it from your pocket.

I do not wish to be alone. Major Ferguson is to depart with his men two days hence and I must admit that I dread his absence. Already once he has made a most welcome visit to certify my welfare. I told him I was indeed well, but that I should like very much to know the condition of my dear Sister. Though I with most indocile nature demanded his intelligence on the matter, he remained to me gentle and courteous. He wishes it was in his power to oblige me but it is not. He suggested however that should I wish to write you, that he may deliver you my Letter when next he is called to Charlestown. A gallant and charitable offer indeed!

Despite Papa’s endless grievances of the British army I believe he construes them all unkindly. Perhaps every one he encountered was akin to that murderous devil we so unfortunately met. In that case I should understand his misgivings.

A sense of irritation grew in your chest. You decided you didn’t particularly care if this man Ferguson was in fact Jesus Christ himself rose from the dead. The fact he was busy using your sister’s naivety to his advantage made you want to crucify him despite it.

Murderous devil, perhaps, but at least Tavington…

You paused. You couldn’t think of anything he’d done that wasn’t, in fact, worse.

But enough of wars and men. Never have you and I been apart so long, nor our home so reminiscent of a cavern. How clamorous the sound of my pen in this silence, dear Sister. Pray write me when this letter finds you. Until then I shall look each day to the South road and hope to see you return. Do not fret that I am well. Mrs. Jones has called upon me to come for supper and company, she insists, whenever I feel the pangs of solitude too keenly. For this I am grateful.

Ever, ever I remain

Faithfully and Lovingly Your Sister, Grace

P.S. I am sorry for the words herein whose inking is damaged. Mr. Mouser trod upon this Letter and entreats me now with uproarious meows to attend him.

You smiled as you finished the letter. But your heart wilted. You weren’t sure when you would be coming up the south road, or when you’d be able to unburden Grace of solitude. You knew only that you were making the choices you felt were right to keep her safe. Just as you’d always done.

Dr. Moore had left some parchment out on the table with the medical supplies. You grabbed a few pages of it along with his pen. The letter wouldn’t be long, but you could at least let her know that she did not need to worry. That you wouldn’t be returning home, but you would promise to find her, to see her soon.

You dipped the nib in the ink. You started writing.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 10

Read on AO3. Part 9 here. Part 11 here.

Summary: You're starting to think you're never getting back home.

Words: 6800

Warnings: Serious attempts at historical war nerdery

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia

Hi, quick note here - we are not following the timeline of the film, since it's completely fucky and doesn't really adhere to any of the major battles closely enough for our nerd-brains to enjoy. As such, please note that the Battle of Camden occurred on August 16th, 1780, not whatever time the movie made up in 1778.

HELLO, WELCOME BACK. Sorry for the delay! We've had an insanely busy two weeks with family visiting, work being insane, and just generally having way-too-much-shit going on. However, we plan to have a new chapter out next week (though the one after that might be... uh, LONG), so please keep in mind we're doing our best to keep to a schedule of every 1-2 weeks!

(I used to write shit that was like, 2k words per chapter. What happened to that??? lmao how did I even do that. I don't even know)

THANK YOU EVERYONE for your very kind words and thoughts for last chapter. We were SO excited to write it and honestly I have been thinking about it non-stop? Idk I just want his cock so bad.

ANYWAY CHAT SOON <3

William.

William.

He’d asked you to call him William.

It had been about forty-two hours (not that you were counting) since your thoroughly unwise, thoroughly unfinished tryst with the colonel of the Green Dragoons. You had spent that time trying to purge yourself of his scent, his touch, his taste. So far, your greatest measure of success had been in slapping your hand whenever it crawled to relieve the pressure between your legs.

You cupped your hands in the creek, splashed your face cold.

Your thoughts needed to be clearer than the damn creek. To even offer this desire a place in your mind would encourage it. And the memory of his name in your ear continued to invite it to stay.

Another palms-worth of water, another splash.

Even more infuriatingly, it had managed to wriggle its way into your thoughts. Most of the time, he passed through your mind as Tavington, or Colonel, or both of them together. But there were moments. Weak, inane moments, wherein the only representation of him bore the name William.

William, as if he were a man who had introduced himself with a bow, a man who might call on your father and ask permission to write, a man who’d done anything other than everything he had done.

William, a name so representative of nothing William Tavington was to you.

And yet, in the dark of night, your fingers itching to chase away lust, that name drifted like foam on the sea of your thoughts; a word whispered in your voice; a soft, reluctant plea; a fantasy of a fantasy—that not only was he your relief, but a man who deserved his name at all.

You groaned, thrust your face in the creek and screamed into the rocks. A voice called your name from beyond the surface, and you jerked back to sit on your heels. Panting, water dripping down your face, you turned to see Lottie.

“Is everything all right?” She studied your expression. “This is, what, the third time you’ve dunked your face in there today?”

You exhaled, waving her off dismissively. “Oh, yes, I’m fine,” you replied, wiping the remaining drops from your face. “Warm day, isn’t it?”

She nodded, gazing back toward camp, squinting in the sun. “I suppose we’d best try to enjoy it before autumn comes.” Her attention turned back to you. “Did you want to play cards before dinner? Best out of seven?”

“Seven?” You grinned, pushing yourself to your feet. “Omitting last night, are you? Fairly certain I recall a winning streak.”

“I don’t know at all what you mean,” she replied with a smile. “Come! I’ve grown weary of stitching circles and gossip.”

You looked to the sky. The sun was cresting away from high noon. Daylight was in waning supply, and this was the first time since the storm that Tavington had left camp—your first chance to venture off without fearing him heeling at your shadow. There was no telling when he'd return, but you'd already spent at least thirty minutes of that time trying to wash him from your thoughts. You needed to get going.

“I thought I’d eat a bit later, actually.” You offered an apologetic smile. “I wanted to forage for some supplies before the day is out.”

“Later?” Lottie tried and failed to conceal a grimace. “With, er, everyone else?”

“Yes.” You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Oh, well I…” She looked at her shoes, rolling back and forth on the balls of her feet. “It just may be uncomfortable. With Alice.” When you replied with only a confused blink, she continued, “She’s still, ah, a bit upset.”

“Still?” You scowled, folding your arms. “Why?”

A sigh escaped her as she searched the ground. “I don't suppose it's that strange,” she said, and then lowered her voice. “Her miscarriage was only a month ago.”

“So?” Snorting, you rolled your eyes. “I said I was sorry. To her face, even.”

Lottie nodded sympathetically. “You did,” she said. “But—”

“But nothing,” you said. “I apologized. It’s done with. She needs to gather her skirts and start anew.”

“Perhaps…” Lottie pursed her lips, regarding you as she considered her words. “Though I'm sure she feels differently.”

“Perhaps she shouldn't have started it, then.” You shrugged. “I certainly don't start arguments that I don't plan on winning.”

“As I've come to learn.” Lottie smiled wryly. “Give her time. Alice clings to her grudges even tighter than she does to her Bible, I think.”

You nodded. “Precisely,” you said, comforted in your knowledge that Alice was the problem and definitely not you, or anything you’d done. “She won’t disturb me. I’ll scrounge some food and find you afterwards.”

“Lovely,” Lottie replied. “Don’t stay out too late. Benedict said we’ll be moving to Camden soon, and you know how the colonel is about giving notice for such things.”

“Camden?” You frowned. “Did he say why?”

Lottie shrugged. “Apparently we are to meet the general and his men there.” She wrung her hands. “Do you suppose it’s to do with those rebels who attacked us?”

“Most likely.” You sighed, forcing down a disquieted squirm. “Though if they know what’s good for them, they’ll have long since turned tail by now.”

If only you didn’t suspect that to be a false hope.

“Might they still be in the area, though?” A little line of concern folded along Lottie’s brow, and she glanced out toward the woods. “Planning an… an ambush, or something?”

“I doubt it,” you said. “Those men got a whipping they shan’t soon forget.”

Lottie let out a relieved half-laugh. “They did, didn’t they?” Skipping forward, she took your hands in hers. “Still. Do promise to be careful.”

“Of course.” You offered a small smile. “I’ll not allow Alice the satisfaction of my abduction.”

She grinned and pinched your arm. “Don’t say such things!”

“You’re right,” you said through a giggle, flinching from her. “Far more likely I’ll be tarred and feathered.”

“Oh, you!” Lottie swatted at you as you retreated, lip pinched between your teeth.

“Strung up as a warning,” you said, pantomiming your own hanging as you flounced away.

“Cards. Tonight.” Lottie shot you a final, quelling look as she began to turn back. “This time you’re done for!”

“You’re on,” you said, and watched as she departed toward camp.

Smile withering on your lips, you breathed deeply, turned your head north. Continentals were not only patrolling the road that direction, you knew militia were stationed toward that way as well. If the Wilksburg company had joined up with them, then that would be the best opportunity you had to find someone—anyone—who knew anything about your father.

In an ideal world, of course, he would be there when you arrived. But you knew better than to practice idealism.

After casting around to ensure that you weren’t being watched, you started down the road. Keeping to the sides, in the grass, was the best strategy for now. It gave you plausible deniability if someone from Tavington’s legion did happen across you.

You hadn’t considered, yet, what you’d even do if and when you found the Continentals. You just knew you needed to do something, anything to peel the guilt from behind your eyes. Kissing Tavington had been an incredible mistake that would require incredible redress. Providing the Continentals with whatever knowledge you possessed was your first attempt to achieve that.

The sun dripped down the sky as you walked, a bead of honey making its way to the horizon. Its heat had gathered sweat at your temples by the time you reached the bridge crossing. With a strange pang of disappointment, you found it deserted, the ground scarred by boot and hoof. The Continentals must have made good on their plans to fall back, spooked by the numbers they encountered at Tavington’s camp.

Huffing a sigh, you hiked your skirts and started over the bridge, reveling for a moment in the rush of cool air above the river.

There was always the possibility that you wouldn’t find the Continentals at all. That they had retreated all the way back to North Carolina, and you were following their long-cold trail. That no trace of them would be found by the time evening fell and forced you to circle back.

Or perhaps you wouldn’t circle back. It would be so simple. All you would have to do is continue walking. Forever. You would never have to see or touch or taste or dwell upon thoughts of William Tavington ever again.

And without you, your home would be burned.

And without you, Grace would be killed.

And you would never know if your father would live to learn of any of it.

Anger lashed you, quickened your steps. It settled into its chosen home of late: a dull, scraping throb in the back of your skull.

No, such whispers of despair would not seduce you. You would keep its lips just as far from your ear as you would keep Colonel Tavington’s lips from your own.

Continentals had to be here. You would find them. And this cacophonous discord in your mind would finally cease, so long as you could affix your sights upon—

“Madam? Madam, can I help you?”

To the west, a nearly-familiar voice. You turned to meet a mounted horse trotting over the hill. As the rider drew closer, you recognized his face.

“Wilson?” you said. “Is that you?”

Wilson gaped, kicking the horse to a canter until he reached you. Your heart was torn between relief and elation, tempered by confusion, since the last time you’d seen Wilson he was waiting out a hanging in Dorchester. Given his appearance now—closer to a bedraggled, bearded orphan than a soldier—you would’ve thought he’d just escaped.

“By God, it’s you,” he said, examining you. He glanced around. “What are you doing out here?”

You grimaced. Perhaps Wilson was trustworthy. But this wasn’t something you wanted to bet your safety on. You needed someone of higher rank.

“There’s a lot I need to explain,” you said. “How did you manage to get out of Dorchester? Do you know anything about my father?”

“Your…” Wilson frowned for a moment before realization dawned across his face.. “Of course. Your father broke us out of that lobster pit. He’s back at camp.”

“What?” It was definitely elation, now. You sidled up to the horse, grabbing at the cantle. “I must see him.”

“Indeed you must.” Wilson held out a hand and vacated his stirrup, letting you clamber onto the back of his mount. “We’re only a couple miles over the valley.” He urged his horse into a trot and laughed. “Oh, he’s going to be thrilled to see you, kid.”

Your chest tightened with excitement. “I know,” you replied, smiling.

You explained on the short ride to camp that you’d been paroled, but omitted anything about working for the British in the encampment down the way. And obviously omitted anything having to do with any superior officers or your attraction to them and how that potentially endangered everyone in your life.

Guilt trailed the horse’s stride. You’d be rid of it soon. Your father—your father—was at the camp. Safe. Alive. You brought your focus to that and that alone. It didn’t matter, the weeks of struggle, the fear and torment over your family’s well-being, the weight of it on your shoulders. It would all be worth it to hear your father’s voice.

A white mass of canvas bloomed into your field of vision, split into distinguished tents as you rode nearer. When you were close enough to shout at them, you could restrain yourself no longer. Squealing, you hopped off the horse, stumbling to the grass and nearly grinding your face into the dirt. You didn’t care. You scrambled to your feet and ran, ran toward the camp, waving your arms above your head, calling a single word out to the air.

“Papa!” you cried. “Papa!”

A dozen heads poked out of or around the side of the tents, squinting in the direction of the wild running woman. Realizing you weren’t their daughter, they dismissed you, nudging their comrades to look in your direction. It wasn’t until a head crowned in a tricorn hat emerged from the crowd that you met recognition in someone’s eyes.

First it was disbelief. Then a yielding, laughing shake of his head. Then he stepped, ambled, bounded toward you, his arms outspread in joy. To see his face was to see a mirror etched with age. He called out your name.

“My girl!” your father hollered. “It’s my girl!”

In long, loping seconds, you crashed together, your arms curling around him, his own embrace crushing your shoulders and head against his chest. You laughed, burying your face in his shoulder, every single shred of shame, panic, and fear withering to the ground. He was warm. He smelled like home.

Papa. Papa was here.

“Papa,” you mumbled. “I’m so glad you’re faring well.”

Papa squeezed you again before holding you at arm’s length, and looking you over. “No worse for wear, yourself.” He met your eyes. “Now what in God’s holy blessed green-and-blue earth are you doing here, cub?” His attention fell to Wilson, riding up behind you. “Where did you find this rascal?”

“She was looking for us, Captain,” Wilson replied with a sheepish shrug.

You fought off a grin, tilting your chin to the sky. “I found him,” you said, fixing your hands on your hips. “And we have much to discuss, Papa.”

“Oh-ho.” A laugh broke out of him, and he wrapped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you into another hug. “Of course you did. Of course we do.” He rubbed your back before guiding you around to face the camp. “But first—let me introduce you to everyone!” Papa led you forward, hand raised triumphantly in the air. “My girl is here!”

As you entered the Continental campground, men parted for you, greeted you, tipped their hats in your direction. Miss, missus, good day, pleased to meet you, pleasant to make your acquaintance; all floated in your ears, the words melting together in unfamiliar groups of sound. Never had you been treated with such deference. And never had men seemed so interested in earning your favor.

Even back in Catawba, where Papa was well-known and well-regarded, the local boys had grown up with you. Knew you too well to try speaking to you any more often than courtesy demanded To the Continental men, you were a potentially pretty stranger exposed only through anecdotes shared by a respected, impressive man.

Unfortunately for them (and, given your recent inclinations, perhaps you as well) not one of them impressed you. Though they were, potentially, not at fault for that.

Men shambled through the camp without shoes, without trousers. Handfuls waddled in mud only draped by blankets. Those who sought you to introduce themselves appeared to have gone without shaving—or washing, given the crescents of dirt under their nails—for days. Wilson had not been unique in his swamp-mongrel regalia, you realized.

The condition of the Continental encampment was abominable.

You looked to your father. Glee beamed from him like sunlight. If he was concerned about the deplorable circumstances of his soldiers, it didn’t show. He directed you toward a fire, where several men were seated in a circle, all of them outfitted in some sort of blue coat. They each eyed you as you approached, their gazes flitting between you and your father in confusion.

“Gentlemen,” he said, gesturing toward you, “this is my daughter.”

You gave them your name, bowing your head toward them. One of the men shot to his feet, his eyes wide and locked onto you. The rest of the men followed, standing and nodding toward you as they introduced themselves with names you didn't remember. The first man to stand tipped his cap in your direction.

“Miss.” He was dressed in an outfit that resembled your father’s and stood tall, with tawny hair and high cheekbones. “Captain Pearce. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

Your heart stalled. Pearce. That name pierced your memory in a clap of thunder, a flash of lightning. Your eyes widened, and you offered him a tight smile in the most normal manner you could possibly muster.

It had been dark. Storming. He hadn’t been the one speaking to you, and no hint of recognition stirred within his gaze. When you met his eyes, he grinned and returned to a seat around the fire. Your chest fell in relief.

You planned to tell your father what you’d been doing, but involving anyone else seemed foolhardy. If Tavington learned from some desperate Patriot soldier that you’d been dipping between camps with the desire to undermine him, you didn’t think you’d be able to get to Grace before he strung you up on the nearest tree.

Besides, the thought of even considering, let alone explaining, what sort of game you’d been playing with him made your stomach sink. Now that you knew your father was alive and occupied by the war, you could even dare to hope you might never play that game again.

The thought sparkled like a distant star. You imagined bidding your father farewell, escaping back to Catawba, whisking Grace away to Pennsylvania and never seeing William—Colonel—Tavington again.

Why, oh why did some awful, craven piece of you wilt at the very thought of it?

“Cub?” Papa said. “Everything all right?”

You blinked alive. You’d been staring into the fire. “Oh!” you said, laughing. “Yes, yes, Papa, sorry.”

“Go ahead and have a seat, my girl.” He sat on one of the benches by the fire and patted the spot next to him. “You said we have much to discuss.”

Nodding, you took the seat. Your hands folded into the fabric of your dress, your palms sweat onto your knees. You weren’t sure why you were nervous.

“I have information. About the British Army.” There was something important Lottie had mentioned earlier, too. “And about Camden.”

One of the named-but-forgotten men sat forward. “You know about the attempt—”

“Hold on.” Pearce extended his arm as if to quiet him. “Hold on, now.” He met your eyes before setting his jaw, sitting up taller. “By what means did you attain this information?”

You stiffened, looked toward Papa. “I’d rather reveal that to only my father, thank you.”

“Is there a reason you refuse?” Pearce sat forward, gesturing to his uniform. “I’m a captain, just like your father.”

“That’s evident,” you replied, “but my father you are not.”

Pearce glanced at Papa before continuing. “Well, yes, miss. I understand. But I can assure you that I, too, can be provided with sensitive information. My accomplishments in the war—”

You frowned. “I care little for your achievements, Captain Pearce,” you said. “Your behavior is what engenders my trust, and I have seen nothing of that thus far.”

Papa held up a calming hand. “Pearce, it’s all right. She’s a skeptical type. As well she should be.” He grinned at you. “We can talk in a moment.”

“Thank you, Papa.” You folded your arms over your chest.

Pearce huffed, but relinquished, easing back and glancing around. “Very well, then,” he said. “Should we gather the militia?”

“No need,” Papa said. “I’ll inform Colonel Martin later. He and his boy went out scouting a couple of hours ago.” He nodded toward you. “Go on.”

You took a breath, glanced around the circle of men, then at the fire. Your chest tightened. You swallowed the feeling.

“First,” you began, “how long since your forces returned to South Carolina?”

Papa pursed his lips, glanced at Pearce. “Six days, I believe,” he said. Pearce nodded in agreement.

“And how far out have you managed to scout in that time?”

Pearce straightened, shifted where he sat. “Well…”

“Not as far as we’d have liked, cub,” Papa said, raising a hand to the back of his neck. “Our General, you see—”

“Our resources are occupied elsewhere at this time,” said Pearce, a hint of what almost resembled distrust flickering over his face as he regarded you.

You fought the urge to roll your eyes.

“Yes,” Papa said, and you caught a mote of frustration in his tone. “I suppose that’s one way to put it.”

“Show me the most current map you have,” you said. “Much has changed, even since you were last here, Papa.”

Papa nodded, then gestured to a man seated across from him, who sprang to his feet and made for one of the surrounding tents.

“Changed, how?” Papa asked, turning back to you.

“Well,” you sighed. “The British have not rested a day since taking Charleston. They fan the flames of Loyalism across the colony as we speak. By force, or by…” You swallowed. “Enticement.”

Papa frowned. “This land has more backbone than that, surely.”

“Evidently not,” you returned, perhaps too sharply. “More towns pledge fealty to the crown by the day. Lord Cornwallis has dispatched entire legions of men to sweep the countryside and ensure it.”

“Perhaps they lie,” offered Pearce. “Swear whatever oath they must to be left in peace, while their allegiances truly lie elsewhere.”

“Precisely,” said Papa, holding a hand out as if to showcase Pearce. “The soul of liberty is not so easily snuffed.”

You met Pearce’s eyes. His shoulders rolled back. Words of doubt on your lips were distracted by the soldier returning with the requested map. He held it out to your father.

Papa frowned. “I wasn’t the one who asked for it, Private.”

The private’s back hunched in submission and he handed it over to you. As you spread it on your lap, he retreated to his seat around the fire, and you shot him a glare for good measure.

“So.” Your finger swirled over a swath of land in the backcountry. “All of these towns have sworn loyalty to the Crown over the past months.”

Scrutinizing the map, you hummed, leaned forward, and plucked an old charred stick from the edge of the fire pit.

“And there’s a road you’ve not accounted for. Here.” You scratched a charcoal line into the map. “It’s part of what they’re calling the King’s Highway. Supplies move from Charleston to be disseminated to outposts across the backcountry. These seem to be their primary fortifications, as far as I know.” With each new trail, you drew a new, black line. “Fort Ninety-Six, to the west. Stono Ferry, in the south. And Fort Carolina, here in the north.”

“New points of attack,” Papa said, staring into the map. “They’ll be vulnerable along those routes.” He gazed at you, face splitting with a smile before he slapped your back so hard he earned a small oof. “That’s my girl!” He looked to Pearce. “I told you that she was quite a woman, didn’t I?” Before you could begin to question that that meant, he continued, “Do you have anything else, cub?”

“What about the movements of their officers?” Pearce asked.

Your mouth parted as your pulse skipped. “I’m not quite sure what you mean, Captain.”

Pearce sighed. “We believe colonel of the Green Dragoons—William Tavington, if you know him—”

If only he knew how well.

“—was spotted here not more than a couple of days ago after our patrols encountered a redcoat encampment. We nearly captured him.”

Papa nodded. “Too bad, too,” he said. “Would’ve been excellent information for Gates.”

“General Gates continues to resist suggestions for the procurement of further intelligence,” Pearce said, partly to you, partly to your father.

“Well.” Papa scoffed. “Gates is a damn fool.”

Pearce gave a commiserating look before turning back to you. “We have reason to believe Tavington’s legion is in the area.” Grey eyes scrutinized you, flicked over your face and hands before meeting your gaze again. “Do you know anything about that?”

Had it been Papa asking, your answer would have been instant. But this was something you didn’t want to confirm for a stranger who could sell you out with the right amount of pressure. And you couldn’t discern Pearce’s intention, couldn’t figure if he already knew the answer to the question he was asking. He was studying you in a way that made your skin want to flutter off in flakes.

“No.” You spun to face your father. “I have something I want to discuss with you.” You glanced at Pearce. “Privately.”

Pearce frowned, looking between you and Papa like he was lost. Papa scanned your expression, chewed his lip before acknowledging Pearce, nodding at him and the other men around the fire to dismiss them. Exhaling, Pearce’s shoulders sank. He stole a final glimpse of you before tipping his hat again and following the rest of the soldiers to the tents.

Before he could speak, you lowered your voice. “Papa, how are you men surviving?” you said. “The state of this camp is horrific.”

Papa grinned, shaking his head. “Don’t be preposterous! No, it isn’t.”

“It’s atrocious.”

“What do you mean?” Papa craned his head, surveying the grid of tents. “Can you not see the fervor here? The thirst for revolution?” Like a poor boy on the eve of Christmas, the reality of his circumstances were obscured by delirious thrill. “These men are Patriots! They believe in something.”

From your perspective, it was difficult to identify what they believed in other than not being fully dressed. Perhaps the British encampment wasn’t possessed by passion, but they at least had the provisions to make it through a single battle. You weren’t sure how the Continentals had gotten this far.

“I’m just a bit concerned with the state of your men right now, is all.”

“Don’t be,” he said. “The colonel of our militia is a legend from the French and Indian war. If I could only tell you of his feats at Fort Wilderness.” He looked at you with utter conviction. “A word from that man could stir even the most phlegmatic hearts to fervor.”

You nodded. “All right then. Perhaps I need time to see it.” Giving him a sly grin, you added, “As of now, I see no such stirring man.”

“Not one?”

“Not one.”

“Ah…” Papa rubbed his knees, shooting you a rueful grin. “So, Captain Pearce didn’t impress you?”

Your brow furrowed. “No, he didn’t,” you replied. “Speak your meaning plainly, Papa. From where did this question arrive?”

He leaned back, sucking in air through his teeth. “Oh, I don’t know, cub,” he said. “He’s been a great help to me, and he’s around your age. He’s intelligent. Ambitious. I know you’re not easily impressed, so I thought maybe…” He waved you off. “Forget it, forget it.”

“Wait.” Your jaw dropped. “Were you trying to…” A laugh of disbelief escaped you. That’s why Pearce had been acting so strangely in front of you. “You were trying to arrange something with him?”

Papa threw up his hands defensively. “No!” he insisted. “No, no, no. Nothing like that. I just thought perhaps if you met him…”

“What, he’d—he’d… wing me away in a fit of infatuation?”

“Not a fit—no!” He clapped to silence further discussion. “Anyway. Just. Forget all of that.”

You grumbled, but nodded along anyway. Papa had never cared if you were married and had never tried to foist a man into your arms regardless. The romance of war had swept him in flight. He’d simply hoped to pass it on to you, as he’d done with all of his other idealistic aspirations.

The relics of your rage from a couple of nights prior resurrected themselves. If it hadn’t been for these very idealistic, romantic aspirations over something incredibly dangerous, you wouldn’t even be sitting in this camp. The three of you could have fled the encroaching war together, could have done something sensible for once.

Instead, just one of you was left with obligation.

Just one of you was left to put out the candles, to sweep the porch, to lock the doors, to tuck the sheets under the mattresses.

What had Tavington said, that first night you’d met him?

Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?

You ground your teeth together. He wasn’t right. He couldn’t be. He wasn’t allowed to be.

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” you said, shaking off all thoughts of the colonel and how right or wrong or whatever he was. You dropped your volume to a whisper. “I’ve been traveling with the British army since mid-June. Grace and I were taken—”

Papa’s eyes widened. “You—cub, you’ve been what?”

“That’s where I came from!” You inched closer to him. “Tavington’s legion is just south of the river. That’s where I’ve been. Papa…” You glanced around. “Do your men mean to advance on Camden?”

His face fell. He drew in a long inhale, gazing into the fire. “Dammit. So they know, do they?”

“You must withdraw,” you said. “Cornwallis is on his way north to defend it. Whatever you’ve got planned, it won’t be enough.”

Papa nodded, silent, chewing on his cheek in thought. “Thank you,” he said, finally. “Though I’m not sure what good it will do with this fool Gates commanding us. I doubt he’ll hear a word of it.”

“Then you must make him hear. Relief though it brings me to have informed you of it.” You could let the load of this war die in its own wake. After seeing the state of the Continental camp, you were more determined than ever to get home and get Grace out of South Carolina. “More relief still to know you’re alive. I’ve spent all of these weeks thinking you might have been dead. Or hurt, or… I don’t know. Worse.”

“And that’s what had you out here staying in… did you say Tavington's legion?”

“I did.”

He hummed, giving another knowing shake of his head. “Tavington isn't known for being obtuse. Or charitable.” He laughed. “You might have gotten yourself killed.”

Or worse—deflowered. “I can handle myself,” you said. “Besides—”

“I know you can,” Papa said. “Just don’t give them too much hell when you get back there.”

Your fingers wound around each other. There, as in return to the British encampment. Not head home. You swallowed, panic creeping up your neck and bringing a wave of sweat with it. You’d thought it would be clear for you to abandon this entire charade and put the devilish whims of war—and Tavington—behind you.

Had you been neglecting some duty when considering your plan? Was there some important piece of information you’d omitted?

“But…” The word sounded wrong on your tongue. “How will I… what will I be doing?”

“What you’ve already been doing,” he said. “We need Tavington crippled. He’s been slaughtering us.”

“But how will I get you information?”

He shrugged. “Write letters to Grace, if you’d like. She can keep them for me. But I’m not worried about the information. I trust you to do what’s right.”

It wanted to leave again. “But I…”

You would never do that. There was no way you’d even accidentally implicate her anything. The fact that he’d even suggested it irritated you.

“Of course.” And then, with far more acidity than you realized you’d been holding, “Grace is well, by the way, since you asked.”

Papa frowned, face drawn with concern. “Well, I’m glad to hear it,” he said, “I’m glad she is. But I never doubted she would be with you there.” He paused, considering you. “Everything all right, cub?” He nudged you playfully. “Aren’t you inspired?”

Shame consumed you. Your stomach fell to your feet. You hadn’t been careful. You’d been selfish. That was the problem.

You held importance to people like your father, who was clearly awe-struck by the vigor of rebellion. You served a crucial point in preventing him from coming to harm. At least with the information you’d given him today, he might stand a chance in escaping certain death from a confrontation at Camden.

This was your father. Of course he trusted you, of course he assumed the best in you. How was it possible you considered doing anything but what he hoped for?

You’d been so stupid.

Nodding, you looked at Papa. Forced a smile just like you had when he told you he was heading off to join the Wilksburg company.

“Yes, Papa,” you replied. “I’m going to do my best for you. I promise.”

Papa smiled and pulled you into a strong, close hug. You closed your eyes, a knot bubbling in your throat and escaping as a pained laugh. You pressed your face into the crook of his neck.

“I lost your boots,” you whimpered.

His body shook with a chuckle. “My boots?”

You nodded. “Redcoats took them.” Your voice strained the words. “I’m sorry.”

“Damn the boots,” Papa said, holding you closer. “Damn the redcoats, too. It’s hardly the most consequential thing they’d take from us, given the chance.”

Warmth spread through you. Your father was right.

Tavington hadn’t been, wasn’t, and would never be right.

You allowed yourself to feel safety in your father’s arms for a few more moments. The sun was painting purple streaks through the sky, and you needed to return to camp with at least a few plants in your pocket. But for just a few seconds, none of that mattered.

After you bid Papa farewell with another long embrace, you waved at the Continental officers and their poorly-clothed subordinates. Wilson offered a ride at least to the bridge, but you declined it. You were not going to put yourself or anyone else at greater risk than you were already in.

The walk back to camp was long, but helped to soothe your racing mind. And at least it gave you the opportunity to collect whatever vegetation you could find. You managed to snatch a handful of a few different prophylactics for swelling along the way—the sumac and plantain would be best for that—and added in some dogwood to help reduce fever.

By the time you returned to camp, the sun had tucked itself into the trees, the eastern skyline bleeding black into the dying day. You neared the perimeter, and a couple of soldiers seated by a tent spotted you. Their eyes widened. One stood and slipped into camp.

Your mouth dried. Instead of waiting to find out what that was about, you scurried to the hospital tent, hoping to make yourself appear very busy instead of very delinquent. It was empty when you entered. You couldn’t decide if that was a relief or a disappointment.

Holding your breath, you hovered over one of the work tables and grabbed your mortar and pestle along with a few bottles. There had to be something you could start on that would allow you to perform innocence. If William—Colonel, dammit—

The flap to the hospital tent parted. Colonel Tavington stalked through.

You turned to see his brow relax when he saw you, only for his jaw to shift and tighten when his eyes met yours. His lip twitched.

You looked at your hands. “Good evening, Col—”

“Where were you?” He stepped toward you, hands behind his back.

“Sir?” You gave him a placating smile, gesturing to your bottles. “I was out gathering supplies.”

Tavington raised a brow. “Is that so?” Nodding toward the table, he said, “Show me, then.”

“What I gathered?”

“Unless you believe there’s something else I’d rather see as proof of your reason for absence.”

You pulled your lips in over your teeth and retrieved the vegetation from your pockets, spreading them all on the table. They sprinkled across the surface like a handful of hay on a pig’s belly. The amount now seemed pitiably inadequate for the time you’d been gone. Heat flushed your neck.

He stepped closer to you, looming over your shoulder. A slow breath left him as he examined them.

“This,” he said, pitch lower and quieter than you anticipated, “is all you managed to find?”

Ignoring the twist in your lower abdomen, you shrugged. “This was all that was worthwhile. And they’re all that I needed.”

He reached around you, lifting one of the crimson sumac clusters from the table and spinning it in his fingers. “Tell me about this, then.”

“That’s staghorn sumac.” You forced a small grin. The breadth of his chest, the rumble of his voice there almost unsteadied you. Almost. “Helpful for inflammation.”

“Sumac,” he said, twirling it again. “I remember you asking me if I could identify it.”

Your heart thumped against your chest. “I did.”

“Does it always look like this?” He slid his thumb up the tender stem, flicked it across the base of the fruits. “This color.”

“It does.” Your chin quivered, your insides writhing in a knot. The very fact he’d even asked made you want to hop on the table and wrap your legs around his waist. “You'll…” You exhaled a steadying breath. “You'll know it, now.”

“I should hope I never need to.” You didn’t reply. Only watched as he laid the sumac on the table and cradled one of the white flowers in his palm. “What does this do?”

“Dogwood,” you murmured. The heat from his body was not distracting. You were not thinking about how his palms would feel on your hips, your breasts. “For. Ah. For fever.”

“I see.” He brought the flower—and his arm—closer to your waist. “Have you noticed any…” he said, the next word hanging on his tongue, “neglected instances of feverish behavior recently?”

“No.” You swallowed. “Just preparation.”

“Ah.” Returning the dogwood, he picked up a plantain leaf, humming thoughtfully. “And this?”

“It’s good for insect bites,” you murmured. The memory of his lips, the moan he’d made into your mouth stole the stability from your knees, and you braced yourself on the table. “I know the men have been complaining of mosquitoes recently.”

“How thoughtful.” He stepped closer, hips grazing yours. “And unlike you.”

“Perhaps so,” you said quickly, stupidly. You needed him out of your space. “But I’ve found them bothersome as well.”

His tone grew cold. “I believe that’s the first honest sentence out of your mouth all evening.”

You straightened, moving to the side. “I really must ask—”

Tavington gripped the table, barring your escape with his arm. Spinning to face him, you found his chest an inch from yours, his gaze boring into you. Every good intention you had to tell him to leave chilled to ice.

“Where were you?” His tongue rolled in his mouth. “This,” he said, crushing a handful of the flowers in his palm, “did not take you hours.”

“We’ve been camped here for weeks. I’ve picked these woods bare,” you replied. “I had to go far out into the field.”

His eyes narrowed. “To find scraps?”

The wicked edge in his tone cut a shiver up your spine. You could almost taste his lips again, could feel the yearning to dissolve against him. Clearing your throat of need, you lifted your chin to the air.

“I’m being honest,” you lied.

“Honest, are you?” That smirk that you found so irritating, so devastatingly irresistible, quirked on the mouth you did not want to kiss. “Then tell me this, my little soldier.” Tavington’s hand drew close to your hip, found the edges of your skirts, tugged at them by only an inch. You flinched. “Do I detect the vestiges…” He leaned close to whisper with soft, trembling rage. “... Of desire?”

Your nails dug into the table. Finding his eyes, you did the only thing you could think to do.

“Lottie!” you shouted. “Lottie, come quick! I want to show you something!”

Tavington’s brows rose, and his jaw stiffened.

“I knew you to be a liar,” he muttered. “But I did not take you for a coward.”

With a short exhale through his nose, he withdrew from you. Seconds later, Charlotte Goddard charged into the tent.

“I’m here! I’m here!” She was heaving. “What, what is it? When did you get back?” Spotting Tavington, she stood tall. “Oh, Colonel! Excuse me, sir.” She bowed her head. “Good evening.”

Colonel—yes, Colonel, thank you very much—Tavington’s attention flipped between the two of you. He marched out of the tent without a word. Lottie looked to the table, then at you.

“About as good as that’s going to get,” she said, walking over toward you. “What is it you wanted to show me?”

A long, heavy breath slid from your nose. An ache lingered between your legs. There were so many things you could have shown her, could have told her. All of them had to remain secret to your grave. So instead, you scooped up the sumac, dangling the clusters from your hands.

“Look,” you said, half-grinning. “It matches your hair.”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 12

Read on AO3. Part 11 here. Part 13 here.

Summary: This party ain't big enough for the two of us.

Words: 7500

Warnings: Reader and Tavington are both cunts

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

HEHEHEHEHEHE OH MAN WHAT'S ABOUT TO HAPPEN :)))))))))))))))

HI welcome back!! I hope you enjoyed this beast of a chapter! Again, something really new for both of us, so we hope you enjoyed! We just HAD to have a party scene, of course - which is part of what started us writing this whole long thing to begin with! Sheeeeesh.

Next chapter may take a couple weeks, as we're out traveling for the rest of the week and we anticipate the next chapter to be, um, long :)

LOVE Y'ALL SO VERY MUCH <3

The gown might as well have been made of morning grass. In color, it shimmered like an emerald field in dew; in touch, it slipped beneath your fingers like fresh blades born into the sun. Sheets of patternless silk met at the front of your bodice in a neat row of buttons, layered over a darker, forest green petticoat that cascaded to the floor. A delicate collar of lace swept like seafoam over your shoulders and bosom, veiling anything other than your throat to the other guests.

It was beautiful.

You hated it.

The dress itself was fine—finer than anything you’d worn, or even seen, to be honest. It was how you felt within it: like a spectacle. Here you were, the Incredible Turncoat Daughter, decorated in frippery to be paraded around the ball on the arms of officers as proof of their victory.

Perhaps they’d collared you, but they wouldn’t leash you. No—you had business to do at this ball. You needed to discern your father’s fate. And you’d be damned if any officer would consider you a victory.

“Oh!” Lottie tapped you on the shoulder, having reappeared from a sea of silk frills and red jackets. She held out one of the hors d'oeuvres. It looked like a slimy black marble perched on a stick. “Try this!” she said. “It’s delightful!”

You raised a brow, plucking it from her fingers and popping it in your mouth. You knew immediately it was the worst thing you’d ever eaten.

“Ugh!” Groaning, you grabbed the napkin she’d gathered as well and spit the half-chewed glob into your covered hand. “Hell, that was horrific.” You dabbed your mouth before crumpling the napkin into a ball. “What was that? It tasted like fish shit.”

Goddard and Lottie’s eyes widened, looking between your disgusting napkin and your disgusted face.

“Oh! Sorry.” You lowered your voice. “It tasted like fish excrement.”

Pulling his lips in over his teeth, Goddard pivoted, walking toward the table filled with pre-poured Madeira. The drawing room was heavy with the din of conversation, but all appeared too enamored with the spread of food and drink to notice your disdain for it. Lottie, face pink, covered her mouth to hide her amusement.

“They’re called olives,” she said, picking up another one from a passing serving tray. “I think they’re delicious.”

You snorted. “I could do without.” There was nowhere around you to dispose of your illicit napkin. “Hell,” you said again, trying to hide it in your fist. “What are you supposed to do with these?”

“Well,” Lottie said, giggling, “I think you typically don’t spit food inside of them.” Her head craned around your shoulder. “Oh!” She tapped your shoulder. “There’s a plant there.” She held out her arm to you. “Come with me.”

You grinned at her, looping your arm in hers. Despite her presentation in a brocade-patterned blueberry dress, Lottie was the only person here capable of making you feel normal. She led you past the plant in the corner, watching for onlookers.

Holding your breath, you dipped low and tossed the napkin behind the pot, exhaling as you came to stand. “Much better,” you said. “No one will notice a thing.”

“Notice what?” said a familiar voice from over your shoulder.

You flinched, hand clutching your chest as you turned and met the blue, simmering eyes of William Tavington. Your heart dropped to the floor.

“Oh, Colonel.” You clung tighter to Lottie’s arm. “Good, ah, good evening.”

“Good evening, Colonel Tavington,” Lottie echoed, side-stepping to try and obscure your vandalism. “Have you tried the olives?”

His gaze remained on yours. “If this behavior is in any way indicative of your proficiency with subtlety,” he said, “perhaps it’s your good fortune that you’re so loyal to the Crown.”

Lottie stiffened. “Oh, Colonel, I’m not sure what you think you saw—”

“Miss Goddard,” Tavington said, still not breaking focus from your face. “I believe your brother was asking for you.”

“He was?” She looked at you apologetically, patting your arm as she pulled away. “I’ll—please excuse me, I’ll be right back,” she said, before trotting off and leaving you alone, in the corner, your only company a wadded up napkin and the single person in the room you did not want to be left alone with.

It was only in this moment you could fully, unwillingly begin to take him in. Colonel William Tavington was adorned in full dress, his collar laid with gilded thread, the ties and sleeves on his blouse embroidered with scalloped lace trim. Even his waistcoat hadn’t been spared—it was similarly embellished with glittering thread underneath the line of bronze buttons. Your eyes fell lower, noting the black wash of his trousers. His boots were shined to mirror-finish.

Realizing you’d been staring, you snapped your attention forward only to then take notice of his hair, the apple scent of it, how sleekly it laid to his head; the strong curve of his jaw, the little bow above his upper lip you wanted to pinch between your teeth.

He was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen.

Bastard.

“Have I not proven myself beyond your doubts, Colonel?” you asked, hoping that you could invite the both of you to ignore how you’d just observed him like a dog might observe raw meat. “At least enough to avoid incurring slights regarding my loyalty?”

His eyes flicked briefly to your throat. “I’m afraid duty to the King requires more devotion than a few months of trodding around a hospital tent filling jars with plant paste.”

You frowned. “Your general seems to disagree.”

Tavington’s brow lowered. “Lord Cornwallis’ decisions do not reflect my own, nor do his beliefs reflect mine.”

“What’s that?” You gave him a faux-gasp. “That isn’t… You couldn’t be calling His Lordship’s judgement into question, could you?”

“I made no statement about his judgement.” Tavington stepped closer, crowding you with his singular presence. “But it’s my belief that someone with a history such as yours is in need of supervision at a gathering such as this.”

“Supervision?” You huffed, stepping away, since his proximity was directly and inversely related to your ability to form coherent sentences. “I know you may have trouble recalling, with all the secrets you seem so concerned about swelling your large head, Colonel, but I’m no longer a child.”

You thought you caught it, as quick as a blink—a smirk flashed on his lips.

“No,” he said. “You are an opportunist. Far more deserving of a chaperone.”

He advanced again. You skittered backwards. Jaw set, he grabbed for you, and you jerked your arms from his reach. You’d force him to make a scene before you let him chaperone you.

When he didn’t pursue you a third time, you thrust your chin into the air and escaped from the drawing room into the foyer, exhaling as the anchor of the crowd fell from your chest.

Though, said foyer was really more of a grand foyer. Two staircases curled from the second floor and spilled into the room, opening to towering ceilings bordered with detailed crown molding and colorful tile laid into the hardwood at the entrance. In fact, Middleton Place itself was grander than anything you’d ever beheld; it was a massive plantation, gardens sprawling for miles outside. It seemed the inside had once been cluttered with ostentatious superfluity, but parts were missing—white shadows and empty corners felt more conspicuous to you than the pieces of luxurious furniture that remained.

It was for this reason you needed to attach yourself to someone, anyone so you didn’t look or feel so sorely out of place. That, and to potentially dissuade Tavington from attempting to chaperone your efforts to find out what had happened to your father after Camden.

Of the few passing through the foyer, you spotted an older, bewigged man nursing a baluster of wine by himself. He was admiring the marble bust of a stranger, and had enough ornamentation on his uniform that he must know something. Sucking in a breath, you cast a glance behind you—no Tavington—and wiggled your shoulders before making your way over to his side.

“Good evening,” you said, poking your head into his space. He startled, but upon seeing you, relaxed. “I hope you don’t mind if I intrude.”

The man—a captain, you could see—laughed, waving you off. “Oh, it’s no trouble, my dear.” His eyes, bloodshot and milky blue, soaked themselves in the hidden view of your decolletage. “I’m simply admiring the work of whichever artist carved this fine gentleman here.” He leaned forward, squinting. “Mr… ah, I don’t know.” Laughing, he patted the bust on its cold head. “Whoever he is, he’s the only one left, poor fool.”

You laughed, even though you didn’t find him funny. “Oh, who knows,” you said, resting your hand on the captain’s shoulder. The inscription on the statue clearly said Henry Middleton. “What do you mean, the only one left?”

“Oh,” the captain said, “all the other statues are out in the rubble pile!” He laughed again. “The boys had a bit too much fun when they took Charleston.” His arm wound around yours, and he pulled you close. “Captain John Pettis, my dear.” Pettis leaned toward you, his odor too heavy with wine for the youth of the evening. “Who, may I ask, are you?”

Despite the rising hair on your nape, you introduced yourself. “It’s my pleasure,” you said. “Are you enjoying the ball, Captain?”

He huffed, going to wave the question away before his attention lingered on your figure again. “I certainly am now,” he laughed. “Just in bloody time, too.”

“Oh?” You cleared your throat. “Aren’t you pleased about Camden?”

“Well, of course—”

“Were you there, Captain?”

Pettis frowned. “Of course I was, dear,” he said.

“Oh, wonderful,” you said. “It must have been harrowing.”

“I wouldn’t say—”

“I’d love to know everything about it,” you said, inching closer to him.

“Well…” Pettis chuckled. His hand crept to your lower back, and you winced. “I’d love to discuss something more stimulating.”

“Oh.” You gave a tight smile, trying to ignore the feeling of insects creeping over your skin where his hand rested. “No, thank you, Captain.” When his eyebrow quirked, you rubbed his forearm. “It’s just—well, you must have been so brave, you know, and I admit I find myself curious about your accomplishments there.”

“Adventurous thing, aren’t you?” He grinned, his grip sliding to your side and pulling you against him. “That can all come later, my dear,” he said. “No need to disrupt your constitution with my tales of, ah, violence, you know, it’s all quite bloody.”

“I’m sure that I can—”

“No, no.” Pettis’ hand stroked your side in a way that made you wish, to your surprise and horror, that Tavington was nearby. “In fact, we can find a much quieter place to discuss this, if you wish?”

Your teeth set. You’d misplayed him—been far too forward and had given him the wrong idea. If only you’d had any experience with intimacy.

“That’s quite all right,” you replied, trying to step away. “We can—”

He held you tighter, tugged you back along his side. “No need to be shy, now,” he whispered, his breath husky and rank. “I know exactly what you’re trying to say.”

Heart skipping, you glanced around the room. No Tavington. No Goddard. No Lottie. No anybody you recognized. Pettis took a step, leading you away from the statue, and you resented even more the stupid dress and the stupid ball that was preventing you from smashing your skull into his nose. You swallowed, giving Pettis the weakest smile you could offer, and spotted a gaggle of women just a few yards away surrounding a man who appeared to be politely entertaining each of them. As you passed, you caught sight of his face.

Patrick bloody Ferguson.

Ferguson’s eyes met yours. His brow raised, and he turned to the crowd of his admirers. He appeared to say something before parting a way through and striding over to you and Pettis.

God, no. You did not need him making the situation even worse. Fussing, you tried to loosen Pettis’ grip on you, but he held fast, chuckling to himself, mumbling something about save that for when we’re alone. Before you could protest, Ferguson stepped in front of you both.

“Captain!” Ferguson said, a bright, friendly smile on his awful face. “I was afraid you weren’t going to make it this evening.”

Pettis laughed, his face reddening. “Oh, Major Ferguson,” he said. “Good evening, sir.” Looking to you, and then back to Ferguson, he continued, “Not a chance I’d miss an event like this.”

“After how flustered you seemed at Camden, I was sure you’d had enough of the war business!” Ferguson said this good-naturedly, like he was actually concerned for the man in front of him. You couldn’t tell if he was performing. “First battle after your commission is always tough.”

You almost laughed. Pettis has just purchased his captain’s rank? You’d probably seen buckets more blood than he had.

“Yes, well…” Pettis’ face had turned redder than his coat. His hand left you, and he stepped aside. The relief from his presence left in a poorly-hidden sigh. “Yes. Well. I believe I’m going to go seek another glass of Madeira.”

“So soon?” Ferguson said. “Captain, please!”

Pettis raised his hand to quiet him. “Yes, yes, I think I shall.” He bowed in your direction, then Ferguson’s. “Lovely speaking with you both,” he said, before slinking toward the drawing room.

You watched him go, restraining your desire to make a face behind his back. Exhaling, you turned to Ferguson and realized that your desire to make a face needed even greater restraint than it had just a second earlier.

“Major,” you said, summoning every ounce of politeness that hadn’t been expended on Pettis. “What a pleasure to see you again.”

“I’m surprised to hear you say so,” he said, a sly grin on his face. “Especially after my utterly monstrous treatment of you in the hospital tent.”

All blood fell from your face. “Oh.” Your smile became a grimace. “I’m afraid I, ah, don’t understand what you’re referring to, sir.”

He laughed. “I’m not sore about it,” he replied. “Once I learned that you were Grace’s sister, it made tremendous sense.”

Your grimace pulled the tendons in your neck. Here he was, standing right in front of you, believing he had the right to just discuss Grace to your face? As if he knew you? As if he knew her? Just because he’d visited her, exchanged letters with her perhaps, did not give him the insight he seemed so comfortable claiming in this moment.

“Did it, now?” You shifted your weight, cocked your head. “Pray, tell.”

“I’ve simply noticed you have a lot in common,” he replied earnestly. “I mean it as a compliment.”

“And are these compliments you pay to all of your lady suitors?” you said, gesturing to the crowd of women he’d abandoned, all of whom appeared concerned with your current monopolization of his attention.

Ferguson nodded in acknowledgement, lowering his volume a notch. “Nothing escapes you, does it?”

He stepped toward the entry heading outdoors, gesturing for you to follow him. You did, watching him with suspicion, edging closer to him as you stepped onto the grounds.

The air was thick with the demise of summer, cascading in a gentle breeze down the sprawling garden terrace toward the river. A string melody sailed across the evening’s current, pebbled through by the din of conversations and laughter. There wasn’t a sight you could behold that was not laden with finery, from manicured shrubs, to flowing silks and tailored coats, to the enormous frigate anchored in the water.

All to celebrate what may well have been the end of your father. To rejoice in the death throes of South Carolina’s liberty, to laugh as she was left to squirm and choke beneath a thousand shiny British boots.

You felt ill.

Ferguson led you to an unoccupied alcove on the parterre, fragrant with blooming roses, and leaned toward you. “I intended to invite Grace as my guest, but the distance between here and Catawba prohibited a timely correspondence,” he said. “And I sense she would have been reluctant to leave your home unless she had been aware you’d be present.” He sighed. “As she cannot be here, she cannot be the focus of my affections.”

“How fortunate that you have so much affection to go around, then, Major,” you clipped back. “Seeing as how you dole it out like candy to any woman begging for a taste.”

“I understand how it appeared,” he said with a wince. “But had you been party to the conversation, you would not have failed to distinguish courtesy from candy.” When this did nothing to wipe the burgeoning scowl from your face, he continued. “Be assured that my true affections are kept private, and reserved for those deserving.”

You narrowed your eyes at him, taking a rose stem between your fingers to brush its petals with your thumb.

“You’ll find my sister is the most deserving of everything good the world could potentially offer.” Your thumb dug into the pillowy bloom, crushed down until its perfume bled into your palm. “And I’ll not see her fall second choice to anyone, or anything.”

You pinned him with your stare. His own expression softened.

“That is very clear, miss.” He glanced out across the river before looking at you again. “I see why she speaks so highly of you.”

“Does she?” The admission found your irritation with him and soothed it like a poultice. You noticed your shoulders rolling forward, your hackles dropping. You released the impaled flower. “Well. I hope she does,” you said, “since I practically raised her.”

Ferguson nodded. “She has said as much. I’m aware that growing up without your mother was not easy.” He smiled gently. “It was my hope to meet the woman who surely imparted such strong character upon her.”

You sighed, averting your gaze. How was it possible that he seemed so perfectly kind, so perfectly thoughtful and considerate and clever while being the second worst person you’d ever met? There had to be some reason behind her infatuation—yes, Ferguson had aroused Loyalist sympathies from her, but Grace wasn’t stupid. Before finding a way to destroy this man forever, you needed to understand her logic. Perhaps, you hoped, you were ignorant, and she was doing her work to spy for the Continentals as well by charming one of its lead majors—

No. Grace would never tolerate performing that level of dishonesty. Or deception.

It was only then you realized just how badly you missed her.

“If you’re so familiar, then,” you said, “how is she?”

Ferguson gave you a warm, frustratingly perceptive smile. “She’s very well. A bit lonely, perhaps, but—”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

“Oh, at least a fortni—”

“Do you write her?” You stepped closer. “Did you get her permission to do so?”

Ferguson was unfazed. He held up his hands in surrender, grinning. “Your sister is very well,” he said, “though she misses you terribly. She told me so when I last saw her at the beginning of August. And I did ask to write her.” Pausing, he studied your face, then decided to continue. “Though she did mention that I may want to ask your permission, first.” His grin grew wider. “And I fully intend to refrain from any monstrous behavior, if granted such.”

You pursed your lips. “Oh.”

Here you were, being an obstinate ass when a high-ranking British officer had just revealed a desire to ingratiate himself to you. A serving tray passed you filled with oysters, and you grabbed one, considering it as you gathered the courage to give the one thing to this man you could barely stomach:

An apology.

“You must forgive my rancor, Major Ferguson,” you said with a sigh. “I’m afraid that despite my satisfaction with our victory at Camden, I still worry quite deeply for my family.”

You attempted to sip from the belly of the shell. The sound echoed to the bank of the Ashley below.

Ferguson’s lip quirked in a disturbingly good-natured way, and he rocked on his heels.

“Your love is a fearsome thing to behold, I must admit.” He chuckled, then softened again in sincerity. “But I couldn’t possibly fault you for that. There is nothing to forgive.”

“Well,” you said, straightening your shoulders. “Thank you.”

Unsure what else to say, you sipped at your oyster again. Ferguson’s gaze dropped, his brow creasing in sudden thought. After a moment, he muttered your last name under his breath. You looked at him in surprise.

“Lord Cornwallis made mention of a certain Tory woman who would be here tonight,” he began. “He said her father is a captain with the Continentals.” He paused, peering at you curiously. “That’s you, isn’t it?”

You stiffened. There wasn’t much point in trying to deny it. Even though the idea of your name being passed around among the upper echelons of the British army brought you no small measure of discomfort. Particularly whilst you were already feeling like a doll dressed up for their entertainment.

“Yes,” you said, eyeing Ferguson again with distrust. “It is.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding as if he genuinely was. “I can’t imagine the distress that must cause you.”

A chime of opportunity struck in the back of your mind. Ferguson wanted—needed—to get on your good side. If he knew anything about the aftermath of Camden, he would surely share it. And, unlike Tavington, he had no reason to distrust your motives for asking.

“It has been very taxing,” you admitted, drawing a breath. You glanced around, then leaned just a little closer to Ferguson. “I have reason to believe my father may have been involved at Camden,” you whispered. “I hesitate to ask the general, lest my allegiance is called into question, but...”

Ferguson’s face drew into a grave, sympathetic frown.

“You’ve no idea what’s become of him,” he finished for you.

Dropping your gaze, you nodded.

“It’s only right that you should know.” Ferguson’s eyes flicked toward the entryway to the home before returning to you. “I hate to say it, but it was wise of you not to ask the general.”

When curiosity crossed your face, he continued.

“His Lordship has been a bit, ah, on edge,” he explained. “I’m sorry to say I have no knowledge of your father’s fate myself. I’d surely tell you if I did.”

You sighed. Ferguson’s head cocked in very irritating concern that appeared genuine, which made it even more irritating.

“Although…” he mused, rubbing a finger over his chin. You thought you saw a new twinkle appear in the deep blue of his eyes. “That sort of information would be in the report.”

You hummed. “Report?”

He flashed you a grin, grabbing an oyster for himself as the server walked past the tray in the other direction. “Colonel Tavington would have written it up for him,” he said, and slurped the entire oyster in one bite. “It would list all the officers captured or killed.”

Knowing Tavington, the report was certainly finished—but it would be accessing it that was the problem. “I see.” You attempted to imitate his oyster consumption and instead inhaled the juice straight into your lungs. “Agh—dammit—”

“Are you all right?” Ferguson asked, stepping forward to assist you as you choked.

Grimacing, you batted him away, thudding your chest with your fist to knock the rest of the juice free. “Ah-ahem.”

Before Ferguson could reply, he glanced at the entry doors, brows rising in recognition. “Talk of the devil,” he murmured, tilting his head in that direction.

You turned, watching as Cornwallis descended to the parterre, whispering furiously to one of his generals. It was a man you didn’t recognize—some pinched-face, badly-bewigged sycophant like most others, you assumed—and Cornwallis himself seemed draped in a bizarre, silky imitation of a royal officer’s coat. Behind them, Tavington descended as well, adjusting his lace cuffs, the muscle in his jaw tighter than you’d ever seen it.

His eyes found you across the terrace, narrowed at the sight of your company. To your simultaneous relief and disappointment, he split away, marching in the direction opposite of you.

Ferguson grinned. “My Lord General!” he called, waving Cornwallis over. As the general started toward you, you turned to your side and scraped the oyster belly clean with your teeth before shoving the shell in Ferguson’s hands. “Oh—”

“Such a gentleman you are,” you murmured, and greeted Cornwallis with a curtsy. “Good evening my Lord!”

Whatever Cornwallis’ annoyance had been, upon hearing your greeting, it parted like clouds to sunshine.

“Ah, there she is!” he said, meeting the two of you. You offered a hand to him, curtsied as he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. He gestured to the man beside him. “May I introduce General Charles O’Hara, my second in command.”

“A pleasure, General.” You gave a curtsy towards O’Hara, who bowed in response.

“I see you’ve made amends with Major Ferguson, hm?” Cornwallis said.

You nodded. “Absolutely,” you said, taking care to omit the not, “my Lord. I’m so glad to have realized it was a misunderstanding.” You looked to Ferguson. “Major Ferguson here was kind enough to explain it all to me.”

“Excellent,” said Cornwallis, nodding toward Ferguson. “And you, Major? I trust you’ve had a fine evening thus far?”

“Oh, more than fine, sir,” Ferguson said. “How could I not, given what victories we had at both Camden and Fishing Creek?”

“Yes,” Cornwallis said, his gaze drifting to the ship on the Ashley River. “Though it’d be far easier to celebrate if certain… oversights hadn’t left us exposed.”

“Really?” Ferguson said. “Was there something unsatisfactory in the report?”

Cornwallis huffed, waving the suggestion away. “Oh, nevermind the report.”

“Was there something else, then, my Lord?” Ferguson asked. “Or was it not completed?”

“No, no,” Cornwallis sighed, still staring across the banks. “I haven’t even made the time to read it.”

O’Hara cleared his throat. “We’re awaiting the shipment of His Lordship’s items to come ashore.”

“Ah,” Ferguson said, “I see.” With a casual shrug, he added, “Well, my hope is you’ll be satisfied when you do read it.”

Cornwallis broke his focus from the ship with a laugh. “Colonel Tavington is nothing if not thorough,” he admitted. “From what I saw left on my desk, I doubt there's a single detail omitted.”

Ferguson’s eyes met yours. He winked. “Of course, my Lord.”

“But enough talk of war!” Cornwallis looked at you, holding out his arm. “Come take a turn about the party, my dear. I wish to hear from you this evening.”

You stared at his arm, glanced around the parterre at the dozens of Loyalists and officers alike who were peering at you between breaks in conversation. First at the side of Major Patrick Ferguson, now the escortee of Lord Cornwallis himself. Perhaps Tavington’s assessment of your subtlety had been more accurate than you wanted to admit.

“Of course, my Lord,” you said, curling your arm around his. As he led you from O’Hara and Ferguson, you met the Major’s eyes over your shoulder. “Oh, Major, I almost forgot. Regarding your inquiry of permission…”

“Yes?” Ferguson asked.

“The answer,” you replied, “is no.” You smiled and turned back to Cornwallis.

He chuckled, leading you along the parterre. “I must implore you not to break too many of my officers’ hearts this evening, my dear.”

Laughing, you shook your head. “Somehow I doubt that Major Ferguson will be suffering from a dearth of feminine attention, my Lord.”

“Perhaps not,” said Cornwallis with a wry grin. He drew a breath and gazed out over the party. “The men have sorely needed this diversion, you know. Our regulars in particular.” He let out a long exhale. “Business has been uglier here than it was in New York.”

“I’m sorry to hear it, my Lord,” you said. “Though I hope your experience has not tarnished your opinion of our fine colony.”

“My dear,” he said, patting your hand, “your loyalty is a balm to the gravest of injuries laid against us by this land.”

You forced a smile, surveying the party. Again, you thought of the squalor of the Continental camp. Some injury the British suffer here, indeed.

“I am glad,” you forced yourself to say with a smile.

Thankfully, Cornwallis seemed distracted by his surveillance of the party. Given his attire, his distraction, you knew there was something regarding these oversights you might be able to glean from him. Even the intention of a planned response would be good information to gather.

Invoking a face rapt with concern, you covered his knuckles with your palm.

“My Lord,” you said, “you seem troubled. May I inquire as to why that might be?”

Cornwallis blinked free from his rumination, sighed. “Oh, yes. A war casualty.”

“A war casualty?” You frowned. That had not been what you expected to hear. “Please accept my sympathies.”

“No, no.” He shook his head. “It’s quite all right.”

“May I ask who you lost?”

His face grew grim. “My wardrobe.”

“I—” You couldn’t stop your mouth from parting. “Your wardrobe, my Lord?”

“Yes,” he replied, “containing items embroidered by my late wife, God rest her soul. Terrible.”

Your desire to walk him toward the river and shove him in was mounting by the second. Here he was, comparing a wardrobe to a war casualty when you couldn’t even be assured of your own father’s bloody safety. Tightening your jaw, you drew in a long breath and squeezed his hand. At the very least, you needed to get as much as you could before you lost your wit entirely.

“How awful,” you said. “May I ask what happened?”

Another sigh, this time longer, more irritated. His gaze wandered toward the ship on the Ashley, then cast out over the crowd.

“You may,” he said. “In fact, I believe there’s someone who can answer your question as we approach.”

You followed his focus, finding it landed squarely on Colonel Tavington, who was now only feet away. You bit your tongue. There went your information. Good, sweet, divine and sacred God, why had he chosen to haunt you?

“Colonel Tavington!” called Cornwallis.

Tavington spun on his heel, his eyes finding you first, following the way your arm hooked around Cornwallis, the way your hand rested on his. Hot, blue flame sparked in his gaze, only to gutter when Cornwallis ushered him closer. Imperceptible to his general, but unmistakable to you: his lip twitched.

“My Lord,” said Tavington, stepping toward you both. His expression was one of utter restraint. “How may I assist you?”

“The young miss here inquired as to the condition of my personal effects.” Cornwallis gestured toward you like he was presenting a well-groomed cat.

“Ah,” Tavington replied. A poor imitation of a smile stretched tight over his teeth. “Certainly the details—”

Cornwallis stiffened. “Colonel,” he replied, “imagine hearing that a general’s property had been ransacked. If you had recently disavowed your father’s own teachings, would you not want reassurance that your loyalties were not misplaced?”

Tavington’s lips trembled, like he was chewing back a hundred words that were fighting to leave. “If I had—” He exhaled, glancing at his boots and rolling his shoulders before looking back at you. “Unfortunately, our supply lines were left vulnerable, which resulted in His Lordship’s possessions being misplaced.”

“And why were they left vulnerable, Colonel?”

“An egregious oversight, my Lord,” he muttered through gritted teeth, “which is being quickly rectified.”

You couldn’t decide how to respond. Should you laugh at him? Show pity? Strangely, you wanted to do both. His response—the cloistered rage, the tenuous grip he’d briefly displayed—had made you curious. You hated that.

You settled on saying, “I see.”

“So,” Tavington continued, folding his arms behind his back, “yourself and His Lordship may rest assured that it will not happen again.” He turned to Cornwallis. “On my word, you soon shall be on your way north, sir.”

“Let us hope.” Cornwallis relaxed at your side, appearing satisfied by Tavington’s self-flagellation. “This is dour business—I did say I had enough discussion of war, didn’t I?” Sighing, he nodded to Tavington, adding, “I look forward to it,” before looking to you. “Have you been to the northern colonies, my dear?”

“Yes,” you replied, surprised to feel as if a yoke had lifted from your shoulders with the change of subject. Clearing the tension from your throat, you continued. “To Pennsylvania, when I was a girl.”

“Ah, Pennsylvania,” Cornwallis sighed, as if missing a loved one. “Fine country there, isn’t it? And promising claims to be found in the Ohio, or so I hear.”

Tavington plucked a glass of Madeira from a passing tray and gave a tight, placating smile. “Indeed, my Lord.”

Your own matched it, along with a nod. “Very much so,” you replied, even though you had no idea what the Ohio was.

“By what circumstances did you find yourself in Pennsylvania?” Cornwallis asked.

“A visit to my grandmother in Philadelphia,” you replied. “Although, I suspect it was my father’s secret mission to allow me a glimpse of the College just once while we were there.”

“Most curious,” Cornwallis chuckled. “Why ever would he do such a thing?”

“Well, I used to beg him to send me to the Medical College one day.” An involuntary, sheepish grin spread across your face as fondness crowded your chest. “He knew, of course, that I could never attend. But he didn’t have the heart to dash my hopes.”

“A benevolent man indeed.” Cornwallis chortled again, clearly finding something very amusing in all of this. “Though, if women could become physicians, I fear we would all be far worse off as a society.”

You laughed. A short, sharp sound that you snapped to death between your teeth just as quickly as it had bolted free. Tavington glanced at you, bringing his baluster to his lips.

“Is that so, my Lord?” you said with a concerted attempt at levity, though your cheeks grew hot.

“Of course,” Cornwallis said, waving his hand as if to collect his thoughts from the air. “Such studies do not lend themselves to the… the finer manners of women. They’ve not the disposition for it, you know, it’s far from delicate business.”

“An interesting perspective,” you said through a smile that ached in its artifice. “I wonder, is stitching a fine silk so dissimilar to mending torn flesh?” Again, Tavington eyed you, brows rising fractionally. You needed to shut up, but there was a fire beneath your tongue, and you couldn’t stop the words from boiling over. “Is soothing a crying babe so unlike tending an ailing man?”

Cornwallis’ forehead crinkled, his face frozen for a beat in what may have been surprise, amusement, or both. He turned to Tavington.

“Quite the progressive, is she not?” He glanced between you and Tavington as if you were a bizarre art piece they might be discussing. “Fascinating how freely these colonial women speak their minds.”

You smiled blithely, your questions still unanswered. Tavington took a long pull of his drink.

“My dear,” Cornwallis said, adopting an air of one explaining the world to a child. “There are fundamental differences in the constitutions of men and women, as we all know. Should I have it my way, no woman would ever suffer her sensibilities tarnished by exposure to such grotesque things as blood or battle.”

He gave you a fondly chiding smile.

“My sensibilities,” you said, feeling a cord draw tight through your skull, “remained quite unsullied while I performed an independent transfemoral amputation.”

Tavington choked. Cornwallis’ eyebrows climbed. Then a laugh barreled free.

“I have no doubt that your administrative assistance has been much appreciated by our esteemed surgeon,” he said, composing himself. “But surely you are aware that such duties are not comparable to performing independent surgery.”

The cord snapped.

“I did perform independent surgery.”

Silence fell as both men stared at you. A gentle change in tempo from the distant strings. Tavington’s fingers tightened around the neck of his glass, his mouth parting as if he were salivating. Or on the brink of realization.

Cornwallis cocked his head, patronized you with a laugh.

“I’ve no doubt that such an exaggeration is born from the same flights of nerves that bade you reprehend poor Major Ferguson,” he said. “The man was left to defend himself most assiduously, you know.” Again, he smiled at you, shook his head in gentle admonishment. He sighed. “I dare say it only strengthens my opinion on the matter.”

Heat flared up your neck. Your spine stiffened, nails bit your palms, every part of you coiling with the urge to spring. Unleashing your arm from Cornwallis, you spun on him, loading retribution on your tongue like a musket ball. A flint, a spark, borne from the fire in your throat, and you could taste them, like lead, the words—did your wife seek death to escape your opinions—

A hand pressed to the small of your back. The scent of apples flooded your nose. The lead fell from your mouth.

“My Lord,” came the voice from beside you—the voice belonging to William Tavington, whose palm provided firm pressure as he guided you from the conversation. “I do believe Mr. Simms and his wife were wishing to speak with you.”

Cornwallis grinned, completely unaware. “Ah, the ingenuous Mr. Simms. I had been hoping he’d be here. Thank you, Colonel,” he said, and bowed toward you. “A fine discussion we had, my dear. And a good evening to you both.”

Your sight swiveled like the hands of a clock, new images passing second by second—the party, the drinks, the laughter, the twilight sky striped with stars. Music swam through the muddied mess of your mind. Your heart beat in your ears, in your thighs. Every inch of your awareness clung to the sensation of Tavington’s hand at your back, his fingers brushing your side. One step, another, and your eyes finally focused on him.

Like finding the surface of the ocean, you broke through, sucked in air, and flung his hand from your torso.

“Ugh!” You hissed, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Tavington sneered. “I could ask the very same.”

“I was—” Folding your arms over your chest, you realized that Tavington had just rescued you from saying something incredibly stupid. What a bastard. “I don’t need your help!”

“My help?” His lip curled, and he leaned closer, his breath warm on your face. “Are you so self-absorbed to believe that you were about to gift me a favor with that incorrigible mouth of yours?”

You snorted. “Of course, I’m incorrigible,” you replied, “all for wanting credit for something I did. Excuse me for seeking the appropriate recompense.”

“Recompense?” He huffed. “How, precisely, were you harmed?”

“Dr. Moore wasn’t even there!” you said. “But he—”

Tavington growled. “Did you ever consider that denying you credit protected you?” he asked. “I suppose you wish to be flogged?”

“Should I get on my knees?” you asked. “Espouse my gratitude for—for being—” A snarl tore its way from your throat. “I am not a child, and I refuse to be spoken to like I possess the intellect of one.”

You made to leave, and he snatched your arm, pulling you to his side.

“You are ungrateful,” he said, “and your petulance damns you to indignity far sooner than your sex.”

“You—” Heat, more heat, something like rage and hunger and altogether different rushed you, inspired sweat at your nape. You hated this party, hated the redcoats, hated Cornwallis, hated him. First your agency, now this damnable man would see you denied your dignity. “You don’t believe me either, do you?”

Tavington frowned, his tongue rolling in his mouth. His eyes pierced yours. “You would not waste your spite on a lie.”

Pausing, you searched his face. Your pulse fluttered in your throat, your wrists, your hands.

Before you could say a word, he continued, “But to expect a shift in perspective simply because you demand it—”

You laughed, pushing him away. “Pray, how should I expect it then, Colonel? Asking politely? That worked out quite well for the colonies, didn’t it?” His jaw stiffened. You were far too close to revealing your hand. “I don’t know why I’m even discussing this with you,” you said, and threw him off, rustling your dress. “I don’t need you, and I don’t need your help, so please spare me from it.”

With that, you turned away from him and marched into the crowd.

Eyes followed you as you snaked between groups, the sound of humming strings swallowing the pounding between your ears. If there was anyone more wholly unsuited for the role of spy, it was you. The entire party had seen you speaking with two officers of high regard, and for your grand finale, you’d just made a public rebuke of a third. Your father clearly hadn’t been thinking straight when he’d asked his loudest and most incorrigible child to gather information.

Your stomach rolled with nausea. You still had no knowledge of his status—and now, given your behavior, you could hardly expect to learn it at all. There would be someone bound to notice you sneaking off, someone bound to talk about the woman who’d seemed to make herself cozy with all sorts of titled men.

As you climbed the terrace toward the entrance, you spotted Tavington making his way toward two women. Upon his arrival, he presented them with a deep bow, his face free of irritation as he engaged them in conversation. His shoulders relaxed, his mouth drew in a wide smile. You didn’t think you’d ever seen him smile. For reasons you couldn’t understand, the sight of it made you want to flip a table, or maybe take a tray of drinks and spill them all down each of their frilly, ugly dresses.

He laughed at something, probably something that wasn’t even that funny, and his eyes landed on you. He smirked.

Just as a scream crested in your throat, the frigate waiting on the Ashley exploded into flames.

Every head snapped toward the river in a wave of horrified sound. Fire surged from the deck, climbed the masts, sprayed embers into the water. The party was motionless, captivated as light consumed the ship.

Motionless, of course, except for you. With all eyes on the river, you crept backwards until you reached the main house. As guests were scrambling out, you fled inside.

You flattened your frame flush with the wall along the stairs, watching as people stretched their necks, pushed others to the side, chattered like chipmunks. The chaos swelled. In the squeeze of the crowd, you heard Lottie calling your name, and you winced. As much as you wanted to reassure her, you couldn’t right now. You had to get upstairs.

Crouching low, you hiked your skirts above your ankles and snuck to the front of the staircase. The cacophony echoed as the news spread, and you held your breath, scampering up the steps and to the second floor.

Thankfully, Middleton Place was well-lit. Sconces held patient flames even in its halls, but you knew many officers had been staying the evening since Camden. Providing guidance to their drunken stumbling made sense. From what you’d understood, Cornwallis’ office was one of these rooms, and you would find it. The report would still be on his desk, and inside it, God willing, you’d fail to find your father’s name.

Your heels clacked on the hardwood. Bearing your weight on your toes, you took calculated strides, cracking open doors and peering inside as you passed through the halls. Empty, empty, empty but for furniture or decoration. You turned around a corner—the room at the end of this hall seemed most promising: under the door, a slit of flickering light, like a hearth or candle had been left to burn. Heart in your throat, you shuffled over to it, spinning the knob like it was made of crystal.

The door drifted open, revealed to you a room with grand ceilings, wide windows, and a fireplace still alive. A desk stood opposite from you, cluttered with ink wells, discarded pens, and parchment. Piles and piles of parchment.

Breath caught in your chest. Perhaps you weren’t so bad at this after all.

Slipping inside, you shut the door behind you and raced to the desk. There was no telling which of these was Tavington’s report, but you had at least a little time until you needed to be back downstairs. You picked up the first stack of papers, scanned the page. Not it. Second stack; not it, either. Third stack; the fire crackled on.

You weren’t sure which stack you were on when the door opened. Nor what you were reading when Tavington stepped through and closed it behind him. You were sure, though, that whatever papers you held floated to the floor. For once, you had nothing to say.

His eyes flashed in the shadow of the flames.

“What,” he drawled, “are you doing?”

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 13 (NSFW)

Read on AO3. Part 12 here. Part 14 here.

Summary: Oh, insupportable delight! Oh, superhumane rapture! What pain could stand before a pleasure so transporting?

Words: 5700

Warnings: tiniest amount of bloodplay

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

So, uh, it only took us 13 chapters and 80k words later, but we hope you enjoyed!

Not something at all we anticipated we'd end up waiting for when we first started writing this story, but we have had such a great time writing and our first-ever 'slow-burn'ish type fic has been really fun to explore. We are so grateful for y'all for coming along with us as well - much more to come.

Love you so much! <3

You bolted for the window.

The latch slid through your fingers. Your shaking hands slipped twice on the wood. Grunting, you flung it open, only for it to slam shut from the top. In the glass, you met Tavington’s eyes.

He was impassive. “I wouldn’t.”

Desperation rattled your breath. If you could get out of this room—run somewhere—perhaps Goddard or Cornwallis or even the horrible Ferguson would believe your story first.

You spun for the door, feinted left, then dipped right. Anticipating you, Tavington seized your arm, yanked you toward him, then spun you to slam your back to the wall.

The room whirled around you. Your chest heaved, your eyes darted to every corner of the room, seeking salvation, finding none. You were left to only focus on the man in front of you, the man whose hands had pinned your arms still, the man whose face seemed wrought between frenzy and victory.

“I believe,” he murmured, “I asked you a question.”

You swallowed. “Why are you following me, you brute?”

He hummed. “Fascinating response from a woman caught meddling in the documents of a royal officer.”

“I wasn’t—that’s not—”

“I’m quite sure of what I just witnessed.”

Grimacing, you flailed, trying to wrest yourself free. He stepped closer, flattening your body with his own, his leg slotting between yours to rob you of leverage. You grunted, ignoring the reluctant warmth glowing around his thigh.

“Get off of me!”

“I don’t think I will.” His breath skimmed your ear. “You knew about the ship, didn’t you?” he asked. “You knew it would give you opportunity.”

“What?” You shook your head. “N-no, I—the ship—”

Another breath stabbed through you. You could still see the desk. Paper smothered it, the reports you’d already examined tossed away and covering the surface, the floor, the chair like leaves from an autumn tree. In the firelight, trapped to the wall, none of the words were discernible. Not that it mattered, now. He’d caught you.

Your chin trembled. You couldn’t have appeared more guilty if he’d walked in on you with a knife plunged into another man’s chest. There was no explaining this. He’d see you hanged, see your sister slain and the farm burned. And if your father wasn’t already dead, he’d see to it that it soon followed.

Heat bit the backs of your eyes, threatened tears. You would not, could not cry in front of William Tavington, but God, if only you could let them fall, dissolve into them as they slipped through the floorboards. You were awful at this, he’d been right, you’d been sloppy and obvious and altogether incapable of subterfuge. And because of it, you’d damned yourself and your entire family to die, all while having never asked for any of this in the first place.

“Why do you try to delude me?” he asked. “Why do you lie as if I won’t know?”

“Go on, then,” you said, choking back your anguish. “Think whatever you want.”

Tavington’s head cocked. He studied your face. “Do you deny you are a spy?”

“Does it matter?” You stared into him. “Am I to believe that a denial would stay the hand of the judge, jury, or executioner who all bear the name Colonel Tavington?”

His lip furled. “You infuriating, impossible creature,” he growled, pressing into you. Another rapid breath in your chest—this one woven with excitement. “For every death sentence you are spared, you can’t help but seek another in its stead.”

“Spared?” you scoffed.

“Had I known this to be your plan, I might have allowed your own temerity to doom you tonight and had done with it.” Firelight danced across the thin blue rings of his irises. “Cornwallis would have seen your illusion dispelled in an instant.”

“That wasn’t—ugh!” You tried to yank your arms from his grasp, but his fingers only tightened. “I wasn’t going to say anything!”

“Another lie,” he murmured. “Or do you truly believe I don’t know that look in your eyes?”

Your insides flipped. You stilled, suddenly too conscious of your chest brushing his as it rose and fell. Of his thumbs resting against the pulse in your wrists.

“You know nothing about me.”

“Don’t I?” he breathed, gaze trailing from your eyes, your lips, your neck, your breasts before rising back up. “I know your rage. How easily your tongue is seduced to violence. I know that you think yourself a player in the game of war, but you’ve no regard or care for its stakes. And…” He leaned closer, triumph glinting in his eyes. “I know precisely why that is.”

You stuck out your chin, holding his stare, inviting—or perhaps daring—him to continue.

“You want to lose.”

Fury lit up your spine, and you thrashed against him. He crushed you against the wall, a flicker of delight surfacing in the black wells of his pupils.

“Then let me lose,” you said. “Why impede the temerity of which you accuse me? Why not let me doom myself? If you despise me so deeply, if you consider me to be a spy, a traitor—”

“I consider you,” he said through his teeth, “to be the most vexing, capricious woman I have ever encountered.” His tongue rolled in his mouth, eyes locked onto yours. “I know you to be misguided. A vicious animal—”

“For you to tame?” You wrenched uselessly against him. “Is that what this is about?”

A dark grin flashed across his face. “Is it not obvious?”

“Play your damnable games elsewhere,” you said. “I’m finished. I’m not your creature to domesticate.”

“And yet...” He tutted, maddeningly calm. “Imagine where you’d be tonight without my intervention.”

Vitriol crawled like slime from your stomach, still fat, still wriggling from when he’d forced you to bury it alive in front of Cornwallis. It burned, clawed its way to your throat, catching there and swelling in your humiliation.

How did this despicable excuse for a human, this monster, even divine its existence? In fact, how dare he—how dare he know this part of you, incise through you and unmask it in all of its shameful sticky fury.

Every muscle shook underneath him. The vile taste of rage coated your palate, beseeching an exorcism.

“Admit it,” he said. “I’m right.”

You screamed. “Fine! You’re right. I never cared about winning,” you spat. “Or losing!” The inanity forced a breath from your chest. “I never cared about any of it! Not your games, not even who wins this damned bloody war!” A laugh escaped, like venom on your tongue. “I have only ever cared about protecting my family—and if I die doing so, then may God let the end of my rope reunite me with them.” You leaned close to him. “And even if I never see heaven,” you whispered, “I’ll rest peacefully knowing you shall never darken its gates to torment them again.” A thin smile creased your lips. “And that no one has or will ever love you enough to care if you live or die.”

The fire crackled. Wisps of troubled voices echoed from the gardens. Shuddering air escaped you as you held Tavington’s gaze. Within it, you could see something churning, like the cogs of a clock reversing rotation until their teeth clicked into place.

His jaw shifted. He glanced over his shoulder, studying the heap of disheveled reports, their information wasted, ungathered, unimportant. A soft exhale left his nose, and he focused on the wall, his brow tensing before he turned back to look at you.

Tavington’s grip eased. He stepped back.

A flutter in your vision. You sucked in air, fresh from the space he’d given you, your eyes flicking between him, the desk; him, the desk; him—

Turning, he left you against the wall to move toward the desk. He frowned, turned over a few piles before finding what he wanted: a neatly pressed stack of parchment at least several pages thick. As if to verify, he flipped through them before crossing back to you, extending it in his hand.

“You were looking for this,” he said.

Something stuck in your throat. You looked between him and the report, feeling like a dog offered food by a stranger. Holding your breath, you snatched it away and your eyes consumed it as if you were that very dog.

The documentation was thorough, his penmanship fine—these were details you didn’t want to notice, but did anyway—and as you skimmed it, checking page by page, you didn’t once consider gleaning any other information that could’ve been of use. Your heartbeat resonated in your temples, your fingertips. With each beat, the papers shook in your grip.

You turned a page and the list leapt out to you. You scanned it, scrutinizing every line you found, looking for Michael, and Captain, and the first few letters of your last name. But nothing.

You found nothing.

Papa was alive.

Relief hit you like lightning. You exhaled, the report dropping to the floor, your face dropping to your hands. A swell of air rolled through you, and you relaxed, slumping against the wall.

It hadn’t been for nothing. You hadn’t ruined everything. Papa was, at the very least, still alive.

Thank God.

You cleared your throat and steadied yourself, your eyes lifting to Tavington, gazing at him as if he’d just raised Jesus himself from the grave. You expected him to gloat—to mock you—but found him watching you, staring into you, his own face clear of everything but curiosity.

The world shrunk, its boundaries reduced to the perimeter of the office, its context of war and strife and danger lost. Opposite you was no one but a man self-stripped of his obligations, a man who had alleviated your fears, a man who had met you, human, and wished now to know you.

You felt small, insignificant as the recipient of his mercy. It was as if you’d ripped your chest open and allowed him to cradle your heart in his hands, like you’d seen a ribbon of affection in his gaze as he hovered his teeth over its bloody rhythm.

He looked at the report now discarded at your feet, then advanced toward you, his voice like a distant peal of thunder.

“Why,” he asked, taking another step, “have you been avoiding me?”

Again, your mouth parted. Again, you were unable to speak.

“I know that you think of that night as often as I do.” When you didn’t reply, he stepped forward again. “Do you deny it?”

Fire roared, rippling from the hearth to your blood. You didn’t want to deny him. And even if you’d wanted to, gazing at him now—the flames spinning threads of flax through his hair, his eyes paler than morning sky, his lips so supple that you could only yearn at their memory—you couldn’t.

Shaking your head, you replied, “I… I do not deny it.”

He cocked his head, waiting. You hadn’t answered his previous question.

“But…” You glanced at his mouth. Swallowed. “What you want and what I want—they’re at odds,” you said. “I want my father alive. I want my family safe.” You gestured toward him as if it was self-evident. “You… do not.”

Tavington drew closer, looming over you now, and rested one palm next to your head. “Our desires are not…” His stare swept over your body. “... fully at odds.”

Your mind pleaded with you to grab his jacket, to tear the buttons from its seams and expose his chest to your hungry hands; your cunt throbbed, alive and aching for his attention.

“I don’t…” Whatever words you were trying to form kept falling apart in your mouth. “Know what you… mean.”

He smirked, his free hand stroking up your arm, finger tracing over your lace-covered clavicle. “I know you, little soldier, remember?” he whispered. “I know what this trembling means.” His thumb ghosted your pulse, stroking the rapid thrum under your skin. “I know what your racing heart looks like in your throat.” He cupped your cheek, tilting your face toward his own. “I know what hunger lies behind your eyes.”

“I…” With the noblest of intentions, you laid a hand on his chest, prepared to push him away. “But we can’t—there’s no reconciling these—”

Tavington leaned forward and captured your lips with his. You whimpered, softening in his hold, as if it was your purpose to yield to his touch. He held you still, cradling your head, and your hand slid down his chest, catching on each button of his waistcoat as it traveled to his hip. With a breath, he pulled away, his gaze trained on yours.

“Tell me,” he said, “truthfully, that you don’t want this.”

A beat resonated from your core to your fingertips, a cry to sate whatever beast within you he’d created and enslaved. The truth, you knew, was obvious to you both: You wanted it so badly you suffocated beneath it.

The only thing left was to succumb.

You hooked his hips, tugged him against your body, and sealed your lips to his.

Tavington growled, gripping the back of your head, fingers curling in your hair, his body flattening you to the wall. His mouth sought yours like a blaze sought tinder, his tongue pushing past your teeth and teasing over your own. Shivering, you tightened your hold on his hips, hoping to ground yourself as air fled the room. He groaned, adjusting his angle, deepening the kiss, and you met him in kind, breathing him in, reveling in the heady scent of apple and wood and smoke-steeped leather.

His hands moved to grab your wrists, tacking them to the wall as he broke from your mouth to nestle his face into the crook of your neck. Grunting, his hips bucked into you, searching for friction beyond the layers of gown and finding relief against your thigh. A gasp escaped you, and he ground against you again, again, panting into your throat, his teeth scraping the delicate flesh.

You felt him, even through your petticoats, growing hard, growing needy, a promise to satisfy a longing you could not even define. Drawing a breath, you exhaled exhilaration, nuzzled your head against his—and his nails and teeth sunk into you simultaneously.

“Ah!” You squirmed, but his grip intensified, and a thrill shot up your spine. “You animal.”

He huffed, dragging his tongue over the tender spot. “‘You are like what is said that the frying-pan said to the kettle’.”

You stifled a laugh, rolled your eyes. “Is now the time to quote Don Quixote?”

Tavington glimpsed you, a smirk playing on his lips. “Never a better time than in present company.”

Desire surged through you, and you fought against his hold, wanting to meet his mouth with your own. His eyes glittered, and he bit your throat again. You cried out, breathless at how pleasure and pain inextricably knotted in your flesh. Writhing against him, you delighted in how this only urged him to bruise your wrists, to drag his teeth down to the clothed parts of your chest.

When this prevented him from advancing, he released you, moving to instead undo the buttons on the front of your gown. Your stomach petrified. Even though Tavington had already seen your body, now he craved it, like a hunter relishing the meat of his first kill. And you—despite the terror his blade inspired, wanted to be tasted.

His nimble fingers fully revealed your stays, and you braced yourself with a breath. This was just a man’s body, touching your body. You were not a coward.

You shrugged off your bodice, exposing your shoulders, arms, and collarbones fully to his eyes. He leaned back to absorb it, then twisted to search for something on the desk. Before you could discern what it was, he found and grabbed it, his arm barring your chest and pinning you along the wall. You squealed as he brought the letter opener to the bottom of your stays’ laces and sliced through them like flower stems.

You gasped. “Bastard! This is my only pair of stays!”

A single brow rose. “And the only silk ribbon in the Carolinas, as well,” he said, and shucked it to the floor.

“Well—” He tugged down your shift, exposing your breasts. “Oh—”

Tavington snorted. “Oh.” Then he jammed his thigh between your legs, his mouth latching to your throat, his hands groping at your chest.

“Oh, God—”

The moment your center connected with the hard muscle of his leg, you moaned, the sensation of pressure so staggering that you were afraid you would be unable to stop. Tavington exhaled with satisfaction, shocks of bliss peaking over you as he kneaded your breasts in his hands, his thumbs circling your nipples.

Your cunt felt swollen, hot, and you rocked on his thigh, frantic to oblige its budding need. A sound rumbled in his throat, and his teeth attacked your shoulder in a sharp stripe of pain. You yelped, and he did it again, his breath picking up, his mouth raising wet, furious marks on your flesh.

“Yes,” you said, because it was the only word that you could think to say. “I—ah!”

He gave you no room to speak, gripping your breasts so firmly that you twitched, grinding his erection against you. You wanted, needed more of him—your hands found his jacket, slipped under the lapels, scratched at his arms in a wordless request. Relinquishing you, he allowed the coat to slide from his shoulders, and you made quick work of his waistcoat, unbuttoning it as deftly as he’d done to you.

“I see what you want,” he murmured into your skin.

The waistcoat joined his jacket on the floor—but you had no time to admire him before he was back on you, squeezing your breasts, kissing his way to one before taking your nipple into his mouth. You threw your head back, overwhelmed with desire, with the insistent throb that now pounded between your legs.

There was a part of him you were both desperate and anxious to know: the part of him that might slake the lust that your fingers had been so unable to satisfy. It was just a man’s body, you told yourself, a man’s body you had longed for since the moment you’d seen him.

As he swirled his tongue around your hardened bud, you clung to him, breath hiccuped with whimpers of bliss, and reached below his waist, gliding your fingers over the bulge in his trousers.

Tavington convulsed, slamming you to the wall, teeth tearing at your breast, a rabid noise strangled in his chest. “Enough of this, then, hm?”

He grabbed you by the shoulders, his jaw tight as he pushed you toward the desk and smashed you chest-first against its surface, sending papers flying. You groaned, making to move before he gathered your wrists and bound them behind your back. Air kissed your legs as he hiked your skirts up, baring your stockinged calves, your thighs, your ass to the room. Panic rang bells in your brain.

“There we are.” Fingers brushed the backs of your thighs, coasting toward your center. You wondered what it looked like through his eyes. The mere thought made you clench. “You’re dripping.”

Heat burst in your belly. You could only manage to nod. He skated his fingers over the fat, puffy lips of your cunt, and you writhed, flinching at every sensation on that tender flesh which had never known a touch that wasn’t yours.

Tavington hummed appreciatively. “It’s about time I made use of that.”

Behind you, you heard rustling of clothes, something dropping, and you clenched again, knowing he was releasing his cock, furious you couldn’t see it for yourself. You tried to stabilize your breathing, thoughts spiraling in a storm of emotion. He was going to fuck you. William Tavington was going to fuck you. You were about to lose your virginity.

A hand curled around your thigh. Something hot, thick prodded your folds, slicked itself on your wetness.

He was about to take your virginity.

“Wait,” you said, “I—”

Tavington shushed you. “Hush, now,” he mumbled. “I’m introducing your cunt to its new master.”

You whinged. A flash of memory—the first time you tried to tell him.

His cock found your entrance. Pressed against it.

Swallowing, you closed your eyes.

“William.”

He stopped. You felt the head of his cock pulse, felt his grip dig deep. A slow, long breath left him.

“Yes?” he asked.

“I…” You laid your forehead against the desk. “I’ve never… I’ve never done this before.”

More silence. Every inch of your skin burned.

“You what?”

You tried to turn to face him, meeting his eyes from the periphery of your vision. “I’m a virgin.”

Tavington seized your hips, flipped you onto your back. Breathless, you devoured the sight of him; his skin bronzed in firelight, the patch of his chest heaving in need, his eyes like those of a starved wolf. His cock was free, proud and hard—longer and thicker than you had imagined. Your mouth watered, your thighs squeezed together.

He was going to put that inside of you.

Your heart skipped. You met his gaze. He was inspecting you for hints of deception, and as you stared into him, his throat bobbed.

“I believe this is the first time I've seen true fear in your eyes.” He smirked, so irritatingly assured. “You are a virgin.”

Blood warmed your face, and you looked away. “Well,” you muttered, “I hope that's all right with you, Colonel.”

He growled, spread your legs and settled between them. “William,” he corrected. “And you should hope instead that your tolerance for suffering is as impressive as you seem to believe.” Busy hands tossed your skirts up again. “Because I'm going to make this hurt.”

Your breath hitched. Like a cat watching a dangling string, you couldn’t resist.

“You can try.”

Tavington offered a pitiless grin and hoisted your backside onto the desk, scattering papers over the floor. Trembling at the fact you’d provoked him, you could only watch as he grabbed your calves and propped them onto his shoulders, his hands cupping your ass and giving a longing squeeze. You groaned, and he swallowed again, positioning his cock at your entrance.

Gazing at you, he said, “Plead with me.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You may effectively play at some things,” he replied, “but not war, and certainly not stupidity.” His voice lowered. “Plead with me to take you.”

Your cunt clenched around emptiness. His cock was warm and slick and hard. Hard for you, throbbing for you. God, you wanted it—and he knew it.

You grumbled. “You are, without a doubt, the worst man I've ever had the misfortune of meeting.”

“And what of the best one?” he asked, tilting his head to indicate your ankles at his ears.

“Shut up.” You exhaled. “Please,” you said quietly, “take me.”

“To whom is this request addressed?”

You rolled your eyes. “Please, William.” You met his gaze, the truth easily slipping free. “Please, I want you to take me.”

Tavington’s jaw set. “You’re almost pleasant when you're obedient.”

The next thing you felt was pressure. Crushing, terrible pressure, widening into pain, like a fire iron was expanding inside of you, searing your insides, tearing deep into your stomach. You grimaced, gripped the table, fighting to find breath as tremors wracked your limbs. Above you, Tavington’s mouth was parted, his gaze fixated on his invasion of your cunt, the evidence of his pleasure escaping in soft, choked noises of disbelief as he drove deeper, and deeper, until his hips hit yours.

Fully buried inside of you, he exhaled, staring between your legs. Your mind was a whirlwind of sensation. You knew virgins to bleed. Had it deterred him?

He glanced at you. In his eyes, you could see nothing but utter rapture—the blue of heaven after apocalypse. You shivered, tightened painfully around him. No, it hadn’t deterred him.

William Tavington had only ever been delighted to see blood.

He exhaled. “Does it hurt?”

Your teeth clacked together, your body shook, drowning in its own feeling. Words wouldn’t come to you. But even if they would, you would refuse to give him—

Snarling, he slid out and slammed back inside. Agony ripped through you, forced a scream from your chest, and you spasmed, grappling for something more solid than the earth to steady you.

“Does it hurt?” he growled.

“Yes!” you sobbed. “Yes, yes—”

A quiet laugh rumbled in his throat. “Good.”

Tavington withdrew from you, grappling your hips, jaw slackening as he stared between your legs. He thrust in, you winced, and a deep, incredulous groan escaped him, as if he’d just released a millstone from his neck. Breath stuttered in his chest, his eyelids drooped, and he thrust again, again, his voice wracked with bliss.

Every stroke pushed pain inside of you, filled your belly with it. Your mouth lolled open, the only sounds leaving you strained through what little grip on reality you had left; the sensation sawed to your bones, engulfed you like gunfire. Seeking stability, you found his wrists, squeezed them to anchor yourself, shutting your eyes to endure the savaging of his cock.

“No,” he said. “Look at me.”

You whinged, forced your eyes to open. His gaze transfixed you.

“Very good. Meet my eyes,” he said, rocking into you, relishing each stab of discomfort flitting across your face. “Watch me defile your virgin cunt.”

Gooseflesh swarmed you, and you nodded, your attention flicking between his face and the sight of him disappearing inside of you. The truth of it electrified you—you were no longer a virgin—and as you surrendered to that truth, each new plunge of his cock felt less, less painful, as pain unraveled into pleasure. Tight squeals in your throat rumbled lower, reaching your chest, until you were moaning, panting as he fucked you.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” Tavington looked drunk with lust. “Have I found myself a glutton?”

“I…” You didn’t know how to respond to that. Maybe you were. “D-don’t congratulate yourself… just yet.”

He smirked, rammed into you so hard that you wailed. “You’re an even worse liar when I’m inside of you, girl.”

“Do all men talk this much?” you replied, digging your nails into his wrists. “Or only you?”

Tavington’s lip furled. He flung your grip from his arms and leaned closer, folding you in half. The angle drove his cock even deeper than you’d thought possible; it speared through your belly, split you open to your ribcage. One hand fisted your hair, the other clamped around your throat, and he huffed in satisfaction, cock pumping into you.

“Come again?” he mumbled into your ear. “Didn’t… quite hear you.”

His hips punched forward, impaling you deep. You quailed, but the sound perished somewhere under the pressure of his grip. A strange hum infused your senses—buzzing in your lips, grazing along your scalp, trailing bliss in its wake. It inebriated you, like his touch was made of Madeira.

And you needed more.

Blindly, you felt your way up your body, found the rise of his fingers where they pinned your throat, clutched at them. Tavington uttered a disgruntled huff into your ear, his pace faltering. His grip slackened fractionally.

“No,” you whispered, trapping his fingers and crushing them harder into your flesh. “More.”

He leaned away from you, just enough to take you in. His eyes, wild and black with desire, searched yours. You nodded, brows pinching together.

“William,” you croaked, “please.”

The wildness in his eyes morphed into something utterly possessed. He unlaced his hand from your hair, bracing it on the desk beside your head. His hold on your throat twitched, tightened. He leaned closer.

“Isn’t that better?” he asked. “Isn’t it a relief to lose?”

His fingers cinched around your neck. Tighter, tighter, until that hum resumed, then rose to a knell.

Tavington renewed the onslaught of his hips. Your own heartbeat pounded through your skull. Around you, the edges of the room softened, crumbled into grey mist. Your eyes rolled back. Existence narrowed. Left at its beating center, raw and alive, was you. And within you—heat, pain, ecstasy, and him.

Just when everything dwindled to a tiny, bright speck, just when it seemed the mist would engulf you whole, the pressure vanished. Air struck your lungs, consciousness and pleasure surging outward in a riptide.

You cried out with it, keening as his cock stroked a spot inside you that blazed alive with sensation. It was too much. Not enough. You couldn’t tell. Logical thought seemed a distant memory in this state of indecipherable need. Each sensation was new, each unearthing an excruciating, exquisite frontier within.

Tavington straightened, rhythm unrelenting. Gulping air and blinking the remnants of mist from your sight, you beheld him, a towering devil framed in firelight. You watched him take your hand, entranced as he guided it between your legs to where your body split around his.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, voice ragged as he positioned your fingers at your clit. His face twisted in a smirk. “Like you do when you think of me.”

An indignant flame, half-buried in delirium, leapt to your tongue.

“I don—”

He snapped his hips, cutting you off in a gasp.

“Now, now,” he huffed. “I believe I requested your honesty.”

A languid thrust pushed a moan from your lips, and you nodded, eyelids fluttering. Tavington grunted his contentment, coaxing your fingers in slow circles over your clit. Surrendering, you took over the motion, touching yourself as instructed, as you had done so many nights before.

For the first time, a familiar pleasure crested, meeting the unfamiliar intrusion of his cock with a spark that made fireworks burst behind your eyes. Your fingertips brushed him where he entered you, dipped curiously down to feel the soft, wet wound of your flesh yield to the wrought steel of his.

“Tell me,” he purred, bracing over you again like a smug, hunched beast. “Is it everything you’ve imagined?”

He fucked you in long strokes, matching the tempo of your fingers on that sensitive nub to cataclysmic effect. Your only answer came out in a choked, desperate sob.

“Is this how you’ve longed to be ruined?” His hand slid to reunite with your neck, fingers cradling your nape while his thumb dragged up the bruised column of your throat.

“William,” you whimpered, trembling with the sweet ache that burgeoned inside you, deeper than you’d ever felt it, swelling toward a precipice. “I think I… I’m going to…”

“Yes.” His grip locked into place around your neck. “You are.”

His hand throttled any further noise. All you could do was writhe and swirl tighter, faster circles on your clit, drawn nearer and nearer to some indefinable edge as you shook with the force of his thrusts. Closer, closer it came, and your eyes squeezed shut, your limbs went rigid, your sanity suspended on threads, fibers fraying—

“That’s it,” came his voice, growling into your ear. “Break for me. I want to feel you break around my cock.”

Like a saber, his words severed you from rationality. You didn’t break. You shattered.

Euphoria ruptured your blood, a deluge through every vessel, the stretch of his cock stuffing you fuller, saturating you with it, until it reached the brim of your skin and poured over, washing you with bliss. You wheezed against his hand, quaking as he fucked you through your orgasm.

“Yes,” he hissed, “yes—”

Tavington released you. Coughing down a breath, you peeled your eyes open, watching as he wrenched out of your cunt and into his fist, panting, stroking himself. Sweat gleamed off his chest and forehead. Your jaw dropped. You could look nowhere else but at him, and his eyes fixed on you.

His hips pitched, and he released a guttural, primal moan, hand stilling and mouth parting. Jets of warm, white seed pulsed from his cock, splashed over your thighs and belly. It slipped down your skin, mingling with the sweat smeared underneath you. As the tail-end of his climax receded, Tavington exhaled, finally spent, and leaned on the desk to catch his breath. Craning forward, you took him in.

Sweat soaked you both, and between your legs, blood stained your thighs, your shift, the wood. It had even seeped into the hem of his blouse. He glanced down at it, sighing with an arrogant satisfaction. He swiped across your inner thigh, collecting your blood, his seed on his thumb. Staring at you, he wrapped his lips around it and sucked it clean. You shivered. Swallowed.

Tavington was exhausted, yes, but it was the exhaustion of a duel winner: relaxed, at peace, and fully secure in his conquest.

Your head dropped back onto the desk, and you stared into the ceiling. Aftershocks of your peak continued to distract you from toddling your way back to whatever normalcy was. What did the world look like for you, now that your virginity had been slaughtered by an uncompromising hound? The cavern between your legs felt sore, empty. Sticky.

Sighing, you rolled your head along a stack of papers, looking toward Tavington. “What are we to do about the desk?”

He cleared his throat, finally managing to straighten and meet your stare. “I can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Don’t be difficult,” you replied, rolling your eyes. “Someone has to clean it up.”

“Do they, now?”

“I’m not convinced of the wisdom in worsening His Lordship’s evening further.”

He snorted. “Am I to believe you’ve come to care about his opinions?”

“No,” you replied, frowning, “but they seem to be of great importance to you.”

Tavington gazed at you, a smirk crossing his lips. Keeping your focus, he reached toward an ink well, reeled back his forefingers, and knocked it over. Ink spilled like water across red-ribboned parchment.

“‘Alack, the day,’” he said apathetically, “‘what blood is this, which stains?’”

Oh, yes, this is just like Romeo and Juliet, you thought, as the ink bled into paper, dripped onto the floor.

Your hand plastered over your face. You couldn’t help yourself. You laughed.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Solider: Chapter 9 (NSFWish)

Read on AO3. Part 8 here. Part 10 here.

Summary: You're really good at making really good decisions under pressure, especially decisions that don't forever alter your relationship with the one man who holds, at noosepoint, everyone you consider dear.

Words: 8800

Warnings: Naughty language ahoy

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: WHOOP there it is! I almost felt tempted to apologize for the time this chapter took, but I genuinely won't. It is obviously a monster and we were desperate to get it exactly how we wanted it. SO here you go!

This weekend we met Jason Isaacs and we're still kind of reeling from that. He's literally so handsome and unfortunately we are both in love with him? Sadly I hear tell that he has no plans to divorce his wife for a couple of random lesbians who write horny fanfic about him.

WE HOPE YOU ENJOYED, we genuinely are so grateful for every comment, it literally makes our day when we get them, to know that people engage with the story in ways we do! <3 We love you all so much, see you soon <3

Distant thunder churned the surface of your sleep. As you sat up, blinking against darkness, it softened to a roll. Suffused the ground. Became hoofbeats. Outside, men shouted.

A musket fired.

Leaping from your bed, you wrestled yourself into your skirts and bodice, stepped into your shoes, and ran out into the night.

The air tasted sharp, sweet with the coming storm. Through the blackness, torchlight bobbed against the treeline that edged camp, more shouts coming from its direction. You headed toward the noise.

The sounds of fighting swelled as you wove your way through a maze of tents, keeping low between cover until you reached the border of the camp. A supply wagon stood between you and the combat. You pressed yourself against it, peeking around.

Another musket flash cast men into relief, red coats clashing against blue. Your heart seized.

Continentals.

A shout, and a line of horsemen thundered from the trees, sabers drawing like silvered bowstrings across silhouetted necks. Screams rent the night, dark shapes crumpled to the earth. You could just make out the ripple of red and green coats atop the horses as Tavington’s cavalry peeled around to rejoin the regiment of foot at the treeline. One horseman circled around your wagon. In the dark, you just glimpsed his shape. The solid red of his infantry attire.

“Goddard!” you screamed. His head snapped to you, saber raised, eyes shining with terror.

He stuttered your name, reining his horse to a halt. “W-what are y—”

“What’s happening?” you demanded.

He glanced back up to the battle.

“Continentals waylaid us on our march,” he spluttered. “We tried to regroup but they—we couldn’t—” He ducked over his horse as a sparse musket volley crackled within the trees.

“So you led them back to camp?” you asked, incredulous.

“There was nowhere else to go!” Goddard almost sobbed. “We had no orders, I thought the colonel was right behind me but he—”

“Where is the colonel?”

Just then, a riderless horse loped out of the trees. A passing flicker of torchlight revealed Tavington’s chestnut mare, her coat streaked black with sweat. Your insides lurched. As you watched, she veered around a cluster of fighting men, then barrelled straight toward you and Goddard.

You stepped out into her path.

“Don’t!”

You ignored Goddard.

“Whoa, easy.” You held your hands wide, hummed low in your chest.

The horse slowed, dropped her shoulders to sidestep you, eyes rimmed white. With a quick lunge, you grasped her reins, pulled her by the bit into a tight circle around you until she halted, snorting and quivering.

Panic speared you. Without Tavington’s command, if the Continentals were retaking ground—the regiment was done for. You might be done for, if captured by rebels who could very well decide to string you up as a Loyalist. There was no time to overthink this. You gathered the reins at the mare’s withers, slung your foot up into the stirrup, and hauled yourself into the saddle.

“What in God’s name are you doing?”

You spun the mare around to face Goddard. “Where did you last see him?”

The sounds of fighting began to recede farther into the trees. The Continentals were being driven back. Perhaps that would buy you time. You choked down a wave of guilt, an image of your father among the dead or routed soldiers. You shook it away. You had to stay focused.

“You can’t possibly—”

“Goddard,” you snapped. “Where?”

“I don’t know, ah—a couple miles back up the road, maybe?” Softened in the shadow of night, he looked even more like a boy. “There were more soldiers—militia—they’re holding a bridge crossing.”

“I’ll find him,” you said, turning toward the trees.

Goddard spurred his horse up next to you. “I’ll come with you.”

“No,” you said firmly. Thick drops of rain began to pat your shoulders. “Defend the camp. Get yourself to safety.”

“You can't go alone, it’s madness!”

You grit your teeth. There was no time for this.

“I’ll not be a target on my own, Goddard, but I certainly will be with a redcoat escort.” You nudged the mare forward. “Stay here.”

With one last glimpse at the bewildered Benedict Goddard, you tore toward the trees.

As you skirted the fighting, trunks whipping past you, your only compass was memory. After foraging these woods for weeks, though, you knew them well.

Your eyes scoured the darkness. Caught the shape of the big magnolia tree. You swerved. The road should have bisected the woods north-northeast of it.

The mare took a few more stuttering strides beneath you, crashing through brush. Then the ground dipped, the trees cleared, and you broke out onto hard-packed dirt. Blood singing with triumph, you placed the sounds of battle behind you and pressed into a dead gallop.

Raindrops stippled your face, stinging your eyes as you ducked and squinted. Hooves gouged the dirt, thunder carved its approach through the sky. Beneath your skirts, the saddle bit your thighs raw, but you didn’t slow. Your calves stayed locked against the mare’s ribs until apparitions of men appeared through the thickening sheet of rain, spread across the road ahead.

A flash of lightning, and they were made corporeal. In that brief radiance, you could make out around fifteen. Behind them, a black chasm—water—and the bridge, its planks shining over the river. You could hear the roar, its current churning with the storm’s fury as it rushed past the bank.

Heart hammering, you deepened your seat in the saddle, slowed to a canter. As the shapes of men slowly grew solid edges, dread snaked like cold fingers down your spine. A handful of Continentals, two on horses, turned toward you.

“Halt, there!” one of the cavalrymen shouted. “Halt!”

Trying to avoid the soldiers would result in a chase, something you didn’t need. You cursed under your breath, slowing the mare to a trot. Darkness and rain would help obscure the saddlebags and tack of your mount, but you tossed your skirts around your seat anyway. A horse breaking away from an area of known altercation in a gallop was suspicious enough.

As you approached, one of the foot soldiers advanced. In the darkness, you just made out the shape of his musket as he raised it. You snatched the reins, slamming to a halt.

“Apologies, madam,” said the soldier, lowering his firearm as he drew closer and squinted at you. “We can’t allow you to continue down this road. It’s—”

“We’ll need you to answer some questions.” A cavalryman spurred his horse up, glared at the foot soldier before sidling closer to you, examining you and your mount. “Where are you coming from?”

Deception and conversation were both luxuries that time could not afford you. Without the latter revealing what these men knew, you could not attempt the former. Your only option was to try and sidestep both entirely.

“Please!” you gasped. “My husband! He’s—I have to help him!”

The cavalryman flinched, his attention drawn from your tack to your face. “Your… Madam, where is—”

“Please!’ you screamed, urging your horse forward. “He’s militia, he may be wounded, you must let me go!”

“Calm down, madam!” He seemed to steel himself, tilting his chin higher. “Your husband is in the militia.”

You nodded emphatically. “Yes!”

“They’re stationed north of here, and you’re riding in from the south. Perhaps, and I don’t mean to keep you, but perhaps you can help me understand?”

He’d been disturbed by your performance, but not enough to let you go. You silenced a growl in the back of your throat and then promptly began to openly wail.

“Our home is south, I just thought he might have—” you cried, sniffling with such strength you snorted. “I’ve—I’ve just, I’ve been riding, and looking, and riding—” You choked on your own dramatics, wiping the rain from your stinging eyes as if they were tears. “And, oh, he could be hurt, please, I must find him!”

“I’m sorry, madam,” he said, a grimace flickering over his face. “Many were slaughtered here but moments ago.” He nodded toward the riverbank. Your chest squeezed as lightning revealed several dark shapes laid in a row. “I pray he is not among them.”

Deception it would have to be. But you could make this quick.

“Let me see!” You sprang forward on your horse, making for the bodies.

The soldier cursed, whipping his own mount around to follow. Some of the other soldiers began to raise their guns as you broke away from the two who had stopped you.

“Stay your arms!” the cavalryman shouted from just behind you.

They paused, casting glances among themselves, then lowered their weapons. You reined your horse in, and side-stepped up to the corpses.

The humble pastiche of militia attire stood out in the gloom, maculate with gore. That would explain Goddard’s account of the bridge’s defenses. Now, though, they stared through glass eyes at the sky, its heavens just as violent as their deliverance thereto.

Hunching over the saddle, you studied them. Mostly, it was an extension of your act. But part of you, a part that you would surely enter vicious battle with later, sagged in relief to see that none bore a red and green coat.

You straightened, turned back to the officer who had followed you.

“He’s not here!”

“Madam, how can you be s—”

“He’s not!” you shrieked.

“Christ, let’s just let her go,” said the foot soldier, puffing as he caught up.

The cavalryman's eyes widened. “Oh, well… I mean, I didn’t…” He winced. “I only mean to suggest that perhaps we can escort—” Thunder struck as he spoke, and he jumped.

“God above, you two are the only cavalry we’ve got!” said the foot soldier. “Let the woman go and get shot if she wishes!”

The cavalryman glanced with clear discomfort between the both of you—you, with your hysterical sniveling, and his fellow Continental with his disregard for their duty—and threw a hand from his reins.

You didn’t wait for his verbal permission. Your shouted thanks drowned in the downpour as you charged past them and across the bridge.

The area was swarming with men on edge and ready to kill. If—or when, you’d say when—you did find Tavington, you prayed your return would be significantly less crowded. But if the Continentals were driven back by your camp, you’d run straight into them while carrying a superior officer of the British army.

You’d worry about that later.

The road stretched on in the darkness, the river’s din fading in your wake. Again, your only company was the steady drum of rain, the steaming beast beneath you, the sharp rhythm of your own breaths in your ears.

If you couldn’t find Tavington, if the bastard had gone and gotten himself killed—

You shook your head, trying to dislodge the thoughts as they arose. But they clung like wasps to sap, shooting you through with an unwelcome fear. Strange and loathsome as it was to admit, there was no denying that Colonel Tavington had claimed a position of some vile necessity in your life. That he was the mast to which you must fasten like a sail, if the winds of this war were to ever see you reunited with your father. If that outcome were ever to exclude your father’s death. Or Grace’s. Or yours.

Something reared up within you, lodged in your throat, lashed the back of your nose like rising tears. It left you in a gritted screech, and as the wind whipped it away into the storm, you recognized it as anger.

You were angry.

At your father, for allowing his quixotic obsessions to drive him into peril. For leaving you alone, leaving you to slink like a stray dog to the British army and beg, whimpering, to crawl into its lap. You were angry at Tavington, for being right about all of that before. For seeing through you when you refused to see into yourself.

And you were angry at yourself. For clinging to the sick bulwark that was William Tavington. For not being strong enough to hate him.

For fearing that he might be dead.

Driving on through the rain at a brisk trot, you focused on the road ahead. On what you could do, rather than what might be. As you searched the dark, you spotted a body slumped along the roadside. Then another. Lightning flashed. Three more scattered the road.

Militia.

With any luck, your colonel was close. The horse stuttered for a step, hopped over one of the bodies.

Lightning again, then thunder. In the distance, movement, a single heaving shadow hunched above blackened brush, a demon rising in the dusk. Hell’s fire flickered in the clouds, suspending the earth in time. Light revealed the demon, a fiend in a crimson coat, his blade buried in blood, his victims shucked of their souls at his feet. Thunder shattered the vision, smothering him in darkness again.

Tavington ripped his sword free from the man he’d stabbed, spotting your approach. His eyes narrowed, struggling to identify you through the night and rain. You trotted closer, and now you realized that some of the crimson you’d spotted earlier hadn’t been his coat. His chest, his stomach were smothered in blood, and it became apparent that his hunch wasn’t from demonic inspiration.

He was hurt.

A flash of light, and he frowned, realizing that not only was it you, but you were on his horse. His face twisted in a welcoming mixture of shock and disgust.

You waved him forward. “Continentals are headed this way!”

“I’m aware,” he replied, sheathing his sword. When these two words didn’t magically cause you to vanish, shook his head, continuing, “I’m waiting them out.”

You snorted. “Don’t be absurd. You’re wounded—multiply so, might I add!”

“Return to camp,” he said, walking in a direction that was not toward your horse and therefore irritated you further.

There was no way you were leaving this stubborn goat of a man bleeding from God-only-knew and returning to the damned camp without him. You pushed the mare forward, cutting him off. He glared at you and spat out your name in frustration.

“Orders were given,” he said. “Leave.”

You growled. “Your men ail in your absence. You must return with me.”

His eyes met yours, mirrored the clouds as they pulsed with lightning. Water pelted his face, slipped down the curve of his nose and into the bow above his mouth. He cleaned the rain from his lips with his tongue and set his jaw.

“Must I?” He stalked forward a step. The horse shifted beneath you. “I believe you’ll find I must do nothing,” Tavington spat. “You, on the contrary, are a parolee who has fled your guard, and now act in contempt of an officer.”

The urge to roll your eyes was only suppressed by a tiny pulse of fear as he advanced another step.

“Then mete me what lashes you will,” you said, swallowing. “But I’ll drag you back before I stand by while you succumb to your own bloody pride!”

Tavington snarled, then lunged for the horse’s reins. Anticipating him, you drove one leg into her ribs. She leapt sideways. Tavington doubled over, clutching his bleeding chest, eyes as wild as a wolf with its foot in a trap.

“Colonel Tavington,” you pleaded, “we’ve little time for this.”

He gave a pained huff, straightened just enough to pierce you with his stare. “Then leave.”

“No!”

Thunder cracked the sky. Your gazes clashed with equal force. Fury rolled in Tavington’s shoulders, and you made ready to evade another lunge from him. Then, a new rumble broke through the storm.

Your heads both snapped in its direction at once. Hooves. Pounding and splashing, this time approaching from the north. You were about to be flanked on both sides by the Continental army. Tavington’s lip rose in a snarl.

“Get off,” he said, rounding on you. “I’ll ride in front.”

“What? No! Just get on!” The storm crashed above, illuminating the bright red of his jacket. “And take your coat off, you're a walking target!”

If he’d looked indignant before, he now looked insulted. “I issued you an order, and your response is—”

“Colonel, get on the damn horse!”

Up the road, a horse whinnied. Hoofbeats grew louder. Tavington cursed.

Sneering, he whipped his jacket from his shoulders and tossed it to you. With relief, you stashed it under your skirts before vacating your left stirrup and holding your hand out to him. He stared at it like you’d presented him with the body of a dead rat before electing to ignore it completely. His teeth grit, he stuck his boot in the stirrup and hoisted himself behind the saddle, a stifled grunt escaping him.

He reached around you, grasping for the reins. Scoffing, you thrust your hands out, wheeled the horse around, and gave a sharp kick. The mare surged forward, and Tavington’s arms captured your waist, sealing you flush against his front with a hiss.

In the chill of rain, his body was lit coal, firm and warm against your own. You felt the rise and fall of his chest, still hurried from the rush of violence and pain; heard the graveled depth in his throat wash against your neck with each breath.

At your speed, the bridge would be approaching quickly. Despite your hope that the Continentals might have decided to abandon it before your return, they stood proud guard. And, unfortunately, having been successfully routed, you could see even more of them arriving from the south. You slowed from a canter to a trot, and Tavington’s breath caught in your ear as his horse stumbled on the sodden ground.

“An expert in these lands and this is the route you choose,” he grumbled.

You exhaled, biting your tongue. “Well, perhaps if you were better at dodging swords, we’d enjoy the luxuries of time,” you replied. “Unless you’d prefer trying to jump the river.”

“I’d prefer not approaching a group of Continental officers while sliding off a horse’s arse.”

“Oh, are you uncomfortable?” you cooed bitterly. “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, Colonel.”

“No,” he said. “What I am is experienced. Do you imagine they’ll allow you to walk right past them?”

“Of course not,” you replied. “I have a plan.”

“Words that have always brought me comfort.”

If you weren’t concerned that elbowing him in the stomach would result in organ damage, you would’ve done it.

The horse connected with the first plank of the bridge, and you straightened in the saddle. Ahead, a wave of routed Continentals staggered up to join the bridge guard, their annealing forces pushing fifty, perhaps ten of them cavalry.

In another world, you could be nestled in your bed at home, Mr. Mouser curled at your feet, the rain rattling your roof. Instead, more horses advanced behind you, their numbers unknown, the sound of their hooves rattling your nerves. Continental soldiers flanked you front and back. And a despicable, delicious bastard was strapped to your middle.

It occurred to you that perhaps getting struck by lightning would be an improvement to this situation.

“Hold there!” The voice was familiar. The same cavalryman from before came into view between the opposite bridge posts. “State your business before crossing!”

You cleared your throat. “It’s me!” you called out. “I found my husband!”

Tavington’s hold on you tightened. “Your hus—”

“Play along,” you hissed.

“Go ahead and approach, madam,” the soldier replied.

The horse trod forward, both of you rocking with its stride. Each hoofbeat knocked in your ears. Your hands felt slippery on the reins. You thanked the blessed God above that no one would be able to tell if it was rain or sweat.

“Your plans rival those of military generals in their brilliance,” Tavington whispered.

“There won’t be an issue so long as they don’t recognize you,” you replied. “But I suppose that massive head of yours begs remembrance.”

“Ah, yes, there’s the conduct I’d long desired in a wife.”

“Wonderful,” you growled. “Now shut. Up.”

The cavalryman adjusted his horse, fully blocking your way as you arrived at the other end of the crossing. If you were to ever count on a man’s tendency to underestimate you, it would be now.

“Please, let us through,” you said. “He’s injured, I need to get him back home.”

“So he is injured?” The cavalryman gestured toward one of the men on the ground. “Corporal, go ahead and take a look at—”

“Sergeant Fleming!”

The voice came from behind you. Craning around, you glimpsed a line of cavalry that had advanced to the foot of the bridge. Scanning briefly, you counted twenty. An officer rode ahead, sealing off the way you had come. Tavington’s fingers dug into the soft flesh of your belly.

The officer in front of you—Fleming, presumably—squinted past you through the rain. Then he raised a hand to hail the other horseman. “Captain Pearce! By God, you’re a sight for sore eyes, sir.”

The bridge began to knock with the rhythm of hooves crossing. Fleming, blinking as he once again noticed that you were present, shifted aside and waved you forward. Releasing a held breath, you rode past him and onto solid ground again. The road, however, was still choked with men. The corporal that Fleming had previously addressed approached your horse, moving to take her reins.

“No!” You jerked her head up and away from him, and he flinched in confusion before looking straight past you and addressing Tavington.

“Sir, we’ll have a look at your wounds here.” He stepped around toward the saddle. Both you and Tavington stiffened. “Come morning, we shall escort you back to your post.”

“Please, sir,” you said, casting your arm aside as if to shield Tavington from him. “We have supplies at home, he—”

“Would you mind telling us your name and commanding officer?” he said, again to Tavington. You blinked. “We’ll see that your wife is escorted home as well.”

Tavington shifted behind you, his voice ground between stone. “That will hardly be necessary, Corporal.”

The corporal frowned up at him. “If your wounds are too grievous, sir, perhaps leave can be approved…”

As they spoke, your attention floated to the cavalry now filing across the bridge. To the conversation between Fleming and Pearce as they met. Their voices were drowned by the rain and the river. All you could make out was what you could read on their lips.

British encampment… over three hundred… routed… don’t have the numbers for an engagement.

You squinted, studying them more closely.

��fall back… focus efforts… Camden… intelligence to General Gates… arrive next week with reinforcements…

“...Wilksburg company—”

Your attention snapped back to the corporal with a full-body jolt.

“—will be joining us in a matter of days with more militia, you’d need only hold out until then.”

The Wilksburg company? Here? But that would mean your father—

“I’m afraid my wife is rather insistent that I return home,” replied Tavington, sounding as if he were being forced to say it while dangling over a pit of eels. “You know how wives are, Corporal.”

Your teeth set.

“Indeed I do,” he said with a laugh, “However, I cannot abide desertion. We need every fit man—”

“Fit,” you spat, and the corporal looked at you with a start. “How about I cut you from stem to stern, Corporal? How fit might you feel when I’m finished, hm?”

The corporal opened his mouth, closed it again. Then found his voice under your glare. “Madam, I understand your distress—”

“You understand nothing,” you replied. “We will be going now.”

Your raised voice had drawn the attention of a few other men milling about. One of them paused, his eyes hovering on your horse, your tack, then narrowing as they raised to Tavington. Your heart leapt into your throat.

Below you, the corporal made another attempt to seize your horse’s reins. You yanked her head away from him, and a flare of waning patience threatened his face. The soldier who had stopped to regard you approached the corporal’s shoulder, leaned to whisper something in his ear. Tavington’s fingers burrowed into your hips. His mouth drifted to your ear.

“Move.”

You nudged the mare with your heels. The corporal leapt to intercept, his hand moving to the pistol at his belt. “Hold there. I’m going to need to ask you some questions, sir.”

“Go,” Tavington muttered.

“That’s him,” said another soldier.

“Go.”

“That’s Colonel Tavington!”

Tavington slammed his spurs into the horse. You squealed, launched forward.

With a crack of thunder, chaos burst like a dam. Men shouted, scrambled, sound and movement blurred in the rain. Your horse crashed through the corporal where he stood, trampling him into the mud. A voice cried somewhere above the cacophony.

“Halt! For God’s sake, halt! Stop them!”

The road was still swarming with men. Most parted like silk to scissors at the horse’s advance. Some, either too brave or too slow, fell beneath her hooves. Then the mass of men broke. The road lay ahead, a black, yawning tunnel. As if as one, you and Tavington both leaned forward, and the horse beneath you flattened out into a dead sprint.

Behind you, a rifle cracked. The rain whistled beside your ear, raising the hair on your nape. Hooves thundered in pursuit, and the demon on your back dug his claws into your hips, your belly, his breath ragged in your ear.

“You won’t outrun them,” he said.

“I know, just—” You swerved as a cavalryman advanced into your periphery, saber drawn. “Just try to stay out of the way.”

With that, you drove your shoulders back into Tavington’s chest, sinking into the saddle. He cursed, leaned back with you as the horse slid to a halt, gouging long slashes into the mud. Four cavalrymen shot past you, shouting as they wrested their mounts to a halt. Behind you, more fought their way through the thick web of foot soldiers to join the chase. But you were already moving, pivoting your horse like a dancer on her haunches and making for the cover of the trees.

Blackness swallowed you as you rode into the forest. Slowing to a trot, your eyes hunted for shapes in the dark, your legs shifting like rudders to steer around trunks as they loomed. A spear of lightning scattered shadows in your path. Behind you, brush crashed and cracked, horses squealed as they collided with trees and each other.

“Find them!” a man shouted.

Another voice: “This way!”

More grunting and shouting as men and horses alike flooded the trees, spread out in search.

You pressed straight on into the belly of the forest, slid down a steep bank, splashed through a swollen creek. The sounds of the blundering Continentals grew slowly fainter in your wake, their shouts increasingly desperate. The rain had soaked you through to your skin, and you shivered at its chill contrasted with the solar heat of the man pressed to your back.

Some delirious, danger-drunk part of your mind wondered, briefly, what he might do if you turned on the saddle and wound your legs around his waist.

You shook yourself sane. You still needed to be focusing on preventing your real deaths, instead of seeking a little one.

A glow poked through the trees. Blinking rain from your eyes, you squinted, and spied the forest’s edge silhouetted against open, stormy sky. Lightning illuminated a wide field that stretched up to a farmhouse, candlelight cradled in its windows. Your heart leapt with triumph. That meant you weren’t entirely lost in the backcountry.

You pushed into a canter again as you emerged from the forest, turning to follow along the field’s open edge. Presumably, you’d be able to find…

Yes.

A path divided the field, trailed down from the house and disappeared into the woods. Which meant the other end likely led out to the road. And if you were on this side of the road, traveling more or less parallel with it, that meant you had to be moving—

“Have you any idea where you’re going?” Tavington growled at your ear.

Your teeth locked together. “I do, in fact.”

“Oh, splendid.” You hated the way you could practically hear his eyes rolling in his skull. “Do continue to take your time, then.”

With a scoff, you thumped your heels into the horse’s sides. Then immediately regretted it when she spurted forward, forcing Tavington to seize you closer, a low grunt brushing your ear. Heat flooded your cheeks.

What had you been trying to determine?

South.

Yes, you were surely headed south. Would surely come across the camp soon. With any bloody luck, that was.

Your southward path carried you back into the forest, trees ticking past you like warped clock hands. On and on, until their shapes suddenly grew familiar. A slight left here, then curve around a thicket and ascend that ridge.

Rows of tents emerged from the darkness. You slowed the mare to a trot, bracing yourself on her neck as you arrived at the camp perimeter. If there had been danger before, it was gone now—the rain had scattered every soldier to shelter, the only evidence of the battle a brightly lit medic tent filled with bustling shadow.

Panting, you pulled to a stop, and Tavington’s hold on you loosened. Before you could turn, or even speak a word, he slid from behind you like a limp doll, dropping to the ground with questionable balance. He used the mare’s hindquarters as support, taking a deep breath before stumbling toward camp.

Your teeth ground together. If you’d ever known of a man more frustrating, you couldn’t name him. Grumbling, you threw yourself from the horse as thunder rumbled, following Tavington in a furious splashing haste.

“Colonel,” you said, “you’re injured.”

He said nothing, continuing to stalk toward his tent. The weight of water in your skirts slowed you, slapped to your skin like paste. You bunched the fabric above your knees, mud splattering your thighs as you marched after him.

“You must let me see your wounds.” When he was again silent, you continued, “At least let me check and make sure that you haven’t damaged anything vital.”

Without acknowledging anything you’d said, Tavington found his tent, whipped the flap aside, and allowed it to flutter closed between you. You stood, storm swallowing you, watching as candles flickered to life beyond the canvas. The fury you’d stomped into submission rose renewed, gnarled in your stomach, burned in your fists.

Responsibility had never been granted to you, or bestowed like a gift on your unworthy hands. You’d always encountered it, a stray on your doorstep, starving and seeking a master, and you had always, always taken it inside. Never had you been resented for discovering it. Never had you been begrudged for your charity until meeting William Tavington.

There was no way, after everything you’d done, that you’d allow him to lie down in his bed and bleed to death.

You stomped off, tromping through the rain toward the busy medic tent. You threw open the flap, greeted with a gust of warmth that would’ve been a relief if you hadn’t been halfway suffocated by the heavy fabric hanging off of you. Wounded men not occupied by pain glanced at your entrance before flopping back onto their beds. Lottie poked her head free from dressing a soldier’s abdomen and gasped in delight.

“Oh! Oh my goodness!” she cried out, waving you over. “There you are! Where have you been? I’m—we need your help over here!” She paused, scanning your sopping silhouette. “Oh, my. Where have you been?”

“Very sorry,” you said. “No time to talk right now.” You pursed your lips, trudging through the tent to find your suture kit. “Or help.”

She wilted. “But… What’s going on? Is everything all right?”

“Perfectly.” It wasn’t where you typically left it. Sighing, you turned one of the supply tables and found a pile of soaked jackets. The kit was probably under there. You started tossing the coats on the ground.

“Oh.” Lottie sucked in air through her teeth. “Ah, the mud…”

“Hm?” You continued to throw everything off the table. “Did you say ‘the mud’?”

“Um.” She paused. “Well, I wanted to perhaps prevent their—”

“There you are!” It had been buried under all that clothing. You grabbed it and gathered several bundles of bandages and lint under your arms before turning back to her. “Sorry, what was that?”

She offered a strained grin. “Nothing,” she said, before nodding toward you. “Where are you going?”

“Colonel Tavington is of a mind to die bathed in his own blood.” You turned, heading to exit the tent.

“Do you—” Lottie whinged. “Do you think you’ll be able to come back? To help? Once you’re finished?”

You nodded. “As soon as I can.”

“The colonel is all right?” called one of the men.

“If I have anything to say about it, he will be,” you called back, and darted into the rain.

You hunched over your supplies to keep them as dry as possible as you ran until you stopped at the foot of Tavington’s tent. The candle was still lit. There was no movement inside. You chewed on your lip.

“Colonel?” You waited. “Colonel Tavington?”

Lightning struck the sky, thunder followed. Why were you waiting for this bastard’s permission to save his stupid, worthless, stubborn, beautiful hide?

You flung the tent open. Tavington was laid in his bed on his back, his eyes closed, his hand on his forehead. At the sound of your entrance, a muscle in his jaw spasmed.

“Don’t bother,” you said, “I’m not leaving.”

“I believe our charade is at its end,” he said. “I require no more of your audacious excuse for aid.”

He was impossible. “Actually, I believe I am to thank for getting you here, and without further injury.”

“It was despite your rancor that we arrived here, not due to it,” he replied. “The shadow of a gallows inspires greater solace than your very name.”

You rolled your eyes, walking over to him.

“So hungry for lashes, are you?”

Grabbing a stool, you pulled it close to his bedside and sat down. An eye cracked open to watch you as you piled your supplies at the head of his bed.

“Sit up, Colonel.”

He stared at you.

“Please.”

A long moment passed as he held you in consideration, the rain pattering the top of the tent. Candlelight cast his face in dour shadow. He searched your expression, his focus wandering down, following your neck to your heaving chest and your eager hands, to the medical items pushed into his space. He glanced down at his stomach, rubbed his temple, and sighed.

“Very well,” he mumbled. He rolled to his side, baring his teeth as he pushed himself to sit. “Satisfied?”

You studied him. The rain had stained his shirt pink with blood, but new bright swatches bloomed since he’d laid down. It was so wet it was still transparent, still clinging to his shoulders, his arms, revealing the tightly laid muscle underneath.

It now became apparent to you that treating William Tavington would involve removing this shirt. It would involve touching parts of his body that you’d never imagined you’d actually ever get to touch. Your throat thickened, and you met his eyes.

“Yes.” You would be as composed as possible. “I need… your wounds. Access to them.”

He raised a brow. “You what?”

You shook your head. Composed. “I need access to your wounds, Colonel,” you said. “Could you remove your shirt? Or lift it.”

Tavington sat straight, pulling his shirt from his body and shoving it in your lap. You stared at it for a moment and threw it over the footboard of his bed before looking back at him. Your mouth dried.

He was so broad. His shoulders spanned wide over his powerful chest, the trunk that was his stomach. Patches of dark hair met in the center of his torso, trickled down to below the waistline of his trousers. You felt your head float for a moment before you regained control of yourself and focused.

Two. Three wounds. One was the bayonet wound from last week, which was thankfully healing fine, despite your lack of intervention. Two were new: a gash across his side and a slice underneath one of his pectorals. You could start at least with the stomach—it looked larger, more severe. Probably wouldn’t need suturing though. At least for now.

“Do you plan to stare at my wounds all evening?” he asked.

You huffed. “It’s called analysis,” you replied, as if you’d spent more time analyzing than you had staring. As you reached for the lint, your hands trembled. You inhaled in a bid to steady them.

Tavington clucked his tongue. “Losing your nerve?”

“No,” you said quickly, glaring at him. “Long evening.” Not necessarily a lie, since despite your physical response to him, he was still grating your patience. You grabbed a wad of lint and a roll of linen. “We’ll start with your stomach.”

Swallowing, you kept your attention on your hands and pressed the lint to his wound, packing it tight to soak the blood. Tavington’s abdomen tensed, he exhaled, but was otherwise stoic as you unfurled the bandage and began to wind it around his waist. You shifted to reach around his back, and as you moved, caught something colorful out of the corner of your sight. A book.

Il Principe - di Niccolò Machiavelli.

Your irritation with him vanished entirely in the wake of your curiosity. For some reason, you'd never imagined him as a reader. Nor as a speaker of more than one language. But you supposed you’d also never imagined him as an admirer of wildflowers, either. And a small bundle of those laid drying next to the book.

“You speak Italian?” You started wrapping the linen around a second time.

He sought your gaze. “Yes,” he replied, almost suspicious. “Why?”

“The Prince.” You nodded toward it. “In its original language.”

Tavington’s head tilted. You sensed him staring. “Yes.” He watched as you tore the bandage. “Italian, amongst others.”

“Which ones?”

It’d come out almost automatically. Warmth rushed your face, like you’d asked something about his sexual history rather than his linguistic one.

“Latin, French.” He paused, drawing in a slow breath as you tightened the wrapping around his stomach. “Greek.”

You huffed. “So they do teach something other than warfare at your pompous British academies.”

His lip curled, you thought, in a smirk. “I’m astonished that you even know how to read.”

“Yes,” you replied dryly, grabbing another handful of lint, “though it was difficult when all of our books were made of bark and all our pens were sharpened stones.”

“Ah,” he said. “And your schoolmasters? The wolves, I imagine?”

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing. Why was he making you laugh?

“The owls, actually.” You placed the lint against his chest, held it as you reached for another roll of bandage. His skin was warm, almost hot to the touch, and you found yourself wanting to linger, wanting to trace your way to his heartbeat. “Much more wise.”

“They must be, to introduce you to Machiavelli.”

“That was my own idea, actually.” You grinned proudly before glancing at him.

There was a disarming lack of malice in his gaze. More heat gathered in your cheeks. You picked up the second roll of linen and held it against his chest with one hand, rolling it around his torso with the other.

“Is he less cruel in Italian?”

Tavington’s attention flicked across your face. “Cruelty is a weighty criticism often levied against pragmatics.”

“A criticism.” With every inch of skin you touched, your tongue grew drier, your belly tighter. He seemed too close, too far. “It sounds as if you take that personally.”

“Of course.” He shifted, you thought—or imagined, or hoped—closer. Tipped into the hand putting pressure on his chest. “Would you not similarly dismiss such a comparison?”

“I…”

It was difficult to think. His proximity had become dizzying. Your head felt heavy with something greater than hunger, more primal than need. But even the most ravenous part of you knew: given your scheming, bargaining, and deception together? He was right.

“I suppose I would.”

“As I suspected,” he murmured. His voice brushed the depths of his throat. “The vicious creature cannot deny its own nature.”

A shiver ran to your thighs. “You really consider me vicious.”

You brought the bandage to your teeth and tore it in two. His chest rose and fell in a quiet breath.

“Utterly.”

Finishing with the dressing, you glanced up at him. His eyes devoured you.

“Were I truly so,” you breathed, “I would sunder all I touch.”

Despite your shaking hands, racing blood, you couldn’t bring yourself to look away. Couldn’t even take your hand from his chest. His skin felt like a wound under your touch—raw, hot, thrumming with his pulse. You held your breath, fingers skimming over his breast until you grazed the fine, dark hair, hovered over his pounding heart.

“Yet here you are, still whole.”

“Entirely.” Tavington leaned forward. Before you could retreat, he pinned your hand with his own, holding it to his chest. “I do not fear vicious things.”

His gaze dipped to your mouth. Your chin quivered. Your fingers curled against his sternum. Someone breathed—a short, sharp intake of air, punctuated by a clap of thunder—and he tugged you toward him, capturing your lips with his own.

Desire and panic flooded you with lockstep urgency. Your head spun with the rush, thoughts running from one into the other like spools of tangling thread.

He’s kissing you your first kiss he’s your first kiss his mouth is so soft and warm more more oh God if he wants more do you even know what you’re doing—

Tavington exhaled through his nose, pulling you closer, tilting to catch your mouth at a different angle. He tasted of rain, of salt, of storm. You found courage, this time, pressing yourself into the kiss, reveling in the glide of his lips on yours, the sensation cascading like fire to your cunt. Even if you’d never done this before, you’d allow instinct, your ever reliable mentor, to guide you.

You leaned closer, and Tavington adjusted again, one of his hands snaking around your waist to draw you in. You gasped at his touch, shivering. His tongue flicked into your parted mouth, earning from you a delighted, longing groan. It was an unfamiliar sound you’d never heard yourself make. The fabric of your dress seemed now too cold, too sticky on your warming skin.

He chuckled and pinched your lower lip between his teeth, releasing it in a deliciously painful drag before soothing it with the caress of his mouth. Whimpering into him, your free hand found his shoulder to steady yourself against the speed with which the world whirled around you. Tavington growled, grappling your hips to hoist you to a new seat on his lap.

You panted, grabbing both of his shoulders as you settled, instantly feeling the growing evidence of his desire grinding against your center. It tore a moan from your chest, made your eyes flutter, made your heart skip.

Tavington busied himself with your skirts, throwing them up your thighs to expose them. Cold skin was smothered by warm palms—he squeezed, groped at each inch revealed to the air. If you hadn’t been possessed by that ravenous ache before, you certainly were now.

So possessed were you, in fact, that it didn’t even occur to you that the man you were kissing was a British soldier, that he was still hunting your father, and that he would happily place all of you at the end of a hanging rope had he the evidence and ability. All that occurred to you, really, was how firm he felt underneath you, the heat of his chest against yours, the imprint of his fingers trailing closer to the crux of your thighs.

Tavington’s grip tightened, and he kissed you again, drove your pelvis downward, bucking his own to meet it. You gasped, nearly toppling over if not for his strength keeping you upright. Like a conductor, he led you in rhythm, rolling your hips together over, and over, the bulge of his arousal sparking pleasure from the little hill at your center with each beat.

You broke away, tossing your head back with a quiet groan. Tavington’s hand caught the back of your skull and steered you back to his lips, ravenous, parting your mouth with his own. A frenzy birthed within you to match him—your tongue melted against his—and he fisted your hair, his other hand clutching your jaw to hold you in place.

It hit you, then. William Tavington had wanted you.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” you mumbled against his mouth. “You would’ve taken me at Dorchester.”

Tavington held you fast. He avoided a response while he licked his way along your jawbone. “Is that right?” His teeth found your ear, worried the lobe. “On the contrary,” he breathed, voice wrought with need. “I believe you’ve taken advantage of my vulnerability.”

Gooseflesh erupted on your arms, your thighs. “Vulnerable, are you?” You slipped your hands down his back, smoothed over the ridges of his shoulder blades, painting a memory of his body. “No longer impervious to the temptations of whorish writhing?”

He huffed, catching your gaze. “You admit to tempting me?” His eyes glittered with amusement.

You snorted. “As if your pride needs the satisfaction.”

“My, my,” he said, craning your head to expose more of your neck. His tongue, then his teeth, found your pulse. “Rather irreverent for a girl on the precipice of satisfying far more than my pride.”

The implication made your cunt clench, and you exhaled in part-laughter, part-fear. Would Colonel William Tavington—the Butcher—really be the man to whom you gave your virginity? Could he even tell you still possessed it? Perhaps your age had earned you the presumption of more experience than you truly had.

With another jerk of his hips, his erection teased your swelling, throbbing cunt, and that more than halfway convinced you that none of that mattered. The thought of being able to see, touch, feel his cock inside of you was all the promise you needed.

“You seem confident about that,” you managed to murmur. “Pride.”

A low sound rumbled in his throat. He hooked his hands under your thighs and ripped you from his lap. With a grunt, he flipped you onto his bed, following to straddle you, his legs caging yours, his palms planted on either side of your head. Bathed in the flickering fire, he resembled the beast you’d pictured so many weeks prior—heaving, hungry, salivating.

Salivating for you.

Tavington’s gaze raked over your trembling body. A hand slid up your naked calf, teasing its way toward your inner thigh. “Almost appealing like this.”

A deep pulse in your core. “You are a complete bastard.”

“I hear no protest.” He settled between your legs, and his lips found yours.

You relaxed into his dampened sheets, a soft moan escaping you, your hands coasting around his bandaged torso and around to his back. Tavington deepened the kiss, a moan of his own echoing in his chest. One of his hands pawed your breasts, kneading them from over your bodice. A thumb ghosted over your already-firm nipple, and you squealed, back arching toward him.

His tongue glided into your mouth, hips beginning to rock into you again, again. The mimicry of the movement, the reality of his erection—hard, prodding your entrance beyond the barrier of clothing—spurred you to meet his urgency and throw yourself against him.

He groaned again, trapped your pelvis to the mattress with a brutal thrust. His cock was flush with your cunt, so close you felt it pulse inside his trousers, felt it throb at the suggestion of finally breaking you open.

Lust bewitched you. Your nails dug into his back, scraped down his spine, and he shuddered, shook above you before he snatched your wrists and tacked them above your head. He broke the kiss with a gasp.

“You,” he said, staring into your bewildered eyes, “are going to regret every attempt you’ve ever made to deceive me.” He gathered both wrists in one of his hands, while his other moved to clasp your throat. “I will ruin you so completely that neither another man nor another allegiance will tempt your errant cunt again.”

Your heart tripped over itself, unable to decide if it was exhilarated or terrified. Its beat split between your chest and thighs. You remembered his promise—the next time my hand seeks out your throat, it will be to pinch the life from your eyes—but when meeting his gaze, found nothing but manic, consuming lust.

You needed to tell him that you’d never done this before.

“Colonel—”

His grip on your neck tightened. “Colonel?” He lowered himself, chest flattening you to the bed. Lips skimmed your jaw, your ear. “William.”

“Colonel?” came the word again. This time, spoken from beyond the tent.

Both of your heads swung toward the flap. Tavington pushed himself onto his knees and seized your shoulders, flinging you in one swift movement from his bed straight into the ground. You smacked the damp dirt, groaning as your head swiveled like a wind vane in a storm.

What in God’s sweet, holy, unsullied heaven just happened?

“Colonel Tavington?” The voice sounded familiar. “Are you all right, sir?”

Tavington’s brow dropped, a deep sigh of frustration escaping him as he adjusted to sitting on the edge of his mattress. “Yes, Bordon.”

The tent peeled open a foot, and Bordon peeked through, his attention falling to your still-splayed form on the ground. “Um.” He looked between you and Tavington. “Sir?”

You blinked, still trying to orient yourself. “I…” You glanced down at yourself, then back to Bordon. “Fell.”

“Yes,” Tavington said. “Just as she'd finished treating me.”

“Slipped in the mud.” You forced a laugh, clambering to your feet. “But, ah. Yes, I’m finished. Finished treating Colonel Tavington now.”

Bordon’s eyebrow raised. “Very well, madam,” he said, clearly wondering, just as you were, why you were talking so much. “May I come in, sir?”

Another long, excessive exhale left Tavington. “You’ve already availed yourself of my privacy, Captain,” he said. “Why not avail yourself of my time?”

“Of course, sir.” He stepped into the tent, around you, his arms held behind his back. “I bring a report.”

You looked to Tavington. The guttering need in his eyes had been supplanted by indignation. Your own guttering need, however, was falling from your body like snakeskin and evolving into a sheath of horror.

What had you just been doing? Kissing, nearly bedding the colonel of the army seeking to destroy you and your family’s lives? Had you been so distracted, so divorced from your goals that you’d allowed yourself to be seduced by a murderer?

The realization doused your passion like rain to a torch. This could’ve resulted in you endangering your father’s life. Endangering Grace’s life, perhaps, too.

You were not only a fool—you were a capricious fool.

Bordon had begun to speak, but you ignored it all. Clearing your throat, you gathered your supplies in your arms, dismissing the cry from between your legs to stop this nonsense.

Stupid, stupid traitorous desire. That would be the last time you’d entertain its whims, the last time you’d allow it to rule your mind.

“Ah,” Tavington chided. “I believe we had one more matter of business.”

You scurried between them both and glanced back at him a final time. “No matters,” you replied, a bit too quickly. Straightening, you continued, “I’ve done all I can for you, sir. In fact, I need to leave. My responsibilities would see me to the medic tent.”

Tavington’s mouth twisted in a tiny, confused frown.

You bowed your head toward them both. “Captain. Colonel. Goodnight.”

The rain smacked your skin as you escaped into the night. There was no undoing what you’d done, but you needed to refocus. The medic tent was still lit. Perhaps Lottie still needed help. Perhaps you’d start there.

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 11

Read on AO3. Part 10 here. Part 12 here.

Summary: Do you think a cowardly person would do THIS?

*flinches at the sight of a man naked*

NO.

Words: 5800

Warnings: cw: gore, detailed descriptions of amputation

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia.

Hi! Welcome back! We are so excited to share with you the fruits of our continuing obsession with 1700s medical practices. You could really just do anything back then, y'know?

We hope you guys continue to enjoy - we truly love writing this story and composing the plot and world. We fear this is becoming a bit more historical fiction than Patriot fanfiction, but, like, that's the fun of it, right?

Love y'all so very much. Hope we're looking forward to next chapter where a regular ball will happen and nothing will go wrong. 🙏😇

You didn’t think you could ever grow used to the sound of screams.

Violence, sure—the blood, the gore—it was a cicada melody in your mind, now, a thrum that whined alive in waves. To see soldiers sliced open, their flesh the color of smashed blackberries inspired terror the same as scanning a page in a book. Even death, a rare visitor to your camp, never startled you with its entrance, regardless of its haste.

A quick death, short and shocking like a dagger, was your preference. Other soldiers seemed to invite death to stay, to share their beds with it, groaning and writhing underneath its shadow for hours, days.

And even then, it was the screaming that unsettled you. It was something about the desperation, like a plea to God they knew would die unanswered. A scream cradled grief in its depth, a grief that could seldom be named. Yet it was a grief that shook you with its enormity, that crawled along your neck and slept on your shoulders.

So when a young private was dragged into your tent, to be honest, you didn’t notice the blood, or the gore. You couldn’t. What captured you was the serrated edge of his scream.

“Calm down, lad.” The man hauling him in was a major, from his uniform. Words rolled off his tongue in a bright Scottish lilt. “Calm down, it’s all right.” He looked toward you. “On the table?”

You nodded, half-shocked by the fact a major had taken the time to grab a man from the field at all, let alone a private. Most would’ve left him to die.

“Up you go!”

Standing, you approached as he hoisted the private onto said table, hushing him as he guided his shoulders to the wood. The private gasped, his forehead coated in sweat, face inflamed with pain. Soot stained his uniform, grass streaked across his shirt—but apart from that, you thought he seemed in one piece.

“It’s all right, Private. They’re going to take care of you.” The major huffed, turning toward you. “The surgeon, please?”

The wounded soldier cried out. You looked in the direction of his leg. There was a macerated mass of flesh where his calf should have been.

“Jesus Christ.” You hovered over the wound, starting to roll up your sleeves. “What happened here?”

Lottie, behind you, stepped forward to observe and wailed, disappearing into the back of the tent.

“Grapeshot,” the major replied, grimacing. “Not pretty.” He looked between you and the currently hidden Lottie. “The surgeon? Where is he?”

“Dr. Moore is attending to the officers,” Lottie called. “W-we’re just field triage.”

“Ah, hell.” His eyes lingered on the private’s leg. “What do you think, then?”

He glanced at you with honest, sincere curiosity. It disarmed you.

You considered the leg, grit your teeth. Everything below the knee was done for. Since morning, you’d spent hours flitting back and forth between your triage station and the officers’ hospital, assisting Dr. Moore with at least a dozen amputations between the two. Given all you had seen today, you were left with a firm—and grim—confidence in that assessment.

“It’s going to need to come off. Amputated.” You winced internally as the words left your mouth.

Lottie wailed again. The soldier on the table groaned, twisting in pain.

“Rum,” he said. “Rum!”

You grabbed the rum, hands starting to tremble as you brought it to his lips. He grabbed it from you and gulped down what must’ve been a half-pint in a few swallows. With a gasp, he broke off and allowed it to flop into your hands.

“No.” You placed it on his chest. “You’re going to need it.” Turning to Lottie, you said, “I’ll get the tourniquet on. Run and fetch Dr. Moore. Tell him it’s an emergency.”

Lottie nodded, crept forward.

“You’re only fitting the tourniquet, right?” she said, hands bunched up near her chest. “Do you… need anything before I…”

It was something you had stopped to consider. But you couldn’t risk her passing out on you. Shaking your head, you began, “N—”

“Oh, thank God,” she sputtered, and fled into the camp.

You turned back to the soldier. He was already nursing the bottle again, his hands shaking so badly that the glass clacked against his teeth. Moving to the instrument table, you grabbed the screw tourniquet and stuffed it underneath his thigh. As you tightened it, he sobbed in pain, fists curling to white-knuckle balls.

The sounds of gun and cannon fire had quieted in the past hour. In its absence, the only noise was the whine of the screw as it tamped down on his flesh.

You glanced up. The major was watching over his private, grey eyes studying, face twisted in concern. His bright red hair was tied back in a queue, accentuating his strong jaw. You couldn’t recall ever meeting him before.

“What is his name?” you asked, cranking a final turn and locking the tourniquet.

“Leonard Maycott,” the major said.

You leaned aside to scratch the name onto your growing ledger. “Thank you,” you replied. “It’s rare for a major to give such consideration toward their infantry.”

He offered a half-smile. “They’re the backbone of any good army, miss,” he said. “No matter what cavalrymen say.”

You laughed, imagining how badly such a comment would irritate Tavington. “I’m sure he’ll be quite grateful that you went out of your way, Major… ah?”

“Ferguson.” The man nodded toward you. “Patrick Ferguson.”

Your jaw dropped. This man—this kind, thoughtful, somewhat handsome man was Patrick Ferguson? The man who was courting, or, rather, manipulating your sister with his, what, charm? His lies? Frustration boiling inside of you, you clamped your mouth shut.

“I must inspect the wound and make measurements.” You circled around the table to better position yourself, and definitely not to turn an icy shoulder toward the Major. “Good day.”

Ferguson tilted his head. “Are you certain you don’t need anything else?” he asked. “Is there any way I may be of assistance?”

“No,” you said, annoyed he was being so gracious with his time and energy when he was obviously a terrible person. “Please leave.”

You turned back to the task at hand.

“If you’re cer—”

“I’m certain.”

Ferguson sighed. “Understood, miss. I’m grateful.” He gave you a slight nod before departing the tent and leaving you alone with Maycott.

You drew in a deep breath, forcing your hands to steady as you gazed down at the bloody display before you. There was no room or reason for you to be scared. After all, he was the one losing his leg.

You wondered what Grace was doing. Probably stitching something sweet into a tablecloth.

“Is the battle over, Private Maycott?” You weren’t sure if you were making conversation for his benefit or your own. “Was it won?”

You grabbed a seam ripper, made short work of his trouser leg just below the tourniquet, peeling the fabric like rotten bark from his sweat and blood-soaked skin.

The man—barely more than a boy, really—nodded. “It was won,” he managed to choke out. “We—” Wincing, he took another sip of rum. “It was a massacre.” He shifted as you pried fabric away from the gnarled flesh below his knee.

Your heart sank into your stomach. You couldn’t, wouldn’t worry about what that meant for your father. “Wonderful.”

Eyeing Maycott’s mangled leg, you held your palm out to measure one hand’s breadth above the wound. That would put the incision marker at mid-knee. That wouldn’t do. The amputation would have to be higher, on the femur.

Poor bastard.

“Tell me, Private.” It was best to keep him talking, you figured, lest he slip into shock. “How did we take the field?”

“Bay… bayonet charge…” Maycott puffed, face contorting. “Enemy left flank co—collapsed.”

With a glance up to ensure you were still alone, you slipped a flask from your pocket and soaked a wad of cloth in whiskey.

“We advanced… broke the—mmph—the militia.”

You swiped the cloth around Maycott’s thigh, cleansing his skin from just above the knee up to the edge of his cut breeches. He flinched at your touch, then let out a sob.

“Then what happened?” you said, quickly dousing your own hands in the liquor before stashing it again.

“Conti… nentals,” he strained. “Counter-attacked. With ball and… cannon.”

You measured another hand’s breadth above the knee joint, then drew out a thin strip of linen and looped it around his thigh to designate the incision point.

“I… went down. Thought I was… was done for. But the dragoons…”

Your ears pricked.

“Charged their rear. Shattered them.”

A tiny, idiotic flicker of relief. It shouldn’t—didn’t—matter to you that Tavington had survived. Your teeth set. You tied the linen.

“All I saw then was rout and—agh—and slaughter.” Maycott gripped the table with marble-white hands.

A rustle of fabric drew your attention up to see a new redcoat enter the tent.

“The casualties, miss?”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I’m, uh, drawing up the report on the casualties,” he said, pointing to a stack of papers in his arm. “I was told you could provide me with the number of wounded…”

Blinking, you nodded toward the clearly suffering Maycott on your table. “Do I appear at leisure to provide you with numbers?” you snarled.

“Well, I… the report must—“

“I’ll write the report myself.”

The man shrunk from you. “But Lord Cornwallis—”

“I’ll deliver it to Lord Cornwallis myself, too!” You shooed him. “Please!”

The man bowed, scurrying out.

How long would Dr. Moore take? You had a feeling he’d begrudged Cornwallis conscripting him. Ever since you’d made camp near the general’s forces at Camden, you’d caught him puffing around like an anxious horse. Shaking your head, you beheld the table of instruments.

Sharp, shiny metal, like teeth of a steel lion, gleamed back at you. You bit your lip, glimpsed Maycott from the edge of your sight. He laid there, face bound in pain, sucking in desperate air through his nose. The river of blood leaking from his leg had run dry, leaving a sticky lump of grapefruit pulp below his knee.

You cast around.

Gnawed your lip.

Wrung your hands.

Maycott whimpered, and you tipped another swig of rum into his mouth. You could not, in good conscience, allow this situation to worsen while you were perfectly capable of handling it yourself.

All the preparations were made. Every necessary instrument within reach. Eyes flicking over them one by one, you recited the procedure in your mind. You recalled every step as if it were branded behind your eyes, complete with annotations and illustrations.

Yes, you could do this.

The only thing left was to make sure he didn’t break his teeth. Or yours.

You snatched the only stick on the table—smooth, wrapped in leather. It had so far gone unused. Jaw tight, you shoved it sideways into his mouth.

“Mr. Maycott,” you said. “Listen to me very carefully.”

Eyes, dark wet saucers, met yours.

“Your hands shall not leave this table. Grip it as hard as you must, but do not let go. Understand?”

Maycott swallowed, then nodded with an mmph around the stick.

“Look at my face, or at the ceiling, but do not look down.”

Another whimper and nod. You hoped, for both your sakes, that this boy was braver than he looked. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he fastened his gaze to the tent ceiling.

With a quick, steadying breath, you grabbed a supply box from the ground, hoisted Maycott’s leg atop it to give you circumferential access to the meat of his thigh. He sobbed, leather creaking between his teeth.

You grabbed the amputation knife. Poised the curve of its blade along your linen guideline.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Step one: Incision.

A flash of silver, and blade parted flesh.

It happened in a span of blinks. One rotation carved adipose, the next split muscle fiber, artery, tendon. By the time Maycott drew enough breath to scream, you were scything around a solid branch of bone. You tossed the knife.

Step two: Retraction.

Hell, this was going to be difficult alone. It was possible you’d been a mite hasty in dismissing Ferguson’s offer of aid. No—it didn’t matter. You would improvise.

You wedged the retractor into the split meat of Maycott’s leg, shoved it down until you felt it notch onto the femur. He thrashed on the table, and you braced a forearm across his hips, wrestling him back down.

“Be still, please, Mr. Maycott.”

He shrieked.

You heaved against the retractor, drawing his flesh up like a gelatinous stocking to expose the bone beneath. It would have to stay in place somehow, so you quickly lashed the leather panel with twine, threaded that through Maycott’s belt to form a crude rope-and-pulley system, then hoisted it as high as you could before securing it taut.

That would have to do.

Step three: Femoral transection.

The capital saw gleamed on the table—a single, sinister mandible. You grasped it. Positioned it, grip trembling. You looked down at the white, naked rod of bone and, for the first time, hesitated.

That’s right, cub. Hold it perpendicular, just like that.

A vision. Your father’s voice. Your own, smaller hand holding a saw above a fence rail, somewhere out behind the barn.

Maycott’s scream splintered the air. An autumn breeze brushed your mind.

Grip it tight, there you go. You can do it. Use the whole length of the blade, like I showed you. Back, forth. Back, forth.

Back, forth.

Back, forth.

Teeth gnashed bone in rhythm. It sounded just like the wooden fence.

There, cub! On through, give it hell.

Back, forth.

Sweat daubed your brow. You leaned into the saw, threw your weight into each thrust, waged war against the vile insistence of Maycott’s body to remain intact.

It would yield to you.

You would unmake him.

You would form him anew.

You were no coward, and nothing so trivial, so mundanely corporeal as a man’s body would incapacitate you.

Letting out a gritted cry, you heaved against the saw. Two, three more passes, and the resistance vanished. Maycott’s lower leg fell to the table with a damp thud.

Gasping, you braced on your forearms, then shoved the disembodied limb to the ground.

Step four: Arterial ligature.

Using the saw, you cut the rigging on the retractor. Maycott’s flesh sprang back into place, swaddled the shaft of bone like a maiden caught with her stays open. You turned your focus to the meat.

Five principal blood vessels surround the femur.

“Try to breathe deeply, Private Maycott,” you said, reaching for the tenaculum and suture kit. With his leg shed, his screams had receded to tattered whimpers. “The worst is done.”

He didn’t seem to hear you, wracked as he was with spasms, but at least he was breathing at all. You leaned in to inspect your work.

This close, you could see every detail that had evaded your sight while acting only as assistant to Dr. Moore. Electrified, you scanned the bisected tissue, identified and hooked the central artery from its sleeve of muscle. You folded it over, just as you’d observed, and sutured it neatly with silk thread. The remaining four vessels followed with ease, your hands now steady as a hawk’s stare, heart fluttering with something far more intoxicating than fear.

You’d bloody done it.

Just as you were tying off the last vessel, the tent flap opened yet again. Dr. Moore strolled through, inspecting a parchment with his spectacles perched down his nose.

“Miss Goddard tells me there’s an emergency,” he said with all the haste of a sunny Sabbath morning.

“Not anymore,” you said primly, making your final loop and cut. “I have it sorted.”

Dr. Moore looked up, and his whole body seized.

“You…” His mouth fell open, snapped shut. He shoved his spectacles up. “What have you done?”

Parchment fluttering to the ground, he was beside your operating table in two strides.

“I’ve performed an amputation above the knee on Private Maycott here,” you said, chest swelling even as Dr. Moore’s eyes seemed to bulge out of his skull.

“You perf—” He shook his head, as if the very notion had swarmed him like mosquitos. “By yourself?”

“Yes.”

“No, no, no, it isn’t possible—look here, this is all wrong, it’s… it’s…” Dr. Moore leaned over Maycott, faltering as he inspected the stump where the Private’s leg had been. “Hm.”

You stepped back as he circled the table, leaned in to study your handiwork even closer.

“I’ll need to release the tourniquet now, doctor,” you said, moving to do just that. “It’s been affixed for some time, he risks necrosis.”

“Now—now wait just a moment, I—” Dr. Moore pinched the side of his spectacles, squinted hard. “I must ligate the vessels.”

“The ligature is done.”

Dr. Moore gaped at you.

“Well—well of course it must be done properly.” He snatched the tenaculum, moved to fish a perfectly sewn artery from Maycott’s leg, then paused. Squinted again. “Hm.”

Maycott, glassy-eyed and damp with sweat, whined. You cleared your throat.

“Doctor,” you said. “If I may please remove his tourniquet.”

Dr. Moore straightened. Puffing air through his lips, he looked between you and the ailing Maycott on the table.

“Well, I… hm. Well, all right then, b-but do it—”

“Slowly,” you said, reaching for the screw. “I know.”

You unlocked the mechanism and gradually released about one-quarter of the pressure. Both of you swooped down to observe the stump.

A bright, healthy trickle of blood began to leak—but not burst—from the tissues. Your ligatures dammed each artery perfectly. Dr. Moore leaned back from the table, blinking.

Grabbing wads of lint, you began to pack the stump, working quickly while Dr. Moore seemed to behold something realms away. When the wound was covered, you realized he was still standing between you and the roll of bandages you needed.

“Doctor?” you said. “A bandage, if you please?”

Numbly, he passed you the roll.

“Thank you,” you said, and swathed Maycott’s stump, securing the packing. “Wool cap?”

Dr. Moore passed it to you. You shimmied it over the bandage, secured it with a garter, then released the tourniquet entirely.

“There you are, Mr. Maycott,” you said, brushing your palms down the front of your skirts and moving to observe your patient. “All finished.”

His throat worked as he stared through the ceiling. He drew long, ragged breaths. Grabbing a spare cloth, you awkwardly dabbed the sweat from his brow. You weren’t quite sure what else to say. Lottie usually did this part.

All that mattered was that he was alive. He was alive, and you were the reason. A fierce, hot glow swelled in your chest.

You heard movement behind you, turned to see Dr. Moore stooping to pick up his discarded parchment. He had also, you noted, swiped the half-empty rum bottle from the operating table. Straightening, he took a swig, shaking his head as it went down.

“Never in all my days…” the doctor muttered to himself, and ducked through the tent flap.

The tent fluttered shut. You stood, staring into the slit of sun peeking through the bottom as you sank into a chair. Blood painted the front of your bodice, stained the edge of your sleeves all the way to your palms like you’d steeped your arms in a vat of it. Red cracks formed in your elbows—evidence of it settling into your skin.

You didn’t care. Triumph crackled over every inch of you, poured like light from your skin. Had night fallen just then, you could have shone brightly enough to arrest its shadows for a mile.

Maycott laid on the table, short half a leg. His breathing was stable. At least for now, you both could try to relax.

You figured you’d clean your hands to write the report. Though the thought of presenting Cornwallis with a report stamped with bloody handprints was enticing.

After soaking a towel in the wash basin and wiping your forearms, you gathered your ledger of casualties and moved to Dr. Moore’s desk. Pieces of parchment scribbled with words you couldn’t discern were scattered like leaves across the wood. Whatever his numbers were, you didn’t particularly care. Your tent was the only tent you’d want to put your name to, regardless.

Grabbing a fresh piece of parchment and his quill, you began your notations. You’d start by counting the names of the wounded you’d attended.

Beyond the tent, a raucous cheer rolled through the camp, its center shifting with each new reprise. And with each new reprise, your count was interrupted, forcing you to start again. The reminder of their victory irked you, disgusted you. Why were you even writing the report? Would it not have been more beneficial to the Continentals if you’d abdicated your duties when the battle had begun?

You could’ve let Maycott die. Could’ve botched his amputation so badly that he would’ve passed on the table. He wouldn’t have been the first.

But there was only one thought that disgusted you more than the British succeeding, and it was you failing. Intentionally, at that. No matter how beneficial it would’ve been for the Continentals, you would sooner amputate your own leg than sully your character with traits like incompetent or irresponsible.

There would be other opportunities. And more importantly than anything for the cause, you were keeping your father safe by remaining with the British.

You hoped he had managed to heed your warning. Not that you’d be able to get him a letter to verify.

Counting. You needed to focus on counting.

The number of wounded was dozens upon dozens, but most had been a musket ball, or contusion, or abrasion easily treated. Maycott was your final amputation, and the final casualty you counted that day. By tomorrow, more could roll in. Or die.

None of them would be your men, though.

After finishing your total count, you split the numbers into categories by casualty and listed the soldiers with each casualty by name, adding in details like rank and regiment. Lottie had been good at jotting these down in the ledger when you’d been preoccupied with tasks she’d found less appealing.

By the time you completed the report, you guessed it was late afternoon. Papa had been right when he’d complained about Gates—your report had taken at least triple the length of the battle itself. Continental embarrassment was so palpable it wrung the air with a heavy stench.

Or perhaps that had been the Continentals themselves.

Since you had the paper in front of you, you decided to pen another letter to Grace, as well. You’d exchanged a few in the past couple of months—delivery had been slow—and her most recent message had inspired at least a few choice thoughts you needed to express.

Starting the letter, My Dearest Grace, you continued on with a quick summary of recent events, updating her on where you’d been and what you’d been doing. You did not mention seeing your father, or what he’d tasked you with accomplishing.

Toward the end of the letter, you made sure to address her mention of Patrick Ferguson visiting again, adding,

I this very afternoon had the pleasure of meeting your Major Patrick Ferguson, though I am yet undecided how great the pleasure was. But I’ll withhold my judgment…

You were confident she’d understand your disapproval.

Folding the letter, you sealed it with the wax on Dr. Moore’s desk, then scrawled Grace’s name across the front of it before dropping it in the basket for the courier.

“Good afternoon!”

You spun to see Lottie slipping into the tent. Her attention fell on Maycott instantly. Before you could even respond, she was at his bedside.

“Sir,” she cooed, “are you awake?”

He nodded toward her, mumbling out an acknowledgement.

“Good,” she replied, pressing a palm to his forehead. “But remain resting. We’ll be here monitoring you, er, Private, um?”

She looked at you, lost. You nodded. “Maycott.”

“Private Maycott,” she turned her attention back to him. “Brave Private Maycott.”

You couldn’t help yourself—you grinned. Her tenderness comforted you like the scent of tea could comfort more than only those drinking it.

“Lottie, good afternoon.” You skimmed her dirt-dusted bodice. “Dr. Moore kept you at the officer’s tent, did he?”

She nodded. “He seemed to be under the impression you could manage without him.” A sly grin curled her mouth. “I might be inclined to agree.”

You sat a bit straighter. “Well, thank you,” you replied. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Maycott squirmed on the table, and Lottie shushed him, sweeping a hand around his cheek. She looked back up at you. “You are, are you?”

“I am.” Gathering the pages of the casualties in a stack, you stood from the desk. “I’m about to deliver this report to Lord Cornwallis.” You nodded toward Maycott. “You don’t mind observing Private Maycott’s convalescence?”

Lottie smiled. “Of course,” she said, grabbing a chair and plopping right next to him. “Won’t be a bit of trouble, will it, Mr. Maycott?”

He gazed at her and nodded, no doubt sinking into the warm coffee of her eyes.

“Thank you,” you said, casting one final search around to make sure you’d gathered everything. “There’s, ah, willow and alder bark decoctions in the rack there. They taste vile, but see if you can get him to take one of each when he can sit up.”

“I’m sure we’ll manage that.” She patted his hand, brushed a lock of hair from his eyes. “We’ll be old friends by the time he’s ready to leave the tent, right, Private?”

Maycott, delirious from rum and pain, grasped at Lottie’s hand against his cheek.

“Will you marry me?” you thought you heard him slur.

Lottie looked up at you with pink cheeks, lip pinched between her teeth. “Perhaps not that good of friends yet, sir,” she said through a stifled giggle.

Suppressing your own laugh, you turned to leave. The smile fell from Lottie’s face.

“You, ah, don’t want to perhaps…” She gestured toward her torso.

You frowned, glimpsing your sanguine-splattered skirts. “What? Cornwallis is smart enough to figure out what I’ve been doing all day.”

She raised her eyebrows, averting her gaze. “I hope so.”

You snorted. “I doubt he’d have similar complaints for Dr. Moore, so I don’t particularly care if he has complaints for me.” With that, you flounced out of the tent.

Joining with the rest of Cornwallis’ troops had swelled the camp to a size you could hardly comprehend. Not just hundreds, thousands of men had joined Tavington from across South Carolina—which meant twice that number of new eyes staring, surveying, scrutinizing you as you shuffled through the camp.

None of them, as far as you could tell, were Major Patrick Ferguson or Colonel William Tavington, both of whom you wished to avoid for very different reasons. But Ferguson was your current object of ire. The suggestion that he could potentially be a good man irritated you to no end. He hadn’t gotten your permission—or your father’s—to see Grace, and so had no right to call on her at home.

While you weren’t even there.

He had no true respect for you, or your family. That was most clear.

You arrived at Cornwallis’ tent and paused, poised yourself to open it. Familiar voices beyond the canvas arrested you.

“They were my supplies. My dogs, my personal effects.” This was Cornwallis. Clearly furious at whoever he was speaking to. “Does that impress upon you the importance, Colonel?”

Colonel?

“Yes, my Lord,” Tavington replied, his voice tight with restraint, “but certainly—”

“Certainly nothing. Your own single-mindedness, your own short-sightedness is responsible for this. An officer of your caliber should therefore seek to assume that responsibility.”

“Was our victory today not proof enough of my responsibility?”

“Your victory today is but one piece of your responsibility, Colonel Tavington.” Cornwallis sighed. “I expect to hear from this point forward that our supply lines are nothing short of impregnable to this… this rabble.”

“Of course,” Tavington replied. “Of course, my Lord.”

Both men sat in silence. You fought a smile. Your information about the supply lines had been worth something. Knowing that it had ruined Cornwallis’—and by association, Tavington’s—day summoned a devilish thrill in your heart. Unfortunate that it couldn’t have damaged them enough to earn the Continentals a win.

You wondered how thick the air felt inside of the tent.

“When will your men be prepared to depart again, Colonel?”

“Tomorrow morning.” A shuffle, like Tavington was moving closer. “Many are exhausted from the pursuit this afternoon.”

“I received word before your arrival that Sumter’s men remain in the province,” Cornwallis said. A pause, a rustling of parchment. “Set out tomorrow with Major Ferguson’s detachment. Find them, drive them out.”

“Understood, my Lord.”

“And Colonel?”

A pause.

“Remember what we discussed.”

Tavington, the final tether of his patience fraying, replied, “Yes, my Lord.”

Hard, quick footsteps. Before you could dart around the corner, the tent flew open, bringing you face-to-face with Tavington. His eyes brimmed alive with fury.

His attention fell first to the blood smothering your bodice, covering your sleeves. Brow screwing in confusion, he met your gaze. You were paralyzed. For some inane reason, you wanted to tell him what you’d managed to do. Not such a coward now, am I? You could almost imagine his response—something snippy, something that would bring the most reluctant smile to your face.

Like he read your mind, his mouth parted to speak. Then his gaze fell to the papers in your hands. His expression hardened. Blowing rage through his nose, he broke from your stare, pushing past you into the camp.

The tension inside you snapped like a bone. You exhaled, gathering yourself before stepping into the tent yourself. This interior was grander than any tent you’d been inside. A half-eaten spread of fresh food dried on a long table, half-full wine glasses dotted every free surface.

And the Continentals didn’t even have shoes.

“Excuse me?” You stepped forward, bowing to Cornwallis. He was seated at a desk, reviewing the piles of papers that had been stacked on top of it. “Lord Cornwallis?”

“Yes?” He glanced up. A quick blink of confusion. He paused. “You are…” He studied your face, and his brow lifted in recognition. “Ah! You.” The words left tentatively. “The… daughter of the Continental captain, yes?”

You nodded, surprised he remembered you at all. And Tavington had said swearing of loyalty to the King held no value. “Yes, my Lord, that’s me.”

“Well, come in!” he said, urging you forward. His expression faltered. “Oh, my. My dear, you weren’t involved in the battle, were you?”

“No, no, sir.” You gave an embarrassed smile, though you were really quite proud. “I’ve been working in the field hospital since June, actually. I was assisting Dr. Moore today.”

“Were you?” He sat back in his chair, appraising you. “And you’ve brought me his casualty report, I imagine?”

You stepped forward, holding out the stack of parchment to him. “Yes, I have. I just completed it.”

“You completed it?” Cornwallis took the papers and skimmed them. “You can cypher?”

“Yes, I can, my Lord.”

“Incredible.” His eyes flicked to you as he read. “Very well, it seems.” He nodded. “Detailed.” He placed the parchment on his desk and grinned. “Seems as if you were quite involved.”

“I was, my Lord. In fact, I…” You paused, considering your next words. “Despite Major Ferguson’s protests, I was able to help one of his severely injured privates who was pulled from the field.”

“Did you, now?” His jaw dropped in fascination, like you’d just told him that you were a limbless dog who’d learned to ride a horse. “Well, that is impressive indeed.”

“Thank you, sir.”

His gaze fell, his hands steepled and brow furrowed as he considered you. “He protested, did he?” Cornwallis said. “Ferguson?”

“Yes, with quite unbecoming language. Utterly monstrous.” You shrugged away the imaginary barbs the major had thrown at you. “But perhaps he was simply stressed from battle.”

Cornwallis hummed. “That is unlike him,” he replied. “Perhaps I’ll speak with him.”

You held back a smile. There was your one good deed for the day. Cornwallis continued to stare at you, watching while you chewed the inside of your lip. Were you finished? Did he need to dismiss you? Focusing on the ground, you rocked back on your heels.

“Have you been to a ball, my dear?”

You nearly stumbled backwards. “Pardon me, my Lord?”

“We’ll be celebrating this victory at Middleton Place on Saturday,” he said. “I’d like to invite you as our guest.” He grinned. “I think the other officers would be overjoyed to see someone of your position serving our men with such dedication.”

Heat rushed you. You’d never been to a ball. You’d never even considered you’d be given the opportunity to go to one. The thought of trotting around on display for the British army, their little converted Loyalist princess, seemed repugnant to you. But turning down this generosity—and opportunity for information—was too foolish to even debate.

“I’d be honored to attend,” you replied. “Thank you, my Lord.” A small smile. “Though I’m not sure just yet what I’m to wear—”

“Oh, don’t let that concern you,” Cornwallis said. “We’ll provide for you, my dear. Do not fret your little head about it.”

You stilled your tongue. Oh, you would never fret your little head about anything.

You needed to go before you said something like that aloud.

“Thank you, my Lord,” you said. “Your generosity is most appreciated, as ever.” Bowing toward him, you turned and went to leave the tent.

“I look forward to seeing you at Middleton Place, my dear!” he called.

You tossed a grin over your shoulder. “Oh, the anticipation is all mine.”

You stepped into the camp, glancing around. Soldiers were starting fires, rousing each other with merriment. If only, for once, you were a Loyalist. You might have felt excited about what you’d discussed with Lord Cornwallis. Instead, you trudged to your tent with a sinking dread that you had no idea to what you’d just agreed to.