Author's Note: I am sorry to disappoint anyone looking for something new and exciting—this story is not new, nor has it been completely revised. The story headed in a completely different direction than I envisioned when I first began writing it, with the result that there were some initial plot points I didn't end up using. I was also unhappy with the quality of and characterization within the first few chapters; those have been updated, extended or condensed in order to fit better within the arc of the story as a whole.

Thank you so much for your patience and your support if you've been reading all along, and if you're new to the adventures of Kat and company, I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I've enjoyed writing!

Disclaimer: I obviously don't own Colonel Tavington or "The Patriot" or any of the other characters in it, in this chapter or in any subsequent ones. Lieutenants Bligh and Lawrence are all mine, though.

TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvYTaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY

June 2007

"Maybe I'm stupid!" Paris cried, his beautiful brown eyes filling with tears of frustration. "Maybe I'm holding you back!"

"You're not—holding me back!" I retorted, trying not to give in to the nasty little voice in my head that whispered that this was the truth. "Paris, don't do this to me. Not now. Please. Let's just—"

"Just what, Jess? You want to go away and pretend this never happened? I cannot just step aside and let you go!" Paris looked like he was in pain. I couldn't stand to see it, but I couldn't do what he asked.

I had always known it would be difficult when we graduated from high school, that things between us would have to change, but I had never imagined that it would come to this. Instead of celebrating on the night of my graduation, commemorating the end of an era with all of the people I loved, I was having a fight of epic proportions with Paris. I couldn't see how this could possibly end well, and somehow I knew that everything was going to change, sooner than I had expected.

Taking a deep breath, I fought to steady my voice. "Paris, listen to me. I'm 18. I'm about to go to Harvard. I can't—marry you—not yet! I need a few years, and then—"

"A diversion! You're going to double-major in archaeology and engineering—and minor in American History and who knows what else—and in the meantime, I'll be back here, and you'll forget all about me!" He ran a hand through his dark brown curls, tousling them unselfconsciously.

"I could never forget about you! You're part of me—Paris, I love you, and you know that!" Why was he doing this to me? And why now? As if leaving home wasn't going to be enough of a burden…

Paris said nothing, but the tears welling in his soulful eyes spoke volumes. I suddenly felt completely overwhelmed—guilty at doing this to him, sad that our blissful high school years were over—and somehow, a little angry. And I couldn't stay there a minute longer.

"I—I've got to go. I'll call you later. Paris—listen—I'm sorry," I said, nearly weeping myself. Turning, I ran out of the room, dashed up the stairs, and was out his front door before he could even think about stopping me.

TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvYTaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY

Sometimes it seemed like Paris and I had been together our whole lives. We had, in a sense: we'd grown up on neighboring farms, and we'd always been friends. Paris had taught me to ride, and some of my best memories from my childhood were the races we used to have. He might have had better technique, but I always won. And that pattern stuck. Once things finally heated up between us during sophomore year, we were the It couple. But I was the one who got the glory, who made straight A's and was elected prom queen. Paris was my driving force, but sometimes I felt guilty that he was always in my shadow. Still, he'd never complained…at least not until now.

I had always known I couldn't stay here forever. South Carolina was home, but I needed to get away, to see the world, to experience more than county fairs and debutante balls, to be someone completely new. The day I had gotten the big envelope from Harvard, I could tell that everything was going to change, and I was excited. Paris had seemed okay with it at first, too; I knew that he was happy for me on some level, even now. But as graduation had approached, Paris just clung to me more firmly, and it had ended in—a marriage proposal. I mean, I loved Paris, but…marriage?

I had always done everything that was expected of me, but now it was time to break the mold. For once in my life, I wanted to experience something that everyone in my town hadn't done. I wanted an adventure. And marrying Paris—at least now—would be a guarantee of exactly the opposite.

Tears blurred my vision as I stormed through the rolling fields between Paris's house and mine. I couldn't remember ever feeling so wrong-footed, and I couldn't possibly go to the graduation party now. Everyone there knew me as self-assured Jess, and I was completely incapable of putting on a happy face when I felt like my world had abruptly been turned upside-down.

I halted, squinting toward the dark wood that met the fields behind our houses. I could have sworn I'd seen something there, a flash of metal on the ground within the shade of the trees. Intrigued, I headed toward the woods, my confusion about Paris pushed firmly to the back of my consciousness.

As I walked toward the woods, I began to feel as though I were heading for something very different than the familiar trees beneath which I'd spent so many childhood summers. With each step I took, I felt somehow more removed from the overwhelming drama of my fight with Paris. I was so caught up in my quest to find out what I had seen just inside the trees that I was completely shocked when I heard a voice calling my name. "Jessica!" It was Paris, and he was well behind me, but he must have figured out I was heading for the woods.

I couldn't talk to him, not yet. I sped up, determined to buy myself some time by losing myself in the darkness of the trees. In a moment I had reached the woods—but as I looked around, there was no sign of the glint I had seen from the field. I kept walking, still half-hoping I would discover something to take my mind off my current plight. It was pitch black, but I wasn't scared—how could I be, when I'd spent half my life in these woods?

I walked deeper, and the thickening trees hid almost all light from the moon. I slowed down, realizing abruptly that I could barely see five feet in front of me. And yet—I was conscious of light coming from somewhere to my left. I turned and squinted through the tree trunks to see something emitting a dim glow. I picked my way cautiously toward it, stumbling into a large clearing. And then I saw it: an enormous sword with a gilded gold hilt, gleaming as though it stood in afternoon sunlight. I blinked hard and opened my eyes again, but it was still there. Was this some kind of trick? The pragmatist in me assumed it was, but I had an overwhelming urge to touch the sword and feel it for myself.

I took a step toward it, hand outstretched, but my foot caught under a tree root and I fell to the ground, stunned. Darkness overcame the world.

TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvYTaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY

I awoke to blinding light. I sat up and looked around, disoriented, my head throbbing, my left ankle sore. It was definitely morning—had I really slept all night in the woods? My parents would be so worried! And Paris—I had to go see him. I stumbled to my feet, groggy and in serious need of a Frappuccino. As I picked my way through the woods toward my house, I recalled my bizarre vision of the night before. Had I just imagined that sword? And why had the desire to touch it been so irresistible? I had always been skeptical of the supernatural, and in the bright sunlight that soaked through the tree branches, the whole thing seemed much more like a load of mumbo-jumbo. What I really needed to worry about now was what on earth I was going to say to Paris to make him feel better about my refusal without making him think I'd changed my mind. Completely lost in my thoughts, I didn't notice until I stepped out into the cotton fields behind my house that something was very wrong.

My house was not there.

Panicked, I ran forward through the field—but there was just more field, stretching out in front of me. I flipped out, biting my tongue to keep from screaming. Where was Paris? He'd know what to do! Instinctively, I ran toward the path that connected our houses—but that wasn't there either. "Paris!" I shrieked, now completely freaked. Almost instantly a sound greeted my ears, but it wasn't the one I had been expecting. Horses, and a lot of them. I ran forward, seeing at last an end to the rows of cotton, and came out into a narrow dirt lane. And then I saw them—about thirty men and horses. I recognized their unmistakable forest-green coats instantly. These were Green Dragoons—not for nothing had I aced my AP US History test!

But what were men in Green Dragoon uniforms doing here? Could this be a reenactment? They did those sometimes, though they were usually later in the summer and nearer to major battle sites. This had to be a reenactment—but that did nothing to explain where my house was. Whoever these men on horseback were, they must know something…I'd just have to ask them. I stepped to the side of the road and raised my hand in greeting.

The Dragoons were all around me in an instant. One of them, leaping off of his horse, approached me. He was burly and unshaven, a leer on his face. "Watchoo doin here, all by youssef?" he growled at me, smirking. "Dressed like that…people'll think you's up to no good."

I looked down at my clothes. They weren't my best or anything, but my New Glasgow High Patriots sweatpants were my favorite, and my t-shirt was at least clean. Before I had a chance to say anything, though, he spoke again. "How'd you get all the way out here? You a trollop, or somethin'?"

A trollop? Wasn't this taking things a bit far? Even reenactors had to come out of character sometime… I put my hands on my hips, threw my long blonde hair back over my shoulder, and glared at the man. "Just who the hell do you think you are?!"

The man's jaw dropped open. "You—you—take her, lads!" He swung himself up on his horse again while several others leapt off theirs. One of them grabbed my waist and lifted me up onto his own horse. I tried to kick him, but there were too many of them, and another one hit me across the face with the back of his hand. "That'll teach you to use words like that! Comin' from a lady…"

I could feel my cheek bruising, and I reached up and felt blood. I had to stop fighting, or there would only be more where that came from. I looked up at the one who had hit me. His deep brown eyes were filled with malice, and I knew there would be no sympathy from him. "Oh, Paris, where are you?" I whispered pleadingly, wishing desperately that my beloved were here to save me and knowing somehow that that was impossible.

"Watchoo on about?" growled the man. "Take 'er ter the Colonel. 'E'll know what ter der wit' 'er."

The first man leapt up onto the horse behind me with a nod and a chuckle. "She's in good 'ands here, Sir." He grasped me tightly around the waist and whispered menacingly, " 'Ear that, Miss? I'm to take you to the Colonel. And I want none o' that fuss, or you'll regret the day you was born." I gulped nervously. I'd just have to use my energy to plan an escape as soon as I could…or find a way to steal a rifle.

TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvYTaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY

General Lord Charles Cornwallis strode back and forth along the length of his tent, grimacing, face reddening with anger. The Southern campaign was going as well as could be expected; it would not be long before all of South Carolina was firmly in British control. And yet the General found that he was anything but pleased with the present situation in which he found himself.

He paused next to his writing desk and banged his fist down upon its surface so hard that the ink in the inkpot splattered all over his papers. This did nothing to improve his mood.

"Is something the matter, Milord?" General O'Hara said pleasantly.

Cornwallis was hardly in a humor to be patronized by O'Hara. "Of course something is the matter, O'Hara, or I would hardly be wasting my energy pacing about this tent, would I?" He took a deep breath, his face turning redder still as he remembered the report he had just received. Certainly the Dragoons had won the day, but that was hardly the only consideration in delicate circumstances such as these, and if that man didn't learn to control his temper—!

"Would I be correct to assume that this has something to do with Colonel Tavington's conduct, Milord?" O'Hara's tone was light, but even the mention of the colonel's name sent Cornwallis's jowls a-trembling.

"I cannot have him continuing in this manner, O'Hara! He must be stopped!" Cornwallis took a pinch of snuff and glared at his deputy.

"You could send him—elsewhere, Milord, where he would be of less harm to your reputation."

Cornwallis frowned, waving a hand to dismiss O'Hara's suggestion, which he knew to be motivated by a strong dislike of Tavington. "Nonsense! He's too valuable an asset. No, I must find some way of moderating him. He needs a tempering influence. His brutal tactics must cease." He gazed into the distance, hoping for some sort of epiphany.

"I hear eunuchs are extremely well-tempered," muttered O'Hara. Fortunately for him, his superior did not hear his suggestion, having just thought of the idea he had been seeking.

"He needs a woman, O'Hara!" Cornwallis turned back to his companion, the cherries on his overcoat quivering in his excitement.

O'Hara appeared unimpressed by the suggestion. "An...interesting notion, Milord. But where is such a woman to be found?" He knew that no sane woman, let alone a well-endowed one, would come anywhere near Tavington.

"Therein lies the rub!" Cornwallis pointed an accusatory finger at O'Hara and resumed his pacing. "Where is such a woman to be found?"

As if in answer to his question, a sentry appeared at the flap of his tent. "Milord?"

"What!" barked Cornwallis.

"The patrolmen have found someone, sir. A—young lady, sir. Out in the fields."

"Bring her in," the General growled, with a sidelong glance at O'Hara.

As Cornwallis turned away, O'Hara rolled his eyes. He knew how his superior liked to play matchmaker—though as long as the General's attentions remained focused on Tavington and not himself, he might enjoy the exercise quite a bit.

TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvYTaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY TaVvY