assigned

his two sons, who lounged only a few feet away. James was leaning against the salon's dining table, while John was sitting on one of its chairs. "I realize these two heathens won't have pressed you on the matter, even though such is their brotherly duty. Cherokees and their stupid customs. But—!"
Rogers issued a majestic harrumph. "You and I are civilized Scotsmen, Major Driscol—well, allowing for your bastard Irish brand—and we should conduct ourselves accordingly."
Driscol glanced at the two brothers. James and John wore that same serene Rogers smile on their faces.
There was a battle won. A campaign, rather, since there'd never been any actual conflict. Somewhere, sometime, somehow, in the months since Sam Houston had assigned James and John Rogers to serve as Driscol's bodyguards in a battle, these two Cherokee warriors had shifted their clan allegiance to the figure of their new chief.
They were even smart enough to realize that Driscol intended to forge an entirely new kind of clan.
"You rotten bastard!" Captain John exclaimed, still with that same half-grin. "Bad enough that you intend to strip me of my beloved daughter. I can at least console myself with the thought that, sooner or later, somebody would have done so."
He paused for a moment, and the half grin faded to a quarter grin. "But you! You intend to strip me of my slaves, too, don't you?"
Driscol just smiled. "How could I hope to do that?" He made a dismissive gesture at the officer's insignia he wore on his uniform. "I'm really just a sergeant, you know."
That was nothing but the truth. A very experienced and savvy sergeant, who had no intention of letting a potential opponent know what he was planning.
Another cannonade from the