Oh no droughtlander homework is starting

[broughps]

So because of the discussion on another thread about LJG stalking Jamie and family I decided we needed to go through LJG and Jamie's relationship from the very beginning. I will be including the LJG stories in this so beware of spoilers for them if you haven't read them and there will be spoilers for any books you haven't read yet.

So here goes.

Book 2 - DIA - Chapter 36. LJG and Jamie meet for the first time.

I was still standing by the fire, frozen in my original position, when
Jamie reemerged from the Stygian dark of the forest, a captive before him,
one arm twisted behind its back. Loosing his grip, he whirled the dark
figure around and gave it an abrupt shove that sent it crashing backward
into a tree. The man hit the trunk hard, loosing a shower of leaves and
acorns, and slid slowly down to lie dazed in the leaf-meal.

Attracted by the noise, Murtagh, Ross, and a couple of the other Fraser
men materialized by the fire. Hauling the intruder to his feet, they pulled
him roughly into the circle of firelight. Murtagh grabbed the captive by the
hair and jerked his head backward, bringing his face into view.

It was a small, fine-boned face, with big, long-lashed eyes that blinked
dazedly at the crowding faces.

“But he’s only a boy!” I exclaimed. “He can’t be more than fifteen!”
“Sixteen!” said the boy. He shook his head, senses returning. “Not that
that makes any difference,” he added haughtily, in an English accent.
Hampshire, I thought. He was a long way from home.

“It doesn’t,” Jamie grimly agreed. “Sixteen or sixty, he’s just made a
verra creditable attempt at cutting my throat.” I noticed then the reddened
handkerchief pressed against the side of his neck.

“I shan’t tell you anything,” the boy said. His eyes were dark pools in
the pale face, though the firelight shone on the gleam of fair hair. He was
clutching one arm tightly in front of him; I thought perhaps it was injured.
The boy was clearly making a major effort to stand upright among the
men, lips compressed against any wayward expression of fear or pain.

“Some things you don’t need to tell me,” said Jamie, looking the lad
over carefully. “One, you’re an Englishman, so likely you’ve come with
troops nearby. And two, you’re alone.”

The boy seemed startled. “How do you know that?”

Jamie raised his eyebrows. “I suppose that ye’d not have attacked me
unless you thought that the lady and I were alone. If you were with
someone else who also thought that, they would presumably have come to
your assistance just now—is your arm broken, by the way? I thought I felt
something snap. If you were with someone else who knew we were not
alone, they would ha’ stopped ye from trying anything so foolish.” Despite
this diagnosis, I noticed three of the men fade discreetly into the forest in
response to a signal from Jamie, presumably to check for other intruders.

The boy’s expression hardened at hearing his act described as foolish.
Jamie dabbed at his neck, then inspected the handkerchief critically.

“If you’re tryin’ to kill someone from behind, laddie, pick a man who’s
not sitting in a pile of dry leaves,” he advised. “And if you’re using a knife
on someone larger than you, pick a surer spot; throat-cutting’s chancy
unless your victim will sit still for ye.”

“Thank you for the valuable advice,” the boy sneered. He was doing a
fair job at maintaining his bravado, though his eyes flicked nervously from
one threatening, whiskered face to another. None of the Highlanders would
have won any beauty prizes in broad daylight; by night, they weren’t the
sort of thing you wanted to meet in a dark place.

Jamie answered courteously, “You’re quite welcome. It’s unfortunate
that ye won’t get the chance to apply it in future. Why did you attack me,
since I think to ask?”

Men, attracted by the noise, had begun filtering in from the surrounding
campsites, sliding wraithlike out of the woods. The boy’s glance flickered
around the growing circle of men, resting at length on me. He hesitated for
a moment, but answered, “I was hoping to release the lady from your
custody.”

A small stir of suppressed amusement ran around the circle, only to be
quelled by a brief gesture from Jamie. “I see,” he said noncommittally.

“You heard us talking and determined that the lady is English and wellborn.
Whereas I—”

“Whereas you, sir, are a conscienceless outlaw, with a reputation for
thievery and violence! Your face and description are on broadsheets
throughout Hampshire and Sussex! I recognized you at once; you’re a
rebel and an unprincipled voluptuary!” the boy burst out hotly, face stained
a deeper red even than the firelight.

I bit my lip and looked down at my shoes, so as not to meet Jamie’s eye.

“Aye, well. Just as ye say,” Jamie agreed cordially. “That being the
case, perhaps you can advance some reason why I shouldna kill ye
immediately?” Drawing the dirk smoothly from its sheath, he twisted it
delicately, making the fire jump from the blade.

The blood had faded from the young man’s face, leaving him ghostly in
the shadows, but he drew himself upright at this, pulling against the
captors on either side. “I expected that. I am quite prepared to die,” he
said, stiffening his shoulders.

Jamie nodded thoughtfully, then, stooping, laid the blade of his dirk in
the fire. A plume of smoke rose around the blackening metal, smelling
strongly of the forge. We all watched in silent fascination as the flame,
spectral blue where it touched the blade, seemed to bring the deadly iron to
life in a flush of deep red heat.

Wrapping his hand in the bloodstained cloth, Jamie cautiously pulled
the dirk from the fire. He advanced slowly toward the boy, letting the
blade fall, as though of its own volition, until it touched the lad’s jerkin.
There was a strong smell of singed cloth from the handkerchief wrapped
around the haft of the knife, which grew stronger as a narrow burnt line
traced its way up the front of the jerkin in the dagger’s path. The point,
darkening as it cooled, stopped just short of the upwardly straining chin. I
could see thin lines of sweat shining in the stretched hollows of the slender
neck.

“Aye, well, I’m afraid that I’m no prepared to kill ye—just yet.” Jamie’s
voice was soft, filled with a quiet menace all the more frightening for its
control.

“Who d’ye march with?” The question snapped like a whip, making its
hearers flinch. The knife point hovered slightly nearer, smoking in the
night wind.

“I’ll—I’ll not tell you!” The boy’s lips closed tight on the stammered
answer, and a tremor ran down the delicate throat.

“Nor how far away your comrades lie? Nor their number? Nor their
direction of march?” The questions were put lightly again, with a finicking
touch of the blade along the edge of the boy’s jaw. His eyes showed white
all around, like a panicked horse, but he shook his head violently, making
the golden hair fly. Ross and Kincaid tightened their grip against the pull
of the boy’s arms.

The darkened blade pressed suddenly flat along its length, hard under
the angle of the jaw. There was a thin and breathy scream, and the stink of
burning skin.

“Jamie!” I said, shocked beyond bearing. He did not turn to look at me,
but kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner, who, released from the grip on his
arms, had sunk to his knees in the drift of dead leaves, hand clutched to his
neck.

“This is no concern of yours, Madam,” he said between his teeth.

Reaching down, he grabbed the boy by the shirtfront and jerked him to his
feet. Wavering, the knife blade rose between them, and poised itself just
under the lad’s left eye. Jamie tilted his head in silent question, to receive a
minimal but definite negative shake in return.

The boy’s voice was no more than a shaky whisper; he had to clear his
throat to make himself heard. “N-no,” he said. “No. There is nothing you
can do to me that will make me tell you anything.”

Jamie held him for a moment longer, eye to eye, then let go of the
bunched fabric and stepped back. “No,” he said slowly, “I dinna suppose
there is. Not to you. But what about the lady?”

I didn’t at first realize that he meant me, until he grabbed me by the
wrist and yanked me to him, making me stumble slightly on the rough
ground. I fell toward him, and he twisted my arm roughly behind my back.

“You may be indifferent to your own welfare, but ye might perhaps
have some concern for the lady’s honor, since you were at such pains to
rescue her.” Turning me toward himself, he twined his fingers in my hair,
forced my head back and kissed me with a deliberate brutality that made
me squirm involuntarily in protest.

Freeing my hair, he pulled me hard against him, facing the boy on the
other side of the fire. The boy’s eyes were enormous, aghast with
reflections of flame in the wide dark pupils.

“Let her go!” he demanded hoarsely. “What are you proposing to do
with her?”

Jamie’s hands reached to the neck of my gown. With a sudden jerk, he
tore the fabric of gown and shift, baring most of my bosom. Reacting
instinctively, I kicked him in the shin. The boy made an inarticulate sound
and jerked forward, but was stopped short once more by Ross and Kincaid.

“Since you ask,” said Jamie’s voice pleasantly behind me, “I am
proposing to ravish this lady before your eyes. I shall then give her to my
men, to do what they will with. Perhaps ye would like to have a turn
before I kill you? A man should no die a virgin, do ye think?”

I was struggling in good earnest now, my arm held in an iron grip
behind my back, my protests muffled by Jamie’s large, warm palm
clapped over my mouth. I sank my teeth hard into the heel of his hand,
tasting blood. He took his hand sharply away with a smothered
exclamation, but returned it almost immediately, forcing a wadded piece of
cloth past my teeth. I made strangled sounds around the gag as Jamie’s
hands darted to my shoulders, forcing the torn pieces of my gown farther
apart. With a rending of linen and fustian, he bared me to the waist,
pinning my arms at my sides. I saw Ross glance at me and quickly away,
fixing his gaze with dogged intent on the prisoner, a slow flush staining his
cheekbones. Kincaid, himself no more than nineteen, stared in shock, his
mouth open as a flytrap.

“Stop it!” The boy’s voice was trembling, but with outrage now rather
than fear. “You—you unspeakable poltroon! How dare you dishonor a
lady, you Scottish jackal!” He stood for a moment, chest heaving with
emotion, then made up his mind. He raised his jaw and thrust out his chin.

“Very well. I do not see that in honor I have any choice. Release the
lady and I will tell you what you want to know.”

One of Jamie’s hands left my shoulder momentarily. I didn’t see his
gesture, but Ross released the boy’s injured arm and went quickly to fetch
my cloak, which had fallen unheeded to the ground during the excitement
of the boy’s capture. Jamie pulled both my hands behind me, and, yanking
off my belt, used it to bind them securely behind my back. Taking the
cloak from Ross, he swirled it around my shoulders and fastened it
carefully. Stepping back, he bowed ironically to me, then turned to face his
captive.

“You have my word that the lady will be safe from my advances,” he
said. The note in his voice could have been due to the strain of anger and
frustrated lust; I recognized it as the agonized restraint of an overwhelming
impulse to laugh, and could cheerfully have killed him.

Face like stone, the boy gave the required information, speaking in brief
syllables.

His name was William Grey, second son of Viscount Melton. He
accompanied a troop of two hundred men, traveling to Dunbar, intending
to join there with General Cope’s army. His fellows were presently
encamped some three miles to the west. He, William, out walking through
the forest, had seen the light of our fire, and come to investigate. No, he
had no companion with him. Yes, the troop carried heavy armament,
sixteen carriage-mounted “galloper” cannon, and two sixteen-inch mortars.
Most of the troop were armed with muskets, and there was one company
of thirty horse.

The boy was beginning to wilt under the combined strain of the
questioning and his injured arm, but refused an offer to be seated. Instead,
he leaned against the tree, cradling his elbow in his left palm.

The questions went on for nearly an hour, covering the same ground
over and over, pinpointing discrepancies, enlarging details, searching out
the telltale omission, the point evaded. Satisfied at last, Jamie sighed
deeply and turned from the boy, who slumped in the wavering shadows of
the oak. He held out a hand without speaking; Murtagh, as usual divining
his intent, handed him a pistol.

He turned back to the prisoner, busying himself in checking the priming
and loading of the pistol. The twelve inches of heart-butted metal gleamed
dark, the firelight picking out sparks of silver at trigger and priming pin.

“Head or heart?” Jamie asked casually, raising his head at last.

“Eh?” The boy’s mouth hung open in blank incomprehension.

“I am going to shoot you,” Jamie explained patiently. “Spies are usually
hanged, but in consideration of your gallantry, I am willing to give you a
quick, clean death. Do ye prefer to take the ball in the head, or the heart?”

The boy straightened quickly, squaring his shoulders. “Oh, ah, yes, of
course.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I think…in the—in the heart.
Thank you,” he added, as an obvious afterthought. He raised his chin,
compressing lips that still held a suggestion of their soft, childish curve.

Nodding, Jamie cocked the pistol with a click that echoed in the silence
under the oak trees.

“Wait!” said the prisoner. Jamie looked at him inquiringly, pistol
leveled at the thin chest.

“What assurance have I that the lady will remain unmolested after I am
— after I have gone?” the boy demanded, looking belligerently around the
circle of men. His single working hand was clenched hard, but shook
nonetheless. Ross made a sound which he skillfully converted into a
sneeze.

Jamie lowered the pistol, and with an iron control, kept his face
carefully composed in an expression of solemn gravity.

“Weel,” he said, the Scots accent growing broader under the strain, “ye
ha’ my own word, of course, though I quite see that ye might have some
hesitation in accepting the word of a…”—his lip twitched despite himself
—“of a Scottish poltroon. Perhaps ye would accept the assurances of the
lady herself?” He raised an eyebrow in my direction and Kincaid sprang at
once to free me, fumbling awkwardly with the gag.

“Jamie!” I exclaimed furiously, mouth freed at last. “This is
unconscionable! How could you do such a thing? You—you—”

“Poltroon,” he supplied helpfully. “Or jackal, if ye like that better. What
d’ye say, Murtagh,” turning to his lieutenant, “am I a poltroon or a
jackal?”

Murtagh’s seam of a mouth twisted sourly. “I’d say ye’re dogsmeat, if
you untie yon lass wi’out a dirk in yer hand.”

Jamie turned apologetically to his prisoner. “I must apologize to my
wife for forcing her to take part in this deception. I assure you that her
participation was entirely unwilling.” He ruefully examined his bitten hand
in the light from the fire.

“Your wife!” The boy stared wildly from me to Jamie.

“I’ll assure ye likewise that while the lady on occasion honors my bed
with her presence, she has never done so under duress. And won’t now,”
he added pointedly, “but let’s no untie her just yet, Kincaid.”

“James Fraser,” I hissed between clenched teeth. “If you touch that boy,
you’ll certainly never share my bed again!”

Jamie raised one eyebrow. His canines gleamed briefly in the firelight.

“Well, that’s a serious threat, to an unprincipled voluptuary such as
myself, but I dinna suppose I can consider my own interests in such a
situation. War’s war, after all.” The pistol, which had been allowed to fall,
began to rise once more.

“Jamie!” I screamed.


He lowered the pistol again, and turned to me with an expression of
exaggerated patience. “Yes?”

I took a deep breath, to keep my voice from shaking with rage. I could
only guess what he was up to, and hoped I was doing the right thing. Right
or not, when this was over…I choked off an intensely pleasing vision of
Jamie writhing on the ground with my foot on his Adam’s apple, in order
to concentrate on my present role.

“You haven’t any evidence whatever that he’s a spy,” I said. “He says
he stumbled on you by accident. Who wouldn’t be curious if they saw a
fire out in the woods?”

Jamie nodded, following the argument. “Aye, and what about attempted
murder? Spy or no, he tried to kill me, and admits as much.” He tenderly
fingered the raw scratch at the side of his throat.

“Well, of course he did,” I said hotly. “He says he knew you were an
outlaw. There’s a bloody price on your head, for heaven’s sake!”

Jamie rubbed his chin dubiously, at last turning to the prisoner. “Well,
it’s a point,” he said. “William Grey, your advocate makes a good case for
ye. It’s no the policy either of His Highness Prince Charles or myself to
execute persons unlawfully, enemy or no.” He summoned Kincaid with a
wave of the hand.

“Kincaid, you and Ross take this man in the direction he says his camp
lies. If the information he gave us proves to be true, tie him to a tree a mile
from the camp in the line of march. His friends will find him there
tomorrow. If what he told us is not true…”—he paused, cold eyes bent on
the prisoner—“cut his throat.”

He looked the boy in the face and said, without a shadow of mockery, “I
give you your life. I hope ye’ll use it well.”

Moving behind me, he cut the cloth binding my wrists. As I turned
furiously, he motioned toward the boy, who had sat down suddenly on the
ground beneath the oak. “Perhaps ye’d be good enough to tend the boy’s
arm before he goes?” The scowl of pretended ferocity had left his face,
leaving it blank as a wall. His eyelids were lowered, preventing me from
meeting his gaze.

Without a word, I went to the boy and sank to my knees beside him. He
seemed dazed, and didn’t protest my examination, or the subsequent
manipulations, though the handling must have been painful.

The split bodice of my gown kept sliding off my shoulders, and I
muttered beneath my breath as I irritably hitched up one side or the other
for the dozenth time. The bones of the boy’s forearm were light and
angular under the skin, hardly thicker than my own. I splinted the arm and
slung it, using my own kerchief. “It’s a clean break,” I told him, keeping
my voice impersonal. “Try to keep it still for two weeks, at least.” He
nodded, not looking at me.

Jamie had been sitting quietly on a log watching my ministrations. My
breath coming unevenly, I walked up to him and slapped him as hard as I
could. The blow left a white patch on one cheek and made his eyes water,
but he didn’t move or change expression.

Kincaid pulled the boy to his feet and propelled him to the edge of the
clearing with a hand at his back. At the edge of the shadows he halted and
turned back. Avoiding looking at me, he spoke only to Jamie.

“I owe you my life,” he said formally. “I should greatly prefer not to,
but since you have forced the gift upon me, I must regard it as a debt of
honor. I shall hope to discharge that debt in the future, and once it is
discharged…” The boy’s voice shook slightly with suppressed hatred,
losing all its assumed formality in the utter sincerity of his feelings. “…I’ll
kill you!”

Jamie rose from the log to his full height. His face was calm, free of any
taint of amusement. He inclined his head gravely to his departing prisoner.
“In that case, sir, I must hope that we do not meet again.”

The boy straightened his shoulders and returned the bow stiffly. “A
Grey does not forget an obligation, sir,” he said, and vanished into the
darkness, Kincaid at his elbow.

[Bunny]

Both recognize the honorable man within and that begins the basis of a friendship that will be built on respect...

[broughps]

I wonder when the exact moment was that LJG decided not to kill Jamie and that he had gotten Jamie all wrong.

[Bunny]

Reflection on the gift he was given during wartime may have changed his mind, plus a tongue lashing from Hal as to what it would have done to their mother. I’m thinking, though, that he forgot all about Jamie when Hector died. The next time they met, they were not equals and LJG could not, in honor, kill Jamie...and then he got to know him.

[broughps]

I'm thinking there was a point at Ardsmuir sometime when, whether he was allowed or not, LJG thought 'nope don't want to kill him. In fact, why did I want to kill him again?' And that's when their friendship started.

[Bunny]

Probably when Jamie didn’t mock LJG by bringing up his “gallantry”...in fact he appreciated what he did and thanked him. Not so much the Scottish barbarian...and with principles!

[Andorra97]

I love it, that you do this! Thank you!

[broughps]

Ardsmuir.

Book 3 chapter 8

“Not much in the way of local society, I collect?” Grey asked dryly.

Quarry laughed, his broad red face creasing in amusement at the notion.

“Society? My dear fellow! Bar one or two passable blowzabellas down
in the village, ‘society’ will consist solely of conversation with your
officers—there are four of them, one of whom is capable of speaking
without the use of profanity—your orderly, and one prisoner.”

“A prisoner?” Grey looked up from the ledgers he had been perusing,
one fair brow lifted in inquiry.

“Oh, yes.” Quarry was prowling the office restlessly, eager to be off.
His carriage was waiting; he had stayed only to brief his replacement and
make the formal handover of command. Now he paused, glancing at Grey.
One corner of his mouth curled up, enjoying a secret joke.

“You’ve heard of Red Jamie Fraser, I expect?”

Grey stiffened slightly, but kept his face as unmoved as possible.
“I should imagine most people have,” he said coldly. “The man was
notorious during the Rising.” Quarry had heard the story, damn him! All of
it, or only the first part?

Quarry’s mouth twitched slightly, but he merely nodded.

“Quite. Well, we have him. He’s the only senior Jacobite officer here;
the Highlander prisoners treat him as their chief. Consequently, if any
matters arise involving the prisoners—and they will, I assure you—he acts
as their spokesman.” Quarry was in his stockinged feet; now he sat and
tugged on long cavalry boots, in preparation for the mud outside.

“Seumas, mac an fhear dhuibh, they call him, or just Mac Dubh. Speak
Gaelic, do you? Neither do I—Grissom does, though; he says it means
‘James, son of the Black One.’ Half the guards are afraid of him—those
that fought with Cope at Prestonpans. Say he’s the Devil himself. Poor
devil, now!” Quarry gave a brief snort, forcing his foot into the boot. He
stamped once, to settle it, and stood up.

“The prisoners obey him without question; but give orders without his
putting his seal to them, and you might as well be talking to the stones in
the courtyard. Ever had much to do with Scots? Oh, of course; you fought
at Culloden with your brother’s regiment, didn’t you?” Quarry struck his
brow at his pretended forgetfulness. Damn the man! He had heard it all.

“You’ll have an idea, then. Stubborn does not begin to describe it.” He
flapped a hand in the air as though to dismiss an entire contingent of
recalcitrant Scots.

“Which means,” Quarry paused, enjoying it, “you’ll need Fraser’s goodwill—
or at least his cooperation. I had him take supper with me once a
week, to talk things over, and found it answered very well. You might try
the same arrangement.”

“I suppose I might.” Grey’s tone was cool, but his hands were clenched
tight at his sides. When icicles grew in hell, he might take supper with
James Fraser!

“He’s an educated man,” Quarry continued, eyes bright with malice,
fixed on Grey’s face. “A great deal more interesting to talk to than the
officers. Plays chess. You have a game now and then, do you not?”

“Now and then.” The muscles of his abdomen were clenched so tightly
that he had trouble drawing breath. Would this bullet-headed fool not stop
talking and leave?

“Ah, well, I’ll leave you to it.” As though divining Grey’s wish, Quarry
settled his wig more firmly, then took his cloak from the hook by the door
and swirled it rakishly about his shoulders. He turned toward the door, hat
in hand, then turned back.

“Oh, one thing. If you do dine with Fraser alone—don’t turn your back
on him.” The offensive jocularity had left Quarry’s face; Grey scowled at
him, but could see no evidence that the warning was meant as a joke.

“I mean it,” Quarry said, suddenly serious. “He’s in irons, but it’s easy
to choke a man with the chain. And he’s a very large fellow, Fraser.”

“I know.” To his fury, Grey could feel the blood rising in his cheeks. To
hide it, he swung about, letting the cold air from the half-open window
play on his countenance. “Surely,” he said, to the rain-slick gray stones
below, “if he is the intelligent man you say, he would not be so foolish as
to attack me in my own quarters, in the midst of the prison? What would
be the purpose in it?”

Quarry didn’t answer. After a moment, Grey turned around, to find the
other staring at him thoughtfully, all trace of humor gone from the broad,
ruddy face.

“There’s intelligence,” Quarry said slowly. “And then there are other
things. But perhaps you’re too young to have seen hate and despair at close
range. There’s been a deal of it in Scotland, these last ten years.” He tilted
his head, surveying the new commander of Ardsmuir from his vantage
point of fifteen years’ seniority.

Major Grey was young, no more than twenty-six, and with a faircomplexioned
face and girlish lashes that made him look still younger than
his years. To compound the problem, he was an inch or two shorter than
the average, and fine-boned, as well. He drew himself up straight.

“I am aware of such things, Colonel,” he said evenly. Quarry was a
younger son of good family, like himself, but still his superior in rank; he
must keep his temper

<snip>

With the thought of Culloden, the thought of Fraser came back to him;
something he had been avoiding all day. He looked from the blotter to the
folder which held the prisoners’ roll, biting his lip. He was tempted to
open it, and look to see the name, but what point was there in that? There
might be scores of men in the Highlands named James Fraser, but only one
known also as Red Jamie.

He felt himself flush as waves of heat rolled over him, but it was not
nearness to the fire. In spite of that, he rose and went to the window,
drawing in great lungfuls of air as though the cold draft could cleanse him
of memory.

<snip>

He didn’t know, even now, whether it had been an urge to emulate
Hector, or merely to impress him, that had led him to do it. In either case,
when he saw the Highlander in the wood, and recognized him from the
broadsheets as the notorious Red Jamie Fraser, he had determined to kill or
capture him.

The notion of returning to camp for help had occurred to him, but the
man was alone—at least John had thought he was alone—and evidently
unawares, seated quietly upon a log, eating a bit of bread.

And so he had drawn his knife from his belt and crept quietly through
the wood toward that shining red head, the haft slippery in his grasp, his
mind filled with visions of glory and Hector’s praise.

Instead, there had been a glancing blow as his knife flashed down, his
arm locked tight round the Scot’s neck to choke him, and then—
Lord John Grey flung himself over in his bed, hot with remembrance.
They had fallen back, rolling together in the crackling oak-leaf dark,
grappling for the knife, thrashing and fighting—for his life, he had
thought.

First the Scot had been under him, then twisting, somehow over. He had
touched a great snake once, a python that a friend of his uncle’s had
brought from the Indies, and that was what it had been like, Fraser’s touch,
lithe and smooth and horribly powerful, moving like the muscular coils,
never where you expected it to be.

He had been flung ignominiously on his face in the leaves, his wrist
twisted painfully behind his back. In a frenzy of terror, convinced he was
about to be slain, he had wrenched with all his strength at his trapped arm,
and the bone had snapped, with a red-black burst of pain that rendered him
momentarily senseless.

He had come to himself moments later, slumped against a tree, facing a
circle of ferocious-looking Highlanders, all in their plaids. In the midst of
them stood Red Jamie Fraser—and the woman.

Grey clenched his teeth. Curse that woman! If it hadn’t been for her—
well, God knew what might have happened. What had happened was that
she had spoken. She was English, a lady by her speech, and he—idiot that
he was!—had leapt at once to the conclusion that she was a hostage of the
vicious Highlanders, no doubt kidnapped for the purpose of ravishment.
Everyone said that Highlanders indulged in rapine at every opportunity,
and took delight in dishonoring Englishwomen; how should he have
known otherwise!

And Lord John William Grey, aged sixteen and filled to the brim with
regimental notions of gallantry and noble purpose, bruised, shaken, and
fighting the pain of his broken arm, had tried to bargain, to save her from
her fate. Fraser, tall and mocking, had played him like a salmon, stripping
the woman half-naked before him to force from him information about the
position and strength of his brother’s regiment. And then, when he had told
all he could, Fraser had laughingly revealed that the woman was his wife.
They’d all laughed; he could hear the ribald Scottish voices now, hilarious
in memory.

Grey rolled over, shifting his weight irritably on the unaccustomed
mattress. And to make it all worse, Fraser had not even had the decency to
kill him, but instead had tied him to a tree, where he would be found by his
friends in the morning. By which time Fraser’s men had visited the camp
and—with the information he had given them!—had immobilized the
cannon they were bringing to Cope.

Everyone had found out, of course, and while excuses were made
because of his age and his noncommissioned status, he had been a pariah
and an object of scorn. No one would speak to him, save his brother—and
Hector. Loyal Hector.

He sighed, rubbing his cheek against the pillow. He could see Hector
still, in his mind’s eye. Dark-haired and blue-eyed, tender-mouthed,
always smiling. It had been ten years since Hector had died at Culloden,
hacked to pieces by a Highland broadsword, and still John woke in the
dawn sometimes, body arched in clutching spasm, feeling Hector’s touch.

And now this. He had dreaded this posting, being surrounded by Scots,
by their grating voices, overwhelmed with the memory of what they had
done to Hector. But never, in the most dismal moments of anticipation,
had he thought he would ever meet James Fraser again.

The peat fire on the hearth died gradually to hot ash, then cold, and the
window paled from deep black to the sullen gray of a rainy Scottish dawn.
And still John Grey lay sleepless, burning eyes fixed on the smokeblackened
beams above him.

Grey rose in the morning unrested, but with his mind made up. He was
here. Fraser was here. And neither could leave, for the foreseeable future.
So. He must see the man now and again—he would be speaking to the
assembled prisoners in an hour, and must inspect them regularly thereafter
—but he would not see him privately. If he kept the man himself at a
distance, perhaps he could also keep at bay the memories he stirred. And
the feelings.

For while it was the memory of his past rage and humiliation that had
kept him awake to begin with, it was the other side of the present situation
that had left him still wakeful at dawn. The slowly dawning realization that
Fraser was now his prisoner; no longer his tormentor, but a prisoner, like
the others, entirely at his mercy.

He rang the bell for his servant and padded to the window to see how
the weather kept, wincing at the chill of the stone under his bare feet.
It was, not surprisingly, raining. In the courtyard below, the prisoners
were already being formed up in work crews, wet to the skin. Shivering in
his shirt, Grey pulled in his head and shut the window halfway; a nice
compromise between death from suffocation and death from the ague.

It had been visions of revenge that kept him tossing in his bed as the
window lightened and the rain pattered on the sill; thoughts of Fraser
confined to a tiny cell of freezing stone, kept naked through the winter
nights, fed on slops, stripped and flogged in the courtyard of the prison.
All that arrogant power humbled, reduced to groveling misery, dependent
solely on his word for a moment’s relief.

Yes, he thought all those things, imagined them in vivid detail, reveled
in them. He heard Fraser beg for mercy, imagined himself disdaining,
haughty. He thought these things, and the spiked object turned over in his
guts, piercing him with self-disgust.

Whatever he might once have been to Grey, Fraser now was a beaten
foe; a prisoner of war, and the charge of the Crown. He was Grey’s charge,
in fact; a responsibility, and his welfare the duty of honor.

His servant had brought hot water for shaving. He splashed his cheeks,
feeling the warmth soothe him, laying to rest the tormented fancies of the
night. That was all they were, he realized—fancies, and the realization
brought him a certain relief.

He might have met Fraser in battle and taken a real and savage pleasure
in killing or maiming him. But the inescapable fact was that so long as
Fraser was his prisoner, he could not in honor harm the man. By the time
he had shaved and his servant had dressed him, he was recovered enough
to find a certain grim humor in the situation.

His foolish behavior at Carryarrick had saved Fraser’s life at Culloden.
Now, that debt discharged, and Fraser in his power, Fraser’s sheer
helplessness as a prisoner made him completely safe. For whether foolish
or wise, naive or experienced, all the Greys were men of honor.

Feeling somewhat better, he met his gaze in the looking glass, set his
wig to rights, and went to eat breakfast before giving his first address to
the prisoners.

[broughps]

Keeps me out of trouble. 😘 Or gets me into it as the case may be.

[Bunny]

Weren’t they already acquainted, Quarry & LJG? Anyway...what I liked in rereading this passage was that Quarry, knowing the story, still takes into account LJG’ youth and inexperience...and maybe prejudice(.?) against the Scots and Jamie, in particular. The warning about hatred and despair...that may be their initial connection in that it is something they both have in common and in particular to each other.

[broughps]

Do we get more background on Harry and LJG in the LJG books?

[AJ01]

Yes, we do. But not really from before LJG’s Ardsmuir period. It looks like they are hardly acquainted at all here. They become good friends after LJ’s return to London though. Harry’s actually a colonel in Hall’s regiment iirc, so also a very close friend to Hall.

[Bunny]

That must be where I got the impression, but my timeline was tangled. Thanks for unknotting me!

[broughps]

Voyager - chapter 9

Grey’s resolve concerning James Fraser lasted for two weeks. Then the
messenger arrived from the village of Ardsmuir, with news that changed
everything.

“Does he still live?” he asked the man sharply. The messenger, one of
the inhabitants of Ardsmuir village who worked for the prison, nodded.

“I saw him mysel’, sir, when they brought him in. He’s at the Lime Tree
now, being cared for—but I didna think he looked as though care would be
enough, sir, if ye take my meaning.” He raised one brow significantly.

“I take it,” Grey answered shortly. “Thank you, Mr.—”

“Allison, sir, Rufus Allison. Your servant, sir.” The man accepted the
shilling offered him, bowed with his hat under his arm, and took his leave.

Grey sat at his desk, staring out at the leaden sky. The sun had scarcely
shone for a day since his arrival. He tapped the end of the quill with which
he had been writing on the desk, oblivious to the damage he was inflicting
on the sharpened tip.

The mention of gold was enough to prick up any man’s ears, but
especially his.

<snip>

Damn again. All of the prisoners spoke Gaelic, many had some English
as well—but only one spoke French besides. He is an educated man,
Quarry’s voice echoed in his memory.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Grey muttered. It couldn’t be helped. Allison had
said the wanderer was very ill; there was no time to look for alternatives.
He spat out a shred of quill.

“Brame!” he shouted. The startled corporal poked his head in.

“Yes, sir?”

“Bring me a prisoner named James Fraser. At once.”



The Governor stood behind his desk, leaning on it as though the huge slab
of oak were in fact the bulwark it looked. His hands were damp on the
smooth wood, and the white stock of his uniform felt tight around his
neck.

His heart leapt violently as the door opened. The Scot came in, his irons
chinking slightly, and stood before the desk. The candles were all lit, and
the office nearly as bright as day, though it was nearly full dark outside.
He had seen Fraser several times, of course, standing in the courtyard
with the other prisoners, red head and shoulders above most of the other
men, but never close enough to see his face clearly.

He looked different. That was both shock and relief; for so long, he had
seen a clean-shaven face in memory, dark with threat or alight with
mocking laughter. This man was short-bearded, his face calm and wary,
and while the deep blue eyes were the same, they gave no sign of
recognition. The man stood quietly before the desk, waiting.

Grey cleared his throat. His heart was still beating too fast, but at least
he could speak calmly.

“Mr. Fraser,” he said. “I thank you for coming.”

The Scot bent his head courteously, but did not answer that he had had
no choice in the matter; his eyes said that.

“Doubtless you wonder why I have sent for you,” Grey said. He
sounded insufferably pompous to his own ears, but was unable to remedy
it. “I find that a situation has arisen in which I require your assistance.”

“What is that, Major?” The voice was the same—deep and precise,
marked with a soft Highland burr.

He took a deep breath, bracing himself on the desk. He would rather
have done anything but ask help of this particular man, but there was no
bloody choice. Fraser was the only possibility.

“A man has been found wandering the moor near the coast,” he said
carefully. “He appears to be seriously ill, and his speech is deranged.
However, certain…matters to which he refers appear to be of…substantial
interest to the Crown. I require to talk with him, and discover as much as I
can of his identity, and the matters of which he speaks.”

He paused, but Fraser merely stood there, waiting.

“Unfortunately,” Grey said, taking another breath, “the man in question
has been heard to speak in a mixture of Gaelic and French, with no more
than a word or two of English.”

One of the Scot’s ruddy eyebrows stirred. His face didn’t change in any
appreciable way, but it was evident that he had grasped the implications of
the situation.

“I see, Major.” The Scot’s soft voice was full of irony. “And you would
like my assistance to interpret for ye what this man might have to say.”

Grey couldn’t trust himself to speak, but merely jerked his head in a
short nod.

“I fear I must decline, Major.” Fraser spoke respectfully, but with a glint
in his eye that was anything but respectful. Grey’s hand curled tight
around the brass letter-opener on his blotter.

“You decline?” he said. He tightened his grasp on the letter-opener in
order to keep his voice steady. “Might I inquire why, Mr. Fraser?”

“I am a prisoner, Major,” the Scot said politely. “Not an interpreter.”

“Your assistance would be—appreciated,” Grey said, trying to infuse
the word with significance without offering outright bribery.

“Conversely,” his tone hardened, “a failure to render legitimate assistance
—”

“It is not legitimate for ye either to extort my services or to threaten me,
Major.” Fraser’s voice was a good deal harder than Grey’s.

“I did not threaten you!” The edge of the letter-opener was cutting into
his hand; he was forced to loosen his grip.

“Did ye no? Well, and I’m pleased to hear it.” Fraser turned toward the
door. “In that case, Major, I shall bid ye good night.”

Grey would have given a great deal simply to have let him go.
Unfortunately, duty called.

“Mr. Fraser!” The Scot stopped, a few feet from the door, but didn’t
turn.

Grey took a deep breath, steeling himself to it.

“If you do what I ask, I will have your irons struck off,” he said.

Fraser stood quite still. Young and inexperienced Grey might be, but he
was not unobservant. Neither was he a poor judge of men. Grey watched
the rise of his prisoner’s head, the increased tension of his shoulders, and
felt a small relaxation of the anxiety that had gripped him since the news
of the wanderer had come.

“Mr. Fraser?” he said.

Very slowly, the Scot turned around. His face was quite expressionless.
“You have a bargain, Major,” he said softly.



It was well past midnight when they arrived in the village of Ardsmuir. No
lights showed in the cottages they passed, and Grey found himself
wondering what the inhabitants thought, as the sound of hooves and the
jingle of arms passed by their windows late at night, a faint echo of the
English troops who had swept through the Highlands ten years before.

The wanderer had been taken to the Lime Tree, an inn so called because
for many years, it had boasted a huge lime tree in the yard; the only tree of
any size for thirty miles. There was nothing left now but a broad stump—
the tree, like so many other things, had perished in the aftermath of
Culloden, burned for firewood by Cumberland’s troops—but the name
remained.

At the door, Grey paused and turned to Fraser.

“You will recall the terms of our agreement?”

“I will,” Fraser answered shortly, and brushed past him.

In return for having the irons removed, Grey had required three things:
firstly, that Fraser would not attempt to escape during the journey to or
from the village. Secondly, Fraser would undertake to give a full and true
account of all that the vagrant should say. And thirdly, Fraser would give
his word as a gentleman to speak to no one but Grey of what he learned.
There was a murmur of Gaelic voices inside; a sound of surprise as the
innkeeper saw Fraser, and deference at the sight of the red coat behind
him. The goodwife stood on the stair, an oil-dip in her hand making the
shadows dance around her.

Grey laid a hand on the innkeeper’s arm, startled.

“Who is that?” There was another figure on the stairs, an apparition,
clothed all in black.

“That is the priest,” Fraser said quietly, beside him. “The man will be
dying, then.”

Grey took a deep breath, trying to steady himself for what might come.

“Then there is little time to waste,” he said firmly, setting a booted foot
on the stair. “Let us proceed.”

The man died just before dawn, Fraser holding one of his hands, the priest
the other. As the priest leaned over the bed, mumbling in Gaelic and Latin,
making Popish signs over the body, Fraser sat back on his stool, eyes
closed, still holding the small, frail hand in his own.

The big Scot had sat by the man’s side all night, listening, encouraging,
comforting. Grey had stood by the door, not wishing to frighten the man
by the sight of his uniform, both surprised and oddly touched at Fraser’s
gentleness.

Now Fraser laid the thin weathered hand gently across the still chest,
and made the same sign as the priest had, touching forehead, heart, and
both shoulders in turn, in the sign of a cross. He opened his eyes, and rose
to his feet, his head nearly brushing the low rafters. He nodded briefly to
Grey, and preceded him down the narrow stair.

“In here.” Grey motioned to the door of the taproom, empty at this hour.

A sleepy-eyed barmaid laid the fire for them and brought bread and ale,
then went out, leaving them alone.

He waited for Fraser to refresh himself before asking.

“Well, Mr. Fraser?”

The Scot set down his pewter mug and wiped a hand across his mouth.
Already bearded, with his long hair neatly plaited, he didn’t look
disheveled by the long night watch, but there were dark smudges of
tiredness under his eyes.

“All right,” he said. “It doesna make a great deal of sense, Major,” he
added warningly, “but this is all he said.” And he spoke carefully, pausing
now and then to recall a word, stopping again to explain some Gaelic
reference. Grey sat listening in deepening disappointment; Fraser had been
correct—it didn’t make much sense.

“The white witch?” Grey interrupted. “He spoke of a white witch? And
seals?” It scarcely seemed more farfetched than the rest of it, but still he
spoke disbelievingly.

“Aye, he did.”

“Say it to me again,” Grey commanded. “As best you remember. If you
please,” he added.

He felt oddly comfortable with the man, he realized, with a feeling of
surprise. Part of it was sheer fatigue, of course; all his usual reactions and
feelings were numbed by the long night and the strain of watching a man
die by inches.

The entire night had seemed unreal to Grey; not least was this odd
conclusion, wherein he found himself sitting in the dim dawn light of a
country tavern, sharing a pitcher of ale with Red Jamie Fraser.

Fraser obeyed, speaking slowly, stopping now and then to recall. With
the difference of a word here or there, it was identical to the first account
—and those parts of it that Grey himself had been able to understand were
faithfully translated.

He shook his head, discouraged. Gibberish. The man’s ravings had been
precisely that—ravings. If the man had ever seen any gold—and it did
sound as though he had, at one time—there was no telling where or when
from this hodgepodge of delusion and feverish delirium.

“You are quite positive that is all he said?” Grey grasped at the slim
hope that Fraser might have omitted some small phrase, some statement
that would yield a clue to the lost gold.

Fraser’s sleeve fell back as he lifted his cup; Grey could see the deep
band of raw flesh about his wrist, dark in the gray early light of the
taproom. Fraser saw him looking at it, and set down the cup, the frail
illusion of companionship shattered.

“I keep my bargains, Major,” Fraser said, with cold formality. He rose
to his feet. “Shall we be going back now?”

They rode in silence for some time. Fraser was lost in his own thoughts,
Grey sunk in fatigue and disappointment. They stopped at a small spring to
refresh themselves, just as the sun topped the small hills to the north.
Grey drank cold water, then splashed it on his face, feeling the shock of
it revive him momentarily. He had been awake for more than twenty-four
hours, and was feeling slow and stupid.

Fraser had been awake for the same twenty-four hours, but gave no
apparent sign of being troubled by the fact. He was crawling busily around
the spring on his hands and knees, evidently plucking some sort of weed
from the water.

“What are you doing, Mr. Fraser?” Grey asked, in some bewilderment.
Fraser looked up, mildly surprised, but not embarrassed in the slightest.

“I am picking watercress, Major.”

“I see that,” Grey said testily. “What for?”

“To eat, Major,” Fraser replied evenly. He took the stained cloth bag
from his belt and dropped the dripping green mass into it.

“Indeed? Are you not fed sufficiently?” Grey asked blankly. “I have
never heard of people eating watercress.”

“It’s green, Major.”

In his fatigued state, the Major had suspicions that he was being
practiced upon.

“What in damnation other color ought a weed to be?” he demanded.

Fraser’s mouth twitched slightly, and he seemed to be debating
something with himself. At last he shrugged slightly, wiping his wet hands
on the sides of his breeks.

“I only meant, Major, that eating green plants will stop ye getting scurvy
and loose teeth. My men eat such greens as I take them, and cress is bettertasting
than most things I can pick on the moor.”

Grey felt his brows shoot up.

“Green plants stop scurvy?” he blurted. “Wherever did you get that
notion?”

“From my wife!” Fraser snapped. He turned away abruptly, and stood,
tying the neck of his sack with hard, quick movements.

Grey could not prevent himself asking.

“Your wife, sir—where is she?”

The answer was a sudden blaze of dark blue that seared him to the
backbone, so shocking was its intensity.

Perhaps you are too young to know the power of hate and despair.
Quarry’s voice spoke in Grey’s memory. He was not; he recognized them
at once in the depths of Fraser’s eyes.

Only for a moment, though; then the man’s normal veil of cool
politeness was back in place.

“My wife is gone,” Fraser said, and turned away again, so abruptly that
the movement verged on rudeness.

Grey felt himself shaken by an unexpected feeling. In part it was relief.
The woman who had been both cause of and party to his humiliation was
dead. In part, it was regret.

Neither of them spoke again on the journey back to Ardsmuir.



Three days later, Jamie Fraser escaped. It had never been a difficult matter
for prisoners to escape from Ardsmuir; no one ever did, simply because
there was no place for a man to go. Three miles from the prison, the coast
of Scotland dropped into the ocean in a spill of crumbled granite. On the
other three sides, nothing but empty moorland stretched for miles.

Once, a man might take to the heather, depending on clan and kinsmen
for support and protection. But the clans were crushed, the kin dead, the
Scottish prisoners removed far away from their own clan lands. Starving
on the bleak moor was little improvement on a prison cell. Escape was not
worth it—to anyone but Jamie Fraser, who evidently had a reason.



The dragoons’ horses kept to the road; while the surrounding moor looked
smooth as a velvet counterpane, the purpling heather was a thin layer,
deceptively spread over a foot or more of wet, spongy peat moss. Even the
red deer didn’t walk at random in that boggy mass—Grey could see four
of the animals now, stick figures a mile away, the line of their track
through the heather seeming no wider than a thread.

Fraser, of course, was not mounted. That meant that the escaped
prisoner might be anywhere on the moor, free to follow the red deer’s
paths.

It was John Grey’s duty to pursue his prisoner and attempt his recapture.
It was something more than duty that had made him strip the garrison for
his search party, and urge them on with only the briefest of stops for rest
and food. Duty, yes, and an urgent desire to find the French gold and win
approval from his masters—and reprieve from this desolate Scottish exile.
But there was anger, too, and an odd sense of personal betrayal.

Grey wasn’t sure whether he was more angry at Fraser for breaking his
word, or at himself, for having been fool enough to believe that a
Highlander—gentleman or not—held a sense of honor equal to his own.
But angry he was, and determined to search every deer path on this moor if
necessary, in order to lay James Fraser by the heels.

<snip>

It was the most desolate place he had ever seen, though it had a sort of
terrible beauty about it that made the blood run cold in his veins. There
was no sign of James Fraser. No sign of life at all.

<snip>

“Spread out!” Grey ordered. “I want the cliffs searched in both
directions—and keep an eye out for boats below; God knows there’s room
enough to hide a sloop behind some of those islands.”

Abashed, the men went without comment. They returned an hour later,
wet from spray and disheveled with climbing, but with no sign of Jamie
Fraser—or the Frenchman’s Gold.

<snip>

The man at the Lime Tree had come from the sea, his clothes soaked in
saltwater. Whether Fraser had learned something from the man’s words
that he had not told, or had decided only to take the chance of looking for
himself, surely he also would have gone to the sea. And yet there was no
sign of James Fraser, anywhere along this stretch of coast. Worse yet,
there was no sign of the gold.

“If he went in anywhere along this stretch, Major, you’ll have seen the
last of him, I’m thinking.” It was Sergeant Grissom, standing beside him,
gazing down at the crash and whirl of water through the jagged rocks
below. He nodded at the furious water.



Grey lifted his gaze from his horse’s neck, squinting through the dim early
light. His eyes felt swollen from peat smoke and lack of sleep, and his
bones ached from several nights spent lying on damp ground.

The ride back to Ardsmuir would take no more than a day. The thought
of a soft bed and a hot supper was delightful—but then he would have to
write the official dispatch to London, confessing Fraser’s escape—the
reason for it—and his own shameful failure to recapture the man.

The feeling of bleakness at this prospect was reinforced by a deep
griping in the major’s lower abdomen. He raised a hand, signaling a halt,
and slid wearily to the ground.

“Wait here,” he said to his men. There was a small hillock a few
hundred feet away; it would afford him sufficient privacy for the relief he
sorely needed; his bowels, unaccustomed to Scottish parritch and oatcake,
had rebelled altogether at the exigencies of a field diet.

The birds were singing in the heather. Away from the noise of hooves
and harness, he could hear all the tiny sounds of the waking moor. The
wind had changed with the dawn, and the scent of the sea came inland
now, whispering through the grass. Some small animal made a rustling
noise on the other side of a gorse bush. It was all very peaceful.

Straightening up from what too late struck him as a most undignified
posture, Grey raised his head and looked straight into the face of James
Fraser.

He was no more than six feet away. He stood still as one of the red deer,
the moor wind brushing over him, with the rising sun tangled in his hair.
They stood frozen, staring at each other. The smell of the sea came
faintly on the wind. There was no sound but the sea wind and the singing
of meadowlarks for a moment. Then Grey drew himself up, swallowing to
bring his heart down from his throat.

“I fear you take me at a disadvantage, Mr. Fraser,” he said coolly,
fastening his breeches with as much self-possession as he could muster.

The Scot’s eyes were the only part of him to move, down over Grey and
slowly back up. Looked over his shoulder, to where six armed soldiers
stood, pointing their muskets. Dark blue eyes met his, straight on. At last,
the edge of Fraser’s mouth twitched, and he said, “I think ye take me at the
same, Major.”

[broughps]

Voyager chapter 10. part 1

Jamie Fraser sat shivering on the stone floor of the empty storeroom,
clutching his knees and trying to get warm. He thought he likely would
never be warm again. The chill of the sea had seeped into his bones, and
he could still feel the churn of the crashing breakers, deep in his belly.

<snip>

He hadn’t much hope. That wee yellow-haired fiend of a major had
seen, damn his soul—he knew just how terrible the fetters had been.

“Blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God,
pray for us sinners…”

The wee Major had made him a bargain, and he had kept it. The major
would not be thinking so, though.

He had kept his oath, had done as he promised. Had relayed the words
spoken to him, one by one, just as he had heard them from the wandering
man. It was no part of his bargain to tell the Englishman that he knew the
man—or what conclusions he had drawn from the muttered words.

<snip>

The innkeeper was watching, from his place near the door, peering over
Major Grey’s shoulder. Jamie had bent his head and whispered in
Duncan’s ear, “All you say will be told to the English. Speak wary.” The
landlord’s eyes narrowed, but the distance between them was too far;
Jamie was sure he hadn’t heard. Then the Major had turned and ordered
the innkeeper out, and he was safe.

<snip>

Major Grey stood close, on the other side of the bed, brow furrowed as
he watched Duncan’s face. The Englishman had no Gaelic, but Jamie
would have been willing to wager that he knew the word for gold. He
caught the Major’s eye, and nodded, bending again to speak to the sick
man.

“The gold, man,” he said, in French, loud enough for Grey to hear.

“Where is the gold?” He squeezed Duncan’s hand as hard as he could,
hoping to convey some warning.

Duncan’s eyes closed, and he rolled his head restlessly, to and fro upon
the pillow. He muttered something, but the words were too faint to catch.

“What did he say?” the Major demanded sharply. “What?”

“I don’t know.” Jamie patted Duncan’s hand to rouse him. “Speak to
me, man, tell me again.”

There was no response save more muttering. Duncan’s eyes had rolled
back in his head, so that only a thin line of gleaming white showed beneath
the wrinkled lids. Impatient, the Major leaned forward and shook him by
one shoulder.

“Wake up!” he said. “Speak to us!”

<snip>

And so, Jamie Fraser had kept his word to the Englishman—and his
obligation to his countrymen. He had told the Major all that Duncan had
said, and the devil of a help to him that had been! And when the
opportunity of escape offered, he had taken it—gone to the heather and
sought the sea, and done what he could with Duncan Kerr’s legacy. And
now he must pay the price of his actions, whatever that turned out to be.

<snip>

The man’s face twisted, fierce and ruddy in the torchlight. “To the
Major’s quarters,” the guard said, grinning. “And may God have mercy on
your soul, Mac Dubh.”

“No, sir, I will not say where I have been.” He repeated it firmly, trying
not to let his teeth chatter. He had been brought not to the office, but to
Grey’s private sitting room. There was a fire on the hearth, but Grey was
standing in front of it, blocking most of the warmth.

“Nor why you chose to escape?” Grey’s voice was cool and formal.
Jamie’s face tightened. He had been placed near the bookshelf, where
the light of a triple-branched candlestick fell on his face; Grey himself was
no more than a silhouette, black against the fire’s glow.

“That is my private affair,” he said.

“Private affair?” Grey echoed incredulously. “Did you say your private
affair?”

“I did.”

The Governor inhaled strongly through his nose.

“That is possibly the most outrageous thing I have heard in my life!”

“Your life has been rather brief, then, Major,” Fraser said. “If you will
pardon my saying so.” There was no point in dragging it out or trying to
placate the man. Better to provoke a decision at once and get it over with.
He had certainly provoked something; Grey’s fists clenched tight at his
sides, and he took a step toward him, away from the fire.

“Have you any notion what I could do to you for this?” Grey inquired,
his voice low and very much controlled.

“Aye, I have. Major.” More than a notion. He knew from experience
what they might do to him, and he wasn’t looking forward to it. It wasn’t
as though he’d a choice about it, though.

Grey breathed heavily for a moment, then jerked his head.

“Come here, Mr. Fraser,” he ordered. Jamie stared at him, puzzled.

“Here!” he said peremptorily, pointing to a spot directly before him on
the hearthrug. “Stand here, sir!”

“I am not a dog, Major!” Jamie snapped. “Ye’ll do as ye like wi’ me,
but I’ll no come when ye call me to heel!”

Taken by surprise, Grey uttered a short, involuntary laugh.

“My apologies, Mr. Fraser,” he said dryly. “I meant no offense by the
address. I merely wish you to approach nearer. If you will?” He stepped
aside and bowed elaborately, gesturing to the hearth.

Jamie hesitated, but then stepped warily onto the patterned rug. Grey
stepped close to him, nostrils flared. So close, the fine bones and fair skin
of his face made him look almost girlish. The Major put a hand on his
sleeve, and the long-lashed eyes sprang wide in shock.

“You’re wet!”

“Yes, I am wet,” Jamie said, with elaborate patience. He was also
freezing. A fine, continuous shiver ran through him, even this close to the
fire.

“Why?”

“Why?” Jamie echoed, astonished. “Did you not order the guards to
douse me wi’ water before leaving me in a freezing cell?”

“I did not, no.” It was clear enough that the Major was telling the truth;
his face was pale under the ruddy flush of the firelight, and he looked
angry. His lips thinned to a fine line.

“I apologize for this, Mr. Fraser.”

“Accepted, Major.” Small wisps of steam were beginning to rise from
his clothes, but the warmth was seeping through the damp cloth. His
muscles ached from the shivering, and he wished he could lie down on the
hearthrug, dog or not.

“Did your escape have anything to do with the matter of which you
learned at the Lime Tree Inn?”

Jamie stood silent. The ends of his hair were drying, and small wisps
floated across his face.

“Will you swear to me that your escape had nothing to do with that
matter?”

Jamie stood silent. There seemed no point in saying anything, now.
The little Major was pacing up and down the hearth before him, hands
locked behind his back. Now and then, the Major glanced up at him, and
then resumed his pacing.

Finally he stopped in front of Jamie.

“Mr. Fraser,” he said formally. “I will ask you once more—why did you
escape from the prison?”

Jamie sighed. He wouldn’t get to stand by the fire much longer.

“I cannot tell you, Major.”

“Cannot or will not?” Grey asked sharply.

“It doesna seem a useful distinction, Major, as ye willna hear anything,
either way.” He closed his eyes and waited, trying to soak up as much heat
as possible before they took him away.

Grey found himself at a loss, both for words and action. Stubborn does
not begin to describe it, Quarry had said. It didn’t.

He took a deep breath, wondering what to do. He found himself
embarrassed by the petty cruelty of the guards’ revenge; the more so
because it was just such an action he had first contemplated upon hearing
that Fraser was his prisoner.

He would be perfectly within his rights now to order the man flogged, or
put back in irons. Condemned to solitary confinement, put on short rations
—he could in justice inflict any of a dozen different punishments. And if
he did, the odds of his ever finding the Frenchman’s Gold became
vanishingly small.

The gold did exist. Or at least there was a good probability that it did.
Only a belief in that gold would have stirred Fraser to act as he had.
He eyed the man. Fraser’s eyes were closed, his lips set firmly. He had a
wide, strong mouth, whose grim expression was somewhat belied by the
sensitive lips, set soft and exposed in their curly nest of red beard.

Grey paused, trying to think of some way to break past the man’s wall
of bland defiance. To use force would be worse than useless—and after the
guards’ actions, he would be ashamed to order it, even had he the stomach
for brutality.

The clock on the mantelpiece struck ten. It was late; there was no sound
in the fortress, save the occasional footsteps of the soldier on sentry in the
courtyard outside the window.

Clearly neither force nor threat would work in gaining the truth.

Reluctantly, he realized that there was only one course open to him, if he
still wished to pursue the gold. He must put aside his feelings about the
man and take Quarry’s suggestion. He must pursue an acquaintance, in the
course of which he might worm out of the man some clue that would lead
him to the hidden treasure.

If it existed, he reminded himself, turning to his prisoner. He took a
deep breath.

“Mr. Fraser,” he said formally, “will you do me the honor to take supper
tomorrow in my quarters?”

He had the momentary satisfaction of having startled the Scottish
bastard, at least. The blue eyes opened wide, and then Fraser regained the
mastery of his face. He paused for a moment, and then bowed with a
flourish, as though he wore a kilt and swinging plaid, and not damp prison
rags.

“It will be my pleasure to attend ye, Major,” he said.



March 7, 1755
Fraser was delivered by the guard and left to wait in the sitting room,
where a table was laid. When Grey came through the door from his
bedroom a few moments later, he found his guest standing by the
bookshelf, apparently absorbed in a copy of Nouvelle Héloïse.

“You are interested in French novels?” he blurted, not realizing until too
late how incredulous the question sounded.

Fraser glanced up, startled, and snapped the book shut. Very
deliberately, he returned it to its shelf.

“I can read, Major,” he said. He had shaved; a slight flush burned high
on his cheekbones.

“I—yes, of course I did not mean—I merely—” Grey’s own cheeks
were more flushed than Fraser’s. The fact was that he had subconsciously
assumed that the other did not read, his evident education notwithstanding,
merely because of his Highland accent and shabby dress.

While his coat might be shabby, Fraser’s manners were not. He ignored
Grey’s flustered apology, and turned to the bookshelf.

“I have been telling the men the story, but it has been some time since I
read it; I thought I would refresh my memory as to the sequence of the
ending.”

“I see.” Just in time, Grey stopped himself from saying “They
understand it?”

Fraser evidently read the unspoken question in his face, for he said
dryly, “All Scottish children are taught their letters, Major. Still, we have a
great tradition of storytelling in the Highlands.”

“Ah. Yes. I see.”

The entry of his servant with dinner saved him from further
awkwardness, and the supper passed uneventfully, though there was little
conversation, and that little, limited to the affairs of the prison.

The next time, he had had the chess table set up before the fire, and invited
Fraser to join him in a game before the supper was served. There had been
a brief flash of surprise from the slanted blue eyes, and then a nod of
acquiescence.

That had been a small stroke of genius, Grey thought in retrospect.
Relieved of the need for conversation or social courtesies, they had slowly
become accustomed to each other as they sat over the inlaid board of ivory
and ebony-wood, gauging each other silently by the movements of the
chessmen.

When they had at length sat down to dine, they were no longer quite
strangers, and the conversation, while still wary and formal, was at least
true conversation, and not the awkward affair of starts and stops it had
been before. They discussed matters of the prison, had a little conversation
of books, and parted formally, but on good terms. Grey did not mention
gold.



And so the weekly custom was established. Grey sought to put his guest at
ease, in the hopes that Fraser might let drop some clue to the fate of the
Frenchman’s Gold. It had not come so far, despite careful probing. Any
hint of inquiry as to what had transpired during the three days of Fraser’s
absence from Ardsmuir met with silence.

Over the mutton and boiled potatoes, he did his best to draw his odd
guest into a discussion of France and its politics, by way of discovering
whether there might exist any links between Fraser and a possible source
of gold from the French Court.

Much to his surprise, he was informed that Fraser had in fact spent two
years living in France, employed in the wine business, prior to the Stuart
rebellion.

A certain cool humor in Fraser’s eyes indicated that the man was well
aware of the motives behind this questioning. At the same time, he
acquiesced gracefully enough in the conversation, though taking some care
always to lead questions away from his personal life, and instead toward
more general matters of art and society.

Grey had spent some time in Paris, and despite his attempts at probing
Fraser’s French connections, found himself becoming interested in the
conversation for its own sake.

“Tell me, Mr. Fraser, during your time in Paris, did you chance to
encounter the dramatic works of Monsieur Voltaire?”

Fraser smiled. “Oh, aye, Major. In fact, I was privileged to entertain
Monsieur Arouet—Voltaire being his nom de plume, aye?—at my table,
on more than one occasion.”

“Really?” Grey cocked a brow in interest. “And is he as great a wit in
person as with the pen?”

“I couldna really say,” Fraser replied, tidily forking up a slice of mutton.

“He seldom said anything at all, let alone much sparkling with wit. He
only sat hunched over in his chair, watching everyone, wi’ his eyes rolling
about from one to another. I shouldna be at all surprised to hear that things
said at my dinner table later appeared on the stage, though fortunately I
never encountered a parody of myself in his work.” He closed his eyes in
momentary concentration, chewing his mutton.

“Is the meat to your taste, Mr. Fraser?” Grey inquired politely. It was
gristled, tough, and seemed barely edible to him. But then, he might well
think differently, had he been eating oatmeal, weeds, and the occasional
rat.

“Aye, it is, Major, I thank ye.” Fraser dabbed up a bit of wine sauce and
brought the last bite to his lips, making no demur when Grey signaled
MacKay to bring back the platter.

“Monsieur Arouet wouldna appreciate such an excellent meal, I’m
afraid,” Fraser said, shaking his head as he helped himself to more mutton.

“I should expect a man so feted in French society to have somewhat
more exacting tastes,” Grey answered dryly. Half his own meal remained
on his plate, destined for the supper of the cat Augustus.

Fraser laughed. “Scarcely that, Major,” he assured Grey. “I have never
seen Monsieur Arouet consume anything beyond a glass of water and a dry
biscuit, no matter how lavish the occasion. He’s a weazened wee scrap of a
man, ye ken, and a martyr to the indigestion.”

“Indeed?” Grey was fascinated. “Perhaps that explains the cynicism of
some of the sentiments I have seen expressed in his plays. Or do you not
think that the character of an author shows in the construction of his
work?”

“Given some of the characters that I have seen appear in plays and
novels, Major, I should think the author a bit depraved who drew them
entirely from himself, no?”

“I suppose that is so,” Grey answered, smiling at the thought of some of
the more extreme fictional characters with whom he was acquainted.
“Though if an author constructs these colorful personages from life, rather
than from the depths of imagination, surely he must boast a most varied
acquaintance!”

Fraser nodded, brushing crumbs from his lap with the linen napkin.

“It was not Monsieur Arouet, but a colleague of his—a lady novelist—
who remarked to me once that writing novels was a cannibal’s art, in
which one often mixed small portions of one’s friends and one’s enemies
together, seasoned them with imagination, and allowed the whole to stew
together into a savory concoction.”

Grey laughed at the description, and beckoned to MacKay to take away
the plates and bring in the decanters of port and sherry.

“A delightful description, indeed! Speaking of cannibals, though, have
you chanced to be acquainted with Mr. Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe? It has
been a favorite of mine since boyhood.”

The conversation turned then to romances, and the excitement of the
tropics. It was very late indeed when Fraser returned to his cell, leaving
Major Grey entertained, but no wiser concerning either the source or the
disposition of the wanderer’s gold.



2 April, 1755

To Harold, Lord Melton, Earl of Moray

My dear Hal, he wrote, I write to inform you of a recent occurrence
which has much engaged my attention. It may amount in the end to
nothing, but if there be any substance in the matter, it is of great import.
The details of the wandering man’s appearance, and the report of his
ravings followed swiftly, but Grey found himself slowing as he told of
Fraser’s escape and recapture.

The fact that Fraser vanished from the precincts of the prison so
soon following these events suggests strongly to me that there was in
truth some substance in the vagrant’s words.

If this were the case, however, I find myself at a loss to account for
Fraser’s subsequent actions. He was recaptured within three days of
his escape, at a point no more than a mile from the coast. The
country-side beyond the prison is deserted for a great many miles
beyond the village of Ardsmuir, and there is little likelihood of his
meeting with a confederate to whom he might pass word of the
treasure. Every house in the village has been searched, as was Fraser
himself, with no trace discovered of any gold. It is a remote district,
and I am reasonably sure that he communicated with no one outside
the prison prior to his escape—I am positive that he has not done so
since, for he is closely watched.

Grey stopped, seeing once more the windswept figure of James Fraser,
wild as the red stags and as much at home on the moor as one of them.
He had not the slightest doubt that Fraser could have eluded the
dragoons easily, had he so chosen, but he had not. He had deliberately
allowed himself to be recaptured. Why? He resumed writing, more slowly.

It may be, of course, that Fraser failed to find the treasure, or that
such a treasure does not exist. I find myself somewhat inclined to this
belief, for if he were in possession of a great sum, surely he would
have departed from the district at once? He is a strong man, wellaccustomed
to rough living, and entirely capable, I believe, of making
his way overland to some point on the coast from which he might
make an escape by sea.

Grey bit the end of the quill gently, tasting ink. He made a face at the
bitterness, rose, and spat out the window. He stood there for a minute,
looking out into the cold spring night, absently wiping his mouth.

It had finally occurred to him to ask; not the question he had been
asking all along, but the more important one. He had done it at the
conclusion of a game of chess, which Fraser had won. The guard was
standing at the door, ready to escort Fraser back to his cell; as the prisoner
had risen from his seat, Grey had stood up, too.

“I shall not ask you again why you left the prison,” he had said, calmly
conversational. “But I will ask you—why did you come back?”

Fraser had frozen briefly, startled. He turned back and met Grey’s eyes
directly. For a moment he said nothing. Then his mouth curled up in a
smile.

“I suppose I must value the company, Major; I can tell ye, it’s not the
food.”

Grey snorted slightly, remembering. Unable to think of a suitable
response, he had allowed Fraser to leave. It was only later that night that
he had laboriously arrived at an answer, at last having had the wit to ask
questions of himself, rather than of Fraser. What would he, Grey, have
done, had Fraser not returned?

The answer was that his next step would have been an inquiry into
Fraser’s family connections, in case the man had sought refuge or help
from them.

<snip>

You will know, I think, the mettle of the Scots, he wrote. That one in
particular, he thought wryly.

It is unlikely that any force or threat I can exert will induce Fraser
to reveal the whereabouts of the gold—should it exist, and if it does
not, I can still less expect any threat to be effective! I have instead
chosen to begin a formal acquaintance with Fraser, in his capacity as
chief of the Scottish prisoners, in hopes of surprising some clue from
his conversation. So far, I have gained nothing from this process. One
further avenue of approach suggests itself, however.

For obvious reasons, he went on, writing slowly as he formed the
thought, I do not wish to make this matter known officially. To call
attention to a hoard that might well prove to be chimerical was dangerous;
the chance of disappointment was too great. Time enough, if the gold were
found, to inform his superiors and collect his deserved reward—escape
from Ardsmuir; a posting back to civilization.

Therefore I approach you, dear brother, and ask for your help in
discovering what particulars may obtain regarding the family of
James Fraser. I pray you, do not let anyone be alarmed by your
inquiries; if such family connections exist, I would have them
ignorant of my interest for the present. My deepest thanks for any
efforts you may be able to exert on my behalf, and believe me always,

He dipped the pen once more and signed with a small flourish,

Your humble servant and most affectionate brother,

John William Grey.

[broughps]

Voyager chapter 10 part 2

May 15, 1755

“The men sick of la grippe,” Grey inquired, “how do they fare?” Dinner
was over, and with it their conversation of books. Now it was time for
business.

Fraser frowned over the single glass of sherry that was all he would
accept in the way of drink. He still had not tasted it, though dinner had
been over for some time.

“None so well. I have more than sixty men ill, fifteen of them verra
badly off.” He hesitated. “Might I ask…”

“I can promise nothing, Mr. Fraser, but you may ask,” Grey answered
formally. He had barely sipped his own sherry, nor more than tasted his
dinner; his stomach had been knotted with anticipation all day.

Jamie paused a moment longer, calculating his chances. He wouldn’t get
everything; he must try for what was most important, but leave Grey room
to reject some requests.

“We have need of more blankets, Major, more fires, and more food.
And medicines.”

Grey swirled the sherry in his cup, watching the light from the fire play
in the vortex. Ordinary business first, he reminded himself. Time enough
for the other, later.

“We have no more than twenty spare blankets in store,” he answered,
“but you may have those for the use of the very sick. I fear I cannot
augment the ration of food; the rat-spoilage has been considerable, and we
lost a great quantity of meal in the collapse of the storeroom two months
ago. We have limited resources, and—”

“It is not so much a question of more,” Fraser put in quickly. “But rather
of the type of food. Those who are most ill cannot readily digest the bread
and parritch. Perhaps a substitution of some sort might be arranged?” Each
man was given, by law, a quart of oatmeal parritch and a small wheaten
loaf each day. Thin barley brose supplemented this twice each week, with
a quart of meat stew added on Sunday, to sustain the needs of men
working at manual labor for twelve to sixteen hours per day.

Grey raised one eyebrow. “What are you suggesting, Mr. Fraser?”

“I assume that the prison does have some allowance for the purchase of
salt beef, turnips and onions, for the Sunday stew?”

“Yes, but that allowance must provide for the next quarter’s supplies.”

“Then what I suggest, Major, is that you might use that money now to
provide broth and stew for those who are sick. Those of us who are hale
will willingly forgo our share of meat for the quarter.”

Grey frowned. “But will the prisoners not be weakened, with no meat at
all? Will they not be unable to work?”

“Those who die of the grippe will assuredly not work,” Fraser pointed
out acerbically.

Grey snorted briefly. “True. But those of you who remain healthy will
not be healthy long, if you give up your rations for so long a time.” He
shook his head. “No, Mr. Fraser, I think not. It is better to let the sick take
their chances than to risk many more falling ill.”

Fraser was a stubborn man. He lowered his head for a moment, then
looked up to try again.

“Then I would ask your leave to hunt for ourselves, Major, if the Crown
cannot supply us with adequate food.”

“Hunt?” Grey’s fair brows rose in astonishment. “Give you weapons
and allow you to wander the moors? God’s teeth, Mr. Fraser!”

“I think God doesna suffer much from the scurvy, Major,” Jamie said
dryly. “His teeth are in no danger.” He saw the twitch of Grey’s mouth and
relaxed slightly. Grey always tried to suppress his sense of humor, no
doubt feeling that put him at a disadvantage. In his dealings with Jamie
Fraser, it did.

Emboldened by that telltale twitch, Jamie pressed on.

“Not weapons, Major. And not wandering. Will ye give us leave to set
snares upon the moor when we cut peats, though? And to keep such meat
as we take?” A prisoner would now and then contrive a snare as it was, but
as often as not, the catch would be taken from him by the guards.

Grey drew a deep breath and blew it out slowly, considering.

“Snares? Would you not require materials for the construction of these
snares, Mr. Fraser?”

“Only a bit of string, Major,” Jamie assured him. “A dozen balls, no
more, of any sort of twine or string, and ye may leave the rest to us.”

Grey rubbed slowly at his cheek in contemplation, then nodded.

“Very well.” The Major turned to the small secretary, plucked the quill
out of its inkwell and made a note. “I shall give orders to that effect
tomorrow. Now, as to the rest of your requests…”

A quarter-hour later, it was settled. Jamie sat back at last, sighing, and
finally took a sip of his sherry. He considered that he had earned it.

He had permission not only for the snares, but for the peat-cutters to
work an extra half-hour per day, the extra peats to provide for an
additional small fire in each cell. No medicines were to be had, but he had
leave for Sutherland to send a message to a cousin in Ullapool, whose
husband was an apothecary. If the cousin’s husband were willing to send
medicines, the prisoners could have them.

A decent evening’s work, Jamie thought. He took another sip of sherry
and closed his eyes, enjoying the warmth of the fire against his cheek.
Grey watched his guest beneath lowered lids, seeing the broad shoulders
slump a little, tension eased now that their business was finished. Or so
Fraser thought. Very good, Grey thought to himself. Yes, drink your
sherry and relax. I want you thoroughly off guard.

He leaned forward to pick up the decanter, and felt the crackle of Hal’s
letter in his breast pocket. His heart began to beat faster.

“Will you not take a drop more, Mr. Fraser? And tell me—how does
your sister fare these days?”

He saw Fraser’s eyes spring open, and his face whiten with shock.

“How are matters there at—Lallybroch, they call it, do they not?” Grey
pushed aside the decanter, keeping his eyes fixed on his guest.

“I could not say, Major.” Fraser’s voice was even, but his eyes were
narrowed to slits.

“No? But I daresay they do very well these days, what with the gold you
have provided them.”

The broad shoulders tightened suddenly, bunched under the shabby
coat. Grey carelessly picked up one of the chessmen from the nearby
board, tossing it casually from one hand to the other.

“I suppose Ian—your brother-in-law is named Ian, I think?—will know
how to make good use of it.”

Fraser had himself under control again. The dark blue eyes met Grey’s
directly.

“Since you are so well informed as to my connections, Major,” he said
evenly, “I must suppose that you also are aware that my home lies well
over a hundred miles from Ardsmuir. Perhaps you will explain how I
might have traveled that distance twice within the space of three days?”

Grey’s eyes stayed on the chess piece, rolling idly from hand to hand. It
was a pawn, a cone-headed little warrior with a fierce face, carved from a
cylinder of walrus ivory.

“You might have met someone upon the moor who would have borne
word of the gold—or borne the gold itself—to your family.”

Fraser snorted briefly.

“On Ardsmuir? How likely is it, Major, that I should by happenstance
encounter a person known to me on that moor? Much less that it should be
a person whom I would trust to convey a message such as you suggest?”

He set down his glass with finality. “I met no one on the moor, Major.”

“And should I trust your word to that effect, Mr. Fraser?” Grey allowed
considerable skepticism to show in his voice. He glanced up, brows raised.
Fraser’s high cheekbones flushed slightly.

“No one has ever had cause to doubt my word, Major,” he said stiffly.

“Have they not, indeed?” Grey was not altogether feigning his anger. “I
believe you gave me your word, upon the occasion of my ordering your
irons stricken off!”

“And I kept it!”

“Did you?” The two men sat upright, glaring at each other over the
table.

“You asked three things of me, Major, and I have kept that bargain in
every particular!”

Grey gave a contemptuous snort.

“Indeed, Mr. Fraser? And if that is so, pray what was it caused you
suddenly to despise the company of your fellows and seek congress with
the coneys on the moor? Since you assure me that you met no one else—
you give me your word that it is so.” This last was spoken with an audible
sneer that brought the color surging into Fraser’s face.

One of the big hands curled slowly into a fist.

“Aye, Major,” he said softly. “I give ye my word that that is so.” He
seemed to realize at this point that his fist was clenched; very slowly, he
unfolded it, laying his hand flat on the table.

“And as to your escape?”

“And as to my escape, Major, I have told you that I will say nothing.”
Fraser exhaled slowly and sat back in his chair, eyes fixed on Grey under
thick, ruddy brows.

Grey paused for a moment, then sat back himself, setting the chess piece
on the table.

“Let me speak plainly, Mr. Fraser. I do you the honor of assuming you
to be a sensible man.”

“I am deeply sensible of the honor, Major, I do assure you.”

Grey heard the irony, but did not respond; he held the upper hand now.

“The fact is, Mr. Fraser, that it is of no consequence whether you did in
fact communicate with your family regarding the matter of the gold. You
might have done so. That possibility alone is sufficient to warrant my
sending a party of dragoons to search the premises of Lallybroch—
thoroughly—and to arrest and interrogate the members of your family.”

He reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a piece of paper.

Unfolding it, he read the list of names.

“Ian Murray—your brother-in-law, I collect? His wife, Janet. That
would be your sister, of course. Their children, James—named for his
uncle, perhaps?”—he glanced up briefly, long enough to catch a glimpse
of Fraser’s face, than returned to his list—“Margaret, Katherine, Janet,
Michael, and Ian. Quite a brood,” he said, in a tone of dismissal that
equated the six younger Murrays with a litter of piglets. He laid the list on
the table beside the chess piece.

“The three eldest children are old enough to be arrested and interrogated
with their parents, you know. Such interrogations are frequently ungentle,
Mr. Fraser.”

In this, he spoke no less than the truth, and Fraser knew it. All color had
faded from the prisoner’s face, leaving the strong bones stark under the
skin. He closed his eyes briefly, then opened them.

Grey had a brief memory of Quarry’s voice, saying “If you dine alone
with the man, don’t turn your back on him.” The hair rose briefly on the
back of his neck, but he controlled himself, returning Fraser’s blue stare.

“What do you want of me?” The voice was low, and hoarse with fury,
but the Scot sat motionless, a figure carved in cinnabar, gilded by the
flame.

Grey took a deep breath.

“I want the truth,” he said softly.

There was no sound in the chamber save the pop and hiss of the peats in
the grate. There was a flicker of movement from Fraser, no more than the
twitch of his fingers against his leg, and then nothing. The Scot sat, head
turned, staring into the fire as though he sought an answer there.

Grey sat quietly, waiting. He could afford to wait. At last, Fraser turned
back to face him.

“The truth, then.” He took a deep breath; Grey could see the breast of
his linen shirt swell with it—he had no waistcoat.

“I kept my word, Major. I told ye faithfully all that the man said to me
that night. What I didna tell ye was that some of what he said had meaning
to me.”

“Indeed.” Grey held himself still, scarcely daring to move. “And what
meaning was that?”

Fraser’s wide mouth compressed to a thin line.

“I—spoke to you of my wife,” he said, forcing the words out as though
they hurt him.

“Yes, you said that she was dead.”

“I said that she was gone, Major,” Fraser corrected softly. His eyes were
fixed on the pawn. “It is likely she is dead, but—” He stopped and
swallowed, then went on more firmly.

“My wife was a healer. What they call in the Highlands a charmer, but
more than that. She was a white lady—a wisewoman.” He glanced up
briefly. “The word in Gaelic is ban-druidh; it also means witch.”

“The white witch.” Grey also spoke softly, but excitement was
thrumming through his blood. “So the man’s words referred to your wife?”

“I thought they might. And if so—” The wide shoulders stirred in a
slight shrug. “I had to go,” he said simply. “To see.”

“How did you know where to go? Was that also something you gleaned
from the vagrant’s words?” Grey leaned forward slightly, curious. Fraser
nodded, eyes still fixed on the ivory chess piece.

“There is a spot I knew of, not too far distant from this place, where
there is a shrine to St. Bride. St. Bride was also called ‘the white lady,’” he
explained, looking up. “Though the shrine has been there a verra long time
—since long before St. Bride came to Scotland.”

“I see. And so you assumed that the man’s words referred to this spot, as
well as to your wife?”

Again the shrug.

“I did not know,” Fraser repeated. “I couldna say whether he meant
anything to do with my wife, or whether ‘the white witch’ only meant St.
Bride—was only meant to direct me to the place—or perhaps neither. But
I felt I must go.”

He described the place in question, and at Grey’s prodding, gave
directions for reaching it.

“The shrine itself is a small stone in the shape of an ancient cross, so
weathered that the markings scarce show on it. It stands above a small
pool, half-buried in the heather. Ye can find small white stones in the pool,
tangled among the roots of the heather that grows on the bank. The stones
are thought to have great powers, Major,” he explained, seeing the other’s
blank look. “But only when used by a white lady.”

“I see. And your wife…?” Grey paused delicately.

Fraser shook his head briefly.

“There was nothing there to do with her,” he said softly. “She is truly
gone.” His voice was low and controlled, but Grey could hear the
undertone of desolation.

Fraser’s face was normally calm and unreadable; he did not change
expression now, but the marks of grief were clear, etched in the lines
beside mouth and eyes, thrown into darkness by the flickering fire. It
seemed an intrusion to break in upon such a depth of feeling, unstated
though it was, but Grey had his duty.

“And the gold, Mr. Fraser?” he asked quietly. “What of that?”

Fraser heaved a deep sigh.

“It was there,” he said flatly.

“What!” Grey sat bolt upright in his chair, staring at the Scot. “You
found it?”

Fraser glanced up at him then, and his mouth twisted wryly.

“I found it.”

“Was it indeed the French gold that Louis sent for Charles Stuart?”

Excitement was racing through Grey’s bloodstream, with visions of
himself delivering great chests of gold louis d’or to his superiors in
London.

“Louis never sent gold to the Stuarts,” Fraser said, with certainty. “No,
Major, what I found at the saint’s pool was gold, but not French coin.”

What he had found was a small box, containing a few gold and silver
coins, and a small leather pouch, filled with jewels.

“Jewels?” Grey blurted. “Where the devil did they come from?”

Fraser cast him a glance of mild exasperation.

“I havena the slightest notion, Major,” he said. “How should I know?”

“No, of course not,” Grey said, coughing to cover his flusterment.

“Certainly. But this treasure—where is it now?”

“I threw it into the sea.”

Grey stared blankly at him.

“You—what?”

“I threw it into the sea,” Fraser repeated patiently. The slanted blue eyes
met Grey’s steadily. “Ye’ll maybe have heard of a place called the Devil’s
Cauldron, Major? It’s no more than half a mile from the saint’s pool.”

“Why? Why would you have done such a thing?” Grey demanded. “It
isn’t sense, man!”

“I wasna much concerned with sense at the time, Major,” Fraser said
softly. “I had gone there hoping—and with that hope gone, the treasure
seemed no more to me than a wee box of stones and bits of tarnished
metal. I had no use for it.” He looked up, one brow slightly raised in irony.

“But I didna see the ‘sense’ in giving it to King Geordie, either. So I flung
it into the sea.”

Grey sat back in his chair and mechanically poured out another cup of
sherry, hardly noticing what he was doing. His thoughts were in turmoil.
Fraser sat, head turned away and chin propped on his fist, gazing into
the fire, his face gone back to its usual impassivity. The light glowed
behind him, lighting the long, straight line of his nose and the soft curve of
his lip, shadowing jaw and brow with sternness.

Grey took a good-sized swallow of his drink and steadied himself.

“It is a moving story, Mr. Fraser,” he said levelly. “Most dramatic. And
yet there is no evidence that it is the truth.”

Fraser stirred, turning his head to look at Grey. Jamie’s slanted eyes
narrowed, in what might have been amusement.

“Aye, there is, Major,” he said. He reached under the waistband of his
ragged breeches, fumbled for a moment, and held out his hand above the
tabletop, waiting.

Grey extended his own hand in reflex, and a small object dropped into
his open palm.

It was a sapphire, dark blue as Fraser’s own eyes, and a good size, too.

Grey opened his mouth, but said nothing, choked with astonishment.

“There is your evidence that the treasure existed, Major.” Fraser nodded
toward the stone in Grey’s hand. His eyes met Grey’s across the tabletop.
“And as for the rest—I am sorry to say, Major, that ye must take my word
for it.”

“But—but—you said—”

“I did.” Fraser was as calm as though they had been discussing the rain
outside. “I kept that one wee stone, thinking that it might be some use, if I
were ever to be freed, or that I might find some chance of sending it to my
family. For ye’ll appreciate, Major”—a light glinted derisively in Jamie’s
blue eyes—“that my family couldna make use of a treasure of that sort,
without attracting a deal of unwelcome attention. One stone, perhaps, but
not a great many of them.”

Grey could scarcely think. What Fraser said was true; a Highland farmer
like his brother-in-law would have no way of turning such a treasure into
money without causing talk that would bring down the King’s men on
Lallybroch in short order. And Fraser himself might well be imprisoned
for the rest of his life. But still, to toss away a fortune so lightly! And yet,
looking at the Scot, he could well believe it. If ever there was a man whose
judgment would not be distorted by greed, James Fraser was it. Still—

“How did you keep this by you?” Grey demanded abruptly. “You were
searched to the skin when you were brought back.”

The wide mouth curved slightly in the first genuine smile Grey had
seen.

“I swallowed it,” Fraser said.

Grey’s hand closed convulsively on the sapphire. He opened his hand
and rather gingerly set the gleaming blue thing on the table by the chess
piece.

“I see,” he said.

“I’m sure ye do, Major,” said Fraser, with a gravity that merely made
the glint of amusement in his eyes more pronounced. “A diet of rough
parritch has its advantages, now and again.”

Grey quelled the sudden urge to laugh, rubbing a finger hard over his
lip.

“I’m sure it does, Mr. Fraser.” He sat for a moment, contemplating the
blue stone. Then he looked up abruptly.

“You are a Papist, Mr. Fraser?” He knew the answer already; there were
few adherents of the Catholic Stuarts who were not. Without waiting for a
reply, he rose and went to the bookshelf in the corner. It took a moment to
find; a gift from his mother, it was not part of his usual reading.

He laid the calf-bound Bible on the table, next to the stone.

“I am myself inclined to accept your word as a gentleman, Mr. Fraser,”
he said. “But you will understand that I have my duty to consider.”
Fraser gazed at the book for a long moment, then looked up at Grey, his
expression unreadable.

“Aye, I ken that fine, Major,” he said quietly. Without hesitation, he laid
a broad hand on the Bible.

“I swear in the name of Almighty God and by His Holy Word,” he said
firmly. “The treasure is as I told you.” His eyes glowed in the firelight,
dark and unfathomable. “And I swear on my hope of heaven,” he added
softly, “that it rests now in the sea.”

[Bunny]

And checkmate. Jamie is an expert in the fine art of hairsplitting...clever man. Love how he called LJG “the wee major”. He appreciated LJG ‘s anger at his treatment. I think they both underestimated each other at this time...no more.

[broughps]

I always liked the telling the truth, but in a way as not be believed ploy myself.

[broughps]

Voyager Chapter 11

With the question of the French gold thus settled, they returned to what
had become their routine; a brief period of formal negotiation over the
affairs of the prisoners, followed by informal conversation and sometimes
a game of chess. This evening, they had come from the dinner table, still
discussing Samuel Richardson’s immense novel Pamela.

“Do you think that the size of the book is justified by the complexity of
the story?” Grey asked, leaning forward to light a cheroot from the candle
on the sideboard. “It must after all be a great expense to the publisher, as
well as requiring a substantial effort from the reader, a book of that
length.”

Fraser smiled. He did not smoke himself, but had chosen to drink port
this evening, claiming that to be the only drink whose taste would be
unaffected by the stink of tobacco.

“What is it—twelve hundred pages? Aye, I think so. After all, it is
difficult to sum up the complications of a life in a short space with any
hope of constructing an accurate account.”

“True. I have heard the point made, though, that the novelist’s skill lies
in the artful selection of detail. Do you not suppose that a volume of such
length may indicate a lack of discipline in such selection, and hence a lack
of skill?”

Fraser considered, sipping the ruby liquid slowly.

“I have seen books where that is the case, to be sure,” he said. “An
author seeks by sheer inundation of detail to overwhelm the reader into
belief. In this case, however, I think it isna so. Each character is most
carefully considered, and all the incidents chosen seem necessary to the
story. No, I think it is true that some stories simply require a greater space
in which to be told.” He took another sip and laughed.

“Of course, I admit to some prejudice in that regard, Major. Given the
circumstances under which I read Pamela, I should have been delighted
had the book been twice as long as it was.”

“And what circumstances were those?” Grey pursed his lips and blew a
careful smoke ring that floated toward the ceiling.

“I lived in a cave in the Highlands for several years, Major,” Fraser said
wryly. “I seldom had more than three books with me, and those must last
me for months at a time. Aye, I’m partial to lengthy tomes, but I must
admit that it is not a universal preference.”

“That’s certainly true,” Grey agreed. He squinted, following the track of
the first smoke ring, and blew another. Just off target, it drifted to the side.
“I remember,” he continued, sucking fiercely on his cheroot,
encouraging it to draw, “a friend of my mother’s—saw the book—in
Mother’s drawing room—” He drew deeply, and blew once more, giving a
small grunt of satisfaction as the new ring struck the old, dispersing it into
a tiny cloud.

“Lady Hensley, it was. She picked up the book, looked at it in that
helpless way so many females affect and said, ‘Oh, Countess! You are so
courageous to attack a novel of such stupendous size. I fear I should never
dare to start so lengthy a book myself.’” Grey cleared his throat and
lowered his voice from the falsetto he had affected for Lady Hensley.

“To which Mother replied,” he went on in his normal voice, “‘Don’t
worry about it for a moment, my dear; you wouldn’t understand it
anyway.’”

Fraser laughed, then coughed, waving away the remnants of another
smoke ring.

Grey quickly snuffed out the cheroot, and rose from his seat.

“Come along then; we’ve just time for a quick game.”

They were not evenly matched; Fraser was much the better player, but
Grey could now and then contrive to rescue a match through sheer bravado
of play.

Tonight, he tried the Torremolinos Gambit. It was a risky opening, a
queen’s knight opening. Successfully launched, it paved the way for an
unusual combination of rook and bishop, depending for its success upon a
piece of misdirection by the king’s knight and king bishop’s pawn. Grey
used it seldom, for it was a trick that would not work on a mediocre player,
one not sharp enough to detect the knight’s threat, or its possibilities. It
was a gambit for use against a shrewd and subtle mind, and after nearly
three months of weekly games, Grey knew quite well what sort of mind he
was facing across the tinted ivory squares.

He forced himself not to hold his breath as he made the next-to-final
move of the combination. He felt Fraser’s eyes rest on him briefly, but
didn’t meet them, for fear of betraying his excitement. Instead, he reached
to the sideboard for the decanter, and refilled both glasses with the sweet
dark port, keeping his eyes carefully on the rising liquid.

Would it be the pawn, or the knight? Fraser’s head was bent over the
board in contemplation, small reddish lights winking in his hair as he
moved slightly. The knight, and all was well; it would be too late. The
pawn, and all was likely lost.

Grey could feel his heart beating heavily behind his breastbone as he
waited. Fraser’s hand hovered over the board, then suddenly decided,
swooped down and touched the piece. The knight.

He must have let his breath out too noisily, for Fraser glanced sharply
up at him, but it was too late. Careful to keep any overt expression of
triumph off his face, Grey castled.

Fraser frowned at the board for a long moment, eyes flicking among the
pieces, assessing. Then he jerked slightly, seeing it, and looked up, eyes
wide.

“Why ye cunning wee bastard!” he said, in a tone of surprised respect.

“Where in the bloody hell did ye learn that trick?”

“My elder brother taught it to me,” Grey answered, losing his customary
wariness in a rush of delight at his success. He normally beat Fraser no
more than three times in ten, and victory was sweet.

Fraser uttered a short laugh, and reaching out a long index finger,
delicately tipped his king over.

“I should have expected something like that from a man like my Lord
Melton,” he observed casually.

Grey stiffened in his seat. Fraser saw the movement, and arched one
brow quizzically.

“It is Lord Melton ye mean, is it not?” he said. “Or perhaps you have
another brother?”

“No,” Grey said. His lips felt slightly numb, though that might only be
the cheroot. “No, I have only one brother.” His heart had begun to pound
again, but this time with a heavy, dull beat. Had the Scottish bastard
remembered all the time who he was?

“Our meeting was necessarily rather brief,” the Scot said dryly. “But
memorable.” He picked up his glass and took a drink, watching Grey
across the crystal rim. “Perhaps ye didna know that I had met Lord
Melton, on Culloden Field?”

“I knew. I fought at Culloden.” All Grey’s pleasure in his victory had
evaporated. He felt slightly nauseated from the smoke. “I didn’t know that
you would recall Hal, though—or know of the relationship between us.”

“As I have that meeting to thank for my life, I am not likely to forget it,”
Fraser said dryly.

Grey looked up. “I understand that you were not so thankful when Hal
met you at Culloden.”

The line of Fraser’s mouth tightened, then relaxed.

“No,” he said softly. He smiled without humor. “Your brother verra
stubbornly refused to shoot me. I wasna inclined to be grateful for the
favor at the time.”

“You wished to be shot?” Grey’s eyebrows rose.

The Scot’s eyes were remote, fixed on the chessboard, but clearly seeing
something else.

“I thought I had reason,” he said softly. “At the time.”

“What reason?” Grey asked. He caught a gimlet glance and added
hastily, “I mean no impertinence in asking. It is only—at that time, I—I
felt similarly. From what you have said of the Stuarts, I cannot think that
the loss of their cause would have led you to such despair.”

There was a faint flicker near Fraser’s mouth, much too faint to be
called a smile. He inclined his head briefly, in acknowledgment.

“There were those who fought for love of Charles Stuart—or from
loyalty to his father’s right of kingship. But you are right; I wasna one of
those.”

He didn’t explain further. Grey took a deep breath, keeping his eyes
fixed on the board.

“I said that I felt much as you did, at the time. I—lost a particular friend
at Culloden,” he said. With half his mind he wondered why he should
speak of Hector to this man, of all men; a Scottish warrior who had slashed
his way across that deadly field, whose sword might well have been the
one…At the same time, he could not help but speak; there was no one to
whom he could speak of Hector, save this man, this prisoner who could
speak to no one else, whose words could do him no damage.

“He made me go and look at the body—Hal did, my brother,” Grey
blurted. He looked down at his hand, where the deep blue of Hector’s
sapphire burned against his skin, a smaller version of the one Fraser had
reluctantly given him.

“He said that I must; that unless I saw him dead, I should never really
believe it. That unless I knew Hector—my friend—was really gone, I
would grieve forever. If I saw, and knew, I would grieve, but then I should
heal—and forget.” He looked up, with a painful attempt at a smile. “Hal is
generally right, but not always.”

Perhaps he had healed, but he would never forget. Certainly he would
not forget his last sight of Hector, lying wax-faced and still in the early
morning light, long dark lashes resting delicately on his cheeks as they did
when he slept. And the gaping wound that had half-severed his head from
his body, leaving the windpipe and large vessels of the neck exposed in
butchery.

They sat silent for a moment. Fraser said nothing, but picked up his
glass and drained it. Without asking, Grey refilled both glasses for the
third time.

He leaned back in his chair, looking curiously at his guest.

“Do you find your life greatly burdensome, Mr. Fraser?”

The Scot looked up then, and met his eyes with a long, level gaze.
Evidently, Fraser found nothing in his own face save curiosity, for the
broad shoulders across the board relaxed their tension somewhat, and the
wide mouth softened its grim line. The Scot leaned back, and flexed his
right hand slowly, opening and closing it to stretch the muscles. Grey saw
that the hand had been damaged at one time; small scars were visible in the
firelight, and two of the fingers were set stiffly.

“Perhaps not greatly so,” the Scot replied slowly. He met Grey’s eyes
with dispassion. “I think perhaps the greatest burden lies in caring for
those we cannot help.”

“Not in having no one for whom to care?”

Fraser paused before answering; he might have been weighing the
position of the pieces on the table.

“That is emptiness,” he said at last, softly. “But no great burden.”

It was late; there was no sound from the fortress around them save the
occasional step of the soldier on sentry in the courtyard below.

“Your wife—she was a healer, you said?”

“She was. She…her name was Claire.” Fraser swallowed, then lifted his
cup and drank, as though trying to dislodge something stuck in his throat.

“You cared very much for her, I think?” Grey said softly.

He recognized in the Scot the same compulsion he had had a few
moments earlier—the need to speak a name kept hidden, to bring back for
a moment the ghost of a love.

“I had meant to thank you sometime, Major,” the Scot said softly.

Grey was startled.

“Thank me? For what?”

The Scot looked up, eyes dark over the finished game.

“For that night at Carryarrick where we first met.” His eyes were steady
on Grey’s. “For what ye did for my wife.”

“You remembered,” Grey said hoarsely.

“I hadna forgotten,” Fraser said simply. Grey steeled himself to look
across the table, but when he did so, he found no hint of laughter in the
slanted blue eyes.

Fraser nodded at him, gravely formal. “Ye were a worthy foe, Major; I
wouldna forget you.”

John Grey laughed bitterly. Oddly enough, he felt less upset than he had
thought he would, at having the shameful memory so explicitly recalled.

“If you found a sixteen-year-old shitting himself with fear a worthy foe,
Mr. Fraser, then it is little wonder that the Highland army was defeated!”

Fraser smiled faintly.

“A man that doesna shit himself with a pistol held to his head, Major,
has either no bowels, or no brains.”

Despite himself, Grey laughed. One edge of Fraser’s mouth turned
slightly up.

“Ye wouldna speak to save your own life, but ye would do it to save a
lady’s honor. The honor of my own lady,” Fraser said softly. “That doesna
seem like cowardice to me.”

The ring of truth was too evident in the Scot’s voice to mistake or
ignore.

“I did nothing for your wife,” Grey said, rather bitterly. “She was in no
danger, after all!”

“Ye didna ken that, aye?” Fraser pointed out. “Ye thought to save her
life and virtue, at the risk of your own. Ye did her honor by the notion—
and I have thought of it now and again, since I—since I lost her.” The
hesitation in Fraser’s voice was slight; only the tightening of the muscles
in his throat betrayed his emotion.

“I see.” Grey breathed deep, and let it out slowly. “I am sorry for your
loss,” he added formally.

They were both quiet for a moment, alone with their ghosts. Then Fraser
looked up and drew in his breath.

“Your brother was right, Major,” he said. “I thank ye, and I’ll bid ye
good e’en.” He rose, set down his cup and left the room.



June 18, 1755

John Grey had dressed carefully this evening, with fresh linen and silk
stockings. He wore his own hair, simply plaited, rinsed with a tonic of
lemon-verbena. He had hesitated for a moment over Hector’s ring, but at
last had put it on, too. The dinner had been good; a pheasant he had shot
himself, and a salad of greens, in deference to Fraser’s odd tastes for such
things. Now they sat over the chessboard, lighter topics of conversation set
aside in the concentration of the midgame.

“Will you have sherry?” He set down his bishop, and leaned back,
stretching.

Fraser nodded, absorbed in the new position.

“I thank ye.”

Grey rose and crossed the room, leaving Fraser by the fire. He reached
into the cupboard for the bottle, and felt a thin trickle of sweat run down
his ribs as he did so. Not from the fire, simmering across the room; from
sheer nervousness.

He brought the bottle back to the table, holding the goblets in his other
hand; the Waterford crystal his mother had sent. The liquid purled into the
glasses, shimmering amber and rose in the firelight. Fraser’s eyes were
fixed on the cup, watching the rising sherry, but with an abstraction that
showed he was deep in his thoughts. The dark blue eyes were hooded.
Grey wondered what he was thinking; not about the game—the outcome
of that was certain.

Grey reached out and moved his queen’s bishop. It was no more than a
delaying move, he knew; still, it put Fraser’s queen in danger, and might
force the exchange of a rook.

Grey got up to put a brick of peat on the fire. Rising, he stretched
himself, and strolled behind his opponent to view the situation from this
angle.

The firelight shimmered as the big Scot leaned forward to study the
board, picking up the deep red tones of James Fraser’s hair, echoing the
glow of the light in the crystalline sherry.

Fraser had bound his hair back with a thin black cord, tied in a bow. It
would take no more than a slight tug to loosen it. John Grey could imagine
running his hand up under that thick, glossy mass, to touch the smooth,
warm nape beneath. To touch…

His palm closed abruptly, imagining sensation.

“It is your move, Major.” The soft Scots voice brought him to himself
again, and he took his seat, viewing the chessboard through sightless eyes.

Without really looking, he was intensely aware of the other’s
movements, his presence. There was a disturbance of the air around
Fraser; it was impossible not to look at him. To cover his glance, he picked
up his sherry glass and sipped, barely noticing the liquid gold taste of it.

Fraser sat still as a statue of cinnabar, only the deep blue eyes alive in
his face as he studied the board. The fire had burned down, and the lines of
his body were limned with shadow. His hand, all gold and black with the
light of the fire on it, rested on the table, still and exquisite as the captured
pawn beside it.

The blue stone in John Grey’s ring glinted as he reached for his queen’s
bishop. Is it wrong, Hector? he thought. That I should love a man who
might have killed you? Or was it a way at last to put things right; to heal
the wounds of Culloden for them both?

The bishop made a soft thump as he set the felted base down with
precision. Without stopping, his hand rose, as though it moved without his
volition. The hand traveled the short distance through the air, looking as
though it knew precisely what it wanted, and set itself on Fraser’s, palm
tingling, curved fingers gently imploring.

The hand under his was warm—so warm—but hard, and motionless as
marble. Nothing moved on the table but the shimmer of the flame in the
heart of the sherry. He lifted his eyes then, to meet Fraser’s.

“Take your hand off me,” Fraser said, very, very softly. “Or I will kill
you.”

The hand under Grey’s did not move, nor did the face above, but he
could feel the shiver of revulsion, a spasm of hatred and disgust that rose
from the man’s core, radiating through his flesh.

Quite suddenly, he heard once more the memory of Quarry’s warning,
as clearly as though the man spoke in his ear this moment.

If you dine with him alone—don’t turn your back on him.

There was no chance of that; he could not turn away. Could not even
look away or blink, to break the dark blue gaze that held him frozen.
Moving as slowly as though he stood atop an unexploded mine, he drew
back his hand.

There was a moment’s silence, broken only by the rain’s patter and the
hissing of the peat fire, when neither of them seemed to breathe. Then
Fraser rose without a sound, and left the room.

[Bunny]

I’ve wondered, now and again, what LJG was thinking when he decided to make a move on Jamie. From the exchanges between them that we read, there’s nothing to indicate any type of “flirtation” or openness to a personal relationship on Jamie’s part, beyond the type of friendship a prisoner and warden could have. What a misinterpretation on LJG’s part and what a chance he took. His loneliness must have been very great.

[broughps]

It almost reads as if LJG was finally overcome with Jamie's beauty and he just had to touch him.

[ljfav]

The first meeting of Jamie and William Grey in DIA was not about LJ or their future relationship, DG was not introducing a character of any longevity, the purpose of the scene was to show what Jamie would be capable of to Claire. In this scene LJ was a one of character, never intended to be heard form again.

When DG ran across the true fact of a Fraser surviving Culloden, she had to devise a way for that to happen. At first she thought of William Grey, then thought a sixteen year old would never have the pull to pull that off.  So she invented Hal, the current Viscount Melton and Colonel of his own regiment, in a position to make it happen & fulfilling LJ's 'debt of honor'.

She then realized that Scottish prisoners would be transported, she needed to keep Jamie in Scotland for Claire to find and Jamie would have surely died had he been transported, because she gave him that terrible seasickness. How to keep Jamie from being transported? Give LJ the power to make that happen by making him Governor of the prison. But why would he do it? Because he is a homosexual and has fallen in love w/ Jamie, after all everybody does. So LJ was not designed as the 'good gay' as some suspect but rather as a plot devise to keep Jamie alive & in Scotland.

She also changed his name to John, because there were too many Williams. DG justifies this as of course LJ would give an alias when captured by a Scottish barbarian, but that doesn't hold up when he announced he was the second son of a Viscount! DG logic.

She erred in calling him 'Lord John' because the second son of a Viscount would not be addressed as 'lord', but the second son of a Duke would. This was covered by having Hal forsake the title of Duke after the scandal of their father's death. A family backstory and mystery that runs thru the LJ books till it's resolved in BOTB.  LJ however doesn't share Hal's view on this title business and keeps his title of 'Lord John'.

DG had already come to the conclusion there was a correlation between the Scottish Rising and the American Revolution, that is largely the reason for the twenty year fast-forward in the J & C story, to get them to that time in history. What she has not said (that I've come across) is if William was created to give Jamie a grown son to fight in the American Revolution. Knowing how she writes, I kind of doubt she was thinking that far ahead.

The LJ books began when DG was invited to write a short story for an anthology edited by George R. R. Martin.  DG didn't want to research a whole new world for a short story and didn't want to create a 'side' story for Jamie & Claire. This first anthology, and several others that she wrote short stories for, had a 'supernatural theme'. Other than LJ is the character that 'speaks' to her the easiest, I've always wondered why she chose the most logical rational character in the Outlander world for a supernatural themed story. IMO it's because she had more to say about the Jamie/LJ relationship and this allowed her to go back in time and explore it (all the LG stories take place while Jamie is at Helwater). In all the LJ stories, Jamie appears either in LJ's thoughts or in person. IMO you can't truly understand the LJ/Jamie relationship w/o reading the LJ books.

And while she certainly didn't intend it, the LJ books give you the English POV. In the early books all the English (or titled characters) are sadistic, manipulative, inept, brutal (BJR, Sandringham, BPC, Cumberland). LJ & Hal are none of those things, they are honorable men of their time who simply have a different experience and therefore a different POV on being English/British. And w/ Echo & Moby, beginning in Snow w/ the LJ/Jamie letters, a balance in the story telling of the American Revolution.

[Bunny]

Wow...had no idea about all this “ behind the scenes” . For my own self, I got the LJG character. Read the LJG books years after the Outlander story and nothing surprised me/changed my thoughts about the character. I did find his personal history interesting.

[broughps]

Whether DG intended LJG to be a continuing character or not, DIA establishes Jamie and LJG first meeting and the start of their relationship. Voyager starts to establish Jamie's relationship with the rest of the Grey family when he encounters Hal.

DG has also said the skip of 20 years was because she didn't want to have to write about Bree growing up.

[broughps]

Voyager chapter 12

Major Grey stood under the overhang of the roof, waiting. It wasn’t the
best weather for conducting a search and cleaning of the prisoners’ cells,
but at this time of year, it was futile to wait for good weather. And with
more than two hundred prisoners in Ardsmuir, it was necessary to swab
the cells at least monthly in order to prevent major outbreaks of illness.

<snip>

“The usual rubbish, sir,” he reported, dumping the collection of pitiful
relics and anonymous junk onto the top of a cask that stood near the
Major’s elbow. “Just this, you might take notice of.”

“This” was a small strip of cloth, perhaps six inches by four, in a green
tartan check. Dunstable glanced quickly at the lines of standing prisoners,
as if intending to catch someone in a telltale action.

<snip>

“It’s yours, MacKenzie. Isn’t it?” Grey demanded. He snatched the
scrap of cloth from the corporal and thrust it under the young man’s nose.
The prisoner was white-faced under the blotches of dirt. His jaw was
clamped hard, and he was breathing hard through his nose with a faint
whistling sound.

Grey fixed the young man with a hard, triumphant stare. The young Scot
had that core of implacable hate that they all had, but he hadn’t managed
to build the wall of stoic indifference that held it in. Grey could feel the
fear building in the lad; another second and he would break.

“It’s mine.” The voice was calm, almost bored, and spoke with such flat
indifference that neither MacKenzie nor Grey registered it at once. They
stood locked in each other’s eyes, until a large hand reached over Angus
MacKenzie’s shoulder and gently plucked the scrap of cloth from the
officer’s hand.

John Grey stepped back, feeling the words like a blow in the pit of his
stomach. MacKenzie forgotten, he lifted his eyes the several inches
necessary to look Jamie Fraser in the face.

“It isn’t a Fraser tartan,” he said, feeling the words force their way past
wooden lips. His whole face felt numb, a fact for which he was dimly
grateful; at least his expression couldn’t betray him before the ranks of the
watching prisoners.

Fraser’s mouth widened slightly. Grey kept his gaze fastened on it,
afraid to meet the dark blue eyes above.

“No, it isn’t,” Fraser agreed. “It’s MacKenzie. My mother’s clan.”
In some far-off corner of his mind, Grey stored away another tiny scrap
of information with the small hoard of facts kept in the jeweled coffer
labeled “Jamie”—his mother was a MacKenzie. He knew that was true,
just as he knew that the tartan didn’t belong to Fraser.

He heard his voice, cool and steady, saying “Possession of clan tartans
is illegal. You know the penalty, of course?”

The wide mouth curled in a one-sided smile.

“I do.”

There was a shifting and a muttering among the ranks of the prisoners;
there was little actual movement, but Grey could feel the alignment
changing, as though they were in fact drawing toward Fraser, circling him,
embracing him. The circle had broken and re-formed, and he was alone
outside it. Jamie Fraser had gone back to his own.

With an effort of will, Grey forced his gaze away from the soft, smooth
lips, slightly chapped from exposure to sun and wind. The look in the eyes
above them was what he had been afraid of; neither fear nor anger—but
indifference.

He motioned to a guard.

“Take him.”



He had stood watching impassively, hands folded behind his back, as
the prisoner was led to the platform. Watched, feeling the rain seep into
the shoulders of his coat and run in tiny rivulets down the neck of his shirt,
as Jamie Fraser stood on the platform a yard away and stripped to the
waist, moving without haste or hesitation, as though this were something
he had done before, an accustomed task, of no importance in itself.

He had nodded to the two privates, who seized the prisoner’s unresisting
hands and raised them, binding them to the arms of the whipping post.
They gagged him, and Fraser stood upright, the rain running down his
raised arms, and down the deep seam of his backbone, to soak the thin
cloth of his breeches.

Another nod, to the sergeant who held the charge sheet, and a small
surge of annoyance as the gesture caused a cascade of collected rain from
one side of his hat. He straightened his hat and sodden wig, and resumed
his stance of authority in time to hear the charge and sentence read.

“…in contravention of the Diskilting Act, passed by His Majesty’s
Parliament, for which crime the sentence of sixty lashes shall be inflicted.”

Grey glanced with professional detachment at the sergeant-farrier
designated to give the punishment; this was not the first time for any of
them. He didn’t nod this time; the rain was still falling. A half-closing of
the eyes instead, as he spoke the usual words:

“Mr. Fraser, you will take your punishment.”

And he stood, eyes front and steady, watching, and hearing the thud of
the landing flails and the grunt of the prisoner’s breath, forced past the gag
by the blow.

The man’s muscles tightened in resistance to the pain. Again and again,
until each separate muscle stood hard under the skin. His own muscles
ached with tension, and he shifted inconspicuously from one leg to
another, as the brutal tedium continued. Thin streams of red ran down the
prisoner’s spine, blood mixed with water, staining the cloth of his
breeches.

Grey could feel the men behind him, soldiers and prisoners both, all
eyes fixed on the platform and its central figure. Even the coughing was
silenced.

And over it all like a sticky coat of varnish sealing off Grey’s feelings
was a thin layer of self-disgust, as he realized that his eyes were fixed on
the scene not out of duty, but from sheer inability to look away from the
sheen of mingled rain and blood that gleamed on muscle, tightened in
anguish to a curve of wrenching beauty.

The sergeant-farrier paused only briefly between blows. He was
hurrying it slightly; everyone wanted to get it over and get out of the rain.
Grissom counted each stroke in a loud voice, noting it on his sheet as he
did so. The farrier checked the lash, running the strands with their hardwaxed
knots between his fingers to free them of blood and bits of flesh,
then raised the cat once more, swung it slowly twice round his head, and
struck again. “Thirty!” said the sergeant.

Major Grey pulled out the lowest drawer of his desk, and was neatly
sick, all over a stack of requisitions.



He had been born a leader, then bent and shaped further to fit such a
destiny. But what of a man who had not been born to the role he was
required to fill? John Grey, for one. Charles Stuart for another.

<snip>

He felt relieved at once of many things. Of the weight of immediate
responsibility, of the necessity for decision. Temptation was gone, along
with the possibility of it. More important, the burden of anger had lifted;
perhaps it was gone for good.

So, he thought, through the gathering fog, John Grey had given him
back his destiny.

Almost, he could be grateful.

[broughps]

I find it amazing that we get no comment from LJG in this passage about the scars on Jamie's back. You'd think there'd be something since it's probably the first time LJG has seen Jamie with his shirt off.

[Bunny]

The thought that what he was seeing was a scene of wrenching beauty...echoes of Tv BJR and the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. I don’t understand how something so ghastly, that someone’s agony, could be seen as beautiful.

[Une Pensee]

Perhaps he knew of the flogging from prison records or the fact that Jamie was  "moving without haste or hesitation, as though this were something he had done before, an accustomed task, of no importance in itself."

But, I agree, seeing the damage would be different from knowing.

[Une Pensee]

As a sadist, it's understandable that BJR would see Jamie's agony as beautiful but it makes me wonder if, at this early stage, LJG was more attracted to Jamie physically than emotionally. With Jamie's face toward the post, he would appear more as a male form in extremis than a specific person.

He did recognize his feelings of self-disgust when he didn't turn away (and those made him nauseated) so he sounds deeply conflicted emotionally.

[Bunny]

That’s how Jamie initially explains his back to Claire...old Alec knows but hasn’t seen and Jamie’s doesn’t want him to for fear that Alec will see him differently. He trusts Claire, tho...

[broughps]

Voyager chapter 14

Helwater
September 1756

“I think,” Grey said carefully, “that you might consider changing your
name.”

He didn’t expect an answer; in four days of travel, Fraser had not
spoken a single word to him, managing even the awkward business of
sharing an inn room without direct communication. Grey had shrugged
and taken the bed, while Fraser, without gesture or glance, had wrapped
himself in his threadbare cloak and lain down before the hearth. Scratching
an assortment of bites from fleas and bedbugs, Grey thought that Fraser
might well have had the better end of the sleeping arrangements.

“Your new host is not well disposed toward Charles Stuart and his
adherents, having lost his only son at Prestonpans,” he went on, addressing
the iron-set profile visible next to him. Gordon Dunsany had been only a
few years older than himself, a young captain in Bolton’s regiment. They
might easily have died together on that field—if not for that meeting in the
wood near Carryarrick.

“You can scarcely hope to conceal the fact that you are a Scot, and a
Highlander at that. If you will condescend to consider a piece of wellmeant
advice, it might be judicious not to use a name which would be as
easily recognized as your own.”

Fraser’s stony expression didn’t alter in the slightest particular. He
nudged his horse with a heel and guided it ahead of Grey’s bay, seeking
the remains of the track, washed out by a recent flood.

It was late afternoon when they crossed the arch of Ashness Bridge and
started down the slope toward Watendlath Tarn. The Lake District of
England was nothing like Scotland, Grey reflected, but at least there were
mountains here. Round-flanked, fat and dreamy mountains, not sternly
forbidding like the Highland crags, but mountains nonetheless.

Watendlath Tarn was dark and ruffled in the early autumn wind, its
edges thick with sedge and marsh grass. The summer rains had been more
generous even than usual in this damp place, and the tips of drowned
shrubs poked limp and tattered above water that had run over its banks.
At the crest of the next hill, the track split, going off in two directions.

Fraser, some distance ahead, pulled his horse to a stop and waited for
direction, the wind ruffling his hair. He had not plaited it that morning, and
it blew free, the flaming strands lifting wild about his head.

Squelching his way up the slope, John William Grey looked up at the
man above him, still as a bronze statue on his mount, save for that rippling
mane. The breath dried in his throat, and he licked his lips.

“O Lucifer, thou son of the morning,” he murmured to himself, but
forbore to add the rest of the quotation.



For Jamie, the four-day ride to Helwater had been torture. The sudden
illusion of freedom, combined with the certainty of its immediate loss,
gave him a dreadful anticipation of his unknown destination.

This, with the anger and sorrow of his parting from his men fresh in
memory—the wrenching loss of leaving the Highlands, with the
knowledge that the parting might well be permanent—and his waking
moments suffused with the physical pain of long-unused saddle muscles,
were together enough to have kept him in torment for the whole of the
journey. Only the fact that he had given his parole kept him from pulling
Major John William Grey off his horse and throttling him in some peaceful
lane.

Grey’s words echoed in his ears, half-obliterated by the thrumming beat
of his angry blood.

“As the renovation of the fortress has largely been completed—with the
able assistance of yourself and your men”—Grey had allowed a tinge of
irony to show in his voice—“the prisoners are to be removed to other
accommodation, and the fortress of Ardsmuir garrisoned by troops of His
Majesty’s Twelfth Dragoons.

“The Scottish prisoners of war are to be transported to the American
Colonies,” he continued. “They will be sold under bond of indenture, for a
term of seven years.”

Jamie had kept himself carefully expressionless, but at that news, had
felt his face and hands go numb with shock.

“Indenture? That is no better than slavery,” he said, but did not pay
much attention to his own words. America! A land of wilderness and
savages—and one to be reached across three thousand miles of empty,
roiling sea! Indenture in America was a sentence tantamount to permanent
exile from Scotland.

“A term of indenture is not slavery,” Grey had assured him, but the
Major knew as well as he that the difference was merely a legality, and
true only insofar as indentured servants would—if they survived—regain
their freedom upon some predetermined date. An indentured servant was
to most other intents and purposes the slave of his or her master—to be
misused, whipped or branded at will, forbidden by law to leave the
master’s premises without permission.

As James Fraser was now to be forbidden.

“You are not to be sent with the others.” Grey had not looked at him
while speaking. “You are not merely a prisoner of war, you are a convicted
traitor. As such, you are imprisoned at the pleasure of His Majesty; your
sentence cannot be commuted to transportation without royal approval.
And His Majesty has not seen fit to give that approval.”

Jamie was conscious of a remarkable array of emotions; beneath his
immediate rage was fear and sorrow for the fate of his men, mingled with
a small flicker of ignominious relief that, whatever his own fate was to be,
it would not involve entrusting himself to the sea. Shamed by the
realization, he turned a cold eye on Grey.

“The gold,” he said flatly. “That’s it, aye?” So long as there remained
the slightest chance of his revealing what he knew about that half-mythical
hoard, the English Crown would take no chance of having him lost to the
sea demons or the savages of the Colonies.

The Major still would not look at him, but gave a small shrug, as good
as assent.

“Where am I to go, then?” His own voice had sounded rusty to his ears,
slightly hoarse as he began to recover from the shock of the news.

Grey had busied himself putting away his records. It was early
September, and a warm breeze blew through the half-open window,
fluttering the papers.

“It’s called Helwater. In the Lake District of England. You will be
quartered with Lord Dunsany, to serve in whatever menial capacity he may
require.” Grey did look up then, the expression in his light blue eyes
unreadable. “I shall visit you there once each quarter—to ensure your
welfare.”



He eyed the Major’s red-coated back now, as they rode single-file through
the narrow lanes, seeking refuge from his miseries in a satisfying vision of
those wide blue eyes, bloodshot and popping in amazement as Jamie’s
hands tightened on that slender throat, thumbs digging into the sunreddened
flesh until the Major’s small, muscular body should go limp as a
killed rabbit in his grasp.

His Majesty’s pleasure, was it? He was not deceived. This had been
Grey’s doing; the gold only an excuse. He was to be sold as a servant, and
kept in a place where Grey could see it, and gloat. This was the Major’s
revenge.

He had lain before the inn hearth each night, aching in every limb,
acutely aware of every twitch and rustle and breath of the man in the bed
behind him, and deeply resentful of that awareness. By the pale gray of
dawn, he was keyed to fury once more, longing for the man to rise from
his bed and make some disgraceful gesture toward him, so that he might
release his fury in the passion of murder. But Grey had only snored.

Over Helvellyn Bridge and past another of the strange grassy tarns, the
red and yellow leaves of maple and larch whirling down in showers past
the lightly sweated quarters of his horse, striking his face and sliding past
him with a papery, whispering caress.

Grey had stopped just ahead, and turned in the saddle, waiting. They
had arrived, then. The land sloped steeply down into a valley, where the
manor house lay half-concealed in a welter of autumn-bright trees.
Helwater lay before him, and with it, the prospect of a life of shameful
servitude. He stiffened his back and kicked his horse, harder than he
intended.



Grey was received in the main drawing room, Lord Dunsany being
cordially dismissive of his disheveled clothes and filthy boots, and Lady
Dunsany, a small round woman with faded fair hair, fulsomely hospitable.

“A drink, Johnny, you must have a drink! And Louisa, my dear, perhaps
you should fetch the girls down to greet our guest.”

As Lady Dunsany turned to give orders to a footman, his Lordship
leaned close over the glass to murmur to him. “The Scottish prisoner—
you’ve brought him with you?”

“Yes,” Grey said. Lady Dunsany, now in animated conversation with
the butler about the altered dispositions for dinner, was unlikely to
overhear, but he thought it best to keep his own voice low. “I left him in
the front hall—I wasn’t sure quite what you meant to do with him.”

“You said the fellow’s good with horses, eh? Best make him a groom
then, as you suggested.” Lord Dunsany glanced at his wife, and carefully
turned so that his lean back was to her, further guarding their conversation.
“I haven’t told Louisa who he is,” the baronet muttered. “All that scare
about the Highlanders during the Rising—country was quite paralyzed
with fear, you know? And she’s never got over Gordon’s death.”

“I quite see.” Grey patted the old man’s arm reassuringly. He didn’t
think Dunsany himself had got over the death of his son, though he had
rallied himself gamely for the sake of his wife and daughters.

“I’ll just tell her the man’s a servant you’ve recommended to me. Er…
he’s safe, of course? I mean…well, the girls…” Lord Dunsany cast an
uneasy eye toward his wife.

“Quite safe,” Grey assured his host. “He’s an honorable man, and he’s
given his parole. He’ll neither enter the house, nor leave the boundaries of
your property, save with your express permission.” Helwater covered more
than six hundred acres, he knew. It was a long way from freedom, and
from Scotland as well, but perhaps something better either than the narrow
stones of Ardsmuir or the distant hardships of the Colonies.

<snip>

“Daddy,” said Isobel, tugging on her father’s sleeve. “There’s a huge
man in the hall! He watched us all the time we were coming down the
stairs! He’s scary-looking!”

“Who is he, Daddy?” Geneva asked. She was more reserved than her
sister, but clearly also interested.

“Er…why, that must be the new groom John’s brought us,” Lord
Dunsany said, obviously flustered. “I’ll have one of the footmen take him
—” The baronet was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a footman in
the doorway.

“Sir,” he said, looking shocked at the news he bore, “there is a
Scotchman in the hall!” Lest this outrageous statement not be believed, he
turned and gestured widely at the tall, silent figure standing cloaked behind
him.

At this cue, the stranger took a step forward, and spotting Lord
Dunsany, politely inclined his head.

“My name is Alex MacKenzie,” he said, in a soft Highland accent. He
bowed toward Lord Dunsany, with no hint of mockery in his manner.

“Your servant, my lord.”




<snip>

The soft snows came down upon Helwater, and even Major Grey’s
official visit at Christmas—a tense, awkward occasion—passed without
disturbing his growing feelings of content.

[broughps]

Voyager chapter 16

To his extreme surprise, the next few years were in many ways among the
happiest of Jamie Fraser’s life, aside from the years of his marriage.
Relieved of responsibility for tenants, followers, or anyone at all beyond
himself and the horses in his charge, life was relatively simple. While the
coroner’s court had taken no notice of him, Jeffries had let slip enough
about the death of Ellesmere that the other servants treated him with
distant respect, but did not presume on his company.

He had enough to eat, sufficient clothes to keep warm and decent, and
the occasional discreet letter from the Highlands reassured him that similar
conditions obtained there.

One unexpected benefit of the quiet life at Helwater was that he had
somehow resumed his odd half-friendship with Lord John Grey. The
Major had, as promised, appeared once each quarter, staying each time for
a few days to visit with the Dunsanys. He had made no attempt to gloat,
though, or even to speak with Jamie, beyond the barest formal inquiry.

Very slowly, Jamie had realized all that Lady Dunsany had implied, in
her offer to have him released. “John—Lord John Grey, that is—comes
from a family with considerable influence. His stepfather is—well, that’s
of no consequence,” she had said. It was of consequence, though. It had
not been His Majesty’s pleasure that had brought him here, rather than
condemning him to the perilous ocean crossing and near-slavery in
America; it had been John Grey’s influence.

And he had not done it for revenge or from indecent motives, for he
never gloated, made no advances; never said anything beyond the most
commonplace civilities. No, he had brought Jamie here because it was the
best he could do; unable simply to release him at the time, Grey had done
his best to ease the conditions of captivity—by giving him air, and light,
and horses.

It took some effort, but he did it. When Grey next appeared in the
stableyard on his quarterly visit, Jamie had waited until the Major was
alone, admiring the conformation of a big sorrel gelding. He had come to
stand beside Grey, leaning on the fence. They watched the horse in silence
for several minutes.

“King’s pawn to king four,” Jamie said quietly at last, not looking at the
man beside him.

He felt the other’s start of surprise, and felt Grey’s eyes on him, but
didn’t turn his head. Then he felt the creak of the wood beneath his
forearm as Grey turned back, leaning on the fence again.

“Queen’s knight to queen bishop three,” Grey replied, his voice a little
huskier than usual.

Since then, Grey had come to the stables during each visit, to spend an
evening perched on Jamie’s crude stool, talking. They had no chessboard
and seldom played verbally, but the late-night conversations continued—
Jamie’s only connection with the world beyond Helwater, and a small
pleasure to which both of them looked forward once each quarter.



Starting here we will be going to the LJG books. If you haven't read them you will get some spoilers. Note too, that not all of the LJG books have mentions of Jamie or may have a mention but just repeating something that's already been covered.

[Bunny]

I appreciate you posting all this Broughps. I tend to speed read through this section of Voyager because I find it terribly sad, which in turn makes me unhappy. Will reread the LJG books to be prepared for homework. They don’t make me sad or unhappy..in fact, I find them adventurous, which makes me smile!

[broughps]

I've only actually read the entirety of The Scottish Prisoner. The rest of the LJG books I've skimmed through looking for mentions of Jamie. Maybe one day I'll actually go back and read them.

And yes I tend to skip the first part of Voyager up unto Willie. Don't really want to read about Jamie and Claire being apart.

[ljfav]

You might want to do a synopsis of each LJ book, not the main plot so much as the Grey family part, particularly in Brotherhood of the Blade, LJ visits to Jamie make more sense in the context of LJ's life.

The main themes of the LJ books are:

 A current mystery plot which LJ sets out to solve, part Sherlock, part Ghostbusters.

The backstory of the Grey family and the scandal/mystery of Gerald Grey's death, which is resolved in BOTB.

The wars at that time, the English Army and society.

Homosexuality in the 1700's and LJ's secret life.

LJ's thoughts about and Jamie himself.

Hellfire Club immediately follows LJ leaving Jamie at Helwater. Haunted Soldier is full of LJ's thoughts about Jamie. Custom of the Army sets up Scottish Prisoner and has several characters that appear in Echo, Moby & Bees.

 

[ljfav]

"all that Lady Dunsany had implied, in
her offer to have him released. “John—Lord John Grey, that is—comes
from a family with considerable influence. His stepfather is—well, that’s
of no consequence,” she had said. It was of consequence"

The funny thing about this passage is that at the time LD says this LJ doesn't have a stepfather.  His mother is engaged, but even once married the stepfather has much less influence than Hal. But it seems that LJ did this of his own influence.

[AJ01]

I always thought LJ also used Hal’s influence here.

[Laura1-07]

I find it amazing that we get no comment from LJG in this passage about the scars on Jamie's back. You'd think there'd be something since it's probably the first time LJG has seen Jamie with his shirt off.

I actually read that quote and thought that for the first time before seeing your comment.  It's not like DG could have forgot seeing as how he was being flogged again here.  

[Laura1-07]

Perhaps he knew of the flogging from prison records or the fact that Jamie was  "moving without haste or hesitation,  as though this were something he had done before, an accustomed task, of no importance in itself."

That suggests he didn't know before so it mustn't have been in the prison records.  LJG must have realised it in that moment.  But then, as broughps says, he must have noticed the scars on his back as well though it doesn't say.

[broughps]

I will be putting the LJG book quotes in order by book timelines. I'm not going to give a synopsis of each book, because I have no intention of reading them. And yes I can find the Jamie bits without reading the book. Ebooks have that lovely little search feature. If people are that interested they can go to Amazon or Goodreads to get a synopsis.

[broughps]

I would think Hal too. Though the taint of his father's death may still be there, even though his name was cleared.

[broughps]

Lord John and the Private Matter - chapter 2

A posting in Calais or Rouen, though … he could return every few
months without much difficulty, fulfilling the promise he had made to
his Jacobite prisoner—a man who doubtless would be pleased never to
see him again.

He shoved that thought resolutely aside. They had not parted on good
terms—well, on any. But he had hopes in the power of time to heal the
breach. At least Jamie Fraser was safe; decently fed and sheltered, and in
a position where he had what freedom his parole allowed. Grey took
comfort in the imagined vision—a long-legged man striding over the
high fells of the Lake District, face turned up toward sun and scudding
cloud, wind blowing through the richness of his auburn hair, plastering
shirt and breeches tight against a lean, hard body.

Chapter 6

The air was much cooler now, with dawn coming on and the shutters

ajar. He would have covered himself, but the girl was lying on the
rumpled sheet. She shifted again, and he saw the gooseflesh prickling
over her skin. She was thinner even than she had seemed the night
before, ribs shadowing her sides and the shoulder blades sharp as wings
in her bony little back.

He turned on his side and drew her against him, fumbling with one
hand to disentangle the damp sheet and draw it over them both—as
much to cover her skinniness as for its dubious warmth.

Her loosened hair was thick and curly, soft against his face. The feel of
it disturbed him, though it was a moment before he realized why. She’d
had hair like that—the Woman. Fraser’s wife. Grey knew her name—
Fraser had told him—and yet he stubbornly refused to think of her as
anything but “the Woman.” As though it were her fault—and the fault of
her sex alone, at that.

But that was in another country, he thought, pulling the scrawny whore
closer to him, and besides, the wench is dead. Fraser had said so.
He’d seen the look in Jamie Fraser’s eyes, though. Fraser had not
ceased to love his wife merely because she was dead—no more than
Grey could or would cease to love Hector. Memory was one thing,
though, and flesh another; the body had no conscience.

He wrapped one arm over the girl’s fine-boned form, holding her tight
against him. Nearly breastless, and narrow-arsed as a boy, he thought,
and felt a tiny flame of desire, wine-fueled, lick up the insides of his
thighs. Why not? he thought. He was paying for it, after all.
But, I’m a person, no? she’d said. And she was neither of the persons he
longed for.

He closed his eyes, and kissed the shoulder near his face, very gently.
Then he slept again, drifting on the troubled clouds of her hair.

Chapter 10

As for Dashwood and the others … let them look to themselves. He
who sups wi’ the De’il, needs bring a lang spoon. Grey smiled faintly,
hearing the Scots proverb in memory. Jamie Fraser had said it on the
occasion of their first meal together—casting Grey as the Devil, he
supposed, though he had not asked.

Grey was not a religious man, but he harbored a persistent vision: an
avenging angel presiding over a balance on which the deeds of a man’s
life were weighed—the bad to one side, the good to the other—and
George Everett stood before the angel naked, bound and wide-eyed,
waiting to see where the wavering balance might finally come to rest.
He hoped this night’s work should be laid to George’s credit, and
wondered briefly how long the accounting might go on, if it was true
that a man’s deeds lived after him.

Jamie Fraser had told him once of purgatory, that Catholic conception
of a place prior to final judgment, where souls remained for a time after
death, and where the fate of a soul might still be affected by the prayers
and Masses said for it. Perhaps it was true; a place where the soul
waited, while each action taken during life played itself out, the
unexpected consequences and complications following one another like a
collapsing chain of dominoes down through the years. But that would
imply that a man was responsible not only for his conscious actions, but
for all the good and evil that might spring from them forever,
unintended and unforeseen; a terrible thought.

Chapter 14

Of course, he was obliged to admit to himself, he hadn’t dealt with
many murderers before—unless … The recollection flashed through his
mind, as it did now and then, of what Harry Quarry had told him about
Jamie Fraser and the death of a Sergeant Murchison at Ardsmuir. If it
was true—and even Quarry had not been sure—then Fraser also had
remained cool and unpanicked, and had gotten away with the crime in
consequence. What if Scanlon had a similar temperament, an equal
capacity?

He shook his head impatiently, dismissing the thought. Fraser was not
a murderer, whatever else he might be. And Scanlon? For the life of him,
Grey could not decide.

Chapter 17

He realized with a lurch of the heart that Trevelyan reminded him in
some small way of Jamie Fraser. But no: Fraser was ruthless and quick,
and might be equally passionate in his feelings—but above all, he was a
man of honor.

By contrast, he could now see the deep selfishness that underlay
Trevelyan’s character. Jamie Fraser would not have abandoned those
who depended on him, not even for the sake of a woman who—Grey
was forced to admit—he clearly loved beyond life itself. As for the
notion of his stealing another man’s wife, it was inconceivable.

A romantic or a novelist might count the world well lost for love. So
far as Grey’s own opinion counted, a love that sacrificed honor was less
honest than simple lust, and degraded those who professed to glory in it.

Epilogue

He understood that word was being discreetly circulated in financial
circles that Mr. Trevelyan was traveling to India in order to explore new
opportunities for import, in the wake of the victory.

He had a momentary vision of Joseph Trevelyan as he had been in the
main cabin of the Nampara, standing by his wife’s bed, just before Grey
had left.

“If?…” Grey had asked, with a small nod toward the bed.

“Word will come that I have been lost at sea—swept overboard by a
swamping wave. Such things happen.” He glanced toward the bed where
Maria Mayrhofer lay, still and beautiful and yellow as a carving of
ancient ivory.

“I daresay they do,” Grey had said quietly, thinking once more of
Jamie Fraser.

If you're reading Lord John and the Private Matter and come across Jamie or Claire Fraser references that I missed please add them.

[AJ01]

So you’re not doing the LJG-novellas? Only the books/novels? Because in the novellas Jamie is mentioned as well...

[broughps]

I'm doing any of the LJG stories that mention Jamie. From what I can tell not all of them do. His name doesn't show up in a search for some stories.

So far (I'm going in order of stories) Jamie didn't show up in LJ and the Hellfire Club.

[broughps]

Lord John and the Succubus

Chapter 3

Keegan rubbed a hand on the skirt of his already grubby coat, leaving
further streaks, then rubbed it under his nose, sniffing loudly. Grey had
an urge to step away from the man. Then he realized, with a small sense
of startlement mingled with annoyance, that he was thinking of the
Woman. Fraser’s wife. Fraser had spoken of her very little—but that
reticence only added to the significance of what he did say.

One late night, in the governor’s quarters at Ardsmuir Prison, they had
sat longer than usual over their chess game—a hard-fought draw, in
which Grey took more pleasure than he might have taken in victory over
a lesser opponent. They usually drank sherry, but not that night; he had
a special claret, a present from his mother, and had insisted that Fraser
must help him to finish it, as the wine would not last once opened.

It was a strong wine, and between the headiness of it and the
stimulation of the game, even Fraser had lost a little of his formidable
reserve.

Past midnight, Grey’s orderly had come to take away the dishes from
their repast, and stumbling sleepily on the threshold in his leaving, had
sprawled full-length, cutting himself badly on a shard of glass. Fraser
had leapt up like a cat, snatched the boy up, and pressed a fold of his
shirt to the wound to stop the bleeding. But then, when Grey would have
sent for a surgeon, Fraser had stopped him, saying tersely that Grey
could do so if he wished to kill the lad, but if not, had best allow Fraser
to tend him.

This he had done with great skill and gentleness, washing first his
hands, and then the wound, with wine, then demanding needle and silk
thread—which he had astonished Grey by dipping into the wine, as well,
and passing the needle through the flame of a candle.

“My wife would do it so,” he’d said, frowning slightly in
concentration. “There are the wee beasties, called germs, d’ye see, and if
they—” He set his teeth momentarily into his lip as he made the first
stitch, then went on.

“—If they should be getting into a wound, it will suppurate. So ye
must wash well before ye tend the wound, and put flame or alcohol to
your instruments, to kill them.” He smiled briefly at the orderly, who
was white-faced and wobbling on his stool. “Never let a surgeon wi’
dirty hands touch ye, she said. Better to bleed to death quickly than die
slow of the pus, aye?”

Grey was as skeptical of the existence of germs as of succubi, but ever
afterward had glanced automatically at the hands of any medical man—
and it did seem to him that perhaps the more cleanly of the breed tended
to lose fewer patients, though he had made no real study of the matter.

<snip>

“You seem a rational man, sir,” Grey said, in compliment.

Keegan gave a small, huffing sort of laugh, dismissing it, and
straightened up, brushing his palms once more against his coat skirts.

“Deal with soldiers for as long as I have, Major, and you get used to
wild stories, that’s all I can say. Men in camp, ’specially. Not enough to
keep them busy, and a good tale will spread like butter on hot toast. And
when it comes to dreams …!” He threw up his hands.

Grey nodded, acknowledging the truth of this. Soldiers put great store
in dreams involving Jamie Fraser. A faint warmth in the belly reminded
him of one of his own dreams, but he put the memory firmly aside.

Chapter 5

Stephan von Namtzen both attracted and aroused him, but it was not
because of his own undoubted physical qualities. It was, rather, the
degree to which those qualities reminded Grey of James Fraser.

Von Namtzen was nearly the same height as Fraser, a powerful man
with broad shoulders, long legs, and an instantly commanding presence.
However, Stephan was heavier, more crudely constructed, and less
graceful than the Scot. And while Stephan warmed Grey’s blood, the fact
remained that the Hanoverian did not burn his heart like living flame.

He lay down finally upon his bed, and put out the candle. Lay
watching the play of firelight on the walls, seeing not the flicker of wood
flame, but the play of sun upon red hair, the sheen of sweat on a pale
bronzed body …

[AJ01]

He does show up in Hellfire club, under the name of Fraser. Lol!

[broughps]

I've only searched for Jamie Fraser.

[broughps]

To get us on track. Apparently Jamie Fraser is mentioned in LJ and the Hellfire Club. So...

Part I

It is not, his sensible mind pointed out, it cannot be. Yet sense had
nothing to do with the riot of his sensibilities, that surge of feeling that
seized him by nape and buttocks, as though it would pluck him up and
turn him forcibly to go in pursuit of the red-haired man he had so briefly
glimpsed.

<snip>

“No one.” Grey scratched at his own fair hair abstractedly, infected by
Quarry’s itch. He glanced outside; the street was still jammed, but the
crowd’s noise was mercifully muffled by the leaded glass. One sedan
chair had run into another, its bearers knocked off balance by the crowd.

“Ardsmuir is no longer a prison; the prisoners were transported.”

“Transported?” Quarry pursed his lips in surprise, then sipped, more
cautiously. “Well, and serve them right, the miserable whoresons.
Hmm!” He grunted, and shook his head over the coffee. “No more than
most deserve. A shame for Fraser, though—you recall a man named
Fraser, big red-haired fellow? One of the Jacobite officers—a gentleman.

Quite liked him,” Quarry said, his roughly cheerful countenance
sobering slightly. “Too bad. Did you find occasion to speak with him?”

“Now and then.” Grey felt a familiar clench of his innards, and turned
away, lest anything show on his face. Both sedan chairs were down now,
the bearers shouting and shoving. The street was narrow to begin with,
clogged with the normal traffic of tradesmen and ’prentices; customers
stopping to watch the altercation added to the impassibility.

“You knew him well?” He could not help himself; whether it brought
him comfort or misery, he felt he had no choice now but to speak of
Fraser—and Quarry was the only man in London to whom he could so
speak.

“Oh, yes—or as well as one might know a man in that situation,”

Quarry replied offhandedly. “Had him to dine in my quarters every
week; very civil in his speech, good hand at cards.” He lifted a fleshy
nose from his glass, cheeks flushed ruddier than usual with the steam.
“He wasn’t one to invite pity, of course, but one could scarce help but
feel some sympathy for his circumstances.”

“Sympathy? And yet you left him in chains.”

Quarry looked up sharply, catching the edge in Grey’s words.

“I may have liked the man; I didn’t trust him. Not after what
happened to one of my sergeants.”

“And what was that?” Lord John managed to infuse the question with
no more than light interest.

“Misadventure. Drowned by accident in the stone-quarry pool,”

Quarry said, dumping several teaspoons of rock sugar into a fresh glass
and stirring vigorously. “Or so I wrote in the report.” He looked up from
his coffee, and gave Grey his lewd, lopsided wink. “I liked Fraser. Didn’t
care for the sergeant. But never think a man is helpless, Grey, only
because he’s fettered.”

Grey sought urgently for a way to inquire further without letting his
passionate interest be seen.

“So you believe—” he began.

[ljfav]

Your going to miss LJ thoughts of Jamie and their relationship by concentrating on the word Jamie being mentioned.

The Hellfire Club opens w/ LJ noticing a tall red haired man......

[broughps]

I'm going back and adding to the search.

Anyone can add anything I've missed. It doesn't have to be just me who posts.

[broughps]

Guys if you see I've missed something in an LJG story I've already posted go ahead and add it. I've widen my search, but might still miss stuff.

[Bunny]

Every time LJG thinks of Claire as “The Woman”, I think of Sherlock Holmes.

[ljfav]

*******Spoilers of Hellfire Club****** 

Hellfire Club takes place right after LJ returns to London having left Jamie at Helwater. Harry, who is now a Colonel w/ Hal's regiment, introduces him to the red haired man who is his cousin (? cousin-in-law), it is inferred that they are attracted to each other, while LJ is confused that it may only be his resemblance to Jamie that he finds attractive. They have an acquaintance in common, George the reason LJ was sent to Ardsmuir to begin w/, and are set to meet at the coffee shop to discuss an invitation to the Hellfire Club. *Spoiler* The chair accident outside the window is a murder scene, and the red haired man dies in LJ's arms. This starts LJ on a search for his murderer. The Hellfire Club is a group of young gentleman plotting their political futures (think Skull & Crossbones at Yale) who partake in some demonic type rituals, and *Spoiler* essentially blackmail each w/ the murder that is the initiation.

What I find interesting is that DG picks up LJ at the place she first introduced him in Voyager, dealing w/ George. Of course now his feelings for George have changed totally in light of his relationship w/ Jamie. Also here is Harry, who turns out to be an old friend of Hal's, giving incite into the Murchison (sp?) twins from DOA. Harry turns out to be a real character. This begins the integration of 'Big Book' characters into the LJ books, making them inseparable in the Outlander world

LJ has to deal very carefully w/ his emotions showing and giving any hint of his sexuality. This is, for LJ a big part of his attachment to Jamie, that despite Jamie's disapproval of his sexuality, Jamie is often the only person w/ whom he can be himself.

[broughps]

LJ and the Brotherhood of the Blade - story will be broken down into more than one post like the big books

Chapter 3

fond of you; Lady Dunsany thinks perhaps you might be able to
distract her somewhat from the burden of her grief. The funeral—or
perhaps funerals; do you suppose they will be buried together?—are set
for Thursday next. I suppose that you would go to Helwater fairly soon
in any case, to assure yourself of the welfare of your pet criminal before
the regiment departs, but—”

“Your pet criminal?” Olivia, who had resumed buttering her toast,
paused openmouthed, knife in midair. “What—?”

“Really, Mother,” Grey said mildly, hoping that the sudden lurch of his
heart did not show. “Mr. Fraser is—”

“A Jacobite, a convicted traitor, and a murderer,” his mother
interrupted crisply. “Really, John, I cannot see why you should have
gone to such lengths to keep such a man in England, when by rights, he
should have been transported. Indeed, I am surprised he was not hanged
outright!”

“I had reasons,” Grey replied, keeping voice and eyes both level. “And
I am afraid you must trust my judgment in the matter, Mother.”

<snip>

Olivia turned a suspicious gaze on Grey.

“What was that about?”

“I have no idea,” Grey replied honestly.

“Something about this wretched Mr. Fraser of yours disturbed her,”
Olivia said, frowning at the doorway through which the countess had
vanished. “Who is he?”

Christ, how was he to answer such a question? He chose the only
possible avenue, that of strict factuality.

“He is, as my mother remarked, a Jacobite officer, a Scot. He was
amongst the prisoners at Ardsmuir; I came to know him there.”

“But he is at Helwater? How comes he to be there?” Olivia asked,
baffled.

“Ardsmuir was closed, the prisoners removed,” he replied, paying
careful attention to his kipper. He lifted the bones and set them neatly
aside, shrugging one shoulder. “Fraser was paroled, but not allowed to
return to Scotland. He labors as a groom at Helwater.”

“Hmm!” Olivia seemed satisfied with that. “Well, and serve him right,
no doubt, horrid creature. But why does Aunt Bennie call him your pet?”

“Only her little jest,” Grey replied casually, forking up a bite of kipper.

“As I am a longtime friend to the Dunsany family, I visit Helwater
regularly—and as the erstwhile governor of Ardsmuir, it behooves me to
see that Mr. Fraser is well behaved and in good health.”

Olivia nodded, chewing. She swallowed her toast, then, with a covert
glance at the footman, leaned toward Grey, lowering her voice.

“Is he really a murderer?” she whispered.

That took Grey off guard, and he was obliged to simulate a minor
coughing fit.

“I do not believe so,” he said at last, clearing his throat. “I imagine my
mother spoke rhetorically. She has the lowest opinion of Jacobites in
general, you see.”

<snip>

No. Surely not. But it had been the mention of Fraser and the word
“Jacobite” that had made the countess blench and pale. Yet she had
known about Fraser—Grey had gone several times to Helwater since
Fraser had been paroled there. He had never made much of the matter
himself, though, never mentioned Fraser’s presence as the principal
reason for his visits. No, some thought had occurred to his mother,
something that had not struck her before. Could it be that she had
suddenly thought his reasons for keeping James Fraser in England had to
do with …



Chapter 4

What he saw in his mind’s eye, though, was another face, another
form, vivid as flame among the damp greens and grays of the fells. He
saw it, the long, suspicious nose, the narrowed eyes hostile as a
leopard’s, as though the man himself stood before him, and the pleasant
thrum of his blood changed at once to something deeper and more
visceral.

He realized now that the vision had sprung up in him at once, the
moment his mother had spoken the words, “Geneva Dunsany is dead”—
though he had instinctively been suppressing it. Geneva Dunsany meant
Helwater. And Helwater meant not only his memories of Geneva, nor the
griefs of her parents and sister. It meant Jamie Fraser.

“God damn it,” he said to the vision, under his breath. “Not now. Go
away!”

<snip>

He did recognize the man; indeed, his putative stepbrother’s face
seemed to spring smiling out of the dimness, vivid as though he sat by a
candle flame, and the disquieting wraith of Jamie Fraser disappeared at
once from Grey’s mind.



Chapter 5

Well, perhaps he would remember to ask Hal whether the man’s
identity and fate had been determined, once the other matter was
settled. And while he was asking … the events of the afternoon had
almost made him forget his mother’s odd behavior at breakfast. In the
shock of learning of Geneva’s death, he had not at once thought of
connecting her reaction to the mention of Jamie Fraser with the
appearance of the journal page in Hal’s office, but from his present
perspective, it seemed not only likely, but probable.

<snip>

The thought of another page filled him with simultaneous alarm and
excitement. It would account for his mother’s sudden agitation, and her
violent reaction to the mention of his Jacobite prisoner. And if such a
thing had arrived this morning, Hal likely didn’t know about it yet.

<snip>

“A very reasonable supposition. I’ll see what I can find out tomorrow
—oh. I forgot; I am leaving in the morning for the Lake District. But I
will see what I can discover before I leave.”

“The Lake District?” Minnie stared at him, then at the closed drapes,
where the window glass rattled faintly in the wind behind its layers of
lace and blue velvet. “In this weather? What is it, a form of family
dementia? Next thing you know, your mother will announce her
departure for Tierra del Fuego in the midst of a hurricane.”

Grey smiled at her, realizing that it would be injudicious to mention
Geneva Dunsany’s death to an expectant mother.

“A prisoner of mine, from Ardsmuir, is paroled there. I must interview
him, concerning a few administrative matters”—“administrative” was a
word sure to extinguish interest in even the most curious; sure enough,
Minnie’s eyes showed a faint glaze—“and I must go now, to be sure of
returning in time for the wedding, since the regiment will be departing
for France soon thereafter.”

“Mr. Fraser? Melton told me about him. Yes, you will have to hurry.”
She sighed, unconsciously pressing a hand over her abdomen. Hal had
said the child was expected in the autumn; there was a good chance that
it would be born before his return.

<snip>

“Good. But you will be careful, John?”

“I will,” he said, and stepped into the swirling whiteness, wondering
as he did so whether it was James Fraser or himself who carried the air
of doom that impelled both his mother and Minnie to urge him to
carefulness.

<snip>

Now and then he wished ardently that he had faith in a merciful God
and an afterlife in which the dead might live on—Jamie Fraser had such
faith; burned with it, in a way that excited both Grey’s curiosity and his
envy. But Grey was a rationalist. He accepted the existence of God, but
had no conviction of the nature of such a being, and no sense that his
creator took a personal interest in him. Just as well, considering.



Chapter 6

Every time, he thought it would be different. Removed, caught up in the
boredom and intermittent terror of a soldier’s life, apart from simple
daily things, the normal intercourse of humanity—it was understandable
that in these circumstances, he would think of Jamie Fraser as something
remarkable; use the image of the man as a talisman, a touchstone for his
own emotions.

But surely the effect should lessen, should disappear entirely, when he
actually saw the man? Fraser was a Scot, a Jacobite, a paroled prisoner,
a groom—no one that he would normally take notice of, let alone regard
especially.

And yet, every time, it was the same, the bloody same. How? Why?
He would ride up the winding drive at Helwater, and his pulse would
already be beating in his ears. He would greet Dunsany and his family,
talking cordially of this and that, accepting refreshment, admiring the
women’s gowns, Lady Dunsany’s latest painting. All in an increasing
agony of impatience, wanting—needing—to go out to the stables, to look,
to see.

And then to spot him at a distance—exercising a horse, working at the
pasture fences—or to come upon him unexpectedly face to face,
emerging from the tack room or coming down the ladder from the loft
where he slept. Each time, Grey’s heart leapt in his chest.

The lines of neck and spine, the solid curve of buttock and columned
thigh, the sun-darkened flesh of his throat, sun-bleached hair of his arms
—even the small imperfections, the scars that marred one hand, the
pockmark at the corner of his mouth—and the slanted eyes, dark with
hostility and wariness. It was perhaps no surprise that he should feel
physical arousal; the man was beautiful, and dangerous in his beauty.
And yet his excitement quieted at once when he was actually in
Fraser’s presence. A calm descended upon him, a strange content.

Once he had looked into those eyes, been acknowledged by them—
then he could return to the house, go about his business, make
conversation with other people. It was as though he was anxious, lest the
world have changed in his absence, then reassured that it had not; Jamie
Fraser still stood at its center.

Would it be that way again? It shouldn’t be. After all, there was Percy
Wainwright now, to divert his attention, engage his interest. And
yet … he nodded to Tom, and turned his horse’s head into the winding
road that led upward to Helwater, feeling an aching in his chest, as
though the cold air pressed upon it.

It shouldn’t be, he repeated silently to himself.

And yet …



Chapter 7

He did, on the other hand, know very well what his feelings were for
Jamie Fraser. And being at Helwater, no more than a hundred yards
from Fraser’s physical presence, was sufficiently disturbing in itself. He
had the irrational feeling that to take such pleasure in Percy’s note was
in some way a betrayal—but of what, for God’s sake?

Moved by impulse, he drew back the heavy blue-velvet drapes at the
window. It was a cloudy night, a thick rain still falling, but the sky held
a faint sullen glow, the diffuse light of a hidden moon. He could see the
dim outline of the stable roof through the streaks of rain on the
windowpane.

“Hell,” he said softly, left the window abruptly, and wandered round
the room, picking up objects at random and putting them down again.
He tried to return to his earlier thoughts—or to abandon all thought,
purging the mind for sleep—but his efforts were bootless. James Fraser
remained stubbornly in the center of his mind’s eye. Grey had seen him
once since his arrival—he had taken Grey’s horse to the stables—but had
had no opportunity to speak to him.

For God’s sake, John, be careful.

His mother’s words rang abruptly in his ear, and he shook his head, as
though to dislodge an annoying mosquito.

And what, for God’s sake, had his mother meant by that? Plainly, she
meant Fraser; it was mention of the man and his Jacobite connexions
that had frightened—yes, frightened—her. Why? What on earth did she
think he might ask of Fraser? Or learn from him?

<snip>

Blessed Michael defend us. The words came to him suddenly, though he
was neither Catholic nor even religious. It was a common saying among
the Scottish prisoners at Ardsmuir, though. He had heard it in the Gaelic,
many times, and finally had asked Jamie Fraser for the English meaning,
one night when they had dined together.

<snip>

The chapel was tiny, and dark save the tall white candles that burned
at head and foot of the closed coffin. It was draped in white silk, and
glimmered like water.

He took a step toward it. Something large stirred in the darkness at his
feet.

“Jesus!”

He dropped the taper, clapping a hand to his belt—where, alas, he had
not placed his dagger.

A dark figure rose immense, very slowly, from the flags at his feet.
Every hair on his body stood erect and his heart thundered in his ears,
as recognition tried vainly to overcome shock. The taper had gone out,
and the man was visible only as a dark silhouette, haloed with the fire of
the candles behind him.

He swallowed hard, trying to force his heart from his throat, and
groped for words that were not altogether blasphemous.

“Bloody … Christ,” he managed, after several incoherent tries. “What
in the name of God Himself are you doing here?”

“Praying,” said a soft Scots voice, its softness no disguise for the shock
in it—and an even more patent anger. “What are you doing here?”

“Praying?” Grey echoed, disbelief in his voice. “Lying on the floor?”

He couldn’t see Fraser’s face, but heard the hiss of air through his
teeth. They stood close enough to each other that he felt the cold
emanating from Fraser’s body, as though the other had been carved from
ice. Christ, how long had the man been pressed to the freezing flags?
And why? His eyes adjusting, he saw that the Scot wore nothing but his
shirt; his long body was a shadow, the candlelight glowing dim through
threadbare fabric.

“It is a Catholic custom,” Fraser said, his voice as stiff as his posture.
“Of respect.”

“Indeed.” The shock of the encounter was fading, and Grey found his
voice come easier. “You will pardon me, Mr. Fraser, if I find that
suggestion somewhat peculiar—as is your presence here.” He was
growing angry now himself, feeling absurdly practiced upon—though
logic told him that Fraser had risen as he did only because Grey would
have stepped on him in another moment, and not with the intent of
taking him at a disadvantage.

“It is immaterial to me, Major, what you find peculiar and what ye do
not,” Fraser said, his voice still low. “If ye wish to suppose that I have
chosen to sleep in a freezing chapel in company with a corpse, rather
than in my own bed, you may think as ye like.” He made a motion as
though to pass, obviously intending to leave the chapel—but the aisle
was narrow, and Grey was not moving.

“Did you know the—the countess well?” Curiosity was overcoming
shock and anger.

“The countess … oh.” Fraser glanced involuntarily over his shoulder at
the coffin. Grey saw him draw breath, the mist of it briefly white. “I
suppose she was. A countess. And, yes, I kent her well enough. I was her
groom.”

There was something peculiar about that remark, Grey noted with
interest. There was a wealth of feeling in that statement, “I was her
groom,” but damned if he could tell what sort of feeling it was.

He wondered for an instant whether Fraser had been in love with
Geneva—and felt a surprising sear of jealousy at the thought. Knowing
Fraser’s feeling for his dead wife, he would suppose … but why in God’s
name would he come at night to pray by Geneva’s coffin, if not—but no.

That “I was her groom” had been spoken with a tone of … hostility?
Bitterness? It wasn’t the respectful statement of a loyal and grieving
servant, he’d swear that on a stack of Bibles.

Grey dismissed this confusion and took a breath of cold air and candle
wax, imagining for an instant that he smelt the hint of corruption on the
frigid air.

Fraser stood like a stone angel, no more than a foot from him; he
could hear the Scot’s breathing, faintly hoarse, congested. My God, had
he been weeping? He dismissed the thought; the weather was enough to
give anyone the catarrh, let alone anyone mad enough to lie half naked
on freezing stones.

“I was her friend,” Grey said quietly.

Fraser said nothing in reply, but continued to stand between Grey and
the coffin. Grey saw him turn his head, the candle glow sparking red
from brows and sprouting beard, limning the lines of his face in gold.
The long throat moved once, swallowing. Then Fraser turned toward
him, his face disappearing once more into shadow.

“Then I leave her in your hands ’til dawn.”

It was said so quietly that Grey was not sure he’d heard it. But
something touched his hand, light as a cold wind passing, and Fraser
moved past him and was gone, the muffled thud of the chapel door the
only sound to mark his leaving.

Grey turned in disbelief to look, but there was nothing to be seen. The
chapel was dark, and silent save for the sound of rain thrumming on the
slates of the roof.

Had that remarkable encounter really happened? He thought for an
instant that he might be dreaming—must have fallen asleep in his chair
by the fire, lulled by the rain. But he put a hand on the end of the pew
beside him and felt hard wood, cold under his fingers.

And the coffin stood before him, stark and white in the candlelight.
The flames quivered, the air in the chapel disturbed, then settled, pure
and steady. Keeping watch.

Not quite knowing what to do, he sat down in the front pew. He
should pray, perhaps, but not yet.

What was it Fraser had said? I suppose she was. A countess.

So she had been—for the brief months of her marriage. And now there
was nothing left of her or her husband, save that small, enigmatic morsel
of flesh, the ninth Earl of Ellesmere.

I leave her in your hands ’til dawn.

Had Fraser himself meant to keep watch all night, prostrate before her
coffin? Plainly he meant Grey to stay through the remaining hours of
cold dark. Grey shifted uneasily on the hard wood, aware that he could
not now bring himself to leave.

He shivered, then wrapped his cloak more tightly, resigned. The chill
of the slate floor was seeping through his slippers; his feet had gone
numb already. He thought of Fraser in his shirt, and shivered again at
the thought of pressing his own bare flesh against the icy slates.

Respect, Fraser had said. It scarcely seemed respectful, such an
extraordinary act. What, he wondered, would have happened, had he
actually stepped on the man? He still held that overwhelming impression
of Fraser’s presence, towering, cold as stone, and pushed aside a fleeting
thought of what that frozen flesh might feel like, had he touched it.
Restless, he stood and went forward, drawn like a moth to the
glimmering white of the coffin.

More like something from the Middle Ages, he thought, and snorted,
breath white in the dark air. Those Catholic buggers who walked
barefoot through Paris or flagellated themselves to bloody shreds as an
act of penance.

An act of penance.

He felt the words drop into place in his mind, like the tumblers of a
lock. Recalled his sense of the Dunsanys, that some deep uneasiness
tinged their grief.

“Oh, Geneva,” he said softly.

He saw again that vision of her at his window, pale-faced, wide-eyed,
adrift in the night. So cold, and all alone. The outline of the stable
behind her. From somewhere in the house, he thought he heard the
creak of footsteps, and a far-off infant’s cry.

“Oh, my dear. What have you done?”

[broughps]

LJ and the Brotherhood of the Blade

Chapter 8

Grey glanced over his shoulder, to see whether the tall figure of Jamie
Fraser loomed among the crowd of grooms and chambermaids who
stood at the back of the church, but there was no sign of the Scot. Fraser
was, of course, forbidden to leave the boundaries of Helwater, but surely
he would have been given leave to attend the funeral with the other
servants—if he wished to.

<snip>

What was causing his bones to freeze within him now, though, was
the sight of Jamie Fraser, tall and grim, serving as pallbearer with five
other sturdy manservants.

Someone had given him coat and breeches of a cheap black worsted,
very ill-fitting. He should have looked ridiculous, bony wrists protruding
from the too-short sleeves, and every seam strained to bursting. As it
was, he reminded Grey of a description he had read in Demonologie, a
nasty little treatise discovered in the course of researches undertaken
after his experience with the Hellfire Club.

The men set down the earl’s coffin and retreated to a bench set under
the gallery. Grey was not surprised in the least to see Fraser sitting alone
at one end, the other men bunched unconsciously together, as far away
from him as they could get.

<snip>

Could he be right? He went back and forth on the matter, unsure. On
the one hand, the thought that had come to him in the darkness of the
chapel seemed incredible. A complete delusion, born of grief, fatigue,
and shock. On the other … there was Lady Dunsany’s behavior. Griefstricken,
certainly, but grief covering a rocklike determination.
Determination to put the past behind her and raise her grandchild? Or
determination to perpetrate a daring deception in order to protect him?

And Lord Dunsany, the target of his own blame—and his wife’s. For
arranging the marriage with Ellesmere, he’d said … but also for allowing
Geneva too much freedom. What the devil had he said, mumbling in his
cups? Something about her horse, spending hours roaming the
countryside, alone on her horse. Not alone, surely. In the company of her
groom, said a cynical voice in his mind.

And then there was said groom himself, and that remarkable
encounter in the middle of the night. Even though Grey had not slept, it
still seemed the product of a dream. He turned deliberately in his seat
and looked at Fraser. Nothing whatever showed on the Scot’s face. He
might have been looking back at Grey—or at something a thousand
miles beyond him.

Isobel was seated next to Grey, her small, cold, black-gloved hand held
in his for support. She was no longer weeping; he thought she had
simply passed the point of being able to.

Not a one of the Dunsany family had so much as glanced at Fraser,
though most of the congregation had gawked openly, and many were
still darting looks at him where he sat on the bench, upright and
menacing as a corpse candle.

Yes, there was evidence. But his knowledge of James Fraser was
evidence, as well—and he found it inconceivable that Fraser could or
would have seduced a young girl, no matter what the circumstances. Let
alone the daughter of his employer.

<snip>

Was his refusal to believe it purely the product of his own pride, his
own guilt? Not only his belief in Jamie Fraser’s honor, a refusal to
believe he could be so mistaken in the man—but the knowledge that if it
were true, he himself must bear a good part of the blame. He had
introduced Fraser into the Dunsany household, his own honor surety for
Fraser’s.

<snip>

Fraser had closed his eyes, quite suddenly, as though unable to bear
what he saw. What did he see? Grey wondered. The Scot’s face remained
blank as granite, but he saw the big hands curl slowly, gathering fabric
and flesh together, fingers digging so hard into the muscle of his thigh
that they must leave bruises.

Was it Geneva he mourned—or his dead wife? The trouble with
funerals was that they reminded one of loss. He had not seen his father’s
funeral, and yet had never sat through one without thought of his father,
the wound of his loss healing, growing smaller through the years, but
always reopened.

And if ever I saw a man bleeding internally … he thought, watching
Fraser.

<snip>

Well, that expectation would be a comfort, to be sure. He had no such
expectation himself—only something too vague to be called hope—but
he did have one certainty to anchor himself in this fog of grief and
indecision. The certainty that he would get at least one answer from
Jamie Fraser. Maybe two.

 

 

 

 

It was only four o’clock, but the winter sun had set, leaving a thin slice

of pale light above the fells. The temperature had dropped and the snow

had thickened; already the highest rocks showed a rime of white, and

large, wet flakes struck Grey’s coat and stuck melting to his hair and

lashes as he made his way to the stables.

 

He had seen the other two grooms helping to bring round horses and

harness teams for those nearby funeral guests who were departing today,

but there had been no sign of Fraser. Not surprising; Lord Dunsany

preferred “MacKenzie” to remain out of sight when there was company.

 

His size, his aspect, and, above all, his Highland speech tended to

unnerve some people. Grey had heard some comments regarding the tall,

red-haired servant who bore Ellesmere’s coffin, but most did not realize

that he was Dunsany’s servant, rather than that of the Earl of Ellesmere

—and few, so far as he knew, had realized that the man was Scottish, let

alone a paroled Jacobite.

 

Sure enough, he discovered Fraser in the stable block, pitching feed

for the stalled horses, and came up beside him.

 

“May I speak with you, Mr. Fraser?”

 

The Scot didn’t turn, but lifted one shoulder.

 

“I dinna see any way of preventing ye, Major,” he said. Despite the

words, this did not sound unfriendly; only wary.

 

“I would ask you a question, sir.”

 

He was watching Fraser’s face closely, in the glow of the single

lantern, and saw the wide mouth tighten a little. Fraser only nodded,

though, and dug his fork into the waiting mound of hay.

 

“Regarding some gentlemen intimately connected with the Stuart

cause,” Grey said, and received a sudden startled look—mingled with an

undeniable impression of relief.

 

“The Stuart cause?” Fraser repeated, and turned his back on Grey,

shoulders bunching as he dug the fork into a pile of hay. “To

which … gentlemen … do ye refer, Major?”

 

Grey was conscious of his heart beating heavily in his chest, and took

especial care that his voice might be under his control at this delicate

juncture.

 

“I understand that you were an intimate friend to—” he nearly said,

“to the Young Pretender,” but bit that off and said instead, “to Charles

Stuart.”

 

“That—” Fraser began, but stopped as suddenly as he had begun. He

deposited the forkload of hay neatly into one manger, and moved to pick

up another. “I knew him,” he said, voice colorless.

 

“Quite. Am I to understand also that you knew the names of some

important supporters of the Pretender in England?”

 

Fraser glanced at him, face inscrutable in the lantern light.

 

“Many of them,” he said quietly. He looked back to the fork in his

hands, drove it down into the hay. “Does it matter now?”

 

Not to Fraser, surely. Nor to Hector, or the other dead of Culloden. But

to the living …

 

“If any of them are still alive, I imagine it matters,” he said. “Those

who did not declare themselves at the time would scarcely wish their

connexions exposed, even now.”

 

Fraser made a noise of soft derision through his nose.

 

“Oh, aye. I shall denounce them, I suppose, and thus gain pardon from

your king?”

 

“Your king, as well,” Grey said pointedly. “It is possible that you

could.” More than possible. The anti-Jacobite hysteria of the years

before the Rising had eased somewhat—but treason was a crime whose

stain did not fade; he had good reason to know it.

 

Fraser straightened. He let go of the fork and looked directly at him,

his eyes so dark a blue that they reminded Grey of cathedral slates—

darkened by age and the tread of feet, nearly black in the pooling

shadows, but so enduring as to long outlast the feet that trampled them.

 

“If I would trade honor for my life—or for freedom—would I not have

done it at my trial?”

 

“Perhaps you could not, then; you would have lain in danger from

those Jacobites still at large.”

 

This attempt to goad Fraser was in vain; the Scot merely looked at

him, with the expression of one regarding a turd in the street.

 

“Or perhaps you realized that such information as you possessed was

not of sufficient value to interest anyone,” Grey suggested, unwilling—or

unable—to give up. Fraser would have been compelled to swear an oath

of loyalty to King George when he was given his life following Culloden,

but Grey knew better than to try an appeal to that.

 

“I have said nothing regarding it, Major,” Fraser replied coolly. “If

what I ken has value to anyone, it is to yourself, I should say.”

 

“What makes you say that?” Grey’s heart was hammering against his

ribs, but he strove to match Fraser’s even tone.

 

“It is a dozen years past the death of the Stuart cause,” Fraser pointed

out. “And I havena been besieged by persons desiring to discover my

knowledge of those affairs connected with it. They asked at my trial, aye

—but even then, without great interest in my answer.”

 

The dark blue gaze roved over him, detached and cynical.

 

“Do your own fortunes fare so badly, then, that ye seek to mend them

wi’ the bones of the dead?”

 

“With the—” Belatedly, he realized that Fraser spoke poetically, rather

than literally.

 

“This has nothing to do with my own fortunes,” he said. “But as to the

dead—yes. I have no concern for those Jacobites still alive. If there are

any left, they may go to the devil or the Pope as they please.”

 

He felt rather like a boy he had once seen at a zoological garden in

Paris, who had poked a stick into a dozing tiger’s cage. The beast had

not snarled, nor thrown himself at the bars, but the slanted eyes had

opened slowly, fixing upon the child in such a manner that the

benighted urchin had dropped his stick and stood frozen, until his

mother had dragged him away.

 

“The dead,” Fraser repeated, eyes fixed on Grey’s face in that intent,

unnerving fashion. “What is it that ye seek from the dead, then?”

 

“A name. Just one.”

 

“Which one?”

 

Grey felt a sense of dread come over him that paralyzed his limbs and

dried his tongue. And yet it must be asked.

 

“Grey,” he said hoarsely. “Gerard Grey. Duke. Duke of Pardloe. Was

he—” Saliva failed him; he tried to swallow, but could not.

 

Fraser’s gaze had sharpened; the dark blue eyes were brilliant,

narrowed in the dimness.

 

“A duke,” he said. “Your father?”

 

Grey could only nod, despising himself for his weakness.

 

Fraser grunted; impossible to tell if it was with surprise—or

satisfaction. He thought for a moment, eyes hooded, then shook his

head.

 

“No.”

 

“You will not tell me?”

 

It was surprise. Fraser frowned a little at him, puzzled.

 

“I mean the answer is no. I have never seen that name written among

those of King James’s supporters, nor have I ever heard it spoken.”

 

He was regarding Grey with considerable interest—as well he might,

Grey thought. He could see unspoken questions moving in the Scot’s

eyes, but knew they would remain unspoken—as would his own,

regarding Geneva Dunsany.

 

He himself felt something between vast relief and crushing

disappointment. He had steeled himself to know the worst, and met only

a blank wall. He longed to press Fraser further, but that would be

pointless. Whatever else Fraser might be, Grey had no doubt of his

honesty. He might have refused to answer, but answer he had, and Grey

was compelled to accept it at face value.

 

That the answer still left room for doubt—perhaps Fraser had not been

sufficiently intimate with the inner councils of the Jacobite cause as to

be told such an important name, perhaps the duke had died too long

before Fraser joined the cause—or perhaps the duke had been clever

enough to remain successfully hidden from everyone save the Stuarts

themselves …

 

“The Stuart court leaks like a sieve, Major.” The voice came quietly

from the shadows. Fraser had turned his back again, resuming his work.

 

“If your father had any connexion whatever with the Stuarts and

remained unknown—he was a verra clever man.”

 

“Yes,” Grey said bleakly. “Yes, he was. I thank you, Mr. Fraser.”

He received no answer save the rustle of hay, and left the stable,

followed by the whickering of horses and Fraser’s tuneless whistle.

Outside, the world had turned a soft, featureless white.

 

 

 

The fact that Fraser had answered him reinforced Grey’s suspicions

regarding Geneva. The encounter in the chapel was not mentioned, but

the memory of it was clear between them. His honor would not permit

him to mention it, lest it be taken as a threat—but the threat was

implied. Had he made it explicit, Fraser’s honor—and his temper—

would likely have caused him to throw it back in Grey’s face, stubbornly

refusing to say a word and daring him to take action.

 

So he had something. It wasn’t proof, either of Fraser’s relationship

with Geneva or of his own father’s innocence—but food for thought,

nonetheless.

 

He kept thinking, and while he did not see Fraser again before his

departure, those thoughts moved him to one final trial of curiosity.

 

<snip>

 

<There is a section with Lord John checking out William to see if he looks like Jamie>

[broughps]

LJ and the Brotherhood of the Blade

Chapter 10

 

“Did he?” he repeated, trying to sound casual. “I rather wondered

whether perhaps you had had one, too. Delivered by post, perhaps?”

 

She looked up at him, her eyes quick and fierce.

 

“What makes you think that?”

 

“The way you spoke of James Fraser when I departed for Helwater,”

he told her frankly. “Something must have disturbed you quite suddenly,

for you to take such note of the man; you have known of him for years.

But since the only thing you do know of him is that he was once a

prominent Jacobite …?” He paused delicately, but she said nothing. Her

eyes were still blazing like a burning glass, but she wasn’t looking at him

any longer. Whatever she was looking at lay a good way beyond him.

 

“Yes,” she said at last, her voice remote. She blinked once and looked

at him, her gaze still sharp, but no longer burning. “Your father always

said you were the cleverest of the boys.” This wasn’t said in a

complimentary tone. “As for ‘was once a prominent Jacobite’—there is

no ‘was’ about it, John. Believe me, once a Papist, always a Papist.”

 

 

 

Chapter 19

 

“You cannot compel love,” he said finally, “nor summon it at will. Still

less,” he added ruefully, “can you dismiss it.” He sat up then, and looked

at Percy, who was looking down, tracing patterns on the counterpane

with a fingertip. “I think you are not in love with me, though, are you?”

 

Percy smiled a little, not looking up. Not disagreeing, either. “Cannot

dismiss it,” he echoed. “Who was he? Or is he?”

 

“Is.” Grey felt a sudden jolt of the heart at the speaking of that single

word. Something at once joyful and terrible; the admission was

irrevocable.

 

Percy was looking up at him now, brown eyes bright with interest.

 

“It is—I mean, he—you need not worry. There is no possibility of

anything between us,” Grey blurted, and bit his tongue to keep back the

sudden impulse to tell everything, only for the momentary ecstasy of

speaking of Jamie Fraser. He was wiser than that, though, and kept the

words bottled tight in his throat.

 

“Oh. He’s not …?” Percy’s gaze flicked momentarily over Grey’s

nakedness, then returned to his face.

 

“No.”

[broughps]

LJ and the Brotherhood of the Blade

Chapter 20

He spent as little time as politeness required with the Dunsanys, before
discovering that he had left something he required in his saddlebag.

“No, no—I’ll fetch it. Won’t take a moment.” He stopped Lady
Dunsany, her hand on the bell rope, and was out of the library before
she could protest.

His heart beat faster as he approached the stable, but for once, it had
little to do with the physical presence of Jamie Fraser.

Dinner had been served; the stable was filled with the peaceful sounds
of chewing and the smell of fresh-broken hay. One or two of the horses
lifted a head to look at him, wisps of hay straggling from the champing
jaws, but for the most part, they ignored him, noses firmly planted in the
mangers.

Fraser was at the far end of the stable, mucking out. The huge door
there had been slid aside, and he was silhouetted against the pale light
of the fading spring sky. He must have heard Grey’s footsteps on the
brick floor, but didn’t break the rhythm of his work.

He stopped, though, and straightened when Grey came up to him. It
was cold in the stable, but there was a sheen of moisture across his jaw,
and the linen shirt clung to his shoulders. He smelled of clean sweat.
“Leaks,” Grey said abruptly. “You said ‘leaks.’ ”

Fraser rested the manure fork on its tines, wiped his face with a
sleeve, and regarded him quizzically.

“I dinna recall having done so, Major, but I suppose it’s possible—I do
ken the word.”

“When you spoke of the Stuart court at our last meeting,” Grey
amplified. “You said, and I quote, ‘The Stuart court leaks like a sieve.’ I
am convinced that you understand the niceties of English grammar
sufficiently as to use the present tense correctly, Mr. Fraser.”

Fraser raised one thick red brow, though no expression of concern
showed on his face. Grey sighed.

“It leaks like a sieve,” he repeated. “How do you know that it does,
unless you are presently in contact with someone there?”

Fraser rubbed a finger under his nose, regarding him, then turned
back to his work, shaking his head.

“Your brain’s like to burst, Major, and ye dinna give over thinking so
much,” he said, not unkindly. He shoved the pitchfork under a mound of
manure-matted straw and heaved the muck out through the open door.

“Ye ken well enough that the terms of my parole dinna permit any such
thing."

That was quite true; Grey had written those terms, and Fraser had
signed them. He recalled the occasion vividly; it was the first—but not
the last—occasion on which he had been sure that only the presence of
armed guards kept Fraser from breaking his neck.

It was apparent from the Scot’s ironic expression that he recalled the
occasion, too.

“And if I wasna sufficiently honorable as to abide by those terms,
Major,” he added evenly, “I should have been in France a week after
setting foot in this place.”

Grey forbore to take issue with the notion of someone of Fraser’s
striking appearance being able to travel the roads without being noticed,
or to cross fifty miles of open fell on foot, without cloak, food, or shelter
—not least because he was convinced that the man quite possibly could
have done so.

“I would never suggest a breach of honor on your part, Mr. Fraser,”
Grey said, and was mildly surprised to find that true. “I apologize if my
question might have implied any such suggestion.”

Fraser blinked.

“Accepted, Major,” he said, a little gruffly. He paused, gripping the
fork as though about to return to his work, but then the muscles of his
shoulders relaxed.

“I said that the Stuart court leaks like a sieve, Major, because both
King James and his son are still alive, and the same men still surround
them. So far as I am in a position to know,” he added, with a glint of dry
humor.

“You don’t think they’ve given up?” Grey asked curiously, choosing
not to notice that “King James.” “Surely they have no hope—”

“No, they have nay hope, and no, they’ve not given up,” Fraser
interrupted him, the dry note more pronounced. “They’re Scots, for all
they live their lives in the shadow of St. Peter’s. They’ll cease plotting
when they’re dead.”

“I see.” He did. Eighteen months as governor of Ardsmuir was enough
to have given him a useful estimation of the Scottish character. The
Emperor Hadrian had known what he was about, he thought; pity later
rulers of England had been less prudent.

With that thought in mind, he chose his words carefully.

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Fraser?”

“I see no way to stop ye, Major.” But there was no rancor in Fraser’s
voice, and the light in his eye was the same that appeared when they
played chess. Wariness, interest—and readiness.

“If I were to release you explicitly from that provision of your parole—
and were to forward any letter you cared to send, wherever you chose to
send it, without question—would you be able to contact someone who
would know the names of prominent Jacobites in England? It would
have been someone active in 1741.”

He’d never seen Fraser drop-jawed, and didn’t now, but the Scot
plainly couldn’t have been more taken aback had Grey suddenly kissed
him on the mouth.

“That—” he began, then broke off and shook his head. “Do you—” He
paused again, so patently appalled at the suggestion that words failed
him.

“Do I know what I ask? Yes, I do, and I am sorry for it.” Silence hung
between them for a moment, broken by the champing of horses and the
call of an early lark in the meadow beyond the stable.

“Please believe that I would not seek to make use of you in this
fashion, were there any other choice,” Grey said quietly.

Fraser stared at him for a moment, then pushed the fork into the heap
of soggy straw, turned, and went out. He walked off into the growing
dusk, to the paddock, and there stood, his back turned to Grey, gripping
the upper rail of the fence as though trying to reestablish his grip on
reality.

Grey didn’t blame him. He felt completely unreal himself.

“Why?” Fraser asked bluntly, turning round at last.

“For my father’s honor.”

Fraser was silent for a moment.

“Do ye describe my own present situation as honorable, sir?”

“What?”

Fraser cast him an angry glance.

“Defeat—aye, that’s honorable enough, if nothing to be sought. But I
am not merely defeated, not only imprisoned by right of conquest. I am
exiled, and made slave to an English lord, forced to do the will of my
captors.

“And each day, I rise with the thought of my perished brothers, my
men taken from my care and thrown to the mercies of sea and savages—
and I lay myself down at night knowing that I am preserved from death
only by the accident that my body rouses your unholy lust.”

Grey’s face was numb; he could not feel his lips move, and was
surprised to hear the words come clearly nonetheless.

“It was never my intent to bring you dishonor.”

He could see the Scot check his rising anger, with an effort of will.
“No, I dinna suppose that it was,” he replied evenly.

“I don’t suppose you wish to kill me?” Grey asked, as lightly as
possible. “That would solve my immediate dilemma—and if you dislike
your life as much as you appear to, the process would relieve you of that
burden, as well. Two birds with one stone.”

With startling swiftness, Fraser plucked a stone from the ground, and
in the same motion, hurled it. There was a sickening thump, and jerking
round, Grey saw a fallen rabbit, legs kicking in frantic spasm beneath a
bush.

Without haste, Fraser walked over, picked it up, and broke its neck
with a neat snap. Returning, he dropped the limp body at Grey’s feet.

“Dead is dead, Major,” he said quietly. “It is not a romantic notion.
And whatever my own feelings in the matter, my family would not
prefer my death to my dishonor. While there is anyone alive with a
claim upon my protection, my life is not my own.”

He walked off then, into the chilly twilight, and did not look back.

Grey left Helwater the next day. He did not see Fraser again—did not
plan to—but carried a note to the stable at mid-morning. It was deserted,
most of the horses gone, and the three grooms with them, as he’d
expected.

He had taken some pains with the composition of the note, keeping it
as formal and dispassionate as possible. He had, he wrote, informed Lord
Dunsany that if Fraser chose to write any letters, to anyone whomsoever
(that phrase underlined; he knew that Fraser wrote secretly to his family
in the Highlands when he could), he was to be provided with paper and
ink, and the letters dispatched under Dunsany’s seal, without question.
The letters would not, he added delicately, be read by any save their
intended recipients.

He had thought to leave the note, addressed to Fraser, pinned to a
railing or stall where it would be easily found. But now he reconsidered;
he didn’t know whether the other grooms could read, nor whether their
respect for Fraser might restrain their curiosity—but neither he nor
Fraser would want the matter to be generally known and talked about.
Ought he to leave the note with Dunsany, to be delivered personally?

He felt some delicacy about that; he did not wish Fraser to feel any
pressure of Dunsany’s expectations—only yours, he thought grimly. He
hesitated for an instant, but then climbed the ladder to the loft where he
knew Fraser slept, heart beating like a drum.

The loft was dim, but even in the poor light, it was apparent at once
which spot was Fraser’s. There were three striped mattress tickings on
the floor, each with a lidded wooden crate beside it for clothes and
personal belongings. Two of these were scattered with pipes, tobacco
pouches, stray buttons, dirty handkerchiefs, empty beer jugs, and the
like. The one on the left, a little distance from the others, was starkly
bare, save for a tiny wooden statue of the Virgin and a rush dip,
presently extinguished.

He found himself holding his breath, and forced himself to walk
normally, footsteps echoing on the boards.

There was a single blanket on the ticking, neatly spread, but speckled
with straw. Heaps of matted straw lay around each mattress like a nest;
the grooms must pull hay over themselves for extra warmth. No wonder;
his breath was white, and the chill of the place numbed his fingers.
The impulse to lift the lid of the box and see what lay within was
nearly irresistible. But he had done enough to Jamie Fraser; to intrude
into this last small bastion of his privacy would be unforgivable.

With this realization came another; it wouldn’t do. Even to leave the
note atop the crate, or discreetly placed beneath the blanket, which had
been his first thought, would let Fraser know that Grey had been here—
an intimacy in itself that the man would find an unwelcome violation.

“Well, damn it all anyway,” he muttered to himself, and going down
the ladder, found a bucket to stand on and pinned the note above the
lintel of the tack room, in plain sight, but high enough that only Fraser
would be able to reach it easily.

He looked up toward the fells as he left the stable, searching for
horsemen, but nothing showed save rags of drifting fog.

[broughps]

LJ and the Brotherhood of the Blade

Chapter 21

“Are you brave, John?” Percy drew a blanket over him, and kissed his
forehead.

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “The only time I ever did act from
what I thought was courage ended in disaster.”

He was astonished to hear his own voice saying this.

He’d told the whole story—perforce—to Hal at the time, though he
would infinitely have preferred to be shot for desertion or flogged at the
triangle than do so. He could still remember Hal’s face during that
telling: relief, dismay, fury, laughter, renewed fury, and—damn him—
sympathy, all shifting through his fine-boned face like water over rocks.
And the rocks beneath—the deep-cut lines and smudges of exhaustion,
signs of the sleepless night Hal had spent searching for him.

He’d never told anyone else, and felt for an instant as though he were
on a sled, about to plunge down a steep, snowy slope with an icy abyss
at its foot. But Percy’s weight sank the mattress beside him, and his hand
was warm on Grey’s back.

“It was my first campaign,” he said, with a deep breath. “The Stuart
Rising. I hadn’t got my commission yet; Hal took me with the regiment
into Scotland, to have a taste of soldiering.”

<snip>

He went out regularly with the other scouts, casting about in the
evening to be sure there was no lurking threat as camp was made.

“Usually, we went out in pairs; I’d been out with a soldier named
Jenks that evening. Decent fellow, but built like an ox. He’d get out of
breath easily, and didn’t care much for climbing in the steep mountains.”

And so when Grey had thought he’d seen smoke, a half mile high above
them in the Carryarick Pass, Jenks had assured him he hadn’t.

“He might have been right; the light was going, and I couldn’t be sure.
We turned back to camp. But it niggled at me—what if I had seen it?”

And so he’d slipped out of camp after supper. Should have told
someone, but didn’t. He wasn’t afraid of getting lost. And if it was
nothing, he didn’t want to be mocked for making a fuss or seeing
shadows. He might have told Hector—but Hector had gone to the rear
with a message for the captain of the Royal Artillery company that was
traveling with them, bringing cannon for General Cope.

He did see shadows. Nearly three-quarters of a mile up the side of one
of Scotland’s crags, the wind brought him the scent of smoke. And
creeping through brush and bracken, stealthy as a fox in the gathering
gloom, he’d seen at last the flicker of a small fire and the movement of
shadows against the trees of a clearing.

“And then I heard her voice. A woman’s voice. An Englishwoman’s
voice.”

“What, on a mountainside in the Highlands?” Percy’s voice reflected
his own incredulity at the time. Even now, a decade and more past the
Rising, the barbarian clansmen crushed or removed, the Highlands of
Scotland remained a desolate wilderness. No one in his right mind would
go there now—save soldiers, whose duty it was. But a woman? Then?
He’d crept closer, sure his ears were deceiving him.

“It couldn’t be Jacobite troops, in any case, I thought. It was only a
single tiny fire. And when I got close enough to see …”

His heart had given such a lurch of excitement that he nearly choked
on it. There was a man in the clearing, sitting on a log, relaxed.

He could so vividly recall his first sight of Jamie Fraser, and the fierce
rush of emotions involved—alarm, panic, dizzying excitement. The hair,
of course, first of all, the hair. Bound back loosely, not ginger but a deep
red, a red like a stag’s coat, but a red that glinted in the firelight as the
man bent to push another stick into the fire.

The size of the man, and the sense of power in him. Plainly a Scot, by
his dress, by his speech. He’d heard stories of Red Jamie Fraser—surely
there couldn’t be two like him. But was it, could it be, really?

He’d realized that he was holding his breath only when spots began to
swim before his eyes. And, trying to breathe silently, had seen the
woman come into view on the far side of the fire.

She was an Englishwoman, he could see it at once. More than that, a
lady. A tall woman, crudely dressed, but with the skin, the carriage, the
refined features of a noblewoman. And certainly the voice. She was
addressing the man crossly; he laughed.

She called him by name—by God, it was Jamie Fraser! And through
his haze of panic and excitement, Grey made out the man’s reply and
realized with horror that he was making indecent insinuations to the
woman, stating a plain intent to take her to his bed. He had kidnapped
her, then—and dragged her to this distant spot in order to dishonor her
without the possibility of rescue or interference.

Grey’s first impulse had been to retire quietly through the brush, then
tear down the mountain as fast as possible and run back to camp to fetch
some men to apprehend Fraser. But the presence of the Englishwoman
altered everything. He dare not leave her in the Scot’s grasp. He had so
far had one experience in a brothel, and knew just how quickly immoral
transactions could be accomplished. By the time he got back with help,
it would be far too late.

He was sure his heartbeat must be audible at a distance, hard as it was
hammering in his own ears.

“I’d come armed, of course.” He kept his eyes fixed on the ceiling, as
though the egg-and-dart molding told some gripping tale. “A pistol and a
dagger in my belt.”

But he hadn’t loaded the pistol. Cursing himself silently, he’d grappled
for a moment with the problem: risk the delay of loading, the sound of
the shot, plus the possibility of missing, or use the dagger?

“You didn’t think of taking him prisoner?” Percy asked curiously.
“Rather than trying to kill him?”

“I did, yes,” Grey said, a slight edge to his voice. “But I was reasonably
sure that his own men were somewhere nearby. He was well known, one
of the Scottish chiefs; the clans were gathering—he wouldn’t be alone at
all, if it weren’t for the woman.

“And it was dark, and the clearing was completely surrounded by
forest. You’ve never seen a Scottish pine forest—two steps into the trees,
and a man has vanished from sight. If I tried to take him prisoner, he
might either shout for help—and I certainly couldn’t take on a horde of
clansmen—or simply dive into the brush and be gone. Which would
leave me and the woman as sitting ducks; his men would be on us long
before I could get her down off the bloody mountain. But if I could kill
him quietly, I thought, then I could get her away to safety before anyone
knew. So I drew my dagger.”

“That’s what you meant about courage.” Percy’s hand tightened on his
shoulder. “My God, I wouldn’t have had the nerve even to think of doing
something like that!”

“Well, you would have been a good deal more intelligent than I was,
then,” Grey said dryly.

His face felt hot, flushed both with embarrassment at the memory and
with the memory itself, of blood pounding through his body at the
prospect of his first kill.

He’d marked out the distance carefully—three paces, to be covered at
a bound. Then fling his arm round the man’s head and pull it back, rip
the dagger hard across the stretched throat. That’s what Sergeant
O’Connell had instructed them to do, taking an enemy unawares in close
quarters. They’d practiced, he and several of the younger soldiers, taking
it in turn to play victim or killer. He knew just what to do.

“So I did it,” he said, with a sigh. “I flung my arm round his head—
and it wasn’t there anymore. Next thing I knew, I was somersaulting
through the air.”

The dagger went flying from his sweating fingers. He slammed hard
into the earth and something fell on him. He’d fought back by instinct,
dazed and breathless, but knowing that he fought for his life. Kicked,
punched, clawed, bit—and for the most part, encountered only empty
air. Meanwhile, some elemental force had set about him, and a bonecracking
blow to the ribs drove the rest of the breath out of him. He
reached out blindly, something grabbed his arm with a grip of steel and
twisted it up his back. He lunged upward in panic, and his arm had
snapped like a stick.

“Well … the long and the short of it is that the Englishwoman turned
out to be Fraser’s wife, curse her. And I, for my pains, ended up tied to a
tree and left for my brother’s men to find in the morning.”

“Jesus! All night, you were there? With your arm broken? You must
have been in torment!”

“Well, yes,” Grey admitted reluctantly. “It was more the biting midges,
though. And needing desperately to have a pee. I didn’t really notice the
arm much.” He didn’t mention the searing pain of the burn along the
edge of his jaw, where Fraser had laid the hot blade of his dirk—or his
raw back, where he’d rubbed most of the skin off, trying to free himself.
None of this bodily discomfort had seemed important, by contrast with
the agony of mind occasioned by the realization of the depth of the
betrayal he had been led into.

“Meanwhile—” He cleared his throat, determined to finish.
“Meanwhile, Fraser and his men had crept round behind the camp, to
the artillery park, taken all the wheels off the cannon, and burnt them.
Using information I’d given them.”

Percy had been looking at him with sympathy. At this last confession,
his mouth fell open. For an instant, shock showed in his eyes. Then he
reached over and took Grey’s left arm in both hands, feeling gently
through the shirt. The bone was lumpy, where it had healed.

“What did he do to you?” Percy asked quietly. “This Fraser?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Grey said, a little gruffly. “I should have let him
kill me.” He had in fact been convinced that Fraser did mean to kill him
—and hadn’t spoken. The truth … well, he’d told Hal. He shut his eyes,
but didn’t pull his arm away. Percy’s hands were warm, his thumbs
gently stroking along the bone.

“It was the woman,” he said, resigned to complete humiliation. “He
threatened her. And I—idiot that I was—spoke, in order to save her.”

“Well, what else could you do?” Percy said, his tone so reasonable that
Grey opened his eyes and stared at him. Percy smiled a little.

“Of course you would protect the woman,” he said. “You protect
everyone, John—I don’t suppose you can help it.”

[broughps]

LJ and the Brotherhood of the Blade

Chapter 22

His eyes were still open, but it was no longer the spring sunshine of
the parade ground he saw, nor the stocky young soldier, groaning and
flinching at each blow. He stood in the gray stone yard of Ardsmuir
Prison, and saw rain run gleaming over straining shoulders, run mixed
with blood down the deep groove of Jamie Fraser’s back.



(I'm putting this in, but I'm not sure if LJG is dreaming of Jamie or someone else.)

He dreamed of it, the night before they left.

Felt himself bound, and the dread of shame. Pain, disfigurement—but
most of all, shame. That a gentleman should find himself in such case,
exposed.

The men were drawn up in their square, eyes front. But he realized
slowly that they were not looking at him. Somehow he became separate,
and felt profound relief that after all it was not him.

And yet he felt the blows, grunting with each one, like a beast.

Saw the man taken down at the end, dragged away by two men who
held his arms across their shoulders, his own feet stumbling as though he
were drunk. Saw a stark-boned face gone slack with exhaustion, eyes
closed and the water running, dripping, face shimmering with it, his hair
nearly black, so saturated as it was with sweat and rain.

Spreading ointment across the torn and furrowed skin, his fingers
thick with it so as to touch as lightly as possible. Fierce heat radiated
from the man’s back, though the skin of his arms was cool, damp with
drying sweat. Picked up a linen towel to blot the sweat from the man’s
neck, untied the thong that bound his soaked hair and began to rub it
dry.

He felt the hum of some tune in throat and chest, and felt great
happiness as he worked. The man said nothing; he did not expect it. He
smoothed the long thick strands of half-dry hair between his fingers, and
wiped the curve of ears that reminded him of a small boy’s,
heartbreaking in their tenderness.

Then he realized that he was straddling the man, and that they were
both naked. The man’s buttocks rose beneath him, smooth and round
and powerful, perfect by contrast with the bloody back. And warm. Very
warm.

Woke with a dreadful feeling of shame, heavy in his belly. The sound
of dripping water in his ears.

The dripping of rain. The drip of sweat, of blood and seed. Not tears.
The man had never wept, even in extremity.

Yet his pillow was wet. The tears were his.


Chapter 23

He hadn’t told Hal anything regarding his inquiries of Jamie Fraser; no
need, unless they came to something. They had seen Sir George and
Lady Stanley safely embarked for Havana, the week before their own
sailing, and in the frantic rush of embarkation, Grey had not spared a
single thought for the puzzle surrounding his father’s death. No more
journal pages had surfaced; no further attacks had been made. The
whole business seemed to have vanished, as suddenly as it had begun.


Chapter 28

“Damn you, Perseverance,” he said softly. “I wish I had never set eyes
upon you.” He sighed, rubbing the palms of his hands over his closed
eyelids.

And yet he did not mean that, he realized. He did feel that way about
Jamie Fraser—but not Percy. And became aware, very much too late,
that he did love Percy Wainwright. But … enough to try to save him, at
the cost of his own honor, his own life, even though there could be
nothing left between them?

[broughps]

LJ and the Brotherhood of the Blade

Chapter 32

“I did as you asked, Lord John,” Dunsany said, his voice lowered, as
though someone might overhear—though they were quite alone in the
library.

“As I—oh!” Grey recollected, belatedly, his request that James Fraser
might be afforded the opportunity to write letters. “I thank you, sir. Was
there … any result from the experiment, do you know?”

Dunsany nodded, his narrow brow furrowed in concern.

“He did send a number of letters—ten in all, I believe. As you
specified, I did not open them”—his expression indicated that he thought
this a grave mistake—“but I did take note of the directions upon them.
Three were sent to a place in the Highlands, to a Mrs. Murray, two to
Rome, and the remainder to France. I kept a list of the names.…” He
fumbled with the drawer of his desk, but Grey stopped him with a
gesture.

“I thank you, sir. Perhaps later. Did he receive any reply to these
missives?”

“Yes, several.” Dunsany seemed expectant, but Grey only nodded,
without asking for details.

<snip>

He thought the meal would never end, but it did, and he was at last
allowed to escape to his room. He did not stop there, though, but went
quietly down the back stair and out. To the stable.



One of the other grooms was working in the paddock, but Grey sent him
away with a brief sign. He didn’t care whether anyone thought his desire
to speak to Jamie Fraser in private was peculiar—and the other grooms
were accustomed to it, in any case.

Fraser was pitching hay into the mangers, and barely glanced at Grey
when he entered the stable.

“I shall be finished in a moment,” he said. “Ye wish to hear about the
letters, I suppose.”

“No,” Grey said. “Not that. Not now, in any case.”

Fraser glanced sharply at him, but at Grey’s motion to continue,
shrugged and went on with his task, returning when all the mangers
were filled.

“Will you speak with me, as man to man?” Grey asked, without
preamble.

Fraser looked startled, but considered for a moment, and nodded.

“I will,” he said warily, and it occurred to Grey that he thought Grey
had come to speak of Geneva.

“It is a matter of my own affairs,” Grey said, “not yours.”

“Indeed.” Fraser was still guarded, but the wariness in his eyes
relaxed. “What affairs are these, sir? And why me?”

“Why you.” Grey sighed, and sitting down on a stool, indicated that
Fraser should do the same. “Because, Mr. Fraser, you are an honest man,
and I trust that you will give me an honest opinion. And because, God
damn it, you are the only person in this world to whom I can speak
frankly.”

Fraser’s look of wariness returned, but he sat down, leaned his
pitchfork against the wall, and said only, “Speak, then.”

He had rehearsed the words a hundred times on the journey from
London, rendering the tale as succinctly as possible. No need for details,
and he gave none. No doorknobs.

“And that is my dilemma,” he ended. “I am the only witness. Without
my testimony, he will not be convicted, nor condemned. If I lie before
the court-martial, that is the end of my own honor. If I do not—it will be
the end of his life or freedom.”

To speak so openly was an overwhelming relief, and Grey
remembered, with a pang, that the same feeling had come to him when
he told Percy the story of his father’s death. To talk in this way did more
good than hours of thinking; laying out the pieces of the matter for
Fraser made the choice clear in his own mind.

Fraser had listened closely throughout this recital, ruddy brows drawn
in a slight frown. Now he looked at the ground, still frowning.

“This man is your brother, your kin,” he said finally. “But kin by law,
not blood. Have ye feeling for him, beyond the obligation of kin?
Kindness? Love?” There was no marked emphasis on the last word; Grey
thought Fraser meant only the love that existed within family.

Grey rose from his seat and strode restlessly up and down.

“Not love,” he said finally. “And not kindness.” There was some of
both left, yes, but in the end neither of these would compel him
sufficiently.

“Will it be honor, then?” Fraser said quietly. He stood up, silhouetted
by the lantern light.

“Yes,” Grey said. “But what is the path of honor, here?”

Fraser shrugged slightly, and Grey saw the glint of his red hair, caught
by a stray beam of light that struck down from a chink in the boards of
the loft overhead.

“What is honor for me may not be honor for you, Major,” he said. “For
me—for us—our honor is our family. I could not see a close kinsman
condemned, no matter his crime. Mind,” he added, lifting one brow,
“infamous crime would be dealt with. But by the man’s chief, by his own
kin—not by a court.”

Grey stood still, and let the jumbled pieces fall.

“I see,” he said slowly, and did. Grey understood now what Fraser
meant by honor. In the end, it was simple, and the relief of reaching the
decision overwhelmed his realization of the difficulties still to be faced.

“It is honor—but not the honor of my reputation. The end of it,” Grey
said slowly, seeing it at last, “is that I cannot in honor see him hanged
for a crime whose guilt I share—and from whose consequences I am
escaped by chance alone.”

Fraser stiffened slightly. “A crime whose guilt ye share.” His voice was
careful, realization—and distaste—clear in the words. He stopped,
clearly not wishing to say more, but he could scarcely leave the matter
there.

“This man. He is not only your stepbrother, but … your …” He groped
for a word. “Your catamite?”

“He was my lover, yes.” The words should have been tinged with
bitterness, but were not. Sadness, yes, but most of all, relief at the
admission.

Fraser made a brief sound of contempt, though, and Grey turned upon
him, reckless.

“You do not believe that men can love one another?”

“No,” Fraser said bluntly. “I do not.” His mouth compressed for an
instant, and then he added, as though honesty compelled him, “Not in
that fashion, at least. The love of brothers, of kin—aye, of course. Or of
soldiers. We have—spoken of that.”

“Sparta? Yes.” Grey smiled without humor. They had fought the battle
of Thermopylae one night, in his quarters at Ardsmuir Prison, using salt
cellars, dice, and cuff buttons on a map scrawled with charcoal on the
top of his desk. It had been one of their evenings of friendship.

“The love of Leonidas for his men, they for each other as warriors.
Aye, that’s real enough. But to—to … use a man in such fashion …” He
made a gesture of repudiation.

“Think so, do you?” Grey’s blood was already high; he felt it hot in his
chest. “You’ve read Plato, I know. And scholar that you are, I would
suppose that you’ve heard of the Sacred Band of Thebes. Perhaps?”

Fraser’s face went tight, and in spite of the dim light, Grey saw the
color rise in him, as well.

“I have,” he said shortly.

“Lovers,” Grey said, realizing suddenly that he was gloriously angry.

“All soldiers. All lovers. Each man and his beloved. Who would desert his
beloved, or fail him in the hour of danger?” He gave Fraser stare for stare.

“And what do you say to that, Mr. Fraser?”

The Scot’s eyes had gone quite black.

“What I would say,” he said, counting out the words like coins, “is that
only men who lack the ability to possess a woman—or cowards who fear
them—must resort to such feeble indecencies to relieve their lust. And to
hear ye speak of honor in the same breath … Since ye ask, it curdles my
wame. And what, my lord, d’ye say to that?”

“I say that I do not speak of the indecencies of lust—and if you wish to
speak of such things, allow me to note that I have seen much grosser
indecencies inflicted upon women by men, and so have you. We have
both fought with armies. I said ‘love.’ And what do you think love is,
then, that it is reserved only to men who are drawn to women?”

The color stood out in patches across Fraser’s cheekbones.

“I have loved my wife beyond life itself, and know that love for a gift
of God. Ye dare to say to me that the feelings of a—a—pervert who
cannot deal with women as a man, but minces about and preys upon
helpless boys—that this is love?”

“You accuse me of preying upon boys?” Grey’s fingers curled, just
short of his dagger hilt. “I tell you, sir, were you armed, you would
answer for that, here and now!”

Fraser inhaled through his nose, seeming to swell with it. “Draw on
me and be damned,” he said contemptuously. “Armed or no, ye canna
master me.”

“You think not? I tell you,” Grey said, and fought so hard to control
the fury in his voice that it emerged as no more than a whisper, “I tell
you, sir—were I to take you to my bed—I could make you scream. And
by God, I would do it.”

Later, he would try to recall what had happened then. Had he moved,
reflex and training cutting through the fog of rage that blinded him? Or
had Fraser moved, some shred of reason altering his aim in the same
split second in which he swung his fist?

Hard as he tried, no answer came. He remembered nothing but the
shock of impact as Fraser’s fist struck the boards an inch from his head,
and the sob of breath, hot on his face. There had been a sense of
presence, of a body close to his, and the impression of some irresistible
doom.

Then he was outside, gulping air as though he were drowning,
staggering blind in the glare of the setting sun. He had no balance, no
bearings; stumbled and put out a hand for anchor, grasped some piece of
farm equipment.

His vision cleared, eyes watering—but he saw neither the paddock,
the wagon whose wheel he grasped, nor the house and lawns beyond.
What he saw was Fraser’s face. When he had said that—what demon had
given him that thought, those words? I could make you scream.

Oh, Christ, oh, Christ. Someone had.

A feeling welled up in him like the bursting of blood vessels deep
within his belly. Liquid and terrible, it filled him within moments,
swelling far beyond his power to contain it. He must vomit, or—

He ripped at his flies, gasping. A moment, two, of desperate fisting,
and it all came out of him. Remorse and longing, rage and lust—and
other things that he could put no name to under torture—all of it ran
like quicksilver down his spine, between his legs, and erupted in gouts
that drained him like a punctured wine sack.

His legs had no strength. He sank to his knees and knelt there,
swaying, eyes closed. He knew nothing but the sense of a terrible relief.
In minutes—or hours—he became aware of the sun, a dark red blur in
the blackness of his closed lids. A moment later, he realized that he was
kneeling in the puddled dirt of the yard, forehead pressed to a wagon
wheel, his breeches loose and his member still tightly clutched in his
hand.

“Oh, Christ,” he said, very softly, to himself.

The door to the barn stood still ajar behind him, but there was no
sound from the darkness within.



He would have left at once, save for the demands of courtesy. He sat
through a final supper with the Dunsanys, replying automatically to
their conversation without hearing a word, and went up afterward to tell
Tom to pack.

Tom had already begun to do so, delicately alert to his employer’s
mood. He looked up from his folding when Grey opened the door, his
face showing an alarm so pronounced that it penetrated the sense of
numb isolation Grey had felt since the events of the afternoon.

“What is it, Tom?”

“Ah … it’s nothing, me lord. Only I thought mebbe you were him
again.”

“Him?”

“That big Scotchman, the groom they call Alex. He was just here.”

Tom swallowed, manfully suppressing the remnants of what had plainly
been a considerable shock.

“What, here?” A groom would never enter the house proper, unless
summoned by Lord Dunsany to answer some serious charge of
misconduct. Still less, Fraser; the household were terrified of him, and he
had orders never to set foot further than the kitchen in which he took his
meals.

“Yes, me lord. Only a few minutes ago. I didn’t even hear the door
open. Just looked up from me work and there he was. Didn’t half give
me a turn!”

“I daresay. What the devil did he say he wanted?” His only
supposition was that Fraser had decided to kill him after all, and had
come upon that errand. He wasn’t sure he cared.

The Scotchman had said nothing, according to Tom. Merely appeared
out of nowhere, stalked past him like a ghost, laid a bit of paper on the
desk, and stalked out again, silent as he’d come.

“Just there, me lord.” Tom nodded at the desk, swallowing again. “I
didn’t like to touch it.”

There was indeed a crumpled paper on the desk, a rough square torn
from some larger sheet. Grey picked it up gingerly, as though it might
explode.

It was a grubby bit of paper, translucent with oil in spots and pungent,
clearly used originally to wrap fish. What had he used for ink, Grey
wondered, and brushed a ginger thumb across the paper. The black
smudged at once, and came off on his skin. Candleblack, mixed with
water.

It was unsigned, and curt.

I believe your lordship to be in pursuit of a wild goose.

“Well, thank you very much for your opinion, Mr. Fraser!” he
muttered, and crumpling the paper into a ball, crammed it in his pocket.

<snip>



His first impulse, upon seeing Fraser’s one-line note, had been to
assume that this was mockery and dismissal. And, given the manner of
their final meeting, was willing to accept it.

But that disastrous conversation could not be expunged from memory
—not when it held the answer to his quandary regarding Percy. And
whenever some echo of it came back to him, it bore with it Jamie
Fraser’s face. The anger—and the terrible nakedness of that last moment.

That note was not mockery. Fraser was more than capable of mocking
him—did it routinely, in fact—but mockery could not disguise what he
had seen in Fraser’s face. Neither of them had wanted it, but neither
could deny the honesty of what had passed between them.

He had fully expected that they would avoid each other entirely,
allowing the memory of what had been said in the stable to fade, so that
by the time he next returned to Helwater, it might be possible for them to
speak civilly, both aware of but not acknowledging those moments of
violent honesty. But Fraser hadn’t avoided him—entirely. He quite
understood why the man had chosen to leave a note, rather than speak
to him; he himself couldn’t have spoken to Fraser face to face, not so
soon.

He had told Fraser that he valued his opinion as an honest man, and
that was true. He knew no one more honest—often brutally so. Which
drove him to the inescapable conclusion that Fraser had very likely
given him what he asked for. He just didn’t know what it bloody meant.

He couldn’t return to Helwater; there was no time, even had he
thought it would be productive. But he knew one other person who
knew Jamie Fraser. And so he went to Boodle’s for supper on a
Thursday, knowing Harry Quarry would be there.

<snip>

He put his hand into his pocket and, leaning over, emptied the
contents onto the small table between their chairs.

“You are the most complete magpie, Grey,” Quarry said, poking
gingerly through the detritus. “I wonder you don’t build nests. But no, of
course, it’s Melton who does that. What’s that, for God’s sake, a
pritchel?”

“Part of one. I believe you may throw that away, Mr. Stevens.” Grey
handed the broken bit of metal to the steward, who accepted it with the
air of one handling a rare and precious object.

“What’s this?” Harry had pulled out a smeared bit of paper, and was
frowning at it, nose wrinkled. “Smells a bit.”

“Oh, that. It—”

“I believe your lordship to be in pursuit of a wild goose,” Quarry read. He
paused for a moment, then looked up at Grey. “Where did you get this?”

“From one James Fraser, erstwhile Jacobite.” Something in Quarry’s
face made Grey lean forward. “Does this actually mean something,
Harry?”

Quarry blew out his cheeks a little, glancing round to see they were
not overheard. Seeing this, Mr. Stevens retreated tactfully, leaving them
alone.

“Fraser,” Quarry said at last. “One James Fraser. Well, well.” Quarry
had preceded Grey as governor of Ardsmuir Prison, and knew Jamie
Fraser well—well enough to have kept him in irons. Quarry smoothed
the edge of the paper, thinking.

“I suppose you were too young,” he said finally. “And it wasn’t a term
one heard much during the Rising in ’45. But there was—still is, I
suppose—a certain amount of support for the Stuarts in Ireland. And for
what the observation is worth, the younger Irish nobles who followed
the Old Pretender—they called themselves ‘wild geese.’ ” He glanced up,
quizzical. “Are you by any chance in search of an Irish Jacobite, Grey?”

[broughps]

Lord John and the Haunted Soldiers.

Part 1

“Sixteen, sir.” He felt his blood rise and his cheeks flush. Nearly half a
lifetime. Dear God, how long would he have to live, in order to escape
the memory of Prestonpans, and goddamned Jamie Fraser?


Part 2

But of course, after what had happened … Quite without warning, he
found himself back in the stable at Helwater, blood pounding through
his body and the sound of his own unforgivable words ringing in his
ears.

Seized by impulse, he went to the secretary, snatched a sheet of paper,
and flipped open the inkwell.

Dear Mr. Fraser,

I write to inform you that I shall not visit Helwater this quarter;
official affairs detain me.

Your servant

He frowned at the paper. He could not possibly sign a letter to a
prisoner Your servant, no matter that the prisoner in question had once
been a gentleman. Something more formal … yet this was the usual
formal closure, between gentlemen—and whether Jamie Fraser was now
a groom or not …

“Are you insane?” Grey asked himself, aloud. Why should he think to
send a letter, something he had never done, something that would cause
no end of curiosity and unwelcome attention at Helwater … and how
could he contemplate the possibility of writing to Fraser at all, given the
enormity of what had happened between them at their last meeting?

He rubbed hard at his brow, took the sheet of paper in his hand, and
crumpled it. He turned to throw it into the fire, but instead stopped,
holding the ball of paper in his hand … and then sat slowly down again,
smoothing the paper upon the desk.

The simple act of writing Fraser’s name had given him a sense of
connexion, and he realized that the desperate need for such connexion
was what had driven him to write it. He realized now that he would
never send a letter. Yet that sense lingered—and if such sense was the
product only of his need, still it was there.

Why not? If it was no more than talking to himself, perhaps the act of
writing down his thoughts would bring them into better order.

“Yes, you are insane,” he muttered, but took up his quill. Firmly
crossing out Your servant, he resumed.

These affairs concern an inquiry into the explosion of a cannon in
Germany, June last. I was summoned before an official Commission of
Inquiry, which …

He wrote steadily, pausing now and then to compose a sentence, and
found that the exercise did seem to bring his seething thoughts to earth.
He wrote of the commission, Marchmont, Twelvetrees, and Oswald,
Edgar and his consortium, Jones, Gormley, the corpse of Tom
Pilchard …

At this point, he was writing so quickly that the letters scrawled across
the page, barely legible—and his thoughts, too, had deteriorated as
badly as his penmanship. What had begun as a calm, well-reasoned
analysis of the situation had become incoherent.

<snip>

It is a brutal occupation, he wrote, and God help me, if I am no hero, I am
damned good at it. You understand, I think, for I know you are the same.

The quill had left marks on his fingers, so tightly as he’d gripped it. He
laid it down briefly, rubbing his hand, then took it up again.

God help me further, he wrote, more slowly. I am afraid.

Afraid of what?

Some arsehole panicked.…

I am afraid of everything. Afraid of what I may have done, unknowing—of
what I might do. I am afraid of death, of mutilation, incapacity—but any
soldier fears these things, and fights regardless. I have done it, and-

He wished to write firmly, and will do it again. Instead, the words
formed beneath his quill as they formed in his mind; he could not help
but write them.

I am afraid that I might find myself unable. Not only unable to fight, but to
command. He looked at that for a moment, and put pen tentatively to the
paper once more.

Have you known this fear, I wonder? I cannot think it, from your outward
aspect.

That outward aspect was vivid in his mind; Fraser was a man who
would never pass unnoticed. Even during their most relaxed and cordial
moments, Fraser had never lost his air of command, and when Grey had
watched the Scottish prisoners at their work, it was plain that they
regarded Fraser as their natural leader, all turning to him as a matter of
course.

And then, there had been the matter of the scrap of tartan. He felt hot
blood wash through him and his stomach clench with shame and anger.
Felt the startling thud of a cat-o’-nine-tails on bare flesh, felt it in the pit
of his stomach, searing the skin between his shoulders.

He shut his eyes in reflex, fingers clenching so tightly on the quill that
it cracked and bent. He dropped the ruined feather and sat still a
moment, breathing, then opened his eyes and reached for another.

Forgive me, he wrote. And then, hardly pausing, And yet why should I
beg your forgiveness? God knows that it was your doing, as much as mine.
Between your actions and my duty … But Fraser, too, had acted from duty,
even if there was more to the matter. He sighed, crossed out the last bit,
and put a period after the words Forgive me.

We are soldiers, you and I. Despite what has lain between us in the past, I
trust that …

That we understand one another. The words spoke themselves in his
mind, but what he saw was not the understanding of the burdens of
command, nor yet a sharing of the unspoken fears that haunted him,
sharp as the sliver of metal next his heart.

What he saw was that one frightful glimpse of nakedness he had
surprised in Fraser’s face, naked in a way he would wish to see no man
naked, let alone a man such as this.

“I understand,” he said softly, the sound of the words surprising him.
“I wish it were not so.”

He looked down at the muddled mess of paper before him, blotched
and crumpled, marked with spider blots of confusion and regret. It
reminded him of that terse note, written with a burnt stick. Despite
everything, Fraser had given him help when he asked it.

Might he ever see Jamie Fraser again? There was a good chance he
would not. If chance did not kill him, cowardice might.

The mania of confession was on him; best make the most of it. His
quill had dried; he did not dip it again.

I love you, he wrote, the strokes light and fast, making scarcely a mark
upon the paper, with no ink. I wish it were not so.

Then he rose, scooped up the scribbled papers, and, crushing them
into a ball, threw them into the fire.



And because there's only one small bit...

LJ and the Haunted Soldier

Thus fortified, he sat down and took up the little
pouch, from which he decanted into his hand a
small, heavy gold paperweight, made in the shape of
a half-moon set among ocean waves. It was set with
a faceted—and very large—sapphire, which glowed
like the evening star in its setting. Where had James
Fraser acquired such a thing?

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner.

Chapter 2

ERSE. THE WORD GAVE Grey a very odd sensation. Erse was what folk spoke
in the Scottish Highlands. It sounded like no other language he’d ever
heard—and, barbarous as it was, he was rather surprised to learn that it
existed in a written form.

Hal was looking at him speculatively. “You must have heard it fairly
often, at Ardsmuir?”

“Heard it, yes. Almost all the prisoners spoke it.” Grey had been
governor of Ardsmuir prison for a brief period; as much exile as
appointment, in the wake of a near scandal. He disliked thinking about
that period of his life, for assorted reasons.

“Did Fraser speak it?”

Oh, God, Grey thought. Not that. Anything but that.

“Yes,” he said, though. He had often overheard James Fraser speaking
in his native tongue to the other prisoners, the words mysterious and
flowing.

“When did you see him last?”

“Not for some time.” Grey spoke briefly, his voice careful. He hadn’t
spoken to the man in more than a year.

Not careful enough; Hal came round in front of him, examining him at
close range, as though he might be an unusual sort of Chinese jug.

“He is still at Helwater, is he not? Will you go and ask him about
Siverly?” Hal said mildly.

“No.”

“No?”

“I would not piss on him was he burning in the flames of hell,” Grey
said politely.

One of Hal’s brows flicked upward, but only momentarily.

“Just so,” he said dryly. “The question, though, is whether Fraser
might be inclined to perform a similar service for you.”

Grey placed his cup carefully in the center of the desk.

“Only if he thought I might drown,” he said, and went out.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 3

Irishman. An Irish gentleman. The only connection he could think
of … His fists curled tight as the thought came to him, and he felt the
echo of impact in the bones of his knuckles. Lord John Grey. He’d found
an Irishman—or the hint of one—for John Grey, but surely this could
have nothing to do with Grey’s matter.

He hadn’t seen Grey in over a year and, with luck, might never see
him again. Grey had been governor of Ardsmuir prison during Jamie’s
imprisonment there and had arranged his parole at Helwater, the
Dunsany family being longtime friends. Grey had been in the habit of
visiting quarterly to inspect his prisoner, and their relations had
gradually become civil, if no more.

Then Grey had offered him a bargain: if Jamie would write letters
making inquiries among those Jacobites he knew living abroad
regarding a matter of interest to Grey, Lord John would instruct Lord
Dunsany to allow Jamie also to write openly to his family in the
Highlands and to receive letters from them. Jamie had accepted this
bargain, had made the desired inquiries, and had received certain
information, carefully worded, that indicated that the man Lord John
sought might be an Irish Jacobite—one of those followers of the Stuarts
who had called themselves Wild Geese.

He didn’t know what use—if any—Grey had made of the information.
Things had been said at their last meeting that—He choked the memory
of it off and picked up his fork, driving it into the pile of hay with some
force. Whoever Betty’s Irishman might be, he could have nothing to do
with John Grey.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 5

Putting that aside … it might cause Jamie a bit of bother if she
mentioned his meeting Quinn, but if you came right down to it, the one
advantage of his present position was that there really wasn’t much
anyone could do to make it worse. He was not Dunsany’s prisoner; the
baronet couldn’t lock him up, put him in irons, feed him on bread and
water, or flog him. The most Dunsany could do was to inform Lord John
Grey.

He snorted at the thought. He doubted that wee pervert could face
him, after what had been said during their last meeting, let alone take
issue with him over Quinn. Still, he felt a cramping in his middle at the
thought of seeing Grey again and didn’t want to think too much about
why.



He’d read the Congreve play in Ardsmuir prison, over the course of
several weekly dinners with Lord John Grey. Could still hear Grey
declaim those lines, very dramatic.

As you’ll answer it, take heed

This Slave commit no Violence upon

Himself. I’ve been deceiv’d. The Publick Safety

Requires he should be more confin’d; and none,

No not the Princes self, permitted to

Confer with him. I’ll quit you to the King.

Vile and ingrate! too late thou shalt repent

The base Injustice thou hast done my Love:

Yes, thou shalt know, spite of thy past Distress,

And all those Ills which thou so long hast mourn’d;

Heav’n has no Rage, like Love to Hatred turn’d,

Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn’d.



Chapter 7

But why? Had his parole been revoked? That last, disastrous
conversation with John Grey … His fists curled up without thought, and
one of the soldiers started, looking at him hard. With an effort, he
unclenched his hands and pulled them inside his cloak, gripping his
thighs under its cover hard enough to leave bruises.

He hadn’t seen—or heard from—Grey since that day. Had the man
been nursing a grudge all this time and finally decided to put paid to
Jamie Fraser’s account, once and for all? It was the most likely
explanation—and unforgivable things had been said on both sides.
Worse, both of them had meant the things they said, and both of them
knew it. No excuse of hot blood speaking—though, in all justice, his own
blood had boiled, and …



“Jesus,” he said. “Ye’re John Grey’s brother.” He groped madly for the
name and found it. “Lord … Melton. Jesus Christ.”

“Well, yes,” the man said. “Though I don’t use that title any longer.
I’ve become the Duke of Pardloe since we last met.” He smiled wryly. “It
has been some time. Please sit down, Mr. Fraser.”

I'm going to add interactions with the whole Grey family. Not just Jamie's but Claire's too when they come along.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 8

HE WAS SO SHOCKED THAT HE WENT ON STANDING THERE, gaping like a loon at
the man. Melton—Pardloe, rather—looked him up and down, brows
slightly knit in concentration.

Recovering himself, Jamie sat down abruptly, the gilded chair feeling
flimsy and strange under his buttocks. Pardloe sat, too, and without
taking his eyes off Jamie’s face shouted, “Pilcock! I want you!”

This produced a footman—Jamie didn’t turn to look at the man but
heard the deferential tread, the murmured “Your Grace?” behind him.

“Bring us some whisky, Pilcock,” Pardloe said, still eyeing Jamie. “And
biscuits—no, not biscuits, something more substantial.”

Pilcock made a questioning noise, causing the duke to glance over
Jamie’s shoulder at him, features creasing in irritation.

“How should I know? Meat pies. Leftover joint. Roast peacock, for
God’s sake. Go ask Cook; go ask your mistress!”

“Yes, Your Grace!”

Pardloe shook his head, then looked at Jamie again.

“Got your bearings now?” he inquired in a perfectly normal tone of
voice, as though resuming an interrupted conversation. “I mean—you
recall me?”

“I do.”

He did, and the recollection jarred him almost as much as finding
Pardloe instead of the Duke of Cumberland. He clutched the seat of the
chair, steadying himself against the memory.

Two days past the battle, and the smoke of burning bodies swirled
thick over the moor, a greasy fog that seeped into the cottage where the
wounded Jacobite officers had taken refuge. They’d crossed the carnage
of the field together, bleeding, frozen, stumbling … helping one another,
dragging one another to a temporary—and totally illusory—safety.

He’d felt the whole of it an illusion. Had waked on the field, convinced
he was dead, relieved it was over, the pain, the heartbreak, the struggle.
Then had truly waked, to find Jack Randall lying dead on top of him, the
captain’s dead weight having cut off circulation to his wounded leg and
saved him from bleeding to death—one final ill turn, one last indignity.

His friends had found him, forced him to his feet, brought him to the
cottage. He hadn’t protested; he’d seen what was left of his leg and knew
it wouldn’t be long.

Longer than he’d thought; it had been two days of pain and fever.
Then Melton had come, and his friends had been taken out and shot, one
by one. He’d been sent home, to Lallybroch.

He looked at Harold, Lord Melton—now Duke of Pardloe—with no
great friendliness.

“I mind ye.”



PARDLOE ROSE FROM the desk and, with a twitch of the shoulder, summoned
him to a pair of wing chairs near the hearth, motioning him into one.

Jamie lowered himself gingerly onto the pink-striped satin damask, but
the thing was sturdily built and bore his weight without creaking.

The duke turned toward the open door to the library and bellowed,
“Pilcock! Where the devil are you?”

It wasn’t a footman or butler who appeared, though. The woman
whose face he had glimpsed in the hall downstairs came in, skirts
whispering. He had a much better look at her face now and thought his
heart might stop.

“Pilcock’s busy,” she told the duke. “What do you want?” She was
visibly older but still pretty, with a soft flush to her cheeks.

“Busy? Doing what?”

“I sent him up to the attics,” the woman replied composedly. “If you’re
sending poor John to Ireland, he’ll need a portmanteau, at least.” She
gave Jamie the briefest of glances before her gaze flicked back to the
duke, and Jamie saw one neat eyebrow arch in question.

Jesus. They’re married, then, he thought, seeing the instant
communication in the gesture and the duke’s grimace of
acknowledgment. She’s his wife. The green-printed wallpaper behind the
duke suddenly began to flicker, and the sides of his jaws went cold. With
a remote sense of shock, he realized that he was about to faint.

The duke uttered an exclamation and the woman swung round toward
him. Spots flickered and grew thick before his eyes, but not thick enough
that he failed to see the expression on her face. Alarm—and warning.

“Are you quite well, Mr. Fraser?” The duke’s cool voice penetrated
through the buzzing in his ears, and he felt a hand on the back of his
neck, forcing his head down. “Put your head between your knees.
Minnie, my dear—”

“I’ve got it. Here.” The woman’s voice was breathless, and he heard
the clink of glass, smelled the hot scent of brandy.

“Not that, not yet. My snuffbox—it’s on the mantelpiece.” The duke
was holding him by the shoulders, he realized, bracing him to keep him
from falling. The blood was slowly coming back into his head, but his
vision was still dark and his face and fingers cold.

The sound of quick light footsteps came to him—hearing was always
the last sense to go, he thought dimly—clicking on the parquet, muffled
on the rug, a pause, then coming swiftly back. An urgent murmur from
the duke, another click, a small, soft pop! and the stinging rush of
ammonia shot up his nose.

He gasped and jerked, trying to turn away, but a firm hand held his
head, obliging him to breathe, then finally let go and allowed him to sit
up, coughing and spluttering, eyes watering so badly that he could
barely make out the woman’s form hovering over him, the vial of
smelling salts in her hand.

“Poor man,” she said. “You must be half dead with travel, and hungry,
to boot—it’s past teatime, and I’ll wager you’ve not had a bite in hours.
Really, Hal—”

“I sent for food. I was just about to send again when he turned white
and keeled over,” the duke protested, indignant.

“Well, go and tell Cook, then,” his wife ordered. “I’ll give Mr.…” She
turned toward Jamie, expectant.

“Fraser,” Jamie managed, wiping his streaming face on his sleeve.
“James Fraser.” The name felt strange on his lips; he hadn’t spoken it in
years.

“Yes, of course. I’ll give Mr. Fraser some brandy. Tell Cook we want
sandwiches and cake and a pot of strong hot tea, and we want it
quickly.”

The duke said something vulgar in French, but went. The woman had
a cup of brandy ready and held it to his lips. He took it from her,
though, and looked at her over the rim.

The soft flush had gone from her cheeks. She was pale, and her gentle
lips were pressed in a grim line.

“For the sake of the cause we once shared,” she said very quietly, “I
pray you, say nothing. Not yet.”




HE WAS DEEPLY EMBARRASSED—and even more deeply unsettled. He’d fainted
before, from pain or shock. But not often, and not in front of an enemy.
Now here he sat, drinking tea from a porcelain cup with a gold rim,
sharing sandwiches and cakes from a similarly adorned platter, with that
very enemy. He was confused, annoyed, and at a considerable
disadvantage. He didn’t like it.

On the other hand, the food was excellent and he was, in fact, starved.
His wame had been clenched in a ball since they came in sight of
London, so he’d taken no breakfast.

To his credit, Pardloe made no move to take advantage of his guest’s
weakness. He said nothing beyond an occasional “More ham?” or “Pass
the mustard, if you please,” and ate in the businesslike manner of a
soldier, not seeking Jamie’s eye but not avoiding it, either.

The woman had left without another word and hadn’t come back.
That was one thing to be thankful for.

He’d known her as Mina Rennie; God knew what her real name was.
She’d been the seventeen-year-old daughter of a bookseller in Paris who
dealt in information and more than once had carried messages between
her father and Jamie, during his days of intrigue there before the Rising.
Paris seemed as distant as the planet Jupiter. The distance between a
young spy and a duchess seemed even greater.

“For the sake of the cause we once shared.” Had they? He’d been under
no illusions about old Rennie; his only loyalty had been to gold. Had his
daughter really considered herself a Jacobite? He ate a slice of cake,
absently enjoying the crunch of walnuts and the richly exotic taste of
cocoa. He hadn’t tasted chocolate since Paris.

He supposed it was possible. The Cause had attracted people of
romantic temperament; doomed causes usually did. That made him think
abruptly of Quinn, and the thought raised the hairs on his forearms.
Christ. He’d nearly forgotten the bloody Irishman and his harebrained
schemes, in the alarms of the last few days. What would Quinn think,
hearing he’d been dragged off by English soldiers?

Well, he could do nothing about either Quinn or the Duchess of
Pardloe just now. One thing at a time. He drained his cup, leaned
forward, and set it on its saucer with a deliberate clink that indicated he
was now ready to talk.

The duke likewise put down his cup, wiped his mouth with a napkin,
and said without preamble, “Do you consider yourself in my debt, Mr.
Fraser?”

“No,” he said, without hesitation. “I didna ask ye to save my life.”

“No, you didn’t,” Pardloe said dryly. “In fact, you demanded that I
shoot you, if my recollection is correct.”

“It is.”

“Do you hold it against me that I didn’t?” It was asked seriously, and
Jamie answered it the same way.

“I did. But I don’t now, no.”

Pardloe nodded.

“Well, then.” He held up both hands and folded down one thumb.
“You spared my brother’s life.” The other thumb folded. “I spared
yours.” An index finger. “You objected to this action.” The other index
finger. “But have upon consideration withdrawn your objection?” He
raised both eyebrows, and Jamie quelled a reluctant impulse to smile.
He inclined his head half an inch instead, and Pardloe nodded, lowering
his hands.

“So you agree that there is no debt between us? No lingering sense of
injury?”

“I wouldna go that far,” Jamie replied, very dry indeed. “Ye’ve got
three fingers left. But there’s nay debt, no. Not between us.”

The man was sharp; he caught the faint emphasis on “us.”

“Whatever disagreements you may have with my brother do not
concern me,” Pardloe said. “So long as they don’t interfere with the
business I am about to lay before you.”

Jamie wondered just what John Grey had told his brother concerning
the disagreements between them—but if it wasn’t Pardloe’s concern, it
wasn’t his, either.

“Speak, then,” he said, and felt a sudden knotting in his belly. They
were the same words he’d said to John Grey, which had unleashed that
final disastrous conversation. He had a strong foreboding that this one
wasn’t going to end well, either.

Pardloe took a deep breath, as though readying himself for something,
then stood up.

“Come with me.”




THEY WENT TO A small study down the hall. Unlike the gracious library
they had just left, the study was dark, cramped, and littered with books,
papers, small random objects, and a scatter of ratty quills that looked as
if they’d been chewed. Clearly, this was the duke’s personal lair, and no
servant’s intrusion was often tolerated. Tidy himself by default rather
than inclination, Jamie found the place oddly appealing.

Pardloe gestured briefly at a chair, then bent to unlock the lower
drawer of the desk. What could be sufficiently delicate or important that
it required such precautions?

The duke withdrew a bundle of papers bound with ribbon, untied it,
and, pushing things impatiently aside to make a clear space, laid a single
sheet of paper on the desk in front of Jamie.

He frowned a bit, picked up the sheet, and, tilting it toward the small
window for a better light, read slowly through it.

“Can you read it?” The duke was looking at him, intent.

“More or less, aye.” He set it down, baffled, and looked at the duke.

“Ye want to know what it says, is that it?”

“It is. Is it Erse? The speech of the Scottish Highlands?”

Jamie shook his head.

“Nay, though something close. It’s Gaeilge. Irish. Some call that Erse,
too,” he added, with a tinge of contempt for ignorance.

“Irish! You’re sure?” The duke stood up, his lean face positively eager.

“Yes. I wouldna claim to be fluent, but it’s close enough to the Gàidhlig
—that would be my own tongue,” he said pointedly, “that I can follow
it. It’s a poem—or part o’ one.”

Pardloe’s face went blank for an instant but then resumed its
expression of concentration.

“What poem? What does it say?”

Jamie rubbed a forefinger slowly down the bridge of his nose,
scanning the page.

“It’s no a particular poem—not a proper one, wi’ a name to it, I mean
—or not one I know. But it’s a tale o’ the Wild Hunt. Ken that, do ye?”
The duke’s face was a study.

“The Wild Hunt?” he said carefully. “I … have heard of it. In
Germany. Not Ireland.”

Jamie shrugged, and pushed the page away. The little study had a
faintly familiar smell to it—a sweet fuggy aroma that made him want to
cough.

“Do ye not find ghost stories everywhere? Or faerie tales?”

“Ghosts?” Pardloe glanced at the page, frowning, then picked it up,
scowling as though he’d force it to talk to him.

Jamie waited, wondering whether this sheet of Irish poetry had aught
to do with what the woman had said. “If you’re sending poor John to
Ireland …” John Grey might go to the devil with his blessing, let alone
Ireland, but what with the memory of Quinn and his schemes lurking in
his mind, the repeated mention of the place was beginning to give Jamie
Fraser the creeps.

Pardloe suddenly crumpled the paper in his hand and threw the
resulting ball at the wall with a rude exclamation in Greek.

“And what has that to do with Siverly?” he demanded, glaring at
Jamie.

“Siverly?” he replied, startled. “Who, Gerald Siverly?” Then could
have bitten his tongue, as he saw the duke’s face change yet again.

“You do know him,” Pardloe said. He spoke quietly, as a hunter might
do to a companion, sighting game.

There was little point in denying it. Jamie lifted one shoulder.

“I kent a man by that name once, aye. What of it?”

The duke leaned back, eyeing Jamie. “What, indeed. Will you tell me
the circumstances in which you knew a Gerald Siverly?”

Jamie considered whether to answer or not. But he owed Siverly
nothing, and it was perhaps over-early to be obstructive, given that he
had no idea why Pardloe had brought him here. He might need to be
offensive later, but no point in it now. And the duke had fed him.
As though the duke had picked up this thought, he reached into a
cupboard and withdrew a stout brown bottle and a couple of worn
pewter cups.

“It’s not a bribe,” he said, setting these on the desk with a fleeting
smile. “I can’t keep my temper about Siverly without the aid of a drink,
and drinking in front of someone who’s not makes me feel like a sot.”

Recalling the effect of wine after long abstinence, Jamie had some
reservations regarding whisky—he could smell it, the instant the bottle
was uncorked—but nodded, nonetheless.

“Siverly,” he said slowly, picking up the cup. And how did ye ken I
knew him, I wonder? The answer to that came as quickly as the question.
Mina Rennie, otherwise known as the Duchess of Pardloe. He pushed the
thought aside for the moment, slowly inhaling the sweet fierce fumes of
the drink.

“The man I kent wasna a real Irishman, though he’d some land in
Ireland, and I think his mother was maybe Irish. He was a friend of
O’Sullivan, him who was later quartermaster for … Charles Stuart.”

Pardloe looked sharply at him, having caught the hesitation—he’d
nearly said “Prince Charles”—but nodded at him to continue. “Jacobite
connections,” Pardloe observed. “Yet not a Jacobite himself?”

Jamie shook his head and took a cautious sip. It burned the back of his
throat and sent tendrils swirling down through his body like a drop of
ink in water. Oh, God. Maybe this was worth being dragged off like a
convict. Then again …

“He dabbled. Dined at Stuart’s table in Paris quite often, and ye’d see
him out with O’Sullivan or one o’ the prince’s other Irish friends—but
that’s as far as it went. I met him once in Lord George Murray’s company
at a salon, but he kept well apart from Mar or Tullibardine.” He had a
moment’s pang at thought of the small, cheerful Earl of Tullibardine,
who, like his own grandfather, had been executed on Tower Hill after
the Rising. He lifted his cup in silent salute and drank before going on.

“But then he was gone. Frightened off, thought better, saw nay profit—I
hadn’t enough to do wi’ him myself to say why. But he wasna with
Charles Stuart at Glenfinnan, nor after.”

He took another sip. He wasn’t liking this; the memories of the Rising
were too vivid. He felt Claire there by his elbow, was afraid to turn his
head and look.

“Saw no profit,” the duke echoed. “No, I daresay he didn’t.” He
sounded bitter. He sat looking into his cup for a moment, then tossed the
rest back, made a houghing noise, set it down, and reached for the
bundle of papers.

“Read that. If you will,” he added, the courtesy clearly an
afterthought.

Jamie glanced at the papers, feeling an obscure sense of unease. But
again, there was no reason to refuse, and, despite his reluctance, he
picked up the top few sheets and began to read.

The duke wasn’t a man who seemed comfortable sitting still. He
twitched, coughed, got up and lit the candle, sat down again … coughed
harder. Jamie sighed, concentrating against the distraction.

Siverly seemed to have made the most of his army career in Canada.
While Jamie disapproved of the man’s behavior on general principles
and admired the eloquent passion displayed by the man who had written
about it, he felt no personal animus. When he came to the part about the
pillaging and terrorizing of the habitant villages, though, he felt the
blood begin to rise behind his eyes. Siverly might be a proper villain, but
this wasn’t personal villainy.

This was the Crown’s way. The way of dealing with resistant natives.
Theft, rape, murder … and fire.

Cumberland had done it, “cleansing” the Highlands after Culloden.
And James Wolfe had done it, too—to deprive the Citadel at Quebec of
support from the countryside. Taken livestock, killed the men, burned
houses … and left the women to starve and freeze.

God, that she might be safe! he thought in sudden agony, closing his
eyes for an instant. And the child with her.

He glanced up from the paper. The duke was still coughing but had
now dug a pipe out of the midden and was packing it with tobacco. Lord
Melton had commanded troops at Culloden. Those troops—and the man
who sat before him—had very likely remained to take part in the
cleansing of the Highlands.

“No lingering sense of injury,” he’d said. Jamie muttered something very
rude under his breath in the Gàidhlig and went on reading, though he
found his attention still distracted.

Blood pressure. That’s what Claire called it. To do with how hard your
heart beat and the force with which it drove the blood round your body.
When your heart failed you and blood no longer reached the brain,
that’s what caused fainting, she said. And when it beat hard, in the grip
of fear or passion, that was when you felt the blood beat in your temples
and swell in your chest, ready for bed or battle.

His own blood pressure was rising like a rocket, and he’d no desire to
bed Pardloe.

The duke took a spill from a pottery dish and put it to the candle
flame, then used it to light his pipe. It had grown dark outside, and the
smell of oncoming rain came in through the half-open window, mingling
with the musky sweet scent of the tobacco. Pardloe’s lean cheeks
hollowed as he sucked at the pipe, the orbits of his eyes shadowed by
the light that fell on brow and nose. He looked like a skull.

Abruptly, Jamie set down the papers.

“What do you want of me?” he demanded.

Pardloe took the pipe from his mouth and exhaled slow wisps of
smoke.

“I want you to translate that bit of Irish. And to tell me more—
whatever you know or recall of Gerald Siverly’s background and
connections. Beyond that …” The pipe was in danger of going out, and
the duke took a long pull at it.

“And ye think I’ll do it, for the asking?”

Pardloe gave him a level look, smoke purling from his lips.

“Yes, I do. Why not?” He raised the middle finger of one hand. “I
would consider it a debt, to be paid.”

“Put that bloody finger back down before I ram it up your backside.”

The duke’s mouth twitched, but he put the finger down without
comment.

“I also wished to see you, to determine whether you might be of
assistance in bringing Major Siverly to justice. I think that you can be.
And what I want above all is justice.”

Justice.

Jamie drew a breath and held it for a moment, to ensure against hasty
speech.

“What assistance?”

The duke blew a thoughtful cloud of blue-tinged smoke, and Jamie
realized suddenly what the sweet, pungent odor was. It wasn’t tobacco;
the duke was drinking hemp smoke. He’d smelled it once or twice
before; a doctor in Paris had prescribed it to an acquaintance who
suffered from a lung complaint. Was the duke ill? He didn’t look it.
He didn’t sound like it, either.

“Siverly has taken leave from his regiment and disappeared. We think
he has gone to his estate in Ireland. I want him found and brought
back.” Pardloe’s voice was level, and so was his gaze. “My brother is
going to Ireland on this mission, but he will require help. He—”

“Did he bloody tell you to fetch me here?” Jamie’s fists had doubled.
“Does he think that I—”

“I don’t know what he thinks, and, no, he has no idea that I’ve
brought you here,” Pardloe said. “I doubt he’ll be pleased,” he added
thoughtfully, “but as I said—whatever disagreements you and he may
have do not concern me.” He laid the pipe aside and folded his hands,
looking at Jamie straight on.

“I dislike doing this,” he said. “And I regret the necessity.”

Jamie stared at Pardloe, feeling his chest tighten. “I’ve been fucked up
the arse by an Englishman before,” he said flatly. “Spare me the kiss,
aye?”

Pardloe drew breath through his nose and laid both hands flat on the
desk.

“You will accompany Lieutenant-Colonel Grey to Ireland and there
render him every assistance in locating Major Siverly and compelling his
return to England, as well as obtaining evidence to aid in his
prosecution.”

Jamie sat like stone. He could hear the rasp of his own breath.

“Or your parole will be revoked. You will be taken to the Tower—
today—and there committed to imprisonment at His Majesty’s pleasure.”
The duke paused. “Do you require a moment to consider the situation?”
he asked politely.

Jamie stood up abruptly. Pardloe stiffened, barely saving himself from
jerking backward.

“When?” Jamie asked, and was surprised at the calmness in his voice.

Pardloe’s shoulders relaxed, almost imperceptibly.

“In a few days.” For the first time, his eyes left Jamie’s face, surveying
him from head to toe. “You’ll need clothes. You’ll travel as the
gentleman you are. Under parole, of course.” He paused, gaze returning
to Jamie’s face. “And I will consider myself in your debt, Mr. Fraser.”

Jamie looked at him with contempt and turned on his heel.

“Where are you going?” Pardloe said. He sounded startled.

“Out,” Jamie said, and reached for the doorknob. He glared back over
his shoulder. “Under parole. Of course.” He jerked the door open.

“Supper’s at eight,” said the duke’s voice behind him. “Don’t be late,
will you? It puts Cook out.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 9

Even for Hal, to whom high-handedness was as natural as breathing,
this was raw. Not only to have ignored John’s plainly stated position
with regard to Jamie Fraser but to have decided without a word or a byyour-
leave to have Fraser brought to London—and to have bloody done
it without a word to him, overriding his authority as Fraser’s legal parole
officer … and then—then!—to have compounded the crime by informing
John—not asking him, oh, no, commanding him!—to go to Ireland in
Fraser’s company.… He wanted urgently to wring Hal’s neck.

The only thing stopping him was the presence of James Fraser at
Argus House.

He couldn’t in justice blame Fraser for the present situation. He
doubted the man was any happier about it than he was. Justice,
however, had nothing to do with his feelings, which were exigent.




And it was somewhat reassuring to realize that Fraser would be as
uncomfortable as himself. No doubt that discomfort would prevent
anything awkward being said.



He was startled by it. Was this how Harry did it? Just have words
show up and start something, all by themselves?

The words that had shown up in his own mind had fallen into an
irritating bit of doggerel: You cannot master me / but shall I your master
be?

This unsettled him, as there was nothing in his relationship—or
feelings—regarding von Namtzen to which this could apply, and he
realized quite well that it had to do with the presence of Jamie Fraser at
Argus House.

Will you bloody go away? he thought fiercely. I’m not ready.




And with that casual thought, something moved viscerally in him.
Well, it had been moving for some time, in all honesty. But with that
particular thought, his attraction to Stephan suddenly merged with the
things he had been deliberately not thinking—or feeling—with regard to
Jamie Fraser, and he found himself grow flushed, discomfited.

Did he want Stephan only because of the physical similarities between
him and Fraser? They were both big men, tall and commanding, both
the sort that made people turn to look at them. And to look at either of
them stirred him, deeply.

It was quite different, though. Stephan was his friend, his good friend,
and Jamie Fraser never would be. Fraser, though, was something that
Stephan never could be.

“You are hungry?” Without waiting for an answer, Stephan rose and
rummaged in a cupboard, coming out with a plate of biscuits and a pot
of orange marmalade.

Grey smiled, remembering his earlier prediction regarding von
Namtzen’s appetite. He took an almond biscuit from politeness rather
than hunger and, with a feeling of affection, watched Stephan devour
biscuits spread with marmalade.

The affection was tinged with doubt, though. There was a sense of
deep closeness between them, here in the night, quite alone—no doubt
at all of that. But what sort of closeness …?

Stephan’s hand brushed his, reaching for a biscuit, and von Namtzen
squeezed his fingers lightly, smiling, before letting go and taking up the
marmalade spoon. The touch ran up Grey’s arm and straight down his
spine, raising hairs in its wake.

No, he thought, struggling for logic, for decency. I can’t.

It wouldn’t be right. Not right to use Stephan, to try to slake his
physical need with Stephan, perhaps risk their friendship by trying. And
yet the temptation was there, no doubt of that, either. Not only the
immediate desire—which was bloody strong—but the ignoble thought
that he might by such means exorcise, or at least temper, the hold Fraser
had upon him. It would be far easier to face Fraser, to deal with him
calmly, if the sense of physical desire was at least muted, if not gone
entirely.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 10

“Not that it’s any of your business, but I got soaked in the rain and
stopped the night with a friend,” Grey replied equably. He felt cheerful.
Relaxed and solidly at peace. Not even Hal’s bad temper or the imminent
prospect of meeting Jamie Fraser could disturb him. “And where is our
guest?”

Hal drew in a long, exasperated breath.

“He’s sitting under a tree in the park.”

“What on earth for?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Harry Quarry came for tea—I was
expecting you to be here, by the way”—Hal gave him an eyeball, which
he ignored—“and when Fraser came in, he took one look at Harry and
walked straight out of the house without a by-your-leave. I only know
where he is because I’d told one of the footmen to follow him if he went
out.”

“He’ll like that, I’m sure,” Grey said. “For God’s sake, Hal. Harry was
governor at Ardsmuir before me; surely you knew that?”

Hal looked irritably blank. “Possibly. So?”

“He put Fraser in irons. For eighteen months—and left him that way
when he came back to London.”

“Oh.” Hal considered that, frowning. “I see. How was I meant to know
that, for heaven’s sake?”

“Well, you would have,” Grey replied crushingly, “if you’d had the
common sense to tell me what the devil you were doing, rather than—
oh, hallo, Harry. Didn’t know you were still here.”

“So I gathered. Where did Fraser go?”

Harry looked rather grim, Grey saw. And he was in full uniform. No
bloody wonder Fraser had left; he’d likely seen Harry’s presence as a
calculated insult, an attempt to further impress his own helplessness
upon him.

This realization appeared to be dawning on Hal, too.

“Damn, Harry,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know you had a history
with Fraser.”

History, Grey thought. One way of putting it. Just as well he hadn’t
arrived in time for tea. He’d no idea what James Fraser might have done
—confronted simultaneously and without warning by the man who’d put
him in fetters, and by the one who’d had him flogged, in addition to the
man who was currently blackmailing him—but whatever he might have
done, Grey wouldn’t have blamed him for doing it.

“I’d asked Harry to come so that we might discuss the Siverly affair
and so that Harry could tell you what—and who—he knows in Ireland,”
Hal went on, turning to Grey. “But I didn’t think to tell Harry about
Fraser ahead of time.”

“Not your fault, old man,” Harry said, gruff. He squared his shoulders
and straightened his lapels. “I’d best go and talk to him, hadn’t I?”

“And say what, exactly?” Grey asked, out of sheer inability to imagine
what could be said in the circumstances.

Harry shrugged. “Offer him satisfaction, if he likes. Don’t see that
there’s much else to be done.”

The Grey brothers exchanged a look of perfect comprehension and
suppressed horror. The implications of a duel between a regimental
colonel and a paroled prisoner in the custody of the colonel of the
regiment, putting aside the complete illegality of the proceedings, and
the very real possibility that one of them might well kill or maim the
other …

“Harry—” Hal began, in measured tones, but John interrupted him.

“I’ll be your second, Harry,” he said hastily. “If it’s necessary. I’ll go
and … er … inquire about the arrangements, shall I?”

Not waiting for an answer, he pulled open the front door and ran
down the steps, too fast for any following shouts to reach him. He
dodged across Kensington Road, ducking under the nose of an oncoming
horse and being roundly cursed by its rider, and stepped into the open
precincts of Hyde Park, where he paused, heart hammering, to look
around.

Fraser wasn’t immediately visible. After yesterday’s savage downpour,
today had dawned soft and clear, with the kind of pale bright sky that
made one long to be a bird. Consequently, there were large numbers of
people in the park, families lounging and eating under the trees, couples
strolling on the paths, and pickpockets hanging about the fringes of the
crowds round the Speakers’ Corner and the Punch and Judy in hopes of
an unguarded purse.

Ought he to go back and ask which footman had been following Fraser
and where he’d last been seen? No, he decided, striding firmly into the
park. He wasn’t about to give Harry or Hal a chance to interfere; they’d
caused quite enough trouble already.

Given Fraser’s height and appearance, Grey had no doubt of his ability
to pick the Scot out of any crowd. If he’d been sitting under a tree to
begin with, he wasn’t doing it now. Where would he go, he wondered, if
he were Fraser? If he’d been living for several years on a horse farm in
the Lake District and, prior to that, in a remote Scottish prison?

Right. He turned at once in the direction of the Punch and Judy show
and was gratified as he came in sight of it to see a tall, red-haired man at
the back of the crowd, easily able to see over the sea of heads and
plainly absorbed in the play before him.

He didn’t want to pull Fraser away from the entertainment, so kept a
short distance away. Perhaps the play would put the Scot in better
temper—though, hearing the shrieks from the crowd as Judy beat Punch
into a cocked hat, he began to feel that the influence of the proceedings
might not have quite the calmative effect he’d hoped for. He would
himself pay considerable money for the privilege of seeing Fraser beat
Hal into a cocked hat, though it would cause complications.

He kept one eye on Fraser, the other on the play. The puppet master,
an Irishman, was both adroit with his puppets and inventive with his
epithets, and Grey felt an unexpected flash of pleasure at seeing Fraser
smile.

He leaned against a tree, a little distance away, enjoying the sense of
temporary invisibility. He’d wondered how he’d feel, seeing Jamie Fraser
in the flesh again, and was relieved to find that the episode in the stable
at Helwater now seemed sufficiently distant that he could put it aside.
Not forget it, unfortunately, but not have it be uppermost in his mind,
either.

Now Fraser bent his head to one side, listening to something said to
him by a thin, curly-headed man beside him, though without taking his
eyes off the stage. The sight of the curls brought Percy briefly to mind,
but Percy, too, was in the past, and he shoved the thought firmly down.

He hadn’t consciously thought what he’d say or how he might start the
conversation, but when the play ended, he found himself upright and
walking fast, so as to come onto the path slightly in front of Fraser as he
turned back toward the edge of the park.

He had no notion what had led him to do this, to let the Scot make the
first move, but it seemed natural, and he heard Fraser snort behind him,
a small sound with which he was familiar; it signified something
between derision and amusement.

“Good afternoon, Colonel,” Fraser said, sounding resigned as he swung
into step beside Grey.

“Good afternoon, Captain Fraser,” he replied politely, and felt rather
than saw Fraser’s startled glance at him. “Did you enjoy the show?”

“I thought I’d gauge how long my chain is,” Fraser said, ignoring the
question. “Within sight o’ the house, is it?”

“For the moment,” Grey said honestly. “But I did not come to retrieve
you. I have a message from Colonel Quarry.”

Fraser’s wide mouth tightened involuntarily. “Oh, aye?”

“He wishes to offer you satisfaction.”

“What?” Fraser stared at him blankly.

“Satisfaction for what injury you may have received at his hands,”
Grey elaborated. “If you wish to call him out—he’ll come.”

Fraser stopped dead.

“He’s offering to fight a duel with me. Is that what ye’re saying?”

“Yes,” Grey said patiently. “I am.”

“Jesus God.” The big Scot stood still, ignoring the flow of pedestrians
—all of whom gave him a wide, side-glancing berth—and rubbing a
finger up and down the bridge of his nose. He stopped doing this and
shook his head, in the manner of one dislodging flies.

“Quarry canna think ye’d let me. You and His Grace, I mean.”

Grey’s heart gave a slight jerk; Christ, he was thinking about it.
Seriously.

“I personally have nothing to say regarding the matter,” he said
politely. “As for my brother, he said nothing to me that indicated he
would interfere.” Since he hadn’t had a chance. Christ, what would Hal
do if Fraser did call Harry out? Besides kill Grey himself for not
preventing it, that is.

Fraser made a thoroughly Scotch sort of noise in his throat. Not quite
a growl, but it lifted the hairs on Grey’s neck, and for the first time he
began to worry that Fraser just might send back a challenge. He hadn’t
thought—he’d thought Fraser would be startled by the notion, but
then … He swallowed and blurted, “Should you wish to call him out, I
will second you.”

Whatever Fraser had thought of Quarry’s original offer, Grey’s startled
him a good deal more. He stared at Grey, blue eyes narrowed, looking to
see whether this was an ill-timed joke.

Grey’s heart was thumping hard enough to cause small sparks of pain
on the left side of his chest, even though the wounds there were long
since healed. Fraser’s hands had curled into fists, and Grey had a sudden,
vivid recollection of their last meeting, when Fraser had come within a
literal inch of smashing in his face with one of those massive fists.

“Have you ever been out—fought a duel, I mean—before?”

“I have,” Fraser said shortly.

The color had risen in the Scot’s face. He was outwardly immobile, but
whatever was going on inside his head was moving fast. Grey watched,
fascinated.

That process reached its conclusion, though, and the big fists relaxed
—consciously—and Fraser uttered a short, humorless laugh, his eyes
focusing again on Grey.

“Why?” he said.

“Why, what? Why does Colonel Quarry offer you satisfaction? Because
his sense of honor demands it, I suppose.”

Fraser said something under his breath in what Grey supposed to be
Erse. He further supposed it to be a comment on Quarry’s honor but
didn’t inquire. The blue eyes were boring into his.

“Why offer to second me? D’ye dislike Quarry?”

“No,” Grey said, startled. “Harry Quarry’s one of my best friends.”

One thick, ruddy brow went up. “Why would ye not be his second,
then?”

Grey took a deep breath.

“Well … actually … I am. There’s nothing in the rules of duello
preventing it,” he added. “Though I admit it’s not usual.”

Fraser closed his eyes for an instant, frowning, then opened them
again.

“I see,” he said, very dry. “So was I to kill him, ye’d be obliged to fight
me? And if he killed me, ye’d fight him? And should we kill each other,
what then?”

“I suppose I’d call a surgeon to dispose of your bodies and then
commit suicide,” Grey said, a little testily. “But let us not be rhetorical.
You have no intent of calling him out, do you?”

“I’ll admit the prospect has its attractions,” Fraser said evenly. “But ye
may tell Colonel Quarry I decline his offer.”

“Do you wish to tell him that yourself? He’s still at the house.”

Fraser had begun to walk again, but stopped dead at this. His gaze
shifted toward Grey in a most uncomfortable way, rather like a large cat
making a decision regarding the edibility of some small animal in its
vicinity.

“Um … if you do not choose to meet him,” Grey said carefully, “I will
leave you here for a quarter of an hour and make sure that he is gone
before you return to the house.”

Fraser turned on him with such sudden violence as to make Grey steel
himself not to step backward.

“And let the gobshite think I am afraid of him? Damn you,
Englishman! Dare ye to suggest such a thing? Were I to call someone
out, it would be you, mhic a diabhail—and ye know it.”

He whirled on his heel and stalked toward the house, scattering
loungers like pigeons before him.



THEY SAW HIM COMING; the door opened before Jamie reached the top step,
and he walked past the butler with a curt nod. The man looked
apprehensive. Surely to God he must be familiar with an atmosphere of
violence, Jamie thought, working in this nest of vipers.

He had an overwhelming urge to smash his fist through something and
refrained from punching the walnut paneling in the foyer only because
he realized just how much it would hurt—and realized also the futility of
such action. He also didn’t mean to meet Colonel Quarry again dripping
blood or otherwise at a social disadvantage.

Where would they be? The library, almost certainly. He stalked round
the corner of the hallway and nearly trod on the duchess, who gave a
startled squeak.

“Your pardon, Your Grace,” he said, with a creditable bow for a man
still dressed like a groom.

“Captain Fraser,” she said, a hand pressed winsomely to her bosom.

“Christ, you, too?” he said. It was rude, but he’d no patience left.

“Me, too, what?” she asked, puzzled.

“Why have ye all begun calling me ‘Captain’ Fraser?” he asked. “Ye
weren’t yesterday. Did His Grace tell ye to?”

She dropped the winsome hand and gave him a smile—which he
distrusted just as much.

“Why, no. I suggested it.” A slight dimple appeared in one cheek. “Or
would you prefer to be called Broch Tuarach? It is your proper title, is it
not?”

“It was—a thousand years ago. Mr. Fraser will do. Your Grace,” he
added as an afterthought, and made to pass. She reached out, though,
and laid a hand on his sleeve.

“I wish to talk to you,” she said, low-voiced. “You do remember me?”

“That was a thousand years ago, as well,” he said, with a deliberate
look that ran over her from upswept hair to dainty shoe, recalling
exactly how he remembered her. “And I have business with Colonel
Quarry just the now, if ye please.”

She flushed a little but didn’t otherwise betray any sign of
discomposure. She held both his eyes and her smile and squeezed his
arm lightly before removing her hand.

“I’ll find you.”



THE BRIEF INTERRUPTION had served to take the edge off his inclination to
hit things, and he strode into the library with a decent sense of himself.
Rage would not serve him.

Quarry was standing by the fire, talking to Pardloe; both of them
turned round, hearing him come in. Quarry’s face was set; wary, but not
afraid. Jamie hadn’t expected him to be; he knew Quarry.

Jamie walked up to Pardloe—just close enough to make the little shit
look up at him—and said, “I must beg pardon, Your Grace, for taking my
leave so abruptly. I felt the need of air.”

Pardloe’s lips twitched. “I trust you feel yourself recovered, Captain
Fraser?”

“Quite, I thank ye. Colonel Quarry—your servant, sir.” He’d turned to
Quarry without a pause and gave him a bow correct to the inch. Quarry
returned it, murmuring, “Your very obedient, sir.” But Jamie had seen
the tension go out of Quarry’s shoulders and felt a little slackening of the
tightness in his own chest.

He felt Pardloe look beyond him and knew John Grey had come in.
The tightness came back.

“Do sit down, gentlemen,” the duke said, with great courtesy,
gesturing at the chairs near the hearth. “John, would you tell Pilcock to
bring us some brandy?”



“WE WANT TO BRING HIM to court-martial, I think,” Hal said, putting down
his glass. “Rather than pursue a civil case in the courts, I mean. On the
one hand, a civil case—if we won—would allow us to recover whatever
money the bastard hasn’t yet spent, and it would give us scope to
blacken his name in the press, hound him relentlessly, and generally ruin
his life. However—”

“However, the reverse is true, as well,” Grey said dryly. He’d
fortunately never been sued but had been threatened by lawsuits now
and then, escaping by the hair of his teeth, and had a very good idea of
the chancy and dangerous nature of the law. “He presumably has the
money to employ good lawyers. Could—and quite likely would, if half
what Carruthers said is true—countersue us for defamation, drag us
through the courts, and make our lives a misery for years.”

“Well, yes,” Hal agreed. “There’s that.”

“Whereas in a court-martial, the custom of the army is the basis of
procedure, not statute,” Harry put in. “Offers summat more flexibility. In
terms of what’s evidence, I mean.”

This was true; essentially, anyone who liked could give testimony at a
court-martial, and everything anyone said was considered evidence,
though the court-martial board might dismiss or consider any of it,
giving what weight they liked to the matter.

“And if he’s found guilty at a court-martial, ye could, I suppose, have
him shot?”

All three Englishmen looked at Fraser, startled. The Scot had sat
quietly through most of their deliberations, and they’d almost forgotten
he was there.

“I think it might be hanging,” Hal said, after a brief pause. “Generally,
we shoot men only for desertion or mutiny.”

“An attractive thought, though.” Quarry lifted his glass to Fraser in
acknowledgment, before turning to the others. “Do we want him dead,
do you think?”

Grey considered that. The notion of bringing Siverly to justice and
making him account for what were very serious crimes was one thing.
The notion of hunting him deliberately to his death, though …

“I don’t know,” Grey said slowly. “But perhaps I ought not to take part
in such considerations. Siverly did save my life at Quebec, and while
that wouldn’t stop me pursuing a case against him … I think—no. I don’t
want him dead.”

Grey didn’t look at Fraser, unsure whether the Scot might consider this
reluctance to exterminate Siverly as pusillanimous.

“Much better to have him cashiered and imprisoned, held up as an
example,” Hal said. “Besides, being executed is over too quickly. I want
the bugger to suffer.”

There was a faint sound from the corner where Fraser sat, a little
apart. Grey glanced over and saw to his surprise that the man was
laughing, in that odd Highland manner that convulsed the face while
making very little sound.

“And here I thought it was mercy ye offered when ye declined to shoot
me,” Fraser said to Hal. “A debt of honor, did ye say?” He lifted his
glass, ironical.

A deep flush rose in Hal’s face. Grey didn’t think he’d ever seen his
brother at a total loss for words before. Hal looked at Fraser for several
moments, then finally nodded.

“Touché, Captain Fraser,” he said, and without a pause turned back to
Grey.

“Court-martial it is, then. Harry and I will start the business here,
while you and the captain go to retrieve Major Siverly. Now, Harry—
who do you know in Ireland who might be of help?”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 11

“This Mr. Fraser of yours,” she said, after they’d walked a few
moments in silence.

“He’s not actually mine,” he said. He’d intended to speak lightly, and
thought he had, but she shot him a glance that made him wonder.

“You know him, though,” she said. “Is he … dependable, do you
think?”

“I suppose that would depend upon what one expected of him,” Grey
replied cautiously. “If you mean, is he a man of honor, then, yes, he is.
Certainly a man of his word. Beyond that …” He shrugged. “He is
Scotch, and a Highlander, to boot.”

“Meaning what?” She was interested; one brow arched upward. “Is he
such a savage as people say Highlanders are? Because if so, he apes the
gentleman to an amazing degree.”

“James Fraser apes nothing,” he assured her, feeling an obscure sense
of offense on Fraser’s behalf. “He is—or was—a landed gentleman, and
one of breeding, with substantial property and tenants. What I meant is
that he has …” He hesitated, not quite sure how to put it into words.

“… a sense of himself that is quite separate from what society demands.
He is inclined to make his own rules.”

She laughed at that. “No wonder Hal likes him!”

“Does he?” Grey said, feeling absurdly pleased to hear it.

“Oh, yes,” she assured Grey. “He was quite surprised—but very
pleased. I think he feels slightly guilty, too,” she added thoughtfully. “At
making use of him, I mean.”

“So do I.”

She smiled at him with great affection. “Yes, you would. Mr. Fraser is
fortunate to have you for a friend, John.”

“I doubt he recognizes his good fortune,” Grey said dryly.

“Well, he needn’t worry—and neither need you, John. Hal won’t let
him come to any harm.”

“No, of course not.” Still, the feeling of unease at the back of his neck
did not go away.

“And if your venture should be successful, I’m sure Hal would see
about getting him pardoned. He could be a free man then. He could go
back to his home.”

Grey felt a sudden stricture in his throat, as though his valet, Tom
Byrd, had tied his stock too tightly.

“Yes. Why did you ask about him—about Fraser, I mean—being
dependable?”

She lifted one shoulder and let it fall.

“Oh—Hal showed me the translation Mr. Fraser made of that page of
Erse. I only wondered how faithful it might be.”

“Have you any reason to suppose it isn’t?” he asked curiously. “I mean
—why shouldn’t it be?”

“No particular reason.” She chewed her lower lip, though, in a
thoughtful sort of way. “I don’t speak Erse myself, of course, but I
recognize a few words. I, um, don’t know quite how much Hal told you
about my father …?”

“A bit,” Grey said, and smiled at her. She smiled back.

“Well, then. I saw the occasional Jacobite document, and while most
were in French or Latin, there were a few in English, and even fewer in
Erse. But they all tended to have some internal clue, some casual
mention of something that would assure the recipient that what they
were holding wasn’t merely an order for wine or a merchant’s inquiry
about the contents of his warehouse. And one of the code things you saw
mentioned quite often was a white rose. For the Stuarts, you know?”

“I do.” For a vertiginous instant, he saw—as clearly as though the
scene had sprung from the earth at his feet—the face of the man he had
shot on Culloden Moor, his eyes dark and the white cockade in his
bonnet stark in the dying light of evening.

Minnie paid no attention to his momentary distraction, though, and
went on talking.

“Well, this bit you brought Hal has the words róisíní bhán in it. It’s not
quite the same, but it’s very similar to the Scottish words for ‘white
rose’—I saw them often enough to know those. And Mr. Fraser put the
word ‘rose’ into his translation, all right—but he left out the ‘white.’ If
it’s there to begin with, I mean,” she added. “And perhaps the Irish is
sufficiently different that he didn’t see it, if it is there.”

They turned, as though some signal had been given, and started back
toward the house. Grey swallowed, trying to quiet the thumping of his
heart.

It was clear enough what she meant. The poem about the Wild Hunt
might be a coded Jacobite document of some sort. And if it was, Fraser
might have recognized that fact and deliberately suppressed it, perhaps
to protect friends affiliated with the Stuart cause. If that were the case, it
raised two questions, both of them disturbing.

To wit: had Siverly a Jacobite connection, and … what else might
Jamie Fraser have left out?

“Only one way to find out,” he said. “I’ll ask him. Carefully.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 12

THE ICE HAD BEEN BROKEN BETWEEN GREY AND JAMES FRASER, but Grey still felt
considerable delicacy about the resumption of what might be called
normal relations. He hadn’t forgotten that conversation in the stables at
Helwater, and he was damned sure Fraser hadn’t, either.

True, they would be in close company in Ireland and must find a way
to ignore the past for the sake of working together—but no need to force
the matter before time.

Still, he remained acutely aware of Fraser’s presence in the house.
Everyone did. Half the servants were afraid of him, the others simply
unsure what to do with him. Hal dealt with him courteously, but with a
sense of wary formality; Grey thought that Hal might be having the
occasional doubt about the wisdom of his decision to conscript Fraser,
and smiled grimly at the thought. Minnie seemed the only member of
the household able to talk to him with any sense of normality.

Tom Byrd had been terrified of the big Scot, having had an unsettling
experience with him at Helwater—though Grey thought that was more a
matter of Tom, who was quite sensitive to social nuance, picking up the
violent vibrations occurring between himself and Fraser, than of
personal interaction.

When informed that he would be attending to Captain Fraser’s
valeting, in addition to Grey’s, though, Tom had grasped the nettle
manfully and been very helpful in compiling the tailor’s list. He was
passionate in the matter of male clothing and had lost quite a bit of his
nervousness in the discussion of what might be suitable.

To Grey’s surprise, Tom Byrd was in the parlor when he came down in
the morning, and the valet stuck his head out into the hall to hail him.
“The captain’s new clothes have come, me lord! Come see!”

Tom turned a beaming face on Grey as he entered the parlor. The
furniture was draped with muslin-wrapped shapes, like small Egyptian
mummies. Tom had unwrapped one of these and now laid out a bottlegreen
coat with gilt buttons, spreading the skirts lovingly over the settee.

“That bundle on the pianoforte is shirts,” he informed Grey. “I didn’t
like to take them up, in case the captain was asleep.”

Grey glanced out the window, which showed the sun well up; it must
be eight o’clock, at least. The notion that Fraser might be having a lie-in
was ludicrous; he doubted the man had ever slept past dawn in his life,
and he certainly hadn’t done it any time in the last fifteen years. But
Tom’s remark indicated that the Scot hadn’t either appeared for
breakfast or sent for a tray. Could he be ill?

He was not. The sound of the front door opening and closing turned
Grey toward the hall in time to see Fraser stride past, face flushed fresh
with the morning’s air.

“Mr. Fraser!” he called, and Fraser swung round, surprised but not
disturbed. He came in, ducking automatically beneath the lintel. One
brow was arched in inquiry, but there was no hint in his face of disquiet
or of that closed expression that hid anger, fear, or calculation.

He’s only been for a walk; he hasn’t seen anyone, Grey thought, and was
slightly ashamed of the thought. Who, after all, would he see in London?

“Behold,” Grey said, smiling, and gestured toward the muslin parcels.
Tom had unwrapped a suit of an odd purplish brown and was stroking
the pile.

“Would you look at this, sir?” Tom said, so pleased with the garments
that he momentarily overcame his nervousness of Fraser. “I’ve never
seen such a color in me life—but it’ll suit you prime!”

To Grey’s surprise, Fraser smiled back, almost shyly.

To Grey’s surprise, Fraser smiled back, almost shyly.

“I’ve seen it before,” he said, and put out a hand to stroke the fabric.
“In France. Couleur puce, it was called. The Duc d’Orleans had a suit
made of it, and verra proud of it he was, too.”

Tom’s eyes were round. He looked quickly at Grey—had his employer
known that his prisoner hobnobbed with French dukes?—then back at
Fraser.

“Pee-yuse?” he said, trying out the word. “Color of a … what’s a
peeyuse, then?”

Fraser actually laughed at that, and Grey felt a startled small burst of
pleasure at the sound.

“A flea,” Fraser told Tom. “The whole of the name means ‘the color of
the belly of a flea,’ but that’s a bit much, even for the French.”

Tom squinted at the coat one-eyed, evidently comparing it to fleas he
had known. “It’s not like that word pew-cell, is it? Would that be like a
little-bitty flea?”

Fraser’s mouth twitched, and his eyes darted toward Grey.

“Pucelle?” he said, pronouncing it in good French. “I, erm, don’t think
so, though I might of course be mistaken.”

Grey felt his ribs creak slightly but managed to speak casually. “Where
did you come across the word pucelle, Tom?”

Tom considered for a moment.

“Oh. Colonel Quarry, when he was here last week. He asked me could
I think of anything that rhymed with pew-cell. ‘Usual’ was all I could
think of, and he didn’t think much o’ that, I could tell, though he wrote
it down in his notebook, just in case, he said.”

“Colonel Quarry writes poetry,” Grey explained to Fraser, getting
another lifted brow in return. “Very … um … individual style of verse.”

“I know,” Fraser said, to Grey’s utter astonishment. “He asked me once
if I could think of a suitable rhyme for ‘virgin.’ ”

“He did? When?”

“At Ardsmuir,” Fraser said, with no apparent emotion, from which
Grey concluded that Harry hadn’t actually shown the Scot any of his
poetry. “Over dinner. I couldna bring anything to mind save ‘sturgeon,’
though. He didna bother writing that one down,” he added, turning to
Tom. “There was a good deal of brandy drunk.”

“Though for what the observation is worth, pucelle is the French word
for ‘virgin,’ ” Grey told Tom. He glanced at Fraser. “Perhaps he couldn’t
manage the verse in English, abandoned it, and later decided to try it in
French?”

Fraser made a small sound of amusement, but Tom was still frowning.

“Have French virgins got fleas, do you think?”

“I never met a Frenchwoman I felt I could ask,” Grey said. “But I have
met a good many fleas, and they tend not to be respecters of persons, let
alone of purity.”

Tom shook his head, dismissing this bit of natural philosophy as
beyond him, and returned with an air of relief to his natural sphere of
competence.

“Well, then. There’s the pee-yuse velvet suit, the blue silk, the brown
worsted, and two coats for everyday, bottle-green and sapphire, and
three waistcoats, two plain and a yellow one with fancy-work. Dark
breeches, white breeches, stockings, shirts, small-clothes …” He pointed
at various parcels here and there about the room, consulting the list in
his head. “Now, the shoes haven’t come yet, nor the riding boots. Will
those do for the Beefsteak, do you think, me lord?” He squinted
doubtfully at the shoes on Jamie’s feet, these being the sturdy objects
borrowed from Lady Joffrey’s chairman. They had been buffed and
polished to the limits of the bootboy’s capability but were not
intrinsically fashionable.

Grey joined Tom’s scrutiny and lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Change the buckles, and they’ll do. Take the silver-gilt ones from my
brown calfskin court shoes. Mr. Fraser?” He motioned delicately at
Jamie’s feet, and Jamie obligingly stepped out of the objects in question,
allowing Tom to take them away.

Fraser waited until Tom was safely out of hearing before inquiring,
“The Beefsteak?”

“My club. The Society for the Appreciation of the English Beefsteak.
We are taking dinner there today, with Captain von Namtzen.” He felt a
small warmth at thought of Stephan. “I’ve acquainted him with the
Siverly matter, and he is bringing someone he knows who might be
helpful. He may have some information, but I also wish him to look at
that fragment of Erse poetry you translated. He knows a good deal about
verse and has encountered several variations on the Wild Hunt.”

“Aye? What sort of establishment is this club?” A slight crease showed
between Fraser’s heavy brows.

“It’s not a bawdy house,” Grey assured him, with an edge. “Just an
ordinary gentleman’s club.” It occurred to him that perhaps Fraser had
never been in a gentleman’s club? Certainly he’d never been in London,
but …

Fraser gave him a marked look. “I meant, what is the nature of the
gentlemen who are members of this particular club? You say we are to
meet Captain von Namtzen; is it a club patronized largely by soldiers?”

“Yes, it is,” Grey said, somewhat puzzled. “Why?”

Fraser’s lips compressed for an instant.

“If there is a possibility of my encountering men whom I knew during
the Rising, I should like to know it.”

“Ah.” That possibility had not struck Grey. “I think it is not likely,” he
said slowly. “But it would be as well, perhaps, to arrange a … er …”

“A fiction?” Fraser said, an edge in his voice. “To account for my
recent whereabouts and current situation?”

“Yes,” Grey said, ignoring both the edge and the return of that
simmering air of resentment. He bowed politely. “I will leave that to
you, Mr. Fraser. You can inform me of the details on our way to the
Beefsteak.”




JAMIE FOLLOWED GREY into the Beefsteak with a sense of wary curiosity.
He’d never been in a London gentleman’s club, though he’d experienced
a wide range of such establishments in Paris. Given the basic differences
of personality and outlook between Frenchmen and Englishmen, though,
he supposed that their social behavior might be different, as well. The
food was certain to be.

“Von Namtzen!” Grey had caught sight of a tall, fair-haired man in a
German uniform coming out of a room down the hall, and hurried
toward him. This must be Stephan von Namtzen, the Graf von Erdberg,
and the gentleman they had come to see.

The big man’s face lighted at sight of Grey, whom he greeted with a
warm kiss on both cheeks, in the continental style. Grey appeared used
to this and smiled, though he did not return the embrace, stepping back
to introduce Jamie.

The graf was missing one arm, the sleeve of his coat pinned up across
his chest, but shook Jamie’s hand warmly with his remaining one. He
had shrewd gray eyes, the graf, and struck Jamie at once as both affable
and competent—a good soldier. He relaxed a little; the graf presumably
knew both who and what he was; there would be no need for fictions.

“Come,” said von Namtzen, with a cordial inclination of his head. “I
have a private room reserved for us.” He led the way down the hall with
Grey beside him, Jamie following more slowly, glancing aside into the
various rooms they passed. The club was old and had an atmosphere of
discreet, comfortable wealth. The dining room was laid with white
napery and gleaming heavy silver, the smoking room furnished with
well-aged leather chairs, sagging slightly in the seat and redolent of good
tobacco. The runner under his feet was an aged Turkey carpet, worn
nearly to the threads in the middle, but a good one, with medallions of
scarlet and gold.

There was a low hum about the place, of conversation and service; he
could hear the clinking of pots and spoons and crockery from a distant
kitchen, and the scent of roasting meat perfumed the air. He could see
why Grey liked the place; if you belonged here, it would embrace you.
He himself did not belong here but, for a moment, rather wished he did.

Grey and von Namtzen had paused to exchange greetings with a
friend; Jamie took the opportunity for a discreet inquiry of the steward.

“Turn right at the end of the hallway, sir, and you’ll find it just to your
left,” the man said, with a courteous inclination of the head.

“Thank you,” he said, and gave Grey a brief lift of the chin, indicating
his destination. It had been a long trip from Newmarket, and God knew
what might happen over dinner. An empty bladder and clean hands were
as much preparation as it lay within his power to make.




GREY NODDED at Fraser’s mute gesture, and continued his conversation
with Mordecai Weston, a Captain in the Buffs, who knew von Namtzen
as well. He expected Fraser to return momentarily, but after five minutes
began to wonder whether something was wrong and excused himself.

He came round the corner in time to see Fraser just outside the privy
closet, in conversation with Edward Twelvetrees. Yes, it was bloody
Twelvetrees. No mistaking that pale, long-nosed face, the beady little
ferret-black eyes. The surprise stopped him dead, but close enough to
hear Twelvetrees demand to know what Grey’s business was with Fraser
—and to hear Fraser decline to say.

Fraser disappeared into the privy closet with a firm shutting of the
door; Grey took advantage of the sound to walk quietly up behind
Twelvetrees, who was glaring at the closed door, evidently waiting for
Fraser to come out and face further interrogation. Grey tapped
Twelvetrees on the shoulder, and was immensely gratified when the man
gave a cry of alarm and flung himself round, hands raised.

“I am so sorry to startle you, sir,” he said, with extreme politeness.
“Did I hear you asking after me?”

Twelvetrees’s startlement changed in an instant to rage, and his hand
slapped his side, reaching for the sword he fortunately wasn’t wearing.
“You bloody meddler!”

Grey felt blood swell in his temples, but kept his voice light and civil.

“If you have business with me, sir, I suggest that you speak to me
directly, rather than seek to harass my friends.”

Twelvetrees’s lip curled, but he’d got control of himself.

“Friends,” he repeated, in a tone indicating astonishment that Grey
should think he had any. “I suppose I should not be amazed that you
make a friend of traitors. But I wonder, sir, that you should so far forget
yourself as to bring such a man as that into this place.”

Grey’s heart had given a bump at the word “traitors,” but he replied
coolly, “You are fortunate that you did not use that word to the
gentleman in question. While I take the liberty of offense on his behalf,
he might be inclined to take action, whereas I would not sully my sword
with your blood.”

Twelvetrees’s eyes grew brighter and blacker.

“Wouldn’t you?” he said, and gave a short laugh. “Believe me, sir, I
await your pleasure. In the meantime, I shall complain to the Committee
regarding your choice of guests.”

He shouldered his way past Grey, pushing him roughly aside, and
walked down the hallway to the back stair, head held high.

Grey made his way back toward the dining-room, wondering how the
devil Twelvetrees happened to know Jamie Fraser. But perhaps he didn’t,
he thought. If he’d inquired Fraser’s name, Fraser would have told him
it, as well as informing him that he was Grey’s guest. And he supposed it
wasn’t beyond the stretch of reason that Twelvetrees should recall
Fraser’s name from the Rising—particularly when linked with his
Scottish accent.

<snip>



“I HAVE BROUGHT a … gentleman of my acquaintance,” the graf was saying,
with a half-apologetic glance at Grey. “Since you tell me it is a matter of
Irish.” Lowering his voice, he said in rapid German, “I have of course
said nothing to him of your matter; only that there is a poem written in
his tongue and you want to know if the translation you have is
accurate.”

Jamie had neither spoken nor heard German in many years but was
reasonably sure he’d gathered the sense of this correctly. He tried to
recall whether he had ever told Grey that German was among his
languages—he didn’t think so, and Grey didn’t glance at him when von
Namtzen spoke but replied in the same language, thanking the German.
Grey called him “Du,” Jamie noticed, using the familiar form of address
—but he could have seen easily that the graf was an intimate friend by
the way in which he touched Grey’s sleeve.

He supposed it was reasonable that the Greys would want to check his
translation of the poem—he’d told them that the Gaidhlig and the Gaeilge
were different and that he did not certify his translation as completely
accurate, though he could give them the overall sense of what it said.
Still, there was the one small thing that he had deliberately omitted, and
it gave him a minor qualm. If the graf had brought an Irish-speaker to
give a new translation, the line about the Wild Hunt strewing white
roses to mark the victorious path of their queen was sure to show up in
contrast to his version, which had merely mentioned the faeries strewing
roses.

He’d recognized it as a coded Jacobite document at once; he’d seen
any number of such things during his spying days in Paris. But having no
idea who had written it or what the code said, he had chosen not to
mention that aspect; if there were hidden Jacobites operating in Ireland
—and Tobias Quinn had told him there were—it was not his business to
expose them to the interest of the English. But if—

His thoughts stopped abruptly as he followed the graf and Grey into
the private room, and the gentleman already there rose to greet them.
He wasn’t shocked. Or rather, he thought, it was simply that he didn’t
believe what he was seeing. Whichever it was, he took Thomas Lally’s
proffered hand with a feeling of total calm.

“Broch Tuarach,” Lally said, in that clipped way of his, formal as a
topiary bush at Versailles.

“Monsieur le Comte,” Jamie said, shaking Lally’s hand. “Comment ça
va?”

Thomas Lally had been one of Charles Stuart’s aides-decamp. Half
Irish and born in Ireland but half French, he had fled Scotland after
Falkirk and promptly taken up a commission with the French army,
where he had been courageous but unpopular.

How the devil did he come to be here?

Jamie hadn’t voiced that thought, but it must have shown on his face,
for Lally smiled sourly.

“I am, like you, a prisoner of the English,” he said in French. “I was
captured at Pondicherry. Though my captors are sufficiently generous as
to maintain my parole in London.”

“Ah, I see you are acquainted,” said von Namtzen, who undoubtedly
spoke French fluently but diplomatically pretended that he didn’t. He
beamed cordially. “How nice! Shall we eat first?”

<snip>

The conversation over dinner was general in nature and conducted
mostly in English. It was not until the table had been cleared and a copy
of the Wild Hunt poem produced by Grey that Jamie heard Lally speak
Irish, holding the sheet of paper at arm’s length and reading it slowly
aloud.

It gave him an odd feeling. He hadn’t heard or spoken the Gàidhlig in
many years, save in the privacy of his own mind, and hearing words
with such a homely, familiar sound made him momentarily feel that he
might weep. He swallowed, though, and the moment passed.

“Herr Graf tells me that you’ve done a translation of this,” Lally said,
putting down the paper and looking sharply at Jamie. “An bhfuil Gaeilge
agat?” Do you have the Irish, then?

Jamie shook his head. “Chan-eil. Ach tuigidh mi gu leor dha na faclan.
Bheil thu g’am thuigsinn sa?” he said in Gàidhlig. No, though I could make
out many of the words. Do you understand me?

Lally smiled, his harsh expression softening wonderfully, and Jamie
thought that it was long since that Lally had heard anything like the
language of his birth.

“Your tongue blooms with flowers,” Lally said—or Jamie thought that
was what he said, and smiled back.

“You understand each the other’s tongue?” von Namtzen said,
interested. “It sounds very much the same to me.”

“It’s … rather like an Italian speaking wi’ a Spaniard,” Jamie said, still
smiling at Lally. “But we might make shift.”

“I should be very grateful for your assistance in this matter, Monsieur
le Comte,” Grey said formally. “As would my brother.”

Oh, so that’s it, Jamie thought. Pardloe would put his not
inconsiderable influence to work on Lally’s behalf, in return for this. The
English might get an accurate translation after all. Or maybe not, he
thought, seeing Lally’s polite smile in return.

<snip>

It took some time; they conferred over the sheets, Lally stabbing at
Jamie’s translation with his quill and leaving ink blots on the page as he
asked questions—sometimes in Irish, sometimes in French or English—
then scribbling on his own sheet, crossing things out and adding notes in
the margin. No mention of white roses.

At last, though, he made a clean copy, writing slowly—he had
rheumatism badly in his hands; his knuckles were knobbed and his
fingers twisted with it—and gave this to Lord John.

“There you are, my lord,” he said, and leaned back, groaning a little.
“I hope it may be of help in whatever your venture may be.”

“I thank you,” Grey said, scanning the sheet. He looked up at Lally,
one brow raised. “If you would be so kind, Monsieur—have you ever
seen a thing like this before?”

“Oh—often, my lord.” Lally looked surprised. “Though not written
down. It is a common thing in Ireland, though—tales like that.”

“You have not seen it in any other context?”

Lally shook his head, definite.

“No, my lord.”

Grey sighed and folded the sheet carefully into his pocket, thanking
Lally once again, and, with a brief glance at Jamie, rose to leave.

The day was fine, and they walked back to Argus House. Grey had
decided, upon reflection, to make no reference to Edward Twelvetrees—
not until he’d spoken to Hal. They therefore spoke very little, but as they
reached the Alexandra Gate, Grey turned and said to Jamie, seriously,
“Do you think he made a fair translation?”

“I am quite sure he did it to the best of his ability, my lord.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 13

“Why are ye telling me this?”

She hesitated, and he could feel her calculation but didn’t know the
exact nature of it. Not how much to trust him, he didn’t think—only a
fool would trust him with dangerous information, and he was sure the
duchess was no fool. How much to tell him, though …

“I love my husband, Mr. Fraser,” she said at last, softly. “I don’t want
him—or John, for that matter—to find himself in a position where the
Twelvetrees family might do him harm.

“I want you, if at all possible, to see that that doesn’t happen. If your
inquiries in Ireland should lead you into contact with Edward
Twelvetrees, I implore you, Mr. Fraser: try to keep him away from John,
and try to see that whatever he’s doing with Major Siverly doesn’t
intrude into the matter you’re dealing with.”

He’d followed her train of thought reasonably well, he thought, and
ventured a question to check.

“Ye mean, whatever the money’s about—even if it’s going to, or
through, Major Siverly—it’s not to do wi’ the matters covered by the
court-martial your husband wants. And, therefore, ye want me to try to
keep Lord John from following up any such trail, should he stumble over
it?”

She gave a little sigh.

“Thank you, Mr. Fraser. I assure you, any entanglement with Edward
Twelvetrees cannot help but lead to disaster.”

"For your husband, his brother—or your father?” he asked softly, and
heard the sharp intake of her breath. After the briefest instant, though,
the low gurgle of her laughter came again.

“Father always said you were the best of the Jacobite agents,” she said
approvingly. “Are you still … in touch?”

“I am not,” he said definitely. “But it had to be your father who told
ye about the money. If either Pardloe or Grey knew that, they would
have mentioned it when we were making plans with Colonel Quarry.”
There was a small puff of amusement, and the duchess rose, a white
blur against the darkness. She brushed down her robe and turned to go,
but paused at the door.

“If you keep my secrets, Mr. Fraser, I will keep yours.”



<snip>

With thoughts of wild faerie hordes, dark woods, and the wail of
hunting horns echoing in the reaches of the night, he took his candle and
went up to bed, pausing to blow out the lighted sconces that had been
left burning for him in the foyer. One of the little boys had wakened
earlier with stomachache or nightmare, but the nursery was quiet now.
There was no light in the second-floor corridor, but he paused, hearing a
sound. Soft footfalls toward the far end of the hallway, and a door
opened, spilling candlelight. He caught a glimpse of Minnie, pale in
flowing white muslin, stepping through the door into Hal’s arms, and
heard the whisper of Hal’s voice.

Not wishing them to see him, he hurried quickly up the stairs to the
next floor, to hide his candle, and stood there in the dark for a moment,
to give them time to retire.

<snip>

Not quite the lord of the sleeping world. A brief, sharp cry sliced
through the dark, and he started as though it had been a drawing pin
run into his leg.

The cry was not repeated but hadn’t come from the nursery above. It
had definitely come from down the corridor to his left, where the guest
rooms lay. And, to his knowledge, no one slept at that end of the
corridor save Jamie Fraser. Walking very quietly, he made his way
toward Fraser’s door.

He could hear heavy breathing, as of a man wakened from nightmare.
Ought he go in? No, you ought not, he thought promptly. If he’s awake,
he’s free of the dream already.

He was turning to creep back toward the stairs, when he heard
Fraser’s voice.

“Could I but lay my head in your lap, lass,” Fraser’s voice came softly
through the door. “Feel your hand on me, and sleep wi’ the scent of you
about me.”

Grey’s mouth was dry, his limbs frozen. He should not be hearing this,
was suffused with shame to hear it, but dared not move for fear of
making a sound.

There came a rustling, as of a large body turning violently in the bed,
and then a muffled sound—a gasp, a sob?—and silence. He stood still,
listening to his own heart, to the ticking of the longcase clock in the hall
below, to the distant sounds of the house, settling for night. A minute, by
counted seconds. Two. Three, and he lifted a foot, stepping quietly back.
One more step, and then heard a final murmur, a whisper so strangled
that only the acuteness of his attention brought him the words.

“Christ, Sassenach. I need ye.”

He would in that moment have sold his soul to be able to offer
comfort. But there was no comfort he could give, and he made his way
silently down the stairs, missing the last step in the dark and coming
down hard.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 14

<snip>

He sat a few moments, letting his mind relax, and slowly it dawned
upon him that the only truly important thing in this imbroglio was
William. The complications and suspicions and possible dangers of the
present situation mattered only insofar as they might prevent his
returning to Helwater—no further.

He took a deep breath, feeling better. Aye, with that made clear, it
became possible to think logically about the rest. Well, then.
Major Siverly was the ostensible root of this tangle. He was a wicked
man, if half what Captain Carruthers had written about him was true,
but wicked men of that sort were far from unusual, he thought. Why did
the Greys want so badly to get at the man?

John Grey, by his own words, because he felt a sense of obligation to
his dead friend Carruthers. Jamie might have doubted that, but given his
own conversations with the dead, he was obliged to admit that John
Grey might hear his own voices and have his own debts to pay.

What about Pardloe, though? It wasn’t Lord John who’d dragged
Jamie to London and was forcing him to go to Ireland after Siverly. Did
Pardloe feel such impersonal outrage at Siverly’s corruption as to explain
his actions? Was it part of his ideal of the army, of his own profession,
that he could not bear such a man to be tolerated in it? Or was he doing
it primarily to support his brother’s quixotic quest?

Jamie admitted reluctantly that it might be all these things. He didn’t
pretend to understand the complexities of Pardloe’s character, but he
had strong evidence of the man’s sense of family honor. He himself was
alive only because of it.

But why him? Why did the Greys need him?

For the poem, first. The Wild Hunt, in Erse. That much, he could see.
For while the Greys might have found someone among the Scottish or
Irish regiments who had the Gàidhlig, it would be indiscreet—and
possibly dangerous, given that they hadn’t known what the document
contained—to put knowledge of it in the hands of someone they couldn’t
control as they did Lally and him.

He grimaced at the thought of their control but put it aside.
So. Having brought him to London to translate the verse, was it then
merely economical to make further use of him? That made sense only if
Lord John actually required assistance to apprehend Siverly, and Jamie
was not sure that he did. Whatever else you liked to say about the man,
he was a competent soldier.

If it was a straight matter of showing Siverly the order to appear at a
court-martial and escorting him there, John Grey could plainly do that
without Jamie Fraser’s help. Likewise, if it were a matter of arresting the
man, a detachment of soldiers would accomplish it fine.

Ergo, it wasn’t a straightforward matter. What the devil did they
expect to happen? He closed his eyes and breathed slowly, letting the
warm sweet fumes of well-rotted manure help to focus his mind.

Siverly might well simply refuse to come back with Lord John to
England. Rather than face a court-martial, he might resign his
commission and either stay in Ireland or depart—as so many had—to
take service with a foreign army or to live abroad; peculation on the
scale Pardloe had shown him must have given Siverly the means for
that.

Should he so refuse—or hear of the matter beforehand and escape—
then Jamie might be of use in finding or taking the man, yes. With a bit
of practice, he’d likely get along in the Gaeilge well enough; he could
make inquiries—and his way—in places where the Greys couldn’t. And
then there was the matter of connections. There were Jacobites in
Ireland and in France who would show him courtesy for the sake of the
Stuarts, as well as his own name, but who would turn a closed face and a
deaf ear to the Greys, no matter what the virtue of their quest. Despite
himself, his brain began to compile a list of names, and he shook his
head violently to stop it.

Yes, he might be useful. But was the possibility of Siverly’s flight
enough?

He remembered what Lord John had said about Quebec. Siverly had
saved John Grey’s life during the battle there. He supposed Lord John
might find it an embarrassment to arrest Siverly and thus prefer Jamie to
haul him back to England. He would have thought that notion funny,
had he not had firsthand experience with the Grey family’s sense of
honor.

Even that … but there was a third possibility, wasn’t there?
Siverly might fight. And Siverly might be killed.

“Jesus, Lord,” he said softly.

What if Pardloe wanted Siverly killed? The possibility once named
seemed as sure to him as if he’d seen it written down in rhymed
couplets. Whatever the duchess had seemed to be saying to him in her
nocturnal visit, there was something in the Siverly affair that touched
her deeply—and what touched her, touched the duke.

He’d no idea what the connection was between the duchess and
Edward Twelvetrees, but he was sure it was there. And the duchess had
told him that Edward Twelvetrees was an intimate of Siverly’s.
Something moved in the web surrounding him, and he could feel the
warning twitch of the sticky strand wrapped round his foot.
He took a long breath and let it out slowly.

In the cold light of logic, the answer was obvious—one answer, at
least. Jamie was here because he was expendable. Better: because he
could be made not to exist.

No one cared what became of a prisoner of war, especially not one
held for so long, in such remote circumstances. The Dunsanys would not
complain if he never came back, nor ask what had happened to him. His
sister and Ian might—well, they would—make inquiries, but it would be
a simple matter merely to inform them that he’d died of the flux or
something, and leave it at that. They’d have no way of pursuing the
matter or discovering the truth, even if they suspected they’d been lied
to.

And if he were obliged to kill Siverly—or if it could be made to look as
though he had—he shivered. He could be tried and hanged for it, if they
cared to make the matter public; what would his word count for? Or
John Grey could simply cut his throat and leave him sunk in an Irish
bog, once he’d served his purpose, and tell the world what he liked.
He felt hot and cold together and found that he must make a conscious
effort to keep breathing.

He’d thought that it would be a simple if annoying matter: do what
Pardloe demanded, and be then returned to Helwater and William. But if
it came to this …

Some sound made him open his eyes, to see John Grey standing in
front of him, openmouthed.

“I … beg your pardon,” Grey said, recovering himself with some
effort. “I did not mean to disturb—”

“What the bloody hell are ye doing here!?” Without intent, he found
himself on his feet, his fist bunched in Grey’s shirtfront. Grey smartly
jerked his forearm up, breaking Jamie’s hold, and stepped back, stuffing
his rumpled shirt back into his waistcoat.

“You are without doubt the touchiest son of a bitch I have ever
encountered,” Grey said, his face flushed. “And I include in that roster
such men as my brother and the King of Prussia. Can you not behave
like a civil being for more than ten minutes together?”

“Touchy, is it?” The blood was pounding in Jamie’s temples, and it
took some effort to keep his fists curled at his sides.

“I grant you, your situation is invidious,” Grey said, making an
obvious effort at conciliation. “I admit the provocation. However—”

“Invidious. Is that what ye call it? I am to be your cat’s-paw. To
preserve what ye’re pleased to call your honor.” He felt so far beyond
fury that he spoke with perfect calm. “And ye call it provoking?”

“What?” Grey seized Jamie’s sleeve as he made to turn away, and
withstood the look of contempt directed at him. “What the devil do you
mean by that?”

He jerked his sleeve out of Grey’s hand.

“I speak English as well as you do, ye bloody coward, and ye take my
meaning fine!”

Grey drew breath, and Jamie could see the thoughts cross the
Englishman’s face in rapid succession: the urge to lunge at him, the urge
to make it more formal and call him out, a rush of unnameable
calculation, and, finally—all within the space of a moment—a sudden
clamping down, a forcible cooling of fury.

“Sit,” Grey said through his teeth, jerking his head at the bucket.
“I am not a dog!”

Grey rubbed a hand over his face. “A casual observer might argue the
point,” he said. “But, no. I apologize for the implication. Come with me.”

He turned away, adding over his shoulder, “If you please, Mr. Fraser.”

After a moment’s hesitation, Jamie followed the man. There was no
point in remaining with the garden rubbish, after all.

Grey pushed open the door of the glasshouse and beckoned him
inside. It was near twilight, but the place glowed like a king’s treasure,
reds and pinks and whites and yellows glimmering in an emerald jungle
in the dusk, and the air flooded in upon him, moist and caressing, filled
with the scents of flowers and leaves, herbs and vegetables. For an
instant, he smelled his wife’s hair among them and gulped air as though
he’d been shot in the lung.

Pulsing with agitation, he followed Grey past a group of palms and
gigantic things with leaves like the ragged ears of elephants. Round a
corner, a group of wicker furniture stood beneath an enormous arbor
covered with grapevines. Grey stopped short here and turned to him.

“I’ve had a bloody long day, and I want to sit down,” he said. “You
can suit yourself.” He promptly collapsed into a basket chair and leaned
back, thrust out his booted feet, and closed his eyes with a little sigh.

Jamie hesitated, not knowing whether to turn on his heel and leave,
sit down in his turn, or pull John Grey out of the chair by his collar and
punch him.

“We’ll have a half hour or so of privacy here,” Grey said, not opening
his eyes. “The cook’s already come for the vegetables, and Minerva’s
hearing Benjamin’s recitation of Caesar. She won’t come for the table
flowers ’til he’s done, and he’s doing De Bello Gallico; he never gets past
Fere libenter homines id quod volunt credunt without losing his place and
having to start over.”

Jamie recognized the passage without difficulty: Men always believe
what they wish to believe. He pressed his lips tight together and sat down
in the other basket chair, wicker creaking under his weight. Grey opened
his eyes.

“Now. What exactly do you mean,” he said, sitting up straight, “about
cat’s-paws and my so-called honor?”

The brief walk through the glasshouse and Grey’s unexpected
equanimity had defused something of Jamie’s rage, but nothing had
changed the conclusions he’d come to.

He considered it for a moment, but, after all, what was to be gained by
keeping those conclusions to himself? Forewarned was forearmed, after
all, and it might be no bad thing for the Greys to know he was
forewarned.

He told Grey, shortly, what he’d been thinking and the conclusions to
which he’d come, leaving out only the duchess’s visit to his room—and
William.

Grey listened, sitting quite still, with no change of expression until
Jamie had finished. Then he rubbed a hand hard over his face and said,
“Damn Hal!” under his breath.

The grapevines had been cut back for winter, but the new spring
growth was well sprouted, delicate rusty leaves deckling the roughknuckled
vines that roped through the arbor. A faint draft moved
through the rich air of the glasshouse, ruffling the leaves.

“Right,” Grey said, dropping his hand. “You aren’t a cat’s-paw, to
begin with. A stalking horse, perhaps. And for what the assurance is
worth, I had nothing to do with your presence here, let alone the notion
that you should accompany me to Ireland.” He paused. “Do you believe
that?” he asked, looking intently at Jamie.

“I do,” Jamie said, after a brief silence.

“Good. I am, however, probably to blame for the fact that you are
involved in this situation. My brother wished me to take that blasted
poem to Helwater and request you to translate it. I refused, whereupon
he took matters into his own hands.” He made a small gesture,
indicating exasperated resignation.

“My interest in the matter is exactly what Hal told you. My friend
Carruthers entrusted me with the job of bringing Major Siverly to a
court-martial, and I will do that.” He paused once more. “Do you believe
me?”

“Aye, I do,” Jamie said reluctantly. “But His Grace …”

“My brother does not let go of things,” Grey observed. “You may have
noticed that.”

“I have.”

“But he is not, to the best of my knowledge, either a murderer or an
unprincipled knave.”

“I’m obliged to take your word for it, Colonel.”

“You may,” Grey said politely. “He can—and will, I’m afraid—use you
to accomplish his ends regarding Siverly, but those ends do not include
either kidnapping or murder, and he intends you no harm. In fact”—he
hesitated for a moment, but then firmed his jaw and went on, eyes fixed
on the hands that hung between his knees—“should this venture end in
success, I think I can promise you that you will … benefit from it.”

“In what way?” Jamie asked sharply.

“As to that … I cannot make specific promises without consulting my
brother and … perhaps other people. But I do promise that you will not
be harmed by the … association.”

Jamie made a noise in his throat, on the verge of rudeness, indicating
what he thought of the Greys’ promises, and Grey’s head snapped up, his
eyes direct, their pale blue darkened by the fading light.

“Either you take me at my word, Mr. Fraser,” he said, “or you don’t.
Which is it?”

Jamie met his eyes and didn’t look away. The light had dimmed to a
sea of gray-green dusk, but the flush that rose now in Grey’s face was
still visible. It was the same dim light that had lain between them in the
stable at Helwater, the last time they had spoken privately.

The last time he had taken Grey at his word. He had come within an
inch of killing the man then—and both of them recalled that moment
vividly.

Grey had said on that occasion, his voice barely audible with his
passion, “I tell you, sir—were I to take you to my bed—I could make you

scream. And by God, I would do it.”

Jamie had swung with all his force, by simple reflex—not so much at
Grey, but at the memory of Jack Randall that Grey’s words unleashed in
him—and had, by a miracle, missed. He sat without moving now, every
muscle in his body hard as rock and aching with the memory of
violence, of Jack Randall, and of what had happened in the dungeon of
Wentworth prison.

Neither one of them would—or could—look away. There were sounds
in the garden, people moving to and fro, the door to the house
slamming, a distant treble of children’s voices.

“Why did ye follow me?” Jamie asked at last. The words didn’t
seemed to be shaped right; they felt strange in his mouth. “This
afternoon.”

He saw the look of surprise bloom on Grey’s face, pale in the gloom of
the grape arbor. And remembered the same look on the man’s face when
he had opened his eyes half an hour earlier, to see Grey standing in front
of him.

“I didn’t,” Grey said simply. “I was looking for a place to be alone for
a bit. And you were there.”

Jamie breathed deep and, with an effort that felt like lifting a cannon,
rose to his feet.

“I’ll take ye at your word,” he said, and went out.



<snip>

“Have you packed up Captain Fraser already?” he asked, pulling on
his stockings.

“Oh, yes, me lord,” Tom assured him. “Everything save what he’s
wearing—and his nightshirt, to be sure,” he added as an afterthought. “I
did try to make him wear powder for supper,” he said, with an air of
reproach. “He says it makes him sneeze.”

<snip>

“No, I hadn’t the chance—only heard a few choice bits that Diderot
read out over the piss pot … Oh, Christ!” He’d flipped the book open at
random and now read out, “Bent upon scratching his unseemly itch / This
self-fellating son of a bitch …”

Hal gave a strangled whoop and laughed so hard that he had to lean
momentarily against the wall for support. “Self-fellating? Is that even
possible?”

“You’re asking me? I certainly can’t do it,” said Grey.

“I havena any personal experience in that regard myself,” said a dry
Scottish voice behind him, “but dogs dinna seem to find it difficult.”

Both Greys swung round, startled; they hadn’t heard him approach. He
looked well, John thought, with a slight sense of pride. Upon Fraser’s
arrival, Minnie had sent hastily to the Pettigrews, who kept a pair of
immense blackamoor servants to carry their sedan chair, and borrowed a
fairly new suit of livery. The shirt had been washed, starched, and
ironed and the plain coat and waistcoat well brushed, and while neither
the color—a deep navy blue—nor style were what a fashionable
gentleman would wear, it suited Fraser’s own vivid coloring amazing
well.

“It is possible, though,” Fraser added, coming even with them. “For a
man, I mean.”

Hal had straightened up at Fraser’s arrival but didn’t abandon his own
amusement, smiling broadly at Fraser’s remark.

“Really? Dare I ask how you come by this knowledge, Captain?”

Fraser’s mouth twitched slightly, and he shot a glance at Grey. He
answered Hal readily, though.

“On one memorable evening in Paris, some years ago, I was the guest
of the Duc di Castellotti, a gentleman with … individual tastes. He took
a number of his dinner guests on a tour of some of the city’s more
interesting establishments, one of which featured a pair of acrobats.
Extremely”—he paused—“flexible.” Hal laughed and turned to his
brother.

“D’you think Harry’s writing from personal experience, John?”

“It’s my impression that Colonel Quarry has considerable experience
of various kinds upon which to draw,” Fraser said, before John could
answer. “Though I shouldna have taken him for a man of letters. D’ye
mean to say that he composed that remarkable bit o’ verse?”

“Astonishingly enough, yes,” Hal said. “And quite a lot more of a
similar nature, if I am to believe the reports. Wouldn’t think it to look at
him, would you?”

Hal had turned, quite naturally, with a lift of the shoulder that invited
Fraser to walk beside him, and they now went down the corridor,
conversing in a pleasant manner, leaving Grey to follow, book in hand.

Minnie had gone out to the theater with a friend, and the men dined
alone, in a surprising atmosphere of friendliness. There was no sign of
wariness or resentment in Fraser’s manner; he behaved with immense
civility, as though the Greys were cordial acquaintances. Grey felt a
sense of grateful astonishment; evidently Fraser had meant it when he
said he would take Grey at his word.

Master me. Or let me your master be.

He thought he would settle for mutual respect—and, for the first time
since Hal had put this scheme in hand, began to look forward to Ireland.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 15

“IS HE ALL RIGHT, ME LORD?” TOM ASKED IN LOWERED VOICE, nodding toward the
dock. Turning, Grey saw Fraser standing there like a great rock in the
middle of a stream, obliging hands and passengers to flow around him.
Despite his immobility, there was something in his face that reminded
Grey irresistibly of a horse about to bolt, and by instinct he fought his
way down the gangway and laid a hand on Fraser’s sleeve before he
could think about it.

“It will be all right,” he said. “Come, it will be all right.”

Fraser glanced at him, torn from whatever dark thought had possessed
him.

“I doubt it,” he said, but absently, as though to himself. He didn’t pull
away from John’s hand on his arm, but rather walked out from under it
without noticing and trudged up the gangway like a man going to his
execution.

The one good thing, Grey reflected a few hours later, was that Tom
had quite lost his fear of the big Scot. It wasn’t possible to be afraid of
someone you had seen rendered so utterly helpless, so reduced by
physical misery—and placed in so undignified a position.

“He did tell me once that he was prone to mal de mer,” Grey said to
Tom, as they stood by the rail for a grateful moment of fresh air, despite
the lashing of rain that stung their faces.

“I haven’t seen a cove that sick since me uncle Morris what was a
sailor in a merchant man come down with the hocko-grockle,” said Tom,
shaking his head. “And he died of it.”

<snip>


“Mr. Fraser.” There was a hand on his shoulder. He twitched feebly,
trying to get rid of it. If they wouldn’t have the decency to kill him,
could they not just let him die in peace?

The sense of alarm at Quinn’s presence, which would in other
circumstances have been pronounced, was so faint as barely to register
on the blank slate of his mind. But it wasn’t Quinn touching him; it was
John Grey. “Take your hand off me,” he wanted to say, but couldn’t. “Kill
you. Take your hand … kill you …”

A general chorus of blasphemy greeted the results when he opened his
mouth in an attempt to utter the threat. It was followed by more varied
response, including a shocked female voice: “Dear bleedin’ heart o’
Mairy, the poor man’s spittin’ blood!”

He curled up again, knees clasped as tight to his belly as he could get
them. He’d heard himself whimpering and, shocked at the sound, had
bitten the inside of his cheek hard to stop it.

The chorus were saying something about the draught, all of them
urging him to take it. An uncorked bottle of something hot-smelling and
sickly-sweet was waved under his nose. Opium. The word flared a
warning in his mind. He’d had opium before, in France. He still
remembered the dreams, a nasty mix of lust and nightmare. And he
remembered being told that he’d raved in the midst of them, too, talking
wildly of the naked demons that he saw. Again, on the crossing to
France: he’d been wounded then, and had suffered all those wounds
again—and worse—in opium dreams. And what had happened later, at
the abbey, when he’d fought the shade of Black Jack Randall in fire and
shadow, had done something terrible to him against a stone wall … that
was opium, too.

The whole cabin shot into the air and then fell with shocking violence,
flinging people into the bulkheads like birds smashing into
windowpanes. Jamie rolled off the bench on which he’d been lying,
crashed into several bodies, and ended entangled with one of them, both
wedged between the bulkhead and a large sliding crate of chickens that
no one had thought to secure.

“Bloody get off me!” A strangled English voice came from somewhere
under him and, realizing that it was John Grey he lay on, he rose like a
rocket, cracking his head on the low beam above. Clutching his head—
obviously shattered—he sank to his knees and fell half upon the crate, to
the great consternation of the chickens. Shrieks and squawks and an
explosion of down feathers and bits of chicken shit erupted through the
slats, in an ammoniac reek that stabbed right through his nose and into
what was left of his brain.

He subsided slowly onto the floor, not caring what he lay in. More
squawking, this human. Hands. They hauled him half sitting, though he
hung like a bag of laundry, unable to help.

“Christ, he’s a heavy motherfucker!” said a rough voice in his ear.

“Open your mouth,” said another voice, breathless but determined.
Grey, he thought dimly.

Fingers seized his raw nose and squeezed and he yelped, only to choke
as a cascade of vile liquid poured into his mouth. Someone cupped his
chin and slammed his jaw shut.

“Swallow, for God’s sake!”

The whisky burned down his throat and into his chest and, for one
brief moment, cleared his mind of the omnipresent nausea. He opened
his eyes and caught sight of Quinn, staring at him with an expression of
intense concern.

I mustn’t speak of him. Mustn’t risk it, being muddled. Mustn’t speak.
He worked his tongue, gasping for breath, gathering his strength. Then
snatched the bottle from John Grey and drained it.




<snip>

"You’d best leave him to us, miss,” said an English voice, sounding
rather self-important.

“Yes,” said another, also English, but testy. “Leave the coffee, too, for
God’s sake.”

There was a soft green light about the mermaid, and a small striped
fish swam out of her hair, nosing its way down between her breasts.
Lucky fish.

“What do you think, me lord?” said the first voice, now dubious. “Cold
water down his neck, maybe?”

“Splendid idea,” said the second voice, now cordial. “You do it.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t want to presume, me lord.”

“I’m sure he isn’t violent, Tom.”

“Just as you say, me lord. But he might turn nasty, mightn’t he?
Gentlemen do, sometimes, after a hard night.”

“I trust you do not speak from personal experience, Tom?”

“Certainly not, me lord!”

“Opium doesn’t take you like that, anyway,” said the second voice,
coming nearer. It sounded distracted. “It does give you the most peculiar
dreams, though.”

“Is he still asleep, do you think?” The first voice was coming nearer,
too. He could feel someone’s breath on his face. The mermaid took
offense at this familiarity and vanished. He opened his eyes, and Tom
Byrd, who had been hovering over him with a wet sponge, let out a
small shriek and dropped it on his chest.

With a detached sense of interest, he watched his own hand rise into
the air and pluck the sponge off his shirt, where it was making a wet
patch. He had no particular idea what to do with it next, though, and
dropped it on the floor.

“Good morning.” John Grey’s face came into view behind Tom,
wearing an expression of cautious amusement. “Are you feeling
somewhat more human this morning?”

He wasn’t sure but nodded nonetheless and sat up, swinging his legs
over the side of the bed. He didn’t feel badly, but very strange. There
was a wicked taste in his mouth, though, and he held out a hand to Tom
Byrd, who was advancing on him slowly, coffee held before him like a
flag of truce.

The cup Tom put in his hand was warm, and he sat for a moment,
regaining his senses. The air smelled of peat smoke, cooking meat, and
something vaguely nasty of a vegetable nature—scorched cabbage. His
slow mind located the word.

He took a grateful mouthful of coffee and found a few more words.

“We’re in Ireland, then, are we?”

“Yes, thank God. Are you always—” Grey cut himself off.

“I am.”

“Jesus.” Grey shook his head in disbelief. “Rather fortunate that you
were not transported after Culloden, then. I doubt you would have
survived the voyage.”

Jamie gave him a narrow look—it was owing to Grey’s personal
intervention that he had not been transported, and he hadn’t been at all
pleased at the time—but evidently Grey meant nothing now beyond the
obvious, and he merely nodded, sipping coffee.

A soft knock came at the door, which stood half open, and Quinn’s
long face came poking round the jamb. Had Jamie’s reflexes been
halfway normal, he might have dropped the coffee. As it was, he merely
sat there, staring stupidly at the Irishman, whose existence he’d
forgotten in the maze of opium dreams.

“Beggin’ your pardon, good sirs,” Quinn said, with an engaging smile
round the room. “I hoped to inquire after the gentleman’s welfare, but I
see he’s quite himself again, may God set a flower on his head.”

Quinn advanced into the room, uninvited, but Grey recovered his
manners instantly and offered him coffee, then sent Tom down to order
up some breakfast, as well.

<snip>

Grey tapped his chin thoughtfully, looking at Jamie.

“I can ride,” Jamie assured him, scratching his ribs. He felt fine now—
extremely hungry, in fact.

“But there’s the baggage to consider, me lord.” Tom had popped back
into the room, armed with a mug of shaving soap, a folding razor, and a
strop.

“Well, yes. You’ll have to go by coach with the baggage, Tom. I’m
thinking, though, that Captain Fraser and myself might travel by
horseback. Quicker, and less chance of being held up by bad roads.”

He glanced at Jamie, one eyebrow raised in question.

“Aye, fine.” Jamie set aside the empty cup. Now that he was fully
awake, his attention was focused more on Quinn than on Grey. He
narrowed his eyes at the Irishman, who sedulously ignored him.

“And a fine day for the riding it is, too,” said Quinn approvingly. “My
own road lies toward Athlone—if you gentleman might find it
convenient, you’re more than welcome to travel with me, so far as ye
like.”

Jamie jerked, startling Tom, who was about to apply a brushful of
soap to his face.

“I should think we can find our own path,” he said, putting up a hand
to ward off Tom. “Athlone’s not out of the way, from what I understand.
Though we thank you for your kindness, sir,” he added to Quinn, not
wanting to seem churlish. He was in fact strongly inclined to pick Quinn
up and decant him swiftly out of the window. The last thing he needed
was to have a pixilated Irishman along on this expedition, breathing
traitorous suggestions down his neck and distracting his attention while
he dealt with Grey and Siverly and whatever else Ireland might have in
store for him in the way of trouble.

<snip>



GREY THOUGHT THAT Quinn had been as good as his word. The horses
provided by Mr. Darcy were sound, well shod, and as well tempered as a
livery horse was likely to be. Mr. Quinn himself had turned up at the
stable to give advice and had successfully bargained for a decent price.
Jamie had given Quinn a narrowed eye, but the man seemed merely
kind, if a trifle familiar, and besides, there was no way of preventing his
riding out of Dublin along with them—it was a public road, after all.

<snip>

“Did you say something, Mr. Fraser?” Grey turned round in his saddle
to look at Fraser, who was following them at the moment.

“I swallowed a gnat,” Fraser replied shortly.

<snip>

Not bad, he thought judiciously, reliving the conversation with Hal. If
neither personal appeal to honor nor threat to reputation worked, he
could then turn to official channels; the Justiciar of Athlone Castle was
the highest authority within easy reach of Siverly’s estate, and Grey had
provided himself with a letter of introduction from Hal, as well as a copy
of Carruthers’s packet of evidence. The justiciar might be persuaded that
the charges were sufficiently serious as to arrest Siverly and commit him
to Grey’s authority. And if all else failed, there was Plan C, which
involved a certain amount of physical intimidation and would require
the services of Jamie Fraser.

It didn’t seem useful to plan in further detail until he actually saw
Siverly, though, and could judge better how he might respond. He
therefore let his mind relax, enjoying the soft, moist air and the beautiful
green of the countryside. Behind him, he heard Jamie ask Mr. Quinn, in
tones of earnest inquiry, what he thought the most interesting sermon he
had printed, but being himself uninterested in sermons, spurred up and
left them to it.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 16

They’d passed two or three of these ruined tower houses on the
journey from Dublin, tall bleak remnants of the Middle Ages. No more
than shells now, crumbling, roofless, and black with damp, the tenacious
dark ivy that crawled up their walls the only sign of life. This tower was
much the same—though it had a well, this being Quinn’s chief reason for
recommending it, they having finished the ale Tom had packed for them.

They found the well, marked by a rough circle of stones, just within
the tower’s walls. Jamie Fraser had tied a string to his canteen and
dropped it down to the dark water six feet below, then brought it up and
sniffed at it with a long, suspicious nose before taking a cautious sip.

“I think nothing’s died in it lately.”

“Well and good,” said Quinn. “We’ll say a prayer, then, and slake our
thirst, shall we?”

To Grey’s surprise, both his companions promptly bowed their heads
over the crude well coping and murmured something. The words weren’t
the same—they appeared each to be speaking his own language—but the
rhythm was similar. Grey was unsure whether this was a prayer of
thanksgiving for the provision of water or some ceremonial invocation
against being poisoned by it, but he obligingly fixed his eyes on the
ground and waited in silence until it was done.

They’d hobbled the horses and set them to graze on the lush grass,
then supped themselves, decently if not luxuriously, on bread and cheese
and dried apples. There hadn’t been much talk over the food; it had been
a long day in the saddle, and they sought their beds soon after.

He’d fallen promptly asleep; the ability to sleep anywhere, instantly,
was a soldier’s talent, and one he’d acquired very early in his career.
And then had wakened some unknown time later, heart thumping and
hairs erect, clutching for the dagger in his belt.

He had no idea what had wakened him and lay quite still, listening for
all he was worth. Then there was a rustling of the grass nearby, quite
loud, and he tensed himself to roll away and spring to his feet. Before he
could move, though, there came the swish of moving feet and the hiss of
a Scottish whisper.

“Are ye mad? Drop it, or I break your arm.”

There was a startled huff of air and the faint thump of something
hitting the ground. Grey lay frozen, waiting.

“Hush, man.” Quinn’s voice came to him, barely louder than the sigh
of the wind. “Ye don’t want to wake him.”

“Oh, that I do, if ye were doing what I think ye were.”

“Not here. Come away, for God’s sake!”

The sound of breathing, hesitance, then the quiet sough of feet
through thick grass as they moved off.

<snip>

They went around the ruined tower and essentially disappeared, no
longer visible against the dark bulk of its stone. He stood still, not
breathing, until he heard them again.

“Now, then.” Fraser’s voice came clearly to him, soft but with the
anger clear in it. “What the devil d’ye mean by this?”

“We don’t need him.” Grey noted with interest that Quinn didn’t
sound frightened—merely persuasive. “You don’t need him, Mo chara.”

“There are a good many folk in the world I don’t need, including you,
ye wee gomerel. If I thought it right to kill them on that account, I’d
have done awa’ wi’ you before we left London.”

Grey blinked at that and felt a cold finger down his back. So Quinn
had been in touch with Jamie in London? How? Had Jamie sought him
out? What had Fraser told him—and why had he joined their company?
And why had Fraser not told Grey that he knew Quinn before? He
swallowed bile and moved a little closer, fingering the pistol. It was
loaded but not primed, because of the damp.

“If he’s dead, ye could disappear, Mac Dubh. Nothing easier. Ye’re safe
out of England now; I’ve more than one place in Ireland where ye could
lie hidden for a bit, or ye could go across to France should ye feel the
need—but who would hunt ye?”

“That man’s brother, for one,” Fraser said coldly. “Ye’ve not had the
benefit of meeting His Grace the Duke of Pardloe, but I’d sooner be
hunted by the fiend himself. Did it never occur to you to ask if I thought
it a good idea to kill the Englishman?”

“Thought I’d save ye the trouble, Mac Dubh.” Quinn sounded amused,
damn him!

“Dinna be calling me Mac Dubh.”

“I know ye’ve a tender conscience, so ye have. Another minute and I’d
have had him taken care of and tucked away safe down the well. Ye’d
have no call to worry yourself.”

“Oh, aye? And what then? Did ye mean to tell me, or just give it out
that he’d changed his mind and gone off on foot?”

“Oh, I’d have told you, sure. What d’ye take me for, Mac Dubh?”

There was a moment of marked silence.

“What d’ye owe him?” Quinn demanded, breaking it. “Him or his
brother? The swarthy-johns have imprisoned ye, enslaved ye! Taken
your land, killed your kin and your comrades—”

“After saving my life, aye.” Fraser’s voice had grown dry; he was
losing the edge of his anger, Grey thought, and wondered whether that
was a good thing.

He wasn’t really concerned that Quinn would talk Fraser round; he
knew Fraser’s innate stubbornness much too well. He was a trifle
worried that Fraser might not talk the Irishman round, though—he
didn’t fancy lying sleepless night after night, expecting a knife in the
back or his throat cut at any moment. He felt in the pocket of his coat
for the small brass powder horn he carried … just in case.

Fraser gave a deep, exasperated sigh.

“Look ye,” he said, in a low, firm voice. “I’ve given my word in this. If
ye dare to dishonor me by killing the Englishman, I tell ye flat, Quinn—
it’ll be you joining him at the bottom of a well.”

Well, that was some relief. Fraser might or might not want him dead—
certainly he had, at various points of their acquaintance with each other
—but he wasn’t willing to have him assassinated. Grey supposed he
should be affronted by the implication that it was only Fraser’s fear of
dishonor or Hal that was keeping Grey alive, but under the
circumstances …

<snip>

“… he’s in the way of our business.” Those words came clear, and
Grey stopped abruptly. He was still clutching the powder horn in his
pocket.

“You and I have nay business. I’ve told ye that a dozen times.”

<snip>

Oidhche mhath,” Fraser said quietly, and Grey heard footsteps come in
his direction. He pressed flat against the tower, hoping that the Scot
would not pass downwind of him; he harbored a sudden irrational
conviction that Fraser could smell his sweat—for despite the cool of the
night, drops ran tickling down his ribs and matted the hair to the back of
his neck—and would hunt him like a Highland stag.

But Fraser sheered off and went into the tower, muttering under his
breath in the Scottish sort of Gaelic, and a moment later Grey heard
splashing sounds. Presumably Fraser dashing water in his face to cool his
anger.

<snip>



HE LAY AWAKE until dawn, watching the hazy stars fade from the sky, but
no one disturbed him. His thoughts, though, were another matter.

He clung to the minor reassurance provided by his recollection that
Jamie Fraser had tried to prevent Quinn from accompanying them—and
that he, Grey, had airily overridden his objections. That meant that
whatever Quinn had in mind, Fraser presumably was not part of it.

But he knows what it is. And had refrained from telling Grey about it.
But that might be innocent, if Fraser hadn’t expected Quinn to attack
Grey.

<snip>

By what Fraser said, he had met Quinn in London. So much for Hal’s
insistence that Fraser be treated as a gentleman and not a prisoner,
allowed to walk out freely as he liked!

“Serve you right if that Irish blackguard had cut my throat,” he
muttered to his absent brother.

Still, this was beside the point. The important thing, he reminded
himself, was that Jamie didn’t want him dead—a warming thought—and
had stopped Quinn from killing him.

Would that continue to be the case, if he spoke directly to Fraser
about the matter?

As he saw it, he had only two alternatives: say nothing, watch them,
and do his best never to sleep … or talk to Jamie Fraser. He scratched
his chest meditatively. He could go one night without sleep, possibly
two. That would bring them within reach of Siverly. But he didn’t wish
to face Gerald Siverly exhausted and fuzzy-minded.

While Fraser’s reasons for not allowing Quinn to kill him were neither
personal nor flattering, another point was that he plainly wanted
nothing to do with what Quinn intended—but Quinn needed or wanted
Fraser to be involved with it.

The air about him was still black-dark, but it had shifted, rising in
some way, the night beginning to lift, restless to depart. At some
distance, he heard the small sounds of a man waking: a cough, the
clearing of a throat, a soft groan as gravity made its fresh demands. He
couldn’t tell which man it was, but both of them would doubtless make
their presence known as soon as it was light, looking for breakfast.

If Quinn suspected anything, he might well try to kill Grey regardless
of Jamie’s threat. Just how well did the Irishman know Jamie? Grey
wondered. Anyone who knew him well would take him at his word—but
someone who didn’t might not.

Quinn did know him, though. He’d called him “Mac Dubh.” That’s
what the prisoners at Ardsmuir had called Fraser; Grey had heard it
often enough that he’d asked one of the Gaelic-speaking orderlies what it
meant. “Son of the Black One,” he’d been told, in a matter-of-fact way.

He’d wondered at the time whether this was a satanic reference of some
sort, but it didn’t seem so, from his informant’s attitude. Perhaps it was a
literal reference to some aspect of Fraser’s father’s character or
appearance, and he spared an instant to wonder what Fraser’s father had
been like.

The horses were drowsing under the tower wall; one of them released
a long, rumbling fart and another shook its head, mane flapping. Now
the birds were at it, tentative chirps from the distant hedgerows.

He’d talk to Fraser.




AFTER SOME THOUGHT, Grey decided that directness was the simplest way of
obtaining privacy.

“Mr. Quinn,” he said pleasantly, when the Irishman came back from
his morning ablutions, water droplets shining in his curls. “I need to
discuss various aspects of our business with Mr. Fraser before we arrive
at Athlone. Would you do me the favor of riding on? We shall follow
shortly and catch you up before noon.”

The Irishman looked startled and glanced quickly at Jamie, who gave
no indication that this was an out-of-the-way request, then looked back
to Grey and nodded awkwardly.

“Certainly.”

Grey thought that Quinn was not a particularly experienced intrigant
and hoped he had even less experience as an assassin. On the other
hand, it wasn’t necessarily a job requiring skill. More, of course, if your
victim was forewarned. He smiled at Quinn, who looked taken aback.

Breakfast was even more cursory than supper had been, though Jamie
toasted two pieces of bread with cheese between, so that the cheese
melted, something Grey hadn’t seen before but thought very tasty. Quinn
mounted up without comment afterward and headed back to the road.

Grey sat on a moss-covered rock, watching until the Irishman had got
well away, then swiveled back to face Fraser, who was tidily rolling up a
pair of stockings into a ball.

“I woke up last night,” he said without preamble.

Fraser stuffed the stockings into his portmanteau and reached for the
heel of bread, which followed the stockings.

“Did you,” he said, not looking up.

“Yes. One question—does Mr. Quinn know the nature of our business
with Siverly?”

Fraser hesitated a moment before answering.

“Probably not.” He looked up, eyes a startlingly deep blue. “If he does,
he didna hear it from me.”

"Where the devil else might he have heard it?” Grey demanded, and
Fraser glared at him.

“From your brother’s servants, I imagine. That’s where he learned that
ye had business in Ireland and that I was to go with ye.”

Grey blinked, but it was all too likely. He’d sent Tom Byrd often
enough to extract information from other people’s servants.

“How did he come to be in London?”

Fraser’s eyes narrowed, but he answered.

“He followed me, when your brother had me taken from Helwater.
And if ye want to know how he came to be at Helwater, ye’ll need to ask
him, because I don’t know.”

Grey raised one brow; if Fraser didn’t know, he probably could make a
damned good guess, but it wasn’t necessary to go into that. Not now, at
least.

Fraser stood up suddenly and, picking up the portmanteau, went to
saddle his horse. Grey followed.

They made their way back to the road; Quinn was well out of sight. It
was a beautiful morning, with the birds whose tentative chirpings had
greeted the dawn now gone mad, swooping to and fro overhead and
whooping out of the meadows in riotous flocks, flushed by their passage.
The road was wide enough to ride side by side, and they continued in
that fashion for a quarter of an hour or so before Grey spoke again.

“Will you swear to me that Quinn’s matter does not threaten either
our intent with regard to Major Siverly or the safety of England?”

Fraser gave him a sidelong glance. “No,” he said bluntly.

Grey wouldn’t have believed any other answer, but the bluntness—
and its implications—gave him a mild shock. “Which is it?” he asked
after a moment. “Or is it both?”

Fraser inhaled strongly through his nose, like a man much tried.

“Quinn’s affairs are his own, Colonel. If he has secrets, they are not
mine to share.”

Grey gave a short laugh. “That’s nicely phrased,” he said. “Do you
imply that you are in ignorance of Quinn’s aims? Or that you know what
he’s up to but your sense of honor prevents your telling me?”

“Take your choice.” Fraser’s lips thinned, and his eyes stayed fixed on
the road ahead.

They rode in silence for a bit. The lush green of the countryside was
monotonous and soothing but was having little effect on Grey’s temper.
“I suppose it is frivolous to point out that assisting the king’s enemies
—even by inaction—is treason,” he remarked eventually.

“It is not frivolous to point out that I am a convicted traitor,” Fraser
replied evenly. “Are there judicial degrees of that crime? Is it additive?
Because when they tried me, all they said was ‘treason’ before putting a
rope around my neck.”

“A rope … but you were not sentenced to hanging, were you?” It was
certainly possible; a good many Jacobites had been executed, but a good
many more had had their sentences commuted to transportation or
imprisonment.

“No.” Fraser’s color was already high, from sun and wind. It became
noticeably deeper. For a moment, Grey thought that was all he meant to
say on the matter, but after another moment the words burst out of him,
as though he could not contain them.

“They marched me—us—from Inverness to Ardsmuir. With ropes
about our necks, to show that our lives were forfeit, given back to us
only by the generosity”—he choked, actually choked, on the word, and
shook his head, clearing his throat with violence—“the generosity of the
king.”

He kicked his horse suddenly; it snorted and jolted a little way ahead,
then, lacking further stimulus from its rider, lapsed back into a trot,
looking curiously over its shoulder at Grey and his mount, as though
wondering how they’d got so far behind.

Grey rode for a bit, turning half a dozen things over in his mind at
once, then nudged his horse, which was already attempting to catch up
with its fellow, not liking to be left.

“Thank you,” he said, coming even with Fraser again. “For not
allowing the Irishman to kill me.”

Fraser nodded, not turning his head. “You’re welcome.”

“May I expect this courtesy to continue?”

He could have sworn that the corner of Fraser’s mouth twitched. “You
may.”

<snip>

They had almost reached Quinn when Fraser spoke again, turning this
time to look at him, his face now cool-skinned and sober.

“Ye’ll do what ye have to, Colonel. And so shall I.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 17

ATHLONE CASTLE WAS BLACK AND SQUAT. IT REMINDED GREY vaguely of an
oasthouse, those cone-shaped structures in Kent where hops were dried.
Much bigger, though.

“Something of a family seat,” he said to Jamie, joking. “One of my
ancestors built it, back in the thirteenth century. Justiciar John de Gray,
he was called.”

“Oh, aye? Was your family Irish, then?”

“No,” Grey admitted. “English back to the Conquest, largely Normans
before that. Though I do have that one disreputable Scottish connection,
of course.” His mother’s father had been Scottish, from one of the
powerful Border families.

Fraser snorted. He didn’t think much more of Lowlanders than of
Englishmen.

<snip>

The present justiciar was a man named Sir Melchior Williamson, also
English, and while neither Grey nor Hal knew him, Harry did, and a note
from the brother of the Duke of Pardloe had been enough to secure an
invitation to dine at the castle.

“Is it wise to advertise your presence?” Jamie had asked, frowning,
when Grey had written the note, enclosing Harry’s introduction. “If we
need to take Siverly by force, best if no one knows who ye are, surely.”

“It’s a thought,” Grey agreed, folding and stamping the note. “But
force should be our last resort. And I want to know whatever the
justiciar can tell us about Siverly before I go to see him. Best to know the
terrain before a battle.” The terrain in this case included Sir Melchior’s
disposition and potential to be of assistance, should Plan B need to be
invoked—but that judgment would have to wait until he saw the man.
Fraser snorted a little but seemed resigned.

“Aye. I’ll tell wee Byrd to lay hold of a couple of burlap bags, then.”
“What for?”

“To wear over our heads when we break in to Siverly’s house.”
Grey had stopped in the act of putting his signet back on and eyed
Fraser.

“Haven’t much faith in my powers of diplomacy, have you?”

“No, and neither has your brother, or I wouldna be here.”

That stung.

“My brother prefers to have all contingencies covered,” Grey said,
with exquisite politeness. “And with that in mind … I’ll mention the
bags to Tom.”

Sir Melchior Williamson proved to be a short, thick-bodied man with
the mournful eyes of a bloodhound—these belying a cordial, if wary,
nature. He greeted them with pleasure and showed them the facilities of
the castle, such as they were.

<snip>

“The major lives quietly now, does he?” Fraser asked. He’d not taken
the lead in conversation but had been useful in leading it back in the
desired direction whenever Sir Melchior, who had a tendency to ramble,
made off in some unprofitable direction.

“Very quietly. Though I hear he’s done the place over lately. Perhaps
he proposes to lure his wife back with damask wallpaper.” Sir Melchior
laughed, the bloodhound wrinkles of his face all turning up.

The conversation moved on to speculation as to what amenities might
best please a woman. Sir Melchior was not married but had hopes in that
direction; hence his journey to France—though he feared his intended
would find the castle less than appealing.

“She’s half English, half French,” he explained. “Hates Irish food,
thinks the Irish even more barbarous than the Scots—meaning no
offense, Captain Fraser.”

“None taken, sir,” Jamie murmured, refilling his glass.

“And I do not know that I can count upon the appeal of my person to
overcome such objections.” Sir Melchior looked over the rounded slope
of his belly and shook his head, resigned.

Conversation became general at that point, and while Grey and Fraser
prodded gently from time to time, they learned little more about Gerald
Siverly, save for the interesting fact that his father had been a Jacobite.

<snip>

“Has he? How fortunate,” Grey murmured, and met Jamie’s eye across
the table.

Jamie gave the shadow of a nod and put his hand into his coat.

“I wonder, sir—as ye seem to know so much regarding the history of
these parts—might ye ever have seen a poem such as this?” He handed
across a folded copy of the fragment of the Wild Hunt, translated into
English.

<snip>

“Deuced odd thing, that,” he said, looking up from the page and
blinking owlishly through his spectacles at them. “I’ve heard of the Wild
Hunt but can’t say I’ve ever seen an account quite like this one. Where’d
you get it?”

“From a soldier,” Jamie said, with perfect truth. “As ye see, it’s not
complete. I should like to find out the rest of it, and maybe who wrote
it.” He gave Sir Melchior a look of convincingly scholarly earnestness,
quite surprising Grey. He hadn’t known Fraser capable of acting. “I have
it in mind to publish a wee book one day, with some of the auld tales.
This would be a fine addition, if it were complete. Might ye be
acquainted with anyone familiar wi’ such things?”

“Why … yes. Yes, I think perhaps I do know someone.” Sir Melchior
beckoned to his steward to fetch a fresh decanter of port. “Do you know
Inchcleraun?”

Both Grey and Fraser shook their heads, but Grey felt his heart pick up
its pace a bit.

“It’s a Catholic monastery,” Sir Melchior said. “A glass with you, Lord
John? Yes, yes.” He drank deep and set down the glass to be refilled,
belching contentedly. “It’s on an island—the island’s called Inchcleraun,
too—up toward the north end of Lough Ree. Only about ten miles from
here by water. The abbot—Michael FitzGibbons, he’s called—is quite a
collector of old things: parchments, oddments, all-sorts. I met him once;
decent sort, for a priest. I think if anyone could tell you where to find
the rest of your poem, it might be him.”

Grey saw Jamie’s face change suddenly. The change was transient, like
the ripple of wine in the glass the steward set down before him, but
definitely there. Perhaps he took exception to that “decent for a priest”
remark? Surely not; such remarks were commonplace, and it hadn’t been
said with any particular tone of derogation.

“I thank ye,” Jamie said, and smiled, nodding over his lifted glass. “A
glass with ye, sir? It’s a verra nice make of wine, to be sure.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chaper 18

GREY HAD HOPED TO BE RID OF QUINN ONCE THEY REACHED Athlone, but the
Irishman clung like a burr, popping up wherever he and Jamie went in
the city, cheerful as a grig, and giving no indication that he viewed John
as anything but an esteemed acquaintance.

“Can’t you get rid of him?” he’d snapped at Jamie finally, discovering
Quinn lounging in the yard of the stable where they’d gone to hire a
mule cart for the larger baggage—for Tom had arrived by coach that
morning.

“D’ye want me to shoot him?” Fraser inquired. “You’ve got the pistols,
aye?”

“What does he bloody want?” Grey demanded in exasperation, but
Fraser merely shrugged and looked stubborn—or, rather, more stubborn
than usual, if such a thing were possible.

“He says he has business near Inchcleraun, and I’ve nay grounds to
call him a liar. Have you? Or do ye ken the way, for that matter?”

Grey had given up, having no choice, and suffered Quinn to ride along
with them. With Tom and the baggage-cart and with Jamie Fraser’s
inclination to seasickness in mind, they had determined to go by road up
the coast of Lough Ree, then find a boat to ferry Jamie across to
Inchcleraun, where he would see the abbot and make inquiries regarding
the Wild Hunt poem, before they made their assault upon Siverly’s estate
near the village of Ballybonaggin, this being only a few miles from the
end of Lough Ree, where the island of Inchcleraun lay.

<snip>

“Ye’ve been out now and then yourself, haven’t ye, Jamie?”

Distracted by memory, Grey hadn’t noticed that Tom had stopped
reading, but was pulled from his thoughts by Quinn’s interjection. Grey
looked up and caught a most peculiar expression on Jamie’s face.

“Once or twice,” Jamie muttered, averting his eyes. He picked up a
stick and poked the fire unnecessarily, making the peats crumble and
glow.

“In the Bois de Boulogne, wasn’t it? With some Englishman. I recall
hearing about it—a famous fight! And did ye not end in the Bastille for
it?” Quinn laughed.

Fraser glanced round with a truly awful look in his eyes, and had
Quinn been watching him, he would either have been turned to stone on
the spot or leapt up and run for his life.

John himself leapt in, wanting above all to disrupt the conversation.

“I once killed a man by accident during a duel—or thought I had. It
was the last duel I fought; I think it might be the last altogether. A most
distressing experience.”

<snip>

Quinn’s interest had shifted from Fraser to Grey, though, which was
what Grey had intended, so he answered when Quinn inquired what he
meant by saying he thought he’d killed the man by accident.

<snip>

“It’s a bargain, Jamie dear,” he said. “And I shall do the same for you,
shall I? Though I’m not sure I should be able to tell the difference
between your skeleton and that of a gorilla, now.”

“And where would ye ever have seen a gorilla, Quinn?” Jamie leaned
forward to pour himself another mug of ale.

“In Paris, of course. King Louis’s zoo. The King of France is most
generous to his subjects,” Quinn explained to Tom, who had come to put
more fuel on the fire. “On certain days, his collection of outrageous
animals is open to the public—and a boggling sight they are, to be sure.
Ever seen an ostrich, have ye, lad?”

Grey drew breath, relaxing slightly as the conversation turned safely
away from dangerous topics. He wondered briefly about the famous duel
in the Bois de Bologne and who the Englishman had been that Fraser
fought. That would have been before the Rising; Fraser had mentioned
being in Paris then, during a conversation about French novels that they
had had at Ardsmuir.

Quite suddenly—and with a yearning that astonished him with its
strength—he thought of those rare evenings of friendship, for they had
been friends, in spite of their uneasy relationship as prisoner and gaoler;
had shared conversation, humor, experience, a commonality of mind
that was rare indeed. If he had only had more control, had not made his
feelings known … Well, a good many regrettable things wouldn’t have
happened, and he had cursed himself on many occasions since, for his
bad judgment. And yet …

He watched Fraser through his lashes, the glow of the burning peat
shining red along the long, straight bridge of the Scotsman’s nose and
across the broad cheekbones, the light molten bronze in the loose tail of
hair pulled back with a leather thong and dripping wet down his back.
And yet … he thought.

He had sacrificed their easiness together, and that was a great loss.
Fraser, in his turn, had reacted with such revulsion to the revelation of
Grey’s nature as had led to terrible exchanges between them—and Grey
still didn’t wish to think about the revelation that had come to him
regarding just why—but in the final analysis, he had not lost everything.
Fraser knew. And that was in itself a remarkable thing.

There was not easiness between them any longer—but there was
honesty. And that was a thing he had had—ever would have—with
precious few men.

Quinn was telling some tale now, but Grey paid no great attention.
Tom had been humming under his breath as he went about the
business of supper and now escalated to whistling. Absorbed in his own
thoughts, Grey hadn’t noticed what he was whistling but suddenly
caught a phrase that echoed in his head with its words: Down among the
dead men, let him lie!

He jerked, with a quick, reflexive glance at Fraser. “Down Among the
Dead Men” was a popular song, originally from Queen Anne’s time, but,
in the way of popular songs, with words often adapted to current feeling.
The patrons of this afternoon’s pub had been singing a blatantly anti-
Catholic version, and while Fraser had given little outward sign of
offense, Grey was well enough accustomed to his facial expressions—or
lack of them—as to have detected the attention to his ale cup that hid
the smolder of his eyes.

Surely he would not think Tom’s absentminded whistling a reference
to—“

Sure, he’ll not be troubled,” said Quinn casually. “He doesn’t hear
music, the creature, only words. Now, when it came time to—”

Grey smiled and pretended courteous attention to the rest of Quinn’s
tale, but was deaf to its details. He was startled not only by the
Irishman’s acuity—as to have noticed both his wary glance at Fraser and
to have deduced the cause of it—but by the casual revelation that Quinn
knew that Fraser was tone-deaf.

Grey himself knew that, though he had momentarily forgotten it. In
the time at Ardsmuir when he and Fraser had dined together regularly,
Fraser had told him—as the result of a question regarding which was his
favorite composer—that in consequence of an ax blow to the head some
years before, he had quite lost the ability to distinguish one note from
another.

True, Jamie might have mentioned this disability to Quinn in passing
sometime during the last two days—but Grey doubted it extremely.
Jamie was an extraordinarily private man, and while capable of extreme
civility when he wanted to be, his cordiality was often used as a shield
to keep his conversant at arm’s length.

Grey flattered himself that he knew Fraser better than most people did
—and paused for an instant to ask himself whether he was perhaps only
discomfited to think that Fraser might have shared this personal bit of
information with a stranger. But he dismissed that possibility at once.
Which left the logical, if equally discomfiting, conclusion that Quinn had
known Fraser before he joined their company. Long before London. With
a sudden jolt, he recalled Quinn’s remark about ostriches and the King of
France’s zoo. He, too, had been in France. And by the mathematical
principle of equality, if A equaled B … then B equaled A. Fraser had
known Quinn before—intimately. And had said nothing.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 20

QUINN HAD GONE, PRESUMABLY TO TEND TO HIS OWN BUSINESS. Jamie found his
absence soothing but not reassuring; Quinn hadn’t gone far. Jamie told
Grey what the abbot had said regarding the Wild Hunt poem, and after
some discussion it was decided that Jamie should make the first
approach to Siverly.

“Show him the Wild Hunt poem,” Grey had suggested. “I want to
know if he seems to recognize it. If not, there’s at least the possibility
that it has nothing to do with him and was somehow included with
Carruthers’s packet by mistake. If he does recognize it, though, I want to
know what he says about it.” He’d smiled at Jamie, eyes alight with the
imminence of action. “And once you’ve spied out the land for me, I’ll
have a better notion of which tack to take when I see him.”

A stalking horse, Jamie noted dourly. At least Grey had been honest
about that.

On Tom Byrd’s advice, Jamie wore the brown worsted suit, as being
more suitable to a day call in the country—the puce velvet was much
too fine for such an occasion. There had been an argument between Tom
and Lord John as to whether the yellow silk waistcoat with the
blackwork was preferable to the plain cream-colored one, as indicating
Jamie’s presumed wealth, or not, as possibly being thought vulgar.

“I dinna mind if he thinks I’m common,” Jamie assured Tom. “It will
put him at his ease if he feels himself my superior. And the one thing we
know of him for sure is that he likes money; so much the better if he
thinks me a rich vulgarian.”

Lord John made a noise that he hastily converted to a sneeze, causing
both Jamie and Tom to look at him austerely.

<snip>

He’d done his part. Now it was John Grey’s turn.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 21

<snip>

Quinn had gone off on unstated business of his own—and Grey would
not have made a confidant of the Irishman in any case. Tom also had
disappeared; Mr. Beckett had a comely daughter who served in the
public room, but she had vanished, replaced by her mother. Grey didn’t
mind, but he would have liked to have someone with whom to share his
worry over Jamie Fraser’s prolonged absence.

There were of course excellent possible reasons for it. Siverly might
have been intrigued by the poem, or by Fraser, and thus invited him to
stay for supper in order to carry on their conversation. That would be
the best possibility, Grey supposed.

Less good, but still acceptable, was the possibility—well, call it
likelihood, given the state of the roads—that Fraser’s horse had thrown a
shoe or gone lame on the way back and had had to be walked, taken to a
farrier, or, at worst, shot. They had sent back the livery’s horses; Fraser
was riding a nag borrowed from Mr. Beckett.

Running down the list of increasingly dire possibilities, Grey thought
of highwaymen, who were attracted by the horse (surely not; the thing
looked like a cow, and an elderly cow at that) and had then noticed the
gaudy vest and shot Fraser when he was unable to produce any money.
(He should have insisted Jamie have money; it wasn’t right to keep him
penniless.) A larger than usual mudhole that had forced him off the
road, there to fall into a quaking bog, which had promptly swallowed
him and the horse. A sudden apoplexy—Fraser had once mentioned that
his father had died of an apoplexy. Were such things hereditary?

“Or perhaps a goose fell dead out of the sky and hit him on the head,”
he muttered, kicking viciously at a stone on the path. It shot into the air,
struck a fence post, and ricocheted back, striking him smartly on the
shin.

“Me lord?”

Clutching his shin, he looked up to see Tom hovering in the gloaming.
At first assuming that his valet had been attracted by his cry of pain, he
straightened up, dismissing it—but then saw the agitation of Tom’s
countenance.

“What—”

“Come with me, me lord,” Tom said, low-voiced, and, glancing over
his shoulder, led the way through a thick growth of weeds and brambles
that put paid altogether to Grey’s stockings.

Behind the pub, Tom led the way around a ramshackle chicken run
and beckoned Grey toward an overgrown hedge.

“He’s in here,” he whispered, holding up a swath of branches.

Grey crouched down and beheld an extremely cross-looking James
Fraser, ribbon lost, hair coming out of its plait, and a good bit of his face
obscured by dried blood. He was hunched to one side and held one
shoulder stiffly, higher than the other. The light under the hedge was
dim, but there was sufficient left to make out the glare in the slanted
blue eyes.

“Why are you sitting in the hedge, Mr. Fraser?” he inquired, having
rapidly considered and discarded several other inquiries as being
perhaps impolitic.

“Because if I go inside the pub at suppertime looking like this, the
whole countryside is going to be talkin’ about it by dawn, speculating
about who did it. And everyone in said public house kens perfectly well
that I’m wi’ you. Meaning that Major Siverly will ken it’s you on his trail
by the time he’s finished his coffee tomorrow morning.” He shifted
slightly and drew in his breath.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“I am not,” Fraser said testily. “It’s only bruises.”

“Er … your face is covered with blood, sir,” Tom said helpfully, in a
tone suggesting that Fraser might not have noticed this, and then added,
in substantially more horrified tones, “It’s got onto your waistcoat!”

Fraser shot Tom a dark look suggesting that he meant to say
something cutting about waistcoats, but whatever it was, he swallowed
it, turning back to Grey.

Grey crouched down and beheld an extremely cross-looking James
Fraser, ribbon lost, hair coming out of its plait, and a good bit of his face
obscured by dried blood. He was hunched to one side and held one
shoulder stiffly, higher than the other. The light under the hedge was
dim, but there was sufficient left to make out the glare in the slanted
blue eyes.

“Why are you sitting in the hedge, Mr. Fraser?” he inquired, having
rapidly considered and discarded several other inquiries as being
perhaps impolitic.

“Because if I go inside the pub at suppertime looking like this, the
whole countryside is going to be talkin’ about it by dawn, speculating
about who did it. And everyone in said public house kens perfectly well
that I’m wi’ you. Meaning that Major Siverly will ken it’s you on his trail
by the time he’s finished his coffee tomorrow morning.” He shifted
slightly and drew in his breath.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“I am not,” Fraser said testily. “It’s only bruises.”

“Er … your face is covered with blood, sir,” Tom said helpfully, in a
tone suggesting that Fraser might not have noticed this, and then added,
in substantially more horrified tones, “It’s got onto your waistcoat!”

Fraser shot Tom a dark look suggesting that he meant to say
something cutting about waistcoats, but whatever it was, he swallowed
it, turning back to Grey.

“Oh, sir,” she cried, seeing Fraser. “Mr. Tom said ye’d been thrown off
your horse, the wicked creature, and into a ditch on your head! Are ye
damaged at all?”

Fraser looked utterly outraged at the notion that he might have been
thrown by an aged mare—plainly this excuse for his appearance would
never have occurred to him—but he luckily refrained from speaking his
mind and submitted with grimaces to having his face swabbed clean.

With ill grace and to the accompaniment of much sympathetic—and
some derisive—comment from the taproom, he allowed Grey and Tom to
assist him up the stairs, it having become obvious that he could not raise
his left knee more than an inch or two. They lowered him upon the bed,
whereat he gave an agonized cry and rolled onto one side.

“What’s the matter?” Tom asked anxiously. “Have you injured your
spine, Captain? Ye could be paralyzed, if it’s your spine. Can ye wiggle
your toes?”

“It’s no my spine,” Fraser said through his teeth. “It’s my arse.”

It would have seemed odd to leave the room, so Grey remained, but in
deference to what he assumed to be Fraser’s sensibilities, he stood back
and allowed Tom to help Fraser remove his breeches, averting his own
gaze without being obvious about it.

A shocked exclamation from Tom made him look, though, and he
echoed it with his own.

“Jesus Christ! What the devil did he do to you?” Fraser halflay on the
bed, shirt rucked up to display the damage. Nearly the whole of Fraser’s
left buttock was an ugly purplish-blue, surrounding a swollen contusion
that was almost black.

“I told ye,” Fraser said grouchily, “he tried to cave my heid in. With a
sort of club wi’ a knob on one end.”

“He’s got the devil of a bad aim.”

Fraser didn’t actually laugh, but his scowl relaxed a little.

“What you want,” Tom informed him, “is a poultice for bruising. Me
mam would make one out of brick dust and egg and a bit of pounded
milk thistle, when me and me brothers would get a black eye or summat
of the kind.”

“I believe there is a distinct shortage of brick dust in the
neighborhood,” Grey said. “But you might see what your inamorata
recommends in the nature of a poultice, Tom.”

“Likely a handful of manure,” Fraser muttered.

In the event, Tom returned with the landlord’s wife, bearing a moist
cloth full of sliced, charred onions, which she applied, with many
expressions of sympathetic horror (punctuated by loud expressions of
astonishment as to how such a kind, sweet horse as our Bedelia, and her
so gentle a soul as could have given our Lord a ride into Jerusalem,
might ever have come to give the gentleman such a cruel toss, which
made Fraser grind his teeth audibly), to the sufferer’s shoulder, leaving
the more delicate application to Tom.

Owing to the nature of his injuries, Fraser could not lie comfortably on
his back, or on either side, and was obliged to lie on his stomach, the
bad shoulder cradled by a pillow and the air of the chamber perfumed
with the eye-watering fragrance of hot onions.

Grey lounged against the wall by the window, now and then looking
out, just in case Siverly might have organized some sort of pursuit, but
the darkening road remained empty.

From the corner of his eye, he could see the woman completing her
ministrations. She went and came again with a second poultice, then
climbed the stairs once more, puffing slightly, with a dram of whiskey,
which she held carefully with one hand, lifting Fraser’s head with the
other to help him drink, though he resisted this assistance.

The movement had disarranged the first poultice, and she pulled back
the neck of Fraser’s shirt to replace it. The firelight glinted across the
white scars, clearly visible across his shoulder blade, and she gave a
single, shocked click of the tongue when she saw them. She gave Grey a
hard, straight look, then, with great gentleness but a tight mouth, she
straightened the shirt, unplaited Jamie’s hair and combed it, then
braided it loosely and bound it with a bit of string.

Grey was conscious of a sudden lurch within, watching sparks of
copper glint from the thick dark-red strands that slid through the
woman’s fingers. A sharp spurt of what began as simple jealousy ended
as a sense of baffled longing as he saw Fraser, eyes closed, relax and turn
his cheek into the pillow, his body yielding, unthinking, compliant to the
woman’s touch.

When she had done, she went out, glancing sidelong at Tom. He
looked at Grey and, receiving a nod of assent, went downstairs after her.
Grey himself poked up the fire and then sat down on a stool beside the
bed.

“Do you need to sleep?” he inquired, rather gruffly.

The slanted blue eyes opened at once.

“No.” Fraser raised himself gingerly, weight resting on his left
forearm. “Jesus, that hurts!”

Grey reached into his portmanteau and withdrew his flask, which he
handed over.

“Brandy,” he said.

“Thank you,” Fraser said fervently, and uncorked it. Grey sat down
again, with a small glow of gratification.

“Tell me, if you will, exactly what happened.”

Fraser obliged, pausing periodically to swallow brandy, wipe his eyes,
or blow his nose, as the onion fumes made these run profusely.

“So, plainly he recognized the poem,” Grey said. “Which is reasonable;
it confirms our original assumption that it had something to do with
Siverly, as Carruthers had made a point of including it. What is more
interesting is his question to you: ‘Who are you?’ That implies that the
answer was something other than your name, does it not? Particularly if,
as you say, he recognized you.”

Fraser nodded. “Aye, it does. It also implies that there are people he
doesna ken personally, but who might be expected to recognize that
poem—and to seek out others o’ the same ilk, using the poem as a
signal. In other words—”

“A conspiracy,” Grey said, with a feeling between dread and
excitement settling in his stomach.

Fraser gave a small grunt of assent and, handing back the half-empty
flask, eased himself down, grimacing.

“What sort of conspiracy do you think it is, Mr. Fraser?” Grey asked,
watching him closely. The Scot’s mouth tightened for a moment, but
he’d plainly already done his thinking on the matter, for he answered
without hesitation.

“Politics. There’s a wee reference in the poem to a white rose. That
canna mean anything but Jacobites.” He spoke in a tone of absolute
conviction.

“Ah.” Grey paused, then, striving for casualness, said, “I don’t believe
you mentioned the white rose in your original translation.”

Fraser blew his nose with a vicious honk. “No,” he said calmly,
sniffing, “nor after I showed it to Captain Lally. Neither did he.”

“And yet you tell me now,” Grey observed.

Fraser gave him a sideways look, put out a hand for the flask, and
drank more brandy, as though considering his answer, though Grey was
reasonably sure he’d considered it extensively already.

“Now it’s real,” he said finally, putting down the flask. He shifted a
little, grimacing. “Ye wouldna ken, but in the time before the Rising in
Scotland, and to nay little extent after, there were dozens—nay,
hundreds—of tiny conspiracies. Plots, suggestions o’ plots, hints of plots
—any man who could hold a pen writing coded letters, talking of
money, praising his own connections, and blackening the names of
others—and nearly all of it nothing but wind.”

He wiped his eyes, sneezed, and wiped his nose.

“Jesus, I may never eat onions again.”

“Does it help? With the pain, I mean.”

Fraser looked surprised, as though it had never occurred to him to
wonder.

“Aye, it does; it warms the sore parts.” His mouth twitched. “That, or
maybe it’s the brandy.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway. I saw hundreds
of things like that, in Paris. For a time, it was my business to look for
such things. That’s where I made the acquaintance of your sister-in-law.”

Jamie spoke casually, but Grey saw the Scot’s sidelong look and
manfully concealed his own surprise.

“Yes, Hal said her father was a … dealer in documents.”

“That’s a verra tactful way to put it.” He sniffed and looked up, one
eyebrow raised. “I’m surprised that she didna tell ye about the white
rose herself,” he said. “She must ha’ seen it.” And then his gaze
sharpened. “Oh,” he said, with a half smile. “Of course, she did. I should
have kent that.”

“You should,” Grey agreed dryly. “But you said, ‘Now it’s real.’ Why?
Only because Siverly is involved in some way?”

Jamie nodded and shifted himself, looking for a more comfortable way
to lie. He settled for resting his forehead on his crossed forearms.

“Because Siverly’s rich,” he said, his voice a little muffled. “Whether
he stole his money or made it, we ken he’s got it, do we not?”

“We do,” Grey said, a little grimly. “Or at least he had it at one point.
For all I know, he’s spent it on all on whores and horses. Or that
monstrous great house.”

Fraser made a motion of the head that might have been agreement.

“Either way, he has something to lose,” he said. “And there’s the
minor consideration that he tried, verra seriously, to kill me.” He raised
his head from the pillow, squinting at Grey. “He’ll try again, aye?” he
observed, though without much concern. “Ye havena got much more
than tomorrow morning before he turns up here.”

“I mean to call upon Major Siverly in the morning,” Grey assured him.

“But you have not completely answered my question, Mr. Fraser. You
said, ‘Now it’s real,’ and I understand that. But should not the possibility
of a substantial conspiracy, well funded and decently managed, increase
your loyalty to the Stuart cause?”

Fraser laid his head on his arms, but turned his face toward Grey and
studied him for some time, eyes narrowed.

“I shall never fight in that cause again,” he said at last, softly, and
Grey thought he spoke with a sense of true regret. “Not from cowardice,
but from the sure knowledge of its futility. Major Siverly’s nay friend to
me. And should there be men I know involved in this … I will do them
nay service to let it go further.”

He turned his face away again and lay quiet.

Grey picked up the flask and shook it. There was very little left in it,
but he drank this, slowly, watching the play of fire through the tangled
strands of the peat bricks in the hearth.

Was Fraser telling the truth? He thought so. If so—was his assessment
of that one phrase in the poem sufficient as to conjure up a complete
Jacobite conspiracy? But that wasn’t the only evidence, he reminded
himself. Minnie had said the same—and, above all, Siverly’s attempt on
Fraser’s life argued that the poem itself was dangerous in some way.
How else if not, as Fraser said, a signal of recognition? But a signal to
whom?

<snip>

Had the time come for that? He thought not yet. He’d take with him
not only the poem but a few selected sheets from Carruthers’s packet
and, depending upon Siverly’s reception of him, would decide whether—
and which—to show him. Showing the poem would link him
immediately with Jamie Fraser, and thus perhaps threaten Siverly. If he
could persuade Siverly to go back to England voluntarily, that was by far
the best result. But if not … He brooded for a bit, but he was sick of
thinking of Siverly, and his mind wandered. The scent of onions had
subsided to a pleasant odor that conjured thoughts of supper. It was very
late. Perhaps he should go down; he could have the girl bring something
up for Fraser.…

Once more he saw the woman’s hands, gentle on Fraser’s face and
body, and the big Scot turning at once to her touch, a stranger’s touch.
Only because she was a woman. If he himself had ventured to touch the
man …

But I have. If not directly. The open neck of the shirt had slipped back,
and the faint glimmer of the scars showed once more.

Jamie’s head turned, and his eyes opened, as though he had felt the
pressure of Grey’s gaze. He didn’t speak but lay quiet, meeting John’s
eyes. Grey was conscious all at once of the silence; the pub’s customers
had all gone home, the landlord and his family retired for the night.

“I’m sorry,” he said, very softly.

“Ego te absolvo,” Fraser murmured, and shut his eyes.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 23

THE NEXT DAY DAWNED SULLEN AND OVERCAST BUT NOT actually raining. Yet.
Grey dressed carefully in his uniform, Tom Byrd assisting him with the
same sense of solemn ceremony as though preparing Grey for battle.
Leather stock, gorget, polished boots … Grey hesitated for a moment
over wearing his dagger, but in the end, thinking of Siverly’s attack on
Jamie Fraser, put it in his belt.

Fraser leaned against the window frame, half-sitting on the sill,
watching the preparations with a small frown. He’d offered to go with
Grey, but John had declined, thinking that his presence could not but
inflame Siverly. It was going to be a sufficiently sticky interview without
introducing further complications.

“If I don’t come back,” he told Fraser at the door, “you have my
explicit permission to do whatever you like to Siverly.” He’d meant it as
a joke, but the Scotsman nodded soberly.

“I’ll take your body home to your brother.”

Tom Byrd made a horrified noise, but Grey smiled, affecting to think
this a witty riposte to his own feeble jest.

“Yes, you do that,” he said, and went downstairs, bootheels thumping.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 24

JAMIE HAD BORROWED A BOOK FROM PARDLOE’S LIBRARY, A pocket edition of
Homer’s Iliad, in Greek. He’d not read Greek in some years, and thought
perhaps to renew his acquaintance with the language, but distraction of
mind was interfering with his concentration.

Not thus the lion glories in his might,
Nor panther braves his spotted foe in fight,
Nor thus the boar (those terrors of the plain;)
Man only vaunts his force, and vaunts in vain.

He’d last spoken Greek in Ardsmuir prison, trading bits of
Aristophanes with Lord John over a makeshift supper of porridge and
sliced ham, the rations being short even in the governor’s quarters,
owing to a storm that had kept regular supplies from being delivered.
There had been claret to wash it down with, though, and it had been a
cordial evening. He’d taken care of the bits of business that needed to be
done on behalf of the prisoners, and then they’d played chess, a long,
drawn-out duel that had lasted nearly ’til dawn. Grey had won, at last,
and had hesitated, glancing at the battered sofa in his office, clearly
wondering whether he might offer Jamie the use of it, rather than send
him back to the cells for an hour’s sleep before the prisoners rose.

Jamie had appreciated the thought, but it wouldn’t do, and he’d set
his face impassively, bowed correctly, and bade Lord John good night,
himself rapping on the doorframe to summon the dozing guard.

<snip>

“I s’pose his lordship must be having a good visit with his friend,”
Tom offered, looking to Jamie for confirmation.

“Aye, well, I hope he had a more cordial reception than I did.” Grey
had left for Glastuig just after ten; it was no more than a half hour’s ride.
Five hours was surely a portent of something, but whether it might be
good news or bad …

He shook his head and went upstairs. He sat by the window and
opened his book again, but could not bend either eye or mind to the
tragedy of Hector’s ignominious death.

If it came to him having to go back to England with Grey’s body and
deliver him to Pardloe … he might just take Quinn at his offer and run,
he thought. But surely the wee fool would have been on his guard,
knowing what had happened to him? After all—

He sat up straight, his eye catching the flicker of movement far down
the road. It wasn’t Grey, though; it was a man on foot, half-running, with
the hitching, lolloping gait of one forcing himself past his bodily limits.
He was down the stairs and out the door, Tom Byrd on his heels, by
the time the runner came within hailing distance, and they rushed to
him, supporting him.

Quinn was deathly pale, drenched in sweat, and gasping for breath.

“I think ye’d best come, Jamie. Your friend’s killed Major Siverly, and
the constable’s after arresting him.”




THERE WAS A KNOT of people standing on the lawn, most of them
gesticulating. There was a man in a sober cloth coat and good cocked
hat who seemed to be in charge of the proceedings—Jamie supposed this
must be the constable. Most of the other folk there were obviously the
servants of the house, all talking at once and waving their arms. And in
the midst of it all stood John Grey, looking vastly irritated.

He was disheveled, his hair coming out of its plait, and there were
smears of mud on his uniform—Tom Byrd willna care for that, Jamie
thought automatically. He was right; beside him, Tom gave a small
squeak of outrage, and Jamie put his hand on the lad’s arm to keep him
quiet.

Making his way cautiously toward the little knot of people, he kept
out of sight as much as he might, until he should determine how best to
be of help. From twenty feet away, he saw that Grey’s wrists were bound
together in front of him and that the dark smears on his boots and
breeks were blood, not dirt.

Grey was saying something, his voice pitched loud to be heard over
the clishmaclaver, but Jamie couldn’t make out what he said. Grey
turned away from the constable, shaking his head in disgust—and his
eye caught Jamie’s. His face went from anger to calculation in an
instant, and he made a brief, violent shooing gesture with one hand. “Go
away,” it said, clear as day.

“What are they going to do with him?” Tom whispered urgently in
Jamie’s ear.

“I dinna ken.” Jamie faded back a step or two into the shrubbery.

“They’ve arrested him, Quinn said. Maybe they’ll take him to the local
gaol.”

“They can’t do that!”

He glanced at Tom, whose round face was set in indignation, fists
clenched at his sides.

“Aye, well, wait and see.” Thoughts were running through his mind,
trying to make out what it was Grey wanted him to do.

“Go out where he can see ye, wee Byrd,” he said, narrowing his eyes
at the scene. “They’ll let ye near him, I think, as ye’re his servant.”

Tom gave him a wild look, but then drew himself up and nodded
manfully. He stepped out of the shrubbery and walked toward the group,
and Jamie saw Grey’s expression of annoyance and anxiety ease a little.
His own eased, as well; he’d guessed right, then.

<snip>

While the constable conducted his laborious investigations, and the
rain began to fall more heavily, Jamie saw Grey draw Tom Byrd aside
with a jerk of his head, then bend close to his ear, clearly giving
instructions, glancing now and then as he did so at the shrubbery where
Jamie stood hidden.

He thought he made out from the incoherent babblings of the maid
that she’d found the master in the summerhouse, and as the constable
seemed indisposed to go and look for himself, Jamie eased out of the
shrubbery and went quietly round the back of the little wood.

<snip>

There was little to be learned here, and sooner or later someone would
come; he couldn’t be found lurking near the body. He stole quietly out
through the wood, turned right, and circled round the house, coming out
of the gardens near the drive, just in time to see Lord John being taken
away. The constable had commandeered a wagon from the estate and
rode his mule alongside, keeping a sharp eye on his prisoner. The
prisoner himself sat straight as a ramrod on the wagon’s seat, looking
extremely cross but self-possessed. Jamie saw him say something to the
constable that made the latter rear back, blinking, but then glower at
Lord John and make an abrupt gesture to the wagon’s driver, who
clicked his tongue to the horses and set off at a trot that nearly toppled
John Grey off his perch, unable to catch himself with his hands bound.

Jamie felt an angry spasm of kinship at the sight; he’d known such
small cruelties when he’d worn fetters. He murmured a deliberate curse
toward the constable and walked out onto the drive, where the servants
were clustered accusingly round Tom Byrd.

<snip>

Tom was pale and excited but had control of himself. He rubbed his
sleeve across his face to wipe away the rain and settled himself to recite
Lord John’s message.

“Right, sir. To begin with, the constable—that was the constable, the
loud fat man—is taking his lordship to Castle Athlone.”

“Aye? Well, that’s good—it’s not?” Jamie asked, seeing Tom shake his
head.

“No, sir. He says the justiciar has gone to France, and whoever’s in
charge will either keep him locked up or make him give his parole, and
that won’t do.”

“It won’t? Did he say why not?”

“No, sir, there wasn’t time. He says you must come and get him out,
quick as ever you can.”

Jamie rubbed a hand over his face, brushing water out of his
eyebrows.

“Does he, then,” he said dryly. “Did he suggest how I was to do that?”

Tom half-smiled, despite his worry.

“No, sir. He says to tell you that he trusts in your native wit and
ferocity to accomplish this. I’m to help you,” he added modestly, with a
sideways look up at Jamie. He put a hand to his middle, looking
portentous. “His lordship gave me his dagger to keep for him.”

“That will be a great help,” Jamie assured him gravely. “Dinna stick
anyone with it unless I tell ye, though, aye? I dinna want to have to save
ye both from the hangman.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 25

The rain had stopped, at least for a bit, and Jamie led the way down
the road so they might talk unheard. In a few words, he acquainted
Quinn with the news of John Grey’s arrest, which caused Quinn to cross
himself piously—though Jamie could see from his face that he did not
regard this as particularly unwelcome news.

He’d known pretty much what Quinn’s reaction was likely to be and
had decided what to do about it.

“Ye still want that cup, aye?” Jamie asked Quinn abruptly. “The Cupán
Druid riogh?”

Quinn looked at him, wide-eyed, and grasped him by the arm.

“Ye’ll never mean ye’ve got it, man?”

“No, I have not.” Jamie detached his arm, though without violence.

“But ye know where it is.” Quinn’s restless eyes had stilled, fixed
intently on his, and it wasn’t a question.

“Aye, I know. It’s well beyond anyone’s reach, is where it is. I told the
abbot to put it back where it came from, and to the best of my
knowledge”—which is considerable, he added silently to himself—“he
did.”

Quinn’s lips pursed in thought. “Someone will know,” he said. “All the
monks had to know when they dug the poor fella up—they’ll remember
where he was planted, too.”

“Aye. Well, ye want to go and ask them, do that—but ye’re no going
until we get John Grey out of Athlone.”

Quinn’s strange light eyes bulged a bit.

“Out of Athlone Castle? Man, are ye demented?”

“Aye, I am,” Jamie said crossly. “But I mean to do it, anyway.”

“Why? The man’s not only English, not only your captor—he’s a
fecking murderer!”

“No, that he’s not,” Jamie said, with decision. “He may be a good
many disagreeable things, but not that.”

“But they found him standin’ over Siverly’s body, and the blood fresh
on his boots!”

“I saw, aye?”

Quinn fumed visibly. “Why the devil d’ye think he didn’t do the man
in, then? Ye heard what he had to say about him and all his talk about
bringin’ the fellow to justice. Ye don’t get more justice than a bullet
through the head!”

There was no point in telling Quinn that Siverly’s death—however
administered—wouldn’t have been justice in John Grey’s book, save it
had been preceded by a court-martial.

“He didn’t,” Jamie repeated stubbornly.

There was also no way to explain to Quinn what he knew to be true of
John Grey. That being that the only circumstance in which Grey might
possibly have killed Siverly was if he was in fear of his own life—and
had that been the case, he would have said so. To Jamie, at least, via
Tom Byrd.

He wasn’t going to argue the point, though, and not only because it
would be futile. There was also the consideration that if Grey hadn’t
killed Siverly, someone else had. And there were relatively few persons
known to have been nearby, one of whom was Quinn. He couldn’t think
why Quinn might have done such a thing, but thought it wiser not to
point that out, given that he proposed to continue in company with
Quinn for the next wee while.

“I’m going to Athlone, and ye’re goin’ with me.”

<snip>

Jamie felt, rather than saw, Tom perk up a bit at that, and turned his
head to smile at the young valet.

“We’ll get him back,” he said, and was surprised at how gratified he
was to see relief and trust flood Tom’s round face.

“A-course we will,” Tom said stoutly. “Sir,” he added hastily. He didn’t
ask for details, which was just as well, Jamie thought.

<snip>

He was on his feet, shod, and buttoning his waistcoat before the key
grated in the lock. The door swung open, revealing the sergeant of the
guard, lantern in one hand and a look of apoplectic fury on his face.
Behind him loomed Jamie Fraser.

“I see ye were expecting us.” Fraser sounded mildly amused. “Have ye
got something to quiet this gentleman’s humors?” He prodded the
sergeant, a small, rawboned man, in the back with a large horse pistol,
sending him stumbling into the cell.

“You filthy cur!” the sergeant exclaimed, the aubergine hue of his face
deepening in the lantern light. “Your soul to the devil, ye wicked Scotch
dog! And you—” He turned toward Grey, only to be interrupted by
Grey’s handkerchief, balled up and stuffed into his mouth.

Tom Byrd darted into the cell, seized the blanket, and, with a huge
grin at Grey, drew Grey’s dagger from his own belt and efficiently ripped
off several strips, these being used at once to secure the sergeant. Tom
then thrust the dagger into his employer’s hand, and with a hoarsely
whispered “Good to see you looking well, me lord!” he darted out again,
presumably to scout for wandering guards.

“Thank you, Mr. Fraser,” Grey murmured, shrugging into his coat as
he headed for the door in his turn. In truth, he hadn’t expected rescue,
had only half-hoped for it, and his chest filled with a breathless
excitement.

Fraser handed Grey the lantern, then waved the pistol, ushering him
out. With a cordial nod at the sergeant, he pulled the door softly to
behind them and locked it. He took back the lantern then and turned to
the left. Near the corner, he paused, considering which way to go.

“I shouldn’t have addressed you by name,” Grey said, low-voiced. “I’m
sorry.”

Fraser shrugged, eyes squinted against the gloom that cloaked the
courtyard. It was not quite drizzling, but the slates gleamed dully with
wet where the lantern light reached them.

“Nay bother. There’re none sae many redheided Scotsmen o’ my size
abroad in County Roscommon. It wouldna take them long to learn my
name—and they wouldna require one to shoot me, in any case. Come
on, wee Byrd,” he said under his breath, “where are ye?”

As though the remark had conjured him, a dim figure appeared
suddenly on the far side of the old bailey, waving. They walked—at a
normal pace, lantern swinging low at Fraser’s side—to the archway
where Tom was waiting, his round face pale with excitement.

“This way,” he breathed, and directed them to a set of shallow stone
steps leading up to the walkway lined with arrow slits. “There’s another
stair at the far end, as goes down to the river gate,” he whispered to
John as he passed. “I didn’t see any guards, but I hear voices.”

John nodded, taking hold of his dagger. He hoped, for assorted
reasons, that they weren’t going to have to fight their way out.

“Should you leave the lantern?” he whispered, climbing close behind
Jamie. Jamie shook his head.

“Better not,” he said. “I may need it.” Jamie stepped out onto the
walkway and strode at what Grey considered an agonizingly slow pace.

Grey and Tom Byrd followed like goslings. As they approached the bend
of the wall, Grey heard voices from somewhere below and half-halted,
only to be prodded on by Tom.

“Go on, me lord! We daren’t stop,” he whispered.

Feeling desperately exposed, Grey matched his step to Fraser’s slow
stride. He glanced quickly down and saw an open doorway across the
courtyard, light spilling from it. The guardroom, it must be; he glimpsed
several soldiers and could tell from the sudden hush, followed by
laughter, groans, and exclamations, that they were dicing.

Just let someone throw a double six, he prayed.

Around another bend, out of sight, and he breathed again, blood
hammering in his ears. The dark below was silent, though he could still
hear the guards behind them.

Fraser’s plait hung down his back, unclubbed. It swung gently between
his shoulder blades, a snakelet of gold light from the lantern vanishing
up the smooth auburn strands into darkness. Suddenly Fraser stopped,
and Grey nearly ran into him.

He heard the Scot draw a long, deep breath and saw him cross
himself. Jamie turned toward Grey, bending to bring his mouth near
Grey’s ear.

“There’s someone below, at the gate,” he said very quietly, his breath
warm on Grey’s cheek. “We’ll have to take him. Try not to kill him,
aye?”

And with that, he threw the lantern into the courtyard. It landed with
a loud clank and went out.

“Fumble-fingers,” said a sarcastic voice from below. “That you,
Ferguson? Drop something, didja?” A man came out from the niche at
the foot of the stair; Grey saw him as a squat, thick shape against the
dark stones. Fraser took in a great lungful of air, vaulted the low wall,
and leapt feetfirst from the walkway, startling Grey so badly that he
nearly followed inadvertently.

Fraser had struck the man a glancing blow in falling on him but
enough to stop his wind for a moment; the two of them writhed on the
stones, no more than gasps and grunts to mark their struggle. Grey
rushed down the steps, heedless of the clatter.

“Tom, get the gate!” He rushed to the struggling figures and, seeing
that the shorter man had momentarily got astride Fraser and was
punching him vigorously in the head, picked his moment as well as he
might in the dark and kicked the short figure with great force in the
balls from behind.

The man rolled off Fraser with a horrible noise, and the Scot got to his
knees, breathing like a grampus. Grey was already on his own knees,
groping the guard’s clothing for anything usable. The man had neither
pistol nor shot but sported a sort of short sword, rather like a Roman
gladius. Grey wondered at this unorthodox choice of weapon but took it
anyway, pausing to administer a silencing kick in the belly before
following Fraser into the niche.

Tom had got the gate unbolted. The Shannon lay just within bow shot,
its sullen waters dark as pitch.

Fraser was limping badly; the fall hadn’t done his bruised arse any
good. He was also cursing roundly under his breath in Gàidhlig, by which
Grey deduced the object of his wrath.

“Bloody hell,” said Tom, moved either by excitement or example.
“Where is he? He’s not left us, has he?”

“If he has, he’s a dead man,” Fraser muttered briefly, and vanished
into the dark, casting upstream. Grey deduced that “he” was likely
Quinn and that Fraser had gone to find him.

“Are we waiting for a boat?” Grey asked Tom, keeping one eye on the
bulk of the castle above them. They were no more than twenty yards
from the wall, and every instinct urged him to leg it as fast as possible.

“Yes, me lord. Quinn said he could find a boat, and he was to meet us
here at”—he glanced round, helpless—“well, at whatever time it was Mr.
Fraser said. Which I think it’s just now.” He, too, glanced back at the
castle, his face a pale splotch in the darkness. There was no light in the
town nearby, not even a watchman’s lantern in the streets.

<snip>

“Hail Mary, Mother of God …” he whispered, and took firm hold of
the edge of the boat to steady himself. Where were Grey and Tom Byrd?
He shut his eyes tight to accustom them to dark and looked away from
the castle before opening them again. But what he could see of the bank
was featureless, dark blobs that might be boats or sea monsters bobbing
near the shore, the black patches of what Quinn said were reedbeds like
tar against the dull shimmer of the water. Nothing seemed to move.
Nothing that looked like two men running, at least. And, by God, they
should be running, he thought, with that lot after them.

<snip>

A quiet splash made him turn his head. Quinn had put an oar in the
water and was sculling, very gently, to slow their progress. The boat’s
head turned inward in a slow, meditative circle.

“What if they’re not here?” Quinn said very quietly.

“They’re here. I left them on the bank, just by the castle.”

“They’re not there now,” Quinn observed, an edge to his voice, low as
it was.

“They saw me go upstream. They’ll have followed me. We’ll need to
turn round. They’ll not have seen us, coming down so quiet.”

<snip>

Where would they go, with the soldiers about to erupt into the night?
Into the town was the logical answer. The castle was surrounded by a
labyrinth of narrow, winding streets.

“How far d’ye want to go?” Quinn grunted. He was breathing hard
with the effort of rowing against the current.

“This is far enough. Turn round again,” Jamie said abruptly. They
were perhaps a furlong upstream of the castle; if Grey and the lad had
been on the bank, they would have found them by now. They must have
gone into the town, and the soldiers would doubtless be coming to that
conclusion, too.

Jamie started praying again. How was he to find them in the town? He
was as noticeable himself as either of the Englishmen. It would have to
be Quinn searching the town, and he doubted that the Irishman would
be enthused at the prospect.

Aye, well, he’d just have to—

A heavy clunk! struck the hull of the boat near his hand, and he jerked
with such violence that the little vessel rocked wildly. Quinn cursed and
backed his oars.

“What in the name of the Holy Ghost did we hit?”

Clunk! Clunk! Clunk! The sound was repeated, a frenzied demand, and
Jamie leaned over the side and nearly let out a skelloch at the sight that
greeted him: a wild-eyed head like Medusa protruding from the water a
few inches from his hand, snaky hair in all directions and teeth bared in
a ferocious grimace. This startling figure held what looked to be a large
bundle in one arm, a sort of sword in the other hand, and as Jamie
gaped at it, openmouthed, the figure gritted its teeth and swung the
weapon once more against the side of the boat with a peremptory clunk!

“Get us in!” said the figure. “I can’t hold him much longer.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 26

GREY HUDDLED IN A SODDEN HEAP IN THE BOTTOM OF THE boat, dully aware of
Fraser’s back in front of him. The Scot’s long arms stretched and pulled,
shoulders bunching as he rowed steadily upstream, and the black bulk of
the castle slowly, slowly diminished behind them. He heard peremptory
shouts from the shore and Quinn, standing up in the boat, clinging to the
mast and shouting back in Irish, but Grey was too dazed with cold and
exhaustion to worry much about what he was saying.

<snip>

“Ah, there I have it, the sorrow and the woe! Now, ye’ll be holding quite
still, Mr. Byrd, and I’ll just …” His voice trailed off in absorption as he
felt his way. Grey felt the warmth of Quinn’s body, was soothed himself
as much by the physical presences of Quinn and Fraser, close by, as by
the knowledge of escape.

<snip>

Fraser made a low Scottish sound in his throat but turned back to his
oars, and the slow heave against the Shannon’s current resumed. Left to
silence and the softly rhythmic slosh of the oars, Grey’s head dropped
and he gave himself over to dreams.

<snip>

So groggy was he that it hadn’t occurred to him even to wonder where
Fraser and Quinn had gone, until he heard their voices. They were near
the boat, on land—well, of course they’re on land, he thought vaguely, but
his drugged mind furnished him with a surreptitious vision of the two of
them sitting on clouds, arguing with each other as they drifted through a
midnight sky spangled with the most beautiful stars.

“I said I wouldna do it, and that’s flat!” Fraser’s voice was low,
intense.

“Ye’ll turn your back on the men ye fought with, all the blood spilt for
the Cause?”

“Aye, I will. And so would you, if ye’d half the sense of a day-old
chick.”

The words faded, and Grey’s vision of Quinn melted into one of a redeyed
banty rooster, crowing in Irish and flapping its wings, darting pecks
at Fraser’s feet. Fraser seemed to be naked but was somewhat disguised
by drifts of vapor from the cloud he was sitting on.

<snip>

Feeling mildly disembodied, and with only the crudest notion how to
walk, he staggered up the path behind Fraser and Quinn, who were
hauling Tom Byrd along as gently as they could, making encouraging
noises. The remnants of his dreams mingled with the mist through which
they walked, and he remembered the words he had overheard. He
wished very much that he knew how that particular conversation had
ended.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 27

JAMIE WAS GREETED WITH CONCERNED WELCOME BY THE monks, who took Tom
Byrd away at once to Brother Infirmarian. He left Quinn and Grey to be
given food and went in to see Father Michael, disturbed in mind.

The abbot looked him over with fascination and offered him a seat
and a glass of whiskey, both of which he accepted with deep gratitude.
“You do lead the most interesting life, Jamie dear,” he said, having
been given a brief explanation of recent events. “So you’ve come to seek
sanctuary, is it? And your friends—these would be the two gentlemen
you told me of before, I make no doubt?”

“They would, Father. As for sanctuary …” He tried for a smile, though
weariness weighed down even the muscles of his face. “If ye might see to
the poor lad’s arm, we’ll be off as soon as he’s fettled. I wouldna put ye
in danger. And I think perhaps the deputy justiciar of Athlone might not
respect your sanctuary, should he come to hear about Colonel Grey’s
presence.”

“Do you think the colonel did in fact murder Major Siverly?” the abbot
asked with interest.

“I’m sure he did not. I think the miscreant is a man called Edward
Twelvetrees, who has—had, I mean—some associations with Siverly.”

<snip>

JAMIE WAS SITTING on a stone bench by the monastery’s graveyard when
Grey came to find him. Grey looked exhausted, white-faced and
disheveled, with an unfocused look in his eyes that Jamie recognized as
the aftereffects of Quinn’s tonic.

“Give ye dreams, did it?” he asked, not without sympathy.

Grey nodded and sat down beside him.

“I don’t want to tell you about them, and you don’t want to know,” he
said. “Believe me.”

Jamie thought both statements were likely true, and asked instead,
“How’s our wee Byrd, then?”

Grey looked a little better at this and went so far as to smile wanly.

“Brother Infirmarian’s got the ball out. He says the wound is in the
muscle, the bone’s not broken, the boy has a little small fever but, with
the blessing, all will be well in a day or two. When last seen, Tom was
sitting up in bed eating porridge with milk and honey.”

Jamie’s wame gurgled loudly at thought of food. There were things to
be discussed first, though.

“D’ye think it was worth it?” he asked, one brow raised.

“What?” Grey slumped a little, rubbing the itching bristle on his chin
with the palm of his hand.

“Tom Byrd. He’ll likely do fine, but ye ken well enough he might have
been killed—and yourself, too. Or taken.”

“And you and Quinn. Yes. We all might.” He sat for a moment,
watching a fuzzy green worm of some kind inching along the edge of the
bench. “You mean you think I was a fool to ask you to get me out of
Athlone.”

“If I thought that, I wouldna have done it,” Jamie said bluntly. “But I
like to know why I’m riskin’ my life when I do it.”

“Fair enough.” Grey put down a finger, trying to entice the worm to
climb on it, but the creature, having prodded blindly at his fingertip,
decided that it offered no edible prospects and, with a sudden jerk,
dropped from the bench, dangling briefly from a silken tether before
swinging out on the wind and dropping away altogether into the grass.

“Edward Twelvetrees,” he said. “I’m morally sure he killed Siverly.”

“Why?”

“Why might he have done it, or why do I think he did?” Without
waiting for Jamie’s reply, Grey proceeded to answer both questions.

“Cui bono, to begin with,” he said. “I think that there is or was some
financial arrangement between the two men. I told you about the papers
they were looking at when I went there the first time? I am no
bookkeeper, but even I recognize pounds, shillings, and pence written
down on a piece of paper. They were looking over accounts of some sort.
And that very interesting chest was probably not filled with
gooseberries.

“Now, Siverly had money—we know that—and was obviously
involved in what looks very like a Jacobite conspiracy of some kind. It’s
possible that Twelvetrees was not involved in that—I can’t say.” He
rubbed his face again, beginning to look more lively. “I have difficulty
believing that he is, really; his family is … well, they’re hard-faced
buggers to a man, but loyal to the bone, been soldiers for generations. I
can’t see him committing treason.”

“So ye think that he might have discovered what Siverly was into—
perhaps as a result of your visit—and killed him to prevent his carrying
out the scheme? Whatever scheme it was?”

“Yes. That’s the honorable theory. The dishonorable one is that,
discovering that Siverly held all this money—presumably on behalf of
the conspiracy—he might simply have decided to do away with Siverly
and pocket the lot. But the point is …” He spoke more slowly, choosing
his words. “Whichever it was, if it had to do with money, then there may
be proof of it in the papers that Siverly had.”

Grey’s hand had curled into a fist as he spoke, and he struck it lightly
on his knee, unconscious of the movement.

“I need to get into the house and get those papers. If there’s any proof
of Siverly’s involvement in a political conspiracy, or Twelvetrees’s
relations with him, it must lie there.”

Jamie had been wondering, during these last conjectures, whether to
mention the Duchess of Pardloe’s information regarding Twelvetrees and
money. Apparently, she hadn’t chosen to share it with her husband or
her brother-in-law, and he wondered why not.

The answer to that presented itself almost immediately: her wicked
old father. Andrew Rennie was undoubtedly the source of her
information, and she likely didn’t want Pardloe finding out that she still
dabbled in intelligence work for the old man. He didn’t blame her. At
the same time, the situation now seemed more serious than whatever
marital strife the revelation might cause, if it got back to the duke.

“I don’t suppose you’re any more anxious to see him fight another duel
than I am.” The duchess’s words came back to him. Ah, he’d forgotten
that. It wasn’t only her father she was concerned with; it was what might
happen if Pardloe crossed swords—either figuratively or literally—with
Edward Twelvetrees.

Aye, well—he might be able to save her confidence, even while
sharing the information.

“There’s a thing ye ought to know,” Jamie said abruptly. “For some
time, Twelvetrees has been moving large quantities of money to Ireland.
To Ireland,” he emphasized. “I didna ken where it was going—nor did
the person who told me—but what d’ye think the odds are that it was
going to Siverly?”

Grey’s face went almost comically blank. Then he pursed his lips and
breathed in slowly, thinking.

“Well,” he said at last. “That does alter the probabilities. If that’s true,
and if it means that Twelvetrees was involved in the conspiracy, then it
may be a case of plotters falling out—or …” A second thought
brightened his face; clearly he didn’t like the notion of Twelvetrees being
a traitor, which Jamie thought very interesting. “Or he was misled in
what the money was to be used for and, discovering the truth, decided
to put Siverly out of commission before he could put anything into
action. I suppose your source didn’t tell you exactly what this particular
conspiracy had in mind to accomplish?” He shot Jamie a sharp look.

“No,” Jamie said, with absolute truth. “But I suppose ye’re right about
the need to see the papers, if ye can. What makes ye think Twelvetrees
hasn’t already got them?”

Grey took a deep breath and blew it out, shaking his head.

“He might. But it was only yesterday—God, was it only yesterday?—
that Siverly was killed. Twelvetrees wasn’t staying in the house; the
butler told me. The servants will be in a great taking, and Siverly does—
did—have a wife, who presumably inherits the place. The constable said
he was sealing the house until the coroner could come; I can’t see the
butler just letting Twelvetrees march in, open the chest, and make off
with everything in it.

“Besides,” he glanced toward the stone cottage where Tom Byrd lay,
“I’d thought that once you got me out, we’d go straight back to Glastuig,
and I’d almost certainly be there before Twelvetrees could worm his way
in. But things happen, don’t they?”

“They do,” Jamie agreed, with a certain grimness.

They sat for a moment in silence, each alone with his thoughts. At last
Grey stretched and sat up straight.

“The other thing about Siverly’s papers,” he said, looking Jamie in the
eye, “and why I must have them, is that whatever they do or don’t say
about Twelvetrees, they’re very likely to reveal the names of other men
involved in the conspiracy. The members of the Wild Hunt, if you will.”

This aspect of the matter had not escaped Jamie, but he could hardly
contradict Grey’s conclusion, no matter how much he hated it. He
nodded, wordless. Grey sat for a minute longer, then stood up with an
air of decision.

“I’ll go and speak to the abbot, thank him, and make provision for
Tom to stay until we come back for him. Do you think Mr. Quinn will
see us ashore?”

“I expect he will.”

“Good.” Grey started toward the main building, but then stopped and
turned round. “You asked me if I thought it was worth it. I don’t know.
But it is my duty, regardless.”

Jamie sat watching as Grey walked away, and an instant before he
reached the door of the building, the Englishman stopped dead, hand
already stretched out for the latch.

“He’s just thought that he didna ask me whether I’d go with him,”
Jamie murmured. For with Siverly’s death, Jamie’s word to Pardloe was
kept and his own obligation in the matter technically ended. Any further
assistance Grey might need would be asked—or offered—as one man to
another.

Grey stood fixed for a long moment, then shook his head as though
annoyed by a fly and went inside. Jamie didn’t think the gesture meant
that Grey had dismissed the issue; only that he had decided to do his
business with Father Michael before mentioning it to Jamie.
And what will I tell him?

The questions of Siverly’s death or Twelvetrees’s possible guilt
mattered not a whit to him. The possibility of exposure of the Jacobite
conspirators, though …

“Ye’ve thought it all out once already,” he muttered to himself,
impatient. “Why can ye not leave it alone?”

I, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser, do swear, and as I shall answer to God at the
great day of judgment, I have not, nor shall have, in my possession any gun, sword, pistol, or
arm whatsoever, and never use tartan, plaid, or any part of the Highland garb; and if I do so,
may I be cursed in my undertakings, family, and property. May I never see my wife and
children, father, mother, or relations. May I be killed in battle as a coward and lie without
Christian burial in a strange land, far from the graves of my forefathers and kindred; may all
this come across me if I break my oath.

The words of the oath they’d made him speak when they spared his
life had burned his lips when he spoke them; they burned his heart now.
He likely knew none of the Wild Hunt personally—but that didn’t make
betrayal of those men any the lighter a burden.

But. The memory of a tiny skull with long brown hair lying under a
gorse bush came to his mind as vividly as the memory of that foul oath
—and weighed heavier. To leave these Irish lunatics to their business—
or to keep Grey from stopping them, which amounted to the same thing
—was to betray wee Mairi, or Beathag, or Cairistiona, and all those like
them.

Well, then, he thought calmly. That is my duty. And I think the price is
not too high.

<snip>

He knew what it was: Quinn’s farewell. So he’d gone, then—to use the
cup. John Grey would have to find another ferryman. Ironic, considering
where he’d just decided his duty lay—but he had promised Quinn to
speak to the abbot and would just have to leave the matter now to God
and hope the Almighty shared his view of the situation.

He nearly threw the note away, but some obscure impulse of civility
made him open it. He glanced cursorily at it, then stiffened.

It was neither addressed nor signed.

You’ve a great loyalty to your friends, and God himself will surely bless you for it on the last
day. But I should be less than a friend myself, did I not tell you the truth.

It was the Englishman who did for Major Siverly. I saw him with my own eyes, as I was
watching from the wood behind the summerhouse.

Captain Twelvetrees is a great friend to our cause, and with Major Siverly dead, the means lie
now in his hand. I urge you to protect him and give him what help you can when you return to
London.

God willing, we will meet there and, with our other friends, see the green branch burst into
flower.

By reflex, he crumpled the note in his hand. John Grey had come out
of the abbot’s office, pausing there to turn and say something to Brother
Ambrose.

“Friends!” he said aloud. “God help me.” He grimaced and, putting the
rosary back in his pocket, tore the note to tiny pieces, which he scattered
to the wind.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 28

JAMIE REFUSED TO ALLOW GREY TO TRY TO HIRE HORSES, ON grounds that the Irish
liked gossip as much as did Highlanders, and were Grey to be seen in his
uniform, the castle would know it by noon of the following day.

So they walked through the night from Lough Ree, keeping to the
fields in the crepuscule, resting in the woods during light of day—when
Jamie went into Ballybonaggin for food—then coming out onto the
roads again at dark, where they kept up a fine pace, lighted by a
sympathetic moon that rose above them huge, pale, and mottled as a
ball of gleaming alabaster.

<snip>

he road was narrow, and they jostled against each other now and
then, blinded between the dark wood and the brilliance of the rising
moon. He could hear Jamie’s breath, or thought he could—it seemed
part of the soft wind that touched his face. He could smell Jamie, smell
the musk of his body, the dried sweat and dust in his clothes, and felt
suddenly wolflike and feral, longing changed to outright hunger.

He wanted.

Master me, he thought, breathing deep, or shall I your master be?

<snip>

Distracted by the vision of amphibians in their thousands locked in
slime-wrapped sexual congress amid the dark waters, he caught his foot
in a root and fell heavily.

Fraser, close beside, felt him go and grabbed him, catching him round
the middle and jerking him upright again.

“Are ye all right?” he asked, low-voiced, his breath warm on Grey’s
cheek.

“Croakle dum-ho,” he said, breathless and dazed. Fraser’s hands were
still tight on his arms, steadying him.

“What?”

“Great Lord Frog to Lady Mouse. It’s a song. I’ll sing it to you later.”

Fraser made a sound in his throat that might have been either derision
or amusement—maybe both—and let go Grey’s arms. He swayed, almost
staggering, and put out a hand to steady himself. He touched Fraser’s
chest, warm and solid through his clothes, swallowed hard, and took his
hand away.

“This seems the sort of night on which one might meet the Wild Hunt
itself,” Grey said, starting to walk again. His skin prickled and jumped,
and he would not in fact have been surprised in the slightest to see the
Queen of Faerie come riding out of the wood, fair and spectral as the
sailing moon, terrible in her hunting, her pack of attendants all young
men, lithe and sharp-toothed, hungry as wolves. “What are they hunting,
do you suppose?”

“Men,” Fraser said without hesitation. “Souls. I was thinking the same
myself. Though ye see them more on a storm-tossed night.”

“Have you actually seen them?” He believed for an instant that it was
quite possible, and put the question in all seriousness. Rather to Grey’s
surprise, Fraser took it the same way.

“No,” he said, but in a tone verging on doubt. “At least—that is—”

“Tell me.”

They walked in silence for a few moments, but he could feel Fraser
gathering his thoughts and kept silent himself, waiting, feeling the
shifting rhythms of the bigger man’s body as he moved, soft-footed, on
the uneven ground.

“Years back,” Fraser said at last. “It was after Culloden. I lived on my
own land then, but hidden. In a wee cavern in the rocks. I’d come out at
night, though, to hunt. And sometimes I’d have need to go far afield, if
the hunting was poor, and often it was.”

They had emerged momentarily into a spot where the trees fell away,
and the light of the moon shone bright enough for Grey to see Fraser tilt
his head back, as though considering the orb.

“It wasna a night like this, really,” he said. “Nay moon at all, and the
wind going through your bones and moaning like a thousand lost souls
in your ears. But it—it was wild, ye might say. Wild in the way this is,”
he added, dropping his voice a little and gesturing briefly at the dark
countryside surrounding them. “A night when ye might expect to meet
wi’ things, should ye venture out.”

He spoke quite matter-of-factly, as though it were entirely
commonplace to meet with “things.” On a night like this, Grey could
believe that completely and wondered suddenly how many nights the
other had spent roaming alone beneath blazing stars or a clouded vault,
with no touch on his skin save the wind’s rough caress.

“I’d run down a deer and killed it,” Fraser said, also as though this was
commonplace. “And I’d sat down by the carcass to catch my breath
before the gralloching—that’s the cutting out o’ the bowels, ken. I’d slit
the throat, of course, to bleed the meat, but I hadna yet said the prayer
for it—I wondered later if it was maybe that that called them.”

Grey wondered whether “that” referred to the hot scent of the
pumping blood or the lack of a sanctifying word, but didn’t want to risk
stopping the story by asking.

“Them?” he said after a moment, encouraging.

Fraser’s shoulders moved in a shrug. “Perhaps,” he said. “Only all of a
sudden, I felt afraid. Nay—worse than afraid. A terrible fear came upon
me, and then I heard it. Then I heard it,” he repeated, for emphasis. “I
was afraid before I heard it—them.”

What he had heard was the sound of hooves and voices, halfswallowed
by the moaning wind.

“Was it some years before, I should ha’ thought it was the Watch,” he
said. “But there wasna any such thing after Culloden. My next thought
was that it was English soldiers—but I couldna hear any words in
English, and usually I’d hear them easily at a distance. English sounds
different, ken, than the Gàidhlig, even when ye dinna make out the
words.”

“I would suppose it does,” Grey murmured.

“The other thing,” Fraser went on, as though Grey hadn’t spoken, “was
that I couldna tell which direction the sound came from. And I should
have. The wind was strong but steady, from the northwest. And yet the
sounds came sometimes out o’ the wind but just as often from the south
or the east. And then they would disappear, and then come back.”

By this time he had been standing, hovering near the body of the slain
deer, wondering whether to run and, if so, which way?

“And then I heard a woman scream. She … ah.” Fraser’s voice
sounded a little odd, suddenly careful. Why? Grey wondered.
“It … wasna a scream of fear, or even anger. It … ehm … well, it was
the way a woman will scream, sometimes, if she’s … pleased.”

“In bed, you mean.” It wasn’t a question. “So do men. Sometimes.”
You idiot! Of all the things you might have said …

He would have berated himself further for having brought back the
echo of his unfortunate remark in the stable at Helwater, that injudicious
—that criminally stupid remark—

But Fraser merely made a deep “mmphm” sound in his throat, seeming
to acknowledge Grey’s present remark at face value.

“I thought for an instant, perhaps, rape … but there were nay English
soldiers in the district—”

“Scots do not commit rapine?” Annoyance with himself sharpened
Grey’s tone.

“Not often,” Fraser said briefly. “Not Highlanders. But as I say, it
didna sound like that. And then I heard other noises—screeching and
skellochs, and the screaming of horses, aye, but not the noise of battle.
More like folk who are roaring drunk—and the horses, too. And it was
coming closer to me.”

It was the notion of drunken horses that at this point had put the
vision of the Wild Hunt into Jamie’s mind. It was not a common tale of
the Highlands, but he had heard such stories. And heard more, from
other mercenaries, when he’d fought in France as a young man.

“The queen, they said, rides a great white horse, white as moonlight,”
he said quietly. “Shining in the dark.”

Jamie had spent enough time on the moors and in the high crags to
know how much lay hidden in the land, how many ghosts and spirits
lingered there, how much unknown to man—and the thought of
supernatural creatures was not foreign to him at all. Once the thought of
the Wild Hunt had come to him, he spared not a moment in leaving the
deer’s carcass, as fast as he could go.

“I thought they smelled the blood, ken,” he explained. “I’d not said the
rightful prayer to bless it. They’d think it was their lawful prey.”

The matter-of-fact tone of this statement made the small hairs prickle
on John’s nape.

“I see,” he said, rather faintly. He saw all too well, in his mind’s eye: a
helter-skelter rush of the unearthly, horses’ coats and faerie faces
glowing with a spectral light, spilling down out of the dark, screaming
like the wind, howling for blood. The shrieking of the lust-crazed frogs
now struck him differently; he heard the blind hunger in it.

“Sidhe,” Fraser said softly. Sheee, the word sounded like, to Grey;
much like the sigh of the wind.

“It’s the same word, in the Gàidhlig and the Gaeilge. It means the
creatures of the other world. But sometimes when they come forth out o’
the stony duns where they live—they dinna go back alone.”

He had run for a nearby burn, out of some half-heard, half-recollected
notion that the sidhe could not cross running water, thrown himself over
a high bank, and crouched among the boulders at its foot, staggering
against the force of water that surged to mid-thigh, half-drowned in the
spray, blind in the dark but keeping his eyes tight shut nonetheless.

“Ye dinna want to look upon them,” he said. “If ye do, they can call ye
to them. Cast their glamour upon you. And then ye’re lost.”

“Do they kill people?”

Fraser shook his head.

“They take people,” he corrected. “Lure them. Take them back into the
rocks, down to their ain world. Sometimes”—he cleared his throat
—“sometimes, the stolen ones come back. But they come back two
hundred years later. And all—all they knew and loved—are dead.”

“How terrible,” John said quietly. He could hear Fraser’s breathing,
heavy, like a man struggling against tears, and wondered why this aspect
of the tale should move him so.

Fraser cleared his throat again, explosively.

“Aye, well,” he said, voice steady once more. “So I spent the rest o’ the
night in the burn and nearly froze to death. If it hadna been near dawn
when I went in, I shouldna have come out again. I could barely move
when I did, and had to wait for the sun to rise high enough to warm me,
before I could make my way back to where I’d left my deer.”

“Was it still there?” Grey asked with interest. “As you’d left it?”

“Most of it was. Something—someone,” he corrected himself, “had
gralloched it neat as a tailor’s seam and taken away the head and the
entrails and one of the haunches.”

“The huntsman’s share,” Grey murmured under his breath, but Fraser
heard him.

“Aye.”

“And were there tracks around it? Other than your own, I mean.”

“There were not,” Fraser said, the words clipped and precise. And he
would know, Grey thought. Anyone who could hunt a deer like that
could certainly discern the traces. Despite Grey’s attempt at logic, a brief
shiver went over him, visualizing the headless carcass, clean and
butchered, the blood-soaked ground left trackless in the mist of dawn,
save for the deep-gouged prints of the fleeing deer and the man who had
felled it.

“Did you—take the rest?”

Fraser raised one shoulder and let it fall.

“I couldna leave it,” he said simply. “I had a family to feed.”

They walked on then in silence, each alone with his thoughts.




THE MOON HAD BEGUN to sink before they reached Glastuig, and exertion
had calmed Grey’s rush of spirits somewhat. These revived abruptly,
though, when they found the gate shut but not locked and, passing
through, saw a glimmer of light on the distant lawn. It was coming from
one of the windows on the right.

“Do you know which room that is?” he murmured to Jamie, nodding
toward the lighted window.

“Aye, it’s the library,” Fraser replied, equally low-voiced. “What do ye
want to do?”

Grey took a deep breath, considering. Then touched Jamie’s elbow,
inclining his head toward the house.

“We’ll go in. Come with me.”

They approached the house cautiously, skirting the lawn and keeping
to the shrubberies, but there was no sign of any servants or watchmen
being on the premises. At one point, Fraser lifted his head and sniffed
the air, taking two or three deep breaths before gesturing toward an
outbuilding and whispering, “The stable is that way. The horses are
gone.”

Jamie’s cautious researches had indicated as much; word in the village
was that all the servants had left, unwilling to remain in a house where
murder had been done. The livestock would have been taken away to
the village, too, Grey supposed.

<snip>

The casements were well above eye level. Well above his eye level, at
least. With some irritation, he saw that Fraser, who had come silently
out behind him, was able by standing on his toes to see into the house.
The big Scot shifted to and fro, craning to see—and then froze. He said
something out loud, in bloody Gaelic. Grey thought from the tone and
the clearly visible expression on his face that it must be a curse.

“What do you see?” he hissed, plucking impatiently at Fraser’s sleeve.

The Scot thumped down on his heels and stared down at him.

“It’s that wee arse-wipe, Twelvetrees,” he said. “He’s going through
Siverly’s papers.”

Grey barely heard the second part of this; he was already headed for
the front door and quite ready to break it down, should it offer him the
least resistance.

It didn’t. It was unlocked, and he heaved it open with such force that
it crashed into the wall of the foyer. The sound coincided with a startled
yelp from the library, and Grey charged toward the open door through
which light was streaming, barely aware of Fraser, at his heels, saying
urgently, “I’m no going to break ye out of that bloody castle again, just
you remember that!”

There was a louder yelp as he burst into the library to find Edward
Twelvetrees crouched beside the mantelpiece, the poker clutched in both
hands and poised like a cricket bat.

“Put that down, you bloody nit,” Grey said, halting just short of
striking range. “What the devil are you doing here?”

Twelvetrees straightened up, his expression going from alarm to
outrage.

“What the devil are you doing here, you infamous fiend?”

Fraser laughed, and both Grey and Twelvetrees glared at him.

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen,” he said mildly, though his broad face
still bore a look of amusement. He waved his fingers, in the manner of
one urging a small child to go and say hello to an aged relative. “Be
going on wi’ your business. Dinna mind me.”

Jamie looked around, picked up a small wing chair that Grey had
knocked over in his precipitous entry, and sat in it, leaning back with an
air of pleased expectation.

Twelvetrees glared back and forth between Grey and Fraser, but an air
of uncertainty had entered his expression. He looked like a rat baffled of
its cheese rind, and Grey suppressed an urge to laugh, too, despite his
anger.

<snip>

Twelvetrees appeared to have stunned himself momentarily, having
knocked his head against the battered mantelpiece. He lay sprawled on
the hearth, his outflung hand dangerously close to the unshielded fire.
With a relieving gasp, Grey rediscovered how to breathe, and lay still,
doing it. He felt the vibration of a large body through the floorboards
and, wiping a sleeve across his streaming face—God damn it, the bastard
had bloodied his nose; he hoped it wasn’t broken—saw Fraser reach
down delicately and haul Twelvetrees clear of the fire. Then, frowning,
Fraser rose swiftly and, grabbing the ash shovel, scraped a smoking mass
of papers out of the hearth, scattering them hastily over the floor, seizing
chunks that had not yet quite caught fire, and separating them from the
baulk of burning pages. He ripped off his coat and flung it over the halfcharred
papers to smother the sparks.

Twelvetrees uttered a strangled protest, reaching for the papers, but
Fraser hauled him to his feet and deposited him with some force on a
settee upholstered in blue- and white-striped silk. He glanced back at
Grey, as though inquiring whether he required some similar service.
Grey shook his head and, wheezing gently, one hand to his bruised
ribs, got awkwardly to his feet and hobbled to the wing chair.

“You could … have helped,” he said to Fraser.

“Ye managed brawly on your own,” Fraser assured him gravely, and to
his mortification, Grey found that this word of praise gratified him
exceedingly. He coughed and wiped his nose gingerly on his sleeve,
leaving a long streak of blood.

<snip>

Grey thought briefly of inquiring whether there was more than one
sort of flapdoodle and, if so, what the categories might be, but thought
better of it and ignored the question as rhetorical. Before he could
formulate another question, he noticed that Fraser was calmly engaged
in going through the piles of paper on the desk.

“Put those down!” Twelvetrees barked, staggering to his feet. “Stop
that at once!”

Fraser glanced up at him and raised one thick red brow.

“How d’ye mean to stop me?”

<snip>

Jamie was collecting the half-charred bits of paper he had saved from
the fire, handling each with ginger care, but looked up at this, glancing
from Twelvetrees to Grey.

“D’ye want me to search the house?”

Grey’s eyes were on Twelvetrees, and he saw the man’s nostrils flare,
his lips compress in disgust—but there was no hint of agitation or fear in
his red-rimmed eyes.

“No,” Jamie said, echoing Grey’s thoughts. “He’s right; he’s carried it
away already.”

“You’re quite good at this business of outlawry,” Grey said dryly.

“Aye, well. I’ve had practice.” The Scot had a small collection of
singed papers in his hand. He carefully pulled one free and handed it to
Grey.

“I think this is the only one that might be of interest, my lord.”

It was written in a different hand, but Grey recognized the sheet at
once. It was the Wild Hunt poem—and he did wonder where the devil
the rest of it was; why only this one page?—much singed and smeared
with ash.

“Why—” he began, but then, seeing Fraser jerk his chin upward,
turned the paper over. He heard Twelvetrees’s breath hiss in, but paid no
attention.

The Wild Hunt
Capt. Ronald Dougan
Wm. Scarry Spender
Robert Wilson Bishop
Fordham O’Toole
Èamonn Ó Chriadha
Patrick Bannion Laverty

Grey whistled softly through his teeth. He knew none of the names on
the list but had a good idea what it was—an idea reinforced by the look
of fury on Twelvetrees’s face. He wouldn’t go back to Hal quite emptyhanded.

If he wasn’t mistaken, what he held in his hand was a list of
conspirators, almost certainly Irish Jacobites. Someone—had it been
Fraser or himself?—had suggested that the Wild Hunt poem was a
recognition signal, and he had wondered at the time, a signal for whom?
Here was the answer—or part of one. Men who did not know one
another personally would recognize others in their group by the showing
of the poem—on its face a bit of half-finished, innocuous verse, but in
reality a code, readable by those who held the key.

Fraser nodded casually toward Twelvetrees. “Is there anything ye
want me to beat out of him?”

Twelvetrees’s eyes sprang wide. Grey wanted to laugh, in spite of
everything, but didn’t.

“The temptation is considerable,” he said. “But I doubt the experiment
would prove productive. Just keep him there, if you would, while I have
a quick look round.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 29

THEY STRAGGLED INTO LONDON ON THE LATE MAIL COACH, unwashed, unshaven,
and smelling strongly of vomit. The channel crossing had again been
rough, and even Grey had been sick.

<snip>

They reached Argus House near sunset, and Minnie, hearing the noise
of their arrival, came hurrying down the stairs to greet them. A quick,
appalled glance at them having told her all she wanted to know, she
forbade them to speak, rang for footmen and chambermaids, and
ordered brandy and baths all round.

<snip>

Grey made his way down to the larger drawing room, where his nose
told him tea was being served. He heard the soft rumble of Jamie
Fraser’s voice, talking to Minnie, and found them cozily ensconced on
the blue settee; they looked up at his entrance with the slightly startled
air of conspirators.

<snip>

With this introduction, it proved easier than Grey had thought to lay
things out. This he did as succinctly as possible, referring to Fraser now
and then to provide details.

Hal’s lips twitched a bit at the part about Siverly’s attack upon Jamie
Fraser, but he sobered immediately upon hearing of Grey’s two visits to
Siverly’s estate.

<snip>

“You going to black your face and follow him yourself? Or did you
have in mind setting Mr. Fraser on him? Neither of you is what I’d call
inconspicuous.”

<snip>

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Grey said. From the corner of his
eye, he could see Jamie Fraser examining a crumpet as though he’d
never seen one before, lips tight. Jamie Fraser was the only person in the
world—besides Percy—who knew the truth of Grey’s relationship with
his stepbrother.

<snip>

“Minnie, my dear,” he said affectionately. “You are a pearl of great
price.”

“Well, yes,” she said modestly. “I am. Captain Fraser, would you care
for more tea?”

<snip>

THOMAS, COMTE DE LALLY, Baron de Tollendal, was lodged in a small private
house near Spitalfields. So much Jamie had discovered from the duchess,
who didn’t ask him why he required the information; nor did he ask her
why she wanted to know whether he had spoken with Edward
Twelvetrees and, if so, whether Twelvetrees had mentioned the name
Raphael Wattiswade.

He wondered briefly who Wattiswade was but made no inquiries of
Grey or Pardloe; if the duchess respected his confidence, he would
respect hers. He had asked her whether she had heard of Tobias Quinn;
she had not.

<snip>

The sun was high by the time he arrived; Pardloe had invited him to
make use of the Greys’ coach, but he didn’t want anyone knowing his
destination and so had walked halfway across London. They weren’t
bothering to follow him anymore; they were much too busy looking for
the members of the Wild Hunt. How long might he have before one of
those names led them to someone who would talk? He knocked at the
door.

<snip>

“I heard that you went to Ireland with Lord John Grey,” he remarked,
and sighed a little. “I haven’t seen it in many years. Is it still green, then,
and beautiful?”

<snip>

“It’s true that I was obliged to go wi’ his lordship,” Jamie said, “but I
had another companion, as well—one less official. D’ye recall Tobias
Quinn, by chance?”

<snip>

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 30

<snip>

Even with the documents filed, it would be nearly a month before the
court-martial was convened. Unable to bear the inactivity of waiting,
Grey invited Jamie Fraser to go with him to a race meeting at
Newmarket. Returning two days later, they stopped at the Beefsteak,
where they took rooms, intending to dine and change before going on to
a play in the evening.

By unspoken mutual consent, they had avoided any reference to
Ireland, Siverly, Twelvetrees, court-martials, or poetry. Fraser was quiet,
occasionally withdrawn—but he relaxed in the presence of horses, and
Grey felt a small relaxation of his own tension in seeing it. He had
arranged for Jamie’s parole at Helwater because of the horses and the
relative degree of freedom, and while he could not deceive himself that
Jamie was content as a prisoner, at least he had some hope that he was
not completely unhappy.

Am I right to treat him thus? he wondered, watching Fraser’s broad back
as the Scot preceded him from the dining room. Will it give him something
to remember, to recollect with pleasure when he goes back—or only increase
the bitterness of his position? God, I wish I knew.

But then … there was the possibility of freedom. He felt his stomach
knot at the thought but wasn’t sure whether it was from fear that Fraser
would gain his freedom—or that he wouldn’t. Hal had certainly
mentioned it as a possibility, but if there proved to be a fresh Jacobite
plot, the country would be swept up once more in fear and hysteria; it
would be nearly impossible to have Fraser pardoned in such
circumstances.

<snip>

“Your servant, sir,” he said. He felt Jamie come up behind him and
saw Twelvetrees’s eyes narrow at sight of the Scot.

“And you.” Twelvetrees shook his head, as though so appalled that he
could find no speech to address the situation. He turned his gaze upon
Grey again. “I wonder at it, sir. Indeed, I wonder at it. Who would bring
such as this fellow, this depraved Scotch creature, a convicted traitor”—
his voice rose a little on the word—“into the sacred precincts of this
club?” He was still holding his cue, clutching it like a quarterstaff.

“Captain Fraser is my particular friend, sir,” Grey said coldly.

Twelvetrees uttered a most unpleasant laugh.

“I daresay he is. A very close friend, I have heard.” The edge of his lip
lifted in a sneer.

“What do you imply, sir?” Fraser’s voice came from behind him, calm,
and so formal as almost to lack his usual accent. Twelvetrees’s hot eyes
left Grey, rising to Fraser’s face.

“Why, sir, since you are so civil as to inquire, I imply that this arsewipe
is your”—he hesitated for an instant, and then said, elaborately
sardonic—“not merely your most particular friend. For surely only the
loyalty of a bedfellow can have led him to do your bidding.”

Grey felt a ringing in his ears, like the aftereffects of cannon fire. He
was dimly conscious of thoughts pinging off the inside of his skull like
the shards of an exploding grenade, even as he shifted his weight: He’s
trying to goad you, does he want to provoke a fight—he’ll bloody get one!—
or does he want a challenge, if so, why not give one? Because he wants to
look the aggrieved party? He’s just called me a sodomite in public, he means
to discredit me, I’ll have to kill him. This last thought arrived
simultaneously with the flexing of his knees—and the grasp of Tarleton’s
fingers on his arm.

“Gentlemen!” Tarleton was shocked but firm. “Surely you cannot
mean such things as your conversation might suggest. I say you should
command your passions for the moment, go and have a cooling drink,
take sober thought, perhaps sleep on the matter. I am sure that in the
morning—”

Grey wrenched his arm free.

“You bloody murderer!” he said. “I’ll—”

“You’ll what? Fucking sodomite!” Twelvetrees’s hands were clenched
on the cue stick, his knuckles white.

A much bigger hand came down on Grey’s shoulder and dragged him
out of the way. Fraser stepped in front of him, reached across the corner
of the table, and plucked the cue out of Twelvetrees’s hands as though it
were a broomstraw. He took it in his hands and, with a visible effort,
broke it neatly in two and laid the pieces on the table.

“Do you call me traitor, sir?” he said politely to Twelvetrees. “I take
no offense at this, for I stand convicted of that crime. But I say to you
that you are a greater traitor still.”

“You—what?” Twelvetrees looked mildly stunned.

“You speak of particular friends, sir. Your own most particular friend,
Major Siverly, faces a posthumous court-martial for corruption and
treason of a most heinous kind. And I say that you should be tried along
with him, for you have been partner to his crimes—and if justice is
served, doubtless you will be. And if the justice of the Almighty be
served, you will then join him in hell. I pray it may be swift.”
Tarleton made a small gobbling noise that Grey would have found
funny in other circumstances.

Twelvetrees stood stock-still, beady eyes a-bulge, and then his face
convulsed and he leapt upon the table, launching himself from it at
Jamie Fraser. Fraser dodged aside, and Twelvetrees struck him no more
than a glancing blow, falling to the floor at Grey’s feet.

He remained in a crumpled heap for a moment, panting heavily, then
rose slowly to his feet. No one tried to assist him.

He stood up, slowly straightened his clothing, and then walked toward
Fraser, who had withdrawn into the hall. He reached the Scotsman,
looked up as though gauging the distance, then, drawing back his arm,
slapped Fraser bare-handed across the face with a sound like a pistol
shot.

“Let your seconds call upon me, sir,” he said, in a voice little more
than a whisper.

The hall was full of men, emerged from smoking room, library, and
dining room at the sound of raised voices. They parted like the waves of
the Red Sea for Twelvetrees, who walked deliberately away, back
ramrod-straight and eyes fixed straight ahead.

Major Tarleton, with some presence of mind, had fished a
handkerchief out of his sleeve and handed it to Fraser, who was wiping
his face with it, Twelvetrees’s blow having been hard enough to make
his eyes water and slightly bloody his nose.

<snip>

“I cannot imagine what—” Tarleton swallowed, looking deeply
unhappy. “I cannot imagine what should have led the captain to speak in
such a—to say such—” He flung out his hands in total helplessness.
Fraser had regained his self-possession—well, in justice, Grey thought,
he’d never lost it—and now handed Tarleton back his handkerchief,
neatly folded.

“He spoke so in an effort to discredit Colonel Grey’s testimony,” he
said quietly—but audibly enough to be heard by everyone in the
hallway. “For what I said to him is the truth. He is a Jacobite traitor and
deeply involved, both in Siverly’s treason—and in his death.”

“Oh,” said Tarleton. He coughed and turned a helpless face on Grey,
who shrugged apologetically. The witnesses out in the hallway—for he
realized that this was what they were, what Fraser had intended them to
be—had begun to whisper and buzz among themselves.

“Your servant, sir,” Fraser said to Tarleton, and bowing politely he
turned and went out. He didn’t go toward the front door, as Twelvetrees
had, but rather toward the stairway, which he ascended in apparent
unawareness of the many eyes fixed on his broad back.

<snip>

What the devil made him do it? was the refrain that pulsed in Grey’s
temples, along with the brandy. He didn’t mean Twelvetrees, though he
wondered that, as well; he meant James Fraser. He wanted urgently to
go find out but made himself sit until the bottle was empty and the
conversation had turned to other things.

Only until they get outside, he thought. The news would spread like ink
on white linen—and be just as impossible to eradicate. He stood up,
wondering vaguely what he’d tell Hal, took his leave of Tarleton and the
remaining company, and walked—very steadily, concentrating—up the
stairs to the bedrooms.

The door to Fraser’s room stood open, and a male servant—the
Beefsteak employed no chambermaids—knelt on the hearth, sweeping
out the ashes. The room was otherwise empty.

“Where is Mr. Fraser?” he asked, putting a hand on the doorjamb and
looking carefully from corner to corner of the room, lest he might have
overlooked a large Scotsman somewhere among the furnishings.
“ ’E’s gone out, sir,” said the servant, scrambling to his feet and
bowing respectfully. “ ’E didn’t say where.”

“Thank you,” Grey said after a pause, and walked—a little less steadily
—to his own room, where he carefully shut the door, lay on his bed, and
fell asleep.



I CALLED HIM a murderer.

That was the thought in his mind when he woke an hour later. I called
him a murderer, he called me a sodomite … and yet it’s Fraser he called out.
Why?

Because Fraser accused him, point-blank and publicly, of treason. He
had to challenge that; he couldn’t let the statement stand. An accusation
of murder might be mere insult, but not an accusation of treason. And
particularly not if there was any truth in it.

Of course. He’d known that, really. What he didn’t know was what
had possessed Fraser to make the accusation now, and in such a public
manner.

<snip>

He can’t have done it for me. The thought carried some regret; he
wished it were true. But he was realist enough to know that Fraser
wouldn’t have gone to such lengths merely to distract attention from
Twelvetrees’s accusation of sodomy, no matter what he personally
thought of Grey at the moment—and Grey didn’t even know that.

He realized that he was unlikely to divine Fraser’s motives without
asking the man. And he was reasonably sure where Fraser had gone;
there weren’t many places he could go, in all justice.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 31

FRASER HAD, AS GREY THOUGHT, GONE BACK TO ARGUS House. When he arrived
himself, Grey had barely ascertained as much from Nasonby when Hal
came storming up the steps behind him, his tempestuous entrance nearly
jerking the door from the butler’s grasp.

“Where is that bloody Scotchman?” he demanded, dividing a glare
between Grey and Nasonby.

That was fast, Grey thought. News of what had happened at the
Beefsteak had clearly spread through the coffeehouses and clubs of
London within hours.

“Here, Your Grace,” said a deep, cold voice, and Jamie Fraser emerged
from the library, Edmund Burke’s A Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin
of Our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful in his hand. “Did you wish to
speak with me?”

Grey had a moment’s relief that Fraser had finished the collected
disputations of Marcus Tullius Cicero; Burke would make much less of a
dent in Hal’s skull if it came to blows—which looked likely at the
moment.

“Yes, I bloody wish to speak with you! Come in here! You, too!” He
turned to glower at Grey, including him in this command, then swept
past Fraser into the library.

Jamie walked across the room and sat down deliberately, looking
coolly at Hal. The door had barely closed behind them when Hal swung
round to face Fraser, face livid with shock and fury.

“What have you done?” Hal was making an effort to control himself,
but his right hand was flexing, closing and unclosing, as though he were
keeping himself with an effort from hitting something. “You knew what I
—what we”—he corrected himself, with a brief nod at Grey—“intended.
We have done you the honor of including you in all our counsels, and
this is how you repay—”

He stopped abruptly, because Fraser had risen to his feet. Fast. He
took a quick step toward Hal, and Hal, by pure reflex, took a step back.
His face was flushed now, but his color was nothing to Fraser’s.

“Honor,” Fraser said, and his voice shook with fury. “You dare speak
to me of honor?”

“I—”

A large fist crashed down on the table, and all the ornaments rattled.
The bud vase fell over.

“Be still! Ye seize a man who is your captive—and your captive by
honor alone, sir, for believe me, if I had none, I should have been in
France these four years past! Seize and compel him by threat to do your
bidding, and by that bidding to betray ancient comrades, to forswear
vows, betray friendship and loyalty, to become your very
creature … and ye think ye do me honor to count me an Englishman!?”

The air seemed to shiver with the force of his words. No one spoke for
a long moment, and there was no sound save the drip of water from the
fallen vase, dropping from the edge of the table.

“Why, then?” Grey said quietly, at last.

Fraser rounded on him, dangerous—and beautiful—as a red stag at
bay, and Grey felt his heart seize in his chest.

Fraser’s own chest heaved visibly, as he sought to control his
emotions.

“Why,” he repeated, and it was not a question, but the preface to a
statement. He closed his eyes for an instant, then opened them, fixing
them on Grey with great intensity.

“Because what I said of Twelvetrees is true. With Siverly dead, he
holds the finances of the rising in his hands. He must not be allowed to
act. Must not.”

“The rising?” Hal had subsided into his chair as Fraser spoke but now
sprang to his feet. “There is a rising, then? You know this for a fact?”
Fraser spared him a single glance of contempt.

“I know it.” And in a few words, he laid the plan before them: Quinn’s
acquisition of the Druid king’s cup, the involvement of the Irish
regiments, and the Wild Hunt’s plan. His voice shook with some strong
emotion at moments in the telling; Grey could not tell whether it was
rage at them or fear at the enormity of what he said. Perhaps it was
sorrow.

He seemed to have stopped speaking, letting his head fall forward. But
then he drew a deep, trembling breath and looked up again.

“If I thought that there was the slightest chance of success,” he said, “I
should ha’ kept my own counsel. But there is not, and I know it. I canna
let it happen again.”

Grey heard the desolation in his voice and glanced briefly at Hal. Did
his brother know the enormity of what Fraser had just done? He doubted
it, though Hal’s face was intent, his eyes live as coals.

“A minute,” Hal said abruptly, and left the room. Grey heard him in
the hall, urgently summoning the footmen, sending them at once for
Harry Quarry and the other senior officers of the regiment. Calling for
his secretary.

“A note to the prime minister, Andrews,” Hal’s voice floated back from
the hallway, tense. “Ask if I may wait upon him this evening. A matter of
the greatest importance.”

A murmur from Andrews, a great rush of exodus, then a silence, and
Hal’s footsteps on the stairs.

“He’s gone to tell Minnie,” Grey said aloud, listening.

Fraser sat by the hearth, elbow on his knee and his head sunk upon
one hand. He didn’t answer or move.

After a few moments, Grey cleared his throat.

“Dinna speak to me,” Fraser said softly. “Not now.”




THEY SAT IN SILENCE for half an hour by the carriage clock on the
mantelpiece, which chimed the quarter in a small silver voice. The only
interruption was the entrance of the butler, coming in first to light the
candles, and then again, bringing a note for Grey. He opened this, read it
briefly, and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket, hearing Hal’s footsteps on
the stair, coming down.

His brother was pale when he came in and clearly excited, though
plainly in command of himself.

“Claret and biscuits, please, Nasonby,” he said to the butler, and
waited ’til the man had left before speaking further. Fraser had risen to
his feet when Hal came in—not out of respect, Grey thought, but only to
be ready for whatever bloody thing was coming next.

Hal folded his hands behind him and essayed a small smile, meant to
be cordial.

“As you point out, Mr. Fraser, you are not an Englishman,” Hal said.

Fraser gave him a blank stare, and the smile died aborning. Hal pressed
his lips together, breathed in through his nose, and went on.

“You are, however, a paroled prisoner of war, and my responsibility. I
must reluctantly forbid you to fight Twelvetrees. Much as I agree that
the man needs killing,” he added.

“Forbid me,” Fraser said, in a neutral tone. He stood looking at Hal as
he might have examined something found on the bottom of his shoe,
with a mix of curiosity and disgust.

“You cause me to betray my friends,” Jamie said, as reasonably as one
might lay out a geometric proof, “to betray my nation, my king, and
myself—and now you suppose that you will deprive me of my honor as a
man? I think not, sir.”

And, without another word, he strode out of the library, brushing past
a surprised Nasonby, coming in with the refreshments. The butler, nobly
concealing any response to current goings-on—he had worked for the
family for some time, after all—set down his tray and retired.

“That went well,” said Grey. “Minnie’s advice?” His brother gave him
a look of measured dislike.

“I didn’t need Minnie to tell me the sort of trouble that will happen if
this duel takes place.”

“You could stop him,” Grey observed, and poured claret into one of
the crystal cups, the wine dark red and fragrant.

Hal snorted.

“Could I? Yes, possibly—if I wanted to lock him up. Nothing else
would work.” He noticed the fallen bud vase and absently righted it,
picking up the small daisy it had held. “He has the choice of weapon.”
Hal frowned. “Sword, do you think? It’s surer than a pistol if you truly
mean to kill someone.”

Grey made no reply to this; Hal had killed Nathaniel Twelvetrees with
a pistol; he himself had killed Edwin Nicholls with a pistol much more
recently—though, granted, it had been sheer accident. Nonetheless, Hal
was technically right. Pistols were prone to misfire, and very few were
accurate at distances beyond a few feet.

“I don’t know how he is with a sword,” Hal went on, frowning, “but
I’ve seen the way he moves, and he’s got a six-inch reach on
Twelvetrees, at least.”

“To the best of my knowledge—which is reasonably good—he hasn’t
had any sort of weapon in his hands for the last seven or eight years. I
don’t doubt his reflexes”—a fleeting memory of Fraser’s catching him as
he fell on a dark Irish road, the scream of frogs and toads in his ears
—“but it’s you who is constantly prating on at me about the necessity of
practice, is it not?”

“I never prate,” Hal said, offended. He twiddled the daisy’s stem
between his fingers, shedding white petals on the rug. “If I let him fight
Twelvetrees and Twelvetrees kills him … that would cause trouble for
you, he being nominally under your protection as the officer in charge of
his parole.”

Grey felt a sudden clench in the belly. “I should not consider damage
to my reputation the worst result arising from that situation,” he said,
imagining—all too well—Jamie Fraser dying in some bleak dawn, his
pumping blood hot on Grey’s guilty hands. He took a gulp of wine, not
tasting it.

“Well, neither would I,” Hal admitted, putting down the tattered stem.
“I’d rather he wasn’t killed. I like the man, stubborn and contentious as
he is.”

“To say nothing of the fact that he has rendered us a signal service,”
Grey said, with a noticeable edge to his voice. “Have you any notion
what it cost him to tell us?”

Hal gave him a quick, hard look, but then glanced away and nodded.

“Yes, I have,” he said quietly. “You know the oath of loyalty that they
made the Jacobite prisoners swear—those who were allowed to live?”

“Of course I do,” Grey muttered, rolling the cup restlessly between his
palms. It had been his duty to administer that oath to incoming prisoners
at Ardsmuir.

May I never see my wife and children, father, mother, or relations. May I be killed in battle as a
coward and lie without Christian burial in a strange land, far from the graves of my forefathers

and kindred …

He could only thank God that Fraser had been in the prison already
for some time when Grey was appointed governor. He hadn’t had to hear
Jamie speak that oath or see the look on his face when he did so.

“You’re right,” Hal said, sighing deeply and reaching for a biscuit. “We
owe him. But if he should kill Twelvetrees—there’s no chance of it
stopping with a mere drawing of blood, I don’t suppose? No, of course
not.” He began to pace to and fro slowly, nibbling the biscuit.

“If he kills Twelvetrees, there’ll be the devil to pay and no pitch hot,
as the sailors say. Reginald Twelvetrees won’t rest until he’s got Fraser
imprisoned for life, if not hanged for murder. And we won’t fare much
better.” He grimaced and brushed biscuit crumbs from his fingers,
plainly reliving the scandal that had followed his duel with Nathaniel
Twelvetrees, twenty years before. This one would be worse, much worse,
with the Greys accused of failing to stop a prisoner under their control—
and if they were not openly accused of using Fraser as a pawn to
accomplish a private vengeance, certainly that would be said privately.

“We have used him. Badly,” Grey said, answering the thought, and his
brother grimaced again.

“Depends on how you look at the results,” Hal said, but his voice
lacked conviction.

Grey rose, stretching his back.

“No,” he said, and was surprised to find that he felt very calm. “No,
the results may justify it—but the means … I think we must admit the
means.”

Hal swung round to look at him, one brow raised. “And if we do?”

“Then you can’t stop him, if he’s decided to fight. Or not ‘can’t,’ ” Grey
corrected himself. “But you won’t. It’s his choice to make.”

Hal snorted a little, but didn’t disagree. “Do you think he does want
it?” he asked after a moment. “He intimates that he threw Twelvetrees’s
treason in his face publicly to stop his machinations before they could go
too far—and he certainly accomplished that much. But do you think he
foresaw that Twelvetrees would call him out? Well, yes, I suppose he
did,” Hal answered himself. “Twelvetrees couldn’t do otherwise. But
does Fraser want this duel?”

Grey saw what his brother was getting at and shook his head. “You
mean that we might be doing him a favor by preventing his fighting.
No.” He smiled affectionately at his brother and put down his cup. “It’s
simple, Hal. Put yourself in his place, and think what you’d do. He may
not be an Englishman, but his honor is equal to yours, and so is his
determination. I could not pay him a greater compliment.”

“Hmmph,” said Hal, and flushed a little. “Well. Had you better take
him to the salle des armes tomorrow, then? Give him a bit of practice
before he meets Twelvetrees? Supposing he does choose swords.”

<snip>

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 32

<snip>

He thought of that now and wondered briefly just what Jamie Fraser
would do, if made the recipient of some particularly florid sentiment of a
personal nature, with Grey safely out of neck-breaking range. The
thought made him grin. He caught sight of Tom’s shocked expression
and hastily erased the grin, replacing it with a grave look more suitable
to the occasion.

<snip>

He heard footsteps on the path behind him. Harry, no doubt. But it
wasn’t Harry who ducked his way under the rose-covered arch and came
toward him. His heart jumped; he felt it distinctly.

“What the devil are you doing here?” he blurted.

“I am your second.” Fraser spoke matter-of-factly, as though Grey
ought to have expected this. He was dressed soberly, in the borrowed
blue livery he had worn on his first night at Argus House, and wore a
sword. Where had he got that?

“You are? But how did you find out—”

“The duchess told me.”

“Oh. Well, she would, wouldn’t she?” He didn’t bother being annoyed
with Minnie for minding his business. “But Harry Quarry—”

“I spoke with Colonel Quarry. We agreed that I should have the honor
of seconding you.” Grey wondered for an instant whether “agreed” was a
euphemism for “knocked on the head,” as he couldn’t see Quarry
yielding his office with any grace. Still and all, he couldn’t help smiling
at Fraser, who gave him a small, formal inclination of the head.

He then reached into his pocket and withdrew a slip of paper, folded
once. “Your brother bade me give ye this.”

“Thank you.” He took the paper and put it into his bosom. There was
no need to open it; he knew what it said. Luck.—H.

Jamie Fraser looked across the field to where Twelvetrees stood with
his two companions, then looked soberly down at Grey. “He must not
live. Ye may trust me to see to that.”

“If he kills me, you mean,” Grey said. The electricity that ran in little
jolts through his veins had settled now to a fine constant hum. He could
hear his heartbeat, thumping in his ears, fast and strong. “I’m much
obliged to you, Mr. Fraser.”

To his astonishment, Fraser smiled at him.

“It will be my pleasure to avenge ye, my lord. If necessary.”

“Call me John,” he blurted. “Please.”

The Scot’s face went blank with his own astonishment. He cast down
his eyes for a moment, thinking. Then he put a hand solidly on Grey’s
shoulder and said something softly in the Gaelic, but in the midst of the
odd, sibilant words, Grey thought he heard his father’s name. Iain mac
Gerard … was that him?

The hand lifted, leaving the feel of its weight behind.

“What—” he said, but Fraser interrupted him.

“It is the blessing for a warrior going out. The blessing of Michael of
the Red Domain.” His eyes met Grey’s squarely, a darker blue than the
dawning sky. “May the grace of Michael Archangel strengthen your
arm … John.”




GREY SAID SOMETHING very obscene under his breath, and Jamie looked
sharply in the direction of his gaze, though he saw nothing more than
Edward Twelvetrees, already stripped to shirt and breeks, looking like a
chilled ferret without his wig, talking to an officer in uniform—
presumably his second—and a man whom Jamie supposed to be a
surgeon.

“It’s Dr. John Hunter,” Grey said, nodding at the surgeon, whom he
was regarding narrowly. “The Body-Snatcher himself.” He caught his
lower lip in his teeth for a moment, then turned to Jamie.

“If I’m killed, you take my body from the field. Take me home. Under
no circumstances let Dr. Hunter anywhere near me.”

“Surely he—”

“Yes, he bloody would. Without an instant’s hesitation. Swear you will
not let him touch me.”

Jamie gave Dr. Hunter a closer look, but the man didn’t look overtly
like a ghoul. He was short—a good four inches shorter than John Grey—
but very broad in the shoulder and plainly a vigorous man. He glanced
back at Grey, mentally envisioning Hunter tossing Grey’s limp body over
his shoulder and loping off with it. Grey caught and interpreted this
glance.

“Swear,” he said fiercely.

“I swear upon my hope of heaven.”

Grey drew breath and relaxed a little.

“Good.” He was pale, but his eyes were blazing and his face alert,
excited but not afraid. “You go and talk to Honey, then. That’s
Twelvetrees’s second, Captain Joseph Honey.”

Jamie nodded and strode toward the little group under the trees. He’d
fought two duels himself, but neither had been with seconds; he’d never
undertaken this office before, but Harry Quarry had given him a brief
instruction on his role:

“The seconds are meant to discuss the situation and see whether it can
be resolved without an actual fight—if the party of the first part will
withdraw or rephrase the insult, say, or the insulted party will agree to
some other form of redress. In this instance, I’d say the odds of it being
resolved without a fight are approximately three million to one, so don’t
strain yourself in the cause of diplomacy. If he happens to kill Grey
quickly, though, you’ll take care of him, won’t you?”

Captain Honey saw him coming and met him halfway. Honey was
young, perhaps in his early twenties, and much paler than either of the
combatants.

“Joseph Honey, your servant, sir,” he said, offering his hand. “I—I am
not sure what to say, really.”

“That makes the two of us,” Jamie assured him. “I take it Captain
Twelvetrees doesna intend to withdraw his assertion that Lord John is a
sodomite?”

The word made Captain Honey blush, and he looked down.

“Er … no. And I quite understand that your principal will not brook
the insult?”

“Certainly not,” Jamie said. “Ye wouldna expect it, would ye?”

“Oh, no!” Honey looked aghast at the suggestion. “But I did have to
ask.” He swallowed. “Well. Um … terms. Sabers—I see your principal is
suitably equipped; I’d brought an extra, just in case. At ten—oh, no, you
don’t do paces when it’s swords, naturally not … er … Will your
principal agree to first blood?”

Jamie smiled, but not in a friendly fashion.

“Would yours?”

“Worth a try, isn’t it?” Honey rallied bravely, looking up at Jamie. “If
Lord John would be willing—”

“He is not.”

Honey nodded, looking unhappy.

“Right. Well, then … there’s not much more to say, is there?” He
bowed to Jamie and turned away, but then turned back. “Oh—we have
brought a surgeon. He is of course at Lord John’s service, should that be
necessary.”

Jamie saw Honey’s eyes travel past him, and he glanced over his
shoulder to see Lord John, stripped to shirt and breeches, barefoot on
the wet grass, warming his muscles with a series of slashes and lunges
that, while not showy, clearly indicated that he knew how to use a
saber. Honey exhaled audibly.

“I dinna think ye’ll have to fight him,” Jamie said gently. He looked
toward the trees and saw Twelvetrees openly gauging him. Eyes meeting
the other man’s, Jamie very slowly stretched himself, displaying both
reach and confidence. Twelvetrees’s mouth quirked up at one corner,
acknowledging the information—but in no way disturbed at the
possibilities. Either he thought there was no chance of his having to fight
Jamie—or he thought he could win if he did. Jamie inclined his head in
a slight bow.

Grey had turned his back on Twelvetrees and was tossing the sword
lightly from hand to hand.

The weight of the saber felt good in his hand, solid, heavy. The freshly
sharpened edge glittered in the light; he could still smell the oil of the
sharpening stone; it made the hairs prickle agreeably down his arms.
Jamie walked back, to find that Harry Quarry had joined Lord John
and Tom Byrd. The colonel nodded at him.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he said, half-apologetically.

“Ye mean His Grace doesna quite trust me to give him a complete
report of the outcome—should that be necessary?”

“Partly that. Mostly—dammit, he’s my friend.”

Grey had barely registered Harry’s arrival, absorbed as he was in his
own preparations, but he heard that and smiled.

“Thank you, Harry.” He walked to his supporters, suffused with a
sudden overwhelming affection for the three of them. The lines of the
old folk song drifted through his mind: God send each noble man at his
end / Such hawks, such hounds, and such a friend. He wondered briefly
which was which and decided that Tom must be his faithful hound,
Harry of course the friend, and Jamie Fraser his hawk, untamed and
ferocious but there with him at the last—if that’s what it was, though in
all honesty he thought not.

<snip>

Jamie could see at a glance that both men were excellent swordsmen.
Neither one was concerned with showing away, though; this was deadly
business, and they set about each other with a concentrated ferocity,
seeking advantage. A flock of doves erupted out of the trees in an uproar
of wings, frightened by the noise.

It couldn’t last long. Jamie knew that. Most sword fights were decided
in a matter of minutes, and no one could keep up such effort with a
heavy saber for much more than a quarter hour. Yet he felt as though it
had already lasted much longer. Sweat crawled down his back, in spite
of the cool morning.

He was so attuned to the fight that he felt his own muscles twitch,
echoing the surge, the lunge, the gasp and grunt of effort, and his hands
were clenched at his sides, clenched so hard that the knuckles and joints
of his bad hand popped and grated.

Grey knew what he was about; he’d got a knee between Twelvetrees’s
thighs and a hand behind the other man’s neck, his sword hand held out
of the way as he grappled to bring Twelvetrees’s head down.

Twelvetrees was no novice, either, though, and pushed forward into
Grey’s hold rather than pulling back. Grey staggered, off balance for an
instant, and Twelvetrees broke loose and leapt back with a loud cry,
swiping at Grey.

Grey dodged back, too, but not quickly enough, and Jamie heard a
strangled cry of protest from his own throat as a line of red opened as if
by magic across the top of Grey’s leg, followed by a rapid curtain of
blood crawling down the cloth of his breeches.

<snip>

“Nothing will end this but death,” said Captain Honey. The young man
was white to the lips, and Jamie wondered briefly if he’d ever seen a
man killed before.

<snip>

And Grey’s saber rose fast and smooth, Grey rising after it, driving it
home, hard into the ferret’s belly. There was an inhuman noise, but
Jamie couldn’t tell which of them had made it. Grey let go of his sword
and sat down suddenly on the grass, looking surprised. He looked up and
smiled vaguely at Tom, then his eyes rolled up into his head and he fell
backward, sprawled on the wet grass, welling blood.

Oh … Jesus …

Twelvetrees was still standing, hands closed around the blade in his
belly, looking bemused. Dr. Hunter and Captain Honey were running
across the grass and reached him just as he fell, catching him between
them.

Jamie wondered briefly whether Twelvetrees had given Captain
Honey instructions regarding his body, but dismissed the thought as he
ran across the grass to his friend.

Take me … ho

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 33

“Well, actually, I meant to reproach you with sharing your insights
regarding my motives with Mr. Fraser, but as it is …”

“As it is, I was right about them?”

He shrugged, mouth too full of steak to answer.

“Of course I was,” she answered for him. “And as Mr. Fraser is no fool,
I doubt he needed telling. He did, however, ask me why I thought you’d
challenged Edward Twelvetrees. So I told him.”

“Where … um … where is Mr. Fraser at the moment?” he asked,
swallowing and reaching at once for a forkful of egg.

“I suppose he’s where he has been for the last three days, reading his
way through Hal’s library. And speaking of reading …” She lifted a small
stack of letters—which he hadn’t noticed, his whole attention being
focused on food—off the tray and deposited them on his stomach.



Chapter 34

Fraser was indeed sitting in a wing chair near the window, a plate of
biscuits and a decanter of sherry at his side, reading Robinson Crusoe. He
glanced up at the sound of Grey’s footsteps, and his eyebrows went up—
perhaps in surprise at seeing him up and about, or perhaps only in
astonishment at his banyan, which was silk, with green and purple
stripes.

“Are you not going to tell me that had the sword gone between my
ribs, I’d be dead? Everyone else does,” Grey remarked, lowering himself
gingerly into the matching wing chair.

Fraser looked faintly puzzled.

“I kent it hadna done that. Ye weren’t dead when I picked ye up.”

“You picked me up?”

“You asked me to, did ye not?” Fraser gave him a look of mild
exasperation. “Ye were bleeding like a stuck hog, but it wasna spurting
out, and I could feel ye breathing and your heart beating all right while I
carried ye back to the coach.”

“Oh. Thank you.” Dammit, couldn’t he have waited a few moments
longer to pass out?

To distract himself from pointless regret, he took a biscuit and asked,
“Have you spoken with my brother lately?”

“I have. Nay more than an hour ago.” He hesitated, a thumb stuck
inside the book to keep his place. “He offered me a sum of money. In
reward of my assistance, as he was pleased to put it.”

“Well deserved,” Grey said heartily, hoping that Hal hadn’t been an
ass about it.

“I told him it had the stink of blood money and I wouldna touch
it … but he pointed out that I hadna done what I’d done for money—and
that’s true enough. In fact, he said, he’d forced me to do it—which is not
entirely true, but I wasna disposed to argue the fine points—and that he
wished to recompense me for the inconvenience to which he had put
me.” He gave Grey a wry look. “I said I thought this a jesuitical piece o’
reasoning, but he replied that as I’m a Papist, he supposed I could have
no reasonable objection on those grounds.

“He also pointed out,” Fraser went on, “that I was under no obligation
to keep the money myself; he would be pleased to pay it out to anyone I
specified. And, after all, there were still folk who were under my
protection, were there not?”

Grey sent up a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Hal hadn’t been an ass.

“Indeed there are,” Grey said. “Who do you propose to help?”

Fraser narrowed his eyes a bit but had plainly been thinking about it.
“Well, there’s my sister and her husband. They’ve the six bairns—and
there are my tenants—” He caught himself, lips compressed for a
moment “Families who were my tenants,” he corrected.

“How many?” Grey asked, curious.

“Maybe forty families—maybe not so many now. But still …”

Hal must have come well up to scratch on the reward, Grey thought.
Grey didn’t wish to dwell on the matter. He coughed and rang the bell
for a footman to bring him a drink. His chances of getting anything
stronger than barley water in his bedroom were slim, and he wasn’t fond
of sherry.

“Returning to my brother,” he said, having given his order for brandy,
“I wondered whether he has said anything to you regarding the courtmartial
or the progress of … er … the, um, military operation.” The
arrest of the incriminated officers of the Irish Brigades, he meant.
The frown returned, this time troubled and somewhat fierce.

“He has,” Fraser replied shortly. “The court-martial is set for Friday.
He wished me to remain, in case my testimony is required.”

Grey was shaken; he hadn’t thought Hal would have Fraser testify. If
Jamie did, he would be a marked man. The testimony of a general courtmartial
became by law part of the public record of the Judge Advocate’s
court; it would be impossible to hide Fraser’s part in the investigation of
Siverly’s affairs or the revelation of Twelvetrees’s treachery. Even if
there were no direct linkage made to the quashing of the Irish Brigades’
plot, Jacobite sympathizers—and there were still many, even in London
—would draw conclusions. The Irish as a race were known to be
vengeful.

A lesser emotion was one of dismay at the thought that Hal might
send Fraser back to Helwater so quickly—though in justice there was no
reason to keep him in London. He’d done what Hal required of him,
however unwillingly.

Was that what Hal was thinking? That if Fraser testified, he could then
be quickly sent back to the remote countryside to resume a hidden life as
Alexander MacKenzie, safe from retribution?

“As to the … military operation …” The broad mouth compressed in a
brief grimace. “I believe it is satisfactory. I am naturally not in His
Grace’s entire confidence, but I heard Colonel Quarry telling him that
there had been several significant arrests made yesterday.”

“Ah,” Grey said, trying to sound neutral. The arrests couldn’t help but
cause Fraser pain, even though he had agreed with the necessity.

“Was … er … was Mr. Quinn’s name among them?”

“No.” Fraser looked disturbed at this. “Are they hunting Quinn?”

Grey shrugged a little and took a sip of his brandy. It burned
agreeably going down.

“They know his name, his involvement,” he said, a little hoarsely, and
cleared his throat. “And he is a loose cannon. He quite possibly knows
who some members of the Wild Hunt are. Do you not think he would
make an effort to warn them, if he knows they are exposed?”

“He would, aye.” Fraser rose suddenly and went to look out the
window, leaning on the frame, his face turned away.

“Do you know where he is?” Grey asked quietly, and Fraser shook his
head.

“I wouldna tell ye if I did,” he said, just as quietly. “But I don’t.”

“Would you warn him—if you could?” Grey asked. He oughtn’t, but
was possessed by curiosity.

“I would,” Fraser replied without hesitation. He turned round now and
looked down at Grey, expressionless. “He was once my friend.”
So was I, Grey thought, and took more brandy. Am I now again? But
not even the most exigent curiosity would make him ask.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 35

<major snippage>

There was a brief sigh, then big hands took him by the arms and lifted
him bodily to his feet.

“Come wi’ me,” Fraser said quietly. “Walk. It will be easier to say
what’s happened, walking.”

He opened his mouth to protest but hadn’t the strength to resist.
Fraser took his arm and propelled him firmly through the back gate.
There was a narrow lane there, wide enough for barrows and
tradesmen’s wagons, but at this hour of the day—it was late, he thought
dimly, the whole of the lane was in shadow—there were only a few
female servants loitering near the gates of the big houses, gossiping or
waiting to walk out with a young man. These glanced at the two men
sidelong but turned their heads away, lowering their voices as they
continued their conversations. He wished passionately that he was one
of those women, had a right still to engage in the ordinariness of life.

There was a lump in his throat, hard and round as a walnut. He didn’t
see how words would ever find their way past it. But Fraser kept hold of
his arm, guiding him out into the street, into Hyde Park.

<snip>

They’d made nearly half a circuit of the park before he found the first
words, Fraser walking patiently beside him, no longer holding his arm,
and he missed the touch … but the words came at last, at first disjointed,
reluctant, and then in a burst like a musket volley. He was surprised that
it could be said so briefly.

Fraser made a small sound, a sort of soft grunt, as though he’d been
punched in the belly, but then listened in silence. They walked for some
time after Grey had finished speaking.

“Kyrie, eleison,” Fraser said at last, very quietly. Lord, have mercy.

“Well enough for you,” Grey said without rancor. “It must help, to
think there is some ultimate sense to things.”

Fraser turned his head to look at him curiously.

“Do ye not think so? Whether ye call the ultimate cause—or the
ultimate effect, I suppose—God or merely Reason? I have heard ye speak
with admiration of logic and reason.”

“Where is the logic in this?” Grey burst out, flinging out his hands.

“Ye ken that as well as I do,” Fraser said rather sharply. “The logic of
duty, and what each man of us—you, me, and Edward Twelvetrees—
conceived that to be.”

“I—” Grey stopped, unable to formulate his thoughts coherently; there
were too many of them.

“Aye, we’re guilty of that man’s death—the two of us, and dinna think
I say so out of kindness. I ken well what ye mean—and what ye feel.”

Fraser stopped for a moment, turning to face Grey, his eyes intent. They
stood outside the house of the Earl of Prestwick; the lanterns had been
lit and the light fell through the wrought-iron bars of the fence, striping
them both.

“I accused him of treason in public, to stop him executing actions that
would have injured folk who are mine. He challenged me, to prevent
any suspicion attaching to him, so that he could carry out his schemes,
though they were not the schemes I—we—assumed him to have. You
then challenged him, to—” He halted suddenly and stared hard at Grey.

“Ostensibly,” he said, more slowly, “ye challenged him to preserve your
honor, to refute the slur of sodomy.” His lips compressed into a tight
line.

“Ostensibly,” Grey echoed. “Why the bloody hell else would I have
done it?”

Fraser’s eyes searched his face. Grey felt the touch of the other man’s
gaze, an odd sensation, but kept his own face composed. Or hoped he
did.

“Her Grace says that ye did it for the sake of your friendship with me,”
Fraser said at last, quietly. “And I am inclined to think her right.”

“Her Grace should mind her own bloody business.” Grey turned away
abruptly and began walking. Fraser caught him up within a pace or two,
bootheels muffled on the sandy path. Small forms darted in and out of
the scattered light from the lanterns of the big houses: children, mostly,
scavenging the piles of horse droppings left on the riding path.

Grey had noticed the nice distinction: “for the sake of your friendship
with me,” as opposed to the simpler—but far more threatening—“for me.”
He didn’t know if the distinction was Minnie’s or Fraser’s, but supposed
it didn’t matter. Both statements were true, and if Fraser preferred the
greater distance of the former, he was welcome to it.

“We are both guilty in his death,” Fraser repeated doggedly. “But so is
he.”

“How? He couldn’t have suffered your accusation without response.
And he couldn’t have told you, even privately, what the truth of his
position was.”

“He could,” Fraser corrected, “save that he saw it as his duty not to.”

Grey looked at him blankly. “Of course.”

Fraser turned his head away, but Grey thought he detected the
glimmer of a smile among the shadows. “You are an Englishman,” Fraser
said dryly. “So was he. And had he not tried to kill ye at the last—”

“He had to,” Grey interrupted. “His only other choice would have
been to ask me to yield—and he knew bloody well I wouldn’t.”

Fraser gave a cursory nod of acknowledgment. “Did I not say it was
logical?”

“You did. But …” He let his voice trail away. In the enormity of his
own regret, he hadn’t paused to think that what Fraser said was true: he
also had a share in Twelvetrees’s death—and therefore in the regret.

“Aye, but,” Fraser said with a sigh, “I would have done the same. But
ye’ve killed men before, and likely better men than Twelvetrees.”

“Quite possibly. But I killed them as—as enemies. From duty.” Would
it have come to this pass if not for Esmé and Nathaniel? Yes, likely it
would.

“Ye killed him as an enemy, did ye not? The fact that he wasna one in
fact is not your fault.”

“That is a very specious argument.”

“Doesna mean it’s not true.”

“Do you think you can argue me out of guilt? Out of horror and
melancholy?” Grey demanded, annoyed.

“I do, aye. It isna possible to feel urgent emotion and engage in
rational discourse at the same time.”

“Oh, yes, it is,” Grey began, with some warmth, but as it was that
unfortunate conversation in the stable at Helwater that would have
formed his prime example, he abandoned this tack. “Do you truly
consider all impassioned speech to be illogical? What about the bloody
Declaration of Arbroath?”

“A speech may be conceived in passion,” Fraser conceded, “but it’s
executed in cold blood, for the most part. The declaration was written—
or at least subscribed—by a number of men. They canna all have been in
the grip of passion when they did it.”

Grey actually laughed, though shortly, then shook his head.

“You are trying to distract me from the point at issue.”

“No,” said Fraser thoughtfully. “I think I am trying to lead ye to the
point at issue—which is that no matter how much a man may try to do
what is right, the outcome may not be one that he either foresees or
desires. And that’s grounds for regret—sometimes verra great regret,” he
added more softly, “but not for everlasting guilt. For it is there we must
throw ourselves on God’s mercy and hope to receive it.”

“And you speak from experience.” Grey had not meant this statement
to sound challenging, but it did, and Fraser exhaled strongly through his
long Scottish nose.

“I do,” he said, after a moment’s silence. He sighed. “When I was laird
of Lallybroch, one of my tenants came to ask my help. She was an auld
woman, concerned for one of her grandsons. His father beat him, she
said, and she was feart that he would kill the lad. Would I not take him
to be a stable-lad at my house?

“I said that I would. But when I spoke to the father, he’d have none of
it and reproached me for tryin’ to take his son away from him.” He
sighed again.

“I was young, and a fool. I struck him. In fact … I beat him, and he
yielded to me. I took the lad. Rabbie, his name was; Rabbie MacNab.”
Grey gave a small start, but said nothing.

“Well. Ronnie—that was the father’s name; he was Ronald MacNab,
and his son, Rabbie—betrayed me to the Watch, out of his fury and
bereavement, and I was arrested and taken to an English prison.
I … escaped …” He hesitated, as though wondering whether to say
more, but decided against it and went on. “But later, when I came back
to Lallybroch in the early days of the Rising, I found MacNab’s croft
burnt out, and him gone up in smoke and ashes on his own hearthstone.”

“I take it this was no accident?”

Fraser shook his head, the movement barely perceptible, as they were
passing under the great row of elms along the east side of the park.

“No,” he said softly. “My other tenants did it, for they kent well who
had betrayed me. They did what seemed right—their duty to me—as I
had done what seemed right and my duty as laird. And yet the end of it
was death, and nothing I intended.”

Their steps were soft, nearly shuffling as they walked more slowly.

“I take your point,” Grey said at last, quietly. “What became of the
boy? Rabbie?”

One large shoulder moved slightly.

“He lived in my house—he and his mother—during the Rising.
Afterward … my sister said he had made up his mind to go south, to see
if he might find work, for there was nothing left in the Highlands for a
young man, save the army, and that he wouldna do.”

Greatly daring, Grey touched Jamie’s arm, very gently.

“You said that a man cannot foresee the outcome of his actions, and
that’s true. But in this case, I can tell you one of yours.”

“What?” Fraser spoke sharply, whether from the touch or from Grey’s
words, but did not jerk away.

“Rabbie MacNab. I know what became of him. He is—or was, when
last I saw him—a London chairman and contemplating marriage.” He
forbore to tell Fraser that Rab’s intended was his acquaintance, Nessie,
not knowing whether a Scotch Catholic’s view of prostitution might be
similar to that of a Scotch Presbyterian, who tended in Grey’s experience
to be rather rigid and censorious about the pleasures of the flesh.

Fraser’s hand closed on his forearm, startling Grey considerably.

“Ye ken where he is?” Fraser’s voice showed his excitement. “Can ye
tell me where I might find him?”

Grey rummaged hastily through his scattered thoughts, trying to recall
where Agnes had said: My new house … The end o’ Brydges Street.… Mrs.
Donoghue …

“Yes,” he said, feeling his spirit rise a little. “I can find him for you,
I’m sure.”

“I—thank ye, my lord,” Jamie said abruptly.

“Don’t call me that.” John felt a little better but suddenly unutterably
tired. “If we share blood guilt and remorse for what we did to that
bastard Twelvetrees, you can for God’s sake call me by my Christian
name, can you not?”

Fraser paced in silence for a bit, thinking.

“I could,” he said slowly. “For now. But I shall go back to—to my
place, and it willna do then. I … should find it disagreeable to become
accustomed to such a degree of familiarity and then …” He made a
small, dismissive gesture.

“You needn’t go back,” Grey said, reckless. He had no power to
commute Fraser’s sentence nor pardon him and no business to suggest
such a thing—not without Hal’s assent. But he thought it could be done.

He’d shocked the Scot, he saw; Fraser drew a little away, even as they
walked together.

“I … am much obliged to your lordship for the thought,” he said at
last. His voice sounded queer, Grey thought, and wondered why.

“I … even if it should be possible … I—I do not wish to leave Helwater.”

Grey misunderstood for a moment and sought to reassure him. “I do
not mean you should be committed to prison again, nor even released to
a new parole in London. I mean, in light of your great service to—to the
government … it might be possible to arrange a pardon. You could
be … free.”

The word hung in the air between them, small and solid. Fraser drew
a long, tremulous breath, but when he spoke, his words were firm.

“I take your meaning, my lord. And I am truly very much obliged for
the kindness ye intend. But there is—I have … someone … at Helwater.
Someone for whose sake I must return.”

“Who?” Grey asked, very startled by this.

“Her name is Betty Mitchell. One of the lady’s maids.”

“Really,” Grey said blankly, then, coming to the realization that this
sounded very discourteous, hastened to make amends. “I—I congratulate
you.”

“Aye, well, ye needna do that just yet,” Fraser said. “I havena spoken
to her—formally, I mean. But there is … what ye might call an
understanding.”

Grey felt rather as though he’d stepped on a garden rake which had
leapt up and banged him on the nose. It was the last thing he would
have expected—not only in light of the social differences that must exist
between a lady’s maid and a laird (though a brief thought of Hal and
Minnie drifted through the back of his mind, together with a vision of
the scorched hearth rug), no matter how far the laird’s fortunes had
fallen, but in light of what Grey had always assumed to be Fraser’s very
exigent feelings toward his dead wife.

He knew the lady’s maid slightly, from his visits to Helwater, and
while she was a fine-looking young woman, she was distinctly … well,
common. Fraser’s first wife had been distinctly uncommon.

“Christ, Sassenach. I need ye.”

He felt shocked—and rather disapproving. He was more shocked still
to realize this and did his best to dismiss the feeling; it wasn’t his
business to be shocked, and even if it were … well, it had been a very
long time since Fraser’s wife had died, and he was a man. And an
honorable one. Better to marry than burn, they say, he thought cynically. I
wouldn’t know.

“I wish you every happiness,” he said, very formal. They had come to
a stop near the Alexandra Gate. The night air was soft, full of the scent
of tree sap and chimney smoke and the distant reeks of the city. He
realized with a lesser shock that he felt very hungry—and, with a
mingled sense of shame and resignation, that he was pleased to be alive.

They were more than late for supper.

“You’d best send for a tray,” Grey said, as they climbed the marble
steps. “I’ll have to tell Hal what Bowles said, but there’s no need for you
to be involved any further. In any of this.”

“Is there not?” Fraser looked at him, serious in the light of the lantern
that hung by the door. “Ye’ll be going to speak wi’ Reginald Twelvetrees,
will ye not?”

“Oh, yes.” The thought of that necessity had been pushed to the back
of his mind during the recent conversation but had not left him; it hung
like a weight suspended by a spider’s thread; Damocles’ sword.

“Tomorrow.”

“I’ll go with ye.” The Scotsman’s voice was quiet but firm.

Grey heaved a deep sigh and shook his head.

“No. I thank you … Mr. Fraser,” he said, and tried to smile at the
formality. “My brother will second me.”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 36

THE GREY BROTHERS WENT THE NEXT MORNING TO PAY their call on Reginald
Twelvetrees. They left, grim and silent, and came back the same way,
Grey going out to the conservatory, Hal to his den of papers, speaking to
no one.

Jamie had some sympathy for the Greys—and for the Twelvetrees
brothers, come to that—and, finding his favorite chair in the library,
took out his rosary and said a few decades for the eventual peace of all
souls concerned. There were, after all, many situations that simply had
to be handed over to God, as no human agency was capable of dealing
with them.

He found himself losing his place, though, distracted by his memory of
the Greys going off together, shoulder-to-shoulder, to face what must be
faced. And the thought of Reginald Twelvetrees, privately mourning two
lost brothers.

He had lost his own brother very young; Willie had been eleven when
he died of the smallpox—Jamie, six. He didn’t think of Willie much, but
the ache of his absence was always there, along with the other scars on
his heart left when someone was torn away. He envied the Greys their
possession of each other.

<snip>

Shéamais Mac Bhrian, the salutation read. The rest was in the Irish,
too, but was simple enough for him to understand:

For the love of God and Mary and Patrick, come to me now.

Tobias Mac Gréagair,
of the Quinns of Portkerry

At the bottom of the page was drawn a neat line with several boxes
perched atop it, and below it written “Civet Cat Alley.” One of the boxes
had an “X” marked through it.

An extraordinary feeling ran through him, a cold grue that fell over
him like an icy blanket. This wasn’t merely Quinn’s usual drama—still
less the intended mischief of his note denouncing Grey as a murderer.
The simplicity of it, plus the fact that Quinn had signed it with his
formal name, carried an undeniable urgency.

He was halfway down the stairs when he met Lord John, coming up.
“Where is Civet Cat Alley?” he asked abruptly. Grey blinked, glanced
at the paper in Jamie’s hand for an instant, then said, “In the Rookery—
the Irish quarter. I’ve been there. Shall I take you?”

“I—” He started to say that he would go alone, but he knew nothing of
London. If he went on foot, asking his way, it would take a great while.
And he had a deep certainty that there was not a great while to spare.

He was prey to the most profound anxiety. Was Quinn threatened with
imminent arrest? If so, he should certainly not take Grey to him,
but … Or it might be that the Jacobite plotters, learning that they were
betrayed, had decided that it was Quinn who had betrayed them. Oh,
Jesus. If that were the case—

Yet something in the dark cavern of his heart gave off a metallic echo,
a note of doom, small and inexorable as the chime of Grey’s pocket
watch. Ticking off the moments of Quinn’s life.

“Yes,” he said abruptly. “Now.”



<snip>

“Upstairs,” she said, affronted but frightened of his size and his
ferocity. “The fourth floor back. What are ye wantin’ wit’ him?” she
added in a bawl after him, but he was pounding up the stairs to what he
knew was there, leaving Grey to deal with the gathering crowd of
curious, half-hostile Irish who had followed the carriage through the
streets.

The door was unlocked and the room orderly and peaceful, save for
the blood.

Quinn had lain down on his bed, fully clothed save for his coat, which
was neatly folded at the foot of the bed, the checkered silk outermost.
He had not cut his throat but had turned back his cuff with great care
and cut his wrist, which dangled over the Cupán, set on the floor
beneath. The blood had overflowed and run red across the sloping floor
almost to the door, like an unfurled carpet laid for royalty. And neatly,
as neatly as a man could print with a finger dipped in his own blood, he
had written the word “TEIND” on the wall above his shabby cot. A tithe
to hell.

Jamie stood, trying not to breathe, though his chest heaved with the
need for air.

“May God rest his soul,” said Grey’s voice, quiet behind him. “Is that
it? The cup?”

Jamie nodded, unable to speak for the glut of grief and guilt that filled
him. Grey had come beside him, to look. He shook his head, gave a little
sigh, and, saying, “I’ll get Tom Byrd,” left Jamie alone.





Chapter 37

<snip>

Sole witness, sole mourner. He had told the Grey brothers that he
would come alone to Ireland to bury Quinn. They had looked at each
other, their faces reflecting the same thought, and had made neither
objection nor condition. They knew he would come back.

<snip>

He’d brought the cup, the Cupán Druid riogh. It lay wrapped in his
cloak, awaiting restoration. To whom? Beyond asking whether the cup
was the Cupán Druid riogh, Grey had never mentioned it again. Neither
had the abbot asked after it. Jamie realized that the thing was given into
his hands, to do with as he wished. The only thing he wished was to get
rid of it.

<snip>

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 38

THEY DIDN’T TALK MUCH ON THE WAY TO HELWATER. TOM was with them, of
course—but beyond that, there wasn’t much that could be said.
It was early autumn, but the weather had been foul. Pouring rain
turned the roads to mud, and wind lashed the leaves from the trees, so
they were either damp or soaked to the skin, plastered with mud, but
absurdly spangled with gaudy blots of red and gold. They came to each
inn at night shaken with cold, blue-lipped, and wanting nothing save
warmth and food.

They shared a room, never a bed. If there were not beds enough,
Jamie slept on the floor with Tom, wrapped in his cloak. John would
have liked to lie in the darkness, listening to them breathe, but fatigue
usually overwhelmed him the moment he lay down.

He felt almost as though he were escorting Jamie to his execution.
While Fraser would of course continue to live—in contentment, he
hoped—their arrival at Helwater would be the death of the relationship
that had grown up between them. They could no longer behave as
equals.

They would speak now and then, he supposed; they had, before. But it
would be the stiff, formal conversation of gaoler and prisoner. And
infrequent.

I’ll miss you, John thought, watching the back of Jamie’s head as the
Scot negotiated a plunging slope ahead of him, leaning far back in the
saddle, red plait swinging as the horse picked its way, slewing and
skittering through the mud. He wondered, a little wistfully, whether
Jamie would likewise miss their conversations—but knew better than to
dwell on the thought.

He clicked his tongue, and his horse began the last descent to
Helwater.

The drive was long and winding, but as they came into the last turn,
he saw several well-bundled figures taking the air on the lawn, all
women: Lady Dunsany and Isobel, and with them a couple of maidservants.
Peggy the nurse-maid, with William in her arms … and Betty
Mitchell.

Beside him, he felt Fraser stiffen, rising slightly in his saddle at the
sight. Grey’s heart contracted suddenly, feeling the Scot’s sudden surge
of eagerness.

His choice, he reminded himself silently, and followed his prisoner
back into captivity.

<snip>

Just now there were no birds visible save a small hawk circling below
the crest of the hill, alert for mice in the dead grass. There were tiny
figures coming out along the drive, though; two men, mounted—Lord
Dunsany and Lord John. He recognized the first by his stooped shoulders
and the way his head jutted forward, the second by his square, solid seat
and his easy, one-handed way with the reins.

“God be with ye, Englishman,” he said. Whatever John Grey had
thought of Jamie’s announcement that he meant to court Betty Mitchell
—Jamie grinned to himself at memory of Lord John’s face, comically
trying to suppress his astonishment in the name of courtesy—he’d
brought Jamie back to Helwater.

Grey would leave in a few days, he supposed. He wondered if they
would speak again before that happened, and, if so, how. The odd halffriendship
they had forged from necessity could not in justice be
forgotten—but neither could the resumption of their present positions
as, essentially, master and slave. Was there any ground that would let
them meet again as equals?

“A posse ad esse,” he muttered to himself. From possibility to actuality.
And, gathering up his leading rein, shouted, “Hup!” to the horses, and
they thundered happily down the hill toward home.



Once out of the drive, they took the lake road. It was muddy—Grey
had never known it not—and the churned earth showed numerous hoof
hollows slowly filling with water; a number of horses had passed this
way not long before. Grey felt the small spurt of excitement that he had
been experiencing whenever horses or stables were mentioned at
Helwater—a more or less hourly occurrence—though he knew that
encountering Jamie Fraser out with a horse was a long shot, there being
other grooms on the estate. Still, he couldn’t help a quick glance ahead.

<snip>

“No, no.” Dunsany waved him back into his saddle. “I wished to talk
with you, Lord John. Privately, you know.”

“Oh. Yes, of course,” he said, cautiously. “Er … about Fraser?”

Dunsany looked surprised, but then considered.

“Well, no. But since you mention him, do you wish to … make other
arrangements for him?”

Grey bit the inside of his cheek. “No,” he said carefully. “Not for the
present.”

Dunsany nodded, not seeming bothered at the prospect. “He’s a very
good groom,” he said. “The other servants don’t make things easy for
him—well, they wouldn’t, would they?—but he keeps much to himself.”
“He keeps much to himself.” Those casual words gave Grey a sudden
insight into Fraser’s life at Helwater—and a slight pang. Had he not kept
Fraser from transportation, he would have remained in the company of
the other Scots, would have had companionship.

If he hadn’t died of seasickness, he thought, and the pang faded, to be
replaced by another moment of insight. Was this the explanation for
Fraser’s decision to marry Betty Mitchell?

Grey knew Betty fairly well; she’d been Geneva Dunsany’s lady’s maid
since Geneva’s childhood and, with Geneva’s death, had become Isobel’s
maid. She was quick-witted, good-looking in a common way, and
seemed to be popular with the other servants. With her as wife, Jamie
would be much less strange to the Helwater servants, much more a part
of their community.

Little as Grey liked that idea, he had to admit that it was a sensible
way of dealing with isolation and loneliness. But—

<snip>

Only then did his interrupted chain of thought restring itself. Yes,
marrying Betty would make Jamie Fraser more comfortable at Helwater
—but he need not stay at Helwater; it had been his choice to return. So
it must in fact be Betty that drew him back.

“Well, bloody hell,” Grey muttered. “It’s his life.” He spurred up,
passing Dunsany on the road.

<snipping the rest of the chapter>

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 40

GREY SAW JAMIE NOW AND THEN, MOSTLY IN THE DISTANCE as he went about his
work. They had had no opportunity to speak, though—and he could not
seem to invent a pretext, let alone think what he might say if he found
one. He felt amazingly self-conscious, like a boy unable to say anything
to an attractive girl. He’d be blushing, next thing, he thought, disgusted
with himself.

Still, the fact remained that he really had nothing to say to Jamie
anymore—or Jamie to him. Well, not nothing, he corrected himself.
They’d always had a great deal to say to each other. But there was no
excuse for conversation now.

Three days before his scheduled departure, he rose in the morning
with the conviction that he must speak with Fraser, somehow. Not in the
stiff manner of an interview between paroled prisoner and officer of the
Crown—simply a few words, as man to man. If he could have that, he
could go back to London with an easy heart, knowing that sometime,
somewhere, there was the possibility that they might be friends again,
even if that time and place could not be here and now.

It was no good anticipating an unknown battle. He ate his breakfast
and told Tom to dress him for riding. Then he put on his hat and, heart
beating a little faster than usual, went down toward the stables.

He saw Jamie from a long way off; he couldn’t be mistaken for any
other man, even without the signal fire of his dark-red hair. He had it
tailed today, not plaited, and the ends fluttered against the white of his
shirt like tiny flames.

William was with him, trotting at his heels, chattering like a magpie.
Grey smiled to see him; the little boy was in his tiny breeches and a
loose shirt and looked a proper little horseman.

He hesitated for a moment, waiting to see what Fraser was about;
better if he did not interrupt the day’s work. But they were headed for
the paddock, and he followed them at a distance.

<snip>

The new groom took them gingerly, then opened the gate and went
into the paddock. Grey saw that his nervousness vanished as soon as he
was in with the horses; that was a good sign. Fraser seemed to think so,
too—he gave a small nod to himself and crossed his forearms on the top
rail, settling himself to watch.

Willie yanked at the side of Fraser’s breeches, obviously wanting to get
up and see. Rather than pick the boy up, though, Fraser nodded, bent,
and showed Willie how to put a foot up on the rail and then pull himself
up. With a large hand cupped under his bottom to supply a boost,
William made it to the upper rail and clung there, crowing with
pleasure. Fraser smiled at him and said something, then turned back to
watch how the groom was getting on.

Perfect. Grey could go and watch, too: nothing more natural.
He came up beside Fraser, nodded briefly to him, and leaned in his
turn on the fence. They watched in silence for a few moments; the new
man had successfully whistled the stallions in, shaking his bagful of oats,
and had slipped the halter rope around the neck of one of the young
horses. The others, finding the oats gone, shook their manes and frisked
away; the roped one tried to go with them and, displeased to find
himself tied, jerked back.

Grey watched with interest to see what the groom would do; he didn’t
pull on the rope but rather swarmed inward along it and, with a hand on
the stallion’s mane, was on his back in an instant. He turned his face
toward Fraser, flashing a grin, and Fraser laughed, turning up his thumb
in approval.

“Well done!” he called. “Take him round a few times, aye?”

“Well done!” Willie piped, and hopped up and down on the fence rail
like a sparrow.

Fraser put out a hand to touch the boy’s shoulder, and he quieted at
once. All three of them watched the groom take the horse barebacked
round the paddock, sticking in spite of all attempts to shake or rear,
until the stallion gave up and trotted peacefully along.

The sense of excitement ebbed to one of pleasant half attention. And,
quite suddenly, Grey knew what to say.

“Queen’s knight,” he said quietly. “To queen two.” It was, he knew, a
dangerous opening.

Fraser didn’t move, but Grey felt his sideways glance. After an
instant’s hesitation, he replied, “King’s knight to bishop two,” and Grey
felt his heart lighten. It was the answer to the Torremolinos Gambit, the
one he had used on that far-off, disastrous evening at Ardsmuir, when he
had first laid his hand on Jamie Fraser’s.

“Well done, well done, well done,” Willie was chanting softly to
himself. “Well done, well done, well done!”

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 41

<major snippage>

JOHN GREY WAS LYING in his bed, contentedly reading Mrs. Hagwood’s Love
in Excess; or, The Fatal Enquiry, when he heard a great rustling and
bumping in the corridor outside. Tom had gone to bed long since in the
servants’ attic, so Grey flung back the covers, reaching for his banyan.
He had barely got this on when there was a brief, imperative thump at
his door that shivered its boards, as though someone had kicked it.

Someone had.

He wrenched the door open and Jamie Fraser walked in, dripping wet
carrying someone wrapped in a blanket. Breathing heavily, he crossed
the room and deposited his burden on Grey’s rumpled bed with a grunt.
The burden let out a small squeak and clutched the blanket round itself.

“Isobel?” Grey glanced wildly at Fraser. “What’s happened? Is she
hurt?”

“You need to soothe her and put her back where she belongs,” Fraser
said, in very decent German. This startled Grey nearly as much as the
intrusion, though an instant’s thought supplied the explanation—Isobel
spoke French but not German.

“Jawohl,” he replied, giving Fraser a sideways look. He hadn’t known
Fraser spoke German, and a brief thought of Stephan von Namtzen
flashed through his mind. Christ, what might they have said to each
other in Fraser’s hearing? That didn’t matter now, though.

“What’s happened, my dear?”

Isobel was hunched on the edge of the bed, snuffling and hiccuping.
Her face was bloated and red, her blond hair loose, damp and tangled
about her shoulders. Grey sat down gingerly beside her and rubbed her
back gently.

“I’b ad idiot,” Isobel said thickly, and buried her face in her hands.

“She tried to elope with the lawyer—Wilberforce,” Jamie said in
English. “Her maid came and got me and I went after them.” Jamie
returned to German and acquainted Grey with the situation in a few
blunt sentences, including his intelligence regarding Wilberforce’s wife
and the precise situation in which he had found the lawyer and Isobel.

“The schwanzlutscher hadn’t penetrated her, but it was close enough to
give her a shock,” he said, looking down dispassionately on Isobel, who
was slumping with exhaustion, her head leaning on Grey’s shoulder as
he put his arm about her.

“Bastard,” Grey said. It was the same word in English and German,
and Isobel shuddered convulsively. “You’re safe, sweetheart,” he
murmured to her. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.” The wet
blanket had slipped off her shoulders and puddled round her, and he saw
with a pang that she was wearing a nightdress of sheer lawn, with
broderie Anglaise inserts and pale pink ribbon at the neck. She’d gone
prepared for her wedding night—only she hadn’t been prepared at all,
poor little creature.

“What did you do to the lawyer?” he asked Jamie in German. “You
didn’t kill him, did you?” It was pouring outside; he hoped he wouldn’t
have to go and hide Wilberforce’s body.

“Nein.” Fraser didn’t elaborate, but squatted in front of Isobel.

“No one knows,” he said to her softly, eyes intent on her face. “No one
needs to know. Ever.”

She didn’t want to look at him; Grey could feel her resistance. But
after a moment she lifted her head and nodded, her mouth compressed
to stop it trembling.

“I—thank you,” she blurted. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she
wasn’t sobbing or shivering anymore, and her body had begun to relax.

“It’s all right, lass,” Fraser said to her, still softly. He rose then and
went to the door, hesitating there. Grey patted Isobel’s hand and, leaving
her, came across to see Fraser out.

“If you can get her back to her room without being seen, Betty will
take care of her,” Jamie said to Grey in a low voice. And then in
German, “When she’s calm, tell her to forget it. She won’t, but I don’t
want her to feel that she is in my debt. It would be awkward for us
both.”

“She is, nonetheless. And she is an honorable woman. She’ll want to
repay you in some way. Let me think how best to handle it.”

“I am obliged.” Fraser spoke abstractedly, though, and his eyes were
still on Isobel. “There is … if she …” His gaze switched suddenly to
Grey’s face.

Jamie’s own face was rough with red stubble and lined with tiredness,
his eyes dark and bloodshot. Grey could see that the knuckles of his left
hand were swollen and the skin was broken; he’d likely punched
Wilberforce in the mouth.

She didn’t want to look at him; Grey could feel her resistance. But
after a moment she lifted her head and nodded, her mouth compressed
to stop it trembling.

“I—thank you,” she blurted. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she
wasn’t sobbing or shivering anymore, and her body had begun to relax.

“It’s all right, lass,” Fraser said to her, still softly. He rose then and
went to the door, hesitating there. Grey patted Isobel’s hand and, leaving
her, came across to see Fraser out.

“If you can get her back to her room without being seen, Betty will
take care of her,” Jamie said to Grey in a low voice. And then in
German, “When she’s calm, tell her to forget it. She won’t, but I don’t
want her to feel that she is in my debt. It would be awkward for us
both.”

“She is, nonetheless. And she is an honorable woman. She’ll want to
repay you in some way. Let me think how best to handle it.”

“I am obliged.” Fraser spoke abstractedly, though, and his eyes were
still on Isobel. “There is … if she …” His gaze switched suddenly to
Grey’s face.

Jamie’s own face was rough with red stubble and lined with tiredness,
his eyes dark and bloodshot. Grey could see that the knuckles of his left
hand were swollen and the skin was broken; he’d likely punched
Wilberforce in the mouth.

“There is a thing I want,” Fraser said, very low-voiced, still in German.

“But it cannot be blackmail or look like it in any way. If there were some
means to suggest it very tactfully …”

“I see your opinion of my diplomacy has improved. What is it that you
want?”

A brief smile touched Fraser’s face, though it vanished almost at once.

“The wee lad,” he said. “They make him wear a corset. I would like to
see him free of it.”

Grey was extremely surprised, but merely nodded.

“All right. I’ll see about it.”

“Not tonight,” Fraser said hastily. Isobel had collapsed with a little
sigh, her head on Grey’s pillow, feet trailing on the floor.

“No,” he agreed. “Not tonight.”

He closed the door quietly behind Fraser and went to deal with the
girl in his bed.

[broughps]

The Scottish Prisoner

Chapter 42

<snip>

Jamie was holding Grey’s gelding. He inclined his head respectfully
and stood back to allow Grey to mount by himself. As Grey put his hand
on the pommel, he heard a low Scots voice murmur in his ear:
“Queen’s rook to king eight. Check.”

Grey laughed out loud, a burst of exhilaration pushing aside his
disquiet.

“Ha,” he said, though without raising his voice. “Queen’s bishop to
knight four. Check. And mate, Mr … MacKenzie.”

<snip>

Chapter 43

<snip>

For all the lack of frankincense and priests saying Masses for the late
king’s soul, the ceremony was lavish enough to have pleased a cardinal.
The bishop had blundered badly through the prayers, but no one
noticed. Now the interminable anthem droned on and on, unmeasurably
tedious. Grey found himself wondering whether it sounded any better to
him than it would have to Jamie Fraser, with his inability to hear music.
Mere rhythmic noise, in either case. It wasn’t doing Hal any good; he
gave a stifled moan.

He pulled his thoughts hurriedly away from Fraser, moving a little
closer to Hal in case he fell over. His undisciplined thoughts promptly
veered to Percy Wainwright. He’d stood thus in church with Percy—his
new stepbrother—at the marriage of Grey’s mother to Percy’s stepfather.
Close enough that their hands had found each other, hidden in the full
skirts of their coats.

He didn’t want to think about Percy. Obligingly, his thoughts veered
straight back in the direction of Jamie Fraser.

Will you bloody go away? he thought irritably, and jerked his attention
firmly to the sight before him: people were crammed into every crevice
of the chapel, sitting on anything they could find. The white breath of
the crowd mingled with the smell of smoke from the torches in the nave.
If Hal did pass out, Grey thought, he wouldn’t fall down; there wasn’t
room. Nonetheless, he moved closer, his elbow brushing Hal’s.

<snip>

Father to son. And with that thought, all the disconnected,
fragmentary, scattered fancies in his brain dropped suddenly into a
single, vivid image: Jamie Fraser, seen from the back, looking over the
horses in the paddock at Helwater. And beside him, standing on a rail
and clinging to a higher one, William, Earl of Ellesmere. The alert cock
of their heads, the set of their shoulders, the wide stance—just the same.
If one had eyes to see, it was plain as the nose on the new king’s face.

And now a great sense of peace filled his soul, as the anthem at last
came to an end and a huge sigh filled the abbey. He remembered Jamie’s
face as they rode in to Helwater, alight as they saw the women on the
lawn—with William.

He’d suspected it when he’d found Fraser in the chapel with Geneva
Dunsany’s coffin, just before her funeral. But now he knew, beyond
doubt. Knew, too, why Fraser did not desire his freedom.

<snip>

Part of it was Charlie, of course, and the knowledge that he had not
failed his dead friend. Beyond that, though, was the knowledge that it
lay within his power to do something equally important for the living
one. He could keep James Fraser prisoner.

<snip>

[broughps]

A twofer today because this one is so short.

LJ and a Plague of Zombies

<snip>

He had lost one lover to death, another to betrayal.
The third…His lips tightened. Could you call a man
who would never touch you—would recoil from the
very thought of touching you—your lover? No. But at
the same time, what would you call a man whose
mind touched yours, whose prickly friendship was a
gift, whose character, whose very existence, helped
to define your own?

Not for the first time—and surely not for the last—
he wished briefly that Jamie Fraser were dead. It was
an automatic wish, though, at once dismissed from
mind. The colour of the jungle had died to ash, and
insects were beginning to whine past his ears.

<snip>

[broughps]

Voyager

Chapter 16 Continued.

By the middle of September, everything had been arranged. The pardon
had been procured; John Grey had brought it the day before. Jamie had a
small amount of money saved, enough for traveling expenses, and Lady
Dunsany had given him a decent horse. The only thing that remained was
to bid farewell to his acquaintances at Helwater—and Willie.

[broughps]

Since this all goes not only to Jamie and LJG's relationship but extends to all of the Grey and Fraser families. I'm adding the extra bits.

Voyager

Chapter 48

My mind followed the same dizzying lines my feet had traveled earlier,
seeing faces—faces contorted in anguish or smoothing slowly in the
slackness of death, but all of them looking at me. At me. I lifted my futile
hand and slammed it hard against the rail. I did it again, and again,
scarcely feeling the sting of the blows, in a frenzy of furious rage and
grief.

“Stop that!” a voice spoke behind me, and a hand seized my wrist,
preventing me from slapping the rail yet again.

“Let go!” I struggled, but his grip was too strong.

“Stop,” he said again, firmly. His other arm came around my waist, and
he pulled me back, away from the rail. “You mustn’t do that,” he said.
“You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I don’t bloody care!” I wrenched against his grasp, but then slumped,
defeated. What did it matter?

He let go of me then, and I turned to find myself facing a man I had
never seen before. He wasn’t a sailor; while his clothes were crumpled and
stale with long wear, they had originally been very fine; the dove-gray coat
and waistcoat had been tailored to flatter his slender frame, and the wilted
lace at his throat had come from Brussels.

“Who the hell are you?” I said in astonishment. I brushed at my wet
cheeks, sniffed, and made an instinctive effort to smooth down my hair. I
hoped the shadows hid my face.

He smiled slightly, and handed me a handkerchief, crumpled, but clean.

“My name is Grey,” he said, with a small, courtly bow. “I expect that
you must be the famous Mrs. Malcolm, whose heroism Captain Leonard
has been so strongly praising.” I grimaced at that, and he paused.

“I am sorry,” he said. “Have I said something amiss? My apologies,
Madame, I had no notion of offering you offense.” He looked anxious at
the thought, and I shook my head.

“It is not heroic to watch men die,” I said. My words were thick, and I
stopped to blow my nose. “I’m just here, that’s all. Thank you for the
handkerchief.” I hesitated, not wanting to hand the used handkerchief back
to him, but not wanting simply to pocket it, either. He solved the dilemma
with a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Might I do anything else for you?” He hesitated, irresolute. “A cup of
water? Some brandy, perhaps?” He fumbled in his coat, drawing out a
small silver pocket flask engraved with a coat of arms, which he offered to
me.

I took it, with a nod of thanks, and took a swallow deep enough to make
me cough. It burned down the back of my throat, but I sipped again, more
cautiously this time, and felt it warm me, easing and strengthening. I
breathed deeply and drank again. It helped.

“Thank you,” I said, a little hoarsely, handing back the flask. That
seemed somewhat abrupt, and I added, “I’d forgotten that brandy is good
to drink; I’ve been using it to wash people in the sickbay.” The statement
brought back the events of the day to me with crushing vividness, and I
sagged back onto the powder box where I had been sitting.

“I take it the plague continues unabated?” he asked quietly. He stood in
front of me, the glow of a nearby lantern shining on his dark blond hair.

“Not unabated, no.” I closed my eyes, feeling unutterably bleak. “There
was only one new case today. There were four the day before, and six the
day before that.”

“That sounds hopeful,” he observed. “As though you are defeating the
disease.”

I shook my head slowly. It felt dense and heavy as one of the
cannonballs piled in the shallow bins by the guns.

“No. All we’re doing is to stop more men being infected. There isn’t a
bloody thing I can do for the ones who already have it.”

“Indeed.” He stooped and picked up one of my hands. Surprised, I let
him have it. He ran a thumb lightly over the blister where I had burned
myself scalding milk, and touched my knuckles, reddened and cracked
from the constant immersion in alcohol.

“You would appear to have been very active, Madame, for someone
who is doing nothing,” he said dryly.

“Of course I’m doing something!” I snapped, yanking my hand back. “It
doesn’t do any good!”

“I’m sure—” he began.

“It doesn’t!” I slammed my fist on the gun, the noiseless blow seeming
to symbolize the pain-filled futility of the day. “Do you know how many
men I lost today? Twenty-three! I’ve been on my feet since dawn, elbowdeep
in filth and vomit and my clothes stuck to me, and none of it’s been
any good! I couldn’t help! Do you hear me? I couldn’t help!”

His face was turned away, in shadow, but his shoulders were stiff.

“I hear you,” he said quietly. “You shame me, Madam. I had kept to my
cabin at the Captain’s orders, but I had no idea that the circumstances were
such as you describe, or I assure you that I should have come to help, in
spite of them.”

“Why?” I said blankly. “It isn’t your job.”

“Is it yours?” He swung around to face me, and I saw that he was
handsome, in his late thirties, perhaps, with sensitive, fine-cut features, and
large blue eyes, open in astonishment.

“Yes,” I said.

He studied my face for a moment, and his own expression changed,
fading from surprise to thoughtfulness.

“I see.”

“No, you don’t, but it doesn’t matter.” I pressed my fingertips hard
against my brow, in the spot Mr. Willoughby had shown me, to relieve
headache. “If the Captain means you to keep to your cabin, then you likely
should. There are enough hands to help in the sickbay; it’s just that…
nothing helps,” I ended, dropping my hands.

He walked over to the rail, a few feet away from me, and stood looking
out over the expanse of dark water, sparked here and there as a random
wave caught the starlight.

“I do see,” he repeated, as though talking to the waves. “I had thought
your distress due only to a woman’s natural compassion, but I see it is
something quite different.” He paused, hands gripping the rail, an
indistinct figure in the starlight.

“I have been a soldier, an officer,” he said. “I know what it is, to hold
men’s lives in your hand—and to lose them.”

I was quiet, and so was he. The usual shipboard sounds went on in the
distance, muted by night and the lack of men to make them. At last he
sighed and turned toward me again.

“What it comes to, I think, is the knowledge that you are not God.” He
paused, then added, softly, “And the very real regret that you cannot be.”

I sighed, feeling some of the tension drain out of me. The cool wind
lifted the weight of my hair from my neck, and the curling ends drifted
across my face, gentle as a touch.

“Yes,” I said.

He hesitated a moment, as though not knowing what to say next, then
bent, picked up my hand, and kissed it, very simply, without affectation.

“Good night, Mrs. Malcolm,” he said, and turned away, the sound of his
footsteps loud on the deck.

<snip>

“I beg yours,” I said, politely. “I only wanted to ask—who was the man
you were just talking to?”

“Oh, him?” Jones twisted about to look over his shoulder, but the aptly
named Mr. Grey had long since vanished. “Why, that’s Lord John Grey,
mum, him as is the new governor of Jamaica.” He frowned censoriously in
the direction taken by my acquaintance. “He ain’t supposed to be up here;
the Captain’s give strict orders he’s to stay safe below, out o’ harm’s way.
All we need’s to come into port with a dead political aboard, and there’ll
be the devil to pay, mum, savin’ your presence.”

[broughps]

Voyager

Chapter 57

<here a snip>

“They had to come here first,” I explained. “They were carrying a new
governor for the colony.” I felt an absurd urge to duck below the rail,
though I knew that even Jamie’s red hair would be indistinguishable at this
distance.

“Aye? I wonder who’s that?” Jamie spoke absently; we were no more
than an hour away from arrival at Jared’s plantation on Sugar Bay, and I
knew his mind was busy with plans for finding Young Ian.

“A chap named Grey,” I said, turning away from the rail. “Nice man; I
met him on the ship, just briefly.”

“Grey?” Startled, Jamie looked down at me. “Not Lord John Grey, by
chance?”

“Yes, that was his name? Why?” I glanced up at him, curious. He was
staring at the Porpoise with renewed interest.

“Why?” He heard me when I repeated the question a second time, and
glanced down at me, smiling. “Oh. It’s only that I ken Lord John; he’s a
friend of mine.”

“Really?” I was no more than mildly surprised. Jamie’s friends had once
included the French minister of finance and Charles Stuart, as well as
Scottish beggars and French pickpockets. I supposed it was not remarkable
that he should now count English aristocrats among his acquaintance, as
well as Highland smugglers and Irish seacooks.

“Well, that’s luck,” I said. “Or at least I suppose it is. Where do you
know Lord John from?”

“He was the Governor of Ardsmuir prison,” he replied, surprising me
after all. His eyes were still fixed on the Porpoise, narrowed in
speculation.

“And he’s a friend of yours?” I shook my head. “I’ll never understand
men.”

He turned and smiled at me, taking his attention at last from the English
ship.

“Well, friends are where ye find them, Sassenach,” he said. He squinted
toward the shore, shading his eyes with his hand. “Let us hope this Mrs.
Abernathy proves to be one.”

<there a snip>

There was my acquaintance from the Porpoise; Lord John’s blond hair
was hidden under a formal wig tonight, but I recognized the fine, clear
features and slight, muscular body at once. He stood a little apart from the
other dignitaries, alone. Rumor had it that his wife had refused to leave
England to accompany him to this posting.

He turned to greet me, his face fixed in an expression of formal
politeness. He looked, blinked, and then broke into a smile of
extraordinary warmth and pleasure.

“Mrs. Malcolm!” he exclaimed, seizing my hands. “I am vastly pleased
to see you!”

“The feeling is entirely mutual,” I said, smiling back at him. “I didn’t
know you were the Governor, last time we met. I’m afraid I was a bit
informal.”

He laughed, his face glowing with the light of the candles in the wall
sconces. Seen clearly in the light for the first time, I realized what a
remarkably handsome man he was.

“You might be thought to have had an excellent excuse,” he said. He
looked me over carefully. “May I say that you are in remarkable fine looks
this evening? Clearly the island air must agree with you somewhat more
than the miasmas of shipboard. I had hoped to meet you again before
leaving the Porpoise, but when I inquired for you, I was told by Mr.
Leonard that you were unwell. I trust you are entirely recovered?”

“Oh, entirely,” I told him, amused. Unwell, eh? Evidently Tom Leonard
was not about to admit to losing me overboard. I wondered whether he had
put my disappearance in the log.

“May I introduce my husband?” I turned to wave at Jamie, who had
been detained in animated conversation with the admiral, but who was
now advancing toward us, accompanied by Mr. Willoughby.

I turned back to find the Governor gone green as a gooseberry. He
stared from Jamie to me, and back again, pale as though confronted by
twin specters.

Jamie came to a stop beside me, and inclined his head graciously toward
the Governor.

“John,” he said softly. “It’s good to see ye, man.”

The Governor’s mouth opened and shut without making a sound.

“Let us make an opportunity to speak, a bit later,” Jamie murmured.
“But for now—my name is Etienne Alexandre.” He took my arm, and
bowed formally. “And may I have the pleasure to present to you my wife,
Claire?” he said aloud, shifting effortlessly into French.

“Claire?” The Governor looked wildly at me. “Claire?”

“Er, yes,” I said, hoping he wasn’t going to faint. He looked very much
as though he might, though I had no idea why the revelation of my
Christian name ought to affect him so strongly.

<everywhere a snip, snip>

Suddenly I saw Jamie’s tall figure, heading for a door on the far side of
the room, where I assumed the Governor’s private quarters to be. He must
be going to talk to Lord John now. Moved by curiosity, I decided to join
him.

The floor was by now so crowded that it was difficult to make my way
across it. By the time I reached the door through which Jamie had gone, he
had long since disappeared, but I pushed my way through.

I was in a long hallway, dimly lighted by candles in sconces, and
pierced at intervals by long casement windows, through which red light
from the torches on the terrace outside flickered, picking up the gleam of
metal from the decorations on the walls. These were largely military,
consisting of ornamental sprays of pistols, knives, shields and swords.
Lord John’s personal souvenirs? I wondered, or had they come with the
house?

Away from the clamor of the salon, it was remarkably quiet. I walked
down the hallway, my steps muffled by the long Turkey carpet that
covered the parquet.

There was an indistinguishable murmur of male voices ahead. I turned a
corner into a shorter corridor and saw a door ahead from which light
spilled—that must be the Governor’s private office. Inside, I heard Jamie’s
voice.

“Oh, God, John!” he said.

I stopped dead, halted much more by the tone of that voice than by the
words—it was broken with an emotion I had seldom heard from him.
Walking very quietly, I drew closer. Framed in the half-open door was
Jamie, head bowed as he pressed Lord John Grey tight in a fervent
embrace.

I stood still, completely incapable of movement or speech. As I
watched, they broke apart. Jamie’s back was turned to me, but Lord John
faced the hallway; he could have seen me easily, had he looked. He wasn’t
looking toward the hallway, though. He was staring at Jamie, and on his
face was a look of such naked hunger that the blood rushed to my own
cheeks when I saw it.

I dropped my fan. I saw the Governor’s head turn, startled at the sound.
Then I was running down the hall, back toward the salon, my heartbeat
drumming in my ears.

I shot through the door into the salon and came to a halt behind a potted
palm, heart pounding. The wrought-iron chandeliers were thick with
beeswax candles, and pine torches burned brightly on the walls, but even
so, the corners of the room were dark. I stood in the shadows, trembling.
My hands were cold, and I felt slightly sick. What in the name of God
was going on?

The Governor’s shock at learning that I was Jamie’s wife was now at
least partially explained; that one glimpse of unguarded, painful yearning
had told me exactly how matters stood on his side. Jamie was another
question altogether.

He was the Governor of Ardsmuir prison, he had said, casually. And
less casually, on another occasion, D’ye ken what men in prison do?
I did know, but I would have sworn on Brianna’s head that Jamie didn’t;
hadn’t, couldn’t, under any circumstances whatever. At least I would have
sworn that before tonight. I closed my eyes, chest heaving, and tried not to
think of what I had seen.

I couldn’t, of course. And yet, the more I thought of it, the more
impossible it seemed. The memories of Jack Randall might have faded
with the physical scars he had left, but I could not believe that they would
ever fade sufficiently for Jamie to tolerate the physical attentions of
another man, let alone to welcome them.

But if he knew Grey so intimately as to make what I had witnessed
plausible in the name of friendship alone, then why had he not told me of
him before? Why go to such lengths to see the man, as soon as he learned
that Grey was in Jamaica? My stomach dropped once more, and the
feeling of sickness returned. I wanted badly to sit down.

As I leaned against the wall, trembling in the shadows, the door to the
Governor’s quarters opened, and the Governor came out, returning to his
party. His face was flushed and his eyes shone. I could at that moment
easily have murdered him, had I anything more lethal than a hairpin to
hand.

The door opened again a few minutes later, and Jamie emerged, no more
than six feet away. His mask of cool reserve was in place, but I knew him
well enough to see the marks of a strong emotion under it. But while I
could see it, I couldn’t interpret it. Excitement? Apprehension? Fear and
joy mingled? Something else? I had simply never seen him look that way
before.

<Old MacDonald had a snip>

[broughps]

Voyager Chapter 59

<snip>

I sat looking at the Governor’s big desk. I could still see the two of
them, Jamie and Lord John, as though they had been painted on the wall
before me.

<another snip>

Did we? Did I know Jamie? I would have sworn I did, and yet…I kept
remembering what he had said to me at the brothel, during our first night
together. Will ye take me, and risk the man that I am, for the sake of the
man ye knew? I had thought then—and since—that there was not so much
difference between them. But if I were wrong?

“I’m not wrong!” I muttered, clutching my glass fiercely. “I’m not!” If
Jamie could take Lord John Grey as a lover, and hide it from me, he
wasn’t remotely the man I thought he was. There had to be some other
explanation.

<again with the snipping>

It was another hour before the door opened again, this time to admit the
Governor. He was still handsome and neat as a white camellia, but
definitely beginning to turn brown round the edges. I set the untouched
glass of brandy down and got to my feet to face him.

“Where is Jamie?”

“Still being questioned by Captain Jacobs, the militia commander.” He
sank into his chair, looking bemused. “I had no notion he spoke French so
remarkably well.”

“I don’t suppose you know him all that well,” I said, deliberately
baiting. What I wanted badly to know was just how well he did know
Jamie. He didn’t rise to it, though; merely took off his formal wig and laid
it aside, running a hand through his damp blond hair with relief.

“Can he keep up such an impersonation, do you think?” he asked,
frowning, and I realized that he was so occupied with thoughts of the
murder and of Jamie that he was paying little, if any, attention to me.

“Yes,” I said shortly. “Where do they have him?” I got up, heading for
the door.

“In the formal parlor,” he said. “But I don’t think you should—”
Not pausing to listen, I yanked open the door and poked my head into
the hall, then hastily drew it back and slammed the door.

<serious? more snippage?>

I looked frantically about the office for someplace to hide, but short of
crawling into the kneehole of the desk, there was no place at all. The
Governor was watching me, fair brows raised in astonishment.

“What—” he began, but I rounded on him, finger to my lips.

“Don’t give me away, if you value Jamie’s life!” I hissed
melodramatically, and so saying, flung myself onto the velvet love seat,
snatched up the damp towel and dropped it on my face, and—with a
superhuman effort of will—forced all my limbs to go limp.

I heard the door open, and the Admiral’s high, querulous voice.

“Lord John—” he began, and then evidently noticed my supine form,
for he broke off and resumed in a slightly lower voice, “Oh! I collect you
are engaged?”

“Not precisely engaged, Admiral, no.” Grey had fast reflexes, I would
say that for him; he sounded perfectly self-possessed, as though he were
quite used to being found in custody of unconscious females. “The lady
was overcome by the shock of discovering the body.”

“Oh!” said the Admiral again, this time dripping with sympathy. “I quite
see that. Beastly shock for a lady, to be sure.” He hesitated, then dropping
his voice to a sort of hoarse whisper, said, “D’you think she’s asleep?”

“I should think so,” the Governor assured him. “She’s had enough
brandy to fell a horse.” My fingers twitched, but I managed to lie still.

“Oh, quite. Best thing for shock, brandy.” The Admiral went on
whispering, sounding like a rusted hinge. “Meant to tell you I have sent to
Antigua for additional troops—quite at your disposal—guards, search the
town—if the militia don’t find the fellow first,” he added.

<What even more snippage?>

Then Lord John said “You can get up now, if you wish. I am supposing
that you are not in fact prostrate with shock,” he added, ironically.
“Somehow I suspect that a mere murder would not be sufficient to
discompose a woman who could deal single-handedly with a typhoid
epidemic.”

I removed the towel from my face and swung my feet off the chaise,
sitting up to face him. He was leaning on his desk, chin in his hands,
staring at me.

“There are shocks,” I said precisely, smoothing back my damp curls and
giving him an eyeball, “and then there are shocks. If you know what I
mean.”

He looked surprised; then a flicker of understanding came into his
expression. He reached into the drawer of his desk, and pulled out my fan,
white silk embroidered with violets.

“This is yours, I suppose? I found it in the corridor.” His mouth twisted
wryly as he looked at me. “I see. I suppose, then, you will have some
notion of how your appearance earlier this evening affected me.”

“I doubt it very much,” I said. My fingers were still icy, and I felt as
though I had swallowed some large, cold object that pressed
uncomfortably under my breastbone. I breathed deeply, trying to force it
down, to no avail. “You didn’t know that Jamie was married?”

He blinked, but not in time to keep me from seeing a small grimace of
pain, as though someone had struck him suddenly across the face.

“I knew he had been married,” he corrected. He dropped his hands,
fiddling aimlessly with the small objects that littered his desk. “He told me
—or gave me to understand, at least—that you were dead.”

Grey picked up a small silver paperweight, and turned it over and over
in his hands, eyes fixed on the gleaming surface. A large sapphire was set
in it, winking blue in the candlelight.

“Has he never mentioned me?” he asked softly. I wasn’t sure whether
the undertone in his voice was pain or anger. Despite myself, I felt some
small sense of pity for him.

“Yes, he did,” I said. “He said you were his friend.” He glanced up, the
fine-cut face lightening a bit.

“Did he?”

“You have to understand,” I said. “He—I—we were separated by the
war, the Rising. Each of us thought the other was dead. I found him again
only—my God, was it only four months ago?” I felt staggered, and not
only by the events of the evening. I felt as though I had lived several
lifetimes since the day I had opened the door of the printshop in
Edinburgh, to find A. Malcolm bending over his press.

The lines of stress in Grey’s face eased a little.

“I see,” he said slowly. “So—you have not seen him since—my God,
that’s twenty years!” He stared at me, dumbfounded. “And four months?
Why—how—” He shook his head, brushing away the questions.

“Well, that’s of no consequence just now. But he did not tell you—that
is—has he not told you about Willie?”

I stared at him blankly.

“Who’s Willie?”

Instead of explaining, he bent and opened the drawer of his desk. He
pulled out a small object and laid it on the desk, motioning me to come
closer.

It was a portrait, an oval miniature, set in a carved frame of some finegrained
dark wood. I looked at the face, and sat down abruptly, my knees
gone to water. I was only dimly aware of Grey’s face, floating above the
desk like a cloud on the horizon, as I picked up the miniature to look at it
more closely.

He might have been Bree’s brother, was my first thought. The second,
coming with the force of a blow to the solar plexus, was “My God in
heaven, he is Bree’s brother!”

There couldn’t be much doubt about it. The boy in the portrait was
perhaps nine or ten, with a childish tenderness still lingering about his
face, and his hair was a soft chestnut brown, not red. But the slanted blue
eyes looked out boldly over a straight nose a fraction of an inch too long,
and the high Viking cheekbones pressed tight against smooth skin. The tilt
of the head held the same confident carriage as that of the man who had
given him that face.

My hands trembled so violently that I nearly dropped it. I set it back on
the desk, but kept my hand over it, as though it might leap up and bite me.
Grey was watching me, not without sympathy.

“You didn’t know?” he said.

“Who—” My voice was hoarse with shock, and I had to stop and clear
my throat. “Who is his mother?”

Grey hesitated, eyeing me closely, then shrugged slightly.

“Was. She’s dead.”

“Who was she?” The ripples of shock were still spreading from an
epicenter in my stomach, making the crown of my head tingle and my toes
go numb, but at least my vocal cords were coming back under my control.
I could hear Jenny saying, He’s no the sort of man should sleep alone,
aye? Evidently he wasn’t.

“Her name was Geneva Dunsany,” Grey said. “My wife’s sister.”
My mind was reeling, in an effort to make sense of all this, and I
suppose I was less than tactful.

“Your wife?” I said, goggling at him. He flushed deeply and looked
away. If I had been in any doubt about the nature of the look I had seen
him give Jamie, I wasn’t any longer.

“I think you had better bloody well explain to me just what you have to
do with Jamie, and this Geneva, and this boy,” I said, picking up the
portrait once more.

He raised one brow, cool and reserved; he had been shocked, too, but
the shock was wearing off.

“I cannot see that I am under any particular obligation to do so,” he said.

I fought back the urge to rake my nails down his face, but the impulse
must have shown on my face, for he pushed back his chair and got his feet
under him, ready to move quickly. He eyed me warily across the expanse
of dark wood.

I took several deep breaths, unclenched my fists, and spoke as calmly as
I could.

“Right. You’re not. But I would appreciate it very much if you did. And
why did you show me the picture if you didn’t mean me to know?” I
added. “Since I know that much, I’ll certainly find out the rest from Jamie.
You might as well tell me your side of it now.” I glanced at the window;
the slice of sky that showed between the half-open shutters was still a
velvet black, with no sign of dawn. “There’s time.”

He breathed deeply, and laid down the paperweight. “I suppose there
is.” He jerked his head abruptly at the decanter. “Will you have brandy?”

“I will,” I said promptly, “and I strongly suggest you have some, too. I
expect you need it as much as I do.”

A slight smile showed briefly at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that a medical opinion, Mrs. Malcolm?” he asked dryly.

“Absolutely,” I said.

This small truce established, he sat back, rolling his beaker of brandy
slowly between his hands.

“You said Jamie mentioned me to you,” he said. I must have flinched
slightly at his use of Jamie’s name, for he frowned at me. “Would you
prefer that I referred to him by his surname?” he said, coldly. “I should
scarcely know which to use, under the circumstances.”

“No.” I waved it away, and took a sip of brandy. “Yes, he mentioned
you. He said you had been the Governor of the prison at Ardsmuir, and
that you were a friend—and that he could trust you,” I added reluctantly.
Possibly Jamie felt he could trust Lord John Grey, but I was not so
sanguine.

The smile this time was not quite so brief.

“I am glad to hear that,” Grey said softly. He looked down into the
amber liquid in his cup, swirling it gently to release its heady bouquet. He
took a sip, then set the cup down with decision.

“I met him at Ardsmuir, as he said,” he began. “And when the prison
was shut down and the other prisoners sold to indenture in America, I
arranged that Jamie should be paroled instead to a place in England, called
Helwater, owned by friends of my family.” He looked at me, hesitating,
then added simply, “I could not bear the thought of never seeing him
again, you see.”

In a few brief words, he acquainted me with the bare facts of Geneva’s
death and Willie’s birth.

“Was he in love with her?” I asked. The brandy was doing its bit to
warm my hands and feet, but it didn’t touch the large cold object in my
stomach.

“He has never spoken to me of Geneva,” Grey said. He gulped the last
of his brandy, coughed, and reached to pour another cup. It was only when
he finished this operation that he looked at me again, and added, “But I
doubt it, having known her.” His mouth twisted wryly.

“He never told me about Willie, either, but there was a certain amount
of gossip about Geneva and old Lord Ellesmere, and by the time the boy
was four or five, the resemblance made it quite clear who his father was—
to anyone who cared to look.” He took another deep swallow of brandy. “I
suspect that my mother-in-law knows, but of course she would never
breathe a word.”

“She wouldn’t?”

He stared at me over the rim of his cup.

“No, would you? If it were a choice of your only grandchild being either
the ninth Earl of Ellesmere, and heir to one of the wealthiest estates in
England, or the penniless bastard of a Scottish criminal?”

“I see.” I drank some more of my own brandy, trying to imagine Jamie
with a young English girl named Geneva—and succeeding all too well.

“Quite,” Grey said dryly. “Jamie saw, too. And very wisely arranged to
leave Helwater before it became obvious to everyone.”

“And that’s where you come back into the story, is it?” I asked.

He nodded, eyes closed. The Residence was quiet, though there was a
certain distant stir that made me aware that people were still about.
“That’s right,” he said. “Jamie gave the boy to me.”

The stable at Ellesmere was well-built; cozy in the winter, it was a
cool haven in summer. The big bay stallion flicked its ears lazily at a
passing fly, but stood stolidly content, enjoying the attentions of his
groom.

“Isobel is most displeased with you,” Grey said.

“Is she?” Jamie’s voice was indifferent. There was no need any
longer to worry about displeasing any of the Dunsanys.

“She said you had told Willie you were leaving, which upset him
dreadfully. He’s been howling all day.”

Jamie’s face was turned away, but Grey saw the faint tightening at
the side of his throat. He rocked backward, leaning against the stable
wall as he watched the curry comb come down and down and down in
hard, even strokes that left dark trails across the shimmering coat.

“Surely it would have been easier to say nothing to the boy?” Grey
said quietly.

“I suppose it would—for Lady Isobel.” Fraser turned to put up the
curry comb, and slapped a hand on the stallion’s rump in dismissal.

Grey thought there was an air of finality in the gesture; tomorrow
Jamie would be gone. He felt a slight thickening in his own throat,
but swallowed it. He rose and followed Fraser toward the door of the
stall.

“Jamie—” he said, putting his hand on Fraser’s shoulder. The
Scot swung round, his features hastily readjusting themselves, but not
fast enough to hide the misery in his eyes. He stood still, looking
down at the Englishman.

“You’re right to go,” Grey said. Alarm flared in Fraser’s eyes,
quickly supplanted by wariness.

“Am I?” he said.

“Anyone with half an eye could see it,” Grey said dryly. “If anyone
ever actually looked at a groom, someone would have noticed long
before now.” He glanced back at the bay stallion, and cocked one
brow. “Some sires stamp their get. I have the distinct impression that
any offspring of yours would be unmistakable.”

Jamie said nothing, but Grey fancied that he had grown a shade
paler than usual.

“Surely you can see—well, no, perhaps not,” he corrected himself,
“I don’t suppose you have a looking glass, have you?”

Jamie shook his head mechanically. “No,” he said absently. “I
shave in the reflection from the trough.” He drew in a deep breath,
and let it out slowly.

“Aye, well,” he said. He glanced toward the house, where the
French doors were standing open onto the lawn. Willie was
accustomed to play there after lunch on fine days.

Fraser turned to him with sudden decision. “Will ye walk with
me?” he said.

Not pausing for an answer, he set off past the stable, turning down
the lane that led from the paddock to the lower pasture. It was nearly
a quarter-mile before he came to a halt, in a sunny clearing by a
clump of willows, near the edge of the mere.

Grey found himself puffing slightly from the quick pace—too much
soft living in London, he chided himself. Fraser, of course, was not
even sweating, despite the warmth of the day.

Without preamble, turning to face Grey, he said, “I wish to ask a
favor of ye.” The slanted blue eyes were direct as the man himself.

“If you think I would tell anyone…” Grey began, then shook his
head. “Surely you don’t think I could do such a thing. After all, I have
known—or at least suspected—for some time.”

“No.” A faint smile lifted Jamie’s mouth. “No, I dinna think ye
would. But I would ask ye…”

“Yes,” Grey said promptly. The corner of Jamie’s mouth twitched.
“Ye dinna wish to know what it is first?”

“I should imagine that I know; you wish me to look out for Willie;
perhaps to send you word of his welfare.”

Jamie nodded.

“Aye, that’s it.” He glanced up the slope, to where the house lay
half-hidden in its nest of fiery maples. “It’s an imposition, maybe, to
ask ye to come all the way from London to see him now and then.”

“Not at all,” Grey interrupted. “I came this afternoon to give you
some news of my own; I am to be married.”

“Married?” The shock was plain on Fraser’s face. “To a
woman?”

“I think there are not many alternatives,” Grey replied dryly. “But
yes, since you ask, to a woman. To the Lady Isobel.”

“Christ, man! Ye canna do that!”

“I can,” Grey assured him. He grimaced. “I made trial of my
capacity in London; be assured that I shall make her an adequate
husband. You needn’t necessarily enjoy the act in order to perform it
—or perhaps you were aware of that?”

There was a small reflexive twitch at the corner of Jamie’s eye; not
quite a flinch, but enough for Grey to notice. Jamie opened his mouth,
then closed it again and shook his head, obviously thinking better of
what he had been about to say.

“Dunsany is growing too old to take a hand in the running of the
estate,” Grey pointed out. “Gordon is dead, and Isobel and her
mother cannot manage the place alone. Our families have known
each other for decades. It is an entirely suitable match.”

“Is it, then?” The sardonic skepticism in Jamie’s voice was clear.

Grey turned to him, fair skin flushing as he answered sharply.

“It is. There is more to a marriage than carnal love. A great deal
more.”

Fraser swung sharply away. He strode to the edge of the mere, and
stood, boots sunk in the reedy mud, looking over the ruffled waves for
some time. Grey waited patiently, taking the time to unribbon his hair
and reorder the thick blond mass.

At long last, Fraser came back, walking slowly, head down as
though still thinking. Face-to-face with Grey he looked up again.

“You are right,” he said quietly. “I have no right to think ill of you,
if ye mean no dishonor to the lady.”

“Certainly not,” Grey said. “Besides,” he added more cheerfully,
“it means I will be here permanently, to see to Willie.”

“You mean to resign your commission, then?” One copper
eyebrow flicked upward.

“Yes,” Grey said. He smiled, a little ruefully. “It will be a relief, in
a way. I was not meant for army life, I think.”

Fraser seemed to be thinking. “I should be…grateful, then,” he
said, “if you would stand as stepfather to—to my son.” He had likely
never spoken the word aloud before, and the sound of it seemed to
shock him. “I…would be obliged to you.” Jamie sounded as though
his collar were too tight, though in fact his shirt was open at the
throat. Grey looked curiously at him, and saw that his countenance
was slowly turning a dark and painful red.

“In return…If you want…I mean, I would be willing to…that is…”

Grey suppressed the sudden desire to laugh. He laid a light hand
on the big Scot’s arm, and saw Jamie brace himself not to flinch at
the touch.

“My dear Jamie,” he said, torn between laughter and
exasperation. “Are you actually offering me your body in payment for
my promise to look after Willie?”

Fraser’s face was red to the roots of his hair.

“Aye, I am,” he snapped, tight-lipped. “D’ye want it, or no?”

At this, Grey did laugh, in long gasping whoops, finally having to
sit down on the grassy bank in order to recover himself.

“Oh, dear God,” he said at last, wiping his eyes. “That I should
live to hear an offer like that!”

Fraser stood above him, looking down, the morning light
silhouetting him, lighting his hair in flames against the pale blue sky.
Grey thought he could see a slight twitch of the wide mouth in the
darkened face—humor, tempered with a profound relief.

“Ye dinna want me, then?”

Grey got to his feet, dusting the seat of his breeches. “I shall
probably want you to the day I die,” he said matter-of-factly. “But
tempted as I am—” He shook his head, brushing wet grass from his
hands.

“Do you really think that I would demand—or accept—any
payment for such a service?” he asked. “Really, I should feel my
honor most grossly insulted by that offer, save that I know the depth
of feeling which prompted it.”

“Aye, well,” Jamie muttered. “I didna mean to insult ye.”

Grey was not sure at this point whether to laugh or cry. Instead, he
reached a hand up and gently touched Jamie’s cheek, fading now to
its normal pale bronze. More quietly, he said, “Besides, you cannot
give me what you do not have.”

Grey felt, rather than saw, the slight relaxation of tension in the
tall body facing him.

“You shall have my friendship,” Jamie said softly, “if that has any
value to ye.”

“A very great value indeed.” The two men stood silent together for
a moment, then Grey sighed and turned to look up at the sun. “It’s
getting late. I suppose you will have a great many things to do
today?”

Jamie cleared his throat. “Aye, I have. I suppose I should be about
my business.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

Grey tugged down the points of his waistcoat, ready to go. But
Jamie lingered awkwardly a moment, and then, as though suddenly
making up his mind to it, stepped forward and bending down, cupped
Grey’s face between his hands.

Grey felt the big hands warm on the skin of his face, light and
strong as the brush of an eagle’s feather, and then Jamie Fraser’s
soft wide mouth touched his own. There was a fleeting impression of
tenderness and strength held in check, the faint taste of ale and freshbaked
bread. Then it was gone, and John Grey stood blinking in the
brilliant sun.

“Oh,” he said.

Jamie gave him a shy, crooked smile.

“Aye, well,” he said. “I suppose I’m maybe not poisoned.” He
turned then, and disappeared into the screen of willows, leaving Lord
John Grey alone by the mere.

The Governor was quiet for a moment. Then he looked up with a bleak
smile.

“That was the first time that he ever touched me willingly,” he said
quietly. “And the last—until this evening, when I gave him the other copy
of that miniature.”

I sat completely motionless, the brandy glass unregarded in my hands. I
wasn’t sure what I felt; shock, fury, horror, jealousy, and pity all washed
through me in successive waves, mingling in eddies of confused emotion.

A woman had been violently done to death nearby, within the last few
hours. And yet the scene in the retiring room seemed unreal by comparison
with that miniature; a small and unimportant picture, painted in tones of
red. For the moment, neither Lord John nor I was concerned with crime or
justice—or with anything beyond what lay between us.

The Governor was examining my face, with considerable absorption.

“I suppose I should have recognized you on the ship,” he said. “But of
course, at the time, I had thought you long dead.”

“Well, it was dark,” I said, rather stupidly. I shoved a hand through my
curls, feeling dizzy from brandy and sleeplessness. Then I realized what he
had said.

“Recognized me? But you’d never met me!”

He hesitated, then nodded.

“Do you recall a dark wood, near Carryarrick in the Scottish Highlands,
twenty years ago? And a young boy with a broken arm? You set it for me.”
He lifted one arm in demonstration.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ.” I picked up the brandy and took a swallow
that made me cough and gasp. I blinked at him, eyes watering. Knowing
now who he was, I could make out the fine, light bones and see the
slighter, softer outline of the boy he had been.

“Yours were the first woman’s breasts I had ever seen,” he said wryly.
“It was a considerable shock.”

“From which you appear to have recovered,” I said, rather coldly. “You
seem to have forgiven Jamie for breaking your arm and threatening to
shoot you, at least.”

He flushed slightly, and set down his beaker.

“I—well—yes,” he said, abruptly.

We sat there for quite some time, neither of us having any idea what to
say. He took a breath once or twice, as though about to say something, but
then abandoned it. At last, he closed his eyes as though commending his
soul to God, opened them and looked at me.

“Do you know—” he began, then stopped. He looked down at his
clenched hands, then, not at me. A blue stone winked on one knuckle,
bright as a teardrop.

“Do you know,” he said again, softly, addressing his hands, “what it is
to love someone, and never—never!—be able to give them peace, or joy,
or happiness?”

He looked up then, eyes filled with pain. “To know that you cannot give
them happiness, not through any fault of yours or theirs, but only because
you were not born the right person for them?”

I sat quiet, seeing not his, but another handsome face; dark, not fair. Not
feeling the warm breath of the tropical night, but the icy hand of a Boston
winter. Seeing the pulse of light like heart’s blood, spilling across the cold
snow of hospital linens.

…only because you were not born the right person for them.

“I know,” I whispered, hands clenched in my lap. I had told Frank—
Leave me. But he could not, no more than I could love him rightly, having
found my match elsewhere.

Oh, Frank, I said, silently. Forgive me.

“I suppose I am asking whether you believe in fate,” Lord John went on.
The ghost of a smile wavered on his face. “You, of all people, would seem
best suited to say.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?” I said bleakly. “But I don’t know, any
more than you.”

He shook his head, then reached out and picked up the miniature.

“I have been more fortunate than most, I suppose,” he said quietly.

“There was the one thing he would take from me.” His expression softened
as he looked down into the face of the boy in the palm of his hand. “And
he has given me something most precious in return.”

Without thinking, my hand spread out across my belly. Jamie had given
me that same precious gift—and at the same great cost to himself.

The sound of footsteps came down the hall, muffled by the carpet. There
was a sharp rap at the door, and a militiaman stuck his head into the office.
“Is the lady recovered yet?” he asked. “Captain Jacobs has finished his
questions, and Monsieur Alexandre’s carriage has returned.”
I got hastily to my feet.

“Yes, I’m fine.” I turned to the Governor, not knowing what to say to
him. “I—thank you for—that is—”

He bowed formally to me, coming around the desk to see me out.

“I regret extremely that you should have been subjected to such a
shocking experience, ma’am,” he said, with no trace of anything but
diplomatic regret in his voice. He had resumed his official manner, smooth
and polished as his parquet floors.

I followed the militiaman, but at the door I turned impulsively.

“When we met, that night aboard the Porpoise—I’m glad you didn’t
know who I was. I…liked you. Then.”

He stood for a second, polite, remote. Then the mask dropped away.

“I liked you, too,” he said quietly. “Then.”

<stop the snippage>

John Grey’s revelations had relieved me of most of my fears and doubts
—and yet there remained the fact that Jamie had not told me about his son.
Of course he had reasons—and good ones—for his secrecy, but did he not
think he could trust me to keep his secret? It occurred to me suddenly that
perhaps he had kept quiet because of the boy’s mother. Perhaps he had
loved her, in spite of Grey’s impressions.

<I give up more snippage>

[broughps]

Voyager

Chapter 60

He grimaced slightly, then glanced at me sidelong.

“I must ask John for help,” he said simply. “Must I not?”

I rode silently for a moment, then nodded in acquiescence.

“I suppose you’ll have to.” I didn’t like it, but it wasn’t a question of my
liking; it was Ian’s life. “One thing, though, Jamie—”



Chapter 62

“You can take the Governor’s pinnace; that’s small, but it’s seaworthy.”

Grey fumbled through the drawer of his desk. “I’ll write an order for the
dockers to hand it over to you.”

“Aye, we’ll need the boat—I canna risk the Artemis; as she’s Jared’s—
but I think we’d best steal it, John.” Jamie’s brows were drawn together in
a frown. “I wouldna have ye be involved wi’ me in any visible way, aye?
You’ll be having trouble enough with things, without that.”

Grey smiled unhappily. “Trouble? Yes, you might call it trouble, with
four plantation houses burnt, and over two hundred slaves gone—God
knows where! But I vastly doubt that anyone will take notice of my social
acquaintance, under the circumstances. Between fear of the Maroons and
fear of the Chinaman, the whole island is in such a panic that a mere
smuggler is the most negligible of trivialities.”

“It’s a great relief to me to be thought trivial,” Jamie said, very dryly.
“Still, we’ll steal the boat. And if we’re taken, ye’ve never heard my name
or seen my face, aye?”

Grey stared at him, a welter of emotions fighting for mastery of his
features, amusement, fear, and anger among them.

“Is that right?” he said at last. “Let you be taken, watch them hang you,
and keep quiet about it—for fear of smirching my reputation? For God’s
sake, Jamie, what do you take me for?”

Jamie’s mouth twitched slightly.

“For a friend, John,” he said. “And if I’ll take your friendship—and
your damned boat!—then you’ll take mine, and keep quiet. Aye?”

The Governor glared at him for a moment, lips pressed tight, but then
his shoulders sagged in defeat.

“I will,” he said shortly. “But I should regard it as a great personal favor
if you would endeavor not to be captured.”

Jamie rubbed a knuckle across his mouth, hiding a smile.

“I’ll try verra hard, John.”

The Governor sat down, wearily. There were deep circles under his
eyes, and his impeccable linen was wilted; obviously he had not changed
his clothes from the day before.

“All right. I don’t know where you’re going, and it’s likely better I
don’t. But if you can, keep out of the sealanes north of Antigua. I sent a
boat this morning, to ask for as many men as the barracks there can supply,
marines and sailors both. They’ll be heading this way by the day after
tomorrow at the latest, to guard the town and harbor against the escaped
Maroons in case of an outright rebellion.”

I caught Jamie’s eye, and raised one brow in question, but he shook his
head, almost imperceptibly. We had told the Governor of the uprising on
the Yallahs River, and the escape of the slaves—something he had heard
about from other sources, anyway. We had not told him what we had seen
later that night, lying to under cover of a tiny cove, sails taken down to
hide their whiteness.

<Just a wee bit of snippage>

Jamie rose to take our leave, but Grey stopped him.

“Wait. Will you not require a safe place for your—for Mrs. Fraser?” He
didn’t look at me, but at Jamie, eyes steady. “I should be honored if you
would entrust her to my protection. She could stay here, in the Residence,
until you return. No one would trouble her—or even need to know she was
here.”

Jamie hesitated, but there was no gentle way to phrase it.

“She must go with me, John,” he said. “There is no choice about it; she
must.”

Grey’s glance flickered to me, then away, but not before I had seen the
look of jealousy in his eyes. I felt sorry for him, but there was nothing I
could say; no way to tell him the truth.

“Yes,” he said, and swallowed noticeably. “I see. Quite.”

Jamie held out a hand to him. He hesitated for a moment, but then took
it.

“Good luck, Jamie,” he said, voice a little husky. “God go with you.”

<well darn that was a huge bit of snippage>

“Och, no.” He sighed and settled himself more comfortably. “I dinna
suppose he had much thought for what he did, or understood at all what
might be the end of it. And it would be foolish to hate a man for not giving
ye something he hasna got in the first place.” He opened his eyes then,
with a faint smile, and I knew he was thinking of John Grey.