IMDb Thread: Outlander Humor - possible spoilers

[Une Pensee]

I have the posts in the order they appeared in the thread. Only a few identify which book they're from so read and laugh at your own risk!

[broughps]

On Saturday, February 4, 2017 at 12:29:46 PM UTC-5, Une Pensee wrote:

I have the posts in the order they appeared in the thread. Only a few identify which book they're from so read and laugh at your own risk!

No pdf attached though it was when I cleared it. And why I should have to clear a post makes no sense to me. 

[Une Pensee]

Outlander:

Jamie appeared shortly, looking understandably bewildered. 

“Did you know that Dougal wants us to marry?” I demanded bluntly. 

His expression cleared. “Oh, aye. I knew that.” 

“But surely,” I said, “a young man like yourself; I mean, isn’t there 

anyone else you’re, ah, interested in?” He looked blank for a moment, then 

understanding dawned. 

“Oh, am I promised? Nay, I’m no much of a prospect for a girl.” He 

hurried on, as though feeling this might sound insulting. “I mean, I’ve no 

property to speak of, and nothing more than a soldier’s pay to live on.” 

He rubbed his chin, eyeing me dubiously. “Then there’s the minor 

difficulty that I’ve a price on my head. No father much wants his daughter 

married to a man as may be arrested and hanged any time. Did ye think of 

that?” 

I flapped my hand, dismissing the matter of outlawry as a minor 

consideration, compared to the whole monstrous idea. I had one last try. 

“Does it bother you that I’m not a virgin?” He hesitated a moment 

before answering. 

“Well, no,” he said slowly, “so long as it doesna bother you that I am.” 

He grinned at my drop-jawed expression, and backed toward the door. 

“Reckon one of us should know what they’re doing,” he said. The door 

closed softly behind him; clearly the courtship was over.

[Une Pensee]

Outlander:

There was a sudden bumping and cursing out in the corridor, and I rose 

hastily and went to the door, just in time to see Jamie himself stumble in, 

supported by the bowed form of Old Alec McMahon on one side, and the 

earnest but spindly efforts of one of the stable lads on the other. He sank 

onto my stool, left foot outstretched, and grimaced unpleasantly at it. The 

grimace seemed to be more of annoyance than pain, so I knelt to examine 

the offending appendage with relatively little concern. 

“Mild strain,” I said, after a cursory inspection. “What did you do?” 

“Fell off,” Jamie said succinctly. 

“Off the fence?” I asked, teasing. He glowered. 

“No. Off Donas.” 

“You were riding that thing?” I asked incredulously. “In that case, 

you’re lucky to get off with a strained ankle.” I fetched a length of 

bandage and began to wrap the joint. 

“Weel, it wasna sae bad as a’ that,” said Old Alec judiciously. “In fact, 

lad, ye were doin’ quiet weel wi’ him for a bit.” 

“I know I was,” snapped Jamie, gritting his teeth as I pulled the bandage 

tight. “A bee stung him.” 

The bushy brows lifted. “Oh, that was it? Beast acted like he’d been 

struck wi’ an elf-dart,” he confided to me. “Went straight up in the air on 

all fours, and came down again, then went stark, staring mad—all over the 

pen like a bumble-bee in a jar. Yon wee laddie stuck on too,” he said, 

nodding at Jamie, who invented a new unpleasant expression in response, 

“until the big yellow fiend went ower the fence.” 

“Over the fence? Where is he now?” I asked, standing up and dusting 

my hands. 

“Halfway back to hell, I expect,” said Jamie, putting his foot down and 

trying his weight gingerly on it. “And welcome to stay there.” Wincing, he 

sat back. 

“I doubt the de’ils got much use for a half-broke stallion,” observed 

Alec. “Bein’ able to turn himself into a horse when needed.” 

“Perhaps that’s who Donas really is,” I suggested, amused. 

“I wouldna doubt it,” said Jamie, still smarting, but beginning to recover 

his usual good humor. “The de’il’s customarily a black stallion, though, is 

he no?” 

“Oh, aye,” said Alec. “A great black stallion, that travels as fast as the 

thought between a man and a maid.” 

He grinned genially at Jamie and rose to go. 

“And speakin’ of that,” he said, with a wink at me, “I’ll no expect ye in 

the stables tomorrow. Keep to your bed, laddie, and, er…rest.” 

“Why is it,” I demanded, looking after the crusty old horsemaster, “that 

everyone seems to assume we’ve no more on our minds than to get into 

bed with each other?” 

Jamie tried his weight on the foot again, bracing himself on the counter. 

“For one thing, we’ve been married less than a month,” he observed. 

“For another—” He looked up and grinned, shaking his head. “I’ve told ye 

before, Sassenach. Everything ye think shows on your face.” 

“Bloody hell,” I said.

[Une Pensee]

DiA:

"What have you done, Sassenach?" he demanded. He was staring under my arm. 

"Shaved," I said proudly. "Or rather, waxed. Louise had her servante aux petits soins—you know, 

her personal groomer?—there this morning, and she did me, too." 

"Waxed?" Jamie looked rather wildly at the candlestick by the ewer, then back at me. 

"You put wax in your oxters?" 

"Not that kind of wax," I assured him. 

"Scented beeswax. The grooming lady heated it, then spread the warm wax on. 

Once it's cooled, you just jerk it off," I winced momentarily in recollection, "and Bob's your uncle." 

"My uncle Bob wouldna countenance any such goings-on," said Jamie severely. 

"What in hell would ye do that for?" He peered closely at the site, still holding my wrist up. 

"Didn't it hur…hurt…choof!" He dropped my hand and backed up rapidly. 

"Didn't it hurt?" he asked, handkerchief to nose once more. 

"Well, a bit," I admitted. "Worth it, though, don't you think?" I asked, 

raising both arms like a ballerina and turning slightly to and fro. 

"First time I've felt entirely clean in months." 

"Worth it?" he said, sounding a little dazed. 

"What's it to do wi' clean, that you've pulled all of the hairs out from under your arms?" 

A little belatedly, I realized that none of the Scottish women I had encountered employed any form of depilation. 

Furthermore, Jamie had almost certainly never been in sufficiently close contact with an upper-class Parisienne 

to know that many of them did. "Well," I said, suddenly realizing the difficulty an anthropologist faces in trying 

to interpret the more singular customs of a primitive tribe. "It smells much less," I offered. 

"And what's wrong wi' the way ye smell?" he said heatedly. 

"At least ye smelt like a woman, not a damn flower garden. What d'ye think I am, a man or a bumblebee? 

Would ye wash yourself, Sassenach, so I can get within less than ten feet of ye?" 

I picked up a cloth and began sponging my torso. Madame Laserre, Louise's groomer, 

had applied scented oil all over my body; I rather hoped it would come off easily. 

It was disconcerting to have him hovering just outside sniffing range, glaring at me like a wolf circling its prey. 

I turned my back to dip the cloth into the bowl, and said offhandedly over my shoulder, "Er, I did my legs, too." 

I stole a quick glance over my shoulder. 

The original shock was fading into a look of total bewilderment. 

"Your legs dinna smell like anything," he said. 

"Unless you've been walkin' knee-deep in the cow-byre." 

I turned around and pulled my skirt up to my knees, 

pointing one toe forward to display the delicate curves of calf and shin. 

"But they look so much nicer," I pointed out. 

"All nice and smooth; not like Harry the hairy ape." 

He glanced down at his own fuzzy knees, offended. 

"An ape, am I?" 

"Not you, me!" I said, getting exasperated. 

"My legs are any amount hairier than yours ever were!" 

"Well, they're supposed to be; you're a man!" 

He drew in breath as though about to reply, then let it out again, 

shaking his head and muttering something to himself in Gaelic. 

He flung himself back into the chair and sat back, watching me through narrowed eyes, 

every now and then muttering to himself again. I decided not to ask for a translation. 

After most of my bath had been accomplished in what might best be described 

as a charged atmosphere, I decided to attempt conciliation. 

"It might have been worse, you know," I said, sponging the inside of one thigh. 

"Louise had all her body hair removed." 

That startled him back into English, at least temporarily. 

"What, she's taken the hairs off her honeypot?" he said, horrified into uncharacteristic vulgarity. 

"Mm-hm," I replied, pleased that this vision had at least distracted him from my own 

distressingly hairless condition. "Every hair. Madame Laserre plucked out the stray ones." 

"Mary, Michael, and Bride!" He closed his eyes tightly, either in avoidance, 

or the better to contemplate the prospect I had described. 

Evidently the latter, for he opened his eyes again and glared at me, 

demanding, "She's goin' about now bare as a wee lassie?" 

"She says," I replied delicately, "that men find it erotic." 

His eyebrows nearly met his hairline, a neat trick for someone with such a classically high brow. 

"I do wish you would stop that muttering," I remarked, 

hanging the cloth over a chairback to dry. "I can't understand a word you say." 

"On the whole, Sassenach," he replied, "that's as well."

[Une Pensee]

Outlander:

Before we could return to our conversation, we were interrupted by the 

arrival of Mrs. Crook, the housekeeper, who poked a long nose into the 

parlor and inquired worriedly whether we had seen wee Master Jamie. 

Jenny laid aside her sewing with a sigh. 

“Got away again, has he? Nay worry, Lizzie. He’s likely gone wi’ his 

Da or his uncle. We’ll go and see, shall we, Claire? I could use a breath of 

air before supper.” 

She rose heavily to her feet and pressed her hands against the small of 

her back. She groaned and gave me a wry smile. 

“Three weeks, about. I canna wait.” 

We walked slowly through the grounds outside, Jenny pointing out the 

brewhouse and the chapel, explaining the history of the estate, and when 

the different bits had been built. 

As we approached the corner of the dovecote, we heard voices in the 

arbor. 

“There he is, the wee rascal!” Jenny exclaimed. “Wait ’til I lay hands on 

him!” 

“Wait a minute.” I laid a hand on her arm, recognizing the deeper voice 

that underlaid the little boy’s. 

“Dinna worrit yourself, man,” said Jamie’s voice. “You’ll learn. It’s a 

bit difficult, isn’t it, when your cock doesna stick out any further than your 

belly button?” 

I stuck my head around the corner, to find him seated on a chopping 

block, engaged in converse with his namesake, who was struggling 

manfully with the folds of his smock. 

“What are you doing with the child?” I inquired cautiously. 

“I’m teachin’ young James here the fine art of not pissing on his feet,” 

he explained. “Seems the least his uncle could do for him.” 

I raised one eyebrow. “Talk is cheap. Seems the least his uncle could do 

is show him.” 

He grinned. “Well, we’ve had a few practical demonstrations. Had a 

wee accident last time, though.” He exchanged accusatory looks with his 

nephew. “Dinna look at me,” he said to the boy. “It was all your fault. I 

told ye to keep still.” 

“Ahem,” said Jenny dryly, with a look at her brother and a matching one 

at her son. The smaller Jamie responded by pulling the front of his smock 

up over his head, but the larger one, unabashed, grinned cheerfully and 

rose from his seat, brushing dirt from his breeks. He set a hand on his 

nephew’s swathed head, and turned the little boy toward the house. 

“ ‘To everything there is a season,’ ” he quoted, “ ‘and a time for every 

purpose under heaven.’ First we work, wee James, and then we wash. And 

then—thank God—it’s time for supper.”

[Une Pensee]

Outlander:

Jamie had come to stand beside me at the window. Staring absently out 

at the driving rain, he said, “There was another reason. The main one.” 

“Reason?” I said stupidly. 

“Why I married you.” 

“Which was?” I don’t know what I expected him to say, perhaps some 

further revelation of his family’s contorted affairs. What he did say was 

more of a shock, in its way. 

“Because I wanted you.” He turned from the window to face me. “More 

than I ever wanted anything in my life,” he added softly. 

I continued staring at him, dumbstruck. Whatever I had been expecting, 

it wasn’t this. Seeing my openmouthed expression, he continued lightly. 

“When I asked my Da how ye knew which was the right woman, he told 

me when the time came, I’d have no doubt. And I didn’t. When I woke in 

the dark under that tree on the road to Leoch, with you sitting on my chest, 

cursing me for bleeding to death, I said to myself, ‘Jamie Fraser, for all ye 

canna see what she looks like, and for all she weighs as much as a good 

draft horse, this is the woman.’ ” 

I started toward him, and he backed away, talking rapidly. “I said to 

myself, ‘She’s mended ye twice in as many hours, me lad; life amongst the 

MacKenzies being what it is, it might be as well to wed a woman as can 

stanch a wound and set broken bones.’ And I said to myself, ‘Jamie, lad, if 

her touch feels so bonny on your collarbone, imagine what it might feel 

like lower down…’ ” 

He dodged around a chair. “Of course, I thought it might ha’ just been 

the effects of spending four months in a monastery, without benefit of 

female companionship, but then that ride through the dark together”—he 

paused to sigh theatrically, neatly evading my grab at his sleeve—“with 

that lovely broad arse wedged between my thighs”—he ducked a blow 

aimed at his left ear and sidestepped, getting a low table between us—“and 

that rock-solid head thumping me in the chest”—a small metal ornament 

bounced off his own head and went clanging to the floor—“I said to 

myself…” 

He was laughing so hard at this point that he had to gasp for breath 

between phrases. “Jamie…I said…for all she’s a Sassenach bitch…with a 

tongue like an adder’s…with a bum like that…what does it matter if she’s 

a f-face like a sh-sh-sheep?” 

I tripped him neatly and landed on his stomach with both knees as he hit 

the floor with a crash that shook the house. 

“You mean to tell me that you married me out of love?” I demanded. He 

raised his eyebrows, struggling to draw in breath. 

“Have I not…just been…saying so?” 

Grabbing me round the shoulders with one arm, he wormed the other 

hand under my skirt and proceeded to inflict a series of merciless pinches 

on that part of my anatomy he had just been praising. 

Returning to pick up her embroidery basket, Jenny sailed in at this point 

and stood eyeing her brother with some amusement. “And what are you up 

to, young Jamie me lad?” she inquired, one eyebrow up. 

“I’m makin’ love to my wife,” he panted, breathless between giggling 

and fighting. 

“Well, ye could find a more suitable place for it,” she said, raising the 

other eyebrow. “That floor’ll give ye splinters in your arse.”

[Une Pensee]

Outlander:

Coming back down the hall a quarter of an hour later with trays of 

refreshments, I heard Ian say, “You’ll not mind then, Jamie?” 

“Mind what?” 

“That we wed without your consent—me and Jenny, I mean.” 

Jenny, walking ahead of me, came to a sudden stop outside the drawing 

room door. 

There was a brief snort from the love seat where Jamie lay sprawled, 

feet propped on a hassock. “Since I didna tell ye where I was, and ye had 

no notion when—if ever—I’d come back, I can hardly blame ye for not 

waiting.” 

I could see Ian in profile, leaning over the log basket. His long, goodnatured 

face wore a slight frown. 

“Weel, I didna think it right, especially wi’ me being crippled…” 

There was a louder snort. 

“Jenny couldna have a better husband, if you’d lost both legs and your 

arms as well,” Jamie said gruffly. Ian’s pale skin flushed slightly in 

embarrassment. Jamie coughed and swung his legs down from the 

hassock, leaning over to pick up a scrap of kindling that had fallen from 

the basket. 

“How did ye come to wed anyway, given your scruples?” he asked, one 

side of his mouth curling up. 

“Gracious, man,” Ian protested, “ye think I had any choice in the 

matter? Up against a Fraser?” He shook his head, grinning at his friend. 

“She came up to me out in the field one day, while I was tryin’ to mend 

a wagon that sprang its wheel. I crawled out, all covered wi’ muck, and 

found her standin’ there looking like a bush covered wi’ butterflies. She 

looks me up and down and she says—” He paused and scratched his head. 

“Weel, I don’t know exactly what she said, but it ended with her kissing 

me, muck notwithstanding, and saying, ‘Fine, then, we’ll be married on St. 

Martin’s Day.’ ” He spread his hands in comic resignation. “I was still 

explaining why we couldna do any such thing, when I found myself in 

front of a priest, saying, ‘I take thee, Janet’…and swearing to a lot of verra 

improbable statements.” 

Jamie rocked back in his seat, laughing.

[Une Pensee]

DiA:

I was still absorbed in my mending and my thoughts, when heavy 

footsteps in the corridor aroused me to the realization that it was late in the 

day; the drip of water from the eaves had slowed as the temperature 

dropped, and the flames of the sinking sun glowed in the ice spears 

hanging from the roof. The door opened, and Jamie came in. 

He smiled vaguely in my direction, then stopped dead by the table, face 

absorbed as though he were trying to remember something. He took his 

cloak off, folded it, and hung it neatly over the foot of the bed, 

straightened, marched over to the other stool, sat down on it with great 

precision, and closed his eyes. 

I sat still, my mending forgotten in my lap, watching this performance 

with considerable interest. After a moment, he opened his eyes and smiled 

at me, but didn’t say anything. He leaned forward, studying my face with 

great attention, as though he hadn’t seen me in weeks. At last, an 

expression of profound revelation passed over his face, and he relaxed, 

shoulders slumping as he rested his elbows on his knees. 

“Whisky,” he said, with immense satisfaction. 

“I see,” I said cautiously. “A lot of it?” 

He shook his head slowly from side to side, as though it were very 

heavy. I could almost hear the contents sloshing. 

“Not me,” he said, very distinctly. “You.” 

“Me?” I said indignantly. 

“Your eyes,” he said. He smiled beatifically. His own eyes were soft 

and dreamy, cloudy as a trout pool in the rain. 

“My eyes? What have my eyes got to do with…” 

“They’re the color of verra fine whisky, wi’ the sun shining through 

them from behind. I thought this morning they looked like sherry, but I 

was wrong. Not sherry. Not brandy. It’s whisky. That’s what it is.” He 

looked so gratified as he said this that I couldn’t help laughing. 

“Jamie, you’re terribly drunk. What have you been doing?” 

His expression altered to a slight frown. 

“I’m not drunk.” 

“Oh, no?” I laid the mending aside and came over to lay a hand on his 

forehead. It was cool and damp, though his face was flushed. He at once 

put his arms about my waist and pulled me close, nuzzling affectionately 

at my bosom. The smell of mingled spirits rose from him like a fog, so 

thick as almost to be visible. 

“Come here to me, Sassenach,” he murmured. “My whisky-eyed lass, 

my love. Let me take ye to bed.” 

I thought it a debatable point as to who was likely to be taking whom to 

bed, but didn’t argue. It didn’t matter why he thought he was going to bed, 

after all, provided he got there. I bent and got a shoulder under his armpit 

to help him up, but he leaned away, rising slowly and majestically under 

his own power. 

“I dinna need help,” he said, reaching for the cord at the neck of his 

shirt. “I told ye, I’m not drunk.” 

“You’re right,” I said. “ ‘Drunk’ isn’t anywhere near sufficient to 

describe your current state. Jamie, you’re completely pissed.” 

His eyes traveled down the front of his kilt, across the floor, and up the 

front of my gown. 

“No, I’m not,” he said, with great dignity. “I did that outside.” He took a 

step toward me, glowing with ardor. “Come here to me, Sassenach; I’m 

ready.” 

I thought “ready” was a bit of an overstatement in one regard; he’d 

gotten his buttons half undone, and his shirt hung askew on his shoulders, 

but that was as far as he was likely to make it unaided. 

In other respects, though…the broad expanse of his chest was exposed, 

showing the small hollow in the center where I was accustomed to rest my 

chin, and the small curly hairs sprang up joyous around his nipples. He 

saw me looking at him, and reached for one of my hands, clasping it to his 

breast. He was startlingly warm, and I moved instinctively toward him. 

The other arm swept round me and he bent to kiss me. He made such a 

thorough job of it that I felt mildly intoxicated, merely from sharing his 

breath. 

“All right,” I said, laughing. “If you’re ready, so am I. Let me undress 

you first, though—I’ve had enough mending today.” 

He stood still as I stripped him, scarcely moving. He didn’t move, 

either, as I attended to my own clothes and turned down the bed. 

I climbed in and turned to look at him, ruddy and magnificent in the 

sunset glow. He was finely made as a Greek statue, long-nosed and highcheeked 

as a profile on a Roman coin. The wide, soft mouth was set in a 

dreamy smile, and the slanted eyes looked far away. He was perfectly 

immobile. 

I viewed him with some concern. 

“Jamie,” I said, “how, exactly, do you decide whether you’re drunk?” 

Aroused by my voice, he swayed alarmingly to one side, but caught 

himself on the edge of the mantelpiece. His eyes drifted around the room, 

then fixed on my face. For an instant, they blazed clear and pellucid with 

intelligence. 

“Och, easy, Sassenach. If ye can stand up, you’re not drunk.” He let go 

of the mantelpiece, took a step toward me, and crumpled slowly onto the 

hearth, eyes blank, and a wide, sweet smile on his dreaming face. 

“Oh,” I said.

[Une Pensee]

DiA:

I closed the door of the drawing room quietly behind me and stood still a 

moment, gathering courage. I essayed a restorative deep breath, but the 

tightness of the whalebone corseting made it come out as a strangled gasp. 

Jamie, immersed in a handful of shipping orders, glanced up at the 

sound and froze, eyes wide. His mouth opened, but he made no sound. 

“How do you like it?” Handling the train a bit gingerly, I stepped down 

into the room, swaying gently as the seamstress had instructed, to show off 

the filmy gussets of silk plissé let into the overskirt. 

Jamie shut his mouth and blinked several times. 

“It’s…ah…red, isn’t it?” he observed. 

“Rather.” Sang-du-Christ, to be exact. Christ’s blood, the most 

fashionable color of the season, or so I had been given to understand. 

“Not every woman could wear it, Madame,” the seamstress had 

declared, speech unhampered by a mouthful of pins. “But you, with that 

skin! Mother of God, you’ll have men crawling under your skirt all night!” 

“If one tries, I’ll stamp on his fingers,” I said. That, after all, was not at 

all the intended effect. But I did mean to be visible. Jamie had urged me to 

have something made that would make me stand out in the crowd. Earlymorning 

fog notwithstanding, the King had evidently remembered him 

from his appearance at the lever, and we had been invited to a ball at 

Versailles. 

“I’ll need to get the ears of the men with the money,” Jamie had said, 

making plans with me earlier. “And as I’ve neither great position nor 

power myself, it will have to be managed by making them seek my 

company.” He heaved a sigh, looking at me, decidedly unglamorous in my 

woolen bedgown. 

“And I’m afraid in Paris that means we’ll have to go out a bit in society; 

appear at Court, if it can be managed. They’ll know I’m a Scot; it will be 

natural for folk to ask me about Prince Charles, and whether Scotland is 

eagerly awaiting the return of the Stuarts. Then I can assure them 

discreetly that most Scots would pay a good price not to have the Stuarts 

back again—though it goes against the grain a bit to say so.” 

“Yes, you’d better be discreet,” I agreed. “Or the Bonnie Prince may set 

the dogs on you next time you go to visit.” In accordance with his plan to 

keep abreast of Charles’s activities, Jamie had been paying weekly duty 

calls on the small house at Montmartre. 

Jamie smiled briefly. “Aye. Well, so far as His Highness, and the 

Jacobite supporters are concerned, I’m a loyal upholder of the Stuart 

cause. And so long as Charles Stuart is not received at Court and I am, the 

chances of his finding out what I’m saying there are not great. The 

Jacobites in Paris keep to themselves, as a rule. For the one thing, they 

haven’t the money to appear in fashionable circles. But we have, thanks to 

Jared.” 

Jared had concurred—for entirely different reasons—in Jamie’s 

proposal that we widen the scope of Jared’s usual business entertaining, so 

that the French nobility and the heads of the wealthy banking families 

might beat a path to our door, there to be seduced and cozened with 

Rhenish wine, good talk, fine entertainment, and large quantities of the 

good Scotch whisky that Murtagh had spent the last two weeks 

shepherding across the Channel and overland to our cellars. 

“It’s entertainment of one kind or another that draws them, ye ken,” 

Jamie had said, sketching out plans on the back of a broadsheet poem 

describing the scurrilous affair between the Comte de Sévigny and the 

wife of the Minister of Agriculture. “All the nobility care about is 

appearances. So to start with, we must offer them something interesting to 

look at.” 

Judging from the stunned look on his face now, I had made a good 

beginning. I sashayed a bit, making the huge overskirt swing like a bell. 

“Not bad, is it?” I asked. “Very visible, at any rate.” 

He found his voice at last. 

“Visible?” he croaked. “Visible? God, I can see every inch of ye, down 

to the third rib!” 

I peered downward. 

“No, you can’t. That isn’t me under the lace, it’s a fining of white 

charmeuse.” 

“Aye well, it looks like you!” He came closer, bending to inspect the 

bodice of the dress. He peered into my cleavage. 

“Christ, I can see down to your navel! Surely ye dinna mean to go out in 

public like that!” 

I bristled a bit at this. I had been feeling a trifle nervous myself over the 

general revealingness of the dress, the fashionable sketches the seamstress 

had shown me notwithstanding. But Jamie’s reaction was making me feel 

defensive, and thus rebellious. 

“You told me to be visible,” I reminded him. “And this is absolutely 

nothing, compared to the latest Court fashions. Believe me, I shall be 

modesty personified, in comparison with Madame de Pérignon and the 

Duchesse de Rouen.” I put my hands on my hips and surveyed him coldly. 

“Or do you want me to appear at Court in my green velvet?” 

Jamie averted his eyes from my décolletage and tightened his lips. 

“Mphm,” he said, looking as Scotch as possible. 

Trying to be conciliatory, I came closer and laid a hand on his arm. 

“Come now,” I said. “You’ve been at Court before; surely you know 

what ladies dress like. You know this isn’t terribly extreme by those 

standards.” 

He glanced down at me and smiled, a trifle shamefaced. 

“Aye,” he said. “Aye, that’s true. It’s only…well, you’re my wife, 

Sassenach. I dinna want other men to look at you the way I’ve looked at 

those ladies.” 

I laughed and put my hands behind his neck, pulling him down to kiss 

me. He held me around the waist, his thumbs unconsciously stroking the 

softness of the red silk where it sheathed my torso. His touch traveled 

upward, sliding across the slipperiness of the fabric to the nape of my 

neck. His other hand grasped the soft roundness of my breast, swelling up 

above the tethering grip of the corsets, voluptuously free under a single 

layer of sheer silk. He let go at last and straightened up, shaking his head 

doubtfully. 

“I suppose ye’ll have to wear it, Sassenach, but for Christ’s sake be 

careful.” 

“Careful? Of what?” 

His mouth twisted in a rueful smile. 

“Lord, woman, have ye no notion what ye look like in that gown? It 

makes me want to commit rape on the spot. And these damned frog-eaters 

havena got my restraint.” He frowned slightly. “You couldna…cover it up 

at bit at the top?” He waved a large hand vaguely in the direction of his 

own lace jabot, secured with a ruby stickpin. “A…ruffle or something? A 

handkerchief?” 

“Men,” I told him, “have no notion of fashion. But not to worry. The 

seamstress says that’s what the fan is for.” I flipped the matching lacetrimmed 

fan open with a gesture that had taken fifteen minutes’ practice to 

perfect, and fluttered it enticingly over my bosom. 

Jamie blinked meditatively at this performance, then turned to take my 

cloak from the wardrobe. 

“Do me the one favor, Sassenach,” he said, draping the heavy velvet 

over my shoulders. “Take a larger fan.”

[Une Pensee]

DiA:

The first warning yip was followed by a low, burring growl that warned 

the intruder to stay where he was, on pain of instant dismemberment. I 

rose and stuck my head out of the office door, to see whether Father 

Balmain might be braving the peril of the demon once more, in pursuit of 

his sacramental duties. But the figure outlined against the huge stainedglass 

window of the entry hall was not the spare form of the junior priest. 

It was a tall figure, whose silhouetted kilts swayed gracefully around his 

legs as he drew back from the small, toothed animal at his feet. 

Jamie blinked, brought up short by the assault. Shading his eyes against 

the dazzle from the window, he peered down into the shadows. 

“Oh, hallo there, wee dog,” he said politely, and took a step forward, 

knuckles stretched out. Bouton raised the growl a few decibels, and he 

took a step back. 

“Oh, like that, is it?” Jamie said. He eyed the dog narrowly. 

“Think it over, laddie,” he advised, squinting down his long, straight 

nose. “I’m a damn sight bigger than you. I wouldna undertake any rash 

ventures, if I were you.” 

Bouton shifted his ground slightly, still making a noise like a distant 

Fokker. 

“Faster, too,” said Jamie, making a feint to one side. Bouton’s teeth 

snapped together a few inches from Jamie’s calf, and he stepped back 

hastily. Leaning back against the wall, he folded his arms and nodded 

down at the dog. 

“Well, you’ve a point there, I’ll admit. When it comes to teeth, ye’ve the 

edge on me, and no mistake.” Bouton cocked an ear suspiciously at this 

gracious speech, but went back to the low-pitched growl. 

Jamie hooked one foot over the other, like one prepared to pass the time 

of day indefinitely. The multicolored light from the window washed his 

face with blue, making him look like one of the chilly marble statues in the 

cathedral next door. 

“Surely you’ve better things to do than harry innocent visitors?” he 

asked, conversationally. “I’ve heard of you—you’re the famous fellow that 

sniffs out sickness, no? Weel, then, why are they wastin’ ye on silly things 

like door-guarding, when ye might be makin’ yourself useful smelling 

gouty toes and pustulant *beep* Answer me that, if ye will!” 

A sharp bark in response to his uncrossing his feet was the only answer. 

There was a stir of robes behind me as Mother Hildegarde entered from 

the inner office. 

“What is it?” she asked, seeing me peering round the corner. “Have we 

visitors?” 

“Bouton seems to be having a difference of opinion with my husband,” I 

said. 

“I don’t have to put up wi’ this, ye ken,” Jamie was threatening. One 

hand was stealing toward the brooch that held his plaid at the shoulder. 

“One quick spring wi’ my plaid, and I’ll have ye trussed like a—oh, 

bonjour, Madame!” he said, changing swiftly to French at sight of Mother 

Hildegarde. 

“Bonjour, Monsieur Fraser.” She inclined her veil gracefully, more to 

hide the broad smile on her face than in greeting, I thought. “I see you 

have made the acquaintance of Bouton. Are you perhaps in search of your 

wife?” 

This seeming to be my cue, I sidled out of the office behind her. My 

devoted spouse glanced from Bouton to the office door, plainly drawing 

conclusions. 

“And just how long have ye been standin’ there, Sassenach?” he asked 

dryly. 

“Long enough,” I said, with the smug self-assurance of one in Bouton’s 

good books. “What would you have done with him, once you’d got him 

wrapped up in your plaid?” 

“Thrown him out the window and run like hell,” he answered, with a 

brief glance of awe at Mother Hildegarde’s imposing form. “Does she by 

chance speak English?”

[Une Pensee]

DiA:

A horse was coming toward us, up the narrow alley between the main 

stable and the long, open shed that held the forge. A Percheron colt, and a 

young one, no more than two or three, judging from the dappling of his 

hide. Even young Percherons are big, and the colt seemed huge, as he 

blundered to and fro at a slow trot, tail lashing from side to side. Plainly 

the colt was not yet broken to a saddle; the massive shoulders twitched in 

an effort to dislodge the small form that straddled his neck, both hands 

buried deep in the thick black mane. 

“Bloody hell, it’s Fergus!” The ladies, disturbed by the shouting, had all 

gotten to their feet by now, and were peering interestedly at the sight. 

I didn’t realize that the men had joined us until one woman said, “But 

how dangerous it seems! Surely the boy will be injured if he falls!” 

“Well, if he doesna hurt himself falling off, I’ll attend to it directly, once 

I’ve got my hands on the wee bugger,” said a grim voice behind me. I 

turned to see Jamie peering over my head at the rapidly approaching horse. 

“Should you get him off?” I asked. 

He shook his head. “No, let the horse take care of it.” 

In fact, the horse seemed more bewildered than frightened by the 

strange weight on his back. The dappled gray skin twitched and shivered 

as though beset by hordes of flies, and the colt shook its head confusedly, 

as though wondering what was going on. 

As for Fergus, his legs were stretched nearly at right angles across the 

Percheron’s broad back; clearly the only hold he had on the horse was his 

death-grip on the mane. At that, he might have managed to slide down or 

at least tumble off unscathed, had the victims of the manure fight not 

completed their plan to exact a measure of revenge. 

Two or three grooms were following the horse at a cautious distance, 

blocking the alleyway behind it. Another had succeeded in running ahead, 

and opening the gate to an empty paddock that stood near us. The gate was 

between the group of visiting picnickers and the end of the alleyway 

between the buildings; clearly the intention was to nudge the horse quietly 

into the paddock, where it could trample Fergus or not as it chose, but at 

least would itself be safe from escape or injury. 

Before this could be accomplished, though, a lithe form popped its head 

through a small loft window, high above the alleyway. The spectators 

intent on the horse, no one noticed but me. The boy in the loft observed, 

withdrew, and reappeared almost at once, holding a large flake of hay in 

both hands. Judging the moment to a nicety, he dropped it as Fergus and 

his mount passed directly beneath. 

The effect was much like a bomb going off. There was an explosion of 

hay where Fergus had been, and the colt gave a panicked whinny, got its 

hindquarters under it, and took off like a Derby winner, heading straight 

for the little knot of courtiers, who scattered to the four winds, screeching 

like geese. 

Jamie had flung himself on me, pushing me out of the way and 

knocking me to the ground in the process. Now he rose off my supine 

form, cursing fluently in Gaelic. Without pausing to inquire after my 

welfare, he raced off in the direction taken by Fergus. 

The horse was rearing and twisting, altogether spooked, churning 

forelegs keeping at bay a small gang of grooms and stable-lads, all of 

whom were rapidly losing their professional calm at the thought of one of 

the King’s valuable horses damaging itself before their eyes. 

By some miracle of stubbornness or fear, Fergus was still in place, 

skinny legs flailing as he slithered and bounced on the heaving back. The 

grooms were all shouting at him to let go, but he ignored this advice, eyes 

squeezed tight shut as he clung to the two handfuls of horsehair like a 

lifeline. One of the grooms was carrying a pitchfork; he waved this 

menacingly in the air, causing a shriek of dismay from Madame 

Montresor, who plainly thought he meant to skewer the child. 

The shriek didn’t ease the colt’s nerves to any marked extent. It danced 

and skittered, backing away from the people who were beginning to 

surround it. While I didn’t think the groom actually intended to stab 

Fergus off the horse’s back, there was a real danger that the child would be 

trampled if he fell off—and I didn’t see how he was going to avoid that 

fate for much longer. The horse made a sudden dash for a small clump of 

trees that grew near the paddock, either seeking shelter from the mob, or 

possibly having concluded that the incubus on its back might be scraped 

off on a branch. 

As it passed beneath the first branches, I caught a glimpse of red tartan 

among the greenery, and then there was a flash of red as Jamie launched 

himself from the shelter of a tree. His body struck the colt a glancing blow 

and he tumbled to the ground in a flurry of plaid and bare legs that would 

have revealed to a discerning observer that this particular Scotsman wasn’t 

wearing anything under his kilt at the moment. 

The party of courtiers rushed up as one, concentrating on the fallen Lord 

Broch Tuarach, as the grooms pursued the disappearing horse on the other 

side of the trees. 

Jamie lay flat on his back under the beech trees, his face a dead 

greenish-white, both eyes and mouth wide open. Both arms were locked 

tight around Fergus, who clung to his chest like a leech. Jamie blinked at 

me as I dashed up to him, and made a faint effort at a smile. The faint 

wheezings from his open mouth deepened into a shallow panting, and I 

relaxed in relief; he’d only had his wind knocked out. 

Finally realizing that he was no longer moving, Fergus raised a cautious 

head. Then he sat bolt upright on his employer’s stomach and said 

enthusiastically, “That was fun, milord! Can we do it again?”

[Une Pensee]

DiA:

After a little while, I became aware of some slight change in Jamie’s 

attitude. Glancing toward him, I saw that while he was still holding a book 

open on his knee, he had ceased to turn the pages—or to look at them, for 

that matter. His eyes were fixed on me instead; or, to be specific, on the 

spot where my nightrobe parted, several inches lower than strict modesty 

might dictate, strict modesty hardly seeming necessary in bed with one’s 

husband. 

His gaze was abstracted, dark blue with longing, and I realized that if 

not socially required, modesty in bed with one’s husband might be at least 

considerate, under the circumstances. There were alternatives, of course. 

Catching me looking at him, Jamie blushed slightly and hastily returned 

to an exaggerated interest in his book. I rolled onto my side and rested a 

hand on his thigh. 

“Interesting book?” I asked, idly caressing him. 

“Mphm. Oh, aye.” The blush deepened, but he didn’t take his eyes from 

the page. 

Grinning to myself, I slipped my hand under the bedclothes. He dropped 

the book. 

“Sassenach!” he said. “Ye know you canna…” 

“No,” I said, “but you can. Or rather, I can for you.” 

He firmly detached my hand and gave it back to me. 

“No, Sassenach. It wouldna be right.” 

“It wouldn’t?” I said, surprised. “Whyever not?” 

He squirmed uncomfortably, avoiding my eyes. 

“Well, I…I wouldna feel right, Sassenach. To take my pleasure from ye, 

and not be able to give ye…well, I wouldna feel right about it, is all.” 

I burst into laughter, laying my head on his thigh. 

“Jamie, you are too sweet for words!” 

“I am not sweet,” he said indignantly. “But I’m no such a selfish— 

Claire, stop that!” 

“You were planning to wait several more months?” I asked, not 

stopping. 

“I could,” he said, with what dignity was possible under the 

circumstances. “I waited tw-twenty-two years, and I can…” 

“No, you can’t,” I said, pulling back the bedclothes and admiring the 

shape so clearly visible beneath his nightshirt. I touched it, and it moved 

slightly, eager against my hand. “Whatever God meant you to be, Jamie 

Fraser, it wasn’t a monk.” 

With a sure hand, I pulled up his nightshirt. 

“But…” he began. 

“Two against one,” I said, leaning down. “You lose.”

[Une Pensee]

WiMoHB:

Nobody moved or a space of nine heartbeats - I counted them - following Percy Beauchamp's dignified exit. 

Finally, John sat down abruptly on the cot, exhaling audibly. Jamie caught my eye and, 

with a slight nod, sat down on the stool. Nobody Spoke. 

"You mustn't hit him again, Grand-pere," Germaine said earnestly, breaking the silence. 

He's a very good man, and I'm sure he won't take Grannie to bed anymore, now that you're home to do it." 

Jamie gave Germain a quelling look, but his mouth twitched. 

From my position behind the cot, I could see the back of John's neck flush a deep pink. 

"I'm much obliged to his lordship for his care of your grannie," Jamie told Germain. 

"But if ye think making' impertinent remarks regarding your elders is going to save your arse - think again." 

Germain shifted uneasily, but rolled his eyes at Lord John in a "worth a try" sort of way. 

"I'm much obliged to you for your good opinion, sir," John told him. "And I reciprocate the compliment - 

but I trust you are aware that good intent alone does not absolve one from the consequences of rash conduct."

[Une Pensee]

DiA:

The men sat around the fire after their supper, lazily enjoying the feeling 

of full stomachs, exchanging stories and scratching. The scratching was 

endemic; close quarters and lack of hygiene made body lice so common as 

to excite no remark when one man detached a representative specimen 

from a fold of his plaid and tossed it into the fire. The louse flamed for an 

instant, one among the sparks of the fire, and then was gone. 

The young man they called Kincaid—his name was Alexander, but 

there were so many Alexanders that most of them ended up being called 

by nicknames or middle names—seemed particularly afflicted with the 

scourge this evening. He dug viciously under one arm, into his curly 

brown hair, then—with a quick glance to see whether I was looking in his 

direction—at his crotch. 

“Got ’em bad, have ye, lad?” Ross the smith observed sympathetically. 

“Aye,” he answered, “the wee buggers are eatin’ me alive.” 

“Bloody hell to get out of your cock hairs,” Wallace Fraser observed, 

scratching himself in sympathy. “Gives me the yeuk to watch ye, laddie.” 

“D’ye ken the best way to rid yourself o’ the wee beasties?” Sorley 

McClure asked helpfully, and at Kincaid’s negative shake of the head, 

leaned forward and carefully pulled a flaming stick from the fire. 

“Lift your kilt a moment, laddie, and I’ll smoke ’em out for ye,” he 

offered, to catcalls and jeers of laughter from the men. 

“Bloody farmer,” Murtagh grumbled. “And what would ye know about 

it?” 

“You know a better way?” Wallace raised thick brows skeptically, 

wrinkling the tanned skin of his balding forehead. 

“O’ course.” He drew his dirk with a flourish. “The laddie’s a soldier 

now; let him do it like a soldier does.” 

Kincaid’s open face was guileless and eager. “How’s that?” 

“Weel, verra simple. Ye take your dirk, lift your plaidie, and shave off 

half the hairs on your crutch.” He raised the dirk warningly. “Only half, 

mind.” 

“Half? Aye, well…” Kincaid looked doubtful, but was paying close 

attention. I could see the grins of anticipation broadening on the faces of 

the men around the fire, but no one was laughing yet. 

“Then…” Murtagh gestured at Sorley and his stick. “Then, laddie, ye set 

the other half on fire, and when the beasties rush out, ye spear them wi’ 

your dirk.” 

Kincaid blushed hotly enough to be seen even by firelight as the circle 

of men erupted in hoots and roars. There was a good deal of rude shoving 

as a couple of the men pretended to try the fire cure on each other, 

brandishing flaming billets of wood. Just as it seemed that the horseplay 

was getting out of hand, and likely to lead to blows in earnest, Jamie 

returned from hobbling the animals. He stepped into the circle, and tossed 

a stone bottle from under one arm to Kincaid. Another went to Murtagh, 

and the shoving died down. 

“Ye’re fools, the lot o’ ye,” he declared. “The second best way to rid 

yourself of lice is to pour whisky on them and get them drunk. When 

they’ve fallen down snoring, then ye stand up and they’ll drop straight 

off.” 

“Second best, eh?” said Ross. “And what’s the best way, sir, and I might 

ask?” 

Jamie smiled indulgently round the circle, like a parent amused by the 

antics of his children. 

“Why, let your wife pick them off ye, one by one.” He cocked an elbow 

and bowed to me, one eyebrow raised. “If you’d oblige me, my lady?”

[Une Pensee]

Voyager:

“James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser,” he said, speaking 

slowly to allow the clerk time to get it down right. “Laird of Broch 

Tuarach.” Patiently, he spelled it, then glanced up at Melton. 

“I must ask your courtesy, my lord, to give me help to stand.” 

Melton didn’t answer him, but stared down at him, his expression of 

remote distaste altering to one of mingled astonishment and something like 

dawning horror. 

“Fraser?” he said. “Of Broch Tuarach?” 

“I am,” Jamie said patiently. Would the man not hurry a bit? Being 

resigned to being shot was one thing, but listening to your friends being 

killed in your hearing was another, and not just calculated to settle the 

nerves. His arms were trembling with the strain of propping him, and his 

bowels, not sharing the resignation of his higher faculties, were twitching 

with a gurgling dread. 

“Bloody hell,” the Englishman muttered. He bent and peered at Jamie 

where he lay in the shadow of the wall, then turned and beckoned to his 

lieutenant. 

“Help me get him into the light,” he ordered. They weren’t gentle about 

it, and Jamie grunted as the movement sent a bolt of pain from his leg right 

up through the top of his head. It made him dizzy for a moment, and he 

missed what Melton was saying to him. 

“Are you the Jacobite they call ‘Red Jamie’?” he asked again, 

impatiently. 

A streak of fear went through Jamie at that; let them know he was the 

notorious Red Jamie, and they wouldn’t shoot him. They’d take him in 

chains to London to be tried—a prize of war. And after that, it would be 

the hangman’s rope, and lying half strangled on the gallows platform while 

they slit his belly and ripped out his bowels. His bowels gave another long, 

rumbling gurgle; they didn’t think much of the notion either. 

“No,” he said, with as much firmness as he could manage. “Just get on 

wi’ it, eh?” 

Ignoring this, Melton dropped to his knees, and ripped open the throat of 

Jamie’s shirt. He gripped Jamie’s hair and jerked back his head. 

“Damn!” Melton said. Melton’s finger prodded him in the throat, just 

above the collarbone. There was a small triangular scar there, and this 

appeared to be what was causing his interrogator’s concern. 

“James Fraser of Broch Tuarach; red hair and a three-cornered scar on 

his throat.” Melton let go of the hair and sat back on his heels, rubbing his 

chin in a distracted sort of way. Then he pulled himself together and turned 

to the lieutenant, gesturing at the five men remaining in the farm cottage. 

“Take the rest,” he ordered. His fair brows were knitted together in a 

deep frown. He stood over Jamie, scowling, while the other Scottish 

prisoners were removed. 

“I have to think,” he muttered. “Damme, I must think!” 

“Do that,” said Jamie, “if you’re able. I must lie down, myself.” They 

had propped him sitting against the far wall, his leg stretched out in front 

of him, but sitting upright after two days of lying flat was more than he 

could manage; the room was tilting drunkenly, and small flashing lights 

kept coming before his eyes. He leaned to one side, and eased himself 

down, hugging the dirt floor, eyes closed as he waited for the dizziness to 

pass. 

Melton was muttering under his breath, but Jamie couldn’t make out the 

words; didn’t care greatly in any case. Sitting up in the sunlight, he had 

seen his leg clearly for the first time, and he was fairly sure that he 

wouldn’t live long enough to be hanged. 

The deep angry red of inflammation spread from midthigh upward, 

much brighter than the remaining smears of dried blood. The wound itself 

was purulent; with the stench of the other men lessening, he could smell 

the faint sweet-foul odor of the discharge. Still, a quick bullet through the 

head seemed much preferable to the pain and delirium of death by 

infection. Did you hear the bang? he wondered, and drifted off, the cool 

pounded dirt smooth and comforting as a mother’s breast under his hot 

cheek. 

He wasn’t really asleep, only drifting in a feverish doze, but Melton’s 

voice in his ear jerked him to alertness. 

“Grey,” the voice was saying, “John William Grey! Do you know that 

name?” 

“No,” he said, mazy with sleep and fever. “Look, man, either shoot me 

or go away, aye? I’m ill.” 

“Near Carryarrick.” Melton’s voice was prodding, impatient. “A boy, a 

fair-haired boy, about sixteen. You met him in the wood.” 

Jamie squinted up at his tormentor. The fever distorted his vision, but 

there seemed something vaguely familiar about the fine-boned face above 

him, with those large, almost girlish eyes. 

“Oh,” he said, catching a single face from the flood of images that 

swirled erratically through his brain. “The wee laddie that tried to kill me. 

Aye, I mind him.” He closed his eyes again. In the odd way of fever, one 

sensation seemed to blend into another. He had broken John William 

Grey’s arm; the memory of the boy’s fine bone beneath his hand became 

the bone of Claire’s forearm as he tore her from the grip of the stones. The 

cool misty breeze stroked his face with Claire’s fingers. 

“Wake up, damn you!” His head snapped on his neck as Melton shook 

him impatiently. “Listen to me!” 

Jamie opened his eyes wearily. “Aye?” 

“John William Grey is my brother,” Melton said. “He told me of his 

meeting with you. You spared his life, and he made you a promise—is that 

true?” 

With great effort, he cast his mind back. He had met the boy two days 

before the first battle of the rebellion; the Scottish victory at Prestonpans. 

The six months between then and now seemed a vast chasm; so much had 

happened in between. 

“Aye, I recall. He promised to kill me. I dinna mind if you do it for him, 

though.” His eyelids were drooping again. Did he have to be awake in 

order to be shot? 

“He said he owed you a debt of honor, and he does.” Melton stood up, 

dusting the knees of his breeches, and turned to his lieutenant, who had 

been watching the questioning with considerable bewilderment. 

“It’s the deuce of a situation, Wallace. This…this Jacobite scut is 

famous. You’ve heard of Red Jamie? The one on the broadsheets?” The 

Lieutenant nodded, looking curiously down at the bedraggled form in the 

dirt at his feet. Melton smiled bitterly. 

“No, he doesn’t look so dangerous now, does he? But he’s still Red 

Jamie Fraser, and His Grace would be more than pleased to hear of such 

an illustrious prisoner. They haven’t yet found Charles Stuart, but a few 

well-known Jacobites would please the crowds at Tower Hill nearly as 

much.” 

“Shall I send a message to His Grace?” The Lieutenant reached for his 

message box. 

“No!” Melton wheeled to glare down at his prisoner. “That’s the 

difficulty! Besides being prime gallows bait, this filthy wretch is also the 

man who captured my youngest brother near Preston, and rather than 

shooting the brat, which is what he deserved, spared his life and returned 

him to his companions. Thus,” he said through his teeth, “incurring a 

bloody great debt of honor upon my family!” 

“Dear me,” said the Lieutenant. “So you can’t give him to His Grace, 

after all.” 

“No, blast it! I can’t even shoot the bastard, without dishonoring my 

brother’s sworn word!” 

The prisoner opened one eye. “I willna tell anyone if you don’t,” he 

suggested, and promptly closed it again. 

“Shut up!” Losing his temper entirely, Melton kicked the prisoner, who 

grunted at the impact, but said nothing more. 

“Perhaps we could shoot him under an assumed name,” the Lieutenant 

suggested helpfully. 

Lord Melton gave his aide a look of withering scorn, then looked out the 

window to judge the time. 

“It will be dark in three hours. I’ll oversee the burial of the other 

executed prisoners. Find a small wagon, and have it filled with hay. Find a 

driver—pick someone discreet, Wallace, that means bribable, Wallace— 

and have them here as soon as it’s dark.” 

“Yes, sir. Er, sir? What about the prisoner?” The Lieutenant gestured 

diffidently toward the body on the floor. 

“What about him?” Melton said brusquely. “He’s too weak to crawl, let 

alone walk. He isn’t going anywhere—at least not until the wagon gets 

here.” 

“Wagon?” The prisoner was showing signs of life. In fact, under the 

stimulus of agitation, he had managed to raise himself onto one arm. 

Bloodshot blue eyes gleamed wide with alarm, under the spikes of matted 

red hair. “Where are ye sending me?” Turning from the door, Melton cast 

him a glance of intense dislike. 

“You’re the laird of Broch Tuarach, aren’t you? Well, that’s where I’m 

sending you.” 

“I dinna want to go home! I want to be shot!” 

The Englishmen exchanged a look. 

“Raving,” the Lieutenant said significantly, and Melton nodded. 

“I doubt he’ll live through the journey—but his death won’t be on my 

head, at least.” 

The door shut firmly behind the Englishmen, leaving Jamie Fraser quite 

alone—and still alive.

[broughps]

Voyager

“I want to see you.”

“Well, it’s no much to see, Sassenach,” he said, with an uncertain laugh.
“But whatever it is, it’s yours—if ye want it.”

He pulled the shirt over his head and tossed it on the floor, then leaned
back on the palms of his hands, displaying his body.

I didn’t know quite what I had been expecting. In fact, the sight of his
naked body took my breath away. He was still tall, of course, and
beautifully made, the long bones of his body sleek with muscle, elegant
with strength. He glowed in the candlelight, as though the light came from
within him.

He had changed, of course, but the change was subtle; as though he had
been put into an oven and baked to a hard finish. He looked as though both
muscle and skin had drawn in just a bit, grown closer to the bone, so he
was more tightly knit; he had never seemed gawky, but the last hint of
boyish looseness had vanished.

His skin had darkened slightly, to a pale gold, burned to bronze on face
and throat, paling down the length of his body to a pure white, tinged with
blue veins, in the hollow of his thighs. His pubic hair stood out in a
ferocious auburn bush, and it was quite obvious that he had not been lying;
he did want me, and very badly.

My eyes met his, and his mouth quirked suddenly.

“I did say once I would be honest with ye, Sassenach.”

[broughps]

Voyager

“Post coitum omne animalium triste est,” I remarked, with my eyes
closed.

There was no response from the warm, heavy weight on my chest, save
the gentle sigh of his breathing. After a moment, though, I felt a sort of
subterranean vibration, which I interpreted as amusement.

“That’s a verra peculiar sentiment, Sassenach,” Jamie said, his voice
blurred with drowsiness. “Not your own, I hope?”

“No.” I stroked the damp bright hair back from his forehead, and he
turned his face into the curve of my shoulder, with a small contented
snuffle.

The private rooms at Moubray’s left a bit to be desired in the way of
amorous accommodation. Still, the sofa at least offered a padded
horizontal surface, which, if you came right down to it, was all that was
necessary. While I had decided that I was not past wanting to commit
passionate acts after all, I was still too old to want to commit them on the
bare floorboards.

“I don’t know who said it—some ancient philosopher or other. It was
quoted in one of my medical textbooks; in the chapter on the human
reproductive system.”

The vibration made itself audible as a small chuckle.

“Ye’d seem to have applied yourself to your lessons to good purpose,
Sassenach,” he said. His hand passed down my side and wormed its way
slowly underneath to cup my bottom. He sighed with contentment,
squeezing slightly.

“I canna think when I have felt less triste,” he said.

“Me either,” I said, tracing the whorl of the small cowlick that lifted the
hair from the center of his forehead. “That’s what made me think of it—I
rather wondered what led the ancient philosopher to that conclusion.”

“I suppose it depends on the sorts of animaliae he’d been fornicating
with,” Jamie observed. “Maybe it was just that none o’ them took to him,
but he must ha’ tried a fair number, to make such a sweeping statement.”

He held tighter to his anchor as the tide of my laughter bounced him
gently up and down.

“Mind ye, dogs sometimes do look a trifle sheepish when they’ve done
wi’ mating,” he said.

“Mm. And how do sheep look, then?”

“Aye, well, female sheep just go on lookin’ like sheep—not havin’ a
great deal of choice in the matter, ye ken.”

“Oh? And what do the male sheep look like?”

“Oh, they look fair depraved. Let their tongues hang out, drooling, and
their eyes roll back, while they make disgusting noises. Like most male
animals, aye?” I could feel the curve of his grin against my shoulder. He
squeezed again, and I pulled gently on the ear closest to hand.

“I didn’t notice your tongue hanging out.”

“Ye werena noticing; your eyes were closed.”

“I didn’t hear any disgusting noises, either.”

“Well, I couldna just think of any on the spur of the moment,” he
admitted. “Perhaps I’ll do better next time.”

[broughps]

Voyager

“For now, speaking of leisure,” Fergus interrupted, “might
Mademoiselle Sophie find herself unemployed this evening?”

The madam favored him with a look of ironic amusement. “Since she
saw you come in, mon petit saucisse, I expect that she has kept herself
available.” She glanced at Young Ian, slouched against the cushions like a
scarecrow from which all the straw stuffing has been removed. “And will I
find a place for the young gentleman to sleep?”

“Oh, aye.” Jamie looked consideringly at his nephew. “I suppose ye can
lay a pallet in my room.”

“Oh, no!” Young Ian blurted. “You’ll want to be alone wi’ your wife,
will ye not, Uncle?”

“What?” Jamie stared at him uncomprehendingly.

“Well, I mean…” Young Ian hesitated, glancing at me, and then hastily
away. “I mean, nay doubt you’ll be wanting to…er…mmphm?” A
Highlander born, he managed to infuse this last noise with an amazing
wealth of implied indelicacy.

Jamie rubbed his knuckles hard across his upper lip.

“Well, that’s verra thoughtful of ye, Ian,” he said. His voice quivered
slightly with the effort of not laughing. “And I’m flattered that ye have
such a high opinion of my virility as to think I’m capable of anything but
sleeping in bed after a day like this. But I think perhaps I can forgo the
satisfaction of my carnal desires for one night—fond as I am of your
auntie,” he added, giving me a faint grin.

“But Bruno tells me the establishment is not busy tonight,” Fergus put
in, glancing round in some bewilderment. “Why does the boy not—”

“Because he’s no but fourteen, for God’s sake!” Jamie said, scandalized.

“Almost fifteen!” Young Ian corrected, sitting up and looking
interested.

“Well, that is certainly sufficient,” Fergus said, with a glance at
Madame Jeanne for confirmation. “Your brothers were no older when I
first brought them here, and they acquitted themselves honorably.”

“You what?” Jamie goggled at his protégé.

“Well, someone had to,” Fergus said, with slight impatience. “Normally,
a boy’s father—but of course, le Monsieur is not—meaning no disrespect
to your esteemed father, of course,” he added, with a nod to Young Ian,
who nodded back like a mechanical toy, “but it is a matter for experienced
judgment, you understand?”

“Now”—he turned to Madame Jeanne, with the air of a gourmand
consulting the wine steward—“Dorcas, do you think, or Penelope?”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head decidedly, “it should be the second
Mary, absolutely. The small one.”

“Oh, with the yellow hair? Yes, I think you are right,” Fergus said
approvingly. “Fetch her, then.”

Jeanne was off before Jamie could manage more than a strangled croak
in protest.

“But—but—the lad canna—” he began.

“Yes, I can,” Young Ian said. “At least, I think I can.” It wasn’t possible
for his face to grow any redder, but his ears were crimson with excitement,
the traumatic events of the day completely forgotten.

“But it’s—that is to say—I canna be letting ye—” Jamie broke off and
stood glaring at his nephew for a long moment. Finally, he threw his hands
up in the air in exasperated defeat.

“And what am I to say to your mother?” he demanded, as the door
opened behind him.

Framed in the door stood a very short young girl, plump and soft as a
partridge in her blue silk chemise, her round sweet face beaming beneath a
loose cloud of yellow hair. At the sight of her, Young Ian froze, scarcely
breathing.

When at last he must draw breath or die, he drew it, and turned to Jamie.
With a smile of surpassing sweetness, he said, “Well, Uncle Jamie, if I
were you”—his voice soared up in a sudden alarming soprano, and he
stopped, clearing his throat before resuming in a respectable baritone—“I
wouldna tell her. Good night to ye, Auntie,” he said, and walked
purposefully forward.

[broughps]

Voyager

The weather was chill but clear, and only a faint hint of smoke lingered in
the Rectory garden as a reminder of the fire. Jamie and I sat on a bench
against the wall, absorbing the pale winter sunshine as we waited for
Young Ian to finish his confession.

“Did you tell Ian that load of rubbish he gave Young Ian yesterday?
About where I’d been all this time?”

“Oh, aye,” he said. “Ian’s a good deal too canny to believe it, but it’s a
likely enough story, and he’s too good a friend to insist on the truth.”

“I suppose it will do, for general consumption,” I agreed. “But shouldn’t
you have told it to Sir Percival, instead of letting him think we were
newlyweds?”

He shook his head decidedly. “Och, no. For the one thing, Sir Percival
has no notion of my real name, though I’ll lay a year’s takings he knows it
isna Malcolm. I dinna want him to be thinking of me and Culloden
together, by any means. And for another, a story like the one I gave Ian
would cause the devil of a lot more talk than the news that the printer’s
taken a wife.”

“‘Oh, what a tangled web we weave,’” I intoned, “‘when first we
practice to deceive.’”

He gave me a quick blue glance, and the corner of his mouth lifted
slightly.

“It gets a bit easier with practice, Sassenach,” he said. “Try living wi’
me for a time, and ye’ll find yourself spinning silk out of your arse easy as
sh—, er, easy as kiss-my-hand.”

I burst out laughing.

“I want to see you do that,” I said.

“You already have.” He stood up and craned his neck, trying to see over
the wall into the Rectory garden.

“Young Ian’s being the devil of a time,” he remarked, sitting down
again. “How can a lad not yet fifteen have that much to confess?”

“After the day and night he had yesterday? I suppose it depends how
much detail Father Hayes wants to hear,” I said, with a vivid recollection
of my breakfast with the prostitutes. “Has he been in there all this time?”
“Er, no.” The tips of Jamie’s ears grew slightly pinker in the morning
light. “I, er, I had to go first. As an example, ye ken.”

“No wonder it took some time,” I said, teasing. “How long has it been
since you’ve been to confession?”

“I told Father Hayes it was six months.”

“And was it?”

“No, but I supposed if he was going to shrive me for thieving, assault,
and profane language, he might as well shrive me for lying, too.”

“What, no fornication or impure thoughts?”

“Certainly not,” he said austerely. “Ye can think any manner of horrible
things without sin, and it’s to do wi’ your wife. It’s only if you’re thinking
it about other ladies, it’s impure.”

“I had no idea I was coming back to save your soul,” I said primly, “but
it’s nice to be useful.”

He laughed, bent and kissed me thoroughly.

“I wonder if that counts as an indulgence,” he said, pausing for breath.

“It ought to, no? It does a great deal more to keep a man from the fires of
hell than saying the rosary does. Speaking of which,” he added, digging
into his pocket and coming out with a rather chewed-looking wooden
rosary, “remind me that I must say my penance sometime today. I was
about to start on it, when ye came up.”

“How many Hail Marys are you supposed to say?” I asked, fingering the
beads. The chewed appearance wasn’t illusion; there were definite small
toothmarks on most of the beads.

“I met a Jew last year,” he said, ignoring the question. “A natural
philosopher, who’d sailed round the world six times. He told me that in
both the Musselman faith and the Jewish teachings, it was considered an
act of virtue for a man and his wife to lie wi’ each other.

“I wonder if that has anything to do wi’ both Jews and Musselmen being
circumcised?” he added thoughtfully. “I never thought to ask him that—
though perhaps he would ha’ found it indelicate to say.”

“I shouldn’t think a foreskin more or less would impair the virtue,” I
assured him.

“Oh, good,” he said, and kissed me once more.

“What happened to your rosary?” I asked, picking up the string where it
had fallen on the grass. “It looks like the rats have been at it.”

“Not rats,” he said. “Bairns.”

“What bairns?”

“Oh, any that might be about.” He shrugged, tucking the beads back in
his pocket. “Young Jamie has three now, and Maggie and Kitty two each.
Wee Michael’s just married, but his wife’s breeding.” The sun was behind
him, darkening his face, so that his teeth flashed suddenly white when he
smiled. “Ye didna ken ye were a great-aunt seven times over, aye?”

“A great-aunt?” I said, staggered.

“Well, I’m a great-uncle,” he said cheerfully, “and I havena found it a
terrible trial, except for having my beads gnawed when the weans are
cutting teeth—that, and bein’ expected to answer to ‘Nunkie’ a lot.”

Sometimes twenty years seemed like an instant, and sometimes it
seemed like a very long time indeed.

“Er…there isn’t a feminine equivalent of ‘Nunkie,’ I hope?”

“Oh, no,” he assured me. “They’ll all call ye Great-Auntie Claire, and
treat ye wi’ the utmost respect.”

“Thanks a lot,” I muttered, with visions of the hospital’s geriatric wing
fresh in my mind.

Jamie laughed, and with a lightness of heart no doubt engendered by
being newly freed from sin, grasped me around the waist and lifted me
onto his lap.

“I’ve never before seen a great-auntie wi’ a lovely plump arse like that,”
he said with approval, bouncing me slightly on his knees. His breath
tickled the back of my neck as he leaned forward. I let out a small shriek
as his teeth closed lightly on my ear.

“Are ye all right, Auntie?” said Young Ian’s voice just behind us, full of
concern.

Jamie started convulsively, nearly unshipping me from his lap, then
tightened his hold on my waist.

“Oh, aye,” he said. “It’s just your auntie saw a spider.”

“Where?” said Young Ian, peering interestedly over the bench.

“Up there.” Jamie rose, standing me on my feet, and pointed to the lime
tree, where—sure enough—the web of an orb weaver stretched across the
crook of two branches, sparkling with damp. The weaver herself sat in the
center, round as a cherry, wearing a gaudy pattern of green and yellow on
her back.

<snip?

“I suppose it helps even more if you have the kind of luck that will
conjure up a handy spider when you need one,” I said dryly.

He laughed and took my arm.

“That’s not luck, Sassenach,” he told me. “It’s watchfulness. Ian, are ye
coming?”

“Oh, aye.” Young Ian abandoned the web with obvious reluctance and
followed us to the kirkyard gate.

“Oh, Uncle Jamie, I meant to ask, can I borrow your rosary?” he said, as
we emerged onto the cobbles of the Royal Mile. “The priest told me I must
say five decades for my penance, and that’s too many to keep count of on
my fingers.”

“Surely.” Jamie stopped and fished in his pocket for the rosary. “Be sure
to give it back, though.”

Young Ian grinned. “Aye, I reckon you’ll be needing it yourself, Uncle
Jamie. The priest told me he was verra wicked,” Young Ian confided to
me, with a lashless wink, “and told me not to be like him.”

“Mmphm.” Jamie glanced up and down the road, gauging the speed of
an approaching handcart, edging its way down the steep incline. Freshly
shaved that morning, his cheeks had a rosy glow about them.

“How many decades of the rosary are you supposed to say as penance?”
I asked curiously.

“Eighty-five,” he muttered. The rosiness of his freshly shaved cheeks
deepened.

Young Ian’s mouth dropped open in awe.

“How long has it been since ye went to confession, Uncle?” he asked.

“A long time,” Jamie said tersely. “Come on!”

[broughps]

Voyager

“Roll onto your good side,” I said, turning to Jamie, “and pull up your
shirt.”

He eyed the needle in my hand with keen suspicion, but reluctantly
obeyed. I surveyed the terrain with approval.

“Your bottom hasn’t changed a bit in twenty years,” I remarked,
admiring the muscular curves.

“Neither has yours,” he replied courteously, “but I’m no insisting you
expose it. Are ye suffering a sudden attack of lustfulness?”

“Not just at present,” I said evenly, swabbing a patch of skin with a
cloth soaked in brandy.

“That’s a verra nice make of brandy,” he said, peering back over his
shoulder, “but I’m more accustomed to apply it at the other end.”

“It’s also the best source of alcohol available. Hold still now, and relax.”

I jabbed deftly and pressed the plunger slowly in.

“Ouch!” Jamie rubbed his posterior resentfully.

“It’ll stop stinging in a minute.” I poured an inch of brandy into the cup.

“Now you can have a bit to drink—a very little bit.”

He drained the cup without comment, watching me roll up the collection
of syringes. Finally he said, “I thought ye stuck pins in ill-wish dolls when
ye meant to witch someone; not in the people themselves.”

“It’s not a pin, it’s a hypodermic syringe.”

“I dinna care what ye call it; it felt like a bloody horseshoe nail. Would
ye care to tell me why jabbing pins in my arse is going to help my arm?”

I took a deep breath. “Well, do you remember my once telling you about
germs?”

He looked quite blank.

“Little beasts too small to see,” I elaborated. “They can get into your
body through bad food or water, or through open wounds, and if they do,
they can make you ill.”

He stared at his arm with interest. “I’ve germs in my arm, have I?”
“You very definitely have.” I tapped a finger on the small flat box. “The
medicine I just shot into your backside kills germs, though. You get
another shot every four hours ’til this time tomorrow, and then we’ll see
how you’re doing.”

I paused. Jamie was staring at me, shaking his head.

“Do you understand?” I asked. He nodded slowly.

“Aye, I do. I should ha’ let them burn ye, twenty years ago.”

[broughps]

Voyager

Entering the parlor, I found the camp bed put away and Jamie, shaved
and in a fresh nightshirt, neatly propped up on the sofa under a quilt with
his left arm in a sling, surrounded by four or five children. These were
shepherded by Janet, Young Ian, and a smiling young man who was a
Fraser of sorts by the shape of his nose, but otherwise bore only the
faintest resemblances to the tiny boy I had seen last at Lallybroch twenty
years before.

“There she is!” Jamie exclaimed with pleasure at my appearance, and
the entire roomful of people turned to look at me, with expressions ranging
from pleasant greeting to gape-mouthed awe.

“You’ll remember Young Jamie?” the elder Jamie said, nodding to the
tall, broad-shouldered young man with curly black hair and a squirming
bundle in his arms.

“I remember the curls,” I said, smiling. “The rest has changed a bit.”

Young Jamie grinned down at me. “I remember ye well, Auntie,” he
said, in a deep-brown voice like well-aged ale. “Ye held me on your knee
and played Ten Wee Piggies wi’ my toes.”

“I can’t possibly have,” I said, looking up at him in some dismay. While
it seemed to be true that people really didn’t change markedly in
appearance between their twenties and their forties, they most assuredly
did so between four and twenty-four.

“Perhaps ye can have a go wi’ wee Benjamin here,” Young Jamie
suggested with a smile. “Maybe the knack of it will come back to ye.” He
bent and carefully laid his bundle in my arms.

A very round face looked up at me with that air of befuddlement so
common to new babies. Benjamin appeared mildly confused at having me
suddenly exchanged for his father, but didn’t object. Instead, he opened his
small pink mouth very wide, inserted his fist and began to gnaw on it in a
thoughtful manner.

A small blond boy in homespun breeks leaned on Jamie’s knee, staring
up at me in wonder. “Who’s that, Nunkie?” he asked in a loud whisper.
“That’s your great-auntie Claire,” Jamie said gravely. “Ye’ll have heard
about her, I expect?”

“Oh, aye,” the little boy said, nodding madly. “Is she as old as
Grannie?”

“Even older,” Jamie said, nodding back solemnly. The lad gawked up at
me for a moment, then turned back to Jamie, face screwed up in scorn.
“Get on wi’ ye, Nunkie! She doesna look anything like as old as
Grannie! Why, there’s scarce a bit o’ silver in her hair!”

“Thank you, child,” I said, beaming at him.

“Are ye sure that’s our great-auntie Claire?” the boy went on, looking
doubtfully at me. “Mam says Great-Auntie Claire was maybe a witch, but
this lady doesna look much like it. She hasna got a single wart on her nose
that I can see!”

“Thanks,” I said again, a little more dryly. “And what’s your name?”

He turned suddenly shy at being thus directly addressed, and buried his
head in Jamie’s sleeve, refusing to speak.

“This is Angus Walter Edwin Murray Carmichael,” Jamie answered for
him, ruffling the silky blond hair. “Maggie’s eldest son, and most
commonly known as Wally.”

“We call him Snot-rag,” a small red-haired girl standing by my knee
informed me. “’Cause his neb is always clotted wi’ *beep*

Angus Walter jerked his face out of his uncle’s shirt and glared at his
female relation, his features beet-red with fury.

“Is not!” he shouted. “Take it back!” Not waiting to see whether she
would or not, he flung himself at her, fists clenched, but was jerked off his
feet by his great-uncle’s hand, attached to his collar.

“Ye dinna hit girls,” Jamie informed him firmly. “It’s not manly.”

“But she said I was snotty!” Angus Walter wailed. “I must hit her!”

“And it’s no verra civil to pass remarks about someone’s personal
appearance, Mistress Abigail,” Jamie said severely to the little girl. “Ye
should apologize to your cousin.”

“Well, but he is…” Abigail persisted, but then caught Jamie’s stern eyes
and dropped her own, flushing scarlet. “Sorry, Wally,” she murmured.

Wally seemed at first indisposed to consider this adequate compensation
for the insult he had suffered, but was at last prevailed upon to cease trying
to hit his cousin by his uncle promising him a story.

“Tell the one about the kelpie and the horseman!” my red-haired
acquaintance exclaimed, pushing forward to be in on it.

“No, the one about the Devil’s chess game!” chimed in one of the other
children. Jamie seemed to be a sort of magnet for them; two boys were
plucking at his coverlet, while a tiny brown-haired girl had climbed up
onto the sofa back by his head, and begun intently plaiting strands of his
hair.

“Pretty, Nunkie,” she murmured, taking no part in the hail of
suggestions.

“It’s Wally’s story,” Jamie said firmly, quelling the incipient riot with a
gesture. “He can choose as he likes.” He drew a clean handkerchief out
from under the pillow and held it to Wally’s nose, which was in fact rather
unsightly.

“Blow,” he said in an undertone, and then, louder, “and then tell me
which you’ll have, Wally.”

Wally snuffled obligingly, then said, “St. Bride and the geese, please,
Nunkie.”

[broughps]

Voyager

“I have Chinese medicine,” Mr. Willoughby said, observing this
phenomenon thoughtfully. “Good for vomit, stomach, head, all making
most peaceful and serene.”

I looked at him with interest. “Really? I’d like to see that. Have you
tried it on Jamie yet?”

The little Chinese shook his head regretfully.

“Not want,” he replied. “Say damn-all, throwing overboard if I am come
near.”

Mr. Willoughby and I looked at each other with a perfect understanding.

“You know,” I said, raising my voice a decibel or two, “prolonged dry
retching is very bad for a person.”

“Oh, most bad, yes.” Mr. Willoughby had shaved the forward part of his
skull that morning; the bald curve shone as he nodded vigorously.

“It erodes the stomach tissues, and irritates the esophagus.”

“This is so?”

“Quite so. It raises the blood pressure and strains the abdominal
muscles, too. Can even tear them, and cause a hernia.”

“Ah.”

“And,” I continued, raising my voice just a trifle, “it can cause the
testicles to become tangled round each other inside the scrotum, and cuts
off the circulation there.”

“Ooh!” Mr. Willoughby’s eyes went round.

“If that happens,” I said ominously, “the only thing to do, usually, is to
amputate before gangrene sets in.”

Mr. Willoughby made a hissing sound indicative of understanding and
deep shock. The heap of bedclothes, which had been tossing to and fro in a
restless manner during this conversation, was quite still.

I looked at Mr. Willoughby. He shrugged. I folded my arms and waited.
After a minute, a long foot, elegantly bare, was extruded from the
bedclothes. A moment later, its fellow joined it, resting on the floor.

“Damn the pair of ye,” said a deep Scottish voice, in tones of extreme
malevolence. “Come in, then.”

Fergus and Marsali were leaning over the aft rail, cozily shoulder to
shoulder, Fergus’s arm about the girl’s waist, her long fair hair fluttering in
the wind.

Hearing approaching footsteps, Fergus glanced back over his shoulder.
Then he gasped, whirled round, and crossed himself, eyes bulging.

“Not…one…word, if ye please,” Jamie said between clenched teeth.

Fergus opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Marsali, turning to look
too, emitted a shrill scream.

“Da! What’s happened to ye?”

The obvious fright and concern in her face stopped Jamie from whatever
acerbic remark he had been about to make. His face relaxed slightly,
making the slender gold needles that protruded from behind his ears twitch
like ant’s feelers.

“It’s all right,” he said gruffly. “It’s only some rubbish of the Chinee’s,
to cure the puking.”

Wide-eyed, Marsali came up to him, gingerly extending a finger to
touch the needles embedded in the flesh of his wrist below the palm. Three
more flashed from the inside of his leg, a few inches above the ankle.

“Does—does it work?” she asked. “How does it feel?”

Jamie’s mouth twitched, his normal sense of humor beginning to
reassert itself.

“I feel like a bloody ill-wish doll that someone’s been poking full o’
pins,” he said. “But then I havena vomited in the last quarter-hour, so I
suppose it must work.” He shot a quick glare at me and Mr. Willoughby,
standing side by side near the rail.

“Mind ye,” he said, “I dinna feel like sucking on gherkins just yet, but I
could maybe go so far as to relish a glass of ale, if ye mind where some
might be found, Fergus.”

“Oh. Oh, yes, milord. If you will come with me?” Unable to refrain
from staring, Fergus reached out a tentative hand to take Jamie’s arm, but
thinking better of it, turned in the direction of the after gangway.

“Shall I tell Murphy to start cooking your luncheon?” I called after
Jamie as he turned to follow Fergus. He gave me a long, level look over
one shoulder. The golden needles sprouted through his hair in twin
bunches, gleaming in the morning light like a pair of devil’s horns.

“Dinna try me too high, Sassenach,” he said. “I’m no going to forget, ye
ken. Tangled testicles—pah!”

Mr. Willoughby had been ignoring this exchange, squatting on his heels
in the shadow of the aft-deck scuttlebutt, a large barrel filled with water for
refreshment of the deck watch. He was counting on his fingers, evidently
absorbed in some kind of calculation. As Jamie stalked away, he looked
up.

“Not rat,” he said, shaking his head. “Not dragon, too. Tsei-mi born in
Year of Ox.”

“Really?” I said, looking after the broad shoulders and red head,
lowered stubbornly against the wind. “How appropriate."

[broughps]

Voyager

“Just what d’ye mean to do wi’ the vinegar Sassenach?” Jamie observed
me narrowly, as Maitland vanished into the corridor.

“Souse you in it to kill the lice,” I said. “I don’t intend to sleep with a
seething nest of vermin.”

“Oh,” he said. He scratched the side of his neck meditatively. “Ye mean
to sleep with me, do you?” He glanced at the berth, an uninviting hole in
the wall.

“I don’t know where, precisely, but yes, I do,” I said firmly. “And I
wish you wouldn’t shave your beard just yet,” I added, as he bent to set
down the tray he was holding.

“Why not?” He glanced curiously over his shoulder at me, and I felt the
heat rising in my cheeks.

“Er…well. It’s a bit…different.”

“Oh, aye?” He stood up and took a step toward me. In the cramped
confines of the cabin, he seemed even bigger—and a lot more naked—than
he ever had on deck.

The dark blue eyes had slanted into triangles of amusement.
“How, different?” he asked.

“Well, it…um…” I brushed my fingers vaguely past my burning cheeks.
“It feels different. When you kiss me. On my…skin.”

His eyes locked on mine. He hadn’t moved, but he seemed much closer.
“Ye have verra fine skin, Sassenach,” he said softly. “Like pearls and
opals.” He reached out a finger and very gently traced the line of my jaw.
And then my neck, and the wide flare of collarbone and back, and down,
in a slow-moving serpentine that brushed the tops of my breasts, hidden in
the deep cowl neck of the priest’s robe. “Ye have a lot of verra fine skin,
Sassenach,” he added. One eyebrow quirked up. “If that’s what ye were
thinking?”

I swallowed and licked my lips, but didn’t look away.

“That’s more or less what I was thinking, yes.”

He took his finger away and glanced at the bowl of steaming water.
“Aye, well. It seems a shame to waste the water. Shall I send it back to
Murphy to make soup, or shall I drink it?”

I laughed, both tension and strangeness dissolving at once.

“You shall sit down,” I said, “and wash with it. You smell like a
brothel.”

“I expect I do,” he said, scratching. “There’s one upstairs in the tavern
where the soldiers go to drink and gamble.” He took up the soap and
dropped it in the hot water.

“Upstairs, eh?” I said.

“Well, the girls come down, betweentimes,” he explained. “It wouldna
be mannerly to stop them sitting on your lap, after all.”

“And your mother brought you up to have nice manners, I expect,” I
said, very dryly.

“Upon second thoughts, I think perhaps we shall anchor here for the
night,” he said thoughtfully, looking at me.

“Shall we?”

“And sleep ashore, where there’s room.”

“Room for what?” I asked, regarding him with suspicion.

“Well, I have it planned, aye?” he said, sloshing water over his face with
both hands.

“You have what planned?” I asked. He snorted and shook the excess
water from his beard before replying.

“I have been thinking of this for months, now,” he said, with keen
anticipation. “Every night, folded up in that godforsaken nutshell of a
berth, listening to Fergus grunt and fart across the cabin. I thought it all
out, just what I would do, did I have ye naked and willing, no one in
hearing, and room enough to serve ye suitably.” He lathered the cake of
soap vigorously between his palms, and applied it to his face.

“Well, I’m willing enough,” I said, intrigued. “And there’s room,
certainly. As for naked…”

“I’ll see to that,” he assured me. “That’s part o’ the plan, aye? I shall
take ye to a private spot, spread out a quilt to lie on, and commence by
sitting down beside you.”

“Well, that’s a start, all right,” I said. “What then?” I sat down next to
him on the berth. He leaned close and bit my earlobe very delicately.

“As for what next, then I shall take ye on my knee and kiss ye.” He
paused to illustrate, holding my arms so I couldn’t move. He let go a
minute later, leaving my lips slightly swollen, tasting of ale, soap, and
Jamie.

“So much for step one,” I said, wiping soapsuds from my mouth. “What
then?”

“Then I shall lay ye down upon the quilt, twist your hair up in my hand
and taste your face and throat and ears and bosom wi’ my lips,” he said. “I
thought I would do that until ye start to make squeaking noises.”

“I don’t make squeaking noises!”

“Aye, ye do,” he said. “Here, hand me the towel, aye?”

“Then,” he went on cheerfully, “I thought I would begin at the other
end. I shall lift up your skirt and—” His face disappeared into the folds of
the linen towel.

“And what?” I asked, thoroughly intrigued.

“And kiss the insides of your thighs, where the skin’s so soft. The beard
might help there, aye?” He stroked his jaw, considering.

“It might,” I said, a little faintly. “What am I supposed to be doing while
you do this?”

“Well, ye might moan a bit, if ye like, to encourage me, but otherwise,
ye just lie still.”

He didn’t sound as though he needed any encouragement whatever. One
of his hands was resting on my thigh as he used the other to swab his chest
with the damp towel. As he finished, the hand slid behind me, and
squeezed.

“My beloved’s arm is under me,” I quoted. “And his hand behind my
head. Comfort me with apples, and stay me with flagons, For I am sick of
love.”

There was a flash of white teeth in his beard.

“More like grapefruit,” he said, one hand cupping my behind. “Or
possibly gourds. Grapefruit are too small.”

“Gourds?” I said indignantly.

“Well, wild gourds get that big sometimes,” he said. “But aye, that’s
next.” He squeezed once more, then removed the hand in order to wash the
armpit on that side. “I lie upon my back and have ye stretched at length
upon me, so that I can get hold of your buttocks and fondle them
properly.” He stopped washing to give me a quick example of what he
thought proper, and I let out an involuntary gasp.

“Now,” he went on, resuming his ablutions, “should ye wish to kick
your legs a bit, or make lewd motions wi’ your hips and pant in my ear at
that point in the proceedings, I should have no great objection.”

“I do not pant!”

“Aye, ye do. Now, about your breasts—”

“Oh, I thought you’d forgotten those.”

“Never in life,” he assured me. “No,” he went blithely on, “that’s when I
take off your gown, leaving ye in naught but your shift.”

“I’m not wearing a shift.”

“Oh? Well, no matter,” he said, dismissing this. “I meant to suckle ye
through the thin cotton, ’til your nipples stood up hard in my mouth, and
then take it off, but it’s no great concern; I’ll manage without. So, allowing
for the absence of your shift, I shall attend to your breasts until ye make
that wee bleating noise—”

“I don’t—”

“And then,” he said, interrupting, “since ye will, according to the plan,
be naked, and—provided I’ve done it right so far—possibly willing as well
—”

“Oh, just possibly,” I said. My lips were still tingling from step one.
“—then I shall spread open your thighs, take down my breeks, and—”

He paused, waiting.

“And?” I said, obligingly.

The grin widened substantially.

“And we’ll see what sort of noise it is ye don’t make then, Sassenach.”

[broughps]

Voyager

I didn’t know what prodigies of persuasion had been required on
Lawrence’s part, but Father Fogden was there, frail and insubstantial as a
ghost, the blue sparks of his eyes the only real signs of life. His skin was
gray as his robe, and his hands trembled on the worn leather of his prayer
book.

Jamie glanced sharply at him, and appeared to be about to say
something, but then merely muttered under his breath in Gaelic and
pressed his lips tightly together. The spicy scent of sangria wafted from
Father Fogden’s vicinity, but at least he had reached the beach under his
own power. He stood swaying between two torches, laboriously trying to
turn the pages of his book as the light offshore wind jerked them fluttering
from his fingers.

At last he gave up, and dropped the book on the sand with a little plop!

“Um,” he said, and belched. He looked about and gave us a small, saintlike
smile. “Dearly beloved of God.”

It was several moments before the throng of shuffling, murmuring
spectators realized that the ceremony had started, and began to poke each
other and straighten to attention.

“Wilt thou take this woman?” Father Fogden demanded, suddenly
rounding ferociously on Murphy.

“No!” said the cook, startled. “I don’t hold wi’ women. Messy things.”

“You don’t?” Father Fogden closed one eye, the remaining orb bright
and accusing. He looked at Maitland.

“Do you take this woman?”

“Not me, sir, no. Not that anyone wouldn’t be pleased,” he added
hastily. “Him, please.” Maitland pointed at Fergus, who stood next to the
cabin boy, glowering at the priest.

“Him? You’re sure? He hasn’t a hand,” Father Fogden said doubtfully.
“Won’t she mind?”

“I will not!” Marsali, imperious in one of Ermenegilda’s gowns, blue
silk encrusted with gold embroidery along the low, square neckline and
puffed sleeves, stood beside Fergus. She looked lovely, with her hair clean
and bright as fresh straw, brushed to a gloss and floating loose round her
shoulders, as became a maiden. She also looked angry.

“Go on!” She stamped her foot, which made no noise on the sand, but
seemed to startle the priest.

“Oh, yes,” he said nervously, taking one step back. “Well, I don’t
suppose it’s an impt—impeddy—impediment, after all. Not as though he’d
lost his cock, I mean. He hasn’t, has he?” the priest inquired anxiously, as
the possibility occurred to him. “I can’t marry you if he has. It’s not
allowed.”

Marsali’s face was already bathed in red by torchlight. The expression
on it at this point reminded me strongly of how her mother had looked
upon finding me at Lallybroch. A visible tremor ran through Fergus’s
shoulders, whether of rage or laughter, I couldn’t tell.

Jamie quelled the incipient riot by striding firmly into the middle of the
wedding and placing a hand on the shoulders of Fergus and Marsali.

“This man,” he said, with a nod toward Fergus, “and this woman,” with
another toward Marsali. “Marry them, Father. Now. Please,” he added, as
an obvious afterthought, and stood back a pace, restoring order among the
audience by dint of dark glances from side to side.

“Oh, quite. Quite,” Father Fogden repeated, swaying gently. “Quite,
quite.” A long pause followed, during which the priest squinted at Marsali.

“Name,” he said abruptly. “I have to have a name. Can’t get married
without a name. Just like a cock. Can’t get married without a name; can’t
get married without a c—”

“Marsali Jane MacKimmie Joyce!” Marsali spoke up loudly, drowning
him out.

“Yes, yes,” he said hurriedly. “Of course it is. Marsali. Mar-sa-lee. Just
so. Well, then, do you Mar-sa-lee take this man—even though he’s
missing a hand and possibly other parts not visible—to be your lawful
husband? To have and to hold, from this day forward, forsaking…” At this
point he trailed off, his attention fixed on one of the sheep that had
wandered into the light and was chewing industriously on a discarded
stocking of striped wool.

“I do!”

Father Fogden blinked, brought back to attention. He made an
unsuccessful attempt to stifle another belch, and transferred his bright blue
gaze to Fergus.

“You have a name, too? And a cock?”

“Yes,” said Fergus, wisely choosing not to be more specific. “Fergus.”

The priest frowned slightly at this. “Fergus?” he said. “Fergus. Fergus.
Yes, Fergus, got that. That’s all? No more name? Need more names,
surely.”

“Fergus,” Fergus repeated, with a note of strain in his voice. Fergus was
the only name he had ever had—bar his original French name of Claudel.
Jamie had given him the name Fergus in Paris, when they had met, twenty
years before. But naturally a brothel-born bastard would have no last name
to give a wife.

“Fraser,” said a deep, sure voice beside me. Fergus and Marsali both
glanced back in surprise, and Jamie nodded. His eyes met Fergus’s, and he
smiled faintly.

“Fergus Claudel Fraser,” he said, slowly and clearly. One eyebrow lifted
as he looked at Fergus.

Fergus himself looked transfixed. His mouth hung open, eyes wide
black pools in the dim light. Then he nodded slightly, and a glow rose in
his face, as though he contained a candle that had just been lit.

“Fraser,” he said to the priest. His voice was husky, and he cleared his
throat. “Fergus Claudel Fraser.”

Father Fogden had his head tilted back, watching the sky, where a
crescent of light floated over the trees, holding the black orb of the moon
in its cup. He lowered his head to face Fergus, looking dreamy.

“Well, that’s good,” he said. “Isn’t it?”

A small poke in the ribs from Maitland brought him back to an
awareness of his responsibilities.

“Oh! Um. Well. Man and wife. Yes, I pronounce you man—no, that’s
not right, you haven’t said whether you’d take her. She has both hands,” he
added helpfully.

“I will,” Fergus said. He had been holding Marsali’s hand; now he let go
and dug hastily in his pocket, coming out with a small gold ring. He must
have bought it in Scotland, I realized, and kept it ever since, not wanting to
make the marriage official until it had been blessed. Not by a priest—by
Jamie.

The beach was silent as he slid the ring on her finger, all eyes fixed on
the small gold circle and the two heads bent close together over it, one
bright, one dark.

So she had done it. One fifteen-year-old girl, with nothing but
stubbornness as a weapon. “I want him,” she had said. And kept saying it,
through her mother’s objections and Jamie’s arguments, through Fergus’s
scruples and her own fears, through three thousand miles of homesickness,
hardship, ocean storm, and shipwreck.

She raised her face, shining, and found her mirror in Fergus’s eyes. I
saw them look at each other, and felt the tears prickle behind my lids.

[broughps]

Voyager

“Aye, well, he’ll be wed a long time,” he said callously. “Do him no
harm to keep his breeches on for one night. And they do say that
abstinence makes the heart grow firmer, no?”

“Absence,” I said, dodging the spoon for a moment. “And fonder. If
anything’s growing firmer from abstinence, it wouldn’t be his heart.”

“That’s verra bawdy talk for a respectable marrit woman,” Jamie said
reprovingly, sticking the spoon in my mouth. “And inconsiderate, forbye.”

I swallowed. “Inconsiderate?”

“I’m a wee bit firm myself at the moment,” he replied evenly, dipping
and spooning. “What wi’ you sitting there wi’ your hair loose and your
nipples starin’ me in the eye, the size of cherries.”

I glanced down involuntarily, and the next spoonful bumped my nose.
Jamie clicked his tongue, and picking up a cloth, briskly blotted my bosom
with it. It was quite true that my shift was made of thin cotton, and even
when dry, reasonably easy to see through.

“It’s not as though you haven’t seen them before,” I said, amused.
He laid down the cloth and raised his brows.

“I have drunk water every day since I was weaned,” he pointed out. “It
doesna mean I canna be thirsty, still.” He picked up the spoon. “You’ll
have a wee bit more?”

“No, thanks,” I said, dodging the oncoming spoon. “I want to hear more
about this firmness of yours.”

“No, ye don’t; you’re ill.”

“I feel much better,” I assured him. “Shall I have a look at it?” He was
wearing the loose petticoat breeches the sailors wore, in which he could
easily have concealed three or four dead mullet, let alone a fugitive
firmness.

“You shall not,” he said, looking slightly shocked. “Someone might
come in. And I canna think your looking at it would help a bit.”

“Well, you can’t tell that until I have looked at it, can you?” I said.

“Besides, you can bolt the door.”

“Bolt the door? What d’ye think I’m going to do? Do I look the sort of
man would take advantage of a woman who’s not only wounded and
boiling wi’ fever, but drunk as well?” he demanded. He stood up,
nonetheless.

“I am not drunk,” I said indignantly. “You can’t get drunk on turtle
soup!” Nonetheless, I was conscious that the glowing warmth in my
stomach seemed to have migrated somewhat lower, taking up residence
between my thighs, and there was undeniably a slight lightness of head not
strictly attributable to fever.

“You can if ye’ve been drinking turtle soup as made by Aloysius
O’Shaughnessy Murphy,” he said. “By the smell of it, he’s put at least a
full bottle o’ the sherry in it. A verra intemperate race, the Irish.”
“Well, I’m still not drunk.” I straightened up against the pillows as best
I could. “You told me once that if you could still stand up, you weren’t
drunk.”

“You aren’t standing up,” he pointed out.

“You are. And I could if I wanted to. Stop trying to change the subject.
We were talking about your firmness.”

“Well, ye can just stop talking about it, because—” He broke off with a
small yelp, as I made a fortunate grab with my left hand.

“Clumsy, am I?” I said, with considerable satisfaction. “Oh, my.
Heavens, you do have a problem, don’t you?”

“Will ye leave go of me?” he hissed, looking frantically over his
shoulder at the door. “Someone could come in any moment!”

“I told you you should have bolted the door,” I said, not letting go. Far
from being a dead mullet, the object in my hand was exhibiting
considerable liveliness.

He eyed me narrowly, breathing through his nose.

“I wouldna use force on a sick woman,” he said through his teeth, “but
you’ve a damn healthy grip for someone with a fever, Sassenach. If you
—”

“I told you I felt better,” I interrupted, “but I’ll make you a bargain; you
bolt the door and I’ll prove I’m not drunk.” I rather regretfully let go, to
indicate good faith. He stood staring at me for a moment, absentmindedly
rubbing the site of my recent assault on his virtue. Then he lifted one
ruddy eyebrow, turned, and went to bolt the door.

By the time he turned back, I had made it out of the berth and was
standing—a trifle shakily, but still upright—against the frame. He eyed me
critically.

“It’s no going to work, Sassenach,” he said, shaking his head. He looked
rather regretful, himself. “We’ll never stay upright, wi’ a swell like there is
underfoot tonight, and ye know I’ll not fit in that berth by myself, let alone
wi’ you.”

There was a considerable swell; the lantern on its swivel-bracket hung
steady and level, but the shelf above it tilted visibly back and forth as the
Artemis rode the waves. I could feel the faint shudder of the boards under
my bare feet, and knew Jamie was right. At least he was too absorbed in
the discussion to be seasick.

“There’s always the floor,” I suggested hopefully. He glanced down at
the limited floor space and frowned. “Aye, well. There is, but we’d have to
do it like snakes, Sassenach, all twined round each other amongst the table
legs.”

“I don’t mind.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “it would hurt your arm.” He rubbed a
knuckle across his lower lip, thinking. His eyes passed absently across my
body at about hip level, returned, fixed, and lost their focus. I thought the
bloody shift must be more transparent than I realized.

Deciding to take matters into my own hands, I let go my hold on the
frame of the berth and lurched the two paces necessary to reach him. The
roll of the ship threw me into his arms, and he barely managed to keep his
own balance, clutching me tightly round the waist.

“Jesus!” he said, staggered, and then, as much from reflex as from
desire, bent his head and kissed me.

It was startling. I was accustomed to be surrounded by the warmth of his
embrace; now it was I who was hot to the touch and he who was cool.
From his reaction, he was enjoying the novelty as much as I was.

Light-headed, and reckless with it, I nipped the side of his neck with my
teeth, feeling the waves of heat from my face pulsate against the column of
his throat. He felt it, too.

“God, you’re like holding a hot coal!” His hands dropped lower and
pressed me hard against him.

“Firm is it? Ha,” I said, getting my mouth free for a moment. “Take
those baggy things off.” I slid down his length and onto my knees in front
of him, fumbling mazily at his flies. He freed the laces with a quick jerk,
and the petticoat breeches ballooned to the floor with a whiff of wind.

I didn’t wait for him to remove his shirt; just lifted it and took him. He
made a strangled sound and his hands came down on my head as though
he wanted to restrain me, but hadn’t the strength.

“Oh, Lord!” he said. His hands tightened in my hair, but he wasn’t
trying to push me away. “This must be what it’s like to make love in Hell,”
he whispered. “With a burning she-devil.”

I laughed, which was extremely difficult under the circumstances. I
choked, and pulled back a moment, breathless.

“Is this what a succubus does, do you think?”

“I wouldna doubt it for a moment,” he assured me. His hands were still
in my hair, urging me back.

A knock sounded on the door, and he froze. Confident that the door was
indeed bolted, I didn’t.

“Aye? What is it?” he said, with a calmness rather remarkable for a man
in his position.

“Fraser?” Lawrence Stern’s voice came through the door. “The
Frenchman says the black is asleep, and may he have leave to go to bed
now?”

“No,” said Jamie shortly. “Tell him to stay where he is; I’ll come along
and relieve him in a bit.”

“Oh.” Stern’s voice sounded a little hesitant. “Surely. His…um, his wife
seems…eager for him to come now.”

Jamie inhaled sharply.

“Tell her,” he said, a small note of strain becoming evident in his voice,
“that he’ll be there…presently.”

“I will say so.” Stern sounded dubious about Marsali’s reception of this
news, but then his voice brightened. “Ah…is Mrs. Fraser feeling
somewhat improved?”

“Verra much,” said Jamie, with feeling.

“She enjoyed the turtle soup?”

“Greatly. I thank ye.” His hands on my head were trembling.

“Did you tell her that I’ve put aside the shell for her? It was a fine
hawksbill turtle; a most elegant beast.”

“Aye. Aye, I did.” With an audible gasp, Jamie pulled away and
reaching down, lifted me to my feet.

“Good night, Mr. Stern!” he called. He pulled me toward the berth; we
struggled four-legged to keep from crashing into tables and chairs as the
floor rose and fell beneath us.

“Oh.” Lawrence sounded faintly disappointed. “I suppose Mrs. Fraser is
asleep, then?”

“Laugh, and I’ll throttle ye,” Jamie whispered fiercely in my ear. “She
is, Mr. Stern,” he called through the door. “I shall give her your respects in
the morning, aye?”

“I trust she will rest well. There seems to be a certain roughness to the
sea this evening.”

“I…have noticed, Mr. Stern.” Pushing me to my knees in front of the
berth, he knelt behind me, groping for the hem of my shift. A cool breeze
from the open stern window blew over my naked buttocks, and a shiver
ran down the backs of my thighs.

“Should you or Mrs. Fraser find yourselves discommoded by the
motion, I have a most capital remedy to hand—a compound of mugwort,
bat dung, and the fruit of the mangrove. You have only to ask, you know.”

Jamie didn’t answer for a moment.

“Oh, Christ!” he whispered. I took a sizable bite of the bedclothes.

“Mr. Fraser?”

“I said, ‘Thank you’!” Jamie replied, raising his voice.

“Well, I shall bid you a good evening, then.”

Jamie let out his breath in a long shudder that was not quite a moan.

“Mr. Fraser?”

“Good evening, Mr. Stern!” Jamie bellowed.

“Oh! Er…good evening.”

Stern’s footsteps receded down the companionway, lost in the sound of
the waves that were now crashing loudly against the hull. I spit out the
mouthful of quilt.

“Oh…my…God!”

His hands were large and hard and cool on my heated flesh.

“You’ve the roundest arse I’ve ever seen!”

A lurch by the Artemis here aiding his efforts to an untoward degree, I
uttered a loud shriek.

“Shh!” He clasped a hand over my mouth, bending over me so that he
lay over my back, the billowing linen of his shirt falling around me and the
weight of him pressing me to the bed. My skin, crazed with fever, was
sensitive to the slightest touch, and I shook in his arms, the heat inside me
rushing outward as he moved within me.

His hands were under me then, clutching my breasts, the only anchor as
I lost my boundaries and dissolved, conscious thought a displaced element
in the chaos of sensations—the warm damp of tangled quilts beneath me,
the cold sea wind and misty spray that wafted over us from the rough sea
outside, the gasp and brush of Jamie’s warm breath on the back of my
neck, and the sudden prickle and flood of cold and heat, as my fever broke
in a dew of satisfied desire.

Jamie’s weight rested on my back, his thighs behind mine. It was warm,
and comforting. After a long time, his breathing eased, and he rose off me.
The thin cotton of my shift was damp, and the wind plucked it away from
my skin, making me shiver.

Jamie closed the window with a snap, then bent and picked me up like a
rag doll. He lowered me into the berth, and pulled the quilt up over me.
“How is your arm?” he said.

“What arm?” I murmured drowsily. I felt as though I had been melted
and poured into a mold to set.

“Good,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Can ye stand up?”

“Not for all the tea in China.”

“I’ll tell Murphy ye liked the soup.” His hand rested for a moment on
my cool forehead, passed down the curve of my cheek in a light caress,
and then was gone. I didn’t hear him leave.

[broughps]

Outlander

"What kinds of animals have you seen mating?"

"Oh, all kinds. Our farm was near the forest, ye see, and I spent a good deal of time there, hunting, or seeking cows as had got out and suchlike. I've seen horses and cows, of course, pigs, chickens, doves, dogs, cats, red deer, squirrels, rabbits, wild boar, oh, and once even a pair of snakes."

"Snakes!?"

"Aye. Did ye know that snakes have two cocks?—male snakes, I mean."

"No, I didn't. Are you sure about that?"

"Aye, and both of 'em forked, like this." He spread his second and third fingers apart in illustration.

"That sounds terribly uncomfortable for the female snake," I said, giggling.

"Well, she appeared to be enjoying herself," said Jamie. "Near as I could tell; snakes havena got much expression on their faces."

I buried my face in his chest, snorting with mirth.

[broughps]

DOA

Three days didn’t allow much time, but with the assistance of Myers and
Phaedre, my preparations were completed with hours to spare. I had a
small traveling box of medicines and tools, and the saddlebags were
packed with food, blankets, and cooking implements. The only small
matter remaining was that of attire.

I recrossed the ends of the long silk strip across my chest, tied the ends
in a jaunty knot between my breasts, and examined the results in the
looking glass.

Not bad. I extended my arms and jiggled my torso from side to side,
testing. Yes, that would do. Though perhaps if I took one more turn around
my chest before crossing the ends…

“What, exactly, are ye doing, Sassenach? And what in the name of God
are ye wearing?” Jamie, arms crossed, was leaning against the door,
watching me with both brows raised.

“I am improvising a brassiere,” I said with dignity. “I don’t mean to ride
sidesaddle through the mountains wearing a dress, and if I’m not wearing
stays, I don’t mean my breasts to be joggling all the way, either. Most
uncomfortable, joggling.”

“I daresay.” He edged into the room and circled me at a cautious
distance, eyeing my nether limbs with interest. “And what are those?”

“Like them?” I put my hands on my hips, modeling the drawstring
leather trousers that Phaedre had constructed for me—laughing
hysterically as she did so—from soft buckskin provided by one of Myers’s
friends in Cross Creek.

“No,” he said bluntly. “Ye canna be going about in—in—” He waved at
them, speechless.

“Trousers,” I said. “And of course I can. I wore trousers all the time,
back in Boston. They’re very practical.”

He looked at me in silence for a moment. Then, very slowly, he walked
around me. At last, his voice came from behind me.

“Ye wore them outside?” he said, in tones of incredulity. “Where folk
could see ye?”

“I did,” I said crossly. “So did most other women. Why not?”

“Why not?” he said, scandalized. “I can see the whole shape of your
buttocks, for God’s sake, and the cleft between!”

“I can see yours, too,” I pointed out, turning around to face him. “I’ve
been looking at your backside in breeks every day for months, but only
occasionally does the sight move me to make indecent advances on your
person.”

His mouth twitched, undecided whether to laugh or not. Taking
advantage of the indecision, I took a step forward and put my arms around
his waist, firmly cupping his backside.

“Actually, it’s your kilt that makes me want to fling you to the floor and
commit ravishment,” I told him. “But you don’t look at all bad in your
breeks.”

He did laugh then, and bending, kissed me thoroughly, his hands
carefully exploring the outlines of my rear, snugly confined in buckskin.
He squeezed gently, making me squirm against him.

“Take them off,” he said, pausing for air.

“But I—”

“Take them off,” he repeated firmly. He stepped back and tugged loose
the lacing of his flies. “Ye can put them back on again after, Sassenach,
but if there’s flinging and ravishing to be done, it’ll be me that does it,
aye?”

[broughps]

DOA

“Yes, I had an accident,” I said, trying to stand upright by myself and
not succeeding very well. “I’m all right, though.” I wasn’t altogether sure
about that. My head felt three times its normal size.

“Bed,” Jamie said firmly, grabbing me by the arms before I could fall
over. “Now.”

“Bath,” I said. “First.”

He glanced in the direction of the creek.

“You’ll freeze or drown. Or both. For God’s sake, Sassenach, eat and go
to bed; ye can wash tomorrow.”

“Now. Hot water. Kettle.” I hadn’t the energy to waste on prolonged
argument, but I was determined. I wasn’t going to bed dirty, and I wasn’t
going to wash filthy sheets later.

Jamie looked at me in exasperation, then rolled his eyes in surrender.
“Hot water, kettle, now, then,” he said. “Ian, fetch some wood, and then
take Duncan and see to the pigs. I’m going to scrub your auntie.”

“I can scrub myself!”

“The hell ye can.”

He was right; my fingers were so stiff, they couldn’t undo the hooks of
my bodice. He undressed me as though I were a small child, tossing the
ripped skirt and mud-caked petticoats carelessly into the corner, and
stripping off the chemise and stays, worn so long that the cloth folds had
made deep red ridges in my flesh. I groaned with a voluptuous
combination of pain and pleasure, rubbing the red marks as blood coursed
back through my constricted torso.

“Sit,” he said, pushing a stool under me as I collapsed. He wrapped a
quilt around my shoulders, put a plate containing one and a half stale
bannocks in front of me, and went to rootle in the cupboard after soap,
washcloth, and linen towels.

“Find the green bottle, please,” I said, nibbling at the dry oatcake. “I’ll
need to wash my hair.”

“Mmphm.” More clinking, and he emerged at last with his hands full of
things, including a towel and the bottle full of the shampoo I had made—
not wishing to wash my hair with lye soap—from soaproot, lupin oil,
walnut leaves and calendula flowers. He set these on the table, along with
my largest mixing bowl, and carefully filled it with hot water from the
cauldron.

Leaving this to cool a bit, Jamie dipped a rag into the water, and knelt
down to wash my feet.

The feeling of warmth on my sore, half-frozen feet was as close to
ecstasy as I expected to get this side of heaven. Tired and half-drunk as I
was, I felt as though I were dissolving from the feet up, as he gently but
thoroughly washed me from toe to head.

“Where did ye get this, Sassenach?” Recalled from a state as close to
sleep as to waking, I glanced down muzzily at my left knee. It was
swollen, and the inner side had gone the deep purplish-blue of a gentian.
“Oh…that happened when I fell off the horse.”

“That was verra careless,” he said sharply. “Have I not told ye time and
again to be careful, especially with a new horse? Ye canna trust them at all
until ye’ve known them a good while. And you’re not strong enough to
deal with one that’s headstrong or skittish.”

“It wasn’t a matter of trusting him,” I said. I rather dimly admired the
broad spread of his bent shoulders, flexing smoothly under his linen shirt
as he sponged my bruised knee. “The lightning scared him, and I fell off a
thirty-foot ledge.”

“Ye could have broken your neck!”

“Thought I had, for a bit.” I closed my eyes, swaying slightly.

“Ye should have taken better thought, Sassenach; ye should never have
been on that side of the ridge to begin with, let alone—”

“I couldn’t help it,” I said, opening my eyes. “The trail was washed out;
I had to go around.”

He was glaring at me, slanted eyes narrowed into dark blue slits.

“Ye ought not to have left the Muellers’ in the first place, and it raining
like that! Did ye not have sense enough to know what the ground would be
like?”

I straightened up with some effort, holding the quilt against my breasts.
It occurred to me, with a faint sense of surprise, that he was more than
slightly annoyed.

“Well…no,” I said, trying to marshal what wits I had. “How could I
know something like that? Besides—”

He interrupted me by slapping the washrag into the bowl, spattering
water all over the table.

“Be quiet!” he said. “I dinna mean to argue with you!”

I stared up at him.

“What the hell do you mean to do? And where do you get off shouting
at me? I haven’t done anything wrong!”

He inhaled strongly through his nose. Then he stood up, picked the rag
from the bowl, and carefully wrung it out. He let out his breath, knelt
down in front of me, and deftly swabbed my face clean.

“No. Ye haven’t,” he agreed. One corner of his long mouth quirked
wryly. “But ye scairt hell out of me, Sassenach, and it makes me want to
give ye a terrible scolding, whether ye deserve it or no.”

“Oh,” I said. I wanted at first to laugh, but felt a stab of remorse as I saw
how drawn his face was. His shirt sleeve was daubed with mud, and there
were burrs and foxtails in his stockings, left from a night of searching for
me through the dark mountains, not knowing where I was; if I were alive
or dead. I had scared hell out of him, whether I meant to or not.

I groped for some means of apology, finding my tongue nearly as thick
as my wits. Finally I reached out and picked a fuzzy yellow catkin from
his hair.

“Why don’t you scold me in Gaelic?” I said. “It will ease your feelings
just as much, and I’ll only understand half of what you say.”

He made a Scottish noise of derision, and shoved my head into the bowl
with a firm hand on my neck. When I reemerged, dripping, though, he
dropped a towel on my head and started in, rubbing my hair with large,
firm hands and speaking in the formally menacing tones of a minister
denouncing sin from the pulpit.

“Silly woman,” he said in Gaelic. “You have not the brain of a fly!” I
caught the words for “foolish,” and “clumsy,” in the subsequent remarks,
but quickly stopped listening. I closed my eyes and lost myself instead in
the dreamy pleasure of having my hair rubbed dry and then combed out.

He had a sure and gentle touch, probably gained from handling horses’
tails. I had seen him talk to horses while he groomed them, much as he
was talking to me now, the Gaelic a soothing descant to the whisk of curry
comb or brush. I imagined he was more complimentary to the horses,
though.

His hands touched my neck, my bare back, and shoulders as he worked;
fleeting touches that brought my newly thawed flesh to life. I shivered, but
let the quilt fall to my lap. The fire was still burning high, flames dancing
on the side of the kettle, and the room had grown quite warm.

He was now describing, in a pleasantly conversational tone, various
things he would have liked to do to me, beginning with beating me black
and blue with a stick, and going on from there. Gaelic is a rich language,
and Jamie was far from unimaginative in matters of either violence or sex.
Whether he meant it or not, I thought it was probably a good thing that I
didn’t understand everything he said.

I could feel the heat of the fire on my breasts; Jamie’s warmth against
my back. The loose fabric of his shirt brushed my skin as he leaned across
to reach a bottle on the shelf, and I shivered again. He noticed this, and
interrupted his tirade for a moment.

“Cold?”

“No.”

“Good.” The sharp smell of camphor stung my nose, and before I could
move, one large hand had seized my shoulder, holding me in place, while
the other rubbed slippery oil firmly into my chest.

“Stop! That tickles! Stop, I say!”

He didn’t stop. I squirmed madly, trying to escape, but he was a lot
bigger than I was.

“Be still,” he said, inexorable fingers rubbing deep between my ticklish
ribs, under my collarbone, around and under my tender breasts, greasing
me as thoroughly as a suckling pig bound for the spit.

“You bastard!” I said when he let me go, breathless from struggling and
giggling. I reeked of peppermint and camphor, and my skin glowed with
heat from chin to belly.

He grinned at me, revenged and thoroughly unrepentant.

“You do it to me when I’ve got an ague,” he pointed out, wiping his
hands on the towel. “Grease for the gander is grease for the goose, aye?”

“I have not got an ague! Not even a sniffle!”

“I expect ye will have, out all night and sleepin’ in wet clothes.” He
clicked his tongue disapprovingly, like a Scottish housewife.

“And you’ve never done that, have you? How many times have you
caught cold from sleeping rough?” I demanded. “Good heavens, you lived
in a cave for seven years!”

“And spent three of them sneezing. Besides, I’m a man,” he added, with
total illogic. “Had ye not better put on your night rail, Sassenach? Ye
havena got a stitch on.”

“I noticed. Wet clothes and being cold do not cause sickness,” I
informed him, hunting about under the table for the fallen quilt.
He raised both eyebrows.

“Oh, they don’t?”

“No, they don’t.” I backed out from under the table, clutching the quilt.
“I’ve told you before, it’s germs that cause sickness. If I haven’t been
exposed to any germs, I won’t get sick.”

“Ah, gerrrrms,” he said, rolling it like a marble in his mouth. “God,
ye’ve got a fine, fat arse! Why do folk have more illness in the winter than
the springtime, then? The germs breed in the cold, I expect?”

“Not exactly.” Feeling absurdly self-conscious, I spread the quilt,
meaning to fold it around my shoulders again. Before I could wrap myself
in it, though, he had grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward him.

“Come here,” he said, unnecessarily. Before I could say anything, he
had smacked my bare backside smartly, turned me around and kissed me,
hard.

He let go, and I almost fell down. I flung my arms around him, and he
grabbed my waist, steadying me.

“I dinna care whether it’s the germs or the night air or Billy-bedamned,”
he said, looking sternly down his nose. “I willna have ye fallin’
ill, and that’s all about it. Now, hop yourself directly into your gown, and
to bed with ye!”

He felt awfully good in my arms. The smooth linen of his shirtfront was
cool against the heated glow of my greased breasts, and while the wool of
his kilt was much scratchier against my naked thighs and belly, the
sensation was by no means unpleasant. I rubbed myself slowly against
him, like a cat against a post.

“Bed,” he said again, sounding a trifle less stern.

“Mmmm,” I said, making it reasonably obvious that I didn’t mean to go
there alone.

“No,” he said, squirming slightly. I supposed that he meant to get away,
but since I didn’t let go, the movement merely exacerbated the situation
between us.

“Mm-hmm,” I said, holding on tight. Intoxicated as I was, it hadn’t
escaped me that Duncan would undoubtedly be spending the night on the
hearth rug, Ian on the trundle. And while I was feeling somewhat
uninhibited at the moment, the feeling didn’t extend quite that far.

“My father told me never to take advantage of a woman who was the
worse for drink,” he said. He had stopped squirming, but now started
again, slower, as though he couldn’t help himself.

“I’m not worse, I’m better,” I assured him. “Besides—” I executed a
slow, sinuous squirm of my own. “I thought he said you weren’t drunk if
you could find your arse with both hands.”

He eyed me appraisingly.

“I hate to tell ye, Sassenach, but it’s not your arse ye’ve got hold of—
it’s mine.”

“That’s all right,” I assured him. “We’re married. Share and share alike.
One flesh; the priest said so.”

“Perhaps it was a mistake to put that grease on ye,” he muttered, half to
himself. “It never does this to me!”

“Well, you’re a man.”

He had one last gallant try.

“Should ye not eat a bit more, lass? You must be starving.”

“Mm-hm,” I said. I buried my face in his shirt and bit him, lightly.

“Ravenous.”

[broughps]

DOA

At this point, I noticed Ian, who was hovering in the doorway, obviously
reluctant to interrupt but with a marked look of urgency on his face.

“Did you want something, Ian?” I asked, interrupting Lord John.

He shook his head, brown hair flying.

“No, I thank ye, Auntie. It’s only—” He cast a helpless glance at Jamie.
“Well, I’m sorry, Uncle, I ken I shouldna ha’ let him do it, but—”

“What?” Alarmed by Ian’s tone of voice, Jamie was already on his feet.
“What have ye done?”

The lad twisted his big hands together, cracking his knuckles in
embarrassment.

“Well, ye see, his Lordship asked for the privy, and so I told him about
the snake, and that he’d best go into the wood instead. So he did, but then
he wanted to see the snake, and…and…”

“He’s not bitten?” Jamie asked anxiously. Lord John, who had
obviously been about to ask the same thing, gave him a glance.

“Oh, no!” Ian looked surprised. “We couldna see it to start with,
because it was too dark below. So we lifted off the benchtop to get more
light. We could see the serpent fine, then, and we poked at it a bit wi’ a
long branch, so it was lashin’ to and fro like the wee book said, but it didna
seem inclined to bite itself. And—and—” He darted a glance at Lord John,
and swallowed audibly.

“It was my fault,” he said, nobly squaring his shoulders, the better to
accept blame. “I said as how I’d thought to shoot it earlier, but we didna
want to waste the powder. And so his Lordship said as how he would fetch
his papa’s pistol from the saddlebag and deal with the thing at once. And
so—”

“Ian,” said Jamie between his teeth. “Stop blethering this instant and tell
me straight what ye’ve done wi’ the lad. Ye’ve not shot him by mistake, I
hope?”

Ian looked offended at this slur upon his marksmanship.

“Of course not!” he said.

Lord John coughed politely, forestalling further recriminations.

“Perhaps you would be good enough to tell me the whereabouts of my
son at this moment?”

Ian took a deep breath and visibly commended his soul to God.

“He’s in the bottom of the privy,” he said. “Have ye got a bit o’ rope,
Uncle Jamie?”

With an admirable economy of both words and motion, Jamie reached
the door in two strides and disappeared, closely followed by Lord John.

“Is he in there with the snake?” I asked, hastily scrabbling through the
washbasket for something to use as a tourniquet, just in case.

“Oh, no, Auntie,” Ian assured me. “Ye dinna think I’d have left him, and
the serpent was still there? Maybe I’d best go help,” he added, and
disappeared as well.

I hurried after him, to find Jamie and Lord John standing shoulder to
shoulder in the doorway of the privy, conversing with the depths. Standing
on tiptoe to peer over Lord John’s shoulder, I saw the torn butt end of a
long, slender hickory branch protruding a few inches above the edge of the
oblong hole. I held my breath; Lord Ellesmere’s struggles had stirred up
the contents of the privy, and the reek was enough to sear the cilia off my
nasal membranes.

“He says he’s not hurt,” Jamie assured me, turning away from the hole
and unlimbering a coil of rope from his shoulder.

“Good,” I said. “Where’s the snake, though?” I peeked nervously into
the outhouse, but couldn’t see anything beyond the silvery cedar boards
and the dark recesses of the pit.

“It went that way,” Ian said, gesturing vaguely down the path by which I
had come. “The laddie couldna quite get a clear shot, so I gave the thing a
wee snoove wi’ the stick, and damned if the bugger didna turn and come at
me, right up the branch! It scairt me so I let out a skelloch and let go, and I
bumped the lad, and—well, that’s how it happened,” he ended lamely.

Trying to avoid Jamie’s eye, he sidled toward the pit and, leaning over,
yelled awkwardly, “Hey! I’m glad ye didna break your neck!”

Jamie gave him a look that said rather plainly that if necks were to be
broken…but forbore further remarks in the interests of extracting William
promptly from his oubliette. This procedure was carried out without
further incident, and the would-be marksman was lifted out, clinging to the
rope like a caterpillar on a string.

There had luckily been enough sewage in the bottom of the pit to break
his fall. From appearances, the ninth Earl of Ellesmere had landed
facedown. Lord John stood for a moment on the path, wiping his hands on
his breeches and surveying the encrusted object before him. He rubbed the
back of a hand over his mouth, trying either to hide a smile or to stifle his
sense of smell.

Then his shoulders started to shake.

“What news from the Underworld, Persephone?” he said, unable to keep
the quaver of laughter out of his voice.

A pair of slanted eyes looked blue murder out of the mask of filth
obscuring his Lordship’s features. It was a thoroughly Fraser expression,
and I felt a qualm go through me at the sight. By my side, Ian gave a
sudden start. He glanced quickly from the Earl to Jamie and back, then he
caught my eye and his own face went perfectly and unnaturally blank.

Jamie was saying something in Greek, to which Lord John replied in the
same language, whereupon both men laughed like loons. Trying to ignore
Ian, I bent an eye in Jamie’s direction. Shoulders still shaking with
suppressed mirth, he saw fit to enlighten me.

“Epicharmus,” he explained. “At the Oracle of Delphi, seekers after
enlightenment would throw down a dead python into the pit, and then hang
about, breathing in the fumes as it decayed.”

Lord John declaimed, gesturing grandly. “ ‘The spirit toward the
heavens, the body to the earth.’ ”

William exhaled strongly through his nose, precisely as Jamie did when
tried beyond bearing. Ian twitched beside me. Good grief, I thought,
freshly unnerved. Does the boy have nothing from his mother?

“And have you attained any spiritual insights as a result of your recent
m-mystical experience, William?” Lord John asked, making a poor
attempt at self-control. He and Jamie were both flushed, with a laughter
that I thought due as much to the release of nervous tension as to brandy or
hilarity.

His Lordship, glowering, pulled off his neckcloth and flung it on the
path with a soggy splat. Now Ian was giggling nervously, too, unable to
help himself. My own belly muscles were quivering under the strain, but I
could see that the patches of exposed flesh above William’s collar were the
color of the ripe tomatoes by the privy. Knowing all too well what usually
happened to a Fraser who reached that particular level of incandescence, I
thought the time had come to break up the party.

“Er-hem,” I said, clearing my throat. “If you will allow me, gentlemen?
Unlearned as I am in Greek philosophy, there is one small epigram I know
by heart.”

I handed William the jar of lye soap I had brought in lieu of a
tourniquet.

“Pindar,” I said. “ ‘Water is best.’ ”

A small flash of what might have been gratitude showed through the
muck. His Lordship bowed to me, with utmost correctness, then turned,
gave Ian a fishy stare, and stomped off through the grass toward the creek,
dripping. He seemed to have lost his shoes.

“Puir clarty bugger,” Ian said, shaking his head mournfully. “It’ll be
days before he gets the stink off.”

“No doubt.” Lord John’s lips were still twitching, but the urge to
declaim Greek poetry seemed to have left him, replaced by less elevated
concerns. “Do you know what has become of my pistol, by the way? The
one William was using before his unfortunate accident?”

“Oh.” Ian looked uncomfortable. He lifted his chin in the direction of
the privy. “I…ah…well, I’m verra much afraid—”

“I see.” Lord John rubbed his own immaculately barbered chin.

Jamie fixed Ian with a long stare.

“Ah…” said Ian, backing up a pace or two.

“Get it,” said Jamie, in a tone that brooked no contradiction.

“But—” said Ian.

“Now,” said his uncle, and dropped the slimy rope at his feet.
Ian’s Adam’s apple bobbed, once. He looked at me, wide-eyed as a
rabbit.

“Take your clothes off first,” I said helpfully. “We don’t want to have to
burn them, do we?”

[broughps]

FC

His eyebrows went up at this, but before he could ask further questions,
a scream rang out behind us.

“Germain!”

I turned to see a small blond head, hair flying as the owner streaked
down the slope below the rocks. Two-year-old Germain had taken
advantage of his mother’s preoccupation with his newborn sister to escape
custody and make a dash for the row of soldiers. Eluding capture, he
charged headlong down the slope, picking up speed like a rolling stone.

“Fergus!” Marsali screamed. Germain’s father, hearing his name, turned
round from his conversation, just in time to see his son trip over a rock and
fly headlong. A born acrobat, the little boy made no move to save himself,
but collapsed gracefully, rolling into a ball like a hedgehog as he struck the
grassy slope on one shoulder. He rolled like a cannonball through the
ranks of soldiers, shot off the edge of a rocky shelf, and plopped with a
splash into the creek.

There was a general gasp of consternation, and a number of people ran
down the hill to help, but one of the soldiers had already hurried to the
bank. Kneeling, he thrust the tip of his bayonet through the child’s floating
clothes and towed the soggy bundle to the shore.

Fergus charged into the icy shallows, reaching out to clasp his
waterlogged son.

“Merci, mon ami, mille merci beaucoup,” he said to the young soldier.

“Et toi, toto,” he said, addressing his spluttering offspring with a small
shake. “Comment ça va, ye wee chowderheid?”

The soldier looked startled, but I couldn’t tell whether the cause was
Fergus’s unique patois, or the sight of the gleaming hook he wore in place
of his missing left hand.

“That’s all right then, sir,” he said, with a shy smile. “He’ll no be
damaged, I think.”

[broughps]

Just beyond was a small open space, not really big enough to be called a
clearing, tufted with dead grass and studded with pine saplings. As Fergus
and I ducked under the creeper after Jamie, a large woman in homespun
whirled toward us, shoulders hunching as she raised the broken tree limb
she clutched in one hand. She saw McGillivray, though, and relaxed
fractionally.

“Wer ist das?” she asked suspiciously, eyeing us. Then John Quincy
appeared from under the creeper, and she lowered the club, her solidly
handsome features relaxing further.

“Ha, Myers! You brung me den Jamie, oder?” She cast me a curious
look, but was too busy glancing between Fergus and Jamie to inspect me
closely.

“Aye, love, this is Jamie Roy—Sheumais Mac Dubh.” McGillivray
hastened to take credit for Jamie’s appearance, putting a respectful hand on
his sleeve. “My wife, Ute, Mac Dubh. And Mac Dubh’s son,” he added,
waving vaguely at Fergus.

Ute McGillivray looked like a Valkyrie on a starchy diet; tall, very
blond, and broadly powerful.

“Your servant, ma’am,” Jamie said, bowing.

“Madame,” Fergus echoed, making her a courtly leg.

Mrs. McGillivray dropped them a low curtsy in return, eyes fixed on the
prominent bloodstains streaking the front of Jamie’s—or rather, Roger’s—
coat.

“Mein Herr,” she murmured, looking impressed. She turned and
beckoned to a young man of seventeen or eighteen, who had been lurking
in the background. He bore such a marked resemblance to his small, wiry,
dark-haired father that his identity could scarcely be in doubt.

“Manfred,” his mother announced proudly. “Mein laddie.”

Jamie inclined his head in grave acknowledgment.

“Mr. McGillivray.”

“Ah . . . your s-servant, sir?” The boy sounded rather dubious about it,
but put out his hand to be shaken.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” Jamie assured him,
shaking it. The courtesies duly observed, he looked briefly round at the
quiet surroundings, raising one eyebrow.

“I had heard that you were suffering some inconvenience wi’ regard to a
thief-taker. Do I take it that the matter has been resolved?” He glanced in
question from McGillivray Junior to McGillivray Senior.

The three McGillivrays exchanged assorted glances among themselves.
Robin McGillivray gave an apologetic cough.

“Well, not to say resolved, quite, Mac Dubh. That is to say . . .” He
trailed off, the harried look returning to his eyes.

Mrs. McGillivray gave him a stern look, then turned to Jamie.

“Ist kein bother,” she told him. “Ich haf den wee ball of *beep* safe put.
But only we want to know, how we best den Korpus hide?”

“The . . . body?” I said, rather faintly.

Even Jamie looked a bit disturbed at that.

“Ye’ve killed him, Rob?”

“Me?” McGillivray looked shocked. “Christ’s sake, Mac Dubh, what
d’ye take me for?”

Jamie raised the eyebrow again; evidently the thought of McGillivray
committing violence was scarcely far-fetched. McGillivray had the grace
to look abashed.

“Aye, well. I suppose I might have—and I did—well, but, Mac Dubh!
That business at Ardsmuir was all long ago and done wi’, aye?”

“Aye,” Jamie said. “It was. What about this business wi’ the thief-taker,
though? Where is he?”

I heard a muffled giggle behind me, and swung round to see that the rest
of the family McGillivray, silent ’til now, was nonetheless present. Three
teenaged girls sat in a row on a dead log behind a screen of saplings, all
immaculately attired in clean white caps and aprons, only slightly wilted
with the rain.

“Meine lassies,” Mrs. McGillivray announced, with a wave in their
direction—unnecessarily, since all three of the girls looked like smaller
versions of herself. “Hilda, Inga, und Senga.”

Fergus bowed elegantly to the three.

“Enchanté, mes demoiselles.”

The girls giggled and bobbed their heads in response, but without rising,
which struck me as odd. Then I noticed some disturbance taking place
under the skirt of the oldest girl; a sort of heaving flutter, accompanied by
a muffled grunt. Hilda swung her heel sharply into whatever it was, all the
time smiling brightly at me.

There was another grunt—much louder this time—from under the skirt,
which caused Jamie to start and turn in her direction.

Still smiling brightly, Hilda bent and delicately picked up the edge of
her skirt, under which I could see a frantic face, bisected by a dark strip of
cloth tied round his mouth.

“That’s him,” said Robbie, sharing his wife’s talent for stating the
obvious.

“I see.” Jamie’s fingers twitched slightly against the side of his kilt. “Ah
. . . perhaps we could have him out, then?”

Robbie motioned to the girls, who all stood up together and stepped
aside, revealing a small man who lay against the base of the dead log,
bound hand and foot with an assortment of what looked like women’s
stockings, and gagged with someone’s kerchief. He was wet, muddy, and
slightly battered round the edges.

Myers bent and hoisted the man to his feet, holding him by the collar.
“Well, he ain’t much to look at,” the mountain man said critically,
squinting at the man as though evaluating a substandard beaver skin. “I
guess thief-takin’ don’t pay so well as ye might think.”

The man was in fact skinny and rather ragged, as well as disheveled,
furious—and frightened. Ute sniffed contemptuously.

“Saukerl!” she said, and spat neatly on the thief-taker’s boots. Then she
turned to Jamie, full of charm.

“So, mein Herr. How we are to kill him best?”

The thief-taker’s eyes bulged, and he writhed in Myers’s grip. He
bucked and twisted, making frantic gargling noises behind the gag. Jamie
looked him over, rubbing a knuckle across his mouth, then glanced at
Robbie, who gave a slight shrug, with an apologetic glance at his wife.
Jamie cleared his throat.

“Mmphm. Ye had something in mind, perhaps, ma’am?”

Ute beamed at this evidence of sympathy with her intentions, and drew
a long dagger from her belt.

“I thought maybe to butcher, wie ein Schwein, ja? But see . . .” She
poked the thief-taker gingerly between the ribs; he yelped behind the gag,
and a small spot of blood bloomed on his ragged shirt.

“Too much Blut,” she explained, with a moue of disappointment. She
waved at the screen of trees, behind which the stone-lifting seemed to be
proceeding well. “Die Leute will schmell.”

“Schmell?” I glanced at Jamie, thinking this some unfamiliar German
expression. He coughed, and brushed a hand under his nose. “Oh, smell!” I
said, enlightened. “Er, yes, I think they might.”

“I dinna suppose we’d better shoot him, then,” Jamie said thoughtfully.
“If ye’re wanting to avoid attention, I mean.”

“I say we break his neck,” Robbie McGillivray said, squinting
judiciously at the trussed thief-taker. “That’s easy enough.”

“You think?” Fergus squinted in concentration. “I say a knife. If you
stab in the right spot, the blood is not so much. The kidney, just beneath
the ribs in back . . . eh?”

The captive appeared to take exception to these suggestions, judging
from the urgent sounds proceeding from behind the gag, and Jamie rubbed
his chin dubiously.

“Well, that’s no verra difficult,” he agreed. “Or strangle him. But he will
lose his bowels. If it were to be a question of the smell, even crushing his
skull . . . but tell me, Robbie, how does the man come to be here?”
“Eh?” Robbie looked blank.

“You’re no camped nearby?” Jamie waved a hand briefly at the tiny
clearing, making his meaning clear. There was no trace of hearthfire; in
fact, no one had camped on this side of the creek. And yet all the
McGillivrays were here.

“Oh, no,” Robbie said, comprehension blossoming on his spare features.

“Nay, we’re camped some distance up. Only, we came to have a wee keek
at the heavies”—he jerked his head toward the competition field—“and the
friggin’ vulture spied our Freddie and took hold of him, so as to drag him
off.” He cast an unfriendly look at the thief-taker, and I saw that a coil of
rope dangled snakelike from the man’s belt. A pair of iron manacles lay on
the ground nearby, the dark metal already laced with orange rust from the
damp.

“We saw him grab aholt of Brother,” Hilda put in at this point. “So we
grabbed aholt of him and pushed him through here, where nobody could
see. When he said he meant to take Brother away to the sheriff, me and my
sisters knocked him down and sat on him, and Mama kicked him a few
times.”

Ute patted her daughter fondly on one sturdy shoulder.

“They are gut, strong Mädchen, meine lasses,” she told Jamie. “Ve
komm see hier die Wettkämpfer, maybe choose husband for Inga or Senga.
Hilda hat einen Mann already promised,” she added, with an air of
satisfaction.

She looked Jamie over frankly, her eye dwelling approvingly on his
height, the breadth of his shoulders, and the general prosperity of his
appearance.

“He is fine, big, your Mann,” she said to me. “You haf sons, maybe?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” I said apologetically. “Er . . . Fergus is married to
my husband’s daughter,” I added, seeing her gaze shift appraisingly to
Fergus.

The thief-taker appeared to feel that the subject was drifting somewhat
afield, and summoned attention back to himself with an indignant squeal
behind his gag. His face, which had gone pale at the discussion of his
theoretical demise, had grown quite red again, and his hair was matted
down across his forehead in spikes.

“Oh, aye,” Jamie said, noticing. “Perhaps we should let the gentleman
have a word?”

Robbie narrowed his eyes at this, but reluctantly nodded. The
competitions had got well under way by now, and there was a considerable
racket emanating from the field; no one would notice the odd shout over
here.

“Don’t let ’em kill me, sir! You know it ain’t right!” Hoarse from his
ordeal, the man fixed his appeal on Jamie as soon as the gag was removed.
“I’m only doin’ as I ought, delivering a criminal to justice!”

“Ha!” all the McGillivrays said at once. Unanimous as their sentiment
appeared to be, the expression of it immediately disintegrated into a
confusion of expletives, opinions, and a random volley of kicks aimed at
the gentleman’s shins by Inga and Senga.

“Stop that!” Jamie said, raising his voice enough to be heard over the
uproar. As this had no result, he grabbed McGillivray Junior by the scruff
of the neck and roared, “Ruhe!” at the top of his lungs, which startled
them into momentary silence, with guilty looks over their shoulders in the
direction of the competition field.

“Now, then,” Jamie said firmly. “Myers, bring the gentleman, if ye will.
Rob, Fergus, come along with ye. Bitte, Madame?” He bowed to Mrs.
McGillivray, who blinked at him, but then nodded in slow acquiescence.
Jamie rolled an eye at me, then, still holding Manfred by the neck, he
marched the male contingent off toward the creek, leaving me in charge of
the ladies.

“Your Mann—he will save my son?” Ute turned to me, fair brows
knitted in concern.

“He’ll try.” I glanced at the girls, who were huddled together behind
their mother. “Do you know whether your brother was at Hillsborough?”
The girls looked at one another, and silently elected Inga to speak.
“Well, ja, he was, then,” she said, a little defiantly. “But he wasna
riotin’, not a bit of it. He’d only gone for to have a bit of harness mended,
and was caught up in the mob.”

I caught a quick glance exchanged between Hilda and Senga, and
deduced that this was perhaps not the entire story. Still, it wasn’t my place
to judge, thank goodness.

Mrs. McGillivray’s eyes were fixed on the men, who stood murmuring
together some distance away. The thief-taker had been untied, save for his
hands, which remained bound. He stood with his back against a tree,
looking like a cornered rat, eyeteeth showing in a snarl of defiance. Jamie
and Myers were both looming over him, while Fergus stood by, frowning
attentively, his chin propped on his hook. Rob McGillivray had taken out a
knife, with which he was contemplatively flicking small chips of wood
from a pine twig, glancing now and then at the thief-taker with an air of
dark intent.

“I’m sure Jamie will be able to . . . er . . . do something,” I said,
privately hoping that the something wouldn’t involve too much violence.
The unwelcome thought occurred to me that the diminutive thief-taker
would probably fit tidily in one of the empty food hampers.

“Gut.” Ute McGillivray nodded slowly, still watching. “Better that I do
not kill him.” Her eyes turned suddenly back to me, light blue and very
bright. “But I vill do it, if I must.”

I believed her.

“I see,” I said carefully. “But—I do beg your pardon—but even if that
man took your son, could you not go to the sheriff too, and explain . . .”

More glances among the girls. This time it was Hilda who spoke.

“Nein, ma’am. See, it wouldna have been sae bad, had the thief-taker
come on us at the camp. But down here—” She widened her eyes, nodding
toward the competition field, where a muffled thud and a roar of approval
marked some successful effort.

The difficulty, apparently, was Hilda’s fiancé, one Davey Morrison,
from Hunter’s Point. Mr. Morrison was a farmer of some substance, and a
man of worth, as well as an athlete skilled in the arcana of stone-throwing
and caber-tossing. He had family, too—parents, uncles, aunts, cousins—all
of the most upright character and—I gathered—rather judgmental
attitudes.

Had Manfred been taken by a thief-taker in front of such a crowd, filled
with Davey Morrison’s relations, word would have spread at the speed of
light, and the scandal would result in the prompt rupture of Hilda’s
engagement—a prospect that clearly perturbed Ute McGillivray much
more than the notion of cutting the thief-taker’s throat.

“Bad, too, I kill him and someone see,” she said frankly, waving at the
thin scrim of trees shielding us from the competition field. “Die Morrisons
would not like.”

“I suppose they might not,” I murmured, wondering whether Davey
Morrison had any idea what he was getting into. “But you—”

“I vill haf meine lassies well wed,” she said firmly, nodding several
times in reinforcement. “I find gut men für Sie, fine big men, mit land, mit
money.” She put an arm round Senga’s shoulders and hugged her tight.
“Nicht wahr, Liebchen?”

“Ja, Mama,” Senga murmured, and laid her neat capped head
affectionately on Mrs. McGillivray’s broad bosom.

Something was happening on the men’s side of things; the thief-taker’s
hands had been untied, and he stood rubbing his wrists, no longer
scowling, but listening to whatever Jamie was saying with an expression of
wariness. He glanced at us, then at Robin McGillivray, who said
something to him and nodded emphatically. The thief-taker’s jaw worked,
as though he were chewing over an idea.

“So you all came down to watch the competitions this morning and look
for suitable prospects? Yes, I see.”

Jamie reached into his sporran and drew out something, which he held
under the thief-taker’s nose, as though inviting him to smell it. I couldn’t
make out what it was at this distance, but the thief-taker’s face suddenly
changed, going from wariness to alarmed disgust.

“Ja, only to look.” Mrs. McGillivray was not watching; she patted
Senga and let her go. “Ve go now to Salem, where ist meine Familie.
Maybe ve find there a good Mann, too.”

Myers had stepped back from the confrontation now, his shoulders
drooping in relaxation. He inserted a finger under the edge of his
breechclout, scratched his buttocks comfortably, and glanced around,
evidently no longer interested in the proceedings. Seeing me looking in his
direction, he ambled back through the sapling grove.

“No need to worry more, ma’am,” he assured Mrs. McGillivray. “I
knew Jamie Roy would take care of it, and so he has. Your lad’s safe.”

“Ja?” she said. She looked doubtfully toward the sapling grove, but it
was true; the attitudes of all the men had relaxed now, and Jamie was
handing the thief-taker back his set of manacles. I saw the way he handled
them, with brusque distaste. He had worn irons, at Ardsmuir.

“Gott sei dank,” Mrs. McGillivray said, with an explosive sigh. Her
massive form seemed suddenly to diminish as the breath went out of her.
The little man was leaving, making his way away from us, toward the
creek. The sound of the swinging irons at his belt reached us in a faint
chime of metal, heard between the shouts of the crowd behind us. Jamie
and Rob McGillivray stood close together, talking, while Fergus watched
the thief-taker’s departure, frowning slightly.

“Exactly what did Jamie tell him?” I asked Myers.

“Oh. Well.” The mountain man gave me a broad, gap-toothed grin.

“Jamie Roy told him serious-like that it was surely luck for the thief-taker
—his name’s Boble, by the way, Harley Boble—that we done come upon
y’all when we did. He give him to understand that if we hadn’t, then this
lady here”—he bowed toward Ute—“would likely have taken him home in
her wagon, and slaughtered him like a hog, safe out of sight.”

Myers rubbed a knuckle under his red-veined nose and chortled softly in
his beard.

“Boble said as how he didn’t believe it, he thought she was only a-tryin’
to scare him with that knife. But then Jamie Roy leaned down close,
confidential-like, and said he mighta thought the same—only that he’d
heard so much about Frau McGillivray’s reputation as a famous sausagemaker,
and had had the privilege of bein’ served some of it to his breakfast
this morning. Right about then, Boble started to lose the color in his face,
and when Jamie Roy pulled out a bit of sausage to show him—”

“Oh, dear,” I said, with a vivid memory of exactly what that sausage
smelled like. I had bought it the day before from a vendor on the mountain,
only to discover that it had been improperly cured, and once sliced,
smelled so strongly of rotting blood that no one had been able to stomach
it at supper. Jamie had wrapped the offending remainder in his
handkerchief and put it in his sporran, intending either to procure a refund
or to shove it down the vendor’s throat. “I see.”

Myers nodded, turning to Ute.

“And your husband, ma’am—bless his soul, Rob McGillivray’s a real
born liar—chimes in solemn-like, agreeing to it all, shakin’ his head and
sayin’ as how he’s got his work cut out to shoot enough meat for you.”

The girls tittered.

“Da can’t kill anything,” Inga said softly to me. “He willna even wring a
chicken’s neck.”

Myers raised his shoulders in a good-humored shrug, as Jamie and Rob
made their way toward us through the wet grass.

“So Jamie promised on his word as a gentleman to protect Boble from
you, and Boble promised on his word as a . . . well, he said as he’d keep
clear of young Manfred.”

“Hmp,” said Ute, looking rather disconcerted. She didn’t mind at all
being considered an habitual murderess, and was quite pleased that
Manfred was out of danger—but was rather put out at having her
reputation as a sausage-maker maligned.

“As though I vould effer make such *beep* she said, wrinkling her nose
in disdain at the odorous lump of meat Jamie offered for her inspection.

“Pfaugh. Ratzfleisch.” She waved it away with a fastidious gesture, then
turned to her husband and said something softly in German.

Then she took a deep breath and expanded once more, gathering all her
children like a hen clucking after chicks, urging them to thank Jamie
properly for his help. He flushed slightly at the chorus of thanks, bowing
to her.

“Gern geschehen,” he said. “Euer ergebener Diener, Frau Ute.”
She beamed at him, composure restored, as he turned to say something
in parting to Rob.

“Such a fine, big Mann,” she murmured, shaking her head slightly as
she looked him up and down. Then she turned, and caught my glance from
Jamie to Rob—for while the gunsmith was a handsome man, with closeclipped,
dark curly hair and a chiseled face, he was also fine-boned as a
sparrow, and some inches shorter than his wife, reaching approximately to
the level of her brawny shoulder. I couldn’t help wondering, given her
apparent admiration for large men . . .

“Oh, vell,” she said, and shrugged apologetically. “Luff, you know.”
She sounded as though love were an unfortunate but unavoidable
condition.

I glanced at Jamie, who was carefully swaddling his sausage before
tucking it back into his sporran. “Well, yes,” I said. “I do.”

[broughps]

FC

We were lucky. The rain held off, and shredding clouds revealed a
silver moon, rising lopsided but luminous over the slope of Black
Mountain; suitable illumination for an intimate family wedding.

I had met David Caldwell, though I hadn’t recalled it until I saw him; a
small but immensely personable gentleman, very tidy in his dress, despite
camping in the open for a week. Jamie knew him, too, and respected him.
That didn’t prevent a certain tightness of expression as the minister came
into the firelight, his worn prayer book clasped in his hands, but I nudged
Jamie warningly, and he at once altered his expression to one of
inscrutability.

I saw Roger glance once in our direction, then turn back to Bree. There
might have been a slight smile at the corner of his mouth, or it could have
been only the effect of the shadows. Jamie exhaled strongly through his
nose, and I nudged him again.

“You had your way over the baptism,” I whispered. He lifted his chin
slightly. Brianna glanced in our direction, looking slightly anxious.

“I havena said a word, have I?”

“It’s a perfectly respectable Christian marriage.”

“Did I say it was not?”

“Then look happy, damn you!” I hissed. He exhaled once more, and
assumed an expression of benevolence one degree short of outright
imbecility.

“Better?” he asked, teeth clenched in a genial smile. I saw Duncan Innes
turn casually toward us, start, and turn hastily away, murmuring something
to Jocasta, who stood near the fire, white hair shining, and a blindfold over
her damaged eyes to shield them from the light. Ulysses, standing behind
her, had in fact put on his wig in honor of the ceremony; it was all I could
see of him in the darkness, hanging apparently disembodied in the air
above her shoulder. As I watched, it turned sideways, toward us, and I
caught the faint shine of eyes beneath it.

“Who that, Grand-mère?”

Germain, escaped as usual from parental custody, popped up near my
feet, pointing curiously at the Reverend Caldwell.

“That’s a minister, darling. Auntie Bree and Uncle Roger are getting
married.”

“Ou qu’on va minster?”

I drew a deep breath, but Jamie beat me to it.

“It’s a sort of priest, but not a proper priest.”

“Bad priest?” Germain viewed the Reverend Caldwell with substantially
more interest.

“No, no,” I said. “He’s not a bad priest at all. It’s only that . . . well, you
see, we’re Catholics, and Catholics have priests, but Uncle Roger is a
Presbyterian—”

“That’s a heretic,” Jamie put in helpfully.

“It is not a heretic, darling, Grand-père is being funny—or thinks he is.
Presbyterians are . . .”

Germain was paying no attention to my explanation, but instead had
tilted his head back, viewing Jamie with fascination.

“Why Grand-père is making faces?”

“We’re verra happy,” Jamie explained, expression still fixed in a rictus
of amiability.

“Oh.” Germain at once stretched his own extraordinarily mobile face
into a crude facsimile of the same expression—a jack-o’-lantern grin, teeth
clenched and eyes popping. “Like this?”

“Yes, darling,” I said, in a marked tone. “Just like that.”

Marsali looked at us, blinked, and tugged at Fergus’s sleeve. He turned,
squinting at us.

“Look happy, Papa!” Germain pointed to his gigantic smile. “See?”

Fergus’s mouth twitched, as he glanced from his offspring to Jamie. His
face went blank for a moment, then adjusted itself into an enormous smile
of white-toothed insincerity. Marsali kicked him in the ankle. He winced,
but the smile didn’t waver.

Brianna and Roger were having a last-minute conference with Reverend
Caldwell, on the other side of the fire. Brianna turned from this, brushing
back her loose hair, saw the phalanx of grinning faces, and stared, her
mouth slightly open. Her eyes went to me; I shrugged helplessly.

Her lips pressed tight together, but curved upward irrepressibly. Her
shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. I felt Jamie quiver next to me.
Reverend Caldwell stepped forward, a finger in his book at the proper
place, put his spectacles on his nose, and smiled genially at the
assemblage, blinking only slightly when he encountered the row of leering
countenances.

He coughed, and opened his Book of Common Worship.

“Dearly beloved, we are assembled here in the presence of God . . .”

[broughps]

FC

DRUGGED WITH FATIGUE, languid with love, and lulled by the
comforts of a soft, clean bed, I slept like the dead.

Somewhere toward dawn, I began to dream—pleasant dreams of touch
and color, without form. Small hands touched my hair, patted my face; I
turned on my side, half-conscious, dreaming of nursing a child in my
sleep. Tiny soft fingers kneaded my breast, and my hand came up to cup
the child’s head. It bit me.

I shrieked, shot bolt upright in bed, and saw a gray form race across the
quilt and disappear over the end of the bed. I shrieked again, louder.
Jamie shot sideways out of bed, rolled on the floor, and came up
standing, shoulders braced and fists half-clenched.

“What?” he demanded, glaring wildly round in search of marauders.

“Who? What?”

“A rat!” I said, pointing a trembling finger at the spot where the gray
shape had vanished into the crevice between bed-foot and wall.

“Oh.” His shoulders relaxed. He scrubbed his hands over his face and
through his hair, blinking. “A rat, aye?”

“A rat in our bed,” I said, not disposed to view the event with any
degree of calm. “It bit me!” I peered closely at my injured breast. No blood
to speak of; only a couple of tiny puncture marks that stung slightly. I
thought of rabies, though, and my blood ran cold.

“Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach. I’ll deal with it.” Squaring his
shoulders once more, Jamie picked up the poker from the hearth and
advanced purposefully on the bed-foot. The footboard was solid; there was
a space of only a few inches between it and the wall. The rat must be
trapped, unless it had managed to escape in the scant seconds between my
scream and Jamie’s eruption from the quilts.

I got up onto my knees, ready to leap off the bed if necessary. Scowling
in concentration, Jamie raised the poker, reached out with his free hand,
and flipped the hanging coverlid out of the way.

He whipped the poker down with great force—and jerked it aside,
smashing into the wall.

“What?” I said.

“What?” he echoed, in a disbelieving tone. He bent closer, squinting in
the dim light, then started to laugh. He dropped the poker, squatted on the
floor, and reached slowly into the space between the bed-foot and wall,
making a small chirping noise through his teeth. It sounded like birds
feeding in a distant bush.

“Are you talking to the rat?” I began to crawl toward the foot of the bed,
but he motioned me back, shaking his head, while still making the chirping
sound.

I waited, with some impatience. Within a minute, he made a grab,
evidently catching whatever it was, for he gave a small exclamation of
satisfaction. He stood up, smiling, a gray, furry shape clutched by the
nape, dangling like a tiny purse from his fingers.

“Here’s your wee ratten, Sassenach,” he said, and gently deposited a
ball of gray fur on the coverlet. Huge eyes of a pale celadon green stared
up at me, unblinking.

“Well, goodness,” I said. “Wherever did you come from?” I extended a
finger, very slowly. The kitten didn’t move. I touched the edge of a tiny
gray-silk jaw, and the big green eyes disappeared, going to slits as it
rubbed against my finger. A surprisingly deep purr rumbled through its
miniature frame.

“That,” Jamie said, with immense satisfaction, “is the present I meant to
give ye, Sassenach. He’ll keep the vermin from your surgery.”

“Well, possibly very small vermin,” I said, examining my new present
dubiously. “I think a large cockroach could carry him—is it a him?—off to
its lair, let alone a mouse.”

“He’ll grow,” Jamie assured me. “Look at his feet.”

He—yes, it was a he—had rolled onto his back and was doing an
imitation of a dead bug, paws in the air. Each paw was roughly the size of
a broad copper penny, small enough by themselves, but enormous by
contrast with the tiny body. I touched the minuscule pads, an immaculate
pink in their thicket of soft gray fur, and the kitten writhed in ecstasy.
A discreet knock came at the door, and I snatched the sheet up over my
bosom as the door opened and Mr. Wemyss’s head poked in, his hair
sticking up like a pile of wheat straw.

“Er . . . I hope all is well, sir?” he asked, blinking shortsightedly. “My
lass woke me, sayin’ as she thought there was a skelloch, like, and then we
heard a bit of a bang, like—” His eyes, hastily averted from me, went to
the scar of raw wood in the whitewashed wall, left by Jamie’s poker.
“Aye, it’s fine, Joseph,” Jamie assured him. “Only a wee cat.”

“Oh, aye?” Mr. Wemyss squinted toward the bed, his thin face breaking
into a smile as he made out the blot of gray fur. “A cheetie, is it? Well, and
he’ll be a fine help i’ the kitchen, I’ve nae doubt.”

“Aye. Speakin’ of kitchens, Joseph—d’ye think your lassie might bring
up a dish of cream for the baudrons here?”

Mr. Wemyss nodded and disappeared, with a final avuncular smile at
the kitten.

Jamie stretched, yawned, and scrubbed both hands vigorously through
his hair, which was behaving with even more reckless abandon than usual.
I eyed him, with a certain amount of purely aesthetic appreciation.

“You look like a woolly mammoth,” I said.

“Oh? And what is a mammoth, besides big?”

“A sort of prehistoric elephant—you know, the animals with the long
trunks?”

He squinted down the length of his body, then looked at me quizzically.
“Well, I thank ye for the compliment, Sassenach,” he said. “Mammoth,
is it?” He thrust his arms upward and stretched again, casually arching his
back, which—quite inadvertently, I didn’t think—enhanced any incidental
resemblances that one might note between the half-engorged morning
anatomy of a man, and the facial adornments of a pachyderm.

I laughed.

“That’s not precisely what I meant,” I said. “Stop waggling; Lizzie’s
coming in any minute. You’d better put your shirt on or get back in bed.”

The sound of footsteps on the landing sent him diving under the quilts,
and sent the little cat scampering up the sheet in fright. In the event, it was
Mr. Wemyss himself who had brought the dish of cream, sparing his
daughter a possible sight of Himself in the altogether.

The weather being fine, we had left the shutters open the night before.
The sky outside was the color of fresh oysters, moist and pearly gray. Mr.
Wemyss glanced at it, blinked and nodded at Jamie’s thanks, and toddled
back to his bed, thankful for a last half hour’s sleep before the dawn.
I disentangled the kitten, who had taken refuge in my hair, and set him
down by the bowl of cream. I didn’t suppose he could ever have seen a
bowl of cream in his life, but the smell was enough—in moments, he was
whisker-deep, lapping for all he was worth.

“He’s a fine thrum to him,” Jamie remarked approvingly. “I can hear
him from here.”

“He’s lovely; wherever did you get him?” I nestled into the curve of
Jamie’s body, enjoying his warmth; the fire had burned far down during
the night, and the air in the room was chilly, sour with ash.

“Found him in the wood.” Jamie yawned widely, and relaxed, propping
his head on my shoulder to watch the tiny cat, who had abandoned himself
to an ecstasy of gluttony. “I thought I’d lost him when Gideon bolted—I
suppose he’d crept into one of the saddlebags, and came up wi’ the other
things.”

We lapsed into a peaceful stupor, drowsily cuddled in the warm nest of
our bed, as the sky lightened, moment by moment, and the air came alive
with the voices of waking birds. The house was waking, too—a baby’s
wail came from below, followed by the stir and shuffle of rising, the
murmur of voices. We should rise, too—there was so much to be done—
and yet neither of us moved, each reluctant to surrender the sense of quiet
sanctuary. Jamie sighed, his breath warm on my bare shoulder.

<snip>

Perhaps not quite asleep; I could feel the small vibration of his purring
through the quilt.

“What do you think I should call him?” I mused aloud, touching the tip
of the soft, wispy tail. “Spot? Puff? Cloudy?”

“Foolish names,” Jamie said, with a lazy tolerance. “Is that what ye
were wont to call your pussie-baudrons in Boston, then? Or England?”

“No. I’ve never had a cat before,” I admitted. “Frank was allergic to
them—they made him sneeze. And what’s a good Scottish cat name, then
—Diarmuid? McGillivray?”

He snorted, then laughed.

“Adso,” he said, positively. “Call him Adso.”

“What sort of name is that?” I demanded, twisting to look back at him in
amazement. “I’ve heard a good many peculiar Scottish names, but that’s a
new one.”

He rested his chin comfortably on my shoulder, watching the kitten
sleep.

“My mother had a wee cat named Adso,” he said, surprisingly. “A gray
cheetie, verra much like this one.”

“Did she?” I laid a hand on his leg. He rarely spoke of his mother, who
had died when he was eight.

“Aye, she did. A rare mouser, and that fond of my mother; he didna
have much use for us bairns.” He smiled in memory. “Possibly because
Jenny dressed him in baby-gowns and fed him rusks, and I dropped him
into the millpond, to see could he swim. He could, by the way,” he
informed me, “but he didna like to.”

“I can’t say I blame him,” I said, amused. “Why was he called Adso,
though? Is it a saint’s name?” I was used to the peculiar names of Celtic
saints, from Aodh—pronounced OOH—to Dervorgilla, but hadn’t heard of
Saint Adso before. Probably the patron saint of mice.

“Not a saint,” he corrected. “A monk. My mother was verra learned—
she was educated at Leoch, ye ken, along with Colum and Dougal, and
could read Greek and Latin, and a bit of the Hebrew as well as French and
German. She didna have so much opportunity for reading at Lallybroch, of
course, but my father would take pains to have books fetched for her, from
Edinburgh and Paris.”

He reached across my body to touch a silky, translucent ear, and the
kitten twitched its whiskers, screwing up its face as though about to
sneeze, but didn’t open its eyes. The purr continued unabated.
“One of the books she liked was written by an Austrian, from the city of
Melk, and so she thought it a verra suitable name for the kit.”

“Suitable . . . ?”

“Aye,” he said, nodding toward the empty dish, without the slightest
twitch of lip or eyelid. “Adso of Milk.”

A slit of green showed as one eye opened, as though in response to the
name. Then it closed again, and the purring resumed.

“Well, if he doesn’t mind, I suppose I don’t,” I said, resigned. “Adso it
is.”

[broughps]

FC

Mr. James Fraser
Fraser’s Ridge, North Carolina

My dear Jamie,

I woke this Morning to the sound of the Rain which has beat upon us for
the last Week, and to the gentle clucking of several Chickens, who had
come to roost upon my Bedstead. Rising under the Stare of numerous
beady Eyes, I went to make Inquiry as to this Circumstance, and was
informed that the River has risen so far under the Impetus of the recent
Rain as to have undermined both the Necessary House and the Chicken
Coop. The contents of the latter were rescued by William (my Son, whom
you will recall), and two of the Slaves, who swept the dispossessed Fowl
out of the passing Floodwaters with Brooms. I cannot say whose was the
Notion to sequester the hapless feathered Flood Victims in my Sleeping
Chamber, but I hold certain Suspicions in this regard.

Resorting to use of my Chamber Pot (I could wish that the Chickens
shared this Facility, they are distressing incontinent Fowl), I dressed and
ventured forth to see what might be salvaged. Some few Boards and the
shingled Roof of the Chicken Coop remain, but my Privy, alas, has become
the Property of King Neptune—or whatever minor water Deity presides
over so modest a Tributary as our River.

I pray you will suffer no Concern for us, though; the House is at some
distance from the River, and safely placed upon a Rise of Ground, such as
to render us quite safe from even the most incommodious flooding. (The
Necessary had been dug by the old homestead, and we had not yet
attempted a new structure more convenient; this minor disaster, by
affording us the Necessary opportunity for rebuilding, thus may prove a
blessing in disguise.)

[broughps]

FC

“Ah, the prodigal returns. In shillings, sir, or bottles of brandy?”

I turned to look as well, in time to see Duncan crossing the terrace,
nodding and smiling shyly to well-wishers as he passed. I must have
looked bewildered, for Mr. Campbell bowed to me, dry mouth crooked
with amusement.

“I’d laid your husband a small wager, ma’am.”

“Five to one on Duncan, the night,” Jamie explained. “That he and my
aunt will share a bed, I mean.”

“Goodness,” I said, rather crossly. “Is anyone here talking of anything
else? Minds like sewers, the lot of you.”

Campbell laughed, then turned aside, distracted by the urgencies of a
small grandson.

“Don’t tell me ye werena wondering the same thing.” Jamie nudged me
gently.

“Indeed I was not,” I said primly. I wasn’t—but only because I already
knew.

“Oh, indeed,” he said, one corner of his mouth curling up. “And you wi’
lechery as plain on your face as whiskers on a cat.”

“Whatever do you mean by that?” I demanded. Just in case he was right,
I flicked the fan open and covered the lower half of my face. I peered over
its ivory lacework, batting my eyelashes in mock innocence.

He made a derisive Scottish noise in his throat. Then, with a quick
glance round, he bent low and whispered in my ear.

“It means ye look as ye do when ye want me to come to your bed.” A
warm breath stirred the hair over my ear. “Do you?”

I smiled brilliantly at Mr. Campbell, who was viewing us with interest
over his grandson’s head, snapped the fan open, and using it as a shield,
stood on tiptoe to whisper in Jamie’s ear. I dropped back on my heels and
smiled demurely at him, fanning away for all I was worth.

Jamie looked mildly shocked, but definitely pleased. He glanced at Mr.
Campbell, who had fortunately turned away, drawn into conversation
elsewhere. Jamie rubbed his nose and regarded me with intense
speculation, his dark blue gaze lingering on the scalloped neckline of my
new gown. I fluttered the fan delicately over my décolletage.

“Ah . . . we could . . .” His eyes flicked up, assessing our surroundings
for possible prospects of seclusion, then down again, ineluctably drawn to
the fan as though it were a magnet.

“No we couldn’t,” I informed him, smiling and bowing to the elderly
Misses MacNeil, who were strolling past behind him. “Every nook and
cranny in the house is filled with people. So are the barns and stables and
outbuildings. And if you had in mind a rendezvous under a bush on the
riverbank, think again. This dress cost a bloody fortune.” A fortune in
illegal whisky, but a fortune nonetheless.

“Oh, I ken that well enough.”

His eyes traveled slowly over me, from the coils of upswept hair to the
tips of my new calf-leather shoes. The dress was pale amber silk, bodice
and hem embroidered with silk leaves in shades of brown and gold, and if
I did say so myself, it fit me like a glove.

“Worth it,” he said softly, and leaned down to kiss me. A chilly breeze
stirred the oak branches overhead, and I moved closer to him, seeking his
warmth.

What with the long journey from the Ridge and the crush of guests
caused by the impending celebration, we hadn’t shared a bed ourselves in
more than a week.

It wasn’t so much an amorous encounter I wanted—though I would
certainly not say no, if the opportunity offered. What I missed was simply
the feel of his body next to mine; being able to reach out a hand in the dark
and rest it on the long swell of his thigh; to roll toward him in the morning
and cup his round, neat buttocks in the curve of thigh and belly; to press
my cheek against his back and breathe the scent of his skin as I slipped
into sleep.

“Damn,” I said, resting my forehead briefly in the folds of his shirt
ruffle, and inhaling the mingled scents of starch and man with longing.

“You know, if your aunt and Duncan don’t need the bed, perhaps . . .”

“Oh, so ye were wondering.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I said. “Besides, what business is it of yours?”

“Oh, none at all,” he said, unperturbed. “Only I’ve been asked by four
men this morning if I think they will—or have done already. Which is
rather a compliment to my aunt, no?”

It was true; Jocasta MacKenzie must be well into her sixties, and yet the
thought of her sharing a man’s bed was by no means unthinkable. I had
met any number of women who had gratefully abandoned all notion of
sex, directly the cessation of childbearing made it possible—but Jocasta
wasn’t one of them. At the same time—

“They haven’t,” I said. “Phaedre told me yesterday.”

“I know. Duncan told me, just now.” He was frowning slightly, but not
at me. Toward the terrace, where the bright splotch of Duncan’s tartan
showed between the huge stone vases.

“Did he?” I was more than a little surprised at that. A sudden suspicion
struck me. “You didn’t ask him, did you?”

He gave me a slightly reproachful look.

“I did not,” he said. “What d’ye take me for, Sassenach?”

“A Scot,” I said. “Sex fiends, the lot of you. Or so one would think,
listening to all the talk around here.” I gave Farquard Campbell a hard
look, but he had turned his back, engrossed in conversation.

Jamie regarded me thoughtfully, scratching the corner of his jaw.

“Sex fiends?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Oh, aye, I do. I’m only wondering—is that an insult, would ye say, or a
compliment?”

I opened my mouth, then paused. I gave him back the thoughtful look.
“If the shoe fits,” I said, “wear it.”

He burst out laughing, which made a number of those nearby turn and
look at us. Taking my arm, he steered me across the lawn and into the
patchy shade of the elms.

<snip>

“Well, I shouldna think she’ll mind greatly,” he said, looking
quizzically down at me. “After all, at her age, I shouldna think—”

I made a rude noise.

“Her age? Your grandfather Simon was well into his seventies and still
putting it about, when last seen.”

“My aunt is a woman,” he said, rather austerely. “If ye hadna noticed
it.”

“And you think that makes a difference?”

“You don’t?”

“Oh, it makes a difference, all right,” I said. I leaned back against a tree,
arms crossed under my bosom, and gave him a look from under my lashes.

“When I am a hundred and one, and you’re ninety-six, I’ll invite you to my
bed—and we’ll see which one of us rises to the occasion, hmm?”

He looked at me thoughtfully, a glint in the dark blue of his eyes.

“I’ve a mind to take ye where ye stand, Sassenach,” he said. “Payment
on account, hmm?”

“I’ve a mind to take you up on it,” I said. “However . . .” I glanced
through the screen of branches toward the house, which was clearly
visible. The trees were beginning to leaf out, but the tiny sprays of tender
green were by no means sufficient camouflage. I turned back, just as
Jamie’s hands descended on the swell of my hips.

Events after that were somewhat confused, with the predominant
impressions being an urgent rustling of fabric, the sharp scent of trodden
onion grass, and the crackling of last year’s oak leaves, dry underfoot.
My eyes popped open a few moments later.

“Don’t stop!” I said, disbelieving. “Not now, for God’s sake!”

He grinned down at me, stepping back and letting his kilt fall into place.
His face was flushed a ruddy bronze with effort, and his chest heaved
under his shirt ruffles.

He grinned maliciously, and wiped a sleeve across his forehead.

“I’ll gie ye the rest when I’m ninety-six, aye?”

“You won’t live that long! Come here!”

“Oh,” he said. “So ye’ll speak to my aunt.”

“Effing blackmailer,” I panted, fumbling at the folds of his kilt. “I’ll get
you for this, I swear I will.”

“Oh, aye. You will.”

He put an arm round my waist and swung me off my feet, turning round
so that his back was to the house, screening me with his body. His long
fingers deftly ruffled up the skirt of my gown, then the two petticoats
beneath, and even more deftly, slid between my bare legs.

“Hush,” he murmured in my ear. “Ye dinna want folk to hear, do ye?”
He set his teeth gently in the curve of my ear, and proceeded about his
business in a workmanlike way, ignoring my intermittent—and admittedly
rather feeble—struggles.

I was more than ready and he knew what he was doing. It didn’t take
long. I dug my fingers into his arm, hard as an iron bar across my middle,
arched backward for a moment of dizzying infinity, and then collapsed
against him, twitching like a worm on the end of a hook. He made a deep
chuckling sound, and let go of my ear.

A cold breeze had sprung up, and was wafting the folds of my skirts
about my legs. The scent of smoke and food drifted through the cool
spring air, along with the rumble of talk and laughter from the lawn. I
could dimly hear it, under the slow, loud thumping of my heart.

“Come to think of it,” Jamie remarked, releasing me, “Duncan has still
got the one good hand.” He set me gently on my feet, keeping hold of my
elbow, lest my knees give way. “Ye might mention that to my aunt, if ye
think it will help.”

[broughps]

FC

A brighter light glowed at the side of the big house, at the farther side of
the clearing. A lantern; two figures walking close together, one tall, one
smaller.

The man said something, an interrogative rumble; he recognized Jamie’s
voice, but couldn’t make out the words.

“No,” Claire’s voice answered, lighter, clear as they came closer. He
saw her hands flutter, silhouetted in the lantern’s glow. “I’m filthy from
the planting. I’m going to wash before I come in. You go up to bed.”

The larger figure hesitated, then handed her the lantern. Roger saw
Claire’s face in the light for a moment, turned upward, smiling. Jamie bent
and kissed her briefly, then stepped back.

“Hurry, then,” he said, and Roger could hear the answering smile in his
voice. “I dinna sleep well without ye beside me, Sassenach.”

“You’re going to sleep right away, are you?” She paused, a bantering
note in her voice.

“Not right away, no.” Jamie’s figure had melted into the darkness, but
the breeze was toward the cabin, and his voice came out of the shadows,
part of the night. “But I canna very well do the other unless ye’re beside
me, either, now can I?”

Claire laughed, though softly.

“Start without me,” she said, turning away toward the well. “I’ll catch
you up.”

[broughps]

Outlander

Murtagh’s, and turned around to see. He was seated next to Ned Gowan, munching industriously.

“Sandringham? Ah, old Willie the arse-bandit,” said Ned, meditatively.

“What?!” said one of the younger men-at-arms, choking on his ale.

“Our revered duke has something of a taste for boys, or so I understand,” Ned explained.

“Mmm,” agreed Rupert, his mouth full. Swallowing, he added, “Had a wee bit of a taste for young Jamie here, last time he visited these parts, if I remember rightly. That were when, Dougal? Thirtyeight? Thirty-nine?”

“Thirty-seven,” Dougal answered from the next table. He narrowed his eyes at his nephew. “Ye were rather a pretty lad at sixteen, Jamie.”

Jamie nodded, chewing. “Aye. Fast, too.”

When the laughter had died down, Dougal began to tease Jamie.

“I didna ken ye were a favorite, Jamie, lad. There’s several about the Duke as ha’ traded a sore arse for lands and offices.”

“Ye’ll notice I havena got either one,” responded Jamie with a grin, to further roars of laughter.

“What? Never even got close?” said Rupert, chewing noisily.

“A good bit closer than I would have liked, truth be known.”

“Ah, but how close would ye ha’ liked it, hey, lad?” The shout came from further down the table, from a tall, brown-bearded man I didn’t recognize, and was greeted with more laughter and ribald remarks. Jamie smiled tranquilly and reached for another loaf, undisturbed by the teasing.

“Is that why ye left the Castle so sudden and went back to your father?” asked Rupert.

“Aye.”

“Why, ye should ha’ told me ye were having trouble that way, Jamie, lad,” said Dougal, with mock concern. Jamie made a low Scottish noise in his throat.

“And if I’d told ye about it, you old rogue, ye would have slipped a bit of poppy juice in my ale some evening, and left me in His Grace’s bed as a wee gift.”

The table roared, and Jamie dodged as Dougal hurled an onion at him.

Rupert squinted across at Jamie. “Seems to me, lad, I saw ye, soon before ye left, goin’ into the Duke’s chambers near nightfall. Ye’re sure ye’re not holdin’ back on us?” Jamie grabbed another onion and threw it at him. It missed and rolled away into the rushes.

“Nay,” Jamie said, laughing, “I’m a maiden still—that way, at least. But if ye must know all about it before you can sleep, Rupert, I’ll tell ye, and welcome.”

Amid shouts of “Tell! Tell!” he deliberately poured a mug of ale and sat back in the classic storyteller ’s posture. I could see Colum at the head table, head cocked forward to hear, as attentive as the ostlers and fighting-men at our table.

“Well,” he began, “it’s true enough what Ned says; His Grace had something of an eye for me, though being the innocent I was at sixteen—” Here he was interrupted by a number of cynical remarks, and raised his voice to go on. “Bein’, as I say, innocent of such carryings on, I’d no idea what he meant, though it seemed a bit strange to me, the way His Grace was always wanting to pat me like a wee dog and was so interested in what I might ha’ in my sporran.” (“Or under it!” shouted a drunken voice.)

“I thought it stranger still,” he went on, “when he found me washing myself at the river and wanted to wash my back for me. When he finished my back and went on wi’ the rest, I began to get a wee bit nervous, and when he put his hand under my kilts, I began to get the general idea. I may have been an innocent, but no a complete fool, ye ken.

“I got out of that particular situation by diving into the water, kilts and all, and swimming across to the other side; His Grace being not of a mind to risk his costly clothes in the mud and water. Anyway, after that I was verra wary of being alone with him. He caught me once or twice in the garden or the courtyard, but there was room to get away, wi’ no more harm than him kissing my ear. The only other bad time was when he came on me alone in the stables.”

“In my stables?” Old Alec looked aghast. He half-rose to his feet and called across the room to the head table. “Colum, ye’ll see that man stays oot o’ my sheds! I’ll not have him frightening my horses, duke or no! Or troubling the boys, neither!” he added, as an obvious afterthought.

Jamie went on with his story, unperturbed by the interruption. Dougal’s two teenaged daughters were listening raptly, mouths slightly agape.

“I was in a horsebox, ye ken, and there wasna room to maneuver much. I was bendin’ over [more ribald remarks]—bendin’ over the manger, I say, muckin’ up husks from the bottom, when I hear a sound behind me, and before I can straighten up, my kilts are tossed up round my waist, and there’s something hard pressed against my arse.”

He waved a hand to still the tumult before going on. “Weel, I didna care much for the thought of being buggered in a horsebox, but I didna see much way out at that point, either. I was just gritting my teeth and hoping it wouldn’t hurt too much, when the horse—it was that big black gelding, Ned, the one ye got at Brocklebury—you know, the one Colum sold to Breadalbin—anyway, the horse took an objection to the noise His Grace was making. Now, most horses like ye to talk to them, and so did that one, but he had a peculiar aversion to verra high voices; I couldna take him in the yard when there were small bairns about, because he’d get nervous at their squeaks, and start pawing and stamping."

“His Grace, ye might recall, has a rather high-pitched voice, and it was a bit higher than usual on this occasion, him bein’ a trifle excited. Weel, as I say, the horse didna care for it—nor did I, I must say—and he starts stamping, and snorting, and swings his body round and squashes His Grace flat against the side of the box. As soon as the Duke let go of me, I jumped into the manger and eased away round the other side of the horse, leavin’ His Grace to get out as best he might.”

Jamie paused for breath and a sip of ale. He had the attention of the whole room by this time, faces turned toward him, gleaming in the light of the torchères. Here and there might have been discerned a frown at these revelations concerning a most puissant noble of the English Crown, but the overriding reaction was an untrammeled delight in the scandal. I gathered that the Duke was not a particularly popular personage at Castle Leoch.

“Havin’ been so close, as ye might say, His Grace made up his mind as he’d have me, come what might. So next day he tells The MacKenzie that his body servant’s fallen ill, and can he borrow me to help him wash and dress.” Colum covered his face in mock dismay, to the amusement of the crowd.

Jamie nodded to Rupert.

“That’s why ye saw me go to His Grace’s room in the evening. Under orders, ye might say.”

“You could have told me, Jamie. I’d not have made you go,” Colum called, with a look of reproach.

Jamie shrugged and grinned. “I was prevented by my natural modesty, Uncle. Besides, I knew ye were trying to deal with the man; I thought it might impair your negotiations a bit if you were forced to tell His Grace to keep his hands off your nephew’s bum.”

“Very thoughtful of you, Jamie,” said Colum dryly. “So you sacrificed yourself for my interests, did you?”

Jamie raised his mug in a mock-toast. “Your interests are always foremost in my mind, Uncle,” he said, and I thought that in spite of the teasing tone, there was a sharp undercurrent of truth to this, one that Colum perceived as well as I.

He drained the mug and set it down. “But, no,” he said, wiping his mouth, “in this case, I didna feel that family duty required quite that much of me. I went to the Duke’s rooms, because you told me to, but that was all.”

“And ye came out again wi’ yer *beep* unstretched?” Rupert sounded skeptical.

Jamie grinned. “Aye, I did. Ye see, directly I heard about it, I went to Mrs. Fitz, and told her I was in desperate need of a dose of syrup of figs. When she gave it to me, I saw where she put the bottle, and I came back quiet a bit later, and drank the whole lot.”

The room rocked with laughter, including Mrs. Fitz, who turned so red in the face I thought she might have a seizure. She rose ceremoniously from her place, waddled round the table and cuffed Jamie good-naturedly on the ear.

“So that’s what became of my good physick, ye young wretch!” Hands on her hips, she wagged her head, making the green ear-bobbles wink like dragonflies. “The best lot I ever made too!”

“Oh, it was most effective,” he assured her, laughing up at the massive dame.

“I should think so! When I think what that much physick must have done to your innards, lad, I hope it was worth it to ye. Ye canna have been much good to yourself for days after.”

He shook his head, still laughing.

“I wasn’t, but then, I wasna much good for what His Grace had in mind, either. He did not seem to mind at all when I begged leave to remove myself from his presence. But I knew I couldna do it twice, so as soon as the cramps eased up, I got a horse from the stables and lit out. It took a long time to get home, since I had to stop every ten minutes or so, but I made it by supper next day.”

Dougal beckoned for a new jug of ale, which he passed down the board hand-to-hand to Jamie.

“Aye, your father sent word he thought perhaps you’d learned enough of castle life for the present,” he said, smiling ruefully. “I thought there was a tone to his letter I did not quite understand at the time.”

“Weel, I hope ye’ve laid up a new batch of fig syrup, Mrs. Fitz,” Rupert interrupted, poking her familiarly in the ribs. “His Grace is like to be here in a day or two. Or are ye counting on your new wife to guard ye this time, Jamie?” He leered at me. “From all accounts, ye may need to guard her. I hear the Duke’s servant does not share His Grace’s preferences, though he’s every bit as active.”

Jamie pushed back the bench and rose from the table, handing me out. He put an arm around my shoulders and smiled back at Rupert.

“Well, then, I suppose the two of us will just have to fight it out back-to-back.”
Rupert’s eyes flew open in horrified dismay.

“Back to back!?” he exclaimed. “I knew we’d forgot to tell ye something before your wedding, lad! No wonder you’ve not got her with child yet!”

Jamie’s hand tightened on my shoulder, turning me toward the archway, and we made our escape, pelted by a hail of laughter and bawdy advice.

In the dark hall outside, Jamie leaned against the stones, doubled over. Unable to stand, I sank to the ground at his feet and giggled helplessly.

“You didn’t tell him, did you?” Jamie gasped at last.

I shook my head. “No, of course not.” Still wheezing, I groped for his hand, and he hauled me upright. I collapsed against his chest.

“Let me see if I’ve got it right, now.” He cupped my face between his hands and pressed his forehead to mine, face so close that his eyes blurred into one large blue orb and his breath was warm on my chin.

“Face to face. Is that it?” The fizz of laughter was dying down in my blood, replaced by something else just as potent. I touched my tongue against his lips, while my hands busied themselves lower down.

“Faces are not the essential parts. But you’re learning.”

[broughps]

FC

JAMIE WAS QUIET and abstracted through the rest of the day, though he
roused himself to be sociable when Fergus and Marsali arrived with their
children for a visit after supper. He taught Germain to play draughts, while
Fergus recalled for Roger the words of a ballad he had picked up in the
alleys of Paris as a juvenile pickpocket. The women retired to the hearth to
stitch baby gowns, knit booties, and—in honor of Marsali’s advancing
pregnancy and Lizzie’s engagement—entertain each other with hairraising
anecdotes of labor and birth.

“Laid sideways, the babe was, and the size of a six-month shoat . . .”

“Ha, Germain had a head like a cannonball, the midwife said, and he
was facing backward, the wee rattan—”

“Jemmy had a huge head, but it was his shoulders that were the
problem. . . .”

“. . . le bourse . . . the lady’s ‘purse,’ of course, is her—”

“Her means of making a living, aye, I see. Then the next bit, where her
customer puts his fingers in her purse—”

“No, ye dinna get to move yet, it’s still my turn, for I’ve jumped your
man there, and so I can go here—”

“Merde!”

“Germain!” Marsali bellowed. She glared at her offspring, who hunched
his shoulders, scowling at the draughtboard, lower lip thrust out.

“Dinna fash yourself, man, for see? Now it’s your turn, ye can go there,
and there, and there—”

“. . . Avez-vous ête a la selle aujourd’hui? . . . and what he is asking the
whore, of course—”

“‘Have you—been in the saddle today?’ Or would it be, ‘Have you had
a ride today?’ ”

Fergus laughed, the end of his aristocratic nose pinkening with
amusement.

“Well, that is one translation, surely.”

Roger lifted a brow at him, half-smiling.

“Aye?”

“That particular expression is also what a French doctor says,” I put in,
seeing his incomprehension. “Colloquially speaking, it means, ‘Have you
had a bowel movement today?’ ”

“The lady in question being perhaps une specialiste,” Fergus explained
cheerfully. “I used to know one who—”

“Fergus!” Marsali’s whole face was pink, though she seemed more
amused than outraged.

“I see,” Roger murmured, eyebrows still raised as he struggled with the
nuances of this bit of sophisticated translation. I did wonder how one
would set it to music.

“Comment sont vos selles, grandpere?” Germain inquired chummily,
evidently familiar with this line of social inquiry. And how are your stools,
grandfather?

“Free and easy,” his grandfather assured him. “Eat up your parritch
every morning, and ye’ll never have piles.”

“Da!”

“Well, it’s true,” Jamie protested.

Brianna was bright red, and emitting small fizzing noises. Jemmy stirred
in her lap.

“Le petit rouge eats parritch,” Germain observed, frowning narrowly at
Jemmy, who was nursing contentedly at his mother’s breast, eyes closed.
“He *beep* stones.”

“Germain!” all the women shouted in unison.

“Well, it’s true,” he said, in perfect imitation of his grandfather.
Looking dignified, he turned his back on the women and began building
towers with the draughts-men.

“He doesna seem to want to give up the teat,” Marsali observed,
nodding at Jemmy. “Neither did Germain, but he’d no choice—nor did
poor wee Joanie.” She glanced ruefully down at her stomach, which was
barely beginning to swell with Number Three.

I caught the barest flicker of a glance between Roger and Bree, followed
by a Mona Lisa smile on Brianna’s face. She settled herself more
comfortably, and stroked Jemmy’s head. Enjoy it while you can,
sweetheart, her actions said, more vividly than words.

I felt my own eyebrows rise, and glanced toward Jamie. He’d seen that
little byplay, too, and gave me the male equivalent of Brianna’s smile,
before turning back to the draughtsboard.

“I like parritch,” Lizzie put in shyly, in a minor attempt to change the
subject. “Specially with honey and milk.”

“Ah,” said Fergus, reminded of his original task. He turned back to
Roger, lifting a finger. “Honeypots. The refrain, you see, where les
abeilles come buzzing—”

“Aye, aye, that’s so,” Mrs. Bug neatly recaptured the conversation,
when he paused to draw breath, “parritch wi’ honey is the best thing for
the bowels, though sometimes even that fails. Why, I kent a man once,
who couldna move his bowels for more than a month!”

“Indeed. Did he try a pellet of wax rolled in goose-grease? Or a tisane of
grape leaves?” Fergus was instantly diverted. French to the core, he was a
great connoisseur of purges, laxatives, and suppositories.

“Everything,” Mrs. Bug assured him. “Parritch, dried apples, wine
mixed wi’ an ox’s gall, water drunk at the dark o’ the moon at midnight . .
. nothing at all would shift him. ’Twas the talk of the village, wi’ folk
placing wagers, and the poor man gone quite gray in the face. Nervous
spasms, it was, and his bowels tied up like garter strings, so that—”

“Did he explode?” Germain asked, interested.

Mrs. Bug shook briefly with laughter.

“No, that he didna, laddie. Though I did hear as how it was a near
thing.”

“What was it finally shifted him, then?” Jamie asked.

“She finally said she’d marry me, and not the other fellow.” Mr. Bug,
who had been dozing in the corner of the settle through the evening, stood
up and stretched himself, then put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, smiling
tenderly down at her upturned face. “’Twas a great relief, to be sure.”

[broughps]

FC

“Wat’s tes-tees?” inquired a small voice. Jemmy had abandoned his
rocks and was looking up at me in profound interest.

“Er . . .” I said. I glanced round the room in search of aid.

“That’s Latin for your balls, lad,” Roger said gravely, suppressing a
grin.

Jemmy looked quite interested at that.

“I gots balls? W’ere I gots balls?”

“Er . . .” said Roger, and glanced at Jamie.

“Mmphm,” said Jamie, and looked at the ceiling.

“Well, ye do have a kilt on, Uncle Jamie,” Ian said, grinning. Jamie
gave his nephew a look of gross betrayal, but before he could move, Roger
had leaned forward and cupped Jemmy gently between the legs.

“Just there, a bhalaich,” he said.

Jemmy kneaded his crotch briefly, then looked at Roger, small
strawberry brows knitted into a puzzled frown.

“Nots a ball. ’Sa willy!”

Jamie sighed deeply and got up. He jerked his head at Roger, then
reached down and took Jemmy’s hand.

“Aye, all right. Come outside with me and your Da, we’ll show ye.”

Bree’s face was the exact shade of her hair, and her shoulders shook
briefly. Roger, also suspiciously pink about the cheeks, had opened the
door and stood aside for Jamie and Jem to go through.

I didn’t think Jamie paused to think about it; seized by impulse, he
turned to Jemmy, rolling up his tongue into a cylinder and sticking it out.

“Can you do that, a ruaidh?” he asked, pulling it back in again.

Brianna drew in her breath with a sound like a startled duck, and froze.
Roger froze, too, his eyes resting on Jemmy as though the little boy were
an explosive device, primed to go off like the opal.

A second too late, Jamie realized, and his cheeks went pale.

“Damn,” he said, very quietly under his breath.

Jemmy’s eyes grew round with reproach.

“Bad, Granda! At’sa bad word. Mama?”

“Yes,” Brianna said, narrowed eyes on Jamie. “We’ll have to wash
Grand-da’s mouth out with soap, won’t we?”

He looked very much as though he had already swallowed a good
mouthful of soap, and lye-soap, at that.

“Aye,” he said, and cleared his throat. The flush had faded entirely from
his face. “Aye, that was verra wicked of me, Jeremiah. I must beg pardon
o’ the ladies.” He bowed, very formally, to me and Brianna. “Je suis
navré, Madames. Et Monsieur,” he added softly to Roger. Roger nodded
very slightly. His eyes were still on Jemmy, but his lids were lowered and
his face carefully blank.

Jemmy’s own round face assumed the expression of beatific delight that
he wore whenever French was spoken near him, and—as Jamie had clearly
intended—broke immediately into his own pet contribution to that
language of art and chivalry.

“Frère Jacques, Frère Jacques. . . .”

Roger looked up at Bree, and something seemed to pass through the air
between them. He reached down and took hold of Jem’s other hand,
momentarily interrupting his song.

“So, a bhalaich, can ye do it, then?”

“FRÈRE . . . do whats?”

“Look at Grand-da.” Roger nodded at Jamie, who took a deep breath
and quickly put out his tongue, rolled into a cylinder.

“Can ye do that?” Roger asked.

“Chure.” Jemmy beamed and put out his tongue. Flat. “Bleah!”

A collective sigh gusted through the room. Jemmy, oblivious, swung his
legs up, his weight suspended momentarily from Roger’s and Jamie’s
hands, then stomped his feet down on the floor again, recalling his original
question.

“Grand-da gots balls?” he asked, pulling on the men’s hands and tilting
his head far back to look up at Jamie.

“Aye, lad, I have,” Jamie said dryly. “But your Da’s are bigger. Come
on, then.”

And to the sound of Jemmy’s tuneless chanting, the men trundled him
outside, hanging like a gibbon between them, his knees drawn up to his
chin.

[broughps]

book 6

“I beg your pardon?” I had missed something MacDonald was saying.
He bent politely closer to repeat it, then jerked suddenly, eyes bulging.

“Frigging cat!”

Adso, who had been doing a splendid imitation of a limp dishcloth, had
sprung bolt upright in the Major’s lap, eyes glowing and tail like a
bottlebrush, hissing like a teakettle as he flexed his claws hard into the
Major’s legs. I hadn’t time to react before he had leapt over MacDonald’s
shoulder and swarmed through the open surgery window behind him,
ripping the Major’s ruffle and knocking his wig askew in the process.

MacDonald was cursing freely, but I hadn’t attention to spare for him.
Rollo was coming up the path toward the house, wolflike and sinister in
the gloaming, but acting so oddly that I was standing before conscious
thought could bring me to my feet.

The dog would run a few steps toward the house, circle once or twice as
though unable to decide what to do next, then run back into the wood, turn,
and run again toward the house, all the while whining with agitation, tail
low and wavering.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” I said. “Bloody Timmy’s in the well!” I
flew down the steps and ran for the path, barely registering the Major’s
startled oath behind me.

I found Ian a few hundred yards down the path, conscious, but groggy.
He was sitting on the ground, eyes closed and both hands holding his head,
as though to keep the bones of his skull from coming apart. He opened his
eyes as I dropped to my knees beside him, and gave me an unfocused
smile.

“Auntie,” he said hoarsely. He seemed to want to say something else,
but couldn’t quite decide what; his mouth opened, but then simply hung
that way, tongue moving thoughtfully to and fro.

“Look at me, Ian,” I said, as calmly as possible. He did—that was good.
It was too dark to see whether his pupils were unnaturally dilated, but even
in the evening shadow of the pines that edged the trail, I could see the
pallor of his face, and the dark trail of bloodstains down his shirt.

Hurried steps were coming after me down the trail; Jamie, followed
closely by MacDonald.

“How is it, lad?”

Jamie gripped him by one arm, and Ian swayed very gently toward him,
then dropped his hands, closed his eyes, and relaxed into Jamie’s arms
with a sigh.

“Is he bad?” Jamie spoke anxiously over Ian’s shoulder, holding him up
as I frisked him for damage. The back of his shirt was saturated with dried
blood—but it was dried. The tail of his hair was stiff with it, too, and I
found the head wound quickly.

“I don’t think so. Something’s hit him hard on the head and taken out a
chunk of his scalp, but—”

“A tomahawk, do you think?”

MacDonald leaned over us, intent.

“No,” said Ian drowsily, his face muffled in Jamie’s shirt. “A ball.”

“Go away, dog,” Jamie said briefly to Rollo, who had stuck his nose in
Ian’s ear, eliciting a stifled squawk from the patient and an involuntary
lifting of his shoulders.

“I’ll have a look in the light, but it may not be too bad,” I said,
observing this. “He walked some way, after all. Let’s get him up to the
house.”

The men made shift to get him up the trail, Ian’s arms over their
shoulders, and within minutes, had him laid facedown on the table in my
surgery. Here, he told us the story of his adventures, in a disjoint fashion
punctuated by small yelps as I cleaned the injury, clipped bits of clotted
hair away, and put five or six stitches into his scalp.

“I thought I was dead,” Ian said, and sucked air through his teeth as I
drew the coarse thread through the edges of the ragged wound. “Christ,
Auntie Claire! I woke in the morning, though, and I wasna dead after all—
though I thought my head was split open, and my brains spilling down my
neck.”

“Very nearly was,” I murmured, concentrating on my work. “I don’t
think it was a bullet, though.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“I’m not shot?” Ian sounded mildly indignant. One big hand lifted,
straying toward the back of his head, and I slapped it lightly away.

“Keep still. No, you aren’t shot, no credit to you. There was a deal of
dirt in the wound, and shreds of wood and tree bark. If I had to guess, one
of the shots knocked a dead branch loose from a tree, and it hit you in the
head when it fell.”

“You’re quite sure as it wasn’t a tomahawk, are ye?” The Major seemed
disappointed, too.

I tied the final knot and clipped the thread, shaking my head.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever seen a tomahawk wound, but I don’t think so.
See how jagged the edges are? And the scalp’s torn badly, but I don’t
believe the bone is fractured.”

“It was pitch-dark, the lad said,” Jamie put in logically. “No sensible
person would fling a tomahawk into a dark wood at something he couldna
see.” He was holding the spirit lamp for me to work by; he moved it
closer, so we could see not only the ragged line of stitches, but the
spreading bruise around it, revealed by the hair I had clipped off.

“Aye, see?” Jamie’s finger spread the remaining bristles gently apart,
tracing several deep scratches that scored the bruised area. “Your auntie’s
right, Ian; ye’ve been attacked by a tree.”

Ian opened one eye a slit.

“Has anyone ever told ye what a comical fellow ye are, Uncle Jamie?”

“No.”

Ian closed the eye.

“That’s as well, because ye’re not.”

Jamie smiled and squeezed Ian's shoulder.

[broughps]

Book 6

ROBERT HIGGINS WAS a slight young man, so thin as to seem that his
bones were barely held together by his clothes, and so pale that it was easy
to imagine you could in fact see through him. He was, however, graced
with large, candid blue eyes, a mass of wavy, light-brown hair, and a shy
manner that caused Mrs. Bug to take him at once under her wing and
declare a firm intent to “feed him up,” before he should depart back to
Virginia.

I quite liked Mr. Higgins myself; he was a sweet-natured boy, with the
soft accent of his native Dorset. I did rather wonder, though, whether Lord
John Grey’s generosity toward him was as unselfish as it seemed.

I had come reluctantly to like John Grey, too, after our shared
experience of the measles a few years earlier, and his friendship to Brianna
while Roger was held captive by the Iroquois. Still, I remained acutely
aware of the fact that Lord John did like men—specifically, Jamie, but
certainly other men, as well.

“Beauchamp,” I said to myself, laying out trillium roots to dry, “you
have a very suspicious mind.”

“Aye, ye have,” said a voice behind me, sounding amused. “Whom do
ye suspect of doing what?”

I jerked in startlement and sent trilliums flying in all directions.

“Oh, it’s you,” I said crossly. “Why must you sneak up on me like
that?”

“Practice,” Jamie said, kissing me on the forehead. “I shouldna like to
lose my touch at stalking game. Why d’ye talk to yourself?”

“It assures me of a good listener,” I said tartly, and he laughed, bending
to help me pick up the roots from the floor.

“Who are ye suspecting, Sassenach?”

I hesitated, but was unable to come up with anything but the truth.

“I was wondering whether John Grey’s buggering our Mr. Higgins,” I
said baldly. “Or intends to.”

He blinked slightly, but didn’t look shocked—which in itself suggested
to me that he’d considered the same possibility.

“What makes ye think so?”

“He’s a very pretty young man, for the one thing,” I said, taking a
handful of the roots from him and beginning to spread them out on a sheet
of gauze. “And he’s got the worst case of piles I’ve ever seen in a man of
his age, for another.”

“He let ye look at them?” Jamie had flushed up himself at the mention
of buggery; he disliked me being indelicate, but he’d asked, after all.
“Well, it took no little persuasion,” I said. “He told me about them
readily enough, but he wasn’t keen to have me examine them.”

“I wouldna care for that prospect, either,” Jamie assured me, “and I’m
wed to ye. Why on earth would ye want to look at such a thing, beyond
morbid curiosity?” He cast a wary glance at my big black casebook, open
on the table. “Ye’re no drawing pictures of poor Bobby Higgins’s backside
in there, are ye?”

“No need. I can’t imagine a physician in any time who doesn’t know
what piles look like. The ancient Israelites and Egyptians had them, after
all.”

“They did?”

“It’s in the Bible. Ask Mr. Christie,” I advised.

He gave me a sidelong look.

“Ye’ve been discussing the Bible wi’ Tom Christie? Ye’re a braver man
than I am, Sassenach.” Christie was a most devout Presbyterian, and never
happier than when hitting someone over the head with a fistful of Sacred
Scripture.

“Not me. Germain asked me last week what ‘emerods’ are.”

“What are they?”

“Piles. Then said they, What shall be the trespass offering which we
shall return to him? They answered, Five golden emerods, and five golden
mice, according to the number of the lords of the Philistines,” I quoted, “or
something of the sort. That’s as close as I can come from memory. Mr.
Christie made Germain write out a verse from the Bible as punishment,
and having an inquiring sort of mind, Germain wondered what it was he
was writing.”

“And he wouldna ask Mr. Christie, of course.” Jamie frowned, rubbing
a finger down the bridge of his nose. “Do I want to know what it was
Germain did?”

“Almost certainly not.” Tom Christie earned the quitrent on his land by
serving as the local schoolmaster, and seemed capable of keeping
discipline on his own terms. My opinion was that having Germain Fraser
as a pupil was probably worth the entire amount, in terms of labor.

“Gold emerods,” Jamie murmured. “Well, there’s a thought.” He had
assumed the faintly dreamy air he often had just before coming up with
some hair-raising notion involving the possibility of maiming, death, or
life imprisonment. I found this expression mildly alarming, but whatever
the train of thought triggered by golden hemorrhoids, he abandoned it for
the moment, shaking his head.

“Well, so. We were speaking of Bobby’s backside?”

“Oh, yes. As for why I wanted to look at Mr. Higgins’s emerods,” I
said, returning to the previous point of conversation, “I wanted to see
whether the best treatment was amelioration, or removal.”

Jamie’s eyebrows went up at that.

“Remove them? How? Wi’ your wee knife?” He glanced at the case
where I kept my surgical tools, and hunched his shoulders in aversion.

“I could, yes, though I imagine it would be rather painful without
anesthesia. There was a much simpler method just coming into widespread
use, though, when I . . . left.” Just for a moment, I felt a deep twinge of
longing for my hospital. I could all but smell the disinfectant, hear the
murmur and bustle of nurses and orderlies, touch the glossy covers of the
research journals bulging with ideas and information.

Then it was gone, and I was estimating the desirability of leeches versus
string, with reference to Mr. Higgins’s achieving ideal anal health.

“Dr. Rawlings advises the use of leeches,” I explained. “Twenty or
thirty, he says, for a serious case.”

Jamie nodded, showing no particular revulsion at the idea. Of course,
he’d been leeched a few times himself, and assured me that it didn’t hurt.
“Aye. Ye havena got that many on hand, do ye? Shall I collect the wee
lads and set them to gathering?”

Jemmy and Germain would like nothing better than an excuse to go
bogging through the creeks with their grandfather, coming back festooned
with leeches and mud to the eyebrows, but I shook my head.

“No. Or I mean, yes,” I corrected. “At your convenience—but I don’t
need them immediately. Using leeches would relieve the situation
temporarily, but Bobby’s hemorrhoids are badly thrombosed—have clots
of dried blood in them—” I emended, “and I think he really would be
better off if I remove them entirely. I believe I can ligate them—tie a
thread very tightly round the base of each hemorrhoid, I mean. That
starves them of blood, and eventually, they just dry up and fall off. Very
neat.”

“Verra neat,” Jamie murmured, in echo. He looked mildly apprehensive.

“Have ye done it before?”

“Yes, once or twice.”

“Ah.” He pursed his lips, apparently envisioning the process. “How . . .
er, I mean . . . can he *beep* d’ye think, while this is going on? It must take a
bit of time, surely.”

I frowned, tapping a finger on the countertop.

“His chief difficulty is that he doesn’t *beep* I said. “Not often enough, I
mean, and not with the proper consistency. Horrible diet,” I said, pointing
an accusatory finger at him. “He told me. Bread, meat, and ale. No
vegetables, no fruit. Constipation is absolutely rife in the British army, I
don’t doubt. I shouldn’t be surprised if every man jack of them has piles
hanging out of his arse like grape clusters!”

Jamie nodded, one eyebrow raised.

“There are a great many things I admire about ye, Sassenach—
especially the delicate manner of your conversation.”

[broughps]

book 6

“Tell me, Bobby—have you ever heard of hookworms?”

He looked at me blankly.

“No, mum.”

“Mm. Would you hold this for me, please?” I put a folded square of
gauze over the neck of a flask and handed him the bottle to hold while I
poured the purple mixture into it.

“These fainting fits of yours,” I said, eyes on the stream. “How long
have you had them?”

“Oh . . . six months, mebbe.”

“I see. Did you by chance notice any sort of irritation—itching, say? Or
a rash? Happening maybe seven months ago? Most likely on your feet.”

He stared at me, soft blue eyes thunderstruck as though I had performed
some feat of mind reading.

“Why, so I did have, mum. Last autumn, ’twas.”

“Ah,” I said. “Well, then. I think, Bobby, that you may just possibly
have a case of hookworms.”

He looked down at himself in horror.

“Where?”

“Inside.” I took the bottle from him and corked it. “Hookworms are
parasites that burrow through the skin—most often through the soles of the
feet—and then migrate through the body until they reach your intestines—
your, um, innards,” I amended, seeing incomprehension cross his face.
“The adult worms have nasty little hooked bills, like this”—I crooked my
index finger in illustration—“and they pierce the intestinal lining and
proceed to suck your blood. That’s why, if you have them, you feel very
weak, and faint frequently.”

From the suddenly clammy look of him, I rather thought he was about to
faint now, and guided him hastily to a stool, pushing his head down
between his knees.

“I don’t know for sure that that’s the problem,” I told him, bending
down to address him. “I was just looking at the slides of Lizzie’s blood,
though, and thinking of parasites, and—well, it came to me suddenly that a
diagnosis of hookworms would fit your symptoms rather well.”

“Oh?” he said faintly. The thick tail of wavy hair had fallen forward,
leaving the back of his neck exposed, fair-skinned and childlike.

“How old are you, Bobby?” I asked, suddenly realizing that I had no
idea.

“Twenty-three, mum,” he said. “Mum? I think I s’all have to puke.”

I snatched a bucket from the corner and got it to him just in time.

“Have I got rid of them?” he asked weakly, sitting up and wiping his
mouth on his sleeve as he peered into the bucket. “I could do it more.”

“I’m afraid not,” I said sympathetically. “Assuming that you have got
hookworms, they’re attached very firmly, and too far down for vomiting to
dislodge them. The only way to be sure about it, though, is to look for the
eggs they shed.”

Bobby eyed me apprehensively.

“It’s not exactly as I’m horrible shy, mum,” he said, shifting gingerly.
“You know that. But Dr. Potts did give me great huge clysters of mustard
water. Surely that would ha’ burnt they worms right out? If I was a worm,
I s’ould let go and give up the ghost at once, did anyone souse me with
mustard water.”

“Well, you would think so, wouldn’t you?” I said. “Unfortunately not.
But I won’t give you an enema,” I assured him. “We need to see whether
you truly do have the worms, to begin with, and if so, there’s a medicine I
can mix up for you that will poison them directly.”

“Oh.” He looked a little happier at that. “How d’ye mean to see, then,
mum?” He glanced narrowly at the counter, where the assortment of
clamps and suture jars were still laid out.

“Couldn’t be simpler,” I assured him. “I do a process called fecal
sedimentation to concentrate the stool, then look for the eggs under the
microscope.”

He nodded, plainly not following. I smiled kindly at him.

“All you have to do, Bobby, is *beep*

His face was a study in doubt and apprehension.

“If it’s all the same to you, mum,” he said, “I think I’ll keep the worms.”

[broughps]

book 6

BRIANNA PUSHED OPEN the door to her cabin, listening warily for the
scamper of rodent feet or the dry whisper of scales across the floor. She’d
once walked in in the dark and stepped within inches of a small
rattlesnake; while the snake had been nearly as startled as she was, and
slithered madly away between the hearthstones, she’d learned her lesson.

There was no scuttle of fleeing mice or voles this time, but something
larger had been and gone, pushing its way through the oiled skin tacked
over the window. The sun was just setting, and there was enough daylight
left to show her the woven-grass basket in which she kept roasted peanuts,
knocked from its shelf onto the floor and the contents cracked and eaten, a
litter of shells scattered over the floor.

A loud rustling noise froze her momentarily, listening. It came again,
followed by a loud clang as something fell to the ground, on the other side
of the back wall.

“You little bastard!” she said. “You’re in my pantry!”

Fired with righteous indignation, she seized the broom and charged into
the lean-to with a banshee yell. An enormous raccoon, tranquilly
munching a smoked trout, dropped its prey at sight of her, dashed between
her legs, and made off like a fat banker in flight from creditors, making
loud birring noises of alarm.

Nerves pulsing with adrenaline, she put aside the broom and bent to
salvage what she could of the mess, cursing under her breath. Raccoons
were less destructive than squirrels, who would chew and shred with
hapless abandon—but they had bigger appetites.

God knew how long he’d been in here, she thought. Long enough to lick
all the butter out of its mold, pull down a cluster of smoked fish from the
rafters—and how something so fat had managed the acrobatic feat required
for that . . . Luckily, the honeycomb had been stored in three separate jars,
and only one had been despoiled. But the root vegetables had been
dumped on the floor, a fresh cheese mostly devoured, and the precious jug
of maple syrup had been overturned, draining into a sticky puddle in the
dirt. The sight of this loss enraged her afresh, and she squeezed the potato
she had just picked up so hard that her nails sank through its skin.

“Bloody, bloody, beastly, horrible, bloody beast!”

“Who?” said a voice behind her. Startled, she whirled and fired the
potato at the intruder, who proved to be Roger. It struck him squarely in
the forehead and he staggered, clutching the door frame.

“Ow! Christ! Ow! What the hell’s going on in here?”

“Raccoon,” she said shortly, and stepped back, letting the waning light
from the door illuminate the damage.

“He got the maple syrup? Bugger! Did you get the bastard?” Hand
pressed to his forehead, Roger ducked inside the lean-to pantry, glancing
about for furry bodies.

Seeing that her husband shared both her priorities and her sense of
outrage soothed her somewhat.

“No,” she said. “He ran. Are you bleeding? And where’s Jem?”

“I don’t think so,” he said, taking the hand gingerly from his forehead
and glancing at it. “Ow. You’ve a wicked arm, girl. Jem’s at the
McGillivrays’. Lizzie and Mr. Wemyss took him along to celebrate
Senga’s engagement.”

[broughps]

book 6

He thought it was well past moonrise, but there was no moon to be seen;
the sky glowed thick with cloud, and the scent of rain was live on the
wind.

“Oh, God,” Ian said, yawning and stumbling. “My bum’s gone asleep.”

Jamie yawned, too, finding it contagious, but then blinked and laughed.

“Aye, well. Dinna bother waking it up; the rest of ye can join it.”

Ian made a derisive noise with his lips.

“Just because Bird says ye’re a funny man, Uncle Jamie, I wouldna go
believing it. He’s only being polite, ken?”

Jamie ignored this, murmuring thanks in Tsalagi to the young woman
who had shown them the way to their quarters. She handed him a small
basket—filled with corn bread and dried apples, from the smell—then
wished them a soft “Good night, sleep well,” before vanishing into the
damp, restless night.

The small hut seemed stuffy after the cool freshness of the air, and he
stood in the doorway for a moment, enjoying the movement of the wind
through the trees, watching it snake through the pine boughs like a huge,
invisible serpent. A spatter of moisture bloomed on his face, and he
experienced the deep pleasure of a man who realizes that it’s going to rain
and he isn’t going to have to spend the night out in it.

“Ask about, Ian, when ye’re gossiping tomorrow,” he said, ducking
inside. “Let it be known—tactfully—that the King would be pleased to
know exactly who in hell’s been burning cabins—and might be pleased
enough to cough up a few guns in reward. They’ll not tell ye if it’s them
that’s been doing it—but if it’s another band, they might.”

Ian nodded, yawning again. A small fire burned in a stone ring, the
smoke of it wisping up toward a smoke hole in the roof overhead, and by
its light, a fur-piled sleeping platform was visible across one side of the
hut, with another stack of furs and blankets on the floor.

“Toss ye for the bed, Uncle Jamie,” he said, digging in the pouch at his
waist and coming out with a battered shilling. “Call it.”

“Tails,” Jamie said, setting down the basket and unbelting his plaid. It
fell in a warm puddle of fabric round his legs and he shook out his shirt.
The linen was creased and grimy against his skin, and he could smell
himself; thank God this was the last of the villages. One more night,
perhaps, two at the most, and they could go home.

Ian swore, picking up the coin.

“How d’ye do that? Every night ye’ve said ‘tails,’ and every night, tails
it is!”

“Well, it’s your shilling, Ian. Dinna blame me.” He sat down on the bed
platform and stretched himself pleasurably, then relented. “Look at
Geordie’s nose.”

Ian flipped the shilling over in his fingers and held it to the light of the
fire, squinting, then swore again. A tiny splotch of beeswax, so thin as to
be invisible unless you were looking, ornamented the aristocratically
prominent nose of George III, Rex Britannia.

“How did that get there?” Ian narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his
uncle, but Jamie merely laughed and lay down.

“When ye were showing wee Jem how to spin a coin. Remember, he
knocked the candlestick over; hot wax went everywhere.”

“Oh.” Ian sat looking at the coin in his hand for a moment, then shook
his head, scraped the wax away with a thumbnail, and put the shilling
away.

“Good night, Uncle Jamie,” he said, sliding into the furs on the ground
with a sigh.

“Good night, Ian.”

He’d been ignoring his tiredness, holding it like Gideon, on a short rein.
Now he dropped the reins and gave it leave to carry him off, his body
relaxing into the comfort of the bed.

<snip>

He was just drifting down through the first layers of sleep when he felt a
hand on his privates. Jerked out of drowsiness like a salmon out of a sealoch,
he clapped a hand to the intruder’s, gripping tight. And elicited a
faint giggle from his visitor.

Feminine fingers wiggled gently in his grasp, and the hand’s fellow
promptly took up operations in its stead. His first coherent thought was
that the lassie would be an excellent baker, so good as she was at
kneading.

Other thoughts followed rapidly on the heels of this absurdity, and he
tried to grab the second hand. It playfully eluded him in the dark, poking
and tweaking.

He groped for a polite protest in Cherokee, but came up with nothing
but a handful of random phrases in English and Gaelic, none of them
faintly suitable to the occasion.

The first hand was purposefully wriggling out of his grasp, eel-like.
Reluctant to crush her fingers, he let go for an instant, and made a
successful grab for her wrist.

“Ian!” he hissed, in desperation. “Ian, are ye there?” He couldn’t see his
nephew in the pool of darkness that filled the cabin, nor tell if he slept.
There were no windows, and only the faintest light came from the dying
coals.

“Ian!”

There was a stirring on the floor, bodies shifting, and he heard Rollo
sneeze.

“What is it, Uncle?” He’d spoken in Gaelic, and Ian answered in the
same language. The lad sounded calm, and not as though he’d just come
awake.

“Ian, there is a woman in my bed,” he said in Gaelic, trying to match his
nephew’s calm tone.

“There are two of them, Uncle Jamie.” Ian sounded amused, damn him!

“The other will be down by your feet. Waiting her turn.”

That unnerved him, and he nearly lost his grip on the captive hand.

“Two of them! What do they think I am?”

The girl giggled again, leaned over, and bit him lightly on the chest.

“Christ!”

“Well, no, Uncle, they don’t think you’re Him,” Ian said, obviously
suppressing his own mirth. “They think you’re the King. So to speak.
You’re his agent, so they’re doing honor to His Majesty by sending you
his women, aye?”

The second woman had uncovered his feet and was slowly stroking his
soles with one finger. He was ticklish and would have found this
bothersome, were he not so distracted by the first woman, with whom he
was being compelled into a most undignified game of hide-the-sausage.

“Talk to them, Ian,” he said between clenched teeth, fumbling madly
with his free hand, meanwhile forcing back the questing fingers of the
captive hand—which were languidly stroking his ear—and wiggling his
feet in a frantic effort to discourage the second lady’s attentions, which
were growing bolder.

“Erm . . . what d’ye want me to say?” Ian inquired, switching back to
English. His voice quivered slightly.

“Tell them I’m deeply sensible of the honor, but—gk!” Further
diplomatic evasions were cut off by the sudden intrusion of someone’s
tongue into his mouth, tasting strongly of onions and beer.

In the midst of his subsequent struggles, he was dimly aware that Ian
had lost any sense of self-control and was lying on the floor giggling
helplessly. It was filicide if you killed a son, he thought grimly; what was
the word for assassinating a nephew?

“Madam!” he said, disengaging his mouth with difficulty. He seized the
lady by the shoulders and rolled her off his body with enough force that
she whooped with surprise, bare legs flying—Jesus, was she naked?

She was. Both of them were; his eyes adapted to the faint glow of the
embers, he caught the shimmer of light from shoulders, breasts, and
rounded thighs.

He sat up, gathering furs and blankets round him in a sort of hasty
redoubt.

“Cease, the two of you!” he said severely in Cherokee. “You are
beautiful, but I cannot lie with you.”

“No?” said one, sounding puzzled.

“Why not?” said the other.

“Ah . . . because there is an oath upon me,” he said, necessity producing
inspiration. “I have sworn . . . sworn . . .” He groped for the proper word,
but didn’t find it. Luckily, Ian leaped in at this point, with a stream of
fluent Tsalagi, too fast to follow.

“Ooo,” breathed one girl, impressed. Jamie felt a distinct qualm.
“What in God’s name did ye tell them, Ian?”

“I told them the Great Spirit came to ye in a dream, Uncle, and told ye
that ye mustn’t go with a woman until ye’d brought guns to all the
Tsalagi.”

“Until I what?!”

“Well, it was the best I could think of in a hurry, Uncle,” Ian said
defensively.

Hair-raising as the notion was, he had to admit it was effective; the two
women were huddled together, whispering in awed tones, and had quite
left off pestering him.

“Aye, well,” he said grudgingly. “I suppose it could be worse.” After
all, even if the Crown were persuaded to provide guns, there were a damn
lot of Tsalagi.

“Ye’re welcome, Uncle Jamie.” The laughter was gurgling just below
the surface of his nephew’s voice, and emerged in a stifled snort.
“What?” he said testily.

“The one lady is saying it’s a disappointment to her, Uncle, because
you’re verra nicely equipped. The other is more philosophical about it,
though. She says they might have borne ye children, and the bairns might
have red hair.” His nephew’s voice quivered.

“What’s wrong wi’ red hair, for God’s sake?”

“I dinna ken, quite, but I gather it’s not something ye want your bairn to
be marked with, and ye can help it.”

“Well, fine,” he snapped. “No danger of it, is there? Can they not go
home now?”

“It’s raining, Uncle Jamie,” Ian pointed out logically. It was; the wind
had brought a patter of rain, and now the main shower arrived, beating on
the roof with a steady thrum, drops hissing into the hot embers through the
smoke hole. “Ye wouldna send them out in the wet, would ye? Besides, ye
just said ye couldna lie wi’ them, not that ye meant them to go.”

He broke off to say something interrogative to the ladies, who replied
with eager confidence. Jamie thought they’d said—they had. Rising with
the grace of young cranes, the two of them clambered naked as jaybirds
back into his bed, patting and stroking him with murmurs of admiration—
though sedulously avoiding his private parts—pressed him down into the
furs, and snuggled down on either side of him, warm bare flesh pressed
cozily against him.

He opened his mouth, then shut it again, finding absolutely nothing to
say in any of the languages he knew.

He lay on his back, rigid and breathing shallowly. His cock throbbed
indignantly, clearly meaning to stay up and torment him all night in
revenge for its abuse. Small chortling noises came from the pile of furs on
the ground, interspersed with hiccuping snorts. He thought it was maybe
the first time he’d heard Ian truly laugh since his return.

Praying for fortitude, he drew a long, slow breath, and closed his eyes,
hands folded firmly across his ribs, elbows pressed to his sides.

[broughps]

book 6

If Ian was back, Jamie was—

He came through the front door just as I barreled into the hallway, and
grabbed me round the waist, kissing me with sun-dusty enthusiasm and
sandpaper whiskers.

“You’re back,” I said, rather inanely.

“I am, and there are Indians just behind me,” he said, clutching my
bottom with both hands and rasping his whiskers fervently against my
cheek. “God, what I’d give for a quarter of an hour alone wi’ ye,
Sassenach! My balls are burst—ah. Mr. Higgins. I, um, didna see ye
there.”

He let go and straightened abruptly, sweeping off his hat and smacking
it against his thigh in an exaggerated pantomime of casualness.

“No, zur,” Bobby said morosely. “Mr. Ian’s back, as well, is he?” He
didn’t sound as though this was particularly good news; if Ian’s arrival had
distracted Lizzie from Manfred—and it had—it did nothing to redirect her
attention to Bobby.

Lizzie had abandoned her churn to poor Manfred, who was turning the
crank with an air of obvious resentment, as she went laughing off in the
direction of the stable with Ian, presumably to show him the new calf that
had arrived during his absence.

“Indians,” I said, belatedly catching what Jamie had said. “What
Indians?”

“A half-dozen of the Cherokee,” he replied. “What’s this?” He nodded
at the trail of loose straw leading out of my surgery.

“Oh, that. That,” I said happily, “is ether. Or going to be. We’re feeding
the Indians, I suppose?”

“Aye. I’ll tell Mrs. Bug. But there’s a young woman with them that
they’ve fetched along for ye to tend.”

“Oh?” He was already striding down the hall toward the kitchen, and I
hurried to keep up. “What’s the matter with her?”

“Toothache,” he said briefly, and pushed open the kitchen door. “Mrs.
Bug! Cá bhfuil tú? Ether, Sassenach? Ye dinna mean phlogiston, do you?”

“I don’t think that I do,” I said, trying to recall what on earth phlogiston
was. “I’ve told you about anesthesia, though, I know—that’s what ether is,
a sort of anesthetic; puts people to sleep so you can do surgery without
hurting them.”

“Verra useful in case of the toothache,” Jamie observed. “Where’s the
woman gone to? Mrs. Bug!”

“So it would be, but it will take some time to make. We’ll have to make
do with whisky for the moment. Mrs. Bug is in the summer kitchen, I
expect; it’s bread day. And speaking of alcohol—” He was already out the
back door, and I scampered across the stoop after him. “I’ll need quite a bit
of high-quality alcohol, for the ether. Can you bring me a barrel of the new
stuff tomorrow?”

“A barrel? Christ, Sassenach, what d’ye mean to do, bathe in it?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, yes. Or rather not me—the oil of vitriol. You
pour it gently into a bath of hot alcohol, and it—”

“Oh, Mr. Fraser! I did think as how I heard someone a-callin’.” Mrs.
Bug appeared suddenly with a basket of eggs over one arm, beaming. “It’s
pleased I am to see ye home again safe!”

“And glad to be so, Mrs. Bug,” he assured her. “Can we be feeding a
half-dozen guests for supper?”

Her eyes went wide for a moment, then narrowed in calculation.

“Sausage,” she declared. “And neeps. Here, wee Bobby, come and make
yourself useful.” Handing me the eggs, she seized Bobby, who had come
out of the house after us, by the sleeve and towed him off toward the turnip
patch.

I had the feeling of having been caught in some rapidly revolving
apparatus like a merry-go-round, and took hold of Jamie’s arm in order to
steady myself.

“Did you know that Bobby Higgins is in love with Lizzie?” I asked.

“No, but it’ll do him little good if he is,” Jamie replied callously. Taking
my hand on his arm as invitation, he took the eggs from me and set them
on the ground, then pulled me in and kissed me again, more slowly, but no
less thoroughly.

He let go with a deep sigh of content, and glanced at the new summer
kitchen we had erected in his absence: a small framed structure consisting
of coarse-woven canvas walls and a pine-branch roof, erected round a
stone hearth and chimney—but with a large table inside. Enticing scents of
rising dough, fresh-baked bread, oatcakes, and cinnamon rolls wafted
through the air from it.

“Now, about that quarter of an hour, Sassenach . . . I believe I could
manage wi’ a bit less, if necessary. . . .”

“Well, I couldn’t,” I said firmly, though I did allow my hand to fondle
him for a thoughtful instant. My face was burning from contact with his
whiskers. “And when we do have time, you can tell me what on earth
you’ve been doing to bring this on.”

“Dreaming,” he said.

“What?”

“I kept havin’ terrible lewd dreams about ye, all the night long,” he
explained, twitching his breeks into better adjustment. “Every time I rolled
over, I’d lie on my cock and wake up. It was awful.”

I burst out laughing, and he affected to look injured, though I could see
reluctant amusement behind it.

“Well, you can laugh, Sassenach,” he said. “Ye havena got one to
trouble ye.”

“Yes, and a great relief it is, too,” I assured him. “Er . . . what sort of
lewd dreams?”

I could see a deep blue gleam of speculation at the back of his eyes as he
looked at me. He extended one finger, and very delicately ran it down the
side of my neck, the slope of my breast where it disappeared into my
bodice, and over the thin cloth covering my nipple—which promptly
popped up like a puffball mushroom in response to this attention.

“The sort that make me want to take ye straight into the forest, far
enough that no one will hear when I lay ye on the ground, lift your skirts,
and split ye like a ripe peach,” he said softly. “Aye?”

I swallowed, audibly.

At this delicate moment, whoops of greeting came from the trailhead on
the other side of the house.

“Duty calls,” I said, a trifle breathless.

Jamie drew a deep breath of his own, squared his shoulders, and
nodded.

“Well, I havena died of unrequited lust yet; I suppose I shallna do it
now.”

“Don’t suppose you will,” I said. “Besides, didn’t you tell me once that
abstinence makes . . . er . . . things . . . grow firmer?”

He gave me a bleak look.

“If it gets any firmer, I’ll faint from a lack of blood to the heid. Dinna
forget the eggs, Sassenach.”

[broughps]

Book 6

He held me close, and sighed deeply.

“D’ye ken we’ve been wed this time nearly twice as long as the last?”

I drew back and frowned dubiously at him, accepting the distraction.

“Were we not married in between?”

That took him by surprise; he frowned, too, and ran a finger slowly
down the sunburnt bridge of his nose in thought.

“Well, there’s a question for a priest, to be sure,” he said. “I should
think we were—but if so, are we not both bigamists?”

“Were, not are,” I corrected, feeling slightly uneasy. “But we weren’t,
really. Father Anselme said so.”

“Anselme?”

“Father Anselme—a Franciscan priest at the Abbey of St. Anne. But
perhaps you wouldn’t recall him; you were very ill at the time.”

“Oh, I recall him,” he said. “He would come and sit wi’ me at night,
when I couldna sleep.” He smiled, a little lopsided; that time wasn’t
something he wished to remember. “He liked ye a great deal, Sassenach.”

“Oh? And what about you?” I asked, wanting to distract him from the
memory of St. Anne. “Didn’t you like me?”

“Oh, I liked ye fine then,” he assured me. “I maybe like ye even more
now, though.”

“Oh, do you, indeed.” I sat up a little straighter, preening. “What’s
different?”

He tilted his head to one side, eyes narrowing a bit in appraisal.

“Well, ye fart less in your sleep,” he began judiciously, then ducked,
laughing, as a pinecone whizzed past his left ear. I seized a chunk of wood,
but before I could bat him over the head with it, he lunged and caught me
by the arms. He shoved me flat in the grass and collapsed on top of me,
pinning me effortlessly.

“Get off, you oaf! I do not fart in my sleep!”

“Now, how would ye ken that, Sassenach? Ye sleep so sound, ye
wouldna wake, even to the sound of your own snoring.”

“Oh, you want to talk about snoring, do you? You—”

“Ye’re proud as Lucifer,” he said, interrupting. He was still smiling, but
the words were more serious. “And ye’re brave. Ye were always bolder
than was safe; now ye’re fierce as a wee badger.”

“So I’m arrogant and ferocious. This does not sound like much of a
catalog of womanly virtues,” I said, puffing a bit as I strained to wriggle
out from under him.

“Well, ye’re kind, too,” he said, considering. “Verra kind. Though ye
are inclined to do it on your own terms. Not that that’s bad, mind,” he
added, neatly recapturing the arm I had extricated. He pinned my wrist
over my head.

“Womanly,” he murmured, brows knotted in concentration. “Womanly
virtues . . .” His free hand crept between us and fastened on my breast.

“Besides that!”

“You’re verra clean,” he said approvingly. He let go my wrist and
ruffled a hand through my hair—which was indeed clean, smelling of
sunflower and marigolds.

“I’ve never seen any woman wash herself sae much as you do—save
Brianna, perhaps.

“Ye’re no much of a cook,” he went on, squinting thoughtfully.

“Though ye’ve never poisoned anyone, save on purpose. And I will say ye
sew a neat seam—though ye like it much better if it’s through someone’s
flesh.”

“Thanks so much!”

“Tell me some more virtues,” he suggested. “Perhaps I’ve missed one.”

“Hmph! Gentleness, patience . . .” I floundered.

“Gentle? Christ.” He shook his head. “Ye’re the most ruthless,
bloodthirsty—”

I darted my head upward, and nearly succeeded in biting him in the
throat. He jerked back, laughing.

“No, ye’re no verra patient, either.”

I gave up struggling for the moment and collapsed flat on my back,
tousled hair spread out on the grass.

“So what is my most endearing trait?” I demanded.

“Ye think I’m funny,” he said, grinning.

“I . . . do . . . not . . .” I grunted, struggling madly. He merely lay on top
of me, tranquilly oblivious to my pokings and thumpings, until I exhausted
myself and lay gasping underneath him.

“And,” he said thoughtfully, “ye like it verra much when I take ye to
bed. No?”

“Er . . .” I wanted to contradict him, but honesty forbade. Besides, he
bloody well knew I did.

“You are squashing me,” I said with dignity. “Kindly get off.”

“No?” he repeated, not moving.

“Yes! All right! Yes! Will you bloody get off?!”

He didn’t get off, but bent his head and kissed me. I was close-lipped,
determined not to give in, but he was determined, too, and if one came
right down to it . . . the skin of his face was warm, the plush of his beard
stubble softly scratchy, and his wide sweet mouth . . . My legs were open
in abandon and he was solid between them, bare chest smelling of musk
and sweat and sawdust caught in the wiry auburn hair. . . . I was still hot
with struggling, but the grass was damp and cool around us. . . . Well, all
right; another minute, and he could have me right there, if he cared to.

He felt me yield, and sighed, letting his own body slacken; he no longer
held me prisoner, but simply held me. He lifted his head then, and cupped
my face with one hand.

“D’ye want to know what it is, really?” he asked, and I could see from
the dark blue of his eyes that he meant it. I nodded, mute.

“Above all creatures on this earth,” he whispered, “you are faithful.”

I thought of saying something about St. Bernard dogs, but there was
such tenderness in his face that I said nothing, instead merely staring up at
him, blinking against the green light that filtered through the needles
overhead.

“Well,” I said at last, with a deep sigh of my own, “so are you. Quite a
good thing, really. Isn’t it?”

[broughps]

book 6

JAMIE CHECKED HIS SADDLEBAGS once more, though he had done
it so often of late that the exercise was little more than custom. Each time
he opened the left-hand one, he still smiled, though. Brianna had remade it
for him, stitching in loops of leather that presented his pistols, hilt up,
ready to be seized in an emergency, and a clever arrangement of
compartments that held handy his shot pouch, powder horn, a spare knife,
a coil of fishing line, a roll of twine for a snare, a hussif with pins, needles,
and thread, a packet of food, a bottle of beer, and a neatly rolled clean
shirt.

On the outside of the bag was a small pouch that held what Bree was
pleased to call a “first-aid kit,” though he was unsure what it was meant to
be in aid of. It contained several gauze packets of a bitter-smelling tea, a
tin of salve, and several strips of her adhesive plaster, none of which
seemed likely to be of use in any imaginable misadventure, but did no
harm.

He removed a cake of soap she had added, along with a few more
unnecessary fripperies, and carefully hid them under a bucket, lest she be
offended.

Just in time, too; he heard her voice, exhorting wee Roger about the
inclusion of sufficient clean stockings in his bags. By the time they came
round the corner of the hay barn, he had everything securely buckled up.

“Ready, then, a charaid?”

“Oh, aye.” Roger nodded, and slung the saddlebags he was carrying on
his shoulder off onto the ground. He turned to Bree, who was carrying
Jemmy, and kissed her briefly.

“I go with you, Daddy!” Jem exclaimed hopefully.

“Not this time, sport.”

“Wanna see Indians!”

“Later, perhaps, when ye’re bigger.”

“I can talk Indian! Uncle Ian tellt me! Wanna go!”

“Not this time,” Bree told him firmly, but he wasn’t inclined to listen,
and began struggling to get down. Jamie made a small rumble in his throat,
and fixed him with a quelling eye.

“Ye’ve heard your parents,” he said. Jem glowered, and stuck out his
lower lip like a shelf, but ceased his fuss.

“Someday ye must tell me how ye do that,” Roger said, eyeing his
offspring.

Jamie laughed, and leaned down to Jemmy. “Kiss Grandda goodbye,
eh?”

Disappointment generously abandoned, Jemmy reached up and seized
him round the neck. He picked the little boy up out of Brianna’s arms,
hugged him, and kissed him. Jem smelled of parritch, toast, and honey, a
homely warm and heavy weight in his arms.

“Be good and mind your mother, aye? And when ye’re a wee bit bigger,
ye’ll come, too. Come and say farewell to Clarence; ye can tell him the
words Uncle Ian taught ye.” And God willing, they’d be words suitable for
a three-year-old child. Ian had a most irresponsible sense of humor.

Or perhaps, he thought, grinning to himself, I’m only recalling some o’
the things I taught Jenny’s bairns—including Ian—to say in French.

[broughps]

book 6

The Major, obviously well-breakfasted and cheerful, had come down
the steps and was strolling toward them—oblivious of the white sow, who
had emerged from her den beneath the foundation and was ambling along
the side of the house, bent on her own breakfast. It would be a matter of
seconds before she spotted the Major.

“Hoy!” Roger bellowed, and felt something tear in his throat. The pain
was so sharp that it stopped him cold, and he clutched at his throat, struck
suddenly mute.

“’Ware the pig!” Jamie was shouting, waving and pointing. The Major
thrust his head forward, hand behind his ear—then caught the repeated
bellows of “Pig!” and looked wildly round, just in time to see the white
sow break into a ponderous trot, scything her tusks from side to side.
He would have been best served by wheeling and sprinting back to the
safety of the stoop, but instead panic struck him and he ran—away from
the pig, coming straight for Jamie and Roger, who promptly ran in
different directions.

Glancing back, Roger saw the Major gaining on the pig with longlegged
leaps, his goal evidently the cabin. Between the Major and the
cabin, though, lay the open hole of the groundhog kiln, masked by the
heavy growth of long spring grass through which the Major bounded.
“Pit!” Roger shouted, only the word came out in a strangled croak.

Nonetheless, MacDonald seemed to hear him, for a bright red face turned
in his direction, eyes bulging. It must have sounded like “Pig!” for the
Major glanced back over his shoulder then to see the sow trot faster, small
pink eyes fixed on him with murderous intent.

The distraction proved nearly fatal, for the Major’s spurs caught and
tangled, and he sprawled headlong in the grass, losing his grip on the laced
hat—which he had held throughout the chase—and sending it pinwheeling
through the air.

Roger hesitated for an instant, but then ran back to help, with a
smothered oath. He saw Jamie running back, too, spade held at the ready
—though even a metal shovel seemed pitifully inadequate to deal with a
five-hundred-pound hog.

MacDonald was already scrambling to his feet, though; before either of
them could reach him, he took off running as though the devil himself
were breathing on his coattails. Arms pumping and face set in puce
determination, he ran for his life, bounding like a jackrabbit through the
grass—and disappeared. One instant he was there, and the next he had
vanished, as though by magic.

Jamie looked wide-eyed at Roger, then at the pig, who had stopped short
on the far side of the kiln pit. Then, moving gingerly, one eye always on
the pig, he sidled toward the pit, glancing sideways, as though afraid to see
what lay at the bottom.

Roger moved to stand at Jamie’s shoulder, looking down. Major
MacDonald had fallen into the deeper hole at the end, where he lay curled
up like a hedgehog, arms clasped protectively over his wig—which had
remained in place by some miracle, though now much bespattered with
dirt and bits of grass.

“MacDonald?” Jamie called down. “Are ye damaged, man?”

“Is she there?” quavered the Major, not emerging from his ball.

Roger glanced across the pit at the pig, now some distance away, snout
down in the long grass.

“Er . . . aye, she is.” To his surprise, his voice came easy, if a little
hoarse. He cleared his throat and spoke a little louder. “Ye needna worry,
though. She’s busy eating your hat.”

[broughps]

book 6

Rather to Roger’s surprise, Jamie and Claire had come, as well, though
they stood at the very back. His father-in-law was calmly impassive, but
Claire’s face was an open book; she clearly found the proceedings
amusing.

“. . . and if we are truly considering the love of Christ as it is . . .” It was
instinct, honed by innumerable lectures, that made him aware that
something was amiss. There was some slight disturbance in the far corner,
where several half-grown lads had congregated. A couple of the numerous
McAfee boys, and Jacky Lachlan, widely known as a limb of Satan.

No more than a nudge, the glint of an eye, some sense of subterranean
excitement. But he sensed it, and kept glancing back at that corner with a
narrowed eye, in hopes of keeping them subdued. And so happened to be
looking when the serpent slithered out between Mrs. Crombie’s shoes. It
was a largish king snake, brightly striped with red, yellow, and black, and
it seemed fairly calm, all things considered.

“Now, ye may say, ‘Who’s my neighbor, then?’ And a good question,
coming to live in a place where half the folk ye meet are strangers—and
plenty of them more than a bit strange, too.”

A titter of appreciation ran through the congregation at that. The snake
was casting about in a leisurely sort of way, head raised and tongue
flickering with interest as it tested the air. It must be a tame snake; it
wasn’t bothered by the crush of people.

The reverse was not true; snakes were rare in Scotland, and most of the
immigrants were nervous of them. Beyond the natural association with the
devil, most folk couldn’t or wouldn’t distinguish a poison snake from any
other, since the only Scottish snake, the adder, was venomous. They’d
have fits, Roger thought grimly, were they to look down and see what was
gliding silently along the floorboards by their feet.

A strangled giggle, cut short, rose from the corner of guilty parties, and
several heads in the congregation turned, uttering a censorious “Shoosh!”
in unison.

“. . . when I was hungry, ye gave me to eat; when I was thirsty, ye gave
me to drink. And who d’ye ken here who would ever turn away even . . .
even a Sassenach, say, who came to your door hungry?”

A ripple of amusement, and slightly scandalized glances at Claire, who
was rather pink, but with suppressed laughter, he thought, not offense.

A quick glance down; the snake, having paused for a rest, was on the
move again, snooving its way gently round the end of a bench. A sudden
movement caught Roger’s eye; Jamie had seen the snake, and jerked. Now
he was standing rigid, eyeing it as though it were a bomb.

Roger had been sending up brief prayers, in the interstices of his
sermon, suggesting that heavenly benevolence might see fit to shoo the
snake quietly out the open door at the back. He intensified these prayers, at
the same time unobtrusively unbuttoning his coat to allow for freer action.

If the damned thing came toward the front of the room instead of the
back, he’d have to dive forward and try to catch it before it got out in full
sight of everyone. That would cause a disturbance, but nothing to what
might happen if . . .

“. . . now ye’ll have noticed what Jesus said, when He spoke to the
Samaritan woman at the well . . .”

The snake was still wrapped halfway round the bench leg, making up its
mind. It was no more than three feet from his father-in-law. Jamie was
watching it like a hawk, and a visible gloss of sweat had appeared on his
brow. Roger was aware that his father-in-law had a fixed dislike of snakes
—and no wonder, given that a big rattler had nearly killed him three years
before.

Too far now for Roger to reach the thing; there were three benches of
bodies between him and the snake. Bree, who could have dealt with it, was
right away on the far side of the room. No help for it, he decided, with an
inward sigh of resignation. He’d have to stop the proceedings, and in a
very calm voice, call upon someone dependable—who? He cast hastily
round, and spotted Ian Murray, who was within reach, thank God, to grasp
the thing and take it out.

He was opening his mouth to do just this, in fact, when the snake, bored
with the scenery in its view, slid rapidly round the bench and headed
straight along the back row.

Roger’s eye was on the snake, so he was as surprised as anyone—
including the snake, no doubt—when Jamie suddenly stooped and
snatched it from the floor, whipping the startled serpent under his plaid.
Jamie was a large man, and the stir of his movement made several
people look over their shoulders to see what had happened. He shifted,
coughed, and endeavored to look passionately interested in Roger’s
sermon. Seeing that there was nothing to look at, everyone turned back,
settling themselves more comfortably.

“. . . Now, we come across the Samaritans again, do we not, in the story
of the Good Samaritan? Ye’ll most of ye ken that one, but for the weans
who may not have heard it yet—” Roger smiled at Jem, Germain, and
Aidan, who all wriggled like worms and made small, ecstatic squeaks at
the thrill of being singled out.

From the corner of his eye, he could see Jamie, standing frozen and pale
as his best linen sark. Something was moving about inside said sark, and
the barest hint of bright scales showed in his clenched hand—the snake
was evidently trying to escape up his arm, being restrained from popping
through the neck of the shirt only by Jamie’s desperate grip on its tail.
Jamie was sweating badly; so was Roger. He saw Brianna frown a little
at him.

“. . . and so the Samaritan told the innkeeper to mind the poor fellow,
bind up his wounds, and feed him, and he’d stop to settle the account on
his way back from his business. So . . .”

Roger saw Claire lean close to Jamie, whispering something. His father-in-
law shook his head. At a guess, Claire had noticed the snake—she could
scarcely fail to—and was urging Jamie to go outside with it, but Jamie was
nobly refusing, not wanting to further disrupt the sermon, as he couldn’t go
out without pushing past a number of other standees.

Roger paused to wipe his face with the large handkerchief Brianna had
provided for the purpose, and under cover of this, saw Claire reach into the
slit of her skirt and draw out a large calico pocket.

She appeared to be arguing with Jamie in a whisper; he was shaking his
head, looking like the Spartan with the fox at his vitals.

Then the snake’s head appeared suddenly under Jamie’s chin, tongue
flicking, and Jamie’s eyes went wide. Claire stood instantly on tiptoe,
seized it by the neck, and whipping the astonished reptile out of her
husband’s shirt like a length of rope, crammed the writhing ball headfirst
into her pocket and jerked shut the drawstring.

“Praise the Lord!” Roger blurted, to which the congregation obligingly
chorused “Amen!” though looking a little puzzled at the interjection.

The man next to Claire, who had witnessed this rapid sequence of
events, stared at her bug-eyed. She stuffed the pocket—now heaving with
marked agitation—back into her skirt, dropped her shawl over it, and
giving the gentleman beside her a “What are you looking at, mate?” sort of
stare, faced front and adopted a look of pious concentration.

Roger made it somehow to the end, sufficiently relieved at having the
snake in custody that even leading the final hymn—an interminable backand-
forth “line hymn” in which he was obliged to chant each line, this
echoed by the congregation—didn’t disconcert him too much, though he
had almost no voice left and what there was creaked like an unoiled hinge.

His shirt was clinging to him and the cool air outside was a balm as he
stood shaking hands, bowing, accepting the kind words of his flock.

“A grand sermon, Mr. MacKenzie, grand!” Mrs. Gwilty assured him.

She nudged the wizened gentleman who accompanied her, who might be
either her husband or her father-in-law. “Was it no the grand sermon, then,
Mr. Gwilty?”

“Mmphm,” said the wizened gentleman judiciously. “No bad, no bad.
Bit short, and ye left out the fine story aboot the harlot, but nay doot ye’ll
get the way of it in time.”

“Nay doubt,” Roger said, nodding and smiling, wondering, What
harlot? “Thank ye for coming.”

“Oh, wouldna have missed it for the world,” the next lady informed
him. “Though the singing wasna quite what one might have hoped for, was
it?”

“No, I’m afraid not. Perhaps next time—”

“I never did care for Psalm 109, it’s that dreary. Next time, perhaps ye’ll
give us one o’ the mair sprightly ones, aye?”

“Aye, I expect—”

“DaddyDaddyDaddy!” Jem cannoned into his legs, clutching him
affectionately round the thighs and nearly knocking him over.

“Nice job,” said Brianna, looking amused. “What was going on in the
back of the room? You kept looking back there, but I couldn’t see
anything, and—”

“Fine sermon, sir, fine sermon!” The older Mr. Ogilvie bowed to him,
then walked off, his wife’s hand in his arm, saying to her, “The puir lad
canna carry a tune in his shoe, but the preaching wasna sae bad, all things
considered.”

Germain and Aidan joined Jemmy, all trying to hug him at once, and he
did his best to encompass them, smile at everyone, and nod agreeably to
suggestions that he speak louder, preach in the Gaelic, refrain from Latin
(what Latin?) and Popish references, try to look more sober, try to look
happier, try not to twitch, and put in more stories.

Jamie came out, and gravely shook his hand.

“Verra nice,” he said.

“Thanks.” Roger struggled to find words. “You—well. Thanks,” he
repeated.

“Greater love hath no man,” Claire observed, smiling at him from
behind Jamie’s elbow. The wind lifted her shawl, and he could see the side
of her skirt moving oddly.

Jamie made a small amused sound.

“Mmphm. Ye might drop by, maybe, and have a word wi’ Rab McAfee
and Isaiah Lachlan—perhaps a short sermon on the text, ‘He who loveth
his son chasteneth him betimes?’”

“McAfee and Lachlan. Aye, I’ll do that.” Or perhaps he’d just get the
McAfees and Jacky Lachlan alone and see to the chastening himself.

He saw off the last of the congregation, took his leave of Tom Christie
and his family with thanks, and headed for home and luncheon, his own
family in tow. Normally, there would be another service in the afternoon,
but he wasn’t up to that yet.

Old Mrs. Abernathy was a little way before them on the path, being
assisted by her friend, the slightly less-ancient Mrs. Coinneach.

“A nice-looking lad,” Mrs. Abernathy was remarking, her cracked old
voice floating back on the crisp fall air. “But nervous, och! Sweating
rivers, did ye see?”

“Aye, well, shy, I suppose,” Mrs. Coinneach replied comfortably. “I
expect he’ll settle, though, in time.”

[broughps]

book 7

THE PIRATE’S HEAD had disappeared. William heard the
speculations from a group of idlers on the quay nearby, wondering whether
it would be seen again.

“Na, him be gone for good,” said a ragged man of mixed blood, shaking
his head. “De ally-gator don’ take him, de water will.”

A backwoodsman shifted his tobacco and spat into the water in
disagreement.

“No, he’s good for another day—two, maybe. Them gristly bits what
holds the head on, they dry out in the sun. Tighten up like iron. Seen it
many a time with deer carcasses.”

William saw Mrs. MacKenzie glance quickly at the harbor, then away.
She looked pale, he thought, and maneuvered himself slightly so as to
block her view of the men and the brown flood of high tide, though since it
was high, the corpse tied to its stake was naturally not visible. The stake
was, though—a stark reminder of the price of crime. The pirate had been
staked to drown on the mudflats several days before, the persistence of his
decaying corpse an ongoing topic of public conversation.

“Jem!” Mr. MacKenzie called sharply, and lunged past William in
pursuit of his son. The little boy, red-haired like his mother, had wandered
away to listen to the men’s talk, and was now leaning perilously out over
the water, clinging to a bollard in an attempt to see the dead pirate.
Mr. MacKenzie snatched the boy by the collar, pulled him in, and swept
him up in his arms, though the boy struggled, craning back toward the
swampish harbor.

“I want to see the wallygator eat the pirate, Daddy!”

The idlers laughed, and even MacKenzie smiled a little, though the
smile disappeared when he glanced at his wife. He was at her side in an
instant, one hand beneath her elbow.

“I think we must be going,” MacKenzie said, shifting his son’s weight
in order better to support his wife, whose distress was apparent.

“Lieutenant Ransom—Lord Ellesmere, I mean”—he corrected with an
apologetic smile at William—“will have other engagements, I’m sure.”

This was true; William was engaged to meet his father for supper. Still,
his father had arranged to meet him at the tavern just across the quay; there
was no risk of missing him. William said as much, and urged them to stay,
for he was enjoying their company—Mrs. MacKenzie’s, particularly—but
she smiled regretfully, though her color was better, and patted the capped
head of the baby in her arms.

“No, we do have to be going.” She glanced at her son, still struggling to
get down, and William saw her eyes flicker toward the harbor and the stark
pole that stood above the flood. She resolutely looked away, fixing her
eyes upon William’s face instead. “The baby’s waking up; she’ll be
wanting food. It was so lovely to meet you, though. I wish we might talk
longer.” She said this with the greatest sincerity, and touched his arm
lightly, giving him a pleasant sensation in the pit of the stomach.
The idlers were now placing wagers on the reappearance of the drowned
pirate, though by the looks of things, none of them had two groats to rub
together.

“Two to one he’s still there when the tide goes out.”

“Five to one the body’s still there, but the head’s gone. I don’t care what
you say about the gristly bits, Lem, that there head was just a-hangin’ by a
thread when this last tide come in. Next un’ll take it, sure.”

Hoping to drown this conversation out, William embarked on an
elaborate farewell, going so far as to kiss Mrs. MacKenzie’s hand with his
best court manner—and, seized by inspiration, kissed the baby girl’s hand,
too, making them all laugh. Mr. MacKenzie gave him rather an odd look,
but didn’t seem offended, and shook his hand in a most republican manner
—playing out the joke by setting down his son and making the little boy
shake hands as well.

“Have you kilt anybody?” the boy inquired with interest, looking at
William’s dress sword.

“No, not yet,” William replied, smiling.

“My grandsire’s kilt two dozen men!”

“Jemmy!” Both parents spoke at once, and the little boy’s shoulders
went up around his ears.

“Well, he has!”

“I’m sure he is a bold and bloody man, your grandsire,” William assured
the little boy gravely. “The King always has need of such men.”

“My grandda says the King can kiss his arse,” the boy replied matter-offactly.

“JEMMY!”

Mr. MacKenzie clapped a hand over his outspoken offspring’s mouth.

“You know your grandda didn’t say that!” Mrs. MacKenzie said. The
little boy nodded agreeably, and his father removed the muffling hand.

“No. Grannie did, though.”

“Well, that’s somewhat more likely,” Mr. MacKenzie murmured,
obviously trying not to laugh. “But we still don’t say things like that to
soldiers—they work for the King.”

“Oh,” said Jemmy, clearly losing interest. “Is the tide going out now?”
he asked hopefully, craning his neck toward the harbor once more.

“No,” Mr. MacKenzie said firmly. “Not for hours. You’ll be in bed.”

Mrs. MacKenzie smiled at William in apology, her cheeks charmingly
flushed with embarrassment, and the family took its leave with some haste,
leaving William struggling between laughter and dismay.

[broughps]

book 7

fingers, handmade paper with the
ghosts of leaves and flowers pressed into its fibers. Yellowed with age, but
still tough and surprisingly flexible. Bree had made it herself—more than
two hundred years before.

Roger became aware that his hands were trembling, the paper shaking
so that the sprawling, difficult hand was hard to read, faded as the ink was.

December 31, 1776

My dear daughter,

As you will see if ever you receive this, we are alive …

His own eyes blurred, and he wiped the back of his hand across them,
even as he told himself that it didn’t matter, for they were surely dead now,
Jamie Fraser and his wife, Claire—but he felt such joy at those words on
the page that it was as though the two of them stood smiling before him.

It was the two of them, too, he discovered. While the letter began in
Jamie’s hand—and voice—the second page took up in Claire’s crisply
slanted writing.

Your father’s hand won’t stand much more. And it’s a bloody long
story. He’s been chopping wood all day, and can barely uncurl his
fingers—but he insisted on telling you himself that we haven’t—yet—
been burnt to ashes. Not but what we may be at any moment; there
are fourteen people crammed into the old cabin, and I’m writing this
more or less sitting in the hearth, with old Grannie MacLeod
wheezing away on her pallet by my feet so that if she suddenly begins
to die, I can pour more whisky down her throat.

“My God, I can hear her,” he said, amazed.

“So can I.” Tears were still coursing down Bree’s face, but it was a sunshower;
she wiped at them, laughing and sniffing. “Read more. Why are
they in our cabin? What’s happened to the Big House?”

Roger ran his finger down the page to find his place and resumed
reading.

“Oh, Jesus!” he said.

You recall that idiot, Donner?

Gooseflesh ran up his arms at the name. A time-traveler, Donner. And
one of the most feckless individuals he’d ever met or heard of—but
nonetheless dangerous for that.

Well, he surpassed himself by getting together a gang of thugs from
Brownsville to come and steal the treasure in gems he’d convinced
them we had. Only we hadn’t, of course.

They hadn’t—because he, Brianna, Jemmy, and Amanda had taken the
small hoard of remaining gemstones to safeguard their flight through the
stones.

They held us hostage and rubbished the house, damn them—
breaking, amongst other things, the carboy of ether in my surgery.
The fumes nearly gassed all of us on the spot …

He read rapidly through the rest of the letter, Brianna peering over his
shoulder and making small squeaks of alarm and dismay. Finished, he laid
the pages down and turned to her, his insides quivering.

“So you did it,” he said, aware that he shouldn’t say it, but unable not to,
unable not to snort with laughter. “You and your bloody matches—you
burned the house down!”

Her face was a study, features shifting between horror, indignation—
and, yes, a hysterical hilarity that matched his own.

“Oh, it was not! It was Mama’s ether. Any kind of spark could have set
off the explosion—”

“But it wasn’t any kind of spark,” Roger pointed out. “Your cousin Ian
lit one of your matches.”

“Well, so it was Ian’s fault, then!”

“No, it was you and your mother. Scientific women,” Roger said,
shaking his head. “The eighteenth century is lucky to have survived you.”

She huffed a little.

“Well, the whole thing would never have happened if it weren’t for that
bozo Donner!”

“True,” Roger conceded. “But he was a troublemaker from the future,
too, wasn’t he? Though admittedly neither a woman nor very scientific.”

[broughps]

book 7

The residents of the Ridge had been generous—as generous as people
who had virtually nothing themselves could be at the tail end of winter.
We had food for the journey, and many of the women had brought me bits
of their household simples; I had small jars of lavender, rosemary,
comfrey, and mustard seed, two precious steel needles, a small skein of
silk thread to use for sutures and dental floss (though I didn’t mention that
last use to the ladies, who would have been deeply affronted by the
notion), and a very small stock of bandages and gauze for dressings.
One thing I had in abundance, though, was alcohol. The corncrib had
been spared from the flames, and so had the still. Since there was more
than enough grain for both animals and household, Jamie had thriftily
transformed the rest into a very raw—but potent—liquor, which we would
take along to trade for necessary goods along the way. One small cask had
been kept for my especial use, though; I’d carefully painted the legend
Sauerkraut on the side, to discourage theft on the road.

“And what if we should be set upon by illiterate banditti?” Jamie had
asked, amused by this.

“Thought of that,” I informed him, displaying a small corked bottle full
of cloudy liquid. “Eau de sauerkraut. I’ll pour it on the cask at first sight
of anyone suspicious.”

“I suppose we’d best hope they’re not German bandits, then.”

“Have you ever met a German bandit?” I asked. With the exception of
the occasional drunkard or wife-beater, almost all the Germans we knew
were honest, hardworking, and virtuous to a fault. Not all that surprising,
given that so many of them had come to the colony as part of a religious
movement.

“Not as such,” he admitted. “But ye mind the Muellers, aye? And what
they did to your friends. They wouldna have called themselves bandits, but
the Tuscarora likely didna make the same distinction.”

That was no more than the truth, and a cold thumb pressed the base of
my skull. The Muellers, German neighbors, had had a beloved daughter
and her newborn child die of measles, and had blamed the nearby Indians
for the infection. Deranged by grief, old Herr Mueller had led a party of
his sons and sons-in-law to take revenge—and scalps. My viscera still
remembered the shock of seeing my friend Nayawenne’s white-streaked
hair spill out of a bundle into my lap.

“Is my hair turning white, do you think?” I said abruptly. He raised his
eyebrows, but bent forward and peered at the top of my head, fingering
gently through my hair.

“There’s maybe one hair in fifty that’s gone white. One in five-andtwenty
is silver. Why?”

“I suppose I have a little time, then. Nayawenne …” I hadn’t spoken her
name aloud in several years, and found an odd comfort in the speaking, as
though it had conjured her. “She told me that I’d come into my full power
when my hair turned white.”

“Now there’s a fearsome thought,” he said, grinning.

“No doubt. Since it hasn’t happened yet, though, I suppose if we
stumble into a nest of sauerkraut thieves on the road, I’ll have to defend
my cask with my scalpel,” I said.

He gave me a slightly queer look at this, but then laughed and shook his
head.

[broughps]

book 7

A hideous shriek split the air, and I jerked, dropping the basket. I flung
myself after it, barely snatching the handle before it was whirled away on
the flood, and stood up dripping and trembling, heart hammering as I
waited to see whether the scream would be repeated.

It was—followed in short order by an equally piercing screech, but one
deeper in timbre and recognizable to my well-trained ears as the sort of
noise made by a Scottish Highlander suddenly immersed in freezing water.
Fainter, higher-pitched shrieks, and a breathless “Fook!” spoken in a
Dorset accent indicated that the gentlemen of the household were taking
their spring bath.

I wrang out the hem of my shift and, snatching my shawl from the
branch where I’d left it, slipped on my shoes and made my way in the
direction of the bellowing.

There are few things more enjoyable than sitting in relative warmth and
comfort while watching fellow human beings soused in cold water. If said
human beings present a complete review of the nude male form, so much
the better. I threaded my way through a small growth of fresh-budding
river willows, found a conveniently screened rock in the sun, and spread
out the damp skirt of my shift, enjoying the warmth on my shoulders, the
sharp scent of the fuzzy catkins, and the sight before me.

Jamie was standing in the pool, nearly shoulder-deep, his hair slicked
back like a russet seal. Bobby stood on the bank, and picking up Aidan
with a grunt, threw him to Jamie in a pinwheel of flailing limbs and
piercing shrieks of delighted fright.

“Me-me-me-me!” Orrie was dancing around his stepfather’s legs, his
chubby bottom bouncing up and down among the reeds like a little pink
balloon.

Bobby laughed, bent, and hoisted him up, holding him for a moment
high overhead as he squealed like a seared pig, then flung him in a shallow
arc out over the pool.

He hit the water with a tremendous splash and Jamie grabbed him,
laughing, and pulled him to the surface, whence he emerged with a look of
openmouthed stupefaction that made them all hoot like gibbons. Aidan and
Rollo were both dog-paddling round in circles by now, shouting and
barking.

I looked across to the opposite side of the pool and saw Ian rush naked
down the small hill and leap like a salmon into the pool, uttering one of his
best Mohawk war cries. This was cut off abruptly by the cold water, and
he vanished with scarcely a splash.

I waited—as did the others—for him to pop back up, but he didn’t.
Jamie looked suspiciously behind him, in case of a sneak attack, but an
instant later Ian shot out of the water directly in front of Bobby with a
bloodcurdling yell, grabbed him by the leg, and yanked him in.

Matters thereafter became generally chaotic, with a great deal of
promiscuous splashing, yelling, hooting, and jumping off of rocks, which
gave me the opportunity to reflect on just how delightful naked men are.
Not that I hadn’t seen a good many of them in my time, but aside from
Frank and Jamie, most men I’d seen undressed usually had been either ill
or injured, and were encountered in such circumstances as to prevent a
leisurely appreciation of their finer attributes.

From Orrie’s chubbiness and Aidan’s spidery winter-white limbs to
Bobby’s skinny, pale torso and neat little flat behind, the McCallum-
Higginses were as entertaining to watch as a cageful of monkeys.

Ian and Jamie were something different—baboons, perhaps, or
mandrills. They didn’t really resemble each other in any attribute other
than height, and yet were plainly cut from the same cloth. Watching Jamie
squatting on a rock above the pool, thighs tensing for a leap, I could easily
see him preparing to attack a leopard, while Ian stretched himself
glistening in the sun, warming his dangly bits while keeping an alert watch
for intruders. All they needed were purple bottoms, and they could have
walked straight onto the African veldt, no questions asked.

They were all lovely, in their wildly various ways, but it was Jamie my
gaze returned to, over and over again. He was battered and scarred, his
muscles roped and knotted, and age had grooved the hollows between
them. The thick welt of the bayonet scar writhed up his thigh, wide and
ugly, while the thinner white line of the scar left by a rattlesnake’s bite was
nearly invisible, clouded by the thick fuzz of his body hair, this beginning
to dry now and stand out from his skin in a cloud of reddish-gold. The
scimitar-shaped sword cut across his ribs had healed well, too, no more
than a hair-thin white line by now.

He turned round and bent to pick up a cake of soap from the rock, and
my insides turned over. It wasn’t purple but could not otherwise have been
improved on, being high, round, delicately dusted with red-gold, and with
a delightful muscular concavity to the sides. His balls, just visible from
behind, were purple with the cold, and gave me a strong urge to creep up
behind him and cup them in my rock-warmed hands.

I wondered whether the resultant standing broad-jump would enable
him to clear the pool.

I had not, in fact, seen him naked—or even substantially undressed—in
several months.

But now … I threw back my head, closing my eyes against the brilliant
spring sun, enjoying the tickle of my own fresh-washed hair against my
shoulder blades. The snow was gone, the weather was good—and the
whole outdoors beckoned invitingly, filled with places where privacy
could be assured, bar the odd skunk.

I LEFT THE MEN dripping and sunning themselves on the rocks,
and went to retrieve my clothes. I didn’t put these on, though. Instead, I
went quickly up to the springhouse, where I submerged my basket of
greens in the cool water—if I took it to the cabin, Amy would seize them
and boil them into submission—and left my gown, stays, and stockings
rolled up on the shelf where the cheeses were stacked. Then I went back
toward the stream.

The splashing and shouting had ceased. Instead, I heard low-voiced
singing, coming along the trail. It was Bobby, carrying Orrie, sound asleep
after his exertions. Aidan, groggy with cleanliness and warmth, ambled
slowly beside his stepfather, dark head tilting to and fro to the rhythm of
the song.

<snip>

I smiled to see them, though with a catch in my throat. I remembered
Jamie carrying Jem back from swimming, the summer before, and Roger
singing to Mandy in the night, his harsh, cracked voice little more than a
whisper—but music, all the same.

I nodded to Bobby, who smiled and nodded back, though without
interrupting his song. He raised his brows and jerked a thumb over his
shoulder and uphill, presumably indicating where Jamie had gone. He
betrayed no surprise at seeing me in shift and shawl—doubtless he thought
I was bound for the stream to wash, as well, inspired by the singular
warmth of the day.

<snip>

I waved briefly and turned up the side trail that led to the upper clearing.
“New House,” everyone called it, though the only indications that there
might someday be a house there were a stack of felled logs and a number
of pegs driven into the ground, with strings tied between them. These were
meant to mark the placement and dimensions of the house Jamie intended
to build in replacement of the Big House—when we came back.

He’d been moving the pegs, I saw. The wide front room was now wider,
and the back room intended for my surgery had developed a growth of
some sort, perhaps a separate stillroom.

The architect was sitting on a log, surveying his kingdom, stark naked.

“Expecting me, were you?” I asked, taking off my shawl and hanging it
on a convenient branch.

“I was.” He smiled, and scratched his chest. “I thought the sight of my
naked backside would likely inflame ye. Or was it maybe Bobby’s?”

“Bobby hasn’t got one. Do you know, you haven’t got a single gray hair
below the neck? Why is that, I wonder?”

He glanced down, inspecting himself, but it was true. There were only a
few strands of silver among the fiery mass of his hair, though his beard—
the winter growth tediously and painfully removed a few days before—
was heavily frosted with white. But the hair on his chest was still a dark
auburn, and that below a fluffy mass of vivid ginger.

He combed his fingers thoughtfully through the exuberant foliage,
looking down.

“I think it’s hiding,” he remarked, and glanced up at me, one eyebrow
raised. “Want to come and help me hunt for it?”

I came round in front of him and obligingly knelt down. The object in
question was in fact quite visible, though admittedly looking rather shellshocked
by the recent immersion, and a most interesting shade of pale
blue.

“Well,” I said, after a moment’s contemplation. “Great oaks from tiny
acorns grow. Or so I’m told.”

A shiver ran through him at the warmth of my mouth and I lifted my
hands involuntarily, cradling his balls.

“Holy God,” he said, and his hands rested lightly on my head in
benediction.

“What did ye say?” he asked, a moment later.

“I said,” I said, coming up momentarily for air, “I find the gooseflesh
rather erotic.”

“There’s more where that came from,” he assured me. “Take your shift
off, Sassenach. I havena seen ye naked in nearly four months.”

“Well … no, you haven’t,” I agreed, hesitating. “And I’m not sure I
want you to.”

One eyebrow went up.

“Whyever not?”

“Because I’ve been indoors for weeks on end without sun or exercise to
speak of. I probably look like one of those grubs you find under rocks—
fat, white, and squidgy.”

“Squidgy?” he repeated, breaking into a grin.

“Squidgy,” I said with dignity, wrapping my arms around myself.

He pursed his lips and exhaled slowly, eyeing me with his head on one
side.

“I like it when ye’re fat, but I ken quite well that ye’re not,” he said,
“because I’ve felt your ribs when I put my arms about you, each night
since the end of January. As for white—ye’ve been white all the time I’ve
known ye; it’s no likely to come a great shock to me. As for the squidgy
part”—he extended one hand and wiggled the fingers beckoningly at me
—“I think I might enjoy that.”

“Hmm,” I said, still hesitant. He sighed.

“Sassenach,” he said, “I said I havena seen ye naked in four months.
That means if ye take your shift off now, ye’ll be the best thing I’ve seen
in four months. And at my age, I dinna think I remember farther back than
that.”

I laughed, and without further ado, stood up and pulled the ribbon tie at
the neck of my shift. Wriggling, I let it fall in a puddle round my feet.
He closed his eyes. Then breathed deep and opened them again.

“I’m blinded,” he said softly, and held out a hand to me.

“Blinded as in sun bouncing off a vast expanse of snow?” I asked
dubiously. “Or as in coming face to face with a gorgon?”

“Seeing a gorgon turns ye to stone, not strikes ye blind,” he informed
me. “Though come to think”—he prodded himself with an experimental
forefinger—“I may turn to stone yet. Will ye come here, for God’s sake?”

I came.

[broughps]

book 7

I felt my digestive tract, tightly knotted up under my diaphragm for
hours, relax and settle with a grateful gurgle, and a sense of well-being
flowed down like warm honey through limbs and spine.

“I dinna ken what ye’re doing, Sassenach,” a soft voice said nearby.

“But ye look well content.”

I opened my eyes and sat up. Jamie came down the ladder, moving
carefully, and sat down.

He was very pale, and his shoulders were slumped with exhaustion. He
smiled faintly at me, though, and his eyes were clear. My heart, solid and
reliable as I just proved it to be, warmed and softened as though it had
been made of butter.

“How do you—” I began, but he raised a hand, stopping me.

“I’ll do,” he said, with a glance at the pallet where the recumbent
Stebbings lay, breathing shallowly and audibly. “Is he asleep?”

“I hope so. And you should be,” I observed. “Let me tend you so you
can lie down.”

“It’s no verra bad,” he said, gingerly picking at the wad of crusty fabric
tucked inside his shirt. “But it could use a stitch or two, I suppose.”

“I suppose so, too,” I said, eyeing the brown stains down the right side
of his shirt. Given his customary inclination to understatement, he likely
had a gaping slash down his breast. At least it would be easy to get at,
unlike the awkward wound suffered by one of the Pitt’s sailors, who had
somehow been struck just behind the scrotum by a pellet of grapeshot. I
thought it must have struck something else first and bounced upward, for it
luckily hadn’t penetrated deeply, but was flattened as a sixpence when I
got it out. I’d given it to him as a souvenir.

Abram had brought a can of fresh hot water just before he left. I put a
finger into it and was pleased to find it still warm.

“Right,” I said, with a nod at the bottles on the chest. “Do you want
brandy, or wine, before we start?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, and he reached for the wine bottle.

“Let me keep the illusion of civilization for a wee bit longer.”

“Oh, I think that’s reasonably civilized stuff,” I said. “I haven’t a cork
screw, though.”

He read the label, and his eyebrows rose.

“No matter. Is there something to pour it into?”

“Just here.” I pulled a small, elegant wooden box out of a nest of straw
inside a packing case and opened it triumphantly to display a Chinese
porcelain tea set, gilt-edged and decorated with tiny red and blue turtles,
all looking inscrutably Asiatic, swimming through a forest of gold
chrysanthemums.

Jamie laughed—no more than a breath, but definitely laughter—and,
scoring the neck of the bottle with the point of his dirk, knocked it neatly
off against the rim of a tobacco hogshead. He poured the wine carefully
into the two cups I’d set out, nodding at the vivid turtles.

<snip>

Rather to my surprise, he was right: the wound was small, and wouldn’t
need more than two or three stitches to put right. A blade had gone in
deep, just under his collarbone, and ripped a triangular flap of flesh
coming out.

“Is this all your blood?” I asked, puzzled, lifting the discarded shirt.

“Nay, I’ve got a bit left,” he said, eyes creasing at me over the teacup.

“Not much, mind.”

“You know quite well what I mean,” I said severely.

“Aye, it’s mine.” He drained his cup and reached for the bottle.

“But from such a small… oh, dear God.” I felt slightly faint. I could see
the tender blue line of his subclavian vein, passing just under the
collarbone and running directly above the clotted gape of the wound.

“Aye, I was surprised,” he said casually, cradling the delicate china in
both big hands. “When he jerked the blade out, the blood sprayed out like
a fountain and soaked us both. I’ve never seen it do like that before.”

“You have probably not had anyone nick your subclavian artery
before,” I said, with what attempt at calm I could muster. I cast a sideways
glance at the wound. It had clotted; the edges of the flap had turned blue
and the sliced flesh beneath was nearly black with dried blood. No oozing,
let alone an arterial spray. The blade had thrust up from below, missing the
vein and just piercing the artery behind it.

I took a long, deep breath, trying with no success whatever not to
imagine what would have happened had the blade gone the barest fraction
of an inch deeper, or what might have happened, had Jamie not had a
handkerchief and the knowledge and opportunity to use pressure on the
wound.

Belatedly, I realized what he’d said: “The blood sprayed out like a
fountain and soaked us both.” And when I’d asked Stebbings whether it
was his own blood soaking his shirt, he’d leered and said, “Your
husband’s.” I’d thought he was only being unpleasant, but—

“Was it Captain Stebbings who stabbed you?”

“Mmphm.” He made a brief affirmative noise as he shifted his weight,
leaning back to let me get at the wound. He drained the cup again and set it
down, looking resigned. “I was surprised he managed it. I thought I’d
dropped him, but he hit the floor and came up wi’ a knife in his hand, the
wee bugger.”

“You shot him?”

He blinked at my tone of voice.

“Aye, of course.”

I couldn’t think of any bad words sufficient as to encompass the
situation and, muttering “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” under my breath, set
about swabbing and suturing.

“Now, listen to me,” I said, in my best military surgeon’s voice. “So far
as I can tell, it was a very small nick, and you managed to stop the
bleeding long enough for a clot to form. But that clot is all that is keeping
you from bleeding to death. Do you understand me?” This was not
completely true—or it wouldn’t be, once I’d stitched the supporting flesh
back into place—but this was no time to give him a loophole.

He looked at me for a long moment, quite expressionless.

“I do.”

“That means,” I emphasized, stabbing the needle into his flesh with
sufficient force that he yelped, “you must not use your right arm for at
least the next forty-eight hours. You must not haul on ropes, you must not
climb rigging, you must not punch people, you must not so much as
scratch your arse with your right hand, do you hear me?”

“I expect the whole ship hears ye,” he muttered, but glanced down his
cheek, trying to see his collarbone. “I generally scratch my arse wi’ my left
hand, anyway.”

Captain Stebbings had definitely heard us; a low chuckle came from
behind the tea chest, followed by a rumbling cough and a faint wheeze of
amusement.

“And,” I continued, drawing the thread through the skin, “you may not
get angry.”

His breath drew in with a hiss.

“Why not?”

“Because it will make your heart beat harder, thus raising your blood
pressure, which will—”

“Blow me up like a bottle of beer that’s been corked too long?”

“Much the same. Now—”

Whatever I had been going to say vanished from my mind in the next
instant as Stebbings’s breathing suddenly changed. I dropped the needle
and, turning, seized the dish. I shoved the tea chest aside, putting the dish
on it, and fell to my knees next to Stebbings’s body.

<snip>

There were luckily well-known bad words for this situation, and I used a
few of them, swiftly turning back the blanket and digging my fingers into
his pudgy side in search of ribs. He squirmed and emitted a high, ludicrous
heeheehee, which made Jamie—the needle still swinging by its thread
from his collarbone—give a nervous laugh in response.

<snip>

“Sit down,” I said to Jamie, who did, ending cross-legged on the floor
beside me.

<snip>

He didn’t laugh this time, either. I plugged the end of the bone neatly
and, kneeling in front of Jamie, resumed my stitching on his collarbone.
I felt perfectly clearheaded—but in that oddly surreal way that is an
indication of total exhaustion. I’d done what had to be done, but I knew I
couldn’t stay upright much longer.

“What does Captain Hickman have to say?” I asked, much more by way
of distracting both of us than because I really wanted to know.

“A great number of things, as ye might imagine.” He took a deep breath
and fixed his eyes on a huge turtle shell that had been wedged in among
the boxes. “Discarding the purely personal opinions and a certain amount
of excessive language, though… we’re bound up the Hudson. For Fort
Ticonderoga.”

“We… what?” I frowned at the needle pushed halfway through the skin.

“Why?”

His hands were braced on the deck, fingers pressing into the boards so
hard the nails were white.

“That’s where he was bound when the complications occurred, and
that’s where he means to go. He’s a gentleman of verra fixed views, I
find.”

A loud snort came from behind the tea chest.

“I did notice something of the sort.” I tied the last suture and clipped the
thread neatly with my knife. “Did you say something, Captain Stebbings?”

The snort was repeated, more loudly, but without emendation.

“Can’t he be convinced to put us ashore?”

Jamie’s fingers hovered over the fresh stitching, obviously wanting to
rub the stinging site, but I pushed them away.

“Aye, well… there are further complications, Sassenach.”

“Do tell,” I murmured, standing up and stretching. “Oh, God, my back.
What sort of complications? Do you want some tea?”

“Only if there’s a good deal of whisky in it.” He leaned his head back
against the bulkhead, closing his eyes. There was a hint of color in his
cheeks, though his forehead shone with sweat.

“Brandy do you?” I needed tea—minus alcohol—badly myself, and
headed for the ladder, not waiting for his nod. I saw him reach for the wine
bottle as I set foot on the lowest rung.

There was a brisk wind blowing up above; it swirled the long cloak out
around me as I emerged from the depths, and whooshed up my petticoats
in a most revivifying fashion. It revivified Mr. Smith—or, rather, Mr.
Marsden—too, who blinked and looked hastily away.

“Evening, ma’am,” he said politely, when I’d got my assorted garments
back under control. “The colonel doing well, I hope?”

“Yes, he’s—” I broke off and gave him a sharp look. “The colonel?” I
had a slight sinking sensation.

“Yes’m. He’s a militia colonel, isn’t he?”

“He was,” I said with emphasis.

Smith’s face broke into a smile.

“No was about it, ma’am,” he said. “He’s done us the honor to take
command of a company—Fraser’s Irregulars, we’re to be called.”

“How apt,” I said. “What the devil—how did this happen?”

He tugged nervously at one of his earrings, seeing that I perhaps wasn’t
as pleased by the news as might be hoped.

“Ah. Well, to tell the truth, ma’am, I’m afraid it was my fault.” He
ducked his head, abashed. “One of the hands aboard the Pitt recognized
me, and when he told the captain who I was…”

<snip>

“I see,” I said, rubbing two fingers between my brows. “Well, if you’ll
excuse me, Mr…. Marsden, I must be going and making a cup of tea. With
a lot of brandy in it.”

[broughps]

book 7

“I’ve brought ye a present, Sassenach.” Jamie plumped the bag down on
the table with a pleasantly meaty-sounding thump and a waft of fresh
blood. My mouth began to water.

“What is it? Birds?” It wasn’t ducks or geese; those had a distinctive
scent about them, a musk of body oils, feathers, and decaying waterweeds.
But partridges, say, or grouse … I swallowed heavily at the thought of
pigeon pie.

“No, a book.” He pulled a small package wrapped in tattered oilcloth
from the bulging sack and proudly set it in my hands.

“A book?” I said blankly.

He nodded encouragingly.

“Aye. Words printed on paper, ye’ll recall the sort of thing? I ken it’s
been a long time.”

I gave him an eye and, attempting to ignore the rumbling of my
stomach, opened the package. It was a well-worn pocket-sized copy of The
Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman—Vol. I, and despite my
disgruntlement at being presented with literature instead of food, I was
interested. It had been a long time since I’d had a good book in my hands,
and this was a story I’d heard of but never read.

“The owner must have been fond of it,” I said, turning the little volume
over gently. The spine was nearly worn through, and the edges of the
leather cover were rubbed shiny. A rather nasty thought struck me.

“Jamie … you didn’t… take this from a, er, a body, did you?” Stripping
weapons, equipment, and usable clothing from fallen enemies was not
considered looting; it was an unpleasant necessity. Still …

He shook his head, though, still rummaging in the bag.

“Nay, I found it at the edge of a wee creek. Dropped in flight, I expect.”

Well, that was better, though I was sure the man who had dropped it
would regret the loss of this treasured companion. I opened the book at
random and squinted at the small type.

“Sassenach.”

“Hmm?” I glanced up, jerked out of the text, to see Jamie regarding me
with a mixture of sympathy and amusement.

“Ye need spectacles, don’t ye?” he said. “I hadna realized.”

“Nonsense!” I said, though my heart gave a small jump. “I see perfectly
well.”

“Oh, aye?” He moved beside me and took the book out of my hand.

Opening it to the middle, he held it in front of me. “Read that.”

I leaned backward, and he advanced in front of me.

“Stop that!” I said. “How do you expect me to read anything that
close?”

“Stand still, then,” he said, and moved the book away from my face.

“Can ye see the letters clear yet?”

“No,” I said crossly. “Farther. Farther. No, bloody farther!”

And at last was obliged to admit that I could not bring the letters into
focus at a distance of nearer than about eighteen inches.

“Well, it’s very small type!” I said, flustered and discomfited. I had, of
course, been aware that my eyesight was not so keen as it once had been,
but to be so rudely confronted with the evidence that I was, if not blind as
a bat, definitely in competition with moles in the farsight sweepstakes was
a trifle upsetting.

“Twelve-point Caslon,” Jamie said, giving the text a professional
glance. “I will say the leading’s terrible,” he added critically. “And the
gutters are half what they should be. Even so—” He flipped the book shut
and looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “Ye need spectacles, a nighean,” he
repeated gently.

“Hmph!” I said. And on impulse picked up the book, opened it, and
handed it to him. “So—read it yourself, why don’t you?”

Looking surprised and a little wary, he took the book and looked into it.
Then extended his arm a little. And a little more. I watched, experiencing
that same odd mix of amusement and sympathy, as he finally held the
book nearly at arm’s length, and read, “So that the life of a writer,
whatever he might fancy to the contrary, was not so much a state of
composition, as a state of warfare; and his probation in it, precisely that of
any other man militant upon earth—both depending alike, not half so
much upon the degrees of his WIT—as his RESISTANCE.”

He closed it and looked at me, the edge of his mouth tucked back.

“Aye, well,” he said. “I can still shoot, at least.”

“And I can tell one herb from another by smell, I suppose,” I said, and
laughed. “Just as well. I don’t suppose there’s a spectacle-maker this side
of Philadelphia.”

“No, I suppose not,” he said ruefully. “When we get to Edinburgh,
though, I ken just the man. I’ll buy ye a tortoiseshell pair for everyday,
Sassenach, and a pair wi’ gold rims for Sundays.”

“Expect me to read the Bible with them, do you?” I inquired.

“Ah, no,” he said, “that’s just for show. After all”—he picked up my
hand, which smelled of dill weed and coriander, and, lifting it to his
mouth, ran the point of his tongue delicately down the lifeline in my palm
—“the important things ye do by touch, aye?”

[broughps]

book 7

JAMIE LIFTED THE LID of my small iron pot, with an expression
somewhere between caution and hope.

“Not food,” I informed him, rather unnecessarily, as he was wheezing in
the manner of one who has inadvertently inhaled horseradish into the
sinuses.

“I should hope not,” he said, coughing and wiping his eyes. “Christ,
Sassenach, that’s worse than usual. D’ye mean to poison someone?”

“Yes, Plasmodium vivax. Put the lid back on.” I was simmering a
decoction of cinchona bark and gallberries, for the treatment of malarial
cases.

“Have we got any food?” he asked plaintively, dropping the lid back in
place.

“In fact we have.” I reached into the cloth-covered pail at my feet and
triumphantly pulled out a meat pie, its crust golden and shimmering with
lard.

His face assumed the expression of an Israelite beholding the promised
land, and he held out his hands, receiving the pie with the reverence due a
precious object, though this impression was dispelled in the next instant as
he took a large bite out of it.

“Where did ye get it?” he asked, after a few moments of blissful
mastication. “Are there more?”

“There are. A nice prostitute named Daisy brought them for me.”
He paused, examined the pie critically for signs of its provenance, then
shrugged and took another bite.

“Do I want to know what it was ye did for her, Sassenach?”

“Well, probably not while you’re eating, no. Have you seen Ian?”

“No.” The response might have been abbreviated by the exigencies of
eating pie, but I caught the slightest shiftiness in his manner and stopped,
staring at him.

“Do you know where Ian is?”

“More or less.” He kept his eyes fixed firmly on the meat pie, thus
confirming my suspicions.

“Do I want to know what he’s doing?”

“No, ye don’t,” he said definitely.

“Oh, God.”

[broughps]

book 7

They vanished in the mist, and I lowered the sword, which suddenly
weighed too much to hold. I dropped it on the grass and fell to my knees
beside Jamie.

My own heart was pounding in my ears and my hands were shaking
with reaction, as I groped for the pulse in his neck. I turned his head and
could see it, throbbing steadily just below his jaw.

“Thank God!” I whispered to myself. “Oh, thank God!”

I ran my hands over him quickly, searching for injury before I moved
him. I didn’t think the scavengers would come back; I could hear the
voices of a group of men, distant on the ridge behind me—a rebel detail
coming to fetch the wounded.

There was a large knot on his brow, already turning purple. Nothing else
that I could see. The boy had been right, I thought, with gratitude; he
wasn’t badly hurt. Then I rolled him onto his back and saw his hand.
Highlanders were accustomed to fight with sword in one hand, targe in
the other, the small leather shield used to deflect an opponent’s blow. He
hadn’t had a targe.

The blade had struck him between the third and fourth fingers of his
right hand and sliced through the hand itself, a deep, ugly wound that split
his palm and the body of his hand, halfway to the wrist.

Despite the horrid look of the wound, there wasn’t much blood; the
hand had been curled under him, his weight acting as a pressure bandage.
The front of his shirt was smeared with red, deeply stained over his heart. I
ripped open his shirt and felt inside, to be sure that the blood was from his
hand, but it was. His chest was cool and damp from the grass but
unscathed, his nipples shrunken and stiff with chill.

“That… tickles,” he said in a drowsy voice. He pawed awkwardly at his
chest with his left hand, trying to brush my hand away.

“Sorry,” I said, repressing the urge to laugh with the joy of seeing him
alive and conscious. I got an arm behind his shoulders and helped him to
sit up. He looked drunk, with one eye swollen half shut and grass in his
hair. He acted drunk, too, swaying alarmingly from side to side.

“How do you feel?” I asked.

“Sick,” he said succinctly. He leaned to the side and threw up.
I eased him back on the grass and wiped his mouth, then set about
bandaging his hand.

“Someone will be here soon,” I assured him. “We’ll get you back to the
wagon, and I can take care of this.”

“Mmphm.” He grunted slightly as I pulled the bandage tight. “What
happened?”

“What happened?” I stopped what I was doing and stared at him.
“You’re asking me?”

“What happened in the battle, I mean,” he said patiently, regarding me
with his one good eye. “I know what happened to me—roughly,” he
added, wincing as he touched his forehead.

“Yes, roughly,” I said rudely. “You got yourself chopped like a
butchered hog, and your head half caved in. Being a sodding bloody hero
again, that’s what happened to you!”

“I wasna—” he began, but I interrupted, my relief over seeing him alive
being rapidly succeeded by rage.

“You didn’t have to go to Ticonderoga! You shouldn’t have gone! Stick
to the writing and the printing, you said. You weren’t going to fight unless
you had to, you said. Well, you didn’t have to, but you did it anyway, you
vain glorious, pigheaded, grandstanding Scot!”

“Grandstanding?” he inquired.

“You know just what I mean, because it’s just what you did! You might
have been killed!”

“Aye,” he agreed ruefully. “I thought I was, when the dragoon came
down on me. I screeched and scairt his horse, though,” he added more
cheerfully. “It reared up and got me in the face with its knee.”

“Don’t change the subject!” I snapped.

“Is the subject not that I’m not killed?” he asked, trying to raise one
brow and failing, with another wince.

“No! The subject is your stupidity, your bloody selfish stubbornness!”

“Oh, that.”

“Yes, that! You—you—oaf! How dare you do that to me? You think I
haven’t got anything better to do with my life than trot round after you,
sticking pieces back on?” I was frankly shrieking at him by this time.

To my increased fury, he grinned at me, his expression made the more
rakish by the half-closed eye.

“Ye’d have been a good fishwife, Sassenach,” he observed. “Ye’ve the
tongue for it.”

“You shut up, you *beep* bloody—”

“They’ll hear you,” he said mildly, with a wave toward the party of
Continental soldiers making their way down the slope toward us.

“I don’t care who hears me! If you weren’t already hurt, I’d—I’d—”

“Be careful, Sassenach,” he said, still grinning. “Ye dinna want to knock
off any more pieces; ye’ll only have to stick them back on, aye?”

“Don’t bloody tempt me,” I said through my teeth, with a glance at the
sword I had dropped.

He saw it and reached for it, but couldn’t quite manage. With an
explosive snort, I leaned across his body and grabbed the hilt, putting it in
his hand. I heard a shout from the men coming down the hill and turned to
wave at them.

“Anyone hearing ye just now would likely think ye didna care for me
owermuch, Sassenach,” he said, behind me.

I turned to look down at him. The impudent grin was gone, but he was
still smiling.

“Ye’ve the tongue of a venemous shrew,” he said, “but you’re a bonnie
wee swordsman, Sassenach.”

My mouth opened, but the words that had been so abundant a moment
before had all evaporated like the rising mist.

He laid his good hand on my arm. “For now, a nighean donn—thank ye
for my life.”

I closed my mouth. The men had nearly reached us, rustling through the
grass, their exclamations and chatter drowning out the ever-fainter moans
of the wounded.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

[broughps]

book 7

I TOOK A SPOONFUL of the oyster stew and closed my eyes in
ecstasy. We had come a little early, in order to get a seat by the window
overlooking the street, but Mowbray’s had filled up fast, and the
clishmaclaver of cutlery and conversation was almost deafening.

“You’re sure he’s not here?” I said, leaning across the table to make
myself heard. Jamie shook his head, rolling a sip of the cold Moselle
around his mouth with an expression of bliss.

“Ye’ll ken well enough when he is,” he said, swallowing it.

“All right. What sort of not-quite-treasonous thing are you planning to
make poor Mr. Bell do in return for passage home?”

“I mean to send him home in charge of my printing press,” he replied.

“What, entrust your precious darling to a virtual stranger?” I asked,
amused. He gave me a mildly dirty look in return, but finished his bite of
buttered roll before answering.

“I dinna expect him to be abusing her. He’s no going to print a
thousand-run of Clarissa on her aboard ship, after all.”

“Oh, it’s a her, is it?” I said, vastly entertained. “And what, may I ask, is
her name?”

He flushed a little and looked away, taking particular care to coax a
specially succulent oyster into his spoon, but finally muttered, “Bonnie,”
before gulping it.

[broughps]

book 7

But now he had his Bonnie back, and the future had suddenly acquired a
disagreeable solidity. Not that cities didn’t have considerable advantages, I
told myself stoutly. I could finally acquire a decent set of medical
instruments, replenish my medicines—why, I could even make penicillin
and ether again! With a little better appetite, I took a Scotch egg.

“Speaking of smugglers,” Jamie was saying to Ian, “what is it ye have in
your coat? A present for one of the ladies at Madame Jeanne’s?”

Ian gave his uncle a cold look and removed the small package from his
pocket.

“A wee bit o’ French lace. For my mam.”

“Good lad,” Jamie said with approval.

“What a sweet thought, Ian,” I said. “Did you—I mean, was Madame
Jeanne still in situ?”

He nodded, putting the package back into his coat.

“She is. And verra eager to renew her acquaintance wi’ you, Uncle,” he
added, with a slightly malicious grin. “She asked would ye care to come
round this evening for a bit of entertainment.”

Jamie’s nose twitched as he glanced at me.

“Oh, I think not, Ian. I’ll send a note saying we shall wait upon her
tomorrow morning at eleven. Though ye’re free to take up her invitation
yourself, of course.” It was clear that he was only teasing, but Ian shook
his head.

“Nay, I wouldna go wi’ a whore. Not ’til it’s settled between Rachel and
me,” he said seriously. “One way or the other. But I shallna take another
woman to my bed until she tells me that I must.”

We both looked at him in some surprise across the teacups.

“You do mean it, then,” I said. “You feel… er… betrothed to her?”

“Well, of course he does, Sassenach,” Jamie said, reaching for another
slice of toast. “He left her his dog.”

[broughps]

book 7

A shadow fell across the floor in front of me and I looked up. Jamie was
standing there with a most peculiar look on his face.

“What?” I said, startled. “Has something happened?”

“No,” he said, and advancing into the study, leaned down and put his
hands on the desk, bringing his face within a foot of mine.

“Have ye ever been in the slightest doubt that I need ye?” he demanded.
It took roughly half a second of thought to answer this.

“No,” I replied promptly. “To the best of my knowledge, you needed me
urgently the moment I saw you. And I haven’t had reason to think you’ve
got any more self-sufficient since. What on earth happened to your
forehead? Those look like tooth—” He lunged across the desk and kissed
me before I could finish the observation.

“Thank ye,” he said fervently, and, un-lunging, whirled and went out,
evidently in the highest of spirits.

[broughps]

MOBY

“Well.” He drew a deep breath, feeling that there wasn’t enough
air in the whole forest for this. “Did ye ken . . . I’ve been marrit
before?”

Her face flickered, surprise overcome by determination so fast
that he’d have missed it if he hadn’t been watching so close.

“I did not,” she said, and began to pleat the folds of her skirt, onehanded,
clear hazel eyes fixed intently on his face. “Thee did say
been married. Thee isn’t now, I suppose?”

He shook his head, feeling a little easier—and very grateful to her.
Not every young woman would have taken it so calmly.

“No. I wouldna have spoken to ye—asked ye to marry me, I mean
—otherwise.”

She pursed her lips a little and her eyes narrowed.

“In point of fact,” she said thoughtfully, “thee never has asked me
to marry thee.”

“I didn’t?” he said, staggered. “Are ye sure?”

“I would have noticed,” she assured him gravely. “No, thee didn’t.
Though I recall a few very moving declarations, there was no
suggestion of marriage among them.”

“But—well.” Heat had risen in his cheeks. “I—but you . . . ye said . .
.” Maybe she was right. She had said . . . or had she? “Did ye not say
ye loved me?”

Her mouth turned up just a little, but he could see her laughing at
him at the back of her eyes.

“Not in so many words. But I did give thee to understand that, yes.
Or at least I meant to.”

“Oh. Well, then,” he said, much happier. “Ye did.” And he pulled
her into his one sound arm and kissed her with great fervor. She
kissed him back, panting a little, her fists curled in the fabric of his
shirt, then broke away, looking mildly dazed. Her lips were swollen,
the skin around them pink, scraped by his beard.

[broughps]

MOBY

“Want to go in?” he asked, grinning as he took back his weapons.
He wiped water from his brows and chin with the back of his hand.
“It’ll cool ye right down.”

“I would,” she said, smearing the cold droplets over her sweating
face with one hand, “if my clothes were as impervious to the
elements as thine are.” He had on his worn buckskin leggings and
breechclout, with a calico shirt so faded that the red flowers on it
were nearly the same color as the brown background. Neither water
nor sun would make any difference, and he would look just the
same wet or dry—while she would look like a drowned rat all day,
and an immodest drowned rat at that, shift and dress half
transparent with water and sticking to her.

The casual thought coincided with Ian’s buckling of his belt, and
the movement drew her eye to the flap of his linen breechclout—or,
rather, to where it had been before he raised it to pull it over his
belt.

She drew in her breath audibly and he looked up at her, surprised.

“Eh?”

“Never mind,” she said, her face going hot despite the cool water.
But he looked down, following the direction of her gaze, and then
looked back, right into her eyes, and she had a strong impulse to
jump straight into the water, damage to her wardrobe
notwithstanding.

“Are ye bothered?” he said, eyebrows raised, as he plucked at the
wet cloth of his breechclout, then dropped the flap.

“No,” she said with dignity. “I’ve seen one before, thee knows.
Many of them. Just not . . .” Not one with which I am soon to be
intimately acquainted. “Just not . . . yours.”

“I dinna think it’s anything out o’ the ordinary,” he assured her
gravely. “But ye can look, if ye like. Just in case. I wouldna want ye
to be startled, I mean.”

“Startled,” she repeated, giving him a look. “If thee thinks I am
under any illusions about either the object or the process, after
living for months in a military camp . . . I doubt I shall be shocked,
when the occasion a—” She broke off, a moment too late.

“Rises,” he finished for her, grinning. “I think I’ll be verra
disappointed if ye’re not, ken?”

[broughps]

MOBY

BY BREAKFAST ON Thursday, I’d come to the firm
conclusion that it was the Duke of Pardloe or me. If I stayed in the
house, only one of us would remain alive by sundown. Denzell
Hunter must have come into the city by now, I reasoned; he’d call in daily
at Mrs. Woodcock’s house, where Henry Grey was convalescing. A very
kind and capable doctor, he could easily manage Hal’s recovery—and
perhaps his future father-in-law would be grateful for his professional
attention.

The thought made me laugh out loud, despite my increasing
anxiety.

To Dr. Denzell Hunter
From Dr. C. B. R. Fraser

I am called away to Kingsessing for the day. I surrender His
Grace the Duke of Pardloe to your most competent care, in the
happy confidence that your religious scruples will prevent your
striking him in the head with an ax.

Yours most sincerely,
C.

Postscriptum: I’ll bring you back some asafoetida and
ginseng root as recompense.

Post-postscriptum: Strongly suggest you don’t bring Dottie,
unless you possess a pair of manacles. Preferably two.

I sanded this missive, gave it to Colenso for delivery to Mrs.
Woodcock’s house, and executed a quiet sneak out the front door
before Jenny or Mrs. Figg should pop up and demand to know
where I was going.

[broughps]

MOBY

“Claire?” exclaimed Pardloe, standing up again. He had been
drinking from the decanter and still held it carelessly in one hand.
“My brother’s wife?”

“She’s no such thing,” Jamie said crossly. “She’s mine, and I’ll
thank someone to tell me where the devil she is.”

“She’s gone to a place called Kingsessing,” Jenny said promptly.

“To pick herbs and the like. We’ve been doctoring this mac na
galladh—” She scowled at Pardloe. “Had I kent who ye were, a mh’ic
an diabhail, I’d ha’ put ground glass in your food.”

“I daresay,” Pardloe murmured, and took another gulp from the
decanter. He turned his attention to Jamie. “I don’t suppose that
you know where my brother is at the moment?”

Jamie stared at him, a sudden feeling of unease tickling the back
of his neck. “Is he not here?”

Pardloe made a wide gesture round the room, wordlessly inviting
Jamie to look. Jamie ignored him and turned to the housekeeper.
“When did ye see him last, madam?”

“Just before he and you skedaddled out the attic window,” she
replied shortly, and prodded him in the ribs with the barrel of the
fowling piece. “What have you done with him, fils de salope?”

Jamie edged the barrel gingerly aside with one finger. The fowling
piece was primed but not yet cocked.

“I left him in the woods outside the city, two days ago,” he said, a
sudden feeling of disquiet tightening the muscles at the base of his
spine. He backed against the wall, discreetly pressing his arse into it
to ease his back. “I expected to find him here—with my wife. Might I
inquire how you come to be here, Your Grace?”

“Claire kidnapped him,” Jenny said, before Pardloe could speak.
The duke’s eyes bulged slightly, though whether at the remark or at
the fact that Jenny was reloading her pistol, Jamie couldn’t tell.
“Oh, aye? What did she want him for, did she say?”

His sister gave him a look.

“She was afraid he’d turn the city upside down looking for his
brother and you’d be taken up in the kerfuffle.”

“Aye, well, I think I’m safe enough now,” he assured Jenny.

“Ought ye to turn him loose, d’ye think?”

“No,” she said promptly, pounding home her ball and patch. She
reached into her apron and came out with a tiny powder horn. “We
canna do that; he might die.”

“Oh.” He considered this for a moment, watching the duke, whose
face had assumed a slight purple tinge. “Why is that?”

“He canna breathe properly, and she was afraid if she let him
loose before he was quite over it, he’d die in the street, and her
conscience wouldna let her do that.”

“I see.” The urge to laugh was back, but he controlled it manfully.

“So ye were about to shoot him in the house, in order to keep him
from dyin’ in the street.”

Her dark-blue eyes narrowed, though she kept her gaze fixed on
the powder she was pouring into the priming pan.

“I wouldna really have shot him in the guts,” she said, though
from the press of her lips it was apparent that she’d have liked
nothing more. “I’d just have winged him in the leg. Or maybe shot
off a couple o’ toes.”

Pardloe made a sound that might have been outrage, but, knowing
the man as he did, Jamie recognized it as smothered laughter. He
hoped his sister wouldn’t. He opened his mouth to ask just how long
Pardloe had been held captive, but before he could speak, there was
a knock at the door below. He glanced at Mrs. Figg, but the
housekeeper was still regarding him with narrowed eyes and made
no move either to lower the fowling piece or to go downstairs and
answer the door.

[broughps]

MOBY

AND AS THE SUN set on the third day since he had left his
home, Lord John William Bertram Amstrong Grey found himself
once more a free man, with a full belly, a swimming head, a badly
mended musket, and severely chafed wrists, standing before the Reverend
Peleg Woodsworth, right hand uplifted, reciting as prompted:

“I, Bertram Armstrong, swear to be true to the United States of
America, and to serve them honestly and faithfully against all their
enemies and opposers whatsoever, and to observe and obey the
orders of the Continental Congress and the orders of the generals
and officers set over me by them.”

Bloody hell, he thought. What next?

[broughps]

MOBY

IAN AND ROLLO caught us up a few miles from Coryell’s Ferry.
Darkness had fallen, but the glow of the camp was faintly visible against
the sky, and we made our way cautiously in, being stopped every quarter
mile or so by sentries who popped unnervingly out of the dark, muskets at
the ready.

“Friend or foe?” the sixth of these demanded dramatically, peering
at us in the beam of a dark lantern held high.

“General Fraser and his lady,” Jamie said, shielding his eyes with
his hand and glaring down at the sentry. “Is that friendly enough for
ye?”

I muffled a smile in my shawl; he’d refused to stop to find food
along the way, and I’d refused to let him consume uncooked bacon,
no matter how well smoked. Jenny’s four apples hadn’t gone far,
we’d found no food since the night before, and he was starving. An
empty stomach generally woke the fiend that slept within, and this
was clearly in evidence at the moment.

“Er . . . yes, sir, General, I only—” The lantern’s beam of light
shifted to rest on Rollo, catching him full in the face and turning his
eyes to an eerie green flash. The sentry made a strangled noise, and
Ian leaned down from his horse, his own face—Mohawk tattoos and
all—appearing suddenly in the beam.

“Dinna mind us,” he said genially to the sentry. “We’re friendly,
too.”

[broughps]

MOBY

I’d been so focused on my quest that I hadn’t seen a man come out
of the half dark and nearly ran into him. He seized me by the arms
and we waltzed a dizzy half-turn before coming to rest.

“Pardon, madame! I am afraid I have stepped upon your foot!”
said a young French voice, very concerned, and I looked straight
into the very concerned face of a very young man. He was in
shirtsleeves and breeches, but I could see that his shirtsleeves
sported deep, lace-trimmed cuffs. An officer, then, in spite of his
youth.

“Well, yes, you have,” I said mildly, “but don’t worry about it. I’m
not damaged.”

“Je suis tellement désolé, je suis un navet!” he exclaimed, striking
himself in the forehead. He wore no wig, and I saw that despite his
age, his hair was receding at a rapid pace. What was left of it was red
and inclined to stand on end—possibly owing to his apparent habit
of thrusting his fingers through it, which he was now doing.

“Nonsense,” I said in French, laughing. “You aren’t a turnip at all.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, switching to English. He smiled charmingly at
me. “I once stepped on the foot of the Queen of France. She was
much less gracious, sa Majesté,” he added ruefully. “She called me a
turnip. Still, if it hadn’t happened—I was obliged to leave the court,
you know—perhaps I would never have come to America, so we
cannot bemoan my clumsiness altogether, n’est-ce pas?”

He was exceedingly cheerful and smelled of wine—not that that
was in any way unusual. But given his exceeding Frenchness, his
evident wealth, and his tender age, I was beginning to think—
“Have I the, um, honor of addressing—” Bloody hell, what was his
actual title? Assuming that he really was—

“Pardon, madame!” he exclaimed, and, seizing my hand, bowed
low over it and kissed it. “Marie Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du
Motier, Marquis de La Fayette, a votre service!”

I managed to pick “La Fayette” out of this torrent of Gallic
syllables and felt the odd little thump of excitement that happened
whenever I met someone I knew of from historical accounts—
though cold sober realism told me that these people were usually no
more remarkable than the people who were cautious or lucky
enough not to end up decorating historical accounts with their
blood and entrails.

I gathered sufficient composure to inform him that I was Madame
General Fraser and that I was sure my husband would shortly be
along to pay his respects, directly I had located some supper.

“But you must come and dine with me, madame!” he said, and,
having not let go of my hand, was in a position to tuck it cozily into
his elbow and tow me off toward a large building that looked like an
inn of some sort. An inn was precisely what it was, but an inn that
had been commandeered by the Rebel forces and was now General
Washington’s headquarters—as I discovered when le marquis led
me under a fluttering banner, through the taproom, and into a large
back room where a number of officers were sitting at table, presided
over by a large man who did not look precisely like the image on a
dollar bill, but close enough.

“Mon Général,” the marquis said, bowing to Washington and then
gesturing to me. “I have the honor to present to you Madame
General Fraser, the personification of grace and loveliness!”

The table rose as one, with a screeching of wooden benches, and
the men—in fact, there were only six of them—rose and bowed to
me in turn, murmuring, “Your servant,” and “Your most obedient,
ma’am.” Washington himself stood up at the head of the table—My
God, he’s as tall as Jamie, I thought—and gave me a very graceful
bow, hand on his bosom.

“I am honored by your presence, Mrs. Fraser,” he said, in a soft
Virginia drawl. “Dare I hope that your husband accompanies you?”

I had a moment’s insane impulse to reply, “No, he sent me to fight
instead,” but managed not to say it.

“He does,” I replied instead. “He’s . . . er . . .” I gestured helplessly
toward the doorway, where—with remarkably good timing—Jamie
himself now appeared, brushing pine needles off his sleeve and
saying something to Young Ian, behind him.

“There ye are!” he exclaimed, spotting me. “Someone told me ye’d
gone off with a strange Frenchman. What—” He stopped abruptly,
having suddenly realized that I wasn’t merely in the company of a
strange Frenchman.

The table fell about laughing, and La Fayette rushed up to Jamie
and seized his hand, beaming.

“Mon frère d’armes!” He clicked his heels together, doubtless by
reflex, and bowed. “I must apologize for having stolen your lovely
wife, sir. Allow me, please, to make recompense by inviting you to
dinner!”

I’d met Anthony Wayne before, at Ticonderoga, and was pleased
to see him again. I was also delighted to see Dan Morgan, who gave
me a hearty buss on both cheeks, and I admitted to a certain thrill at
having my hand kissed by George Washington, though noticing the
halitosis that accompanied his notorious dental problems. I
wondered how I might make an opportunity to inspect his teeth, but
gave such speculations up immediately with the arrival of a
procession of servants with trays of fried fish, roast chicken,
buttermilk biscuits with honey, and an amazing selection of ripe
cheeses, these having been—he told me—brought by the marquis
himself from France.

“Try this one,” he urged me, cutting a slab of an extremely
fragrant Roquefort, green-veined and crumbly. Nathanael Greene,
who sat on the other side of the marquis, pinched his nose
unobtrusively and gave me a small private smile. I smiled back—but
in fact I quite liked strong cheese.

I wasn’t the only one. Rollo, who had come in—naturally—with
Young Ian and was sitting behind him, across the table from me,
lifted his head and poked a long, hairy snout between Ian and
General Lee, sniffing interestedly at the cheese.

“Good Christ!” Lee apparently hadn’t noticed the dog before this
and flung himself to one side, nearly ending in Jamie’s lap. This
action distracted Rollo, who turned to Lee, sniffing him with close
attention.

I didn’t blame the dog. Charles Lee was a tall, thin man with a
long, thin nose and the most revolting eating habits I’d seen since
Jemmy had learned to feed himself with a spoon. He not only talked
while he ate and chewed with his mouth open, but was given to wild
gestures while holding things in his hand, with the result that the
front of his uniform was streaked with egg, soup, jelly, and a
number of less identifiable substances.

Despite this, he was an amusing, witty man—and the others
seemed to give him a certain deference. I wondered why; unlike
some of the gentlemen at the table, Charles Lee never attained
renown as a Revolutionary figure. He treated them with a certain . . .
well, it wasn’t scorn, certainly—condescension, perhaps?

I was taken up in conversation—mostly with the marquis, who was
putting himself out to be charming to me, telling me how much he
missed his wife (Good Lord, how old was he? I wondered. He didn’t
look more than twenty, if that), who had been responsible for the
cheese. No, no, not making it herself, but it came from their estate
at Chavaniac, which his wife ran most ably in his absence—but now
and then caught a glimpse of Jamie. He took part in the
conversation, but I could see his eyes flick round the table,
appraising, judging. And they rested most often on General Lee,
beside him.

Of course, he knew Wayne and Morgan quite well—and he knew
what I’d been able to tell him about Washington and La Fayette.
God, I hoped what I thought I knew about them was halfway
accurate—but we’d find out soon enough if it wasn’t.
Port wine was brought—evidently the meal was being hosted by
the marquis; I had the distinct feeling that the high command of the
Continental army didn’t always eat this well. The men had largely
avoided talking about the impending battle during the meal, but I
could feel the subject looming like an approaching thunderstorm,
bright-rimmed black clouds, excitingly shot with flickers of
lightning. I began to rearrange my skirts and make gestures of
incipient leave-taking, and saw Jamie, seated next to Lee across the
table, notice and smile at me.

Lee noticed, too—he’d been gazing in an absent way at my
décolletage—and broke off the anecdote he’d been telling Ian, seated
on his other side.

“Such a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am,” he said
cordially. “Your husband obliges us extremely by allowing us the
delight of your company. I—”

Lee stopped abruptly in mid-sentence—and mid-bite, staring at
Rollo, who had unobtrusively moved closer and was now standing
no more than a couple of feet from the general. Given the low bench
on which Lee was sitting and Rollo’s size, this proximity placed
them roughly eye-to-eye.

“Why is that dog looking at me like that?” Lee demanded,
swinging round to glare at Ian.

“He’s waitin’ to see what ye drop next, I expect,” Ian said, chewing
placidly.

“If I were you, sir,” Jamie put in politely, “I’d drop something
quickly.”

[broughps]

MOBY

“Yes.” Dottie sat down on a packing case as though it were a
throne—like all the Greys I’d met, she had excellent posture. “I want
to know the correct way of performing sexual intercourse.”

“Oh. Erm . . .”

She glanced down at Mrs. Peabody.

“And whether there is any way of preventing . . . er . . .”

“Pregnancy. To be sure.” I cleared my throat. I rather thought the
sight of Mrs. Peabody would have put most young women off the
idea of childbearing—if not sex—altogether. Dorothea Grey, though,
was plainly a young woman of blood and iron.

“Don’t mistake me, Auntie,” she said earnestly. “Or do I mean
Friend Claire? I do want children—want them terribly. But if there
is any choice about giving birth on a battlefield or a moving ship, say
—”

I seized on this last, in part to give myself time to compose
something coherent in the way of advice. I’d rather thought Rachel
might want to talk about such things at some point, having no
mother, but . . .

<snip>

“He might just have a point.” Mrs. Peabody had begun to snore
wetly, but I felt no sense of contraction. I rubbed a hand through my
hair and braced my back more comfortably against one of the
packing crates set against the wall. “All right. Perhaps . . . a little
basic anatomy, to begin with.”

I really had no idea how much—if anything—a nobly born young
woman might have been told, or found out by other means, so
began with female reproductive anatomy, starting with the womb—
for surely she knew what that was—and leading outward, part by
part.

“You mean it has a name?” she exclaimed, charmed, when I got to
the clitoris. “I’d always thought of it as just, you know . . . that bit.”
Her tone of voice made it abundantly clear that I needn’t explain
what that bit did, and I laughed.

“To the best of my knowledge, it’s the only structure of the human
body that appears to have no function whatever save the pleasure of
the owner.”

“But men . . . don’t they . . . ?”

“Well, yes, they do,” I said. “And very pleasurable they find theirs,
too. But a penis is extremely functional, as well. You, er . . . do know
how it . . . works? In terms of intercourse?”

“Denzell won’t let me touch his naked member, and I’m longing to
see it at my leisure—not just the odd glimpse when he, well, you
know.” Her eyes sparkled at the thought. “But I know what it feels
like through his breeches. I was amazed, the first time it went stiff
under my hand! However does it do that?”

I explained the concept of hydrostatic pressure as simply as
possible, already seeing what was coming next. I cleared my throat
and rose to my knees.

<snip>

“Oh,” said Dottie, rather faintly. But she leaned intently over my
shoulder as I carefully inserted my freshly washed hand. “Oh!”

Dottie said, in tones of extreme revelation. “That’s where it goes!”

“Well, yes, it is,” I said, trying not to laugh—and failing. “Denzell
would have told you, I expect. Did you ask him?”

“No,” she said, sitting back a little on her heels but still watching
closely as I put a hand on Mrs. Peabody’s abdomen and felt the
cervix. Softened, but still firm. I began to breathe again.

“No?” I said, only half-attending.

“No.” She drew herself up. “I didn’t want to seem ignorant.
Denny’s so—I mean, he’s educated. I can read, of course, and write,
but only letters, and play music, but that’s useless. I bustle round
after him and help where I can, of course, and he’s always so good
about explaining things . . . but . . . well, I kept having this vision of
our wedding night and him explaining it to me in just the same way
he’d tell me how to suck the snot out of a child’s nose with a tube or
hold the skin together so he could stitch a wound. And . . .” She
made a graceful little moue, which had to be her mother’s legacy.

“And I made up my mind it wasn’t going to be that way.”

“Very . . . um . . . commendable.” I withdrew my hand and wiped
it, re-covered Mrs. Peabody, and checked her pulse again—slow, but
strong as a tympani; the woman must have the heart of an ox. “How
—er—how do you want it to be? Bearing in mind,” I hastened to add,
“that this sort of thing is rather variable.” Another thought occurred
to me. “Has Denzell ever . . . ? Though I don’t suppose you’d know.”

Her soft white brow wrinkled in thought.

“I don’t know; I never thought of asking him. I just assumed—
well, I have brothers. I know they have, because they talk about it—
whores, I mean—with their friends. I suppose I thought all men . . .
but, come to think, perhaps Denny wouldn’t go to a prostitute. Do
you think he might have?” Her brow furrowed a little, but she didn’t
seem upset at the thought. Of course, it was probably commonly
accepted in the Greys’ social circle that men, or soldiers at least,
naturally would.

With very vivid memories of my own wedding night—and my
stupefaction upon being informed that my bridegroom was a virgin
—I temporized a bit.

“Possibly not. Now, being a medical man, plainly he must know
the essential mechanics. But there is more to it than that.”
Her eyes grew brighter and she leaned forward, hands on her
knees.

“Tell me.”

“RATHER LIKE EGG white mixed with a drop or two of civet.
Theoretically good for the skin, though frankly—” I was saying, when I
heard the sound of voices just outside the tent.

Rachel and Ian had returned, looking cheerful, flushed, and quite
like young people who had just passed the last hour or two doing the
sorts of things in which I’d been instructing Dottie. I saw her glance
sideways at Rachel, then—very briefly—at Ian’s breeches. Her color
went up a notch.

<snip>

Ian poured a cup for Rachel, waited while she drank it, then
refilled it for himself, eyes still fixed on Mrs. Peabody, who was
emitting a remarkable variety of noises, though still out cold.
“Does Uncle Jamie ken where ye are, Auntie?” he asked. “He was
lookin’ for ye just now. He said he’d put ye somewhere safe to sleep,
but ye’d escaped. Again,” he added with a broad grin.

“Oh,” I said. “He’s finished with the generals for the night, then?”

“Aye, he went to make the acquaintance o’ some of the militia
captains under him, but most had gone to sleep by then, so he went
to join ye at the Chenowyths. Mrs. Chenowyth was a bit taken aback
to find ye gone,” he added delicately.

“I just came out for a little air,” I said, defensive. “And then—” I
gestured at the patient on the floor, who had now settled down to a
rhythmic snore. Her color was looking better; that was heartening.
“Er . . . is Jamie put out, do you think?”

Ian and Rachel both laughed at that.

“No, Auntie,” Ian said. “But he’s dead tired, and he wants ye bad.”

“Did he tell you to say that?”

“Not in precisely those words,” Rachel said, “but his meaning was
plain.” She turned to Ian, with a quick squeeze of his arm. “Would
thee go and find Denny, Ian? Claire can’t leave this woman alone—I
think?” she asked, arching a brow at me.

<snip>

“Mrs.—I mean, Friend Claire was just telling me some very
interesting things. Regarding . . . er . . . what to expect on one’s
wedding night.”

Rachel looked up with interest.

“I should welcome any such instruction myself. I know where the .
. . um . . . parts go, because I’ve seen them go there fairly frequently,
but—”

“You have?!?” Dottie gawked at her, and Rachel laughed.

“I have. But Ian assures me that he has more skill than the average
bull or billy goat, and my observations are limited to the animal
world, I’m afraid.” A small line showed between her brows. “The
woman who cared for me after the death of my parents was . . . very
dutiful in informing me of my womanly obligations, but her
instructions consisted largely of ‘Spread thy legs, grit thy teeth, girl,
and let him.’”

I sat down on the packing case and stretched to ease my back,
suppressing a groan. God knew how long it might take Ian to find
Jamie among the teeming hordes. And I did hope that Denny hadn’t
been knocked on the head or trampled by a mule.

“Pour me another cup of beer, will you? And have some more
yourselves. I suspect we may need it.”

“. . . and if he says, ‘Oh, God, oh, God,’ at some point,” I advised, “take
note of what you were just doing, so you can do it again next time.”

Rachel laughed, but Dottie frowned a little, looking slightly crosseyed.

“Do you—does thee—think Denny would take the Lord’s name in
vain, even under those circumstances?”

“I’ve heard him do it on much less provocation than that,” Rachel
assured her, stifling a burp with the back of her hand. “He tries to be
perfect in thy company, thee knows, for fear thee will change thy
mind.”

“He does?” Dottie looked surprised but rather pleased. “Oh. I
wouldn’t, thee knows. Ought I to tell him?”

“Not until he says, ‘Oh, God, oh, God,’ for thee,” Rachel said,
succumbing to a giggle.

“I wouldn’t worry,” I said. “If a man says, ‘Oh, God,’ in that
situation, he nearly always means it as a prayer.”

Dottie’s fair brows drew together in concentration.

“A prayer of desperation? Or gratitude?”

“Well . . . that’s up to you,” I said, and stifled a small belch of my
own.

[broughps]

MOBY

“Ahh . . . Uncle,” Ian said, in a casual tone that made his uncle
instantly focus attention on him.

“What?” said his uncle warily. “Ye havena got your lass wi’ child,
have ye?”

“I have not,” Ian said, offended—and wondering vaguely how his
uncle had known he was thinking of Rachel. “And why would ye
think a thing like that, ye evil-minded auld mumper?”

“Because I ken well enough what ‘Ahh . . . Uncle’ usually means,”

Jamie informed him cynically. “It means ye’ve got yourself into
some confusion involving a lass and want advice. And I canna think
what ye could be confused about wi’ regard to wee Rachel. A more
straightforward lass I’ve never met—bar your auntie Claire, that is,”
he added, with a brief grin.

“Mmphm,” Ian said, not best pleased by his uncle’s acuity, but
obliged to admit the truth of it. “Well, then. It’s only . . .” Despite the
completely benign intent—the innocence, even—of the question that
had come into his mind, he felt his face go hot.

Jamie raised his brows.

“Well, if ye must know, then—I’ve never lain wi’ a virgin.” Once
he’d got it out, he relaxed a little, though his uncle’s brows nearly
met his hairline. “And, aye, I’m sure Rachel is one,” he added
defensively.

“I’m sure, too,” his uncle assured him. “Most men wouldna
consider it a problem.”

Ian gave him a look. “Ye ken what I mean. I want her to like it.”

“Verra commendable. Have ye had complaints from women
before?”

“Ye’re in a rare mood, Uncle,” Ian said coldly. “Ye ken verra well
what I mean.”

“Aye, ye mean if ye’re paying a woman to bed ye, ye’re no likely to
hear anything ye dinna like regarding your own performance.”

Jamie rocked back a little, eyeing him. “Did ye tell Rachel ye’re in
the habit of consorting wi’ whores?”

Ian felt the blood rush to his ears and was obliged to breathe
evenly for a moment before replying.

“I told her everything,” he said between clenched teeth. “And I
wouldna call it a ‘habit.’” He did know better than to go on with, “It’s
no more than other men do,” because he kent fine what sort of
answer he’d get to that.

Fortunately, Jamie seemed to have reined in his jocularity for the
moment and was considering the question.

“Your Mohawk wife,” he said delicately. “She, er . . .”

“No,” Ian said. “The Indians see bedding a bit differently.” And,
seizing the opportunity to get a bit of his own back, added, “D’ye not
recall the time we went to visit the Snowbird Cherokee and Bird
sent a couple of maidens to warm your bed?”

Jamie gave him an old-fashioned sort of look that made him
laugh.

“Tell me, Ian,” he said, after a pause, “would ye be having this
conversation with your da?”

“God, no.”

“I’m flattered,” Jamie said dryly.

“Well, see . . .” Ian had answered by reflex and found himself
fumbling for an explanation. “It—I mean . . . it’s no that I wouldna
talk to Da about things, but if he’d told me anything about . . . it
would ha’ been to do with him and Mam, wouldn’t it? And I couldna
. . . well, I couldn’t, that’s all.”

“Mmphm.”

Ian narrowed his eyes at his uncle.

“Ye’re no going to try and tell me that my mother—”

“Who’s my sister, aye? No, I wouldna tell ye anything like that. I
see your point. I’m only thinkin’ . . .” He trailed off and Ian gave him
a pointed look. The light was fading, but there was still plenty.
Jamie shrugged.

“Aye, well. It’s only—your auntie Claire was widowed when I wed
her, aye?”

“Aye. So?”

“So it was me that was virgin on our wedding night.”

Ian hadn’t thought he’d moved, but Rollo jerked his head up and
looked at him, startled. Ian cleared his throat.

“Oh. Aye?”

“Aye,” said his uncle, wry as a lemon. “And I was given any
amount of advice beforehand, too, by my uncle Dougal and his
men.”

Dougal MacKenzie had died before Ian was born, but he’d heard a
good bit about the man, one way and another. His mouth twitched.
“Would ye care to pass on any of it?”

“God, no.” Jamie stood up and brushed bits of bark from the tails
of his coat. “I think ye already ken ye should be gentle about it,
aye?”

“Aye, I’d thought of that,” Ian assured him. “Nothing else?”

“Aye, well.” Jamie stood still, considering. “The only useful thing
was what my wife told me on the night. ‘Go slowly and pay
attention.’ I think ye canna go far wrong wi’ that.” He settled his
coat on his shoulders. “Oidhche mhath, Ian. I’ll see ye at first light—
if not somewhat before.”

“Oidhche mhath, Uncle Jamie.”

As Jamie reached the edge of the clearing, Ian called after him.

“Uncle Jamie!”

Jamie turned to look over his shoulder.

“Aye?”

“And was she gentle with ye?”

“God, no,” Jamie said, and grinned broadly.

[broughps]

MOBY

“Ian!”

“Uncle Jamie!” Ian’s face blossomed with relief at sight of him,
and no wonder. He was dressed like a Mohawk, in buckskin leggings
and calico shirt, with feathers in his hair, and a long, hairy gray
carcass lay across his saddlebow, blood dripping slowly from it
down the horse’s leg.

The beast wasn’t dead, though; Rollo twitched and raised his
head, giving the newcomers a yellow wolf glare, but recognized
Jamie’s scent and barked once, then let his tongue loll out, panting.
“What’s happened to the hound, then?” Jamie rode up alongside
and leaned forward to look.

“The numpty fell into a deadfall trap,” Ian said, frowning rebuke
at the dog. Then he gently scratched the big dog’s ruff. “Mind, I’d ha’
fallen in it myself, if he hadna gone before me.”

“Bad hurt?” Jamie asked. He didn’t think so; Rollo was giving
General Greene his usual look of appraisal—a look that made most
people take a few steps back. Ian shook his head, his hand curled
into Rollo’s fur to keep him steady.

“Nay, but he’s torn his leg and he’s lame. I was looking for a safe
place to leave him; I’ve got to report in to Captain Mercer. Though
seein’ as you’re here—oh, good day to ye, sir,” he said to Greene,
whose horse had backed up in response to Rollo and was presently
indicating a strong desire to keep going, in spite of his rider’s
inclination. Ian sketched a salute and turned back to Jamie. “Seein’
as you’re here, Uncle Jamie, could ye maybe fetch Rollo back to the
lines with ye and get Auntie Claire to tend his leg?”

“Oh, aye,” Jamie said, resigned, and swung down from the saddle,
groping for his soggy handkerchief. “Let me bind his leg first. I
dinna want blood all over my breeks, and the horse willna like it,
either.”

<snip>

Jamie’s horse was not enthused at the prospect of carrying a wolf
on his back but eventually was persuaded, and with no more than a
nervous eye roll backward now and then, they were mounted.

“Fuirich, a choin,” Ian said, leaning over and scratching Rollo
behind the ears. “I’ll be back, aye? Taing, Uncle!” And with a brief
nod to Greene, he was away, his own horse clearly wanting to put as
much distance between himself and Rollo as possible.

“Dear Lord,” Greene said, wrinkling his nose at the dog’s reek.

“Aye, well,” Jamie said, resigned. “My wife says ye get used to any
sort of smell after a bit of smelling it. And I suppose she’d know.”

“Why, is she a cook?”

“Och, no. A physician. Gangrene, ken, festering bowels and the
like.”

Greene blinked.

“I see. You have a most interesting family, Mr. Fraser.” He
coughed and looked after Ian, rapidly vanishing in the distance.

“You might be wrong about him never becoming a Quaker. At least
he doesn’t bow his head to a title.”

[broughps]

MOBY

The man in front of me was standing bolt upright, musket at port
arms, eyes fixed straight ahead. This was perfectly correct—but no
other man in the line was doing it. Militiamen were more than
capable, but they generally saw no point in military punctilio. I
glanced at the rigid soldier, passed by—then glanced back.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” I exclaimed, and only sheer chance
kept Jamie from hearing me, he being distracted by the sudden
arrival of a messenger.

I took two hasty steps back, bent, and peered under the brim of
the dusty slouch hat. The face beneath was set in fierce lines, with a
darkly ominous glower—and was completely familiar to me.

“Bloody effing hell,” I whispered, seizing him by the sleeve. “What
are you doing here?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” he whispered back, not
moving a muscle of face or body. “Do walk on, my dear.”

Such was my astonishment, I might actually have done it, had my
attention not been drawn by a small figure skulking about behind
the line, trying to avoid notice by crouching behind a wagon wheel.

“Germain!” I said, and Jamie whirled about, eyes wide.

Germain stiffened for an instant and then turned to flee, but too
late; Lieutenant Schnell, living up to his name, sprang through the
line and grabbed Germain by the arm.

“Is he yours, sir?” he asked, glancing curiously from Jamie to
Germain and back.

“He is,” Jamie said, with a tone that had turned many a man’s
blood to water. “What the devil—”

“I’m an orderly!” Germain said proudly, trying to detach himself
from Lieutenant Schnell’s grip. “I’m supposed to be here!”

“No, you’re not,” his grandfather assured him. “And what do ye
mean, an orderly? Whose orderly?”

Germain at once glanced in John’s direction, then, realizing his
mistake, jerked his eyes back, but it was too late. Jamie reached
John in a single stride and ripped the hat off his head.

The face was identifiable as that of Lord John Grey, but only by
someone who knew him well. He wore a black felt patch over one
eye, and the other was all but obscured by dirt and bruises. He’d cut
his luxuriant blond hair to roughly an inch in length and appeared
to have rubbed dirt into it.

With considerable aplomb, he scratched his head and handed
Jamie his musket.

“I surrender to you, sir,” he said, in a clear voice. “To you,
personally. So does my orderly,” he added, putting a hand on
Germain’s shoulder. Lieutenant Schnell, quite flabbergasted, let go
of Germain as though he were red-hot.

“I surrender, sir,” Germain said solemnly, and saluted.
I’d never seen Jamie at a complete loss for words, and didn’t now,
but it was a near thing. He inhaled strongly through his nose, then
turned to Lieutenant Schnell.

“Escort the prisoners to Captain McCorkle, Lieutenant.”

“Er . . .” I said apologetically. A hard blue eye swiveled in my
direction, brow raised.

“He’s injured,” I said, as mildly as I could, with a brief gesture in
John’s direction. Jamie’s lips compressed for an instant, but he
nodded.

“Take the prisoners—and Mrs. Fraser”—I daresay it was merely
sensitivity on my part that perceived a certain emphasis on “Mrs.
Fraser”—“to my tent, Lieutenant.”

With scarcely a breath, he turned on John.

“I accept your surrender, Colonel,” he said, with icy politeness.
“And your parole. I will attend you later.”

And, with that, he turned his back on the three of us, in what
could only be described as a marked manner.

[broughps]

MOBY

John’s appearance of pugnacity had vanished. He looked pale, and
the fading bruises stood out like leprosy against his skin. He took a
deep breath, glanced round the room, and, seeing a half-empty
bottle of claret on the table, picked it up and drank a quarter of it
without stopping.

He set it down, stifled a belch, rose with a brief nod and a “wait a
moment,” and went out, leaving Jamie and me staring at each other
in bafflement.

This was not significantly assuaged by the reappearance of John,
followed by the Duke of Pardloe. Jamie said something remarkably
creative in Gàidhlig, and I gave him a look of startled appreciation.
“And a good day to you, too, General Fraser,” Hal said, with a
correct bow. Like John, he was dressed in civvies, though with a
rather loud mulberry striped waistcoat, and I did wonder where
he’d got it from.

“I have resigned my commission,” Jamie said coldly. “ ‘Mr. Fraser’
will do. May I ask to what we owe the honor of your presence, Your
Grace?”

Hal’s lips pressed tight together, but, with a glance at his brother,
he obliged with a brief précis of his personal concern with Captain
Richardson.

“And I do, of course, wish to retrieve my nephew, William—should
he in fact be with Richardson. My brother informs me that you have
doubts as to the probability of this being the case?”

“I do,” Jamie said shortly. “My son is not a fool, nor a weakling.” I
caught the faint emphasis on “my son,” and so did both Greys, who
stiffened slightly. “He wouldna go off on some feeble pretext, nor
would he allow someone of whom he was suspicious to take him
captive.”

“You have a bloody lot of faith in a boy you haven’t seen since he
was six,” Hal observed conversationally.

Jamie smiled, with considerable rue.

“I had the making of him until he was six,” he said, and turned his
gaze on John. “I ken what he’s made of. And I ken who shaped him
after that. Tell me I’m wrong, my lord.”

There was a marked silence, broken only by Lieutenant Macken’s
voice below, calling plaintively to his wife about the location of his
clean stockings.

“Well, then,” Hal said with a sigh. “Where do you think William’s
gone, if he’s not with Richardson?”

“He’s gone after the girls he spoke of,” Jamie said, lifting one
shoulder in a shrug. “He told his groom so, did he not? D’ye ken
who these lassies are?”

The Greys exchanged looks of muted chagrin, and I coughed, very
carefully, holding a pillow to my stomach.

“If that’s the case,” I said, “then presumably he’ll come back, once
he’s either found them or given up looking for them. Wouldn’t he?
Would he go AWOL over them—er . . . absent without leave, I
mean?”

“He wouldn’t have to risk that,” Hal said. “He’s been relieved of
duty.”

“What?” John exclaimed, rounding on his brother. “What the devil
for?”

Hal sighed, exasperated. “Leaving camp when he was ordered to
stay there in the middle of a battle, what else? Getting into a fight
with another officer, ending up at the bottom of a ravine with a dent
in his skull through being in the wrong place at the wrong time, and
in general being a bloody nuisance.”

“You’re right, he is your son,” I said to Jamie, amused. He snorted,
but didn’t look altogether displeased.

[broughps]

MOBY

Rachel and I stepped outside again, joining the rest of what I
supposed might be called the wedding party, in the shade under a
big lime tree. People were still arriving in ones and twos, and I
caught a good many curious looks directed at us—though these were
not aimed at the two brides.

“You are being married in . . . that?” Hal said, eyeing Dottie’s
Sunday-best gown of soft gray muslin with a white fichu and a bow
at the back of the waist. Dottie raised one smooth blond brow at
him.

“Ha,” she said. “Mummy told me what she wore when you married
her in a tavern in Amsterdam. And what your first wedding was like.
Diamonds and white lace and St. James’s Church didn’t help all that
much, did they?”

“Dorothea,” Denzell said mildly. “Don’t savage thy father. He has
enough to bear.”

Hal, who had flushed at Dottie’s remarks, went somewhat redder
at Denny’s and breathed in a menacing rasp, but didn’t say anything
further. Hal and John were both wearing full dress uniform and far
outshone the two brides in splendor. I thought it rather a pity that
Hal wouldn’t get to walk Dottie down the aisle, but he had merely
inhaled deeply when the form of the marriage was outlined to him
and said—after being elbowed sharply in the ribs by his brother—
that he was honored to witness the event.

Jamie, by contrast, did not wear uniform, but his appearance in
full Highland dress made Mrs. Figg’s eyes bulge—and not only hers.

“Sweet Shepherd of Judea,” she muttered to me. “Is that man
wearing a woolen petticoat? And what sort of pattern is that cloth?
Enough to burn the eyes out your head.”

“They call it a Fèileadh beag,” I told her. “In the native language.
In English, it’s usually called a kilt. And the pattern is his family
tartan.”

She eyed him for a long moment, the color rising slowly in her
cheeks. She turned to me with her mouth open to ask a question,
then thought better and shut it firmly.

“No,” I said, laughing. “He isn’t.”

She snorted. “Either way, he’s like to die of the heat,” she
predicted, “and so are those two gamecocks.” She nodded at John
and Hal, glorious and sweating in crimson and gold lace. Henry had
also come in uniform, wearing his more modest lieutenant’s
apparel. He squired Mercy Woodcock on his arm and gave his father
a stare daring him to say anything.

“Poor Hal,” I murmured to Jamie. “His children are rather a trial
to him.”

“Aye, whose aren’t?” he replied. “All right, Sassenach? Ye look
pale. Had ye not best go in and sit down?”

“No, I’m quite all right,” I assured him. “I just am pale, after a
month indoors. It’s good to be in the fresh air.” I had a stick, as well
as Jamie, to lean on but was feeling quite well, bar a slight stitch in
my side, and was enjoying the sensations of mobility, if not the
sensation of wearing stays and petticoats in hot weather again. It
was going to be even hotter, sitting packed together once the
meeting began; the Reverend Mr. Figg’s congregation was there, of
course, it being their church, and the benches were filled with
bodies.

<snip>

Both curiosity and conversation rose to a much higher pitch when
Ian walked in. He wore a new shirt, white calico printed with blue
and purple tulips, his buckskins and breechclout, moccasins—and
an armlet made of blue and white wampum shells, which I was
reasonably sure that his Mohawk wife, Works With Her Hands, had
made for him.

“And here, of course, is the best man,” I heard John whisper to
Hal. Rollo stalked in at Ian’s heel, disregarding the further stir he
caused. Ian sat down quietly on one of the two benches that had
been set at the front of the church, facing the congregation, and
Rollo sat at his feet, scratched himself idly, then collapsed and lay
panting gently, surveying the crowd with a yellow stare of lazy
estimation, as though judging them for eventual edibility.

Denzell came in, looking a little pale, but walked up and sat down
on the bench beside Ian. He smiled at the congregation, most of
whom murmured and smiled back. Denny wore his best suit—he
owned two—a decent navy broadcloth with pewter buttons, and
while he was both shorter and less ornamental than Ian, did not by
any means disappear beside his outlandish brother-in-law-to-be.

“You’re no going to be sick, lass?” Jamie said to Rachel. She and
Dottie had come in, but hovered near the wall. Rachel’s hands were
clenched in the fabric of her skirt. She was white as a sheet, but her
eyes glowed. They were fastened on Ian, who was looking at no one
but her, his own heart in his eyes.

“No,” she whispered. “Come with me, Dottie.” She held out a
hand, and the two girls walked together to the other bench and sat
down. Dottie’s color was high, and so was her head. Rachel folded
her hands in her lap and resumed looking at Ian. I felt Jamie sigh a
little and relax. On Jamie’s far side, Jenny craned to see round him,
then smiled with gratification.

She’d made Rachel’s dress herself, for after the exigencies of
recent months, Rachel owned nothing that wasn’t near rags. And
while Jenny was generally in favor of modesty in dress, she knew
her way around a bustline. The dress was a pale-green chintz with a
small pattern of dark-green curling vines, and fitted like a glove.
With her dark-brown hair shining loose on her shoulders and hazel
eyes huge in her face, Rachel looked like some denizen of the forest
—perhaps a tree nymph.

I was about to share this fancy with Jamie when the Reverend Mr.
Figg walked up to the front of the church, turned, and smiled at the
congregation.

“Blessings to you all this day, brothers and sisters!” he said, and
was answered by a genial rumble of “Blessings to you, brother!” and
discreet “Amens.”

“Well, now.” He glanced from Ian and Denny to the girls, then
back to the congregation. “We’re gathered here for a wedding today.
But the ladies and gentlemen being married belong to the Society of
Friends, so it will be a Quaker wedding—and that’s maybe a little
different from ones you’ve seen before, so I take the liberty of telling
you how it goes.”

<snip>

“I think perhaps one of our Quaker friends might tell us a little bit
about their notion of meeting, as I’m sure they know more about it
than I do.” He turned expectantly toward Denzell Hunter—but it
was Rachel who rose to her feet. Mr. Figg didn’t see her and started
with surprise when she spoke behind him, making everyone laugh.

“Good morning,” she said, soft-spoken but clear, when the
laughter had died down. “I thank you all for your presence here. For
Christ said, ‘Wherever two or more of you are gathered in my name,
there am I.’ And that is all the essence of a meeting of Friends: that
Christ may make His presence known among us—and within us.”

She spread her hands a little. “So we gather, and we listen—both to
one another and to the light within us. When a person is moved of
the spirit to speak, he or she does speak.”

“Or sing, if thee likes,” Dottie put in, dimpling at John.

“Or sing,” Rachel agreed, smiling. “But we do not fear silence, for
often God speaks loudest in the quiet of our hearts.” And with that,
she sat down again, composed.

A moment of shuffling and blinking among the crowd was
succeeded in fact by an expectant silence—this broken by Denny,
who rose deliberately and said, “I am moved to tell you how grateful
I am for your gracious use of us. For I was put out of meeting, and
my sister with me, for my stated intent to join the Continental army.
And for the same reason, we are not welcome as members of
Philadelphia meeting.” He glanced at Rachel, light glinting from his
spectacles.

“This is a grievous thing to a Friend,” he said quietly. “For our
meeting is where our lives and souls abide, and when Friends
marry, the whole of their meeting must approve and witness the
marriage, for the community itself will support the marriage. I have
deprived my sister of this approval and support, and I beg she will
forgive me.”

Rachel gave an unladylike snort. “Thee followed thy conscience,
and if I hadn’t thought thee right, I would have said so.”

“It was my responsibility to take care of thee!”

“Thee has taken care of me!” Rachel said. “Do I look
malnourished? Am I naked?”

A ripple of amusement ran through the congregation, but neither
of the Hunters was noticing.

“I took thee from thy home and from the meeting that cared for
thee and obliged thee to follow me into violence, into an army full of
violent men.”

“That would be me, I expect,” Ian interrupted, clearing his throat.
He looked at Mr. Figg, who seemed somewhat stunned, then at the
rapt assemblage on the benches. “I’m no a Friend myself, ye ken.
I’m a Highlander and a Mohawk, and they dinna come much more
violent than that. By rights, I shouldna wed Rachel, and her brother
shouldna let me.”

“I should like to see him stop me!” said Rachel, sitting bolt upright
with her fists curled on her knees. “Or thee, either, Ian Murray!”

Dottie appeared to be finding the conversation amusing; I could
see her struggling not to laugh—and, glancing sideways along the
bench in front of me, I could see precisely the same expression on
her father’s face.

“Well, it’s on my account that ye couldna be wed in a proper
Quaker meeting,” Ian protested.

“No more than on mine,” Denny said, grimacing.

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” Jamie murmured in
my ear. “D’ye think I should say it’s all my fault, for leaving Ian wi’
the Indians and bein’ a bad example to him?”

“Only if the spirit moves you,” I said, not taking my eyes off the
show. “Personally, I’d advise you and the spirit to stay out of it.”

Mrs. Figg was not disposed to stay out of it. She cleared her throat
loudly.

“Now, pardon me for interrupting, but from what I understand,
you Friends think a woman’s equal to a man, is that right?”

“It is,” Rachel and Dottie said firmly together, and everyone
laughed.

Mrs. Figg flushed like a ripe black plum, but kept her composure.

“Well, then,” she said. “If these ladies want to marry with you
gentlemen, why do you think you got any business trying to talk
them out of it? Have you maybe got your own reservations about the
matter?”

A distinctly feminine murmur of approval came from the
congregation, and Denny, who was still standing, seemed to be
struggling for his own composure.

“Does he have a cock?” came a French-accented whisper from
behind me and an unhinged giggle from Marsali in response. “You
can’t get married without a cock.”

This reminiscence of Fergus and Marsali’s unorthodox wedding
on a Caribbean beach made me stuff my lace handkerchief into my
mouth. Jamie shook with suppressed laughter.

[broughps]

MOBY

[broughps]

MOBY

We hadn’t gone back to the printshop but had wandered down by
the river, enjoying the coolness of the night air and chatting about
the young couples and the excitements of the day.

“I imagine their nights are bein’ a bit more exciting still,” Jamie
remarked. “Reckon the lassies will be sore come morning, poor wee
things.”

“Oh, it may not be just the girls,” I said, and he sniffed with
amusement.

“Aye, well, ye may be right about that. I seem to recall wakin’ the
next morning after our wedding and wondering for a moment
whether I’d been in a fight. Then I saw you in the bed wi’ me and
knew I had.”

“Didn’t slow you down any,” I remarked, dodging a pale stone in
my path. “I seem to recall being rather rudely awakened next
morning.”

“Rude? I was verra gentle with ye. More than ye were with me,” he
added, a distinct grin in his voice. “I told Ian so.”

“You told Ian what?”

“Well, he wanted advice, and so I—”

“Advice? Ian?” To my certain knowledge, the boy had begun his
sexual career at the age of fourteen, with a prostitute of similar age
in an Edinburgh brothel, and hadn’t looked back. Besides his
Mohawk wife, there were at least half a dozen other liaisons that I
knew of, and I was sure I didn’t know them all.

“Aye. He wanted to know how to deal kindly wi’ Rachel, her bein’
virgin. Something new to him,” he added wryly.

I laughed.

“Well, they’ll be having an interesting night of it, then—all of
them.” I told him about Dottie’s request in camp, Rachel’s advent,
and our ad hoc session of premarital counseling.

“Ye told them what?” He snorted with amusement. “Ye make me
say, ‘Oh, God,’ all the time, Sassenach, and it’s mostly not to do wi’
bed at all.”

“I can’t help it if you’re naturally disposed to that expression,” I
said. “You do say it in bed with no little frequency. You even said it
on our wedding night. Repeatedly. I remember.”

“Well, little wonder, Sassenach, wi’ all the things ye did to me on
our wedding night.”

“What I did to you?” I said, indignant. “What on earth did I do to
you?”

“Ye bit me,” he said instantly.

“Oh, I did not! Where?”

“Here and there,” he said evasively, and I elbowed him. “Oh, all
right—ye bit me on the lip when I kissed ye.”

“I don’t recall doing that at all,” I said, eyeing him. His features
were invisible, but the moonglow off the water as he walked cast his
bold, straightnosed profile in silhouette. “I remember you kissing
me for quite a long time while you were trying to unbutton my
gown, but I’m sure I didn’t bite you then.”

“No,” he said thoughtfully, and ran a hand lightly down my back.

“It was later. After I went out to fetch ye some food, and Rupert and
Murtagh and the rest all chaffed me. I know, because it was when I
drank some o’ the wine I’d fetched back, I noticed it burned the cut
in my lip. And I bedded ye again before I got round to the wine, so it
must ha’ been that time.”

“Ha,” I said. “By that time, you wouldn’t have noticed if I’d bitten
your head off like a praying mantis. You’d got it properly up your
nose and thought you knew everything.”

He put an arm round my shoulders, pulled me close, and
whispered in my ear, “I’d got it properly up you, a nighean. And ye
weren’t noticing all that much yourself, besides what was goin’ on
between your legs.”

“Rather hard to ignore that sort of carry-on,” I said primly.

He gave the breath of a laugh and, stopping under a tree, gathered
me in and kissed me. He had a lovely soft mouth.

“Well, I willna deny ye taught me my business, Sassenach,” he
murmured. “And ye made a good job of it.”

“You caught on reasonably quickly,” I said. “Natural talent, I
suppose.”

“If it was a matter of special training, Sassenach, the human race
would ha’ died out long since.” He kissed me again, taking more
time over it.

“D’ye think Denny kens what he’s about?” he asked, letting go.

“He’s a virtuous wee man, aye?”

“Oh, I’m sure he knows everything he needs to,” I protested. “He’s
a physician, after all.”

Jamie gave a cynical laugh.

“Aye. While he may see the odd whore now and then, it’s likely in
the way of his profession, not hers. Besides . . .” He moved close
and, putting his hands through the pocket slits in my skirt, took a
firm and interesting grip on my bottom. “Do they teach ye in
medical college how to spread your wife’s wee hams and lick her
from tailbone to navel?”

“I didn’t teach you that one!”

“Indeed ye didn’t. And you’re a physician, no?”

“That—I’m sure that doesn’t make any sense. Are you drunk,
Jamie?”

“Dinna ken,” he said, laughing. “But I’m sure you are,
Sassenach. Let’s go home,” he whispered, leaning close and drawing
his tongue up the side of my neck. “I want ye to make me say, ‘Oh,
God,’ for ye.”

“That . . . could be arranged.” I’d cooled down during our walk,
but the last five minutes had lit me like a candle, and if I’d wanted to
go home and take off my stays before, I was now wondering whether
I could wait that long.

“Good,” he said, pulling his hands out of my skirt. “And then I’ll
see what I can make you say, mo nighean donn.”

“See if you can make me say, ‘Don’t stop.’”

[broughps]

MOBY

John’s own letter, though, arrived sedately in the pouch of a postal
rider, properly stamped, and sealed with a blob of yellow wax
imprinted with his signet in the shape of a smiling half-moon.

To Mrs. James Fraser, Fraser’s Printshop, Philadelphia
From Lord John Grey, Wilbury House, New York

My dear,

I am with my brother and his regiment in New York, and am like
to remain here for some time. That being so, I thought I would
mention that the Lease of my house on Chestnut Street will run
until the End of the Year, and as the Thought of it being left empty
to be vandalized or left to ruin distresses me, I conceived the
Notion of offering it to you once again.

Not, I hasten to add (lest your intransigent Husband be reading
this), as a Domicile but rather as Premises for a Surgery.
Acquainted as I am with your peculiar Habit of attracting Persons
suffering from Disease, Deformity, or hideous Injury, and being
also well acquainted with the Number of Persons presently
inhabiting the younger Mr. Fraser’s printing Establishment, I
believe you may find your medical Adventures more easily
accommodated in Chestnut Street than between a Printing Press
and a towering Stack of sixpenny Bibles bound in buckram.

As I do not expect you to spend your valuable Time in domestic
Labor, I have arranged for Mrs. Figg and a Servant of her choice
to remain in my employment for so long as you require them,
being paid through my Bank. You will greatly oblige me, my dear,
by accepting this Proposition, as it will put my mind at ease
regarding the Property. And the Thought of you at work, earnestly
administering a Clyster to General Arnold, will greatly enliven
the Tedium of my present Condition.

Your most obedient
Servant,
John

[broughps]

MOBY

THE BASIC ISSUES of housing and food taken care of, plainly
the next order of business was to retrieve Bonnie. Jamie had located the
Bell family, and three weeks after our arrival in Savannah, he and Fergus
had scraped together enough money to hire a cart and an extra mule from
the livery stable where Clarence boarded. We met Richard Bell in the
morning, and he came with us to the farm of one Zachary Simpson, the
farmer with whom Bonnie boarded.

Mr. Simpson cleared away the last of the hay and pulled away the
canvas with the air of a magician producing a rabbit from a hat.
From the reaction of three-quarters of his spectators, you’d think he
had: Jamie and Fergus both gasped audibly, and Richard Bell
emitted a hum of satisfaction. I bit my lip and tried not to laugh, but
I doubted they’d have noticed if I’d rolled on the floor in paroxysms
of mirth.

“Nom de Dieu,” Fergus said, stretching out a reverent hand. “She’s
beautiful.”

“Best I’ve ever seen,” Mr. Bell agreed, clearly torn between regard
and regret.

“Aye.” Jamie was pink with pleasure, trying visibly to retain a
modest constraint. “Aye. She’s bonnie, no?”

I supposed “she” was—if one was a connoisseur of printing
presses, which I wasn’t. Still, I confessed some fondness for Bonnie;
we’d met before, in Edinburgh. Jamie had been oiling some part of
her mechanism when I’d returned to find him after twenty years,
and she had been witness to our reunion.

And she had withstood the rigors of disassembly, sea travel,
reassembly, and months of being immured in a barn with
commendable fortitude. A pale winter sun shone through a crack in
the barn’s wall, making her wood glow with somber pride, and her
metal was—so far as I could see—quite free from rust.

“Well done,” I said, giving her a small pat. Mr. Simpson was
modestly accepting the applause of the crowd for his feat of
preserving Bonnie from harm, and I could see that they’d be some
time in getting her onto the cart we’d brought, so I made my way
back to the farmhouse. I’d noticed a number of chickens scratching in the yard and had some hopes of acquiring fresh eggs.

[broughps]

MOBY

I COULDN’T STOP BREATHING. From the moment
we left the salt-marsh miasma of Savannah, with its constant fog of
rice paddies, mud, and decaying crustaceans, the air had grown
clearer, the scents cleaner—well, putting aside the Wilmington mudflats,
redolent with their memories of crocodiles and dead pirates—spicier, and
more distinct. And as we reached the summit of the final pass, I thought I
might explode from simple joy at the scent of the late-spring woods, an
intoxicating mix of pine and balsam fir, oaks mingling the spice of fresh
green leaves with the must of the winter’s fallen acorns, and the nutty
sweetness of chestnut mast under a layer of wet dead leaves, so thick that
it made the air seem buoyant, bearing me up. I couldn’t get enough of it
into my lungs.

“If ye keep gasping like that, Sassenach, ye’re like to pass out,”
Jamie said, smiling as he came up beside me. “How’s the new knife,
then?”

“Wonderful! Look, I found a huge ginseng root, and a birch gall
and—”

He stopped this with a kiss, and I dropped the soggy gunnysack
full of plants on the path and kissed him back. He’d been eating wild
spring onions and watercress plucked dripping from a creek and he
smelled of his own male scent, pine sap, and the bloody tang of the
two dead rabbits hanging at his belt; it was like kissing the
wilderness itself, and it went on for a bit, interrupted only by a
discreet cough a few feet away.

We let go of each other at once, and I took an automatic step back
behind Jamie even as he stepped in front of me, hand hovering
within reach of his dirk. A split second later, he’d taken a huge
stride forward and engulfed Mr. Wemyss in an enormous hug.

“Joseph! A charaid! Ciamar a tha thu?”

Mr. Wemyss, a small, slight, elderly man, was swept literally off
his feet; I could see a shoe dangling loose from the toes of one
stockinged foot as he groped for traction. Smiling at this, I glanced
round to see if Rachel and Ian had come into sight yet and spotted
instead a small, round-faced boy on the path. He was perhaps four
or five, with long fair hair, this flying loose around his shoulders.

“Er . . . Rodney?” I asked, making a hasty guess. I hadn’t seen him
since he was two or so, but I couldn’t think who else might be
accompanying Mr. Wemyss.

The child nodded, examining me soberly.

“You be the conjure-woman?” he said, in a remarkably deep voice.

“Yes,” I said, rather surprised at this address, but still more
surprised at how right my acknowledgment of it felt. I realized at
that moment that I had been resuming my identity as we walked,
that step by step as we climbed the mountain, smelling its scents
and harvesting its plenty, I had sloughed off a few layers of the
recent past and become again what I had last been in this place. I
had come back.

“Yes,” I said again. “I am Mrs. Fraser. You may call me Grannie
Fraser, if you like.”

He nodded thoughtfully, taking this in and mouthing “Grannie
Fraser” to himself once or twice, as though to taste it. Then he
looked at Jamie, who had set Mr. Wemyss back on his feet and was
smiling down at him with a look of joy that turned my heart to wax.

“Izzat Himself?” Rodney whispered, drawing close to me.

“That is Himself,” I agreed, nodding gravely.

“Aidan said he was big,” Rodney remarked, after another
moment’s scrutiny.

“Is he big enough, do you think?” I asked, rather surprised by the
realization that I didn’t want Rodney to be disappointed in this first
sight of Himself.

Rodney gave an odd sideways tilt of his head, terribly familiar—it
was what his mother, Lizzie, did when making a judgment about
something—and said philosophically, “Well, he’s lot’s bigger ’n me,
anyway.”

“Everything is relative,” I agreed. “And speaking of relatives, how
is your mother? And your . . . er . . . father?”

I was wondering whether Lizzie’s unorthodox marriage was still in
effect. Having fallen accidentally in love with identical-twin
brothers, she had—with a guile and cunning unexpected in a
demure nineteen-year-old Scottish bond servant—contrived to
marry them both. There was no telling whether Rodney’s father was
Josiah or Keziah Beardsley, but I did wonder—

“Oh, Mammy’s breedin’ again,” Rodney said casually. “She says
she’s a-going to castrate Daddy or Da or both of ’em, if that’s what it
takes to put a stop to it.”

“Ah . . . well, that would be effective,” I said, rather taken aback.

“How many sisters or brothers have you got?” I’d delivered a sister
before we’d left the Ridge, but—

“One sister, one brother.” Rodney was clearly growing bored with
me and stood on his toes to look down the path behind me. “Is that
Mary?”

“What?” Turning, I saw Ian and Rachel navigating a horseshoe
bend some way below; they vanished into the trees even as I
watched.

“You know, Mary ’n Joseph a-flying into Egypt,” he said, and I
laughed in sudden understanding. Rachel, very noticeably pregnant,
was riding Clarence, with Ian, who hadn’t troubled to shave for the
last several months and was sporting a beard of quasi-biblical
dimensions, walking beside her. Jenny was presumably still out of
sight behind them, riding the mare with Franny and leading the
pack mule.

“That’s Rachel,” I said. “And her husband, Ian. Ian is Himself’s
nephew. You mentioned Aidan—is his family well, too?” Jamie and
Mr. Wemyss had started off toward the trailhead, talking sixteen to
the dozen about affairs on the Ridge. Rodney took my hand in a
gentlemanly way and nodded after them.

“We’d best be going down. I want to tell Mam first, afore Opa gets
there.”

“Opa . . . oh, your grandfather?” Joseph Wemyss had married a
German lady named Monika, soon after Rodney’s birth, and I
thought I recalled that “Opa” was a German expression for
“grandfather.”

“Ja,” Rodney said, confirming this supposition.

The trail meandered back and forth across the upper slopes of the
Ridge, offering me tantalizing glimpses through the trees of the
settlement below: scattered cabins among the bright-flowered
laurels, the fresh-turned black earth of vegetable gardens—I
touched the digging knife at my belt, suddenly dying to have my
hands in the dirt, to pull weeds . . .

“Oh, you are losing your grip, Beauchamp,” I murmured at the
thought of ecstatic weed-pulling, but smiled nonetheless.
Rodney was not a chatterbox, but we kept up an amiable
conversation as we walked. He said that he and his opa had walked
up to the head of the pass every day for the last week, to be sure of
meeting us.

“Mam and Missus Higgins have a ham saved for ye, for supper,”
he told me, and licked his lips in anticipation. “And there’s honey to
have with our corn bread! Daddy found a bee tree last Tuesday
sennight and I helped him smoke ’em. And . . .”

I replied, but absentmindedly, and after a bit we both lapsed into a
companionable silence. I was bracing myself for the sight of the
clearing where the Big House had once stood—and a brief, deep
qualm swept through me, remembering fire.

The last time I had seen the house, it was no more than a heap of
blackened timbers. Jamie had already chosen a site for a new house
and had felled the trees for it, leaving them stacked. Sadness and
regret there might be in this return—but there were bright green
spikes of anticipation poking through that scorched earth. Jamie
had promised me a new garden, a new surgery, a bed long enough to
stretch out in—and glass windows.

Just before we came to the spot where the trail ended above the
clearing, Jamie and Mr. Wemyss stopped, waiting for Rodney and
me to catch up. With a shy smile, Mr. Wemyss kissed my hand and
then took Rodney’s, saying, “Come along, Roddy, you can be first to
tell your mam that Himself and his lady have come back!”

Jamie took my hand and squeezed it hard. He was flushed from
the walk, and even more from excitement; the color ran right down
into the open neck of his shirt, turning his skin a beautiful rosy
bronze.

“I’ve brought ye home, Sassenach,” he said, his voice a little husky.
“It willna be the same—and I canna say how things will be now—but
I’ve kept my word.”

My throat was so choked that I could barely whisper “Thank you.”

We stood for a long moment, clasped tight together, summoning up
the strength to go around that last corner and look at what had
been, and what might be.

Something brushed the hem of my skirt, and I looked down,
expecting that a late cone from the big spruce we were standing by
had fallen.

A large gray cat looked up at me with big, calm eyes of celadon
green and dropped a fat, hairy, very dead wood rat at my feet.

“Oh, God!” I said, and burst into tears.

[broughps]

Book 9
Spoilers































“…the night we made Faith.”

I lifted my head in surprise.

“You _know_ when she was conceived? _I_ don’t know that.”

He ran his hand slowly down my back, fingers pausing to rub circles in the small of it. If I’d been a cat, I would have waved my tail gently under his nose.

“Aye, well, I suppose I could be wrong, but I’ve always thought it was the night I came to your bed at the Abbey.”

For a moment, I groped among my memories. That time at the Abbey of Ste. Anne, when he’d come so close to self-chosen death, was one I seldom revisited. It was a terrifying time of fear and confusion, despair and desperation. And yet when I did look back, I found a handful of vivid images, standing out like the illuminated letters on a page of ancient Latin.

Father Anselm’s face, pale in candlelight, his eyes warm with compassion and then the growing glow of wonder as he heard my confession. The abbot’s hands, touching Jamie’s forehead, eyes, lips and palms, delicate as a hummingbird’s touch, anointing his dying nephew with the holy chrism of Extreme Unction. The quiet of the darkened chapel where I had prayed for his life, and heard my prayer answered.

And among these moments was the night when I woke from sleep to find him standing . a pale wraith by my bed, naked and freezing, so weak he could barely walk, but filled once more with life and a stubborn determination that would never again leave him.

“You remember her, then?” My hand rested lightly on my stomach, recalling. He’d never seen her, or felt her as more than random kicks and pushes from inside me.

He kissed my forehead briefly, then looked at me.

“Ye ken I do. Don’t you?”

“Yes. I just wanted you to tell me more.”

“Oh, I mean to.” He settled himself on one elbow and gathered me in so I could share his plaid.

“Do you remember that, too?” I asked, pulling down the fold of cloth he’d draped over me. “Sharing your plaid with me, the night we met?”

“To keep ye from freezing? Aye.” He kissed the back of my neck. “It was me freezing, at the Abbey. I’d worn myself out tryin’ to walk, and ye wouldna let me eat anything, so I was starving to death, and—“

“Oh, you _know_ that’s not true! You—“

“Would I lie to ye, Sassenach?

“Yes, you bloody would,” I said, “You do it all the time. But never mind that now. You were freezing and starving, and suddenly decided that instead of asking Brother Roger for a blanket or a bowl of something hot, you should stagger naked down a dark stone corridor and get in bed with me.”

“Some things are more important than food, Sassenach.” His hand settled firmly on my arse. “And finding out whether I could ever bed ye again was more important than anything else just then. I reckoned if I couldn’t, I’d just walk on out into the snow and not come back.”

“Naturally, it didn’t occur to you to wait for a few more weeks and recover your strength.”

“Well, I was fairly sure I could walk that far leaning on the walls, and I’d be doin’ the rest lying down, so why wait?”

[broughps]

Outlander


I’ve seen a good many kinds of animals mate with each other, and most seem to manage it without any advice at all. I would suppose people could do the same.”

I was privately entertained by the notion of someone picking up pointers on sexual technique from barnyard and forest, rather than locker rooms and dirty magazines.

“What kinds of animals have you seen mating?”

“Oh, all kinds. Our farm was near the forest, ye see, and I spent a good deal of time there, hunting, or seeking cows as had got out and suchlike. I’ve seen horses and cows, of course, pigs, chickens, doves, dogs, cats, red deer, squirrels, rabbits, wild boar, oh, and once even a pair of snakes.”

“Snakes!?”

“Aye. Did ye know that snakes have two cocks?--male snakes, I mean.”

“No, I didn’t. Are you sure about that?”

“Aye, and both of ‘em forked, like this.” He spread his second and third fingers apart in illustration.

“That sounds terribly uncomfortable for the female snake,” I said, giggling.

“Well, she appeared to be enjoying herself,” said Jamie. “Near as I could tell; snakes havena got much expression on their faces.”

I buried my face in his chest, snorting with mirth.

[broughps]

Just bumping it up so I don't have to look for it.

[Une Pensee]

Do you use the star function?

When you're signed in, you can click the star next to the first post of the topic (it turns yellow) and then you can go to the left-hand navigation pane and select "Starred".

You'll get a list of just those topics you've starred no matter how far down the list they appear.

[broughps]

bump