Dragonfly in Amber (53 page)

"I repeat," I said, sitting up and smoothing back my hair, "what are you doing here?"

The dark brows flickered upward.

"Do I need a reason to visit a kinsman?"

I could still taste the bile at the back of my throat, but my hands had stopped trembling, at least.

"Under the circumstances, yes," I said. I drew myself up, grandly ignoring my untied laces, and reached for the brandy decanter. Anticipating me, Dougal took a glass from the tray and poured out a teaspoonful. Then, after a considering glance at me, he doubled the dose.

"Thanks," I said dryly, accepting the glass.

"Circumstances, eh? And which circumstances would those be?" Not waiting for answer or permission, he calmly poured out another glass for himself and lifted it in a casual toast. "To His Majesty."

I felt my mouth twist sideways. "King James, I suppose?" I took a small sip of my own drink, and felt the hot aromatic fumes sear the membranes behind my eyes. "And does the fact that you're in Paris mean that you've converted Colum to your way of thinking?" For while Dougal MacKenzie might be a Jacobite, it was his brother Colum who led the MacKenzies of Leoch as chieftain. Legs crippled and twisted by a deforming disease, Colum no longer led his clan into battle; Dougal was the war chieftain. But while Dougal might lead men into battle, it was Colum who held the power to say whether the battle would take place.

Dougal ignored my question, and having drained his glass, immediately poured out another drink. He savored the first sip of this one, rolling it visibly around his mouth and licking a final drop from his lips as he swallowed.

"Not bad," he said. "I must take some back for Colum. He needs something a bit stronger than the wine, to help him sleep nights."

This was indeed an oblique answer to my question. Colum's condition was degenerating, then. Always in some pain from the disease that eroded his body, Colum had taken fortified wine in the evenings, to help him to sleep. Now he needed straight brandy. I wondered how long it would be before he might be forced to resort to opium for relief.

For when he did, that would be the end of his reign as chieftain of his clan. Deprived of physical resources, still he commanded by sheer force of character. But if the strength of Colum's mind were lost to pain and drugs, the clan would have a new leader—Dougal.

I gazed at him over the rim of my glass. He returned my stare with no sign of abashment, a slight smile on that wide MacKenzie mouth. His face was much like his brother's—and his nephew's—strong and boldly modeled, with broad, high cheekbones and a long, straight nose like the blade of a knife.

Sworn as a boy of eighteen to support his brother's chieftainship, he had kept that vow for nearly thirty years. And would keep it, I knew, until the day that Colum died or could lead no longer. But on that day, the mantle of chief would descend on his shoulders, and the men of clan MacKenzie would follow where he led—after the saltire of Scotland, and the banner of King James, in the vanguard of Bonnie Prince Charlie.

"Circumstances?" I said, turning to his earlier question. "Well, I don't suppose one would consider it in the best of taste to come calling on a man whom you'd left for dead and whose wife you'd tried to seduce."

Being Dougal MacKenzie, he laughed. I didn't know quite what it would take to disconcert the man, but I certainly hoped I was there to see it when it finally happened.

"Seduction?" he said, lips quirked in amusement. "I offered ye marriage."

"You offered to rape me, as I recall," I snapped. He had, in fact, offered to marry me—by force—after declining to help me in rescuing Jamie from Wentworth Prison the winter before. While his principal motive had been the possession of Jamie's estate of Lallybroch—which would belong to me upon Jamie's death—he hadn't been at all averse to the thought of the minor emoluments of marriage, such as the regular enjoyment of my body.

"As for leaving Jamie in the prison," he went on, ignoring me as usual, "there seemed no way to get him out, and no sense in risking good men in a vain attempt. He'd be the first to understand that. And it was my duty as his kinsman to offer his wife my protection, if he died. I was the lad's foster father, no?" He tilted back his head and drained his glass.

I took a good gulp of my own, and swallowed quickly so as not to choke. The spirit burned down my throat and gullet, matching the heat that was rising in my cheeks. He was right; Jamie hadn't blamed him for his reluctance to break into Wentworth Prison—he hadn't expected me to do it, either, and it was only by a miracle that I had succeeded. But while I had told Jamie, briefly, of Dougal's intention of marrying me, I hadn't tried to convey the carnal aspects of that intention. I had, after all, never expected to see Dougal MacKenzie again.

I knew from past experience that he was a seizer of opportunities; with Jamie about to be hanged, he had not even waited for execution of the sentence before trying to secure me and my about-to-be-inherited property. If—no, I corrected myself, when—Colum died or became incompetent, Dougal would be in full command of clan MacKenzie within a week. And if Charles Stuart found the backing he was seeking, Dougal would be there. He had some experience in being a power behind the throne, after all.

I tipped up the glass, considering. Colum had business interests in France; wine and timber, mostly. These undoubtedly were the pretext for Dougal's visit to Paris, might even be his major ostensible reason. But he had other reasons, I was sure. And the presence in the city of Prince Charles Edward Stuart was almost certainly one of them.

One thing to be said for Dougal MacKenzie was that an encounter with him stimulated the mental processes, out of the sheer necessity of trying to figure out what he was actually up to at any given moment. Under the inspiration of his presence and a good slug of Portuguese brandy, my subconscious was stirring with the birth of an idea.

"Well, be that as it may, I'm glad you're here now," I said, replacing my empty glass on the tray.

"You are?" The thick dark brows rose incredulously.

"Yes." I rose and gestured toward the hall. "Fetch my cloak while I do up my laces. I need you to come to the commissariat de police with me."

Seeing his jaw drop, I felt the first tiny upsurge of hope. If I had managed to take Dougal MacKenzie by surprise, surely I could stop a duel?

"D'ye want to tell me what you think you're doing?" Dougal inquired, as the coach bumped around the Cirque du Mireille, narrowly avoiding an oncoming barouche and a cart full of vegetable marrows.

"No," I said briefly, "but I suppose I'll have to. Did you know that Jack Randall is still alive?"

"I'd not heard he was dead," Dougal said reasonably.

That took me up short for a moment. But of course he was right; we had thought Randall dead only because Sir Marcus MacRannoch had mistaken the trampled body of Randall's orderly for the officer himself, during Jamie's rescue from Wentworth Prison. Naturally no news of Randall's death would have gone round the Highlands, since it hadn't occurred. I tried to gather my scattered thoughts.

"He isn't dead," I said. "But he is in Paris."

"In Paris?" That got his attention; his brows went up, and then his eyes widened with the next thought.

"Where's Jamie?" he asked sharply.

I was glad to see he appreciated the main point. While he didn't know what had passed between Jamie and Randall in Wentworth Prison—no one was ever going to know that, save Jamie, Randall, and, to some extent, me—he knew more than enough about Randall's previous actions to realize exactly what Jamie's first impulse would be on meeting the man here, away from the sanctuary of England.

"I don't know," I said, looking out the window. We were passing Les Halles, and the smell of fish was ripe in my nostrils. I pulled out a scented handkerchief and covered my nose and mouth. The strong, sharp tang of the wintergreen with which I scented it was no match for the reek of a dozen eel-sellers' stalls, but it helped a bit. I spoke through the spicy linen folds.

"We met Randall unexpectedly at the Duke of Sandringham's today. Jamie sent me home in the coach, and I haven't seen him since."

Dougal ignored both the stench and the raucous cries of fishwives calling their wares. He frowned at me.

"He'll mean to kill the man, surely?"

I shook my head, and explained my reasoning about the sword.

"I can't let a duel happen," I said, dropping the handkerchief in order to speak more clearly. "I won't!"

Dougal nodded abstractedly.

"Aye, that would be dangerous. Not that the lad couldna take Randall with ease—I taught him, ye ken," he added with some boastfulness, "but the sentence for dueling…"

"Got it in one," I said.

"All right," he said slowly. "But why the police? You dinna mean to have the lad locked up beforehand, do ye? Your own husband?"

"Not Jamie," I said. "Randall."

A broad grin broke out on his face, not unmixed with skepticism.

"Oh, aye? And how d'ye mean to work that one?"

"A friend and I were…attacked on the street a few nights ago," I said, swallowing at the memory. "The men were masked; I couldn't tell who they were. But one of them was about the same height and build as Jonathan Randall. I mean to say that I met Randall at a house today and recognized him as one of the men who attacked us."

Dougal's brows shot up and then drew together. His cool gaze flickered over me. Suddenly there was a new speculation in his appraisal.

"Christ, you've the devil's own nerve. Robbery, was it?" he asked softly. Against my will, I could feel the rage rising in my cheeks.

"No," I said, clipping the word between my teeth.

"Ah." He sat back against the coach's squabs, still looking at me. "Ye'll have taken no harm, though?" I glanced aside, at the passing street, but could feel his eyes, prying at the neck of my gown, sliding over the curve of my hips.

"Not me," I said. "But my friend…"

"I see." He was quiet for a moment, then said meditatively, "Ever heard of ‘Les Disciples,' have you?"

I jerked my head back around to him. He lounged in the corner like a crouching cat, watching me through eyes narrowed against the sun.

"No. What are they?" I demanded.

He shrugged and sat upright, peering past me at the approaching bulk of the Quai des Orfèvres, hovering gray and dreary above the glitter of the Seine.

"A society—of a sort. Young men of family, with an interest in things…unwholesome, shall we say?"

"Let's," I said. "And just what do you know about Les Disciples?"

"Only what I heard in a tavern in the Cité," he said. "That the society demands a good deal from its members, and the price of initiation is high…by some standards."

"That being?" I dared him with my eyes. He smiled rather grimly before replying.

"A maidenhead, for one thing. The nipples of a married woman, for another." He shot a quick glance at my bosom. "Your friend's a virgin, is she? Or was?"

I felt hot and cold by turns. I wiped my face with the handkerchief and tucked it into the pocket of my cloak. I had to try twice, for my hand trembled.

"She was. What else have you heard? Do you know who's involved with Les Disciples?"

Dougal shook his head. There were threads of silver in the russet hair over his temples, that caught the light of the afternoon.

"Only rumors. The Vicomte de Busca, the youngest of the Charmisse sons—perhaps. The Comte St. Germain. Eh! Are ye all right, lass?"

He leaned forward in some consternation, peering at me.

"Fine," I said, breathing deeply through my nose. "Bloody fine." I pulled out the handkerchief and wiped the cold sweat off my brow.

"We mean you no harm, mesdames." The ironic voice echoed in the dark of my memory. The green-shirted man was medium-height and dark, slim and narrow-shouldered. If that description fit Jonathan Randall, it also fit the Comte St. Germain. Would I have recognized his voice, though? Could any normal man conceivably have sat across from me at dinner, eating salmon mousse and making genteel conversation, barely two hours after the incident in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?

Considered logically, though, why not? I had, after all. And I had no particular reason for supposing the Comte to be a normal man—by my standards—if rumor were true.

The coach was drawing to a halt, and there was little time for contemplation. Was I about to ensure that the man responsible for Mary's violation went free, while I also ensured the safety of Jamie's most loathed enemy? I took a deep, quivering breath. Damn little choice about it, I thought. Life was paramount; justice would just have to wait its turn.

The coachman had alighted and was reaching for the door handle. I bit my lip and glanced at Dougal MacKenzie. He met my gaze with a slight shrug. What did I want of him?

"Will you back my story?" I asked abruptly.

He looked up at the towering bulk of the Quai des Orfèvres. Brilliant afternoon light blazed through the open door.

"You're sure?" he asked.

"Yes." My mouth was dry.

He slid across the seat and extended a hand to me.

"Pray God we dinna both end in a cell, then," he said.

An hour later, we stepped into the empty street outside the commissariat de police. I had sent the coach home, lest anyone who knew us should see it standing outside the Quai des Orfèvres. Dougal offered me an arm, and I took it perforce. The ground here was muddy underfoot, and the cobbles in the street made uncertain going in high-heeled slippers.

"Les Disciples," I said as we made our way slowly along the banks of the Seine toward the towers of Notre Dame. "Do you really think the Comte St. Germain might have been one of the men who…who stopped us in the Rue du Faubourg St.-Honoré?" I was beginning to tremble with reaction and fatigue—and with hunger; I had had nothing since breakfast, and the lack was making itself felt. Sheer nerve had kept me going through the interview with the police. Now the need to think was passing, and with it, the ability to do so.

Dougal's arm was hard under my hand, but I couldn't look up at him; I needed all my attention to keep my footing. We had turned into the Rue Elise and the cobbles were shiny with damp and smeared with various kinds of filth. A porter lugging a crate paused in our path to clear his throat and hawk noisily into the street at my feet. The greenish glob clung to the curve of a stone, finally slipping off to float sluggishly onto the surface of a small mud puddle that lay in the hollow of a missing cobble.