The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (173 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A small stir of suppressed amusement ran around the circle, only to be quelled by a brief gesture from Jamie. “I see,” he said noncommittally. “You heard us talking and determined that the lady is English and well-born. Whereas I—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“This is no concern of yours, Madam,” he said between his teeth. Reaching down, he grabbed the boy by the shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. Wavering, the knife blade rose between them, and poised itself just under the lad’s left eye. Jamie tilted his head in silent question, to receive a minimal but definite negative shake in return.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He turned back to the prisoner, busying himself in checking the priming and loading of the pistol. The twelve inches of heart-butted metal gleamed dark, the firelight picking out sparks of silver at trigger and priming pin. “Head or heart?” Jamie asked casually, raising his head at last.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Jamie!” I screamed.

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

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

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

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