The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (203 page)

Mary looked both bedraggled and bewildered, a damp plaid clasped around her shoulders and her muddy bedroom slippers protruding under the sodden hem of her nightrobe. Spotting me, she pressed close to me as though grateful for my presence.

“I didn’t w-want to come in,” she whispered to me, glancing shyly at Hugh Munro’s widow, “but Mr. Murtagh insisted.”

Jamie’s brows were raised in inquiry, as Murtagh nodded respectfully to Mrs. Munro and said something to her in Gaelic. The little clansman looked just as he always did, dour and competent, but I thought there was an extra hint of dignity in his demeanor. He carried one of the saddlebags before him, bulging heavily with something. Perhaps a parting gift for Mrs. Munro, I thought.

Murtagh laid the bag on the floor at my feet, then straightened up and looked from me to Mary, to Hugh Munro’s widow, and at last to Jamie, who looked as puzzled as I felt. Having thus assured himself of his audience, Murtagh bowed formally to me, a lock of wet dark hair falling free over his brow.

“I bring ye your vengeance, lady,” he said, as quietly as I’d ever heard him speak. He straightened and inclined his head in turn to Mary and Mrs. Munro. “And justice for the wrong done to ye.”

Mary sneezed, and wiped her nose hastily with a fold of her plaid. She stared at Murtagh, eyes wide and baffled. I gazed down at the bulging saddle-bag, feeling a sudden deep chill that owed nothing to the weather outside. But it was Hugh Munro’s widow who sank to her knees, and with steady hands opened the bag and drew out the head of the Duke of Sandringham.

45

DAMN ALL RANDALLS

It was a torturous trip northward into Scotland. We had to dodge and hide, always afraid of being recognized as Highlanders, unable to buy or beg food, needing to steal small bits from unattended sheds or pluck the few edible roots I could find in the fields.

Slowly, slowly, we made our way north. There was no telling where the Scottish army was by now, except that it lay to the north. With no way of telling where the army was, we decided to make for Edinburgh; there at least there would be news of the campaign. We had been out of touch for several weeks; I knew the relief of Stirling Castle by the English had failed, Jamie knew the Battle of Falkirk had succeeded, ending in victory for the Scots. But what had come after?

When we rode at last into the cobbled gray street of the Royal Mile, Jamie went at once to the army’s headquarters, leaving me to go with Mary to Alex Randall’s quarters. We hurried up the street together, barely speaking, both too afraid of what we might find.

He was there, and I saw Mary’s knees give way as she entered the room and collapsed by his bed. Startled from a doze, he opened his eyes and blinked once, then Alex Randall’s face blazed as though he had received a heavenly visitation.

“Oh, God!” he kept muttering brokenly into her hair. “Oh, God. I thought … oh, Lord, I had prayed … one more sight of you. Just one. Oh, Lord!”

Simply averting my gaze seemed insufficient; I went out onto the landing, and sat on the stairs for half an hour, resting my weary head on my knees.

When it seemed decent to return, I went back into the small room, grown grimy and cheerless again in the weeks of Mary’s absence. I examined him, my hands gentle on the wasted flesh. I was surprised that he had lasted so long; it couldn’t be much longer.

He saw the truth in my face, and nodded, unsurprised.

“I waited,” he said softly, lying back in exhaustion on his pillows. “I hoped … she would come once more. I had no reason … but I prayed. And now it is answered. I shall die in peace now.”

“Alex!” Mary’s cry of anguish burst out of her as though his words had struck her a physical blow, but he smiled and pressed her hand.

“We have known it for a long time, my love,” he whispered to her. “Don’t despair. I will be with you always, watching you, loving you. Don’t cry, my dearest.” She brushed obediently at her pink-washed cheeks, but could do nothing to stem the tears that came streaming down them. Despite her obvious despair, she had never looked so blooming.

“Mrs. Fraser,” Alex said, clearly mustering his strength to ask one more favor. “I must ask … tomorrow … will you come again, and bring your husband? It is important.”

I hesitated for a moment. Whatever Jamie found out, he was going to want to leave Edinburgh immediately, to join the army and find the rest of his men. But surely one more day could make no difference to the outcome of the war—and I could not deny the appeal in the two pairs of eyes that looked at me so hopefully.

“We’ll come,” I said.

“I am a fool,” Jamie grumbled, climbing the steep, cobbled streets to the wynd where Alex Randall had his lodgings. “We should have left yesterday, at once, as soon as we got back your pearls from the pawnbroker! D’ye no ken how far it is to Inverness? And we wi’ little more than nags to get us there?”

“I know,” I said impatiently. “But I promised. And if you’d seen him … well, you will see him in a moment, and then you’ll understand.”

“Mphm.” But he held the street door for me and followed me up the winding stair of the decrepit building without further complaint.

Mary was half-sitting, half-lying on the bed. Still dressed in her tattered traveling clothes, she was holding Alex, cradling him fiercely against her bosom. She must have stayed with him so all night.

Seeing me, he gently freed himself from her grasp, patting her hands as he laid them aside. He propped himself on one elbow, face paler than the linen sheets on which he lay.

“Mrs. Fraser,” he said. He smiled faintly, despite the sheen of unhealthy sweat and the gray pallor that betokened a bad attack.

“It was good of you to come,” he said, gasping a little. He glanced beyond me. “Your husband … he is with you?”

As though in answer, Jamie stepped into the room behind me. Mary, stirred from her misery by the noise of our entry, glanced from me to Jamie, then rose to her feet, laying a hand timidly on his arm.

“I … we … n-need you, Lord Tuarach.” I thought it was the stammer, more than the use of his title, that touched him. Though he was still grim-faced, some of the tension went out of him. He inclined his head courteously toward her.

“I asked your wife to bring you, my lord. I am dying, as you see.” Alex Randall had pushed himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. His slender shins gleamed white as bone beneath the frayed hem of his nightshirt. The toes, long, slim, and bloodless, were shadowed with the bluing of poor circulation.

I had seen death often enough before, in all its forms, but this was always the worst—and the best; a man who met death with knowledge and courage, while the healer’s futile arts fell aside. Futile or not, I rummaged through the contents of my case for the digitalin I had made for him. I had several infusions, in varying strengths, a spectrum of brown liquids in glass vials. I chose the darkest vial without hesitation; I could hear his breath bubbling through the water in his lungs.

It wasn’t digitalin, but his purpose that sustained him now, lighting him with a glow as though a candle burned behind the waxy skin of his face. I had seen that a few times before, too; the man—or woman—whose will was strong enough to override for a time the imperatives of the body.

I thought that was perhaps how some ghosts were made; where a will and a purpose had survived, heedless of the frail flesh that fell by the wayside, unable to sustain life long enough. I didn’t much want to be haunted by Alex Randall; that, among other reasons, was why I had made Jamie come with me today.

Jamie himself appeared to be coming to similar conclusions.

“Aye,” he said softly. “I do see. Do ye ask aught of me?”

Alex nodded, closing his eyes briefly. He lifted the vial I handed him and drank, shuddering briefly at the bitter taste. He opened his eyes and smiled at Jamie.

“The indulgence of your presence only. I promise I shall not detain you long. We are waiting for one more person.”

While we waited, I did what I could for Alex Randall, which under the circumstances was not much. The foxglove infusion again, and a bit of camphor to help ease his breathing. He seemed a little better after the administration of such medicine as I had, but placing my homemade stethoscope against the sunken chest, I could hear the labored thud of his heart, interrupted by such frequent flutters and palpitations that I expected it to stop at any moment.

Mary held his hand throughout, and he kept his eyes fixed on her, as though memorizing every line of her face. It seemed almost an intrusion to be in the same room with them.

The door opened, and Jack Randall stood on the threshold. He looked uncomprehendingly at me and Mary for a moment, then his gaze lighted on Jamie and he turned to stone. Jamie met his eyes squarely, then turned, nodding toward the bed.

Seeing that haggard face, Jack Randall crossed the room rapidly and fell on his knees beside the bed.

“Alex!” he said. “My God, Alex …”

“It’s all right,” his brother said. He held Jack’s face between frail hands and smiled at him, trying to reassure him. “It’s all right, Johnny,” he said.

I put a hand under Mary’s elbow, gently urging her off the bed. Whatever Jack Randall might be, he deserved a few last words in privacy with his brother. Stunned with despair, she didn’t resist, but came with me to the far side of the room, where I perched her on a stool. I poured a little water from the ewer and wet my handkerchief. I tried to give it to her to swab her eyes, but she simply sat, clutching it lifelessly. Sighing, I took it and wiped her face, smoothing her hair as much as I could.

There was a small, choked sound from behind that made me glance toward the bed. Jack, still on his knees, had his face buried in his brother’s lap, while Alex stroked his head, holding one of his hands.

“John,” he said. “You’ll know that I do not ask this lightly. But for the sake of your love for me …” He broke off to cough, the effort flushing his cheeks with hectic color.

I felt Jamie’s body stiffen still further, if such a thing were possible. Jonathan Randall stiffened, too, as though he felt the force of Jamie’s eyes upon him, but didn’t look up.

“Alex,” he said quietly. He laid a hand on his younger brother’s shoulder, as though to quiet the cough. “Don’t trouble your mind, Alex. You know you needn’t ask; I’ll do whatever you wish. Is it the—the girl?” He glanced in Mary’s direction, but couldn’t quite bring himself to look at her.

Alex nodded, still coughing.

“It’s all right,” John said. He put both hands on Alex’s shoulders, trying to ease him back on the pillow. “I won’t let her want for anything. Put your mind at rest.”

Jamie looked down at me, eyes wide. I shook my head slowly, feeling the hair prickle from my neck to the base of my spine. Everything made sense now; the bloom on Mary’s cheeks, despite her distress, and her apparent willingness to wed the wealthy Jew of London.

“It isn’t money,” I said. “She’s with child. He wants …” I stopped, clearing my throat, “I think he wants you to marry her.”

Alex nodded, eyes still closed. He breathed heavily for a moment, then opened them, bright pools of hazel, fixed on his brother’s stunned and incomprehending face.

“Yes,” he said. “John … Johnny, I need you to take care of her for me. I want … my child to have the Randall name. You can … give them some position in the world—so much more than I could.” He reached out a hand, groping, and Mary seized it, clutching it to her bosom as though it were a life preserver. He smiled tenderly at her, and stretched up a hand to touch the shiny, dark ringlets that fell by her cheek, hiding her face.

“Mary. I wish … well, you know what I wish, my dear; so many things. And so many things I am sorry for. But I cannot regret the love between us. Having known such joy, I would die content, save for my fear that you might be exposed to shame and disgrace.”

“I don’t care!” Mary burst out fiercely. “I don’t care who knows!”

“But I care for you,” Alex said, softly. He stretched out a hand to his brother, who took it after a moment’s hesitation. Then he brought them together, laying Mary’s hand in Randall’s. Mary’s lay inert, and Jack Randall’s stiff, like a dead fish on a wooden slab, but Alex pressed his hands tightly around the two, pressing them together.

“I give you to each other, my dear ones,” he said softly. He looked from one face to the other, each reflecting the horror of the suggestion, submerged in the overwhelming grief of impending loss.

“But …” For the first time in our acquaintance, I saw Jonathan Randall completely at a loss for words.

“Good.” It was almost a whisper. Alex opened his eyes and let out the breath he had been holding, smiling at his brother. “There is not much time. I shall marry you myself. Now. That is why I asked Mrs. Fraser to bring her husband—if you will be witness with your wife, sir?” He looked up at Jamie, who, after a moment’s stunned immobility, nodded his head like an automation.

I do not believe I have ever seen three people look so entirely wretched.

Alex was so weak that his brother, with a face like stone, had to help him, tying his minister’s high white stock about the pallid throat. Jonathan himself looked little better. Gaunt from illness, the lines in his face were carved so deep that he looked years older than his age, and his eyes peered out from deep sockets like caves of bone. Impeccably attired as always, he looked like a badly made tailor’s dummy, features carelessly hacked from a block of wood.

As for Mary, she sat miserably on the bed, weeping helplessly into the folds of her cloak, hair disheveled and static with electricity. I did what I could for her, straightening her gown and combing out her hair. She sat drearily sniffling, her eyes fixed on Alex.

Bracing himself with a hand on the bureau, Alex groped in the drawer, coming out at last with his large
Book of Common Prayer
. It was too heavy for him to hold open before him in the normal fashion. He couldn’t stand, but sat heavily on the bed, holding the book open on his knees. He closed his eyes, breathing heavily, and a drop of sweat fell from his face, making a blot on the page.

“Dearly beloved,” Alex began, and I hoped for his own sake, as well as everyone else’s, that he was using the short form of the ceremony.

Mary had stopped crying, but her nose was red and shiny in her white face, and a small snail track showed on her upper lip. Jonathan saw it, and expressionless, pulled a large square of linen from his sleeve and offered it to her silently.

She took it with a faint nod, not looking at him, and carelessly mopped her face.

“I will,” she said, when the time came, as though not caring at all what she said now.

Jack Randall made his promises in a firm voice, but one remote from the scene. It gave me an odd feeling to see a marriage contracted between two people who were quite unaware of each other; the complete attention of both was focused on the man who sat before them, eyes fixed on the pages of his book.

It was done. Congratulations to the bridal pair hardly seemed in order, and there was an awkward silence. Jamie glanced at me questioningly and I shrugged. I had fainted immediately after marrying him, and Mary looked rather as though she meant to follow my example.

The act complete, Alex sat quite still for a moment. He smiled slightly, and looked deliberately round the room, his eyes resting for a moment on each face in turn. Jonathan, Jamie, Mary, and me. I saw the glow in those soft hazel depths as his glance met mine. The candle’s stub grew low, but the last of the wick blazed up, for a moment bright and strong.

His gaze lingered on Mary’s face, then he closed his eyes briefly, as though he could not stand to look upon her, and I could hear the slow, labored rasp of his breathing. The glow of his skin was blanching and fading, the candle guttering.