The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (557 page)

The first person I saw was Major MacDonald, standing on the path watching the shed burn, his white wig gleaming in the light from the fire. I gripped him by the arm, startling him badly.

“What is happening?” I said, not bothering to apologize.

“Where is your husband?” he said in the same moment, peering round me in search of Jamie.

“I don’t know,” I said, all too truthfully. “I’m looking for him.”

“Mrs. Fraser! Are you all right, dear lady?” Lloyd Stanhope popped up by my elbow, looking like a very animated boiled egg in his nightshirt, his polled head startlingly round and pale without his wig.

I assured him that I was quite all right, which I was, by now. It wasn’t until I saw Stanhope and noticed that most of the other gentlemen present were in a similar state of dishabille that I realized the Major was fully clothed, from wig to buckled shoes. My face must have changed as I looked at him, for I saw his brows raise and his gaze run from my bound hair to my shod feet, as he quite obviously noticed the same thing about me.

“I heard shouts of ‘Fire!’ and thought someone might be hurt,” I said coolly, lifting the bag. “I’ve brought my medical kit. Is everyone all right, do you know?”

“So far as I—” MacDonald began, but then sprang back in alarm, grasping my arm and dragging me back, too. The roof gave way with a deep sighing noise, and sparks plumed high, showering down among the crowd in the garden.

Everyone gasped and cried out, falling back. Then there came one of those brief, inexplicable pauses when everyone in a crowd falls suddenly silent at once. The fire was still burning, with a noise like crumpling paper, but over it I could hear a distant shouting. It was a woman’s voice, high and cracked, but strong for all that, and full of fury.

“Mrs. Cameron!” Stanhope exclaimed, but the Major was already making for the house at a run.

53

THE FRENCHMAN’S GOLD

We found Jocasta Cameron Innes on the window seat in her room, clad in her chemise, bound hand and foot with strips of bed linen, and absolutely scarlet-faced with fury. I had no time to take further note of her condition, for Duncan Innes, clad for the night in nothing but his shirt, was lying sprawled on his face on the floor near the hearth.

I rushed over and knelt by him at once, searching for a pulse.

“Is he dead?” The Major peered over my shoulder, evidencing more curiosity than sympathy.

“No,” I said briefly. “Get these people out of here, will you?” The chamber was crammed with guests and servants, all exclaiming over the newly freed Jocasta, expostulating, speculating, and generally making bloody nuisances of themselves. The Major blinked at my peremptory tone, but retired without demur to deal with the situation.

Duncan was certainly alive, and a cursory examination showed me no injury beyond a large lump behind one ear; evidently, he had been clubbed with the heavy silver candlestick which lay beside him on the floor. He had a nasty color, but his pulse was fairly good, and he was breathing evenly. I thumbed open his eyelids, one at a time, and bent close to check his pupils. They stared back at me, glazed, but the same size and not abnormally dilated. So far, so good.

Behind me, the Major was making good use of his military experience, barking orders in a parade-ground voice. Since most of those present were not soldiers, this was having a limited effect.

Jocasta Cameron was having a much greater one. Released from her bonds, she staggered across the room, leaning heavily on Ulysses’s arm, parting the crowd like the waves of the Red Sea.

“Duncan! Where is my husband?” she demanded, turning her head from side to side, blind eyes fierce. People gave way before her, and she reached my side in seconds.

“Who is there?” Her hand swept in a flat arc before her, searching for position.

“It’s me—Claire.” I reached up to touch her hand, guiding her down beside me. Her own fingers were chilled and trembling, and there were deep red marks on her wrists from the bonds. “Don’t worry; I think Duncan will be all right.”

She put out a hand, seeking to see for herself, and I guided her fingers to his throat, setting them on the big vein I could see pulsing at the side of his neck. She uttered a small exclamation and leaned forward, putting both hands on his face, tracing his features with an anxious tenderness that quite moved me, so at odds as it was with her normal autocratic mien.

“They struck him … is he badly hurt?”

“I think not,” I assured her. “Only a knock on the head.”

“Are you quite sure?” Her face turned toward me, frowning, and her sensitive nostrils flared. “I smell blood.”

With a small shock, I realized that while my hands were mostly clean, my fingernails were still heavily ringed with dark blood from the impromptu autopsy. I repressed the urge to curl my hands, instead murmuring discreetly, “That’s me, I expect; my courses.” Major MacDonald was glancing curiously in our direction; had he heard her?

There was a stir at the doorway, and I turned. To my immense relief, it was Jamie. He was disheveled, his coat was torn, and he sported what looked like the beginnings of a black eye, but otherwise appeared undamaged.

My relief must have shown on my face, for his grim look softened a little, and he nodded as he met my eye. Then it hardened again, as he saw Duncan. He dropped to one knee beside me.

“He’s all right,” I said, before he could ask. “Someone hit him on the head and tied up your aunt.”

“Aye? Who?” He glanced up at Jocasta, and laid a hand on Duncan’s chest, as though to reassure himself that Duncan was indeed still breathing.

“I havena the slightest notion,” she replied crisply. “If I had, I should have sent men to hunt the ill-deedie shargs down by now.” Her lips tightened into a thin line, and the high color surged back into her face at thought of the assailants. “Did no one see the rascals?”

“I think not, Aunt,” Jamie replied calmly. “With such a boiling in the house, no one kens what to look for, aye?”

I raised one eyebrow at him in silent question. What did he mean by that? Had Bonnet got away? For surely it must have been Bonnet who had invaded Jocasta’s chamber; boiling or no, there couldn’t be multiple violent criminals at large on the same night in a place the size of River Run.

Jamie shook his head briefly. He glanced at my hands, saw the blood under my nails, and raised an eyebrow of his own. Had I discovered anything? Had there been time for me to be sure? I nodded, and a slight shudder went over me; yes, I knew.

Murder
, I mouthed to him.

He squeezed my arm in quick reassurance, and glanced over his shoulder; the Major had at last succeeded in pushing most of the crowd out into the hallway, sending the servants for restoratives and refreshments, a groom for the Sheriff in Cross Creek, the men out to search the grounds for possible miscreants, and the ladies down to the salon in a flutter of excited puzzlement. The Major closed the door firmly behind them, then came briskly over to us.

“Shall we get him onto the bed, then?”

Duncan was beginning to stir and groan. He coughed and gagged a little, but fortunately didn’t throw up. Jamie and Major MacDonald got him up, limp arms about their shoulders, and conveyed him to the big four-poster, where they laid him down with complete disregard for the quilted silk coverlet.

With a faint atavistic sense of housewifeliness, I tucked a soft green velvet pillow under his head. It was filled with bran, but crackled faintly under my hand and gave off a strong scent of lavender. Lavender was good for headache, all right, but I wasn’t sure it was quite up to this.

“Where is Phaedre?”

Ulysses had guided Jocasta to her chair, and she sank back in its leather depths, looking suddenly exhausted and old. The color had left her face along with her rage, and her white hair was coming down in straggles round her shoulders.

“I sent Phaedre to bed, Auntie.” Bree had come in, unnoticed in the scrum, and had resisted removal by the Major. She bent over Jocasta, touching her hand with solicitude. “Don’t worry; I’ll take care of you.”

Jocasta put her own hand over Bree’s in gratitude, but sat up straighter, looking puzzled.

“Sent her to bed? Why? And what in God’s name is burning?” She jerked bolt upright, alarmed. “Are the stables afire?” The wind had changed, and the night air was streaming in through a broken pane above the window seat, heavy with the scent of smoke and a faint, dreadful smell of burned flesh.

“No, no! The stables are fine. Phaedre was upset,” Bree explained, with some delicacy. “The shed by the kitchen garden seems to have burned down; her mother’s body …”

Jocasta’s face went quite blank for a moment. Then she drew herself up, and an extraordinary look came into her face, something almost like satisfaction, though with a tinge of puzzlement.

Jamie was standing behind me. He evidently saw it, too, for I heard him give a soft grunt.

“Are ye somewhat recovered, Aunt?” he asked.

She turned her face toward him, one eyebrow lifted in sardonic reply.

“I shall be the better for a dram,” she said, accepting the cup that Ulysses set deftly into her hands. “But aye, nephew, I’m well enough. Duncan, though?”

I was sitting by Duncan on the bed, his wrist in my hand, and could feel him coming toward the surface of consciousness, eyelids fluttering and fingers twitching slightly against my palm.

“He’s coming round,” I assured her.

“Give him brandy, Ulysses,” Jocasta commanded, but I stopped the butler with a shake of my head.

“Not quite yet. He’ll choke.”

“Do ye feel yourself equal to telling us what happened, Aunt?” Jamie asked, with a noticeable edge to his voice. “Or must we wait for Duncan to come to himself?”

Jocasta sighed, closing her eyes briefly. She was as good as all the MacKenzies at hiding what she thought, but in this case, it was evident at least that she
was
thinking, and furiously, at that. The tip of her tongue flicked out, touching a raw spot at the corner of her mouth, and I realized that she must have been gagged as well as bound.

I could feel Jamie behind me, seething with some strong feeling. Near as he was, I could hear his stiff fingers drumming softly on the bedpost. Much as I wanted to hear Jocasta’s story, I wanted even more to be alone with Jamie, to tell him what I had discovered, and to find out what had happened in the darkness of the kitchen garden.

Outside, voices murmured in the hall; not all the guests had dispersed. I caught muffled phrases—“quite burnt up, nothing left but the bones,” “… stolen? Don’t know …” “… check the stables,” “Yes, completely burned …” A deep shiver struck me, and I gripped Duncan’s hand hard, fighting a panic that I did not understand. I must have looked odd, for Bree said softly, “Mama?” She was looking at me, brow creased with worry. I tried to smile at her, but my lips felt stiff.

Jamie’s hands settled on my shoulders, large and warm. I had been holding my breath without realizing it; at his touch, I let it out in a small gasp, and breathed again. Major MacDonald glanced curiously at me, but his attention was at once deflected by Jocasta, who opened her eyes and turned her face in his direction.

“It is Major MacDonald, is it not?”

“At your service, Mum.” The Major made an automatic bow, forgetting—as folk often did—that she could not see him.

“I thank ye for your gallant service, Major. My husband and I are most indebted to ye.”

The Major made a politely dismissive sound.

“No, no,” she insisted, straightening up and brushing back her hair with one hand. “Ye’ve been put to great trouble on our account, and we must not impose further on your kindness. Ulysses—take the Major down to the parlor and find him proper refreshment.”

The butler bowed obsequiously—I noticed for the first time that he was dressed in a nightshirt over unbuckled breeches, though he had clapped his wig on his head—and ushered the Major firmly toward the door. MacDonald looked ludicrously surprised and not a little disgruntled at being given the push in this civilized fashion, he having quite obviously intended to stay and hear all the gory details. Still, there was no graceful way of resisting, and he made the best of it, bowing in a dignified manner as he took his leave.

The panic had begun to recede, as bafflingly as it had come. Jamie’s hands radiated a warmth that seemed to spread through my body, and my breath came easily again. I was able to focus my attention on my patient, who had got his eyes open, though he seemed to be regretting it.

“Och,
mo cheann
!” Duncan squinted against the glow of the lamp, focusing with some difficulty on my face, then rising to Jamie’s behind me. “
Mac Dubh
—what’s come amiss?”

One of Jamie’s hands left my shoulder, and reached down to tighten on Duncan’s arm.

“Dinna fash yourself,
a charaid
.” He glanced meaningfully at Jocasta. “Your wife is just about to tell us what has happened. Are ye not, Aunt?”

There was a slight but definite emphasis on the “not,” and Jocasta, thus put on the spot, pursed her lips, but then sighed and sat straight, plainly resigned to the unpleasant necessity of confidence.

“There is no one here but family?”

Being assured that there was not, she nodded, and began.

She had sent away her maid, and been on the point of retiring, she said, when the door from the hall had suddenly opened to admit what she thought were two men.

“I am sure there was more than one—I heard their footsteps, and breathing,” she said, frowning in concentration. “There
might
have been three, but I think not. Only one of them spoke, though. I think the other must have been someone I ken, for he stayed far away, quite at the end of the room, as though he were afraid I should recognize him by some means.”

The man who had spoken to her was a stranger; she was positive that she had never heard his voice before.

“He was an Irishman,” she said, and Jamie’s hand tightened abruptly on my shoulder. “Well enough spoken, but not a gentleman, by any means.” Her nostrils flared a little, with unconscious disdain.

“No, hardly that,” Jamie said, under his breath. Bree had started slightly at the word “Irishman,” though her face bore no more than a slight frown of concentration as she listened.

The Irishman had been polite, but blunt in his demands; he wanted the gold.

“Gold?” It was Duncan who spoke, but the question was plain on everyone’s face. “What gold? We’ve no money in the house save a few pounds sterling and a bit of the Proclamation money.”

Jocasta’s lips pressed tight. There was no help for it, though; not now. She made a small growling noise in her throat, an inarticulate protest at being compelled to give up the secret she had kept for so long.

“The Frenchman’s gold,” she said, abruptly.

“What?” said Duncan in bewilderment. He touched the lump behind his ear, gingerly, as though convinced it had affected his hearing.

“The French gold,” Jocasta repeated, rather irritably. “That was sent, just before Culloden.”