The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle (964 page)

“I want to go in.”

“No, ye don’t,” he assured her. “It’s cold and it’s dirty.”

She gave him an odd look and half a smile.

“I’d never have guessed,” she said, very dry. “I still want to go in.”

There was no point in arguing with her. He shrugged and took off his coat to save its getting filthy, hanging it on a rowan sapling that had sprouted near the entrance. He put up his hands to the stones on either side of the entrance, but then was unsure; was it there he had always grasped the stone, or not?
Christ, does it matter?
he chided himself, and, taking firm hold of the rock, stepped in and swung down.

It was just as cold as he’d known it would be. It was out of the wind, at least—not a biting cold, but a dank chill that sank through the skin and gnawed at the bone ends.

He turned and reached up his hands, and she leaned to him, tried to climb down, but lost her footing and half-fell, landing in his arms in a fluster of clothes and loose hair. He laughed and turned her round to look, but kept his arms around her. He was loath to surrender the warmth of her and held her like a shield against cold memory.

She was still, leaning back against him, only her head moving as she looked from one end of the cave to the other. It was barely eight feet long, but the far end was lost in shadow. She lifted her chin, seeing the soft black stains that coated the rock to one side by the entrance.

“That’s where my fire was—when I dared have one.” His voice sounded strange, small and muffled, and he cleared his throat.

“Where was your bed?”

“Just there by your left foot.”

“Did you sleep with your head at this end?” She tapped her foot on the graveled dirt of the floor.

“Aye. I could see the stars, if the night was clear. I turned the other way if it rained.” She heard the smile in his voice and put her hand along his thigh, squeezing.

“I hoped that,” she said, her own voice a little choked. “When we learned about the Dunbonnet, and the cave … I thought about you, alone here—and I hoped you could see the stars at night.”

“I could,” he whispered, and bent his head to put his lips to her hair. The shawl she’d pulled over her head had slipped off, and her hair smelled of lemon balm and what she said was catmint.

She made a small
hmp
noise in her throat and folded her own arms over his, warming him through his shirt.

“I feel as though I’ve seen it before,” she said, sounding a little surprised. “Though I suppose one cave probably looks a good deal like any other cave, unless you have stalactites hanging from the ceiling or mammoths painted on the walls.”

“I’ve never had a talent for decoration,” he said, and she
hmp’
ed again, amused. “As for being here … ye’ve been here many nights wi’ me, Sassenach. You and the wee lass, both.”
Though I didna ken then she was a lassie
, he added silently, remembering with a small odd pang that now and then he had sat there on the flat rock by the entrance, imagining sometimes a daughter warm in his arms, but now and then feeling a tiny son on his knee and pointing out the stars to travel by, explaining to him how the hunting was done and the prayer ye must say when ye killed for food.

But he’d told those things to Brianna later—and to Jem. The knowledge wouldn’t be lost. Would it be of use, though? he wondered suddenly.

“Do folk still hunt?” he asked. “Then?”

“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “Every fall, we’d have a rash of hunters coming in to the hospital—mostly idiots who’d got drunk and shot each other by mistake, though once I had a gentleman who’d been badly trampled by a deer he thought was dead.”

He laughed, both shocked and comforted. The notion of hunting while drunken … though he’d seen fools do it. But at least men still did hunt. Jem would hunt.

“I’m sure Roger Mac wouldna let Jem take too much drink before hunting,” he said. “Even if the other lads do.”

Her head tilted a little to and fro, in the way it did when she was wondering whether to tell him something, and he tightened his arms a little.

“What?”

“I was just imagining a gang of second-graders having a tot of whisky all round before setting off home from school in the rain,” she said, snorting briefly. “Children don’t drink alcohol then—at all. Or at least they aren’t meant to, and it’s scandalous child neglect if they’re allowed.”

“Aye?” That seemed odd; he’d been given ale or beer with his food
since … well, as far back as he recalled. And certainly a dram of whisky against the cold, or if his liver were chilled or he had the earache or … It was true, though, that Brianna made Jem drink milk, even after he was out of smocks.

The rattle of stones on the hillside below startled him, and he let go of Claire, turning toward the entrance. He doubted it was trouble but nonetheless motioned to her to stay, hoisting himself out of the cave mouth and reaching for his coat and the knife in its pocket even before he looked to see who had come.

There was a woman some way below, a tall figure in cloak and shawl, down by the big rock where Fergus had lost his hand. She was looking up, though, and saw him come out of the cave. She waved to him and beckoned, and with a quick glance round that assured him she was alone, he made his way half-sliding down the slope to the trail where she stood.

“Feasgar math,”
he greeted her, shrugging into the coat. She was fairly young, perhaps in her early twenties, but he didn’t know her. Or thought he didn’t, until she spoke.

“Ciamar a tha thu, mo athair,”
she said formally.
How do you do, Father?

He blinked, startled, but then leaned forward, peering at her.

“Joanie?” he said, incredulous. “Wee Joanie?” Her long, rather solemn face broke into a smile at that, but it was brief.

“Ye know me, then?”

“Aye, I do, now I come to see—” He put out a hand, wanting to embrace her, but she stood a bit away from him, stiff, and he let the hand drop, clearing his throat to cover the moment. “It’s been some time, lass. Ye’ve grown,” he added lamely.

“Bairns mostly do,” she said, dry. “Is it your wife ye’ve got with you? The first one, I mean.”

“It is,” he replied, the shock of her appearance replaced by wariness. He gave her a quick look-over, in case she might be armed, but couldn’t tell; her cloak was wrapped round her against the wind.

“Perhaps ye’d summon her down,” Joan suggested. “I should like to meet her.”

He rather doubted that. Still, she seemed composed, and he could scarcely refuse to let her meet Claire, if she wished it. Claire would be watching; he turned and gestured toward the cave, beckoning her, then turned back to Joan.

“How d’ye come to be here, lass?” he asked, turning back to her. It was a good eight miles to Balriggan from here, and there was nothing near the cave to draw anyone.

“I was coming to Lallybroch to see ye—I missed your visit when ye came to the house,” she added, with a brief flash of what might have been amusement. “But I saw you and … your wife … walking, so I came after ye.”

It warmed him, to think she’d wanted to see him. At the same time, he was cautious. It had been twelve years, and she’d been a child when he left. And she’d spent those years with Laoghaire, doubtless hearing no good opinions of him in that time.

He looked searchingly into her face, seeing only the vaguest memory of the childish features he recalled. She was not beautiful, or even pretty, but had
a certain dignity about her that was attractive; she met his gaze straight on, not seeming to care what he thought of what he saw. She had the shape of Laoghaire’s eyes and nose, though little else from her mother, being tall, dark, and rawboned, heavy-browed, with a long, thin face and a mouth that was not much used to smiling, he thought.

He heard Claire making her way down the slope behind him and turned to help her, though keeping one eye on Joanie, just in case.

“Dinna fash,” Joan said calmly behind him. “I dinna mean to shoot her.”

“Och? Well, that’s good.” Discomposed, he tried to remember—had she been in the house when Laoghaire shot him? He thought not, though he’d been in no condition to notice. She’d certainly known about it, though.

Claire took his hand and hopped down onto the trail, not pausing to settle herself but coming forward at once and taking Joan’s hands in both her own, smiling.

“I’m happy to meet you,” she said, sounding as though she meant it. “Marsali said I was to give you this.” And, leaning forward, she kissed Joan on the cheek.

For the first time, he saw the girl taken aback. She flushed and pulled her hands away, turning aside and rubbing a fold of her cloak under her nose as though taken by an itch, lest anyone see her eyes well up.

“I—thank you,” she said, with a hasty dab at her eyes. “You—my sister’s written of you.” She cleared her throat and blinked hard, then stared at Claire with open interest—an interest that was being returned in full.

“Félicité looks like you,” Claire said. “So does Henri-Christian, just a bit—but Félicité very much.”

“Poor child,” Joan murmured, but couldn’t repress the smile that had lit her face at this.

Jamie coughed.

“Will ye not come down to the house, Joanie? Ye’d be welcome.”

She shook her head.

“Later, maybe. I wanted to speak to ye,
mo athair
, where no one could hear. Save your wife,” she added, with a glance at Claire. “As she’s doubtless something to say on the matter.”

That sounded mildly sinister, but then she added, “It’s about my dowry.”

“Oh, aye? Well, come away out o’ the wind, at least.” He led them toward the lee of the big rock, wondering what was afoot. Was the lass wanting to wed someone unsuitable and her mother was refusing to give her her dowry? Had something happened to the money? He doubted that; old Ned Gowan had devised the documents, and the money was safe in a bank in Inverness. And whatever he thought of Laoghaire, he was sure she’d never do anything to the hurt of her daughters.

A huge gust of wind came up the track, whirling up the women’s petticoats like flying leaves and pelting them all with clouds of dust and dry heather. They darted into the shelter of the rock and stood smiling and laughing a little with the intoxication of the weather, brushing off the dirt and settling their clothes.

“So, then,” Jamie said, before the good mood should have a chance to curdle on them, “who is it ye mean to wed?”

“Jesus Christ,” Joan replied promptly.

He stared at her for a moment, until he became aware that his mouth was hanging open and closed it.

“You want to be a nun?” Claire’s brows were raised with interest. “Really?”

“I do. I’ve kent for a long time that I’ve a vocation, but …” She hesitated. “… it’s … complicated.”

“I daresay it is,” Jamie said, recovering himself somewhat. “Have ye spoken to anyone about it, lass? The priest? Your mother?”

Joan’s lips pressed into a thin line.

“Both of them,” she said shortly.

“And what did they say?” Claire asked. She was plainly fascinated, leaning back against the rock, combing back her hair with her fingers.

Joan snorted. “My mother says,” she said precisely, “that I’ve lost my mind from reading books—and that’s all
your
fault,” she added pointedly to Jamie, “for giving me the taste for it. She wants me to wed auld Geordie McCann, but I said I’d rather be dead in the ditch.”

“How old
is
auld Geordie McCann?” Claire inquired, and Joan blinked at her.

“Five-and-twenty or so,” she said. “What’s that to do with it?”

“Just curious,” Claire murmured, looking entertained. “There’s a young Geordie McCann, then?”

“Aye, his nephew. He’s three,” Joan added, in the interests of strict accuracy. “I dinna want to wed him, either.”

“And the priest?” Jamie intervened, before Claire could derail the discussion entirely.

Joan drew breath, seeming to grow taller and sterner with it.

“He
says that it’s my duty to stay to hame and tend to my aged mother.”

“Who’s swiving Joey the hired man in the goat shed,” Jamie added helpfully. “Ye ken that, I suppose?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Claire’s face, which entertained him so much that he was obliged to turn away and not look at her. He lifted a hand behind his back, indicating that he’d tell her later.

“Not while I’m in the house, she doesn’t,” Joan said coldly. “Which is the only reason I
am
in the house, still. D’ye think my conscience will let me leave, knowing what they’ll be up to? This is the first time I’ve gone further than the kailyard in three months, and if it wasna sinful to place wagers, I’d bet ye my best shift they’re at it this minute, damning both their souls to hell.”

Jamie cleared his throat, trying—and failing—not to think of Joey and Laoghaire, wrapped in passionate embrace on her bed with the blue-and-gray quilt.

“Aye, well.” He could feel Claire’s eyes boring into the back of his neck and felt the blood rise there. “So. Ye want to go for a nun, but the priest says ye mustn’t, your mother willna give ye your dowry for it, and your conscience willna let ye do it anyway. Is that the state o’ things, would ye say?”

“Aye, it is,” Joan said, pleased with his concise summary.

“And, um, what is it that you’d like Jamie to do about it?” Claire inquired, coming round to stand by him. “Kill Joey?” She shot Jamie a sidelong yellow-eyed
glance, full of wicked enjoyment at his discomfiture. He gave her a narrow look, and she grinned at him.

“Of course not!” Joan’s heavy brow drew down. “I want them to wed. Then they’d no be in a state of mortal sin every time I turned my back,
and
the priest couldna say I’ve to stay at home, not if my mother’s got a husband to care for her.”

Jamie rubbed a finger slowly up and down the bridge of his nose, trying to make out just how he was meant to induce two middle-aged reprobates to wed. By force? Hold a fowling piece on them? He could, he supposed, but … well, the more he thought of it, the better he liked the notion …

“Does he
want
to marry her, do you think?” Claire asked, surprising him. It hadn’t occurred to him to wonder that.