* * *
“Ever seen a small worm in a barnyard, in the middle of a flock of chickens?” he murmured as we walked down the hall an hour later behind a servant. “That’s me—or us, I should say. Stick close to me, now.”
The various connections of clan Fraser were indeed assembled; when we were shown into the Beaufort Castle library, it was to find more than twenty men seated around the room.
Jamie was formally introduced, and gave a formal statement on behalf of the Stuarts, giving the respects of Prince Charles and King James to Lord Lovat and appealing for Lovat’s help, to which the old man replied briefly, eloquently and noncommittally. Etiquette attended to, I was then brought forward and introduced, and the general atmosphere became more relaxed.
I was surrounded by a number of Highland gentlemen, who took turns exchanging words of welcome with me as Jamie chatted with someone named Graham, who seemed to be Lord Lovat’s cousin. The tacksmen eyed me with a certain amount of reserve, but were all courteous enough—with one exception.
Young Simon, much like his father in squatty outline, but nearly fifty years younger, came forward and bowed over my hand. Straightening up, he looked me over with an attention that seemed just barely this side of rudeness.
“Jamie’s wife, hm?” he asked. He had the slanted eyes of his father and half-nephew, but his were brown, muddy as bogwater. “I suppose that means I may call ye ‘niece,’ does it not?” He was just about Jamie’s age, clearly a few years younger than I.
“Ha-ha,” I said politely, as he chortled at his own wit. I tried to retrieve my hand, but he wasn’t letting go. Instead, he smiled jovially, giving me the once-over again.
“I’d heard of ye, you know,” he said. “You’ve a bit of fame through the Highlands, Mistress.”
“Oh, really? How nice.” I tugged inconspicuously; in response, his hand tightened around mine in a grip that was nearly painful.
“Oh, aye. I’ve heard you’re verra popular with the men of your husband’s command,” he said, smiling so hard his eyes narrowed to dark-brown slits. “They call ye neo-geimnidh meala, I hear. That means ‘Mistress Honeylips,’ ” he translated, seeing my look of bewilderment at the unfamiliar Gaelic.
“Why, thank you…” I began, but got no more than the first words out before Jamie’s fist crashed into Simon Junior’s jaw and sent his half-uncle reeling into a piecrust table, scattering sweetmeats and serving spoons across the polished slates with a terrific clatter.
He dressed like a gentleman, but he had a brawler’s instincts. Young Simon rolled up onto his knees, fists clenched, and froze there. Jamie stood over him, fists doubled but loose, his stillness more menacing than open threat.
“No,” he said evenly, “she doesna have much Gaelic. And now that ye’ve proved it to everyone’s satisfaction, ye’ll kindly apologize to my wife, before I kick your teeth down your throat.” Young Simon glowered up at Jamie, then glanced aside at his father, who nodded imperceptibly, looking impatient at this interruption. The younger Fraser’s shaggy black hair had come loose from its lacing, and hung like tree moss about his face. He eyed Jamie warily, but with a strange tinge of what looked like amusement as well, mingled with respect. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and bowed gravely to me, still on his knees.
“Your pardon, Mistress Fraser, and my apologies for any offense ye may have suffered.”
I could do no more than nod graciously in return, before Jamie was steering me out into the corridor. We had almost reached the door at the end before I spoke, glancing back to see that we were not overheard.
“What on earth does neo-geimnidh meala mean?” I said, jerking on his sleeve to slow him. He glanced down, as though I had just been recalled to his wandering attention.
“Ah? Oh, it means honeylips, all right. More or less.”
“But—”
“It’s no your mouth he was referring to, Sassenach,” Jamie said dryly.
“Why, that—” I made as if to turn back to the study, but Jamie tightened his grip on my arm.
“Cluck, cluck, cluck,” he murmured in my ear. “Dinna worry, Sassenach. They’re only tryin’ me. It will be all right.”
I was left in the care of Lady Frances, Young Simon’s sister, while Jamie returned to the library, shoulders squared for battle. I hoped he wouldn’t hit any more of his relatives; while the Frasers were, on the whole, not as sizable as the MacKenzies, they had a sort of tough watchfulness that boded ill for anyone trying something on in their immediate vicinity.
Lady Frances was young, perhaps twenty-two, and inclined to view me with a sort of terrorized fascination, as though I might spring upon her if not incessantly placated with tea and sweetmeats. I exerted myself to be as pleasant and unthreatening as possible, and after a time, she relaxed sufficiently to confess that she had never met an Englishwoman before. “Englishwoman,” I gathered, was an exotic and dangerous species.
I was careful to make no sudden moves, and after a bit, she grew comfortable enough to introduce me shyly to her son, a sturdy little chap of three or so, maintained in a state of unnatural cleanliness by the constant watchfulness of a stern-faced maidservant.
I was telling Frances and her younger sister Aline about Jenny and her family, whom they had never met, when there was a sudden crash and a cry in the hallway outside. I sprang to my feet, and reached the sitting-room door in time to see a huddled bundle of cloth struggling to rise to its feet in the stone corridor. The heavy door to the library stood open, and the squat figure of Simon Fraser the elder stood framed in it, malevolent as a toad.
“Ye’ll get worse than that, my lass, and ye make no better job of it,” he said. His tone was not particularly menacing; only a statement of fact. The bundled figure raised its head, and I saw an odd, angularly pretty face, dark eyes wide over the red blotch deepening on her cheekbone. She saw me, but made no acknowledgment of my presence, only getting to her feet and hurrying away without a word. She was very tall and extremely thin, and moved with the strange, half-clumsy grace of a crane, her shadow following her down the stones.
I stood staring at Old Simon, silhouetted against the firelight from the library behind him. He felt my eyes upon him, and turned his head to look at me. The old blue eyes rested on me, cold as sapphires.
“Good evening, my dear,” he said, and closed the door.
I stood looking blankly at the dark wooden door.
“What was that all about?” I asked Frances, who had come up behind me.
“Nothing,” she said, licking her lips nervously. “Come away, Cousin.” I let her pull me away, but resolved to ask Jamie later what had happened in the library.