* * *
Jamie had pulled a muscle in his thigh during the rescue at Argentan, and was limping badly by the time we returned to Paris. He sent Fergus—none the worse either for the escapade or the scolding that followed it—down to the kitchen to seek his supper, and sank into a chair by the hearth, rubbing the swollen leg.
“Hurt much?” I asked sympathetically.
“A bit. All it needs is rest, though.” He stood up and stretched luxuriously, long arms nearly reaching the blackened oak beams above the mantel. “Cramped in that coach; I’d’ve sooner ridden.”
“Mmm. So would I.” I rubbed the small of my back, aching with the strain of the trip. The ache seemed to press downward through my pelvis to my legs—joints loosening from pregnancy, I supposed.
I ran an exploratory hand over Jamie’s leg, then gestured to the chaise.
“Come and lie on your side. I’ve some nice ointment I can rub your leg with; it might ease the ache a bit.”
“Well, if ye dinna mind.” He rose stiffly and lay down on his left side, kilt pulled above his knee.
I opened my medicine box and rummaged through the boxes and jars. Agrimony, slippery elm, pellitory-of-the-wall…ah, there it was. I pulled out the small blue glass jar Monsieur Forez had given me and unscrewed the lid. I sniffed cautiously; salves went rancid easily, but this one appeared to have a good proportion of salt mixed in for preservation. It had a nice mellow scent, and was a beautiful color—the rich yellow-white of fresh cream.
I scooped out a good bit of the salve and spread it down the long muscle of the thigh, pushing Jamie’s kilt above his hip to keep out of the way. The flesh of his leg was warm; not the heat of infection, only the normal heat of a young male body, flushed with exercise and the glowing pulse of health. I massaged the cream gently into the skin, feeling the swell of the hard muscle, probing the divisions of quadriceps and hamstring. Jamie made a small grunting sound as I rubbed harder.
“Hurt?” I asked.
“Aye, a bit, but don’t stop,” he answered. “Feels as though it’s doing me good.” He chuckled. “I wouldna admit it to any but you, Sassenach, but it was fun. I havena moved like that in months.”
“Glad you enjoyed yourself,” I said dryly, taking another dab of cream. “I had an interesting time myself.” Not pausing in the massage, I told him of Sandringham’s offer.
He grunted in response, wincing slightly as I hit a tender spot. “So Colum was right, when he thought the man might be able to help with the charges against me.”
“So it would seem. I suppose the question is—do you want to take him up on it?” I tried not to hold my breath, as I waited for his answer. For one thing, I knew what it would be; the Frasers as a family were renowned for stubbornness, and despite his mother’s having been a MacKenzie, Jamie was a Fraser through and through. Having made up his mind to stopping Charles Stuart, he was hardly likely to abandon the effort. Still, it was tempting bait—to me, as well as to him. To be able to go back to Scotland, to his home; to live in peace.
But there was another rub, of course. If we did go back, leaving Charles’s plans to run their course into the future I knew, then any peace in Scotland would be short-lived indeed.
Jamie gave a small snort, apparently having followed my own thought processes. “Well, I’ll tell ye, Sassenach. If I thought that Charles Stuart might succeed—might free Scotland from English rule—then I would give my lands, my liberty, and life itself to help him. Fool he might be, but a royal fool, and not an ungallant one, I think.” He sighed.
“But I know the man, and I’ve talked with him—and with all the Jacobites that fought with his father. And given what you tell me will happen if it comes to a Rising again…I dinna see that I’ve any choice but to stay, Sassenach.
Once he is stopped, then there may be a chance to go back—or there may not. But for now, I must decline His Grace’s offer wi’ thanks.”
I patted his thigh gently. “That’s what I thought you’d say.”
He smiled at me, then glanced down at the yellowish cream that coated my fingers. “What’s that stuff?”
“Something Monsieur Forez gave me. He didn’t say what it’s called. I don’t think it’s got any active ingredients, but it’s a nice, greasy sort of cream.”
The body under my hands stiffened and Jamie glanced over his shoulder at the blue jar.
“Monsieur Forez gave it ye?” he said uneasily.
“Yes,” I answered, surprised. “What’s the matter?” For he had put aside my cream-smeared hands and, swinging his legs over the side of the chaise longue, was reaching for a towel.
“Has that jar a fleur-de-lys on the lid, Sassenach?” he asked, wiping the ointment from his leg.
“Yes, it has,” I said. “Jamie, what’s wrong with that salve?” The look on his face was peculiar in the extreme; it kept vacillating between dismay and amusement.
“Oh, I wouldna say there’s anything wrong about it, Sassenach,” he answered finally. Having rubbed his leg hard enough to leave the curly red-gold hair bristling above reddened skin, he tossed the towel aside and looked thoughtfully at the jar.
“Monsieur Forez must think rather highly of ye, Sassenach,” he said. “It’s expensive stuff, that.”
“But—”
“It’s not that I dinna appreciate it,” he assured me hastily. “It’s only that havin’ come within a day’s length of being one of the ingredients myself, it makes me feel a bit queer.”
“Jamie!” I felt my voice rising. “What is that stuff?” I grabbed the towel, hastily swabbing my salve-coated hands.
“Hanged-men’s grease,” he answered reluctantly.
“H-h-h…” I couldn’t even get the word out, and started over. “You mean…” Goose bumps rippled up my arms, raising the fine hairs like pins in a cushion.
“Er, aye. Rendered fat from hanged criminals.” He spoke cheerfully, regaining his composure as quickly as I was losing mine. “Verra good for the rheumatism and joint-ill, they say.”
I recalled the tidy way in which Monsieur Forez had gathered up the results of his operations in L’H?pital des Anges, and the odd look on Jamie’s face when he had seen the tall chirurgien escort me home. My knees were watery, and I felt my stomach flip like a pancake.
“Jamie! Who in bloody fucking hell is Monsieur Forez?” I nearly screamed.
Amusement was definitely getting the upper hand in his expression.
“He’s the public hangman for the Fifth Arondissement, Sassenach. I thought ye knew.”