Captain Freeman spat in valediction over the side, and turned to his mate.
“Fetch the poles, you, Troklus,” he said, and shambled toward the tiller, hitching his breeks upward as he went.
Slowly, the others stirred and came to life. Fergus, with a glance at Jamie, lit the lantern and then disappeared into the cabin, where I heard him beginning to set things to rights. Ian sat huddled on the deck, his dark head bent over Rollo as he dabbed at the dog’s neck with his wadded shirt.
I didn’t want to look at Jamie. I rolled onto my hands and knees and crawled slowly over to Young Ian. Rollo watched me, yellow eyes wary, but made no objection to my presence.
“How is he?” I said, rather hoarsely. I could feel the ring in my throat, an uncomfortable obstruction, and swallowed heavily several times.
Young Ian looked up at once; his face was white and set, but his eyes were alert.
“He’s all right, I think,” he said softly. “Auntie—are ye all right? Ye’re no hurt, are ye?”
“No,” I said, and tried to smile reassuringly. “I’m fine.” There was a sore spot on the back of my skull and my ears still rang slightly; the yellow halo of light around the lantern seemed to oscillate, to swell and shrink in rhythm with the beating of my heart. One cheek was scraped, I had a bruised elbow and a large splinter in one hand, but I seemed to be fundamentally sound, physically. Otherwise, I had my doubts.
I didn’t look around at Jamie, some six feet behind me, but I could feel his presence, ominous as a thundercloud. Ian, who plainly could see him over my shoulder, looked faintly apprehensive.
There was a slight creaking of the deck, and Ian’s expression eased. I heard Jamie’s voice inside the cabin, outwardly casual as he asked Fergus a question, then it faded, lost in the sounds of bumping and shuffling as the men righted furniture and repiled the scattered goods. I let my breath out slowly.
“Dinna fash, Auntie,” Ian said, in an attempt at comfort. “Uncle Jamie’s no the sort to lay hands on ye, I dinna think.”
I wasn’t at all sure of that, given the vibrations coming from Jamie’s direction, but I hoped he was right.
“Is he terribly angry, do you think?” I asked in a low voice.
Ian shrugged uneasily.
“Well, last time I saw him look at me that way, he took me back o’ the house and knocked me flat. He wouldna serve you that way, though, I’m sure,” he added hastily.
“I don’t suppose so,” I said, a little bleakly. I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t prefer it if he did.
“It’s no verra nice to get the rough side o’ Uncle Jamie’s tongue, either,” Ian said, shaking his head sympathetically. “I’d rather a thrashing, myself.”
I gave Ian a quelling look and leaned over the dog.
“Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof. Has the bleeding stopped?”
It had; disregarding the blood-matted fur, there was surprisingly little damage; no more than a deep nick in the skin and muscle near the shoulder. Rollo flattened his ears and showed his teeth as I examined him, but made no audible protest.
“Good dog,” I murmured. Had I any way to numb the skin, I would have stitched the wound, but we would have to do without such niceties. “He should have a little ointment there, to keep the flies out.”
“I’ll get it, Auntie; I ken where your wee box is.” Ian gently edged Rollo’s nose off his knee and got to his feet. “It’ll be the green stuff ye put on Fergus’s toe?” At my nod, he disappeared into the cabin, leaving me to deal with my quivering stomach, sore head, and congested throat. I swallowed several times, but with no great result. I touched my throat gingerly, wondering which ring I still had.
Eutroclus came round the corner of the cabin, carrying a long thick pole of white wood, deeply stained at one end, the marks testifying to the frequent necessity of its use. Stabbing the pole firmly down off the side, he leaned his weight against it, heaving with a long, sustained effort.
I jumped, as Jamie came out of the shadows, a similar pole in his hand. I hadn’t heard him, above the miscellaneous thumpings and shouts. He didn’t look at me, but shed his shirt, and at the deckhand’s indication, stabbed down his pole.
On the fourth try, I felt the vibration of the hull, a small judder as something shifted. Encouraged, Jamie and the hand shoved harder, and all of sudden, the hull slid free, with a muted bwong! of resonant wood that made Rollo lift his head with a startled Wuff!
Eutroclus nodded to Jamie, face beaming under a shiny layer of sweat, and took the pole from him. Jamie nodded back, smiling, and picking up his shirt from the deck, turned toward me.
I stiffened, and Rollo twitched his ears to full alert, but Jamie showed no immediate disposition either to berate me or to toss me overboard. Instead, he leaned down, frowning as he peered at me in the wavering lantern light.
“How d’ye feel, Sassenach? I canna tell if you’re really green, or is it only the light.”
“I’m all right. A bit shaky, perhaps.” More than a bit; my hands were still clammy, and I knew my trembling knees wouldn’t hold me if I tried to stand. I swallowed hard, coughed, and thumped myself on the chest.
“It’s probably my imagination, but it feels like the ring is caught in my throat.”
He squinted thoughtfully at me, then turned to Fergus, who had appeared from the cabin and was hovering nearby.
“Ask the captain might I see his pipe for a moment, Fergus.” He turned away, pulling his shirt over his head, and disappeared aft himself, returning moments later with a cup of water.
I reached gratefully for it, but he held it out of my reach.
“Not just yet, Sassenach,” he said. “Got it? Aye, thanks, Fergus. Fetch an empty bucket, now, will ye?” Taking the filthy pipe from a puzzled Fergus, he inserted his thumb into the stained bowl and began to scrape at the burnt, gummy residue that lined it.
Turning the pipe upside down, he tapped it over the cup of water, causing a small shower of brown crusts and moist crumbs of half-burnt tobacco, which he stirred into the water with his blackened thumb. Finished with these preparations, he looked up at me over the rim of the cup in a distinctly sinister fashion.
“No,” I said. “Oh, no.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “Come along, Sassenach; it’ll cure what ails ye.”
“I’ll just…wait,” I said. I folded my arms across my chest. “Thanks anyway.”
Fergus had by this time reappeared with the bucket, eyebrows raised high. Jamie took it from him and plunked it on the deck next to me.
“I’ve done it that way, Sassenach,” he informed me, “and it’s a good deal messier than ye might think. It’s also not a pleasant thing to do on a boat, in close company, aye?” He put a hand on the back of my head and pressed the cup against my lower lip. “This will be quick. Come on, now; a wee sip is all.”
I pressed my lips tightly together; the smell from the cup was enough to make my stomach turn over, combining as it did the stale reek of tobacco, the sight of the noisome brown surface of the liquid, crusts swimming below the surface, and the memory of Captain Freeman’s blobs of brown-tinged spittle sliding down the deck.
Jamie didn’t bother with argument or persuasion. He simply let go of my head, pinched my nose shut, and when I opened my mouth to breathe, tipped in the foul-smelling contents of the cup.
“Mmmfff!”
“Swallow,” he said, clapping a hand tightly across my mouth and ignoring both my frenzied squirming and the muffled sounds of protest I was making. He was a lot stronger than I was, and he didn’t mean to let go. It was swallow or strangle.
I swallowed.
* * *
“Good as new.” Jamie finished polishing the silver ring on his shirttail and held it up, admiring it in the glow of the lantern.
“That is somewhat better than can be said of me,” I replied coldly. I lay in a crumpled heap on the deck, which in spite of the placid current, seemed still to be heaving very slightly under me. “You are a grade-A, double-dyed, sadistic fucking bastard, Jamie Fraser!”
He bent over me and smoothed the damp hair off my face.
“I expect so. If ye feel well enough to call me names, Sassenach, you’ll do. Rest a bit, aye?” He kissed me gently on the forehead and sat back.
Excitement over and order restored to the ravaged decks, the other men had gone back to the cabin to restore themselves with the aid of a bottle of applejack that Captain Freeman had contrived to save from the pirates by dropping it into the water barrel. A small cup of this beverage rested on the deck near my head; I was still too queasy to countenance swallowing anything, but the warm, fruity smell was mildly comforting.
We were under sail; everyone was eager to get away, as though some danger still lingered over the place of the attack. We were moving faster, now; the usual small cloud of insects that hovered near the lanterns had dispersed, reduced to no more than a few lacewings resting on the beam above, their delicate green bodies casting tiny streaks of shadow. Inside the cabin, there was a small burst of laughter, and an answering growl from Rollo on the side deck—things were returning to normal.
A small, welcome breeze played across the deck, evaporating the clammy sweat on my face and lifting the ends of Jamie’s hair, drifting them across his face. I could see the small vertical line between his brows and the tilt of his head that indicated deep thought.
Little wonder if he was thinking. In one stroke, we had gone from riches—potential riches, at least—to rags, our well-equipped expedition reduced to a sack of beans and a used medicine chest. So much for his desire not to appear as beggars at Jocasta Cameron’s door—we were little more than that now.
My throat ached for him, pity replacing irritation. Beyond the question of his immediate pride, there was now a terrifying void in that unknown territory marked “The Future.” The future had been well open to question before, but the sharp edges of all such questions had been buffered by the comforting knowledge that we would have money to help accomplish our aims—whatever those turned out to be.
Even our penurious trip north had felt like an adventure, with the certain knowledge that we possessed a fortune, whether it was spendable or not. I had never before considered myself a person who placed much value on money, but having the certainty of security ripped away in this violent fashion had given me a sudden and quite unexpected attack of vertigo, as though I were falling down a long, dark well, powerless to stop.
What had it done to Jamie, who felt not only his danger and mine but the crushing responsibility of so many other lives? Ian, Fergus, Marsali, Duncan, the inhabitants of Lallybroch—even that bloody nuisance Laoghaire. I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, thinking of the money Jamie had sent her; the vengeful creature was a good deal better off at present than we were.
At the thought of vengeance, I felt a new stab that displaced all lesser fears. While Jamie was not markedly vengeful—for a Scot—no Highlander would suffer a loss such as this with silent resignation; a loss not only of fortune but of honor. What might he feel compelled to do about it?
Jamie stared fixedly into the dark water, his mouth set; was he seeing once again the graveyard where, swayed by Duncan’s intoxicated sentimentality, he had agreed to help Bonnet escape?
It belatedly occurred to me that the financial aspects of the disaster likely had not yet entered Jamie’s mind—he was occupied in more bitter reflection; it was he who had helped Bonnet escape the hangman’s rope, and set him free to prey on the innocent. How many besides us would suffer because of that?
“You’re not to blame,” I said, touching his knee.
“Who else?” he said quietly, not looking at me. “I kent the man for what he was. I could have left him to the fate he’d earned—but I did not. I was a fool.”
“You were kind. It’s not the same thing.”
“Near enough.”
He breathed in deeply; the air was freshening with the scent of ozone; the rain was near. He reached for the cup of applejack and drank, then looked at me for the first time, holding up the cup inquiringly.
“Yes, thanks.” I struggled to sit up, but Jamie took me by the shoulders and lifted me to lean against him. He held the cup for me to drink, the blood-warm liquid sliding soft across my tongue, then taking fire as it slid down my throat, burning away the traces of sickness and tobacco, leaving in their place rum’s lingering taste of burning sugarcane.
“Better?”
I nodded, and held up my right hand. He slid the ring onto my finger, the metal warm from his hand. Then, folding down my fingers, he squeezed my fist hard in his own and held it, tight.
“Had he been following us since Charleston?” I wondered aloud.
Jamie shook his head. His hair was still loose, heavy waves falling forward to hide his face.
“I dinna think so. If he’d kent we had the jewels, he would have set upon us on the road before we reached Wilmington. No, I expect he learned it from one of Lillington’s servants. I thought we’d be safe enough, for we’d be away to Cross Creek before anyone heard of the gems. Someone talked, though—a footman; perhaps the sempstress who sewed your gown.”
His face was outwardly calm, but it always was, when he was hiding strong emotions. A sudden gust of hot wind shot sideways across the deck; the rain was getting closer. It whipped the loose ends of his hair across his cheek, and he wiped them back, running his fingers through the thick mass.
“I’m sorry for your other ring,” he said, after a moment.
“Oh. It’s—” I started to say “It’s all right,” but the words stuck in my throat, choked by the sudden realization of loss.
I had worn that gold ring for nearly thirty years; token of vows taken, forsaken, renewed, and at last absolved. A token of marriage, of family; of a large part of my life. And the last trace of Frank—whom, in spite of everything, I had loved.
Jamie didn’t say anything, but he took my left hand in his own and held it, lightly stroking my knuckles with his thumb. I didn’t speak either. I sighed deeply and turned my face toward the stern; the trees along the shore were shivering in a rising wind of anticipation, leaves rustling loudly enough to drown the sound of the vessel’s passage.
A small drop struck my cheek, but I didn’t move. My hand lay limp and white in his, looking unaccustomedly frail; it was something of a shock to see it that way.
I was used to paying a great deal of attention to my hands, one way and another. They were my tools, my channel of touch, mingling the delicacy and strength by which I healed. They had a certain beauty, which I admired in a detached sort of way, but it was the beauty of strength and competence, the assurance of power that made its form admirable.
It was the same hand now, pale and long-fingered, the knuckles slightly bony—oddly bare without my ring, but recognizably my hand. Yet it lay in a hand so much larger and rougher that it seemed small, and fragile by comparison.
His other hand squeezed tighter, pressing the metal of the silver ring into my flesh, reminding me of what remained. I lifted his fist and pressed it hard against my heart in answer. The rain began to fall, in large, wet drops, but neither of us moved.
It came in a rush, dropping a veil over boat and shore, pattering noisily on leaves and deck and water, lending a temporary illusion of concealment. It washed cool and soft across my skin, momentary balm on the wounds of fear and loss.
I felt at once horribly vulnerable and yet completely safe. But then—I had always felt that way with Jamie Fraser.