36
MACRANNOCH
It was dark in the cottage and there was a bear in the corner of the room. In panic, I recoiled against my escort, wanting nothing more to do with wild beasts. He shoved me strongly forward, into the cottage. As I staggered toward the fire, the hulking shape turned toward me, and I realized belatedly that it was merely a large man in a bearskin.
A bearskin cloak, to be exact, fastened at the neck with a silver-gilt brooch as large as the palm of my hand. It was made in the shape of two leaping stags, backs arched and heads meeting to form a circle. The locking pin was a short, tapered fan, the head of it shaped like the tail of a fleeing deer.
I noticed the brooch in detail because it was directly in front of my nose. Looking up, I briefly considered the possibility that I had been wrong; perhaps it really was a bear.
Still, bears presumably did not wear brooches or have eyes like blueberries; small, round, and a dark, shiny blue. They were sunk in heavy cheeks whose lower slopes were forested with silver-shot black hair. Similar hair cascaded over thickset shoulders to mingle with the hair of the cloak, which, in spite of its new use, was still pungently redolent of its former owner.
The shrewd little eyes flickered over me, evaluating both the bedraggled state of my attire, and the good basic quality of it, including the two wedding rings, gold and silver. The bear’s address was formulated accordingly.
“You seem to have had some difficulty, Mistress,” he said formally, inclining a massive head still spangled with melting snow. “Perhaps we might assist ye?”
I hesitated over what to say. I desperately needed this man’s help, yet I would be suspect immediately my speech revealed me to be English. The archer who had brought me here forestalled me.
“Found her near Wentworth,” he said laconically. “Fightin’ wolves. An English lassie,” he added, with an emphasis that made my host’s blueberry eyes fix on me with a rather unpleasant speculation in their depths. I pulled myself up to my full height and summoned as much of the Matron attitude as I could.
“English by birth, Scots by marriage,” I said firmly. “My name is Claire Fraser. My husband is a prisoner in Wentworth.”
“I see,” said the bear, slowly. “Weel, my own name is MacRannoch, and ye’re presently on my land. I can see by your dress as you’re a woman of some family; how come ye to be alone in Eldridge Wood on a winter night?”
I caught at the opening; here was some chance to establish my bona fides, as well as to find Murtagh and Rupert.
“I came to Wentworth with some clansmen of my husband’s. As I was English, we thought I could gain entrance to the prison, and perhaps find some way of, er, removing him. However, I—I left the prison by another way. I was looking for my friends when I was set upon by wolves—from which this gentleman kindly rescued me.” I tried a grateful smile on the raw-boned archer, who received it in stony silence.
“Ye’ve certainly met something wi’ teeth,” MacRannoch agreed, eyeing the gaping rents in my skirt. Suspicion yielded temporarily to the demands of hospitality.
“Are ye hurt, then? Just a bit scratched? Weel, you’re cold, nae doubt, and a wee bit shaken, I imagine. Sit here by the fire. Hector will fetch ye a sup of something, and then ye can tell me a bit more about these friends of yours.” He pulled a rough three-legged stool up with one foot, and sat me firmly on it with a massive hand on my shoulder.
Peat fires give little light but are comfortingly hot. I shuddered involuntarily as the blood started to flow back into my frozen hands. A couple of gulps from the leather flask grudgingly provided by Hector started the blood flowing internally again as well.
I explained my situation as well as I could, which was not particularly well. My brief description of my exit from the prison and subsequent hand-to-hand encounter with the wolf was received with particular skepticism.
“Given that ye did manage to get into Wentworth, it doesna seem likely that Sir Fletcher would allow ye to wander about the place. Nor if this Captain Randall had found ye in the dungeons, he would merely ha’ shown ye the back door.”
“He—he had reasons for letting me go.”
“Which were?” The blueberry eyes were implacable.
I gave up and put the matter baldly; I was much too tired for delicacy or circumlocutions.
MacRannoch appeared semiconvinced, but still reluctant to take any action.
“Aye, I see your concern,” he argued, “still, that may not be so bad.”
“Not so bad!” I sprang to my feet in outrage.
He shook his head as though plagued by deerflies. “What I mean,” he explained, “is that if it’s the lad’s arse he’s after, he’s none so likely to hurt him badly. And, savin’ your presence, ma’am”—he cocked a bushy eyebrow in my direction—”bein’ buggered has seldom killed anyone.” He held up placating hands the size of soup plates.
“Now, I’m no sayin’ he’ll enjoy it, mind, but I do say it’s not worth a major set-to with Sir Fletcher Gordon, just to save the lad a sore arse. I’ve a precarious position here, ye know, verra precarious.” And he puffed out his cheeks and beetled his brows at me.
Not for the first time, I regretted the fact that there were no real witches. Had I been one, I would have turned him into a toad on the spot. A big fat one, with warts.
I choked down my rage and tried reason yet again.
“I rather think his arse is beyond saving by this time; it’s his neck I’m concerned with. The English mean to hang him in the morning.”
MacRannoch was muttering to himself, twisting back and forth like a bear in a too-small cage. He stopped abruptly in front of me and thrust his nose to within an inch of my own. I would have recoiled, had I not been so exhausted. As it was, I merely blinked.
“And if I said I’d help ye, what good would that do?” he roared. He resumed his turning and pacing, two steps to one wall, hurling around in a fling of fur, and two steps to the other. He spoke as he paced, words keeping time to the steps, pausing to puff as he turned.
“If I were to go to Sir Fletcher myself, what would I say? Ye’ve a captain on your staff who’s engaged in torturin’ the prisoners in his spare time? And when he asks how I know that, I tell him a stray Sassenach wench my men found wanderin’ in the dark told me this man’s been makin’ indecent advances to her husband, who’s an outlaw wi’ a price on his head, and a condemned murderer, to boot?”
MacRannoch stopped and thumped one paw on the flimsy table. “And as for takin’ men into the place! If, and mind ye, I say if we could get in—”
“You could get in,” I interrupted. “I can show you the way.”
“Mmmphm. That’s as may be. If we could get in, what happens when Sir Fletcher finds my men wanderin’ about his fortress? He sends Captain Randall round next mornin’ with a brace of cannon and levels Eldridge Hall to the ground, that’s what!” He shook his head again, making the black locks fly.
“Nay, lass, I canna see—”
He was interrupted by the sudden flinging open of the cottage door to admit another bowman, this one pushing Murtagh in front of him at knifepoint. MacRannoch stopped and stared in amazement.
“What is this?” he demanded. “Ye’d think ‘twas May Day, and the lads and lassies all out gatherin’ flowers in the wood, not the dead o’ winter and snow comin’ on!”
“This is my husband’s clansman,” I said. “As I told you—”
Murtagh, undisturbed by the less than cordial greeting, was eyeing the bear-clad figure closely, as though mentally stripping hair and years away.
“MacRannoch, is it no?” he said, in a tone almost accusing. “Ye’ll have been at a Gathering, I think, some time ago at Castle Leoch?”
MacRannoch was more than startled. “Some time ago, I should say! Why, that must ha’ been near on thirty year ago. How d’ye know that, man?”
Murtagh nodded, satisfied. “Och, I thought so. I was there. And I remember that Gathering, likely for the same reason ye do yourself.”
MacRannoch was studying the wizened little man, trying to subtract thirty years from the seamed countenance.
“Aye, I know ye,” he said at last. “Or not the name, but you. Ye killed a wounded boar single-handed with a dagger, during the tynchal. A gallant beast too. That’s right, the MacKenzie gave ye the tushes—a bonny set, almost a complete double curve. Lovely work that, man.” A look perilously close to gratification creased Murtagh’s pitted cheek momentarily.
I started, remembering the magnificent, barbaric bracelets I had seen at Lallybroch. My mother’s, Jenny had said, given to her by an admirer. I stared at Murtagh in disbelief. Even allowing for the passage of thirty years, he did not seem a likely candidate for the tender passion.
Thinking of Ellen MacKenzie, I remembered her pearls, which I was still carrying, sewn into the seam of my pocket. I groped for the free end, pulling them out into the firelight.
“I can pay you,” I said. “I wouldn’t expect your men to risk themselves for nothing.”
Moving a good deal faster than I would have thought possible, he snatched the pearls from my hand. He stared at them disbelievingly.
“Where did ye get these, woman?” he demanded. “Fraser, did ye say your name is?”
“Yes.” Tired as I was, I drew myself up straight. “And the pearls are mine. My husband gave them to me on our wedding day.”
“Did he, then?” The hoarse voice was suddenly hushed. He turned to Murtagh, still holding the pearls.
“Ellen’s son? Is this lass’s husband Ellen’s son?”
“Aye,” Murtagh said, unemphatic as ever. “As ye’d ken at once if ye saw him; he’s the spit of her.”
Mindful at last of the pearls he was clutching, MacRannoch unfolded his hand and gently stroked the shining gems.
“I gave these to Ellen MacKenzie,” he said. “For a wedding gift. I would ha’ given them to her as my wife, but as she’d chosen elsewhere—well, I’d thought of them so often, around her bonny throat, I told her I couldna see them elsewhere. So I bade her keep them, and only think of me when she wore them. Hm!” He snorted briefly at some memory, then handed the pearls carefully back to me.
“So they’re yours now. Well, wear them in good health, lassie.”
“I’ll stand a much better chance of doing so,” I said, trying to control my impatience at these sentimental displays, “if you’ll help me to get my husband back.”
The small rosy mouth, which had been smiling slightly at its owner’s thought, tightened suddenly.
“Ah,” said Sir Marcus, pulling at his beard. “I see. But I’ve told ye, lassie, I canna see how it can be done. I’ve a wife and three weans at home. Aye, I’d do a bit for Ellen’s lad. But it’s a bit much ye’re askin’.”
Suddenly my legs gave way altogether, and I sat down with a thump, letting my shoulders sag and my head droop. Despair dragged at me like an anchor, pulling me down. I closed my eyes and retreated to some dim place within, where there was nothing but an aching grey blankness, and where the sound of Murtagh’s voice, still arguing, was no more than a faint yapping.
It was the bawling of cattle that roused me from my stupor. I looked up to see MacRannoch swirl out of the cottage. As he opened the door, a blast of winter air came in, thick with the lowing of cattle and yelling of men. The door thumped shut behind the vast hairy figure, and I turned to ask Murtagh what he thought we should do next.
The look on his face stopped me, wordless. I had seldom seen him with anything more than a sort of patient dourness showing on his features, but now he positively glowed with suppressed excitement.
I caught at his arm. “What is it? Tell me quickly!”
He had time only to say, “The kine! They’re MacRannoch’s!” before MacRannoch himself plunged back into the cottage, pushing a lanky young man before him.
With a last shove, he brought the young man flat up against the plastered wall of the cottage. Apparently MacRannoch found confrontation effective; he tried the same nose-to-nose technique he had used on me earlier. Less poised, or less tired, than I, the young man hunched nervously back against the wall as far as he could go.
MacRannoch started out being sweetly reasonable. “Absalom, man, I sent ye out three hours ago to bring in forty head of cattle. I told ye it was important to find them, because there’s about to be a damn awfu’ snowstorm.” The nicely modulated voice was rising. “And when I heard the sound of kine bellowin’ outside, I said to meself, Ah, Marcus, there’s Absalom gone and found all the cattle, what a good lad, now we can all go home and thaw ourselves by the fire, with the kine safe in their barns.”
One ham-fist had fastened itself onto Absalom’s jacket. The material, gathered between those stubby fingers, began to twist.
“And then I go out to congratulate you on a good job done, and begin to count the beasts. And how many do I count, Absalom, me bonny wee lad?” The voice had risen to a full-powered roar. While not possessed of a particularly deep voice, Marcus MacRannoch had enough lung-power for three ordinary-sized men.
“Fifteen!” he shouted, jerking the unfortunate Absalom to his tiptoes. “Fifteen beasts he finds, out of forty! And where are the rest o’ them? Where? Out loose in the snow, to freeze to death!”
Murtagh had faded quietly back into the shadows in the corner while all this was going on. I was watching his face, though, and saw the sudden gleam of amusement in his eyes at these words. Suddenly I realized what he had started to tell me, and I knew where Rupert was now. Or, if not precisely where he was, at least what he was doing. And I began to hope a little.
It was full dark. The prison’s lights below shone weakly through the snow like the lamps of a drowned ship. Waiting under the trees with my two companions, I mentally reviewed for the thousandth time everything that could go wrong.
Would MacRannoch carry out his part of the bargain? He’d have to, if he expected to get his prized purebred Highland cattle back. Would Sir Fletcher believe MacRannoch and order a search of the basement dungeons at once? Likely—the baronet wasn’t a man to be taken lightly.
I had seen the cattle disappear, one shaggy beast at a time, down the ditch that led to the hidden postern door, under the expert driving of Rupert and his men. But would they be able to force the cattle through that door, singly or not? And if so, what would they do once inside; half-wild cattle, trapped suddenly in a stone corridor lit with glaring torchlight? Well, perhaps it would work. The corridor itself would be not unlike their stone-floored barn, including torches and the scent of humans. If they got so far, the plan might succeed. Randall himself was unlikely to call for help in the face of the invasion, for fear of having his own little games uncovered.
The handlers were to get away from the prison as fast as possible, once the beasts were well and truly launched on their chaotic path, and then to ride hell-for-leather for the MacKenzie lands. Randall didn’t matter; what could he do alone, in the circumstances? But what if the noise attracted the rest of the prison garrison too soon? If Dougal had been reluctant to try to break his nephew out of Wentworth, I could imagine his choler if several MacKenzies were arrested for breaking into the place. I didn’t want to be responsible for that, either, though Rupert had been more than willing to take the risk. I bit my thumb and tried to comfort myself, thinking of the tons of solid, sound-muffling granite that separated the dungeons from the prison quarters above.
Most worrying of all, of course, was the fear that everything might work, and might be still too late. Waiting hangsman or no, Randall might go too far. I knew too well, from stories told by returning soldiers from POW camps, that nothing is easier than for a prisoner to die by “accident,” and the body be conveniently disposed of before embarrassing official questions can be asked. Even if questions were asked, and Randall found out, it would be small comfort to me—and to Jamie.
I had been resolutely keeping myself from imagining the possible uses of the homely objects on the table of that room. But I could not keep from seeing over and over the bone-ends of that shattered finger pressing into the table. I rubbed my own knuckles hard against the saddle leather, trying to erase the image. I felt a slight burning, and pulled off the glove to examine the grazes left across my hand by the wolf’s teeth. Not bad, no more than a few scratches, with one small puncture where a cusp had penetrated the leather. I licked the wound absently. It was little use telling myself that I had done my best. I had done the only possible thing, but knowing it didn’t make the waiting easier.
At last, we heard a faint, confused shouting from the direction of the prison. One of the MacRannoch men put a hand on the bridle of my horse and motioned toward the shelter of the trees. The snow was much lighter on the ground and the flurries diminished under the interlaced branches of the grove, thin lines of snow stark and sudden on the rocky leaf-strewn ground. While the snow fell less thickly in here, visibility was still so poor that tree trunks a few feet away loomed surprisingly as I walked my horse restlessly around the small clearing, trunks springing up black in the pinkish light.
Muffled by the heavy snow, the approaching hoofbeats were almost upon us before we heard them. The two MacRannoch men drew their pistols and reined their horses up close to the trees, waiting, but I had picked up the dull lowing of cattle, and spurred my horse forward out of the grove.
Sir Marcus MacRannoch, distinguishable by his piebald mount and his bearskin cloak, was leading the way up the slope, snow spurting in small explosions from under the hooves of his horse. He was followed by several men, all in high good humor, from the sound of it. More of his men rode further back, chivvying the milling herd of cattle from behind, driving the band of bewildered beasts around the base of the hill, toward their well-earned shelter in the MacRannoch barns.
MacRannoch reined up beside me, laughing heartily. “I’ve to thank ye, Mistress Fraser,” he shouted through the snow, “for a most entertaining evening.” His earlier suspicion had vanished, and he greeted me with the utmost geniality. His eyebrows and mustache coated with snow, he looked like Father Christmas on a spree. Taking my bridle, he led my horse back into the quieter air of the grove. He waved my two companions down the hill to help with the cattle, then dismounted and swung me down from my saddle, still laughing to himself.
“Ye should ha’ seen it!” he chortled, hugging himself in ecstasy. “Sir Fletcher went red as a robin’s breast when I pushed in in the midst of his dinner, shouting that he was concealing stolen property on his premises. And then when we got below-stairs and he heard the beasts bellowin’ like thunder, I thought he’d dirtied his breeches. He—” I shook his arm impatiently.
“Never mind Sir Fletcher’s breeches. Did you find my husband?”
MacRannoch sobered a bit, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “Oh, aye. We found him.”
“Is he all right?” I spoke calmly, though I wanted to scream.
MacRannoch nodded toward the trees behind me, and I whirled to see a rider making his way carefully through the branches, a bulky cloth-covered shape draped across the saddlebow in front of him. I dashed forward, followed by MacRannoch, explaining helpfully.
“He’s no deid, or at least he wasn’t when we found him. Been mistreated a good bit, though, poor laddie.” I had pushed aside the cloth over Jamie’s head, and was anxiously examining him as best I could, with the horse fidgeting from the excitement of the cold ride and the extra burden. I could see dark bruises and feel stiff patches of blood in the rumpled hair, but could tell little more in the dim light. I thought I could feel a pulse in the icy neck, but wasn’t sure.
MacRannoch caught my elbow and pulled me away. “We’ll do best to get him inside quick, lass. Come with me. Hector will bring him along to the house.”
In the main drawing room of Eldridge Manor, MacRannoch’s home, Hector humped his burden onto the rug before the fire. Seizing one corner of the blanket, he unrolled it carefully, and a limp, naked figure flopped out onto the pink and yellow flowers of Lady Annabelle MacRannoch’s pride and joy.
To do the Lady Annabelle credit, she didn’t seem to notice the blood soaking into her expensive Aubusson rug. A birdlike woman in her early forties, arrayed like a goldfinch in a sunburst of yellow silk dressing gown, she had servants bustling in all directions with a brisk clap of her hands, and blankets, linen, hot water, and whisky appeared at my elbow almost before I had got my cloak off.
“Best turn him on his belly,” advised Sir Marcus, pouring out two large whiskies. “He’s had his back flayed, and it must feel fierce to lie on it. Not that he looks like he feels anything, much,” he added, peering closely at Jamie’s ashen face and sealed, bluish eyelids. “You’re sure he’s still alive?”
“Yes,” I answered shortly, hoping I was right. I struggled to pull Jamie over. Unconsciousness seemed to have tripled his weight. MacRannoch lent a hand, and we got him positioned on a blanket, back to the fire.
A rapid triage having established that he was in fact alive, missing no body parts, and not in immediate danger of bleeding to death, I could afford to make a less hurried inventory of the damage.
“I can send for a physician,” said Lady Annabelle, looking dubiously at the corpselike figure on her hearth, “but I doubt he can get here under an hour; it’s snowing something fierce out.” The reluctance in her tone was only partly on account of the snow, I thought. A physician would make one more dangerous witness to the presence of an escaped criminal in her home.
“Don’t bother,” I said absently, “I am a physician.” Disregarding the looks of surprise from both MacRannochs, I knelt beside what was left of my husband, covered him with blankets and began to apply cloths soaked in hot water to the outlying parts. My chief concern was to get him warm; the blood from his back was a slow ooze, which could be dealt with later.
Lady Annabelle faded into the distance, her high goldfinch’s voice summoning, beckoning, and arranging. Her spouse sank down on his haunches beside me, and began to rub Jamie’s frozen feet in a businesslike way between large blunt-fingered hands, pausing occasionally to sip his whisky.
Turning back the blankets in bits, I surveyed the damage. He had been finely striped from nape to knees with something like a coachwhip, the weals crisscrossing neatly like hemstitching. The sheer orderliness of the damage, speaking as it did of a deliberation that reveled in each punishing stroke, made me feel sick with rage.
Something heavier, perhaps a cane, had been used with less restraint across his shoulders, cutting so deeply in spots that a gleam of bone showed over one shoulderblade. I pressed a thick pad of lint gently over the worst of the mess and went on with the examination.
The spot on his left side where the mallet had struck was an ugly contused swelling, a black and purple patch bigger than Sir Marcus’s hand. Broken ribs there for sure, but those too could wait. My attention was caught by the livid patches on neck and breast, where the skin was puckered, reddened and blistered. The edges of one such patch were charred, rimmed with white ash.
“What in hell did that?” Sir Marcus had completed his ministrations and was looking over my shoulder with deep interest.
“A hot poker.” The voice was weak and indistinct; it was a moment before I realized that it was Jamie who had spoken. He raised his head with an effort, showing the reason for his difficult speech; the lower lip was badly bitten on one side and puffed like a beesting.
With considerable presence of mind, Sir Marcus put a hand behind Jamie’s neck and pressed the beaker of whisky to his lips. Jamie winced as the spirit stung his torn mouth, but drained the beaker before laying his head down again. His eyes slanted up at me, slightly filmed with pain and whisky, but alight with amusement nonetheless. “Cows?” he asked, “Was it really cows, or was I dreaming?”
“Well, it was all I could manage in the time,” I said, beaming in my relief at seeing him alive and conscious. I placed a hand on his head, turning it to inspect a large bruise over the cheekbone. “You look bloody awful. How do you feel?” I asked, from force of long-held habit.
“Alive.” He struggled up onto one elbow to accept with a nod a second beaker of whisky from Sir Marcus.
“Do you think you should drink so much all at once?” I asked, trying to examine his pupils for signs of concussion. He foiled me by closing his eyes and tilting his head back.
“Yes,” he said, handing back the empty beaker to Sir Marcus, who bore it back in the direction of the decanter.
“Now, that’ll be enough for the present, Marcus.” Lady Annabelle, reappearing like the sun in the east, stopped her husband with a commanding chirp. “The lad needs hot strong tea, not more whisky.” The tea followed her processionally in a silver pot, borne by a maidservant whose air of natural superiority was unimpaired by the fact that she was still attired in her nightdress.
“Hot strong tea with plenty of sugar in it,” I amended.
“And perhaps a wee tot of whisky as well,” said Sir Marcus, neatly removing the lid of the teapot as it passed and adding a generous dollop from his decanter. Accepting the steaming cup gratefully, Jamie raised it in mute tribute to Sir Marcus before cautiously bringing the hot liquid to his mouth. His hand shook badly, and I wrapped my own around his fingers to guide the cup.
More servants were bringing in a portable camp bed, a mattress, more blankets, more bandages and hot water, and a large wooden chest containing the household’s medical supplies.
“I thought we had best work here before the fire,” Lady Annabelle explained in her charming bird-voice. “There’s more light, and it’s far the warmest place in the house.”
At her direction, two of the larger menservants each seized an end of the blanket under Jamie and transferred it smoothly, contents and all, to the camp bed, now set up before the fire, where another servant was industriously poking the night-banked coals and feeding the growing blaze. The maid who had brought in the tea was efficiently lighting the wax tapers in the branched candelabra on the sideboard. Despite her songbird appearance, the Lady Annabelle plainly had the soul of a master-sergeant.
“Yes, now that he’s awake, the sooner the better,” I said. “Have you a flat board about two feet long,” I asked, “a stout strap, and perhaps some small straight flat sticks, about so long?” I held my fingers apart, measuring a length of four inches or so. One of the servants disappeared into the shadows, flicking out of sight like a djinn to do my bidding.
The whole house seemed magical, perhaps because of the contrast between the howling cold outside and the luxurious warmth within, or maybe only because of the relief of seeing Jamie safe, after so many hours of fear and worry.
Heavy dark furniture gleamed with polish in the lamplight, silver shone on the sideboard, and a collection of delicate glass and china ornamented the mantelpiece, in bizarre contrast to the bloody, bedraggled figure before it.
No questions were asked. We were Sir Marcus’s guests, and Lady Annabelle behaved as though it were an everyday occurrence to have people come and bleed on the carpet at midnight. It occurred to me for the first time that such a visit might have happened before.
“Verra nasty,” said Sir Marcus, examining the smashed hand with an expertise born of the battlefield. “And wretched painful, too, I expect. Still, it’s no going to kill ye, is it?” He straightened up and addressed me in confidential tones.
“I thought it might be worse than this, given what ye told me. Except the ribs and hand, there’s no bones broken, and the rest will heal fine. I’d say maybe ye were lucky, lad.”
There was a faint snort from the recumbent figure on the bed.
“I suppose ye could call it luck. They meant to be hanging me in the morning.” He moved his head restlessly on the pillow, trying to look up at Sir Marcus. “Did ye know that…sir?” he added, catching sight of Sir Marcus’s embroidered waistcoat, with its coat of arms worked in silver stitchery among the pigeons and roses.
MacRannoch waved a hand, dismissing this minor detail.
“Weel, if he meant to be keepin’ ye presentable for the hangsman, he went a bit far on your back, then,” Sir Marcus remarked, removing the soaked lint and replacing it with a fresh pad.
“Aye. He lost his head a bit when…when he…” Jamie struggled to get the words out, then gave it up as a bad job and turned his face to the fire, eyes closed. “God, I’m tired,” he said.
We let him rest until the manservant materialized by my elbow with the splints I had requested. Then I carefully picked up the smashed right hand, bringing it into the candlelight for examination.
It would have to be set, and as soon as possible. The injured muscles were already clawing the fingers inward. I felt hopeless as I saw the full extent of the damage. But if he was ever to have any use of the hand again, it would have to be attempted.
Lady Annabelle had hung back during my examination, watching interestedly. When I set the hand down, she stepped forward and opened the small chest of medical supplies.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting the boneset, and perhaps the cherry bark. I don’t know…” She eyed Jamie doubtfully. “Leeches, do you think?” Her well-kept hand hovered over a small lidded jar filled with murky liquid.
I shuddered and shook my head. “No, I don’t think so; not just now. What I could really use…do you by chance have any sort of opiate?” I sank to my knees beside her to pore over the contents of the box.
“Oh, yes!” Her hand went unerringly to a small green flask. “Flowers of laudanum,” she read from the label. “Will that do?”
“Perfect.” I accepted the flask gratefully.
“All right, then,” I said briskly to Jamie, pouring a small amount of the odorous liquid into a glass, “you’ll need to sit up just long enough to swallow this. Then you’ll go to sleep and stay that way for a good long time.” In fact, I had some doubts as to the advisability of administering laudanum on top of such a quantity of whisky, but the alternative—reconstructing that hand while he was conscious—was unthinkable. I tipped the bottle to pour a bit more.
Jamie’s good hand on my arm stopped me.
“I don’t want drugs,” he said firmly. “Just perhaps a wee drop more of whisky”—he hesitated, tongue touching the bitten lip—”and maybe something to bite down on.”
Sir Marcus, hearing this, crossed to the lovely glowing Sheraton desk in the corner and began to rummage. He returned in a moment with a small piece of well-worn leather. Looking more closely, I could see the dozens of overlapping semicircular indentations in the thick leather—toothmarks, I realized with a shock.
“Here,” Sir Marcus said helpfully. “I used this myself at St. Simone; got me through it while I had a musket ball dug out of my leg.”
I looked on, openmouthed, as Jamie took the leather with a nod of thanks, smoothing his thumb over the marks. I spoke slowly, stunned. “You actually expect me to set nine broken bones while you’re awake?”
“Yes,” he said briefly, placing the leather between his teeth and biting down experimentally. He shifted it back and forth, seeking a comfortable grip.
Overcome by the sheer theatricality of it, the precarious control I had been hoarding suddenly snapped.
“Will you stop being such a goddamned frigging hero!” I blazed at Jamie. “We all know what you’ve done, you don’t have to prove how much you can stand! Or do you think we’ll all fall apart if you’re not in charge, telling everyone what to do every minute? Who in bloody hell do you think you are, frigging John Wayne!?”
There was an awkward silence. Jamie looked at me, openmouthed. Finally he spoke.
“Claire,” he said softly, “we’re perhaps two miles from Wentworth prison. I’m meant to hang in the morning. No matter what’s happened to Randall, the English are going to notice I’m gone soon.”
I bit my lip. What he said was true. My inadvertent release of the other prisoners might confuse the issue for a time, but eventually a tally would be made, and a search begun. And thanks to the flamboyant method of escape I had chosen, attention was bound to be focused on Eldridge Manor in short order.
“If we’re lucky,” the quiet voice continued, “the snow will delay a search ‘til we’ve gone. If not…” He shrugged, staring into the flames. “Claire, I’ll not let them take me back. And to be drugged, to lie here helpless if they come, and maybe wake up chained in a cell again….Claire, I couldna bear it.”
There were tears blurring on my lower lashes. I stared wide-eyed at him, not wanting to blink and let them run down my cheeks.
He closed his eyes against the fire’s heat. The glow lent a spurious look of ruddy health to the white cheeks. I could see the long muscles in his throat work as he swallowed.
“Don’t cry, Sassenach,” he said, so softly I could hardly hear him. He reached out and patted my leg with his good hand, trying to be reassuring. “I imagine we’re safe enough, lass. If I thought likely we’d be captured, I’d certainly no waste one of my last hours having you mend a hand I’d not be going to need. Go and fetch Murtagh for me. Then bring me a drink and we’ll get on wi’ it.”
Busy at the table with the medical preparations, I couldn’t hear what he said to Murtagh, but I saw the two heads close together for a moment, then Murtagh’s sinewy hand gently touch the younger man’s ear—one of the few uninjured spots available.
With a brief nod of farewell, Murtagh sidled toward the door. Like a rat, I thought, darting along the wainscoting, not to be noticed. I was behind him as he went out into the hall, and grabbed him by the plaid just before he escaped altogether through the front door.
“What did he tell you?” I demanded fiercely. “Where are you going?”
The dark stringy little man hesitated for a moment, but answered evenly, “I’m to go wi’ young Absalom toward Wentworth and keep watch in that direction. If any Redcoats are headin’ this way, I’m to beat them here, and if there’s time, I’m to see you and him both hidden, then ride off with three horses, to draw followers away from the Manor. There’s a cellar; it might do for hiding, if the search isna too thorough.”
“And if there isn’t time to hide?” I eyed him narrowly, daring him not to answer.
“Then I’m to kill him, and take you wi’ me,” he answered promptly. “Willing or no,” he added, with an evil grin, and turned to go.
“Just a minute!” I spoke sharply and he stopped. “Do you have an extra dirk?”
His scruffy brows shot upward, but his hand went to his belt without hesitation.
“Do ye need one? Here?” His glance took in the opulence and serenity of the entrance hall, with its painted Adam ceiling and linenfold paneling.
My dagger-pocket was shredded beyond use. I took the proffered dagger, and slid it between kirtle and bodice in the back, as I had seen the Gypsy women do.
“One never knows, does one?” I said evenly.
Preparations complete, I probed as gently as possible, assessing harm, deciding what must be done. Jamie drew in his breath sharply when I touched an especially bad spot, but kept his eyes closed as I felt my way slowly along each separate bone and joint, noting the position of each fracture and dislocation. “Sorry,” I murmured.
I took his good hand as well, and felt carefully down each finger of both the good hand and the injured, making comparisons. With neither X rays nor experience to guide me, I would have to depend on my own sensitivity to find and realign the smashed bones.
The first joint was all right, but the second phalange was cracked, I thought. I pressed harder to determine the length and direction of the crack. The damaged hand stayed motionless in my fingers, but the good one made a small, involuntary clenching gesture.
“I’m sorry,” I murmured once more.
The good hand pulled suddenly out of my grasp as Jamie raised himself on one elbow. Spitting out the leather gag, he regarded me with an expression between amusement and exasperation.
“Sassenach,” he said, “if you apologize each time ye hurt me, it’s going to be a verra long night—and it’s lasted some time already.”
I must have looked stricken, because he started to reach toward me, then stopped, wincing at the movement. He controlled the pain, though, and spoke firmly. “I know you dinna wish to hurt me. But you’ve no more choice about it than I have, and there’s no need for more than one of us to suffer for it. You do what’s needed, and I’ll scream if I have to.”
Replacing the leather strip, he bared his clenched teeth ferociously at me, then slowly and deliberately crossed his eyes. This made him look so like an addlepated tiger that I burst into half-hysterical laughter before I could stop myself.
I clapped my hands over my mouth, cheeks flaming as I saw the astonished looks on the faces of Lady Annabelle and the servants, who, standing behind Jamie, naturally could see nothing of his face. Sir Marcus, who had caught a brief glimpse from his seat at the bedside, grinned in his spade-shaped beard.
“Besides,” said Jamie, spitting out the leather once more, “if the English turn up after this, I expect I’ll beg them to take me back.”
I picked up the leather, put it between his teeth and pushed his head down again.
“Clown,” I said. “Know-all. Sodding hero.” But he had relieved me of a burden, and I worked more calmly. If I still noticed every twitch and grimace, at least I no longer felt it as badly.
I began to lose myself in the concentration of the job, directing all my awareness to my fingertips, assessing each point of damage and deciding how best to draw the smashed bones back into alignment. Luckily the thumb had suffered least; only a simple fracture of the first joint. That would heal clean. The second knuckle on the fourth finger was completely gone; I felt only a pulpy grating of bone chips when I rolled it gently between my own thumb and forefinger, making Jamie groan. Nothing could be done about that, save splint the joint and hope for the best.
The compound fracture of the middle finger was the worst to contemplate. The finger would have to be pulled straight, drawing the protruding bone back through the torn flesh. I had seen this done before—under general anesthesia, with the guidance of X rays.
To this point, it had been more a mechanical problem than a real one, deciding how to reconstruct a smashed, disembodied hand. I was now smack up against the reason that physicians seldom treat members of their own families. Some jobs in medicine require a certain ruthlessness to complete successfully; detachment is necessary to inflict pain in the process of effecting a healing.
Quietly, Sir Marcus had brought up a stool by the side of the bed. He settled his bulk comfortably as I finished the strapping, and gripped Jamie’s good hand with his own.
“Squeeze all ye like, lad,” he said.
Divested of the bearskin, and with his grizzled locks neatly clubbed and laced back, MacRannoch was no longer the intimidating wildman of the forest, but appeared as a soberly clad man of late middle age, with a neatly trimmed spade-beard and a military bearing. Nervous at what I was about to attempt, I found his solid presence comforting.
I drew a deep breath and prayed for detachment.
It was a long, horrible, nerve-wracking job, though not without its fascination. Some parts, such as the splinting of the two fingers with simple fractures, went quite easily. Others did not. Jamie did scream—loudly—when I set his middle finger, exerting the considerable force necessary to draw the ends of splintered bone back through the skin. I hesitated for an instant, unnerved, but “Go on, lass!” Sir Marcus said with quiet urgency.
I remembered suddenly what Jamie had said to me, the night Jenny’s baby was born: I can bear pain, myself, but I could not bear yours. That would take more strength than I have. He was right; it did take strength; I hoped that each of us had enough.
Jamie’s face was turned away from me, but I could see the jaw muscles bunch as he clenched his teeth harder on the leather strip. I clenched my own teeth and did go on; the sharp bone end slowly disappeared back through the skin and the finger straightened with agonizing reluctance, leaving us both trembling.
As I worked, I began to lose consciousness of anything outside the job I was doing. Jamie groaned occasionally, and we had to stop twice briefly in order for him to be sick, retching up mostly whisky, as he had taken little food in prison. For the most part, though, he kept up a low, constant muttering in Gaelic, forehead pressed hard against Sir Marcus’s knees. I couldn’t tell through the leather gag whether he was cursing or praying.
All five fingers eventually lay straight as new pins, stiff as sticks in their bandaged splints. I was afraid of infection, particularly from the torn middle finger, but otherwise was fairly sure they would heal well. By good luck, only the one joint had been badly damaged. It would likely leave him with a stiff ring finger, but the others might function normally—in time. There was nothing I could do about the cracked metacarpal bones or the puncture wound except apply an antiseptic wash and a poultice and pray against a tetanus infection. I stepped back, shaking in every limb from the strain of the night, my bodice soaked with sweat from the fire’s heat at my back.
Lady Annabelle was at my side at once, guiding me to a chair and pressing a cup of tea, laced with whisky, into my shaking hands. Sir Marcus, as good an operating-room assistant as any physician could have, was unfastening Jamie’s captive arm and rubbing the marks where the strap had bitten deep into straining flesh. The older man’s hand was red, I saw, where Jamie had gripped it.
I was not aware of having nodded off, but suddenly jerked, my head snapping on my neck. Lady Annabelle was urging me upward, soft hand under my elbow. “Come along, my dear. You’re all in; you must have your own hurts seen to, and sleep a bit.”
I shook her off as politely as possible. “No, I can’t. I must finish…” My words trailed off into the fuzziness of my mind, as Sir Marcus smoothly took the vinegar bottle and rag from my hand.
“I’ll take care of the rest,” he said. “I’ve some experience wi’ field dressing, ye understand.” Flipping back the blankets, he began to swab the blood from the whip cuts, moving with a brisk gentleness that was impressive. Catching my eye, he grinned, beard tilted jauntily. “I’ve cleansed a good many stripes in my time,” he said. “And applied a few too. These are naught, lass; they’ll heal in a few days.” Knowing he was right, I walked up to the head of the cot. Jamie was awake, grimacing slightly at the sting of the antiseptic solution on the raw cuts, but his eyelids were heavy and the blue eyes darkened with pain and weariness.
“Go and sleep, Sassenach. I’ll do.”
Whether he would or not, I didn’t know. It was clear, however, that I wouldn’t do, or not for much longer. I was swaying with exhaustion and the scratches on my legs were beginning to burn and ache. Absalom had cleansed them for me at the cottage, but they needed salving.
I nodded numbly and turned in response to Lady Annabelle’s gently insistent pressure on my elbow.
Halfway up the stairs, I remembered that I had forgotten to tell Sir Marcus how to bandage the cuts. The deep wounds over the shoulders would have to be bound and padded, to allow for wearing a shirt over them when we made our escape. But the lighter lashmarks should be left in the open air to scab over. I took a quick look at the guestroom Lady Annabelle showed me, then excused myself with a word and stumbled back down the stairs toward the drawing room.
I paused in the shadowed doorway, Lady Annabelle behind me. Jamie’s eyes were closed; apparently he had fallen into a doze brought on by whisky and fatigue. The blankets were thrown back, rendered unnecessary by the heat of the fire. Sir Marcus casually rested a hand on Jamie’s bare rump as he reached across the bed for a rag. The effect was electric. Jamie’s back arched sharply, the muscles of his buttocks clenched tightly and he let out an involuntary sound of protest, flinging himself backward in spite of the shattered ribs, to glare up at Sir Marcus with startled, dazed eyes. Startled himself, Sir Marcus stood stock-still for a second, then leaned forward and took Jamie by the arm, gently settling him facedown once more. Thoughtfully he drew a finger very gingerly across Jamie’s flesh. He rubbed his fingers together, leaving an oily sheen visible in the firelight.
“Oh,” he said matter-of-factly. The old soldier drew the blanket up to Jamie’s waist, and I saw the tense shoulders relax slightly under their dressing.
Sir Marcus seated himself companionably near Jamie’s head and poured another pair of whiskies. “At least he had the consideration to grease ye a bit beforehand,” he observed, handing one beaker to Jamie, who heaved himself laboriously up on his elbows to accept it.
“Aye, well. I dinna think it was so much for my convenience,” he said dryly.
Sir Marcus took a gulp of his drink and smacked his lips meditatively. There was no sound for a moment save the crackle of flames, but neither Lady Annabelle nor I made any motion to enter the room.
“If it’s any comfort to ye,” Sir Marcus said suddenly, eyes fixed on the decanter, “he’s dead.”
“You’re sure?” Jamie’s tone was unreadable.
“I dinna see how anybody could live after bein’ trampled flat by thirty half-ton beasts. He peeked out into the corridor to see what was causin’ the noise, then tried to go back when he saw. A horn caught him by the sleeve and pulled him out, and I saw him go down next to the wall. Sir Fletcher an’ I were on the stair, keepin’ out o’ the way. O’ course Sir Fletcher was rare excited, and sent some men after ‘im, but they couldna get anywhere near, with all the horns pokin’ and beasts shovin’, and the torches shook down from the wall wi’ the ruckus. Christ, man, ye should ha’ seen it!” Sir Marcus hooted at the memory, clutching the decanter by the neck. “Your wife’s a rare lass, and no mistake, lad!” Snorting, he poured out another glass and gulped, choking a bit as the laugh interfered with the swallow.
“Anyway,” he resumed, pounding himself on the chest, “by the time we’d cleared the cattle out, there was no much left but a rag doll rolled in blood. Sir Fletcher’s men carried him awa’, but if he was still livin’ then, he didna last long. A bit more, lad?”
“Aye, thanks.”
There was a short silence, broken by Jamie. “No, I canna say it’s much comfort to me, but thank ye for tellin’ me.” Sir Marcus looked at him shrewdly.
“Mmphm. Ye’re no goin’ to forget it,” he said abruptly. “Don’t bother to try. If ye can, let it heal like the rest o’ your wounds. Don’t pick at it, and it’ll mend clean.” The old warrior held up a knotted forearm, from which the sleeve had been pushed back during his ministrations, to show the scar of a jagged tear running from elbow to wrist. “Scars are nothin’ to trouble ye.”
“Aye, well. Some scars, maybe.” Apparently reminded of something, Jamie struggled to turn onto his side. Sir Marcus set down his glass with an exclamation.
“Here, lad, be careful! Ye’ll get a rib-end through the lung, next thing.” He helped Jamie balance on his right elbow, wadding a blanket behind to prop him there.
“I need a wee knife,” said Jamie, breathing heavily. “A sharp one, if it’s handy.” Without question, Sir Marcus lumbered to the gleaming French walnut sideboard and rummaged through the drawers with a prodigious clatter, emerging at last with a pearl-handled fruit knife. He thrust it into Jamie’s sound left hand and sat down again with a grunt, resuming his glass.
“Ye don’t think ye have enough scars?” he inquired. “Going to add a few more?”
“Just one.” Jamie balanced precariously on one elbow, chin pressed on his chest as he awkwardly aimed the razor-sharp knife under his left breast. Sir Marcus’s hand shot out, a bit unsteadily, and gripped Jamie’s wrist.
“Best let me help ye, man. Ye’ll fall on it in a moment.” After a moment’s pause, Jamie reluctantly surrendered the knife and lay back against the wadded blanket. He touched his chest an inch or two below the nipple.
“There.” Sir Marcus reached to the sideboard and snagged a lamp, setting it on the stool he had vacated. At this distance, I couldn’t see what he was peering at; it looked like a small red burn, roughly circular in shape. He took another deliberate pull at his whisky glass, then set it down next to the lamp and pressed the tip of the knife against Jamie’s chest. I must have made an involuntary movement, because the Lady Annabelle clutched my sleeve with a murmured caution. The knife point pressed in and twisted suddenly, flicking away in the motion one uses to cut a bad spot out of a ripe peach. Jamie grunted, once, and a thin stream of red ran down the slope of his belly to stain the blanket. He rolled onto his stomach, stanching the wound against the mattress.
Sir Marcus laid down the fruit knife. “As soon as ye’re able, man,” he advised, “take your wife to bed, and let her comfort ye. Women like to do that,” he said, grinning toward the shadowed doorway, “God knows why.”
Lady Annabelle said softly, “Come away now, dear. He’s better alone for a bit.” I decided that Sir Marcus could manage the bandaging by himself, and stumbled after her up the narrow stair to my room.
I woke with a start from a dream of endless winding stairs, with horror lurking at the bottom. Tiredness dragged at my back and my legs ached, but I sat up in my borrowed nightdress and groped for the candle and flintbox. I felt uneasy, so far from Jamie. What if he needed me? Worse, what if the English did come, while he was alone below, unarmed? I pressed my face against the cold casement, reassured by the steady hiss of snow against the panes. While the storm continued, we were likely safe. I pulled on a bedgown, and picking up candle and dirk, made my way to the stair.
The house was quiet, save for the fire’s crackle. Jamie was asleep, or at least had his eyes closed, face turned to the fire. I sat down on the hearthrug, quietly, so as not to wake him. This was the first time we had been alone together since those few desperate minutes in the dungeon of Wentworth Prison. It felt as though that were many years ago. I studied Jamie carefully, as though inspecting a stranger.
He seemed not too bad physically, all things considered, but I worried nonetheless. He had had enough whisky during the surgery to fell a draft horse, and a good bit of it was plainly still inside him, despite the retching.
Jamie was not my first hero. The men moved too quickly through the field hospital, as a rule, for the nurses to become well acquainted with them, but now and again you would see a man who talked too little or joked too much, who held himself more stiffly than pain and loneliness would account for.
And I knew, roughly, what could be done for them. If there was time, and if they were the kind who talked to keep the dark at bay, you sat with them and listened. If they were silent, you touched them often in passing, and watched for the unguarded moment, when you might draw them outside of themselves and hold them while they exorcised their demons. If there was time. And if there wasn’t, then you jabbed them with morphine, and hoped they would manage to find someone else to listen, while you passed on to a man whose wounds were visible.
Jamie would talk to someone, sooner or later. There was time. But I hoped it wouldn’t be me.
He was uncovered to the waist, and I leaned forward to examine his back. It was a remarkable sight. Barely a hand’s thickness separated the welted cuts, inflicted with a regularity that boggled the mind. He must have stood like a guardsman while it was done. I stole a quick glance at his wrists—unmarked. He had kept his word then, not to struggle. And had stood unmoving through the ordeal, paying the ransom agreed on for my life.
I rubbed my eyes on my sleeve. He wouldn’t thank me, I thought, for blubbering over his prostrate form. I shifted my weight with a soft rustle of skirts. He opened his eyes at the sound, but did not seem particularly haunted. He gave me a smile, faint and tired, but a real one. I opened my mouth, and suddenly realized I had no idea what to say to him. Thanks were impossible. “How do you feel?” was ridiculous; obviously he felt like hell. While I considered, he spoke first.
“Claire? Are you all right, love?”
“Am I all right? My God, Jamie!” Tears stung my eyelids and I blinked hard, sniffing. He raised his good hand slowly, as though it were weighted with chains, and stroked my hair. He drew me toward him, but I pulled away, conscious for the first time what I must look like, face scratched and covered with tree sap, hair stiff with blotches of various unmentionable substances.
“Come here,” he said. “I want to hold ye a moment.”
“But I’m covered with blood and vomit,” I protested, making a vain effort to tidy my hair.
He wheezed, the faint exhalation that was all his broken ribs would permit in the way of laughter. “Mother of God, Sassenach, it’s my blood and my vomit. Come here.”
His arm was comforting around my shoulders. I rested my head on the pillow next to his, and we sat in silence by the fire, drawing strength and peace from one another. His fingers gently touched the small wound under my jaw.
“I did not think ever to see ye again, Sassenach.” His voice was low and a bit hoarse from whisky and screaming. “I’m glad you’re here.”
I sat up. “Not see me again! Why? Did you think I wouldn’t get you out?”
He smiled, one-sided. “Weel, no, I didn’t expect ye would. I thought if I said so, though, ye might get stubborn and refuse to go.”
”Me get stubborn!” I said indignantly. “Look who’s talking!”
There was a pause, which grew slightly awkward. There were things I should ask, necessary from the medical point of view, but rather touchy from the personal aspect. Finally, I settled for “How do you feel?”
His eyes were closed, shadowed and sunken in the candlelight, but the lines of the broad back were tense under the bandages. The wide, bruised mouth twitched, somewhere between a smile and a grimace.
“I don’t know, Sassenach. I’ve never felt like this. I seem to want to do a number of things, all at once, but my mind’s at war wi’ me, and my body’s turned traitor. I want to get out of here at once, and run as fast and as far as I can. I want to hit someone. God, I want to hit someone! I want to burn Wentworth Prison to the ground. I want to sleep.”
“Stone doesn’t burn,” I said practically. “Maybe you’d better sleep, instead.”
His good hand groped for mine and found it, and the mouth relaxed somewhat, though his eyes stayed closed.
“I want to hold you hard to me and kiss you, and never let you go. I want to take you to my bed and use you like a whore, ‘til I forget that I exist. And I want to put my head in your lap and weep like a child.”
The mouth turned up at one corner, and a blue eye opened slitwise.
“Unfortunately,” he said, “I can’t do any but the last of those without fainting or being sick again.”
“Well, then, I suppose you’ll just have to settle for that, and put the rest under the heading of future business,” I said, laughing a little.
It took a bit of shifting, and he nearly was sick again, but at last I was seated on his cot, my back against the wall, and his head resting on my thigh.
“What was it Sir Marcus cut from your breast?” I asked. “A brand?” I said softly, as he gave me no reply. The bright head moved slightly in affirmation.
“A signet, with his initials.” Jamie laughed shortly. “It’s enough I’ll carry his marks for the rest of my life, without letting him sign me, like a bloody painting.”
His head lay heavy on my thigh and his breathing eased at last in drowsy exhalations. The white bandages on his hand were ghostly against the dark blanket. I gently traced a burn mark on his shoulder, gleaming faintly with sweet oil.
“Jamie?”
“Mmm?”
“Are you badly hurt?” Awake, he glanced from his bandaged hand to my face. His eyes closed and he began to shake. Alarmed, I thought I had triggered some unbearable memory, until I realized that he was laughing, hard enough to force tears from the corners of his eyes.
“Sassenach,” he said at length, gasping, “I’ve maybe six square inches of skin left that are not bruised, burned, or cut. Am I hurt?” And he shook again, making the felted mattress rustle and squeak.
Somewhat crossly, I said, “I meant—” but he stopped me by putting his good hand over mine and bringing it to his lips.
“I know what ye meant, Sassenach,” he said, turning his head to look up at me. “Never worry, the six inches that are left are all between my legs.”
I appreciated the effort it took to make the joke, feeble as it was. I slapped his mouth lightly. “You’re drunk, James Fraser,” I said. I paused a moment. “Six, eh?”
“Aye, well. Maybe seven, then. Oh, God, Sassenach, dinna make me laugh again, my ribs won’t stand it.” I wiped his eyes with a fold of my skirt and fed him a sip of water, holding his head up with my knee.
“That isn’t what I meant, anyway,” I said.
Serious then, he reached for my hand again and squeezed it.
“I know,” he said. “Ye needna be delicate about it.” He drew a cautious breath, and winced at the results. “I was right, it did hurt less than flogging.” He closed his eyes. “But it was much less enjoyable.” A quick flash of bitter humor stirred one corner of his mouth. “At least I’ll not be costive for a bit.” I flinched, and he gritted his teeth, breathing in short, reedy gasps.
“I’m sorry, Sassenach. I…didna think I’d mind it so much. What you mean—that—it’s all right. I’m not damaged.”
I made an effort to keep my own voice steady and matter-of-fact. “You don’t have to tell me about it, if you don’t want to. If it might ease you, though…” My voice trailed off in embarrassed silence.
“I don’t want to.” His voice was suddenly bitter and emphatic. “I don’t want ever to think about it again, but short of cutting my throat, I think I have not got a choice about it. Nay, lass, I dinna want to tell ye about it, any more than ye want to hear it…but I think I am going to have to drag it all out before it chokes me.” The words came out now in a burst of bitterness.
“He wanted me to crawl and beg, and by Christ, I did so. I told ye once, Sassenach, ye can break anyone if you’re willing to hurt them enough. Well, he was willing. He made me crawl, and he made me beg; he made me do worse things than that, and before the end he made me want verra badly to be dead.”
He was silent for a long moment, looking into the fire, then heaved a deep sigh, grimacing at the pain.
“I wish ye could ease me, Sassenach, I do wish it most fervently, for I’ve little of ease in me now. But it’s not like a poisoned thorn, where if ye found the right grip, ye could draw it clean out.” His good hand rested on my knee. He flexed the fingers and spread them flat, ruddy in the firelight. “It’s not even like a brokenness anywhere. If ye could mend it bit by bit, like ye did my hand, I’d stand the pain gladly.” He bunched the fingers into a fist and rested it on my leg, frowning at it.
“It’s…difficult to explain. It’s…it’s like…I think it’s as though everyone has a small place inside themselves, maybe, a private bit that they keep to themselves. It’s like a little fortress, where the most private part of you lives—maybe it’s your soul, maybe just that bit that makes you yourself and not anyone else.” His tongue probed his swollen lip unconsciously as he thought.
“You don’t show that bit of yourself to anyone, usually, unless sometimes to someone that ye love greatly.” The hand relaxed, curling around my knee. Jamie’s eyes were closed again, lids sealed against the light.
“Now, it’s like…like my own fortress has been blown up with gunpowder—there’s nothing left of it but ashes and a smoking rooftree, and the little naked thing that lived there once is out in the open, squeaking and whimpering in fear, tryin’ to hide itself under a blade of grass or a bit o’ leaf, but…but not…makin’ m-much of a job of it.” His voice broke, and he turned his head so that his face was hidden in my skirt. Helpless, I could do nothing but stroke his hair.
He suddenly raised his head, face strained as though it would break apart along the seams of the bones. “I’ve been close to death a few times, Claire, but I’ve never really wanted to die. This time I did. I…” His voice cracked and he stopped speaking, clutching my knee hard. When he spoke again, his voice was high and oddly breathless, as though he had been running a long way.
“Claire, will you—I just—Claire, hold on to me. If I start to shake again now, I canna stop it. Claire, hold me!” He was in fact beginning to tremble violently, the shivering making him moan as it caught the splintered ribs. I was afraid to hurt him, but more afraid to let the shaking go on.
I crouched over him, wrapped my arms around his shoulders and held on as tightly as I could, rocking to and fro as though the comforting rhythm might break the racking spasms. I got one hand on the back of his neck and dug my fingers deep into the pillared muscles, willing the clenching to relax as I massaged the deep groove at the base of the skull. Finally the trembling eased, and his head fell forward onto my thigh, exhausted.
“I’m sorry,” he said a minute later, in his normal voice. “I didna mean to go on so. The truth is I do hurt verra bad, and I am most awfully damn drunk. I’m no in much control of mysel’.” For a Scot to admit, even privately, to being drunk, was some indication, I thought, of just how badly he did hurt.
“You need sleep,” I said softly, still rubbing the back of his neck. “You need it badly.” I used my fingers as best I could, gentling and pressing as Old Alec had showed me, and managed to ease him back into drowsiness.
“I’m cold,” he murmured. There was a good fire, and several blankets on the bed, but his fingers were chilly to the touch.
“You’re in shock,” I said practically. “You’ve lost the hell of a lot of blood.” I looked around, but MacRannochs and servants alike had all disappeared to their own beds. Murtagh, I assumed, was still out in the snow, keeping an eye out in the direction of Wentworth in case of pursuit. With a mental shrug for anyone’s opinion of the proprieties, I stood up, stripped off the nightdress, and crawled under the blankets.
As gently as possible, I eased against him, giving him my warmth. He turned his face into my shoulder like a small boy. I stroked his hair, gentling him, rubbing the ridged columns of muscle at the back of his neck, avoiding the raw places. “Lay your head, then, man,” I said, remembering Jenny and her boy.
Jamie gave a small grunt of amusement. “That’s what my mother used to say to me,” he murmured. “When I was a bairn.”
“Sassenach,” he said against my shoulder, a moment later.
“Mm?”
“Who in God’s name is John Wayne?”
“You are,” I said. “Go to sleep.”