“Aye, well, I’m afraid that I’m no prepared to kill ye—just yet.” Jamie’s voice was soft, filled with a quiet menace all the more frightening for its control.
“Who d’ye march with?” The question snapped like a whip, making its hearers flinch. The knife point hovered slightly nearer, smoking in the night wind.
“I’ll—I’ll not tell you!” The boy’s lips closed tight on the stammered answer, and a tremor ran down the delicate throat.
“Nor how far away your comrades lie? Nor their number? Nor their direction of march?” The questions were put lightly again, with a finicking touch of the blade along the edge of the boy’s jaw. His eyes showed white all around, like a panicked horse, but he shook his head violently, making the golden hair fly. Ross and Kincaid tightened their grip against the pull of the boy’s arms.
The darkened blade pressed suddenly flat along its length, hard under the angle of the jaw. There was a thin and breathy scream, and the stink of burning skin.
“Jamie!” I said, shocked beyond bearing. He did not turn to look at me, but kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner, who, released from the grip on his arms, had sunk to his knees in the drift of dead leaves, hand clutched to his neck.
“This is no concern of yours, Madam,” he said between his teeth. Reaching down, he grabbed the boy by the shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. Wavering, the knife blade rose between them, and poised itself just under the lad’s left eye. Jamie tilted his head in silent question, to receive a minimal but definite negative shake in return.
The boy’s voice was no more than a shaky whisper; he had to clear his throat to make himself heard. “N-no,” he said. “No. There is nothing you can do to me that will make me tell you anything.”
Jamie held him for a moment longer, eye to eye, then let go of the bunched fabric and stepped back. “No,” he said slowly, “I dinna suppose there is. Not to you. But what about the lady?”
I didn’t at first realize that he meant me, until he grabbed me by the wrist and yanked me to him, making me stumble slightly on the rough ground. I fell toward him, and he twisted my arm roughly behind my back.
“You may be indifferent to your own welfare, but ye might perhaps have some concern for the lady’s honor, since you were at such pains to rescue her.” Turning me toward himself, he twined his fingers in my hair, forced my head back and kissed me with a deliberate brutality that made me squirm involuntarily in protest.
Freeing my hair, he pulled me hard against him, facing the boy on the other side of the fire. The boy’s eyes were enormous, aghast with reflections of flame in the wide dark pupils.
“Let her go!” he demanded hoarsely. “What are you proposing to do with her?”
Jamie’s hands reached to the neck of my gown. With a sudden jerk, he tore the fabric of gown and shift, baring most of my bosom. Reacting instinctively, I kicked him in the shin. The boy made an inarticulate sound and jerked forward, but was stopped short once more by Ross and Kincaid.
“Since you ask,” said Jamie’s voice pleasantly behind me, “I am proposing to ravish this lady before your eyes. I shall then give her to my men, to do what they will with. Perhaps ye would like to have a turn before I kill you? A man should no die a virgin, do ye think?”
I was struggling in good earnest now, my arm held in an iron grip behind my back, my protests muffled by Jamie’s large, warm palm clapped over my mouth. I sank my teeth hard into the heel of his hand, tasting blood. He took his hand sharply away with a smothered exclamation, but returned it almost immediately, forcing a wadded piece of cloth past my teeth. I made strangled sounds around the gag as Jamie’s hands darted to my shoulders, forcing the torn pieces of my gown farther apart. With a rending of linen and fustian, he bared me to the waist, pinning my arms at my sides. I saw Ross glance at me and quickly away, fixing his gaze with dogged intent on the prisoner, a slow flush staining his cheekbones. Kincaid, himself no more than nineteen, stared in shock, his mouth open as a flytrap.
“Stop it!” The boy’s voice was trembling, but with outrage now rather than fear. “You—you unspeakable poltroon! How dare you dishonor a lady, you Scottish jackal!” He stood for a moment, chest heaving with emotion, then made up his mind. He raised his jaw and thrust out his chin.
“Very well. I do not see that in honor I have any choice. Release the lady and I will tell you what you want to know.”
One of Jamie’s hands left my shoulder momentarily. I didn’t see his gesture, but Ross released the boy’s injured arm and went quickly to fetch my cloak, which had fallen unheeded to the ground during the excitement of the boy’s capture. Jamie pulled both my hands behind me, and, yanking off my belt, used it to bind them securely behind my back. Taking the cloak from Ross, he swirled it around my shoulders and fastened it carefully. Stepping back, he bowed ironically to me, then turned to face his captive.
“You have my word that the lady will be safe from my advances,” he said. The note in his voice could have been due to the strain of anger and frustrated lust; I recognized it as the agonized restraint of an overwhelming impulse to laugh, and could cheerfully have killed him.
Face like stone, the boy gave the required information, speaking in brief syllables.
His name was William Grey, second son of Viscount Melton. He accompanied a troop of two hundred men, traveling to Dunbar, intending to join there with General Cope’s army. His fellows were presently encamped some three miles to the west. He, William, out walking through the forest, had seen the light of our fire, and come to investigate. No, he had no companion with him. Yes, the troop carried heavy armament, sixteen carriage-mounted “galloper” cannon, and two sixteen-inch mortars. Most of the troop were armed with muskets, and there was one company of thirty horse.
The boy was beginning to wilt under the combined strain of the questioning and his injured arm, but refused an offer to be seated. Instead, he leaned against the tree, cradling his elbow in his left palm.
The questions went on for nearly an hour, covering the same ground over and over, pinpointing discrepancies, enlarging details, searching out the telltale omission, the point evaded. Satisfied at last, Jamie sighed deeply and turned from the boy, who slumped in the wavering shadows of the oak. He held out a hand without speaking; Murtagh, as usual divining his intent, handed him a pistol.
He turned back to the prisoner, busying himself in checking the priming and loading of the pistol. The twelve inches of heart-butted metal gleamed dark, the firelight picking out sparks of silver at trigger and priming pin. “Head or heart?” Jamie asked casually, raising his head at last.
“Eh?” The boy’s mouth hung open in blank incomprehension.
“I am going to shoot you,” Jamie explained patiently. “Spies are usually hanged, but in consideration of your gallantry, I am willing to give you a quick, clean death. Do ye prefer to take the ball in the head, or the heart?”
The boy straightened quickly, squaring his shoulders. “Oh, ah, yes, of course.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I think…in the—in the heart. Thank you,” he added, as an obvious afterthought. He raised his chin, compressing lips that still held a suggestion of their soft, childish curve.
Nodding, Jamie cocked the pistol with a click that echoed in the silence under the oak trees.
“Wait!” said the prisoner. Jamie looked at him inquiringly, pistol leveled at the thin chest.
“What assurance have I that the lady will remain unmolested after I am— after I have gone?” the boy demanded, looking belligerently around the circle of men. His single working hand was clenched hard, but shook nonetheless. Ross made a sound which he skillfully converted into a sneeze.
Jamie lowered the pistol, and with an iron control, kept his face carefully composed in an expression of solemn gravity.
“Weel,” he said, the Scots accent growing broader under the strain, “ye ha’ my own word, of course, though I quite see that ye might have some hesitation in accepting the word of a…”—his lip twitched d
espite himself—“of a Scottish poltroon. Perhaps ye would accept the assurances of the lady herself?” He raised an eyebrow in my direction and Kincaid sprang at once to free me, fumbling awkwardly with the gag.
“Jamie!” I exclaimed furiously, mouth freed at last. “This is unconscionable! How could you do such a thing? You—you—”
“Poltroon,” he supplied helpfully. “Or jackal, if ye like that better. What d’ye say, Murtagh,” turning to his lieutenant, “am I a poltroon or a jackal?”
Murtagh’s seam of a mouth twisted sourly. “I’d say ye’re dogsmeat, if you untie yon lass wi’out a dirk in yer hand.”
Jamie turned apologetically to his prisoner. “I must apologize to my wife for forcing her to take part in this deception. I assure you that her participation was entirely unwilling.” He ruefully examined his bitten hand in the light from the fire.
“Your wife!” The boy stared wildly from me to Jamie.
“I’ll assure ye likewise that while the lady on occasion honors my bed with her presence, she has never done so under duress. And won’t now,” he added pointedly, “but let’s no untie her just yet, Kincaid.”
“James Fraser,” I hissed between clenched teeth. “If you touch that boy, you’ll certainly never share my bed again!”
Jamie raised one eyebrow. His canines gleamed briefly in the firelight. “Well, that’s a serious threat, to an unprincipled voluptuary such as myself, but I dinna suppose I can consider my own interests in such a situation. War’s war, after all.” The pistol, which had been allowed to fall, began to rise once more.
“Jamie!” I screamed.
He lowered the pistol again, and turned to me with an expression of exaggerated patience. “Yes?”
I took a deep breath, to keep my voice from shaking with rage. I could only guess what he was up to, and hoped I was doing the right thing. Right or not, when this was over…I choked off an intensely pleasing vision of Jamie writhing on the ground with my foot on his Adam’s apple, in order to concentrate on my present role.
“You haven’t any evidence whatever that he’s a spy,” I said. “He says he stumbled on you by accident. Who wouldn’t be curious if they saw a fire out in the woods?”
Jamie nodded, following the argument. “Aye, and what about attempted murder? Spy or no, he tried to kill me, and admits as much.” He tenderly fingered the raw scratch at the side of his throat.
“Well, of course he did,” I said hotly. “He says he knew you were an outlaw. There’s a bloody price on your head, for heaven’s sake!”
Jamie rubbed his chin dubiously, at last turning to the prisoner. “Well, it’s a point,” he said. “William Grey, your advocate makes a good case for ye. It’s no the policy either of His Highness Prince Charles or myself to execute persons unlawfully, enemy or no.” He summoned Kincaid with a wave of the hand.
“Kincaid, you and Ross take this man in the direction he says his camp lies. If the information he gave us proves to be true, tie him to a tree a mile from the camp in the line of march. His friends will find him there tomorrow. If what he told us is not true…”—he paused, cold eyes bent on the prisoner—“cut his throat.”
He looked the boy in the face and said, without a shadow of mockery, “I give you your life. I hope ye’ll use it well.”
Moving behind me, he cut the cloth binding my wrists. As I turned furiously, he motioned toward the boy, who had sat down suddenly on the ground beneath the oak. “Perhaps ye’d be good enough to tend the boy’s arm before he goes?” The scowl of pretended ferocity had left his face, leaving it blank as a wall. His eyelids were lowered, preventing me from meeting his gaze.
Without a word, I went to the boy and sank to my knees beside him. He seemed dazed, and didn’t protest my examination, or the subsequent manipulations, though the handling must have been painful.
The split bodice of my gown kept sliding off my shoulders, and I muttered beneath my breath as I irritably hitched up one side or the other for the dozenth time. The bones of the boy’s forearm were light and angular under the skin, hardly thicker than my own. I splinted the arm and slung it, using my own kerchief. “It’s a clean break,” I told him, keeping my voice impersonal. “Try to keep it still for two weeks, at least.” He nodded, not looking at me.
Jamie had been sitting quietly on a log watching my ministrations. My breath coming unevenly, I walked up to him and slapped him as hard as I could. The blow left a white patch on one cheek and made his eyes water, but he didn’t move or change expression.
Kincaid pulled the boy to his feet and propelled him to the edge of the clearing with a hand at his back. At the edge of the shadows he halted and turned back. Avoiding looking at me, he spoke only to Jamie.
“I owe you my life,” he said formally. “I should greatly prefer not to, but since you have forced the gift upon me, I must regard it as a debt of honor. I shall hope to discharge that debt in the future, and once it is discharged…” The boy’s voice shook slightly with suppressed hatred, losing all its assumed formality in the utter sincerity of his feelings. “…I’ll kill you!”
Jamie rose from the log to his full height. His face was calm, free of any taint of amusement. He inclined his head gravely to his departing prisoner. “In that case, sir, I must hope that we do not meet again.”
The boy straightened his shoulders and returned the bow stiffly. “A Grey does not forget an obligation, sir,” he said, and vanished into the darkness, Kincaid at his elbow.
There was a discreet interval of breathless waiting, as the leaf-shuffling sounds of feet moved off through the darkness. Then the laughter started, first with a soft, fizzing noise through the nostrils of one man, then a tentative chuckle from another. Never raucous, still it gathered volume, spiraling round the circle of men.
Jamie took one step into the circle, face turned toward his men. The laughter stopped abruptly. Glancing down at me, he said briefly, “Go to the tent.”
Warned by my expression, he gripped my wrist before I could raise my hand.
“If you’re going to slap me again, at least let me turn the other cheek,” he said dryly. “Besides, I think I can save ye the trouble. But I’d advise you to go to the tent, just the same.”
Dropping my hand, he strode out to the edge of the fire, and with one peremptory jerk of the head, gathered the scattered men into a reluctant, half-wary clump before him. Their faces were big-eyed, orbits scooped with darkness by the shadows.
I didn’t understand everything he said, as he spoke in an odd mixture of Gaelic and English, but I gathered sufficient sense to realize that he was inquiring, in a soft, level tone that seemed to turn his listeners to stone, as to the identity of the sentinels on duty for the evening.
There was a furtive glancing to and fro, and uneasy movement among the men, who seemed to clump more strongly together in the face of danger. But then the closed ranks parted, and two men stepped out, glanced up—once—then hastily down, and stood shoulder to shoulder, eyes on the ground, outside the protection of their fellows.
It was the McClure brothers, George and Sorley. Close in age, somewhere in their thirties, they stood hang-dog near each other, fingers of the work-toughened hands twitching as though longing to link and clasp together, as some small protection before the coming storm.
There was a brief, wordless pause as Jamie looked over the two delinquent sentinels. Then followed five solid minutes of unpleasantness, all conducted in that same soft, level voice. There wasn’t a sound from the grouped men, and the McClures, both burly men, seemed to dwindle and shrink under the weight of it. I wiped my sweating palms on my skirt, glad that I didn’t understand it all, and beginning to regret not following Jamie’s order to return to the tent.
I regretted it still more in the next moment, when Jamie turned suddenly to Murtagh, who, expecting the command, was ready with a leather strip, some two feet long, knotted at one end to provide a rough grip.
“Strip and stand to me, the both of ye.” The McClur
es moved at once, thick fingers fumbling with shirt fastenings, as though eager to obey, relieved that the preliminaries were over and the reckoning arrived.
I thought perhaps I would be sick, though I gathered that the punishment was light enough, by the standards applied to such things. There was no sound in the clearing, save the slap of the lash and an occasional gasp or groan from the man being flogged.
At the last stroke, Jamie let the thong fall to his side. He was sweating heavily, and the grimed linen of his shirt was pasted to his back. He nodded to the McClures in dismissal, and wiped his wet face on his sleeve as one man bent painfully to retrieve the discarded shirts, his brother, shaky himself, bracing him on the other side.
The men in the clearing seemed to have ceased even breathing, during the punishment. Now there was a tremor through the group, as though a collective breath had been released in a sigh of relief.
Jamie eyed them, shaking his head slightly. The night wind was rising, stirring and lifting the hair on his crown.
“We canna afford carelessness, mo duinnen,” he said softly. “Not from anyone.” He took a deep breath and his mouth twisted wryly. “And that includes me. It was my unshielded fire drew the lad to us.” Fresh sweat had sprung out on his brow, and he wiped a hand roughly across his face, drying it on his kilt. He nodded toward Murtagh, standing grimly apart from the other men, and held the leather strap out toward him.
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