“But you—”
“I’ll manage! GO!” she bellowed, her face scarlet in the glare of the sinking sun.
He went.
HIS FIRST IMPULSE was to go back to the house, to the main stable. But that would take too long—and embroil him in awkward explanations that would not only delay his leaving but rouse the whole household.
“And you can keep it quiet,” Betty had said.
“Aye, fat chance,” he muttered, half-running for the barn. But if there was any chance of keeping this from becoming an open scandal, he had to admit that it probably lay with him, little as he liked it.
There was no possibility of pursuing Wilberforce on one of the farm horses, even were they not knackered from the day’s work. But there were two fine mules, Whitey and Mike, who were kept to draw the hay wagon. They were broken to the saddle, at least, and had spent the day in pasture. He might just …
By the time he’d reached this point in his thoughts, he was already rifling through the tack in search of a snaffle and, ten minutes later, was mounted on a surprised and affronted Whitey, trotting toward the road, the three stable-hands staring after them with their mouths hanging open. He saw Betty in the distance, limping toward the house, her entire figure emanating indignation.
He felt no small amount of this emotion himself. His impulse was to think that Isobel had made her bed and could lie in it—but, after all, she was very young and knew nothing of men, let alone a scoundrel like Wilberforce.
And she would indeed be stuffed, as Betty inelegantly put it, once Wilberforce had taken her maidenhead. Quite simply, her life would be ruined. And her family would be badly damaged—more damaged. They’d lost two of their three children already.
He pressed his lips tight. He supposed he owed it to Geneva Dunsany and her parents to save her little sister.
He wished he had thought to tell Betty to seek out Lord John and let him know what was to do—but it was too late for that, and he couldn’t have waited for Grey to come, in any case. The sun had sunk below the trees now, though the sky remained light; he’d have an hour, maybe, before full dark. He might reach the coaching road in that time.
If Wilberforce meant to reach Gretna Green, just over the Scottish border, where he could marry Isobel without the consent of her parents—and without anything in the way of questions asked—he must be taking the coaching road that led from London to Edinburgh. This passed within a few miles of Helwater. And it had inns along the way.
Not even an eloping scoundrel would try to drive a gig all the way to Gretna at night. They’d have to stop overnight and go on in the morning.
He might catch them in time.
IT WAS A GOOD deal safer to ride a mule in the dark than to drive a gig, but still nothing a sane man would want to do. He was shivering—and not entirely from the cold, though he was wearing only a leather jerkin over his shirt—and cursing in a manner that would have outdone Betty, by the time he saw the lights of the first posthouse.
He gave the mule to an ostler to water, asking as he did whether a gig had stopped, with a well-dressed man and a young woman in it?
It had not, though the ostler had seen such a conveyance go by, just before dark, and thought the driver an idiot.
“Aye,” Jamie said briefly. “How far’s the next inn?”
“Two miles,” the man replied, peering at him curiously. “You’re after him, are you? What’s he done?”
“Nothing,” Jamie assured him. “He’s a solicitor, hurryin’ to a dying client who needs a will changed. He’s left behind some papers he needs, so they sent me on to bring them.”
“Oh.” The ostler—like everyone else in the world—had no interest in legal matters.
Jamie had no money, so shared the mule’s water, scooping it up with his hand. The ostler took his lack of money personally, but Jamie loomed menacingly at him, and the ostler took his disgruntlement off to a safe distance, muttering insults.
Back to the road, after a brief contest of wills between Jamie and the mule, and on into the night. There was a half-moon, barely up, and as it rose, he was at least able to see the edge of the road and thus not fear going badly astray in the dark.
Biddle was not a posthouse but rather a small hamlet boasting one tavern—outside which stood the Helwater gig, its traces unhitched. Jamie said a quick Hail Mary in thanks, added an Our Father for strength, and swung grimly off the mule.
He tied Whitey to the rail and stood for a moment, rubbing his stubbled chin and thinking how to proceed. One way if they were in separate rooms—but another if they were together. And if solicitor Wilberforce was the man that Betty thought him, Jamie would put money on together. The man wouldn’t want to risk being caught before he’d put the matter beyond question; he wouldn’t wait for marriage before deflowering the girl, for once he’d taken her virginity, there was no going back.
The simplest thing would be to walk in and demand to know the whereabouts of Wilberforce and Isobel—but if the aim was as much to prevent scandal as it was to rescue the fat-heided wee lassie from her peril, he’d best not do that. Instead, he walked quietly round behind the tavern, looking at the windows.
It was a small place: only two rooms upstairs, and only one of those windows was lit. The shutters were drawn, but he saw a shadow pass by the crack, and as he stood there in the sharp-smelling dark, he heard Isobel’s giggle, high and nervous, and then the rumble of Wilberforce’s voice.
Not too late, then. He drew a deep breath and flexed his hands, stiff with cold and long riding.
The words of an old Highland song echoed in his mind as he rummaged about the ramshackle shed behind the tavern. He had no notion of the music, but it was a ballad, and he recalled the story, which had to do with an abducted bride.
… in one bed they were laid, were laid, in one bed they were laid.
In the song, the young woman hadn’t wanted to be abducted, though, and fiercely resisted the attempts of her would-be bridegroom to consummate the marriage.
“Before I lose my maidenheid, I’ll fight wi’ you ’til dawn, ’til dawn, I’ll fight wi’ you ’til dawn,” he murmured absently, feeling round the walls. A good-size beer barrel would be enough; tall as he was, he could reach the sill, he thought.
The valiant maid succeeded—owing as much, Jamie thought, to the unmanly feebleness of her would-be husband as to her own efforts—and, come dawn, emerged triumphant from the boudoir, insisting that her abductors restore her to her home, … virgin as I came, I came—virgin as I came!
Well, he hadn’t heard any screeching yet, so there was a chance Isobel would come home in the same condition. He didn’t find a suitable barrel but did come across something better—a thatcher’s ladder, laid on its side. He carried this out, walking as softly as he could, and laid it carefully against the wall.
There were noises from inside the tavern—the usual clatter and voices, and a smell of roasted meat that made his mouth water, despite his preoccupation. He swallowed saliva and set foot on the ladder.
Isobel screamed.
The sound was cut off abruptly, as by a hand placed over her mouth, and three seconds later Jamie smashed in the shutter with a ferocious kick and dived headfirst into the room.
Lawyer Wilberforce yelped in shock. So did Isobel. The man had her pressed to the bed, and was on top of her in only his shirt, his hairy arse protruding obscenely between her white round thighs, glimmering in the candlelight.
Jamie reached the bed in two steps, grabbed Wilberforce by the shoulders, pulled him off Isobel, punched him in the face, and sent him staggering into the wall. He picked up the candlestick and bent to take one hasty glance between Isobel’s legs, but saw neither blood nor any other sign of recent intrusion, so put down the candlestick, yanked her night rail down over her legs, lifted her off the bed, and headed for the window, then on second thought went back for a blanket.
Someone was calling up the stairs, wanting to know was anything wrong?
Jamie bared his teeth at Wilberforce and ripped the side of his hand across his own throat, ordering silence. The lawyer was on the floor, back pressed against the door, but at this made an earnest attempt to scrabble backward through it.
“I can’t, I can’t,” Isobel was saying, breathless. He didn’t know if she meant she couldn’t climb down the ladder in the dark or was only hysterical, but he hadn’t time to ask her. He hoisted her over his shoulder, threw the blanket on top of her, stood on the sill, and stepped backward out into the night.
The ladder, while stout enough for its purpose, hadn’t been intended for elopements. The rung snapped under his foot and he slid most of the way to the ground, clinging to the rails in terror as the ladder slewed sideways. He hit the ground—still standing—and lost both his grip and Isobel. The ladder fell sideways with a clattering thud, Isobel with a thump and a stifled shriek.
He picked up the lass and ran for the mule, Isobel whimpering and digging her fingernails into his neck. He slapped her briefly on the bum to make her stop, put her up on the mule, untied it, and made for the road as the door of the inn opened and a truculent male voice said—from the safety of the lighted interior—“I see you, you bugger! I see you!”
Isobel said not a word on the way back to Helwater.
JOHN GREY WAS LYING in his bed, contentedly reading Mrs. Hagwood’s Love in Excess; or, The Fatal Enquiry, when he heard a great rustling and bumping in the corridor outside. Tom had gone to bed long since in the servants’ attic, so Grey flung back the covers, reaching for his banyan. He had barely got this on when there was a brief, imperative thump at his door that shivered its boards, as though someone had kicked it.
Someone had.
He wrenched the door open and Jamie Fraser walked in, dripping wet carrying someone wrapped in a blanket. Breathing heavily, he crossed the room and deposited his burden on Grey’s rumpled bed with a grunt. The burden let out a small squeak and clutched the blanket round itself.
“Isobel?” Grey glanced wildly at Fraser. “What’s happened? Is she hurt?”
“You need to soothe her and put her back where she belongs,” Fraser said, in very decent German. This startled Grey nearly as much as the intrusion, though an instant’s thought supplied the explanation—Isobel spoke French but not German.
“Jawohl,” he replied, giving Fraser a sideways look. He hadn’t known Fraser spoke German, and a brief thought of Stephan von Namtzen flashed through his mind. Christ, what might they have said to each other in Fraser’s hearing? That didn’t matter now, though.
“What’s happened, my dear?”
Isobel was hunched on the edge of the bed, snuffling and hiccuping. Her face was bloated and red, her blond hair loose, damp and tangled about her shoulders. Grey sat down gingerly beside her and rubbed her back gently.
“I’b ad idiot,” Isobel said thickly, and buried her face in her hands.
“She tried to elope with the lawyer—Wilberforce,” Jamie said in English. “Her maid came and got me and I went after them.” Jamie returned to German and acquainted Grey with the situation in a few blunt sentences, including his intelligence regarding Wilberforce’s wife and the precise situation in which he had found the lawyer and Isobel.
“The schwanzlutscher hadn’t penetrated her, but it was close enough to give her a shock,” he said, looking down dispassionately on Isobel, who was slumping with exhaustion, her head leaning on Grey’s shoulder as he put his arm about her.
“Bastard,” Grey said. It was the same word in English and German, and Isobel shuddered convulsively. “You’re safe, sweetheart,” he murmured to her. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.” The wet blanket had slipped off her shoulders and puddled round her, and he saw with a pang that she was wearing a nightdress of sheer lawn, with broderie Anglaise inserts and pale pink ribbon at the neck. She’d gone prepared for her wedding night—only she hadn’t been prepared at all, poor little creature.
“What did you do to the lawyer?” he asked Jamie in German. “You didn’t kill him, did you?” It was pouring outside; he hoped he wouldn’t have to go and hide Wilberforce’s body.
“Nein.” Fraser didn’t elaborate, but squatted in front of Isobel.
“No one knows,” he said to her softly, eyes intent on her face. “No one needs to know. Ever.”
She didn’t want to look at him; Grey could feel her resistance. But after a moment she lifted her head and nodded, her mouth compressed to stop it trembling.
“I—thank you,” she blurted. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she wasn’t sobbing or shivering anymore, and her body had begun to relax.
“It’s all right, lass,” Fraser said to her, still softly. He rose then and went to the door, hesitating there. Grey patted Isobel’s hand and, leaving her, came across to see Fraser out.
“If you can get her back to her room without being seen, Betty will take care of her,” Jamie said to Grey in a low voice. And then in German, “When she’s calm, tell her to forget it. She won’t, but I don’t want her to feel that she is in my debt. It would be awkward for us both.”
“She is, nonetheless. And she is an honorable woman. She’ll want to repay you in some way. Let me think how best to handle it.”
“I am obliged.” Fraser spoke abstractedly, though, and his eyes were still on Isobel. “There is … if she …” His gaze switched suddenly to Grey’s face.
Jamie’s own face was rough with red stubble and lined with tiredness, his eyes dark and bloodshot. Grey could see that the knuckles of his left hand were swollen and the skin was broken; he’d likely punched Wilberforce in the mouth.
“There is a thing I want,” Fraser said, very low-voiced, still in German. “But it cannot be blackmail or look like it in any way. If there were some means to suggest it very tactfully …”
“I see your opinion of my diplomacy has improved. What is it that you want?”
A brief smile touched Fraser’s face, though it vanished almost at once.
“The wee lad,” he said. “They make him wear a corset. I would like to see him free of it.”
Grey was extremely surprised, but merely nodded.
“All right. I’ll see about it.”
“Not tonight,” Fraser said hastily. Isobel had collapsed with a little sigh, her head on Grey’s pillow, feet trailing on the floor.
“No,” he agreed. “Not tonight.”
He closed the door quietly behind Fraser and went to deal with the girl in his bed.
42
Point of Departure
TOM HAD THE LUGGAGE LOADED ONTO THE MULE, AND THE horses were waiting. Lord John embraced Lady Dunsany and—very gently—Isobel and shook hands with Lord Dunsany in farewell. The old man’s hands were cold, and the bones as fragile in his grasp as dried twigs. He felt a pang, wondering if he would see Dunsany alive the next time he came—and a deeper pang of concern, realizing what the old man’s death might mean to him, beyond the loss of a dear old friend.
Well … he’d cross that bridge when he came to it, and God send he wasn’t coming to it just yet.
Outside, the weather was lowering, the first drops of rain already making wet spots on the flags. The horses’ ears twitched and turned to and fro; they didn’t mind rain and were fresh and eager to be off.
Jamie was holding Grey’s gelding. He inclined his head respectfully and stood back to allow Grey to mount by himself. As Grey put his hand on the pommel, he heard a low Scots voice murmur in his ear:
“Queen’s rook to king eight. Check.”
Grey laughed out loud, a burst of exhilaration pushing aside his disquiet.
“Ha,” he said, though without raising his voice. “Queen’s bishop to knight four. Check. And mate, Mr … MacKenzie.”
JAMIE COULDN’T ENLIST Keren’s help this time. Instead, when Peggy the nursemaid came to fetch Willie back to the nursery for his tea, he asked her to take a note from him to Betty. Peggy couldn’t read, and while she might tell someone he was meeting Betty, she couldn
’t know where. He particularly didn’t wish to be overheard.
Betty was waiting for him behind the hay shed, fastidiously eyeing the immense manure pile with a curled lip. She switched the expression to him, raising one brow in inquiry.
“I’ve a wee thing for ye, Mrs. Betty,” he said without preliminary.
“About time,” she said, the curl melting into a coquettish smile. “Though not so wee as all that, I hope. And I also hope you have a better place than this for it, too,” she added, with a glance at the manure. It was too late in the season for flies, and Jamie personally found the smell rather pleasant, but he could see she didn’t share this opinion.
“The place will do well enough,” he said. “Give me your hand, lass.”
She did, looking expectant. The look changed to one of astonishment when he put the little purse into her palm.
“What’s this?” she asked, but the chink of coins as she weighed the purse was answer enough.
“That’s your dowry, lass,” he said, smiling.
She looked at him suspiciously, plainly not knowing whether this was a joke or something else.
“A lass like you should be marrit,” he said. “But it’s not me ye should be marrying.”
“Who says so?” she asked, fixing him with a fishy eye.
“I do,” he replied equably. “Like the wicked Mr. Wilberforce, lass—I’ve got a wife.”
She blinked.
“You do? Where?”
Ah, where indeed?
“She couldna come with me, when I was captured after Culloden. But she’s alive still.”
Lord, that she may be safe …
“But there’s a man that wants ye bad, lass, and well ye know it. George Roberts is a fine man, and with that wee bawbee”—he nodded at the purse in her hand—“the two of ye could set up in a bit wee cottage, maybe.”
The Scottish Prisoner: A Novel Page 43