The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  “I could hear a hurly-burly breakin’ out in the hallway,” he explained, “and I kent they were in after me. I didna want to be having to fight for my life wi’ a lot of naked women getting in the way.”

  “I can see that the prospect might be daunting,” I agreed, rubbing my upper lip. “But obviously he got you out.”

  “Aye. He didna hesitate a moment, the dear lad. ‘This way, Monsieur!’ he says, and it was up the stair, and through a room, and out a window onto the roof, and awa’ wi’ us both.” Jamie cast a fond glance at his new employee.

  “You know,” I observed, “there are some wives who wouldn’t believe one word of a story like that.”

  Jamie’s eyes opened wide in astonishment.

  “They wouldna? Whyever not?”

  “Possibly,” I said dryly, “because they aren’t married to you. I’m pleased that you escaped with your virtue intact, but for the moment, I’m rather more interested in the chaps who chased you in there.”

  “I didna have a great deal of leisure to think about it at the time,” Jamie replied. “And now that I have, I still couldna say who they were, or why they were hunting me.”

  “Robbery, do you think?” The cash receipts of the wine business were conveyed between the Fraser warehouse, the Rue Tremoulins, and Jared’s bank by strongbox, under heavy guard. Still, Jamie was very visible among the crowds near the river docks, and was undoubtedly known to be a wealthy foreign merchant—wealthy by contrast with most of the denizens of that neighborhood, at any rate.

  He shook his head, flicking crumbs of dried mud off his shirtfront.

  “It might be, I suppose. But they didna try to accost me; it was straightout murder they meant.”

  His tone was quite matter-of-fact, but it gave me rather a wobbly feeling in the knees, and I sank down onto a settee. I licked my lips, gone suddenly dry.

  “Who—who do you think …?”

  He shrugged, frowning as he scooped up a dab of icing from the plate and licked it off his finger.

  “The only man I could think of who’s threatened me is the Comte St. Germain. But I canna think what he’d gain from having me killed.”

  “He’s Jared’s business rival, you said.”

  “Oh, aye. But the Comte’s no interest in German wines, and I canna see him going to the trouble of killing me, only to ruin Jared’s new enterprise by bringing him back to Paris. That seems a trifle extreme,” he said dryly, “even for a man wi’ the Comte’s temper.”

  “Well, do you think …” The idea made me mildly ill, and I swallowed twice before going on. “Do you think it might have been … revenge? For the Patagonia being burned?”

  Jamie shook his head, baffled.

  “I suppose it could be, but it seems a long time to wait. And why me, come to that?” he added. “It’s you annoyed him, Sassenach. Why not kill you, if that’s what he meant?”

  The sick feeling got slightly worse.

  “Do you have to be so bloody logical?” I said.

  He saw the look on my face, and smiled suddenly, putting an arm around me for comfort.

  “Nay, mo duinne. The Comte’s a quick temper, but I canna see him going to the trouble and expense of killing either of us, only for revenge. If it might get him his ship back, then yes,” he added, “but as it is, I expect he’d only think the price of three hired assassins throwing good money after bad.”

  He patted my shoulder and stood up.

  “Nay, I expect it was only a try at robbery, after all. Dinna trouble yourself about it. I’ll take Murtagh with me to the docks from now on, to be safe.”

  He stretched himself, and brushed the last of the crumbling dirt from his kilt. “Am I decent to go in to supper?” he asked, looking critically down his chest. “It must be nearly ready by now.”

  “What’s ready?”

  He opened the door, and a rich, spicy scent wafted up at once from the dining room below.

  “Why, the sausage, of course,” he said, with a grin over one shoulder. “Ye dinna think I’d let it go to waste?”

  13

  DECEPTIONS

  Barberry leaves, three handfuls in a decoction, steeped overnight, poured over half a handful of black hellebore.” I laid the list of … ingredients down on the inlaid table as though it were slightly slimy to the touch. “I got it from Madame Rouleaux. She’s the best of the angel-makers, but even she says it’s dangerous. Louise, are you sure you want to do this?”

  Her round pink face was blotched, and the plump lower lip had a tendency to quiver.

  “What choice do I have?” She picked up the recipe for the abortifacient and gazed at it in repulsed fascination.

  “Black hellebore,” she said, and shuddered. “The very name of it sounds evil!”

  “Well, it’s bloody nasty stuff,” I said bluntly. “It will make you feel as though your insides are coming out. But the baby may come, too. It doesn’t always work.” I remembered Master Raymond’s warning—It is dangerous to wait too long—and wondered how far gone she might be. Surely no more than six weeks or so; she had told me the instant she suspected.

  She glanced at me, startled, with red-rimmed eyes.

  “You have used it yourself?”

  “God, no!” I startled myself with the vehemence of my exclamation, and took a deep breath.

  “No. I’ve seen women who have, though—at L’Hôpital des Anges.” The abortionists—the angel-makers—practiced largely in the privacy of homes, their own or their clients’. Their successes were not the ones that came to the hospital. I laid a hand unobtrusively over my own abdomen, as though for protection of its helpless occupant. Louise caught the gesture and hurled herself into the sofa, burying her head in her hands.

  “Oh, I wish I were dead!” she moaned. “Why, why couldn’t I be as fortunate as you—to be bearing the child of a husband I loved?” She clutched her own plump stomach with both hands, staring down at it as though expecting the child to peek out between her fingers.

  There were any number of answers to that particular question, but I didn’t think she really wanted to hear any of them. I took a deep breath and sat down beside her, patting a heaving damask shoulder.

  “Louise,” I said. “Do you want the child?”

  She lifted her head and stared at me in astonishment.

  “But of course I want it!” she exclaimed. “It’s his—it’s Charles’s! It’s …” Her face crumpled, and she bowed her head once more over her hands, clasped so tightly over her belly. “It’s mine,” she whispered. After a long moment, she raised her streaming face, and with a pathetic attempt to pull herself together, wiped her nose on a trailing sleeve.

  “But it’s no good,” she said. “If I don’t …” She glanced at the recipe on the table and swallowed heavily. “Then Jules will divorce me—he’ll cast me out. There would be the most terrible scandal. I might be excommunicated! Not even Father could protect me.”

  “Yes,” I said. “But …” I hesitated, then cast caution to the winds. “Is there any chance Jules might be convinced the child is his?” I asked bluntly.

  She looked blank for a moment, and I wanted to shake her.

  “I don’t see how, unless—oh!” Light dawned, and she looked at me, horrified.

  “Sleep with Jules, you mean? But Charles would be furious!”

  “Charles,” I said through my teeth, “is not pregnant!”

  “Well, but he’s … that is … I couldn’t!” The look of horror was fading, though, being slowly replaced with the growing realization of possibility.

  I didn’t want to push her; still, I saw no good reason for her to risk her life for the sake of Charles Stuart’s pride, either.

  “Do you suppose Charles would want you to endanger yourself?” I said. “For that matter—does he know about the child?”

  She nodded, mouth slightly open as she thought about it, hands still clenched together over her stomach.

  “Yes. That’s what we quarreled about last time.”
She sniffed. “He was angry; he said it was all my fault, that I should have waited until he had reclaimed his father’s throne. Then he would be king someday, and he could come and take me away from Jules, and have the Pope annul my marriage, and his sons could be heirs to England and Scotlan.…” She gave way once more, sniveling and wailing incoherently into a fold of her skirt.

  I rolled my eyes in exasperation.

  “Oh, do be quiet, Louise!” I snapped. It shocked her enough to make her stop weeping, at least momentarily, and I took advantage of the hiatus to press my point.

  “Look,” I said, as persuasively as possible, “you don’t suppose Charles would want you to sacrifice his son, do you? Legitimate or not?” Actually, I rather thought Charles would be in favor of any step that removed inconvenience from his own path, regardless of the effects on Louise or his putative offspring. On the other hand, the Prince did have a marked streak of romanticism; perhaps he could be induced to view this as the sort of temporary adversity common to exiled monarchs. Obviously, I was going to need Jamie’s help. I grimaced at the thought of what he was likely to say about it.

  “Well.…” Louise was wavering, wanting desperately to be convinced. I had a momentary pang of pity for Jules, Prince de Rohan, but the vision of a young servant-girl, dying in protracted, blood-smeared agony on a pallet spread in the stone hallway of L’Hôpital des Anges was brutally clear in my mind.

  It was nearly sunset when I left the de Rohans’, footsteps dragging. Louise, palpitating with nervousness, was upstairs in her boudoir, her maid putting up her hair and arraying her in her most daring gown before she went down to a private supper with her husband. I felt completely drained, and hoped that Jamie hadn’t brought anyone home for supper; I could use a spot of privacy, too.

  He hadn’t; when I entered the study, he was seated at the desk, poring over three or four sheets of close-written paper.

  “Do you think ‘the fur merchant’ is more likely to be Louis of France, or his minister Duverney?” he asked, without looking up.

  “Fine, thank you, darling, and how are you?” I said.

  “All right,” he said absently. The cowlicks on the top of his head were sticking up straight; he massaged his scalp vigorously as I watched, scowling down his long nose at the paper.

  “I’m sure ‘the tailor from Vendôme’ must be Monsieur Geyer,” he said, running a finger along the lines of the letter, “and ‘our mutual friend’—that could be either the Earl of Mar, or possibly the papal envoy. I think the Earl, from the rest of it, but the—”

  “What on earth is that?” I peered over his shoulder, and gasped when I saw the signature at the foot of the letter. James Stuart, by the grace of God King of England and Scotland.

  “Bloody Christ! It worked, then!” Swinging around, I spotted Fergus, crouched on a stool in front of the fire, industriously stuffing pastries into his face. “Good lad,” I said, smiling at him. He grinned back at me, cheeks puffed like a chipmunk’s with chestnut tart.

  “We got it from the papal messenger,” Jamie explained, coming to the surface long enough to realize I was there. “Fergus took it from the bag while he was eating supper in a tavern. He’ll spend the night there, so we’ll have to put this back before morning. No difficulties there, Fergus?”

  The boy swallowed and shook his head. “No, milord. He sleeps alone—not trusting his bedmates not to steal the contents of his bag.” He grinned derisively at this. “The second window on the left, above the stables.” He waved an airy hand, the deft, grubby fingers reaching for another pie. “It is nothing, milord.”

  I had a sudden vision of that fine-boned hand held squirming on a block, with an executioner’s blade raised above the broomstick wrist. I gulped, forcing down the sudden lurch of my stomach. Fergus wore a small greenish copper medal on a string about his neck; the image of St. Dismas, I hoped.

  “Well,” I said, taking a deep breath to steady myself, “what’s all this about fur merchants?”

  * * *

  There was no time then for leisurely inspection. In the end, I made a quick fair copy of the letter, and the original was carefully refolded and its original seal replaced with the aid of a knife blade heated in a candle flame.

  Watching this operation critically, Fergus shook his head at Jamie. “You have the touch, milord. It is a pity that the one hand is crippled.”

  Jamie glanced dispassionately at his right hand. It really wasn’t too bad; a couple of fingers set slightly askew, a thick scar down the length of the middle finger. The only major damage had been to the fourth finger, which stuck out stiffly, its second joint so badly crushed that the healing had fused two fingerbones together. The hand had been broken in Wentworth Prison, less than four months ago, by Jack Randall.

  “Never mind,” he said, smiling. He flexed the hand and flicked the fingers playfully at Fergus. “My great paws are too big to make a living picking pockets, anyway.” He had regained an astounding degree of movement, I thought. He still carried the soft ball of rags I had made for him, squeezing it unobtrusively hundreds of times a day as he went about his business. And if the knitting bones hurt him, he never complained.

  “Off with ye, then,” he told Fergus. “Come and find me when you’re safe back, so I’ll know ye havena been taken up by the police or the landlord of the tavern.”

  Fergus wrinkled his nose scornfully at such an idea, but nodded, tucking the letter carefully inside his smock before disappearing down the back stair toward the night that was both natural element and protection for him.

  Jamie looked after him for a long minute, then turned to me. He truly looked at me for the first time, and his brows flew up.

  “Christ, Sassenach!” he said. “You’re pale as my sark! Are ye all right?”

  “Just hungry,” I said.

  He rang at once for supper, and we ate it before the fire, while I told him about Louise. Rather to my surprise, while he knit his brows over the situation and muttered uncomplimentary things under his breath in Gaelic about both Louise and Charles Stuart, he agreed with my solution to the problem.

  “I thought you’d be upset,” I said, scooping up a mouthful of succulent cassoulet with a bit of bread. The warm, bacon-spiced beans soothed me, filling me with a sense of peaceful well-being. It was cold and dark outside, and loud with the rushing of the wind, but it was warm and quiet here by the fire together.

  “Oh, about Louise de La Tour foisting a bastard on her husband?” Jamie frowned at his own dish, running a finger around the edge to pick up the last of the juice.

  “Well, I’m no verra much in favor of it, I’ll tell ye, Sassenach. It’s a filthy trick to play on a man, but what’s the poor bloody woman to do otherwise?” He shook his head, then glanced at the desk across the room and smiled wryly.

  “Besides, it doesna become me to be takin’ a high moral stand about other people’s behavior. Stealing letters and spying and trying generally to subvert a man my family holds as King? I shouldna like to have someone judging me on the grounds of the things I’m doing, Sassenach.”

  “You have a damn good reason for what you’re doing!” I objected.

  He shrugged. The firelight flickering on his face hollowed his cheeks and threw shadows into the orbits of his eyes. It made him look older than he was; I tended to forget that he was not quite twenty-four.

  “Aye, well. And Louise de La Tour has a reason, too,” he said. “She wants to save one life, I want ten thousand. Does that excuse my risking wee Fergus—and Jared’s business—and you?” He turned his head and smiled at me, the light gleaming from the long, straight bridge of his nose, glowing like sapphire in the one eye turned toward the fire.

  “Nay, I think I wilna lose my sleep over the need for opening another man’s letters,” he said. “It may come to much worse than that before we’ve done, Claire, and I canna say ahead of time what my conscience will stand; it’s best not to test it too soon.”

  There was nothing to be said to that; it was
all true. I reached out and laid my hand against his cheek. He laid his own hand over mine, cradling it for a moment, then turned his head and gently kissed my palm.

  “Well,” he said, drawing a deep breath and returning to business. “Now that we’ve eaten, shall we have a look at this letter?”

  The letter was coded; that much was obvious. To foil possible interceptors, Jamie explained.

  “Who would want to intercept His Highness’s mail?” I asked. “Besides us, I mean.”

  Jamie snorted with amusement at my naiveté.

  “Almost anyone, Sassenach. Louis’s spies, Duverney’s spies, Philip of Spain’s spies. The Jacobite lords and the ones who think they might turn Jacobite if the wind sets right. Dealers in information, who dinna care a fart in a breeze who lives or dies by it. The Pope himself; the Holy See’s been supporting the Stuarts in exile for fifty years—I imagine he keeps an eye on what they’re doing.” He tapped a finger on the copy I’d made of James’s letter to his son.

  “The seal on this letter had been removed maybe three times before I took it off myself,” he said.

  “I see,” I said. “No wonder James codes his letters. Do you think you can make out what he says?”

  Jamie picked up the sheets, frowning.

  “I don’t know; some, yes. Some other things, I’ve no idea. I think perhaps I can work it out, though, if I can see some other letters King James has sent. I’ll see what Fergus can do for me there.” He folded the copy and put it carefully away in a drawer, which he locked.

  “Ye canna trust anyone, Sassenach,” he explained, seeing my eyes widen. “We might easily have spies among the servants.” He dropped the small key in the pocket of his coat, and held out his arm to me.

  I took the candle in one hand and his arm in the other, and we turned toward the stairs. The rest of the house was dark, the servants—all but Fergus—virtuously asleep. I felt a trifle creepy, with the realization that one or more of the silent sleepers below or above might not be what they seemed.