The Outlander Series 7-Book Bundle

by Diana Gabaldon

  “Do no harm? Man, did ye no hear? The MacKenzie’s Prince Charles’s fair-haired boy the noo.” Simon lounged back in his seat, looking mockingly at his half-nephew.

  “What for?” I asked. “What on earth has he done?” Dougal had brought two hundred and fifty men-at-arms to fight for the Stuart cause, but there were a number of chieftains who had made greater contributions.

  “Ten thousand pounds,” Simon said, savoring the words as he rolled them around on his tongue. “Ten thousand pounds in fine sterling, Dougal MacKenzie’s brought to lay at the feet of his sovereign. And it willna come amiss, either,” he said matter-of-factly, dropping his lounging pose. “Cameron was just telling me that Charles had gone through the last of the Spanish money, and damn little coming in from the English supporters he’d counted on. Dougal’s ten thousand will keep the army in weapons and food for a few more weeks, at least, and with luck, by then he’ll ha’ got more from France.” At last, realizing that his reckless cousin was providing him with an excellent distraction for the English, Louis was reluctantly agreeing to cough up a bit of money. It was a long time coming, though.

  I stared at Jamie, his face reflecting my own bewilderment. Where on earth would Dougal MacKenzie have gotten ten thousand pounds? Suddenly I remembered where I had heard that sum mentioned once before—in the thieves’ hole at Cranesmuir, where I had spent three endless days and nights, awaiting trial on charges of witchcraft.

  “Geillis Duncan!” I exclaimed. I felt cold at the memory of that conversation, carried out in the pitch-blackness of a miry pit, my companion no more than a voice in the dark. The drawing-room fire was warm, but I pulled my cloak tighter around me.

  “I diverted near on to ten thousand pounds,” Geillis had said, boasting of the thefts accomplished by judicious forgery of her late husband’s name. Arthur Duncan, whom she had killed by poison, had been the procurator fiscal for the district. “Ten thousand pounds for the Jacobite cause. When it comes to rebellion, I shall know that I helped.”

  “She stole it,” I said, feeling a tremor run up my arms at the thought of Geillis Duncan, convicted of witchcraft, gone to a fiery death beneath the branches of a rowan tree. Geillis Duncan, who had escaped death just long enough to give birth to the child she bore to her lover—Dougal MacKenzie. “She stole it and she gave it to Dougal; or he took it from her, no telling which, now.” Agitated, I stood up and paced back and forth before the fire.

  “That bastard!” I said. “That’s what he was doing in Paris two years ago!”

  “What?” Jamie was frowning at me, Simon staring openmouthed.

  “Visiting Charles Stuart. He came to see whether Charles were really planning a rebellion. Maybe he promised the money then, maybe that’s what encouraged Charles to risk coming to Scotland—the promise of Geillis Duncan’s money. But Dougal couldn’t give Charles the money openly while Colum was alive—Colum would have asked questions; he was much too honest a man to have used stolen money, no matter who stole it in the first place.”

  “I see.” Jamie nodded, eyes hooded in thought. “But now Colum is dead,” he said quietly. “And Dougal MacKenzie is the Prince’s favorite.”

  “Which is all to the good for you, as I’ve been saying,” Simon put in, impatient with talk of people he didn’t know and matters he only half-understood. “Go find him; likely he’ll be in the World’s End at this time o’ day.”

  “Do you think he’ll speak to the Prince for you?” I asked Jamie, worried. Dougal had been Jamie’s foster father for a time, but the relationship had assuredly had its ups and downs. Dougal might not want to risk his newfound popularity with the Prince by speaking out for a bunch of cowards and deserters.

  The Young Fox might lack his father’s years, but he had a good bit of his sire’s acumen. The heavy black brows quirked upward.

  “MacKenzie still wants Lallybroch, no? And if he thinks Father and I might have an eye on reclaiming your land, he’ll be more eager to help you get your men back, aye? Cost him a lot more to fight us for it than to deal wi’ you, once the war’s over.” He nodded, happily chewing his upper lip as he contemplated the ramifications of the situation.

  “I’ll go wave a copy of Father’s list under his nose before ye speak to him. You come in and tell him you’ll see me in hell before ye let me claim your men, and then we’ll all go to Stirling together.” He grinned at Jamie complicitously.

  “I always thought there was some reason why ‘Scot’ rhymed with ‘plot,’ ” I remarked.

  “What?” Both men looked up, startled.

  “Never mind,” I said, shaking my head. “Blood will tell.”

  * * *

  I stayed in Edinburgh while Jamie and his rival uncles rode to Stirling to straighten out matters with the Prince. Under the circumstances, I couldn’t stay at Holyroodhouse, but found lodgings in one of the wynds above the Canongate. It was a small, cold, cramped room, but I wasn’t in it much.

  The Tolbooth prisoners couldn’t come out, but there was nothing barring visitors who wanted to get in. Fergus and I visited the prison daily, and a small amount of discriminating bribery allowed me to pass food and medicine to the men from Lallybroch. Theoretically, I wasn’t allowed to talk privately to the prisoners, but here again, the system had a certain amount of slip to it, when suitably greased, and I managed to talk alone with Ross the smith on two or three occasions.

  “ ’Twas my fault, lady,” he said at once, the first time I saw him. “I should ha’ had the sense to make the men go in small groups of three and four, not altogether like we did. I was afraid of losing some, though; the most of them had never been more than five mile from home before.”

  “You needn’t blame yourself,” I assured him. “From what I heard, it was only ill luck that you were caught. Don’t worry; Jamie has gone to see the Prince at Stirling; he’ll have you out of here in no time.”

  He nodded, tiredly brushing back a lock of hair. He was filthy and unkempt, and a good bit diminished from the burly, robust craftsman he had been a few months before. Still, he smiled at me, and thanked me for the food.

  “It willna come amiss,” he said frankly. “It’s little we get but slops. D’ye think …” He hesitated. “D’ye think ye might manage a few blankets, my lady? I wouldna ask, only four of the men have the ague, and …”

  “I’ll manage,” I said.

  I left the prison, wondering exactly how I would manage. While the main army had gone south to invade England, Edinburgh was still an occupied city. With soldiers, lords, and hangers-on drifting constantly in and out, goods of all sorts were high-priced and in short supply. Blankets and warm clothes could be found, but they would cost a lot, and I had precisely ten shillings left in my purse.

  There was a banker in Edinburgh, a Mr. Waterford, who had in the past handled some of Lallybroch’s business and investments, but Jamie had removed all his funds from the bank some months before, fearing that bank-held assets might be seized by the Crown. The money had been converted to gold, some of it sent to Jared in France for safekeeping, the rest of it hidden in the farmhouse. All of it equally inaccessible to me at the moment.

  I paused on the street to think, passersby jostling past me on the cobbles. If I didn’t have money, I had still a few things of value. The crystal Raymond had given me in Paris—while the crystal itself was of no particular value, its gold mounting and chain were. My wedding rings—no, I didn’t want to part with those, even temporarily. But the pearls … I felt inside my pocket, checking to see that the pearl necklace Jamie had given me on our wedding day was still safely sewn into the seam of my skirt.

  It was; the small, irregular beads of the freshwater pearls were hard and smooth under my fingers. Not as expensive as oriental pearls, but it was still a fine necklace, with gold pierced-work roundels between the pearls. It had belonged to Jamie’s mother, Ellen. I thought she would have liked to see it used to comfort his men.

  * * *

  “Five pounds,” I said firmly. �
��It’s worth ten, and I could get six for it, if I cared to walk all the way up the hill to another shop.” I had no idea whether this was true or not, but I reached out as though to pick up the necklace from the counter anyway, pretending that I was about to leave the pawnbroker’s shop. The pawnbroker, Mr. Samuels, placed a quick hand over the necklace, his eagerness letting me know that I should have asked six pounds to start with.

  “Three pound ten, then,” he said. “It’s beggaring me own family to do it, but for a fine lady like yourself …”

  The small bell over the shop door chimed behind me as the door opened, and there was the sound of hesitant footsteps on the worn boards of the pawnshop floor.

  “Excuse me,” began a girl’s voice, and I whirled around, pearl necklace forgotten, to see the shadow of the pawnbroker’s balls falling across the face of Mary Hawkins. She had grown in the last year, and filled out as well. There was a new maturity and dignity in her manner, but she was still very young. She blinked once, and then fell on me with a shriek of joy, her fur collar tickling my nose as she hugged me tight.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked, disentangling myself at last.

  “Father’s sister lives here,” she replied. “I’m st-staying with her. Or do you mean why am I here?” She waved a hand at the dingy confines of Mr. Samuels’s emporium.

  “Well, that too,” I said. “But that can wait a bit.” I turned to the pawnbroker. “Four pound six, or I’ll walk up the hill,” I told him. “Make up your mind, I’m in a hurry.”

  Grumbling to himself, Mr. Samuels reached beneath his counter for the cash box, as I turned back to Mary.

  “I have to buy some blankets. Can you come with me?”

  She glanced outside, to where a small man in a footman’s livery stood by the door, clearly waiting for her. “Yes, if you’ll come with me afterward. Oh, Claire, I’m so glad to see you!”

  “He sent a message to me,” Mary confided, as we walked down the hill. “Alex. A friend brought me his letter.” Her face glowed as she spoke his name, but there was a small frown between her brows as well.

  “When I found he was in Edinburgh, I m-made Father send me to visit Aunt Mildred. He didn’t mind,” she added bitterly. “It m-made him ill to look at me, after what happened in Paris. He was happy to get me out of his house.”

  “So you’ve seen Alex?” I asked. I wondered how the young curate had fared, since I had last seen him. I also wondered how he had found the courage to write to Mary.

  “Yes. He didn’t ask me to come,” she added quickly. “I c-came by myself.” Her chin lifted in defiance, but there was a small quiver as she said, “He.… he wouldn’t have written to me, but he thought he was d-dying, and he wanted me to know … to know …” I put an arm about her shoulders and turned quickly into one of the closes, standing with her out of the flow of jostling street traffic.

  “It’s all right,” I said to her, patting her helplessly, knowing that nothing I could do would make it right. “You came, and you’ve seen him, that’s the important thing.”

  She nodded, speechless, and blew her nose. “Yes,” she said thickly, at last. “We’ve had … two months. I k-keep telling myself that that’s more than most people ever have, two months of happiness … but we lost so much time that we might have h-had, and … it’s not enough. Claire, it isn’t enough!”

  “No,” I said quietly. “A lifetime isn’t enough, for that kind of love.” With a sudden pang, I wondered where Jamie was, and how he was faring.

  Mary, more composed now, clutched me by the sleeve. “Claire, can you come with me to see him? I know there’s n-not much you can do …” Her voice faltered, and she steadied it with a visible effort. “But maybe you could … help.” She caught my look at the footman, who stood stolidly outside the wynd, oblivious to the passing traffic. “I pay him,” she said simply. “My aunt thinks I go w-walking every afternoon. Will you come?”

  “Yes, of course.” I glanced between the towering buildings, judging the level of the sun over the hills outside the city. It would be dark in an hour; I wanted the blankets delivered to the prison before night made the damp stone walls of the Tolbooth still colder. Making a sudden decision, I turned to Fergus, who had been standing patiently next to me, watching Mary with interest. Returned to Edinburgh with the rest of the Lallybroch men, he had escaped imprisonment by virtue of his French citizenship, and had survived hardily by reverting to his customary trade. I had found him faithfully hanging about near the Tolbooth, where he brought bits of food for his imprisoned companions.

  “Take this money,” I said, handing him my purse, “and find Murtagh. Tell him to get as many blankets as that will buy, and see they’re taken to the gaolkeeper at the Tolbooth. He’s been bribed already, but keep back a few shillings, just in case.”

  “But Madame,” he protested, “I promised milord I would not let you go alone …”

  “Milord isn’t here,” I said firmly, “and I am. Go, Fergus.”

  He glanced from me to Mary, evidently decided she was less a threat to me than my temper was to him, and departed, shrugging his shoulders and muttering in French about the stubbornness of women.

  * * *

  The little room at the top of the building had changed considerably since my last visit. It was clean, for one thing, with polish gleaming on every horizontal surface. There was food in the hutch, a down quilt on the bed, and numerous small comforts provided for the patient. Mary had confided on the way that she had been quietly pawning her mother’s jewelry, to ensure that Alex Randall was as comfortable as money could make him.

  There were limits to what money could manage, but Alex’s face glowed like a candle flame when Mary came through the door, temporarily obscuring the ravages of illness.

  “I’ve brought Claire, dearest.” Mary dropped her cloak unheeded onto a chair and knelt beside him, taking his thin, blue-veined hands in her own.

  “Mrs. Fraser.” His voice was light and breathless, though he smiled at me. “It’s good to see a friendly face again.”

  “Yes, it is.” I smiled at him, noting half-consciously the rapid, fluttering pulse visible in his throat, and the transparency of his skin. The hazel eyes were soft and warm, holding most of the life left in his frail body.

  Lacking medicine, there was nothing I could do for him, but I examined him carefully, and saw him tucked up comfortably afterward, his lips slightly blue from the minor exertion of the examination.

  I covered the anxiety I felt at his condition, and promised to come next day with some medicine to help him sleep more easily. He hardly noticed my assurances; all his attention was for Mary, sitting anxiously by him, holding his hand. I saw her glance at the window, where light was fading rapidly, and realized her concern; she would have to return to her aunt’s house before nightfall.

  “I’ll take my leave, then,” I told Alex, removing myself as tactfully as I could, to leave them a few precious moments alone together.

  He glanced from me to Mary, then smiled back at me in gratitude.

  “God bless you, Mrs. Fraser,” he said.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, and left, hoping that I would.

  * * *

  I was busy over the next few days. The men’s arms had been confiscated, of course, when they were arrested, and I did my best to recover what I could, bullying and threatening, bribing and charming where necessary. I pawned two brooches that Jared had given me as a farewell present, and bought enough food to ensure that the men of Lallybroch ate as well as the army in general—poorly as that might be.

  I talked my way into the cells of the prison, and spent some time in treating the prisoners’ ailments, ranging from scurvy and the more generalized malnutrition common in winter, to chafing sores, chilblains, arthritis, and a variety of respiratory ailments.

  I made the rounds of those chieftains and lords still in Edinburgh—not many—who might be helpful to Jamie, if his visit to Stirling should fail. I didn’t think it woul
d, but it seemed wise to take precautions.

  And among the other activities of my days, I made time to see Alex Randall once a day. I took pains to come in the mornings, so as not to use up his time with Mary. Alex slept little, and that little, ill; consequently, he tended to be tired and drooping in the morning, not wanting to talk, but always smiling in welcome when I arrived. I would give him a light mixture of mint and lavender, with a few drops of poppy syrup stirred in; this would generally allow him a few hours of sleep, so that he could be alert when Mary arrived in the afternoon.

  Aside from me and Mary, I had seen no other visitors at the top of the building. I was therefore surprised, coming up the stairs to his room one morning, to hear voices behind the closed door.

  I knocked once, briefly, as was our agreed custom, and let myself in. Jonathan Randall was sitting by his brother’s bed, clad in his captain’s uniform of red and fawn. He rose at my entrance and bowed correctly, face cold.

  “Madam,” he said.

  “Captain,” I said. We then stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, staring at each other, each unwilling to go further.

  “Johnny,” said Alex’s hoarse voice from the bed. It had a note of coaxing, as well as one of command, and his brother shrugged irritably when he heard it.

  “My brother has summoned me to give you a bit of news,” he said, tightlipped. He wore no wig this morning, and with his dark hair tied back, his resemblance to his brother was startling. Pale and frail as Alex was, he looked like Jonathan’s ghost.

  “You and Mr. Fraser have been kind to my Mary,” Alex said, rolling onto his side to look at me. “And to me as well. I … knew of my brother’s bargain with you”—the faintest of pinks rose in his cheeks—“but I know, too, what you and your husband did for Mary … in Paris.” He licked his lips, cracked and dry from the constant heat in the room. “I think you should hear the news Johnny brought from the Castle yesterday.”