He did not speak again but seemed to settle, his body diminishing as life and breath fled from it. When his last breath came, they waited in dull misery, expecting another, and only after a full minute of silence did they begin to look at one another covertly, steal glances at the ravaged bed, the stillness in Ian’s face—and realize slowly that it was over at last.
Did Jenny mind? he wondered. That Ian’s last words had been to him? But he thought not; the one mercy to a going such as his brother-in-law’s had been was that there was time to take leave. He had made a time to speak alone with each of his children, Jamie knew. Comfort them as he could, maybe leave them with a bit of advice, at the least the reassurance that he loved them.
He had been standing next to Jenny when Ian died. She had sighed and seemed to slump beside him, as though the iron rod that had run up her back for the last year had suddenly been pulled out through her head. Her face had showed no sorrow, though he knew it was there; for that moment, though, she had only been glad it was over—for Ian’s sake, for all their sakes.
So surely they had found time, she and Ian, to say what had to be said between them, in the months since they knew.
What would he say to Claire in such circumstances? he wondered suddenly. Probably what he had said to her, in parting. “I love you. I’ll see you again.” He didn’t see any way of improving on the sentiment, after all.
He couldn’t stay in the house. The women had washed Ian and laid him out in the parlor and were now embarked on an orgy of furious cooking and cleaning, for word had gone out and people were already beginning to come for the wake.
The day had dawned spitting rain, but for the moment, none was falling. He went out through the kailyard and climbed the little slope to the arbor. Jenny was sitting there, and he hesitated for a moment, but then came and sat down beside her. She could send him away if she wanted solitude.
She didn’t; she reached up for his hand and he took it, engulfing hers, thinking how fine-boned she was, how frail.
“I want to leave,” she said calmly.
“I dinna blame ye,” he said, with a glance at the house. The arbor was covered with new leaves, the green of them fresh and soft from the rain, but someone would find them soon. “Shall we walk down by the loch for a bit?”
“No, I mean I want to leave here. Lallybroch. For good.”
That took him aback more than a bit.
“Ye dinna mean that, I think,” he said at last, cautious. “It’s been a shock, after all. Ye shouldna—”
She shook her head and put a hand to her breast.
“Something’s broken in me, Jamie,” she said softly. “Whatever it was that bound me … it binds me nay more.”
He didn’t know what to say. He’d avoided the sight of the broch and the burying ground at its foot when he came out of the house, unable to bear the dark wet patch of raw ground there—but now he turned his head deliberately and raised his chin to point at it.
“And ye’d leave Ian?” he asked.
She made a small noise in her throat. Her hand lay against her breast still, and at this she pressed it flat, fierce against her heart.
“Ian’s with me,” she said, and her back straightened in defiance of the fresh-dug grave. “He’ll never leave me, nor I him.” She turned her head and looked at him then; her eyes were red, but dry.
“He’ll never leave ye, either, Jamie,” she said. “Ye ken that, as well as I do.”
Tears welled in his own eyes then, unexpected, and he turned his head away.
“I ken that, aye,” he muttered, and hoped it was true. Just now the place inside him where he was accustomed to find Ian was empty, hollow and echoing as a bodhran. Would he come back? Jamie wondered. Or had Ian only moved a bit, to a different part of his heart, a place he hadn’t yet looked? He hoped—but he wouldn’t go looking just yet awhile and kent it was for fear of finding nothing.
He wanted to change the subject, give her time and space to think. But it was difficult to find anything to say that didn’t have to do with Ian being dead. Or with death in general. All loss is one, and one loss becomes all, a single death the key to the gate that bars memory.
“When Da died,” he said suddenly, surprising himself as much as her. “Tell me what happened.”
He felt her turn to look at him but kept his own eyes on his hands, the fingers of his left hand rubbing slowly over the thick red scar that ran down the back of his right.
“They brought him home,” she said at last. “Lying in a wagon. It was Dougal MacKenzie with them. He told me Da had seen ye being whipped, and all of a sudden he’d fallen down, and when they picked him up, one side of his face was drawn up in anguish but the other was slack. He couldna speak, or walk, and so they took him away and brought him home.”
She paused, swallowing, her eyes fixed on the broch and the burying ground.
“I had a doctor to him. He bled Da, more than once, and burned things in a wee burner and wafted the smoke under his nose. He tried to give him medicine, but Da couldna really swallow. I put drops of water on his tongue, but that was all.” She sighed deeply. “He died the next day, about noon.”
“Ah. He … never spoke?”
She shook her head. “He couldna speak at all. Only moved his mouth now and then and made wee gurgling sounds.” Her chin puckered a little at the memory, but she firmed her lips. “I could see, though, near the end, he was trying to speak. His mouth was trying to shape the words, and his eyes were on mine, trying to make me understand.” She glanced at him.
“He did say, ‘Jamie,’ the once. I ken that much for sure. For I thought he was trying to ask for you, and I told him Dougal said ye were alive and promised that ye’d be all right. That seemed to comfort him a bit, and he died soon after.”
He swallowed thickly, the sound of it loud in his ears. It had begun to rain again, lightly, drops pattering on the leaves overhead.
“Taing,” he said softly at last. “I wondered. I wish I could have said ‘Sorry’ to him.”
“Ye didna need to,” she said just as softly. “He’d ha’ known it.”
He nodded, unable to speak for a moment. Getting himself under control, though, he took her hand again and turned to her.
“I can say ‘Sorry’ to you, though, a pìuthar, and I do.”
“For what?” she said, surprised.
“For believing Dougal when he told me … well, when he said ye’d become an English soldier’s whore. I was a fool.” He looked at his maimed hand, not wanting to meet her eyes.
“Aye, well,” she said, and laid her hand on his, light and cool as the new leaves that fluttered round them. “Ye needed him. I didn’t.”
They sat awhile longer, feeling peaceful, holding hands.
“Where d’ye think he is now?” Jenny said suddenly. “Ian, I mean.”
He glanced at the house, then at the new grave waiting, but of course that wasn’t Ian anymore. He was panicked for a moment, his earlier emptiness returning—but then it came to him, and, without surprise, he knew what it was Ian had said to him.
“On your right, man.” On his right. Guarding his weak side.
“He’s just here,” he said to Jenny, nodding to the spot between them. “Where he belongs.”
PART SEVEN
Reap the Whirlwind
SON OF A WITCH
When Roger and Buccleigh drove up to the house, Amanda rushed out to meet them and returned to her mother, waving a blue plastic pinwheel on a stick.
“Mama! Look what I got, look what I got!”
“Oh, how pretty!” Brianna bent to admire it and, blowing, made the toy spin round.
“I do it, I do it!” Amanda grabbed it back, puffing and blowing with great determination but making little headway.
“From the side, a leannan, from the side.” William Buccleigh came round the car and picked Amanda up, gently turning her hand so the pinwheel was perpendicular to her face. “Now blow.” He put his face close to hers and helped bl
ow, and the pinwheel whirred like a June bug.
“Aye, that’s fine, isn’t it? You have a go, then, on your own.” He gave Bree a half-apologetic shrug and carried Amanda up the path, she industriously puffing and blowing. They passed Jem, who stopped to admire the pinwheel. Roger got out of the car with a couple of carrier bags and paused for a private word with Brianna.
“If we had a dog, I wonder if it would like him, too?” she murmured, nodding after their guest, who was now engaged in animated conversation with both children.
“A man may smile, and smile, and be a villain,” Roger replied, watching with a narrowed eye. “And the claims of instinct quite aside, I don’t think either dogs or children are necessarily good judges of character.”
“Mm. Did he tell you anything else while you were out today?” Roger had taken William Buccleigh into Inverness to replenish his wardrobe, as he possessed nothing more than the jeans, T-shirt, and charity-store jacket in which he’d arrived.
“A few things. I asked him how he’d come here—to Lallybroch, I mean—and what was he doing hanging about. He said he’d seen me on the street in Inverness and recognized me, but I’d got in my car and gone before he could make up his mind to talk to me. He saw me once or twice more, though, and asked cautiously round to find out where I lived. He—” He stopped and looked at her, with a half smile. “Bear in mind what he is and when he came from. He thought—and I don’t think he was telling me a tale—that I must be an Old One.”
“Really?”
“Aye, really. And on the face of it … well, I did survive being hanged, which most people don’t.” His mouth twisted a little as he touched the scar on his throat. “And I—we—did, obviously, travel safely through the stones. I mean … I could see his point.”
Despite her disquiet, she sniffed with amusement.
“Well, yes. You mean he was afraid of you?”
Roger shrugged, helpless. “He was. And I think I believe him—though I will say that if that’s the case, he puts up a good front.”
“Would you act afraid if you were going to confront a powerful supernatural being? Or would you try to play it cool? Being a male of the species, as Mama puts it. Or a proper man, as Da says. You and Da both act like John Wayne if there’s anything fishy going on, and this guy is related to both of you.”
“Good point,” he said, though his mouth twitched at the “powerful supernatural being.” Or possibly the “John Wayne” part. “And he admitted that he was reeling a bit at the shock of everything. I could sympathize with that.”
“Mm. And we knew what we were doing. Sort of. He told me what happened when he came through—did he tell you that, too?”
They had been walking slowly but had nearly reached the door; she could hear Annie’s voice in the hall, asking something, exclaiming among the children’s chatter, and the lower rumble of William Buccleigh’s voice in reply.
“Aye, he did. He wanted—wants, and wants badly—to get back to his own time. Clearly I knew how, and he’d have to come and talk to me to find out. But only a fool would walk straight up to a stranger’s door, let alone a stranger you’d come close to killing, much less a stranger who might strike you dead on the spot or turn you into a crow.” He shrugged again.
“So he left his job and took to lurking about the place, watching. To see if we were tossing human bones out the back door, I suppose. Jem ran into him out by the broch one day, and he told him he was a Nuckelavee—partly to scare him away, but also because if he came back and told me there was a Nuckelavee up the hill, I might come out and do something magical about it. And if I did …” He lifted his hands, palms up.
“If you did, you might be dangerous, but he’d also know you had the power to send him back. Like the Wizard of Oz.”
He looked at her for a moment.
“Anyone less like Judy Garland than him—” he began, but was interrupted by Annie MacDonald demanding to know what they were hanging about being eaten by midgies for, when there was supper on the table? Apologizing, they went inside.
Brianna ate supper without really noticing what was on her plate. Jem was going to spend the night with Bobby again and go out fishing on Saturday with Rob on the Rothiemurchus estate. She felt a small twinge at that; she remembered her father patiently teaching Jem to cast, with the homemade rod and thread line that was all they had. Would he remember?
Still, it was just as well to have him out of the house. She and Roger were going to have to sit down with William Buccleigh and decide how best to get him back to his own time, and best if Jem wasn’t lurking around the edges of such a discussion with his ears flapping. Should they consult Fiona? she wondered suddenly.
Fiona Graham was the granddaughter of old Mrs. Graham, who had kept house for Roger’s adoptive father, the Reverend Wakefield. The very proper and elderly Mrs. Graham had also been the “caller”—the holder of a very old tradition indeed. On the fire feast of Beltane, the women whose families had passed the tradition down to them met at dawn and, clothed in white, performed a dance that Roger said was an ancient Norse circle dance. And at the end of it, the caller sang out in words that none of them understood anymore, bringing up the sun, so that as it rose above the horizon, the beam of light shot straight through the cleft of the split stone.
Mrs. Graham had died peacefully in her sleep years before—but had left her knowledge, and her role as caller, to her granddaughter, Fiona.
Fiona had helped Roger when he came through the stones to find Brianna—even contributing her own diamond engagement ring to help him, after his first attempt had ended much as William Buccleigh described his own: in flames in the center of the circle.
They could get a gemstone without much trouble, she thought, automatically passing the bowl of salad to Roger. From what they knew so far, it didn’t have to be a terribly expensive stone, or even a large one. The garnets in Roger’s mother’s locket had apparently been enough to keep him from being killed during his first, abortive try.
She thought suddenly of the burn mark on William Buccleigh’s chest and, as she did so, realized that she was staring at him—and he was staring back at her. She choked on a chunk of cucumber, and the subsequent hubbub of back-thumping and arm-raising and coughing and water-fetching luckily explained the redness of her face.
Everyone settled back to their food, but she was aware of Roger looking sideways at her. She shot him a brief look under her lashes, with a faint tilt of the head that said, “Later. Upstairs,” and he relaxed, resuming a three-way conversation with “Uncle Buck” and Jemmy about trout flies.
She wanted to talk to him about what Buccleigh had said, and decide what to do about him, as soon as possible. She was not going to tell him what William Buccleigh had said about Rob Cameron.
Roger lay in bed, watching the moonlight on Brianna’s sleeping face. It was quite late, but he found himself wakeful. Odd, for he usually fell asleep in seconds after making love to her. Fortunately, she did, too; she had tonight, curling into him like a large, affectionate shrimp before lapsing into naked, warm inertness in his arms.
It had been wonderful—but that wee bit different. She was almost always willing, even eager, and that had been no different, though she’d made a particular point of dead-bolting the bedroom door. He’d installed the dead bolt because Jem had learned to pick locks at the age of seven. It was still bolted, in fact, and seeing that, he slid carefully out from under the covers to unfasten it. Jem was spending the night with his new best friend, Bobby, but if Mandy needed them in the night, he didn’t want the door locked.
The room was cool, but pleasantly so; they’d put in baseboard heaters, which would be barely adequate to the winter temperatures of the Highlands but fine for late autumn.
Bree slept hot; he’d swear her body temperature rose two or three degrees when she slept, and she often threw off the covers. She lay now, bare to the waist, arms flung over her head and snoring faintly. He cupped a hand absently under his balls, wondering id
ly whether they might have another go. He thought she wouldn’t mind, but …
But maybe he shouldn’t. When he made love to her, he often took his time and, at the last, was filled with a barbarous delight when she yielded her red-thatched quim—willingly, to be sure, but with an instant always of hesitation, just one final breath of something that was not quite resistance. He thought it was a means of assuring herself—if not him—that she had the right to refuse. A stronghold once breached and repaired has stouter defenses. He didn’t think she realized consciously that she did this; he’d never mentioned it to her, wanting no ghost to rise between them.
It had been a little different tonight. She’d balked more noticeably, then yielded with something like ferocity, pulling him in and raking her nails down his back. And he …
He’d paused for that one instant, but once safely mounted had had the insane urge to pillage ruthlessly, to show himself—if not her—that she was indeed his, and not her own, inviolate.
And she’d egged him on.
He noticed that he hadn’t taken his hand away and was now eyeing his wife like a Roman soldier sizing up one of the Sabine women for weight and portabililty. Raptio was the Latin word, usually translated as “rape,” though in fact it meant kidnapping, or seizing. Raptio, raptor, the seizing of prey. He could see it both ways, and noticed at this point that he still hadn’t actually removed his hand from his genitals, which in the meantime had decided unilaterally that, no, she wouldn’t mind at all.
His cerebral cortex, rapidly being overpowered by something a lot older and much lower down, hazarded a last faint notion that it was to do with having a stranger in the house—especially one like William Buccleigh MacKenzie.
“Well, he’ll be gone by Samhain,” Roger muttered, approaching the bed. The portal in the stones should be wide open then, and with some sort of gem in hand, the bugger ought to be back to his wife in …
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