“That isn’t Neil Forbes’s ear, is it?” I blurted.
“Mr. Fraser?”
The voice brought me up standing, hairs prickling at the back of my neck. Bloody hell, not him again? Sure enough, it was the Continental soldier, the despoiler of my soup. He came slowly into the circle of firelight, deep-set eyes fixed on Jamie.
“I am James Fraser, aye,” Jamie said, setting down his cup and gesturing politely toward a vacant rock. “Will ye take a cup of coffee, sir? Or what passes for it?”
The man shook his head, not speaking. He was looking Jamie over appraisingly, like one about to buy a horse and not sure of its temper.
“Perhaps ye’d prefer a warm cup o’ spittle?” Ian said, in an unfriendly tone. Jamie glanced at him, startled.
“Seo mac na muice a thàinig na bu thràithe gad shiubhal,” Ian added. He didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “Chan eil e ag iarraidh math dhut idir ‘uncle.’This is the misbegotten son of a pig who came earlier in search of you. He means you no good, Uncle.”
“Tapadh leat Iain. Cha robh fios air a bhith agam,” Jamie answered in the same language, keeping his voice pleasantly relaxed. “Thank you, Ian. I should never have guessed. Have ye business with me, sir?” he asked, changing to English.
“I would speak with you, yes. In privacy,” the man added, with a dismissive glance at Ian. Apparently I didn’t count.
“This is my nephew,” Jamie said, still courteous but wary. “Ye may speak in front of him.”
“I fear ye may think differently, Mr. Fraser, when you hear what I’ve to say. And once said, such things cannot be unsaid. Leave, young man,” he said, not bothering to look at Ian. “Or you will both regret it.”
Both Jamie and Ian stiffened visibly. Then they moved, at nearly the same instant, bodies shifting subtly, their feet coming under them, shoulders squaring. Jamie gazed thoughtfully at the man for a moment, then inclined his head an inch toward Ian. Ian rose without a word and disappeared into the darkness.
The man stood waiting, until the sound of Ian’s footsteps had faded and the night settled into silence around the tiny fire. Then he moved round the fire and sat down slowly, opposite Jamie, still maintaining that unnerving air of scrutiny. Well, it unnerved me; Jamie merely picked up his cup and drained it, calm as though he were sitting at his own kitchen table.
“If ye’ve aught to say to me, sir, say it. It’s late, and I’m for my bed.”
“A bed with your lovely wife in it, I daresay. Lucky man.” I was beginning to dislike this gentleman intensely. Jamie ignored both the comment and the mocking tone in which it was spoken, leaning forward to pour the last of the coffee into his cup. I could smell the bitter tang of it, even over the scent the buffalo robe had left on my shift.
“Does the name of Willie Coulter recall itself to you?” the man asked abruptly.
“I’ve kent several men of that name and that ilk,” Jamie replied. “Mostly in Scotland.”
“Aye, it was in Scotland. On the day before the great slaughter at Culloden. But you had your own wee slaughter on that day, no?”
I had been racking my memory for any notion of a Willie Coulter. The mention of Culloden struck me like a fist in the stomach.
Jamie had been obliged to kill his uncle Dougal MacKenzie on that day. And there had been one witness to the deed besides me: a MacKenzie clansman named Willie Coulter. I had assumed him long dead, either at Culloden or in the difficulties that followed—and I was sure Jamie had thought likewise.
Our visitor rocked back a little on his rock, smiling sardonically.
“I was once overseer on a sugar plantation of some size, you see, on the island of Jamaica. We’d a dozen black slaves from Africa, but blacks of decent quality grow ever more expensive. And so the master sent me to market one day with a purse of silver, to look over a new crop of indentures—transported criminals, the most of them. From Scotland.”
And among the two dozen men the overseer had culled from the ragged, scrawny, lice-ridden ranks was Willie Coulter. Captured after the battle, tried and condemned in quick order, and loaded onto a ship for the Indies within a month, never to see Scotland again.
I could just see the side of Jamie’s face and saw a muscle jump in his jaw. Most of his Ardsmuir men had been similarly transported; only the interest of John Grey had saved him from the same fate, and he had distinctly mixed feelings about it, even so many years after the fact. He merely nodded, though, vaguely interested, as though listening to some traveler’s tale in an inn.
“They all died within two weeks,” the stranger said, his mouth twisting. “And so did the blacks. Bloody pricks brought some filthy fever with them from the ship. Lost me my position. But I did get one thing of value to take away with me. Willie Coulter’s last words.”
JAMIE HADN’T MOVED appreciably since Mr. X had sat down, but I could sense the tension thrumming through him; he was strung like a bow with the arrow nocked.
“What is it ye want?” he asked calmly, and leaned forward to pick up the tin mug of coffee, wrapped in rags.
“Mmphm.” The man made a pleased sound in his throat and sat back a little, nodding.
“I kent ye for a sensible gentleman. I’m a modest man, sir—shall we say a hundred dollars? To show your good faith,” he added, with a grin that displayed snaggled teeth discolored by snuff. “And to save ye the trouble of protest, I’ll just mention that I ken ye’ve got it in your pocket. I happened to speak wi’ the gentleman ye won it from this afternoon, aye?”
I blinked at that; evidently Jamie had had an extraordinary run of luck. At cards, at least.
“To show good faith,” Jamie repeated. He looked at the cup in his hand, then at the Lowlander’s grinning face, but evidently decided that the distance was too great to throw it at him. “And to be going on with… ?”
“Ah, well. We can be discussing that later. I hear ye’re a man of considerable substance, Colonel Fraser.”
“And ye propose to batten on me like a leech, do ye?”
“Why, a bit of leeching does a man good, Colonel. Keeps the humors in balance.” He leered at me. “I’m sure your good wife kens the wisdom of it.”
“And what do you mean by that, you slimy little worm?” I said, standing up. Jamie might have decided against throwing a cup of coffee at him, but I was willing to have a try with the pot.
“Manners, woman,” he said, giving me a censorious glance before shifting his gaze back to Jamie. “Do ye not beat her, man?”
I could see the tautness in Jamie’s body subtly shifting; the bow was being drawn.
“Don’t—” I began, turning to Jamie, but never got to finish. I saw the expression change on Jamie’s face, saw him leap toward the man—and whirled just in time to see Ian materialize out of the darkness behind the blackmailer and put a sinewy arm round his throat.
I didn’t see the knife. I didn’t have to; I saw Ian’s face, so intent as almost to be expressionless—and I saw the ex-overseer’s face. His jaw dropped and the whites of his eyes showed, his back arching up in a futile attempt at escape.
Then Ian let go, and Jamie caught the man as he began to fall, his body gone suddenly and horribly limp.
“Jesus God!”
The exclamation came from directly behind me, and I whirled again, this time to see Colonel Martin and two of his aides, as drop-jawed as Mr. X had been a moment before.
Jamie glanced up at them, startled. Then in the next breath, he turned and said quietly over his shoulder, “Ruith.” Run.
“Hi! Murder!” one of the aides shouted, springing forward. “Stop, villain!”
Ian had lost no time in taking Jamie’s advice; I could see him darting toward the edge of the distant wood, but there was enough light from the many campfires to reveal his flight, and the shouts of Martin and his aides were rousing everyone in hearing; people were jumping up from their firesides, peering into the dark, shouting questions. Jamie dropped the overseer’s body by the fire and ran after Ian.
The younger of the aides hurtled past me, legs churning in furious pursuit. Colonel Martin dashed after him, and I managed to stick out a foot and trip him. He went sprawling through the fire, sending a fountain of sparks and ashes into the night.
Leaving the second aide to beat out the flames, I picked up my shift and ran as fast as I could in the direction Ian and Jamie had taken.
The encampment looked like something from Dante’s Inferno, black figures shouting against the glow of flames, pushing one another amid smoke and confusion, shouts of “Murder! Murder!” ringing from different directions as more people heard and took it up.
I had a stitch in my side but kept running, stumbling over rocks and hollows and trampled ground. Louder shouts from the left—I paused, panting, hand to my side, and saw Jamie’s tall form jerking free of a couple of pursuers. He must mean to draw pursuit away from Ian—which meant… I turned and ran the other way.
Sure enough, I saw Ian, who had sensibly stopped running as soon as he saw Jamie take off, now walking at a good clip toward the wood.
“Murderer!” a voice shrieked behind me. It was Martin, blast him, somewhat scorched but undaunted. “Stop, Murray! Stop, I say!”
Hearing his name shouted, Ian began to run again, zigzagging around a campfire. As he passed in front of it, I saw the shadow at his heels—Rollo was with him.
Colonel Martin had drawn up even with me, and I saw with alarm that he had his pistol in hand.
“St—” I began, but before the word was out, I crashed headlong into someone and fell flat with them.
It was Rachel Hunter, wide-eyed and openmouthed. She scrambled to her feet and ran toward Ian, who had frozen when he saw her. Colonel Martin cocked his pistol and pointed it at Ian, and a second later Rollo leapt through the air and seized the colonel’s arm in his jaws.
The pandemonium grew worse. There were bangs from two or three pistols, and Rollo dropped writhing to the ground with a yelp. Colonel Martin jerked back, cursing and clutching his injured wrist, and Jamie drew back and punched him in the belly. Ian was already rushing toward Rollo; Jamie grabbed the dog by two legs, and, between them, they made off into the darkness, followed by Rachel and me.
We made it to the edge of the wood, heaving and gasping, and I fell at once to my knees beside Rollo, feeling frantically over the huge shaggy body, hunting for the wound, for damage.
“He’s not dead,” I panted. “Shoulder … broken.”
“Oh, God,” Ian said, and I felt him turn to glance in the direction from which pursuit was surely headed. “Oh, Jesus.” I heard tears in his voice, and he reached to his belt for his knife.
“What are you doing?!” I exclaimed. “He can be healed!”
“They’ll kill him,” he said, savage. “If I’m no there to stop them, they’ll kill him! Better I do it.”
“I—” Jamie began, but Rachel Hunter forestalled him, falling to her knees and grabbing Rollo by the scruff.