“Ian—is that by chance Ian Murray?” Grey asked, but then answered himself. “I suppose it must be; how many Mohawks can there be named Ian? I take it that he survived his wound, then; I’m pleased to hear it. How did you come to—”
“Dorothea,” said Hal, in measured tones, staring at Dottie. “Why are you here?”
Dottie returned his stare, her jaw visibly clenched.
“B-because of Ben,” she said, unable to keep her voice entirely steady. “Are you—Papa, are you sure he’s not dead?”
Hal took an audible breath and nodded.
“I’m sure,” he said in his best command voice. But John could see his knuckles whiten as he clutched a teaspoon, and felt the knot in his own stomach tighten in response.
Dottie clearly had her own doubts, judging from her glance at her father, but she obligingly nodded. Being Dottie, of course, she didn’t stop there.
“How?” she said. “How do you know? Adam and Henry both think . . . the worst.”
Hal’s mouth opened a fraction of an inch, but nothing came out.
John thought that Hal ought really to have been prepared for this, but, after all, his brother had been having a difficult time. And, in all justice, it was hard to be prepared for something like Dottie.
“I suppose you’d better tell her,” John said. “If you don’t, she’ll likely write to Minnie.”
Hal shot him a glance full of venom, fully aware that this helpful suggestion had been made with the intent of forcing him to divulge his reasoning to Dottie—but there wasn’t much of a choice, and he did so with as much grace as he could.
“But this Captain Richardson hadn’t done anything to Willie?” Dottie said, frowning a little. “I thought—”
“Not on this occasion,” John said briefly, “but given his earlier behavior over the Dismal Swamp and Quebec, we’re somewhat suspicious.”
“And the man apparently has deserted,” Hal pointed out.
“You don’t know that. He might have been killed by someone and his body concealed,” Dottie pointed out logically.
“He was seen leaving the camp,” John said patiently. “Alone. And given what we know and surmise about him, I think we have grounds to consider the possibility that he might be an American agent.” He was himself fairly well convinced of it, viewing all his experience of Richardson now with the clarity of hindsight. He’d been an intelligencer himself for some years, and every instinct he possessed was presently shouting Stinking fish! with regard to Ezekiel Richardson.
“I blame myself extremely,” he said apologetically to Hal. “I should have been on to him much sooner. But I was . . . distracted at the time.” Distracted. Blown sideways and more than half obliterated by the news of Jamie Fraser’s death. Even the memory of it was enough to close his stomach. He put down the forkful of kipper, untasted.
“All right,” Dottie said slowly. Her own breakfast was congealing on her plate. So was Hal’s. “So you don’t believe Ben is dead, because this Richardson told you he was—and you think Richardson is a wrong ’un. But that’s . . . all?” She looked intently at her father, her young chin trembling slightly, begging reassurance.
Hal closed his eyes for an instant, opened them, and looked at her directly.
“Dorothea,” he said softly. “I have to believe that Ben is alive. Because if he isn’t, then your mother will die of heartbreak—and I will die with her.”
There was a moment of long silence, during which Grey heard the passage of carts in the street and the muffled voices of his valet and a bootblack in the corridor. Dottie made no sound at all, but he felt he could hear, too, the tears that rolled slowly down her cheeks.
THE RAVELED SLEEVE OF CARE
September 15, 1778
Philadelphia
I WOKE ABRUPTLY IN the dark, disoriented and alarmed. For a moment, I had no idea where I was or what was happening—only that something was seriously wrong.
I sat up, blinking furiously in an attempt to focus my eyes. Patted round in confusion and found myself naked, legs tangled in a sheet and wisps of straw prickling . . . oh. Loft. Printshop.
Jamie.
That was what was wrong. He lay next to me, but not still. He was on his side, turned away from me, body contorted, knees drawn up, and his arms crossed tight over his chest, head bowed. Shivering violently, though moonlight showed me the gleam of cold sweat on his shoulders. And making the terrible small whimpering noises that betokened the worst of his dreams.
I knew better than to try to wake him suddenly. Not in a small space with a lot of clutter and a steep drop ten feet away.
My own heart was pounding, and I knew his was. I eased myself carefully down beside him, facing his back. I needed to touch him, to bring him slowly to himself—or to enough of himself that he could recover alone. This wasn’t the sort of nightmare eased by talking. Or, sometimes, even by waking.
“God, no,” he said, in a heartbroken whisper. “God, no!”
I mustn’t grab or shake him. I clenched my teeth and ran my hand lightly from the slope of his shoulder down to his elbow, and his skin shivered like a horse ridding itself of flies. That was all right, then. I did it again, paused, and again. He took a deep, horrible gasp, choked with fear . . . but the violent shivering eased a little.
“Jamie,” I whispered, and, with extreme caution, touched his back very lightly. If he was dreaming about Jack Randall, this might—
“No!” he exclaimed, in a loud, fierce voice, and his legs straightened, every muscle in his body tight against his skin. “Damn you to hell!”