The Fiery Cross Page 11

  with chill.

  "If I were Bonnet," he agreed, with a qualm of distaste at the notion, "if I

  72 Diana Gabaldon

  knew the child was mine, and yet he was being raised by a stranger-would I not want the child to know the truth, sometime?"

  Her fingers convulsed in his, and her eyes went dark.

  "You mustn't tell him! Roger, for God's sake, promise me you won't tell him, ever!"

  He stared at her in astonishment. Her nails were digging painfully into his hand, but he made no move to free himself.

  "Bonnet? Christ, no! If I ever see the man again, I'll not waste time talking! "Not Bonnet." She shuddered, whether from cold or emotion, he couldn't tell. "God, keep away from that man! No, it's Jemmy I mean." She swallowed hard, and gripped both his hands. "Promise me, Roger. If you love me, promise that you'll never tell Jemmy about Bonnet, never. Even if something happens to me-"

  "Nothing will happen to you!"

  She looked at him, and a small, wry smile formed on her lips.

  "Celibacy's not my thing, either. It might." She swallowed. "And if it does ... promise me, Roger.-

  "Aye, I promise," he said, reluctantly. "If you're sure." "I'm sure!"

  "Would you not have wanted ever to know, then-about Jamie?"

  She bit her lip at that, her teeth sinking deep enough to leave a purple mark in the soft pink flesh.

  "Jamie Fraser is not Stephen Bonnet!"

  "Agreed," he said dryly. "But I wasna speaking of Jemmy to start with. All I meant was that if I were Bonnet, I should want to know, and-"

  "He does know." She pulled her hand from his, abruptly, and stood up, turning away.

  "He what?" He caught up with her in two strides, and grabbed her by the shoulder, turning her back to face him. She flinched slightly, and he loosened his grip. He took a deep breath, fighting to keep his voice calm. "Bonnet knows about Jemmy?"

  "Worse than that." Her lips were trembling; she pressed them tightly together to stop it, then opened them just enough to let the truth escape. "He thinks Jemmy is his."

  She wouldn't sit down with him again, but he drew her arm tightly through his and made her walk with him, walk through the fOing rain and tumbled stones, past the rush of the creek and the swaying trees, until the movement calmed her enough to talk, to tell him about her days left alone at River Run, a prisoner of her pregnancy. About Lord John Grey, her father's friend, and hers; how she had confided to Lord John her fears and struggles.

  "I was afraid you were dead. All of you-Mama, Da, you." Her hood had fallen back and she made no effort to reclaim it. Her red hair hung in dripping rattails on her shoulders, and droplets clung to her thick red brows.

  "The last thing Da said to me-he didn't say it, even, he wrote it-he had to write it, I wouldn't talk to him ...... She swallowed and ran a hand beneath her nose, wiping away a pendant drop. "He said-I had to find a way to ... to forgive him. B-Bonnet."

  The Fiery Cross 73

  "To do what?" She pulled her arm away slightly, and he realized how hard his fingers were digging into her flesh. He loosened his grip, with a small grunt of apology, and she tilted her head briefly toward him in acknowledgment.

  "He knew," she said, and stopped. She turned to face him, her feelings now in hand. "You know what happened to him-at Wentworth."

  Roger gave a short, awkward nod. In actuality, he had no clear notion what had been done to Jamie Fraser-and had no wish to know more than he did. He had seen the scars on Fraser's back, though, and knew from the few things Claire had said that these were but a faint reminder.

  "He knew," she said steadily. "And he knew what had to be done. He told me-if I wanted to be ... whole ... again, I had to find a way to forgive Stephen Bonnet. So I did."

  He had Brianna's hand in his, held so tight that he felt the small shift of her bones. She had not told him, he had not asked. The name of Stephen Bonnet had never been mentioned between them, not until now.

  "You did." He spoke gruffly, and had to stop to clear his throat. "You found him, then? You spoke to him?"

  She brushed wet hair back from her face, nodding. Grey had come to her, told her that Bonnet had been taken, condemned. Awaiting transport to Wilmington and execution, he was being held in the cellar beneath the Crown warehouse in Cross Creek. It was there that she had gone to him, bearing what she hoped was absolution-for Bonnet, for herself

  "I was huge." Her hand sketched the bulge of advanced pregnancy before her. "I told him the baby was his; he was going to die, maybe it would be some comfort to him, to think that there'd be ... something left."

  Roger felt jealousy grip his heart, so abrupt in its attack that for a moment, he thought the pain was physical. Something left, he thought. Something of him. And what of me? If I die tomorrow-and I might, girt! Life's chancy here for me as well as you-wbat will be left of me, tell me that?

  He oughtn't ask, he knew that. He'd vowed never to voice the thought that Jemmy was not his, ever. If there was a true marriage between them, then Jern was the child of it, no matter the circumstances of his birth. And yet he felt the words spill out, burning like acid.

  "So you were sure the child was his?"

  She stopped dead and turned to look at him, eyes wide with shock. "No. No, of course not! If I knew that, I would have told you!" The burning in his chest eased, just a little.

  "Oh. But you told him it was-you didn't say to him that there was doubt about it?"

  "He was going to die! I wanted to give him some comfort, not ten him my life story! It wasn't any of his goddamn business to hear about you, or our wedding night, or-damn you, Roger!" She kicked him in the shin.

  He staggered with the force of it, but grabbed her arm, preventing her from running off.

  "I'm sorry!" he said, before she could kick him again, or bite him, which she looked prepared to do. "I'm sorry. You're right, it wasn't his business-and it's not my business, either, to be making you think of it all again."

  74 Diana Gabaldon

  She drew in a deep breath through her nose, like a dragon preparing to sear him into ash. The spark of fury in her eyes lessened slightly, though her cheeks still blazed with it. She shook off his hand, but didn't run away.

  ccycs, it is5" she said. She gave him a dark, flat look. "You said there sh

  ouldn't be secrets between us, and you were right. But when you tell a Secret, sometimes there's another one behind it, isn't there?"

  "Yeah. But it's not- I don't mean-"

  eet and conversation interrupted Before he could say more, the sound of f

  him. Four men came out of the mist, speaking casually in Gaelic. They carried sharpened sticks and nets, and all were barefoot, wet to the

  fresh-caught fish gleamed dully in the rain-light. knees. Strings of 'rA Sme6raicb!' One man, peering out f

  rom under the sodden brim of his slouch hat, caught sight of them and broke into a broad grin, as shrewd eyes passed over their dishevelment.

  "It is yourself, Thrush! And the daughter of the Red One, too? What, can you not restrain yourselves until the darkness?"

  66 s No doubt it is sweeter to taste stolen fruit than to wait on a blessing from a hriveled priest.,, Another man thrust back his bonnet on his head, and clasped himself briefly, making clear just what he meant by "shriveled.,,

  "Ah, no,"

  said the third, wiping drops from the end of his nose as he eyed Brianna, her cloak pulled tight around her. "He's no but after singing her a wee wedding song, is he not?"

  "I know the words to that song, too," said his companion, his grin broadening enough to show a missing molar. "But I sing it still more sweetly!" Brianna's cheeks had begun to blaze again; her Gaelic was less fluent than

  Roger's, but she was certainly able to gather the sense of crude teasing. Roger stepped in f

  ront of her, shielding her with his body. The men meant no harm, though; they winked and grinned appreciatively, but made no rt er comment. The first man pulled off his hat and b
eat it against his thi fu h

  water, then set to business. gh, shedding "It's glad I am to be meeting you thus, a 6ranaiche. My mother did hear your music at the fire last night, and told it to my aunts and my cousins, how your music was making the blood dance in her feet. So now they will hear nothing but that you must come and sing f

  or the ceilidh at Spring Creek. It is my youngest cousin will be wed, and her the only child of my uncle, who owns the flour mill."

  "It will be a great affair, surely!"

  the first speaker put in one of the younger men, the son of , by his resemblance to the former.

  "Oh, ies a wedding?" said Roger, in slow, formal Gaelic.

  tra herring, then! 11 "We'll have an exThe two older men burst into laughter at the joke, but their sons merely looked bewildered.

  "Ah, the lads would not be knowing a herring, was it slapped wet against their cheeks,"

  them." said the bormeted man, shaking his head. "Born here, the two of "And where was you

  r home in Scotland, sir?" The man jerked,

  the question, Put in clear surprised at -voiced Gaelic. He stared at Brianna for a moment, then his face chariged as he answered her.

  The Fiery Cress 75

  "Skye," he said softly. "Skeabost, near the foot of the Cuillins. I am Angus MacLeod, and Skye is the land of my sires and my grandsires. But my sons were born here."

  He spoke quietly, but there was a tone in his voice that quelled the hilarity in the younger men as though a damp blanket had been thrown over them. The man in the slouch hat looked at Brianna. with interest.

  "And were you born in Scotland, a nighean?"

  She shook her head mutely, drawing the cloak higher on her shoulders. "I was," said Roger, answering a look of inquiry. 661n Kyle of Lochalsh." "Ah"' said MacLeod, satisfaction spreading itself across his weathered fea-

  tures. "It is so, then, that you know all the songs of the Highlands and the Isles? "

  "Not all," said Roger, smiling. "But manyand I will learn more."

  ding slowly. "Do that, Singer-and teach "Do that," said MacLeod, nod

  them to your sons." His eye lighted on Brianna, and a faint smile curled on his lips. "Ut them sing to my sons, that they will know the place they came fromthough they will never see it.11

  One of the younger men stepped forward, bashfully holding out a string of fish, which he presented to Brianna.

  "For you," he said. "A gift for your wedding."

  Roger could see one corner of her mouth twitch slightlywith humor or incipient hysteria? he wondered-but she stretched out a hand and took the dripping string with grave dignity. She picked up the edge of her cloak with one hand, and swept them all a deep curtsy.

  IrCbaned facal agam dhuibb ach taing, " she said, in her slow, strangely accented Gaelic. I have no words to say to you but thanks.

  .nk, and the older men looked deeply pleased. The young men went pi

  "It is good, a nighean," said MacLeod. "Let your husband teach you, then-and teach the Gaidblig to your sons. May you have manyl " He swept off his bonnet and bowed extravagantly to her, bare toes squelching in the mud to keep his balance.

  "Many sons, strong and healthy!" chimed in his companion, and the two lads smiled and nodded, murmuring shyly. "Many sons to you, mistress!" Roger made the arrangements for the ceilidh automatically, not daring to

  look at Brianna. They stood in silence, a foot or two apart, as the men left, casting curious looks behind them. Brianna stared down into the mud and grass where they stood, arms crossed in front of her. The burning feeling was still in Roger's chest, but now it was different. He wanted to touch her, to apologize again, but he thought that would only make things worse.

  In the end, she moved first. She came to him and laid her head on his chest, the coolness of her wet hair brushing the wound in his throat. Her breasts were huge, hard as rocks against his chest, pushing against him, pushing him away.

  "I need Jeramy," she said softly. "I need my baby."

  caught between apology and anger. He The words jammed in his throat,

  had not realized how much it would hu

  someone else-not his, but Bonnet's. rt to think of Jernmy as belonging to

  76 Diana Gabaldon

  "I need him, too," he whispered at last, and kissed her briefly on the forehead before taking her hand to cross the meadow once again. The mountain above lay shrouded in mist, invisible, though shouts and murmurs, scraps of speech, and music drifted down, like echoes from Olympus.

  SHRAPNEL

  HE DRIZZLE HAD STOPPED by mid-morning, and brief glimpses of pale blue sky showed through the clouds, giving me some T

  hope that it might clear by evening. Proverbs and omens quite aside, I didn't want the wedding ceremonies dampened for Briannals sake. It wouldn't be St. James's with rice and white satin, but it could at least be dry.

  I rubbed my right hand, working out the cramp from the tooth-pulling pliers; Mr. Goodwin's broken tooth had been more troublesome to extract than I expected, but I had managed to get it out, roots and all, sending him away with a small bottle of raw whisky, and instructions to swish it round his mouth once an hour to prevent infection. Swallowing was optional.

  I stretched, feeling the pocket under my skirt swing against my leg with a small but gratifying cbink. Mr. Goodwin had indeed paid cash; I wondered whether it was enough for an astrolabe, and what on earth Jamie wanted with one. My speculations were disturbed, though, by a small but official -sounding cough behind me.

  I turned around to find Archie Hayes, looking mildly quizzical. "Oh!" I said. "Ah-can I help you, Lieutenant?"

  "Weel, that's as may be, Mistress Fraser," he said, looking me over with a slight smile. "Farquard Campbell said his slaves are convinced that ye can raise the dead, so it might be as a bit of stray metal would pose no great trial to your skills as a surgeon?"

  Murray MacLeod, overhearing, uttered a loud snort at this, and turned away to his own waiting patients.

  "Oh," I said again, and rubbed a finger under my nose, embarrassed. One of Campbell's slaves had suffered an epileptic seizure four days before, happening to recover abruptly from it just as I laid an exploratory hand on his chest. In vain had I tried to explain what had happened; my fame had spread like wildfire over the mountain.

  Even now, a small group of slaves squatted near the edge of the clearing, playing at knucklebones and waiting 'til the other patients should be attended to. I gave them a narrow eye, just in case; if one of them were dying or dangerOuslY ill, I knew they would make no effort to tell me-both fr deference to my white patients, and from their confident conviction that if oanything drastic

  The Fiery Cross 77

  should happen while they were waiting, I would simply resurrect the corpse at my own convenience and deal with the problem then.

  All of them seemed safely vertical at the moment, though, and likely to remain so for the immediate future. I turned back to Hayes, wiping muddy hands on my apron.

  "Well ... let me see the bit of metal, why don't you, and I'll see what can be done."

  Nothing loath, Hayes stripped off bonnet, coat, waistcoat, stock, and shirt, together with the silver gorget of his office. He handed his garments to the aide who accompanied him, and sat down on my stool, his placid dignity quite unimpaired by partial nakedness, by the gooseflesh that stippled his back and shoulders, or by the murmur of awed surprise that went up from the waiting slaves at sight of him.

  His torso was nearly hairless, with the pale, suety color of skin that had gone years with no exposure to sunlight, in sharp contrast to the weathered brown of his hands, face, and knees. The contrasts went further than that, though.

  Over the milky skin of his left breast was a huge patch of bluish-black that covered him from ribs to clavicle. And while the nipple on the right was a normal brownish-pink, the one on the left was a startling white. I blinked at the sight, and heard a soft "A Dbia!" behind me.

  "A Dbia, tba e Wonndadb dubb!" said a
nother voice, somewhat louder. By God, he is turning black!

  Hayes appeared not to hear any of this, but sat back to let me make my examination. Close inspection revealed that the dark coloration was not natural pigmentation but a mottling caused by the presence of innumerable small dark granules embedded in the skin. The nipple was gone altogether, replaced by a patch of shiny white scar tissue the size of a sixpence.

  "Gunpowder," I said, running my fingertips lightly over the darkened area. I'd seen such things before; caused by a misfire or shot at close range, which drove particles of powder-and often bits of wadding and cloth-into the deeper layers of the skin. Sure enough, there were small bumps beneath the skin, evident to my fingertips, dark fragments of whatever garment he had been wearing when shot.

  "Is the ball still in you?" I could see where it had entered; I touched the white patch, trying to envision the path the bullet might have taken thereafter. "Half of it is," he replied tranquilly. "It shattered. When the surgeon went

  to dig it out, he gave me the bits of it. When I fitted them together after, I couldna make but half a ball, so the rest of it must have stayed."

  "Shattered? A wonder the pieces didn't go through your heart or your lung," I said, squatting down in order to squint more closely at the injury. "Oh, it did," he informed me. "At least, I suppose that it must, for it came

  in at my breest as ye see-but it's keekin' out from my back just now."

  To the astonishment of the multitudes-as well as my own-he was right. I could not only feel a small lump, just under the outer border of his left scapula, I could actually see it; a darkish swelling pressing against the soft white skin.

  "I will be damned," I said, and he gave a small grunt of amusement, whether at my surprise or my language, I couldn't tell.

  Odd as it was, the bit of shrapnel presented no surgical difficulty. I dipped a

  78 Diana Gabaldon

  cloth into my bowl of distilled alcohol, wiped the area careffilly, sterilized a scalpel, and cut quickly into the skin. Hayes sat quite still as I did it; he was a soldier and a Scot, and as the markings on his breast bore witness, he had endured much worse than this.

  I spread two fingers and pressed them on either side of the incision; the lips of the small slit pouted, then a dark, jagged bit of metal suddenly protruded like a stuck-out tongue-far enough for me to grasp it with forceps and pull it free. I dropped the discolored lump into Hayes's hand, with a small exclamation of triumph, then clapped a pad soaked with alcohol against his back.

  He expelled a long breath between pursed lips, and smiled over his shoulder at me.

  "I thank ye, Mrs. Fraser. This wee fellow has been wi' me for some time now, but I canna say as I'm grieved to part company with him." He cupped his blood-smeared palm, peering at the bit of fractured metal in it with great interest.

  "How long ago did it happen?" I asked curiously. I didn't think the bit of shrapnel had actually passed completely through his body, though it certainly gave the illusion of having done so. More likely, I thought, it had remained near the surface of the original wound, and traveled slowly round the torso, propelled between skin and muscle by Hayes's movements, until reaching its present location.

  "Oh, twenty year and more, mistress," he said. He touched the patch of tough, numbed white that had once been one of the most sensitive spots on his body. "That happened at Culloden."

  He spoke casually, but I felt gooseflesh ripple over my arms at the name. Twenty years and more ... twenty-five, more like. At which point ...

  "You can't have been more than twelve!" I said.

  "No," he replied, one eyebrow lifted. "Eleven. My birthday was the next day, though."

  I choked back whatever I might have said in reply. I had thought I had lost my capacity to be shocked by the realities of the past, but evidently not. Someone had shot him-an eleven-year-old boy-at point-blank range. No chance of mistake, no shot gone awry in the heat of battle. The man who had shot him had known it was a child he meant to kill-and had fired, anyway.

  My lips pressed tight as I examined my incision. No more than an inch long, and not deep; the fractured ball had lain just below the surface. Good, it