A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [139]
“No bother, mistress,” said another of the men, swinging down off his horse. “I’ll help her fetch it. I do think we shall be needing more than one keg, though.”
The voice was English, and oddly familiar. Not a cultivated accent, but with a careful diction.
“We have only one keg ready,” I said, slowly moving sideways and keeping my eyes on the man who had spoken. He was short and very slender, and moved with a stiff, jerky gait, like a marionette.
He was moving toward me; so were the others. Marsali had reached the woodpile, and was fumbling behind the chunks of oak and hickory. I could hear her breath, harsh in her throat. The keg was hidden in the woodpile. There was an ax lying next to the wood, too, I knew.
“Marsali,” I said. “Stay there. I’ll come and help you.”
An ax was a better weapon than a shovel—but two women against . . . how many men? Ten . . . a dozen . . . more? I blinked, eyes watering against the sun, and saw several more walk out of the wood. I could see these clearly; one grinned at me and I had to steel myself not to look away. His grin broadened.
The short man was coming closer, too. I glanced at him, and a brief itch of recognition tickled me. Who the hell was he? I knew him; I’d seen him before—and yet I hadn’t any name to attach to the lantern jaws and narrow brow.
He stank of long-dried sweat, dirt ground into the skin, and the tang of dribbled urine; they all did, and the odor of them floated on the wind, feral as the stink of weasels.
He saw me recognize him; thin lips pulled in for a moment, then relaxed.
“Mrs. Fraser,” he said, and the feeling of apprehension deepened sharply as I saw the look in his small, clever eyes.
“I think you have the advantage of me, sir,” I said, putting as bold a face on it as I might. “Have we met?”
He didn’t answer that. One side of his mouth turned up a little, but his attention was distracted by the two men who had lunged forward to take the keg as Marsali rolled it out of its hiding place. One had already seized the ax I had my eye on, and was about to stave in the top of the cask, when the thin man shouted at him.
“Leave it!”
The man looked up at him, mouth open in heavy incomprehension.
“I said leave it!” the thin man snapped, as the other glanced from the cask to the ax and back in confusion. “We’ll take it with us; I’ll not have you all befuddled with drink now!”
Turning to me, as though continuing a conversation, he said, “Where’s the rest of it?”
“That’s all there is,” Marsali said, before I could answer. She was frowning at him, wary of him, but also angry. “Take it, then, and ye must.”
The thin man’s attention shifted to her for the first time, but he gave her no more than a casual glance before turning back to me.
“Don’t trouble lying to me, Mrs. Fraser. I know well enough there’s more, and I’ll have it.”
“There is not. Give me that, ye great oaf!” Marsali snatched the ax neatly from the man holding it, and scowled at the thin man. “This is how ye repay proper welcome, is it—by thieving? Well, take what ye came for and leave, then!”
I had no choice but to follow her lead, though alarm bells were ringing in my brain every time I looked at the thin little man.
“She’s right,” I said. “See for yourselves.” I pointed at the shed, the mash tubs and the pot still that stood nearby, unsealed and patently empty. “We’re only beginning the malting. It will be weeks yet before there’s a new batch of whisky.”
Without the slightest change of expression, he took a quick step forward and slapped me hard across the face.
The blow wasn’t hard enough to knock me down, but it snapped my head back and left my eyes watering. I was more shocked than hurt, though there was a sharp taste of blood in my mouth, and I could already feel my lip beginning to puff.
Marsali uttered a sharp cry of shock and outrage, and I heard some of the men murmur in interested surprise. They had drawn in, surrounding us.
I put the back of my hand to my bleeding mouth, noticing in a detached sort of way that it was trembling. My brain, though,