A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [205]
“I couldn’t help it, sir,” she said very simply. “I really couldn’t.”
Jamie had been attending to her, a look like thunder on his brow. At this point, he glanced sharply at me—and evidently saw corroborative evidence upon my own battered features. His lips pressed tight together.
“Go home,” he said to Mrs. Bug. “Tell your husband what you have done, and send him to me.”
He turned on his heel then, and headed for his study. Not looking at me, Mrs. Bug rose awkwardly to her feet and went out, walking like a blind woman.
“YOU WERE RIGHT. I’m sorry.” I stood stiffly in the door of the study, hand on the jamb.
Jamie was sitting with his elbows on his desk, head resting on his hands, but looked up at this, blinking.
“Did I not forbid ye to be sorry, Sassenach?” he said, and gave me a lopsided smile. Then his eyes traveled over me, and a look of concern came over his face.
“Christ, ye look like ye’re going to fall down, Claire,” he said, getting up hastily. “Come and sit.”
He put me in his chair, and hovered over me.
“I’d call Mrs. Bug to bring ye something,” he said, “but as I’ve sent her away . . . shall I bring ye a cup of tea, Sassenach?”
I’d been feeling like crying, but laughed instead, blinking back tears.
“We haven’t got any. We haven’t had for months. I’m all right. Just rather—rather shocked.”
“Aye, I suppose so. Ye’re bleeding a bit.” He pulled a crumpled handkerchief from his pocket and, bending over, dabbed my mouth, his brows drawn together in an anxious frown.
I sat still and let him, fighting a sudden wave of exhaustion. All at once, I wanted nothing save to lie down, go to sleep, and never wake up again. And if I did wake up, I wanted the dead man in my surgery to be gone. I also wanted the house not to be burned over our heads.
But it isn’t time, I thought suddenly, and found that thought—idiotic as it was—obscurely comforting.
“Will it make things harder for you?” I asked, struggling to fight off the weariness and think sensibly. “With Richard Brown?”
“I dinna ken,” he admitted. “I’ve been trying to think. I could wish we were in Scotland,” he said a little ruefully. “I’d ken better what Brown might do, were he a Scotsman.”
“Oh, really? Say you were dealing with your uncle Colum, for instance,” I suggested. “What would he do, do you think?”
“Try to kill me and get his brother back,” he replied promptly. “If he kent I had him. And if your Donner did go back to Brownsville—Richard knows by now.”
He was entirely right, and the knowledge made small fingers of apprehension creep briskly up my back.
The worry evidently showed on my face, for he smiled a little.
“Dinna fash yourself, Sassenach,” he said. “The Lindsay brothers left for Brownsville the morning after we came back. Kenny’s keeping an eye on the town, and Evan and Murdo are waiting at points along the road, with fresh horses. If Richard Brown and his bloody Committee of Safety should come this way, we’ll hear of it in good time.”
That was reassuring, and I sat up a little straighter.
“That’s good. But—even if Donner did go back, he wouldn’t know that you had Lionel Brown captive; you might have killed him d-during the fight.”
He flicked a narrow blue glance at me, but merely nodded.
“I could wish I had,” he said with a slight grimace. “It would have saved trouble. But then—I’d not have found out what they were doing, and I did need to know that. If Donner’s gone back, though, he’ll ha’ told Richard Brown what happened, and led them back to claim the bodies. He’ll see his brother’s no among them.”
“Whereupon he’ll draw the logical conclusion and come here looking for him.”
The sound of the back door opening at this point made me jump, heart pounding, but it was succeeded by the soft shuffle of moccasined feet in the hall, announcing Young Ian, who peered inquiringly into the study.
“I’ve just met Mrs. Bug, hurrying off to her house,” he said,