A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [534]
“They will not kill nor harm him,” he said, raising his voice to be heard over the rumble of hooves and rattle of harness. “Brown’s word of honor upon it, he says.”
“And you believe him, for God’s sake?”
He looked disconcerted at that, glanced again at Brown, who had spurred up to ride ahead, then back at Brunswick. Indecision played across his features, but then his lips firmed and he shook his head.
“It will be all right,” he said. But he would not meet my eyes, and in spite of my continued entreaties to him to go back, to stop them, he slackened his pace, falling back so that I couldn’t see him anymore.
My throat was raw from screaming, and my stomach hurt, bruised and clenched in a knot of fear. Our speed had slowed, now that we had left Brunswick behind, and I concentrated on breathing; I wouldn’t speak until I was sure I could do so without my voice trembling.
“Where are you taking me?” I asked finally. I sat stiff in the saddle, enduring an unwanted intimacy with the man behind me.
“New Bern,” he said, with a note of grim satisfaction. “And then, thank God, we’ll be shut of you at last.”
THE JOURNEY TO NEW BERN passed in a blur of fear, agitation, and physical discomfort. While I did wonder what was about to happen to me, all such speculations were drowned by my anxiety about Jamie.
Tom Christie was plainly my only hope of finding out anything, but he avoided me, keeping his distance—and I found that as alarming as anything else. He was clearly troubled, even more so than he had been since Malva’s death, but he no longer bore a look of dull suffering; he was actively agitated. I was terribly afraid that he knew or suspected Jamie was dead, but would not admit it—either to me, or to himself.
All of the men clearly shared my captor’s urge to be rid of me as soon as possible; we stopped only briefly, when absolutely necessary for the horses to rest. I was offered food, but could not eat. By the time we reached New Bern, I was completely drained from the sheer physical exertion of the ride, but much more so from the constant strain of apprehension.
Most of the men remained at a tavern on the outskirts of the town; Brown and one of the other men took me through the streets, accompanied by a silent Tom Christie, arriving at last at a large house of whitewashed brick. The home, as Brown informed me with a sense of lively pleasure, of Sheriff Tolliver—also, the town gaol.
The sheriff, a darkly handsome sort, viewed me with a sort of interested speculation, mingled with a growing disgust as he heard the crime of which I was accused. I made no attempt at rebuttal or defense; the room was going in and out of focus, and all my attention was required to keep my knees from giving way.
I barely heard most of the exchange between Brown and the sheriff. At the last, though, just before I was led away into the house, I found Tom Christie suddenly beside me.
“Mrs. Fraser,” he said, very low. “Believe me, he is safe. I would not have his death on my conscience—nor yours.” He was looking at me directly, for the first time in . . . days? weeks? . . . and I found the intensity of his gray eyes both disconcerting and oddly comforting.
“Trust in God,” he whispered. “He will deliver the righteous out of all his dangers.” And with a sudden hard and unexpected squeeze of my hand, he was gone.
AS EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY gaols went, it could have been worse. The women’s quarters consisted of a small room at the back of the sheriff’s house, which had likely been a storeroom of sorts originally. The walls were roughly plastered, though some escape-minded former occupant had chipped away a large chunk of the plaster, before discovering that beneath it lay a layer of lath, and beneath that an impenetrable