A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [563]
The mate had shut his telescope and left; I hadn’t noticed his departure, absorbed in morbid thoughts, and was quite startled when Major MacDonald hove to alongside me.
“Too bad the Cruizer has nay long-range guns,” he said with a nod at the fort. “’Twould put a crimp in the plans o’ those wee heathen, eh?”
“Whatever those plans might be,” I replied. “And speaking of plans—”
“I’ve a kind of a griping in the wame,” he interrupted blandly. “The Governor suggested that ye might possibly have some sort of medicine to soothe it.”
“Did he indeed?” I said. “Well, come down to the galley; I’ll brew you a cup of something that will set you right, I expect.”
“DID YE KEN, he thought ye were a forger?” MacDonald, hands wrapped around a mug of tea, jerked his head in the direction of the main cabin. The Governor was nowhere in sight, and the cabin’s door closed.
“I did, yes. Does he know better now?” I asked with a sense of resignation.
“Well, aye.” MacDonald looked apologetic. “I supposed he knew already, or I wouldna have said. Though if I hadn’t,” he added, “he would have kent it sooner or later. The story’s spread all the way to Edenton by now, and the broadsheets . . .”
I flapped a hand, dismissing this.
“Have you seen Jamie?”
“I have not.” He glanced at me, curiosity warring with wariness. “I’d heard . . . aye, well, I’ve heard a great many things, and all different. But the meat of the matter is that ye’ve both been arrested, aye? For the murder of Miss Christie.”
I nodded briefly. I wondered whether one day I would grow used to that word. The sound of it was still like a punch in the stomach, short and brutal.
“Need I tell you that there is no truth to it?” I said bluntly.
“Not the slightest need, mum,” he assured me, with a fair assumption of confidence. But I sensed the hesitation in him, and saw the sideways glance, curious and somehow avid. Perhaps one day I’d get used to that, too.
My hands were cold; I wrapped them round my own mug, taking what comfort I could in its heat.
“I need to get word to my husband,” I said. “Do you know where he is?”
MacDonald’s pale blue eyes were fixed on my face, his own showing no more now than courteous attention.
“No, mum. But you do, I assume?”
I gave him a sharp look.
“Don’t be coy,” I advised him shortly. “You know as well as I do what’s going on on shore—probably much better.”
“Coy.” His thin lips pursed in brief amusement. “I dinna believe anyone’s called me that before. Aye, I know. And so?”
“I think that he may be in Wilmington. I tried to send word to John Ashe, and asked him to get Jamie out of the gaol in Wilmington, if possible—if he was there—and to tell him where I was. But I don’t know—” I waved a hand in frustration toward the shore.
He nodded, native caution at odds with his obvious desire to ask me for the gory details of Malva’s death.
“I shall be going back through Wilmington. I’ll make such inquiries as may be possible. If I find Mr. Fraser—shall I tell him anything, beyond your present situation?”
I hesitated, thinking. I had been holding a constant conversation with Jamie, ever since they took him away from me. But none of what I said to him in the wide black nights or the lonely dawns seemed appropriate to confide to MacDonald. And yet . . . I couldn’t forgo the opportunity; God knew when I might have another.
“Tell him that I love him,” I said softly, my eyes on the tabletop. “I always will.”
MacDonald made a small sound that made me look up at him.
“Even though he—” he began, then stopped himself.
“He didn’t kill her,” I said sharply. “And neither did I. I told you so.”
“Of course not,” he said hurriedly. “No one could imagine . . . I only meant . . . but of course, a man’s but a man, and . . . mmphm.” He broke off and looked away, the color high in his face.
“He didn’t do that, either,” I said through my teeth.
There was a marked silence, during which we avoided each