A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [581]
“When, then?” Buchanan’s voice came clearly as she opened the door, sounding impatient. “They will not wait, Duncan. I must have the money by Wednesday week, or Dunkling will sell the arms elsewhere; ye ken it’s a seller’s market the noo. For gold, he’ll wait—but not for long.”
“Aye, I ken that fine, Sawny.” Duncan sounded impatient—and very uneasy, Brianna thought. “If it can be done, it will be.”
“IF?” Buchanan cried. “What is this ‘if’? ’Til now, it’s been, oh, aye, Sawny, nay difficulty, to be sure, Sawny, tell Dunkling it’s on, oh, of course, Sawny—”
“I said, Alexander, that if it can be done, it will.” Duncan’s voice was low, but suddenly had a note of steel in it that she had never heard before.
Buchanan said something rude in the Gaelic, and suddenly the door of Duncan’s office burst open and the man himself popped out, in so great a huff that he barely saw her, and gave her no more than a brusque nod in passing.
Which was just as well, she thought, since she was standing there holding a bowl full of vomit.
Before she could move to dispose of it, Duncan came out in turn. He looked hot, cross—and extremely worried. He did, however, notice her.
“How d’ye fare, lass?” he asked, squinting at her. “Ye’re that bit green; have ye eaten aught amiss?”
“I think so. But I’m all right now,” she said, hastily turning to put the basin back in the room behind her. She set it on the floor and closed the door on it. “Are you, er, all right, Duncan?”
He hesitated for an instant, but whatever was bothering him was too overwhelming to keep it bottled up. He glanced about, but none of the slaves was up here at this time of day. He leaned close, nonetheless, and lowered his voice.
“Have ye by chance . . . seen anything peculiar, a nighean?”
“Peculiar, how?”
He rubbed a knuckle under his drooping mustache, and glanced round once more.
“Near Hector Cameron’s tomb, say?” he asked, his voice pitched only just above a whisper.
Her diaphragm, still sore from vomiting, contracted sharply at that, and she put a hand to her middle.
“Ye have, then?” Duncan’s expression sharpened.
“Not me,” she said, and explained about Jemmy, Angelina, and the supposed ghost.
“I thought perhaps it was Mr. Buchanan,” she finished, nodding toward the stair down which Alexander Buchanan had vanished.
“Now, there’s a thought,” Duncan muttered, rubbing distractedly at his grizzled temple. “But no . . . surely not. He couldna—but it’s a thought.” Brianna thought that he looked very slightly more hopeful.
“Duncan—can you tell me what’s wrong?”
He took a deep breath, shaking his head—not in refusal, but in perplexity—and let it out again, his shoulders slumping.
“The gold,” he said simply. “It’s gone.”
SEVEN THOUSAND POUNDS in gold bullion was a substantial amount, in all senses of the word. She had no idea how much such a sum might weigh, but it had completely lined Jocasta’s coffin, standing chastely next to Hector Cameron’s in the family mausoleum.
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” she blurted. “All of it?”
Duncan clutched her arm, features contorted in the urge to shush her.
“Aye, all of it,” he said, looking round yet again. “For God’s sake, lass, keep your voice down!”
“When did it go? Or rather,” she amended, “when you did find it gone?”
“Last night.” He looked round yet again, and jerked his chin toward his office. “Come in, lass; I’ll tell ye about it.”
Duncan’s agitation subsided a little as he told her the story; by the time he had finished, he had regained a certain amount of outward calm.
The seven thousand pounds was what was left of the