A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [593]
Looking at the lad’s homely face and disheveled dress, though, Forbes was not impressed.
“Remove your hand from my person, sir,” he said with dignity, straightening in his chair.
“No, I think I won’t,” Murray said. The hand tightened on his arm like the bite of a horse, and Forbes’s mouth opened, though he made no sound.
“What have ye done with my cousin?” Murray said.
“I? Why, I—I have nothing whatever to do with Mrs. MacKenzie. Let go, God damn you!”
The grip relaxed, and he sat breathing heavily. MacKenzie had pulled up a chair to face him and sat down.
Forbes smoothed the sleeve of his coat, avoiding MacKenzie’s stare and thinking rapidly. How had they found out? Or had they? Perhaps they were only trying a venture, with no sure knowledge.
“I am grieved to hear that any misfortune might have befallen Mrs. MacKenzie,” he said politely. “Am I to take it that you have somehow misplaced her?”
MacKenzie looked him up and down for a moment without answering, then made a small sound of contempt.
“I heard ye speak in Mecklenberg,” he said, his tone conversational. “Very glib ye were. A great deal about justice, I heard, and protection of our wives and children. Such eloquence.”
“Fine talk,” Ian Murray put in, “for a man who would abduct a helpless woman.” He was still crouching on the floor like a savage, but had moved round a little, so as to stare directly into Forbes’s face. The lawyer found it slightly unnerving, and chose instead to meet MacKenzie’s eyes, man to man.
“I regret your misfortune extremely, sir,” he said, striving for a tone of concern. “I should be pleased to help, in any way possible, of course. But I do not—”
“Where is Stephen Bonnet?”
The question struck Forbes like a blow to the liver. He gaped for a moment, thinking that he had made a mistake in choosing MacKenzie to look at; that flat green gaze was like a snake’s.
“Who is Stephen Bonnet?” he asked, licking his lips. His lips were dry, but the rest of him was heavily bedewed; he could feel sweat pooling in the creases of his neck, soaking the cambric of his shirt beneath his oxters.
“I heard ye, ken,” Murray remarked pleasantly. “When ye made the bargain wi’ Richard Brown. In your warehouse, it was.”
Forbes’s head snapped round. He was so shocked that it was a moment before he realized that Murray was holding a knife, laid casually across his knee.
“What? You say—what? I tell you, sir, you are mistaken—mistaken!” He half-rose, stammering. MacKenzie shot to his feet and seized him by the shirtfront, twisting.
“No, sir,” he said very softly, his face so close that Forbes felt the heat of his breath. “It is yourself has been mistaken. Most grievously mistaken, in choosing my wife to serve your wicked ends.”
There was a ripping sound as the fine cambric tore. MacKenzie shoved him back violently into the chair, then leaned forward, seizing his neckcloth in a grip that threatened to choke him on the spot. His mouth opened, gasping, and black spots flickered in his vision—but not sufficiently as to obscure those brilliant, cold green eyes.
“Where has he taken her?”
Forbes gripped the arms of his chair, breathing heavily.
“I know nothing about your wife,” he said, his voice pitched low and venomous. “And as for grievous error, sir, you are in the process of committing one. How dare you assault me? I shall prefer charges, I do assure you!”
“Oh, assault, forbye,” Murray said, scoffing. “We havena done any such thing. Yet.” He sat back on his haunches, tapping the knife thoughtfully against his thumbnail and regarding Forbes with an air of estimation, like one planning to carve a suckling pig on a platter.
Forbes set his jaw and glared up at MacKenzie, who was still standing, looming over him.
“This is a public place,” he pointed out. “You cannot harm me without notice being taken.” He glanced behind MacKenzie, hoping