A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [612]
EMMANUEL, silent as a lizard, brought her a dress in the afternoon. It was too short by a good bit, and too tight in the bosom, but a heavy blue watered silk, and well-made. It had plainly been worn before; there were sweat stains on it and it smelled—of fear, she thought, repressing a shudder as she struggled into it.
She was sweating herself as Emmanuel led her downstairs, though a pleasant breeze swept through the open windows, stirring the curtains. The house was very simple, for the most part, with bare wooden floors and little more than stools and bed frames by way of furniture. The room downstairs to which Emmanuel showed her was such a contrast that it might have belonged to a different house entirely.
Rich Turkey rugs covered the floor in a overlapping riot of color, and the furniture, while of several different styles, was all heavy and elaborate, carved wood and silk upholstery. Silver and crystal glittered from every available surface, and a chandelier—much too large for the room—hung with crystal pendants sprayed the room with tiny rainbows. It was a pirate’s idea of a rich man’s room—lavish abundance, displayed with no sense of style or taste.
The rich man seated by the window appeared not to mind his surroundings, though. A thin man in a wig, with a prominent Adam’s apple, he looked to be in his thirties, though his skin was lined and yellowed by some tropical disease. He glanced sharply at the door as she entered, then rose to his feet.
Bonnet had been entertaining his guest; there were glasses and a decanter on the table, and the smell of brandy was sweet and heavy in the air. Brianna felt her stomach shift queasily, and wondered what they’d do if she were to vomit on the Turkey rug.
“There ye are, darlin’,” Bonnet said, coming to take her by the hand. She pulled it away from him, but he affected not to notice, and instead pushed her toward the thin man, a hand in the small of her back. “Come and make your bob to Mr. Howard, sweetheart.”
She drew herself to her full height—she was a good four inches taller than Mr. Howard, whose eyes widened at sight of her—and glowered down at him.
“I am being held against my will, Mr. Howard. My husband and my father will—ow!” Bonnet had gripped her wrist and twisted it, hard.
“Lovely, is she not?” he said conversationally, as though she had not spoken.
“Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. Very tall, though . . .” Howard walked round her, examining her dubiously. “And red hair, Mr. Bonnet? I do really prefer blond.”
“Oh, do you indeed, you little pissant!” she snapped, in spite of Bonnet’s grip on her arm. “Where do you get off, preferring things?” With a wrench, she pulled away from Bonnet and rounded on Howard.
“Now, look,” she said, trying to sound reasonable—he was blinking at her in a faintly bewildered fashion— “I am a woman of good—of excellent—family, and I have been kidnapped. My father’s name is James Fraser, my husband is Roger MacKenzie, and my aunt is Mrs. Hector Cameron, of River Run Plantation.”
“Is she really of good family?” Howard addressed this question to Bonnet, appearing to be more interested.
Bonnet bowed slightly in affirmation.
“Oh, indeed she is, sir. The finest blood!”
“Hmmm. And good health, I see.” Howard had resumed his examination, leaning close to peer at her. “Has she bred before?”
“Aye, sir, a healthy son.”
“Good teeth?” Howard rose on his toes, looking inquisitive, and Bonnet obligingly yanked one arm behind her back to hold her still, then took a handful of her hair and jerked her head back, making her gasp.
Howard took her chin in one hand and pried at the corner of her mouth with the other, poking experimentally at her molars.
“Very nice,” he said approvingly. “And I will say the skin is very fine. But—”
She jerked her chin out of his grasp, and bit down as hard as she could on Howard’s thumb, feeling the meat of it shift and tear between her molars with a sudden copper taste of blood.
He shrieked and struck at her; she let go and dodged, enough so his hand glanced