A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [631]
“Still,” MacDonald continued more cheerfully, “we are not destitute in that regard. And those gallant gentlemen who have flocked to our cause—and who will come to join us—bring with them both their own weapons and their courage. You, of all people, must appreciate the force of the Hieland charge!”
Jamie looked up at that, and regarded MacDonald for a long moment before replying.
“Aye, well. Ye were behind the cannon at Culloden, Donald. I was in front of them. With a sword in my hand.” He took up his own glass and drained it, then got up and moved to pour another, leaving MacDonald to recover his countenance.
“Touché, Major,” Brianna murmured under her breath. I didn’t think Jamie had ever before referred to the fact that the Major had fought with the government forces during the Rising—but I wasn’t surprised that he hadn’t forgotten.
With a brief nod to the company, Jamie stepped outside—ostensibly to visit the privy, more likely to check on the well-being of the house. Still more likely to give MacDonald a little breathing room.
Roger, with the courtesy of a host—and the suppressed keenness of a historian—was asking MacDonald questions regarding the General and his activities. Ian, impassive and watchful, sat by his feet, one hand toying with Rollo’s ruff.
“The General’s rather elderly for such a campaign, surely?” Roger took another stick of wood and pushed it into the fire. “Especially a winter campaign.”
“He has the odd wee spell of catarrh,” MacDonald admitted, offhand. “But who doesna, in this climate? And Donald McLeod, his lieutenant, is a man of vigor. I assure ye, sir, should the General be at any point indisposed, Colonel McLeod is more than capable of leading the troops to victory!”
He went on at some length about the virtues—both personal and military—of Donald McLeod. I ceased listening, my attention distracted by a stealthy movement on the shelf above his head. Adso.
MacDonald’s red coat was spread over the back of a chair to dry, steaming in the heat. His wig, damp and disheveled from Rollo’s attack, hung on the cloak peg above it. I got up hastily and possessed myself of the wig, receiving a look of puzzlement from the Major, and one of green-eyed hostility from Adso, who plainly considered it low of me to hog this desirable prey for myself.
“Er . . . I’ll just . . . um . . . put it somewhere safe, shall I?” Clutching the damp mass of horsehair to my bosom, I sidled outside and round to the pantry, where I tucked the wig safely away behind the cheese with the phosphorus.
Coming out, I met Jamie, red-nosed with cold, coming back from a reconnaissance of the Big House.
“All’s well,” he assured me. He glanced up at the chimney above us, spuming clouds of thick gray smoke. “Ye dinna suppose the lass might be right, do ye?” He sounded as though he were joking, but he wasn’t.
“God knows. How long ’til tomorrow’s dawn?” The shadows were already falling long, violet and chill across the snow.
“Too long.” He had violet shadows in his face, too, from one sleepless night; this would be another. He hugged me against himself for a moment, though, warm in spite of the fact that he wore nothing over his shirt but the rough jacket in which he did chores.
“Ye dinna suppose MacDonald will come back and fire the house, if I refuse him, do ye?” he asked, releasing me with a fair attempt at a smile.
“What do you mean ‘if’?” I demanded, but he was already on his way back in.
MacDonald stood up in respect when Jamie came in, waiting until he was seated again before taking his own stool.
“Have ye had a moment, then, to think on my offer, Mr. Fraser?” he asked formally. “Your presence would be of the greatest value—and valued greatly by General MacDonald and the Governor, as well as myself.”
Jamie sat silent for a moment, looking into the fire.
“It grieves me, Donald, that we should find ourselves so opposed,” he said at last, looking