A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [632]
MacDonald nodded, lips tightening a little.
“I ken what ye’ve done. But it is not too late for remedy. Ye’ve done nothing yet that is irrevocable—and a man may surely admit mistake.”
Jamie’s mouth twitched a little.
“Oh, aye, Donald. Might you admit your own mistake, then, and join the cause of liberty?”
MacDonald drew himself up.
“It may please ye to tease, Mr. Fraser,” he said, obviously keeping a grip on his temper, “but my offer is made in earnest.”
“I know that, Major. My apologies for undue levity. And also for the fact that I must make ye a poor reward of your efforts, coming so far in bitter weather.”
“Ye refuse, then?” Red smudges burned on MacDonald’s cheeks, and his pale blue eyes had gone the color of the winter sky. “Ye will abandon your kin, your ain folk? Ye would betray your blood, as well as your oath?”
Jamie had opened his mouth to reply, but stopped at this. I could feel something going on inside him. Shock, at this blunt—and very accurate—accusation? Hesitation? He had never discussed the situation in those terms, but he must have grasped them. Most of the Highlanders in the colony either had joined the Loyalist side already—like Duncan and Jocasta—or likely would.
His declaration had cut him off from a great many friends—and might well cut him off from the remnants of his family in the New World, as well. Now MacDonald was holding out the apple of temptation, the call of clan and blood.
But he had had years to think of it, to ready himself.
“I have said what I must, Donald,” he said quietly. “I have pledged myself and my house to what I believe is right. I cannot do otherwise.”
MacDonald sat for a moment, looking at him narrowly. Then, without a word, he stood and pulled Roger’s shirt off over his head. His torso was pale and lean, but with a slight middle-aged softness round the waist, and bore several white scars, the marks of bullet wounds and sabre cuts.
“You don’t mean to go, surely, Major? It’s freezing out, and nearly dark!” I came to stand by Jamie, and Roger and Bree rose, too, adding their protestations to mine. MacDonald, though, was obdurate, merely shaking his head as he pulled on his own damp clothing, fastening his coat with difficulty, as the buttonholes were stiff with damp.
“I will not take hospitality from the hand of a traitor, mum,” he said very quietly, and bowed to me. He straightened then, and met Jamie’s eye, man to man.
“We shall not meet again as friends, Mr. Fraser,” he said. “I regret it.”
“Then let us hope we do not meet again at all, Major,” Jamie said. “I too regret it.”
MacDonald bowed again, to the rest of the company, and clapped his hat on his head. His expression changed as he did so and felt the damp coldness of it on his bare head.
“Oh, your wig! Just a moment, Major—I’ll fetch it.” I rushed out and round to the pantry—just in time to hear a crash as something fell inside. I jerked open the door, left ajar from my last visit, and Adso streaked past me, the Major’s wig in his mouth. Inside, the lean-to was in brilliant blue flames.
I HAD INITIALLY wondered how I would keep awake all night. In the event, it wasn’t difficult at all. In the aftermath of the blaze, I wasn’t sure I’d ever sleep again.
It could have been much worse; Major MacDonald, in spite of now being a sworn enemy, had come nobly to our aid, rushing out and flinging his still-wet cloak over the blaze, thus preventing the total destruction of the pantry—and, doubtless, the cabin. The cloak had not put out the fire entirely, though, and quenching the flames that sprang up here and there had entailed a great deal of excitement and rushing about, in the course of which Orrie McCallum was misplaced, toddled off, and fell into the groundhog kiln, where he was found—many frantic minutes later—by Rollo.
He was fished out undamaged, but the hullabaloo caused Brianna to have what she thought was premature labor. Fortunately, this proved to be merely a bad case of hiccups, caused by the combination