A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [649]
A sergeant, harrassed but competent, was leaning against the timbered wall of the inn, riffling through a sheaf of papers, issuing orders and eating a meat pie, simultaneously. Brianna wrinkled her nose as they stepped carefully through the obstacle course of scattered men and luggage; a reek of seasickness and unclean flesh rose from the serried ranks.
A few onlookers muttered under their breath at sight of the soldiers; several more cheered and waved as they passed, to receive genial shouts in return. Newly liberated from the bowels of the Scorpion, the soldiers were too thrilled with their freedom and the taste of fresh food and drink to care who did or said anything whatever.
Roger stepped in front of her, thrusting a way through the crowd with shoulders and elbows. Appreciative shouts and whistles rose from the soldiers as they saw her, but she kept her head down, eyes fixed on Roger’s feet as he shoved ahead.
She heaved a sigh of relief as they emerged from the press at the head of the quay. The soldiers’ equipment was being unloaded from the Scorpion at the far side of the dock, but there was little foot traffic near the brig. She paused, looking to and fro for a glimpse of Lord John’s distinctive fair head.
“There he is!” Roger tugged at her arm, and she swung in the direction he was pointing, only to collide heavily with him as he stepped abruptly back.
“What—” she began crossly, but then stopped, feeling as though she had been punched in the chest.
“Who in God’s holy name is that?” Roger spoke softly, echoing her thoughts.
Lord John Grey stood near the far end of the quay, in animated conversation with one of the red-coated soldiers. An officer; gold braid gleamed on his shoulder and he carried a laced tricorne beneath one arm. It wasn’t the man’s uniform that caught her attention, though.
“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ,” she whispered, feeling numb around the lips.
He was tall—very tall—with a breadth of shoulder and a stretch of white-stockinged calf that were attracting admiring glances from a cluster of oyster girls. It was something more than height or build that made gooseflesh ripple down the length of her spine, though; it was the fact of his carriage, his outline, a cock of the head and an air of physical self-confidence that drew eyes like a magnet.
“It’s Da,” she said, knowing even as she spoke that this was ridiculous. Even had Jamie Fraser for some unimaginable reason chosen to disguise himself in a soldier’s uniform and come down to the docks, this man was different. As he turned to look at something across the harbor, she saw that he was different—lean, like her father, and muscular, but still with the slenderness of boyishness. Graceful—like Jamie—but with the slight hesitancy of teenaged awkwardness not long past.
He turned further, backlit by the glow of light off the water, and she felt her knees go weak. A long, straight nose, rising to a high forehead . . . the sudden curve of a broad Viking cheekbone . . . Roger gripped her tightly by the arm, but his attention was as riveted on the young man as hers was.
“I . . . will . . . be . . . damned,” he said.
She gulped air, trying to get enough breath.
“You and me both. And him.”
“Him?”
“Him, him, and him!” Lord John, the mysterious young soldier—and most of all, her father. “Come on.” She pulled free and strode down the quay, feeling oddly disembodied, as though she watched herself from a distance.
It was like watching herself come toward a fun-house mirror, seeing herself—her face, her height, her gestures—suddenly transposed inside a red coat and doeskin breeches. His hair was dark, chestnut-brown, not red, but it was thick like hers, with the same slight wave to it, the same cowlick that lifted it off his brow.
Lord John turned his head slightly, and caught sight of her. His eyes bulged and