A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [672]
Jamie rubbed the bridge of his nose, eyeing the man who’d spoken.
“I imagine my wife has told ye that we have no gems?”
“Well, she would, wouldn’t she?” the thug said tolerantly. “Women, you know.” He seemed to feel that now Jamie had showed up, they could get on with things in a more businesslike fashion, man-to-man.
Jamie sighed and sat down.
“Why d’ye think I’ve got any?” he inquired, rather mildly. “I have had, I admit—but no longer. They’ve been sold.”
“Where’s the money, then?” The second thug was obviously quite willing to settle for that, no matter what Donner thought.
“Spent,” Jamie said briefly. “I’m a colonel of militia—surely ye ken that much? It’s an expensive business, provisioning a militia company. Food, guns, powder, shoes—it adds up, aye? Why, the cost in shoe leather alone—and then, to say nothing of shoon for the horses! Wagons, too; ye wouldna believe the scandalous cost of wagons. . . .”
One of the thugs was frowning, but half-nodding, following this reasonable exegesis. Donner and his other companion were noticeably agitated, though.
“Shut up about the damn wagons,” Donner said rudely, and bending, he snatched up one of Mrs. Bug’s butcher knives from the floor. “Now, look,” he said, scowling and trying to look menacing. “I’ve had it with the stalling around. You tell me where they are, or—or I’ll—I’ll cut her! Yeah, I’ll cut her throat. Swear I will.” With this, he clutched me by the shoulder and put the knife to my throat.
It had become clear to me some little time ago that Jamie was stalling for time, which meant that he expected something to happen. Which in turn meant he was expecting someone to come. That was reassuring, but I did think the apparent nonchalance of his demeanor in the face of my theoretically impending demise was perhaps carrying things a trifle too far.
“Oh,” he said, scratching at the side of his neck. “Well, I wouldna do that, if I were you. She’s the one who kens where the gems are, aye?”
“I what?” I cried indignantly.
“She is?” One of the other thugs brightened at that.
“Oh, aye,” Jamie assured him. “Last time I went out wi’ the militia, she hid them. Wouldna tell me where she’d put them.”
“Wait—I thought you said you sold ’em and spent the money,” Donner said, plainly confused.
“I was lying,” Jamie explained, patient.
“Oh.”
“But if ye’re going to kill my wife, well, then, of course that alters the case.”
“Oh,” said Donner, looking somewhat happier. “Yeah. Exactly!”
“I believe we havena been introduced, sir,” Jamie said politely, extending a hand. “I am James Fraser. And you are . . . ?”
Donner hesitated for a minute, unsure what to do with the knife in his right hand, but then shifted it awkwardly to his left and leaned forward to shake Jamie’s hand briefly.
“Wendigo Donner,” he said. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere.”
I made a rude noise, but it was drowned by a series of crashes and the sound of breaking glass from the surgery. The lout in there must be clearing the shelves wholesale, flinging bottles and jars on the floor. I grasped Donner’s hand and pulled the knife away from my throat, then sprang to my feet, in much the same state of insane fury in which I had once torched a field full of grasshoppers.
This time, it was Jamie who seized me around the middle as I darted toward the door, swinging me half off my feet.
“Let go! I’ll frigging kill him!” I said, kicking madly.
“Well, wait just a bit about that, Sassenach,” he said, low-voiced, and lugged me back to the table, where he sat down with his arms wrapped around me, holding me firmly pinned on his lap. Further sounds of depredation came down the hall—the splintering of wood and crunch of glass under a bootheel. Evidently, the young lout had given up searching for anything and was simply destroying for the fun of it.
I took a deep breath, preparatory to emitting a scream of frustration, but stopped.
“Jeez,” Donner said, wrinkling his nose. “What’s that smell? Somebody cut one?” He looked accusingly at me, but I paid