Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [183]
“I didna know ye were in the habit of undressing in the hallways, or I would ha’ stayed in the drawing room,” said an ironic Scots voice behind me.
I whirled, my heart leaping high enough to choke me. The man standing stretched in the drawing room doorway, arms outspread to brace him casually against the frame, was big, nearly as large as Jamie, with the same taut grace of movement, the same air of cool self-possession. The hair was dark, though, and the deep-set eyes a cloudy green. Dougal MacKenzie, appearing suddenly in my home as though called by my thought. Speak of the devil.
“What in God’s name are you doing here?” The shock of seeing him was subsiding, though my heart still pounded. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and a sudden wave of queasiness washed over me. He stepped forward and grasped me by the arm, pulling me toward a chair.
“Sit ye down, lass,” he said. “Ye’ll no be feeling just the thing, it looks like.”
“Very observant of you,” I said. Black spots floated at the edge of my vision, and small bright flashes danced before my eyes. “Excuse me,” I said politely, and put my head between my knees.
Jamie. Frank. Randall. Dougal. The faces flickered in my mind, the names seemed to ring in my ears. My palms were sweating, and I pressed them under my arms, hugging myself to try to stop the tremblings of shock. Jamie wouldn’t be facing Randall immediately; that was the important thing. There was a little time, in which to think, to take preventive action. But what action? Leaving my subconscious to wrestle with this question, I forced my breathing to slow and turned my attention to matters closer to hand.
“I repeat,” I said, sitting up and smoothing back my hair, “what are you doing here?”
The dark brows flickered upward.
“Do I need a reason to visit a kinsman?”
I could still taste the bile at the back of my throat, but my hands had stopped trembling, at least.
“Under the circumstances, yes,” I said. I drew myself up, grandly ignoring my untied laces, and reached for the brandy decanter. Anticipating me, Dougal took a glass from the tray and poured out a teaspoonful. Then, after a considering glance at me, he doubled the dose.
“Thanks,” I said dryly, accepting the glass.
“Circumstances, eh? And which circumstances would those be?” Not waiting for answer or permission, he calmly poured out another glass for himself and lifted it in a casual toast. “To His Majesty.”
I felt my mouth twist sideways. “King James, I suppose?” I took a small sip of my own drink, and felt the hot aromatic fumes sear the membranes behind my eyes. “And does the fact that you’re in Paris mean that you’ve converted Colum to your way of thinking?” For while Dougal MacKenzie might be a Jacobite, it was his brother Colum who led the MacKenzies of Leoch as chieftain. Legs crippled and twisted by a deforming disease, Colum no longer led his clan into battle; Dougal was the war chieftain. But while Dougal might lead men into battle, it was Colum who held the power to say whether the battle would take place.
Dougal ignored my question, and having drained his glass, immediately poured out another drink. He savored the first sip of this one, rolling it visibly around his mouth and licking a final drop from his lips as he swallowed.
“Not bad,” he said. “I must take some back for Colum. He needs something a bit stronger than the wine, to help him sleep nights.”
This was indeed an oblique answer to my question. Colum’s condition was degenerating, then. Always in some pain from the disease that eroded his body, Colum had taken fortified wine in the evenings, to help him to sleep. Now he needed straight brandy. I wondered how long it would be before he might be forced to resort to opium for relief.
For when he did, that would be the end of his reign as chieftain of his clan. Deprived of physical resources, still he commanded by sheer force of character. But if the strength of Colum’s mind were