Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [184]
I gazed at him over the rim of my glass. He returned my stare with no sign of abashment, a slight smile on that wide MacKenzie mouth. His face was much like his brother’s—and his nephew’s—strong and boldly modeled, with broad, high cheekbones and a long, straight nose like the blade of a knife.
Sworn as a boy of eighteen to support his brother’s chieftainship, he had kept that vow for nearly thirty years. And would keep it, I knew, until the day that Colum died or could lead no longer. But on that day, the mantle of chief would descend on his shoulders, and the men of clan MacKenzie would follow where he led—after the saltire of Scotland, and the banner of King James, in the vanguard of Bonnie Prince Charlie.
“Circumstances?” I said, turning to his earlier question. “Well, I don’t suppose one would consider it in the best of taste to come calling on a man whom you’d left for dead and whose wife you’d tried to seduce.”
Being Dougal MacKenzie, he laughed. I didn’t know quite what it would take to disconcert the man, but I certainly hoped I was there to see it when it finally happened.
“Seduction?” he said, lips quirked in amusement. “I offered ye marriage.”
“You offered to rape me, as I recall,” I snapped. He had, in fact, offered to marry me—by force—after declining to help me in rescuing Jamie from Wentworth Prison the winter before. While his principal motive had been the possession of Jamie’s estate of Lallybroch—which would belong to me upon Jamie’s death—he hadn’t been at all averse to the thought of the minor emoluments of marriage, such as the regular enjoyment of my body.
“As for leaving Jamie in the prison,” he went on, ignoring me as usual, “there seemed no way to get him out, and no sense in risking good men in a vain attempt. He’d be the first to understand that. And it was my duty as his kinsman to offer his wife my protection, if he died. I was the lad’s foster father, no?” He tilted back his head and drained his glass.
I took a good gulp of my own, and swallowed quickly so as not to choke. The spirit burned down my throat and gullet, matching the heat that was rising in my cheeks. He was right; Jamie hadn’t blamed him for his reluctance to break into Wentworth Prison—he hadn’t expected me to do it, either, and it was only by a miracle that I had succeeded. But while I had told Jamie, briefly, of Dougal’s intention of marrying me, I hadn’t tried to convey the carnal aspects of that intention. I had, after all, never expected to see Dougal MacKenzie again.
I knew from past experience that he was a seizer of opportunities; with Jamie about to be hanged, he had not even waited for execution of the sentence before trying to secure me and my about-to-be-inherited property. If—no, I corrected myself, when—Colum died or became incompetent, Dougal would be in full command of clan MacKenzie within a week. And if Charles Stuart found the backing he was seeking, Dougal would be there. He had some experience in being a power behind the throne, after all.
I tipped up the glass, considering. Colum had business interests in France; wine and timber, mostly. These undoubtedly were the pretext for Dougal’s visit to Paris, might even be his major ostensible reason. But he had other reasons, I was sure. And the presence in the city of Prince Charles Edward Stuart was almost certainly one of them.
One thing to be said for Dougal MacKenzie was that an encounter with him stimulated the mental processes, out of the sheer necessity of trying to figure out what he was actually up to at any given moment. Under the inspiration of his presence and a good slug of Portuguese brandy, my subconscious was stirring with the birth of an idea.
“Well, be that as it may, I’m glad you’re here now,” I said, replacing my empty glass on the tray.
“You are?” The thick dark brows rose incredulously.
“Yes.” I rose and gestured toward the hall. “Fetch my cloak while I do up my laces. I need you to come to the commissariat de police with me.”
Seeing his jaw drop, I felt the first