Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [189]
“I’m not dead.” He crossed to the armoire and opened it. He wore his sword, but had changed clothes since our visit to Sandringham’s house; now he was dressed in his old coat—the one that allowed him free movement of his arms.
“Yes, I noticed,” I said. “Thoughtful of you to come tell me.”
“I came to fetch my clothes.” He pulled out two shirts and his full-length cloak and laid them across a stool while he went to rummage in the chest of drawers for clean linen.
“Your clothes? Where on earth are you going?” I hadn’t known what to expect when I saw him again, but I certainly hadn’t expected this.
“To an inn.” He glanced at me, then apparently decided I deserved more than a three-word explanation. He turned and looked at me, his eyes blue and opaque as azurite.
“When I sent ye home in the coach, I walked for a bit, until I had a grip on myself once more. Then I came home to fetch my sword, and returned to the Duke’s house to give Randall a formal challenge. The butler told me Randall had been arrested.”
His gaze rested on me, remote as the ocean depths. I swallowed once more.
“I went to the Bastille. They told me you’d sworn to an accusation against Randall, saying he’d attacked you and Mary Hawkins the other night. Why, Claire?”
My hands were shaking, and I dropped the lock of hair I had been holding. Its cohesion disturbed by handling, it disintegrated, and the fine red hairs spilled loose across my lap.
“Jamie,” I said, and my voice was shaking, too, “Jamie, you can’t kill Jack Randall.”
One corner of his mouth twitched, very slightly.
“I dinna ken whether to be touched at your concern for my safety, or to be offended at your lack of confidence. But in either case, you needna worry. I can kill him. Easily.” The last word was spoken quietly, with an underlying tone that mingled venom with satisfaction.
“That isn’t what I mean! Jamie—”
“Fortunately,” he went on, as though not hearing me, “Randall has proof that he was at the Duke’s residence all during the evening of the rape. As soon as the police finish interviewing the guests who were present, and satisfy themselves that Randall is innocent—of that charge, at least—then he’ll be let go. I shall stay at the inn until he’s free. And then I shall find him.” His eyes were fixed on the wardrobe, but plainly he was seeing something else. “He’ll be waiting for me,” he said softly.
He stuffed the shirts and linen into a traveling-bag and slung his cloak over his arm. He was turning to go through the door when I sprang up from the bed and caught him by the sleeve.
“Jamie! For God’s sake, Jamie, listen to me! You can’t kill Jack Randall because I won’t let you!”
He stared down at me in utter astonishment.
“Because of Frank,” I said. I let go of his sleeve and stepped back.
“Frank,” he repeated, shaking his head slightly as though to clear a buzzing in his ears. “Frank.”
“Yes,” I said. “If you kill Jack Randall now, then Frank…he won’t exist. He won’t be born. Jamie, you can’t kill an innocent man!”
His face, normally a pale, ruddy bronze, had faded to a blotchy white as I spoke. Now the red began to rise again, burning the tips of his ears and flaming in his cheeks.
“An innocent man?”
“Frank is an innocent man! I don’t care about Jack Randall—”
“Well, I do!” He snatched up the bag and strode toward the door, cloak streaming over one arm. “Jesus God, Claire! You’d try to stop me taking my vengeance on the man who made me play whore to him? Who forced me to my knees and made me suck his cock, smeared with my own blood? Christ, Claire!” He flung the door open with a crash and was in the hallway by the time I could reach him.
It had grown dark by now, but the servants had lit the candles, and the hallway was aglow with soft light. I grasped him by the arm and yanked at him.
“Jamie! Please!”
He jerked his arm impatiently out of my grasp. I was almost crying, but held back the tears. I caught the bag and pulled it out of his hand.
“Please, Jamie! Wait, just for a year! The child—Randall