Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [297]
A small stir of suppressed amusement ran around the circle, only to be quelled by a brief gesture from Jamie. “I see,” he said noncommittally. “You heard us talking and determined that the lady is English and well-born. Whereas I—”
“Whereas you, sir, are a conscienceless outlaw, with a reputation for thievery and violence! Your face and description are on broadsheets throughout Hampshire and Sussex! I recognized you at once; you’re a rebel and an unprincipled voluptuary!” the boy burst out hotly, face stained a deeper red even than the firelight.
I bit my lip and looked down at my shoes, so as not to meet Jamie’s eye.
“Aye, well. Just as ye say,” Jamie agreed cordially. “That being the case, perhaps you can advance some reason why I shouldna kill ye immediately?” Drawing the dirk smoothly from its sheath, he twisted it delicately, making the fire jump from the blade.
The blood had faded from the young man’s face, leaving him ghostly in the shadows, but he drew himself upright at this, pulling against the captors on either side. “I expected that. I am quite prepared to die,” he said, stiffening his shoulders.
Jamie nodded thoughtfully, then, stooping, laid the blade of his dirk in the fire. A plume of smoke rose around the blackening metal, smelling strongly of the forge. We all watched in silent fascination as the flame, spectral blue where it touched the blade, seemed to bring the deadly iron to life in a flush of deep red heat.
Wrapping his hand in the bloodstained cloth, Jamie cautiously pulled the dirk from the fire. He advanced slowly toward the boy, letting the blade fall, as though of its own volition, until it touched the lad’s jerkin. There was a strong smell of singed cloth from the handkerchief wrapped around the haft of the knife, which grew stronger as a narrow burnt line traced its way up the front of the jerkin in the dagger’s path. The point, darkening as it cooled, stopped just short of the upwardly straining chin. I could see thin lines of sweat shining in the stretched hollows of the slender neck.
“Aye, well, I’m afraid that I’m no prepared to kill ye—just yet.” Jamie’s voice was soft, filled with a quiet menace all the more frightening for its control.
“Who d’ye march with?” The question snapped like a whip, making its hearers flinch. The knife point hovered slightly nearer, smoking in the night wind.
“I’ll—I’ll not tell you!” The boy’s lips closed tight on the stammered answer, and a tremor ran down the delicate throat.
“Nor how far away your comrades lie? Nor their number? Nor their direction of march?” The questions were put lightly again, with a finicking touch of the blade along the edge of the boy’s jaw. His eyes showed white all around, like a panicked horse, but he shook his head violently, making the golden hair fly. Ross and Kincaid tightened their grip against the pull of the boy’s arms.
The darkened blade pressed suddenly flat along its length, hard under the angle of the jaw. There was a thin and breathy scream, and the stink of burning skin.
“Jamie!” I said, shocked beyond bearing. He did not turn to look at me, but kept his eyes fixed on his prisoner, who, released from the grip on his arms, had sunk to his knees in the drift of dead leaves, hand clutched to his neck.
“This is no concern of yours, Madam,” he said between his teeth. Reaching down, he grabbed the boy by the shirtfront and jerked him to his feet. Wavering, the knife blade rose between them, and poised itself just under the lad’s left eye. Jamie tilted his head in silent question, to receive a minimal but definite negative shake in return.
The boy’s voice was no more than a shaky whisper; he had to clear his throat to make himself heard. “N-no,” he said. “No. There is nothing you can do to me that will make me tell you anything.”
Jamie held him for a moment longer, eye to eye, then let go of the bunched fabric and stepped back. “No,” he said slowly, “I dinna suppose there is.