Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [299]
The questions went on for nearly an hour, covering the same ground over and over, pinpointing discrepancies, enlarging details, searching out the telltale omission, the point evaded. Satisfied at last, Jamie sighed deeply and turned from the boy, who slumped in the wavering shadows of the oak. He held out a hand without speaking; Murtagh, as usual divining his intent, handed him a pistol.
He turned back to the prisoner, busying himself in checking the priming and loading of the pistol. The twelve inches of heart-butted metal gleamed dark, the firelight picking out sparks of silver at trigger and priming pin. “Head or heart?” Jamie asked casually, raising his head at last.
“Eh?” The boy’s mouth hung open in blank incomprehension.
“I am going to shoot you,” Jamie explained patiently. “Spies are usually hanged, but in consideration of your gallantry, I am willing to give you a quick, clean death. Do ye prefer to take the ball in the head, or the heart?”
The boy straightened quickly, squaring his shoulders. “Oh, ah, yes, of course.” He licked his lips and swallowed. “I think…in the—in the heart. Thank you,” he added, as an obvious afterthought. He raised his chin, compressing lips that still held a suggestion of their soft, childish curve.
Nodding, Jamie cocked the pistol with a click that echoed in the silence under the oak trees.
“Wait!” said the prisoner. Jamie looked at him inquiringly, pistol leveled at the thin chest.
“What assurance have I that the lady will remain unmolested after I am— after I have gone?” the boy demanded, looking belligerently around the circle of men. His single working hand was clenched hard, but shook nonetheless. Ross made a sound which he skillfully converted into a sneeze.
Jamie lowered the pistol, and with an iron control, kept his face carefully composed in an expression of solemn gravity.
“Weel,” he said, the Scots accent growing broader under the strain, “ye ha’ my own word, of course, though I quite see that ye might have some hesitation in accepting the word of a…”—his lip twitched despite himself—“of a Scottish poltroon. Perhaps ye would accept the assurances of the lady herself?” He raised an eyebrow in my direction and Kincaid sprang at once to free me, fumbling awkwardly with the gag.
“Jamie!” I exclaimed furiously, mouth freed at last. “This is unconscionable! How could you do such a thing? You—you—”
“Poltroon,” he supplied helpfully. “Or jackal, if ye like that better. What d’ye say, Murtagh,” turning to his lieutenant, “am I a poltroon or a jackal?”
Murtagh’s seam of a mouth twisted sourly. “I’d say ye’re dogsmeat, if you untie yon lass wi’out a dirk in yer hand.”
Jamie turned apologetically to his prisoner. “I must apologize to my wife for forcing her to take part in this deception. I assure you that her participation was entirely unwilling.” He ruefully examined his bitten hand in the light from the fire.
“Your wife!” The boy stared wildly from me to Jamie.
“I’ll assure ye likewise that while the lady on occasion honors my bed with her presence, she has never done so under duress. And won’t now,” he added pointedly, “but let’s no untie her just yet, Kincaid.”
“James Fraser,” I hissed between clenched teeth. “If you touch that boy, you’ll certainly never share my bed again!”
Jamie raised one eyebrow. His canines gleamed briefly in the firelight. “Well, that’s a serious threat, to an unprincipled voluptuary such as myself, but I dinna suppose I can consider my own interests in such a situation. War’s war, after all.” The pistol, which had been allowed to fall, began to rise once more.
“Jamie!” I screamed.
He lowered the pistol again, and turned to me with an expression of exaggerated patience. “Yes?”
I took a deep breath, to keep my voice from shaking with rage. I could only guess what he was up to, and hoped I was doing the right thing. Right or not, when this was over…I choked off an intensely pleasing vision of