Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [316]
“Sixpence says you can’t make it,” he said. He moved the cup, so it stood on the floor three or four feet from Jamie’s bare toes. “From where you stand now.”
Jamie looked down thoughtfully, rubbing his chin with one hand as he measured the distance. The man whose arm I was dressing had stopped groaning, absorbed in the developing drama.
“Weel, I’ll no say it would be easy,” Jamie said, letting his Scots broaden on purpose. “But for sixpence? Aye, weel, that’s a sum might make it worth the effort, eh?” His eyes, always faintly slanted, turned catlike with his grin.
“Easy money, lad,” said the Englishman, breathing heavily but still grinning. “For me.”
“Two silver pennies on the lad,” called one of the MacDonald clansmen in the chimney corner.
An English soldier, coat turned inside-out to denote his prisoner status, fumbled inside the skirts, searching for the opening of his pocket.
“Ha! A pouch of weed against!” he called, triumphantly holding up a small cloth bag of tobacco.
Shouted wagers and rude remarks began to fly through the air as Jamie squatted down and made a great show of estimating the distance to the cup.
“All right,” he said at last, standing up and throwing back his shoulders. “Are ye set, then?”
The Englishman on the floor chuckled. “Oh, I’m set, lad.”
“Well, then.”
An expectant hush fell over the room. Men raised on their elbows to watch, ignoring both discomfort and enmity in their interest.
Jamie glanced around the room, nodded at his Lallybroch men, then slowly raised the hem of his kilt and reached beneath it. He frowned in concentration, groping randomly, then let an expression of doubt flit across his countenance.
“I had it when I went out,” he said, and the room erupted in laughter.
Grinning at the success of his joke, he raised his kilt further, grasped his clearly visible weapon and took careful aim. He squinted his eyes, bent his knees slightly, and his fingers tightened their grip.
Nothing happened.
“It’s a misfire!” crowed one of the English.
“His powder’s wet!” Another hooted.
“No balls to your pistol, lad?” jibed his accomplice on the floor.
Jamie squinted dubiously at his equipment, bringing on a fresh riot of howls and catcalls. Then his face cleared.
“Ha! My chamber’s empty, that’s all!” He snaked an arm toward the array of bottles on the wall, cocked an eyebrow at me, and when I nodded, took one down and upended it over his open mouth. The water splashed over his chin and onto his shirt, and his Adam’s apple bobbed theatrically as he drank.
“Ahhh.” He lowered the bottle, swabbed some of the grime from his face with a sleeve, and bowed to his audience.
“Now, then,” he began, reaching down. He caught sight of my face, though, and stopped in mid-motion. He couldn’t see the open door at his back, nor the man standing in it, but the sudden quiet that fell upon the room must have told him that all bets were off.
* * *
His Highness Prince Charles Edward bent his head under the lintel to enter the cottage. Come to visit the wounded, he was dressed for the occasion in plum velvet breeches with stockings to match, immaculate linen, and—to show solidarity with the troops, no doubt—a coat and waistcoat in Cameron tartan, with a subsidiary plaid looped over one shoulder through a cairngorm brooch. His hair was freshly powdered, and the Order of St. Andrew glittered brilliantly upon his breast.
He stood in the doorway, nobly inspiring everyone in sight and noticeably impeding the entrance of those behind him. He looked slowly about him, taking in the twenty-five men crammed cheek by jowl on the floor, the helpers crouching over them, the mess of bloodied dressings tossed into the corner, the scatter of medicines and instruments across the table, and me, standing behind it.
His Highness didn’t care overmuch for women with the army in general, but he was thoroughly grounded in