Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [331]
He already held a glass half-filled with amber liquid, glowing in the firelight. He raised himself painfully to a sitting position and lifted the cup in ironic salute.
“You’re looking very well…niece.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Charles’s mouth drop open.
“You aren’t,” I said bluntly.
He glanced dispassionately down at the bowed and twisted legs. In a hundred years’ time, they would call this disease after its most famous sufferer—the Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome.
“No,” he said. “But then, it’s been two years since you saw me last. Mrs. Duncan estimated my survival at less than two years, then.”
I took a swallow of the brandy. One of the best. Charles was anxious.
“I shouldn’t have thought you’d put much stock in a witch’s curse,” I said.
A smile twitched the fine-cut lips. He had the bold beauty of his brother Dougal, ruined as it was, and when he lifted the veil of detachment from his eyes, the power of the man overshone the wreck of his body.
“Not in curses, no. I had the distinct impression that the lady was dealing in observation, however, not malediction. And I have seldom met a more acute observer than Geillis Duncan—with one exception.” He inclined his head gracefully toward me, making his meaning clear.
“Thanks,” I said.
Colum glanced up at Charles, who was gaping in bewilderment at these exchanges.
“I thank you for your graciousness in permitting me to use your premises for my meeting with Mrs. Fraser, Your Highness,” he said, with a slight bow. The words were sufficiently civil, but the tone made it an obvious dismissal. Charles, who was by no means used to being dismissed, flushed hotly and opened his mouth. Then, recalling himself, he snapped it shut, bowed shortly, and turned on his heel.
“We won’t need the guard, either,” I called after him. His shoulders hunched and the back of his neck grew red beneath the tail of his wig, but he gestured abruptly, and the guard at the door, with an astonished glance at me, followed him out.
“Hm.” Colum cast a brief glance of disapproval at the door, then returned his attention to me.
“I asked to see you because I owe ye an apology,” he said, without preamble.
I leaned back in my chair, goblet resting nonchalantly on my stomach.
“Oh, an apology?” I said, with as much sarcasm as could be mustered on short notice. “For trying to have me burnt for witchcraft, I suppose you mean?” I flipped a hand in gracious dismissal. “Pray think nothing of it.” I glared at him. “Apology?!”
He smiled, not disconcerted in the slightest.
“I suppose it seems a trifle inadequate,” he began.
“Inadequate?! For having me arrested and thrown into a thieves’ hole for three days without decent food or water? For having me stripped half-naked and whipped before every person in Cranesmuir? For leaving me a hairsbreadth away from a barrel of pitch and a bundle of faggots?” I stopped and took a deep breath. “Now that you mention it,” I said, a little more calmly, “ ‘inadequate’ is precisely what I’d call it.”
The smile had vanished.
“I beg your pardon for my apparent levity,” he said softly. “I had no intent to mock you.”
I looked at him, but could see no lingering gleam of amusement in the black-lashed eyes.
“No,” I said, with another deep breath. “I don’t suppose you did. I suppose you’re going to say that you had no intent to have me arrested for witchcraft, either.”
The gray eyes sharpened. “You knew that?”
“Geilie said so. While we were in the thieves’ hole. She said it was her you meant to dispose of; I was an accident.”
“You were.” He looked suddenly very tired. “Had ye been in the castle, I could have protected you. What in the name of God led ye to go down to the village?”
“I was told that Geilie Duncan was ill and asking for me,” I replied shortly.
“Ah,” he said softly. “You were told. By whom, and I may ask?”
“Laoghaire.” Even now,