Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [369]
This time I was sure about the twitch.
“Aye, I see,” his lordship said. “I shall send a maid to see ye to your rooms, then. And provide ye with soap. We shall see ye in the library before supper…grandson,” he added to Jamie, and turning on his heel, disappeared back under the archway.
“Who’s we?” I asked.
“Young Simon, I suppose,” Jamie answered. “His lordship’s heir. A stray cousin or two, maybe. And some of the tacksmen, I should imagine, judging from the horses in the courtyard. If Lovat’s going to consider sending troops to join the Stuarts, his tacksmen and tenants may have a bit to say about it.”
* * *
“Ever seen a small worm in a barnyard, in the middle of a flock of chickens?” he murmured as we walked down the hall an hour later behind a servant. “That’s me—or us, I should say. Stick close to me, now.”
The various connections of clan Fraser were indeed assembled; when we were shown into the Beaufort Castle library, it was to find more than twenty men seated around the room.
Jamie was formally introduced, and gave a formal statement on behalf of the Stuarts, giving the respects of Prince Charles and King James to Lord Lovat and appealing for Lovat’s help, to which the old man replied briefly, eloquently and noncommittally. Etiquette attended to, I was then brought forward and introduced, and the general atmosphere became more relaxed.
I was surrounded by a number of Highland gentlemen, who took turns exchanging words of welcome with me as Jamie chatted with someone named Graham, who seemed to be Lord Lovat’s cousin. The tacksmen eyed me with a certain amount of reserve, but were all courteous enough—with one exception.
Young Simon, much like his father in squatty outline, but nearly fifty years younger, came forward and bowed over my hand. Straightening up, he looked me over with an attention that seemed just barely this side of rudeness.
“Jamie’s wife, hm?” he asked. He had the slanted eyes of his father and half-nephew, but his were brown, muddy as bogwater. “I suppose that means I may call ye ‘niece,’ does it not?” He was just about Jamie’s age, clearly a few years younger than I.
“Ha-ha,” I said politely, as he chortled at his own wit. I tried to retrieve my hand, but he wasn’t letting go. Instead, he smiled jovially, giving me the once-over again.
“I’d heard of ye, you know,” he said. “You’ve a bit of fame through the Highlands, Mistress.”
“Oh, really? How nice.” I tugged inconspicuously; in response, his hand tightened around mine in a grip that was nearly painful.
“Oh, aye. I’ve heard you’re verra popular with the men of your husband’s command,” he said, smiling so hard his eyes narrowed to dark-brown slits. “They call ye neo-geimnidh meala, I hear. That means ‘Mistress Honeylips,’ ” he translated, seeing my look of bewilderment at the unfamiliar Gaelic.
“Why, thank you…” I began, but got no more than the first words out before Jamie’s fist crashed into Simon Junior’s jaw and sent his half-uncle reeling into a piecrust table, scattering sweetmeats and serving spoons across the polished slates with a terrific clatter.
He dressed like a gentleman, but he had a brawler’s instincts. Young Simon rolled up onto his knees, fists clenched, and froze there. Jamie stood over him, fists doubled but loose, his stillness more menacing than open threat.
“No,” he said evenly, “she doesna have much Gaelic. And now that ye’ve proved it to everyone’s satisfaction, ye’ll kindly apologize to my wife, before I kick your teeth down your throat.” Young Simon glowered up at Jamie, then glanced aside at his father, who nodded imperceptibly, looking impatient at this interruption. The younger Fraser’s shaggy black hair had come loose from its lacing, and hung like tree moss about his face. He eyed Jamie warily, but with a strange tinge of what looked like amusement as well, mingled with respect. He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and bowed gravely to me, still on his knees.
“Your pardon, Mistress Fraser, and my apologies for any offense ye may have suffered.”
I could do no more