Dragonfly in Amber - Diana Gabaldon [371]
“He canna tell whether I might be lying about the state of the Highland army or no. For if I wanted him to join the Stuarts, then I might say as how things were better than they are, where if I didna care personally, one way or the other, then I might tell the truth. And he doesna mean to commit himself one way or the other until he thinks he knows where I stand.”
“And just how does he mean to tell whether you are telling the truth?” I asked skeptically.
“He has a seer,” he replied casually, as though this were one of the normal furnishings of a Highland castle. For all I knew, it was.
“Really?” I sat up on the bed, intrigued. “Is that the odd-looking woman he threw out into the hall?”
“Aye. Her name’s Maisri, and she’s had the Sight since she was born. But she couldna tell him anything—or wouldn’t,” he added. “It was clear enough she knows something, but she’d do naught but shake her head and say she couldn’t see. That’s when my grandsire lost patience and struck her.”
“Bloody old crumb!” I said, indignant.
“Well, he’s no the flower o’ gallantry,” Jamie agreed.
He poured out a basin of water and began to splash handfuls over his face. He looked up, startled and streaming, at my gasp.
“Hah?”
“Your stomach…” I said, pointing. The skin between breastbone and kilt was mottled with a large fresh bruise, spreading like a large, unsightly blossom on his fair skin.
Jamie glanced down, said “Oh, that,” dismissively, and returned to his washing.
“Yes, that,” I said, coming to take a closer look. “What happened?”
“It’s no matter,” he said, speech coming thickly through a towel. “I spoke a bit hasty this afternoon, and my grandsire had Young Simon give me a small lesson in respect.”
“So he had a couple of minor Frasers hold you while he punched you in the belly?” I said, feeling slightly ill.
Tossing the towel aside, Jamie reached for his nightshirt.
“Verra flattering of you to suppose it took two to hold me,” he said, grinning as his head popped through the opening. “Actually, there were three; one was behind, chokin’ me.”
“Jamie!”
He laughed, shaking his head ruefully as he pulled back the quilt on the bed.
“I don’t know what it is about ye, Sassenach, that always makes me want to show off for ye. Get myself killed one of these days, tryin’ to impress ye, I expect.” He sighed, gingerly smoothing the woolen shirt over his stomach. “It’s only play-acting, Sassenach; ye shouldna worry.”
“Play-acting! Good God, Jamie!”
“Have ye no seen a strange dog join a pack, Sassenach? The others sniff at him, and nip at his legs, and growl, to see will he cower or growl back at them. And sometimes it comes to biting, and sometimes not, but at the end of it, every dog in the pack knows his place, and who’s leader. Old Simon wants to be sure I ken who leads this pack; that’s all.”
“Oh? And do you?” I lay down, waiting for him to come to bed. He picked up the candle and grinned down at me, the flickering light picking up a blue gleam in his eyes.
“Woof,” he said, and blew out the candle.
* * *
I saw very little of Jamie for the next two weeks, save at night. During the day, he was always with his grandfather, hunting or riding—for Lovat was a vigorous man, despite his age—or drinking in the study, as the Old Fox slowly drew his conclusions and laid his plans.
I spent most of my time with Frances and the other women. Out of the shadow of her redoubtable old father, Frances gained enough courage to speak her own mind, and proved an intelligent and interesting companion. She had the responsibility for the smooth running of the castle and its staff, but when her father appeared on the scene, she dwindled into insignificance, seldom raising her eyes or speaking above a whisper. I wasn’t sure I blamed her.
Two weeks after our arrival, Jamie came to fetch me from the drawing room where I sat with Frances and Aline, saying that Lord Lovat wished to see me.
Old Simon waved a casual hand at the decanters set on the table by the wall, then sat down in a wide-seated chair of carved