Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [390]
Jamie glanced quickly at Ian, who shook his head.
“He didna give his place, but I dinna ken any from Leoch like him. I saw him and heard him speak; he’s maybe a Highlander, but schooled in the south, I’d say—an educated man.”
“And did this Mr. MacKenzie seem to know my daughter?” he asked. Lizzie nodded, frowning in concentration.
“Oh, aye, sir! And she kent him, too—she was afraid of him.”
“Afraid? Why?” He spoke sharply, and she blanched, but she was well started now, and the words came out, tripping and stumbling, but still coming.
“I dinna ken, sir. But she turned white when she saw him, sir, and let out a wee skelloch. Then she went red and white and red again—oh, she was fair upset, anyone could see it!”
“What did he do?”
“Why—why—nothing, then. He came close to her, and held her by the arms, and said to her that she must come awa’ with him. Everyone in the taproom was looking. She pulled herself away, white as my shift, but she said to me as it was all right, I was to wait, and she would come back. And—and then she went out with him.”
Lizzie drew in a quick breath and wiped the end of her nose, which had begun to drip.
“And ye let her go?”
The little bondmaid shrank back, cowering.
“Ooh, I should have gone after her, I ken weel I should, sir!” she cried, face twisted with misery. “But I was afraid, sir, and may God forgive me!”
With an effort, Jamie smoothed the frown from his face and spoke as patiently as he might.
“Aye, well. And what happened, then?”
“Oh, I went upstairs as she told me, and I lay in the bed, sir, prayin’ for all I was worth!”
“Well, that was verra helpful, I’m sure!”
“Uncle—” Ian’s voice was soft but not at all tentative, and his brown eyes were steady on Jamie’s. “She’s no but a wee lassie, Uncle; she did her best.”
Jamie rubbed his hand hard over his scalp.
“Aye,” he said. “Aye, I’m sorry, lass; I didna mean to bite your head off. But will ye no get on wi’ it?”
A hot pink spot had begun to burn on each of Lizzie’s cheeks.
“She—she didna come back till nearly dawn. And—and—”
Jamie had very little patience left, and no doubt it showed on his face.
“I could smell him on her,” she whispered, voice dropping almost to inaudibility. “His … seed.”
The surge of rage took him unaware, like a white-hot bolt of lightning through chest and belly. He felt half choked with it, but clamped it down tight, hoarding it like coals in a hearth.
“He bedded her, then; you’re sure of that?”
Thoroughly mortified at this bluntness, the little bondmaid could do no more than nod.
Lizzie was twisting her hands in the stuff of her gown, leaving her skirt all bunched and crumpled. Her paleness was replaced with a hot flush; she looked like one of Claire’s tomatoes. She couldn’t look at him, but hung her head, staring at the ground.
“Oh, sir. She’s wi’ child, can ye not see? It must be him—she was virgin when he took her. He’s come after her—and she’s afraid of him.”
Quite suddenly, he could see it, and felt the hairs rise all up his arms and shoulders. The autumn breeze struck cold through shirt and skin, and the rage turned to sickness. All the small things he had half seen and half thought, not allowing them to rise to the surface of his mind, came together at once in a logical pattern.
The look of her, and the way she acted; one moment lively and another lost in troubled thought. And the glow in her face that was not all from the sun. He knew the look of a woman breeding well enough; if he had known her before, he would have seen the change; but as it was …
Claire. Claire knew. The thought came to him, cold in its certainty. She knew her daughter, and she was a physician. She must know—and hadn’t told him.
“Are ye sure of this?” The coldness froze his rage. He could feel it stuck in his chest—a dangerous, jagged object that seemed to point in every direction.
Lizzie nodded, wordless, and blushed deeper, if such a thing were possible.
“I am her maid, sir,” she whispered, eyes on the ground.
“She means Brianna hasna had her courses in two months,” Ian provided matter-of-factly.