Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [490]
Dying with the reassurance that Brianna loved him was better than dying without it—but he hadn’t wanted to die in the first place. He remembered what he had seen outside, felt his gorge rise, and choked it down.
With a trembling hand he began the unfamiliar sign of the Cross. “In the name of the Father,” he whispered, and then the words failed him. “Please,” he whispered instead. “Please, don’t let him have been right.”
He crawled shakily to Fraser’s body, hoping that the man was still alive. He was; blood was flowing from a gash on Fraser’s temple, and when he thrust his fingers under the man’s jaw, he could feel the steady bump of a pulse.
There was water in one of the pots under the shattered bed frame; luckily it hadn’t spilled. He dipped the end of the plaid in water and used it to mop Fraser’s face. After a few minutes of this ministration, the man’s eyelids began to flutter.
Fraser coughed, gagged heavily, turned his head to one side, and threw up. Then his eyes shot open, and before Roger could speak or move, Fraser had rolled up onto one knee, his hand on the sgian dhu in his stocking.
Blue eyes glared at him, and Roger raised an arm in instinctive defense. Then Fraser blinked, shook his head, groaned, and sat down heavily on the earthen floor.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said. He closed his eyes and groaned again. Then his head snapped up, eyes blue and piercing, but this time with alarm rather than fury.
“Claire!” he exclaimed. “My wife, where is she?”
Roger felt his jaw drop.
“Claire? You brought her here? You brought a woman into this?”
Fraser gave him a glance of extreme dislike, but wasted no words. Palming the knife from his stocking, he glanced at the doorway. The flap was down; no one was visible. The noise outside had died down, though the rumble of voices was still audible. Now and then one stood out, shouting or raised in exhortation.
“There’s a guard,” Roger said.
Fraser glanced at him and rose to his feet, smooth as a panther. Blood was still running down the side of his face, but it didn’t seem to trouble him. Silently, he flattened himself along the wall, glided to the edge of the door flap, and eased the flap aside with the tip of the tiny dagger.
Fraser grimaced at whatever he saw. Letting the flap swing back in place, he returned and sat down, putting the knife away in his stocking.
“A good dozen of them just outside. Is that water?” He put out a hand, and Roger silently scooped a gourdful of water and handed it to him. He drank deeply, splashed water in his face, then poured the rest of it over his head.
Fraser wiped a hand over his battered face, then opened bloodshot eyes and looked at Roger.
“Wakefield, is it?”
“I go by my own name, these days. MacKenzie.”
Fraser gave a brief, humorless snort.
“So I’ve heard.” He had a wide, expressive mouth—like Bree’s. His lips compressed briefly, then relaxed.
“I’ve done wrong to ye, MacKenzie, as ye’ll know. I’ve come to put it right, so far as may be, but it may be as I’ll not have the chance.” He gestured briefly toward the door. “For now, you’ve my apology. For what satisfaction ye may want of me later—I’ll bide your will. But I’d ask ye to let it wait until we’re safe out of this.”
Roger stared at him for a moment. Satisfaction for the last months of torment and uncertainty seemed as farfetched a notion as the thought of safety. He nodded.
“Done,” he said.
They sat in silence for several moments. The fire in the hut was burning low, but the wood to feed it was outside; the guards kept charge of anything that might be used as a weapon.
“What happened?” Roger asked at last. He nodded toward the door. “Out there?”
Fraser took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. For the first time, Roger noticed that he held the elbow of his right arm cradled in his left palm, the arm itself held close to the body.
“I will be damned if I know,” he