Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [493]
If he should have been overcome, though … there had been so many of the savages, and with the fighting so hot …
He shifted restlessly, trying not to think of facing his sister with ill news of her youngest boy. Christ, he’d rather have his own heart torn from his breast and eaten before his eyes; it would feel much the same.
Seeking distraction—any distraction—from his fears, he shifted again, taking random stock of the shadowy insides of the house. Bare as a Skyeman’s cupboard, for the most part. A jug of water, a broken bed frame, and one or two tattered skins for bedding lying crumpled on the earthen floor.
MacKenzie was sitting hunched across the fire, heedless of the growing chill. His arms were wrapped about his knees, head bent in thought. He was half turned away, unaware of Jamie’s eye on him.
He grudged to admit it, but the man was decently made. Long shanks and a good breadth through the shoulders; he’d have a fair reach with a sword. He was tall as the MacKenzies of Leoch—and why not? he thought suddenly. The man was Dougal’s get, if a few generations onward.
He found that notion both disturbing and oddly comforting. He’d killed men when he must, and mostly their ghosts let him sleep at night with no great rattling of bones. Dougal’s death, though, was one that he had lived through more than once, and woke from sweating, with the sound of those last silent words of Dougal’s ringing in his ears; words mouthed in blood.
There’d been not the slightest choice; it was kill or be killed, and a near thing either way. And yet … Dougal MacKenzie had been his foster father, and if he was honest, a part of him had loved the man.
Yes, it was some comfort to know that a small part of Dougal was left. The other part of this MacKenzie’s heritage was a wee bit more troubling. He’d seen the man’s eyes first thing when he woke, bright green and intent, and for one second his wame had shriveled up into a ball, thinking of Geillis Duncan.
Did he much want his daughter linked with a witch’s spawn? He eyed the man covertly. Perhaps it was as well if Brianna’s child was not of this man’s blood.
“Brianna,” MacKenzie said, lifting his head suddenly from his knees. “Where is she?”
Jamie jerked, and a hot knife-blade seared his arm, leaving him sweating.
“Where?” he said. “At River Run, with her aunt. She’s safe.” His heart was thundering in his ears. Christ, was the man able to read thoughts? Or had he the Sight?
The green eyes were steady, dark in the dim light.
“Why did you bring Claire, and not Brianna? Why did she not come with you?”
Jamie returned the man’s cool look. They’d see if it was a matter of mind reading or not. If not, the last thing he meant to tell MacKenzie now was the truth; time enough for that when—if—they were safely away.
“I should have left Claire as well, if I thought I could. She’s a stubborn wee besom. Short of tying her hand and foot, I couldna prevent her coming.”
Something dark flickered in MacKenzie’s eyes—doubt, or pain?
“I should not have thought Brianna the kind of lass to mind her father’s word overmuch,” he said. His voice had an edge to it—yes, pain, and a sort of jealousy.
Jamie relaxed slightly. No mind reading.
“Did ye no? Well, and perhaps ye dinna ken her so well as all that,” he said. Pleasantly enough, but with a jeering undertone that would make one sort of man go for his throat.
MacKenzie wasn’t that sort. He sat up straight, and drew a deep breath.
“I know her well,” he said levelly. “She is my wife.”
Jamie sat up straight in turn, and clenched his teeth on a hiss of pain.
“The hell she is.”
MacKenzie’s black brows drew down at that.
“We are handfast, she and I. Did she not tell you that?”
She hadn’t—but he hadn’t given her much chance to tell him, either. Too furious at the thought