Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [139]
Seeing the danger, he had taken the prudent course of staying away from the ceremony. And when I, by my botched escape attempt, had led him straight back to the edge of the abyss, he had set a sure and certain foot on a very narrow tightrope, and walked it to the other side. Je suis prest, indeed.
He nodded, seeing the thoughts cross my face.
“Aye. If I had sworn my oath that night, chances are I wouldna have seen the dawn.”
I felt a little shaky at the thought, as well as at the knowledge that I had unwittingly exposed him to such danger. The knife over his bed suddenly seemed nothing more than a sensible precaution. I wondered how many nights he had slept armed at Leoch, expecting death to come visiting.
“I always sleep armed, Sassenach,” he said, though I had not spoken. “Except for the monastery, last night is the first time in months I’ve not slept wi’ my dirk in my fist.” He grinned, plainly remembering what had been in his fist, instead.
“How the bloody hell did you know what I was thinking?” I demanded, ignoring the grin. He shook his head good-naturedly.
“You’d make a verra poor spy, Sassenach. Everything ye think shows on your face, plain as day. You looked at my dirk and then ye blushed.” He studied me appraisingly, bright head on one side. “I asked ye for honesty last night, but it wasna really necessary; it isna in you to lie.”
“Just as well, since I’m apparently so bad at it,” I observed with some asperity. “Am I to take it that at least you don’t think I’m a spy, then?”
He didn’t answer. He was looking over my shoulder toward the inn, body suddenly tense as a bowstring. I was startled for a moment, but then heard the sounds that had attracted his attention. The thud of hooves and jangle of harness; a large group of mounted men was coming down the road toward the inn.
Moving cautiously, Jamie crouched behind the screen of bushes, at a spot commanding a view of the road. I tucked my skirts up and crawled after him as silently as I could.
The road hooked sharply past a rocky outcrop, then curved more gently down to the hollow where the inn lay. The morning breeze carried the sounds of the approaching group in our direction, but it was a minute or two before the first horse poked its nose into sight.
It was a group of some twenty or thirty men, mostly wearing leather trews and tartan-clad, but in a variety of colors and patterns. All, without exception, were well armed. Each horse bore at least one musket strapped to the saddle, and there was an abundance of pistols, dirks, and swords on view, plus whatever further armament might be concealed in the capacious saddlebags of the four packhorses. Six of the men also led extra mounts, unburdened and saddleless.
Despite their warlike accoutrements, the men seemed relaxed; they were chatting and laughing in small groups as they rode, though here and there a head raised, watchful of the surroundings. I fought back the urge to duck as one man’s gaze passed over the spot where we lay hidden; it seemed as though that searching look must surely discover some random movement or the gleam of the sun off Jamie’s hair.
Glancing up at this thought, I discovered that it had occurred to him as well; he had pulled a fold of his plaid up over his head and shoulders, so that the dull hunting pattern made him effectively part of the shrubbery. As the last of the men wound down into the innyard, Jamie dropped the plaid and motioned back toward the path up the hill.
“Do you know who they are?” I panted, as I followed him up into the heather.
“Oh, aye.” Jamie took the steep path like a mountain goat, with no loss of breath or composure. Glancing back, he noticed my labored progress and stopped, reaching down a hand to help me.
“It’s the Watch,” he said, nodding back in the direction of the inn. “We’re safe enough, but I thought we’d as soon