Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [174]
“The idea has its attractions,” he said, watching my eyes follow the sweep of the whip. “But I could probably think of something better, given a few moments to collect myself.”
“I daresay you could,” I said, fingering a thick sheaf of hair out of my eyes. “But you aren’t allowed to flog women, are you?”
“Only under certain circumstances,” he said politely. “Which your situation doesn’t meet—yet. That’s rather public, though. I had thought we might get better acquainted in private, first.” He reached to the sideboard behind him for a decanter.
We sipped the claret in silence, eyeing each other over the wine.
“I had forgotten to offer you felicitations on your marriage,” he said suddenly. “Forgive my lack of manners.”
“Think nothing of it,” I said graciously. “I’m sure my husband’s family will be most obliged to you for offering me hospitality.”
“Oh, I rather doubt it,” he said, with an engaging smile. “But then, I didn’t think I’d tell them you were here.”
“What makes you think they don’t know?” I asked, beginning to feel rather hollow, despite my earlier resolve to brazen it out. I cast a quick glance at the window, but it was on the wrong side of the building. The sun wasn’t visible, but the light looked yellow; perhaps mid-afternoon? How long before Jamie found my abandoned horse? And how long after that before he followed my trail into the stream—and promptly lost it? Disappearing without a trace had its drawbacks. In fact, unless Randall decided to send word of my whereabouts to Dougal, there was no way on earth the Scots could know where I had gone.
“If they knew,” the Captain said, arching one elegantly shaped brow, “they would presumably be calling on me already. Considering the sorts of names Dougal MacKenzie applied to me on the occasion of our last meeting, I scarcely think he feels me a suitable chaperon for a kinswoman. And the clan MacKenzie seems to think you’re of such value that they’d rather adopt you as one of their own than see you fall into my hands. I can hardly imagine they would allow you to languish in durance vile here.”
He looked me over disapprovingly, taking in every detail of my waterlogged costume, unkempt hair, and generally disheveled appearance.
“Damned if I know what they want you for,” he observed. “Or, if you’re so valuable to them, why the devil they let you wander about the countryside by yourself. I thought even barbarians took better care of their womenfolk than that.” A sudden gleam came into his eyes. “Or have you perhaps decided to part company with them?” He sat back, intrigued by this new speculation.
“The wedding night was more of a trial than you anticipated?” he inquired. “I must confess, I was somewhat put out to hear that you preferred the alternative of bedding one of those hairy, half-naked savages to further discussions with me. That argues a high devotion to duty, Madam, and I must congratulate whomever employs you on their ability to inspire it. But,” he leaned still further back in his chair, balancing the claret cup on his knee, “I am afraid I still must insist on the name of your employer. If you have indeed parted company with the MacKenzies, the most likely supposition is that you’re a French agent. But whose?”
He stared at me intently, like a snake hoping to fascinate a bird. By now I had had enough claret to fill part of the hollow space inside me, though, and I stared back.
“Oh,” I said, elaborately polite, “I’m included in this conversation, am I? I thought you were doing quite well by yourself. Pray continue.”
The graceful line of his mouth tightened a bit, and the deep crease at the corner grew deeper, but he didn’t say anything. Setting his glass aside, he rose, and taking off his wig, went to the cupboard, where he placed it on an empty stand. I saw him pause for a moment, as he saw the dark grains of sand adorning his other wig, but his expression didn’t change noticeably.
Unwigged, his hair was dark, thick, fine-textured, and shiny. It was also disturbingly familiar-looking,