Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [176]
“Edinburgh?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.
“Yes. You’ve heard of the Tolbooth, I imagine?”
I had. One of the most noisome and notorious prisons of the period, it was famous for filth, crime, disease, and darkness. A good many of the prisoners held there died before they could be brought to trial. I swallowed hard, forcing down the bitter bile that had risen at the back of my throat, mingling with the swallow of sweet tea.
Randall sipped his own tea, pleased with himself.
“You should feel quite cozy there. After all, you seem to prefer a certain dank squalor in your surroundings.” He cast a condemning glance at the soggy hem of my petticoat, sagging below my gown. “Should be quite homelike, after Castle Leoch.”
I rather doubted that the cuisine at the Tolbooth was as good as that to be had at Colum’s board. And general questions of amenities aside, I couldn’t—could not—allow him to send me to Edinburgh. Once immured in the Tolbooth, I would never get back to the stone circle.
The time to play my card had arrived. Now or never. I raised my own cup.
“Just as you like,” I said calmly. “What do you suppose the Duke of Sandringham will have to say about it?”
He upset the hot tea on his doeskin lap and made several very gratifying noises.
“Tsk,” I said, reprovingly.
He subsided, glaring. The teacup lay on its side, its brown contents soaking into the pale green carpet, but he made no move toward the bellpull. A small muscle jumped in the side of his neck.
I had already found the pile of starched handkerchiefs in the upper lefthand drawer of the desk, alongside an enameled snuffbox. I pulled one out and handed it to him.
“I do hope it doesn’t stain,” I said sweetly.
“No,” he said, ignoring the handkerchief. He eyed me closely. “No, it isn’t possible.”
“Why not?” I asked, affecting nonchalance, wondering what wasn’t possible.
“I would have been told. And if you were working for Sandringham, why the devil would you act in such a damned ridiculous manner?”
“Perhaps the Duke is testing your loyalty,” I suggested at random, preparing to leap to my feet if necessary. His fists were bunched at his side, and the discarded riding crop was within much too easy a reach on the desk nearby.
He snorted in response to this suggestion.
“You may be testing my gullibility. Or my tolerance to irritation. Both, Madam, are extremely low.” His eyes narrowed speculatively, and I braced myself for a quick dash.
He lunged, and I flung myself to one side. Getting hold of the teapot, I threw it at him. He dodged, and it hit the door with a satisfying crash. The orderly, who must have been lingering just outside, poked a startled head in.
Breathing heavily, the Captain motioned him impatiently into the room.
“Hold her,” he ordered brusquely, crossing toward the desk. I began to breathe deeply, both in hopes of calming myself and in anticipation of not being able to do it in a moment.
Instead of hitting me, though, he merely pulled out the lower right-hand drawer, which I had not had time to investigate, and pulled out a long strand of thin rope.
“What kind of gentleman keeps rope in his desk drawers?” I inquired indignantly.
“A prepared one, Madam,” he murmured, tying my wrists securely behind me.
“Go,” he said impatiently to the orderly, jerking his head toward the door. “And don’t come back, no matter what you hear.”
This sounded distinctly ominous, and my forebodings were abundantly justified as he reached into the drawer once more.
There is something unnerving about a knife. Men who are fearless in personal combat will shrink from a naked blade. I shrank myself, until my bound hands collided with the whitewashed wall. The wicked gleaming point lowered and pressed between my breasts.
“Now,” he said pleasantly, “you are going to tell me everything you know about the Duke of Sandringham.” The blade pressed a little harder, making