Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [358]
Murtagh, pretending vast stupidity, had succeeded in drawing the soldiers ahead to the crest of the hill, so that they could point out that the road to Dingwall was the only road in sight, which ran down the other side of the hill. It ran through Ballagh, and straight toward the coast, still three miles away.
I slid hastily to the ground, yanking feverishly at my horse’s girth strap. Floundering through the drifts, I kicked enough snow under the belly of Jamie’s horse to obliterate the telltale drops. A quick look showed the soldiers apparently still engaged in argument with Murtagh, though one of them glanced down the hill at us, as though to insure that we had not wandered off. I gave a cheery wave, then as soon as the soldier turned his head, stooped and ripped off one of the three petticoats I was wearing. I whipped Jamie’s cloak aside and stuffed the wadded petticoat under his thigh, ignoring his exclamation of pain. The cloak flipped back in place just in time for me to dash back to my own horse and be discovered fiddling with the girth when Murtagh and the Englishmen arrived.
“It seems to have worked its way loose,” I explained guilelessly, batting my eyes at the nearest redcoat.
“Oh? And why are you not helping the lady?” he said to Jamie.
“My husband’s not well,” I said. “I can manage it myself, thank you.”
The corporal seemed interested. “Sick, eh? What’s the matter with you, then?” He urged his beast forward, staring closely under the slouch hat at Jamie’s pale face. “Don’t look well, I’ll say that much. Take your hat off, fellow. What’s the matter with your face?”
Jamie shot him through the folds of his cloak. The redcoat was no more than six feet away, and he toppled sideways out of the saddle before the stain on his chest grew bigger than my hand.
Murtagh had a pistol in each hand before the corporal hit the ground. One bullet went wild as his horse shied away from the sudden noise and movement. The second found its mark, ripping through a soldier’s upper arm leaving a tuft of shredded fabric flapping from a rapidly reddening sleeve. The man kept his saddle, though, and was tugging at his saber, one-handed, as Murtagh plunged beneath his cloak for fresh weapons.
One of the two remaining soldiers turned his horse, slipping in the snow, and spurred away, back toward the prison, presumably in search of help.
“Claire!” The shout came from above. I looked up, startled, to see Jamie waving after the fleeing figure. “Stop him!” He had time to toss me a second pistol, then turned back, drawing his sword to meet the charge of the fourth soldier.
My horse was battle-trained; his ears were laid flat against his head and he stamped and pawed at the noise, but he hadn’t run at the sound of gunshots, and he stood his ground as I groped for the saddle iron. Glad to be leaving the fight behind, he dug in as soon as I was mounted, and we made off at good speed after the fleeing figure.
The snow hampered our going nearly as much as his, but mine was the better horse, and we had the advantage of the rough path the soldier’s flight had plowed through the fresh snow. We gained slowly on him, but I could see that it wouldn’t be enough. He had a rise ahead of him, though; if I cut to the right, perhaps I could make better time on the flat and meet him coming down the other side. I jerked the rein and leaned hard to keep my seat as the horse slithered into a messy turn, found his feet and plunged ahead.
I didn’t quite catch him up, but I had cut the distance between us to no more than ten yards. Given unlimited distance, I could likely catch him, but I didn’t have that luxury; the prison wall loomed less than a mile ahead. Much closer, and we would be seen from the walls.
I pulled up and slid off. Battle-trained or not, I didn’t know what the horse would do if I fired a pistol from his back. Even if he stood like a statue, I didn’t think my own aim was up to it. I knelt in the snow, bracing my elbow on my knee, the gun