Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [64]
“Tell that one to the barn door, laddie; it’s no more brains than to believe ye. Weel, even if it’s no Laoghaire—and ye could do a deal worse, mark me—ye’d be a better prospect for marriage did ye ha’ a bit of money and a future; as ye would if ye’re next Master. Ye could take yer choice of the lasses—if one doesna choose you first!” Alec snorted with the half-choked mirth of a man who seldom laughs. “Flies round a honeypot would be nothin’ to it, lad! Penniless and nameless as ye are now, the lasses still sigh after ye—I’ve seen ’em!” More snorting. “Even this Sassenach wench can no keep away from ye, and her a new widow!”
Wishing to prevent what promised to be a series of increasingly distasteful personal remarks, I decided it was time to be officially awake. Stretching and yawning, I sat up, ostentatiously rubbing my eyes to avoid looking at either of the speakers.
“Mmmm. I seem to have fallen asleep,” I said, blinking prettily at them. Jamie, rather red around the ears, was taking an exaggerated interest in packing up the remains of the picnic. Old Alec stared down at me, apparently taking notice of me for the first time.
“Interested in horses, are ye, lass?” he demanded. I could hardly say no, under the circumstances. Agreeing that horses were most interesting, I was treated to a detailed exegesis on the filly in the paddock, now standing drowsily at rest, tail twitching for the occasional fly.
“Ye’re welcome to come and watch any time, lass,” Alec concluded, “so long as ye dinna get so close ye distract the horses. They need to work, ye ken.” This was plainly intended as a dismissal, but I stood my ground; remembering my original purpose in coming here.
“Yes, I’ll be careful next time,” I promised. “But before I go back to the castle, I wanted to check Jamie’s shoulder and take the dressings off.”
Alec nodded slowly, but to my surprise, it was Jamie who refused my attentions, turning away to go back to the paddock.
“Ah, it’ll wait awhile, lass,” he said, looking away. “There’s much to be done yet today; perhaps later, after supper, hey?” This seemed very odd; he hadn’t been in any hurry to return to work earlier. But I could hardly force him to submit to my ministrations if he didn’t want to. Shrugging, I agreed to meet him after supper, and turned uphill to go back to the castle.
As I made my way back up the hill, I considered the shape of the scar on Jamie’s head. It wasn’t a straight line, as might be made by an English broad-sword. The wound was curved, as though made by a blade with a definite bend. A blade like a Lochaber ax? But so far as I knew, the murderous axes had been—no, were, I corrected myself—carried only by clansmen.
It was only as I walked away that it occurred to me. For a young man on the run, with unknown enemies, Jamie had been remarkably confiding to a stranger.
* * *
Leaving the picnic basket in the kitchens, I returned to the late Beaton’s surgery, now dustless and pristine after a visitation by Mrs. Fitz’s energetic assistants. Even the dozens of glass vials in the cupboard gleamed in the dim light from the window.
The cupboard seemed a good place to start, with an inventory of the herbs and medicaments already on hand. I had spent a few moments the night before, before sleep overcame me, thumbing through the blue leather-bound book I had taken from the surgery. This proved to be The Physician’s Guide and Handbook, a listing of recipes for the treatment of assorted symptoms and diseases, the ingredients for which were apparently displayed before me.
The book was divided into several sections: “Centauries, Vomitories, and Electuaries,” “Troches and Lodochs,” “Assorted Plasters and Their Virtus,” “Decoctions and Theriacs,” and a quite extensive section ominously headed with the single word “Purges.”
Reading through a few of the recipes, the reason for the late Davie