The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [102]
Jamie gave a small grunt of amusement himself, but wasn’t discomposed in the slightest by having his opinion of Protestants overheard.
“‘All are gude lasses,’ ” he quoted in broad Scots, “‘but where do the ill wives come frae?’ ”
“Eh?” Roger said, sounding a bit bewildered.
“Protestants are born wi’ pricks,” Jamie explained, “the men, at least—but some let them wither from disuse. A man who spends his time pokin’ his . . . nose into others’ sinfulness has nay time to tend his own.”
I converted a laugh into a more tactful cough.
“And some just become bigger pricks, what with the practice,” Roger said, more dryly still. “Aye, well. I came to thank you . . . for managing about the baptism, I mean.”
I noticed the slight hesitation; he still had not settled on any comfortable name by which to call Jamie to his face. Jamie addressed him impartially as “Wee Roger,” “Roger Mac,” or “MacKenzie”—more rarely, by the Gaelic nickname Ronnie Sinclair had given Roger, a Smeòraich, in honor of his voice. Singing Thrush, it meant.
“It’s me should be thanking you, a charaid. We shouldna have managed there at the last, save for you and Fergus,” Jamie said, laughter warming his own voice.
Roger was clearly visible in outline, tall and lean, with the glow of someone’s fire behind him. One shoulder rose as he shrugged, and he shifted Jemmy to his other arm, wiping residual drool from his hand against the side of his breeches.
“No trouble,” he said, a little gruffly. “Will the—the Father be all right, d’ye think? Brianna said he’d been roughly handled. I hope they’ll not mistreat him, once he’s away.”
Jamie sobered at that. He shrugged a little as he straightened the coat on his shoulders.
“I think he’ll be safe enough, aye—I had a word with the Sheriff.” There was a certain grim emphasis on “word” that made his meaning clear. A substantial bribe might have been more effective, but I was well aware that we had exactly two shillings, threepence, and nine farthings in cash to our names at the moment. Better to save the money and rely on threats, I thought. Evidently Jamie was of the same mind.
“I shall speak to my aunt,” he said, “and have her send a note tonight to Mr. Lillywhite, wi’ her own opinion on the subject. That will be a better safeguard for Father Kenneth than anything I can say myself.”
“I don’t suppose she’ll be at all pleased to hear that her wedding is postponed,” I observed. She wouldn’t be. Daughter of a Highland laird and widow of a very rich planter, Jocasta Cameron was used to having her own way.
“No, she won’t,” Jamie agreed wryly, “though I suppose Duncan may be a bit relieved.”
Roger laughed, not without sympathy, and fell in beside us as we started down the path. He shifted Jemmy, still grunting ferociously, under his arm like a football.
“Aye, he will. Poor Duncan. So the weddings are definitely off, are they?”
I couldn’t see Jamie’s frown, but I felt the movement as he shook his head doubtfully.
“Aye, I’m afraid so. They wouldna give the priest to me, even with my word to hand him over in the morning. We could maybe take him by force, but even so—”
“I doubt that would help,” I interrupted, and told them what I had overheard while waiting outside the tent.
“So I can’t see them standing round and letting Father Kenneth perform marriages,” I finished. “Even if you got him away, they’d be combing the mountain for him, turning out tents and causing riots.”
Sheriff Anstruther wouldn’t be without aid; Jamie and his aunt might be held in good esteem among the Scottish community, but Catholics in general and priests in particular weren’t.
“Instructions?” Jamie repeated, sounding astonished. “You’re sure of it, Sassenach? It was Lillywhite who said he had ‘instructions’?”
“It was,” I said, realizing for the first time how peculiar that was. The Sheriff was plainly taking instructions from Mr. Lillywhite, that being his duty. But who could be giving instructions to