The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [298]
“You had some matter with which ye were concerned, Major?” he asked, more abruptly than he’d meant to.
“Not so much my own concern,” MacDonald replied equably. “I had been told that you have some interest in the whereabouts of a gentleman named Stephen Bonnet. Am I reliably informed, sir?”
He felt the name like a blow to the chest; it took his wind for a moment. Without conscious thought, his left hand curled over the hilt of his dirk.
“I—yes. You know his whereabouts?”
“Unfortunately, no.” MacDonald’s brow lifted, seeing his response. “I ken where he has been, though. A wicked lad, our Stephen, or so I gather?” he inquired, with a hint of jocularity.
“Ye might say so. He has killed men, robbed me—and raped my daughter,” Jamie said bluntly.
The Major drew breath, face darkening in sudden understanding.
“Ah, I see,” he said softly. He lifted his hand briefly, as though to touch Jamie’s arm, but let it fall to his side. He walked a few steps further, brows puckered in concentration.
“I see,” he said again, all hint of amusement gone from his voice. “I hadn’t realized . . . yes. I see.” He lapsed into silence once again, his steps slowing as they neared the paddock.
“I trust you do intend to tell me what ye know of the man?” Jamie said politely. MacDonald glanced up at him, and appeared to recognize that regardless of his intentions, Jamie’s own intent was to gain what knowledge he had, whether by conversation or more direct methods.
“I have not met the man myself,” MacDonald said mildly. “What I know, I learnt in the course of a social evening in New Bern last month.”
It was an evening of whist tables hosted by Davis Howell, a wealthy shipowner and a member of the Governor’s Royal Council. The party, small but select, had begun with an excellent supper, then moved on to cards and conversation, well marinated with rum punch and brandy.
As the hour grew late and the smoke of cigarillos heavy in the air, the conversation grew unguarded, and there were jocular references to the recent improvement in one Mr. Butler’s fortunes, with much half-veiled speculation as to the source of his new riches. One gentleman, expressing envy, was heard to say, “If one could but have a Stephen Bonnet in one’s pocket . . .” before being elbowed into silence by a friend whose discretion was not quite so much dissolved in rum.
“Was Mr. Butler among those present at this soiree?” Jamie asked sharply. The name was unfamiliar, but if Butler was known to members of the Royal Council . . . well, the circles of power in the colony were small; someone in them would be known to his aunt, or to Farquard Campbell.
“No, he wasn’t.” They had reached the paddock; MacDonald rested his folded arms atop the rail, eyes fixed on the stallion. “He resides, I believe, in Edenton.”
As did Phillip Wylie. The stallion—Lucas, that was his name—sidled toward them, soft black nostrils flaring in curiosity. Jamie stretched out his knuckles mechanically and, the horse proving amiable, rubbed the sleek jawline. Beautiful as the Friesian was, he scarcely noticed it, his thoughts spinning like a whirligig.
Edenton lay on the Albemarle Sound, easily accessible by boat. Likely, then, that Bonnet had returned to his sailor’s trade—and with it, piracy and smuggling.
“Ye called Bonnet ‘a wicked lad,’ ” he said, turning to MacDonald. “Why?”
“Much of a hand at whist, Colonel Fraser?” MacDonald glanced at him inquiringly. “I recommend it particularly. It shares some advantage with chess, in terms of discovering the mind of one’s opponent, and the greater advantage, in that it can be played against a greater number.” The hard-bitten lines of his face relaxed momentarily in a faint smile. “And the still greater advantage that it is possible to earn a living by it, which is seldom the case with chess.”
“I am familiar with the game,