The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [300]
That thought triggered another.
“How did ye hear that I sought news of Stephen Bonnet?” he demanded abruptly, breaking in on MacDonald’s own contemplations.
MacDonald shrugged, and settled his hat and wig more firmly.
“I heard it from a half dozen different sources, sir, in places from taverns to magistrates’ courts. Your interest is well known, I fear. But not,” he added delicately, with a sideways glance, “its reason.”
Jamie grunted, deep in his throat. It seemed he had no knife with but a single edge. Casting a wide net had brought him his fish—but without doubt, it had also caused ripples that might warn away the whale. If the whole coast knew he sought Bonnet—then so did Bonnet.
Perhaps this was a bad thing; or perhaps it was not. If Brianna were to hear of it—she had been outspoken in her desire that he leave Bonnet to his own fate. That was nonsense, of course, but he hadn’t argued with her; only listened with every appearance of consideration. She need know nothing until the man was safely dead, after all. If an unwary word were to reach her before that, though . . . He had only begun to turn the possibilities over in his mind when MacDonald spoke again.
“Your daughter . . . that would be Mrs. MacKenzie, would it?”
“Does it matter?” He spoke coldly, and MacDonald’s lips tightened briefly.
“No. To be sure. ’Twas only—I had some conversation of Mrs. MacKenzie, and found her most . . . charming. The thought of—” He broke off, clearing his throat. “I have a daughter, myself,” he said abruptly, stopping and turning to face Jamie.
“Aye?” Jamie had not heard that MacDonald was married. Quite possibly he wasn’t. “That would be in Scotland?”
“In England. Her mother’s English.” The chill had painted streaks of color on the soldier’s weathered skin. They deepened, but MacDonald’s pale blue eyes stayed steady on Jamie’s, the same color as the hazy sky behind him.
Jamie felt the tightness down his backbone ease. He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, and let them fall. MacDonald nodded infinitesimally. The two men turned, without discussion, and started back toward the house, conversing casually of the price of indigo, the latest news from Massachusetts, and the surprising clemency of the weather for the season.
“I had spoken with your wife, a little earlier,” MacDonald remarked. “A charming woman, and most amiable—you are a fortunate man, sir.”
“I am inclined to think so,” Jamie replied, darting a glance at MacDonald.
The soldier coughed, delicately.
“Mrs. Fraser was so kind as to suggest that you might consider providing me with a letter of introduction to his Excellency, the Governor. In light of the recent threat of conflict, she thought that perhaps a man of my experience might be able to provide something in the way of . . . you see?”
Jamie saw fine. And while he doubted that Claire had suggested any such thing, he was relieved to find the price asked so cheap.
“It shall be done at once,” he assured MacDonald. “See me after the wedding this afternoon, and I shall have it in hand for ye.”
MacDonald inclined his head, looking gratified.
As they reached the path that led to the necessary houses, MacDonald nodded farewell and took his leave with a raised hand, passing by Duncan Innes, who was coming from that direction, looking drawn and haggard as a man will whose bowels are tied in sheepshank knots.
“Are ye well, Duncan?” Jamie asked, eyeing his friend with some concern. Despite the coolness of the day, a faint sheen of sweat shone on Innes’s brow, and his cheeks were pale. Jamie hoped that if it were an ague, it wasn’t catching.
“No,” Innes said, in answer to his question. “No, I am . . . Mac Dubh, I must speak to ye.”
“Of course, a charaid.” Alarmed by the man’s appearance, he took hold of Duncan’s arm, to support him. “Shall I fetch my wife to ye? D’ye need a wee dram?” From the smell of him, he’d had several already,