The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [330]
It wasn’t just the enormously long, silky manes, rippling like water as they tossed their heads, nor yet the coal-black coats nor the springy arch of the neck, thicker and more muscular than Jocasta’s thoroughbreds. Their bodies were thick as well, broad through chest, withers, and barrel so that each one seemed almost blocky—and yet they moved as gracefully as any horse he had ever seen, adroit and light-footed, with a sense of playfulness and intelligence.
“Yes, it is a very old breed,” Lyon said, putting aside his inquisitiveness for the moment in order to watch. “I’ve seen them before—in Holland.”
“Holland. Ye will have traveled there a great deal?”
“Not so much. I was there some years ago, though, and chanced to meet a kinsman of yours. A wine merchant named Jared Fraser?”
Jamie felt a jolt of surprise, succeeded by a warm sense of pleasure at the mention of his cousin.
“Did ye indeed? Aye, Jared is my father’s cousin. I trust ye found him well.”
“Very well indeed.” Lyon moved fractionally closer, settling himself on the fence, and Jamie realized that they had now reached the point of the man’s business, whatever that might be. He drained the rest of the wine in his glass and set it down, prepared to listen.
“I understand that a . . . talent for liquor runs in the family as well, Mr. Fraser.”
He laughed, though he felt no great humor.
“A taste, perhaps, sir. I couldna say, as to talent.”
“Couldn’t you? Ah, well. I am sure you are too modest, Mr. Fraser. The quality of your whisky is well known.”
“Ye flatter me, sir.” He knew what was coming now, and settled himself to pretend attention. It wouldn’t be the first time someone had suggested a partnership; he to provide the whisky, they to manage the distribution of it to Cross Creek, to Wilmington, even as far as Charleston. Lyon, it seemed, had grander schemes in mind.
The best aged stuff would go by boat up the coast to Boston and Philadelphia, he suggested. The raw whisky, though, could go across the Treaty Line, there to be delivered to the Cherokee villages, in return for hides and furs. He had partners, who would provide . . .
Jamie listened in growing disapproval, then cut Lyon off abruptly.
“Aye. I thank ye for your interest, sir, but I fear I havena anything like sufficient product for what ye suggest. I make whisky only for my family’s use, and a few barrels beyond that, now and then, for local trade. No more.”
Lyon grunted amiably.
“I am sure you could increase your production, Mr. Fraser, given your knowledge and skill. If it were to be a matter of the materials . . . some arrangement could be made, I am sure . . . I can speak with the gentlemen who would be our partners in the enterprise, and—”
“No, sir. I fear not. If ye will excuse me . . .?” He bowed abruptly, turned on his heel, and headed back toward the terrace, leaving Lyon in the dark.
He must ask Farquard Campbell about Lyon. The man would bear watching. It was not that Jamie had any great objection to smuggling. He did, however, have a great objection to being caught at it, and could think of few things more dangerous than a large-scale operation of the sort Lyon was suggesting, where he himself would be involved up to the neck, but have no control over the more dangerous parts of the process.
Aye, the thought of the money was attractive, but not so much as to blind him to the risks. If he were to engage in such a trade, he would do it himself, perhaps with the aid of Fergus or Roger Mac—maybe old Arch Bug and Joe Wemyss—but no one else. A great deal safer to keep it small, keep it private . . . though since Lyon had suggested the notion, perhaps it was worth a bit of thought. Fergus was no farmer, that was sure; something must be found for him to do, and the Frenchman was well acquainted with the risky business, as they called it, from their time in Edinburgh. . . .
He strolled back to the terrace, pondering, but the sight of his wife erased all thought of whisky from his mind.
Claire had left Stanhope and his cronies, and stood by the buffet