The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [363]
“Is he dead?” The Major peered over my shoulder, evidencing more curiosity than sympathy.
“No,” I said briefly. “Get these people out of here, will you?” The chamber was crammed with guests and servants, all exclaiming over the newly freed Jocasta, expostulating, speculating, and generally making bloody nuisances of themselves. The Major blinked at my peremptory tone, but retired without demur to deal with the situation.
Duncan was certainly alive, and a cursory examination showed me no injury beyond a large lump behind one ear; evidently, he had been clubbed with the heavy silver candlestick which lay beside him on the floor. He had a nasty color, but his pulse was fairly good, and he was breathing evenly. I thumbed open his eyelids, one at a time, and bent close to check his pupils. They stared back at me, glazed, but the same size and not abnormally dilated. So far, so good.
Behind me, the Major was making good use of his military experience, barking orders in a parade-ground voice. Since most of those present were not soldiers, this was having a limited effect.
Jocasta Cameron was having a much greater one. Released from her bonds, she staggered across the room, leaning heavily on Ulysses’s arm, parting the crowd like the waves of the Red Sea.
“Duncan! Where is my husband?” she demanded, turning her head from side to side, blind eyes fierce. People gave way before her, and she reached my side in seconds.
“Who is there?” Her hand swept in a flat arc before her, searching for position.
“It’s me—Claire.” I reached up to touch her hand, guiding her down beside me. Her own fingers were chilled and trembling, and there were deep red marks on her wrists from the bonds. “Don’t worry; I think Duncan will be all right.”
She put out a hand, seeking to see for herself, and I guided her fingers to his throat, setting them on the big vein I could see pulsing at the side of his neck. She uttered a small exclamation and leaned forward, putting both hands on his face, tracing his features with an anxious tenderness that quite moved me, so at odds as it was with her normal autocratic mien.
“They struck him . . . is he badly hurt?”
“I think not,” I assured her. “Only a knock on the head.”
“Are you quite sure?” Her face turned toward me, frowning, and her sensitive nostrils flared. “I smell blood.”
With a small shock, I realized that while my hands were mostly clean, my fingernails were still heavily ringed with dark blood from the impromptu autopsy. I repressed the urge to curl my hands, instead murmuring discreetly, “That’s me, I expect; my courses.” Major MacDonald was glancing curiously in our direction; had he heard her?
There was a stir at the doorway, and I turned. To my immense relief, it was Jamie. He was disheveled, his coat was torn, and he sported what looked like the beginnings of a black eye, but otherwise appeared undamaged.
My relief must have shown on my face, for his grim look softened a little, and he nodded as he met my eye. Then it hardened again, as he saw Duncan. He dropped to one knee beside me.
“He’s all right,” I said, before he could ask. “Someone hit him on the head and tied up your aunt.”
“Aye? Who?” He glanced up at Jocasta, and laid a hand on Duncan’s chest, as though to reassure himself that Duncan was indeed still breathing.
“I havena the slightest notion,” she replied crisply. “If I had, I should have sent men to hunt the ill-deedie shargs down by now.” Her lips tightened into a thin line, and the high color surged back into her face at thought of the assailants. “Did no one see the rascals?”
“I think not, Aunt,” Jamie replied calmly. “With such a boiling in the house, no one kens what to look for, aye?”
I raised one eyebrow at him in silent question. What did he mean by that? Had Bonnet got away? For surely it must have been Bonnet who had invaded Jocasta’s chamber; boiling or no, there couldn’t be multiple violent criminals at large on the same night in a place the size of River Run.
Jamie shook his head briefly. He glanced at my hands, saw the blood