The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [379]
For the first time, Jamie’s face lost the shadow of dislike that it bore whenever he looked at Wylie. He breathed deep, and nodded slightly.
“Aye, I see,” he said quietly. “And then?”
Wylie straightened a little.
“When I left the stable, I thought I heard voices near the wall of the kitchen garden. And when I came nearer to see what might be afoot, I saw light shining through the cracks of the shed.” He shrugged. “I opened the door. And you know better than I what happened then, Mr. Fraser.”
Jamie rubbed a hand hard over his face, then shook his head hard.
“Aye,” he said. “I do. I went for Bonnet, and ye got in my way.”
“You attacked me,” Wylie said coldly. He hitched the ruined coat higher up on his shoulders. “I defended myself, as I had every right to do. And then you and your son-in-law seized me between you, frog-marched me in there”—he jerked his chin at the box stall behind him—“and held me captive half the night!”
Roger cleared his throat. So did Jamie, though with more dour intent.
“Aye, well,” he said. “We willna argue about it.” He sighed and stood back, gesturing to Wylie that he might go. “I suppose ye didna see in which direction Bonnet fled?”
“Oh, yes. Though I did not know his name, of course. I expect he is well beyond reach by now,” Wylie said. There was an odd note in his voice; something like satisfaction. Jamie turned sharply.
“What d’ye mean?”
“Lucas.” Wylie nodded down the dim aisle of the stable, toward the shadows at the farther end. “His stall is at the far end. I know his voice well, the sound of his movement. And I have not heard him this morning. Bonnet—if that was who it was—fled toward the stable.”
Before Wylie had finished talking, Jamie had seized the lantern and was striding down the stable. Horses thrust inquiring noses over their stall doors as he passed, snorting and whuffling in curiosity—but no black nose appeared at the end of the row, no black mane floated out in joyous greeting. The rest of us hastened after him, leaning to see past him as he held the lantern high.
The yellow light shone on empty straw.
We stood silent for a long moment, looking. Then Phillip Wylie sighed and drew himself up.
“If I no longer have him, Mr. Fraser—neither do you.” His eyes rested on me, then, darkly ironic. “But I wish you joy of your wife.”
He turned and walked away, stockings sagging, the red heels of his shoes winking in the growing light.
OUTSIDE, dawn was breaking, still and lovely. Only the river seemed to move, the spreading light flashing silver on its current beyond the trees.
Roger had gone off to the house, yawning, but Jamie and I lingered by the paddock. People would be stirring within minutes; there would be more questions, speculations, talk. Neither one of us wanted any more talk; not now.
At last, Jamie put his arm about my shoulders, and with an air of decision, turned away from the house. I didn’t know where he was going, and didn’t much care, though I did hope I could lie down when we got there.
We passed the smithy, where a small, sleepy-looking boy was blowing up the forge with a pair of bellows, making red sparks float and flash like fireflies in the shadows. Past the outbuildings, around a corner, and then we were in front of a nondescript shed with a large double door. Jamie lifted the latch and swung one door open a bit, beckoning me inside.
“I canna think why I never thought of this place,” he said, “when I was looking for a spot to be private.”
We were in the carriage shed. A wagon and a small buggy stood in the shadows, as did Jocasta’s phaeton. An open carriage like a large sleigh on two wheels, it had a bench seat with blue velvet squabs, and a scroll-like singletree like the prow of a ship. Jamie picked me up by the waist and swung me in, then clambered up after me. There was a buffalo robe lying across the squabs; he pulled this off and spread it on the floor of