The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [427]
Black-beard grabbed him by the shirt-front, jerking him close.
“This is your fault! Bastard!”
With his hands and feet still tied, he had no means of fighting back, but jerked back, trying to free himself.
“Let go, fool!”
Only then did the man realize that he was tied, and in his astonishment, did let go. Off-balance, Roger fell to the side, scraping his face painfully on the rough bark of the log. Black-beard’s eyes bulged with amazement, then narrowed in glee.
“By Dad, you been captured! If that ain’t luck! Who’s got you, fool?”
“He’s mine.” A low Scottish voice behind him announced the return of William Buccleigh MacKenzie. “What d’ye mean it’s his fault? What is?”
“This!” Black-beard flung out an arm, indicating the field around them, and the dying battle. The artillery had ceased, and there were no more than scattered rifle-shots in the distance.
“This damn smooth-talker come unto the camp this morning, asking for Hermon Husband, and took him away for a private word. I don’t know what in desolation’s name he said, but when he finished it, Husband come out, got straight onto his horse, told us all to go home, and rode off!”
Black-beard glared at Roger, and drawing back his hand, slapped him hard across the face. “What did you say to him, arse-bite?”
Without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Buccleigh, who was glancing back and forth between his captive and his visitor, a look of deep interest furrowing the thick, fair brows. “If Hermon had stuck with us, we might ha’ stood,” Black-beard raged. “But with him goin’ off like that, it cut the ground right from under us—wasn’t no one knew quite what to do, and the next thing you know, here’s Tryon a-bawling surrender at us—and a course we wasn’t goin’ to do that, but we wasn’t what you’d call prepared to fight neither . . .” He trailed off at this, catching Roger’s eye on him, and uncomfortably aware that Roger had seen him fleeing in panic.
There was nothing but silence on the far side of the log; all firing had stopped. It was dawning on Roger that the battle was not only over, but well and truly lost. Which meant in turn that the militia were likely to be swarming over this place in short order. His eyes were still watering from the slap, but he blinked them clear, glaring at Black-beard.
“I said to Husband what I say to you,” he said, with as much authority as he could muster, lying trussed on the ground like a Christmas goose. “The Governor is serious. He means to put down this rebellion, and by the looks of things, he’s done just that. If you have a care for your skin—and I’d say you do—”
With an inarticulate growl of rage, Black-beard seized Roger by the shoulders and tried to smash his head into the log.
Roger twisted like an eel. He reared back, breaking the man’s grip, then threw himself forward, and butted the man squarely, smashing Black-beard’s nose with his forehead. He felt the satisfying crunch of bone and cartilage, and the spurt of blood hot and wet against his face, and fell back onto one elbow, panting.
He’d not given anyone a Glasgow kiss before, but it seemed to come natural. The jar of it hurt his wrist badly, but he was beyond caring. Just let Buccleigh come close enough to get the same, that’s all he wanted.
Buccleigh eyed him with a mixture of amusement and wary respect.
“Oh, a man of talent, aye? A traitor, a wife-stealer, and a bonnie brawler, all in the same wee bundle, is it?”
Black-beard threw up, choking on the blood from his crushed nose, but Roger paid no attention. His vision clear now, he kept his eyes square on Buccleigh. He knew which man of the two was the greater threat.
“A man who’s sure of his wife needn’t worry that someone else might steal her,” he said, anger only slightly tempered with wariness. “I’m sure of my own wife, and have no need of yours, amadain.”
Buccleigh was sunburned and deeply flushed from fighting, but at this, a darker red crept into his cheeks. Still, he kept his composure, smiling lightly.