The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [465]
He made a small, gruff sound that might have been a laugh. His fingers curled over mine, smooth with callus, pressing in acknowledgment.
“He’s a MacKenzie, Sassenach. A MacKenzie of Leoch.”
“Hm.” The Frasers were stubborn as rocks, I’d been told. And Jamie himself had described the MacKenzies of Leoch—charming as larks in the field—and sly as foxes, with it. That had certainly been true of his uncles, Colum and Dougal. I hadn’t heard anything to indicate that his mother, Ellen, had shared that particular family characteristic—but then, Jamie had been only eight when she died. His aunt Jocasta? No one’s fool, certainly, but with a good deal less scope for plotting and scheming than her brothers had had, I thought.
“You what?” Brianna’s exclamation drew my attention back to the other side of the fire. She was looking at Roger, the pages in her hand, an expression of mingled amusement and dismay on her face. I couldn’t see Roger’s face; he was turned toward her. One hand rose in a shushing gesture, though, and he turned his head toward the tree where the men sat drinking, to be sure no one had heard her exclamation.
I caught a glimpse of firelight shining on the bones of his face, and then his expression changed in an instant, from wariness to horror. He lunged to his feet, mouth open.
“STOKH!” he roared.
It was a terrible cry, loud and harsh, but with a ghastly strangled quality to it, like a shout forced out around a fist shoved down his throat. It froze everyone in earshot—including Jemmy, who had abandoned the fireflies and stealthily returned to an investigation of the coffeepot. He stared up at his father, his hand six inches from the hot metal. Then his face crumpled, and he began to wail in fright.
Roger reached across the fire and snatched him up; the little boy screamed, kicking and squirming to get away from this terrifying stranger. Bree hastily took him, clutching him to her bosom and burying his face in her shoulder. Her own face had gone pale with shock.
Roger looked shocked, too. He put a hand to his throat, gingerly, as though unsure he was really touching his own flesh. The ridge of the rope-scar was still dark under his jaw; I could see it, even in the flicker of the firelight, along with the smaller, neater line of my own incision.
The initial shock of his shout had worn off, and the men came scrambling out from under the tree, the Findlays rushing in from the road, to gather round Roger, exclaiming in astonishment and congratulation. Roger nodded, submitting to having his hand shaken and his back pounded, all the while looking as though he would strongly prefer to be elsewhere.
“Say somethin’ else,” Hugh Findlay coaxed him.
“Yes, sir, you can do it,” Iain joined in, round face beaming. “Say . . . say ‘She sells sea shells, by the sea-shore’!”
This suggestion was howled down, to be replaced by a rain of other excited proposals. Roger was beginning to look rather desperate, his jaw set tight. Jamie and I had got to our feet; I could feel Jamie setting himself to intervene in some way.
Then Brianna pushed her way through the excited throng, with Jemmy perched on one hip, regarding the proceedings with intense distrust. She took Roger’s hand with her free one, and smiled at him, the smile trembling only a little round the edges.
“Can you say my name?” she asked.
Roger’s smile matched hers. I could hear the air rasp in his throat as he took a breath.
This time he spoke softly; very softly, but everyone held silence, leaning forward to listen. It was a ragged whisper, thick and painful, the first syllable punched hard to force it through his scarred vocal cords, the last of it barely audible. But,
“BRREEah . . . nah,” he said, and she burst into tears.
76
BLOOD MONEY
Fraser’s Ridge
June, 1771
I SAT IN THE VISITOR’S CHAIR in Jamie’s study, companionably grating bloodroots while he wrestled with the quarterly