The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [505]
I looked for riders, but saw none, let alone any with red hair. Surely Brianna and Jemmy were safe, though? I shivered suddenly; with the changeableness of mountain weather, the air had gone from smothering blanket to chill within less than an hour.
“All right, Sassenach?” Jamie’s hand settled warmly on my neck, fingers rubbing gently along the tense ridge of my shoulders. I took a deep breath and let them relax, as much as I could.
“Yes. Do you think it’s safe to ride down?” My only impression of the trail was that it was both narrow and steep; it would be muddy now, and slippery with wet, dead leaves.
“No,” he said, “but I dinna think—” He stopped abruptly, frowning in thought as he gauged the sky. He glanced behind us; I could barely make out the outline of the horses, standing close together under the shelter of the tree where I had tied Judas.
“I was going to say I didna think it particularly safe to stay here,” he said at last. His fingers tapped gently on my shoulder as he thought, pattering like raindrops.
“But yon storm is moving fast; ye can see the lightning come across the mountain, and the thunder . . .” With melodramatic timing, a sharp boom of thunder rolled across the valley. I heard a shrill whinny of protest from one of the horses, and the rattle of foliage as he tugged at his halter. Jamie glanced over his shoulder, expression bleak.
“Your mount’s got a strong mislike of thunder, Sassenach.”
“Yes, I noticed that,” I said, huddling closer to him for warmth. The wind was picking up again, as the next storm rolled in.
“Aye, he’ll likely break his neck, and yours, too, if ye’re so misfortunate as to be on that trail when it—” Another boom of thunder drowned his words, but I took his meaning.
“We’ll wait,” he said, positively.
He pulled me in front of him, and put his arms round me, sighing as he rested his chin on the top of my head. We stood together in the shelter of the hemlock, waiting for the storm to come.
Far below, the canebrake seethed and hissed, the smoke of the burning beginning to rise and fly with the wind. Away from the village, this time, toward the river. I wondered suddenly where Roger was—somewhere under that murky sky. Had he found safe refuge from the storm?
“I wonder where that bear is, too,” I said, voicing half my thoughts. Jamie’s chest moved in a rueful laugh, but the thunder drowned his voice.
83
WILDFIRE
ROGER HALF-WOKE with the smell of smoke burning in his throat. He coughed and sank back into sleep, fragmented images of a sooty hearth and burnt sausages fading into mist. Tired from a morning of shoving his way through impenetrable thickets of brush and cane, he had eaten a sparse lunch and lain down for an hour’s rest in the shade of a black willow on the river bank.
Lulled by the rushing water, he might have sunk back into solid slumber, but a distant shriek pulled him upright, blinking. The shriek was repeated, far off but loud. The mule!
He was on his feet, stumbling toward the sound, before he remembered the leather bag that held his ink and quills, the half-chain, and the precious surveying records. He lunged back to snatch it, then splashed across the shallows toward Clarence’s hysterical braying, the weight of the astrolabe swinging on its thong against his chest. He crammed it inside his shirt to stop it catching on branches, looking desperately for the way by which he had come.
Smoke—he did smell smoke. He coughed, half choking as he tried to stifle it. Coughing hurt his throat, with a searing pain as the scar tissue inside seemed to tear.
“Coming,” he breathed, in Clarence’s direction. It wouldn’t have mattered if he could have shouted; even when he’d had a voice, it hadn’t the carrying quality of Clarence’s. He’d left the mule hobbled in a grassy patch on the edge of the canebrake, but he hadn’t come in very far.
“Again,” he muttered, throwing his weight against a stand of young cane to force his way through. “Yell . . . again . . . dammit.” The sky