The Fiery Cross - Diana Gabaldon [620]
“None taken,” I assured him cordially.
“Can you swim, Mr. Duff?” Jamie asked, his tone still one of mild curiosity.
“What?” Duff blinked, taken back. “I . . . ah . . . well . . .”
“No, he can’t,” Roger said cheerfully. “He told me.”
Duff gave him a look of outraged betrayal over Jamie’s head.
“Well, there’s loyalty!” he said, scandalized. “A fine shipmate you are! Givin’ me away so—ye should be ashamed of yersel’, so ye should!”
Jamie raised his oars, dripping, out of the water, and Roger followed suit. We were perhaps a quarter-mile from shore, and the water beneath our hull was a deep, soft green, portending a bottom several fathoms deep. The boat rocked gently, lifting on the bosom of a long, slow swell.
“Bonnet,” Jamie said, still politely, but with a definite edge. Peter folded his arms and closed his eyes, making it clear that the subject had nothing to do with him. Duff sighed and eyed Jamie narrowly.
“Aye, well. It’s true, I’ve no notion where the man is. When I saw him on Roanoke, he was makin’ arrangements to have some . . . goods . . . brought in. For what that might be worth to ye,” he added, rather ungraciously.
“What goods? Brought in where? And going where?” Jamie was leaning on his shipped oars, apparently casual. I could see a certain tension in the line of his body, though, and it occurred to me that while his attention might be fixed on Duff’s face, he was of necessity also watching the horizon behind Duff—which was rising and falling hypnotically as the swell lifted the piretta and let it drop. Over and over and . . .
“Tea-chests was what I took in for him,” Duff answered warily. “Couldna say, for the rest.”
“The rest?”
“Christ, man, every boat on this water brings in the odd bit of jiggery-pokery here and there—surely ye ken that much?”
Peter’s eyes had opened to half-slits; I saw them rest on Jamie’s face with a certain expression of interest. The wind had shifted a few points, and the smell of dead whale was decidedly stronger. Jamie took a slow, deep breath, and let it out again, rather faster.
“Ye brought in tea, then. Where from? A ship?”
“Aye.” Duff was watching Jamie, too, in growing fascination. I shifted uneasily on the narrow seat. I couldn’t tell from the back of his neck, but I thought it more than likely that he was beginning to turn green.
“The Sparrow,” Duff went on, eyes fixed on Jamie. “She anchored off the Banks, and the boats went out to her. We loaded the cargo and came in through Joad’s Inlet. Cam’ ashore at Wylie’s Landing, and handed over to a fellow there.”
“What . . . fellow?” The wind was cool, but I could see sweat trickling down the back of Jamie’s neck, dampening his collar and plastering the linen between his shoulders.
Duff didn’t answer immediately. A look of speculation flickered in his small, deep-set eyes.
“Don’t think about it, Duff,” Roger said, softly, but with great assurance. “I can reach ye from here with an oar, ken?”
“Aye?” Duff glanced thoughtfully from Jamie, to Roger, and then to me. “Aye, reckon ye might. But allowin’ for the sake for argyment as how you can swim, MacKenzie—and even that Mr. Fraser might keep afloat—I dinna think that’s true of the lady, is it? Skirts and petticoats . . .” He shook his head, pursing thin lips in speculation as he looked at me. “Go to the bottom like a stone, she would.”
Peter shifted ever so slightly, bringing his feet under him.
“Claire?” Jamie said. I saw his fingers curl tight round the oars, and heard the note of strain in his voice. I sighed and drew the pistol out from under the coat across my lap.
“Right,” I said. “Which one shall I shoot?”
Peter’s eyes snapped open, wide enough that I saw a rim of white show all round his black pupils. He looked at the pistol, then at Duff, then directly at Jamie.
“Give tea to a man name Butlah,” he said. “Work for Mist’ Lyon.” He pointed at me, then at Duff. “Shoot him,” he suggested.
The ice thus broken, it took very little time for our two passengers to confide the rest of what they knew, pausing only momentarily for Jamie to be